Rawnsley (2005) Political Communication and Democracy

Political Communication
and Democracy
Gary D. Rawnsley
Political Communication and Democracy
Other books by Gary Rawnsley
Radio Diplomacy and Propaganda

Cold War Propaganda in the 1950s (ed.)
The Clandestine Cold War in Asia, 1945–1965 (ed. with Richard Aldrich and
Ming-Yeh Rawnsley)
Taiwan’s Informal Diplomacy and Propaganda
Critical Security, Democratisation and Television in Taiwan (with Ming-Yeh
Rawnsley)
Political Communications in Greater China: The Construction and Reflection
of Identity (ed. with Ming-Yeh Rawnsley)
Political Communication
and Democracy
Gary D. Rawnsley
Professor of International Studies,
University of Nottingham, Ningbo, China (UNNC)
© Gary D. Rawnsley 2005
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Rawnsley, Gary D.
Political communication and democracy / Gary D. Rawnsley.
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Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 1–4039–4254–4 (cloth)
1. Communication in politics. 2. Democracy. I. Title.
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Dedicated to the memory of my Dad and best friend
Jack Rawnsley
14 February 1936–28 June 2004
If there are any persons who contest a received opinion, or will do so if law or
opinion will let them, let us thank them for it, open our minds to listen to
them, and rejoice that there is someone to do for us what we otherwise ought,
if we have any regard for either the certainty or the vitality of our convictions,
to do with much greater labour for ourselves.
– John Stuart Mill, On Liberty in Mary Warnock (ed.), Utilitarianism

(London: Fantana Press, 1969) pp. 172–3.
Free and untainted information is a basic human right. Not everyone has it;
almost everyone wants it. It cannot by itself create a just world, but a just
world can never exist without it.
– Elizabeth Wright, ‘Postscript: broadcasting to China’ in

Robin Porter (ed.), Reporting the News from China
(London: RIIA, 1992) pp. 18–29.
Contents
List of Tables viii
List of Figures ix
List of Photographs x
Acknowledgements xi
Chapter 1 Introduction: Crisis? What Crisis? 1

Chapter 2 Guarding Against the ‘Deep Slumber of a Decided
Opinion’ 22
Chapter 3 Public Opinion 65
Chapter 4 Instruments of Expression (I): Group Politics 95
Chapter 5 Instruments of Expression (II): Referendums 120
Chapter 6 Political Communications and Democratisation:
‘Paladins of Liberty’? 140
Chapter 7 Towards a New Democratic Political
Communication: Information Communication
Technologies and Politics 177
Notes 200
Bibliography 216
Index 234
vii
List of Tables
Table 1.1 Trust in professions to tell the truth 7

Table 1.2 ‘Verdict on the political class’ 8
Table 1.3 US Presidential election voter turnout, 1924–2004 11
Table 4.1 Party membership in eight European democracies,
1960–99 97
Table 4.2 Political party and pressure group membership 97
Table 4.3 Trades Union membership, 1996–7 98
Table 5.1 Mean turnout in candidate and referendum
elections in selected countries, 1945–1993 136
Table 7.1 How many on-line? 191
Table 7.2 The Digital Divide, 2005 191
viii
List of Figures
Figure 3.1 Opinion interaction and effect on the political

process 82
Figure 4.1 Daniel Hallin’s spheres 104
ix
List of Photographs
Photo 1.1 A demonstration against the continuing occupation

of Iraq, London, 2004 11
Photo 4.1 Campaign on the streets of Kowloon to encourage
voter registration, April 2004 112
Photo 4.2 A sit-in at the Department of Agrarian Reform,
Manila, 2001 116
x
Acknowledgements
My thanks go to the School of Politics at the University of Nottingham,

my intellectual home for the past ten years. The School is a collegial
environment, allowing staff and students to work alongside scholars
working in (not always cognate, but nonetheless fascinating) areas in
political studies.
I acknowledge the contribution to this book of ten years worth of
students on my various modules (The Mass Media, War and Politics;
The First Casualty; Political Communications). I have enjoyed our
discussions about the ideas in this book, and I hope they can detect in
it the seeds of their intellectual curiosity.
I should also say a big thank you to Professor Kuan Hsin-chi and the
staff and students of the Department of Government and Public
Administration, Chinese University of Hong Kong. I was privileged to
be a Visiting Professor there in 2004, and not only did I enjoy the
opportunity to teach, but also gather valuable material from Asia and
witness the resurgence of grassroots political activism in Hong Kong.
Particular individuals require acknowledgement: Dr Susan McManus,
formerly of the University of Nottingham, now Queens University,
Belfast, read an early draft of Chapter Two. Susan pointed out my errors
and guided me in the right direction. Dr Alison Edgley likewise was an
inspiration when it came to thinking about Noam Chomsky. I am grate-
ful for the time that both Susan and Alison spent helping me. I also thank
Dr Matthew Rendall and Dr Pauline Eadie for allowing me to publish
their photographs, and the following organisations for permission to
reproduce the Tables and Figures presented: The Guardian (Table 4.2);
YouGov (Table 1.2); the International Labour Office (Table 4.3); the
Center for Voting and Democracy (Table 1.3); Mori (Table 1.1); Palgrave
Macmillan (Table 4.1); and Thomson Higher Education (Figure 3.1). I also
thank the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region Government for
permission to reproduce some of the survey questions its Task Force
on Constitutional Development published in Hong Kong’s dailies on
23 February and 1 March 2004; and the South China Morning Post for
allowing me to reproduce my response, ‘First Get the Questions Right’
(25 February 2004). The author has made every attempt to contact other
copyright holders. If any have inadvertently been overlooked, appropriate
arrangements will be made at the first opportunity.
xi
xii Acknowledgements
The support and advice of my editor at Palgrave Macmillan, Alison

Howson, is much appreciated, as are the comments of the anonymous
referees who were asked to read the original proposal.
I acknowledge the continued love, support and tolerance of my won-
derful wife, Ming-Yeh, with whom I am now embarking on an exciting
adventure as Dean at the University of Nottingham’s new campus in
Ningbo, China. She read successive drafts of chapters, gave insightful
comments and asked much-needed challenging questions. One of the
problems in writing this book was knowing when to finish; data and
relevant examples were available on a daily basis after finishing the
manuscript, but Ming-Yeh was astute enough to know when enough is
enough.
As always, I thank my parents, Jack and Shirley Rawnsley. My father
died while I was writing this book and so I dedicate it to him. He
would put it on his bookshelf with my other books, but never read it,
claiming that he would not understand it. My mother can now do
likewise.
Gary Rawnsley
Nottingham, UK
2005
1
Introduction: Crisis? What Crisis?
The evils of the Representative System are … great and grievous.

Manifold also are the temptations to which the representative by
virtue of his position is exposed. Unlawful usurpation of power
individual or in committee, the illegal exertion of administrative
pressure for personal or party ends and the demoralizing opportu-
nity to obtain the prize of illegitimate riches, have all combined
to impair or debauch the character of many representatives. Great
political principles are forgotten or repudiated in the busy game
of trafficking in spoils of office, whereas in the mad pursuit of
partisan or private aims the people’s good and the people’s cause
are for the most part abandoned.1
A meeting to discuss public apathy in Dorchester, Dorset, got

off to a bad start when only four people turned up.
– ‘Disappointment of the Week’, Sunday Times News Review,
24 August 2003.
The titles of some recently published books say it all: Why People Don’t
Trust Government (1997); Disaffected Democracies (1999); What is it About
Government that Americans Dislike? (2001). The ancients would shudder
at the very thought: democracy in crisis? Surely not. However, there is a
growing consensus that citizens of all democratic political systems –
though the criticism tends to be levelled at the usual suspects, the
United States and Europe – are becoming progressively more cynical,
disillusioned and apathetic.2 Hence, we should not be surprised that
people are consciously deciding not to participate in politics.3 Few
voters are prepared to turn out for elections (Gray & Caul, 2000) and
cast their vote, and even fewer are joining political parties and interest
1
2 Political Communication and Democracy
groups (Mair & I. van Biezen, 2001; Putnam, 2000). A report published
by the British Labour party in September 2001 announced that it had
lost 50,000 members during the previous year. The Conservative party
had lost 75,000 since the 1997 General Election. Between the end of
2002 and 2003, membership of the Labour party fell by more than
33,000 to 214,952. The turnout in the 1997 British General Election was
71.4 percent, the lowest since the Second World War, provoking John
Curtice and Michael Steed (Butler & Kavanagh, 1997:299) to conclude:
‘It seems clear that the 1997 general election excited less interest than
any other in living memory’ … That is, until the 2001 General Election
when turnout across the United Kingdom fell to an extraordinary
59.3 percent. (‘The 71 percent participation in 1997 was itself a record
low for almost 80 years.’ Butler & Kavanagh, 2001:2574). Only
39 percent of eligible voters under 25 cast their ballot, giving rise to the
idea that the ‘Barcardi Breezers’ (Britain’s 18–24 year olds) should be
persuaded to take more interest in politics (Julia Margo, ‘Bacardi
Breezers want a serious party … a political one’, Sunday Times News
Review, 25 August 2003:3). Only in Britain would the press celebrate the
40 percent turnout in the 2004 local elections!5 The same patterns seem
to be recurring elsewhere: In the 1996 American Presidential election,
less than 75 percent of all eligible voters were registered to vote,
49 percent of whom actually voted (www.turnout.org). In 2000, the
turnout had risen to just 51 percent of eligible voters (www.igc.apc.org/
cvd/turnout/preturn.html). The problem is particularly acute among the
young; 51 percent of people between the ages of 18 and 24 are regis-
tered to vote, but only 29 percent actually voted in the 2000 presiden-
tial election. Critics of apathy wonder whatever happened to the
politically engaged America that Alexis de Tocqueville discovered in the
19th Century:
No sooner do you set foot on American soil [he wrote] than you
find yourself in a sort of tumult; a confused clamor rises on every
side, and a thousand voices are heard at once, each expressing
some social requirements. All around you everything is on the
move: here the people of a district are assembled to discuss the
possibility of building a church; there they are busy choosing a
representative; further on, the delegates of a district are hurrying
to town to consult about some local improvements … One group
of citizens assembled for the sole object of announcing that they
disapprove of the government’s course … (de Tocqueville, 1969
edn.:242).
Introduction 3
Those were the days! In the first round of the 2002 French parliamentary
election, only 64 percent voted, the lowest turnout for a parliamentary
election in the history of the Fifth Republic. In the presidential election
of the same year, the abstention rate was 28 percent, meaning that
Jean-Marie Le Pen representing the French far right, went into the
second round. Observers suggested that the result could be explained
largely by the strength of the protest vote on both the political right and
left. This represented the general dissatisfaction with the mainstream
Socialist and Gaullist movements that have governed France for over
40 years. The turnout across Europe in the four-days long 2004 election
to the European parliament was an unprecedented 45 percent, with the
lowest voting – 26 percent – recorded in the ten states that joined the EU
the previous month (for example, turnout in Slovakia was 17 percent, in
Poland it was 21 percent). Voters were deciding to cast a ballot – or not –
on national, rather than European issues, suggesting that European
issues are ‘too complicated’, and that pro-Europe governments have to
make more of an effort to communicate or sell Europe to their citizens.
Efforts to introduce innovative voting methods have had little effect.
At first, the signs were encouraging: The Office of the Deputy Prime
Minister released figures following the 2003 local elections that showed
an average turnout of 50 percent in the 29 areas of the country using
postal only ballots, compared with only 35 percent elsewhere. The
highest recorded turnout was in Herefordshire, where 61 percent of
eligible voters returned their postal ballot. This continued a trend of
increasing turnout when the government first piloted postal-only
voting in several areas in the 2002 local elections.6 This seemed to
suggest that there is a genuine interest in local elections, but that
voters are seeking new, perhaps more convenient ways of casting their
ballot, and this prompted the government to introduce all-postal
voting in four constituencies in the 2004 local and European elections.
Turnout did increase in these regions by 13 percent compared with just
seven percent elsewhere, but in Sunderland turnout fell to 40 percent
from 47 percent recorded in 2003 when postal voting was used in local
elections, suggesting improvements may be explained by the ‘novelty
factor’. More seriously, the experiment was dogged by claims that
scores of homes failed to receive ballot papers. Security was another
concern, with two arrests made in Oldham of men who offered to ‘look
after’ ballot papers, while in Burnley the Electoral Commission agreed
to investigate a suspiciously high number of proxies. Voters com-
plained of intimidation and bullying by party canvassers, and incor-
rectly completed forms invalidated votes. Some MPs complained that
the requirement that ballot papers are countersigned by a friend or

neighbour compromised the democratic right to a secret ballot.
Attempts in 2003 to launch e-voting via the Internet and text
messaging7 were equally unsuccessful. Only 19 percent of the elec-
torate in the 18 pilot areas chose this form of voting. In Basingstoke,
turnout fell from 34.3 percent in 2002 to 30.9 percent in 2003
despite the opportunity to vote by electronic methods. This may
have been due to reported technical problems and congestion on the
Internet. Clearly the voting system does not an interested voter
make. And yet Brazilians of all people have managed to successfully
create a national electronic balloting booth. With an electorate of
115 million, Brazil is the world’s fourth most populous democracy
(admittedly with compulsory voting). It is larger than continental
United States and includes two of the world’s biggest cities (not to
mention the Amazon basin). In spite of the grand scale of the project
the Brazilians managed to implement a fully computerised voting
system, organised around 406,000 electronic ballot boxes in the 2000
Presidential election. When voting closed, diskettes were taken from
the electronic ballot boxes and transported to state capitals. In
remote areas the results were sent by satellite telephones. If a country
the size – in geographic and demographic terms – of Brazil can
manage it, why can’t little old Britain?8
‘Our votes were stolen.’
(Gerald White, discussing the way African-Americans in Florida feel

about the 2000 presidential election, ‘Blacks aim to avenge Florida’s
2000 poll,’ The Guardian, 2 November 2002:15).
We can take heart that the Brits are not alone in creating anomalies in
the democratic process. How can we take politics seriously, the critics ask,
when democracy allows such fiascos as the 2000 Presidential election in
the United States? After all, this was an election with no obvious winner,
accusations of voting irregularities, missing ballots and even corruption.
Many eligible citizens, including African-Americans, were ‘omitted’ from
the electoral roles in Florida.9 It is not surprising that many of the regimes
that have been the focus for American vitriol for their lack of democracy
should find the whole system laughable: Singapore’s media described
the US as a ‘banana republic’, while China declared that obviously ‘the
US electoral system is not as fair and perfect as the country boasts’.
Malaysia’s Industrial Trade and Industry Minister, Rafidah Aziz, even
suggested that ‘Maybe we, all developing countries, should send an elec-
Introduction 5
tion watch every time they have a presidential election’ (‘Either Way, A
Bad Precedent’, Far Eastern Economic Review, 23 November 2000).10
Other critics explain the absence of interest in politics by its osten-
sible professionalism, and the domination of the spin-doctor. Image
and sound-bites, they claim, have deprived voters of substantive
political discussion.11 The media and government now run democra-
tic politics, not the people. As Tony Benn once remarked, ‘The
media, the pollsters, the people who hype it up and the public rela-
tions people who engage in politics have taken the democratic
process away from us and made it something that highly paid
experts want to manage for us’ (Franklin, 1994:10). Trevor Kavanagh
of the Sun and Simon Kelner of The Independent argued about the EU
constitution on Today programme, 21 June 2004. This is a significant
development; it used to be that the politicians themselves would
debate such weighty matters. Now journalists are increasingly taking
over politicians’ debating role. If the politicians won’t take politics
seriously, why should we? 12 One only needs to recall the fury that
met Jo Moor’s comments of 11 September 2001, leaked to the British
media. On a day when the world was coming to terms with the
destruction of the World Trade Centre in New York and the death of
an estimated 6,000 people at the hands of terrorists, Ms. Moor, a
special adviser to the British transport secretary, Stephen Byers,
wrote an e-mail to her boss explaining that it was a good day to
release bad government news. Two hours after the attacks on New
York, she said: ‘It is now a very good day to get out anything
we want to bury’ (‘Pressure grows on Byers adviser to quit’, The
Guardian, 10 October 2001).13 Such seemingly insensitive behaviour
reinforces popular distrust of politicians.
Moreover, the British government’s information machinery was
again embarrassed in January 2003 when it was disclosed that a
dossier detailing Iraq’s abuses of human rights and use of weapons of
mass destruction was partly plagiarised from an American Ph.D
thesis. ‘Though it now appears to have been a journalistic cut and
paste job rather than high-grade intelligence analysis, the dossier
ended up being cited approvingly on worldwide TV by the US secre-
tary of state, Colin Powell, when he addressed the UN security
council …’ (‘Downing St admits blunder on Iraq dossier’, The
Independent, 8 February 2003:6). The Hutton inquiry that followed
Britain’s involvement in the war was convened to determine reasons
for the apparent suicide and death of weapons expert, Dr David
Kelly,14 but also revealed how the Blair government worked and was
almost ruined by its dependence on spin and presentation. The career
of the ultimate ‘spin-meister’, Alastair Campbell, was pored over

when he announced his resignation as the British Labour Gov-
ernment’s director of communications and strategy on 29 August
2003. Andrew Rawnsley in The Observer (31 August 2003:29) captured
the popular impression of his power: ‘But … even when his formal
job was merely that of Prime Minister’s press secretary, the title was
much too modest to describe the status of Alastair Campbell.
The force of his personality, combined with the dependence of the
Prime Minister on that personality, made him the most formidable
unelected official in British politics.’ Voters believe themselves
excluded from the political process, ineffective and distant from the
institutions which govern in their name (Nye, Zelikow & King (eds),
1997; Pharr & Putnam, 2000). Politicians appear unresponsive, un-
caring, and impervious to rational debate. These accusations are a
serious indictment not only of the political institutions and processes
that structure democratic societies, but are also a comment on the
frail condition of democratic political communication. Clearly, gov-
ernments and politicians are failing to convey the ‘right’ image,
despite the enormous amount of resources now devoted by govern-
ments to public relations.15 More importantly, democracy is thought
to be about inclusion, dialogue, public opinion, public interest, gov-
ernment by the governed – all of which are the concern of political
communication.
It is far too easy to hold the media responsible for our current politi-
cal cynicism and disengagement from the political system, a trail of
blame and shame that has a long pedigree: in an influential report to
the Trilateral Commission in 1975, the American political scientist
Samuel Huntington blamed the media for the apparent erosion of
reverence for authority in many post-industrial societies and therefore
of contributing to a global crisis in democracy (Crozier, Huntington &
Watanuki, 1975). As we have seen, this idea has gathered momentum
and support in the intervening years, reinforced by evidence of sup-
posed declining turnout at elections and the trivialisation of politics.
Audiences, critics suggest, would rather vote for their favourite Pop Idol
or member of the Big Brother house than their parliamentary represen-
tative or president. The media are now more interested in entertaining
audiences than informing them of the substance of politics and the
decision-making process, and thus encourage the very apathy that
cynics lament. The Bill Clinton presidency will be remembered for
the Monica Lewinsky scandal than anything else partly because of the
extraordinary amount of media coverage this particular incident
received (Zaller, 2001), while Anthony Pratkanis and Elliott Aronson
Introduction 7
(2001:xii) mourn the obsession of the American media with the 1995
O.J. Simpson trial:
From January 1, 1995, until the week after the verdict, [American]
television network news spent twenty-six hours and fifty minutes,
or 13.6% of the available airtime, covering the O.J. [Simpson] story.
That is more time than was devoted to Bosnia (thirteen hours and
one minute), the bombing in Oklahoma city (eight hours and fifty-
three minutes) and the U.S. budget (three hours and thirty-nine
minutes) – the other top three ‘news’ stories – combined.
When Alastair Campbell, the unelected Director of Communications and

Strategy for the British Labour government – a Downing Street official –
resigned on 29 August 2003, the news was released as a ‘Priority 2’ story,
‘equal to the death of the Queen Mother, Princess Diana and the resigna-
tion of any Cabinet minister’ (The Observer, 31 August 2003:15) – a clear
indication of his perceived power and influence in British politics.16
Opinion poll data reveals that the British public do not trust the
media or journalists; and they trust politicians even less (Table 1.1):
Table 1.1 Trust in professions to tell the truth
Tell the Not tell the Don’t know

truth 2002 truth 2002 2002
% (2004) % %
Doctors 91 (92) 6 2
Teachers 85 (89) 10 5
Television News Readers 71 (70) 19 11
Professors 77 (80) 11 11
Judges 77 (75) 15 8
Clergymen 80 (75) 14 5
Scientists 64 (69) 23 13
The police 59 (63) 31 10
The ordinary man/woman 54 (55) 31 15
Pollsters 47 (49) 35 17
Civil Servants 45 (51) 42 14
Trades Union Officials 37 (39) 49 14
Business leaders 25 (30) 62 13
Journalists 13 (20) 79 8
Politicians 19 (22) 73 8
Government Ministers 20 (23) 72 8
N = 1972 interviews (15 years old +); conducted 7–13 February 2002
(2004 figures: N = 2,004 interviews (15 years old +); conducted Feb/March 2004
Source: http://www.mori.com/polls/2002/bma-topline.shtml; MORI
The Hutton Inquiry exacerbated this trend (see Table 1.2 below)
and reinforced the popular view that politicians and journalists exist
in a necessarily adversarial relationship. For example, the volatile
relationship between the former Downing Street Director of
Communications, Alastair Campbell, and the BBC’s Andrew
Gilligan, has been well documented. Lord Hutton concluded that
Andrew Gilligan’s broadcast statement that the government had
‘sexed up’ (ie. deliberately falsified) the dossier that made the case
for Britain going to war against Iraq ‘attacked the integrity of the
government’.17 However, the nature of the adversarial relationship is
best demonstrated by the comment of the British television journal-
ist and presenter, Jeremy Paxman, that his philosophy when inter-
viewing politicians is to ask ‘why is this bastard lying to me?’ One
report published in September 2003, the Phillis Review of political
communications in Britain, identified similar problems of trust and
acknowledged that a hostile government-media relationship was
partly responsible.
The need to move on from this adversarial relationship was reflected
in a House of Commons motion, tabled in 2004 which said: ‘We …
hope that this report will mark a watershed in relations between
politicians and the media, where we move to a debate based on respect
for each other’s opinions and adherence to the facts’ (http://
newsvote.bbc.co.uk, 2 March 2004).
As David Yelland, former editor of the Sun newspaper commented,
‘Those in the business of communicating have to engage an audience
that presupposes you are lying, even when you are not’ (‘How did
we get so cynical?’, http://newsvote.bbc.co.uk). The so-called Phillis
Table 1.2 ‘Verdict on the political class’
‘From what you have seen or heard of the Hutton Inquiry has your opinion of
the following gone up or down?’
Gone Up Gone Down No Change Don’t Know
Politicians in general – 51 47 2
BBC 8 36 53 4
Journalists in general 3 32 62 3
N = 2,365.
Source: YouGov, Daily Telegraph, 29 August 2003, p. 14.
Introduction 9
Review, a committee chaired by Bob Phillis (the Guardian Media

Group chief executive) was asked in 2003 to report on the apparent
breakdown in trust between the media, politicians and the public. As
noted its interim report identified the appearance of an adversarial
relationship as a problem:
The response of the media to a rigorous and proactive government

and news management strategy has been to match claim with
counter-claim in a challenging and adversarial way, making it
difficult for any accurate communication of real achievement to
pass unchallenged.
Our research suggests this adversarial relationship between
government and the media has resulted in all information being
mistrusted when it is believed to have come from ‘political
sources’.
… The public now expects and believes the worst of politicians,
even when there is strong objective evidence in favour of the
government’s position.18
The situation is hardly better in other areas of the world. A

Latinobarómetro poll published in The Economist (14 August
2004:41) found that trust in political parties, legislatures, judiciary
and the police force in 18 Latin American countries remains lower
than public confidence in television and the church, the two
most powerful communicators in the region. (In 2004, less than
20 percent of respondents admitted to having ‘a lot’ or ‘some’
confidence in political parties; almost 80 percent said they had
confidence in the church.)
‘I don’t care if they beat me. I’m going to vote for change’
(The Observer, 10 March 2002:3, reporting on the presidential election

in Zimbabwe.)
However, we should avoid the temptation to be excessively pessim-

istic, for there is a flip side to all this apparent doom and gloom that
suggests things may not be as bad as they seem, especially when we
end our obsession with the ballot box. For several decades now,
extra-parliamentary movements and organisations have proliferated
throughout the democratic world. Recent data suggests that these
organisations are not represented by pressure or interest groups, and

contrary to expectations, they are not enjoying an extraordinary
revival; rather, the so-called ‘new social movements’ are attracting
participants who might not otherwise become involved in the kind
of confrontational, unorganised political direct action they advocate.
This indicates people do not tire of politics provided the issues
directly affect them or are concerns they feel passionately about (for
relevant data, see Richard Topf’s chapter in Klingemann & Fuchs
(eds), 1995). This persuasive argument runs that the broad church of
political parties cannot satisfy individuals who are eager to effect
change on the environment, human rights, poverty, or the inequali-
ties of globalisation – issues that cannot be defined by parties or their
programmes. The relevance of old models of democratic political
communication connected to nation-states, parties, electoral part-
icipation, and representative government have become very limited.
Now, the political agenda is more exciting, wide-ranging, and certainly
more inclusive than ever before: ‘ … though voter turnout has stag-
nated (largely because of weakening political party loyalties), Western
publics have not become apathetic: quite the contrary, in the last two
decades, they have become markedly more likely to engage in elite-
challenging forms of political participation’ (Ingelhart, 1997:296). 19
On 15 February 2003, an estimated one million people marched
through London to protest at the possibility of war with Iraq, the
largest demonstration against a war in progress in British history,
while the police estimated that 200,000 people joined another march
through London on 22 March 2002. ‘Those who marched yesterday
could hardly be more representative of our country,’ wrote Menzies
Campbell in the Independent on Sunday (16 February 2003:25). ‘MPs
talk of postbags filled with letters from every social and economic
background. The Government has mobilised inadvertently a mass
popular movement of opposition. No voter apathy was on display in
Hyde Park yesterday.’
Besides, when one looks at statistics available for each American
Presidential election since 1924, turnout rates have actually remained
remarkably steady at an average of 55.12 percent (the highest recorded
turnout was 61.6 percent in the 1952 election).
Beyond Europe and the US, the situation appears even more encour-
aging. Many new and emerging democracies have embraced principles
and procedures that most Atlantic powers take for granted, and their
people would find bizarre the notion of widespread cynicism and
apathy. Ask any black South African who was able to vote for his presi-
dent for the first time in 1994 whether he is disillusioned with politics.
Introduction 11
Photo 1.1 A demonstration against the continuing occupation of Iraq, London,

2004 (Matthew Rendall).
Table 1.3 US Presidential election voter turnout, 1924–2000
Year Turnout
1924 48.9%
1928 51.8%
1932 52.6%
1936 56.8%
1940 58.8%
1944 56.1%
1948 51.1%
1952 61.6%
1956 59.4%
1960 62.8%
1964 61.9%
1968 60.9%
1972 55.2%
1976 53.5%
1980 52.6%
1984 53.1%
1988 50.1%
1992 55.2%
1996 49.0%
2000 51.0%
2004 60.7%
Source: The Center for Voting and Democracy, www.igc.apc.org/cvd/turnout/preturn.html

The election there was greeted by an impressive 89.9 percent turnout

(22.7 million voters). While critics are now observing falling turnout in
South African election as a sign of apathy, turnout rates still hover
around 70 percent, which is still impressive (we have to accept that
1994’s turnout can be partly explained by the novelty of voting. ‘ANC
set for third poll victory in a decade’, South China Morning Post, 15 April
2004:A11). Or explain the constant 70 percent plus turnout for elections
in Taiwan with reference to apathy. And why did the opposition suffer
such inexplicable violence to mount a credible campaign against Robert
Mugabe’s regime in Zimbabwe’s 2002 election? The polls in Zimbabwe
closed despite thousands not having the opportunity to cast their ballot,
though as the quotation above highlights, Zimbabweans have not been
cowed into forfeiting their democratic rights. In The Guardian Hugo
Young provided a prescient comment on the significance of the election.
His words are worth reproducing at length:
In one way, the Zimbabwe election sets an example to all demo-

crats. It inspires even as it appals. It’s a brilliant moment in the
history of elections in Africa or anywhere else. It registers the attrac-
tion and the power of democracy as they’ve seldom been seen
before. Where in our own continent of ingrates would people queue
for 15 minutes, let alone 20 hours, to make their point? Where,
simultaneously, has any other leader gone to such lengths as Robert
Mugabe to confer democratic legitimacy on himself? While he
serially violates the substance of democracy, he can’t do without its
semblance. Each side, voter and dictator, pays tribute to what
democracy is meant to be. It could be called a kind of apotheosis
… the people … have suffered more for the cause of democratic
representation than any western politician has ever had to do. We
get democracy on a plate, and are beginning to yawn. Zimbabweans
had to fight for it every day (Hugo Young, ‘The people of Zimbabwe
have put us all to shame’, The Guardian, 12 March 2002:16).
On 12 April 2003, tens of millions of Nigerians queued up, despite

extremely bad weather, vote-rigging, allegations of irregularities in the
selection of party candidates, and threats of violence in Africa’s biggest
election (with 61 million registered voters). One voter summarised her
fellow countrymen’s sentiments:
We know our politicians. They are thieves. When they come to

office, they will cheat and will not attend to us. But we have a right
Introduction 13
to vote. It is our right. We are not happy with the government, but
we prefer democracy to the soldiers.20
In the run-up to the elections in March 2005, reports from Zimbabwe

suggested that President Mugabe was determined to maintain
control, including the power to appoint all members of the electoral
commission which overseas polling. Moreover, independent groups
were forbidden from campaigning. Even reports of alleged attacks
on opposition supporters subject to repeated and systematic violence
and intimidation could not douse popular enthusiasm for the
electoral process in Zimbabwe.
High rates of participation are not confined to new democracies:
90.5 percent of those eligible to vote in Belgium’s 1999 Parliamentary
election did so; 84.07 percent in Iceland in 1998; 77.4 percent in Italy in
1995. The list goes on.21 In fact, the data record that ‘overall participa-
tion in competitive elections across the globe rose steadily between 1945
and 1990’. At its peak, the number turning out to vote reached a global
average of 68 percent of the voting age population in the 1980s. While
this dipped to 64 percent in the 1990s, this is far from being a sudden
and dramatic fall that deserves the title of a ‘crisis’ (www.idea.int.vt/
survey/voter_turnout1.cfm).
Of course, democracy is about more than elections, and we cannot
judge the value of participation by simply recording turnout rates.
Non-democratic regimes appreciate the value of elections in rein-
forcing their legitimacy, while elections and voter turnout tell us
nothing about the quality of democracy or participation, or about
the effectiveness of government. Many of these political systems
still have a long way to go in terms of institutionalising democratic
processes and cultures (via freedom of expression and assembly, the
rule of law, human rights, etc.). 22 Besides, choosing not to vote
can itself be a form of participation, for it represents an act of com-
munication that those eligible to vote are dissatisfied with politics.
(See Appendix 1.) The high level of control over parliamentary elec-
tions in Russia, and the bias of the media towards the government
and its candidates, had the kind of effect we expect in the US and
UK: ‘Why should I bother [to vote]?’ The Organisation for Security
and Cooperation in Europe monitored the election: ‘In most western
countries this [indifference] indicates that people are content
enough to not consider it necessary to vote. But in this case they
think the election has been decided’ (‘Russian election leaves little to
the voters,’ The Guardian, 8 December 2003:16). Vasily Damov, an
analyst from the Glasnost Defence Foundation said of the 2003

Russian elections:
We are allowed enough freedom so that we can be internationally

recognised as a democracy. But in reality, this is not a complete
democracy, and there is no free press. Most people vote for United
Russia because of the herd instinct. If a Russian walks into a café
and sees everyone else drinking tea, he orders tea, even if he wants a
coffee. That is how it is (‘Local heroes nowhere to be seen as fog of
apathy descends on Russian elections,’ The Guardian, 5 December
2003:19).
Apathy implies indifference; maybe we need to think of a better term

to label those who deliberately decide not to vote.23 Moreover, turnout
rates are not particularly reliable indicators of political attitude or
behaviour anyway. After all, political systems all differ in terms of their
core institutional and constitutional features, and comparison reveals a
variety of electoral systems. Other variables include the dispersion of
power, the scope and nature of competition and participation, the
structure of the core executive etc.24 All of these factors will impact on
the level of participation and mobilisation, including voter turnout,
within political systems (Verba, Nie & Kim, 1978; Wackman & Miller,
1995; Katz 1997; Blaise & Dobrzynska, 1998; Lijphart, 1999; Meyer,
2001). The election system itself, for example, can influence how
voters rationalise their participation; critics note that votes are often
less valuable in systems based on a first-past-the-post electoral system
(Britain) than where varieties of proportional representation are the
norm. In still other countries, it is illegal not to vote (Australia, for
example), but this may not necessarily improve the value of elections.
Regardless of why the Hutton inquiry was required in the aftermath of
Britain’s involvement in the 2003 Iraq war, shouldn’t we rejoice at the
fact that a Prime Minister was asked to explain that decision first on
live television to the Foreign Affairs Select Committee, and then to the
inquiry itself (Tony Blair is only the second sitting prime minister to
give evidence before a judicial inquiry). Before this, he had faced
hostile live audiences on television news programmes, including a
particularly uncomfortable interview broadcast from Tyneside on
BBC’s Newsnight (6 February 2003). The Hutton Inquiry of 2003–4 was
a landmark in the evolution of British political communication: it
exposed the inner workings of a government accused of being obsessed
by presentation; it questioned the role of the media in political society
Introduction 15
and challenged the working principles of the BBC; it contributed to the

transparency and accountability of government (never before had so
many senior politicians, civil servants and journalists been called
before the court of public opinion to explain their decisions and
behaviour); and the inquiry demonstrated the commitment to open
government that is facilitated by new communications technologies
(Lord Hutton decided to upload ‘every word of evidence’ and ‘every
document’ onto the Internet. ‘The inquiry’s website was to become the
most popular political site in Britain’. David Hencke and Tom
Happold, ‘The Inquiry begins’, in The Hutton Inquiry and its Impact,
2004:84). Are these examples not evidence of an accountable democra-
tic political system?
So the centre of democratic procedure is inhabited by political com-
munication. Political communication provides a vertical channel of
dialogue and information between governments and governed, elected
and the electors. Political communication helps to structure the part-
icipation and competition that characterise democracies. For supporters
of direct democracy, a renewed system of political communication
is the way to circumvent the problems identified at the beginning of
this chapter (Barber, 1984; Barber, 1988). If citizens were given greater
opportunities to deliberate on political issues, discuss them, mobilise
and pressure governments (through devolution, referendums, grass-
roots mobilisation) then democracy would soon emerge blinking into
the sunlight of a new political dawn:
First, deliberation requires that one be well informed about proposed

legislation. This includes being knowledgeable about competing – and
minority – ideas, needs and perspectives. Second, it requires that this
information be thoughtful and rationally considered rather than
reacted to emotionally. … Third, deliberation requires that one be able
to exchange views on proposed legislation with other decision makers,
if one chooses. Fourth, deliberation requires open-mindedness. One’s
preferences must be revisable in light of discussion, debate and new
information (L.A. Baker, 1991).
Dialogue is important for accountability as it requires opinions to be

defended. In an ideal society, dialogue therefore encourages people to
think through their views and have a clearer understanding of why
they hold those opinions.
But it is important to note that even dictators depend on communi-
cation to propagate their ideology, mobilise support and legitimate
their rule. They may provide an illusion of democratic politics, as

Robert Mugabe did in the 2002 presidential election in Zimbabwe, or
structure elaborate propaganda systems that define the cultural and
political identity of a nation and encourage support (the Nazis, for
example). As I write in September 2003, Iraq’s Prime Minister has just
visited the United States to celebrate the emergence of democracy in
his country and the prospect of elections there in 2005. Yet, the law-
lessness and continued military resistance in Iraq does not bode well
for the future of democratic consolidation there. Elections do not a
democracy make.
In short, there is no escape from political communication, and since
there is no escape, we may at least try to understand it better. That is
the intention of this book, the product of many years teaching, observ-
ing and thinking about political communications. Its primary objective
is to go beyond superficial discussions that equate political communi-
cation with the media and spin-doctors. Certainly they will feature
prominently in this book – they cannot be avoided in today’s political
environment – but I am concerned with demonstrating that there is
more to political communications. The chapters that follow will take a
broad-brush approach and discuss political communication in many –
though not all – forms. We will encounter political parties and pressure
groups as a way people join together, mobilise and communicate their
interests to governments. We will discuss referendums and consider
whether they do allow for a partial return to the glorious days of direct
democracy that (so we are told) characterised many of the ancient
Greek city-states. We will discuss public opinion, what it is, how it is
formed and measured, and why it is important. The book will also
address how the media contribute to the process of democratisation
around the world (though especially in East Europe, Africa and Asia),
and this will lead to an analysis of international political communica-
tions and the impact of the Internet revolution.
‘If democracy ever dies in Britain, it won’t be the Trots or

the fascists; it’ll be the media that destroys it’.
(Tony Benn, quoted in Franklin, 1994:10).
It is not the purpose of this book to review the exhaustive literature that
has been published on the theoretical and empirical approaches to
understanding the media-politics interface. For one thing, it is difficult
to offer comparative generalisations because of cross-national differences
Introduction 17
in media ownership, roles, regulation and consumption patterns. It is

equally impossible to prove cause and effect: can we claim with any
authority that the media do or do not influence their audiences? We are
still struggling with the methodologies on this admittedly very impor-
tant question and at the moment, the evidence and conclusions are both
contradictory and contested. It is particularly difficult to measure the
long-term effects of media exposure (there is a correlation between
the media and public opinion, voter behaviour, etc., but not a demons-
trable causation), and most research tends to focus on short term media
exposure, especially in election campaigns. Even then it is essential not
to lose sight of the importance of political context. For example, the
press are thought to have been an important influence in deciding the
1992 British General Election because it was extremely close. The media
were therefore important in helping to mobilise those who had earlier
decided not to vote, or had not yet decided how to vote. In contrast, the
1997 and 2001 elections were not close; the Labour party enjoyed a sub-
stantial lead throughout the campaign, and most voters had clearly
decided for whom to vote, indicating that the press would have little
influence on their decision. Persuading relatively few floating or unde-
cided voters to cast their ballot one way or another would have had little
impact on the final result.
Moreover, critics of media power are finding it ever more difficult to
find evidence of the media actually changing public opinion. As every
skilled propagandist knows, this is a long term process that requires
sustained concentration on one issue and a repetitive style of coverage.
As we move to a 24/7 news environment with multiple platforms,
formats and choices, such concentration is far from easy.
Likewise, it is difficult to measure audience reaction to media output
and separate the opinions of the media from those of others to whom
the media are giving a voice, or on whom the media depend as sources
of news and information (press conferences, official statements, etc.).
Before we are able to understand how the media impact on audiences,
we are also under pressure to determine how audiences react to other
sources of information they encounter, and then we must measure
their level of trust in those sources. This means that, at the end of the
day we must understand the relationship between public opinion and
the media as a system of complex interactions and dynamics that rule
out the notion of a simple uni-directional causation. We must face an
inescapable fact: much of politics is dull. The finer points of public
policy – however important, such as taxation, exports and imports,
pensions and EU negotiations – are difficult to make attractive so that
the average voter will engage with the ideas that lie behind them.
Politics is often about outcomes and the delivery of services, issues that
are unlikely to excite, outrage or even interest great swathes of media
audiences. Invariably, the media find other things to report, and thus
seize upon personalities rather than try to puzzle over the minutiae of
government decisions. On the other hand, this book will argue that
people are not disengaged from the political process or political issues.
They are passionate, clear and angry about issues that impact on their
daily lives. But they do believe far too often that their concerns are not
accepted as important or relevant by the political class.
There is no evidence to suggest that audiences are offered less politics
now than in any other period of media history; we should resist the
temptation to look back to a ‘golden era’, for the media have always
been accused of trivialising politics, political bias and failing in their
democratic duty to inform and scrutinise. Curran and Seaton (1997)
for example trace the rise of the British ‘press barons’ in the 19th and
early 20th Centuries as a response to the demands of the market. The
launch of the News of the World in 1843 combined news with human
interest stories and scandal, while
A major survey … commissioned … in 1933, revealed … that the

most-read news in popular daily papers were stories about accidents,
crime, divorce, and human interest. They had a near universal
appeal. In contrast most categories of public affairs news had only
an average or below average readership rating. …
Pressure to maximize audiences consequently resulted in the
progressive downgrading of political coverage. By 1936 six out of a
sample of seven papers devoted more space to human interest
content than to public affairs – indeed, in some cases three or four
times as much. …
… [B]etween 1927 and 1937 the Daily Mail’s sports coverage rose
from 27 to 36 percent of its total news, while home political, social,
and economic news fell from 10 to 6 percent of total news content
(Curran & Seaton, 1997:48–9).
Neither are the America media immune to criticism. Veteran media

scholar, Everette E. Dennis has described complaints by politicians
against a biased media as ‘an American political tradition’ (Dennis,
1997:116).
Instead, the present period is experiencing a new phase in the evolu-
tion of political journalism that is characterised primarily by format
Introduction 19
diversification. Modern communications technologies, especially the

widespread popularity of cable, satellite, and now digital broadcasting
have actually encouraged, rather than extinguished, serious coverage
of politics. Previously, we assumed that every citizen in a democratic
system should be interested in political issues. Now, we are in a strong
position from which to challenge that normative position and under-
stand that consumer choice applies to politics as it does to commerce;
if citizens in developed democracies want to access serious political
journalism and debate, they can do so through the diversification of
media formats and platforms available. Equally, this satisfies those who
choose to remain apart from the political process or simply decline to
expose themselves to serious coverage of politics. So today CSPAN in
the United States and the Parliament Channel in the United Kingdom
broadcast alongside entertainment channels such as Sky One and UK
Gold, just as the tabloid and populist Sun and Mirror newspapers are
sold in British newsagents alongside broadsheets such as The Guardian
and the Daily Telegraph. W. Russell Neuman’s argument (1991) that
we are witnessing the death of ‘mass’ media and the birth of niche or
narrowcasting seems a perfectly sensible idea. To reverse Marshall
McLuhan’s famous phrase, today the message is the medium because
of the technological possibilities for the decentralisation, diversifica-
tion and customisation of media formats. Besides, why should people
be forced to watch coverage of politics on their televisions if they are
not interested? It is far too easy to subscribe to the liberal view that
political apathy can only be overcome by political education; more
exposure – however passive – will somehow mean more interest and
participation. It is also too easy to accept a paternalist approach that
insists politics is good for you. These ideas have all been captured in
Pippa Norris’s ‘virtuous circle’, a term she uses to describe how the
media and political participation ‘fit together’: ‘The most politically
knowledgeable, trusting, and participatory are most likely to tune in to
public affairs coverage. And those most attentive to coverage of public
affairs become more engaged in civic life’ (Norris, 2000:317).
Moreover, we should not overlook the possibility that ‘down-
market’ tabloid-style media can also stimulate audiences’ interest in
politics, and that they often discuss complex political issues in ways
that make them relevant and accessible. If the purpose of democratic
political communication is to encourage popular engagement
with the political system and try to overturn the apparent crisis in
representative systems, then we should surely support the attempt
to involve as wide a range of people as possible using a variety of
platforms, media and styles of coverage. Such media diversity reflects

the new multi-dimensional approach to politics that parallels the
rise of new social movements and issues that are exciting popular
interest and civic engagement. There is, after all, more to British
politics than Westminster, Whitehall, and the European Single
Currency. The media can help make such complex issues and
processes meaningful to audiences, but also have the capacity
to address concerns that are of immediate relevance to them. This
does not imply a ‘dumbing down’ of political coverage as forcefully
argued by Colin Sparks (2000:29), and this label does a great
disservice to both media and audiences alike. If anything, we are
perhaps referring to the democratisation of political coverage.
Audiences can access politics through a variety of media and can
consume different levels of political information that coincide with
their needs, their backgrounds and their skills in using the media.25
For the purposes of this book, in which I intend to interrogate the
relationship between politics, communications and democracy, we can
accept Berelson’s admittedly vague proposition that captures the
difficulty researchers face in this area: ‘Some kinds of communication,
on some kinds of issues, brought to the attention of some kinds of
people under some kinds of conditions, have some kinds of effects’
(Berelson, Lazarsfeld, & McPhee, 1954:356). We might also find useful
the following questions, posed by Denis McQuail (2000:69) for think-
ing about the political roles and effects of the media. In fact, one might
substitute ‘political communication’ for media and still the questions
would resonate with the themes of this book:
• Who controls the media?

• Whose version of the world (social reality) is presented?
• How effective are the media in achieving chosen ends?
• Do mass media promote more or less equality in society?
• How is access to media organized?
We begin, however, with a little theory to whet the appetite. What

does political theory say about political communication? From the
Greeks to the post-Modernists, theorists have (often unconsciously)
discussed communication as a fundamental part of their ideas. Often,
their theories will not work without communication: can direct
democracy, for example, function without allowing for free and full
communication of ideas and interests? Harold Lasswell (1948:37)
defined the study of communications as understanding ‘Who says
Introduction 21
what, in which channel, to whom, and with what effect’. Political

theory adds a normative dimension: Who should be able to say what?
Appendix 1
‘A dark horse in Taiwan poll’
(Far Eastern Economic Review, 29 January 2004:9).
The focus in Taiwan’s presidential race has been on incumbent Chen Shui-bian
and his Kuomintang rival, Lien Chan. But some analysts say a certain dark
horse could also affect the March vote: none of the above. A tiny but growing
movement is urging voters to express their dislike of the two candidates – both
of whom ran in the last election in 2000 – by casting blank ballots. … They are
using the Internet and cellphone messages … to spread the word. None-of-the-
above movements aren’t new, of course, but in Taiwan they haven’t amounted
to much. In 2000, more than 99 percent of ballots went to one of the five
candidates. But given public dismay over incessant backbiting, and the fact that
the candidates this time are both old faces, some analysts say things could be
different if this year’s race is very close. … Emile Sheng, a political scientist at
Soochow University, says … ‘If this movement continues to get publicity … it
could gain more momentum.’
2
Guarding Against the ‘Deep
Slumber of a Decided Opinion’
(John Stuart Mill, On Liberty, in Utilitarianism,

1969 edn.:170).1
One way we can begin to appreciate the role and importance of

political communication is by examining the way that it has been
discussed in, and developed by, political theory. This provides the
foundation for our understanding of how different political systems
have used and abused communication, but more importantly, it
undermines the idea that political communication is the product of
the media age. The pervasive media culture has conditioned us to
accept spin-doctors, sound-bites and public relations consultants
as modern phenomena. However, a cursory glance through the
history of political thought reveals the interface between politics
and communication has a long pedigree.
It is important to begin with an important qualification: there is no
single unified theory of political communication. Instead, the field is
informed by theories and approaches from an array of disciplines,
especially politics and sociology, that bring to the mix their own
exciting and often challenging ideas and perspectives. Surprisingly,
scholars of political communication have had least to learn from
communication studies.
What have the Greeks ever done for us?
As with so much in politics, it all began with the Greeks and their idea
of the polis, most notably the democracy associated with the city-state
Athens. One reason for the continued interest in Athens is that we
have at our disposal a full record of its political system. Hence, most
22
Guarding Against the ‘Deep Slumber of a Decided Opinion’ 23
Greek political philosophy is the philosophy associated with Athens.

The ideas discussed by its most prominent citizens – in particular,
Thucydides, Aristotle and Plato (who are also Athens’ most celebrated
critics) – and the stories they have passed down to us have inspired the
development of political theory as demonstrated by the extraordinary
amount of attention still devoted to Athens in the literature. The
legacy of Athens, although routinely criticised, is undeniable. Although
we should recall that Athens was not alone in its commitment to
democracy and varieties of this system of government flourished
throughout Ancient Greece, the Athenian democracy is most familiar
to us, and thus will be the focus of this discussion.
Aristotle begins from the premise that the human being is a ‘political
animal’, which means living together in communities. Aristotle defines
a community as composed of people with shared values and ways
of living together to create for the community a worthwhile life.
Individual happiness is therefore predicated on shared concern for
those whom one lives alongside in the community.
From the Greeks we acquire the notion of legitimacy, whereby the
exercise of power is based on neither military strength nor the threat of
force; rather, true legitimacy derives from the explicit acceptance by
the citizenry that the government has a right to govern. Of course, the
Greeks defined citizenry in such a way that a substantial population of
the cities, especially men under the age of 20, slaves, and immigrants
(anyone who had settled in Athens, including those from other Greek
city states, regardless of how long ago they had emigrated) were not
deemed to be citizens at all (‘That is the slave’s lot, not to speak one’s
thought’).2 These groups were outside the polis, even though they
resided in the cities. In this way, the Greek or Athenian democracy was
based on inequality and exclusive membership. Hence, when Pericles
(a prominent politician and general) described the Athenian constitu-
tion as a ‘democracy because power is in the hands not of a minority
but of the whole people’, and that ‘everyone is equal before the law’,
he was referring only to those classified as citizens (Thucydides, 1972
edn.:145). Pericles and his fellow Athenians never considered the poss-
ibility that democracy should be a system of government of, by, and
for the people. Moreover, the power of defining who is a citizen is an act
of political language par excellence.
Membership of the Athenian polis brought with it responsibility,
because all citizens were expected to fully participate in public
and political life; Athens was a direct, rather than a representative
democracy, and was therefore self-governing. Those who refused to
participate were viewed with ‘contempt and suspicion’ by their

fellow citizens (Bonner, 1967:14). Pericles is reported to have said:
‘We alone regard a man who takes no interest in public affairs not as
a harmless but as a useless person’ (Thucydides, 1972 edn.:147).3 But
the supposed effects of participation extended far beyond the debat-
ing forum of the Assembly, because involvement was thought
to encourage self-education; the more a citizen assumed an active
role in the political life of the city state, the more educated about
political and social issues he would become. Thus the value and
quality of his participation would grow. It is not surprising that the
Athenian democracy remained a model for those who recognised
the didactic appeal of political participation. For example, writing in
the 19th Century, John Stuart Mill extolled the virtues of the
Athenian democracy: ‘If circumstances allow the amount of public
duty assigned to him [the individual] to be considerable, it makes
him an educated man.’ Participation, argued Mill in Representative
Government and On Liberty, ‘raised the intellectual standard of an
average Athenian citizen …’ 4 Hence, Mill believed that extending
the franchise to the working classes would encourage political edu-
cation; participation, he maintained, nurtures active engagement.
Participation implied communication; if the Athenian democracy
was structured on the ideal of full participation by all its citizens, it
followed that it required full and perfect information that allowed for
reasoned deliberation: ‘We Athenians … take our decisions on policy
or submit them to proper discussions: for we do not think there is an
incompatibility between words and deeds; the worst thing is to rush
into action before the consequences have been properly debated’
(Thucydides, 1972 edn.:147). To this extent, it is possible to date the
birth of democratic political communication to the Ancient Greeks.
For while the Athenian democracy was an exclusive club, even
citizens that were judged ‘unworthy’ were encouraged to speak and
deliberate in the Assembly because this was considered ‘good’ for
democracy. Hence, we owe to the Greeks the essentially liberal
notion that free speech is an automatic entitlement of citizenship.
In Athens, this was based on isegoria, the equal right of all citizens
to speak in the Assembly (fully explored in Finley’s 1973 study,
Democracy Ancient and Modern).5 Outside the Assembly, communica-
tion about politics was extensive and easy to organise. After all, the
Greek city states had small homogenous populations, and it was
customary to meet one’s fellow citizens on a daily basis in informal
situations (Finley, 1983; Mann, 1986, chapter 7; Dunn (ed.), 1992,
chapters 1–3). Dialogue and debate outside the Assembly was there-
fore routine, and most citizens obtained their information from
‘the herald [or town crier], the notice board, gossip and rumour,
verbal reports, and discussions in the various commissions and
assemblies that made up the governmental machinery’ (Finlay,
1973:18). Writing in the Twentieth Century, Walter Lippmann,
recognised that America’s founding fathers based their political
system on a context similar to the Greek city-states: self-contained
communities, and familiarity of both each other and the locale.
This encouraged an Athenian-style commitment to participation:
‘ … not only was the individual citizen fitted to deal with all public
affairs,’ wrote Lippmann, ‘but he was consistently public-spirited and
endowed with unflagging interest. … Since everybody was assumed
to be interested enough in important affairs, only those affairs came
to see, important in which everybody was interested.’ Only three
years after the original 1922 publication of Public Opinion, Lippmann
(1925:13) argued that the pressures of modern urban and industrial
living mean that the average citizen knows very little about public
affairs, leading the author to conclude that the citizen ‘reigns in
theory, but does not govern.’
Calls for direct democracy today, even utilising the Internet tech-
nology available to us, could not replicate the ideal type of direct
democracy practised by the small and homogenous Greek city states
(Dahl, 1998, discussed the relationship between the size of a country
and the level of democracy there). Citizens are not willing to devote
the time and effort that direct democracy requires, while the size of
the population, together with the decline in face-to-face discussion
about politics, create their own difficulties.6 As Peter Golding (quoted
in Qualter, 1985:233) has suggested, ‘Most citizens undoubtedly have
better things to do than offer daily advice to their leaders’. There is
even suspicion that idealism which sees the Internet as a way to
encourage political participation threatens to create a very unstable
form of direct democracy (Birdsall et al., 1996, referred to this as
‘hyperdemocracy’). But this is not for want of trying, and the Internet
seems to be re-energising constituency-based politics. In Britain, for
example, over 67 percent of MPs have a website. Some have created
databases of their constituents whom they regularly text or email to
check their opinions on a wide range of issues. The problem with the
use of this new technology to attempt to (re)create the conditions of
direct democracy is that it depends on the representative having the
required information about constituents – telephone numbers, email
addresses etc – thus potentially excluding a significant proportion of

the electorate. Moreover, there is a danger that these email consulta-
tions will be treated like any other kind of spam and be immediately
deleted.
Away from the white heat of technology, things look equally bleak.
In June 2003, the British government launched a series of public
debates on whether or not Britain should push ahead with genetically
modified crops. The government called it ‘a national discussion like no
other’ and ‘a unique experiment to find out what ordinary people
think’. All the comments during the 11 city tour were recorded and
included in a report presented to the government which, by November
2003, had to decide whether to endorse the cultivation of such crops.
The almost complete absence of ‘ordinary people’ at the first debate,
however, was not surprising. There had been no advertising except for
the creation of a website. Nor had the NEC at Birmingham, host of the
first debate, mentioned it in their events list. One representative of
Friends of the Earth summarised the dilemma: ‘If people don’t get
involved, the government are going to say, well, the people aren’t
interested, so we’ll just go ahead’.
The Athenians themselves were well aware that theirs was not
a utopia of full and free political communication. In fact, we can
speculate that they were genuinely concerned with the possible nega-
tive consequences of their democracy, for they created a number of
mechanisms that mitigated against full freedom of speech, but which
themselves were subject to wide-ranging qualifications. For example,
the Athenians created laws that guarded against slander, but slander
was only prohibited under certain very specific conditions: slander
of the dead was strictly forbidden; slander of the living was likewise
proscribed, but only in temples, courts, public offices and at public
festivals. These qualifications did not satisfy Plato who said: ‘Con-
cerning abuse there shall be this one law to cover all cases. No one
shall abuse anyone’ (Bonner, 1967:70). Moreover, concern with the
implications of allowing a ‘free for all’ in the Assembly did not pre-
clude the frequent deterioration of proceedings into little more than
the exchange of abusive dialogue and insults. It was perhaps inevitable
that an Assembly of several thousand members,7 drawn from all sectors
of the citizenry, would be ‘always volubly critical and often unruly and
tumultuous’ (Ibid.: 74).
In addition, the Athenian Assembly imposed checks on those who
would seek to deceive it, those who failed to keep their promises, and
those who were deemed to have given the Assembly erroneous advice.
In this, way the (relatively) small and homogenous citizenship made

the communication of political accountability reasonably easy.
Punishment varied, but the most critical was disenfranchisement;
the guilty were barred from participating in the Assembly and were
thus regarded as political outcasts for life. However, observers of the
Assembly here identified a significant flaw in its design and mecha-
nisms that continues to haunt modern Parliamentary democracies:
that the long term interests of the state would be sacrificed by the short
term interests of the citizens. Thucydides’s suspicions are evident in
the following passage:
In view of the very great interests at stake, and in so grave a matter,

we who advise must regard it as our duty to look somewhat further
ahead then you who give matters only a brief consideration,
especially since we are responsible advisers, while you are irresponsi-
ble listeners. Indeed, if not only those who give advice, but also
those who followed it had to suffer alike, you would show greater
prudence for your decisions; but as it is, when ever you meet with
a reverse you give way to your first impulse, and punish your adviser
for his single error of judgement instead of yourselves, the multi-
tude who shared the error (Thucydides, 1972 edn.:43).
Critics noted that wise statesmanship must respond to ever-changing

circumstances, not the impulse of public opinion. They worried that
such punishments would encourage the kind of reactionary politics
from leaders that disregards the unpredictable nature of day-to-day
politics.
We owe much to the Athenians, in particular their contribution to
the evolution of (albeit limited) democratic communication. But we
continue to be amazed by the vision of the ancient Greeks. Respons-
ibility for the development of professional political communication
lies with the Sophists and their promotion of the art of rhetoric. The
Sophists were masters of rhetoric, a useful skill to possess in the polis,
and wanted to pass on their knowledge, often selling it for money.
Does this mean that the Sophists were the first professional political
consultants? Their skills in writing speeches (locography) and deliver-
ing them were much prized, though frowned upon much as we today
sneer at the artifice and insincerity of political spin-doctors. Some have
been kinder to the Sophists than others: Barker (1925:58) calls them
the ‘first professional teachers of Greece’. Their allies have detailed how
the Sophists were not just shallow orators who wrote and delivered
speeches for immoral purposes; rather they were concerned with using
reason to analyse and question in a rational manner the beliefs and
institutions that were accepted by Greek society. This methodical
process would then enable the Sophists to arrive at a conclusion about
the validity of such beliefs and consider how they might be modified,
or whether they should be altogether rejected. In short, Sophists were,
according to their defenders, concerned with practising, writing, and
delivering speeches to facilitate democratic practice and government.
However, as hinted above the Sophists also had their critics. Some
worried that the Sophists would breed a generation of radicals, corrupt-
ing the young among the Greek elite (who could afford to pay for the
services of the Sophists) and encouraging them to overturn the status
quo. The problem was that in popular discourse, Sophistry came to
mean more than this. It evolved into a handy catch-all term of abuse
that could label anyone who disagreed with the mechanisms of
Athenian democracy, or had engaged in questionable conduct. While
Aeschines accused the Sophists of practising and teaching the ‘unholy
arts’ of speech, and others labelled Sophistry ‘witchcraft’ for its spell-
binding and manipulative qualities, one of Socrates’s ex-pupils was
accused of cheating a series of creditors. The speaker described this
as representative of ‘the life of the Sophist’ (Hesh, 2000:207; 212).
Sophistry was judged inconsistent with the commitment to full and
free information that the Athenians valued, because Sophistry was said
to value the construction and delivery of the speech more than its
intention and the substance.
One of the more influential critics of Sophistry was Plato, who
expressed concern that rhetoric could be used to rouse mobs (a pejora-
tive term throughout history) into activity against the best interests of
the democracy. Plato based his understanding of how rhetoric affected
Man on his knowledge of the human condition. Common Man, he
said, is incapable of reason and judgment, and seeks simple answers to
complex questions. Such Man has an innate need to be led, and is thus
vulnerable to skilled oration. It is interesting that this is the basis for
much of the theory that tries to explain how propaganda works;
throughout the 20th Century all totalitarian regimes made effective,
yet destructive use of propaganda that appeals to the base impulses of
common man (Taylor, 1996). Plato defined democracy in rather biting
tones: it is a political system, he said, that ‘treats all men as equal,
whether they are equal or not’. Elitists ask a fundamental question: Is
there reason to distrust judgement of our own interests? Some elitists
claim that the public is ignorant or apathetic of politics, and they need
to be convinced of the merit of political decisions. This means that
decisions will have legitimacy through their support from below.

Writing in the 19th Century, A.V.C. Dicey echoed the Greeks when he
suggested that democracy was for the educated classes only. Public
opinion, he intimated, is formed from ‘the wishes and ideas on legisla-
tion of those citizens who have … taken an effective role in public life’.
This is similar to Plato’s distinction between the ‘navigator’ of a ship
(the minority who possess the skill and knowledge to steer the ship)
and the ‘crew’ (the majority who, not blessed with the virtues of the
elite act on impulse). The political elite have the wisdom of political
judgement to guide the ‘crew’, the majority, who do not. Even John
Stuart Mill, fêted as the first to discuss equality of the sexes in a mean-
ingful way, was essential elitist. In acquiescence to Plato, Mill justified
that those with superior knowledge, skill, and education, should
occupy the leading roles in political society. Such thinking even per-
meated the organisation of the BBC under its elitist founder, Sir John
Reith. ‘Our responsibility,’ he noted in 1924,
is to carry into the greatest possible number of homes everything

that is best in every department of human knowledge, endeavour
and achievement. … it is occasionally indicated to us that we are
apparently setting out to give the public what we think they need –
and not what they want, but few know what they want, and very
few what they need. There is often no difference (Reith, 1924:34).
But Plato did not reserve his invective for inclusive democracy; in fact,
he attacked the very institution of democracy itself. Today, we are used
to criticising politicians who try to ingratiate themselves with the
public, who try to ‘sell’ themselves and their policies for short term
political gain. According to David Held (1996:30), these problems
concerned Plato: the Greek philosopher claimed,
There can be no political leadership in a democracy; leaders depend

on popular favour and they will, accordingly, act to sustain their
own popularity and their own positions. Political leadership is
enfeebled by acquiescence to popular demands and by the basing
of political strategy on what can be ‘sold’. Careful judgements,
difficult decisions, uncomfortable options, unpleasant truths will of
necessity be generally avoided. Democracy marginalizes the wise.
For Plato democracy degenerates into factional conflict, dissension and

eventually tyranny. Only rule by the wise, the philosophers, can avoid
such catastrophes.
Suffice it to say that Plato was sufficiently concerned with the poten-
tial damage that oratory could do to democracy that he returned to it
again and again in his writing (see his Euthydemus, Politicus, and
Gorgias). For Plato, there was little to distinguish rhetoric from
Sophistry; he believed that all oratory was a method of acquiring and
exercising power, instead of promoting the value of reasoned and
democratic argument. Nevertheless, Plato made a unique contribution
to our understanding of both politics and political theory through
setting out his ideas in the form of dialogues. John Stuart Mill des-
cribed the dialogues as having been ‘directed with consummate skill
to the purpose of convincing any one who had merely adopted
the commonplaces of received opinion that he did not understand the
subject … in order that, becoming aware of his ignorance, he might be
put in the way to obtain a stable belief on a clear apprehension both of
the meaning of doctrines and of their evidence’ (Mill, 1969 edn.:172).
Was Plato therefore the most successful Sophist because he concealed
his power claims, and in directing his argument against the Sophists,
he is not suspected of being one?8
Aristotle was likewise concerned with the motives and methods of
Sophistry, and he shared Plato’s belief that rhetoric should only serve a
commitment to democracy; it must contribute to the development of
the skills of statesmanship by providing wisdom and good judgement.
Aristotle’s Treatise on Rhetoric (or On Rhetoric as it tends to be known)
supplies perhaps the earliest cogent account of communication by a
political theorist. That Aristotle, no democrat he, preferred the term
‘rhetoric’ is largely irrelevant, although (Plato notwithstanding) it does
separate him from the Sophists (for Aristotle, rhetoric is designed for a
moral purpose; Sophistry is intended only to win an argument by
whatever means possible). Theodore Buckley, the editor of the 1872
edition of On Rhetoric wrote (p. 1) that, according to Aristotle, ‘any
man who attempts to persuade another, under whatever circum-
stances, and with whatever object, may be said to exercise “rhetoric”.’
Much of Aristotle’s description of the ‘art’ of rhetoric is familiar to
political communicators and media strategists today. For example, he
explains why it is necessary to communicate through ‘the medium
of ordinary language’, and discusses ‘the manner of communicating
with the multitude’ (Ibid.:8). For Aristotle, communicating with the
multitude is an important political act; and although he agrees with
earlier Greek theorists that citizens must be expected to participate in
public affairs, his exclusive definition of citizen remained consistent
with Athenian practice. However, he does not simply follow earlier
classifications, but extends them: not only slaves, foreigners and

women, but also manual workers are outside the boundaries of
Aristotle’s citizenship because ‘they haven’t the leisure for virtue’
(McClelland, 1996:57). Citizenship only has room for the rich.
Book 1 Chapter IV of Aristotle’s On Rhetoric outlines the subjects ‘on
which men deliberate’, namely finance, war and peace, the safeguard
of territory, and legislation – what might today be defined as ‘high’
politics. The purpose of oration was to influence the formation of a
decision (Chapter XVIII). Aristotle said that effective oration required
absolute command of these issues; the orator must be in complete pos-
session of all available knowledge and information about the subject
on which he wished to speak. Once a decision is made, further oration
is unnecessary. This raises the question of legitimacy: is further com-
munication needed to continuously reinforce the legitimacy, authority
and justification of decisions taken? The idea that the execution of
decisions concludes the deliberative process is unimaginable today. We
expect our politicians to continue to explain and justify the decisions
that they take on our behalf; political communication is an ongoing
process, not a means to an end that can be abandoned once the desired
objective is realised. In this sense, Aristotle was also an elitist in the
terms we will discuss below.
Aristotle then goes on to describe the mechanisms of rhetoric in
passages that are familiar to the student of propaganda today. The
following, for example, is textbook propaganda methodology:
… the rule of good taste is, that your style be lowered or raised
according to the subject. On which account we must escape obser-
vation in doing this, and not appear to speak in a studied manner,
but naturally, for the one is of a tendency to persuade, the other is
the very reverse; because people put themselves on their guard, as
though against one who had a design upon them, just as they
would against unadulterated wine (Aristotle, 1872 edn.:208).
Effective propaganda turns on the need to guarantee that your audience

can identify with the themes and sentiments of the content, and there-
fore it is incumbent upon the propagandist to adapt the delivery to the
audience – that it be ‘lowered or raised’ accordingly. The individual,
however, guards against the prospect that he might be persuaded by pro-
paganda to think and behave differently to his instinct. Propaganda,
therefore, requires a natural approach to obscure the intention (it is
instructive that the editor’s notes in the 1872 version of On Rhetoric here
read: ‘We must conceal our art’). In fact, the whole volume, though Book
III especially, can be read as a guide to conducting rhetoric/propaganda
since it devotes many of its pages to imparting advice on style, rhythm
of speech, construction of sentences, and the use of metaphors and
hyperbole, ridicule and praise.
In short, the Greeks made a full and significant contribution to the
practice and study of political communications. From them, we acquire
the framework to understand direct democracy, the problems of paying
too much attention to public opinion, the art of spin-doctoring and
political consultancy, and the origins of modern propaganda. Those
who followed the Greeks (for example, the ‘liberals’) integrated commu-
nications into their own understanding of politics. We should not view
these theorists as standing in opposition to the Greeks, but rather build-
ing upon their contribution to nurture ideas that accounted for social
and political developments, in particular the development of the mass
media.
The liberal tradition: Cui bono (in whose interest)?
Given the impact of the Greeks on the evolution and practice of

democratic political theory, it is perhaps surprising that absolutism
ever developed. However, we must reiterate that the most prominent
Athenians were critical of the political system in which they lived.
Plato and Aristotle in particular disapproved of the kind of direct
democracy that flourished in Athens. So we should not be shocked that
political theorists were led away from the ideal towards a less democra-
tic form of political organisation. The absolutist monarchies of Europe
that reigned between the 15th and 18th Centuries were the clearest
expression of anti-democratic sentiment until the emergence of totali-
tarian politics in the 20th Century. Absolutist rulers proclaimed they
had a legitimate right to rule, and that this was not based on the kind
of legitimacy conferred upon Greek governments; rather, absolutists
asserted a divine right, that they had been chosen by God, and were
thus answerable only to God. King Louis VX of France provides a most
illuminating description of this system:
In my person alone resides the sovereign power, and it is from

me alone that the courts hold their existence and their authority.
That … authority can only be exercised in my name. … For it is to
me exclusively that the legislative power belongs. … The whole
public order emanates from me since I am its supreme guardian. …
The rights and interests of the nation … are necessarily united

with my own and can only rest in my hands (quoted in Schama,
1989:104).
It is also important to note that, on the whole, this was a Catholic

absolutism. The liberalism that emerged to challenge absolutism
coincided with the Protestant reformation, a movement that not only
questioned Papal authority, but also raised important political and
philosophical questions about the position of the individual in relation
to the state, and to whom or to what he was obliged to be obedient.
The reformation was also important in secularising language – Latin
was the language of authority and power, whereas the reformation
encouraged the use of vernaculars (‘All the great classical communities
conceived of themselves as cosmically central, through the medium of a
sacred language linked to a supernatural order of power’. Anderson,
1991:13).9 Meanwhile, the development of the printing press removed
from the Church ultimate authority over the distribution of the Bible
and its interpretation. Lucien Febvre and Henri-Jean Martin (1976:249)
suggest that 77 percent of books printed before 1500 were in Latin. This
means that ‘the fall of Latin’ after the middle of the 16th Century,
‘exemplified a larger process in which the sacred communities inte-
grated by old scared languages were gradually fragmented, pluralized,
and territorialized’ (Anderson, 1991:19). The printing press had allowed
Martin Luther’s ideas to spread beyond Saxony, so that by 1500 an esti-
mated nine million printed books were in circulation throughout
Europe (Ralph Milliband, 1977:47 has called the churches ‘the first mass
media in history’10).
Liberalism extended the religious values of the reformation by
advocating freedom of choice, the value of reason, and opposition to
religious and political intolerance. It is important that the develop-
ment of liberalism was influenced by the Protestant reformation,
for liberals denied that state power was not based on supernatural
ordinance, but on the will of the sovereign people. Liberals tried to
demarcate a private sphere that was separate and inviolable to inter-
ference from both Church and State (ie. restricting state power in civil
society). The state was necessary only as a guarantee of liberal rights; it
must not interfere in the private sphere or the market economy. In this
way, liberalism was the product of the Enlightenment that raised sus-
picion about the nature of states and the practice of state power, and
championed instead a discrete social sphere where self-improvement
through interaction could take place. Thinkers associated with the
Enlightenment were concerned, above all, with creating a space for the
development of enlightened opinion that would erode and eventually
discard the need for the state. The first real victory of Enlightenment
liberalism was the Anti-Corn League of 1846, established to persuade
the state to end its regulation of the corn trade. This was the first real
social movement of the 19th Century, and really the first genuinely
effective ‘pressure group’ that challenged state power and forced it to
back down for the good of the people. The League demonstrated that
social mobilisation, and communication of grievances and interests
through mobilisation, could work: the state would be forced to listen.
One of the most important, and also one of the earliest liberals,11
was John Locke who published his influential Two Treatises of Govern-
ment in 1690. David Held has provided a useful summary of Locke’s
ideas: According to Locke, ‘authority is bestowed by individuals in
society on government for the purpose of pursuing the ends of
the governed; and should these ends fail to be represented adequately,
the final judges are the people – the citizens – who can dispense both
with their deputies and, if need be, with the existing form of govern-
ment itself’ (Held, 1996:80). What dates the Two Treatises is Locke’s
blatant declaration that ‘absolute monarchs are but men’. In one fell
swoop, the idea of the divine right of kings is destroyed; for Locke,
Sovereign power resides with the people who confer legitimacy on the
government by consent, though we need to be extremely careful that
we do not describe Locke as the epitome of modern democratic
thought. According to Held’s reading of Two Treatises Locke did not
advocate political liberties ‘irrespective of class, sex, colour and creed’
(Held, 1996:82). Chapter 6, Book II of The Two Treatises makes that
perfectly clear. Neither did Locke believe in regular elections, or uni-
versal suffrage. In fact, like his Greek predecessors, participation was
restricted to a particular definition of citizen, namely the propertied
classes. Held concludes that Locke ‘cannot, like many of his prede-
cessors, be considered a democrat without careful qualification’ (Ibid.).
Locke believed in the virtues of majorities (Two Treatises, Chapter VIII),
and that, by agreeing to enter political society, ‘everyone is bound by
that consent to be concluded by the majority’. Otherwise, Locke said,
the diversity of opinions and interests would make government impos-
sible. And the reason they ‘consent’ to enter this political society, or
commonwealth, is very simple: ‘the preservation of their property’. If
the majority make laws ‘for the community from time to time’ and
then execute ‘those laws by officers of their own appointing’, then,
says Locke, the commonwealth can be described as no less than a
‘perfect democracy’. This ‘perfect democracy’ is not republican; Locke

was adamant that the legislature in 17th Century England should
be king-in-Parliament and head of the executive. But the legislature
should not be in constant session, but neither should legislatures be
beyond rapid recall when the political situation demanded. Sometimes,
the executive should be allowed to act, in times of national emergency,
without law or recourse to the legislature. McClelland (1996:240) pro-
vides a cogent analysis of the connection between Locke’s ideas and
the broad approach to political communication pursued in this book:
What we ordinarily call ‘opinion’, or public opinion, arises in what

Locke would call society, so it is thinking in society which decides
what form the state should take. The state is the sum of opinion
already formed, and it follows that it is certainly not the state’s job
to try to change men’s opinions. Locke believed in the toleration of
heterodox opinions (within limits) and the one thing he did not
want was for the state itself to be an opinion-former.
This is an argument that runs through the liberal approach to political

communications; the state should not try to mould or change opinion,
but should reflect the opinion of ‘the people’, however defined.12
Finally, Chapter XIX of the Second Treatise is important because
Locke provides a lengthy discussion of when the dissolution of the
legislature or government might take place and when it is justified.
We need not concern ourselves with the detail; suffice it to say that
Locke allows for the popular dissolution of government when the
government acts against its raison d’etre; in other words, when govern-
ment does not protect property, ‘and to make themselves … masters or
arbitrary disposers of the lives, liberties, or fortunes of the people’. If
government goes against the reason for its creation, the people have a
right to ‘put themselves into a state of war’ with the legislature, and
thus ‘it devolves to the people’ to create a new government. The same
applies to political corruption, and the attempt to buy or influence
voting behaviour. But again the removal of the legislature must be by
consent.
The French theorist, Baron de Montesquieu, built upon Locke’s liber-
alism and added to our understanding of the liberal contribution
to political communication in very significant ways. Montesquieu
adored the Athenian system of government and admired the way it
encouraged direct participatory democracy (McClelland, 1996:316–18).
Jean-Jacques Rousseau too defended the idea of direct democracy,
believing that representative democracy does not provide the freedoms

it alludes to: ‘The people of England regards itself free; but it is grossly
mistaken; it is free only during the election of Members of Parliament.
As soon as they are elected, slavery overtakes it’ (The Social Contract
and Discourses:78). Testifying to its power as a medium of radical
political communication, European governments considered the essay
inflammatory: the French government banned its circulation and
Rousseau was arrested. The Social Contract met with an equally hostile
reception in Switzerland where it was publicly burned because officials
there feared ‘that its stress on liberty would provoke a revolution’
(Andrain & Apter, 1995:233). J.I. Macadam (in Lively & Reeve,
1989:126) provides a useful summary of the main ideas: ‘For Rousseau,
Politics, in representative democracy, is something which is done
for him and happens to him’. Simply stated, Rousseau believed that
legitimate authority is based on consent, hence the basis of the Social
Contract to which all citizens must agree:
The deputies of the people … are not and cannot be their represen-
tatives; they can only be their commissioners, and as such they are
not qualified to conclude anything definitely. No act of theirs can
be a law, unless it has been ratified by the people in person; and
without that ratification nothing is law (The Social Contract:78).
The Contract binds each individual to the will of the community,

and each individual is expected – if not required – to make a full con-
tribution to the formulation and life of the community. The parallels
with the Athenian democracy are clear: man is bound by laws to
which he has agreed should exist. Their legitimacy is therefore unques-
tionable (The Social Contract, Book II, Chapter 7). One immediate
response to this is: does this mean that Rousseau advocated a style of
politics that allowed for individually-expressed interests to supersede
the general and political interests of the community? Not at all, he
says. Unanimity is impossible, and decisions must be based on majori-
tarian principles. In response to criticisms that this system goes against
Rousseau’s basic liberal ideas – that all men should be free, and that
the majoritarian principle isolates minority interests – Rousseau
believes that the minority will be persuaded by reason and intuition
(not through discussion or debate) that their views are mistaken and
will therefore come to accept a legitimate the majoritarian view.
Moreover, Rousseau does not believe that parties, factions and interest
groups, today considered vehicles of political communication, are con-
ducive to democracy. Instead, they serve only to frustrate the general

will and the arrival at a genuine consensus. This stands in stark con-
trast to Edmund Burke who, in Reflections on the Revolution in France,
was convinced that political parties were important as part of the social
structure. One’s location in society is conducive to defining and
helping to fulfil one’s social and moral obligations. From Burke, we
derive the origins of ‘primary groups’ (see Chapter 3 of this volume)
since he believed that the family was the most important unit of oblig-
ation, interest, and socialisation. Burke then extended these ideas to
suggest that outside the family there exist other organisations separate
from the state to which citizens can belong, including political parties.
A pluralist society is therefore necessary for man to fulfil his social
commitments and obligations. But like his predecessors, Burke was
essentially an elitist, for he talked of there being a ‘natural’ social hier-
archy that allowed for prudent rule by ‘the wiser, more expert, more
opulent’:
[A representative’s] unbiased opinion, his mature judgement, his

enlightened conscience, he ought not to sacrifice to you; to any
man, or to any set of men living. These he does not derive from
your pleasure; no, nor from the law and the constitution. They are
a trust from Providence, for the abuse of which he is deeply answer-
able. Your representative owes you, not his industry only, but his
judgement; and he betrays, instead of serving you, if he sacrifices
it to your opinions (Edmund Burke, ‘To the Electors of Bristol … on
Thursday the third of November, 1774’, Works, vol. I, London:
George Bell and Sons, 1902:447).
In contrast, Rousseau did not share Burke’s faith in pluralism or gov-

ernment by a natural aristocracy. For him, the creation of a political
culture, or community, is based on the realisation of shared interests
and objectives. Legislators are required only when the people do not
accept the existence of a general will and must be persuaded of such;
and they are persuaded through reason (The Social Contract, Book I,
chapter 8; Book II, chapters 1, 4, 7).
Rousseau also recognises the problems with direct democracy:
Soon the inconvenience of everyone deciding on everything forces

the sovereign people to charge a few of its members with the execu-
tion of its wishes. … Imperceptibly, a body grows up which acts
the whole time. A body which acts the whole time cannot give an
account of every action; it only gives an account of the main

ones; soon it ends up by giving an account of none (Gagnebin &
Raymond, Vol. III:837).
For Rousseau, this transfer of power is dangerous and must be avoided

at all costs; sovereignty must remain with the people. The people must
therefore be persuaded of the virtue in retaining that power as repre-
sented by their participation in formulating the general will. Rousseau,
then, is of limited use in helping our understanding of political com-
munication. He discusses parties and factions, and believes that direct
democracy is not only beneficial to the creation of legitimate political
society, but endows the political culture with the educative qualities
that the Greeks championed. He does, however, deny a place for
discussion and debate, believing that voting is the only form of
political participation required. Man will intuitively know what is in
his best interest, and his best interest is served by creating a consensus
on the general will. Discussion and debate are unnecessary because in
Rousseau’s ideal society, men would automatically agree.
Montesquieu too liked the idea of direct democracy, but realised that
the Athenian political system could never be recovered:
As in a country of liberty, every man who is supposed a free agent

ought to be his own governor; the legislative power should reside in
the whole body of the people. But since this is impossible in large
states, and in small ones is subject to many inconveniences, it is fit
the people should transact by their representatives what they
cannot transact themselves (Montesquieu, 1952 edn.:71).
This is important for our understanding of the development of politi-

cal communication. We have moved from the direct democracy of
Athens (though limited by a narrow definition of citizenship), through
an absolutist period (justified in part by the criticisms of Athens),
to the idea of representative democracy based on the consent of the
people.13 Moreover, Montesquieu’s much celebrated separation of
powers – providing for institutional checks balances – allows for a more
meaningful accountability within the political system. Thus politics
is now communicated in two ways: in the Assemblies where the
representatives meet to deliberate; but also citizens are expected
to express their preferences to their representatives on whom the
power of decision-making is conferred or transferred. Communication
is arranged vertically: information down from legislatures to the
citizens, while preferences and interests flow up from the people to the
legislature. Hence we have arrived at the genesis of modern parliamen-
tary democracy, and thus the origin of the problems for which political
communication is so often blamed. Like Locke, however, Montesquieu
did not contemplate the idea of universal franchise, and neither did he
believe that representatives should be accountable to the people.
In this way Montesquieu’s liberalism was limited to the notion of con-
sensual constraints on political power to avoid interference in the
private sphere.
It was left to the liberals writing in the 19th Century, notably Jeremy
Bentham, James Mill and John Stuart Mill, to develop a more coherent
theory of what Held (1996:88) has described as ‘protective democracy’:
… [T]he governors must be held accountable to the governed

through political mechanisms (the secret ballot, regular voting and
competition between potential representatives, among other things)
which give citizens satisfactory means for choosing, authorizing and
controlling political decisions. Through these mechanisms, it was
argued, a balance could be attained between might and right,
authority and liberty.
It is not too onerous to identify in this passage the ideas that are
important for our understanding of political communication.
Accountability, participation and competition all require dialogue
between governed and governors. It also reiterates that the people are
sovereign, but provides mechanisms that allow them to exercise their
sovereignty. Moreover, communication is essential if representatives
wish to fulfil their duties and convey to the government the views,
interests, preferences and grievances of the constituents who elected
them:
Instead of the functioning of governing, for which it is radically

unfit, the proper office of a representative assembly is to watch
and control the government: to throw the light of publicity on its
acts: to compel a full exposition and justification of all of them
which any one considers questionable; to censure them if found
condemnable, and, if the men who compose the government
abuse their trust, or fulfil it in a manner which conflicts with the
deliberate sense of the nation, to expel them from office …; to be at
once the nation’s Committee of Grievances, and its Congress of
Opinions; an arena in which every person in the country may count
upon finding somebody who speaks his mind, as well or better than
he could speak it himself (Mill, 1991:239).
Where Mill is most radical is in his advocacy of open voting and a

non-secret ballot which he sees as crucial for securing accountability.
For Mill, voting is a communal action, but that action can have direct
and serious consequences for other members of the community.
We must, therefore, be prepared to justify our exercise of that power
(Representative Government, Chapter 10).
In his profoundly influential Federalist Papers, the American constitu-
tionalist James Madison advanced such ideas one stage further by
developing the theoretical foundations of representative democracy
(Madison, 1966). This involves the transfer of power from citizens to
those they elect to represent them. The representatives are then free
to use their own judgement in deciding how the interests of their con-
stituents are best met. James Mill described representative democracy
as ‘the grand discovery of modern times’ where ‘the solution of all
difficulties, both speculative and practical, would be found’ (Sabine,
1963:695). But we owe to Madison much more than the foundations of
representative democracy, for his ideas were based on a penetrating
analysis of factions in republican politics. The so-called 10th Federalist
that Madison contributed to The Federalist Papers was indeed almost
entirely devoted to understanding how a republican political system
can accommodate the diversity and conflict of factionalism. Today,
factions are tainted phenomena: they are often associated with the
corrupt power and wealth-seeking strategies of political actors in
democratising systems. Controlling factional based politics is fre-
quently viewed as one of the main challenges of modern democracy.
However, Madison’s understanding of factions allows for a more agree-
able appreciation of the role they have played in the development of
democratic politics, for factionalism is at the heart of what today we
call pluralism, or interest group politics, a cornerstone of modern
democratic communications; and representative government is neces-
sary to control some of the more problematical features of factional
diversity. (However, it is important to note that many of Madison’s
ideas on the way that representative government can take some of the
edge off factionalism are limited to the form of constitutionalism
adopted by the United States of America. See McClelland, 1996:368–9).
Thomas Paine’s contribution to the debate was to emphasise that
political legitimacy rests on the consent of the people – it was as simple
as that. Hence the legitimacy of the American and French constitutions
and the problems of the English constitution:14
The Rights of Man served a warning on the governments of the earth

that their days were numbered. In the future on the democratic
republic would be able to engage the loyalties of men who bothered
to think about politics at all (McClelland, 1996:397).
The liberals were the first to discuss in any meaningful way the idea of
how the press interacted with political institutions and processes, and
in doing so, they offered vigorous defences of press freedom. Liberals
acknowledge that the media mediate; that they stand as powerful and
indispensable structures between the state and the public that can hold
the political system to account between elections. John Stuart Mill,
for example, opened Chapter II of On Liberty (p. 141): ‘The time, it is
hoped, is gone by when any defence would be necessary of the “liberty
of the press” as one of the securities against corrupt or tyrannical gov-
ernment.’ (Chapter II of On Liberty provides a full discussion of the
importance of freedom of thought and speech, and should be read as
the scion of Aristotle’s On Rhetoric. On press freedom, see also James
Mill, ‘Liberty of the Press’, in his Essays on Government, Jurisprudence,
Liberty of the Press and Law of Nations.) Mill was vehemently opposed
to attempts to suppress opinion: either the opinion is true, or will be
revealed to be true only through discussion and exploration.
Eulogising the great orators of ancient Greece, Mill defends the need to
understand the opposing argument in order that one’s own might be
better communicated. If an audience does not hear both sides of an
argument, Mill suggests, it would be rational for him to suspend his
judgement on that particular issue. But although Mill defended the
freedom of the press, he does submit that an audience should not rely
on ‘media’ (broadly defined to mean any person or persons that stand
between two opponents) but instead should ensure that he hears each
side of the argument from the horse’s mouth (On Liberty:163). While
Mill describes as ‘the gravest’ of offences being the suppression of facts,
arguing from mistaken or false premises, or misrepresenting the
opposite argument, he does concede that these may not be entered
into consciously or deliberately; ‘by persons who are not considered,
and in many other respects may not deserve to be considered, ignorant
or incompetent’, so that they should not be culpable (On Liberty:181).
But Mill reserves his most invective for the ‘worst offence’, namely ‘to
stigmatise those who hold the contrary opinion as bad and immoral
men (On Liberty:182).
Bentham and the utilitarians were likewise convinced that recon-
ciling the public interest with the egoistic nature of rulers was possi-
ble only through representative democracy. Not for James Mill the
idealism of Rousseau; direct democracy is far too impractical. Rep-

resentative democracy is the next best thing. Thus power becomes
dependent on control from below, and the whole community must
be able to check government and hold it to account. Claiming that
democracy requires healthy political communication, the liberals
believed that a free press is a vital means of challenging state power,
expressing and articulating an array of opinions on any particular
subject, and ultimately empowering the people. The media are partic-
ularly important because if we accept that democracies are pluralist,
politics becomes a competition between rival interests with varying
degrees of power diffused throughout the system. One of the most
disturbing developments is the way that more and more public agen-
cies are becoming less and less accountable to the electorate. The
media hold these institutions – the civil service for example – in
check and provide information to public opinion about their activi-
ties. Bentham, for example, described public opinion as ‘a system of
law emanating from the body of people … To the pernicious exercise
of government, it is the only check’. State intervention is only
justified when its absence threatens the social and economic order.
Hence liberals see state intervention to uphold law and order as
absolutely essential – to secure the greatest happiness of the greatest
number. This is the basis for the utilitarian calculations most associ-
ated with Jeremy Bentham. Most intriguing, however, is the way that
seeking the greatest good for the greatest number can conflict with
the liberal approach to political communications: we normally link
liberalism with the desire for freedom of speech and association.
These are considered natural rights of man. However, it is possible to
envisage a set of conditions when such rights are incompatible with
the activities of a government seeking to satisfy the greatest good for
the greatest number. Does this justify the suppression of liberty in
the short-term to achieve long-term goals and benefits? In other
words there is a clear paradox in Benthamite utilitarianism: voters are
rational in that they will see the benefits of sacrificing immediate
interests for long-term ones. In this way, Bentham is close to
Rousseau in expressing extraordinary faith in the ability of man
to recognise and accept the general will. However, we might also
suppose that a truly rational and calculating individual would see
that his immediate interests are more desirable.
Most important for our understanding of liberalism is its commit-
ment to non-interference by the state in civil society. In his 1859 essay
On Liberty (p. 135), John Stuart Mill is very clear about this:
… [T]he sole end for which mankind are warranted, individually or

collectively, in interfering with the liberty of action of any of their
number, is self-protection. That the only purpose for which power
can be rightfully exercised over any member of a civilised com-
munity, against his will, is to prevent harm to others. His own good,
either physical or moral, is not a sufficient warrant.
Hence, we begin to see the carving out of distinct ‘public’ and ‘private’
spheres that would inspire future generations of theorists who were
concerned with political communication (though the ‘public sphere’
was, even in the liberals’ grand scheme, inhabited exclusively by men,
and usually men of property). John Stuart Mill was an exception to
the patriarchal liberal tradition, and his 1869 book, The Subjection of
Women is a groundbreaking testament to his extraordinary vision of
social, economic and political equality. However, while Mill extolled
the virtues of universal franchise, he was less keen on the idea that all
votes should count equally:
It is important that every one of the governed should have a voice

in the government … But ought every one to have an equal voice?
This is a totally different proposition; and in my judgement …
palpably false … There is no one who, in any matter … would not
rather have his affairs managed by a person of greater knowledge
and intelligence, than by one of less. There is no one who … would
not desire to give a more potential voice to the more educated and
more cultivated … (Mill, 1869:17–18, 20–2).
His father, too, believed in wise leadership by the middle classes, the
opinion formers; starting from an assumption of rationality, James Mill
suggested that the working classes would be sufficiently rational to
realise that their interests were best served by following their superiors.
But John Stuart Mill cautioned against the ‘tyranny of the majority’, an
expression that continues to resonate today. Mill was worried that
majorities could subvert the communal good:
Protection … against the tyranny of the magistrate is not enough:

there needs protection also against the tyranny of the prevailing
opinion and feeling; against the tendency of society to impose, by
other means than civil penalties, its own ideas and practices as rules
of conduct on those who dissent from them. … There is a limit to
the legitimate interference of collective opinion with individual
independence: and to find that limit and maintain it against

encroachment, is as indispensable to a good condition of human
affairs, as protection against political despotism’ (On Liberty:130).
The liberals, therefore, advocated – albeit cautiously – all forms of

liberty, including thought, speech and association. In this way they
articulated how political communication is not only essential for
democracy, but actually enhances and energises it. The following
passage from Mill’s On Liberty (p. 138) is representative of liberal
doctrine:
This, then, is the appropriate region of human liberty … demanding

liberty of conscience in the most comprehensive sense; liberty of
thought and feeling; absolute freedom of opinion and sentiment
on all subjects … The liberty of expressing and publishing opinions
…freedom to unite, for any purpose not involving harm to others …
No society in which these liberties are not, on the whole,
respected, is free, whatever may be its form of government; and
none is completely free in which they do not exist absolute and
unqualified. …
At the heart of the liberal tradition is the idea that democracy must
involve a high level of popular participation. Political leaders follow and
interpret the public mood, rather than create it. In other words, the
liberals believed that the public know their own interests and have a
desire to articulate them. To maximise popular participation, the public
requires the opportunity to articulate their opinions, but they need to
be educated of this opportunity; they need to be shown they can get
what they want rather than having laws imposed from above. In this
way, communication is itself a form of participation. Interests are not
just known but need to be translated into political action. Political
participation requires political knowledge. The more one participate,
the more knowledgeable one becomes, and thus one’s participation
becomes more rational. Hence, the liberal tradition leaves room for the
idea of improvability through political communication and participa-
tion: John Stuart Mill in particular was keen to champion the educative
effects of participation; and this ‘explains [his] … attachment to any
means by which large sections of the population could be drawn into
active participation in public life – representative democracy, local
self-government, the growth of voluntary, intermediary associations’
(Lively & Reeve, 1989:194. See also Sargeant & Steele, 1999).
Democracy is now a process of achieving the interests of individuals

within society, not an end in itself (Held, 1996:97). There is also space
here to understand the development of interest groups, that is collec-
tions of citizens who mobilise for the purpose of articulating their
demands, interests and grievances to the government (we shall return
to interest groups in a later chapter).
However, while the participatory theorists may agree that govern-
ment must be responsive to the needs of the public, they do not neces-
sarily agree on the institutional process of politics. Some recommend
the use of referendums, for others (for example, Joseph Schumpeter,
1992)15 elections are the only expression of democratic involvement,
while for others, the measurement of public opinion is essential.
Another group identifies itself completely with the idea of action, not
words, as a form of political communication. All of these methods of
political communication will be discussed in this book. The liberals
thus left many questions unresolved: who was involved in the new
political scheme? How were their demands to be realised? How could
the idea of genuine universal suffrage be accomplished given the gross
disparities in wealth that characterised the 18th and 19th Centuries?
The liberal tradition gave birth to the radical movements of the early
20th Century – working class, feminist, civil rights. The liberal ideas
allowed men and women of every race, creed, colour, and class to
challenge the state apparatus that denied them the voice liberalism
promised them. Held (1996:120) provides a neat list of those features
that emerged from the radicalisation of politics in the 20th Century
that had its origin in the liberalism of the 18th and 19th Centuries.
Held’s list offers an interesting summary of how political communica-
tions have been an integral component of political practice, and many
of the features he recounts will feature in the remainder of this book:
[E]lected government; free and fair elections in which every citizen’s

vote has an equal weight; a suffrage which embraces all citizens
irrespective of distinctions of race, religion, class, sex and so on;
freedom of conscience, information and expression on all public
matters broadly defined; the right of all adults to oppose their
government and stand for office; and associational autonomy – the
right to form independent associations including social movements,
interest groups and political parties.
By the middle of the 19th Century the liberals had acquired their
desired progress: capitalism had triumphed, while the industrial
revolution had transformed the lives of those it touched. The legitimacy of

the modern state, based on the will of the people, seemed secure. But the
effects of the industrial revolution and the laissez-faire economy had
devastating consequences that liberalism had difficulty explaining:
Urbanisation, poverty, paternalism – these were the hallmarks of the
‘progress’ laissez-faire liberals had championed. Liberalism itself had split
between those who believed in the efficacy of an unregulated market,
and those who saw that liberalism demanded state intervention. But what
kind of state intervention? And how much would be allowed? Little
wonder that out of this liberal ‘victory’, there emerged a new political
theory – socialism, and its revolutionary offspring, Marxism – that would
not only challenge the assumptions and methodology of liberalism, but
would change the world for the next century. In particular, 20th Century
scholars have wrestled with the contradictions inherent in the liberal
commitment to a free market and the expression of diverse opinion: in
particular, critics point out that the free market has in fact reduced
the opportunities of freedom of expression, because communication and
media industries have displayed a tendency to merge. Hence, the media
industry is dominated by fewer and fewer owners that are able to shape
the public agenda. This gave rise to a tradition of political economy
in understanding communications that owes a great deal to the Marxist
approach to power and identifies a close correlation between the economic
structures of the media and the ideological content of their output.
Murdock and Golding (in Curran et al., 1977: 37) provide a useful
summary of the main ideas of this approach. Economic forces, they say
work consistently to exclude those voices lacking economic power

or resources … the underlying logic of cost operates systematically,
consolidating the position of groups already established in the main
mass-media markets and excluding those groups who lack the
capital base required for successful entry. Thus the voices which
survive will largely belong to those least likely to criticize the pre-
vailing distribution of wealth and power. Conversely, those most
likely to challenge these arrangements are unable to publicize their
dissent or opposition because they cannot command resources
needed for effective communication to a broad audience.
However, it is also worth noting that political scientists working in the

1960s – the so-called ‘Modernization school’ – revisited many of the
ideas that the liberals left hanging in the 19th Century. In particular,
Daniel Lerner and Seymour Martin Lipset, together with Almond and
Verba’s work on the ‘Civic Culture’, tried to understand how mass

communications might encourage economic and social development.
The role of the mass media was to communicate the benefits of
modernity and help refashion ‘backward’ and ‘traditional societies’ by
relaying to them the advantages of building democratic practices
and institutions. The media act as teacher, role-model, and unifier. In
particular, the modernisation school examined the way urbanisation
encourages personal interaction and the diffusion of education and
information. Thus urbanisation creates a more opinionated, politically
interested and better informed population. In these ideas, political
communications provides the element of improvability that was
central to classical liberalism. For Lipset, democracy ‘requires institu-
tions which sustain legitimacy and consensus’, and thus he avoids the
pitfall of economic determinism because the political establishment
relies on the public. The main criticism of this approach is the lack of
attention to cultural specificity and local realities. The media may
contribution to the social, political and economic development of
countries, but they are still too often limited in the adoption of such
strategies by the absence of high-cost communications infrastructures
(not to mention the association of the modernisation school with the
cultural imperialism and dependency approaches).
Marx and post-Marxists
[N]ews is not a neutral and natural phenomenon; it is rather the

manufactured production of ideology.
(Glasgow University Media Group, 1980:xvii–xviii).
Unlike the theorists we have so far encountered, Marx had little to

say about communications or the media, and this is quite extraordi-
nary given that communication is arguably central to his ideas
(the developments and dissemination of class consciousness, for
example) and the transformations in technology and literacy that he
witnessed. Then there is the way those who professed to practice
Marxism in their various ways by invoking his authority and name –
Lenin, Trotsky, Stalin, Mao – all used the media to disseminate their
ideas and mobilise their societies towards a Marxist revolution. For
these revolutionaries, communications are used for propaganda and
agitation – for confrontation rather than resolution.
Nevertheless, to criticise Marx for not saying very much about com-
munication is valid only if we seek a literal reading of his work. More
important are the implications of his ideas for our understanding of

political communications. Also, we must be mindful that the Marxist
canon has provided the foundation for a rich body of literature that
has given communications a more central role: post-Marxists such as
Gramsci, the Frankfurt School (especially Jürgen Habermas), the politi-
cal economists, and the post-moderns all share the idea that meaning
is attached to and constructed by power relations within society.
As every first year politics undergraduate knows, politics is about
conflict and the reconciliation of conflict. The liberals believed that
conflict, although unavoidable, could be managed through bargaining
and compromise. Marxists, on the other hand, have a more pessimistic
view. They are convinced that conflict cannot be ‘managed’ because all
conflict is about the struggle between classes for social, political, and
primarily economic power. This conflict takes place on (among others)
the cultural level, as Marx observes in The German Ideology.
The ruling class are in every epoch the ruling ideas: i.e. the class,
which is the ruling material force of society, is that the same time
its ruling intellectual force. The class that has the means of material
production consequently also controls the means of mental produc-
tion so that the ideas of those who lack the means of mental pro-
duction are on the whole subject to it … Insofar, therefore, as they
rule as a class and determine the extent and compass of an historical
epoch, it is self-evident that they … regulate the production and
distribution of the ideas of their age: thus their ideas are the ruling
ideas of the epoch (in Wood, 1988:101).
Thus Marx identified a struggle for the communication of alternative

ideas and perspectives, identities and histories. This conflict can only
be settled by the complete transformation of the very structural (eco-
nomic) conditions that encouraged the conflict. Class conflict is
fought, among other things, on the cultural level. There is permanent
struggle for the communication of alternative ideas and perspectives,
identities and histories. The communication of these ideas and realities
are not necessarily deliberate. As Ralph Miliband (1977:32) noted:
Deliberate deception does indeed occur, whereby the spokesmen of

a dominant class act as the ‘ideologues’ of the class, and try to
persuade the subordinate classes of the universal validity of ideas
and principles … useful in the maintenance of the given social
order. But alongside deliberate deception, there is also much, and
perhaps more, of self-deception, in so-far as the spokesmen of a

dominant class, and those for whom they speak, do deeply believe
in the universal truth of the ideas and ideals which they uphold …
So while Marx insists that the dominant classes will seek to defend,
strengthen or extend their rule by means of coercion, he also leaves
room for the act of persuasion. Political communications and culture
become mechanisms to prevent the emergence of a class consciousness
among the subordinate classes, but are also valuable transmission belts
for the accepted (dominant) social order. So in this scenario the media
are intent on more than just financial gain; their primary objective
might be the perpetuation of ideological, political and economic dom-
ination by a particular class. Inherent in this line of enquiry is the
assumption that the media possess a set of broad powers and purposes
that force our analysis beyond liberalism, and this requires us to ques-
tion on whose behalf the media function. Do they pursue particular
economic or political agendas? Are they servicing the interests of a
class or political elite? Marxists, for example, would claim that it is
only possible to appreciate fully the role and political power of the
media once we have identified their patterns of ownership and have
scrutinised the ideology behind their content. Curran and Seaton’s
history of the British press (1997) and especially their discussion of
the period immediately after the Second World War, demonstrates
how the press became closely aligned to big business. Interlocking
ownership, a more personal style of management, and the rise of
Thatcherism all coincided to force the press (and especially the right-
wing press) to follow a more Thatcherite agenda. As Curran and Seaton
show, many newspaper journalists and editors who tried to maintain
political independence or impartiality fell foul of their proprietors’
insistence on following a more partisan agenda. British media
observers are used to reading and writing about the power of the
new media barons – Rupert Murdoch, the late Robert Maxwell, et al. –
who have followed in the footsteps of the Northcliffes and the
Rothermeres. Randolph Hearst in the United States is a mythical, as
much as historical figure, partly owing to the film Citizen Kane, while
the post-Communist media in Russia have been reorganised under the
control and ownership of an oligopoly (Nemtsov, 1999:5–6). This
means that, despite a protracted liberalisation and democratisation
that started in the final years of the Communist era, the freedom of
speech enjoyed by Russian journalists is still limited as they are in-
hibited from criticising the owners of their newspapers or the media
group to which their newspaper belongs (Ibid.:7). Other areas of the

world are not immune from such corporate takeovers. In democratic
Thailand, for example, media ownership is now shared between
the state (specifically the military) and a set of powerful private
monopolies (Glen Lewis in Kitley (ed.), 2003:61–79). Their strength is
represented by the election as Prime Minister in January 2003 of
Thaksin Shinawatra, a ‘media magnate on an international scale
comparable with Italy’s Silvio Berlusconi’ (Ibid.:61). Critics claim that
the removal in February 2004 of the editor of Thailand’s biggest
English-language newspaper, Bangkok Post, was due to pressure from
the Prime Minister who had been annoyed by coverage he had
received. Thai journalists were naturally worried by the implications of
this decision, seeing in it a growing tendency for the commercially and
politically powerful Thaksin to violate media independence. The Prime
Minister of Italy, Silvio Berlusconi, enjoys a monopoly on media and
political power that demonstrates the irrefutable connection between
political power and communications. He is Italy’s richest and arguably
most powerful citizen, owning three television networks, thus giving
him an extraordinary domination of political communication that
extends into the economic and political realms,16 and he has been
accused of still engaging in a relentless quest for control of the national
news media. Corriere della Sera, boasting Italy’s largest newspaper circu-
lation, has been particularly targeted, and its editor had to resign for
‘irritating Berlusconi’ (The Independent, 30 May 2003:14). In 1994, amid
a crisis in Italian politics, Berlusconi used his domination of private
television broadcasting to launch a new political party, Forza Italia.
Many of this party’s personnel worked for his company, Fininvest, and
his three TV stations were used to help his campaign. ‘Berlusconi’s
control of the media resources has transformed the basis for political
communication in Italy’ (Statham, 1996:88).
In the post-Hutton Inquiry environment, critics not only question
the integrity and outcome of the inquiry itself, but also challenged as
utopian the notion of BBC impartiality. So, for example, while critics
might call for a greater and more urgent need to preserve the indepen-
dence of the BBC from political pressure, it is also possible to view
the BBC – especially its managerial structure – as part of the same
establishment edifice as the state. What do licence fee payers know
about how the BBC is managed and run? Who are the governors? Who
selected them? What are their backgrounds? Few licence fee payers
know anything about the governors – what they do, who they are –
just as they know almost next to nothing about the BBC Charter and
its renewal. So, opine critics, we have a situation pre-Hutton in which

the BBC governor and chairman of the Board of Governors were
appointed by the Prime Minister; Lord Hutton was appointed by the
Prime Minister to lead the inquiry into Dr David Kelly’s suicide; and
Lord Robin Butler was appointed by the Prime Minister to conduct an
inquiry into British intelligence failings that led the country to war
against Iraq. In other words, the BBC and its critics are all members of
the establishment elite and were appointed by the establishment
elite.17
What is most worrying is that which separates the new media barons
from their predecessors: their capacity to take full corporate and politi-
cal advantage of both modern communications technologies and glob-
alisation to extend their reach beyond newspapers. Rupert Murdoch,
for example, is not only a newspaper proprietor (accounting for
175 newspapers), but also owns 20th Century Fox, the Fox television
network, dozens of other American television stations, eight cable sta-
tions, most of Sky TV, the STAR network in Asia, Foxtel in Australia
and Italy’s Sky Italia, not to mention the publisher HarperCollins. In
other words, the Murdoch empire stretches across all media and covers
news, information, entertainment and culture.18 Time Warner now
owns Turner Broadcasting Systems (including the global news network
CNN) creating the largest media operator in the world (Disney’s recent
move into media diversification makes it a close second). Critics worry
that such empire building represents concentration of ownership of
world media and entertainment systems in the hands of a few multina-
tional corporations. This is detrimental for democratic processes,
because such corporations are unaccountable to democratic control or
scrutiny (Bagdikian, 1997). People may choose to ‘switch over’ or
‘switch off’ but that becomes increasingly difficult as firms diversify.
However, it is in the development of political economy and its
value observing the operations of the media that Marxism is of most
practical use. This approach drives us towards understanding the eco-
nomic bases of communications, especially ownership, than their
ideological content. As commented on earlier, Marxists believe the
liberal view is an ideal, out of place in the real world where the free
flow of information is restricted by the capitalist economic system and
an unequal distribution of resources. The development of large-scale
communications and media conglomerates, for example, provides
evidence to demonstrate this structural reality: Rupert Murdoch’s
media empire is often used as confirmation of the power of multi-
national media barons, while the cultural imperialism thesis is bound
up in Marxist anti-corporate discourse – McDonaldisation and

Coca-Cola Imperalism. The laissez faire economy does not necessarily
make for more effective communication, participation or account-
ability. In fact, an unregulated market, characterised by competition,
inhibits rather than encourages a diversity of information and media.
But the connection between politics and communications is clear, for
in the Marxist scenario political communications help maintain class
power, excluding:
those voices lacking economic power or resources … the underlying

logic of cost operates systematically, consolidating the position of
groups already established in the main mass-media markets and
excluding those groups who lack the capital base required for
successful entry. Thus the voices which survive will largely belong to
those least likely to criticise the prevailing distribution of wealth and
power. Conversely, those most likely to challenge these arrangements
are unable to publicise their dissent or opposition because they
cannot command resources needed for effective communication to
a broad audience (Murdock & Golding, 1977:37).
The media replicate the capitalist mode of production, owned by a

capitalist class and organised to serve the interests of the capitalist
class. The media disseminate this class’s ideas and world views while
denying working class consciousness an opportunity to develop and
mobilise.
In the early 20th Century, Marxists began to question the assump-
tions of Marxism and understand why his predictions had failed. In
particular, they were concerned with understanding why working-class
movements had failed in Europe and fascism allowed to develop and
prosper. Antonio Gramsci was among the first post-Marxists to con-
sider why the working classes were not necessarily revolutionary but
might instead accede to fascism. For Gramsci the key was in Marx’s
distinction between the substructure (the economic system) and the
superstructure (the realm of ideas and culture). Marx was adamant that
the substructure was the driving force of history, and that the super-
structure only served to reinforce the economic class struggle. But this
does not advance us towards understanding why history had not
played out as Marx had expected, with the ‘inevitable’ development of
class consciousness among the working classes and their eventual
mobilisation to bring down the capitalist mode of production. Gramsci
believed that the problem lay in Marx’s economic determinism, and
thought that we should pay more attention to the superstructure. After

all, class struggle involves ideas, and the probable success or failure
of revolution depends as much on ideas as action. Hence Gramsci re-
introduces the importance of agency into Marxist analysis and is con-
cerned with understanding the role of culture and ideology. What
matters to Gramsci are not so-called natural laws that might determine
human development and behaviour, but humanity’s consciousness of
itself. In short, Marxists are wrong to assume that all social develop-
ment originates with the economy. Economic determinism and the
inevitability of revolution is, for Gramsci, equal to a belief in predesti-
nation and spiritual deliverance.
Gramsci (1971) developed what has become known as the hege-
monic theory of communications. He focused on ideology – what it is,
how it is constructed and expressed, and especially how the dominant
ideology receives the apparent consent of the working classes. The idea
of consent is important: it removes speculation that the ruling ideo-
logy is somehow forced on the working class who have good reason to
accept it (Strinati, 1995:166). This idea has been central to the post-
Marxist tradition, and has found recent expression in the work of
Althusser (1971) and Poulantzas (1975).
Moreover, ‘Dominant groups in society … maintain their dominance
by securing the “spontaneous consent” of subordinate groups, including
the working class, through the negotiated construction of a political and
ideological consensus which incorporates both dominant and domi-
nated groups’ (Strinati, 1995:165). In other words, the dominant class
has, via coercion and/or communication, persuaded other classes to
accept their value system by tailoring for them the message they wish
to disseminate – even to the point of persuading them that the estab-
lished order is natural. Systems of communication, including the media
(together with other agents of socialisation, such as the family, educa-
tion, church, etc.19) are therefore transmission belts whereby ideology
(dominant or otherwise) is communicated and reinforced (Strinati,
1995:168–9). Opposition to the ‘natural’ hegemony is presented as
deviant. Revolution will only occur following a spiritual emancipation
among the oppressed classes.
This post-Marxist analysis has encouraged the growth of critical
media and cultural studies that draws on the ideas of Gramsci,
Althusser and others. One of the most important pieces of work in this
area was published in 1978 by Hall, Critcher, Jefferson, Clarke &
Roberts. Policing the Crisis: Mugging, the State, and Law and Order demon-
strates how the media are involved in disseminating the dominant
ideology. The authors analysed the partial and selective way that
mugging is represented in media and contrasted this with the
dominant discourse on law and order. They found that the media were
complicit in constructing accounts of mugging that corresponded to
more general concerns about social order. The media thus have a part
to play in constructing reality, and popularising the dominant
discourse.
However, Hall et al. seem to fall into the very trap that the post-
Marxists were keen to avoid, namely rejecting the idea that law and
order might be a genuine concern among the working classes, and not
simply the result of media complicity in projecting the dominant
discourse. This connects with Dominic Strinati’s critique of Gramsci:
People can accept the prevailing order because they are compelled
to do so by devoting their time to ‘making a living’, or because they
cannot conceive another way of organising society, and therefore
fatalistically accept the world as it is. This, moreover, assumes that
the question why people should accept a particular social order is
the only legitimate question to ask. It can be claimed that an
equally legitimate question is why should people not accept a
particular social order? (1995:174).
Moreover, communications studies are now paying far greater atten-

tion to the way audiences receive media products. They are no longer
considered passive recipients of a dominant ideology, but interpret
and internalise media products according to their own value systems,
education, background, primary group pressure, etc. – in other words
that two people can watch the same programme and interpret its
meaning in very different ways.
Most important of the post-Marxist analysis of communications is
that offered by the so-called Frankfurt School whose ideas were shaped
by two important factors: the experience of German intellectuals with
the collapse of the Weimar Republic, and their encounter with mass
culture while in exile in the United States. The Frankfurt School is the
collective term reserved for an influential group of scholars (especially
Theodor Adorno, Max Horkheimer, Walter Benjamin and Herbert
Marcuse20) who were members of the Marxist School of Applied
Social Research in Frankfurt, Germany. With the rise to power of the
Nationalist Socialist (Nazi) party in the 1930s, they emigrated to the
United States where their best work was conceived and written. As
Marxists, members of the Frankfurt School were interested in explain-
ing why revolutionary socialism had failed in Germany, and fascism

allowed to succeed. Once in America, they expressed concern with the
way capitalist societies develop and survive, even when the conditions
for revolution seem to be in place.21 Like other post-Marxists the
Frankfurt School believed that more attention should be paid to the
superstructure, the realm of ideas and ideology (especially as repre-
sented through the media). The superstructure, they said, could pro-
hibit historical processes of economic change in ways that Marx had
ignored.
They were concerned with understanding how social, economic and
technological change encourages the deterioration of autonomy and
the growing power of the state over individuals. They believed that
‘consumers’ are persuaded to buy into capitalism – the whole deal,
including its ideas, relations of production, and above all its devotion
to immediate gratification. Culture is one of the realms where this
salesmanship takes place, being marketed for profit at the cost of the
critical and oppositional powers of individuals. Eventually, the failure
of autonomy gives way to the creation of a passive mass that is anaes-
thetised by the creation of a popular culture. Where high art tends to
encourage critical engagement with the subject, this uniform and
formulaic mass culture stifles the inquiring mind and silences criticism
(in particular, see Adorno’s discussions of art in The Philosophy of
Modern Music, London: Sheed & Ward, 1973, and Notes to Literature,
New York: Columbia University Press, 1991). The individual is
submerged into the mass whose true needs (for freedom, happiness,
creative expression, and the realisation of one’s potential) are replaced
by false needs of immediate gratification. The working classes lose
their radical nature because they passively consume the cultural and
information products offered to them, and society becomes, according
to the title of Marcuse’s 1964 groundbreaking book, one dimensional.
The ideas were summarised by Reisman in his 1950 book, The Lonely
Crowd: ‘Glamour in politics, the packaging of politics of the leader,
the treatment of the events by the mass media, substitutes for the
self-interest of the inner directed man, the abandonment to society of
the outer directed man.’
A later member of the Frankfurt School, Jürgen Habermas, was
receptive to the idea that communications can assist the formation
of democracy. Habermas identified the need for a public forum where
discussion might take place, differences of opinion can be argued out,
and conflict might be resolved. In fact, Habermas believed that the
growth of the print media was important in stimulating the transition
from absolutism to liberal democracy in Europe. He traced the rise of a

‘critical public sphere’, later referred to as ‘bourgeois’, that developed as
an intermediate zone between the state and civil society. Individuals
within the 18th Century public sphere that Habermas chronicled
discussed in salons, coffee houses, and other meeting places new ideas
that circulated through the print media (a wide range of intellectual
journals were published at this time), and created a forum for critical
debate. In this way, politics was forced into the open, and public
opinion became more vocal as an important source of influence. In The
Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere Habermas wrote, ‘through
the vehicle of public opinion,’ the public sphere ‘put the state in touch
with the needs of society’ (1992:30–1). Therefore, although Habermas
was not a liberal, one can detect liberal influences on his theory,
especially in such statements as ‘the receiver of regulations from above
[developed into] the ruling authorities’ adversary’ (1992:25–6).
However, Habermas has most in common with the Marxist tradition,
especially in his demarcation of the public sphere as bourgeois.22 These
Marxist influences help to explain his criticism of the public sphere. An
increasingly interventionist and specialised state, together with the
extension of the franchise, meant that the media became more
commercially-driven and less radical, so that eventually critical public
opinion was absorbed by a culture of consumerism and advertising.
Through the development of corporate ‘mass’ media at the mercy of
advertisers, the population was depoliticised, and the media and public
opinion become nothing more than a tool of legitimacy. Participation
is only illusionary. It is this idea of passivity, that consumers are
de-radicalised by the media that is the most disturbing current running
through the canon of Frankfurt literature (see Habermas, 1992:175).
The public are ‘largely relieved’ of the task of engaging in critical polit-
ical debate by other institutions that stand apart from the public.
Parties and interest groups, for example, are now the collective
agencies of communication with government. The public are only
relevant in legitimising these institutions, especially through elections
(1992:176): ‘The parties are instruments for the formation of an effec-
tive political will; they are not, however, in the hands of the public but
in the hands of those who control the party apparatus’ (1992:203).
One can identify strong similarities between Habermas and the
critics of modern media politics who lament the growth of political
marketing as a substitute for substance. Habermas wrote that ‘The
public sphere become the court before whose public prestige can be
displayed – rather than in which public critical debate is carried on’
(1992:201). His introduction of the term ‘packaging’ to describe the

consumerist tendencies in politics was prophetic to say the least.
Habermas analyses the professionalisation of communicating politics
by demonstrating its similarities with advertising. This is, he notes,
tantamount to the manufacture of a public sphere by the parties
(1992:216–17). This is all part of Habermas’s lengthy discussion of
representative democracy and the value of elections in an environment
of ‘packaging’ and mass culture (1992:211–22), concluding that the
notion of a ‘public liberal sphere in civil society’ is a ‘liberal fiction’
(1992:211). I propose that there is less reason to be suspicious of
the so-called ‘packaging of politics’ than Habermas and other critics23
have suggested. The most important reason is that it underestimates
the audience; it assumes that voters are easily manipulated by the
superficial aspects of politics and have less sustained interest in the
substance. This is a grave disservice for which there is no convincing
empirical evidence.
The relationship between the media and politics requires a distinct
cultural focus, and this can be seen in the fear misgivings about the
sound-bite. This represents another way that politicians adapt them-
selves to the requirements of the medium they are using. In a 24-hour
saturated news environment, tailoring one’s language and communica-
tion to the medium, setting and the audience is rational political
behaviour. Moreover, the sound-bite should be understood as part of a
broader cultural shift. There is a tendency to think in sound-bites and
other media requirements because that is the culture that we – voters
and politicians – have grown up with. In other words, popular culture
becomes the medium of politics, and the sound-bite is part of a larger
cultural trend from which politics is not immune.
Moreover, there are strong incentives for people to remain ignorant
or uninterested in politics. Such disincentives arise from the fact that
the cost (in terms of time as well as money) of seeking out information
is not always balanced by a return on the investment. It therefore
makes sense for politicians to communicate in cheap and accessible
forms to accommodate the understandable inclination of citizens
to limit expenditure. If ‘packaging’ is therefore an easier, more appropri-
ate form method of consuming politics, might it follow that it therefore
encourages more democratic forms of political communication? In
drawing attention to culture, incentives, and form and content, we are
appreciate that understanding political communication requires us to
also understand popular forms of communication. The two can no
longer be separated: political communication is no longer about just
conveying information or persuading people of the merits of an argu-

ment through force of Aristotlean rhetoric; it also means capturing the
popular imagination and conveying ideas and issues through using
media and symbolism that will resonate with meaning and relevance
for audiences. In short, the issue is not to lament the packaging of
politics. The trick is to learn how to discriminate between different
types of packaging. We need to understand the rituals, judgements and
symbolism that audiences bring to popular culture to appreciate how
different formats will stimulate greater political interest and involve-
ment. It’s BBC Television’s On the Record versus The Politics Show.
We must also disagree with Habermas is in his belief that the increas-
ing number of ‘floating voters’ are generally apathetic, uninterested in
politics, and uninformed. Together with those who decline to cast
their ballot, Habermas calls floating voters the ‘worst informed and
least firmly democratic group’ (1992:214, 215). As mentioned in
Chapter 1, it is wrong to equate the decision not to vote with igno-
rance or disinterest in politics; by not voting, electors may be com-
municating a very clear signal about their frustration with the political
process. Rather than blaming the voter, we need to consider the struc-
tural characteristics of modern representative democracy that discour-
ages participation.
Nevertheless, Habermas and the Frankfurt School provide a consid-
ered challenge to the notion that the mass media serve as a radical
means to challenge the existing political order. Like the Marxists, the
Frankfurt School focuses on the capitalist mode of production as
the engine of development and change, and the eventual disintegra-
tion of the public sphere. But is it too simplistic to state that the media
are agents of capitalism and news reporting developed to service
capitalist needs? There remain radical media and forms of communica-
tion, and as Terence Qualter (1985:203) noted, ‘Radio and television
make it possible to politicise the print illiterates.’ Perhaps the Internet
provides a new form of the critical ‘public sphere’, provided that
potential users are educated and have the resources to access it. Is the
Internet therefore the latest example of a distinctly bourgeois public
sphere? Andrew Shapiro (1999:124–6) has been particularly critical of
the Internet and believes that the political idealism associated with it is
naïve. Rather, the filtration mechanisms that allow users to choose the
information they receive and the sources from which they receive it,
means that even citizens of democracies are no longer forced to
confront challenging ideas, thus limiting our knowledge and under-
standing of politics, and undermining the principles of free speech.
From Athens on, democracy and democratic political communication

are based on open dialogue between citizens allowing the competition
of ideas. Shapiro worries that the filtration of information encourages
the further marginalisation of ideas and opinions that are already
marginal. Is the Internet giving citizens the opportunity first to express
their ideas and then giving others the freedom to choose whether to
respond?
Although he would object to being discussed alongside the Marxists
and post-Marxists, we can detect many of the structural ideas discussed
in this section running through the acclaimed (and controversial)
work of the American linguist, Noam Chomsky. Together with his
co-author, Edward Herman, Chomsky has done more than any other
living writer to draw our attention to the interface of politics and com-
munication. He is essentially very critical of the way the American
media report ‘news’ that fails to sufficiently interrogate the political
and economic processes and is too vulnerable to political persuasion.
For Chomsky, the line between political information and political
propaganda is almost non-existent. With Edward Herman, Chomsky
has addressed the question of bias in communication and have con-
cluded through countless empirical studies – research that compares
American media coverage of like events, such as the Indonesian inva-
sion of East Timor and the genocide in Cambodia and then discusses
the divergent coverage of those events – that bias is deliberate towards
elite viewpoints. They wrote: ‘Most biased choices in the media arise
from the pre-selection of right-thinking people, internalized precon-
ceptions, and the adaptation of personnel to the constraints of owner-
ship, organisation, market and political power’ (Herman and Chomsky,
1988:xii). The American media, they claim, ‘inculcate and defend the
economic, social, and political agenda of privileged groups that domi-
nate the domestic society and the state. The media serve this purpose
in many ways; through selection of topics, distribution of concerns,
framing of issues, filtering of information, emphasis and tone, and by
keeping debate within the bounds of acceptable premises’ (Ibid.:298).
The media are biased not because they are involved in any conspiracy
with government, but because of the internalisation of elite viewpoints
by journalists, their dependence on government sources for access to
the system and information, and because of the economic organisation
of the media.24
We do not use any kind of ‘conspiracy’ hypothesis to explain mass-

media performance. In fact our treatment is much closer to a ‘free
market’ analysis, with the results largely an outcome of the work-

ings of market forces … [that allow and encourage] a guided market
system (Chomsky & Herman, 1994:xii).
Media organisations are primarily businesses and tend to report news

in a way that does not disrupt established interests. Chomsky and
Herman identify the ways that news can be distorted: through the
choice of language; emphasis; and the running order and editing.
Before considering the post-Moderns, it is important to first sum-
marise the relevance of the Marxists and post-Marxist groups of critical
theorists to our understanding of political communications. Their ideas
are less influential for what they say per se than because they direct our
attention to understanding how the processes of communications –
and especially the media – work; how they are organised; and how we
interpret the way they operate. In other words, we should pay less
attention to what the media are saying, and more to why, as well as
understand how the media are organised. There are also implications
for democratic political communications, for the ideas suggest the
need for all opinions to have a right to be heard, ‘including those
which are unpopular, eccentric, or supported only by small minorities’
(Newton, in Goodin & Reeve (eds), 1989:132). There is also recognition
that ‘the media should be broadly, not narrowly selective; judgements
should be open, not doctrinaire or party political; the emphasis should
be on inclusion rather than exclusion, and in presenting all sides they
should take no side’ (Ibid.:133). In the final analysis, therefore, there is
a clear need for multiple media outlets (without, one presumes, over-
lapping ownership) that offer access to all shades of opinion (Corner,
1995:64–5).
The post-moderns
Finally, it is time we gave brief attention to the ‘post-moderns’. They

have perhaps made the most significant contribution to understanding
communications and culture, but they have tended to discuss their
theories from a more holistic perspective than their predecessors. By
that, I mean it is impossible to separate their political, social, or cul-
tural ideas, and so they tend to be the most complex. But this also
means they are probably the most interesting for understanding politi-
cal communication, because they aspire to make discrete links between
every aspect of their social observations and reasoning. Their writing
is difficult, usually embedded in deep philosophical analysis. Here,
therefore, we make only the briefest of forays into their territory to

acquire an overview of how they help us understand modern political
communications.
The post-moderns tell us that there are no absolute truths. Certainly
the media do not provide absolute truths, but instead help to ‘con-
struct’ versions of truth and reality. This is associated most famously
with Michel Foucault who began from the premise that we must
question our knowledge of absolute truth (M. Foucault, ‘The subject
and power’, in Dreyfus & Rabinow, 1982). Jean Baudrillard demon-
strated this in his 1995 book with the controversial title, The Gulf War
Did Not Take Place. Braudillard is not suggesting that something called
the Gulf War did not happen in 1991, rather that what happened was
not in fact a war. The media had constructed a version of the war
that was out of step with what was actually going on in the deserts of
Kuwait and Iraq; that audiences were presented with a ‘virtual’ war,
and that media considerations played a fundamental role in its
conduct. It was, in effect, a simulation that was produced by the
representational capabilities of modern technology. This is important
for our understanding of political communication in representative
democracy: democratic governments go to war in the name of the
people who voted for them; they must explain the war, justify it, win
it, and demonstrate that the objectives are worth the costs involved. If
we think about the implications of the ideas of Baudrillard and others
who construct similar arguments, then it becomes easy to see how
politics becomes another product of consumption, a fictive reality that
is only authentic because the media and governments tell us it is.
Baudrillard (1983) termed this an age of hyper-reality, though the term
‘virtual reality’ would be equally valid. His basic premise is that we
do not possess the criteria to distinguish between appearance and
reality. The post-moderns are concerned that this dependence on the
media encourages our eventual withdrawal from social and political
life, and thus we become the kind of passive and indifferent creatures
that political theorists have been worried about since the Athenian
democracy (Rosenau, 1992:22–33, 144–55).
Part of the problem is that new communications technologies have
destroyed the differentiation of our social and physical spheres.
Post-modernism contends that what were once spatial and temporal
limits no longer constrain us; disorganised capitalism, globalisation
and information technology – all allowing for the compression of
space and time – mean we no longer have to go to the office to work,
fly around the world to attend a conference in Jakarta or New York, or
even be aware of time and linguistic differences between different

parts of the world. Society no longer exists; it is constructed, so that
post-modern communication is individualised and atomised (Beck,
1992). Neither is there any clear distinction between producer and
consumer, high and low culture, fact and fiction, information and
entertainment. The post-modern can and float between these identi-
ties. Witness the rise of the docu-drama, ‘reality’ or participant TV,
political advertisements produced by film directors, Hollywood
producers accompanying American presidents on foreign trips to
stage-manage their choreography, Woody Allen parodying himself,
letting us into the secret in his films that they are, well, just films. If
the post-moderns are correct, it means that we are (willing?) partici-
pants in a cultural revolution with enormous political consequences:
who do we trust? Which information can we trust? And do we really
have an opportunity to articulate our distrust and dissatisfaction with
government? Baudrillard did not think so, believing that the media
do not provide for reciprocal or dialogical communication; that even
call-in shows and letters pages in newspapers are merely reversing the
flow of information, with the receiver now sending the message.
There is still no room for simultaneous response.
So, the post-moderns contest that our place in society is not
determined by modes of production; there is nothing inevitable or
static about our identities, and in fact we have multiple identities and
multiple interests (Butler, 1997). For Michel Foucault, identities
are temporary. Their construction and communication depend on the
situation we find ourselves in, and with whom we are interacting. This
is a radical break from Marx’s determinism, because identity no is
longer related to power. If power is not defined by our identity and
position within society, then it is impossible to conclude that only
dominant groups have power (the ruling class in Marxist analysis). In
other words, power is no longer delineated by such categories as class,
sex, or ethnicity etc. In short, we do not have clearly defined roles in
society that we are unable to escape after all.
This post-modern approach to identity and power can explain the
rise of so-called ‘new social movements’ (the anti-globalisation move-
ment, for example) that are progressively preferred to interest groups
and parties by those wishing to participate in politics. Their activity
is less structured; one does not ‘join’ a new social movement as one
might join an interest group. Their membership and very existence
are fluid, and tend to be based around the belief in direct action as a
more effective method of political participation and communication
(for a truly excellent discussion, see Melucci, 1988). Often, they will
have international links, reinforcing the notion of post-modern
de-territorialisation and the declining importance of the nation-state.
Hence many have been optimistic. Gibbins and Reimer (1999:151),
for example, have predicted a ‘return to a more open, public and
unpredictable form of politics than traditional parliamentary and
presidential forms of politics have allowed. The Athenian notion of
politics, as the public activity of free persons negotiating how they
wish to live, could turn out to be the most functional, effective, and
legitimate mode of government in the post-modern world’. Hence,
we return full circle to the discussion in Chapter 1; that for all the
anxiety about low voter turnout, declining numbers of people
joining parties and groups, widespread apathy and ignorance of poli-
tics, citizens across the world are in fact finding new ways of partici-
pating and communicating their political preferences. As we will
demonstrate in Chapter 7, new versions of direct democracy based on
new information technology (especially the Internet) are emerging
that counter outdated belief in representative government. The
Institute for Public Policy Research (IPPR), for example, the UK’s
leading centre-left think tank, published in 2001 a groundbreaking
study entitled Realising Democracy OnLine: A Civic Commons in
Cyberspace (Blumler & Coleman, 2001). This paper identified new
expectations and meanings of citizenship that encourage citizens to
expect more from democracy than regular trips to the ballot box.
Instead of celebrating apathy, we should recognise that we are
capable of complex deliberation on policy issues and that we should
expect more from our democratic commitment. According to the
IPPR, representative democracies are fashioned from a 19th Century
‘political culture of deference when citizens were subjects [and]
political deliberation was best left to the great and good’ (Ibid.:6).
Cannot we adapt our political institutions and culture to reflect
modern conditions and expectations (Budge, 1993)? Electronic
democracy may be the way forward: it suggests open debate, easy
access to information, and offers opportunities for encouraging
citizenship (the educative qualities so admired by the liberals). The
evidence suggests a greater desire and willingness to participate:
Coleman and Gotze (2001), for example, conducted research that
discovered a majority of respondents believe the Internet can facili-
tate their democratic participation (Coleman & Gotze, 2001:21–2).
The Internet, say its advocates, reduces the barriers of distance (in
other words, we can have direct democracy because we do not have
to gather physically in a forum) and cost (financial and time). The

sheer impoverishment of participation and the alleged deterioration
in the quality of information in representative democracy are over-
come by electronic democracy that is more equipped to deliver our
expectations. We will return to these ideas in Chapter 7; now we turn
our attention to public opinion – what is it, where does it come from,
and how do we communicate it?
3
Public Opinion
What I want is to get done what the people desire to have

done and the question for me is how to find that out exactly.
(Abraham Lincoln, quoted in Hadley Cantril, ‘Public Opinion
in Flux’, Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social
Science (March 1942:205)
Real political issues cannot be manufactured by the leaders of

political parties. The real political issues of the day declare
themselves, and come out of the depths of that deep – which
we call public opinion.
(James Garfield, quoted in Roll & Cantril, 1972:41)
[T]hat great compound of folly, weakness, prejudice, wrong

feeling, right feeling, obstinacy, and newspaper paragraphs,
which is called public opinion.
(Sir Robert Peel, quoted in Hague & Harrop, 2001:104)
The theoretical basis for understanding political communication is

clearly valuable; all the political theorists who have given the issue any
consideration agree that communication has, to varying degrees, a
function in political development and processes. Moreover, there is an
underlying consensus that communication does allow for popular
participation, though the theorists plainly disagree over how extensive
and genuine that participation can or should be. Athenian direct
democracy is no longer possible; modern society has made its restora-
tion simply impractical. Still, democratic governments remain vexed
over how to encourage greater interest and participation in politics,
and this is especially troublesome as governments are accused of
65
becoming increasingly distant from the people they supposedly rep-

resent at the same time that politicians insist that they have their ear
to the ground and are determined to be responsive to public opinion.
How has this dichotomous situation come about?
If we accept, therefore, that the theorists were correct in their norma-
tive belief that citizens should participate in politics, the question
then becomes how to persuade citizens that it is in their interests to
participate: is it rational to participate in the political process if in fact
there is little chance of influencing the outcome of political decisions?
When pressed, many registered voters explain their reluctance to par-
ticipate by claiming that there is simply no point; that their one little
vote makes no difference, and that politicians will do whatever they
want anyway. It is therefore irrational to waste one’s time acquiring the
information and actually going out of one’s way to visit the polling
station; modern society imposes other more pressing demands on
our time. This seems fair, but illogical, for if we all acted in this rational
way there would be no participation whatsoever, and the very founda-
tions of representative democracy would crumble. Citizens need to
be persuaded that they can change things, that their voice matters,
and that their opinion counts. This requires an understanding of both
public opinion, the subject of this chapter, and the means by which
such opinion is aggregated, discussed in the following two chapters.
What is public opinion?
‘We learn about the things we care about’ (Luskin, 1990:348).
The fundamental problem with discussing public opinion is identify-

ing a workable definition. However, in seeking a single definition we
are merely adding to the problem, for the very term assumes a single
entity; we talk about public opinion as if it is a coherent, discrete, and
uniform object that has a reality of its own. John Stuart Mill, for
example, described how ‘the supreme controlling power in the last
resort is vested in the entire aggregate of the community’, which is
consistent with the utilitarian principle that the people are the best
judges of their own interests (McClelland, 1996:471). In fact, there is
not a single public opinion, because there is no single public, and
attempts to measure opinion should be sufficiently advanced to iden-
tify these many publics, each with very different political interests and
levels of concern. Each issue creates its own public, and individuals
have overlapping membership with several publics at any one time.
Public Opinion 67
Thus, we can observe an assortment of often competing preferences,

each held in varying esteem by their proponents as well as their audi-
ence, and articulated with a range of intensities through a variety of
media. It is unlikely that public opinion will ever be characterised by
unanimity; actually, there is no reason why it should even be the
expression of majority opinion. After all, it is possible to identify
instances where a particularly articulate and vocal minority will make
more of an impact provided that it has the ears of the right people;
it is not so much what you say or how, but to whom you say it
(Negrine, 1996:108). Access is power, and this is part of the problem
that gives rise to general dissatisfaction with the political process, for
communication with governments is seen to depend on who you are,
the resources you can mobilise, and whether you are considered
legitimate by the government. Political influence depends on access to
the political system (Gadi Wolfsfeld, 1997:18 differentiates between
‘status rich’ and ‘status poor’ political actors who enjoy access and
legitimacy). So whose opinion counts, and does it count more than
other opinions? It is high likely that political elites will be swayed by
well-expressed convictions based on sound evidence and judgement.
It follows, therefore, that so-called ‘experts’ with authority, legitimacy
and clear communication skills, will enjoy greater access to the system
and hence greater possible influence, even if their opinions do not
represent those of the ‘public’ or even the majority.1 In short, whether
your voice is heard or not can be dependent on where you are situated
in the political system (or where politicians and government believe
you are situated). Herbert Blumer captured the essence of this
argument in his 1948 article, ‘Public Opinion and Public Opinion
Polling’ (published in the American Sociological Review, Volume
13:242–9). Blumer stated that we must pay greater attention to the
‘sociological truth about politics’, namely ‘People with power and
resources, closely engaged in politics, compose the public opinion
that matters’ (quoted in Entman & Herbst, 2001:207).
We shall return to this problem in the next chapter, but it is impor-
tant for our understanding of public opinion: either public opinion is
the majority view, in which case minorities are alienated from the
political system; or it is the aggregation of the opinions of different
publics (Yeric & Todd, 1989), so that access to the system and politics
becomes the kind of competition among competing interests that is
associated with pluralism. In either situation, it is erroneous to con-
ceive of a homogenous public opinion that can represent all interests
in society and to which governments will respond.
This leads to yet another difficult question: should society endeavour

to make all opinions equal? Non-specialists, those excluded from the
political process, and those expressing minority or even extreme views
often find themselves without a voice.2 It is incumbent upon these
categories of citizens to communicate their opinions and bring them to
the attention of those in powerful positions, which explains the use of
direct action as more than simply political behaviour, but as an act
of political communication. Dissenting opinions are as worthy and
necessary in a democracy as views supporting the consensus, otherwise
there is a danger that political society will form what Mill termed a
‘tyranny of the majority’. After all, as Voltaire is claimed to have said:
‘I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right
to say it’. In their landmark study of Public Opinion, American political
scientists Robert E. Lane and David O. Sears (1964:11) discuss this issue
in the context of what they describe as the ‘implication’ of opinion:
Polls have shown that almost everyone supports the idea of free
speech, but few people understand that this implies granting people
holding positions they particularly dislike the right to speak. Thus
in a study … more than a third of the respondents would deny the
right of free speech for ‘someone who wanted to speak in this city
against churches and religion.’ Under these circumstances one
would say that those who supported the idea of free speech and the
Bill of Rights, but denied its implications, were uninformed.
This paradox resurfaced in the United States following the terrorist

attacks on New York and Washington of 11 September 2001. Voices
that were critical of American responses – the ‘war on terrorism’ and
military action in Afghanistan – or that, in questioning why the terror-
ists attacked, believed that American actions around the world might
have been partly responsible, were marginalised by the understandable
outpouring of emotion and patriotism.
In addition, we must consider the serious possibility that, in defining
public opinion as the aggregate of preferences, we are actually doing
democracy a grave disservice; does this mean that the individual is
sacrificed for the collective, and is this consistent with the liberal-
democratic ideal (Negrine, 1996:103)? Moreover, does the notion
of public opinion suggest that every member of ‘the public’ does or
should hold an opinion on any given subject? After all, when con-
fronted by the pollster on the telephone or in the street, many people
do feel obliged to have an opinion however weak or uninformed, for it
Public Opinion 69
is a measure of worth and standing. Many people do not like to admit

to each other that they do not know about or understand something
that perhaps they feel they should take an interest in. Those who
do admit to not knowing about an issue present their own particular
problems: do they have no opinion because they are indifferent? Or do
they care, but they are suspending judgement? Either way, the ‘don’t
knows’ are an important constituency for politics, and for political
communication in particular because they represent a share of the pop-
ulation who need to be persuaded to care or form an opinion. Once we
begin to question whether citizens require only certain levels of infor-
mation and knowledge to play their specific functional role within
society, we have entered debates about the ‘adequacy of information’
or the efficacy of ‘activated’ public opinion. How much information is
adequate for participation in political society? Which information is
necessary for democratic citizenship? Who decides? For example,
should every British citizen that enjoys the right to vote be able
to name each member of the Cabinet, even though such knowledge
may not be particularly relevant to their satisfactory performance in
the role assigned to them? A study conducted by Delli Carpini and
Keeter (1996) in the United States found that a large proportion of
their research subjects could not name the Speaker of the House of
Representatives, could not describe the powers of and role of the
Supreme Court, and did not know the term of office served by US
Senators. Will our expectations change if the citizen is the head of an
insider group that aspires to influence the British or American govern-
ment? This line of reasoning introduces into the analysis a much
needed normative dimension; if we accept that each and every citizen
is not required to possess a certain political competence to fulfil the
responsibilities of their role, do we ever reach a point at which we must
conclude that his/her ignorance of politics and the political process is
unsatisfactory for any kind of participation, including voting? This is a
dangerous argument, for it assumes that it is not only possible to
measure and evaluate political knowledge, but that political knowledge
can be a criteria for determining whether or not one has an automatic
entitlement or right to participate in the political process. Anthony
Downs’s rational choice approach is useful here, for he admits that
government cannot force people to become well-informed for the
following reasons:
1. There is no reliable, objective, inexpensive way to measure how

well-informed a man is.
2. There is no agreed-upon rule for deciding how much and what

kinds of information each citizen should have.
3. The loss of freedom involved in forcing people to acquire informa-
tion would probably far outweigh the benefits to be gained from a
better-informed electorate (Downs, 1957:247).
Definition, therefore, is one of the most elementary problems we

encounter in trying to come to terms with public opinion. In satis-
fying the critics, we might adopt the definition proposed by
William J. Crotty in the Introduction to his seminal work on Public
Opinion and Politics (1970:1), namely: ‘Public opinion can be
defined as the expressed view of an individual or aggregation of
individuals on a subject of broad social importance. A “public”
opinion is a point of view shared by a number of people and
relevant to a topic of general political significance’. Although this
definition is hardly specific, it is sufficiently broad to address
the concerns of liberals who worry about losing sight of the indi-
vidual within the collective, whilst also recognising the shared
characteristics of public opinion.
We saw in the last chapter that critics of representative democracy
would argue that citizens have few opportunities to communicate
their preferences except through the ballot box, a position articulated
most famously by Rousseau. We must also resign ourselves to the
possibility that citizens are happy to let government get on with the
job assigned to them, that they prefer the distance of representative
democracy, rather than the obligations of direct democracy. By
extension, the idea of the mandate confers legitimacy upon democra-
tically-elected governments, meaning that they are not obliged to
respond to each and every whim of public opinion: governments
must govern. Normatively speaking, they should listen to public
opinion as a guide to policymaking, and it is undoubtedly rational to
be sympathetic to the public mood given a party’s dependence on
popular support at elections:3
Normally … he [the representative] must remember that the very

meaning of the word representative is that the constituents shall be
represented. It is his duty to try to lead them to accept his views,
and it is their duty to give him as large a latitude as possible in
matters of conscience, realising that the more conscientious a repre-
sentative is the better he will in general represent them (Theodore
Roosevelt, quoted in Roll & Cantril, 1972:143).
Public Opinion 71
Yet it is difficult to claim that public opinion should be an inspiration

for policy; it is often ambiguous and defined by the narrow interests of
those who articulate it. Governments that do listen and act upon
public opinion are often accused of engaging in reactive, rather than
the more desirable responsive politics, failing to separate the narrow
short-term interests of electoral gain from the long-term interests of
the community. Everyone would like lower taxes, but many would also
like more money spent on education, health care, and law and order.
Lower taxes today may be consistent with public opinion, but it is not
necessarily in the long-term interest of society: ‘No doubt … there are
good reasons for listening to what the people say they want, but there
is no reason, a priori, for supposing that the people ought always to get
what they say they want’ (McClelland, 1996:471; Verba & Nie, 1972:4;
Qualter, 1985:2).4
Public opinion is essentially a liberal concept. It is predicated on the
belief of rationality, government by consent and the collective will.
Public opinion strengthens democratic politics because it means
government founded on consent and legitimacy and is therefore
stable. As John Keane (in Held (ed.), 1993:235) has written, ‘informed
public opinion plays a central mediating role between citizens and
their state institutions.’ It is essential to note, however, that there is
not universal agreement that this is the best way to approach public
opinion. Critical theorists, for example, would challenge the liberal
idea that public opinion moves in an upwards direction from the
people to the government. Rather, critical theorists such as Bourdieu
(1973) see public opinion as an imaginary concept, or a set of dis-
courses that are manufactured by social and political actors (described
by Hall et al.(1978) as ‘primary definers’) to legitimate their decisions,
preserve their power, and advance their own interests. Opinions move
downwards, with citizens being persuaded to accept the views and
decisions of political actors as the reflection of ‘public opinion’. Public
opinion is what opinion leaders (politicians, the media, experts,
polling organisations, groups and lobbies) say it is. In this context,
public opinion is associated with Gramsci’s idea of ideological hege-
mony: ‘the supremacy a given social group obtained by virtue of its
ability to be both “dominant” and “leading”’ (Golding, 1992:106). The
creation of public opinion is essential to the pursuit of consent,
the foundation of legitimate domination. This is an interesting and
important viewpoint because it does lead to a discussion of where
public opinion comes from, especially the significance of authority in
defining what public opinion is or should be.
Where does public opinion come from?
Recent research into the nature of political man has come upon
the same discovery that marked Freud’s research into human nature:
Political life, like sexual life, starts much earlier than we had thought.
This is an important discovery because the task of shaping political
man is complicated and to be effective must take account of the
earliest beginnings (Lane & Sears, 1964:17).
Opinion comes in many guises and has multiple points of origin.
Unsurprisingly, there are several competing theories about the source
of opinion, and these can be divided for purposes of simplicity into
socialisation and cognitive theories. These explain the processes
‘through which we learn about politics’ (Hague et al., 1998:64) and are
concerned with identifying the source of political information, but
they differ in explaining how we actually process that information.
Where socialisation theory leans towards an assumption of passivity as
a human characteristic, behavioural theorists speak of political cogni-
tion to refer to the way individuals acquire and manage information,
and ultimately how they relate it to political reality as they perceive it.
It ‘denotes the image or map of the world held by the individual
person. His response to persons, things, and events are shaped in part
by the way they look to him. These cognitions are selectively organised
and integrated into a system which provides meaning and stability for
the individual person as he goes about his business in the everyday
world’ (Cohen, 1966:63). Moreover, cognition theory allows for
the opportunity for opinions to change, especially since it accords the
media a greater role than socialisation theory in actually channelling
information. When new information is introduced that conflict with
an individual’s cognitive system, the individual strives for ‘cognitive
balance’ by processing the information in such a way that he will try
to resolve the inconsistencies in what he believes and what is now
suggested to him. Cohen (1964:62) talked of ‘cognitive consistency’,
namely ‘a principle based on the notion that psychological structure is
composed of an integrated and organised set of cognitions regarding
some object or event. The introduction of new information aimed at
changing attitudes disrupts that organisation and produces disequilib-
rium.’ An earlier study by a social psychologist, Leon Festinger (1957)
described the process of trying to achieve this consistency: ‘When a
dissonance is present, in addition to trying to reduce it, the person
will actively avoid situations and information which would likely
increase the dissonance’ (Festinger, 1957:3). They exhibit ‘circumspect
Public Opinion 73
behaviour with regard to new information even when little or no

dissonance is present to start with’ (Ibid.:22). The individual tries
to reduce the dissonance, perhaps by changing his or her environment.
However, this can be difficult to do, and so the individual, says
Festinger, engages in selective avoidance, but also learns to achieve
consonance by changing his underlying behaviour and/or attitudes.
Interaction and the proliferation of information in the modern age
means that dissonance is more likely, but also behaviour and opinion
are liable to change in order to restore balance.
Here we begin to see the interface of the cognitive and socialisation
explanations for public opinion. Both are interested in discovering
‘what people learn (content) … and from whom (agency)’, but in
attaching less importance to the psychological processes of attitude
formation and transformation, socialisation theory adds the dimen-
sions of ‘timing and sequence’, that is ‘when they learn it’ (Hague,
et al., 1998:64). Together, therefore, socialisation and cognitive theories
are valuable tools in understanding political communication, for
they refer to the way that citizens are incorporated into the political
process, are taught its values and processes, and are persuaded of their
relevance and importance in the political system. (A useful survey of
how the study of socialisation, especially among children, developed is
provided by P.J. Conover and D.D. Searing, 1994.)
The foundation of socialisation theory is the significance of in-
teraction among and between individuals, particularly in ‘primary
groups’, a term used to describe communities whose members regularly
encounter each other on a face-to-face basis. The term seems to have
been invented by Charles H. Cooley in 1909 who described primary
groups as ‘those characterized by intimate face-to-face cooperation
and association’ (1909:23). George C. Homans (1950:1) refined this
definition to refer to ‘a number of persons who communicate with
each other often over a span of time, and who are few enough so that
each person is able to communicate with all the others, not at second-
hand, through other people, but face-to-face’. Socialisation theory
implies that we begin to construct, reflect, and communicate opinion
from an early age, for the most important primary group is the family.
Research has suggested that the family is the core influence on the
child and moulds his/her political preferences, values, and attitudes
towards the political system, especially the exercise of authority. As
expected, socialisation theory suggests that the political preferences of
young children tend to replicate those of their parents (Almond &
Verba, 1963; 1980); parental influence is central to a child’s life, and
modification of family-shaped opinions is gradual, usually occurring

only under pressure from strong extra-familial influences or exposure
to overwhelming evidence.
In the past, the category of primary groups also included class,
residential location, ethnicity, and other fixed identifiers, though these
are less relevant today given the ease of mobility, and the securing
of social, economic and political opportunities that were denied to
previous generations. As we grow older and move outside the home,
parental influences are destabilised5 because we encounter different
primary groups that all socialise us into society and shape and re-shape
our opinions: at school (friends and teachers), in church (Verba et al.,
1995), in youth groups (the Boy Scouts, or the Army Cadets), at
University, and in the work-place (colleagues and perhaps union
affiliation).6 Dare we suggest that some may even choose to join a
political party (though this is becoming less of a preference for Britain’s
young voters)?7 In addition, we are constantly exposed to the mass
media and are thus vulnerable to their influence on what and how we
think about particular issues: ‘One speaker drops a tabloid catchphrase
into the argument: “Britain is a soft touch,” said Derek, a retired
labourer, picking up a phrase that the Sun [newspaper] has repeated in
37 stories over the past year’ (‘BNP fuels anger about people “getting
something for nothing”’, The Guardian, 7 February 2003:11).8 The
influence of the media on shaping public opinion grows with increas-
ing spatial and temporal distance between the issue under discussion
and the individual, especially if s/he does not belong to a group
that can inform his/her opinion on that particular issue (an excellent
study of how the media help form opinions of dissident social groups
is provided by Mueller:1988).
In short, socialisation theory proposes that our experiences and
interactions within civil society9 can determine our relationship with
political society.10 It goes without saying that such civil society can
only flourish in democratic political systems where freedom of expres-
sion and assembly are allowed, and criticism is both tolerated and
encouraged: ‘At home, in school, on the job, and in voluntary associa-
tions and religious institutions, individuals acquire resources, receive
requests for activity, and develop the political orientations that foster
participation’ (Burns et al., 2001:35. On the influence of voluntary
associations, see Putnam, 1995; 2000).
While early socialisation theory proposed that non-political ex-
periences with authority figures in childhood shape an individual’s
political orientation, later research suggested that the experiences we
Public Opinion 75
have as we grow older are in fact more important because they

are most recent and therefore closer in time to us (Almond & Verba,
1963:324; Hague, et al., 1998:67). Moreover, evidence accumulated
through the comparative method indicates that opportunities to
participate in decision-making at the group level can affect one’s
judgement of possible influence, and thus has a direct bearing on
how we judge the value of the democratic political system:
If in his social relationships he is afforded no opportunity to partici-

pate meaningfully in decisions, he may derive from this a general
belief in his incapacity to control any decisions, including political
decisions. On the other hand, if he finds authority figures in social
situations amenable to influence, he may come to believe that
authority figures in politics will also be amenable to his influence
(Almond & Verba, 1963:368).
Socialisation allows us to witness the crossover of interpersonal

political communication: it gives rise to the spread of opinion through
interaction, but provides an understanding of the importance of group
activity in political communication. The important thing to note
is that we all have overlapping memberships of different groups,
primary or otherwise. This means that our opinions are rarely con-
sistent (accentuating the difficulty in talking about ‘a’ public opinion),
but in fact will vary according to the social situation we find ourselves
in, the people with whom we are interacting, and the image of
ourselves that we wish to project. In The Social Contract Rousseau
explained how opinions derive from social relationships, while
John Stuart Mill was one of the first to understand the importance of
political socialisation through group identification; and as McLelland
(1996:407–11) points out, Mill was also conscious that controversial
opinions had to enjoy the same opportunity for communication as
those of the consensus. Overlapping membership of groups meant that
the heterodox opinion that Mill so cherished would be guaranteed,
and that citizens might ‘learn’ about politics through debate and
exposure to different, sometimes competing opinions. This means we
do not have to be too worried by the ‘group polarisation thesis’: ‘That
groups of like-minded people, engaged with one another, will end up
thinking the same thing they thought before, but in more extreme
form’ (Sunstein, 2001:65). After all, in democratic societies even the
most extreme views must compete with each other and other, more
moderate opinions; they must persuade audiences of the relevance and
credibility of their beliefs and cannot rely on group membership as a

guarantee of acceptance. Group polarisation is defeated by the public
deliberation that characterises democratic politics. The relevant passage
from McLelland (1996:470–1) on Mill is worth quoting at length:
The tyranny of everyman’s opinion was not as spectacular as the

tyranny of a Nero … but it was more powerful in the long run
because it worked consistently. It worked everywhere that people
gathered, and it worked through every human group. Mill had a
shrewd grasp of the realities of opinion forming and especially of
opinion reinforcement. If all the effective socialising agencies in a
society, families, churches, schools, classes and private associations,
spoke with one voice about what the basic social values ought to be,
and if all the great opinion-forming institutions, newspapers,
universities, parliamentary assemblies, pastors and masters, spoke
with the same voice, then dissenting opinion would remain the
possession of a few increasingly isolated cranks. … Mill wants
heterodox opinion to be tolerated, and even encouraged, where
opinion really matters. … If dissenting opinion is really to bite, then
it has to be effective in those institutions whose opinions and
actions really can have an effect on society at large.
However, not all conflicting opinions could be resolved as Mill would

have liked. Socialisation theory does not tell us a great deal about how
or why opinions might change, and conflicting identities arising
through multiple membership of groups might have consequences that
are far removed from Mill’s ideal. Robert Lane discussed this in 1959:
Withdrawal from a decision involving conflicting reference groups

is only one of several means of solving the conflict problem; others
include (a) identification with one of the conflicting reference
groups … (b) moderation in viewpoint, a moderation which may be
either confused and eclectic or synthesized, (c) minimization of the
issue, (d) failure to ‘see’ the conflict, (e) generalized apathy … (Lane,
1959:203).
In other words, socialisation theory does not allow for a Road to

Damascus experience. Rather, it suggests that we try to resolve con-
flicting opinions in terms of what we perceive to be the correct opinion
according to our group membership and interaction. As Lane observes,
conflicting opinions may even manufacture ignorance of the issue or a
Public Opinion 77
withdrawal from the political process altogether. In fact, we receive so

much information from so many different sources that we tend to
(consciously and unconsciously) process it and filter out any informa-
tion that conflicts with our existing viewpoints:11
Substitute in the following passage of Mr. Berenson’s the words

‘politics,’ ‘business,’ and society,’ for the word ‘art’ and the sen-
tences will be no less true: ‘… There is our standard of artistic
reality. Let anyone give us shapes and colors which we cannot
instantly match in our paltry stock of hackneyed forms and tints,
and we shake our heads at his failure to reproduce things as
we know they certainly are, or we accuse him of insincerity’
(Lippmann, 1997 edn.:56).12
Hence, the idea that ‘propaganda’ can never change opinion, it merely
reinforces existing or latent opinions. Consider Walter Lippmann’s
explanation of the power of stereotypes in propaganda and how we use
them to understand the world around us:
If … experience contradicts … stereotype, one of two things

happens. If the man is no longer plastic, or if some powerful interest
makes it highly inconvenient to rearrange his stereotypes, he pooh-
poohs the contradictions as an exception that proves the rule,
discredits the witness, finds a flaw somewhere, and manages to
forget it. But if he is still curious … the novelty is taken into the
picture and allowed to modify it. … (Ibid.:66).
This is why I reject the proposition advanced by Lazarsfeld, et al.

(1944:88–9) that ‘Stability of political opinion is a function of exposure
to reinforcing communication’. Some of the best examples of political
propaganda in practice – especially the Nazi experience – demonstrate
that reinforcement can be used to transform society on a radical basis.
The key is identifying the values and attitudes among audiences that
can be reinforced time and time again for one’s own political agenda.
Socialisation theory says we tend to seek out information that
corresponds to our position that has been formed via extensive group
interaction; that will strengthen our emotional attachment to that
opinion, and will provide ‘evidence’ of its validity (Klapper, 1960. On
the issue of opinion dissonance (conflict) and consonance (resolution)
see Lane & Sears, 1964:47–53). The most common example given by
those who subscribe to this position is that readers tend to buy those
newspapers that correspond closely to their political orientation:

the British Daily Telegraph is the mainstay of Conservative thinking,
while The Guardian reflects more left-wing bias, and these ideological
differences are reflected in the people who buy either newspaper. It
has difficulty explaining why the vast majority of Sun readers in the
Thatcherite 1980s could be defined as ‘working class’ but constituted
the main market of what at that time was a right-wing newspaper. (The
Sun switched from supporting Labour to Conservative in the general
election of February 1974, even though over half of its readers were
committed to the Labour party. By the 1987 general election, only
40 percent of its readers supported the Conservatives, despite the Sun
having been Thatcherite since 1975.) Suspicion of this hypothesis is
justified by data presented by Newton and Brynin (2001:268). They
found that
a good many people read a paper that is at odds with their voting
behaviour. In fact, little more than half of the readers of Tory papers
in 1991 also voted Tory in 1992 and not much more than a third of
Tory readers in 1996 voted Conservative in 1997. There is a stronger
association with reading a Labour paper and voting Labour, but
nevertheless, forty per cent of those reading a Labour paper in 1991
did not vote Labour in 1992, and rather more than a quarter did
not do so in 1997. Overall, a large minority read a paper which is
not consistent with their own voting behaviour.
There are many reasons for this, and the discrepancy of the rein-
forcement theory seems determined by the curious status of tabloid
newspapers and their core readership. The research by Newton and
Brynin (2001:269) shows that fewer than two out of three Sun readers
knew that it supported the Conservative Party in 1991, while a quarter
of the readers of the left-wing Mirror believed it supported a party other
than Labour. Another possible reason is that consumers do not buy
a newspaper just because it supports a particular political party, but
because they enjoy the crossword, sport coverage, or the Page 3 model.
Moreover, the success of the British National Party (BNP) is due
largely to its ability to design a propaganda strategy around one par-
ticular issue, namely asylum seekers. In elections in February 2003,
BNP literature asked constituents to ‘Vote Labour if you want asylum
seeker neighbours,’ while linking asylum to other issues of local
concern, such as employment, education, and law and order. In short,
the BNP has made inroads in what might be described as traditional
Public Opinion 79
Labour areas by portraying asylum seekers as a threat to local com-

munities. Residents, already dissatisfied by the urban blight they face
each day, are only too willing to find an easy scapegoat for their prob-
lems and are therefore vulnerable to the easy solutions offered by
Far Right propaganda. One approach to public opinion draws its ideas
from political psychology, and suggests that the attitudes of authority
figures (however defined) can affect popular behaviour. Social pres-
sures, including elite pressure, and the desires to conform and
do-the-right-thing, persuade people whether particular actions should
or should not be performed (Ajzen & Fishbein, 1980). This is impor-
tant, for it corresponds to the ideas of peer pressure, conformity, and
the human instinct to ‘fit in’ that has been very important in the
success of 20th Century totalitarian propaganda.
Socialisation theory helps us to understand that the strength of our
opinions can depend on the specifics of the issue under discussion,
because logic stipulates that issues of immediate concern to us – ones
that affect our locale or primary group identification – will attract more
interest than issues that are distant. In other words, it appears that there
might be a direct correlation between one’s (temporal and spatial) dis-
tance from the issue and the intensity of our opinion about it. When the
British constituency of Hartlepool was gearing up for a byelection
following the appointment of its sitting MP, Peter Mandelson, to the
European commission, the press reported on a return to local issues in a
local campaign. Hospital and post office closures, crime and local unem-
ployment dominated the campaign agenda. In contrast, foreign affairs
are notorious for attracting least attention, especially in the United
States, as comparative research has repeatedly demonstrated (Almond,
1960; Cohen, 1966; Bennett, et al., 1996). Research has suggested that
the American public and media tend not to follow stories of interna-
tional affairs unless the United States is involved. This is demonstrated
by detailed content analysis of news coverage of the war in Bosnia done
by Bennett, et al. (1997). They discovered that the peaks and troughs of
coverage and audience interest corresponded to US involvement, foreign
policy statements by American statesmen etc. The existence of the
NIMBY (Not in My Backyard) phenomenon personifies this idea, as
people reportedly believe they have most influence on local issues (Parry,
Moyser & Day, 1992). Research has suggested that this inattention has
made the media much more powerful actors in foreign than domestic
affairs because we have less connection with and experience of interna-
tional politics (Page and Shapiro, 1992; Meyer, 1992). However, the
correlation between issue and distance may no longer be as strong as
such evidence suggested in the past. One commanding feature of New

Social Movements is that they are most engaged by ‘foreign’ problems –
the environment, globalisation, Third World poverty, human rights, etc,
issues that are not specific to one country, but instead concern inter-
national public opinion and therefore encourage transnational mobilisa-
tion. The world-wide movement that materialised in 2002 and 2003
against the possibility of military action against Iraq is the most stun-
ning example of how opinion can be motivated by foreign affairs. More
than a million people, drawn from all parts of the United Kingdom,
marched through London on 15 February 2003 – the largest gathering of
any kind in British history. Similar protests also occurred in 60 other
countries. Moreover, local politics in Britain are notorious for attracting
little media attention or the interest of citizens. Local elections are con-
sidered a referendum on central government performance, with many
voters choosing how to cast their ballots according to national issues.
This is certainly how voters were thought to have behaved in the 1 May
2003 local elections when Labour lost many council seats across the
United Kingdom because of record council tax increases and a so-called
‘Baghdad backlash’ from Muslims and traditional Labour supporters,
protesting against the government’s support for war against Iraq.
There are two principal problems associated with socialisation theory.
The first is the most important: it assumes that individuals are passive
respondents of group stimuli and, like Pavlov’s dogs will respond to the
rewards (approval) and punishments (withholding of approval) meted
out by the group. It suggests that an individual’s need to conform to
the group is stronger than any other (Lane & Sears, 1964:83–93).
Cognitive approaches on the other hand suggest that individuals process
the information, make rational cost-benefit analyses (Converse,1975:96),
and may associate the information with the norms suggested to them
by group membership (Bandura, 1986). Moreover, the mere possession
of an informed opinion does not automatically translate into action.
The individual must make calculations about the cost of acting weighed
against the possible outcome, both of which are informed by the
intensity of opinion and the relevance of the issue.
The second problem with socialisation theory is its claim that once
formed opinions are difficult to change, especially as we grow older. In
contrast, cognitive approaches allow for change, that we are receptive to
new information and will process it in such a way that our attitudes can
vary. Moreover, people who are cognitively developed can differentiate
between information. They will not be susceptible to the kind of black
and white imagery – communism bad; capitalism good – that structures
so much political propaganda. They would be able to differentiate
Public Opinion 81
between different types of communism; between the leaders and the

people of communist nations; and make geographic distinctions – is
Chinese communism the same as Cuban? In other words, political
opinion is formed through a conflict of ideas; it is helpful that we
are exposed to different viewpoints because this is the way our critical
thinking develops over time (Andrain & Apter, 1995:250).
Another less serious problem with socialisation theory is that
modernisation – with society becoming increasingly secular (Weber,
1930), urban (and therefore fragmented) and classless – is undermining
the influence of groups and our loyalty to them (Giddens, 1990;
Inglehart, 1997; Bell, 1999). The nuclear family has replaced the
extended family (and is in the process of doing so in areas of the world
traditionally associated with extended families, such as China). Family
members spend less time together, working mothers may be absent
from the home, and the television becomes the centre of family life.
The possibilities for mobility and working from home make the work-
place and colleagues less relevant. The church continues to decline in
importance as an agent of socialisation (Ashford & Timms, 1992; Voye,
1999) – admittedly in some but not all countries: religion continues to
play a role in the formation of public opinion in some parts of the
US,13 while in Italy, Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi’s support for
the war in Iraq in 2003 was undermined by the extraordinary power
over public opinion exercised by the Catholic church that, led by
the Vatican, vehemently opposed military action. Meanwhile, the
disappearance of economies based on manufacturing and industry and
the rise of the knowledge-based economy has weakened the power of
trades unions and other forms of economic organisation (Kerr, 1983;
Bell, 1999) … weakened, but not eradicated. As the discussion in the
next chapter will suggest, group activity has experienced a dramatic
and remarkable revival at the expense of political parties. Labour
unions may no longer hold the balance of power as they did in Britain
in the 1970s,14 but they remain an essential form of organisation and
communication for workers throughout the world.15
For a long time the ‘two step model’ of how public opinion is created
and modified information is transferred from was popular. Associated
with Paul Lazarsfeld, this model conceded ultimate power of influence
to the media. Opinion leaders and elites first receive the information
broadcast by the media and then simply rebroadcast it to the public, or
interpret it before retransmission. In short
Mass media → Opinion leaders/elite → Public (After Lazarsfeld,

Berelson & Gaudet, 1948).
This two-step model was subsequently challenged, most recently by

David Fan (1988). While accepting the possibility of elite influence
on public opinion, he was concerned that ‘both the rapidity of the
public response and the short message duration’ are not compatible
with the idea of two-step persuasion (Fan, 1988:130). Rather, Fan
argues that public opinion can be influenced directly by the mass
media. There is still room for elite power in his schema, for their
influence derives more from their access to the media rather than to
the public directly. The media privilege elites as sources for political
news and information. So,
Elite → Media → Public (After Fan, 1988:5, 130).
Reality is rarely as straightforward as theory and models would have us

believe, and it is possible to modify the above to provide a less satisfac-
tory but more accurate picture of the cross-pressures on public opinion,
hence
Elite → Public ← Media
Thus, it is virtually impossible to give any definitive answer to the

question: which is most accurate, socialisation or cognitive theory? In
fact, both provide valid and coherent explanations for the formation of
public opinion, because both processes tend to work simultaneously as
the following diagram suggests:
Individuals Institutionalised aggregation and Policy Makers

transmittal agencies
I1
Political Parties
I2
Interest groups
Media
I3
Social Movements
Figure 3.1 Opinion interaction and effect on the political process

Source: After Crotty (1970: 4).
Public Opinion 83
In represents the individual holding a range of political opinions on a

vast array of subjects. In is a member of a variety of groups and is thus
subject to (often competing) influences from these different groups –
family, friends, church, school, trades union, ethnic group, etc. In also
interacts on a daily basis with members of the same group who are
supportive of his opinions, and will normally reinforce his views. How-
ever, the overlapping membership may in fact mean that many of his
opinions and attitudes conflict, a fact that strengthens the idea that
there is no such thing as a single public opinion. He will also interact
with members of other groups. In thus experiences a multitude of
influences that help shape and refine his political opinions. He may
also contribute to the development of the political opinions held by
those with whom he interacts.
The diagram also demonstrates how his views can be aggregated via
parties, interest groups, and the media, and communicated to policy-
making institutions. The influence of these intermediary agencies on
the policy-making processes is dependent on the extent to which
the group can marshal the resources to support its case, whether the
government is prepared to listen (is the group considered legitimate on
this issue?), and whether these opinions are factored into the policy-
making process. In short, Crotty’s diagram provides a useful illustra-
tion of the communication process involved in forming and expressing
public opinion, the essence of democratic politics (‘Why should the
people’s opinions not rule in a country … increasingly dedicated to
the principle that the will of the people should have the force of the
law?’ McClelland, 1996:470). Bennett, et al. (1996:12) conclude that a
‘model of political information, therefore, should include indicators
that tap opportunity [to acquire information], motivation, cognitive
ability, and exposure to the media’. Clearly Lasswell’s (1948) simple
observation that the study of mass communication is an attempt
to answer the question, ‘Who says what to whom, through which
channel and with what effect’ is no longer appropriate for the
complexity of modern communications.
Regardless of our theoretical position or where we stand in this
model, we are faced with the same fundamental question: are popula-
tions of democratic societies dissatisfied with, and cynical towards pol-
itics and politicians because of or despite the media? The power of the
media is such a core concern in modern politics because the media
are now political actors in their own right. They no longer simply
report politics or elections or parliamentary debates. Rather, they have
assumed a central position within political society. Duncan McCargo
(2003) has described how the media can be agents of stability (support-
ing the status quo), agents of restraint (checking and balancing
political society) or agents of change. Through close examination of
the media in selected Asian societies, McCargo demonstrates that these
roles are not mutually exclusive. Rather, the media perform all these
roles at different political moments. The merit of this agency-based
approach is not only that it recognises the power that the media
possess, but also suggests that they are in constant strategic negotiation
with other political actors, all enjoying access to their own resources.
That the media now have the capacity to exercise political power in
their own right as political actors was demonstrated most clearly –
and alarmingly – in the events surrounding the British government’s
case for war against Iraq in 2003, how it was reported, and the
findings of the Hutton Inquiry, published in January 2004. We are
too used to the normative democratic idea that the media represent
the electorate between elections, that they act as a check and balance
in government and scrutinise government’s decisions. The Hutton
Inquiry questioned the credibility of this argument, though it had
been under attack for some time. Challenging the idea that the media
have a democratic duty to act as an unofficial opposition, the Labour
party chairman, Charles Clarke, said, ‘This arouses a vanity about the
role of the media. They have a need to question and doubt every
politician. This leads to a bad state of affairs and I think it has got to
be repaired’ (‘Labour attacks media over Mittal affair’, The Guardian,
21 February 2002).
The media do not like to admit they are political actors, as this
would compromise the functions they believe they fulfil in a demo-
cratic society (Cook, 1998). It also implies that there is little to separate
the media – ostensibly working on behalf of the powerless and voice-
less – from the politicians they try to expose. Only once they and
we accept the – in many ways disturbing – notion that the media are
political actors, do we understand that the media do not simply trans-
mit information or offer entertainment, but rather have the propensity
to be ideologically influential through the imagery they present. The
media provide the cues and the frameworks which determine political
discourse and which influence our perception and reaction to social
and political reality. ‘In the conduct of politics,’ noted Colin Seymour-
Ure in 2001, ‘media are primary and political institutions secondary.
The media can live without politics; indeed, surveys show that politics
is one of the least appealing subjects to readers and audiences. But
politics cannot live without the media’ (in King (ed.), 2001:119).
Public Opinion 85
Normative theories of democratic politics that allow public opinion

to play a necessary role set what Berelson (in Berelson & Janowitz,
1966:503) calls a ‘high – an ideal – standard’, namely:
that the electorate possesses appropriate personality structures, that

it be interested and participate in public affairs, that it be informed,
that it be principled, that it correctly perceive political realities, that
it engage in discussion, that it judge rationally, and that it consider
the community interest.
Notwithstanding the inconsistencies here – rational political behaviour

does not necessarily conform to ‘community interest’ – this is an
extremely high barrier that tests the dexterity of the strongest demo-
cracy. If we expect so much from our citizens, should we really be
surprised when they do not perform to such expectations?
Can public opinion be measured?
Attitudes towards the value of polls are divided: some acknowledge that
measuring public opinion adds to the representative character of demo-
cratic politics. Polls are a form of participation, suggesting that citizens
are being listened to and that their views count. In fact, they are a
measure of interest in politics and therefore quantify the health of
democracy. Moreover, knowledge of public opinion is said to be a check
on those political activists – pressure groups etc. – who claim to speak
on behalf of, or represent, mass opinion, and is particularly important
as executive power expands. In other words, it is a powerful restraint on
elite politics. Charles Roll and Albert Cantril (1972:11–12) for example
make the rather bold claim that ‘the polling establishment is easily a
candidate to become the “Fifth Estate”’, suggesting its power and ability
to hold the decision-making community accountable for its actions.
Clearly, this over-estimates the influence of polls, for it assumes that
politicians and governments actually listen to public opinion and that
it has a positive effect on their behaviour and decisions. It is extremely
difficult to identify such a correlation, especially when ‘public opinion’
is competing with the advice and information from a range of sources –
specialist advisers, for example, or civil servants, pressure and interest
groups, one’s own political party, etc. Besides, public opinion rarely
brings its influence to bear directly on government. Rather, it is medi-
ated via parties, groups, and the media. While these institutions serve to
transmit popular opinion to government, and government opinion
back down to citizens, they also serve as independent variables in

shaping and controlling the opinions of government and public. This is
important to note, for none of these mediating institutions are able to
reflect precisely public opinion; their centralisation, bureaucracy and
growing professionalism constrain their value in securing a genuinely
free flow of opinion and information, so that they often direct rather
than reflect public opinion.
However, while establishing a causal mechanism between the expres-
sion of public opinion and changes in political behaviour is not
straightforward, we should recognise that public opinion helps to
create the political environment within which governments and politi-
cians operate. Public opinion, even if expressed only during elections,
are at least an indication of popular satisfaction, with polls therefore
providing essential ‘political intelligence’ (Roll & Cantril, 1972:17).
Others view polls as a threat to responsible elite politics, encouraging
the kind of reactionary (rather than responsive) style decision-making
that is the pitfall of democracy.16 Roll & Cantril’s 1972 study of Polls:
Their Use and Misuse in Politics is a valuable addition to the literature,
especially in its detailed analysis of the mechanics of opinion polls and
in providing (now out of date) empirical evidence of their use. Most
surprising, however, are the authors’ conclusions that suggest their
elitist attitude to public opinion and politics in general: They acknow-
ledge that ‘opinion research … can enhance the strength of the democ-
ratic process by improving communication between the leader and the
led. … regular opinion soundings provide yet another way for the
public’s view to become known – particularly between elections’ (Ibid.:
153). However, Roll and Cantril then describe (Ibid.:154–5) an essen-
tially elitist view of the political process in which polls are taken to
ascertain the ignorance of voters and facilitate top-down communica-
tion and explanation of issues and policies. Regular polling, they claim,
‘can help leaders maximize their leadership potential …’ Polls are thus
used more as a method whereby political elites are able to design
their communication strategy with the public to maximise support for
decisions.
In this way, it is possible to argue that opinion polls are partly
responsible for the decline in interest in politics and trust in politi-
cians; they are a fundamental characteristic of the ‘professional’
politics that so many now despise. This is because in government or
opposition, parties now make rational use of opinion polls – produced
‘in house’ and by professional polling organisation and the media;
rational because polls can be useful to track public opinion, to ascer-
Public Opinion 87
tain the strength of support for policies or their own standing during
election campaigns among different geographic and demographic con-
stituencies. It is rational for parties in a competitive democratic system
to scrutinise the polls in order to maximise their chances of winning
and maintaining support, especially as the numbers of floating and tac-
tical voters continue to increase. In preparation for the 2001 British
General Election, a number of Internet sites appeared that were
devoted to tactical voting. These were examples of targeted campaign-
ing and were designed to maximise the vote in particular constituen-
cies that were considered vulnerable or marginal, especially the 90
parliamentary seats that were most vulnerable to a swing back to the
Conservative party.17
Moreover, opinion polls are thought to add drama and excitement to
an election, but for critics, this turns the campaign into a horse-race;
who’s up, who’s down, who’s predicted to win, by what margin? There
are suggestions that that opinion polls adversely affect voting behav-
iour and therefore election results (Norris, 1989:223). Political scientists
have long wrestled with the implications of the so-called ‘Bandwagon’
and ‘Boomerang’ effects that claim voters (and floating voters in
particular) are influenced in their voting behaviour by their interpreta-
tion of the polls, especially in political systems where party
identification is weak. However, evidence that these effects do occur is
lacking and, most important, these theories underestimate voters,
providing nothing in the way of a rational explanation why voters
might want to ‘jump ship’ at the last minute. Polls may also encourage
tactical voting: in the 1997 British General Election, an estimated
8–10 percent of the electorate are thought to have voted strategically.
In Taiwan, this is known as the ‘dump-save’ effect, where voters are
encouraged to ‘dump’ their favourite candidate in favour of another
who is most likely to defeat the least desirable contender. Therefore,
some political systems believe that banning either the reporting of
opinion polls, or the polls themselves immediately before election day
is a positive method of ensuring a free and fair vote. In 1977, for
example, France passed a law to prevent ‘publication, circulation and
commentary’ of any poll ‘having a direct or indirect link’ with the elec-
tion during the preceding week. The same law also created an opinion
poll watchdog committee to monitor the objectivity and quality of
opinion polls. The 2002 presidential election was the first since 1977 in
which the French press were allowed to publish soundings up to the
eve of the vote. Following the first round of the first round of presiden-
tial elections in France in 2002, there was an extraordinary backlash
against opinion polls that had failed to predict the level of support for
the Far Right candidate, Jean-Marie Le Pen. Broadcasting organisations
and newspapers refused to run polls because they no longer had faith
in the numbers. The pollsters blamed the elusiveness of typical Le Pen
voters, their social background, the number of abstentions, and the
record number candidates – 16 – contesting the election. However, one
must consider that banning polls or the reporting of polls may be a
form of censorship, contradicting the very principles that lie at the
heart of democratic politics. The Representation of the People’s Act
2000 made it a criminal offence in Britain to publish statements or
forecasts before a poll is closed based on information from those who
have already voted. This virtual ban on exit polls conflicts with Article
10 of the European Convention on Human Rights that grants the right
to receive and impart information. The Canadian Supreme Court ruled
that a ban on opinion polls during a federal election was unconstitu-
tional and restricted freedom of expression. Moreover, what happens
if postal voting becomes the norm? Will this mean an end to polls
altogether as the voting is usually spread out over several weeks?
Besides, while it is possible to prohibit one’s own media from reporting
opinion polls, modern technology and globalisation make it increas-
ingly unfeasible to prevent them receiving information about the polls
from foreign sources.
But are opinion polls really a danger to democratic politics? There
are two reasons why we can answer ‘no’. First, as with so much in
modern politics, we must go beyond the largely superficial characteris-
tics of the system and (in many ways meaningless) data that is pro-
vided by opinion polls and scrutinise the processes and institutions of
government. Public opinion polls have an important role to play, but
we should not overestimate their influence. For instance, one major
criticism of the British political system is that the timing of General
Elections is not fixed. Rather, the Prime Minister decides when to ‘go
to the country’ provided it is within five years of the previous election.
This means that governments can use opinion polls to their advantage;
they can look for established leads, assess the public’s reaction to their
policies, and even try to hold-off calling an election until a particularly
favourable policy has trickled down to the electorate. This is one argu-
ment for having fixed term parliaments and removing from the Prime
Minister the decision of calling an election. However, rather than
censuring politicians for behaving as rational creatures and ‘playing
the polls’, it is far more productive to question the institutional
processes of the British parliamentary system itself.
Public Opinion 89
Similarly, we should be mindful of the way polls are communicated

through the media, since this is how most of us obtain our informa-
tion about them. The problems derive not just from their reporting of
the polls (during the 1992 American Presidential election campaign,
between five and 10,000 polls were conducted among voters. There
has been a corresponding increase in the polls becoming part of the
story of the election. Fifteen percent of Time magazine cover stories
in 1973 used polls; in 1993, this had risen to 46 percent. Wu and
Weaver, 1997:71), but that broadcast media themselves try to
instantly gauge public opinion in a relatively short space of time and
without providing sufficient information for viewers to make rea-
soned decision. In the age of rapid response technology – e-mail and
‘texting’ by mobile telephones – the broadcast media seem to be
gaining confidence in their use of straw polls that invite audiences to
vote for or against a proposition within the duration of a programme:
should Britain support a war against Iraq, yes or no? Needless to say,
these straw polls are meaningless beyond measuring audience size for
ratings considerations. There is no room here for ‘yes, but …’; the
questions are framed in such a way that the respondent is forced into
a choosing from diametrically opposed positions. Moreover, there is
absolutely no way to control the sample: how does one ensure that
the respondents are in some way representative of the interested con-
stituency? Respondents are able to telephone, text, or email as many
times as they wish with little pressure of constraint. In short, such
straw polls are completely unscientific, and therefore unreliable;
even if their results are accurate, the methodology makes the poll
extremely spurious.
Likewise, the way that media report opinion polls is problematic;
particularly during elections, the media are concerned with polls
only because they add to the excitement, but are rarely concerned
with discussing the meaning or implications of the poll results (and
they are especially uninterested in the science of polls). For example,
a report in The Observer newspaper (29 September 2002) was head-
lined: ‘No war without UN, warns poll’. The first paragraph of the
report stated: ‘A vast majority of the [British] public opposes military
action against Iraq unless there is clear sanction from the United
Nations, one of the most comprehensive surveys of public opinion
on the issue reveals’. However, the report revealed that the poll had
been commissioned by a television programme (Channel 4’s War on
Iraq: Which side are you on?) and surveyed only 1,000 people. While
the credibility of the poll itself is beyond doubt, the result is far from
representing a ‘vast majority of the public’. More significant was

another poll, described in the same report, which found surveyed
202 Labour party constituency chairs and found that 167 opposed
the idea of unilateral action against Iraq. Since these respondents are
a powerful influence on Labour party opinion, these were worrying
figures indeed for the Labour government.
To be meaningful, media coverage of polls must provide context,
be jargon free and provide few statistics beyond the kind of mathemat-
ics that everyone can understand. Using mathematics to dress the
poll in scientific validity will only confuse readers and render the
poll unusable; the media should offer simple (though avoiding over-
simplification) descriptions of polls and explain why the results are
significant.
To evaluate polls we need to consider both the question asked and
how the poll is interpreted and reported. Answering questions about
voting intentions is relatively straightforward; a respondent is pre-
sented with a choice of candidates and/or parties and asked to
specify for whom they will vote, or would vote if there was an elec-
tion soon. They may not answer truthfully; one reason why the polls
in the 1992 British General Election were so inaccurate was the
so-called ‘spiral of silence,’ developed in Germany by Elizabeth
Newman in the 1970s; at a time when it was unfashionable to vote
Conservative, respondents to polls lied about their intentions rather
than admit the way they would vote. Ivor Crewe (1992) has calcu-
lated that the number of people who refused to be interviewed about
their voting intentions in 1992 was almost 50 percent, the majority
of whom were Conservatives but were ashamed to admit it. (It is also
possible that there was a definite pre-election bias in the polls
towards those who were likely to vote Labour.) French opinion poll
organisations claimed that they had miscalculated support for the
Far Right candidate Jean-Marie Le Pen in the 2004 presidential elec-
tion because the typical voter is solitary, uneducated and reluctant
to admit supporting him. (See Appendix 1)
Surveying attitudes is more problematic than voting intentions,
since the response can turn on the phrasing of the question (See
Appendix 2); asking the same question in two ways can elicit very
different responses, even from the same person. A proposal to cut ‘aid
to the needy’ will elicit a very different response to a proposal to
cut ‘public welfare programmes’. The wording in the first instance
provokes an emotional response, and few would like to admit they are
in favour of denying ‘the needy’ financial help. The term ‘public
Public Opinion 91
welfare programmes’, however, is less sensitive and is more consistent

with the value-neutral and rational approach to politics that people
favour. As Roll and Cantrill (1972: 103) observe, ‘A poll is only as
good as the questions it asks’. The cardinal rule would appear to be
understand the political motivation of the agency – political party, the
media, interest groups etc. – that is sponsoring the poll; the wording of
the question can be written in such a way to provoke the response that
sponsor favours.
The question is only the first stage. The real problems lie in the inter-
pretation of responses. For example, how should the strength of con-
viction be measured? Should a particularly strong opinion be weighted
more heavily than one weakly expressed? Should the polling organisa-
tion allow for the fact that some respondents will be basing their
answer on greater knowledge or information than others? Is the
opinion of someone who does not know much about a particular issue
worth the same or less than someone who knows more? Should their
opinions be treated equally by decision makers? These are important
questions, because they lie at the heart of democratic political commu-
nication; does or should everyone have an equal opportunity to
express their opinions to policy makers regardless of their access to
knowledge and information? This calls for an inquiry into the very
value of opinion polls, the methods they use (especially in arriving at
the sample of respondents),18 their place in the decision making
process, and forces us to re-enter the debate about majorities and
minorities and the nature of representative government. They tell us
nothing about why respondents hold particular opinions and from
where they obtained the information upon which the opinions are
based:
A public opinion poll tells us nothing about the eagerness or enthu-

siasm of those wish that something be done, or about the indiffer-
ence or bitterness of those who do not want it done. Until the
pollsters do both these things, they will not ‘chart’ opinion or ‘regis-
ter’ sentiment. They may claim to count a pulse, but they cannot
boast of reading a thermometer (Rogers, 1949:47).
A more important measure of opinion is political activity; are citizens

actually mobilised to express their dissatisfaction with policy or
government intentions? This is a more accurate indication of intensity
than opinion polls and, as we will see in the next chapter, can have
more influence.
Appendix 1
‘… Despite a flurry of recent opinion polls suggesting [US Presidential candidate
John] Kerry is widening his lead over the Republican president, a different
picture emerges from a forecasting phenomenon the combines the technical
sophistication of commodity futures markets with the thrill of gambling on a
horse race.
Admirers of the new system claim it has consistently proved more reliable
than opinion polls in predicting election results. …
… The search for a different form of political forecasting – one that ignores
day-to-day swings in voter opinion and focuses on the likely result – has led to
the creation of the new futures market. On the Iowa Electronics Market (IEM)
and several similar exchanges the “commodities” are politicians and investors
bet on their prospects. … Each candidate has a “price” that moves up and down
according to investor interest, like a company share’. …
… A recent University of Iowa study of IEM’s performance in 49 domestic and
foreign elections found that the market had an average margin of error of only
1.37% – well below opinion poll margins.19 …
… How can an obscure political trading system … outperform highly sophis-
ticated opinion polls that canvass thousands of voters? The explanation [some
believe] derives from the investor’s pride in his ability to guess right and to
make a profit. …
(Tony Allen-Mills, ‘Kerry’s stock slides in the futures market’,

The Sunday Times, 13 June 2004:29.)
Appendix 2
On 23 February 2004 the Hong Kong Constitutional Development Task Force issued
a survey questionnaire entitled Seeking Your Views to gather ‘public views on the
issues of principle and legislative process relating to constitutional development
under the Basic Law’. On the left hands side of the questionnaire were listed a
number of statements; on the right a set of related questions. For example:
The Hong Kong Special Administrative Region (HKSAR) comes directly under
the Central People’s Government (CPG), the CPG has constitutional powers and
responsibilities to oversee the constitutional development in the HKSR, and has
the responsibility to ensure that the development within Hong Kong’s political
structure is in accordance with the ‘One Country, Two Systems’ and the Basic
Law, and the provisions relating to the relationship between the Central
Authorities and the HKSAR.
How could Hong Kong’s political structure develop in accordance with the following
principles in the relevant Basic Law provisions which relate to the relationship between
the Central Authorities and the HKSAR?
(1) Hong Kong is an inalienable part of China (Article 1 of the Basic Law)?
(2) HKSAR comes directly under the CPG (Article 12 of the Basic Law)?
(3) The Chief Executive (CE) is appointed by the CPG. He is accountable to both the
CPG and the HKSAR (Aricles 43 and 45 of the Basic Law)?
Public Opinion 93
On the principles of ‘actual situation’ and ‘gradual and orderly progress’:

(1) what should ‘actual situation’ constitute?
(2) how ‘gradual and orderly progress’ should be understood?
When submitting the Basic Law (Draft) and its relevant documents to the
Seventh National People’s Congress on 28 March 1990, Mr Ji Pengfei, Chairman
of the Drafting Committee for the Basic Law of the HKSAR explained that: ‘The
political structure of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region should
accord with the principles of ‘One Country, Two Systems’ and aim to maintain
stability and prosperity in Hong Kong in line with its legal status and actual
situation. To this end, consideration must be given to the interests of different
sectors of society and the structure must facilitate the development of the
capitalist economy in the Region. While the part of the existing political struc-
ture proven to be effective will be maintained, a democratic system that suits
Hong Kong’s reality should be gradually introduced …’
Based on Mr Ji’s explanation in 1990, how could the development of Hong Kong’s
political structure:
(1) meet ‘the interests of the different sectors of society’?
(2) ‘facilitate the development of the capitalist economy’?
Annex I to the Basic Law stipulates that ‘If there is a need to amend the method
of selecting the CE for the terms subsequent to the year 2007, …’
Whether the phrase ‘subsequent to the year 2007’ should be understood to include
2007?
In response, I wrote the following piece for publication in Hong Kong’s South
China Morning Post.
On Monday 23 February 2004 the English-language South China Morning Post –

along with every other (Chinese-language) newspaper in Hong Kong – devoted
almost a whole page to Seeking Your Views, a survey of public opinion that was
launched by the Constitutional Development Taskforce. The survey invited
readers to respond to a series of questions relating to passages from the Basic
Law that were conveniently printed on the left-hand side of the page for easy
reference. However, while Hong Kong’s democrats may have rejoiced at this
attempt to encourage participation in the political process and facilitate genuine
popular consultation, the survey did not assist democratic communication
in Hong Kong whatsoever. In fact, it is a good example of how difficult it is
to poll attitudes, it demonstrates the importance of framing the question to
invite meaningful responses, and reinforced the idea that polls can be a tool of
conservative elite politics.
First, the survey complicated even further the extremely technical debates
about Hong Kong’s political development that were saturating the media in
the first half of 2004. Question A2, for example, refers to the principles of the
‘actual situation’ and ‘gradual and orderly progress’. Readers are then invited to
comment on how the ‘actual situation’ should be constituted, and how we
might understand ‘gradual and orderly progress.’
Another question asks how the development of Hong Kong’s political struc-
ture could meet the interests of the different sectors of society and facilitate the
development of the capitalist economy. Talk about asking BIG questions.
When the survey turns to the issues of legislative process, the questions
become even more demanding: ‘What is the most appropriate legislative pro-
cedure for amending the methods for selecting the CE and forming the LegCo?
Do we need to follow the procedures set out in Article 159 of the Basic Law, if
we amend the methods for selecting the CE or forming the LegCo as specified in
Annexes I and II of the Basic Law’.
And on it goes …
The Task Force obviously forgot the first principle: A survey is only as good as
the questions it asks, and the questions asked by the Task Force do not invite
serious response because they assume a particularly high level of knowledge and
comprehension. Has everybody read, understood and, most importantly, inter-
rogated the relevant passages of the Basic Law and all its annexes to be able to
offer the kind of critical opinion the Task Force requires? Unfortunately for
Hong Kong, political science tells us that, faced with a complicated question,
citizens tend to abstain altogether from such surveys because they do not
understand the issue, or they vote to keep the status quo (surveys generally
being forces of conservative government).
The consequences are potentially ominous: if the average citizen is unable
to provide sensible and cogent answers to such surveys based on full informa-
tion and critical reflection, it is possible to imagine a time when government
concludes that the level of political ignorance is unsatisfactory for any kind of
participation. Moreover, if the response rate is low, the authoritarians among us
will claim that democracy has failed, and that Hong Kong people are apathetic
to politics after all (an argument which the July 2003 and January 2004 demon-
strations prove is nonsense). Or, the technicalities of the questions will generate
responses from certain sections of the population only, sustaining an elitist
political system that allows for the continued ‘tyranny of the minority’. Either
way, Hong Kong loses.
So if the survey is not assisting democracy, we can argue that it is merely
feeding the illusion of participation, transparency and legitimacy. It is providing
a fantasy for every Hong Kong resident – Chinese and English-speaking – that
his or her views are wanted and are valued. The appeal of such surveys is under-
standable: decisions are considered more legitimate if they have been arrived
at by soliciting popular opinion. However, the success of such surveys depends
on voter interest and participation, being user-friendly, and providing informa-
tion that is of sufficient quality that all potential respondents can form an
opinion regardless of background or status.
Let me summarise my argument in the kind of direct, jargon free language
that the Task Force has decided is not appropriate for its survey: This is bad
communication. Political communication turns on the need to persuade people
to care enough about an issue that they will form an opinion about it. This
survey does neither, and on such an important issue for Hong Kong, that is very
worrying indeed.
(Gary Rawnsley, ‘First get the questions right,’ South China Morning Post,
25 February 2004:A13).
4
Instruments of Expression (I):
Group Politics
[T]he art of advocating something you know to be bad as the

only alternative to something you know to be a great deal worse.
(Sir Gerald Nabarro on party politics, quoted in
The New York Times, 12 October 1969)
To appreciate the importance of public opinion in modern democratic

politics, it is not enough merely to understand what it is and how it is
formed. We must also consider the aggregation of public opinion and some
of the means of expressing it. After all, the issue is not so much what public
opinion is, but rather why and how it should be communicated to have the
desired effect. We turn first to understand groups and social movements as
agents of political communication. Do they reflect public opinion as liberals
believe, or do they create it as the critical theorists suppose? Does their
decision to engage in direct action represents a method of expression or is it
the epitome of crisis in representative government?
Group politics and communication
Political parties have traditionally been defended as the primary link

between citizens and the state. In 1942, E.E. Schattschneider even went
so far as to claim that ‘modern democracy is unthinkable save in terms
of political parties’, while Hague and Harrop (2001:167) described the
‘mass party’1 as ‘the mobilizing device of the twentieth century’. But this
is a dated view of the political process. Admittedly, parties still perform
functions that are essential to the smooth working of representative
democracy and political communication, and it is difficult to envisage
modern political systems working without the operational capacity of
political parties: they can educate and mobilise voters, simplify the
95
political choices available to them, recruit and socialise members, they

aggregate and represent interests; and they still control governments,
legislatures and electoral politics (Meyer, 2001:17; Clark, 2004).2 Parties
epitomise the diffusion of political power in society, mediating between
citizens and the state, and adding checks and balances to the system.3
Pressure/interest groups can do all these things, but what separates them
from political parties is that pressure groups cannot form governments, nor
do they seek election to office. There are exceptions, of course, and some-
times the distinction between parties and groups becomes blurred at election
time. Some groups do become parties and stand for election, but they have
little realistic chance of forming a government. The main difference is that
parties stand for a broad platform, whereas parties created out of pressure
groups tend to campaign on single issues. The Pro-Life Alliance fielded
53 candidates in 1997, and the Referendum Party 547 candidates, but
neither had any credible chance of forming the government. Standing for
election, however, is an extremely important act of political communica-
tion, for it is an opportunity for groups to raise attention to their cause.
Visibility is crucial for the success of all groups. Although only 30 of the
Referendum Party’s candidates saved their deposits in 1997, they did ensure
that Europe was high on the election agenda, and forced the major parties
to state their position on the issue (Butler & Kavanagh, 1997:308). In con-
trast, the Pro-Life Alliance had little success, securing publicity through its
intended use of graphic images of aborted foetuses. The alliance was there-
fore newsworthy but had failed to make use of acceptable images that would
have allowed them to attract mainstream support. ‘Any prize for the least
seen broadcast [in 2001] went to the Pro-Life Alliance. It put up the six can-
didates required to qualify for a party broadcast in Wales. In a re-run of
1997, senior broadcasters judged its pictures of aborted foetuses incompati-
ble with the guidelines or codes. The Alliance took them to court and lost’
(Butler & Kavanagh, 2001:153. A full discussion of the Alliance’s campaign
techniques, including photographs from the banned broadcast, is available
in the Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television 17(4), 1997).
Party identification is falling (See Table 4.1; also Dalton & Wattenberg,
2001), at the same time that election turnout is also declining. If we
accept Hague and Harrop’s classification of European political parties
formed after 1945, it is not too difficult to understand the reasons for this
trend. They refer to ‘catch-all’ parties which, among other things, are
dominated by leaders who communicate with the voters through televi-

sion rather than indirectly via a large, active membership. The catch-all
party is a response to a mobilized political system in which governing
has become more technical and in which electoral communication is
through the media. The transformation of several radical socialist parties
Instruments of Expression (I) 97
into leader-dominated social democratic parties … is perhaps the most

important example of a shift from mass to catch-all status’ (2001:169).
This transformation is, of course, most visible in Britain with the

creation of ‘New Labour’ dominated by media-friendly Tony Blair, while
the ‘Old’ socialist Labour party of the trades unions, the Red Flag, town
hall meetings, and conference composites, flounders at the margins.
Table 4.1 Party membership in eight European democracies, 1960–99
Party members as a percentage of the electorate
Beginning of 1960s Beginning of 1980s End of 1990s
Austria 26 22 18
Finland 19 13 10
Belgium 8 9 7
Norway 16 14 7
Italy 13 10 4
Netherlands 9 3 3
Germany 3 4 3
UK 9 3 2
Source: Reproduced from Hague & Harrop, 2001: 172 and based on Mair & van Biezen, 2001,
pp. 9, 12 & 15.
Table 4.2 Political party and pressure group membership
2002 2001 2000 Earlier
Labour 280,00 X 311,000 400,465 (1996)

Lib Dems 76,023 74,176 71,641 98,611 (1996)
Conservatives 330,000 X 318,000 350,000 (1996)
Greens 5,000 4,000 X 3,500 (1996)
Plaid Cymru 11,000 X X no previous
figures
TUC X 69 unions, 76 unions, 73 unions
6.7m members 6.8m members (1996), 6.7m
members
Amnesty X 154,611 136,348 125,362 (1998)
International
Greenpeace X 193,500 176,000 194,309 (1998)
Friends of X 110,248 105,185 94,528 (1996)
the Earth
CND (approx) X 27–32,000 25–30,000 no previous
figures
Stonewall X 6,000 5,000 no previous
figures
RSPB 1.19m 1.11m 1.4m 925,000 (1996)
RSPCA X 49,760 54,000 29,504
National Trust 2.8m 2.7m X 2.29m (1996)
Source: The Guardian, 29 January 2002, p. 10.

Data provided by the International Labour Office (ILO) in Geneva

confirms that the proportion of union members declined in the 1990s,
but warns us against making generalisations: in central and Eastern
Europe, for example, the decline is due in large part to the end of com-
pulsory union membership. Moreover, we must take into account that
membership has risen in only a few countries examined by the ILO
(including South Africa, the Philippines, Spain, Malta and Finland),
which is apparent once we examine the overall figures in Table 6 in
light of overall employment statistics (Table 4.3 presents absolute
figures only).
Table 4.3 Trades Union membership, 1996–7 (absolute % figures only)
South Africa + 126.7

Spain + 92.3
Chile + 99.6
Thailand + 77.3
Philippines + 69.4
Republic of Korea + 60.8
Bangladesh + 57.8
Zimbabwe + 54.4
Hong Konga + 53.0
Taiwan + 49.8
Egypt + 21.8
Netherlands + 19.3
Germany – 20.3
UK – 25.2
France – 31.2
Venezuela – 32.2
Hungary – 38.0
Uganda – 38.3
Slovakia – 40.1
Portugal – 44.2
Poland – 45.7
New Zealand – 46.7
Czech Republic – 50.6
Estonia – 71.2
Israel – 75.7
a
Prior to the handover to China, 1997.
Source: The World Employment Report 1996–97, International Labour Office (Geneva).
In contrast to parties, other groups and social movements that are

capable of encouraging political engagement are experiencing a resur-
gence of interest and membership. The rise of the British National Party
(BNP) is widely seen as a reaction to the failure of Labour to connect with
constituents in areas that are traditional party strongholds. Those fighting

the growing power of the Far Right, such as Kevin Curran, regional secre-
tary of the GMB union in Sunderland, lament the failure of the Labour
government to counter persuasive opinion that asylum seekers are a
menace. In response, the GMB is seeking to reactivate grassroots political
communication in these areas by working among residents to challenge
BNP claims and growing xenophobia.
The problem with such data, of course, is that it does not tell us
anything about party or group activism. When party membership is
high, does this mean that all members are active in the organisation?
Or are the remaining members after a period of fall-out the committed
individuals who were always more active? Do people join groups from
a genuine commitment to the cause, or as a method of joining a
network that will be beneficial to their career or social standing? And
what about those groups where membership is automatic (all students
in the UK are automatically members of the Students Union, for
example)? And can we differentiate between those activists who
give their time and energy – often voluntarily – from the ‘free-riders’
or hangers on who rarely participate in the group’s activities? The
problem is more acute when we consider new social movements
that have no formal organisation or membership structure. It can be
difficult to define ‘joining’ such a group, never mind trying to measure
the intensity of activism within it.
Data suggests that people now prefer to join very discrete groups
with narrow concerns than the broad churches of political parties
(See Table 4.2; Seyd & Whiteley, 1992:204). Groups provide a useful
link between government and governed, and crucially they allow for
participation between elections. In this capacity, however, Table 4.2 is
misleading, for it deals only in numbers of members and tells us
nothing about the level of their commitment or participation. What if
a member only ‘participates’ in a group’s activities by paying his/her
membership dues? In other words, one must take into account the
intensity of commitment to a group. The higher the cost of member-
ship (in terms of commitment) the lower the participation. Moreover,
it does not take into account overlapping membership; Labour party
members may also be members of Greenpeace or Amnesty Interna-
tional, for example (See Seyd & Whiteley, 1992:92).
Nevertheless, groups seem to enjoy popular trust in a way that polit-
ical parties, the civil service, and industry do not (Jordan, 1998:9 found
that whereas only 32–36 percent of people surveyed trusted the oil
industry, 81–85 percent trusted environmental groups); and they can
contribute to political education, since they offer (varying levels of)
expertise on a wide range of issues, in addition to greater opportunities

for participation than parties:
The evidence here is quite indisputable; individual membership of

political parties in the UK has declined precipitously since the 1960s
… In 1964, 9.4 per cent of all registered electors were members of
the main three British parties with nationwide organizations; by the
time of the 1992 general election, just 2.0 per cent were (a 79 per
cent decline in proportional terms) (Webb, 1995:306).
Freedom of association is considered a yardstick for the level of democ-

racy in a political system, and organised groups that campaign on
behalf of their members and seek to influence policy are an essential
channel of political communication. Groups do exist in authoritarian
or totalitarian political systems, but they seldom enjoy the same degree
of autonomy offered to their counterparts in democracies. Rather,
groups are considered a vital component of the downward flow of
communication and are useful only for organisation and mobilisation
on behalf of the state (Chapter 6 this volume; Perlmutter, 1981; Hill,
1994:274–5). Authoritarian governments tolerate youth groups,
women’s groups, unions etc. to keep their members busy and involved
in regime-supportive activities, and are denied opportunities for inde-
pendent mobilisation and organisation. In such political systems,
groups are able to represent their members’ interests ‘in so far as they
do not override the common good, as defined by the party’ (Saich,
2001:170).5 Control and predictability are preferred to the supposed
chaos and uncertainty of pluralism.
In democracies, however, groups are regarded as an integral part
of civil society, and thus profit from the opportunity to challenge the
state by voicing their opinions and mobilising against the state. As
Britain’s leading expert on pressure groups, Wyn Grant, has suggested:
Pressure groups permit citizens to express their views on complex

issues which affect their lives … Numerical democracy … finds
its difficult … to take account of the intensity of opinion on a
particular issue. Democracy cannot be reduced simply to a head-
counting exercise: it must also take account of the strength of
feelings expressed, and the quality of arguments advanced (Grant,
1995:23–4).6
John Parkinson (2004:370–88) has also described the ‘facilitation role’

that interest groups play in democracy, ‘providing the public sphere
with information that would not otherwise be available.’ Commenting

on groups’ ability to marshal ‘time, resources and energy’ on specific
issues, Parkinson concludes:
Thus, interest groups need not have direct principal-agent links

with the relatively inactive citizenry to have a legitimate role in
democracy: they are the essential facilitators who do have the time,
resources and expertise to facilitate communication through
throughout the system.7
It seems extraordinary, therefore, that given so many arguments in

their favour it is possible to argue that groups do not make a significant
contribution to representative democracy after all. If groups are lobby-
ing on behalf of the interests of minorities or particular economic or
social groups, does this mean that the mandate governments are
granted via elections to look after the national interest is undermined?
In a trenchant liberal critique of group influence written in the 1980s,
Samuel Brittan proposed that groups undermine freedom and good
governance. Echoing the ‘New Right’ approach to politics, Brittan was
sceptical of pluralism, accepting that ‘democracy has degenerated into
an unprincipled auction to satisfy rival organized groups who can
never in the long run be appeased because their demands are mutually
incompatible’ (Brittan, 1987:79). In other words, politics becomes an
arena of group competition (especially business versus labour) to the
detriment of individual preferences. Good governance is sacrificed
because governments are faced with multiple demands from compet-
ing groups that (again, like labour and business interests) can exercise a
form of coercive power (for example, strikes) over them. Subscribing to
the New Right ideology, the Thatcher government was elected to office
in 1979 after the unions had paralysed Britain for much of the 1970s,
culminating in the so-called Winter of Discontent in 1978–9. The New
Right believed that the unions had too much power on matters that
should have been left to government – prices, incomes, expenditure
and taxation. The political argument was that the general interest of
the country, as represented by constituency MPs in Parliament, was
undermined by functional constituencies that represented only their
members’ interests. Moreover, those who did not belong to these func-
tional constituencies were denied a voice and access to power. The
Thatcher government’s attack on the unions is well known and well
documented; in particular, the defeat of the coal miners in 1985 after a
year-long strike demonstrated that the power of unions had weakened
considerably through government action, but also because of structural
changes to Britain’s industrial sector. The problem resurfaced during

the Tony Blair’s second parliament in 2002 when unions, starting with
the powerful RMT, decided to withdraw sponsorship of the Labour
party and those MPs seen as supporting the government’s transport
policies. Bob Crowe, the general secretary of the union, expressed
concern that a ‘procession of businessmen’ had been invited to
Downing Street, and the transport secretary had meetings with rail
company executives, but neither had met the heads of the rail indus-
try’s largest union (‘Rail union cuts cash support to Labour’, The
Guardian, 26 June 2002). The problems that many trades unions feel
they have with the Labour party were summarised by Debbie Coulter,
the GMB deputy general secretary during the 2003 TUC conference.
Activists, she told The Guardian (9 September 2003:11)
are questioning why they should give up time and effort to actively
support the party when the government in power has moved farther
away from the people they represent. GMB members feel let
down by the government’s move away from a grassroots approach
to developing policy towards policies being set in isolation by
Downing Street officials.
We can likewise take issue with the idea that groups are truly rep-
resentative because they face the same management problem as most
other large organisations, namely how to create a system of effective
leadership that genuinely represents their members. Given the large
membership that many of these organisations boast, together with the
fact that they may be representing disparate communities (the elderly,
the disabled, unemployed etc.), group management may not always be
able to guarantee that the views of the membership are heard and con-
sidered. Moreover, pressure groups tend to be populated by the middle
class and educated, belying the idea that groups offer the chance for a
more inclusive and participatory politics. Schattschneider made
this observation in 1960: ‘The flaw in the pluralist heaven is that the
heavenly chorus sings with a strong upper-class accent’ (1960:35). Even
in 1994, data revealed that cause groups attracted a predominately
educated middle-class membership: 35.3 percent of Friends of the
Earth members have a first degree, 18.9 percent have a postgraduate
degree, and 10 percent were still in higher education. This means that
64 percent of Friends of the Earth had experienced higher education
(Quoted in Grant, 2000:197). While it is certainly true that group
politics are a reflection, not the cause, of deeper social problems
that inhibit a more inclusive form of participation, and may be one
explanation for the rapid proliferation of new social movements (see

below), it is still possible to claim that some groups only perpetuate
the elitism that characterises all levels of political society, and that
only certain interests will have access to the political system.
It follows that the idea of pressure groups acting as a channel of demo-
cratic political communication is an illusion because of the notable
absence of a level-playing field for group competition. Governments will
listen to some groups, and ignore others depending on the issue, the
resources that the group can mobilise,8 whether the group is considered
legitimate on that particular issue, and the political and public mood (‘The
likelihood of any group gaining wide popular support for its demands
depends upon the congruence between group demands and the values,
beliefs, and emotions widely diffused in the culture’. Rose, 1974:253). In
this context, Wyn Grant (1995:15–23) has made the important distinction
between ‘insider’ groups (considered legitimate and involved in negotia-
tion/consultation with government and/or the civil service forming ‘policy
communities’) and ‘outsider’ groups (those denied access to the political
system or who may not wish to be considered legitimate and concentrate
mainly on influencing public opinion).9 The crucial point is that these
definitions are not fixed; groups are neither inside nor outside on a per-
manent basis, but may find their status changing depending on the issue
under consideration. So for example farmers and landowners, traditionally
an ‘insider’ group (especially when a Conservative government has been
elected in Britain), found itself resorting to outsider group tactics when
faced with a prospect of a ban on fox-hunting. Being an insider group is
not a guarantee of success, as Brynle Williams of the Farmers Union
of Wales found out: ‘I’ve spent the last five years in political lobbies
not getting anywhere … this [fuel] protest [in 2000] came about because
no-one was listening … now I believe the doors are opening’ (quoted in
Doherty, et al., 2003:11). Moreover, some insider groups are viewed with
suspicion by other groups campaigning on the same or similar issues.
Friends of the Earth and Greenpeace, for example, are often criticised by
other environmental groups for having allegedly ‘sold out’ a radical
agenda to earn their legitimacy.10
Another typology that refers to the strategies adopted by groups has
more relevance to the idea that groups are important as vehicles of politi-
cal communication. Bill Coxall (2001:111) talks of ‘fire-brigade’ cam-
paigns that are short-term and aim to alert the public to an ‘immediate
threat (e.g. miners against pit closures)’ and ‘long-term educational
campaigns (e.g. those aimed at improving the welfare of wild and farm
animals)’. Outsider and insider groups will use both strategies depending
on the issue and the public/political climate.
How the media report the activities of ‘outsider groups’ has generated
a whole literature of its own. The most important work has been pub-
lished by Daniel Hallin (1986) who created a model that sought to
explain how the American media reported the Vietnam war with refer-
ence to what he called ‘spheres of influence. (Figure 4.1)’ This model can
be easily applied to any particular political issue and any political
system. (For example model has been used to explain the role of the
media during the long period of authoritarian rule in Taiwan. See
Rawnsley, 2000; Rawnsley and Rawnsley, 2001). The ‘sphere of consen-
sus’ is here presented as a sacrosanct area that embraces core American
values – apple pie, white picket fences, the Star Spangled Banner. The
‘sphere of legitimate controversy’ allows and encourages criticism; it is
an area of debate about means rather than ends. For example, during the
Vietnam war debate was tolerated provided it focused on the methods of
waging the war, not on the aims or justification of the war itself. Entry to
the ‘sphere of deviance’ or ‘unacceptable controversy’ means that the
permitted boundaries have been crossed. Here we find discussion of ideas
that contradict the sphere of consensus, i.e. American values.
Sphere of
Consensus
Sphere of
Legitimate
Controversy
Sphere of
Deviance
Figure 4.1 Daniel Hallin’s spheres

Source: Hallin (1986).
It was the sphere occupied by the ‘communists’ identified by the

McCarthy witch-hunts of the 1950s, as well as to the ‘campus bums’
who led the counter-culture’s opposition to American involvement in
Vietnam. Hence, the spheres allow us to understand how particular
opinions are marginalised by the way they are communicated, or
by the fact that they do not have a voice at all because they are not con-
sidered legitimate. Many have cited the Vietnam war and the Watergate
investigations as turning points in the relationship between the
American media and political institutions (Patterson, 1993; Sabato, 1993;
Cappella and Jamieson, 1997). The breakdown of elite consensus on
Vietnam that created a vacuum of opinion for the media to fill, together
with the decline in deference to politicians following Watergate, meant
that the media became much more aggressive in their pursuit of political
stories and more prepared than ever before to expose the fallibility of
the nation’s political actors. In other words, the boundaries between the
spheres of acceptable and unacceptable controversy became blurred.
Later, however, the situation changed again. For example, there was
absolutely no room for any voices of dissent in America’s war against
Iraq in 2003, and even the liberal media were ‘on message’.
A similar process occurred during the 1980s when coverage of
American politics was dominated by the conflict in Nicaragua and US
policy there. Bennett (1990) reinforces Hallin’s view that the media
report, rather than cause, the breakdown in elite consensus. The New
York Times grew increasingly critical of President Reagan’s policies in
Nicaragua only when opposition within Congress likewise increased.
Once Congress turned its attention to other issues, so did the New
York Times. Bennett’s conclusion (1990:106) is that: ‘Mass media news
professionals, from the boardroom to the beat, tend to “index” the
range of voices and viewpoints in both news and editorials according
to the range of views expressed in mainstream government debate
about a given topic.’
So, at the heart of any group’s behaviour – insider or outsider – is the
desire to communicate (with the government or with public opinion)
to first create publicity, then shape public opinion, and finally make
sure that the issue is on the political agenda, for only when an issue is
on the political agenda can anything be done about it. Simply being
vocal is no guarantee of success, as Robert Dahl pointed out in his 1956
book, A Preface to Democratic Theory:
I defined the ‘normal’ American political process as one in which

there is a high probability that an active and legitimate group in the
population can make itself heard effectively at some crucial stage in

the process of decision. …
… When I say that a group is heard ‘effectively’ I mean more than
the simple fact that it makes a noise; I mean that one or more
officials are not only ready to listen to the noise, but expect to suffer
in some significant way if they do not placate the group, its leaders,
or its most vociferous members (Dahl, 1956:145).
The key to success, however, is promoting the right issue at the right
time; catching the public mood in an emotional upswing, especially
close to an election, can make all the difference. Consider one of the
most successful campaigns of all time, the creation of the British group
Shelter that campaigns on behalf of the homeless. Shelter was founded
in 1966 after an upsurge of public opinion and sympathy following
the harrowing TV docudrama, Cathy Come Home. More recently,
the Snowdrop campaign to ban handguns in Britain following the
Dunblane School massacre of 1996 was equally successful. With little
experience, the campaigners achieved their objectives within a year.
The most important reasons for the success of this campaign can
be identified as the emotional outpouring of sympathy following the
tragedy at Dunblane, and the media’s persistence in keeping the issue
on their agenda. The pro-gun lobby could not compete with the expo-
sure their opponents were attracting, nor with Britain’s emotional
climate.
The creation of Shelter and the Snowdrop campaign highlight the
importance of the relationship between the media and the group.
Publicity is difficult but essential, and in recognition of this, many
groups have professionalised their attempts to generate publicity and
court media attention, producing their own videos that are distributed
to news organisations. Greenpeace, for example,
has a full in-house film, video and photographic capability incorpo-

rating a small television studio, three editing suites, a digital sound
studio, and a commercial film and television archive. These facilities
also include compressed digital satellite encoders and decoders and
three-dimensional computer graphics. The Greenpeace press desk
operates on a 24-hour basis to accommodate the deadlines of media
organisations around the world (Anderson, 1997:85).
Groups that are able to do so, therefore, devote a significant proportion

of their resources (staff, time, funds) to developing close relations
with the media. This may mean giving the media finished films and
polished press releases that news organisations can easily fit into their
bulletins (part of the job of the professional is knowing how the media
works and giving them what they want in a format they can use).
Usually, it means providing the media with stories, information, reac-
tions to events and policy developments, and quotable sound-bites.
These professionals understand how the media work and advise their
clients on the how to conform to the agendas and routines of the
media (such as timing and format). This gives rise to the concept
of ‘pseudo events’ or media events that refers to the organisation of
activities by groups to coincide with the presumed requirements and
functions of the news organisations (Montgomery, 1989:217). For
example, good visuals and ‘publicity stunts’ will attract the attention of
television news organisations (Fathers For Justice dressing as Batman to
climb the outside walls of Buckingham Palace in 2004 received wide
and prominent coverage in the way a simple demonstration may not).
Political parties know this very well, and are especially attune to the
timing of events; they will usually stage press conferences at a the most
appropriate time in the day’s news-cycle to make sure they receive
maximum coverage – of course, it is much better if the conferences are
live and timed to coincide with the broadcast of a news programme.
Media relations are particularly important for outsider groups who
must appeal first to public opinion to influence the policy making
communities. Baggot’s research found 75 percent of insider groups
and 86 percent of outsider groups are in contact with the media at
least once a week; 50 percent are in daily contact (Baggot, 1992:20;
1995:183). Given the importance of the media, it is not surprising,
therefore, that many groups now employ the services of lobbying
consultants who can advise groups how to professionalise their
campaign. Professional lobbying is an American phenomenon; in
1945, less than 200 lobbyists were registered with Congress. Now
there are over 16,000. The weak party structure of the American
political system, the divisions between legislative and executive, the
strong committee system within Congress, the federal system of
political organisation, and the importance of financial contributions
by Political Action Committees (PAC), have made lobbying particu-
larly effective there. In Britain, however, the stronger party structure
and discipline, and the fact that the executive operates from within
the legislature, means that lobbyists are less successful than their
American cousins in targeting individual politicians, and head first
for the mandarins of Whitehall.
Lobbyists act on behalf of their ‘clients’ by acting as intermediaries

between them and government. Although there is much disquiet about
the role of lobbying – cash for access and accusations of ‘cronyism’
have marred the reputation of such consultants in Britain11 – lobbying
nevertheless can provide groups with little in-house expertise or con-
tacts the information and access that can help their campaigns. Hiring
a professional lobbying consultant does not guarantee success; it will
help the client navigate his way around the political system and will
provide access to relevant politicians and bureaucrats.
The choice is a stark one, but it goes right to the heart of modern
political behaviour in a high-intensity media environment: Should
groups ‘rely on well-meaning, highly motivated people working for an
ideal rather than for money? Or do you recognise that the outfit is, to
all intents and purposes, a multi-national which needs professional
skills at the highest level? (Wilkinson, 1994:42).
The disturbing truth, however, is that only the most well-resourced
have to confront this problem. For the majority of groups, the ‘pervading
sense of powerlessness’ and marginality are all too palpable (Report of the
Royal Commission on the Constitution, 1969–1973, Volume 2, Memorandum
of Dissent, London: HMSO, Cmnd. 5460–1, October 1973:34). In July
2002, the village of Greengairs near Glasgow, Scotland, found itself the
centre of a bitter fight against the local council that was considering two
applications for landfill extensions and waste facilities (the village is
already surrounded by three landfill sites). Kevin Dunion, director of
Friends of the Earth Scotland, summarised the problem as one of alien-
ation: ‘This village has faced the greatest level of environmental injustice
of any community in Scotland. And these new proposals bring home
the powerlessness they feel and the frustration that they have no rights in
the matter’ (‘Victims of burgeoning waste crisis’, The Guardian, 29 July
2002:4). An expert from the United States visited the area and com-
mented: ‘If you look at the pattern, it is usually poor people, working
class communities that don’t have a lot of resources to hire lawyers or
experts and the political clout to block these kind of facilities’ (Ibid.). It is
therefore hardly surprising that citizens do feel disaffected by the political
system that allegedly represents their interests, and that they turn to
alternative methods to communicate their grievances.
Social movements and direct action
‘Six hundred Nigerian women held a US oil giant to ransom armed

with a simple weapon – the threat of taking all their clothes off. And it
worked’ (‘Hands up or we strip!’ The Guardian G2, 22 July 2002).
‘David did defeat Goliath, even without CNN’ (Wolfsfeld, 1997:77).
Recently, there has been a noticeable movement away from the formal
organisation of pressure groups to the rapid proliferation of what have
been termed social movements (sometimes, ‘new’ social movements).12
Unlike pressure groups, the membership and organisation of social
movements tends to be fluid, with less emphasis on hierarchy and more
attention to the possibilities offered by decentralisation. Often, they are
composed of loose coalitions of like-minded activists who transcend tra-
ditional social, demographic, and even geographic boundaries.13 Their
character has been summarised by Byrne (1997:15):
As networks rather than formal organisations, movements attract

supporters or adherents rather than members. Although those
supporters are often more committed than those who have formal
membership of political parties (being prepared, for example, to risk
hardship and/or punishment by undertaking direct action), deci-
sions on what to do are taken locally or individually. It is rare for
any significant effort to be made to co-ordinate supporters’ efforts
nationally, and even rarer for such efforts to succeed. Autonomy,
then is an important defining feature of social movements …
Another feature of social movements that differentiate them from

groups is their attitude towards the relevance and effectiveness of
pluralist approaches to political behaviour. Pluralism suggests that
groups are important agents of the democratic political process; they
promote bargaining among competing groups that possess unequal
resources and enjoy different levels of access to the policy-making
process, with the government acting more as arbiter than sovereign (A
useful introduction to pluralism is provided by Martin Smith in Marsh
& Stoker (eds), 1995:209–27). Social movements, on the other hand,
tend to abstain from bargaining with either other groups or with gov-
ernment. Instead, they find different ways of communicating their
interests to governments, usually via direct action. This may be legal
(marches, demonstrations, organising petitions) or illegal (obstruction
and disruption, civil disobedience) and even violent.14 The American
civil rights movement of the 1950s and 1960s is one example of an ex-
tremely successful social movement that used illegal but non-violent
methods to champion its cause.15 The achievements of the civil rights
movement has inspired other social movements in the United States
that pro-active efforts against seemingly impossible odds is worth-
while. In Britain, the social movement that campaigned against the
British government’s imposition of the Community Charge (or Poll

Tax) in the late 1980s and early 1990s was equally effective. This was a
unique phenomenon in modern British politics for three reasons. First,
there was little formal mobilisation or organisation. Only the British
Anti-Poll Tax Federation, composed of left wing organisations, might
be considered an attempt at organisation. Second, the movement
united people from different backgrounds, classes, and geographical
settings, bringing together the Militant Tendency and middle class
housewives groups. It was therefore a genuinely inclusive social move-
ment. Third, it was successful. A number of different strategies of direct
action were used, including legal (demonstrations, marches, petitions),
illegal (a non-payment campaign of civil disobedience), and violent
(the Trafalgar Square demonstrations of 31 March 1990 is now referred
to as the Poll Tax Riot). Unconventional political behaviour can work,
at least some of the time.16 What is most interesting about the poll tax,
however, is that political communication was blamed for its failure.
Michael Heseltine, Minster for the Environment, claimed that the tax
was doomed because ‘the public have not been persuaded that [it] is
fair’ (Franklin, 1994:108). The failure of the poll tax demonstrated the
importance of one over-riding fact in government political communi-
cation, spin, and government propaganda: Good presentation cannot
make a bad policy any more palatable.
This defining characteristics of new social movements – loose coali-
tions of concerned citizens who have never perhaps been politically
active before; transnational organisation; use of new technology
to mobilise (Dalton & Kuechler, 1990) – has been most clearly demon-
strated in the global movements that protested against the possibility
of war against Iraq in 2002 and 2003. One American explained,
‘Almost everyone involved is new to activism. When 50 people
opposed to the war turned out last October [2002] to close down the
federal building in San Francisco, none of them had been involved in
civil disobedience before. We trained them the night before, and then
they went ahead’ (‘They thought the global peace movement was all
over. It isn’t now …’, ‘Iraq Crisis’, supplement in The Independent,
6 March 2003:12).17 The Independent described the American anti-war
movement in the following way:
Certain things about this movement seem to distinguish it from

past protests. One is its remarkable diversity, even in the United
States. Not just the usual left-liberal suspects with their tie-dyes and
politically correct slogans, but Spanish-speaking bus drivers, public
health workers, suburban mothers and their children, blue-collar

production line workers, lawyers and Republican-voting executives.
… Also unprecedented is the participation of the big labour
unions, who were notoriously quiet during the Vietnam war
…(Ibid.)18
It is unlikely that the anti-war movement would have been quite as

successful at mobilisation without the precedent of the so-called ‘anti-
globalisation’ movement that provided a demonstration effect for
mobilisation on a grand scale. Simon Tormey (2004:39) regards the
Seattle protests of December 1999 ‘as the “moment” when the contem-
porary anti-capitalist/anti-globalisation movement was born’. Tormey
identifies four factors that are consistent with the approach to social
movements considered in this chapter that helps explain why the
Seattle protest was unique to that time. The first was the sheer diversity
of interests represented, including trades unions that had been absent
in North American demonstrations to that point. Second, the heavy-
handed approach of the police led to violent scenes that were played
out in the global media, suggesting that this movement had turned
radical. The third was that the police response to the protest solidified
the solidarity between the otherwise different movements. In this
way, horizontal political communication was encouraged, as groups
formed networks and alliances. According to Tormey the fourth, and
probably most important factor suggesting the significance of Seattle is
that the protests managed to disrupt the meeting of the World Trade
Organisation, giving further encouragement to future movements that
they might achieve success through mass mobilisation.
Such empirical evidence counters the idea that new social movements
tend to be positioned only on the political left and that the ‘conserva-
tive’ identity of many recent protest movements (for example, the
British fuel protests in 2000) cannot be explained by social movement
theory. The Liberty and Livelihood march in September 2002 brought
together: pro-hunting lobby, the Equine Grass Sickness Fund, the move-
ment to reinstate target pistol shooting, the Merseyside Terrier and
Lurcher Club and the Keep Gibraltar British campaign. Many marchers
‘carried banners pleading “tolerance”, and “live and let live”, yet the
biggest cheer of the morning went up at the march-past of a banner
reading, “Gay rights, asylum rights, WE want OUR rights”’ (‘The day
cross country came to town’, The Guardian, 23 September 2002:1).
As a form of political participation and communication, protest
has moved from the margins to the mainstream. (Tormey, 2004:46
describes social movement politics as ‘subterranean’ and ‘invisible’, and

suggests that they will only move to the mainstream ‘when they erupt’
and thus capture media and elite attention.) This is also the case in
Hong Kong, long labouring under a mistaken belief that the population
would remain politically docile provided the administration keeps the
economy ticking along and income taxes remain low. On 1 July 2003,
500,000 marched through the streets of Hong Kong to protest tough
new security laws. On 1 January 2004, another 100,000 demanded full
democracy. Although most of the participants in both protests were
young – reflecting opinion poll findings that they are unfavourable to
the present political system in Hong Kong19 – the crowds also contained
a diverse collection of sex, age, and social-economic backgrounds.
In the face of such incredible public pressure, Chief Executive Tung
Chee-hwa postponed the new security laws on 5 September 2003. For
Hong Kong’s pro-democracy, this is an historical victory; for observers
of participation in Asia, it shatters the illusion that Chinese are
apathetic and incapable of launching effective protest movements.
Photo 4.1 Campaign on the streets of Kowloon to encourage voter registration,

April 2004 (Gary Rawnsley)
As Pippa Norris (2001) explores in her seminal study of how computer

technology has affected civic engagement, the Internet has revolu-
tionised the capacity of trans-border networks to mobilise activ-
ists. But as Norris makes clear, the potential of the Internet means
that groups and protest movements now integrate the Internet into
their campaign strategies, often as a way to keep affiliated individuals
and groups, as well as media organisations around the world, posted
about their activities. Internet users are also encouraged to lobby via
email their government representatives, engage in on-line dialogue,
and donate money to a cause. The Internet is energising global social
movements; it is giving a reality to the idea of trans-border networks
and the creation of a global civil society. It is also offering new ways
for interested individuals to participate in politics and engage in politi-
cal communication (with elites and with each other) without leaving
the comfort of their own home. (See Appendix 1) We will return to the
relationship between the Internet and democratic politics in Chapter 7
which identifies and discusses some of the problems associated with
the more idealistic claims about its impact.
Direct action is a useful tool for those groups and movements that
find it difficult to generate media attention. As Jordan (1998:327) has
observed: ‘Protest without media coverage is like a mime performance
in the dark: possible, but fairly pointless.’ Group staging of events can
attract publicity that would otherwise have been denied them; they
become news by being the news (on social movements and their
relationship with the media, see Gitlin, 1980). This, however, is a risky
strategy, because the need to find ever more spectacular methods of
attracting media attention can undermine any sympathy they may
have nurtured: the more illegal and/or violent the methods of commu-
nication, the less legitimate the movement and its cause:
Four Labour MPs, including the junior agriculture minister … have

had their constituency offices attacked by a group of militant
pro-hunt supporters led by a balaclava-clad woman. …
… The attacks reflect growing pro-hunt militancy. … Altogether in
North Yorkshire tens of thousands of pounds of damage has been done
to roads … The Humber Bridge has also been painted with slogans. …
[Hugh Bayley, MP for York, a target of the group] said: ‘These
attacks do the organisation or the cause no good.’ … [Ian Cawsey,
MP for Brigg and Goole] said: ‘The effect of these attacks has been
to alienate people who do not know anything about hunting and
now think this is the behaviour of pro-hunt supporters, they want
nothing to do with them. (‘Pro-hunt militants target Labour MPs’,
The Guardian, 22 July 2002).
Moreover, engaging in direct action for publicity is a risky strategy

because the movement itself delegates control of the story to the media
which decides how to cover the event, what images to show, and what
language to use to describe what is going on (constructing a ‘semblance’
of reality. Eldridge, 1993:4).20 A largely uneventful march can very easily
become a ‘riot’ in the media because the activities of a few can make
the difference between positive and negative publicity. The media will
focus on the dramatic and sensational, overlooking the routine and the
peaceful, which means everybody is tarred with the same brush:
‘Anti-globalisation Movement’ turns out to be a name invented

by journalists that has stuck. All the activists reject it, not least
because it offers ammunition to opponents (‘How can you be
against globalisation? Are you against cheap air travel? The internet?
Cheap international phone calls?’) (‘Where did all the protestors
go?’, The Observer, 14 July 2002).
For these reasons, direct action, especially illegal activities, are often
the final strategy of groups who are frustrated with conventional
methods of trying to persuade government of their cause:
There is a common link between the animal lovers and the

anti-road activists … many of them have tried conventional channels
for change, but have got so fed up with the lack of response that they
have decided to take matters into their own hands. And it’s not just a
question of having to wait too long for things to get better, increasing
numbers of people are coming to the conclusion that their needs will
never be addressed by those in power (Brass & Koziell, 1997:7).
All groups and movements must weigh up the consequences of engaging

in direct action: it will gain publicity, but will it gain public support?
Will it merely inconvenience the public – strikes on public transport,
for example, or ‘rolling roadblocks’ (blocking a road with slow moving
traffic) – and thereby turn public opinion against the cause? The dilemma
was captured in the contrasting views of the effect of ‘rolling roadblocks’
organised in Britain in July 2002 by the Countryside Action Network, a
splinter group of the Countryside Alliance. A spokesman for the latter said:
‘We are critical of actions which appear to be designed to inconvenience
the public. … Public support and the weight of … opinion is the greatest
ally of rural Britain … and actions which undermine this support are
therefore counter-productive’. In reply, a spokesperson for the Network
said that the Alliance’s campaigns were too soft to be effective: ‘The incon-
venience’ of the road blocks ‘was small, but think of the media coverage
we’ve got’ (‘Country rebels block roads’, The Guardian, 13 July 2002).
However, such tactics are rapidly becoming old-fashioned, and many

social movements are quickly recognising the possibilities that are offered
by new communications technology. For example, American activists
protesting the possibility of war against Iraq in 2003 participated in a
‘Virtual March’ on Washington, whereby they bombarded the White
House and other government agencies with phone calls and emails, thus
bringing to a grinding halt the political work of the city. On 6 March
2003, school pupils across the United Kingdom staged walkouts from
schools and protested outside Downing Street. ‘The pupils, some of them
members of the Stop the War coalition, said they had arranged the protest
by e-mail and leafleting’ (‘Parliament besieged by pupils in anti-war
protest’, The Independent, 6 March 2003:2).
If representative democracy is suffering the kind of crisis of communica-
tion that we discussed in Chapter 1, then direct action is the ultimate
representation of the problems, as suggested by the EarthFirst! website:
Conventional ‘green’ campaigning is not enough to stop the

destruction that is happening. Politicians and companies ignore
letters, petitions and public enquiries; they reject overwhelming
evidence because it goes against their interests … the only solution
is for people to take their future in their hands and physically halt
further destruction of nature (quoted in Grant, 2000:145).
Direct action that involves people who would otherwise not become
involved in politics is not confined to the developed world. As the
tantalising subtitle to this section demonstrates, even in parts of
the less developed world groups of people can mobilise to take on politi-
cal and, in this case, corporate power. Networks, community groups and
local voluntary associations regularly form to engage in direct action on
such basic life issues as access to water, local education amenities, and
sanitation (Baker, 1999). The US oil giant in question, Chevron-Texaco,
‘was forced to promise jobs, electricity and other improvements to
villages in the Niger Delta after 600, mainly Itsekiri tribeswomen
stormed the company’s huge Escravos oil terminal, bringing it to a
standstill for 10 days.’ The group was powerless in terms that it did not
possess any financial or political resources to fight the oil company:
The activists, aged from 30 to 90, were led by a core group of

middle-aged women affectionately known as ‘the mamas’. And they
had one simple but effective weapon: they threatened to remove all
their clothes. The gesture, known as ‘the curse of the nakedness’, is a
traditional way of shaming people and remains as potent as ever.
Meanwhile, in May 2003, Kentucky Fried Chicken ‘bowed to pressure’

from activists campaigning against the company’s treatment of chick-
ens after they ‘threatened to picket [KFC] president’s home and run a
campaign suggesting KFC stood for Kentucky Fried Cruelty’ (‘Animal
activists win on chicken welfare’, The Guardian, 10 May 2003). In
Taiwan, an island under martial law until 1986, thousands of workers
took to the streets of Taipei in November 2002 to protest against
increasing unemployment and ended their demonstration by throwing
over seventy tonnes of garbage in front of the Presidential Office:
‘“Garbage is dirty and useless, but the government’s failure to protect
workers’ rights is worse than garbage,” a statement by the workers said’
(‘Angry unemployed create a stink’, Taipei Times online edition,
http://www.taipeitimes.com, 11 November 2002).21
Maybe professional consultants are not that important in political
communication after all; with a little imagination, a lot of spirit, and
considerable frustration at the status quo, any perceivable strategy
might be effective.
Photo 4.2 A sit-in at the Department of Agrarian Reform, Manila, 2001.

A group of peasants had travelled to meet the Secretary but he refused to
see them, so they took over the building and stayed there for several days. The
photograph shows the peasants outside the Secretary’s office (he is stuck inside).
They also staged a sit-in in the board room, which was an embarrassment for
the government as the room was meant to be used for a meeting with visiting
officials from the World Bank. (Pauline Eadie).
What is clear from this evidence is that the agents and targets of
influence are broadening out, as are the methods used to exercise
that influence. In 1978, Verba, Nie and Kim offered a very succinct
definition of political participation as ‘those legal activities by private
citizens that are more or less directly aimed at influencing the selection
of governmental personnel and/or the actions they take’. As this
chapter has demonstrated, this is a narrow understanding of modern
political participation that may or may not be legal, and may not
necessarily aim to influence the government.
Deborah Stone (1997) brings the threads of this chapter together by
discussing the relationship between public opinion, group politics, and
legitimacy in a plural society. Stone’s work is important because she
analysed how discourse can determine how particular policies are seen
and accepted as more important than others. Hence, Stone examines
the narrative of policy making that decides not only the relevance of
issues, but also how susceptible they are to intervention by actors
within and outside government. If a ‘causal story’ demonstrates that
citizens can have a positive effect on policy, then it legitimises the
political behaviour that occurs outside government: citizen action can
make a difference. On the other hand, a narrative that emphasises
success only through the diligent work of committed individuals inside
government will deny citizen politics any legitimacy. Stone accepts the
competition inherent in pluralism, and believes that
causal stories need to be fought for, defended, and sustained. There

is always someone to tell a competing narrative, and getting others
to believe one version of events rather than another is hardly auto-
matic. Research on public opinion suggests that to some extent
people have stable, overall outlooks on responsibility for social
problems. … But public acceptance of causal stories is also
influenced by the way television news frames stories. … A causal
story is more likely to be successful if its proponents have visibility,
access to media, and prominent positions; if it accords with wide-
spread and deeply held cultural values; if it somehow captures and
responds to a natural mood; and if its implicit prescription entails
no radical distribution of power or wealth (Stone, 1997:202).
The narrative can make all the difference between upholding the
existing order and legitimising attempts to undermine it, peacefully or
otherwise. An important addition to the growing literature on social
protest movements was published by Jane Rhodes in 1999. Rhodes
studied media coverage of the Black Panther movement in the United

States, and discovered that there was very little discussion of context:
Why did the Black Panthers feel a need to organise separately from the
more mainstream civil rights movement? Why was this organisation
so appealing? What was its relationship to the national race crisis that
engulfed much of the United States in the 1960s? Likewise, the media
avoided any discussion of the social context – racism, discrimination,
unemployment, urban plight, etc. Rather, the media chose to adopt
the dominant interpretive framework that portrayed the Black
Panthers as a problem, that is, the mobilisation of young black men
using ‘inflammatory rhetoric’ to target authority. Their cause was
‘hatred of whites’, representing a ‘spirit of lawlessness’ in black
America. This framing therefore justified a solution based on law
enforcement and containment. Jane Rhodes (1999:116) concedes that
the Panthers used this radicalism to their advantage, largely to attract
media attention. However, ‘ultimately, the Panthers could not control
how [Panther rhetoric and symbolism] would be interpreted and
framed’, suggesting that groups are dependent on the choices made in
the newsrooms.
Brian Doherty et al. provide a similar analysis in 2003. Part of their
discussion of the so-called ‘fuel protests’ in Britain in 2000 is con-
cerned with discourse, the way that protest movements are perceived
by the state and by the media. This can provide the frameworks
and interpretative cues that can determine the narrative of a particular
group’s agenda and activities. Although they do not claim that public-
ity defined the failure of the movement,22 they did discover that
the movement had been portrayed in particular ways that helped
determine its legitimacy. In particular, they were concerned with the
importance of representations of normality and deviance: Doherty et
al. discovered that the fuel protestors, an example of what they called a
‘conservative’ new social movement, were treated very differently from
other outsider groups ‘contesting society’s basic norms’. For example,
the authors found that the police considered the fuel protestors
‘normal members of society’. The authors contrast this with the treat-
ment meted out to environmental activists who engage in direct
action. Similarly, media coverage of the fuel protests ‘produced a frame
of the stoic struggle of ordinary folk in petrol queues who, while
frustrated, supported the protestors … creating a sense of mass popular
support for the protests’ (Doherty et al., 2003:16). The authors refer
to a report of the fuel blockade that appeared in the Daily Mail, a con-
servative newspaper which presented a stark contrast between these
protests and those organised by workers, miners, environmentalists etc.

Hence, their clothes were ‘immaculate chinos’, and ‘carefully pressed
jeans and polo shirt’, instead of ‘donkey jackets’; their cars were the
‘highly polished Ford Galaxies and Renault Meganes’ of the middle
classes: ‘“The situation is awfully trying,” said the man wearing chinos.
“But if one feels strongly about something, then something must be
done. May I offer you a cup of tea?”’ (Glenda Cooper, ‘A very British
blockade’, Daily Mail, 13 September 2000, quoted in Doherty et al.,
2003:17).
Appendix 1
‘There was always something quaintly old-fashioned about the way Americans
embarked on the long process of choosing their next president. …Now, with
nine Democrats vying for the job of challenging George Bush in November
2004, the process has been brought bang up to date with the arrival of a poten-
tially revolutionary new tool: the on-line primary … [on the website] …
MoveOn.org.
Proclaiming itself as a new model for grassroots activism … the site has
attracted 1.4 million subscribers in the United States and another 700,000 over-
seas. About two thirds of the membership were galvanised by their opposition
to the war in Iraq. But they all share the goal of sending President Bush off into
the sunset.
That’s quite some constituency, which explains why all nine Democratic can-
didates have submitted statements and policy positions to the site and are
taking the result of the primary … in deadly earnest. … [T]he winner can expect
to raise an extra $30 million (£18 million) in campaign funds. …
… By the mid-term elections [in] November [2002], its Political Action
Committee had raised more than $4 million for progressive candidates across
the country. …’
(‘From flying toasters to the virtual search for a president’, The Independent,
26 June 2003:16.)
5
Instruments of Expression (II):
Referendums
‘The cure for the ills of democracy is more democracy’

(‘Battlecry’ of the American Progressive movement in favour
of referendums, 1890s–1917, in Butler & Ranney, 1978:29).
So far, this book has addressed the allegation that popular participation
and interest in politics are declining in representative liberal-democracies.
We have also seen how a growing sense of powerlessness and dissatis-
faction with political parties has developed alongside an extraordinary
increase in extra-parliamentary activity that might channel its frustration
through parties, but is progressively more likely to be the source of social
group mobilisation and direct action. The key here is the feeling of disap-
pointment and irritation with representative democracy in particular; how
might citizens experience the kind of direct democracy that so engaged
the ancients?
Advocates of referendums believe that they offer a solution, enabling
citizens to encounter the power and enlightenment associated with
direct democracy (Lijphart, 1984).1 Referendums are valued because they
are apparently consistent with very important criteria of democratic
politics and political communication. They are dialogical in that they
encourage participation between elections, and are far more representa-
tive than opinion polls which rely on generalising from small samples
of respondents. Elections are useful in deciding which party should form
the government, but are limited as a method of consulting public
opinion, mainly because voters do not enjoy an opportunity to register
their views between elections, and because we are asked to vote for a
complete party package, not decide our preferences on individual issues.
Finally, many electoral systems allow governments to win by a minority
of the votes; can we therefore say that they are truly representative?
120
Instruments of Expression (II) 121
In addition, referendums are thought to circumvent other poten-

tially powerful institutions that are poised between citizens and their
government, including parties, pressure groups, and the media; and
finally referendums are considered educative (á la John Stuart Mill)
because they encourage governments and other groups sponsoring a
referendum to provide as much information as possible about very
specific issues (and may persuade citizens to use their vote sensibly and
rationally, though the two are not necessarily synonymous).2 If the
electorate are expected to vote on a complicated issue such as adopting
the European Single Currency, then it is important that the opposing
sides are able to communicate their position in an accessible way. If
the technicalities are not communicated in such a way that electors
will understand the issues, how can they be expected to be sufficiently
interested to participate? Writing on constitutional referendums in
Australia, Don Aitken has said ‘Undoubtedly, many electors, puzzled
by the wording, bemused by the complexity of the issue, and battered
from both sides by the antagonists, shrug their shoulders and vote no’
(Butler & Ranney, 1978:131). This is important for two reasons: first, it
strengthens the conviction that referendums are a device of conserva-
tive politics (as the late Swedish Prime Minister, Tage Erlander noted,
‘It becomes much harder to pursue an effective reform strategy if reac-
tionaries are offered the opportunity to appeal to people’s natural con-
servatism and resistance to change.’ Quoted in Qvortrup, 2001:191).
The British Labour party, for example, has traditionally objected to
referendums for this very reason (David Butler, ‘United Kingdom’, in
Butler & Ranney, 1978:212). Voters who do go to the ballot box
without fully understanding the issue they are being asked about
will tend to vote conservatively, that is, in favour of no change, block-
ing the possibility that a radical agenda might be pursued. Thomas
Christin, Simon Hug and Pascal Sciarini (2002:772–3) found from
quantitative research on voter behaviour in Swiss referendums that the
less informed the voter, the more likely he is to vote against measures
if they imply a change to the status quo – these are ‘risk averse voters’.
John Higley and Ian McAllister (2002:845–61) describe the ‘para-
doxical’ referendum they observed in Australia in 1999 when voters
were asked to decide whether Australia should adopt a republican form
of government The result was 54.9 to 45.1 percent against. This, they
say, was ‘puzzling, since opinion polls throughout the 1990s regularly
recorded voters favouring a republic by roughly two to one, albeit with
a quarter undecided.’ The reasons are many, but they do suggest poor
political communication and absence of information, for example by
creating confusion about the monarchy’s replacement as Head of

State and who would actually decide this important issue – parliament
or the people through a direct election for president? (Higley &
McAllister, 2002).
Second, the need for simplification undermines the elitist criticism
of referendums that assumes voters are unable to make wise and
judicious decisions because they are not fully informed. It is possible
to argue that being fully informed is what democratic politics are all
about, and therefore referendums require simplification (Lupia,
1992).3
‘The only thing people hate more than being asked to decide
about things that are complicated is not being asked.’
(Margot Walstrom, quoted in ‘Ja or Nej?’, The Guardian, G2,

12 September 2003:2)
At the same time, however, referendums do assume an interested elec-

torate, and this is their principal weakness. Writing on referendums in
Australia, Colin A. Hughes observed:
Market research associated with recent attempts to review and

revise the federal Constitution found that a high proportion of
electors were unaware that there was a federal Constitution, much
less having any command of its detail. … When asked to alter
something about which they know nothing, the argument goes,
electors behave rationally and refuse to do so. Conversely, there is
an apparent tendency for support for passing an amendment
to be higher at the start of each campaign than at the end: as elec-
tors become better informed, they are more likely to vote No to
any change. Quite possibly, ‘better informed’ really means ‘more
alarmed.’ (in Butler & Ranney, 1994:163)
and Higley and McAllister reached a similar conclusion from their

research (2002:855) on the 1998 referendum to decide whether
Australia should become a republic.
Similarly, many Italians never knew that their country had a
divorce law until they were asked to vote on it in a referendum in
1974. Whose fault is this? Can we really blame voters for not feeling
sufficiently moved to navigate the complexities of the Australian con-
stitution? If something as simple as a divorce law can escape the
attention of Italians, does this mean there is a problem in Italy’s

education programme that does not include sufficient grounding in
citizenship? In other words, it is far too easy to blame the voters for
not being interested in political issues. As Alderson (1975:67) com-
mented on the 1974 referendum in Italy, the ignorance of voters
‘was a condemnation, not of the referendum, but of the representa-
tive government that had preceded it. It was the representative
government that had kept the electors ignorant. It was the referen-
dum campaign – the need to win their votes – which enabled them to
learn about the divorce law.’ (Research has discovered that Americans
too are notoriously ignorant of their own political system. See
Neumann, 1986 and Carpini & Keeler, 1996).
The 1974 Italian referendum also draws our attention to the
way a question is phrased. Italians were asked: ‘Do you want
Law No.898 of 1 December 1970 – Norms on the Dissolution of
Marriage – to be abrogated?’ This is hardly an inspiring question
that allows voters to easily reach a decision. It assumes they under-
stand the technicalities of the law in question and appreciate the
consequences of ‘abrogating’ it. We do not have to reduce ourselves
to the blatant racism of Alderson (‘the unsophisticated Italian
electors …’) 4 to grasp the difficulties of communication that such a
question poses, nor the power that drafting the question confers in
the first place (sponsors of referendums can achieve the result they
want simply by the way they phrase the question). Faced with a
complicated question, voters tend to abstain altogether because
they do not understand the issue, or vote to keep the status quo
(again reinforcing the Left’s view of referendums as a tool of con-
servative government). 5 Either way, this abuse of power does not
encourage the participatory democracy envisaged by the advocates
of referendums.
At the same time, of course, there is a danger that a referendum cam-
paign will OVER-simplify an issue, thus persuading voters to respond
according to their emotions rather than reason. This is a particularly
serious possibility where referendums are characterised by the kind
of political advertising that is common in American-style election
campaigns – the 30- or 60-second television sound-bite that inclines
towards attacking the opposition, instead of offering a case for the
validity of one’s own opinion (it is much easier and effective to attack
than defend in the short time offered to candidates by television
advertisements).6 Higley & McAllister (2002:851–2) praise both the Yes
and No campaigns in the 1999 Australian referendum: ‘Recognising
voter ignorance of the complex institutional issues involved, both

campaigns aimed at basic voter sentiments:’
The YES campaign reassured voters that the proposed change was
‘small and safe’, that most of Australia’s brightest leaders and
celebrities favoured the change and that retaining the status quo
would risk numerous embarrassments, such as an Australia ruled
by ‘King Charles III and Queen Camilla’. The NO campaign railed
against the ‘Chardonnay-swilling elites who had fomented a
republican plot … and that ‘real democrats’ … should vote NO.
Likewise, if the technicalities of Britain adopting the European Single

Currency are reduced to tabloid-style discussions concerning Europe’s
misgivings about the shape of bananas, whether ice cream contains real
cream, or that the Queen’s head disappearing from our currency marks
the beginning of the end for British sovereignty, then the opinion that
voters will be motivated to make sensible choices based on reliable argu-
ments and information is once again undermined. (‘Blair signs away
our birthright,’ screamed the rightwing and anti-European Daily Mail
(30 October 2004:4) when the Prime Minister signed the EU constitu-
tional treaty, adding ‘with no mandate from the British voter’.) The
possibilities are endless, incredible, even frightening, as the following
account of the 1972 referendum on whether Norway should join the
European Economic Community (EEC) clearly demonstrates:
These campaigners persuaded many Norwegians that a Yes vote would

send hordes of swarthy Latins rushing up the fjords to rape Norwegian
women; that untrustworthy men with sand in their hair and tar on
their boots would steal the best lumberjack jobs; that the Pope would
undermine the nation’s strong Lutherian traditions (‘If Norway enters
the kingdom of the anti-Christ’, went one warning, ‘thousands will fall
into the devil’s net’); that the whole place would be swamped with
booze; that there would be a brain-drain to Germany, but that the
Germans would then buy up all the choice sites in Norwegian lakeside
resorts; that once the Mediterranean predators had finished raping,
they would open dozens of brothels; and that bicycles would be
banned from the streets of Oslo (Cal McCrystal, The Sunday Times,
10 November 1974).
The author of this article is not suggesting that voters were persuaded
by these ridiculous assertions. He does, however, draw out attention to
the problems associated with the quality of information that is often

presented to voters in a referendum. Does such polemic facilitate
reasoned judgement, clear decision making, and valuable political
communication?7 Britain is not immune from such negative tech-
niques. In July 2002, campaigners against Britain’s adoption of the
Euro released a short video that featured a spoof Hitler praising the cur-
rency. Needless to say, the video drew criticism from Britain’s Jewish
community who claimed it insulted the memory of the six million
victims of the Holocaust.
In the final analysis, the use of outrageous propaganda devices seems
less influential than the organisation and resources that each side in a
referendum campaign can marshal, as illustrated by the 1975 referen-
dum to question Britain’s continued membership of the then EEC.8 The
campaign was organised by two groups that crossed party boundaries –
the Britain in Europe group and an anti-Common Market coalition. Both
sides of the debate campaigned vigorously in the media and produced
their own literature to distribute to voters, but the Britain in Europe
group enjoyed distinct advantages over its rivals: the British press were
clearly pro-Europe; and the group commanded far greater financial
resources than the anti-Common Market coalition. So, although each
group’s campaign was subsidised by £125,000, each group had access to
free broadcast time and had literature delivered free to every elector in
the country, the campaign was still not fought on a level playing field.9
The most interesting aspect of the post-referendum research was the
discovery that the influence of authority had played a significant role in
persuading electors how to vote, reinforcing the arguments discussed
in Chapter 3 about the vulnerability of public opinion. The ‘Yes’ cam-
paign was fronted by the most popular/respected/moderate politicians,
while the most unpopular/extremist politicians (including Enoch Powell,
Ian Paisley, and members of the Labour left wing. Butler & Kitzinger,
1976:280) campaigned for a ‘No’ vote. So much for rational voting
behaviour. This example highlights how information is rarely perfect,
and therefore referendums as a method of political communication are
equally flawed. Moreover, the control of referendum campaigns by polit-
ical elites reinforces the notion that their value in extending popular
participation beyond the simple act of voting is illusionary (Smith,
1998).
Similarly, President De Klerk’s campaign in the 1992 South African
referendum used figures from sport, music, and popular entertain-
ment to endorse his position, while almost every newspaper in South
Africa supported him, with many choosing to publish his campaign
advertisements at a discount. The U.K-based advertising company

Saatchi & Saatchi Co, famous for co-ordinating the Conservative
campaign victories of the 1980s, managed De Klerk’s campaign
giving it an American ‘whistle-stop’ character (‘South African Whites
Endorse End to Minority Rule in Referendum on New Constitution’,
http://www.facts.com/cd/92049688.htm). In their attempt to per-
suade Swiss voters to say Yes to joining the United Nations, the
government, media, churches and big business struggled to match
the personality and resources of billionaire and populist, Christoph
Blocher, who led the charge against Switzerland’s membership:
‘He’s the best orator in the country, he’s good at jokes and he goes
for gut arguments about neutrality which are self-defining for Swiss
identity,’ said one diplomat. ‘He tells them the UN will end banking
secrecy and send their boys overseas to fight. Compared to that, the
Yes campaign is rather stolid, all facts and detail’ (‘Will the Swiss
come out of their shell?’, The Guardian, 2 March 2002:14).10
Similarly in the 2000 referendum that asked whether Denmark should

join the European single currency, the winning ‘No’ side fielded come-
dians, scientists and actors, while the ‘Yes’ campaign used politicians
and business leaders, ‘the least trusted groups in Denmark’ (Qvortrup,
2001:195). Bertie Ahern, the Irish prime minister, is reported to have
secured a ‘yes’ vote on the Nice Treaty in 2002 via ‘hard work, big
spending, simple slogans, and an impressive turnout of 48% … Sunny
weather on Saturday helped too’ (‘Irish ayes smiling on a bigger EU’,
The Guardian, 21 October 2002:15). The referendum held in Venezuela
on 15 August 2004 to decide whether or not to recall the president,
Hugo Chávez, is likewise an example of the advantages of incumbency.
Public buildings, staff and vehicles were all illegally pressed into cam-
paign service to help Chávez defeat the proposal. The president made
liberal use of his right to force private radio and television to broadcast
his speeches live, while the National Electoral Council, dominated by a
government majority, debated the issue of balance in the opposition
media. Even members of the Venezuelan armed forces campaigned
for a No vote. Any members found to have signed the referendum peti-
tion were duly disciplined; many were expelled from the military.
These examples drawn from a variety of campaigns around the world
suggest that referendums are rarely fought on level playing fields. The
resources that a government can mobilise often far outnumber and
outweigh the capital available to opposition parties and movements.
Yet research on the 2000 Danish referendum on joining the Euro-

pean single currency threatens to overturn these convictions about
access to resources. As Mads Qvortrup (2001:191). notes, the ‘No’
vote won, even though the ‘Yes’ side out-spent their opponents and
was supported by a colourful mix of groups representing all shades of
Danish political opinion and mobilisation. Qvortrup’s research sug-
gests that we need to examine the political context in which the ref-
erendum is taking place to understand its outcome: ‘structural’
factors such as the length of time a government has served in office
(the more recently the government has taken office, the more likely a
‘Yes’ vote because of fewer broken promises and unpopular laws) and
the strength of the economy (in referendums on European integra-
tion, the better the economy, the less reason to ‘experiment with a
currency’. Ibid.:192).
Once we begin to analyse referendum campaigns, we are forced
to question the value of these devices as a form of deliberation and
dialogue. A referendum campaign seeks to maximise votes; numbers
are more important than arguments, and victory is measured by how
many votes a campaign can marshal, not about its persuasiveness or
ability to forge a consensus through reasoned argument. The referen-
dum becomes a zero-sum game with winners and losers with hardened
opinions,11 reinforced by a style of news coverage that mirrors the
reporting associated with election campaigns. In other words it is
possible to argue that referendums actually devalue the very acts of
political communication and participation they are thought to facili-
tate. They are merely another means of voting, and therefore do not
encourage the kind of participation so cherished by advocates of direct
democracy, as the following passage suggests:
… voting demands only the most minimal commitment and effort

by the citizen. Voters need no qualification to participate other than
legal proof of their presence on the roll of registered voters. …
Voters need not engage in any confrontation between their prefer-
ences and opposing preferences. … voting is a most passive, unde-
manding, uninspiring, and unimproving kind of civic participation,
vastly inferior to taking an active part in the discussion of issues in
town meetings, local caucuses, and other types of face to face assem-
blies (Butler & Ranney, 1978:33).
Comparatively speaking, referendums have enjoyed varied success in

communicating citizens’ preferences (see Butler & Ranney, 1978; Butler
& Ranney, 1994). In the 1990s alone, referendums were organised in

countries as diverse as Switzerland, East Timor, Australia, South Africa,
and the United Kingdom. Some of these concerned constitutional and
territorial issues (thought to exceed the mandate of elected representa-
tives), and often acquired historic status. For example, the South
African referendum of 1992 was decisive in dismantling the apartheid
system. In calling the referendum, President F.W. De Klerk told South
Africans, ‘I shall accept your verdict.’ The referendum asked White
South Africans: ‘Do you support the continuation of the reform process
… which is aimed at a new constitution through negotiation?’ If the
answer was ‘no’, President F.W. de Klerk promised that his government
would resign and call for new parliamentary elections. A ‘yes’ vote,
even by a majority of just one, would be taken as authorisation to con-
tinue negotiations with the African National Congress. A total of
1,924,186 (68.6 percent) voted ‘yes’, and 875,619 (31.2 percent) voted
‘no’ with an 85 percent turnout of eligible white voters. De Klerk
heralded the historic significance of the result and thereby drew atten-
tion to the importance of the referendum as an act of political com-
munication: ‘The massive positive result sends out a powerful message
to all South Africans that those who have the power in terms of the
present imperfect constitution really mean it when they say, “We want
to share power”’ (‘South African Whites Endorse End to Minority
Rule in Referendum on New Constitution’, http://www.facts.com/cd/
92049688.htm).
The British Labour government that was elected to power in 1997
organised more referendums in the first two years of office than any of
its predecessors. In a referendum held in Scotland on 11 September
1997, 74.3 percent of those who voted on a 60.4 percent turnout12 did
so in favour of creating a Scottish parliament with devolved powers;
one week later, 50.3 percent of voters in Wales agreed that they should
have their own assembly. (According to David Denver (2002:828), the
date of the Welsh referendum was timed to follow one week after
the Scots had voted. ‘It was hoped,’ concludes Denver, ‘that a strong
YES vote in Scotland would help to convince waverers in Wales, where
support for devolution was weaker’ (Ibid.).
On 7 May 1998, 72 percent of voters in London voted in favour
of the capital having its own elected mayor, and on 22 May, 71 percent
of voters in Northern Ireland endorsed the ‘Good Friday Agreement’
that created a power-sharing administration at Stormont (Butler &
Kavanagh, 2002:10–11). The Labour party had campaigned on these
issues in the election, and thus discovered that it enjoyed a popular
mandate to hold referendums once the party won its landslide major-
ity of 179 parliamentary seats. The government sensed that the results
would favour devolution (though in Wales devolution was approved
by the slimmest majority). In contrast to the devolution referendums
held in 1979, Labour’s majority and the abolition of the 40 percent
turnout threshold (that defeated the proposed devolution in 1979)13
meant that this time, devolution was not an issue that would witness
a long and bitter campaign (unlike the referendum on Britain’s mem-
bership of the European Economic Community in 1975). Moreover,
between June 2001 and February 2002, 23 local referendums were
held throughout the UK to allow people to decide whether they
should have an elected mayor. Turnout has varied, with the highest
recorded in Berwick-Upon-Tweed (54 percent) and the lowest in
Sunderland (10 percent).14 Referendums – and referendums about local
issues that, in theory, should excite most interest – do not encourage
participation. On 8 November 2002, the second Blair government
faced a referendum, organised by the government of Gibraltar on the
proposal that Britain should share sovereignty of the island with Spain.
Reports hinted that those in favour of such an agreement felt intimi-
dated and cowed into staying silent, with no visible ‘Yes’ campaign
being organised. This was felt to be a response to the aftermath of the
last time a poll had been held on this issue in 1967, when there were
violent attacks directed against those who proposed a deal with Spain.
On the eve of the poll, Prime Minister Tony Blair was determined that
although not legally binding, the 2002 referendum would be a genuine
exercise in consultation: ‘We know what the result of the referendum
will be, but what people in Gibraltar should realise is that there can
be no change without their express consent’ (‘For Rock’s residents, a
clear choice: say no to Spain – or nothing’, The Guardian, 7 November
2002:3. 17,900 (98.97 percent of voters with a turnout of 88 percent)
voted No to joint sovereignty with Spain; just 187 voted Yes). Peter
Caruana, Gibraltar’s Chief Minister and architect of the No campaign
expressed his conviction that the referendum was a positive political
signal:
Fellow Gibraltarians, today we have sent a clear message to the

world. One that this is our homeland; two, that we are a people
with political rights that we will not give up; and three, that those
rights include the right to freely direct our own future and we will
certainly not give that up (‘Gibraltar votes out joint rule with Spain’,
http://www.guardian.co.uk/gibraltar, 8 November 2002).
Not all referendum results are greeted with such composure, or as

legitimate exercises in democratic consultation; on 30 August 1999,
voters in East Timor voted in favour of independence from Indonesia,
even though they risked their lives to do so. Voters were asked: ‘Do you
accept the proposed special autonomy for East Timor within the
unitary state of the Republic of Indonesia? or, Do you reject the pro-
posed special autonomy for East Timor, leading to East Timor’s separa-
tion from Indonesia?’ To make voting easier, symbols were attached to
the ballot papers: an Indonesian flag represented acceptance, and
the flag of the pro-Independence National Council for Timorese
Resistance symbolised rejection. To the surprise of the Indonesian
government, 78.2 percent of voters rejected ‘special autonomy’ status
and thus communicated their longing to separate from Indonesia: ‘The
army genuinely believed that it had stacked the deck and intimidated
enough people to get a much higher percentage of the vote. It can’t
believe the 78.2 percent vote and is now doing everything in its power
and through a media offensive to convince the Indonesian public
that UNAMET [UN Mission in East Timor] perpetrated a giant fraud’
(‘Questions and Answers on East Timor (Violence in East Timor –
Background Briefing)’, http://www.hrw.org/backgrounder/asia/timor/
timor-bck0908.htm). The results sparked a wave of violence that
was orchestrated by the pro-autonomy militia. Clearly some regimes
cannot accept the democratic consequences of using referendums.
Others have organised referendums merely to communicate the illu-
sion of legitimacy: Adolf Hitler, for example, used four referendums
between 1933 and 1938 to strengthen his power, and Benito Mussolini
organised two between 1929 and 1934 for the same reason. In 1941,
General Ion Antonescu of Romania engineered two referendums that
received almost a 100 percent turnout of voters who unanimously
endorsed the General’s plans. Moreover:
During Communist rule in Eastern Europe from 1946 to 1986, only

seven referendum questions were posed in Eastern Europe – and
except for the three Polish questions of 1946 [to abolish the senate,
make the economic system permanent, and approve the Baltic and
eastern frontiers] the outcome of these referendums was a foregone
conclusion as they elicited participation of over 98 percent and
agreement of over 95 percent’ (Brady & Kaplan, 1994:178).
Similarly in 1986, a referendum was organised in Romania that asked

voters whether the defence budget should be reduced. The process
‘included the nicety of signed ballots and produced the dark burlesque
of no negative votes and only 228 nonvoters in an eligible electorate of
over 17 million’ (Ibid.:183).
Such abuses of the referendum to veil a totalitarian regime in
populism and legitimacy prompted a rush of criticisms, most famously
from the British Prime Minister Clement Attlee who is said to have
described referendums as potentially devices of ‘demagogues and
dictators’:
I could not consent to the introduction into our national life of a

device so alien to all our traditions as the referendum, which
has only too often been the instrument of Nazism and Fascism.
Hitler’s practices in the field of referenda and plebiscites can hardly
have endeared these expedients to the British heart (Bogdanor,
1994:36).15
This opposition is based on the fact that referendums enable political

elites to appeal directly to the ‘masses’, thus bypassing democratically-
elected representatives. Moreover, populism is discouraged because the
‘masses’ are easily persuaded by emotion rather than reason, making
them potentially dangerous: Should we spend more on education?
Yes. Are you in favour of managing the economy through controlling
inflation? No. The two may be incompatible, but most sensible voters
will want their cake and the freedom to eat it. On moral issues, such as
abortion, capital punishment, or the treatment of paedophiles, the
exploitation of emotion becomes a powerful political tool, especially if
the timing of the referendum coincides with, for example, the killing
of a police officer or the murder of a child.16 Media treatment of such
stories will encourage change towards a harsher regime of punishment,
thus interfering with the balance of information required in a referen-
dum campaign. On the possibility of a referendum in 1978 to measure
public opinion on capital punishment, the Conservative MP Reginald
Maudling wrote the following letter to the London Times (7 June
1978):
Such a referendum would raise all the grave problems of the

authority of Parliament and the position of MPs in the most acute
form. … There can be no doubt that the majority of the public
would support the restoration of capital punishment. … The only
purpose of a referendum would be to bring pressure on MPs to
vote for a proposal they would otherwise reject. … I do not believe
that whatever the referendum disclosed Members would vote

against their consciences and so there would be no practical effect
but the attempt to induce them to do so would be profoundly
misguided (quoted in Butler, 1978:218).
But does this suggest that we should, like Clement Attlee (and Margaret
Thatcher after him who quoted Attlee in opposition to the 1975
referendum17), dismiss all referendums as the instrument of totalitari-
anism? As Philip Goodhart has observed, ‘Certainly some referenda
have been held by dictators but Hitler’s use of the referendum
to further totalitarian ends provides no more proof that referendums
help would-be dictators that Stalin’s use of the Supreme Soviet to
support his cult of personality discredits Parliamentary democracy.
Both a referendum and a representative assembly can be twisted by an
unscrupulous leader’ (Goodhart, 1971:80).
Other critics of referendums observe that Britain is a representative,
not a direct, democracy. The system works because voters elect
Members of Parliament who are in a position to inform themselves of
an issue, debate it, call on expert opinion, and then vote on behalf of
their constituents. Referendums are thus anathema to representative
democracy, and efforts to introduce an ideal direct democracy are mis-
guided: citizens do not want it; they do not want the trouble of having
to discuss, debate and vote on minor pieces of legislation. Is the cure
for the ills of democracy – especially apathy, low voter turnouts and
disinterest in politics – really more democracy? For some, referendums
are merely a way for politicians to avoid having to make difficult
decisions by passing that responsibility over to the electorate. Edmund
Burke was particularly scathing about referendums: ‘Your representa-
tive owes you, not his industry only, but his judgement’, he wrote,
‘and he betrays, instead of serving you, if he sacrifices it to your
opinion’ (‘To the Electors of Bristol … on Thursday the third of
November, 1774’, Works, vol. I, London: George Bell and Sons,
1902:447). This judgement was even upheld in an American courtroom
in 1971:
The initiative and the referendum processes run contrary to our

understanding of representative government. … One of the prices
paid for the creation of a representative democracy is the vesting by
the electorate of trust and responsibility in its elected representa-
tives. Discretion is placed within the hands of the municipal legisla-
tors and we must accept the lawful exercise of this discretion
(Quoted in Zimmerman, 2001:2).
So referendums are criticised because they may encourage populism,

and sometimes governments must defy public opinion in the long-
term interests of the country. Effective political leadership leads, it does
not follow. For example, Amendment 2 of Colorado’s constitution,
introduced by initiative to curb the civil rights of homosexuals was
subsequently overturned by the US Supreme Court, suggesting
that elitism can be an important protection against the dangers of
populism. Cochrane (1996:209) turns this argument on its head
and considers how referendums may also help feed the illusion of
participation in political decision-making:
Voters in referendums are minor actors within an impersonal

process – individuals whose identity is lost within a collective voice.
Whichever way they vote they are not responsible, because a major-
ity only emerges from a mass of numbers. Referendums offer the
prospect of power without responsibility – the chance of using the
electronic zap button. Implementation is still left to someone else.
The important question is: Is the referendum a device for democratic

political communication? Does it nourish the democratic process by
encouraging participation and dialogue? We do not have to be as con-
strained as Attlee by the history of the last century to realise that refer-
endums suffer from serious drawbacks.
Group politics represent the popular articulation of public opinion;
groups are extra-parliamentary, sometimes spontaneous expressions
of the public’s dissatisfaction with government decisions; or they are
the embodiment of frustration that a particular issue is not receiving
the amount of political attention that it warrants. Referendums,
on the other hand are, rarely extra-parliamentary and never sponta-
neous. Rather, the majority of referendums are managed by govern-
ments that possess the power to decide which issues shall be put to a
referendum, the form of the question asked, whether the vote will be
decided by a simple majority or whether there must be a minimum
turnout, 18 and when the referendum shall take place. 19 Critics argue
that governments are not interested in facilitating popular participa-
tion at all, merely using referendums to achieve their preferred out-
comes (Smith, 1976. Arend Lijphart, 1984:203 has observed that
‘when governments control the referendum, they will tend to use it
only when they expect to win’). The second Labour government, for
example, did not have to hold a referendum because of its stable
majority in Parliament (there was no corresponding electoral threat
from either the Conservative or Liberal-Democrat Parties). Moreover,
the likelihood of a referendum became less likely as the Blair govern-

ment faced anger over its decision to take the country to war against
Iraq and then became embroiled in the Hutton inquiry that exposed
the inner workings of government. Any referendum held before
the next General Election would probably end up being a mid-term
referendum on the government itself.
Some political systems do allow for the ‘initiative’ variety of refer-
endum that entitles electors to decide that a referendum is needed
(‘… the initiative effectively strips the legislature of its exclusive
power to prevent referendums from being held, and voters and pres-
sure groups demand them …’ Butler & Ranney, 1978:6). Initiatives
are supported as the realisation of direct democracy to overcome the
growing strength of mediating institutions: ‘As a means of realizing
the indivisible sovereignty of citizens, these instruments come
closest to the basic democratic principles of Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s
doctrine of popular sovereignty which, today, is held most fervently
by adherents to the theory of participatory democracy’ (Vatter,
2000:175). The American Progressive Movement of the early
20th Century (and especially the California Progressives who
launched a prolific pro-initiative campaign in 1911) was particularly
approving of this device. They assumed that the initiative would
‘neutralize the power of special interest groups … curtail corruption
on the part of political machines … provide a vehicle for civic educa-
tion on major policy issues … create pressure on state representatives
and governors to act on specific measures, and, when they failed to
act … bypass those representative institutions altogether …’ (Lee,
1978:88–9). 20 While government-sponsored referendums are avail-
able in all 50 states in the US, only 24 allow citizen-inspired initia-
tives. Comparative studies of the initiative indicate that they have
little prospect of succeeding: as the Progressives realised, their value
lies in their educational character; they not only help to publicise an
issue or cause, but initiatives also nurture the political culture of par-
ticipation and generate a sense of empowerment that is lacking in
many democratic systems. By 1891, the right of initiative at the
national level was part of the Swiss constitution, and until 2003 300
initiatives had been introduced. However, only 13, or 4 percent have
been successful, largely because nation-wide initiatives require a
double majority to pass: a majority of those who vote, and a major-
ity of Switzerland’s 26 cantonal votes. The process if gruelling:
100,000 valid signatures are required to launch a constitutional ini-
tiative, 50,000 for a national law referendum. However, despite the
arduous process and the low success rate, the Swiss continue to
launch initiatives. The reason is that the Swiss claim to recognise the
educative and communicative character of these votes: they place on
the political agenda issues that may not otherwise receive any inter-
est; and they stimulate debate, media attention, participation. And
yet …
One of the most important factors in deciding whether referen-
dums do encourage participation is thought to be their frequency.
There is no empirical evidence to support the idea that citizens of
democracies prefer to communicate their political preferences
through referendums than through other methods; in fact, it is possi-
ble to identify the influence of the Law of Diminishing Returns – the
more one has of something, the less satisfaction it yields – because
there appears to be a direct correlation between the frequency of ref-
erendums and falling turnout of the electorate (Aubert, 1978:44–5).21
Even in Switzerland, referendum capital of the world (from 2000 to
2003, a staggering 30 constitutional initiatives were launched in
Switzerland), turnout is hardly spectacular: In a national referendum
in February 2003, 70.3 percent voted in favour of extending the
range of issues on which the Swiss could have a say. However, that
was 70.3 percent of a 28 percent turnout. Even in referendums on
issues of national importance, such as the ending of Swiss neutrality
and membership of the United Nations in March 2002, only
58 percent bothered to vote.22
If the same proportion of citizens are casting their vote in a refer-
endum as in an election, is it possible to argue that referendums are
substantively more democratic than other forms of participation?
Table 5.1 below compares the average turnout of elections and refer-
endums in 12 democracies between 1945 and 1993 and finds that in
all the cases (except Australia and Belgium where voting is compul-
sory 23) turnout for referendums is actually significantly lower than
for elections.24 When combined with the possibility that voters will
be faced with not one, but several often very technical questions on
a referendum ballot, the ensuing voter fatigue is hardly surprising.
For example, Zimmerman (2001:15) reveals that, in 1991, voters in
St. Ann (Missouri) were asked to vote on 68 separate propositions for
levying or increasing taxes on local business in one referendum.
The figures presented in Table 5.1 (referring to those political systems
that do not have compulsory voting laws) have three possible explana-
tions: (i) there is a widespread apathy against voting in general, and
referendums are not the solution to this general problem. This is highly
Table 5.1 Mean turnout in candidate and referendum elections in

selected countries, 1945–1993
Candidate Referendums Difference

Elections (%) (%) (%)
Australia * 95 90 –5
Austria 93 64 –29
Belgium* 92 92 0
Denmark 86 74 –12
France 77 72 –5
Ireland 73 58 –15
Italy 90 74 –16
New Zealand 90 60 –30
Norway 81 78 –3
Sweden 85 67 –18
Switzerland 61 45 –16
United Kingdom 77 65 –12
* Compulsory voting laws

Source: Reproduced from Butler & Ranney, 1994, p. 17.
unlikely; that more citizens turn out to vote for candidates standing for
election than for referendums challenges the assumption of apathy.
Therefore, there must be something wrong with referendums as a device
for political communication and popular empowerment. (ii) In deciding
not to vote in a referendum, citizens might be expressing their dissatis-
faction with the amount of information provided (they may have
insufficient, or even too much, information to make a sensible decision),
or they may genuinely find it difficult to make a decision on what may
be a very technical problem. This means there is a breakdown in political
communications; here referendums are discouraging, rather than
encouraging participation, and sponsors are not providing the kind of
information that makes it possible for people to make a rational decision
on an issue. This leads to the third proposition: (iii) If (ii) is correct, then
perhaps the low turnout for referendums indicates that citizens are, con-
trary to popular belief, relatively content with the system of representa-
tive democracy. It is possible to argue that abstainers are behaving
rationally because they prefer to allow more informed citizens – the
legislators they elect – to vote on their behalf. This brings us full circle to
the notion that the breakdown in representative democracy is little more
than an urban myth. Moreover, since Butler and Ranney published their
data in 1994, the turnout in many referendums has been higher than in
national elections. In the 1995 Quebec referendum, for example, turnout
was an enviable 95 percent, 12 percent higher than turnout in the

provincial election held in 1994. Analysing this data, Lawrence LeDuc
(2002:715) suggests that turnout is linked to the issue under considera-
tion: the less ‘salient’ the issue, the more likely the referendum will
register a low rate of participation (for example, the 1992 referendum in
New Zealand on electoral reform, the 1980 referendum in Sweden on
nuclear power and the 1986 Spanish referendum on NATO). Perhaps the
question again becomes why citizens are refusing to participate on these
supposedly important political issues: is it a symptom of a breakdown in
political communication that voters feel less animated by these issues
than by others considered ‘salient’? LeDuc (Ibid.:717) partly answers this
question when he suggests that voting behaviour is determined by
whether the issues have been debated extensively in other political
arenas, or whether they are ‘new’ issues on which the public has no fixed
opinion (and on which there is little partisan or ideological bias). In the
latter case, public opinion is more susceptible to campaign rhetoric;
voters lack familiar cues and information and thus their behaviour (the
effects of the campaign) are more unpredictable.
Analyses of the value of referendums as a tool for political commu-
nication must address the crucial issue of whether the referendum
is advisory (in which governments are not bound by the result) or
mandatory (in which they are). This allows us to decide whether
referendums do in fact channel preferences in such a way that
governments will act upon them, and thus nourish the idea that
popular participation in the political process is important and valued.
Whether a referendum is advisory or mandatory is largely structural.
For example, in the British political system, only Parliament enjoys
the constitutional authority to make laws, so referendums cannot be
anything but advisory unless Parliament wills it. Hence, even though
the referendum could only be consultative under the terms of the
constitution, the British Labour Party declared in its 1974 election
manifesto that the EEC referendum would ‘be binding on the
Government’. This is in stark contrast to those situations where any
elector has the right to propose a constitutional amendment that
must be put to the public for approval in a referendum. The conse-
quences are clear: As Jean François Aubert (1978:40) has remarked,
‘Swiss referendums are always mandatory, never consultative. … The
citizens give strict orders to the authorities, not mere advice’.25
Not all governments agree to abide by the result of a referendum if it
is advisory and if there are no constitutional provisions for their use.
For example, in 1955 the Swedish government invited the public to
vote on whether it should change the side of the road on which they
drive. The result was clear: 83 percent who voted communicated their
preference for remaining on the same side, but the government chose
to take no notice of the result and legislated for change anyway. Such
blatant disregard for the dialogical and consultative process that refer-
endums are thought to facilitate raises an important question that may
deter participation and encourage apathy: Is asking for an opinion and
then ignoring it as bad, if not worse than, not asking for an opinion at
all? Moreover, there is no reason to suppose that advisory referendums
will solve the problems of lack of interest in political participation:
would voters decide it is a complete waste of their time to take part in a
vote that may not result in change? Irish opposition to the Nice Treaty
was critical of having to participate in a second referendum in 2002
only one year after Irish voters had voted no (54 percent to 46 percent
on a 34 percent turnout). ‘What part of No don’t you understand,’
asked an anti-Nice poster (‘Irish keep Europe guessing on enlargement’,
The Guardian, 12 October 2002:4).
Critics of referendums opine that they undermine the democratic
process because they encourage the tyranny of the majority (Butler &
Ranney, 1994. For an alternative perspective, see Zimmerman (1986),
and Cronin (1989). For example, between 1978 and 1998, 13 anti-
homosexual initiatives were held in seven American states (Donovan
et al. 1999).26 In a study of how Americans voted in referendums on
civil rights, Barbara Gamble (1997:262) reached a disturbing conclu-
sion: ‘ … the record shows that American voters readily repeal existing
civil rights protections and enthusiastically enact laws that bar their
elected representatives from passing new ones.’ However, at the same
time it is possible to find evidence that they can encourage ‘tyranny of
the minority’. For example, referendums were held in Slovenia on
23 March 2003 on the issue of membership of the European Union and
NATO. The results of both were binding on the government (the refer-
endum results supported membership of both organisations). Turnout,
however, was only 45 percent – far below the normal 70 percent for
general elections. Is such a prospect – 45 percent of Slovenes deciding
their country’s future – really that democratic?
Low participation in referendums means that the political society is
vulnerable to what is termed a ‘false majority’, as demonstrated by
the 1973 Northern Ireland referendum to decide whether that terri-
tory should remain part of the UK. The Catholic community was
encouraged by its leaders to boycott the poll, meaning that only
58.7 percent of those eligible to vote did so. Hence, a 98.9 percent
majority expressed their preference for staying in United Kingdom

(a useful discussion of the background to this referendum, including
the reasons for the Catholic boycott, can be found in Bogdanor,
1994:37). Political scientists studying referendums in societies that
are deeply divided along ethnic lines, such as Northern Ireland and
the former Yugoslavia, have concluded that their use is limited;
national division undermines the legitimacy of a referendum’s result
and hence its democratic credentials if it strengthens majority rule
and does not adequately represent the interests of minorities. How-
ever, the stability of Switzerland, a political system that uses the
referendum more than any other, provides the challenge to this
thesis that must throw doubt on its credibility. 27 This suggests that
referendums alone do not produce bad government, poor govern-
ance, or the tyranny of majorities. Rather, one must look below the
surface at the structural features of the political system to find its
flaws.
To summarise, then, the appeal of referendums derives from
their essence of democratic legitimacy; decisions are considered more
legitimate if they have been arrived at by soliciting popular opinion.
Hence, referendums are a device of political communication that are
thought to encourage participation and facilitate open and transparent
government. However, their success depends on voter interest and par-
ticipation – why should we assume that voters will be any more
inspired by referendums than they are by elections? – the quality of
information that is provided by both sides in a campaign, and the
news coverage of the referendum. In short, we cannot expect referen-
dums to reproduce the conditions and effects of direct democracy; as a
method of political communication they are useful, but flawed devices.
6
Political Communications and
Democratisation: ‘Paladins of
Liberty’?1
Everyone has the right to freedom of opinion and expression;

this right includes freedom to hold opinions without inter-
ference and to seek, receive, and impart information and ideas
through any media regardless of frontiers.
– Article 19, Universal Declaration of Human Rights
Advances in the technology of communications have proved

an unambiguous threat to totalitarian regimes.
– Rupert Murdoch, 1993 (quoted in Bruce Page, ‘How Rupert
took on the world,’ The Observer (Review), 24 August 2003:5).
Shortly after delivering this speech in 1993, Rupert Murdoch decided to

pull BBC World Service Television from the Star network’s AsiaSat1,
depriving audiences in China, Taiwan and Hong Kong access to BBC
programming. At the same time, Murdoch invested US$5.4 million into
Renmin Ribao (The People’s Daily), the official newspaper of the Chinese
Communist Party. His critics allege that Murdoch had taken this deci-
sion following official complaints from China about critical documen-
taries and references to the 1989 Tiananmen massacre in programmes
made by the BBC. In short, the anecdotal evidence available leads us to
believe that the Chinese government told Murdoch that either Star must
conform to its idea of acceptable programming or the network would
not have access to the lucrative mainland market. If true, then this
episode reveals that even global media barons such as Rupert Murdoch
are no match for the power of states determined to maintain control of
media in their borders. In the battle between free market capitalism and
politics, can we suggest that Murdoch’s alleged surrender to the Chinese
demonstrates that politics is, to paraphrase Mao Zedong, ‘in command’?
140
Political Communications and Democratisation 141
If so, the prospects are bleak for democratic political communication

in the authoritarian world, even in those political systems where
governments, like China, advocate variants of free market economics.
Indeed, in many areas that have experienced a successful transition to
democracy, the consolidation of media freedoms remain tentative
precisely because the tyranny of the state may easily be substituted for
the tyranny of the market (Rawnsley & Rawnsley, 2001). New problems
arise: the market does not guarantee quality; as competition intensifies,
the media are less willing to invest in innovative programming and
instead battle to capture the same middle-ground audiences with the
same formats. This is particularly serious in television where national
stations are forced to compete with cable channels showing foreign and
local programming that are gaining popularity because of their ability
to customise output for audiences. Moreover, the idea that market
competition provides opportunities for consumer power is a little disin-
genuous. While reforming governments may try to end political
influence in the media after democratisation, this may give way to the
concentration of power in the hands of commercially dominant indi-
viduals or consortia, and it is not unusual for bigger operators to
squeeze out their smaller competitors from the market. Market forces
may not serve the specific political and social needs of democratising
nations particularly well, but too often governments and media indus-
tries themselves consider media pluralism and privatisation a priority –
often a panacea – with media institutionalisation and creation of new
regulatory powers of secondary importance, if not an affront to the very
democratic principles that now permeate the political culture.
The five previous chapters have discussed the relationship between
political communications and democracy. We have seen how theorists
have situated with varying success communication in their approaches
to politics. We have also studied how their ideas have been realised
through the organisation of (legal and illegal) collective action, govern-
ments’ measurement of and responses to public opinion, and their
endeavours via referendums to reproduce the more desirable character-
istics of Athenian direct democracy.
Yet, as Rupert Murdoch realised, communications also play a sign-
ificant role in weakening authoritarian governments and facilitating
the process of democratisation.2 As noted previously, communications
can help structure the participation and competition within a political
system (offering means of dialogue, transparency and accountability,
and aiding parties in their contest for votes) and therefore make a pos-
itive contribution to the consolidation of democratic procedures,
institutions and culture. (A consolidated democracy refers to ‘a regime

that meets all the procedural criteria of democracy and also in which
all politically significant groups accept established political institu-
tions and adhere to democratic rules of the game.’ Higley & Gunther
(eds), 1992:3). Moreover, political communications help to create
senses of identity, lend communities geographic coherence and may
support efforts to integrate new communities. In other words, political
communications, especially through the media, play subversive and/
or supporting roles in systems experiencing political transition.
At least these are the normative assumptions with which we engaged
in Chapters 1 and 2, and which are consistent, for example, with
Robert Dahl’s comprehensive catalogue of criteria by which we may
identify a fully developed democracy (in Swanson & Mancini, 1996).
However, we must recognise that the reality of political communica-
tions in new democracies too often falls short of these normative con-
victions; and this is not surprising given that communications have
played very different roles in authoritarian political systems, and that
the transition may happen at an unexpectedly brisk pace, leaving com-
munications requiring time to rebuild and negotiate new social and
political roles, sometimes literally overnight. Certainly, journalists
must question their purpose and responsibilities in the political
arrangements of a new democracy and consider their professional
obligations and practices. James McEnteer (1995) describes the situa-
tion after the fall of Ferdinand Marcos in 1986 when the new govern-
ment lifted all restrictions on the Filipino media. His account provides
not only a portrait of incompetence, but a chaos driven by a specific
short-term political agenda: ‘There were few rules or restrictions, only
to prevent another Marcos at any cost’ (McEnteer, 1995:115). More-
over, McEnteer describes the poor conditions in which journalists
worked after the Marcos era which leave them receptive to bribery
‘from anyone who might wish to have a story run, slanted or killed. …
A radio reporter … told me that journalists often make more money
during the 90-day election campaign season that during the rest of the
year.’ Can we expect journalists to adopt what we consider the univer-
sal standards of objectivity and neutrality, and balance freedom of
the press and press responsibility – standards that are rooted in the
democratic tradition – without taking into account the historical and
cultural experiences and expectations of each individual transition?
(See Aumente, et al., 1999; de Burgh, 2003b; W.L. Bennett in O’Neil,
1998; Rawnsley, 2004.) For example, the BBC model of public service
broadcasting has been widely acclaimed as the prototype for the trans-
formation of state owned broadcasting systems. In Hungary, the Media

Law of 1996 committed broadcasters to a BBC-style system, but had
difficulty in living up to expectations: how can a public service broad-
caster provide service to a community when the definition of com-
munity is unsettled? What is the relationship between public service
broadcasting and privately-owned commercial broadcasting systems
which, as we have seen in previous chapters, epitomise the classic
liberal-democratic ideal? In Hungary, as in many other East European
countries, is local rather than national programming more appro-
priate? Do these provide a more empowering and democratic form of
communication? If so, do they rely on local investment from govern-
ment or private enterprise? My purpose in posing these questions is
not to answer them, but merely to suggest that simply contrasting free
and non-free communications systems is only the tip of the iceberg.
The communication and political processes that societies experience
after democratic transition can be as powerful, influential and awkward
as those they undertake prior to or during the transformation of
political society. Too often the political system is in a hurry to reform,
leaving many important issues and questions about the new structure
and organisation of communications unanswered.
Nevertheless, by observing the communication systems within a
political society we are able to acquire a snapshot of the level of
democracy enjoyed there. This is a crude and limited method;
Freedom House3 measures the freedom of the media to assess the
levels of democracy around the world by analysing the legal, political
and economic constraints on the media and journalists. Freedom
House reported that, in 2003, ‘out of the 192 countries and 1 terri-
tory surveyed, 73 countries (38 percent) were rated Free, while 49
(25 percent) were rated Partly Free and 71 (37 percent) were rated Not
Free’ (Karleker, 2004:2).
Societies that Freedom House concludes are Not Free have generally
low levels of dialogical political communication: communications tend
to process downwards and are crucial to the government’s exercise of
authority. Freedom House expressed concern that in 2003 the global
level of press freedom had declined for the second consecutive year.
This trend was particularly noticeable in Central and South America,
and central and eastern Europe. However, some societies were visibly
backsliding from democracy, with media freedoms in gradual retreat.
(‘Overall, 5 countries (Bolivia, Bulgaria, Cape Verde, Italy and the
Philippines) declined from Free to Partly Free, while 5 countries
(Gabon, Guatemala, Guinea-Bissau, Moldavia and Morocco) declined
from Partly Free to Not Free. Only 2 countries – Kenya and Sierra
Leone – registered a positive category shift in 2003 from Not Free to
Partly Free.’ Karlekar, 2004:2.) Critics of the Russian government under
President Vladimir Putin, for example, observe there a gradual reversal
of media liberalisation and a growing concentration of power over the
media in the Kremlin that for his detractors echo the character of com-
munist control prior to 1991. Government raids on the offices of news-
papers and television stations critical of the president and the arrest of
prominent journalists testify to the continued decline in Russian media
freedom (there is particular concern that the government is distorting
reporting of its war in Chechnya). In our rush to reprimand Putin,
however, we should not overlook the fact that this situation is partly
because the relationship between the media, government and markets
was never satisfactorily resolved after the hurried fall of communism in
Russia (see Mickiewicz, 2000).
The most disturbing aspect of such changes of direction is that
they are not confined (as one might expect) to political systems that
have recent often-traumatic experiences of democratisation or where
the consolidation of the democratic culture remains fragile. In 2003,
Freedom House classified Italy as ‘partly free’ because of the obvious
concentration there of media ownership and political power under
Prime Minister Silvio Berlosconi (Statham, 1996). Similarly, Freedom
House described Thailand as ‘partly free’ because it accused Prime
Minister Thaksin Shinawatra of trying to exercise political influence
and control over the media through censorship and the systematic
harassment of journalists and editors.
The least free nations in 2003 according to Freedom House were
Equatorial Guinea, Eritrea, Zimbabwe, Libya, Myanmar (Burma),4
Turkmenistan, Cuba and North Korea. In these political systems, the
media are monopolised by the state and serve as agents of government
propaganda.
However, as this book has emphasised there is more to political com-
munications than the media, and the Freedom House rankings tell
only a partial story. Analyses of political systems must also scrutinise
such indicators as the freedom of assembly and mobilisation, the
ability of trades unions and other groups to represent public interests
on a collective basis, and whether the articulation of public opinion
through referendums or elections are genuine attempts at popular con-
sultation or a crude instrument of legitimacy with little real value. The
eight countries identified as having the least free media are also among
the least free in terms of the other methods of political communica-
tion. Political repression in these countries routinely denies their citi-

zens the opportunity to organise collective activities independently of
(and in competition with) the state and the levels of accountability
and transparency are negligible. In other words, it is impossible to sep-
arate communications from the political context; the latter both
reveals and limits the former, and we must consider the individual
political systems to understand the role of communication there.
However, the rankings are also limited in another more important
aspect: the simple association of democracy with a free press and
authoritarian governments with a closely regulated and strangulated
media is too simplistic and actually out-of-date (being characteristic of
the Cold War mindset that set ‘them’ against ‘us’ and pit ‘freedom’
against ‘repression’). As we know only too well, the media in demo-
cratic societies are never completely free from government influence,
as the disastrous Broadcasting Ban on members of Sinn Fein in the
1980s in Britain demonstrates (Negrine, 1994). This is an example of a
democracy claiming the existence of legitimate limits to media
freedom based on paternal assessments of public interest and national
security. Other political systems, however, do use more illicit methods
of influencing the media that challenge their democratic credentials.
In democratic Peru in the run-up to a presidential election in 2000,
the secret police chief, Vladimiro Montesinos Torres used bribery as a
method of exercising political influence over the media: ‘The typical
bribe paid to a television-channel owner was about a hundred times
larger than that paid to a judge …. One single television channel’s
bribe was four times larger than the total of the opposition politicians’
bribes. The most forceful of all the checks and balances on the
Peruvian government’s power, by Montesinos’s revealed preference,
was television’ (McMillan & Zoido, 2004).5 In other words, the bribes
offered to television stations expose the way Peruvian politicians con-
ceded the power of the media. Television stations, say McMillan and
Zoido (2004:13) had more ‘bargaining power’ than judges or politi-
cians; while the supply of corruptible politicians and judges was
unlimited, there were only six privately-owned television stations, any
one of which could have been a thorn in Montesinos’s side. The mass
audience for television broadcasting, together with audience depen-
dence on television for news and information, increases the possibility
of citizen-led democratic oversight unless checked by government
supervision and/or corruption.
Moreover, modern communications technologies make it increas-
ingly difficult for authoritarian regimes to hermetically seal their
borders and prevent their citizens from receiving and conveying

uncomfortable news and information. The short-wave radio, for
example, was a source of alternative information throughout the
Eastern Bloc in the Cold War (Rawnsley, 1996a). As I discovered in my
earlier research on international communication in that period,
audiences have a stubborn curiosity about information that govern-
ments do not allow them to receive and will actively seek out alterna-
tive sources of information, often at considerable risk to their own
safety. This is as true in 2005 as it was in 1955. For instance, anecdotal
evidence available to researchers today suggests that the Chinese
government’s blatant media censorship only whets the popular
appetite for forbidden information. When Zhao Ziyang, to many a
hero of the 1989 Tiananmen Square demonstrations, died after
15 years of house arrest in January 2005, the Chinese government con-
trolled coverage of his passing and his funeral. Information was scarce:
‘I live in Guangzhou, and that night I wasn’t able to access two Hong
Kong TV stations, so I realised immediately that something major had
happened. …’; ‘ … today … my grandmother said, “Zhou Ziyang died,
why isn’t the news or the papers reporting it?” I was curious, so I went
searching on the Internet, but I found I couldn’t open many Web sites,
which made me think something was strange. …’; ‘This morning,
I couldn’t connect to any overseas web sites, and I realised that some-
thing had happened …’; ‘Putting aside Zhao’s merits and faults for the
time being, we have already completely lost the right to speak, and to
hear about him! What kind of world is this?’ (Emily Parker, ‘Cracks in
the Chinese Wall’, The Asian Wall Street Journal, 26 January 2005).
These concerns surfaced in chat-rooms and on other discussion sites on
the Internet, suggesting that the information revolution may continue
the trends set by shortwave radio and help curious users circumvent
the officially managed media (see Chapter 7).
Again, we might refer to the questions posed by Denis McQuail
(2000:69) and substitute ‘political communications’ for ‘media’. Think-
ing through the answers to these questions is a particularly useful
approach to understanding the relationship between communications
and democratisation for they lead us towards identifying the power
behind and of communications, their distribution, and objectives.
Obviously this will help us to understand the role of communication
in both authoritarian and democratic political systems:
• Who controls the media?

• Whose version of the world (social reality) is presented?
• How effective are the media in achieving chosen ends?

• Do mass media promote more or less equality in society?
• How is access to media organised?
Reinforcing authoritarian control
It is difficult to imagine how authoritarian governments could survive

without devoting serious resources to influencing and controlling
systems of communication. Lacking the political legitimacy enjoyed
by democratic governments, authoritarian regimes depend on com-
munications to reinforce their political and coercive power. Systems of
communication rarely extend beyond transmitting, framing and inter-
preting for the audience the decisions and actions of the government.
They facilitate political recruitment, socialisation and mobilisation,
hence communications have distinct social and political responsibili-
ties of social control and nation-building that are consistent with the
development priorities and ideological assumptions of the regime. For
example, in 1999 C. Rozzario, Director of the Public Affairs Division
(Singapore Ministry of Home Affairs) justified his government’s strict
management of communications by claiming that, ‘In a multi-racial
and multi-religious Singapore, we cannot put at risk the racial
harmony and sense of public order, peace and safety built up over the
years’ (quoted in the Straits Times, 28 January 1999).6 Hence, the state
called for the adoption of a nationalist ideology to forge a common
bond among its people. This ideology, communicated through media
and education, is built around five pillars that reflect the collectivism
at the heart of Singapore’s commitment to ‘Asian values’, namely
nation, family, community, consensus, and harmony. This ideology is
justified as a ‘safeguard against undesirable values permeating from
developed countries’ (Singapore’s Ministry of Information, Com-
munications, and the Arts, Our Shared Values, 2002, at http://www.sg/
flavour/value.asp). Singapore is one of many authoritarian regimes
who worry about the chaos that pluralism and freedom of information
may introduce to their country, upsetting not only its development
strategies, but also its cultural foundations (national communications
are therefore tasked with resisting ‘cultural imperialism’). Many
regimes have therefore decided that nationalisation of the media
allows the most efficient form of state management. Since 1960, the
Cuban state has owned and controlled all media to serve its political
agenda (Nichols & Torres, 1998). Suharto’s government in Indonesia
designed its national television network in 1962 around a specific
developmental programme that required its people to identify closely

with the regime. The Indonesian government required the media
to help foster a sense of national unity, with television sets located in
village halls across the country showing state-controlled programming
(Shoesmith, 1994). This meant that the government decided broad-
casting could encourage national identity and unity through the
communal experience of watching centrally-planned programming.
Alternatively, state control of the media may help to de-politicise
and demobilise a population, sapping their energy, generating passivity
and depriving people not only of a voice, but also of stimuli that might
activate them. In authoritarian Spain, for example, ‘the primary result
of media control was to secure the passive acquiescence of the Spanish
population rather than to resocialize the citizenry into active participa-
tory roles’ (Gunther et al., 2000:38, emphasis added). Hence, television
stations produce and broadcast cheap entertainment programmes
devoid of any meaningful content, or the government sanctions the
controlled importation of (ostensibly) harmless foreign programmes.
The 1970s British drama, The Onedin Line was one of the most popular
programmes ever shown in Romania during the 1980s. Ceaucescu’s
decision to remove it from the airwaves in favour of North Korean-
inspired propaganda was one factor that contributed to the activation
of citizens against the regime.7 Gunther, Montero and Wert (2000:38)
are particularly scathing about this attempt by the Spanish Fascist
regime to create an inert audience: ‘Regime maintenance,’ they write,
‘was facilitated by communications policies that effectively bored most
Spaniards into passivity and acquiescence and deprived them of
stimuli that might have triggered political mobilization.’ But as Sükösd
(2000:139) notes, this strategy can backfire, as it did in Romania: in
Hungary, the ‘official importation of Western popular culture resulted
in a spiralling of demand for the forbidden fruit’. The forbidden fruit is
always the most attractive variety, as the previous description of
Chinese chat-room reaction to the suppression of news about Zhao
Ziyang’s death demonstrates.
Authoritarian governments exercise a variety of mechanisms to
pressure, influence and, in the most extreme cases control communica-
tions, at the same time as demonstrating intolerance of alternative
political opinions, autonomous and spontaneous popular mobilisation,
information and channels of communication, but we can identify the
following characteristics:
• Important appointments within the media are decided on political

rather than professional grounds.
• The news agenda and news coverage are politically controlled to

reflect the political agenda.
• Laws and legal systems are created to influence the media (targeting
source, media actors and/or audiences).
• However, the media, journalists and editors are often subject to
cycles of extra-legal abuse and intimidation.
• The idea that the media operate within an autonomous public
sphere is absent.
• Civil society lacks autonomy; its mobilisation is tolerated only in
service of the state-decided agenda.
• Primary groups too are expected to serve political functions; church,
youth groups, schools, art, even family-life are pressed into service
to communicate the state’s political agenda.
The most visible method of control is a system of media ownership that

privileges the regime and embeds the media within the state structure
under centralised management. This is clearly how communist govern-
ments influence the media: the Chinese government, for example, main-
tains this system of centralisation, despite a gradual loosening of the
social and political systems there that has allowed the media a greater
(albeit still small) amount of freedom (de Burgh, 2003b).
The Chinese media are responsible to a series of state or Communist
party institutions, including the Ministry of Culture, the New China
News Agency (xinhua), the State Administration of Radio, Film and
TV, the State Administration of Press and Publication, and the State
Information Office and the Propaganda Department of the Com-
munist Party Central Committee. In the Soviet Union, too the media
were subordinate in a dual system of control by a government (state)
ministry and a committee of the Communist party responsible for ide-
ology or propaganda. The Soviet Union, the Communist states of
Eastern Europe and China also share the nomenklatura system giving
the party the power to nominate and veto individuals for prominent
positions within economic, political and social institutions including
the media, and these individuals will normally be party members. The
editor of China’s People’s Daily (Renmin Zhibao) and the Director of
xinhua are officials with ministerial rank, appointments that demon-
strate beyond doubt the close relationship between the media and
politics in China. Each organisation has provincial and local branches
allowing the state to penetrate China’s vast media environment.
Xinhua, for example, has over 6,000 employees, bureaus in every
province and autonomous region and approximately 100 offices
throughout the world (David, 1992:18–29). The media are required to
disseminate the party message (Hsiao and Cheek, 1995),8 a respons-

ibility that The People’s Daily reaffirmed in 2000:
We should pay special attention to the use of modern tools of

the mass media, such as the press, the radio, the television and
the Internet, bring into play their role as the main channel of ideo-
logical education, and make continuous efforts to create lively forms
that can reach people’s ears, brain and heart (quoted in Perrins (ed.),
2001:313–14).
Workers in media organisations occupying senior positions (though

not all journalists) are likewise usually members of the Chinese
Communist Party as joining is considered a valuable and safe career
move (Lee (ed.), 1990; Lynch, 1999). Under President Sukarno’s
authoritarian regime (1966–1998), all journalists were required to
join the Persatuan Wartawan Indonesia (PWI), a state-sponsored organ-
isation that closely regulated and monitored the activities of all
reporters. Only those members approved by the government were able
to be editors and publishers. Membership of a rival organisation, the
Alliance of Independent Journalists (AJI), created in 1994, resulted
in expulsion from the PWI. The AJI became a focus for opposition
mobilisation, campaigning for press freedom as part of a broader pro-
democracy agenda (McCargo, 2003:92–3). In Saddam Hussein’s Iraq, all
journalists were required to join the Iraqi Journalist Union, headed by
Saddam’s feared son, Uday.
In October 1996, Jiang Zemin, then President of China, General
Secretary of the Communist Party, and Chairman of the Military
Commission (the first Chinese leader to occupy all three positions
simultaneously) toured the Chinese media to offer his guidance on
their work and organisation. The People’s Daily (3 October 1996)
recorded his requirements under the title ‘On the Correct Direction of
Public Opinion’:
1. The press must be guided by the Party’s basic theory, basic line, and
basic guideline, and keep politics, ideology and action in conformity
with the Party Central Committee.
2. The press must firmly keep to the standpoint of the Party, adhere
to principle, and take clear-cut stand on what to promote and what
to oppose on cardinal issues of right and wrong.
3. The press must adhere to the party’s guideline with stress on
propaganda by positive examples, sing the praises of people’s great
achievements, and conduct the correct supervision of public
opinion that should help the party and state to improve work
and the style of leadership, solve problems, enhance unity, and
safeguard stability.
4. The press must … hold patriotism, collectivism and socialism on
high, and use best things to arm, direct and mould the people.
Here, President Jiang affirmed beyond doubt that the Chinese media
are, and must remain part of the political system; they must conform
to party lines, directives and requirements, and they have a respons-
ibility to work with the system, not against it.
Ownership was likewise central to the authoritarian control of
the media in Taiwan. Until the beginning of liberalisation and democ-
ratisation in 1987, the Kuomintang (KMT, Nationalist party) owned
four national daily newspapers, the government owned two, and the
military five, but the implied separation of ownership was deceptive
because of the overlapping character of party/state/military political
authority that defined the martial law era in Taiwan. A similar struc-
ture managed the three oldest national television stations, Taiwan
Television Company (TTV, tai-shi), China Television Company (CTV,
zhong-shi) and Chinese Television System (CTS, hua-shi). Again, the
government, party and military owned these stations, so immediately
we can observe a pattern of media ownership that does not hide politi-
cal influence and motives. Taiwan’s media were ‘advised’ by govern-
ment agencies (especially the Government Information Office, GIO)
about which stories they could cover and how, so that the media
might work towards meeting the regime’s primary objectives, namely
rapid economic development and the reunification of China on the
KMT’s terms.
However, the KMT’s control of political communication in Taiwan
extended far beyond the media as a lively article by Chen Yanhao
published in the radical opposition journal, Current Monthly (Nuan
zazhi) in 1984 makes apparent:
The KMT’s censorship policy was everywhere in society and for no

explicable reason the KMT prohibited every kind of behaviour: … it
forbade any new party from forming; it forbade the registration of
any newspaper; it forbade strike, demonstrations, and criticisms of
national policy; it forbade the election of a provincial governor and
the mayors of Taipei and Kaohsiung cities; it forbade the reading
of works published by mainland Chinese authors; it forbade the
expression of views by political rallies; it forbade students to have
long hair and to help politicians in elections. Most of these activities
do not violate the constitution. They are merely the subjective views
held by those in power and run counter to society’s contemporary
trends and the natural inclinations of our people (quoted in
Rawnsley & Rawnsley, 2001:55).
Chen here affirms that authoritarian regimes decide how systems of

communication might and should work according to specific political
and social agendas, and then subject those systems to myriad (often
arbitrary) regulation.
The close corporate relationship between politics and economics in
many developing countries provides a prevalent and more insidious
method of state control. This allows governments to influence indi-
rectly the media through managing media appointments, regulating
who can have licenses, the allocation of radio and TV frequencies etc.
through often-elaborate patron-client networks, and thus inhibiting
the flow of news and information from opposition-controlled media.
For example, in Indonesia powerful business interests and government
pressure stalled progress towards the creation of a free press: ‘Former
Indonesian Information Minister Harmoko was at one point believed
to have stakes in thirty-one media outlets. He did not buy those stakes;
they were presented to him as a goodwill gesture by owners who were
anxious to ensure that their publications were not closed down by the
government’ (McCargo 2003:7). Similarly, the Bulgarian government
controls the allocation of licenses, encouraging a pro-regime bias
among the media there, while most editors of Cuban media have close
ties to the state and share its worldview (Nichols, 1982). The media
there are in the hands of private operators who are driven by com-
mercial rather than political concerns, and thus desire to preserve and
maximise their income by not disturbing the status quo. This provides
the political and economic conditions for a degree of self-censorship
and thus precludes direct state interference.9
The KMT government of Taiwan, like their Communist counterparts
on the Chinese mainland, successfully managed the media through the
creation of a complex patron-client network that allowed agencies rep-
resenting the KMT, the provincial government and the state to manage
media appointments. This meant that newspaper editors either were
members of the KMT or were supportive of the party’s political agenda,
thus sympathetic journalists, owners and political appointees were
located in prominent and powerful ‘gate-keeping’ positions within the
media. For example, the proprietors of the two privately owned news-
papers with the highest circulation, China Times (zhong-guo shi-bao)
and United Daily News (lian-he bao) were members of the KMT Central
Standing Committee (zhong-yang wei-yuan-yui). ‘To a certain extent, the
obligation to be profitable, the need to sell, incited the private papers
to distance themselves from propaganda, while remaining within
limits acceptable to the regime, in order not to end up being closed
down’ (Batto, 2004:65). Many publications were closed down, usually
through overt political and judicial methods, but the Public Opinion
News, a political magazine that was critical of the government in the
1950s, was closed by the KMT’s decision to invest in it enormous sums
of capital. Once it enjoyed a controlling interest, it was easy for the
KMT to engineer the journal’s downfall. The magazine was forced out
of business by the skilful manipulation of investment concerns, not by
overt government pressure or legal mechanisms.
In addition to creating institutional structures of control, many
governments in the non-democratic world subject media and journal-
ists to often legal cycles of repression and abuse, and Freedom House
remains worried by the constant intimidation of journalists by politi-
cians and criminals in clear violation of human rights regimes. In
particular, Guatemala, Argentina, Azerbaijan, Ukraine, Rwanda, Tunisia
and Guinea were considered particularly susceptible to election-related
political intimidation and violence against journalists in 2003
(Karlekar, 2004:5). Non-democratic political systems are inclined to
view the media either as instruments of state control or as adversaries –
there is little room for the media to play a role between these poles:
you are either with us or against us. If you decide you are against us,
then you are by definition an enemy of the state and therefore the
state is free to use any methods it may choose to destroy you.
Journalists are especially vulnerable targets as they ferret out and
expose the information certain members of the political world would
rather keep quiet. The fact that journalists are deemed such a threat to
the status quo that they deserve assassination is indicative of their
perceived influence on public opinion. In 1986, Iraq’s Revolutionary
Command Council issued Order Number 840 which imposed the
death penalty on anyone who criticised the president. This is thought
to have been the pretext for the execution of hundreds of journalists in
Iraq. In Russia, too, there have been attempts to link the deaths of
prominent journalists to the political establishment. On 9 July 2004,
Forbes’s Russian editor, Paul Klebnikov, was murdered in Moscow, and
two successive editors-in-chief of Tolyattinskoye Obozreniye newspaper
in the Volga region were likewise killed in suspicious circumstances. By
October 2004, 11 Russian journalists were murdered in contract-style
killings and four others have died because of other violent, work-
related circumstances during President Putin’s time in office. At the
time of writing, the police have not yet brought anyone to justice for
these crimes.
By 2000, when the KMT finally lost the presidency in Taiwan and
the political system supposedly entered the consolidation phase of
transition, many journalists still reported that they were under surveil-
lance, their offices were searched, and their telephones (and those of
family and friends) were bugged. For example, in October 2000
members of the Taipei District Prosecutor’s Office searched the offices
and homes of journalists working for the China Times Express. They
were searching for information leaked to the media detailing the level
of corruption within the National Security Bureau. Journalists working
for the newspaper complained that they, and their friends and fami-
lies, were under close surveillance and that their telephone conversa-
tions were monitored. The prosecutors justified their behaviour by
referring to ‘national security’, a handy catch-all term that democratic
and non-democratic governments regularly use to justify the suppres-
sion of basic civil liberties. They claimed the leaked information could
have included ‘highly sensitive state secrets’ that threatened the lives
of Bureau members. Yet all too frequently, the intimidation is non-
political and extra-legal and originates in the criminal underworld.
Offices of Jimmy Lai’s Taiwan enterprise, Next Magazine have been
searched by prosecutors and regularly vandalised by hired thugs
following the magazine’s exposure of criminal activity. These episodes
resonate with the ‘white terror’ of Taiwan’s martial law period between
1950 and 1987 when hundreds of reporters, writers and editors were
purportedly harassed, interrogated and often jailed on the pretext of
threatening ‘national security’ (Chao & Myers, 1998; Rawnsley, 2000;
Rawnsley & Rawnsley 2001). General Park Chung-hee’s military coup
in South Korea in 1961 justified the absence of civil liberties there by
referring to the threat from North Korea and the need for economic
development. Like their KMT counterparts in Taiwan, the South
Korean government believed that it would defeat communism, but
doing so required extraordinary means and extra-democratic political
organisation.
Other governments use laws to influence the media. The problem
for those on the receiving end is that most of these laws do not make
explicit their intentions; the most common technique of exercising
authority is to leave the laws as vague as possible to allow their ex-
pedient interpretation. This is particularly worrying in the context of
the global war on terror; human rights advocates worry that the
successful prosecution of this war depends on the suspension of funda-

mental liberties, and that the threat of terrorism (‘national security’) is
once again a convenient excuse to exercise increasingly authoritarian
practices against the media, even in otherwise democratic political
systems. Taiwan’s Law on Publications (chu-ban-fa, passed in April
1952, amended 1958 and 1973, finally repealed 25 January 1999),
enacted under the conditions of martial law described how the govern-
ment could close a daily newspaper without recourse to judicial process
or authority. The Law on Publications and other texts imposed restric-
tions on: (i) the registration of new papers; (ii) the number of pages
that newspapers could publish; and (iii) where the newspaper could be
printed and distributed. These measures affected a comprehensive press
ban policy in 1951 that prevented the further issue of licenses and thus
froze until 1987 the number of titles permitted to print at 31. Similarly,
Spain’s Press Law of 1938 that defined the role of the media there
for almost three decades (until the Press Law of 1966 marked the
beginning of liberalisation) allowed the government to suspend any
publication without appeal.
In 2000, Russia’s Security Council passed an ‘information security
doctrine’. In classic doublespeak that is associated with George Orwell
and Big Brother, the ostensible intention of this doctrine was to protect
journalists’ rights and improve the free flow of information. In prac-
tice, however, the doctrine has enabled the state to preserve its firm
grip on Russia’s communications systems: the state can monitor
Internet traffic, intercept email, the post and mobile telephone conver-
sations, and share this information between state agencies, including
the Foreign Intelligence Service and the Kremlin Secret Police (Franda,
2002:112). Another law passed in 2003 made it illegal for newspapers
to express during an election an opinion about a candidate’s policies,
his campaign or his personality. One journalist of the Vremya MN,
Konstantin Katanyan, tested the boundaries of this law by writing an
article about the election for governor in Mordoviya:
‘I violated everything I could in this article.’ … He said that the

current governor might win as there was no alternative; he said the
candidate liked football, and that he hired his own relatives as staff.
The article theoretically broke the law three times, predicting results
and referring to a candidate’s background twice. Yet Katanyan has
yet to be reprimanded … compounding his fears that the law will …
only be applied selectively against particular irritants (Nick Paton
Walsh, ‘Back in the USSR’, The Guardian (media section), 6 October
2003:8–9).
Again, the arbitrary application of such laws can be a powerful instru-

ment in the hands of governments determined to preserve their
control of, and influence over the media.
Robert Mugabe’s power in Zimbabwe is now a well-documented
example of a regime determined to maintain its authority by control-
ling political communications, especially the media. Mugabe has
used a variety of methods to do this, including passing a series of
laws to curtail media freedom and circumscribe opposition to his
regime gaining a public voice. In other words, Mugabe demonstrates
that it is possible to influence the media and journalists by making
life hard for them. Since losing the constitutional referendum
in February 2000, Robert Mugabe’s Zanu-PF waged a war against
Zimbabwe’s private media which the government blamed for
its defeat. In 2002, the government introduced the Access to
Information and Protection of Privacy Act (AIPPA). This meant that
the independent newspapers had until 31 October 2002 to register
both their companies and their journalists. Newspapers must also
provide forecasts of their operations, including cash flows and profits,
for the next five years. Furthermore, they are required to provide
details of all the political affiliations of their directors and executives.
The decision to allow any journalist – local or foreign – to operate in
Zimbabwe would henceforth rest with the Media and Information
Commission. Any journalist working in the country without a state
issued licence faces a two-year prison sentence. Moreover, anyone
convicted of publishing or passing on information deemed false and
prejudicial to the state may be imprisoned for up to 20 years. Mugabe
has reinforced these laws with muscle: on 12 September 2003, armed
police closed the Daily News, Zimbabwe’s largest circulation and only
independent newspaper. Soon after it began publishing in 1999, the
Daily News became the country’s most popular newspaper, concen-
trating on exposing the corruption and human rights abuses enacted
by the Mugabe regime. After years of government harassment,
including fire-bombings and journalists beaten, arrested and jailed,
the closure came after the newspaper lost a court battle in which it
challenged the constitutionality of the AIPPA. The court decided that
the Daily News had to register before it could challenge the law, a
verdict the government took to mean that the newspaper was operat-
ing illegally. After a week’s closure, the Zimbabwean High Court
ruled that the paper should be allowed to publish, but the govern-
ment refused to issue the Daily News a license, thus securing the
newspaper’s illegal and thus outsider status.
In Indonesia, newspapers are facing difficulties through legal

processes designed to attack the media from a different direction:
libel laws. In January 2004, Quran Tempo, one of the country’s most
respected newspapers, was forced by the courts to pay a prominent
businessman it accused of corruption US$1 million, meaning that
the future of the newspaper was left in doubt. Other newspapers
have faced similar fates, choosing to settle out of court instead and
applying the principles of self-censorship, thus deliberately avoiding
printing stories that they consider too risky politically, judicially and
financially.
Authoritarian governments, corrupt democratic governments,
governments in political systems that have experienced a democratic
transition but are now ‘backsliding’, all share a concern with media
freedom. They struggle with systems of communications, perceiving
them as either supporters or adversaries, recognising their power to
mobilise public opinion on behalf of or against the government. The
methods these regimes choose to exercise their power vary: from
patronage and systems of nomenklatura to legal processes that scare the
media into submission and self-censorship or face financial ruin,
closure or jail. And yet democracies are still created; some of these
maybe because of external pressure (the democratisation of West
Germany and Japan after World War Two; of Iraq after the 2003 war)
but the success rate of externally-imposed democracy is variable. The
Third Wave that so intrigued Samuel Huntington (and naturally led to
research on the Fourth Wave of democratisation that occurred after the
downfall of the Soviet Union in 1991) occurred mainly because of
internal forces. History does suggest that authoritarian regimes are
vulnerable because of communication: they are subject to the pressures
induced by modern communications technology and the global spread
of ideas and information. In other words, despite the elaborate systems
of control, power and influence they create authoritarian systems that
invariably collapse or are overthrown. We now proceed to consider the
role and responsibility of political communication in this transition
process.
The transition process
This discussion draws on the theoretical and conceptual literature on

democratisation to question not only the role played by political
communication as a process tool, but also as a catalyst: are systems of
communications merely passive actors in democratisation, or do they
share the responsibility for it? We are particularly interested in the

so-called ‘Third Wave’, a term created by the American political
scientist, Samuel Huntington, to describe the patterns of democratisa-
tion he observed between 1974 (with the democratisation of Portugal)
and 1991 (the collapse of the Soviet Union):
Between 1974 and 1990, more than thirty countries in South

Europe, Latin America, East Asia and Eastern Europe shifted from
authoritarian to democratic systems of government. This ‘global
democratic revolution’ is probably the most important political
trend in the late twentieth century (Huntington, 1991–2:579).10
Huntington’s celebrated analysis is very important for understanding

the relationship between communications and democratisation, for he
was among the first of a new generation of political scientists to under-
stand how the effects of modern communications technology inspire
political change. After all, it is impossible to separate the development
of new technologies from their social and political contexts, and as
systems of communications have evolved their potential has been
applied creatively to political agendas. In other words, observers
of this Third Wave were able to see first hand the effects of modern
global communication in democratisation. In Poland, for example,
Lech Walesa, the leader of anticommunist Solidarity movement,
has described the role of communications technology. The political
systems organised around communism, he said, recognised that new
technologies (satellite television, the Internet, mobile telephones)
made government censorship progressively difficult, time consuming
and expensive. Walesa admitted that he took advantage of this weak-
ness in the Polish communist system and used new communications
technologies to his advantage (Franda, 2002:100).
Samuel Huntington’s analysis of the Third Wave builds upon a
tradition within political science that packages democratisation inside
a wider debate about the relationship between development and
democracy. Writing in 1959, for example, Seymour Martin Lipset
(building on the work of Lerner, 1958) described democratisation as
a product of modernisation, with communication a function of
economic development.11 Lipset’s hypothesis was very simple: ‘the
more well-to-do a nation,’ he wrote, ‘the greater the chances it will
sustain democracy’ (Lipset, 1959:75). A synopsis of the modernisation
theory as it applies to communication and democracy focuses on the
development of industrial societies, forcing mass migration into the
towns and cities for work in the factories. This urbanisation encourages
socialisation, that is personal interaction (industrialisation tends to
oblige families to live and work close together) and thus facilitates the
circulation of information and education. Urbanisation, education
(hence increasing literacy rates that have an effect upon the circulation
of books and newspapers) and generally poor working conditions
should, all things being equal, create a more opinionated, politically
interested and better-informed population who then organise for
greater worker representation.12 In other words, economic develop-
ment facilitates political education via (interpersonal and impersonal)
communication, thereby nourishing political activism and participa-
tion. Lipset then advances his argument one stage further by referring
to citizenship: communication and education, he announces, also
instil democratic values. Education allows for the spread of political
and social tolerance, while increasing levels of wealth and education
de-radicalise the working class so its members become less susceptible
to dangerous anti-democratic ideas. Economic development also plays
a part in creating autonomous social organisations that are not only a
check on the government, but also increase popular political participa-
tion, thereby helping to build civil society. Hence political communi-
cation provides the elements of improvability and civic duty that were
central to classical liberalism.
Given their basic premises, it is not surprising that many commen-
tators used these ideas to explain international communication from
the 1940s until the 1960s (when ‘cultural imperialism’ became fash-
ionable). Modernisation theory does correspond to the paternalism
associated with apologists for colonialism, in that the advocates of
modernisation argued that communication could transform a tradi-
tional (that is, ‘backward’) society into a modern (‘western-like’) one.
This was possible because communications and the media provide a
means of popular socialisation, extend the horizons of people, and
therefore persuade them of the benefits of transforming their
lifestyles. ‘The diffusion of new ideas and information stimulates the
peasant to want to be a free-holding farmer … the farmer’s wife to
want to stop bearing children, the farmer’s daughter to wear a dress
and do her hair’ (Lerner, 1963 quoted in Shramm, 1965). Never-
theless, communications may add to knowledge, but they do not
necessarily contribute to encounter and experience, as critics of the
Internet revolution have observed (see Chapter 7). Communications
media may, and sometimes do open up genuine possibilities for
better international democratisation and co-operative regimes, but
the greatest constraints remain non-technical – especially the politi-

cal motivations of states, but also our emotional beliefs, which help
us to filter out messages that do not correspond to our belief system
and national parochialisms (see Chapter 3).
There are also a number of significant flaws in correlating democ-
racy with economic development, and social scientists are still
arguing over the empirical data that seems to both support and con-
tradict the thesis. (A useful critique that asserts the primacy of poli-
tics over economics and thus reverses the idea that development is a
prerequisite for democracy is offered by Leftwich, 1996.) Simply
speaking, modernisation theory establishes the premise that tradi-
tion is ‘bad’ and modernisation is ‘good’ with little reference to cul-
tural specifics (hence it is a good justification for colonialism).
Moreover, modernisation theory was predicated on liberal market
discourse and the free flow of information, and one readily discovers
in modernisation literature the over-use of such value-laden terms as
‘democracy’, ‘freedom of expression’, ‘public watchdog’, ‘account-
ability’. However, many states that embraced the general idea of
modernisation, such as Singapore’s commitment to ‘Asian values’,
neglected the part of the theory that advocates the free flow of infor-
mation (within and between countries) if the people were to accept
the government’s project for creating a better society. Instead, many
governments have claimed that modernisation requires them to sup-
press democracy rather than nurture it in order to limit the internal
challenges to political and social stability that might threaten their
development strategy. Throughout Asia, modernisation has provided
a straightforward rationalisation for the creation of media systems
that are instruments of control rather than pluralism. My intention
is not to engage with this modernisation literature and its critiques
or the Asian values debate. Rather, I wish to draw attention to the
fact that communications are located at the centre of a major and
influential (though rightly contested13) approach to modern democ-
racy. 14 The important point is that scholars working in this area
believe that structural prerequisites are required that will lay the
foundations for the maturation of political culture.
Setting such objections to modernisation theory aside, we are
indebted to Samuel Huntington for drawing our attention to the role
of communications in political transition and devising a schema based
around the idea of historical waves. Moreover, he also impresses on us
the need to understand the simple sequential approach to democratisa-
tion. This involves three stages:
1. Liberalisation: A story of unintended consequences?15
Liberalisation refers to the ‘loosening up’ of a political system and

society that creates the conditions for mass communications to func-
tion more freely. This will involve relaxing or removing altogether
restrictions on the media and allowing social movements to form,
organise and mobilise without fear of repression.
By liberalization we mean the process of making effective certain

rights that protect both individuals and social groups from arbitrary
or illegal acts committed by the state or third parties. On the level of
individuals, these guarantees include … freedom of movement,
speech, petition; and so forth. On the level of groups, these rights
cover such things as freedom from punishment for expressions of
collective dissent from government policy, freedom from censorship
of the means of communication, and freedom to associate voluntarily
with other citizens (O’Donnell & Schmitter, 1986:7).
This is a useful summary, and it is not difficult to identify the cor-

relation between O’Donnell and Schmitter’s definition of liberalisation
and the discussions in previous chapters about the organisation and
responsibility of political communications.
In contrast to this legalistic approach, Samuel Huntington offered a
more inclusive definition. Liberalisation, he wrote
is the partial opening of an authoritarian system short of choosing

governmental leaders through freely competitive elections. Liber-
alizing authoritarian regimes may release political prisoners, open
up some issues for public debate, loosen censorship, sponsor elec-
tions for offices that have little power, permit some renewal of civil
society, and take other steps in a democratic direction, without
submitting top decision makers to electoral test (Huntington,
1991:9).
Liberalisation, then, does not roll back the regime’s power structure; it
merely opens the system to enable limited independent activity and
participation by the media as well as the whole citizenry or segments
of it. It represents an expansion of activity by and within civil society.
While it presents the possibility of future challenges to the continuing
system of state control, the essential power structure remains intact.
Hence liberalisation may be a conscious act by a regime when under
pressure; liberalisation may represent a pressure valve that allows

critics to let off steam without challenging the established power-base.
However, if a regime decides that this is how it wishes to proceed, it
must tread very carefully, for the centre must control liberalisation if
it wishes to avoid demands for radical systemic change that takes
advantage of the relaxations introduced. The Spanish case is instruc-
tive: in 1966, the Franco regime enacted a partial liberalisation of the
Spanish press that, contrary to the regime’s expectations, contributed
to Spain’s transition to democracy a decade later. First, the new public
spaces ultimately helped to de-legitimise the regime and generate
expectations of further reform. Within these new public spaces, alter-
native political elites, ideas and programmes circulated, creating the
conditions for pluralist communications and political activities. Even
Franco’s continued control of the Spanish television system could not
off-set these unintended consequences of press liberalisation. A similar
process occurred in Chile: during the 1988 plebiscite on continued
authoritarian rule, the government endeavoured to control the
increasingly liberal media environment and minimise audiences for
TV programmes publicising the opposition’s agenda. Research makes
clear, however, that the strategy failed and broadcasts on behalf of the
opposition’s No campaign were still popular (Hirmas, 1993:85–96). In
other words, the government could not compete with the forces of
liberalisation that had created new public spaces in which the political
opposition could articulate their grievances and mobilise public
opinion.
Conservative critics of Mikhail Gorbachev (including the Chinese)
believe that this is where the Soviet leader went wrong in the 1980s:
Glasnost (liberalisation) preceded Perestroika (reform). Gorbachev
needed the Soviet media to mobilise support for his offensive against
the bureaucracy that he believed was impeding economic and social
development: the media would help Gorbachev by criticising and
attacking the institutions (responsible for the stagnation, corruption
and mismanagement of the Brezhnev years) at the core of his strategy.
However, it was not easy to manage the media from the political centre
once the controls were relaxed. The increasingly vocal opposition that
benefited from liberalisation became a source of political pressure that
the Soviet government found difficult to restrain.16 In fact, there was
even evidence of ‘backsliding’ as Gorbachev attempted in 1990 (as the
secessionist movement in Lithuania gathered momentum and Boris
Yeltsin was elected in Russia) to rein in the dynamics of change.
However, Glasnost created new public spheres and the communicative
power of this civil society was extraordinary: 1987–89 saw (in Hungary
as well as the Soviet Union) the rapid growth of political activity by
organisations standing outside the Communist party apparatus that
campaigned on behalf of a raft of national, environmental and social
issues. In 1988, an increasing number of enterprises and local authori-
ties confronted protests against environmental pollution. Direct
popular action such as letter-writing campaigns, demonstrations and
rallies – activities previously illegal or strictly stage-managed by the
Communist party – helped to put the environment on the political
and social agendas. Perhaps most significantly, the end of the 1980s
saw a wave of nationalism in the various Soviet republics; groups in
Russia and elsewhere in the Soviet Union formed and campaigned for
national self-determination, an issue that always generates emotion
and provides the foundation for passionate political communication.
Some of these nationalist groups were chauvinistic and used extreme
methods to articulate their opinions. However, we may ask is extrem-
ism the price paid during the formative years of transition, unleashing
public forces that had been subdued for decades? The period was one
of learning and self-discovery for civil society and the government, as
both wrestled with the experience of new freedoms and sought to
balance the need (and right) for autonomous political activity with the
maintenance of public order. A decree on meetings and demonstra-
tions promulgated in July 1988 demonstrated this dilemma most
clearly. This affirmed the constitutional right to demonstrate, but also
permitted local soviets to prohibit political meetings considered con-
trary to the constitution or a threat to public order (Decree of 28 July
1988, BBC Summary of World Broadcasts, 2 August 1988). The more con-
servative elements within the Communist party tolerated increasing
activity by civil society organisations provided the party was able to
monitor and control it. Freedom, they believed, should not mean
anarchy.
Allowing a modicum of media independence can be a politically
advantageous strategy, for it lends an authoritarian state a degree of
legitimacy especially if, like Taiwan, it has a democratic constitution
(‘temporarily suspended’ for the duration of the ‘communist rebellion’
in China). Difficulties arise when the media decide to overstep these tol-
erated boundaries and begin to agitate and organise a formal opposition
to the regime, as samizdat media did in communist Eastern Europe and
as many political journals did in authoritarian Taiwan (Berman, 1992).
Sometimes, journals were little more than ‘recesses’ of ‘journalistic cover
to smooth the transition to a democratic political system’ (Berman,
1992:183). They intended to offer the basis for a substantive political

movement, providing the rationale and structure for the emergence of
political organisations to challenge the government. In Iran, the under-
ground circulation of illegal cassettes of the Ayatollah Khomeini’s
speeches served the calls for an Islamic revolution in 1979. Similarly, in
Taiwan video images captured by camcorders and available on the black
market contradicted the media’s representation of farmers’ riots in 1988.
While in Thailand, the wide circulation of videotapes based on CNN and
BBC footage of the military’s suppression of demonstrations in May
1992, allowed Thais to see for themselves the events that local television
news never broadcast. In communist Eastern Europe, the proliferation of
samizdat publications provided a forum for critical writers to voice their
opinions on the lack of political freedom and articulate alternative
programmes. As in Taiwan (Rawnsley, 2000) these dissident and samizdat
media provided a focus for the development of opposition movements
where they might hone their skills in mobilisation, organisation and net-
working. In this way, the opposition media perform many of the same
functions of traditional political parties: they lent the movement ideo-
logical direction, opportunities for patronage, the aggregation of inter-
ests, and the recruitment and training of leaders. In his analysis of the
media in Taiwan, Daniel Berman believes that the opposition press were
more interested in these functions, especially forming a surrogate politi-
cal party, than simply disseminating views and opinions. ‘By continually
pushing – and subsequently expanding – the limits of acceptable behav-
iour,’ he wrote, ‘by providing a non-violent, legal context in which a de
facto opposition could develop and mature, opposition magazine organ-
isations made a substantial contribution to the relatively smooth transi-
tion to a much more democratic form of government’ (Berman,
1992:194). Duncan McCargo (2003:94) describes what he calls the
‘paradox’ of the Indonesia press: Suharto’s ‘New Order’ had, by the late
1990s,
grown so monolithic that there were no political alternatives left.

Before it could begin advocating a different kind of politics, the media
had first to create such an alternative. Hence … what began as a jour-
nalists’ association [the AJI] inevitably found itself intimately
involved in the pro-democracy movement.
In Indonesia, the media had to create an alternative political force,

not just function on behalf of activists struggling for a transition to
democracy.
Opposition publications can also have ideological focus, creating and

shaping the identities that coalesce around the opposition movement
such as representation of the poor, the working class and ethnic iden-
tity that form the basis of agitation and mobilisation. This is important
in connecting civil society to political communication and the aspira-
tions for democracy. As Rueschmeyer et al. (1992:50) have argued, ‘the
growth of a counter-hegemony of subordinate classes and especially
the working class – developed and sustained by the organization and
growth of trade unions, working-class parties and similar groups – is
critical for the promotion of democracy’.
A political opposition gradually emerged in Taiwan and skilfully
expanded its political influence; the ruling party progressively learned
how to tolerate and live with the political opposition. This evolution-
ary phase of limited democracy was crucial for Taiwan’s democratic
breakthrough and consolidation because it provided enough time
for the people and elites to ‘learn democracy by practicing it,’ and for
their political cultural values to become conducive to the practice
of democracy (Chao & Myers, 1998:13). The opposition even experi-
enced success: claims of electoral fraud in Chungli in 1977 provoked
strong public protest, and according to one observer, this was the
largest public demonstration of its kind since 1947: ‘In the face of this
public display the regime backed down and admitted that there had
indeed been fraud. … The Chungli incident marked a change of
atmosphere, a toleration for active and outspoken political dissent’
(Moody, 1995:270). Success breeds its own momentum; liberalisation
creates forces that are difficult to control once unleashed, and this is
particularly the case when we turn our attention to examining the
role of groups and civil society.
Groups in authoritarian societies may be little more than agencies of
information transmission and mobilisation in the service of the
regime, and must be transformed into autonomous groups to function
as civil society (Hill, 1994:267–83), but nevertheless they are important
sources of personnel, organisation and skill, all attributes that are
required in the transition to democracy. Moreover, the group mobilisa-
tion of popular interests can be a defiant act of communication: it
conveys to a recalcitrant regime the level of popular dissatisfaction,
strength and potential that lies dormant within society. However, it is
important to remember that while popular mobilisation via strikes,
demonstrations and riots may contribute to democratisation, such
activities are rarely its cause. Samuel Huntington (1991:46) informs us
that although mass action occurred in almost all of the 33 Third Wave
transitions, it was central in only six (the Philippines, East Germany,

Romania, South Korea, Poland and Czechoslovakia). Particularly
instructive is the role of popular mobilisation in cases of elite-driven
democratisation, such as Taiwan and Spain, where the role of civil
society is muted. Paul Heywood (1995:40) reveals that in Spain,
‘Franco’s dictatorship dismantled itself voluntarily. In spite of a
dramatic increase in the number of hours lost through strikes during
the 1970s, and an upsurge in the violent activities of [ETA, the Basque
separatist movement] … widespread popular mobilisation against the
dictatorship always remains latent rather than actual.’ Mass mobilisa-
tion is only one factor of many that causes governments to take the
decision to democratise, and may have little consequence beyond com-
municating the potential power of civil society. The fragmentation
that has contributed to the power of social movements in democratic
political systems may actually be a weakness under transitionary condi-
tions. Their loose structure, in contrast to the organisational capacity
of parties, means that their leaders may be unable to exercise the
control and authority that might otherwise persuade the state to
include them in negotiations for political change. Moreover, activism
might be a symptom of weakness rather than strength, for it suggests
the movements lack legitimacy and access to the political system, and
must therefore find alternative methods of expressing their political
preferences. This is consistent with the approach to social movements
taken in this book, but it is important to highlight that in non-democ-
ratic systems, or in societies undergoing radical political change, these
issues of legitimacy and access are of wider consequence than in demo-
cratic systems where social movement activity is often a response to
the failure of organised representation.
The church is one centre for social organisation that has been a
particularly significant source of opposition to anti-democratic regimes,
throughout South America (especially in Brazil, Chile, Guatemala and
El-Salvador) and in other Catholic areas (such as the Philippines and
Korea). Huntington is explicit about their contribution:
All in all, if it were not for the changes within the Catholic Church
and the resulting actions of the Church against authoritarianism
[since the 1960s], fewer third wave transitions to democracy would
have occurred and many that did occur would have occurred later.
In country after country the choice between democracy and
authoritarianism became personified in the conflict between
the cardinal and the dictator. Catholicism was second only to
economic development as a pervasive force making for democrati-

zation in the 1970s and 1980s (Huntington, 1991:85).
The Church could marshal an extraordinary array of resources that we

might consider vehicles of political communication. In particular, the
Church provides a focus for socialisation; it is a trusted source of infor-
mation and opinion, and thus enjoys enormous power to mobilise its
congregation (which, if we speak of the Catholic Church, is global in
reach). The Church has also created media systems that it designed to
spread the gospel, but have political value when pressed into the
service of democratic movements. For example, Church radio stations
and newspapers can provide a channel for the political opposition.
Radio Veritas, a radio station in the Philippines controlled by the
Catholic Church, is credited with having encouraged large-scale
popular mobilisation in 1986 – the ‘people power’ movement – in
support of General Fidel Ramos and against Ferdinand Marcos
(McCargo, 2003:20). Likewise, we should not underestimate the power
of the church media in Poland in their support of the Solidarity move-
ment in the 1980s (Jakubowicz, 1991). Many of the demands made by
the Church throughout the Third Wave were consistent with the value
attached to communication in the liberal tradition. In Spain, the 1971
convening of the Assembly of Bishops and Priests represented a dra-
matic break between Church and State, a relationship demonstrated in
the 1950s by the 34 newspapers the Church published in close alliance
with the political regime. Franco had granted the Church ‘unprece-
dented influence’ in return for its support, including exemption
from censorship, the right to ask that offensive material be withdrawn
from sale and control over education, freedoms that demonstrate the
regime’s concern with the communicative power of the Church
(Heywood, 1995:50, 69). However, the 1971 Assembly of Bishops and
Priests called for ‘the right to freedom of expression, free association
and free union meetings, in effect all the rights whose exercise has
always been very limited during the Franco regime’ (Huntington,
1991:81).17 The Church was, and remains, a powerful influence in
many societies throughout the world that, if liberalised, can present a
strong challenge to political authority.
Political communications by and between groups – primary or other-
wise – have the capacity to play an important role in the transition to
democracy. The pre-existence of attributes associated with civil society,
even if carefully regulated and supervised by the state (as in Southern
Europe), may provide the basis for a more successful and smoother
transfer of power than in those political systems where civil society

is less established (as in Latin America) or not allowed to exist at
all (O’Donnell & Schmitter, 1986:7). It stands to reason that the power
of this civil society is more pronounced as liberalisation proceeds
unchecked and the state loses the ability to legitimately control the
forces its policies have set free. To counter this momentum, the state
must actively retain control over the liberalisation process. The
Chinese communist regime, for example, has preserved its authority in
civil society and over the media anxious that liberalisation serve, not
challenge, the regime’s agenda (including economic modernisation
and the preservation of the party’s power. See de Burgh, 2003b and
Gries, 2004). This naturally limits the autonomy of civil society to
engage in the same level and types of activism we would expect in
more democratic systems. The cost of civil society’s participation in
political communication is minimised.
2. Democratisation
The second stage in the sequential process of regime change is democ-

ratisation. This refers to the precise changes in the political system that
encourage the introduction of democratic procedures and institutions.
In other words, the political system and the structures of power experi-
ence fundamental change. One of the elementary objectives of democ-
ratisation is expanding transparency and accountability, thus securing
for political communication an important role in the process, and
to achieve this goal democratisation must build upon the advances
experienced under liberalisation, such as the relaxation of media
restrictions. Therefore, we might conclude that (partial or full) media
liberalisation is a prerequisite for the transition to democracy. A liberal-
ising political system does not inevitably become a democracy, but we
must acknowledge that once liberalisation occurs, a regime will usually
face pressure to expand it and thus introduce democratic reforms.
Communications systems have multiple responsibilities in democ-
ratisation, and how they fulfil these depends on their political orien-
tation. In situations where pressure for democratisation comes from
below or from external forces, media that support the regime may be
compliant to the government’s attempts to prevent democratisation.
We would expect these media to present a biased version of events
that painted a particularly unfavourable picture of the transition.
These media may also encourage popular mobilisation among sympa-
thisers. For example, in Czechoslovakia, the state-controlled televi-
sion refused to broadcast news of mass demonstrations occurring

every day in Prague. The situation was only resolved once a strike
committee of broadcasting workers entered negotiations with those
in charge of individual television stations and eventually assumed
temporary control of broadcasting. Similarly, those media supporting
the transition (either they sympathise with revolutionary opposition
movements, or perhaps the process is peaceful and driven by political
elites) will likewise present a narrative that favours the transition and
try to mobilise opinion and movements to support change. In other
words, pro- and anti-democratic media play very similar roles and
assume jaundiced characteristics that are consistent with the polarisa-
tion and passion of the moment. The media may channel news and
information about attempts to initiate regime change and the
progress of democratisation from their own political perspective.
They try to widen popular awareness of political issues and help audi-
ences interpret events. When in 1988 the Chilean people voted in a
referendum to decide whether to allow General Pinochet to remain
president for a further eight years, opposition television programmes
reminded viewers of the desperate social, economic and political con-
ditions under the dictator and facilitated the important work under-
taken by political parties and social organisations over many years
(Hirmas, 1993:94).
But perhaps Hirmas’s conclusion on the outcome of the Chilean
referendum is most important. The strong vote in favour of the
government,’ she writes, ‘reflected the influence of two factors:’
fear, not easy to dispel in the short run, and the cumulative effect of
fifteen years of concentrated government programming. After
hearing the same message for years, with no alternative voice,
any television audience internalizes the message, even given initial
resistance. Persistence, reinforced by threats can finally prove
persuasive (Ibid.).
This is an important observation: Hirmas’s chapter narrates the way

the Chilean government was engaged in classic propaganda, such as
demonising the enemy, repetition, playing on fear, and denying other
political actors a voice (Ellul, 1973; Taylor, 1996; Jackall, 1994; Jowett
& O’Donnell, 1992; Brown, 1993). The media are an important actor in
the process of democratisation, but they are no substitute for the
groundwork undertaken by activists, often at considerable risk to
themselves, and the media find it difficult to compete with the brutal
realities of an internalised message that the communicative powers of

fear and coercion have reinforced.
In addition to providing information, the media can have the power
to mobilise protest and are therefore additional sources of pressure on
governments to democratise, provided the regime has embarked on a
process of liberalisation. The media, for example, are often a site of
contestation in any revolution: in Taiwan in 1947 (Rawnsley 2000); in
Hungary in 1956 (Sükösd, 2000; Rawnsley 1996a); in Romania in 1989;
in Moscow in 1991 (Rawnsley 1993). ‘These events,’ claim Sükösd
(2000:129), ‘indicate that, in severe political crises in the late twentieth
century, the media are seen as the real power center, as the decisive
mobilizing resource and major source of legitimacy’. Throughout Latin
America, Eastern Europe and parts of Asia we can identify instances
where political liberalisation has encouraged the media to be more
politically vocal. In Chile, for example, a number of publications took
up the cause of democracy from the early 1980s even though they
risked severe government suppression.
Finally, we must address the impact of the international media
which can bring additional external pressure on a regime to demo-
cratise; the media help redirect international attention towards a par-
ticular country or political system. Heavy international coverage of the
wave of protest movements in Eastern Europe at the end of the 1980s
persuaded activists there that they were receiving international atten-
tion, thus maintaining both morale and momentum. In addition, the
international media may provide an alternative voice to the domestic
media. This alternative may be foreign propaganda: Radio Free Europe,
for example, a surrogate domestic system operated by the CIA from
Munich and broadcasting across the Iron Curtain is thought (erro-
neously) to have played a vital role in persuading Hungarians to rise up
against their Soviet masters in 1956 (Rawnsley, 1996a, Chapter 3).
Many repressed citizens of authoritarian-led political systems rely on
the international media to learn what is going on inside their own
country, and will often take extraordinary risks (including jail or death)
to access foreign broadcasts. This has an extremely long pedigree
that pre-dates the global revolution in communication technology to
which Huntington (1991) refers. One only needs to read the remark-
able history of resistance to Nazi occupation and Soviet-backed com-
munist domination in the Cold War to witness the tenacity of people
to know what is going on inside and outside their own borders (See
Rawnsley, 1996a, Chapter 3, and Rawnsley, 1996b on the reception of
BBC and Voice of America broadcasts in Hungary during the 1956
uprising). In 1990, the national media of the Cote d’Ivoire did not
report the growing pressures for democratisation and the increasing
number of student demonstrations there: citizens of that troubled
nation had to tune into the BBC World Service to learn of these events.
Similarly, the Chinese learned of the full scale of events in Tiananmen
Square on 4 June 1989 from the BBC World Service; reporters there
broadcast news and information of events out to the world, and the
broadcasts were then beamed back into China. The demonstrators
demanded that the BBC stringer, Simon Long, ‘Tell the world,’ and he
did. But in doing so, he also told the Chinese people themselves of
what was going on as wall-posters and loudspeakers relayed BBC
reports. This became more important as the authorities began what the
then Head of the Chinese Service, Elizabeth Wright, described as ‘one
of the most complete disinformation campaigns in the history of the
Chinese Communist party’ (quoted in Rawnsley, 1996a:140). When in
1992 foreign media in Thailand reported that the government was
using violence to suppress popular demonstrations, international com-
munications offered a method of channelling that information and
news back into the country (McCargo, 2003:119), a process repeated in
Burma when the BBC Burmese-language service supposedly encouraged
the brief ‘democracy summer’ of 1988. The lesson is that it is almost
impossible to seal hermetically one’s borders from radio and TV signals
and, as the next chapter will show, the impact of the Internet.18
This global flow of information, combined with the natural human
curiosity, has profound political consequences, for it has contributed
to a ‘demonstration effect’ that has been particularly important in the
Third Wave transitions (especially in Eastern Europe. See O’Neil,
1998:12; also Whitehead, 1996:4). By the mid 1980s, the rapid expan-
sion in communications technology, allowing for the regional or
global reception of television broadcasts, meant that ‘the image of a
“worldwide democratic revolution” undoubtedly had become a reality
in the minds of political and intellectual leaders in most countries of
the world’ (Huntington, 1991:102). The demonstration effect indicates
how media-users in one society discover that people in another can
have the capacity to depose an authoritarian government, inspiring
not only objectives and techniques, but also political confidence. The
demonstration effect is most pronounced when the countries ex-
periencing democratisation are geographically proximate, suggesting
that the influence of the media is in inverse proportion to distance. So,
Albanians watched the East European revolutions in the 1980s on tele-
vision broadcasts from neighbouring Yugoslavia and Italy. Student
demonstrators in Seoul in 1985 to 1987 followed the dramatic events

taking place in the Philippines. The erection of the Berlin Wall in 1961
did not stop radio and television signals from the west passing into the
east. Kaase (2000:398) cites Kurt Hesse’s research in 199019 that ‘in
Germany every evening, electronic reunification’ happened ‘in front of
the tube’. Tuning into foreign media undermines attempts by the
authoritarian regime to maintain legitimacy based on performance,
and can expose the ‘credibility gap’ between propaganda and reality
(as happened in Thailand in 1992. See McCargo, 2003:30–1); the cross-
border flow of information can lead to a dramatic ‘revolution in rising
expectations’. Every night, East Germans
could watch news broadcasts, public affairs programs, commercials

for consumer goods, and entertainment programming, all of which
contradicted the news and images coming from their own state
media about the superiority of socialism and the crisis of capitalism.
It also threw into sharp relief the bleakness of life in the dilapidated
urban centres, polluted environment, and relative impoverishment
that characterized East German society (Gunther & Mughan,
2000:407).
Optimists claim that the western media helped East Germans recognise
their plight, thus undermining popular support for, and the legitimacy
of, the communist regime there. This is a pattern of media con-
sumption that observers say is repeated throughout the Third Wave
(Huntington, 1991), and beyond. For example, in March 2005, govern-
ments surrounding Krygyzstan which experienced what became
known as a ‘tulip revolution’ feared the spread of democratic ideas and
practices. Some of Krygyzstan’s neighbours regulated coverage of
events there or simply reasserted control over their media to prevent
the possibility of the ‘demonstration effect’ (The Independent, 25 March
2005).
3. Consolidation
The final stage in the sequential approach is consolidation. This refers

to society’s acceptance of a democratic political system as legitimate. In
short, democracy ‘becomes the only game in town’ (Przeworski,
1991:26; Huntington, 1991, chapter 5; Schedler, 1988:91–107). In this
stage, plural and free media (though perhaps still demonstrating bias
towards one particular political party or programme) assume greater
importance as they communicate the ‘rules of the game’ and assess the
on-going performance of democracy. To facilitate consolidation the
media must encourage full and fair debate about the development of
the country following the transition and help set the agenda for the
further evolution of the democratic culture. Representation, participa-
tion and legitimacy all presuppose the creation of channels for the
expression of public opinion and the availability of high levels of infor-
mation. Systems of communications, and especially the media, can
help to cultivate the democratic culture by socialising both masses and
elites into the process. If, as in Spain, audiences see peaceful and civil
interactions between elites on opposite sides of the political spectrum,
the standards expected of democratic procedures may be embedded
within society. However, we must acknowledge that the impact of the
media is not always so positive. If television shows political elites
engaging in vicious disruptive behaviour, as in Russia in the 1990s and
in coverage of Taiwan’s legislature, it is possible that society will
polarise further. Again, this drives us towards the conclusion that polit-
ical communication is inseparable from the political system in which
it operates, for consolidation and socialisation are less dependent on
the media and other forms of political communication than on the
behaviour and attitudes of political elites themselves.
The consolidation phase is often scarred by what we might term
‘media wars’ – a term sometimes reserved for explaining what hap-
pened in Hungary following the collapse of communism there – that
rage over the control of access to newspapers and broadcasting
systems. In other words, democratisation, implying the demise of
state control, rarely solves the problems of ownership; if anything it
can create problems as an open playing field generates new public
spaces exposed to both political and commercial competition. The
concentration of ownership and control in a few hands (Berlusconi,
Murdoch, Thaksin, Putin) is a problem facing transition systems that
may have sculptured other core institutions of democratic politics,
and is particularly acute during early elections (Hungary in the early
1990s, for example. See Körïsényi, 1992). Moreover, the comprehen-
sive privatisation of the press – isn’t democracy about distancing
such institutions as the press as far as possible from the state? – has
resulted in fierce competition between newspapers for readers and
therefore for survival. All too often, transitional systems sacrifice
the democratic ideal for profit and commercial growth, as demon-
strated by, among other cases, Hungary (Sükösd, 2000) and Taiwan
(Rawnsley, 2004). Sometimes, it is necessary for the state to rein in
the media, to put an end to the anarchism that may characterise the
early days of a democratic transition, and reassert authority over
communications (for example, in Poland during President Lech
Walesa’s term in office. See Karpinski 1995). Democracy is as much
about responsibility as about freedom and only a balance of the two
will encourage the consolidation of the democratic political culture.
This is reflected in a major research project undertaken by Stephen
White and Sarah Oats who found ‘considerable’ support in post-
communist Russia for the idea that the media should support the
state rather than follow their own political and economic agendas
(White & Oats, 2003:33).
At this point in the discussion, it is necessary to issue a caveat. This
approach – liberalisation, democratisation and consolidation – does
not represent a strict sequence of change. Rather, in the transformation
of political society, the stages may temporally overlap. In Taiwan, for
example, democratisation of the political system began in 1987.
However, the transmission and reception of cable television remained
illegal until 1993, while call-in radio stations were only legalised in
1994 and the government did not abolish until 1999 Publication Laws
that controlled the press via strict licensing regulations (Rawnsley &
Rawnsley, 2001). Hence, full liberalisation occurred only after substan-
tive political change. Similarly, Spain experienced a partial liberalisa-
tion of the press in 1966 while the regime maintained its grip on
television until the transition to democracy had reached a relatively
advanced stage. The Polish communications system had experienced a
series of changes since the 1950s that had alternately relaxed and tight-
ened restrictions. By the time communism collapsed in Hungary, its
systems of political communication had experienced a long period of
liberalisation that might be traced back to the 1956 uprising. On the
other hand, liberalisation – the suspension of press censorship- preceded
Brazil’s democratisation. It is clear, however, that successful democrati-
sation processes do depend on the foundations of media liberalisation,
and it is difficult to imagine how democratisation might occur and
flourish without this liberalisation to create the conditions for free and
independent political communication.
Conclusions
Political science has only recently acknowledged that communica-

tions play an extremely important role in regime transition and
democratisation. The growing literature attests to a greater awareness
among scholars and practitioners that the media are important in

the creation of democratic societies, especially where regime change
has been imposed from outside, for example in Afghanistan and Iraq
where the American-led coalition developed new national media as a
priority following the collapse of authoritarian regimes there. There
is little surprise in the fact that we can see in these countries the
patterns of media use and content that we notice in Germany and
Japan after the Second World War (Verba, 1965; Kaase, 2000). These
societies have experienced attempts to create new television systems,
radio stations and press that have the delicate task of ‘nation-build-
ing’, which means creating a democratic system from chaos, and
when there are no guarantees of internal support, consensus or even
cohesion. Guibernau (2004) has identified five strategies of nation-
building with political communication at their core. These are:
• The construction and circulation of the image of ‘nation’

• The creation and circulation of symbols and rituals that represent
the nation
• Encouraging citizenship and promoting rights and duties
• Identifying or creating common enemies to lend legitimacy to the
regime and provide a sense of coherence to the idea of nation
• The consolidation of national education and media systems.
This list does not specify whether the intention of nation-building is

the creation of democratic systems or the persistence of authoritar-
ian power. As we have seen, many governments, especially those
advancing the idea of a core set of ‘Asian values’ stand opposed to
the universal application of democracy as anathema to state-build-
ing. Others, like Iraq and Afghanistan and many of the former com-
munist nations in Eastern Europe require a period of nation-building
to prepare the ground for democracy because of the speed and/or
nature of the transition (Rustow, 1970:351–61). Sometimes, that
nation-building requires its own variety of hard-line measures.
For example, after the collapse of Saddam Hussein’s regime, Iraq
experienced a sudden and dramatic proliferation in media – over
200 newspapers and 90 radio and TV stations were created in
the days following the end of the conflict in 2003. The US-led
Coalition Provisional Authority (CPA) had to balance the rights of,
and demands for press freedom with the need for stability and
decided to close publications accused of inciting violence and con-
tributing to instability there. Ambassador Paul Bremer, the head of
the CPA, exercised sole authority in deciding which media to close

and why. In Iraq, nation-building is considered far more urgent than
allowing a completely open and free media environment.20
What is striking from our observations of the Third Wave is the
important, yet limited role of communications. Despite all of the
empirical cases discussed in this chapter where the media made an
important contribution to democratisation, media pressure and the
power of civil society alone are not sufficiently capable of driving a
transition. Rather, we must unpack each individual case and analyse
closely the array of political forces, actors, institutions and decisions
that make or break democratisation. An internally-cohesive authoritar-
ian regime always has the option of holding on to power through
exercising its coercive power, even in the face of overwhelming inter-
national and domestic pressure (in Myanmar, for example, and in
Malaysia in the late 1990s). Is the Internet revolution offering a new
challenge to the internal cohesion of these authoritarian regimes?
The next chapter will discuss the strength of arguments that the
Internet is the foundation for a return to a robust style of democratic
government and popular participation.
7
Towards a New Democratic
Political Communication:
Information Communication
Technologies and Politics
The internet … if properly understood and defended and

understood by enough citizens, does have democratising
potential in the same way that alphabets and printing presses
had democratising potential.
– Harry Rheingold (1993:279).
If putting government online is just a way of reinforcing

access for people who probably already have more opportu-
nity to access government and decision-makers, then it hasn’t
really been much of an advance after all.
– David Agnew, Governance in the Digital Economy Project,
Toronto.
Writing in 1993, Harry Rheingold in the quotation above captures

the idealism that pervades discussion of the social and political impact
of Information Communication Technologies (ICTs), especially the
Internet. Their widespread use and potential have suggested nothing
less than a revolution in political communication: their speed, their
promise of greater levels of interactivity and connectivity,1 the absence
of hierarchies and the possibilities offered by an unfettered and
unmediated source of communication have together contributed their
appeal to democratic theory. Idealists claim that the Internet has the
capacity to transform political life by creating networks of globally or
locally active citizens and by developing public spheres where they
can participate in decision-making and help set the political agenda
(Rheingold, 1993; Negroponte, 1995; Grossman, 1995; Schwartz, 1996;
177
Budge, 1996; Brants et al., 1996; Tsagarousianou et al., 1997; Dertouzos,

1997). They believe that the Internet offers the reaffirmation of direct
democracy through the creation of ‘virtual forums’ or new public
spaces that will have particular relevance for the proliferating networks
of global social movements. The Internet bestows upon civil society a
selection of fundamentally new communication strategies that have
the capacity to transform their more traditional approaches that we
discussed in Chapter 4. Not only can groups use Internet technologies
to mobilise support on a national, regional and even global scale, but
can do so with less financial resources and attention to the demands of
other electronic media. At the same time, social movements can
despatch and publish their information, material, letters of protest,
communiqués and press releases quickly and, because of the precise
targeting allowed, efficiently to media organisations, governments, cor-
porations and possible sympathisers. Vast political ‘rhizomes’2 are
created as groups share information, create links (virtual and real) with
each other and post information about each other’s activities on their
own websites. It is therefore unsurprising that some have predicted
the Internet promises the dawn of a new political age. Grossman
(1995), for example, theorised that after the great epochs of classical
Greek and representative democracy, technological changes place us
on the verge of a third new period of electronic or ‘strong’ (Barber,
1984) democracy:
Strong democracy is defined by politics in the participatory mode:

literally it is self-government by citizens rather than representa-
tive government in the name of citizens. Active citizens govern
themselves directly here, not necessarily at every level and in
every instance, but frequently enough … Self-government is
carried on through institutions designed to facilitate ongoing
civic participation in agenda-setting, deliberation, legislation, and
policy implementation …
… strong democracy relies on participation in an evolving
problem-solving community …[where] … public ends … are literally
forged through the act of public participation, created through
public deliberation and common action … (Barber, 1984:151).
It is not difficult to see why advocates of the wider application of

the Internet in political life have anchored their beliefs in the nor-
mative standards offered by such thinkers as Barber. Particularly
empowering is the opportunity for all users to be simultaneously
Towards a New Democratic Political Communication 179
author, publisher and audience of news, information and opinion in

a global market place of ideas. (‘In 179 countries … today almost
100 parliaments can be found on-line, along with 1,250 parliamen-
tary parties, 14,500 government departments, 2,500 newspapers,
12,000 news sites and more than 12,000 groups and new social
movements.’ Norris, 2001:195.) This is realised most dramatically in
the rapid emergence of the ‘blogger’ culture, the posting by anyone
with access to the Internet of on-line diaries that allow readers a
glimpse into the lives of their authors. Bloggers can undermine
official news sources and propaganda, and offer alternative perspec-
tives on events from those provided by other media following their
own news agendas and reporting stories according to particular
framing devices. Blogging first came to our attention during the
2003 Iraq war when bloggers in Baghdad described life in a city
under fire when the world’s media were reporting their own
accounts of the conflict, framed according to particular news values
and agendas and often based on information gathered from a narrow
range of elite sources.3 Hence, most attractive about blogging is that
it represents a genuine bottom-up process of unmediated and
unfiltered communication. Bloggers can also challenge prevailing
social orders: Iranian women have been particularly active bloggers,
taking advantage of the anonymity offered by the Internet to speak
freely about taboo subjects that are important to them. Discussions
on Iranian sites about love and romance may not resonate with the
same political significance as the war in Iraq, but they do suggest
the emergence of a counter-culture that is daring to use the Internet
to challenge prevailing social and religious values and disrupt estab-
lished patterns of control (political and gendered) over the flow and
content of communication.
Blogging conforms to the democratic ideal that those living in
authoritarian political systems, routinely denied access by the state
apparatus to information, might profit from the communications revo-
lution to maintain contact with the outside world, organise their polit-
ical activities, and collect and spread information that could weaken
the state. It is a common view among idealists such as Rheingold that
‘the internet poses an insurmountable threat to authoritarian regimes’
(Kalathil & Boas, 2001). ICTs offer the possibility of circumventing the
more easily controlled broadcast and print media that, as we saw in
Chapter 6, authoritarian governments depend upon to reinforce and
exercise their political power. As far back as 1985, long before most
people on the planet had even heard of the Internet, let alone surfed
the world wide web, then US Secretary of State George Schultz believed
that ‘new technology’ would play a crucial role in the Cold War:
The free flow of information is inherently compatible with our

political system. The communist states, in contrast, fear this infor-
mation revolution perhaps even more than they fear Western
military strength. … Totalitarian societies face a dilemma: either
they try to stifle these technologies and thereby fall further behind
in the new industrial revolution, or else they see their totalitarian
control inevitably eroded. In fact, they will not have a choice,
because they will never be able entirely to block the tide of techno-
logical advance (Schultz, 1985:716).
There is evidence (in addition to that offered by blogging) that the

Internet has evaded and undermined traditional forms of political
control and challenge established patterns and hierarchies in the
organisation, flow and content of political communication. Well docu-
mented, for example, is the way the Zapatista movement used the
Internet to bring international public pressure down on the Mexican
government. Castells (1997:72–83) in his full discussion of the
Zapatistas calls them ‘the first informational guerrilla movement’
(Ibid.:79). In January 1994, the Zapatista movement declared war on
the Mexican government and immediately launched a campaign to
mobilise international support for its cause. In finding ways to circum-
vent both established hegemonic patterns of international news and
the muscle of government-backed propaganda, the Zapatistas found
most appealing the immediacy and the possible global impact of the
Internet, hence members began to scan communiqués and letters to
send via the Internet to potentially receptive and sympathetic audi-
ences throughout the world. These receiving groups and individuals
then translated the messages, re-posted them on their own websites,
and printed them for use in publicity material in support of the
Zapatistas, thus harnessing on a global scale the power of the Internet
for the cause of a little-reported social movement in Mexico and creat-
ing a dense network of active support groups.4
Often mentioned too are the activities of the B92 Radio Station in
Serbia in 1996. B92’s reports alleging government manipulation of
local election results were the catalyst for its closure by Slobodan
Milosevic’s regime. However, the station managed to continue to
survive by operating through the Internet, sending its signal on-line
to the BBC World Service in London, which then rebroadcast B92’s
programmes back into Serbia. This also helped the station reach
beyond Belgrade as the BBC retransmitted the signal via satellite to a
network of local stations throughout the country. Within six months,
B92 was broadcasting on 30 radio stations (Ferdinand, 2000:14;
Shapiro, 1999:7–9). Then in 1999, when B92 broadcast its first reports
of NATO’s bombing of Serbia, Milosevic ordered the arrest of the
station’s editor-in-chief and transformed B92 into a government
radio station. Undeterred, journalists again availed themselves of the
Internet to broadcast as ‘Free B92’ for five months, with its website
stored on computers in Holland for safekeeping until the Milosevic
regime was brought down in October 2000.5 This episode demonstrates
that groups learn quickly how to use the Internet in times of crisis
and that global connectivity can provide not only a platform for com-
municating to an international audience, but also security in the face
of political competition. Computers, along with other new ICTs such
as cell phones, allow for a greater degree of physical mobility than
was ever afforded to other media, such as television cameras or radio
transmitters. Moreover, these technologies also allow an unprece-
dented mobility of information that helps its security, for data can be
stored, transmitted, broadcast, or deleted anywhere in the world at the
touch of a button without ‘hard’ copies every having to pass through
anyone’s fingers.
In addition to the possibilities of empowerment through access to
information, the Internet is also capable of improving our manage-
ment of information and creating the conditions for what is now
called ‘e-government’. Citizens in political systems that have taken
the time to invest resources in e-government are now able at the
click of a button to access information about legislation and the
process of making it, thus bypassing the media and their editorial
judgements about political life. Thus the Internet opens new and
exciting opportunities to encourage the level and intensity of
popular accountability and government transparency that is the core
of representative democratic theory. The more information we can
access – at low financial, spatial and temporal cost – the more
informed our judgements about the political process. It is remark-
able that China’s government, infamous for the controls it imposes
on Internet use, is one of the most visible and transparent on the
web. Chinese are encouraged to fill and submit their tax returns,
search for employment, apply for import and export licences,
conduct their banking and even obtain an education (the Ministry
of Education has recently opened one of the first on-line schools in
the world). The government aims to connect to the Internet by 2010

all central ministries, provinces, municipalities, autonomous regions
and embassies in foreign countries (Perrins, 2001:311), thus creating
a vast network of bureaucracies offering information and services to
users across the globe. Portals allow citizens to access social and
political services from one Internet site without having to under-
stand the organisational complexity behind the scenes; the portal
will simply provide virtual directions to wherever she wants to go.
Moreover, for producers the possibilities are refreshing, for connec-
tivity should allow better communication between bureaucratic
agencies, enabling government employees to work better together
across all departments and have a better insight into how their work
fits together. Many departments will share information about the
same consumer, allowing the full picture of need and provision to
emerge.
It is in this area of e-government, taking advantage of the opportuni-
ties offered by connectivity, that the Internet has so far made most
impact on political life. We must acknowledge that most governments
are still in what we might consider the first stage of e-government,
namely agencies using the Internet to publish information about
themselves for the benefit of citizens. This facilitates transparency, but
offers little else that we might consider democratic, for these sites allow
only ‘one way’ communication; they are non-dialogical. Many govern-
ments (for example, China as we saw above, the UK and Chile with the
possibility of submitting tax returns on-line, and Brazil and many parts
of the United States with their experiments in on-line voting) have
taken the first tentative steps to stage two in which they create sites
that allow citizens to interact with governments and their administra-
tive agencies. Again, this has potential benefit to democracy, for elec-
tions are one yardstick by which we measure the vitality of democratic
culture. If e-voting encourages participation in a process attracting
declining interest, then it is a welcome development. Yet we must
acknowledge that most governments are still a long way from building
sites that allow genuine dialogue between governments and citizens.
Politicians now have published email addresses and we are regularly
invited to send them emails to inform them of what we think about
their performance as well as particular issues. Even the President of
the US and the British Prime Minister have email addresses. However,
the problem is that we have no real way of knowing what our rep-
resentatives do with email communications sent them by their con-
stituencies. Many MPs in Britain use them to build a database of email
addresses for the despatch of electronic newsletters, meaning that in

this case the Internet is yet another channel through which politicians
can communicate to, rather than with the electorate.
A revolution of rising expectations?
Rheingold’s assessment in the opening quotation is largely correct. In

fact, we might go further and note that Internet use and availability
have proliferated at a faster pace than previous communications inven-
tions: in less than a decade the Internet reached 50 million users
worldwide; it took the telephone 74 years, radio 38 years and television
13 years to reach comparable levels of distribution (Goldstein &
O’Connor, 2000).6 However, there are serious flaws in the belief that
the Internet is universally empowering and democratising. First, the
visionaries make two major assumptions: (1) that people want to par-
ticipate in the political process; and (2) the current channels of politi-
cal participation are defective. As we have seen throughout this book,
both are common beliefs, and while I support the first if we stretch the
definition of the political process,7 the second is more problematic.
Traditional methods of participation are failing in some parts of the
world and flourishing in others making generalisations impossible.
The difficulty arises when, in accepting the first two assumptions, the
idealists consent to a third: that the Internet is the solution to these
problems in political communication. How accurate is this?
Let us begin with the idea that everyone can be publisher and re-
cipient. If this is the case, we are confronted not only with an explo-
sion in the amount of information8 we must confront, sift and process
(Neuman, 1986) but with a fundamental question that defines the
democratic approach to political communication: whose truth are we
receiving? How can we check and guarantee the accuracy of the infor-
mation? Does this mean that the responsibility for determining
the truth falls to the consumers rather than producers? If we are
already concerned with how the traditional media have the capacity
to distort the truth and present a one-dimensional, biased or superficial
picture of political issues, processes and institutions, won’t we become
more anxious with information that is unmediated, unedited and
unverifiable? The Internet provides more information, but it does not
guarantee the quality of information. Perhaps this really is a case of
better the devil you know … ?
Second, available evidence seems to suggest that the Internet
confirms long-held suspicions that communications reinforce rather
than change political behaviour, habits, attitudes and opinions. Those

who use the Internet for political purposes are already active and
plugged into the political universe through regular use of such chan-
nels of communication as media, parties and groups. This reinforce-
ment becomes a factor of access to the Internet itself, the technology,
and fluency and security in using it. Hence, critics lament the fact that
cyberspace is dominated by the same social elites and actors we find in
other areas of political life, and this provokes a suspicion that the
Internet allows groups to preach to the converted. After all, first
one must be interested in a particular issue, group or party to take the
time to find their website (we all have experience in using a search
engine and know that finding the correct search term is only the
beginning of what can be a frustrating process which may involve
sifting through several thousand entries to find a relevant site), and it
is unlikely given the strength of the reinforcement thesis of public
opinion that these users will actively seek out the counter opinions
offered by alternative groups and individuals.9
Moreover, the press and broadcasting systems throughout the world
stand accused of serving narrow economic interests and creating inter-
national corporations that stifle pluralism, diversity and competition.
However, some do not accept that the Internet offers any solution to
this. For example, in a robust criticism of the idealism that pervades
much of the discourse on the Internet Andrew Shapiro (1999) expresses
anxiety with its commercial control. He documents (pp. 86–8) the
rise and extent of Bill Gates’s Microsoft empire that rivals Rupert
Murdoch’s for global reach, market penetration and platform diversifi-
cation. Paraphrasing Microsoft’s promise of liberation from time and
space – ‘Where do you want to go today?’ – Shapiro concludes (p. 88)
that, ‘In reality, the company’s guiding principle seems to be: Where
do you want to go today – within the Microsoft universe?’ Rheingold
had cautioned us against this economic seizure of the Internet back in
1993, claiming that action was absolutely necessary in the early stages
of Internet take-up to prevent a corporate takeover: ‘What we know
and do now,’ he wrote, ‘is important because it is still possible for
people around the world to make sure this new sphere of vital human
discourse remains open to the citizens of the planet before the political
and economic big boys seize it, censor it, meter it, and sell it back to
us’ (1993:4–5).
We also find in Shapiro (1999: 105–7; 124–6) a powerful challenge to
the idea that the Internet encourages popular empowerment because
the technology allows for the reception of information that is
customised and personalised according to the user’s tastes and needs.

As I write, The Sunday Times (30 January 2005, News Review:14) has
published an article celebrating the joys of RSS (either Really Simple
Syndication or Rich Site Summary – the journalist remains undecided)
that ‘delivers a personalised, immediate on-line summary of all the
information and entertainment you choose. It’s a 24-hour crib sheet to
update you on your specific interests’. Its creators consider RSS the
latest ‘weapon in the war against irrelevant information.’ In terms of
democratic political communication this is worrying for if we accept
Shapiro’s suspicions, RSS may mean that publics are choosing the
information they receive while making it far easier than ever before to
ignore other information and/or particular sources of information. The
danger is that the Internet may encourage ignorance and apathy
because the atomised nature of its use makes the reception of informa-
tion a personal experience. In psychology-speak, ICTs are increasing
‘selective avoidance’ and thus undermining the need to consider alter-
native views (and reconsider one’s own) to achieve consonance (see
Chapter 3 this volume). The liberal educative function of communica-
tion via interaction with alternative ideas, information and sources
breaks down, and we can no longer claim that the more one partici-
pates, the more knowledgeable one becomes about political issues.
Rather, the filtration mechanisms that allow users to choose the infor-
mation they receive and the sources from which they receive it, means
that even citizens of democracies are no longer forced to confront chal-
lenging ideas, thus limiting our knowledge and understanding of
politics, and undermining the principles of free speech. From Athens
on, democratic political communication is based on open dialogue
between citizens allowing the competition of ideas. Shapiro fears that
this filtration of information encourages the further marginalisation
of ideas and opinions that are already marginal (an argument explored
in detail by Noveck in Neuman, 1986). By having too much choice
and the technological ability to filter out unpalatable ideas, are we
sacrificing the existence of the very public sphere the net was supposed
to encourage?
Taking up these arguments, Manuel Castells (2001:119–20)
believes there is less reason to worry than Shapiro and suggests that
virtual interaction complements rather than replaces social interac-
tion, an inference reinforced by his reading of studies of computer
use in the UK. Researchers Ben Anderson and Katrina Tracey (in
Ibid.:120) concluded that ‘there is no evidence from this data that
individuals who now have Internet access in the household and who
use it, are spending less time watching television, reading books,
listening to the radio or engaged in social activity in the household
in comparison with individuals who do not (or who no longer) have
Internet access in their household.’10 Castells describes research con-
ducted in the United States that discovered similar results, and even
quotes Robert Putnam’s now classic account of the decline of disen-
gagement from American political life, Bowling Alone (2000:170): ‘We
also know that early users of Internet technology were no less (and
no more) civically engaged than anyone else. By 1999 three inde-
pendent studies … had confirmed that once we control for the
higher educational level of Internet users, they are indistinguishable
from no-users when it comes to civic engagement.’
So, the jury is still out on the impact that the Internet may or may not
have on the scale and quality of democratic participation; arguments on
both sides are equally persuasive. Maybe we are confronted with the
same dilemma that the Chinese premier, Zhou Enlai faced when asked
in the 1960s to comment on the 1789 French Revolution replied, ‘It is
too early to tell’. Nevertheless, I think that we are now far from the orig-
inal criticisms, amplified by Shapiro, which suggested Internet use would
encourage alienation and atomisation. Our understanding of the
Internet has sufficiently adjusted to appreciate that ‘online sociability’ in
virtual communities ‘is a fact of everyday life’ (Feenberg and Bakardjieva,
2004:37), and the evidence presented by Castells and others demon-
strates the opportunity offered by the Internet to engage within
extended networks. These reinforce or complement, not replace, existing
social relations. Although he missed this in the first edition of his book,
Rheingold was aware by the time the second edition was published in
2000 that pre-existing social relations are important for understanding
the impact of virtual communities. ‘One major difference between what
I know now and what I knew when I wrote the first edition of this book
is that I’ve learned that virtual communities won’t actually emerge
or grow … simply by adding a forum or chatroom to a web page’
(Rheingold, 2000:341). Hence, the Internet’s contribution to the organi-
sation and activity of political parties and interest groups, and to the
formation of ‘rhizomatic politics’ as experienced most visibly by new
social movements across the globe. Group politics are facilitated, not
created, by the Internet.
Controlling the uncontrollable
The greatest obstacle to the democratic potential of the Internet

remains non-technological, namely governments who consider this
communications system a threat to their political power and thus seek

to constrain its use. Of course, the glass may be half-full; this threat
assessment may be a positive indication of the potential strength
of ICTs. Governments only attempt to ban and suppress technologies,
information and people they judge dangerous and subversive. Never-
theless, the reality of attempted political containment contradicts the
utopian aspirations of Netizens who once believed that it is impossible
to censor or regulate Internet content, and that individual states had
no authority in cyberspace. Across vast portions of the world, Internet
content or access to the Internet is at best regulated and at worst
denied by states pursuing interventionist or isolationist policies
towards the information revolution. This situation also highlights how
the vision of a globalised world characterised by the declining
relevance and sovereignty of nation-states, especially in cyberspace, is
misplaced. Rather, individual states are determined and able to control
the Internet within their own borders, reinforcing and preserving their
dominion.
Many authoritarian governments face a serious predicament.
Pursuing developmental agendas requiring interaction with an increas-
ingly open and interdependent world, these governments must
embrace ICTs for their economic promise while minimising their
democratic potential. Kalathil and Boas (2001) have baptised this a
proactive strategy, with governments ‘guiding Internet development
and usage to promote their own interests and priorities.’ Regimes try to
contain Internet use among the intellectual and scientific elites, that is,
those required to access and publish information on behalf of national
development. Singapore’s founder and first Prime Minister, Lee Kuan
Yew, reinforced this agenda when he admitted that only the ‘top 3 to
5 percent of a society’ is able to handle the chaos and plurality of infor-
mation offered by the Internet (Mallet, 1999:85). The rest of society
must access the Internet via ‘proxy servers’ that deny users the right to
see officially blacklisted sites, a management strategy shared by other
authoritarian governments.
Iran, too, has faced similar difficult choices. In 2001, the government
closed most of Iran’s Internet cafés, known as ‘Coffeenets’. The reason
was a curious mixture of business concerns and political posturing: the
popularity of VoiceChat, the instant messaging service that allows
Internet users actually to speak to each other meant that state-owned
telephone companies started to lose revenue. Iran’s theocracy had
initially embraced the Internet revolution, seeing the application of
ICTs as a way of spreading the word of the Prophet, but then worried
about the proliferation of the ‘immoral’ effects of western culture that
Internet users could easily download from unregulated sites. In May

2003, the Iranian government began to block pornographic and other
sites it judged subversive or obscene. Around 70 young users were
arrested in March 2003 for meeting through an illegal on-line dating
service, clearly suggesting that the authorities had monitored the chat-
rooms used. (A full discussion of the Internet in Iran, together with
analysis of the theological debates that rage within Islam about and on
the Internet is found in Franda, 2002:76–80).
Chinese sources (especially those produced by the government,
such as the People’s Daily and Xinhua) provide considerable evidence
to suggest that the government is convinced the Internet can make a
positive contribution to the country’s development. Hence, China
has been at the forefront of the information revolution, promoting
widespread access to the Internet and investing US$500 billion in
the information technology industry by the end of 2005 in order to
provide access to the benefits of ICTs across the entire country. Yet
the Chinese government is also infamous for the regulations it
imposes on this information revolution, trying to ‘limit the
medium’s potential challenges through a combination of content
filtering, monitoring, deterrence and the promotion of self-censor-
ship’ (Kalathil & Boas, 2001). Internet cafes are required to use soft-
ware that restricts access to particular websites and to keep records of
their users and the sites they have visited. These measures outwardly
undermine the principle that the Internet is a technology free from
interference.
When one considers the way some scholars and observers have
discussed the potential impact of the Internet, it is not difficult to see
why China is worried. Among the first to pronounce on the democra-
tising possibilities of the Internet was US Secretary of State James Baker
in 1991:
No nation has yet discovered a way to import the world’s goods and
services while stopping foreign ideas at the border. It is in our inter-
est that the next generation in China be engaged by the Informa-
tion Age … For this we determine the US feels that the Internet and
information technology is a way in which democratic ideas will
flourish and assist in managing the change that will come some day
(Baker, 1991/1992: 16–17).
Baker was followed by Gordon C. Chang who, in his 2001 book pre-
dicting The Coming Collapse of China, noted that ‘the regime may
patrol cyberspace,’ but ‘it cannot help but be changed by the

process’ (Chang, 2001:90). Jianhi Bi (2000: 421–41) concurred, sug-
gesting that China’s need to enter the information age would collide
with the Communist party’s determination to preserve its power,
concluding that political change was inevitable. With so many sug-
gesting that the Internet will force the eventual collapse of the
Chinese communist party, it is little wonder that the regime feels
under siege. It therefore imposes control on Internet use, believing
that hostile nation-states might harness the Internet in a propa-
ganda offensive, and therefore China must be ‘battle-ready’ to meet
that threat. 11 In 2000, the Chinese State Council approved the
‘Measures for the Administration of Internet Information Services’,
and it makes interesting reading. This lists the web content that the
Chinese government has declared illegal, including: information
considered contrary to constitutional provisions; information that
endangers national security; information that threatens national
honour; information that spreads rumours or undermines social sta-
bility; other information prohibited by the law and/or administra-
tive regulations. In other words, the regulations lack specificity – a
common technique, as we saw in the last chapter, whereby authori-
tarian states are able to exercise political expediency. As in other
media systems, this ambiguous legal framework, reinforced by famil-
iarity with the severe penalties for violation, encourages a culture of
self-censorship. Anecdotal evidence suggests that the regulations
have instilled a sense of caution among Chinese Internet users in the
services they access; Internet providers are equally cautious about
the information they publish on their websites.
Yet there are grounds for optimism. A growing body of factual-
based evidence suggests that Chinese Internet users are both
circumventing restrictions and forcing the government to follow
discourses that are determined and shaped by popular opinion
expressed on-line. The downing of a US spy-plane on Hainan island
in April 2001 generated what we might consider some of the most
critical discussions allowed in China. These completely changed the
government’s official response to this dramatic event and created a
new momentum of nationalism that the government at first had
tried to avoid (Gries, 2004). Moreover as Chapter 6 described, the
death of Zhao Ziyang in January 2005 demonstrated the Internet’s
potential to ferret out forbidden information and express grievances
with government-controlled censorship: the Internet ‘has only
endowed citizens with a heightened awareness of the amount of
information that is being blocked’ (Emily Parker, ‘Cracks in the

Chinese wall,’ The Asian Wall Street Journal, 26 January 2005). The
lesson we can draw from this is that the Internet may be a commu-
nications system that is completely incompatible with communist
political and social organisation. As we saw in the last chapter, the
basis of communist party control over information is centralisation
and vertical communication; the Internet, however, is designed to
facilitate the decentralised spread of information and make possible
horizontal communications. The connectivity associated with the
Internet has the capacity to break down spatial and temporal rele-
vance while undermining existing hierarchies. Predictably, these
tensions worry governments, such as the Chinese Communist
Party, that are determined to maintain a grip, however tenuous, on
large populations (Traubmann, 1998).
Empowerment or alienation?
The Internet does not provide a completely free space liberated

from political control; states routinely exercise their capacity to
influence the scale of national commitment to the Internet, the
levels of investment in the required infrastructure, access and
content. However, in assessing governments’ embrace or evasion of
the information revolution politics is only half of the story, and we
must consider the economic and technological barriers to the
universal adoption of ICTs. Their exclusive constituency is a serious
obstacle to the vision of a global e-democracy that fulfils the egali-
tarian requirements: serious inequalities in the access to the
Internet undermine its idealist foundations and compel us to
question its legitimacy as a tool of international democracy and
community building. Democratic governments should be inclusive
and treat all citizens equally (Catt, 1999:46); they should strive
to provide the same level of services to all their citizens, but must
pay particularly close attention to the welfare needs of the econom-
ically and socially marginalised and disadvantaged. However, these
are precisely the groups most likely excluded from the information
revolution and thus routinely denied access to its political and
economic benefits. These groups must already struggle to find
their political voice: whether the Internet helps them is question-
able.
First, we can find evidence of a global ‘digital divide’ (Holderness,
1998).12
Table 7.1 How many on-line? (As of September 2002)
Middle East 5.12 million

Africa 6.31 million
Latin America 33.5 million
Canada and USA 182.6 million
Asia-Pacific 187.24 million
Europe 190.91 million
World Total 605.60 million
Source: http://nua.com/surveys/how_many_online/index.html
Table 7.2 The Digital Divide, 2005
Nation Internet Users (% of population)
Iceland 99.0
South Korea 74.0
Denmark 69.1
Sweden 68.9
Australia 65.9
United States 63.9
Canada 63.5
Finland 63.0
Hong Kong 61.9
Japan 61.3
Singapore 59.7
New Zealand 59.2
Austria 56.8
United Kingdom 55.1
Israel 51.2
Germany 50.8
Italy 44.0
Malaysia 43.4
France 42.3
Chile 32.1
Slovakia 29.6
Hungary 29.2
Poland 26.9
Bahrain 21.0
Peru 16.0
Russia 14.6
Lithuania 13.3
Mexico 13.2
Brazil 12.2
Argentina 12.0
South Africa 10.9
Croatia 10.86
Saudi Arabia 10.0
Table 7.2 The Digital Divide, 2005 – continued
Qatar 9.1
China 7.7
Anguilla 7.2
Philippines 7.0
Indonesia 5.4
Colombia 4.4
India 3.5
Egypt 3.2
Namibia 2.3
Botswana 2.1
Kenya 1.5
Guatemala 1.4
Morocco 1.2
Swaziland 1.2
Bosnia and Herzegovina 1.1
Cuba 1.0
Ghana 0.9
Pakistan 0.7
Zimbabwe 0.7
El Salvador 0.6
Honduras 0.6
Iran 0.6
Angola 0.5
Georgia 0.5
Cote d’Ivoire 0.4
Vietnam 0.4
Albania 0.3
Azerbaijan 0.3
Gambia 0.3
Haiti 0.3
Libya 0.3
Malawi 0.3
Moldova 0.3
Paraguay 0.3
Syria 0.3
Eritrea 0.2
Lesotho 0.2
Madagascar 0.2
Nepal 0.2
Rwanda 0.2
Uganda 0.2
Zambia 0.2
Bhutan 0.1
Guinea 0.1
Laos 0.1
Table 7.2 The Digital Divide, 2005 – continued
Mozambique 0.1
Niger 0.1
Sudan 0.1
Burundi 0.09
Cameroon 0.08
Yemen 0.08
Cambodia 0.07
Nigeria 0.07
Central African Republic 0.05
Iraq 0.05
Chad 0.04
Turkmenistan 0.04
Ethiopia 0.03
Burma 0.02
Bangladesh 0.01
Congo, Democratic Republic of the 0.01
Congo, Republic 0.01
Liberia 0.01
Somalia 0.002
Source: Based on figures of population and absolute Internet penetration available from the
CIA Factbook.
Tables 7.1 and 7.2 illustrate the existence of a clear global digital
divide, with many developing countries in sub-Saharan Africa and
South-East Asia excluded from the information age because of their
poverty. In Southern Africa especially, the widespread lack of access
to electricity and telephones makes the up-take of Internet techno-
logies difficult, if not impossible. Franda (2002:12) reveals that in
Southern Africa in 1999 only 20 percent of households had electricity,
while Mark Davies, founder of the American company BusyInternet,
described how in 2002 ‘There are 240,000 telephone lines in Ghana for
19 million people. … It takes about seven dials to make some phone
calls go through, just across town’ (quoted in ‘Young American helps
put Africa on Internet map,’ Taipei Times, 24 August 2002:19).13
One should also note that 87 percent of websites worldwide are
published in English only (Castells, 2001:235), meaning that language
and literacy – again linked to issues of poverty and development –
are two of the most serious obstacles to benefiting from the still
predominately text-based Internet (UNDP, 1999:62).
However, access to the Internet is only one manifestation of the

problem: like a wave rippling through a series of concentric circles,
the effects of the digital divide surge outwards from the Internet so
that access becomes a representation of division in wealth, social
and telecommunications infrastructures, and economic and political
power. Systems of communications, and especially the media, mirror
the distribution of social and political power in particular countries,
and the Internet is no exception (for example, research in many coun-
tries has demonstrated clear gender imbalances in Internet use UNDP,
1999:62). In addition, national investment strategies can be govern-
ment responsibilities, especially in less developed countries, and of
course the poverty that prevents many nation-states from joining the
Internet revolution is largely a condition of political decisions taken at
both the domestic and international levels.
The Internet is impossible to institute without adequate information
and communications systems already in place; users must possess rela-
tive amounts of education to use the Internet; and unless computers
and access to them are provided free of charge by companies not
expecting return on their investment, using the Internet requires a
minimal standard of living. This directs us to understanding why gov-
ernments managing the economies of less developed countries do face
very difficult decisions of investment priorities. Heather Hudson
(1997:238) concluded that creating modern telecommunications
infrastructures in Eastern Europe amounted to US$67 billion. That’s
US$67 billion. Can we honestly agree that new ‘digital international
switches’ and ‘packet-switched data networks’ are legitimate invest-
ment priorities in a region rebuilding its economy and trying to con-
solidate democracy? There are market and social conditions that must
be satisfied before the choice whether to join the information revolu-
tion becomes relevant. Before settling the ‘digital divide’, is it not more
appropriate to solve the ‘hunger divide’ or the ‘literacy divide’? The
digital divide does not contribute to the creation of deep-seated
poverty, and access to the Internet is not its solution.
Most disturbing is evidence of a growing digital divide within the
advanced economies with democratic political systems, and within
societies that experience high rates of Internet penetration. ‘Falling
Through the Net’ was the appropriate and telling title given to a
much cited comprehensive survey of Internet use by the US
Department of Commerce between 1995 and 2000. 14 The data pre-
sented an unsettling picture of a growing digital divide in modern
America – between the educated and under-educated; between the
wealthy and poorer families; between white, black and Hispanic fam-
ilies (Lekhi, 2000); and between the disabled and the able-bodied.
Falling Through the Net confirms the suspicions first raised by
Manuel Castells (1998) that the information revolution is contribut-
ing to the creation of a Fourth World, one that is characterised by the
absence of access to the information age between and within soci-
eties.15 The problem is that those excluded are not just information
poor; they are also denied access to the trickle down of benefits
promised by the champions of ICTs. For example, in developing
countries where the spread of ICTs is fastest, a new class is emerging;
growth in the information technology sector, and therefore the
growth of incomes for those who are investing and working in it,
means that income inequality is unavoidable (Morley, 2001). The
production and consumption of ICT-related products and services
perpetuates the existing class divisions whereby the poor, the illiter-
ate and the socially impoverished remain on the periphery. This gives
rise to a process of dualism, meaning in this case the existence of two
separate economic and social sectors operating side by side. Dual
societies typically have a rural, impoverished and neglected sector
operating alongside an urban, developing or advanced sector, and
there is little interaction between the two. The Internet amplifies
the dual nature of many less-developed societies where ICTs and ICT-
related industries are concentrated in urban areas and have little
impact beyond city boundaries. In short, we can conclude that a
great many people in the world have no choice whether or not to
participate in the process of political communications offered by the
Internet, as demonstrated by Table 7.2. Their poverty is the deciding
factor.
There are signs of limited progress: Lekhi (2000:82) documents what
might be done to encourage African Americans to go ‘on-line’, such as
programmes to subsidise the cost of access, and community-based
initiatives to provide ICTs for low income groups in public places.
However, Lekhi raises the crucial point about economics: what
happens if it is just not profitable for private companies to invest in
such endeavours? Do the costs of provision outweigh the immediate
benefits for the provider? In March 2001, Hewlett-Packard announced
the launch of its World e-Inclusion programme to try and bridge the
global digital divide. In reporting this, the Far Eastern Economic Review
(29 March 2001:42–3) exercised caution by focusing on the business-
side: ‘Nice idea, but will it pay?’ noting that HP would access to a
‘virgin market’ and ‘damn little competition’.
Lekhi (2000:89–90) also reinforces the elitist access to the Internet

and ICTs, echoing the concerns of David Agnew that began this
chapter:
… while the Internet offers the means by which to tailor political

appeals and communicative and informational resources to specific
constituent interests, what it in practice reinforces are already exist-
ing … failures within ‘real world’ politics to address issues of
primary concern to African Americans. In this way, the long-stand-
ing failure within American politics more generally to engage the
concerns of African Americans simply repeats itself in the on-line
activities of mainstream political actors. And here, the growing
disillusionment of African Americans with mainstream political
activity is only likely to be reinforced on-line. …
… much of the evidence suggests that the Internet is the preserve
of already dominant social groups and political interests and that
inequitable patterns of access remain the crucial determinant of the
extent and type of participatory opportunities it gives rise to.
In this quotation, Lekhi brings us full circle back to the discussion of

Chapter 1. We should not expect the Internet to solve all the problems
we identified at the beginning of this book – apathy, ignorance, unwill-
ingness to engage in political processes – because the Internet may
simply reinforce inequalities that prevent certain groups of citizens
believing that their participation counts. The Internet is an instrument
of communication that is most useful to, and used by, citizens already
interested in the processes and institutions of modern politics: it is
another vehicle of participation, not a panacea for the problems in
democratic government.
The argument for the emancipating power of the Internet is attrac-
tive and exciting but not particularly convincing nor grounded in
empirical evidence. While it is possible to find a correlation between
access to the Internet and political freedom, it is less easy to find proof
of causation. It is one thing to say the Internet reduces the ability of
states to check and control flows of information, but it is quite another
to claim that the Internet weakens or reduces the political power of
states. While great swathes of the democratic and non-democratic
world remain outside the Internet revolution (either by political choice
or economic necessity) democratic forces cannot depend on the
Internet to engineer political change. For democratisation to occur
there needs to be a whole series of other changes taking place within
society, such as freedom of the press, of assembly, electoral competi-

tion and accountability. In other words, the Internet is not necessarily
liberating, empowering or democratising, but it can help to strengthen
governance and the institutions charged with the task of government
and civil administration.
The momentum for political change lies with other factors, particu-
larly with the choices made by political elites or within civil society.
The Internet may contribute to the mobilisation of these forces and the
distribution of ideas – little more. Certainly Harry Rheingold, too often
falsely criticised as the father of the utopian approach to the Internet,
provides a fitting summary of why the Internet is limited as an instru-
ment of civic renewal. In many ways, he echoes the famous vague
quotation by Berelson reproduced in Chapter 1. Rheingold says of the
Internet:
We temporarily have access to a tool that could bring conviviality

and understanding to our lives and might help revitalise the public
sphere. The same tool, improperly controlled and wielded, could
become an instrument of tyranny (Rheingold, 1993:14).
This book began with a simple premise: that current cynicism is

misplaced and that people throughout the world – from different
societies, cultures, religions and political systems – want to participate
in politics. They possess the desire to communicate their grievances,
interests, anxieties and opinions to policy-makers who make decisions
about their lives. As I reach the end of this book, my optimism remains
undiminished. There are causes for concern: elections in many parts of
the world are far from free or democratic. In Zimbabwe, for example,
the elections in 2005 were scarred by record levels of intimidation and
corruption, and the result was reportedly a forgone conclusion.
Freedom of association in Zimbabwe is curtailed by the Public Order
and Security Act (POSA) which prohibits political gatherings without
prior police approval. The effects on campaigning are obvious.
Moreover, the intimidation of journalists there (POSA has been evoked
to arrest a reported 400 reporters, while a separate press control law has
closed down four newspapers and arrest more than 100 journalists) as
well as in Russia, China and other places, is deeply troubling and
undermines western advocacy of press freedom. Since King Gyanendra
seized power in February 2005, basic civil liberties, including freedom
of thought, speech and the press have been suspended in Nepal.
Moreover, any form of protest against the King or his new government
is also prohibited. Even in the United Kingdom, these are worrying

times. Although we only knew for certain on 12 April 2005 that the
General Election would be held on 5 May, the political parties have
been in campaign mode since January. Their quest for the vote of
Middle England means that the Conservative party is confronting the
kind of issues which, as we saw in Chapters 3 and 4, provoke an emo-
tional response in public opinion: asylum seekers, immigration, abor-
tion, and the rights of ‘travellers’ (‘Are you thinking what we’re
thinking?’). Easy propaganda requires easy scapegoats, and no doubt
we will experience the same kind of posturing once the British govern-
ment finally decides to hold a referendum on adopting the Euro. Will
voters be appropriately informed to make rational and reasoned judge-
ments? Or will they be swayed by the tabloidisation of a very complex
issue? At the beginning of the election campaign the parties outlined
their strategies for mobilising support and communicating with voters.
Michael Howard, the Conservative leader, personalised the election by
attacking the ‘smirking politics of Mr Blair’ and questioning public
trust in the Prime Minister, while setting out the party’s so-called ‘five
commitments’ that would be the core of its campaign. The Labour
party has decided on a localised campaign structured around the Prime
Minister trying to communicate the message that he has not lost touch
with the concerns of the grassroots. All the parties express concern
with the prospect of a lower turnout than that recorded in 2001 and,
along with the media, are seeking ways to animate voters into action
(the Daily Telegraph on 6 April 2005 published the famous picture of
General Kitchener from the First World War with the words ‘Your
country needs you).
At the same time, the power of new social movements has not
weakened. I write these concluding remarks on the second anniver-
sary of Operation Shock and Awe, the 2003 military campaign
against Iraq. Throughout the world, demonstrators have again taken
to the streets of major cities (45,000 marched through London) to
communicate their continued opposition to the military occupation
of Iraq and express their dissatisfaction with the explanations
governments continue to give in justifying the war. In Zimbabwe,
the political opposition may have lost the election before the cam-
paign had even started, yet one week before the vote the Catholic
Church called for a peaceful popular mass uprising to remove
President Mugabe (The Independent, 28 March 2005, p.1), while the
regime’s policy of trading food for votes provoked a groundswell of
civil society dissatisfaction. The Sunday Times (27 March 2005:20)
reported that during a speech by Mugabe in Gwanda, ‘a low chant

of “hungry, hungry, hungry” reverberated through the crowd.
Agitated secret service men … started to take names … [Mugabe] was
hustled away. But the damage was done.’ In Krygystan, an authori-
tarian government was overthrown in March 2005 during what
became known as a ‘tulip revolution’, the third former Soviet repub-
lic (after Georgia and Ukraine) to experience a popular revolt in less
than 18 months following allegations of rigged elections. Clearly
Samuel Huntington’s demonstration effect still has regional, if not
international consequences. In Nepal, the King has suspended civil
liberties but at the end of March 2005 protestors took to the streets
of Kathmandu (having arrived in the city using regular bus services,
thus getting through army checkpoints) chanting ‘Down with autoc-
racy. We want democracy’ outside the Prime Minister’s office.
Although many protestors were arrested, the opposition still planned
to continue to stage demonstrations. Meanwhile, five sisters from
Belfast have confronted the might of the Provisional Irish
Republican Army (IRA) in a global campaign to seek justice for their
murdered brother. They do not mobilise the tens of thousands at the
disposal of the anti-war social movements or the popular protests in
Krygystan, but the international sympathy for their cause indicates
their communication of a powerful message using simple means:
standing up for what they believe, people can make a difference
in politics. And to do so they have a range of tools at their disposal,
from traditional party and group organisations, through the organi-
sation of referendums, to protest and the blogging on the Internet.
Harold Lasswell reminded us that political communication is
about who says what, to whom, through which channel and with
what effect. These are still contested arenas in many parts of the
democratic and non-democratic world; as the 2004 Hutton Inquiry
demonstrated, even established democracies must face-up to the
consequences of their political communication strategies. Answering
Lasswell is not easy, for he missed out a number of qualifiers in his
famous statement: who should or can say what to whom … The first
is a normative question, addressed not always satisfactorily by the
political theorists we encountered in Chapter 2. The second, who
can say what to whom, is decided by political fiat; by elite con-
sensus, by the slow evolutionary process of democratic consolida-
tion, by authoritarian command, or by the people deciding for
themselves that they have a right to speak through whichever
channel they want.
Notes
Chapter 1 Introduction: Crisis? What Crisis?

1 Langdon C. Stewardson, ‘The Moral Aspects of the Referendum’,
International Journal of Ethics, Vol. 13, 1903: 147. Quoted in Zimmerman,
2001, p. 5.
2 The literature on this idea is quite extensive. See Dalton & Wattenberg
(eds), 2000; Nye, Zelikow & King (eds), 1997; Pharr & Putnam, 2000;
Hibbing & Theiss-Morse, 2001.
3 In his 1973 discussion of democracy, M.I. Finley (1973:3) wrote: ‘Perhaps
the best known, and certainly the most vaunted “discovery” of modern
public opinion research is the indifference and ignorance of a majority of
the electorate in western democracies’. Finlay then added a footnote:
‘I write “discovery” in inverted commas because the phenomenon was
already well known to older political analysts’. Commentators were particu-
larly fond of their ‘discovery’ of this ‘crisis’ in the 1960s and 1970s. See
Crozier, Huntington & Watanuki, 1975.
4 This is still better than the lowest recorded turnout in a parliamentary elec-
tion. In a by-election in Leeds in July 1999, turnout was a mere 19.6 percent.
At the 1999 European elections the constituency of Liverpool, Riverside
recorded a 10 percent turnout.
5 The South Korean media were also pleased that the 59 percent turnout in
the 2004 parliamentary elections was an increase of 2 percent over the last
general election. This was considered ‘a reflection of the high emotions
generated by [President] Roh’s impeachment – the country’s first since its
founding in 1948.’ ‘Roh supporters clean up in poll,’ South China Morning
Post, 16 April 2004, A10.
6 ‘The figures show voting in Chorley up from 32 percent in the comparable
election to 53 percent, in Gateshead from 30 percent to 46 percent, in
Middlesborough from 29 percent to 34 percent, in South Tyneside from
27 percent to 46 percent, in Stevenage from 29 percent to 46 percent, in
Trafford from 36 percent to 42 percent’. ‘Postal voting boosts turnout
in local polls,’ The Guardian, 1 May 2002.
7 ‘A Turkish tycoon who is leading his political party into a general election
campaign … has found an enterprising way to boost his ratings: he is text
messaging voters via his family’s mobile phone company. … Customers …
have been inundated with emotive texts such as: “If I fail, may God strike
me down.”’ ‘Turkish tycoon drums up votes by text message,’ The Sunday
Times, 29 September 2002:28. India’s Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) likewise
launched an ‘e-campaign’ in the 2004 federal elections: ‘ “I was in the gym
when my mobile rang and it was the prime minister calling. I was com-
pletely thrown,” said a fashion exporter after Mr Vajpayee’s recorded
message began going out last week on India’s fast-expanding phone
network.’ In particular, the BJP used new technology to get its message
200
Notes 201
across to younger voters. ‘Vajpayee rings changes in latest polling

campaign,’ South China Morning Post, 12 March 2004: A12.
8 India’s federal elections, held between 20 April and 10 May 2004, used
more than one million electronic voting machines for the first time.
9 And it doesn’t just happen in Florida. Monica Trow of London wrote to the
Sunday Times (13 June 2004) after voting had closed in the local, European and
London mayoral polls: ‘How easy it is to be disenfranchised. I had returned
my registration form but I had a visit from a charming officer who had no
record of it. I confirmed the names of the people at the address and we agreed
the form must have been received after her list was compiled. At the polling
station I was told I could not vote because my name was not on the list. The
officer there tried to be helpful and gave me the electoral officer’s phone
number. When I rang I learnt that somebody had crossed out the names and
written that the house was empty. … I have lived here for 10 years.’
10 In the 2004 presidential election, Florida promised to be ‘almost entirely
chad-free. In the big cities the old punch-cards have been replaced by voter-
friendly touch-screens, a sort of electoral equivalent to cash machines …’
‘Blacks aim to avenge Florida’s 2000 poll’, The Guardian, 2 November
2002:15.
11 This was a new problem confronting Germany in its 2002 general election.
Traditionally dominated by issues, this election was, for the first time,
based on the personality, leadership qualities and image of the two main
contenders. One reason was the arrival in Germany of the televised debate.
12 For a comprehensive discussion of the how the media has affected
American voters, see Cappella & Jamieson, 1997.
13 The Jo Moore controversy prompted the publication of a critical report
by the Commons Public Administration Committee, and sparked an
independent inquiry into the government’s information services.
14 Dr Kelly apparently committed suicide after he was identified as the source
of a BBC report quoting an unnamed official as saying the British govern-
ment had exaggerated the case for war against Iraq.
15 In response to the victory of the Far Right British National Party in a
council election in Halifax (January 2003), the home secretary, David
Blunkett said: ‘I have said there is a real problem that the people do not
believe and do not feel that their concerns are being addressed. … We
need to persuade people that the solution cannot be answered by these
far rightwing groups and that the answers they are putting forward
are dangerous’ (‘Triumph for BNP sounds alarm bells’, The Guardian,
25 January 2003:11).
16 On Saturday 30 August 2003, the day after Campbell’s resignation, the Sun
newspaper devoted 11 pages to David Beckham; the following day, the
People devoted 16 pages to the same subject. Today’s newspapers really are
tomorrow’s fish and chips paper.
17 Report of the Inquiry into the Circumstances Surrounding the Death of
Dr David Kelly C.M.G by Lord Hutton (House of Commons, 28th January
2004), 12, pp. 320–1 (2:i); p. 322 (3:ii).
18 ‘The effect of the mutual spinning-war engaged in by the politicians and
the media is not a proper scepticism that nourishes a questioning elec-
torate, but a weary cynicism that makes people want to stay as far away
202 Notes
from the political process as possible.’ ‘The crucial task of restoring trust’,
The Guardian, 4 September 2003:4.
19 ‘Disengagement of young people from party politics was threatening the
lifeblood of democracy, Labour’s general secretary [David Triesman] said’.
‘Labour inquest on membership loss’, The Guardian, 29 January 2002.
20 ‘Millions turn out for Nigerian elections’, The Independent on Sunday,
13 April 2003. Still, many ballot papers and boxes were stolen or simply
failed to turn up at the voting stations in several south-eastern states of
Nigeria. The election was also marred by extensive violence, with 12 people
dying in election-related violence. Echoing the sentiments of citizens in
many ‘consolidated’ democratic political systems, one Nigerian voter said:
‘I will vote, but I know that nothing will be different. All our politicians are
the same’ (‘A weary Nigeria pins few hopes on poll marred by violence,’ The
Independent, 10 April 2003:19).
21 ‘Malta and Uruguay gain pride of place as the countries with the world’s
highest turnout [in the 1990s] with over 96 percent of their eligible population
voting.’ www.idea.int.vt/survey/voter_turnout1.cfm. For the most recent
country-by-country figures, see www.ifes.org/eguide/turnout2003.htm and
www.ifes.org/eguide/turnout2004.htm.
22 For classification of democracies, see the Freedom House website,
www.freedomhouse.org
23 ‘[M]any of the ideas connected with the general theme of Duty to Vote
belong properly to the totalitarian camp and are out of place in the vocabu-
lary of liberal democracy’ (Morris Jones, 1954:25). Apathy should be under-
stood as having a ‘beneficial effect on the tone of political life’ because it is
a ‘more or less effective counter-force to the fanatics who constitute the real
danger to liberal democracy’ (Ibid.:37).
24 ‘In March 1990, 2,534 East Germans voted for the German Beer Drinkers’
Union, and in October 1991, 3.27 percent of the Polish electorate voted for
the Polish Beer Lovers’ Party and won 16 seats in the Sejm – evidence of
disillusionment with conventional politics even before democracy is firmly
established (Hill, 1994:272). While Hill’s conclusion is unsubstantiated, he
nevertheless draws our attention to one of the problems of pluralism and
democratic procedures in competitive party systems.
25 This is the conclusion of Shaun Bowler & Todd Donovan, 2002. Frequent
exposure to a range of sources of information means that voters are increas-
ingly sophisticated consumers. ‘Television advertisements, then, may not
be as inconsequential as is feared by their critics.’ Ibid.:790.
Chapter 2 Guarding Against the ‘Deep Slumber of a

Decided Opinion’
1 John Stuart Mill, On Liberty, in Utilitarianism, 1969 edn.:170): ‘The fatal
tendency of mankind to leave off thinking about a thing when it is no
longer doubtful, is the cause of half their errors. A contemporary author has
well spoken of “the deep slumber of a decided opinion”’.
2 Women were classed as citizens, but not active citizens. Thus they were
likewise denied an opportunity to participate in politics.
Notes 203
3 David Held (1996:16), has noted that this speech was ‘probably “composed”
by Thucydides some thirty years after its delivery’.
4 ‘Governance is to be a continued effort in mass education’ (Davis, 1964:40).
Or, ancient democracy was predicated on an effort to give all citizens,
regardless of background and wealth, an opportunity ‘to express and
transform their understanding of the good through political interaction’
(Farrar, 1992:38).
5 However, until the late 5th Century, there was an age qualification to speak
in the Assembly, with participants over 50 years old being invited to do so
first.
6 C.B. Macpherson (1973) and Carol Pateman (1970) would disagree, believ-
ing that genuine democracy requires us to pay greater attention to intro-
ducing as much direct forms of participation as we can. Some Swiss cantons
still practice direct democracy through the Landsgemeinden in which all
citizens can participate in debates. Ian Budge (1996) has discussed how the
Internet is likely to make a positive contribution to the development of
direct democracy.
7 Actually, the Assembly had a quorum (the minimum number required for
business to be legal, and therefore legitimate) of 6,000 citizens.
8 I am grateful to Dr Susan McManus of Queens University, Belfast for
drawing this to my attention.
9 ‘Take only the example of Islam: if Maguindanao met Berbers in Mecca,
knowing nothing of each other’s languages, incapable of communicating
orally, they nonetheless understood each other’s ideographs, because [sic]
the sacred texts they shared existed only in classical Arabic.’ Ditto
Christianity and Latin.
10 A useful discussion of the relationship between the development of the
printing press and the Protestant reformation is provided in Thompson,
1995, Chapter 2.
11 On debates concerning the legitimacy of this label, see Lively & Reeve,
1989:64–71.
12 It is interesting, however, that Locke’s toleration did not extend to
Catholics or atheists. See McClelland, 1996:243.
13 Later, John Stuart Mill likewise dismissed the idea that an Athenian direct
democracy was compatible with the demands, size and spread of modern
society. See his Consideration on Representative Government. pp. 175–6,
179–80, 217–18.
14 Thomas Paine, The Rights of Man. Paine was writing in response to Edmund
Burke who believed that a constitution created, practiced, and passed down
by the ruling classes was good for England, and that the liberalism of
the 18th century was responsible for the subversion of Europe that made it
the century of revolutions. See his Reflections on the Revolution in France. Also
see J.G.A. Pocock, ‘Burke and the Ancient Constitution – A Problem in the
History of Ideas’, in Lively & Reeve, 1989:159–182.
15 Schumpeter focuses on the procedural dimensions of democracy. That is,
democracy is synonymous with elections, and the role of the citizen is
limited to casting a ballot for government every four or five years. Between
elections, voters had no responsibility because they had transferred their
power to their elected politicians.
204 Notes
16 Berlusconi’s opponents, including many in Italy’s coalition government, have

tried to force through Italy’s legislative process constitutional amendments
that would prevent anyone – including the Prime Minister – from owning
more than two television channels. Paul Statham (1996) provides an ex-
cellent discussion of the basis of Berlusconi’s power and its consequences for
Italian politics.
17 This discussion is based on ‘Media alert: In the labyrinth of illusion’, Media Lens
Media Alert, www.medialens.org/alerts/2004/040219_Labyrinth_Illusion.html.
18 In 2003, the British government tried to introduce the Communications
Bill. This included what became known as the ‘Murdoch clause’, designed
to ease restrictions on cross-media ownership to allow a major newspaper
group to buy Channel 5 Television. Current legislation prevents anyone
owning over 20 percent of the newspaper market from buying the station, a
clause that applies only to Rupert Murdoch. The Bill also proposes lifting
restrictions on non-EU companies buying the ITV network, which would
open the British television market to Disney, AOL, and Time Warner.
Critics believe that the government’s plan to introduce the ‘Murdoch
clause’ is designed to keep his newspapers on side so they will be less hostile
to the government in a referendum on the Euro. In June 2003, the Federal
Communications Commission in the United States voted to make it easier
for media companies to buy more television and radio stations.
19 Louis Althusser (1971) also talks of ‘Ideological State Apparatuses’, including
religion, education, family, the legal and political systems, trades unions, and
media/cultural systems.
20 In particular see Marcuse’s One Dimensional Man, London: Routledge & Kegan
Paul, 1964; and Adorno & Horkheimer’s essay on ‘The Culture Industry:
Enlightenment as Mass Deception’, in The Dialectics of Enlightenment, New
York: Herder & Herder, 1972.
21 The best history of the Frankfurt School is Wiggershaus (1994).
22 Thus we contest the proposition put forward by Dahlgren (in Bennett &
Entman, 2001:36), that ‘any a prori exclusions of any segment of the popu-
lation [from the public sphere] collides with democracy’s claim to univer-
salism’. As originally conceived, the public sphere was not universal, but
bourgeois. Moreover, as we have seen, the notion that democracy implies
universalism is a recent and still vigorously contested notion.
23 Adlai Stevenson said, ‘The idea that you can merchandise candidates for
high office like breakfast cereal is the ultimate indignity to the democratic
process’, quoted in Roll & Cantrill, 1972:36–7.
24 I am grateful to both Alison Edgley, Chomsky expert and author of the won-
derful Social and Political Thought of Noam Chomsky (London: Routledge, 2000),
and to an anonymous referee of this chapter for clarifying my thinking on
Chomsky and Herman.
Chapter 3 Public Opinion

1 This is especially important if we agree with Walter Lippmann (1997
edn.:31) that public opinion can be created.
2 Lane and Sears (1964:10) draw our attention to how the judgement of
‘extreme’ or ‘moderate’ is always relative. What does everyone else think in
that particular society at that particular time? Lane and Sears use the
Notes 205
example of anti-Semitism: a Nazi in Germany who believed that Jews

should be ‘publicly identified’ but did not wish to treat them in a ‘discrimi-
natory’ fashion would not have been considered extreme. The same
opinion expressed in the United States would be considered extreme.
3 In August 2003, citizens were able to log on to the website of the British
Prime Minister and leave an electronic message. ‘The prime minister will not
read each one – or reply to any – but officials will screen out the abusive,
submit the most pertinent, and compile regular reports on the contents of
the rest’ [emphasis added]. ‘TonyBlair@onlineatlast.gov.uk,’ The Guardian,
29 August 2003:13.
4 In the run-up to the 2003 war on Iraq, leaked memos from Spain’s ambas-
sador in the United Nations said Britain’s government was increasingly
‘nervous’ and ‘exclusively obsessed’ with domestic public opinion. ‘The
British effort … is an attempt to show to their public opinion that London
has made, right up until the last moment, a major effort to seek peace …’
‘UK “nervous of public opinion”,’ The Guardian, 15 March 2003.
5 During research in Taiwan at the time of the 1996 presidential election cam-
paign, I asked a twenty-something graduate living in the capital, Taipei, how
he had voted. He voted not for the candidate he favoured, but for the candi-
date his parents, living at the other end of the island, told him to. When
reminded that it had been a secret ballot and his parents need not know how
he voted, he responded that Chinese ‘culture’ would not have allowed him to
lie to his parents. The classic text that examines peer/primary group pressure
on voting behaviour is Berelson, Lazarsfeld & McPhee (1954).
6 Andrain & Apter (1995:245–6) suggest that educational institutions and
churches have the greatest influence in instilling tolerance of civil liberties. As
the level of education increases, so does political tolerance (Wolfinger &
Rosenstone, 1980). However, certain fundamentalist churches reveal a greater
tendency towards being less tolerant because of their ‘theological monism’.
7 In 2002, the Conservative Party launched a drive to ‘make it fashionable to
be Conservative’ among young voters. Of a party membership of around
320,000 in 2002, only 10,000 were under 30. In the 2001 General Election,
the Conservatives lost to the Labour Party most severely in the 18–34 age
group. ‘Tories take direct line in hunt for youth vote,’ The Guardian,
5 February 2002.
8 There was widespread reported concern that media coverage of immigration
and asylum seekers had encouraged support for the Far Right in British local
elections, 2001–3 – characterised by sensationalist alarmism in the right-wing
press.
9 ‘Civil society consists of those groups which are “above” the personal realm
of the family but “beneath” the state. … Such institutions … are voluntary
in character and autonomous from the government’ (Hague & Harrop,
2001:119). Civil society is characterised by autonomous groups that are
allowed by the state to organise and articulate their interests; a public
sphere in which this articulation and discussion can occur. See Gill,
2000:59.
10 See the work of the French cultural anthropologist and sociologist, Pierre
Bourdieu, for a more theoretical approach to socialisation, especially ‘The
Genesis of the Concepts of Habitus and Field,’ Sociocriticism, Theories, and
Perspectives II, (1985: 11–24).
206 Notes
11 Citizens ‘actively filter, sort, and reorganize information in personally

meaningful ways in the process of constructing and understanding of
public issues’ (Neuman, Just, & Crigler, 1992:77).
12 Lippmann is here quoting from Richard Berenson, The Central Italian
Painters of the Renaissance, p.60.
13 In 1961, Gerhard Lenski wrote: ‘ … it is clear that religion in various ways is
constantly influencing the daily lives of the masses of men and women in
the modern American metropolis. More than that: through its impact on
individuals, religion makes an impact on all the other institutional systems
of the community in which these individuals participate. Hence, the
influence of religion operates at the social level as well as at the personal
level’ (Lenski, 1961:289). For a more up-to-date account see ‘A portrait in
red and blue,’ The Economist, 3 January 2004:30–32: ‘Out in Chicago
suburbs some churches have thousands of members. … San Francisco, by
contrast, has been closing churches for years. There was a time when the
Roman Catholic archbishop was one of the most powerful political figures
in town. Today, he is not merely a marginal figure in a largely secular city,
but also just one voice amid a religious cacophony that praises everything
from Buddhism to the Church of Satan’.
14 Weakening trades union power was a central aim of the New Right conser-
vatives of the 1970s and 1980s. The 1979 Conservative party election man-
ifesto described how ‘outside groups’ had seized the powers of Parliament
(See Judge, 1993). Consequently, the role of parties and parliament in the
political system had diminished. Successive Conservative governments after
1979 passed legislation to curb union power and influence.
15 On 17 July 2002, 750,000 council workers across the United Kingdom staged
a one-day strike. The next day’s headlines suggested a deteriorating relation-
ship with the Labour government: ‘Unions to confront Labour’, ‘Tony Blair’s
rapidly deteriorating relationship with the trade unions …’; ‘cash-strapped
Labour knows the unions will threaten further cuts in donations if the gov-
ernment does not make the required concessions’. The Guardian, 18 July
2002. The Labour party announced that membership fees would have to rise
to offset the decline in donations from the unions. ‘Labour plans big rise in
fees for members’, The Guardian, 12 July 2002. Also see ‘Rail union cuts cash
support to Labour’, The Guardian, 26 June 2002. In June 2002, the RMT,
Britain’s main rail union, voted to cut donations to the Labour party by
£700,000 over five years in protest of the government’s transport policy. The
Guardian suggested this was ‘a significant step towards severing its [the RMT]
historic links to the Labour party’. Backbench MPs who opposed the govern-
ment’s plans continued to receive RMT sponsorship.
16 Ministers should never forget the correlation between polls and elections: ‘In
1969, Dick Crossman, the secretary of state for social services, announced a
25% increase in the cost of health service teeth and spectacles 48 hours
before polling day, and then admitted that he had forgotten about the
municipal elections. His diary does not give the details of the following
Thursday’s catastrophe.’ Roy Hattersley, ‘Why I wish my vote was in
Llangollen’, The Guardian, 28 April 2003.
17 An ICM/Observer poll in the run-up to the 2001 General Election discovered that
two-thirds of Labour voters planned to support the Liberal Democrats if they
were more likely that Labour candidates to unseat sitting Conservative MPs.
Notes 207
18 For a very brief discussion of sampling see Rosenblatt, 1999:32. Generally

speaking, there is a profound trade-off between cost, speed and accuracy. A
random, or probability sample gives everyone an equal opportunity to be
selected to take part, but they are expensive in time and money. The second
type of sample is the quota, when the respondents are chosen from census
data as representative of a particular demographic or geographic group. The
speed at which politics moves – especially during elections – does not
provide sufficient time for a good probability poll, therefore quota polls
tend to more popular.
19 In an opinion poll with a sample of 1,000 people, the margin of error is +/–
3 percent; with a sample of over 3,000, the error falls to less than +/–
2 percent.
Chapter 4 Instruments of Expression (I): Group Politics

1 Mass parties ‘originate outside the assembly, in groups seeking representa-
tion in the legislature … The working-class socialist parties that spread
across Europe around the turn of the twentieth century were prime exam-
ples … The German Social Democratic Party (SPD), founded in 1875 in
hostile conditions, is the classic case. … The United States, almost uniquely
among consolidated democracies, never developed mass parties’. Hague &
Harrop, 2001:168–9.
2 The continuing relevance of parties is suggested by their rapid prolifera-
tion in former authoritarian political systems. The first elections held in
the German Democratic Republic in 1990 were contested by 30 parties;
the Hungarian elections the same year by 65 registered parties, and 32
other parties and associations were identified; the 1991 elections in
Poland and Bulgaria were contested by 90 and 60 parties respectively
(Ronald J. Hill, ‘Democracy in Eastern Europe’ in Budge & McKay (eds)
1994:267–283).
3 It is important to note, however, that powerful arguments have been made
against parties. Ostrogorski (1902, Chapter 8) for example, expressed his
opposition to political parties because they are permanent groups that con-
tinue to exist after the issue that prompted their organisation has been
resolved. Therefore, they come to represent the interests of a narrow elite
that is not genuinely representative of voters.
4 More detailed data on European party membership can be found in Peter
Mair and Ingrid van Biezen, ‘Party membership in twenty European democ-
racies, 1980–2000’, Party Politics 7(1), 2001:5–21. The figures presented here
from Hague and Harrop are taken from Mair and van Biezen (Table 1, p. 9,
Table A1, p. 15) but rounded up to the nearest whole figure.
5 In the Soviet Union, for example, the military-industrial complex became
an institutionalised interest group, seeking to further its own interests in
relation to government policy.
6 Readers should also see S.E. Finer’s 1958 classic, with a second edition pub-
lished in 1966, Anonymous Empire: A Study of the Lobby in Great Britain,
London: Pall Mall Press.
7 Parkinson’s important and enlightening article details the participation
of citizen juries and interest groups in a public debate about hospital
reconfiguration in Leicester in 2000.
208 Notes
8 The all-powerful National Rifle Association (NRA) in the United States has
an annual budget of $40 million and employs 275 full-time staff (Hague &
Harrop, 2001:157). Its members also believe they have the American consti-
tution on their side. This leads Hague & Harrop to conclude that ‘Despite
public sympathy, the coalition of gun control groups cannot match the
NRA’s “fire power”.’
9 The most notorious example from recent British politics that insider groups
can influence government policy but do so at the expense of other groups’
interests (and even government’s own principles) is the so-called ‘Bernie
Ecclestone affair’. In November 1997, Formula One racing tycoon Eccel-
stone donated £1 million to the Labour party. It was then alleged that the
Labour government decided to discard its election manifesto promise to
ban on tobacco advertising (Formula One racing being sponsored by that
industry). This precipitated a discussion about the role of business lobbying
in the British political system, and in particular the way cash donations can
be used to buy influence. It seems that access to the system is determined
by the resources at a group’s disposal. At the same time, when Britain’s
biggest transport union, the RMT, voted to cut its donations to the Labour
party in June 2002, Tony Wright (Labour chairman of the public adminis-
tration select committee) said, ‘If the deal is money for policies, I hope we
shall say, “Thank you, but no thank you.” ‘ ‘Rail union cuts cash support to
Labour’, The Guardian, 26 June 2002.
10 Perhaps the most blatant examples of insider groups are found in the
European Commission. The Economist (23 October 2004:42) reported that
‘Many of the NGOs that Brussels likes to consult are directly financed by
the commission itself’ and tend to be supportive of Commission-led policy
initiatives.
11 The Blair government has taken measures, via the so-called Nolan Report,
to limit the influence of lobbies and to regulate the contact that ministers
and civil servants have with lobbyists. They were told not to privilege one
lobby over another, nor to accept or give hospitality to lobbies in return for
information or favours. The ‘cash for questions’ controversy arose when
two Sunday Times journalists posed as businessmen to find out whether MPs
would raise questions in Parliament in return for cash payment.
12 A useful introduction to (new) social movements is Tarrow, 1998.
13 Activist/author George Monbiot has said of the anti-globalisation move-
ment: ‘I think the great majority of people who have joined this movement
started off with a vague sense that something was wrong and not necessar-
ily being able to put their finger on what it was. Having a sense that power
was being removed from their hands, then gradually becoming more
informed, often in very specific areas because what you find in our commu-
nity of activism is that some people who are very concerned about farming,
those who are very interested in the environment, or labour standards, or
privatisation of public services, or Third World debt. These interests tie
together and the place they all meet is this issue of corporate power’
(‘Where did all the protestors go? The Observer, 14 July 2000).
14 In 1996, 41 percent of respondents in a British Social Attitudes survey said
that they should obey the law without exception. In 1983, the figure was
53 percent. 55 percent in 1996 agreed that on exceptional cases they should
Notes 209
follow their conscience even if this meant breaking the law. In 1983, the
figure was 46 percent. Curtice & Jowell, 1996:95.
15 Tormey (2004:50–61) credits the origin of social movements to the fractur-
ing of the European left after the Prague Spring and the protests that
erupted in Paris, both in 1968.
16 In December 2002, demonstrations in central London by an estimated
5,000 people are thought to have contributed to the Prime Minister’s
decision to back-down on charging students top-up fees (though Cabinet
ministers were also allegedly against the proposal).
17 For a view on the different approaches to political activism across the
United States, see ‘A portrait in red and blue,’ The Economist, 3 January
2004:30–32. The report contrasts the political cultures of two different cities
in the United States, demonstrating the importance of not generalising
about such a geographically and demographically diverse country.
18 The anti-war protest that marched through London on 15 February 2003,
described as the biggest in British political history, likewise attracted a range of
participants that one would not otherwise expect to find in demonstrations.
19 This was a poll conducted by the Roman Catholic Church in December
2003. It found that 90 percent of people aged 14–24 favoured a direct
election of the Chief Executive in 2007; almost 94 percent wanted direct
elections for all lawmakers by 2008. See David Lague, ‘Democracy Tolls for
Tung’, The Far Eastern Economic Review, 15 January 2004:28–32.
20 This is consistent with the models developed by Westley & MacLean (1957)
that examined the versions of news and events published by media based
on editorial selections that are themselves determined by assumptions
made of audience interest.
21 This was the 12th annual Autumn March, launched by the Committee for
Action for Labor Legislation to ‘remind the government of the kind of
difficulties workers face every year’. ‘Angry unemployed create a stink’,
Taipei Times online edition, http://www.taipeitimes.com, 11 November
2002.
22 The failure of the fuel protests can be explained by ‘poor tactics and a lack
of solidarity’ that meant the protestors ‘were unable to win major con-
cessions from government and, in that sense, their impact was … limited.’
Doherty et al. 2003:19.
Chapter 5 Instruments of Expression (II): Referendums

1 Comparative research has identified a correlation between states that have
historical experience of direct democracy and the continued use referen-
dums (for example, Switzerland and several states of the US). Butler &
Ranney, 1978:6.
2 See how President Charles de Gaulle justified their wide use in France.
Vincent Wright, ‘France’, in Butler & Ranney, 1978:144.
3 ‘The sheer complexity and density of the [Nice] treaty [on EU enlargement]
makes it a soft target for misleading simplifications. “This is not easy to
sell,” confesses … a junior minister of [Ireland’s] ruling Fianna Fail party …
“It is not very user-friendly” ‘. ‘Irish keep Europe guessing on enlargement’,
210 Notes
The Guardian, 12 October 2002:4. The issue of voting conservatively is

tackled by Qvortrup (2001:191) who found that ‘50.9 percent of all referen-
dums in western Europe since 1945 have resulted in a no vote.’ This does
not, however, detract from the main reservations of referendums from the
perspective of political communication.
4 We shall quickly gloss over Alderson’s remarkably unempirical statements
that: ‘In general British electors are better educated and more sophisticated
than Italian’ (p. 67), and ‘The Italian electors are less sophisticated than the
British’ (p. 80).
5 The proposition that referendums encourage voting for the status quo is
tested by Christin, Hug and Sciarini (2002) using quantitative methods.
6 On the subject of television advertisements in citizen initiated referendums,
see Bowler & Donovan, 2002.
7 Similarly in the 2002 Irish referendum on the Nice Treaty, the ‘No’ cam-
paign used scare-monger tactics that focused on the possible threat to Irish
neutrality. For example, voters were told that the Treaty would make
Ireland subservient to NATO; one leaflet asked: ‘Why should young Irish
lives be lost in a conflict which is not of our making, such as in a war
between the US and Iraq?’ ‘Irish ayes smiling on a bigger EU’, The Guardian,
21 October 2001:15.
8 Also, the ‘Yes’ campaign in the 2002 Irish referendum on the Nice Treaty
was supported by a coalition of pro-EU political parties, industries and
unions. Moreover, the government organised a large-scale information
campaign that included a so-called ‘travelling forum’ that took pro-Europe
speakers to debates staged throughout Ireland. Ibid.
9 Each household received ‘a single document containing a statement of
between 1,000 and 2,000 words of each of the opposing views, together
with answers given by each side to the same set of questions’. Alderson,
1975:86. The result of the referendum: 67.2 percent in favour of staying in
EEC, 32.8 percent against with a turnout of 64.5 percent.
10 ‘ “He [Blocher] went for gut arguments which appealed to the conservative,
rainy-day types of which this country is full.” ‘ ‘Switzerland decides to join
UN’, The Guardian, 4 March 2002:15. The national vote was 55 percent Yes
and 45 percent No, with 12 cantons voting Yes and 11 voting No.
11 Research on the 1999 Australian referendum has suggested that ‘the fixed
nature of a referendum – choosing to vote YES or NO to a single proposi-
tion – is conducive to greater voter certainty than is a fluid and shifting
election campaign in which multiple issues, some of them cross-cutting, are
discussed.’ Higley & McAllister, 2002:852.
12 ‘At 60.4 percent, it was enough to withstand potential gripes that the people of
Scotland had not demonstrated sufficient interest for the project to go ahead
wholeheartedly’. Brian Taylor, ‘Scotland Decided – The Referendum’, http://
www.bbc.co.uk/politics97/devolution/scotland/briefing/scotbrief2.shtml.
13 In 1979, Welsh devolution was ‘decisively rejected – only 20 percent of
voters (12 percent of the electorate) voted YES. In Scotland, a narrow major-
ity of voters (51.9 percent) supported the proposals, but this represented
only 32.9 percent of the electorate’. Denver, 2002:828.
14 For the full details, see ‘Towns and their poll positions’, The Guardian,
3 April 2002:8; and ‘Fringe candidates win mayor elections’, The Guardian,
19 October 2002:9.
Notes 211
15 Attlee made this statement in response to Churchill’s suggestion that a

referendum be held on the prolongation of the coalition government in
1945 (Goodhart, 1971:48–9).
16 On timing one should consider the murder of the Swedish foreign minister,
Anna Lindh, on the eve of the 2003 referendum on whether or not to adopt
the euro. Reports had predicted that there would be a sudden outburst of
emotional voting that would swing Swedish voters to endorsing the euro, as
advocated by Lindh’s spearheading the ‘Ja’ campaign. Eve of referendum
polls showed suggested that although the voters had inclined towards reject-
ing the euro, Lindh’s murder had narrowed the gap between the yes and no
camps, meaning the result was uncertain. In the end, however, the Swedish
voters resolutely rejected adopting the euro: 41.78 percent voted yes,
and 56.15 percent voted no (turnout was 83 percent) suggesting that the
coincidence of Lindh’s murder with the referendum was not as politically
significant as many observers had speculated.
17 In a House of Commons debate on 21 November 1991, Douglas Hurd quoted
Thatcher quoting Attlee. See Hansard, 21 November 1991, Column 440,
http://www.parliament.the-stationery-office.co.uk/pa/cm199192/
cmhansrd/1991-11-21/Debate-2.html. I am grateful to my colleague, Phil
Cowley, for helping me locate this.
18 In June 2003, Poland held a referendum on membership of the European
Union. A 50 percent turnout was required to give the vote legal force.
Hence, the Polish government sought to boost participation by organising
the vote over two-days. Hungarians held their own referendum on EU
membership on 13 April 2003. Although less than half of those eligible to
vote did so, membership was supported by 83.8 percent. For criticism of the
minimum turnout rule, see Uleri, 2002.
19 The prospect in 2004 of a referendum in France to decide whether Turkey should
join the European Union provoked a number of interesting questions:
How would this be organised? What questions would be asked to solicit a
genuine opinion? Would the French be exposed to emotional and increasingly
racist campaigning? How would the decision translate into a decision at
European level on Turkey’s entry? Should French populism decide Turkey’s fate?
20 In 1911, Governor Woodrow Wilson of New Jersey railed against ‘the great
inextricable jungle of organizations intervening between the people and the
processes of their government’, meaning a ‘loss of the purity and directive-
ness of representative government’ (quoted in Zimmerman, 2001:234).
21 Pier Vincenzo Uleri (2002:863) has suggested that the frequent use of
referendums subjects political systems to constant strain.
22 Political science’s approach to referendums in Switzerland is represented
most presciently by Vatter (2000). See also the quantitative approach
offered by Christin & Hug (2002).
23 See www.idea.int.vt/survey/voter_turnout1.cfm. Data provided by Interna-
tional IDEA refute the idea that compulsory voting laws have a dramatic
effect on differential turnout: ‘A somewhat surprising result of this study is
that the 24 nations which have some element of compulsion associated
with voting have only a small lean in turnout over the 147 nations without
any compulsory voting laws’. Pier Vincenzo Uleri (2002:881) is critical of
compulsory voting in referendums as it ‘impairs the quality of political life
… Strong voter turnout is desirable provided it is an expression of the
212 Notes
elector’s attention and interest in the res republica, rather than a result of
coercion.’
24 Even in Switzerland, referendum capital of the world, the average turnout
in referendums between 1978 and 1986 was just 37 percent (Austen, Butler
& Ranney, 1987:139). This increased to 48.2 percent (1987–1989) before
dropping again to 45.1 percent between 1990 and 1993 (Kris W. Kobel,
‘Switzerland’ in Butler & Ranney, 1994:135). The referendums that asked
should Switzerland abolish its army, or withdraw from the European Union
attracted a bigger turnout; the 1992 referendum on EU membership
attracted a 78.3 percent turnout, the highest in Switzerland for 45 years.
Political scientists analysing this data have concluded that there is a correla-
tion between turnout and issue, with more ‘important’ constitutional issues
that will affect the future of Switzerland naturally of more interest to voters.
See Ibid.
25 Provisions for initiative and referendums are detailed in Chapter 2 of the
Swiss constitution.
26 ‘In voting to repeal a local law that protected homosexuals from discrimi-
nation … the people of Miami, Florida, sent an unintended message. They
reminded us that the rights of minorities are too important to be trusted to
the passions of passing majorities’. Anthony Lewis, ‘Tyranny of a Majority’,
New York Times, 13 June 1977, quoted in Zimmerman, 2001:247.
27 Switzerland is an exception to this rule: ‘ … modern Switzerland contains
virtually every ingredient needed to produce social instability – deep lin-
guistic, ethnic and religious differences … combined with the temporary
presence … of one million foreign workers and residents … Despite the
presence of so many factors which have produced instability elsewhere,
Swiss stability is taken for granted’ (Goodhart, 1971:87). This has not
prevented campaigning and voting along ethnic lines. In the 2002
referendum on whether Switzerland should join the United Nations,
the Yes campaign was supported in French-speaking areas, while the
No campaign found its support in the German- and Italian-speaking areas.
‘Switzerland decides to join UN’, The Guardian, 4 March 2002:15.
Chapter 6 Political Communications and Democratisation:

‘Paladins of Liberty’?
1 Gunther, Montero and Wert (2000:51)
2 Regime change or regime transition is not just concerned with democratisa-
tion. One authoritarian regime may replace another, or an authoritarian
political system may supplant democracy (for example, by military coup).
This chapter is concerned with another type of regime change, that is, the
replacement of authoritarian government by one committed to democracy
(the process known as democratisation). Under certain conditions, regime
change is still possible; young democracies are vulnerable to ‘backsliding’
towards authoritarianism until the democratic culture is ‘consolidated’.
3 ‘Freedom House is a clear voice for democracy and freedom around the
world. Founded over 60 years ago by Eleanor Roosevelt, Wendell Willkie
and other Americans concerned with mounting threats to peace and
Notes 213
democracy, Freedom House has been a vigorous proponent of democratic

values and a steadfast opponent of dictatorships of the far left and the far
right. … Freedom House is a non-profit, non-partisan organization …’ Its
website address is www.freedomhouse.org
4 Mallet (1999:84) recounts that James Nichols, honorary consul in Burma for
several European nations, died in prison there after being sentenced for
using a fax machine without permission. Unauthorised use of a modem
there can result in 15 years imprisonment.
5 ‘In the contract’ with Channel 2, ‘Montesinos purchases full control over
news broadcasts for a monthly payment of US$50,000. The channel agrees
to allow Montesinos to review each day’s news programs before they air,
and not to broadcast anything about presidential or congressional candi-
dates, or any program referring “explicitly or implicitly to political issues,”
without Montesinos’s written approval’ (McMillan & Zoida, 2004:9).
6 An interesting discussion of propaganda campaigns in Singapore around
political development strategies is in Mallet, 1999:75.
7 Sükösd (2000:138–9), presents a set of data to demonstrate the popularity of
western made entertainment programmes in Eastern Europe during the
1980s and compares this to audience reaction to the entertainment
produced in the Eastern bloc itself.
8 The situation is very different in Hong Kong. See Willy Wo-Lap Lam, ‘The
media in Hong Kong: on the horns of a dilemma’ in Rawnsley & Rawnsley
(eds), 2003: 169–189. Also Anthony Fung, ‘Media economics of the Hong
Kong press in political transition: towards a new viable political economy’
in Ibid.:190–214.
9 C.C. Lee (1998:57) defines self-censorship as ‘a set of editorial actions ranging
from omission, dilution, and change of emphasis to choice of rhetorical
devices by journalists, their organisation, and even the entire media com-
munity in anticipation of currying reward and avoiding punishments from
the power structure.’
10 The First Wave, says Huntington, occurred 1828–1926 and involved such
powers as Britain, France, America, Canada, Australia and the Netherlands.
The Second Wave lasted from 1943–1962 and embraced India, Israel, Japan,
Austria, Japan and West Germany. The First Wave was partly reversed
between 1922 and 1944 (in Austria, Germany and Italy). The Second Wave
was likewise reversed between 1958 and 1975 (in much of Latin America
and postcolonial Africa).
11 This remains a powerful and influential argument in democratisation
studies. See Lipset, Soong and Torres, 1993; Moore, 1995.
12 This process occurred, for example, in South Korea after land reform began
in 1950: ‘… many rural dwellers did not return to the villages but instead
entered a new urban environment, where an urban-oriented mass media
and education system increasingly exposed them and their children to
notions of social equality, political democracy, market economics and
contractual relationships’ (Buzo, 2002:118).
13 Correlation is not causation. While there seems to be a correlation between
affluence and stable democratic political systems, the exceptions (poor and
democratic India; rich and authoritarian Singapore and Saudi Arabia) are
important enough to prompt further inquiry.
214 Notes
14 Useful introductions to this debate are Todd Landman (2000), Issues and
Methods in Comparative Politics: An Introduction, London: Routledge, Chapter 4;
D. Rueschmeyer, E.H. Stephens and J. Stephens (1992), Capitalist Development
and Democracy, Cambridge: Polity Press.
15 This refers to a conclusion of Gunther and Mughan (2000:413) that in none
of the cases examined by the contributors to their volume of essays, ‘did
the governing elite initiate … liberalization as the first step in a deliberate
strategy of democratization, and yet that was the outcome in each of these
cases’.
16 In Poland too, splits within the government about the speed and scale of
reform, together with freer media system, allowed journalists to be more
critical than at any time in the past. This is consistent with Hallin’s (1986)
understanding of how the fissures in the American political elite over the
Vietnam war provided space for a more critical media there.
17 Although there were very clear links between the Church, the young and
the working class in the early 1970s, it would be erroneous to call the
Church in Spain the centre of opposition politics (Heywood, 1995:50, 69).
18 Atkins (2001, Chapter 6) provides an excellent discussion of the relation-
ship between foreign programming and governments in Asia. See also Page
& Crawley (2001).
19 Kurt R. Hesse (1990), ‘Fernsehen und Revolution: Zum Einfluß der
Westmedien auf die politische Wende in der DDR’, Rundfunk und Fernsehen,
38: 328–42.
20 The CPA has since transferred power to the Iraq Communications and
Media Commission, an independent and non-profit organisation.
Chapter 7 Towards a New Democratic Political

Communication: Information Communication
Technologies and Politics
1 Connectivity refers to the process whereby separate and previously
autonomous units are integrated into a highly structured network that is
connected by computer systems. This structure represents a new form of
horizontal organisation that is less dependent on functional hierarchies and
centralised decision-making. See Arquilla & Ronfeldt (eds) (1997).
2 I am grateful to Dr Andrew Robinson of the University of Nottingham for
bringing to my attention the use of rhizomatic theory in explaining political
organisation and behaviour. See his 2005 paper, ‘The Rhizomes of Manipur’,
available at www.nottingham.ac.uk/iaps/manipur%20illustrated.pdf.
3 See for example Salem Pax (2004), Baghdad Blog, London: Atlantic Books.
4 An excellent discussion of the Zapatista movement and its use of the Internet
is Harry Cleaver’s detailed study, ‘The Zapatista and the Electronic Fabric of
Struggle,’ available at www.eco.utexas.edu/faculty/Cleaver/zaps.html.
5 These stories from the computer age echo those told in previous leaps in
information technology. For example, during the Communist crackdown
against the Polish Solidarity movement in 1981, academics and students
used a computer terminal connecting the Polish Academy of Sciences with
the Mathematical Centre in Vienna to feed information exclusively to the
Notes 215
BBC Polish service, thus ensuring that news seeped out of Poland and then
flooded back in (Walker, 1992:132).
6 A short and useful history of the Internet from its origins as ARPANET in
1969, can be found in Castells (2001, chapter 1).
7 The joint Electoral Commission/Hansard Society report, An Audit of Political
Engagement 2 (London, 2005) documents how people are interested in local
issues, but have difficulty in relating these to politics. Politics is something
that happens in London in Parliament among elected elites and not with
the involvement of ordinary people.
8 Mankind currently produces an estimated 1 exabyte of data per year; 1
exabyte is the equivalent of 1 billion gigabytes or 1,000,000,000,000
books. One the web, 2.5 billion fixed documents supply the equivalent
of 7.5 million gigabytes of data or 7,500,000,000 books. In July 2001
there were more than 30 million web domains – the equivalent of over
800 million pages of information. And it never stops growing!
See Noveck (2000:23, 26, 30) and ‘Web Statistics and Information
Overload’, available at http://www.pendergast.k12.az.us/dist/cking/
GrenY/infoPage6A.pdk.
9 A personal anecdote: When teaching classes on Chinese politics I require
students to discuss the political situation in Tibet. Students inevitably base
their discussion of this issue on pro-Tibet websites, especially Amnesty
International, for two reasons. First, these websites conform to their image
and understanding, if not their belief, about the political situation in Tibet
(reinforcement). Second, the Amnesty International website is easy to
access; it takes little time and effort to find, unlike sources of information
promoting the Chinese version of politics in Tibet.
10 Anderson and Tracey’s 2001 unpublished research report is called ‘Digital
living: the impact (or otherwise) of the Internet on everyday life,’ prepared
for BTaxCT Research.
11 For an example of the battleground rhetoric that China uses, see the
People’s Daily, 9 August 2000.
12 One of the first to discuss in a meaningful way the ‘digital divide’ was
Wresch (1996).
13 BusyInternet is an American company that is establishing technology
centres in some of the poorest countries in Africa.
14 Falling Through the Net, 1998 and 2000 are published in Washington DC by the
US Department of Commerce and are available online at www.digitaldivide.gov/
reports1998.htm and www.digitaldivide.gov.reports2000.htm
15 Castells (2001) is more optimistic about the information age. Discussing
‘Falling Through the Net’, he recognises that while gaps in access in the US
are closing, the very poor are still denied access to the information age.
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Index
absolutism, 32–3, 34, 55 Chang, Gordon C., 188–9

Adorno, Theodor, 54 Chile, 162, 169, 170
Almond, Gabriel, 46 China, People’s Republic of, 4, 81,
Anti-Corn League (1846), 34 140–1, 146, 149–51, 168, 171
anti-globalisation, 111, 114 internet in, 181–2, 188–90
anti-poll tax federation, 110 Chomsky, Noam, 59–60
anti-poll tax riots (1990), 110 church
apathy, 14, 19, 58, 63, 135–6, 138, catholic, 81
185, 202n democratisation and, 166–7
Aristotle, 23, 30–1, 32, 41 power of, 33
On Rhetoric, 30–2, 41 printing press and, 32, 203n
Athens, 22–5, 26–7, 28, 32, 35, 38, 58, socialisation, 205n, 206n
63, 65, 203n civic culture, 47
Australia, 14, 121, 122, 123–4, 210n civil society, 56, 74, 100, 198–9, 205n
authoritarianism, 142, 145–6, 147–57, authoritarianism, 149
176, 197–9, 212n global civil society, 113, 178
internet and, 179–80 liberalisation, 161, 163, 165–6,
journalism and, 153–4, 155–6, 197 167–8
Spain, 166
Baker, James, 188 Taiwan, 165, 166
Bangkok Post, 50 Clinton, Bill, 6
Baudrillard, Jean, 61, 62 cognitive theory, 72–3, 80–1, 82
Benn, Tony, 5, 16 Corriere della Sera, 50
Bentham, Jeremy, 39, 41–2 cultural imperialism, 47, 51–2, 147
Berlusconi, Silvia, 50, 81, 144, 204n Czechoslovakia, 168–9
Black Panthers, 118
Blair, Tony, 14, 97, 102, 129, 198 Dahl, Robert, 105, 142
Blumer, Herbert, 67 Daily Mail, 18, 118
Bourdieu, Pierre, 71 Daily Telegraph, 78
Brazil, 4, 182 democracy, consolidation of, 16,
British Broadcasting Corporation 141–2, 172–4
(BBC), 8, 14, 15, 29, 50–1, 142–3 democracy, direct, 15, 20, 23, 25, 32,
World Service, 171, 180, 215n 35, 37–8, 42, 63–4, 65, 120, 132,
Brittan, Samuel, 101 139
Burke, Edmund, 37, 132, 203n democracy, electronic, 63–4
Burma (Myanmar), 171, 213n see also internet
Byers, Stephen, 5 democracy, representative, 38, 40,
41–2, 57, 58, 61, 64, 70, 85, 101,
Cable News Network (CNN), 51 123, 132, 136, 181
Campbell, Alastair, 5–6, 8, 201n democratisation, 141, 157–74, 212
Castells, Manuel, 180, 185–6, 195, ‘backsliding’, 143–4, 162
215n church and, 166–7, 198, 214n
censorship, 145–6, 151, 158, 213n Chile, 162
234
Index 235
Czechoslovakia, 168–9 Iceland, 13

demonstration effect, 171–2 India, 200–1n
Freedom House, 143–4, 213n Iraq, 16
internet, 197 Italy, 13
journalism, 142 Korea, South, 200n
Krygyzstan, 199 Nigeria, 12–13, 202n
liberalisation and, 168 Russia, 13–14
media and, 168–74, 175 South Africa, 10–11
modernisation and, 158–60, 214n Taiwan, 12, 21, 205n
nation-building, 175 Turkey, 200n
Philippines, 142 Zimbabwe
Russia, 49–50, 144 2002, 9, 12, 16
sequential approach, 160–1, 168, electoral systems, 14
172, 174 elitism, 28–9, 31, 37, 86, 103
Spain, 162, 173, 214n Enlightenment, the, 33–4
Taiwan, 174
The Third Wave, 158, 160, 176, 213n factions, 40
dependency theory, 47 Fan, David, 82
Dicey, A.V.C., 29 Festinger, Leon, 72–3
direct action, 68, 108, 109–10, 113, filtration, 58–9
114, 115–16 Finivest, 50
see also protest Foucault, Michel, 61, 62
Downs, Anthony, 69 France, 12, 87–8, 90, 211n
Frankfurt School, 48, 54–7, 58
EarthFirst!, 115 Freedom House, 143–4, 153, 202n,
education, 47, 159 213n
e-government, 181–2 Friends of the Earth, 26, 102, 108
see also democracy, electronic; internet
E-voting, 4, 182 Germany, East, 172, 202n
elections, 13, 16, 45, 120, 203–4n Gilligan, Andrew, 8
American presidential glasnost, 162–3
1952, 10 globalisation, 51, 61, 178, 187
1992, 89 anti-globalisation, 111, 114
1996, 2 Golding, Peter, 25
2000, 2, 4, 201n Gorbachev, Mikhail, 162
2004, 92, 201n Gramsci, Antonio, 48, 52–3, 54, 71
Australia, 14 Grant, Wyn, 100, 103
Belgium, 13 Greenpeace, 106
British general The Guardian, 78
1974 (February), 78
1987, 78 Habermas, Jürgen, 48, 55–7, 58
1992, 17, 78, 90 Hall, Stuart, 53–4
1997, 2, 17, 87, 96 Hallin, Daniel
2001, 2, 17, 87 spheres of influence, 104–5
2005, 198 Hearst, Randolph, 49
British local hegemony, 53, 71
2002, 4 Held, David, 29, 34, 39, 45
2003, 3, 80 Herman, Edward, 59–60
2004, 3–4 Hestletine, Michael, 110
236 Index
Heywood, Paul, 166 Jiang Zemin, 150–1

Hong Kong, 92–4, 112
Constitutional Development Task Kelly, David Dr, 5, 51, 201n
Force, 92, 94 Korea, South, 154, 213
Hungary, 143, 148, 173, 174 Krygyzstan, 172, 199
Huntington, Samuel, 6
The Third Wave, 157, 158, 160, Lane, Robert, 76–7
165–6, 176, 213n Laswell, Harold, 20, 83, 199
liberalisation, 166 Lazarsfeld, Paul, 81
Hutton Inquiry, 5, 8, 14–15, 50–1, 84, Le Pen, Jean-Marie, 88, 90
134, 199 Lerner, Daniel, 46
Lewinsky, Monica, 6
ideology, 53–4, 55 liberalisation
interest groups Chile, 162
see pressure groups; also trades unions democratisation and, 161–3, 165,
improvability, 44 167–8, 174
Institute for Public Policy Research media, 155, 170, 174
(IIPR), 63 Russia, 49–50
Indonesia, 150, 152, 157, 164 Soviet Union, 162–3
internet, 4, 15, 21, 25, 58–9, 63–4, Spain, 155, 162, 167, 174
119, 146 Taiwan, 174
Africa, 193 liberalism, 32–46, 48, 51, 55, 63, 71
American elections, 119 Lippman, Walter, 25, 77
authoritarianism, 180 Lipset, Seymour Martin, 46, 47, 158–9
B92, 180–1 lobbyists, 107–8
‘bloggers’, 179 Locke, John, 34–5, 39
China, People’s Republic of, 181–2,
188–90 Madison, James, 40
commercial control, 184 Malaysia, 4
democracy, 178, 182, 196 Marcuse, Herbert, 54, 55
‘digital divide’, 190–6 Marx, Karl, 47
e-government, 181–2 Marxism, 46, 47–9, 51–3, 55, 56, 58,
e-voting, 4, 182 60, 62
expansion of, 183 The German Ideology, 48
government control of, 186–90 Maxwell, Robert, 49
Iran, 179, 187–8 McCargo, Duncan, 83–4, 164
mobilisation through, 112–13, 115 McClelland, John, 35, 76, 83
problems with, 183–96 McLuhan, Marshall, 19
Singapore, 187 McQuail, Denis, 20, 146
United States, 194–6 media, 16–20, 22, 47, 49, 52, 53–4,
Zapatistas, 180 55, 56, 60, 61, 83
Iowa Electronics Market (IEM), 92 agency approach, 84
Iran, 179, 187–8 authoritarianism, 142, 145–6,
Iraq, 5, 16, 150, 153 148–57, 168, 170
1991 war, 61 Britain, 49, 78
2003 war, 8, 51, 80, 81, 84, 89, 105, see also British Broadcasting
110–11, 115, 134, 175–6, 198, Corporation
205n Chile, 162, 169, 170
and ‘blogging’, 179 China, People’s Republic of, 140,
Italy, 13, 50, 81, 122–3, 144, 204n 146, 149–51, 168
Index 237
church and, 167 Parkinson, John, 100–1

Cuba, 147, 152 Paxman, Jeremy, 8
Czechoslovakia, 168–9 Pericles, 23, 24
economics of, 141, 143, 152, 173 Peru, 145
France, 88 Philippines, 116, 142, 167
free press, 41–2, 55–6 Phillis Review, 8, 9
Freedom House, 143–4, 153 Plato, 23, 26, 28, 29–30, 32
Hungary, 143, 148, 173, 174 Poland, 158, 174, 211n
Indonesia, 147–8, 150, 152, 157, 164 church in, 167
Iraq, 150, 153, 175–6 Solidarity, 167, 215n
Italy, 50, 144, 204n Political Action Committees (PAC), 107
Korea, South, 154 political parties, 10, 36–7, 38, 45, 56,
Peru, 145 62, 65, 74, 164, 203n
Philippines, 142, 167 British National Party (BNP), 78–9,
Poland, 158, 174 98–9, 201n
public opinion and, 74, 82, 87–8 Chinese Communist Party (CCP),
Romania, 148 149–50, 189, 190
Russia, 49–50, 144, 153–4, 155 Communist Party of the Soviet
Samizdat, 163 Union, 163
Singapore, 147 Conservative, 2, 78, 90, 198, 205n,
Soviet Union, 149, 162 206n
Spain, 148, 155, 162, 173, 174 Italy, 50
Taiwan, 151–3, 154, 155, 164, 174 Labour, 2, 17, 78, 80, 90, 97, 98–9,
Thailand, 50, 144, 164 102, 121, 128, 133–4, 147,
United States, 59–60, 79, 105 206n, 208n
Zimbabwe, 156 membership, 2, 98–9, 100, 207n
Microsoft, 184 Kuomintang (KMT), 151–2, 165
Miliband, Ralph, 48 Persatuan Wartawan Indonesia
Mill, James, 40, 41–2, 55–6 (PWI), 150
Mill, John Stuart, 22, 24, 29, 30, 39–40, Pro-Life Alliance, 96
41, 42–4, 66, 75–6, 202–3n Referendum Party, 96
modernisation theory, 46–7, 158–60, postal voting, 3–4
214n postmodernism, 60
Montesqieu, Baron de, 35, 38–9 pressure groups, 36, 40, 45, 56, 62,
Moor, Jo, 5 83, 96, 100–1, 102
Mugabe, Robert, 12, 13, 16, 156 access, 103, 108
Murdoch, Rupert, 49, 51, 140, 141, Fathers for Justice, 107
203n ‘fire brigade’ and educational, 103
insider and outsider, 103, 105, 107,
Nepal, 197–8, 199 208n
new right, 101 media and, 104, 105, 106–7, 108
new social movements Shelter, 106
see social movements Snowdrop campaign, 106
News of the World, 18 see also trades unions
Newsnight, 14 primary groups, 37, 54, 73, 79, 81, 83,
Nigeria, 12–13, 108, 202n 149
Norris, Pippa, 19, 112–13 propaganda, 28, 31–2, 47, 59, 77, 79,
80, 150, 169
‘packaging of politics’, 57–8 protest, 111–12, 116, 163
Paine, Thomas, 40–1, 203n anti-globalisation, 111, 208–9n
238 Index
protest – continued devolution, 128–9, 210–11

anti-Iraq war (2003–5), 10, 11, 80, East Timor, 130
110–11, 115, 198, 209n educative functions, 121, 134
anti-poll tax, 109–10 elites and, 125–6
fuel protests (2000), 111, 118, 209n elitism, 133
Hong Kong (2003 & 2004), 112, France, 211n
209n frequency of, 135
media and, 113–14, 118, 170 Gibraltar, 129
Soviet Union, 163 government power and, 133
student top-up fees, 209 incumbency and, 126
Taiwan, 165 initiative, 134
pseudo-events, 107 Ireland, 126, 138, 210n
public opinion Italy, 122–3
defined, 66–7, 68, 70, 71, 75 Norway, 124
elites and, 81–2 Poland, 211n
equality and, 68, 69 popular interest, 122–3, 137–8, 139
internet, 183–4 populism, 131–3
measurement of, 66, 85–6, 89, 93–4 questions, 123
political access and, 67 representative democracy, 132
‘two-step’ model, 81–2 Romania, 130–1
public opinion polls, 68–9, 85–8, 89, South Africa, 125–6, 128
90, 91, 120, 206–7n Slovenia, 138
‘adequacy of information’, 69 Sweden, 137–8, 211n
cognitive theory of, 72, 80–1, 82 Switzerland, 121, 126, 134–5, 137,
media and, 74, 81–2, 89–90 139, 212n
policymaking and, 70–1, 82, 83, 85, Thatcher, Margaret, 132
117, 205n turnout, 135–7, 138, 212n
primary groups and, 73, 79, 81, 83, United States, 132–3, 134, 138
205n Venezuela, 126
socialisation and, 72–9, 80–1, 82, reformation, the, 33
205n Reith, Sir John, 29
sources of, 72–83 Representation of the People’s Act
‘spiral of silence’, 90 (2000), 88
public sphere, 43, 56, 58, 177–8, 185 Rheingold, Harry, 177, 179, 183, 184,
Putin, Vladimir, 144 186, 197
rhetoric, 27, 28, 30–2
Radio Free Europe, 170 Rhodes, Jane, 117–18
Radio Veritas, 167 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 35–6, 37–8,
Rawnsley, Andrew, 5–6 42, 70, 75, 134
referendums Russia, 13–14, 49–50, 144, 153–4, 155
advisory and mandatory, 137, 138
Attlee, Clement, 131–2, 211n Samizdat, 163–4
Australia, 121, 122, 123–4, 210n Schultz, George, 180
Britain, 124, 125, 128–9, 131, Schumpeter, Joseph, 45, 203–4n
133–4, 137, 138–9, 210–11n Seymour-Ure, Colin, 84
campaigns, 123–6, 127, 137 Shapiro, Andrew, 58–9, 184–5
Chile, 169 Shelter, 106
conservative politics, 121, 130–2 Simpson, O.J., 7
Denmark, 126, 127 Singapore, 4, 147, 160, 187
Index 239
Snowdrop campaign, 106 Thatcherism, 49, 101–2

social movements, 10, 62–3, 80, 99, Thucydides, 23, 27, 203n
108–9, 110, 111, 112, 118, 166, Time Warner, 51
178, 186, 198–9 Tocqueville, Alexis de, 2
socialisation, 37, 72–9, 80–1, 82, 159, Today, 5
167 Tormey, Simon, 111–12, 209n
socialism, 46, 53 trades unions, 81, 97, 98, 101–2,
Socrates, 28 206n
Solidarity, 158, 167 see also pressure groups
Sophists, 27–8, 30 Trilateral Commission (1975), 6
South Africa, 10–11, 125–6, 128
Soviet Union, 149, 162, 206n urbanisation, 47, 213–14n
Spain, 148, 155, 162, 166, 167, 173,
174, 214n Verba, Sidney, 47
Stone, Deborah, 117 Vietnam war, 104–5
Sun, 74, 78 ‘virtuous circle’, 19
Sweden, 137–8, 211n
Switzerland, 121, 126, 134–5, 137, Wolfsfeld, Gadi, 67
139, 212n
Xinhua news agency, 149
Taiwan, 12, 21, 87, 104, 116, 151–3,
154, 155, 163, 164, 165, 166, 174, Yelland, David, 9
205n Young, Hugo, 12
Thailand, 50, 144, 164, 171
Thaksin Shinawatra, 50, 144 Zapatistas, 180
Thatcher, Margaret, 132 Zimbabwe, 9, 12, 13, 156, 197, 198–9

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Political Communication

Radio Diplomacy and Propaganda

– John Stuart Mill, On Liberty in Mary Warnock (ed.), Utilitarianism

– Elizabeth Wright, ‘Postscript: broadcasting to China’ in

List of Tables viii

Chapter 1 Introduction: Crisis? What Crisis? 1

Table 1.1 Trust in professions to tell the truth 7

Figure 3.1 Opinion interaction and effect on the political

Photo 1.1 A demonstration against the continuing occupation

My thanks go to the School of Politics at the University of Nottingham,

The support and advice of my editor at Palgrave Macmillan, Alison

The evils of the Representative System are … great and grievous.

A meeting to discuss public apathy in Dorchester, Dorset, got

the requirement that ballot papers are countersigned by a friend or

‘Our votes were stolen.’

(Gerald White, discussing the way African-Americans in Florida feel

of the ultimate ‘spin-meister’, Alastair Campbell, was pored over

When Alastair Campbell, the unelected Director of Communications and

Table 1.1 Trust in professions to tell the truth

Tell the Not tell the Don’t know

Table 1.2 ‘Verdict on the political class’

Gone Up Gone Down No Change Don’t Know

Review, a committee chaired by Bob Phillis (the Guardian Media

The response of the media to a rigorous and proactive government

The situation is hardly better in other areas of the world. A

(The Observer, 10 March 2002:3, reporting on the presidential election

However, we should avoid the temptation to be excessively pessim-

organisations are not represented by pressure or interest groups, and

Photo 1.1 A demonstration against the continuing occupation of Iraq, London,

Table 1.3 US Presidential election voter turnout, 1924–2000

Source: The Center for Voting and Democracy, www.igc.apc.org/cvd/turnout/preturn.html

The election there was greeted by an impressive 89.9 percent turnout

In one way, the Zimbabwe election sets an example to all demo-

On 12 April 2003, tens of millions of Nigerians queued up, despite

We know our politicians. They are thieves. When they come to

In the run-up to the elections in March 2005, reports from Zimbabwe

analyst from the Glasnost Defence Foundation said of the 2003

We are allowed enough freedom so that we can be internationally

Apathy implies indifference; maybe we need to think of a better term

and challenged the working principles of the BBC; it contributed to the

First, deliberation requires that one be well informed about proposed

Dialogue is important for accountability as it requires opinions to be

their rule. They may provide an illusion of democratic politics, as

‘If democracy ever dies in Britain, it won’t be the Trots or

(Tony Benn, quoted in Franklin, 1994:10).

in media ownership, roles, regulation and consumption patterns. It is

A major survey … commissioned … in 1933, revealed … that the

Neither are the America media immune to criticism. Veteran media

diversiﬁcation. Modern communications technologies, especially the

platforms, media and styles of coverage. Such media diversity reﬂects

• Who controls the media?

We begin, however, with a little theory to whet the appetite. What

what, in which channel, to whom, and with what effect’. Political

(Far Eastern Economic Review, 29 January 2004:9).

(John Stuart Mill, On Liberty, in Utilitarianism,

One way we can begin to appreciate the role and importance of

What have the Greeks ever done for us?

Greek political philosophy is the philosophy associated with Athens.

participate were viewed with ‘contempt and suspicion’ by their

addresses etc – thus potentially excluding a signiﬁcant proportion of

In this, way the (relatively) small and homogenous citizenship made

In view of the very great interests at stake, and in so grave a matter,

Critics noted that wise statesmanship must respond to ever-changing