SOLIDARITY SOLIDARITY: THEORY AND PRACTICE Edited by Arto Laitinen and Anne Birgitta Pessi 2014 LEXINGTON BOOKS A division of Rowman & Littleield Publishers, Inc. Lanham * Boulder * New York * Toronto * Plymouth, UK In memory of Juha Sihvola Contents Figures and Tables ix Preface and Acknowledgments xi 1. Solidarity: Theory and Practice. An Introduction Arto Laitinen & Anne Birgitta Pessi 1 2. Solidarity: Unpacking the Social Brain Siegwart Lindenberg 30 3. Collective Emotions as the “Glue” of Group Solidarity Mikko Salmela 55 4. Empathy and Our Relations to Others Kristen Renwick Monroe 88 5. Solidarity, Moral Recognition, and Communality Simon Derpmann 6. From Recognition to Solidarity: Universal Respect, Mutual Support, and Social Unity Arto Laitinen 7. Solidarity and Work: A Reassessment Nicholas H. Smith 105 126 155 8. Solidarity in Times of Crisis: Constitutional Evolution and Europe Hauke Brunkhorst 178 9. National Social Models and Helping Others in the European Union Juho Saari & Anne Birgitta Pessi 238 10. Solidarity and Motivations to Help Others: The Case of Finns Arto Laitinen & Anne Birgitta Pessi 272 11. Solidarity in a Nordic Welfare State: The Case of Finland Heikki Hiilamo 299 12. Volunteering, the Humanitarian Gift to “Distant Suffering,” and Solidarity 317 Bente Blanche Nicolaysen Index About the Contributors 345 360 Figures and Tables Figure 2.1. Solidarity norms: basic and added in response to the development of strategic behavior, 41 Figure 8.1. Constitutional evolution of Europe, 212 Figure 9.1. Values, resources, and institutions, 242 Figure 9.2. The importance attached to various areas of life in EU27, 250 Figure 9.3. Borda scales for Portugal and Finland, 256 Figure 9.4. “Helping others” and “competitiveness” in EU25, 260 Figure 9.5. “Helping others” and “organized civil society” in EU25, 260 Figure 9.6. “Helping others” and “friendship relations” in EU25, 261 Figure 9.7. “Helping others” and “confidence in public authority” in EU25, 263 Figure 10.1. Hardin’s categories between egoism and altruism, 282 Figure 10.2. The Finns’ willingness to “absolutely” help the various groups, 284 Figure 10.3. The Finns’ willingness to “absolutely” or “probably” help the various groups, 285 Figure 10.4. The fair or very strong sense of togetherness and closeness in relation to the groups present among Finns, 286 Table 4.1. The main differences among the rescuers, bystanders, and Nazi supporters, 100 Table 9.1. Social issues of concern in EU27, 256 Table 9.2. Correlation matrix, 264 Appendix 9.A.1. Country Codes, 270-271 Preface and Acknowledgments W e would like to thank the Helsinki Collegium for Advanced Studies, the Academy of Finland, The Federation of Finnish Learned Societies, and University of Jyväskylä for support on this project. Thanks to Onni Hirvonen, Petteri Niemi, and Olli Pitkänen for valuable last minute help with the manuscript, to Hans Arentshorst for preparing the index, and to Olli-Pekka Moisio for doing the layout. This book is dedicated to the memory of Juha Sihvola, in deep gratitude for all the support and inspiration he gave. Following Juha’s example we hope that this book will promote not only academic discussion but also the praxis of solidarity. In Jyväskylä and Helsinki, 14th June 2013, Arto Laitinen & Anne Birgitta Pessi xi 1. SOLIDARITY: THEORY AND PRACTICE. AN INTRODUCTION Arto Laitinen & Anne Birgitta Pessi T he word ‘solidarity’ derives from Latin: in the Roman Law obligatio in solidum involved the group liability of joint debtors. This is the sense of the French word solidarité in the Encyclopedia of 1765, and in Napoleon’s Code Civil 1804. Around the 1840s the term was adopted in German and English, and was politicized for example by the international labor movement, and was adopted to social sciences. Of the classics of sociology, especially Émile Durkheim (1947 [1893]) adopted the word as part of his basic terminology. Gradually the word came to be used in a broader meaning of emotionally and normatively motivated readiness for mutual support, as in the slogan “one for all and all for one.”1 Later the word was used for an official celebration day in the Soviet Union, for the famous trade union of Poland, and for various movements in support of developing countries. Interestingly, from European languages the word has been translated back to Latin, and forms part of the official social ethics of the Catholic Church. Many are of the opinion that the concept is so ideologically loaded, so flexible, and has such a controversial history that it should be left for ceremonial speeches (Luhmann 1984). On the other hand many defend the idea that sufficiently accurate uses of the concept of solidarity exist, and that “parasitic,” loose 2 ARTO LAITINEN & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI and misleading uses can be separated from them (see e.g. Scholz 2008). As a concept, solidarity is both descriptive and normative. Solidarity in its different descriptive senses refers today to a kind of connection to other people, to other members of a group, large or small. One may also describe various microphenomena such as actions, motivations and attitudes as more or less solidary. “Solidarity” may be used to describe and explain the normal order and normative social integration in societies or communities, as opposed to chaos and conflict, and as opposed to order based on coercion or maximization of self-interest. But it also may be used to refer to more or less revolutionary critical social movements criticizing the normal order and the prevailing injustices. Solidarity may reign in small communities, combative political movements or in entire societies, even the whole humanity according to some. As a normative concept the concept of solidarity has been used in broader and narrower senses. For instance, the American social philosopher Richard Rorty (1989) seems to have thought that solidarity covers all prosocial thought and action. However, as solidarity is often based on we-thinking, it can be separated from not only anti-social egocentrism, but also from one-sided “thou-centrism” such as altruism, sympathy, caring, or Christian charity. While these concentrate on the wellbeing of the other or you, the target of concern in solidarity can be us together. Solidarity can be separated from these approaches in that solidarity requires a presumption of reciprocity and perhaps shared group-membership and behavior according to the norms of a given group. In this respect, solidarity is related to the principles of friendship or national “brotherhood” or sisterhood. Solidarity can also arguably be separated from justice and general duties. For example, the German social philosopher Jürgen Habermas (1989) considers solidarity and justice to be two sides of the same coin. According to him, solidarity is always internal to some concrete community, while universal morality and justice require one to detach oneself from the internal bonds of concrete communities. This way solidarity is always partial or agent-relative “we-thinking” while justice represents an impartial, agent-neutral perspective. SOLIDARITY: THEORY AND PRACTICE. AN INTRODUCTION 3 The Micro-level Phenomena: Behavior and Motives In sociology and social psychology, solidarity has been conceived either as a macro-level phenomenon of group cohesion, integration or order or as a micro-level behavior, emotions, and attitudes explaining such cohesion. Not all macro-level cohesion or unity deserves to be called a form of solidarity: if the social order is sustained by coercion or appeals to everyone’s self-interest, it is less a case of social solidarity than if the order is sustained by a commitment to shared norms and valued social bonds. While irreducible to self-interest, the degree to which the social norms and institutions are seen to benefit oneself (and one’s kin), and the degree to which one’s own fate depends on that of the whole group may nonetheless partly explain the strength of the commitment to the norms and institutions. The term was introduced to sociology by August Comte, but the classic treatment is Émile Durkheim’s (1947 [1893]) distinction between the ‘mechanic’ solidarity of traditional communities and the ‘organic’ solidarity of modern societies. Mechanic solidarity is based on the similarity of the members and the dominance of collective consciousness over individuality. Organic solidarity is based on the interdependence of different individuals and on the social division of labour. The Durkheimian distinction made it possible both to acknowledge that traditional social ties are eroding (while not fully disappearing) thanks to industrialization, urbanization, individualization, or democratization, and to see a different basis for social life emerging, consistent with these processes, leaving room for individual differences. The distinctive features of solidarity have been listed in many ways, here is the social philosopher Larry May’s (1996, 44) list. He has proposed that solidarity consists of five elements: 1) conscious identification with the group, 2) bonds of sentiment, 3) common interests in the group’s well-being, 4) shared values and beliefs, and 5) readiness to show moral support. According to May, identification with a group and the thought that the group’s well-being is part of each member’s well-being is central and constitutive of solidarity. This way solidarity is, to a great extent, built on similarity, uniform- 4 ARTO LAITINEN & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI ity with members; shared values and beliefs can be based on, for instance, common history or living in the same area. Readiness to show support to the others when faced with adversity is also essential: solidarity is not mere passive feeling but also includes practical dispositions to act. As a microlevel phenomenon, solidarity has been conceptualized as prosocial behavior across different situations: helping and supporting in situations of need, doing one’s share in situations of cooperation, fairness in situations of distributing goods, avoiding breach in situations of trust, and moral repair when violations have taken place. According to Siegwart Lindenberg, who is one of the contributors to this volume, solidarity manifests itself especially in five particular types of situations where (as behavior and as norms) there could be a temptation to act without solidarity (cf. however the article in this collection, which adds a sixth type, related to mutual understanding). According to Lindenberg solidarity in fact means just that in these situations the individual (henceforth referred to as “Ego”) follows norms to take others (henceforth referred to as “Alter”) into consideration in his or her actions, although pursuit for short-term pleasure or perhaps also personal long-term benefit would suggest to act differently in that particular situation. Cooperation refers to situations where common good is produced. Both Ego and Alter belong to a group where common good is produced. Ego acts in a solidary manner if she participates in the production of common good even if it is arduous and even if there is an opportunity for freeriding. Fairness refers to situations of sharing. The Ego responsible for distributing burdens and benefits acts in accordance with solidarity if she strives to give everyone a fair amount of both benefits and burdens instead of attempting to maximize her own benefits and minimize her own burdens. What justice demands in detail is dependent on the accepted norms of the group. Altruism refers to needs and helping situations. Ego acts in a solidary manner if she helps the Alter in distress. What is regarded as needs and what is considered the minimum amount of help needed for the behavior to be solidary, again depends on the shared interpretations within a group. These may differ in different groups. Trustworthiness refers to situations of temptation where breaching implicit or explicit contracts would be tempting. Ego acts in a solidary manner if she avoids harming others even if it would mean increased costs for her. Considerateness refers to situations where things go awry, and promises or contracts cannot be fulfilled. Here the Ego acts in a solidary manner if SOLIDARITY: THEORY AND PRACTICE. AN INTRODUCTION 5 she apologizes, if possible warns about this beforehand and strives to compensate for her breaches. (Lindenberg, Fetchenhauer, Flache & Bruunk 2006, 9) In all these situations solidaristic behavior may require a sacrifice, a cost to oneself for the benefit of another individual or the whole group. Lindenberg has in his previous work sought to explain what makes people act in such a solidary manner, as opposed to hedonic or gain-seeking ways, in some situations, but not in others. In addition to the general formation of character or practical dispositions, situational cues have been shown to make a difference to behavior by affecting the salience of the solidarity frame as opposed to the frames of immediate gratification or long-term gain. Solidarity is thus precarious and needs to be supported by factors that increase the salience of the solidarity frame. Classical sociological theories stress the internalization of shared values and norms, but they sometimes fail to explain why socialized people would even want to act in a manner that is not solidary. On the other hand, theories of rational choice or classical economy, according to which an individual always acts according to her own interests, are unable to explain why individuals nevertheless sometimes behave in a sincerely solidary manner. Lindenberg’s model attempts to explain the possibility of both solidary and unsolidary behavior and highlight the situational and fragile nature of both. The situational fluctuation of solidary behavior, according to Lindenberg, results especially from our limited observational ability; we cannot observe all the dimensions of different situations. We have competing interpretative frameworks in every situation; situations are observed through frameworks shaped by different goals and relationships. For instance, when a friend asks me to borrow money, I perceive the situation to be in the category of “helping a friend in need” instead of primarily experiencing the loss of money as a cost. Helping a friend is salient, while economic thinking fades to the background. Thus I behave altruistically, but I do not fully forget my personal economy and benefits: if the same friend asks for a substantial amount of money for a third time in a row without having paid back his debts in between, I may well frame the situation otherwise. According to Lindenberg, the challenge in promoting solidarity is in supporting the solidarity framework as a salient interpretative frame- 6 ARTO LAITINEN & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI work. In this sense, social pressure or formal rituals can also produce solidarity. These questions have been studied for decades also in interdisciplinary altruism research (see Pessi & Saari 2008). For methodological reasons, a focus on behaviour, excluding emotional or attitudinal elements, is often adopted in empirical research (e.g. by Hechter and Lindenberg). Most theorists (including Lindenberg) argue that behavior is not enough for solidarity (see e.g. Salmela’s contribution in this volume), as acting out of solidarity requires the presence of attitudes or emotions such as a sense of belonging, concern for the others’ well-being, commitment to shared norms, valuing the social bonds in question or identification with the group. As a distinct motivational pattern, solidarity combines elements of (extended) egoism, and (restricted) altruism. It can be seen as a form of “we-thinking” based on collective intentionality, whose nature has been studied in recent social philosophy (see e.g. Tuomela 2007, 2013, chapter 9). Action which is motivated by especially solidary motives can further be analyzed with more specific criteria. According to the German social philosopher Andreas Wildt (1999, 217-218), an action can be identified as one of solidarity when the actor 1) has, together with the recipient, feelings of sympathy and belonging together, 2) is partly motivated by altruism, 3) considers the act as a case of helping in a time of distress, 4) holds the distress as a moral problem, injustice, and a source of moral obligation, 5) holds him- or herself obligated to act to help, 6) does not believe the recipient has a legal or moral right to demand and receive from him or her in particular, 7) assumes that the recipient evaluates the distress in a similar way; 8) assumes that the recipient is motivated to alleviate his or her own distress and actively attempts to do so; and 9) assumes at least the possibility of analogous situations in which the recipient acts, has acted, or will act in analogous ways towards him or her. This definition by Wildt can arguably be broadened so as to include the other act- and situation-types apart from helping in need (e.g. the ones mentioned by Lindenberg: cooperation, fair sharing, trustworthiness and considerateness). SOLIDARITY: THEORY AND PRACTICE. AN INTRODUCTION 7 The Scope of Solidarity at the Macro Level: From Concrete Communities to Societies, from Political Movements to the Entire Humanity In both descriptive and evaluative usages, solidarity has been taken to be one important feature of, first, smaller communities, and second, entire societies (complementing for example social justice, democracy and autonomy as an evaluative notion). ‘Solidarity’ has made its way to the EU Constitution, and been promoted by such rival movements as Marxism, Social Democracy, French Solidarism, Liberalism, Roman Catholicism and neo-Fascism. The classical Liberal and Catholic approaches stress interpersonal responsibility and solidarity as a private or personal virtue, while Marxists and Social Democrats typically stress structural obstacles, institutional solutions and shared responsibility, so that solidarity can equally be a virtue of institutions. A moderate view holds that institutional arrangements can promote and realize genuine group solidarity (e.g. via progressive taxation and social services), but if the institutional arrangements are obeyed for solely coercive or self-interested reasons, they fall short of genuine solidarity. In social policy research European welfare states have been seen as realizing institutionally relatively high degrees of social (or ‘civic’) solidarity and distributive social justice. A third type of solidarity has been at stake for example in the international workers’ movement, the Polish Solidarnosc and various new social movements. The word solidarity may indeed, to many, conjure up images of the Polish labor union, solidarity strikes, or perhaps united labor front against oppression. In such political solidarity activists and members of the movement join to oppose the injustice or oppression of some group, and possibly to seek support from outside (out-group solidarity). Political solidarity in this sense strengthens the internal cohesion and mutual support of a group fighting against observed flaws, in the spirit of all for one, and one for all (see Scholz 2008). The struggling group does not necessarily promote its own interests, but through its actions expresses solidarity to the group whose unjust treatment is the cause for the struggle. These groups are often partly overlapping. Solidarity can also be targeted at groups on the other side of the world such as in the case of Finnish solidarity barn sales for supporting Nicaraguans. 8 ARTO LAITINEN & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI Fourthly, the term is sometimes used very broadly to refer to the basic ethical concern for others, as in the work of Richard Rorty (1989). In this context, it is often called moral or human solidarity. While solidarity is typically seen as a positive quality, various forms of solidarity have been criticized for their tendency to lead to the exclusion of outsiders, perhaps represented as enemies, or for the internal repression of individuality, autonomy or personal responsibility. The relationship of the concept of solidarity to global thinking is one of tension. In the history of the concept, the emphasis has been on limited groups with mutual agendas, challenges, interests or a common good to share, and perhaps also a common foe or adversary. Traditionally it is taken that solidarity is primarily internal to a group, whereas global humanitarianism is then classified as a matter of sympathy, altruism, charity or respect for human rights—something other than solidarity. On the other hand solidarity is intertwined with the thought that all individuals are neighbors. For instance, in the societal teachings of the Catholic Church it is clearly emphasized that genuine solidarity may hold between all people. Let us next look at these four contexts a bit more closely. Concrete Communities: Exclusivity and Solidarity Solidarity is closely connected to communality. Solidarity’s characteristics may materialize most accurately in rather small communities whose members share, among other things, common history, common language, feeling of cohesion, willingness to help each other, common beliefs, and systems of values and norms. The core feature is inclusion and exclusion: not everyone is a member. This attitude promotes and in part specifically creates feelings of cohesion and density of a group. Respectively, outsiders may have their own communities. Any agent may have some responsibilities towards anyone, but typically shares their life more intensively with the particular members of one’s own group.2 In good and bad, the most solid communities seem to be the ones which emphasize their difference to other communities. Such communities include, for example, many fanatical religious and political communities. The phenomenon has been explained through two varieties of the concept of social capital: bridging capital and bonding SOLIDARITY: THEORY AND PRACTICE. AN INTRODUCTION 9 capital (Putnam 2001). With regard to a broader community such as the society at large, a healthy community has several links and connections to other communities; in other words they have plenty of bridging capital. A community like this promotes not only its own communality, but also that of the broader community. Conversely, highly cohesive and introverted fanatical communities, bigger or smaller, have lots of bonding social capital and they may in fact damage the broader community very severely. One central challenge is to reconcile communality with individual autonomy and freedom (see chapter 6 of this volume). Although it has been stated otherwise, late modern individualism and freedom of choice do not necessarily ruin solidarity. On the contrary, in the late modern era the bonds between individuals have increased; we are all parts of multiple solidarities. It is precisely this that challenges institutions to be more flowing and flexible than before: the boundaries of institutions cannot be set in stone nor can institutions exclude others when individuals move about and become members of several institutions (Ammermann 2007, Sewell 1992).3 Lindenberg (1998) has introduced the term “weak solidarity” for combined bridging and bonding (with weaker expected sacrifice in the five solidarity situations described above). In chapter 2 he also discusses conditions that make the reach of solidarity vary. Society-wide Solidarity Solidarity in entire societies manifests itself in different ways, depending on the perspective and discipline. One way to speak about solidarity is to call it the social glue, or the cement of the society. This refers to the types of social bonds that cannot be traced back to coercive power or self-interest. An essential question for societal solidarity is how various goods are distributed. In this discourse the most central topics are income distribution, social services, and taxation: for example, in the Nordic welfare states the high level of taxation and social services is justified through solidarity. So instead of societal income distribution being based on voluntary charity, the right of each individual to basic income and tolerable living conditions has been institutionalized. Some consider this societal bureaucratic solidarity cold quasi-solidarity (Bayertz 1999, 24- 10 ARTO LAITINEN & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI 25), but it can also be thought that certain types of institutional solutions produce solidary thinking, for example maintaining the solidarity framework. Further, democratic decision-making requires some solidarity: it is more demanding to be an active citizen than a subject to an enlightened dictator, content with bread and circuses. Political Movements and “Fighting Solidarity” Solidarity is a central concept also in the analysis of political movements. The political philosopher Sally Scholz (2008, 233-236) distinguishes three varieties of solidarity: social solidarity refers to group cohesion and differs from civic solidarity (the relationship between the citizens and the political state) and political solidarity. According to Scholtz, political solidarity highlights the conscience and commitment of an individual. Political solidarity manifests itself as responses to unjust and oppressive situations. The term is tightly connected to the history of the class struggle of the labor movement, to industrial strikes, and to political movements. Thus it can be called “fighting solidarity.” It was mentioned above that communal and societal solidarity require a certain type of exclusion. Fighting solidarity seems to further require antagonism, an enemy—perhaps an oppressor. The core of fighting solidarity is the idea of fighting together against injustices for example, by going on strike. Intra-group solidarity is essential in fighting solidarity, but another important characteristic is the moral support of outsiders. One expression for this is in the case of a strike, other groups or unions may go on strike to show support. However, the struggles are not always about injustice; sometimes fighting solidarity can be defending privileges already granted as well as pursuing new benefits. Solidarity of the Entire Humanity Solidarity of the entire humanity may be any kind of solidarity (societal, political, moral) extended to the whole humanity. It can be a matter of societal solidarity applied to a global society, or it may be a matter of political solidarity on a global scale, or then it may be a matter of moral, humanitarian universalistic solidarity. SOLIDARITY: THEORY AND PRACTICE. AN INTRODUCTION 11 So first, the entire humanity might one day form one comprehensive global state, one global society where national solidarity would cover all individuals. But it is not clear whether humanity at its present size could be a “concrete society” in the proper meaning of the term. What about connecting, secondly, all humanity and political solidarity; is it possible? Can the entire humankind unite into a political movement to battle epidemics, climate change or genocides, to name a few examples? For instance, ecological issues have garnered support from an ever-growing mass of individuals around the globe. The fact that the ecological movement still has its opponents (as well as those who treat the issue with indifference) does not as such diminish its global nature any more than the existence of crime in a society diminishes the “societal” nature of the laws or solidarity of that society. Thirdly, there is the moral perspective of altruism or equal respect. The altruistic perspective is a feeling of connection to other people; a feeling that the helper often finds difficult to articulate. Instead of dividing people into us and them, altruists see all individuals—all others—as members of the general humankind. When investigated, many individuals who have committed an altruistic deed that has been considered heroic have simply stated: “It was the only thing I could have done. They are people, just like me” (Monroe 1994; 1996). With this example we are close to the concept of humanitarian solidarity. This form of solidarity can be seen, following for example Sally Scholtz (2008, 233-236), as one variety of solidarity. Humanitarian solidarity is based on the notion of unity of all humanity.4 The Crisis of Social Solidarity within the Nation States? Solidarity is not primarily created through contracts. However, the predominant accepted practices and understandings according to which the central forms of togetherness are organized can perhaps be called an implicit solidarity contract. In other words, solidarity contracts encompass the different networks of “us” and “others” through which work, leisure time, and material, social, cultural and spiritual 12 ARTO LAITINEN & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI needs of a community are organized. In the Western modern world, solidarity contracts have changed, according to the classics of sociology, from an all-encompassing forced communality, i.e. mechanical solidarity, towards an organic solidarity more permissive of individualism (Durkheim 1947 [1893]). At the beginning of the twentieth century solidarity was a fashionable concept. Alexandre Millerand, the French Minister of Finance who opened the Paris world fair of 1900, praised progress, enlightenment, science and solidarity: “Science reveals to us the material and ethical secrets that may be summarized in one word—solidarity” (Liedman 2002, 1). Technological and economic progress seemed to fracture traditional communality, but on the other hand it appeared to give birth to positive mutual dependence as well as to a new kind of solidarity based on an intensified division of labor that was more tolerant of individuality. The new solidarity manifested itself especially in relatively recently born territorial nation states. Contemporary conceptions of solidarity and practices of communality, togetherness, and joint responsibility are continuously being pondered, questioned, and altered. In advanced welfare states such as Finland there is currently an ongoing debate on, for example, decreasing tax rates and diminishing welfare services, presumed economic necessities, excessive corporate executive bonuses, justifications for strikes, moral alarmism concerning the treatment of beggars, factory shutdowns, the recession as part of an international financial crisis, and anti-immigration sentiments. In the European context the financial crisis has been used to justify austerity measures that some would call downright class warfare against the lower classes, and some would defend as the only available form of responsible long-term decision-making. Globally, events such as Occupy Wall Street, the Indignados and the Arab Spring have created calls for international political solidarity, as have the ongoing long-term movements against male chauvinism, racism, global poverty and injustice, tax havens, or the looming climate catastrophes. Hauke Brunkhorst, a German social theorist also contributing to this volume, has argued in his book Solidarity: From Civic Friendship to a Global Legal Community that the nation state system succeeded in meeting three central historical challenges, that are currently re-emerging at the global level (Brunkhorst 2005). First, the nation SOLIDARITY: THEORY AND PRACTICE. AN INTRODUCTION 13 state system offered a way to avoid religious conflicts. In the Peace of Westphalia 1648, after wars over religion, religions had been defined to be each state’s own affairs, and inside states increasingly each individual’s personal affairs. Second, the nation state offered a way to avoid political revolutions and turmoil by implementing fundamental political rights. After the French Revolution the implementation of democracy and political rights has been a part of the autonomy of nation states; for instance, guaranteeing voting rights for women continued the implementation of the same idea. Third, states have controlled the dissatisfactions caused by socio-economic uncertainty and injustice. The role of the state as a regulator of the market economy and at the same time as a type of a protector of justice has proven to be central. Nation states have been able to adapt to the challenges of both capitalism and socialism (Brunkhorst 2005; 2007). As an addition to this, one can mention that the homogeneity of nations and the sharedness of cultures have presumably furthered cohesion on a societal level. The idea of “when in Rome, do as the Romans do” justified assimilative practices in, among other things, treatment of immigrants. Currently it seems that global economy, religion, media and environmental problems have made some of these achievements of the nation state system obsolete. Will they give birth to new ways of organizing social relations? On the one hand intolerance is increasing its lure and the decline in societal solidarity may support the birth of more local communalities, where the circles of solidarity may be quite tightly defined to cover only a small group. On the other hand, some of these concerns are genuinely global and may call for global solidarities. Despite progress in various areas of life, the twentieth century has been called humanity’s darkest century, especially due to the destructive wars, concentration camps, nuclear weapons and environmental degradation (Glover 1999). Wars and other exceptional circumstances may reinforce national solidarity, but particularly after the World Wars it is grotesque to think of wars as means to increase cohesion. The thought of technological and economic progress as a pure blessing has dissipated with environmental destruction and global poverty. The solidarity contract based on nation states seems to have rescinded: the challenges that the nation state system was able to 14 ARTO LAITINEN & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI respond to have returned on a global level. In the twenty first century the roles of capitalist economy (and with it the global classes of ‘haves’ and ‘have-nots’, see Brunkhorst in this volume) and—contrary to what is often thought—religion, have only strengthened on a global level. Further, the assimilatory approach to cultural differences has come under critical scrutiny with the debates on multiculturalism, although populist movements have created a kind of backlash on those issues. The ideals of global democracy and global solidarity appear more pressing than ever—as an analogous response to the socio-economic, political, religious and cultural challenges that the nation-states successfully provided in the latter half of the second millennium. Solidarity and Justice As an evaluative or normative notion, solidarity corresponds closely to the principle of fraternité, which in the slogan of the French Revolution complements equality and liberty. Contemporary theories of justice typically cover issues of basic liberties and social equality, so it is illuminating to approach the evaluative and normative nature of solidarity in comparison to the ideal of justice. Strong solidarity is by no means a perfect guarantee of justice. Strong solidarity within a group can easily be accompanied by insolidarity and injustice towards outsiders (cf. Lindenberg 1998). Further, arrangements considered just inside a group (such as those based on hereditary hierarchy) can be highly inconsistent with better principles of justice, which members of the group might accept after some reflection. However, solidarity arguably erodes, if members of the group do not experience or consider its basic structures to be sufficiently just: a solidary social order is not based only on pure coercion or calculated pursuit of self-interest, but also on moral acceptance independent of them. John Rawls states in the beginning of his Theory of Justice (1971) that justice is the most important virtue of the basic structure of societies, and that this is a widely accepted idea. According to Rawls, proponents of different conceptions of justice can agree that the concept of justice refers to a quality of the highest importance. As justice SOLIDARITY: THEORY AND PRACTICE. AN INTRODUCTION 15 is given primacy in terms of social qualities, solidarity is considered at most the second most important quality, for example as a practical precondition, for justice to be actualized. Solidarity is connected to justice in at least two different ways. First, the ideal of solidarity can affect the contents of the principles of justice. According to Rawls, societal justice requires, in addition to a maximal balance between freedom and opportunities, stringently limiting economic and social inequalities so that the arrangements are the best possible for the most disadvantaged (the difference principle). According to Rawls, the difference principle aspires for the ideal of brotherhood, with its focus on the position of the worst-off. According to Andreas Wildt (2007), the Rawlsian difference principle is roughly the principle of distribution that solidarity requires. Such a principle of solidarity requires not only solidarity from the rich towards the poor but also solidarity from the poor towards the rich. Arguably the requirement of equality of opportunities has not been materialized in the real world too well. In its absence, a demand for solidarity towards the better-off may sound audacious, but in principle the idea of solidarity from the worse-off to the better-off dignifies the worse-off as agents of solidarity and not mere recipients or beneficiaries, and that is of course how things ought to be. On the other hand, solidarity may be a factor pertaining to the functioning (rather than the content) of the principles of justice. To work in practice, the principles require people to follow them so that they would not be mere utopian ideals, but would become concrete social reality. Some commentators of Rawls, communitarians such as Michael Sandel and Charles Taylor, posit that it is precisely the Rawlsian difference principle that requires strong solidarity. The last chapter of the Theory of Justice treats this question in the same spirit, so Rawls himself is in broad agreement here. According to Jürgen Habermas (1989, 47) the requirements of justice can be formally justified without appealing to the well-being of others or common good, but the principle of solidarity combines the concern for the well-being of others and the entire group. For him, solidarity is based on the insight that all individuals are to take responsibility for each other because as members of the same society they all have a similar interest in keeping their own life contexts intact. Deontologically conceptualized justice requires solidarity as its flipside. 16 ARTO LAITINEN & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI The requirements of justice and fairness are a natural part not only of the basic structure of society but also of smaller communities. As we saw, for instance, according to Lindenberg the just distribution of benefits and burdens is one of the requirements of solidarity. Justice is also connected to political, fighting solidarity. Many theories regard political solidarity as fighting specifically injustice. Additionally, the questions of global solidarity weave into the demands for justice— global justice is a central requirement of the ethics of world citizens. At the same time, as Lindenberg has pointed out justice, concerns are only one part of solidarity, so more is needed than global justice. An Overview of the Chapters The purpose of this book is to offer tools for conceiving the world from the perspective of solidarity. The book analyses both the concept and theories of solidarity, and the empirical practices in which they are manifested. It is often thought that while unselfish actions must be explained through socialization to norms, selfish action is something “natural” as a result of evolution. Recent research gives reasons to doubt this: evolution has also made us naturally capable of moral and solidary stances and cooperation, while the very same capacities and abilities also enable selfish behavior in the long term. Which of these prevail is then a matter of norms prescribing solidary behavior. But it has also been shown by the social psychologist Dale Miller (1999) that there exists a norm of selfishness in the background of selfish action, and we even want to cloak our altruistic actions in an egoistically prudential cloak. The opening chapter by Siegwart Lindenberg takes an evolutionary approach to study the norms of solidarity. He studies their content and scope as well as the nature of our conformity with them. He builds on one of the important discoveries of the last decades, namely the so-called “social brain” (Dunbar) enabling non-selfish behavior. Seemingly, our most advanced brain power (our relatively large frontal lobes) has evolved in order to allow human beings to derive individual adaptive advantages from living in groups and especially from living in fairly large social groups. The relevant practices include pair bonding and cooperative child raising. Collective SOLIDARITY: THEORY AND PRACTICE. AN INTRODUCTION 17 goods produced by larger groups are the basis for individual adaptive advantages from living in such groups, and our brain has evolved to allow us living in fairly large groups in the sense that we (a) derive adaptive advantages from living in groups and (b) are able to maintain the production of collective goods in the group. In this chapter, Lindenberg discusses these developments in two stages: first, as the development of norms in general, and solidarity norms in particular, and second, the development of additional solidarity norms as responses to problems created by the development of the abilities and processes that allow living in larger groups in the first place. These abilities include first, the ability to put oneself in the other’s shoes, second, the development of language, and third, “the combined cognitive and motivational processes that allow goals to become the most prominent mechanism for steering behavior and cognitive and affective mentalizing.” Lindenberg shows how “the combination of these three psychological developments allowed the evolution of a unique basis for solidarity: (a) the working of norms in general and solidarity norms in particular; and (b) the fact that norms in general and solidarity norms in particular have a flexible reach, applying sometimes to small, sometimes to more inclusive groups.” On this basis, Lindenberg argues there are three basic solidarity norms (sharing, helping, cooperation) and three additional ones (trustworthiness, considerateness, efforts at understanding and being understood). Of these, the norm concerning mutual understanding is added to the previous five situations of solidarity, presented above in this introduction (chapter 2). Importantly, he argues that, to remain important for behavior, solidarity norms need to be constantly supported by institutional and social arrangements. Mikko Salmela’s chapter responds to Siegwart Lindenberg’s earlier work. He starts from the observation that researchers widely agree that feelings of togetherness and other collective emotions are central to group solidarity. Sceptics about the role of emotions in group solidarity include Lindenberg, who has argued that purely affective conceptions of solidarity are weak in explaining the dynamics and precariousness of solidarity. Instead, as we have seen, Lindenberg defines solidarity as prosocial norm-oriented behavior in situations that involve contributing to the common good, fair distribution of costs and benefits, helping others in need, refraining from hurting others 18 ARTO LAITINEN & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI at a cost to oneself, and mitigating unintended or unavoidable harms to others. Salmela suggest that emotions, both individual and collective, also have several significant functions in Lindenberg’s theory. They stabilize the normative solidarity frame; they serve as relational signals of being in this frame; and they motivate solidary behavior. To show this, Salmela replaces the Durkheimian conception of collective emotion as collective effervescence with a philosophical notion of collectively intentional shared emotions. Collective emotions are then the “glue” of solidarity, as Randall Collins has remarked (albeit for partially different reasons), and as such, necessary for solidary groups (chapter 3). Kristen Renwick Monroe examines how the concept of solidarity can help us understand the different responses to the suffering of others. She focuses on the importance of psychological perceptions as they affect our solidarity, and on how our perceived relationship to others determines our treatment of them. She stresses the importance of what she calls “the ethical perspective,” a sense of connection with the person in need that then leads to a felt imperative to act to alleviate the person’s suffering, and the role of psychological trigger mechanisms that cause the ethical perspective to click into play. She presents the empirical data that lead her to this theory and presents the theory itself in some detail, suggesting how identity perceptions work through an innate ethical framework to influence our treatment of others. She first reviews some empirical data that suggest moral choices are spontaneous, not the result of conscious deliberation, religious or otherwise. She then suggests a model of moral choice designed to explain these spontaneous responses. She concludes with a discussion of the psychology behind this pre-conscious, spontaneous choice (chapter 4). Simon Derpmann focuses on moral solidarity, establishing first with reference to David Wiggins’s work that moral solidarity is a worthy topic for moral theory, and then arguing that the viewpoint of universal moral solidarity does not capture everything there is to solidarity. There are communal or partial aspects to solidarity which need to be taken into account. A theory of moral solidarity needs to accommodate a specific type of partiality that finds expression in references like ‘my’, ‘our’ and ‘like me’ that reveal a distinct form of communal relatedness (chapter 5). SOLIDARITY: THEORY AND PRACTICE. AN INTRODUCTION 19 Arto Laitinen examines how solidarity can be understood as a form of mutual recognition; or possibly, as a social phenomenon, which combines different forms of mutual recognition. The emphasis is on the connection between ‘thin’ universal mutual respect, and the thicker relations between people, more sensitive to their particular needs, contributions and attachments, which social solidarity involves. Three claims will be argued for: first, thin mutual respect already constitutes a relationship of unity between persons, which can be seen when (more or less encompassing and demanding) moral duties are seen not as monadic but dyadic or communal; second, thick social solidarity as an ongoing practice of mutual aid and support contains three kinds of recognition that go beyond thin respect and thus provide a thicker unity; third, the three contexts of solidarity as distinguished in contemporary debates, namely moral solidarity, political solidarity, and social or group solidarity can each be illuminated as part of this picture starting from mutual respect and aiming at thicker mutual aid and support (chapter 6). Nicholas H. Smith in his chapter argues for the centrality of work for understanding solidarity. If solidarity is a feature of effective cooperative relationships, and if it is above all in work that the concrete meaning of cooperation becomes manifest to us, then work should not be a marginal or secondary consideration for theorists of solidarity, as it currently is, but a central consideration. Smith first discusses the relation between solidarity and work that emerges from some of the classical theories, from Durkheim, Hegel and Marx. He then shows how the contemporary debate around solidarity by Axel Honneth and others tends either to marginalize this relation or to make it difficult to keep in view, and how even the accounts that do take the relation between work and solidarity seriously, nevertheless ignore or choose to discount the possibility of a solidarity that is embedded in working activity itself on account of its cooperative nature. Smith elaborates the meaning of the claim that work has this feature by drawing on Christophe Dejours’s psychodynamic approach to work. Smith concludes by responding to some of the main objections to his approach (chapter 7). Hauke Brunkhorst’s analysis focuses on the notion of constitution. In his chapter “Solidarity in Times of Crisis: Constitutional Evolution and Europe” he first gives a brief outline of his theoret- 20 ARTO LAITINEN & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI ical framework that is founded in evolutionary theory. He argues that constitutions are, like brains or eyes of organisms, evolutionary universals or evolutionary advances. Then he draws a distinction between revolutionary and gradual (or ‘evolutionary’) change within the social evolution. He then gives various examples of sequences of revolutionary and evolutionary change in constitutional history in Germany, France and United States, and then turns to discuss the European Union. He argues that although the foundation of the European Union in 1951 was a very limited unification, it was nevertheless a kind of revolutionary founding act. In the last two sections he then reconstructs the evolutionary development of the European constitution and demonstrates that the evolution of European constitutional law poses structural problems of legitimization which now are going to become manifest in a serious and existential crisis of legitimization (chapter 8). Juho Saari and Anne Birgitta Pessi start from the observation that the institutional structures of the twenty-seven Member States of the European Union are currently caught in a process of rapid change, Europeanization and modernization of the European social model. They study the mechanisms affecting the modernisation of the European social model and people’s attitudes towards solidarity, in the sense of helping others, in the countries of the European Union. Their working hypothesis is that the institutional structure of each Member State will, to a significant degree, account for the differences observed in people’s solidarity (e.g., attitudes towards helping others). They find that a strong public welfare sector and an active civil society promote solidarity. This overall finding resonates with studies by other scholars—which also shed light on possible further explanations. First of all, it has been indicated that in countries of strong public welfare sector people trust each other more; equality promotes trust. Second, equality further shortens the social distance between citizens, and social interaction (for example in volunteering) is not considered risky. Third, a strong public welfare sector may maintain the norm of solidarity—which may then inspire individuals to help each other and particularly people in need. The welfare sector sets the ideal that no one should be left alone to suffer. Fourth, in countries with a strong public welfare system also NGOs and the overall third sector agents do well (e.g. they may be partially funded by the SOLIDARITY: THEORY AND PRACTICE. AN INTRODUCTION 21 welfare system). Time and resources offered by the public welfare system enable individuals to, for instance, volunteer. The findings support an approach—in line with Polanyi, among others—that would stress the role of the national institutional setting. As a social concern, helping others seems to be associated with general social development. It gets more prominence in the Member States which have also done well in other areas. The authors conclude by discussing two possible explanations for this (chapter 9). In the next chapter, Arto Laitinen and Anne Birgitta Pessi discuss further the conceptual relationship of solidarity to helping behaviour and motivations. They first investigate the notion of solidarity and ask whether the requirement to help is part and parcel of solidarity. They defend the view that some helping behavior is demanded by solidarity, whereas some helping behavior exceeds the demands of solidarity. They then examine with empirical data how solidarity, so defined, figures in the helping behavior, motivations, and experiences of togetherness of Finns. One striking finding is connected to European solidarity: the attitudes towards helping Europeans were less positive than attitudes towards helping “anyone in the world.” This was puzzling as it could be hypothesized that Europeans are not really perceived as being in need of help (so that European solidarity would be based on other behaviours and attitudes relevant for solidarity, for example cooperation rather than helping). Since the collection (in 2006) of the data used here, the debt crisis has changed the constellation considerably, and European solidarity has increasingly meant helping the banks and economies of Greece, Ireland, Portugal, or Spain, with opponents arguing that under the austerity measures, this is not really solidarity with the people of those countries but rather with the international banking and financing sector (chapter 10). Heikki Hiilamo studies the role of voluntary organizations and especially the role of the church in the development of Nordic welfare state model in Finland. The qualitative change that Protestantism brought about in the church-state relationship has been understood as a historically decisive prelude to secularization and the welfare state. The history of Finland gives a good lesson on how the political foundation for solidarity can be re-established in a highly divided country. In 1918, Finland experienced a severe civil war between the 22 ARTO LAITINEN & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI ‘Reds’ and ‘Whites’, one of the bloodiest on the European continent. After World War II, Finland faced a challenge in resettling the evacuees from the areas that were occupied by the Soviet Union. More than one-tenth of the population had to be relocated. Key elements in the rebuilding process were expanding the social policies, implementing extensive land reforms, modernizing the educational system and using social insurance funds as investment capital. Social policy programs and the people’s insurance covered everyone equally and created a feeling of solidarity. Nordic universalism was an expression of human rights, a fellowship of interests and responsibilities on a national level. In the Nordic model the same programs cover all the categories of the population, which in turn is seen to be a solid guarantee for large popular support for the welfare state. Ideally, since everybody contributes to and everybody benefits from the system, there is no wedge between the well-off payers and the worse-off beneficiaries. The welfare state is an all-encompassing form of solidarity. Development of the universal welfare state in Finland began truly in the 1960s. The state assumed all-encompassing responsibility in health care and social welfare; consequently the role of the Church and other voluntary organizations was marginal. A deep economic recession hit the Nordic countries in the early 1990s. This led to an abrupt end of the golden years of the Nordic welfare state. The following decades witnessed permanent austerity, which was aggravated by the economic collapse of 2008 and the European debt crisis. These austerity measures can be seen as a step back from universality, and in these conditions the role of the church and NGOs in poverty alleviation has become relevant in filling the gaps in the welfare state provisions (chapter 11). Bente Blanche Nicolaysen in her chapter “Volunteering, the Humanitarian Gift to ‘Distant Suffering,’ and Solidarity” first reports a case study that covers a Norwegian voluntary association’s spending of funds (raised at the fund-raising bazaar) for humanitarian causes outside Norway over time (1950-2000) to discuss the possibilities and limits of trans-national solidarities. The focus is on the nature of the relationships over time that a local voluntary association and the volunteers within it develop when the recipient of funds is the “unnamed and universal stranger” (Titmuss). What form can volunteering take when those called upon to act are thousands of miles SOLIDARITY: THEORY AND PRACTICE. AN INTRODUCTION 23 away from the person(s) suffering? The chapter first outlines the case study, and then presents the theoretical framework. It argues that one should abandon solidarity as a generic term, and instead speak of solidarity in an at once narrow and a trans-national sense (following Gould 2007). Then, the changing nature of social ties (and of solidarity) when the association (and its members) extend their commitment from local to national and international projects is examined, in two steps: first, by taking a historical look at the local association’s engagement at the local and national levels; and second, by outlining the association’s gradual use of fundraising for engagement in “distant suffering.” Finally, the potential for an extension of the moral horizon horizon of the volunteers the volunteers involved is discussed (chapter 12). Notes 1 See Laitinen 2013, and on Laitinen & Pessi 2011. 2 These types of concrete communities in which there exists great solidarity include, for example, families, clans, village communities, work communities, religious groups, and groups that are formed around different interests and activities. The family is an especially tight-knit community whose membership late modern individuals, too, share. Its solidarity is not straightforward either; for example, intra-family cross-generational solidarity is described through a model where family solidarity is divided into six parts (Bengtson & Roberts 1991, 857). Associational solidarity describes the density of different types of cross-generational interaction and mutual activity. Affectual solidarity is used to evaluate, for instance, the amount and depth of affection, warmth, intimacy, trust and respect, as well as their reciprocity between family members. Consensual solidarity is the sharing of values, attitudes and beliefs between family members. Functional solidarity covers more concrete forms of helping and resource exchange in a family. Normative solidarity, on the other hand, describes the degree of commitment to intra-family roles and duties, while structural solidarity describes the general possibilities for cross-generational relations based on residence, number of family members and their health (Silverstein et al. 1995, 466-473). 24 ARTO LAITINEN & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI 3 One has to keep in mind that the additional duties and commitments brought about by the new communal solidarity relationship may be suppressive and over-demanding. Consequently, one cannot make the general statement that the more there is solidarity, the better: various groups and ad-hoc committees exist for functional purposes only and it would be counter-productive to require too much internal solidarity from them. 4 Solidarity of humanity may concern moral, humanitarian solidarity where community memberships are ignored. In such a case other individuals are moral persons towards whom each individual has both negative and positive duties. Negative duties are often prohibitions from doing harmful things and they are often possible to fulfill by not doing anything: that way there is no mischief involved. Positive duties in turn are suggestions or demands to help others and actively contribute to their well-being—mere inaction would indicate breaching these suggestions. According to Immanuel Kant’s (1724-1804) well-known idea, all persons form a Kingdom of Ends: each individual has rights and duties. All individuals are one another’s neighbors in a deeply binding and touching manner. This may sound utopian, but as mentioned earlier, it is precisely in everyday helping where attitude is an essential and explaining factor for action. Several theoreticians—for example the already mentioned Kant and Rawls—regard universal duties towards other individuals and their well-being as integral requirements for human rights. The challenge of humane solidarity is to include other individuals as part of ‘us’ even if they were originally outsiders. The term of discussion is ‘incremental solidarity’ (Kolenda 1989) where, much like in Durkheim’s definition of organic solidarity, humane solidarity is considered an aim to aspire. It is not easy for solidarity of humanity, or even incremental solidarity, to materialize. Most individuals rather identify with race, class, religion or gender than humanity (May 1996). Additionally individualism—although it needs not be seen as a mutually exclusive opposite to a sense of community—can create additional barriers for the materialization of humane solidarity. SOLIDARITY: THEORY AND PRACTICE. AN INTRODUCTION 25 Literature Ammerman, Nancy (2007). Everyday Religion. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Anderson, Benedict (1983). Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London: Verso Baldwin, Peter (1990). The Politics of Social Solidarity. Class Bases of the European Welfare State 1875-1975. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bayertz, Kurt (1999). Four Uses of ‘Solidarity’, in Solidarity, ed. Kurt Bayertz. Philosophical Studies in Contemporary Culture, Vol. 5. Dordrecht/Boston/London: Kluwer, 3-28. Bayertz, Kurt, ed. (1999). Solidarity. Dordrecht/Boston/London: Kluwer Bengtson, Vern L. & Robert E. L. Roberts (1991). Intergenerational Solidarity in Aging Families: An Example of Formal Theory Construction. 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Maailmankansalaisen etiikka. Helsinki: Otava. Silverstein, Merril, Tonya M. Parrott & Vern L. Bengtson (1995). Factors that Predispose Middle-Aged Sons and Daughters to Provide Social Support to Older Parents. Journal of Marriage and the Family 57/2: 465-475. Smith, Nicholas & Arto Laitinen (2009). Taylor on Solidarity. Thesis 11, 99: 48-70. Taylor, Charles (1989). Cross-Purposes: The Liberal-Communitarian Debate, in Liberalism and the Moral Life, ed. Nancy L. Rosenblum. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 159-82. Taylor, Charles (2007). A Secular Age. Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Thome, Helmut (1999). Solidarity: Theoretical Perspectives for Empirical Research, in Solidarity, ed. Kurt Bayertz. Philosophical Studies in Contemporary Culture, Vol. 5. Dordrecht/Boston/ London: Kluwer, 101-132. Tuomela, Raimo (2007). The Philosophy of Sociality. New York: Oxford University Press. Tuomela, Raimo (2013). 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Solidaarisuus ja itsekkyyden normi, in Solidaarisuus, ed. Laitinen, Arto & Anne Birgitta Pessi. Gaudeamus: Helsinki, 50-60. 2. SOLIDARITY: UNPACKING THE SOCIAL BRAIN Siegwart Lindenberg Introduction F rom a sociological point of view, solidarity is not just any act of kindness towards others. Solidarity is best conceived to be a set of established norms that together enhance the ability of groups to produce collective goods (see also Tranow 2012). Interesting questions then are: what are these norms? What influences their reach (i.e. the group(s) to which they apply)? And what are the conditions that strengthen or undermine conformity to these norms? These questions may be interrelated in the sense that the answer to “what norms?” is not independent of the answer to the question about conditions of reach and conformity. If so this would have serious consequences for the kind of approach we would have to take. For example, in rational choice, conformity is not related to the content of the norm but to the positive and negative incentives related to conformity and to the chance of being observed. For a traditional sociological explanation, the content of norms and conditions of conformity are SOLIDARITY: UNPACKING THE SOCIAL BRAIN 31 also independent, because conformity results from internalization of a norm, irrespective of what kind of norm it is. In order to get at the possible interrelation of solidarity norms and the conditions of conformity, it seems useful to take an evolutionary approach, in which primates, and especially human beings, evolve to be able to live in larger groups. We thus have to focus on the evolved links between human nature and living in larger groups. For this purpose, I will take the social brain as a starting point. One of the important discoveries of the last decades is what Dunbar (2003) calls “the social brain.” Seemingly, our most advanced brain power (our relatively large frontal lobes) has evolved in order to allow human beings to derive individual adaptive advantages from living in groups and especially from living in fairly large social groups. The extended version of this thesis refers first of all to the contexts of pair bonding (Immerman 2003; Dunbar and Shultz 2007) and child raising. Humans (together with some other species, but not the great apes) have developed a cooperative way to deal with child raising, what Hrdy (2009) called “cooperative breeding.” Mothers alone are rarely able to care for the child such that it will survive the first three years. Human infants are highly dependent on care for a long time and it is this dependence that has created selective pressures for cooperative breeding (mostly by grandmothers and older siblings, and less frequently also by fathers and non-relatives). Cooperative breeding may have been the major initial driving force behind the development of the social brain (Burkart et al.. 2007). But the adaptive advantages from living in larger groups (in terms of foraging, hunting, defense of waterholes, etc.) are likely to have driven the development to the incredible heights of sociality that we can observe today. The human brain is thoroughly equipped to produce motivations and cognitions that, under the right conditions, make (most of ) us contribute to group living in such a way that we and others profit from the concert of these contributions (Sebanz, Bekkering, and Knoblich 2006; Tomasello et al. 2005). Because evolutionary accounts are “functional” in the sense that individuals derive adaptive advantages from developing prosocial tendencies, one may be tempted to assume that evolution has favored enlightened self-interest, and that humans have evolved to be prosocial in order to reap the fruits of collective goods. However, the 32 SIEGWART LINDENBERG social brain does not do its work via enlightened self-interest. Surely, building a reputation may influence prosocial behavior (Barclay 2010), but by and large prosocial behavior cannot be explained as a selfish strategy (Fehr and Fischbacher 2003; Hsee and Hastie 2006). It is even problematic to explain cooperative behavior as a strategy to realize social preference. For example Burton-Chellew and West (2013) could show that people cooperate even if they do not consider the consequences of their prosocial action. Rational choice reconstructions of solidarity (for example Hechter 1987) thus more or less ignore the architecture of the social brain and thereby also cannot deal with the non-strategic aspects of cooperative behavior or with the question how informal groups are able to provide collective goods without rewards for doing so or punishment for failing to do so. What Is so “Social” in the Social Brain Collective goods produced by larger groups are the basis for individual adaptive advantages from living in such groups. As Dunbar (2003) has shown, our brain has evolved to allow us living in fairly large groups in the sense that we (a) derive adaptive advantages from living in groups and (b) are able to maintain the production of collective goods in the group. This development can be artificially parsed into two phases. First of all, there are adaptations in the cognitive and motivational abilities and processes that facilitate explicit prosocial behaviors and the development of norms in general and solidarity norms in particular. Because the social brain has evolved to living in groups and for groups to produce collective goods, these solidarity norms will develop in every interacting group for which members perceive common goals that need a group effort to achieve. As these abilities and processes develop, they allow living in larger groups but create new problems that potentially threaten living in groups. These new threats create new selective pressures and eventually lead to a second phase of development of solidarity norms that deal with these new problems. For example, the development of perspective taking (theory of mind) allowed a much greater role of mutual helping in group living and therefore also living in larger groups. SOLIDARITY: UNPACKING THE SOCIAL BRAIN 33 However, perspective taking can also be the basis of cheating and exploitation (Epley, Caruso, and Bazerman 2006), which threatens the production of collective goods without which there are no adaptive advantages from living in larger groups. The selective pressure is thus for further adaptations that limit cheating and exploitation, which, in turn, leads to additional solidarity norms. In the following I will describe these developments in more detail. Evolutionary Developments The first developments of prosocial tendencies among humans are basically dyadic. The prototype of cooperation among humans is pair bonding in which the fatherhood is acknowledged and the offspring stays in the vicinity (Chapais 2008). The skills necessary for pair bonding of this kind are already heavily “social” in the sense that they require sharing, helping, and cooperation for the maintenance of the pair itself and in the sense that they bring about pair bonding of parents and offspring and even link the mother’s and the father’s parents. However, in the ancestral environment of the Pleistocene, child mortality was high, and it is unlikely that the pair alone would have succeeded to make the children survive. Being dependent for a long time, children are likely to have survived much better with more and better care, which, according to recent studies (Hrdy 2009) has been typically supplied by grandmothers, older siblings, and, less often, also by fathers. Each of them supports the mother with regard to the care for the child. It is important to see that also for “cooperative breeding” prosocial skills are required from both sides of the dyad and they include skills of babies and little children. For example, the grandmother must be able to discern what support the mother needs, the mother, in turn, must be able to discern the intentions of others to whom they entrust their child. Even the child will have adaptive advantages from being able to make others want to care and to distinguish others on the basis of their intentions and emotional states (for example via facial expressions). As children are better cared for, group size is likely to grow as well, which creates new possibilities for cooperation in the supply of food and in the defense against outsiders. The skills that evolved in the context of pair bonding and cooperative breeding are themselves conducive to the gradual growth of more group-like forms of cooperation and sharing (Stevens and Gilby 2004): cooperative foraging and defense. 34 SIEGWART LINDENBERG For purposes of defense of camp sites and waterholes, and for border patrol, cooperation is advantageous and requires coordination. But in our ancestral environment, the most important cooperative activity for living in larger groups is likely to have been hunting and gathering. They are activities that allow considerable individual advantages from the cooperation with others if, at the same time, food is actually being shared. Sharing allows for a division of labor and it reduces personal and interpersonal variability in need satisfaction and accidental variation in resources. Foraging is done by subgroups because doing it in large groups is not viable. Thus, as total group size increases, foraging groups will multiply (Grove, Pearce, and Dunbar 2012). Sharing reduces personal and interpersonal variability in need satisfaction and accidental variation in resources and it also allows for a division of labor. For hunting, parties often do not just require certain numbers but also various skills that are necessary for a successful kill. For example, accurate aim with spears is a skill quite different from tracking skills which involve very sophisticated knowledge on anatomy and behavior of a variety of animals, inferences from, say, the way pebbles have been disturbed, blades of grass bent or broken, etc. (see Liebenberg 1990). The most important feature of human cooperation for foraging and defense is that it necessitates “fission-fusion” capabilities that allow a large group to flexibly split up into smaller ones and congregate again (say, for setting up camp at night). For humans, this embedding of subgroups and flexible change of membership is seemingly more developed than for any other species (Aureli et al. 2008). These capabilities include a number of cognitive abilities such as memory for relationships and events, for learning skills from others, for discriminating who belongs and who does not, the ability to discern what is appropriate in a particular group and what is not (which, in turn requires the ability to inhibit and control one’s own responses and adapt them situationally), and the ability to communicate, to interpret what others are up to and to be able to peacefully deal with conflict among group members. Fission-fusion, in turn, also facilitates cooperative breeding because the division of labor and the concomitant sharing arrangements free children, highly pregnant women and elderly people from foraging and allow them to spend more time on child care. In this way, the total group size (with its advan- SOLIDARITY: UNPACKING THE SOCIAL BRAIN 35 tages) can grow and subgroup size can remain optimal for the various purposes at hand (between, say, five and thirty for foraging, see Grove et al. 2012). The Relevance for Solidarity The psychological developments that accompanied and facilitated the expanding circle of group living with fission-fusion processes are many. For our purposes, three interrelated developments are of particular importance. They involve (among other parts of the brain) prominently the prefrontal cortex (the social brain). First, there is the ability to put oneself into the shoes of others. This is not one ability but at least three interrelated abilities of understanding mental states of others: (a) cognitive mentalizing, i.e. understanding others’ thoughts, desires, beliefs, intentions, and knowledge; (b) affective mentalizing, i.e. resonating with and understanding affective states of others; and (c) motor empathy, i.e. automatically mimicking and synchronizing facial expressions, vocalizations, postures, and movements with those of others (mirror neurons) (Blair 2005; Walter 2012). This complex ability also allows reading social cues. Second, there is the development of language, with grammar and the ability to recognize and handle symbols, abstract concepts and rules (Ambrose 2010). Third, there are the combined cognitive and motivational processes that allow goals to become the most prominent mechanism for steering behavior and cognitive and affective mentalizing. Especially overarching goals are important here because they can capture virtually all mental processes by influencing what we pay attention to, what concepts and chunks of knowledge are being activated, what alternatives we consider, what information we are most sensitive about, and how we process information (Lindenberg and Foss 2011). These cognitive processes that are steered by overarching goals also influence motivation by inhibiting other goals, by influencing what we like and dislike, and by governing the criteria we use to judge goal realization or failure. Thus, when activated, overarching goals set the mind and mobilize concomitant energies. They are supported by specific emotions which underlines even more the interconnectedness of cognitive and motivational processes in overarching goals (see Lindenberg and Steg 2007). 36 SIEGWART LINDENBERG The combination of these three psychological developments allowed the evolution of a unique basis for solidarity: (a) the working of norms in general and solidarity norms in particular; and (b) the fact that norms in general and solidarity norms in particular have a flexible reach, applying sometimes to small, sometimes to more inclusive groups. In the following, I will elaborate on these two points. The Working of Norms The basic norms of solidarity. As already mentioned, the adaptive advantages from living in larger groups derive from the fact that human groups are able to produce collective goods. How do these collective goods come about? Why do people contribute to collective goods and how is this related to the three psychological mechanisms mentioned above? The answer I would like to present here is that the ability to put oneself into the shoes of others provided the basic mechanism for learning to put oneself into the shoes of the collective. In the course of evolution, people acquired the ability to not just identity with another person but with a collective itself and thereby being able to become and act like a member of a group (Lindenberg 2008a; Ellemers et al. 2008). Given group identification, the goal mechanism allowed the development of an overarching goal to realize group goals, with all the mental processes being devoted to this purpose. Emotions that help stabilize this goal are guilt and shame. These social emotions also derive from the ability to put oneself into the shoes of others (Gilbert 2003). Language ability, in turn, allowed group goals to develop and crystallize in terms of communicable norms that represent social expectations. In this light, norms are a kind of codification of group goals, and solidarity norms in particular are the codification of norms that pertain to jointly creating collective goods in the group. Being codified in this way, group goals can be quite easily taught and discerned, which, in turn, allows that people can change groups, flexibly identifying with the changing group goals and their role in helping to realize them. When their overarching goal is to realize group goals, they will thus be highly sensitive to what is expected of them in a given situation. Their knowledge structure will be activated with regard to what it takes to realize social expectations. SOLIDARITY: UNPACKING THE SOCIAL BRAIN 37 Their attention will be directed towards aspects in the situation that are deemed relevant for the realization of social expectations. In addition, people will also expect others to be similarly oriented toward the group goals. Norms can differ from one group to another. However, with regard to solidarity, there are likely to be norms that are more or less identical in all groups because they form the basis for creating the individual advantages of living in groups (namely collective goods). The important point about the social brain is thus that it has evolved in such a way that solidarity norms will emerge in every group in which people perceive common goals. Solidarity norms can thus be seen as a spontaneous or taught codification of the group goals that enable groups to be useful to its members. They are the very basis of how sociality works. First of all, there are norms that pertain to being cooperative in situations that require joint efforts. For example, when one is member of a team with team tasks, it is normative to pull one’s weight in the realization of those tasks, rather than to free ride on the effort of other team mates. Second, there are norms that pertain to sharing. Sharing refers to the distribution of joint outcomes of cooperation and more often than not, creates bridges between subgroups. For example if a hunting party (a subgroup) makes a kill, sharing does not just pertain to the members of the party but to those who did not participate in the hunt. Thus, sharing norms pertain to subgroups and to the more inclusive groups of which the subgroups are a part. This allows division of labor and it reduces inequality by reducing personal and interpersonal variability in need satisfaction and accidental variation in resources. It is this function of sharing that creates emotional reactions to sharing that fails to reduce inequality: a feeling of unfairness (see Gino and Pierce 2009). Fairness is thus experienced a situation in which sharing occurs in a way that supports the group’s capacity to create collective goods. Third, related to sharing but distinct enough to treat it separately, are norms that pertain to situations of need. Given that such situations vary within groups, the group’s capacity to produce collective goods is increased if those in need are helped by those not (or less) in need. Thus, even though helping mostly occurs in dyads, helping norms, like other solidarity norms, contribute to making the collective useful to the individual. 38 SIEGWART LINDENBERG The added norms of solidarity. This is not the end of the story. The complex ability to put oneself into the shoes of the other did not only evolve into the ability to put oneself into the shoes of the collective but also into the ability to put oneself into the shoes of one’s own future self. This allows a stretched time horizon, which adds a new dimension: cooperative planning and promises (Ambrose 2010). For example, we can plan to realize a particular project and promise to execute certain tasks in the future. The future orientation made possible by putting oneself in the shoes of one’s future self also creates problems for solidarity. By identifying with one’s future self, one can plan (and scheme), invest, and accumulate resources for later consumption. It is an added overarching goal and it is dedicated to resources (Lindenberg and Steg 2007). The importance of this development cannot be overrated because it means that the same ability that allows a truly social overarching goal (to realize group goals) also allows a quite selfish overarching goal that relates to the improvement of one’s resources (be that in terms of valuable goods, status or money). For this very reason, the social brain has also been called “the Machiavellian brain” (Barrett and Henzi 2005). The supporting emotions of this overarching gain goal are greed (Robertson 2001; Wang and Murnighan 2011) and envy (Gino and Pierce 2009). Thus, the irony of the social brain is that it also created a fierce potential competitor to the overarching normative goal (Brewer and Caporael 2006). This overarching gain goal comes in addition to the most basic overarching goal of all: the hedonic goal that is oriented towards caring for the satisfaction of fundamental needs and thus to feeling good/better (Lindenberg and Steg 2007). For example, being hungry increases the relative weight of the hedonic goal and may push the normative, but also the gain goal, into the background (Lindenberg and Steg 2007). For the ingroup, the hedonic goal is disruptive in case of conflict, with possible outbursts of anger (Rothbaum et al. 2000) and in case of opportunities for social loafing (Karau and Williams 1993). But the hedonic goal can also help cooperation by positive emotions of liking (Oesch and Murnighan 2003) and admiration (Haidt and Ketlner 2004) and affective empathy (Blair 2005). By contrast, the gain goal, supported by greed and envy, is more evenly detrimental for conformity to solidarity norms, because it is SOLIDARITY: UNPACKING THE SOCIAL BRAIN 39 in no way restrained by dyadic sympathy, equality considerations or a recognition of the collectivity. Thus, both the overarching hedonic and gain goals are potential competitors to the normative goal, but the gain goal is an even fiercer competitor than the hedonic goal. For example, Caruso et al. (2013) found that the mere exposure to money reduces the willingness to show solidarity. The gain goal can also create a whole new spate of problems because it allows deception and manipulation by false promises and thus the possibility of feigned solidarity for private purposes (instrumental moral hypocrisy). Jointly producing collective goods will not work if people do not keep their promises and do not make full use of putting themselves into the shoes of others. Thus, one important added norm of solidarity is to make efforts to understand and be understood by others. Even though it is so basic, it is no trivial matter. It requires of individuals not just to use their powers of putting themselves into the shoes of the other, but also to make it as easy as possible for others to do so (Gigerenzer 2002). Thus, perspective-taking is not just a mind reading ability but it is itself a social product facilitated by the social brain. For example Hilton, Kemmelmeier and Bonnefon (2005) showed that there are evolved linguistic abilities to get others to understand one’s goals and, conversely, to understand how one’s own actions can serve others’ goals. To make oneself understandable to others in terms of goals that are intelligible is thus the flip side of making the effort to understand others, and both are an important basis for people to signal that they are oriented towards others and the collective rather than being in the grip of a gain or hedonic goal. For the same reasons, there is another important added norm of solidarity, namely to be trustworthy. Like helping, being trustworthy (such as keeping promises) occurs mostly in dyads but it has direct consequences for the collective capacity to produce collective goods because it greatly enhances the group’s ability to plan and realize projects. The newly evolved ability to cheat, lie and manipulate puts a special emphasis on trustworthiness among the added solidarity norms (Cottrell, Neuberg, and Li 2007). It also creates the need for yet another solidarity norm. As group size increases, so do externalities (i.e. side effects) of the actions of one for the options and actions of others. For example, by not showing up for a joint project, I 40 SIEGWART LINDENBERG may create great harm for the others’ ability to do their tasks. Being selfish when one was supposed to contribute to the collective then often means that one creates negative externalities for many others. It is thus an act of solidarity to anticipate negative externalities and to avoid them. If, for some reason, one could not avoid them (for example one got sick and could not show up), then it is important to make sure others understand that one was not selfish, did not expect to free ride, but something went wrong, making apologizing an important act of solidarity. The norm that governs this aspect is the norm to be considerate: to show one cares for the externalities of one’s action on others, to avoid harm for others, and to apologize when things go wrong rather than show denial or reticence (Kim, Ferrin, Cooper, and Dirks 2004; Ferrin, Kim, Cooper, and Dirks 2007). All three added solidarity norms are linked to the importance of signaling the overarching goal one is in (Lindenberg 2000). In situations that call for a collective orientation, the ability to show that one tries to understand and be understood, that one is trustworthy and that one is considerate is equal to the ability to show that the overarching normative goal governs one’s actions. Any group with the very ability to get its members to believably signal the preponderance of a normative goal for situations of collective goal realization, will greatly enhance the capacity to produce collective goods. In sum, we have six solidarity norms, three basic norms and three that deal specifically with the power of competing individual goals to sideline adherence to the other three solidarity norms (see figure 2.1). The norms to cooperate, to share and to help others in need, each separately and in concert contribute to a group’s ability to produce collective goods. The norms to exert effort to understand others and make oneself being understood, to be trustworthy and to be considerate, all contribute to this ability by requiring people to not just be governed by the normative goal when it is called for, but to also believably signal to others that they are governed in this way, showing that they do not exploit others’ collective orientation. As already mentioned, one of the three added solidarity norms is special because it battles head on the competition of goals that are not directed towards the group: trustworthiness. When solidarity develops, sharing is likely to be the vanguard norm that helps push conformity to the other basic norms. However, when the basic norms are already SOLIDARITY: UNPACKING THE SOCIAL BRAIN 41 established in the group, trustworthiness is the vanguard norm that battles competing individual goals and evens the way for conformity to the other two added norms. Solidarity norms Added solidarity norms Basic solidarity norms Cooperation Sharing Helping Efforts to understand and be understood Trustworthiness Considerateness Figure 2.1 Solidarity norms: basic and added in response to the development of strategic behavior. The norms in bold signify those norms that are particularly important for the development of conformity to the other solidarity norms. The Reach of Solidarity Norms Even though solidarity norms by themselves are the same in each group, their reach is limited in two ways. First, I may simply not identify with a particular group at all, in which case for me solidarity norms do not apply to this group. Second, even for the groups that I do identify with in principle, the reach of my solidarity norms is limited to the group at hand, the group with whose goals I identify at the moment. I cannot be expected to cooperate right now with every group of which I admit to being a member. As mentioned above, humans show a fission-fusion dynamics of cooperation in groups. This is an important aspect for understanding the reach of solidarity norms. Basically, the ability to identity with group goals is the basis for flexibility with regard to the reach of solidarity norms. Solidarity norms apply first and foremost to the group whose goals I help realize at the moment. It may be my country, or my gender group, my 42 SIEGWART LINDENBERG ethnicity group, my language group, my team, my family, or even as small as my partner relationship. Which group is salient can change from one situation to another, but it is likely that the salience of the group of family and close friends will show the least variance in solidarity. Research keeps finding that family solidarity remains surprisingly robust (Dykstra et al. 2004; Goodman and Harper 2008). When the identification shifts rapidly or if it is not clear to me with which collective I identify at the moment, there can be conflicting solidarity claims because the reach is not clearly defined. What is even more interesting is that the fission-fusion dynamics of our evolutionary past equipped us for the expanding circle, for increasing inclusiveness of our solidarity. In principle, solidarity might even apply to all of mankind. There are three processes that are likely to expand the inclusiveness of solidarity. First, for reasons of technological, economic, and political changes, human beings become more interdependent. This creates the possibility that collective goods need to be produced for an enlarged group. One of the consequences of this is that norms (and solidarity norms in particular) then also will become more abstract because they have to cover more internally heterogeneous subgroups and situations (Lindenberg 2008b). Increased abstractness of solidarity norms means that there is increasing leeway in interpreting what cooperation, sharing, and helping would require. This opens the door for increasing hypocrisy (seeming to be solidary but using the wiggle room to get out from under making sacrifices, see Lindenberg and Steg 2013). In addition, as heterogeneity increases, the priority of the group over competing individual interests will decrease, thereby lowering the legitimately expected maximum sacrifice for the group and enlarging the room for exchange relations at the expense of solidarity (Lindenberg 1998). The larger group’s capacity to produce collective goods is then more dependent on state intervention rather than on solidarity norms. In turn, state intervention can sideline the existing production of collective goods in informal groups (Ostrom 1990). At times, state support (welfare state) can also help solidarity by (a) increasing identification with the collective as source of one’s benefits (Willer, Flynn & Zak 2012) or (b) by supporting people to such a degree financially that they can afford to show solidarity to others. SOLIDARITY: UNPACKING THE SOCIAL BRAIN 43 Second, the development of values is likely to play an important role in the justification of policies and specific norms (say regarding the rights of women). There is no room to go more deeply into this process (see Lindenberg 2009 for more detail), but values can be institutionalized to such a degree (for example in law and legal procedures) that they form a basis for a pressure for change in areas where these values have not been applied yet. For example, the emancipation of bourgeois in terms of political and property rights on the basis of value arguments concerning, say, political representation when being taxed, can create the basis for the emancipation of women, which, in turn, can increase the likelihood of emancipation of, say, certain races or gay people. In the light of our analysis, emancipation also means being explicitly included in the circle to which solidarity norms apply. Third, as mentioned before, of all solidarity norms, the sharing norm is the one most conducive to bridging groups. Thus, it is likely that increasing inclusiveness applies first and foremost to sharing rather than to the other solidarity norms. Sharing is the vanguard of increasing inclusiveness of solidarity. The rich can be expected to share with the poor, but they don’t have to make particular efforts to understand or be understood by the poor, nor to signal trustworthiness and considerateness. Yet, with time and when interdependence increases, the production of collective goods may depend also on the poor (say, via the electorate) and slowly, the reach of the other solidarity norms will follow the path of the sharing norm. The Precariousness of Solidarity Even though solidarity is important for a group’s capacity to produce collective goods, it is also highly precarious. One of the major reasons for this precariousness is the a priori strength of the three overarching goals. In evolutionary terms, the group is there for adaptive advantages of the individual and not the other way around. This means that in the course of evolution, the development of the social brain took place in such a way that, among non-kin, sacrifices for the group would not jeopardize one’s own fitness. This creates an a priori pick order of the three overarching goals mentioned above: the hedonic goal, catering to the satisfaction of fundamental needs, 44 SIEGWART LINDENBERG is a priori the strongest. The normative goal, catering to the group, is a priori the weakest, and the gain goal is in between (Lindenberg and Steg 2007). In order to invert this a priori order, the normative goal must have special supports. There are a number of supports that are integrated into group life and that create a social embedding of the perception of collectivity. For example, there are common rituals and there is a general human readiness to share experiences with others (Rimé et al. 1998). Most important in this respect are clear signs that collective goods need to be produced. The clearest such sign is intergroup conflict, like war (Kesebir 2012). The irony of the power of intergroup conflict to produce strong adherence to solidarity norms is that it simultaneously excludes the outgroup from being covered by these norms (Lindenberg 1998). This includes rallying around the goodness of the own group and the badness of the outgroup(s) (Haidt 2012). Goodness of the ingroup is often symbolized by things (like a totem of a flag) and ideas (like values and ideologies) that are seen to represent the collective. Such polarization can come about by perceived threats to one’s way of life and by identifying some outgroup as the source of this threat (Lindenberg 2009). Cues of outgroup threat can trigger the highest degree of solidarity (within groups) but at the same time they are also likely to foster the most serious antisocial behavior (between groups). This is true of groups of any kind, be that street gangs, rival clans (as in Romeo and Juliet), rival political parties, rival nations or blocks of nations. At such times of polarization, solidarity is limited entirely to the ingroup and flanked by virtues that celebrate the collectivity, such as sanctity, authority (as the voice of the collectivity), and loyalty (see Haidt 2012). Therefore, criss-crossing groups with conflicting loyalties are very important to lower the likelihood that polarizations come about (Degenne and Forsé 1999; Flap 1997). Another factor with such a “calming” effect on polarization is moderate intergroup conflict, as in most sports events, as it may help boost conformity to solidarity norms in a particular ingroup, without the extremities of outgroup denigration (Coleman 1961). Clear signals that solidarity is called for can also be the result of governance structures in organizations (Lindenberg and Foss 2011) or of facilitating interventions in neighborhoods and informal groups (Frieling, Lindenberg, and Stokman 2014). Homogeneity of the group in terms of impor- SOLIDARITY: UNPACKING THE SOCIAL BRAIN 45 tant characteristics (such as race, ethnicity, gender, education) will also favor conformity to solidarity norms for informal groups (such as neighborhoods, see Gijsberts, van der Meer, and Dagevos 2012; Völker, Flap, and Lindenberg, 2007). An important additional source of conformity to solidarity norms is the behavior of other members of the group. There are strong contagion effects. When others visibly conform to norms, it is generally interpreted as a cue that strengthens the normative goal (Keizer, Lindenberg, and Steg 2013). By contrast, when others do not keep to norms, it is generally interpreted as a cue that weakens the normative goal (Keizer, Lindenberg, and Steg 2008), especially if these norm breakers are people with higher status (Keizer, Lindenberg, and Steg in preparation; Lindenberg 2012). An additional prop for the normative goal is that norm violations are sanctioned. Many people feel obliged to show their disapproval or downright punish norm violators, especially when norms are violated that pertain to the production of collective goods (such as violations of the sharing norm in terms of fairness, see Fehr and Fischbacher 2004; Gintis 2000). Informal sanctions are more likely if both social and legal sanctions express the importance of particular norms. For example, when the public experiences proportionality of the severity of crime and the severity of punishment then the importance of particular norms is expressed in the severity of the punishment which, in turn, creates support for the normative goal. Anything that disturbs this proportionality (in the eyes of the public) will weaken the normative goal and thus also solidarity. Related to this is the possibility that norms are being moralized (by state, church, or society), meaning that they heavily lean on the signaling mechanism described above: if you transgress against a moralized norm, you did not just violate a norm, but you signaled that you are morally speaking a bad person (Lindenberg 1983; Rozin 1999). This can have severe negative reputation effects and is quite effective. There is also an important role of the two competing overarching goals: they can actually support the normative goal if they are compatible with norm conformity and if they are not so strong that they sideline the normative goal (see Lindenberg and Steg 2007; Frey, Oberhhozer-Gee & Eichenberger 1996). For example, conformity to solidarity norms that is met with social approval creates a warm glow (Dunn, Aknin & Norton 2008) 46 SIEGWART LINDENBERG and can increase one’s status (Halevy, Chou, Cohen, and Livingston 2012). Similarly, getting a tax cut for supporting one’s old parents financially will also increase conformity to solidarity norms. Concerning the supporting role of gain and/or hedonic aspects in the background, there is an important issue of calibration: if the hedonic and/or gain advantages from conformity to solidarity norms become too strong, they will sideline the normative goal and conformity will become instrumental for personal goals. This can be very damaging to both intensity and inclusiveness of solidarity. For example, to the degree that market mechanisms become more prominent in a society, to that degree both gain and hedonic goals gain in prominence (Lindenberg 2006). Hedonic goals become stronger because people are encouraged to buy and to give in to hedonic impulses. The products are often made more hedonic by relating them to sex, or to violence, or to spice them with sugar or fat. Loans for consumption and housing are encouraged even if the ability to repay them in the future is in doubt, etc. At the same time, the gain goal is encouraged because in order to buy one needs to earn money. Having a successful career will then mainly mean making much money and gaining high status (which itself is a combination of gain and hedonic aspects) (Lindenberg 2006; Jackson and Marks 1999). In turn, a greater prominence of hedonic and gain goals will reduce the relative strength of the normative goal, thereby also reducing solidarity in terms of inclusiveness or the legitimate size of sacrifice, or limiting solidarity to financial philanthropy, especially when it is linked to reputation and status effects. Alternatively, solidarity may become indirect by people tolerating governments that institutionalize solidarity through transfers (again, mainly sharing as the bridging norm of solidarity). Coleman (1982) argued that with the decreasing role of churches, neighborhoods, and families for producing public goods, and with the increasing power of corporations (who do not care about the welfare of employees but about the contracted performance) it is increasingly up to governments to take on the responsibility to produce collective goods that aid the welfare of its citizens. Coleman thus predicted that governments (and the relative share they absorb in terms of the gross national income) will grow in market societies (against the market ideology) and take on a stronger role in state administered solidarity. But the logic of market mechanisms SOLIDARITY: UNPACKING THE SOCIAL BRAIN 47 with regard to hedonic and gain goals is likely put pressure even on the tolerance of state-administered solidarity. Thus, solidarity may become more inclusive, but by being so it is also likely to be watered down to some form of indirect sharing. Since the full set of solidarity norms is associated with belonging to a group, this watered down indirect sharing is likely to create bouts of nostalgia for lost community, for larger contexts with a fully operational set of solidarity norms (Putnam 2000), also encouraging regionalism, parochialism, and populism in politics, while at the same time economic and political globalization continues. For example, globalization increases interdependencies and thus potentially a basis for greater inclusiveness of solidarity norms. However, its effect may backfire and actually increase chauvinism if people believe that the cultural basis of their identity is threatened (Bekhuis, Meuleman & Lubbers 2013). In sum, in order to maintain conformity to solidarity norms, these norms must be supported at all times from the social context (government, social group, intergroup context, gain and hedonic background goals) in order to win out against hedonic and gain goals. Processes that diminish the strength of any of these supports for the normative goal are likely to reduce the intensity and/or inclusiveness of solidarity. This is not always bad as there may be a trade-off between the intensity and the inclusiveness of solidarity. For example strong nationalism increases the solidarity internally but at the same time limits its inclusiveness. But even the government depends on informal groups for the production of many collective goods. We can thus say that, by and large, in a society in which the supports for conformity to solidarity norms weaken, the production of collective goods will weaken as well. Conclusion Solidarity is here not taken to be prosocial behavior, but as a set of established norms that jointly enhance a group’s capacity to produce collective goods. There are clear evolutionary roots for this development in which our brain developed the capacity for behavior to be governed by overarching goals, including the ability to act as member of a group bent on realizing group goals and their codification 48 SIEGWART LINDENBERG in norms (normative goal). Solidarity pertains to norms that make people ready to participate in the production of what they recognize as collective goods of their groups, no matter what these collective goods are. The social brain will allow spontaneous development and teaching of these norms in virtually every group in which members perceive common goals that need to be realized by a group effort. This set of norms thus applies to all group contexts where collective goods are being informally produced, and it consists of expectations about cooperating in common tasks, sharing, helping others in need, taking the effort to understand and be understood by others in the group, being trustworthy and being considerate. The inclusiveness of solidarity can change back and forth, from smaller to larger groups and back again. However, increasing interdependencies are likely to stretch the reach of solidarity norms, mostly in conjunction with the development of certain values (like human rights). Most likely, it is the sharing norm that will be in the vanguard of increasing inclusiveness, with the other solidarity norms trailing behind or never catching up. The legitimately expected sacrifice for solidarity is likely to decline with increasing inclusiveness, a development that is conducive to an increasing exchange relationship between people and groups (weak solidarity, see Lindenberg 1998). The dependence of solidarity on the relative strength of the overarching normative goal also makes it highly precarious. In evolutionary terms, the group is there for adaptive advantages of the individual and not the other way around. Thus overarching goals pertaining to the individual rather than the group are likely to sideline the normative goal unless the latter receives extra support by the social context. This extra support is strongest in intergroup conflicts, but is also boosted by anything that strengthens norms in general, such as legitimate sanctions, moralization, and role models who clearly show that norms are important, so will others who see that. In this sense, solidarity is contagious. In addition, the extra support for conformity to solidarity norms is strengthened by anything that facilitates the perception of common goals, such as homogeneity in important characteristics, symbolic management in organizations, moralization of norms. Thus whatever increases or decreases the relative strength of the normative goal will also increase or decrease the inclusiveness of and/or conformity to solidarity norms. What is particularly dam- SOLIDARITY: UNPACKING THE SOCIAL BRAIN 49 aging for solidarity is not so much the weakening strength of the normative goal, but the increasing strength of the competing hedonic and gain goals that pertain to the individual rather than to the group. For example increasing strength of market mechanisms is likely to boost hedonic and gain goals and thus put pressure on solidarity. The state will play an ever increasing role in replacing informal solidarity in groups with state-administered solidarity. For a good understanding of solidarity and its dynamics, it is important to realize that the ability to be solidary (in the full sense of the term as used here) is anchored in our social brain. It will not vanish, no matter how much the normative goal will be periodically sidelined by hedonic and gain goals. Rather, the ability to be solidary will spring up whenever clear cues appear that the group to which one thinks one belongs needs informally produced collective goods. For example, any local or national disaster will instantly reawaken solidarity norms and people’s willingness to conform to them. When cues of far away groups reach people via the press that trigger solidarity norms in the social brain (for examples cues of a starved child or mutilated girl), solidary behavior will also be mobilized, instantly increasing the inclusiveness (Kogut and Ritov 2005). This is in contrast to cues that only convey the extent of the far away disaster in terms of the number of people being affected (Small, Loewenstein & Slovic 2007). Solidarity is thus anchored in our (social) brain and in the fact that we will always live in social groups with fusion fission dynamics. It is in constant need of being triggered by external supports of the normative goal, thereby forever expanding and contracting. Contraction of the circle to which solidarity applies can create severe problems between groups, but given the social brain, humans are not likely to ever come to live in groups in which solidarity has vanished for good. Literature Ambrose, S.H. (2010). Coevolution of Composite-Tool Technology, Constructive Memory, and Language: Implications for the Evolution of Modern Human Behavior. Current Anthropology 51, Supplement 1: 135-146. 50 SIEGWART LINDENBERG Aureli, F. et al. (2008). Fission-Fusion Dynamics. Current Anthropology 49: 627654. Barclay, P. (2010). 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Hilton, D.J., Kemmelmeier, M., Bonnefon, J.F. (2005), Putting Ifs to Work: Goal-Based Relevance in Conditional Directives. Journal of Experimental Psychology: General 134: 388-405. Hrdy, S.B. (2009). Mothers and Others:The Evolutionary Origins of Mutual Understanding. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Hsee, C. K., and R. Hastie (2006).“Decision and Experience: Why Don’t We Choose What Makes Us Happy?” Trends in Cognitive Sciences 10: 31-37. Immerman, R.S. (2003). Perspectives on Human Attachment (Pair Bonding): Eve’s Unique Legacy of a Canine Analogue. Evolutionary Psychology 1: 138-154 Jackson,T. and Marks, N. (1999). Consumption, Sustainable Welfare and Human Needs—With Reference to UK Expenditure Patterns Between 1954 and 1994. Ecological Economics 28: 421-441. Karau, S. J., & Williams, K. D. (1993). Social Loaing: A Meta-Analytic Review and Theoretical Integration. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 65: 681-706. Keizer, K., Lindenberg, S., Steg, L. (2008). 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Diekmann, K. Eichner, P. Schmidt and T.Voss. Wiesbaden, VS Verlag, 63-82. Lindenberg, S. (2009). Values: What Do They Do for Behavior? In Boudon: A Life in Sociology,Vol III, ed. Mohamed Cherkaoui and Peter Hamilton. Oxford: Bardwell Press, 59-89. Lindenberg, S. (2012). How Cues in the Environment Afect Normative Behavior, in Environmental Psychology: An Introduction, ed. L. Steg, A.E. van den Berg, & J.I.M. de Groot. New York:Wiley, 119-128. Lindenberg, S. and Foss, N. (2011). Managing Joint Production Motivation: The Role of Goal-Framing and Governance Mechanisms. Academy of Management Review 36 (3): 500-525 Lindenberg, S. & Steg, L. (2007). Normative, Gain, and Hedonic Goal Frames Guiding Environmental Behavior. Journal of Social Issues. 65(1): 117-137. Lindenberg, S., & Steg, L. (2013). Goal-Framing Theory and Norm-Guided Environmental Behavior, in Encouraging Sustainable Behaviour, 37-54, ed. H.C.M. van Trijp. Psychology Press. 54 SIEGWART LINDENBERG Oesch, J.M. and Murnighan, J.K. (2003). Egocentric Perceptions of Relationships, Competence, and Trustworthiness in Salary Allocation Choices. Social Justice Research 16: 53-78. Ostrom, E. (1990). Governing the Commons:The Evolution of Institutions for Collective Action. New York: Cambridge University Press. Putnam, Robert D. 2000. Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community. New York: Simon and Schuster. Rimé, B., Finkenauer, C., Luminet, O., Zech, E., & Philippot, P. (1998). Social Sharing of Emotion: New Evidence and New Questions, in European Review of Social Psychology Vol. 9, ed. W. Stroebe & M. Hewstone. Chichester:Wiley, 145-189. Robertson, A.F. (2001). Greed: Gut Feelings, Growth, and History. Cambridge: Polity Press. Rothbaum, F., Pott, M., Azuma, H., Miyake, K., & Weisz, J. (2000). The Development of Close Relationships in Japan and the United States: Paths of Symbiotic Harmony and Generative Tension. 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First of all, there is the tradition of Emilé Durkheim (1984; 2001) whose contemporary adherents include Randall Collins (1990; 2004), Thomas Scheff (1990; 1997), and Erika Summers-Effler (2002), among others. In this tradition, solidarity is understood first and foremost as an affective bond of attachment, produced and reinforced through intense collective emotions that relevantly similar individuals experience in their interaction rituals. In fact, Collins sometimes writes as if solidarity is nothing but this affective attunement that emerges as a consequence of interaction rituals among a group of people.1 Most theorists reject a purely affective conception of solidarity while maintaining that shared emotions, such as bonds of sentiment (May 1996), feelings of belonging together and sympathy (Wildt 1999), or emotional resonance (Heise 1998), are still essential if not sufficient to solidarity. 56 MIKKO SALMELA These researchers emphasize that solidarity requires certain kind of behavior—help, support, and cooperation—over and above whatever affective ties there exist between individual people (see also Thome 1999; Wildt 1999). Nevertheless, a few theorists have rejected emotions from the definition of solidarity in favor of behavioral accounts by claiming that emotions are difficult to measure or that they are incapable of explaining solidary behavior in everyday situations. The first, methodological criticism of Michael Hechter (1987) is weak, as Siegwart Lindenberg, the proponent of the second criticism, has pointed out (Lindenberg 1998). The main question is, then, whether or not collective emotions are irrelevant for the explanation of solidary behavior. In this chapter, I shall focus on Lindenberg’s critique of affective solidarity and his own theory of solidarity. I accept Lindenberg’s view that solidarity is more than a feeling, and that we should rather understand solidarity as prosocial behavior in situations that require some amount of sacrifice from the agent. However, I suggest that collective emotions nevertheless have a more significant role in supporting solidarity behavior than Lindenberg believes. This can be seen when we replace Durkheim’s and Collins’ notion of collective emotion as collective effervescence with a more plausible concept of collective emotions. I shall argue that the latter, collectively intentional shared emotions have several important functions in Lindenberg’s seemingly non-affective theory of solidarity. My upshot will then be that collective emotions are the “glue” of solidarity, as Collins (1990, 28) has remarked—albeit for partially different reasons— and as such, empirically necessary for solidary groups. Lindenberg on Solidarity and Emotions Lindenberg argues that the initial problem with affective conceptions of solidarity is their inability to explain how affective solidarity experienced in rituals is transformed into solidary behaviors in everyday situations that require some amount of sacrifice from the agent.2 Such behaviors includes contributing to the common good, the fair distributing of costs and benefits, helping others in need, refraining from hurting others even at a cost to oneself, and mitigating COLLECTIVE EMOTIONS AS “THE GLUE” OF GROUP SOLIDARITY 57 unintended or unavoidable harmful behaviors to others by making amends or by warning them in advance (Lindenberg 1998, 64). The maintenance of affective solidarity in rituals is not directly related to these behaviors, and it is unclear how the link between the two could be established. Lindenberg sketches a possible link between interpersonal liking emerging from affective solidarity and between liking and cooperative behavior. However, solidarity then seems to give rise to a stable cooperative disposition, which renders the precariousness of solidarity into a mystery. Yet this precariousness is an empirical fact; solidarity is vulnerable not only from outside through contrary sentiments but also from inside through the group members’ myopic opportunism. Moreover, emotional rewards from others are transient and accidental in comparison to the steady costs of time, resources and efforts involved in solidary behavior. When these costs go up, the attractiveness of solidarity relative to self-interest goes down. This decay of salience is an inevitable problem for solidarity. Therefore, Lindenberg (1998, 67) concludes that affective conceptions of solidarity are “very weak when it comes to the description of the dynamics and precariousness of solidarity.”3 Lindenberg also rejects a variety of rational choice theories of solidarity after brief discussions on each of them. However, I shall here focus on his own framing approach to solidarity that Lindenberg has developed in numerous articles and book chapters over the years. I emphasize two articles that I hope to be representative of this sophisticated theory: “Solidarity: Its Microfoundations and Macrodependence: A Framing Approach” (1998), and a more recent article “Prosocial Behavior, Solidarity, and Framing Processes” (2006). Lindenberg suggests that “the prime context of usefulness for solidary behavior is where people are face to face together in production and/or use of some goods” (Lindenberg 1998, 73). On the one hand, solidary behavior benefits the participants and saves their individual costs, yet on the other hand it exposes them to negative externalities associated with each participant’s potential myopic opportunism. These externalities are the higher the more goods are produced or used jointly. Therefore, joint rules for cooperation and fair sharing of costs and benefits are necessary as well. But since the means of surveillance are necessarily limited, the motivation of individuals to act in accordance with common rules becomes essential. Solidar- 58 MIKKO SALMELA ity provides this kind of cognitive-motivational frame in situations that concern contributing to the common good, the fair distributing of costs and benefits, helping others in need, resisting temptation to hurt others, and balancing mishaps. Framing is a cognitive mechanism that highlights some situational aspects over others, guiding our interpretation and evaluation of situations and available courses of action. The main effect of framing is the relativization of marginal utility, depending on the dominant frame. Frames, in turn, depend on the major goal that the agent is pursuing at the moment. Lindenberg argues that there are three master frames with corresponding major goals or goal frames: the hedonic frame with the general goal “to feel better right now”; the gain frame with the general goal “to improve one’s resources”; and the normative frame, where the general goal is “to act appropriately.” When one goal frame dominates the perception, interpretation, and evaluation of a situation, the other goal frames are, if they are present at all, in the background. If, for instance, friendship is the dominant frame, then the equally important goal of not losing resources falls to the background. In the normative frame of friendship, loaning €500 to one’s friend does not feel as bad as if one had just lost the same amount of money in a business transaction whose overriding goalframe is to make profit. Lindenberg maintains that in principle, all master frames can generate solidary behavior. Therefore, there is strictly speaking no specific solidarity frame, as Lindenberg still argued in his 1998 article, but a mental model of solidarity that may function in different master frames. In the hedonic frame, we act prosocially because it makes us feel better, whereas in the gain frame, self-interest motivates solidary behavior. Nevertheless, Lindenberg does not believe that an ongoing solidary relationship can be sustained with either pleasure or efficiency as overriding goals. The hedonic frame is susceptible to capricious changes in feelings and moods, whereas the gain frame is very sensitive to relative costs between partners and low degree of monitoring. The normative frame has its own problems with stabilization, relational uncertainty and vague norms, but it is nevertheless the frame into which Lindenberg, in his more recent articles, subsumes solidary behavior.4 Thus, the “solidarity frame” belongs to the more general “normative frame” that may include other social norms besides soli- COLLECTIVE EMOTIONS AS “THE GLUE” OF GROUP SOLIDARITY 59 darity norms.5 The normative solidarity frame highlights the merits of cooperation, whereas the costs of conformity in terms of money, time, and effort fade to the background. As the costs of being cooperative go up, the salience of the solidarity frame goes down. If, for instance, the same friend whom you recently loaned €500 returns to ask for another, even more substantial loan even though he has not returned his previous loan, the normative frame of friendship begins to give way to another frame of protecting oneself from exploitation. Indeed, the key problem with the solidarity frame is how to stabilize it in the pressure of myopic opportunism and the decay of salience. Lindenberg remarks that there are several means to stabilize the solidarity frame. These include rituals reinforcing group identification, easily recognizable group membership, and the celebration of common goals. Confrontations with outgroups strengthen lines in the ingroup as well. Rules for the recognition and management of negative externalities associated with the joint production and/or use of goods also stabilize solidarity. In addition, group members must be able to signal their being in the solidarity frame in their mutual relationship. Relational signals that are difficult and expensive to fake, such as emotions, are the most reliable here, as Lindenberg observes. However, the most important signals associate with situations that concern contribution to the common good, sharing costs and benefits, help those in need, resisting breach temptation, and balancing mishaps. Solidary behavior in these situations functions as both expression of solidarity and actual cooperation. The reputation of an individual refers to the history of his or her relational signaling and behavior in all solidarity situations. Lindenberg argues that an individual’s attempt to compensate for myopic opportunism in one type of solidarity situation with exceptionally solidary behavior in other situations does not succeed, but instead ruins the credibility of the actor’s solidary motivation across the board. This is an interesting claim that Lindenberg supports only with anecdotal evidence. I believe that the claim is correct, but in order to understand why, we need to specify the role of emotions in Lindenberg’s theory of solidarity. Finally, Lindenberg distinguishes between weak and strong solidarity. Weak solidarity allows the pursuit of self-interest by the means of mutually beneficial cooperation. In this type of solidarity, a fair share of the benefits of cooperation is directly linked to the size 60 MIKKO SALMELA of each participant’s input. Costs of sacrifice from one’s self-interest are relatively small either because the value of the good produced or used jointly is low, or because the temptation for myopic opportunism is restricted by flanking mechanisms, such as reputation, selection of group members, credible commitment devices, and legal instruments, that support the precarious solidarity frame. In strong solidarity, both the value of goods produced or used jointly and the costs of solidarity in terms of money, time and effort that group members are expected to sacrifice in helping others are high. Strong solidarity excludes other frames in the group members’ mutual relations; differences between group members are played down; group boundaries are strict; and ideological means are employed to support group identity as well as awareness of interdependence between the group’s goals. On societal level, Lindenberg maintains that weak solidarity is preferable to strong solidarity, which “is the result of the breakdown of weak solidarity when stakes are high and flanking arrangements fail,” as happens in times of disaster and external threat (Lindenberg 1998, 100). As we have seen, Lindenberg does not give emotions, either individual or collective, a significant role in his theory of solidarity.6 In fact, the only function that he explicitly assigns to emotions is as reliable signals of being in the solidarity frame. Lindenberg does not provide an example here, but the idea is obviously that if, for instance, people feel guilty about harming their fellow group members, those emotions signal that the individuals are committed to the solidarity frame even if they did not act in accordance with the group norms. Lindenberg also refers to Durkheim in arguing that face-toface gatherings and rituals are needed for the identification of the group as group, for the easy recognition of group membership, and for the celebration of common goals. Since rituals for Durkheim are affective, collective emotions may have a stabilizing role for the solidarity frame, even if Lindenberg does not elaborate this point. I believe that the reason why Lindenberg does not follow these leads relates to his view of the emotions. Emotions figure in the theory, but they have a negative role in supporting the hedonic and gain frames, rather than the normative solidarity frame. Lindenberg argues that there is an a priori strength of frames that depends on how directly the frames are related to emotions and the self. He maintains that “the hedonic goal is directly linked to emotions and the self, COLLECTIVE EMOTIONS AS “THE GLUE” OF GROUP SOLIDARITY 61 and it can thus be assumed to be a priori stronger than the other two goals,” of which the gain goal is stronger than the normative goal, because “the gain goal is directly tied to the self, but generally not tied to strong emotions.” The normative goal, in contrast, is indirectly related to both emotions and the self (Lindenberg 2006, 36; see also Lindenberg 2000, 20). Therefore, In order not to be displaced by a loss or a gain frame, a normative frame must be stabilized via congruent “background” goals which, in turn, are directly, emotionally and/or instrumentally relevant for the self. For example, the background of a normative frame can be the valued membership of a group and/or an emotional tie to a certain identity (say, a “self-respecting business man”). (Lindenberg 2000, 20) The idea of emotionally motivating background goals of the normative frame is interesting but it is founded on an assumption that people feel strong emotions only about matters of their private concern. Particular social identities cannot be maintained without social practices and institutions, but the latter, unlike the former, are not viable objects of emotion for Lindenberg, because they are not directly related to the self. I could not be a self-respecting business man without the institution of the free market, for example, but this constitutive fact about my valued identity does not attach me emotionally to that institution. I do not disagree, but it appears to me that this observation cannot be generalized to all or even most social groups. A person’s valued national identity, for instance, usually combines with at least weak emotional attachment to the relevant nation (state); joy and pride about its successes, sadness about its losses, shame about its international humiliation, guilt about its transgressions against other nations or own minorities, and so on. Other examples of groups to which their members may become emotionally attached are relatively small groups whose membership is based on voluntary commitment rather than compulsory assignment, such as teams, fan clubs, social clubs, bands and orchestras, theater ensembles, political parties, religious sects, as well as other identity groups that focus on gender, sexuality, health, environment, spirituality, or ethnicity. It is curious to think that people value only their membership in such groups and not the concerns and goals that those groups stand for. Indeed, if there is some lesson to be learned from affective concep- 62 MIKKO SALMELA tions of solidarity, it is that people experience emotions about matters of collective concern, and that these shared emotions contribute to the emergence and maintenance of social groups. Collective emotions may thus have a significant role in Lindenberg’s solidary groups as well. However, before returning to Lindenberg’s theory in this new light, we must take a closer look at collective emotions. What Are Collective Emotions? Collins on Collective Emotions Durkheim is the locus classicus also in the subject of collective emotions with his notion of collective effervescence even if he did not develop an elaborate theory of these emotions. His analysis of the ritualistic emergence of collective emotions in the gatherings of people with common conscience has nevertheless offered the foundation for later sociological accounts of which Randall Collins’ theory emerges above others as it attempts to take the collectivity of collective emotions seriously, instead of modeling these as mere aggregates of individual people’s emotions. Thus, for instance, Theodore Kemper (2002, 61) suggests that “when we speak of a group emotion, we can mean only that some aggregate of individuals is feeling something that is sufficiently alike to be identified as the common emotion of the group.” A similar aggregative concept of collective emotion is Jack Barbalet’s (2002) “emotional climate.”7 Both these researchers lose the sense in which a collective emotion is both phenomenologically felt and functionally constitutes our emotion that we experience as members of a particular group; not merely an emotion that an aggregate of individuals experiences and expresses in a similar manner in the presence of each other. Collins’ account of collective emotions is inseparable from his theory of interaction rituals. Ritual ingredients include a group of people who are physically assembled in the same place and separated by some barrier from others who are excluded. The group members focus their attention on some common object or activity, and by communicating this focus to each other become mutually aware of their COLLECTIVE EMOTIONS AS “THE GLUE” OF GROUP SOLIDARITY 63 shared focus of attention. Finally, the group members share a common mood or emotion. These initiating emotions spread and intensify in the group’s interaction rituals, such as chants, songs, dances, or games, through emotional contagion and rhythmic synchronization of bodily responses as well as through the group members’ reflexive awareness of their shared experience. The result is collective effervescence, “high degree of absorption in emotional entrainment, whatever the emotion may be” (Collins 2004, 108). A successful interaction ritual produces emotional energy—confidence, enthusiasm, and good self-feelings—for the participants; collective symbols—emblems, signs, slogans, buzzwords, ideas, or other representations—also infused with emotional energy; feelings of solidarity; and standards of morality: respect for the group and its symbols and anger at violations against either two. The main problem with Collins’ collective emotions is, surprisingly perhaps, their lack of intentionality. Collins follows Durkheim and William James in rendering emotions first and foremost as feelings of bodily arousal and excitement. True enough, he speaks about mutual focusing of attention on the same object, but this is not the object of collective emotion but whatever object that catches the group members’ undivided attention during an interaction ritual. Shared mood and mutual focus of attention are independent variables that accompany and causally reinforce each other as ritual ingredients, but they do not become constitutive aspects of the resultant state of collective effervescence.8 Indeed, Collins never claims that collective effervescence as an emotion possesses an intentional object.9 Instead, he analyzes this phenomenon in terms of rhythmic entrainment in conversational turn-taking, speech patterns and rhythms, bodily movements, and emotions. In association with mutual focus of attention, aspects of rhythmic entrainment build up high levels of collective effervescence, whose energy is attributed to symbols that become means of preserving and reviving this energy in individual minds between interactions. Symbols also give rise to further emotions: respect for them, and anger at violations against them. Insofar as the latter emotions are collective rather than individual, they could possess an intentional object.10 Even so, the collective effervescence or affective attunement whose energy the symbols symbolize is itself objectless, quite like the emotional energy that 64 MIKKO SALMELA Collins describes in terms of hydraulic metaphors, such as “pumping up,” “charging,” and so on. Nor is there any appraisal of the object of mutual focus of attention, either collective or individually convergent, as a component or even function of any emotions in Collins’ theory.11 His wavering usage of affective terms provides further support for the noncognitive interpretation. Collins sometimes talks about collective emotions, but his favorite term is nevertheless “mood” or “emotional mood,” which he often uses as coextensive with “feeling.”12 Moods and feelings, unlike emotions, are widely agreed to lack particular intentional objects (e.g. Kenny 1963). Another major problem with Collins theory relates to his motivational monism. Collins argues that the drive to maximize our emotional energy explains all our behavior, both social and individual.13 We seek affective boost from social interactions that we have experienced as energizing and purport to avoid emotionally draining interactions. This fundamental drive does not, however, explain why people would act solidarily in situations that require balancing their own and other people’s interests; not even if these others are their fellow group members. Solidary behaviors may contingently emerge from “feelings of membership” or solidarity that are outcomes of successful interaction rituals, but these feelings are precarious as they tend to fade as time from interaction rituals goes by. The only type of social behavior that Collins’ theory of collective emotions and affective solidarity noncontingently explains and predicts is then ritualistic behavior in which people regularly engage in order to recharge their emotional energy. For Collins, this may be sufficient as he believes that the fundamental drive to maximize our emotional energy is “behind individual behavior, group activity, culture, and networks,” as Summers-Effler (2007, 139) summarizes. Indeed, Collins is one of those theorists who are bold enough to claim that people err about their true motivation most of the time. For instance, when a group of environmental activists campaign against the construction of a new nuclear power plant, or when members of an oppressed ethnic minority struggle against their discrimination, what these people are ultimately seeking according to Collins is emotional energy and a good time.14 True enough, Collins talks about commitment to groups and their causes, but he argues that the “relative intensity” of group commitment can be explained in terms of ritually generated emotional COLLECTIVE EMOTIONS AS “THE GLUE” OF GROUP SOLIDARITY 65 energy in previous group gatherings (Collins 2001, 30-31). In this way, Collins reduces all other motivations to the need to maximize one’s emotional energy. However, others who hold more pluralistic views about human motivation may disagree, allowing people to be motivated by other primary concerns, such as survival, security, happiness, fairness, and esteem as well. Criticizing Collins from a theoretical position that he does not accept has of course a flavor of begging the question. Even so, I find the criticism well-founded as motivational pluralism allows us to do more justice to people’s firstperson accounts of their own motivation, in addition to enjoying wide support among theorists of social behavior. Last but not the least, motivational pluralism offers a foundation for a different kind of approach to collective emotions. Collectively Intentional Shared Emotions Collective emotions have become an object of philosophical interest in the recent years. In this discussion, the collectivity of emotions is modeled on the certain kind of intentional structure of these emotions. I shall outline my own account on collective emotions, which is not the only game in town, but in some important respects better than the other two that have been presented so far, or so I’d like to think.15 Here the collectivity of emotions is founded on the concerns, content, and mode of these emotions. There is a wide agreement among emotion researchers that concerns underlie emotions as something without which they could not exist in the first place. Concern about my property gives rise to fear if I think that my property is being threatened by some external agents, and anger at those agents whom I believe to be threatening my property. Collective concerns are concerns that a group of individuals share either in an I-mode sense or in a we-mode sense. These technical terms emerge from Raimo Tuomela’s (2007) philosophical work on collective intentionality, and they focus on different kinds of commitment to concerns. People who privately subscribe to the same goal or norm or value, such as individual fans of the same sports team, share concerns in an I-mode sense. Individuals with convergent I-mode concerns may act in unison for their overlapping 66 MIKKO SALMELA goals, thus constituting groups with a distinct ethos—some concerns, goals, standards, beliefs, or norms that constitute the core of all social groups according to Tuomela. The members of I-mode groups may even experience the kind of affective attunement that Collins characterizes as collective effervescence. Indeed, this affective attunement explains the fascination of attending shows, matches, concerts, theater performances, and other events together with other like-minded. Yet this kind of affective solidarity of gathered crowds wears out soon, as Collins observes. Symbols established during collective effervescence are capable of commanding some normative force over individuals, but their power to unify the group fades away without reinforcement. The explanation, however, does not lie merely in the ephemeral nature of affective experience but on a deeper level, in the underlying commitments that members of I-mode groups may revise and renounce on personal reasons alone—that is why these commitments are private. However, shared emotional experiences that reveal convergent private concerns may function as a springboard to the emergence of groups whose members adopt these concerns as theirs by jointly committing themselves to those concerns. This is the difference between, for instance, organized fan clubs and contingent aggregates of fans. Collective commitment functions as a normative ‘glue’ that binds the individuals together into a group whose concerns are collective in a we-mode sense as the group members are allowed to revise and renounce their commitment to these concerns only by reasons that are acceptable from the group’s point of view. Groups of this kind are relatively rare but they may include sports teams, theater ensembles, orchestras, workgroups, religious sects, parties, and other relatively small and well-organized groups. The collective content sets criteria both for the nature of content and the intentional aboutness of shared emotions. The content of collectively intentional emotions is, like the content of all emotions, both evaluative and affective at the same time (Salmela 2005; Goldie 2004; Helm 2001). The evaluative content emerges from convergent individual appraisals that associate with phenomenally similar feelings within the group. A group can, in some exceptional cases, evaluate the situation collectively but there is no need for this, nor is there time for such appraisal let alone collective commitment to it in ordinary cases due to the speed of emotional processing. However, COLLECTIVE EMOTIONS AS “THE GLUE” OF GROUP SOLIDARITY 67 interpersonal processes such as social appraisal in which individuals use each other’s emotional expressions as cues in their own appraisal of the situation effectively entrain emotional appraisals within social groups (Bruder, Fischer, and Manstead 2014). Therefore, sharing the evaluative aspect of an emotional content is a matter of converging on an appraisal of a particular situation that is relevant to the group’s ethos. For instance, team members’ disappointment about a defeat in an important game involves an evaluation of the defeat as a failure and downcast, dejected feelings about the failure. An efficient mechanism that levels feelings in groups is emotion contagion, “the tendency to automatically mimic and synchronize facial expressions, vocalizations, postures, and movements with those of another person and, consequently, to converge emotionally” (Hatfield, Cacioppo, and Rapson 1994, 5), which is subserved by the activation of mirror neurons and shared neural representations (Decety and Chaminade 2003; Becchio and Bertone 2003). Thus, even if each group member experiences emotional feelings in a somewhat personal manner, emotion contagion ensures wide convergence in the physiologicalcum-behavioral substratum and thus, presumably, in the phenomenal quality of feelings. The intentional content of emotion represents objects, actions, events, or states of affairs that are either constitutively relevant to the collective concern of a group or believed by the group members to be relevant in this way. If, for instance, a group has committed itself to painting a house, such events might include an approaching rainfall that threatens to ruin the project, running out of paint, and the completion of the project. However, fixing the metaphysical object of emotion is not enough, because the content of emotion must be described in a certain manner to qualify as collectively intentional. This is the point with intensionality-with-an-s. For instance, the people who have collectively committed themselves to painting the house rejoice at the completion of their task of painting the house, not merely at the result that house has been painted, even if these two states of affairs are metaphysically identical. Collective emotions do not differ from other emotions in this respect as the evaluative content of emotion is always opaque rather than transparent (see Solomon 1980). 68 MIKKO SALMELA A collective mode of feeling an emotion is to feel the emotion as a member of the relevant group, not as a private person. Membership in the we-mode sense is acquired through the members’ collective commitment to the group. The collective mode highlights collective concerns for the individual who finds him- or herself in this mode. Thus, when the players of a football team rejoice in a goal that they have scored, they rejoice as members of the team, not as private persons. The audience can share the players’ joy about the goal, indeed emotional contagion from the audience strengthens the players’ joy. However, the audience cannot participate in the joy that the players feel as members of the team, nor can it join the latters’ pride in their success except in a vicarious or metaphorical sense. Indeed, the players and fans of a team are proud of different things: the fans are proud of the team and their own status as fans, whereas the players are proud of the success they have achieved together as a team. Phenomenologically, there may appear to be only one emotion, such as joy about the goal, shared by fans, team members, manager, and so on, regardless of their role in the event, as Hans Bernhard Schmid (2009) suggests in his book Plural Action. Nevertheless, differences in the intentional structure of the team members’ and fans’ emotions suggest that these emotions are dissimilar to each other. Finally, awareness about other group members’ emotions is an important aspect of collective emotions, as Durkheim and Collins have also pointed out. An immediate perception of another person’s emotional experience is typically sufficient to elicit at least a mild similar response in the perceiver. There is no need to share an evaluative point of view with the other person; the mechanism of emotion contagion operates between all normal humans and even between humans and animals capable of expressing their emotions. However, we can assume that emotion contagion is even more efficient in groups whose members are committed to a shared concern. In these kinds of groups, one member’s emotion, when perceived by other members, functions as a signal that both rationally merits and causally elicits the same emotion in other group members. My proposal is then that a collectively intentional shared emotion is an emotion that individual group members with a collective concern feel together about the same object as members of the group in a phenomenally similar manner, being aware that other group members are feeling COLLECTIVE EMOTIONS AS “THE GLUE” OF GROUP SOLIDARITY 69 the same. An important divide goes between shared emotions whose underlying concerns are collective in a weak and strong sense, respectively. Without collective commitment to a concern, there is neither collective content of emotion in an intensional sense, nor a collective mode of feeling the emotion as one of us. Individuals may have overlapping concerns, but these concerns are still private rather than implied by a collectively accepted ethos. Likewise, there is no collective description of the emotional object but only an anonymous one. Thus, for instance, collective guilt in the we-mode sense is felt over action A described as our action A; not as action A as such. Finally, in the aggregative case the emotion is not felt as one of us in the strong sense, for there is no “we” with collectively constituted goals, values, norms, or beliefs, but only an aggregate of individuals with overlapping concerns and, possibly, an emergent, phenomenal experience of a “we.” Therefore, shared emotions with collectively committed concerns are collective in the strong sense, whereas shared emotions with convergent private concerns are collective only in a weak sense. Lindenberg Once Again, with Feeling In the final part of this chapter, I shall argue that we can ascribe several important functions to collectively intentional shared emotions in Lindenberg’s non-affective theory of solidarity. As we saw, the only role that Lindenberg explicitly assigns to emotions is as reliable relational signals of being in the solidarity frame. He also refers to Durkheim in arguing that face-to-face gatherings and rituals are important in the stabilization of the solidarity frame, without discussing the role of emotions, however. I continue my analysis from these leads, claiming that shared emotions have a significant role in the explanation of solidary behavior. I will not distinguish between shared emotions in the strong we-mode and weak I-mode sense here. This depends on the nature of individual solidary groups, which can be either we-mode or, perhaps more typically, I-mode. However, I begin by highlighting another function of shared emotions in solidary groups. 70 MIKKO SALMELA Lindenberg does not assign any role to collective emotions in the emergence of solidary groups. He thinks that rational deliberation allows individuals to understand that sharing costs and benefits is in everyone’s long-term interest. Lindenberg’s example of this kind of solidary arrangement is a group of farmers who together purchase a combine. A shared combine saves individual farmers’ costs as they need not purchase combines of their own. On the other hand, the arrangement exposes the farmers to negative externalities associated with the individual farmers’ pursuit of self-interest should they violate against jointly determined rules whose purpose is to secure every farmer’s opportunity to use the combine during the harvest time. On the one hand, every farmer has the temptation to keep the combine to himself in the harvest time when it would benefit him the most. If the farmers on the other hand are solidary to each other, they do not succumb to this temptation but stick to joint rules. It is not obvious, however, that this kind of cooperation for mutual economic interests where the attraction of free riding is both plausible and significant represents solidarity in its only or even purest form. We can contrast economic sharing groups with ideological groups whose political solidarity in the struggle against social injustices is often presented as a core area of solidarity, in both historical and contemporary debates (e.g. Scholtz 2008; Shelby 2007; Bayertz 1999). Collective emotions, such as shared anger at injustice or oppression, or shared guilt about collective wrongdoing to a third party have an important role in the emergence of social and political movements that exhibit political solidarity. Indeed, this function of collective anger, guilt, and fear has been recognized in recent research of social and political movements (Jasper 1998; Goodwin, Jasper, and Polletta 2001; Branscombe and Doosje 2004; Flam and King 2005; Walgrave and Verhulst 2006; Scholtz 2008). However, the theory of collectively intentional emotions makes better sense of this function than Collins’ account of collective emotions. Collectively intentional anger can provide both causal and rational impetus to the emergence of a group whose goal is to remove the injustice that provoked the anger, because the emotion involves this evaluation on the basis of a shared concern, as well as an intention to act accordingly. Likewise, collectively intentional guilt is capable of motivating apologies for past collective wrongdoings, because the emotion involves an evalu- COLLECTIVE EMOTIONS AS “THE GLUE” OF GROUP SOLIDARITY 71 ation of the group’s past action as wrongful and a desire to apologize for it. Moving on to the stabilization of the solidarity frame, we can begin by observing that the very idea of celebrating common goals does not make sense without collective emotions. Indeed, “celebration” is a collective emotional event that involves shared yearning for a joint goal; shared satisfaction and joy about reaching the goal or its subgoal; shared pride in the groups’ joint effort and achievement, and so on. Shared emotions also characterize many relations to other groups. A dangerous outgroup evokes fear, whereas an inferior outgroup is an object of disrespect or contempt. Pride is felt at belonging to an encompassing group with a higher goal. All these shared emotions are important for group solidarity because it is through them that group members experience their “being in the same boat” or “sharing the same fate,” which in turn reinforces the members’ identification with the group and their motivation to act for the group’s common goals (Hunt and Benford 2004; Snow 2001). Sharing emotions itself appears to be an intrinsically pleasant experience that gives rise to feelings of closeness and interpersonal intimacy, as both classic and contemporary researchers have pointed out (Smith 2002[1759]; Rimé 2007; Smith, Seger, and Mackie 2007). For group identification, it is also important that shared emotions are positive rather than negative. Stryker (2004) argues that shared positive emotions increase commitment to groups in which those emotions were experienced, whereas shared negative emotions, with the exception of anger toward outgroup, decrease group commitment, unless these emotions are occasional and controllable, as may be the case in rituals (see also Kessler and Hollbach 2005; Lawler 2001). Rituals, however, are not the only context in which shared emotions about common goals are experienced. These emotions pertain to the everyday life of group members. Philosophers and empirical researchers agree that group membership has normative implications for the group members’ emotions. Thus, the social psychologists Brian Parkinson, Agneta Fischer, and Anthony Manstead (2004, 97) observe that Anger will be experienced to the extent that group goals are unjustly thwarted or threatened, sadness will be experienced to the extent that the group loses something that is important to its goals, pride will be ex- 72 MIKKO SALMELA perienced to the extent that the group’s goals are achieved as a result of group members’ own efforts, shame will be experienced to the extent that respect for the group is diminished as a result of group members’ actions, and so on.16 The philosopher Bennett Helm (2001) characterizes this connection between emotions and goals as a requirement of rationality. If I claim to value some object, such as an old Ming vase, but do not feel afraid if the vase is in danger of being destroyed; sad if the fear of its breaking is borne out; relieved if the vase escapes unscathed from the danger; or angry at the person who is responsible for the breaking of the vase, and there are no excuses for my lack of emotions, such as a grave illness that puts all my previous concerns into a new scale, my professed valuation of the vase does not make sense. The same requirement of rationality can be seen in the case of collective emotions (Helm 2008). If the players of a team are not disappointed by the losses of their team, happy about its wins, proud of their joint achievements, ashamed of their poor performance, and so on, and there are no mitigating circumstances to explain this lack of emotions, we tend to doubt their commitment to the team. This indicates that group members’ status as credible and committed group members depends on their ability to experience group-related emotions in the appropriate circumstances. In a like manner, the idea of a rational pattern of coherence explains the requirement of consistent responding in all five solidarity situations of Lindenberg. Inconsistent responding in one type of solidarity situation ruins the plausibility of a person’s responses by revealing a gap in the person’s pattern of coherent responses. The credibility of the pattern allows occasional and isolated failures, but not constant failing in one type of solidarity situation. Lindenberg recognizes the role of emotions is as reliable signals of being in the solidarity frame. This role is highlighted in solidarity situations, which suggests that emotions may also motivate solidary behavior. Indeed, Lindenberg maintains that we sometimes act solidarily because it makes us feel better. However, this explanation does not cover solidary behavior that is motivated by compassion, sympathy, benevolence, fairness, or other similar virtues, which, according to the classic Aristotelian view, are dispositions to feel and act in an appropriate manner in the situation. Solidary behavior that is motivated by virtue is an anomaly in Lindenberg’s theory, because COLLECTIVE EMOTIONS AS “THE GLUE” OF GROUP SOLIDARITY 73 it appears to belong to the normative frame, in spite of being motivated, in part, by emotion. Due to his hedonistic view of emotions, Lindenberg has no room for solidary behavior of this kind, and his attempt to analyze such cases in terms of mixed motives—as a combination of a normative foreground goal and a hedonic background goal—fails, because it still assumes that all emotional motives of solidary behavior are hedonic.17 It is true that we sometimes follow norms of solidarity out of hedonic motives. This is the case, for instance, if compliance is motivated by fear of sanctions against defectors instead of an internalized norm. Here a hedonic background goal to avoid sanctions explains compliance with a normative foreground goal. The situation is more complicated, however, if compliance with solidarity norms is motivated by guilt, or compassion for other group members. Guilt, like fear, is an emotion with a negative hedonic valence. However, when we act solidarily out of guilt, our motivation is not to avoid negative feelings that are associated with guilt. Instead, action out of guilt presupposes internalization of the norm whose anticipated violation evokes this emotion. The fact that guilt is an expression of an internalized norm means that when we act out of guilt, we are in the normative goal frame even if our action is motivated by an emotion. The same conclusion seems to apply to such motives as sympathy, compassion, and benevolence. Instead of competing with the desire to act appropriately, these affective motivations provide complementary forms of acting appropriately, in addition to the desire to do the right thing because it is right. In fact, it seems that affective motivation is essential for certain close relationships, such as friendship, in which helping another person out of duty or a sense of rightness instead of compassion or sympathy exhibits moral fetishism, preoccupation with morality, which is at least a moral flaw if not vice (Stocker 1976; Smith 1994). Of course, we can talk about friendship in the manner of Lindenberg as a normative frame that provides certain norms to the behavior of friends. However, this manner of speech should not blind us to the fact that compliance with such norms may result from a variety of motivations some of which are or—as in the case of friendship—must be emotional even within the normative frame.18 74 MIKKO SALMELA I conclude then that shared emotions about common goals in situations in which these goals are affected are important stabilizers of the solidarity frame. Emotions also motivate solidary behavior in several master frames. However, common goals may be abstract or distant, and their relation to everyday group activities may remain unclear. In these conditions, the solidarity frame is particularly vulnerable to the decay of its salience. In order to dispel this danger, we should be able to show that emotions support and reinforce solidarity in everyday group activity as well. Lindenberg maintains that occasional emotional rewards of solidary behavior are insufficient to compensate for its steady costs to individuals. However, Edward Lawler and his associates (2001; 2008) disagree. Their affect theory of social exchange explains how emotions function as both positive and negative sanctions of solidarity in everyday group activities. Lawler defines social exchange as joint activity whose implicit or explicit task is “to generate benefit for each individual by exchanging behaviors or goods that actors cannot achieve alone” (Lawler 2001, 322). Lawler suggests that successful exchanges give rise to positive emotions, such as pleasure, gratitude, and pride, which are then attributed to the exchange relation, whereas unsuccessful exchanges produce negative feelings—sadness, shame, and anger—about the relevant social relation or unit.19 Lawler remarks that exchanges differ from each other in terms of their nature and degree of jointness. The greater the nonseparability of individuals’ impact on success or failure at the joint task, the greater the perception of shared responsibility for success or failure at the task, and, consequently, the inclination of agents to attribute the resulting emotions to the relevant social unit. When relational or group attributions are strong, a successful exchange results in positive emotions for all parties involved: pride in self and gratitude toward the other. “Mutually felt pride/gratitude builds and solidifies relationships, whereas mutually felt shame/anger weakens or tears them apart” (ibid., 342). This is an important result, because Lawler argues that mutually felt positive emotions about social exchanges increase group solidarity: “the strength and durability of person-to-group and person-to-person relations” (ibid., 329). Group solidarity manifests as collectively oriented behavior, such as expanding areas of collaboration, providing unilateral benefits, forgiving periodic opportunism, and staying in the relationship despite alternatives. COLLECTIVE EMOTIONS AS “THE GLUE” OF GROUP SOLIDARITY 75 Both Lawler and Lindenberg associate solidarity to joint activity in the production or use of some good that the participants could not achieve alone with equal costs or at all. This agreement is more important than small differences in the examples of solidary behavior between the two. Emotions are not necessarily present at the outset of joint activity, but Lawler shows how positive emotions and emotional ties begin to emerge as soon as mutually beneficent social exchanges set in motion, and how these affective ties are reinforced along with successful exchanges. In this way, we can see how solidary behavior is capable of offering steady emotional rewards in balance to costs of time, resources, and efforts, emphasized by Lindenberg. We can hypothesize that perceived loyalty in social exchanges increases interpersonal liking, which links up with mutual long-term self-interest in motivating further solidary behavior (Levine and Moreland 2002). Interpersonal liking provides a non-strategic motivation for cooperation, which renders it more reliable and resilient in comparison with rational cost-benefits calculus that is susceptible to myopic opportunism (Frank 1988). Indeed, Lawler (2001, 348) argues that “affective attachments are the proximal cause of behavior oriented toward the collective good.” One more stabilization mechanism of solidarity, not mentioned by Lindenberg, operates through moral emotions. Group members collectively blame and resent their fellow members who violate against the rules of a joint activity, thus harming the members’ mutual interests in the production or use of the relevant good. Moral resentment and its opposite, moral gratitude, differ from their non-moral counterparts by their impersonal and putatively impartial point of view.20 Thus, resentment is an emotion that we typically feel in response to one fellow group member’s perceived unsolidary behavior toward another fellow member. If the wronged person feels moral resentment rather than non-moral anger toward the perpetrator, then he or she perceives the situation as being such that would warrant the anger of other group members too, as Allan Gibbard (1990) has argued. Moral emotions are thus felt from a third-person rather than from a first-person point of view, and their intentional object is an offence against shared norms to which all group members have either explicitly or implicitly committed themselves. Emotions have also a central role in the reconciliation of moral offences. A collectively resent- 76 MIKKO SALMELA ed person may need to express sincere emotions of guilt and regret about the violation before he or she is accepted back to the group’s joint activity. At the same time, groups reinforce the solidarity frame by rewarding their particularly solidary group members with collective gratitude and its symbols, such as honorary titles and medals. Finally, I must respond to a possible objection. Lindenberg may be willing to grant that shared emotions have a significant role in strong solidarity, in excluding other frames in the group members’ mutual relations; in leveling differences between group members; in highlighting group boundaries; as well as in the ideological embedding of solidarity. However, insofar as strong solidarity is an archaic form of solidarity that we should try to avoid in favor of weak solidarity, this result is dubious, even if it were correct. Indeed, the vital role of shared emotions in strong solidarity appears to be in line with traditional views of collective emotions as irrational forces that drive people into extremes and madness, instead of motivating mutually beneficent long-term cooperation (McClelland 1989). It seems then that in order to establish that collective emotions are capable of functioning as the ‘glue’ of group solidarity, we must show, first of all, that there is a context in which strong solidarity is more benign and beneficent than Lindenberg assumes, and, second, that weak solidarity also needs collective emotions for its proper functioning. However, I believe that the previous discussion of the various ways in which shared emotions contribute to the stabilization of the solidarity frame has shown that these emotions are vitally important not only for strong but also for weak solidarity. The main challenge is therefore to defend the more affective, strong solidarity against Lindenberg’s own view of it. Lindenberg argues that there are three main contexts for weak solidarity in modern societies: the state, business, and social sharing groups, such as hobbies as well as vacations or sports with others. I agree as far as state and business are concerned. However, the model of economic sharing groups does not fit very well to groups that produce and maintain such goods as “a sense of purpose, of being important, of being appreciated, and a sense of stability in acting, thinking and expecting” (Lindenberg 1998, 101). Flanking mechanisms that reduce the threat of myopic opportunism make little sense in groups whose underlying “grievances and mobilizing COLLECTIVE EMOTIONS AS “THE GLUE” OF GROUP SOLIDARITY 77 factors tend to focus on cultural and symbolic issues that are linked with issues of identity rather than on economic grievances” (Johnston, Laraña, and Gusfield 1994, 7). Indeed, it has been argued that the creation of new collective identities is a fundamental goal of the socalled “new social movements” that focus on issues such as gender, sexuality, environment, health, spirituality, and ethnicity. Lindenberg who does not distinguish between identity groups and recreational groups assigns the production and maintenance of social goods to the latter. I believe that this is a mistake, however: concerns with identity are on a different level of significance and profundity than the stimulation and entertainment that we seek from hobbies, vacations, and sports. Thus, Melucci (1994) argues that identity movements emerge as a result of processes in which misfortunes and tensions that people confront in their everyday lives with reaching their personal and shared goals are collectively interpreted as injustice or grievances that call for collective action. This process of meaning construction in “submerged networks” of small groups gives rise to strong emotional investment that encourages the individuals to share in a collective identity. With their shared grievances, emancipatory interests, the participants’ personal commitment, and their emotional investment, identity groups resemble political and ideological groups, whose injustice frame renders those groups strongly rather than weakly solidary in Lindenberg’s terms.21 In both identity groups and political groups, differences in the distribution of joint achievements in proportion to personal investments as well as in authority are often played down, whereas group boundaries and shared group values and symbols are emphasized. Unlike traditional political and ideological groups, identity groups do not exclude their members’ affiliation with other similar groups, however. It is possible for individuals to affiliate with several identity groups, and to interweave with those identities in complex ways (Melucci 1994; Polletta and Jasper 2001). This pluralism indicates that identity groups may provide an example of benign strong solidarity within the context of weakly solidary society. 78 MIKKO SALMELA Conclusion In this chapter I have discussed the nature of collective emotions and their various functions in the structure and dynamics of social groups. I conclude that Siegwart Lindenberg’s critique of affective solidarity does not justify the rejection of collective emotions from an adequate theory of solidarity. We can see this when we replace Collins’s Durkheimian model of collective emotions with an alternative model of collectively intentional shared emotions, whose collectivity is founded on the concerns, content, and mode of these emotions. Understood in this manner, collective emotions have a significant role in the explanation of solidary behavior in everyday situations that require individuals to sacrifice from their short-term personal interest as well as in the stabilization of the solidarity frame against the threats of myopic opportunism and the decay of salience. Collective emotions are then the “glue” of solidarity, as Randall Collins has remarked (albeit for partially different reasons), and as such, necessary for solidary groups. This holds independently from whether we define solidarity in a narrow sense through certain behaviors or in a broad sense that covers the solidarity frame and its supportive mechanisms as well. Notes 1 See Collins (2004, 134): “EE [emotional energy] is a long-term consequence of IRs [interaction rituals] that reach a high degree of focused emotional entrainment, which we can also call attunement, collective effervescence, or solidarity.” 2 Lindenberg focuses on Durkheim’s account of solidarity but remarks that his criticism holds for Collins’ elaboration of that approach as well. 3 Lindenberg argues that organic solidarity, which according to Durkheim replaces ritualistic affective solidarity in functionally specialized societies, is equally incapable of explaining solidary behavior in everyday situations. However, I focus on the problems of affective solidarity here. COLLECTIVE EMOTIONS AS “THE GLUE” OF GROUP SOLIDARITY 79 4 See Lindenberg (2006, 37): “In an ongoing solidary… relationship, prosocial behavior sends a ‘relational signal’ to the other indicating that I, the sender, am in a normative frame and have solidarity in my mental model of our relationship.” Solidary behavior in the five solidarity situations is consistently associated with the normative frame already in Lindenberg (2000). 5 I thank Lindenberg for clarifying this point in private communication. 6 In his presentation in Helsinki on February 12, 2010, Lindenberg stated, “Feelings of trust, affective regard, perceived social unity, commitment and concern may be mutually reinforced through solidarity and vice-versa, or even taken at times as proxies, but they are not ‘solidarity’ as used here.” 7 The aggregative view of collective or group emotions prevails also in social psychology; see e.g. George (1996), Barsade and Gibson (1998), Kelly and Barsade (2001), and Parkinson, Fischer, and Manstead (2004). Barsade and Gibson’s concept of ‘affective team/group composition,’ “examines how the emotions of individual group members combine to create a group-level emotion, and how group emotion may be seen as the sum of its parts.” Kelly and Barsade distinguish between implicit and explicit sharing processes that together combine individual-level affective experiences into an affective group composition which allows us to measure the group’s affective mean and standard deviation. Groups may be affectively homogeneous or heterogeneous, but since homogeneity is not necessary for affective group composition, we may ascribe this value to an aggregate of individuals, such as people on a bus stop, who do not actually share the ascribed collective emotion. However, I do not believe that this kind of construct refers to a theoretically interesting phenomenon of collective emotions. 8 Graphic presentations of Collins’ model (e.g. in Collins 1993, 207 and 2004, 48) support this interpretation. 9 Erika Summers-Effler (2007, 138) argues that Collins breaks the notion of collective emotions into “two emotions: group-focused solidarity, which is composed of positive, enthusiastic, and moral feelings toward the group…; and individual-focused emotional energy, which is a positive feeling of enthusiasm, confidence, and a willingness to initiate interaction.” I believe that this is a somewhat misleading reading, because Collins refers to these two 80 MIKKO SALMELA emotions as “ritual outcomes” rather than as aspects of collective effervescence. Collective effervescence is distinguished from its products also in the following passage that highlights the transformation of emotions in rituals. “Rituals begin with emotional ingredients (which may emotions of all sorts); they intensify emotions into shared excitement that Durkheim called ‘collective effervescence’; and they produce other sorts of emotions as outcomes (especially moral solidarity, but also sometimes aggressive emotions such as anger” (Collins 2004, 105). 10 Collins does give much support to this reading in his brief discussions on emotions, however. Collins argues that high and low emotional energy, the long-lasting special emotions of his own theory, “are distinctively human blends of emotion and cognition, implicating the entire workings of cognitive regions of the brain” (Collins 2004, 107). As far as more conventional short-term emotions are concerned, this passage implicitly subscribes to the traditional divide between emotion and cognition that renders emotions as noncognitive. Accordingly, Collins depicts—in two distinct texts—fear, happiness, sadness, and other initiating emotions of interaction rituals in terms of their brain locations, on the one hand (Collins 2004, 106-107), and their typical eliciting situations, on the other hand (Collins 1993, 208). In the latter text he continues, “All emotions have a physiological component, whatever cognitions and overt actions may also accompany them.” This passage suggests that emotions are always physiological and contingently also cognitive, assuming that the accompanying cognitions are regarded as components of emotion. However, it is difficult to construe Collins’ theory of the emotions from these few short passages. 11 There is wide agreement among emotion researchers, both empirical and philosophical, that the function of emotions is to evaluate perceived changes in our environment for their significance to our concerns. Cognitive theories (e.g. Frijda 1986; Lazarus 1991; Scherer 2001; Nussbaum 2001; Solomon 2007) maintain that emotions serve this function by virtue of involving evaluations of their particular objects, whereas noncognitive theories (e.g. Damasio 2003; Prinz 2004; Robinson 2005) argue that emotions can serve this evaluative function even without involving appraisals in their content. COLLECTIVE EMOTIONS AS “THE GLUE” OF GROUP SOLIDARITY 81 12 Here is a striking example: “Members share a common mood. It is unessential what emotion is present at the outset. The feelings may be anger, friendliness, enthusiasm, fear, sorrow, or many others” (Collins 1990, 30; Collins 2004, 107-108; my italics). 13 Collins (2004, 5) claims, “In a strong sense, the individual is the interaction ritual chain. The individual is the precipitate of past interactional situations and an ingredient of each new situation.” He admits that individuals sometimes act alone, but even then their action is social “insofar as it aims at and comes from communicating with other persons and thus is situated by where it falls in an IR [interaction ritual] chain” (ibid., 6). 14 Collins (2001, 29-30) distinguishes excitement-seekers from committed group members but he warns against drawing too sharp a dichotomy between the two. It appears, however, that part of the problem lies in his theory that makes the production and reproduction of emotional energy into the main purpose of all group activity. If the ultimate human motivation is to maximize emotional energy, then it is difficult to see how people could commit themselves to other concerns, goals, values, or norms except as instruments in the pursuit of emotional energy. 15 See Salmela (2012), in which I discuss Gilbert’s (2002) and Schmid’s (2009) theories of collective emotions, and present my own account in greater detail. 16 In a like manner, social identity theorists Smith, Seger, and Mackie (2007, 431) observe that “when an individual identifies with a group, that group becomes part of the self, thus acquiring social and emotional significance….Specific patterns of appraisals then produce emotional reactions… that people experience when they identify with a group or think of themselves in terms of a particular social identity.” My qualms with identity theories concern the notion of identification, which leaves open the question about the exact object of identification in identification with a group. It appears to me that an individual never identifies with a group as such, but with some concerns, values, norms, ideals, beliefs of the group. Therefore, I do not find identity theoretical approaches to group emotions very informative, even if they deserve credit for taking interest in collective emotions. 17 Lindenberg suggested this analysis in a private communication. 82 MIKKO SALMELA 18 Emotional motives of normatively appropriate behavior need not be shared or collectively intentional, however. My argument in this paragraph has benefited from helpful comments of Dr. Sylvia Terpe. 19 Lawler (2001, 325) defines emotions as “positive or negative evaluative states with physiological and cognitive component.” He also states that emotions are intentional as they “constitute an internal response to an event or object.” (ibid.) Lawler does not discuss collective emotions but his understanding of the nature of emotions as evaluative, intentional, and affective is sufficiently close to my own that his results can be read as support to the latter. 20 Lindenberg argues that since sacrifice from short-term personal interest is the norm in the solidarity frame, it is not usually rewarded with other group members’ gratitude. However, Lawler stresses that gratitude emerges in all social exchanges in which one agent is perceived to sacrifice his or her private short-term self-interest in favor of mutual long-term interest of all parties involved, or some other goal that they share. And if we can feel this gratitude in exchanges in which we are personally involved, it appears that we can feel the same emotion in response to perceived solidary behavior within our group even if we are not personally involved in the exchange. 21 This is no wonder, considering that “social movements have always served this function [in the creation of new collective identities], whether it was an explicit goal of the movement or an unintended consequence of the struggle,” as Doug McAdam (1994, 50) points out. Literature Barbalet, Jack (2002). Introduction: Why Emotions are Crucial. In J. Barbalet (Ed.), Emotions and Sociology. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 1-9. Barsade, Sigal G. & Gibson, Donald E. (1998). Group Emotion. A View from Top and Bottom. Research on Managing Groups and Teams, 81-102. Bayertz, Kurt (1999). Four Uses of ‘Solidarity.’ In K. Bayertz (Ed.), COLLECTIVE EMOTIONS AS “THE GLUE” OF GROUP SOLIDARITY 83 Solidarity. 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In this chapter I want to suggest how the concept of solidarity, as defined in chapter 1 of this volume, can help us understand the different responses to the suffering of others. In particular, I try to parse the importance of psychological perceptions as they affect our solidarity, focusing on how our perceived relationship of our self to others determines our treatment of them. I will argue that how we see ourselves in relation to others is critical in establishing what I call the ethical perspective, a sense of connection with the person in need that then leads to a felt imperative to act to alleviate the person’s suffering. There are many trigger mechanisms—from religion to socialization and education—that might cause the ethical perspective to click into play but the critical factor is psychological. In the rest of this chapter I explain the empirical data that lead me to this theory and present the theory itself in some detail, suggesting how identity perceptions work through an innate ethical framework to influence our treatment of others. The chapter SOLIDARITY AND OUR RELATIONS TO OTHERS 89 is intended to illustrate the tremendous moral power of perspective as it works its way through our sense of solidarity. To do this, let me begin by reviewing some empirical data that suggest moral choices are spontaneous, not subject to the conscious calculus we usually employ to discuss moral dilemmas. The implications of these data are that moral decisions are not the result of deliberation in which religious considerations, or any other conscious considerations, are brought to bear on the choice at hand. I suggest a model of moral choice designed to explain these situations in which, as one of my Czech rescuers told me, “The hand of compassion was faster than the calculus of reason.” I conclude with a discussion of the psychology behind this pre-conscious, spontaneous choice, either via identity or via an innate sense of right and wrong. Empirical Work as Foundation for Theory The Heart of Altruism: Perceptions of a Common Humanity (1994) presented results from survey and narrative interviews with entrepreneurs, philanthropists, heroes, and rescuers of Jews during the Holocaust. Findings suggested altruism is explained not by traditional demographic forces—such as religion, education, gender, or other sociodemographic characteristics—or by theories based on self-interest, such as cost-benefit analysis, rational choice theory or evolutionary biological explanations stressing kin selection or group selection. Instead, psychological factors, especially identity and sense of self in relation to others proved critical. The Hand of Compassion: Moral Choice during the Holocaust (2004) made a closer examination of rescuers of Jews to ask about the more precise nature of the psychological process underlying altruism. It treated altruism as an analytical lens to lend insight into moral and ethical issues and found that identity trumps choice. How we see ourselves in relation to others sets and delineates the range of acts we find available, not just morally but empirically. In the terminology of this volume, a sense of solidarity existed between the rescuers and those in need. Ethics in an Age of Terror and Genocide (Princeton University Press 2012) asked whether the ethical framework found among rescuers has an analogue for other people. In other words, are all people as con- 90 KRISTEN RENWICK MONROE strained by their identities as rescuers are and, if so, what constitutes the critical contours in an underlying ethical framework we all might possess? Examination of interviews with bystanders, Nazis, Nazi supporters, and rescuers of Jews revealed that all people have an ethical perspective; the precise values simply get filled in differently, much as an innate proclivity for language results in disparate languages— French, Chinese, Arabic—depending on the environment. Identity Sets and Constrains Choice These findings were reached by extensive empirical research, beginning by using a respondent-driven snowball sample. I interviewed over 100 people who lived through World War II and categorized them into bystanders, rescuers or Nazi supporters. Some interviews served only as background, with respondents asking not to be described, only quoted; other interviews were formal and were transcribed and served as texts for analysis by independent coders. Results from these interviews suggested that self-image and identity—especially our sense of self in relation to others and the way we view ourselves in relation to the world—set and delineate the range of choice options we find available, not just morally but cognitively. People’s worldview determined whether they saw themselves as people who could help or as people who were helpless observers of political events, under threat and fighting for their very existence. Core values integrated into the speakers’ sense of self create canonical expectations about what kind of behavior they believed normal and appropriate. A sense of moral salience moved rescuers beyond mere sympathy for the suffering of others to create a moral imperative to act. It was the speakers’ cognitive categorization system that established a critical relationship between “the other,” moving individuals in need into a classification of someone “just like us” or reducing them to strangers perceived as different, threatening, or even people considered beyond the boundaries of the community of concern. Overall, these findings suggest that psychological dehumanization is a prerequisite for genocidal aggression, and show how the moral psychology works through the re-classification of “the other” to determine our response to another’s suffering. SOLIDARITY AND OUR RELATIONS TO OTHERS 91 Let me present several illustrations of these findings and then suggest how I used these findings on the psychology surrounding genocide to develop a broader theory of moral choice, one applicable to other forms of ethnic, religious, racial, and sectarian prejudice, aggression and violence. Empirical Differences between Rescuers, Bystanders and Nazi Supporters: Cognitive Categorization, Idealized Cognitive Models, and Agency Interestingly, all participants interviewed emphasized the importance of identity. Surprisingly, no one spoke of any kind of agonistic choice. Survivors noted of rescuers, “These were not people making choices on reflection. They just had to do it because that’s the kind of people they were” (Emmanuel Tanay, quoted in Rittner & Myers 1986, 57). Rescuers themselves explained their behavior through reference to identity, revealing a strikingly similar sense of how they saw themselves in relation to others. Indeed, rescuer after rescuer used such similar phrases that it became a kind of leitmotif. “But what else could I do” they would ask when probed on why they risked their lives for strangers. “They were human beings, like you and me.” This linking of identity with choice was conspicuous, and focused on a categorization system in which all people—rescuer, Nazi and Nazi victims—were classed as human beings who were similar not different. The sense of solidarity was key, as is evident in the comments of one Dutch rescuer. Tony (rescuer): “We all are like cells of a community that is very important. Not America. I mean the human race…. every other person is basically you. You should always treat people as though it is you. That goes for evil Nazis as well as for Jewish friends who are in trouble.” For rescuers like Tony, all human beings—even “evil Nazis”—are classed in the same category. All rescuers expressed this sense of being people strongly connected to others via bonds of a common humanity, bonds which then led to a sense of moral salience, the feeling that another’s suffering was relevant for them, that it demanded action to help, not just generalized feelings of sympathy or concern. 92 KRISTEN RENWICK MONROE This moral salience foreclosed other options. Not helping was simply not imaginable for rescuers. Rescuers’ moral life was complex, and their sense of who they were might be highly related to duty for one person, to role models, socialization, or religion for another. Even, sometimes, I found what seemed an innate pre-disposition to do good. All of these factors were mentioned by different rescuers as explanations for their behavior. But what was not mentioned was choice. Bystanders expressed a similar lack of choice but articulated none of the sense of moral salience found among rescuers. Bystanders felt little solidarity with Jewish victims of the Nazis. Tony’s cousin Beatrix reflects the bystander self-image: passive, with a low sense of agency in which the speaker describes herself as helpless, low in efficacy, and fatalistic. Beatrix has no choice because she has no ability to help. The bystander refrain was: “But what else could I do? I was alone against the Nazis.” The same lack of choice, but vastly different perceptions of themselves in relation to others, and enormously different behavior. This lack of choice I found a startling omission. The link between lack of agency and choice was clear in the bystanders’ protestations that they did not know anything about what was going on during the war, as demonstrated in the following exchange with Beatrix, Tony’s bystander cousin: Q. Did you know about the concentration camps during the war? Beatrix: Yes. Q. Did you know that the Jews were being gassed? Beatrix: Yes. I can’t tell you who told this, but my husband heard a lot ... Q. How did you react? Beatrix: You couldn’t do anything. Q. There was nothing you could do. Beatrix: No. No….[Long pause.] You could not do anything. Another interviewee was a German I call Kurt. Kurt was drafted into service and said he did not like the Nazis, yet explained how he had to fight for them anyway. Why? Because he had no choice. Q. Do you have a feeling that you were caught up in history? You keep mentioning these other things repeating themselves… [Kurt became agitated and interrupted.] Kurt: Ya. Why do we do this again? SOLIDARITY AND OUR RELATIONS TO OTHERS 93 Q. But I’m hearing …a kind of futility at doing it again and yet you kept on doing it. Does it never occur to you . . . ? [Kurt interrupted, with some vehemence.] Kurt: Ya. Can I change this? I have no power to change this! Certainly, there is much objective evidence to suggest why Kurt might have had to fight for the fatherland, but—significantly—Kurt did not mention these. Instead, his explanation stressed the winds of history, forces beyond his ability to influence, not the Gestapo or specific retaliation or even fear. This view is shared with Nazi supporters, including a Dutchman who wrote propaganda for the Nazis and was an enthusiastic member of the party during the war. Q. Did you know much about what went on with the Jews? Fritz (Nazi Propagandist): Not much….I did know that there were concentration camps. But I didn’t know what was happening there. You stick your head in the sand, like an ostrich. Q. You stuck your head in the sand. Fritz: Yes, I must say now. Q. You didn’t really want to know about it? Fritz: No. Q. You never thought about helping anybody or trying to hide anyone? Fritz: I hadn’t the possibility to help people. I didn’t see the need of it at that time. I didn’t know what was happening. This link between not knowing—whether the ignorance was carefully cultivated or subconscious in origin—and not helping was evident for many Nazi supporters and bystanders that I interviewed. The importance of this link has been noted before, by survivor Primo Levi, among others: “Shutting his mouth, his eyes and his ears, he [the average German] built for himself the illusion of not knowing, hence not being an accomplice to the things taking place in front of his very door.” (Primo Levi 1965/1993, 215.) A Dutch bystander makes clear how this linkage works psychologically, as she describes how she obtained her lovely home, from a doctor who sold his practice and left Holland for some reason “unknown” to Beatrix. Beatrix: It was a very old-fashioned home, and so we had in the attic... we made a part where you could go away to hide. Q. Was there anyone you were hiding? Beatrix: My husband had been taken away once; for one day. That [happened] with all the [medical] specialists, because they had taken their 94 KRISTEN RENWICK MONROE name plate from the doors. After one day he could come back home. Q. So you had a hiding place for your husband to hide. Beatrix: He hasn’t been there, but our neighbor of the other side, he had to hide for a certain moment. Q Why was he hiding? Beatrix: I don’t remember why. Q. Was he Jewish? Beatrix: He wasn’t Jewish, no. Because if you were Jewish you were immediately away or you had gone to Africa. When my husband made that trip to Africa, a lot of Jewish people were abroad. We saw it already coming. Q. But you were not hiding Jews in the attic? Beatrix: No. Q. Did you know any people who were Jewish at that time? Beatrix: Yes. Q. But nobody approached you... Beatrix: No, because there were a lot of Jews who stayed there and didn’t want to hide. After some times, they were taken away too because a lot of Jews who lived normally, and had only to wear the Star of David. Yes. He had known in the hospital because there have been several Jews put away so nobody knew... Q. They were hidden in the hospital... Beatrix: Yes. Q. And your husband knew about this. Beatrix: He knew about this, yes…. Q. How about during the war. Were you involved in any of the politics that was going on then during the war? Beatrix: No. There were no... they were all the same against the Germans. I am such a terrible woman that still I should not like it one of my children was married to a German. I always have something against the Germans... Q. Because of the war... Beatrix: Yes, because of that. There were a lot of German boys who didn’t like it at all and had to do it. Q. But you didn’t get involved in any of the anti-German activities during the war yourself? Beatrix: No. Q. You were kind of the normal citizen... normal average person if you will. Did you know what was going on? What was your impression of what was happening? Did you... Beatrix: Did I know? Q. Yes. What did you think was the situation for the Jews? You said a lot of them that you knew went to Africa... the man who sold your husband... Beatrix: Yes. And they went to a camp in the neighborhood, I can’t say the name. I knew it... Q. What kind of camp was it? Beatrix: Those camps. There was no gas, but they had a very bad life. SOLIDARITY AND OUR RELATIONS TO OTHERS 95 Q. So it was work camp? Beatrix: Yes. Q. Did you know about the concentration camps during the war? Beatrix: Yes. Q. Did you know that the Jews were being gassed? Beatrix: Yes. I can’t tell you who told this, but my husband heard a lot when he worked in the hospitals... Q. How did you react? Beatrix: You couldn’t do anything. Q. There was nothing you could do. Beatrix: No. No. All the Jews I knew were already away. No. Q. So there was nobody you knew who was still here. They had all gone. Beatrix: Basically, yes. I knew no-one, but still there were Jews, and they had their sign. But [pause] no. Q. Did you just feel that you were kind of helpless in this situation to do anything, to stop it from happening? Beatrix: You could not do anything. You could hide them. But you have help in the house. We had too much people around because we had a practice at home.... You couldn’t do anything. Q. So you basically just tried to lay low and make it through and avoid the Germans as much as possible. Beatrix: I must honestly tell you that I knew everything on the minute exactly about my news.... Q. So you didn’t want to know anything... Beatrix: No. The above exchange reveals how the psychological process of denial and ignorance involves twists among bystanders like Beatrix, with Beatrix’s inability to help related to her canonical expectations about “the good life,” in Beatrix’s case the leisure time provided her by having help in the house. Beatrix ignores the fact that many rescuers worked with their domestic help to hide Jews. Another important explanation for behavior was the idealized cognitive models people carried around inside their heads. In this case, we can see how Beatrix’s concept of what it means to be a human being and to have a good life enters her political psychology. For Beatrix, the good life is heavily materialistic, having the leisure time to play squash and tennis. In contrast, rescuers spoke of the good life as one that involves helping other people. For rescuers, happiness comes not from leisure time or material possessions but rather from sharing with others. The political psychology of the Nazis resembles something out of Alice In Wonderland. Florentine, the wife of one of the top two Dutch Nazis during World War II, and herself prominent in Nazi 96 KRISTEN RENWICK MONROE activities before her marriage, was totally unrepentant, a true believer who remained staunchly loyal to her Nazi ideals, even after her husband was captured and killed by his Canadian captors. (Independent sources confirm this view.) Florentine devoted the rest of her life to traveling around the world, speaking on behalf of Nazi causes and “telling people the truth” about what happened during World War II. Her view of the Nazis as simple, trusting people, tricked and threatened by Jews, resembled other Nazis’ worldviews. It is not unique and, as bizarre as it might sound, it is a worldview in which the Nazis become the victims of Jewish plots. Q. So you think the Christians have treated the Jews too, uh, too well throughout history? Is that what you are saying? Florentine: We are too nice, I think. We are defenseless against them. Q. Why do you say that? What do you mean by that? I’m trying to understand your view… [A]re you thinking that the Holocaust was really made up? That it was not something [that was] real? Is that what you are suggesting? Florentine: It’s the biggest business in the world. Q. The biggest what? Young Nazi: Business. The Jews themselves, they call the Holocaust a Shoah. A Show-a. There’s no business like Sho-ah business. That’s the Jews themselves who say so. And it is. Florentine: Yes, I agree. I agree. What is perhaps most striking is that for all of these individuals, identity, not agonistic, rational choice, seemed the key to explaining Holocaust behavior. Character counted more than the influences traditionally said to provide the impetus behind moral action (religion, education, gender, etc.) and emotions and feelings trumped the cool and impartial calculus of reason. These findings provide an empirical foundation for scholarly accounts of virtue ethics, and for our more general understanding of why it is so important to develop good moral character. Yet, character is not all. It was the sense of one’s self in relation to other people that was decisive. It is not just identity but the perception of the relationship between the rescuer and “the other” that seems key. Beyond this, rescuers, bystanders and Nazi supporters differed significantly in their worldviews and their idealized cognitive model for what constitutes the good life. For bystanders such as Beatrix, happiness comes from having the time and the servants and the money to SOLIDARITY AND OUR RELATIONS TO OTHERS 97 provide leisure that constitutes the good life, which Beatrix described as playing squash and tennis. Her cousin Tony and other Dutch rescuers reveal a distinctly different idealized cognitive model for the good life, one in which happiness comes from making others happy. A Dutch rescuer on the Gestapo Most Wanted List articulated this view. Q. You’re talking about practical aspects of life now. Before, it seemed to me that you were talking more about the meaning of life in some sense. You were speaking, if I may use that term, about what it means to be a human being. What does it mean to be a human being to you? John (Dutch rescuer): I have some privileges, we get in turn some responsibilities. To have the abilities of speech, of hearing. I can walk. I am thankful for what I have. My responsibility is to share with others. Because otherwise life would not be possible. I have seen in my life people who are selfish, and not happy. People who have power, and money, and everything, and they don’t have enough. Never enough. They are not happy. I have seen people who are unselfish, and happy, people who don’t have very much, and are happy with what they have. My ambition, my aim is to be happy. Then [you ask], how can you be happy? By being selfish? [John shook his head.] Q. You would not have been happier if you had simply taken all your family and sat out the war in Switzerland? After the war, you could have said, ‘At least my family is intact. I love them. I’ve been a good person. I haven’t done anything wrong.’ You would not have been happier doing that? John: You have to do what is right. You have to think about more than yourself. You have to think about yourself, certainly. You have to eat, and have a home. But you must not concentrate on that. It is not my aim, it is not my rule to say, I, I, I. I have seen others around me, Salvation Army people, they are very happy. Why? Because they are helping. I see a lot of people who are very rich, but they don’t have enough. I think happiness comes through helping other people. I am convinced of that. I see it around me. I see it for myself. I am really happy. I can make other people happy. Q. When you spoke of being given certain gifts, and how these gifts entail certain obligations and duties, the things you mentioned were not being born into a wealthy family, or being born into the Dutch tradition of helping people. Instead, the things you mentioned as gifts are things such as the ability to speak and hear, things that every human being—except in rare cases—is born with. And yet, you speak of these as gifts. Are you suggesting that merely having the gift of life entails certain responsibilities? John: Yes, I think so. And I am happy that I can fulfill my responsibilities. In contrast, Nazi supporters linked happiness and self-image via the community. Their chief goal seemed not to be personal happiness but 98 KRISTEN RENWICK MONROE rather the need to protect the community. The main differences among the rescuers, bystanders and Nazi supporters are summarized in table 4.1. Implications of Findings My purpose in this work was two-fold. First, I tried to use the empirical findings illustrated above—however briefly—to answer two particular puzzles: (1) What causes genocide? And (2) Is there a psychological process by which universal and possibly innate human needs for consistency and self-esteem provide a foundation for moral action that is not based on religion, reason or externally imposed rules or laws? In thinking about what causes ordinary people to become killers, I found re-categorization of “the other,” framing of the political choice, and the emotional distancing of the other played key roles. In asking what causes some people to risk their lives and those of their families for strangers, I found that the individual’s sense of moral salience and agency was critical. A Broader Theory of Moral Choice What is the importance of these findings, however, in broader terms? Does everyone have an ethical perspective? Yes, and the psychological differences that fill in the basic cognitive framework are critical in determining how we act toward others. A moral sense may well be innate—and I think the jury is still out on that question—but what gets filled in via socialization and life experiences is crucial. Can we use this empirical work to create a broader theory of political choice? Yes, when such work is set in the broader context of research on moral choice it can bring into focus the psychological dimension of ethics to shed light on one of the central themes in normative political science: how we treat others. If we think of politics as including any of our acts that affect others, or even if we speak only of normative political acts, I believe we can use these findings to reasonably develop a theory of political moral choice. At this point, I am prepared to offer the following as a theory of moral choice and to leave open the question of whether it SOLIDARITY AND OUR RELATIONS TO OTHERS 99 also provides the general contours of a theory of political choice as well. Simply put, the theory holds that the following is true. Our political choices reflect our basic sense of who we are in relation to others. Identity constrains political choice through setting the range of options we perceive as available, not just morally but cognitively. Identity exerts its influence by filtering the actors’ sense of who they are in relation to others through the actors’ worldview, sense of ontological security, and idealized cognitive models. All these lead to a cognitive classification or categorization system that effectively creates a particular ethical perspective through which actors view the world, others around them and the situations demanding a political choice. This process exists because identity is more basic than conscious choice. Much of political behavior emanates in a psychological process that appears spontaneous, reflecting intuitions and emotions that affect how we see ourselves in relation to others at the time of action. Political behavior does not result merely from conscious deliberation, although such conscious deliberations indeed may enter the equation. But what we say we have chosen may reflect who we are as much as, perhaps even more than, any conscious calculus based on reasoning. This dynamic model makes identity central to political action. Predicting political choice requires us to understand the political perspective of the actor at the moment action is taken. It is the political perspective that constitutes the link between the social and individual influences on behavior. To understand political choice, we need to understand how these influences in turn relate to the critical role played by identity perceptions in deriving political behavior and moral choice, whether that action takes the form of helping and peaceful cooperation or involves us in the stereotyping and prejudice that deteriorates into conflict, including ethnic, religious, racial, and sectarian violence. This empirical work on wartime behavior during World War II and the Holocaust suggests a new theory of moral choice, one in which the critical components are identity and political psychology, including character, self-image or, more particularly, our sense of who we are in relation to others. The sense of self in relation to others works to cognitively classify or categorize others by working through the filters of our individual idealized cognitive models, worldviews, and sense of ontological security. The above forces come together to result in cognitive classification of others, which also works through framing of normative political choice to set the boundaries of enti- 100 KRISTEN ÆRENWICK MONROE &5,7,&$/3$576$1'',))(5(1&(6Æ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Æ025$/6$/,(1&()(/7,03(5$7,9(72$&7   Æ0(182)&+2,&(237,2163(5&(,9('$6$9$,/$%/(   ,'(17,7<758036&+2,&(  Table 4.1. The main differences among the rescuers, bystanders, and Nazi supporters tlement, effectively differentiating those to whom we accord fellow feeling from those to whom we do not. This establishes moral salience, the feeling that moves us beyond a generalized sympathy at the plight of others to a felt imperative to act to alleviate another’s suffering. All of these will result in a normative political act, whether that act is one we find morally commendable, neutral or negative. This theory is designed to explain how the categorization and classification of others influences our treatment of them. What drives the theory is the basic human psychology. Each of us wants to be SOLIDARITY AND OUR RELATIONS TO OTHERS 101 treated well. Recognizing that others have similar needs leads us to extend these universal rights of entitlement reciprocally, treating others as we ourselves wish to be treated. The moral psychology thus is reminiscent of tenets found in both religious teachings and philosophical systems of ethics. (Christianity’s Golden Rule is one obvious example.) Insofar as this ethical reciprocity is a fundamental correlate of our human capacity for intersubjective communication and the need to distinguish boundaries via categorization, ethical reciprocity is more basic than an intellectualized sense of duty or religion. Indeed, the power of both religious and philosophical admonitions may emanate from their resonance with the basic moral psychology. Innate Moral Values and Solidarity Is it possible that we are born with an innate sense of right and wrong? My own work builds heavily on the idea that there is at least a loosely-defined framework onto which ethical values and orientations are constructed to create a kind of moral identity which, in turn, influences our moral choices. Virtue ethics (Aristotle, Martha Nussbaum, Gary Watson inter alia) emphasizes that the way in which we socialize children creates a virtuous personality that is critical in making moral decisions. But this body of literature relies heavily on socialization in constructing ethical systems and personalities. (It does emphasize the group, an approach that is simpatico with the kind of work on solidarity discussed in this volume.) Other, more recent work in moral psychology addresses more directly the idea that there may be innate predispositions toward ethical values, with human beings having an innate aversion to types of behavior that are evolutionarily less desirable. Incest is one such example. For example, Jonathan Haidt and his colleagues have identified what they call the “ick” factor, behavior that makes people feel uncomfortable. They pose situations to subjects and ask their response to the situation. In one example, a brother and sister are back-packing and end up spending the night in a hostel that has only one double bed. Just for fun, they decide to experiment, to see what it would be like to have sex with each other. Subjects are very uncomfortable when presented with this scenario, saying just thinking 102 KRISTEN RENWICK MONROE about it makes them feel “icky,” hence the term the “ick” factor. This is but one illustration from one scholar. Indeed, Haidt himself has worked with a wide variety of collaborators (Haidt & Joseph 2004) to suggest how culturally variable virtues are the result of these intuitive forces that determine ethics. Haidt & Graham (2009) link this closely to the kind of solidarity discussed in this book, suggesting that community itself plays a critical role in the type of morality adopted. Work presented in Jost, Kay, & Thorisdottir (Eds. 2009) also uses the theme of solidarity, expressed via in-group and authority which might influence and create “moral” foundations, arguing that such concepts lie at the heart of early sociological attempts to understand modernity and morality. Haidt and Josephy (2007) further detail the cognitive and evolutionary psychology of what Haidt calls moral foundations theory. Haidt et al. base their theory on extensive empirical work relevant for a consideration of solidarity. Graham, Haidt and Nosek (2009) link intuitive morality to political ideology and religion. Later work (McAdams, Albaugh, Farber, Daniels, Logan & Olson 2008) introduces the concept of metaphors and narratives into discussion of moral intuitions and link this to moral concerns, such as attitudes toward war (Koleva, Graham, Ditto, Iyer & Haidt 2012). Relation to Solidarity So if it is fair to speak of an innate sense of morality, either via an inborn ethical framework that culture then shapes into our individual ethical perspectives or via the kind of intuitive moral sense that Haidt et al. discuss, is a need for solidarity backed by such a sense? And if it is, then do we not need to consider the kind of empirical data presented here to ask about the nature of the group for which solidarity is shown? Of all the people whose interviews were quoted here—and remembering that space constraints meant we could offer only a few illustrative examples in a short chapter—surely Florentine is one of the people who shows the strongest sense of solidarity with her group. She told me that after WWII, she and her husband were offered the opportunity to be spirited to Argentina along with other top Nazis. Because she was an “idealist” (her word), she decided to SOLIDARITY AND OUR RELATIONS TO OTHERS 103 stay and “tell people the truth” about what happened during World War II. Most of us would find Florentine’s political views reprehensible and her view of reality strained and biased, to say the least. But we also can recognize her as an idealist with incredible sense of solidarity with her group. Her idealism—again a word most of us associate with positive values—cost her husband his life, as he was captured by the Canadians and died in captivity, probably having been beaten to death because of political views the Canadian captors quite rightly regarded as loathsome. Florentine herself temporarily lost her children after World War II precisely because she remained loyal to her group, the Nazis who had just lost the war. The post-war authorities found that her sense of solidarity with the Nazi ideals made her an unfit mother, a decision with which many of us would agree. So even as we recognize the tremendous ethical and political power of solidarity as an idea that can move men and women to incredible deeds, we also must recognize that the nature of the group, the cause, or the other individuals with whom we feel solidarity must be factored into the moral equation. Literature Haidt & Joseph (2004) “Intuitive Ethics: How Innately Prepared Intuitions Generate Culturally Variable Virtues.” Daedalus, 55-66. Haidt, J., & Graham, J. (2007). “When Morality Opposes Justice: Conservatives have Moral Intuitions that Liberals may not Recognize.” Social Justice Research, 20: 98-116. Haidt, J., & Graham, J. (2009). “Planet of the Durkheimians, Where Community, Authority, and Sacredness are Foundations of Morality,” in J. Jost, A. C. Kay, & H. Thorisdottir (Eds.), Social and Psychological Bases of Ideology and System Justification, 371-401. Haidt, J., & Joseph, C. (2007). “The Moral Mind: How 5 Sets of Innate Moral Intuitions Guide the Development of Many Culture-Specific Virtues, and Perhaps Even Modules,” in P. Carruthers, S. Laurence, and S. Stich (Eds.) The Innate Mind, Vol. 3, 367-391. Haidt, J., Graham, J., & Joseph, C. (2009). “Above and Below LeftRight: Ideological Narratives and Moral Foundations,” Psychological Inquiry, 20: 110-119. 104 KRISTEN RENWICK MONROE Graham, J., Haidt, J., & Nosek, B. A. (2009). “Liberals and Conservatives Rely on Different Sets of Moral Foundations,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 96: 1029-1046. Graham, J., Nosek, B. A., Haidt, J., Iyer, R., Koleva, S., & Ditto, P. H. (2011). “Mapping the Moral Domain,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 101: 366-385. Jost, J., Kay, A., & Thorisdottir, H. (Eds.) (2009). Social and Psychological Bases of Ideology and System Justification. Oxford Press, New York. Koleva, S. P., Graham, J., Ditto, P., Iyer, R., & Haidt, J. (2012). ”Tracing the Threads: How Five Moral Concerns (Especially Purity) Help Explain Culture War Attitudes,” Journal of Research in Personality, 46: 184-194. Levi, Primo (1965/1993). The Reawakening. NY: Collier Books. McAdams, D. P., Albaugh, M., Farber, E., Daniels, J., Logan, R. L., & Olson, B. (2008). “Family Metaphors and Moral Intuitions: How Conservatives and Liberals Narrate Their Lives,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 95: 978-990. Monroe, Kristen Renwick (1994) The Heart of Altruism: Perceptions of a Common Humanity. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. ———. (2004). The Hand of Compassion: Moral Choice during the Holocaust. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. ———. (2012). Ethics in an Age of Terror and Genocide: Identity and Moral Choice. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Rittner, Carol & Myers, Sondra (1986) The Courage to Care. New York: New York University. 5. SOLIDARITY, MORAL RECOGNITION, AND COMMUNALITY Simon Derpmann Universalizing Solidarity S olidarity is sometimes invoked as a universal relation that extends to humankind, or as an attitude, that we owe to every person alike. Yet, the reference to universal solidarity within moral philosophy is not unproblematic. It encounters similar difficulties as references to universal friendship, universal comradery, or universal allegiance. While it is instructive in one regard, it is misleading in another. The reference to universal solidarity captures a particular stance that an agent engages in, when she perceives and treats others as subjects of her own kind, and as persons with a point of view, who bring forth and demand reasons. While this basal moral recognition can plausibly be taken to be a necessary condition for maintaining a solidarity relation with another person, the reference to universal solidarity is misleading in associating solidarity with a point of view that is defined by the regard of others solely as moral subjects. The aim of the following considerations is to show that moral philosophy should not identify solidarity with this fundamental moral point of view, because by doing so, we miss something essential about solidarity relations. We fail to account for a form of commu- 106 SIMON DERPMANN nality that is defined precisely by the departure from this fundamental point of view, a departure which consists in viewing others not as moral subjects alone, but as comrades, colleagues or allies. The conception of universal—as opposed to communal or partial—solidarity is not incoherent or absurd per se. Nonetheless, it runs counter to some common notions of solidarity, the comprehension and integration of which is of considerable systematic value for moral philosophy. Accordingly, the following argument concerns the nature of the moral idea of solidarity, and, in particular, a specific form of partiality that is arguably contained in solidarity relations. Before discussing this issue, solidarity has to be established as an object of moral philosophy, which leads to an understanding of solidarity that is different from those encountered in anthropology or political science. David Wiggins has brought forward a notion of universal solidarity as a central idea of moral philosophy that captures a specific moral recognition. While Wiggins reveals something important about moral obligation, solidarity understood as universal moral recognition is incompatible with a form of communality that seems to be specific to common notions of solidarity. These notions require understanding solidarity as a relation that cannot be made sense of without accommodating a specific type of partiality that finds expression in references like ‘my,’ ‘our’ and ‘like me’ that reveal a distinct form of communal relatedness.1 Solidarity as a Subject of Moral Philosophy In general, people who use the term ‘solidarity’ are not employing it within moral theory, for solidarity is neither a genuinely moral nor a genuinely theoretical concept.2 Solidarity is commonly invoked in political jargon, but it is also referred to in social theory. Some references to solidarity contain a normative claim without reflecting its systematic role in moral justification, and some references to solidarity employ it as a systematic concept without making a normative statement. A union member, for example, who demands solidarity from her coworkers should have an idea of the conduct that she expects from others and that she commits herself to. Yet, she is not required to have an articulate theory of solidarity based on reflection SOLIDARITY, MORAL RECOGNITION, AND COMMUNALITY 107 about what it is that makes solidarity morally significant or about its relation to other moral obligations. Sociologists or legal scientists on the other hand are able to give a more thorough account of the concept when using ‘solidarity’ as a technical term to describe a social phenomenon or a legal basis for specific policies. Their reference to solidarity requires the support of a theoretical framework in terms of an explication of its status, its function, its institutional vindication etc. However, while social scientists deal with norms, their theories primarily have the practices of making normative claims as their objects, but do not make or substantiate normative claims themselves. An explication of the force of solidarity as a normative concept that figures in moral justification requires a different kind of analysis as it is performed in moral philosophy. Thus understood, solidarity is not only a phenomenon that can be observed or analyzed, but a relation or an expectation that constitutes moral reasons. The explication of solidarity as an attribute that conduces to the rightness, goodness, or virtue of actions, conditions, or characters is connected to specific objectives and conditions. A theory of solidarity is of systematic value within moral philosophy, only if it provides an account of solidarity as a specific type of obligation that can be distinguished from others. If it cannot explain in what regards obligations of solidarity are different from, go beyond, or are more specific than obligations of justice, fidelity, respect, or benevolence, then there is arguably no need for a distinct theory of solidarity within moral philosophy. So, a convincing exposition of solidarity requires the fulfillment of a condition of conceptual discriminability and its contribution to the systematic analysis of moral obligation. At the same time, the philosophical idea of solidarity should contain an explication of the most essential features of its common occurrence in our practice of moral reasoning. Narrowing down an understanding of solidarity on the basis of these objectives is not entirely unproblematic. The difficult task in the appropriation of the idea of solidarity for moral philosophy is to individuate and explicate those features of recognized uses of the term that fit into a larger coherent picture of moral obligation. This requires careful examination of the possibilities to modify or to revise elements of our semantic and moral practices, especially if this is done solely for the sake of a theoretical accuracy of fit. However, 108 SIMON DERPMANN in order to avoid material emptiness on the one hand or conceptual incoherence on the other, the particular role that solidarity occupies in a system of moral values, virtues or obligations will deviate from some understandings of the term as it appears in common as well as theoretical language. Rather, the systematic determination of solidarity reveals several moral ideas belonging to different established uses of the term ‘solidarity,’ which cannot be included conjointly in one single moral concept. There plainly is no distinct philosophical concept of solidarity that equally supports the notions of solidarity with humankind, towards the unfortunate and the oppressed, and among a revolutionary army or a football club. Eventually, the philosophical disagreement about the universality or commonality of solidarity relations may thus come down to a divergence concerning the most plausible of several consistent deployments of the term ‘solidarity’ that account for differing semantic practices. The settlement of this disagreement depends on the overall congruency of different conceptions of solidarity with our moral practices and their contribution to understanding moral obligation. Accordingly, the present attempt to make the conception of universal solidarity less attractive to moral theory reveals neither that this conception is internally defective, nor that what it aims at is alien to our moral practice. There is no irrevocable argument against the notion of universal solidarity. Nonetheless, there are philosophical disadvantages of relying on a conception of universal solidarity. In virtue of its universality, the idea of solidarity as universal recognition is incompatible with the partiality that is contained in communal relations. Yet, moral philosophy needs the term solidarity in order to delineate this specific form of obligation. The conception of solidarity as a form of communal obligation is supported by its congruency with a deeply rooted tradition in the practice of solidarity combined with an emphasis on its potential relevance for a comprehensive description of moral obligation. If solidarity relations pertain a certain form of communal obligation which holds some significance in moral life, and for the description of which moral philosophy possesses no alternative, then abandoning the initial idea of solidarity as grounding communal obligation noticeably impoverishes our moral language. Thus, if there is a choice to understanding solidarity either as universal or as communal, we should opt for the latter. SOLIDARITY, MORAL RECOGNITION, AND COMMUNALITY 109 This pragmatic argument about philosophical terminology does not question the existence of a particular type of obligation and the corresponding attitude that those who understand solidarity as universal have in mind, but it nonetheless suggests that the term ‘solidarity’ is misplaced in the denotation of universal obligations or affiliations. ‘Solidarity’ should not be employed to account for an attitude of universal moral recognition, even though the emphasis on a recognition of this form itself may not be misguided. David Wiggins: Solidarity and the ‘Root of the Ethical’ There is a philosophical conception of universal solidarity put forward by David Wiggins with reference to a use of the term in the work of Philippa Foot that is instructive to the discussion of the alleged universality of solidarity.3 Wiggins understands solidarity as a fundamental form of moral recognition that is characterized, among other things, by its universality. The conception of solidarity that Wiggins develops elucidates a central theme in moral philosophy. In this regard, it would be false to claim that the conception that is offered by Wiggins does not make a distinct contribution to the understanding of moral obligation. Nonetheless, one can raise an objection against this account of solidarity based on the implication that his description has for the deployment of the idea of solidarity within moral philosophy. His account relocates solidarity from a stance and a corresponding obligation towards members of particular communities to a more fundamental moral stance towards others as persons. However, his conception of universal solidarity encounters a problem in the accommodation of moral communality by widening the scope of solidarity beyond what a communal idea of solidarity conceptually allows for. There are two characteristics connected to the understanding of solidarity as the ‘root of the ethical’ that may be proven or unproven to belong to a viable idea of solidarity. The conception of solidarity as a protoethical disposition that Wiggins develops is a particular form of moral recognition that is defined by its universality of moral 110 SIMON DERPMANN concern. The recognition of others that Foot and Wiggins claim to be essential to solidarity relations, fundamentally changes the nature of moral obligation towards others, because it contains a perspective towards moral subjects as sources and claimants of reasons, and not merely as objects of moral consideration. The universality requirement understands solidarity to be equally owed to every member of the moral community, which in most accounts means to every human or every person.4 The primary subject of the following argument is the universality requirement in view of its compatibility with the specific form of recognition that is, at least in some widely accepted understandings of the idea, constitutive of solidarity relations. A discussion of the form of recognition that is contained in solidarity relations illustrates the central role that Wiggins assigns to solidarity. This shows, why and in what sense Wiggins understands solidarity as universal. The Indispensability of Recognition One objective of the conception of solidarity that is offered by Wiggins consists of the identification of a particular moral stance towards others that—in its most basal form—extends to every member of the moral community. This is why Wiggins describes solidarity as the ‘root of the ethical.’ He explicates this metaphorical description by developing a conception of solidarity as a ‘protoethical’5 disposition. According to Wiggins, the basal recognition that is manifest in his understanding of solidarity is the most fundamental instance of moral obligation as well as a precondition for other forms of moral commitment. Wiggins understands solidarity as a moral idea that overcomes two flaws rooted in competing traditions of moral philosophy. He intends to combine the requirement of treating people as ends in themselves and as origins of reasons with the idea of elementary moral virtues that have to be understood not as articulate convictions, but rather as prereflective attitudes.6 This amounts to more than a thesis in moral psychology, for solidarity is conceptually associated with moral agency. Its explication is essential to understanding moral obligation in general. Wiggins maintains that “the original paradigm SOLIDARITY, MORAL RECOGNITION, AND COMMUNALITY 111 of the utterly forbidden [is] [...] that which menaces the very fabric of the ethical by threatening to destroy the basis of the ethical in solidarity.”7 Thus, if there is moral obligation at all, then there is also an obligation to solidarity. Solidarity is the stance that Wiggins intends to show to be the core of moral agency altogether. Wiggins introduces this idea of ‘solidarity’ in order to disclose a defect in consequentialist accounts of moral obligation. This defect can be uncovered in the analysis of the stance that moral agents take towards others in aggregative reasoning, when the moral evaluation of an action depends on an overall estimation of the harms and benefits that are contained in it or that follow from it. According to Wiggins, solidarity is an attitude that is occupied “with the fate of any and every individual” without the “impartiality of a concern extended to anyone and everyone in the systematic determination”8 of a general good. It is not the impartiality, or the concern for ‘anyone and everyone’ that is problematic about the conception of moral consideration that Wiggins attacks, because the kind of stance that Wiggins identifies with the term solidarity is compatible with the moral impartiality of consequentialist reasoning. Rather, his idea of solidarity cannot accommodate the perception of moral subjects and their conditions as mere constituents of a general good. In his view, solidarity consists of a moral disposition that is universal or impartial, but that cannot forego a specific form of involvement. Wiggins takes this involvement to be central to moral obligation, and he thinks that it is disregarded in consequentialist accounts. It consists of the rejection of the possibility to justify wrongs done to persons with regard to a greater good, be it overall justice, the classless society, social prosperity etc. Wiggins discusses the example of the moral justification of the political terror of the Jacobins by reference to the moral ends of the revolution. Regardless of whether the Jacobins actually pursued a morally relevant end, the attitude that is manifest in their willingness to inflict serious harm on others reveals a lack of precisely the fundamental recognition Wiggins finds at the heart of morality. In this view, solidarity essentially comprehends not merely moral consideration, but moral recognition, which can take various forms. The recognition of others as bearers of rights differs from the recognition of the distinct personality of others which again has to be dis- 112 SIMON DERPMANN tinguished from the recognition of others as members of a community. The recognition that is implied in solidarity as Wiggins invokes it is very fundamental. It consists in a responsiveness to others as reasonable subjects rather than as objects of moral concern, and thus as capable of and entitled to being included in moral reasoning. With this recognition moral agents see others as sensible in two regards: both in the sense of being sentient as well as in the sense of being rational. They are recognized as beings who not only realize well-being, but also discover meaning and value as well as embrace and act on reasons themselves.9 It is important to see that this does not amount to understanding responsiveness to reasons as just another property that has to be taken into account in moral consideration. Wiggins decidedly argues against the view of regarding moral subjects merely as bearers of properties. Instead, solidarity establishes a social relation that changes the quality of moral deliberation altogether. Only by understanding others as rational subjects, an agent can see her obligations as obligations towards others, and not merely obligations with regard to others, because she has to include the perspective of these others on her actions and reasons. It is this aspect of moral recognition that Wiggins finds important in the idea of solidarity, and that he uses to argue for deontological constraints. Recognition and Deontological Constraints Both Wiggins and Foot hold that, in virtue of the form of recognition that is present in solidarity, it is the source of deontological constraints. In their view, solidarity allows for the identification of certain acts as morally impermissible. Thus, Foot argues for [...] a morality which […] secures to each individual a kind of moral space, a space which others are not allowed to invade. [The] rationale of the principle that one man should not want evil, serious evil, to come on another [...] seems to define a kind of solidarity between human beings, as if there is some sense in which no one is totally to come out against one of his fellow men.10 So, according to Foot and Wiggins, solidarity amounts to more than mere beneficence. It is a form of recognition that is directed SOLIDARITY, MORAL RECOGNITION, AND COMMUNALITY 113 towards every human qua moral subject, and that forecloses certain wrongs that humans may not inflict on others without abandoning the attitude of solidarity that is fundamental to the ethical itself. This conception expresses the steadfast presumption that there are some things that one may not do to others whatever the concequences.11 This intuition suggests that there is a stance of the agent that is incompatible with certain types of action. The idea of the forbidden shows that impersonally conceived harms and benefits are insufficient for moral deliberation. Moreover, according to Wiggins, relying on considerations of this kind alone undermines the very basis of morality. The meaning of relatedness and moral agency that Foot and Wiggins identify in the recognition that is constitutive of solidarity, are indeed indispensible to understanding moral obligation. Due to its protomoral significance, an agent’s neglect of solidarity—as Wiggins understands it—amounts to a rejection of moral agency altogether, which is why Wiggins and Foot maintain the preclusion of some types of action on grounds of their incompatibility with the recognition of others. This is an important insight in understanding moral obligation. Nonetheless, their discussion solidarity as grounding deontological constraints casts first doubts on this conception of solidarity. For solidarity may not be the adequate term to express this thought. Solidarity is commonly invoked in moral reasoning to disclose specific obligations within particular communities, in movements, unions, clubs, or organizations: obligations that go beyond the most fundamental requirements of morals, insofar as they require members of a community to do some things for each other that they would not be required to do for everyone. In these common conceptions of solidarity as it is present in unions, associations of political parties, obligations of solidarity may qualify some acts as forbidden, but they contain obligations of assistance as well. Thus, one could argue against Wiggins and Foot that these common forms of solidarity do not only call for negative obligations of respect, but also for positive obligations of assistance.12 This objection against a universal conception of solidarity that explicates its moral significance by reference to negative obligations, may be answered by emphasizing that the conception of solidarity as moral recognition does not reduce solidarity to deontological con- 114 SIMON DERPMANN straints, but lays emphasis on the moral importance of negative obligations for moral recognition. In point of fact, the main problem about the conception of universal solidarity does not primarily lie in the connection between the responsiveness of moral recognition and deontological constraints, but somewhere else. The more severe argument against a universal conception of solidarity emphasizes that communality requires partiality. This objection rests on the claim that solidarity cannot be understood as universal in the way basal moral recognition is universal, unless we are prepared to give up its central meaning in the description of communal obligation. The Partiality in Solidarity The reference to solidarity as universal recognition as described by Foot and Wiggins captures an important responsiveness to others that is central to moral obligation because it is conditional to treating someone as a moral subject. Similar forms of responsiveness are necessary to understand one another as friends or companions, which is why the reference to solidarity in the conception of universal solidarity actually illustrates a central characteristic of morality. Yet, moral philosophy does not necessarily have to attribute this fundamental responsiveness that Foot and Wiggins have in mind to solidarity in particular. Universal recognition differs from some notions of solidarity in a fundamental respect. In virtue of its universality, the recognition that is constitutive of this account of solidarity does not reflect the communal partiality that can be argued to be distinctive of solidarity. The first step to establish this point consists of determining what is meant by the universality of moral obligation. Universality The universality that is relevant for establishing a moral conception of solidarity neither concerns the objectivity of the content of moral reasons nor their justification. It does not consist of the universal comprehensibility of a norm, which demands the independence SOLIDARITY, MORAL RECOGNITION, AND COMMUNALITY 115 of moral reasons from particular points of view or cultural traditions; nor does it consist of universal acceptability, which attaches the validity of reasons to the possibility of consent by those who are concerned by them. The universality that is relevant to my understanding of partiality concerns the recipients of moral obligation in the sense of determining towards whom persons holding moral reasons are obliged. Universality in this sense occurs in the demand that moral obligation is directed towards every person, and not to particular individuals or specific groups. It is universality in this sense that is problematic for a philosophical conception of moral solidarity. In the course of outlining solidarity as a protoethical obligation, Wiggins identifies solidarity as “the [...] thing that any human being owes to any or all other human beings, namely the solidum that is presupposed to the ordinary morality of all interaction between human beings.”13 Wiggins emphasizes that solidarity is not meant to replace other forms of moral obligation. The moral significance of more restricted forms of communal obligation is independent of solidarity as moral recognition. Thus, the doubts about universal solidarity do not necessarily concern conflicts of universal and partial solidarity. They concern the distinctness of universal and communal obligation. With the central significance that Wiggins attaches to solidarity, it must be understood as universal, since it is the presupposition of all moral obligation.14 Susceptibility with regard to the most fundamental forms of moral obligation can be tied to no other criterion than the capacity of being a moral subject. However, there is a common understanding of solidarity as a form of obligation not towards everyone or anyone, but towards distinct communities that is different from universal moral concern. The brotherliness of the French revolution and the comradery of class struggle share a conception of obligations of solidarity not as obligations towards others as moral subjects, but as members of a distinct group. In this understanding, solidarity occupies a specific role in moral deliberation. It constitutes a distinct form of obligation that cannot be subsumed under related ideas, such as friendship, loyalty, alliance, or companionship. Solidarity resembles these forms of obligation in being partial instead of universal. Yet, it differs from them in being impersonal or indirect. Solidarity can be distinguished from other associative or communal obligations by understanding it not 116 SIMON DERPMANN to be based on personal connections or direct relations, but on common ideals and shared goals. Thus conceived, solidarity is invoked to mark a morally significant relation between members of a community. It is a specific type of communal obligation. One might object that particular traditions of solidarity in this sense constitute no sufficient grounds for giving up the universal solidarity that Wiggins has in mind, and that the recommendation to avoid a moral conception of universal solidarity presupposes what it intends to show. Thus, suggesting that the conception of solidarity as a communal relation holds significant relevance in the practice of moral justification seems to decide the dispute about the universality of solidarity in advance. This argument builds on the fact that the development of a theory of solidarity does not only engage in questions about the most plausible description of a supposedly common object, but more frequently in a debate about which types of relations, dispositions or obligations should be subsumed under the term in the first place. Moral philosophy has many terms for different obligations that are rooted in membership to particular communities that could fulfill the role that is assigned to solidarity in this understanding. Thus, one could say that the relations that are assumed to be specific relations of solidarity could similarly be described as ‘associative oblications,’ instead of reserving the term ‘solidarity’ for them. However, doing so misses an important distinction. Associative duties as Ronald Dworkin defines them are “the special responsibilities social practice attaches to membership in some biological or social group, like the responsibilities of family or friends or neighbors.” Samuel Scheffler also refers to this distinction, although he speaks of associative ‘duties’ instead of ‘obligations.’ He understands associative duties as one type among other types of special duties, such as contractual duties, reparative duties, and duties of gratitude.15 So, in their understanding associative obligations or duties refer to what was earlier understood by ‘communal obligations.’ In this terminology, solidarity only constitutes one specific form of communal obligation that can be clearly distinguished from what may be invoked by reference to friendship, neighborliness and patriotism. The form of communality that is so particular about the idea of solidarity delimits it from other kinds of moral obligation in two respects. Along the lines of these distinctions, solidarity is an idea that SOLIDARITY, MORAL RECOGNITION, AND COMMUNALITY 117 grounds moral obligation neither in personal ties on the one hand nor in formal recognition on the other, but in meaningful commonalities like a shared history, a joint struggle, a common ideal of a good life, or a social utopia. Of course, there are necessary conditions of solidarity relations that have to be supplemented by other material conditions to allow for a discernment of which struggles, ideals and utopias morally ground solidarity. However, the important observation is that the reference to solidarity is able to account for those moral relations that are neither immediate forms of personal fidelity towards a friend or a fellow, nor dissociated norms of respect and justice. The broad conception of solidarity as universal recognition cannot accommodate these specific notions of relatedness, and arguably moral philosophy requires a notion of solidarity that is capable of describing these kinds of relations. The adherent of a conception of universal solidarity might object that the recognition that Wiggins and Foot identify in solidarity actually does capture the type of communality that is relevant for solidarity relations. Following this line of argument, one may concede that paradigmatic references to solidarity imply a specific communality, but that this communality may also extend to a universal group and still be described as solidarity. One could argue that solidarity relations are universal in the sense that they are conducive to achieving overall justice. It is indeed indisputable that solidarity relations may have this effect and acquire a part of their justification from it. Furthermore, compatibility with general norms of justice may be a criterion for the legitimacy of solidarity relations. However, the conduciveness to justice does not alone constitute the moral relevance of solidarity relations. If solidarity was merely instrumental to justice, we could not criticize a person for disregarding relations of solidarity with the intent to promote overall justice, and we could not understand why such a person might excuse unsolidary behavior with reference to justice. A second argument may claim that solidarity is a universal idea in the sense that is capable of including others that are not included in traditional loyalties towards kith and kin. In this sense, solidarity could be understood to be universal in virtue of its potential to establish relations with distant others. Yet, the reference to the potential of solidarity to include others does not make solidarity relations uni- 118 SIMON DERPMANN versal in the required sense for moral recognition. The fact that also distant persons, and not only members of the same local community, citizens of the same nation, or adherents to the same culture could potentially be subject of solidarity relations does not imply what is required for universal solidarity as it was understood so far, namely that there is a form of solidarity that actually embraces every human qua moral subject. Communality and Partiality There is another way to make sense of the communality in solidarity as it is deployed by Wiggins and Foot. Communality finds expression in references like ‘we,’ ‘us’ or ‘my’ within moral obligations.16 As Wiggins shows in the discussion of the connection between solidarity and recognition, solidarity establishes a morally significant ‘we,’ because it requires a specific responsiveness to other persons. Wiggins refers to Simone Weil, in whose work he finds the idea of moral community as it can be observed in the role of ‘us.’ Wiggins understands Weil’s account of moral recognition to include the possibility “to find in another a subject of the kind of consciousness that we ourselves know, or to find ‘one of us’—one who may consent or refuse.”17 The instances of moral obligation that rely on a conception of another as ‘one of us’ are specific with regard to the way moral agents bring forward reasons for particular obligations. The perception of another as ‘one of us’ could be understood as the expression of a moral relatedness towards a community, which would enable Wiggins to answer the objection that universal solidarity cannot be understood to be communal in a sense that is essential to solidarity. This is why the assessment of this passage is crucial for the notion of solidarity that Wiggins defends. For in describing the importance of finding another as ‘one of us,’ Weil seems to invoke a notion of a morally significant communality that I argued to be unavailable to the conception of universal solidarity. However, it remains to be seen whether the ‘us’ in Weil’s account is equivalent to the ‘us’ that is expressive of the relation that is contained in solidarity obligations, which demands the recognition of others as members of a community. The question is, whether Weil’s ‘us’ can be understood as the communal ‘us’ that is assumed to be essential to solidarity. SOLIDARITY, MORAL RECOGNITION, AND COMMUNALITY 119 Before discussing the difference between a universal ‘we’ or ‘us’ that is invoked in Weil’s description and the partial ‘we’ that is characteristic of the communality of solidarity relations, one more remark that concerns Weil’s ‘one of us’ has to be made. The universal and the communal idea of solidarity equally reflect the importance of the recognition of others for moral obligation. So, both readings are compatible with the first point on moral recognition that Wiggins identified in solidarity. Weil’s ‘us’ that is rooted in a common humanity or the ability of moral subjects to consent or refuse appears to be similar to solidarity relations based on shared meaningful properties, such as ‘She is a worker like I am’ or ‘He is a refugee like I am.’ In both cases, the moral obligation towards others is not fully explained by the identification of a property or a capacity of another person. In the ‘like I am’ cases, the recognition of someone as being a worker or a member of the communist party, and not only the property itself has specific moral significance. If this were not the case, both descriptions would fall behind the insight into the moral importance of recognition that Wiggins showed to be essential to moral agency altogether. The perception of others as mere bearers of moral properties and possibly as constituents of a superior good would miss the point in solidarity as a relatedness that is based on the recognition of others as moral subjects or as members of a morally significant community. However, more needs to be said regarding the question whether Weil’s ‘us’ can be understood as the communal ‘us’ that is specific to some notions of solidarity. Although universal solidarity contains a morally substantial notion of a ‘we’ or ‘us’ with regard to the ability to consent and to refuse that establishes a recognition relation between an agent and another moral subject, the relation that is included in communal solidarity is different from this basal form of moral recognition. In this sense, universal solidarity invokes the wrong kind of ‘us’ or ‘we’ to be able to make sense of the commonality of a property as morally meaningful. As seen above, there are two ways to understand the morally relevant ‘us’ in this context. On the one hand, the ‘us’ can be indicative of a relation of mutual recognition as beings who demand and act on reasons; on the other hand, the ‘us’ can be part of specific reference to the agent as a member of a community.18 This latter reference establishes the recognition of others as adherents of the same codes of honor, as devoted to the same politi- 120 SIMON DERPMANN cal conviction etc. It carries an irreducible reference to the agent that makes particular persons or communities the object of a particular moral concern. The ‘my’ that is so decisive to moral arguments concerning shared membership in a community, carries a morally significant reference to a commonality and thus to the agent herself. This, of course, contributes to understanding what specific obligations of solidarity are about. What a member of a community owes to other members depends on the characteristics in virtue of which they are obliged to each other. In order to understand an obligation of solidarity towards co-workers or companions in a political movement, a person has to find out something meaningful about herself that relates her to others, be it a political struggle or a common identification with a specific way of life. Also, different commonalities substantiate different moral claims. The commonality of an occupation or workplace generates other obligations than the commonality of a social ideal or membership in a political movement. From here, one can see what distinguishes solidarity as a communal recognition from solidarity as universal moral recognition. The moral significance that is missing in accounts of universal solidarity concerns the role of expressions like ‘my’ or ‘our’ as irreducible constituents of moral reasons that are indicative of communal obligation. The reference to others as ‘my friend,’ ‘my sister,’ or ‘my ally’ expresses a specific moral importance of membership in a community, insofar as the relation to the other that is voiced in the word ‘my’ makes a difference with regard to the content of a moral obligation. The obligation towards one’s own community is not an obligation towards a community of persons with certain characteristics that happens to be one’s own community. That the respective community is one’s own is a part of the content of the obligation that must be captured in order to grasp its moral force. In Weil’s description of someone sharing the properties and capacities that make both persons moral subjects, the reference to the commonality of the property is no morally significant part of the content of the obligation. It is the quality of the capacities of a moral subject that establishes the recognition relation, but not the commonality. It is the fact of the other one being a person, and not our commonality of being persons, that is decisive for understanding the moral recognition that is hinted at in the notion of universal solidarity. SOLIDARITY, MORAL RECOGNITION, AND COMMUNALITY 121 Foot’s earlier expression of someone being ‘my fellow human’ illustrates the point. It is difficult to comprehend what would distinguish someone as ‘my fellow man’ from someone as merely ‘a human.’ However, there is a difference between characterizing someone as a friend or a comrade and referring to her as one’s own friend or as ‘my comrade.’ This shows that there is a difference between recognizing others on the basis of certain common moral characteristics and finding moral significance in the commonalities themselves. It is only in the latter case that moral agents actually need conceptions of another as having some important characteristic ‘just like me’ or as being ‘my’ friend or ‘my’ ally in order to capture the moral relation they are in. So, in cases of membership to a group the relation to others as friends, comrades or allies carries some significance that is not included in basal moral recognition. If solidarity is a form of communal obligation, and communal obligation requires a specific role of these expressions in the respective moral reasons, which universal obligation cannot accommodate, then solidarity cannot be understood both as communal and as universal. A further explication of the difference between the commonality of being a moral subject and the commonality of membership calls for another distinction that concerns the quality of the characteristics that ground moral relations. If the characteristics are shared by anyone and everyone who can be the subject of moral recognition, they carry no moral significance that would generate a particular concern for the other. The community of humankind is no case of the attitude of community for the same reason that Wiggins brings forward to argue that fraternity does not cover what is implied in his conception of solidarity. As Wiggins notes, “a brother or sister owes another brother or sister special or particular consideration; and special or particular consideration is not something one can extend to absolutely everyone or just anyone.”19 Wiggins is right in this point, and solidarity is no different from fraternity in this regard. The argument that communal obligations cannot be extended to the universal speaks against taking solidarity to be the fundamental moral stance that Foot and Wiggins are looking for, despite the fact that this stance can be tied to a morally substantial ‘we,’ because it is a ‘we’ that expresses a similarity of morally relevant properties, but not a morally relevant com- 122 SIMON DERPMANN monality of properties. Solidarity is a relatedness towards members of a group as particularly important to the agent. But particular concern ceases to be particular, if the group is not limited, whatever may be the grounds on which its limits are defined. An agent fails to understand the point in solidarity, if he assumes that the obligations towards his football club or the socialist party could be extended without restriction. Even though he could think of anyone possibly joining the community, it would be inconceivable to understand everyone as a member of the community.20 Thus, a communal idea of an ‘us’ requires a reference to a commonality that includes some and excludes others. There is only a morally interesting idea of an ‘us,’ if it is accompanied by idea of whom the ‘us’ excludes.21 Solidarity and Communal Obligation At this point it becomes clear that Wiggins cannot accommodate an essential feature of solidarity, namely the moral significance of the reference to the agent and her relations to those others to whom she is morally obliged. Universal solidarity does not build instances of a morally significant ‘we’ on commonalities, but on the recognition of the other as a moral subject. What distinguishes the morally significant communality from the significance of common moral properties is the role of the reference to the agent that has different implications for moral obligation. Wiggins and Foot understand solidarity as the fundemental responsiveness to the viewpoint of moral subjects in virtue of the specific form of respect that it demands. What Wiggins and Foot lose in their account of solidarity, though, is the form of morally relevant self-reference that is a precondition for an understanding of solidarity as a communal obligation. My disagreement with Wiggins starts from an agreement to his belief that moral ideas are precious resources because they advance our understanding of moral obligation and contribute to moral motivation.22 The number of ideas that effectively express and advance our understanding of moral obligation is limited, and philosophy can inspire corrections and modifications of these ideas only within a limited range. The distinctions made above indicate that the notion of universal solidarity is employed at the cost of not being SOLIDARITY, MORAL RECOGNITION, AND COMMUNALITY 123 able to give expression to another important moral idea of a wide but nonetheless thick communality. Understanding those moral obligations that are associated with this form of communality means realizing that some of our commitments towards others depend on common ideals, histories or circumstances. In the attempt to describe these forms of communal obligation and their moral implications philosophy cannot forego the term ’solidarity.’23 Notes 1 Even though a comprehensive account of solidarity may depend on notions of collective intentionality or group agency, this discussion treats solidarity as grounding obligations of individual persons towards others, but with regard to the conduct of groups or collective agents. See Raimo Tuomela (2013, ch. 9). 2 Influential examples of a systematic use of the term ’solidarity’ in moral philosophy can be found in the works of Richard Rorty (1989, ch. 3 & 9), Jürgen Habermas (1990), and recently David Wiggins (2006, ch. 8; 2009). 3 Foot (1985, 103). 4 Of course, more would have to be said about moral obligations towards non-personal humans, nonhuman animals, or other conceivably morally relevant entities that are not persons. However, I am only concerned with moral obligations towards persons. 5 Wiggins (2009, 247). 6 Speaking in terms of traditional moral philosophy, Wiggins finds in solidarity a Kantian recognition or respect as well as a Humean natural virtue. 7 Wiggins (2006, 248). See also Wiggins (2009, 257-258). 8 Wiggins (2009, 4). 9 Stephen Darwall discusses similar types of recognition under the heading of a second-person standpoint. To take this basal stance towards others is possible only if they can be addressed secondpersonally, that is, if the addressee of the obligations can be conceived of as a ’you,’ as a recipient and a source of reasons. Another similar idea is contained in Christine Korsgaard’s understanding of intersubjectivity and shared reasons. See Darwall (2006, ch. 1) 124 SIMON DERPMANN and Korsgaard (1993). 10 Foot (1985, 103-104). The ‘his’ at the end of Foots description of the relation between agents and those who are affected by their actions will eventually have to be the subject of discussion. 11 See Wiggins (2006, 222). 12 Concerning this point, see Bayertz 1999, p. 13. 13 Wiggins (2009, 268). See also Wiggins (2006, 259). 14 See Wiggins (2009, 257-258). 15 See Dworkin (1986, 196), Scheffler (2001, 48-49). 16 Rorty (1989, 190-191) also emphasizes the necessity of seeing others as ‘one of us’ for solidarity relations. 17 Wiggins (2009, 250). 18 The possibility of understanding deontological constraints as agent-relative (as in Nagel 1986, 175-180) calls for a further remark. In the conception of solidarity as universal recognition the reference to the agent within his reasons makes a difference to his obligations. However, this reference appears in the wrong place, namely in the rationale that explains the difference between a wrongful action as being ‘mine’ or someone else’s. The obligation carries a particular reference to the agent, but the agent-relativity does not give expression to a morally significant concept of community. 19 Wiggins (2009, 242). 20 For the relation between solidarity and cosmopolitanism, see Derpmann (2009). 21 Of course not every moral obligation has to be accompanied by a conception of the other as ‘one of us’ that has particular moral significance. 22 See Wiggins (2009, 266). 23 I am indebted to Michael Quante and David Schweikard for valuable remarks on this paper. I also would like to thank the participants of the seminar on “Problems of Social Solidarity” at the Helsinki Collegium 13.-14.2.2010 for discussing an earlier version of this text with me. SOLIDARITY, MORAL RECOGNITION, AND COMMUNALITY 125 Literature Bayertz, Kurt (1999). Four Uses of ‘Solidarity.‘ In Solidarity, Kurt Bayertz (ed.). Dordrecht/Boston/London: Kluwer, 3-28. Darwall, Stephen L. (2006). Second-Person Standpoint: Morality, Respect and Accountability. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Derpmann, Simon (2009). Solidarity and Cosmopolitanism. In Ethical Theory and Moral Practice 12: 340-353. Dworkin, Ronald (1986). Law’s Empire. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Foot, Philippa (1985). Morality, Action, and Outcome. In Moral Dilemmas. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 88-105. Habermas, Jürgen (1990). Justice and solidarity: On the discussion concerning stage 6. In T. E. Wren (ed.) The Moral Domain. MIT Press, 224-251. Korsgaard, Christine M. (1993). The Reasons We Can Share: An Attack on the Distinction Between Agent-Relative and Agent-Neutral Values. In Social Philosophy and Policy 10: 24-51. Nagel, Thomas (1986). The View from Nowhere. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Rorty, Richard (1989). Contingency, Irony, and Solidarity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Scheffler, Samuel (2001). Boundaries and Allegiances: Problems of Justice and Responsibility in Liberal Thought. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Tuomela, Raimo (2013). Social Ontology. Collective Intentionality and Group Agents. New York: Oxford University Press. Wiggins, David (2006). Ethics: Twelve Lectures on the Philosophy of Morality. London: Penguin. Wiggins, David (2009). Solidarity and the Root of the Ethical. In Tijdschrift voor Filosofie 71: 239-369. 6. FROM RECOGNITION TO SOLIDARITY: UNIVERSAL RESPECT, MUTUAL SUPPORT, AND SOCIAL UNITY Arto Laitinen T his chapter examines whether solidarity can be understood as a form of mutual recognition; or possibly, as a social phenomenon, which combines different forms of mutual recognition. The emphasis is on the connection between the thin principle of universal mutual respect, and the thicker relations between people, more sensitive to their particular needs and contributions, which social solidarity involves.1 In contemporary debates solidarity has occasionally been seen as one form of mutual recognition, alongside mutual respect, but authors have disagreed on what exactly their relationship is: Axel Honneth (1995 [1992], 2012d) has seen solidarity as related to social esteem and contributions to the shared good within a division of labour in differentiated roles, whereas David Miller (1999) links solidarity to the concern for the needy.2 This chapter defends the view (closer to Habermas’s 1989 view that solidarity is the other side of justice) that solidarity is best seen in terms of mutual aid and support combining the elements stressed by Honneth and Miller, as well as special attachments to concrete others and groups as a third aspect of solidary ties. The chapter also argues that comparing such social solidarity with the universal relationship of mutual respect makes visible FROM RECOGNITION TO SOLIDARITY 127 the internal, logical connections between universal moral solidarity, political solidarity of social struggles and revolutions, and social solidarity of the normal evolutionary phases of society (as distinguished by most contemporary theorists concerning solidarity, see e.g. Bayertz 1999 or Scholz 2008; see also the introduction to this volume). That the notions of recognition and solidarity, made famous by Hegel and Durkheim, might have interesting points of contact should come as no surprise. There is after all a similar pattern to Hegel’s distinction between premodern and modern ethical life, Sittlichkeit, and Durkheim’s distinction between premodern mechanic solidarity and modern organic solidarity. What Durkheim calls the “cult of the individual” can be found at the heart of modern Sittlichkeit, as Hegel conceives it. Modern Sittlichkeit embodies the importance of subjective autonomy, moral self-consciousness and universal dignity of individual persons within its social practices and institutional structures. The ideal typical harmonious Sittlichkeit of the Ancients had to break down as it could not embody the equal freedom of all individuals. This chapter, however, will not focus on interpreting these authors, but will reconstruct the notions of mutual recognition and solidarity to outline the basic normative structure of social life. The creative tension between universalistic mutual respect on the one hand and thicker social unity on the other hand will be central to this: theories of mutual recognition and theories of modern solidarity typically try to be true to both. Although social solidarity is in itself a normative notion, implying requirements to how social order is to be maintained, via normatively motivated integration as opposed to fear, threats or enlightened self-interest, prevailing patterns of solidarity can often be criticized especially from the viewpoint of mutual respect. Social solidarity does not as such guarantee universal mutual respect which is the key modern normative commitment: forms of solidarity are possible which do not manifest equal respect of personhood, autonomy, freedom or egalitarian justice, and which embody patterns of domination, oppression, disrespect and misrecognition. For example gender, birth or racial differences have been perceived as relevant in making persons in some sense unequal. Nonetheless, tight social cohesion can have been built despite such inequalities. Charles Taylor’s (2007) interpretive notion of premodern “complementary hierarchy” can 128 ARTO LAITINEN be a model of this: say, farmers, soldiers and priests each have their place, their roles complement one another, but it is also agreed that the roles are hierarchically ordered. This kind of unequal solidarity can be a normatively structured social bond, there just happens to be a prevailing norm stating that people’s lots in life differ hierarchically. The norm of equal respect is incompatible with such unequal forms of solidarity, but luckily compatible with various other types of solidarity. This chapter will employ three general ideas which as such are relatively independent of the language of recognition and solidarity: first, the distinction between thick and thin. The thin universal relations of mutual respect and universal concern are the skeleton, abstracting from any particular features, whereas the thicker and more particularistic forms of mutual aid and support are the flesh of social solidarity around it. Second, it might seem that the thin universalistic descriptions are monadic, asocial, non-relational or individualistic, whereas the thick ones are relational, dyadic, social or communal. That would be to mistake universalism for atomism. Here it will be argued that the thin universalistic mutual respect is equally relational, and it too is a matter of a union between individuals—and indeed that it forms the normative core of any thicker relations. Universalism of equal respect approaches humans qua persons whereas the thicker notions pay attention to what kind of persons and which persons are concerned. But the thin relationship already forms a relationship of unity, in a constitutive manner: persons are persons as recognized by other persons, and they are free in and through one another. Approaching universal morality in terms of “monadic” features is not wrong either, it is just to abstract from some features. One can choose either more condensed “monadic” “one-hat” descriptions or conceptualizations (which might seem asocial, but turn out to be condensed descriptions of an essentially social phenomenon) of a moral situation, or more “dyadic” “two-hat” descriptions, or more “plural” “many-hat” descriptions. In the full picture these aspects are all present.3 Compare to a crossroads with traffic lights: you can focus on the situation of one driver (red means stop), two drivers (you owe it to the others to stop when it’s red, as they expect they can safely proceed when it is green for them), or the whole community FROM RECOGNITION TO SOLIDARITY 129 of drivers (the green lights should be on for a longer time for those lanes with more cars; or, traffic lights ought to be obeyed in general). Third, this in turn might make it seem that universal thin morality is less demanding (just, say, refrain from harming others) and thick morality is more demanding, and comes with further obligations (think of parental duties towards children). This is basically right, but thickness and demandingness are different variables: there are rival, more and less demanding and more or less encompassing understandings concerning “thin” mutual respect (between humans qua persons), so that the more demanding and encompassing mutual respect is understood to be, the closer it is to “thick” social solidarity.4 With the help of these distinctions, this chapter puts forward a differentiated view concerning mutual respect and solidarity. The first subsection introduces contemporary theories of mutual recognition and solidarity, the second subsection discusses the nature of mutual respect as something out of which social and political solidarity can grow, the third subsection discusses briefly the nature of such social and political solidarity. Three claims will be argued for: first, thin mutual respect already constitutes a relationship of unity between persons; second, thick social solidarity as an ongoing practice of mutual aid and support contains three kinds of recognition that go beyond thin respect and thus provide a thicker unity; third, the three contexts of solidarity as distinguished in contemporary debates, namely moral solidarity, political solidarity, and social or group solidarity can each be illuminated as part of this picture. Theories of Mutual Recognition and Social Solidarity This subsection very briefly introduces theories of mutual recognition and contemporary debates on social solidarity.5 In his book The Struggle for Recognition the German social philosopher Axel Honneth distinguishes three main forms of mutual recognition. One is universal respect which is unconditional on merits, desert or other particularities. Equal respect (unlike social esteem) is a “thin” relationship 130 ARTO LAITINEN which abstracts from various “particularities,” various differences between people; it aims at an equal treatment independently of gender, race, class, merits, etc. In a slogan, the mere fact that someone is a person, independently of what kind of person one is, grounds equal treatment.6 Equal respect is universalistic in another way as well: it abstracts from which person is in question. In that it differs from love, friendship or other forms of emotional attachments, where the singled out individual is taken as an irreplaceable other. Such love or care is the second type of recognition, which like equal respect is unconditional on merits, desert or other particularities, but need not be universal (although some of us indubitably have a universal concern for the well-being of all individuals), as it may concern persons as irreplaceable individuals. The third form then is esteem which is conditional on merits, desert or other particularities, and which (like equal respect) abstracts from which singled out individual is at stake. Social esteem is a matter of appreciation, admiration, gratefulness, or acknowledgement of the value of contributions and other valuable traits and features. These three forms of social relations (respect, love, esteem) correspond to three kinds of relations to self (self-respect, self-confidence, self-esteem). These self-relations concern oneself as an autonomous agent who is an equal among others (self-respect), or as a singular being whose needs matter and who needs to be loved (self-confidence), and as a bearer of abilities or traits that others can value (self-esteem).7 The key difference between esteem and other forms of recognition is that it is based on various particularities, various qualitative differences between people, that make them more or less worthy of esteem.8 Axel Honneth links the notion of solidarity especially to one of the three main interpersonal relations, namely to social esteem. The main idea resembles that of Durkheimian “organic solidarity”:9 in modern societies characterized by a division of labour, everyone ideally has a standing as someone who contributes to the shared societal good— and these contributions serve as the basis of social esteem: everyone who contributes is thereby worthy of social esteem. As opposed to the traditional “mechanical solidarity,” this kind of organic solidarity unites people who make different kinds of contributions, thanks to the division of labour. The closer to full employment, or to full inclusion FROM RECOGNITION TO SOLIDARITY 131 in socially productive or reproductive roles a society gets, the more inclusive such solidarity across differences in roles becomes.10 In contemporary debates, moral, social and political solidarity have been distinguished (Bayertz 1999). The Durkheimian mechanical and organic solidarity, as well as contemporary proposals that seek to replace them, are forms of what can be called “social solidarity,” covering the civil and civic aspects of our membership in the “normal” or evolutionary phases of society. It covers the aspects of social integration, bonding, and social ties characterized by feelings of belonging, readiness to support, normative commitments and identifications, rather than brute force or economic imperatives. Social solidarity in this sense can be distinguished from more inclusive moral solidarity on the one hand, and more revolutionary or agonistic “political solidarity” on the other hand.11 Political solidarity focuses more on political attempts to bring about social change, to more or less “revolutionary” movements and phases (from unions on strike, and demonstrators, to barricades) of a society.12 It can be noted that Honneth’s analysis of struggles for recognition applies to political solidarity in that sense, as an account of critical social movements and the motivational bases of such movements. Instead of such political solidarity, it is clearly social solidarity that Honneth has in mind when he links especially social esteem to solidarity— political struggles can be fuelled by all kinds of misrecognition, not merely ones related to esteem. The idea of universal moral solidarity involves the whole moral community of all moral agents, whether or not members of the same society. It is an important advance in the “modern social imaginaries” (Taylor 2004) that we see issues of membership as layered—whether or not we are participants in the same democratic state as full citizens, or in the same public sphere as discussants, or in the same economy as workers, employers, consumers, or exchangers, or in the same society as “social citizens” or peers, we all are members of the ideal moral community. In principle there can be global forms of social solidarity (if there is a global society) or political solidarity (if the whole humankind forms a political movement to fight, say, climate change), but currently these are best characterized as cross-national (crossing the boundaries of societies) rather than inclusively global. By contrast, moral solidarity aims by definition to all-inclusiveness. 132 ARTO LAITINEN The idea that it is precisely one of the three kinds of recognition that is most relevant for social solidarity can be resisted, and indeed many authors have pursued different paths. For some, such as Richard Rorty (1989), solidarity covers all positive relations to others in a rather undifferentiated manner, although Rorty’s take arguably stresses care and sympathy over respect and esteem.13 For the likes of Jürgen Habermas (1989), solidarity is one of two fundamental aspects of mutual recognition, the flipside of universalistic justice. Mutual respect, especially moral respect, is a matter of justice, whereas solidarity is in an undifferentiated manner a matter of what Honneth wants to distinguish as esteem and love. Habermas’s approach seems more developed than Rorty’s, and it makes a couple of vital points: in all particular relationships, the layer of mutual moral respect constitutes the moral core.14 In the particular lifeworlds, and the ethical identifications that come with them, both issues of merit (esteemworthiness) and special concern (love) are present—so social solidarity can be seen as having both those elements. David Miller (1999), like Honneth (1995 [1992], 2012b), sees solidarity as one of three fundamental interpersonal relations, but strikingly couples solidarity with the needs-based concern that Honneth would call love or care. For Miller, the desert-based regard is not solidaristic, but a matter of more competitive economic exchanges and relations. Although both appeal to the traditional triad of distributive principles (equality; needs; desert), each locates social solidarity only with needs (Miller) or only with desert (Honneth). This gives rise to three comments: First, there may a “false positive” in the claim that social solidarity always goes with esteem—a closer look at kinds of esteem may show that some forms of esteem are not as fundamentally solidarity-friendly as some others.15 Second, there may be “false negatives” both in Honneth’s claim that solidarity isn’t a matter of care, but of esteem, and in Miller’s claim that solidarity isn’t a matter of esteem or desert, but of care for the needy. It seems that both Miller’s claim that solidarity is related to needs, and Honneth’s claim that solidarity is related to esteem join forces in supporting the Habermasian level of generality which relates social solidarity both to esteem and care.16 So once we have analyzed how solidarity goes together with esteem, we should continue the analysis of how solidarity goes together with care. FROM RECOGNITION TO SOLIDARITY 133 Indeed, this paper suggests that the key to solidarity, going beyond thin equal respect, is mutual aid and support, as captured in the slogan “one for all and all for one.”17 Both Honneth and Miller are right in linking the rival forms of recognition (esteem and care) to solidarity, because solidarity essentially covers both—because the mutuality of mutual support means that we fill both the role of the contributor and the recipient in turn. There are two roles which one occupies in turn: being needy or vulnerable recipients of support and aid in various stages of one’s life, and being contributors, co-operators, agents that ought not only to respect others and refrain from hindering them, but also positively contribute to the well-being of others.18 The experiential importance of being a contributing, useful member of a society has often been noted—and one can even reverse the famous Kantian dictum by stating that no one should be treated as mere ends, but at least sometimes also as useful means to further the ends of others. Honneth’s way of linking the term “solidarity” to mutual esteem stresses the role of everyone as a contributor in mutual aid and support; whereas in David Miller’s similarly threefold distinction of “modes of human relationship,” the term solidaristic community (as opposed to citizenship or instrumental association) is connected with distribution to each according to need (as opposed to desert based on one’s contributions as in instrumental association), thus stressing the role of everyone as recipients in mutual aid. Further, the idea of a solidaristic union introduces the relevance of membership in groups or communities, and thus the relevance of special relationships: the legitimacy and even requirement to give more aid and support to those with whom one is in some kind of special relationship, and with whom one is in the in-group.19 Membership in a solidaristic community or society has an aspect of “inclusion” which is a further aspect of the forms of recognition included in solidarity. So to sum up this point, all people share the universal equal status as ends in themselves, but there are at least three kinds of relevant differences: first, various merits and other valuable particularities as agents, second, differences in needs as recipients, and third, reasons related to special relationships. The solidaristic idea of “mutual aid or support” with its two circulating roles (agent, recipient) entail these 134 ARTO LAITINEN three kinds of differences (although these differences may be relevant also when they do not contribute to solidarity). Thirdly, all these authors (Miller, Honneth and Habermas) seem to contrast universalistic (especially moral) respect and social solidarity. But arguably mutual respect also constitutes a relationship of unity, a kind of proto-solidarity. It is to this argument that I next turn. Mutual Respect, Universal Concern, and the Core Unity between Persons On Mutual Respect Mutual respect is incompatible with premodern hierarchical solidarities (and naturally also with various non-solidary social and institutional arrangements). It is by its logic fully inclusive, although the precise boundaries of “everyone” may be subject to more and less inclusive interpretations, with historical progress going towards more inclusion. Borderline cases of personhood may pose some hard cases.20 The consensus seems to be that all humans is the morally right answer, with acknowledged difficulties in articulating why exactly (even in the easy cases). I wish to stress that this ideal of dignity of persons or mutual respect has emerged—and in a sense must have emerged—as a critical idea, from within an institutionally embedded form of life which does not (yet) fully realize such mutual respect. The critical implications will be different in different circumstances, but the goal is the same. Solidarity does not conceptually require equal respect; but normatively acceptable modern forms of solidarity have universalistic equal respect in their core. This point is worth stressing. Equal respect draws the boundaries for normatively acceptable forms of solidarity. There may have been very strong and motivationally stable hierarchical societies, but the ability to produce strong degrees of solidarity is not a justification for unequal respect. This is the first normative commitment in this paper: equal respect is a normatively justified goal, critical of unequal forms of social FROM RECOGNITION TO SOLIDARITY 135 solidarity. The validity of the principle of equal respect does not depend for example on whether or not it meets the “internal criticism— requirement” (explained shortly): the validity is simply based on the equal dignity of persons. In addition to its being a normatively justified principle, we can add a number of characteristics that it is likely to have, related to internal criticism, epistemic access, developmental tendency, and especially to the political solidarity of social movements. It may further meet the “internal criticism-requirement”: it may be suitably connected to the prevailing understandings, motivational sets, social practices and solidarities, so that there is either an explicit commitment to equal respect, or implicitly there is a “sound deliberative route” (Williams 1981) from the existing commitments to the principle of equal respect. In Axel Honneth’s terms, there may be a “validity surplus” created by the existing commitments, to be cashed out. Indeed, there may be something about human relations, interaction or communication, thanks to which a commitment to fundamental equality is hard to avoid, given that each regards the other as responsive to reasons, responsible for their deeds, etc. The existence of such a normative route may be significant even if it does not function as a normative filter or condition of the validity of the principles of equal respect. Grasping the validity of the principle may be like a conversion to deliberating correctly, rather than a condition of its correctness (McDowell 1995). Closely related to that, this deliberative route is likely to be epistemically accessible to the members (although there may be “second-order pathologies”21 ideologically blocking the members from seeing the intact route that normatively speaking would be there). From the viewpoint of recognition-theories one may further try to argue that there is not only a normative commitment, but an intrinsic dynamic and developmental tendency in interpersonal relations towards a domination-free standing—the two-sided dissatisfactions of relations of domination in principle provide an objective tendency and subjective urge to emancipate oneself and the other from such domination towards adequate mutual recognition. This would be to generalize the Hegelian (1977 [1807]) lesson of the unsatisfactoriness of the Master-Slave-predicament. Critical social theorists more broadly may want to point out the relevance of social movements and political solidarity in the Kampf 136 ARTO LAITINEN against injustice and misrecognition: despite the objective tendency and subjective urge there may well be more powerful structural and institutional features as well as motivational patterns preventing such liberation.22 It is important to note that not only short-term hedonic orientation, or long-term egoistic prudence, but also the existing loyalties and commitments as genuinely normative motivation, may stand in the way of emancipation. That is, existing solidarities may stand in the way of emancipation from domination, and may be opposed to mutual respect. Such normatively justified mutual respect can thus be motivationally demanding, and especially in the contemporary situation where it still is a critical idea instead of a fully actualized living practice (in terms of Hegel (1991 [1821]), a matter of Moralität instead of Sittlichkeit), it may require further sources of motivation for the political solidarity to be formed, apart from the normative motivation created by the perception of it as the right thing to do.23 But on the other hand, it is to be expected that when established as the core of a lifeform with existing patterns of sanctioning and enjoyment, mutual respect may be sufficiently motivating on its own.24 How Demanding or Encompassing Is “Core” Respect? Mutual respect is a thin relationship between people. But there may be different interpretations as to how demanding or encompassing it is. The “encompassingness” concerns the list of kinds of duties we have simply as humans. While some views might support more minimal approach, there is good reason to include all the following four kind of duties: First, the core is formed by the negative duty of avoidance of harm, and respect for the rights and autonomy of others. This is in principle easy to meet—by simply doing nothing. Note however, that institutional arrangements may be such that by participating in them we inadvertently cause significant harm to others—and at the same time these institutional arrangements may be part and parcel of how our everyday activities are structured (say, as workers, consumers or possessors of pension-saving accounts). Thus, it may be close to impossible to simply stop engaging in these practices. Nonetheless, the forceful norm of avoiding harm to others clearly states that we ought to stop such behavior. FROM RECOGNITION TO SOLIDARITY 137 Closely related to this principle of not harming others is the requirement to respect things of impersonal value (say, cultural heritage, natural values), and not destroy them—even if one has no intention of engaging in the activity of, say, reading books, one ought not destroy libraries.25 Again, this can often be done by doing nothing, but one’s society’s social practices may cause e.g. environmental degradation on an ongoing basis, and it may be hard not to take part in these practices. There is also a class of (negative) duties that arise with violations:26 So secondly, there are (negative) duties of reparation, compensation, and apology when one has harmed others—these, too, are required by the universalistic principles. Here, positive action is definitely required, but only because of a violation of a negative duty. It is hard to imagine a moral view of mutual respect which would not require these kinds of reparations. Thirdly, there are further positive duties and responsibilities of “doing enough” in terms of helping and improving the lot of others. There is latitude in where and when one should help and whom, so these imperfect duties have been called “latitudinarian”—the idea is that one should do enough, one’s fair share, given one’s own condition.27 Closely related is the positive responsibility for the goal of promoting justice in the distribution of burdens and benefits. On some views, such positive duties are not duties at all, but supererogatory deeds. On other views, supererogation starts only when one has already done enough. (It is quite natural to use the language of solidarity for these aspects—but the point here is that it is a matter of dispute how much basic mutual respect requires.) Fourthly, there are (positive) duties concerning burdens of moral sanctioning and sustaining a positive morality, including a social practice of sanctioning. All members of the moral community have a share in these burdens. Related to that, there are also cognitive or critical duties—the standing obligation to reflect critically and criticize one’s form of life (for example, for making it impossible not to harm others). And further, there is the obligation to do one’s share in changing the existing social practices and institutional structures so that they would not harm people, or make people harm people by engaging in harmful activities. There is arguably even a moral duty to reflect and criticize any society for moral failures. The differences 138 ARTO LAITINEN between historical societies do not run as deep as the common human responsibility—despite our differences, we are all responsible for each other, including temporally and spatially distant ones. Turning the blind eye to distant suffering is not morally acceptable, even when the distant suffering is caused by local, otherwise honorable traditions. Note that with the more encompassing views we are approaching the notion of “moral solidarity.” Merely refraining from violating one’s negative duties is merely a precondition, not yet a realization or expression of solidarity. And presumably, moral repair for one’s own violations is not yet a realization of solidarity either as it is merely a matter of restoring the relationship to the condition required by mutual respect. But it is more natural to call the activity of third parties on behalf of the victims, aiming towards adequate compensation and the setting right of wrongs as being in solidarity with the victims. Struggling to build a world of uncompromised equal respect, where no one is dominated, exploited, humiliated or treated unjustly by the global basic structures, and where everyone’s human rights are protected will already require collective political solidarity of some kind. Just as there is an “imperfect duty” to help some people sometimes (complementing the negative duty not to harm), there is an “imperfect duty” to do something to promote the creation of global justice (complementing the perfect negative duty not to participate in unjust institutions—but in practice one may have to participate and then one has the further duty to compensate for one’s participation). This kind of morally motivated “political solidarity” is a response to injustice, or more broadly, response to violations of equal respect. (No doubt, there are other kinds of political solidarity as well, but this shows the deep connection between mutual respect and some forms of political solidarity.) So much for rival ideas about how encompassing the morality of mutual respect is. But there can also be more or less demanding versions of all of these. Many of the duties were put in terms of “doing enough” or “one’s share” and it can of course be a matter of dispute what is enough. The demandingness in each of these contexts is the extent to which these moral demands restrict our pursuits, and how much effort and energy they require from each.28 To illustrate with wellknown examples of justice: does justice require libertarian protection FROM RECOGNITION TO SOLIDARITY 139 of property, republican or Aristotelian sufficientarianism, or a more egalitarian fair division of everything over and above the sufficientarian line? Or, concerning examples of morally justified use of force, is self-defense or defensive war ever justified? And so on. Thus, with the membership in the kingdom of ends certain limited duties arise, but depending on the historical circumstance they may be potentially very demanding—indeed arguably the contemporary world order is badly in need of moral reparation, improvement and solidarity, and very much is needed from all of us morally speaking. One may point out that while demanding, relations of mutual respect can also be motivationally rewarding. The structure that according to Scanlon (1998) is characteristics of friendship and mutual respect (recognition) is helpful here. The motivational pattern involved is a nested one: it includes a sense of duty (and appreciation of normative reasons), as well as a register of emotional responses, it includes certain dispositions to enjoy things and to appreciate relationships.29 The Monadic, Dyadic, and Triadic—and the Unity Constituted by Mutual Respect Mutual respect understood as a universalist, thin relationship is in itself a type of normative relationship which forms a core of thicker relationships of solidarity. We can speak about a kind of “accordion effect” between monadic, dyadic and pluralist formulations.30 Of these, the pluralist formulations can be taken as forms of “moral solidarity.” One-hat, monadic description of moral deontology focuses on one agent and asks which acts in a situation are right and which wrong, and what the agent ought to do overall. In that picture there is one agent and various possible deeds, each of which is either morally permissible or morally impermissible. The other agents figure in the description of the situation, they provide an occasion to act rightly or wrongly. By contrast, two-hat, dyadic descriptions focus on what the agent owes to someone else, what directed obligations there are, what rightful claims the other has against the agent, and what deeds would be cases of the agent wronging the other. These 140 ARTO LAITINEN descriptions highlight the relational aspect between the agent and the other, they zero in on the normative relation between them. The other is not merely an occasion to act rightly or wrongly, but someone that can be wronged (see Scanlon 1998, Thompson 2004). Plural or triadic or “many-hat” descriptions then highlight not only the relation between the agent and the claimant, but also their relations to bystanders, possible interveners, sanctioners and witnesses. A violation against anyone is at the same time a violation against the norm which it is everyone else’s task to sustain: in that sense violation against one is a violation against all. The slogan “one for all and all for one” captures nicely the collective task of moral sanctioning, as services for the moral community. The (many-hat) moral solidarity concerns our role as members of a moral community (compare to the Kantian kingdom of ends) with issues of distribution of responsibilities.31 While there are normative issues of who is entitled to express criticism against whom in all sorts of other issues (who is entitled to stick their noses into whose business?), concerning moral issues third parties are always already in principle included, as members of the relevant all-inclusive community, and indeed have related duties as witnesses and preventers of crimes. Concerning the value and dignity and equal status of persons a similar “accordion effect” can be noted. The moral core can be spelled out in terms of value (called “dignity of persons,” or Menschenwürde), inviolable deontic status of persons, or relations of recognition—or in terms of moral solidarity.32 These are structurally more advanced ways of putting the point, but each incorporates the previous ones as their aspects. What kind of implications does the dignity or moral status of persons have: what kind of relations of recognition incorporate the value and deontic status of persons? What kind of relationship of unity emerges from that basis alone? Here, the Hegelian idea that freedom—with the structure of being oneself in and through the other—unites persons intrinsically is relevant (whereas extrinsic needs unite persons only extrinsically).33 And so is Scanlon’s (1998) idea of the ability to share reasons (and the alienating experience of a gulf between people who do not recognize the reasons you do), and the minimal consensus on moral reasons that mutual recognition requires. FROM RECOGNITION TO SOLIDARITY 141 But on the other hand, Paul Ricoeur (1992) links to mutual respect the idea of a “just distance” between people—letting the other be free, recognizing their independence, granting them their independence. This aspect stresses the “thinness” or restrictedness of the area of things that mutual respect concerns—the other person’s views on almost any other topic of interest do not matter, what matters is “standing together” against domination, injustice, or violations, which requires somewhat shared understandings on what constitutes domination or violation. In studying this, we can put aside all sorts of differences between people, behind a “veil of ignorance” as it were, and see persons merely qua persons. Their relationship is ideally one of mutual respect which constitutes their freedom, and which unites them inwardly. Solidarity will thicken these relationships in three ways to be discussed below, which all are related to cooperation and mutual support (related to esteem and self-esteem; concern for others and for oneself; and the status of being a special person to someone in standing in special relation). But even at this thin level we can distinguish between genuine mutual respect, which unites people in an inward way, and mere toleration (and of course, between both of these and disrespectful and intolerant behavior), which does not quite achieve this. Think of a case of two deeply religious persons. In many cases their encounter poses no challenge to mutual respect. They can happen to agree, in which case respecting the other person as a competent judge is not strained at all. Or then, they might have the view that what is at stake—thanks to its subject matter—are merely personal opinions, subjective commitments and convictions, which do not stand in need of interpersonal justification at all, and which do not generate a disagreement at all. Again, there is no strain to full respect. Or then, the people can consider the disagreement irrelevant: they may think that it is no business of theirs (thanks to not standing in any special relationship; and the subject matter not making the matter automatically everyone’s concern) to actually form an opinion, or express the opinion, or even worse, force the other to act accordingly. Or then, the two persons may disagree, and this might take the extremely hostile form of violence, enmity, spite, desire to purify the earth from heretics, etc. This would clearly violate the demands of mutual respect. Or they may disagree more peacefully, and consider 142 ARTO LAITINEN this a case of reasonable disagreement (in light of the best evidence available to both), and hold that both sides are justified, while only one side captures the truth; in this case they think that there is a genuine disagreement, but it is compatible with full mutual respect. Or furthermore, they can tolerate and defend the other’s right to have the view, even though they regard the view as unjustified and untrue (and think that there is a genuine disagreement)—here the respect or appraisal of the other as a competent judge can nonetheless remain intact if considerations of epistemic circumstances make it fully understandable why the other would hold the view, which on fuller consideration and with better evidence turns out to be false. Or then, there may be a judgment that the other person ought to know better in that circumstance, in which case there is a strain to full respect or appraisal of that person’s cognitive performance (even then, one can fully respect their cognitive capacity in principle, or at least not find the other incurably stupid—and find it worthwhile, if there’s otherwise good motivation to do so, to try to persuade the other). Not tolerating the other’s views (consider moral views in conflict with core moral respect) can take a variety of forms. So there is, along these lines, a lot of room for refinement; and there can be full mutual respect even in spite of disagreement. How to describe the sense of being connected to another person qua a person? Of course, phenomenologically we are always involved in thicker relationships, so this core aspect is perhaps best approached via its negations: we have the register of emotions of guilt, blame and moral indignation which address the other as a moral agent. (Of course, we also have a certain pride or a “warm glow” of having done the right thing, of being able to look the other in the eye, and emotions of gratitude.) What Peter Strawson (1974 [1962]) has called reactive attitudes are a good starting point here, as well as the experiences of being respected or disrespected. This sense of connectedness to other moral agents as moral agents illuminates the unity involved in mutual respect. It is the core of moral solidarity in the all-inclusive moral community. Moral solidarity is related to responsibilities and duties we have as members of the moral community: a violation against one is a violation against all, independently of borders of states, nations or local communities. Conceptually moral solidarity thus goes beyond one-hat or two- FROM RECOGNITION TO SOLIDARITY 143 hat descriptions. Of the four kinds of duties enumerated above, especially the fourth type of duties (the duty to participate in moral sanctioning) can be called duties of moral solidarity. (The others can be called negative duties, duties of reparation, and other-regarding positive duties.) Further, the realizations of the norm of mutual respect come in two varieties: in actualized Hegelian Sittlichkeit, where mutual respect has become the prevailing reality, where things by and large are as they ought to be, and in more forward-looking Hegelian Moralität, where the norm and requirement is widely acknowledged but the prevailing institutional order is yet to actualize the norms of mutual respect—and where going about one’s daily business within the institutional reality may involve harming others. In the latter case, the realization of moral solidarity requires institutional change, social movements and political solidarity. From Mutual Respect to Political and Social Solidarity Political Solidarity Political, revolutionary solidarity can largely be understood as a response to moral deficits. Some of these are our strict duties, some latitudinarian duties, some strictly supererogatory from the moral viewpoint. But they can be constitutive of our practical identity nonetheless. Participation in social movements can be the way of being in solidarity with the oppressed groups.34 Political struggles can be motivated in various ways, and political solidarity can be an evaluative ideal (of political struggles that not only have a morally acceptable aim, but which embody moral virtues in their pursuit—constituting a significant aspect of the meaningful life of the participants). Further, not all political solidarity is good— the dignity of persons, mutual respect and moral solidarity may provide a critical standard which some forms of political solidarity fail to meet. In the agonistic situation, it may be easy to lose sight of the dignity of the other.35 Much of political solidarity is nonetheless good: political struggles may acquire further meaning thanks to being forms of solidarity, of embodying forms of mutual support and aid. 144 ARTO LAITINEN Of course, the goals of social movements and political solidarity vary a lot, and the goals of universal morality and justice are only a (significant) subset. There are all sorts of struggle for more particular goals. But in many significant cases, the goals are those of mutual respect. In these struggles, mutual recognition can take the shape or guise of political solidarity, it is not a separate thing—the unity between persons can simply take that form. Social solidarity is arguably typically created via struggles, within various power relations or relations of domination. Readiness to engage in political struggles forms a dimension of social solidarity—where the willingness to engage in political struggles in solidarity with the oppressed parties is a crucial element of the readiness to mutual support. In political solidarity, there is typically a network of agents who constitute the movement (whose internal solidarity is an important motivational matter), and typically a class of agents whose claims and interests the network represents and stands in solidarity with.36 But once considered from the viewpoint of mutual respect, in political struggles against moral injustices, the whole moral community is involved in these struggles, as the guardian and a stakeholder of the (ideal) moral norms in question. For political solidarity it is typical that some powerful groups (say, capitalists, polluting oil-industrialists, racists) are targeted as enemies or adversaries of the struggle. One important lesson from mutual respect is that although one need not tolerate the practices of these people, the goal is to restore relations of mutual respect with them as well, after the hopefully successful conflict. The (revolutionary) goal must be to actualize worthwhile goals, and institutionalize them into (normal) social and institutional reality sustained by bonds of social solidarity. Social Solidarity The approach that sees solidarity as ideally growing out of mutual respect can show how moral solidarity, political solidarity and social solidarity are united. The more encompassing and demanding idea we have of mutual respect and universal concern, the shorter step it is from there to thicker mutual aid and support constitutive of social solidarity in networks, groups, and societies. FROM RECOGNITION TO SOLIDARITY 145 The thicker relationships of solidarity embody the idea of mutual aid and support, which involves the ideas of esteem, concern, and valuable belonging, as well as the ideas of mediation via institutional roles. Concerning the social solidarity of the “normal” (evolutionary as opposed to revolutionary37) phases of socially responsive and democratic societies, we can distinguish two aspects of social solidarity, which share a similar structure.38 On the one hand, democratic citizenship, effective collective selfrule, requires solidarity (willingness to bear burdens, take responsibility and make efforts) and on the other hand, the societal goal of socio-economic justice, with its redistributive measures, requires a similar kind of solidarity. In both of these, a relationship between citizens has the structure of recognition of the other as both a contributor and a recipient collective self-rule, collective cooperation and distribution of benefits. Such interpersonal relationships can be both normatively demanding and motivationally inspiring—and the motivational element is not merely instrumental, but is intrinsically tied to the experience of being recognized as someone, for example a member in a democratic community, deserving just treatment. Institutional arrangements are crucial here. They can be more or less in accordance with principles of solidarity, can leave room for, promote and directly “express” informal, communal, and interpersonal solidarity. The institutional arrangements and prevailing social spirit or ethos can correspond to each other more or less, and one or the other can be more “progressive.”39 Societal solidarity indubitably requires effective institutionalization, and successful institutions will in turn promote the favourable attitudes constitutive of solidary relationships. Similarity, Homogeneity, and Unity Note that thick relations of social unity can hold between different kinds of people, solidarity does not presuppose sameness, similarity or homogeneity. Typical examples of significant, deeply motivating relations hold between people who are not similar (parent-child, husband-wife, participation in division of labour, etc). So to what extent does a functioning society require strong identification with a (homogeneous) pre-political community (national, ethnic, cultural, religious community)?40 Is it inconceivable that citi- 146 ARTO LAITINEN zen participation and socio-economic co-operation would be sufficiently motivating, in the absence of such homogeneous identifications? The simple answer seems to be simply “no.” There is no reason why “deep diversity” in a multinational, polyethnic, multicultural, religiously diverse society could not work. “Deep diversity” stands for a model where each individual has an equal standing, but some minorities or groups have special group rights, thanks to their position in the whole society, such as the Sami in Finland. Say, Swiss people living in Finland will have the same individual rights, but Sami people will have additional group rights.41 However, it must be admitted that a certain type of normative likemindedness can be experienced as a kind of unity. As such, there’s nothing bad about having a “common mind,” however thick it may be, and the “bonding social capital” that comes with it, as long as it leaves room for other types of social relations as well. And no doubt, existing strong bonds within smaller units may in practice pose challenges for society-wide solidarity.42 In discussing society-wide solidarity, we have to take into account also the cultural, religious, ethnic, national identities—they are a powerful force. So with these, the problem is in a sense reversed: while concerning democracy and socio-economic justice it is clear there are normatively justified demands but it is unclear whether they provide sufficient motivation; with issues like nationalism it is clear that they can generate motivation, but their normative validity is less clear. All in all, concerning social solidarity, we should have in mind an interplay of three kinds of solidarity-generating memberships: first, democratic citizenship and the mutual efforts to keep it going; secondly, socio-economic mutual support via societal cooperation; and thirdly, possibly narrower or wider ethnic, linguistic, cultural, religious groupings. Conclusion In sum, this chapter has tried to show how relations of mutual respect constitute a form of social unity, which can be thickened into social solidarity via patterns of mutual support and aid, with reversing roles both as a provider and receiver of benefits of cooperation. FROM RECOGNITION TO SOLIDARITY 147 Mutual respect and universal justice also form the core of moral solidarity, and the central motivations for political solidarity with victims of injustice.43 Notes 1 In Laitinen (forthcoming 2014) I discuss the connection between social solidarity and social esteem; in Pessi & Laitinen (this volume) we discuss solidarity and helping (without reference to theories of mutual recognition; while helping is of course closest to care of the three Honnethian forms of recognition); in Smith & Laitinen (2009) we discuss, in connection to Charles Taylor’s practical philosophy, three forms of social relations (moral, democratic and socio-economic) whose inner logic is that of mutual recognition. 2 Juul (2013, 133) defends the view that the normative core of solidarity, understood in terms of mutual recognition, lies in recognizing the other as an equal and worthy partner of interaction, and that solidary society would contain just institutions distributing chances for recognition fairly. That is, the normative core of solidarity is in universalistic mutual respect (in Juul’s case, interpreted in a Ricoeurian hermeneutical fashion stressing judgements in situations). This chapter agrees that mutual respect is the normative core, but that solidarity adds thickness in three respects: mutual esteem, mutual concern, and attachments to specific others. On solidarity and recognition, see further Blunden 2004, Pensky 2011, Zürcher 1998, Thome 1999. 3 Following Paul Ricoeur 1992, one could complement that threefold distinction with another distinction between i) ethical aims or issues of good life, ii) deontological considerations, and iii) judgments of practical reason in situations—resulting in a ninefold classification. 4 There are no doubt also more or less demanding interpretations of social solidarity, but here special attention is paid to the relation between mutual respect and social solidarity. The degree of demandingness of solidarity differs with different groups, and the nature of the bond in question. For example, different kinds of 148 ARTO LAITINEN relationships can be distinguished: membership in collective goals and group agency (including Miller’s “instrumental association”); independently normatively relevant relationships like being a relative, or perhaps membership in some institution; feeling of belonging or togetherness or likeness. 5 This section draws from Laitinen (forthcoming 2014), sections 1.1-1.4. 6 Of course, the way we understand the essential features of persons (rational, moral, self-conscious, vulnerable etc.) will affect what counts as equal respect of persons. But from the viewpoint of equal respect, the specific degree to which individuals have them is irrelevant. See Ikäheimo & Laitinen (eds.) 2007. 7 For further analysis, see e.g. Laitinen 2002, Laitinen 2010, and for a general introduction to the debates on recognition, see Iser 2013, Deranty 2009, Schmidt am Busch & Zurn, eds. 2010, Thompson 2006, van den Brink & Owen 2007, Ikäheimo & Laitinen, eds. 2011, McQueen 2011, and McBride 2013. 8 For Honneth, love is responsive to the particular needs of the loved one. I thank Onni Hirvonen for pointing this out. In a sense love is responsive to ‘negative’ particularities, such as needs, lacks, vulnerability, whereas esteem is responsive to ‘positive’ particularities such as merits, capacities, efforts, talents, achievements, or contributions. 9 Durkheim 1947 [1893]. 10 One may wonder whether a new ideal of solidarity is needed in late industrial societies, to replace the ideal of “organic” solidarity which was more at home in industrial modern societies, and which replaced mechanistic solidarity which was in turn at home in premodern societies. Challenges to organic solidarity are of different types: global injustice calls for global solidarity; the structural transformation of work from “factories” to “studios” may call for rethinking the relationship between work and free time; the precarious situation of the labour force within contemporary capitalism may call for basic income less dependent on actual contributions; ecological and technological developments suggest that less work overall will be needed, and so on. These are challenges to the aims and institutions of welfare societies, as well as challenges to theoreticians. 11 See Bayertz 1999, Scholz 2008; Wildt 1995; Pensky 2011; Brunk- FROM RECOGNITION TO SOLIDARITY 149 horst 2005. 12 This rough and ready threefold distinction does not leave room for the normal, evolutionary political praxis, which could and should for many purposes be distinguished as its own sphere, with a different kind of “civic” solidarity implicit to it. See e.g. Smith & Laitinen, 2009. 13 Compare to Mason (2000) who uses the notion of mutual concern broadly. Rorty has been criticized for example for not seeing the qualitative differences there are between face-to-face sympathy, and society-wide, not to mention global solidarity. See Pensky 2011. 14 See also Juul 2013. 15 See Laitinen (forthcoming 2014). 16 Further, it may be that Miller’s example of economic exchange can best be interpreted in terms of what Michael Walzer (1983) calls “free exchange” rather than desert or merit. 17 Mutuality here means that it always takes (at least) two to solidarity. One party can have solidaristic attitudes towards the other, but it does not yet constitute a relationship of solidarity, any more than one-sided love constitutes a love relationship. On the grammar of mutuality, see Laitinen 2010. 18 And therefore is worthy of esteem and gratitude as “backwardlooking” attitudes, which are to be distributed based on desert, and “trust” as a forward-looking attitude, which is to be distributed via something like “default relationship-sensitive normative expectations revised by track record.” 19 By the same stroke, it is also possible to provide out-group solidarity, as a supporter, but typically out-group solidarity is towards victims of injustice or other unfortunate obstacles to their wellbeing. See the treatment of political solidarity in the last section. 20 See Ikäheimo & Laitinen (eds.) 2007. 21 Zurn 2011. 22 Fraser & Honneth 2003; Honneth 1995 [1992]; 2007; 2012a. 23 There is perhaps a variety of sexual, intellectual or religious energies that revolutionary movements can hope to channel in support of this simple idea. 24 In Smith & Laitinen 2009 we have argued against Charles Taylor, who seems to think that further sources of motivation are needed even then. 150 ARTO LAITINEN 25 See Raz 2001. 26 There are of course also duties, such as that of gratitude, that arise not with violations but with having received help from others. Ross 1930. 27 Richardson 1997. 28 Note that it is not clear that “progress” means more demanding morality—if the prevailing understandings are normatively too demanding, then progress consists in loosening the grip of the stringent duties. 29 We discuss this further in chapter 10 of this volume. 30 Ricoeur (1992) makes this point nicely. 31 And once actualized, the Kantian Kingdom of Ends forms the core of Hegelian modern Sittlichkeit. 32 On dignity, see e.g. Rosen 2012, Waldron 2012. 33 Hegel 1991 [1821], Neuhouser 2000. 34 Scholz 2008. 35 Benhabib 2011. 36 Scholz 2008. 37 See Brunkhorst in this volume, chapter 8. 38 We have discussed these in more detail in Smith & Laitinen (2009) so I will be brief here. 39 Baldwin 1990. 40 See Mason 2010. 41 Redhead 2002 42 See Taylor 1992, 2009¸ van Parijs (ed.) 2004. 43 I would like to thank Petteri Niemi and Onni Hirvonen for a number of valuable comments. Literature Baldwin, Peter (1990). The Politics of Social Solidarity: Class Bases of the European Welfare State 1875-1975. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bayertz, Kurt (1999). “Four Uses of ‘Solidarity,’” in K. Bayertz (ed.), Solidarity. Philosophical Studies in Contemporary Culture, Vol. 5. Dordrecht/Boston/London: Kluwer, 3-28. Bayertz, Kurt, ed. (1999). Solidarity. Philosophical Studies in Contemporary Culture, Vol. 5. Dordrecht/Boston/London: Kluwer FROM RECOGNITION TO SOLIDARITY 151 Benhabib, Seyla (2011). Dignity in Adversity: Human Rights in Troubled Times. Cambridge, MA: Polity Press. Blunden, Andy (2004). “Solidarity, Recognition, Subjectivity and Mediation.” Unpublished manuscript. http://home.mira. net/~andy/seminars/solidarity.htm. (Retrieved June 2013). Brunkhorst, Hauke (2005). Solidarity. From Civic Friendship to a Global Legal Community. Boston: MIT Press. 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Ikäheimo, Heikki & Arto Laitinen (2007). “Analyzing Recognition: Identification, Acknowledgement and Recognitive Attitudes towards Persons” in Bert van den Brink & David Owen (eds.) Recognition and Power. New York: Cambridge University Press, 33-56. Ikäheimo, Heikki & Arto Laitinen, eds. (2007). Dimensions of Personhood. Imprint Academic. Ikäheimo, Heikki & Arto Laitinen, eds. (2011). Recognition and Social Ontology, Social and Critical Theory 9. Leiden/Boston: Brill. Iser, Mattias, “Recognition,” The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Fall 2013 Edition), Edward N. Zalta (ed.), http://plato.stanford. edu/archives/fall2013/entries/recognition/. Juul, Søren (2013). Solidarity in Individualized Societies: Recognition, Justice and Good Judgement. London and New York: Routledge. Laitinen, Arto (2002). “Interpersonal Recognition—A Response to Value or a Precondition of Personhood?” Inquiry, 45 (4): 463-478 Laitinen, Arto (2010). “On the Scope of ‘Recognition’: The Role of Adequate Regard and Mutuality,” in Hans-Christoph Schmidt am Busch & Christopher Zurn (eds.) The Philosophy of Recognition. Historical and Contemporary Perspectives. Lanham: Lexington Books, 319-342. Laitinen, Arto (2013). “Solidarity,” in Encyclopedia of Philosophy and Social Sciences, ed. by Byron Kaldis, London: Sage. Laitinen, Arto (forthcoming 2014). “Solidarity, Recognition, and Politics of Esteem. Basic Income as a Test Case,” in Recognition and Freedom. Axel Honneth’s Political Thought, Jonas Jakobsen & Odin Lysaker (eds.). Leiden & Boston: Brill. Mason, Andrew (2000). Community, Solidarity, and Belonging. Levels of Community and their Normative Significance. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. May, Larry (1996). The Socially Responsive Self. Social Theory and Professional Ethics. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. McBride, Cillian (2013). Recognition. Cambridge: Polity Press. McDowell, John (1995). “Might There Be External Reasons?,” in J.E.J. Altham & R. Harrison (eds.), World, Mind and Ethics: Essays FROM RECOGNITION TO SOLIDARITY 153 on the Ethical Philosophy of Bernard Williams, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 68-85. McQueen, Paddy (2011). “Social and Political Recognition.” Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy. Miller, David (1999). Principles of Social Justice. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Neuhouser, Frederick (2000). Foundations of Hegel’s Social Theory: Actualizing Freedom. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Pensky, Max, (2011). “Social Solidarity and Intersubjective Recognition: Axel Honneth’s Struggle for Recognition,” in Danielle Petherbridge, ed., Axel Honneth: Critical Essays with a Reply by Axel Honneth, Leiden & Boston: Brill, 125-154. Raz, Joseph (2001). Value, Respect, and Attachment. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Redhead, Mark (2002). Charles Taylor: Thinking and Living Deep Diversity. Lanham: Rowman and Littlefield. Richardson, Henry (1997). Practical Reasoning about Final Ends. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ricoeur, Paul (1992). Oneself as Another, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Ricoeur, Paul (2005). The Course of Recognition. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Rorty, Richard (1989). Contingency, Irony and Solidarity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rosen, Michael (2012). Dignity. Its History and Meaning. Cambrdige, MA: Harvard University Press. Ross, W. D. (1930). The Right and The Good. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Scanlon, T. M. (1998). What We Owe to Each Other. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Schmidt am Busch, H.-C. & C. Zurn, eds. (2010). The Philosophy of Recognition—Historical and Contemporary Perspectives, Lanham, Lexington Books. Scholz, Sally (2008). Political Solidarity. University Park: Pennsylvania University Press. Shelby, Tommie (2005). We Who are Dark. Philosophical Foundations of Black Solidarity. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Smith, Nicholas H. & Laitinen, Arto (2009). “Taylor on Solidarity.” 154 ARTO LAITINEN Thesis Eleven, 99 (1): 48-70. Strawson, Peter (1974 [1962]). “Freedom and Resentment,” in Freedom and Resentment and Other Essays. London: Methuen. Taylor, Charles (1992). Multiculturalism and “The Politics of Recognition,” A. Gutmann, ed. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Taylor, Charles (2004). Modern Social Imaginaries, Durham and London: Duke University Press. Taylor, Charles (2007). A Secular Age, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Taylor, Charles (2009). “Reply.” Thesis Eleven 99: 93-104. Thome, Helmut (1999). “Solidarity: Theoretical perspectives for empirical research,” in Bayertz (ed.), 101-132. Thompson, Michael (2004). “What is it to Wrong Someone? A Puzzle about Justice,” in Reason and Value, eds. R. Jay Wallace, Philip Pettit, Samuel Scheffler and Michael Smith, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 333—384. Thompson, Simon (2006). The Political Theory of Recognition—A Critical Introduction, Cambridge: Polity Press. van Parijs, Philippe, ed. (2004). Cultural Diversity versus Economic Solidarity. Bruxelles: De Boeck. v. d. Brink, Bert & David Owen, eds. (2007), Recognition and Power, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Waldron, Jeremy (2012). Dignity, Rank, and Rights, New York: Oxford University Press Walzer, Michael (1983). Spheres of Justice. New York: Basic Books. Wildt, Andreas, (1995). “Solidarität,” in Joachim Ritter & Karlfried Gründer (eds.) Historisches Wörterbuch der Philosophie. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Wildt, Andreas (2007). “Solidarität als Strukturbegriff politisch-sozialer Gerechtigkeit,” Jahrbuch für Christliche Sozialwissenschaften, 48. Williams, Bernard (1981). “Internal and External Reasons,” in Moral Luck, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 101-113. Zürcher, Markus Daniel (1998). Solidarität, Anerkennung und Gemeinschaft: Zur Phänomenologie, Theorie und Kritik der Solidarität. Tübingen: Francke. Zurn, Christopher F. (2011). “Social Pathologies as Second-Order Disorders,” in Danielle Petherbridge, ed., Axel Honneth: Critical Essays with a Reply by Axel Honneth, Leiden & Boston: Brill. 7. SOLIDARITY AND WORK: A REASSESSMENT Nicholas H. Smith Overview T he historical rise of the ideal of solidarity, as well as the most moving and enduring symbols we have for it, are intimately bound up with work. The ideal of solidarity first emerged as an explicit source of political mobilization by way of the workers’ movement in mid-nineteenth-century France (Hayward 1959, 277; Wildt 1999; Wilde 2013), while of course the actions of the Polish trade union Solidarność in the 1980s provide an unrivalled image of what solidarity means, and what it can achieve, that inspires us to this day. The link between solidarity and work is also central to the classical theories of solidarity, particularly those advanced by Hegel, Marx and Durkheim. Although Hegel did not use the word solidarity, his account in Philosophy of Right of the ‘ethical basis’ of the associations characteristic of civil society amounts to an elaboration of the kinds of solidarity that have to be in place for the social system of production and consumption to function properly. Alongside the bond of marriage, Hegel identified the social solidarity arising from membership of a ‘Corporation’ of workers as the key centripetal force, as he depicted it, needed to negate the potentially destructive cen- 156 NICHOLAS H. SMITH trifugal forces of self-interest unleashed in civil society (Hegel 1952: sec. 255). For Marx, whose theory of solidarity is also implicit but nonetheless very influential historically, the pathologies of destroyed solidarity in the modern world are the inevitable consequence of the antagonism between labour and capital, which only a revolutionary transformation of the organization of labour can cure. While according to Durkheim’s much-discussed theory (which is in part a reaction to Marx’s), it is precisely the specialization of work under capitalism that makes possible a new, healthier and ethically more progressive (because more universalistic) ‘organic’ mode of solidarity, which can itself be drawn upon for overcoming the most egregious and socially divisive effects of capitalism. So for the classical theories of solidarity the relation between solidarity and work is central, and this reflects the close historical and symbolic association between work and the ideal of solidarity. But for most contemporary theorists of solidarity, the relation between work and solidarity is peripheral or secondary. While recent analyses of solidarity do not deny the importance of work as a context or source of solidarity, they do nonetheless tend to marginalize its significance, or to include it merely as an after-thought. Certainly, it is unusual for a theorist of solidarity today to assign a special significance to work as a context and source of solidarity—the kind of significance, that is to say, that the classical theorists of solidarity mentioned above did (albeit in their different ways). Perhaps the most notable exception to this trend, amongst critical social theorists at least, is Axel Honneth. According to Honneth’s theory (which is obviously heavily indebted to Hegel’s), just as love is the form that recognition takes in the familial sphere, and rights the form it takes in the legal/political sphere, so solidarity is the expression of mutual recognition proper to civil society (Honneth 1995a). Social solidarity, on this account, turns on the acknowledgement of social contributions made first and foremost through work. Here Honneth picks up on a thought shared by Hegel, Marx and Durkheim that social solidarity in the modern world is bound up more or less satisfactorily with the social organization of labour: with what people contribute to society understood as a common weal, a general and encompassing process of production and consumption. SOLIDARITY AND WORK: A REASSESSMENT 157 While this is an important perspective to take on the link between work and solidarity, and is an important corrective to the relative neglect of work in the recent literature on solidarity, I want to propose that there is a further lesson to be learned from the classical figures on solidarity. For in addition to drawing our attention to the solidarity at stake in contributions to society as a whole through participation in the social division of labour, they also invite us to consider the perhaps more fundamental solidarity that is presupposed and engendered in acts of cooperation intrinsic to the activity of working itself, firstly and for the most part. The crux of my argument is this. If solidarity is a feature of effective cooperative relationships, and if it is above all in working activity that the concrete meaning of cooperation becomes manifest to us (that is to say, the context in which the need for cooperation and the difficulties of establishing and maintaining it become most tangible), then work should not be a marginal or secondary consideration for theorists of solidarity, as it currently is, but a central consideration. I’m aware that the conclusion of this argument is controversial and will sit uncomfortably with many theorists, but for reasons I will present later, I believe the main misgivings likely to be aroused by the centrality of work thesis can be assuaged. First though, I should say something more about the relation between solidarity and work that emerges from some of the classical theories. I’ll then show in a bit more detail how the contemporary debate around solidarity tends either to marginalize this relation or to make it difficult to keep in view. I’ll also very briefly consider how a couple of exceptions to this tendency, that is, accounts that do take the relation between work and solidarity seriously, nevertheless ignore or choose to discount the possibility of a solidarity that is embedded—transcendentally, I’m tempted to say—in working activity itself on account of its cooperative nature. I elaborate the meaning of the claim that work has this feature by drawing on Christophe Dejours’ psychodynamic approach to work. Only then will I be in a position to consider some of the main objections. 158 NICHOLAS H. SMITH Hegel, Marx and Durkheim: Mutuality and Expression in Work As a first step in our reassessment of the relation between work and solidarity, it is worth reminding ourselves of the great significance attached to work and the social division of labour in the classical theories of solidarity.1 As I mentioned before, while Hegel didn’t use the term solidarity as such, his whole account of ethical life is meant to make explicit the solidaristic ethical relations that form the ‘reverse side,’ to use Habermas’s expression, of modern, autonomy-based universalistic morality (Habermas 1989). It is only through its objective expression in social practices such as the family and the state that the morality of freedom has concrete reality for subjects, and it is through socialization into these practices that subjects acquire a concrete sense of why morality matters. Without solidaristic bonds morality would be abstract and ineffectual: the universal would be ‘split off ’ from the particular. It is on account of the particular ‘rising to the universal,’ as Hegel often says, that morality and solidarity co-emerge. Hegel gives two accounts of the centrality of work in this dialectical process. First, there is the transformation of the consciousness of the worker through the objectification of his powers that is recounted in the famous master-slave dialectic of the Phenomenology of Spirit (Hegel 1977). The act of producing an object reveals the working subject to himself in a way that mere consumption or impulsive gratification —the nature-like particularity the worker has had to sacrifice for the sake of making the object—cannot match. The worker thus obtains a level of self-consciousness (he is able to say “I did that!,” as Gadamer points out in his insightful commentary) that Hegel describes as the first step on the road to the full self-consciousness of freedom (Gadamer 1982). While Hegel never abandons this expressivist, self-formative model of work, it moves backstage in Philosophy of Right, where the central role of work in the dialectic of particularity and universality takes shape in the context of the socially mediated satisfaction of wants and needs. In a modern market economy, the satisfaction of need appears at first to be governed wholly by the principle of particular- SOLIDARITY AND WORK: A REASSESSMENT 159 ity, by individuals pursuing their own self-interest. And it is true that the exchange of goods, labour and services that makes up the market economy is aimed at the satisfaction of particular needs and the creation of private wealth. In the act of exchanging something that will result in the satisfaction of one’s own particular want, an individual is of course forced into satisfying someone else’s—the buyer’s—and this sets in motion a dialectic of the particular and the universal (the ‘invisible hand’) that results in a ‘system’ of need or want-satisfaction (Hegel 1952: sec 199). The interdependence of the individuals who contribute to this system provides an objective basis for social solidarity. But Hegel saw that the principle of particularity that holds sway in the market also generates great inequality and deprivation—not least, and most perniciously in Hegel’s view, in the availability of socially useful work (or work that is recognized as making a contribution to the system of need). This is where what Hegel called the ‘corporations’ come in: associations that are responsible for maintaining the quality of the work of the various trades (their skill-base, training, population, etc.) as well as their social standing. Such associations gave expression to the solidarity of members of the socialized (though market-mediated) system of need (Hegel 1952: sec 253). We can also distinguish two approaches to the relation between work and solidarity in Marx. On the one hand, Marx takes over the expressivist model of work according to which human beings realize their essential humanity through free productive activity. This conception of work is most vivid in early writings such as the ‘Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts’ and the ‘Excerpts on James Mill’s Elements of Political Economy’ of 1844, but it is unmistakable in passages of Capital too (Marx 1975; 1976).2 According to this conception, under capitalism labour is unfree (it is dominated and distorted by capital) and this results in the self-alienation of workers in their productive activity. This is at the same time a social alienation since it involves estrangement from other workers, from the process of social production and the social species being. True social solidarity is only possible in a society that would abolish the domination of labour by capital and thereby the fundamental source of both self and social alienation (Marx 1975, 277-278). 160 NICHOLAS H. SMITH But such a social transformation can only happen, Marx also thought, if the working class can summon the solidarity to take possession of the social system of production. There are two related thoughts here which are adventitious to the expressivist approach but which came to dominate Marxist thinking on solidarity and work. First, the moral and social pathologies of capitalist society are now seen as springing from ownership of the means of production. The question of who has power over the means of production, of the physical and labouring resources by which nature is transformed to satisfy human needs, becomes paramount. But this is distinct from the question of the organization of work per se and the kind of activity it is possible to undertake within it (a factory controlled by communists can be just as alienating as one controlled by capitalists). Second, solidarity could now come to be seen first and foremost as something that is instrumentally valuable for the overriding political task of gaining power. This helps to explain why, in the Marxist tradition, the central point of reference for understanding the relation between work and solidarity came to be class understood in terms of where one stands in relation to ownership of the means of production. Class membership, or rather membership of the working class, came to be regarded as both the only authentic source of solidarity (because based on the truly human capacity to work) and as the only effective source of solidarity (because only it has the power to mobilize a truly social revolution). It is hard to find anyone nowadays who endorses either of these ‘Marxist’ views about solidarity and its relation to work, but before turning to why that might be the case, we should briefly consider Durkheim’s views on the matter. Like Hegel and Marx before him, Durkheim was acutely aware of both the threat to social solidarity posed by the specialization and fragmentation of labour in modern industrial society, and the potential for an emancipating ‘organic’ form of social solidarity, as Durkheim called it, based on a more reflexive, transparent and inclusive system of social labour. The widespread availability of meaningful work, and the ability to see one’s work as contributing to the social whole on account of transparent connections between the different parts of the system, are crucial to the organic form of solidarity Durkheim had in mind (Durkheim 1984, 298, 311, 326). Without the kinds of religious and kinship bonds that held together earlier socie- SOLIDARITY AND WORK: A REASSESSMENT 161 ties, modern societies have to rely on the sense of connection people obtain from contributing meaningfully to the common effort in their work. Work thus has to be organized in a way that enables individuals to make such a meaningful contribution on pain of social disintegration (Durkheim 1984, 330). To bring this brief discussion of the classical theorists of solidarity to a close, it is clear that work is central for each of them. For Durkheim and Hegel, the ethical basis of the social solidarity that is the ‘reverse side’ of the morality of freedom that finds partial expression in a market economy is bound up with the availability of work that provides individuals with a sense of contributing to the social whole, which in turn provides a basis for self-respect. Of course Marx denies that the system is capable of meeting that condition but he agrees (at least in his early writings) that only a society that did meet it (that did make socially meaningful work generally available) would have the required solidarity. But for Marx, the political solidarity of the working class, defined by its lack of ownership of the means of production, is also very important, since it is only by taking ownership of the means of production that the fundamental problems of social solidarity (and the economic crises that beget them) can be addressed. It is this feature, I suggested, that came to characterize Marxist analyses of solidarity, and is evident, for instance, in their preoccupation with class consciousness. As class consciousness failed to materialize amongst workers in the radical way anticipated by Marxists, it no longer seemed credible to attach such a central political significance to class solidarity. At the same time, other forms of politically mobilizing identifications— forms based on gender and race, for example, rather than class— came to the fore. Indeed, class membership (or ‘sameness of class position,’ as Engels put it [Bayertz 1999, 17]) no longer seemed to define anything ‘essential’ or ‘privileged’ about identity at all. While, on some empirical measures, working class people showed more solidarity than people from middle class backgrounds, this did not seem to have much to do with their subjective identification with the working class as such, and in any case other forms of identification (religious, ethnic and cultural) seemed to carry more powerful subjective attachments (Sennett and Cobb 1972). These two developments—the fragmentation of the working class as a political agent 162 NICHOLAS H. SMITH and the rise of new forms of non-class based group identification— made it seem to many theorists that work was no longer central to social solidarity. But this conclusion could only appear so compelling given the Marx-Engels premise that solidarity in relation to work was essentially a matter of shared class position. The upshot of this is that work is now often taken up by theorists of solidarity solely on the grounds that it provides a context in which individuals are able to join together in effective common action to secure their particular group interest. As we shall see in a moment, this is the approach taken in Kurt Bayertz’s influential account of solidarity. But our brief consideration of Hegel, Marx and Durkheim shows that this is a quite limited conception of how work and social solidarity might be related to each other. The Contemporary Debate: the Marginality of Work In recent years a number of illuminating analyses and taxonomies of solidarity have been proposed. These have advanced our understanding of solidarity considerably after years of neglect of the subject by theorists. But for all the insight to be gained from them, they tend to present the relation between work and solidarity in a limited way (typically, to illustrate one particular type of solidarity), and they sometimes even make it difficult to conceive of work as a locus of solidarity at all. As an example of a perspective on solidarity that gives a restricted view of solidarity in relation to work, consider Kurt Bayertz’s account, which is one of the best of its kind and has rightly served as the point of departure for many subsequent discussions (Bayertz 1999). Bayertz distinguishes four uses of the concept of solidarity: 1) to refer to the ‘universal’ bond that joins all members of humanity in a single moral community; 2) to refer to the attachments that bind people together in particular, limited communities (what is invoked to explain social cohesion, especially in modern differentiated societies marked by cohesion-threatening pluralism and individualism); 3) to refer to the political bond that enables groups to stand together SOLIDARITY AND WORK: A REASSESSMENT 163 and present a united front in pursuit of their shared group interests; and 4) to refer to the bond that links the citizens of a modern welfare state together, legitimizing a redistribution of resources that ensures a minimal level of social protection for everyone. Bayertz gives an interesting account of labour movement solidarity under the rubric of the third, political type of solidarity he identifies. The solidarity characteristic of the labour movement is a good illustration of this type of solidarity, Bayertz argues, because it is the bond that enables workers to stand up to management and secure positive outcomes from the workers’ point of view. But in contrast to the Marxist tendency I mentioned above to focus exclusively on the strategic political importance of this solidarity, namely its instrumental value in the class struggle, Bayertz reminds us that the solidarity of the labour movement owes as much, if not more, to indignation at perceived injustices at work, as it does to an interest in obtaining or increasing power. There is a moral dimension to the solidarity expressed in the labour movement as well as a pragmatic, political dimension. Without this moral dimension, the term ‘solidarity’ would not really be applicable to the labour movement at all. Bayertz is surely right about this. Nonetheless, there are aspects of the relation between work and solidarity that do not fit neatly into Bayertz’s third type of solidarity and which are not picked up elsewhere in his account. In particular, the solidaristic significance of working activity, and of activity that is recognized as a meaningful contribution to the common good, is hidden from view. While it is true that Bayertz mentions the centrality of the division of labour to Durkheim’s theory of social solidarity, he depicts this significance not in terms of the differentiated kinds of social contribution the organization of social labour makes possible, but in terms of the possibilities it opens up for solidarity based on difference rather than sameness (Bayertz 1999, 12).3 The relevance of work for solidarity thus remains limited to solidarity that exists between groups whose identities happen to be bound up with work, to class-based identities that people may or may not have in the modern world (Bayertz 1999, 26). Let me now turn to another account which, while helpful in many respects, nevertheless has the unintended effect of screening out work altogether as a locus of solidarity. William Rehg has proposed an analytical framework for understanding solidarity in terms of the 164 NICHOLAS H. SMITH kind of common good that members of groups bound by solidarity are able to realize (Rehg 2007). According to this framework, solidarities exist as a spectrum with the (relatively weak or thin) bond that joins what Rehg calls ‘voluntary instrumental associations’ at one end, and stronger or thicker ‘irreducibly social lifeworld solidarities’ at the other (Rehg 2007, 8). Voluntary instrumental associations are those that individuals decide to establish in order to pursue individual interests they commonly have (as an example, Rehg mentions time-share groups whose members are able to use desirable vacation spots they couldn’t afford on their own); whereas lifeworld solidarities involve irreducibly social goods which are essentially realized in common by the members of the association and in principle cannot be realized outside it (examples of this kind of association include sports teams and orchestras, though Rehg suggests that close personal relationships may belong at this end of the spectrum too). If we start from Rehg’s premise, which I think is a good one, that solidarity is ‘the cohesive social bond that holds a group of people together in an association they both understand themselves to be part of and value’ (Rehg 2007, 8), then it is a promising strategy to analyze solidarity in terms of the understanding agents have of their associations and the kind of value the associations have for them. But what about the associations that interest us—those that we form, find ourselves with, and like it or not have to cultivate, at work? Clearly they are not voluntary instrumental associations. They are not voluntary because we rarely decide to join them: for the most part they come unforeseeably with the job. And they are not instrumental because they have a value beyond their mere expedience for completing a task, or getting something done. Yet they would also seem to differ, at least in many cases, from lifeworld associations as Rehg (following Taylor and MacIntyre) characterizes them (Rehg 2007, 13). While some work associations may be valued for the irreducibly social goods they realize or promote, it would be presumptuous to suppose that the solidarities involved are for the most part geared around those goods. As I will argue later, it may be enough that cooperation is required amongst agents working together at a task. But my immediate point is that Rehg’s analytical framework makes it hard to conceptualize what solidarity in work might mean: indeed, it is as if solidarity is paradigmatically a quality of those re- SOLIDARITY AND WORK: A REASSESSMENT 165 lationships we enter outside work—for example when we plan our holidays or play soccer at the weekend. Now when theorists working within a Habermasian framework use the term ‘lifeworld’—and much of the recent philosophical work on solidarity has been done by such theorists (Habermas 1987, 1989; Dean 1996; Brunkhorst 2005; Rehg 2007; Pensky 2008) to name but a few)—they have in mind a contrast with the so-called ‘system.’ And of course the paradigm case of a subsystem is the capitalist economy: the market-mediated system of production and consumption. It thus seems natural within this framework to oppose lifeworld and system; and thus to think of the lifeworld, and the solidaristic relations that characterize it, as independent of the world of work. Put otherwise, solidaristic relations are the kind of thing that come into view from the perspective that is suited to the lifeworld as distinct from the perspective suited for understanding the economic system, and thus of the relations that are characteristic of working activity. Habermasian denials of the ontological provenance of the distinction between lifeworld and system notwithstanding, this framework inevitably makes it appear as if the lifeworld, conceived as a sphere of solidarities, were not only distinct from but threatened by, and therefore opposed to, the world of work. The fundamental theoretical distinction between lifeworld and system, together with the equally fundamental distinction between communicative and instrumental action, arguably has had the benign effect of focusing attention on the solidaristic forces at play in a particularly important dimension of the lifeworld: the public sphere. The idea that the public sphere provides both a crucial context of solidarity and an opportunity for the creation of new, progressive, cosmopolitan forms of solidarity, is tremendously important and owes a lot to the Habermasian (and in turn Arendtian) theoretical framework it grew out of (Gould 2007). On the downside however, these distinctions make it hard to see how working, now viewed as economic activity subject to the forces of system integration, can be shaped at all by moral reasons and the solidaristic bonds that give them weight. The welcome rise of interest in the public sphere as a locus of solidarity is thus the correlate, I would suggest, of a less obviously welcome or justified decline of interest in work amongst theorists of solidarity.4 This development may not be just due to changes 166 NICHOLAS H. SMITH in the actual location of solidarity, but may be an effect of the theoretical perspective we bring to it as well. The ‘recognition-theoretic’ transformation of critical social theory urged by Honneth is of course meant to avoid the distortions and oversights that the distinctions at the heart of the theory of communicative action are liable to bring. And the idea that work is geared solely according to functional imperatives of efficiency and success is one of the major misapprehensions his theory aims to overcome. In one of his earliest articles, he argued that certain minimal norms were counterfactually presupposed in the very activity of working, and that these norms provided not only a morally valid, but a pragmatically effective, basis for worker solidarity (Honneth 1995b). However, as Honneth explains in one of his more recent articles, he has since replaced this idea with another one (Honneth 2012). This is the idea that goes back to Hegel and Durkheim that the market-mediated system of production and consumption, the exchange of goods and services that makes up a modern economy, must have an ethical basis that gives it legitimacy in the eyes of the participants, and that this basis can be used to justify the social provision of a minimum wage and the opportunity to contribute in a meaningful way to the common good. Admittedly, Honneth (following Castel) seems pessimistic about whether contemporary societies have the resources of social solidarity to support such practices, but he has no doubt that this is one of the central challenges facing social solidarity today (Honneth 2012; Castel 2003). A not dissimilar conclusion has been reached by Charles Taylor (Taylor 2001). Commenting on Josef Tischner’s account of solidarity (Tischner 1981), Taylor also draws attention to the normative basis of exchange, which involves a tacit mutual commitment on the part of those undertaking the exchange to contribute to each others’ good. This norm is counterfactually presupposed in the labour market and can be drawn on to justify economic redistribution as well as re-organization of the division of labour. Unfortunately, however, this norm is in ‘tragic conflict’—as Taylor puts it—with the capitalist principle of profit-maximization, and modern societies lack the funds of social solidarity needed to override that principle.5 SOLIDARITY AND WORK: A REASSESSMENT 167 Solidarity, Work and Cooperation: Toward a New Expressivism So both Honneth (drawing on Hegel and Durkheim) and Taylor (drawing on Tischner) suggest ways of thinking about the relation between solidarity and work that goes beyond the narrow focus on class-based identity that characterizes the contemporary debate—to the extent, that is, that work is a focus of the contemporary debate on solidarity at all. In doing so, Honneth and Taylor suggest that work should not be a marginal consideration for a theory of solidarity, but like the classical theories proposed, a central one. The key idea they want to retrieve is that the exchange of goods and services has an ethical basis in norms of reciprocity that are sufficiently robust to provide a source of social solidarity in their own right. The empirical, sociological thought is that the modern market-mediated system of social labour depends on social bonds that arise out of participation in and contribution to that system. The normative, critical thought is that those norms which are counterfactually presupposed in the actual labour market can be drawn upon to strengthen social solidarity and to reform the system in a way that more adequately reflects the norms (say, by ensuring that everyone has the chance to do socially recognized, meaningful work or receive a minimum wage). But is this the only insight from the classical theorists that is worth preserving? It won’t be if it can also be shown that the actual activity of working, and not just the exchange of labour and services, has a similar ethical basis, with corresponding bonds of solidarity in some sense built into it. That is to say, it might not just be the normative insights retrieved from Hegel, Marx and Durkheim regarding the counterfactually presupposed mutuality of exchange in the labour market that promise to put work back into the centre of the theory of solidarity: the expressivist conception of work found in the classical theorists might also be revived to similar effect. We have seen that in Hegel, Marx and Durkheim an expressivist conception of work sat alongside their account of the normative presuppositions of exchange and reinforced their understanding of the centrality of work for social solidarity. Let me briefly consider a way in which the expressivist 168 NICHOLAS H. SMITH model might be invoked once again to justify the centrality of work for social solidarity over and above the ethical basis of the labour market. The crux of the argument I want to put forward is that just as exchange is a social relation bound by norms, so the activity of working also involves an inescapable social, and so normative dimension, independently of the norm of reciprocity that forms the ethical basis of the exchange of labour for a wage. There are two aspects to the sociality of working I want to draw attention to that are most relevant for thinking about solidarity. These are the facts that: 1) working is always working with others 2) working is always working for others. To work is to work with another and for another. Both aspects bring us into the semantic domain of solidarity. To see this, it helps to consider more closely than is usual in philosophical discussions how working is experienced by the working subject: what impulses, motivations and constraints go to shape working activity. The theoretical and clinical research of Christophe Dejours is tremendously useful in this respect, and I draw on it in what follows (Dejours 2000; 2006; 2012). 1) To say that all working is ‘working-with’ is to say that cooperation is a central feature of working. It would be hard to imagine a single case of work that does not require some degree of cooperation, at least any work that takes place in a work organization. The organization of work is not just a matter of the coordination of actions, guided by the principle of efficiency (though of course successful organizations must be able to coordinate working activities in an efficient way).6 In addition, the organization of work must be able to elicit and facilitate cooperation between workers; that is to say, a desire to work together, or a ‘quality of will’ that enables them precisely to work with each other and thereby to assume shared responsibility for, and pride in, the work done. Cooperation involves a willingness to work together and thus requires a basic relation of trust to be in place. SOLIDARITY AND WORK: A REASSESSMENT 169 The question of how basic relations of trust are established, and how cooperative activity can ever get off the ground, is a vexing one from certain psychological standpoints. If one begins with the premise that the basic causes of action are rational self-interest, preference satisfaction, or at some level, evolutionary advantage, it can seem mysterious—or at least in need of much further explanation—why human beings might be motivated to engage in cooperative action at all. But if one begins with the kind of actions that are actually performed in workplaces, and one examines the motivational structures that seem to be in play there, the situation looks quite different. For the main issue facing the organization of work (as Dejours reports it) is not so much how artificially to induce cooperative behavior, as how to prevent obstacles to cooperation arising through management malpractice. Since each individual worker brings their own competences, expectations and psychic history to the work situation, some with more ability and investment in the work than others, cooperation will inevitably involve compromise and some degree of sacrifice on the part of some individuals. But typically, the content of the sacrifice is not, as the psychology of rational choice theory or evolutionary psychology presumes, the satisfaction of a desire specifiable independently of the work, but on the contrary, as the expressivist view would predict, the opportunity provided by the work for the individual worker to express herself fully. But self-expression in work in turn presupposes a functional work organization. And trust between workers is an indispensible feature of functional work organizations. Workers have to have trust in each other to work properly, indeed to work at all. When trust breaks down, no work gets done. The crucial issue for the organization of work is thus not how positively to create conditions of trust but how to prevent paralyzing conditions of distrust. Non-cooperative, mistrustful relationships are paradigmatic social pathologies of work organizations. In the normal case—the case of the functional work organization—trust, cooperation, and thus a certain degree of solidarity prevails. 2) In order to consider the basic motivations that come into play with the ‘for-others’ structure of working, we need to distinguish three kinds of ‘other’ for whom work is typically done. These are: i) the employer; ii) the customer or client (where distinct from the employer); and iii) colleagues, peers or fellow workers. 170 NICHOLAS H. SMITH i) The for-other structure of work as employment brings into play just those norms of reciprocity and mutuality already discussed above. Ideally, the for-other structure of work as employment reflects one side of an interaction that benefits each of the parties (the employer and the employed) equally. The presumption or anticipation of an approximation to the ideal can be an important source of solidarity; while conversely the disappointment of this expectation can be a serious source of social disintegration and conflict. ii) If the for-other structure of work as employment relates to the exchange value of the work (and so to the normative commitments implicit in the act of exchange), the bond that links the worker with the ‘end-user’ of the product of the work relates to the product’s subjective utility for the user, or its use value. So it is by satisfying the wants or needs of others that working in this sense acquires its ‘forothers’ character. The feeling of dependence on the specialized work of others for the satisfaction of one’s own particular wants and needs is, as we have seen, central to Hegel’s and Durkheim’s accounts of social solidarity. iii) Whereas normative expectations of reciprocal recognition inform the motivational ‘for-other’ structure of the exchange of work for a wage, and the anticipation of a fulfilled human need or desire informs the ‘for-other’ structure of the making or doing of something useful, working which is ‘for-others’ as far as one’s colleagues, fellow workers or professional peers are concerned brings in another layer of psychological complexity. On the one hand, there are all those working acts that are for-others in the direct sense that by means of them one worker helps out another. In countless if often invisible and unremarked ways, working involves working for one’s colleagues by assisting them, covering for them, giving them support—that is to say, showing solidarity with them in the most immediate sense. When working people act in these ways they are responding to more or less explicitly articulated moral demands that arise in the context of working. On the other hand, there are what one might call ‘aesthetic’ demands that workers find themselves facing on account of the quality of the task to be performed, the thing to be made, or the service to be provided. Following Dejours, we could call this the ‘beauty’ of the work done as distinct from its value to the employer, its use for the SOLIDARITY AND WORK: A REASSESSMENT 171 client, or its moral worth for a fellow worker. While the ‘for-other’ structure is not so obvious here, it is still present because only other colleagues or professional peers are able to see this beauty, to judge its ‘aesthetic’ quality and so appreciate its worth. And the anticipation of recognition from one’s peers for the quality of one’s working activity (as distinct from the recognition of the usefulness of the workproduct expressed in its purchase by a customer) is integral to the broadly speaking ‘moral psychology’ of working. This in turn both presupposes and makes manifest a certain solidarity with the community of fellow workers. Judgments of beauty are of course difficult to verify, but this has not prevented the wholesale introduction of quantitative techniques to objectively measure the quality of working activity. Such methods of evaluation often crudely mimic the agentic understanding of workers themselves. But worse, the recognition that is obtained through them is widely regarded as inauthentic by workers, as recognition not of the worth of the work, but of something else, such as compliance. Without authentic standards to be measured against or recognized for in their working activity, workers end up disinterested, cynical and alienated—further classical examples of social pathology reflecting deficits of solidarity. What I am suggesting here is that for the ‘for-other’ and ‘withother’ structure of the activity of work to come properly into view, we need a theoretical framework that conceptualizes the reality of work not simply as the technically challenging confrontation between a subject and an object, or of an instrumentally rational agent’s predicament in maximizing his gain (or minimizing his losses) in a context of unknowns, but as a ‘situation’ (in the old existential-phenomenological sense) structured by meanings. We need a framework for undertaking what I’ve called elsewhere a critical hermeneutics of work (Smith 2007). Within this framework, work is rescued from its lowly status as norm-free instrumental action so that it can be considered once again as a key form of human expression and a central sphere of moral experience. 172 NICHOLAS H. SMITH Objections to the Expressivist Model The view of the importance of work for solidarity I have presented here faces a number of potential objections. Let me conclude by briefly considering how the expressivist position I have defended might deal with some of the most serious challenges. One criticism that could be made of the expressivist approach to work and solidarity is that it neglects the power relations that are endemic to work. The objection might be put this way: true, work is always work ‘for others,’ but this formulation hides the central fact that work, at least in the modern world, is for the most part done under others. The figure ‘for whom’ we work is most tellingly the figure ‘under whom’ we work. The person who works for a boss, a manager, a foreman, etc. is above all subject to their power, be it the power they owe to the contingent structure of the work organization, or the power they owe more generally to their objective class position. This subordination of the worker to the boss, the fact that the boss or management exercises power over workers, makes it mere wishful thinking to talk of solidarity at work. Individuals or groups may make strategic associations to augment their power in the work organization, and to resist the power of others, but this is as far as solidarity really goes. The expressivist response to this objection is not to deny that power relations are an endemic feature of work, or that strategic associations in pursuit of power (or resisting it) are an important feature of working life, but it is to deny that power alone is the organizing principle of working activity. There is plenty of room for conflict and antagonism on the expressivist view I have been defending, but even in the most conflict-ridden, strategically minded and competitive workplace—so I would argue—there must be some background presumption of trustworthiness and cooperativeness amongst the working agents. There must be some solidarity between them, however invisible, tacit or merely anticipated. If there were not, the work organization would be completely dysfunctional: it would not be recognizable as a place of work. So whilst it is legitimate to draw attention to the struggles for power that permeate the organization of work, this does not of itself amount to an objection to the expressivist understanding of work and the relation of work to solidarity. SOLIDARITY AND WORK: A REASSESSMENT 173 If the objection we have just considered takes the expressivist to have a rose-tinted view of power and conflict at work, a similar point might be made of the expressivist view that work provides a key vehicle for self-expression, and so plays a central self-formative role, in modern societies. The criticism here is one that goes back to Adam Smith: the division of labour in modern societies has become so specialized and fragmented that it can no longer function as a satisfactory medium of integrated expression (Smith 1993). Menial, laborious, repetitive, low-grade work is the inevitable consequence of economic development. The work that goes on in a twenty-first-century fast food outlet, just like the work that went on in an eighteenth-century pinfactory, leaves little if any room for ‘expression’—and so little if any scope for solidarity related to expressive activity. The first point to be made in response to this objection is that the expressivist no more denies the existence of alienated work than she denies the existence of domination at work. As things stand, many types of work leave little room for self-expression, as the criticism claims. But just as the most oppressive workplace, if it is functional at all, draws on some willingness to cooperate on the part of the workers, so the most tedious, routine tasks require some engagement on the part of the working subject, and so some exercise of their singular intelligence. If a task was purely automatic, repetitive, and brainless, it would be done by a machine. Of course this is not to say that all jobs equally allow for the exercise of expressive powers. Nor is it to say that the mere capacity to apply practical knowledge in any given task is enough to make that work fulfilling. The point is rather that criticism of alienating, unfulfilling, poorly designed work can take its point of departure from the persistence of expression (however mutilated) across the division of labour. And the persistence of expression in turn implies the stubborn continuing presence of corresponding modes of solidarity. Workers engaged in tasks that to outsiders seem mono-dimensional and strictly utilitarian can see ‘beauty’ in what they do, and on that basis distinguish between good and bad work. Recognition from one’s peers for one’s good work when one does it is a source of solidarity the importance of which is easily underestimated. For the sense of self-worth—of being a ‘someone’ (Hegel) —one derives from it supports the self not just at work but in all its expressive activity. 174 NICHOLAS H. SMITH But even if we grant that the division of labour does not extinguish expression, one might still want to deny that the desire or need for expression has much to do with the motivation to work. The most basic psychological fact about employment, one might want to say, is that it provides the means for purchasing power. Work is first and foremost an instrumental good, and desired for that reason. To be sure, the purchasing power secured by work may not be expended on oneself. Many people work for their families. And this, it might be pointed out, is the most obvious and significant sense in which work is ‘for others’: one sacrifices one’s time at work to bring in a wage that one’s family or loved ones can benefit from. In such cases, work is no more than a contingent vehicle for the expression of familial solidarity. There is a radical strain of expressivism which takes the expressive value of working to be incompatible with it having an instrumental value—at least the instrumental value expressed in a wage. On the Marxist view, for example, the exchange value of one’s labour power is in ‘contradiction’ with the use value that can be realized by it. But more liberal forms of expressivism assert that work can have an instrumental worth in addition to an expressive one. The question then arises as to which of these reasons for working—the instrumental or expressive good one gets from it—predominates. The expressivist certainly denies that work should be considered solely as something of instrumental value. And even if one chooses to do work above all as a means of providing goods for one’s significant others, one’s experience in work is still framed by tacit understandings of what is acceptable by way of work. Although such pre-understandings may play a small role in motivating an agent to start work, they give moral shape to the concrete experience of working once it begins. As they become collectively articulated and expressed, premonitions of solidarity also take shape. What these criticisms bring out is that the expressivist approach to work can only succeed if it conceives work as at once a source of solidaristic human expression and a locus of domination, alienation and conflict. This, of course, is precisely what the classical theorists of solidarity, Hegel, Marx and Durkheim, tried to keep in view. If, as I have argued in this chapter, the classical theories remain a rich source of insight regarding the link between solidarity and work, it remains SOLIDARITY AND WORK: A REASSESSMENT 175 to be shown how the expressivist view they share can respond in detail to the new modes of subordination, alienation and instrumentalisation that characterize the contemporary world of work. To the extent that it can, it will also reveal new formations of solidarity. Notes 1 I shall only be considering—and all too briefly—the theories of Hegel, Marx and Durkheim, and I shall leave to others to consider how the other classical theorists, such as Tönnies and Mauss, conceive the relation between solidarity and work. 2 As an example of the latter, Marx writes of modern manufacture that it ‘converts the worker into a crippled monstrosity by furthering his particular skill as in a forcing-house, through the suppression of a whole world of productive drives and inclinations, just as in the states of La Plata they butcher a whole beast for the sake of his hide or his tallow’ (Marx 1976: 481) 3 Durkheim is widely praised by contemporary theorists of solidarity for seeing beyond the possibilities of solidarity based on ‘sameness,’ and it is this feature of his theory—his conceptualization of solidarity as ‘difference-based’—that they see as its distinctive, enduringly relevant contribution. It is less remarked upon that for Durkheim it is not any ‘difference,’ but specifically the different work that people do, their differential contribution to the division of labour in society, that provides the source of organic solidarity. 4 To the extent that whole books can be written on the ‘sources of liberal solidarity’ without any consideration whatsoever given to work as one such possible source (Edyvane 2007). 5 For further discussion of this interesting but little-known piece by Taylor, see Smith and Laitinen (2009). 6 Though it is this feature, the coordination of productive action entailed by the division of labour, that is emphasized in Marx’s discussion of cooperation in Capital (Marx 1976). 176 NICHOLAS H. SMITH Literature Bayertz, K. (1999). Four Uses of Solidarity, in Solidarity, ed. Bayertz. Dordrecht: Kluwer, 3-28. Brunkhorst, H. (2005). Solidarity: From Civic Friendship to a Global Legal Community. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Castel, R. (2003). From Manual Workers to Wage Laborers: Transformation of the Social Question. Trans and ed. Richard Boyd. New Brunswick: Transaction Publishers. Dean, J (1996). The Solidarity of Strangers: Feminism after Identity Politics. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Dejours, C. (2000). Travail, usure mentale. Paris: Bayard. Dejours, C. (2006). Subjectivity, Work and Action. Critical Horizons 7 (1): 45-62. Dejours, C. (2012). From Psychopathology to Psychodynamics of Work, in New Philosophies of Labour: Work and the Social Bond, ed. N. H. Smith and J-P. Deranty. Boston and Leiden: Brill, 209250. Durkheim, E. (1984). The Division of Labor in Society. Trans. W.D. Halls. New York: The Free Press. Edyvane, D. (2007). Community and Conflict: The Sources of Liberal Solidarity. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Gadamer, H-G. (1982). Hegel’s Dialectic. Five Hermeneutical Studies. Trans. P. Christopher Smith. Yale University Press. Gould, C. (2007). Transnational Solidarities. Journal of Social Philosophy 38 (1): 148-164. Habermas, J. (1987). The Theory of Communicative Action vol 2. Trans. T. McCarthy. Boston: Beacon Press. Habermas, J. (1989). Justice and Solidarity: On the Discussion concerning Stage 6, in The Moral Domain ed. T. Wren. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 224-254. Hayward, J.E.S. (1959). Solidarity: The Social History of an Idea in Nineteenth Century France. International Review of Social History 4: 261-84. Hegel, G.W.F. (1952). Philosophy of Right. Trans. T.M. Knox. Oxford: Clarendon. Hegel, G.W.F. (1977). Phenomenology of Spirit. Trans. A.V. Miller. Oxford: Clarendon. SOLIDARITY AND WORK: A REASSESSMENT 177 Honneth, A. (1995a). Struggle for Recognition. Trans. Joel Anderson. Cambridge: Polity. Honneth, A. (1995b). Work and Instrumental Action: On the Normative Basis of Critical Theory, in Honneth, The Fragmented World of the Social. ed. C.W. Wright. New York: SUNY Press, 15-49. Honneth, A. (2007). Democracy as Reflexive Cooperation, in Honneth, Disrespect. The Normative Foundations of Critical Theory. Cambridge: Polity, 218-239. Honneth, A. (2012). Labour and Recognition: a Redefinition, in Honneth, The I in We. Cambridge: Polity, 56-74. Marx, K. (1975). Early Writings. Trans. R. Livingstone and G. Benton. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Marx, K. (1976). Capital: Volume 1. Trans. Ben Fowkes. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Pensky, Max (2008). The Ends of Solidarity: Discourse Theory in Ethics and Politics. Albany: SUNY Press. Rehg, W. (2007). Solidarity and the Common Good: An Analytical Framework. Journal of Social Philosophy 38 (1): 7-21. Sennett, R. and J. Cobb (1972). The Hidden Injuries of Class. New York: Knopf. Smith, A. (1993). The Wealth of Nations. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Smith, N.H. (2007). The Hermeneutics of Work: On Richard Sennett. Critical Horizons 8 (2): 186-204. Smith, N.H and A. Laitinen (2009). Taylor on Solidarity. Thesis Eleven 99, 48-70. Taylor, C. (2001). Einige Überlegungen zur Idee der Solidarität, in Taylor, Wieviel Gemeinschaft braucht die Demokratie? Frankfurt: Suhrkamp. Tischner, J. (1981). The Spirit of Solidarity. San Francisco: Harper & Row. Wilde, L. (2013). Global Solidarity. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Wildt, A. (1999). Solidarity: Its History and Contemporary Definition, in Solidarity, ed. Bayertz. Dordrecht: Kluwer, 209-222. 8. SOLIDARITY IN TIMES OF CRISIS: CONSTITUTIONAL EVOLUTION AND EUROPE Hauke Brunkhorst I n the first section of this chapter I will give a brief outline of my theoretical framework that is founded in evolutionary theory. I will argue that constitutions are evolutionary universals or evolutionary advances. In the second section I will argue that revolutionary change can lead to the emergence of normative constraints of possible pathways of adaptation. Then I will give some examples of sequences of revolutionary and evolutionary change in constitutional history. Although the foundation of the European Union in 1951 (European Coal and Steel Community) was a very limited unification, it was nevertheless a kind of revolutionary founding act. In the last two sections I will reconstruct the evolutionary development of the European constitution and demonstrate that the evolution of European constitutional law poses structural problems of legitimization which now are going to become manifest in a serious and existential crisis of legitimization. SOLIDARITY IN TIMES OF CRISIS 179 Evolutionary Universals My first thesis is: From a sociological point of view the constitution is an evolutionary universal.1 An evolutionary universal (or advantage) is a multiple invention of the evolution such as the eye or the brain in organic evolution, or in social evolution bureaucracy or religion. I would suggest that also constitutions are such multiple inventions that can be used again and again in different societal contexts by different societies. Once invented, constitutions are copied or re-invented again and again in very different ways, and by nearly all kinds of societal communities. If constitutions are evolutionary universals, then the concept of the constitution from the very beginning is broader than that of the constitution of the nation-state, hence conceptually open for other constitutional formations such as inter-, trans- and supranational public law constitutions on the one side, and societal civil law constitutions on the other side. Understood as an evolutionary universal, the concept of the constitution can be used to bridge the dualism of national and international law as well as the dualism of state and society. Both dualisms were (epistemologically) constitutive in particular for German statist (or monarchical) constitutionalism of the nineteenth century (Staatsrechtslehre).2 The referential openness of the evolutionary concept of a constitution is due to the fact that evolutionary universals (Parsons) or evolutionary advances (Luhmann) are multiple inventions of the evolution.3 Paradigmatic for evolutionary universals are the ‘invention’ (or emergence) of the eye or the brain. There is a great diversity of brains. Every species has another brain. There are brains of rats, sparrows, men, dogs, ticks, cockroaches, apes or sharks. They are as different as the species eyes (eagle vs. bat) or other evolutionary universals in biology as well as in sociology. Social universals of the evolution are bureaucracy, kinship, religion, constitutions, stratification, urbanization and others. There is a huge variety of forms. Modern German bureaucracy is as different from old Egyptian bureaucracy as the eye of the eagle from the eye of the dog. Paganism as well as monotheism is a realization of the evolutionary universal of religion. Flensburg as well as Hong Kong is an evolutionary advance of urbanization, etc. 180 HAUKE BRUNKHORST In the same way there are different societal communities with a high diversity of constitutions. Flensburg University has a constitution. China has a constitution and Germany another one, but also Bavaria, Texas, Goa or New York taxi drivers have a constitution, and there are constitutional amendment procedures even for scientific journals such as ‘Constellations.’ The first time that an international organization referred to its statutes as a constitution was the ILO in its foundational treaty of 1919. On the other side the EU has a constitution even though the Lisbon Treaty is not called a “constitution” (because of the failure of its Constitutional Treaty in 2005). The Charter of the United Nations is a constitution that is binding for all states and individual human beings (as we can see from the listed terrorists as well as from the existence of international human rights regimes). Furthermore, newspapers, commercial enterprises, or chess clubs have documents called “constitution,” and in Germany we have a law that introduces the constitution of industrial companies, Betriebsverfassungsgesetz, that is an ordinary law on the constitution of industrial firms. Europe has a plurality of constitutions, and this plurality is not at all a European Sonderweg. Europe first has a constitution “in the sense of the co-existence of transnational and national constitutions,” and second in the sense that there exists a variety of functionally specialized constitutions, constitutionalizing the economic, legal, political, social relations and security system of the European Union.4 From an evolutionary point of view it is pointless to argue that there are true, real or substantial constitutions and false, unreal or accidental constitutions. The latter dualism was one of the fundamental doctrines of German Staatsrechtslehre since Paul Laband. The distinction between substantial and accidental constitutions is exactly as pointless as the assertion that the eagle has a true substantial or real eye, and the half blind dog or the nearly blind bat have only accidental or unreal eyes, or that the crown of creation, man, has the real brain, and all other animals such as cockroaches have not “truly real” (Hegel: wahrhaft wirkliche) brains. Constitutions usually consist in a circular relation between (1) A number of subjective rights (which need not be human or civic rights but can even be privileges for instance from the perspective of the German Basic Law), and SOLIDARITY IN TIMES OF CRISIS 181 (2) A set of principles of check and balances (‘rules to make rules’). My thesis here is that both conditions (1) and (2) constitute (in the sense of Searle’s ‘constitutive rules’) the constituent power which First is “permanent,”5 and Second always already is at once constituent and constituted power.6 The constituent power is always already (in the sense of Heidegger’s transcendental perfect: immer schon) constituted by (1) and (2) because first the constituent power is permanent, and second, because (and in particular if it is permanently performed) it makes no sense to draw a categorical distinction between the respective first (but not primordial!) act of a specific constituent power (“We the People”) and later acts of the same power which are interpreting, concretising, changing or renewing (say Art. 146 GG) the constitution. The first act of making a constitution (say the French constitution of 1791) is not primordial because first there existed already a constituent power before 1789. This legally institutionalized power was changed by a legal act (it does not matter if in conformity, or not in conformity with the existing legal rules) in June 1789 when the Estates-General declared themselves to be the representatives of the Third Estate that is the Nation. This is an act that could not be performed elsewhere than within the legal body of the Estates-General (and its positive, hence changeable rules to make rules). Second there is no classical case (France, America) of performing the constituent power that does not include an idea of equal rights (no matter how restricted their reference was: white coloured skin, self-employment, etc.). Historically constituent power (or popular sovereignty) and equal rights were not even distinguished.7 When Germany got its first democratic constitution in 1919 the constitutional lawyer Richard Thoma asked why it needs a list of subjective rights if Germany has a constitution that is democratic. Thoma who was a former lawyer of the German Empire still was thinking in the tradition of the eighteenth century, when it came to democracy. His argument was that a constitutional monarchy indeed is in deep need of a legally valid list of rights, to defend the people against the monarchic executive power that then was the constituent power. But why should the people defend themselves against themselves once they had become the constituent power? 182 HAUKE BRUNKHORST The conditions (1) and (2) are necessary but not sufficient conditions of a constitution, and it is a myth that there are necessary and sufficient conditions of a true constitution. From an evolutionary point of view there is only family resemblance. Even if there are great and crucial differences between different kinds of constitutions, there is no categorical difference between the real constitution of the nation state and the unreal constitutions of Europe or the constitution of the New York Times. In other words, there are no unbridgeable dualisms but only continua of differences.8 Normative Constraints My second thesis is that constitutions are not only evolutionary advances but also revolutionary advances. They are revolutionary advances insofar they can claim for themselves some bearing on the progress in the embodiment of freedom and equality, and rightly so. Hegel has called that kind of real progress of existing justice in history progress in the consciousness of freedom. Therefore, social evolution, at least in modern societies, follows an alternation of short periods of abrupt, catalytic, or revolutionary change and longer periods of equilibria during which no, or only gradual and incremental succession or evolutionary change occurs, or even devolution. But both kinds of change, rapid and gradual change are brought about by evolution. Everything is evolution, hence, also the revolution. We can take up here the old political and constitutional distinction between revolutionary or power founding constitutions, and evolutionary or power limiting constitutions that is discussed in political theory and constitutional law since Kant and Sieyes, Burke and Hegel.9 But we should integrate this distinction completely into the categorical framework of the theory of social evolution. Here again we have to overcome the dualism of two exclusive types or categories and replace it with an evolutionary continuum of an alteration of gradual and rapid change. Great legal and constitutional revolutions (and all great revolutions are legal revolutions) such as the Papal Revolution of the eleventh century, the Protestant revolutions of the sixteenth and seventeenth, the constitutional revolutions of SOLIDARITY IN TIMES OF CRISIS 183 the eighteenth, or the social world revolutions of the twentieth century, consisted in comprehensive and massive legal and constitutional change that cannot be explained by gradual adaptation and social structural selection alone. Revolutionary change is far too fast to adapt gradually to its environment. On the contrary, successful revolutionary change experiments with radically unmatched social inventions which are at the limit of adaptation. Therefore the social evolution strongly resembles rapid and catalytic change by punctuational bursts and punctuated equilibria in the organic evolution.10 Punctuational bursts engender a new species by rapid change of the Bauplan (basic structure) of an animal species (speciation, hybridization). Yet, even if the Bauplan of the animals or the (material) constitution of a society must be always already adapted (because otherwise the species would die out), it does not improve adaptation but constrains and directs it.11 There is no evolution without constraints of adaptation, and there is no evolution without deterioration and a zigzag course between deterioration, equilibrium and improvement. Without deterioration of adaptive capacities evolution never could evolve because the best adapted order of the world is the shapeless order before all evolutionary change (that for instance is the order of the Platonic idea). The constraints of the Bauplan hinder elephants from developing wings (except small ones with big ears) and prevent humans from running 100 meters in less than 5 seconds. But they do not hinder women from breaking the 100 meter record of men in a foreseeable future or winning the soccer world championship against men, because that might be the case once the amount of female exercise and the sheer number of women running 100 meter competitions or playing soccer has reached or outbid the number of men and their amount of exercise in these disciplines. The same with a constitution: The republican constitution of the eighteenth century prevents the return to a stratified society of estates (Loi Le Chapallier from June 14th in 1791) but not the later inclusion of workers, women, coloured people, etc. Adaption works always only in specific directions but not in any direction. The organic fabrication plans direct the evolution by constraining it. Evolution has no telos, no final purpose, plan, programme or cause, but it is always directed. The fabrication plans make up the 184 HAUKE BRUNKHORST respective historical conditions of evolutionary possibilities. If the muscles of the arm mutate, they mutate in the direction of the muscles of the leg, and not of the neck or the eyebrows—even if that would lead to evolutionary success. Parallel to punctuated equilibria in organic evolution, the great legal revolutions are the triggers of the evolution of the society that is modern. Legal and constitutional revolutionary change cannot be explained by the improvement of adaptation (that was the mistake of orthodox Marxism which has reduced revolutions and revolutionary class struggle to the function of the midwife of the unleashing of the growth of productive forces). On the contrary, revolutions are loaded with negativity: with maladjustment, deviance and non-conformism. They are destroying the old Bauplan or the societies’ material and formal constitution (Marx speaks of the Gliederung of society = structure or organization of society), and they invent a new material and formal constitutional Bauplan nearly out of the blue. This new Bauplan or the new constitutional organization does not improve, but directs and constrains the adaptive evolutionary success of the society, not physically (as in the case of organisms) but normatively. It makes certain actions and certain kinds of evolutionary success illegal and wrong. Hence, the results of revolutionary change are constitutional systems of normative constraints. Revolutionary constitutions engender within the societal reality another reality that subordinates the former to normative prescriptions.12 They constrain arbitrary adaptation and certain kinds of evolutionary experiments (e.g. such as experiments with concentration camps), and by constraining it they direct the social evolution on a new pathway. In disclosing a realm of new evolutionary possibilities they close others. For instance: The legally institutionalized corporate freedom of the Church in the twelfth century did constrain the adaptive power of the worldly empires and kingdoms, and the legally organized separation of the sacred and the profane prohibited sacred kingdoms as well as theocracy; or democratic constitutional law of check and balances (America: 1788, France: 1789, 1791, 1793) constrained the adaptive capacities of the executive power normatively in binding it to legislation, and disclosed a new evolutionary pathway of democratic (and constitutional) experimentalism (that also can— SOLIDARITY IN TIMES OF CRISIS 185 and did—lead to the new formation, maintenance and growth of executive power within and beyond the constitution, as we will see in the case of the EU); or the constitutional principle of equal human dignity (Universal Declaration 1948) erects normative constraints against the use of torture, against evolutionary experiments with slavery and concentration camps, with economic expropriation and totalitarian rule—even then if that would lead to the evolutionary success of the neoliberal world economy, or of the Chinese model of modern capitalism. Constitutional Evolution My third thesis is: Revolutionary constitutionalization usually is followed by incremental, gradual and successive constitutional evolution. What the German lawyer Hans-Peter Ipsen has called the European constitution-in-permanent-making (“Wandelverfassung”) can be generalized. In evolutionary terms, all constitutions are Wandelverfassungen. The gradual and incremental constitutional evolution that has been enabled by the catalytic change of the revolution usually is carried out in functionally differentiated steps: Incremental constitutional evolution consists in an evolutionary process of the successive step by step constitutionalization of functional spheres.13 These spheres are constitutionalized gradually: (1) By small legal variations and small constitutional changes (everyday juridical puzzle solving in a growing number of cases, conventional doctrinal interpretation and commentary, ordinary legislative procedures and concretization of legal norms). (2) They are directed by the two selective mechanisms of (a) the social class structure and the (b) functional imperatives. (3) They are re-stabilized by systemic formations (reflexive closure through the formation of a hegemonic academic discourse: hegemonic opinion). Therefore all constitutions are relying on the pre-existing framework14 that has been established by the great legal revolutions.15 In 1815, after the French Revolution, and under its new conceptual framework, formal and written constitutionalization had become unavoidable. Even the reactionary hereditary monarchy in France had to be re-introduced as a constitutional regime under the law of the 186 HAUKE BRUNKHORST Charte Constitutionelle.16 It was no accident that Emmanuel Josef Sieyes again was one of the founding fathers even of the Charte Constitutionelle which compelled him to leave the country just after Napoleon’s final defeat. Brilliantly the young Marx has interpreted the world historical meaning of the national Revolution of France that lasted from 1789 to 1815 (and that of England 1648 under Cromwell): The revolutions of 1648 and 1789 were not English and French revolutions, they were revolutions in the European fashion (Revolutionen Europäischen Stils). They did not represent the victory of a particular social class over the old political system; they proclaimed the political system of the new European society. The bourgeoisie was victorious in these revolutions, but the victory of the bourgeoisie was at that time the victory of a new social order, the victory of bourgeois ownership over feudal ownership, of nationality over provincialism, of competition over the guild, of partitioning [of the land] over primogeniture, of the rule of the landowner over the domination of the owner by the land, of enlightenment over superstition, of the family over the family name, of industry over heroic idleness, of bourgeois law over medieval privileges. (…). These revolutions reflected the needs of the world at that time rather than the needs of those parts of the world where they occurred, that is, England and France. (…) The French bourgeoisie of 1789, when it confronted monarchy and aristocracy, the representatives of the old society, was (…) a class speaking for the whole of modern society.17 Marx was right, even if he did not go far enough and kept a Eurocentric perspective. He does not even mention the American Revolution, not to talk about Haiti and other places all over the world. As the historical science only recently has shown, the whole global legal and political order was re-founded and constituted anew in the decades following the constitutional revolutions of the late eighteenth century, contributing a lot to the formation of one modern world society. The new political, legal, economic and cultural world order consisted from the beginning in the invention and co-evolution of a new national as well as a new international order of powers, and the dense and momentous intertwinement and interpenetration of national and international law, and more general, of nationalization and internationalization (or globalization).18 Anyway, even if the incremental process of constitutionalization that followed the constitutional revolutionary foundations (in a very small number of countries) was read by the liberals and the defeated revolutionaries as the triumph of the counterrevolution and the so- SOLIDARITY IN TIMES OF CRISIS 187 called restoration, on a historically deeper level it was not the triumph of the counterrevolutionary restoration but the total triumph of the militarily totally defeated French Revolution in the sphere of the objective spirit of the emerging world society. In this sense Marx was deeply right, and the contemporary of the Great Revolution, Immanuel Kant already had made a similar observation. He writes: Even “if the Revolution (…) of the people finally would end disastrous, or if it, after first successes, would be turned back to the old roads of the former regime (…), the philosophical observation” that this was “a phenomenon in the history of mankind that never ever will be forgotten,” “never can loose its force”—simply “because this was an occurrence too big, too closely related to the interests of mankind, too influential in all parts of the world that (under beneficial conditions) it would not be remembered by the peoples again, and tried by the peoples again (…) with the intention to establish a constitution.”19 But the great legal revolutions themselves only replace the old preexisting framework of the society and its further evolution by a new pre-existing framework that in particular is the framework of the legal and political order of the society. The revolutionary advances remain inchoate even in the motherlands of the revolution. The revolution successfully constituted a new political and legal regime in the long turn from the eighteenth to the nineteenth century. But only the following gradual and successive evolution step by step transformed the inchoate original constitution into a more and more complete, more and more comprehensive and more and more normative and effective constitutional order. Marx has described this dialectic of revolution and evolution nicely in his Eighteenth Brumaire: When we think about this conjuring up of the dead of world history, a salient difference reveals itself. Camille Desmoulins, Danton, Robespierre, St. Just, Napoleon, the heroes as well as the parties and the masses of the old French Revolution, performed the task of their time—that of unchaining and establishing modern bourgeois society—in Roman costumes and with Roman phrases. The first one destroyed the feudal foundation and cut off the feudal heads that had grown on it. The other created inside France the only conditions under which free competition could be developed, parceled-out land properly used, and the unfettered productive power of the nation employed; and beyond the French borders it swept away feudal institutions everywhere, to provide, as far as necessary, 188 HAUKE BRUNKHORST bourgeois society in France with an appropriate up-to-date environment on the European continent. Once the new social formation was established, the antediluvian colossi disappeared and with them also the resurrected Romanism (...). Bourgeois society in its sober reality bred its own true interpreters and spokesmen in the Says, Cousins, Royer-Collards, Benjamin Constants, and Guizots; its real military leaders sat behind the office desk and the hog-headed Louis XVIII was its political chief. Entirely absorbed in the production of wealth and in peaceful competitive struggle, it no longer remembered that the ghosts of the Roman period had watched over its cradle. But unheroic though bourgeois society is, it nevertheless needed heroism, sacrifice, terror, civil war, and national wars to bring it into being. And in the austere classical traditions of the Roman Republic the bourgeois gladiators found the ideals and the art forms, the self-deceptions, that they needed to conceal from themselves the bourgeois-limited content of their struggles and to keep their passion on the high plane of great historic tragedy. (…) Revolutions, like those of the eighteenth century, storm more swiftly from success to success, their dramatic effects outdo each other, men and things seem set in sparkling diamonds, ecstasy is the order of the day— but they are short-lived, soon they have reached their zenith, and a long Katzenjammer [cat’s winge] takes hold of society before it learns to assimilate the results of its storm-and-stress period soberly.20 After the outbreak of the revolution in France the first constitutional step that was normative (or normatively effective) and kept over time, was the security and military constitution of the revolutionary wars (I), then followed by the legal constitution of the Napoleonic Civil Code early in the nineteenth century (II). This constitutional advance was immediately generalized on the European level as a long term effect Napoleon’s short term revolutionary imperialism. The first steps were done by the revolution, and Hegel recognized that this was an immutable progress. But Hegel did not recognize that there were many further steps to come. In this respect his philosophy of history falls back behind the evolutionary level of thinking that already was reached by Kant. A long period of constitutional evolution only began after the revolution, and it even led to a further great revolutionary transformation only 100 years later. In France the security and legal constitution—after a couple of attempts—was followed by a lasting political constitution of the bourgeois democratic republic in 1871 (III). Yet, only the radical democratization of the bourgeois republic much later SOLIDARITY IN TIMES OF CRISIS 189 (and after the next world revolutionary transformation) led to the present social welfare constitution of post-bourgeois mass democracy (IV). Another example could be the German Bund and the constitutional evolution in Germany. The Bund’s legal model was the revolutionarily founded Napoleonic Rheinbund of 1806.21 Therefore the officially restorative German Bund was a direct product of the power founding constitutions of the French Revolution. In a first step Germany was constitutionalized under Prussian hegemony by the military constitution of the German Bund (I), established during the Vienna Congress, then followed by the economic constitution of the TaxUnion or Zollunion (II), and finally supplemented by a self-referential legal constitution after the foundation of the German Reich by the power-limiting constitutional text of 1871 (III). In the course of the late nineteenth century heavy class struggles, the alarming growth of social democracy, and a steady process of juridification driven by the courts (the evolution of the German Verwaltungsrecht = administrative law) led to a successive transformation of the constitution of the Reich into a more and more political constitution that was established anew only after the war, and the revolutionary abolishment of the monarchy (IV). Even if revolutionarily founded from the beginning and never replaced by a counterrevolutionary regime, the evolution of the American constitutional law was not that different. In the history of the US we have first the political constitution that was invented by the revolution (I)—but in the beginning the working constitution of the United States was basically a foreign policy constitution (and a military constitution) that had primarily the function to defend the democratic advances of the single American states against external enemies. Short time later, as the judgments of the Marshall Court nicely show, it comes to a clear functional priority of the economic constitution of possessive individualism (see only: Fletcher v. Peck 1810; Martin’s v. Hunter’s Lessee 1816; Dartmouth College v. Woodward 1819), reinforced hundred years later by the same court in Locher v. New York (1905), lasting until the New Deal of the 1930s (II). Since the end of the American Civil War the federal economic constitution was accompanied by a strong constitution of the legal state that was federal, and for the first time with direct effect of federal law that was effective (III). Much later then came the federal social and security 190 HAUKE BRUNKHORST constitution that transformed bourgeois into social mass-democracy and completed the constitutional evolution of the United States that became more and more a national state after World War Two (IV). The Inchoate Revolutionary Constitution of Europe My fourth thesis is: Europe has a revolutionary constitution that is inchoate (such as all revolutionary constitutions in the time of their invention). The constitutional evolution of the European Union is not an exception.22 Therefore the European Union has a revolutionary foundation. It has a revolutionary foundation (1) in the historical sense that the foundation of the European Union is one of the consequences of the world revolutionary transformations of the years between 1917 (Russian Revolution and American entry to war) and 1949 (end of the Chinese Revolution),23 and (2) in the legal sense of the performance of the constituent power of the peoples that founded the Union.24 (1)World Revolutionary Transformations: The European Communities founded in 1951, and expanded in 1957, were (together with its newly constituted founding member states) a resultant effect of the massive revolutionary change that occurred after the equilibrium of the long nineteenth century during the catastrophic decades between 1917 and 1949. If we include the finally successful struggle for liberation from colonialism, apartheid and Soviet-Russian Imperialism during the 1960s and 1980s, then the period even lasted until 1989. But during the years between 1951 and 1989 there existed already the institutional foundations of a new world order that framed the struggles of the colonized peoples for liberation, the conflicts on apartheid and the deconstruction of the Soviet Union.25 The new pre-existing legal and political framework constituted “the entire world as a social system.”26 The constitutional system of the world (‘constitutional’ at least in material, sociological and evolutionary terms27) consisted in a completely new global order of world law together with a growing and lasting system of new inter-, trans- and supranational political, economic, cultural and legal organizations and institutions (including an ever denser network of border transgressing private associations, global commercial relations and SOLIDARITY IN TIMES OF CRISIS 191 private public partnerships).28 These organizations no longer simply complement but increasingly substitute more and more classical functions of the state (see only as a striking example the present role of the IMF).29 Furthermore, under the umbrella of the United Nations, the ILO and other international organizations the process of decolonization was finalized, and the struggle of the colonized peoples for liberation finally was successful, and colonialism (not imperial hegemony) was abolished once and for all.30 Legal norms of international law therefore are no longer a “simple function of the political policies of government.”31 Finally a system of inter- and transnational private and public courts32 emerged that together with the world public33 and the system of international institutions34 performs and secures the structural coupling of world politics and world law. There are “of course” “elements of sheer power” in the world society (as well as in its national segments) but what is new since the end of the Second World War is that there are also “elements of genuine leadership,” and the beginning of a differentiation between government and opposition on the global level (we can see it every day on television since the 1950s), and “leadership in this sense exists only when there is a political support for the position, backed by interests other than the most elementary security and subject to an accepted (i.e. institutionalized) normative order.”35 To be sure, the national state still plays a constitutive role in the dissonant concerts of the world society, and the state plays its important role as the only power that is able to enforce binding decisions. But the state has become itself deeply transformed by its own globalization. The now completely globalized system of national states (there is no longer a square meter of continental landmass that is not at least nominally state territory) conversely was enabled by, and increasingly depends on the co-evolution of the systems of world law and world and regional politics. These inter-, trans-, and supranational systems are taking over a daily increasing amount of important parts of legislative competence.36 Finally, the globalization of the system of national states relied as well on the (in a macro-phenomenological sense ‘constitutive’) existence of a full-fledged world culture37 as of the new world economy which has dis-embedded itself from the grip of state power during the last thirty years of neoliberal globalization.38 The whole process of the formation of a new global constitu- 192 HAUKE BRUNKHORST tional order, after all, was strongly re-enforced by the partly already existing, partly newly engendered system of continental regimes that reaches now all around the world: from India, China, Brazil and the United States to the European Union.39 It was within this already existing framework of the new world order that the Council of Europe, that preceded the European Communities, was founded in 1949. The Council of Europe (1) invented a new institutional dual structure of representatives of governments on the one hand, and national parliamentarians, who worked together in a common parliamentary assembly, on the other hand. Besides other matters the Council implemented (2) a new regional regime of human rights that later was followed by similar regimes in other world regions. Whereas the instrument of enforcement of the Councils European Convention for the Protection of Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms, the European Court of Human Rights is established by the representatives of governments that are the High Contracting Parties of an international treaty (Art. 19 of the Convention), the judges are elected through the Parliamentary Assembly “by a majority of votes” (Art. 22 Para 1 of the Convention). The new dual structure of international institutions was revolutionary in itself. It was copied later on by the European Communities, the NATO, the OSCE, and other organizations in all world regions. Especially the European Union has radicalized and developed the dual structure further in a way that it bridges, even flattens the former gap between national and international law in a way that it establishes a dual structure of citizenship that has forerunners in other confederations and federations since the late eighteenth century40 but in its radical form is unique (only resembling from far the constitutions of Switzerland and the United States). As individual bearers of subjective rights Europeans are at the same time European citizens and citizens of their respective national state, equipped with full-fledged negative, active and positive rights on both levels of their citizenship (including the appertaining representative bodies of decision making that are necessary for the use of these rights).41 (2) Synthetic revolutionary foundation: The revolutionary foundation of the EU goes back to the constituent power of the peoples of the founding members of the EU in 1951 and 1957. The European constituent SOLIDARITY IN TIMES OF CRISIS 193 power therefore consisted and still consists mostly in a synthetic constitutionalism that is a synthesis of the constitutional powers of the founding peoples. The democratic legitimacy of the EU originally has been derived from the synthetic constitutional moments in 1951 and 1957.42 First, all constitutions of the founding members of 1951 were revolutionary new foundations of the power by a political and legal community. This power did not exist before or during the time of the Nazi occupation. Rebels, guerrillas and exiled politicians became heads and members of government. They have risked their lives not simply as patriots but as democrats or socialists who had struggled for certain rights and universal constitutional principles.43 New powers, partly new countries (such as Western Germany) were constituted, new constitutions were written. Second, these new constitutions opened themselves for the first time in history to international law. All founding members of the European Communities designed their newly constituted states as open states—open for the access of international law and international cooperation (e.g. in the German Grundgesetz the obligatory openness to international law [Völkerrechtsfreundlichkeit], see Art. 24 Para 1 GG).44 Third, the new constitutions declared the strong determination of their respective peoples to the project of European unification that was expected for the near future (Preamble in combination with Art 24 Para 1 GG). All founding members of the European Communities bound themselves to the constitutional project of European Unification (GG: Europafreundlichkeit) that then became constitutive for all European constitutional (or quasi-constitutional) treaties since Paris 1951: “The normative encoding and the open-endedness of the field were critically important to the launch of the process of integration, and lent it democratic legitimacy precisely because it did not predetermine the ultimate shape of the political community.”45 The single case of a constitution of a founding member that was silent about Europe, the Constitution of Luxemburg, is revealing, because in this case the Luxembourgian Conseil d’Êtat in 1952 decided that the Constitution implicitly committed the representatives of the people to join the European Coal and Steel Community, and to strive for further European unification.46 194 HAUKE BRUNKHORST Hence, the European Union from the beginning was founded not as an international association of states, but (1) As a community of peoples who legitimated the project of European unification directly and democratically by their combined but still national constitutional powers (represented later in the Council of the European Union and the European Council). At the same time, and with the same founding act, these peoples in plural constituted (2) A European citizenship in singular equipped with new rights of the European citizen which were different from the rights of the citizens of the respective member states (represented later by the European Parliament). These remained implicit for the first decades but the ECJ made them explicit in van Gent and Costa in 1963 and 1964. The community of European citizens as a whole constitutes now a second and independent “subject of legitimization” (Schönberger).47 It was the revolutionary foundation that has opened the path for the following evolutionary constitutionalization of Europe. Gradual Change and Functional Stages My fifth thesis is: The revolutionary foundation of Europe was followed by incremental evolutionary constitutionalization of functional steps of development which were accompanied by successive steps in the legal implementation of equal freedom. Even if the functional constitutionalization of Europe formally was made by treaty changes, politics often only performed the rear guard function of codification. In a lot of cases the courts, transnational and national courts already had done most of the job. It seems that Kelsen’s evolutionary speculation that in (relatively) decentralized legal states the courts are the evolutionary leading system is true.48 At least the concretization, implementation, re-foundation and revision of the Treaties of Paris and Rome were not in the hands of the political leaders of Europe but in those of the judges and the individual European citizens who initiated an endless stream of legal actions. Not the elites, the masses make the evolution. The “invisible constitution” of Europe (Antje Wiener) primarily was the effect of thousands and thousands of individual legal actions and innumerable decisions of lower courts.49 The successive interpenetration of the na- SOLIDARITY IN TIMES OF CRISIS 195 tional with the transnational system of courts was stabilized by the reflexive closure of the European legal system through the incremental formation of a hegemonial legal discourse (herrschende Meinung) in the growing branch of European law and European legal studies and scholarship.50 The (1) increasing number of legal cases that had to apply European norms, together with (2) the (a) socially (emerging hegemonial structures, transnational class formation) and (b) structurally (functional differentiation) selective development of (3) a herrschende Meinung of European legal studies were the basis of the gradual adaptation of national to European and European to national law. In the course of this evolutionary development finally national law became European law, and European became national law. A “gemeinsame europäische Verfassungsordnung,”51 a common European constitutional order as an order of overlapping52 and even interpenetrating (Parsons) national, inter- (Council of Europe) and transnational (EU) orders emerged in the European world region. To construct a useful categorical framework for the analysis of Europe’s evolutionary constitutionalization one should combine judicial (and political) incrementalism with functional differentiation. Whereas (1) judicial incrementalism provides a mechanism for communicative variation, (2) (a) functional differentiation together with (b) the formation of a new political and economic ruling class that for the first time in history is transnational (plus its entourage of high paid global journalists, talk show actors and subservient experts, such as economy professors from the Deutsche Bank) provides a sufficiently selective structure for the transformation of judicial variation into European constitutional law. This then is (3) re-stabilized by the expanding system of the common European constitutional order that has been enabled by the reflexive closure of the legal discourse (herrschende Meinung). The adaptive evolutionary process follows a step by step programme of functional differentiation, and (with Luhmann) I presuppose here that systems in their reproduction must perform 1) services for other systems (Leistungen), 2) a reflexive or self-referential turn of self-description for reasons of border stabilization that makes the identity of the system (Reflexion),53 and 196 HAUKE BRUNKHORST 3) the operations of a system must satisfy a function for the society as a whole (Funktion). This theoretical framework applied to the development of European constitutional law allows us to reconstruct the following stages and to construct further theories: (1) Economic Constitution First the Treaties of Paris and Rome created a common economy on supranational basis. This step engendered immediately the need for services of a European legal system. The solution of this systemic problem resulted in the emergence of the European Economic Constitution. The Economic Constitution consisted in the structural coupling of European law and economy.54 It constituted autonomous organs, in particular the Court of Justice and the Commission. As a constitutional court the Court was the guardian of Europe’s Economic Constitution and its competition law.55 The Commission was designed in particular as a transnational antitrust authority, implementing competition law. The prevailing schema of legitimization (social integration) was not democratic input-legitimization but technocratic output legitimization: The “promise of economic prosperity.”56 Output-legitimization reduces legitimization to the politically neutralized acquisition of the allegiance of the masses (Massenloyalität). It was as useful for Roosevelt as it was for Stalin or Hitler, and it has been and is of use for the legitimization of any political form of government since the old Assyrian Empire. The structural coupling of law and economy therefore works as long as it can satisfy (if we buy and apply Parsons AGIL-schema here) the adaptive function (A) of the respective society (system integration).57 The fulfilment of the adaptive function opened the evolutionary pathway of the European Communities for the expansion and autopoietic closure of the common market. But the very first move of the politically neutralized establishment of the Economic Constitution of Europe was not that neutral because it had far reaching and lasting consequences that were political. Seldom something in post-war politics was that sustainable as the German idea of a constitution of economy (Wirtschaftsverfassung). The idea stems from the Freiburg based Ordoliberalism. That was SOLIDARITY IN TIMES OF CRISIS 197 a neo-conservative group of German and Austrian economists (partly with a strong social ethical commitment) such as Franz Böhm, Walter Eucken, Alexander Rüstow, Wilhelm Röpke, Alfred Müller-Armack and Friedrich August von Hayek who followed Eucken’s professorship in Freiburg in 1962.58 Originally the idea was invented by the leftist Sinzheimer and his disciples such as Franz Neumann. They developed it in Frankfurt, at the end of the First World War, and during the 1920s.59 The basic idea of Sinzheimer was that of equal social self-determination backed by autonomous class organisations and enabled by a constitutionally fixed (in the Weimar Constitution that was the Art. 165 that introduced strong elements of Council Democracy into parliamentary democracy60) social labor law that replaced the private contract of employment (subjective law) by a corporative ‘work norm contract’ (Arbeitsnormvertrag) that allowed the unions and the business associations to engender objective law by cooperation in bodies of equal representation (councils), and by collective bargaining on legally secured equal terms (institutionalized class struggle). In Sinzheimer’s idea of a Wirtschaftsverfassung and its more radical democratic enhancements by Neumann, the Wirtschaftsverfassung always remained under the rule of parliamentary legislation. Parliamentary legislation and its concretization by autonomous bodies of social self-determination finally should enable comprehensive democratic control of the markets.61 Ordoliberals took over the idea of a Wirtschaftsverfassung from the Left, or, as Tuori writes to the point—rather hijacked it.62 But they turned it upside down into a constitution of comprehensive control of democracy by free market competition. They watered it down to a free market ideology that had to be realized by Competition law. The free market ordo furthermore was combined with paternal welfare-regimes that worked on the basis of private-public partnerships (later transfigured as social market economy and Rhineland capitalism63). Yet, most important was the decoupling of the economic constitution from the political constitution of the national state, and the isolation and primacy of the economic constitution was the decisive move against the hijacked leftist idea of an Economic Constitution. It enabled Ordoliberalism to turn Sinzheimer and Neumann upside down because the isolated decoupling of the economic constitution from the state proved to be the best means to keep the European Communities markets free from regu- 198 HAUKE BRUNKHORST latory measures of powerful nation-states, and free from any unions participation in the process of European integration. Therefore the radical “negation of a political constitution of Europe” became the most fundamental doctrine of Ordoliberalism once it went European.64 The idea of decoupling the economic constitution from the state was progressive and regressive at once. It was progressive insofar as it led to the establishment of a constitutional regime beyond and above the states, and it was regressive because it reduced constitutionalization beyond the state to the economic sphere, and decoupled constitutionalization from democratization—with sweeping consequences. It was the ordoliberal idea of a Wirtschaftsverfassung that finally opened the pathway for the turn of Europe towards the neo-liberalism of the Chicago School since the inglorious Cassis de Dijon decision of the ECJ in 1979 that led to the one-sided dominance of the four economic freedoms (commodities, capital, services, persons). This path then was stabilized by the one-sided anti-inflationary and stability orientation of the European Central Bank that was constitutionally institutionalized as a Sonderregime (on the EU-Sonderregimes see below) in the Treaty of Amsterdam. The lasting predominance of economic freedom even destroyed all hopes for a positive French Referendum on the Constitutional Treaty in 2005 because the negative referendum mostly was due to the counterproductive effects of the Bolkestein-Regulation of the Council of Ministers that was designed to deregulate the market for services and adopted just at the height of the French voting campaign. The regulation was interpreted by the French Left then as a threat to the maintenance of jobs and wages, and motivated a critical number of voters to say ‘No’ to the Constitutional Treaty. Finally, we just now (in 2011) can witness the last move in that game that consists in the German dictate of a Brüning-like austerity politics at the edge of an imminent danger of deflation crisis.65 From the beginning an evolutionary pathway of constitutionalization was disclosed that finally led first to the German hegemony over the Großraum Europe (at least on the continent), second to the prevailing of the economic freedoms of the Union over its political, democratic, or communicative freedoms, and third to the liberation of the economic freedoms of big money, big banks SOLIDARITY IN TIMES OF CRISIS 199 and big commercial enterprises from the national constitutional law of the democratic social welfare state.66 In particular the latter was not intended by the Ordoliberals but was an effect of the neoliberal globalization since the 1980s. German hegemony was enabled by the one-sided dominance of the four economic freedoms simply because the power of Germany after World War II relied on its outstanding economic growth that until the 1970’s still was bound to the national state and national social class formations (which now no longer exists as boundaries of economic growth). Looking at the Greek crisis and in general at the crisis of the European Southern and Western periphery we now can observe that in particular the freedom of capital was disastrous for the relatively weak economies of the periphery, and therefore contributed a lot to the formation of that what now (at least for noneconomists such as me) looks like the re-emergence of an ‘underdeveloped’ or ‘third world’ economy in the south of Europe (including the extra-profits of the centre at cost of the periphery).67 The early constitutional Grundentscheidung (Carl Schmitt) in favour of a Wirtschaftsverfassung in Art 2 EEC in 1957, “establishing a common market” (Art. 2) on the basis of national economic and financial politics, and without any redistributive or regulatory policies on the European level, was pushed through against strong French resistance by the German delegation, led by Müller-Armack (Member of the NSDAP from 1933-194568) and strongly supported by the then conservative US government.69 The Treaty of Rome (besides the autonomous European institutions of the Court and the Commission) set up the intergovernmental Council of Ministers, but it stopped far short of realizing Jean Monnet’s, Robert Schuman’s, or Altiero Spinelli’s ideas of a Federal Union of Europe, and postponed it until the cows come home. Regulatory and distributive measures were not only excluded from European Community politics but—to repeat this bitter truth—the other way round: National regulative measures that contradicted the objective of the common market now could be struck down by the European Court of Justice. Finally the Reform Treaty of Lisbon consolidated the old Wirtschaftsverfassung in Art. 3 Para 3 VEU, adding the word “social” (“highly competitive social market economy”) in 200 HAUKE BRUNKHORST the (so to speak) rights part of the Treaty, but reinforcing the dominance of global capitalism in the (much more important) European Staatsorganisationsrecht (the law of the functioning of the Union) of Art. 119 Para 1 TFEU (“conducted in accordance with the principle of an open market economy with free competition”).70 The economic constitutional change first directed the European regime of government towards technocracy (Ipsen). The political dimension successfully was repressed. Second, the Grundentscheidung of 1957 for the economic constitution and the implied technocratic administration marginalized the strong wing of the then in Germany governing party of the CDU that (in accordance with Spinelli, Monnet and Schuman) was supporting the primarily political project of a United States of Europe. Despite the CDU-programme had it on the top of its agenda until the 1990s, the political constitution of Europe was postponed and repressed again and again, even after its formal invention (as we will see). The reason was simply that one of the most fundamental ordoliberal doctrines now had become European constitutional law: Go European, go global with the economy but keep all political powers of regulation and taxation within the borders of the national state! By the doctrine of the Wirtschaftsverfassung the way for neo-liberalism is paved because the state power and the power of the unions (and other powers of a potentially European opposition) now no longer can increase together with and on the same scale as the growing political power and influence of global banks and global commercial corporations. State-embedded markets are beginning to turn into market-embedded states.71 The neoliberal switch of powers from the state to the major shareholders is programmed with that move, and it needed only the opportunity of a mean but persistent inflation such as in the 1970s to change the evolutionary path towards a society that identifies the general, and even the universal interest with the rise and fall of the profit of the major shareholders. As we will see, and this is my sixth thesis, the first repression of the political dimension of European constitutionalism will be repeated on every level of constitutionalization again and again—until finally the repressed will return. Conclusion: The development of the European Economic Constitution was triggered by the growing need of the Common Market SOLIDARITY IN TIMES OF CRISIS 201 for legal norms. This problem was solved by the structural coupling of law and economy, that satisfied the adaptive function (A) of system integration through technocratic output-legitimization. Output-legitimization compensated the lack of social integration on the European level. Yet the differentiation between social and system integration allows a completion of the schema of evolutionary constitutionalization: i) Small legal variations and small constitutional changes are ii) directed by the two selective mechanisms of (a) the social class structure and the (b) functional imperatives iii) that result in formations social integration (learning processes of social actors) iv) that are stabilized by systemic integration (‘hegemonic discourse’). (2) Juridical Constitution At the latest the Treaty of Rome posed a new problem that was no longer a systemic problem alone but a problem that affected the emancipatory dimension of constitutional law. The emancipatory problem of civic self determination came to the fore when the court decided van Gent and Costa in 1963 and 1964 (and these decisions are in a way comparable with Marbury vs. Madison for the constitutionalization of the USA). The decision emphatically was described as “the declaration of independence of Community law.”72 The judges in 1963 and 1964 created European citizens rights in a risky and bold teleological interpretation of the Treaties.73 They stretched the borders of the Economic Constitution so far that it caused the need of a Constitution of Europe under a rule of law (Rechtsstaatsverfassung). There is a kind of developmental logic in this move towards the Juridical Constitution: The need of Europe for social integration no longer could be satisfied by output-legitimization alone. The ordoliberal implementation of the Economic Constitution “implied a negation of political transnationalization and constitutionalization,” and this, by contrast, “required juridical constitutionalization.”74 Juridical constitutionalization had to compensate for the growing lack of input-legitimization (comparable with the liberal German Staatsrecht in the old days of the German Empire) that was caused by the original (and quasi-epistemic) negation of political constitutionalization. 202 HAUKE BRUNKHORST Yet the decisions of the court would have remained symbolic law if the many national courts of first instance would not have produced endless numbers of tiny decisions all over Europe, applying European law independent from political landmark decisions for or against Europe, such as in the cases of the regimes of De Gaulle, or later Maggie Thatcher. It was the multitude of “national judges who made judicial decisions as European judges.”75 They saved themselves from revision by asking the ECJ for preliminary rulings (Vorlageverfahren), as in particular Karin Alter has shown in a couple of brilliant studies.76 The symbolic cue marks of direct effect and European law supremacy (that were pointed out by the highest European court) were realized by an uncontrollable multitude of lowest national courts and— not to forget—individual sues at these courts, hence, all in all a tremendous number of single legal communicative acts that is needed for the continuation of incremental constitutional evolution. “If the Court of Justice and the ordinary courts were the main winners in the institutional power game, the main losers were the national constitutional courts and legislatures.”77 This way the emerging Juridical Constitution constitutionalized the national courts (that remained national and nationally constituted) in a kind of secondary constitutional act as organs of the European Union. Now for the first time the two basic parts of modern constitutional law were implemented partly: A list of subjective rights (direct effect) and a system of check and balances that had its core in the just described “unique system of judicial constitutional review which combines the German type centralized model of constitutional court and the US-type diffused model of ordinary courts monitoring the higher law.”78 Therefore, what the many courts implemented, realized and concretized was nothing less than the Juridical Constitution of Europe that solved the twofold problem of (I) emancipatory claims for individual European citizenship (liberal rights), and (II) the structural coupling of (higher/European) law and (lower/national) law and of legal rights and legal procedures. The formation of the Juridical Constitution quickly led to the emergence of a powerful professional discourse of European Law and a herrschende Meinung, hence, enabled the reflexive (self-referential) closure of the European legal system, and the stabilization of its system identity and system autonomy. SOLIDARITY IN TIMES OF CRISIS 203 Furthermore, the structural coupling of law and law in particular enabled the reflexive self-determination of the European legal system by its own court, and (later) by the system highest national and European courts that German lawyers now call Verfassungsgerichtsverbund.79 In the absence of a powerful parliamentary legislator (or as a consequence of its decay) the exploding dynamic of reflexive self-determination leads to a strong transfer of legislative power to the courts (and poses a real threat for democracy).80 Its growing legislative power allowed the European Court to strike back the German Constitutional Courts Solange decision by making a further step in the process of constitutionalization: Long before the political class of Europe created a Charter of European Rights the Court “introduced the doctrine of basic rights as general principles of Community law.”81 With that move it fulfilled the conditions of the Solange decision. Furthermore, the European Court (in concert with national highest courts) stabilized its legislative power through the judicial implementation and concretization of the doctrine of proportionality that was stretched from the review of legal acts of the executive bodies to legal acts of legislative bodies (again a democratically highly problematic move).82 In a way, the Court completed the formal juridical constitutionalization of Europe in the last Kadi judgment which claimed European law’s supremacy in respect of international law, arguing against the UN Security Council in the same way as formerly the BVerfG had argued against the ECJ in its Solange decision: As long as International Law and its major bodies cannot deliver the same guarantee of basic rights as the EU, the ECJ has to step in and do the job alternatively. Because the doctrines of direct effect and European law supremacy did not only constitute an independent order of European law but at the same time (via the system of preliminary rulings) led to a Europeanization of national courts, the European system of checks and balances caused a division of sovereignty between the Union and its member states on both levels at once, the European Economic Community level and the many national levels. What was particularly new with the Juridical Constitution was its emancipatory dimension that went beyond technocracy and the mere functional coupling of law with a technically specialized subsystem. 204 HAUKE BRUNKHORST Technocratic output legitimization was supplemented by some kind of individual legitimization (but again bypassing democratic legitimization).83 Through reflexive closure the evolution of the Juridical Constitution had to satisfy the integrative function (I) of the society that is not only system but also social integration. Because of the lack of a political constitution, however, this again reinforced the one-sided preference of the European Communities for private autonomy. The so called individual legitimization provides the citizens of Europe with judicial remedies. The implementation of subjective rights as legal instruments of individual citizens is “not nothing” (Hegel). “But you could create rights and afford judicial remedies to slaves. The ability to go to court to enjoy a right bestowed on you by the pleasure of others does not emancipate you, does not make you a citizen. Long before women and Jews were made citizens they enjoyed direct effect.”84 Therefore it is not accidental, that the perfection of the Juridical Constitution of the Communities, end of the 1970s, went hand in hand with the neoliberal turn. Europe proved itself open not only for international law but as well for the neoliberal paradigm shift of the world economy. In cases such as Walrave, Bosman, Viking and Laval the European Court changed its interpretation of the basic freedoms of EU-Law from anti-discrimination norms (if, as a German, I go to Denmark my European citizenship must allow me the same rights under Danish Law as the Danish citizens already have, and vice versa) to norms that ban any constraint of free movement, even if these constraints are imposed to the citizens of the respective country, hence, I go with a firm (a legal subject under EU-Law) from Poland to Denmark I cannot be forced by law to keep the high Danish standards of wages, Union rights, work norms, etc. for my workers. Or, if I make a legal strike that contradicts the four freedoms (for instance because of the blockade of a major European traffic artery) freedom beats basic rights. This way basic rights are constrained by the four basic freedoms, and in particular by the freedoms of big money, capital, etc., and not—as it should be at least in a democratic social welfare state—the other way round.85 A race to the social bottom is one of the likely effects: ordoliberalism is replaced by the neoliberal episteme also in the realm of European Law. Finally, and not surprisingly, in the ongoing struggles SOLIDARITY IN TIMES OF CRISIS 205 of the social classes (and other capital- and state-oriented conflicts) in particular between the European power bloc of loosely coupled but trans-nationally united executive bodies, transnational commercial and financial corporations, business and lawyer associations, and the opposing powers of parliaments, unions, and rainbow coalitions, consumers, enterprises without transnational potential, and countries with high social and labour law standards—the transnational power bloc clearly is the winner, and the others are the losers.86 The old bourgeois one-sidedness of private autonomy (or human rights without political autonomy) again has caused a contradiction between private and public autonomy, or between human rights and democracy, or between judicial and political policy making.87 Conclusion: The development of the European Juridical Constitution was triggered by the growing need of individual compensation for the structural negation of political constitutionalization. This problem was solved by the structural coupling of law and law that satisfied the integrative function (I) of system integration and social integration by supplementing depoliticized individual legitimization to the already working output-legitimization. (3) Political Constitution From this contradiction we easily—almost in a classical Hegelian dialectical move—can approach the next transformative step in the developmental logic of European incremental constitutionalization: The transformation from the Juridical Constitution to the Political Constitution that shall resolve the classical contradiction of bourgeois law. Private autonomy without political autonomy is incomplete and must turn into its opposite: the new heteronomy of un-egalitarian transnational class rule that is beyond democratic legitimization.88 But, as we will see, the return of the repressed on Level 3 of incremental constitutionalization will be repressed again in the moment it appears. Since the first direct election of the European Parliament in 1979 the Political Constitution of Europe evolved. Again triggered by an incremental and adaptive process of an endless stream of tiny changes, of deviant and negative communicative actions by parliament and courts, the parliament finally became a strong controlling and lawshaping parliament.89 Step by step, and finally in the Lisbon Trea- 206 HAUKE BRUNKHORST ty a formal parliamentary legislative procedure was established.90 This bridged the growing gap between the legal and political system of the EU through the structural coupling of law and politics. Finally, technocratic output legitimization plus bourgeois individual legitimization was supplemented by egalitarian democratic legitimization. Insofar as the Political Constitution constitutionalizes a specific functional system—a system that is specialized in the maintenance and accumulation of administrative and coercive power—the structural coupling of law and politics must satisfy the function of goal attainment (G) within the European constitutional system. But the political system and the public sphere cannot be reduced to a specific functional sphere besides others because the public sphere and public law constitute the sphere of political communication as a democratic association of citizens—an association politique (Déclaration des Droit, August 26, 1789, Art. 2). Therefore the political is not simply one of many functionally specialized social systems in a heterarchia of social systems. To be sure, also democratic politics have to satisfy the function of goal attainment, have to strive for consummatory satisfactory conditions for the people. But democracy is not only government for but also by and through the people (Lincoln). Therefore the political system (at least in democracies) is at the same time specialized to the accumulation of administrative power (that is needed for goal attainment), and the permanent performance of unspecialized political discourses which combine topically open, temporally unlimited, and socially inclusive deliberation of a diffuse public with egalitarian procedures of decision making. The discourse must not exclude any topic, can make everything a subject of legislation, and must claim democratic legitimacy for every binding decision. The medium of political understanding makes and changes the rules which enable the systems to work by constraining systemic adaptation, and the variety of goals to be attained, normatively. Procedural legitimization that is democratic cannot be reduced just to the acceptance of binding decisions that is beyond any rational argument (“motivloses Akzeptieren bindender Entscheidungen”).91 On the contrary, it needs a procedural legitimization that allows acceptance of binding decisions because they can be justified by reasons that are acceptable by the people and used through the people themselves, hence the whole constitutional procedure then is government SOLIDARITY IN TIMES OF CRISIS 207 for, by and through the people. Therefore as long as democracy keeps alive, individualized democratic legitimization is the one and only form of legitimization of binding decisions under the Political Constitution. What sometimes is called “individual legitimization” (Möllers) within a full-fledged Political Constitution is sublated in the procedures of democratic legitimization, hence, is a differentiated part of it. Unfortunately, just at this point the bad news comes. Even after the invention of a political constitution technocratic politics that consists in the bypassing and silencing of public opinion trumps the emancipatory advances of parliamentary legislation in Europe, causing a growing gap between public opinion (=democratic legitimization, in this case simply measured in the decreasing number of active voters92) and parliamentary power. Technocratic politics even trumped the emergence of the political constitution of Europe. It is not technocratic politics in itself that is the problem. Modern mass democracy is in deep need of compromise, and compromise often leads to, or even is solved by, technocratic politics.93 Furthermore, politics in complex societies needs a lot of expertise, technical and strategic knowledge and know how, technical power and so on. That’s not the problem. The problem is the complete repression and silencing of European public opinion on European matters that we can observe since the beginning of the European process of incremental constitutionalization. Already the rhetoric and symbols of the EU are designed for silencing public opinion, and so is the institutional design. For democracies, words matter. It makes a difference if we call a legal norm a law (Constitutional Treaty 2005) or a regulation (Lisbon Treaty 2009)—even if both have the same legal status and impact. It makes a difference if we call a legal textbook a constitution or a treaty. After the failure of the Constitutional Treaty in 2005 the differences between the words “treaty” and “constitution,” and the words “regulation” and “law” have become the difference between democratic politics and technocratic administration. The difference between democracy and technocracy is not only a political but also a legal difference because democratic constitutions forbid the replacement of democratic politics by technocratic administration. For democracies, symbolic forms matter. Whether there exists a Charter of Basic Rights written in the text of the Constitutional 208 HAUKE BRUNKHORST Treaty, or if there is only an invisible reference in one of the many articles of the so-called Reform-Treaty of Lisbon, it may be that it makes no difference for the judges of the European Court or the Bundesverfassungsgericht, but it makes a difference for the citizens of Europe, and this again is the difference between democracy and technocracy. This difference again, is not only a political but also a legal difference because democracy allows no “-cracy” (kratein) except that of the people. For democracies, public opinion matters. The transnational ruling class that governs Europe today already has made huge steps towards low intensity (Susan Marks) and post-democracy (Colin Crouch).94 The first step followed immediately the referendum on the Constitutional Treaty in 2005. Then the political class of Europe first ordered itself a two-year break of public talk which in particular silenced public opinion. Then came the Reform-Treaty of Lisbon with some minor changes which all went in the same direction: Reducing the democratic meaning of the new treaty to avoid the dangerous emergence of public opinion—or as Angela Merkel put it bluntly on German TV on May 14 2008: “My friend Sarkozy and I have suggested to call it not a constitution but a reform-treaty because only then another French referendum could be avoided.” That’s what the people really want. They don’t want to be asked. The next long step was the implementation of an executive Sonderregime (special regimes) beyond the Treaties that are the constitution of Europe, the European Stability Mechanism (ESM) during the crisis of the European periphery and the financial system of the Euro. It was crowned by the direct intervention of the hegemonic power of the continent to compel Greece to revoke an already announced referendum on European so called ‘help’ for and ‘rescue’ of Greece. The Sonderregime of the Stability Mechanism has a long European tradition that seems to be something like the secret common law of the Union. One only must make it publicly explicit to see that it is not the common law of the European citizens but the particular law of the European ruling class. We are now—and this is my seventh thesis— about to approach a European dual state of public legalism (normative state) and backdoor prerogative rule (prerogative state) that in a way is post-democratic.95 The priority of technocratic politics was stabilized from the very beginning by extra-parliamentary and executively dominated SOLIDARITY IN TIMES OF CRISIS 209 Sonderregimes, reaching from EURATOM over the nearly almighty, and formally badly implemented European Council to FRONTEX. Jürgen Bast has analysed the nearly complete loss of democratic legitimization in the case of the true head of the Union, the European Council: “Especially awkward is Art. I-21 Abs. 1 S. 2 TFE that states that the European Council cannot act as a legislator. However if we have a closer look at the constitutional competences of the European Council this is just wrong, hence a blurring and veiling formulation. It divulges a hidden normative truth: Because the European Council cannot enact laws within the ordinary European legislative procedure (but only so called European decisions) it is not under the control of the procedural norms of European ordinary legislation.”96 The point here is in one sentence: The informal power of the united executive bodies of Europe (called European Council) is due to a soft law regime with hard law effects that enables the bypassing of public opinion, legal review and parliamentary control.97 Once it uses its formal power its legislation clearly is exceptional legislation, that now stands as a threat behind its already tremendous informal power. This informal mix of soft and hard law that is stabilized by the possibility of exceptional legislation is characteristic of all kinds of Sonderregimes such as the Bologna Process of the Council of Europe (acting in close cooperation with the Commission, the Council of the European Union and the one informal representative of the civil society, the Bertelsmann Group).98 If the voters keep away from the ballots, no deliberative, auditive, participative or whatever new (or old) and fancy “democracy” can save real democracy (simply because there is no deliberative democracy without normatively working egalitarian procedures of decision making). In such a case the outbreak of a legitimization crisis and the return of the repressed becomes more and more likely. Conclusion: The development of the European Political Constitution was triggered by the contradiction between subjective rights and democracy that engenders a growing need of public completion of private autonomy. The need was satisfied by the structural coupling of law and politics that fulfills the integrative function of system integration but leaves a lack of social integration because the finally reached democratic normative state of Europe is subverted by its backdoor prerogative state that is no longer democratic. 210 HAUKE BRUNKHORST (4) Social Security Constitution The latent conflict between a democratic normative state and a predemocratic prerogative state was not only characteristic for the first years of dictatorial fascist rule in Germany (where no longer a democratic but still a normative state existed). Yet, the Theory of Ernst Fraenkel can be generalized to all bourgeois parliamentary democracies (that all were socially limited democracies, usually excluding have-nots, women and coloured people) that existed during the nineteenth and the first half of the twentieth century (even if seldom in that extreme variants as in Nazi Germany). The constitutional conflict between democratic rule of law and a pre-democratic prerogative state of bourgeois class rule triggered socialist movements, social reforms and revolutions, that demonstrated the need for a social concretization and realization of the insofar “abstract” (Hegel, Marx) Political Constitution. The present economic crisis brings to the fore that the developmental logic that was behind the contradictions of former bourgeois parliamentary rule of law did not vanish in the “modernization” (Blair, Schröder) process of the European Union and its social welfare mass democracies since the 1980s. On the contrary, the contradictions that once did tear the bourgeois normative state apart, came back as a structural conflict between democratic normative rule and neoliberal post-democratic “un-rule of law” (O’Donnell) that is the old problem of Latin America, and now has become the new problem of neoliberal ‘reformed’ Europe. My eighth thesis therefore is that at least the present world economic crisis makes the need for the social concretization of the abstract Political Constitution of Europe manifest. Since Maastricht we already can observe the emergence of a Social Security Constitution concerning in particular the (economically relatively cheap) emancipatory dimension of anti-discrimination norms (which, however, as we have seen, underwent a neoliberal interpretation by the constitutional organs, in particular the Court and the Sonderregime of the European Council). But now, after the introduction of a Stability Mechanism, things have changed. Suddenly the problems of (economically expensive) re-distribution and just distribution between the regions and the social classes, the haves and the have-nots of Europe emerges. Functionally the Social and Security Constitution couples law with the social structure—and in particular the law of egalitarian rights SOLIDARITY IN TIMES OF CRISIS 211 concretization with the educational system of the society. This usually leads to an institutionalization of social struggles and a tremendous expansion of higher education over the whole number of a respective population. Parsons and Platt have analysed this development of social (and in particular educational) inclusion in the case of the American University.99 In Europe the Bologna process is a similar attempt to include the whole European population in the system of higher education, and to enhance social mobility. Hence, the societal function that must be satisfied by the structural coupling of law with the social structure is the function of latent pattern maintenance (L). That indeed worked nicely in the United States in the 1950s and 1960s. Yet, the time to which Parsons and Platt refer, was a time of increasing ‘equality’ between the social classes of the USA and the whole Western segment of the world society. But inequality again increased dramatically since the neoliberal turn of the global economy. Immediately the social mobility through educational inclusion went back to zero (and as a further consequence educational inclusion began to decrease again).100 European politics since the great turn to austerity politics during the present world economic crisis are moving in the same direction as the USA and Great Britain since the 1980s. In the European case again the one-sided class-politics of the technocratic elites of Europe will prevail despite of the advances of the European Social and Security Constitution. Conversely, the darker side of the Social Constitution that is the Security Constitution blossoms in the long shadow of the economic crisis. The Security Constitution structurally couples law with the police as a constitutive part of the Social Security Constitution (which binds both things, the brighter and the darker side of that special constitutional regime together—such as in the old concept of Polizey written with a “y”).101 The political again is repressed: “No Money for the Greeks”—exclaims David Cameron, “All the rest of the money to FRONTEX”—shouts the European Chorus back. Conclusion: The development of the European Social Security Constitution is triggered by the contradiction between the democratic normative Union and the post-democratic prerogative Union of Europe. The growing need for social rights led to the emergence of structural coupling of law and social security systems (including the police) that fulfills the function of latent pattern maintenance (L) of 212 HAUKE BRUNKHORST system integration. However, the social integration by a new system of just distribution of wealth between the regions and social classes still lacks egalitarian and comprehensive democratic legitimization (the schema in table 8.1.). Theory Sequences 1. Economic Constitution Developmental logic Need for legal services Structural coupling Law and Economy System Integration Adaptive function (A) 2. Juridical Constitution Need for inputlegitimization Integrative function (I) 3. Political Constitution Need for political completion of autonomy 4. Social and Security Constitution Need for social concretization of abstract private and political autonomy through political autonomy Law and Law (beginning division of popular sovereignty) Law and Politics (completed division of popular sovereignty Law and social security systems Goal attainment function (G) Latent pattern maintenance (L) Social Integration (de-politicised Outputlegitimization Individual inputlegitimization (de-politicised double citizenship) (‘abstract’) Democratic inputlegitimization Lack of egalitarian and comprehensive democratic legitimization Table 8.1. Constitutional evolution of Europe Crisis—Good News for Solidarity? The functionally sequenced incremental evolution of a nearly fullfledged European Constitutional System (ECS) still is relying on the clear dominance of technocratic politics. Therefore I can end with thesis nine: If the economic crisis becomes manifest, then the disastrous mix of procedural democratic structures and post-democratic politics must lead to a crisis of legitimization. Technocracy cannot substitute solidarity. However, these days, the repressed returns. The economic crisis, and, in particular, the banking crisis can no longer be displaced by the budget crisis. As a consequence, the long latent crisis of political legitimisation suddenly becomes manifest. The Kantian mindset gangs up in the streets, in Athens as well as in Madrid and elsewhere. The disregarded constitutional textbooks are striking back: “Stop law and SOLIDARITY IN TIMES OF CRISIS 213 economics! Support law and democracy!,” they say. They have opened the quarrel about the social welfare constitution of Europe, which is the fourth stage of European constitutionalization.102 Thus it seems that the structural coupling of law with the systems of social welfare and security can no longer be performed silently behind closed doors and at low cost. The crisis makes it evident: that there is no modern mass-democracy without the rough equality of stakeholders, to state the very least.103 Right after the outbreak of the world financial and economic crisis on September 15, 2008, the national state looked like the big winner, and many political theorists and analysts triumphed, such as one Erich Honecker (the last prime minister of the GDR) three days before his fall: “The condemned live longer.” But, in fact, the state was already weak, and therefore became one of the greatest losers of the crisis. Wolfgang Streeck rightly headed an essay two years later with: Noch so ein Sieg und wir sind verloren (“Another victory like this and we are lost”). The crisis of 2008 has proven that the nation state was already deprived of its most basic alternatives in economic and social politics.104 The nation state’s capacity to act and shape the future always relied on the existence of two major instruments to keep modern capitalism under control and to enforce the legislative will of democratic majorities: either the stick of the law, or the carrot of money.105 However, it seems that from the beginning of the present crisis, the nation states have no longer been able to perform macroeconomic steering through an effective mix of stick and carrot, legislation and investment. The political actors had already lost most of the legislative power that is needed to regulate and control the capitalist economy, in particular, the power to impose taxes on the rich. To date, they have failed to regain it at European level, not to mention global level. On the contrary, during the last thirty years of neo-liberal global hegemony, the fragile balance of powers between democracy and capitalism has dramatically shifted in favour of capitalism. As long as a modern, functionally differentiated economy (with capitalist markets) is embedded in democratically controlled statepower, the parties of the have-nots, either the exploited social classes, or the nations which are the losers of the global economic competition between states and regions, have two means of enforcing rough compensatory justice.106 They can perform macroeconomic steering 214 HAUKE BRUNKHORST in times of crisis: (a) nationally, by legal regulation and investment. In particular, they can increase taxes for high incomes and assets (wealth), print money, regulate the demands of all markets (without destroying their informative capacity) and/or (b) internationally, by de-valuating their national currency.107 To use these instruments, the state needs strong unions and strong parliaments which can stand the democratic class struggle against the well-equipped power of capital and the considerable rest of the respective power élite. The American New Deal was successful because it was supported by a fighting working class with young and strong unions which organised huge strikes and sit-in strikes, and became stronger from labour conflict to labour conflict.108 Backed in this way by the workers movement, the New Dealers followed Marx’s observation: “Strong government and heavy taxes are identical,”109 and finally regulated and controlled Wall Street, increased taxes for the rich, cut back on banks and industrial corporations, created jobs administratively, and printed money. In this way, both social democrats and socialists in advanced Western societies were able to square the circle and to socialise the means of production within the capitalist mode of production. However, this seems no longer possible. Thirty years after the hard-right Thatcherites of the 1980s had successfully disseminated the lie that “there is no alternative,” the lie became true. Since 2008, no place in the world has witnessed an increase in taxes through measures comparable to the US and all other Western countries in the 1950s and 1960s. Not one of the “banks too big to fail” was nationalised or broken up. Except for Lehmann Brothers all were bailed out, again and again. Deprived of its legislative power to regulate the economy, the state no longer had an alternative, except to spend the rest of its money.110 Thus, the state has become susceptible to blackmail.111 Former democratic governments are now in the hands of the bankers and their staffs of technocrats—directly or indirectly. The national states now execute the neo-liberal programme with microeconomic means and “devalue labour and the public sector,” “put pressure on wages, pensions, labour market regulations, public services”112—and then sell the whole thing as “reform,” “modernisation,” “new public management” and “individual empowerment,” best served with Third-Way labour parties, reformed social democrats and red-green coalitions: Clinton, Blair, Schröder.113 In the last thirty years, the most SOLIDARITY IN TIMES OF CRISIS 215 powerful agencies of world history, the modern democratic states converted—half drew she him, and half sunk he her—“into debt-collecting agencies on behalf of a global oligarchy of investors, compared to which C. Wright Mills’s ‘power élite’ appears a shining example of liberal pluralism”114 Instead of the banks, it was the unions that were cut to pieces.115 The market-citizen swallowed the state-citizen. Economically and in terms of social welfare, the European world region is much better off than most of the other regions of the world. However, structurally, the present situation seems worse because Europe is entrapped in its own constitutional order, and this could lead to a global explosion of the economic crisis of September 2008 which still shows no signs of abating.116 Globalisation, re-inforced by the hegemony of the European economic constitution (that has been eternalised by the politically de-coupled regime of the common currency and the ECB) has deprived the national Member States of both instruments. It has (a) transformed all tax-collecting states into debtdepending states, hence reversing the direction of control between the state and capital. The taxing state “diminishes the disposable income of the well-to-do through (progressive) taxation.” Instead of diminishing the income of the well-to-do, the borrowing state “increases that income by paying interest on what the well-to-do can well afford to lend the state.” Credit agreements replace parliamentary legislation. Democracy comes under capitalist control. Tax competition between Member States is imposed due to the constitutional priority of European competition law. Therefore, states must be cautious with imposing taxes on corporations and the earners of high income; if they cannot rely, instead, on imposing them upon ordinary workers and consumers, and to the extent they cannot cut their expenditures, there remains no alternative other than relying on loans from private creditors.117 But this has the disastrous effect of a shift from crediting the real economy to crediting the state: increasing public debt instead of public wealth (taxes). When, for the latter reason, the state runs out of investable assets, it must de-regulate financial markets to pave the way for the replacement of the private crediting of public investment through the private crediting of private consumption.118 The circle seems closed. Next comes the bubble and the crisis, and then? Loom- 216 HAUKE BRUNKHORST ing stagnation with the threat of final decline. From how things stand, it would appear that there is no alternative from within the present constitutional system of Europe. Moreover, the implementation of the Euro (b) has taken away all means of resistance, poor countries have to compensate for the structurally unequal and unjust competition with rich countries. Because of the implementation of a common currency without democratic legislator and government (controlled only by a Central Bank and judges, and this is, by the way, a one-on-one execution of the holy doctrine of both Ordoliberalism and Chicago School of Economics’ neo-liberal economy—Ch. III Sec. IV 8 [I]) there is no longer an alternative to austerity politics justified with the empty hope of increasing the competitiveness of poor southern countries with the (rightly predicted by all Keynesians) immediate result of growing deflation, growing mass-unemployment and further increasing the economic spreads between countries instead of reaching the promised land of economic growth. The deflation crisis of Southern Europe is already approaching the dramatic scale of the 1929 crisis. No wonder that the neo-Nazis are now the third largest party in Greece. It would appear that the existing contradiction of the social constitution of Europe that should enable the social struggle between hegemonial and counter-hegemonial actors, politically active classes and groups within the frame of law, is not yet sufficiently constitutionalised. It cannot be fought out as a democratic class struggle for the right within the right, and this means, as we have seen, within the normative constraints of egalitarian democracy. Instead of the existing contradiction of a working constitution, we have deadly traps: Europe Entrapped (Offe). Can the trap’s mere destructive contradictions be transformed into the constitutional life and productive negativity of the existing contradictions? The road forward within the existing constitutional Treaty of Lisbon is blocked not because the existing treaty of any national constitution (or the Basic Law of the hegemonial Member State) does not legally allow a counter-hegemonial interpretation of the Treaty. Changing a constitution or a constitutional treaty radically, even to turn substantial parts of the former hegemonial interpretation upside down (as, for one of many examples, was the case of the US Commercial Clause during the New Deal) without changing or amending a single word, was always pos- SOLIDARITY IN TIMES OF CRISIS 217 sible.119 However, it is precisely this road forward that is blocked not only by constitutional text books but also by a pathological form of constitutionalization of social welfare that (albeit unintentionally, but not beyond class interest) is designed to outride and silence egalitarian mass-democracy in favor of the imperative voice of the markets and the obscured power discourse of technocracy. Instead of taking a hegemonial discourse within the right of the existing contradiction of constitutional law, the power élite, if it wants to stay in charge, is urged to occupy the empty place of power. Therefore, Occupy Wall Street was just the right ironic answer to the occupation of democracy by capital that is a paradigm case of the colonization of the democratic lifeworld. This answer does not solve the problem, but it does touch upon the sore point that consists in the growing asymmetry of functional and social integration of the Union. Through high functional integration, Europe has become a tightly networked “community of fate,” but still remains a socially weakly integrated community “of fate control.” Democracy at both levels, the national and the transnational, equally suffers from this huge difference that “what we are passively affected by is beyond our collective capacity to act upon.”120 The latter is not only a European problem but also the problem of the global community of fate that is functionally highly integrated because of the globalization not only of the economy but also of all functional social systems.121 It is (as the European Union) normatively (or socially) integrated much more weakly. However, it is much less a global community of fate control than the European Union with its formally nearly fully fledged democratic system. It is the high measure of functional integration (that cannot be reduced to the economy) that is blocking any road back to the regime of just and peaceful (if it is peaceful) co-existence of national states. To exit from the Euro is possible only at the price of “a tsunami of economic as well as political regression.”122 What is to be done? The question today is again, as in the first half of the twentieth century: democracy or capitalism?123 The only good news is that the social and institutional (and, not that important, mental and cultural) conditions today are still much better than in the 1920s. But what is to be done has a clear answer: it is the transnationalization of democratic class struggle. To re-construct democratic class struggle within the European 218 HAUKE BRUNKHORST constitutional framework, we have to distinguish more than one constellation of class struggles. Offe (in a similar way to Tilly) distinguishes capital-oriented from state-oriented conflicts, and suggests a shift from the state-oriented conflict between (rich) nations and (poor) nations to the capital-oriented conflicts between a social class (of the haves) and another social class (of the have-nots). Indeed, it is more than evident that two Germans, one a full professor at an élite university’s cluster of excellence, the other in long-term unemployment, “have probably less in common” concerning material (and maybe ideal) class interest than a German and a Spaniard in longterm unemployment (and the same conversely between a German élite researcher and a Greek investor).124 There are not only European-wide identical and conflicting material class interests, there are also alternatives which can be related to the conflicting class interests. And whether the “can” becomes a “factual relation” depends on the respective ideal class interests, because my ideal class interest can contradict my material class interest, but the contradiction need not be realised by myself, it can be unconscious to me—a routine repression that is familiar to every labour union official. Without doubt, there are alternatives correlated to class interests (including national interests), such as: • • • • • austerity vs. increasing taxes on high income and assets; denationalisation vs. massive growth stimulation; flexibilisation and de-regulation vs. European public unemployment assurance and social assistance and poverty relief; massive public saving and debt limitation vs. EU-wide tax harmonisation, bank regulations, etc.; democratically uncontrolled legislation (the ECB, the European Council, the Troika) vs. the ECB, the European Council, the Troika under the control of EU-parliament.125 These and many other fundamental, life-changing alternatives cannot be decided by experts. This is so not only because they belong to the materially unlimited competence of democratic parliaments but also because we know that experts do not know (and cannot know) the final consequences of these and the other alternative political programs. To open the technocratically closed discourse again SOLIDARITY IN TIMES OF CRISIS 219 for political alternatives that must be decided by the peoples and citizens of Europe and their national and European parliamentary representatives is the (national and transnational) democratic problem of Europe. It is not a matter of lack of knowledge and/or alternatives (that is due not to “élites” but to societal complexity) but a lack of public access on the part of the peoples and citizens of Europe, to debate and decide these and other substantial alternatives inclusively and in an egalitarian manner. Against all the new and fancy theories of “deliberative,” “auditive,” “accountable,” and “governance” democracy (why still democracy?), one must insist that there is no democratic alternative to socially inclusive and egalitarian procedures of debate and decision-making, and this is due to the normative constraints of the Kantian mindset of the two last great legal revolutions of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. However, to open the pathologically closed and managerially dominated constitutional power discourse again for the Kantian mindset of democratic will formation, it needs a certain coincidence between our material and our ideal class interests, and therefore it needs a major breakthrough in the routine repression that is so familiar to labour trade-union officials, in other words, it needs “a basic mental reframing” that overcomes “methodological nationalism” (Ulrich Beck), or, in the words of Marx, it needs a “geistige Revolution” (mental revolution).126 Only then, as Offe rightly suggests, will the now necessary switch from the state-oriented code nation vs. nation to the capital-oriented code class vs. class (or at least losers vs. winners) at European level be possible. There is little chance that something like that will happen. However, at least two empirical constellations could meet and support a mental reframing. The first is (1) that the looser classes of the South and their unions, if they want to break the vicious circle, are now, for the first time in history, urged to unite transnationally and to organise the transnational class struggle, transnational labour conflicts and strikes—simply because they have no alternative in the wake of the beheading of their legislators, thanks to the Euro. Then, maybe, they will find European parties which campaign for the European Parliament, and the trade unions of the North, which take the solidarity of all workers, both employed and unemployed, seriously. The second is (2) the growing overlap of capital-oriented conflicts with knowledgeoriented conflicts that is due to the simultaneous globalisation and 220 HAUKE BRUNKHORST de-coupling of a highly dynamic, self-referentially expanding system of education that produces worldwide a fast growing and ever better and ever more academically qualified precariat with worsening prospects to find life-long full-time employment. From Berkeley in the 1960s to Occupy Wall Street and the Arab Spring, the chain of protest movements originating in the educated precariat (and in their prolonged adolescence crisis) became quite long and extended from time to time. In the constitutional crisis of Europe, the academically educated precariat that is close to being a majority, could easily become the initiator of a mental revolution of reframing the European mindset. Notes 1 On the concept of evolutionary universals see Parsons 1964; for an application on constitutional evolution see Luhmann 1990. 2 Both dualisms in the first third of the twentieth century were sharply criticised as bourgeois legal theory, and sublated by Hans Kelsen. See Chapter 11 in Brunkhorst 2012. 3 Parsons 1964, Luhmann 1990, 505ff. The differences between Luhmann and Parsons here do not matter so much. Luhmann follows mostly Parsons, only avoiding the vocabulary of universalism that sounds too idealistic or teleological in his ears. But already the combination of evolution and universal is enough to avoid any platonic allusions. 4 Tuori 2010, 3. 5 Böckenförde 1986. 6 The norm-free pouvoir constituent before the law (and before subjective rights) is a myth. For an empirical and historical account, see Thornhill 2011 and 2012. For a conceptual account, see Maus 1992, 148ff, 176ff. 7 Thornhill 2011. 8 Brandom 2000 [1994], the German translation, p. 856, and pp. 864-866. 9 Maus 1994; Möllers 2003, 1 ff; Fossum & Menéndez 2011. 10 There is a similar distinction, as that in biology between punctuated equilibria and gradual change by natural selection, in the SOLIDARITY IN TIMES OF CRISIS 221 meta-science (or philosophy) of science, and that is the famous distinction of Thomas Kuhn between revolutionary and normal science. Kuhn 1962, Lakatos 1978. 11 On the neo-Darwinist theory of punctuated equilibria see Eldredge & Gould 1972; Gould 1978; 2002; Gould & Lewontin 1979; Gersick 1991, Mayr 1992; and Kubon-Gilke & Schlicht 1998. 12 See Möllers 2010. 13 I am generalizing here an idea that Tuori has suggested for the reconstruction of the European constitutionalization process, briefly mentioned above. For a functional differentiation in constitutional theory see besides Tuori & Sankari, eds. 2010; see further Fischer-Lescano & Teubner 2006. 14 Taylor 2009 [2007], 274f. Taylor writes in this context about an interpretive grid; elsewhere about epochal paradigms (Taylor 2009, 1211); or about social (and cosmic) schemas of representation (275ff ). 15 Wesel 1984, 189 f.; see also Buckel & Oberndorfer 2009, 279. 16 Sellin 2001. 17 Marx 1959 [1848], 107—109. 18 It is a big mistake to buy from Carl Schmitt the thesis that the Westphalian order of jus gentium lasted from 1648 to the threshold of the twenty first century. It lasted only until the French and American Revolution and was replaced by the nineteenth century balance of power and international law which ended with the Great Russian Revolution and the USA going to war in 1917, and was replaced by a new legal world order (see Brunkhorst 2012). Parsons (1969 [1961]) is an exception from the repression of globalization and even global constitutionalization. See now for an alternative approach in political and legal theory: Thornhill 2011 and in history Conrad 2008, 43-46. 19 Kant 1977 [1798], 361 (my translation, HB). 20 Marx (1965 [1852]), 97f. 21 Luther 2012. 22 Speaking about the European Communities and the European Union and its different names in the course of history I use European Union as a term that covers all the different European Communities plus Union of the past and the present single European 222 HAUKE BRUNKHORST Union together. 23 Hobsbawm 1994. 24 Fossum & Menéndez, 2011. 25 Parsons 1969. 26 Parsons 1969. 27 Parsons 1969. For a more formal but also more contentious approach relying on the UN-Charter see Fassbender 2009. 28 Brunkhorst 2005, 2012. 29 Albert 2005, 229. 30 Osterhammel 2009. 31 Parsons 1969, 153, 123, 120. 32 von Bogdandy & Venzke 2009. 33 On the emergence of a world public since the last third of the nineteenth century, see Osterhammel 2010, 1012ff, 1023ff; for the middle of the twentieth century see the remarks in Parsons 1969, 126. 34 Chimni 2004. 35 Parsons 1969, 125f. On the global differentiation of elements of government and opposition see also Brunkhorst 2012, Chapter VIII. 36 Kreide 2008, 2009. 37 Meyer 2005. 38 On the latter devolutionary development, see Streeck 2005, 2010; Crouch 2011. 39 The revolutionary change since the late 1940s was preceded by 100 years of worldwide class struggles, the formation of the powerful workers movement in the late nineteenth century, accompanied by other worldwide mass movements such as the women’s movement or the diverse peace movements, by the Great Russian and the Chinese Revolutions, by series of successful and unsuccessful smaller legal revolutions in other countries (including Austria and Germany after WWI), by the two World Wars that at least partly were revolutionary in character and followed revolutionary (and counterrevolutionary) goals (for the good as well as for the bad), by massive and revolutionary legal reforms such as the New Deal, by the world wide struggle against colonization that led in the 1950s and 1960s to a nearly complete decolonization of the world and the global spread of the model of the na- SOLIDARITY IN TIMES OF CRISIS 223 tional state, by struggles between social classes, peoples and states for (or against) a complete new foundation of international law and the international community beginning immediately at the end of the First World War. 40 Schönberger 2005; Forsythe 1981. 41 See Habermas 2012a; 2012b. 42 Fossum & Menéndez 2011, 3, 43ff, 77ff, 92f, 126, 174ff, 180, 215. For earlier but conceptually less clear attenpts that go in the same direction see Häberle 1991, 261ff; Häberle 2009, 111ff; Pernice 2010; recently Voßkuhle 2010. Already on the national level (in particular in the centralized French state) one clearly can observe a horizontal heterarchy of courts and the formation of not only one highest court but of a whole Verfassungsgerichtsverbund, see Stone Sweet. 43 Osterhammel & Petersson 2007, 85; Hobsbawm 1994, 185ff. 44 Wahl 2003; Di Fabio 1988. 45 Fossum & Menéndez 2011, 175. 46 “Even if the Luxembourgian constitution did not still contain anything vaguely resembling a proto-European clause, the Conseil d’Êtat constructed its fundamental law along very similar lines. When reviewing the constitutionality of the Treaty establishing the Coal and Steel Community, the Conseil affirmed that Luxembourg not only could, but should, renounce certain sovereign powers if the public good so required” (Fossum & Menéndez 2011, 79). For the judgment of the Conseil d’Êtat from April 9, 1952 see http://www.ena.lu?lang=1&doc=9644. 47 On the double legitimization of the EU by the community of peoples of the member states and the people of the European Union see Habermas 2012a, 2012b. For a striking comparison with the development of the United States founded by a similar kind of “double sovereignty” (which still is a technical term of constitutional law in the US) see Schönberger 2005, Forsythe 1981. Augustine Menéndez (2003) early has made an important contribution to that thesis, comparing in a case study the implementation of federal taxes in the US and the EU, demonstrating the striking parallels. 48 Kelsen 1944; for other actual examples, see Fischer-Lescano 2004. 49 Wiener 2008. 224 HAUKE BRUNKHORST 50 Buckel & Oberndorfer 2009, 279. 51 Hitzel-Cassagnes 2010, 160; see also Schwarze, ed. 2000. 52 Cooper 2011. 53 Systems identity means the abstract and formal identity of a functionally specialized social system, and it needs no identification of human subjects with it. This does not exhaust the discussion on, for instance, European identity but it shows that there are a lot of different identities involved when it comes to the question of constitutional law. There is a rich continuum of identity formations observable between the extremes of systems identity (Luhmann) and the actually present, acclaiming and homogeneous mass of a völkisch Volk (Carl Schmitt). Identity needed (if it is needed at all) for active citizenship, European as well as national, is located somewhere in the middle of the continuum between these two extremes, and a so-called demos of active citizens can have a more or less dense identity that national case might tend more to the homogenous extreme, in the European case more to the case of systems identity. But in both cases it seems to be far away from the extremes. 54 An important cultural push in the direction of an economic constitution here came from the specific cultural background of German Ordoliberalism who invented and introduced the category of Wirtschaftsverfassung in German Staatsrecht discourse. See Jörges; Tuori & Sankari 2010, Part II. 55 On the role of the supreme court of a polity as the guardian of the constitution see Kelsen 1931. 56 Tuori 2010, 16. 57 On a systematic use of Lockwood’s differentiation between social and system integration (Lockwood 1971, 125) for the formation of a general theory of society see Habermas 1981, Bd. 2, Zweite Zwischenbetrachtung. 58 Most of the school were conservative opponents to Nazi-fascism. Böhm was a declared anti-Nazi, especially an early defender of the Jews, and a member of the resistance with close relations to Bonhoefer and Gördeler. Eucken was a conservative anti-Nazi who strongly opposed Heidegger as the first Nazi-Rektor of the University of Freiburg (over which’s main entrance still in 2011 sticks out the 1936 dedication: Dem Ewigen Deutschtum). He SOLIDARITY IN TIMES OF CRISIS 225 was loosely coupled with the conservative resistance. Rüstow was a member of the far-right shadow cabinet of General Kurt von Schleicher’s half-hearted try of an anti-Hitler coup, and had to emigrate in 1933. Röpke was a member of the conservative ‘revolution’ (Tat-Kreis) since the early 1920s but strongly opposed German fascism already end of the 1920s and emigrated (such as Eucken) to Turkey in 1933. Alfred Müller-Armack was a Nazi of the first hour (see below footnote 59). Hayek took a chair at the London School of Economics (LSE) and left the continent already in 1931. He was the most radical liberal opponent of Keynes who had at that time already a chair at the LSE (see the rap version at youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d0nERTFo-Sk and http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GTQnarzmTOc). Still the best criticism of Hayek is Kelsen 1967 [1954]. As a legal theorist Hayek was very close to Carl Schmitt, see Scheuermann 2004; Vatter 2010. 59 See, for a sound representation, Bast 1999, 52ff. 60 The formulation of Art. 165 WRV to a great deal was due to Sinzheimer himself. 61 See in particular Neumann 1931. 62 Tuori 2010, 16. The original idea was developed in Böhm 2010 [1933]. 63 This was a specific German kind of paternatistic social welfare regime that was based of a depolitization of class conflict, social welfare legislation and a strong position of capital, Ordoliberal, strongly anti-Keynesian, and anti-Marxist. 64 Tuori 2010, 15f. 65 For a critical account, see Somek 2008; on recent developments, see Buckel & Oberndorfer 2009. 66 Fossum & Menéndez 2011, 115f. 67 I am thankful to Augustin Menendez for a brief analysis of the fatal consequences of freedom of capital for the South in an e-mail from October 31, 2011. 68 Müller-Armack immediately after he joined the Nazi-Party published in 1933 a programmatic book on national-socialist economy: “Staatsidee und Wirtschaftsordnung im neuen Reich.” He inter alia was involved in the SS-ethnic cleansing politics in Eastern Europe during his work at the Forschungsstelle für Siedlungs- und 226 HAUKE BRUNKHORST Wohnungswesen in Münster, whose director he was since 1938. After 1945 he replaced National Socialism with Religion. 69 Wegmann 2010, 94, 99f, 102f; on the prevailence of the ordo-/ neo-liberalismus of the Deutsche Bundesbank during the constitutional conflict over the European stability and money-politics of the Central Bank see Gaitanides 2007, 553f. 70 Buckel & Oberndorfer 2009, 284. 71 Streeck 2005. 72 Tuori 2010, 17. 73 See Chalmers, Hadjiemmanuil, Monti &Tomkins (ed.) 2006. 74 Tuori 2010, 18. 75 Hitzel-Cassagnes 2010, 154 f. 76 Alter 1996; 1998. 77 Tuori 2010, 19. 78 Tuori 2010, 18f. 79 Voßkuhle 2010. 80 That is highly problematic in terms of democratic legitimization, but a trend that can be observed at national supreme, or constitutional courts as well, even if there were formally strong parliaments at the same time. 81 Tuori 2010, 20f. 82 Buckel & Oberndorfer 2009, 292f. 83 On the notion of individual legitimization, see Möllers 2003. 84 Weiler 1997, 503. 85 Buckel & Oberndorfer 2009, 285ff. 86 Buckel & Oberndorfer 2009, 281, 287, 292. 87 Scavenius 2011. In other cases, such as the US history of the nineteenth century, the other one-sidedness of political autonomy caused a similar contradiction between democratic self-determination and human rights that in the US case was one of the origins of the great civil war. 88 On the logic of co-originality of private and public autonomy, see Habermas 1992. 89 Dann 2002; see also Fossum & Menéndez 2011, 123f. 90 Bast 2010. On the Sonderregimes of executive agencies established by a special legislative procedure (bypassing ordinary legislative procedure) see now the case study on Frontex, Rieckmann 2011. SOLIDARITY IN TIMES OF CRISIS 227 91 Luhmann 1983, 28, 32, 117, 119ff, 124f and passim. 92 If the voters keep away from the ballots no deliberative, auditive, or whatever new and fancy “democracy” can save democracy. 93 I thank Gorm Harske for a discussion of this point. 94 Marks 2000; Buchstein & Jörke 2003. 95 For a historical case study see Fraenkel 1999. On post-democracy, see Crouch 2005. 96 Bast 2005, 44, my translation (HB). 97 Brunkhorst 2012, Chapter 14; more general on bypassing techniques of soft law regimes Möllers 2005. 98 Brunkhorst 2012, Chapter 14. 99 Parsons and Platt 2006. 100 See Wilkinson & Pickett 2010; Judt 2010. 101 With this move I follow Michel Foucault (2010) as well as Cass Sunstein (2004) who come from opposite sides to the same result that—different from Tuori (2010, 24ff )—the Social and the Security Constitution are the two sides of the same coin (but whereas Foucault sees every side in a dark, Sunstein sees both of them in a bright light). 102 On the emergence of the social welfare constitution (together with the security constitution at the external boarder of Europe, see Buckel 2013. 103 Crouch 2004; see also the quintessence of the last books of the economists Paul Krugman and Joseph Stiglitz in Hacker & Pierson 2012; with instructive statistics and observations, Judt 2010. On rough equality of stakeholders see Christiano 2010, at 130-132; on “rough equality” as a necessary condition of modern mass democracy see Crouch 2004, Chapter 1. 104 Streeck 2010; 2011. 105 See Mayntz 2010. 106 On states as global economic actors see ten Brink 2008. 107 Offe, Interview, p. 3; Streeck 2012. 108 Korpi 1983. 109 Marx 1965 [1852], 183 (German: “Starke Regierung und starke Steuer sind identisch.”). 110 See Mayntz 2010; Streeck 2010; see also the long time case study Streeck & Mertens 2012. 111 See Beckert & Streeck 2012. 228 HAUKE BRUNKHORST 112 Offe 2012, 3; see also Scharpf 2012. 113 See Somek 2012. See Brunkhorst 1999a, p. 28; 1999b, p. 54; 2007. 114 Streeck 2011. As a consequence popular sovereignty has been fragmented and marginalized, beyond and within the national state, see Prien 2010. 115 What is crucial for the neoliberal triumph and sharply recognized by Reagan and Thatcher and their economic advisers: that the Unions first are losing their formerly strong political influence, and then their organizational power, either by direct oppression such as in the UK, the US and in the low intense democracies of the formerly so-called Third World, or by internal reform that makes them sometimes a powerful, quasi council-democratic participant in globally operating industrial enterprises such as Volkswagen, but at the price of the general interest of the working class. On the latter see the case study Herrigel 2008. 116 Offe 2013b. 117 Offe 2013a, 10-12; Offe 2012, 6. 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After the Rights Revolution. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Sunstein, Cass (1993). Democracy and the Problem of Free Speech. New York: The Free Press. Sunstein, Cass (2004). The Second Bill of Rights, New York: Basic Books Taylor, Charles (2009 [2007]). Säkulares Zeitalter. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp. Orig, A Sexular Age. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. ten Brink, Tobias (2008). Geopolitik: Geschichte und Gegenwart kapitalistischer Staatenkonkurrenz. Münster: Westfälisches Dampfboot. Teubner, Gunter (2012). Constitutional Fragments. Oxford: Oxford University Press. SOLIDARITY IN TIMES OF CRISIS 237 Thornhill, Chris (2011). “Fascism and European State Building: The Crisis of Constituent Power.” (Paper presented on a conference at the Centre for Studies in Legal Culture, Faculty of Law, University of Copenhagen November 4 2011.) Thornhill, Chris (2012). “Contemporary constitutionalism and the dialectic of constituent power,” Global Constitutionalism 1 (3): 369404. Tuori, Kaarlo (2010). “The Many Constitutions of Europe,” in The Many Constitutions of Europe, ed. Tuori, Kaarlo & Suvi Sankari. Farnham: Ashgate, 3-30. Tuori, Kaarlo & Suvi Sankari, ed. (2010). The Many Constitutions of Europe. Farnham: Ashgate. Vatter, Miguel (2010). “Foucault y la ley: la juridificación de la política en el neoliberalismo” in Michel Foucault: biopolítica y neoliberalismo, ed. Lemm, Vanessa. Santiago: Ediciones Universidad Diego Portales, 199-216. von Bogdandy, Armin & Venzke, Ingo (2009). “In wessen Namen? Die internationale Gerichtsbarkeit diskurstheoretisch betrachtet,” (Paper presented in Zurich, May 28 2009). Voßkuhle, Andreas (2010). “Multilevel Cooperation of the European Constitutional Courts. Der Europäische Verfassungsgerichtsverbund,” EuConst 6: 175-198. Wahl, Rainer (2003). Verfassungsstaat, Europäisierung, Internationalisierung, Frankfurt: Suhrkamp. Wegmann, Milène (2010). “European Competition Law: Catalyst of Integration and Convergence,” in The Many Constitutions of Europe, ed. Tuori, Kaarlo & Suvi Sankari. Oxon: Ashgate, 91-107 Weiler, J. H. H. (1997). “To be a European citizen—Eros and civilisation.” Journal of European Public Policy 4: 495-519. Wesel, Uwe (1984). Juristische Weltkunde. Ein Einführung in das Recht. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp. Wiener, Antje (2008). The Invisible Constitution of Politics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wilkinson, Richard & Kate Pickett (2010). The Spirit Level. Why Greater Equality Makes Societies Stronger. New York: Bloomsbury. 9. NATIONAL SOCIAL MODELS AND HELPING OTHERS IN THE EUROPEAN UNION Juho Saari & Anne Birgitta Pessi Introduction T he institutional structures of the twenty-seven Member States of the European Union are currently caught in a process of rapid change. Over the past twenty years or more, ever since the adoption of the Single European Act (1987) which gave new impetus to the completion of the Internal Market, institutional borders have been eroding between the Member States, who have witnessed the emergence of fairly strong new mechanisms of interdependence, such as the Economic and Monetary Union (EMU). In parallel, new powerful and concerted command centres that regulate Member States’ activities in the fields of legislation, political guidance, and global policies (global governance) have taken shape in the European Union. This re-organisation of common space has been termed Europeanisation, and the ensuing institutional change which enhances growth and employment as a part of the so-called Lisbon Strategy was known as “modernising the European social model” during the first decade of the new millennium (Giddens 2006; Kvist & Saari 2007). NATIONAL SOCIAL MODELS AND HELPING OTHERS 239 The classical research question within the above policy frame that stresses Europeanisation and modernisation has been how the goals set by the European Union in the fields of competitiveness, employment and inclusion have been structured in the different Member States. It has been repeatedly observed that the three areas are interlinked. The majority of studies have shown the exemplary nature of the Nordic countries across the above three dimensions: they boast a high level of competitiveness, sound public finances, high employment levels, and negligible income differences (see Giddens 2006; Kattelus et al. 2013; Kiander & Saari 2007; Hagfors & Saari 2006; Raunio & Saari 2009). However, the scope of this traditional problem setting can be expanded by asking whether the goals set for the modernisation of the European social model are in harmony with the concept of helping others; for example, would the Nordic countries prove to be exemplary in that area, too, or does successful modernisation necessarily imply diminished individual and social relevance in the area of helping others? In particular, how does the synergy between a strong public welfare system and individual solidarity work—or does it? In this context, the role of helping others could be studied from the perspective of given areas of life and the social concern felt over this issue specifically. Such a discussion would allow us not only to assess the “prevalence” of helping others in Europe, but also to see how applicable the concept of a national social model that interconnects various policies might be in the analysis of similar phenomena. As for EU policies, it could also be evaluated to what extent the European growth and employment goals are in line with the communality concept and solidarity. In a broad sense all prosocial action—including helping others— can be perceived as solidary (Fetchenhauer et al. 2006). Solidarity, in general, refers to both sentiments of communality and prosocial acts (or at least readiness to act), and both angles are in question also in this article. In the latter sense solidarity differs from, e.g., the sense of communality and togetherness. As Laitinen and Pessi have already indicated earlier in this book, according to Lindenberg (1998) solidarity manifests itself in five different types of situations where there could be a temptation to act unsolidarily. First, cooperation refers to situations where a common good is produced. Second, fairness re- 240 JUHO SAARI & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI fers to situations of distribution. Altruistic behaviour in turn refers to needs and situations of helping. Ego acts solidarily if she helps Alter in a time of distress. What is considered genuine needs and how much help does solidary behaviour entail at minimum, fluctuates. Fourth, trustworthiness refers to situations of temptation where breaking implicit or explicit promises would be tempting. Thoughtfulness then refers to situations of breach where things go awry and promises or contracts cannot be fulfilled. Solidarity, all in all, is rather manifold a concept. Out of these five aspect our focus lies in the third: altruistic behaviour and people’s attitudes around it. Helping is often considered to belong to the field of solidarity in ways that are accepted as common goals. (E.g. Lindenberg 1998, May 1996, Wildt 1999). We, however, include also personal, individual-level acts and attitudes into the domain of solidarity. This article analyses the mechanisms affecting the modernisation of the European social model and people’s attitudes towards solidarity, in the sense of helping others, in EU25. For data-related reasons, Romania and Bulgaria, which joined the Union in 2004, have partly been excluded from the scope of the present study. In keeping with the problem setting of the present article, we are primarily interested in the differences existing in the Member States in relation to people’s attitudes towards helping others. Our working hypothesis is that the institutional structure of each Member State will, to a significant degree, account for the differences observed in people’s solidarity (e.g., attitudes towards helping others). One of the starting points for comparative social research is to study the impact that the institutional structures of a given society— meaning official legislation as well as unofficial social norms—have on the values and attitudes of its citizens (Mau 2004; Rothstein and Uslaner 2005; Scott 2008). Expressed with the concepts of institutional research, social norms and values are, for research purposes, endogenous variables or factors that undergo changes within processes and through repeating experiences, and they take shape within the institutional structure. The institutional structure of each EU Member State is therefore a factor that intrinsically influences values and attitudes, and is not exclusively limited to such considerations as socioeconomic status, age, or gender. Thus the Finnish middle class thinks differently than, for instance, the Maltese middle class—for NATIONAL SOCIAL MODELS AND HELPING OTHERS 241 the simple reason that the two countries have different institutional structures. The various components of such institutional structures have been shaped by processes of interaction and mutual reinforcement (Deeg 2007), resulting in a value and attitudinal structure within a geo-politico-administrative entity that is distinct from other similar entities. The Great Transformation, and National Models The approach that underlines the influence of institutional structure on values and attitudes has many origins. The key work for present-day discussion is a classic by the Hungarian scholar Karl Polanyi (1886-1964), The Great Transformation (1944/1957), which presents an analysis of a system consisting of political and economic factors, both national and international. Within this system, the mechanisms applied to accommodate international trade and politics to national markets and policies make up the basic institutional structure of society. This institutional structure produces a homo economicus, who strives to maximise economic growth as well as his or her own benefits (see Ilmonen 2005; Rodrigues 2004; 1968, 150). J. Rogers Hollingsworth and Robert Boyer, who apply Polanyi’s social theory, have dedicated their own book, another classic, to him. They see the social model of capitalist society as being essentially a social system of production, defining it as the manner in which social structures and institutions become structured into one single configuration. Industrial relations, educational systems, business-tobusiness relations, financial systems, and the structures of the welfare state thus make up a package. It is essential, however, that our discussion of the internal make-ups of national social models not be limited merely to the official economic institutions. On the contrary, that “social system of production” also shapes social norms and ethical standards that are endogenous factors (Hollingsworth & Boyer 1997, 2). 242 JUHO SAARI & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI VALUES (Willingness to help) RESOURCES INSTITUTIONS (Use of time) (Generate potential) Figure 9.1. Values, resources, and institutions This view suggests that the values and actions related to helping others are also linked to the institutional structure of the national model. Looking at this issue thus calls for an analysis of values, resources, and institutions. The values in question have to do with people’s ideas of helping others, i.e. whether they consider helping important in comparison with competing values. If helping others does not rank high, there is little willingness to help. Resources, in turn, are related to people’s capacity to help others. As helping usually involves time-consuming activities, an essential consideration here is how people use or budget their time. In addition, the standard of living has a fundamental macro-level effect on how highly people value various social issues. The third aspect, institutions, concerns a ‘help potential’ that must be generated from within the institutional structure as the result of a distribution of duties and collaboration between the market, the welfare state and the well-organised civil society. Use of time is moreover linked to the institutional structure, NATIONAL SOCIAL MODELS AND HELPING OTHERS 243 meaning the different ways of reconciling work and leisure according to different social models. For instance, do societies with a strong public welfare system offer for their citizens better possibilities for actions of solidarity? This also involves the values and attitudes regarding the division of labour by gender and by age, and the structures that consolidate or undermine the individualisation or collectivisation of leisure. All in all, social model theories thus imply that values, resources, and institutions form a circle in which all three factors have a more or less symmetrical effect on one another (figure 9.1). The European Union as a Governance System Social model research typically classifies and contrasts different types of governmental regimes, using a maximum of five or six nations with similar institutional and cultural makeups (see Scharpft & Schmidt eds. 2000; Pierson ed. 2001). European integration, however, has altered this basic configuration, which had highlighted the status of individual nation states, to create a new political level of governance that is binding on the Member States. Centralised political guidance provides common guidelines for the policies pursued, thus forcing the increasingly transparent Member States into systemic competition. The policy guidelines issued by the EU/EC in the fields of economy, employment, social affairs, and education focus exclusively on the part of the social system of production that is under public control and concerns economic life. The themes most frequently investigated include growth, employment and income distribution (defined as social cohesion, close to solidarity). Parallel to this, the main players in the European Union presume that all human activity with any relevance for it either takes place within the production-oriented public economy or the consumption-intensive domestic economy. Households are moreover regarded as providers of certain unpaid caring services with an important role in the reconciliation of work and family life. As the EU focuses on production and redistribution within the regulated official economy and on household consumption, it marginalises communality and volunteerism—broadly speaking the civil society—in terms of the economy as well as social policy. 244 JUHO SAARI & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI The main explanation for the above policy is that the competences of the EC do not allow other kinds of action. Article 295 of the Treaty Establishing the European Community, as amended by the Treaty of Nice (2001/2003),1 stipulates: “This Treaty shall in no way prejudice the rules in Member States governing the system of property ownership.” In its policies, the EC must therefore take a neutral stance on different types of ownership arrangements. Yet this principle of neutrality also means that the EU cannot accord the state, the market or the civil society (or any other system of property ownership) a priority based on ownership arrangements. Thus the Nordic tradition of linking the idea of public utility to third sector activities is in contradiction with that principle. Secondly, the action of the EU/EC has justifications as long as it focuses on issues that come within its actual spheres of influence and competence, such as economic growth, employment, and the targeting of resources. In these fields, the EU can have a fundamental impact on the Member States’ activities by establishing joint guidelines and by obliging them in different ways—and with varying degrees of success—to implement reforms. The Union can also monitor the implementation of its guidelines both within the decison-making process and with the help of various monitoring indicators. By contrast, the Union only possesses a limited number of instruments to exert its influence on the basic mechanisms of civil society. As a result, the effects of the EU on the latter often are a by-product of the European policies on growth, employment and inclusion. Thirdly, the civil society policy of the Union typically tends to uphold existing institutional structures. It officially acknowledges the positive role of civic organisations for social development, a policy line enshrined in Declaration No. 23 of the Treaty of Maastricht (1993): “The Conference stresses the importance, in pursuing the objectives of Article 117 of the Treaty establishing the European Community, of cooperation between the latter and charitable associations and foundations as institutions responsible for social welfare establishments” (the content of Article 117 equals Article 136 of the Treaty of Nice, applicable since 2003). In addition, the amending Treaty of Amsterdam (1999) carries Declaration No. 38, stating: “The Conference recognises the important contribution made by voluntary service activities to developing social solidarity,” and “The NATIONAL SOCIAL MODELS AND HELPING OTHERS 245 Community will encourage the European dimension of voluntary organisations with particular emphasis on the exchange of information and experiences as well as on the participation of the young and the elderly in voluntary work.” Declarations are instruments which allow the EU to bring up some issue whenever diverging interests rule out a revision of the legal basis of the Treaty. Thus they, above all, reflect a lack of unanimity within the Union regarding the (special) legal status of civil society. Under the Treaty, however, the Commission may grant permanent funding for major civic organisations. In addition to such basic funding, the Union/Commission directs funding to the policy programmes of networks of civic organisations. In an attempt to resolve the issue of civic organisations’ representativeness and their right to be heard, the Commission has moreover developed consultation procedures. From the Commission’s point of view this is a rather problematic issue, for in several Member States there are competing organisations which do not agree to joint representation, or whose representativeness is altogether insignificant. A Nordic welfare state example: thanks to the federated organisational structure of Finnish civic organisations, such problems have been nearly non-existent in Finland. In the light of previous research, the actual influence of EU membership on the institutions and policies of individual Member States remains rather vague, notably in view of welfare state policies (see, inter al., Raunio & Saari 2009). Evaluations carried out by the Commission indicate a greater and more far-reaching influence, while independent studies often reveal only a minor or negligible influence. Without a systematic analysis of the possible social mechanisms involved, we therefore cannot conclude that the Union has shaped Member State policies fundamentally (see Saari 2008; Kiander & Saari 2007; Lehtinen 2013). Nevertheless, there is reason to investigate to what extent Member States constitute their own social models, and what role the values related to helping others play within their institutional structures. It would moreover allow us to analyse the tensions between European policies and the national models from this perspective. 246 JUHO SAARI & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI Materials and Methods The theoretical discussion provides a variety of interpretations on the shaping effects that a market economy can have on society and social bonds. We are dealing with long-term processes, and analysing them thoroughly would normally call for a contrastive historical study involving several countries. In the present context, however, such an analysis has not been possible for data-related reasons. As a second best option, the changes in question can be studied with cross-sectional data. Our basic data consists of the European Social Reality survey carried out by Eurostat. It is a microdata set on roughly 28,000 individuals from the year 2007, covering all the twenty seven EU Member States. The data contains a number of variables relevant to solidarity, and to the concept of helping others in particular.2 At the beginning of our research, we shall make exclusive use of this material, thus referring to all twenty seven Member States. In order to shed light on the issue of societal structures versus the state of solidarity we will pay particular attention in our analysis to the Nordic welfare states, for instance Finland. In the final stages of our analysis, we shall look at some themes not covered in the microdata. For instance, a microlevel question concerning competitiveness and gender equality was not available. Competitiveness will therefore be analysed with the competitiveness indicators of the Lisbon Strategy (EU), and gender equality will be examined with the Gender Empowerment Index, which is part of the Human Development Report toolkit (UN). As the competitiveness and gender variables studied are national, we have also used national values, calculated on the basis of the microlevel data, for other microlevel variables. In the absence of data on Romania and Bulgaria, the present study has been narrowed down to EU25. In fact, the twenty five countries already enable a slightly more extensive comparative study—a substantial improvement on the previously typical sample covering merely twelve or eighteen countries. Following a detailed study of the correlations between the variables, the theoretically most interesting ones that have empirically the greatest explanatory power were selected for further study. In addition to the variables discussed in the present paper, we also tested thirty seven other variables.3 NATIONAL SOCIAL MODELS AND HELPING OTHERS 247 Areas of Life versus Topical Political Issues The data allows us to look at the theme of solidarity in the sense of helping others from two complementary angles: one’s own and others. Firstly, voluntary work can be studied as an area of life, an active expression of solidarity. The respondents were asked how important they consider given areas of life to be in their own lives, the different themes being: work, family, friends and acquaintances, leisure, politics and religion, helping others or voluntary work, and health. The respondents evaluated each dimension on a four-tier scale that ranged from “Very important” to “Not important at all” and also included the “Don’t know” option. Second, they were then told to single out the things that currently worry them the most, by naming the three most worrysome issues out of a list of nineteen options, including the economy, unemployment, the environment, and transportation. One of the issues of concern was the willingness of people to help others. This latter issue naturally does not illustrate people’s personal solidarity but it does offer insight concerning people’s attitudes concerning fellow citizens’ solidarity. Areas of Life Relatively important differences exist between EU Member States in how people value various areas of life. Yet people also tend to be fairly consistent. This tendency is illustrated in figure 9.2, which sums up the country-weighted valuation of a number of areas of life in the European Union, the minimum and maximum values of each dimension within the EU, and, as additional information, the value for Finland. The areas of life in question are politics, voluntary work, leisure time, religion, work, friends, family, and health, and the respondents have indicated their own priorities. The latter have then been ranked in the order of the statistical means obtained for the Member States, starting from the top end of the figure 9.2. The upper end of figure 9.2 thus illustrates that the areas traditionally held important—including health, family, and friends—received high priority in all countries. This finding conforms to previ- 248 JUHO SAARI & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI ous studies (see, inter al., Offer 2006; Lane 2000), whereas the other areas of life show greater variation. Figure 9.2. has much to say about the theme of the present article. On the one hand, voluntary work as an area of life is not regarded as particularly important in any Member State: roughly 25 percent of the country-weighted respondents seem to think that way. At the same time, however, the role of voluntary work appears to vary considerably, at 10 to 40 percent, which may reflect its interrelation with the institutional structures of the different societies. The importance given to voluntary work was found to be highest in Luxembourg, Greece, Malta and Cyprus, and lowest in Austria, Slovakia, Finland (19 percent), and, clearly below the rest, in Latvia (only 11 percent). Overall, the countries studied do not fall into neatly definable regime types, even if one could ponder whether the role of rather weak public welfare systems promotes the importance of solidarity (i.e. voluntary work) in Greece, Malta, and Cyprys. However, among the Nordic countries, for example, the Danish value (28 percent) is the eighth highest in its category, and the Swedish one ranks eleventh (27 percent) The two come very close to each other, with only Italy and Hungary in between. It should be noted, however, that in the Finnish value hierarchy, voluntary work ranks roughly at the same level in relation to the other values as in the other Member States. Finns mainly differ from the average Europeans because they clearly assign less value to voluntary work and religion as areas of life. Other studies, however, have indicate that Finns, like people in other Nordic countries too, are rather active volunteers. This illustrates a methodological challenge: the personal importance of a certain matter does not necessarily equal personal activeness in it. An analysis of the country-specific covariance between the various areas of life shows that, in the country-specific data, voluntary work correlates rather poorly with the other areas of life. It was moreover found to have a nearly significant association with religiousness and leisure. We therefore could not observe a particular concentration of life values linked to the institutional structure of a given Member State that would account for voluntary work as an area of life. Yet when examining the same issue on the basis of the microdata on all twenty seven Member States, the covariance between the different life areas is highly significant: the correlations are congruent NATIONAL SOCIAL MODELS AND HELPING OTHERS 249 and highly significant. These findings remain unchanged even if the variables Member State, age, socioeconomic status and gender were made constant, suggesting that what is at issue are people’s valuations rather than the socioeconomic settings of societies. The correlation coefficients are nevertheless very low. (They will not be presented here for reasons of space.) Previous studies have made similar observations; For instance, a study on university students from thirteen countries (Kang et al. 2011) around the world have indicated that differences in civil society regimes do provide insights into which type of solidarity (giving money and/or volunteering) dominates. In the Statist and Traditional models of civil society, students consistently were more likely to be disengaged in giving behaviours (neither volunteering nor giving money) in comparison to students in the Liberal model who were more likely to report doing ‘both’ giving behaviours. The Social Democratic welfare state of Finland locates itself in between, students being rather active in both, particularly in donating money. Solidarity factors are truly played out in the context of societal regimes. Before moving on to our next themes, the socioeconomic setting of this area of life deserves some attention. No obvious consistency could be identified between socioeconomic groups when looking at voluntary work as an area of life. In many, and societally various, Member States, including Spain, Italy, Austria, Slovakia, and Finland, it was more pronounced among the upper middle class than the working class. Opposite cases are also numerous, the highestranking countries for this dimension being the Netherlands, Luxembourg, Malta, and Denmark—all countries of active volunteering (as illustrated by previous studies) and high valuation of volunteering (as indicated above). However, no overarching, consistent patterns within or between welfare or civil society regimes to account for this could be observed here one way or the other. Voluntary work as an area of life is more important for women than for men. Finland stands out in terms of the percentages, for Finnish women emphasise voluntary work nearly twice as often as do Finnish men. As previous studies have numerous times and globally indicated, women are also more active volunteers. The difference is an average of 6 percentage points, but great disparities exist between the Member States. Estimated in percentage points, the greatest dif- 250 JUHO SAARI & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI Politics Religion AREASOFLIFE Voluntarywork Work EUAverage Finland Leisuretime Minimum Maximum Friends Family Health 0 0,5 1 1,5 2 2,5 <IMPORTANTͲͲͲ LESSIMPORTANT> 3 3,5 Figure 9.2. The importance attached to various areas of life in EU27 ferences can be found in the Netherlands, Spain, Finland, and Estonia—again countries of divergent welfare and civil society regimes. Topical Political Issues A survey of the current issues of concern for Europeans yielded a different outcome. In an interpretation of these findings, however, it should be remembered that the data were collected in 2007, i.e. prior to the onset of the deep recession in 2008. The economic downturn may well have elevated some concerns while undermining the relevance of others. Surely, however, the following findings do reflect general human, even universal, concerns. In 2007 among the “top three” concerns of the Europeans were such issues as the cost of living, health, pensions, and unemployment. Helping others figured on the list of less important concerns, in the same category with immigration, globalisation, and environmental issues. The helping others dimension was mentioned by less than 10 percent of Europeans, which corresponds to the average value in this category of issues that were considered less important. This overall findings clearly illustrates the positive state of solidarity in Europe: people seem to have strong trust in solidarity among citizens. NATIONAL SOCIAL MODELS AND HELPING OTHERS 251 When we inquired about the issues of concern for the future, the answers remained practically at the same level and in the same order. On an average, the respondents clearly did not consider helping others a particularly important and topical issue. Yet this average, being countryweighted because of the composition of the data, conceals a considerable degree of variation. As practically no differences could be observed among the Member States with regard to people’s views of current and future issues (country-level covariance for these two questions being r=.96), we shall next discuss the situation as it appeared for 2007. We made again use of the country-specific data. Table 9.1 presents a total of sixteen themes. First, we calculated the data regarding the individual Member States for each of the given concerns. The country-specific profiles thus obtained show the percentage for each issue of concern in the order of relevance. This “concern profile” was then transformed to an ordinal scale by assigning the lowest value to the most acutely felt concern and the highest value (16) to the least important concern. As a result of this calibration, the various concern dimensions were made commensurable. Applying a Borda count method, we then calculated the sums of the ordinal scales for each concern dimension. Had all the twenty seven Member States systematically assigned the highest priority to a specific concern, the Borda score for that dimension would have been twenty seven. Generally speaking, the lower the value, the greater the concern. Conversely, if all the twenty seven countries had assigned the lowest priority to a given dimension, the corresponding value would have stood at 432. However, when interpreting Borda scores, it is important to note that the country-specific statistical means on which they are based do not take into account any subgroups, although a given concern may have a very high priority in a subgroup. Thus, for example, care for the elderly—a minor concern at the population level—may turn out to be the main concern for an aged population. Based on ordinals, Borda scores moreover do not account for the intensity of the different concerns. The sum of the ordinals calculated by country for each concern dimension determines its ranking. In table 9.1, the concerns have been listed according to their Borda scores. The findings are unequivocal: health care ranks as the main current concern in Europe. This is followed closely behind by the cost of living, crime, pensions, and unemployment. 252 JUHO SAARI & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI After that, the Borda scores rise sharply. People still have certain rather strong concerns that touch closely upon solidarity, namely inequality and care for the elderly. At the other extreme, among the least important issues, from the perspective of peoples’ worries, figure willingness to help others, the integration of foreigners, care for the disabled, and issues related to community structures and infrastructure. These all have even more to do with solidarity—and these are not concerns. Either Europeans have high faith in, for instance, mutual help, or they do not care for these matters enough to find them cases of concern. We believe the former to be the case with most Europeans—also in the light of other findings presented in this article. Other statistics have also been included in table 9.1 The mean values are consistent with the Borda scores, which here basically just shows the absence of technical mistakes in the analysis. The greatest deviations from the mean values were observed in employment and economic growth, but little weight should be attached to this observation in a discussion based on ordinals. The code numbers that illustrate the most typical case are, in turn, more interesting. Two issues, health care and employment, were assigned mode value one, which stands for the most frequent case. Combined with the Borda scores, it shows that while unemployment represents a major worry in only some of the Member States, it is all the more strongly prioritised in them. To a certain extent, the same can be said of crime, whose mode is five, with a Borda score of three. The rest of the modes conform to expectation. The same also applies to medians, which show the rank for the middle observation. The most interesting data for further discussion is found in the column showing minimum and maximum values. The minimum value means the smallest ordinal acquired by a given concern dimension in any Member State, while the maximum value stands for the highest such ordinal. These values show considerable variation—one of the reasons why we chose not to include the scores for all Member States in the figures, for they would have become illegible. In some Member States, seven issues of concern came out on top. The issue occupying the first position, with the weakest Borda score, was the environment, which represented the main worry for the Swedish. At first glance this is surprising, for the condition of the Swedish en- NATIONAL SOCIAL MODELS AND HELPING OTHERS 253 vironment is arguably among the best in the world. Terrorism was prioritised by Spain and Denmark, for both had just experienced unrest in 2006 prior to the survey. Care for the elderly, in turn, represents the main worry for the Finns. Finland indeed is the country in Europe with one of the fastest aging populations, and care for the elderly is high on the political agendas (see, for instance, European Commission 2013). It was also a topical media issue debated during the runup to the Finnish general elections of 2007, at the time the data was collected. Home care, for instance, is not at all as developed in Finland as for example in Sweden; most elderly Finns still live in institutions (Grassman et al. 2010). This is, furthermore, one illustration that the Nordic welfare states should not be seen in a too homogeneous light. Overall, several leading countries stand out for the other concerns. Considerable variation is also observable in the low level of importance attached to some of the concerns. For example, health care is not a major concern for the Spanish; crime does not rank high for the Romanians (rank ten), and the Dutch do not worry much about pensions (rank eleven). A closer look at the concern profiles brings out an interesting regularity, explaining for its part the abovementioned observation about Sweden. A rise in the concern profiles for helping others and the environment only occurs where such issues as family finances, employment, and health status no longer represent major worries for the respondents. The concern profiles for these Member States also show that people there worry considerably less about the cost of living, pensions, and, in some respects, unemployment, than in many other Member States. Furthermore, it would seem that the citizens in question also have the time and resources to consider current issues related to income differences, the availability and quality of care for the elderly, and the environment. Seen from this angle, helping others stands out as a concern typical of affluent societies, emerging only at the point where the more classical material issues no longer figure at the top of the political agendas. This trend can be illustrated in figure 9.3 with comparative data on Portugal and Finland who represent extremes in the sample. We have only included the variables showing essential disparities between the two countries. The Portuguese mostly worry about the 254 JUHO SAARI & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI Table 9.1. Social issues of concern in EU27 BORDA Mean Health care 91 Mode 3.4 Median 1 Deviation 3 Minimum Maximum 1.8 1 10 Cost of living 105 3.9 2 2 2.9 1 16 Crime 120 4.4 5 5 1.7 1 10 Pension 121 4.5 3 4 1.9 2 11 Unemployment 135 5.0 1 4 3.3 1 16 Inequality 212 7.9 7 7 2.3 3 13 Care for the elderly 218 8.1 9 9 2.2 1 13 Terrorism 221 8.2 8 8 2.8 1 14 Education 229 8.5 6 8 2.8 3 15 Environment 249 9.2 9 9 2.2 1 14 Economic growth 277 10.3 12 11 3.1 2 16 Immigration 299 11.1 12 12 2.9 4 16 others 300 11.1 13 11 2.3 4 15 Integration of foreigners 327 12.1 16 13 3.1 4 16 Care for the disabled 364 13.5 15 14 1.4 9 16 404 15.0 16 15 0.9 12 16 Willingness to help Transportation infrastructure cost of living, unemployment, health care, and pensions. The Finnish profile is clearly different. In Finland the main worry is care for the elderly—a social service. This outcome reflects the topical media issue, as noted above. It is followed by health care, a hardy perennial in every country. Income differences occupy the third position, and unemployment comes fourth. A comparison between the two countries also reveals clear differences. The Portuguese attach much importance to the cost of living, and basic education, matters closely related to survival. The Finnish value hierarchy, in turn, highlights income differences between the rich and the poor, and helping others—issues more closely associated with solidarity: both relational differences and interpersonal social relations. Some socioeconomic patterns concerning people’s ideas of helping others are visible. Firstly, in the majority of Member States, help- NATIONAL SOCIAL MODELS AND HELPING OTHERS 255 ing others stands out as a topical concern for the middle class rather than for the working class. In all but three Member States, senior white-collar workers clearly worry more about it than the working class. The only exceptions are Belgium, Luxembourg and Italy. Peoples’ attitudes are moreover linked to national models: while statistical differences in the responses between socioeconomic groups are rather significant, their correlations are systematic and relatively strong (r=.74). Solidarity seems to be an issue promoted by higher education and higher living standards: people need to afford solidarity, one could argue. When examined by age group, helping others appeared to be a more acute issue for young people than for the aged in the majority of Member States. The concern voiced by young people (aged 2539) was particularly strong in Denmark, Finland, the Netherlands, and Sweden, in which the youth turned out to be considerably more worried about this issue than youth in other countries, or than the average European of any age. A similar concern was, however, not expressed by aged Danes, Finns, Dutch and Swedes, who do not essentially differ from citizens of the other EU countries in this respect. Ireland is the only country in which the aged consider helping others more important than young people do. One possible explanation is that young people can “afford” to worry about such issues as helping others, as they do not yet shoulder responsibility for their own finances and for other people’s material well-being to the same degree as adults. This reflects the same logic as above concerning the citizens of a welfare state and people with higher economic and educational levels. However, other studies, for example from Finland (Pessi 2008), have indicated that the world view of the youth indeed is rather idealistic and that they are more altruistic in their values and attitudes of solidarity than older ones (e.g. who should be helped). Such solidarity of the youth is certainly also reflected in our findings. The correlations between the Member States are very high (r=.84), suggesting that national models play a major role; the better the welfare state, the higher the solidarity and the more space for altruistic ideas. When examined by gender, the outcome confirms the findings of previous studies. While women lay more weight on helping others than men do, gender does not represent a significant dividing 256 JUHO SAARI & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI 18 <MOREIMPORTANT=LESSIMPORTANT> 16 14 12 Education Healthcare Pensions Thecareoftheelderly Thecostofliving Thegapbetweentherichandthepoor Thewillingnessofpeopletohelpothers Unemployment 10 8 6 4 2 0 FINLAND PORTUGAL Figure 9.3. Borda scales for Portugal and Finland line in this issue. As the differences generally are within the normal range, they remain insignificant and, in most cases, account for just a few percentage points. Once again this is a most natural outcome. There is no reason to hypothesise that the living standards of men and women, and consequently their main financial worries, would be dissimilar. On this point, the inter-gender correlation between the Member States is extremely high (r=.95), which further supports the above interpretation. On Modernising Europe, the National Models, and Helping Others We have thus far been discussing European ranges, covariance, and medians, supplemented with data on Finland. Next we will enquire into the factors accounting for the differences observed between the Member States. The differences also raise a fundamental question: What impact do the measures implemented under European policies have on solidarity, in a sense of social cohesion among the citizens, which has traditionally been based on mutual help? Are the differ- NATIONAL SOCIAL MODELS AND HELPING OTHERS 257 ent objectives mutually exclusive, or complementary? At first glance the objectives seem, at any rate, to be contradictory. While time may be considered as an inevitably scarce resource and time pressures are constantly growing, something—or one of the above—may have to be compromised. What further complicates the picture is that people’s time is not taken up only by paid work and by helping others. We also spend our time in household production and consumption, from childcare to watching TV. Yet, technically speaking, increasing scarcity of time is not an inevitability. Competitiveness has to do with increased productivity which, in turn, can be defined as an increase in the number of commodities produced over a given period. We could also consider that “good qualities” tend to accumulate; people with more resources and possibilities can afford solidarity. The model that underlines this kind of qualitatively cumulative change links high competitiveness to such factors as high employment levels, a well-functioning welfare state, mutual trust among citizens, and, ultimately, a high value placed on helping others. As the above questions are essentially empirical, comparative studies may provide answers. We shall now attempt an analysis by comparing the situation in twenty five EU Member States. For our purposes the bottom line is how they structure the relations between helping others, the civil society, the welfare state, and competitiveness. Statistical methods, however, are not automatically welladapted for this discussion, for the variable describing the topicality of helping others is not normally distributed. We have therefore adopted another method: approaching the problem with the help of graphs. We have chosen to study the variables that show variance with people’s attitudes towards helping others: “social competitiveness,” active participation in organisations and associations, friendships, confidence in public authority, and gender equality. The concept of social competitiveness is used for evaluating competitiveness in society. As an approximation of the competitive society, it has two main poles: social cohesion and competitiveness. The coefficient of determination is higher for the former (r2=.58) than for the latter (r2=.45). However, due to the extremely strong covariance present in these two intervals (0.89***), one of them must be excluded from further analysis. Since social cohesion is one of the subcomponents of the competitiveness index, focusing on competitiveness will be justified. 258 JUHO SAARI & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI The findings show that the countries with the greatest concern for helping others are in relatively good shape—in the light of the competitiveness indicator, at any rate. The correlation between the two was surprisingly strong. This outcome can be interpreted as follows: social cohesion between people (seen in the manner of the European Union as a whole related to employment, the level of social security, and gender equality) creates social bonds—a prerequisite for a culture of shared responsibility. Solidarity promotes further solidarity. It is also interesting to note that the attitudes towards helping others and the competitiveness index correlate strongly (similarly, as is well known, social cohesion and competitiveness are strongly interlinked). A number of groups moreover stand out in figure 9.4 (for abbreviations, see appendix). The first group consists of Member States with high social competitiveness: Denmark, Finland, Sweden, and the Netherlands, listed here according to their competitiveness. This observation accounts, for its part, for the strong correlation between helping others and well-balanced social development. In Member States falling into the middle group (like France or Belgium) in terms of competitiveness, people clearly attach less importance to helping others. Within this group, there is no variance between these two factors. If there were variance, it could be considered inverse in the sense that competitiveness diminishes the importance attached to helping others. As for the rest of the Member States, drawing unequivocal conclusions is more difficult. Figure 9.4 shows a country group with strong, positive covariance, while in another subgroup covariance is inverse. Poland constitutes a group of its own, showing expected values neither in helping others nor in competitiveness. Another significant explanatory variable is active participation in various kinds of organisations (see figure 9.5), being an approximation of the level of civic activity—a central element of active solidarity. In the language of social capital, it builds bridges of confidence (cf. Burt 2005), bridging social capital. The variable in question has been assembled from microdata on people’s participation in organisations and associations, including all different types of organisations. Charitable organisations or social aid organisations, however, can be seen as a distinct subgroup. Both variables represent relatively reliable approximations of the level of civic activity. Generic participation, however, explains the values relative to helping others (R2 = 0.4546) more strongly NATIONAL SOCIAL MODELS AND HELPING OTHERS 259 than participation in charitable organisations and social aid organisations (R2 = 0.2317). As they also show strong covariance (r =.84), we shall confine ourselves to discussing generic participation in organisations. There is moreover no particular reason to assume that a general concern about helping others would be exclusively or primarily limited to participation in social aid organisations: members of sports clubs, for example, may be equally concerned about welfare services, as well as solidarity. Another key indicator for the analysis of social relations in the sense of solidarity is communality, definable as mutual help between people who know each other without being members of the same family. In the present data, the respondents were questioned about whom they would ask for support in personal matters. The options given were “your partner,” “family member,” “colleague,” “friend,” “neighbour,” or “someone else” (as well as “nobody” and “don’t know”), and the respondents were told to select only one option. As our focus now is on communality, “partners” and “family members” will be excluded by definition. Of the remaining options, “colleagues” and “neighbours” do strictly speaking not reflect entirely free choices of solidarity, and therefore “friends” and the catch-allcategory “someone else” are left as the only relevant choices. Of the above two choices, help given by friends is the more reliable indicator of solidarity, in the sense of communality. It has been here operationalized as a percentage of citizens in a given Member State who would consider asking a friend for help in one of the situations described. It may, first of all, seem somewhat surprising that, in any Member State, as few as one in four citizens have such a close friend. Overall, wherever friends are given high priority, the role of social communities made up of family and relations, which create binding bonds, remains relatively unimportant. In the language of social capital, where strong family ties exist, social capital and solidarity can largely be viewed as bonding, while friendship-based networks suggest weaker ties or bridging social capital (see Burt 2005; Lehtonen & Kääriäinen 2005). Bonding social ties promote solidarity of similar individuals, and the bridging social ties on the contrary promote solidarity of more divergent individuals. In this sense bridging social capital is stronger, concerning overall societal solidarity. Such countries in question are generally rather generous welfare states, this 260 JUHO SAARI & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI Figure 9.4. “Helping others” and “competitiveness” in EU25 (see appendix 9.A.1 for the country codes) finding moreover reflects the intensity of family relations in other parts of the European Union (figure 9.6). To put in bluntly: the welfare state and friends or close ties inside families seem to be the two options of solidarity in today’s Europe. Figure 9.5. “Helping others” and “organised civil society” in EU25 NATIONAL SOCIAL MODELS AND HELPING OTHERS 261 Figure 9.6. “Helping others” and “friendship relations” in EU25 Alongside with participation in organisational activities, and social relations, the third dimension of confidence is confidence in public authority. Many potential mechanisms exist between this form of confidence and the concern for helping others. It could be assumed that people express their concern about helping others because they trust the ability of public authorities to respond to that challenge. On the other hand, less confidence in public authority could increase public concern. The findings summed up in figure 9.7 support our interpretation in favour of the first mechanism: the greater people’s confidence, the more concern they seem to express for helping others. Welfare states seem to promote individual-level solidarity too. The last dimension under study is gender equality. Gender is a quality often assumed to be strongly associated both with the corresponding national model (the gender system) and the concern for helping others. Accordingly, care for others would appear to be strongly gender-related. The present findings seem to suggest that increased gender equality enhances the topicality of the problem settings regarding helping others. Particularly far-reaching interpretations on the mechanisms, however, are warranted in neither case (figure 9.7). 262 JUHO SAARI & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI Table 9.2 sums up the correlations between a number of variables. The findings are unequivocal in that they support the idea of a national model in which institutional dimensions undergo changes conditioned by other institutional dimensions. They are mutually re-enforcing. The correlation coefficients also suggest that the so-called good things tend to accumulate. While these findings are in keeping with previous research, the correlation coefficients are too high to allow for an assessment of the explanatory force of the variables by applying multivariate methods. There are also great disparities between the ranges of the variables, and the latter do not follow a normal distribution.4 For these reasons, the feasibility of applying multivariate methods to the data is somewhat questionable, even though it is not unusual in social sciences. As expected, our findings proved to be statistically non-significant. Helping Others in the Modernising European Union The present article has discussed the differences found in EU Member States regarding solidarity in the social role played by helping others and people’s attitudes towards this issue. Our focus has been on the analysis of the mechanisms at work between the concept of helping others and the national models, basically through an assessment of the situation regarding EU citizens, by using cross-sectional materials. The analyses based on the microdata have been supplemented with some macrolevel variables on themes for which no microlevel data are available. The findings show differences between the Member States in the importance attached to helping others, when viewed both as an area of life and as a topical social issue. The differences observed, however, are not restricted to various individual-related background factors, such as socioeconomic status; instead, they are simultaneously—and in many cases perhaps primarily—linked to the national model. Areas of life and topical social issues have therefore been structured as an interplay between the institutional settings of the Member States. A strong public welfare sector and an active civil society promote solidarity. NATIONAL SOCIAL MODELS AND HELPING OTHERS 263 Figure 9.7. “Helping others” and “confidence in public authority” in EU25 This overall finding of ours resonates with studies by other scholars—studies which shed light also on possible further explanations. First of all, it has been indicated that in countries with a strong public welfare sector people trust in each other more; equality promotes trust. (E.g., Knack & Keefer 1997; Kääriäinen & Lehtonen 2006; Rothstein & Uslaner 2005; Uslaner 2003). Second, equality further shortens the social distance between citizens, and social interaction (for example in volunteering) is not considered risky (Patulny 2004). Third, strong public welfare sector may maintain the norm of solidarity—which norm may then inspirie individuals to help each other and particularly people in need (Gesthuizen et al. 2008). The welfare sector sets the ideal that no-one should be left alone to suffer. Fourth, in countries with strong public welfare system also NGOs and the overall third sector agents do well (e.g. they may be partially funded by the welfare system) (Rothstein 1994). Time and resources offered by the public welfare system enable individuals to, for instance, volunteer (e.g., Wallace & Florian 2007). Our findings support an approach—in line with Polanyi, among others—that would stress the role of the national institutional setting. Yet some level of sensitivity should be maintained for topical events: care for the elderly, terrorism, and immigration, for example, figured 264 JUHO SAARI & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI Table 9.2. Correlation matrix Helping LISSUM LISSUM Confidence Help given by others Member friends Correlation 1.000 Coefficient Sig. (1-tailed) Confidence . Correlation .539(**) 1.000 .003 . .649(**) .587(**) 1.000 .000 .001 . .740(**) .473(**) .686(**) 1.000 .000 .008 .000 . .550(**) .375(*) .575(**) .583(**) 1.000 .002 .033 .001 .001 . .823(**) .485(**) .507(**) .729(**) .526(**) .000 .007 .005 .000 .003 Coefficient Sig. (1-tailed) Helping others Correlation Coefficient Sig. (1-tailed) Member Correlation Coefficient Sig. (1-tailed) Help given by Correlation friends Coefficient Sig. (1-tailed) Gender Correlation empower- Coefficient ment Sig. (1-tailed) at the top of political agendas in some Member States at the time the data were collected (in 2007). In Finland, Spain, and Denmark, this was reflected as prioritisations that may deviate from the norm. As a social concern, helping others seems to be associated with general social development. It gets more prominence in the Member States which, in the light of the indicators available, also have done well in other areas. This observation gives rise to several interpretations. One possible interpretation is that an adequate “success” must have been achieved in issues like living standards before there will be room for such priorities as helping others. Good matters seem to promote good matters—or to put it a bit more bluntly: people need a certain level of resources in order to afford solidarity. NATIONAL SOCIAL MODELS AND HELPING OTHERS 265 An alternative interpretation would suggest that ”successful” societies are structured in such a way that the so-called helping others deficit is today greater than before. However, the existing data do not allow us to determine which interpretation is better grounded. Once again, the reality that has filtered into the materials has proved more complex than any theoretical forecasts, thus giving rise to new topics for further study. Notes 1 The European treaties consist of a succession of amending treaties negotiated between the Member States at the Intergovernmental Conferences of the EU. The founding treaty is the Treaty of Rome of 1957, amended in 1987 by the Single European Act, focusing on the completion of the internal market. The following milestone was the Maastricht Treaty which mainly provided for the establishment of the Economic and Monetary Union and of European Citizenship. This mechanism, in turn, was reformed by the Treaty of Amsterdam (adopted in 1997, entered into force in 1999), and, once more, by the Treaty of Nice (2001/2003). 2 The data is available at the Data Archive of the University of Tampere, Finland, as microdata on roughly 1,000 individuals per Member State. 3 The statistical analyses were executed with the SPSS (version 14) program. The main parametres have been extracted from the microdata. The graphics were fine-tuned with Excel software. 4 These problems can be eliminated by calibrating the variables and by performing fuzzy-set analyses based on them. However, such an approach would not serve the purposes of the present article. 266 JUHO SAARI & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI Literature Burt, R. S. (2005). Brokerage & closure: An introduction to social capital. 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Dordrecht: Kluwer, 209-222. 270 JUHO SAARI & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI Appendix 9.A.1. Country Codes 6KRUWQDPH 2IILFLDOQDPH &RGH %HOJLXP .LQJGRPRI%HOJLXP %( %XOJDULD 5HSXEOLFRI%XOJDULD %* &]HFK5HSXEOLF &= 'HQPDUN .LQJGRPRI'HQPDUN '. *HUPDQ\ )HGHUDO5HSXEOLFRI*HUPDQ\ '( (VWRQLD 5HSXEOLFRI(VWRQLD (( ,UHODQG ,UHODQG ,( *UHHFH +HOOHQLF5HSXEOLF (/ 6SDLQ .LQJGRPRI6SDLQ (6 )UDQFH )UHQFK5HSXEOLF )5 &URDWLD 5HSXEOLFRI&URDWLD +5 ,WDOLDQ5HSXEOLF ,7 &\SUXV 5HSXEOLFRI&\SUXV &< /DWYLD 5HSXEOLFRI/DWYLD /9 5HSXEOLFRI/LWKXDQLD /7 *UDQG'XFK\RI/X[HPERXUJ /8 (QJOLVK  &]HFK5HSXEOLF ,WDO\ /LWKXDQLD /X[HPERXUJ NATIONAL SOCIAL MODELS AND HELPING OTHERS +XQJDU\ 271 +XQJDU\ +8 5HSXEOLFRI0DOWD 07 .LQJGRPRIWKH1HWKHUODQGV 1/ $XVWULD 5HSXEOLFRI$XVWULD $7 3RODQG 5HSXEOLFRI3RODQG 3/ 3RUWXJDO 3RUWXJXHVH5HSXEOLF 37 5RPDQLD 5RPDQLD 52 6ORYHQLD 5HSXEOLFRI6ORYHQLD 6, 6ORYDNLD 6ORYDN5HSXEOLF 6. )LQODQG 5HSXEOLFRI)LQODQG ), 6ZHGHQ .LQJGRPRI6ZHGHQ 6( 8QLWHG.LQJGRPRI*UHDW%ULWDLQDQG1RUWKHUQ,UHODQG 8. 0DOWD 1HWKHUODQGV 8QLWHG.LQJGRP  10. SOLIDARITY AND MOTIVATIONS TO HELP OTHERS: THE CASE OF FINNS Arto Laitinen & Anne Birgitta Pessi I n this article we examine how solidarity is actualized in the helping behavior and attitudes of Finns. We first investigate the notion of solidarity and ask whether the requirement to help is part and parcel of solidarity. We defend the view that some helping behavior is demanded by solidarity, whereas some helping behavior exceeds the demands of solidarity. We then examine with empirical data how solidarity, so defined, figures in the helping behavior, motivations, and experiences of togetherness of Finns. Group Solidarity and Three Types of Groups Many types of issues from societies, political programs and institutions on the macro level to individual action and motivations for action on the micro level may be solidary to some degree. In this article we focus especially on how solidarity manifests itself in the actions of individuals, specifically in helping behavior and its motivations. In a broad sense all altruistic and prosocial action (including helping others), can be perceived as solidary (Fetchenhauer et al. 2006). On a more detailed level solidarity as a concept emphasizing “our” per- SOLIDARITY AND MOTIVATIONS TO HELP OTHERS 273 spective may be conceptually separated from its kin concepts such as altruism, which highlights “your” perspective instead. Consequently there exist also forms of helping and prosocial action where the issue is not that of solidarity, but which exceed the requirements and expectations of solidarity. In this case action becomes an individual’s private issue from the perspective of a solidary group. In this article we investigate particularly solidarity between members of a group; this is conceptually different from both solidarity towards outsiders of a group and solidarity independent of group memberships. We separate intra-group solidarity between different groups (from small communities to societies, or possibly to the entire humanity), and solidary support to a certain group from outside the group, for example the support of the Finnish solidarity fundraising to Nicaraguans; and further humanitarian, moral solidarity or altruism towards any individual, independently of group memberships. We concentrate on the first one, but our investigation also touches on the other two varieties of solidarity. Of all of them it can be said that some helping is specifically solidary, some is ‘more than solidary.’ When examining the connection between solidarity and empirical research results concerning helping, it appears essential to further distinguish three types of groups whose normative basis for group solidarity is explained a bit differently (even though the same concept of solidarity covers group solidarity for all of these groups). These groups include cooperative groups that are built on common goals and that actualize cooperation and shared responsibility according to these goals (for example a team at workplace); groups that are based especially on the feeling of togetherness (say, a group sharing the same dialect and feeling closeness thanks to that); groups that tied together by some normatively relevant special relationship (such as family ties), independently of feelings and goals.1 Conceptually these cases are quite different: in the first case the solidarity of action rests on common goals which the group itself has adopted in the course of its history. The second case is about emotional resonance with others, perhaps of a special sensitivity to the feelings, needs, and demands of others. The third one, in turn, is about a special relationship, for example parenthood or family ties, which is independent of adopted goals and feelings of togetherness, 274 ARTO LAITINEN & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI but which is, or is thought of as being, binding and not for the participants in question to decide by themselves. Family members are thought to have responsibility to each other, as is the case with parents and their children, whether they desire it or not. Thus it is possible to distinguish cooperative, emotional, and relationship-based group formation. In successful cases the different elements of group solidarity feed each other: special relationships (such as kinship) generate cooperation and feeling of togetherness; cooperation generates further feeling of togetherness and generates or reinforces the special relationship; and feeling of togetherness in turn generates further cooperation. In happy cases, there is a positive cycle to be found. Thus, in different groups the normative foundation for duties may be different originally, but all the different dimensions of solidarity may exist in all of them. In almost every group (as opposed to mere classificatory grouping done by observers) there may exist some degree of mutual action and joint responsibility related to it. Second, members of all groups may identify with a group, feel part of it and appreciate this feeling of connection at least to a certain degree. Third, all groups may also have special duties. Having deficiencies in any of the dimensions may signal that the group in question is not solidary. To many, these three potential solidary groups are familiar from everyday life. The social philosopher Nancy Fraser (2008, 150-153) has distinguished three types of solidarity similar to the aforementioned, but also pertaining to global relationships. Fraser’s groups corresponding to cooperative and shared goal-oriented groups are groups whose members participate in the same public communication sphere, in the same opinion and will formation processes. Of groups based on feelings, Fraser states that the subjective sense of solidarity may manifest itself for example as nationalism and exclusion of others. Comparable to independent special relationships, Fraser has identified objective reciprocal dependencies, an example of which would be environmental issues. Does Solidarity Require One to Help? Researchers of solidarity tend to agree that helping is one of soli- SOLIDARITY AND MOTIVATIONS TO HELP OTHERS 275 darity’s defining characteristics. Larry May (1996) has suggested that solidarity consists of five elements, one of which is specifically the readiness to show moral support.2 According to Andreas Wildt (1999, 217) solidary action is precisely a matter of helping in situations where it is reciprocally considered necessary and proper.3 In this article we support the view that helping is a requirement for solidarity, although it is dependent on the goals of the group (Lindenberg 1998). In different groups different goals have been collectively accepted as common goals, as parts of a common “ethos,” and so included in the field of joint responsibility. Solidarity manifests itself most clearly in situations that require actions that look like sacrifices or costs from the perspective of the pursuit of pure self-interest. Solidarity requires everyone to do their part and play by the agreed rules in a broader sense even if so-called freeriding was possible. It also requires one to report, apologize and compensate if one sometimes cannot fulfill her responsibilities, and to settle for her share even if there was an opportunity to accumulate a larger share of the whole (Lindenberg 1998). Further, it is solidary to participate in cooperative activities that promote the group’s common goals. It is solidary to only take that share of a commonly produced good which in the spirit of fairness belongs to you. The group itself largely produces these two central normative requirements for group solidarity. There is a “collectivity condition” pertaining to the group’s goals: if the goal is achieved, it will be satisfied for everyone (see Tuomela 2007). Groups may, however, elaborate on what is each member’s task, and such distribution of labor is often useful indeed. The distribution of goods is, in turn, regulated by general principles of justice, which different groups may elaborate in their desired ways. One may note however that some patterns of distribution are clearly unjust and unsolidary even if the group would accept them. Group solidarity thus requires, among other things, helping group members in distress. According to the broadest notion of solidarity all helping as prosocial action is solidary, but by dividing helping into three categories from the perspective of solidarity gives a more precise notion. First, at minimum, solidarity requires the kind of help and support that aims at securing some member’s ability for cooperation. Solidarity within any cooperative groups sharing goals requires supporting and helping group members in ways which are relevant 276 ARTO LAITINEN & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI for the shared goals. Without at least minimal support and help, it is unclear whether commitment to cooperation exists at all. There are functional, pragmatic grounds for helping others: the adopted goals cannot be actualized if other group members do not give support in any sort of adversities. Secondly, the kind of helping behaviour that has additionally in the group’s ethos been designated to the field of joint responsibility and that goes beyond the minimum in question, is also solidary action. This pertains to cases where the helping goals in question are part of the goals that the group has collectively committed to promote and that have not been coded as private issues. How broad this other category is, depends entirely on the shared goals of the group: in some groups more helping is required, in others less. These helping goals may include intra-group helping, helping of some special groups, and universal helping of anyone. In different groups different issues may be included in the requirements of solidarity, depending on what the particular group’s ethos regards as a private issue and what as part of joint responsibility. Thus helping may belong to the field of solidarity via acceptance of common goals. Amnesty International aspires to help political prisoners and the Red Cross seeks to give medical aid in crisis situations. For the employees and volunteers of these organizations it is not simply a private matter to help those in need, but part of their work or their common goal—part of promoting group goals in terms of group solidarity. Not every groups’ goals include such explicit “helping goals,” but the ones that do then conceptually tie the helping behavior (even of outsiders) to be the matter or promoting our goals, and thus be a form of group solidarity. Thirdly, helping of others may exceed the requirements of group solidarity. Group members may help each other as private individuals in specific ways that do not aim at guaranteeing cooperation or are not duties falling upon each member in the group’s ethos. In the group’s or society’s ethos any kinds of helping which is coded as a private matter or a matter of conscience is not therefore necessarily the kind of help demanded by group solidarity. These other demands of helping, including out-group and humanitarian solidarity requirements, are private issues from the group’s perspective, and are not as such part of group solidarity. People belong to numerous groups, and SOLIDARITY AND MOTIVATIONS TO HELP OTHERS 277 from the perspective of each group, solidarity in other groups manifests itself as a private issue. From the perspective of group solidarity part of helping thus belongs organically to solidarity, while another part does not.4 Our first conclusion concerning the relationship between solidarity and helping is that solidarity requires helping, but not all kinds of help are required by group solidarity. Some helping behavior goes conceptually beyond or outside the bounds of solidarity (which does not of course diminish its value). What Kinds of Motivations Are Solidary? In addition to separating solidarity-based helping from private helping behavior, it can further be asked whether helping is solidary only when based on some motivations, but not others. First of all it can be thought that acting out of solidarity differs from the pursuit of immediate pleasure and from action based on threats, sanctions, or coercion: action is solidary, on this view, only if it is normatively motivated. Action based on oppression and threats is not born out of pure solidarity, but there is a complication: upholding solidary motivations may require credible sanction mechanisms, and institutional sanctions may enforce informal feelings of solidarity. For example, train passengers who pay their tickets may hope for a sufficient amount of ticket inspections every now and then to keep temptations to free ride in check. Those content with a welfare state—or at least those believing in it—typically want numerous common issues to be dealt with through taxation, social security and social rights, not through voluntary handouts. Second, solidarity as we-centered thinking is a different issue from I-centered rational egoism and long-term maximization of self-interest, or from you-centered altruism and the emphasis on the wellbeing of others, but it does include overlapping elements with both.5 Solidarity at its purest requires a normative attitude emphasizing our perspective. No one can be solidary by herself and to herself, but rather it is always a question of a connection to others. However, solidarity as we-centered thinking can be separated from not only Icentered egoism but also from you-centrism such as altruism, sympa- 278 ARTO LAITINEN & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI thy, caring, or Christian charity. The French philosopher Emmanuel Levinas’s ethical theory is a clear example of an approach emphasizing the primacy of the other—fundamentally, it is not about equality, but rather about infinite responsibility for the other. Thus, on the one hand, self-interest or acting out of a hedoic impulse are not the right types of motivations for genuine solidarity. If an action merely happens to be in accordance with the requirements of solidarity, but the real reason for committing it is self-interest, coercion, or impulsive action, it is not genuinely solidary action.6 Conceptually the following contrafractual question is thus essential: would the action have been committed even if it had not been in accordance with solidarity? What complicates matters is that genuine solidarity may benefit one’s genuine long-term self-interests, so that the cooperation of a solidary group may be based at least partly on the assumption that it is beneficial for all. In a case like this, all solidary action may be consistently in one’s own self-interest. An act that would otherwise appear to be against one’s own interests may in fact be beneficial and pay off in the long term. A rational egoist would not commit an act unless it were in accordance with solidarity, because then it would not have been in accordance with her own interests either. Despite this it may be worthwhile to continue by asking about ulterior motivations even in such cases: if self-interest and solidarity were not systematically connected, which one would be pursued? If a person answers “self-interest,” it can be said that she is only instrumentally solidary and thus does not act out of genuine solidarity. However, it may be that in all cases the motivational field of a person is not very clearly structured. This is in fact often the case; individuals always operate on the basis of a mixture of different motivations. For example pure unadulterated altruism or pure unadulterated egoism rarely exist in everyday life. On the other hand, solidarity differs from pure altruism. Broadly speaking, altruism can be defined as behavior where others are taken into account. However, there is a surprising amount of disagreement on how to understand altruism (see e.g. Monroe 1996; Sober 2002; Wyschogrod 2002). All altruism is not equally demanding, equally intended, equally targeted, and it can be thought that many real world phenomena are situated somewhere between pure selfishness SOLIDARITY AND MOTIVATIONS TO HELP OTHERS 279 and pure altruism (Pessi & Saari 2008). Flescher and Worthen have developed a somewhat loose definition of altruism, which has its basis in a wide range of research in different disciplines. In their view, altruism is action for the benefit of another person or other persons where the ultimate goal for action is the well-being others. They hold that altruism usually, but not always, brings costs to the actor and benefits for the receiver. (Flescher & Worthen 2007, 238). This way altruism can in some circumstances be in the interests of an enlightened actor when the benefits outweigh the costs as others, too, act altruistically. But it is clear that self-interest and altruism can also be in conflict: promoting the well-being of others is not in all instances beneficial for one’s personal interests. It is also clear that altruistic behavior can exceed the boundaries of solidary “we-thinking.” Typical solidary action (especially when there is an element of peer support involved) is beneficial for both oneself and others. In solidarity, the benefits to others and oneself overlap. Third, it can be said that a motivation typical for solidarity may also differ from purely moralistic motivation or a sense of duty; it is not a question of a so-called “moral fetish,” duty for duty’s sake. In this respect we suggest, however, that solidary motivation constitutively includes a sense of duty which becomes especially central in cases where more positive motivations, such as the joys of cooperation, are not a sufficient motivation for action. There is thus an overlap also between sense of duty (or moral motivation in general) and solidarity. Philosophical discussion on the relationship between morality and the requirements of friendship also applies to the relationship between solidarity and morality. As Stocker (1976) has highlighted, it would be peculiar to think that a person would visit a friend at a hospital specifically for a sense of duty, or because it is the right thing to do, or because a moral law so requires, instead of a person visiting the hospital “for the friend’s sake,” “for your sake,” “because he is my friend,” “because she is terrified for her friend’s accident,” “because she wants to see her friend and wants to show that she cares.” Referring to a moral law gives a cold impression—as if the other person’s accident would only be an opportunity to act rightly and the friend would be a mere instrument for moral action. Paradoxically the person’s suffering together with the fact that there is a special friendship with the person in question 280 ARTO LAITINEN & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI makes the hospital visit a duty, and a morally right action. Nonetheless, for a genuine friend the reasons and motives for an action are not in the vein of “because it is right.” The motive has to be more emotional or appealing to the special friendship, because otherwise it begins to appear like a “moral fetish.” Friendship consists of enjoying the company of the other and especially of holding loyalty-related issues as duty or good bases for action (Scanlon 1998). A genuine friend feels that she has a duty to help a friend in need, and this sense of duty is far from a moral fetish; instead it is an essential dimension of friendship. Similarly one can think that in a solidarity relationship it is essential to assume certain duties and responsibilities as well as to perceive the relationship in question important, and part of one’s identity construction. Thus, if the latter dimension is present, action out of a sense of duty is solidary. Acts made out of a sense of duty may prima facie be considered actions made out of solidarity (unless it can be established, in an indepth interview for example, that the person distinguishes between a sense of duty and a sense of solidarity). After all, solidarity manifests itself as normative requirements. It would be odd if solidarity would demand to completely ignore these duties. Of course, genuine solidarity may require the primacy of a framework where burdens and costs are not experientially emphasized in the same way as in the framework of self-interest or immediate pleasure. To summarize, the solidary motive is, in particular, acting for us. The relationship between us has an influence on my motives, altruism is acting for your sake, while acting out of self-interest is acting for my sake. These may overlap to an extent. If a person does not care about duties, morality or what is right, her concern and care for us, you or I is defective for that part. But on the other hand, if a person’s primary motivation is a sense of duty, moral, or doing what is right, she may suffer from a “moral fetish” and treat others only as means to act right. Similarly if a person’s primary motivation is to uphold her own integrity and keep her hands clean, so to speak, she may suffer from a kind of moral selfishness. So far we have been attempting to demonstrate that solidarity does require one to help, but conceptual examination shows that all help is not required by solidarity, but it may also be a matter of private issues. Similarly action in accordance with solidarity is not SOLIDARITY AND MOTIVATIONS TO HELP OTHERS 281 necessarily motivated by genuine solidarity, but may be based purely on coercion or self-interest. However, it has proven essential that the solidary motivation based on “we-thinking” should not be purged of egoism, altruism, or sense of duty—rather, a solidary stance supports these motivations in befitting circumstances. The fact that a basic solidary stance turns into action in some situations but not in others, may depend on rather surprising factors that can be investigated further in social psychology.7 Empirical research could shed light on whether people’s actual helping behavior is something that belongs to the field of solidarity. This could be investigated by exploring the connection between togetherness and willingness to help, as well as the connection between kinship, neighbors and other special relationships, and willingness to help. We can now turn to such empirical examination. Whom do We Help? The Sense of Togetherness and Readiness to Help According to the recent SAAT-data8 we have been using, helping in Finland seems rather a potent force; the majority (70 percent) thinks helping is important or very important on the personal level and less than a third concurs with the claim that “people should primarily take care of themselves.” The Finns also claim to have done quite a lot of helping during the past two years: helping relatives (85 percent reported they have helped) and especially helping friends (91 percent) but also helping a stranger—actually more than relatives (86 percent).9 There is a difference between helping someone close and someone distant. The biologist Garrett Hardin, famous for his controversial article “The tragedy of the commons,” has maintained that there are many categories between egoism and altruism (1993). According to him, there are five steps from egoism and altruism: individualism, familialism, cronyism (being partial to long-standing friends in politics), tribalism, patriotism. In his view altruism weakens spherically in relation to the group size, meaning people feel greater responsibility for their families, relatives, friends and neighbors than 282 ARTO LAITINEN & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI say people of their country or continent. People prefer helping their closest, for example favoring them in politics (cronyism). Studies on helping support Hardin’s ideas: a shared group identity and belonging to the “inner circle” have been found to strongly affect people’s willingness to help.10 The following figure can be drawn based on Hardin’s ideas11: Egoism Individualism Familialism Cronyism Tribalism Patriotism Altruism Figure 10.1. Hardin’s categories between egoism and altruism It can be said in relation to solidarity that the biological approach and the approach emphasizing the qualitative difference between the groups differ in that the latter approach takes the characteristic behavior of different groups better in consideration; it is not just about the size of the group or the distance.12 For example the aforementioned differentiation between operational groups, groups sharing a sense of togetherness and groups based on some other special relationship is not affected by the group size. The qualitative approach towards the nature of various social relations includes also a sense of the kind of support characteristic to the relationship: colleagues are not expected to help and support us the same way as friends; people sharing a dialect and some sense of community do not necessarily feel any mutual obligation of helping each other; the global ap- SOLIDARITY AND MOTIVATIONS TO HELP OTHERS 283 proach inclusive of all people is different from the perspective of human rights and from the perspective emphasizing mutual action (the latter is a matter of action-based group solidarity), and so on. So, it can be maintained that especially if helping attitudes do not directly correspond to group size, the meanings given to the group and the solidarity within the group can offer an explanation. It is specifically substantial that in certain situations favoring close relations is experienced unjustified—group affiliation can have an effect in certain situations but not in others. Hardin’s cronyism is supposedly an illustrative category in this respect—it seemingly refers to a wrong type of networking—using public positions to further the interests of a small group instead of the common good. Therefore it can be assumed that meanings associated with the group are most central in addition to the group size. The data used in this study included the answers to the question “would you be willing to do the following things in the future.” The options included helping “family members, relatives, friends and neighbors,” “helping other fellow Finns,” “helping other fellow Europeans” and “helping all people (irrespective of race and place of residence).” The answering options were put on a Likert scale in which the extremes were “absolutely” and “I don’t think so.”13 In the following figure, Hardin’s pyramid of egoism is reproduced based on the results. In the next figure, those ”absolutely” willing to help the respective group are taken into consideration. In case of “absolute” helping, Finns are most willing to altruistically help family members; the group is clearly distinct from others. Relatives and friends form another group whom approximately two-thirds are willing to help. Finns are clearly less willing to help neighbors, approximately twofifths. The group Finns are least willing to help are other Europeans, which may reveals the weakness of European identity. Or maybe Europeans were seen as less in need of help than say ”people of the world” (i.e. the developing countries). “People of the world” probably were seen to be in a more direct and acute need of help than Europeans. (Note that this may have changed since 2006 when this data was collected, especially with the European debt crisis.) It could be hypothesized that Europeans were not really perceived as being in need of help (so that European solidarity would be based 284 ARTO LAITINEN & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI on other behaviours and attitudes relevant for solidarity, for example cooperation rather than helping). Since then, the debt crisis has changed the constellation considerably, and European solidarity has increasingly meant helping the banks and economies of Greece, Ireland, Portugal, or Spain, with opponents arguing that under the austerity measures, this is not really solidarity with the people of those countries as opposed to solidarity with the international banking and financing sector. It would be very interesting to collect new data and see whether Finns are even less solidary with Europeans now (because of the significant sums of money spent on the debt crisis), or more solidary now that some Europeans, especially the most vulnerable and poor from the countries that the crisis hit the hardest, have more saliently been in true need of help. Europeans (9%) The world (15%) Finns (18%) Neighbours (38%) Relatives (63%) Friends (68%) Family members (93%) Figure 10.2. The Finns’ willingness to ”absolutely” help the various groups If we include probable helping, the structure of the pyramid changes fairly significantly. The inner circle of solidarity broadens: helping friends and relatives increases to the level of helping family members. In the case of neighbors, the willingness to help is significantly lower: three quarters of Finns would probably help their neighbor. Simultaneously we may note that in moving from absolute SOLIDARITY AND MOTIVATIONS TO HELP OTHERS 285 to probable helping the percentage of relatives increases over the percentage of friends, although in absolute helping friends are ahead of relatives. Perhaps this is connected to social desirability; it is a common idea, that relatives ought to be helped (as part of the solidarity among relatives), but this readiness does not seem to extend to absolute helping. Europeans (33%) The world (44%) Finns (54%) Neighbours (76%) Friends (93%) Relatives (94%) Family members (98%) Figure 10.3. The Finns’ willingness to ”absolutely” or “probably” help the various groups Figure 10.3 also shows that Finns on average can trust that fellow Finns will help them approximately half the time. Interestingly, the percentage is not significantly greater than helping the people of the world in general. There are probably plenty of those who rather help fellow Finns and those who think people of the world have greater distress than Finns. The Europeans are again the group to be helped the least. An interesting question in relation to solidarity is whether the groups the people were most willing to help are the same towards which people feel the greatest togetherness. To continue on the path of Hardinian pyramids, the following figure lists the answers in the 286 ARTO LAITINEN & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI SAAT-data to the question “How strong a sense of togetherness and closeness do you feel in relation to the following groups?” (In Likert scale very strong—fairly strong—fairly weak—very weak) in respect to the very or fairly strong sense of togetherness. Europeans (32%) Neighbours (34%) The world (59%) Finns (73%) Relatives (79%) Friends (90%) Family members (98%) Figure 10.4. The fair or very strong sense of togetherness and closeness in relation to the groups present among Finns Although almost all people feel a very strong feeling of togetherness within the family, the friends also reach the core of closeness. When it comes to these two groups, the feeling of togetherness and willingness to help are well aligned, when probable and absolute willingness to help are taken into account—not just the absolute willingness to help. When it comes to other relatives the findings become very interesting: people are clearly more ready to help them (at least probably) than the level of their experienced closeness would suggest. This would be in line with the above mentioned discussion: helping one’s SOLIDARITY AND MOTIVATIONS TO HELP OTHERS 287 relatives does seem to be a strong social solidarity assumption and norm. The same appears to be manifested in an interesting way in connection with neighbors: people are more willing to help them (at least probably) than the experienced closeness would suggest. The difference is significant: more than twice as many people are willing to help their neighbors compared to those who experience closeness to their neighbors. Readiness to help one’s neighbors can be, like in the case of relatives, an independent normative role expectation, which does not require a specific sense of togetherness. In comparison to helping one’s relatives, the mutual help and support of the neighbors probably focuses on different things and the potential “helping situations” may be more common. It can also partially be seen as having instrumental value; good neighbor relations—as well as good relative relations—can be seen as a tool for furthering one’s own interests; and neighborhoods are potential sites for profuse surveillance and sanctions. There is probably great variation in the extent to which a neighborhood forms a group with its own unwritten set of rules and common goals. When comparing solidarity based on common action and solidarity independent of common goals, it is fair to assume that the former would not have a great difference between the sense of togetherness and the willingness to help. Furthermore, the fact that the phenomenon is turned upside down when Finns in general are the ones to be helped deserves further investigation: far more Finns feel a sense of togetherness towards other Finns than are actually willing to help their fellow Finns. The same is true when the people of the world in general are scrutinized. In the case of the Europeans in general the levels of the sense of togetherness and willingness to help are at the exact same—and not very high— level. There are also intriguing differences among the Finns’ willingness to help in relation to their age.14 Those at the early middle-age and the middle-age are the most willing to help their relatives. The ones helping their neighbors most eagerly are the eldest, the people over sixty. Less than half of the youngest are interested in helping their neighbors but they have their own, distinctive helping interests; they are more willing than the other age-groups to help both their friends, strangers and “all the people of the world.” A cynic would no doubt ask why his/her neighbor is not included in his/her view of “all the 288 ARTO LAITINEN & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI people of the world,” but the relevant thing to note here is that the young people’s solidarity is global, the spheres of helping are mixed and that Hardin’s hypothesis on helping the closest people first does not correctly represent the young people’s reality. In young people’s lives the spheres of helping and solidarity are intertwined. The result shows not only the youthful idealism but also something pivotal of our time: the media and travelling have shaped the young people’s world views. Today’s youth have at an early stage become aware of the global problems and it is possible that as long as the current global injustices are in place, the categories of specifically the neighbors and the Europeans can be seen as members of the privileged. Similarly, we can guess how the special responsibilities, accumulated with age, can lead to an emphasis on local solidarity alongside the global responsibility. Why Do We Help—A Connection to the Sense of Closeness? What are the factors motivating Finns to help? This was studied with the question “People have many reasons for helping. Mark the following statements with respect to how well they describe your situation.” The scale (once again Likert) was “suits me well—does not suit me at all.” The answers can be roughly divided into three categories from the most to the least typical Finnish helping motives. The core of the most typical helping motives is formed by the idea “helping is the right thing to do” (80 percent of the interviewees accepts this statement, meaning that the statement fits them at least pretty well) and compassion (75 percent). In addition, two out of three Finns feel their motives include the fact that helping brings them joy or that they would act against their principles, if they would not help. The core of the Finns’ motives is formed by justice, holding on to one’s principles and feelings (compassion, joy). These three aspects are also at the heart of solidarity. Differing from a mere moral motivation, the core of the Finns’ helping motivation includes the presence of positive feelings but even more relevant is that helping is also experienced as an obligation. Of course it would be an overstate- SOLIDARITY AND MOTIVATIONS TO HELP OTHERS 289 ment to interpret that the rest—a fifth of all Finns—would help even if it would not be right and a third would help even if it would go against their principles; for their helping experience rightfulness or moral principles are not experientially pivotal (or they have not chosen, for one reason or another, to not answer in such a way). A sentiment specifically connected to solidarity would be a selective compassion along the group boundaries; in the previous part it was shown how the helping behavior of the Finns is selective in many ways. At the core of the second most typical motive for helping is the experience that “helping is in my character” (57 percent) as well as the experience of mutuality: “I get from giving as much as I give to the other” (56 percent) or “I have been helped too” (50 percent). Similarly approximately half of the Finns think their motives for helping include a sense of duty or the feeling that they are needed. Additionally, the desire to meet new people and the experience that “helping is good for the society” affect approximately half of the Finns as a motivation for helping. Furthermore, a third cites the fact that helping makes them happy as a reason for helping. Note how the descriptions of the motives offered here sound as they would complement the motives belonging to the first group— the core motives: the average interviewee could think that the most important factors are the sense of duty and compassion, but the explanation why they experience these feelings and act accordingly can refer to one’s character or mutuality. The same is also true for the third group of people, which includes less than a third of Finns. The most typical of their motives reads “People think I’m helpful” (a bit over a third of the Finns)—and also “Helpers are appreciated” which appeals to approximately every fourth interviewee. About a third want to similarly fulfill their Christian “love thy neighbor”-principle and/or feels that helping is a part of their lifestyle. Maintaining mutuality comes up once again, a bit over a fourth signs the statement: “I help, so that I would be helped in the future.” All in all, the Finns’ motives for helping seem to reveal a strong shared sense of duty: motivated by justice, acting upon one’s principles and sense of duty. All these motives appeal to the majority. Similarly, more than a half of Finns agree with the statement: “People should take more care of other people’s welfare than they do now.” 290 ARTO LAITINEN & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI Justice as a value is either very important or important to half (51 percent) of all the Finns. On the other hand, the attitudes can be strongly divided as in the case of the statement “Those needing help should learn to live independently, without having to rely on others.” Men supported this statement more than women15 whereas the interviewees’ income level, education level or age had no clearly evident impact on the answers. With regard to solidarity, it is important to know how helping motives are connected to emotional ties and willingness to help. We need to further look at the data and see what motives are emphasized among those who are willing to help “the people of the world” as well as the motives of those who felt a sense of togetherness towards the “people of the world.” Our hypothesis is that helping that crosses the boundaries of group solidarity reveals a different type of a motivational profile. While comparing those who were willing to help “the people of the world” to other Finns, we notice that the former differ in the strengths of all of the motives: they give greater values (“how well the reasons describe them”) for all of the motives than an average Finn. We might say that those willing to help the “people of the world” see helping as an important matter, so that they evaluate all of the motives using very strong language. The smallest differences between those willing to help “the people of the world” and others are in the following four motives; “I help so that I would get help in the future,” ”I will get to know new people” and “people think I am helpful.” The biggest differences can be found in the following categories; “helping is my duty” and “helping is good for the society” and especially “I would act against my principles if I would not help”.16 Additionally, they differ from the others almost as strongly in the following categories: “helping is in my character” “helping makes me happy” and “helping is my way of life.” When comparing those who felt a strong sense of togetherness towards “people in general” to average Finns, the former give a higher value to all of the motives listed (in the same way those willing to help “everybody”).17 Further, the people most willing to help (those helping everybody and those feeling togetherness towards all people) seem to be motivated by principles and personal and societal duties more than other people. SOLIDARITY AND MOTIVATIONS TO HELP OTHERS 291 In Conclusion: Solidarity, Experiences of Closeness, and Cooperation We have above examined conceptually the connections between solidarity and helping behaviour, and examined empirically whether experiences of closeness or togetherness shed light on whom we help and why. Firstly we showed that whereas solidarity does require helping on the conceptual level not all helping is required by solidarity. The “hard-core helpers” (those helping everybody and those feeling togetherness towards all the people) seem to experience all of the motives for helping to be more important than average Finns, which leads to the conclusion that they are probably more prone to help both in ways included in solidarity and in ways that go above and beyond it. There are further different spheres of solidarity (variable in both quality and size) and the patterns of helping, motives for helping and the sense of togetherness associated with each of the spheres are different. We brought forth the idea that group size can be a relevant factor in relation to helping attitudes and more qualitatively we separated three forms of solidary groups (based on cooperation, feelings of togetherness, or special relationships such as kinship). We illustrated with the help of empirical data that the Finns are most solidary concerning helping those closest to them—but simultaneously global solidarity is stronger than European solidarity. Specifically, solidarity towards the person’s closest circle—family and friends—is manifested both in the sense of willingness to help and in the experienced closeness. The attitudes toward helping different groups (especially in the case of neighbors and the Europeans) does not always correlate to mere group size, which signals that the qualitative meanings and identities are significant in affecting group solidarity. Notes 1 John Rawls defines a society as a system of cooperation. His view of society has been criticized by Amartya Sen and Martha Nuss- 292 2 3 4 5 6 7 ARTO LAITINEN & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI baum who think that that definition is unfair to people with disabilities. For a debate, see Brighouse and Robeyns, eds. (2010). May (1996, 44) has suggested that solidarity consists of the following five elements: 1) conscious identification with the group, 2) bonds of sentiment, 3) shared interests especially concerning the well-being of the group, 4) shared values and beliefs, and 5) readiness to show moral support. According to Wildt (1999, 217) an actor acts out of solidarity roughly when the actor: 1) feels sympathy, 2) her motivations are in part altruistic, 3) considers the act as helping in distress, 4) considers the distress as a moral problem, 5) takes him- or herself to be under a duty, 6) does not believe the person in question has the right to demand and receive help from him or her in particular, and when the actor assumes 7) the person in question to agree, 8) the person in question to be motivated him- or herself to alleviate their own distress, and 9) that the person in question would or will act in the same way towards her. It can however be asked if all helping is to be included in humanitarian solidarity. Perhaps we have moral obligations to all individuals only in a negative sense—in the form of prohibitions such as not to kill or hinder the lives of others. (cf. Bayertz 1999). Just distribution is undoubtedly to be taken care of, so in an unjust world part of helping is in fact action for materializing justice—and thus not mere charity. Or even if we did have a positive duty to randomly help those in need also in a just world, perhaps the duty to help only covers helping sufficiently many people sufficiently often—and it is each individual’s personal responsibility to decide when and where to help? (see Richardson 1997). If this is true, some helping (that which one does when one has already done “sufficiently” in that sense) exceeds conceptually also the high requirements of humanitarian solidarity. But perhaps it is better to classify also such supererogatory behavior as belonging to humanitarian solidarity (solidary acts need not be ones that one has a duty to do). Cf. Taylor 2007, Smith & Laitinen 2009, Tuomela 2007, Scanlon 1998, Tuomela 2013, chapter 9. Cf. Hechter 1987, Lindenberg 1998. The character, the personality, the skills and the learning history SOLIDARITY AND MOTIVATIONS TO HELP OTHERS 293 of the person contribute to the fact that some people are more ready to help than others. Also noteworthy is the fact that people have very situational and unique practices of helping. The studies proving that even very surprising facts can affect the situational helping behavior are quite famous examples. For example, Isen and Levin (1972) investigated whether or not people would help a stranger who had just dropped his papers. In the test, random people coming out of a phone booth met a stranger who seemingly accidentally dropped the pile of papers they were carrying. Did they help? In the cases where the person had just found an extra coin from the phone’s return box fourteen out of sixteen helped compared to only one out of twentyfive for those who did not find an extra coin. (For discussion, see Adams 2006, 117-118.) Research on helping has quite widely established it that among other things feeling good and happiness promote helpfulness. In the second experiment students conducting their clerical studies were given the task of giving a small speech. Some of them had to speak about the Good Samaritan whereas others about some administrative subject. In addition, some of them were rushed. On their way to give the speech the students met a person in questionable condition who clearly needed help but was possibly drunk. The main factor affecting helpfulness was the amount of rush the person was experiencing: only one in ten of the students who were told they were already late stopped to help. All in all 40 percent of the students offered some help: of those without rush 63 percent, of those with an average amount of rush 45 percent. The subject of the speech (Good Samaritan v. administrative topic) had no significant effect on the person’s helpfulness. It should be noted concerning the test setup that the condition of the person needing help was left unclear; they could have been having a sudden bout of illness or just have been severely drunk. Many of the students who did not help seemed anxious which was interpreted as a sign of conflict between readiness to help and the task at hand including the rush. (Adams 2006, 147; Darley & Batson 1973, 100-108.) These findings concur with Lindenberg’s approach introduced above. The approach emphasizes relevance of the situational framework determining the focus of our limited power of observation: which details remain in the center and which fade 294 ARTO LAITINEN & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI into the background. It is hardly surprising that the persons who were told to rush had no energy left to pay attention to the other frameworks. On the other hand, it is surprising that preparing sermon on the Good Samaritan had no apparent effect on which framework is prevalent in the person’s actions. Then again, it is not surprising that cheerfulness increases the willingness to help—like after finding a coin from the phone booth. 8 SAAT (The helping attitudes and action of the Finns)—in 2006 in order to collect the data an equal interval sample of 3500 mainland Finns, speaking either Finnish or Swedish as their first language was picked from the Population Register Centre in two groups. The people in the first group were between eighteen and seventy years of age at the time of the picking. An additional sample of 200 persons (born 1.1.1973-31.12.1975), was picked to ensure the participation of young people, and as a representative group. 1051 questionnaires were returned, which is a little over 30 percent of the 3500 questionnaires sent out. The returned questionnaires were filled with people of various age groups and the sample represented the actual distribution of the age groups in Finland 2006 extremely well. The data roughly represents the altruistic attitudes and actions of an average Finn. We must however note that the return percentage was fairly low; but on the other hand having responses from a third of the population can be seen as a very good response keeping in mind the study’s fairly abstract theme. Additionally we must note that the data is affected by the fact that most of the respondents were female (65 percent) and only a minority of the respondents were male (35 percent). 9 In all the forms of helping women are statistically very significantly slightly more active. The actual helping of neighbors draws a little different picture; two thirds of Finns have actually helped their neighbor—men clearly more so than women. 10 E.g. Gaertner et al. 1999; Sturmer et al. 2005; see also Page 1996, Rushton 1980. 11 Cf. Pessi & Saari 2008. Also the other ‘pyramids’ below, based on our findings, have been published before in Pessi & Saari 2008. 12 Enfield 2006. 13 The question also had the option to answer ”I don’t know / Does not affect me.” The responses using this option were included SOLIDARITY AND MOTIVATIONS TO HELP OTHERS 295 among the group ”I don’t think so.” The whole interpretation of the responses is limited by the fact that this very question does not enable us to find out in which ways and to which extent people would be willing to help. We can assume that the helping of family members often is both more demanding and more intense than helping “the people of the world.” On the other hand, every person who claims a willingness to help people irrespective of race and place of residence primarily reveals a universal identification with people’s need for help. 14 The data was divided to the following age groups: 18-31, 32-45, 46-59 and those between 60-73 years of age. 15 2,79 / 3,00 Sig. 0,04. 16 For example the previous example the Finns averaged in the inverse Likert scale 2,21 and those willing to help everybody 1,47. This analysis is focused specifically on the factors separating those willing to help everybody from the other groups; if we were to compare their motives to one another, alongside the principle of helping would be compassion and helping as the right thing to do at the absolute highest position; the same as the other Finns. Similarly those feeling the “human connection” the absolute highest motives were the same to, as well as the joy of helping, which is also one of the main motives also for the average Finns. See above. 17 The least they differ from the other Finns on the motives “I help so that I would be helped in the future” and “helpers are appreciated”—similar to those willing to help everybody. They differ most strongly from the average Finn in the following motives: “I have been helped too,” “helping makes me happy” and specifically “helping is a way of life for me.” Additionally they differ almost as much in the motives: “helping is characteristic to me,” “I feel like I’m needed” and “I get as much myself as I give to the other.” Literature Adams, R.M. (2006). A Theory of Virtue. Excellence in Being for the Good, Oxford: Oxford University Press Bayertz, Kurt (1999). Four Uses of ‘Solidarity.’ In Kurt Bayertz (ed.) Solidarity. Philosophical Studies in Contemporary Culture, Vol. 5. 296 ARTO LAITINEN & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI Dordrecht: Kluwer, 3-28. Brandt, Martina & Haberkern, Klaus & Szydlik, Marc (2009). Intergenerational Help and Care in Europe. European Sociological Review 25 (5): 585-601. Brighouse, Harry and Ingrid Robeyns, eds. (2010). Measuring Justice: Primary Goods and Capabilities. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press) Coleman, James (1990). Foundations of Social Theory. Cambridge MA: Belknap Press. Darley, J. M., & Batson, C.D. (1973). From Jerusalem to Jericho: A study of Situational and Dispositional Variables in Helping Behavior. JPSP, 27, 100-108 Enfield, Nick J. (2006). Social Consequences of Common Ground. In Stephen C. Levinson & Nick J. Enfield (ed.) Roots of Human Sociality. Oxford: Berg Publishers. Eurobarometer 69 (2008). 1. Values of Europeans. European Commission. Fetchenhauer, Detlef & Andreas Flache & Abraham P. Bruunk & Siegwart. Lindenberg (ed.) (2006). Solidarity and Prosocial Behaviour. An Integration of Sociological and Psychological Perspectives. New York: Springer. Flescher, Andrew Michael & Worthen, Daniel L. (2007). Altruistic Species. Scientific, Philosophical, and Religious Perspectives of Human Benevolence. Philadelphia: Templeton Foundation Press. Fraser, Nancy (2008) Scales of Justice. London: Verso. Gaertner Samuel L. & Dovidio, John F. & Rust, Mary C. & Nier, Jason A. & Banker, Brenda S. & Ward, Christine M. & Mottola, Gary R. & Houlette, Missy (1999). Reducing Intergroup Bias: Elements of Intergroup Cooperation. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 76 (3): 388-402. Hardin, Garrett (1993). Discriminating Altruism. In Garrett Hardin (ed.) Living Within the Limits. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 225-237. Hechter, Michael (1987) Principles of Group Solidarity. Berkeley: University of California Press. Igel, Corinne & Brandt, Martina & Haberkern, Klaus & Szydlik, Marc (2009). Intergenerational Help and Care. Specialization between Family and the State Intergenerational Time Transfers in SOLIDARITY AND MOTIVATIONS TO HELP OTHERS 297 Western Europe. Journal of Comparative Family Studies. 40 (2), 203-226. Isen, A., & Levin, P. (1972). Effect of Feeling Good on Helping. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 21: 384-388. Laitinen, Arto & Nicholas Smith (2009). Taylor on Solidarity. Thesis eleven. Laitinen, Arto & Pessi, Anne Birgitta, ed. (2010). Solidaarisuus. Helsinki: Gaudeamus. Laitinen, Arto & Pessi, Anne Birgitta (2010). Vaatiiko solidaarisuus auttamaan? Solidaarisuus suomalaisten auttamisteoissa ja — asenteissa. Janus 18 (4): 355-373. Lehtonen, Turo-Kimmo & Liukko, Jyri (2010). Vakuutussolidaarisuuden muodot ja rajat. Janus 18 (2): 121-136. Lindenberg, Siegwart (1998). Solidarity: Its Microfoundations and Macrodependence. A Framing Approach. In Thomas J. Fararo & Patrick Doreian (ed.) The Problem of Solidarity. Theories and Models. Amsterdam: Gordon and Breach Publishers, 61-112. May, Larry (1996). The Socially Responsive Self. Social Theory and Professional Ethics. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Monroe, Kristen Renwick (1996). The Heart of Altruism—Perceptions of a Common Humanity. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Page, Robert M. (1996). Altruism and the British Welfare State. Aldershot: Avebury. Pessi, Anne Birgitta & Saari, Juho (2008). Hyvä tahto. Auttamisen asenteet ja rakenteet Suomessa. Helsinki: STKL. Pessi, Anne Birgitta & Seppänen, Marjaana. (2010). Yhteisöllisyys. In Juho Saari (ed.) Hyvinvointivaltio. Helsinki. Gaudeamus. Richardson, Henry (1997). Practical Reasoning about Final Ends. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ross, W.D (1930). The Right and The Good. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Rushton, J. Philippe (1980). Altruism, Socialization, and Society. Englewood: Prentice Hall. Scanlon, Thomas M. (1998). What We Owe to Each Other. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Smith, Nicholas H. & Laitinen, Arto (2009). Taylor on Solidarity. Thesis 11. 99, 48-70. 298 ARTO LAITINEN & ANNE BIRGITTA PESSI Sober, Elliott (2002). The ABCs of Altruism, in Post, Stephen Garrard & Lynn G. Underwood & Jeffrey Schloss & William B. Hurlbut (ed.) Altruism and Altruistic Love—Science, Philosophy, and Religion in Dialogue. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 17-28. Stocker, Michael (1976). The Schizophrenia of Modern Ethical Theories. Journal of Philosophy, 73: 453-66. Stürmer, Stefan & Snyder, Mark & Omoto, Allen M. (2005). Prosocial Emotions and Helping: the Moderating Role of Group Membership. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 88 (3): 532546. Taylor, Charles (2007). A Secular Age. Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Tuomela, Raimo (2007). The Philosophy of Sociality. New York: Oxford University Press. Tuomela, Raimo (2013). Social Ontology: Collective Intentionality and Group Agency. New York: Oxford University Press. Wildt, Andreas (1999). Solidarity: Its History and Contemporary Definition. In Kurt Bayertz (ed.) Solidarity. Philosophical Studies in Contemporary Culture, Vol. 5. Dordrecht: Kluwer, 209-222. Wyschogrod, Edith (2002). Pythagorean Bodies and the Body of Altruism. In Stephen Garrard Post & Lynn G. Underwood & Jeffrey Schloss & William B. Hurlbut (ed.) Altruism & Altruistic Love Science, Philosophy & Religion in Dialogue. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 29-39. 11. SOLIDARITY IN A NORDIC WELFARE STATE: THE CASE OF FINLAND Heikki Hiilamo Introduction D oes the welfare state destroy solidarity? The famous quote from the English poet and cleric John Donne (1575-1631) asserts: “No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were: any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee.” For whom does the bell toll, then, if the Nordic welfare state carries an all-encompassing responsibility for the welfare of its citizens? I define solidarity as a fellowship of responsibilities and interests. Solidarity is an act of individual virtue, but it can find expression at various institutional levels—family, neighbourhood, voluntary organization, municipality, nation state or international entity. In effect, I am interested in how the welfare state affects acts of solidarity by voluntary organizations engaged in poverty alleviation. The con- 300 HEIKKI HIILAMO ditions of the poor in a given society provide an acid test for solidarity, as they measure the extent to which the non-poor are willing to share resources with those in need. In what follows, I examine the role played by voluntary organizations, and more specifically the role of the church, in advocating and acting for the poor during the development of the Nordic welfare state model in Finland (see also Hiilamo 2012). The 1990s and early 2000s in Finland provide laboratory-like conditions for researching the interplay between the Nordic welfare state as an agent of solidarity and the role of voluntary organizations. In the 1970s and 1980s generous promises were made to citizens concerning the state’s role in social protection, while the role of voluntary actors shrank. How did the welfare state succeed in keeping these promises during the difficult times of the 1990s, and did the role of voluntary actors change? Making cross-national comparisons has been facilitated by several attempts to construct theoretical models that can capture or summarize the similarities and differences between contemporary welfare states in Western industrial countries. Two types of theories have traditionally explained the birth of welfare states: ‘industrialization’ and ‘conflict.’ According to the former, changes in the economic environment have generated new welfare needs, which in turn have led to the development of welfare states (Wilensky 1975). In terms of its axioms, this approach is functional: it argues that industrialization as such creates a need for welfare state when it undermines traditional forms of solidarity by breaking the bonds between guilds, relatives and families, in other words, the networks that earlier guaranteed social security. The welfare state is a new form of solidarity resulting from modernization. Conflict theories emphasize conflicts between different social actors. According to these theories, welfare states are born against a background of conflict and the resulting power struggles. The division of social power essentially determines how social welfare will be distributed. Korpi (1983) argues that the larger the population organized through a social democratic movement, the more likely will there be a highly developed social security system (universalism, solidarity and redistribution). Thus, a developed welfare state implies a decisive transfer of power to the working class and to Social Democrats. In this connection, important factors include how the SOLIDARITY IN A NORDIC WELFARE STATE 301 left-wing parties cooperate with the trade union movement and the relative significance attached to a centralized wage settlement system. The welfare state is seen as a fellowship of responsibilities and interests among the working class. Esping-Andersen’s (1990) typology of three welfare state regimes, each with a qualitatively different arrangement between state, market and family, launched an avalanche of comparative analysis. EspingAndersen’s typology and subsequent research in the same field shows that the Nordic welfare states make a case on their own in the groupings of Western industrial countries (e.g. Kautto 2001). The basic idea of the Nordic model is to pursue universal welfare state policies, which means that public programmes, services and income transfers are designed to serve everyone in the country. The ideas underpinning the different variants of the welfare state are linked to various forms of Christianity: the central European model is based on Catholic religiosity, the social democratic version on Lutheran, and the Anglo-American model on laissez-faire (Kersbergen & Manow 2009; Kersbergen 1995). The central European model emphasizes solidarity within and across families, while the Anglo-American model stresses the role of voluntary organizations and charities (Ferrera 1996). Esping-Andersen‘s typology acknowledges the role of the church as an agent of solidarity only in relation to the first type, the “corporatist-statist” regime, where the church, in shaping state intervention, maintains class and status differences. The second type, the “social-democratic” regime, is dedicated to promoting equality, particularly along class lines, without church influence. The welfare state regime theory suggests that the kind of traditional assistance the church and similar voluntary organizations lend to the poor would die out in the course of “socio-democratic” welfare state development, a statement analogous to the secularization hypothesis (Berger 2002). This would indicate the demise of solidarity in the form of voluntary organizations. People’s needs would be taken care of by public institutions and there would be no room for voluntary actors. The economic crowding out theory gives a similar prediction. It can be argued that when the government increases expenditures on social protection, the role of the traditional sources of protection would diminish. 302 HEIKKI HIILAMO The Ethos of Nordic Universalism The qualitative change that Protestantism brought about in the church-state relationship has been understood as a historically decisive prelude to secularization and the welfare state. The transition of poor relief from church to state provision was a relatively smooth process in the Lutheran countries of northern Europe where Luther’s doctrine of the two estates precluded conflict: the religious estate was responsible for the soul, and the governing estate for order (Kahl 2009). These countries were neither religiously heterogeneous nor did the ‘national revolutions’ lead to fervent church-state conflicts. Countries in the predominantly Lutheran region established taxbased and centralized systems of poor relief to take the place of the church’s charitable activities. The Lutheran churches withdrew from providing social protection and focused on serving mostly as public agencies of moral and religious nurture (Gustafsson 2003). At the core of Nordic universalism was a sense of solidarity, expressed, for example, as motivation to construct public institutions to cover for the whole population. Universalism was an expression of human rights, a fellowship of interests and responsibilities on a national level. In the Nordic model the fact that welfare state programmes cover all categories of the population is seen to be a solid guarantee of wide popular support for the welfare state. Ideally, since everybody contributes to and benefits from the system, there is no wedge between the well-off payers and the worse-off beneficiaries. The welfare state is an all-encompassing form of solidarity. The history of Finland provides a good lesson in how a political foundation for solidarity can be re-established in a highly divided country. In 1918 Finland experienced a severe civil war between the ‘Reds’ and ‘Whites’ (Hiilamo & Kangas 2013). The war was one of the bloodiest ever on the European continent, and resulted in a victory for the bourgeois ‘white’ army. However, the Social Democrats were allowed to participate in the first post-war elections in 1919 and won 40 percent of parliamentary seats. Furthermore, in 1927, less than ten years after the civil war, the Social Democrats alone formed the government. After World War II Finland faced a challenge in resettling the evacuees from areas occupied by the Soviet Union. More than one-tenth of the population had to be relocated. SOLIDARITY IN A NORDIC WELFARE STATE 303 Key elements in the rebuilding process included expanding social policies, implementing extensive land reforms, modernizing the educational system and using social insurance funds as investment capital. Social policy programmes and the people’s insurance system covered everyone equally and created a feeling of solidarity. The people’s national school system had the same impact on the orientation of pupils. Children of the ‘Reds’ and ‘Whites’ were obliged to sit together in the same classrooms, had the same curriculum, and became familiar with one another. In this sense, both the universal social policies and universal education paved the way for accepting the welfare state as an agent of solidarity. The development of the universal welfare state in Finland began in the 1960s, later than in other Nordic countries (Alestalo & Kuhnle 1984; Alestalo & Uusitalo 1986; Kuusi 1964; Flora & Heidenheimer 1981, 23). As the welfare state took shape, the sphere in which other actors could operate began to shrink. The state assumed all-encompassing responsibility in health care and social welfare; consequently the role of the church and other voluntary organizations was marginalized. Until the early 1990s there was no reason to challenge the social democratic welfare state hypothesis. The Nordic countries had developed comprehensive earnings-related benefits for the employed and flat rate benefits for individuals outside the labour market, leaving hardly any room for selective church poor relief or inclusion programmes at the state or municipal levels (Kautto 2001; Nordlund 2000). The countries had large tax-funded public welfare sectors and extensive social legislation providing a safety net ‘from cradle to grave’ and producing favourable results in terms of both material and psychological well-being. The mature Nordic welfare state construed poverty as a residual problem best combated through active employment-promoting policies combined with an all-encompassing system of social benefits. The welfare state was seen as such a strong safeguard against poverty that it would eradicate it just as preventive measures and antibiotics had eradicated tuberculosis. In accordance with the social democratic welfare state hypothesis, the role of the church and voluntary actors in providing for the poor had become less significant by early 1990s. It was evident that as a result of the construction of the universal welfare state, the role of other forms of solidarity was indeed marginalized as well. 304 HEIKKI HIILAMO Crisis of the Nordic Welfare State The case of Finland is illustrative of a tension within the Nordic welfare state model. In the late 1980s the common conception was that the Nordic welfare state had provided a permanent solution to the problem of poverty in Finland. Income inequality was the lowest in the industrialized world (LIS 2010). With only slight exaggeration, poverty was referred to as something that only homeless alcoholics could expect to encounter. However, a deep economic recession, known as the Great Depression (Kalela et al. 2001), then hit the Nordic countries in the early 1990s (Kautto 2000; 2001; Nordlund 2000; Timonen 2003), leading to an abrupt end of the Nordic welfare state’s golden years. Finland was severely hit, and the following decades witnessed permanent austerity. The welfare state provided generous welfare benefits but required the able-bodied to work. Due to the recession, though, very few jobs were available. Between 1991 and 1993, GDP declined by 13 percent and unemployment rose to almost 17 percent. The government’s austerity programme cut benefits and raised taxes (Timonen 2003). The recession was then followed by a recovery beginning in 1994 (see e.g. Kalela et al. 2001) and robust economic growth, but basic benefits were left to stagnate. Unemployment persisted among single parents and those with low levels of education. Benefits were reduced, and plans to further expand the welfare system were scrapped. Despite strong economic growth both the state and the municipalities maintained their austerity programmes, which was reflected in the depreciating value of basic income transfers and more limited social services (Timonen 2003). At the end of the 1990s the level of social spending (excluding unemployment-related expenditure) was about 10 percent lower than at the beginning of the decade although the number of pensioners had increased (Jonung, Kiander & Vartia 2008). Poverty re-emerged as a formidable social problem with dramatic rises in relative poverty levels (Ministry of Social Affairs and Health 2001; 2003; 2006). Persistent unemployment and widening income inequality therefore emerged as new problems. The economic collapse of 2008 stalled economic growth and in 2009 the GDP dropped by 8.2 percent. Unemployment increased again. SOLIDARITY IN A NORDIC WELFARE STATE 305 Finland is an interesting case also with regard to the role of the church. While parish-level nursing and social work are a special feature of churches in northern Europe, their institutional position is clearly the strongest in Finland (Pyykkö et al. 2011). And with a membership covering 76.4 percent of the Finnish population as of 2012, the Evangelical Lutheran Church dominates the religious landscape in Finland. Its poverty alleviation efforts, like its other activities, are financed mainly through church taxes paid by individual members, which, in effect, correspond to membership fees. Church input in providing social welfare is a charitable activity analogous to the help offered by other types of voluntary organizations (Dahlberg 2005). There is no obligation in state law for the church to provide assistance to the poor, nor is any right to such assistance provided for by church statutes. The assistance provided by the church represents a form of traditional poor relief in a modern setting, where field workers are left with considerable freedom to address local needs. Critical Voice During these turbulent years municipalities in Finland were required to reserve adequate funds for the provision of social services in all circumstances. However, many social welfare and health care services were based on budget appropriations. In practical terms, individual clients were entitled to services only within the limits of the funds allocated to them by the municipality in its budget. With the state seeming to fail at providing basic security, a number of non-governmental organizations gained an opportunity to intensify their antipoverty efforts. Drawing on historical tradition it could have been assumed that, for example, the church would not have engaged in public debate on poverty issues, believing them to be within the domain of state and municipal governance. However, the church and nongovernmental social welfare organizations were the first to address the problem of poverty in the public sphere during the economic recession of the early 1990s (Malkavaara 2004); indeed, they took up the issue of poverty as a campaign theme (Kuivalainen & Niemelä 2010). They generally applied a two-edged strategy: providing help for the most vulnerable groups while asserting that these 306 HEIKKI HIILAMO activities should be carried out by the institutions of the universal welfare state. They drew particular attention to people in the most vulnerable positions, and claimed that the welfare state had failed the needy (Pessi, Angell, Petterson forthcoming; Yeung 2003, 2006). In the early 2000s Finland chose not to reverse the cutbacks in social protection and allowed inflation to erode existing benefits further. Despite steady economic growth and strong public finances only minor improvements were made to basic welfare benefits, which labels the Finnish case as “permanent austerity.” Lower taxes and considerable pay raises for some increased inequality between those in working life and those suffering from long-term unemployment or attempting to make ends meet outside the labour force. In effect, Finland began to edge away from the universal welfare model (Kuivalainen & Niemelä 2010). As a positive response to the Nälkäryhmä (Hunger Group), a pressure group consisting of well-established public figures organized by the church, the government programme in 1999 stated that “the Government’s key area of emphasis is to promote activities which prevent and reduce serious poverty problems, social exclusion and the accumulation of deprivation.” The Hunger Group was a new and innovative approach to the poverty problem and attracted immediate media attention. This was the first time that poverty was mentioned in a government programme. In the Nordic model, targeted government or NGO programmes had previously been considered as a deviation from the fundamental universalistic principles of the welfare state. Since 1999 the key symbols of Finnish antipoverty policy have been the legislative “packages for the poor” put together partly in response to lobbying by the church and NGOs (Kuivalainen & Niemelä 2010). New impetus for anti-poverty politics came from the EU. The EU Member States agreed at the Nice European Council in December 2000 to draw up National Action Plans (NAPs) against poverty and social exclusion as part of the political cooperation between the Member States in the area of social protection. The Member States drew up the first two-year National Action Plans against Poverty and Social Exclusion in 2001. Initially the EU’s focus on social exclusion and particularly the development of anti-poverty programmes to combat it was met with skepticism among the Nordic countries (Jacobsson & Johansson 2009). This SOLIDARITY IN A NORDIC WELFARE STATE 307 attitude stemmed from the conviction that such policies are not effective in alleviating poverty. Before the introduction of the so-called open method of coordination (OMC) procedure at the EU Lisbon summit, no forms of cooperation between state officials and NGOs—with the exception of trade unions—had been established in either Finland or Sweden. The situation changed somewhat when ministries were asked to craft National Action Plans (NAPs) concerning social inclusion. As the body responsible for drawing up the National Action Plans, the Finnish Ministry for Social Affairs and Health mobilized all relevant parties including NGOs and the church. These parties were invited as partners and not merely as participants to help craft the NAPs, thus reflecting an absence of church-state conflict. For church actors, the invitation was a sign that their input continued to be valued even in post-secular circumstances. The OMC process also facilitated collaboration between various actors by constituting a common discourse and providing a platform for institutionalized dialogue. The church and the non-governmental social welfare organizations emphasized the importance of upholding the legacy and principles of the Nordic welfare state model. They argued that the primary aim of social policy is to guarantee a decent standard of living for all citizens. The National Action Plans frequently stated that the Finnish social security system rests on the basic principles of universal social welfare and health services together with a comprehensive income security system (Ministry of Social Affairs and Health 2001, 2003, 2006). A key tool in the prevention of social exclusion was adherence to the principle of universality. It was firmly stated that policies aimed at combating poverty and social exclusion would rely first and foremost on the development of a universal system. The church and non-governmental organizations in particular, identified the inadequate level of basic security benefits and the unsatisfactory functioning of these schemes as the most important reasons for poverty (Kuivalainen & Niemelä 2010). The Finnish branch of the European Anti-Poverty Network (EAPN-Fin), established in 1994, along with the Finnish Federation for Social Welfare and Health, acted as two of the platforms. The church was actively involved in both bodies. The OMC process 308 HEIKKI HIILAMO of social inclusion provided the church and NGOs with a window of opportunity to gain recognition from official bodies. Before the OMC no pattern of cooperation between NGOs and official bodies existed. Regarding social inclusion, the OMC embodied a “common conception of problems” for NGOs through which they were able to make their input more visible and gain recognition from the government. Establishing Food Banks During the golden years of the welfare state church social workers mainly made home visits to elderly clients. In the early 1990s the parishes opened social work offices especially for working-age people most severely hit by the depression. They offered counseling, food aid, financial assistance and group activities, among other services. The share of sixty four-year-olds and older among all clients remained at about 60 percent until 1990 but declined steadily over the 1990s to a level below 40 percent. Meanwhile the share of workingage clients climbed above 50 percent in the late 1990s, reflecting a shift of focus in church solidarity work (Hiilamo 2012). There was also a shift of emphasis in client contacts at church social work offices. Previously the contacts mainly involved psychological and spiritual support as well as recreational activities for the elderly (Ryökäs 1993). The number of client contacts at church social work offices rapidly increased as soon as non-urban parishes, too, opened such offices. The recession gave an impetus to the provision of financial assistance in the form of food coupons and packages, the covering of health bills and rents, and occasionally more generous financial assistance to service an overdue debt, for example. The Finnish Evangelical Church’s administrative structure is based on the idea of autonomous parishes (Kirkkojärjestys 1991/1993). Given the fact that there are no detailed instructions on how to conduct solidarity work at the parish level, it is noteworthy that so many chose to refocus their activities from spiritual ones and working with the elderly and the handicapped, to helping the unemployed and the poor (Hiilamo, 2012). Food banks began to proliferate in 1997 when the church’s annual SOLIDARITY IN A NORDIC WELFARE STATE 309 fundraising campaign (known as ‘Yhteisvastuukeräys,’ or Common Responsibility), with the President of the Republic as its patron, made food banks part of its programme (Jääskeläinen 2000). The Common Responsibility Campaign is Finland’s largest annual fundraising effort, and is organized by the Finnish Evangelical Lutheran Church and its Church Resources Agency (Kirkkopalvelut ry). First launched in 1950 and currently run by a small coordination unit in Helsinki, its mission is to promote social responsibility that focuses on alleviating suffering and advocating justice. Altogether 40,000 volunteers in all parishes around the country participate in its activities each year. In 1995 Finland became a member of the EU and was entitled to apply to it for special assistance in the form of intervention supplies to be delivered on social grounds. In 1997 as many as 272 parishes— half the total in Finland—distributed EU food aid. Bags of food and food coupons were distributed at field worker offices. These activities were focused on urban communities. Food aid was also made available to elderly clients during home visits. The demand for food aid grew, outstripping the earmarked appropriations. As well as the EU supplies, the church and NGOs distributed food donated by local stores and the food industry. They also raised money though collections and campaigns, and used existing funds to buy food. While a large number of religious and non-religious NGOs were involved in the distribution of EU food, the Evangelical Lutheran Church gained a dominant position in this effort due to its existing delivery chain: there was at least one church office in every municipality where it was possible to distribute food (Hiilamo, Pesola & Tirri 2008). Breadlines on city corners became a symbol of the economic crisis, exemplifying the decline of the welfare state. Some politicians called for the closure of the food banks and the raising of the level of basic income benefits. The food banks were initially intended as an efficient way of distributing food aid. But they were criticized within the church for their presumed potential to establish a new poor relief system. Also, it was felt that the ways in which the aid was distributed were too mechanical and often humiliating for clients (Addy 2005, 187-189). The food bank project of 1997 assumed that food banks would be closed by 1999. However, the parishes continued to provide meals 310 HEIKKI HIILAMO and offer other activities for the unemployed, whose advocacy groups they often collaborated with (Mäki 2005; Siiki 2008; Salonen 2009). As general economic conditions in Finland improved some food banks were closed, however food banks and similar systems remained important in the most hard-pressed communities. This was an indication of the changed conditions. General economic improvement no longer guaranteed that people would be lifted out of poverty. The church was not criticized for re-establishing poor relief. Quite the contrary, the great majority welcomed its activities—an attitude also reflected in the fact that in some years during the late 1990s nearly as many people joined the church as left it. A major reason for joining and remaining a church member was that the church was engaged in helping the poor. In short, the reorientation of church solidarity work, placing poverty at the focal point of its activities, benefited the church (Hiilamo, Raunio & Yeung 2008). By the early 2000s with the number of client contacts having declined rapidly for two years, food banks seemed likely to remain a temporary phenomenon. However, the church food assistance programme underwent another reorientation where the number of EU-provided food bags continued to decline but new clients were reached through meal services. Meal services were given preference over food bags as a more community-centred form of assistance. It was also discovered that some who received food bags of flour, oil and other basic food items were unable to prepare food. The church and NGOs continued to offer food and financial assistance to the most vulnerable groups in the second half of the 2000s. The general trend showed a slight decrease in the number of clients but equally a small increase in the volume of assistance—a development also observed in the social assistance records. However, the trend changed in 2008 when the global recession hit Finland. The ten-year decline in client contacts at church social work offices was halted and food assistance in terms of both clients and money increased. This was also true for other types of financial assistance, including congregation funds spent on such items as rents and health bills. In 2013 the future of the food banks was challenged following cuts in EU provisions of food aid. For the church, the food bank activity served a critical function in making its voice heard: by setting an example, it found a way to speak about poverty (Hiilamo 2012). The pressing needs of the poor SOLIDARITY IN A NORDIC WELFARE STATE 311 were recognized in a statement on the common good given by the Bishops of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in 1999. The statement was followed by a public uproar, however, as it was interpreted as a political manifesto and a deviation from the church‘s traditional role as an agency of religious and moral nurture (Parviainen 2000). Discussion As demonstrated in this article and elsewhere (Saari & Pessi, this volume; Esping-Andersen 1990), the Nordic type of an all-encompassing welfare state, where everyone contributes to and benefits from the system, creates and sustains solidarity. This is the founding principle of the Nordic welfare state (Hiilamo & Kangas 2013). The building of the Nordic welfare state has promoted social cohesion and shortened social distances. But is this type of welfare state destructive of voluntary solidarity? Our preliminary answer is negative. Given the Nordic welfare state model, Finland was from the outset the least likely candidate for the emergence of vibrant voluntary-based charitable activity. The voluntary solidarity work coexisted with the development of a universal welfare state beginning in the 1960s. After decades of marginalization, however, the role of the voluntary actors then became more pronounced after the recession in the early 1990s. The church and the non-governmental social welfare organizations took an active role in drawing attention to the issue of poverty during the 1990s. They were instrumental in the adoption of poverty as a central political concern by the government and the political parties. Kahl (2009, 287) argues that churches have historically tended to call for state involvement in crises such as the Depression in late nineteenth century America, the failure of the friendly societies in the UK, and the Great Depression. This also seems to be the case in Finland. Church solidarity work filled gaps in the state and municipal provision of services (Juntunen, Grönlund & Hiilamo 2006; Kinnunen 2009). This effort shows that the church solidarity work had indeed become an established part of the last-resort social safety net and no longer represented a random act of charity determined, first and foremost, by each organization’s history, local customs and resources. 312 HEIKKI HIILAMO The Nordic welfare model continues to rely heavily on the public sector, and the Nordic countries exemplify universalism as the idea behind all policy prescriptions. Our results indicate that periods of austerity in welfare state development may reinvigorate religious activity in poverty alleviation and give rise to a reorientation of the role of voluntary organizations. This is partly explained by the welfare state having had a set norm of solidarity before depression hit Finland in 1991, which inspired church and other voluntary actors to fill in where previous standards of benefits and servives were no longer maintained by the public sector. It is also true of Finland, as pointed out elsewhere (Saari & Pessi, this volume), that voluntary welfare agencies are partially funded by the government, more specifically through income from the state gambling authority. Church taxes are collected as part of the national income tax. We may assume, though, that shared values promoted by the church and voluntary organizations, among others, create and sustain social trust. Solidarity is, in turn, deeply embedded in social trust and expressed in pro-social acts, as has been demonstrated by both the church and voluntary organizations in Finland during times of economic crisis. Literature Addy, T. (2005). “Diaconal issues in Europe: Challenges to and from Finland,” Diakonian tutkimus (2): 182-192. Alestalo, M., Uusitalo, H. (1986). “Finland,” in Flora P, ed. Growth to Limits: The Western European Welfare States Since World War II. Vol 1, 197-292. Berlin, De Gruyter. Berlin. Alestalo, M., Kuhnle, S. (1984). The Scandinavian route: economic, social, and political developments in Denmark, Finland, Norway, and Sweden. Helsinki, University of Helsinki Berger, M. (2002). God is Dead: Secularization in the West. Oxford, Blackwell. Dahlberg, Lena (2005). “Interaction between voluntary and statutory social service provision in Sweden: a matter of welfare pluralism, substitution or complementarity?” Social policy and administration, 39 (7): 740-763. SOLIDARITY IN A NORDIC WELFARE STATE 313 Esping-Andersen, G. (1990). The Three Worlds of Welfare Capitalism. Polity Press, Cambridge. Ferrera, M. (1996). “The ‘Southern Model’ of Welfare in Social Europe,” Journal of European Social Policy 6(1): 17-37. Flora, P., Heidenheimer, A.J. eds. (1981). The development of the welfare state in Europe. London, McCroom Helm. Gothoni, R. (2006). Velat anteeksi? Akordirahastotoimintamallin arviointitutkimus [Evaluation of Church’s debt settlement arrangements]. Suomen ev.lut.kirkon kirkkohallituksen julkaisuja 2006:1. Helsinki, Kirkkohallitus. Gustafsson, G. (2003). “Church-state separation Swedish-style,” West European Politics 26(1): 51-72. Hiilamo, H. (2012). Rethinking the role of church in a socio-democratic welfare state. International Journal of Sociology and Social Policy 32(7/8): 401-414. Hiilamo, H., Raunio, A., & Yeung, A.B. (2007). Lähimmäinen hyvinvointivaltiossa , in Saari J & Yeung AB (eds) Oikeudenmukaisuus hyvinvointivaltiossa. Gaudeamus, Helsinki, 220-235. Hiilamo, H., Pesola, U., Tirri, S. (2008). “Kirkon ruoka-apu [Church food aid],” in Hänninen, S., Karjalainen, J., Lehtelä, K.-M., Silvasti, T., eds. Toisten pankki. Ruoka-apu hyvinvointivaltiossa. Helsinki, Stakes. Hiilamo, H., Kangas, O. (2013). Recipe for better life. Helsinki: Crisis Management Inivitive. Jääskeläinen, P. (2000). “Yhteisvastuukeräyksen ruokapankkiprojekti [Food bank project],” in Heikkilä, M., Karjalainen, J., Malkavaara, M., eds. Kirkonkirjat köyhyydestä. Kirkkopalvelujen julkaisuja; 5. Helsinki, Kirkkopalvelut. Jacobsson, K., Johansson, H. (2009). “The micro-politics of the Open Method of Coordination: NGOs and the social inclusion process in Sweden,” in Heidenreich M, Zeitlin J, eds. Changing European Employment and Welfare Regimes: The Influence of the Open Method of Coordination on National Reforms. London, Routledge. Jonung, L., J. Kiander, and P. Vartia. 2008. The great financial crisis in Finland and Sweden. The dynamics of boom, bust and recovery, 1985-2000. European Economy, Economic Papers 367. Brussels: European Commission. Available:http://ec.europa.eu/economy_fi- 314 HEIKKI HIILAMO nance/publications/publication13551_en.pdf Juntunen, E., Grönlund, H., Hiilamo, H. (2006). Viimeisellä luukulla. Tutkimus viimesijaisen sosiaaliturvan aukoista ja diakoniatyön kohdentumisesta [Study on Church social work as a last resort welfare provider]. Helsinki, Kirkkohallitus. Kahl, S. (2009). “Religion as a Cultural force: Social Doctrines and Poor Relief Traditions,” in Kersbergen K, Manow P, eds. Religion, Class Coalitions and Welfare State Regimes, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Kautto, M. (2000). Two of a kind? Economic crisis, policy responses and welfare during the 1990s in Sweden and Finland. Forskningsrapport från Kommittén Välfärdsbokslut. Stockholm, Statens Offentliga Utredningar (SOU 2000:83). Kautto, M. (2001). Diversity among Welfare States. Comparative Studies on Welfare Adjustments in Nordic Countries. Research report 118. Helsinki, Stakes. Kalela, J., Kiander, J., Kivikuru, U., Loikkanen, H., & Simpura, J., eds. (2001). Down from the Heavens, Up from the Ashes. The Finnish Economic Crisis of the 1990s in the Light of Economic and Social Research. VATT Publications 27:6. Helsinki, Government Institute for Economic Research. Kersbergen, K., Manow, P. eds. (2009). Religion, Class Coalitions and Welfare State Regimes. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Kersbergen, K. (1995). Social Capitalism. A study of Christian democracy and the welfare state. London and New York, Routledge. Kinnunen, K, ed. (2009). Sairas köyhyys. Tutkimus sairauteen liittyvästä huono-osaisuudesta diakoniatyössä [Study on Church measures to assist those who are sick and poor]. Helsinki, Kirkkohallitus. Kirkkojärjestys (1991/1993) [Church Order]. Helsinki, Kirkkohallitus. Korpi, W. (1983). The Democratic Class Struggle. Routledge & Keegan Paul, London. Kuivalainen, S., Niemelä, M. (2010). From universalism to selectivism: the ideational turn of the anti-poverty policies in Finland. Journal of European Social Policy 20(3): 263-276. Kuusi, P. (1964). Social Policy for the Sixties. A Plan for Finland. Kuopio, Finnish Social Policy Association. LIS (2010): Luxembourg Income Study. Key figures. http://www.lisproject.org/key-figures/key-figures.htm. June 7, 2010. SOLIDARITY IN A NORDIC WELFARE STATE 315 Mäki, S. (2005). Leipäjonojen arki [Queuing up for food]. Helsingin yliopiston taloustieteen laitoksen selvityksiä nro 39. Helsinki, Helsingin yliopisto. http://www.mm.helsinki.fi/mmtal/abs/Selv39.pdf Malkavaara, M. (2004) “Finland,” in Noordegraaf H, Volz R, eds. European Churches Confronting Poverty. Social Action Against Social Exclusion. Bochum, SWI Verlag. Ministry of Social Affairs and Health (2001). National Action Plan Against Poverty and Social Exclusion. Working Group Memorandums of the Ministry of Social Affairs and Health 2001:12. Helsinki, Ministry of Social Affairs and Health. Ministry of Social Affairs and Health (2003). National Action Plan Against Poverty and Social Exclusion for 2003-2005. Helsinki, Ministry of Social Affairs and Health. Ministry of Social Affairs and Health (2006). National Reports on Strategies for Social Protection and Social Inclusion—Finland. Publications of the Ministry of Social Affairs and Health 2006:24. Helsinki, Ministry of Social Affairs and Health. Nordlund, A. (2000). “Social policy in harsh times. Social security development in Denmark, Finland, Norway and Sweden during the 1980s and 1990s,” International Journal of Social Welfare 9: 31-42. Parviainen, S. (2000). “Piispojen luterilainen sosiaalietiikka globaalitalouden paineessa [Bishops’ Lutheran social ethics and pressures from global economy],” in Heikkilä M, Karjalainen J, Malkavaara M, eds. Kirkonkirjat köyhyydestä. Kirkkopalvelujen julkaisuja; 5. Helsinki, Kirkkopalvelut. Pessi, Anne Birgitta; Angell, Olav Helge & Pettersson, Per [Forthcoming]. Nordic churches as agents in welfare cutbacks—critical voices and/or complementary providers? Temenos. Pyykkö, R., Henriksson, L. & Wrede, S. (2011). Jurisdictional Boundaries in the Making. : The Case of Parish Diaconal Work in Finland. Professions and Professionalism 1(1): 21-35. Ryökäs, E. (1990). Diakonianäkemyksemme [Views on diaconical work]. Pieksämäki, Kirkon tutkimuskeskus. Salonen, A.S. (2009). Suomalainen hyvinvointiyhteiskunta ruoka-avun asiakkaan näkökulmasta [Welfare society in Finland from the food aid client’s perspective]. Kirkkososiologian pro gradu —tutkielma. Helsinki, Helsingin yliopisto. https://oa.doria.fi/bitstream/handle/10024/50513/suomalai.pdf?sequence=1 316 HEIKKI HIILAMO Siiki, A.-M. (2008): “Myllypuron ruokajono—esimerkki hyvinvointiköyhyydestä [Food bank in Myllypuro—an example of poverty in the middle of affluence],” in Hänninen, S., Karjalainen, J., Lehtelä, K.-M., Silvasti, T., eds. Toisten pankki. Ruoka-apu hyvinvointivaltiossa. Helsinki, Stakes. Timonen, V. (2003). Restructuring the Welfare State: Globalisation and Social Policy Reform in Finland and Sweden. Cheltenham, Edward Elgar. Wilensky, H. (1975). The Welfare State and Equality. University of Californian Press, Berkeley. Yeung, A.B. (2003). Re-emergence of the church in the Finnish public life? Journal of Contemporary Religion 18(2):197-211. Yeung, A.B. (2006). “The Finnish Lutheran Church as a Welfare Agent—the case of Lahti,” in Yeung AB, ed. Churches in Europe as Agents of Welfare, pp. 142-203. Working Paper 2:1 from the project WREP. Uppsala, DVI. 12. VOLUNTEERING, THE HUMANITARIAN GIFT TO “DISTANT SUFFERING,” AND SOLIDARITY Bente Blanche Nicolaysen Introduction T his chapter reports a single case study that covers a Norwegian voluntary association’s spending of funds (raised at the fundraising bazaar) for humanitarian causes outside Norway over time (1950-2000) to discuss the possibilities and limits of transnational solidarities. The focus is on the nature of the relationships (over time) that a local voluntary association and the volunteers within it develop when the recipient of funds (raised at the fundraising bazaar) is not only the neighbour or “someone like us” in the local community, but the “unnamed and universal stranger,” to borrow the term of Titmuss in his classical study The Gift Relationship. What form can volunteering take when those called upon to act are thousands of miles away from the person(s) suffering? This question has been extensively discussed in relation to the role of voluntary associations engaged in Norwegian development aid (see for example Nustad 2003, Simensen 2003, and Tvedt 2003). Less is known, however, about the way that voluntary organisations not specifically engaged 318 BENTE BLANCE NICOLAYSEN in development over time responded to “distant suffering” (Boltanski 1999) and became enmeshed in Norwegian humanitarian and development aid. In this chapter I focus on a specific set of practices within the voluntary organisation, the raising of funds through the fundraising bazaar. Fundraising bazaars are, following Gordon (1998), defined as events that meet three criteria: they are based on women’s voluntary labour; they are held for fundraising purposes; and they include the sale of handmade items. The chapter reconstructs the main trends in to whom (or which project) support is given and what kind of support is given in the period 1950-2000, a period covering both welfare state expansion and retrenchment. A case study of a local voluntary organisation’s engagement in “distant suffering” over time allows us to examine the expansion of a local and national moral horizon to an international one, and reminds us that volunteering always occurs in particular settings, characterized by different historical moments offering varying conditions for action. The voluntary organisation’s engagement in “distant suffering” lying outside special interpersonal relationships and ties, raises issues that a conception of solidarity based on interpersonal relationships (for example in the family, in the neighbourhood, in the village, in clubs or in associations) cannot account for. And yet, it is argued in this chapter, it is also in such situations of assistance at a distance outside the ambit of interpersonal ties often useful to speak of or appeal to solidarity in order to distinguish it from other relationships, for example charity. The chapter argues that one should abandon solidarity as a generic term, and instead speak of solidarity in an at once narrow and a transnational sense (following Gould 2007). Solidarity can indeed apply to relations to others at a distance. This chapter will, when speaking about the ties established between the voluntary organisation (and the individuals within it) and different projects thousands of miles away draw on the useful concept of overlapping solidarities or transnational networked solidarities developed by Gould (2007). But in order to distinguish such specific practices of solidarity from humanitarian aid and charity, this chapter argues that we need to draw also on other concepts. More than one scholar writing on solidarity have, however, pointed to the need to speak not only of solidarity but also of trust, a feeling of belonging, promise, gift, reciprocity, a disposition to help, altruism, feelings of com- VOLUNTEERING 319 mon group, sympathy, etc. In this chapter, the two concepts that are drawn out are reciprocity and the gift (Mauss 1990/1923). The conceptual lenses of gift theory are used to bring out both the limits of engagement in “distant suffering” (in terms of solidarity) and the potential for an expanding moral horizon (and the possibility of weak solidarity) within such engagement. Following an outline of the case study, the theoretical framework is presented. Then, the changing nature of social ties (and nature of solidarity) when the association (and its members) extend their commitment from local to national and international projects is examined. This is examined in two steps: first, by taking a historical look at the local association’s engagement at the local and national levels; and second, by outlining the association’s gradual use of fundraising for engagement in “distant suffering.” Finally, the potential for an extension of a horizon of possibility moral horizon over time for the volunteers involved is discussed. The Case Study—a Presentation This chapter is based on a case study of the local branch of a humanitarian organisation, more particularly The Norwegian Housewife Association, from 1997 The Norwegian Women’s and Family Association. The study was carried out through a combination of archive data on the association’s fundraising activities (member and board meeting protocols, treasurers’ reports, accounting books, etc.) which was supplemented by qualitative interviews with thirty women volunteers about their volunteering and their fundraising activities. The NWFA is an interesting case for several reasons. It represents a specific type of voluntary organisation, the large social welfare organisations established in Norway in the period 1840-1950. The development in the NWFA’s organisational structure and membership base are in many ways representative of organisations within this subsector of the voluntary sector. In Norway, cooperation between the welfare state and these social welfare organisations was organised in hierarchical and democratic structures since the 1950s. Local associations, anchored in a town or village (a school district or township), were placed under county or regional units, accountable to 320 BENTE BLANCE NICOLAYSEN central branches of the organisation (Lorentzen 1983). The 1950s was also the decade that Norway was born as a nation with a development aid policy, through engagement in the “India aid” and the fishery projects in Kerala (Simensen 2003, Pharo 1986).1 Voluntary organisations (at the local, regional and national levels) became involved in humanitarian causes beyond the boundaries of the nation. Then, during the 1960s, Norway awakened as a humanitarian actor (with the Biafra conflict in Nigeria, 1967-1970) and we see an explicit policy of including voluntary associations in development aid (Østerud 2006). It is interesting to note that the distinction between humanitarian aid/relief and development aid was not discussed when Norwegian development aid took shape. In fact, humanitarian aid was considered as development aid and both came under the same post on the state budget from 1967 onwards. Involvement of large humanitarian voluntary organisations in Norwegian development aid was facilitated during the 1970s when government ministries became their most important partners and they experienced an increased number of paid, professional staff at the national level and trends towards training, appraisals and opportunities for advancement. Despite such trends, Norwegian voluntary associations within the welfare field have remained largely economically self-sustained, more so than the EU average. Indeed, only 35 percent of the revenues of the voluntary sector in Norway come from the public sector, compared to 55 percent in seven EU countries (Austria, Finland, France, Germany, Ireland, the Netherlands, and the UK). This means that historically, Norwegian voluntary associations have relied on other financial sources of support like fundraising bazaars. Then, from the 1980s there was increased focus on development aid in Norway with the establishment of the Norwegian Ministry of Development Cooperation in 1984 and a channelling of development aid through voluntary organisations with development projects which focused on agreed areas of priority: women, the environment, and human rights (Kjerland and Ruud 2003). Theoretical Framework As noted by Steen-Johnsen & Straume (2012) in a case study of a Norwegian voluntary organization in an international context “In VOLUNTEERING 321 case study research a distinction is often made between intrinsic case studies, which seek a better understanding of a unique case, and instrumental case studies that provide insight into an issue or refinement of theory” (Stake 1994). The case study in this chapter falls into the latter category. It is a single case study and no explicit comparison is made with other cases (Yin 2008). Concepts of transnational solidarity, reciprocity and the gift are framed within a specific historical and national context and empirical results of the single case study may consequently not be generalized to other contexts. The contribution of the study is to reconstruct the main trends in to whom (or which project) funds are raised through the fundraising bazaar in the period 1950-2000. The fact that the case is a single case does, however, not exclude analytical generalization. The use of theoretical propositions concerning solidarity, reciprocity and the gift will guide the analysis of the data and the chapter study hopes to be instrumental in terms of providing an empirically grounded theoretical discussion that is relevant outside the context of the specific Norwegian case. It can be shown that many institutions and practices in modern society are constituted around patterns of reciprocity, such as certain macro-structures within the economic or state spheres (Adloff 2006), and gifts (monetary or in kind) to “distant suffering” are often, like gifts more generally, without the requirement of a return in kind and with a weak expectation of reciprocity (Gould 2007, Nicolaysen 2007).2 Philanthropic and charitable fundraising within the third sector has been most extensively studied in terms of foundations (e.g. Adloff 2010). In terms of solidarity, fundraising has been drawn on as illustrative in relation to social solidarity in Lindenberg’s account of the framing processes involved in prosocial behaviour (Lindenberg 2006, 24-25). In this chapter I focus on a specific set of practices within the voluntary organisation, the raising of funds through the fundraising bazaar. Giving, e.g. through fundraising bazaars over time, sets up certain relationships and—following Marcel Mauss (1990/1923)—cannot be seen as a solitary act; solidarity and inclusion are constituted here as well as hierarchical relations and exclusion. In a discussion of gifts to “distant suffering” it can, therefore, be useful to try to recuperate and re-appropriate some of the main insights of the first theory of reciprocity that appeared in 322 BENTE BLANCE NICOLAYSEN the first decades of the twentieth century—The Gift: The Form and Reason for Exchange in Archaic Societies (1990/1923) by the French sociologist Marcel Mauss. The promising anthropological and sociological perspectives of gift-giving have primarily been used to study exchange relations in the primary sphere of family and friends, on face-to-face, direct and enduring relationships. Gift-exchange and gift-giving have in other words been explored primarily at the micro rather than the meso and macro levels of practices. This chapter starts from the view that even the meso and macrostructures of modern societies rest on gifts and reciprocity: such as the division of labour, families, welfare states and voluntary associations. Hence, broadly understood, gift-giving can be found in numerous fields of interaction. In this chapter, the paradigm of the gift is also used to discuss the darker sides of a voluntary organisation’s engagement in “distant suffering” and the limits of solidarity. In recent years, increasing public attention has been paid to voluntary action, civic engagement and philanthropy. Transnational social solidarity rooted in civil society has been studied from a variety of perspectives, and has covered humanitarian aid, philanthropic and charitable giving through foundations, cosmopolitanism and the public sphere, and social movements. Unlike such studies, this case study is an empirical study of assistance to “distant suffering” within a clear institutional context, namely the voluntary association during a time span of fifty years. A case study from one delimited geographical area reminds us that volunteers, volunteer efforts and also engagement in distant suffering continue to be embedded in a concrete community context. Fundraising and Solidarity within Clear Communitarian Limits: A Background to Understand the Engagement in “Distant Suffering” In order to understand the background against which fundraising for “distant suffering” developed it is necessary to look at the nature VOLUNTEERING 323 of the ties that existed within the local association before such international engagement. The local association of the NWFA studied in this chapter was established in the 1930s and was until the 1950s primarily an association with projects in the neighbourhood and local community. The volunteers who entered the local association in question were recruited from within small, rather closed, groups of women who were mostly migrants (to the specific local community), or neighbours, part of the same local community, or who considered themselves “similar” in a number of respects (family situation and age being the predominant factors) (Nicolaysen 2007). To whom did the volunteer give her time and money through volunteering, and what was the nature of the ties established? In order to characterise these ties it can be useful to use Luc Boltanski’s notion of communitarian commitment.3 This type of involvement is characterised by a lack of perceived difference between those who give and those who receive; obligations are first and foremost based on one’s position within a kinship system which provides an answer to the question of who is responsible for helping someone. Commitment to action is characterised by its local and practical character, and the wish to act is identified as a function of the nature of pre-existing bonds within a system which provides an answer to the question of who is responsible for helping someone (the organisation, the neighbourhood, and the local community provide such systems). The question of commitment is not posed in an unsettling, paradoxical or insoluble manner. When gifts are given, the recipient is qualified in some way; by definition the recipient is never just anyone. Post-war Reconstruction The local association that is the focus in this chapter was established during the 1930s. By going through the board and meeting protocols and annual reports of the organisation it is clear that the association remains enclosed upon itself from its establishment and well into the immediate post-war years. The emphasis during the post-war years is on post-war reconstruction and the practicalities of running a home under such conditions. Suffering is in these postwar years conceptualised as suffering in the aftermath of war and re- 324 BENTE BLANCE NICOLAYSEN construction. The main concerns in the 1940s and early 1950s were issues of health and nutrition, the establishment of a kindergarten, and offering local leisure and educational activities to housewives. We are within the 1950s still very much within a communitarian model; commitment, when it is extended beyond the local community, is extended to someone “like us”—a sister association, a hospital or a parish in the local community. The communitarian model is also reflected in priorities of the fundraising bazaar, a permanent annual event from 1947 onwards. While the bazaars before the war had no particular theme, children and children’s activities were the primary focus of the bazaars in the 1940s and 1950s. Indeed, the fundraising event was until the early 1960s called The Children’s Day (before the war it had been called tea party). During the 1950s, the fundraising bazaar was primarily held to raise funds for the kindergarten and other day care institutions run by the association. By the end of the 1950s the bazaars had become events which included a fixed number of elements: an opening by the association leader, the various lotteries, a speech and musical entertainment. Prose lingering on images of festivity and plenty, of excited and playing children, fill member and board meeting protocols. Commitment Becomes Problematic: A Local Voluntary Association Meets Pressure to Extend its Communitarian Model Beyond the Local Community During the 1950s the local voluntary association receives solicitations for funds from organisations from other neighbourhoods and local communities. This situation reflected the changing nature of associational life from the 1950s onwards with the growth in new voluntary associations at the local and national levels and rapid changes in communication (the role of the media being paramount). The little association from the mid-1950s finds itself confronted with requests for fundraising from its central branch and from other Norwegian, local and national, humanitarian organisations. In other words, by VOLUNTEERING 325 the end of the 1950s an element of distance has been introduced in the reciprocity relationship; commitment is no longer only requested for a member of the association, a neighbour, children in the local community, or our children, or our elderly; solicitations are now being made for engagement beyond these communitarian limits. During the 1950s the voluntary association received solicitations for funds from for example: an association for tuberculosis in the neighbouring municipality; local and national foundations supporting varying causes; the Church Aid; the Norwegian Association for the Fight against Cancer; and the Red Cross. Solicitations also came from the central and county unit branches of the Housewife Association. In 1953 the central branch requests all local associations to support a local association wishing to establish a housewife school, and in 1959 the epilepsy cause. What we see here is a local association that primarily sees itself as an association for persons in its immediate neighbourhood and locality, being confronted with an extension of its commitment also to other causes. Commitment and solidarity have become problematic. Going through the board member and member meeting protocols during the period 1950-1990, the picture that emerges is clear. Despite the increasing number of solicitations, the local housewife association continues to concentrate its fundraising efforts within the local neighbourhood and community. The bazaar was from the end of the 1960s primarily held to raise funds for an increasing number of causes and institutions within the local community (and gradually, international causes, the topic of the next section). During the 1960s and 1970s, money raised by the bazaar went primarily to the association’s own kindergarten (although less money as municipal and state funds increased from the late 1960s), or to local institutions, e.g. the parish house, a local women’s clinic, a school run by the local National Women’s Health Association and so on. The 1980s saw a widening of local issues supported, now in cooperation with the local municipality. This development at the local level reflects the modernisation of the Norwegian welfare state where the local community and the voluntary sector were explicitly encouraged to cooperate as providers of welfare. From the 1980s and 1990s, fundraising to support projects for the elderly and children in the local community increased significantly, and we also see the extension of fund- 326 BENTE BLANCE NICOLAYSEN raising to support new groups in the local community. During the 1980s gifts of money (raised at the fundraising bazaar) were given to institutions for the elderly in the local community (throughout the 1980s) and local institutions (a local hospital, a newly established elderly home, the parish house, a local association for the rehabilitation of drug addicts and so on). Other times the money raised at the fundraising bazaar was used for specific purposes: to buy new psalm books in the local church (1986), to support the National Association against Cancer (1986), to buy new furniture in a newly established local elderly home (1988), and to buy a new piano in the local church (1988). From 1989 the association gives quite a large amount of money to the Social and Care Section in the municipality to support an initiative to provide alarms for the elderly. What we see is the continued focus on fundraising for institutions and causes within the local community. A new element in the 1980s is the support given to local rehabilitation of drug addicts, something that continues in the 1990s. Also this help is related to a specific institution in the local community. I would characterise the local housewife association as moving, over time, from reciprocity of a restricted to a generalised nature (through an extension of commitment and through a broadening of issues beyond the immediate neighbourhood). And yet, reciprocity is throughout the period examined firmly anchored within the excluding limits of a community with primary ties in the sense that the commitment is extended to those with whom one still can identify and place within the confines of the local community. The recipient within the communitarian model is identifiable; it is never just “anyone.” There were also other elements in the communitarian model within which the association moved. The younger women who enter the local housewife association in the 1990s describe the older generation as little interested in including new members outside the immediate neighbourhood, e.g. persons who might have a small network or few resources. Members who entered the association during the 1990s also complain that there is little generational solidarity within the housewife association. The above examples illustrate an absence of active attempts to include members extending beyond the group restricted to the immediate neighbourhood. Reciprocity is generalised over time, but with clear limits. VOLUNTEERING 327 Parallel to a clear policy of supporting causes within the limits of the neighbourhood and local community throughout the period 1950-2000, and the local housewife association eagerly embraces fundraising for distant suffering. Throughout the whole period 1950-2000, international projects are supported alongside the local projects. Through their membership and offices in the housewife association many women became actively engaged in the raising and spending of funds (both monetary and non-monetary) for causes and issues with international reach. This is the topic of the next section. Engagement in “Distant Suffering” While the local housewife association gives priority to causes and organisations within the limits of the neighbourhood and local community throughout the period 1950-1980, it becomes involved in fundraising to “distant suffering.” The 1950s was the decade when the mother association’s connections with the ACWW, the UN, other international organisations and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs trickled down to the little local association on the West Coast of Norway. The funds for such an engagement in distant suffering came from the voluntary association’s own financial fundraising, in this case, the fundraising bazaar.4 The mother organization—the NWFA (then the Norwegian Housewife Association)—of the local association studied in this chapter had international connections and projects as early as the 1920s.5 The local association became a member of the UN in 1952, and the following year the topic at the members meeting was “The rich and the poor countries” (Annual report 1953, 3). A year later, a film about the UN’s humanitarian work was screened at a membership meeting (Annual report 1954, 1-2). In 1957, the association had a little ad in a magazine published by the UN West Coast section under the motto “Also we wish to contribute to peace and palliate suffering” (this ad is mentioned and commented in the board meeting protocol, May 1957). And these were not just words; the little housewife association did indeed start to engage in distant suffering throughout the 1950s. 328 BENTE BLANCE NICOLAYSEN The enmeshment of the organisation within a network of international NGOs developed parallel to the introduction of individual cases of “distant suffering” by missionaries, pastors and other religious persons at the member meetings in the association. The political scientist Olav Riste has emphasised the role of the early mission work on the African and Asian continents, the missionary impulse, as a background and driving force in the Norwegian development aid policy (Riste 2005, 254ff ). The missionary impulse also played a role in the local association’s engagement. First of all, the housewife associations built on Christian values, as expressed in its statutes. Moreover, this particular housewife association had been established by a woman who was also active in mission societies in the local community. The mission societies arrived early in Norway, and local housewife association was part of a local community where mission societies had been established as early as the 1850s. Long before thoughts about one world, internationalism and humanitarian aid found roots in Norway, mission societies had created an interest for persons thousands of miles away through psalm singing, prayer, and bazaars. At the mission’s fundraising bazaars, local town people could often see missionaries “live,” bringing with them words from distant places. A year before the association’s fundraising for the India-aid in 1953, the association had invited a pastor to the Christmas meeting. The pastor ...told us about Albert Schweitzer, this giant of the spirit, doctor, missionary, musician, and scientific writer who still, at the age of 75, is in full vigour as a missionary and surgeon in Africa A month later the association receives “words of gratitude from Albert Schweitzer and encouragement to do good deeds” (Annual report 1951, February 1951-January 1952, 2). In 1964 the board member protocol records that the housewife association had received a letter from a missionary, a certain Dr. Sekunder from Africa. Mrs GS had received a letter from Dr. Rolf Sekunder from Africa, where he describes all the suffering and misery. We see this as an appeal to our housewife association for support. The letter shall be read aloud at the next member meeting and one agreed to raise funds at the first membership meeting and send the sum to Mr Sekunder. (Board member protocol, January 6th 1964) VOLUNTEERING 329 The Little Association Sees Itself as Being Called Upon to Address Distant Suffering Beyond the Borders of Norway The first fundraising for a humanitarian cause outside the borders of Norway by the local association was in 1953. Then, the association received a request from the local branch of the “National aid campaign for India.” As already mentioned, this campaign marked the birth of an explicit Norwegian development policy. The association held a lottery for the India aid campaign, and it continued selling lots for the cause at its membership meetings throughout that year (May 28 1953, board meeting protocol). The Norwegian government’s support of causes supported by the UN and other humanitarian projects are mirrored in the little housewife association during the 1960s. The UN membership was not taken lightly: in 1961 the secretary of the UN West Coast section again visited the local housewife association for the second time, this time with a speech and a film about “Concerning the hunger in the developing countries.” In 1968, a local membership meeting is dedicated to the UN Human Rights Declaration. Fundraising money is used to support a number of UN projects.6 The local association also engages in a number of individual national humanitarian aid projects: “an express fundraising event for the Congo Aid which gave 200 NOK” (Annual report 1960, 3); and the Biafra Aid (1968 and 1969). The engagement in distant suffering was in the 1960s institutionalised with the establishment of a study circle in the association called “Poor Rich World,” where members read and discussed development and humanitarian aid and invited guest speakers. The engagement in “distant suffering” continued through the 1970s and 1980s, and fundraising bazaars were held to support projects supported by the ACWW, the UN and large Norwegian humanitarian organisations imbricated in Norwegian development aid.7 The engagement in “distant suffering” primarily took the form of money raised through fundraising, but during the 1980s goods in kind were also given when the organisation became engaged in projects in Poland (from the 1990s, in Romania). On the initiative of the central branch of the Norwegian Housewife association, a Poland 330 BENTE BLANCE NICOLAYSEN action was started in the Bergen and Midt-Hordaland region during the 1980s. Many local housewife associations participated, and the local housewife association studied here sent a number of food packages and money gifts to ten families in Poland until 1995. Overlapping Solidarity Networks or “Telescopic Philanthropy?”8 Gould attempts “to revise solidarity from its primary historical meaning as a relationship binding all the members of a single cohesive group or society toward a conception more suitable for the new forms of transnational interrelationships that mark contemporary globalization” (Gould 2007, 148). In this attempt, she argues that a notion of transnational solidarity “could plausibly designate a willingness to acknowledge need in everyone else and to act in general ways to support their human rights, especially by working toward the construction of transnational institutions that can allow for their fulfilment worldwide, or by participating in social movements that take such egalitarian rights fulfilment as a goal” (Gould 2007, 155). One could say that the local housewife association, through its affiliations to the Nordic Housewife Association, the Associated Country Women of the World, the UN system and Forum for Women and Development, was part of overlapping solidarity networks of groups of housewives and women. The funds raised for “distant suffering” at the association’s bazaar were in the majority of cases part of larger institutionalised projects and causes within civil society sharing a “commitment to justice, or perhaps also, in more consequentialist terms, to the elimination of suffering” (Gould 2007, 156). We can say that fundraising activities as practices created potential for solidaristic interrelation through “common or cooperative projects” (Gould 2007, 158). It is the placement of the local association’s fundraising activities within a larger institutional framework that makes it possible to speak of solidarity at all, albeit a weaker notion than solidarity associated with traditional accounts of intragroup social solidarity. In addition to these criteria delineated by Gould, a discussion of the notion of symmetry and asymmetry adds that solidarity, VOLUNTEERING 331 as opposed to charity (which implies asymmetry), implies a notion of symmetry in the respect which is relevant for constituting solidarity (e.g. “because we both are housewives/women I feel solidarity with you and there is no hierarchy between us in this respect, although there may be asymmetries between us in many other respects, such as in how rich or poor we are”). It is possible therefore, as long as one has an element of symmetry, to argue that transnational solidarity can include “the social standpoint and social context of the others” (Gould 2007, 156), recognizing that solidarity need not be restricted only to those who are “one of us.” In terms of reciprocity, we can say that solidarity (as opposed to charity and humanitarian aid) implies “a certain reciprocal expectation of aid from others were this to turn out to be necessary, although this expectation is most often only implicit, especially where the solidarity relation is between a betteroff person or group and less well-off ones” (Gould 2007, 157). The placement of the fundraising gifts to “distant suffering” within a larger international network of groups of housewives and women could be said to differentiate it also from humanitarian aid, characterized by no requirement or expectation of reciprocity. When this is said, it is also true that Gould’s notion of a network solidarity posits only a weak reciprocal expectation of aid from the others were this to turn out to be necessary. Relationships are in other worlds only “implicitly reciprocal.” The extent to which the potential for solidaristic interrelation is actually realized is, however, not given, but depends, following Gould, on whether “a social critique and attention to institutional structures, as well as to the opportunities that changes in such structures might afford for improving the lot of others” (Gould 2007, 158) is present. As demonstrated, many of the projects and causes for which funds were raised by the local housewife association were part of Norwegian development aid. In his book Development Aid, Foreign Policy and Power, the Norwegian historian Terje Tvedt characterised as “The Norwegian Model” the close cooperation between state, voluntary organisations and research institutes in Norway’s development aid policy (Tvedt 2003). Tvedt criticized the passive role of the Parliament and political parties in monitoring what he calls a national-corporativist system of development aid—“The National Regime of Goodness.” Tvedt also criticised voluntary organisations 332 BENTE BLANCE NICOLAYSEN for not operating as critical representatives of civil society in Norwegian development aid, but rather as contractors of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. An examination of the meeting and board protocols (1950-2000) of the little housewife association reveals little systematic social critique, at an organisational level, of how aid is given and the nature of aid that is given to “distant suffering.” The question of engagement in “distant suffering” is instead transformed into a question of local versus extra-local engagement. In the archive material of the local housewife association there are during the 1980s numerous references to a discussion of local versus extra-local engagement, to “discussions in the board about aid to Poland.” One of the informants brings up the issue in her interview. This volunteer entered the association in the 1990s and describes herself as someone who is “very concerned with the local community” and mentions her concern with issues like relief for persons with care responsibilities and homeless youth in the local community. In her account, she creates an opposition between “our own,” “those who are not so well off in the local community,” and “those abroad.” She says: And later, when the children were older, I was very concerned with the local community because I think there are so many helping those abroad, to say it like that. And I think that we should take care of our own a bit, those who are not so well off in the local community…And that view is not always well received, we have had some conflicts over this issue in the housewife association, but I have stood my ground. And others have stood theirs. This volunteer is referring to a discussion within the local association during the 1980s about the use of fundraising money. She explains that there was a small group of members who were in favour of more support for local issues, while the majority was positive to a majority of fundraising money being used on “distant suffering.” She explains: And then I was elected as treasurer and I was treasurer for seven years and then there was a conflict between the leader and myself, and then, that is why I did not wish to quit the treasurer job because I liked it. Well, but the leader and I could not agree on what to use the money on. And she, among other things, called me a racist and that is something I could not accept. No, and I didn’t want that, because although I meant that we should take care of issues in the local community, that didn’t mean that I was a racist. And I am not at all a racist, but one must be allowed to think VOLUNTEERING 333 that we should help each other, we who have the necessary resources. Help our own, I mean. The view was that the money should go to developing countries and so on. …But well, they get so much development aid from the government and little is left for us. No one feels pity for anyone here. And many agreed with me, but then, many did not. And, of course, when you watch television, and you see those big eyes, and those stomachs and all that, then you do think it is terrible. But, I say that we, Norway is a small country, and we can’t save the whole world. What this account brings out is that there seems to have been little principled discussion of the nature of engagement in distant suffering at an organisational level. The question seems instead to have been transformed into a question of the use of fundraising money, and disagreement on this question was reduced to an issue of individual preferences. Moreover, not supporting distant suffering was seen as an individual expression of racism, rather than treated as a critique of the politics of humanitarian aid implicit in the voluntary organisation’s fundraising. The volunteers shared a rather uncritical view of the way in which the association, through such aid, was cooperating closely with the state and organisations close to the state. There seems to have been a consensus that cooperation between the state and voluntary associations in this area was fundamentally a good thing. At the surface, fundraising for “distant suffering” could seem episodic and haphazard, and some volunteers engaged in fundraising practices seemed to be unaware of the larger institutional context within which their fundraising efforts took place. One volunteer, who entered the association in the 1950s and who became involved in fundraising for local and “distant suffering” through her various offices on the board of the association, seems to confirm such a picture. We were looking at a photo album from her time in the housewife association when she said: And here, that’s a photo of a fundraising fair that we organised, and look at the state of the association localities we had then …They have demolished the house now, but we had to stand there with an oil burner and we were almost intoxicated because of all the smoke. And the fundraising was for Poland, we were very concerned with Poland, but now that is over. And then we had, a woman who came to our association and showed us slides from Tanzania and she was in the Peace Corps, and she was so engaged. So then, we had to give money to that after our lotteries, 334 BENTE BLANCE NICOLAYSEN but I don’t think that has been followed up. You know, that’s how it is, some people are passionate about one thing, others are passionate about another. The case study also opens up for a reflection on the various types of risks that may be involved in group solidarity. The gift to the poor and to humanitarian causes places the act of giving outside the sphere of mutual ties. The dependence of the recipient upon the gift and the consequent inability to reciprocate (or rather to anticipate the possibility of reciprocation) is unlikely to foster solidarity, but rather to reinforce divisions and even to generate resentments (Komter 2005, 133). A volunteer who entered the association in the 1950s and had been involved in various fundraising efforts remembers the Tanzanian project during the 1980s9 (wells were built in the countryside) as “one of the things that have given us the most, you can say.” She goes on to say that a woman from the Peace Corps had visited the town where fundraising money had been given and returned to the housewife association with photos and information. She recalls: And she told us that we can not imagine what it is to be poor. The poor own absolutely nothing. At night, she had to lie down with five-six children under one single blanket to keep warm. No, they had absolutely nothing. And then they had a grandchild who once had received a wooden horse toy, carved by his grandfather. And that was the only thing they had in the house, and the grandmother said “I wish to give you this.” They so wished to give us something in return, but they didn’t have anything. She told us that we can not imagine what it is to be poor, to not have everything at all. So yes, that was a good project. This account brings our attention to the breakdown of reciprocity, to the often unequal relationship established through gift relationships where the recipient is unable to express gratitude, or to in any way reciprocate, and instead left in a position of indebtedness and powerlessness. It brings out the way in which “solidarity relations function socially in some ways as gifts do, that is, without the requirement of a return in kind, and with only a weak expectation of reciprocity” (Gould 2007, 159). One can say that the fundraising gift seems at times to have perpetuated traditional statuses within a society or among different groups rather than, at the organisational level, have a clear linkage to the achievement of justice. Moreover, VOLUNTEERING 335 the fundraising gift seems often to have been conceived by the volunteer (unaware of the larger institutional context within which the fundraising gift was given) as gratuitous or at least supererogatory “whereas the connection of solidarity relations to overcoming oppression makes them seem more fully necessary” (Gould 2007, 159). The fundraising gifts by the local housewife association to “distant suffering” were thus in practice often similar to charitable giving and alms traditionally targeted at strangers perceived as unfortunate victims, deserving empathetic support. Such gifts were often portrayed as entirely disinterested, and unlike the Maussian gift, often conceived by the volunteer as given without thought of return and with no obligation on the recipient (who was rather conceived of as being placed in an asymmetrical position as regards the volunteer). Other forms of reciprocal benefits (e.g. reward to the individual by a deity, reward in terms of a good conscience, the ethicalization of the social behaviour of the donor in terms of transcendental values, the moral claims conferred upon the voluntary association through the act of giving) for the donor (the ultimate recipient in the asymmetrical relationship) are often rendered invisible. More attention to symbolic forms of reciprocity that tie together the donor and receiver in development aid and fundraising for “distant suffering” within civil society is necessary. The extent to which the Maussian theme that the gift is a gift of self can be linked with the Christian idea of sacrifice as a sacrifice of self is also worth further exploration (Henkel & Stirrat 1997). The examples discussed in this section also draw our attention to the lack of principled discussion of the nature of engagement in “distant suffering” at the level of the local voluntary organisation and the individual volunteer,” raising the issue that the gift often creates relations that are ambiguous in terms of their meaning and often paradoxical in terms of their implications (Henkel & Stirrat 1997). The Potential for a Horizon of Possibility and an Extension of a Moral Horizon Titmuss invested his concepts of “the unnamed stranger,” the “universal stranger” and the “stranger” relationships with immense moral 336 BENTE BLANCE NICOLAYSEN significance (Pinker 2006, 14). Titmuss made the gift to the stranger a model for relationships within the voluntary sector. If we look at the activities that the members in the local association were engaged in, the main part of their involvement over the life course takes place within small groups of women who are neighbours. They take part in the establishment and running of institutions at the local level (kindergartens) and participate in leisure and educational activities (gymnastics, choirs, study circles) within the auspices of their local association. The above examples speak of a reciprocity that is restricted in nature. And yet, by becoming involved in associational life in their local community, women became engaged in activities that extended beyond familial altruism of the closest relatives and friends, or conditional altruism, as Robert Pinker would say (Pinker 1979, 39). First of all, almost all the members participated in some kind of educational activity under the auspices of the housewife association, e.g. study circles, reading groups etc. In addition, most members do at some point in the life course become involved in responsibilities for activities at the zone, regional or central levels of the organisation. Through their membership many volunteers also moved from participating in activities arranged by their local association to taking the initiative for the establishment of new activities. Thus, smaller subgroups within the local association are established, e.g. an “entertainment group” directed at entertainment at the elderly people’s homes in the local community in the late 1980s, a choir group to entertain at institutions for the elderly and other public institutions in the local community. These initiatives are an extension of action beyond the communitarian limits of family, kin and neighbourhood to include groups that are not members of the housewife association, e.g. the elderly in the local community. Following Lindenberg (2006), we could say that the volunteers enter the organisation primarily out of an enjoymentbased intrinsic motivation (based on multifunctionality and a hedonic frame), and gradually move towards a more “obligation-based” intrinsic motivation (based on a normative frame). When looking at engagement in distant suffering, the lack of social criticism of the project-based fundraising at the level of the organisation has already been mentioned. I believe that Tvedt’s criticism of the Norwegian national-corporativist system of development aid (and the role of voluntary organisations within it) is indeed rel- VOLUNTEERING 337 evant, but also misdirected. I think we can give a critical appraisal of engagement in distant suffering by voluntary associations without loosing the notion that such action can also imply a possibility of morally motivated action and an extension towards a moral horizon. Despite the importance of being critical to project-related solidarity (by for example examining the degree of symmetry and reciprocity possible in the relationship) rooted in civil society, I agree with Gould that it is important to retain a concept of a horizon of possibility, a disposition that each can have to act in solidarity with some others (Gould 2007). Boltanski is right I think when he claims that aid to distant suffering by voluntary associations is often unjustly placed on “trial” in our modern understanding of political action. Although the level of social criticism seems to have been low at an institutional level in the local association, one must also remember that the local association’s many links with the UN system and other international organisations provided volunteers with information and education, through study circles and numerous presentations and speeches at membership meetings. Such practices had the potential for creating openness and receptivity to the situation of other individuals and groups. Fundraising efforts in the local community also brought the volunteers in situations where they became representatives of particular projects. This often provided the volunteers with “a cognitive understanding of the concrete specifics of the other’s context” extending beyond an affective identification with the other (Gould 2007, 153). Following Boltanski, we can speak of the volunteer experiencing an extension of her moral horizon over time (Boltanski 1999). The volunteer engaged in the Tanzanian project during the 1980s (mentioned in the previous section) recalls an incident of a rather mixed welcome to the fundraising effort by the local association. So then we set up stalls downtown and sold shares, and we were very enthusiastic. We were downtown, at a shopping centre, and took 5 NOK per share. We didn’t have posters. We just stood there and told people about the project, and asked whether they could imagine buying a share. But it wasn’t easy. And once, at a shopping centre, when we did have posters, we got the posters thrown in our face. There was a person who got so angry because we were raising funds, and we were told that it was better to think of our own: “My mother is at the hospital and she is blind and nobody did anything about that.” 338 BENTE BLANCE NICOLAYSEN The commitment to the elimination of suffering took place within a larger framework, and one could say that the local association supported transnational solutions and institutions through their project-related fundraising. The close links between the local association’s engagement in distant suffering and the ACWW did, for instance, always place a focus on the position of women and families, a focus that created a feeling of common ground, and when the local association started their aid to Poland this was accompanied by visits to the village and to the families where aid was given across a number of years. At the surface, the project-based fundraising for distant suffering within the association could seem episodic and haphazard, but solidaristic interrelation (or at least the potential for such interrelation) was “constructed through the interactions and understandings of groups or individuals over time” (Gould 2007, 159). Although the fundraising gifts often seemed merely particularistic, there was often a movement beyond mere particularity and partiality. We must remember that the practice of fundraising itself established a continuity of action over time that created weak solidarity (Lindenberg 2006) and a norm to “act appropriately” according to the group. Engaging in distant suffering became over time something that was appropriate to do according to the group. Because of the lack of social critique involved, this engagement is relatively trivial from a moral point of view, but should yet not be dismissed because of the real, although often weak, overlapping solidarity networks involved. Concluding Remarks Giving monetary and non-monetary gifts within the borders of a voluntary organisation constitute a theoretically underestimated institutional sphere of giving. The case study of a local voluntary association’s engagement in causes and issues with international reach over time (1950-2000) has been used to think through the possibility of the voluntary associations in building transnational solidarities in a strong welfare state. Through a discussion of the relevance of a notion of transnational solidarity and an anthropological understanding of the gift, a deeper understanding of some aspects of a voluntary association’s fundraising practices has been sought. Mauss considered VOLUNTEERING 339 the gift relationship in a similar way to a transactional relationship: through the lens of reciprocity. There is no set price or time frame for the receiver to reciprocate the gift, but the need to engage in the cycle is just as real as in a transaction. The local association’s systematic enmeshment in the Norwegian state’s international engagement is exemplary of similar humanitarian organizations in this period, and opened up for a reflection on how the welfare state can create cues for solidaristic behaviour (with transnational reach). The single case study also attempted to bring out the more subtle and problematic shades of volunteering efforts, among them the challenges and limits to solidarity that fundraising activities often imply. In some cases, it has been argued, notions of charity, alms, and humanitarian aid may be more appropriate than a weak concept of transnational solidarity. In a world where our moral horizon is increasingly global, we need more research on symbolic forms of reciprocity that tie together the donor and receiver. With more empirical data on fundraising activities in civil society we can perhaps in the future construct more systematical genealogies of giving over time and elaborate theoretically “the biography of the gift” (a notion discussed in Henkel & Stirralt 1997) and the chain of transactions between various people and organizations that it sets in motion (and the moral underpinnings of such transactions). Notes 1 The Norwegian historian Helge Ø. Pharo claims that the India-aid from 1952 functioned as a way to silence the opposition against the Norwegian foreign policy’s strong support of NATO. The India-aid also gave an outlet for idealism both on the political Left and in Christian circles (Pharo 1986). 2 In this chapter, gift-giving and reciprocity—the principle of give and take—are not seen primarily as a) a norm, as b) a psychological or anthropological universal or as c) a pure expenditure of social energy, but as d) a circulation, i.e the giving, receiving and reciprocating of things, human beings, symbols, social practices and events. For a discussion of different strands of theorising on gift-giving and reciprocity see Adloff 2006 and 2010. 340 BENTE BLANCE NICOLAYSEN 3 In Distant Suffering: Morality, Media and Politics (1999), the French sociologist Boltanski explores the forms and devices available for the modern actor/witness of “distant suffering.” More particularly, he is concerned with the actor who wishes to address “distant suffering” through humanitarian aid within the auspices of a voluntary association. According to Boltanski, this actor has to communicate across a public sphere characterised by distance and the absence of pre-existing pathways connecting spectators to sufferers. Boltanski raises a series of questions about the nature of the possible relationships arising in such a public sphere: What is the difference between pity and compassion? What is the relationship between justice and suffering? What is the relationship between pity and justice? What are morally acceptable responses to suffering? Boltanski distinguishes between three types of politics in order to discuss these relationships: a politics of justice, a politics of compassion, and a politics of pity. A politics of justice is characterised by meritocracy, a sense of fairness, a belief in justification and action. A politics of compassion is distinguished by particularity, a strong caring impulse, and the sense of the need for proximity in relationships. A politics of pity is characterised by observation, distance between sufferer and the observer of suffering, and expression through singularity and examples. 4 The local association depended on a variety of sources of income: the membership fee; the fee paid at the membership meetings; coffee sales at meetings; lotteries held at meetings and social events; and, the fundraising bazaar. The bazaar’s share of the local association’s total income in the period 1948-2000 was 80.5 % in 1948; 59.5 % in 1955; 30.5 % in 1961; 26.6% in 1967; 51.3% in 1971; 25.4% in 1974; 22.7 % in 1987; 28.4% in 1992; and 47.7% in 1999. 5 The Norwegian Housewife Association was from the 1920s onwards a member of a number of Nordic and international organizations. It had since 1920 been a member of the Nordic Housewife Association, established in 1920. During the 1930s, it joined The Associated Country Women of the World, established in 1933. The NWFA joined the ACWW as a full member in 1947, and during the 1950s activities and travels related to international work increased among central representatives. The ACWW is VOLUNTEERING 341 part of the UN system as an NGO. Through the ACWW, the NWFA had an observation place in the UN since 1973. At the central level of the NWFA, there was also an International Committee responsible for following up international projects at the county unit level. From the early 1990s, the NWFA also became a member of the Forum for Women and Development (FOKUS), a knowledge and resource center for international women’s issues with an emphasis on the spreading of information and womencentered development cooperation. FOKUS received financial support from the Norwegian Agency for Development (NORAD) and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs through framework agreements on development and information activities. 6 During the 1960s the small local association’s fundraising bazaar raises money for: the UN’s work among refugees on the Gaza strip (1963, 1965 and 1969); the UN’s work for children (1968). In 1970 the association inaugurated its first meeting in the new localities of the Parish House with a film about the UN “The UN between two decades of development.” 7 During the 1980s the local association supports “distant suffering” through fundraising in a number of ways: the purchase of tea “directly from Sri Lanka as aid to the development down there” (Board member protocol January 12 1981, 1983); fundraising for “Victims of drought in Africa” (1985); fundraising for an electricity project in Dar es Salam, Tanzania (1986); fundraising for an electricity project in Gharzi, Afghanistan (1987); money gifts to eight Afghan refugees on the appeal from the county unit level (1987). During the 1990s fundraising is directed at: “Aids ill children in Romania” (1990); Save the Children (throughout the 1990s); fundraising for Estonia (1993); fundraising for Rwanda via the Norwegian Red Cross (1994); fundraising for “an Egyptproject” initiated by the county unit of the organisation (1995); and transport of food to Latvia (1995). In addition to these individual causes, the association throughout the 1980s and 1990s sells cards and lots for UNICEF and Save the Children (of which it is a member). 8 Chapter 4 of Charles Dicken’s Bleak House is called “Telescopic Philanthropy.” We here meet charity personified by Mrs. Jellyby and Mrs. Pardiggle. 342 BENTE BLANCE NICOLAYSEN 9 This was a project in which the local housewife associations in the Bergen and Midt-Hordaland region sold shares to support the construction of wells in a village in Tanzania. The associations cooperated closely with the Peace Corps and the Norwegian Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Literature Adloff, F. (2010). Gift-Giving. In Helmut K. Anheier/Stefan Toepler (ed.) International Encyclopedia of Civil Society. New York: Springer. Adloff, F. (2006). ”Beyond Interests and Norms: Towards a Theory of Gift-Giving and Reciprocity in Modern Societies.” Constellations, Vol. 13 (3): 407-427. Boltanski, L. (1999). Distant Suffering: Morality, Media and Politics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gould, C. (2007). “Transnational Solidarities.” Journal of Social Philosophy 38 (1): 148—164. Gordon, B. (1998). Bazaars and Fair Ladies: The History of the American Fund-Raising Fair. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press. Henkel, H. & Stirrat, R. L. (1997). The development gift: the problem of reciprocity in the NGO world. American academy of political and social science, 554: 66-80. Kjerland, K. A. & Ruud A. E. (2003). Norsk utviklingshjelps historie 2: 1975—1989. Vekst, velvilje og utfordringer. Bergen: Fagbokforlaget. Komter, A. (2005). Social Solidarity and the Gift. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kuhnle, S. & Selle, P. (1992). Government and Voluntary Organisations. A Relational Perspective. Avebury: Aldershot. Levi-Strauss, C. (1967). Les structures élémentaires de la parenté. Paris-La Haye: Mouton. Lindenberg, S., Fetchenhauer, D., Flache, A. & Buunk, A. P. (2006). Solidarity and prosocial behavior: a framing approach. In: D. Fetchenhauer, A. Flache, A. P. Buunk, & S. Lindenberg (Eds.) Solidarity and Prosocial Behavior. An Integration of Sociological and Psychological Perspectives, New York: Springer, 3-19. VOLUNTEERING 343 Lindenberg, S. (2006). “Prosocial behavior, solidarity, and framing processes.” In: D. Fetchenhauer, A. Flache, A. P. Buunk, & S. Lindenberg (Eds.) Solidarity and Prosocial Behavior. An Integration of Sociological and PsychologicalPerspectives. New York: Springer, 2344. Lorentzen, H. (1993). Frivillighetens integrasjon. Staten og de frivillige velferdsprodusentene. Oslo: ISF. Mauss, M. 1990 (1923). The Gift: The Form and Reason for Exchange in Archaic Societies. London: Routledge. Nicolaysen, Bente (2007). Giving, Rendering, Receiving. Bergen: University of Bergen. Nustad, K. (2003). Gavens makt; Norsk utviklingshjelp som formynderskap. Oslo: Pax forlag. Pharo, H. Ø. 1986. Hjelp til selvhjelp. Det indisk-norske fiskeriprosjektets historie. 1952-1972. Vol. I-II. Oslo: Universitetsforlaget. Pinker, R. (1979) The Idea of Welfare, London: Heinemann. Pinker, R. (2006). ”From Gift Relationships to Quasi-markets: An Odyssey along the Policy Paths of Altruism and Egoism.” In Social Policy and Administration, Vol. 40 (1): 10-25. Riste, O. (2005). Norway’s Foreign Relations. A History. Oslo: Universitetsforlaget. Sahlins, M. (1972). Stone Age Economics. New York: Aldine de Gruyter. Selle, P. (ed.) (1996). Frivillige organisasjonar i nye omgjevnader. Bergen: Alma Mater. Simensen, J. (2003). Norge møter den tredje verden. 1952—1975, Norsk utviklingshjelps historie. Vol. 1. Oslo: Fagbokforlaget. Sivesind, K. H., Lorentzen, H., Selle, P. & Wollebæk, D. (2002). The Voluntary Sector in Norway. Composition, Changes, and Causes. Report 2. Oslo: ISF. Stake, R. E. (1994). “Case studies.” In: Denzin NK and Lincoln YS (eds) Handbook of Qualitative Research. London: SAGE. Steen-Johnsen, K. & Straume, S. (2012). On the terms of the recipient? Norwegian sports development aid to Tanzania in the 1980s. International Review for the Sociology of Sport, 4 (1): 95-112. Taylor, R. (2004). “Extending conceptual boundaries: work, voluntary work and employment.” In Work, Employment, and Society. Vol. 18 (1): 24-49. 344 BENTE BLANCE NICOLAYSEN Titmuss, R. M. (1970). The Gift Relationship: From Human Blood to Social Policy. London: George Allen and Unwin. Tvedt, T. (1990). Bilder av “de andre.” Om utviklingslandene i bistandsepoken. Oslo: Universitetsforlaget. Tvedt, T. (1995). Den norske samaritan. Ritualer, selvbilder og utviklingshjelp. Oslo: Gyldendal norsk forlag. Tvedt, T. (2003). Utviklingshjelp, utenrikspolitikk og makt. Den norske modellen. Oslo: Gyldendal norsk forlag. Yin, R. K, (2008). Case Study Research, 4th edn. London: SAGE. Wollebæk, D., Selle, P. & Lorentzen, H. (2000). Frivillig innsats. Sosial integrasjon, demokrati og økonomi. Bergen: Fagbokforlaget. Østerud, Ø. (2006). ”Lite land som humanitær stormakt?.” Nytt Norsk Tidsskrift. No 4: 303-313. INDEX adaptive advantage, 16-17, 31-33, 36, 43, 48 affective ties, 55-56, 75 Alter, Karin, 202 altruism, 2, 4-6, 8, 11, 16, 89, 240, 255, 272-273, 277-283, 292n3, 294n8, 318, 336 American Revolution, 186, 221n18 Amnesty International, 276 Arab Spring, 12, 220 Arendt, Hannah, 165 Aristotle, 72, 100-101, 139 atomism, 128 austerity, 12, 21-22, 198, 211, 216, 218, 284, 304, 306, 312 autonomy, 7-9, 13, 127, 130, 136, 158, 196-197, 199, 202, 204205, 209, 212, 226n87, 226n88, 308 Barbalet, Jack, 62 Barsade, Sigal G., 79n7 Bast, Jürgen, 209 Bayertz, Kurt, 162-163 Beck, Ulrich, 219 benevolence, 72-73, 107 Böhm, Franz, 196, 224n58 Boltanski, Luc, 323, 337, 340n3 Bonnefon, Jean-François, 39 Boyer, Robert, 241 brotherhood, 2, 15 Brunkhorst, Hauke, 12, 14, 19, 178-237 Burton-Chellew, Maxwell, 32 346 INDEX capitalism, 13-14, 148n10, 156, 159-160, 165-166, 185, 197, 199, 213-215, 217, 241 care, 130, 132-133, 147n1, 261, 281, 289, 326, 332; child, 31, 3334, 257; day, 324; for the disabled, 252, 254; for the elderly, 251-254, 256, 263; health, 22, 251-252, 254, 256, 303, 305 Caruso, Eugene, 39 Castel, Robert, 166 charity, 2, 8-9, 278, 292n4, 311, 318, 331, 339, 341n8 Chicago School, 210, 228 choice, 89-92, 99-100, 259; freedom of, 9; moral, 18, 89, 91, 98101; political, 98-99 church, 21-22, 45-46, 184, 300-303, 305-312, 325-326; Catholic, 1, 8; Evangelical Lutheran, 302, 305, 308-309, 311 citizenship, 133, 145-146, 192, 194, 202, 204, 212, 224n53, 265n2 civil society, 20, 155-156, 209, 242-245, 249-250, 257, 260, 262, 322, 330, 332, 335, 337, 339 class struggle, 10, 115, 163, 184, 189, 197, 214, 216-219, 222n39 climate change, 11-12, 131 coercion, 2-3, 14, 277-278, 281 cognition, 17, 32, 34-35, 58, 80n10, 80n11, 82n19, 90-91, 95100, 102, 137, 142, 337 Coleman, James Samuel, 46 collective action, 77 collective agents, 123n1 collective consciousness, 3 collective effervescence, 18, 56, 62-63, 66, 78n1, 80n9 collective goods, 17, 30-33, 36-37, 39-40, 42-49, 75 collective intentionality, 6, 65, 123n1 Collins, Randall, 18, 55-56, 62-66, 68, 70, 78, 79n8, 79n9, 80n10, 81n12, 81n13, 81n14 commonality, 119-122 common good, 4, 8, 15, 17, 56, 58-59, 163-164, 166, 239, 283, 311 communality, 8-9, 12, 106, 109, 114, 116-119, 122-123, 239, 43, 259 compassion, 72-73, 89, 288-289, 295n16, 340n3 competitiveness, 132, 172, 188, 199, 216, 239, 246, 257-258, 260 INDEX 347 Comte, Auguste, 3 conformity, 16, 30-31, 38, 40-41, 44-49, 59, 184 considerateness, 4, 6, 17, 40-41, 43, 48 constitution, 19-20, 178-228; economic, 189, 196-198, 200-201, 212, 215, 224n54; European, 7, 20, 178, 190- 213, 215-216; of Flensburg University, 180; juridical, 201-205, 212; legal, 188189; political, 188-189, 198, 200-201, 204-207, 209-210, 212; security and military, 188-189; social security, 210-212, 216, 227n101; social welfare, 188, 213, 227n102; national, 180, 194, 198, 202, 216; Weimar, 197 cooperation, 4, 6, 16-17, 19, 21, 33-34, 37-38, 41-42, 56-57, 59, 70, 75-76, 99, 141, 145-146, 157, 164, 167-169, 175n6, 193, 197, 209, 239, 244, 273-276, 278-279, 284, 291, 319-320, 325, 331, 333, 341n5 Council of Europe, 192, 195, 209 crime, 11, 45, 140, 251-254 cronyism, 281-283 Darwall, Stephen, 123n9 Dejours, Christophe, 19, 157, 168-170 democracy, 7, 10, 13-14, 131, 145-147, 181, 184, 188-189, 193194, 196-198, 203-219, 226n80, 226n87, 228n115 deontological constraints, 112-114, 124n18 deontology, 15, 139, 147n3 Derpmann, Simon, 18, 105-125 Dickens, Charles, 341n8 difference principle, 15. See also Rawls dignity, 127, 134-135, 140, 143, 150n32, 185 distribution, 9, 15-17, 37, 77, 133, 137, 140, 145, 149n18, 210, 212, 240, 242, 275, 292n4, 300, 309 division of labor, 12, 34, 37, 126, 130, 145, 157-158, 166, 173, 175n6, 243 Donne, John, 299 Dunbar, Robin, 16, 31-32 Durkheim, Émile, 1, 3, 18-19, 24, 55-56, 60, 62-63, 68-69, 78, 80n9, 127, 130-131, 155-156, 158, 160-163, 166-167, 170, 174, 175n1, 175n3 duty, 2, 23n2, 24n3, 24n485, 92, 97, 101, 116, 129, 136-140, 348 INDEX 142-143, 150n26, 150n28, 242, 274, 276, 279-281, 289-290, 292n3, 292n4; associative, 116, imperfect, 138; latitudinarian, 143; moral, 19, 137; of moral solidarity, 143; negative, 24n4, 136-138, 143; of reparation, 116, 143; positive 24n4, 137, 143; universal, 24n4 Dworkin, Ronald, 116 Economic and Monetary Union (EMU), 238, 265 economics, 5 egoism, 6, 136, 277-278, 281-283. See also self-interest emancipation, 43, 135-136 emotions, 1, 3, 6, 17-18, 33, 35-38, 55-57, 69-82, 96, 98-99, 130, 139, 142, 273-274, 280, 290; aggregative view of, 62, 69, 79n7; cognitive vs non-cognitive, 64, 80n10, 80n11, 82n19; e. contagion, 63, 67-68; content of, 65- 67, 69, 78, 80n11; intensionalityof, 67; intentionality of, 63-70, 78, 82; moral, 75 empathy, 35, 38, 88 employment, 130, 170, 197, 220, 238-239, 243-244, 252-253, 257-258, 303, Engels, Friedrich, 161-162 environment, 61, 77, 247, 252-254, 320 environmental problems, 13, 137, 250, 274 envy, 38 equality, 14, 20, 39, 132, 135, 213, 217n103, 263, 278, 301; gender, 246, 257-258, 261; social, 14, 211; of opportunity, 15 Esping-Anderson, Gøsta, 301, 311 esteem, 65, 98, 126, 129-133, 141, 145, 147n1, 147n2, 148n8, 149n18 ethical life, 127, 158. See also Sittlichkeit ethical perspective, 18, 88, 98-100, 102 Eucken, Walter, 197, 224n58 Euro, 208, 216-217, 219 European Social Reality Survey, 246 European Union, 20, 178, 180, 185, 190, 192-195, 198, 202-204, 206-207, 209-210, 217-218, 221n22, 223n47, 238240, 243-247, 250, 255, 257, 260, 262, 265n2, 306-307, 309-310, 320 evolution, 16-17, 31, 36, 43, 48; constitutional, 19-20, 178, 185- INDEX 349 191, 194, 202, 204, 212, 220n1; social, 20, 179, 183-184 exploitation, 33, 59, 138, 213 externalities, 39-40, 57, 59 fascism, 7, 224n58 fairness, 4, 16, 37, 45, 65, 72, 239, 275, 340 family, 23, 42, 116, 158, 243, 247, 250, 253, 259-260, 273-274, 283-286, 291, 295n13, 299, 301, 318-319, 322-323, 336 financial crisis, 12, 21-22, 283-284, 313 Fischer, Agneta, 71 fission-fusion, 34-35, 41 Flescher, Andrew Michael, 279 food banks, 308-310 Foot, Philippa, 109-110, 112-114, 117-118, 121-122, 124n10 Foucault, Michel, 227n101 Fraenkel, Ernst, 210 frame: gain, 58, 60-61; hedonic, 58, 60; normative solidarity, 5, 10, 18, 58-61, 69, 71-74, 76, 78, 79n4, 82n20 Fraser, Nancy, 274 fraternity, 121 freedom, 9, 15, 127, 140-141, 158, 161, 184, 194, 198-199, 204, 305 freeriding, 4, 275 Freiburg School, 196-197, 224n58 French Revolution, 13-14, 115, 185, 187, 189 friendship, 2, 58-59, 73, 105, 115-116, 130, 139, 257, 259, 261, 279-280 functional differentiation, 195, 221n13 fundraising, 22-23, 273, 309, 317-322, 324-339, 340n4, 341n6, 341n7 Gadamer, Hans-Georg, 158 Gaulle, Charles de, 202 genocide, 11, 89, 91, 98 Gibbard, Allan, 75 Gibson, Donald E., 79n7 gift, 22, 97, 317-319, 321-323, 326, 330- 331, 334-336, 338-339, 341n7 350 INDEX Gilbert, Margaret, 81n15 globalization, 47, 186, 191, 199, 217, 221n18, 330 global society, 10-11, 131 goals: common, 5, 17, 32, 35-41, 43-48, 58-61, 65-66, 69, 71-72, 74, 77, 81-82, 116, 144, 148n4, 240, 273-276, 287; gain, 3839, 44, 46-47, 49, 58, 61; hedonic, 38-39, 43, 46, 58, 60, 73; individual, 40-41, 46; normative, 38-40, 44-49, 58, 61, 73 good life, 95-97, 100, 147n3 Gould, Carol, 318, 330-331, 334-335, 337-338 Graham, Jesse, 102 gratitude, 74-76, 82n20, 116, 142, 149n18, 150n26, 334 greed, 38 group agency, 123n1, 148n4 group formation, 274 group identification, 3, 6, 36, 42, 59-60, 71, 81n16, 120, 145, 161-162, 292n2 group membership, 2, 59-60, 71, 133, 273 guilt, 36, 61, 69, 73, 76, 142 Habermas, Jürgen, 2, 15, 123n2, 126, 132, 134, 158, 165, 223n47, 224n57, 226n88 Haidt, Jonathan, 101-102 Hardin, Garrett, 281-283, 285, 288 Hayek, Friedrich August von, 197, 225n58 Hechter, Michael, 6, 32, 56 hedonism, 5, 38-39, 43, 46-47, 49, 58, 60, 73, 136, 336 Hegel, G.W.F., 19, 127, 135-136, 140, 143, 150n31, 155-156, 158-162, 166-167, 170, 173-174, 175n1, 180, 182, 188, 204-205, 210 Heidegger, Martin, 181, 224n58 helping, 4-6, 17, 20-21, 23n2, 24n4, 32- 33, 36-37, 39, 41-42, 48, 56, 58, 60, 73, 91, 93, 95, 97, 99-100, 137, 147n1, 239240, 242, 245-247, 250-251, 253-265, 272-277, 281-295, 308, 310, 323, 332 Hiilamo, Heikki, 21, 299-316 Hilton, Denis J., 39 Holocaust, 89, 96, 99 Honneth, Axel, 19, 126, 129-135, 147n1, 148n8, 156, 166-167 INDEX 351 Hrdy, Sarah B., 31 humanitarian aid, 318, 320, 322, 329, 331, 332, 339, 340n3 Hume, David, 123n6 hypocrisy, 39, 42, identity, 47, 61, 77, 89-91, 96, 99-101, 143, 161, 167, 224n53, 280, 282, 291; class-based, 163; European, 224n53, 283; national, 61, 146; i. perceptions, 18, 88; social, 61, 81n16; system, 202, 224n53 ideology, 60, 76-77, 135; market, 46, 197; political, 102 Ikäheimo, Heikki, 148n6, 148n7, 149n20 immigration, 12-13, 250, 254, 263 I-mode vs we-mode, 65-66, 68-69 income, 46, 214-215, 218, 239, 253-254, 290, 301, 304, 307, 312; basic, 9, 148n10, 309; distribution, 9, 243 Indignados, 12 individualism, 9, 12, 24, 162, 189, 281-282 individualization, 3 industrialization, 3, 300 inequality, 37, 159, 211, 252, 254, 304, 306 injustice, 2, 6-7, 10, 12-14, 16, 77, 136, 138, 141, 144, 147-149, 163, 288 institutional structures, 20, 127, 137, 238, 240-241, 244-245, 248 institutions, 3, 7, 9-10, 17, 20-21, 43, 46, 61, 107, 127, 134, 136-138, 143-145, 147n2, 148n4, 148n10, 181, 184, 187, 190-192, 199, 202, 207, 211, 217, 238, 240-245, 248, 253, 262-263, 272, 277, 299, 301-302, 305-307, 321-322, 324326, 329-331, 333, 335-338 International Labour Organization (ILO), 180, 191 International Monetary Fund (IMF), 191 intolerance, 13 invisible hand, 159 Ipsen, Hans-Peter, 185, 200 Isen, Alice M., 293 James, William, 63 Joseph, Craig, 102 justice, 2, 4, 7, 13-16, 107, 111, 117, 126-127, 132, 137-138, 144, 352 INDEX 146-147, 213, 275, 288-289, 292n4, 309, 330, 334, 340 Juul, Søren, 147n2 Kahl, Sigrun, 311 Kant, Immanuel, 24n4, 123n6, 133, 140, 150n31, 187-188, 212, 219 Kelly, Janice R., 79n7 Kelsen, Hans, 194, 220n2, 224n55, 225n58 Kemmelmeier, Markus, 39 Kemper, Theodore, 62 Kolenda, Konstantin, 24 Korpi, Walter, 300 Korsgaard, Christine, 123n9 Kuhn, Thomas, 221n10 Laband, Paul, 180 labor movement, 1, 10, 163 laissez-faire, 301 Laitinen, Arto, 1-29, 126-154, 239, 272- 298 law, 43, 178-180, 184-186, 189-193, 195-213, 215-217, 220-224, 227, 279, 305 Lawler, Edward, 74-75, 82n19, 82n20 legitimization, 194, 196, 223n47; crisis of, 20, 178, 209; democratic input, 196, 201, 205-207, 209, 212, 226n80; technocratic output, 201, 203, 205-206, 212; individual, 203-207, 212, 226n83 Levi, Primo, 93 Levin, Irwin P., 293 Levinas, Emmanuel, 278 liberalism, 7, 186 Lindenberg, Siegwart, 4-6, 16-18, 30-54, 56-62, 69-70, 72-78, 78n2, 78n3, 79n4, 79n6, 82n20, 239, 293, 321, 336 Lockwood, David, 224n57 love, 130, 132, 148n8, 149n17, 156, 289 Luhmann, Niklas, 179, 195, 220n3, 224n53 Luther, Martin, 302 MacIntyre, Alasdair, 164 Mackie, Diane M., 81n16 INDEX Manstead, Anthony, 71 market, 13, 46, 49, 61, 158-159, 161, 165-168, 196-200, 213215, 217, 241-242, 244, 246, 265n2; labor, 166-167, 214, 303 master-slave dialectic, 135, 158 Marx, Karl, 19, 155-156, 158-162, 167, 174, 175n1, 175n2, 175n6, 184, 186-187, 210, 214, 219 Marxism, 7, 163, 174, 184, 225n63 Mauss, Marcel, 175n1, 321-322, 335, 338 McAdam, Doug, 82n21 Melucci, Alberto, 77 Menéndez, Agustíne, 223n47 merit, 132, 149n16 Merkel, Angela, 208 middle class, 161, 240, 249, 255 Miller, Dale, 16 Miller, David, 126, 132-134, 148n4, 149n16 Millerand, Alexandre, 12 mirror neurons, 35 misrecognition, 127, 131, 136 Monroe, Kristen Renwick, 18, 88-104 moral agency, 110-111, 113, 119 moral community, 110, 118, 131, 137, 140, 142, 144, 162 morality, 2, 63, 73, 102, 111-115, 128-129, 137-138, 144, 150n28, 158, 161, 279-280, 340n3 moral justification, 106-107, 116 moral obligation, 6, 107-111, 113-120, 122-124, 292n4 moral philosophy, 105-110, 116-117, 123 moral psychology, 101, 110, 171 moral reasons, 107, 112-115, 120-121, 140, 165 moral salience, 90-92, 98, 100 moral subject, 105-106, 110-111, 113-115, 118-122 motivation, 2, 6, 17, 21, 31-32, 35, 57-59, 64-65, 71, 73, 75, 81n14, 122, 131, 134-136, 139, 142, 144-147, 149n24, 168-170, 272, 277-281, 288-290, 292, 302, 336 Müller-Armack, Alfred, 197, 199, 225n58, 225n68 multiculturalism, 14 mutual support, 1, 7, 133, 141, 143-144, 146 353 354 INDEX mutual understanding, 4, 17 Nagel, Thomas, 124n18 Napoleonic Civil Code, 1, 188 nationalism, 47, 146, 219, 274 National Socialism, 90-93, 95, 97-98, 100, 102-103, 193, 210, 216, 224-225 nation state, 12-13, 61, 179, 213, 299 needs, 4, 12, 19, 33-34, 37-38, 43, 98, 101, 126, 130, 132-133, 140, 148n8, 158-160, 170, 240, 273, 300-301, 305, 310 neoliberalism, 185, 191, 198-200, 204, 210-211, 213-214, 216, 225n69, 228n115 Neumann, Franz, 197 new social movements, 77 Nicolaysen, Bente Blanche, 22, 317-344 non-governmental organizations (NGOs), 20, 22, 263, 306-310, 328, 341n5, norms, 2-6, 8, 16-17, 30-33, 36-49, 58-60, 66, 69, 73, 75, 81n14, 81n16, 107, 117, 128, 133, 144, 166-168, 170, 185, 191, 195, 200, 204, 209-210, 240-241 Norwegian Women’s and Family Association, 319 Nussbaum, Martha, 101 Occupy Wall Street, 12, 217, 220 Offe, Claus, 216, 218-219 ordoliberalism, 196-201, 204, 216, 224n54, 225n69 pair bonding, 16, 31, 33 Parkinson, Brian, 71 Parsons, Talcott, 179, 195-196, 211, 220n3, 221n18 patriotism, 116, 281-282 pensions, 214, 250-251, 253-254, 256 perspective taking, 32-33, 39 Pessi, Anne Birgitta, 1-29, 147n1, 238-298 philanthropy, 46, 322; telescopic, 330, 341n8 Pinker, Robert, 336 Polanyi, Karl, 21, 241, 263 populism, 14, 47 INDEX 355 post-democracy, 208, 227n95 poverty, 12-13, 22, 218, 299, 303-307, 310-312 pride, 61, 68, 71, 74, 142, 168 prosocial behavior, 4, 32, 47, 56-57, 79n4 Protestantism, 302 public authority, 261, 263 racism, 12, 333 rational choice-theory, 5, 30, 32, 57, 89, 169 Rawls, John, 14-15, 24, 291n1 Reagan, Ronald, 228n115 reciprocity, 2, 23n2, 101, 167-168, 170,274-275, 318-319, 321322, 325-326, 331, 334-337, 339 recognition, 19, 39, 60, 126-133, 135, 139-140, 144-145, 147148, 156, 168, 170-171, 173, 308; moral, 105-106, 108-115, 117-124 Red Cross, 276, 325, 341n7 redistribution, 145, 163, 166, 199, 210, 243, 300 Rehg, William, 163-164 religion, 8, 13-14, 18, 23-24, 61, 66, 88- 89, 91-92, 98-99, 101102, 141, 145-146, 149n23, 160-161, 179, 225n68, 247-248, 250, 302, 305, 309, 311-312, 328 reputation, 32, 45-46, 59-60 resentment, 75, 334 respect, 8, 11, 19, 23n2, 63, 72, 107, 113-114, 117, 122, 123n6, 126-130, 132-139, 141-144, 146-148, 161 responsibility, 7-8, 12, 15, 22, 46, 74, 97, 137-138, 145, 168, 255, 258, 273-276, 278, 281, 288, 292n4, 299, 303, 309 revolutionary change, 183-184, 190, 222n39 Ricoeur, Paul, 141, 147n2, 147n3, 150n30 rights, 101, 111, 136, 156, 181, 192-194, 199, 201-205, 207, 210; civic, 180; egalitarian, 210, 330; group, 146; human, 8, 22, 24, 138, 180, 192, 205, 226n87, 283, 302, 320, 329-330; political, 13; property, 43; social, 211, 277; subjective, 180-181, 202, 204, 209, 220n6; voting, 13 Riste, Olav, 328 rituals, 6, 44, 55-57, 59-60, 62-64, 69, 71, 78, 80-81 Rogers Hollingsworth, Joseph, 241 356 INDEX roles, 23n2, 126, 128, 131, 133, 145-146 Röpke, Wilhelm, 197, 225n58 Rorty, Richard, 2, 8, 123n2, 124n16, 132, 149n13 Rüstow, Alexander, 197, 224n58 Saari, Juho, 20, 238-271, 294n11 Salmela, Mikko, 6, 17-18, 55-87 sanctions, 45, 48, 73-74, 136-137, 140, 143, 277, 287 Sandel, Michael, 15 Sarkozy, Nicolas, 208 Scanlon, T.M., 139-140 Scheff, Thomas, 55 Schmid, Hans-Bernard, 68, 81n15 Schmitt, Carl, 199, 221n18, 224n53, 225n58 Scholz, Sally, 10-11 Schönberger, Christoph, 194 Searle, John, 181 secularization, 21, 301-302 self-interest, 2-3, 7, 9, 14, 31-32, 57-60, 75, 82n20, 89, 127, 156, 159, 169, 275, 277-281. See also egoism Sen, Amartya, 191n1 sentiment, 3, 55, 289, 292n2 shame, 36, 61, 72, 74 sharing, 4, 6, 17, 33-34, 37, 40-43, 45-48, 57, 59, 76, 88, 95 Sieyes, Emmanuel Josef, 182, 185 Single European Act, 238, 265n2 Sinzheimer, Hugo, 197, 225n60 Sittlichkeit, 127, 136, 143, 150n31. See also ethical life Smith, Adam, 71, 173 Smith, Nicholas H., 19, 147n1, 149n24, 155-177 social bond, 3, 9, 128, 164, 167, 246, 258 social brain, 16, 31-32, 35, 37-39, 48-49 social capital, 8-9, 146, 258-259 social cohesion, 127, 162, 243, 256-258, 311 social democracy, 7, 189, 214, 300, 302 social integration, 2, 131, 196, 201, 204, 209, 212, 217 socialism, 13, 122, 193, 210, 214 socialization, 16, 88, 92, 98, 101, 158 INDEX 357 social pathology, 135, 156, 160, 169, 171 social policy, 7, 22, 243, 303, 307 social services, 7, 9, 304-305 social ties, 3, 23, 131, 259, 319 Solidarism, 7 solidarity: affective, 17, 35, 38, 55-57, 60-61, 63-64, 66, 73, 7576, 78-79; affectual, 23n2; associational, 23n2; bureaucratic, 9; civic, 7, 10, 149n12; communal, 24n3, 119; consensual, 23n2; s. contract, 11-13; cross-generational, 23n2; descriptive vs normative, 2, 7; fighting, 10, 16; functional, 23n2; global, 14, 16, 148n10, 149n13, 291; humane, 24n4; humanitarian, 11, 24n4, 276, 292n4; inclusion vs exclusion, 8, 133-134, 321; incremental, 24n4; in-group vs out-group, 7, 44, 59, 71, 100, 133, 149n19, 276; institutionalized, 9; intra-group, 10, 273, 276, 330; mechanic vs organic, 3, 12, 24, 78, 127, 130-131, 148n10, 156, 160, 175n3; micro-level vs macro-level, 3- 8; moral, 18-19, 80n9, 107, 115, 127, 129, 131, 138, 140, 142-144, 147, 273; national, 11, 13; non-affective, 56, 69; partial vs impartial, 2, 18, 106, 108, 111, 114-115, 118-119; political, 7, 10-12, 16, 19, 127, 129, 131, 135-136, 138, 143-144, 147, 149n19, 161; social, 3, 10-11, 19, 126-127, 129, 131-132, 134, 143-147, 155-156, 159-163, 166-168, 170, 244, 286, 322; state-administered, 47, 49; structural, 23n2; transnational, 321, 330-331, 338- 339; universal, 10, 105-106, 108-109, 114-120, 122; weak vs strong, 9, 14-15, 48, 59-60, 76-77, 338 Solidarność, 7, 155 status, 38, 45-46, 68, 72, 133, 140-141, 207, 240, 243, 245, 249, 253, 262, 301, 334 Steen-Johnsen, Kari, 320 Straume, Solveig, 320 Strawson, Peter, 142 Streeck, Wolfgang, 213 strikes, 10, 131 Stryker, Sheldon, 71 suffering, 18, 88, 90-91, 100, 279, 306, 309, 323; distant, 22-23, 138, 317-319, 321-322, 327-333, 335-338, 340-341 Summers-Effler, Erika, 55, 64, 79n9 Sunstein, Cass, 227n101 358 INDEX symbols, 35, 44, 48, 63, 66, 76-77, 155-156, 207, 306, 309, 335, 339 sympathy, 2, 6, 8, 39, 55, 72-73, 90-91, 100, 132, 149n13, 292n3, 319 system integration, 165, 196, 201, 205, 209, 212, 224n57 taxation, 9, 200, 277; progressive, 7, 215 tax havens, 12 Taylor, Charles, 15, 127, 131, 147n1, 149n24, 164, 166-167, 175n5, 221n14 technocracy, 196, 200-201, 203, 206-208, 211-212, 217-218 terrorism, 180, 253-254, 263 Thatcher, Margaret, 202, 214, 228n115 Thoma, Richard, 181 thou-centrism, 2 Tischner, Josef, 166-167 Titmuss, Richard M., 22, 317, 335-336 togetherness, 11-12, 17, 21, 55, 148n4, 239, 272-274, 281-282, 285-287, 290-291 Tönnies, Ferdinand, 175n1 trade unions, 1, 219, 301, 307 treaty, 192, 194, 207-208, 216, 245; Amsterdam, 198, 244, 265n2; Coal and Steel community, 223n46; Constitutional, 180, 198, 207-208; ILO, 180; Lisbon, 180, 205, 216; Lisbon reform-t., 199, 207-208; Maastricht, 244, 265n2; Nice, 244, 265n2; Paris, 193-194, 196; Rome, 194, 196, 199, 201, 265n2 trust, 4, 20, 23n2, 79n6, 149n18, 168-169, 250, 257, 261, 263, 285, 312, 318 trustworthiness, 4, 6, 17, 39-41, 43, 172, 240 Tuomela, Raimo, 65-66 Tuori, Kaarlo, 197, 221n13, 227n101 Tvedt, Terje, 331, 336 unemployment, 216, 218, 247, 250-254, 256, 304, 306 United Nations (UN), 180, 191, 203, 222n27, 246, 327, 329-330, 337, 341 urbanization, 3, 179 values, 8, 43-44, 48, 69, 81n14, 81n16, 90, 100, 137, 240, 242- INDEX 359 243, 247-248, 252, 255, 258, 290, 335; Christian, 328; ethical, 101; and institutions, 241-243, 245; moral, 101, 108; national, 246; shared, 3-5, 23, 77, 292, 312 virtue ethics, 96, 101 virtues, 44, 72, 102, 108, 110, 143 voluntary organizations, 21-22, 299-301, 303, 305, 312 Walzer, Michael, 149n16 Watson, Gary, 101 Weil, Simone, 118-120 welfare state, 7, 12, 22, 42, 198, 204, 241-242, 245, 249, 255, 257, 259-261, 277, 318-319, 322, 338-339; Nordic, 22, 245246, 253, 299-312, 325 well-being, 2-3, 6, 15, 24n4, 100, 112, 130, 133, 149n19, 255, 277, 279, 192n2, 303 West, Stuart, 32 we-thinking, 2, 6, 279, 281 Wiggins, David, 18, 106, 109-119, 121-124 Wildt, Andreas, 6, 15, 275, 292n3 Williams, Bernard, 135 work, 11, 19, 148n10, 155-173, 175, 197, 204, 243, 247, 257, 304; expressivist conception of, 158-160, 167, 169, 172173, 175; social, 305, 308, 310; voluntary, 245, 247-250, 311 working class, 160-161, 214, 249, 255, 300-301 World War I, 197, 222n39 World War II, 22, 90, 95, 99, 103, 190-191, 199, 222n39, 302 Worthen, Daniel L., 279 Wright Mills, Charles, 215 ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS Hauke Brunkhorst is Professor for Sociology at University of Flensburg (Germany), since 1996. During 2009-2010 he was TheodorHeuss-Professor at New School for Social Research, New York. His books include Critical Theory of Legal Revolutions. An Evolutionary Perspective; Legitimationskrisen. Verfassungsprobleme der Weltgesellschaft; Karl Marx: Der achtzehnte Brumaire des Louis Bonaparte – Kommentar, and Solidarity. From Civic Friendship to a Global Legal Community. Simon Derpmann is junior faculty member at the Department of Philosophy at the University of Münster and research associate at the Centre for Advanced Study in Bioethics. In his dissertation Gründe der Solidarität he examines the role of reasons of solidarity within moral philosophy. He currently works on the moral dimensions of market relations. Heikki Hiilamo is Professor of Social Policy at University of Helsinki. He is a leading scholar on family policies and poverty in Finland. He holds a PhD both in Social Policy and in Public Health. He is Docent in Social and Health Policy at the University of Tampere and Docent in Welfare Sociology at the University of Easter Finland. He has worked as Visiting Professor at the University of California and San Francisco. He has published on family policy, child protection, poverty and tobacco control in leading international journals. Arto Laitinen is Professor of Philosophy at University of Tampere, Finland. His research interests cover social and political philosophy and ethics. His recent publications include Recognition and Social 362 ABOUT CONTRIBUTORS Ontology (co-edited with Heikki Ikäheimo) and Hegel on Action (coedited with Constantine Sandis), and he is an editor of Journal of Social Ontology. Siegwart Lindenberg is Professor of Cognitive Sociology in the Department of Sociology and the Interuniversity Center for Social Science Theory and Methodology (ICS), University of Groningen, and at the Tilburg Institute for Behavioral Economics Research (TIBER), Tilburg University (Netherlands). His interests lie in the development, test and application of theories of social rationality with a focus on the influence of the social environment on norms, cooperative behavior and self-regulation. Recent publications include “Managing joint production motivation: The role of goalframing and governance mechanisms” in Academy of Management Review (2011, with N. Foss) and “Demonstratively restoring order” in PLoS ONE (2013, with K. Keizer and L. Steg). For more information see his homepage at http://lindenberg.academiaworks.com. Kristen Renwick Monroe is a professor of Political Science and Philosophy and the Director of the UCI Interdisciplinary Center for the Scientific Study for the Ethics and Morality. Her award-winning work on altruism and moral choice deals with a central problem in politics and ethics: our treatment of others. Monroe is the author of around twenty single-authored books or edited volumes and over fifty articles or book chapters. Her awards include a Pulitzer nomination, a National Book Award nomination, two American Political Science Association Best Book awards (the Robert Lane Award) and two of the APSA’s lifetime achievement awards, and the 2010 Paul Silverman Award for Outstanding Work in Ethics Bente Blanche Nicolaysen is a post doc researcher at the Department of Sociology, University of Bergen. Her research interests cover voluntary organisations and their welfare production and activities, volunteering, fundraising bazaars, sociological and anthropological theories of gift giving, moral sociology, and life history research. Anne Birgitta Pessi is Professor in Church and Social Studies at the University of Helsinki. She also holds a Title of Docent in Wel- ABOUT CONTRIBUTORS 363 fare Sociology at the University of Eastern Finland. Her research interests cover, among other matters, volunteering, altruism, religion, and religious institutions and their social activities. Juho Saari is Professor of welfare research and welfare sociology at the University of Eastern Finland, Director of Kuopio Welfare Research Centre and Director of Research School for well-being and health research. He is the author, co-author or editor or co-editor of some fifty books on social policy and public economy, altruism and justice, welfare and well-being, and European and global governance. Recently he has led projects on the future of welfare state in Finland, Finland’s comparative advantages in the European setting, the welfare state mechanism, the welfare state theories and their empirical applications, and on inequalities, social isolation and well-being, as well as the well-being of homeless persons. Mikko Salmela is a Docent of Social and Moral Philosophy and an Academy Research Fellow at the Helsinki Collegium for Advanced Studies. His recent research has focused on interdisciplinarily oriented philosophy of emotions. He is a co-editor of an interdisciplinary volume Collective Emotions (Oxford University Press). Nicholas H. Smith is Professor of Philosophy at Macquarie University in Sydney, Australia. His recent publications include New Philosophies of Labour: Work and the Social Bond (co-edited with Jean-Philippe Deranty) and Recognition Theory as Social Research: Investigating the Dynamics of Social Conflict (co-edited with Shane O’Neill).