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 Religious Freedom and the Universal Declaration of
Human Rights

Article 18 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948) is

widely considered to be the most influential statement on religious
freedom in human history. Religious Freedom and the Universal
Declaration of Human Rights provides a groundbreaking account of
its origins and developments, examining the background, key players,
and outcomes of Article 18, and setting it within the broader discourse
around international religious freedom in the 1940s. Taking issue with
standard accounts that see the text of the Universal Declaration as
humanity’s joint response to the atrocities of World War II, it shows
instead how central features of Article 18 were intimately connected to
the political projects and visions of particular actors involved in the
start-up of the UN Human Rights program. This will be essential
reading for anyone grappling with the historical and contemporary
meaning of human rights and religious freedom.

linde lindkvist is a postdoctoral researcher in the Department of

Theology at Uppsala University, Sweden.
 Human Rights in History

Edited by
Stefan-Ludwig Hoffmann, University of California, Berkeley
Samuel Moyn, Harvard University, Cambridge, MA

This series showcases new scholarship exploring the backgrounds of human rights
today. With an open-ended chronology and international perspective, the series
seeks works attentive to the surprises and contingencies in the historical origins
and legacies of human rights ideals and interventions. Books in the series will
focus not only on the intellectual antecedents and foundations of human rights,
but also on the incorporation of the concept by movements, nation-states, inter-
national governance, and transnational law.

Also in the series:

Michal Givoni, The Care of the Witness: A Contemporary History of Testimony
in Crises
Steven Jensen, The Making of International Human Rights: The 1960s,
Decolonization, and the Reconstruction of Global Values
Eleanor Davey, Idealism beyond Borders: The French Revolutionary Left and the Rise
of Humanitarianism, 1954–1988
Jörg Fisch, translated by Anita Mage, The Right of Self-Determination of Peoples:
The Domestication of an Illusion
Fabian Klose, editor, The Emergence of Humanitarian Intervention: Ideas and Practice
from the Nineteenth Century to the Present
Young-sun Hong, Cold War Germany, the Third World, and the Global
Humanitarian Regime
Heide Fehrenbach and Davide Rodogno, editors, Humanitarian Photography:
A History
Jay Winter and Antoine Prost, René Cassin and Human Rights: From the Great War to
the Universal Declaration
Sarah B. Snyder, Human Rights Activism and the End of the Cold War:
A Transnational History of the Helsinki Network
Stefan-Ludwig Hoffmann, editor, Human Rights in the Twentieth Century
Linde Lindkvist, Religious Freedom and the Universal Declaration of Human Rights
Religious Freedom and the Universal
Declaration of Human Rights

LINDE LINDKVIST
Uppsala University, Sweden
 University Printing House, Cambridge cb2 8bs, United Kingdom
One Liberty Plaza, 20th Floor, New York, ny 10006, USA
477 Williamstown Road, Port Melbourne, vic 3207, Australia
4843/24, 2nd Floor, Ansari Road, Daryaganj, Delhi – 110002, India
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Cambridge University Press is part of the University of Cambridge.

It furthers the University’s mission by disseminating knowledge in the pursuit of
education, learning, and research at the highest international levels of excellence.

www.cambridge.org
Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9781107159419
doi: 10.1017/9781316671542
© Linde Lindkvist 2017
This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception
and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements,
no reproduction of any part may take place without the written
permission of Cambridge University Press.
First published 2017
Printed in the United States of America by Sheridan Books, Inc.
A catalogue record for this publication is available from the British Library.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
names: Lindkvist, Linde, 1985– author.
title: Religious freedom and the Universal Declaration of Human Rights /
Linde Lindkvist, Uppsala Universitet, Sweden.
description: 1 [edition]. | New York : Cambridge University Press, 2017. |
Series: Human rights in history | Based on author's thesis
(doctoral - Lunds Universitet, 2014) issued under title: Shrines and souls :
the reinvention of religious liberty and the genesis of the Universal
Declaration of Human Rights. | Includes bibliographical references and index.
identifiers: lccn 2017008346 | isbn 9781107159419 (Hardback : alk. paper)
subjects: lcsh: Freedom of religion (International law)–History–20th century. |
United Nations. General Assembly. Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Article 18.
classification: lcc k3258 .l559 2017 | ddc 341.4/832–dc23 LC record available at
https://lccn.loc.gov/2017008346
isbn 978-1-107-15941-9 Hardback
Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy
of URLs for external or third-party Internet websites referred to in this publication
and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain,
accurate or appropriate.
“. . . what if I take my problem to the United Nations?”
PJ Harvey, “The Words That Maketh Murder,”
Let England Shake (2011).
 Contents

Preface and Acknowledgments page ix

List of Abbreviations xiii

Introduction 1
Situating the Study 8
Rights as Tools of Politics 12
A Note on Sources 16
Chapters 19
1 Freedom of Thought and Conscience 21
An Absolute and Sacred Right 24
Personalism and the Turn from Worship to Conscience 32
Charles Malik and the Freedom of the Human Person 43
Concluding Reflections: Embodied Vulnerability? 57
2 The Right to Change Religion or Belief 61
The Ecumenical Movement and Human Rights 67
O. Frederick Nolde and the Right to Hear the Gospel 78
Malik and the Right (and Duty) to Change Religion or Belief 86
Concluding Reflections: Human Rights versus Islamic Severity? 98
3 In Community with Others 105
Beyond the Rights of Individuals 106
Eleanor Roosevelt and the American Melting Pot 120
René Cassin and the Life of the Nation 128
Concluding Reflections: From Minority Rights to Human Rights? 136
Conclusion 139

Bibliography 149
Index 167

vii
 Preface and Acknowledgments

Over the past two decades, religious freedom has evolved into a central
and highly charged theme in a range of political settings, from local
classrooms and beaches, to the conference rooms of international organ-
izations. This is partly because of the widely shared assumption that
religious freedom constitutes an inherent good, that its realization is a
key to individual emancipation and peaceful coexistence among different
communities. But this is also because the topic of religious freedom
actualizes issues (including the tensions between individual and collective
rights, the relation between state and organized religion, as well as the
limits of toleration) on which there is rarely any consensus to be found. So
while an ever-growing family of actors is mobilizing behind religious
freedom as a political term, there also seems to be growing disagreement
on what it actually means.
When I first ventured into this field in the late 2000s, I was immediately
struck by the fact that protagonists of what seemed to be incompatible
ideas of religious freedom tended to legitimize their positions in reference
to Article 18 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. This came
into sharp view in 2009, when Swiss voters decided to back a consti-
tutional amendment prohibiting the building of minarets. Those in favor
claimed that banning minarets would be perfectly reconcilable with the
way religious freedom was framed in the Universal Declaration and the
central follow on treaties on human rights, whereas those against held
that the ban would mark a clear-cut violation of the very same inter-
national instruments. So although the two camps disagreed in substance,
they nonetheless agreed that the essential features of the right to religious
freedom were captured in the 47 words of Article 18.

ix
x Preface and Acknowledgments

Given the way this article has influenced how religious freedom is
articulated in international human rights law, and given the way it has
been mobilized in recent initiatives for the promotion of religious freedom
(the most visible example being the International Religious Freedom Act
that the US Congress passed in 1998), I assumed that the making of
Article 18 had already been sufficiently covered by scholars. However,
I soon realized that I was wrong. Although much had been written on the
drafting of the Universal Declaration, and some preliminary efforts had
been made to shed light on the debates on religion and religious freedom,
no account had highlighted the peculiarities of this article in relation to
the broader international religious freedom discourse of the 1940s. I was
also surprised that few showed any real interest in making sense of the
arguments precipitating its finalization. The literature in this field was
either recognizably teleological (Article 18 embodies what religious free-
dom is and always has been) or agnostic (there is no way of knowing why
Article 18 looks the way it does). In its most narrow sense, this book aims
to challenge these two interpretations by relating some of the central
features of Article 18 (the emphasis on the freedom of conscience, the
inclusion of the right to change religion or belief, and the singular focus
on the rights of individuals) to the political writings of its drafters.
This may seem like a narrow, perhaps even myopic, project. However,
it is my strong belief that it has wider implications for how we view the
Universal Declaration at large. Far from representing a distillate of the
then-accepted meanings of human rights and religious freedom, the Dec-
laration endorsed patchworks of local interpretations of these and other
concepts. Returning to the drafting process and the debates surrounding it
can potentially remind us of the many uncertainties that characterized
these first efforts to codify international human rights. It allows us to
glimpse the range of different conceptions of human rights and religious
freedom in circulation during the 1940s and to realize that the final
outcome was a product of historically contingent and negotiated
decisions.
Yet although this book is intended as an act of deconstruction and
destabilization, it is also intended as a reminder that the work of defining
what concepts like human rights and religious freedom are and are for is
an ongoing one. It cannot simply be brought to an end through the
adoption of new international declarations or treaties. So although this
is first of all a contribution to the historiography of human rights and
religious freedom in the 1940s, it is also a call for renewed ideological
debate on what these concepts should mean in our and future times.
 Preface and Acknowledgments xi

This book grew out of my doctoral thesis, which I publicly defended at

Lund University in December 2014. I am particularly indebted to Lena
Halldenius, Andrea Karlsson, and Jesper Svartvik for their unfailing
moral and intellectual support throughout the entire process. I am also
grateful to all those who took the time to read and comment on every-
thing from confused first drafts to the final PhD (which Kjell Eriksson
helped me produce and print in a minimal edition for the occasion of the
defense). I am afraid that naming you all here would make this into a
chapter of its own. But looking back, the input I received from Dan-Erik
Andersson, Åsa Burman, Raymond Cohen, Glenn Mitoma, Kjell-Åke
Modéer, Samuel Moyn, Elena Namli, Johan Östling, Pamela Slotte,
Maria Småberg, Mike Swirsky, and Anna Su, as well as the two anonym-
ous peer-reviewers from Cambridge University Press, was simply too
important to go by unmentioned. Finally, I want to thank my colleagues
at the Department of History of Lund University for providing me with a
top class environment for thoughts to rise and mature. For your friend-
ship and support, this book is dedicated to you.
 Abbreviations

AUB American University of Beirut

CCIA Commission of the Churches on International Affairs
UNCHR United Nations Commission on Human Rights
CCJO Consultative Council of Jewish Organizations
CJDP Commission to Study the Bases for a Just and Durable Peace
DP Displaced person
ECHR European Convention for the Protection of Human Rights
and Fundamental Freedoms
ECtHR European Court of Human Rights
ECOSOC Economic and Social Council of the United Nations
FDR Franklin Delano Roosevelt
FCC Federal Council of Churches of Christ in America
FMC Foreign Missions’ Conference of North America
ICCPR International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights
ILO International Labor Organization
IMC International Missionary Council
JCRL Joint Committee on Religious Liberty
NAACP National Association of the Advancement of
Colored People
NCWC National Catholic Welfare Conference
UDHR Universal Declaration of Human Rights
UK United Kingdom
UN United Nations
UNESCO United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural
Organization

xiii
xiv Abbreviations

UNGA United Nations General Assembly

UNSCOP UN Special Committee on Palestine
US United States of America
USSR Union of the Soviet Socialist Republics
WCC World Council of Churches
YMCA Young Men’s Christian Association
 Introduction

When the international discourse of human rights began to crystallize in

the 1940s, it was evident that the right to religious freedom would
constitute one of its main principles. This was reflected most visibly in
the human rights rhetoric deployed by Allied leaders in the course of
World War II. In his momentous State of the Union Address on January 6,
1941, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt singled out the “freedom of
every person to worship God in his own way – everywhere in the world”
as one of the central pillars (the others being freedom of speech, freedom
from want, and freedom from fear) of the posttotalitarian world order to
come.1 Less than a year later, on New Year’s Day 1942, the Allied Powers
echoed this vision by identifying the promotion of religious freedom as an
official rationale for engaging in total war against the Axis forces.2 But the
centrality of religious freedom was also manifested in the prototypes for
an international bill of human rights, which had begun to emerge already
in the interwar period, mainly from the efforts of internationally minded
lawyers and activists. In 1929, the International Law Institute issued a
declaration stressing the “duty of every State to recognize the right of
every individual to the free practice, both public and private, of every

1
Franklin D. Roosevelt, “Annual Message to Congress on the State of the Union,” January
6, 1941.
2
Declaration by the United Nations, January 1, 1942. It is not clear what motivated the
inclusion of human rights in this statement. See, for instance, A. W. Brian Simpson,
Human Rights and the End of Empire: Britain and the Genesis of the European Conven-
tion (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 184. For more on the reference to religious
freedom, see Anna Su, Exporting Freedom: Religious Liberty and American Power
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2016), 71.

1
2 Introduction

faith, religion, or belief, provided that the said practise shall not
be incompatible with public order and good morals.”3 In 1944, the
American Law Institute adopted a similar Statement on Essential Rights,
which in its opening clause announced that the “Freedom of belief and of
worship is the right of every one.”4
For many of its leading proponents in this era, religious freedom was a
principle of immense symbolic value. There is evidence suggesting that
one of the reasons why Roosevelt decided to omit direct references to
democracy from his 1941 address was his deeply held conviction that
“democracy would exist wherever religious liberty could be found.”5 To
Roosevelt, religious freedom was thus much more than a basic individual
right. It was also a necessary component of any decent political system, a
standard by which the civilizational progress of any nation could be
determined. Convinced that sustainable peace could only be established
among democratic nations, he further regarded commitment to religious
freedom to be a cornerstone of any future international system. In an
American foreign policy context, religious freedom thereby functioned as
a rhetorical device for motivating a break with the path of isolationism.6
Toward the end of the decade, religious freedom also evolved into a
central tool for establishing the front lines of what is sometimes known as
the “spiritual” or “moral” Cold War.7 The clearest expression of this was
the massive outcry that followed the incarceration of the Hungarian

3
Cited in Louis B. Sohn, “How American International Lawyers Prepared for the San
Francisco Bill of Rights,” American Journal of International Law 89, no. 3 (1995): 546.
4
Cited in Sohn, “How American International Lawyers Prepared for the San Francisco Bill
of Rights,” 551. The UN Secretariat made extensive use of the statement when compiling
its first outline for a bill of human rights in 1947. See, e.g., UN Doc. E/CN.4/W.16 (1947).
For an account of its drafting, see Hanne Hagtvedt Vik, “Taming the States: The American
Law Institute and the Statement of Essential Human Rights,” Journal of Global History 7,
no. 3 (2012): 472. Vik notes how the drafting of the religious freedom article was
accompanied by a number of difficult questions, not least whether or not it should
explicitly recognize the right to carry out missionary work.
5
For fuller discussions of the place of religious liberty in FDR’s political rhetoric, see
Andrew Preston, Sword of the Spirit, Shield of Faith: Religion in American War and
Diplomacy (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2012), 325; Su, Exporting Freedom, chapter 3.
See also, Elizabeth Borgwardt, “FDR’s Four Freedoms as a Human Rights Instrument,”
OAH Magazine of History 22, no. 2 (2008): 9–11.
6
“Roosevelt’s toleration,” Preston writes, “was limited in a way that was typical for
American religion and politics. While he tolerated all faiths, he could not tolerate a lack
of faith. Without faith, there was no morality, and without morality no democracy.”
Preston, Sword of the Spirit, Shield of Faith, 321.
7
Jonathan P. Herzog, The Spiritual-Industrial Complex (New York: Oxford University
Press, 2011), 77.
 Introduction 3

Cardinal József Mindszenty in late December 1948 on fabricated charges

of treason. Pope Pius XII denounced the act as a violation of the “holy
rights of religion.”8 Winston Churchill, for his part, used this case of
“religious persecution committed on an innocent man under the direct
orders of Moscow” to underpin his plea for an effective European human
rights framework. Such a system, he maintained, would be crucial for
cultivating a common “sense of being Europeans,” thereby hastening the
coming of a “United Europe.”9 At the United Nations, the Mindszenty
affair also influenced what became one of the organization’s first country-
specific resolutions on human rights. The resolution, which was adopted
by the UN General Assembly in April 1949, decried the “suppression of
human rights and fundamental freedoms” in Hungary and Bulgaria, and
recalled the obligations befalling these states under the Peace Treaties of
1947, including the duty to respect religious freedom.10
Together, these instances reveal just how central the right to religious
freedom was to the wider midcentury international discourse of human
rights. It is telling that even the Soviet Union – which by all accounts
constituted the most common target of religious freedom rhetoric in the
1940s – did not spurn the idea of giving it a prominent place within an
international bill of rights.11 But even if most agreed that religious free-
dom belonged at the heart of the human rights idea, there was no
corresponding consensus on precisely what was meant by the term or
how it should be framed in a future international instrument.
Providing answers to these questions became one of the many chal-
lenges facing the eighteen members of the United Nations Commission on
Human Rights (UNCHR) as they began their codification efforts in
January 1947. The Commission, which was organized as a subsidiary
body to the Economic and Social Council (ECOSOC), initially worked on
both a nonbinding declaration and a binding treaty, as well as mechan-
isms for enforcement, but soon decided to focus its energy on the less

8
Glenn Mitoma, Human Rights and the Negotiation of American Power (Philadelphia:
University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013), 177.
9
Marco Duranti, “Conservatism, Christian Democracy and the European Human Rights
Project, 1945–50” (PhD diss., Yale University, 2009), 176.
10
UN Doc. A/RES/272 (III) (April 30, 1949). The decision to invoke the peace treaties
rather than the UN Charter or the Universal Declaration was likely informed by US
aspirations to discredit the human rights records of Soviet allies while making sure not to
invite criticism of its own record on racial inequality. Mitoma, Human Rights and the
Negotiation of American Power, 167.
11
John N. Hazard, “The Soviet Union and a World Bill of Rights,” Columbia Law Review
47 no. 7 (1947): 1112
4 Introduction

controversial, nonbinding text. In the summer of 1948, during its Third

Session, the Commission adopted a final draft of what was then known as
the International Declaration of Human Rights. The draft was then
transmitted (via the ECOSOC) to the Third Session of the UN General
Assembly, which convened in Paris between September and December the
same year. After three months of deliberations in the Assembly’s Third
Committee, the text – now renamed as the Universal Declaration of
Human Rights – was adopted during a plenary meeting on December
10, 1948. The vote was 48–0, with 8 abstentions.12
In the Declaration’s Article 18, we encounter a forty-seven-word sen-
tence that has later been characterized as “one of the most influential
statements of the religious rights of mankind yet devised.”13 Put crudely,
it is this Article that this book is about:
Everyone has the right to freedom of thought, conscience and religion; this right
includes freedom to change his religion or belief, and freedom, either alone or in
community with others and in public or private, to manifest his religion or belief
in teaching, practice, worship and observance.14

Since the Declaration was adopted, this statement has come to shape our
understanding of what it means to speak of religious freedom as a human
right. In 1950, the very same phrase was incorporated into binding
international law as it reappeared in Article 9(1) of the European Con-
vention of Human Rights. It has also inspired the religious freedom
clauses in other significant international human rights treaties, including
the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights of 1966, the UN
Declaration on the Elimination of All Forms of Intolerance and of Dis-
crimination Based on Religion or Belief of 1981, and the UN Convention
on the Rights of the Child of 1989. Among many present-day advocates
of human rights, Article 18 is considered as a nearly timeless distillate of
religious freedom’s essential aspects. Recent initiatives in international
human rights forums to broaden the discussions on the topic, so as to
include questions concerning the intersection between religious and racial

12
The abstaining votes came from Belarus, Czechoslovakia, Poland, Saudi Arabia, Ukraine,
the Union of South Africa, USSR, and Yugoslavia. For a nuanced treatment of the
different reservations these delegations had with the final text, see Roger Normand
and Sarah Zaidi, Human Rights at the UN: The Political History of Universal Justice
(Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2008), 192–4.
13
Malcolm D. Evans, Religious Liberty and International Law in Europe (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1997), 192.
14
UN Doc. A/RES/217 (III) (1948), Article 18.
 Introduction 5

discrimination, or “defamation” of religious symbols and doctrines, have

been forcefully rejected by Western diplomats and UN experts as attempts
to undermine the essence of “a classical human right.”15
The view of Article 18 as an authoritative statement on a “classical”
or “first-generation” individual right, is also shared by many scholars
of human rights and religion. In keeping with a more general narrative
of the Universal Declaration as a crown achievement of centuries of
accumulated reflection on human dignity and rights,16 many introduc-
tions to international religious freedom portray Article 18 as a synthe-
sis of ancient ethical prescripts and the core ideas of Western natural
rights theory.17 We are, in other words, told that Article 18 was
revolutionary, not because of its content, but because it was promul-
gated as part of a “universal” canon of human rights. Surely, there are
no reasons to deny that the concept of religious freedom has a deep and
multifaceted history. Yet approaching Article 18 as a nutshell repre-
sentation of a long tradition of thinking on religious rights and free-
dom is potentially misleading. Above all, such an approach may lead us
to overlook the substantial differences between the way religious free-
dom was framed in the Universal Declaration and how it was articu-
lated in early modern rights discourses or the classical bills of rights
emerging during the era of democratic revolution – including iconic
texts like the Virginia Declaration of 1776,18 the First Amendment of

15
See, for instance, Heiner Bielefeldt, “Misperceptions of Freedom of Religion or Belief,”
Human Rights Quarterly 35, no. 1 (2013): 41–3. The literature on the UN debates on
defamation of religion is already massive, but has in general been more polemical than
clarifying. For now, see Jonas Otterbeck, “Blasfemi som problem för mänskliga rättigh-
eter,” in Mänskliga rättigheter och religion, ed. Dan-Erik Andersson and Johan Modée
(Malmö: Liber, 2011), 237–8. For a thorough discussion of the legal aspects, see
Malcolm D. Evans, “The Freedom of Religion or Belief and the Freedom of Expression,”
Religion and Human Rights 4, no. 2 (2009).
16
See, for instance, Mary Ann Glendon, A World Made New: Eleanor Roosevelt and the
Universal Declaration of Human Rights (New York: Random House, 2001), 56.
17
Bielefeldt, “Misperceptions of Freedom of Religion or Belief,” 34–5; Arcot Krishnas-
wami, Study of Discrimination in the Matter of Religious Rights and Practices (New
York: United Nations Publications, 1960), 1–4. For a critical discussion of the generation
approach, see Daniel J. Whelan, Indivisible Human Rights: A History (Philadelphia:
University of Pennsylvania Press, 2010). “The problem,” Whelan says, “is that it per-
manently categorizes rights, not only by fixing the categories in history but also by finding
within each generation incompatible philosophical sources of inspiration” (at 210).
18
Section 16 of the Virginia Declaration of Rights (1776) declares “That religion, or the
duty which we owe to our Creator, and the manner of discharging it, can be directed only
by reason and conviction, not by force or violence; and therefore all men are equally
entitled to the free exercise of religion, according to the dictates of conscience; and that it
6 Introduction

the US Constitution,19 and the French Declarations of the Rights of

Man and Citizen of 1789 and 1793.20 In general, these earlier proc-
lamations of rights had focused on the “free exercise” or “pursuit” of
religion, or the separation between Church and State. In contrast, the
Universal Declaration foregrounded the inner freedoms of thought and
conscience and never touched on the vexed issue of establishment.
Thinking of Article 18 as nothing but a conventional expression of a
“classical human right” may therefore prevent us from recording its
context-bound characteristics; of grasping its place in the wider human
rights discourse of the 1940s.
Not only was Article 18 different from the religious freedom clauses of
the eighteenth-century bills of rights, but it was also different from the
corresponding clauses in most other international instruments of the first
half of the twentieth century. In the context of the League of Nations,
religious freedom had generally been construed as either an individual
right to the “free exercise” of religion or a right of religious minorities to
establish and maintain institutions, including religious schools and char-
itable organizations. In the Paris Peace Treaties of 1947, religious freedom
had been framed, in keeping with Franklin D. Roosevelt’s wartime rhet-
oric, as a freedom of “religious worship” for all persons within the
jurisdiction of the state.21 The American Declaration of the Rights and
Duties of Man – which was adopted by the Conference of American
States in the spring of 1948 – spoke of the right to “freely to profess a
religious faith, and to manifest and practice it in both public and

is the mutual duty of all to practise Christian forbearance, love, and charity toward
each other.”
19
The First Amendment to the US Constitution (1791) prescribes that “Congress shall make
no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or
abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to
assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.”
20
In the 1789 Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen, the closest we get to a
statement on religious freedom is Article 10 which declares that “No one shall be
disquieted on account of his opinions, including his religious views, provided their
manifestation does not disturb the public order established by law.” Article 7 of the
Declaration of 1793 holds that “The right to express one’s thoughts and opinions by
means of the press or in any other manner, the right to assemble peaceably, the free
pursuit of religion, cannot be forbidden.”
21
See, e.g., the Treaty of Peace with Italy, February 10, 1947, Article 15. As one participant
in peace conference noted, there was no clarifying discussion “about the meaning of these
human rights and freedoms because there were no attempts to define their contents.”
Stephen D. Kertesz, “Human Rights in the Peace Treaties,” Law and Contemporary
Problems 14, no. 4 (1949): 636. For more on the language of religious freedom in the
peace treaties, see Su, Exporting Freedom, 75–6.
 Introduction 7

private.”22 Although these earlier international standards on religious

freedom differed among themselves, they all centered on the outward
expressions of religion and belief. What they protected was primarily
the right to religious practice, including – at least in the context of
the League of Nations – the collective and institutional aspects of
religious life.
Although Article 18 mentioned “worship” as a legitimate manifestation
of belief and recognized that religious freedom can be exercised “alone or in
community with others,” it stopped short from awarding direct protection
to religious communities and the right to establish religious institutions.
Instead, it was organized around a basic distinction between inner and
external freedom, between the individual person’s “thought, conscience
and religion” on the one hand, and the outward “manifestations” on
the other. It may be fair to say that this formula echoed an ancient,
dualistic anthropology, but it is important to note that it also marked a
new way of framing religious freedom in international settings. And this
new understanding of religious freedom as a shield for the inner freedoms
was further amplified by the inclusion in Article 18 of a right that prior to
1948 had not received widespread international recognition: the right to
change religion or belief.
Far from expressing an established view on the core meaning of reli-
gious freedom, Article 18 gave voice to a conception of this right that
rested on a specific anthropology and an equally specific understanding of
what constitutes authentic religion. The fact that the available literature
has rarely highlighted, let alone explored, these features of the text is, in
short, why this study is motivated. It may be reasonable to argue that the
inclusion of a religious freedom article in a UN bill on human rights was,
as Martin Scheinin puts it, “an easy case.”23 But what was it that
prompted the framers to articulate this right in a way that, in many
respects, was unconventional in international settings in the 1940s? To
answer this question, we have to return to the Declaration’s genesis and
situate the making of Article 18 in a wider historical context. This is, in
broad strokes, what constitutes the purpose of this book.

22
The American Declaration of the Rights and Duties of Man. Adopted by the Ninth
International Conference of American States, Bogotá, Colombia, 1948. For the version
that was circulated in the UN Commission on Human Rights in the Summer of 1948, see
UN Doc. E/CN.4/122 (1948).
23
Martin Scheinin, “Article 18,” in The Universal Declaration of Human Rights:
A Common Standard of Achievement, ed. Gudmundur Alfredsson and Asbjørn Eide
(The Hague: Nijhoff, 1999), 379.
8 Introduction

situating the study

The drafting of the Universal Declaration is by no means uncharted
territory for scholars of human rights. On the contrary, since the 1990s
this process has become one of the most frequently explored areas of the
field.24 Apart from the coverage that religious freedom has received in
general treatments of the Declaration’s making, some studies have also
focused intently on the negotiations precipitating the finalization of
Article 18. The lion’s share of these accounts consists of attempts to track
the Article’s emergence through the official UN records, including the
corpus of drafts and amendments, as well as stenographic records of the
relevant committee meetings.25 Taken together, these studies provide a
good overview of the central issues that surfaced in the course of the
debates. They also allow us to distinguish some of the alternative routes
that the delegates rejected in favor of what would become the outcome
text. But the drafting histories generally stop short of situating the debates
in a larger frame. Instead, they often conclude by asserting that the
outcome was ambiguous; that the delegates agreed on a final text without
a common understanding of what it actually said. Here is Malcolm
D. Evans: “It was entirely unclear what the article was meant to imply,
and the discussions surrounding its adoption provide no clarification.”26
Apart from the drafting histories, the making of the Universal
Declaration has also been illuminated by studies that focus on the indi-
vidual drafters. This literature includes works on some of the most well-
known personalities of the UN Commission on Human Rights, including
the US delegate and chairperson, Eleanor Roosevelt, as well as the French
representative, and later Nobel peace laureate, René Cassin.27 There are

24
For the most comprehensive study to this date, see Johannes Morsink, The Universal
Declaration of Human Rights: Origins, Drafting, and Intent (Philadelphia: University of
Pennsylvania Press, 1999). Morsink provides clarifying, but limited, discussion of reli-
gious liberty on pages 24–6, 259–63.
25
See, e.g., Evans, Religious Liberty and International Law in Europe, 183–193; Scheinin,
“Article 18,” 379–92.
26
Evans, Religious Liberty and International Law in Europe, 189.
27
Works that are either explicitly biographical or focus extensively on the personal contri-
butions include Glendon, A World Made New; Marc Agi, René Cassin: fantassin de
droits de l’homme (Paris: Plon, 1979); Jay Winter and Antoine Prost, René Cassin and
Human Rights: From the Great War to the Universal Declaration (New York: Cambridge
University Press, 2013). We still lack a comprehensive biography of Charles Malik. For
now, see Mitoma, Human Rights and the Negotiation of American Power, 104–133;
Tony E. Nasrallah, “Charles Malik und die Universalität der Menschenrechte,” in
 Situating the Study 9

also studies on actors that made significant contributions from behind the
scenes, such as the representative of the Commission of the Churches on
International Affairs (CCIA), O. Frederick Nolde, who by all accounts
played a significant part in the drafting of Article 18.28 These works add
to the overall picture by identifying the central actors and by discerning
some of the concerns motivating their positions. Their main drawback is
their tendency to let the drafters’ biographies overshadow their concepts
and arguments. The biographical accounts generally tell us more of the
drafters’ individual journeys and the different activities they pursued in
promoting the internationalization of “religious freedom” and “human
rights” as blanket terms, than of how they understood the concepts they
incorporated in the Declaration text.
Lately, we have also seen the emergence of a third category of literature
that has advanced our understanding of the Universal Declaration and its
place in the wider human rights discourse after World War II. One of the
most radical claims of the so-called second generation of historians of
human rights is that the promulgation of this document did not give rise
to a wider human rights movement and did not push the language of
human rights to the forefront of political discourse.29 These scholars do
not deny that the Declaration influenced the drafters of the European
Convention of Human Rights of 1950, or that it triggered some political
debate in individual states.30 That being so, they suggests that it was
not until decades later, in the late 1970s, that dedicated human rights

Identität und Menschenrechte: Transkulturelle Perspektiven, ed. Sarhan Dhouib (Wei-

lerswist: Velbrück Wissenschaft, 2012).
28
John Nurser, For All Peoples and All Nations: The Ecumenical Church and Human
Rights (Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press, 2005). For a condensed version,
see John Nurser, “The Ecumenical Movement Churches, Global Order, and Human
Rights: 1938–1948,” Human Rights Quarterly 25, no. 4 (2003). For a more recent
treatment that draws heavily on the archives of the World Council of Churches, see
Matti Peiponen, “Ecumenical Action in World Politics: The Creation of the Commission
of the Churches on International Affairs, 1945–1949” (PhD diss., Helsinki University,
2012). For a more theological account, see Pamela Slotte, “Blessed are the Peacemakers:
Christian Internationalism, Ecumenical Voices and the Quest for Human Rights,” in
Revisiting the Origins of Human Rights, ed. Halme-Tuomisaari and Slotte, 293–329.
29
For critical introductions to the field, see Kenneth Cmiel, “The Recent History of Human
Rights,” The American Historical Review 109, no. 1 (2004); Devin O. Pendas, “Toward
a New Politics? On the Recent Historiography of Human Rights,” Contemporary Euro-
pean History 21, no. 1 (2012); Philip Alston, “Does the Past Matter? On the Origins of
Human Rights, Harvard Law Review 126, no. 7 (2013).
30
For the Declaration’s early reception in the UN, see John Humphrey, “The Universal
Declaration of Human Rights,” International Journal 4 (1949): 358. For a discussion of
the limited attention to human rights in US politics in the early 1950s, see Barbara J. Keys,
10 Introduction

organizations like Amnesty International and Helsinki Watch (later

Human Rights Watch) became significant transnational players and
Western governments began to specify the promotion of human rights
as a central objective of their foreign policies. With the increased presence
of human rights in political discourse, the adoption of the Universal
Declaration was in a sense rediscovered and redefined as a world-
changing event by actors seeking political legitimacy for their different
causes.31
Yet this turn to the 1970s has not made the task of historicizing the
origins of the Universal Declaration less challenging or meaningful. To
the contrary, the realization that it is impossible to draw a straight line
from the 1940s to the 1970s has pushed scholars to dig even deeper for
the ideological currents that helped to shape this document. These efforts
pose a challenge to the still-dominant line of interpretation – in academic
and political circles alike – which suggests that this work was not ideo-
logical at all, but was powered by what Lynn Hunt calls “the power of
empathy,” an intuitive and widely shared aspiration to ensure that man-
kind would never again experience the horrors of World War II.32 Critics
claim that this humanitarian reading says more about our present-day
expectations on the international human rights regime than the subjective
views of those involved in creating it.33 Some of the more nuanced

Reclaiming American Virtue: The Human Rights Revolution of the 1970s (Cambridge,
MA: Harvard University Press, 2014), 23–5.
31
Apart from Keys’s recent study, see several of the contribution in Jan Eckel and Samuel
Moyn, eds., Moral für die Welt? Menschenrechtspolitik in den 1970er Jahren (Göttingen:
Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2012). For a nuanced treatment, which also problematizes
Moyn’s strategy of contrasting the 1940s and the 1970s, see Jan Eckel, Die Ambivalenz
des Guten: Menschenrechte in der internationalen Politik (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck &
Ruprecht, 2015), 23. For a competing account, see Steven L. B. Jensen, The Making of
International Human Rights: The 1960s, Decolonization, and the Reconstruction of
Global Values (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2016).
32
See, e.g., Morsink, The Universal Declaration of Human Rights, 37; Willy Strzelewicz,
De mänskliga rättigheternas historia: från den amerikanska oavhängighetsförklaringen
till våra dagar (Stockholm: Ordfront, 2001), 256–63.
33
Lynn Hunt, Inventing Human Rights: A History (New York: W. W. Norton & Com-
pany, 2007), 28. The debate has mainly revolved around the relation between the
Universal Declaration and the Holocaust. For four recent contributions, see G. Daniel
Cohen, “The Holocaust and the Human Rights Revolution: A Reassessment,” in The
Human Rights Revolution: An International History, ed. Akira Iriye, Petra Goedde, and
William I. Hitchcock (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012); Marco Duranti, “The
Holocaust, the Legacy of 1789 and the Birth of International Human Rights Law:
Revisiting the Foundation Myth,” Journal of Genocide Research 14, no. 2 (2012);
Samuel Moyn, Human Rights and the Uses of History (London: Verso, 2014), 87–98;
 Situating the Study 11

treatments have instead sought to construe the text as an international

expression of New Deal welfarism,34 the Latin American natural law
tradition,35 French republicanism,36 and the Christian democratic views
held by many of the drafters.37 Historians like Mark Mazower and
Samuel Moyn have also stressed that part of what made the prospect of
a UN bill on human rights appealing to the major powers at the end
of World War II was that it appeared as less threatening to the objective
of international order than alternative projects like minority rights and
the right to national self-determination.38
The literature on the making of the Universal Declaration and its
language on religious freedom is substantial, and the works that I have
alluded to here all have their distinct qualities. But if we come to this
literature with the aim of placing the Declaration’s statement on religious
freedom in context, we discover that it also has significant limitations.
The drafting histories generally provide reliable descriptions of what
transpired in the conference room, but give us few keys with which to
construe this process as historically situated. The biographical works
allow us to appreciate the contributions of individual representatives of
states and nongovernmental groups, but they rarely involve deeper

Nathan Kurz, “A Sphere of the Nations? The Rise and Fall of International Jewish
Human Rights Politics, 1945–1975,” (PhD diss., Yale University, 2015), 105–27.
34
Elizabeth Borgwardt, A New Deal for the World: America’s Vision for Human Rights
(Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2005), 265. See also,
Whelan, Indivisible Human Rights, 213.
35
Mary Ann Glendon, “The Forgotten Crucible: The Latin American Influence on the
Universal Human Rights Idea,” Harvard Human Rights Journal 16 (2003): 32–4.
36
Jay Winter, Dreams of Peace and Freedom: Utopian Moments in the Twentieth Century
(New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2006), 119.
37
Samuel Moyn, Christian Human Rights (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press,
2015). Moyn advances an earlier historiography, which saw the Christian influences as
expressions of theology and ethics, rather than politics. See, for instance, Carl-Gustaf
Andrén, “De mänskliga rättigheternas religiösa och rättsliga bakgrund: Debatten inom
Förenta nationerna och Europarådet i slutet på 1940-talet,” Svensk teologisk kvartal-
skrift 51, no. 4 (1975); Wolfgang Vögele, “Christliche Elemente in der Begründung von
Menschenrechten und Menschenwürde im Kontext der Enstehung der Vereinten Natio-
nen,” in Ethik der Menschenrechte: Zum Streit um die Universalität einer Idee, ed. Hans-
Richard Reuter (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1999), 114–33.
38
Samuel Moyn, The Last Utopia: Human Rights in History (Cambridge, MA: Belknap
Press of Harvard University Press, 2010), 46; Mark Mazower, “The Strange Triumph of
Human Rights, 1933–1950,” Historical Journal 47, no. 2 (2004): 389; Mark Mazower,
No Enchanted Palace: The End of Empire and the Ideological Origins of the United
Nations (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2009), chapter 3.
12 Introduction

analysis of the concepts that they employed in the negotiations and

incorporated in the outcome text. The contextual accounts in turn pro-
vide valuable key maps over the political and ideological landscape in
which the drafting process unfolded and often suggest ways of situating
this process in a longer historical perspective. But even the most subtle
histories of human rights and religious freedom in the early postwar
period rarely allow us to grasp to what extent different contexts mattered
in the making of the text.39 The collective scholarship has, in other words,
not only failed to appreciate the fact that Article 18 was an atypical
statement on religious freedom in the human rights discourse of the
1940s. The dominant ways of approaching the genesis of the Declaration
also come with few possibilities of historicizing particular components of
the text.
In what follows, I build on these earlier accounts, as well as a broad
range of primary sources, with the purpose of addressing these gaps in the
literature on Article 18. Here, the center stage is still occupied by the
individual actors that we – thanks to the existent literature – may identify
as central to the making of Article 18. But instead of offering alternative
or supplementary accounts of their individual biographies and activities
to promote the creation of the international human rights regime, this
study calls attention to the arguments they – as both individuals and
representatives of specific governments and organizations – made in the
formal UN debates, as well as in other speeches and writings from the
same period. What I hope to add to the available accounts is a better sense
of the ways in which these actors construed the concepts they codified in
the Declaration’s article on religious freedom, as well as a better sense of
the concerns that made the architecture of this statement into a question
of outmost urgency.

rights as tools of politics

One of the precepts shared by most scholars working in the field of
human rights history is that human rights is an indeterminate, and polit-
ically contested, concept. This understanding clearly discords with the
naturalistic and auto-emancipatory conceptions that powered most of the
early attempts to write “the” history of human rights, efforts often

39
For two notable exceptions, see Su, Exporting Freedom, chapter 3, Moyn, Christian
Human Rights, chapter 4.
 Rights as Tools of Politics 13

resulting in narratives of gradual moral progress.40 But in their empirical

work, historians have generally come to interpret this basic view of
human rights in very different ways. One alternative has been to construe
“human rights” as a polycentric subfield of international politics, a field
that is constituted by a range of different institutions and actors, all
speaking a language of rights. From such a standpoint, writing the history
of human rights becomes a challenge of tracing the evolution and diversi-
fication of the field.41 Another approach has been to focus on what
Wendy Brown, in an oft-cited 2004 article, refers to as the “discursive
operations” of human rights. From this angle, the history of human rights
is primarily a history of the unexpected (and often unwanted) conse-
quences of human rights advocacy, and the particular kinds of subjectiv-
ities that such initiatives tend to nurture.42 A third alternative has been to
construe “human rights” as one of many “competing universalisms” in
human history. From this perspective, the history of human rights
becomes a history, not only of the rise of any one particular project, but
also of the simultaneous demise of alternative ideologies and visions.43
In this study, I will depart from a somewhat different take on what it
means to study concepts like human rights and religious freedom in
history. This approach is one that rests heavily on insights borrowed
from what is often known as the Cambridge School of the History of
Political Thought. Although many of these points have been developed
within the field of intellectual history, they also have relevance for wider
discussions on the history of human rights and religious freedom. The
perhaps most basic of these insights is an understanding of political
concepts as “tools and weapons of ideological debate.”44 As Quentin
Skinner argues in opposition to more long-term conceptual history, “the
only histories of ideas to be written are histories of their uses in argu-
ment.”45 From this perspective, the historian of human rights and

40
Stefan-Ludwig Hoffmann, “Genealogies of Human Rights,” in Human Rights in the
Twentieth Century, ed. Stefan-Ludwig Hoffman (New York: Cambridge University Press,
2010), 25–6.
41
See, e.g., Eckel, Die Ambivalenz des Guten, 23–7.
42
Wendy Brown, “The Most We Can Hope For . . .: Human Rights and the Politics of
Fatalism.” South Atlantic Quarterly 103, no. 2–3 (2004): 452. See also Su, Exporting
Freedom, 9.
43
Samuel Moyn, “On the Nonglobalization of Ideas,” in Global Intellectual History, ed.
Samuel Moyn and Andrew Sartori (New York: Columbia University Press, 2013), 193.
44
Quentin Skinner, Visions of Politics: Vol 1, Regarding Method (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2002), 177.
45
Skinner, Visions of Politics: Vol 1, 86.
14 Introduction

religious freedom should strive to recover – not how these ideas have
marched through history like distinct units, or how their meanings have
changed from ancient times to the present – but how they have been put
to use in particular, context-bound interventions.46 What we should try
to unearth is essentially what people in the past have been trying to say
and do in the situations they found themselves in, and how specific
political concepts were engaged for these ends.47
This book is an attempt to bring this perspective to bear on the making
of the Universal Declaration’s statement on religious freedom. Put simply,
my purpose is to recapture the specific arguments that guided the making
of this statement, and how the concepts of human rights and religious
freedom functioned within those arguments. This approach is in part
motivated by the insight that the drafters of this text were addressing
different audiences at once. When discussing the framing of Article 18,
they were not only operating in a transnational space and occupied with
the codification of universal norms. They were also individual thinkers
and, not least, representatives of states, international institutions, or
nongovernmental groups. Many of the suggestions they made – often
on seemingly unimportant details – were closely linked to deeper political
and ideological debates in a range of local contexts. In processes of
codifying human rights, Sally Engle Merry once noted, “Important polit-
ical issues lurk under the bland discussions about terminology.”48 The
challenge of the historian is to recover, as far as possible, what these issues
actually were.49
At face value, the focus on the drafters and their deliberations may
seem overtly conventional, especially in a study on the origins of the
Universal Declaration. Yet, the approach suggested here is different from

46
This perspective is one of the crucial dividing lines between the history of political thought
and conceptual history. For followers of Reinhart Koselleck it has been essential to point
out that it is meaningful to think that “concepts can actually change,” not just the way
they are put to use. See, for instance, Jan-Werner Müller, “On Conceptual History,” in
Rethinking Modern European Intellectual History, ed. Darrin M. McMahon and Samuel
Moyn (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014), 75.
47
See also, Lorrin Thomas, “When We Talk about Human Rights,” Humanity: An Inter-
national Journal of Human Rights, Humanitarianism, and Development, 6, no. 2 (2015),
338.
48
Sally Engle Merry, Human Rights and Gender Violence: Translating International Law
into Local Justice (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2006), 37.
49
For another account stressing the importance of local contexts for grasping international
human rights activism, see Lora Wildenthal, The Uses of Human Rights in West
Germany (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013), 4.
 Rights as Tools of Politics 15

most other accounts in the field in at least two respects. First, it focuses
less on the drafters’ biographies than on what they actually said and
wrote, both within the confines of the UN conference rooms at Lake
Success, Geneva, and Paris, and in speeches and writings from the same
period. So whereas this book foregrounds the interventions by individuals
familiar to scholars of the Universal Declaration, including René Cassin,
Charles Malik, O. Frederick Nolde, and Eleanor Roosevelt, it is not a
book about their lives and accomplishments, but the ideas of human
rights and religious freedom they in their various and shifting capacities
brought into the discussions on Article 18 and the Declaration at large.50
Second, this book construes the drafters and their interventions as access
points to a set of broader contexts that mattered in the making of the text.
It uses their writings, and the specific concerns they articulated, to con-
struct a contextual map that allows us to make sense, not of the early
UN human rights project in general, but of specific aspects in the
Declaration text.
Apart from construing human rights and religious freedom as tools of
argument, this study is informed by a point, also advanced by Quentin
Skinner, of the need to highlight the connections between codification and
ideology. In a bold passage in one of the final essays of his collected
methodological writings, Skinner suggests that “all attempts to legislate
about the ‘correct’ use of normative terms must be regarded as equally
ideological in character. Whenever such terms are employed, their appli-
cation will always reflect a wish to impose a particular moral vision on the
workings of the social world.”51 This position is difficult to reconcile with
the kind of minimalism now common in liberal theories of human rights.
Human rights are rarely just bulwarks against different forms of political
violence and repression. The way they are construed also reflects broader
visions of what kind of social and political order that will emerge through
their practical realization.52 When studying efforts to codify human rights
we cannot simply narrow our focus to how these concepts were filled with
content, but must also appreciate the expectations that particular actors
and movements attached to them.

50
See also, Skinner, Visions of Politics: Vol 1, 117–8. For further clarification, see Petri
Koikkalainen and Sami Syrjämäki, “On Encountering the Past: Interview with Quentin
Skinner,” Redescriptions: Yearbook in Political Thought and Conceptual History 6
(2002).
51
Skinner, Visions of Politics: Vol 1, 182.
52
Brown, “The Most We Can Hope For . . .,” 461. Cf. Michael Ignatieff, Human Rights as
Politics and Idolatry (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2001), 173.
16 Introduction

At the same time, it is essential that we do not fall into oversimplifi-

cation on what the broader ideological projects were. It would be wrong
to think that human rights are, in and of themselves, tied to any specific
ideology, be it Christian personalism or neoliberalism.53 Given that
human rights and religious freedom are both deeply contested ideas in
our time, the challenge is, in many ways, one of reminding us of the
temporal distance that separates our discussions from those in the past.
We may share part of the vocabulary that the drafters of the Universal
Declaration used, but we do not always recognize the arguments and
projects they used them for.

a note on sources
Any history of the making of the Universal Declaration will naturally take
the negotiations in the UN Commission on Human Rights as a point of
departure. The text emerged through a process that stretched from the
establishment of the Commission on Human Rights as a subsidiary body
to the Economic and Social Council (ECOSOC) in 1946 to the adoption
of the final text in December 1948. Apart from the Commission,54 the
central forum for the negotiations was the designated eight-member
Drafting Committee.55 Together, these groups hammered out a final draft
that ECOSOC transmitted to the General Assembly and its Third
Committee on August 26, 1948.56 Here, the negotiations on the final
texts took place at various points between late September and early
December 1948.57 The official UN records include drafts and amend-
ments, as well as comprehensive (but not verbatim) records of the meet-
ings in all of these bodies.58

53
Joe Hoover, “Towards a Politics for Human Rights: Ambiguous Humanity and Democ-
ratizing Rights,” Philosophy and Social Criticism 39, no. 9 (2013): 9–14.
54
The members of the Commission on Human Rights in 1947–48 were: Australia, Belgium,
Belarus, Chile, China, Egypt, France, India, Iran, Lebanon, Panama, Philippines, the
United Kingdom, the United States, the USSR, Uruguay, and Yugoslavia. The Commis-
sion convened three times in the course of the drafting. In January–February (UN Doc. E/
259) and December 1947 (UN Doc. E/600) and in May–June 1948 (UN Doc. E/800).
55
The Drafting Committee consisted of representatives from Australia, Chile, China, France,
Lebanon, the USSR, the United Kingdom, and the United States. They convened for rounds
of negotiations in June 1947 (UN Doc. E/CN.4/21) and May 1948 (E/CN.4/95).
56
UN Doc. E/1046 (1948).
57
Yearbook of the United Nations, 1948–1949 (New York: United Nations, 1950),
524–37.
58
Apart from Morsink’s study, there are a group of works that are useful for orienting
oneself in the different stages of the drafting process and official UN Records, including
 A Note on Sources 17

The official records can, as Johannes Morsink and others have demon-
strated, serve as the basis of a rich and, in many ways, reliable account of
how the Declaration and its individual articles evolved.59 From these
sources, we may discern the central questions that arose, the alternatives
that were up for discussion, what positions the delegates held, and how
they justified their views before the committee members. But these records
are not always helpful if we seek to situate the negotiations in a wider
historical framework. When the drafters speak to us through these
records, they generally do so through brief statements declaring their
positions on specific proposals. We rarely find elaborate arguments or
open references to specific concerns. According to Morsink, this is not a
problem. To the contrary, he suggests that the fragmentary character of
the meeting records testifies to the drafters’ ability to transcend their
doctrinal conceptions of rights and specific political concerns in the search
for cross-cultural consensus. He explains that his decision not to context-
ualize “came very naturally” because “the drafters themselves were very
much focused on their task and almost never brought specific world
events to the drafting table.”60
To my mind, this feature of the debates is precisely why the official
records are an insufficient basis for any earnest attempt to read the
Universal Declaration in context. The official records can be useful as a
point of entry and as a source for reconstructing the central questions that
arose in the negotiations. But we cannot assume from the lack of refer-
ences to certain events, processes, and ideas in the official records, that
such factors were insignificant for how the drafters construed particular
human rights principles and promoted specific formulations in the text.
By doing so, we would assume that the Universal Declaration was pro-
duced from a place outside history, a place where politics, ideology, and
power were somehow put on pause.
My way out of the secluded space of the conference room is through
the many texts that framers of the Declaration wrote in connection to the

Glendon, A World Made New; Mitoma, Human Rights and the Negotiation of American
Power; Normand and Zaidi, Human Rights at the UN, chapters 5–6; Lauren, The
Evolution of International Human Rights, chapter 7. For the most comprehensive and
accessible collection of the official sources, see William A. Schabas, ed., The Universal
Declaration of Human Rights: The Travaux Préparatoires (New York: Cambridge
University Press, 2013).
59
For a valuable study of the later developments of UN human rights law, which draws on
Morsink’s methodology, see Whelan, Indivisible Human Rights.
60
Morsink, The Universal Declaration of Human Rights, xiii.
18 Introduction

debates. These include published articles, book chapters, monographs,

and speeches where the agents elaborated on themes that also arose in the
Commission on Human Rights. These texts belong to different genres;
they surfaced in very different forums, and they rarely stood in direct
communication with each other. Even so, I will show that they may serve
as fruitful ways to gain more insight into the series of decisions by which
the Declaration materialized. Some of these works are well known to
scholars of human rights, including Cassin’s 1972 collection of essays,
La pensée et l’action, and several short texts that Eleanor Roosevelt
authored for her column, My Day, in the second half of the 1940s. But
other texts are much less frequently, if ever, taken into account in the
dominant studies of the Declaration’s origins. Among these are several
essays and monographs that Malik and Nolde penned in the 1940s, texts
that engaged directly with the codification of human rights and religious
freedom.
These published materials constitute the main sources for this study.
But in the individual chapters, I also draw on some archival sources,
including Charles Malik’s papers at the Library of Congress, Washington,
DC. Among these papers, I have paid particular attention to his published
essays from the 1940s and ’50s and his lectures at the American Univer-
sity of Beirut in the early 1940s. Because of the central role that he played
in the making of Article 18 and the Declaration at large, and because
these records have not yet been thoroughly explored, they are of particu-
lar relevance here. Because Malik was also part of the Commission of the
Churches on International Affairs (CCIA), his archives contain a close to
complete collection of the organization’s internal memos related to the
Universal Declaration and the drafting of Article 18.
Apart from these primary sources – as well as an inclusive body of texts
on human rights and religious freedom from the period of drafting –
I draw heavily on the existent scholarship in this field. My impression
from working closely with this literature is that we already have sufficient
knowledge of the way the Declaration and its individual articles evolved.
We know that even if the drafting was a collaborative enterprise, individ-
ual actors were able to influence how particular rights – including that of
religious freedom – were framed in the outcome text. Again, what I hope
to add to this discussion is a clearer view of the arguments that guided the
process, a better sense of the concerns that led the drafters to express
religious freedom in the way that now comes to us in Article 18. Put
most broadly, this kind of work can remind us of the uncertainties that
surrounded the early attempts to codify human rights. It can help us
 Chapters 19

appreciate the fact that many of the formulations, which we now treat as
unquestionable parts of the framework of international human rights,
were neither inevitable nor necessarily what everyone wanted all along.

chapters
The following chapters spotlight three of the most central decisions that
were made in the negotiations on Article 18. Chapter 1 focuses on the
distinction between inner and external religious freedom that structures
this statement. I claim that this was a subtle break, not only with the
framework of minority rights of the League of Nations, but also with the
formulation of religious freedom that President Roosevelt had advanced
in his wartime rhetoric, and which was echoed in the Paris Peace Treaties
of 1947. I show that even if several actors, including René Cassin of
France and Zhang Pengjun of China, supported a strong emphasis on
the concept of conscience, the most ardent proponent of this path was
Charles Malik. Through a close reading of his writings on human rights,
I reveal how Malik associated himself with a Christian personalist under-
standing of human rights. A common theme in his writings was that an
international statement on human rights that revolved around the free-
dom of thought and conscience, would make for a useful antidote against
all forms of materialism. Malik’s anticommunism is well known and
conspicuous in his writings, but in this chapter, I stress how he framed
the struggle for the “the right to be free inwardly” as a battle on many
fronts. In the concluding section, I suggest that if we zero in on the work
to foreground the concepts of thought and conscience, it becomes difficult
to insist on the interpretation that every part of the text was rooted in
moral repudiation of World War II atrocities.
Chapter 2 focuses on Article 18’s reference to right to change religion
or belief. As is well known, this was an aspect that caused great contro-
versy in the final stages of the negotiations. The contestations are com-
monly narrated as a part of a clash between a deep-rooted Western
tradition of human rights and religious freedom on the one hand, and
traditional Islamic teachings on apostasy on the other. In this chapter,
I challenge this interpretation on several points. Most critically, I show
that the right to change religion or belief had not received substantial
international recognition prior to the Universal Declaration, wherefore it
is difficult to establish that it constituted a conventional aspect of inter-
national religious freedom. This was also recognized by the actors who
led the campaign to make this right part of the Universal Declaration.
20 Introduction

Again, Malik was one of the main players. But in this regard, he joined
forces with O. Frederick Nolde, of the CCIA. From Nolde’s writings, we
learn that the churches’ efforts to find international recognition for this
right originated in the experiences of Christian missionaries in the Middle
East. But both Nolde and Malik realized that if they were to garner
sufficient support for this right, they would have to develop more general
arguments for why it should be part of the Universal Declaration. In the
concluding section, I show that the difficulties that Saudi Arabia and
others had with this right probably had more to do with concerns about
the social consequences of proselytism than primordial Islamic doctrines
on religious conversion.
Chapter 3 turns our attention to the second part of Article 18, which
asserts that everyone has a right to “manifest” religion or belief “either
alone or in community with others and in public or private” through
“teaching, practice, worship and observance.” As scholars before me have
successfully shown, this broad formulation was also a victory for Nolde
and the CCIA, who expressed unease with the tendency to collapse the
talk of religious freedom to the mere freedom of religious worship. My
contribution here is to show that even if Nolde and Malik were decisive in
the making of Article 18, this text was not all that they wanted. To them,
religious freedom was more than an individual right. Together with the
representatives of other nongovernmental groups, and with indirect
support from members of the Communist bloc, they advocated language
that would have expanded the Declaration text to also cover the rights
of religious groups and institutions. In the end, the American states
(spearheaded by the United States) and France effectively defeated all
such proposals. In this chapter, I turn to the arguments that Roosevelt
and Cassin, advanced in favor of a narrow focus on rights of individuals.
I show how their positions were motivated by domestic politics and by
ideological positions on what constituted the essence of the US and
French national projects. Albeit in somewhat different terms, they both
viewed the Declaration as a document that dovetailed with policies of
national assimilation.
In the Conclusion, I seek to bring the central threads of the study
together for a more general assessment of the different arguments and
concerns that guided the making of Article 18. I end with a few reflection
on the relevance of this account for current debates on the history and
politics of human rights and religious freedom.
 1

Freedom of Thought and Conscience

In a comprehensive commentary on religious freedom in international

human rights law, Paul M. Taylor noted, “The architecture of all core
freedom of religion Articles makes the same inescapable and immutable
distinction between the unrestricted forum internum and the right to
external manifestation.”1 This understanding of the concept of religious
freedom as resting on a binary opposition between the “inner” and
“external” aspects of religion is well established among international
human rights bodies. In an oft-cited 1993 General Comment, the UN
Human Rights Committee affirmed that whereas the inward dimensions
of religious freedom are “protected unconditionally” under international
human rights law, states may legitimately circumscribe the right to mani-
fest religion and beliefs if such measures are necessary to preserve ends
like public order and security.2 In a similar vein, the European Court of
Human Rights has often returned to the point that religious freedom is
“primarily a matter of individual conscience” and “does not protect every
act motivated or inspired by a religion or belief.”3

1
Paul M. Taylor, Freedom of Religion: UN and European Human Rights Law and Practice
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 19. The practical value of this distinction
has been questioned by legal scholars. See, for instance, Victoria Enkvist, Religionsfrihe-
tens rättsliga ramar (Uppsala: Iustus förlag, 2013), 108–10.
2
UN Doc. CCPR/C/21/Rev.1/Add.4 (1993). For an important critique of this way of
framing religious freedom in international law, which stresses how the concept of “public
order” can function to legitimize discrimination of religious minorities, see Saba Mah-
mood and Peter G. Danchin, “Immunity or Regulation? Antinomies of Religious Free-
dom,” South Atlantic Quarterly 113, no. 1 (2014): 130.
3
As is well known, this distinction premised the Court’s reasoning in a series of controver-
sial decisions upholding local restrictions on wearing the Islamic headscarf in public

21
22 Freedom of Thought and Conscience

There is no doubt that the understanding of religious freedom as

premised on a distinction between the forum internum and forum exter-
num has deep historical tap roots. Some scholars claim that it “arose out
of a complicated interweaving of classical Greco-Roman and Christian
notions” (Thomas Aquinas, Martin Luther, Roger Williams and John
Locke are among the thinkers often credited with establishing it as a
central component of Western theology and philosophy).4 Others suggest
that it entered political discourse as a by-product of pragmatic solutions
to confessional strife in early modern Europe.5 Others still trace it back to
the Councils of Trent of 1545 and 1563 and the development of Latin
Canon Law.6
The deep history of this dualistic understanding of religious freedom,
and its taken-for-granted status in present-day human rights law, makes it
difficult to think that it was ever contested in the drafting of Article 18.7
But when read alongside other statements on religious freedom in inter-
national law from the first half of the twentieth century, Article 18 stands
out, precisely because it rests on an implicit distinction between the
freedom of thought, conscience, and belief on the one hand and the
freedom of external “manifestation” on the other. This was a subtle break
from the language contained in the minority rights treaties of the interwar
period, the Paris Peace Treaties of 1947, the American Declaration of the
Rights and Duties of Man of 1948, and some of the most prominent draft
bills of human rights of the late 1940s. In these international instruments,
religious freedom had generally been articulated as a right to free exercise

institutions. Dahlab v. Switzerland (December), no. 42393/98, ECtHR, 2001-V; Leyla

Şahin v. Turkey, GC. no. 44774/98, ECtHR 2005-XI; Case of Dogru v. France, no.
27058/05, ECtHR, 2008. For a nuanced reading of these cases that take the early modern
as well post-1945 histories of this distinction into consideration, see Nehal Bhuta, “Two
Concepts of Religious Freedom in the European Court of Human Rights,” South Atlantic
Quarterly 113, no. 1 (2014): 21–35.
4
See, for instance, David Little, Abdulaziz Sachedina, and John Kelsay, “Human Rights and
the World’s Religions: Christianity, Islam, and Religious Liberty,” in Religious Diversity
and Human Rights, ed. Irene Bloom, J. Paul Martin, and Wayne L. Proudfoot (New York:
Columbia University Press, 1996), 218–25.
5
Ian Hunter, “Religious Freedom in Early Modern Germany: Theology, Philosophy, and
Legal Casuistry,” South Atlantic Quarterly 113, no. 1 (2014): 57.
6
Peter Petkoff, “Forum Internum and Forum Externum in Canon Law and Public Inter-
national Law with a Particular Reference to the Jurisprudence of the European Court of
Human Rights,” Religion & Human Rights 7, no. 3 (2012): 201.
7
The decision to foreground the inner freedoms has sometimes been described as an “easy
case” in the drafting process, see Scheinin, “Article 18,” 379.
 Freedom of Thought and Conscience 23

or a right to the freedom of worship.8 A striking example is Article 2 of

the Polish Minority Rights Treaty of 1919 (a clause that Woodrow
Wilson had originally intended for the Covenant of the League of
Nations), which prescribed that “All inhabitants of Poland shall be
entitled to the free exercise, whether public or private, of any creed,
religion, or belief, whose practices are not inconsistent with public order
or public morals.”9
It is true that the concept of “conscience” appeared in some inter-
national treaties and declarations of the interwar years, most notably in
some of the regulative instruments for the League of Nations’ mandates
system.10 But even if the freedom of conscience was mentioned, it was
generally interpreted as a freedom of religious practice. This can be
illustrated through Taina Tuori’s pathbreaking research on the ways the
concept was invoked by the Permanent Mandates Commission in the
1920s and ’30s. Among other things, she reveals how the discussions on
the “liberty of conscience” generally centered on the status of different
missionary organizations in territories under mandatory rule, and how
this effected the development of the native populations. In this setting, the
freedom of conscience was not, in other words, primarily used to safe-
guard what is now seen as a core dimension of individual religious
freedom, but the institutional rights of a specific class of religious com-
munities.11 So although it is clear that the Universal Declaration did not

8
See, e.g., The Treaty of Peace with Italy, February 10, 1947, Article 15. This language was
in keeping with earlier antecedents such as the Treaty of Berlin of 1878, which offered
protection of the right to “outward exercise of all forms of worship” in four successor
states (Romania, Serbia, Montenegro, and Bulgaria) of the Ottoman Empire. Fink,
Defending the Rights of Others: The Great Powers, the Jews, and International Minority
Protection, 1878–1938 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 28–9; Evans,
Religious Liberty and International Law in Europe, 69–70.
9
Minorities Treaty Between the Principal Allied and Associated Powers and Poland, June
28, 1919, Article 2. For the drafting history, see Evans, Religious Liberty and Inter-
national Law in Europe, chapter 4. See also, Anna Su, “Woodrow Wilson and the
Origins of the International Law of Religious Freedom,” Journal of the History of
International Law 15 (2013): 264. In December 1947, The World Jewish Congress and
the Coordinating Board of Jewish Organizations also proposed that Wilson’s draft
should “provide the language” for the religious liberty clause in the UN declaration on
human rights. E/CN.4/51 (1947), 2.
10
See, e.g., The Covenant of the League of Nations (1919), Article 22; The Palestine
Mandate (1922), Article 15.
11
Taina Tuori, “From League of Nations Mandates to Decolonization: A Brief History of
Rights,” in Revisiting the Origins of Human Rights, ed. Miia Halme-Tuomisaari and
Pamela Slotte (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 282.
24 Freedom of Thought and Conscience

mark the first time the freedom of conscience received international

recognition, it helped to redefine it as a freedom of the individual human
person.

an absolute and sacred right

To understand why Article 18 was organized around this implicit dis-
tinction between the inner and external aspects of religious freedom, we
need to return to the early stages of the drafting process. A possible
starting point would be the Draft Outline of an International Bill of
Rights that the UN Secretariat presented to the UN Commission on
Human Rights in mid-1947. This was not so much a draft, as an expan-
sive inventory of rights to be considered for inclusion. It contained
several articles that had relevance for the question of religious freedom,
including (as we shall see in Chapter 3) articles recognizing institutional
rights for religious minorities, such as the right to establish and maintain
religious schools. The Outline also included a general religious freedom
article, which simply stated that “There shall be freedom of conscience
and belief and of private and public worship.”12 This open language was
in keeping with the existent international standards and reflected the
Secretariat’s aspiration to compose a neutral compendium of rights that
were already enshrined in international law and domestic constitutions.
When pressured on this point, John Humphrey – the head of the Human
Rights Division, who had led the process of piecing and tying the
Outline from a multitude of different texts of new and old vintage –
assured the delegates that the document reflected “no philosophy
whatsoever.”13
But as the Secretariat Outline was being finalized, the members of the
UN Commission on Human Rights had already opened an ideological
debate that would later pave the way for a more differentiated statement
on religious freedom. The Commission’s first formal session was con-
vened in Lake Success in January 1947. Its principal focus was to settle

12
UN Doc. E/CN.4/AC.1/3 (1947), Article 14.
13
Cited in Glendon, A World Made New, 58. For a critical reading of the Secretariat
outline, see Simpson, Human Rights and the End of Empire, 410–4. Humphrey’s diaries
have revealed how he nonetheless espoused distinct views on what rights were apt for a
UN bill or not. He was also openly critical of Malik – the main advocate for segregating
the inner and external freedoms – for his dogged commitment to natural law. John
Humphrey, Human Rights and the United Nations: A Great Adventure (New York:
Transnational Publishers, 1984), 23.
 An Absolute and Sacred Right 25

the procedures and division of labor for the work ahead. But these
technical discussions were occasionally interrupted by heated debates on
what fundamental ideas should guide the UN human rights project in the
making. The discussions were prompted by interventions of representa-
tives from the USSR and Yugoslavia suggesting that the UN should
accelerate the divorce between the concept of human rights and the
ideology of bourgeois individualism. They insisted that an adequate
international bill of human rights should echo the “consciousness of
solidarity” or “collective spirit” characterizing the present age. Here is
Vladislav Ribnikar of Yugoslavia:
Personal freedom could only be attained through perfect harmony between the
individual and the community. The social ideal lay in the interests of society and of
the individual being identical. We are at present in a transitional period. The
Commission should regard the social and political ideals of the middle classes as
those of another age, and not look on certain principles as eternal. [. . .] The
International Bill of Human Rights should be in conformity with aspirations of
the popular masses of the world.14

This statement met with approval among the communist states, but
was immediately contested by other members of the Commission. One
of them was Charles Malik of Lebanon, who said that the human
rights challenges currently facing the UN were previously unknown
to human history. In the mid-twentieth century, the rights of the
individual were no longer curtailed by “kings or dictators,” but faced
a “new form of tyranny; that exercised by the masses and by the
State.” To a certain degree, Malik thus agreed with Ribnikar on one
fundamental point: The Commission should not simply revive the
revolutionary ideals of the rights of man, which had been limited to a
project of liberating individuals from the abuses of centralized power.
But the path that he urged the Commission to pursue was still radically
different to one of aligning the human rights project with what Ribni-
kar called the “social ideal.”15
A few days later, Malik returned with a set of basic principles that he
encouraged the Commission to adopt as a basis for its future work. Above
all, he insisted that its outcome texts should construe the bearer of human
rights through the figures of “human person” rather than the “individ-
ual.” He explained that this choice of terminology was of great import
because it was an indication of what basic understanding of man the UN

14 15
UN Doc. E/CN.4/SR.8 (1947), 4. UN Doc. E/CN.4/SR.9 (1947), 2–3.
26 Freedom of Thought and Conscience

human rights project would ratify. By siding with the “human person,”
Malik explained, the Commission would also acknowledge that man was
not just a species-being, but a creature with a unique and God-given
capacity to acquire knowledge of “the truth” and to choose between
different ends of life.

1. The human person is more important than the racial, national, or other
group to which he may belong;
2. The human person’s most sacred and inviolable possessions are his mind
and his conscience, enabling him to perceive the truth, to choose freely, and
to exist;
3. Any social pressure on the part of the State, religion, or race, involving the
automatic consent of the human person is reprehensible;
4. The social group to which the individual belongs, may, like the human
person himself, be wrong or right: the person alone is the judge.16

Some observers of the drafting process, including the Catholic maga-

zine The Sign and the YMCA Bulletin on International Affairs, applauded
Malik’s proposals as one of the most encouraging moments of the
opening session and cited his four principles at length.17 But the meeting
records indicate that this enthusiasm was not shared by all of his col-
leagues, even outside the communist bloc. Some delegates voiced serious
concern with the direction the debates seemed to be taking. As one
commentator noted, even if Malik claimed to speak on behalf of essen-
tially Western ideas of human dignity and rights, the “West has not
accepted Lebanon as its spokesman.”18 In a response to Malik, Charles
Dukes of the United Kingdom claimed that it was unrealistic “in an
organized society, to prevent groups from exercising a certain pressure
upon individuals. That was the price which had to be paid for freedom of
association, the necessity of which no one would contest.”19 Hansa
Mehta of India also dismissed the quarrel between Malik and the com-
munist delegates, arguing that the Commission “should not enter into this
maze of ideology.”20
Despite this seeming unwillingness to fully embrace Malik’s take on
the human rights project, some elements of his interventions would

16
UN Doc. E/CN.4/SR.14 (1947), 3–4; Humphrey, Human Rights and the United
Nations, 25.
17
See Excerpts from The Sign, March, 1947; The YMCA Bulletin on International Affairs,
February 1947, Papers of Charles Habib Malik, Box 81, Folder 5, Manuscript Division,
Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
18
Hazard, “The Soviet Union and a World Bill of Rights,” 1100.
19 20
UN Doc. E/CN.4/SR.14 (1947), 4. Cited in Glendon, A World Made New, 40.
 An Absolute and Sacred Right 27

soon make their way into the first drafts of the Declaration text. The
French delegate, René Cassin, openly welcomed Malik’s contribution.
He claimed that “the Lebanese representative was absolutely right.
It was this right to the freedom of conscience which gave the human
person his worth and dignity.”21 As Cassin was later commissioned to
revise the Secretariat Outline, he designed a religious freedom clause
that drew a sharp line between the inner and external freedoms. In
line with Malik’s second point, Cassin also marked the freedom of
thought and conscience as “absolute and sacred,” thus awarding it a
special status, both within this specific article and the UN declaration
at large.
The individual freedom of conscience, belief and thought is an absolute and sacred
right. The practice of a private or public worship and the manifestations of
opposite convictions can be subject only to such limitations as are necessary to
protect public order, morals and the rights and freedoms of others.22

This draft, along with a much more elaborate text submitted by the
United Kingdom,23 constituted the basis for the Commission’s Drafting
Committee, which began its more detailed deliberations in June 1947.
The eight members of the Committee eventually agreed on a revised
version, which, in keeping with the UK draft and, largely due to Malik’s
persistence, also included the right to “hold or change religion or
beliefs” among those singled out as “absolute and sacred.” The second
tangible difference was a reference to the right to manifest beliefs in the
form of “religious observance.”24 In December 1947, the draft was
brought before the Commission, which – although making some minor

21
UN Doc. E/CN.4/SR.14 (1947), 7.
22
UN Doc. E/CN.4/AC.1/W.2/Rev.1 (1947), Article 20.
23
For a comparison between the outline and the UK draft: UN Doc. E/CN.4/AC.1/3/Add.3
(1947), 5. Many delegates felt that the UK version was far too lengthy. Cassin suggested
that “French written law relating to the subject of conscience and belief was very brief
and concise. Similar brevity might be the best method for the Bill of Rights and would
help to protect the United Nations from a flood of red tape.” UN Doc. E/CN.4/AC.1/SR.3
(1947), 2–4.
24
For the discussions in the Drafting Committee, see UN Doc. E/CN.4/AC.1/SR.8 (1947),
12–13 and UN Doc. E/CN.4/AC.1/SR.13 (1947), 19–20. The revised draft reads: “Indi-
vidual freedom of thought and conscience, to hold or change religion or beliefs, is an
absolute and sacred right. The practice of a private or public worship, religious obser-
vances, and manifestations of differing convictions, can be subject only to such limitations
as are necessary to protect public order, morals and the rights and freedoms of others.”
UN Doc. E/CN.4/21 (1947), 77.
28 Freedom of Thought and Conscience

revisions – decided to preserve the basic distinction between the inner

and external aspects of religious freedom:
1. Individual freedom of thought and conscience, to hold and change religion
or beliefs is an absolute and sacred right.
2. Every person has the right, either alone or in community with other
persons of like mind and in public or private, to manifest his beliefs in
worship, observance, teaching, and practice.25

It was not until the Commission prepared the final text for submission to
the General Assembly in mid-1948 that this statement was condensed
into what is now Article 18. At this final stage, the Commission made a
number of changes. The most conspicuous of these was to include the
word “religion,” which had not been part of the earlier drafts. Though
some delegates followed Cassin in arguing that religion was implied in
the broader concept of conscience, others were less willing to have a
statement that was ambivalent on this point. This argument was first
made by the Orthodox Jewish organization, Agudas Israel, which
reminded the delegates that the term religion had been enshrined in the
central eighteenth-century bills of the rights of man, and that not men-
tioning it in the UN Declaration could “lead to misunderstandings in
certain countries.” According to Nathan Kurz, the primary concern was
to ensure that the international human rights framework would safe-
guard the practice of kosher slaughtering.26 Yet it was not until the
United States – probably encouraged by O. Frederick Nolde and the
CCIA – finally got behind this proposal that “the freedom of religion”
became part of the draft article.27
The other significant – and for our concerns even more important –
decision was to drop the epithet “absolute and sacred” to the inner
freedoms. The rationale for this is not directly discernible in the official
records. What is clear, however, is that some delegates reacted to the
high-sounding language, as well as the religious connotations of the term

25
UN Doc. E/600 (1947), 19. It was kept largely intact through the Second Session of the
Drafting Committee (UN Doc. E/CN.4/95 (1948), 8). During the Second Session, the
Drafting Committee also considered, and defeated, a proposal by the Soviet Union, which
read: “Every person shall have the right to freedom of thought and freedom to practice
religious observance in accordance with the laws of the country and the dictates of public
morality.” UN Doc. E/CN.4/AC.1/SR.40 (1948), 4.
26
UN Doc. E/CN.4/SR.60 (1948), 5–6. See also, Kurz, “A Sphere of the Nations,” 124.
27
For the US proposal, see E/CN.4/AC.1/20, 7 (1948). For the debates: E/CN.4/AC.1/SR.40
(1948), 2–4. For the connection to Nolde and the CCIA, see Peiponen, “Ecumenical
Action in World Politics,” 244–9.
 An Absolute and Sacred Right 29

“sacred.”28 As Carl-Gustaf Andrén rightly noted in a pioneering

1975 account of the drafting process, stripping the Declaration text of
direct allusions to God, or other metaphysical grounds for human rights,
was a crucial step in garnering wide acceptance of the text as it was
being prepared for submission to the General Assembly. Although the
absence of references to any particular school of natural law thinking
was decried by some, many of the supporters of natural law language
were either convinced that the metaphysical basis of human rights was
implicit in the term itself, or that the need for international recognition
trumped the desire to settle the debate on foundations. At any rate, most
agreed that it would itself be a triumph for positivism if the question of
whether or not rights were derived from a divine order were subject to a
vote by the General Assembly.29
The main supporters of segregating the inner and external freedoms in
Article 18 appear to have regarded these last-minute changes as insignifi-
cant. The final draft of the Declaration, which the Commission adopted
during its Third Session in the Summer of 1948, still awarded a special
status to the human faculties of “thought and conscience.” This was not
only reflected in the architecture of Article 18, but was even more tangible
in the wording of Article 1.30 The Declaration’s opening clause echoed the
principal point made by Malik and reiterated by Cassin, namely that the
most important characteristic of human beings in the context of human
rights is that “they are endowed with reason and conscience” and are
vested with the responsibility of acting toward one another “in a spirit of
brotherhood.”
No one voiced serious concerns with the latter part of this clause. The
Sub-Commission on the Status of Women was behind the reference to the

28
See, for instance, UN Doc. E/CN.4/85 (1948), 31–32.
29
Andrén, “De mänskliga rättigheternas religiösa och rättsliga bakgrund,” 163–5. See also,
Humphrey, Human Rights and the United Nations, 67. According to O. Frederick Nolde,
it would have been unfortunate to mention God in the Declaration text because the
mission of preaching the Gospel belonged to the churches, not the United Nations.
Peiponen, “Ecumenical Action in World Politics,” 323.
30
It is worth noting that the informal drafting group that crafted the final version of Article
18 also recommended the UNCHR to replace the word “thought” in the articles on
freedom of expression and freedom of information (later merged into what is now Article
19) by “opinion.” It is difficult to discern the rationales for this in the stenographic
records. However, it may have been an attempt to underline the exceptional status of
religious freedom. The drafting group consisted of France, Lebanon, the United Kingdom,
and Uruguay. Its final proposal was presented by Malik. UN Docs. E/CN.4/113 (1948),
E/CN.4/SR.62 (1948), 12–13.
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Tisza, et le seul fait d’avoir su depuis si longtemps se maintenir au
pouvoir au milieu des orages parlementaires, des intrigues de clubs
et de couloirs, est une preuve incontestable d’habileté et d’aptitude
particulière au gouvernement des peuples. Homme de
gouvernement, M. Tisza l’est comme personne.
Il connaît par cœur et sur le bout du doigt tous ceux avec qui il
est forcé de compter ; les éléments de la vie publique, le parlement,
la presse et surtout le tempérament de ce peuple lui sont
extrêmement familiers. Ses partisans sont enthousiastes de lui, et
chantent ses louanges sur tous les modes, et quelque chauds que
soient les dithyrambes, ils sont toujours sincères. Quant aux
adversaires de M. Tisza, il n’en est pas un qui ne reconnaisse ses
talents, sa haute honorabilité et son patriotisme. Signe particulier, ce
chef modèle d’un gouvernement a été pendant longtemps à la tête
d’une opposition farouche et implacable ; mais ce n’est pas lui qui a
couru après le pouvoir, c’est le pouvoir qui s’est offert à lui comme à
l’homme de la situation, après la mort du grand patriote Deak, qui fut
tout dans la coulisse et se refusa à être rien officiellement.
Pour se rendre compte de l’influence réelle de M. Tisza, et pour
le voir manœuvrer sur son véritable terrain, c’est à la Chambre des
députés qu’il faut se rendre un jour d’interpellations ou de
discussions orageuses. Le parlement siège dans un édifice qui ne
présente pas une façade très monumentale, mais dont l’agencement
intérieur répond complètement à sa destination.
Dès le vestibule, l’inévitable hussard-portier vous souhaite la
bienvenue. S’il s’agit d’un personnage considérable, le digne suisse,
qui a fort belle prestance, retire son bonnet de loutre orné d’une
aigrette et s’incline jusqu’à terre. La salle des séances est claire
sans trop d’ornements. On remarque que la tribune des journalistes
est presque de plain-pied avec les sièges des députés. Les
rédacteurs parlementaires peuvent causer avec les honorables assis
au dernier gradin. Rien de ce qui se passe dans la salle, aucune
parole prononcée à la tribune ne peut leur échapper. A la bonne
heure ! Dans l’espace réservé au public et formant une galerie
circulaire, se trouve une loge réservée, comme l’indiquent des
fauteuils de velours rouge, à cadre en bois doré, aux archiducs ou
plutôt aux princes de la famille royale, car, comme me le disait un
Hongrois pur sang, « nous ne connaissons pas d’archiducs. » Parmi
les députés, qui forment des groupes très animés, très vivants et
toujours en mouvement, quelques-uns portent le costume
ecclésiastique, qui, d’ailleurs, consiste non pas dans la soutane et le
tricorne, mais qui se distingue à peine des vêtements habituels par
la coupe allongée de la lévite et la cravate-col montant toute noire.
Un de ces députés révérends attire immédiatement l’attention par
son air épanoui et sa figure joyeuse de Gorenflot intelligent. La mode
de venir aux séances en costume national, avec l’attila à
brandebourgs, le pantalon collant et les bottes à l’écuyère, a
complètement passé ; c’est à peine si quelques représentants de
districts éloignés se présentent dans cet attirail, qui était considéré
naguère comme le palladium de la nationalité. C’est dommage, au
point de vue pittoresque. Mais si les costumes se sont modifiés, rien
n’a été changé à la vivacité passionnée des débats, et à la moindre
occasion, le ministère est mis sur la sellette ; toutes les raisons, tous
les prétextes sont bons, surtout lorsque la suprématie magyare est
en cause.
C’est alors que le patriotisme se donne carrière et que
l’éloquence indignée des orateurs de la gauche déborde ; les frères
et amis de l’orateur se chargent de la claque, et ils ponctuent chaque
phrase et chaque période de leur vigoureuse et très bruyante
approbation. Assis sur son fauteuil ministériel, faisant face à
l’orateur, le président du conseil interpellé semble écouter à peine.
Au physique, M. Tisza rappelle tout à fait feu Raspail, le chimiste
socialiste, avec sa grande taille de père noble, sa longue barbe
blanche, son œil paterne et clignotant qu’abritent de grandes
lunettes bleues. Seulement M. Tisza a dans toute sa physionomie
quelque chose de narquois que Raspail, qui croyait que tout était
arrivé, n’avait pas, ou qu’il cachait soigneusement.
De temps en temps, le ministre semble sortir de son indifférence
pour noter d’un crayon rapide quelques mots qui vont lui servir tout à
l’heure ; puis il retombe dans son apathie, indifférent à toutes les
apostrophes, et souvent aux invectives que lui adresse son
adversaire, répondant en hochant la tête à ceux des députés qui
viennent lui serrer la main pour faire leur cour. Mais dès que
l’orateur, souvent prolixe, a fini, le président du conseil se dresse de
toute la hauteur de sa taille ; il commence à parler, et aussitôt toutes
les rumeurs s’éteignent pour que ses paroles soient entendues sans
perdre une syllabe. Au début, c’est un susurrement à peine
perceptible ; pour l’écouter, les députés quittent leurs places et se
groupent autour du fauteuil ministériel ; au moindre bruit dans la
salle ou dans les tribunes, des chut énergiques se font entendre. On
dirait, non pas un homme politique parlant dans une assemblée,
mais un apôtre prêchant à ses disciples. Tout à coup ceux qui sont le
plus près de l’orateur font entendre de petits rires étouffés qui se
propagent de rang en rang. C’est le président du conseil qui vient
d’aborder la lutte par un bon mot, une allusion mordante pour son
adversaire. A partir de ce moment, c’est un feu roulant qui ne
s’arrête plus jusqu’à ce que la dialectique ministérielle ait désarmé,
terrassé et renversé l’opposant ; tout cela dans le plus grand calme,
avec une pointe de dédain ; c’est à peine si la voix, presque
imperceptible au début, s’est haussée quelque peu au point d’être
entendue dans toutes les parties de la salle. On ne compte plus
aujourd’hui les succès parlementaires de M. Tisza, remportés non
seulement parce qu’il est assuré de la supériorité numérique et de la
parfaite discipline de son parti, mais dus également à son génie
politique et à son habileté oratoire. Un instant, à propos de l’incident
du général Jansky, signalé plus haut, on put voir le président du
conseil chanceler sur sa base. Il avait encouru à la fois les colères
de l’opposition et la disgrâce de l’empereur ; pour les premiers, il
n’avait pas assez violemment attaqué l’armée ; son souverain lui en
voulait, disaient les seconds, de n’avoir pas assez énergiquement
défendu l’armée conspuée par l’opposition ; de cette crise, M. Tisza
sortit grandi et plus influent que jamais ; il obtint de François-Joseph
une lettre patente qui donnait pleinement satisfaction aux
susceptibilités de la nation hongroise et qui désarmait l’opposition.
M. Tisza est de ceux qui, après avoir vu avec regret et
appréhension l’Autriche intervenir militairement en Bosnie, désirent
que les sacrifices exigés par cette occupation ne restent pas stériles
et que la Hongrie particulièrement en retire quelques profits. Tel est
aussi l’avis des autres ministres, ses collaborateurs, et lorsque, à
l’occasion d’un fait quelconque, la question est mise sur le tapis, les
journaux de Pesth abondent tous dans le même sens. Tous désirent,
d’une façon plus ou moins directe, l’annexion des territoires
occupés, puisqu’il ne saurait être question de les rendre à la
Turquie. Comme dans tous les pays de libre discussion et de régime
parlementaire, la voix des journaux est très écoutée ; d’ailleurs, les
directeurs et rédacteurs en chef des principaux journaux sont
membres du parlement ; je citerai entre autres pour le Lloyd de
Pesth : MM. Max Falk, le rapporteur-né du budget des affaires
étrangères aux délégations ; Nernenyi, qui débuta à Paris comme
correspondant de journaux ; pour le Napelo, M. Jokai, à la fois
politique très actif et romancier d’une fécondité aussi prodigieuse
que son imagination. On l’appelle volontiers l’Alexandre Dumas de la
Hongrie ; enfin, pour le nouveau journal de Pesth, M. Francz Pulzki.
C’est ce dernier qui conduisit à Paris, il y a quelques années, une
délégation d’écrivains et d’artistes magyars désireux d’affirmer leur
sympathie pour la France. M. Pulzki a été une des figures les plus
originales de la période révolutionnaire de 1848 et 1849. Issu d’une
famille de gentilshommes originaires du midi de la France, mais
émigrés depuis la réformation, d’abord en Pologne, puis en Hongrie,
il était membre de la diète de Presbourg, lorsque la révolution éclata,
et en outre il venait de se marier avec la fille d’un riche financier de
Vienne, mariage dont il raconte l’amusante histoire dans ses
Souvenirs. Il s’était rendu à une soirée chez ce banquier, pour y être
présenté à un diplomate qui s’occupait d’ethnographie. Après avoir
conféré avec ce savant, il fit selon son habitude la cour à quelques-
unes des belles dames réunies chez le financier ; ce dernier avait
deux filles, l’une mariée à un comte ; la seconde, encore demoiselle,
vivait chez son père. Le mari de la première écrivit le lendemain de
cette soirée à un de ses parents : « Ce fou de Pulzki a parlé à tout le
monde, sauf à Hélène — c’était le nom de la jeune fille ; — celle-ci
n’a pas paru également faire attention à lui ; ils se conviennent très
bien. Je crois pouvoir t’annoncer leur mariage comme prochain. » En
effet, le mariage ne se fit pas longtemps attendre. Mme Pulzki était
une femme remarquable qui s’intéressait à tous les problèmes, à
toutes les luttes auxquelles son mari devait être mêlé plus tard en
exil. Lorsque les biens de la famille furent confisqués, elle contribua
par sa plume à subvenir à l’éducation de ses enfants, et mourut bien
malheureusement, lorsque l’amnistie de 1866 venait de rouvrir à son
mari les portes de la patrie. Pendant la tourmente, M. Pulzki remplit
différentes fonctions qui témoignèrent toutes de la confiance
extraordinaire que mettait en lui le chef du mouvement. Kossuth le
prit d’abord comme sous-secrétaire d’État au ministère des finances,
puis il l’envoya à Vienne pour représenter et défendre les intérêts de
la Hongrie à la cour, auprès des ministres et dans les journaux.
Pulzki déploya une ardeur fébrile et se montra animé d’une ardeur
révolutionnaire conforme aux traditions les plus authentiques de
l’époque de 92. Un jour, un ministre viennois se plaignit de ce que le
délégué de Kossuth fomentait des émeutes et organisait des
charivaris. M. Pulzki fut fort irrité parce qu’on le supposait capable de
s’occuper de semblables bagatelles. « Quand je m’en mêlerai,
s’écria-t-il, ça ne se bornera pas à quelques carreaux brisés et à du
tapage nocturne ; lorsque tout Vienne sera brûlé et saccagé, lorsque
vos cadavres se balanceront aux réverbères, vous pourrez dire :
Voilà une révolution ! Francz Pulzki fecit ! » Tout ce fracas n’a pas
empêché M. Pulzki d’être un excellent homme, et si l’effrayante
menace qu’il adressa au ministre reçut, quelque temps après, une
sanction partielle par le meurtre du comte Latour, pendu à un
réverbère sous les fenêtres de son ministère de la guerre, il est
permis de douter fortement que M. Pulzki y ait contribué. Pendant
les journées d’octobre 1848, Pulzki promit aux Viennois que l’armée
hongroise viendrait les rejoindre, à la condition qu’ils l’appelleraient
formellement à leur secours ; les chefs du mouvement hésitèrent ; ils
craignaient de trop se compromettre, malgré l’objection parfaitement
fondée que leur fit Pulzki, qu’au point où ils en étaient, ils étaient
sûrs d’être fusillés s’ils tombaient entre les mains de l’armée
impériale. Après la prise de Vienne, le gouvernement révolutionnaire
chargea Pulzki de se rendre à Londres pour y faire reconnaître
l’indépendance de la Hongrie. Le comte Teleki, qui se suicida plus
tard, était déjà à Paris, chargé d’une mission semblable. Le nouvel
ambassadeur en Angleterre, au contraire, était obligé de traverser
les lignes de l’armée impériale et une partie du territoire autrichien
pour se rendre à son poste. Ce voyage fut un véritable roman
d’aventures digne d’être raconté par la plume d’un Ponson du
Terrail. Après cent traverses et cent déguisements, le voyageur
arrive dans une ville de la Galicie ; il se rend dans un restaurant
fréquenté par des officiers. La première chose qui attire ses regards,
c’est un placard qui promet mille florins de récompense à quiconque
le livrera mort ou vif ; un signalement très détaillé accompagne cette
promesse ; aucun détail n’a été oublié. On fait remarquer, entre
autres signes distinctifs, que Pulzki est mis avec recherche, mais
d’une façon négligée, et qu’il a l’habitude de tenir sa main droite
dans la poche de derrière de sa redingote. Instinctivement le lecteur
de l’affiche retire sa main, comme si elle le brûlait ; il venait de la
mettre dans la poche tout à fait de la façon désignée dans l’affiche. Il
continue sa route par chemin de fer ; au moment de franchir la
dernière station, un homme de police lui demande son passeport ; il
se croit déjà pris, saute du wagon et s’enfuit au milieu de la neige.
Un curé de village lui donne un homme sûr pour franchir la frontière.
En prenant congé de son guide, Pulzki lui remet un porte-crayon en
or ; il lui donne l’adresse du château où réside sa femme : « Si vous
remettez, dit-il, cet objet à la châtelaine, elle vous donnera en
échange 50 ducats d’or. » Plus tard, en Angleterre et en Italie, Pulzki
ne cessa d’agiter en faveur de la liberté de la Hongrie ; il fut un des
agents les plus actifs et les plus dévoués de Kossuth, dans cette
partie de la carrière de l’ancien gouverneur, qui, banni, condamné à
mort dans son pays, n’ayant aucune situation officielle, concluait des
traités d’alliance avec Napoléon III, Victor-Emmanuel et les princes
régnants de la Serbie et de la Roumanie. En 1860, Kossuth et Pulzki
se brouillèrent. Ce dernier attendait le salut d’un soulèvement dont
Garibaldi devait donner le signal en débarquant sur le littoral de la
Dalmatie. Kossuth, au contraire, qui avait conclu un pacte régulier
avec Cavour, ne voulait rien faire en dehors de l’Italie officielle et
gouvernementale. C’est à l’occasion du voyage à Paris des artistes
et écrivains hongrois qui s’arrêtèrent à Turin, afin de porter leurs
hommages à l’ex-gouverneur, que les deux antagonistes se
réconcilièrent et redevinrent amis comme autrefois. Aujourd’hui, M.
Pulzki, amateur passionné, s’occupe peut-être plus de ses
collections que de politique. Cependant ce fut lui encore qui présida
le comité qui reçut M. de Lesseps et ses compagnons de voyage ;
c’est à lui que revient en bonne partie l’honneur de la brillante et
plantureuse réception faite à nos compatriotes.
Il serait injuste de ne pas citer parmi ceux qui ont secondé le
mieux M. Pulzki, et qui se sont acquis des titres à la reconnaissance
des touristes, l’intelligent directeur de l’Office télégraphique des
journaux, l’aimable M. Eggyesi. Un seul tout petit nuage s’est élevé
pendant cette excursion. Il y avait alors à Pesth la grande exposition
nationale hongroise, si remarquable à tant de points de vue ; un des
protecteurs de l’œuvre s’adressa au rédacteur d’un journal parisien
très répandu, le priant de consacrer un article à cette exposition. Le
rédacteur, qui faisait partie de la caravane et qui avait rendu compte
avec enthousiasme de la réception faite aux Français, déclara cette
fois que ce n’était pas de sa compétence et qu’il fallait s’adresser à
l’administration, qui certainement ferait des concessions de tarifs.
Cet incident n’eut aucune suite et ne jeta aucun froid ; il est même
oublié aujourd’hui.
On est fier à Pesth, et à bon droit, du développement qu’a pris,
au milieu de la résurrection nationale, l’art dramatique. Le Grand-
Opéra de Pesth est un des plus beaux édifices et une des
académies musicales les plus complètes qui existent en Europe. Elle
exige de grands sacrifices de la part de l’État et de l’aristocratie. On
s’y intéresse volontiers, et lorsqu’il fut question, il y a quelque temps,
de réduire la forte subvention qui permet à l’Opéra de tenir son rang,
le comte Andrassy, ancien premier ministre, s’opposa avec chaleur à
toutes réductions, déclarant que l’honneur de la ville de Pesth
exigeait impérieusement de laisser l’Opéra à la hauteur où il se
trouvait. Au Théâtre national, la troupe de comédie ne laisse rien à
désirer, et les meilleures pièces du répertoire des Français et du
Gymnase y trouvent des interprètes dignes de nos grands auteurs.
L’opérette et la comédie locale sont jouées avec beaucoup d’entrain,
un entrain souvent infernal. Au Théâtre populaire, enfin, il y a en été
une arène à ciel découvert située au bas de la ville, où j’ai vu
représenter un drame militaire dont le héros était le légendaire
général Bem, qui lutta en 1831 en Pologne, en 1848 à Vienne, d’où il
sortit dans un cercueil, et en 1849 en Transylvanie, pour se faire
Turc après la capitulation de Vilagos, et mourir pacha dans une ville
de l’Asie Mineure. La pièce était bien construite et rondement
menée ; elle ne le cédait en rien aux meilleurs drames de ce genre
qui firent les délices de l’ancien Cirque Olympique. L’acteur chargé
de remplir le rôle du général avait exactement copié le masque de
son modèle, il traînait la jambe et s’exprimait avec un fort accent
Polonais, comme Bem avait coutume de parler.
Adieu Pesth, ou plutôt, au revoir Pesth ! La préposée, très
séduisante, ma foi, la taille bien pincée dans sa vareuse, dont le col
est brodé et orné d’une roue ailée, vient de me remettre mon billet.
Le train bondit avec une vitesse furieuse à travers la Pousta. Rien de
remarquable à voir jusqu’à Szabadka, où il faut quitter l’express, qui
file sur Belgrade, et attendre le train omnibus, qui, à travers le
Danube, que l’on passe sur un gué à vapeur, nous conduira par
l’Esclavonie au bord de la Save.
 CHAPITRE II

De Brood à Sérajewo. — Voyageurs et incidents de route.

La locomotive franchit lentement, avec la gravité qui sied quand

on passe d’un monde dans un autre, le pont jeté sur la Save entre
les deux villages de Brood. Le fleuve, en effet, séparait jadis non
seulement deux contrées, deux États, mais deux systèmes tout à fait
différents, deux mondes, comme je disais : le monde chrétien et le
monde musulman.
Le Brood hongrois est un gros bourg d’aspect aisé, avec des
maisons assez solidement bâties, qui ne diffèrent pas très
sensiblement des constructions que l’on trouve dans les provinces
du Nord de la France. L’agglomération de ces maisons est entourée,
et au besoin pourrait être défendue par une enceinte fortifiée qui
date du prince Eugène, le grand organisateur de la frontière militaire,
le conquérant de Belgrade, qu’il prit trois fois. Cette muraille
bastionnée, couverte d’un épais gazon, a été assez bien entretenue
depuis un siècle et demi pour offrir aujourd’hui encore un aspect
militaire respectable. Peut-être ces remparts tiendraient-ils
médiocrement contre les canons Krupp ; mais, tels qu’ils sont, ils
prêteraient un abri suffisant à une garnison bien commandée et
brave, comme le sont les troupes autrichiennes, pour retenir pendant
un temps voulu une armée de siège assez nombreuse. Si l’annexion
de la Bosnie est proclamée, la frontière autrichienne étant reportée à
quatre cents kilomètres plus loin, la forteresse de Brood sera sans
doute déclassée et ses vieux remparts tomberont.
Au bout du pont de bois, solidement étayé, s’élève le Brood turc
ou bosniaque. Ce n’est plus un bourg, mais un village ; à la place de
maisons, on ne voit que des cahutes, des cabanes, qu’un coup de
vent emporterait si elles n’étaient calées par de grosses pierres ;
d’autres maisons semblent bâties sur pilotis ; tout cela donne l’idée
d’une misère profonde. Heureusement, la verdure qui règne tout
autour réjouit la vue, et l’aspect du premier minaret, qui dresse sa
flèche aiguë entourée du balcon de fer du muezzin, évoque toutes
les splendeurs et toutes les curiosités de l’Orient, dont voici la
première étape.
La gare de Brood bosniaque est neuve, comme toute cette ligne
de la Bosna, qui date de six ans à peine. L’occupation militaire se
montre partout ; le chef de gare est un lieutenant ; il a revêtu, nous
saurons tout à l’heure pourquoi, son uniforme de parade ; le sous-
chef est un sous-lieutenant ; le préposé aux bagages est un sergent-
fourrier à la mine fleurie et au ventre bedonnant sous sa tunique ;
c’est un sous-officier qui, au guichet, reçoit votre argent et vous
remet le ticket, de même qu’un caporal, décoré de la médaille de
bravoure, fait les fonctions de chef de train.
Le convoi ne part que dans une demi-heure ; on a le temps de
prendre le café dans une auberge qu’un pont en bois relie à la gare.
Une petite terrasse s’étend, selon la mode autrichienne, devant la
salle commune de l’auberge, qui s’intitule pompeusement Hôtel de
l’Empereur d’Autriche. Une société militaire assez nombreuse est
assise autour de deux tables, savourant le frühstück, l’appétit aiguisé
par l’air frais du matin. L’un des convives porte le pantalon gris à
large ganse d’or, et sur le col de sa tunique bleu-de-ciel sont
brodées les trois étoiles d’or indiquant le grade de feldzeugmeister,
ou général de cavalerie, la plus haute dignité militaire après le
maréchalat. La physionomie du général est énergique, mais elle
n’est pas précisément martiale ; elle indique plutôt la rondeur et
l’entrain. Une barbe en collier de couleur grisonnante donnerait
presque à cette physionomie un caractère bourgeois, mais l’œil droit
est couvert d’un bandeau, ou plutôt d’une sorte de visière destinée à
le protéger de tout contact et de tout frottement. En buvant son thé,
le général cause avec animation et sur un ton de parfaite
camaraderie avec les officiers qui l’entourent. Deux de ces
messieurs, à la figure bien martiale, ceux-là, un lieutenant de
hussards et un sous-lieutenant d’infanterie, portent en bandoulière
l’écharpe jaune et noire qui fait reconnaître les aides de camp de
service. Tous deux sont attachés à la personne du général, qui n’est
autre — je ne tarde pas à l’apprendre — que le baron Appel,
gouverneur général de la Bosnie et de l’Herzégovine, commandant
des troupes du 15e corps, qui forme la garnison des territoires
occupés.
Le général Appel vient de faire les honneurs de son
gouvernement à l’inspecteur général de l’armée autrichienne,
l’archiduc Albert, le fils du redoutable adversaire de Napoléon Ier, du
vainqueur d’Aspern, l’archiduc Charles. En présence de certaines
surprises menaçantes que les événements d’Orient peuvent
ménager à l’Autriche, l’archiduc Albert avait cru devoir se rendre
compte par lui-même si la défense des territoires occupés était
suffisamment organisée pour parer à toutes les éventualités.
L’archiduc, qui pendant les journées de mars 1848 commandait déjà
la garnison de Vienne, est âgé de soixante-dix ans, et sa santé
laisse parfois à désirer. Néanmoins, il avait tenu à entreprendre cette
tournée et à l’exécuter d’une façon complète, ne négligeant aucun
détail, ne se faisant grâce ni d’une redoute, ni d’un blockhaus,
visitant même les postes de la gendarmerie indigène établis au faîte
des montagnes les plus élevées de l’Herzégovine, dans des aires
d’aigles qui semblent inaccessibles. Ce voyage avait duré cinq
semaines sous l’œil vigilant et parfois inquiet du médecin de Son
Altesse, un chirurgien de régiment qui ne quittait pas son client d’une
semelle, surveillant le menu, réglant, sans trouver de résistance, les
heures de repas et de sommeil, dosant la nourriture et les boissons,
enlevant le verre des mains de l’archiduc lorsqu’il craignait un léger
excès ou une simple contravention à la diète sévère qu’il avait
prescrite.
 Le général Appel avait accompagné son chef par monts et par
vaux, et il avait recueilli partout les compliments que méritaient
pleinement le zèle et l’activité par lui déployés depuis les débuts de
son commandement, afin de mettre la Bosnie et l’Herzégovine en
état de défense, ainsi que sa sollicitude paternelle pour le bien-être
des soldats, qu’il n’est pas toujours facile d’assurer dans ces
contrées à demi sauvages.
Comme tout a une fin, l’archiduc Albert était retourné au château
de Reichenberg en Styrie, sa résidence d’été, et le général Appel,
après l’avoir reconduit jusqu’à Sissek, en Esclavonie, se disposait à
regagner ses pénates, c’est-à-dire le Konak, ou palais
gouvernemental de Sérajewo.
Le train était assez long ; il y avait foule aux guichets, foule
bariolée de Turcs et de Serbes en costume national mêlés aux
uniformes, et le sergent préposé aux bagages était débordé.
L’aspect de la locomotive et des wagons est tout à fait différent des
nôtres. La machine est de petite dimension, svelte de construction,
la cheminée élancée, une très grosse lanterne placée à l’avant. Ces
machines ont été construites spécialement d’après un système
inventé par un ingénieur suisse, et exécutées pour le compte de
l’administration militaire autrichienne, par une fabrique de Bohême.
L’avantage du système est de permettre à la locomotive de grimper
allégrement les pentes les plus raides et de décrire gracieusement et
avec toute la facilité voulue les courbes les plus capricieuses. Les
wagons, proportionnés à la largeur des rails sur lesquels ils circulent,
sont nécessairement étroits ; les voyageurs à embonpoint n’y sont
pas à leur aise. Depuis un ou deux ans, on a ajouté aux trois classes
normales une quatrième classe à prix considérablement réduits. Ces
fourgons, munis de lucarnes grillées, et sans banquettes, ont valu à
la compagnie des recettes considérables. Beaucoup d’indigènes, qui
auparavant circulaient à pied ou sur leurs petits chevaux quand ils
se rendaient de leur village à une localité peu éloignée, se sont
laissé séduire par l’extrême modicité du prix de ces quatrièmes.
Aujourd’hui ils ménagent leurs jambes (je ne dis pas leurs
chaussures, car beaucoup n’en ont pas), laissent la monture à
l’écurie et s’étendent philosophiquement sur le plancher des
wagons.
Mais des gens que leur situation de fortune ne condamne pas
cependant à voyager dans ces véhicules rudimentaires en usent par
esprit d’économie. J’ai vu une famille de spagnioles (descendants
des juifs chassés d’Espagne et réfugiés en Turquie) empilée dans un
de ces fourgons de quatrième. Les femmes étaient vêtues d’étoffes
brodées d’un grand prix, et portaient autour du cou ou comme
garniture de leur coiffe des colliers de cinquante à soixante ducats
ou demi-livres turques (12 fr. 50) avec de larges pièces
autrichiennes de cent vingt francs en guise de croix.
Outre les voitures réglementaires, on a attelé à notre train une
petite voiture-salon et un break avec verandah, deux véritables
joujoux destinés au général et à sa suite. Un instant, je me demande
si je ne dois pas présenter sans retard, en profitant de l’occasion, les
lettres de recommandation dont je suis porteur pour le gouverneur.
J’eus tort d’hésiter, car la suite me prouva que j’aurais été bien
accueilli ; mais, d’autre part, je ne regrette pas d’avoir laissé dormir
les lettres dans leurs enveloppes jusqu’à Sérajewo, puisque mon
incognito m’a permis des « études de mœurs » pendant une partie
de la route. Les premières sont vides, les secondes sont occupées à
peine par quelques officiers ; mais tandis que les indigènes
s’empilent dans les quatrièmes, voici dans un coupé de troisième
une société qui vaut peut-être qu’on s’occupe d’elle.
C’est d’abord une dame toute jeune, toute blonde et toute
mignonne, très délicate et fort langoureuse ; on devine à la voir
qu’elle sort à peine de maladie. Elle a l’air encore souffrant, mais
cela ne lui messied point. Voici sept ans qu’elle est au « pays béni
des prunes », et depuis trois ans elle est mariée au gérant d’un mess
d’officiers. Le casino est situé tout à fait là-bas, sur la hauteur, dans
une contrée isolée où le chemin de fer ne pénètre pas, et qui
communique deux fois par semaine avec le monde par une carriole
de la poste militaire. La jeune femme déclare qu’elle se trouve
heureuse dans cette solitude, peuplée de gentils et galants officiers,
et quand elle va à Pesth pour voir ses parents, elle se sent tout à fait
dépaysée. C’est une Bosniaque de sentiment et de conviction.
Celui qui a pris place en face d’elle se présente immédiatement
et raconte avec volubilité qu’il est employé au cadastre. Jusqu’à ce
jour, il a opéré dans le nord de la vaste monarchie autrichienne, en
Bohême et en Galicie ; il vient en droite ligne de Kremsier, la petite
ville épiscopale, fameuse par la réunion du Reichsrath de 1849, qui
y fut exilé après la crise, pour être dissous bientôt après. Plus
récemment Kremsier avait attiré une foule de curieux, désireux de
contempler les traits du tzar, qui s’y est rencontré avec l’empereur
François-Joseph. Mais ces curieux, à ce que raconte notre nouveau
compagnon de voyage, en furent pour leurs frais, ce qui n’est pas
peu dire, car le plus petit trou fut loué à des prix extravagants. Notre
docteur ès géométrie officielle nous apprend, non sans une grimace
de satisfaction, qu’un fabricant de Brunn lui a payé 35 florins pour
l’abandon de ses deux chambres pendant quarante-huit heures. Ce
fut de l’argent perdu, car le tzar ne daigna pas se montrer hors du
palais, gardé par un triple cordon de troupes, tandis que François-
Joseph circulait librement dans la petite cité.
Notre employé voit son déplacement en rose ; il est de galante
humeur et ne cesse de répéter à sa voisine qu’il n’aurait jamais
supposé qu’il y eût dans la « sauvage Bosnie » d’aussi aimables
petites femmes ; et comme la blonde se récrie par modestie ou
simplement par politesse, il me prend à témoin, il prend à témoin un
jeune maréchal des logis attaché à l’état-major du général Appel et
un feldwebel barbu et hâbleur qui fait office de vaguemestre. Le
fourgon de la poste est placé à côté de notre wagon, et le sergent-
vaguemestre fait tout le temps la navette entre son fourgon et notre
coupé. Le maréchal des logis a été de ce long voyage d’inspection
de l’archiduc Albert ; il déballe avec componction une bouteille de
Bordeaux qui provient, dit-il, de la cave de son Altesse. Le vin doit
être excellent, l’archiduc a les moyens de s’offrir les crus de choix ; il
est en effet un des principaux propriétaires fonciers et un des
industriels les plus importants de l’Autriche. Ses domaines ont
l’étendue d’une province, et l’on compte ses fabriques par
douzaines… et pourtant il fait à l’occasion son métier de soldat
comme s’il avait de l’avancement à espérer.
Le train a continué à rouler et à grimper à travers un paysage
pittoresque qui, au grand étonnement du voyageur nouveau, évoque
l’aspect de la Suisse et du Tyrol. La Bosna aux eaux vertes qui
s’écoulent en tumulte sur un lit de grosses pierres, parfois larges
comme des dalles, ressemble tout à fait à un torrent des montagnes
grossi par les pluies du printemps. Une jolie rivière, cette Bosna dont
nous irons plus tard visiter les sources à une quinzaine de kilomètres
de Sérajewo, mais capricieuse en diable, véritable enfant terrible,
toujours prête à inonder ses rives et à ravager tout ce qui est à sa
portée. L’endiguer est un rude travail, et la navigation même la plus
élémentaire y est absolument impossible ! Quant à son cours, il
semblerait que l’expression de méandre a été inventée exprès pour
le définir. Cependant, c’est le cours capricieux de cette rivière qui a
servi de fil d’Ariane aux ingénieurs militaires, lorsqu’il fallut établir
une ligne de communication directe entre la frontière autrichienne et
Sérajewo, afin d’assurer le ravitaillement du corps d’occupation. Il
n’y avait alors, au mois d’août 1878, ni railways, ni routes
carrossables. Voyageurs et marchandises circulaient à dos de
cheval, et comme le cheval bosniaque est capable de passer par les
sentiers les plus étroits, et de franchir les passes les plus abruptes
avec la sûreté d’un gentleman marchant sur le parquet ciré d’un
salon ; comme nul ne se plaignait lorsque la poste mettait autant de
jours à transporter une lettre de Sérajewo à Agram qu’il faut d’heures
aujourd’hui, tout était pour le mieux dans le meilleur des vilayets.
Mais quand l’armée autrichienne prit possession du pays en
vertu du mandat délivré par le congrès de Berlin, il fallut avant tout
faire vivre cette armée, évacuer ses blessés et assurer le transport
des munitions. Une route était indispensable ; la nécessité inspire
des idées fécondes. Le génie militaire trouva qu’il n’en serait ni plus
ni moins si, au lieu d’une simple chaussée, il créait un chemin de fer.
Il ne pouvait être question de tunnels et de travaux d’art ; on prit le
chemin le plus long, mais le plus facile, en suivant le cours de la
Bosna et en contournant les montagnes au moyen de chemins en
serpente.
Il y avait au deuxième régiment de pionniers un chef de bataillon,
M. Tomascheck, qui venait précisément de remettre en état une
ligne de chemin de fer, située dans le nord de la Bosnie, entre
Banjaluka et Doberlin. Cette ligne, longue de quatre-vingts à cent
kilomètres, faisait partie du réseau des « chemins de fer de la
Turquie d’Europe », construits par le baron de Hirsch. Ce tronçon
était d’un rapport nul et ne deviendrait lucratif que le jour où le projet
grandiose de la ligne directe de Vienne-Banjaluka-Constantinople
serait réalisé. Mais ce plan venait de sombrer dans les brouillards
financiers qui enveloppent l’empire turc, et le tronçon Banjaluka-
Livno restait sans emploi. Aussi, lorsque l’insurrection bosniaque
éclata en 1875, le baron de Hirsch s’empressa d’évacuer le
personnel sur Constantinople et de suspendre l’exploitation, à
cause, disait-il, du manque de sécurité. Le commandant
Tomascheck eut bientôt fait de remettre la ligne en état ; l’activité et
le zèle qu’il avait déployés le désignèrent aussi pour établir la
construction de la ligne Brood-Sérajewo. La manière d’opérer fut
simple : on construisit la route le long de la Bosna (sauf quelques
lacets qui dérobent pendant plusieurs instants la vue de cette
rivière), et sur la route on posa les rails. De petites locomotives de
vingt à vingt-cinq chevaux seulement furent expédiées de Bohême,
et la remorque des wagons de marchandises, des fourgons, des
véhicules de toute espèce s’opéra tant bien que mal, — mais, en
tout cas, cent fois mieux qu’avec les anciens sentiers turcs, où les
voitures du train et même les charrettes de paysans réquisitionnées
ne pouvaient pas avancer. On se battait encore sur les hauteurs qui
couronnent la station de Doboy, lorsque la première locomotive
s’arrêta devant la gare très provisoire de cette localité, qui est la
première halte importante de la ligne.
Doboy est construit en amphithéâtre ; les maisons, assez
convenables d’aspect, sont entourées de jardins qui paraissent bien
soignés. Sur une éminence à peu de distance de la ville, un
monument en forme de croix a été élevé par le général Szapary aux
officiers et soldats sous ses ordres qui ont succombé dans les divers
combats livrés à Doboy et dans les environs, depuis le 4 août
jusqu’au 17 octobre 1878. Ces braves ont bien mérité l’hommage qui
rappelle au voyageur leur mort héroïque ; ils ont opposé pendant six
semaines un rempart de feu aux Bosniaques, qui, à dix reprises, ont
tenté de s’emparer de la position et de couper ainsi la ligne d’étapes
de l’armée autrichienne. Aujourd’hui, il n’y a aucune trace de ces
luttes désespérées. Une tranquillité biblique règne dans toute cette
contrée ; le bourgmestre, un Turc à turban blanc, est venu à la gare
pour exprimer au général Appel tout son dévouement et ses
sentiments de respectueuse fidélité, le tout avec force salamaleks.
Le général reçoit ces hommages avec un sourire cordial qui ne
manque pas de finesse, et il répond quelques mots, en frappant
amicalement sur l’épaule du bourgmestre, qui paraît très flatté de
cette familiarité. Le groupe a attiré quelques spectateurs, des
paysans vêtus d’amples vêtements blancs, les pieds entièrement
nus, la robe relevée sur les hanches ; quelques femmes se sont
jointes à leurs maris et à leurs frères ; leur costume — il s’agit
naturellement des chrétiennes — ne diffère pas beaucoup de celui
des hommes, et les extrémités ne sont pas dissimulées davantage.
Le soleil a hâlé les pieds et les jambes, qui ont une belle teinte
d’ocre. Parmi ces spectatrices, il en est une qui peut à peine se
traîner ; elle s’appuie sur une sorte de béquille, ses habits tombent
en lambeaux, mais l’œil est vif et la physionomie a de l’expression.
Le chef de gare, un officier hongrois vêtu d’un dolman, coiffé d’un
Kalpack (sorte de bonnet comme en portaient autrefois les
hussards) surmonté d’une plume de coq, le sabre à poignée d’ivoire
au côté, affirme que cette vénérable matrone est âgée de cent cinq
ans. Dans les montagnes de Bosnie, ces cas de longévité ne
seraient pas très rares, surtout parmi le sexe « faible ».
A partir de Doboy, la pente s’accentue, la locomotive grimpe
hardiment comme si elle voulait gagner un diplôme du club alpin.
Quand la montée est trop raide, une serpentine gracieusement
tracée tourne la difficulté ; le train, évoluant sur lui-même comme un
serpent qui cherche à mordre sa queue, rappelle au Parisien
l’aimable et amusant chemin de fer de Sceaux. Au milieu de ces
montagnes, l’œil se repose avec complaisance sur quelques
champs assez bien cultivés, sur des prairies où paissent des bœufs
et des vaches qui ne pourraient, il est vrai, figurer avec honneur
dans un concours d’animaux gras. C’est à la négligence des
propriétaires qu’il faut attribuer cette dégénérescence des bestiaux ;
les pauvres bêtes n’ont, en hiver, qu’une nourriture très insuffisante
et manquent totalement d’écuries. Il est même étonnant que ces
bœufs et ces vaches si étiques résistent à ce régime par trop primitif.
Le proverbe « fort comme un bœuf » trouve donc sa justification,
malgré la maigreur.
 CHAPITRE III

De Maglay à Sérajewo.

Maglay, où nous arrivons vers midi et demi, est une ville plus
grande que Doboy ; elle est également bâtie en amphithéâtre, et les
maisons s’élèvent au milieu d’un cadre de belle verdure. A droite,
sur une hauteur, se trouve le castel, la forteresse que les pachas
turcs ont édifiée à proximité et au-dessus de toutes les villes de
Bosnie, afin de dominer la position et de trouver un refuge contre les
fréquentes insurrections. Le castel de Maglay est assez délabré ;
mais en y installant une demi-batterie d’artillerie, on mitraillerait à
pleine volée les mosquées, les maisons, et par-dessus le marché les
bains turcs, que l’on reconnaît de loin à leurs coupoles de zinc. Nous
avons le temps d’examiner tout cela, car une demi-heure est
accordée aux voyageurs pour le dîner : cuisine autrichienne très
supportable et prix honnêtement modérés.
Au delà de Maglay, le caractère alpestre du paysage s’accentue ;
les montagnes se dressent plus hautes, les rochers sont plus
abrupts et les forêts sur les sommets plus épaisses. Elles le seraient
encore davantage si les Turcs ne les avaient éclaircies ou plutôt
ravagées, tantôt sous prétexte d’enlever aux brigands les repaires
où ils pouvaient dissimuler en toute sécurité leur butin et leur
aimable personne, tantôt pour se procurer du combustible ou des
matériaux de construction.
 Seulement les coupes, au lieu d’être pratiquées raisonnablement
et en conformité des règlements forestiers, ont été toujours
effectuées à la diable, au hasard. C’étaient de véritables
dévastations ; on procédait, comme en Algérie, par des incendies qui
brûlaient cent beaux arbres pour un tronc à demi calciné que les
Turcs réussissaient à enlever ; ou bien, si l’on usait de la cognée,
l’arbre était coupé de façon à ne repousser jamais. On voit une
masse de ces troncs hachés et brisés. L’administration autrichienne,
qui possède un corps forestier de premier ordre, n’a pu assister les
bras croisés à ces actes de vandalisme. Des mesures sérieuses et
même sévères ont été prises pour les empêcher. Quand un incendie
éclate dans une forêt, défense absolue est faite de s’approcher de la
partie qui brûle ; cette défense subsiste lorsque le feu est éteint, et a
pour but d’empêcher l’enlèvement des troncs calcinés. On espère
que les indigènes, n’ayant plus le profit qu’ils trouvaient
habituellement aux incendies, s’abstiendront de mettre le feu aux
forêts.
Comme pour nous faire apprécier le paysage dans toute sa
grandeur et avec tout le prestige d’une mise en scène ad hoc, le ciel,
jusque-là d’un bleu inaltérable, se couvre de sombres nuages qui
enveloppent bientôt les sommets des montagnes ; l’atmosphère,
lourde et étouffante, fraîchit ; des éclairs sillonnent la nuée, des
coups de tonnerre réveillent les échos et l’orage éclate dans toute sa
fureur. A la pluie succèdent des grêlons de la grosseur d’un pois ; ils
mitraillent, sans pouvoir les entamer, les vitres du wagon. Quelques
bergers, quelques femmes, travaillant aux champs, cherchent un
refuge sous la feuillée. On les voit comme des points avec leurs
loques blanches, leurs turbans rouges ou leurs coiffes ruisselantes
d’eau.
A partir de Jaïce, la station d’où la poste conduit à Travnik, qui fut
jusqu’en 1850 la résidence des gouverneurs turcs, le temps
s’éclaircit et le paysage aussi se rassérène. La Lovca mêle ses eaux
d’un vert d’émeraude bleuâtre à la Bosna, et le chemin de fer court
ou plutôt serpente au milieu des champs de blé et de maïs. Nous
retrouvons aussi quelques-uns de ces clos de prunes qui font la