Mobilizing Against Nuclear Energy: A Comparison of Germany and the United States [Reprint 2019 ed.] 9780520912526

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Mobilizing Against Nuclear Energy

Mobilizing Against Nuclear Energy A Comparison of Germany and the United States

Christian Joppke

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA PRESS

Berkeley

• Los Angeles

•

Oxford

University of California Press Berkeley and Los Angeles, California University of California Press, Ltd. Oxford, England Copyright © 1993 by The Regents of the University of California

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Joppke, Christian. Mobilizing against nuclear energy: a comparison of Germany and the United States / Christian Joppke. p. cm. Revision of author's theses (Ph. D.)—University of California at Berkeley, 1989. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-520-07813-6 (cloth: alk. paper) 1. Antinuclear movement—United States. 2. Antinuclear movement— Germany 3. Social movements—Political aspects. I. Title. HD9698.U52J67 1992 333.792'4'0943—dc20 92-3249

Printed in the United States of America

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The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984 ©

To Neil Smelser and Jürgen in gratitude

Habermas,

Contents

List of Figures and Tables

ix

Acknowledgments

xi

Abbreviations 1. Introduction: Political Process and Social Movements PART I

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1

THE RISE OF THE MOVEMENTS

2. Expert Dissent and Legal Intervention in the United States

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3. Elite Consensus and Citizen Initiatives in West Germany

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PART II

ENERGY CRISIS

4. Public-Interest Advocacy and Direct Action in the United States

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5. Challenging the State in West Germany

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VI1

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Contents PART III

THE DECLINE OF THE MOVEMENTS

6. Three Mile Island and the Decline of Nuclear Power in the United States

133

7. Institutionalization and New Militancy in West Germany

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8. Conclusion: Rethinking the Political Process Perspective

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Appendix A Methodology

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Appendix B Tables

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Appendix C Informants and Primary Sources

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Notes

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Bibliography

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Index

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List of Figures and Tables

Figure 6-1

U.S. Public Opinion on Building More Nuclear Power Plants, 1 9 7 5 - 1 9 8 6

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Table 7-1

Public Opposition to Building Additional Nuclear Power Plants

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Table 7-2

Public Opinion Before and After Chernobyl About Constructing Nuclear Plants

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Commercial Nuclear Power Plants in the United States, 1 9 7 4 - 1 9 9 0

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Table A-2

Commercial Nuclear Power Plants in West Germany, 1 9 7 4 - 1 9 9 0

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Table A-3

Average Construction Delays of All Commercial Nuclear Power Plants Under Construction or in Commercial Service

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Table A-l

IX

Acknowledgments

I wish to thank Jim Jasper, Doug McAdam, Neil Smelser, Jerome Karabel, Harold Wilensky, and Mark Garcelon for their critical readings of previous versions of this manuscript. I also wish to thank the Woodrow Wilson Foundation in Princeton, New Jersey; the Graduate Division of the University of California at Berkeley; and the Institute of International Studies at U.C. Berkeley for fellowship support.

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Abbreviations

ACRS

Advisory Committee on Reactor Safeguards

AEC

Atomic Energy Commission

AFL-CIO

American Federation of Labor and Congress of Industrial Organizations

AIF

Atomic Industrial Forum

APO

extraparliamentary opposition

BBA

Bremen Citizen Initiative Against Nuclear Power

BBU

Federal Association of Citizen Initiatives for Environmental Protection

BLW

Rainbow Slate Hamburg

BUND

Federal Council for Environmental Protection

BUU

Citizen Initiative for Environmental Protection, Lower Elbe

CDAS

Coalition for Direct Action at Seabrook

CDU

Christian Democratic Union

CEQ

Council for Environmental Quality

CNI

Consolidated National Intervenors

CSU

Christian Social Union

Abbreviations

XIV

CWIP

construction work in progress

DGB

Federal Trade Union Council

DOE

Department of Energy

ECCS

emergency core cooling system

EFFE

Environmentalists for Full Employment

EIS

environmental impact statement

EPA

Environmental Protection Agency

ERDA

Energy Research and Development Administration

FBR

fast-breeder reactor

FDP

Free Democratic Party

FOE

Friends of the Earth

FRC

Federal Radiation Council

FRG

Federal Republic of Germany

GAO

General Accounting Office

GAZ

Green Action Future

GIR

Gorleben International Review

GLU

Green List in Lower Saxony

GNP

gross national product

GW

gigawatt (electricity; 1 G W = 1 0 0 0 M W )

HTR

high-temperature reactor

JCAE

Joint Committee on Atomic Energy

KB

Communist Council

KBW

Communist Council of West Germany

KPD

German Communist Party

KPD/ML

German Communist Party, Marxist-Leninist

Lilco

Long Island Lighting Company

LWR

light-water reactor

MOBE

Mobilization for Survival

MUSE

Musicians United for Safe Energy

Abbreviations

xv

MW

megawatt (electricity)

NATO

North Atlantic Treaty Organization

NEP

National Energy Plan (1977)

NIMBY

not in my backyard

NRC

Nuclear Regulatory Commission

NRDC

National Resources Defense Council

NSM

new social movement (theory)

OPEC

Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries

OTA

Office of Technology Assessment

PG&E

Pacific Gas and Electric

PUC

Public Utility Commission

PURPA

Public Utility Regulatory Policy Act

R&D

research and development

RAF

Red Army Faction

RMT

resource mobilization theory

SANE

Committee for a Sane Nuclear Policy

SDG&E

San Diego Gas and Electric

SPD

Social Democratic Party

TMI

Three Mile Island

UAW

United Automobile Workers

UCS

Union of Concerned Scientists

C H A P T E R ONE

Introduction Political Process and Social

Movements

This is a book about social movements in cross-national perspective. 1 It attempts to move the empirical study of social movements closer to political sociology and comparative politics. It also tackles a core problem of social and political theory—the relationship between structure and action. 2 This book focuses on the relationship between political structures and social movements. Its aim is to develop a dynamic and multifactorial account of this relationship. Political structures shape the mobilization of social movements, but movements in turn refashion and transform the structures in which they occur. The structural features of nation-states and political systems affect movements by providing opportunities and constraining action. But, as is true everywhere in society, structures are produced and reproduced through action (Giddens 1984). This study seeks to reconstruct the patterns of interaction between states and movements, which evolve over time and grow into conflict trajectories with fixed roles, stabilized expectations, and collective memories. These conflict trajectories recursively influence the perceptions and choices of the involved actors. Instead of a linear and static relationship between structure and action, this study draws a reciprocal and dynamic relationship that changes over time and assumes an inertia in its own right. Addressing the political context of social movements has become the dominant strategy in an emergent "political process" paradigm in recent social movement research. This study further develops this paradigm in three directions. First, this book advances a notion of political process 1

2

Introduction

that is centered on the interactions between states and social movements. Most previous studies looked at states as passive "opportunity structures" for collective mobilization, not as actors involved in behavioral exchanges with movements. This study seeks to redress this previous neglect of interactive dynamics. Second, this book develops a temporalized view of the state-movement relationship. Most studies of social movements focus on the structural causes and incipient phases of mobilization and fail to analyze movement trajectories over time and the phase of movement decline (McAdam, McCarthy, and Zald 1 9 8 8 ; 7 2 8 - 7 2 9 ) . This study fills the temporal lacuna in social movement research by addressing movement mobilization and state response over time. Third, this book adds the rich texture of national political traditions and cultures to the sterile notion of political process. The very meaning of politics differs across national boundaries, and these different meanings have a profound impact on conflict patterns around otherwise identical issues. Only cross-national comparisons make these broad political presuppositions visible and bring them into perspective. While recent social movement research has recognized the need to move in a cross-national direction (Tarrow 1 9 8 6 , 1 9 8 8 ; Klandermans, Kriesi, and Tarrow 1 9 8 8 ; Klandermans 1 9 8 9 ; Katzenstein and Mueller 1 9 8 7 ) , empirically grounded and conceptually controlled comparisons have rarely been done. Above all, this study fills the cross-national lacuna in social movement research. 3

T H E CASES: S A M E ISSUES, D I F F E R E N T RESPONSES This case study compares the origins, courses, and impacts of the antinuclear energy movements in West Germany and the United States. But why study these particular movements? They are significant because the controversy over nuclear energy heralded the coming of a new line of conflict in Western democracies. 4 Historically, the master conflict in Western democracies was over the implementation of citizenship rights (Marshall 1 9 7 7 ; Lipset and Rokkan 1 9 6 7 ) . As Ralf Dahrendorf ( 1 9 8 8 ; 37) puts it, " T h e modern social conflict is about attacking inequalities which restrict full civic participation by social, economic or political means, and establishing the entitlements which make up a rich and full status of citizenship." These earlier citizenship conflicts were based on social and political inequalities between well-defined groups and classes. With the nuclear energy and ecology conflicts of the 1 9 7 0 s , a new conflict axis with new forms of political mobilization emerged that cut

Introduction

3

across conventional group boundaries. If air and water are polluted, everybody is affected. Environmental pollution and nuclear power risks are collective risks that are not confined to limited groups and classes. They entail, not hierarchical relationships of exploitation and power, but "disparities between life spheres" (Offe 1969) to which potentially every member of society is subjected. The sweeping diagnosis of an emergent risk society beyond class and citizenship conflicts is certainly premature and ethnocentric, reverberating with the gloomy Central European mood after the Chernobyl disaster (Beck 1 9 8 6 , 1 9 8 7 , 1 9 8 8 ; Evers and Nowotny 1 9 8 7 ) . But the mobilization around collective risk exhibits ideological forms and strategic dilemmas that differ significantly from previous citizenship mobilization (Joppke 1 9 9 1 b ) . These differences are as yet little analyzed. Angst and Betroffenheit (affectedness) have become key words for new forms of social mobilization that lack the clear-cut interest basis of citizenship movements. The ecology, antinuclear, and peace movements have made themselves the advocates of collective, rather than particular, interests, often rejecting conventional forms of political action and relating the most intimate, such as the integrity of body and life, to the most remote, such as the ecosphere and geopolitics (Offe 1 9 8 5 a ) . The new risks are drawn as immediate and global. Doomsday visions, a sense of utmost urgency, and a fundamentalist advocacy of survival flourish in the new risk movements (Halfmann 1988). This catastrophist ideology (Cotgrove 1982), whose most striking expression may be the doomsday clock on the cover of the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists, reflects the strategic dilemma of being notoriously late. Risk movements respond to policies on the brink of implementation, to large-scale technological projects almost realized, or to air and water already polluted. Given the temporal position of these movements, there is no time to lose because too much time has already been lost. If citizenship movements were proactively oriented toward obtaining new resources and expanding rights, risk movements are reactive to encroachments by large-scale technologies and externalities of industrial modernization—not by accident, these movements have a predilection for the prefix "anti." s While the challenge posed by the implementation of a new high-risk technology has been fairly equal in both countries considered here, the responses differed profoundly. It is these different national responses that are the focus of this book. The West German antinuclear movement became a radical movement against the state and espoused direct, and often violent, forms of protest. The American movement developed

4

Introduction

along overall more moderate lines but became peculiarly bifurcated between a legalistic public-interest branch and a nonviolent direct-action branch. A detailed descriptive and explanatory unraveling of these different responses is the purpose of this case study.

PARADIGMS IN S O C I A L M O V E M E N T T H E O R Y How can we account for cross-national variations in social movement responses to a similar challenge? An examination of the major paradigms in social movement research yields only partial answers to this question. The U.S.—German comparison is especially attractive in this regard because sociologists and political scientists in both countries have interpreted contemporary protest movements in different theoretical paradigms: resource mobilization in the United States and new social movement in West Germany. The comparative perspective exposes the ethnocentric limitations of both paradigms and suggests an alternative political process approach.

RESOURCE MOBILIZATION

Since the late 1960s, resource mobilization theory ( R M T ) has become the dominant paradigm in American social movement theory. T h e previous collective behavior tradition had explained social movements in social-psychological terms as irrational reactions to structural strains. 6 By contrast, resource mobilization theorists conceive of social movements as rational enterprises in organizational terms, as politics by other means. 7 Strains and grievances are everywhere; only changes in resources, organization, and opportunities can explain the appearance of collective action and social movements. Such movements are seen here as extensions of institutional action; they seek civic incorporation for groups not previously granted full political or social rights. T h e movements of the 1960s, such as the civil rights, antiwar, and student movements, are the historical backdrop to resource mobilization theory. In fact, many of its proponents have been actively involved in the politics of the New Left, and the primary focus of R M T on organization and resource procurement (as well as the basic premise of rationality) mirrors the practical interests, and biases, of movement leaders. 8 In its most typical formulation (McCarthy and Zald 1 9 7 7 ) , R M T emphasizes the key role of issue entrepreneurs; the effectiveness of a

Introduction

5

centralized, professional movement organization; and the necessity of obtaining resources from external sponsors. As the provocative use of notions such as movement "organization," "industry," and "sector" indicates, social movements are studied much like economic enterprises or any other formal organization. The rational pursuit of limited interests, based on utilitarian cost-benefit calculations, not the solidarity of members or broad visions of social change, is seen as the driving force of social movements. 9 This leads R M T to emphasize the importance of external resources. Since movements usually mobilize deprived groups with small resources, they depend on the influx of external resources by conscience constituents (such as the wealthy middle class) or institutional actors (such as reform-minded governments). The emphasis on entrepreneurship, formal organization, and external support and the neglect of solidarity and collective mobilization from below make R M T almost cynical in tone. 10 Organizational rationality is the catchword of RMT. In fact, the conceptual assimilation of collective action to conventional interestgroup politics reflects a real key feature of contemporary American movements. John McCarthy and Mayer Zald (1977) admit that their classic version of R M T is based entirely on the American case. As will be demonstrated, RMT's emphasis on issue entrepreneurship, professionalism, and the policy process adequately describes the dominant publicinterest branch in the American antinuclear movement. The involvement of formal organizations such as the Sierra Club, the prominence of issue entrepreneurs such as Ralph Nader, and the pursuit of institutional strategies such as litigation and electoral campaigning are directly in line with the rationalist tinge of resource mobilization theory. RMT reflects the latitude and vitality of civil society in the United States. In this view, contemporary social movements are not extraordinary phenomena that emerge only in response to regime crises or change processes; they are everyday phenomena of collective-interest articulation, much like the host of intermediary associations that Alexis de Tocqueville observed in Jacksonian America. Even if RMT is restricted to the narrow case of the American antinuclear movement, however, the limitations of the theory are obvious. Most notably, it cannot explain the brief but significant appearance of civil disobedience and direct action. As will be demonstrated, the directaction movement stressed the solidarity of members rather than organizational efficiency, it categorically refused institutional strategies, and its egalitarian ideology defied hierarchy and leadership. The resource mobi-

6

Introduction

lization approach operates with a narrow notion of means-end rationality in an economic environment of scarce resources. It neglects the role of ideology and of expressive motives in social movements, which filter and constrain the choice of strategies. Moreover, it exaggerates the role of self-interest in processes of mobilization and obscures the importance of solidarity or purposive incentives that tie members to social movement organizations (Fireman and Gamson 1979; Jasper 1990a). Finally, if we want to explain cross-national variations, R M T fails completely. The very category of public-interest advocacy, which epitomizes the thrust of RMT, is notably absent in the West German antinuclear movement. The model of professional movement organizations led by issue entrepreneurs reflects certain features of contemporary American social movements. It becomes inappropriate if applied to different national contexts. In fact, the West German antinuclear movement has often been described as a new social movement (NSM) (Brand, Biisser, and Rucht 1986), the second major paradigm in contemporary social movement research. NEW SOCIAL MOVEMENT

The American R M T has emphasized the rational impetus of contemporary reform movements and has focused on intra- and interorganizational processes of resource maximization, activation of members, and strategic decision making. European authors, however, have analyzed the same or similar movements as reflections of some deeper transformations of capitalist democracies. The contemporary student, women's, environmental, and peace movements are interpreted as new social movements that emerged in response to sweeping changes of the societal macrostructure.11 In this view, new social movements do not so much operate within conventional politics, as R M T presumes, as articulate a fundamental critique of the established social order. In Claus Offe's (1985c) terms, they engage in "metapolitics" and challenge the institutional presuppositions of conventional interest politics. 12 Whereas R M T emphasizes the continuity of past and present movements, new social movement theory stresses the discontinuity of contemporary social movements. New social movements are seen as revolving around a new societal cleavage line with essentially new stakes of conflict, modes of action, and values. Betraying its origins in European Marxism, NSM theory presumes that the old societal master conflict was based on social class. Today,

Introduction

7

according to NSM, the class cleavage has been institutionalized in formalized procedures of collective bargaining, the welfare state, and political mass parties. The "old paradigm" (Offe 1985c) of postwar politics fostered a societal consensus based on continual economic growth, the steady expansion of the state, and materialist values. The "new paradigm," launched by the new social movements, questions the normative presuppositions of the old paradigm and addresses the costs of statism and economic growth. 13 Not unlike the collective behavior emphasis on structural strain (Smelser 1962), NSM conceives of contemporary movements as responses to a new level of domination in postindustrial society (Touraine 1977) or as "defensive struggle against the irrationalities of modernization" (Offe 1985c, 857). The costs of economic and political rationality—such as pollution or bureaucratization—are seen here as dispersing in time and space, affecting virtually every member of society beyond conventional group criteria of class, gender, or race. New social movements thus articulate universal, rather than group-specific, interests. At the same time, processes of social control are no longer confined to the workplace (as classic Marxism assumed); they penetrate the realm of culture and social reproduction. New social movements thus operate in the sphere of civil society, and they have a cultural, rather than an economic or a political, orientation. Finally, more and more policy decisions and economic developments become irreversible and undermine the learning capacity of the institutional core of modern society, especially the state. 14 The dominance of the "instrumental complex" of state and economy (Parsons 1951) can be overcome only from the outside. New social movements are non- or even anti-institutional. In sum, the simultaneous broadening, deepening, and irreversibility of control in postindustrial capitalism appear as the macrostructural backdrop of the new social movements. 15 The resource mobilization and new social movement approaches evidently complement, rather than refute, each other because they are situated on different explanatory levels (Klandermans and Tarrow 1988; Klandermans 1986; Melucci 1984). R M T emphasizes the microlevel of internal movement organization and responds to the question of how social movements procure resources, recruit members, and make decisions. By contrast, NSM theory highlights the meanings and macrostructural causes of contemporary social movements and thus responds to the question of why they rise at all. In short, R M T stresses action, whereas NSM theory stresses structure. 16 Current attempts to reconcile both paradigms are useful, but they also

8

Introduction

obscure their incompatibilities (Klandermans, Kriesi, and Tarrow 1988). R M T emphasizes the continuity of contemporary social movements with previous movements, their fluid ties to institutional politics, the pragmatic self-limitation of movement goals, and the benefits of formal organization and professional leadership. The world of NSM theory is entirely different. The new movements are discontinuous with past movements, they are antagonistic to the state, they propagate broad visions of societal transformation, and they defy organizational constraints and leadership in favor of radical democracy. If R M T reflects key features of the American antinuclear movement, NSM theory resembles the parallel West German movement in some regards. As I will demonstrate in detail, the West German antinuclear movement challenged the societal consensus based on economic growth and questioned politics as usual. The movement operated outside the political system and resorted to direct protest. It rejected organizational discipline and hierarchy, which were negatively associated with the politics of the bureaucratized mass parties. The movement was discontinuous with previous movements. Most importantly, the West German antinuclear movement became a radical movement against the state. If the emphasis of R M T on the continuity, pragmatism, and professionalism of contemporary movements reflects the American experience, the emphasis of NSM theory on the discontinuity, metapolitical orientation, and the non- or even anti-institutional affection of the new movements narrowly reflects the European experience. While each theoretical strategy may adequately describe certain key features of contemporary social movements on both sides of the Atlantic, neither can explain their variations. For a systematic comparison of the West German and the U.S. antinuclear movements we need a model that avoids the ethnocentric limitations of R M T and NSM and that explains, rather than replicates, cross-national variations. Moreover, we need a model that more adequately mediates between the macrolevel of structure and the microlevel of action. As I shall argue, only a political process perspective provides a suitable alternative.

COLLECTIVE BEHAVIOR

Before we examine the political process alternative, let us have a fresh look at the collective behavior paradigm. Few contemporary movement analysts have good things to say about collective behavior theory, which dominated American social movement research for almost four decades.

Introduction

9

In fact, associating social movements with other forms of "elementary collective behavior" (Blumer 1939), such as crowds, panics, and crazes, and resorting to psychological explanations of movement participation in terms of irrational "generalized beliefs" (Smelser 1962) obscure the political dimension of contemporary reform movements. 1 7 Nevertheless, collective behavior theory generated some indispensable insights into the temporal dynamics and the identity formation of movements. Today it is often forgotten that for the early Chicago School the study of collective behavior represented one of the core areas of sociology. Collective behavior was identified as the driving force of social change. As Herbert Blumer (1939, 69) puts it, "Collective behavior is concerned in studying the ways by which the social order comes into existence, in the sense of the emergence and solidification of new forms of collective behavior." The emphasis on process and dynamics highlights an important aspect of social movements that is ignored by most other movement theories. Building on Blumer and Symbolic Interactionism (which stresses the role of symbols and of situational encounters in social life) Ralph Turner and Lewis Killian (1987, 237) have further elaborated a process view of social movements: Like other f o r m s of collective behavior, social m o v e m e n t s are continuously in process. G o a l s , ideologies, strategies, tactics, relations with authority a n d with other m o v e m e n t s , m o v e m e n t structure, systems of adherent control, adherent gratifications, a n d even constituencies are all subject to change t h r o u g h o u t the life of a movement. Because m o v e m e n t s are not yet institutionalized and because a movement c a n n o t be fully contained within any o r g a n i z a t i o n or stable alliance of organizations, m o v e m e n t s are disproportionally subject to rapid change.

We can learn from collective behavior theory that the analysis of social movements must be sensitive to timing and process. Social movements are ever-changing, fluid phenomena that must be studied through the interactive, temporal sequences in which they unfold. Successions of "dramatic events" (Blumer 1978), such as encounters with authorities, shape the identity and collective memory of a movement and function as screening devices for the perception of opportunities and the choice of strategies. Collective behavior theory reminds us that movements are not always rational decision makers (as R M T would have it) but are bounded by past experiences and the phases of their life cycles. Moreover, to keep members loyal to the movement, a certain element of exaggeration and "monster building" seems inevitable and even ra-

10

Introduction

tional. Neil Smelser (1962) has characterized social movements as guided by generalized beliefs, which "short-circuit" from generalized causes of strain to concrete situational elements. We will see that there is a tendency in the antinuclear movements to demonize nuclear power as an imminent threat and a symbol of a deeper pathology of modern society. While "irrational" from an external viewpoint, demonization is instrumental for providing group cohesion and a collective identity. In sum, collective behavior theory certainly misses the political and rational-interest dimension of social movements. But not everything in movements is as rational as the marketplace. Collective behavior theory sensitizes us to the process aspects of movements and to the symbolic sphere of identity formation. POLITICAL PROCESS

Resource mobilization and new social movement theories jointly obscure the connections between national politics and social movements (Tarrow 1988). Both theories ignore the impact of political structures on social movements. "Bringing the state back in," the latest battle cry in American political sociology, is the most promising avenue for avoiding the empty macrogeneralizations of NSM and the blind microempiricism of RMT. 18 State structures shape the strategies, courses, and possible impacts of social movements. The recent political process approach emerged in response to the rather one-sided emphasis of RMT on organizational and entrepreneurial resources, emphasizing instead the crucial role of political and institutional resources in social movement mobilization. It grew out of a particular concern for movement impacts, an aspect mostly neglected by RMT (Tarrow 1989). The political process approach focuses on political opportunity structures, such as the openness of the polity (Eisinger 1973), the instability of electoral alliances (Piven and Cloward 1977) or the presence of support groups and friendly elites in the political system (Jenkins and Perrow 1977; Gamson 1975), as conditions of social movement success. Charles Tilly (1978) has developed the most daring and systematic political process theory, one that relates the strategic repertory of social movements to processes of political modernization and state building.19 Important further developments of the political process approach are Doug McAdam's (1982) analysis of the civil rights movement and Craig Jenkins's (1985) work on the U.S. farm worker movement. Both stress the roles of collective mobilization and noninstitu-

Introduction

11

tional action in social movements, which have been downplayed by McCarthy and Zald's classic version of RMT. Moreover, they emphasize the crucial importance of political and institutional opportunities for the rise and success of social movements. Despite bringing obvious advances in the assessment of the role of politics in social movements, these political process approaches are problematic in several respects. First, the term political opportunity structure connotes widely disparate things, such as elite support, coalition building with other groups, inert state structures, or regime changes. As a result, the notions of political process and opportunity structure lack systematization and clarity. 20 Second, there is a conspicuous lack of cross-national comparisons. Even the comparative work of Charles Tilly focuses more on historical changes in collective mobilization processes than on genuinely cross-national variations resulting from differential national state structures. But cross-national comparisons enable us to uncover the impact of politics on collective action and offer an elegant method for untying the complex package of structural, temporal, and contingent factors in social movement mobilization (Tarrow 1986). An important step in this direction is Herbert Kitschelt's comparison of antinuclear energy movements in four Western democracies (Kitschelt 1986). Kitschelt argues that variations in strategies and impacts of the analyzed movements are caused by different political regime styles, which he defines as "specific configurations of resources, institutional arrangements and historical precedents for social mobilizations, which facilitate the development of protest movements in some instances and constrain them in others" (p. 58). Kitschelt equates political regimes with inert state structures that are independent of short-term shifts in policies, governments, and social alliances. The openness of the polity, on the one hand, and the policy implementation capacity of the state, on the other, determine the choice of strategies and the possible impacts of movements. According to Kitschelt, the pluralist and highly fragmented U.S. state favored assimilative and legal antinuclear movement strategies. The combination of neocorporatist closure and federal fragmentation in the West German state favored a mix of confrontational and assimilative movement strategies. The distinction between the pluralist political regime in the United States and the neocorporatist political regime in the Federal Republic of Germany (FRG) is a powerful conceptual device to explain variations in movement strategies and styles.21 In addition, states matter not only as structural conditions but also in their stateness (Nettl 1968)—that is,

12

Introduction

their capacity for action. As the plural in its name betrays, in the United States there is no state as a corporate actor. More government than state, the political center has traditionally functioned as a "regulatory instrument" (Dahl 1966, 40) and as an arena for whose control societal forces struggle. 22 Sovereignty resides not in centralized administrative institutions, as in continental Europe, but in the law and the Constitution— political structures that American protest movements have rarely questioned and that have provided a basic consensus among the respective contestants (Nettl 1968, 574). By contrast, in Germany, as throughout continental Europe, the state has historically functioned as a "central mechanism for social and economic progress" (Dahl 1966, 40). Because of their feudal tradition, continental European states are first and foremost executive, rather than parliamentary, states. Instead of being a neutral arbiter or arena of interest struggle, the state appears here as a corporate actor. To be sure, the strong state tradition in Germany was diluted by postwar democracy, federalism, and the new dogma of market liberalism. But statism survived in selected policy areas, such as domestic security, and remained a central feature of West German political culture and elite perceptions. In the nuclear energy debate, the state intervened as the corporate defender of the dominant consensus around economic growth. This steered the antinuclear movement into a radical antistatist direction from early on.

TOWARD A CONTEXTUALIZED POLITICAL PROCESS PERSPECTIVE The state-centered political process approach, as developed most notably by Kitschelt (1986), overcomes the ethnocentric limitations of the resource mobilization and new social movement paradigms and opens up a level of analysis that allows us to explain cross-national variations of movement strategies and styles. But reference to state structures alone is insufficient to give a full picture of movement variations across time and countries. After all, movements are not just replications of structures; they are also actors with their own predilections and agendas. The state-centered political process approach must give way to a multifactorial political process perspective that also incorporates actor-centered variables. 23 To avoid the functionalist shortcomings of political systems analysis (Easton 1965), we must contextualize and temporalize the ways in which state structures interact with social movements. The static and

Introduction

13

linear model of inert political regimes that determine movement styles is misleading. It must be replaced by a historical analysis of complex statemovement interactions that work in both directions, the movements altering the conditions in which the political actors operate and the responses by the political actors shaping the environment in which the movements operate. The following case study will reveal that a political process perspective modified along these lines reaches a more precise understanding of movement variations over time and across nations. A multifactorial, actor-centered political process perspective does not mechanically deduce movement forms from state structures, as Kitschelt (1986) is prone to do. Instead, it looks at the ways in which the actual practices of the major actors involved in the nuclear controversy grow into particular conflict trajectories that gain independent momentum and, to a certain degree, generate the causes of their own perpetuation. As Max Weber ([1921] 1976, 1-30) was the first to point out, structures do not exist unless they are produced and reproduced through social action. 24 The course of the nuclear controversies is certainly constrained by the structures of the political systems in which they unfold. But the history of the conflict itself allocates roles, shapes expectations, narrows the range of the contested issues, and produces the motives for its continuance. This study borrows from collective behavior theory a keen attention to the self-producing, contingent, and time-bound interactive dynamics among the involved actors.25 The study of processes with a low degree of institutionalization, such as social movements and conflict, must be sensitive to timing, uncertainty, and agency. If movements are carriers of change, as the Chicago School emphasized, and if we accept, with Karl Popper (1960), that history is contingent and open-ended, then there must be room for the new and the unexpected to occur. The contextualized political process perspective maintains the key insight that state structures shape the strategic repertory and condition the possible impacts of movements. But this perspective tries to strike a balance between structure and action by integrating variables that give more room for agency, dynamics, and contingency. POLITICAL CULTURE

State structures per se do not explain the political preferences that give form and content to collective action. Political preferences are not merely

14

Introduction

reflections of external opportunities but are culturally determined patterns of perception that select suitable objects and appropriate lines of action. A political process theory that treats preferences and interests as external givens and only considers their ex post facto incorporation into the polity is incomplete. As I shall argue, the reference to political culture can fill the void. Political cultures are the underlying schemes of cognition and operating norms in a polity that define the scope of contested issues and prescribe legitimate forms of interest expression. Political cultures thus conceived have a cognitive and a normative dimension. Cognitively, they select a common frame of reference, or "common points of concern" (Laitin 1988, 590), and they provide the "tool kit" (Swidler 1986,273) through which actors define their interests, interpret stakes of conflict, and map out strategies. Normatively, political cultures prescribe acceptable goals and legitimate rules of action. 26 Political cultures are certainly rooted in institutional structures and group interests (Douglas and Wildavsky 1982; Jasper 1990b). But the fit between culture and institutional structure is never a perfect one. As Ann Swidler (1986, 277) notes, culture is usually invoked to explain continuities in action in the face of discontinuities in structure. 27 This brings the category of culture dangerously close to being indeterminate and residual. But this ambiguity is a necessary one; it refers to the underlying reality itself. How particular issues become framed and handled in political debate and social struggle often depends on the long-ingrained political traditions of a national collectivity, which may differ from the objective structures of the political arenas. In the United States, the nuclear policy arena was initially shrouded in secrecy, highly centralized, and cut off from public scrutiny (Green and Rosenthal 1963; Mazutlan and Walker 1985). This violated certain core tenets of American political culture, such as individualism and a notorious distrust of state power. 28 The antistatist dimension in the American political tradition, elaborated from Richard Hofstadter (1948) to Samuel Huntington (1981), mobilized a strong nuclear opposition even from within the established polity. In a political culture that consensually distrusts a strong state, the unique centralization of power in the nuclear policy arena had to be perceived as a dangerous aberration. The goals of the emergent nuclear opposition resonated with the core principles of American political culture. This weakened the nuclear project from early on and made the resort to extralegal movement strategies largely unnecessary. In the West German case, there was no such fortunate overlap be-

Introduction

15

tween movement and political center views. German political culture sharply divides a statist center from an antistatist periphery (Münch 1986, 844). Against the backdrop of a statist political tradition, which sees the state as representing the universal interest against the only particular interests of civil society, opposition movements tend to be anti-institutional and radical (Dyson 1980, 245). Despite significant discontinuities with previous regimes, the young Bonn republic inherited a semiauthoritarian elite culture that associated national identity with economic prosperity (James 1989, 187) and lacked tolerance for civic dissent. In a polarized political culture, the unresponsiveness of statist elites became mirrored in the antistatist disposition of the antinuclear movement. 29 Political cultures thus defined are an important factor in explaining cross-national movement and conflict variations. The crucial difference between both countries considered here is the relative congruence or incongruence between political culture and state structure. Because of the historical continuity of American political institutions, there is a high congruence between a fragmented and dispersed state and an antistatist political culture that stresses the autonomous role of civil society in political life. In West Germany, by contrast, the historical discontinuity brought on by two world wars and the Nazi regime caused a high incongruence between state structure and political culture. The constitutional, democratic, and federal state imposed by the victorious Allies was a far cry from the strong state of prewar Germany. But statism remained a central feature of West German political culture, as expressed in the conflict aversion of elites and the reverse readiness of movements to resort to a Totalkritik (total critique) of the institutional order. 30

TEMPORAL OPPORTUNITY

State structures affect movements only in conjunction with specific regime and policy constellations, which change over time. Regime changes and policy shifts matter. They form temporal opportunities for movement mobilization. Temporal opportunities are sudden openings, or contractions, that trigger, or constrain, the rhythms and cycles of collective mobilization. The polarization between the antinuclear movement and the state in West Germany occurred against the backdrop of a previously reform-minded Social Democratic Party (SPD) government that shifted to an austere politics of economic crisis management after the energy crisis, thus reinforcing the corporatist closure of the polity. 31

16

Introduction

On the American side, the dominance of the legalistic public-interest wing in the antinuclear movement was favored by recent polity shifts toward a more pluralist configuration and by the incoming Carter administration, which was responsive to major movement demands. The twin blows of Vietnam and Watergate had critically weakened the American state and had reinvigorated the principle of divided powers. This provided the movement with enhanced opportunities for institutional access. Temporal opportunities are not only related to regime and policy changes. They also refer to the relative prominence of specific conflict issues in the public realm. As movements that address collective risks and lack clear-cut interest substrata (Walsh 1988, ch. 1; Halfmann 1988; Zald 1987), the antinuclear movements are particularly vulnerable to temporal "cycles of issue attention" (Downs 1972). The 1970s were framed by two dramatic oil shortages that put the politics of energy at the top of the public agenda. The insecure energy future was for a short while the symbolic terrain of a struggle over the general direction of societal change. In the 1980s, these favorable conditions of movement mobilization withered rapidly because of a stagnating energy demand and a public now preoccupied with the threat of nuclear war (Joppke 1991b). The movement trajectories and strategy choices were decisively shaped by these temporal shifts in public issue attention.

MOVEMENT ORGANIZATION AND ACTIVIST SUBCULTURES

In a political process perspective that highlights the interactive dynamics between states and movements, the factor of movement organization carries important weight as an independent variable. Movement organization is, of course, the domain of resource mobilization theory, which focuses on movement-internal processes of member recruitment, strategy choice, and interorganizational competition and cooperation. But in contrast to RMT, which conceives of movements as rational interest maximizers, this study stresses the role of symbols, beliefs, and ideologies, which constrain and channel strategy and action. 3 2 Movements are themselves battlegrounds on which diverse groups with competing agendas struggle for dominance. The style of a movement is also influenced by who participates and who holds internal power with what particular agenda. This notion of movement organization suggests that movements are not only shaped externally by their political environment but also internally by their activist subcultures. These subcultures articu-

Introduction

17

late the themes of the national political culture through the screen of particular group perspectives and in consonance with the accumulated experience of previous movement cycles. In the West German case, the early resort to direct action was certainly motivated by an unresponsive state. But soon urban left-wing groups of the decaying student movement joined the antinuclear bandwagon and instrumentalized the issue for a direct attack on the state. The theme of antistatism had been well articulated in the activist subculture since the student movement of the late 1960s, and it found a new field of expression in the nuclear controversy. To be anti-AKW (antinuclear) became the identification mark of a generalized opposition culture in the urban centers and university towns. But the dominance of antistatism in the activist subculture was never uncontested. In fact, internal conflict between reformist citizen groups and radical urban leftists became the hallmark of the West German antinuclear movement, the balance between both forces shifting at each stage and location of the conflict. In the United States, the more favorable political opportunity structures allowed the various movement factions to operate more independently from one another, thus avoiding the bitter internal struggles of the West German movement. The legal movement mainstream thrived on a long-ingrained tradition of legal activism in the United States that went back to the Progressive Era and that reached new heights in the "publicinterest liberalism" of the early 1970s (McCann 1986). As my analysis will show, the belated appearance of direct action did not occur because of denied legal avenues, as the popular myth in- and outside the movement would have it. Under the banner of direct action and civil disobedience, a distinctively countercultural brand of activists entered the nuclear controversy, which had been socialized in the student, civil rights, and antiwar movements. The expressive style of these groups was incompatible with the progressive legalism of the public-interest mainstream, and both remained separate throughout. Social movements are not only internal arenas of conflict and competition. They are also located in a "movement sector" (McCarthy and Zald 1977), where they compete with other movements for scarce resources. At any one time a society can sustain only a limited number of movements. This study will reveal that especially thematically related movements have more often been competitors than allies of the antinuclear movements in the quest for material and symbolic resources. Not by accident, the decline of the antinuclear movements in the 1980s was accompanied by the rise of new peace movements in both countries.

18

Introduction

CONTEXT AND CONTINGENCY

The variables considered so far do not yet sufficiently account for movement variations that are based on rather contingent and contextual factors. The case study approach is, of course, the via regia for identifying those multiple causal influences that are hard to conceptualize and that, to a certain degree, can only be narrated—such as the success or failure of policies, technical difficulties in the realization of the nuclear programs, the changing market for energy, or "suddenly imposed grievances" (Walsh 1981) that result from nuclear accidents. Context in this specific sense plays a prominent role in the following case histories. Although it is difficult to make generalizations, this study will highlight at least three contextual factors that were similarly important in shaping the movement trajectories in both countries. First, the differential historical and institutional linkages between the nuclear energy and nuclear weapons sectors in both countries fostered differential alignments between the antinuclear and the new peace movements of the 1980s. These alignments are especially important for explaining the different paths of movement decline. Second, the nuclear accidents at Three Mile Island (TMI) and Chernobyl marked critical turning points in the nuclear controversy, reversing the stakes, issues, and balance of force between the conflicting actors. Third, the conditions of movement success varied according to the particular aspects of the nuclear program under fire, such as reactor licensing, plutonium reprocessing, waste disposal, or economic costs. For reasons that will be explored in detail, the opposition to reprocessing and waste and the attack on nuclear power along economic lines proved much more successful than the safety-oriented opposition to the light-water reactor (LWR) program. ORGANIZATION OF BOOK

The following study is divided into three parts, which represent distinct temporal sequences in the movement and conflict trajectories. The division into temporal sequences allows me to present each case as a historical whole and still engage in a controlled comparison. In each phase, the actors faced similar constraints and opportunities, yet their responses differed according to the surrounding political structures and the motion of the unfolding controversy. This form of presentation realizes my emphasis on timing and interactive dynamics. Part I (chapters 2 and 3) covers the early development of the nuclear power sectors in both countries and traces the different origins of dissent

Introduction

19

and conflict. In the United States, expert dissent and the environmental movement of the late 1960s problematized the new technology from early on. By contrast, an unshattered nuclear elite consensus prevailed much longer in West Germany. The new "citizen initiatives" (Bürgerinitiativen) finally prepared the organizational ground for the antinuclear movement. Part II (chapters 4 and 5) treats the energy crisis of 1973 and its aftermath. In the triangular constellation of fuel shortages, economic recession, and ecological mobilization, the politics of energy moved to the top of the public agenda. In the United States, the emergent antinuclear movement became bifurcated between a legalistic public-interest movement and a nonviolent direct-action movement, both of which intervened in different phases of the conflict and remained separate throughout. In West Germany, the controversy revolved around the statist implementation of the nuclear program. The neocorporatist closure of the political system and a conflict-averse elite culture left little room for legal strategies, giving rise to a vicious circle of movement militancy and state repression. Part III (chapters 6 and 7) covers the deescalation of the nuclear energy controversy and the phase of movement decline in the 1980s. In the United States, the accident at Three Mile Island made the political and economic decline of nuclear power inevitable. But the movement also disintegrated in the wake of the industry's self-inflicted debacle. This disintegration was reinforced by a shift in the public debate from energy to disarmament issues. In West Germany, nuclear energy remained a major public policy issue, especially after the Chernobyl accident. But the antinuclear movement trailed in the shadow of the peace movement and the Green Party, one of its institutional offshoots, and followed a paradoxical line of institutionalization and sustained militancy. Chapter 8 reconsiders the political process perspective in light of the empirical case material.

CHAPTER TWO

Expert Dissent and Legal Intervention in the United States

ATOMS FOR PEACE Few would disagree that a central feature of the American state is its weakness. Abhorring the feudal states of Europe, the Founding Fathers wrote a constitution with separated powers and a complex arrangement of checks and balances that should "weaken any one set of public officials relative to others and the state as a whole vis-a-vis society" (Nordlinger 1981, 184). If there is one exception to this "fragmentation and dispersion of power and authority" (Krasner 1978, 62) and low profile of the American state, it is the early history of the nuclear power sector. Civilian nuclear power is the only commercial technology in American history that was deliberately created and promoted by the state. David Lilienthal (1963, 94), first chair of the Atomic Energy Commission (AEC), naively eulogized in the early days what later became the source of bitter controversy: "For the first time in our history a new technical development became a monopoly of government, its future entrusted not to normal competitive forces but to a single government agency, the Atomic Energy Commission, armed with billions of dollars and the broadest of powers." Growing out of the military Manhattan Project, the civilian nuclear power sector never lost the air of secrecy and centralized control that had been necessary to produce the atomic bomb. The collusion between the emergent nuclear industry and the state violated a fundamental principle of the American political tradition. This placed the nuclear sector in a 23

24

The Rise of the Movements

precarious position from the very start and subsequently strengthened the antinuclear movement, which could lay claim to the cherished political center view that state power should be controlled and minimized. The early decision to build a civilian nuclear industry stirred little public attention at the time (DeLeon 1979; Del Sesto 1979; Heertsgaard 1983). The Atomic Energy Act of 1946 put an end to military control of nuclear affairs and established the civilian A E C to promote and regulate the military and civilian uses of the atom. The act also created the Joint Committee on Atomic Energy (JCAE) to provide for congressional control of the executive branch agency. The "apotheosis of the Congressional committee" (Green and Rosenthal 1963, 25), the J C A E was the only joint committee with legislative powers. Instead of subjecting the A E C to democratic controls, the J C A E effectively removed the nuclear policy arena from the scrutiny of the full assembly. As a result, the new technology developed along "abnormal, if not aberrational, lines" (Green 1982, 59). The Atoms for Peace initiative of the Eisenhower administration became the watershed in the development of civilian nuclear power. Whereas his Democratic predecessor Harry S Truman had considered nuclear power " t o o important a development to be made the subject of profit-seeking," Republican Dwight D. Eisenhower pushed for an amendment to the Atomic Energy Act in 1954 that privatized the new technology, subjecting the latter to the "genius and enterprise of American business" (quoted in Ford 1 9 8 2 , 4 1 ) . If there was conflict at this early point, it was between the Democrat-controlled J C A E and the Republican executive. The J C A E advocated a state-owned nuclear industry and tried to accelerate the growth of civilian nuclear power, while the A E C took a more cautious, market-oriented approach. The defeat of the Gore-Holifield bill in 1956, which would have directed the A E C to construct and operate six large-scale demonstration reactors, put an end to the public versus private debate (Green and Rosenthal 1963, 256). Political motives drove the Atoms for Peace initiative (Lowen 1987; Clarke 1985). The "peaceful" atom allayed bomb guilt and provided a cover for the further development of the military option. M o s t importantly, civilian nuclear power appeared as the preeminent frontier technology, indispensable for national prestige and economic world leadership—particularly in the cold war competition with the Soviet Union (Boyer 1985). The prospect of "energy too cheap to meter" made nuclear power the consensus technology of the future, cutting across the established ideological cleavages. 1

Dissent and Intervention in the United States

25

Shielding the nascent nuclear industry from the vagaries of the insurance market was the next significant move by the federal government to get the new technology started. In addition to the anomalous centralization of power, the partial abolition of market controls was the second violation of American political principles that would be relentlessly attacked by the antinuclear movement. Frightened by the first AECsponsored risk evaluation, WASH-740, which exposed for the first time the catastrophic impact of a worst-case accident, the nuclear industry demanded protection from legal liabilities. 2 In response, Congress passed the Price-Anderson Act in 1957, which limited legal claims by potential accident victims to $560 million—almost 90 percent of which would be provided by the federal government (Berkovitz 1989, 5—10). If we follow Andrew Shonfield's (1965, 298) keen observation that "capitalism" is generally considered an " O K w o r d " in the United States, this unique pampering of risk taking was hard to take. 3 Repealing Price-Anderson became the goal of numerous campaigns (e.g., Kehoe 1980), and the issue recruited a curious strand of libertarian free-market defenders into the antinuclear movement (Mueller 1979). Finally, the choice of the problematic light-water reactor (LWR) design and its commercialization at breakneck speed became crucial determinants of the later controversy because they sparked the ongoing debate over accident risk (Perrow 1984, ch. 2; Campbell 1988, ch. 4). The AEC-sponsored Power Reactor Demonstration Program of 1955 still entailed subsidies for a variety of reactor designs (Mullenbach 1963, 1 2 7 - 1 4 0 ; Del Sesto 1979, 5 0 - 6 1 ) . But the availability of enriched uranium, the success of a small LWR to propel nuclear submarines, and, above all, the privatization of the nuclear business, which forced the young technology to compete with established forms of power generation from early on, brought an early victory for the LWR. Less accidentprone reactor designs were relegated to oblivion. The decision for an economical, rather than an inherently safe, reactor design constituted the root cause of the nuclear power controversy, not only in the United States but also in every country that adopted the light-water technology (Morone and Woodhouse 1989). For reasons to be elaborated, the commercial breakthrough of civilian nuclear power occurred without major public opposition. In the early 1960s, in response to an A E C deeming nuclear power "at the threshold of economic competitiveness" (AEC 1962) and lured by lucrative turnkey offers by Westinghouse and General Electric, private utilities rushed to order nuclear plants. More than any later citizen opposition, pre-

26

The Rise of the Movements

cipitate commercialization subverted the technical and economic viability of U.S. nuclear power from early on. As Irvin Bupp and JeanClaude Derian (1978, 71) argue, the rush to nuclear power during the so-called Great Bandwagon Market (1966—1968) became a "selfsustaining process" based on "faith" rather than on "experience." Competition among nuclear vendors led to a dramatic increase of the average reactor size, which overcharged existing technical knowledge. Competition also prevented the standardization of plant designs that would have allowed learning by doing (Heertsgaard 1983, 41; Campbell 1988, ch. 3). Finally, in pioneering an unprobed technology, the United States paid "the penalty of taking the lead" in the international context (Jasper 1990a), suffering extra costs that were avoided by other countries. As a result, nuclear plants entering operation in 1975 were already three times more expensive in constant dollars than the turnkey plants completed five years earlier—a trend that would increase, rather than decrease, later on (Flavin 1983b, 13).

EXPERT DISSENT Intra-agency conflict and cooperation between nuclear expert dissenters and concerned citizens became a hallmark of the American nuclear power controversy. In the long run, the principle of fragmented authority had to reassert itself against the island of centralization that the nuclear subgovernment represented. 4 This provided the major political resource for the emergent antinuclear movement. Alvin Weinberg, the eminence grise of U.S. nuclear power, aptly argued that the precipitate rush to commercialization created a "fundamental tug of war between 'as safe as possible' and 'as cheap as possible' " (quoted in Ford 1982, 64). In the early 1960s, economic reasons motivated the siting of nuclear reactors in metropolitan areas. 5 The sweeping expansion of reactor sizes to exploit economies of scale was an even greater compromise on safety. The AEC devoted its whole attention to the speedy development of the new technology, and it considered questions of safety nonissues or left them at the complete discretion of the nuclear industry (Rolph 1979). The issuance of construction licenses was a pro forma exercise, which reminded a later critic of the State Department's routine issuance of passports (Ford 1982, 43). 6 As early as 1965, the AEC shifted its research and development (R&D) focus from the allegedly mature lightwater technology to the liquid metal fast-breeder reactor (FBR) (Bupp

Dissent and Intervention in the United States

27

and Derian 1 9 7 8 , 184—185). This planted the seeds for the later expert debate over reactor safety (Gillette 1 9 7 2 a ) . T h e AEC's own Advisory Committee on Reactor Safeguards (ACRS) became its first important critic. Emerging from A E C tutelage to statutory status in 1 9 5 7 , the committee's expert staff had to review the safety aspects of plant applications. From early on, the A C R S criticized the "spirit of partnership and friendly c o o p e r a t i o n " between the nuclear industry and the A E C and attacked the risky increases in reactor size during the Great Bandwagon M a r k e t . As David Okrent ( 1 9 8 1 , 2 7 ) later summarized his experience as a long-term A C R S member, A E C officials regularly accused the committee of being "overconservative" and ignored its recommendations. In collaboration with J C A E members, the A C R S solicited the first legal citizen intervention against a nuclear plant in the United States. In 1 9 5 5 , the A E C put aside the warning from its " B r a k e D e p a r t m e n t " (AEC chair Lewis Strauss) not to license the Enrico Fermi fast-breeder plant in the midst of the heavily populated Detroit area. In response, outraged Democratic members of the J C A E encouraged the United Automobile Workers (UAW), though without success, to fight the plant all the way to the Supreme Court (Mitchell 1 9 8 1 , 7 6 - 7 7 ) . 7

THE LOW-LEVEL RADIATION DEBATE T h e first round of overt expert debate arose over the issue of low-level radiation. This represents a watershed in the early U.S. nuclear controversy because dissenting experts no longer restricted themselves to inhouse opposition; they addressed the lay public and the media instead (Nowotny and Hirsch 1 9 8 0 ) . In 1 9 6 3 , the A E C had asked two of its Lawrence Livermore scientists, Arthur Tamplin and J o h n G o f m a n , to undertake long-term studies on the health risks of low-level radiation. T h e purpose was to refute earlier allegations of increased cancer risk and infant mortality caused by the radioactive fallout from atmospheric weapons testing (Sternglass 1 9 6 9 ; Divine 1 9 7 8 ) . But the A E C scientists came to the startling conclusion that the maximum dosage allowed by the Federal Radiation Council ( F R C ) was much t o o high and threatened an excess of thirty-two thousand cases of fatal cancer per year. Tamplin and Gofman's first report, presented to a Senate subcommittee in November 1 9 6 9 , pleaded for an immediate reduction of the allowable doses to the population by at least a factor of ten (Nowotny and Hirsch 1 9 8 0 , 2 8 1 - 2 8 2 ) .

28

The Rise of the Movements

This warning caused a storm of criticism by the AEC and its nuclear scientists. If Gofman and Tamplin were right, the AEC doctrine that there was a threshold below which the risks of radiation were negligible would be refuted. According to Gofman/Tamplin's linear theory, the health damage was in direct proportion to the amount of radiation received, "right down to the lowest doses" (Gofman and Tamplin 1971, 78f). In their blunt words, the current maximum dose amounted to "trading human lives for some supposed benefits of technology" (p. 277). The AEC fiercely denied the validity of these findings. JCAE chair Chet Hollifield rejected Gofman's proposal to nominate a jury of eminent radiation experts to debate the contested findings in public. A group of prominent nuclear scientists and radiation experts published an open letter in the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists that supported the AEC by concluding "that no change in the relevant safety standards is warranted at the present time" (quoted in Thompson and Bibb, 1970,12). Tamplin and Gofman were left out in the cold. The AEC froze their research funds and staff at Livermore. Gofman had to return to his faculty position at the University of California at Berkeley in 1973. A few years later, Tamplin was also urged to leave the Livermore Lab, and he joined the environmentalist Natural Resources Defense Council (NRDC). The expert debate on low-level radiation had considerable impact. Gofman and Tamplin were the first nuclear expert dissenters to transcend the small circle of the expert community and to openly address the public. This threatened to blur the boundaries between science and politics. If experts disagreed so visibly, then science's monopoly on truth was questioned. Scientific expertise was suddenly perceived as either incomplete or distorted by partisan bias.8 Even though the scientific careers of Gofman and Tamplin were thwarted, their major points of contention were later confirmed. An FRC-commissioned study by the National Academy of Sciences concluded that the existing radiation guidelines were "unnecessarily high" (quoted in Tamplin 1973,19—20). 9 In 1971, the AEC silently revised its reactor design objectives to keep the level of radioactive releases "as low as practicable" (Gillette 1972b). Gofman, who considers himself "fundamentally a scientist, not a politician," became one of the most visible national leaders of the U.S. antinuclear movement.10

THE REACTOR SAFETY DEBATE

The second round of overt expert debate focused on reactor safety. Whereas the low-level radiation debate could easily be contained by

Dissent and Intervention in the United States

29

administrative rule changes, the debate over reactor safety exposed the Achilles heel of the new technology: the risk of a catastrophic accident. It also dramatized the previous pattern of informal cooperation between state and nonstate actors. Dissenters at the AEC went over to cooperate more or less openly with the rising citizen opposition, which now constituted itself on the national level. In the wake of the reactor safety debate, the Union of Concerned Scientists (UCS), founded in 1 9 6 9 by a group of M I T professors and graduate students, established itself as the leading technological critic of U.S. nuclear power, boosting the growth of the antinuclear movement. 11 In response to the dramatic increase in reactor sizes, the AEC had mandated the additional installation of the so-called emergency core cooling system (ECCS). The ECCS was to reflood the reactor core if the primary cooling was interrupted. The failing of the ECCS would have disastrous consequences: the core could overheat and melt through the reactor vessel (the so-called China Syndrome), and the resulting high pressure could burst the containment walls and release large amounts of radioactivity. As concerned AEC reactor safety experts leaked to the press in 1 9 7 1 , all previous experiments on ECCS had failed. 12 At the same time, the UCS had begun to study the ECCS issue in the context of an individual licensing intervention. Becoming aware of an internal AEC controversy over the ECCS, UCS activists arranged informal meetings with AEC scientists and internal critics at various AEC research laboratories around the country, "under often adventurous circumstances," as UCS leader Daniel Ford ( 1 9 8 2 , 1 1 1 - 1 1 6 ) later reported. The UCS issued two major reports in 1 9 7 1 , which evaluated the implications of the test failures and particularly attacked the computer simulation methods employed by AEC researchers. Based on these revelations, the UCS demanded a "total halt to the issuance of operating licenses for nuclear power reactors under construction, until safeguards of assured performance can be provided." 13 Aimed at a wide lay audience, the studies stirred considerable attention, including CBS and N B C evening news reports. The AEC tried to contain the mounting controversy by holding generic rule-making hearings. Scheduled to last six weeks, they dragged on for more than a year, revealing dramatic disagreements among the government's own nuclear experts (Primack and Hippel 1 9 7 4 , ch. 15). The Freedom of Information Act of 1 9 7 1 forced the AEC to release a continual stream of staff memos and communications with its research laboratories that raised serious questions about reactor safety. It became evident that the AEC had censored and suppressed the critical findings of

30

The Rise of the Movements

its own reactor experts. Many of them openly attacked the AEC bureaucracy during testimony, often at the cost of losing their jobs. The ECCS hearings became a serious public relations debacle for the AEC. A neverending flood of revelations about the AEC's "nuclearsafety cover-up" (Ford 1982, 12) contributed to expanded media coverage, carrying the nuclear power issue into the public consciousness. As the industry newsletter Nucleonics Week observed, the hearings "opened up a Pandora's Box of scientific doubts and bureaucratic heavyhandedness." 14 Throughout the nuclear controversy that was still to follow, the issue of accident risk remained the major contention of the antinuclear movement. The battered AEC never recovered from the ECCS disaster, and the commission was dissolved in 1974. Most importantly for the nascent movement, consumer advocate Ralph Nader became attentive to the nuclear issue. His intervention would switch the antinuclear crusade to high gear.

ENVIRONMENTALISM AND LEGAL CITIZEN INTERVENTION The reactor safety debate also fostered a coalition between local citizen groups and national environmental organizations. The Consolidated National Intervenors (CNI), which was formed to participate in the ECCS hearings, comprised sixty local and national groups ranging from the UCS, the Sierra Club, and the Chicago-based Businessmen in the Public Interest to local citizen groups such as the New England Coalition on Nuclear Pollution and the Lloyd Harbor Study Group of New York. 15 Their goal was to expose both the "hazards inherent in nuclear power stations" and the AEC's "lack of proven knowledge in dealing with them," urging the suspension of the licensing of nuclear plants until the AEC "proof-test(ed)" the safety of reactors. 16 The CNI was not against nuclear power as such. Comparing coal plants with nuclear plants in regard to environmental impact, the environmental organizations in particular considered safety and environmental impact as a trade-off. As UCS leader and CNI spokesperson Daniel Ford put it, "Nuclear power offers environmental advantages over fossil fuel, but nuclear plants have got to be safe." 17 Most CNI groups shared this view, at least for tactical reasons of coalition building. Their goal was not to abolish nuclear power but to make it safer. Considering that in 1972 only twenty-two nuclear plants were operating, while ninety-nine were in various stages of planning and construc-

Dissent and Intervention in the United States

31

tion, the nuclear opponents reasoned that the young technology was still malleable. To quote Daniel Ford again: " T h e basic decisions affecting nuclear power plants should be made now, before 20 to 25 percent of the nation's power is atomic." 1 8 ENVIRONMENTAL! SM

Except for some scattered campaigns, the rush to nuclear power during the Great Bandwagon Market passed by without major citizen opposition. 19 Between 1962 and 1966, only 12 percent of all license applications were legally contested by local citizen groups. Between 1967 and 1971, the rate of intervention was already 32 percent. From 1970 to 1972, local intervenors challenged no less than 73 percent of all applications reviewed in A E C hearings (Rolph 1979, 102, 139). What accounted for this dramatic increase in opposition beginning in 1970? As I shall argue, the environmental movement of the early 1970s created the "cultural conduciveness" (Gamson 1988) necessary to become aware of the risks of nuclear power and provided an organizational network for antinuclear activists to overcome isolation and coalesce. The new environmentalism of Earth Day 1970 shared with the old conservationism of the Progressive Era the legalist and reform-oriented style of "public-interest liberalism" (McCann 1986). But whereas conservationism had addressed the private preemption of public resources and had focused on land and wildlife issues, the new environmentalism thematized the negative side effects of modern technology and industrialization. Mobilized by modern-style disasters such as the huge oil spills that destroyed the Santa Barbara coastline in early 1969, Earth Day environmentalists became concerned about problems of pollution, overpopulation, and the decimation of resources. 2 0 They perceived the industrial destruction of urban and natural environments as symptoms of a general "crisis of survival" that could be overcome only by a fundamental transformation of politics and society (Hays 1970; Friends of the Earth 1970). Although the radical rhetoric of Earth Day withered rather rapidly, the quality of the environment became a generally shared and stable public concern (Wood 1982). In 1965, only a tiny minority of the American public had considered the problem of pollution very serious. 2 1 By 1970, it was among the "most important national problems" (Erskine 1972). A 1970 Harris Poll indicated that Americans, by a margin of 54 to 34 percent, were willing to pay more taxes to finance air and water pollution control. Three years previously, opposition to such taxation

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The Rise of the Movements

was 46 to 44 percent. 22 Public concern for environmental quality remained high during the 1970s (Mitchell 1978). At the same time, the public distrust of technology increased remarkably (LaPorte and Metlay 1975). These were favorable conditions for antinuclear mobilization. Meanwhile, the traditional environmental organizations underwent a dramatic growth of membership. The Sierra Club grew from 15,000 members in 1960 to 83,000 in 1969. During the same period, the National Audubon Society expanded from 32,000 to 120,000 members (Mitchell 1985, 25). The Sierra Club turned from a small, amateurish association of nature lovers and mountaineers into a professional mass member organization engaged in aggressive political campaigning. By 1970, the club agenda ranged "from expansion of the National Park System to the survival issues of population, pollution and pesticides." 23 In general, however, the Earth Day environmentalism became institutionalized in a new brand of environmental organizations. The Friends of the Earth (FOE), founded by Sierra Club dissident David Brower in 1969, went beyond conservationism to attack "exploitative values, destructive technologies, and dehumanized relationships." 24 The FOE was the first environmental organization to oppose nuclear power on a grand scale and to propagate energy alternatives. Together with other new organizations—such as the Environmental Defense Fund, the N R D C , or Environmental Action—Friends of the Earth combined the antiestablishment thrust of Earth Day with rigorous expert professionalism and a high emphasis on lobbying and litigation (Mitchell 1985,11—19). These new environmental organizations, in particular, took on the nuclear issue in the early 1970s. 2S Environmental concerns were also shared across party lines (Buttel and Flinn 1976), promising to reinstate consensus in American politics after the divisions over civil rights and the Vietnam War. President Nixon's State of the Union address in 1970 heralded the task to "make our peace with nature" as "the great question of the '70s." 26 In the same year, Congress passed the most comprehensive and strictest environmental legislation anywhere in the Western world (Elliott, Ackermann, and Millian 1985). The new Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) was to supervise the implementation of strict air, water, and other pollution standards. Designed to deal with the environment as a "single interrelated system" (Marcus 1980, 268), the EPA was instructed to act independently of industry pressure and to give no weight at all to economic and technological considerations. The EPA was to set strict and uniform

Dissent and Intervention in the United States

33

rules, prescribe deadlines for achieving statutory goals, and impose technology-forcing standards on the industry—a style of regulation that some critics have described as coercive and confrontational (Vogel 1986). Moreover, the EPA was required to review the environmental impact statement (EIS) that each federal agency involved in projects that "significantly affectfed] the quality of the human environment" had to provide.27 Through the famous Calvert Cliffs court rule of 1971, the early nuclear power opposition could directly capitalize on the political successes of the environmental movement (Lewis 1972, 259—297; Bieber 1973). The Calvert Cliffs rule made the new environmental legislation applicable to the nuclear licensing process and forced the AEC to issue EISs for all existing and new plants, causing a tremendous backlog of work and a complication of the regulatory process (Cohen 1979, 74— 75). Calvert Cliffs was the first major step toward the reassertion of decentralized control in U.S. nuclear policy. Since environmental concerns were at the time shared across social and political lines, the nuclear power industry and its political allies tried to vindicate the issue for themselves.28 In 1970 and 1971, the nuclear industry held a media campaign that emphasized the environmental advantages of "clean" nuclear electricity over "dirty" coal. For instance, the Southern California Edison utility celebrated nuclear power plants as "clean sources of low-cost energy. And they are smog-free." 29 In the same vein, AEC chair Glenn Seabourg stressed that "nuclear power properly managed can be a tremendous environmental asset" (Seabourg 1970, 4; see also AEC 1969). 30 Even though nuclear proponents temporarily joined the environmental bandwagon, these efforts could not undermine the firm links between the new environmentalism and the early nuclear opposition. The public generally identified nuclear critics as environmentalists, and the latter shared this attribution. 31 A closer look at the Consolidated National Invervenors supports this view. Most of the local groups represented by the CNI had started as environmental groups and still carried the root word environment in their names.32 A survey found that two-thirds of the CNI leadership had previously been active in the environmental movement (Mazur 1975, 68). Personal and organizational ties ultimately reflect thematic linkages. The environmental issues of thermal pollution and low-level radiation as well as the conservation of pristine sites were among the top concerns raised by the early antinuclear citizen

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groups. Of the thirty license hearings contested by citizen intervenors between 1966 and 1971, fourteen focused on thermal pollution and sixteen on low-level radiation (Rolph 1979, 1 0 4 - 1 0 5 , 113). CITIZEN INTERVENTION IN THE LICENSING PROCESS

The nuclear licensing process in the United States is a hybrid of formally free access and actual closure. Free access reflects the normative antistatism in American political culture, which always seeks to subject state power to societal controls. Authority in the nuclear sector, however, was abnormally centralized. The apparent openness of the licensing process solicited the legal intervention of concerned citizens. The actual experience of closure then frustrated those who had simply followed the invitation and now found themselves a ridiculed "rebellion" of outsiders (Lewis 1972). 33 Recognizing that the development of nuclear power was "by long odds the most dangerous manufacturing process in which man has ever engaged" (AEC 1950, 3), nuclear regulators had considered public participation a necessary component of regulation from early on. As the JCAE (1971, 1687) hoped, "full, free, and frank discussion" would apprise the public of the safety of nuclear power. According to the Atomic Energy Act of 1954, this symbolic participation of the public was to occur in mandatory public hearings prior to the issuance of construction and operating licenses. Designed during the Atoms for Peace era, when nuclear consensus was universal and dissent rather unlikely, the public hearings were intended, not to resolve interest conflicts, but to appease the public. When in the wake of the new environmentalism, citizen groups throughout the country invaded the AEC hearing rooms, the regulatory system as originally designed was overburdened. Citizen intervenors had to challenge the closed structures of the nuclear subgovernment. Inertia, resource scarcity, and restrictions on the issues to be addressed severely constrained the effectiveness of the intervenors. First, public intervention occurred late in the regulatory process. When a hearing was held, considerable capital expenditures had already been made by the applying utility, a site had been acquired, and the AEC, applicant, and nuclear vendor had reached an implicit licensing agreement (Ebbin and Kasper 1974, 8; Green 1970,120). Second, the nuclear industry had more time, money, and expertise than the local intervenors.

Dissent and Intervention in the United States

35

Third, only narrow technical objections against the concrete plant could be raised during the hearings. Broader concerns about the acceptability and risk-benefit ratio of nuclear power had to stay outside (Keating 1 9 7 5 , 5 6 ; Green 1 9 7 2 a , 122). In sum, the licensing hearing only reaffirmed foregone conclusions. Harold Green ( 1 9 7 2 b , 76—77), a prominent public-interest lawyer, writes, " T h e political structure of atomic energy is in reality a closed loop. . . . J C A E and AEC have usually cooperated symbolically to resolve policy issues behind the scenes. . . . Benefits of nuclear technology have usually been presumed, while risks have been ignored or dismissed in boldly optimistic terms." Despite these obstacles, legal citizen intervention offered some indirect opportunities. Facing the risk of lengthy and costly licensing battles, many utilities preferred outside settlements with citizen groups. As in the cases of the Monti cello nuclear plant in Minnesota, the Palisades plant at Lake Michigan, and the Fermi II plant at Lagoona Beach, Michigan, direct negotiations between utilities and intervenors resulted in the additional installation of cooling towers and filter systems. These devices drastically reduced the levels of thermal pollution and radioactive emission (Gendlin 1 9 7 1 ; Lewis 1 9 7 2 , 1 0 9 - 1 4 7 ) . The threat of subsequent court battles further increased the indirect leverage of citizen intervenors. In general, citizen groups and environmental organizations widely resorted to the strategy of litigation in the 1970s, revitalizing the Progressive faith in the judiciary as "public authority without public bureaucracy" (D. Vogel 1 9 8 0 , 6 2 1 ) . In fact, of almost two thousand environmental cases treated by federal courts during the 1970s, the environmental point of view prevailed about half the time (Wenner 1 9 8 2 ) . This astonishing success had been made possible by the liberalization of standing under the Warren Court, which entitled injuries other than economic or direct physical damage to seek judicial review. As Constance Cook ( 1 9 8 0 , 29) notes with regard to nuclear power, " T h e demarcation line between agency hearings and court cases is obscure because the same participants and issues appear on each setting." The hearing process already resembled the adversarial courtroom situation, and on both sides the main actors were lawyers. Appealing AEC licensing decisions in court was the next logical step. But the judiciary usually declined to revoke regulatory agency decisions— with the notable exception of Calvert Cliffs (Wenner 1 9 8 4 ) . In late 1 9 7 1 , the Atomic Industrial Forum (AIF) summarized the state of U.S. nuclear power this way: " F o r the second year, at least, the

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peaceful atom rode the crest of a great paradox: heavy new commitments to atomic power and other uses of nuclear energy in the face of substantial problems of public (and political) acceptance and mounting economic uncertainties." 34 As demonstrated, expert dissent and early citizen protest had brought unexpected "turmoil for the atom." But worse was yet to come.

CHAPTER THREE

Elite Consensus and Citizen Initiatives in West Germany

DETERMINANTS OF THE NUCLEAR POWER SECTOR The prewar German state, with its bureaucratic and authoritarian legacy, is commonly referred to as the model case of a strong state (Nettl 1 9 6 8 ; Dyson 1980). A late industrializer with strong feudal structures and a belatedly unified nation without a genuine democratic tradition, Germany entered modernity under the auspices of an autocratic state steered by military and semifeudal elites. To uproot the authoritarian structures that had instigated Nazism and World War II, the victorious Allies created a decentralized state with limited executive capacity and multiple checks and balances. So there were really two states in postwar West Germany: the historical state of consensual elites and transcendental authority and the new state of fragmented powers and Western-style parliamentary democracy (Dahrendorf 1 9 6 8 ; Katzenstein 1 9 8 7 ) . The overlap between different models of statehood became an important factor in the West German nuclear energy debate. 1 Because Nazism had discredited corporate concentration and central planning, the initial involvement of the West German state in the creation of the nuclear power sector was very low-key (Nau 1 9 7 4 , 85—87). Moreover, the defeated country had to renounce the option to develop and own nuclear weapons. N o military and national security considerations forced the imposition of centralized government control over nuclear affairs as in the United States, Great Britain, or France (DeLeon 1 9 7 9 , 66). The renunciation of nuclear weapons had two important 37

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implications for the nuclear energy controversy. First, the public would always keep the civilian and military aspects of nuclear power separate. Second, because of the loss of the military option, the civilian usage of nuclear power became the prime symbol for national prestige and economic strength. Wolf Hafele, leader of the West German fast-breeder program, has expressed this motive very clearly (quoted in Nau 1974, 75): "It is no longer military power which proceeds parallel with political power. Rather, we believe that political power is acquired today to a large extent from the pursuit of civilian technological projects. The capacity to act politically derives from this pursuit." Whereas the American state had launched civilian nuclear power in a concentrated effort but had gradually retreated, the West German state was initially cautious and restrained but then slowly increased its role in nuclear development. Until the nuclear controversy erupted with unexpected vehemence in the mid-1970s, the promoters of West German nuclear power successfully presented their case as a nonpolitical issue dominated by expert rationality (Radkau 1983a, 14). No internal elite dissent or agency rivalry coalesced with parts of the public to question aspects of or even the whole direction of the project. 2 More than in the United States, nuclear power was an irrevocable fait accompli when the public finally got worried. A West German official aptly characterized the initial approach in nuclear policy as "very small bureaucracy, very large expert groups" (quoted in Nau 1974, 74). In contrast to the powerful AEC, the first Atomic Ministry of 1955 had only informal and circumscribed authority. More influential was the German Atomic Commission, which included leading representives of industry, science, and politics. Insulated from the public sphere of parliament and parties, the commission authored the Eltville Program in 1957, the first informal nuclear program (Winnacker and Wirtz 1979, 57). The Eltville Program envisaged the development of a variety of reactor designs. Its preference was for the national heavy-water variant, which promised independence from enriched uranium imports and yielded high plutonium rates. But the overwhelming economic presence of the United States, which launched a massive export offensive in the late 1950s and offered generous credits and free deliveries of enriched uranium, brought the early victory of the American light-water reactor in West Germany. 3 Henceforth, proponents and opponents of nuclear power alike would closely follow the American development, importing the prevalence of "engineered" over

Consensus and Initiatives in Germany

39

"inherent" safety strategies as well as the ensuing controversy (Radkau 1983a, 3 6 4 - 4 1 0 ) . With the American technology came a regulatory framework that carried federal fragmentation to the extreme but adapted to the consensus style of German administration (Nelkin and Pollak 1981,27—28; de Witt 1984). The major provisions of the Atomic Law of 1959 and its subsequent amendments strikingly resembled the American model, as in, for instance, the privatization of the nuclear industry, exemption from liability, and mandatory public hearings. The major difference was the lack of a centralized federal agency to promote and regulate the nuclear sector. Following the principle of "field administration" (Auftragsverwaltung), ministries at the land (state) level were endowed with the task of issuing construction and operation licenses on behalf of the federal government. This contributed to the regional character of the later protest movement, which revolved around a chain of local siting disputes. In contrast to the United States, only individuals in defense of personal interests, not groups or organizations on behalf of the public interest, were allowed to participate in licensing hearings and subsequent court litigation. In the German administrative tradition, the state is by definition the consensual advocate of the public interest, relegating citizens to marginal carriers of partial interests only (Dyson 1982a, 1982b). Accordingly, there were no political opportunities and no legal culture to spur an American-style public-interest movement.4 As in the United States, the commercial breakthrough of nuclear power in the late 1960s occurred unnoticed by the public. This situation was not without irony because when this technology-in-the-making did not yet exist (in the late 1950s), it had stirred broad interest and publicity (Wagner 1964). In West Germany, too, civilian nuclear power represented, for a brief period, the frontier technology of a new age of plenty. Marxist philosopher Ernst Bloch hailed the coming of nuclear energy as a force to "make flushing meadows from wasteland, flowering spring from ice, in the blue atmosphere of peace" (Bloch 1959, 775). For the trade unions and the Social Democratic Party (SPD), nuclear energy symbolized a new evolutionary force toward progress and equality that rendered the old ideology of class struggle obsolete.5 When nuclear energy became reality and the state increased its involvement to close a perceived "technological gap" to the leading nations of the West, the new technology became peculiarly depoliticized (Radkau 1983a, 4 1 1 - 4 3 4 ) . The Atomic Ministry, the Bundestag Com-

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The Rise of the Movements

mittee on Atomic Energy, and the powerful German Atomic Commission were successively abolished. The regulation of safety was shifted to the Ministry of the Interior, and the promotional function went to the new Ministry of Research and Technology. At the same time, the media showed only little interest, and even the dramatic American debates over low-level radiation and reactor safety were initially ignored. The Battelle Institute (1975) found that less than 1 percent of all newspaper articles published on nuclear energy between 1970 and 1974 "expressed some concern about this energy source" (p. 1). But the commercialization of nuclear power also planted the seeds for its repoliticization. The construction of concrete facilities removed the new technology from the remote arena of regulation and R & D and exposed it to the more visible arena of energy policy and land-use planning (Kitschelt 1980, ch. 4; 1982, 2 8 8 - 2 8 9 ; 1983, ch. 5). As a sympathetic observer naively outlined the prospective regional impact of nuclear expansion in early 1971, "The spreading of plant sites throughout the Federal Republic will give rise to an interlocking web of industrial growth centers." 6 Local opposition to the industrialization of rural areas opened up the first round of the West German nuclear controversy. Reactor siting had to become a significant problem in a small and thoroughly industrialized country with a high population density (Bliimel 1977). The lack of coherent public land-use policies and the dispersion of regulatory authority at the land level (de Witt 1978; Hesse 1981) resulted in the unfortunate concentration of nuclear plant sites in the rural Upper Rhine and Lower Elbe—regional strongholds of the emergent antinuclear movement.

THE EXTRAPARLIAMENTARY OPPOSITION, CITIZEN INITIATIVES, AND DOMESTIC REFORM Because of the maintenance of nuclear elite consensus, the incipient building blocks of the West German antinuclear movement were located entirely outside the nuclear sector. The antinuclear movement was part of a larger cycle of movement mobilization since the 1960s, and it built on the organizational forms and subcultural resources of the preceding movements. 7 Postwar West Germany was equipped with Western-style democratic institutions, but it also inherited the precarious historical legacy of authoritarianism and Nazism. Eager to repress the past and placed as the capitalist front state in the cold war confrontation, the young Federal

Consensus and Initiatives in Germany

41

Republic developed a culture of anticommunism, political apathy, and suppression of dissent. In the early 1960s, Gabriel Almond and Sidney Verba (1963, 496) noticed the prevalence of "detached, practical, and almost cynical attitudes toward politics" among Germans and the "lack of an informal participatory culture." The old cultural syndrome of conflict aversion and "desire for synthesis" (Dahrendorf 1968, 163) prevailed after the war, as the widely used formula of the "consensus of democrats" testified. The preoccupation with consensus was most tellingly revealed in Chancellor Ludwig Erhard's concept of the "formed society," which epitomized the political culture of early postwar West Germany (quoted in Katzenstein 1987, 109): "The formed society is peaceful and rests on the dynamic strength that derives from the achievement of a consensus on all questions of domestic and foreign policy." The movements of the 1960s were critical responses to a repressive culture of consensus.

THE EXTRAPARLIAMENTARY O P P O S I T I O N

The first social movement to shake the quiescence of a country obsessed with collective denial of the past and economic reconstruction arose in opposition to NATO plans to equip the German Bundeswehr with nuclear weapons. In 1957, the same SPD that hailed the coming of civilian nuclear energy became the organizational backbone of the pacifist Fight the Atomic Death campaign (Rupp 1970). The cooptation of this first antinuclear movement by the SPD became deeply engrained in the collective memory of the movements that were to follow (Buro 1978). At first, the SPD, along with the closely allied trade unions, supported the Fight the Atomic Death movement as part of its rejection of Chancellor Konrad Adenauer's policy of West integration. After Godesberg 1959, however, when the SPD abandoned its earlier plea for a neutral Germany and went over to support integration into the Western military alliance, the party denounced and vilified the movement it had helped to create. Coopted and lacking organizational autonomy, the Fight the Atomic Death campaign collapsed in 1958. Distrust of established political actors became a characteristic feature of all the movements that followed. The Ostermarschbewegung (Easter March Movement), which was modeled on the British Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament and which opposed the "atomic threat" in annual Easter rallies, had already learned to organize independently (Buro 1977, 71). When the SPD entered as junior partner in a Great Coalition

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government with the Christian Democratic Union (CDU) in 1966, the monolithic CDU state, in which all oppositional forces were extinct, seemed to have won. The preparation and passing of the Emergency Decrees (Notstandsgesetze), which vested the federal government with paradictatorial powers in emergency situations, finally catalyzed the formation of the extraparliamentary opposition (APO), the central West German opposition movement of the 1960s (Otto 1977; Rolke 1987, 242-304). Through the APO, the student movement for university reform, which had been forming independently in various cities and university towns since the mid-1960s, grew into a broad political force that shook the young Bonn republic at its foundations. With Emergency Decrees and Great Coalition, the authoritarian and fascist state of the past had reappeared, or so it seemed, and it had to be countered in a direct and uncompromising confrontation. 8 The killing of a student demonstrator during a huge protest rally in Berlin in June 1967 and an almost lethal assault on student leader Rudi Dutschke by a deranged police officer in April 1968 framed a tumultuous year, in which mass rallies, teach-ins, and direct protest fundamentally transformed the political climate of the Federal Republic. When Jiirgen Habermas, the intellectual doyen of the student movement, was asked twenty years later what remained of the movement, his laconic answer was "Frau Siissmuth" (the liberal-feminist minister for family affairs in the conservative Kohl government). 9 In fact, the longterm impact of the APO and the student movement on West German political culture can hardly be exaggerated. The previously apathetic and quiescent sphere of civil society became thoroughly politicized. The unrelenting thematization of the Nazi past; the questioning of authority in family, education, work, and politics; and the demand for equality between the sexes were among the issues pioneered by the student movement that went mainstream. For the movements that followed, the student movement established a field of "consensus mobilization" (Klandermans 1988), a repertoire of themes, action forms, and subcultural resources that could be easily mobilized later on. The milieu of the New Left emerged, from which the feminist, ecology, antinuclear, and peace movements recruited most of their activists. Most importantly, the antistatist disposition and the emphasis on extraparliamentary autonomy became a shared feature of the movements of the 1970s and 1980s (Roth 1985, 43). The state came to be perceived as a corporate villain rather than as a source of political opportunities. 10

Consensus and Initiatives in Germany

43

CITIZEN INITIATIVES AND DOMESTIC R E F O R M

The student movement paved the way for the Bürgerinitiativen of the early 1970s, the direct organizational precursor of the antinuclear movement (Fassbinder 1972; Mayer-Tasch 1976; Helm 1980; Rüdig 1980; Guggenberger and Kempf 1984). The citizen initiatives thrived on the participatory transformation of West German political culture that was brought about by the student movement. It became legitimate for broader segments of the population to get politically involved.11 If Almond and Verba (1963) had deplored the lack of civic culture in the late 1950s, a réévaluation of the same hypothesis less than two decades later found higher levels of political participation and a shift in emphasis "from a concern with the security and stability of the democracy to the quality and extent of democracy" (Conradt 1980, 263f). 1 2 The citizen initiatives epitomize this change. According to Peter Mayer-Tasch's (1976, 19f) authorative definition, citizen initiatives are "spontaneous or planfully created, loosely organized associations of citizens, who, driven by a concrete occasion or a general goal, resort to self-help, and seek to influence legal and political decision-making at the communal, regional, or state level." A mix of structural and conjunctural factors explains their appearance in the late 1960s. In structural terms, the post—World War II economic reconstruction had come to a successful end. Public attention now turned to noneconomic issues, such as the improvement of urban infrastructure, housing, education, and the quality of the environment. Moreover, the rapid expansion of the welfare state had paradoxical effects. On the one hand, the omnipresence of public policies caused a chronic "legitimation crisis" (Habermas 1973) because public nuisances and grievances were now attributed to the state. On the other hand, the increased role of the state executive was accompanied by the decline of parties and parliaments. The deideologization and bureaucratization of the major political parties, epitomized by the post-Godesberg SPD, diminished their ability to represent the interests of the citizenry (Kirchheimer 1966a). The resulting vacuum was filled by the new citizen initiatives. The structural deficits of statist penetration and party elitism apply to most advanced democracies, especially in Western Europe (Kirchheimer 1966b; Berger 1979). In addition, specific conjunctural factors help explain the rise of the new citizen initiatives, most of which sprang up only after the SPD had seized power in 1969, ending two decades of conservative rule (Lange et al. 1973). This was an important event because a

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significant part of the student protest generation now abandoned the dogma of extraparliamentary opposition in favor of a "march through the institutions" (see Scherer 1984, 73). The participatory impetus of the student protests reverberated in Chancellor Willy Brandt's first government declaration (quoted in Wilharm 1985, 27): "We shall risk more democracy. . . . Every citizen shall have the possibility to participate in the reform of state and society. . . . Codetermination and coresponsibility in all societal spheres is the agenda of today." Inspired by the urging to risk more democracy, the new coalition government (formed by the SPD and FDP [Free Democratic Party]) launched an ambitious project of redistribution and inner reforms. The Keynesian mastery of the small 1966—1967 recession had legitimized a more active role of the state in the economy and society. Political planning became the leitmotiv of the day (Scharpf 1973). Backed by a strong economy, the SPD/FDP government disposed of seemingly unlimited resources to initiate a broad policy of domestic reforms. Its pillars were the introduction of codetermination at the workplace, the expansion of social services, an educational policy to include broader segments of the population in institutions of higher learning, legislation for protection of the environment, and a sweeping tax reform (Schmidt 1978). Because participation from below offered a counterbalance to planning from above, the Social Democrats welcomed the early citizen initiatives—they were allies in the democratization of society and proved that the "active citizen" (miindiger Bürger) was not just political propaganda but reality (Kôser 1984). Those citizen initiatives that positively complemented the Social Democratic reform program may be called proactive. They sought to fill the gap between reform promise and reality and functioned for policy makers as "political seismographs" that signaled bottlenecks of societal acceptance (Offe 1972,163). Proactive citizen initiatives focused on improving the urban infrastructure, such as communal services, public education, child care, and traffic regulation (Kodolitsch 1975). The sudden revocation of the politics of inner reforms after the energy crisis of 1973 caused a deep societal shock, which reinstated the polarized political culture of the Great Coalition period. Besieged by skyrocketing fuel prices and a severe economic recession, the SPD moved from domestic reform to an austere policy of economic crisis management. Participation from below was suddenly considered costly and time consuming, threatening economic recovery and the regaining of full

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employment. N o longer the pet of enlightened administrators, the citizen initiatives became a "public calamity." 1 3 In the harsh climate of revoked reform promises and economic crisis, a more bellicose type of citizen initiative prevailed, which may be called reactive. Gathering under the new banner of ecology and environmental protection, these groups soon overcame local isolation by forging state- and nationwide alliances. On a temporal axis, reactive citizen groups represented a second generation of citizen initiatives characterized by tighter organization, generalized goals, and a diminished willingness to accept legal and political decisions (Schiller 1984). A major step toward national movement building was the founding of the Federal Association of Citizen Initiatives for Environmental Protection (BBU) in 1 9 7 2 . The BBU soon comprised more than one thousand local and regional groups. Its declared goal was to work against "the terrifying disproportion between the power of state and industry and the rather limited influence of the local citizen initiatives" (quoted in Kempf 1 9 8 4 , 4 0 6 ) . The BBU became a key organization of the emergent antinuclear movement.

T H E RISE O F ENVIRONMENTALISTS As in the United States, the rise of environmental concerns in the early 1 9 7 0 s prepared the cultural conduciveness to address the risks of nuclear power. But in contrast to the United States, the West German environmental movement emerged only after the federal government had formulated an ambitious environmental policy program (Kaczor 1 9 8 9 , 4 8 ) . Moreover, the environmental movement became largely identical with the nuclear power opposition itself (Frederichs 1980), and it articulated the societal strain caused by the political shift from domestic reform to economic crisis management. In 1 9 6 1 , the SPD had fought the state elections in smog-plagued Northrhine-Westphalia with the slogan "Blue Sky over the R u h r " (Margedant 1987). Yet this remained an isolated incident. Even in 1 9 6 9 , 95 percent of the West German public had only a vague understanding of environmental issues (Pótzl 1 9 8 2 , 80). This changed soon, however. Media reports about the dumping of toxic waste into the Rhine River, which caused a disastrous fish poisoning, and the first smog alarms in the metropolitan areas alerted the public to the problems of air and water pollution. 1 4 Moreover, the Earth Day events and the rise of the environmental movement in the United States registered in Western Europe. T h e

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Council of the European Community declared 1 9 7 0 the "Year of Environmental Protection." As a result, between September 1 9 7 0 and November 1 9 7 1 , the part of the public that was unfamiliar with the issue of environmental protection dropped from 6 0 percent to less than 10 percent (Margedant 1 9 8 7 , 2 1 ) . Even before the environment became the focus of social movement mobilization, the newly elected SPD/FDP coalition government enacted sweeping environmental laws as part of its ambitious reform program (Feick and Hucke 1 9 8 0 ; Wey 1 9 8 2 ; Hartkopf and Bohne 1 9 8 3 ; Müller 1 9 8 4 ; Gläser 1 9 8 9 ) . The Environmental Program of 1 9 7 1 opted for preventive environmental planning, the polluter pays principle, and the development of environmentally benign technologies. The federal government considered environmental policy " o n equal standing with other eminent public policy areas, such as social welfare, educational policy, or domestic security" (German Bundesregierung 1 9 7 4 b , 19). The new policy outlined concrete legislative measures on water resources, air quality, noise reduction, toxic waste disposal, and conservation. The equal treatment of ecology and economy met no organized resistance at the time. As long as the effects and costs of the new policy were still unknown, consensus prevailed easily. Parties and parliament were uninterested in the details of environmental policy making (Malunat 1 9 8 7 ) , thereby leaving the federal executive with a wide latitude of initiative. Environmental policy even seemed to be ahead of the public consciousness. When the first environmental citizen initiatives formed, the government welcomed them as "multiplicators" of the Environmental Program. According to a high federal official, "There was an implicit division of labor, in which the citizen groups approached environmental problems on a case-by-case basis, while we treated them in a more programmatic way" (quoted in Pötzl 1 9 8 2 , 93). When it became apparent that the major sociopolitical reform projects would fail because of stagnating fiscal resources, the Environmental Program gained even more importance. Because of the polluter pays principle, environmental protection was less costly for the state than were other domestic reforms (Feick and Hucke 1 9 8 0 ) . Only passingly mentioned in the first government declaration of 1 9 6 9 , environmental protection was a paramount theme of Chancellor Brandt's reelection statement in 1 9 7 2 (see Wilharm 1985,32-37). The fate of the Environmental Program exemplifies the general failure of the domestic reform policies. Its partial revocation after the energy

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crisis of 1 9 7 3 set the stage for the polarization between economic growth and ecological protection that would frame the West German nuclear debate. In the wake of the energy crisis and economic recession, a multilayered opposition mobilized against the environmental laws. Arguments for the securing of energy supplies and the restoring of the economy gained more weight. Federalist fragmentation and political countermobilization by business and labor caused implementation bottlenecks, undermined the stringency of the existing laws, and ultimately stalemated the Environmental Program (Mayntz 1 9 7 6 ; Mayntz and Hucke 1 9 7 8 ) . There was no well-organized environmental lobby in Bonn to counter the joint business-labor attack. After all, the Environmental Program did not spring from the pressure of a social movement or a well-organized societal interest but from the vision of a reformfriendly government. The symbolic turning point was a conference at Schloss Gymnich in July 1 9 7 5 , where the federal cabinet convened with leading industry and trade union representatives to discuss the future of environmental policy. Attesting to their insignificance, no environmental organizations had been invited to this important meeting. Chancellor Helmut Schmidt (who had replaced Willy Brandt in 1 9 7 3 ) was a declared foe of "exaggerated environmental protection," and he gave priority to the securing of energy supplies and economic growth. 1 5 The participants at Gymnich decided to subordinate environmental protection to the requirements of economic stabilization. 16 This became the official government position throughout the nuclear controversy. The subordination of the economy to conscious political planning, the ambitious motive of the brief reform period, proved illusory. 17 As Manfred Schmidt ( 1 9 7 8 ) argues, the reform policies themselves contributed to the economic crisis via increasing labor costs and soliciting of capital-intensive investment strategies and capital exports. N o t only the Environmental Program but also the projects of codetermination, educational reform, and tax reform were either cut beyond recognition or given up entirely. Despite the energy crisis and economic recession, public opinion surveys showed environmental protection among the three most important concerns throughout the 1970s (Fietkau, Kessel, and Tischler 1 9 8 2 ) . Even the threat of economic recession and unemployment did not significantly diminish public support for environmental protection (Margedant 1 9 8 7 , 2 6 ) . On the contrary. Whereas 4 1 percent of the public had found environmental protection "very important" in 1 9 7 4 , more than

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59 percent felt that way in May 1977 (Frederichs 1 9 8 0 , 6 9 5 ) . As a result, a wide gap opened up between the federal government's revocation of reform and the consistently proenvironmental attitude of the public. These were favorable conditions for the formation of ecological protest. Only the struggle over nuclear energy, however, would transform dispersed pockets of environmental activism into a significant social movement.

CHAPTER FOUR

Public-Interest Advocacy and Direct Action in the United States

Observers of American politics are often struck by its double face of pragmatism and moralism (Lipset 1975). American political culture combines a streak of Utopian moralism, which reaches back to its Protestant past, and a penchant for compromise, which is institutionalized in a polity fragmented by multiple checks and balances. 1 Reflecting on this apparent contradiction, Samuel Huntington (1981, 89) distinguishes between two types of American politics—"the politics of movements and causes, of creedal passion and reform, and the politics of interests and groups, of pragmatic bargaining and compromise." In its attempt to explain the failure of socialism in the United States, the American Exceptionalism theorem sees the peculiar coincidence of pragmatism and moralism as rooted in a culture of liberal consensus (Hartz 1955; Lipset 1963). As Huntington (1981,11) argues, "In the United States, ideological consensus is the source of political conflict, polarization occurs over moral issues rather than economic ones, and the politics of interest groups is supplemented and at times supplanted by the politics of moralistic reform. America has been spared class conflicts in order to have moral convulsions." But instead of being split up into separate periods of politics as usual and periods of "creedal" movement politics, pragmatism and moralism are better conceived of as appearing simultaneously in American politics and movements. A case in point is the U.S. antinuclear movement after the energy crisis. Pragmatic legalism became dominant in the public-interest branch of the movement. The moralist rejection of interest politics became 51

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characteristic of the direct-action branch. Despite partial overlaps, both movement wings remained separate throughout. They were based on different activist subcultures, operated in different arenas, and pursued different goals. The public-interest movement grew out of the Progressive Era reform tradition, which favors pragmatic, result-oriented action. "In the Nader movement," says an activist, "the issue comes first" (quoted in McCann 1986, 77). By contrast, the direct-action movement grew out of the radical movements of the 1960s and was carried by constituencies that had been previously active in the antiwar movement. 2 Instead of addressing specific policy issues, the direct-action movement launched a Utopian quest for community and grass-roots democracy. Despite these internal differences, the antinuclear movement as such was part of a general reorientation in American social movements in the 1970s (Boyte 1980; Stein 1985). The political challenge to the "corporate state" (Reich 1970, 87-128) that had preoccupied the Vietnam era movements gave way to the cultural transformation of everyday life. Feminism, alternative life-styles, and ecology were among the major themes of what Tom Wolfe has labeled, not inappropriately, the "me decade." But the new consciousness for everyday-life issues nevertheless thrived on the politicization of civil society that had been brought about by the radical movements of the 1960s. In this regard, the publicinterest movement itself may be interpreted as a "moderate reform alternative" to its more radical precursors (McCann 1986, 33). Even though the following analysis stresses the discontinuities between public-interest advocacy and direct action in the U.S. antinuclear movement, their common roots in historical time should be kept in mind.

THE PUBLIC-INTEREST MOVEMENT Because of an adherence to institutional politics, the history of the public-interest movement is closely aligned with the development of nuclear policy and the rather rocky fate of the new technology. As is well known, high construction costs and declining electricity demand doomed nuclear power in the United States, and all plants ordered after 1975 were subsequently canceled (OTA 1984). To make it clear up front, the faltering economy of nuclear power derives largely from internal industry problems and a shrinking market for energy and thus cannot be directly attributed to the protest movement (Jasper 1990a; Campbell 1988; E. Nichols, 1987). But the antinuclear movement helped create a political climate inimical to the consolidation of nuclear power. 3 Indeed,

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based on the institutional strategies of lobbying, litigation, and public campaigning, the movement scored impressive successes. First, the demand for procedural reform led to the restructuring of the regulatory arena. T h e old producer-dominated nuclear power subgovernment was replaced by a more flexible policy network in which publicinterest groups also participated. Second, an unusual alliance of national security conservatives and antinuclear liberals thwarted the commercialization of plutonium reprocessing. Because nuclear proliferation threatened the geopolitical hegemony of the United States, it sparked strong opposition even from within the established polity. Third, the antinuclear movement entered the political arena and sought to stop nuclear power through the electoral process. While most of the voter referenda of the m i d - 1 9 7 0 s remained unsuccessful, unrelenting political campaigning on the subnational level moved several state governments to restrict the further expansion of nuclear power. As in the case of California, this resulted in de facto moratoriums on new constructions. Fourth, the movement soon realized that in the zero-sum environment of economic recession and energy shortages, success was dependent on demonstrating viable energy alternatives and building coalitions with other social groups, most notably with labor. T h e propagation of a "safe energy" alternative became a distinctive feature of the U.S. nuclear power opposition.

RESTRUCTURING THE REGULATORY ARENA When the Arab oil embargo quadrupled fuel prices, the N e w Deal premise of economic g r o w t h — c h e a p and abundant energy supplies— was suddenly questioned. After decades of government inaction, the development of a long-term energy policy became the order of the day (Charlton 1 9 7 4 ) . President Richard Nixon's Project Independence called for a massive expansion of nuclear power to reach energy autarchy by 1 9 8 0 , " i n the spirit of Apollo and with the determination of the M a n h a t tan p r o j e c t " (United States, Federal Energy Administration 1 9 7 4 ) . In 1 9 7 5 , President Gerald Ford announced plans to put 2 0 0 nuclear plants on line by 1 9 8 5 and 6 5 0 more by the turn of the century—which implied that by the year 2 0 0 0 nuclear power would meet more than 5 0 percent of the national energy demand. T h e future of U.S. nuclear power seemed bright.

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But the energy crisis also set in motion other processes that ultimately undermined the viability of nuclear power. With the advent of rational energy planning, an economic cost-benefit perspective came to dominate energy policy making (Jasper 1990a, ch. 7). Based on the precise demand calculations pioneered by the econometric Project Independence Evaluation System, utility experts and policy makers gradually realized that energy demand would grow more slowly in the future. Moreover, the Republican free-market ideology suggested a priority for oil and gas pricing policies over federal subsidies for the nuclear industry. In addition to a lack of political leadership, nuclear policy became subjected to partisan struggles in Congress (Lambright and Teich 1979; Temples 1980; Weingast 1980). The abnormal concentration of power in the nuclear subgovernment was now openly attacked. In 1974, Congress abolished the AEC and divided its regulatory and promotional functions between two new agencies, the Nuclear Regulatory Commission (NRC) and the Energy Research and Development Administration (ERDA). The JCAE followed suit in 1977, and its adjudicatory power was spread over eight committees in the House and Senate. Since energy was now a controversial issue on which political entrepreneurs could excel and build a national reputation, influential committee chairs such as the Democrats Morris Udall, Ed Markey, and Gary Hart came out as vocal critics of nuclear power (Jasper 1990a, ch. 11). The unmistakable trend was toward the decentralization of control in nuclear policy, increasing the institutional leverage of the antinuclear movement. From Iron Triangles to Issue Networks. Since the mid-1960s, the United States has witnessed a broad wave of public-interest mobilizations in fields such as consumer protection, environmental regulation, and energy policy. 4 Some analysts concluded that a fundamental restructuring of the American political system was under way (King, 1978). In fact, the rise of groups that represented the broad and nonbusiness interests of consumers or members of the biosphere contradicted the critical orthodoxy of "interest-group liberalism" (Lowi 1969), which saw the government captured by powerful producer groups. It also contradicted Mancur Olson's seminal argument that collective interests were inherently difficult to organize and more likely to remain latent (Olson 1965). There is ample evidence that since the mid-1960s the barriers excluding nonproducers from the political process have been significantly lowered. A combination of push-and-pull factors—such as the decline of political parties, an assertive Congress no longer disci-

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plined by the old seniority system, a sophisticated new middle-class electorate willing to support public-interest causes, the availability of computerized mailing techniques, and increased foundation funding— has allowed a growing number and variety of interests to find entry into the "new American political system." 5 Moreover, the Vietnam and Watergate debacles weakened the authority and legitimacy of the state, and Congress was eager to regain supremacy over the executive branch (Sundquist 1981). 6 The "corporate state," vilified by the New Left as a monolithic monster, proved surprisingly malleable by democratic forces. The pluralization of the polity also affected the relationship between politics and administration. According to Hugh Heclo ( 1 9 7 8 ) , fluid and loosely jointed "issue networks" replaced the old "iron triangles" that had previously linked administrative agency, congressional committee, and benefiting interest groups into closed subgovernments. These issue networks comprise a large number of diverse participants, including public-interest lobbyists, policy experts, and journalists—all those who are members of a "shared-knowledge group having to do with some a s p e c t . . . of public policy" (p. 103). Heclo argues that these issue networks have become the agents of innovation in central policy areas such as social welfare, consumer protection, and environmental regulation. In a similar vein, James Q. Wilson (1980) states that in the wake of the reform-oriented social regulation of the 1970s, the producer-dominated "client politics" gave way to "entrepreneurial politics" (see also McFarland 1987). 7 This shift means that public-interest lobbies have found access to a policy arena, while friendly legislators seek to further their popularity by representing the widely dispersed beneficiaries of proposed regulation—at the cost of producers. According to Wilson, the presence of countervailing group power in the regulatory arena makes the respective state agency more autonomous: "Politics matters." If proand anti-industry forces neutralize each other, state agencies achieve independence in policy making. This is the hour of young state administrators " w h o know their Lowi," says Wilson ( 1 9 8 0 , 3 9 2 ) : "A generation taught to fear the capture of agencies with broad administrative discretion has attempted to write into law strict standards, enforce tight deadlines, and guarantee frequent court review." While this diagnosis certainly applies to the new Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) or the Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA), it must be qualified with regard to nuclear power regulation. Interestingly enough, the restructuring of the nuclear power

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subgovernment is not among the cases discussed in Wilson's seminal work on regulation. To be sure, the "distributive" policy style of the old nuclear subgovernment gave way to a "regulatory" style (Lowi 1964) characterized by greater public visibility, more active involvement of the legislature, and the presence of public-interest watchdogs. But the new NRC adopted virtually all the AEC's old rules and procedures and took over almost its entire staff. The structural and personal continuity between old and new agency sustained an "institutional bias to nuclear power" (Nader and Abbotts 1977, 278). Also the ERDA—created to promote and coordinate R & D in the entire energy field (including solar, geothermal, and conservation)—leaned heavily toward nuclear power. Most of its personnel came from the old AEC, and its top priority became the fast-breeder program. On the positive side, the heightened influence of Congress, the presidency, and public-interest lobbies did bring slight changes in funding priorities. In 1976, under pronuclear President Ford, 75 percent of the ERDA's nonmilitary R & D funds were spent on nuclear power. In 1978, under the moderately proenvironmental President Jimmy Carter, the new Department of Energy (DOE) channeled 45 percent of its R & D funds into non-nuclear energy programs (Temples 1980, 250). Despite the trend toward a The Role of Public-Interest Groups. more pluralistic configuration, the NRC generally remained captured by the cost bearers of regulation: the nuclear power industry. As John Chubb (1983, 125) has demonstrated, the "incentive (or disincentive) structure for organized participation established by the N R C " contributes to this outcome. The NRC bureaucracy seeks external sounding boards to eliminate technical inaccuracies or misperceptions. The nuclear industry easily provides this service as an organizational byproduct. By contrast, the technical resources of public-interest groups are rather limited. The NRC has no incentive to bring in the latter, thus minimizing their role in agency proceedings. As a result, antinuclear public-interest groups have preferred the judicial process or congressional lobbying (Berry 1977, ch. 3). Devoid of conventional clout, the typical public-interest group resorts to "symbolism"—that is, fostering the salience of an issue through the calculated use of the mass media and the mobilization of public opinion (Schuck 1977, 135—139). Symbolism molds the atmosphere in which policy makers pay attention to the respective group, whose position becomes generally identified as the environmentalist or antinuclear point of view.

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Provoking media events, or even resorting to the outside strategy of mass protest, reinforces the salience of the group's purpose and the solidarity of members (Gais, Peterson, and Walker 1984, 177). Although largely excluded from regulatory proceedings, publicinterest groups' very presence on the public scene amounts to informal agency monitoring. As in the case of the Union of Concerned Scientists, antinuclear groups often function as repositories for whistleblowers and nuclear dissenters. 8 The presence of these groups imposes on the regulatory agency the permanent restraint of being watched. Threatened by media exposure and possible court suits, the N R C has always been anxious to maintain high standards of procedural integrity. In sum, through symbolism and political cooperation with friendly legislators in Congress, antinuclear public-interest groups have had an impact on nuclear policy. They have influenced the political and judicial environment of the NRC, making the latter more independent from industry pressure. But these improvements have remained modest. Throughout the 1970s and 1980s, the criticisms of unresolved safety problems, agency restrictions on public participation, lax rule enforcement, and "nuclear camaraderie" were not quieted (Union of Concerned Scientists 1987; C. Nichols 1987).

THE P L U T O N I U M CONTROVERSY

Addressing the risks of the nuclear fuel cycle added a new dimension to the U.S. nuclear energy debate, which had previously centered on environmental impacts, reactor safety, and the odds of the regulatory process. The goal of the nuclear opposition had not always been to stop the nuclear program altogether. Additional safety devices, improved radiation standards, and modest procedural reforms could often settle the conflict. The specter of a plutonium economy with fuel reprocessing and fastbreeder reactors, however, was of a different kind. The main argument against the processing of plutonium centered on the unprecedented strain it would impose on a liberal society. Even before the plutonium controversy arose, Alvin Weinberg (1972, 33f) had argued that the safeguarding of nuclear power called for "a continuing tradition of meticulous attention to detail. . . [and] a vigilance and longevity of our social institutions that we are quite unaccustomed to." In his ill-famed suggestion that a nuclear "priesthood" be established to rigorously control the nuclear fuel cycle, Weinberg was the first to bluntly point out the

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bleak societal implications of the new technology. In the plutonium controversy, these societal aspects of nuclear power moved to the forefront. Epitomizing the new thrust, the National Council of Churches supported a plutonium moratorium, "mainly because the issues involved are primarily not scientific or technological, but moral and ethical." 9 The step into the plutonium economy was long anticipated (Weinberg 1 9 7 6 , 16f). But only in the wake of the energy crisis, when skyrocketing uranium prices and acute waste storage impasses left the front and back ends of the nuclear fuel cycle in disorder, government and nuclear industry activated the plutonium option. This option had two pillars: the commercialization of fuel reprocessing and the development of the fastbreeder reactor. 1 0 Addressing the Risks of Fuel Reprocessing. The plutonium debate was triggered by the AEC release of a detailed proposal to recycle plutonium (AEC 1 9 7 4 ) . This proposal would have authorized the nuclear industry to use plutonium fuel in commercial nuclear reactors. Its long-term goal was to prepare the infrastructure for the fast breeder. Its short-term goal was to ease the current bottleneck for enriched uranium and to overcome the acute waste-storage crisis by recycling the burned fuel rods. 11 The AEC launched its proposal at an extremely unfavorable moment. Two crucial events in 1 9 7 4 had already alerted nuclear critics to the risks of plutonium. Earlier in the year, Manhattan Project veteran Theodore Taylor had published a report on nuclear theft (Willrich and Taylor 1 9 7 4 ) . It depicted a realistic scenario of terrorists building a do-ityourself bomb with stolen plutonium. What might have been dismissed as gloomy expert fantasy became reality when India detonated a nuclear device in M a y 1 9 7 4 . This was the first nuclear explosion within a program expressly called "civilian"—with reprocessing technology obtained from the United States and Canada. Both events triggered a debate on safeguarding the nuclear fuel cycle and preventing the proliferation of plutonium. In Congress, Senator Abraham Ribicoff, who presided over the Senate Committee on Government Operations, started a campaign that eventually resulted in the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Act of 1 9 7 8 (Patterson 1 9 8 4 , 90f). The proliferation issue forged an unlikely alliance of conservatives concerned about national security and liberals with antinuclear leanings. In addition, extracongressional nuclear critics quickly responded to what the

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AEC itself naively called the "plutonium economy" (Speth, Tamplin, and Cochran 1974; Novick 1974b). Even before the AEC offensive, the Natural Resources Defense Council had demanded a drastic tightening of plutonium regulation (Tamplin and Cochran 1974). But this early statement rejected plutonium only because of its "fiendishly toxic" quality (Gillette 1974). In line with the early environmentalist critique of nuclear power, the aim was not to "price reactors out of business but [to] protect public health." 1 2 Compare the change of tone in an N R D C statement issued only eight months later (Speth, Tamplin, and Cochran 1974, 15): T h e A t o m i c Energy C o m m i s s i o n , if unchecked, is a b o u t to s o w the seeds of a national crisis. . . . We believe that the commercialization of p l u t o n i u m will place an intolerable strain on our society and its institutions. O u r unrelenting nuclear technology has presented us with a p o s s i b l e new fuel which w e are asked to accept because of its potential commercial value. But o u r technology has again outstripped our institutions, which are not p r e p a r e d or suited t o deal with p l u t o n i u m . 1 3

Considering the combined risks of high toxicity, safeguarding, and proliferation, the N R D C pleaded for a delay of several years of a final decision over the use of plutonium. To win time for a more balanced judgment became the uniting argument of a broad antiplutonium coalition. The N R D C found powerful political allies in the Senate Committee on Government Operations, the President's Council for Environmental Quality (CEQ), and the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA). Beleaguered by this broad opposition, the recently created Nuclear Regulatory Commission reversed the position of the late AEC. In May 1975, the N R C announced it would postpone a final decision on plutonium recycling (Gillette 1975). This was the first major move of the new N R C , which predictably harvested high praise from the nuclear opposition and equally decisive condemnation from the nuclear industry. In fact, given the strong political and institutional opposition to plutonium in Congress and several federal agencies, it was a no-lose game for the N R C , which wanted to demonstrate its newly won independence. 14 For the nuclear industry, this decision spelled serious trouble. With no commercial fuel reprocessing facility operating, the three government-owned gaseous diffusion plants unable to meet all the industry's demand for enriched uranium, uranium prices still climbing up dramatically, and no permanent waste storage sites in existence, the economy and infrastructure of nuclear power looked bleak. 1 5 After the

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NRC had temporarily revoked its decision in response to massive industry lobbying, a final court ruling settled the case in favor of the plutonium opposition.16 This significant success for the antinuclear movement implied a major delay in the commercial use of plutonium. Jimmy Carter's entrance into the White House in 1977 on a vigorous antiplutonium platform upped the ante. Moved by the "fearsome prospect that the spread of nuclear reactors will mean the spread of nuclear weapons to many nations" (Carter 1976, 2), President Carter opposed the commercialization of every aspect of the fuel cycle that posed a risk of proliferation. 17 In April 1977, Carter indefinitely deferred the commercial reprocessing of plutonium fuel and tightened the nuclear export regulations. His antiplutonium crusade culminated in the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Act, which mandated that every foreign country—except nuclear weapons states—accept full-scope safeguards on all its nuclear activities as a condition for receiving U.S. nuclear hardware or materials. Symbolizing the victory of the antinuclear movement in the plutonium proliferation debate, NRDC leader Gustave Speth was named a member of the prestigious CEQ. 18 This success was based on solving the main strategical problem of the antinuclear movement: working against the inertia of already established facts. As a leading member of the NRDC commented on an earlier NRC decision (which happened to be in the movement's favor), "This gives the world some breathing room during which it won't have to breathe plutonium." 19 This drastic statement indicates how much the power of the nuclear energy sector was lastly rooted in its ability to master the resource of time by creating facts and an interest clientele to defend them, thus generating ever-more-irrevocable complexity. In contrast, the often catastrophist discourse of the antinuclear movement reflected its chronic scarcity of time, provoking a sense of utmost urgency to overcome this strategic disadvantage. The antinuclear movement succeeded in the plutonium controversy because it intervened at an early point, thus minimizing the notorious disadvantage of being a latecomer. Most importantly, a genuine industrial interest in plutonium reprocessing did not yet exist. The Fate of the Fast Breeder. The antinuclear movement was less successful in stopping the fast-breeder project. Nevertheless, huge cost increases and technical difficulties finally thwarted what was thought to be the core of the coming plutonium economy.

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Because of limited uranium supplies worldwide, the creators of nuclear technology had considered the use of the light-water reactor as only a transitional phase. The plutonium-fed fast breeder was meant to be "the basis for the ultimate nuclear energy system" (Weinberg 1977, 59). The first signs of energy shortages and rising uranium prices pushed the breeder project to center stage. In the first presidential message on energy to Congress, Richard Nixon characterized the breeder as "our best hope today for meeting the nation's demand for economical clean energy" (AEC 1971). In July 1972, the AEC contracted with Westinghouse to build a medium-sized demonstration plant at Clinch River, Tennessee, for the estimated cost of $400 million. The Clinch River plant became one of the most fiercely embattled technological projects in U.S. history. The plant was conceived as a showcase for an anticipated four hundred fast-breeder plants by the year 2000, but gigantic cost overruns, technological difficulties, and a final political defeat made Clinch River a symbol for the decline of the U.S. nuclear power industry. The N R D C spearheaded the breeder opposition. The arguments against the breeder resembled the ones against fuel reprocessing: the breeder used plutonium fuel and thus shared the typical risk profile of plutonium. Critics highlighted two more problems. First, in contrast to the light-water reactor, the fast breeder could explode (Cochran 1974; Novick 1974a). Second, economic costs outweighed the expected benefits (Cochran, Speth, and Tamplin 1975). To maximize its outreach, the NRDC and its allies focused their campaign on the poor economy of the breeder. Resembling the strategy of winning time (which was applied so successfully in the parallel effort to prevent plutonium reprocessing), the NRDC pleaded for a postponement of the breeder program for at least a decade, for a cancellation of Clinch River, and for the development of energy alternatives in the meantime. These efforts were to no avail. Even President Carter's veto did not keep Congress from funding the breeder project for many more years. 20 It is hard to understand why in a time of stagnating electricity demand, record cancellations of nuclear capacity, and the prospective easing of uranium impasses, the nuclear lobby in politics and industry pushed the fast breeder with such unprecedented verve. 21 It seems that the breeder became the last bastion for the dwindling faction of "technological enthusiasts" in nuclear development (Jasper 1990a), who were forced to an early retreat from most other fronts of the nuclear debate. Even though the AEC admitted that the fast breeder could not be commercially competitive before the year 2010, such obvious imponderabilities

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did not lead the agency to greater caution. It aimed at the breeder's commercialization by 1990—that is, twenty years too early to compete with conventional light-water plants. The breeder project received the lion's share of the ERDA's R & D budget. By 1975, the total cost of the breeder program was estimated to be more than $10 billion, an increase of more than 300 percent in just three years. 22 Similar cost overruns plagued the Clinch River demonstration project. Whereas in 1973 the plant was estimated to cost only $700 million, in 1975 costs were up to $1.7 billion, climbing to an impressive $3.5 billion by 1982. When Congress finally voted against further funding in late 1983, more than $1.6 billion had been wasted on this project. The cancellation of Clinch River also meant the inglorious end of the entire U.S. breeder program (Patterson 1984, 150f, 177). The dictate of the market finally accomplished what a presidential veto could not—a victory by default for the nuclear opposition.

ENTERING THE POLITICAL ARENA

After the energy crisis, the U.S. antinuclear movement sharpened its political edge and went truly national. Calling nuclear power "this country's technological Vietnam" (Nader and Abbotts 1977, 365), Ralph Nader announced that its demise would result from "what is going to be one of the most controversial and powerfully based public movements in the history of the United States." 23 Still representing the issue-oriented, judicial style of public-interest advocacy, Nader based his effort on the "spreading recognition of the facts about atomic energy" (p. 68). His first move was to ask a federal court to shut down all then-operating nuclear plants. 24 But the new anticorporate, populist thrust introduced by Nader called for wider avenues of interest articulation. According to Nader and Abbotts (1977, 365), "It is ultimately in the political arena where the verdict will be rendered to discontinue the nuclear fuel cycle." Whereas in the regulatory arena the nuclear opposition had aimed at the reversal of policy outputs through interventions in the plant licensing process and eventual court suits, in the political arena the opposition focused on influencing the input side of the political process: lobbying Congress and state legislatures, participating in election campaigns, and organizing direct voter referenda. The regulatory arena is characterized by low visibility and the dominance of highly technical procedures, necessitating the involvement of experts and minimizing the role of lay citizens. By contrast, the political arena is charac-

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terized by exposure of an issue to public scrutiny, which removes the issue from the exclusive hold of experts and subjects it to popular judgment. The national Critical Mass meetings, organized by Ralph Nader in 1 9 7 4 and 1 9 7 5 , were a crucial step in politicizing nuclear power and building a national movement (Bronfman and Mattingly 1976). According to the industry newsletter Nuclear News, Critical Mass ' 7 4 "signaled with unmistakable clarity that the 'strategic retreat' of the intervenors is over." The Atomic Industrial Forum went even further: " T h e antinuclear movement has crystallized under its own banner. It has shed the environmentalist image which it carried for several years and is now a fullfledged political movement." 2 5 In his opening speech to Critical Mass ' 7 4 , Nader set the new agenda (quoted in Bronfman and Mattingly 1 9 7 6 , 5 3 9 ) : "Nuclear energy [has grown] from a dormant to an active social issue, from an issue involved in isolated local controversies to an issue of fundamental national importance." Never less than self-assured, Nader predicted that the nuclear industry would be forced to close down in "less than five years." 2 6 While the nuclear critics were visibly gaining momentum, the negative impact of the energy crisis on the nuclear industry was being felt. Climbing fuel prices, higher interest rates, and stagnating electricity demand resulted in cash-flow shortages and difficulties in raising money on the stock and bond markets. By late 1 9 7 4 , electric utilities had canceled almost half of the nuclear projects scheduled to be completed by 1 9 8 3 . Orders for new reactors dropped from twenty-seven in 1 9 7 4 to just five in 1 9 7 5 . 2 7 "Atomic Power dims today," wrote Business Week,28 When in addition the fragmented and dispersed nuclear opposition seemed to grow into an organized political movement, a sense of outright crisis struck the industry. In 1 9 7 5 , the AIF, which had previously been a taxexempt educational association not engaged in political lobbying, gave up its nonprofit status, doubled its annual public relations budget, and moved from New York to Washington. 29 The political battle over nuclear power was on, pushing the issue from the remote secrecy of the court and hearing rooms into the glaring light of the political arena. The mobilization of public opinion and the calculated use of the mass media became key assets in this battle. Likewise, the expert community did not remain silent. In March 1 9 7 5 , a group of wellknown nuclear scientists, including twelve Nobel laureates, used the pages of the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists to announce that there was " n o alternative to nuclear power," warning that "the end of our civiliza-

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tion" was near unless the United States committed itself to nuclear power to combat the "energy crisis." 3 0 The Union of Concerned Scientists promptly countered this attempt to occupy the expert terrain by launching a signature drive that was endorsed by twenty-three hundred scientists, including nine Nobel laureates. It demanded a "drastic reduction" in the construction of new reactors. The UCS called this petition significant because it "destroyed the industry argument that no reputable scientists had doubts about the safety of reactors." 3 1 According to Ralph Nader's plea for the "democratic control of all technology," the public should not only passively follow the nuclear power controversy but should also become actively involved. 32 A populist component distinguished Nader's Critical Mass Project from the more elitist and professionalized N R D C , the Sierra Club, or the UCS. 3 3 In this broad challenge to corporate and bureaucratic power, the ultimate goal was to include the public as a participant in the policy-making process and to remove the nuclear issue from the exclusive hold of distant elites. This called for political strategies that effectively combined grassroots mobilization and legislative action. One possible way to stimulate democratic accountability was to mobilize constituency pressure on elected representatives. An early example was a 1 9 7 1 nationwide petition drive by the Task Force Against Nuclear Pollution that called for a total nuclear phaseout. 3 4 It sorted its supporters by congressional district to maximize the pressure on individual representatives. Even though the task force collected more than a million signatures, "it never aroused much support or help among the other activists," as one of its organizers admitted. 3 5 A complementary strategy to link grass-roots and legislative action was to intervene in electoral contests and to publicize the individual votes of members of Congress on the nuclear issue. Many environmental campaigns successfully practiced this more confrontational strategy. 36 A less offensive way to influence the voting behavior of members of Congress was the classic "write your congressman" campaign, which belonged to the repertory of all public-interest groups. 3 7 Even though Nader's Critical Mass Project was more outspokenly political than the technical and environmental critics of nuclear power, it characteristically did not engage in a fundamental critique of the American political system. On the contrary, it sought to fully exhaust the possibilities provided by the institutional context. Using the structures of federalism and increasing the involvement of the states in nuclear policy became a key strategy in this respect. The movement realized that con-

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stituency pressure was more easily mobilized at the state level and that state legislatures and executives tended to be more responsive. Indeed, by 1976 more than thirty states had imposed restrictions on nuclear power. The initiative process, which allows the citizenry to pass laws in a direct referendum, became the most spectacular means to obstruct nuclear power at the state level. As The Case of California: Proposition 15 and Its Repercussions. Sheldon Novick (1976, 11) aptly characterized the nuclear debate in 1976: "The fight over nuclear power is not an orderly engagement between well-organized forces—it is a scattered, individualistic, very American struggle." Instead of being a popular movement, as the media and the fearful industry would have had it then, the nuclear opposition was still little more than a loose network of concerned individuals and groups spotted throughout the country. Charismatic individuals fared prominently in this nuclear opposition—such as "giant killer" David Pesonen, who had almost singlehandedly stopped Pacific Gas and Electric's (PG&E) Bodega Bay project in 1963; MIT physicist Henry Kendall, founder of the UCS; Cornell sovietologist David Comey, who headed the Chicago-based Business People in the Public Interest; publicinterest lawyer Tony Roisman, who had won the famous Calvert Cliffs lawsuit; David Brower, the energetic founder of Friends of the Earth; and, of course, Ralph Nader. At an informal meeting in late 1973, this "ruling presidium of the antinuclear cabal" decided to carry the nuclear issue to the voter.38 The result was Proposition 15, the most spectacular referendum campaign in the history of U.S. nuclear power. When the Proposition 15 campaign was held in California in 1976, post-energy-crisis vicissitudes had already killed nuclear power on the economic front. But only Proposition 15 transformed the nuclear opposition from an elitist cabal into a popular movement. More than any other previous antinuclear campaign, Proposition 15 was a "consciousnessraising project" that instigated a broad public discussion over the risks and benefits of nuclear power.39 Closely watched by both sides of the nuclear controversy, California became the test ground for how the public felt about nuclear power. And the decision for or against would not be made by courts, regulatory agencies, or legislatures but with "the fullest possible participation of the affected public" (Holdren 1976, 22). As a campaign organizer said, "As a Jeffersonian, one has to put it to the people." 40 Proposition 15 captured in a nutshell all that was American in the

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struggle over nuclear power. In an unparalleled spectacle of media manipulation and grass-roots campaigning, the contesting parties sought to win over the majority opinion, while the state kept aloof from the battlefield of civil society. A peculiar mixture of basic loyalty to the American system of government and populist distrust of its distortion by powerful elites characterized the ideological outlook of Proposition 15. On the one hand, its supporters "urge[d] the federal government, the nuclear industry, and the utilities . . . to share our faith in our system of government and in the wisdom of the people" (Grossman 1 9 7 5 , 7). On the other hand, they found that "our controlling political system has broken down and . . . has become insensitive to the needs of people," requiring the "power of direct legislation . . . [to] take issue with the power brokers of America." 4 1 Proposition 15 aimed at making the state legislature the final arbiter of nuclear power development. The proposition's wording was rather complicated. Its rationale was to gradually shut down existing nuclear plants and prevent the construction of new ones in California, unless the industry accepted unlimited accident liability and demonstrated that reactor safety devices were sufficient and that nuclear waste could be stored safely. The state legislature would then have to decide in a caseby-case approach whether each of these three conditions had been met. Intent on maximizing voter outreach, Proposition 15 carefully avoided appearing "antinuclear." Instead, it presented itself more positively as the Nuclear Safeguards Initiative. Its declared goal was to make nuclear power plants safer or, with regard to the removal of the liability limit, to take the industry at its own word that nuclear plants were safe and could therefore be fully insured. Nevertheless, several of Proposition 15's major defenders, such as John Gofman, Ralph Nader, and David Brower, were publicly known to support a total nuclear moratorium. The industry consequently called Proposition 15 the "Nuclear Shutdown Initiative," arguing that its goal was not to make nuclear power safer but to stop it altogether. What had started in the basement of David Pesonen's law office on San Francisco's Market Street, "with only a lightbulb, lots of cobwebs, rats, no telephone," became one of the most heavily contested initiative campaigns in recent times. 4 2 A continual stream of sometimes dramatic incidences made the California campaign a recurrent national media event. Probably the most spectacular event was the simultaneous resignation of three nuclear engineers from their high-paid jobs with General Electric and their joining of the Nuclear Safeguards Initiative. 43 Stating

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that "nuclear power ha[d] become a technological monster" that posed "a serious danger to the future of all life on this planet," the resignation of the three engineers boosted the cause of initiative supporters. Proposition 15 was mainly supported by white, college-educated, new middle-class constituencies. 44 In response, construction workers and nuclear companies mobilized against it as the Citizens for Jobs and Energy (Hensler and Hensler 1979). Led by former state governor Pat Brown, a Democrat, the group started a grass-roots campaign to beat the Nuclear Safeguards Initiative on its own terrain. As the P G & E utility later reflected on the pronuclear strategy, " T h e very fact of the visibility of neighborhood campaign workers in so many communities acted as an offset to the 'it's the little people vs. the giant corporations' argument being used by the proponents." 45 The Citizens for Jobs and Energy denounced Proposition 15 as the "Shutdown Initiative" that would increase electricity bills, cause more smog in San Francisco and Los Angeles, and create unemployment and economic chaos throughout California. In the end, Proposition 15 lost by the huge margin of two to one, and a sigh of relief went through the nuclear industry. 46 But the nuclear lobby had to pay a heavy price—acceptance of three bills that the state legislature had passed shortly before election day in an apparent attempt to break the momentum of Proposition 15. The so-called Warren bills represented a weak version of the initiative proposal, mandating that no new nuclear plants were to be licensed as long as no final waste repository existed. 47 In contrast to the more stringent Proposition 15, the Warren bills applied only to future plants. Why did Proposition 15 fail? Given that a few months earlier the public was still evenly divided, the huge defeat surely came as a surprise. The pronuclear coalition successfully denounced the initiative as pursuing the "shutdown" of nuclear power, which would result in higher living costs, job losses, and less desirable energy alternatives. As a Yes on 15 campaign worker put it, "We never found a simple way to dispell the myths about cheap energy and jobs." 4 8 Whereas initiative supporters referred to the rather distant issue of nuclear safety, the industry and its labor allies appealed directly to the voter's pocketbook. John Gofman argued that the pro-15 campaign had two choices: either agree with the industry that Proposition 15 would shut down nuclear power but demonstrate that no economic turmoil would follow because cheaper and safer energy alternatives existed; or deny that the goal was a nuclear moratorium and emphasize instead that all the initiative aimed at was

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safe nuclear power. Having opted for the second choice, "the environmentalists simply bypassed any answers to the economic charges made by the industry" (Gofman 1977, 11). Pronuclear strategists came to a similar conclusion. According to them, the No on 15 campaign succeeded because it did not enter into a debate on safety—"which is an argument we would not have won." 49 Instead, it argued successfully that the measure was "too drastic" and would cause economic harm. Be that as it may, the simplest message of the California referendum was that the majority of Americans was obviously still in favor of nuclear power. Indeed, in late 1976 similar ballot proposals were overwhelmingly defeated in six other Western states. The antinuclear movement became convinced that its future political success would depend on stressing economic issues; coalition building, especially with labor; and proving the viability of energy alternatives.50 Even though Proposition 15 itself failed, the Warren bills effected a lasting moratorium on new nuclear constructions in California. After the June 1976 referendum, Governor Jerry Brown had his antinuclear coming out, and he recruited several nuclear critics into the State Energy Commission.51 In March 1978, a referendum in southern California's rural Kern county surprisingly supported the governor's daring turn. A two to one majority rejected the San Joaquin Valley Nuclear Project, a joint venture of the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power, PG&E, and Southern California Edison. 52 This significant vote occurred in one of the most conservative counties in California, which had overwhelmingly voted against Proposition 15. In this case, the campaign— assisted by the organizational remains of the Nuclear Safeguards Initiative—had concentrated on economic issues. It argued that the nuclear plant's need for cooling water would suck up most of the county's scarce water supplies and would destroy the basis of one of the nation's richest agricultures. The Kern county decision proved that the appeal to economic and regional interests (in this case resentment against "L.A.'s land and water grab") was an effective means of antinuclear mobilization. It also strengthened Governor Brown's position against a parallel attack on the Warren bills that was launched by the San Diego Gas & Electric utility (SDG&E). SDG&E asked for an exemption of its Sundesert nuclear project from the Warren bills. 53 SDG&E's Sundesert project became the first test case for the Warren bills. A denial of the exemption would spell the death of nuclear power in California. An approval would make the safeguard laws ineffective. The stakes were high—"as California goes, so goes the nation." 54 The State

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Energy Commission had already denied an approval of Sundesert because no high-level waste storage site was yet available. In addition, the commission argued that there was no need for Sundesert because an alternative energy strategy based on coal, conservation, and geothermal power could meet the region's energy needs at lower costs. When the state Senate voted for the exemption of Sundesert from the safeguard laws, last word lay with the Assembly. Threatened by a veto by Governor Brown, the state Assembly finally decided against the Sundesert nuclear project. 5 5 In less than two months, two major nuclear projects were defeated in California. The killing of Sundesert effectively halted the expansion of nuclear power in California. Since Sundesert, no application for a new nuclear plant has been filed in this state. With the Kern county and Sundesert battles, Governor Jerry Brown became "the first national political figure to take the negative, openly and assertively, in the escalating national debate on nuclear power." 5 6 Even though denounced by his pronuclear critics as "antijobs" and "antienergy," Brown successfully ran for reelection in November 1978. The Warren bills, which were upheld by the U.S. Supreme Court in 1 9 8 3 , became a model for similar legislation in other states. After previous setbacks on the economic front, nuclear power was now also losing on the political front. The California events mightily reinforced the general trend toward the decentralization of control in nuclear policy, the major institutional ally of the American antinuclear movement. Broken Promises: Jimmy Carter and the Antinuclear Movement. The flourishing of the various public-interest movements of the 1970s culminated in the election of a president supportive of their causes. Candidate Jimmy Carter had vowed to make government "a forum for the people" and to promote appointments "that would be acceptable to Ralph Nader" (quoted in Demkovich 1 9 7 6 , 1 7 4 3 ) . Once elected, Carter recruited more than sixty public-interest activists into his administration (Vogel 1 9 8 9 , 148). The energy crisis, the plutonium debate, and the California campaign had made nuclear power a prominent issue in the presidential election contest of 1976. Jimmy Carter made the reorganization of the energy polity one of the key points of his campaign. Carter said he would rely on nuclear energy "only [as] a last resort," and he used his first U.N. appearance to address the risk of plutonium proliferation. In this speech Carter also outlined his future energy policy. It would include a shift

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from oil to coal, emphasize strict conservation, and increase the share of renewable energy sources. Nuclear power was to be kept at a minimum, improved by stronger safety standards and a more transparent regulatory process (Carter 1976, 1 - 2 ) . Moreover, Carter opposed the fastbreeder reactor and commercial fuel reprocessing, calling on "all nations of the world to adopt a voluntary moratorium on the national purchase or sale of enrichment or reprocessing plants" (p. 14). Some critical voices detected that a number of issues "separated" Carter from "current thinking on nuclear power in the environmental community" (Harding 1977, 10), including his insistence that a minimum of nuclear power was indispensable. But the majority of antinuclear movement organizations endorsed or even actively supported Carter's candidacy. His U.N. appearance was widely interpreted as a calling off of nuclear power and a plea for solar energy. 57 Several movement leaders organized the Citizens for Clean Energy and Carter in the hope that Carter's election would mark a "major breakthrough" in their efforts to turn the United States away from nuclear power and "towards a safer, saner energy future." 58 The early Carter administration did indeed launch a sweeping new energy policy. Over the evaluation of this policy, however, the environmental and antinuclear movement groups became deeply divided. Calling his crusade against the spiraling U.S. dependence on imported oil, rapidly depleting natural gas resources, and energy waste the "moral equivalent of war," Carter staked the reputation of his new administration on the development of an ambitious national energy plan (NEP). 59 The NEP was heavily conservation oriented, aiming at more fuel and energy efficiency through a complex scheme of taxes and rebates. NEP also called for the speedy expansion of nuclear and coal plants so long as alternative energy sources were not yet available. This split the environmental and antinuclear organizations into two camps, one that supported the NEP for its proconservation aspect and another that rejected the NEP for its pronuclear aspect. Carter's pronuclear energy plan was held against his campaign promise to use nuclear power only as a "last resort," and a sense of outright betrayal struck especially those antinuclear groups that supported a total nuclear moratorium. 6 0 A leader of Friends of the Earth even called for demonstrations and direct action, "which justifiedly can be seen as the 'last resort' of citizens being deprived of democratic processes." 61 The energy policy of the Carter administration obviously revealed the

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heterogeneity of goals and agendas in the antinuclear movement. Although most antinuclear groups had endorsed or actively supported the Carter presidential campaign, they became divided over the evaluation of his nuclear policy. The Sierra Club tended to put up with the nuclear expansion in the NEP in exchange for the program's strong conservationist component. The Natural Resources Defense Council, mainly concerned about plutonium proliferation, acquiesced to Carter's strong stand on nonproliferation. The groups in favor of a total moratorium, however, such as Friends of the Earth, the Critical Mass Project, and the Committee for Nuclear Responsibility, most outspokenly opposed Carter's nuclear policy.

THE QUEST FOR SAFE ENERGY A N D COALITION BUILDING WITH LABOR

Tocqueville ([1848] 1969, 193-194) has noted that in the democratic society of America, "where differences of view are only matters of nuance," the viability of political associations depended on the support by the majority opinion: "In America the citizens who form the minority associate in the first place to show their numbers and to lessen the moral authority of the majority, and secondly, by stimulating competition, to discover the arguments most likely to make an impression on the majority, for they always hope to draw the majority over to their side and then to exercise power in its name." In a political culture that unambiguously made the majority opinion the stake of civic struggles, the antinuclear movement had to broaden its basis of support, overcome abstract negation, and demonstrate the viability of a "safe energy" alternative. Moreover, the pragmatic public-interest legacy suggested a constructive attitude, one that preferred practical feasibility to pure confrontation. The concrete situation after the energy crisis and previous movement experiences also made this a plausible strategy. Energy shortages and economic recession had created a zero-sum environment in which the critique of nuclear power was credible only if it could point at viable energy alternatives. The huge defeats of the 1976 nuclear safeguards initiatives had dramatized the limitations of ignoring the economic interest of the voter. The failure to address economic issues was generally acknowledged as the decisive factor of defeat (Pector 1978). Political success depended on convincing the public that a moratorium would not hurt the economy because feasible alternatives existed. 62 The positive appeal to energy alternatives promised not only to im-

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prove the movement's outreach but also to resolve internal dissent over strategy and goals. Some movement segments carefully avoided the label antinuclear in order to maximize public support. Other segments professed to be antinuclear and openly pursued a total moratorium. Both factions were caught in the dilemma of a radicalism that breeds isolation or of a pragmatism that succumbs to the fact-commanding presence of the nuclear industry. The umbrella of alternative energies seemed the via regia to escape these difficulties and provide a unifying movement identity. This strategy took the form of (1) proving that renewable energies and conservation were practicable alternatives to nuclear power, (2) broadening public support through coalition building with labor, and (3) lobbying for conservation and solar energy technologies. Soft-Energy Paths. The first national petition drive for a nuclear moratorium had already linked the opposition to nuclear power with the intention of "starting solar power in a big way" (O'Connor 1973, 10). But it was left to Amory Lovins, then working under the auspices of Friends of the Earth, to demonstrate that "soft-energy systems" were "socially more attractive, . . . cheaper and easier" (Lovins 1977b, 7). No single concept in the U.S. nuclear power debate had been more luminous, effective, and gladly accepted by all movement factions. It unified the various antinuclear, consumer, and environmentalist groups under the common banner of safe energy. It showed the movement a way out of the deadlock of pure negation and pointed to an alternative with broad social implications. And, above all, "no more important step could [have been] taken toward revitalizing the American dream" (Lovins 1976, 91). Similar to the pioneer study by the Ford Foundation's Energy Policy Project (1974), Lovins depicts the current situation as one at a crossroads where the choice of one among several energy options will lastingly foreclose the possibility of future revision. Lovins condenses these options to two mutually exclusive paths, a hard path and a soft path, that outline two energy scenarios over a fifty-year period. The hard path is essentially an extrapolation of current policies and relies on the rapid expansion of centralized high technologies to meet the future energy demand. The soft path diverges radically from the past and combines energy conservation, renewable energy sources, and the transitional use of fossil-fuel technologies. According to Lovins, the overall cost-benefit ratio proves the soft path to be superior, while strong institutional barriers prevent its implementa-

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tion. The main economic advantage of the end-use-oriented soft path is that it avoids conversion and distribution losses of energy. Therefore, it is more efficient than the hard path, in which the generation of electricity wastes about two-thirds of the spent fuel. Soft technologies use renewable energy flows, such as wind, sun, and vegetation. They are flexible and low technology, matched in scale and geographic distribution to end-use needs. Moreover, the smaller and simpler soft technologies require less capital costs and entail less sophisticated management systems. As Lovins ( 1 9 7 6 , 87) puts it, "Everyone can get into the act, unimpeded by centralized bureaucracies, and can compete for a market share through ingenuity and local adaptation." Conservation and solar technology are labor, rather than capital, intensive. That is, the soft path also produces more jobs. As Lovins further outlines, the social implications of both paths differ significantly. In fact, the two-path scenario skillfully exploits the normative antistatism in American political culture. Lovins argues that the hard path goes along with "corporate statism." Centralization and high complexity necessitate an "elitist technocracy," and safety precautions against outside interruptions threaten to bring about a "garrison state" in which civil liberties are abrogated. By contrast, soft technologies are transparent and less coercive, allowing for dissent and diversity. The concept of soft path is ingeniously broad and elastic. Soft energy is cheaper and labor intensive and thus appeals to workers, low-income groups, and consumers. Soft energy also reinvigorates the principle of free markets and thus appeals to libertarians. Soft energy, finally, is decentralized, small in scale, and community controlled and thus appeals to the "Buddhist economics" of the counterculture (Schumacher 1 9 7 3 ) . The concept of soft path outlines both a societal utopia and a realistic policy proposal, potentially linking the countercultural grass roots with the national public-interest groups. Moreover, it frames the current situation as one that demands a quick and dramatic choice. This corresponds to the time horizon of the movement qua movement, conjuring up immediacy and alertness against the time-commanding inertia of its opponent. With its promarket orientation, individualism, and plea for communal autonomy, the concept of soft path is also deeply embedded in the American political tradition, revitalizing the ideal of Jeffersonian democracy. 6 3 But the strength of comprehensiveness implies the weakness of oversimplification. Lovins's combination of free-market competition, local control, and smallness of scale is marred by naíveté, denying struc-

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tural incompatibilities among economy, state, and societal community in complex societies. 64 Moreover, the soft-path scenario espouses technological determinism. Going solar does not necessarily mean local control and societal transparency. Technologies are shaped by their societal context, rather than vice versa (Weingart 1 9 8 9 ; Bijker, Hughes, and Pinch 1 9 8 7 ) . Indeed, a corporate solar economy is a real possibility, defying the "small is beautiful" Utopia. Coalition Building with Labor. The 1 9 7 6 nuclear safeguard campaigns polarized the fault lines between the supporters and opponents of nuclear power. Most significantly, the major trade unions formed an alliance with the industry to defend nuclear power. The AFL-CIO became the main sponsor of a new group called Americans for Energy Independence. Founded by nuclear physicist Hans Bethe in 1 9 7 5 , this pronuclear organization coordinated the trade unions and the nuclear industry in a nationwide grass-roots campaign. In 1 9 7 6 , the AFL-CIO held a conference on "Nuclear Energy and America's Energy Needs," which concluded that the "rapid development of nuclear power is a 'must' without which the nation's economy would falter" (quoted in Logan and Nelkin 1 9 8 0 , 6). In the same year, organized labor joined forces with the nuclear industry to defeat Proposition 15. As construction and building unions mobilized to defend their jobs, the antinuclear movement, more than ever, was confronted with the negative image of being middle class and insensitive to bread-and-butter issues. 65 Pronuclear forces called the opposition "antigrowth" and rode on the powerful crest of the "Energy Creates J o b s " slogan. In this difficult situation, the movement eagerly embraced the model of job providing and low-cost soft-energy paths. The new device of safe energy was launched against the joint industry-labor claim that only nuclear power guaranteed jobs and economic growth. The idea of labor-intensive, alternative energy sources provided a platform on which both labor and the antinuclear movement could unite. Coalition building with labor became a goal of high priority. Nader's third Critical Mass conference in 1 9 7 8 invited labor to join in the struggle for a "safe energy future." 6 6 In fact, since 1 9 7 5 , the Environmentalists for Full Employment (EFFE) had been contending that it was possible to "simultaneously create jobs, conserve energy and natural resources, and protect the environment." 6 7 In spring 1 9 7 6 , the EFFE and the UAW organized the landmark conference "Working for Environmental and Economic Justice and J o b s " at Black Lake, Michigan. This

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conference revealed the difficulties of forging an environmental-labor coalition. The powerful Building and Construction Trades Union, which dominated the AFL-CIO, refused to participate. In a sharp speech, Tom Donahue, secretary-treasurer of the AFL-CIO, expressed the orthodox cosmology of most trade unions. He argued that workers were best served by a growing economy and that in the end there was an inevitable trade-off between "your jobs or your environment" (quoted in Grossman 1985, 66). Suppressing the very issue of nuclear power was often the price to be paid for approaches between labor unions and antinuclear movement. A striking example is the Citizen/Labor Coalition, formed in 1978. Headed by William Winpisinger (the leader of the International Association of Machinists), and joined by the Sheet Metal Workers; the Oil, Chemical, and Atomic Workers; and the UAW, the coalition supported solar energy and conservation but deliberately avoided addressing the issue of nuclear power. 68 The coalition, which also included several public-interest and environmental organizations, went as far as subscribing to the four goals of "just" energy prices, safe energy, decentralization of the energy sector, and job-creating energy policies. But it avoided the label antinuclear because this would have offended some pronuclear unions within the coalition. The EFFE was more outspokenly antinuclear. Its influential brochure, "Jobs and Energy," made extensive use of industry and government data to prove that the nuclear economy, if compared with a solar economy, destroyed, rather than created, employment (Grossman and Daneker 1977). The EFFE organized strong environmentalist support for the AFL-CIO's Labor Law Reform Act campaign in 1977. 69 In 1979, following the nuclear accident at Three Mile Island, the Building and Construction Trades Union—previously a staunch supporter of nuclear power—even seemed to be shifting toward the antinuclear camp. 70 But the high hopes of antinuclear and safe energy groups to win broad labor support never materialized. Labor generally remained pronuclear. As Richard Grossman (1985, 83) has summarized nine years of crossissue work for the EFFE, "Single issues still reign supreme, and few people or organizations are attempting to make sense of complicated, interconnected political and social problems." The attempt to build an antinuclear-labor coalition had to fail. Against the hypothetical allegation that labor and environmentalists needed one another to protect "the health and safety of workers and the public" (Miller 1980, 36), the urge to defend employment today proved

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stronger than the lofty promise to create employment tomorrow. After all, the nuclear industry provided concrete jobs and a constituency to defend them. By contrast, the prospect of a solar economy was distant, and it lacked a material constituency, however desirable an alternative energy future might be. The job tie kept most unions in the stranglehold of the nuclear industry. 71 Mobilizing for Solar Energy: Sun Day 1978. The movement strategy of seeking coalitions and propagating safe energy alternatives culminated in the nationwide Sun Day celebrations of May 1978. Sun Day was organized by a broad coalition of environmentalists, labor unions, small businesses, consumer activists, and public officials, including President Carter (Bregman 1978). Its declared goal was to lead the United States into the "solar age" with teach-ins, demonstrations, and fairs across the nation. 7 2 The emphasis on decentralized grass-roots action mirrored the alleged virtues of the promoted energy system. As an organizer expressed the populist slant, "Solar is the people's energy source." 73 An estimated five hundred local Sun Day committees helped organize the event. To widen its outreach, Sun Day's professed dogma was not to be antinuclear. One observer noted that as a result, Sun Day became "bizarrely apolitical" and "frivolous," failing to address the relevant issues under the preponderance of "sundae discounts, hot-air balloon launchings, and sunflower plantings" (Hamilton 1978, 10). A direct offshoot of Sun Day was the Solar Lobby. It originally aimed at linking the grass-roots interest in local autonomy with the national reorganization of the energy sector. Based on a membership of twentyfive thousand, Solar Lobby maintained the populist air of Sun Day. This self-proclaimed "people's lobby" initially did not accept business or foundation support. 7 4 While disappointed about the Carter administration's "only . . . rhetorical commitment to solar energy," the lobby's goal was to get 25 percent of the nation's energy from solar power by the year 2000 (Munson 1979). The Solar Lobby was active both on the local and national levels. Inspired by the Sun Day concept of decentralization and local control, it supported grass-roots involvement in local politics. On the national level, it successfully lobbied Congress for the creation of a solar bank that would provide interest subsidies and grants for energy projects in low-income areas. When alternative energy became a cause célèbre in the late 1970s, almost all national environmental and antinuclear groups joined the bandwagon and became advocates of soft energy. But the smallness,

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sheer number, and diverse goals of these groups made solar lobbying a difficult enterprise. The federal R & D bureaucracy—besides Congress the main addressee of lobbying for funds—put a premium on technical exchanges with interest groups in order to back up policies and assure at least tacit assent (Chubb 1983, 200). Only groups with sufficient resources could expect to interact profitably with the R & D bureaucracy. The material benefits of contract procurement were accordingly reserved for centralized and resourceful actors. The electric power sector continued to dominate the federal R & D policy. To be sure, between 1976 and 1979 the funding split between nuclear and non-nuclear expenditures considerably improved in favor of alternative energies. But solar advocacy was "pushed . . . in the direction of centralized, high technology projects favoured by major corporations" (p. 214). As a disgruntled solar activist summarized this development, "Solar energy has gone corporate" (Pollak 1984, 32). The assumption proved naive that the technology itself would make energy and society more democratic. The fate of the Solar Lobby epitomizes the fading of the early enthusiasm for grass-roots democracy (Pollack 1984). After massive internal struggles, the Solar Lobby turned from a radical consumer organization into a narrow advocate of solar business. External political changes reinforced this development. In the early 1980s, the issue of energy left the media spotlight (Mazur 1984). President Reagan's massive funding cuts worsened the economic environment for solar, and the need to produce visible results for a deserting membership became more pressing. As a result, the Solar Lobby adopted a defensive strategy and closed ranks with the solar industry. The case of the Solar Lobby demonstrates that the radical Sun Day discourse of consumer control and economic decentralization withered rather quickly. On the one hand, this was due to a general trend toward professionalization in the environmental movement (Thompson 1985). On the other hand, the soft-path model was marred from the start by the techno-determinist assumption that renewable energies themselves would usher in the small is beautiful Utopia.

THE DIRECT-ACTION MOVEMENT Crossing the Atlantic to found the Massachusetts Bay Colony, John Winthrop told his Puritan companions to "consider that we shall be a city on a hill, the eyes of all people are upon us" (Winthrop 1968, 295). Side by side with the pragmatist mold in American political culture,

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where "ideology [has] shrunk to issues" (Bell 1975, 217), there is a legacy of Utopian moralism, "which provokes Americans to view social and political dramas as morality plays within which compromise is virtually unthinkable" (Lipset 1975, 142). Parallel to the Madisonian politics of sober interest bargaining, there is a Puritan politics of conscience, exemplary action, and communal empowerment. 75 "Speaking truth to power" is the moralist impulse behind a rich tradition of nonviolent direct action in American politics, which reaches from the historical abolitionist and women's suffrage movements to the modern civil rights and disarmament struggles (Cooney and Michalowski 1977). 76 The belated appearance of direct action in the U.S. nuclear energy controversy defies any rationalistic explanation in terms of interests and opportunities. The direct-action movement, pursuing a politics of moral example and communal empowerment, does not fit the economic model of means-end rationality as postulated by resource mobilization theory (Jasper 1989, 1990c). And according to an overly state-centered political process theory, direct action should not have appeared at all in the relatively "open" American polity. 77 The direct-action movement requires a more actor-centered explanation, one that focuses on the particular traits of the underlying activist subculture. Although articulating a broader strand in the American political tradition, the direct-action movement against nuclear power was born out of the concrete mobilization cycle that had started with the civil rights movement and had reached an end with the anti—Vietnam War movement. The end of the Vietnam War left many activists and groups without a cause, and the burgeoning nuclear issue offered a new field of agitation. 78 Direct-action activist Anna Gyorgy (1979, 388) explains: "Nuclear power seemed in many ways to be 'the Vietnam war brought home.' By aiding the nuclear industry while assuring the public it had nothing to fear, the government was supporting an energy source that could prove as lethal as any war." Antiwar and pacifist groups such as the Quaker-based American Friends Service Committee, the War Resisters League, and the Californian Center for Nonviolence recruited into the antinuclear movement a more radical and countercultural constituency that espoused the politics of direct action (Scaminaci 1980, 186). In addition to political cultural and movement organizational factors, the previous history of the nuclear debate helps explain the turn to direct action. Although politically effective, the public-interest groups tended to be governed by oligarchic elites of policy professionals, which relegated members to the passive status of checkbook affiliates (Berry 1977;

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M c C a n n 1 9 8 6 ) . When the energy crisis made nuclear power a heavily contested public issue, the elitist reserve of public-interest advocacy did not offer an appropriate platform for those who felt strongly about the nuclear issue, especially at the grass-roots level. Although the organizational core of the direct-action movement was made up of radical constituencies of the antiwar legacy, the movement also attracted those parts of the middle-class mainstream that considered nuclear power a moral issue requiring a committed and uncompromising response. Another contextual factor that explains the concrete timing of the rise of direct action is international diffusion. In 1 9 7 5 , in Wyhl, West Germany, the antinuclear movement had successfully occupied the construction site of a nuclear plant, forcing the government to abandon the project. As Gyorgy ( 1 9 7 9 , 3 8 6 ) characterizes the huge impact of Wyhl, " T h e action inspired nuclear opponents throughout the world." The eminent role of Wyhl as a "precipitating incident" (Smelser 1 9 6 2 ) is surprising, given the more immediate experience of the civil rights and antiwar struggles in the United States. It indicates that, beyond all national peculiarities, the antinuclear movements were also shaped by international learning processes. 7 9 Despite overlaps between the public-interest and direct-action movements, their differences are more significant for the purposes of this analysis. 80 To be sure, public-interest advocate Ralph Nader had already invoked the populist theme of citizen empowerment. 8 1 But only the direct-action movement radicalized this theme and articulated the vision of a society based on decentralized communities and small social units (Ladd et al. 1 9 8 3 , 2 5 8 ) . Moreover, the communal and transparent society of the future should be visible in the movement that propagated it. The direct-action movement became necessarily preoccupied with internal procedure. Opposing nuclear power was only the negative folio against which the movement project of empowerment and community building unfolded. The movement and nuclear policy trajectories now disunited. Accordingly, the following analysis will focus more on the internal dilemmas that plagued the direct action movement during its short but eventful existence.

N O N V I O L E N C E : M O R A L P R I N C I P L E OR T A C T I C A L DEVICE?

The principled rejection of electoral politics marked a core tenet of the direct-action movement. An Abalone Alliance activist explains: " I felt

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the whole purpose of the movement was not only to oppose nuclear power but to empower individuals both individually and in groups. Therefore I could never rationalize voting." 8 2 Direct action and civil disobedience became the most visible expressions of a moralist "politics of example." 8 3 They also realized the movement goal of empowerment. An Abalone Alliance activist describes his first act of civil disobedience: I still remember that feeling of going over the fence the first time. It was one of the greatest elations I had ever experienced. It was like "I am right," "they are wrong," and I am making my statement. And this is the strongest thing I can do. It was a moral statement. And there was an incredible community euphoria: people lined up on both sides of the gate, saluting up to the heroes who marched up over the wall to carry on the glory of antinuke. It felt like the most important thing that could be done. 8 4

In contrast to the West German antinuclear movement, which became entangled in an escalating spiral of violence, direct action in the American movement remained mostly nonviolent. The pacifist American Friends Service Committee held training sessions in nonviolence, which were mandatory for all those who wanted to participate in site occupation attempts and blockades (Abalone Alliance 1 9 7 9 ) . Police and National Guard were usually informed in advance so that violent confrontations could be avoided. A Clamshell Alliance organizer remembers the positive atmosphere during a site occupation attempt (Wasserman 1 9 7 9 b , 150): "There was an air of good feeling and self-assurance among both the police and occupiers that made the event seem more like a ballet than a traditional political confrontation." The direct-action movement built on the strong activist subculture that had emerged with the civil rights struggles and that had espoused nonviolent civil disobedience (Carson 1 9 8 1 ; McAdam 1988b). Moreover, the inglorious fate of the late antiwar movement, which had withered in a violent confrontation with the armed government, was present in the movement memory. A woman recollects her initial motivation to become a Clamshell Alliance activist: " T h e nonviolence is what really appealed to me. This is what I missed during the Vietnam War days. Though I was younger then, I wanted to get involved. But all I saw was the violence, and I did not want to get my head bashed. I was terrified of that. So here was that nonviolent group, the Boston Clamshell, and I thought now I am home." 8 S In addition to its basis in a subcultural learning process, the allegiance to nonviolence also indicated that the U.S. direct-action movement felt obliged by a basic civic consensus—very much in contrast to its West

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German counterpart. American Exceptionalism theorists emphasize that the "overriding legitimacy of the Constitution and the superiority of American political institutions" have rarely been questioned by opposition movements (Dahl 1966, 38). The antinuclear movement is no exception. Activist Sam Lovejoy deliberately chose February 2 2 — G e o r g e Washington's birthday—for his spectacular toppling of a nuclear testing tower (Wasserman 1979a, 29). He defended himself in court with the following words: "I talked to George Washington, I talked with Henry David Thoreau before I did it, I talked to the signers of the Constitution." 8 6 In the same vein, the Clamshell Alliance's Declaration of Nuclear Resistance opens with the Constitution-reminding "We the People." 8 7 And on the West Coast, direct-action activists felt as "patriotic Americans who believe[d] that American ingenuity could take us off this road of nuclear suicide." 8 8 To be sure, the maxim of nonviolence did not go unquestioned. The Clamshell Alliance, which had brought the direct-action movement to national prominence with several spectacular site occupation attempts, became split over the issue. 89 Should direct action remain a merely symbolic appeal to the public, or should it physically attack nuclear power stations? A radical minority in the alliance became dissatisfied with the "complacency and passivity" demanded by nonviolence. 90 The Coalition for Direct Action at Seabrook (CDAS) abandoned the principle of nonviolence and went over to "shut down nuclear power ourselves." 9 1 The CDAS failed miserably, and the Clamshell Alliance never recovered from the internal divisions generated by the strife over nonviolence (Downey 1986). The other direct-action alliances, however, learned from the negative example of the Clamshell Alliance. For instance, the Californian Abalone Alliance, whose main target was the nuclear plant under construction at Diablo Canyon, initially debated if direct action implied a "philosophical" or only a "tactical" commitment to nonviolence. 92 But the Clamshell Alliance experience reinforced a firm commitment to nonviolence. An Abalone activist explains: The Coalition for Direct Action at Seabrook was inviting trouble. They weren't dialoguing with the cops or the utility district, and we felt that was a really important thing to do. We in Abalone did not support CDAS. Those of us who went to one of their actions came back and said, "You were right, the action was not successful, it was much more violent than we would have liked to have seen, and we agree that there needs to be a commitment to nonviolence." It was wonderful to have them back. 9 3

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A political culture rich in symbols of civic consensus, a subcultural tradition of nonviolent civil disobedience, and internal learning processes reinforced a general commitment to nonviolence in the U.S. directaction movement against nuclear power. And, after all, only nonviolence corresponded to the movement project to " a c t . . . in a principled way to make this a principled world." 94

PARTICIPATORY DEMOCRACY: IDEOLOGY VERSUS EFFICIENCY

In his analysis of the anti—Vietnam War movement, Todd Gitlin (1980, 290f) describes the "inescapable dilemma" between ideology and efficiency that all radical opposition movements must face. If the movement strictly adheres to its radical ideology, it is condemned to organizational inefficiency and political marginality. If the movement compromises ideology for efficient leadership and a broad outreach, it blunts its oppositional edge. 95 To avoid the centralized decision making in the antiwar movement and its concomitant trading of ideology for efficiency, the antinuclear movement stressed "democratic decisionmaking and maximum participation by all" (Barkan 1979, 28). 96 Empowerment and community building were among the core beliefs of the direct-action movement. Empowerment meant the reassertion of local control over the anonymous structures of modern society, revitalizing the populist impulse that Hofstadter (1955, 4) has found "endemic" in American political culture. "That seems to be the nature in our society that people want to have local control," says an antinuclear activist. 97 Another activist explains what empowerment means to him: "Civil disobedience is very empowering to me. It makes me feel like I am doing something, instead of writing letters to my congressman or the newspaper. When I go out there and put my body on the line, it feels like I am doing something more significant, I am taking control over my life." 98 Empowerment is closely linked to the idea of community building. Communities are niches of face-to-face transparency in a systemic society of big markets, hierarchies, and technologies. In the shadow of the nuclear threat, the movement provided a haven of friendship and solidarity. Asked to identify the most commonly shared belief in the antinuclear movement, an Abalone Alliance member responds, "We were single issue, and that bridged ideological differences. I think, in the end, most important for us was that we became a community of very close friends. I found myself feeling really close, really friendly to somebody I

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might ideologically totally disagree with. . . . The Abalone was a community of friends, and that attracted people most. It was a tight little group of nice people. You could feel comfortable there." 99 These core beliefs became organizational reality in a strict insistence on decision making by consensus and in the division of the movement into small "affinity groups." In a device adopted from the meeting process of the Quakers, no decision could be made unless all movement members agreed to it. Long practiced by the Quakers and the American Friends Service Committee, affinity groups functioned as action units and support groups during major protest actions (Gyorgy 1979, 388f). Perhaps no other social movement in American history has more radically practiced nonhierarchical and decentralized grass-roots principles. But the same principles fostered immobilism and a precarious preoccupation with internal procedure. A Clamshell Alliance organizer admits that participatory democracy as practiced by the antinuclear movement "has always danced that thin line between process and paralysis" (Wasserman 1979b, 152). 100 When the accident at Three Mile Island turned the rural small-scale movement into an urban mass movement, the result was paralysis. As in the Abalone Alliance, the sudden influx of new participants increased the need for statewide coordination. This stirred the grass-roots distrust of leadership and centralized structures. "Since the accident at T M I . . . we seem to be moving away from making any decisions at all," an Abalone Alliance organizer complained. "We are immobilized and important strategy discussions are not broached." 101 At least for the media, an informal leadership did nevertheless emerge, such as actress Jane Fonda and ex-antiwar activist Tom Hayden, who were "not representative of any group except themselves," as a grass-roots activist expressed his anger. 102 As the direct-action movement expanded, a bitter conflict broke out between those who wanted to retain the old principles and those who wanted to adjust to the new conditions. A case in point is the controversy over the Musicians United for Safe Energy (MUSE). The MUSE was founded in summer 1979 as the funding and media arm of the antinuclear movement. It produced a series of highly successful rock concerts at Madison Square Garden, including a best-selling record and movie. The profit was intended to support grass-roots initiatives. 103 A board of directors, composed of movement leaders, faced the delicate question of how to allocate the money. The MUSE was obviously not just congenial to the culture of direct action. When it turned out that the financial payoff

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was rather negligible, the MUSE faced fierce attacks for "the fostering of passivity and shallow identification rather than active participation, the creation of stars and power-brokers within the movement." 104 Another grass-roots activist called the MUSE a "jet-set organization" and deplored the drift of the antinuclear movement "toward mass constituencies, personal careerism, political power, party type structures . . . in short, toward 'effective' means for operating within the system." 105 A similar dilemma between ideology and efficiency derived from the implicit elitism inherent in the culture of direct action. If practiced resolutely, the culture of direct action threatened to isolate the movement and blunt its political edge. As Barbara Epstein (1985) and James Jasper (1989) have noticed, the moral fervor energizing direct action often took on parareligious dimensions. To the degree that affinity groups and civil disobedience created strong collective bonds among the activists, an aura of moral elitism came to separate the initiated activists from those who merely sympathized. "Community building" then remained limited to a small circle of committed activists. The jail experience, praised in many movement pamphlets, epitomizes this closure. 106 Collective imprisonment made the dichotomy between in-group and outside world utterly visible, sanctifying the exemplary community of resisters. 107 Contrary to its intention, the culture of direct action built up an invisible wall between a dedicated elite of (white middle-class) activists and those who, according to the movement's own ideology, should have become its natural allies: minorities, low-income groups, and labor. 108 A sympathetic but estranged observer of the Diablo Canyon blockade in 1981 lucidly describes how the culture of direct action alienated potential participants: It was painfully obvious that the blockade had attracted very few "people of color" or working-class, suburban types. The projected style of the "visible" antinuke movement tends to isolate it from millions of people who hold antinuclear views but just don't recognize themselves in the cultural norms of the movement. . . . One blockade custom that seemed a bit strange was the habit of hugging anyone who happened to come within a ten-yard radius. Some would argue that this "builds community." . . . I wound up feeling emotionally homogenized. 109

MOVEMENT S C O P E : SINGLE- VERSUS M U L T I P L E - I S S U E ORIENTATION

Building on Symbolic Interactionism, collective behavior theorists have rightly emphasized that "people act on conceptions rather than on objec-

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tive reality" (Turner and Killian 1 9 8 7 , 6). Neil Smelser (1968) calls the conceptions that guide collective behavior and social movements "generalized beliefs." In generalized beliefs, "the environment is portrayed in terms of omnipotent forces, conspiracies, and extravagant promises, all of which are immanent" (p. 97). In a similar thrust, historian Richard Hofstadter ( 1 9 5 5 ) uncovers an inclination in American grass-roots movements to fantasize conspiracies. The implicit agenda of these analyses, which is to dismiss social movements as irrational behavior, has been widely criticized, and justifiably so (Gamson 1 9 7 5 ; McAdam 1 9 8 2 ) . Reconciling these opposite views, one could argue that the demonization of the opponent and the dramatization of the movement cause are thoroughly rational because they motivate potential participants to get involved, lower the threshold to action, and provide a collective group purpose. There is an evident tendency in the antinuclear movement to demonize nuclear power and foretell imminent disaster. Quite like a generalized belief, nuclear power is seen as linked and interconnected to nuisances in other societal spheres, such as patriarchy, racism, exploitation, or the threat of nuclear war. " I f you raise the issue of nuclear energy," says an activist, "you can raise a number of other issues." 110 Exposing the links between nuclear power and other societal pathologies was high on the agenda of the direct-action movement because it justified a generalized opposition to the system. It also allowed a debunking of the narrow reformism of the public-interest movement, which focused only on legal and technical issues. Moreover, cross-issue building alleviated a notorious middle-class guilt in the direct-action movement, which secretly suspected nuclear power to be a luxurious " m e issue" decoupled from wider social concerns. 1 1 1 Finally, a multiple-issue orientation opened up the possibility of coalitions with other groups and movements. But straying too far from the nuclear issue posed the serious risk of blurring the movement agenda. Accordingly, the founding documents of the direct-action alliances reveal a characteristic tension between singleand multiple-issue orientation (e.g., Abalone Alliance 1 9 7 9 , 3 0 — 3 1 ) . Depending on the nature of the particular issue to be integrated, the relative costs and benefits of issue integration differed. Most easily absorbed were feminist concerns (Nelkin 1981c). In feminist discourse, nuclear power stood for male violence and patriarchal dominance. Decision making by consensus was often contrasted to patriarchy as the "feminist process" (Abalone Alliance 1 9 8 0 , 1 2 - 1 3 ) . More difficult was the integration of labor and minority concerns. As we have seen, organized

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labor remained distant, if not actively opposed, to the antinuclear movement. Native Americans often joined antinuclear campaigns, alarmed by the health hazards of uranium mining on Indian territory in the Southwest (Nelkin 1981b). But "class and cultural differences" made this cooperation a difficult and uneasy one, as an organizer has confessed. 112 Downrightly problematic but also most pronounced were attempts to integrate the issue of nuclear disarmament (Nelkin 1981a). Whereas appeals to labor or minorities concerned groups outside the usual orbit of the antinuclear movement, weapons and energy concerns were shared by similar constituencies. "Cooperation" between the antinuclear and disarmament movements meant tapping, rather than increasing, their mutual resources (Jezer 1 9 7 8 , 15). The inclination of the antinuclear movement to address the weapons issue became a crucial factor in its later demise (see chapter 6).

D I R E C T A C T I O N AND LEGAL I N T E R V E N T I O N

When the turn to direct action occurred around 1 9 7 7 , the old publicinterest leadership was already on the retreat, claiming victory in the nuclear struggle. N o new reactors were being ordered by then in the United States, and even nuclear advocates admitted that the nuclear industry was "slowly bleeding to death." 1 1 3 To be sure, the opposition conceded that mostly internal industry troubles were responsible for this. 1 1 4 But any further nuclear expansion seemed unlikely. Nader's Critical Mass went over to organize consumer protests against utility rate hikes. 115 The Union of Concerned Scientists even announced that nuclear power was dead and turned to other topics—most notably the prevention of nuclear weapons. 1 1 6 The national public-interest groups had focused only on nuclear projects in the planning process, considering the plants under construction or in operation as unpleasant but unstoppable faits accomplis (Harding 1 9 7 9 a , 10). These "forgotten plants" became the target of the directaction movement. A public-interest activist explains: "Direct action did not occur until the future of the industry was pretty heavily determined. Most people in the antinuclear movement quietly considered these people as Johnny-come-latelies. But the direct-action movement was also a negative reaction to the leadership of the antinuclear movement, which was patting itself on the back for having knocked out 9 0 percent of the reactors proposed in the U.S. but had forgotten about the last 10 percent." 1 1 7

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More important than differential temporal perspectives were differences in organizational and cultural style. A prominent public-interest campaigner expresses his uneasiness about decision making by consensus and civil disobedience: I wasn't comfortable with that kind of demonstration and civil disobedience. It wasn't my style. I had never been comfortable with mass movements. Every campaign I had been involved in had essentially been little elitist groups of activists who worked within legal and political strategies. . . . I have never been comfortable with group decision making. Groups don't make good decisions. I think you need smart people who are well informed, who are in charge of a chosen leadership. 118

For public-interest advocates, the issues came first, procedure second. Although convinced of having reason and facts on their side, they also knew that interest politics required compromises. 1 1 9 Public-interest activists responded to the moral politics of direct action with utter estrangement. A Proposition 15 organizer comments on the Abalone Alliance: "They wanted to stop nuclear power just by demonstrating the purity of their beliefs. This boggled my mind. I just couldn't understand that." 1 2 0 As a public-interest activist sardonically summarizes the sparse contacts between the direct-action and public-interest movements: " T w o completely different structures with very little overlap." 1 2 1 The situation was slightly less polarized at the grass-roots level, where the old legal intervenor groups suddenly found new potential allies in the direct-action alliances. Both shared the focus on the concrete backyard plant, "and that is a very frustrating fight," as public-interest lawyer Anthony Roisman has realized (quoted in Sweeney 1 9 7 9 , 34). If years of costly and cumbersome legal intervention could not stop a plant, direct action often did provide a "last resort" for angry citizens. But the metaphor of the last resort, which fared so prominently both in the directaction movement and in some scholarly accounts of it, conceals the underlying organizational and cultural differences between legal intervention and direct action. 1 2 2 Consider the local opposition to the Diablo Canyon plant in California. 1 2 3 The legal intervenor group, Mothers for Peace, consisted of (mostly college-educated) mothers and housewives. Although originally formed in opposition to the Vietnam War, the group shifted its focus in 1 9 7 3 to the nuclear plant under construction at Diablo Canyon. T h e original concern was low-level radiation. As one activist says, "We as young mothers knew what radiation does to fetuses." 1 2 4 When in 1 9 7 4 an active earthquake fault was discovered under the plant site, the main

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concern shifted to the issue of accident risk. For more than a decade, the Mothers for Peace tried to stop, or at least delay, the completion of Diablo through unrelenting legal intervention. Even though the only formal organizational device the Mothers for Peace possessed was a mailing list with less than forty names, the lack of formal structures did not result from a principled commitment to egalitarianism and consensus. On the contrary, consensus was perceived as obstructing quick and flexible action. In contrast to the direct-action alliances' preoccupation with internal procedure, the Mothers for Peace favored result over process. After all, the members perceived their cause as protecting children and family, not as crusading for a societal Utopia. Although generally left of center, the Mothers for Peace did not openly question patriarchal authority. The group even used the latter whenever it served their cause: "In those days, women were used to standing behind the authority figure of a man. We did that deliberately, if it appeared useful to us. We said, 'First things first; we will take care of the women's movement after we stop Diablo Canyon.' " 1 2 5 Instead of opposing the "system," the antinuclear struggle had to be won from the inside. As one member explains, "We decided a long time ago that the way to be taken seriously was to know the issues." 126 If the public only knew the facts about nuclear power, it would certainly help the movement to victory: "We have always believed in education. If people are given the correct facts, not filtered through some public relations person, they can make up their own minds." 127 And if celebrities (such as actors Jack Lemmon and Jane Fonda) and professionals (such as local physicians and faculty members of the nearby state university) were even more effective in spreading the truth about nuclear power, the better to bring them in. In contrast to the direct-action alliances' rejection of leadership, the Mothers for Peace was eager to use it if it lended more credibility and effectiveness to the cause. In view of these different styles, it is not surprising that the formation of a local direct-action group in 1976 was received with suspicion and uneasiness. Although founded by a former member of Mothers for Peace, the new group, People Against Nuclear Power (a precursor of the Abalone Alliance), espoused the values and habits of the counterculture. In contrast to the politically moderate Mothers for Peace, the new group was motivated by what an Abalone Alliance activist calls, mockingly but revealingly, the "doing away of this patriarchal murder machine, and just needing a whole new way of looking at life in general." 128 Outside

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stood against inside view, the quest for a new society against a rather conventional campaign. Despite these differences in style and strategy, both groups had something in common. The Mothers for Peace ultimately rejected nuclear power for moral reasons. As mothers, they perceived nuclear power as a massive threat to the lives of children and families. If survival is at stake, compromise is ruled out. A member remembers the emotional appeal of a local appearance by Helen Caldicott, a well-known antinuclear activist and Harvard medical doctor: " T h e audience was packed with women. Someone asked her what she would do when the plant went on line. She said, 'I would go and sit on it' [laughing]. We would have done it that day if she would have said, 'Let's go and sit on it.' I swear we would have followed her right up that path and would have sat on it [still laughing but visibly moved]."129 The Mothers for Peace was also thrilled by Sam Lovejoy's dramatic first act of civil disobedience. The moral quality of Lovejoy's statement was deemed the appropriate response to the fundamental assault on life that nuclear power represented. Many members of Mothers for Peace participated in the two major blockades that the Abalone Alliance organized in 1 9 7 8 and 1 9 8 1 . From the perspective of motherhood, " t o put one's body on line" easily dovetailed with the special duty of women to nurture and protect life. Mutual rejection and attraction eventually stabilized in a peaceful coexistence. Both groups acknowledged the legitimacy of their different approaches and coalesced behind the paramount goal to stop Diablo Canyon. A mother even bluntly admitted that only through direct action would members of Congress know that Diablo Canyon was " n o t a resort club." 1 3 0 Calling direct action a "last resort" after the presumed failure of institutional movement strategies mystifies, rather than clarifies, the course of the U.S. antinuclear movement after the energy crisis. As we have seen, the political context offered many opportunities for institutional strategies. Nonviolent direct action and public-interest advocacy differed fundamentally in organizational form and cultural style, they grew out of different movement cycles, and they articulated different aspects of American political culture. Both strategies must be evaluated in their own terms. Through reinforcing a general trend toward the decentralization of control in nuclear policy, the public-interest movement helped to shape a political climate hostile to the nuclear industry.

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The direct-action movement, which pursued a Utopian vision of community, usually failed to stop the concrete plant it opposed. But that was secondary anyway. A long-time Abalone Alliance activist sums up the successes of direct action: "We achieved all our goals but one, and that was stopping Diablo. We definitely empowered people, we maintained a commitment to nonviolence, we built community groups. My closest friends are people I have met through the movement, and they are still my closest friends today." 131

CHAPTER FIVE

Challenging the State in West Germany

According to J. P. Nettl (1968, 571), "'Antisystem' movements have more easily been able to develop in societies with strongly developed states." In comparison to its American counterpart, the West German antinuclear movement certainly took a strong antisystem direction. But the notion of a strong state is insufficient to explain this outcome. In fact, Peter Katzenstein (1987) has aptly characterized the West German state as at best "semisovereign" because its power is federally fragmented and diluted by the neocorporatist inclusion of societal forces into the policy process. The neocorporatist fusion between state and society, however, is highly selective and yields effects that are quite similar to strong stateness. 1 Only those societal forces that are centrally organized and considered part of the established social contract are granted a privileged "public status" (Offe 1985b, ch. 8). Reflecting the historical preeminence of the labor-capital cleavage in German politics, neocorporatism has favored industrial producer groups and has discriminated against new interests cross-cutting the established lines of conflict. When the energy crisis stirred the limits to growth debate in West Germany (Gruhl 1975; Eppler 1975), the new ecological critics found themselves initially excluded from the political process and pitted against an overwhelming growth coalition. Reference to the neocorporatist closure of the polity is a first step in explaining the anti-institutional disposition of the West German antinuclear movement. More than in the United States, the West German nuclear controversy escalated into a general struggle about the legitimacy of the state and the 91

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overall direction of social change. "Ecology versus economy" was the widely used formula for the opposite camps in this struggle (Hondrich 1990). In the political culture of postwar Germany, whose autocratic and dictatorial past had discredited any unambiguous identification with national traditions, economic growth provided an ersatz consensus (Greiffenhagen and Greiffenhagen 1979; Kalberg 1987; James 1989). 2 As Michael Kreile (1978,196) puts it succinctly, "Economics became the prime preoccupation of a people who had suffered want and were alienated from politics." When the energy crisis plunged the young Bonn republic into its first severe economic recession, the firm implementation of an ambitious nuclear program came to be identified with the restoration of economic growth. The nervous political elites, many of whom had personally experienced the economic destabilization of the Weimar Republic, perceived any questioning of the maxim of economic growth as a dangerous subversion of the democratic order. As the minister of economics, Hans Friderichs, rebuffed the ecological critics at the height of the nuclear controversy, "Zero-growth destroys our democracy." 3 The polarization between the state and the antinuclear movement was particularly intense because the Social Democratic Party formed the federal government at the time (Fach and Simonis 1987; Hausler 1988). Under the yoke of realpolitik, the SPD lost its previous ability to articulate the demands of citizen movements. When the energy crisis moved the SPD to adopt a rigorous policy of economic crisis management that included the implementation of the nuclear program, the closure of the political system seemed perfect. There was no institutional channel left for the antinuclear movement. Under these external conditions, a vicious spiral of conflict emerged between a seemingly repressive state and an ever-more-radicalized movement. Violence, which remained peripheral in the United States, became the hallmark of the West German nuclear controversy. Violence was the result of conflict escalation but also reflected the lack of a basic consensus over procedural rules. Radical groups steered the antinuclear movement into an antistatist direction. Even though the violence-prone movement itself failed to be accepted as a legitimate political actor, nuclear-critical positions nevertheless diffused into the political system. First, the proportional electoral system permitted the rise of the antinuclear Green Party. Second, pressured by a rebellious party basis, the nuclear consensus in the ruling SPD withered away. In the ensuing climate of political insecurity, the administrative courts imposed a de facto moratorium on new nuclear construc-

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tions. Third, a parliamentary commission attested the viability of a nonnuclear energy future and fostered the emergence of a critical expert discourse. MODEL GERMANY Political economists have termed Model Germany the austere regime of Social Democratic corporatism that emerged in response to the energy crisis and economic recession (Markovits 1982). Modell Deutschland had originally been the SPD campaign slogan in the national elections of 1976 (Kaack and Roth 1979, 481). It depicted the FRG as an island of stability and strength in a crisis-ridden world economy. Indeed, the Federal Republic had survived the global challenge of oil crisis and economic recession in better shape than most of its neighbors. Chancellor Helmut Schmidt's supply-side policy of economic crisis management helped overcome the severe recession of 1974—1975. In the second half of the 1970s, West German GNP growth rates were the highest in Europe and inflation was modest—but at the cost of continued mass unemployment (Scharpf 1987, ch. 7). As most political analysts agree, the apparent success of Model Germany was based on the neocorporatist integration of the working class, a persistent concern for monetary stability, the export orientation of the economy, and an active government policy of economic modernization (Narr and Offe 1976; Kreile 1978; Esser et al. 1979; Helm 1984). In the legacy of Chancellor Erhard's formed society (formierte Gesellschaft), Model Germany fostered a societal consensus rooted in economic growth. As in the United States, the massive expansion of nuclear power became a cornerstone of the first comprehensive energy policy developed by the federal government in response to the energy crisis (MeyerRenschhausen 1977, 1981; Drummer et al. 1985; Hatch 1986). The impact of the Arab oil embargo had been particularly severe in West Germany, where oil imports constituted almost 60 percent of its primary energy consumption (Mendershausen 1976, 7 8 - 8 3 ) . According to the Energy Program of 1974, the share of nuclear power in primary energy consumption was to increase from 1 percent in 1973 to 15 percent in 1985. This implied that over the next ten years more than forty largescale nuclear plants were to be built, a new plant going on line at least every twelve weeks.4 Although these expansive hopes were not unlike those in the United States, the consistently close alignment between state and nuclear power

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was unique to the German case. Nuclear power was not only the cornerstone in achieving national energy independence. It also played a pivotal role in the "active policy of economic modernization" (aktive Strukturpolitik) that the ruling Social Democrats developed in response to the changing world economy of the 1970s (Hauff and Scharpf 1975). Abandoning the old laissez-faire doctrine, the state was to intervene more actively in the domestic economy, selectively support the capitalintensive world market sector, and scale down the labor-intensive raw material and consumption good sectors that had no chance against cheap mass production from abroad (Simonis 1979; Schlupp 1979; Esser, Fach, and Vath 1983). Promoting nuclear power became a key component of this "strategy of selective competitiveness" (Kreile 1978). In 1976, one-third of all federal R & D expenses went into the nuclear power sector, particularly the development of advanced reactor lines (Ronge 1977; Keck 1981, 1984). State-induced technological innovation was to increase the world market competitiveness of the domestic nuclear industry. In fact, by the mid-1970s, the West German industry was a major supplier of light-water reactors and fuel cycle equipment on the world market, second only to the United States (Walker and Loennroth 1983, 34; Roser 1978, 5 4 - 5 6 ) . So dominant was the "export mystique" (Katzenstein 1978, 305), and so tight the collusion between state and industry, that the federal government actively negotiated some highly controversial nuclear exports to countries that had refused to sign the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty—thereby undermining President Carter's international antiplutonium crusade (Kaiser 1978; Krugmann 1981). Volker Hauff and Fritz Scharpf (1975, 126), the intellectual creators of the active policy of economic modernization, emphasized that "political consensus" and "open dialogue" among state, industry, and the public were necessary to make the new policy work. 5 Comparing claim and reality, however, a critic replied that consensus was only the smokescreen for a "growth coalition between state, big industry and organized labor . . . pursuing a materialist policy of muddling through" (Schmidt 1982, 135). In response to energy crisis and economic recession, the neocorporatist elites moved closer. Not dialogue, but the repression of dissent prevailed. The ruling SPD sought distance from the political Left, thus generating a climate of repression and closing the political system for any institutional opposition. In foreign policy, the Social Democrats had to

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destroy the impression that their move toward reconciliation with the East (the Ostpolitik) meant making common cause with communists (Schmidt 1980, 113f). On the domestic side, the SPD had to work against overly radical interpretations of their early reform goals, which still fared very prominently in the party's own youth organization, the Jusos (Fenner 1 9 7 7 ; Lehnert 1983). 6 A tight policy of domestic security became the seamier side of Model Germany (Blankenburg 1 9 8 0 ; Katzenstein 1982). With the Radikalenerlass (Radicals Decree) of 1972, which purged the civil service of "radicals" and "extremists," the authoritarian state of the past had raised its ugly head (Kvistad 1988). Later on, in response to the terrorism of the Red Army Faction (RAF), the SPD/FDP coalition government passed restrictive antiterror laws and installed the most advanced computerized system of citizen surveillance anywhere in the Western world. The hysterical hunt for alleged sympathizers with terrorist violence and enemies of the constitution particularly alienated the leftist intelligentsia, which warned against the erosion of civil liberties and the coming of a "security state" (Hirsch 1980). The omnipresent state became the paramount obsession of the political and cultural Left. "Where does a State end, where does an I [Ich] begin?" asks novelist Peter Schneider (1982) in his soul-searching inquiry into German national identity, The Wall Jumper. A vicious cycle of generalized suspicion and hostility, low conflict tolerance and ready antagonism to the state, became the hallmark of the political culture of Model Germany. As Klaus von Beyme (1983, 2 0 0 ) outlines the historical continuities, " T h e German political culture has remained anticonflict oriented and suspicious of any form of direct democracy and plebiscitarian participation." In sum, Model Germany fostered a politics of the strong state, productivist modernization, and the repression of dissent (Offe 1984, ch. 9). This political context fed the antistatist disposition of the emergent antinuclear movement.

C O N F L I C T ESCALATION Initially, a closed polity turned the West German antinuclear movement to direct action. But the further trajectory of the movement was more concretely shaped by a series of decisive encounters with its opponent, which turned out to be the state as such. As Turner and Killian (1987, 10) emphasize, social movements are "constantly being formed and

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reformed" through the very processes and interactions in which they unfold. In his analysis of the Berkeley Free Speech Movement, Max Heirich (1971) demonstrates how a succession of key episodes can grow into a "spiral of conflict," in which the mutual anticipations of participants produce an outcome unintended by all. The notion of conflict spiral is useful for describing the tight interaction pattern that evolved between the state and the antinuclear movement in West Germany. The West German antinuclear movement unfolded through a succession of local siting conflicts, changing its face at each stage. 7 At Wyhl, the antinuclear movement appeared as popular resistance to industrial modernization, with a peculiar thrust of regional autonomy. At Brokdorf, radical left-wing groups steered the antinuclear movement into an antistatist direction. N o w an escalating spiral of movement militancy and massive state retaliation evolved. At Kalkar, the movement succumbed to the sheer dominance of the armed state. At Gorleben, the last stage of the post-energy-crisis mobilization cycle, moderate movement forces regained lost ground, entering into a strained alliance with the militant Left. The actions and exchanges in each of these episodes became the preconditions of the next one, thus cumulatively shaping the movement trajectory. In this development from Wyhl to Gorleben, the antinuclear movement became internally divided between a radical antistate wing and a moderate, violence-rejecting wing. Although there were similar surface divisions in the American movement, more favorable political structures and a culture conducive to legal activism permitted the publicinterest groups to operate independently from the direct-action branch. As a result, there was little infighting over strategy and goals in the American movement. By contrast, the initially closed polity in West Germany forced moderate and radical constituencies to coalesce and resort jointly to direct action. The question of violence became the stake of perennial strife between moderate and radical movement factions. In general, the West German nuclear debate was not so much a civil society contest for the majority opinion; like class war, it was a power struggle between two entrenched opponents. 8 From early on, the state denounced the movement as steered by "federally organized extremists." 9 Resembling a self-fulfilling prophecy, the harsh state response in fact drew radical left-wing groups into the antinuclear movement, which used the latter as a platform for antistatist agitation and mobilization. 10 The case of the West German antinuclear movement validates a core assumption of our modified political process perspective. Not the refer-

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ence to state structure alone, but the dynamic interplay of structural and actor-centered factors explains the conflict escalation that followed the energy crisis.

A REGIONALIST PEOPLE'S MOVEMENT: THE CASE OF WYHL

The first notable citizen mobilization against nuclear energy occurred in the Upper Rhine valley, in the rural southwest of the FRG.11 For many years, this region had been a hotbed of environmental activism that opposed the pollution of the Rhine River and the looming industrialization of the area (Wüstenhagen 1975b). In the early 1970s, the CDU state government of Baden-Württemberg sought to industrialize the economically underdeveloped region.12 The specter of a second Ruhr area at the Upper Rhine incited local farmers and vine growers to form the first environmental citizen coalitions anywhere in the Federal Republic. Likewise, the initial opposition to nuclear power was motivated by environmental concerns. The environmental group Rheintal-Aktion explicates its concerns (quoted in Wüstenhagen 1975a, 29): "Upon completion of the nuclear power station, the settlement of electricity-intensive industries will most certainly follow. A cancerous growth of streets, industries, and cities will destroy our beautiful land." Industrialization threatened not only the ecological balance but also the traditional way of life, the Heimat. The Wyhl protest was at the same time a quest for regional autonomy. The movement revitalized the separate ethnic identity of the Alemannen and emphasized that the region of Baden had a long history of democratic insurgency (Nössler and de Witt 1976, 276—280). The energy crisis and the politics of economic restoration framed the Wyhl conflict. As the state minister of economics, Rudolf Eberle, said, "The energy policy of this state stands and falls with Wyhl." 13 The nuclear utility in charge of the Wyhl project, the Badenwerk AG, associated nuclear power with economic growth and democratic stability (quoted in Rucht 1988, 140): "Even if the risks of nuclear power were bigger than they actually are, we still would have to accept them in the interest of freedom and democracy." From the state government's point of view, a projected electricity growth rate of 7 percent annually required the construction of eight nuclear plants by 1990. Wyhl would be the beginning. The looming energy gap meant to the government that it had to remain firm. If Wyhl were not built, "the lights [would] go out in 1980," according to the state

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minister president, Hans Filbinger (quoted in Wiistenhagen 1975a, 26). The escalation of the conflict was programmed. The whole region mobilized against the project. Before the public licensing hearing in July 1974, the local opposition had gathered ninety thousand protest signatures. By fall 1974, 75 percent of the regional population opposed the Wyhl plant (Battelle Institut 1975, 239-241). At first, the citizen opposition followed a legal strategy. According to the Atomic Energy Act of 1959, state governments could issue a construction license only after a public hearing had been held. In this hearing, anyone who was potentially affected by the respective project was entitled to object (German Bundesregierung 1977, 3 6 7 - 3 8 3 ; Ziegler 1987). Supported by experts from the nearby University of Freiburg, the citizen intervenors focused their objections on problems of reactor safety, climatology, and water resources. As university meteorologists argued, the emissions of the plant's cooling towers would increase the likelihood of local fog formations. The resulting climatic changes would harm the quality of the famous vine grown in the nearby Kaiserstuhl area—the major agricultural product of the region. Moreover, the vast amount of water needed for the plant's cooling system would lower the local water level and damage the Rheinau Forest, which served as a recreation area and drinking-water reservoir (Wiistenhagen 1975a, 16-17). The impatient state government grossly abbreviated the legal procedures, thus paving the way for direct action. A public hearing in July 1974 ended in tumultuous scenes. In the packed gymnasium of Wyhl, the presiding representatives of the state government rushed through the agenda and left most of the citizen intervenors unheard. On the second day of this obvious farce, the assembled citizens left the hall in loud protest—six men carried a coffin with the inscription "The Death of Democracy?" through the emptying hall. The state government refused to hold a second hearing (Nossler and de Witt 1976, 4 6 - 5 0 ) . If this first state affront was still received with a question mark, the following events left no doubt that the state government had chosen an uncompromising surprise, rather than a consensus strategy, to implement the Wyhl project. In fact, as is characteristic for the West German utility industry, the state government was a partial owner of the applying utility and thus had a very special interest in the realization of the project (Zangl 1989). When a local plebiscite on the sale of communal property to the Badenwerke utility was to be held in early 1975, the state government announced that in case of a negative outcome the village of Wyhl

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would be expropriated. In fact, a narrow majority of the citizens of Wyhl voted for the sale, thus removing the last institutional obstacle to the start of construction. This outcome showed that, in contrast to the rural composition of the larger region, the population of Wyhl itself was mostly working class. The nuclear plant promised construction jobs for workers, financial benefits for the municipality, and amenities such as a public swimming pool (Nossler and de Witt 1 9 7 6 , 6 6 - 7 9 ) . The farmers, vintners, and local professionals who formed the core of the movement soon felt abandoned by state and society. Only the Protestant church supported the antinuclear citizen groups. T h e state government denounced the movement as a " R e d horde" allegedly steered by lunatic left-wing extremists. In reality, the local party basis of the ruling CDU itself was part of the revolt; several local party chapters dissolved in protest against the unyielding state government. 14 The intransigent state produced its own opposition. By lightly dismissing the legitimacy of opposing the nuclear project, even through legal means, the state ensured that the resort to direct action was the only possible response left. This step was taken in February 1 9 7 5 , shortly after official construction began. A spontaneous site occupation grew into a permanent siege that lasted for ten months. T h e wide popular support for the occupation and the resulting public discussion forced the state government to change its tactics. Given the broadened movement and its national visibility, an iron fist strategy no longer seemed feasible. Instead, the state government had to acknowledge the legitimacy of the protest and negotiate with the citizen groups. These negotiations resulted in the Offenburg Agreement of January 1 9 7 6 . The citizen groups promised to abstain from further site occupations. In turn, the state government promised to uphold a construction stop until independent expert evidence clarified the meteorological impact of the contested plant. 15 But the Offenburg Agreement soon became irrelevant. In March 1 9 7 7 , the Administrative Court of Freiburg terminally revoked the construction permit for the Wyhl plant, arguing that reactor containment was insufficient. Unexpectedly, legal intervention had brought the movement its greatest success so far. Although never officially abandoned by the utility, the Wyhl project still remains shelved. The Wyhl conflict had wide repercussions. Nuclear power was no longer a consensual affair of remote elites but a socially contested technology. The federal government foresaw that the Wyhl protest, if not handled properly, could develop into a general opposition to its nuclear program. In 1 9 7 4 , the government commissioned the Battelle Institute

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to explore the causes of citizen protest. The institute's widely cited study found that most citizen groups were not antinuclear on principle but could be appeased by better siting policies, a more transparent information management, and improved reactor safety (Battelle Instituí 1975). The study recommended more citizen participation in the decisionmaking process. Based on this study, and intent on containing the Wyhl virus, the federal minister for research and technology, Hans Matthófer, initiated the Bürgerdialog Kernenergie (Citizen Dialogue on Nuclear Energy), a nationwide information and dialogue campaign. 16 In a weak echo of the emphatic diction to risk more democracy, Minister Matthófer admitted that "nuclear power cannot be implemented against the will of the majority" (Matthófer 1977a, 11). But he also asserted that "we need economic growth if we want to have full employment, and this is not possible without new nuclear capacity" (p. 15). Caught in the double bind of risking more democracy and modernizing the economy, the citizen dialogue could not satisfy any of the involved parties. Nuclear critics soon found out that the real purpose of this dialogue was appeasement, not participation. 17 Conservatives considered the campaign a playground for the nuclear opposition. 18 In fact, the fictitious dialogue radicalized, rather than calmed, the protests. 19 Wyhl was only the beginning of a controversy whose dramatic culmination was yet to come. Nevertheless, its particular features stood out against the later developments. At Wyhl, a genuine people's movement emerged. The rejection of nuclear power was part of a larger struggle against industrial modernization and its destabilizing impact on traditional social structures and the environment. This struggle was also a quest for regional autonomy. The Alemannic ethnic tradition of the Upper Rhine region defied political state borders, and it made the neighboring French, German, and Swiss populations feel closer to one another than to their distant capitals of Paris, Bonn, or Bern. Ironically, the cultural remains of a distant past empowered the involved grass roots against the very contemporary hazards of environmental pollution and technological risk, which likewise defy state borders. The region's collective memory provided strong solidarity incentives for the movement (Buchholtz et al. 1978, 86). A firm consensus on party neutrality, nonviolence, and grass-roots democracy unified the antinuclear movement at Wyhl. This consensus made possible a unique alliance of rural and urban, conservative and progressive forces. Its popular basis legitimized the movement in the public. Not since Wyhl has a state government felt obliged to negotiate

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directly with the antinuclear movement. Somewhat patheticly but pointedly, a movement leader characterizes the Wyhl protest: "The sleeping giant 'the people' awoke for a moment and pulled at its chains" (quoted in Nössler and de Witt 1976, 43).

THE RADICAL LEFT AGAINST THE STATE: F R O M B R O K D O R F T O KALKAR

With Wyhl, the urban New Left, stemming from the APO and the student movement of the late 1960s, became attentive to the issues of ecology and nuclear energy (Traube 1978, 5 9 - 7 0 ) . In 1973, a leading New Left intellectual had still dismissed the ecological discourse as "reformist appeal to technocratic reason" (Enzensberger 1973, 8). The experience of Wyhl began to change this attitude. Here were "the people," rebellious, irreverent, and combative, the " m a s s e s " that the student movement had only fancied to win over and that the influential Frankfurt School had dismissed as apathetic and authoritarian. But whereas the New Left remained peripheral at Wyhl, it became truly dominant at Brokdorf, the next conflict site in the high north of the Federal Republic. Asked about the difference between Wyhl and Brokdorf, a leading Brokdorf activist responded, " N e w at Brokdorf were the militancy and the participation of the masses. In Wyhl, site occupations and rallies had remained local events. In Brokdorf, we had nationwide mobilization campaigns with seventy thousand or eighty thousand people." 2 0 Further pressed to specify who the "masses" had been at Brokdorf, this activist's blunt response was " T h e New Left of the Federal Republic." The initial situation at Brokdorf was remarkably similar to Wyhl. Brokdorf, a sparsely populated marshland at the Lower Elbe River, served as a recreational area for nearby Hamburg. Until 1973, the Brokdorf region had been spared the large-scale industrialization that had already seized the neighboring cities of Brunsbüttel and Stade (with nuclear plants operating at both places). But then the utility company Nordwestdeutsche Kraftwerke AG announced Brokdorf as site for the construction of a 1300-megawatt (MW) nuclear power plant—a power output as high as the total electricity consumption of the state of Schleswig-Holstein. For the surprised local population, the purpose of this project was clear: the seventy-mile-long Elbe strip between Hamburg and Cuxhaven was to be transformed into a giant industrial park with oil, chemical, and aluminum factories, along with the highest concentration of nuclear power plants anywhere in Europe (BUU 1982, 88).

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In response, local farmers founded the Citizen Initiative for Environmental Protection, Lower Elbe (BUU). Although a December 1973 poll showed 75 percent of the local population opposing the plant, the municipal council of Brokdorf voted overwhelmingly in favor of it, lured by the promise of increased tax incomes and utility donations such as a public swimming pool and a new city hall. As the citizen groups at Wyhl had, the BUU initially followed a legal strategy. Similarly, the CDU-led state government of Schleswig-Holstein arbitrarily curtailed the public licensing hearing. 21 In response, the BUU announced that after the start of construction the site would be nonviolently occupied. During the night following the issuing of the construction license, the state government secured the construction site with a police battalion—against its previous assurance that before a final court decision was handed down, no fact-setting activity would be launched. 22 This state coup, subsequently called the Nacht und Nebel Aktion, became the legitimizing archsymbol of a national protest movement that emerged in immediate response. 23 The event sparked one of the most dramatic (and certainly most violent) confrontations between the state and a social movement in the history of the Federal Republic. In a short time, a powerful movement mobilized with nationwide mass rallies and site occupation attempts. Local and rural constituencies now almost disappeared from the scene. Brokdorf became a battle between the state and the Radical Left. Ironically, the state government, eager to avoid a second Wyhl, justified its shocking coup as preventive measure against an expected site occupation attempt by "extremist political groups." 24 In fact, it was the authoritarian method of implementing the licensing decision that drew these extremists into the conflict. One of them, then a student at Gottingen University, remembers how he became involved: In my case, and I can speak on behalf of many others, I heard the name of Brokdorf for the first time in the national evening news, on October 3 0 , 1 9 7 6 . For the first time, we were visually confronted with the atomic state: huge police levies, barbed wire fences, dogs, a construction site turned into a fortress. That was new for us. Before that, w e had not been directly confronted with the state. The student movement and the wildcat strikes of the late 1960s had occurred before our time. 25

A November 1976 demonstration escalated into what the national media characterized as "civil war," by no means an understatement. 26 In a great hurry, the state government had fortified the construction site with ditches and a huge steel and concrete wall. Thirty thousand protes-

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tors came, "especially the urban left and antinuclear groups from all over the Federal Republic," as a movement pamphlet frankly admitted (Autonomic 1980, 3). Many of them had set out for a violent site occupation. Toward the end of the rally, police helicopters suddenly attacked the already retreating demonstrators with tear gas, including those who had remained peaceful and did not participate in the demolition of the security fence—and that was, after all, the great majority. After this demonstration, even the communication between the moderate citizen groups and the state government broke off completely. The leader of the BUU/Brokdorf, a middle-aged farmer, explains, "We wanted to negotiate with the state government. We even would have waited for a court decision, and we were prepared to accept a negative outcome without protest. But a construction start under cover of the night [bei Nacht und Nebel], brutal police operations even against peaceful demonstrators—this is simply too much to take." 27 From the perspective of the state government, the Rechtsstaat (legal state) had to remain firm against what it perceived as a violent insurgency steered by left-wing extremists. The local citizen groups, however, saw their civic rights arbitrarily restricted. A marsh farmer expresses his predicament: "We do not want violence. But this state is destroying our democracy. And the foes of our foes—are they not our friends?" 28 The foes of our foes—the urban Left in the Brokdorf movement— were themselves divided between an organized and a nonorganized, autonomous Left. The organized Left consisted of radical Marxist factions of the disintegrated student movement. These so-called C-groups (C stands for communist) were strictly organized according to the Leninist cadre principle, and most of them were Maoist in orientation. They openly propagated the violent overthrow of the "bourgeois state" in a socialist revolution and the institution of the dictatorship of the proletariat. The four major C-groups—the German Communist Party (KPD), the German Communist Party, Marxist-Leninist (KPD/ML), the Communist Council of West Germany (KBW), and the Communist Council (KB)—had fifteen thousand to twenty thousand supporters nationwide. Far from pursuing a coordinated strategy, the C-groups were at war as much with one another as with the bourgeois state (Horchem 1977; Stoss 1984, 1562-1568, 1648-1851). For these groups, the rising antinuclear movement offered a new field of antisystem agitation and mobilization. Especially the KB, whose regional center was Hamburg, seized this opportunity. 29 Organizationally less restrictive than the other C-groups and more receptive to the antiauthoritarian impulse of the

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student protests, the KB became a dominating force in the Brokdorf conflict. A purge of the local union chapters had left the KB without a concrete field of activity, and so it was free to join in the antinuclear crusade. When the tide of antinuclear sentiment peaked after the first Brokdorf events, the KB was ready to capitalize on this. Skilled in organization building, it took control of the proliferating new BUU chapters, especially in Hamburg. The KB soon dominated BUU/Hamburg. Only the name B UU was similar to the rural chapters in Brokdorf or Wewelsfleth, where the organization had originated. Because the BUU/Hamburg comprised the largest number of activists and had considerable organizational assets, it soon obtained a leading role in the Brokdorf conflict. The picture was different in Bremen and Gottingen, where the socalled autonomous Left came to dominate the urban antinuclear groups emerging since November 1976. The autonomous Left was similarly influenced by the student movement but defied the rigid hierarchies and the dogmatism of the C-groups. In Bremen, the local KBW was crumbling when the Brokdorf conflict erupted: "The KBW was in decline, and many of its activists were fed up with the communist cadre principle. They looked for other political fields. To a certain degree, the BBA [Bremen Citizen Initiative Against Nuclear Power] was founded by those who were frustrated by the KBW. In Bremen, the decay of the KBW fueled the rise of the antinuclear movement." 30 In Gottingen, too, the autonomous Left prevailed in the antinuclear scene. A local activist explains: KB or K B W never played a major role in Gottingen. From the beginning, nonorganized activists dominated the Gottingen Committee Against Nuclear Power. Most of them were in their midtwenties and therefore too young to have been actively involved in the student movement. Many of them had been first politicized by the antinuclear movement. The Gottingen committee attracted those who wanted to become politically active but refused the organizational constraints of the C-groups. 3 1

Despite these organizational and ideological differences, the autonomous and the organized Left were equal in their antistatism. Both propagated the calculated use of violence. According to their philosophy, violence originated from the state, and counterviolence was the only effective means of resistance. Depicted here as the urban Left, both factions coalesced against the more moderate local citizen groups in the rural vicinity of nuclear plants. A court-ordered construction stop at Brokdorf in December 1976

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catalyzed the split between the urban Left and the moderate movement wing. The BUU, already infiltrated by the KB, refused to abandon the plan for yet another nationwide mass rally and site occupation attempt. As movement leader Jens Scheer, member of the Maoist KPD and also a physics professor at Bremen University, argued, "This court rule is a deceit. The judges belong to the ruling class, and the courts are part of the oppressive state apparatus."32 At the same time, the state government, supported by an all-party coalition and most local and national media, appealed to "the moderate forces" in the movement to "abstain" from a demonstration at Brokdorf.33 Satisfied with the court-ordered construction stop, the rural BUU chapters indeed were willing to give in and announced their intention to hold a parallel rally in the town of Itzehoe, far away from the construction site {Autonomic 1980, 7). The question "Itzehoe or Brokdorf?" symbolized a deep cleavage in the antinuclear movement. Strategically, it was the use of violence and ideologically it was the general posture toward the state and its institutions that divided the movement into two warring parts. Undeterred by the positive court rule and a demonstration ban ordered by the county authorities, the urban Left mobilized for a renewed site occupation at Brokdorf. Jens Scheer publicly vowed to "tear down the fence": "The escalation of violence originates not from us but from the state. Already the construction of nuclear plants is violence. Many citizens learn from Wyhl and Brokdorf that their real enemy is not a flawed energy policy or a dangerous technology but the state itself."34 Contrary to the fearful expectations of the media, politicians, and the public, the "assault on Brokdorf" did not occur.35 The hitherto biggest police levy in the FRG and internal movement precautions against "rabble-rousers" (Chaoten) kept the demonstration peaceful. The prevention of violence left a basis, however fragile, for joint mobilization efforts in the future. The schism between the radical and moderate movement wings could be temporarily covered.36 But as Minister President Stoltenberg interpreted the outcome, "In Brokdorf the state has won." 37 The battle that had failed to happen at Brokdorf occurred one month later at Grohnde, 150 miles south. As the demonstration call eagerly emphasized, Grohnde had also witnessed a Nacht und Nebel Aktion by state and industry.38 It mattered little that this one dated back almost ten months. The same groups and organizations that had radicalized the Brokdorf conflict picked Grohnde as the battleground for a renewed confrontation with the state.39 On March 19, 1977, a true "invasion

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from the north" swept the tiny village of Grohnde. 40 A movement chronicler has written laconically (Autonomic 1980, 7), "A demonstration did not occur. Instead, the activists immediately attacked the fence with the necessary tools." With "military precision" and "criminal energy," and the help of blowpipes and electric chainsaws, the militant attackers struck a huge hole into a monstrous steel fence that had been considered indestructible.41 Eight hundred police officers and demonstrators were injured in this ferocious battle—the worst political violence ever registered in the FRG. The CDU minister president of Lower Saxony, Ernst Albrecht, denounced the brutal violence of the "terrorists of Grohnde" and saw democracy at the brink of planned subversion.42 Grohnde became the first big defeat of the West German antinuclear movement (Gleiss and Wolf 1979, 127). Under the influence of the radical urban Left, the movement had visibly maneuvered itself into a fateful paramilitary confrontation with the state. Even eight years later, a friendly observer lamented that the movement "has never digested the blow that it received in Grohnde." 43 In the media and in public opinion, the opponents of nuclear power were increasingly drawn in a negative light. If the despairing peasant of Wyhl had been met with public sympathy, the loony radical of Brokdorf and Grohnde was considered a threat to democracy.44 Politicians of all parties conjured up the "solidarity of democrats" to resist "illegal attacks on the state order."45 The moderate movement wing, represented by the federal BBU, was urged to publicly dissociate itself from violent extremists. Intimidated rural citizen initiatives issued incompatibility resolutions to oust left-wing radicals. The external polarization between movement and state became mirrored in an internal movement schism between the urban Left and the local citizen groups. After Wyhl, the state had initiated a dialogue with the antinuclear movement. After Brokdorf, the state resorted to authoritarian measures of conflict containment. Minister Matthofer evoked the specter of Weimar and associated economic crisis, political instability, and antistatist agitation (Matthofer 1977a, 16): "If we don't overcome the economic crisis, our democratic state is endangered. We must be aware that communists of all shades abuse the nuclear power conflict for their subversive interests." Chancellor Schmidt practiced Prussian-style enlightened absolutism when he advised his unruly citizens that "in our society everyone may demonstrate, but no one must demolish."46 The prosecution of movement activists, police surveillance of suspected groups and

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individuals, and restrictions of individual rights were among the more drastic means to which the state now resorted (Schumacher 1978). The nervous state response must be seen in the broad context of the terrorism hysteria that contaminated the political climate at the time. The heyday of antinuclear mobilization, 1977, was also the zenith of politically motivated terror acts by the Red Army Faction. In the German Autumn (Deutscher Herbst), as this crisis period is remembered today, the precarious texture of the second German democracy was at risk, or so it seemed. The slightest political dissent assumed the odor of subversion. The statist elites moved closer and launched a furious hunt for alleged sympathizers of terrorism, particularly among intellectuals and critical writers (Zeller 1987). In the German Autumn, it became obvious that the young Bonn republic still lacked a stable democratic culture. In response to terrorist acts by a tiny group of political criminals, civil liberties were curtailed; a societywide, computerized network of police surveillance was installed; and a climate of repressive conformism prevailed. During the German Autumn, the smallest acts of dissent were easily criminalized and branded as terrorist assaults on the state order. The antinuclear movement perceived the tough state response as an attempt to criminalize its members and split its ranks. Since the Grohnde trials in 1978, in which harsh prison sentences were inflicted on several movement activists, criminalization and prosecution had become central themes of the movement. 47 A close observer explains, "From now on, the protest was directed against the Grohnde trials, not against the Grohnde nuclear plant; against the 'criminalization of antinuclear activists,' not against the radioactive pollution of the Weser valley. The specter of state power, but also the internal threat originating from our own militant friends, overshadowed the movement." 48 The external pressure provided incentives to increase the internal cohesion of the movement. As the statist elites moved closer, so did the movement. The apparent hostility of the state fostered myths of unified resistance. In the first round of antinuclear mobilization, the theme of the authoritarian state (Unrechtsstaat) was still addressed in conjunction with the nuclear program. At this point, a second conflict round opened up in which the confrontation between state and movement became direct and bare of any mediating link. As in a self-fulfilling prophecy, the radical movement wing in particular recognized that its initial imagery of the authoritarian state had become reality, a reality now turned against the movement itself. The new themes of criminalization and repression opened a symbolic terrain that was not all that unfamiliar.

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These themes only retroactively confirmed the antistatist discourse that had inspired the radical movement from the outset. Because the radical movement forces were most vulnerable to prosecution, they fostered the call for unity. The Bremen BBA (1978, 209) declared, "The repressive measures of the state foreshadow the coming of the authoritarian state [Unrechtsstaat]. We must resist this threat in unity, irrespective of internal disagreements over strategy and goals." The German Autumn culminated in a nationwide mass rally against the nearly completed fast-breeder reactor at Kalkar. Before the event, politicians and media had dramatized the "battle over Kalkar," which would pose a "threat to body and life." 49 But the battle over Kalkar did not occur. As the demonstration that never happened, it became a paralyzing experience for the movement. The German Autumn hit home. A giant police raid, which even surpassed the one at Brokdorf a few months earlier, dissolved the demonstration before it had even started. 50 The paramilitary state response became deeply ingrained in the memory of the movement. A movement leader explains, "At Kalkar, we ran into the machine guns of the state. The demonstration never occurred; it was already smashed in the forefield. The state used all means to demonstrate its power. We experienced a limit. It became clear that we could no longer confront the state in this form. A long period of resignation set in." 51 At Kalkar, the cycle of mobilization that had started at Brokdorf and had passed through the dubious stage of Grohnde came to an end. Under the dominance of the urban Left, the antinuclear movement had truly gained national significance, becoming the most visible social movement of the time. But it had to pay a heavy price. At Wyhl, the resort to direct action meant the ultima ratio of concerned citizens. At Brokdorf and Grohnde, the militant Left deprived this strategy of its symbolic dimension, using it instead as a physical weapon to attack the state. If the Left had entered the nuclear power controversy to end its isolation, the violent confrontation with the state brought even more isolation (Benedict 1977). Kalkar was the last national demonstration of the antinuclear movement for some years to come. It also was the last joint action by all movement factions. From now on, the strained movement unity dissolved. Because centralized forms of protest had met the firm response of the state, the trend was toward decentralization. Ultramilitant groups resorted to paraterrorist acts of sabotage {Autonomic 1980, 30—35). The

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moderate BBU also abandoned the strategy of centralized mass rallies, but in a different direction. The BBU noticed with dismay that under the dominance of the radical Left the antinuclear movement had lost its popular support basis. Small but effective groups of violent activists, protected by the anonymity of mass gatherings, had severely damaged the public image of the movement. The turn to decentralized, local forms of protest promised to keep violent activists in check. It also promised to renew the ties to the local population, which had almost dissolved. The BBU wanted to reinforce a strict commitment to nonviolence that tolerated illegal action only as disciplined civil disobedience. 52 After the traumatizing experience of Grohnde, Kalkar, and the German Autumn, the nonviolent current in the antinuclear movement grew stronger. The BBU in particular worked toward a shift in the movement's regional focus from Brokdorf—the symbol of the militant Left—to Gorleben. At Gorleben, the movement would recover its roots in the local population and regain lost legitimacy by renouncing the use of violence.

THE UNEASY ALLIANCE BETWEEN URBAN A N D RURAL PROTEST: GORLEBEN

"Flowers, no helmets"—this was the slogan of the first Gorleben demonstration in March 1977. 53 More than just a slogan, it outlined the program for a new beginning. Gorleben became synonymous with nonviolence, an emphasis on ecological alternatives, and the attempt to build a broad coalition between rural and urban constituencies. In early 1977, Gorleben was still in the shadow of the militant confrontations at Brokdorf and Grohnde. After the bleak German Autumn, Gorleben moved to center stage, symbolizing the need to escape the trap of antistatism, violence, and state repression. Once again, the antinuclear movement changed its face: a genuine people's movement at Wyhl, a radical left-wing movement at Brokdorf and Grohnde, an uneasy alliance between urban and rural protest constituencies at Gorleben. In contrast to Wyhl, a national movement network dominated by the urban Left already existed and had to be reckoned with. In contrast to Brokdorf, local citizen groups remained a strong and independent force anxious to prevent yet another violent battle with the state. The result was a fragile compromise among incompatible groups, based on a likewise fragile commitment to nonviolence. From the movement perspec-

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tive, the history of the Gorleben conflict may be read as the difficult— and ultimately vain—attempt to reconcile the antistatist Left with rural traditionalists and moderate forces. At Gorleben, the antinuclear movement received strong impulses from a growing ecology and alternative life-style movement (Renn 1985; Sieferle 1985). In the leftist scene, the German Autumn had discredited militant strategies of social change. The new trend was toward subcultural retreat, inwardness (Innerlichkeit), and the spontaneous mockery of the powers that be. The countryside, untouched by urban industrialism and bureaucratic statism, offered a niche where the desired Utopia could be realized here and now. In January 1978, twenty thousand youthful participants of the countercultural Tunix meeting in West Berlin declared their "departure from the Model Germany" to the "beaches of Tunix." 54 For many of them, the beaches of Tunix lay somewhat further northeast, in the region of Gorleben. Located in the most underdeveloped and remote corner of West Germany (but at the same time easily accessible from the urban island of West Berlin), Gorleben seemed the ideal refuge from the constraints of the metropoles—a place where the culture of resistance could be combined with alternative life-styles and ecological farming. At Gorleben, the negative protest slogan "Nuclear power—no thank you" gave way to the positive "Gorleben shall live." The Gorleben Citizen Group outlined the new direction in a widely circulated pamphlet: "We shall realize our important demand to save energy. We shall develop alternative technologies as well as societal alternatives. And we shall counter the radioactive job provision by the nuclear industry through creating employment opportunities ourselves—ecological, decentralized, and oriented to the needs of the local population." 55 This was a hard terrain for the ideological dogmatism of the C-groups or the militant actionism of the autonomous Left. It was a better terrain for groups such as the pacifist grass-roots network Gewaltfreie Aktion, which raised the principle of ecology to an ethical maxim and considered the defense of life incompatible with violence.56 In the late 1970s, Gorleben became the central stake in the West German nuclear power controversy, indicating a shift in emphasis from the issue of reactor siting to the problematic back end of the nuclear fuel cycle. Court rules and compromises in the political arena had made the licensing of new reactors contingent on the completion of a combined reprocessing and waste storage facility. Gorleben, the site of the project, became the crucial bottleneck of the entire nuclear program. If the

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movement succeeded in preventing this single project, the nuclear program would be in a shambles and with it the federal government's energy policy. Since the project's announcement in February 1 9 7 7 , the state and the nuclear industry had prepared for the expected "final battle at Gorleben." After the traumatic experience of Grohnde and Kalkar, the movement was eager to avoid this battle. The internal conflict between resident and nonresident, rural and urban protest groups shaped the Gorleben movement. At the first protest rally in March 1 9 7 7 , the local population was notably absent. In fact, the state government of Lower Saxony had chosen Gorleben not least because the conservatism and backwardness of the region made any local opposition unlikely. The county of Lüchow-Dannenberg, located in the far east corner of Lower Saxony, borders on the former East Germany. Through its geographical isolation, the region has been spared the hectic of modernization, leaving it the least densely populated region of the Federal Republic. The Gorleben Citizen Group faced the difficult task of mediating between the timid response of the local population and the national antinuclear movement, which rushed against this central project of state and industry. Most members of the group had an urban middle-class background, which distinguished them from the rural population. 5 7 The group was anxious to dissociate itself from left-wing radicals, who had damaged the public image of the movement. 58 Nevertheless, the initial reserve of the local population made cooperation with the national movement indispensable. Neither a genuine cross-section of the local population, as in Wyhl, nor a camouflage of the urban Left, as in Brokdorf, the Gorleben Citizen Group walked a thin and precarious line between opposite political worlds. Maybe this is why it became the single most influential citizen group in the West German antinuclear movement. 5 9 After the plant announcement, the county rapidly changed its political face. The initial coolness of the local population toward the Gorleben Citizen Group gave way to a solidarity in distance. By early 1 9 7 9 , a great majority had rejected the nuclear facility. The municipal councils of Gorleben and several neighboring villages had opposed the facility since its announcement, fearing that it would harm the local trade, tourism, and farming economy and destroy the unique landscape near the Elbe River. The county newspaper conjured up "industrial destruction like at Rhine and Ruhr, Main, and lower Elbe, along with noise, stress, and pollution." 6 0 Soon the whole county joined in the anti-industrialist chorus,

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which was reminiscent of the popular movement of Wyhl. Regionalist resentment against the political capitals of Hannover and Bonn arose— capitals that had forgotten to bring the prosperity of the Bonn republic to the remote Wendland region but now sent its lethal waste, assuming that peasants and denizens of the back woods would obey anyway. In early 1979, the initial site preparations incited the first open cooperation between the Gorleben Citizen Group and local farmers. Soon they devised a plan to hold a week-long march to Hannover. The march to Hannover was also supported by the urban Left, and so it became one of the rare demonstrations of movement unity.61 The march was smartly designed. The farmers figured as its authors, leading the procession in an impressive tractor parade. To underscore the nonviolent intention, participants were advised to carry flowers, "the symbol of life," and to turn Hannover into a "sea of flowers." 62 Even though everybody was invited to join, the farmers and county residents left no doubt that this was their procession. 63 The march to Hannover, held between March 25 and 31, 1979, became the single most spectacular demonstration in the history of the West German antinuclear movement and one of its greatest political successes. Entire village communities joined in the procession. When the march reached the county borders, the official county plate was covered by the sign "Free Republic of Wendland"—mocking affirmation of regionalist identity and announcing that a whole region had stood up in protest against the governments in Hannover and Bonn. 64 Fueled by the parallel nuclear accident at Three Mile Island on March 28, more than one hundred thousand people participated in the final demonstration in Hannover, the largest since the rearmament protests of the 1950s. Besides sinking in a sea of rain, Hannover had indeed been turned into a sea of flowers. A participant remembers, "It was like Carneval in Rio. A singing, clapping, and dancing mass of people" (Ehmke 1987, 52). Reflecting the distinct quality of the Gorleben protest, the demonstration remained peaceful. After the paralyzing experience of Grohnde and Kalkar, the antinuclear movement had a jubilant revival—not with helmets but with flowers. The enthusiastic participants felt that this event, like no event before, was a turning point in the struggle over nuclear power. It surely was, but not the decisive one the nuclear opposition had hoped for. Soon after the Hannover rally, in a dramatic speech televised live from the state parliament in Hannover, Minister President Ernst Albrecht declared the integrated waste treatment center at Gorleben "politically not feasible," and he announced that he would not license

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it. Albrecht abandoned the reprocessing facility (on which the protest movement had in fact concentrated), but he also declared his intention to pursue the final waste storage project. On paper, this was the greatest success of the antinuclear movement since Wyhl. Not only had the reprocessing facility been prevented; the nuclear policy of the federal government had received a severe blow—no end to the de facto moratorium on new reactor constructions was in sight. But Albrecht's decision was also a brilliant tactical move whose real implications would become clear only later on. By giving up the reprocessing facility, he appeased the major demand of the nuclear opposition and now was free to pursue the final waste disposal project with full effort—and probably less opposition. This is exactly what happened. Gorleben lost its strategic importance for the West German nuclear power program, parts of the opposition were calmed, and the government had the opportunity to tackle the nagging waste disposal problem. Even though the reprocessing facility had been canceled, the preparations for the final waste disposal facility started in fall 1979. The tensions between the rural and urban movement factions, which the march to Hannover had only temporarily covered, now openly erupted. In the long run, the different styles of the Gorleben Citizen Group and the urban Left were irreconcilable. The former appealed to politicians and the state and relied on legal tactics and the moral force of nonviolence. The latter had entirely broken with the state and its institutions and pleaded for militance. At the same time, the movement had to realize that after the cancellation of the reprocessing plant, popular support had faded. The farmers who had headed the march to Hannover now withdrew from the movement. In light of the withdrawal of public support and the joint isolation of the Gorleben Citizen Group and urban activists, grievances internal to the movement gained double weight. When some radical groups resorted to acts of sabotage on construction equipment and drilling holes, these internal grievances finally erupted. Wary of its public image, the Gorleben Citizen Group distanced itself from violence and property damage and threatened to cut off all contact with nonresident groups. At the so-called Trebel Meetings, where rural and urban constituencies regularly met to coordinate their strategies, a fierce battle broke out.65 The subject of this battle was not only a short-term disagreement over strategy and tactics but also the definition of the antinuclear movement: militant resistance movement or popular movement operating within a legal framework (Taz-Journal 1980, 39—64). As a result of the internal

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struggle over strategy and the withering of public support, the Gorleben movement suffered a remarkable breakdown. As a conservative voice notes maliciously, the disappointing absence of a rural base "proved that the movement was, like elsewhere, primarily a middle-class protest, not a peasant revolt."66 In this critical situation, the urban movement wing proposed a nationwide occupation of the last test-drilling site. The Gorleben Citizen Group at first rejected this proposal—it threatened to bring about the militant confrontation that the moderate forces had been trying to prevent. But the faltering protest called for a change of strategy, and so the group was willing to negotiate. The price for its support was a commitment to strict nonviolence. Now it became crucial that the nonviolent forces in the urban movement wing prevail over the militant Brokdorf groups, most notably the BUU/Hamburg and the Gottingen Committee. At a heated Trebel Meeting in early March 1980, all participants finally agreed on a nonviolent strategy.67 Promoted by Gewaltfreie Aktion, this strategy was explicitly modeled on the affinity group and consensus principles of the American direct-action movement.68 The occupation became a highly publicized spectacle that put Gorleben back on the national movement map. In early May 1980, five thousand activists occupied the test-drilling site, officially marked as "1004," and built a shantytown on a territory that was now declared the "Free Republic of Wendland" (Gorleben Dokumentation 1980). They met no police resistance and thus prepared for a long occupation. Over the next four weeks, a countercultural Utopia emerged on the occupied site, along with a vegetable garden, an alternative energy station, a "passport office," a radio station, and, surprisingly, a church. During its thirty-three days of existence, the Free Republic of Wendland attracted (mostly youthful) visitors from all over the Federal Republic—the "flying circus of antinuke activists," as a local CDU politician scoffed, not without justification (quoted in Rucht 1980, 139). From the first day on, one theme dominated the discussions on the occupied site: what to do in case of the expected police evacuation. 69 The state government showed remarkable reserve, but it also made clear that sooner or later the place would have to be evacuated.70 To be sure, the Gorleben Citizen Group had made its support contingent on a strict commitment to nonviolence and passive resistance, and this position prevailed among the groups holding the site. The long-awaited evacuation occurred in early June. While the occupiers were quietly waiting to be carried away by an army-strong police

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battalion, bulldozers moved on the site. 71 In less than two hours, the Free Republic was demolished, and the "short summer of anarchy" was brought to an end. 72 The passivity and discipline maintained by the occupiers during the police evacuation found a positive public echo. Within the movement, however, it was received as a disaster. When the state minister of the interior praised the "good cooperation" of the movement, even the proponents of nonviolence were struck by the impression that "something went wrong" (Halbach and Panzer 1980, 175—176). The left-wing daily Die Tageszeitung ridiculed the "squeezing social partnership" practiced during the evacuation. 73 The strategy of nonviolence suffered a severe crisis. Its militant critics pointed out that local residents, the primary addressee of nonviolence, had stayed away during both occupation and evacuation. 74 The obvious failure to build a rural-urban coalition weakened the moderate movement wing and strengthened the radical groups that preached militant actions against nuclear facilities and refused to "leer at the incapacitating consent of the public" (Taz-Journal 1980, 43). The end of the Free Republic of Wendland also finished the last chapter of nonviolence in the history of the West German antinuclear movement. The coalition between urban and rural movement groups at Gorleben was an uneasy one, and it succeeded only partially. Nevertheless, the very attempt to build this alliance helped the antinuclear movement escape, at least for a brief period, from the impasse of militancy and repression reached in the German Autumn. The regional shift in the nuclear power controversy from Brokdorf to Gorleben indeed changed the face of the movement. The movement no longer provoked the direct and isolated confrontation with the state. Instead, it regained lost legitimacy by moderating its strategy and reaching out to rural constituencies. Under the regional hegemony of Gorleben, the nonviolent forces in the movement pushed the militant groups, which had dominated in Brokdorf and Grohnde, into the background. Instead of reveling in violent negation, the Gorleben protest looked for constructive alternatives. "Gorleben shall live"—this meant a multitude of experiments in alternative energy technologies, biological farming, producer cooperatives, and alternative life-styles. Many movement tourists became permanent residents in the area and built up a lasting infrastructure of alternative stores, pubs, theaters, and communication centers. A local activist (who now represents the Green Party in the state parliament of Lower Saxony) vividly describes the aura of Gorleben:

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In the late 1970s, Gorleben was the center of the alternative universe. If you wanted to be politically active, you did it in Gorleben. In the Berlin scene, if you said you will spend the weekend in the "county" [Landkreis], it was clear that you meant Gorleben. Good to know people there. Even better to have a condo there. And best to move there for good. So big was the mystique.75

But the Free Republic of Wendland was also a colonized land that suffered from the incapacity of the modernizing center to find societal acceptance for its technology and energy policies. An army of two thousand police officers was permanently stationed in the region. This is an impressive number in light of a total population of only forty-eight thousand and one of the lowest crime rates in the FRG. Even in this remote region, the coercive state was omnipresent. The Wendland was occupied territory. Only against this oppressive backdrop can the sometimes playful, but mostly desperate regionalism of the Free Republic really be understood. 76 In a letter to the editor of the local daily, a Gorleben resident expressed his pain (quoted in Rucht 1980, 148): "At daybreak, police were in front of my house. In the morning, escorted construction vehicles appeared. Now it is midnight, and still you can hear the noise of the drilling machines in the nearby forest. Vehicles move in the darkness. I cannot sleep. I want to complain, but to whom? The peace of the land is broken."

INSTITUTIONAL DIFFUSION From the perspective of the antinuclear movement, the West German state appeared as a coercive apparatus, a monolithic opponent rather than a source of opportunities. The internal divisions over the question of violence notwithstanding, all movement factions, moderate or radical, found themselves initially excluded from the institutional body politic. The all-party evocation of the solidarity of democrats to counter the challenge by violent extremists betrayed more than a tinge of the authoritarian statism of the past. 77 But behind the stern facade, the cause of the antinuclear movement diffused widely into the political system. In William Gamson's terms, the movement itself failed to be "accepted" as a legitimate player, but many of its goals were "preempted" by institutional actors (Gamson 1975, 29). Compared to the more pluralist configuration in the United States, the German political process tends to firmly institutionalize particular group elements. This increases the entry costs for new interests and issues, but entry does occur. 78 After all, the protest cycle from Wyhl to

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Gorleben rode on the crest of a general acceptance crisis. In 1975, for example, 60 percent of the West German public had favored the construction of more nuclear plants, and only 16 percent had been against it (Kiersch and Oppeln 1983, 74). By early 1977, in the heat of the Brokdorf conflict, the rate of opposition was up to 43 percent.79 The broad societal acceptance of nuclear power had vanished. The institutional diffusion of nuclear-critical positions occurred in three major directions, all of which are rooted in structural features of the West German polity. First, and most spectacularly, the electoral system based on proportional representation provided the West German antinuclear movement with an opportunity that remained foreclosed to the U.S. movement: to build its own political party. Second, the withering of nuclear consensus in the ruling SPD activated the fragmentation of powers in a constitutional and federal state. Even more than in the United States, where the impact of the judiciary on nuclear development remained marginal, the administrative courts emerged as independent and unpredictable key players undermining the pronuclear course of the federal government. The division of regulatory authority between the federal and state levels brought indecision in nuclear waste policy, which became the central bottleneck of the nuclear program. Third, the German neocorporatist consensus machinery sought to formally include a moderately antinuclear position into the policy process. This strengthened the previously underdeveloped expert wing of the movement.

PARTY FORMATION

The majority voting system in the United States forecloses the viability of third-party movements.80 The West German proportional voting system, by contrast, which sets a 5 percent threshold for parliamentary representation, permits the existence of small minority parties.81 The impasse of violence in the German Autumn and the persistent all-party support for nuclear power incited some movement factions to enter the electoral arena on independent voting lists. The outcome was the Green Party.82 Green and Alternative Lists. The original impulse to enter the electoral arena came from moderate to conservative sections of the antinuclear movement. They wanted to free the issue from the delegitimizing context of violence and antistatism and relocate the nuclear debate from the streets into the parliaments. In spring 1977, shortly after the violent Grohnde demonstration, rural activists on the fringe of the antinuclear

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movement formed the first Green List in Lower Saxony (GLU) (Hallensleben 1984; Klotzsch and Stoss 1984). The GLU, which had a decidedly conservative outlook, demanded an instant nuclear moratorium and rigorous measures of environmental protection but abstained from any further-reaching demands for political or social transformation (Peters 1979, 286). There was, however, a competing circle of party builders whose goal was not to dispense with the movement but to strengthen it. The chilly German autumn incited the urban protest scene to overcome fragmentation and unite on a broad platform that also included gender, minority, and other social issues. In this case, not the conservative movement fringe, but the radical movement core was the driving force. The radical Colored or Alternative Lists thrived in urban areas and city-states such as Hamburg and Berlin. The Rainbow Slate Hamburg (BLW) emerged directly from the KB-dominated BUU—the radical antinuclear groups that opposed the Brokdorf p b n t . But BLW also included 190 urban citizen initiatives working on broad social issues such as gay rights, renters' protection, women's rights, and prison reform. 83 Although the Green and Alternative Lists were both rooted in the antinuclear movement, they were evidently two different projects. The Greens advocated a single-issue alternative within the conventional party system. 84 The Alternatives understood themselves to be a protective shield for the extraparliamentary movements of the time and propagated broad visions of social change. When they competed against each other, the 5 percent hurdle prevented both from entering the parliaments (Schiitze 1978; Pridham 1978). For tactical reasons, the Green and Alternative Lists coalesced into the Green Party (Murphy and Roth 1987). Building the Green Party. Because the Alternative Lists were slow to abandon their hostility to the conventional political process, conservative ecologists seized the initiative in building the national Green Party. 85 In the European elections of 1979, the conservative Greens, the direct organizational precursor of the Green Party, were supported by the federal BBU. Opposition to nuclear power was their main campaign motif, and four of the six top nominations went to moderate antinuclear activists. The Greens received an astonishing 3 percent of the national vote, plus a huge financial campaign compensation. This forced the leftwing Alternative Lists to abandon their reserve. In Hamburg, a large block of the Maoist KB, the so-called Z-faction, went over to the Greens.

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The battle over the ideological profile of the national Green Party was on. The dispute between conservative and radical ecologists focused on the question of double membership. The conservative ecologists wanted to exclude communist cadre groups and demanded that members of the Green Party not be allowed parallel membership in other political organizations. This incompatibility clause contradicted the Alternative claim to be a clearinghouse for the new social movements.86 Most importantly, because many Alternatives were members of Maoist cadre groups, a ban on dual membership would have forced them to either leave these groups or not join the new party. At the chaotic party founding congress in Karlsruhe in January 1980, the radical ecologists finally prevailed (Schrören 1990, 23—131). When the Green Party took off, the Alternative Lists were aboard. After all, they had the backing of the social movements of the time. From now on, the conservative ecologists were on the retreat. At the program conference in Saarbrücken in March 1980, the Center-Left seized the leadership of the party. Instead of the single-issue orientation favored by the conservatives, the party adopted a broad program that included labor, foreign policy, minority, and gender issues (Green Party 1980). The Green Party became a left-wing party that combined ecological with broader social issues. The party emphasized its ties to the social movements of the time and claimed to be the central opposition to the dominant Model Germany.87 A leading left-wing member of the Greens (and ex-Brokdorf activist) comments on the defeat of the conservatives: "We prevailed with the assumption that in the Social Democratic era under Chancellor Helmut Schmidt only a left-ecological orientation of the new party made sense. 'Blood and soil' ecology was doomed to fail. But ecology combined with anticapitalism had a political chance. Because the SPD in power had ruined itself, a big vacuum existed on the left side of the political spectrum. This was our chance, and we seized it." 8 8 Movement and Party. The antinuclear movement paved the way for the Green Party. But the relationship between party and movement was ambiguous from the start. On the one hand, the party protected the movement from within the political system. On the other hand, the party undermined the movement's raison d'être by carrying the nuclear issue into the parliaments. Moreover, the Greens became a clearinghouse for the larger new social movement sector. The broadening of the party agenda removed the nuclear energy issue from center stage. The response by the antinuclear movement to the Green Party was ac-

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cordingly mixed, oscillating among full support, skeptical distance, and open rejection (Kitschelt 1989, 230). The moderate movement wing, based on the local citizen initiatives and their federal umbrella, the BBU, cautiously welcomed the new party. The BBU had itself considered entering the electoral arena since 1977. 8 9 In 1979, a leading BBU member became the top candidate of the European Green List. Programmatically, the BBU shared the Green Party's emphasis on combining the ecology with broader social issues. Moreover, its strict insistence on nonviolence made the BBU a natural ally of the Greens. But the Green Party also threatened the organizational survival of the BBU. In the feverish foundation phase of the Greens, many citizen initiatives reorganized themselves as local chapters of the Green Party. 90 In response, the BBU underlined its party neutrality and henceforth rejected support of the Greens in electoral contests. The BBU no longer allowed its executive leadership to run for political office. 91 In view of the party founding congress in Karlsruhe, BBU leader J o Leinen emphasized the autonomy of the ecology movement and called for renewed extraparliamentary grass-roots activism. 92 The relationship between the radical movement wing and the Green Party was less ambivalent. The militant Left outrightly rejected the Greens. As the Gottingen Committee Against Nuclear Power put it bluntly, "Electoral participation weakens practical resistance." 93 Above all, political participation meant accepting the rules of the political process, and this was out of the question for the radical movement groups. Because the latter opposed the state, they could not accept its rules. The question of violence lastingly separated the radical movement wing from the Green Party, which held firmly to the principle of strict nonviolence (Green Party 1980, 4). By contrast, the radical movement groups propagated the calculated use of violence and thus had to consider the rise of the Green Party as "at least a step back." 9 4 Far from institutionalizing the antinuclear movement, the formation of the Green Party only increased the spectrum of actors that opposed nuclear power.

THE WITHERING OF THE NUCLEAR ELITE CONSENSUS

Peter Katzenstein ( 1 9 8 7 , 3 6 1 ) has aptly characterized the structural configuration of West German politics as "decentralized state" and "centralized society." The centralized society, dominated by economic peak associations, helped reinforce the dominant growth consensus and shielded the political system with a neocorporatist layer that proved impenetrable

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for the antinuclear movement. The decentralized state, however, became the institutional inlet for a severe assault on the nuclear program (Beyme 1985, 13). But the driving force of this assault was not so much the antinuclear movement itself as the increasing dissension among institutional actors over nuclear policy. 95 Internal conflicts in the ruling SPD became the key factor in undermining the cohesion of the state in nuclear policy. In response to the withering of nuclear consensus in the political arena, the administrative courts emerged as independent players. Indecisions over nuclear waste policy finally cemented what amounted to an institutional blockade of the nuclear program. 9 6 Comrade Option: The SPD and Nuclear Power. In contrast to the United States, where political parties have historically been loose platforms for spoils and patronage (Shefter 1978), West German political parties are endowed with the constitutional mandate to mediate between state and society. 97 As the notion of party state (Parteienstaat) indicates, West German parties have the broad functions of providing political education, setting the goals of political development, and occupying the commanding heights of public authority (Dyson 1982a, 90—91). More than in the United States, civil society in West Germany is first and foremost a territory of party competition. On these premises, political parties had to play a crucial role in the West German nuclear debate. Their initial failure to articulate mounting citizen concerns fueled the rise of the antinuclear movement (MeyerRenschhausen 1977, 121). After the conflict escalation at Brokdorf, however, strategic retreat was no longer possible. The conservative CDU and its Bavarian affiliate, the Christian Social Union (CSU), remained staunchly pronuclear. But sizable sections of the ruling SPD and of the FDP went over to attack the nuclear consensus in party and government (Fach and Simonis 1987, ch. 5; Häusler 1988, ch. 4). The nuclear issue proved divisive for the SPD in two regards. First, the SPD in government was the chief promoter of the same technology that a growing ecological segment at the local party basis came to reject. Second, the SPD became internally divided between ecologists and the influential labor faction, the traditional stronghold of the party (Braunthal 1983). In 1977, several SPD state organizations demanded a formal nuclear moratorium because of the unresolved waste question. 98 Erhard Eppler, the SPD chief of Baden-Württemberg, emerged as the leader of the moratorium proponents, calling for an alternative energy policy based on rigorous conservation. 99 The spectacular intervention of the

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trade unions eventually strengthened the pronuclear federal government under Chancellor Schmidt and muted the rebellious party basis. Shortly before a crucial party vote on the moratorium proposal in December 1977, forty thousand trade unionists participated in a demonstration "For Coal and Nuclear Power" in Dortmund. 1 0 0 Pushed by the coal mining and nuclear construction union IG Bergbau und Energie, the Federal Trade Union Council (DGB) clarified that on its list of priorities, growth and jobs ranked before environmental protection (Hallerbach 1978; Siegmann 1985). 101 Under the pressure of organized labor, the SPD had to abandon the moratorium goal. But the party would not fully support the nuclear option either. The result was the paradoxical two-option compromise, which should reconcile the warring party factions. What conservative critics sarcastically called "Comrade Option" temporarily appeased the nuclear critics by reinstating the priority of coal and conservation. But Comrade Option also clarified that nuclear power remained a "residual energy source" that could not be dispensed with. 102 In the long run, however, the inconclusive wavering of the SPD could not satisfy any of the contestants in the nuclear debate. 103 On the one hand, the nuclear industry lamented the lack of sufficient political support. 104 On the other hand, the refusal to pass a formal moratorium caused massive party defections, which fueled the rise of the Green Lists. 105 Most importantly, the loss of leadership by the "dominant state party" (Fach and Simonis 1987) undermined the unity of the state apparatus in nuclear policy. The Role of the Administrative Courts. The withering of nuclear consensus in the political arena created a decision gap that had to be filled. In 1977, the year of mass demonstrations and internal struggles in the SPD and the FDP, the administrative courts stepped in and revoked the construction licenses of the Brokdorf, Wyhl, Grohnde, and Kalkar plants (Albers 1980). How could this happen? In the post-Nazi legal system, the administrative courts are charged with protecting citizens from arbitrary state action (Ortzen 1981). With regard to nuclear policy, administrative courts control the licensing decisions of the state ministries. Contrary to the Anglo-American commonlaw tradition, which sees the court as battleground of opposite civic interests, the continental Roman law tradition ascribes to the court the function of casuistically applying the appropriate legal rules to the case under consideration. This minimizes possible citizen input. Accordingly,

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the German courts could not become the focus of a legal movement culture, as occurred in the United States. But their political independence made the administrative courts a formidable player in the nuclear debate. The Atomic Energy Act of 1959 mandated that a construction license could be issued only if "according to the best knowledge of science and technology all necessary precautions against damages from the construction and operation of the respective facility have been taken" (German Bundesregierung 1976, 106). An "indeterminate legal term" (unbestimmter Rechtsbegriff), the exact meaning of "according to the best knowledge" had to be determined in each case. In the era of nuclear consensus, the courts took for granted that the licensing authorities used this interpretative freedom in the public interest. In the era of dissent, the very definition of public interest became contested. As a result, the courts resorted to the original purpose of the Atomic Energy Act—to protect the individual from damages—and opted in dubio pro safety. In their attempt to fill the indeterminate legal term with meaning, the courts inevitably became involved in the meticulous examination of difficult technical detail, an activity far beyond their normal function of controlling procedures. For instance, in March 1977 the Administrative Court of Freiburg terminally withdrew the construction license of the Wyhl nuclear plant because it found the reactor containment insufficient. According to the court opinion, "The danger of a bursting reactor containment has to be reduced to zero." 106 The court-ordered construction stop at Brokdorf had even more farreaching implications. In December 1976, in the wake of the first tumultuous mass rallies, the Administrative Court of Schleswig ordered a temporary construction halt because no final decision in the pending citizen suit had been made. The court argued that the contradicting declarations of politicians did not warrant the conclusion that the immediate start of construction envisaged by the state government was in the public interest. 107 How could the court define the public interest if the consensus in the political arena was gone? In February 1977, the same court upheld the construction ban on the Brokdorf plant, this time with reference to the unresolved problem of nuclear waste disposal. This decision, which was followed by several other courts, temporarily stopped all new nuclear constructions. The two cases demonstrate that the administrative courts adopted a genuinely political role in the West German nuclear debate. The confusion in the political arena turned the courts from a scrutinizing into a

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decision-making body. As an angry commentator noted in 1979, "Today it is judges who decide if a nuclear power plant can be built or not." 108 Indecision Over Nuclear Waste. As in the United States, Germany has a federally fragmented polity. But in contrast to the United States, the German federal government has very limited implementation capacities, and mostly relies on the state bureaucracies to administer its programs. As the indecision over nuclear waste exemplifies, "cooperative federalism" (Katzenstein 1987) easily turns into obstructive federalism. While the federal government is legally responsible for the final storage of highlevel nuclear waste, the licensing authority rests with the states. In the era of nuclear dissent, the CDU government of Lower Saxony—the only state geologically suitable to bury nuclear waste—refused to shoulder the political costs of the SPD/FDP federal government's failing energy policy. Lower Saxony's refusal to license an urgently needed waste facility effected an institutional blockade of the West German nuclear program. In the first twenty years of nuclear development, the waste problem had been grossly neglected. In September 1976, an amendment to the Atomic Energy Act finally specified the handling of nuclear waste (Scharnhoop 1977, 322—325). It mandated the combination of intermediate waste storage, plutonium reprocessing, and final waste burial in an integrated fuel cycle center. The combination of reprocessing and waste treatment, for which the Germans invented the euphemistic term Entsorgung (unburdening), anticipated the second round of nuclear development, whose core would be the plutonium-fed fast-breeder reactor. The amendment made the federal government responsible for the installation and operation of the final waste repository, while the nuclear utilities were charged with the task of reprocessing. 109 To put more pressure on the utilities, the amendment also tied the issuance of new nuclear construction licenses to the prior solution of the waste problem—a move whose dramatic impact could not be foreseen at the time. The court-ordered hault in construction at Brokdorf, Chancellor Schmidt's following concession to license new plants only if Entsorgung was adequately guaranteed, and the party debate over a formal moratorium suddenly pushed the problem of waste disposal to center stage (Schmidt-Kiister and Popp 1977). From this point on, the federal government urged Lower Saxony to offer a site for the dearly needed fuel cycle center. Scared by the Brokdorf protests in the neighboring state of Schleswig-Holstein, Minister President Ernst Albrecht refused a quick

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decision. After all, the federal government had recognized the waste problem too late and then had relentlessly pursued the highly contested concept of integrated reprocessing and waste disposal (which most other countries had already abandoned because of political and technical problems). Moreover, the SPD was itself divided over the issue, and, ultimately, the CDU government of Lower Saxony was to carry the costs of Bonn's failed energy policy, and grapple with a nasty opposition movement. The state government had every reason to act cautiously and to accommodate citizen concerns as far as possible. In a unique concession to the antinuclear movement, Albrecht accepted the proposal to have the plant application reviewed by an independent expert commission. In fall 1978, a group of twenty internationally acclaimed nuclear critics, most of them from the United States, temporarily settled in the state capital of Hannover to examine the safety-related aspects of the project. What became known as the Gorleben International Review (GIR) was a new phenomenon in the West German nuclear controversy. For the first time, nuclear critics had an official and a highly publicized voice in a plant licensing procedure. No Nacht und Nebel action of the state would stir public discontent and give radical leftists an excuse to provoke a violent confrontation. In spring 1979, the so-called battle over Gorleben reached a dramatic peak. 110 In late March, the state government hosted a public hearing in Hannover at which the GIR recommended not to license the waste facility for technical and political reasons (Hatzfeld, Hirsch, and Kollert 1979). The parallel occurrence of Three Mile Island and the march to Hannover supported the cause of the nuclear expert critics. This was not the atmosphere to license what would have been one of the largest industrial facilities in the world and one tainted by a singular risk profile. Two weeks after the Gorleben hearing, Albrecht announced that he would not license the integrated waste facility. While he argued (against the critical experts of the GIR) that technically the plant proposal was feasible, he also argued that politically it was not: "The state government refuses to build a reprocessing facility, because broad sections of the population cannot be convinced of its necessity and safety" (quoted in Hatzfeld, Hirsch, and Kollert 1979, 191). Albrecht maliciously added that one could not expect citizens to accept the facility if "those who are politically responsible disagree on the issue." "Exactly this is the case today," Albrecht continued, "renowned politicians and state and local organizations of SPD and FDP have spoken out against the nuclear facility. Others even reject nuclear power entirely. It is an urgent political

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task to clear this confusion." The West German nuclear program came to a temporary halt—not with a bang, as the impetuous movement would have had it, but with a whimper. D I S C U R S I V E GAINS

As late as 1977, two scientists of the Jülich Nuclear Research Center could respond with a rather complacent no when asked if there was a scientific nuclear controversy (Miinch and Borsch 1977). With regard to the United States, this was certainly whistling in the dark. With regard to West Germany, this was not quite so because here the expert critique of nuclear power was slow in coming indeed. As one of the earliest critical books on nuclear power testifies (Strohm 1973), most of the technical arguments were imported from the United States. Whereas scientists had been in the forefront of the American antinuclear movement, they remained marginal in the West German movement. German nuclear research was insulated from the university system in the federal laboratories at Jülich and Karlsruhe. Seclusion minimized the chance that a culture of expert dissent could emerge, such as the MIT-based Union of Concerned Scientists. 111 Moreover, the adversarial judicial style of American risk management fostered the politicization of science from early on. By contrast, the consensual, behind-closed-doors style of German risk management largely kept scientific expertise from the public scene (Brickman, Jasanoff, and Ilgen 1982, part 3; Lave and Menkes 1985; Jasanoff 1986, 1990). The first pockets of expert criticism emerged at the Universities of Bremen, Heidelberg, and Freiburg, mostly based on the initiative of physics students. 112 As in the case of Jens Scheer, physics professor at Bremen University and a pioneer of German nuclear expert criticism, many of these early expert critics faced severe harassments by public authorities (Barthel et al. 1979, 205-219). 1 1 3 In 1977, fifteen hundred critical scientists and citizens founded the Institute for Ecology (EcoInstitute) at Freiburg, which soon became the leading antinuclear expert institution in the Federal Republic. Modeled on UCS, the Eco-Institute sought to "objectify" (versachlichen) the nuclear debate and to provide the local citizen initiatives with expert support in legal proceedings. 114 The first major project of the Eco-Institute set a landmark in the West German nuclear debate (Krause, Bossel, and Miiller-Reissmann 1980). Previously, the discourses of nuclear opponents and proponents, symbolized by the ecology versus economy dichotomy, had been incompat-

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ible. Opponents argued that nuclear power was unacceptable because of high risk, while proponents argued that nuclear power was indispensable for economic growth and energy independence. The new strategy of the Eco-Institute was to demonstrate that beyond the problem of high risk, there was also no need for nuclear power. In this way, the institute entered the economic cost-benefit discourse of the nuclear proponents. Inspired by arguments put forward by Barry Commoner (1976) and Amory Lovins (1977b) in the United States, the Eco-Institute demonstrated in a technical-fix scenario that "growth and welfare" were possible "without petrol and uranium," if energy policy moved toward conservation (Krause, Bossel, and Müller-Reissmann 1980). This surprising discursive move severely shook the nuclear establishment. The opponents of nuclear energy could no longer be easily dismissed as modern Luddites or crazy leftists (Wagner 1989, 21—24). The Jülich Nuclear Research Center felt obliged to respond promptly, charging the EcoInstitute with wrong calculations. 115 In the discursive competition between alternative energy scenarios, the polarized fronts in the West German nuclear energy debate began to crumble. The pragmatic opening of the antinuclear discourse was accompanied by a parallel attempt by the federal government to restore consensus in energy policy. As Kenneth Dyson (1982b) argues, the "search for a rationalist consensus" is constitutive for the German policy style. 116 The ruling Social Democrats had always tried to neutralize citizen concerns by engaging "representatives of a certain critical position" (Matthöfer 1977b, 4) into a fictitious dialogue. 117 Fueled by the intraparty controversy, the search for consensus switched to high gear with the 1979 parliamentary Enquete Commission on Future Nuclear Energy Policy.118 The commission included members of all parliamentary parties and a select group of pro- and antinuclear experts. 119 Its task was to develop rational decision-making criteria in the energy field, to explore the broad implications of alternative energy scenarios, and to work out practical recommendations for the Bundestag. The "fair and rational mediation between the different standpoints" (German Bundestag 1980, 194) was to overcome the polarization in the energy debate. The Enquete Commission was a unique enterprise. For the first time, nuclear proponents and opponents jointly searched for a rational procedure by which not only the narrow economic costs and benefits but also the broad societal implications of different energy systems could be assessed. The final report abstained from a clear recommendation for or against nuclear power. But it demonstrated that abandoning nuclear

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power would not impair economic growth and high living standards and even offered advantages with regard to the criterion of social compatibility (Sozialvertraglichkeit). 120 This was the first official confirmation that a future without nuclear power was a feasible policy option, and it boosted the legitimacy of the critical experts around the EcoInstitute. With the Enquete Commission, a moderately antinuclear expert stand attained a recognized status in the policy process. From now on, all major technology assessment projects and nuclear policy evaluations followed the principle of parallel opinion (Parallelgutachten). This principle required that parallel to the pronuclear expert opinion a critical voice was to be heard in the policy process. The principle of parallel opinion amounted to a de facto institutionalization of nuclear criticism. As in the government-commissioned risk studies on the light-water and fastbreeder reactors and in the evaluation of alternative waste disposal concepts, the Federal Ministry of Research and Technology funded parallel studies by nuclear-critical institutes, such as the Eco-Institute (MiillerBrandeck 1986, 1988; Paschen et al. 1987). What some critics denounced as an alibi effort to shield the still-pronuclear policy of the federal government inadvertently strengthened the expert wing of the antinuclear movement. As we have seen, the West German antinuclear movement had emerged in the context of a closed polity. But closure gradually gave way to limited openness. Although the closed polity explains the initial resort to direct action, it cannot explain the entire movement trajectory, especially the later movement phases. We have seen that a chain of decisive encounters with the state and internal conflicts over the use of violence shaped the movement course after the energy crisis. Institutional diffusion did occur, but this had little impact on the antistatist forces in the antinuclear movement. How strongly the latter influenced the entire movement agenda is indicated by the debate about violence that would not die. The violence question lingered even in absentia, and no movement group could escape its destructive spell.

C H A P T E R SIX

Three Mile Island and the Decline of Nuclear Power in the United States

Many observers, especially European ones (Kitschelt 1990; Mayer 1991), have noted the short life cycle of social movements in the United States and their inability to stabilize as challengers of a political system that proves remarkably resistant to structural changes. In his brilliant comparison of political modernization in Europe and America, Samuel Huntington elaborates the static quality of the American political system. " T h e United States," writes Huntington (1968, 129), "combines the world's most modern society with one of the world's more antique polities." The early advent of general suffrage and the absence of deep social cleavages prevented the rationalization of authority and the differentiation of functions that characterized the modern nation-states of Europe. The American "Tudor polity" (Huntington), marked by a multiplicity of independent institutions without a sovereign center, erects low thresholds for participation and offers many points of societal access to political power. Social movements in America are forever caught by the centripetal force of a fragmented political system that easily absorbs and articulates, yet also neutralizes and stalemates, new claims and interests. The antinuclear movement proved no exception to the pattern of rather short-lived movements that are easily integrated into the established polity. Specific contextual factors supported the neutralizing impact of responsive political structures on the movement. The accident at Three Mile Island had a paradoxical effect in this regard. On the one hand, T M I turned the American public antinuclear 133

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and brought an all-time mobilization peak for the movement. On the other hand, TMI cemented the largely self-inflicted economic decline of the industry and thus removed the urgency of the nuclear energy issue, making any sustained mobilization appear redundant—at least in the view of many activists and movement organizations. The shift in public issue-attention from energy to weapons in the early 1980s then fueled the decline of the antinuclear energy movement. Ironically, some movement segments, especially in the direct-action branch, had tried from early on to embrace the weapons issue. But despite partial overlaps, the new antinuclear disarmament movement built on a different organizational infrastructure and even avoided any close association with the more divisive energy issue. Competition in the social movement sector curtailed the space and the resources available for the nuclear energy opposition. This competition was especially tough because of the close symbolic and institutional linkages between nuclear energy and nuclear weapons in the United States. Safe energy became the residual niche for the scattered remains of the antinuclear energy movement. Even though the "energy decade" was over (Levine and Craig, 1985), local pockets of opposition to particular nuclear facilities persisted throughout the 1980s. The localization of nuclear protest occurred in the shadow of the eminent social struggles of the time. But the loss of drama and cohesion did not entail a loss of effectiveness. On the contrary, the public acceptance crisis after TMI fully unleashed the tendency toward decentralized control in nuclear policy. Government institutions at the local and state levels emerged as new allies of citizen groups in conflicts over emergency planning, utility rate regulation, and nuclear waste management—the three key issues of U.S. nuclear power struggles in the 1980s. As James Madison planned, the conflict became internalized within the federal system.

THE IMPACT OF THREE MILE ISLAND The accident at TMI, which has been sufficiently analyzed elsewhere (Sills et al. 1984; Perrow 1984, 1 5 - 3 1 ; Kasperson and Gray 1982; Nelkin 198Id), marked a significant turning point in the U.S. nuclear controversy. As the ex-NRC commissioner Victor Gilinsky admits, TMI shifted the burden of proof, which so far had rested with the nuclear opposition, to the industry and its regulators (Gilinsky 1980, 18). For the first time, the catastrophic potential of nuclear power proved to be more than the fantastic obsession of irrational middle-class zealots, as

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nuclear proponents had previously denounced the antinuclear movement (e.g., Stoler 1978). The risks were real, amplified by the news headlines, and plainly visible for the general public. According to Alvin Weinberg (1976, 19), public perception and acceptance had always posed "the most critical question concerning the future of nuclear energy." After TMI, the nuclear industry suffered what the New York Times called a "credibility meltdown," from which it would never really recover.1 T H E IMPACT ON T H E INDUSTRY

As James Jasper (1990a, ch. 11) and John Campbell (1988, ch. 5) demonstrate in their good analyses of the economic decline of U.S. nuclear power, TMI only cemented trends well under way. In March 1979, seventy operating nuclear power plants generated 13 percent of the nation's electricity; ninety-two reactors worth $50 billion in investments were in various stages of construction (Bupp 1979, 23). Since 1974, the rate of new plant orders had declined dramatically, and in 1978 it was down to zero. Before TMI, the combination of skyrocketing capital costs and declining demand for electricity had frozen the future of the nuclear industry. Between 1971 and 1978, nuclear capital costs increased by 142 percent, twice as much as the capital costs for coal plants (Komanoff 1981, 2). According to Charles Komanoff's seminal analysis, the total generating costs of future nuclear power plants would exceed those of coal plants by a margin of 35 to 50 percent. As a result, "many reactors under construction could be scrapped in favor of new coal-fired plants with advanced emission controls with little or no economic penalty" (p. 5). The causes of skyrocketing capital costs are manifold. Their attribution is itself a contested stake in the struggle over nuclear energy. Nuclear critics point at bad utility management, an odd system of almost simultaneous design and construction (called "fast tracking"), the lack of incentives for constructors and workers to hold down costs, and the hasty commercialization of nuclear technology.2 Nuclear supporters blame government regulators and the antinuclear movement for causing cost increases by lengthening the licensing process and imposing unpredictable rules to retrofit and backfit already existing plant designs. With the factors of high inflation and soaring interest rates, nuclear capital cost increases must probably be attributed to a mix of all these causes.3 Moreover, after the first energy crisis the annual growth of electricity

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demand plummeted from the postwar average of 7 percent to just 2 percent. Because of record orders of new nuclear and coal plants in 1973 and 1974, utilities were stuck with costly projects for which no demand existed. Even though the economic decline of the nuclear power sector had been looming since the mid-1970s, Three Mile Island reinforced the trend by tightening regulatory controls and, more importantly, by driving investors away from nuclear utilities. The cleanup costs for the damaged TMI reactor were estimated at $1 billion. Because insurance totaled only $300 million, General Public Utilities, the reactor's owner, faced bankruptcy. This sent shock waves through Wall Street. As N R C commissioner John Ahearne later reflected on the financial effect of the accident, "Few institutional investors are interested in a several billion dollar investment whose value has the potential of being driven to zero in minutes" (Ahearne 1983, 366). The stocks of private utilities with nuclear investment dropped below book value, and investors now demanded higher returns from nuclear than from non-nuclear utilities. 4 In sum, the economic effects of TMI were rather long term and only intensified woes that had beleaguered the industry since the mid-1970s. The first cancellations of nuclear plants with substantial investments already made occurred in 1980, and by 1982 more than forty plants, each worth more than $50 million in investments, had been scrapped (Jasper 1990a, ch. 11; Thomas 1988, ch. 4). More short term and immediate was the accident's impact on the sensitive area of regulation and safety control. The Nuclear Regulatory Commission hastily imposed an informal moratorium on new construction licenses. Several independent commissions were formed to investigate the causes of the accident and to develop policy recommendations. The two most important of them, the NRC-sponsored Rogovin Commission and the president-appointed Kemeny Commission, came to similar conclusions. Assessing the accident causes, the Kemeny report concluded that "the fundamental problems are peoplerelated problems and not equipment problems" (Kemeny Commission 1979, 8). The hands-off approach in nuclear regulation, leaving the implementation of safety standards to the discretion of the industry, and bad utility management had combined to neglect the human side of nuclear reactor operation. The result was poorly designed control rooms, badly instrumented reactors, and insufficiently trained operators. Under these conditions, according to the president's report, "an accident like Three Mile Island was inevitable." Both commissions recommended

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a sweeping reorganization of the N R C in order to tighten regulatory control, but they stopped short of proposing a temporary moratorium on new reactor licenses. In particular, the message of the Kemeny report was ambiguous, permitting contradicting interpretations. Nader's Critical Mass organization found the report a "blistering indictment of the N R C and the nuclear industry," while the pronuclear Edison Electric Institute thought the report meant "proceed, but proceed with caution" (quoted in Lanouette 1980, 2 0 - 2 4 ) . Plagued by economic problems, the pressure of regulatory thumbscrews, the mobilization peak of the antinuclear movement, and (most troublesome of all) the decline of public acceptance, the nuclear industry found itself on the defensive as never before. A $100 billion investment was at stake. In response to the regulatory challenge, the industry formed the Nuclear Safety Analysis Center and the Institute for Nuclear Power Operations, the latter equipped with two hundred professionals and an annual budget of about $11 million (Nelkin 1981d, 136). Both were to improve the design and operating procedures of reactors and monitor utilities to assure compliance with heightened safety standards. In response to the breach at the public relations front, the Atomic Industrial Forum and the Edison Electric Institute launched the Committee on Energy Awareness. The latter started an ambitious information program aimed at convincing the general public of the comparative safety of nuclear power. It also sought to create and coordinate a pronuclear citizen movement at the grass-roots level because—as a manual distributed to utilities explained—"citizens with pro-energy messages are often more effective spokespeople." 5 The Kemeny report, which had found fundamental flaws in the construction, operation, and regulation of nuclear reactors, received bipartisan support in Congress. This was a measure of the powerful political impact of the accident. 6 To be sure, nuclear critics attacked the report for its cowardice on the moratorium issue and its tendency to treat the accident as an isolated event, separating it from the larger issue of public acceptability (Green 1980, 4 6 - 4 8 ) . In fact, far-reaching proposals, like that of replacing the five-member N R C by an executive agency with a single administrator, were never realized. Some modest improvements in operator training programs, plant inspection, and emergency planning did occur. But only one year after the accident, the Nuclear Safety Oversight Committee, established by President Carter in March 1980, deplored the recovery of a "business-as-usual mindset" in the N R C (Kasperson and Gray 1982, 67)7

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THE MOVEMENT RESPONSE Peter Bradford, N R C commissioner during the Carter administration, notes that " n o event is more antinuclear than an accident" (quoted in Abbotts 1 9 8 9 , 5 1 ) . Confirming a core assumption of collective behavior theory, nuclear accidents entail "suddenly imposed grievances" that are favorable to increased mobilization (Walsh 1 9 8 1 ) . Edward Walsh's detailed investigation of the community response in the vicinity of the damaged T M I reactor demonstrates that accidents can turn even previously conservative residential communities into sustained hotbeds of antinuclear activism (Walsh 1 9 8 8 ; Walsh and Cable 1 9 8 9 ) . 8 T M I brought an unparalleled mobilization peak for the U.S. antinuclear movement. M o v e m e n t leader Ralph Nader announced, in his usually strong words, that Three Mile Island would be " t h e beginning of the end of nuclear power in this country." 9 Eager to seize the opportunity of the moment, groups as diverse as the Union of Concerned Scientists and Clamshell Alliance temporarily put aside differences in style and ideology and agreed on a joint national protest rally in Washington, D . C . 1 0 Reminiscent of the mass demonstrations of the 1 9 6 0 s civil rights and antiwar movements, more than seventy thousand people followed the organizers' call and gathered in front of the Capitol on M a y 6, demanding a total nuclear moratorium. Indicating the tremendous impact of T M I on the movement, this was the first, and only, time that the direct-action and public-interest constituencies of the antinuclear movement overcame their previous separation and acted in a coordinated manner at the national level. Similar mass rallies were held around the country. Despite the dramatic increase in public opposition, President Carter stubbornly refused to consider a nuclear moratorium. In a meeting with the leaders of the antinuclear M a y 6 Coalition, he insisted that it was " o u t of the question to pre-emptively shut all nuclear plants in the country," and he offered only the token concession to "minimize the requirement for nuclear power." 1 1 In fact, T M I coincided with the second major energy crisis of the 1 9 7 0 s , which resulted from the Iranian revolution. In April 1 9 7 9 , when the American public was anxiously following the Harrisburg events, severe gasoline shortages and price hikes spread from California to the East Coast and even surpassed those of the first energy crisis in 1 9 7 3 . 1 2 This was not the time to abandon a major domestic energy source. 1 3 It was, however, high time for political entrepreneurs to excel on the

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nuclear energy issue, both from inside and outside the movement. 14 Many politicians now openly sympathized with the movement agenda. In the American political system, political entrepreneurship is more than a metaphor. As a result of the absence of bureaucratized and agendasetting party apparatuses, candidates for higher government offices run self-financed and independent campaigns. Their orientation marks are the ever-shifting moods of the public on contingent issues and the interests of well-defined territorial and functional constituencies. When Three Mile Island catapulted the issue of nuclear power to the top of the nation's political agenda, some aspiring politicians, especially in the Democratic Party, tried to build a national reputation by articulating the concerns of the public and courting the movement. Jerry Brown, governor of California, emerged as the most outspoken political supporter of the antinuclear movement. Brown made a total moratorium the key issue of his bid for the 1980 Democratic presidential nomination. Brown was followed by another presidential hopeful in the Democratic Party, Senator Edward Kennedy, who was Carter's toughest rival for the nomination. Kennedy, too, made energy the centerpiece of his campaign, first attacking Carter's policy of decontrolling oil and later, in the heat of the first primaries in the heavily antinuclear Northeast, standing up for a total nuclear moratorium. 15 The direct-action branch of the movement maintained its principled abstinence from electoral politics. 16 The public-interest branch, however, was less shy in making nuclear power a central issue in the 1980 elections. These efforts aimed at either launching a new party or forcing other parties to take a position on the issue. In the American two-party system, the first strategy was doomed to fail (Thomasson 1980). The second strategy, however, proved more successful, especially in the early primaries in New England, where the antinuclear movement had been traditionally strong. The Safe Energy '80 campaign, which was supported by the Solar Lobby, the Friends of the Earth, Critical Mass, and the UCS, sent its representatives to public appearances of presidential candidates, forcing the latter, in a gentle but insistent way, to address the nuclear issue. 17 Carefully avoiding any association with the confrontational style of the counterculture, the campaign even gained the respect of Republican and pronuclear candidates. It fueled the competition between Brown and Kennedy for the votes of the antinuclear movement and thereby kept the nuclear issue alive. To be sure, these advances were modest when compared with the high hopes to stop nuclear power after Three Mile Island. But by 1980, the

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fearful image of the accident was fading in the public mind. The oversupply of media reports, expert statements, and political quibble turned nervous attention and anxiety into apathy. The issue-attention cycle reached the "postproblem stage," which D o w n s ( 1 9 7 2 , 4 0 ) characterizes as " a twilight realm of lesser attention." Within the Democratic Party, Carter easily prevailed over his antinuclear challengers Brown and Kennedy. Outside the aggrieved Northeast, where Harrisburg, Shoreham, and Seabrook offered major targets for sustained antinuclear activism, nuclear power rarely became a major campaign issue. Finally, Reagan's sweeping victory over Carter firmly symbolized the end of the energy decade. The issue of nuclear power no longer captured the imagination of the public. The antinuclear movement entered the phase of decline.

PUBLIC OPINION B E F O R E AND AFTER TMI

Some close observers have remarked that the accident at Three Mile Island did for the U.S. antinuclear movement what the Tet Offensive had done for the Vietnam War protests—cast doubt on the long-standing convictions of the expert proponents, spread skepticism a m o n g public supporters, and redouble the efforts of the opponents (Kasperson et al. 1979). In short, the accident posed the fundamental question of public acceptance. Before that, "technological enthusiasm" (Jasper 1990a) had led nuclear experts to compare the opposition to nuclear power with the Luddism and the superstitious hysteria that had accompanied the historical introduction of electricity, the power loom, and the automobile. In the long run, according to this view, the lay public's passionate fear would be appeased through simple familiarity or the gradual acceptance of the expert theory of comparative risk assessment, which states that car driving and cigarette smoking are more dangerous than nuclear power (Starr 1969). Three Mile Island lastingly shattered the credibility of technological enthusiasm, which in the extreme considered nuclear fission just another way of boiling water. N o expert scenario had foreseen or anticipated the formation of the hydrogen gas bubble that threatened to cause an explosion of T M I ' s reactor 2. In fact, for years the public had been told that nuclear reactors could not blow up as b o m b s did. T h a t belief was now in doubt and with it the unquestioned reputation of the scientific and engineering communities. It became evident that the catastrophic potential of nuclear technology set it apart from other civilian technologies (Schuyten 1979). Twenty years after nuclear power's commercialization,

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public opposition had not been quieted; on the contrary, T M I pushed it to new heights. To be sure, public opinion is little more than a statistical aggregate. In sociologically meaningful terms, there are only concrete and numerous publics, whose styles, beliefs, and responses significantly differ. Different social groups espouse different risk perceptions (Douglas and Wildavsky 1982). As survey research demonstrates, the scientific community and the political and economic elites have always been highly supportive of nuclear energy, even after Three Mile Island. By contrast, the lay public and the media have been far more skeptical (Rothman and Lichter 1982, 1987). In addition to functional divisions, territorial and sex-related criteria influence the perception of risk. With regard to territorial criteria, grievances around local plants can turn formerly conservative and apolitical communities into long-enduring arenas of antinuclear activism, irrespective of the national conjuncture of the issue (Walsh 1981; Freudenburg and Baxter 1984). With regard to sex-related divisions, one of the most remarkable and stable patterns is that women are much more uncertain about and opposed to nuclear energy than men (e.g., Kasperson et al. 1980, 15f; Solomon and Risman 1989). According to Robert Mitchell's (1984a) interpretation, women tend to regard nuclear power as an environmental issue, while men view it more as a scientific and technological issue. 18 Despite the vagueness of the notion of public opinion, long-term public opinion trend lines are useful indicators of societal acceptance. Tocqueville ([1848] 1969, 435) notes that in democracies "public opinion becomes more and more mistress of the world." Moreover, as the long-standing preoccupation of American social scientists with the study of public opinion reveals (Lippmann 1922), the "empty ghost of public opinion" (Tocqueville [1848] 1969, 644) is filled with more life in the United States than elsewhere. In the American polity, where parties are weak and issue entrepreneurs predominate, political decisions are bound to resonate closely with the shifting moods of the public. As Todd LaPorte and Daniel Metlay ( 1 9 7 5 , 1 2 1 ) put it, " T h e public's mood does create boundaries within which officials generally act." With regard to the antinuclear movement, its weak membership basis made it all the more dependent on the appeal to, and the support from, the public. Sufficient reasons exist to analyze the evolution of the nuclear issue in the mirror of public opinion. To begin with, the accident at T M I did have a significant impact on the American public, an impact that justifies the distinction between pre-

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Percent

Figure 6-1 U.S. Public Opinion on Building More Nuclear Power Plants, 1975—1986 (adopted from Flavin 1987, 67; used by permission of Worldwatch Institute)

and post-TMI attitudes. 19 With regard to respondents' attitude toward new nuclear constructions (see Figure 6-1), which has become the unofficial public support indicator, the pre-TMI average support level fluctuated around the 50 percent mark, with no apparent evidence for longterm change (opposition averaging 30 percent, the rest being undecided) (Rankin et al. 1984). 20 During the first two years after TMI, the gap between supporters and opponents began to shrink. For the first time, Cambridge and Harris polls found that temporary majorities opposed the building of more plants. But even immediately after the accident, the public was still overwhelmingly opposed to shutting down all existing

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plants, the hard-core demand of the antinuclear movement.21 By July 1981, with the image of the accident fading, the average support level for building more plants had increased again to 45 percent (with 40 percent opposed and the rest undecided) (Rankin et al. 1984). Evidently, the accident resulted in an increase in opposition, but it did not end public support for nuclear power. Those who supported nuclear power continued to outnumber those who opposed it. The relatively mild reaction to the accident may be attributed to two causes (Mitchell 1980, 1984a). First, the contradictory nature of the accident permitted different interpretations. For nuclear proponents, the event proved that nuclear plants are safe because, after all, the TMI reactor did not explode, and even the critical Kemeny Commission had to concede that the only negative health impact on the local population was mental stress. By contrast, opponents argued that only luck had helped to avoid a major catastrophe. Second, as Figure 6-1 indicates, the shift in public opinion against nuclear power was already under way before the accident. In short, TMI merely polarized and further entrenched the established lines of conflict.22 The accident at TMI narrowed the gap between supporters and opponents of nuclear power, while a slim majority still supported the construction of more nuclear plants. But beginning in late 1981, the curve representing the number of opponents took a dramatic upward slope (see also OTA 1984, 211). This is puzzling because by that time the safety controversy had calmed down, the antinuclear movement had rapidly declined, and the energy issue no longer stirred major public concern. By mid-1983, nuclear power opponents outnumbered supporters by a persistently wide margin—"something that had not previously occurred in the U.S. at any point in the history of commercial power development" (Freudenburg and Rosa 1984b, 346). Based on various polls computed by the Worldwatch Institute, between 1982 and 1986 the average opposition to building additional nuclear power plants was 67 percent, after the accident at Chernobyl even temporarily reaching the 78 percent mark (Flavin 1987, 26). How can this surprising finding be explained? There was peace at the energy front, and yet U.S. public opinion turned ever more antinuclear. So far, the overwhelming cause of public opposition had been concerns about safety (de Boer and Cutsburg 1988, 256—257). If, until the early 1980s, relative majorities favored the construction of new plants, this was also due to the widespread conviction that nuclear power was

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necessary from an economic standpoint. After all, there were no viable alternatives to secure national energy independence and to free the United States from blackmail by OPEC. 23 Since 1982, however, an unparalleled wave of nuclear cancellations, including completed or nearly completed plants; gigantic capital cost escalations (felt by consumers in the form of higher electricity bills); and glaring overcapacities of generating power had made visible for the wider public what insiders had known since 1976—that nuclear power was an economic disaster.24 If there had ever been a perceived trade-off between safety and prosperity, this view was now lastingly shattered. Unfortunately, the standard polling questions rarely specified the particular reasons for a respondent's opposition to, or support for, nuclear power. But one may conclude indirectly that the dramatic decline of support was largely due to the fact that the dismal economic prospects of nuclear power had simply made it an unviable option.25 When the Chernobyl accident occurred in 1986, the impact on public attitudes was surprisingly small (Johnson and Zeigler 1988, 293—294). By that time, most people had already made up their minds about nuclear power—and entrenched attitudes are obviously difficult to change (Otway et al. 1978). 26 FROM ENERGY TO WEAPONS: THE CHANGING NUCLEAR OPPOSITION In May 1986, a few weeks after the accident at the Chernobyl nuclear power plant in the Soviet Union, the most serious in the history of civilian nuclear power, the New York Times reported that "the accident . . . has provoked questions about strategy in the antinuclear movement in the United States, spurring both renewed public concern over the dangers of nuclear weapons and heightened suspicion of the Soviet Union." 27 Among the "antinuclear" groups cited in this article were the Nuclear Weapons Freeze Campaign, the Lawyers Alliance for Nuclear Arms Control, the International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War, the Committee for a Sane Nuclear Policy (SANE), and Physicians for Social Responsibility. The term antinuclear referred to the nuclear weapons opposition, not the nuclear energy opposition. This surprising fact reflected a fundamental change in the American public discourse about nuclear power. Whereas in the 1970s nuclear power was almost exclusively thematized and contested in terms of its civilian applications, the meaning of "nuclear" seemed now to be intrinsically

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related to the bomb and the imagery of nuclear war. What had happened? 2 8 H o w was it that, in a virtual semantic takeover, the discourse of war had so completely superseded the discourse of energy? 2 9 In the United States, there is an intimate symbolic relationship between the nuclear weapons and energy discourses that ultimately reflects the close historical and institutional linkages between the Atoms for War and the Atoms for Peace. Both have been subjected to intense societal controversy, though always in successive and separate periods, never simultaneously. In the late 1950s, radioactive fallout from atmospheric weapons testing spurred the Ban the Bomb campaign, among whose leaders were eminent scientists and professionals (Clarfield and Wiecek 1984, ch. 8). With the signing of the Partial Test Ban Treaty in 1963, this movement dissolved. During the next seventeen years, nuclear weapons practically disappeared as an issue of public concern (Boyer 1984). In fact, the Atoms for Peace initiative seemed to fulfill its implicit purpose of neutralizing the dark image of the destroying atom through the bright prospect of an unlimited energy source (Boyer 1985, 302). The first protests against nuclear energy did not originate from the old disarmament and antiwar constituencies, even though the early concern about low-level radiation would have offered an obvious link between the fallout and energy issues (Gofman and Tamplin 1971). Instead (as outlined in chapter 2), the environmental movement initiated the early nuclear energy opposition. So dominant was the energy discourse in the 1970s that nuclear weapons became a major public issue only when they overlapped with energy concerns. 3 0 The primacy of the discourse of energy began to erode in the late 1970s. In 1977, the UCS abandoned its primary focus on nuclear energy and mounted a widely publicized initiative to stop the nuclear arms race (Union of Concerned Scientists 1978). Ironically, parts of the antinuclear energy movement actively furthered the decline of the energy discourse by attempting to expose the "nuclear connection" between weapons and power (McCrea and Markle 1989, 9 2 - 9 5 ; Nelkin 1981a; Scaminaci 1980, 1 7 0 - 2 0 1 ) . The direct-action alliances, because of their totalizing ideology and their roots in the antiwar movement, had worked in this direction from early on. Clamshell Alliance's founding manifesto, for instance, made explicit reference to "the malignant relationship between nuclear power plants and nuclear weapons." 3 1 But the forging of the energy-weapons link did not proceed without strains and resistance. When the Mobilization for Survival (MOBE) alliance was founded in 1977 by some prominent antiwar and disarmament activists to make

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peace and social justice concerns more prominent in the antinuclear energy movement, it was received with outright distrust by the latter. The grass roots suspected that the M O B E , a nationwide organization, wanted to fill the power vacuum at the national level and usurp the vacant leadership role in the antinuclear struggle. Some even accused M O B E of taking over the ready-made movement only to subordinate the energy issue to the disarmament issue. 32 When the antinuclear movement peaked after T M I , the M O B E urged the inclusion of a disarmament note into the official catalogue of demands—without success. An organizer of Nader's Critical Mass defended this refusal by pointing out the different logics of the war and energy discourses (quoted by Sweeney 1 9 7 9 , 3 3 ) : 3 3 "There are a lot of areas of mutual cooperation. But it should be clear that down the road are differences. 'Will we have enough energy by the year 2 0 0 0 ? ' is a very different question than whether there will be a strategic balance between the U.S. and the Soviet Union by the year 2 0 0 0 . " At the local level, however, disarmament and energy groups often cooperated. In 1 9 7 9 , Clamshell Alliance and the Trident Conversion Campaign held a joint blockade against the launching of the Trident nuclear submarine. In the same year, Abalone Alliance supported the University of California Weapons Labs Conversion Project, which aimed at converting the Livermore and Los Alamos military laboratories to peaceful uses (Abalone Alliance/UC Labs 1 9 7 9 ) . The concern by a prominent activist that "the growth of the weapons issue might take the focus away from the reactors" eventually materialized (Wasserman 1 9 8 2 , 2 3 - 2 7 ) . The fate of Abalone Alliance is a case in point. From the very beginning, the alliance had addressed the links between weapons and power. In its attempt to "become more than just an antinuclear organization" and to build up "a general opposition to the reigning society," Abalone Alliance moved beyond the energy issue and also covered disarmament, antiwar, and antidraft issues. 34 But this broad focus weakened Abalone Alliance's opposition to the Diablo Canyon plant, after all its raison d'être. When the shift in public issueattention from energy to weapons occurred in the early 1980s, Abalone Alliance suffered a dramatic decline of membership and lost much of its previous organizing capacity. The Diablo Canyon blockade in 1 9 8 1 , which had been carefully prepared over a two-year period, mobilized far less participants than had been expected. 3 5 Many activists had already left Abalone to get involved in the new peace and disarmament movement. In fact, the Livermore Action Group, which became the core

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organization of the San Francisco Bay Area peace movement, had originated from an Abalone Alliance affinity group. 36 As the case of Abalone Alliance demonstrates, there was a clear line from first thematizing the links, then shifting the weight toward nuclear weapons, to finally withering away. External changes in the political sphere reinforced the issue shift from energy to weapons. In the late stages of the Carter presidency, U.S. foreign and military policy moved away from détente and toward massive rearmament. To get the second Strategic Arms Limitation Treaty ratified by Congress, Carter promised a 5 percent annual increase in defense spending over the next five years. His decision to build two hundred new MX missiles was widely interpreted as abandoning the U.S. commitment to deterrence. In response, the Cambridge-based Physicians for Social Responsibility staged nationwide seminars that demonstrated in gruesome detail the biological and medical consequences of a nuclear strike. 37 The frightening image of the atomic mushroom cloud and the fear of global annihilation, which had been dormant over the previous two decades (or, as some would say, had found its indirect outlet in the nuclear energy opposition), reemerged as a preeminent cultural theme and political concern. 38 The doomsday clock on the front cover of the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists moved a few minutes closer to midnight. The coming of the Reagan administration finally ratified the public issue shift from energy to weapons. Loose talk about the possibility of a limited nuclear war in Europe, the abandonment of Carter's nonproliferation policy, and the aggressive move toward developing a nuclear first-strike capability spurred public anxiety about an imminent nuclear confrontation with the Soviet Union (Smith 1988). 39 At the same time, the ranks of the antinuclear energy movement thinned out. The fading of TMI from memory, fewer tangible rallying points available because of the economic decline of the industry, and the lack of central leadership and consensus on tactics contributed to a rapid demobilization of the movement. In the long run, nuclear power was considered dead (Roisman 1979). The grass roots either withered away or shifted toward the disarmament issue. 40 The intellectual movement leadership tried to stem the tide by exploiting the linkages between the discourse of weapons and the discourse of energy. 41 The concept of a bilateral freeze on development and deployment of nuclear weapons became the rallying point for the growing antinuclear war sentiment. Formed as a national organization in March 1981, the Nuclear Weapons Freeze Campaign sought to push the U.S. government

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toward a verifiable arms agreement with the Soviet Union. Although working through the grass roots to get the support of city and county councils, town meetings, and state governments, the campaign's main focus was to make the freeze proposal a policy objective at the national level.42 A classic single-issue campaign, the freeze was designed as a lowest-common-denominator proposal that cut "across traditional political lines and appeals to all who are concerned with the nuclear threat to our survival" (quoted in Saxton 1981,11). As radical critics of the freeze have emphasized, this included the isolation of the nuclear weapons issue from its social context (Saxton 1981; Sanchez and Solomon 1982; Conetta 1982).43 In fact, the conservative freeze leadership avoided any association with the "divisive" energy issue. Regarding the tremendous mobilization successes of the freeze, an observer exclaimed triumphantly in early 1982, "The nuclear war issue is now becoming increasingly liberated from linkage with the antinuclear power movement" (Holden 1982, 878). The organizational infrastructure of the new antinuclear movement developed independently, and at a deliberate distance, from the old antinuclear movement (Daubert and Moran 1985).44 Physicians for Social Responsibility, headed by Helen Caldicott, grew from an insignificant five-hundred-member group in 1978 to a sixteen-thousand-member organization in 1980. 45 This growth was boosted by a huge Rockefeller Foundation grant that was explicitly tied to the condition that the organization not address the energy issue. Unremittent nuclear energy opponents on the board of directors, such as John Gofman, were forced to leave the organization. Helen Caldicott, who had delivered fiery indictments of civilian nuclear power just a short while ago, now went on record saying that "nuclear power is only the pimple on the pumpkin; the pumpkin is nuclear weapons." 46 Not only doctors but also scientists joined the disarmament campaign. Many were veterans of the Manhattan Project and had spearheaded the Ban the Bomb movement two decades earlier (Smith 1982). Besides being based on new groups (such as the freeze), or profiting from the involvement of outside organizations (such as Common Cause and the Federation of American Scientists), the new movement was also stimulated by revitalized old peace organizations that had been nonexistent in the previous two decades.47 The meteoric rise of antinuclear disarmament concerns left no space, and no resources, for sustained mobilization against nuclear energy. When the old leaders of California's Proposition 15 campaign tried to launch a new statewide energy initiative in 1982, they found themselves

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isolated and unable to raise any money and support. One of them remembers: "I could not raise any money. In fact, the word went out not to support us, since we would compete with the freeze and confuse the voters—even though we had deliberately avoided the word nuclear in our proposal. I found out that the antinuclear funding constituency had gone on. People who had supported us in the past, especially the wealthy sponsors, were no longer with us." 48 The chair of the California freeze, Harold Willens, personally persuaded the small group of Proposition 15 veterans to drop the new initiative—but not without recruiting its designated field organizer into the California freeze steering committee. The disarmament movement of the 1980s exploited the same symbolisms as the opposition to nuclear energy, and it did so on a grander scale. The fear of invisible pollution through low-level radiation or reactor accidents looked pale in comparison to the doomsday scenario of the nuclear winter. But both fed on the same cultural themes of imminent catastrophe and technics-out-of-control (Winner 1977). As Henry Kendall, a former pioneer in nuclear energy opposition, puts it (quoted in Smith 1982, 43): "The nuclear arms race is the most outstanding folly on which mankind has so far embarked—a much more important problem than nuclear power. Three Mile Island provided a useful lesson, but an arms control analogue in the form of a small war is simply not acceptable." To the degree that an underlying nuclear fear had motivated the opposition to nuclear energy, the latter was simply outflanked by the similar but much more powerful imagery of global annihilation through nuclear war. If there really is something to the thesis that the frightening image of the big mushroom cloud, though in an indirect and repressed form, had also impelled the protest against nuclear reactors, then this free-floating motive now found the way back to its roots (Weart 1988, 376). Deprived of its semantic hegemony, the antinuclear energy movement was bound to disintegrate. THE LOCALIZATION OF NUCLEAR PROTEST IN THE 1980s If seen through the lenses of Federalist Paper SI, the magna carta of American federalism, the troubled history of nuclear power in the United States appears as the gradual reassertion of decentralized control in a policy area where this crucial tenet of the American political tradition had initially been violated. When Three Mile Island foreclosed any

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unambiguous political support for the battered technology and made the acceptance crisis permanent, federalism struck the last nail into the nuclear coffin. Responsive political structures at the state and local levels firmly integrated those parts of the movement that had not withered over the issue crisis. Madison's "compound republic" was reinstated, at least with regard to nuclear policy. Throughout the 1980s, nuclear energy did not cease to be the subject of intense controversy. The conflict merely shifted to the state and local levels, where the economic, technological, and sociopolitical infrastructure of operating or nearly completed nuclear power plants offered manifold targets for attack. After all, it was concrete communities, counties, and states that had to bear the risks and costs of badly managed, carelessly constructed, or overly expensive nuclear plants. With the phase of expansion coming to an end, the windup of old projects became the contested stake of the day. Most importantly, electorally accountable local and state go"ernments advanced as key allies of concerned citizen groups. The trend toward decentralization of control should have been welcomed by the Reagan administration, which had set out on a crusade for free markets, minimal federal government, and deregulation. But in the particular case of nuclear power, Reagan bracketed his ideological leanings. He lifted the ban on commercial reprocessing, pushed for legislation to speed up the licensing process, and increased the nuclear R & D share—while ridiculing energy conservation as "hot in the summer and cold in the winter" (Katz 1984, 163). But this was not sufficient to reverse the fate of the ailing industry. The dominant free-market approach removed energy questions from the political agenda, and the focus of the minimized energy policy under Reagan was on domestic oil and gas increases, not on nuclear power (Stobaugh and Yergin 1983, 287—289). As the Office of Technology Assessment (OTA) summarized the dismal state of nuclear power in the 1980s, "Without significant changes in the technology, management, and level of public acceptance, nuclear power in the U.S. is unlikely to be expanded in this century beyond the reactors already under construction" (OTA 1984, xi). Decentralization of regulatory control had been under way since the old subgovernment of the AEC and JCAE had been dissolved in the mid-1970s, although this had done little to change nuclear policy. Not negligible, however, was the reassertion of state rights in nuclear regulation. Since the wave of referendum campaigns in the late 1970s, some local and state governments had tried to limit the expansion of nuclear

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power within their territories. By 1984, following the example of California, eleven states had enacted laws that restricted or prohibited the construction of new nuclear power plants as long as certain prerequisites were not fulfilled, most notably a federal solution to the nuclear waste problem (Woychik 1984). A 1983 U.S. Supreme Court ruling ratified the decentralization of nuclear policy. The Court unanimously upheld the right of states to say no to new plants, provided their objection was based on economic grounds, not on radiation hazards. This decision peeled back the blanket of federal protection and exposed nuclear plants to the chillier winds of state and local interests. To be sure, the ruling's impact was largely symbolic because it applied only to new plants, and there had been no new plant orders since 1978. Accordingly calm was the reaction of the nuclear industry, which rightly considered the ruling no threat to the sixty plants still under construction. 49 But the push for local and state control did not stop at this point. For instance, more than thirty states passed what the Reagan administration called "provincial" laws or regulations restricting the transportation or disposal of nuclear waste within their borders. Not only with respect to nuclear waste but also in the crucial areas of economics and safety, local and state levels offered unexpected access for the nuclear opposition. The latter, which remained fragmented but sometimes identified itself as part of a safe energy movement, acted shoulder to shoulder with municipal, county, and state authorities (Kriesberg 1987)—often at the price of being overshadowed or rendered obsolete by institutional actors, who now appeared center stage. These citizen-state alliances mostly occurred in three fields: emergency planning, utility regulation, and nuclear waste management. 50

EMERGENCY PLANNING

Emergency planning became a high-priority issue only after the accident at Three Mile Island, when Congress directed the NRC to make the continuation of operating licenses dependent on the existence of emergency evacuation plans (Zeigler et al. 1981; Erikson 1983). As a result, the NRC required utilities to develop plans for evacuating all residents living within ten miles of a nuclear plant. This stipulation called for the close cooperation of state and local governments to provide traffic control, medical help, and other emergency services. If local authorities refused to participate, the NRC could not license a plant.

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Exactly this happened in a number of prominent cases, most notably the Shoreham and Seabrook nuclear power plants. Completed in 1985 and 1986, respectively, both plants were refused operating licenses because of the evacuation issue. In the case of Shoreham, Suffolk county and the state of New York unequivocally stated that no evacuation plan would ever work for this troubled facility on Long Island, a few miles east of New York City (McCaffrey 1991, ch. 5). In the case of Seabrook, the governor of Massachusetts, Michael Dukakis, categorically rejected participation in emergency planning procedures, thereby preventing the plant from going on line for many years. 51 In fact, by mid-1983 only thirty-seven of the nation's fifty-three sites for nuclear power plants had formally approved emergency plans, indicating that the issue had suddenly gained national significance. To be sure, as of today the N R C has never lastingly revoked an operating license because of lacking evacuation precautions, and a rule change in late 1988 allowed the federal government to draft emergency plans if local officials refused. 52 But the issue has ignited new and still ongoing efforts to enhance the rights of states in the safety-related regulation of nuclear power, which had been the exclusive prerogative of the federal government. 53 As in the case of Shoreham, persistent citizen opposition was necessary to turn local authorities against the contested nuclear facility. But the effect was the same: once political notables captured the nuclear power issue, organized citizen opposition became less visible (Axelrod and Wilson 1986, 323-326).

UTILITY REGULATION

Because energy as a single issue could no longer stir sufficient public concerns, the remaining nuclear opposition had to link the energy issue to more pressing concerns. The cost explosion of nuclear power opened up the possibility of building alliances between nuclear opponents and consumer groups at the state level. Indeed, Ralph Nader had long emphasized that the "joint action by environmental and consumer groups fighting for utility rate reform . . . is essential if either is to succeed." 54 In general, utility regulation could become a target of mobilization because of institutionalized public access in the rate-setting procedure—yet another structural opportunity for the U.S. antinuclear movement that remained foreclosed to its German counterpart. The rates charged by private electric utilities in the United States are determined by state regulatory commissions (often called Public Utility

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Commissions, or PUCs). Accordingly, the direct impact of rising nuclear power costs was felt mainly at the state level, where PUCs usually passed on higher operating and capital costs to consumers in the form of higher electricity bills (Hyman and Habicht 1986; Moorhouse 1986). The PUCs initially became politicized after the first energy crisis, when consumer groups pressed for a reformed rate structure that encouraged conservation and disencouraged energy waste, particularly by commercial and industrial users (Anderson 1980). Caughtin the double bind of consumer protests and industry demands, state regulators were increasingly forced to make independent and adverse decisions, much as James Q . Wilson (1980) demonstrates. This became evident in the second round of the conflict over utility rate regulation, which opened up in response to the capital-cost explosion and the post-TMI financial impasses of the nuclear utilities (Rudolph and Ridley 1986b). In most states, nuclear utilities may include in their (profit-generating) rate base only those plants that have been completed and that produce electricity. 55 Because the cost overruns for many plants completed during the early to mid-1980s were often 1,000 percent or more, thirty-five million private households in twenty-five states were suddenly confronted with electric rate increases of 25 to 50 percent—a phenomenon aptly described as "rate shock" (Nogee 1984). Beleaguered by well-organized consumer and safe energy coalitions and an angry public, state utility regulators now took a tough stand toward industry pleas for rate increases (Tomain 1987, 108—114; Tomain and Burton 1987, 397—402). N o longer could utilities expect to be granted generous construction-work-in-progress (CWIP) allowances or to pass on to consumers the full construction costs of new nuclear power plants, especially if cost increases resulted from utility mismanagement. For instance, the New York PUC disallowed $1.4 billion of the more than $4.7 billion cost of Long Island Lighting Company's (Lilco) Shoreham plant to be included in the utility's rate base, reproaching the company for severe construction mismanagement. 5 6 In the case of the Seabrook plant, the refusal of an emergency rate increase for its partial owner, the Public Service Company of New Hampshire, led to the company's bankruptcy—the first private electrical utility bankruptcy since the Great Depression. 5 7 The adverse posture of the PUCs fueled the economic crisis of the U.S. nuclear power industry. Between 1982 and 1984 alone, thirty-two plants under construction were scrapped, some of them more than 50 percent completed, but with owners lacking the cash to proceed with construction. 58

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The nuclear malaise spurred efforts by safe energy groups and state utility commissions to break the monopoly of the huge investor-owned utilities and to reinvigorate free-market principles in electricity provision (Critical Mass Energy Project 1987; Munson 1985; Flavin 1984; Flavin and Durning 1988). This proved to be surprisingly easy. With the Public Utility Regulatory Policy Act of 1978 (PURPA), a part of President Carter's first energy policy package, a formidable tool existed to move away from centralized power generation and toward conservation, renewables, and cogeneration by small-scale independent power producers. PURPA, Section 110 requires utilities to purchase power from small independent facilities at their "avoided cost"—the cost the utility avoided by not having to generate the power itself (Gunn et al. 1984; Chartock et al. 1985). When the U.S. Supreme Court upheld this section of PURPA in 1982, PUCs began to implement it more firmly. The results have been no less than dramatic. As Christopher Flavin (1984, 29) finds, "A new spirit of entrepreneurialism" has seized the utility industry. Small has truly become beautiful. Almost overnight, a new industry of independent power producers has emerged. As of late 1987, more than 47,000 M W of planned cogeneration had been registered with the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission—almost a fourfold increase since 1985 and equivalent to the output of forty-seven large nuclear plants (Flavin and Durning 1988, 34). As in the case of California, PURPA-based least-cost energy planning, which requires utilities to develop resource plans that fully examine all available energy sources and then to invest in the cheapest option first, can cause a decisive shift toward conservation and renewable energy sources. The latter currently provide about 20 percent of the state's power and have completely obliterated the need for new central power stations in the next decades (Flavin 1983a; Hulett 1989). Because independent power and conservation are cheap and flexible, they are a profitable business—even for big utilities. 59 Key to the reorientation of the utility industry toward conservation and small power were the efforts by PUCs to create a favorable institutional climate. These efforts included tax credits, regulatory exemptions for independents, and requirements that utilities establish regular procedures and fair prices for interconnecting with small power producers. As an economic adviser with the National Association of Regulatory Utility Commissioners explains the new mindset, "The general consensus of the regulatory community is that building power plants should be the last option" (quoted in Flavin 1984, 48). 60 In the end, decentral-

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ized control has helped the free market to resurrect itself—much to the consternation of the "atomic b r o t h e r h o o d " (Heertsgaard 1 9 8 3 ) but to the profit of those who proved once again the remarkable resilience of American capitalism.

NUCLEAR WASTE MANAGEMENT Reviewing a decade of public-interest activism on nuclear waste issues in the United States, a leader of the N e w York—based Radioactive Waste Campaign remarks, somewhat understatedly, that far " f r o m being the ignored ingredient in nuclear power, nuclear waste has become a m a j o r stumbling block to further expansion of power reactors" (Radioactive Waste Campaign 1 9 8 8 , 18). In fact, the siting of nuclear waste dumps has ignited what is better called an unabated chain of local "guerrilla w a r s , " raging not just in liberal Boston or San Francisco but in the inconspicuous hinterlands of Arkansas, Nebraska, and Louisiana. 6 1 H o w can we explain the "populist surge" (Russell 1 9 8 7 , 5 9 5 ) of farmers, housewives, businessmen, and "loudmouthed grandmothers" rallying in angry protest whenever their respective locality is proposed as a prospective waste repository? Similar to emergency evacuation and utility regulation, the problem of waste disposal emerged at the back end of the nuclear policy cycle, consigning the costs of the technology's precarious infrastructure to concrete localities and states (Wilson 1 9 7 9 ) . W h a t makes the waste issue especially problematic is the distorted balance between costs and benefits (Murauskas and Shelley 1 9 8 6 ) . T h e struggle over nuclear waste is a struggle over equity and the distribution of externalities. N o w that the dismal economy of nuclear power has destroyed any illusion of a public benefit to be drawn from this technology, why should a remote community carry the full costs of this questionable elite enterprise and face the dire prospect of being turned into a nuclear waste dump? T h i s is the rationale of the much-decried but little understood not-in-my-backyard ( N I M B Y ) phenomenon. As if in premonition of the public outrage that was to follow, President Carter's announcement of the nation's first comprehensive waste policy in 1 9 8 0 stressed the pivotal importance of public participation (quoted in Colglazier 1 9 8 2 , 2 2 3 ) : " I t is essential that all aspects of the waste management program be conducted with the fullest possible disclosure to and participation by the public and the technical community." Nuclear power's credibility meltdown after Three Mile Island turned

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participation into obstruction because the gap between localized costs and diffuse public benefits widened even farther. A 1986 survey found that 67 percent of the American public was "very concerned" about nuclear waste disposal (Kraft 1988, 258). 62 With the gates of participation wide open, nuclear power in an acceptance crisis, and public sensitivity to nuclear waste issues particularly high, local and statewide NIMBY campaigns spread like wildfire. As in the citizen-state alliances in evacuation planning and utility regulation, local and state governments emerged as key opponents to the nuclear industry and the federal government (Herzik 1990). The 1980 federal waste program had two components: the disposal of low-level and of high-level nuclear waste. The former became an acute problem after Three Mile Island, when the previous host states of Nevada, South Carolina, and Washington no longer accepted waste shipments from other states. In response, Congress passed the Low-Level Radioactive Waste Policy Act, which made each state responsible for the disposal of its low-level waste and urged the formation of regional interstate compacts. The result was political warfare among states. States with high waste quantities—such as California and New York—were effectively denied membership in any of the new interstate compacts. Instead of balancing regional risks, the delegation of low-level waste responsibilities to the states seemed to cause the hazardous proliferation of dump sites throughout the nation. This outcome was particularly problematic in the heavily populated and geologically unsuited Northeast (Barlett and Steele 1985, 196-249). 6 3 Most experts agree today that the disposal of high-level nuclear waste poses no unsolvable technical difficulties. But its main impediment arises from concerns of political equity and social acceptability—quite similar to the issue of low-level waste, yet on a magnified scale (Fallows 1979). In times in which the clear majority of the public is opposed to nuclear power, no electorally accountable state government is willing to host a repository for the nation's high-level nuclear waste. By 1982, more than twenty states had passed restrictive legislation banning various types of federal waste management activities in their territories (OTA 1982, 34— 36), and more than forty municipalities had imposed bans on radioactive waste transports (Woodhouse 1982,155; Kirby 1988). It took more than two years for Congress to complete the High-Level Nuclear Waste Policy Act (1982) because the states stubbornly insisted on a veto right. This veto right was finally granted and could be overturned only by an unlikely majority in both Houses of Congress. As a Democratic legislator comments on the probable impact of the state veto provision, "We

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will never see the day in which a permanent repository is built" (quoted in Barlett and Steele 1985, 168). In principle, the High-Level Nuclear Waste Policy Act called for "consultation and cooperation" between the Department of Energy and the potential host states. In fact, each of the thirteen states that at one point or another were considered a possible choice mounted its decided resistance, from the informal level of citizen outrage up to the highest level of state-sponsored court suits. To secure political equity, the first of two planned repositories was to be built in the West (which is less populated but geologically better suited), whereas the second repository would be in the East (which has more nuclear power plants and therefore produces more high-level waste). To save time and money, and beleaguered by widespread protests from citizen groups and state governments, especially in the Northeast (Haight 1986; Petti 1986; Maynard 1986), the D O E made a momentous decision. In May 1986, it narrowed down the list of candidate sites for the first repository to three states in the West (Texas, Nevada, and Washington) and indefinitely postponed the site screening for a second repository in the East. This was a serious attack on the delicate balance and political equity reached between the West and the East, and all three Western states subsequently filed lawsuits challenging the decision. When in late 1987 Congress finally picked Nevada as the only disposal site, the choice fell to the state with the smallest political clout at the federal level. The state governor called the decision a "monstrous injustice," chiding the lack of fairness toward "the country's nuclear wasteland." 6 4 The role of national public-interest groups in high-level waste politics has been ambiguous throughout. The issue poses a dilemma: participation in the policy-finding process contributes to making nuclear power safer and more acceptable, diverting effort from the ultimate goal of phasing it out. The moderate Sierra Club opted for participation, while the more radical Critical M a s s organization stayed outside the bargaining process. In the end, the Sierra Club, too, joined the ranks of the critics, which argued that the DOE's site selection process was based on political expediency rather than on sound technical, socioeconomic, and environmental considerations (Carter 1987, 1 9 5 - 2 3 0 ) . A S E C O N D N U C L E A R ERA? In their seminal assessment of the state of U.S. nuclear power, Alvin Weinberg et al. (1985, 83) complain that "the absence of positive leadership has allowed the technology to drift into an uneconomic mode,

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turning off the future growth of the industry." In a similar vein, Irvin Bupp (1983,162) describes the nuclear policy stalemate afterThree Mile Island as a "breakdown of the American democratic political process." My analysis suggests instead that the demise of U.S. nuclear power reflected not the breakdown but the very functioning of the American political process. In Madisonian fashion, the nuclear conflict became incorporated into the federal system. Decentralized control also affected the antinuclear movement, which dissipated into a host of localized campaigns and often passed on the oppositional leadership role to institutional actors. As has been outlined, the resurgence of disarmament concerns did its part to marginalize the nuclear energy opposition in the social movement sector. So much had the nuclear issue become identified with weapons concerns that even the Chernobyl accident was mostly perceived in terms of its critical implications for the U.S. military program. 65 Quite revealingly, the first "antinuclear" group to respond to Chernobyl was the Washington-based Health and Environment Institute, which argued that Chernobyl showed the need for nuclear disarmament. 66 A leading energy critic, formerly with Friends of the Earth, deplored the lack of a concerted movement response to Chernobyl: "Today there is virtually no one in the publicinterest movement who pays attention to the problem of nuclear energy. Only three or four people nationwide, including secretaries." 67 A post-Chernobyl signature drive in California to shut down the few nuclear power plants operating in the state never gained any momentum. Its frustrated organizer admitted that "it is hard to maintain a campaign which is clearly not the key issue that people are gravitating toward." 6 8 A local post-Chernobyl campaign against the Rancho Seco plant in Sacramento became the first successful attempt in the United States to permanently close a nuclear power plant through the ballot box. But, quite tellingly, its major focus was on the dismal economy of the plant. 69 An organizer stressed the strictly local character of this campaign: "We consider ourselves anti—Rancho Seco, not antinuclear." 70 Alvin Weinberg has aptly stated that "the first nuclear era ended in the U.S. with the accident at Three Mile Island on March 28, 1979" (Weinberg et al. 1985, 1). Is there a chance for a second nuclear era? The greenhouse effect and the recent oil crisis have renewed industry efforts to resurrect nuclear power through the development and promotion of a smaller, standardized, and "inherently safe" reactor design (Klueh 1985; Mariotte 1989; Wald 1989). But the technical and institutional obstacles are still formidable. Even the nuclear-friendly Reagan and Bush admin-

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istrations have failed to implement decisive licensing reforms and have given only low priority to new nuclear research and development (Goodman and Andes 1985; Abbotts 1989). 71 The largest obstacle to a nuclear revival is certainly "the difficulty of regaining lost trust" (Heertsgaard 1983, 248). Alvin Weinberg, the prophet of the second nuclear era, admits that nuclear power will not return unless a "skeptical elite" of environmentalists and regulators persuades the public: "It's up to the skeptical elite to tell us in the nuclear community what it is we have to do." 72 If Weinberg is correct, U.S. nuclear power has a long way to go. And has there been a more succinct synopsis of the successes of the U.S. antinuclear movement?

C H A P T E R SEVEN

Institutionalization and New Militancy in West Germany

A review of the West German new social movements in the mid-1980s found the front lines between state and movements evaporated. "Instead of alternative Utopias, parliamentary politicking and technical discussions over the optimal method of garbage collection dominate the political agenda" (Brand, Biisser, and Rucht 1986, 241). 1 The nuclear energy controversy deescalated in the 1980s, and with the Greens and critical experts, parts of the nuclear opposition became firmly institutionalized and professionalized. If a closed polity had provided the context for the first round of movement mobilization in the 1970s, this was no longer true in the 1980s. After their loss of government power in 1982, even the Social Democrats gradually turned antinuclear, and the party in opposition refashioned itself with a new program of ecological modernization (Padgett 1987). Institutionalization, however, was accompanied by new, if not increased, militancy. The bifurcation between institutional accommodation and new militancy became a general hallmark of West German social movements in the 1980s, not only in the field of nuclear energy. 2 Along with the consolidation of the Green Party, the new decade saw the rise of new militant youth movements with strong anarchist leanings. The previous history of the nuclear controversy, which was one of frequently violent clashes between state and movement, carried independent weight. It had built up a memory in the movement that could not be easily erased. So fixed was the antistatist disposition of the militant core of the antinuclear movement that the pluralization of the political con160

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text had little impact. On the contrary, the more the Greens became drawn into the orbit of parliamentary politics and the more conventional political actors picked up the nuclear issue in critical ways, the more the remaining movement sought to create a niche for itself by extolling its antistatist identity and sharpening its militant edge. It was helped in this by the influx of participants from the new anarchist youth subculture that had emerged with the Berlin squatters' movement and a wave of youth unrest in the early 1980s and that was looking for new fields of action (Katsiaficas 1988). The so-called Autonome (autonomous) replaced the decaying communist sects (the C-groups) as the ultramilitant shock troops of the antinuclear movement. This infusion of new members, however, did little to strengthen the movement. On the contrary, it further marginalized and delegitimized it in the eyes of the public. If an unresponsive state helped explain the resort to direct action in the 1970s, factors internal to the movement explain why militancy did not wither in the 1980s. Whereas in the United States the nuclear debate of the 1980s shifted to the local level, nuclear energy remained a focus of high-level politics in West Germany, reflecting its special status as a state-protected national prestige technology. Despite the institutional diffusion of oppositional views, West German nuclear energy did receive the firm government support that failed to come in the United States. Overrunning internal party opposition, the SPD/FDP government reinforced its pronuclear commitment, and the battered technology seemed on the safe way toward "normalization" (Hennies 1983, 387). The CDU/FDP coalition that seized power in 1982 even conducted the march into the plutonium economy with fast-breeder technology and fuel reprocessing. This move, however, opened up a new round in a controversy that would not die—this time with the SPD joining an unusually broad plutonium opposition. Like its American counterpart, the West German antinuclear movement rapidly demobilized when disarmament concerns became paramount in the early 1980s. There was, however, less intrinsic overlap between the nuclear weapons and nuclear energy discourses, thereby limiting the competition between both movements. The consolidation of the Green Party had adverse effects because it drained resources that had previously been channeled into the social movement sector. Losing its moderate forces to the peace movement and the Green Party, the marginalized antinuclear movement drifted away from the political mainstream.

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The accident at Chernobyl did for the West German nuclear controversy what TMI had done for the American controversy: reopen the societywide debate about the future of nuclear energy, turn the majority of the public antinuclear, and revitalize the faltering protest movement. 3 The bifurcation between institutionalization and new militancy now became fully evident. On the one hand, with the Greens and the Social Democrats the demand for a nuclear moratorium was firmly represented in the political system, backed by an impressive array of critical expertise. On the other hand, the militant movement rejected coalition building with institutional actors and provoked yet another violent confrontation with the state. After Chernobyl, an all-party consensus emerged to minimize nuclear deployments, the march into the plutonium economy was halted, and the prospects for a second nuclear era look dim.

THE UNEASY NORMALIZATION OF NUCLEAR POWER Whereas Three Mile Island was the deathblow for nuclear power in the United States, the early 1980s brought a fragile normalization of the industry in West Germany (Thomas 1988, 149—151). Beleaguered by the second oil crisis and a faltering economy with skyrocketing unemployment rates, the SPD/FDP government forcefully reasserted the nuclear option. 4 Once again, nuclear power appeared to be a magical panacea to secure energy supplies and make the stuck economy move again. Brushing off the consensus-oriented recommendations of the parliamentary Enquete Commission and the residual energy philosophy of the coalition parties, Chancellor Schmidt demanded the annoying "investment jam" (Investitionsstau) in the nuclear power sector be removed. Through easing the waste disposal bottleneck, opting for a new round of nuclear expansion, and streamlining the licensing process, the political blockade of nuclear power could be overcome (E. Ziegler 1982).

OVERCOMING THE WASTE DISPOSAL IMPASSE

In the United States, obstinate state governments became a major obstacle to the solution of the nuclear waste problem. In West Germany, too, the refusal by the state government of Lower Saxony to license the integrated waste treatment center at Gorleben had left the back end of the nuclear fuel cycle in disarray. Nevertheless, the system of "interlocking politics" (Politikverflechtung)—in which compromise seeking

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among different levels of government, rather than open conflict, is the norm—eventually prevailed (Katzenstein 1987, 361). In late 1979, the states and the federal government agreed on a new waste disposal concept, which swiftly went into effect. According to the new principles, the three components of Entsorgung (temporary waste storage, reprocessing, and final waste burial) were to be taken care of in separate facilities rather than in a single one, as previously planned. In a concession to the nuclear expert critics, a final decision over reprocessing was postponed until 1985, and the alternative method of direct waste burial without reprocessing was to be explored in the meantime—a model case of parallel opinion that underlined the discursive gains of the nuclear opposition.5 The new rules also eased the conditions in which new construction licenses could be obtained. It became sufficient if the applicant could guarantee six years of safe interim storage of nuclear waste. Now that the new principles of Entsorgung were furnished with a detailed timetable, the major obstacle to the lifting of the court-ordered construction moratorium had been removed. In 1980, the Lüneburg Court promptly revoked the construction ban at Brokdorf. A crucial step toward the normalization of nuclear power had been taken. Whereas in 1981 acute storage impasses had threatened the operation of several plants, two years later an industry spokesperson noted with relief that "the waste disposal stress has clearly lessened."6

A NEW E N E R G Y P R O G R A M

The lack of strong political leadership was a crucial factor in the decline of U.S. nuclear power. By contrast, with the Third Energy Program of 1981 the West German federal government symbolically reaffirmed nuclear power's pivotal role in the national energy future. Whereas the Second Energy Program of 1977, passed in the turmoil of the Brokdorf and Grohnde demonstrations, had emphasized conservation and coal, the new program thrived on a mindset that found "a future without nuclear energy unthinkable." 7 Based on the rather optimistic expectation that the economy would continue to grow by an annual average of 3 percent until 1995, the nuclear share in the total energy supply was to increase from the 4 percent obtained in 1981 to 17 percent in 1995. This implied that within five years the nuclear capacity then operating or under construction would have to be more than doubled. Fourteen new plants by 1995—this was the federal government's answer to restoring the nuclear option after the second oil crisis.8

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To be sure, like the previous energy programs, the new program was anti-interventionist, making market and price the final arbiter. The program followed the double strategy of increasing the nuclear share where it was cheapest (in the base load of electricity generation) and using electricity as a substitute for oil in the heating market. 9 In the face of stagnating energy demand, and with the first signs of overcapacities in electricity generation already visible, the intrusion of electricity into the heating market was one of the few avenues left to justify the new push for nuclear power. 1 0 As a leading nuclear critic characterized the Third Energy Program, "The selective hunger for electricity has replaced the general hunger for energy in the earlier programs" (Traube 1981, 6 6 80). Reflecting the shrinking market for energy, the nuclear slogan "Energy for growth" gave way to "Cheap electricity."

STREAMLINING THE LICENSING PROCESS

The licensing reform that failed to materialize for U.S. nuclear power did appear in West Germany. The new emphasis on cheap electricity required putting an end to the recent escalation of nuclear construction costs. Because the hands-off approach confined the federal government to only peripheral adjustments, the reform of the nuclear licensing process became the major political means to realize the ambitious goals of the Third Energy Program. The politicization of nuclear power had turned the licensing process into a major obstacle for the industry. The average construction time had increased from five to ten years (see also Appendix B, Table A-3). Anticipating administrative court scrutiny, licensing authorities had imposed an array of new regulations and post hoc design changes. The resulting cost overruns for the ten nuclear plants ordered between 1973 and 1975 (the heyday of the German nuclear bandwagon) were estimated at 20 billion deutsche marks. 1 1 Given the shrinking cost advantage of nuclear over coal and oil, the shortening of the licensing process had become an urgent need. Worked out in close cooperation among the federal government, state governments, and the nuclear industry, the licensing reform went into effect in May 1982 (German Bundesregierung 1982). The double thrust of the new rules was to restrict public participation in the late stages of the licensing process and to standardize plant designs and regulatory examinations. Much envied by the U.S. industry, where standardized plant designs could never take hold, the so-called convoy concept eliminated

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the need for plant designs to be reviewed individually.12 In summer 1982, the first three convoy permits were issued. They also happened to be the first nuclear construction permits since 1977. The political and regulatory deadlock had apparently been overcome. At a national meeting in June 1983, the nuclear industry noted with relief that the licensing process had become "controllable." 13 By 1985, the first three convoy projects were proceeding according to schedule and were expected to go on line within three years—without delays and at greatly reduced costs. 14 These measures indicate that at a critical juncture West German nuclear power received strong government support. The technology that had been so heavily contested in the 1970s finally seemed to be heading toward normalization.15 How could this happen? As an industry leader admits, "Shifts in the priorities of public discussion" had facilitated this outcome (Beckurts 1985, 23). The imminent NATO deployment of a new generation of nuclear weapons preoccupied the political debate at the time, and the nuclear energy opposition trailed in the shadow of the new peace movement. Moreover, between 1983 and 1984 acid rain and forest decay (Waldsterben) had become the predominant ecological concerns (Leonhart 1986, 249). Clean nuclear power suddenly appeared as an environmentally benign energy source. The celebration of normalization was disturbed by new problems, however. First, high nuclear construction costs and a shrinking energy market severely curtailed the expansive thrust of the Third Energy Program. Second, the relentless pursuit by the new CDU/FDP coalition government of fuel reprocessing and fast-breeder technology kept the nuclear controversy alive, stirring the specter of the coming plutonium economy. Critical experts played a prominent role in shifting the nuclear debate toward the dismal economy of nuclear power and the risks of plutonium.

COST ESCALATION AND THE FALTERING MARKET FOR ENERGY

Even though the political deadlock had been overcome, nuclear power came under attack at the economic front (Wolf 1985, 5 8 - 6 9 ; MiillerBrandeck 1986, 308—312). The comparison between alternative energy systems, pioneered by the Enquete Commission and the Eco-Institute, had moved the nuclear expert debate away from the ecology versus economy dichotomy and toward the alleged cost advantage of nuclear power,

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so far the strongest trump card of the pronuclear side. While the public controversy calmed down in the early 1980s, the expert debate over costs switched to high gear (Radkau 1987, 3 2 4 - 3 2 9 ) . Klaus Traube, a nuclear-manager-turned-critic, was the first to pluck to pieces the myth of cheap nuclear electricity, exposing a history of early dumping prices, misinformation, and self-deception in the nuclear industry (Traube and Ullrich 1982). A widely recognized study by the Freiburg Eco-Institute continued the economic attack by showing that nuclear power was more expensive than its archrival, hard coal (Franke and Viefhüs 1983). The institute concluded that electricity from nuclear plants ordered in 1983 would cost at least 60 percent more than coal-generated power. An economic case for ordering additional nuclear plants in West Germany no longer existed. 16 In retrospect, the comparative cost debate appears fictitious because the faltering energy market and glaring overcapacities did enough to destroy the expansive fantasies of the Third Energy Program. In 1982, overcapacities in electricity generation amounted to 50 percent, whereas only 20 percent were technically required. 1 7 Adding in that a wash of cheap oil and gas supplies had obstructed the nuclear invasion into the heating market, critical observers registered a total "withdrawal at the nuclear front." 1 8 Since the three convoy projects of 1982, no new constructions have occurred in West Germany. As a result of the shrinking energy market, plans for nine more plants were indefinitely postponed. The Third Energy Program was the last official energy program to be developed by a federal government. But in late 1984, the C D U / F D P coalition government tacitly adjusted to the tightened market by expecting that only a 24 gigawatt nuclear capacity would be operating by the 1990s—this is almost 40 percent below the 1981 projection (Schiffer 1985). 1 9 To be sure, in comparison with the United States, the economic problems of West German nuclear power appear rather minor. Higher domestic coal prices, better utility management, and less dependence on external capital kept the nuclear utilities in good financial health (Krämer 1984). Utility regulation, though handled also at the state level, escaped politicization because the public had no institutional access. Moreover, partial public ownership made the states less adverse and more committed to the financial health of regulated utilities. 20 Even where dissenting state governments tried to venture alternative energy strategies, the constraints of interlocking politics and the inexorable party dictate easily got them back in line. 21

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THE MARCH INTO THE PLUTONIUM ECONOMY

Of all aspects of the West German nuclear program, the plutonium technologies of fast-breeder reactor and fuel reprocessing have been the most heavily contested. And nowhere have the official recognition and institutional incorporation of critical expertise been more pronounced. The fast-breeder reactor in particular was a test arena for the Social Democratic dialogue with the nuclear opposition from early on (Matthöfer 1977a)—a luxury made possible by the low involvement of the industry, the high technological risk, and the wide planning horizon (Radkau 1987, 3 2 0 - 3 2 4 ) . One of the major tasks of the Enquete Commission had been to evaluate the risks of the fast-breeder reactor. The commission sponsored an independent risk study by a group of breeder critics (Forschungsgruppe Schneller Brüter), whose bleak results helped to turn the SPD against this precarious technology (Kollert et al. 1983). 2 2 Even though the recommendation to stop the Kalkar fast-breeder project was rejected by the new CDU/FDP Bundestag majority in late 1982, the institutional advances of the nuclear expert opposition were all the more evident. The plutonium debate intensified in the mid-1980s, when the new CDU/FDP government committed itself to a speedy completion of the Kalkar project and to the construction of a reprocessing facility. After its national party convention in 1984, the oppositional SPD turned against both projects, causing a complete reshuffle of the fault lines in the nuclear debate. Influenced by the shift in the nuclear debate toward economic issues, plutonium opponents argued that in a time of shrinking light-water capacities and falling uranium prices, there was little need for commercial plutonium and the costs were prohibitively high (Traube 1984; Viefhüs 1985). But the major target of the plutonium opposition were the societal implications of a developed plutonium economy. In the 1970s, Robert Jungk (1979) had already warned that the safeguarding of plutonium threatened the substance of a liberal democracy. Jungk's polemical notion of the nuclear state (Atomstaat) found wide resonance in a country where the state often appeared as the corporate opponent of dissenting citizens. But what could be easily dismissed as the sectarian fantasy of a radical fringe in the 1970s found official respectability in the 1980s. The Enquete Commission pioneered an evaluation of alternative energy systems not only with respect to safety and cost but also with respect to the new criterion of Sozialverträglichkeit—the compatibility of energy sys-

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tems with the social fabric (Meyer-Abich and Dickler 1982, 253). A commission-sponsored case study of the complex security devices and behavioral restrictions required for the control of plutonium concluded that, from the standpoint of social acceptability, breeder and reprocessing should be immediately abandoned (Rossnagel 1983). The notion of the nuclear Leviathan was no longer confined to the imagery of a marginal movement. It had achieved official legitimacy and now fed the general uneasiness about the exuberant growth of state control over society.23 STRAINED SURVIVAL: THE ANTINUCLEAR M O V E M E N T IN THE 1980S The continuing political relevance and reinforced expansion of nuclear power in the early 1980s provided sufficient external incentives for the maintenance of the antinuclear movement in West Germany. Nevertheless, this second mobilization cycle occurred under difficult conditions. The critique of nuclear power was no longer confined to the movement—the rural and urban citizen groups that had emerged in the protest cycle from Wyhl to Gorleben. This critique was now fairly institutionalized. The Greens and sizable sections of the SPD represented antinuclear positions within the party system, the Enquete Commission had carried them into the federal parliament, and organizations such as the Freiburg Institute for Ecology had become strongholds of counterexpertise that lent academic respectability to the critique of nuclear power. In addition to this diversification of actors and conflict arenas, the nuclear power issue no longer represented the ecology-economy cleavage and was overshadowed by other themes and conflicts. New ecological themes, such as chemical pollution of air and water and the dramatic withering of the forest because of acid rain, superseded the primacy of the nuclear power issue. Antistate sentiments found new rallying points in the violent conflict over the expansion of Frankfurt Airport and in the Berlin squatters' movement (Jahn 1984; Eckert and Willems 1986). The single most important issue challenge, finally, came from the meteoric rise of the new peace movement, the broadest mass movement ever to appear in West Germany. As a result, the antinuclear movement lost its dominant position in the social movement sector. Against the "integrated" Green Party and the "statist" peace movement, the marginalized antinuclear movement stressed its autonomous antistatism and increasingly isolated itself from the political mainstream.

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Institutionalization bred new militancy, which was directed as much against the accommodating tendencies of Green politics as against the detested institutions of state and society that nuclear power, now as before, symbolized. RESPONDING TO THE PEACE MOVEMENT

Not only in the United States but also in West Germany the nuclear energy issue was eclipsed by new public concerns about nuclear war in the early 1980s. The Soviet invasion of Afghanistan and the aggressive anticommunism of the incoming Reagan administration indicated that détente had given way to a revived cold war mentality in the geopolitical sphere. Against this backdrop, the 1979 NATO decision to deploy a new generation of middle-range nuclear missiles in Western Europe was perceived by many as a fateful step toward nuclear war. At its national convention in December 1979, the ruling SPD supported the policy of nuclear rearmament. In reaction to the apparent breakdown of détente, a huge peace movement swept the Federal Republic (Rochon 1988; Wasmuth 1987; Mushaben 1985). Between 1981 and 1984, the peace movement became the paramount social movement in West Germany, passing through the successive stages of public campaigning, mass demonstrations, and civil disobedience. 24 Angst and Uberleben (survival) were the two key words of the time— free-floating cultural motives that had also influenced the earlier nuclear power protests but now found a climax in the new peace movement (Hoffmann-Axthelm and Knödler-Bunte 1982). By October 1981, questions of war, peace, and rearmament had emerged as a pivotal public concern second only to questions related to the severe economic crisis of the time. A majority of West Germans opposed the stationing of new nuclear weapons and thus supported the main goal of the peace movement (Leinemann 1982, 1 4 5 - 1 9 2 ) . Compared to its American counterpart, however, the West German antinuclear movement was better equipped to meet the peace movement challenge. In the American case, the propensity to address the technopolitical links between nuclear weapons and nuclear energy had planted a virus within the nuclear energy opposition that then facilitated the fatal issue shift from energy to weapons. In the West German case, weapons and power issues had always been treated separately. Since the Paris Treaties of 1954, through which the defeated country regained political sovereignty, the Federal Republic has been obliged not to build or own a

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nuclear strike force. The official renunciation of nuclear weapons, which was reaffirmed with the signing of the International Non-Proliferation Treaty in 1969, initially kept the nuclear energy opposition from thematizing the potential military implications of civilian nuclear power. Until the mid-1980s, there was no West German equivalent to the proliferation debate that had motivated the Carter administration to ban commercial plutonium reprocessing in the United States. When the weapons issue rose to public prominence in the early 1980s, the public perceived the latter in terms sufficiently distinct from the energy issue so as not to undermine the identity of the related protest movement. Because of the initially underdeveloped expert discourse, it was not the technical aspect of nuclear technology per se but rather its diffuse threat to the integrity of the environment and social life that had sparked the controversy in West Germany. Accordingly, eventual points of contact between the antinuclear movement and the peace movement did not result from the perception of some intrinsic linkage between the military and civilian aspects of nuclear power. Instead, both movements converged where the concrete deployment of nuclear technology, civilian or military, was perceived as an immediate threat to the natural and social environment. In this perspective, nuclear plants and nuclear weapons are only examples of the more general category of large-scale technologies and their disruptive impact on concrete life worlds, or Lebensräume (Müller 1982). The mingling of ecology and peace became known as the "eco-pax" phenomenon (Kelly and Leinen 1982). As Petra Kelly outlines the similarity between the peace and ecology movements, "Both are survival movements to avert the global catastrophe" (p. 11). Eco-pax, which went along with a firm commitment to nonviolence, deeply influenced the Green Party and also attracted the moderate wing of the antinuclear movement. The federal BBU built bridges to the rising peace movement from early on. In October 1979, the BBU and the pacifist German Peace Association held a joint conference on "Ecology and Peace." The BBU soon became a central mouthpiece of the new peace movement, thus abandoning its previous emphasis on the nuclear energy issue. Along with BBU went major parts of the grass roots, especially those that advocated strict nonviolence.25 Despite partial overlaps between the ecology and peace perspectives, the antinuclear movement and the peace movement remained separate organizationally and ideologically. The peace movement was distinguished by its broad basis of support, which included wide sections of

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the SPD, the trade unions, and the Evangelical Protestant church (Knorr 1 9 8 3 , 166—221). To be sure, there were tensions between the pragmatic national leadership and the more radical grass roots (Mushaben 1 9 8 9 ) . But the peace movement still limited its action repertory to symbolic appeals, demonstrations, and moral acts of civil disobedience. T h e peace movement firmly rejected the calculated use of violence, which set it apart from the militant groups in the antinuclear movement. W h e n the latter tried to build an alliance with direct-action-oriented peace groups, this attempt was wrecked by disagreements over the question of violence. 2 6 In contrast to the peace movement's strict commitment to nonviolence, the antinuclear movement always approached the question of violence as one of mere tactics and opportunity. T h e more the antinuclear movement trailed in the backwater of the new peace movement, the more desperate became its attempt to distinguish its uncompromising antistatism from the "state-maintaining" and " r e f o r m i s t " peace movement.

RESPONDING TO THE GREEN PARTY Even more pronounced was the antinuclear movement's attempt to set itself apart from the Green Party, which since the early 1 9 8 0 s has become a stable factor in the political life of West Germany. Because the history of the Greens goes back to the nuclear power controversy of the 1 9 7 0 s , the demand for a nuclear moratorium has always been an essential part of its platform (Green Party 1 9 8 0 , 1 0 ) . As demonstrated in chapter 5 , the Greens tended to absorb the moderate movement factions, thus leaving the antistatist movement forces in the leadership role. T h e ambiguous relationship between movement and party, which oscillated between attraction and repulsion, continued throughout the process of party consolidation. Eventually, the Greens did not institutionalize the movement, as the conventional life-cycle metaphor would suggest. Instead, the very existence of the Greens inadvertently helped transform the remaining movement from an extra- into an antiparliamentary force. T h e more the Greens established themselves in the political system, the louder grew the voices of those who denounced the party's willingness to abide by the rules of representative democracy and who wanted to save the purity of the movement by breaking off all contact with the Greens. This movement faction, which responded to the rise of the Greens by stressing its own uncompromising antistatism, now became known as

autonom (autonomous). A movement activist characterizes this position

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as follows: "The Greens can never be the prolonged arm of the antinuclear movement. This is because we are not extra-parliamentary, but anti-parliamentary. More than just opposing the nuclear program, we stand for antistatist ideas of violent resistance, anarchy, and autonomy. Cooperating with the Greens means affirming the state's monopoly of force, and this is out of the question for us." 27 The relationship between movement and party became further aggravated by the fact that the Greens embraced and actively supported the shift from the nuclear energy to the peace issue. In early 1984, the Gorleben Citizen Group complained in an "Appeal to the Greens" that "the Greens no longer address the risks of nuclear technology, since they are now preoccupied with elections and peace activities." 28 Internal developments in the Green Party heightened the tensions with the antinuclear movement. In 1982, the SPD and the Greens won nominal majorities in the state elections of Hamburg and Hesse. For the first time, the Greens were confronted with the possibility of forming a coalition government with the Social Democrats. The question of government participation split the party into two opposing camps. On the one hand, the realist (realo) faction was in favor of coalitions with the SPD, thus steering the Greens into the direction of a left-wing reform party. On the other hand, the fundamentalist (fundi) faction resisted government participation and tried to maintain the rebellious and antiinstitutional air of the social movements from which the party had risen (see Kluge 1984; Murphy and Roth 1987). In the state of Hesse, the realo Greens eventually prevailed, first tolerating a SPD minority government and finally forming a government coalition with the SPD. Tolerating or even participating in state power meant acknowledging the status quo against which the antinuclear and ecology movements of the late 1970s had rebelled so impetuously. In the case of Hesse, the price to be paid for government participation was to put up with the operation of two nuclear reactors at Biblis, actually the flagships of the German nuclear industry. A movement activist clearly realizes the different logics of movement and party: "A party must think strategically. If a compromise with the SPD helps the prevention of some nuclear projects or unnecessary freeways and brings us some youth centers or women's shelters, it would be foolish to jeopardize these opportunities by insisting on a total nuclear moratorium." 2 9 Moving toward the SPD implied the necessity of compromising on certain issues and of abandoning the movement goal of a total nuclear moratorium. Eventually, the coalition government between the Greens

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and the SPD in Hesse was shattered by disagreements over the licensing of a scandal-ridden nuclear fuel factory at Hanau. 30 Even for the realo Greens, the nuclear issue was the one for which the range of compromise was rather limited (Tolmein 1986; Fischer 1987). In the end, neither the Greens nor the antinuclear movement could afford to break their ties completely; the Greens, because they drew their legitimacy from the representation of grass-roots concerns, and the movement, because it benefited from the symbolic and material resources provided by the Greens.

M O B I L I Z A T I O N CRISIS

The political push for nuclear power in the early 1980s occurred almost invisibly. The 1977—1982 de facto moratorium had weakened the public preeminence of the nuclear issue. Other ecological conflict themes had taken the lead, and the peace movement and the Greens overshadowed the antinuclear movement. The situation was paradoxical. On the one hand, the political revival of the nuclear option provided new targets of mobilization. On the other hand, the energy issue was no longer the great unifier of the ecological protest scene. Accordingly, the new round of antinuclear mobilization took place under aggravated conditions. The resumption of construction work at Brokdorf in 1981, which symbolized the end of nuclear power's political blockade, was answered by one of the largest antinuclear mass rallies ever mounted. But the symptoms of marginalization were already visible. Since the paralyzing end of the Free Republic of Wendland at Gorleben in Summer 1980, the strategy of nonviolence had been heavily contested, if not discredited.31 At Brokdorf, the old symbol of the militant Left, the radical movement factions were back in charge. The KB-dominated BUU/Hamburg (1981, 7) announced its intention to "turn the construction site into a meadow," adding that "no form of resistance should be excluded." This was an unconcealed call for a violent site occupation. An outside observer of one of the preparatory meetings found that "the issue was not the pros and cons of nuclear power, but the pocket-mirrors every participant should carry to 'blind the cops.' " 3 2 Given the aimless and confused course of the mass rally, which was attended by more than one hundred thousand people and ended in violent confrontations with the police, an American participant commented with obvious irritation (Kennedy 1981, 10): "Why have these thousands of impetuous and disoriented juveniles been left alone by parties, churches, and the rest of society? Isolated from state

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and society, the demonstrators and the police were free to dispense with the civility of normal life, and they had to clash in violence." No description of the antinuclear movement in the 1980s could have been more precise.33 The Brokdorf rally in 1981 was a turning point: it terminally ousted the moderate movement wing around the federal BBU and reinstated the hegemony of the militant Left. An important factor was that during the demonstration, BBU leader Jo Leinen had negotiated with the police, thus evoking furious allegations of treason and police collaboration. Outraged by Leinen's rather harmless but symbolic mediation effort, many antinuclear groups left the BBU. "Container Jo"—as Leinen was henceforth disparagingly called because he had directed the demonstrators through a police cordon while positioned on a sand container— became the bête noire of the movement. Container Jo symbolized the abhorred "Social Democratization" of nuclear protest.34 The BBU, which had gravitated toward the new peace issue in any case, was no longer a key player in the antinuclear movement.35 At the national movement conference in November 1982, the BBU was notably absent—but so were the Greens and the nonviolent Gewaltfreie Aktion. 36 Conference participants celebrated the radicalization of the movement since Brokdorf 1981 but also noticed their increasing isolation. One observer adequately summarized the situation: "The antinuclear movement has more and more withdrawn from the political mainstream." 37 These were most unfavorable conditions for an adequate response to the political offensive of the nuclear industry. The symptoms of crisis were apparent. Between 1982 and 1984, the mobilization peak of the new peace movement, the antinuclear movement became almost invisible.38 Its actionist thrust had left the movement with only a loose organizational infrastructure.39 The lack of an organizational apparatus deprived the movement of any means to influence the public discussion and to counteract the issue decline. The BBU and the Greens disposed of such resources, but they were either discredited in the movement or primarily engaged in peace and other ecological issues. When the thunder of Brokdorf 1981 had calmed rather quickly, the movement journal Atom-Express gloomily concluded that "the federal government has launched the new nuclear program without any significant reaction from our side." 40 The fabrication of an energy brochure represented the major movement attempt to reverse the issue decline.41 The project dragged on for

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several years, hindered by a general lack of interest and efficient organization. Designed as a "discursive offensive to the propaganda of the nuclear lobby," the project failed miserably. The Greens' refusal to lend financial support was received with the bitter remark that "the Greens have lost their interest in the antinuclear movement, while being preoccupied with the media-courted peace movement." 4 2 In 1 9 8 5 , the "movement's stepchild" was officially buried. 43 The only serious attempt to intervene into the substantive discussion on energy policy and to reach out to the public in a discursive campaign had failed. Waste and fuel cycle issues provided the only incentives for renewed mobilization. The nuclear policy reforms of the early 1 9 8 0 s had aimed at closing the back end of the fuel cycle through the installation of waste storage and reprocessing facilities. At each of the proposed sites new citizen initiatives sprang up in response. Beginning in late 1 9 8 2 , these new groups became coordinated in the nationwide Nuclear Waste Conference (Atommullkonferenz). 4 4 Instead of being action oriented, the waste conference aimed at exchanging technical and legal information. Whereas the radical movement mainstream abstained from alliances with the Greens and the peace movement, the waste conference groups reached out for external support. The more the plans for a fuel reprocessing facility matured, the more pronounced became the attempts to emphasize the military implications of reprocessing so as to capitalize on the mobilization peak of the peace movement (Schelb 1 9 8 8 ) . In early 1 9 8 4 , the Gorleben Citizen Group even borrowed from the peace movement's repertory of purely symbolic action and scored a surprising media success. 45 The radical movement mainstream rightly perceived the Nuclear Waste Conference as a deviation from the "traditional" movement spectrum. 4 6 But the distinctions gradually blurred. Those local citizen groups that had survived the challenge by the Greens and the peace movement could no longer afford to engage in costly rituals of distancing themselves from militancy. Gorleben, the most vital area of regional mobilization, is a case in point. At Gorleben, the public decline of the nuclear issue and the absence of success worsened the local climate of conflict. When in 1 9 8 3 the state government of Lower Saxony temporarily considered the construction of a reprocessing facility in nearby Dragahn, the local protest became more militant. The Gorleben Citizen Group abandoned its previous distance from violence and sabotage. A local movement leader describes the new situation:

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After the Dragahn announcement, our morale broke down. In the media, but also in the social movement scene, Gorleben was no longer a theme—the peace movement attracted all attention. We felt isolated. Now it became possible that different forms of resistance coexisted, which neither tutored nor commented on one another. While the Citizen Group made clear that it did not actively promote violent forms of resistance, it also emphasized that in the last instance the state government was to be held responsible. There was more than secret sympathy and joy when the right construction firm was set on fire.47

During the mobilization crisis, even the Gorleben movement embarked on the precarious course of militancy and confrontation.

A NEW TARGET: THE P L U T O N I U M E C O N O M Y

In early 1985, the CDU/FDP government decided to build a fuel reprocessing facility near the Bavarian village of Wackersdorf, thus taking the final step into the plutonium economy. This provided the faltering antinuclear movement with a new target of national mobilization. In fact, the political context had never been more favorable. In contrast to the staunch interest coalition behind the light-water program, the institutional support for the plutonium economy with fuel reprocessing was feeble, to say the least. The SPD opposed the project, as did a broad front of critical experts affiliated with the Enquete Commission; the electric utilities were less than enthusiastic because of high costs and lacking profitability; and the pronuclear steadfastness of the trade unions had meanwhile diminished because of a severe crisis in the domestic coalmining industry. By 1984, it had also become apparent that the peace movement would fail to prevent the NATO rearmament. The peace movement's rapid decline left a vacuum in which the antinuclear movement could cautiously reassert itself. The Green Party decided to make resistance against the Wackersdorf project the "test case of Green mobilization capability." 48 A nationwide mass rally at Munich in October 1985 confirmed the upswing of the movement and the breadth of the antireprocessing alliance: fifty thousand people followed the demonstration call, which had been issued jointly by the SPD, the DGB, church groups, the Federal Council for Environmental Protection (BUND), the Green Party, and the antinuclear movement. 49 Despite these strong support structures, the local conflict took a course well known since the 1970s (Kretschmer 1988; Arens, Seitz, and Wille 1987; Kretschmer and Rucht 1987; Braczyk 1986). The breadth of

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the antiplutonium coalition mattered little because the latter remained divided over questions of ideology and strategy. After the Munich rally, the Bavarian SPD and the moderate BUND withdrew from the steering committee of the Wackersdorf opposition, anxious to dissociate themselves from the radical movement. 50 In fact, the national movement groups had found in Wackersdorf a new regional target of concentrated mobilization, thus shifting the focus of attention from the high north to the deep south of the FRG. Moreover, the ultraconservative CSU government of Bavaria pushed the project with unprecedented rigor and sought to contain any resistance by authoritarian means. To speed the licensing process, legal rules were changed, the veto power of district governments was curtailed, and the lower administrative court was simply excluded from the process. The unrelenting disregard for local citizen concerns, proudly defended by the state government as the "Bavarian line," turned one of the most conservative and economically underdeveloped regions of the Federal Republic into a hotbed of resistance. With six thousand duespaying members by 1987, the Schwandorf Citizen Initiative became one of the biggest antinuclear citizen groups in West Germany. Embittered by the singular unresponsiveness of the state government, the initially conservative Citizen Initiative soon abandoned its primary orientation to legal strategies. As a local citizen activist summarized the conflict escalation, "The trust in democracy and Rechtsstaat has been destroyed, leaving only impotent rage." 51 At tumultuous mass rallies, paramilitary police forces launched helicopter attacks with poisonous chemical gas even against peaceful demonstrators—what a high-ranking SPD politician found "reminiscent of state terrorism." 52 So obvious was the contempt of the Bavarian state government for its dissenting citizens that the local opposition openly declared its solidarity with the militant movement constituencies-building an unlikely "alliance of the grey- and longhaired" that had never been seen before in the West German nuclear controversy. 53

AFTER CHERNOBYL: THE END OF NORMALIZATION In 1985, one year before the most serious accident in the history of civilian nuclear power, "Normalization of the Peaceful Use of Nuclear Energy" had been the title of an industry-sponsored expert symposium (Birkhofer and Lukes 1985). After Chernobyl, as the SPD chair HansJochen Vogel (1986) said, "Nothing is as it was before." The West

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German nuclear power sector suffered its Harrisburg, and the process of normalization came to an abrupt end. Never before had the potential risks of nuclear power been experienced more directly by the population. T h e worst-case scenario, which the official risk assessments had relegated to the realm of improbability, became reality (Radkau 1 9 8 6 ) . When the radioactive fallout from the Chernobyl accident reached the F R G in late April 1 9 8 6 , it found political leaders and the public completely unprepared. T h e resulting turmoil and public confusion were unprecedented in the history of the Federal Republic (H. Hirsch 1 9 8 6 ; Traube et al. 1 9 8 6 ) . It became painfully clear to most that nuclear power had transformed society into an "experimental field for complex technologies," where accidents functioned as "implicit experiments" (Krohn and Weingart 1 9 8 6 ) . T h e inability of political authorities to respond more effectively to the invisible threat was considered by many a gruesome demonstration that this technology was impossible to control. T h e radioactive fallout caused a severe political crisis. While the federal government still denied that any acute health risks existed for the population, several state and county governments issued emergency decrees, barred the sale of fresh food, and recommended that people stay indoors. Each state established different tolerance levels of radiation, thus heightening the general confusion. A true informational chaos reigned for several weeks—politicians and experts at odds in their evaluation of the situation and unable to calm the public hysteria. T h e political authorities failed to deliver what was needed most in view of the invisible threat: credible outside information. To be sure, the interpretative struggle over tolerance levels and health risks was an eminently political one (Beck 1 9 8 7 ) . T h e federal government and its expert bodies, such as the Radiation Protection Commission, tried to minimize the impact of the accident to prevent what eventually could not be prevented: the questioning of domestic nuclear power.

PUBLIC OPINION BEFORE AND AFTER CHERNOBYL O n e of Chernobyl's m a j o r impacts was to turn the clear majority of West Germans against nuclear power. Before Chernobyl, the public support level in West Germany had been consistently higher than in the United States (see Table 7 - 1 ) . 5 4 Throughout the 1 9 7 0 s and 1 9 8 0 s , shrinking but stable majorities had favored the building of more nuclear power plants (Kiersch and Oppeln 1 9 8 3 , 7 0 - 1 0 5 ) . As Ortwin Renn ( 1 9 8 4 ) demon-

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TABLE 7 - 1 : P U B L I C O P P O S I T I O N TO BUILDING ADDITIONAL NUCLEAR POWER PLANTS ( P E R C E N T A G E )

West Germany United States

Before Chernobyl

After Chernobyl

46 67

83 78

SOURCE: Flavin (1987, 26). Note: Pre-Chernobyl figures are from polls taken between 1982 and 1986.

strates, widespread concerns about risk, even among nuclear supporters, were offset by the deeply held perception that nuclear power was indispensable for economic growth and prosperity. 55 In 1 9 8 0 , for instance, 6 2 percent of the public believed that nuclear power created long-term jobs, and only 17 percent did not agree (Peter et al. 1 9 8 6 , 92). In this regard, the attempt by state and industry to frame nuclear power as an economic necessity was remarkably successful. Moreover, the economic crisis of the West German nuclear industry was less severe than in the United States. The questioning of nuclear's cost advantage in the mid-1980s remained confined to a small elite of critical experts. The perception of a trade-off between economy and risk, which was so thoroughly shattered in the United States, prevailed in the West German public. This kept a small but persistent majority pronuclear (see Table 7-2). Against this backdrop, the change of public opinion after Chernobyl was all the more dramatic. For the first time, an overwhelming majority of the West German public opposed nuclear power. Whereas between 1 9 8 2 and 1 9 8 6 an average of 4 6 percent of the public had opposed the construction of additional nuclear plants, public opposition almost doubled after the accident. In December 1 9 8 6 , seven months after the accident, 75 percent of the public favored an instant or gradual nuclear moratorium (Peters et al. 1 9 8 7 , 7 7 0 ) . And there is no evidence that public opposition is waning (Hohenemser and Renn 1988). 5 6 Another important result of Chernobyl was that the public now put critical expertise on an equal footing with official pronuclear expertise. A survey by the Jülich Nuclear Research Center (which cannot be said to be antinuclear) found that almost half of the public did not trust the information given out by the federal government and the official nuclear research institutes. The center had to conclude grimly that, in com-

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TABLE 7 - Z : P U B L I C O P I N I O N B E F O R E AND AFTER CHERNOBYL ABOUT CONSTRUCTING N U C L E A R PLANTS ( P E R C E N T A G E ) Favor Building

Against Building

57 59 56 52 52

41 40 42 46 46

29 18 18

69

Before Chernobyl December 1 9 7 6 Mid-1977 April 1 9 8 0 October 1981 March 1 9 8 2

After Chernobyl May 6 - 8 , 1 9 8 6 June 1 9 8 6 August 1 9 8 6

82 80

Question: On the subject of nuclear energy, some say that we must build more nuclear plants if we are to preserve our prosperity. Others say that the risks are too great and that no new plants should be built. Which view do you agree with?

SOURCES: Survey Research Institute/Der Spiegel; Renn (1984, 207). Note: Question wording for mid-1977 and December 1976 was different but comparable.

parison with the established ones, the critical expert organizations, such as the Institute for Ecology, had gained "almost equal weight and credibility" in public opinion (Peters et al. 1 9 8 7 , 7 8 0 ) .

T H E MORATORIUM DEBATE

As the Green environmental minister in Hesse aptly summarized the impact of Chernobyl, " T h e demand for a nuclear moratorium is no longer confined to the green-alternative ghetto, but supported by the majority of the population." 5 7 Despite the preceding years of relative calm in the nuclear controversy, the critical expert discourse had so much advanced that it could n o w present the phaseout of nuclear energy as a feasible policy alternative. Only t w o weeks before the accident, the governmentsponsored Project on the Social Compatibility o f Energy Systems, an offshoot of the Enquete Commission, had published its startling conclusion that an alternative energy policy based on conservation and renewables was not only more compatible with the liberal-democratic order but was also cheaper and equally supportive of economic growth (Meyer-Abich

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and Schefold 19 8 6). 58 The report presented the current situation as a critical "juncture" (Verzweigungssituation) in which a definite choice for the nuclear or for the solar path had to be made. No discursive overture to Chernobyl could have been more topical. 59 Against the backdrop of a fully developed non-nuclear alternative in energy policy, the first concerns about health risks and radiation impacts immediately gave way to a political struggle over the future of domestic nuclear power. The federal government and the nuclear lobby tried to suppress this debate by downplaying the radiation impact and by referring to the high safety standards of West German LWRs (Deutsches Atomforum 1987b, 65). But, backed by the expert-proved feasibility of a nuclear moratorium, the voices calling for the phaseout of domestic nuclear power grew louder throughout the political parties, even within the ruling Christian Democrats. 60 The Greens were naturally the first to seize the initiative. Just two weeks after the accident, the Hesse Greens, which had formed a coalition government with the SPD, proposed a widely publicized moratorium scenario.61 It stated that an immediate shutdown of all currently operating nuclear plants was technically and ecologically feasible, at negligible economic costs. The Hesse Greens were actually in a precarious situation. Given the roots of the party, the demand for a nuclear moratorium had always been one of its most sacred principles. After the Chernobyl accident, however, the Hesse Greens were junior partner in a coalition government on whose territory two major nuclear reactors and a scandal-ridden nuclear fuel factory were still operating. The fundamentalist party majority and the revived antinuclear movement found this intolerable. At a national party convention in Hannover, the Greens gave out the pithy slogan "immediate phaseout, without negotiations," though granting the Hesse Greens a grace period of two years.62 The SPD soon followed in the steps of the Greens. Before Chernobyl, the SPD in opposition had turned against the FBR and fuel reprocessing. Now the party completed its antinuclear conversion by turning against the existing LWR program (Hauff 1986b). This was not without irony because nuclear power had been a cornerstone of the party's modernization policy since the early 1970s. Epitomizing the SPD's change of attitude, its leading energy expert found that Chernobyl offered the "historical chance to reinstate the primacy of politics over technology" (Hauff 1986a, 14). At its national convention in Nuremberg in August 1986, the party reaffirmed its rejection of the plutonium economy and proposed a phaseout of all nuclear plants within a ten-year period.

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Even the DGB joined in the antinuclear chorus. Nuclear overcapacities and the parallel shrinking of the domestic coal market had perforated the historical coal-nuclear alliance, which had kept the SPD pronuclear during the 1970s (Hallerbach 1978; Siegmann 1985). Nuclear power was increasingly perceived as a competitor of the labor-intensive coal-mining industry. After Chernobyl, the DGB complemented its previous rejection of fast breeder and reprocessing with a call to phase out the light-water program "as quickly as possible" (Schumann 1986; Geissler and Riegert 1988)." Never before had the critique of nuclear power gained more momentum in the political arena. Against the broad promoratorium coalition, backed by the mood of the public, the federal government under Chancellor Helmut Kohl had to resort to drastic measures of conflict containment. On the one hand, Kohl praised the high safety standards of West German plants, and he drew the bleak, and somewhat farfetched, scenario of "total economic pauperization and mass unemployment" that would result from a nuclear phaseout. 64 On the other hand, he symbolically appeased public concerns by creating, just one month after the accident, the Ministry for Environmental Protection and Reactor Safety. 65 But in a pattern that could already be observed in the post-TMI debate in the United States, public hysteria soon turned into apathy. The antinuclear mood did not significantly change political preference structures and voting behavior. One month after the Chernobyl accident, when observers expected a strong protest vote for the SPD and the Greens, the pronuclear CDU won the state elections in Lower Saxony, although by a thin margin. The "reality shock" of Chernobyl did not prove strong enough to furnish the SPD and the Greens with electoral majorities (Nolle-Neumann 1987). But this is also how far the nuclear opposition had advanced by the mid-1980s: a simple reversal of the parties in power could spell the end of the West German nuclear program.

O L D A N D NEW MOVEMENTS

Given a political environment broadly responsive to the demands of the antinuclear movement, conventional resource mobilization or political process approaches would predict a moderate and assimilative movement response. This, however, is not what happened. Instead, the movement resorted to a militant strategy of practical resistance and rejected coalition building with institutional actors. In line with the contex-

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tualized political process perspective, already existing movement structures and ideologies narrowed the perception of opportunities and the choice of strategies. Chernobyl fully exposed the paradoxical bifurcation between institutionalization and new militancy in the West German nuclear opposition. As the radical Gottingen Committee Against Nuclear Power put it aptly, "Chernobyl was the best thing that could ever happen to the antinuclear movement." 66 The nuclear issue no longer trailed in the shadow of other ecological protest themes. Propelled by an influx of new or reactivated participants, the movement was back on the offensive. Yet its antistatist disposition, which had become dominant in the preceding phase of marginalization, shaped the movement response. The renewed call for the immediate phaseout of nuclear power was backed by the strategic device that "the resistance must be militant, resolute, and boundless." 67 According to the Gottingen Committee, the present situation rendered obsolete the old debate on violence: "Considering the deadly threat, every form of resistance must be allowed. This is not the time to lead abstract discussions about the proper form of resistance." 68 The unanimous plea for militancy, which reflected the state of the movement in the 1980s, incited a dramatic episode of political violence. Instead of building a coalition with the Greens and SPD, the revitalized antinuclear movement espoused obstructionism and rejected any accommodation to the established rules of the political process. Not only did the movement not participate in the moratorium debate; it even helped to repress the latter by provoking a political debate over demonstration rights and the containment of mass violence. Rallies at Wackersdorf and Brokdorf, the symbol of the militant Left, turned into bloody confrontations with police forces, which were massively deployed to protect the sites.69 Despite the pluralization of the political context that had meanwhile occurred, a new spiral of conflict between state and movement evolved that was not altogether different from the one in the late 1970s. At Wackersdorf, the Bavarian police contributed to the escalation of violence by resorting to disproportionate measures, such as the use of chemical weapons. At Brokdorf, the Hamburg police acted with considerable brutality even against peaceful demonstrators (Rossnagel 1987, 179-180). The tough state response only reaffirmed the antistatist movement disposition and further lowered the threshold of violence. On the part of the movement, violence originated mainly from the so-called Autonome, anarchist groups that used the revitalized nuclear protest as a platform

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for antistate action. 70 Rooted in the hermetic youth subcultures of the urban ghettos, the Autonome first appeared in the early 1980s in the West Berlin squatters' movement and in the protests against the expansion of Frankfurt Airport (Eckert and Willems 1986). Although only few reliable case studies exist, the Autonome seem to draw most of their adherents from the juvenile "no future" generation of dropouts, students, and the unemployed (Manns andTreusch 1987). The Autonome despise organizational discipline and ideological dispute and usually act out their anger in a gray zone of adventurous mockery and violence. As a veteran antinuclear activist comments on his new allies, "The Autonome want to destroy the state without knowing what comes next." 71 At rallies they tend to appear in unison as the "black block" (.schwarzer Block), dressed ostentatiously in black leather; equipped with helmets, sticks, and slingshots; and faces hidden behind black masks. The Autonome were only loosely tied to the organizational structures of the antinuclear movement, and they rarely participated in the formal coordination of major activities. But they came to dominate the public image of the antinuclear movement after Chernobyl. A mobile shock troop of at most ten thousand activists, the Autonome showed up wherever a physical confrontation with the state apparatus was likely. They operated at the borderline of sabotage and political terrorism while rejecting direct attacks on human life.72 While the Autonome were clearly distinct from the core structures of the movement, the latter nevertheless considered them legitimate allies in the antinuclear struggle. This proved to be a momentous decision because it further isolated the movement from the Greens and the political mainstream. After Chernobyl, the open split between the antinuclear movement and the Green Party occurred. In an Open Letter, many prominent Greens and sympathetic bystanders called on the movement to abandon the path of violence and to separate from the rioting Autonome.73 The movement leadership, represented by the movement journal Atom and the Nuclear Waste Conference, bluntly rejected this alleged joint attempt by the Greens and the state to split the movement.74 As its leaders once more clarified their antistatist disposition, the movement refused to be "coopted" into the system, and it did not acknowledge the state's monopoly of force. It preferred to remain "dangerous and uncontrollable," to "increase the political price for the state and the atom mafia," and to attract new participants in an escalating spiral of conflict. According to this philosophy, violence always originates from the state.

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"We only react and don't feel obliged to the rules of the state, which are too narrow for our resistance." 75 The sectarian drive of the old antinuclear movement left it unable to articulate the post-Chernobyl grievances of the middle-class mainstream. The general confusion over health risks, radiation impacts, and appropriate nutrition, combined with a profound distrust of the responsible politicians and experts, stirred the formation of a multitude of new grass-roots initiatives. Mothers, as the "protectors of life," became the backbone of a new antinuclear movement that developed independently from the old movement structures. 76 Instead of seeking confrontation with the state, the new mother and parent initiatives engaged in practical counseling on radiation protection and appropriate nutrition. They performed independent radiation measurements with self-organized equipment, organized consumer boycotts, and mobilized the public through information campaigns and rallies. Although initially oriented to practical self-help against the radiation threat, the new groups soon joined in the demand for a domestic nuclear moratorium. Many dissolved when the immediate threat was over. Nevertheless, by March 1 9 8 9 several hundred of these groups were still alive and were even pursuing the federal coordination of their activities. 77 The radical drift of the old antinuclear movement produced a vacuum at the grass roots that was filled by the new post-Chernobyl initiatives. 78 In addition to the mother and parent initiatives, which also articulated a peculiar brand of feminism, a host of public campaigns and energyrelated grass-roots initiatives emerged. 79 In Bavaria, the campaign David Against Goliath gathered more than 8 8 0 , 0 0 0 signatures against the Wackersdorf reprocessing plant. 80 Its initiator intended to civilize and professionalize the antinuclear protest and to occupy the "political vacu u m " left by the radical movement. 81 At the local level, so-called energy change initiatives emerged that advocated the decentralization of energy supplies. Cooperating with the Greens and supported by the Institute for Ecology (Hennicke et al. 1985), these initiatives propagated the replacement of nuclear electricity by recommunalized energy supplies based on conservation and cogeneration. By July 1 9 8 7 , more than four hundred energy change initiatives had appeared throughout the Federal Republic. 82 Epitomizing the broad appeal and dialogue orientation of these new groups, their national Energy Change Congress in 1 9 8 9 was also attended by high representatives of the utility industry and by the federal minister for research and technology. 83 T h e new post-Chernobyl initiatives thrived on the institutional op-

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portunities provided by a pluralized political context. They had little in common with the militant old movement. As a close observer summarizes the difference between both, "The old movement opposes the state and thus opposes nuclear power; the new movement opposes nuclear power and thus opposes the state." 84 Despite some attempts to coordinate both movements, they tended to coexist in mutual disregard. At a national conference of the old movement, a rare representative of the new movement was appalled that "demonstrations dominate the agenda." 85 Conversely, an old movement activist scoffed that the new movement "feels especially 'affected' but is not really 'politicized.'" 86 Commenting on the disorientation and confusion prevailing in the old movement eighteen months after Chernobyl, a veteran activist gloomily predicted: "If there will be no open exchange and coordination between old and new movement, the antinuclear movement is doomed to decay into a marginalized protest scene." 87 This decay had already occurred by then. Even the radical Gottingen Committee had to concede that the post-Chernobyl strategy of militant resistance had turned out to be a failure. 88 All the important impulses toward a non-nuclear energy future now originated from within the political system. The fixation on direct protest became simply "anachronistic." 89 It promised little more than bloody noses in a fight against enemies that had long ago turned into windmills. CHERNOBYL AND SINCE Looking back at two decades of nuclear controversy, one is struck by the complete rupture that the West German nuclear program experienced in 1975, the year of the first Wyhl protests. Almost all projects started before that time could be eventually completed, though not without long struggles and delays. Hardly any project thereafter could be realized. Nevertheless by 1975 the nuclear program was so far developed that the country is today filled with two dozen reactors that produce almost 40 percent of the total electricity supply (Wagner 1989, 3 3 - 3 4 ) . When Chernobyl occurred, only four commercial reactors were still under construction, and no new plant orders seemed likely (Deutsches Atomforum 1987a, 24). Whereas Three Mile Island hit the U.S. nuclear industry in the midst of expansion, Chernobyl happened when the development of West German nuclear power had already been "essentially completed," as an industry spokesperson noted with relief (Barthelt 1987, 398-402).

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But ever since Chernobyl, the nuclear industry has been on the retreat. In the political system, an all-party consensus emerged to relegate nuclear power to a "transitional" energy source. Even the FDP, junior partner of the CDU in Bonn, decided in May 1 9 8 8 to tolerate nuclear power only as long as "all possible steps to abandon nuclear power in the future will be initiated as soon as possible." 90 In fact, behind the symbolic facade of strong government support, the secret expert insight had long transpired that nuclear power was not a new but an old technology. Throughout the 1980s, the focus of research and development had silently shifted away from nuclear power and toward microelectronics, communication technologies, and biogenetic engineering. 91 Light-water technology, marred by big risk, long lead times, high unit costs, and inflexible size, appeared more and more as a fossil leftover of a megalomaniacal industrial age. It became incompatible with the new political economy of flexible specialization, which was based on small, multipurpose, and environmentally benign production technologies—the ironic industry echo of the ecological small is beautiful credo a decade previously (Katzenstein 1989). 9 2 Half a decade after Chernobyl, the woes of the nuclear industry had even intensified, partly because of self-inflicted mishaps and partly because of new shifts in the political arena. In early 1 9 8 8 , the journalistic exposure of the worst corruption case in the history of West German nuclear power generated a scandal of international dimensions. 93 In the chillier post-Chernobyl winds, Environmental Minister Klaus Topfer responded with unprecedented rigor to what was dubbed "Urangate," quickly closing down the companies charged with the illegal handling of waste, tightening regulatory controls, and completely restructuring the disorderly front and back ends of the nuclear fuel cycle. N o w even the nuclear consensus in the ruling CDU began to crumble. Topfer himself could be heard gushing about a future without nuclear power. 9 4 Indicative of nuclear power's distressed state after Chernobyl, the utility industry resorted to a spectacular measure of conflict containment. In April 1 9 8 9 , it abandoned the contested reprocessing project at Wackersdorf and thus spelled the early end of the plutonium economy. This was a clever move. On the one hand, the project had become an unnecessary economic burden. The new plan to reprocess West German nuclear waste in the French La Hague promised to cut costs by almost 7 0 percent. Although presented to the federal government as an embarrassing fait accompli, the plan irresistibly played on the government's own melody of European integration. 95 On the other hand, the withdrawal of

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The Decline of the Movements

Wackersdorf provided "the chance to calm the nuclear controversy in West Germany," as a hopeful industry representative put it. 96 Abandoning the reprocessing project removed a major target for the antinuclear movement and represented a compromise offer to the electorally strengthened SPD and the Greens. T h e measure was an apparent attempt to shield the existing light-water program from further attacks. 9 7 If the national SPD sticks to its moratorium plea, the possible end of German nuclear power is only one election victory away. At the state level, recent electoral successes by the SPD and the Greens have further increased the institutional advances of the nuclear opposition. In Northrhine-Westphalia, the SPD-led state government consistently refused to license the F B R at Kalkar, eventually forcing the federal government to abandon the completed plant. The SPD of Schleswig-Holstein, known for its strong antinuclear stand since the mid-1970s, seized power in 1 9 8 7 and ever since has been trying all legal avenues to shut down the nuclear plants of the state, including the contested Brokdorf plant. 98 In the Saar, the ruling SPD is already practicing the communal energy change program advocated by the Institute for Ecology. 99 Finally, the recent election victory of an SPD/Green Party coalition in Lower Saxony made an avowed antinuclear Greenpeace activist environmental minister. 100 The new Red/Green government is committed to blocking the federal waste disposal project in Gorleben and to phasing out several nuclear reactors operating in the state. 101 As these cases demonstrate, a creeping nuclear moratorium is already under way at the state level. The institutional incorporation of the nuclear conflict has further relegated the antinuclear movement to the passive role of "stunned outside observers," as the frustrated Gottingen Committee complained. 1 0 2 Urangate was a media-exposed scandal to which the movement had nothing to contribute, and the swift government response left little room for substantial criticism. With Wackersdorf, the movement lost its major target of mobilization. The pending Europeanization of the nuclear sector may even remove the entire nuclear issue from the reach of a nationally operating movement. Institutional advances by the SPD and the Greens make any sustained collective mobilization from below appear redundant. As it slowly dawned on the Gottingen Committee " T h e message seems to be that the moratorium won't be decided in the streets but in the jungle of legal paragraphs, and that it won't originate from antinuclear activists but from experts and politicians." 1 0 3 And in an unusual moment of self-criticism, the Gottingen Committee went right to the root cause of its malaise: " M a y b e it was a mistake to understand

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ourselves more as an actionist than as a political movement, that we shunned compromise instead of looking out for allies, that we preached militancy instead of responding more flexibly to the given situation." 1 0 4 How big are the prospects of a second nuclear era in Germany? As in the United States, the greenhouse effect and acid rain have revived industry hopes of a second coming of German nuclear power, based on a smaller, inherently safe reactor design. 105 Moreover, German unification has somewhat eased the besieged state of the nuclear industry in the West. Compared with the shocking condition of the Soviet-designed East German nuclear plants, the West German plants now shine like marvels of safety and reliability. 106 In addition, the phaseout of East German coal plants, which have turned this small and highly industrialized country into one of the most polluted spots of Europe, is high on the agenda of the new German government. In the all-German context, nuclear power tamed by Western safety standards might suddenly become what its agents had always claimed it was: an environmental boon. But the obstacles are still considerable—a skeptical public, a strong institutional nuclear opposition, and a latent movement only waiting for a new cause.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Conclusion Rethinking the Political Process Perspective

In his angry attack on the twin rule of grand theory and abstracted empiricism in American sociology, C. W. Mills ( 1 9 5 9 , 6) invokes the force of sociological imagination to "grasp history and biography and the relations between the two within society." Mills's plea for a sociology that respects history and agency has not remained unheard. Much of the best new work in sociology is genuinely historical; it conceives of social structures and processes as mediated through agency and as concretely situated in time and place. 1 Sociology that respects history shuns theoretical monisms and opts for multifactorial perspectives instead. 2 In this regard, the present study follows a historical strategy. Respecting history does not mean abdicating theory. But instead of deploying theory as a prefabricated device, I have tried to build theory gradually by constantly comparing, fitting pieces of empirical evidence into a preliminary conceptual framework, and revising and modifying it many times. 3 Theory thus understood is perspective rather than logicodeductive framework, an assortment of sensitizing concepts rather than a closed system of variables. Instead of erecting and tearing down theoretical straw men, I have attempted to strike a balance between critiquing traditional theories and integrating insights from those same theories whenever they seemed appropriate for shedding light on empirical data. Opting for a multifactorial perspective does not mean playing the happy fiddle of "anything goes." The political process perspective that guided my comparison borrowed freely from traditional paradigms of social movement research, most notably from resource mobilization and 190

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collective behavior theory. But it did that to unravel the relationship between political structures and collective action and their variations across time and places. How do political structures shape social movements, and how do these movements recursively shape and transform the political context in which they occur? This was the research question underlying my comparison of the West German and American antinuclear movements. I used the political process perspective organizing this comparison to strike a balance between structure- and actorcentered variables and to highlight the interactions between states and movements and their trajectory over time. 4 It is now time to reconsider the core assumptions of this theoretical scheme. STATE STRUCTURE The key assumption of the political process perspective is that state structures shape the way societal interests get organized. 5 The pluralist configuration of the American state, with a "multiplicity of points of access" (Truman 1951,508), favors the prevalence of legal strategies and a pragmatic antinuclear movement style. Only in America are the boundaries between interest groups and social movements notoriously blurred (Berry 1984). The splintering of the antinuclear movement into a host of individual campaigns and leadership initiatives mirrored the fragmentation and decentralization of the American political system. By contrast, the initial closure of the West German state to interests that cross-cut the neocorporatist intermediation between state and society conditioned the early turn of the antinuclear movement to direct action. The West German state emerged as the corporate defender of the nuclear program, whose firm implementation was seen as indispensable for economic growth and democratic stability. No wonder the movement succumbed to a totalizing posture of antistatism. These different constellations are rooted in different histories of state building. The American state has historically been a "state of courts and parties" that lacked a strong executive (Skowronek 1982, 24—31). Early general suffrage, a society-driven industrialization, and the absence of a feudal legacy gave the American state the features of a parliamentary state that did not actively intervene in the management of economy and society. Even today, the distinct emphasis on versatile ex post facto regulation betrays the historical role of the American state as a peacekeeping, rather than a promotional, agent. As John Ikenberry (1988,51) confirms in his analysis of U.S. oil policies, "The American state is a

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continually transformed, internally differentiated area of conflict rather than an integrated institution." By contrast, the German state has historically been an executive state that was divorced from and superior to civil society and that, as a "late industrializer" (Gerschenkron 1962), functioned as the driving force of economic and societal modernization. In postwar West Germany the advent of federalism and parliamentary democracy did not completely extinguish the executive state legacy. After all, the selective state support for nuclear power in the 1970s occurred in the context of an active policy of economic modernization. Beyond that, the executive state is most visible as an all-penetrating bureaucratic apparatus that pervades and embraces every fiber of social life, from state-managed culture and education to myriad registration offices and subtle surveillance techniques—no move in this society is possible without bumping into the state. The executive state typically is not an arena of conflict but a corporate actor, one that the antinuclear movement experienced physically in the massive police forces shielding nuclear construction sites. We can sum up the different historical paths of state building by distinguishing, with Bertrand Badie and Pierre Birnbaum (1983, 103— 104), "between societies in which the state attempts to run the social system through a powerful bureaucracy and societies in which there is no need for a strong state because civil society is capable of organizing itself." And we can add with J. P. Nettl (1968, 581) that radical antisystem movements are more likely to appear in societies with strongly, rather than weakly, developed states because only the former offer a concentrated target of unified opposition. Although there is little doubt about the weakness of the American state, the classification of the West German state is more difficult. 6 In fact, the postwar West German state, characterized by federalism, parliamentarism, and a hands-off ideology of market liberalism, has often been called a "state without a center" (Smith 1989) or a "semisovereign state" (Katzenstein 1987). As John Zysman (1983, 297) notes, state strength as the generalized capacity to formulate and implement goals varies according to the concrete policy field. The West German state exposed its maximum strength and capacity to act unitedly in domestic security affairs. Whenever it saw the "free democratic order" (freiheitlichdemokratische Grundordnung) threatened by extremist groups and movements, the West German state struck back with unrelenting rigor. There is a continual line of the repression of dissent, from the prohibition of the KPD in the 1950s, the Radicals Decree and antiterror laws in the

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1970s, to the antidemonstration laws passed in the 1980s. Statism survived as the disposition of elites to conjure up the solidarity of democrats and the "militant democracy" (streitbare Demokratie) against alleged enemies of the constitution (Braunthal 1989). The totalizing ideology of the West German antinuclear movement also stems from its direct experience of the state as a unified repressive agent that turned nuclear construction sites into paramilitary fortresses in steel, concrete, and barbed wire; watched and persecuted movement activists; and imposed demonstration bans at will. The paradoxical double face of the West German state as a constitutional state with divided powers and as a corporate agent with autocratic leanings is rooted in its split historical legacies of postwar democracy and prewar authoritarianism. Without reference to the latter, the peculiar shape and agenda of the antinuclear movement, and of all the other new social movements in West Germany, could not be understood. States appeared in this study in two different forms: first, as institutional contexts that shape the repertory and agenda of social movements, and second, as independent agents engaged in behavioral exchanges with social movements. 7 Emphasis was on the latter, following my contention that structures exist only insofar as they are acted out. But, as indicated, stateness as the capacity to act is differently developed in both countries considered here. Accordingly, we observed statemovement interactions in the strict sense only in West Germany, and this occurred only in phases of high-conflict intensity. In the United States, we found at best interactions between particular state agencies and movement segments, reflecting America's relative statelessness. This limited the conflict potential in the United States, and a spiral of conflict with mutually interlocking anticipations and responses could nowhere be observed. State structures in the first mentioned sense—as institutional contexts for collective action—proved particularly useful for explaining the emergent movement trajectories and the early phases of mobilization. State structures helped explain why the American antinuclear movement emerged as a patchwork of legal campaigns, whereas the West German movement was born as a direct-action movement. But the more the conflicts developed, the more other factors came into play. Conflict outcomes recursively changed the institutional context of movement mobilization. This change was particularly dramatic in West Germany, where a polity initially closed to the movement gave way to a polity marked by limited openness. Moreover, once the conflict was under way

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and nuclear power had become a contested issue, movement organization became a factor of increasing weight. The further movement trajectories depended on which groups and subcultures with what particular agendas were subsequently attracted to or drawn into the conflict. State structures have an impact on movements only to the extent that they become visibly incorporated in concrete constraints, opportunities, and encounters. These experiences and encounters are framed by the traditions, ideals, and operating norms in a polity. State structures affect movements only in the context of a political culture. As this study revealed, state structures cannot be divorced from the political cultures that shape the political dispositions and preferences of leaders and citizens and determine the scope of legitimate expectation and action. POLITICAL CULTURE Previous political process approaches neglected the impact of national political cultures on social movements. This neglect is partially due to the lack of genuine cross-national comparisons in previous movement research, which entailed a disregard for the cultural boundedness of the interests and ideologies that guided social movements. We may define political culture as "the set of attitudes, beliefs, and sentiments which give order and meaning to a political process and which provide the underlying assumptions and rules that govern behavior in the political system" (Pye 1968, 218). Political culture is not to be mistaken for inert national character, the social psychology of political participants, or the normative civic culture held necessary for liberal democracy (Almond and Verba 1963). Political culture, as used in this study, referred to the basic cognitive and normative presuppositions underlying the political process in a national society and determining the scope and limits of politics. Political cultures provide common definitions of the stakes of conflict and prescribe legitimate participants and acceptable exchanges in the political process. In line with the Tocquevillian tradition in political sociology, I stressed that institutional structures and cultures are to be kept analytically distinct, despite empirical overlaps between both. 8 State structures and political cultures may be aligned in multiple and possibly conflicting ways. Prevailing cultural patterns are often dissonant with actual institutional structures. With regard to the West German state, J. P. Nettl (1968,587) notes a "difference between the conceptual overarching quality of stateness and its limited application in practice." This rather cursory remark

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hints at the crucial incongruity between the imported Bonn democracy and the domestic legacy of statism. Against the backdrop of federalism, divided powers, and parliamentarism, the strong state tradition survives only in specific policy fields, most notably in domestic security affairs— an area that touches on civil liberty issues and thus has direct implications for social movements (Blankenburg 1980). Moreover, statism survives as a general disposition in political culture, expressed in a low tolerance for conflict and a peculiar friend-foe rhetoric of political elites (Kitschelt 1989, 34). Also, the reverse emphasis on consensus in policy making is foreign to the Western tradition of liberal-interest conflict and echoes the German state ideology of the past (Smith 1989). If one looks only at the constitutional features of the West German political system, the cultural underlife of statism goes undetected. But it is the legacy of statism that has most profoundly influenced not only the antinuclear but all the other West German new social movements since the 1960s. Peter Pulzer (1989) observes a tendency of Totalkritik in West German opposition movements that reaches from the student movement of the 1960s, the ecology and antinuclear movements of the 1970s, to the fundamentalist wing in the Green Party today. The statism of elites bears its mirror image in the antistatism of movements, and, as in the nuclear controversy, both may reinforce each other. 9 Violence became the ugly hallmark of the West German nuclear controversy because no civic consensus existed to unite the conflict parties. On the one hand, antistatism renounced the legitimate monopoly of force held by the state and thus had to espouse violence. On the other hand, the state felt legitimized to strike back with disproportionate measures against a perceived attack on the political order itself. Political culture, however, must not be reified as immune to changes in institutional context. At the height of the German Autumn in 1977, the editor of the liberal weekly Die Zeit described Bonn as a fortress in civil war—"sandbags, barbed wire, armoured vehicles in Bonn's town centre. An infuriating sight." But she concluded with a surprisingly upbeat note: "A few years hence and this episode will be remembered merely as a nightmare" (quoted in Burns and Will 1988, 59). In fact, like anywhere else, political culture in West Germany is not static but is amenable to change and transformation. The legacy of statism is clearly on the retreat today because it has no real institutional hold. The political elites came to understand that Bonn is not Weimar and relaxed their nervous aversion to conflict. The ecological discourse, once ridiculed and rejected as antithetical to a societal consensus based on economic growth, is now

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common discourse.10 On the movement side, the growing historical distance from the Nazi past and institutional gains have weakened the uncompromising disposition to Totalkritik. As diagnosed by many political analysts, German political culture is in the process of thorough democratization (Conradt 1980; Baker, Dalton, and Hildebrandt 1981; Berg-Schlosser 1990). The incongruence between statism and democracy, which had instigated the Totalkritik of the new social movements, is bound to wither away.11 If discontinuity is the hallmark of German political development, regime continuity is the distinguishing feature of political life in America. In the oldest continuous democracy on earth, there must be a high congruence between political structures and the ideas and dispositions that underly the political process. As Stephen Skowronek (1982,3) notes in his seminal historical analysis of the growth of the American state, "The absence of a sense of the state . . . has been the great hallmark of American political culture." Put in negative terms, normative antistatism is a core tenet of American political culture and is shared equally by the political center and most opposition movements at the periphery (DeLeon 1978). The Founding Fathers added federalism and checks and balances as extra devices to the constitutional separation of powers, which Montesquieu had found sufficient to tame the enormous power concentrated in the modern state. Not democracy, but the prevention of a strong state was the driving force behind the Federalists' design of the Constitution. Civil society, rather than the state, has been the revolving axis of American political life ever since. Antistatism in America is not the radical fantasy of the periphery; it is part and parcel of what Gunnar Myrdal (1944) calls the "American Creed." The normative antistatism of the American political tradition had important implications for the nuclear energy controversy. The veil of secrecy shielding the emergent nuclear sector from public scrutiny and the unique concentration of power in the old nuclear subgovernment represented a precarious aberration from a fundamental principle of American political life. Whereas the statist legacy in Germany left the collusion between state and industry largely unquestioned, except for a small minority of dissenters, this collusion proved highly problematic in America.12 The strongest trump card of the American antinuclear movement was its resonance with the commonly held belief that the state should not be promoter but referee, not independent actor but civic conflict arena. 13 The initial incongruence between norm and reality in

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the nuclear policy sector launched an inevitable tendency toward the decentralization of control, which became the major institutional leverage of the American antinuclear movement. The reference to political culture is indispensable in explaining why violence and Totalkritik predominated in the West German movement, whereas nonviolence and a basic dialogue orientation prevailed even among the most radical segments of the American movement. To be sure, differential institutional access played a role, as did the particular activist subcultures drawn into the conflict. But the crucial factor was the lack of shared symbolisms and of a basic agreement over civic rules in the West German antinuclear movement and the existence of those in the American movement. "Civil war" was the alarmist metaphor frequently used by West German media and politicians to depict the chain of dramatic confrontations between state and movement. And this is exactly what it was: a revocation of the social contract because no democratic charter, no shared adherence to a common set of rules, existed to unite the contestants. It is probably too long a way to invoke the legacies of feudalism and class for the polarized political culture of today (Almond and Powell 1966). A more immediate factor is the divisive Nazi past— "Polizei, SA, SS" was the rhythmic chant of student demonstrators in 1968, and it is still the chant of today's anarchist Autonome. Asked about his general attitude toward the political institutions in his country, an American direct action activist responds: I think that in a lot of ways the concept of what this country is supposed to be, in terms of what we were taught, what our constitution and our bill of rights say, the philosophy is really fine. The problem is how these principles are played out. Take the Constitution. If you read what is in there and you broaden its scope to include all living things or all living people, the environment as well, then it looks like a pretty good piece of paper. But I think this is where the struggle comes down to: to live up to its ideals. 14

Samuel Huntington, who is not well liked by liberal and radical scholars in this country, calls this the "gap between promise and performance," which the creedal politics of movements and causes seeks to close. "Cleavage in the U.S.," Huntington (1981, 32) writes, certainly reductively but forcefully, "does not take the form of idea versus idea, as in Europe, but rather of idea versus fact. The conflict is between two groups who believe in the same political principles." The theorem (or doctrine, as some would say) of American Exceptionalism is somewhat a bête noire for liberal and radical scholars, though it was first formulated by

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ex-radicals and still-liberals to come to grips with the failure of socialism in America (Hartz 1955; Upset 1963; Bell 1960). The notion of consensus seems forever tainted by the quiescent smell of the 1950s with Parsons, the end of ideology, and all that. 15 But compared with the radical politics of new social movements in Western Europe, the sense of a common democratic platform and a basic civic consensus distinguish movement politics in the United States. 16 The very idea of a public interest, which is central to the Progressive reform tradition and also energized the American antinuclear movement, presupposes a "basic agreement [over] commonly held values" (Rogin 1967,38)—that is, a culture of consensus. In a polarized culture, the conception of a public interest has no firm ground. Not by accident, no segment of the West German antinuclear movement, not even the most moderate one, purported to defend the public interest. Rather, the movement cause was couched in the polarizing terms of economy versus ecology. Even in the radical direct-action branch of the American antinuclear movement, the array of consensus symbols is impressive. The usual cooperation with local authorities during protest activities, the meticulous training and preparation of activists for civil disobedience, and, most importantly, the principled commitment to nonviolence attest to the existence of a basic civic consensus over rules and procedures. The persistent evocation of moral principles to justify direct action and civil disobedience and the repeated reference even to legal constructs such as the Nuremberg principles betray the distinct attempt to close the promise-performance gap. 17 An American antinuclear activist familiar with the West German movement confesses his astonishment that his German friends do not even know about the Nuremberg principles. 18 In fact, the very idea of appealing to the government for the realization of a common charter is foreign to a polarized culture in which such a thing is not a lived reality. An explanation of movement politics that deals only in terms of rational interests and objective opportunities is incomplete. Opportunities are not out there. They must be perceived and interpreted. Political cultures—the traditions, values, and ideals of a national collectivity— provide the interpretive framework and the basic presuppositions that underly the political process in a given society. Without reference to this elusive but indispensable category, some crucial differences in movement styles, rhetorics, and practices remain unexplained.

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TEMPORAL OPPORTUNITY AND CHANGES OVER TIME The political process perspective stresses the "inherent historicity of sociopolitical structures" (Skocpol 1985, 28). Structures only exist in "time-space" relations (Giddens 1984, xxi)—that is, insofar as they are produced and reproduced chronically across time and space. The collective behavior, resource mobilization, and political process theories jointly emphasize that it is changes in the external situation, be it imposed grievances, resource procurements, or regime shifts, that trigger the rise of social movements. An emphasis on the institutional context of movement mobilization must not obscure that temporality matters. Movements, after all, are agents of social change. In this study, temporality mattered in at least three regards: first, as the concrete figuration of the political context during movement emergence; second, as feedback effects of movement and conflict trajectories on the surrounding structures; and, third, as conjunctures favorable or unfavorable to movement mobilization.

MOVEMENT EMERGENCE

Herbert Kitschelt (1986), my favorite (and formidable) sparring partner, succumbs to an overly rigid and static view of the political opportunity structures that shape the styles and strategies of emergent movements. Although Kitschelt's precise use of the notion of opportunity structure is a clear advance over previous political process theories, it leaves out too many other important aspects, particularly short-term policy and polity changes. The German polity, for instance, certainly erects relatively high entrance barriers for cross-cleavage cutting demands and new issues and thereby heats up the radicalism of movements. But, as this study revealed, the particular polarization between the emergent antinuclear movement and the state could not be divorced from the fact that the SPD was the ruling party at the time. This fact deprived the polity of an effective in-house opposition. If there was any historical continuity with a better and democratic Germany left under the rubble of the defeated Nazi regime, it was represented by the SPD (Lehnert 1983). As the pre— World War I vanguard of the strongest working-class movement in Europe, and as the party that had resisted Hitler, the Social Democrats always symbolized the hope for a democratic alternative in a Germany

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yoked by authoritarianism and dictatorship. And now it was Social Democrats who devised the Radicals Decree, built nuclear power plants, and were about to turn the country into a nuclear missile yard, denying and abandoning their own promise to risk more democracy. From this angle, the new social movements were a response to the Social Democrats in power, and their totalizing agenda reflected disappointment about a previous champion of democracy succumbing to realpolitik.19 On the U.S. side, the assimilative bent of the public-interest movement in the early 1970s thrived on recent polity changes that seemed to make pluralism come true (Vogel 1980). Anthony King (1978) even saw a "new American political system" in the making, with a decentralized and assertive Congress, a withered party cohesion, a more sophisticated electorate leaning toward split-ticket voting, and a proliferation of issue groups. Most importantly, a new system of social regulation had been devised by a young generation of liberal policy professionals, whose explicit rationale was to prevent the previous government capture by sectoral interests. Since the mid-1960s, more than two dozen federal regulatory agencies had been created in public-interest domains such as environmental protection, workplace health and safety, and consumer protection. A broad wave of public-interest liberalism (McCann 1986), with the nascent nuclear opposition at its tail end, had already burst the doors to government wide open—until the apotheosis of the publicinterest movement, President Carter, turned into its nemesis and slowly and unexpectedly reversed the trend (Vogel 1989, 193—239).

FEEDBACK

Once under way, the movement and conflict trajectories recursively shaped and transformed the context in which they occurred. 20 Feedback effects of processes on structures were particularly dramatic in the German case, where an initially closed polity gave way to one characterized by limited openness. Most recent analyses have stressed the institutional continuity and the incremental character of policy and politics in West Germany (Katzenstein 1987, 1989; Hancock 1989). Interlocking politics, neocorporatist bargaining, and a preference for cooperation and consensus in policy making have prevented radical political shifts à la Reaganism in the United States or Thatcherism in Britain. The conservative Wende (turnaround) in the early 1980s did not slash the welfare state, as some had feared, but basically continued Schmidt's mild austerity course—only more successfully.

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Nothing less than a radical Wende, however, did occur for the antinuclear and other new social movements in West Germany. The parliamentarization of the Green Party, along with the ecological turn of the SPD in opposition, launched a dramatic greening of West German politics, with the implementation of the toughest clean air standards in Europe, mandatory antismoke equipment in automobiles, and, after Chernobyl, the creation of the Environmental Ministry (Paterson 1989). Once new issues and interests pass the high hurdles of party and parliament, the German polity firmly institutionalizes them. Ecological concerns are now part and parcel of the consensual policy-finding process. If the remains of the antinuclear movement pursue the course of uncompromising Totalkritik even in these new conditions, the reference to a closed polity is no longer a satisfying explanation. In the United States, feedback effects of the antinuclear movement on political structures and discourses were much more limited. Many observers have noted the paradoxical stasis of American political institutions in the context of a rapidly changing society (Burnham 1970; Huntington 1966). As a result of the competitive division of powers, new issues and interests become articulated and integrated into the political system with relative ease. But they also become enmeshed in a "protean complex of crisscrossing relationships" (Truman 1951, 508) that breeds delay, stalemate, and exhaustion. Stalemate also characterizes the outcome of the nuclear debate, where none of the contestants fully prevailed. The nuclear debate had no triggering effect for related debates; it did not launch a greening of American politics. The one important change that did occur remained limited to the nuclear policy field: the decentralization of control. This corresponded to the implicit movement agenda to thwart the exceptionalism of the nuclear project and to subject it to the usual competitive bent of the American political process. But decentralized control also dissolved the movement into a host of mostly unrelated local campaigns.

CONJUNCTURE

Despite national differences in the movement and conflict courses, a remarkable coincidence of the critical junctures and temporal sequences occurred in both countries. The energy crisis of the 1970s and the disarmament debate of the early 1980s were events in "world time" (Giddens 1984) that represented the same turning points in the rise and decline of the West German and American antinuclear movements. This

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is not so terribly new; a similar cross-national coincidence, and diffusion, of cycles of working-class protest has been happening for more than a century (Tilly, Tilly, and Tilly 1975; Crouch and Pizzorno 1978). What is new, however, is the particular volatility of movements to issueattention shifts in the public realm. The antinuclear movements are part of a larger "cycle of protest" (Tarrow 1989) in which culturally and thematically related, yet organizationally distinct movements succeed one another. In both countries, there is a similar sequence from the emancipatory movements of the 1960s to the ecology and risk movements of the 1970s and 1980s. As a new type of postindustrial movement, the antinuclear movements lack the stable membership and communal bases of citizenship movements and depend all the more on collective processes of problem definition in the public realm. To be sure, as vehicles for defining new problems, movements actively participate in the shaping of the public agenda (Blumer 1971; Neidhardt 1985). But if the issue-attention cycle slackens, and the erratic Zeitgeist moves on, there is little these new movements can do to prevent the desertion of members and resources. In fact, it would not be inappropriate to call the antinuclear movement a Zeitgeist movement. N o t by accident, it emerged at the historical intersection of the oil crisis and the discovery of ecological limits to growth, the end of the postwar economic boom and the flourishing of a new cultural awareness that small might be beautiful. For a short while, energy was the central stake in a struggle over alternative paths of societal development: big and expansionist, as in the pronuclear camp, or small and communal, as in the antinuclear camp. When energy lost this central place in public discourse in the early 1980s, the major cause and historical edge of the antinuclear movement were gone. If one compares the endurance and continuity of the American and the West German antinuclear movements, one is struck by the relatively short-lived character of most American movement segments and by the ability of the West German movement to stabilize even during unfavorable conjunctures, if only at reduced capacity. In the U.S. case, a polity with low entrance barriers and multiple access points feeds the dissemination of movement demands into various "campaigns" without a sense of unity (Rucht 1990). The West German polity, marked by high entrance barriers and centralized access channels, feeds a corporate sense of movement unity, with myths, a collective culture of dissent, and a durable esprit de corps that immunize against the tyranny of the issueattention cycle.

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The U.S. movement was particularly vulnerable to public shifts in issue attention because public opinion per se plays such a dominant role in American political life. Tocqueville ([1848] 1969, 254) has observed that the "power of the majority [in the United States] goes beyond all powers known to us in Europe." In fact, the lack of deep-seated feudal and class mentalities, as well as the relative absence of bureaucratic and party-organizational buffers between the political system and society, makes public opinion the true demiurge of American politics. In the apt words of David Truman (1951, 217), "Public opinion is a collective entity, almost a supernatural being, that becomes 'aroused,' makes 'demands,' and issues judgments, like some benevolent minotaur." And how malevolent this minotaur can be, too. When the latter dropped the energy issue in favor of other, more pressing concerns, the American antinuclear movement was left out in the cold. 21 In contrast, the ideological lager (entrenchment) mentality of the West German movement helped it withstand the reshuffling of the public agenda in the early 1980s. In German politics, the role of public opinion is rather limited. It is programmatic parties and active political executives who set the public agenda. If public opinion strays on an issue, politicians and administrators are more inclined to move ahead anyway because sufficient ideological and institutional bolsters exist to minimize the risk of doing so. The different roles of public opinion in the political process of both countries help explain why the West German antinuclear movement was better equipped than its American counterpart to escape the vicissitudes of the issue-attention cycle.

MOVEMENT ORGANIZATION AND ACTIVIST SUBCULTURES A political process perspective that focuses on the interdependence of structure and action cannot ignore the independent role of movement organization and activist subcultures. We saw that the weight of internal movement factors increased with the development of the nuclear controversy. Decisive encounters and "dramatic events" (Blumer 1978) grew into a memory that recursively shaped the perception of opportunities and choice of strategies in the next conflict round. If the first responses directly reflected the opportunities or constraints of the political context, later responses resonated with the once-established beliefs, meanings, and values of the movement. Moreover, once nuclear power had become a contested issue, other groups and constituencies with varying agendas

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and styles entered the fray and tried to occupy the issue for their particular causes. Movement organization is also the main focus of resource mobilization theory. But its classic formulations suffer from an overly rationalistic conception of the interna] life of movements. Recent research in the resource mobilization mold has become aware of these shortcomings and has directed its attention to the neglected dimensions of grievance interpretation and the construction of meaning. Through concepts such as consensus mobilization (Klandermans 1988), micromobilization contexts (McAdam 1988b), ideological packages (Gamson 1988), and frame resonance (Snow and Benford 1988), analysts have tried to account for the role of ideology and meaning in social movements. 22 Even though these attempts must be welcomed, they still share the rationalistic premise of resource mobilization theory. Grievance interpretation and the construction of meaning are seen as facilitating devices that lower the thresholds for participation, increase the circle of sympathetic bystanders, and help bring in more resources. As in Doug McAdam's (1982) earlier concept of cognitive liberation, the basic presumption is that through grievance interpretation some objective truth is to be discovered. This amounts to a cognitivist reduction of the role of symbols and meaning in social movements. Movement beliefs and ideologies are not only facilitating but also constraining devices that may prohibit flexible responses to shifting opportunities. Why should social movements be more rational than bureaucracies, firms, and corporations, in which rational decision making is "bounded" by limited knowledge, habitualized expectations, and past experiences (Simon 1957; Turner 1981)? In this study, the focus was on movement beliefs and ideologies as constraining and narrowing, rather than enabling and facilitating, the perceptions and actions of movements. 23 Although movement beliefs and agendas play an independent role in the nuclear controversies, they are themselves artifacts and outcomes. The beliefs and agendas of the antinuclear movements resonated with major themes of the national political culture. As has been outlined, political culture provides an important link between structure and action. 24 In the U.S. case, the double response of public-interest and directaction mobilization articulated polar ends of American political culture: pragmatism and moralism. The public-interest movement tackled nuclear power as an "issue" that could be remedied within the normal political process. The direct-action movement proceeded from Puritan themes of exemplary action and egalitarian community, more subterra-

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nean but by no means peripheral aspects of American political culture. 25 The uncompromising antistatism of the West German movement reflected a polarized political culture that lacked consensual elements and that produced movements with strong antisystem leanings. In the readiness to resort to violence shimmered the distant contours of irreconcilable class war. The themes of political culture enter the movements only through the filter of their activist subcultures. Whereas political cultures define the universe of symbols, themes, and repertoires available for movements, preexisting movement cycles provide concrete organizational networks and group units with preestablished agendas. 26 If the relationship between political cultures and movement agendas is necessarily vague and somewhat speculative, the impact of previous movement cycles on the emergent antinuclear movements is tangible and easily demonstrated. The bifurcation between the public-interest and direct-action wings in the American movement stemmed from their roots in different organizational contexts and movement traditions. As outlined in chapter 2, the public-interest movement emerged out of the environmental movement, where organizations such as the Sierra Club provided a link to the Progressive Era reform tradition. 27 By contrast, the organizational core of the direct-action movement had direct links to the now-defunct antiwar movement. The sudden appearance of direct action had little continuity with the previous nuclear controversy and must be attributed to the fact that a latent constituency was out there searching for a new cause. 28 The West German movement was similarly bifurcated between radical antistatist groups and more moderate citizen initiatives. The radical faction had direct organizational ties to the decayed student movement of the late 1960s. One of the latter's offshoots, the communist sects (the C-groups), entered the nuclear debate with a preconceived agenda, which was a radicalized, antistatist version of the antiauthoritarian impulse of the student movement. 29 The local citizen initiatives, by contrast, stemmed from the reform-oriented citizen initiative movement that had set out to make come true the early SPD charge to risk more democracy. Against this backdrop, the final movement agendas were the result of an internal struggle for dominance. This internal struggle was in turn conditioned by the political context. The open polity in the United States allowed the separate existence of two independent movement networks, one that operated within the conventional political process and one that

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categorically resisted conventional politics. 30 By contrast, the initial lack of access to the political process in West Germany forced the moderate and radical movement factions into an uneasy alliance that became marred by perennial strife. The unyielding state response had the perverse effect of letting the radical groups shape and dominate the movement agenda, if only by instigating the wretched violence debate that no movement faction, however moderate, could escape. The past conflict experience itself becomes part of the movement identity and thus influences the movement responses in the next conflict round. The dominant interpretive frame in a movement selects and filters perception and action, but it must also resonate with the actual political context. The short life of the American direct-action movement must be partially attributed to the fact that the metaphor of the "last resort" was not credible in a political context receptive to legal movement strategies, particularly after Three Mile Island. When county authorities and state governors took sides with the movement, direct action became pointless. In the West German case, the defection of the moderate movement wing to the newly formed Greens and other institutional actors left the radical groups in a position of almost uncontested internal leadership. The antistatism of the movement so much solidified that it became a niche for other groups sharing similar dispositions, such as the anarchist Autonome.31 If direct action at Wyhl had been a spontaneous response to an unyielding state, the call for practical resistance after Chernobyl sprang from the need to reconfirm the central myths and beliefs of the movement. In light of a meanwhile more receptive political context, only internal movement factors can explain the maintenance of militancy. Once they are established, interpretive frames and identities can thus hinder flexible responses to shifting opportunities. If this study stressed the constraining, rather than the enabling, aspect of grievance interpretation, it also focused more on the competition than on the cooperation among movements in the larger movement sector. 32 Bert Klandermans ( 1 9 8 9 , 3 0 1 - 3 1 4 ) , in his distinction between "alliance system" and "conflict system" as constituting the interorganizational network of movements, obscures the possibility that parallel movements may not directly oppose each other yet may still compete for scarce resources. Such was the relationship between the antinuclear and the new peace movements in the early 1980s. Because both movements articulated similar themes and appealed to similar audiences, they had to compete for symbolic visibility and human resources. If anything qualifies these movements as new movements, it is their amenability, and

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vulnerability, to issue switching. Future research should explore more thoroughly the subcultural milieus and recruitment networks that allow the quick succession of thematically related, yet organizationally independent movements. 3 3 C O N T E X T AND C O N T I N G E N C Y An approach that claims to be multifactorial and sensitive to historical contingency cannot ignore the whole array of conditioning factors and events that escape easy categorization. We saw that the close linkages between nuclear energy and weapons issues in the United States accelerated the decline of the antinuclear energy movement once nuclear weapons became a public concern. In contrast, the discursive and institutional separation between weapons and energy in West Germany helped the movement to remain intact. Accidents, of course, the nemesis of nuclear power, reshuffled the deck in the debates and brought faltering movements back into the offensive. In addition, the substantive aspects of the nuclear programs mattered insofar as the various parts of the nuclear fuel cycle offered differential opportunities for the movements. 3 4 A striking similarity between the movements in both countries was that the opposition to the front and back ends of the nuclear fuel cycle proved much more effective than the opposition to the core of the nuclear programs, the light-water reactor, which was already a technical reality when opposition set in. In contrast, plutonium reprocessing, advanced reactors, and waste storage were still, and usually remained, technologies on the drawing board for which no vested interest clientele existed. With regard to the light-water reactor, the nuclear opposition faced a broad phalanx of electric utilities, nuclear manufacturers, and state agencies that proved impenetrable. With regard to reprocessing, fast-breeder reactor, and waste disposal, industry involvement was weak, and the state was the major player. The state, however, through its democratic institutions, proved forever vulnerable to citizen dissent. 35 This helps explain why the march into the plutonium economy could be stopped, while the light-water programs proceeded, though at a reduced pace. There is good reason to assume that a more effective light-water opposition at an earlier stage could have prevented the most protracted technological controversy in modern history. The historical origins of the nuclear controversy have been the accident risk of the light-water reactor and its peculiar philosophy of engi-

208

Conclusion

neered, rather than inherent, safety (Morone and Woodhouse 1 9 8 9 ) . But when barricaded behind probabilistic risk analysis and double containment walls, nuclear power proved most vulnerable where it should have been invincible—its proclaimed cost advantage. James Jasper ( 1 9 9 0 a , ch. 11) has demonstrated that the true defeat of U.S. nuclear power came through the early invasion by cost-benefit skepticism. In West Germany, the alternative energy scenarios, pioneered by the Enquete Commission and the Institute for Ecology in the late 1 9 7 0 s , had a similar effect. The movement decision to meet the nuclear industry on its own terrain was crucial because it helped debunk the alleged cost advantage of nuclear power. 3 6 If no new light-water reactor is likely to be built in either country, it is because almost everyone now agrees that there is no economic reason to do so.

T O W A R D C O N C E P T U A L S Y N T H E S I S IN S O C I A L M O V E M E N T RESEARCH The proposed political process approach is a perspective, rather than a logico-deductive framework. Its variables do not constitute a closed system but slice and order data in meaningful and coherent ways. They are the tools to give the "thick descriptions" (Geertz 1 9 7 3 ) that are the hallmark of interpretive-historical sociology. The political process perspective followed a logic of cumulative explanation and encirclement, moving down from the general comparison of state structures to the reconstruction of concrete action sequences and back from there to the impact of action on the surrounding structures. Unraveling the "interdependence of structure and action" (Kriesi 1 9 8 8 ) was the revolving axis of this enterprise. It put to work in the field of social movement research Anthony Giddens's (1984) important insight that the structural properties of social systems are at the same time medium and outcome of the practices they recursively organize. The political process perspective builds on established paradigms in social movement research. Too much time has been spent in the past on debunking theories one does not like, often hiding political motives behind the elusive veil of "scientific" conjectures and refutations. For instance, the recent "discovery" by some resource mobilization theorists that movements are not only strategizing but are also signifying agents represents an insight that the allegedly "overcome" collective behavior tradition has known for many decades. Only nobody wanted to notice. Few other fields in the social sciences are as politicized as social move-

Conclusion

209

ment research. This often prevents its practitioners from cross-fertilizing insights to avoid misguided theoretical choices in the first place. This study started out identifying some shortcomings of existing social movement theories, especially their inability to guide cross-national comparisons. But this study also demonstrated that each theory offered indispensable insights into certain aspects of movements. 37 Resource mobilization captured the organizational side of movements; collective behavior sensitized us to temporal dynamics and interpretive processes; new social movement theory helped us recognize the broader phenomenology of the antinuclear movements, which makes them different from previous citizenship movements. Again, this does not mean that anything goes. But it should help social movement analysts lighten up a little because a rich repertory of theoretical tools and insights is out there. If it is put to use, interesting new work may be expected in the future.

APPENDIX A

Methodology

In comparative sociology we may distinguish between a Durkheimian and a Weberian strategy (Smelser 1976; Ragin and Zaret 1983; Ragin 1987). Durkheimians seek broad generalizations about systemic relations among abstract variables. Weberians are interested in historically and socially contextualized knowledge of specific outcomes and processes. This study's focus on comparing holistic configurations and its emphasis on time, place, and agency firmly embedded it in the Weberian tradition. Following a case-based, rather than a variablebased, approach (Ragin 1987) enabled this study to relate meaningful agency to structural context and to give thick descriptions (Geertz 1973) of complex conflict trajectories. Instead of applying a prefabricated theory to empirical data (Smelser 1959), or testing theory (Tilly, Tilly, and Tilly 1975), the empirical case descriptions minimized theoretical inputs in order to unfold the internal logic of the conflict courses. Much like grounded theory (Glaser and Strauss 1967), the strategy was to discover theory from data rather than to test theory. As in the interpretive approach proposed by Reinhard Bendix (1977), comparisons were used to highlight the differences, rather than the similarities, between the cases and to sharpen the particular contours of each national trajectory. Because two cases are not enough to draw valid and reliable generalizations, the emphasis on variations and differences followed quite naturally. This study was based on a mix of primary and secondary sources. I constructed two snowball samples of movement leaders and activists in West Germany and the United States, whom I interviewed in the second half of 1987. In the United States, all interviews were conducted in California. I do not think this territorial limitation distorted the picture; additional archival and library inquiries provided much evidence that the case of California displayed the typical U.S. constellation of public-interest and direct-action movements. In West Germany, the interviews were conducted at several places of major regional and national movement activity, including Wackersdorf, Munich, Frankfurt, Ham211

212

Appendix A

burg, Göttingen, Bremen, Hannover, and Bonn. Because of the Chernobyl accident the previous year, the various movement segments were very active at that time. This gave me the opportunity to complement the interviews with participant observation in several movement gatherings. More than providing concrete information, the interviews sensitized me to the different styles and mind-sets of the movements in both countries. Even though the interviews were used only in select parts of the text, they molded the overall interpretation of the cases. Most of the primary data were drawn from archival sources, especially the Nuclear Issues Archive at the University of California at San Diego, the Hoover Institution at Stanford University, the Alternative Media Archive in Frankfurt am Main, and the Die Tageszeitung Archive in Berlin. I relied on three types of written accounts. First, a great part of the movement analysis was based on movement documents, journals, and pamphlets. In the German case, I systematically went through all editions of the Göttingen-based major movement journal AtomExpress (since 1984, Atom), which has been published monthly since 1977; the alternative daily Die Tageszeitung, which has been published in Berlin since 1979; the BBU newsletter, Umweltmagazin, which was published between 1977 and 1985; and the newsletter of the pacifist Gewaltfreie Aktion, Graswurzelrevolution, published since the early 1970s. Atom-Express represented the radical movement wing, whereas the other publications represented more moderate movement factions. Skewing the selection toward the moderate publications functioned as an additional control to my early finding that it was the radical wing that shaped and influenced the movement discourse most profoundly. In the U.S. case, I conducted a similar effort with the monthly newsletter of Friends of the Earth, Not Man Apart, which has been published in San Francisco since the early 1970s; and the newsletter of the Abalone Alliance, It's About Times, published in San Francisco between 1979 and 1985. These two publications represented the public-interest and the direct-action poles of the American antinuclear movement. Additional movement publications were obtained at the Sierra Club library in San Francisco. Second, I checked the major nuclear industry journals and newsletters over the same periods, most notably the U.S. Nuclear News and Nucleonics Week and the German Atomwirtschaft-Atomtechnik. Third, the political debate over nuclear energy is mostly drawn from selected national newspapers, such as the New York Times, Los Angeles Times, Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, and Süddeutsche Zeitung. I can hardly claim to have exhausted all possible data sources. But the combination of interview, archival, newspaper, and secondary materials provided a rich and, I hope, sufficient basis for my analysis.

APPENDIX B

Tables

TABLE A - I : COMMERCIAL NUCLEAR POWER PLANTS IN T H E U N I T E D STATES, 1 9 7 4 - 1 9 9 0

1974

1977

1980

1982

1984

1986

1988

1990

Status Operating In construction Planned

38 49 125

57 79 64

68 80 24

73 76 17

78 51 2

91 30 2

102 12 2

111 7 0

Total

212

200

172

166

131

123

116

118

SOURCE: Nuclear N e w s , The World List of Nuclear Power Plants, vols. 17, 20, 23, 25, 27, 29, 31, 3 4 (La Grange Park, 111.: American Nuclear Society, various years)

TABLE A - 2 : COMMERCIAL NUCLEAR POWER PLANTS IN WEST G E R M A N Y , 1974—199O

1974

1977

1980

1982

1984

1986

1988

1990

Status Operating In construction Planned

5 10 4

10 8 8

11 8 7

10 8 7

12 9 7

16 5 4

19 2 3

21 0 0

Total

19

26

26

25

28

25

24

21

SOURCE: see Table A - l .

213

214

Appendix B TABLE A-3: AVERAGE CONSTRUCTION D E L A Y S OF A L L C O M M E R C I A L N U C L E A R P O W E R P L A N T S U N D E R C O N S T R U C T I O N OR IN COMMERCIAL SERVICE (MONTHS) 1974

1977

1980

1984

1986

1988

20.0 6.1

35.9 13.8

49.4 30.6

53.1 42.4

56.2 47.9

57.6 37.7

United States West Germany SOURCE: see Table A-1.

APPENDIX

C

Informants and Primary Sources

WEST GERMANY INTERVIEWS Two Autonome, Two Autonome,

Munich, July 27, 1987 Wackersdorf/Bavaria, July 31, 1987 ULRICH BECK, professor of sociology at the University of Munich who has written on nuclear power and the risk society, Lake Starnberg, August 3, 1987 HANS B O J A R S K Y , Robin Wood, Munich, July 28, 1987 KARL-WERNER B R A N D , research sociologist at the Technical University of Munich who has written on new social movements, Pfaffenhofen, August 1, 1987 GÜNTER BRÜCK, Deutsches Atomforum, Bonn, August 13, 1987 KLAUS BRÜCKNER, Citizen Initiative Schwandorf (Wackersdorf) Schwandorf, July 31, 1987 UWE FOIGT, BBA, Bremen, August 11, 1987 B E R N H A R D FRICKE, Citizen Initiative David Against Goliath, Munich, July 21, 1987 KLAUS GÄRTNER, the Greens/Hamburg, Hamburg, August 11, 1987 THOMAS H E L L M E C K , Energy Change Committee Rhein-Main, Frankfurt, August 7, 1987 H Ö R S T H O F M A N N , BUU/Hamburg, Hamburg, August 10, 1987 AXEL H O R N , BUND, Munich, July 30, 1987 FRANZ J A K O B , the Greens/Hesse, Frankfurt, August 17, 1987 HANNES KEMPMANN, Citizen Initiative Lüchow-Dannenberg (Gorleben)/Greens/ Lower Saxony, Hannover, August 12, 1987 M A T T H I A S KÜNTZEL, nuclear policy consultant for the Greens in the Bundestag, Bonn, August 13, 1987

215

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Appendix C

and ELMAR DIEZ, Hanau Citizen Initiative for Environmental Protection, Hanau, August 7, 1987 KARIN LEUKEFELD, BBU/The Greens, Bonn, August 13, 1987 ANNE MATZ, Mothers Against Nuclear Power, Munich, July 23, 1987 RENÉE MEYER ZUR CAPPELLEN, Mothers Against Nuclear Power, Frankfurt, August 14, 1987 REIMAR PAUL, Göttingen Committee Against Nuclear Power/editor of Atom, Göttingen, August 12, 1987 DIETER RUCHT, research sociologist at the Wissenschaftszentrum Berlin, who has written on new social movements and nuclear power, Munich, August 2, 1987 MICHAEL SAILER, Darmstadt Institute for Ecology, Darmstadt, August 19, 1987 RAINER TRAMPERT, The Greens, Bonn, August 13, 1987 WERNER WENTZ, Frankfurt Committee Against Nuclear Power, Frankfurt, August 5, 1987

ANDREA KURTENBACH

PARTICIPANT OBSERVATIONS Meeting of the Anti-Atom Plenum Munich, Munich, July 29, 1987 Meeting of the Frankfurt Committee Against Nuclear Power, Frankfurt, August 4, 1987 Meeting of the Energy Change Committee Rhein-Main, Frankfurt, August 15, 1987

ARCHIVES Alternative Media Archive, Frankfurt am Main Die Tageszeitung Archive, Berlin Papiertiger Archive, Berlin Private archive of Uwe Foigt, Bremen

JOURNALS, NEWSLETTERS, AND NEWSPAPERS Atom-Express (major national movement newsletter, Göttingen; called Atom since 1984) Atomwirtschaft-Atomtechnik (industry newsletter, Düsseldorf) Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung (conservative daily, Frankfurt) Frankfurter Rundschau (liberal daily, Frankfurt) Graswurzelrevolution (newsletter of the Gewaltfreie Aktion, Hamburg) Die Grünen (bulletin of the Green Party, Munich) Grüner Basis Dienst (bulletin of the Green Party, Bonn) Der Spiegel (liberal newsmagazine, Hamburg) Süddeutsche Zeitung (liberal daily, Munich) Die Tageszeitung (left-wing daily, major journalistic platform of the West German new social movements, Berlin)

Appendix C

217

Umweltmagazin/BBU Aktuell (newsletter of BBU, Bonn) Die Zeit (liberal weekly, Hamburg, overseas edition)

UNITED STATES INTERVIEWS LAURIE BAUMGARTEN, East Bay Antinuclear Group, Berkeley, November 9 , 1 9 8 7 DAVID BROWN, producer of a film on the nuclear power controversy in California, San Francisco, November 2, 1987 DWIGHT COCKE, chief campaign organizer for Proposition 15 in California, San Francisco, November 30, 1987 MARK EGANOFF, Abalone Alliance/editor of It's About Times, San Francisco, November 11, 1987 RAYE FLEMING, founder of Abalone Alliance, San Luis Obispo, December 6, 1987 JOHN w. GOFMAN, professor emeritus of biophysics at the University of California at Berkeley/national antinuclear movement leader, San Francisco, October 21, 1987 JIM HARDING, former nuclear energy expert of Friends of the Earth/editor of the 'Nuclear Blowdown' section in Not Mart Apart, Berkeley, November 4 , 1 9 8 7 LARRY HARPER, SoNoMore Atomics (Sonoma, California), Rohnert Park, November 7, 1987 ROGER HERRIED, Abalone Alliance, San Francisco, April 15, 1987 JIM JACOBSEN, MOBE, San Diego, December 10, 1987 DENNY LARSON, Citizens for a Better Environment, Berkeley, December 1, 1987 STEVE LEEDS, Abalone Alliance, San Francisco, November 28, 1987 EGAN O'CONNOR, Committee for Nuclear Responsibility, San Francisco, October 26, 1987 DAVID PESONEN, prominent antinuclear and environmental lawyer, Oakland, November 23, 1987 NATHAN SCHUMACHER, campaign organizer for Sacramentans for Safe Energy, Sacramento, October 30, 1987 JESS SHARP and GREG JAN, East Bay Green Alliance, Berkeley, November 21, 1987 SANDRA SILVER, Mothers for Peace (San Luis Obispo, California), Santa Cruz, November 10, 1987 MEG SIMONDS, Abalone Alliance, Bolinas, November 15, 1987 SEAN STRYKER, East Bay Green Alliance, Berkeley, November 19, 1987

PARTICIPANT OBSERVATIONS Several meetings of the East Bay Green Alliance, Oakland, November—December 1987

218

Appendix C

ARCHIVES Nuclear Issues Archive, University of California at San Diego History of Science and Technology Collection and Social Protest Collection, Bancroft Library, University of California at Berkeley Sierra Club library, San Francisco Western European Collection, Hoover Institution, Stanford University

JOURNALS, NEWSLETTERS, AND NEWSPAPERS Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists (critical nuclear expert platform, Chicago, Illinois) Congressional Record (documentation of all congressional activity, Washington, D.C.) Critical Mass Journal (newsletter of Critical Mass Energy Project, Washington, D.C.) Environment (expert platform of the environmental movement; Committee for Environmental Information, St. Louis, Missouri) Groundswell (newsletter of the Nuclear Information and Resource Service, Washington, D.C.) It's About Times (newsletter of the Abalone Alliance, San Francisco, California) Los Angeles Times (liberal daily, Los Angeles, California) New York Times (liberal daily, New York, New York) Not Man Apart (newsletter of Friends of the Earth, San Francisco, California) Nuclear News (newsletter of the American Nuclear Society, La Grange, Illinois) The Progressive (left-wing magazine, Madison, Wisconsin) WIN Magazine (antiwar movement magazine, New York, New York)

Notes

CHAPTER 1 1. Here and elsewhere, I am using a narrow definition of social movements as collective action that tries to change the power structure in society and claims that its means are legitimate and that its ends are binding for the wider community. This definition excludes sects, terrorist groups, and religious movements. For a similar definition, see Offe (1985c, 826f). 2. A good recent overview of this problematic is Alexander et al. (1987). 3. Klandermans, Kriesi, and Tarrow (1988) claim to push the study of social movements into a comparative direction, but their collection of case studies does not include a single genuine cross-national comparison. Although this does not diminish the exceptionally high quality of these studies, it does suggest the relative novelty of mine. 4. See Joppke (1991a). 5. Tilly, Tilly, and Tilly (1975) distinguish between reactive and proactive movements, the former are traditionalist and backward-looking responses to historical processes of state building; the latter accept the modern state and try to occupy its commanding heights by democratic means. Risk movements share with proactive movements their associational, rather than communal, basis. But in other ways, risk movements may be seen as a modern rebirth of reactive movements, which the Tillys mistakenly relegate to a bygone era. 6. The most sophisticated work is Smelser (1962), which combines the microsociological collective behavior tradition with macrosociological structural functionalism. Smelser's work is still the most systematic and comprehensive theory of social movements that exists today. See the overview by M a r x and Wood (1975). 7. The classic statements are Oberschall (1973), McCarthy and Zald (1973,

219

220

Notes to pages 4—7

1977), and Gamson (1975). Useful overviews are Jenkins (1983), Cohen (1985), and McAdam, McCarthy, and Zald (1988). 8. A major proponent of this school expressed the "ideological needs of the academic community" with unmistakable clarity: "With the emergence of popular left-wing protest movements (i.e., civil rights, antiwar) in the 60s, liberal academia faced a new challenge: positing a revised perspective that cast these 'progressive' movements in the favorable light of rationality and courageous resistance to oppression" (McAdam 1982, 262). 9. The utilitarian bias explains the preoccupation of R M T with Olson's (1965) free rider dilemma. 10. A typical example is Moynihan (1965). See the witty critique of R M T by Perrow (1979). 11. Typical statements are Touraine (1977, 1981, 1984), Habermas (1981, 5 7 5 - 5 8 3 ) , Melucci (1980, 1984, 1989), Offe (1985c), and the "new politics" school, which emphasizes cultural value changes (Barnes, Kaase et al. 1979; Inglehart 1977, 1990). A good overview is Brand (1982). 12. "The politics of new social movements . . . seeks to politicize the institutions of civil society in ways that are not constrained by the channels of representative-bureaucratic political institutions, and thereby to reconstitute a civil society that is no longer dependent upon ever more regulation, control, and intervention" (Offe 1985c, 820). 13. When the Western European New Left intelligentsia bid its final farewell to an allegedly bought-off and integrated working class, the new social movements were born as a kind of ersatz proletariat (Gorz, 1979). Not by accident, the new social movements entered the scene in the late 1970s, when a "crisis of Marxism" stirred high waves in the sociology seminars of Frankfurt, Rome, and Paris. 14. The capitalist or late capitalist state—the state in abstracto—figures prominently in new social movement analyses. The increased role of the state in the management of society is said to have caused a legitimation crisis that is articulated by the new movements. Ironically, the neoconservative diagnosis of ungovernability, which proliferated in the mid-1970s, picks up the same theme from the reverse angle. For the ungovernability hypothesis, see Crozier, Huntington, and Watanuki (1975) and Brittan (1975). For the theory of legitimation crisis, see Habermas (1973) and Offe (1984). For a critique emphasizing national variations, see Wilensky (1981, 1983). A detailed discussion of this literature is in Joppke (1987). 15. Some versions of NSM theory, such as Offe's and Habermas's, emphasize, a tergo, the structural causes of the new movements. Other versions, such as Touraine's, Melucci's, or Pizzorno's, emphasize, a fronte, the constitutive role of collective identities and new cultural models in the formation of new movements. Pizzorno (1978, 1981) differs from Touraine and Melucci in interpreting the expressive and solidarity thrust of the new movements as a stage in a natural life cycle, which in the long run will give way to instrumental modes of formal organization. In Pizzorno's view, the new movements will share the fate of the working-class movement. 16. To be precise, NSM theory stresses structure as seen through the lenses of

Notes to pages 9 - 1 3

221

the respective movements themselves. As Rochon (1990, 305) puts it nicely, NSM theory replicates what movement activists say, whereas RMT looks at what they do. 17. Collective behavior theory has an elective affinity with the neo-Tocquevillian critique of mass society and its undemocratic implications, which flourished in the early postwar period (Arendt 1951; Kornhauser 1959). 18. See Skocpol (1979); Evans, Rueschemeyer, and Skocpol (1985); Krasner (1984); and the critical rebuttal by Almond (1988). 19. Tilly (1978) refutes the tendency of the collective behavior tradition to conceive of social movements as irrational responses to the breakdown of social order. Instead, he interprets social movements as rational contestants in the struggle for power and emphasizes the ways in which processes of urbanization, industrialization, and state building influence the action repertory and structure of social movements. His main thesis is that the nationalization of politics and economic life, which accompanies the rise of the modern nation-state, has fundamentally changed the composition, goals, and strategies of social movements. According to Tilly, reactive modes of collective action, in which communal groups resist the attempt by national state-makers to gain control over the general population (tax rebellions, food riots, machine breaking), have given way to proactive collective action in which associational groups fight for control of the state and inclusion into the democratic process (strikes, demonstrations, or electoral action by unions and political parties). Tilly's political process theory systematically relates processes of political modernization and state building to the formation of collective action, and it shows how state structures determine the scope and the strategies of social movements. 20. An interesting attempt at such clarification not unlike the one developed here is Kriesi (1991). 21. For the U.S. pluralist regime, see Salisbury (1979); for the West German neocorporatist regime, see Offe (1981). With regard to the American case, the notion of pluralism does not imply the naive assumption that all societal interests are equally well represented and recognized in the political system. Instead, the notion of pluralism refers to the undisputable fact that state power in America is fragmented and dispersed, thus offering more points of societal access than does a relatively closed and centralized neocorporatist regime. 22. The recent resurgence of cross-national research on states and their policy capacities has reinvigorated the pluralist perspective on the American state, which had been previously dismissed by elite theorists as naive Americana. The weak and fragmented American state of today's comparative political economy is not a far cry from what some pluralists have always claimed (e.g., Katzenstein 1978). 23. Rucht (1990) criticizes Kitschelt along similar lines. 24. In contemporary social theory, this point is most explicitly stressed by Giddens (1984, 17): "Social systems, as reproduced social practices, do not have 'structures' but rather exhibit 'structural properties.' Structure exists, as timespace presence, only in its instantiations in such practices and as memory traces orienting the conduct of knowledgeable human agents." A similar theoretical position is developed by Bourdieu (1977, 1980, 1984).

222

Notes to pages 1 3 - 2 6

25. Building on Blumer's concept of circular interaction, Neidhardt (1981) exemplifies the logic of self-producing social processes in his analysis of terrorist groups. See also Neidhardt (1985), Mayntz and Nedelmann (1987), Touraine (1977), and Luhmann (1984). 26. The normative dimension of political culture has been elaborated by the civic culture school (Almond and Verba 1963; Pye and Verba 1965). Its problem is the reduction of culture to individual attitudes, thus succumbing to a form of psychological reductionism. 27. Famous examples of using culture in this way are Ogbum's (1964, 8 6 95) notion of cultural lag to explain uneven processes of social change or Glazer and Moynihan's (1964) invocation of different ethnic and racial cultures to explain different paths of vertical mobility among immigrant groups. 28. As Hill (1985, 64) argues with regard to the United States, "An individualistic society that extolls personal sovereignty will not be a conducive environment for a technology that requires a highly centralized bureaucracy [and] threatens the individual with catastrophic impacts." 29. The distinction between consensual and polarized political cultures is introduced by Almond and Powell (1966). Tocqueville was the first to point out that the root difference between both is the absence or presence of a feudal legacy. 30. I borrow the notion of Totalkritik from Pulzer's (1989) brilliant exposé on German political ideology. 31. Good analyses can also be found in Kitschelt (1980), Nelkin and Pollak (1981), and Hatch (1986). 32. Needless to say, this stress on symbols and beliefs integrates key insights of collective behavior theory. PART 1 1. Here and elsewhere, the notion of a nuclear power sector refers to the ensemble of institutions and organizations that develop, apply, and regulate civilian nuclear energy. CHAPTER 2 1. AEC chair Lewis Strauss coined this famous phrase in 1955. 2. WASH-740 described a worst-case scenario with three thousand immediate casualties, more than forty thousand serious injuries, and property damage of $7 billion over an area of 150,000 square miles (AEC 1958). 3. Movement leader John Gofman calls Price-Anderson "a vicious corruption of the free market system" (Interview, 21 October 1987, San Francisco). 4. The notion of subgovernment refers to a pattern of close behind-thescenes cooperation among regulated industry, regulatory agency, and congressional committee in a policy field. See Bernstein (1955), McConnell (1967), and Lowi (1969). 5. The most drastic case was the 1963 plan by the Consolidated Edison Company to build the 700 M W Ravenswood nuclear plant in the heart of New

Notes to pages 26—32

223

York City. It was David Lilienthal himself who instigated local opposition against the ill-fated project, which was soon abandoned (Novick, 1969). 6. Ford (1982) reports that the reactor licensing part of the Atomic Energy Act of 1954 was copied almost word for word from the Federal Communications Act of 1934, which had established procedures for the federal licensing of radio stations. 7. In 1966, the Fermi reactor suffered a near meltdown (Fuller 1975). 8. The Christian Science Monitor (31 August 1971) writes, "The very fact that 'true experts' are in such dispute over the known facts and their interpretation indicates one of two possibilities: Either there are not enough known facts for even the 'experts' to make clearly justifiable decisions; or the experts are coloring their interpretations of the known facts with a bias, caused either by pride or the hope of personal profit." 9. See also Nucleonics Week, 5 November 1972. 10. Interview, 21 October 1987, San Francisco. 11. A brief history of UCS can be found in Nucleus 6(1) (1984). 12. "New Evidence: Nuclear Plants Are Unsafe," Not Man Apart, July 1971, p. 8. 13. Not Man Apart, December 1971, p. 5. 14. Nucleonics Week, 12 October 1972, p. 1. 15. A complete list of CNI groups is reprinted in Congressional Record 118(16), 8 February 1972. 16. "Citizens' Coalition Challenges A-Plant Safety," Congressional Record 118(16), 8 February 1972. 17. "A-Plant Safety Will Be Debated," New York Times, 2 February 1972. 18. New York Times, 2 February 1972. 19. Some of these early campaigns were highly successful, such as at Bodega Head, Point Arena, and Malibu in California and at Queens and Lake Cayuga in New York (Novick 1969; Lewis 1972; Nelkin 1971,1974,1979). When opposition was still low, utilities often avoided local conflicts by resorting to other plant sites (Jasper 1990a, ch. 7). 20. A New York Times reporter calls the Santa Barbara oil spills "the Hiroshima bomb of the environmental revolution" (Hill 1970, 10). 21. The impact of Carson (1962), which documents the contamination of the environment by DDT and other industrial pesticides, is generally exaggerated. Nevertheless, the work anticipated the pollution and survival themes of the late 1960s. 22. "A Memento Mori to the Earth," Time, 4 May 1970, p. 16. 23. Sierra Club Bulletin 55(2), March 1970, p. 2. 24. Not Man Apart, September 1979, p. 16. 25. To be sure, for most environmental organizations the nuclear issue represented only one among several other issues, most notably air and water pollution. Conservationist organizations such as the Sierra Club even hesitated to oppose nuclear power because they considered the new energy source an environmentally benign alternative to hydroelectric and fossil-fuel-generated power (Sierra Club, 1975).

224

Notes to pages 32—40

26. "Fighting to Save the Earth from Man," Time, 2 February 1970, pp. 5 6 63. 27. National Environmental Protection Act of 1970 (Public Law 9 1 - 1 9 0 , S.1075), 91st Cong., 1 January 1970, p. 2. 28. This consensus withered in 1973, when the energy crisis overshadowed the environmental crisis. In response to rising fuel costs and a severe economic recession, Congress repeatedly postponed the deadlines to meet certain air- and water-quality levels. The Reagan administration finally undermined the force of existing environmental regulations by executive means—without touching the substance of the laws (Vig and Kraft 1984). 29. Leaflet, Nuclear Issues Archive, University of California at San Diego. 30. The second wave of nuclear plant orders between 1972 and 1974, which even surpassed the Great Bandwagon Market, was also caused by the fact that the new environmental laws made dirty coal economically less attractive (E. Nichols 1987, 174-175; Cochrane and Griepentrog 1981). 31. This outcome is not trivial. It is also due to the refusal of the old peace movement to take on the issue of civilian nuclear power (Boyer 1984). 32. Cf. Congressional Record, 118(16), 8 February 1972. 33. In the early days, JCAE chair Holifield and AEC commissioner Ramey used to dismiss nuclear opponents as "kooks" and "stirrer-uppers" who had "no scientific background or competence" (Metzger 1972, 38-39). 34. AIF, News Release: Info (December 1971). CHAPTER 3 1. I elaborate this point in Joppke (1992). 2. The famous Göttingen Declaration of 1957, in which the leading West German nuclear scientists went public to oppose the buildup of a domestic nuclear strike force, tellingly emphasized that "it is extremely important to promote the peaceful use of atomic energy by all the means available" (quoted in Winnacker and Wirtz 1979, 97). This was the first, and last, public intervention of the West German nuclear science elite, and its effect was to sanctify the civilian nuclear program. 3. Good overviews of the early history of German nuclear power are Radkau (1977a, 1977b, 1978, 1983a), Bieber (1978), Bufe and Grumbach (1979), Moldenhauer (1975a, 1975b), Prüss (1974), Deubner (1978), Keck (1980), Gleitsmann (1987), and Eckert and Osietzki (1989). 4. The introduction of a kind of class-action suit (Verbandsklage) was widely discussed in the late 1970s, but it never materialized (Ortzen 1981, 370). 5. The Godesberg Program of 1959, in which the SPD abandoned its Marxist class party image, opens with the words "This is the contradiction of our time that man has released the power of the atom and now is afraid of the consequences. But it is also the hope of our time that man in the atomic age is capable of creating welfare and happiness for everybody" (SPD 1959). 6. Wilhelm Throm, "Wir müssen mit der Kernenergie leben," Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 13 February 1971. 7. The cyclical nature of protest movements is emphasized by Tarrow (1989).

Notes to pages 42—54

225

Good overviews of the West German case are Brand, Busser, and Rucht (1986); and Roth (1985). 8. The fear of a rebirth of the authoritarian state of the past remained not limited to the nascent protest movement. Karl Jaspers (1966, 174), the distinguished philosopher and liberal intellectual, comments on the prospect of allparty government and emergency laws: "We see the possible path: from the party oligarchy to the authoritarian state; from the authoritarian state to dictatorship; from dictatorship to war." 9. Interview with Jiirgen Habermas, Frankfurter Rundschau, 11 March 1988, p. 11. 10. For the West German women's movement, this antistatist disposition is impressively revealed by Ferree (1987). 11. According to Fietkau and Kessel (1982, 8), five million West Germans had become actively involved in citizen initiatives by 1982—whereas only two million were members of a political party. 12. See also Inglehart (1981); and Baker, Dalton, and Hildebrandt (1981). 13. Frankfurter Allgetneine Zeitung, 7 September 1976. 14. Der Spiegel, 5 October 1970, pp. 7 4 - 9 6 . 15. Der Spiegel, 26 May 1975, p. 23. 16. "Schlappen fur den Umweltschutz," Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 21 April 1976. 17. See the instructive description of the technocratic planning mentality by Baring (1982, 6 4 4 - 6 4 9 , 656—660). See also the general assessment of the dilemmas of active policy making by Mayntz and Scharpf (1975). PART 2 1. The Nazi lawyer and political theorist Carl Schmitt (1932) defines politics as the ultimately violent confrontation between friends and foes. Schmitt is by no means a deranged lunatic, as his intellectual influence on eminent political scientists such as Franz Neumann and Otto Kirchheimer attests. Like no one else, Schmitt articulates a tendency in German political culture to polarize and shun compromise. CHAPTER 4 1. The legacy of Utopian moralism in contemporary America is vividly described by FitzGerald (1981). For the legacy of pragmatic interest-group politics, consult the average political science textbook. 2. A good account of the decline of the movements of the 1960s is Oberschall (1978). 3. In this section, the term antinuclear movement refers only to the publicinterest movement against nuclear power. 4. I follow the simple definition of public-interest group by Berry (1977, 7): "A public interest group is one that seeks a collective good, the achievement of which will not selectively and materially benefit the membership or activists of the organization."

226

Notes to pages 55—60

5. In addition to King (1978), see Gais, Peterson, and Walker (1984); Walker (1983); Berry (1984); Nie, Verba, and Petrocik (1976); and McFarland (1976). 6. For instance, Congress improved its access to independent technical expertise by expanding the investigative functions of the General Accounting Office, creating the Congressional Office of Technology Assessment in 1972 and establishing the Congressional Budget Office in 1974. 7. Traditionally, regulation was limited to preserving market competition against monopolies, such as in the Antitrust Laws of the late 1880s. By contrast, the new social regulation concerns functional interests of the entire society, such as health, safety, and environmental quality. See Lilley and Miller (1977), Vogel (1981), and Reagan (1987). 8. For instance, Robert Pollard obtained a comfortable position in UCS after quitting his high-ranked NRC post in 1976 ( N e w York Times, 10 February 1976, p. 1). See the general account of whistleblowing in the United States by Glazer and Glazer (1989). 9. Resolution on "The Plutonium Economy" (New York: National Council of Churches, 4 March 1976), p. 2. 10. Both technologies are intrinsically linked: reprocessing produces the plutonium fuel for the fast breeder. 11. Because no central waste repository existed, the burned fuel rods were temporarily stored in water pools at the reactor sites. By early 1975, at least ten of the fifty then operating nuclear reactors were running out of space and faced the acute risk of being shut down ( N e w York Times, 5 January 1975, p. 38). 12. NRDC staff member Arthur Tamplin, quoted in New York Times, 17 February 1974, p. 16. 13. The civil liberty theme was further enforced by the mysterious death of Karen Silkwood, a plutonium worker who had detected illegal activities of her company, the Kerr-McGee Corporation (New York Times, 19 November 1974, p. 28). 14. The first chair of the NRC, ex-astronaut William Anders, had proudly announced that he would act like "an umpire in a football game," not like a "devotee of the industry" (Newsweek, 24 February 1975, p. 23). 15. The two existing commercial reprocessing plants in the United States no longer operated at that time. A facility at West Valley, New York, owned by the Getty Oil—affiliated Nuclear Fuel Services, had been forced to shut down in December 1971 after citizen protests over massive radiation releases. A second plant, the Midwest Fuel Recovery plant in Morris, Illinois, owned by General Electric, never went on line because of technical problems. A third reprocessing plant at Barnwell, South Carolina, owned by Allied Chemical Corporation, was still under construction. But after the negative NRC decision, it could not expect to receive an operating license anyway. With regard to uranium enrichment, the industry had warded off Nixon's privatization attempt in fear of high capital costs, technological uncertainties, and economic losses. In response, the AEC temporarily suspended the signing of new uranium enrichment contracts. See Brenner (1981, ch. 2). 16. New York Times, 28 May 1976, p. 1. 17. The intellectual foundations for this policy were laid by a project group

Notes to pages 60—65

227

funded by the Ford Foundation (Nuclear Energy Policy Group, 1977). Some of its leaders obtained prominent positions in the Carter administration. 18. See his defense of Carter's nuclear policy (Speth 1978). 19. New York Times, 9 May 1975, p. 8. 20. Senate leader Howard Baker (R-Tenn.), the depression-plagued home state of Clinch River, used all his considerable influence to keep the project alive. 21. Before 1973, electricity demand had increased by an average annual rate of nearly 8 percent. In the wake of energy crisis and economic recession, it dropped to less than 4 percent (Business Week, 25 December 1978, p. 54). By November 1975, utilities had canceled or deferred 130,000 M W of nuclear capacity (i.e., approximately 120 plants), representing almost 70 percent of all cancellations and deferments of electric power plants within the industry (Nader and Abbotts, 1977, 217). 22. New York Times, 30 March 1975, p. 26. 23. Not Man Apart, December-January 1973-1974. 24. New York Times, 1 June 1973, p. 70. 25. Nuclear News 18(1) (1975), p. 32; AIF, Press Info, no. 48, November 1974, p. 1. 26. Chicago Tribune, 18 November 1974. 27. Newsweek, 12 April 1976, p. 71. 28. Business Week, 17 November 1975, p. 98. 29. New York Times, 17 January 1975, p. 34. 30. Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists 31(3), March 1975, pp. 4 - 5 . 31. New York Times, 7 August 1975, p. 4. 32. AIF, Press Info, no. 48, November 1974, p. 2. 33. On the role of populism in the American social movements of the 1960s and 1970s, see Boyte (1980). 34. O'Connor (1973); Mike Gravel, "Antinuclear Petitions Nearing Half Million Mark," Congressional Record 123(47), March 17, 1977. 35. Egan O'Connor, Letter to the Author, San Francisco, November 10, 1987. For two reasons, the antinuclear circle around O'Connor and Gofman— the organizers of both the Committee for Nuclear Responsibility and the Task Force Against Nuclear Pollution—remained isolated from the other antinuclear organizations. First, O'Connor/Gofman rejected nuclear power for moral reasons and were accordingly unwilling to compromise, in contrast to the pragmatism of the other public-interest advocates. Second, O'Connor/Gofman rejected only the civilian, not the military, application of nuclear power, while the other antinuclear organizations generally opposed both nuclear power and nuclear weapons. 36. For instance, twenty-four of the thirty-one representatives who had become the target of Environmental Action's "Dirty Dozen" campaign were subsequently defeated or retired. "Environmentalists Map Biggest Political Year," New York Times, 15 February 1976. 37. An example can be found in Not Man Apart 1(2), February 1971, p. 29. 38. Friends of the Earth energy expert Jim Harding, who had participated in this important meeting, used this mocking phrase. The meeting took place in

228

Notes to pages 6 5 - 7 1

Henry Kendall's home in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Interview, 4 November 1987, Berkeley. 39. Interview, 23 November 1987, Oakland. 40. Interview, 30 November 1987, San Francisco. 41. Ed Koupal, "Open Letter" (Los Angeles: Western Bloc, 16 October 1975). 42. Interview, 30 November 1987, San Francisco. 43. New York Times, 3 February 1976, p. 12. 44. The major organizational resources for Proposition 15 were provided by the Palo Alto—based Creative Initiative, a parareligious group that mixed new age psychology and "some political action." The three General Electric dissidents belonged to this group. Interview, 30 November 1987, San Francisco. 45. Quoted from a confidential PG8cE memorandum that was leaked to Friends of the Earth after Proposition 15's defeat in June 1976 (Not Man Apart, August 1976, p. 9). 46. New York Times, 10 June 1976, p. 55. 47. Time, 21 June 1976, pp. 62f. 48. Proposition IS Campaign Assessment: Comments by Workers in Various Counties (San Francisco: Californians for Nuclear Safeguards, ca. June 1976). 49. PG&E memo on Proposition 15. 50. Cf. John Gofman, Lessons from the California Nuclear Initiative (San Francisco: Committee for Nuclear Responsibility, 9 June 1976). 51. One such recruited critic was John Giesman, an attorney working for Proposition 15 who was nominated executive director of the State Energy Commission. Interview, 30 November 1987, San Francisco. 52. New York Times, 9 March 1978, pp. IV-13. 53. Nucleonics Week, 14 October 1976, pp. 2f. 54. Critical Mass Journal 4(13), 1978, p. 1. 55. New York Times, 18 April 1978, p. 13. Given that by this time nuclear orders were disappearing all around the country, the utility itself would have probably canceled the order sooner or later. 56. Tom Wicker, "Nuking Jerry Brown," New York Times, 3 March 1978. 57. "Carter Would Shift U.S. Toward Solar Energy," Christian Science Monitor, 25 May 1976; Anna Mayo, "Surprise! Guess Who's Best on Nuclear Power," The Village Voice, 14 June 1976. 58. Irene Dickinson, Anthony Roisman, and Gustave Speth, Open Letter (Washington, D.C.: Citizens for Clean Energy and Carter, ca. Summer 1976). 59. "The Energy War," Time, 2 May 1977, pp. 1 0 - 2 2 . 60. The director of the Critical Mass Energy Project scoffs, "He [Carter] spoke eloquently and clearly on the dangers of nuclear energy and the need to move away from it. I wouldn't say we feel disillusioned by his turnaround on the issue. We feel betrayed" (Birmingham Post-Herald, 1 September 1977). 61. Lorna Salzman, Memorandum to the Anti-Nuclear Movement (New York: Friends of the Earth, ca. April 1977). 62. See, for instance, Franklin Gage, John Gofman, and Egan O'Connor, Memorandum: 1978 Initiatives For Energy-Efficiency and Solar Energy? (San Francisco: Committee for Nuclear Responsibility, 22 August 1976).

Notes to pages 7 3 - 7 8

229

6 3 . See the revealing exchange of letters between William Loeb and Amory Lovins, Not Man Apart,

December 1 9 7 6 , p. 14.

6 4 . See Kitschelt's ( 1 9 8 4 , 212—213) scathing attack on Lovins's "ideological Americanism." 6 5 . This mobilization included counterdemonstrations against nuclear opponents, such as in the controversy over the Indian Point II nuclear plant in March 1 9 7 6 ( N e w York Times,

1 March 1 9 7 6 , p. 1).

6 6 . Critical Mass ' 7 8 , "Toward a Safe Energy Future" (Washington, D . C . : Critical Mass Project, undated flyer). See also the conference report by Shellah Kast, "Environmentalists Seek Coalition with Labor to Fight Nuclear Plants," Washington

Star, 10 October 1 9 7 8 .

67. "Who We Are," Environmentalists

for Full Employment,

no. 1 Novem-

ber 1 9 7 5 , p. 1. 6 8 . In These

Times 2 ( 2 4 ) ( 1 9 7 8 ) , pp. 3 - 4 .

6 9 . "Environment Coalition Aids Labor Law Drive," AFL-CIO

News,

1 4 January 1 9 7 8 .

70. Critical Mass Journal, January 1980, p. 6. 7 1 . T h e nuclear construction unions even voluntarily revoked their right to strike in order to reduce nuclear construction times {Wall Street Journal, 19 April 1978). 7 2 . National Sun Day, "Welcome to Sun D a y ! " (undated flyer). 7 3 . " T h e Goal of Sun Day: Solar Power," Los Angeles

Times,

3 May 1977.

7 4 . " T h e Solar Lobby Provides Ray of Hope For Future," Star-Ledger, 1979.

6 June

7 5 . In a similar vein, Dahl ( 1 9 5 6 ) distinguishes between two democratic traditions in the United States: the Madisonian tradition of checks and balances and the populist tradition that postulates popular sovereignty and equality. 7 6 . A leader of the recent movement against the Persian Gulf war described his cause as a "battle between power and truth." " L i k e David in the B o o k of Psalms, [activists] should speak the truth before kings" ( L o s Angeles Times, 2 6 March 1 9 9 1 , p. 2 2 ) . In the absence of a genuinely socialist tradition, Puritanism is the indigenous source of American left-wing radicalism. W h a t Richard Flacks ( 1 9 8 8 , 170), one of the intellectual leaders of the American N e w Left, calls "history making" is a secular variant of Puritan exemplary action. See his revealing idealization of left-wing intellectuals, who "[symbolize] potentialities for solidarity and community, . . . [typify] positive models of heroism and moral purity . . . [provide] examples of concrete principled action that can be emulated,. . . [and express] Utopian hopes [that] undermine the moral foundations of present realities." See also DeLeon's ( 1 9 7 8 ) insightful reflections on indigenous radicalism in America. 7 7 . Kitschelt ( 1 9 8 6 ) , the main protagonist of a state-centered political process theory, promptly ignores the appearance of direct action in the American antinuclear movement. 7 8 . In his 1 9 8 4 survey of participants in a direct action episode at the Diablo Canyon nuclear plant, Jasper ( 1 9 8 9 ) found that most respondents with prior involvements in other movements had been previously engaged in antiwar ac-

230

Notes to pages 7 9 - 8 3

tivities, which was mentioned almost twice as much as the distant second, environmentalism (followed by feminism and nuclear disarmament). 7 9 . International diffusion is perhaps the least studied aspect of contemporary social movements. George T h o m a s of Arizona State University is currently investigating international learning processes among movement organizations from a world-systems perspective (personal communication). 80. In Weberian terms, I am creating ideal types, which are empirically based, analytic devices for uncovering the typical contours o f historical phenomena rather than exact replications of reality. Weber ( [ 1 9 0 4 ] 1 9 7 3 , 191) calls them "one-sided exaggerations" of empirical reality. 8 1 . Nader's professed goal was to "remove nuclear power decisions from an estranged bureaucracy and technological elite and place these decisions in the hands of the citizenry" (Nader and Abbotts 1 9 7 7 , 6 8 ) . 8 2 . Interview, 2 8 November 1 9 8 7 , San Francisco. 8 3 . These words are from a movement pamphlet (quoted in Nelkin 1 9 7 8 , 1 4 5 ) . Civil disobedience thus understood implies the conscious violation of the law and the willingness to shoulder the legal consequences of doing so. T h e philosophical implications of civil disobedience are discussed by Habermas ( 1 9 8 5 ) and Dworkin ( 1 9 8 5 ) . 8 4 . Interview, 11 November 1 9 8 7 , San Francisco. 8 5 . Interview, 15 November 1 9 8 7 , Bolinas. 8 6 . Stephen Diamond, " S a m Lovejoy's Nuclear War," New ber 1 9 7 4 , pp. 3 1 - 3 6 .

Times,

Decem-

8 7 . Reprinted in WIN Magazine, 16 and 2 3 June 1 9 7 7 , p. 3 . 8 8 . "Letter to the Editor," Los Angeles Times, 5 September 1 9 8 1 . 8 9 . A Clamshell Alliance attempt in summer 1 9 7 7 to occupy the construction site of the Seabrook nuclear plant ended in more than fourteen hundred arrests. Newsweek (23 M a y 1 9 7 7 , p. 2 5 ) hailed the "intense discipline at Seab r o o k , " which "suggests a deep emotional commitment to the cause and a willingness to risk arrest." 9 0 . WIN Magazine,

16 and 2 3 June 1 9 7 7 , p. 2 6 .

91. Critical Mass Journal, August 1979, p. 4. 92. 93. 94. 95. ciency classic

Interview, 2 8 November 1 9 8 7 , San Francisco. Interview, 15 November 1 9 8 7 , Bolinas. Not Man Apart, October 1 9 7 6 , p. 12. Freeman ( 1 9 7 5 ) describes the same dilemma between ideology and effiin her study of the early phase of the American women's movement. T h e study of this dilemma, of course, is Michels ( 1 9 4 9 ) .

9 6 . Antinuclear activist Gyorgy ( 1 9 7 9 , 3 8 8 ) criticizes the centralized leadership of the antiwar movement: " T h e large Vietnam-era actions were most often organized by a small group of men; people were then asked to join as 'the masses.'" 9 7 . Interview, 10 December 1 9 8 7 , San Diego. 9 8 . Interview, 7 November 1 9 8 7 , Rohnert Park. 9 9 . Interview, 15 November 1 9 8 7 , Bolinas. 100. This indirectly resonates with Gamson's ( 1 9 7 5 ) findings that bureaucratic and centralized movement organizations are more likely to succeed than

Notes to pages 8 3 - 8 6

231

loosely structured ones. But success is an elusive category if means and ends are as closely interrelated as in the antinuclear movement. Collective behavior theorists have rightly emphasized that "altered ways of viewing both self and larger systems of social relationships are often more important products of social movements than any specific organizational or political accomplishment" (Turner 1981, 6). The following analysis should be read with this premise in mind. 101. Steve Leeds, "Office Staff Reflections," It's About Times, October 1979, p. 8. 102. It's About Times, June-July 1981, p. 2. 103. "Notes to the Movement: Update from the MUSE Foundation Staff," Groundswell 2(9) (1979), p. 10. 104. Less than 15 percent of the $4 million raised by the MUSE actually reached the grass roots. Mark Evanoff, "The Great MUSE Escapade," It's About Times, March-April 1981, p. 9. 105. It's About Times, June-July 1981, p. 2. 106. See, for instance, WIN Magazine, 19 May 1977, pp. 14-19. 107. In a provocative analysis, Douglas and Wildavsky (1982) point out the similarities between the antinuclear direct-action movement and the logic of religious sects. Both are voluntary organizations, and their worldviews reflect the need to keep members loyal to the group without coercion or overt leadership. "The sect needs enemies. It encourages thinking in either/or terms because of the political focus on that dividing line between saints and sinners. Compromise is ruled out because there is only one important distinction, between those who are loyal and the betrayers. Purity becomes a dominant motif" (p. 124). Their polemical tone has discredited Douglas and Wildavsky among social movement theorists. This is unfortunate because their cultural theory of risk selection contains the important insight that organizational cultures shape the ideology and strategy of social movements—an insight out of reach for the economistic resource mobilization paradigm. 108. In Jasper's (1989,11) survey of participants at a 1984 protest at Diablo Canyon, more than 90 percent of the respondents were white, and 56 percent were college graduates. 109. It's About Times, December—January 1982, p. 10. 110. Interview, 28 November 1987, San Francisco. 111. An unyielding antiwar veteran denounces the antinuclear movement: "If this is the 'me decade,' then nuclear power is the 'me issue'" (Andrew Cherlin, "The 'Me' Movement," New York Times, 22 June 1978). 112. Interview, 28 November 1987, San Francisco. 113. Nucleonics Week, 24 November 1977, p. 1. 114. A staff member of Critical Mass admits, "I'd like to think we could take credit for the slowdown. But I think it's due mostly to troubles within the industry—financing problems, safety problems, construction delays, operating efficiency problems" (New York Times, 14 August 1977, p. 27). 115. Nucleonics Week, 15 December 1977, p. 10; "Grassroots Effort Asked Against Nuclear Power," Washington Post, 6 November 1977. 116. Nucleonics Week, 6 October 1977, p. 11. 117. Interview, 4 November 1987, Berkeley.

232

Notes to pages 8 7 - 9 2

118. Interview, 23 November 1987, Oakland. 119. "If the public knew what the facts were and if they had to choose between nuclear power plants and candles, they would choose candles," says Ralph Nader in New York Times, 15 August 1973, p. 34. 120. Interview, 30 November 1987, San Francisco. 121. Interview, 4 November 1987, Berkeley. 122. A typical example is this quote from a movement pamphlet: "The structural conditions for resorting to nonviolent action were present: more conventional political and legal channels appeared blocked, yet people were unwilling to abandon their goals" (B. Irwin and G. Falson, Why Nonviolence? [Philadelphia: Movement for a New Society, April 1978], p. 3). The last resort metaphor suggests a personal and organizational continuity between legal intervention and direct action, which generally did not exist (not even at Seabrook; see Stever [1980, 165-169]). Scholarly accounts that uncritically use the last resort metaphor to explain the direct-action movement are Price (1982, ch. 4) and Nelkin and Fallows (1978, 285), the latter being an otherwise sound overview of the U.S. nuclear debate. 123. The following observations are based on several interviews with local key activists and on materials found in the Nuclear Issues Archive at the University of California at San Diego. 124. Interview, 10 November 1987, Santa Cruz. 125. Ibid. 126. "It's Not Their Fault," Santa Barbara News and Review, 22 November 1984. 127. "San Luis Obispo's Antinuclear Activists," Los Angeles Times, 1 April 1979. 128. Interview, 15 November 1987, Bolinas. 129. Interview, 10 November 1987, Santa Cruz. 130. Ibid. 131. Interview, 6 December 1987, San Luis Obispo. CHAPTER 5 1. According to Schmitter's (1979, 13) classic definition, neocorporatism is "a system of interest representation in which the constituent units are organized into a limited number of singular, compulsory, noncompetitive, hierarchically ordered and functionally differentiated categories, recognized or licensed (if not created) by the state and granted a deliberate representational monopoly within their respective categories in exchange for observing certain controls on their selection of leaders and articulation of demands and supports." See also Lehmbruch and Schmitter (1982), Goldthorpe (1984), and Streeck and Schmitter (1985). 2. Survey data show that West Germans have the lowest national pride among all Western countries (James 1989,1; Berg-Schlosser 1990, 33). Asked in 1978 "what are you most proud of as Germans," the majority of respondents mentioned "the economic system" (Berg-Schlosser 1990, 34). 3. Die Zeit, 4 March 1977, p. 9.

Notes to pages 9 3 - 1 0 0

233

4. In one of the first major media reports on nuclear energy, the weekly newsmagazine Der Spiegel (21 July 1975, pp. 32—41) found the prospect of a nuclear energy economy "frightening." The increased role of the state in the energy sector could not cover the fact that the market still reigned supreme (Schneider 1980; Schmitt 1982). High civil servants eagerly emphasized that the energy program was not really a program but was more of a "looking back and pointing out how we will go on," limiting state action to mere "peripheral adjustments" (quoted in Lucas 1985, 255). 5. Hauff and Scharpf (1975) certainly admit that the creation of consensus was beyond the reach of administrative planning. As Scharpf (1973, 70f) puts it, "Innovative policy remains dependent on uncontrollable processes of consciousness formation in the realm of civil society. . . . Even active policy will remain essentially reactive policy." 6. The symbolic transition to realpolitik occurred with the passage of a new party program in 1975, the so-called Orientierungsrahmen '85. It replaced the quality-of-life formula, centerpiece of the early reform policy, with the new key concept of economic growth (Hickel and Schmieg 1975; Narr 1975). 7. The local character of the protest movement is also due to the fact that the Atomic Law put the Länder governments in charge of plant licensing. 8. As Tocqueville ([1848] 1969, 194) contrasts the political styles of Europe and America: "When a [European] party forms an association it intends not to convince but to fight." 9. So said a declaration by the state government of Baden-Württemberg (quoted in Rucht 1988, 133). 10. Apter and Sawa (1984) observed a similar dynamics in their study of the Samrizuka antiairport movement in Japan (see also McKean 1981; Broadbent 1986). In France, too, an unresponsive state stirred a spiral of antinuclear movement radicalization and violence (Touraine et al. 1980; Chafer 1982). 11. Prior to that, there had been pockets of local opposition to individual nuclear facilities, which can be traced back into the 1950s. For an assessment of this early nuclear opposition, which was often intraadministrative and was carried out by municipal councils and local governments, see Winnacker and Wirtz (1979, 175-178) and Radkau (1983a, 4 4 2 - 4 4 5 ) . 12. Note the peculiar mélange of technocratic naïveté and authoritarianism in the following government statement, given out at the eve of the Wyhl conflict: "The Rhine Valley between Frankfurt and Basel will become the economic axis par excellence. Experts believe that the area should be totally given over to business and industry, while the functions 'living' and 'recreation' should be relocated into the side-valleys of the Rhine" (Der Spiegel, 31 May 1975, p. 41). 13. "Des Ministers brisante Energie," Süddeutsche Zeitung, 17 January 1975. 14. Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 26 February 1975, pp. 7—8. 15. Süddeutsche Zeitung, 1 March 1976, p. 3. 16. Between 1976 and 1980, the federal government financed more than eleven hundred public discussion rounds in which representatives of all major social groups and organizations openly debated the pros and cons of nuclear power (Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 12 August 1980, p. 10). In addition,

234

Notes to pages 100-106

information brochures were distributed to schools and households (German Bundesregierung 1976, 1977). 17. In the wake of the Wyhl debate, a high federal official called the citizen groups "useful watchdogs," which—if treated appropriately—could help the state to identify impasses of policy acceptance (Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 29 March 1975, p. 8). 18. Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 27 April 1976, p. 4. 19. In her careful study of a similar dialogue campaign in Austria, Nowotny (1979) comes to the same conclusion. 20. Interview, 13 August 1987, Bonn. 21. Der Spiegel, 8 November 1976, pp. 115-120. 22. Süddeutsche Zeitung, 2 November 1976, p. 3. 23. The literal translation of Nacht und Nebel Aktion is "night and fog action," which refers to an undercover, conspiratorial act. This phrase was first used in reference to the terror acts of the Nazi regime. All movement activists interviewed by the author in summer 1987 emphasized the pivotal significance of the Nacht und Nebel Aktion. 24. Süddeutsche Zeitung, 2 November 1976, p. 3. 25. Interview, 12 August 1987, Göttingen. 26. Die Zeit, 26 November 1976, p. 2. 27. Der Spiegel, 21 November 1976, p. 82. 28. Die Zeit, 26 November 1976, p. 82. 29. Interview, 10 August 1987, Hamburg. 30. Interview, 11 August 1987, Bremen. 31. Interview, 12 August 1987, Göttingen. 32. Der Spiegel, 14 February 1977, p. 89. 33. So said Minister President Gerhard Stoltenberg (Der Spiegel, ibid., p. 86). 34. Der Spiegel, ibid., p. 89. 35. Die Zeit, 4 March, 1977, p. 3. 36. Interview, 13 August 1987, Bonn. 37. Die Zeit, 4 March 1977, p. 2. 38. BBA, "Grosskundgebung in Grohnde" (Bremen: BBA, ca. March 1977, flyer). 39. Most notable were the BBA (Bremen), the BUU/Hamburg, the KBW, and the KB. Afraid of a violent confrontation, the moderate forces around the federal BBU had not participated in the preparation of this demonstration (Interview, 10 August 1987, Hamburg). 40. Süddeutsche Zeitung, 21 March 1977, p. 3. 41. Der Spiegel, 28 March 1977, pp. 4 5 - 4 6 . 42. Ibid. 43. Die Tageszeitung, 23 May 1985, p. 3. 44. Shirley van Buiren (1980, 145) has analyzed the coverage of the nuclear power controversy in four major newspapers between May 1974 and May 1977. Her conclusion: "The positive picture of the 'despaired' nuclear power opponent before the site occupations at Wyhl and Brokdorf gave way to a more ambivalent one after the site occupation at Wyhl, and finally to an extremely negative one after the Brokdorf events."

Notes to pages 106-111

235

45. So said a leading politician of the conservative CSU in national TV (Die Zeit, 12 August 1977, p. 3). 46. Atomwirtschaft-Atomtechnik, January 1977, p. 32. 47. "Grohnde Prozesse (2)" (Hannover: Ermittlungsausschuss Hannover, 4 March 1978, pamphlet). 48. Die Tageszeitung, 23 May 1985, p. 3. 49. Süddeutsche Zeitung, 22 September 1977, p. 9. The Kalkar demonstration was also overshadowed by the tragic outcome of an antinuclear mass rally near Malville, France, a few weeks earlier. One demonstrator was killed and several hundred were wounded in a ferocious battle with the French antiriot police. Five thousand West German activists had participated in the event, attesting to strong movement ties across national borders in this peak year of the nuclear controversy in Western Europe (see Nelkin and Pollak 1981, 69—75). 50. Nationwide Autobahn controls by machine-gunned police troups prevented most demonstrators from even reaching the Northrhine-Westphalian village of Kalkar. A Bundesbahn train was stopped by police helicopters, and its passengers were searched for weapons. On this late September day in 1977, martial law reigned in the FRG. See the documentation in Ermittlungsausschuss (1977). 51. Interview, 13 August 1987, Bonn. 52. In August 1977, the BBU published an "action catalog" that outlined its change of strategy. Because it advocated civil disobedience, the BBU catalog was widely criticized in the national press (Die Zeit, 12 August 1977, p. 3). The radical movement wing, too, criticized the BBU—because it renounced the use of violence (Atom-Express, no. 7 [March—April 1978]). 53. Helmets belonged to the standard equipment of the militant movement wing. 54. Tunix means "do nothing." See Hoffmann-Axthelm and Knödler-Bunte (1978). 55. "Gorleben soll leben" (Gartow/Gorleben: Bürgerinitiative LüchowDannenberg, 1978, pamphlet). The Bürgerinitiative is here referred to as the Gorleben Citizen Group. 56. The Gewaltfreie Aktion, a nationwide network of pacifist war resisters, Christian socialists, and liberal anarchists, espouses strictly nonviolent direct action. Comprising no more than a few thousand activists, the Gewaltfreie Aktion had so far played only a minor role in the antinuclear movement. At Gorleben, however, these groups became more important, trying "to bridge the split between urban and rural, or radical and moderate, wings of the antinuclear movement" (Lyons 1988, 36). 57. Many of them were artists, writers, or intellectuals who had fled the cities or had a second home near Gorleben, lured by the melancholic beauty of the Elbe landscape (Rucht 1980, 115-118). 58. Alarmed by the fate of the BUU at Brokdorf, only county residents who declared their commitment to the Basic Law (West German constitution) were allowed to be members—a rule that mirrored the repressive conformism of the German Autumn (Ehmke 1987, 34). 59. In 1987, Gorleben Citizen Group activists (through affiliation with the

236

Notes to pages 111—116

Green Party) were members of the regional, the state, the federal, and the European parliament ( D i e Grünen, 14 March 1 9 8 7 , p. 3). 60. Elbe-Jeetzel-Zeitung, 2 7 October 1 9 7 7 . 6 1 . Göttingen Committee Against Nuclear Power, "Erklärung zum bundesweiten Arbeitstreffen in Braunschweig" (Göttingen: Author, 7 February 1 9 7 9 , flyer); Gorleben Citizen Group, "Thesen zur Braunschweiger Konferenz" (Trebel: Author, 4 February 1 9 7 9 , flyer). 6 2 . Gorleben Citizen Group, "Resolution to the March to H a n n o v e r " (Gartow/Gorleben; Author, 7 February 1 9 7 9 , flyer). 6 3 . Interview, 12 August 1 9 8 7 , Hannover. 6 4 . T h e term Wend refers to the ancient Celtic tribe that settled in the region millennia ago. During the Gorleben conflict, the Wend tradition became the major source of regional identity and autonomy. 6 5 . Atom-Express, no. 17 (December 1 9 7 9 ) : 1 9 - 2 1 . 6 6 . "Protest im Winterschlaf," Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 1 4 February 1980. 6 7 . Die Tageszeitung, 11 March 1 9 8 0 , p. 6. 6 8 . This is yet another astonishing example of an international learning process between the antinuclear movements. In 1 9 7 9 , the Berlin Gewaltfreie Aktion group Klatschmohn (Corn Poppy) had spent four months in the United States to inform itself about nonviolent action techniques and principles. T h e group's Gorleben plan closely resembled the model of the Seabrook and Diablo Canyon blockades (Lyons 1 9 8 8 , 5 1 ) . 6 9 . " 1 0 0 4 — W i e Weiterarbeiten?" Die Tageszeitung, 12 M a y 1 9 8 0 . 7 0 . According to Minister President Albrecht, the occupiers were " 8 0 percent innocent, nice people, who do not even know what is right or w r o n g " (Der Spiegel, 2 June 1 9 8 0 , p. 6 0 ) . 7 1 . Ten thousand police officers, assembled from all over Lower Saxony, faced two thousand occupiers ( G o r l e b e n - D o k u m e n t a t i o n 1 9 8 0 , 3). 7 2 . Graswurzelrevolution, no. 4 9 (Summer 1 9 8 0 ) , p. 11. 73. official many. 74. 75.

Editorial, Die Tageszeitung, 9 June 1 9 8 0 . "Social partnership" is the formula for the institutionalized labor-capital relationship in West GerAtom-Express, no. 2 3 (February 1 9 8 1 ) : 2 2 - 2 3 . Interview, 12 August 1 9 8 7 , Hannover.

7 6 . " D a s Wendland ist besetztes Gebiet," Die Tageszeitung, 6 September 1979. 7 7 . Jungk's ( 1 9 7 9 ) popular notion of the nuclear state has this specific connotation. 7 8 . I am indebted to John Meyer of Stanford University for this formulation. In his comparison of environmental policies in Sweden and the United States, Lundqvist ( 1 9 8 0 ) makes a similar observation. T h e American " h a r e , " fueled by the pluralist fragmentation of the political system, is quick in articulating new issues and interests but soon gets exhausted and loses interest. By contrast, the Swedish "tortoise," burdened by a toilsome machinery of neocorporatist interest negotiation, moves slowly but then firmly institutionalizes new issues and interests.

Notes to pages 1 1 7 - 1 2 0

237

7 9 . Der Spiegel, 14 February 1 9 7 7 , p. 1 6 3 . 8 0 . Barry Commoner's Citizen Party, which articulated ecological and antinuclear positions in the 1 9 8 0 national elections, remained a marginal phenomenon. 8 1 . T h e influence of electoral rules on the viability of new parties is analyzed by Lijphart ( 1 9 8 4 , ch. 9). 8 2 . G o o d overviews of Green Party development are Peters ( 1 9 7 9 ) , Abromeit ( 1 9 8 2 ) , Chandler and Siaroff ( 1 9 8 6 ) , Mez ( 1 9 8 7 ) , and Hülsberg ( 1 9 8 8 ) . In a comparative study of left-libertarian parties in eighteen democracies, Kitschelt ( 1 9 8 8 , 2 0 9 ) argues that these parties will rise when the "unresponsiveness of existing political institutions coincides with favorable opportunities to displace existing parties." Among the favorable opportunities listed are (1) strongly developed welfare states, (2) neocorporatist elite bargaining, (3) the presence of Social Democratic or Socialist parties in power, and (4) strong antinuclear movements. All four conditions were present in West Germany. Kitschelt convincingly refutes breakdown theories, which refer the rise of the Greens to the blocked mobility of new middle-class segments (Bürklin 1 9 8 4 ; Alber 1 9 8 5 ) . T h e close ties between the West German antinuclear movement and the Green Party are emphasized by Kitschelt ( 1 9 8 9 ) and Müller-Rommel ( 1 9 8 5 ) . 8 3 . Der Spiegel, 1 0 July 1 9 7 8 , pp. 5 5 - 5 6 . 8 4 . The founder of the conservative GLU characterized himself as a "patriotic civil servant" {Der Spiegel, 3 0 January 1 9 7 8 , p. 4 6 ) , and his intention was to "teach the parties a lesson by means of the ballot b o x " (Süddeutsche Zeitung, 1 7 M a y 1 9 7 8 , p. 11). 8 5 . T h e Green Action Future (Grüne Aktion Zukunft, or G A Z ) , founded by conservative ecologist Herbert Gruhl in July 1 9 7 8 , was the first attempt to unite the Green Lists on the national level (Peters 1 9 7 9 , 4 0 0 - 4 0 4 ) . A party of leaders who lacked any recognition by the movement basis, G A Z soon disbanded. T h e conservative spectrum of the Greens had a wide latitude, comprising moderate factions of the antinuclear movement opposed to violence, ecological dissidents of the majority parties (both the C D U and SPD), and some right-wing forces that combined ecology with "blood and soil" ideology. Gruhl himself, while a C D U dissident, was close to an extreme right-wing position. In his widely circulating book A Planet Is Plundered, Gruhl ( 1 9 7 5 ) argues that only a world-spanning dictatorship can avoid the imminent depletion of natural resources. 8 6 . Intent on fusing party and movements, the Alternative Lists admitted as members only groups and organizations, not individuals. 8 7 . Kvistad ( 1 9 8 7 ) has nicely illustrated that the Greens inherited the statist fixation of their political environment. Replicating the debates in the antinuclear movement over the question of violence, the Greens became caught in internal fights over the acceptability of the state monopoly of force and over their paradoxical claim to be an antiparty party. 8 8 . Interview, 13 August 1 9 8 7 , Bonn. 8 9 . Süddeutsche Zeitung, 2 5 November 1 9 7 7 , p. 3. 9 0 . Interview, 13 August 1 9 8 7 , Bonn. 9 1 . Umweltmagazin, 9 2 . Die Tageszeitung,

no. 1 ( 1 9 8 0 ) : p. 17. 15 January 1 9 8 0 .

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Notes to pages 1 2 0 - 1 2 4

9 3 . Atom-Express, no. 8 ( 1 9 7 8 ) : p. 13. 9 4 . Atom-Express, no. 17 ( 1 9 7 9 ) : pp. 2 3 - 2 7 . Bremen BBA launched a similar indictment of the Greens ( D i e Tageszeitung, 11 January 1 9 8 0 ) . 9 5 . In their comparison of the French and West German antinuclear movements, Nelkin and Pollak ( 1 9 8 1 ) favorably contrast the " o p e n " German to the "closed" French polity. This reflects the institutional decentralization of state power in West Germany but obscures the fact that the antinuclear movement as such had no access to the political system. 9 6 . From 1 9 6 5 to 1 9 7 5 , prior to the nuclear debate, the länder ministries issued eleven nuclear construction licenses. From 1 9 7 5 to 1 9 7 7 , after the outbreak of the controversy, only four additional licenses were issued. From 1 9 7 7 to 1 9 8 2 , a de facto moratorium on new construction licenses was in effect (MeyerAbich and Dickler 1 9 8 2 , 2 4 9 ) . 9 7 . Article 2 1 of the Basic Law stipulates that "the political parties shall participate in the formation of the political will of the people." 9 8 . Especially in states where it formed the parliamentary opposition and where severe local conflicts over nuclear facilities were raging (Lower Saxony, Schleswig-Holstein, Hamburg, Bremen, and Baden-Württemberg), the SPD succumbed to nuclear-critical positions.

99. Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 30 April 1977, p. 12. 1 0 0 . "Ein Bündnis Kohle-Kernkraft," Süddeutsche 1977.

Zeitung,

16 November

1 0 1 . Earlier in the year, a leader of the antinuclear movement had underlined the importance of a coalition with the trade unions, some of which opposed nuclear power: "Unless we reach this coalition, we will fail" (quoted in Konkret, April 1 9 7 7 , p. 2 3 ) . But like in the United States, a labor-antinuclear alliance would not come about. 1 0 2 . The Second Energy Program carried the visible signature of the twooption compromise (Meyer-Renschhausen 1 9 7 7 , ch. 5 ; Michaelis 1 9 7 8 ; IAE 1 9 7 9 , 67—74). Whereas the Energy Program of 1 9 7 4 had stated that nuclear power should be used "as much as possible," the Second Energy Program changed this to "as much as necessary." Also reflecting slower economic growth and a diminished need for electricity, the new program almost cut in half the nuclear capacity to be installed by 1 9 8 5 , from 4 0 G W to just 2 4 GW. 1 0 3 . " W i t h Schmidt and Eppler for and against nuclear power" was the sarcastic slogan at the time. 1 0 4 . Atomwirtschaft-Atomtechnik, J u n e 1 9 7 8 , p. 2 6 9 . 1 0 5 . Three leaders of the federal BBU were former SPD members who had left the party because of its pronuclear course (Jo Leinen, Roland Vogt, and Petra Kelly). Vogt and Kelly became key figures in building the Green Party. 1 0 6 . Atomwirtschaft-Atomtechnik, J u l y - A u g u s t 1 9 7 7 , p. 3 6 9 . Before reaching this decision, the court had interrogated more than fifty nuclear experts over a several month period, including the American nuclear critics Ernest Sternglass and Robert Pollard. 1 0 7 . Atomwirtschaft-Atomtechnik, January 1 9 7 7 , p. 2 . 1 0 8 . Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 1 2 October 1 9 7 9 . See also Krämer ( 1 9 8 1 ) , A. Ziegler ( 1 9 8 2 ) , and Albers ( 1 9 8 3 ) . To be sure, as of today not a single

Notes to pages 124—128

239

nuclear facility has been lastingly prevented by a court rule. The construction bans on the Grohnde and Brokdorf plants were lifted in 1 9 7 9 . In the Wyhl case, a change of the reactor design moved the Upper Administrative Court of Mannheim to revoke the construction ban in 1983. Nevertheless, anxious to anticipate every possible court objection, the licensing authorities internalized extremely high safety standards. This led to a considerable lengthening of the licensing process and caused construction costs to rise (see Appendix B, Table A-3). 1 0 9 . Forcing the nuclear utilities into reprocessing corresponded to the polluter pays principle of the environmental laws passed in the early 1970s. This step had become necessary because slim economic prospects had moved the chemical industry to abandon the reprocessing business. A comprehensive account of West German nuclear waste policy is Fischer et al. (1989). 110. "Gorleben: Das Zeitalter der Angst?" Der Spiegel, 2 6 March 1 9 7 9 , pp. 3 2 - 4 9 . 1 1 1 . The exception of nuclear-engineer-turned-critic Klaus Traube proves the rule. Traube became the leading West German expert critic after having lost his high-ranking job in the fast-breeder project because of alleged contacts with left-wing terrorists, charges that were never proved. 112. A Bremen group of physics students published the first critical assessment of nuclear waste disposal (Arbeitsgruppe Wiederaufarbeitung 1977). 113. Scheer offered an easy target because he was a member of the Maoist KPD. In 1 9 7 5 , Scheer was temporarily removed from the university under the Radicals Decree. 114. The Eco-Institute became actively involved in almost every legal citizen intervention since 1 9 7 7 . However, as a staff member of the Darmstadt branch of the Eco-Institute admits, " M o s t activists did not care much about legal intervention" (Interview, 19 August 1 9 8 7 , Darmstadt). 115. "Energie fur Besserwisser," Die Zeit, 2 6 June 1 9 8 1 . 116. Katzenstein ( 1 9 8 7 , 3 8 3 ) characterizes the German consensus ideology as follows: " T h e common good is anchored in a process of reaching a consensus that bridges state and society rather than in the imposition of policy goals by state officials on antagonistic social actors." 1 1 7 . The dialogue was fictitious because the federal government never meant to give up the nuclear program. A real dialogue should have involved the possibility of changing standpoints on both sides. 118. In general, enquete commissions are parliamentary instruments to clarify legislative options in technically complex areas of decision making (Thienen 1987). Previously, the federal parliament had been only marginally involved in the nuclear debate (Hànschke 1 9 7 7 , 9 0 - 1 1 8 ) . 119. This group included a leading member of the Eco-Institute. 120. Under the spell of the Social Democratic two-option compromise, the commission argued that before 1 9 9 0 a decision for or against nuclear power was not necessary. In the meantime, both options should be kept open: "Considering the logic of the two options, we recommend an energy policy for the 1980s which mediates between both in a rational and fair manner, and which is acceptable for proponents and opponents of nuclear power. This requires that there will be a

240

Notes to pages 1 2 9 - 1 3 6

fair competition between both options, whose results can be rationally evaluated" (German Bundestag 1980, 194). PART 3 1. Typical representatives of the life-cycle approach in social movement theory are Turner and Killian (1987, 2 5 3 - 2 5 5 ) and Rammstedt (1978, 1 3 7 178). A good critique is Rucht (1987). 2. In the United States, the average annual rate of growth of gross national product between 1973 and 1983 was 2.2 percent, dropping from the 4.1 percent average obtained between 1963 and 1973. In West Germany, the 1973—1983 average was 1.9 percent, as against 4.4 percent between 1963 and 1973 (Scharpf 1987, 24). In 1982, the West German economy spent as much energy as in 1973 (Das Handelsblatt, 16 November 1982)—a trend that continued (German Bundesregierung 1986, 134). In the United States, the growth of electricity demand averaged 2.6 percent annually from 1973 to 1982, compared to 7.1 percent from 1960 to 1972 (OTA 1984, 24). In both countries, nuclear reactors coming on line in the 1980s were at least three times more expensive than those operating since the 1970s (for the United States, see Weinberg et al. 1985, 6; for West Germany, see Campbell 1988, ch. 7). Higher energy prices in West Germany, however, somewhat smoothened the competitive disadvantage resulting from nuclear cost increases. For an overview of nuclear development, see Appendix B, Tables A-l and A-2. CHAPTER 6 1. New York Times, 30 March 1979, p. A24. The government-sponsored Kemeny report, published in October 1979, determined that the accident was "one of the most heavily covered news events ever" (Kemeny Commission 1979, 18). According to an April 1979 Gallup Poll, 96 percent of the American public had heard or read about the TMI events (Gallup Opinion Index 1979, 3). The high degree of public attention underlines the agenda-setting impact of the accident. 2. With regard to the lack of incentives, see New York Times, 17 July 1989, pp. C I , 4. 3. Komanoff's (1981) interesting thesis is that capital cost increases in the nuclear sector are the result of regulatory efforts to contain total accident and environmental risks that would otherwise have expanded in proportion with the growth of the sector. Harvard economist I. C. Bupp, in his foreword to Komanoff, refutes this single-factor explanation, arguing instead that the "breakdown of the democratic political process" is the root of the problem. Bupp's view is certainly comforting for sociologists. 4. TMI aside, Campbell (1988,106) argues convincingly that also structural factors were responsible for the financial crisis of U.S. nuclear power. Campbell mentions competitive capital markets, where short-term profitability determines

Notes to pages 137-138

241

the availability of investment capital, and public access to utility rate regulation, which politicized the latter from early on and resulted in repeated denials of indispensable rate increases. 5. New York Times, 26 December 1979, p. 1. The post-TMI countermovement is analyzed by Useem and Zald (1982). Sponsored by the industry, the countermovement imitated the style of the antinuclear movement, such as holding annual "energy advocacy" conferences that strikingly resembled the antinuclear Critical Mass meetings. To counter the industry offensive, antinuclear activists founded the Safe Energy Communication Council, which still exists today as one of the last organizational remains of the antinuclear movement on the national level (Groundswell 2[6], [1979]: pp. 3 - 4 ) . 6. New York Times, 1 November 1979, p. 1. 7. Ten years after TMI, the nuclear industry offered a mixed picture with regard to safety improvements. On the one hand, the number of unplanned automatic shutdowns went down from 7.4 per plant in 1980 to just 2.7 per plant in 1987 (New York Times, 23 March 1989, p. C14). On the other hand, NRC records show that by 1989 only 24 of the 112 licensed commercial reactors had completed all 149 changes outlined by the NRC's own Three Mile Island Action Plan ("Nuclear Safety Goals Are Not Met," New York Times, 27 March 1989). See also Marcus et al. (1990). 8. To be sure, the assumption by resource mobilization theorists that grievances alone do not generate movements still holds true. As Gamson and Modigliani (1989) demonstrate in their careful analysis of changes in public opinion and in the media coverage on nuclear power, TMI became an issue of major public concern only because the antinuclear movement had already created a critical discursive terrain. Prior to the movement, similarly dangerous nearaccidents had not caused any significant public reaction. 9. Time, 9 April 1979, p. 8. 10. New York Times, 19 April 1979, p. 11-13. 11. Time, 21 May 1979, p. 18. 12. GAO later computed that during the first four months of 1979 the events in Iran had caused an average shortfall of 600,000—700,000 barrels of oil per day (Yager 1981, 618). 13. After TMI, President Carter maintained his inconclusive strategy of muddling through in nuclear policy. As before, Carter neither opposed nor wholeheartedly supported the further use of nuclear power. In June 1979, Carter sent the first presidential solar energy message to Congress, which set the ambitious goal of obtaining 20 percent of the nation's energy needs from solar and renewable sources by the year 2000. An offshoot of his Sun Day 1978 involvement, the enactment of these proposals, however, did not receive high priority. Carter's major energy interest was in oil, which became the focus of his second national energy plan announced in July 1979 (Katz 1985, ch. 8). Facing a dramatic decline in popularity in the polls, Carter attempted to renew the populist fervor that had carried him into the White House. Like his first energy crusade two years earlier, Carter tried to morally unite the nation around the fight for energy independence and against a clear enemy—OPEC. Unlike

242

Notes to pages 1 3 9 - 1 4 3

its 1977 predecessor, which had relied heavily on taxes and new legislation to raise the price of energy and thereby spur conservation, the new energy plan involved only tax credits and grants, with less emphasis on conservation (New York Times, 17 July 1979, p. 1). The two pillars of the $140 billion proposal were the development of synthetic fuels as a substitute for foreign oil and a windfall profits tax on decontrolled domestic oil, from which the synthetic fuel project would be financed. Carter dressed the second NEP in a formal commitment to nuclear power, whose battered state, however, it would not improve. 14. For instance, actress Jane Fonda and ex-antiwar activist Tom Hayden, the movement's self-appointed "Paul and Pauline Revere," held a highly publicized, month-long tour through the nation's major college campuses and TV studios during which they combined their antinuclear message with the plea for "consumer control of the massive corporations" (New York Times, 25 September 1979, p. 14). 15. "Nuclear Power Program Condemned by Kennedy," New York Times, 16 February 1980. 16. The movement's most spectacular post-TMI action was a blockade of the New York Stock Exchange in October 1979. This "Manhattan Project" was carried by a coalition of "social justice, anti-apartheid, community, native american, feminist, . . . anti-nuclear and peace groups" (Manhattan Project, "The Wall Street Action" [New York, 22 October 1979, press release]). 17. Groundswell 2(6) (1979), pp. 3 - 4 . 18. "For women, their roles as mothers and their perceptions of environmental threats are particularly salient, whereas optimism about the ability of science to solve future problems and perceptions of the net benefits of technology are more influential for men" (Mitchell 1984b, 162). 19. Because Cambridge Reports and Harris have done comparable polling since 1974, a rich data base exists. In general, three types of questions are asked: the first refers to the respondent's support for or opposition to building more nuclear power plants, the second to support or opposition to a hypothetical plant nearby, and the third to support or opposition to phasing out already existing plants (see Rankin et al. 1984). 20. The one important change occurring before TMI is that since 1978 clear majorities have been against a nuclear plant in their backyards (Freudenburg and Baxter 1985, 102). This change is remarkable because in the early 1970s the support for a hypothetical backyard plant averaged 70 to 80 percent. Accordingly, the pre-TMI nuclear controversy did not significantly influence the general support level for nuclear power; but it evidently contributed to the erosion of public support for a plant nearby (which usually means within a five-mile radius). 21. Rankin et al. (1984) report a five to one margin against a total moratorium. 22. The trend toward polarization is especially clear if we consider the view of the public toward the antinuclear movement before and after the accident (Mitchell 1980, 7):

Notes to pages 1 4 4 - 1 4 5

243

Attitude Before TMI (August 1978) Active Sympathetic Neutral Unsympathetic Don't know

2%

27 44

21 6

Attitude After TMI (August 1979) 4% 29 35

26 6

In 1 9 7 8 , 2 1 percent of the public was unsympathetic to the movement, and 44 percent expressed neutrality. In 1979, three months after the accident, the number of respondents declaring neutrality was down by 9 percent, while those favorably inclined toward the movement had increased 4 percent, and those opposed had risen 5 percent. Apparently, the gains for the antinuclear movement were much smaller than might have been expected. In 1978 and 1979, the direct-action movement peaked, and there is evidence that its confrontational and countercultural style was at that time tout court identified with the antinuclear movement. For instance, a 1978 comparison of public attitudes toward the environmental and antinuclear movements showed that the former was judged much more sympathetically than the latter (Mitchell 1978, 5). Given that the most significant difference between both movements was that the environmental movement rarely resorted to direct action, one may conclude that (besides undeniable differences in substance) differences in movement styles and strategies contributed to these divergent attitudes. 23. The poll data reported by Gillroy and Shapiro (1986, 275) showed that public concerns about adequate energy supplies somewhat weakened in the early 1980s but still remained on a relatively high level. 24. Cf. James Cook, "Nuclear Follies," Forbes, 11 February 1985. 25. One can also conclude that the standard public acceptance indicator— " D o you favor or oppose the construction of more nuclear power plants?"—has become insufficient. If economic reasons foreclose the support for additional plants, this does not imply opposition to existing plants. If acceptance is measured by attitudes to existing plants, opponents still outweigh proponents, but by a much smaller margin. See the poll data reported by Newsweek, 12 May 1986, p. 30. 26. These findings contradict Mazur's (1984) argument that public opinion on nuclear energy is a function of media coverage—more media reports after accidents drive up nuclear opposition, according to Mazur, whereas the slackening of media interest reinstates the previous support levels. Instead, there is ample evidence of a secular increase in antinuclear attitudes in the United States, which reflects changes of the political context rather than in cycles of media attention (Jasper 1988). 27. Fox Butterfield, "U.S. Nuclear Foes Debate Strategy," New York Times, 14 M a y 1986. 28. In general, the cultural generation of issues and the mechanisms of agenda setting are among the least understood subjects of political sociology. Interesting accounts can be found in Gamson (1988), Hilgartner and Bosk (1988), and—with regard to public policy—Walker (1981).

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Notes to pages 1 4 5 - 1 4 8

2 9 . The notion of discourse, understood here in a broad sense, refers to systems of signs, symbols, and meanings that lend cognitive coherence and thematic unity to particular aspects o f reality. 3 0 . A case in point is the plutonium proliferation debate (see chapter 4). 3 1 . WIN Magazine, 16 June 1 9 7 7 , p. 3. 3 2 . Interview, 2 1 October 1 9 8 7 , San Francisco. A M O B E activist acknowledges these tensions: " S o m e of the tension had a valid basis. I do not think that we had properly understood the problem of nuclear power. Some of the tensions were based on a fear that M O B E would try to move in and take credit for a movement Clamshell had set in m o t i o n " (Alliance for Survival, Internal Discussion Bulletin, no. 3 [June 1 9 7 8 ] , pp. 3). Alliance for Survival was the California branch of M O B E . 3 3 . See also Pector ( 1 9 7 8 ) and the critical response by Darnovsky ( 1 9 7 9 ) . 3 4 . It's About Times, October—November 1 9 8 1 , p. 2. 3 5 . Interview, 2 9 November 1 9 8 7 , San Francisco. 3 6 . Interview, 9 November 1 9 8 7 , Berkeley. 3 7 . " H o w Doctors Hope to Stop Nuclear War," Wall Street Journal, 2 8 November 1 9 8 0 . 3 8 . "Hiroshima is my image behind nuclear power issues and I believe it is the image shared by all o f us" (Lifton 1 9 7 6 , 16). See also Hohenemser et al. ( 1 9 7 7 ) and Inglehart ( 1 9 8 4 ) . The cultural dimension of the nuclear arms race became the subject o f a flood of popular and social science literature in the early 1 9 8 0 s (see Finsterbusch 1 9 8 8 ) . 3 9 . In September 1 9 8 1 , the Reagan administration proposed the use of commercial nuclear waste for the production of weapons-grade plutonium. This plan, which would have erased the fickle but nervously maintained boundaries between the Atoms for Peace and the Atoms for War, provoked furious protests, even by the nuclear industry, and it had to be abandoned quickly (New York Times, 11 September 1 9 8 1 , p. A20). 40. almost energy source

A nationwide survey of local protest groups found that in early 1 9 8 2 3 0 percent of the responding groups that had previously opposed nuclear now gave priority to the weapons issue (Nuclear Information and ReService 1 9 8 2 ) .

4 1 . Lovins, Lovins, and Ross ( 1 9 8 0 ) argue that proliferation risks emerge at any part of the nuclear fuel cycle, not only in the context of fast-breeder technology and fuel reprocessing, as the common wisdom would have it. Accordingly, an effective nonproliferation policy would require the total phasing out of nuclear power plants. Bolstering the proliferation problem was an implicit strategy to keep energy issues alive within the now dominant weapons discourse. In fact, desperate hope was invested in this second strike by antinuclear wunderkind Amory Lovins. F O E chief David Brower declared an excerpt of Lovins, Lovins, and Ross's ( 1 9 8 0 ) text as the "second most important" article ever printed there—the " m o s t important" being Lovins's seminal soft-path scenario o f 1 9 7 7 . 4 2 . T h e freeze was very successful in combining grass-roots pressure with bipartisan political clout at the federal level. T h e House of Representatives passed a freeze resolution in 1 9 8 3 ; the Republican Senate failed to do so by only eighteen votes.

Notes to pages 1 4 8 - 1 5 3

245

4 3 . Interestingly, the new antinuclear disarmament movement split between a moderate arms control wing that worked through the conventional political channels and a more radical grass-roots wing that favored direct action (Kazin 1 9 8 7 ; Ferguson 1 9 8 8 ; Szegedy-Muszak 1 9 8 9 ) — a split not unlike the one between the public-interest and the direct-action branches in the antinuclear energy movement. 4 4 . Ondaatje ( 1 9 8 9 , 5 ) reports that of the 1 6 9 direct protest activities against nuclear weapons and energy that she observed in the United States between 1 9 8 4 and 1 9 8 7 , only 2 were directed jointly against weapons and energy. 4 5 . "Professional Groups Flocking to Antinuclear Drive," New York Times, 2 7 March 1 9 8 0 . 4 6 . Interview, 2 1 October 1 9 8 7 , San Francisco. T h e pivotal role of philanthropic foundation funding in the growth of the new disarmament movement is elaborated by M c C r e a and Markle ( 1 9 8 9 , 1 1 7 - 1 2 2 ) . 4 7 . An example of a revitalized peace organization is the Committee for a Sane Nuclear Policy (SANE), which had one hundred thousand new members in 1 9 8 4 . Shedding its policy elitism of the 1 9 5 0 s , SANE now represented the radical wing of the disarmament movement and encouraged citizen participation and grass-roots activism (see Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists, November 1 9 8 4 , p. 5 4 ) . 4 8 . Interview, 3 0 November 1 9 8 7 , San Francisco. 4 9 . New York Times, 2 6 April 1 9 8 3 , p. C I . 5 0 . A more detailed analysis can be found in Joppke (forthcoming). 5 1 . Governor Dukakis's opposition to Seabrook was triggered by the Chernobyl accident in 1 9 8 6 (Rudolph and Ridley 1 9 8 6 a , 1 1 - 1 2 ) . In general, Chernobyl fueled the emergency planning controversy and increased state and local government resistance to participation in emergency preparations (Johnson and Zeigler 1 9 8 8 , 3 0 0 - 3 0 3 ) . 5 2 . In a highly publicized move, the N R C issued an operating permit for the Shoreham plant in April 1 9 8 9 , even though the state of N e w York still refused participation in the evacuation procedures. This move was largely symbolic and had no real impact because Lilco and the state of New York had already reached an agreement to dismantle the plant. In this agreement, Lilco sold the Shoreham plant to the state of New York for the symbolic price of $ 1 . In return, Lilco was promised rate increases and narrowly escaped bankruptcy. But Shoreham will never go on line and is likely to be converted to other fuels ( N e w York Times, 2 1 April 1 9 8 9 , p. A 1 3 ; McCaffrey 1 9 9 1 , ch. 7). Seabrook went on line in March 1990—eleven years behind schedule and at a cost twelve times the original estimate ( N e w York Times, 1 March 1 9 9 0 , p. 1). 5 3 . "Governors Push for Voice in Setting Standards for Safety at Nuclear Facilities in Their States," Wall Street Journal, 19 September 1 9 8 6 .

54. Critical Mass Newsletter, April 1975.

5 5 . To ease the financial problems of the nuclear utilities, some states allow the inclusion of so-called construction work in progress costs into the rate base. C W I P means that consumers pay through their monthly electricity bills for nuclear power plants still under construction. 5 6 . Wall Street Journal,

2 October 1 9 8 6 .

246

Notes to pages 153—158

5 7 . New York Times, 2 9 January 1 9 8 8 , p. 1. In the case of the Diablo Canyon plant in California, together with Shoreham and Seabrook probably the most heavily contested nuclear plant in the United States, P G & E , the state utility commission, and consumer groups reached an unusual compromise that could show a way out of the current regulatory deadlock. After four years of intense negotiations, the contesting parties agreed to switch from a cost-based to a performance-based rate-setting procedure. According to this, the rates to be charged consumers will depend on the volume of power Diablo will produce over the next years. To be sure, P G & E was disallowed $ 2 . 1 billion of the construction cost for "imprudent m a n a g e m e n t " — t h e largest disallowance ever in the history of U.S. nuclear power. But if the plant continues to operate above average, the new procedure may allow P G & E to recover the full construction costs in the long run {San Francisco Chronicle, 5 July 1 9 8 8 , p. C I ) . 5 8 . For instance, the Zimmer plant in Moscow, Ohio, was 9 7 percent complete before its owner, Cincinnatti Gas and Electric, had to cancel it because of poor quality (Thomas 1 9 8 8 , 7 8 ) . 5 9 . Southern California Edison, for instance, once heavily leaning toward nuclear energy, quietly shifted toward new generating technologies and improved efficiency in the early 1 9 8 0 s (Flavin 1 9 8 4 , 4 8 - 4 9 ) . P G & E is also involved in conservation efforts. Indicative of the resulting relaxation of the regulatory climate, the California PUC recently began looking at ways to increase P G & E ' s profit margin if its customers conserve electricity (San Francisco Chronicle, 18 April 1 9 9 0 , p. C I ) . 6 0 . T h o m a s ( 1 9 8 8 , 1 1 4 ) concludes that " f o r a utility faced with an apparent shortage of capacity, building a nuclear plant would be rated as a very poor fourth choice behind a conservation program, wheeling in power from adjacent utilities and building a coal-fired plant." 6 1 . New York Times, 2 6 February 1 9 9 0 , p. A 1 7 . 6 2 . A 1 9 9 1 survey even found that 8 9 percent of the respondents considered nuclear waste disposal a "very serious" issue {Time, 2 9 April 1 9 9 1 , p. 6 0 ) . 6 3 . T h e recent deregulation of low-level nuclear waste by the N R C , which allows the industry to dispose of low-level waste in ordinary landfills, opens up yet another round in a seemingly endless tug of war between the federal government and the states ( L o s Angeles Times, 6 August 1 9 9 0 , p. B5).

64. Las Vegas Review Journal, 19 September 1987, p. Al. 6 5 . This occurred for good reasons because U.S. plutonium plants are similar in design to the damaged Chernobyl reactor. A sweeping post-Chernobyl inspection revealed gross mismanagement and technical safety problems, and the Department of Energy was forced to shut down all its military reactors (Johnson and Zeigler 1 9 8 8 , 3 0 3 - 3 0 6 ) . 6 6 . Interview, 2 6 October 1 9 8 7 , San Francisco. The unbroken dominance of weapons over energy concerns in the U.S. social movement sector is confirmed by Ondaatje ( 1 9 8 9 , 5), who registered fifty-two episodes of antinuclear weapons protest between 1 9 8 6 and 1 9 8 7 but only twelve that were directed against nuclear energy in the same period—dropping from nine in the immediate aftermath of Chernobyl to just three in 1 9 8 7 . 6 7 . Interview, 4 November 1 9 8 7 , Berkeley.

Notes to pages 1 5 8 - 1 6 4

247

68. Interview, 9 November 1987, Berkeley. 69. New York Times, 28 May 1989, p. 12. 70. Interview, 30 October 1987, Sacramento. 71. In response to the Gulf crisis in 1 9 9 0 - 1 9 9 1 , President Bush put forward an energy plan that placed new emphasis on revitalizing the nuclear option. The outcome remains to be seen (Time, 29 April 1991, pp. 54—61). 72. New York Times, 23 October 1989, p. C2. CHAPTER 7 1. See also Kölble (1990). 2. For instance, in his longitudinal study of urban renewal conflicts in Hannover and West Berlin, Karapin (1990,3) observed an "interleaving of pragmatic accommodation and absolutist rejection." See also Scherer (1984, 83—91). 3. Chernobyl had more political impact in West Germany than in the United States because of the higher radiation doses received (Hohenemser and Renn 1988). 4. Although the West German economy had mastered the global recession after the first energy crisis with relative ease, the world economic crisis of the early 1980s hit home. The annual GNP growth rate plummeted from 4.2 percent in 1979 to 1.8 percent in 1980, 0 percent in 1981, and - 1 percent in 1982 (Scharpf 1987, 192). The average annual unemployment rate more than doubled, from 2.9 percent in the 1 9 7 3 - 1 9 7 9 period to 6 percent in the 1 9 7 9 - 1 9 8 5 period (p. 295). 5. Exploring alternatives to reprocessing was also a concession to President Carter's nonproliferation policy. Despite the participation by critical expert institutes, most notably the Ecology Group Hannover, the alternative waste disposal project remained grossly underfunded, and it could not challenge the primacy of reprocessing (Müller-Brandeck 1986, 255—261). 6. Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, September 10, 1981, p. 5; Atomwirtschaft-Atomtechnik (September 1983): 441. 7. So said a leading SPD energy expert in defense of the new policy (Der Spiegel, November 9, 1981, p. 56). The Third Energy Program was authored by the industry-friendly, FDP-led Economics Ministry, whose chief, Otto Graf Lambsdorff, became the key figure in the breakup of the SPD/FDP coalition government a few months later. 8. Even the nuclear community found this prognosis "overoptimistic" (Nuclear Engineering International [December 1981]: 3). 9. The base load is that part of electricity capacity that must be supplied around the clock, independently of demand fluctuations. Because of its low fuel costs and permanent operability, base-load nuclear power is cheaper than oil, gas, and coal. 10. This was in direct contradiction to the Enquete Commission's plea to abstain from electric heat generation because of its wastefulness. Lovins (1977b) dismisses electric heat as "cutting butter with the chainsaw" because 70 percent of the produced energy is lost in the transformation process. 11. Atomwirtschaft-Atomtechnik, June 1981, p. 349.

248

Notes to pages 1 6 5 - 1 6 9

12. The nuclear manufacturer Kraftwerk Union, which had developed the convoy concept, estimated that it would cut paperwork by 30 percent and reduce engineering labor hours per plant by 25 percent (Atomwirtschaft-Atomtechnik, August-September 1982, p. 425). 13. Atomwirtschaft-Atomtechnik, September 1983, pp. 442—462. 14. Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 5 June 1985, p. N l . 15. Atomwirtschaft-Atomtechnik, July-August 1983, pp. 3 8 7 - 3 9 3 . 16. An industry-sponsored rebuttal by Hansen (1984) found a small cost advantage for nuclear power. But the study had to admit that nuclear's cost competitiveness had continuously decreased between 1971 and 1982 and could disappear altogether. The different calculations result from including or excluding the total costs of the nuclear fuel cycle, such as waste treatment and decommissioning. 17. "Gigantische Pläne," Wirtschaftswoche, 27 May 1983. 18. Der Spiegel, 26 March 1984, pp. 65—74. Epitomizing the nuclear slump, Minister President Lothar Späth of Baden-Württemberg indefinitely shelved the contested Wyhl plant in fall 1983. Späth argued that economic reasons made the plant unnecessary, pointing at plummeting electricity demand and the availability of cheap electricity imports from neighboring France (Süddeutsche Zeitung, 9 September 1983, p. 4). 19. Between 1980 and 1985, the nuclear share in total electricity supply doubled from 15 to 30 percent. But this impressive increase resulted from the belated completion of projects that had been stalled in the late 1970s, not from a new round of expansion (German Bundesregierung 1986, 134). 20. Although most West German utilities are private, the vast majority have at least 25 percent of their stock held by local governments (Thomas 1988,131). See also Campbell (1988, ch. 7). 21. When the mayor of Hamburg, Hans-Ulrich Klose (SPD), wanted to drop out of the Brokdorf project and launch an alternative energy strategy based on conservation and cogeneration, Chancellor Schmidt and the national party leadership forced Klose to resign in 1981 (Der Spiegel, 16 February 1981, pp. 26— 34). Also, the SPD leader of neighboring Schleswig-Holstein, Klaus Matthiesen, a staunch nuclear critic, withdrew his top candidacy for the upcoming state elections (Der Spiegel, 3 May 1982, pp. 115-117). 22. The Forschungsgruppe Schneller Brüter, comprising critical experts from the Heidelberg Institute for Energy and Environmental Research and scientists from the Universities of Bremen and Munich, estimated 2.7 million fatalities from a worst-case accident. 23. See, for instance, Der Spiegel, 5 September 1983, pp. 99—112. 24. The peace movement took off in 1980 as a signature-gathering campaign, the so-called Krefeld Appeal. By 1982, 2.5 million citizens had signed the appeal, which called on the federal government to withdraw its consent to the NATO rearmament. See Brand, Büsser, and Rucht (1986, 2 0 6 - 2 4 0 ) . In its second phase, the peace movement held the biggest mass demonstrations ever in the FRG. In October 1981 and June 1982, national rallies in Bonn attracted three hundred thousand and four hundred thousand participants, respectively.

Notes to pages 170—175

249

Civil disobedience included such actions as the famous Mutlangen blockades in 1984, in which many prominent intellectuals, church leaders, and high-ranked SPD politicians participated. 25. Gewaltfreie Aktion, which had played a leading role in the Gorleben movement, joined the new peace movement (Lyons 1988, 65—106). 26. Atom-Express, no. 34 (1983), pp. 16-21. 27. Atom, January—February 1985, pp. 16—17. 28. Grüner Basis Dienst, no. 2 (1984), pp. 3 9 - 4 0 . 29. "Letter to the Editor," Atom, no. 8 (1986), p. 34. 30. Interview, 7 August 1987, Hanau. 31. See the discussion in Graswurzelrevolution, no. 50 (October—November 1980), pp. 2 2 - 2 6 . 32. Süddeutsche Zeitung, 28 February 1981, p. 31. 33. The violent course of the February rally completely overshadowed a nonviolent blockade of the Brokdorf plant performed by groups of the Gewaltfreie Aktion a few days earlier. Without much notice by the media and the rest of the movement, these blockades continued sporadically until July 1980 (GrasWurzelrevolution, no. 60 [November 1981], pp. 18—19). 34. Interview, 13 August 1987, Bonn. BBU leader Leinen rebuffed the uncompromising antistatists in the movement by insisting that "the state is not a monolithic block but amenable to public pressure and change" (Umweltmagazin, 4 [2] [1981], p. 15). The charismatic and eloquent Leinen, whom the public regarded at that time as the leader of the antinuclear movement, eventually left BBU to become environmental minister in the SPD-ruled Saarland. 35. As a result of continuous financial and personnel crises, the BBU also lost its dominant position in the West German new social movement sector. By 1985, the number of citizen groups affiliated with BBU had decreased from a high of about 1,000 to just 350 (Paterson 1989, 271). 36. Atom-Express, no. 32 (January—February 1983), p. 16. A conference observer from Gewaltfreie Aktion notes that those workshops that dealt with internal movement problems and strategy questions attracted the most participants (Graswurzelrevolution, 10 [70] [1982], p. 30). 37. "Die Bewegung muss sich bewegen, Die Tageszeitung, 3 November 1982. 38. "Overnight, we were steamrolled by the peace movement," says an antinuclear organizer (Interview, 17 August 1987, Frankfurt). 39. Atom-Express, no. 27, December 1981, p. 26, notes that "even after five years of its existence, the antinuclear movement does not have continuous regional alliances, not to mention national ones." The decentralized structure and the lack of organization corresponded to the emphasis on autonomy and to the general leadership resentment in the antinuclear movement. This is in remarkable contrast to the peace movement, which was tightly organized and had a central coordination office in Bonn. 40. Ibid., p. 30. 41. Interview, 13 August 1987, Bonn. 42. Die Tageszeitung, 26 May 1985. 43. Atom, March-April 1985, pp. 4 5 - 4 6 .

250

Notes to pages 175—182

44. This and the following information are drawn from an interview with a key organizer of the waste conference (Interview, 17 August 1987, Frankfurt). 45. In March 1984, twenty-two thousand antinuclear activists formed a "human chain" (Menschenkette) to "symbolically cut off the Wendland from the rest of the Republic." This form of symbolic action had been previously practiced by the peace movement (Grüner Basis Dienst, no. 3 [1984], pp. 17—20). 46. Atom-Express, no. 4 0 (Summer 1984), p. 61. 47. Interview, 12 August 1987, Hannover. 48. Grüner Basis Dienst, no. 4 (1985), p. 5. 49. Die Tageszeitung, 14 October 1985, p. 3. 50. Only the BUND youth organization maintained its formal support (Interview, 3 0 July 1987, Munich). 51. Interview, 31 July 1987, Schwandorf. 52. Süddeutsche Zeitung, 2 April 1986, p. 19. 53. Der Spiegel, 21 July 1986, p. 34. 54. In comparison with the United States, public opinion research is rather underdeveloped in West Germany. There are only few substantial studies of public opinion on nuclear power (Batteile Institut 1977; Krebsbach-Gnath 1981; Renn 1984). This reflects, of course, the smaller role of public opinion in the German political process, where bureaucratic parties and an entrenched executive operate in relative insulation from the public realm. 55. The cross-national survey by Kessel and Tischler (1984, 18) came to similar conclusions. 56. Even a rather belittling poll by the notoriously industry-friendly Allensbach Institute had to concede in 1987 that the "Chernobyl shock" had become a "constant part of everyday life" and that a "withering of concerns [could] nowhere be observed" (Nölle-Neumann 1987). 57. Interview with Joschka Fischer, Frankfurter Rundschau, 14 May 1986, p. 4. 58. The parallel official report by the Nuclear Research Institute at Jülich reached similar conclusions (Renn et al. 1985). 59. The report received particularly wide attention because it included a foreword by physicist Carl Friedrich von Weizsäcker, the intellectual doyen of West German nuclear energy. Weizsäcker, a co-signer of the Göttingen Declaration of 1957 that had rejected the military nuclear option but had boosted the civilian one, now renounced his previous pronuclear views and joined the camp of the critics (Meyer-Abich and Schefold 1986, 1 0 - 1 6 ) . 60. Der Spiegel, 2 June 1986, pp. 1 7 - 1 9 . 61. It is reprinted in Frankfurter Rundschau, 4 June 1986. 62. Frankfurter Rundschau, 20 May 1986, p. 3. 63. To support their diverse moratorium positions, the political proponents summoned up a host of energy scenarios. Even conservative and nuclear-friendly research institutes confirmed that the instant or gradual phaseout of nuclear power would pose no serious technical, ecological, or economic problems (Schmitt 1986). 64. "Von Horror Keine Spur," Die Zeit, 5 September 1986.

Notes to pages 1 8 2 - 1 8 7

251

6 5 . To be sure, the first environmental minister, Walter Wallmann, quickly declared that a nuclear moratorium was " n o t even thinkable" (ibid.). 6 6 . Atom/Radi-Aktiv, July 1 9 8 6 , p. 6 3 . 6 7 . Ibid. 6 8 . Ibid. 6 9 . Süddeutsche Zeitung, 9 June 1 9 8 6 , p. 3 ; BUU ( 1 9 8 6 ) . 7 0 . T h e following observations are based on several informal meetings with Autonome in Frankfurt, Munich, and Wackersdorf in summer 1 9 8 7 . Because of the conspiratorial nature of these groups, direct access to them proved immensely difficult to achieve. M o r e than once, I was denied interviews because of suspected "police connections." 7 1 . Interview, 5 August 1 9 8 7 , Frankfurt am M a i n . 7 2 . T h e killing of a police officer by an armed Autonomer in November 1 9 8 7 remained the exception, and it was received with disbelief and rejection in the anarchist scene. But the antinuclear Göttingen Committee also would not "mourn for the cop." Underlining the close alliance between the antinuclear movement and the anarchist Autonome, the Göttingen Committee writes, "Even though we disapprove o f the killing, the gunman was one of us. We can't, and we don't want to, dissociate from h i m " (Atom, nos. 18—19 [December 1 9 8 7 ] , p. 2 2 ) . 7 3 . Die Tageszeitung, 12 July 1 9 8 6 . 7 4 . Atom, O c t o b e r - N o v e m b e r 1 9 8 6 , pp. 1 5 - 1 6 . 7 5 . Atom, A p r i l - M a y 1 9 8 7 , p. 11. 7 6 . Interview, 2 3 July 1 9 8 7 , Munich. 7 7 . An example is the installation of a nationwide system of independent radiation measurement (Der Spiegel, 2 7 March 1 9 8 9 , pp. 5 6 - 5 8 ) . 7 8 . T h e post-Chernobyl initiatives have sometimes been called the " B e c querell movement" (Becquerell is the official scale of radiation measurement in West Germany). These groups are united by their awareness that they are part of a " n e w " antinuclear movement that is distinguished in style and outlook from the overly radical and militant " o l d " movement. 7 9 . T h e mother and parent initiatives thrive on a neotraditionalist conception of femininity that defines women first and foremost as mothers and nurturers of life. New motherhood is a recent offshoot of the feminist movement. See Erler ( 1 9 8 7 ) and Gambaroff et al. ( 1 9 8 6 ) . 8 0 . Die Tageszeitung, 14 April 1 9 8 9 , p. 3. 8 1 . Interview, 2 2 July 1 9 8 7 , Munich. 8 2 . Interview, 7 August 1 9 8 7 , Frankfurt. 8 3 . Die Tageszeitung, 2 4 April 1 9 8 9 , p. 5. 84. Interview, 11 August 1 9 8 7 , Hamburg. 8 5 . Die Tageszeitung, 3 0 June 1 9 8 6 . 8 6 . Interview, 12 August 1 9 8 7 , Göttingen. 8 7 . Die Tageszeitung, 11 November 1 9 8 7 . 8 8 . Atom, O c t o b e r - N o v e m b e r 1 9 8 7 , pp. 9 - 1 3 . 89. This is the word (anachronistisch) used by the left-wing daily Die eszeitung in an editorial on 2 1 March 1 9 8 8 . 9 0 . Der Spiegel, 3 July 1 9 8 9 , p. 2 2 .

Tag-

252

Notes to pages 1 8 7 - 1 9 0

91. age of sector, energy

Federal expenses on energy-related research declined by an annual aver4 percent between 1 9 8 3 and 1 9 8 7 (Väth 1 9 8 4 , 89). Within the energy the R & D emphasis shifted toward coal, conservation, and renewable sources (Brand 1 9 8 3 , 5 7 ) .

9 2 . T h e nuclear industry responded to this trend by turning away from "economies of scale" to the new "downscaling." Particularly after Chernobyl, plans were revived for a small-sized, inherently safe, gas-cooled high-temperature reactor ( H T R ) , which promises better export chances, serial production, and a site-independent licensing procedure (Radkau 1 9 8 9 , 349—351). Several small 1 0 0 M W H T R s have already been sold to the then Soviet Union ( D e r Spiegel, 13 April 1 9 8 7 , p. 1 6 4 ) . T h e reactor's domestic success seems more questionable (Der Spiegel, 5 September 1 9 8 8 , pp. 1 1 8 - 1 2 2 ) . 9 3 . When federal officials investigated financial irregularities at Transnuklear, a company that handles nuclear waste, they found a morass of corruption and mismanagement, including systematic bribery of high utility and government officials, illegal waste shipments, and the possible diversion of plutonium to Pakistan and Libya (Traube et al. 1 9 8 8 ; Charles 1 9 8 9 ; Brzoska 1 9 8 9 ) . 9 4 . Der Spiegel, 2 5 January 1 9 8 8 , p. 2 5 . 9 5 . T h e quick and noiseless government consent to cancel Wackersdorf surprised, and proved wrong, all those who had suspected a military interest in reprocessing (Radkau 1 9 8 8 ; Schelb 1 9 8 8 ; Schumann 1 9 8 9 ) . 9 6 . Interview with Rudolf von Bennigsen-Förder, Der Spiegel, 17 April 1 9 8 9 , p. 2 8 . Bennigsen-Förder, chair of the Veba combine that owns seven German nuclear plants, was the driving force behind the Wackersdorf withdrawal. 9 7 . T h e national SPD leadership promptly signaled its willingness to rethink its moratorium position. Such is the nature of politics (Der Spiegel, 2 4 July 1 9 8 9 , pp. 2 8 - 3 0 ) . 9 8 . "Ausstieg aus der Atomenergie," Die Tageszeitung, 6 March 1 9 9 0 . 9 9 . " D a s Saarland probt die Energie-Wende," Die Tageszeitung, 15 September 1 9 8 8 . 1 0 0 . "AKW-Gegner im Leineschloss," Frankfurter Rundschau, 5 June 1 9 9 0 , P . 6.

101. Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 5 June 1990, p. 6. 1 0 2 . Atom, 1 0 3 . Atom, 1 0 4 . Atom,

no. 2 4 (Winter 1 9 8 8 - 1 9 8 9 ) , p. 4 1 . no. 2 3 ( O c t o b e r - N o v e m b e r 1 9 8 8 ) , p. 2 6 . S e p t e m b e r - O c t o b e r 1 9 8 9 , p. 15.

1 0 5 . Die Zeit, 11 November 1 9 8 8 , p. 10. 1 0 6 . Before unification, four nuclear plants accounted for 10 percent of East Germany's electric power. All four plants were subsequently closed down. Four uncompleted nuclear plants of the same design "will never open," according to Minister Töpfer (San Francisco Chronicle, 3 0 August 1 9 9 0 , p. A 1 7 ) . CHAPTER 8 1. See the general overview by Skocpol ( 1 9 8 4 ) and the review of recent social movement research by Eyerman ( 1 9 8 9 ) . 2. The best recent example of an explicitly multifactorial approach is Wuth-

Notes to pages 1 9 0 - 1 9 6

253

now's ( 1 9 8 9 ) historical comparison of the cultures of reformation, enlightenment, and socialism in Europe. 3. Glaser and Strauss ( 1 9 6 7 , 2 3 ) call this approach "grounded theory," which is the inductive discovery of theory from data rather than the deductive testing of theory. "In discovering theory, one generates conceptual categories or their properties from evidence; then the evidence from which the category emerged is used to illustrate the concept." 4. Rochon ( 1 9 9 0 ) points out in a recent literature review that state-movement interaction is one of the most important, yet also most neglected, topics in the contemporary study of social movements. 5. In a brilliant (but poorly translated) comparison of states and collective action in nineteenth-century Europe, Birnbaum ( 1 9 8 8 , 9) argues in a similar vein that "the logic of state[s] influences the mode of action of actors in 'civil society.' " His comparison of working-class ideologies in France, Britain, and Germany demonstrates conclusively that anarcho-syndicalism in France, M a r x ism in Germany, and moderate trade unionism in England respond to states that are highly differentiated and autonomous (France), fused with the dominant class (Germany), or undifferentiated and invisible (England). 6. T h e diagnosis of a weak American state is supported by recent comparative political economy literature. See Katzenstein ( 1 9 7 8 ) and Krasner ( 1 9 8 4 ) on foreign trade policies, Zysman ( 1 9 8 3 ) on industrial planning, Ikenberry ( 1 9 8 8 ) on oil policy, and Campbell ( 1 9 8 8 ) on the decline of the nuclear industry. T h e recent political sociology of the state comes to a similar conclusion (see Nordlinger 1 9 8 1 ; Skowronek 1 9 8 2 ) . 7. Skocpol ( 1 9 8 5 ) makes a similar distinction between states as actors and the sociopolitical effects of states. 8. T h e distinction between political institutions and cultural mores or habits of the heart is the basis for Tocqueville's ( [ 1 8 4 8 ] 1 9 6 9 ) implicit comparison between France and the United States. Only in America is democracy also a deeply rooted way of life, whereas the feudal legacy in postrevolutionary France accounts for the dismal syndrome of political violence and despotism there. For a major contemporary work in the Tocquevillian tradition, see Bellah et al. ( 1 9 8 5 ) . 9. Enzensberger ( 1 9 7 9 , 5 7 ) draws the line of conflict between statist elites and antistatist movements as follows: " O n the one side is the chequered coalition of those who find the increasing state repression unacceptable . . . above all a series of endlessly splintered and feuding 'movements,' which all have their origins in the anti-authoritarian movement of 1967—68. . . . On the other side in this conflict you will find those forces which in Germany are described as supportive of the state and which consider themselves to be such. . . . To these forces the overwhelming majority of our political class belong—that is to say, the cadres controlled by the parliamentary parties and the state apparatus." 10. During the 1 9 9 0 world summit in Houston, Texas, Chancellor Kohl went on record as pushing most rigorously for radical international measures to combat global warming and clean up the air. 11. Habermas ( 1 9 8 7 , 1 6 1 - 1 7 9 ) rightly characterizes the West orientation of postwar German political culture as a decisive break with the German Sonder-

weg.

254

Notes to pages 1 9 6 - 2 0 3

12. Not by accident, the public insurance guarantees for the nuclear industry never became a contested issue in West Germany, whereas the Price-Anderson Act was a recurrent stake of conflict in the United States. 13. Quite tellingly, the New Left attack on the "American Corporate State" in the 1960s used to make mention of the fact that the latter was a "complete reversal of the original American ideal and plan" (Reich 1 9 7 0 , 89). In fact, no self-conscious state elite existed to defend itself in statist terms. Accordingly, the movements of the 1 9 6 0 s died from inner exhaustion rather than from organized state repression (Miller 1983). Reaganism then accomplished in an ironic way where the New Left had failed—to dismantle the federal state. 14. Interview, 28 November 1 9 8 7 , San Francisco. 15. Political culture arguments did not harmonize with the renaissance of Marxism and conflict sociology in the academic New Left. The best and fairest treatment of the American Exceptionalism theorem from a New Left perspective is Karabel (1979). 16. Flag burning, Weathermen, and the propagation of violence in radical sections of the American New Left are the exceptions that prove the rule. The ritual of flag burning, in particular, only confirms the powerful hold of collective symbolisms on American politics—no French or German student protesters were seen burning their national banners. In assessing the politics of the 1960s, we should not only stare at its exotic blossoms but also look where it all started—with the polite reformism of the Port Huron statement in 1 9 6 2 (Miller 1983). 17. The Nuremberg laws were created by the Allied forces to prosecute the crimes against humanity committed by representatives of the Nazi regime. American direct-action activists used the Nuremberg principles to justify morally motivated violations of the law. 18. Interview, 2 8 November 1 9 8 7 , San Francisco. 19. The more radical sections of the new social movements as well as the fundamentalist wing in the Green Party even revived the turn-of-the-century mythology of revisionism versus revolution (Ebermann and Trampert 1 9 8 4 ) . It was Social Democrats, so these factions remembered, who had voted for the war credits that had plunged Imperial Germany into World War I, and it was Social Democrats whose accommodation to the old elite of the withered Kaiserreich had betrayed the socialist revolution in the Weimar Republic. And in the 1970s, they did it again—Wer hat uns verraten, Sozialdemokraten! If we hold with M a r x that history always happens twice, the first time as tragedy and the second time as farce, this was certainly the farce. 2 0 . The institutional-political process perspective developed by Weir, Orloff, and Skocpol (1988) to analyze the trajectory of the American welfare state similarly emphasizes feedback effects of processes on structures. See also Fulbrook (1983). 2 1 . The malevolent side of public opinion is also evident in today's muchdeplored sound bite politics. In a soul-searching review of the "cerebral atrophy" of American domestic politics at a time when its "democratic visions triumph around the world," Oreskes (1990) identifies an "exalted public opinion" and its humble vassal, the electronic news media, as the biggest villains. As the United

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States is in dire need of leadership on problems from stagnant labor productivity to soaring health care costs and a decaying public school system, the specter of "moving ahead of public opinion" paralyzes decision makers and politicians. Such is American democracy in the 1990s. Tocqueville was right, once again. 22. Of course, movements as signifying agents have always been the subject of collective behavior theory (Turner and Killian 1987). Much of the recent literature does not acknowledge that. 23. This reversal of perspective is not accidental; it follows from interest in cross-national movement variations. If the purpose is to explain why certain paths of action were chosen, and not others, we are more inclined to see ideologies and beliefs as screening and filtering devices. 24. Political culture as a link between structure and action is largely ignored by the case studies in Klandermans, Kriesi, and Tarrow (1988), which is unfortunate for a book entitled From Structure to Action. (Exceptions are the excellent contributions by Gamson [1988] and by Klandermans and Tarrow [1988].) 25. See DeLeon (1978). The legacy of romanticized small units in American political culture is emphasized by McConnell (1967). A good model of moralist movements is developed by Jasper (1990c). 26. The importance of bloc recruitment in movement mobilization is stressed by Oberschall (1973). Bloc recruitment, as used by Oberschall, refers to previously unmobilized constituencies. But in the context of movement cycles, it makes sense to also include previously mobilized groups. An interesting suggestion in this direction is Gerhards and Rucht (1991). 27. Of course, the more aggressive and ideological style of the environmental movement of the early 1970s was not least due to the experience of the civil rights and antiwar movements (see McCann 1986, 33). 28. As I argued in chapter 4, formulations that draw a sequence from legal action to civil disobedience are misleading (e.g., Dwyer 1983). They falsely presume the existence of identical movement substrata engaged in an internal learning process. 29. The late student movement had adopted a radical Marxist ideology. Its heroes were Rosa Luxemburg and Karl Liebknecht, and it propagated a socialist transformation, even revolution, of bourgeois capitalism (Otto 1977). From here it was no big step to the dogmatic cadre principle of the C-groups, although at the cost of betraying the more liberating and antidogmatic impulses that also flourished in the "antiauthoritarian" student movement (Sontheimer 1988). These darker sides of the student movement and its aftermath are still virtually unexplored, presumably because they do not fit in with the more comforting and democratic image of the new social movements (Brand, Biisser, and Rucht 1986). 30. "I have always been resolutely opposed to electoral politics," says an American supporter of direct action (Interview, 28 November 1987, San Francisco). 31. "The opposition to nuclear power is inseparable from the general opposition to the state," says a veteran activist of the West German antinuclear movement (Interview, 13 August 1987, Bonn). 32. Following McCarthy and Zald (1977), the social movement sector consists of all social movements in a society.

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33. An important theoretical advance in this regard is Neidhardt's (1985) conception of social movements as "mobilized networks of networks." But the empirical side to this remains largely unexplored. Attempts to identify a new middle class as the social-structural basis of the new movements lack cultural concretion and specificity and may be entirely misguided in their use of a theoretical language tailored for class and citizenship movements (Parkin 1968; Barnes, Kaase et al. 1979; Cotgrove and Duff 1980, 1981; Kriesi 1989). 34. Among all studies on the nuclear power debate that I know, only Radkau's (1983a) seminal history of the West German nuclear industry stresses this important point. 35. The outcome of the nuclear controversy disproves any neo-Marxist diagnosis of the state as a servant of monopoly capital. This is ironic because some of the first analyses of the relationship between state and nuclear industry were explicitly Marxist, especially in West Germany (Pruss 1974; Moldenhauer 1975a, 1975b). 36. The pragmatic American movement had questioned the alleged economic advantages of nuclear power early on (Harding 1979b). In the more ideological West German movement, this discursive turn was rather slow in coming, and it remained limited to a tiny, yet effective, expert faction around the Institute for Ecology and similar critical expert organizations. 37. I thus fully agree with Kitschelt's (1991, 324) plea for more theoretical eclecticism in social movement research.

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Markets,

and Growth.

Ithaca, N.Y.: Cor-

Index

Abalone Alliance, 7 9 - 8 0 , 81, 8 2 - 8 3 , 87, 88, 89; nuclear energy-weapons focus, 146-147 Academic community, progressive movements and, 220 n.8 Activist subculture, 1 6 - 1 7 , 2 0 3 - 2 0 7 ; direct-action movement and, 78, 80 Administrative Courts (West Germany), 1 2 2 - 1 2 4 , 2 3 8 n.96 Advisory Committee on Reactor Safeguards (ACRS), 27 Affinity groups, 83, 84 AFL-CIO: Labor Law Reform Act campaign (1977), 75; pronuclear activities, 74 Albrecht, Ernst, 1 1 2 - 1 1 3 , 1 2 4 - 1 2 5 Allied Chemical Corporation fuel reprocessing plant (South Carolina), 226 n.15 Almond, Gabriel, 41,43 Alternative energy, 7 1 - 7 7 , 1 2 6 - 1 2 8 , 208 Alternative life-style movement, 110, 115-116 American Exceptionalism theorem, 51, 81,197-198 American Federation of Labor and Congress of Industrial Organizations. See AFL-CIO American Friends Service Committee, 80 Americans for Energy Independence, 74 Antinuclear movement(s) : catastrophist ideology, 3, 60; contextual factors, 18, 2 0 7 - 2 0 8 ; decline, 129-131; international influences, 79, 230 n.79, 235

n.68; Kitschelt's comparison, 11; peak, 4 9 - 5 0 ; rise, 2 1 - 2 2 ; significance, 2—3 Antinuclear movement (France), 233 n.10,235 n.49 Antinuclear movement (United States): activist subculture, 17,52, 205; Chernobyl response, 144; citizen intervention, 3 4 - 3 5 ; decline, 1 7 , 1 3 0 - 1 3 1 , 133-134; energy crisis of 1973, 4 9 50; environmentalism and, 3 0 - 3 4 , 63; localization (1980s), 149-157; origins, 22, 2 6 - 3 4 , 223 n.19; political culture, 14, 1 9 4 - 1 9 8 ; as political movement, 6 2 - 7 1 ; protest forms, 3 4; public attitude toward, 243 n.22; response following TMI, 138-140; rise, 23—36; safe energy, 71—77,134; temporal opportunity, 1 6 , 2 0 0 - 2 0 1 , 203; weapons focus, 144—149. See also Direct-action movement(s); Public-interest advocacy Antinuclear movement (West Germany): activist subculture, 17,205; Autonome (faction), 1 8 3 - 1 8 4 , 1 9 7 , 2 0 6 ; Becquerell movement, 251 n.78; C-groups, 103-104, 161; Chernobyl response, 182-189; citizen initiatives, 4 3 - 4 5 ; conflict escalation, 9 5 - 1 1 6 ; decline, 1 7 , 1 3 1 , 1 6 8 - 1 7 6 ; defeat at Grohnde, 105—106; energy crisis of 1973,49, 50, 92, 9 3 - 9 5 ; energyweapons debate, 161; entrenchment, 203; environmentalism's rise and, 45—

297

298

Antinuclear movement (continued) 48; goals preempted by state, 116, 1 2 0 - 1 2 8 ; Green Party and, 1 1 7 - 1 2 0 , 1 7 1 - 1 7 3 , 184; institutionalization (1980s), 1 6 0 - 1 6 2 , 168, 1 7 1 , 1 8 0 182, 1 8 6 - 1 8 9 ; local siting conflicts, 40, 9 6 - 1 1 6 ; mothers'/parental initiatives, 185; Nacht und Nebel Aktion, 102; New Left activities, 101— 109; new militancy (1980s), 1 6 0 1 6 2 , 1 7 3 - 1 7 4 , 1 8 2 - 1 8 6 ; new social movement theory, 8 ; Offenburg agreement of 1976, 99; origins, 2 2 , 4 4 - 4 5 , 97, 233 n . l 1 ; peace movement and, 1 6 9 - 1 7 1 ; polarization with state, 106; political culture, 1 4 - 1 5 , 9 1 - 9 3 , 1 9 4 - 1 9 8 ; protest forms, 3; publicinterest advocacy in, 6; rise, 3 7 - 4 8 ; state response to (late 1970s), 107— 109, 120—126; temporal opportunity, 15,199-203 Antistatism. See Statism/antistatism Antiwar movement: contemporary perspective, 4; direct-action movement and, 52, 205; Gitlin's analysis, 82 APO. See Extraparliamentary opposition Arab oil embargo. See Energy crisis of 1973 Atomic Energy Act of 1946 (United States), 24; Amendment of 1954, 24, 34 Atomic Energy Act of 1959 (West Germany), 39, 98; nuclear waste amendment, 124; on construction licenses, 123 Atomic Energy Commission (AEC): dissent and, 26—30; dissolved, 30, 54; established, 24; fast-breeder reactors, 2 6 - 2 7 ; fuel recycling, 58; health risks of radiation and, 2 7 - 2 8 ; low-level radiation debate, 2 7 - 2 8 ; nuclear power monopoly, 23 ; reactor safety debate, 28—30; research and development, 2 6 - 2 7 ; risk evaluation (WASH-740), 2 5 , 2 2 2 n.2 Atomic Industrial Forum (AIF), 3 5 - 3 6 , 63, 137; political activities, 63 Atomic Ministry of 1955 (West Germany), 3 8 , 3 9 - 4 0 Atoms for Peace initiative, 2 4 , 1 4 5 Badie, Bertrand, 192 Baker, Howard, 227 n.20 Battelle Institute's citizen groups study, 99-100 BBU (Federal Association of Citizen Initiatives for Environmental Protection):

Index Eco-Pax and, 170; founded, 45, 109; Green Party and, 120; nonviolence strategy, 235 n.52; withdrawal from antinuclear movement, 174 Bendix, Reinhard, 211 Bethe, Hans, 74 Beyme, Klaus von, 95 Biblis nuclear reactors, 172 Birnbaum, Pierre, 192, 253 n.5 Bloch, Ernst, 39 Bloch, Ernst, 39 Blumer, Herbert, 9 Bodega Bay project (California), 65 Bosk, Charles, 130 Bradford, Peter, 138 Brandt, Willy, 44, 46 Bremen Citizen Initiative Against Nuclear Power (BBA), 1 0 4 , 1 0 8 Brokdorf plant (Schleswig-Holstein), 96, 1 0 1 - 1 0 5 , 108, 111; construction ban revoked (1981), 163, 2 3 8 - 2 3 9 n.108; construction halt (1976), 123; Gewaltfreie Aktion nonviolent blockade, 249 n.33; mass rally (1981), 173-174 Brower, David, 32, 65, 66, 244 n.41 Brown, Jerry, 68, 69 Brown, Pat, 67 Building and Construction Trades Union, 75 BUND. See Federal Council for Environmental Protection Bundestag Committee on Atomic Energy, abolished, 3 9 - 4 0 Bupp, Irvin, 2 6 , 1 5 8 , 2 4 0 n.3 Bürgerinitiativen, 2 2 , 4 3 Bush administration, failure to implement reforms, 1 5 8 - 1 5 9 Business People in the Public Interest, 65 BUU (Citizen Initiative for Environmental Protection, Lower Elbe), 102, 1 0 4 105,106,114,118 Caldicott, Helen, 8 9 , 1 3 0 , 148 California: de facto moratorium, 53; nuclear waste, 156; Santa Barbara oil spill, 31, 223 n.20; utilities industry, 154. See also names of plants; Proposition 15 California State Energy Commission, 6 8 69 Calvert Cliffs rule of 1971, 33, 35, 65 Campbell, John, 135, 240 n.4 Carter administration: antinuclear movement and, 16, 6 9 - 7 1 ; antiplutonium platform, 60; nuclear policies, 56, 69— 71, 2 4 1 - 2 4 2 n.13; on nuclear mor-

Index

atorium following T M I , 138; PURPA, 154; rearmament, 147 Chernobyl accident (1986): impact, 3, 18, 131, 144, 158, 162; U.S. antinuclear movement response, 144; West Germany's response, 1 7 7 - 1 8 9 Chicago School, 9, 13 China Syndrome, 2 9 Christian Democratic Union (CDU), 4 2 , 1 2 1 ; Baden-Wurttemberg, 97, 99; coalition committed to Kalkar, 167; coalition with FDP, 161 Christian Social Union (CSU), 121 Chubb, John, 56 Citizen Dialogue on Nuclear Energy, 100 Citizen Initiative for Environmental Protection, Lower Elbe. See BUU Citizen initiatives (West Germany), 19, 22,43-45,225 n.ll,234n,17 Citizen/Labor Coalition, 7 5 Citizens for Clean Energy, and Carter, 70 Citizens for Jobs and Energy, 67 Civil disobedience. See Nonviolence Civil rights movement: contemporary perspective, 4 ; political process approach, 10-11 Clamshell Alliance, 80, 81, 2 3 0 n.89; following T M I , 138; nuclear energyweapons focus, 1 4 5 , 1 4 6 Clinch River fast-breeder plant (Tennessee), 61 Coal costs, 166 Coal industry, 182 Coal plants, 3 0 , 189; Carter's plans for, 7 0 ; nuclear power campaign against, 33 Coalition for Direct Action at Seabrook (CDAS), 81 Cold war, nuclear power during, 2 4 Collective behavior theory, 8—10, 50, 2 0 8 , 2 0 9 , 2 3 0 - 2 3 1 n.100; generalized beliefs, 8 4 - 8 5 ; historical perspective, 4, 2 1 9 n.5 Comey, David, 65 Committee for a Sane Nuclear Policy (SANE), 144 Committee for Nuclear Responsibility, 71 Committee on Energy Awareness, 137 Commoner, Barry, 127 Communist Council (KB), 1 0 3 - 1 0 4 , 1 1 8 Communist Council of West Germany (KBW), 103, 104 Communist Party, German (KPD), 103 Communist Party, Marxist-Leninist (KPD/ML), 103 Congress. See United States Congress Consensus, 87, 88, 195; culture of, 198;

299

Model Germany and, 94; symbols, 198; West Germany, 4 0 - 4 1 , 4 2 , 127 Conservation: as alternative, 72; Carter's NEP and, 7 0 - 7 1 Consolidated Edison Company, 222—223 n.5 Consolidated National Intervenors (CNI): environmentalism of, 33; formed, 3 0 ; goals, 3 0 - 3 1 Constitution of the United States: nuclear power and, 23; protest movements and, 12 Construction work in progress (CWIP), 1 5 3 , 2 4 5 n.55 Consumer group—antinuclear movement coalitions, 1 5 2 - 1 5 5 Convoy permits, 1 6 4 - 1 6 5 Cook, Constance, 35 Core. See Emergency core cooling system hearings Costs: coal, 166; coal plants versus nuclear plants, 135; energy policy making in U.S. and, 54; hard path and soft path, 7 2 - 7 3 ; nuclear power, 2 0 8 ; nuclear power in U.S., 2 6 , 1 3 5 - 1 3 6 ; nuclear power in West Germany, 1 6 5 166; T M I cleanup, 136 Council for Environmental Quality (CEQ), 5 9 Council of the European Community, 46 Creative Initiative (California), 2 2 8 n.44 Critical Mass Project, 6 3 - 6 5 , 228 n.60; conference (1978), 74; high-level waste politics, 157; on the Kemeny Commission, 137; for moratorium, 71; post-1976, 86; strategy, 6 4 Cultural lag, 2 2 2 n.27 Dahrendorf, Ralf, 2 David Against Goliath, 185 Decentralization (of nuclear policy, U.S.), 149-159,201 Demonization, 9 - 1 0 , 85 Department of Energy (DOE), nonnuclear energy programs, 5 6 Derian, Jean-Claude, 26 DGB. See Federal Trade Union Council Diablo Canyon nuclear plant (California), 81, 8 7 - 8 9 , 146, 2 2 9 - 2 3 0 n.78; opposition, 87—89; performance-based rate-setting, 2 4 6 n.57; protest, 84 Dickinson, Irene, 228 n.58 Direct-action movement(s), 5 - 6 , 5 0 , 77— 90, 2 0 5 ; community building, 8 2 - 8 3 , 84; cross-issue building, 85; decline, 2 0 6 ; following T M I , 138; imprisonment, 84; internal dilemmas, 7 9 - 9 0 ;

Index

300

Direct-action movement(s) (continued) last resort metaphor, 87, 89, 232 n.122; legal intervention and, 8 6 - 8 9 ; nonviolence, 79—82; nuclear energyweapons focus, 145; parareligious aspects, 84, 231 n.107; participatory democracy, 82—84; political culture, 7 7 79; post energy crisis, 51—52; scope, 84—86; socioeconomic issues (U.S.), 84, 86,231 n.108; U.S., 1 7 , 5 1 - 5 2 , 7 7 - 8 9 ; West Germany, 17, 50, 9 5 -

Enrico Fermi fast-breeder plant (Michigan), 27, 223 n.7 Entrepreneurial politics, 55 Entsorgung (unburdening), 124, 163. See also Nuclear waste storage and disposal Environmental Action, "dirty dozen" campaign, 227 n.36 Environmental Defense Fund, 32 Environmental impact statements (EIS), 33 Environmental Ministry (West Germany),

Douglas, Mary, 231 n.107 Downs, Anthony, 130,140 Dragahn (Lower Saxony), 175-176 Dyson, Kenneth, 127

Environmental movement: antinuclear movement and, 22, 31—34, 45, 97, 205; professionalization, 77; public attitude toward, 243 n.22 Environmental policy: U.S., 3 2 - 3 3 ; West Germany, 4 5 - 4 8 , 2 3 9 n.109 Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), 55; created, 32—33; on plutonium controversy, 59 Environmentalists for Full Employment (EFFE), 7 4 - 7 5 Eppler, Erhard, 121 Epstein, Barbara, 84 Erhard, Ludwig, 41 Ethnic issues: Gorleben conflict, 112, 116; Wyhl conflict, 100 Evangelical Protestant church, 171 Experts: dissent by, 26—30, 223 n.8; Luddism argument, 140; nuclear critics in West Germany, 126—128; nuclear scientists supporting nuclear power, 63— 64; public opinion on, 179; reputation following TMI, 140. See also Union of Concerned Scientists Extraparliamentary opposition (APO), 41-42

116

Earth Day 1 9 7 0 , 3 1 , 4 5 - 4 6 East Germany, nuclear plants, 189 Easter March Movement, 41 Eberle, Rudolf, 97 Eco-Institute (Freiburg), 1 2 6 - 1 2 7 , 1 6 5 , 166,168, 208; local initiatives, 185 Economy: nuclear programs and, 130; post energy crisis, West Germany, 92, 93 Eco-pax phenomenon, 170 Edison Electric Institute, 137 Eisenhower administration Atoms for Peace initiative, 24; on nuclear power, 24 Electricity, 61, 135-136, 227 n.21; West Germany (1980s), 164. See also Utility regulation Elites, 79; direct-action movement and, 84; fighting terrorism in West Germany, 107; supporting antinuclear movement, 64; West Germany, 37 Eltville Program, 38 Emergency core cooling system (ECCS) hearings, 2 9 - 3 0 Emergency Decrees (West Germany), 42 Emergency planning, 1 5 1 - 1 5 2 Energy crisis of 1973,47; U.S., 4 9 - 5 0 , 63; West Germany, 49, 50, 92, 93 Energy crisis of 1979,138,162 Energy issues, movement mobilization and, 16 Energy Programs (West Germany): in 1974, 93, 238 n.102; in 1977 (Second), 163,238 n.102; in 1981 (Third), 163,164,166 Energy Research and Development Administration (ERDA): bias, 56; established, 54; fast-breeder funding, 62 Enquete Commission on Future Nuclear Energy Policy, 127, 162, 165; fastbreeder risks study, 167

201

Farm workers' movement, 10-11 Fast-breeder reactors (FBR), 2 6 - 2 7 , 6 0 62; Carter's views on, 70; demonstration project, 61—62; fuel for, 5 8 , 2 2 6 n.10; funding, 62; risks, 61; West Germany, 1 6 7 - 1 6 8 , 1 8 1 - 1 8 2 Federal Association of Citizen Initiatives for Environmental Protection. See BBU Federal Council for Environmental Protection (BUND), 176-177 Federal Radiation Council (FRC), 2 7 , 2 8 Federal Republic of Germany (FRG). See West Germany Federal Trade Union Council (DGB), 182 Feminism, 85, 251 n.79 Fermi fast-breeder. See Enrico Fermi fastbreeder

Index

Fermi II Nuclear Power Plant (Michigan), 35 Fight the Atomic Death campaign, 41 Filbinger, Hans, 98 Flacks, Richard, 76 Flag burning, 254 n.16 Flavin, Christopher, 154 Fonda, Jane, 83, 88, 242 n.14 Ford, Daniel, 29 Ford administration, nuclear power plans, 53,56 Free Democratic Party (FDP), coalition government, 4 4 , 1 6 1 Free Republic of Wendland, 114-115, 116

Free Speech Movement, 96 Freedom of Information Act of 1971, 29 Friends of the Earth (FOE): against Carter's NEP, 70; founded, 32; for moratorium, 71 Fuel reprocessing, 5 8 - 6 0 . See also Plutonium Gamson, William, 116, 230 n.100, 241 n.8 General Electric: fuel reprocessing plants, 226 n.15; nuclear power, 25; resignation of engineers, 66—67 German Atomic Commission, 38, 40 German Autumn, 1 0 7 - 1 0 8 , 1 1 0 , 1 9 5 German Communist Party (KPD), 103 German Communist Party, MarxistLeninist (KPD/ML), 103 Getty Oil fuel reprocessing plant (New York), 226 n.15 Gewaltfreie Aktion, 110, 114, 235 n.56; antinuclear movement (1980s), 174; Klatschmohn (Corn Poppy) group, 236 n.68 Giddens, Anthony, 49, 208, 221 n.24 Giesman, John, 228 n.51 Gilinsky, Victor, 134 Gitlin, Todd, 82 Gofman, John, 2 7 - 2 8 , 66, 6 7 - 6 8 , 1 4 8 , 227 n.35 Gore-Holifield bill (1956), 24 Gorleben Citizen Group, 110, 111, 113, 172; abandons nonviolence, 175— 176; Hannover march (1979), 112; human chain around Wendland, 250 n.45; membership, 111, 235 n.58, 235—236 n.59; test-drilling site occupation, 114-115 Gorleben International Review (GIR), 125 Gorleben plant, 96, 109-116; Red/Green opposition to, 188; regional consider-

301 ations, 111; reprocessing plant license denied, 112-113; site 1004 occupation, 114; spring 1979 peak, 125; waste treatment center, 162 "Gorleben shall live," 110, 115 Göttingen Committee Against Nuclear Power, 104, 114, 120, 186; on compromise, 188-189 Göttingen Declaration of 1957, 224 n.2 Grass-roots movements, 64—65; after TMI, 147; antinuclear, 83; fantasizing conspiracies, 85; solar energy, 76—77 Great Bandwagon Market, 26, 27 Green Action Future (GAZ), 237 n.85 Green List in Lower Saxony (GLU), 117— 118 Green Party: alternative lists, 118,119; antinuclear movement and, 119—120, 171-173, 174, 184; building, 1 1 8 119; following Chernobyl, 181; formation, 117, 118; institutionalization, 160-162, 201; resistance at Wackersdorf, 176-177; rise, 92; SPD coalition, 172 Greenhouse effect, 189 Grohnde plant, 108; confrontation, 105— 106; construction ban revoked, 238— 239 n.108; trials, 107 Gross national product (GNP): U.S., 1973-1983, 240 n.2; West Germany, 1973-1983, 240 n.2; West Germany, 1979-1982,247 n.4 Grounded theory, 253 n.3, 211 Gruhl, Herbert, 237 n.85 Gyorgy, Anna, 78, 230 n.96 Habermas, Jürgen, 42 Häfele, Wolf, 38 Hanau nuclear fuel factory, 173 Hard-energy path, 72 Harding, Jim, 227 n.38 Hart, Gary, 54 Hauff, Volker, 94,233 n.5 Hayden, Tom, 83, 242 n.14 Health and Environment Institute, 158 Heclo, Hugh, 55 Heirich, Max, 96 High-Level Nuclear Waste Policy Act of 1982,156-157 High-temperature reactors (HTR), 252 n.92 Hilgartner, Stephen, 130 Hofstadter, Richard, 14, 82, 85 Huntington, Samuel, 14,51, 133,197 Ikenberry, John, 191 Indian Point II plant, 229 n.65

302 Initiatives. See Proposition 15 Institute for Ecology. See Eco-Institute (Freiburg) Institute for Nuclear Power Operations, 137 Insurance, 25, 196, 254 n.12; risk evaluation (WASH-740), 2 5 , 2 2 2 n.2 International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War, 144 Iron triangles, 55 Issue networks, 55 Issue-attention cycles, 130 Itzehoe (Schleswig-Holstein), 105 Jasper, James, 8 4 , 1 3 5 , 2 0 8 , 2 2 9 n.78, 255 n.25 Jenkins, Craig, 10 Jobs, 179; Gorleben Citizen Group on, 110; U.S., 67, 7 4 - 7 6 ; West Germany, 100 Joint Committee on Atomic Energy (JCAE): abolition of, 54; citizen intervention activities, 27; created, 24; on health risks of radiation, 28; on public participation, 34 Jungk, Robert, 167 Kalkar fast-breeder reactor, 96, 108-109, 167; licensing, 188; state response, 235 n.50 Karabel, Jerome, 254 n.15 Katzenstein, Peter, 91, 120, 239 n.l 16 KB. See Communist Council KBW. See Communist Council of West Germany Kemeny Commission, 136, 137, 143 Kendall, Henry, 65,149 Killian, Lewis, 9, 95 King, Anthony, 200 Kitschelt, Herbert, 11, 13, 199, 229 n.77, 237 n.82,256n.37 Klandermans, Bert, 206 Klose, Hans-Ulrich, 248 n.21 Kohl, Helmut, 182 Komanoff, Charles, 135, 240 n.3 KPD. See German Communist Party KPD/ML. See German Communist Party, Marxist-Leninist Krefeld Appeal, 248 n.24 Labor Law Reform Act campaign (1977), 75 Labor unions: coalitions for safe energy, 53; nuclear construction unions revoking rights to strike, 229 n.71; United Automobile Workers, 27. See also AFL-CIO

Index

Lambsdorff, Otto Graf, 247 n.7 Land-use policies (West Germany), 40 LaPorte, Todd, 141 Lawyers Alliance for Nuclear Arms Control, 144 Left. See New Left (United States) Left (West Germany), 42; antinuclear movement and, 101-109; division among, 103—104; ecology and nuclear issues, 101—109; following Gorleben, 113; Green Party and, 120 Legal intervention (United States), 30—35, 86-90 Legislation (United States): grass-roots action and, 64; Warren bills, 6 7 - 6 9 Legitimation crisis theory, 220 n.14 Leinen, Jo, 120, 174 Lemmon, Jack, 88 Licensing (United States): Calvert Cliffs rule, 33; citizen intervention, 31, 34— 35; CNI on, 30; early, 26, 223 n.6; emergency evacuation plans and, 151-152; UCS on, 29 Licensing (West Germany), 39, 110, 124; controlled by administrative courts, 122, 238 n.96; reform (1980s), 1 6 4 165; Wyhl nuclear plant, 123, 2 3 8 239 n.108 Light-water reactors (LWR), 61, 2 0 7 208; selection, 25; in West Germany, 38,94,181-182,187 Lilienthal, David, 23, 2 2 2 - 2 2 3 n.5 Lobbying (United States), 55, 56, 61, 7 6 77 Local governments (United States), nuclear issues, 149—157 Long Island Lighting Company (Lilco), 153 Lovejoy, Sam, 81, 89 Lovins, Amory, 72 Low-level radiation. See Radiation Low-Level Radioactive Waste Policy Act, 156 McAdam, Doug, 10,204 McCarthy, John, 5 , 1 1 Madison, James, 134, 150 Malville rally (France), 235 n.49 Manhattan Project, 23 Markey, Ed, 54 Matthofer, Hans, 100, 106 Mayer-Tasch, Peter, 43 Media, 141; antinuclear movement (West Germany) and, 234 n.44; antinuclear public-interest groups and, 5 6 - 5 7 ; nuclear safety cover-up and, 30; sound bite politics, 2 5 4 - 2 5 5 n.21; toxic

Index

waste in the Rhine River and, 45; UCS reports (1971), 29; used against nuclear power, 63; used by nuclear power industry, 33; West Germany, 40 Metlay, Daniel, 141 Meyer, John, 236 n.78 Midwest Fuel Recovery plant (Illinois), 226 n.15 Mills, C.W., 190 Ministry of Research and Technology (West Germany), 40 Ministry of the Interior (West Germany), 40 Mitchell, Robert, 141 Mobilization for Survival (MOBE), 1 4 5 146 Model Germany, 9 3 - 9 5 , 119 Monster building. See Demonization Monticello Nuclear Power Plant (Minnesota), 35 Moral issues, 79, 87, 227 n.35, 229 n.76; elitism, 84; Mothers for Peace, 89; U.S., 51,204 Moratorium, 53, 70; called by SPD, 1 2 1 122; Carter's refusal following TMI, 138; debate in West Germany, 1 8 0 182, 183; demanded by GLU, 118; nuclear construction in West Germany, 9 2 - 9 3 ; state level in West Germany, 188; support for in U.S., 66, 71 Mothers for Peace, 8 7 - 8 9 Municipal government transport bans, 156 Musicians United for Safe Energy (MUSE), 8 3 - 8 4 Myrdal, Gunnar, 196 Nader, Ralph, 30, 69, 79; antinuclear leadership, 50, 62—65; following TMI, 138; on nuclear power decisions, 230 n.81; public-interest advocacy, 52; resource mobilization theory, 5; utility rate reform, 152 National Audubon Society, 32 National Energy Plan of 1977 (NEP), 70 Native Americans, 86 Natural Resources Defense Council (NRDC), 28, 32, 64; on Carter's energy policies, 71; fast-breeder opposition, 61; plutonium regulation, 59 Nazism (National Socialism), 15,197 Neocorporatism, 91, 232 n.l. See also Model Germany Nettl, J. P., 9 1 , 1 9 2 , 1 9 4 Nevada, nuclear waste, 156,157 New Left (United States), 229 n.76; in the 1960s, 254 n.13

303 New Left (West Germany). See Left (West Germany) New social movement theory (NSM), 6— 8, 209; capitalism and, 7, 220 n.14; causes, 220 n.15; conventional interest politics and, 6 - 7 , 220 n.12; legitimation crisis, 220 n.14; origins, 220 n.13; structural focus, 7, 220—221 n.l6. See also Social movements New York (state), nuclear waste, 156 Newspapers. See Media Nixon administration: environmental concerns, 32; nuclear power expansion, 53; on fast-breeders, 61 Nobel laureates, 6 3 - 6 4 Nonproliferation. See Proliferation/ nonproliferation Nonviolence, 5; advocated by BBU, 109; direct-action movements, 78, 79—82; Eco-pax, 170; Gewaltfreie Aktion, 110, 235 n.56, 236 n.68; at Gorleben, 109, 114-115; Green Party, 120; peace movement, 171; premise, 230 n.83; public-interest advocate on, 87; U.S. (1970s), 17; U.S. antinuclear movement, 4; West German groups agree on (1980), 114; Wyhl conflict, 100 North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO), 4 1 , 1 6 5 , 1 6 9 Not in my backyard (NIMBY), 155 Novick, Sheldon, 65 Nuclear accidents: effects, 131; insurance for, 25; liability, 66; as turning points, 18, 207. See also Chernobyl accident; Safety issues; Three Mile Island accident Nuclear disarmament, 86 Nuclear energy-weapons debate: Clamshell Alliance, 145, 146; direct-action movement, 145; Union of Concerned Scientists, 86, 145; West Germany, 161, 169 Nuclear fuel cycle, 207. See also Nuclear waste storage and disposal; Plutonium Nuclear Non-Proliferation Act of 1978, 58,60 Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty, 94 Nuclear power: costs, 26; declining interest in, 129; dissenters, 26—30; faltering economy and, 52; subgovemment, 26, 222 n.4; technology development, 21,23-26 Nuclear power plant construction: construction delays, 214; U.S., 26, 53, 135, 251; West Germany, 93,163, 166,213. See also names of plants

304

Nuclear power plants: demonstration, 24, 25; East Germany, 189; Eltville Program preferences, 38; initial U.S. selection, 25; licensing (see Licensing); safety debate, 2 8 - 3 0 ; size, 26, 27; urban siting, 2 6 , 2 2 2 - 2 2 3 n.5. See also Fast-breeder reactors; Light-water reactors Nuclear Regulatory Commission (NRC): established, 54; evacuation plans required for licensing, 151-152; license moratorium followingTMI, 136; nuclear industry and, 56,57; on plutonium recycling, 59; proposed reorganization, 137; relation to AEC, 56 Nuclear Safeguards Initiative. See Proposition 15 Nuclear Safety Analysis Center, 137 Nuclear Safety Oversight Committee, 137 Nuclear war, 1 3 0 , 1 4 4 - 1 4 9 Nuclear Waste Conference, 175 Nuclear waste storage and disposal (United States), 18, 6 6 , 6 7 , 2 2 6 n. 11 ; low-level in landfills, 246 n.63; management, 155-157; restriction by states, 151 Nuclear waste storage and disposal (West Germany), 18, 121, 124-126, 1 6 2 163; mobilization focus, 175; scandal at Transnuklear, 252 n.93 Nuclear weapons, 86, 130, 144-149, 1 6 9 - 1 7 0 , 2 2 7 n.35. See also Nuclear energy-weapons debate Nuclear Weapons Freeze Campaign, 144, 147-148 Nuremberg principles, 198 O'Connor, Egan, 227 n.35 Offe, Claus, 6 Office of Technology Assessment (OTA), 150 Oil, 241 n.13. See also Energy crisis of 1973 Oil spills, 31,223 n.20 Okrent, David, 27 Olson, Mancur, 54, 220 n.9 Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC), 144,241 n.13 Ostermarschbewegung (Easter March Movement), 41 Pacific Gas and Electric (PG&E), 65, 246 n.57,59 Palisades Nuclear Power Plant (Lake Michigan), 35 Parallel opinion principle (West Germany), 128

Index

Peace movement (West Germany), 131, 1 6 9 - 1 7 1 , 2 4 8 - 2 4 9 n.24; decline, 176; rise, 168 Peace movements: advocacy of, 3; nuclear power issue, 224 n.31; rise of, 17 People Against Nuclear Power, 88 Pesonen, David, 65 Petroleum, 241 n.13. See also Energy crisis of 1973 Physicians for Social Responsibility, 144, 147,148 A Planet is Plundered (Gruhl), 237 n.85 Pluralism, 11-12, 241 nn.21,22 Plutonium (United States): Carter's opposition to reprocessing, 70; commercialization, 53; controversy surrounding, 5 7 - 6 2 ; reprocessing risks, 5 8 60; weapons-grade production, 244 n.39 Plutonium (West Germany): debate (1980s), 167-168; fuel reprocessing plants, 175; Wackersdorf facility protest, 1 7 6 - 1 7 7 Political cultures, 13-15, 50, 1 9 4 - 1 9 8 ; American, 2 3 - 2 4 , 2 5 , 5 1 , 71, 7 7 - 7 8 , 204; civic culture school, 222 n.26; consensual vs. polarized, 222 n.29; defined, 14; German, 4 0 - 4 1 , 50, 92 Political opportunity structure, 11 Political process theory, 1 - 2 , 10—12; contextualized perspective, 12—18, 1 9 0 209; movement organization, 16—18, 2 0 3 - 2 0 7 ; political cultures, 1 3 - 1 5 , 194-198; state structures, 191-194; state-centered, 11—12; temporal opportunity, 1 5 - 1 6 , 1 9 9 - 2 0 3 Polls. See Public opinion Popper, Karl, 13 Populism, 64,229 n.75 Power Reactor Demonstration Program of 1955,25 Presidential election of 1976, 69 Price-Anderson Act of 1957, 25, 254 n.12 Privatization of nuclear power: U.S., 2 5 26; West Germany, 39 Proactive movements: historical perspective, 219 n.5; social movements and, 221 n.19; West Germany, 44 Project Independence, 53, 54 Project on the Social Compatibility of Energy Systems, 180-181 Proliferation/nonproliferation, 170, 244 n.41 Pronuclear activities: AFL-CIO, 74; trade unions, 74,122, 176. See also names of pronuclear groups; Experts Pronuclear movement, 137

Index Proposition 15 (California, 1976), 6 5 - 6 9 , 66; effects, 71, 74; organized labor against, 74 Proposition 15 revisited (California, 1982), 148-149 Protestant church, 99,171 Public hearings, 2 9 - 3 0 , 34 Public-interest advocacy, 17, 51—77, 205; antinuclear movement, 4, 22, 51—77; cross-national variations and, 6; effects, 89; following TMI, 138; groups' roles in, 56—57; labor coalition, 74— 76; plutonium controversy, 57—62; political arena, 62—71; post energy crisis, 5 1 - 7 7 ; regulatory arena, 5 3 56; retreat of, 86; safe energy quest, 71-77 Public interest groups: defined, 225 n.4; rise, 54—55; role, 5 6 - 5 7 Public opinion, 203; on Chernobyl accident, 178-180; elites and lay public, 141; on environmental protection in West Germany, 47—48; and gender, 141; on nuclear power in Germany (1970s), 117; on nuclear waste disposal, 156; on pollution control in U.S. (1970), 3 1 - 3 2 ; on TMI accident, 140-144, 240 n.l Public Utility Commissions (PUCs), 153 Public Utility Regulatory Policy Act of 1978 (PURPA), 154 Pulzer, Peter, 195 Puritanism, 7 7 - 7 8 Radiation, debate on low-level, 2 7 - 2 8 Radicals Decree (West Germany), 200 Radkau, Joachim, 256 n.34 Rancho Seco plant (California), 158 Ravenswood Nuclear Plant (New York city), 2 2 2 - 2 2 3 n.5 Reactive movements: historical perspective, 219 n.5; social movements and, 221 n. 19; West Germany, 45 Reactors. See Nuclear power plants Reagan administration: failure to implement reforms, 158—159; funding cuts, 77; nuclear power policies, 150; shift from energy to weapons, 147; weapons-grade plutonium production, 244 n.39 Reaganism, 254 n.l3 Rearmament: under Carter, 147; in West Germany, 169 Red Army Faction (RAF), 95 Regulation: decentralization, 150—151; during the late 1970s, 62; EPA, 33; following TMI, 136—137; restructur-

305

ing, 53—57. See also Licensing; Utility regulation Renewable energy sources, 72, 73 Renn, Ortwin, 178 Research and development (R&D): U.S., 77 (see also Energy Research and Development Administration); West Germany, 94, 187 Resource mobilization theory (RMT), 208, 209; action focus, 7; background of proponents, 4; cross-national variations and, 6; direct-action movement and, 78; external sponsors, 5; issue entrepreneurs, 4, 5, 6; limitations, 5—6; movement organization focus, 204; organization, 4 - 5 ; paradigm, 4 - 6 , 7 8; social movements in, 4—6 Rheintal-Aktion, 97 Ribicoff, Abraham, 58 Rogovin Commission, 136 Roisman, Anthony, 65, 87,228 n.58 Sabotage, 108 Safe Energy Communication Council, 241 n.5 Safety issues, 26; AEC and, 2 6 - 2 7 ; CNI and, 3 0 - 3 1 ; following TMI, 1 3 6 137; nuclear opposition and, 57; reactor debate, 2 8 - 3 0 ; West Germany, 38-39,40 San Diego Gas and Electric (SDG&E) Sundesert Project, 6 8 - 6 9 San Joaquin Valley Nuclear Project (California), 68 SANE. See Committee for a Sane Nuclear Policy Scharpf, Fritz, 94, 233 n.5 Scheer, Jens, 105,126 Schmidt, Helmut, 47,106, 248 n.21 Schmidt, Manfred, 47 Schmitt, Carl, 225 n. 1 Schneider, Peter, 95 Schwandorf Citizen Initiative, 177 Scientists. See Experts Seabrook Nuclear Power Plant (New Hampshire), 81, 152,153, 230 n.89 Shonfield, Andrew, 25 Shoreham Nuclear Power Plant (New York), 152,153 Sierra Club, 64; CNI membership, 30; high-level waste, 157; membership growth, 32; on Carter's energy policy, 71; on nuclear power, 223 n.25 origins, 205; resource mobilization theory, 5 Silkwood, Karen, 226 n.l3

306

Siting: local conflicts, 96; not in my backyard, 242 n.20; rural, 40; urban, 26, 2 2 2 - 2 2 3 n.5; West Germany, 39, 40 Skowronek, Stephen, 196 Smelser, Neil, 10, 8 5 , 2 1 8 n.6 Social Democratic Party (SPD): antinuclear movement and, 15, 22, 92; coalition government, 44; cooptation of Fight the Atomic Death, 41; economic policy, 92, 93; following Chernobyl, 181; Godesberg Program of 1959, 41, 224 n.5; Green Party coalition, 172—173; historical continuity, 1 9 9 - 2 0 0 ; internal dissension on nuclear policy, 1 2 1 - 1 2 2 ; Model Germany, 93—95; nuclear energy and, 39; opposing Kalkar, 167; Orientierungsrahmen '85, 233 n.6; plutonium opposition, 161; regional nuclear opposition, 188; support for the peace movement, 171 Social movements, 1 - 1 8 , 1 9 0 - 2 0 9 ; activist subcultures, 1 6 - 1 8 , 2 0 3 - 2 0 7 ; bloc recruitment, 255 n.26; citizenship movements, 2 - 3 , 1 2 9 ; collective behavior theory, 8—10; complementarity, 7—8; conceptual synthesis, 2 0 8 - 2 0 9 ; contextualized political process perspective, 1 2 - 1 8 , 1 9 0 - 2 0 9 ; continuity/discontinuity, 6, 8; defined, 219 n . l ; grievance interpretation, 204; life-cycle metaphor, 129; limits on, 17; organization, 1 6 - 1 8 , 203— 207; paradigms, 4—12; political culture and, 1 3 - 1 5 , 1 9 4 - 1 9 8 ; political process theory, 1 - 2 , 1 0 - 1 2 ; reactive and proactive collective action in, 221 n.19; resource mobilization theory, 4— 6; risk movements, 2—3, 16, 219 n.5; solidarity in, 5, 6; state structure and, 1 9 1 - 1 9 4 ; structural properties, 221 n.24; temporal opportunities, 15—16, 1 9 9 - 2 0 3 . See also New social movement theory (NSM) Soft-energy path, 11-1 A, 77, 244 n.41 Solar energy, 70, 72, 73, 2 4 1 - 2 4 2 n.13; Sun Day 1 9 7 8 , 7 6 - 7 7 Solar Lobby, 7 6 - 7 7 South Carolina, nuclear waste, 156 Southern California Edison, 246 n.59 Speth, Gustave, 60, 228 n.58 State governments (U.S.), nuclear issues, 149-157 State structures, 1 9 1 - 1 9 4 State-movement interaction, 1 , 1 9 1 Statism/antistatism: antinuclear movement, 95; New Left division in West

Index Germany, 104; political culture and, 1 4 - 1 5 ; social movements and, 1 1 12; two-path energy scenario, 73; U.S., 34, 196; West Germany, 95, 104, 195 Strategic Arms Limitation Treaty, 147 Strauss, Lewis, 27 Structural functionalism, 219 n.5 Student movements: contemporary perspective, 4; West Germany, 42, 44, 205 Sun Day (1978), 7 6 - 7 7 , 2 4 1 n.13 Sundesert Project (California), 68—69 Supreme Court. See United States Supreme Court Swidler, Ann, 14 Symbolic Interactionism, 9, 84 Tamplin, Arthur, 2 7 - 2 8 Task Force Against Nuclear Pollution, 64, 227 n.35 Taylor, Theodore, 58 Temporal coincidences, 49 Temporal opportunities: plutonium controversy, 60; social movements, 1 5 16, 1 9 9 - 2 0 3 Terrorism: Red Army Faction (1977), 107; social processes of groups, 222 n.25; West Germany, 95. See also Sabotage Texas, permanent waste repository, 157 Thermal pollution, 33, 35 Third-party movements, 117 Three Mile Island accident (1979), 75; cleanup costs, 136; effects, 18, 83, 1 1 2 , 1 2 5 , 1 3 1 , 1 3 4 - 1 4 0 ; public opinion, 1 4 0 - 1 4 4 Tilly, Charles, 10,11, 221 n.19 Time. See Temporal coincidences; Temporal opportunities TMI. See Three Mile Island accident (1979) Tocqueville, Alexis de, 5, 71, 141, 194, 2 0 3 , 2 2 2 n.29, 233 n . 8 , 2 5 3 n.8, 255 n.21 Töpfer, Klaus, 187 Totalkritik, 1 5 , 1 9 5 - 1 9 6 , 1 9 7 , 2 2 2 n.30 Trade unions (West Germany), 39, 41; coalitions with industry, 74; pronuclear, 74, 122; pronuclear stance diminishing, 176; support for the peace movement, 171 Transnuklear scandal (Urangate), 187, 1 8 8 , 2 5 2 n.93 Traube, Klaus, 166,239 n.l 11 Trebel Meetings, 113, 114

307

Index

Trident Conversion Campaign, 146 Truman, David, 203 Truman, Harry S, 24 Tunix meeting (1978), 110 Turner, Ralph, 9, 95

1 0 5 - 1 0 6 ; Nacht und Nebel Aktion, 102; New Left (West Germany) and, 104; political culture in West Germany and, 50, 197, 225 n . l ; views on following Chernobyl, 1 8 3 - 1 8 5

Udall, Morris, 5 4 Ungovernability hypothesis, 2 2 0 n.14 Unification, 189 Union of Concerned Scientists (UCS), 2 9 , 5 7 ; focus, 86, 145; following T M I , 138; petition against nuclear power, 64 United Automobile Workers (UAW), 2 7 United States: energy policies, 7 0 , 241— 2 4 2 n.13; nuclear policies, 14, 5 2 - 5 4 , 6 9 - 7 1 ; nuclear power development, 2 3 - 2 6 ; political structure and the antinuclear movement, 1 1 - 1 2 , 2 3 , 221 n.21; politics and social movements, 133—134; state structure, 191— 1 9 4 ; temporal opportunities, 199— 203 United States Congress: "dirty dozen" campaign, 2 2 7 n.36; environmental concerns, 32; fast-breeder funding, 61; nuclear activities (1970s), 5 4 - 5 5 ; "write your congressman" campaign, 64 United States Constitution. See Constitution of the United States United States Department of Energy. See Department of Energy United States judicial system: citizen intervention and, 3 5 ; Nader's appeal to, 62 United States Senate Committee on Government Operations, 5 8 , 5 9 United States Supreme Court: decentralization of nuclear policy (1983), 151; upholds PURPA, Section 10, 154; upholds Warren bills, 69; Warren Court, 35 Urangate scandal (Transnuklear), 187, 1 8 8 , 2 5 2 n.93 Uranium: enrichment, 5 9 , 2 2 6 n.15; mining, 86; offered by U.S., 38 Utility regulation, 1 5 2 - 1 5 5 , 166

Wackersdorf fuel reprocessing facility (Bavaria), 176, 188; abandoning, 187— 188; David Against Goliath campaign, 185 Walsh, Edgar, 138 Warren bills, 6 7 - 6 9 WASH-740 (AEC), 2 5 , 2 2 2 n.2 Washington (state), nuclear waste, 156, 157 Watergate affair, 16, 55 Weber, Max, 13, 2 3 0 n.80 Weinberg, Alvin, 26, 5 7 , 1 3 5 , 1 5 7 - 1 5 9 Weizsäcker, Carl Friedrich von, 2 5 0 n.59 Wend tradition, 2 3 6 n.64 Wendland. See Free Republic of Wendland West Germany: domestic security, 95; energy consumption, 93; energy policies, 93; energy programs {See Energy Programs [West Germany]); environmental citizen coalitions (1970s), 97; national pride, 2 3 2 n.2; neocorporatism, 91, 2 3 2 n . l ; nuclear power's rise, 9 3 - 9 4 ; nuclear program (1975), 186; political parties, 117, 121; political structure fostering antinuclear movement, 1 1 - 1 2 ; postwar, 15, 37—38, 4 0 - 4 1 ; response to political dissent (late 1970s), 1 0 7 - 1 0 8 ; state structure, 1 9 1 - 1 9 4 ; temporal opportunities, 199-203 Westinghouse Corporation, 25 Wildavsky, Aaron, 2 3 0 n . l 0 7 Willens, Harold, 149 Wilson, James Q., 55, 153 Winpisinger, William, 75 Winthrop, John, 77 Wyhl Nuclear Plant (Baden-

Verba, Sidney, 4 1 , 4 3 Vietnam Conflict, 16, 5 5 , 78 Violence: antinuclear movement (West Germany) and, 92, 96; at Grohnde,

Z-faction. See Communist Council Zald, Mayer N., 5, 11 Zimmer plant (Ohio), 2 4 6 n.58 Zysman, John, 192

Württemberg), 79, 96, 108, 111; conflict, 97—101; construction ban revoked, 2 3 8 - 2 3 9 n.108; license, 123; shelved, 248 n . l 8

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