Mediterranean democracy, Year 2 Athens, 10-11 January 2014

Discussion:
In response to a question by Maurizio Isabella, Nassia noted that there were plenty of instances in which ‘opinion’ was used in relation to individual views; indeed this word (γνώμη) and freedom of opinion had a very strong presence in the those contexts.
Joanna Innes asked if in the discourse opinion was seen as ambiguous – potentially fickle, manipulable? She noted that Mark Knights, in his Representation and Misrepresentation in late Stuart England showed how discussion of the developing political public sphere in late C17-early C18 England was full of soul-searching and argument about these problems. She wondered if concern was expressed about demagogues?

Nassia said that another common word was έριδα, dispute, but potentially relating to personalised conflicts, libel or calumny. She has no firm view as to how the two related. She thinks the literary journals tried to transcend personal disputes, perhaps in the same way that the Spectator and Tatler did.
Several questions were collected:
Lycourgos Sophoulis wanted to hark back to a theme raised by Stella Ghervas’ earlier about the relationship between elite and popular opinion. He wanted to know who the target audience were – who was ‘the public’? Was this a republic of letters, for the learned only? Or was it, like the constitutions, partly aimed at European opinion?

Konstantina Zanou suggested that participants in this Greek public sphere might be participating in other public spheres too, thus also Italian or Russian.

Andrew Arsan suggested that there might be several different levels of admission.

Nassia explained that literary journals published in Vienna were subject to severe censorship. Their rhetoric has to be read with this in mind. It is clear that many people were excluded, including women. She was less interested in the limits than in the fact that a new kind of space was being created, and along with it a new vocabulary in modern Greek (the vocabulary of public debate), which in her opinion deserved scholarly attention and careful reconstitution.

Paschalis supported her, saying that those who studied ideas often had to cope with this kind of sado-masochistic criticism, about the limits of the audience.

In relation to references to ‘democracy’, he said it was surely the standard notion of a ‘republic of letters’ that Korais had in mind.

Stella Ghervas asked when the first printing press was established in Athens.

Nassia said in 1824 – but only in retrospect did the establishment of a press in Athens seem a particularly significant moment. The Greek-speaking public sphere in this Ottoman context didn’t correspond to the later Greek state.

Ivi Mavromoustakou (University of Crete) Reception of the idea of ‘constitution’ by Greek jurists [this summary draws on her published paper in Thetis 2013]

She planned to talk about the models and the values which formed the basis for building a constitutional and centralized State in Greece, and their adaptation to Greek circumstances. More specifically at how the concepts of the constitution and of ways in which power is organised were interpreted by the delegates to the two constituent assemblies of 1843 and 1863-4, which gave rise to constitutions of 1844 and 1864. These constitutions echoed standard liberal themes: they vested sovereignty in the people, but said they should govern via representatives. But representative power coexisted with extensive royal prerogative. The law did not govern. In both constitutional assemblies, similar opinions were expressed. Themes which had appeared in the constitutions of the early 1820s – separation of powers, declarations of rights – disappeared thereafter.

The 1844 constitution took up the liberal theme of restraining the power of the monarch: it aimed to give a share of it to hitherto excluded elites. The aim was not to overthrow monarchy. The constitution in this context had the nature of a pact, founded on mutual concessions. Models of constitutional monarchy were provided by the French constitution of 1830 and Belgian constitution of 1831. It provided for quasi-universal suffrage. Crown influence over elections stimulated an anti-monarchical current, running strongly by late 1850s.

The Ottonian monarchy was abolished 1862, a new constitutional monarchy established 1864, influenced again by Belgium 1831 and by Denmark 1849, now with universal suffrage. This time practice did not stand in such tension with the constitution’s promises. Dedilomeni – provision for direct expressions of parliamentary confidence – one component, though they had no juridical force. Might say the obstacles to the functioning of constitutional monarchy were ultimately overcome.

Reference point American and European constitutional theory and developing practice. French thought seems dominant, but British practice more influential. In Greek juridical debate an active part played by those who sought the values and normative foundations of the state in local institutions. There were a series of studies on the commune koinotita later C19.

During the decade of absolutist government after 1830, ‘constitution’ functioned only as the subject of a demand, eg in the press. Advocates of constitution saw as a matter of conforming to European norms, joining civilised states; some said Greece needed more time to mature, but by 1843 general agreement on need. Demands for constitution in the press weren’t usually specific on points of institutional design: clear though that ideal tempered constitutional monarchy. Debate on various points, but three necessary elements of security identified: of government against governed; of governed against government, and of people between themselves. Representative system seen as the essence of constitutional government: its absence seen to have opened the way to absolute power of monarch. King shouldn’t be responsible because ministers should be. Problems also seen to have arisen from the fact that monarchical power was not constrained as such; powers of some organs very vainly defined; and because of the personalities of those who filled them, eg the Chancellor. Constitution also intended to signify end of domination by foreigners, esp Bavarians and ‘phanariots’. Failure of king to grant constitution lamented, but monarchy as such not attacked; its virtues as form of rule still praised, seen as an expression of the ‘neutrality’ of the power of the state. Monarchy seen as potentially unifying; constitution could aid in this. Individual liberty and rights, freedom of conscience etc not seen as secure under absolutism. Importance of liberty of press esp. emphasised. Monarchy and constitution also expected to defend orthodox religion.

Minutes of constitutional assemblies show us what was on the deputies’ minds. Deputies informed by western education or contact; not inhibited by lack of juridical expertise, insofar as could draw on ideas about western practice. Some invoked western practice to legitimate their own arguments: might think examples drawn from European history would convince other delegates. Was observed that object during revolution had been to become a European state. Many references to era and texts of war of independence, to Rhigas and Korais. Also said law must conform to manners and customs, or would fail. Yet general theme must learn from European experience. Exemplary nation of the English especially invoked; her constitution all the fruit of experience. Sometimes suggested that imitation might not be appropriate; should reflect on local circumstances. In second assembly was said that on the one hand it wouldn’t do to follow others blindly, but on the other nor should Greeks rest stationary and indifferent to European progress.

References were mainly to the US, Britain, France and Belgium; rarely to others. Belgium was associated with equality; Britain with civilisation. French history was referred to telegraphically, by key dates. Second assembly often referred to France 1848. Not much theoretical discussion of individual rights, but lively debates on theme of freedom of press, replete with references to French practice. Belgium constitution praised for prohibiting censorship. Napoleon criticised as a centraliser. The French revolution was sometimes invoked just as a past historical episode; sometimes to negative effect, thus against a single chamber; associated with assertion of democratic principles, fortunately brief. When rights of association and assembly debated in second assembly, argued wasn’t these but the social situation in France that brought such bad effects. It was argued however that they favoured the dominance of capitals, as Paris in French case.

[The paper as published includes a final section on the views of Greek jurists from 1850 onwards].



Discussion:

Joanna Innes noted that the people didn’t seem to figure prominently in discussion.

Ivi said that was the case. Emphasis was above all on the representative system as the medium through which the sovereignty of the people should be expressed. In the 1860s there was also an anti-parliamentarist current; it was argued that the constitution should be revised to give more power to the king, coupled with a senate and universal suffrage – checks on the power of parliament from various directions.

Ioannis Tassopoulos said in relation to parliamentary votes of confidence that even the courts did invoke this idea. He found it perplexing that Greek national upheavals didn’t have more effect on constitutional thinking, which instead was dominated by German influences.

Ivi said that French influence also shaped thinking about the nation. Heterochthons were included in this vision. The state as such was not much discussed – German ideas only influenced thinking at the end of C19.

Several questions were collected:

Michalis Sotiropoulos thought there was more criticism of the British model than she had conveyed, though English liberty was praised. The indivisibility of sovereignty in British thinking attracted criticism, following De Lolme. He also had a question: he wanted to know what kinds of charge were brought against the monarch in the 1860s

Gianluca Fruci was very struck that universal suffrage was introduced so early, and wondered what prompted that.

Stella Ghervas said that she appreciated the clarity of the presentation. She asked about the argument used for changing from a “republican” to a “monarchic” regime in Greece: was it the same as the one used for adopting monarchy in Belgium, after the revolution against the Netherlands (1831), i.e. that after an insurrection and social disorders, a King would appear more legitimate and bring more stability?

Ivi said that she had read widely both in the press and in reports of debates at the constitutional assemblies and had not found criticism directed against the king personally but rather against his advisors.

On the shift from republic to monarchy: French experience was cited – fear of ‘un état démocratique’. Instead they wanted a liberal state.

Day 2 Practice

Antonis Hadjikyriacou (Princeton): Community and Representation in pre-Tanzimat Cyprus

In 1707, the archbishop, some of his clerical and lay associates, and the janissary commander of Cyprus were exiled to Rhodes. They were found guilty of oppression and exploitative taxation. By claiming to have been “representatives of the non-Muslims”, they managed to collect a significant amount of money through over-taxation, to the extent of causing a tide of peasant emigration. What interested him here was the use and abuse of two words: reʿāyā vekīli, “representative of the non-Muslims”, a title frequently encountered in Ottoman bureaucratic parlance on Cyprus from the 1770s onwards, encapsulating the fiscal, administrative, and political functions of the leadership of communal organisation. It is odd that it crops up seven decades earlier.

He had chosen to translate reʿāyā vekīli as “representative of the non-Muslims”. Both reʿāyā and vekīl have multiple layers of meaning, and to choose a single word in translation means that some of these meanings are put aside – momentarily. He found ‘representative of the non-Muslims’ the most apt in this setting, but also it opened up the concepts of community and representation: who is being represented, how, and for what purpose. He planned to examine these issues from a political, administrative and fiscal standpoint with reference to C18 Cyprus, when ‘democracy’ as such had little relevance.
A new corpus of studies on communities throughout the Ottoman Empire has shed light on the mechanics of collective representation and communal organisation. At the centre of these discussions is the legal principle of the Hanefi school of Islamic jurisprudence whereby corporate entities are not recognised: legal arrangements have to take place between individuals, i.e. private legal entities. In this light, an office holder is not an impersonal entity with a corporate identity functioning within set boundaries, but a person who happens to have certain fluid and negotiable jurisdiction. Traditional scholarship restricted to the study of social interactions as reflected in legal texts took the absence of institutional arrangements for granted: it was assumed that institutions were formally unable to develop, and that this accounted for the Ottoman Empire’s inability to match early modern European institutional development. Yet, legal principle and actual practice did not necessarily coincide. In practice, the evolution of structures of representation took place in the grey zone that lies between formally recognised and actually functioning modes of communal organisation. This process entailed experimentation, stretching of the meanings of titles, and arbitrary declarations. Examining these issues reveals much about what it meant to imagine oneself as the head of a collectivity, but also about the complex ways in which collectivities were constructed.
Throughout the Ottoman Empire, structures of communal representation were in place by C17; not by chance, this was also when the maḳṭūʿ system of collective, as opposed to individual, taxation proliferated, requiring local knowledge, cooperation and organisation. Ali Yaycıoğlu has consolidated the transformations of C18 into three overlapping processes: localisation, privatisation, and communalisation of authority. The latter is esp. relevant here.
One of the points of convergence between the two competing nationalist historiographies of Cyprus is the effective equation of non-Muslim communal organisation with the Orthodox Church of the island. Ottomanist historiography depicts an unchanging millet system for non-Muslims under the ‘natural leadership’ of the higher clergy; the Greek narrative represents a Church monopolising the political, economic and cultural realm; both reproduce the idea that the Church was an omnipotent institution, at the centre of all aspects of life. The operative term here is institution, raising the issue of how to conceptualise the logic of representation, devolution of power, endowment of authority, and the administrative arrangements that emerged through the negotiation between centre and province, with due attention to the process of emergence. Some sort of institutional continuity was necessary to perform various state functions – taxation, fiscal functions, collective responsibility, or the administration of justice. Yet, communal organization followed no consistent pattern. While agents might project an image of corporate identity, and to a large extent functioned in such a way, the reality vis-à-vis the Ottoman state was different. These processes were situated somewhere between the de facto and the de jure.
Conventional wisdom has it that communal representation in Cyprus took form in the 1660s, based on a comment by Kyprianos, a contemporary historian and cleric. Usually factually accurate, Kyprianos emphasises the fiscal over the political and gives 1754 as the decisive turning point, when the bishops were “recognised as ḳocabaşıs or custodians and representatives of the reʿāyās” (επιστάται και επίτροποι). However, the earliest arrangement that was akin to such a legal status occurred in 1830, as a prelude to the Tanẓīmāt reforms. Even the late C18 office of ‘representative of the non-Muslims’ was not exclusive to clerics. Ottoman documentation does not back up Kyprianos’ assertion that this title was inaugurated in 1754. The Ottomans described a “new order” (nizam-i cedid – not the same as Selim III’s reform programme), a series of changes designed to remedy administrative and fiscal problems of the island, and surely would have mentioned the inauguration of the title if this was part of it. The term appears incidentally in a taxation register from that year, with no elaboration. It appears next in 1760, then again in 1768 in a petition by the prelates to insinuate, but not assert, that a certain kind of authority attached to the ‘representative of the non-Muslims’ was questioned, but this is left rather vague. From the 1770s use becomes consistent. Given the lack of documentation confirming official recognition of wide-ranging administrative and representative authority, available evidence points to a gradual process that did not entail a de jure recognition at one specific point in time, but rather the normalisation of a de facto situation.
By the final third of the seventeenth century certain informal structures of communal responsibility were already established. It is most notably visible in tax-collection. Marios Hadjianastasis highlights two sharia court register entries from 1677 illustrating this point. Twice, delegations of non-Muslims presented themselves to the court, offering to undertake tax-collection and deliver the amounts to the appointed collectors. Importantly, these were private arrangements between the delegations and the collectors, which the court merely approved. One specific phrase underlines the complex nature of the arrangement: “archbishop Kigalas, appointed by the non-Muslims of the island of Cyprus as guarantor of their communal affairs”.21 Thus, the archbishop was not considered by the Ottoman state as the natural leader of the non-Muslims by virtue of any primordial millet system, but the guarantor of communal affairs, appointed by the people, on that occasion. While the specific reference to communal affairs (cemʿī ʿumūr) clearly implies that a de facto communal administration of sorts was in place, the passage makes no reference to any legal status that the Ottoman state recognised. This should be no surprise, for in this case the court was not interested in the internal organisation of the non-Muslims. What the court was interested in, was the assumption of responsibility by an individual, the kefīl, who would guarantee the payment of taxes. Any authority that Kigalas had was not granted by Istanbul, but the people who appointed him (naṣb) as their guarantor (kefīl), and the court simply consented.
The connotations of the term guarantor (kefīl) are in some ways in contrast to the ones of representative (vekīl), which is prevalent in post-1770s documentation. The latter term suggests an official recognition, and a certain degree of authority; it is taken to denote the leadership of the community more clearly and explicitly: representative of the non-Muslims. However, the meanings of the terms guarantor (kefīl) and representative (vekīl) are neither fixed nor absolute; it may even be possible to argue that they could be used interchangeably, depending on the context. Representative covered a broad range of levels of representation: the collectivities involved might be a small village outside Veroia, a neighbourhood in Antep, or an entire province, as with the office of Mora vekīli. Both terms had another legal usage too, in the context of the sharia court, slightly different to the connotations in relation to communal representation. He was concerned only with the latter. It is possible to broadly delineate certain ‘official’ semantic boundaries, whereby the former term used in earlier periods concerned fiscal functions with lending connotations. The usage of guarantor is limited to the function of someone guaranteeing the collection of taxation. On the other hand, representative may imply broader administrative and representative jurisdictions. Yet, these boundaries were blurred. Both terms originate from the legal nomenclature of the court, gradually develop fiscal qualities, and eventually are projected as political-administrative titles.
The introduction of the idea of representation as part of political and administrative parlance was not limited to the Ottoman realms. At the very same time, during later C18, Karim Khan Zand in Iran refused to assume the title of şahinşah (king of kings). Instead, he opted for that of wakil-e raʿāyā, whereby popular representation was a central tenet of his legitimacy. One is tempted to speculate as to the possibility of a Eurasian shift in political thought and ideas of government during this conjuncture.
As far as Cyprus is concerned, evidence is more lucid on the projections of leadership and authority over the community. What is the meaning of the episode from 1707, where the archbishop and the janissary commander claimed to have been “representatives of the non-Muslims” when such an office did not exist? Clearly, the claim was arbitrary, and the individuals concerned projected a specific institutional identity that they did not possess as far as the Ottoman state was concerned, in order to justify the collection of taxes at more than twice the prescribed rate. While the claim may be revealing of a certain consciousness by those using the title, the fact of the matter was that it was used as a means for exploitative taxation under a veneer of officialdom.
It should not be assumed that towards the end of C18 an institutional identity had been consolidated and officially recognised by the Ottoman state to create an office with clearly defined jurisdiction. Even though the title representative of the non-Muslims was consistently used, the concept was still ill-defined. Any corporate nature that its use in Ottoman documentation may convey was not part of a teleological process, but the result of a case-to-case basis evaluation. An incident from 1788-89 is particularly enlightening in that respect. Upon the death of a governor a dispute arose regarding the collection of non-Muslim taxes. The dragoman of Cyprus (Kıbrıs tercümanı) Hadjiyorgakis sent a petition asserting that “in accordance to the ancient tradition of the country since the imperial conquest, [the collection of the taxes of the non-Muslims] has been entrusted to […] the dragoman and representative of the non-Muslims”. He then described this process, whereby a bond was issued in the name of the dragoman, who made the payment on behalf of the taxpayers, and then undertook the right of collection. The community requested that the payment be made in interest-incurring instalments; basically taking the form of a debt to the dragoman. Interestingly, the community was described in a non-institutional manner as “the people, the rich traders, and the merchants”. In the meantime, Emin Efendi, the deceased governor’s deputy, had an imperial command issued delegating the right of collection to himself. Since, according to the petition, this was in contravention to ancient practice, the dragoman requested the cancellation of this order and the (re-)affirmation of his right of collection. According to the petition, the right of collection of non-Muslim taxes had always been delegated to the dragoman since the conquest. This is an exaggeration, as appeals to ab antiquo rights in such documentation usually are. While we know that since C17 dragomans had had the right to tax-collection, this was certainly neither an exclusive right, nor an institutionalised practice, for archbishops or other lay functionaries were also awarded this function.
There are multiple layers of complexity in this incident. First, the echoes of guarantor (kefīl) are abundantly clear. Secondly, the position of Hadjiyorgakis as the tax-collector by virtue of his position as ‘representative of the non-Muslims’ was contested: there was no legal guarantee to the right of collection, which seems to have been awarded more on a case-to-case basis rather than a fully consistent fashion. Custom, to which Hadjiyorgakis appealed, could provide legal grounds for at least a quasi-institutional position. Yet, this is more about the projection of an institutional identity than its reality. Just as the Church was accustomed to making such projections, so was Hadjiyorgakis. For despite his argument that the right of collection belonged to the dragoman since the conquest, this was a false claim.
The way this affair was treated by the Ottoman bureaucracy is also revealing. While Hadjiyorgakis’ request was granted, the choice of words shows how acutely aware the Ottomans were of subtle issues of institutional identity. Istanbul’s response neither refuted nor confirmed the dragoman’s claim of having the right of collection since the conquest: “according to custom, the dragoman and representative of the non-Muslims Hadjiyorgakis” undertook the debt for the taxes, and has the right of collection. A strict interpretation is that the lack of reference to the conquest means that the claim was not confirmed, and this was a practice specifically associated with Hadjiyorgakis. On the other hand, the ambiguous usage of the term “custom” is loose enough to allow for another interpretation confirming Hadjiyorgakis’ claim, since ‘custom’ is temporally vague. The circle is thus squared, and all sides can project the image they would like on the basis of what we could define as constructive ambiguity.
The creation and manipulation of such ambiguities were common strategies in projecting an institutional identity that claimed an undisputed and historically rooted leadership and authority over the community. Such patterns recur in Cypriot history. The development of structures of representation did not follow a consistent and coherent model, according to which a single institution, whether the Church or the dragoman, was endowed with authority by the Ottoman state as of old. While such agents were confident in projecting an image of corporate identity, and to a large extent functioned in such a way, the reality vis-à-vis the Ottoman state was different. Local representative structures kept a foot within each of the realms of de facto and de jure, manipulated this ambiguity, adapted themselves to changing conditions, and strove for further imperial authority. At stake is our understanding of the way institutional identity was constructed, projected and contested within the context of the struggle for legitimacy characterised by relations of power.