Joshua Kurlantzick, The Ideal Man: The Tragedy of Jim Thompson and the American Way of War

Hoboken, New Jersey: John Wiley and Sons, 2011.  Pp. viii, 264; notes, index.

Reviewed by Michael Montesano.

Australians may take for granted the serious and regular attention of their country’s media to Southeast Asia.  Americans are less fortunate. Robert Shaplen died twenty-five years ago last week, and one wonders whether, in these times, he would in any case have found the outlets for his writing and comment on the region that he enjoyed for nearly four decades.

Perhaps no currently active American journalist has worked harder to remedy this sad state of affairs than Joshua Kurlantzick, who currently serves as Fellow for Southeast Asia at the Council on Foreign Relations.  Along with two books—Charm Offensive: How China’s Soft Power is Transforming the World (2007) and the recent Democracy in Retreat: The Revolt of the Middle Class and the Worldwide Decline of Representative Government (2013)—he has used articles in a remarkable range of periodicals in an effort to bring a serious understanding of the region to contemporary American readers.

Kurlantzick’s 2011 biography of Jim Thompson, The Ideal Man, serves this same effort.  The book is the product of remarkable research. We learn of Thompson’s roots in Delaware’s high society, of his idle years with a New York architecture firm following his graduation from Princeton in 1928, of his admiration for Franklin Delano Roosevelt at a time when the rest of his family considered the president a traitor to his—and their—class, and finally of his by any measure bizarre decision to become an enlisted man in the Delaware National Guard in 1940.  The Ideal Man details Thompson’s success, eventually, in joining the Office of Strategic Services (OSS), America’s war-time foreign intelligence agency, where he found his first true calling in life and played a role in the Allies’ invasion of southern France in late 1944. Having tracked down a former aide to the OSS buddy of Thompson’s who by 1967 ranked among the most senior American military officers in Thailand, Kurlantzick passes on that aide’s recollections of the two old friends’ deep disagreement over American policy toward Southeast Asia. He also describes the resentment among some segments of the Thai elite aroused by Thompson’s success in the silk business.

The Ideal Man would draw on this formidable research to use Thompson’s life as a vehicle to illustrate the way in which Washington lost its way in Cold War Southeast Asia and opted to “support stability and development, even if that meant picking conservative dictators rather than gambling on left-leaning men who might be Democrats [sic]” (page vii). 

Thompson’s story does indeed seem like a useful vehicle for carrying such a message to a broad, non-specialist readership.  Between his arrival in Bangkok with the OSS in 1945 and his disappearance in Malaysia’s Cameron Highlands twenty-two years later, Jim Thompson first participated in and then witnessed at close hand the events that set Mainland Southeast Asia on a course that vitiated prospects for more progressive post-colonial social and political orders across the region.  His Thai Silk Company, established in the early 1950s, became a spectacularly successful and internationally renowned firm. He made both himself and his house on Soi Kasemsan 2 in Bangkok’s Pathuwan district—today one of Thailand’s most impressive museums—into two of the leading attractions for foreign celebrities and others visiting Thailand.  And the tragedy that overcame Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia in the years after his disappearance makes his bitterness over developments in the region that he had made his home appear both prescient and wise.

Early and often, The Ideal Man signals its goal of taking its message about post-1945 Southeast Asia and the place of the United States in events there to a rather broader set of readers than those who ordinarily read Kurlantzick’s work.  We read in its first chapter that from Jim Thompson’s canal-side home in Bangkok one could in the 1960s “see families of Thai Muslims eating dinners of chicken biryani and roti murtabak in their houses, the men in white skullcap and robes and the women in straight long frocks” (page 6).   Later, we learn that, during his early post-war stint in the temporary U.S. legation in Thailand, “Thompson could smell in the morning air a mixture of freshly cut orchids, dirty canal water, pork bones soaking in broth hawked by roadside vendors, and rotting durian, the giant, spiky Thai fruit whose insides smell like old tennis shoes” (page 43).  “Outside the legation, men waiting for Thompson squatted on their haunches while chewing on snacks of sour mango slices and dried pork skins” (page 44), and at mid-day Thompson would have “a lunch of noodles quick-fried with fresh basil and the tiny chilies that Thais called ‘rat shit’, since they looked like mouse droppings” (page 47).   Vietnamese refugees from the First Indochina War who had taken shelter in Thailand set up “stalls serving bowls of pho (sticky rice [sic]) and charred pieces of gamy grilled chicken” (page 57).  And, in the country’s Northeast, “Thai silk cultivators ate a breakfast of khao tom, rice soup maybe flavored with a few bits of pork” (page 83).

These culinary references in The Ideal Man are arresting. For, even as their specificity and vividness may enhance the book’s appeal to many in its target readership, they invite inevitable comparison with the book’s vagueness in an area crucially related to its central argument.

Kurlantzick begins the development of that argument with his reference to Jim Thompson’s early embrace of FDR’s “social policies and liberal internationalism” (page 16). He notes that the OSS of William Donovan, in which Thompson instantly “felt at home” (page 29), was “a very left-wing and informal organization” (page 24), one that “stood out in wartime for its intense idealism and anticolonialism” (page 25). Arrived in Thailand, still a member of the OSS, and serving in the U.S. legation at the end of the war, Thompson “came to worship” (page 34) Pridi Phanomyong, Kurlantzick tells us.  The two would enjoy “long, leisurely meal[s], and their conversation could range from plans for the next Thai election to hard-nosed bargaining about U.S. support for Thailand against Britain and France” (page 47).  At the same time, Kurlantzick tells us, Thompson soon emerged as the man on whom a range of Vietnamese, Lao, and Cambodian nationalists depended “to plead their cause with Washington and with the Thai government” (page 49).  These contacts seem to have continued after Thompson left government service in 1947, but remained in Thailand.

Indeed, The Ideal Man tells us, even after he had founded the Thai Silk Company and begun to turn it into the storied firm that it very quickly became, American “embassy and CIA officers still met with Thompson, realizing that he knew more about Thai and regional politics than virtually anyone else” (page 122).  By this time, however, the course of regional events, the fate of his friend Pridi, and American support not for anti-colonial forces in the region but rather for those who convinced Washington that they were anti-Communist had given rise to the disillusionment in Thompson that would fester for the rest of his life.

It is on this disillusionment that both Kurlantzick’s narrative of Thompson’s live and his claim for Thompson’s significance pivot.  But this emphasis raises as many questions as it answers.  Who, for example, were these Indochinese leaders with whom Thompson was in such close contact?  With a single exception, that of the Lao Issara leader Oun Sananikone, Kurlantzick does not identify them.  Neither does he give us any sense of Thompson’s understanding of these leaders’ programs, of the inevitable rivalries among them, or for that matter of the language in which he communicated with them and with Pridi, though this was presumably French.  And what was the nature of Thompson’s alleged mastery of Mainland Southeast Asian affairs?  What was his vision of the future of the societies and the polities of the region?  How much sophistication as a political thinker did he in fact bring to his contact with Pridi and others?  What was the fit between the ideals that Thompson brought to Southeast Asia from the America of the New Deal and from the OSS on the one hand and Southeast Asian realities on the other? The reader of The Ideal Man never learns the answers to such questions.  Kurlantzick appears to be at pains not to pass judgement on Thompson’s understanding of the events in which he seems to have played a role, even as he quotes Thompson’s “old friend” Philippe Baude noting that Thompson clung to “a kind of idealized image of Thailand” (p. 138) that may or may not have corresponded to reality.

None of this is to call into question the emotional and mental turmoil that the emergence of military rule in Thailand or the beginnings of the CIA’s “secret war” in Laos caused Thompson.  And one may argue that the intended readership of The Ideal Man makes these criticisms unfair, that a book that took its readers so deep into the weeds of post-1945 Southeast Asia would have little appeal to non-specialists.  But Kurlantzick’s decision to eschew rigorous scrutiny of Thompson’s ideals, of the relevance of those ideals to Southeast Asian realities, of his understanding of the region, and of his relationships with progressive figures in Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, and Vietnam brings risks of its own.  For it is all too easy to read The Ideal Man as a somewhat wistful encomium for a mid-twentieth-century Princetonian from a moneyed background who admired the New Deal and served in the OSS.  Surely Kurlantzick cannot really mean to suggest, pace David Halberstam, that, if only Americans with such backgrounds had had their way, events in Southeast Asia would not have taken their disappointing Cold War course.  Yet, in the absence of detailed treatment of Thompson’s thinking on and relationships in the region, that is the message that remains implicit in his book.

This concern leads, in turn, to a broader concern about the fit between the message of The Ideal Man and the biographical vehicle used to convey that message. In his book’s preface, Kurlantzick relates his disappointment on reaching Bangkok in the late 1990s to encounter what he took to be its mundane familiarity—“glass-and-steel towers, shopping malls, chain restaurants, and yuppies sipping five-dollar lattes at Starbucks” (page v).  He found himself more and more focused on the era of the high Cold War, when “monks still wandered the streets of Bangkok in the morning . . . [c]anals still crisscrossed the city” (page vii), and Southeast Asia was of central importance to world affairs.  This focus gave rise, among Kurlantzick and his friends, to a deep fascination with Jim Thompson and his story.  That fascination and the meaning that Kurlantzick attached to it led, the preface to The Ideal Man makes clear, to this book.

One can hardly take issue with the implicit contention of The Ideal Man that the early post-1945 period saw Southeast Asia at a political and social fork in the trail and that the path that it followed—a path from which there was no turning back by the time that five states that fundamentally mistrusted their own societies came together in the year of Thompson’s disappearance to form the Association of Southeast Asian Nations—proved in many respects unfortunate.  While one may question the ultimate significance of the agency of the United States—as opposed to that of Southeast Asians themselves—in determining this outcome, it is clear that Washington did little to make the outcome less likely.

But one must also ask whether the time of Jim Thompson has not by the second decade of the twenty-first century receded so far into the past that the import that The Ideal Man would attach to his story will not mystify most readers confronted with the very same “globalized”, increasingly Anglophone urban Southeast Asia that so turned Joshua Kurlantzick off a decade and a half ago. With a dozen shops for its silk products in Bangkok, six in Phuket, five in other parts of Thailand, and stores outside the country that include one in the Cameron Highlands; with a “wine bar”—may the gods help us all—in Thompson’s house on Soi Kasemsan 2; and with restaurants in Singapore and in Tokyo’s Ikebukuro, Akasaka, and Ginza neighborhoods, “Jim Thompson” has become a brand that has more in common with Starbucks than with the principled anti-colonialism and progressive ideals of the late 1940s.

Let me make this point another way, with a culinary anecdote of my own.

A month or so, I conned a pal into riding the BTS to Talat Phlu with me one evening in search of dinner.  We ended up eating khao mu daeng (phiset) on the side of the road.  The woman who served us asked us what we wanted to drink, and, when we requested water, she asked if we meant “nam polarit”.  “Polaris” was the name under which the North Star Company founded by Maxine North, the widow of a CIA agent whom she had accompanied to Thailand, bottled water starting in the late 1950s. But it had been decades since either my pal or I had heard the name used as a generic term for bottled water in Thailand.  It may give comfort to reminisce about that Thailand. We may believe that our recollections inform our understandings of the country. But arguing convincingly for the significance of such quaint memories is another undertaking entirely. And, this difficulty notwithstanding, The Ideal Man certainly does deliver the “great story” (page viii) that its author promises.

Michael Montesano is a visiting research fellow at the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore, and the managing editor of SOJOURN: Journal of Social Issues in Southeast Asia.

References

David Halberstam. The Best and the Brightest. New York: Random House, 1972.

Joshua Kurlantzick. Charm Offensive: How China’s Soft Power is Transforming the World. New Haven, Connecticut: Yale University Press, 2008. A New Republic book.

Joshua Kurlantzick. Democracy in Retreat: The Revolt of the Middle Class and the Worldwide Decline of Representative Government. New Haven, Connecticut: Yale University Press, 2013.  A Council on Foreign Relations book.

“Wife of CIA agent launched business career”. The Globe and Mail (Toronto), 18 October 2003 (http://www.theglobeandmail.com/incoming/wife-of-cia-agent-launched-business-career/article1047352/ , accessed 15 May 2013).

15-year olds arrested, but showing no fear.
thousands holding vigil outside prison walls.
a new student Icon was born.

#whatBNfail2realise’
-          Facebook status, 12 noon, May 23

Wake up and smell the future. Not a utopia where perfect democracy is realised, nor a dystopic future of another century of unbroken UMNO-BN rule. It is the concrete, shaping of history by countless ordinary Malaysians, a culmination of years of accumulated social forces bursting the present ‘order of things’ at its seams. Tun Abdul Razak once said that, “So long as the form [of democracy] is preserved, the substance can be changed to suit the conditions of a particular country.” This ‘form of democracy’ is now crumbling, buffeted by the strong, post-GE13 waves of change.

If there is any doubt still on the minds of social and media observers, the arrest of student activist, Adam Adli, on Saturday, May 18^th, and his subsequent 5 day remand at Jinjang Police Station, provided another occasion for these social forces to gather and express their popular discontent towards the BN government. Adam Adli has since been charged under Section 4(1) of the Sedition Act 1948 and released on bail, pending hearing on July 2^nd. His speech at a forum on May 13^th is now alleged to be seditious in nature (you can watch it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z_nZDttvnNI ). Following on from the huge turn-outs at the ‘Blackout 505’ rallies, where some 120,000 persons attended in Stadium Kelana Jaya alone, the Rakyat has once again surprised those who were so used to a passive and subservient Malaysian citizenry, perhaps epitomised best during the Mahathir-era. This time, the place of gathering was outside the four walls of a Malaysian Police Station, the very symbol of state oppression and violence. Again, more than a thousand people gathered in this urban ‘new village’, itself a reminder of the British colonial regime that first installed the quasi-militaristic nature of the Malaysian police force (Polis DiRaja Malaysia), as well as draconian laws such as the Sedition Act and other Emergency Ordinances.

Historical Perspective

It was a most poignant of moments, when PSM (Parti Sosialis Malaysia) chairperson and activist, Dr. Nasir Hashim reminded the crowd, mostly holding candles in vigil, declaring that ‘’we are still colonised in our own country.’ One must never fail to notice the clear pattern of authoritarian rule that runs all the way back to the founding years of the nation. Some 59 years ago, incidentally in the month of May as well, a group of university students were charged for sedition when they published an article in the newsletter of the University Malaya Socialist Club. The article entitled “Aggression in Asia”, criticised imperialism and colonialism, to the chagrin of the British imperial masters. As a result of the infamous trial, the students became an inspiration to the anti-colonial movement of their time, earning them the moniker of the ‘Fajar Generation’.

Post-colonial Malaysia is now wearing her neo-colonial cloak in all her sovereign glory, visiting the very same forms of state violence and punishment on her citizens, of which Adam Adli is but the latest of victims. What is the capacity and reach of one Adam Adli to incite anything or anyone compared to the BN government’s limitless power and resources to continually incite and perpetrate state violence on her own citizens? What truly beggars belief is that Ahmad Zahid Hamidi and Khalid Abu Bakar is going on an orgy of arrests, just a few days after their new appointments as Home Minister & Inspector-General of Police, respectively (three other persons have since been arrested today, pending sedition charges, namely activist Haris Ibrahim, PKR MP Tian Chua and former UMNO leader, Tamrin Ghafar Baba).

Portent of things to come

On top of that, 18 ordinary Malaysians, most of them very young, were arrested last night at the solidarity vigil for Adam Adli. Hundreds of others refused to leave and clamoured for the immediate release of their fellow citizens. Finally, in batches of twos and threes, they were released to huge applause:

This is turning into a celebration party. A number are released.

One, a young girl of 15, clutching her IPAD. She just bowed when the crowd applauded.

Another man testified he was beaten, but he will not give up.

Another lady says she came here in peace, but the police grabbed her from behind the barricade. She insists she has done nothing wrong.

The Rakyat cheers.

#bebaskanAdamAdli’

-          Facebook status, 2 am, May 23.

Today, Adam Adli and the ‘505’ Generation poses a much bigger problem to the powers-that-be, with the endless proliferation of Facebook and Twitter shares that multiply real-time political experiences at a qualitative scale, not just mere quantities. The young that flooded the stadiums in recent times, collaborate and create public squares on social media platforms, in ways that escape tight, authoritarian controls by the state. There is a direct correlation between this new techno-politico phenomena and the presence of countless fresh-faced Malaysian youth at these protests, many of them toting their IPADs and snapping pictures incessantly with their smartphones.

Facebook pages were flooded with messages of ‘We are all Adam Adli’ and hashtags such as #bebaskanAdamAdli bear a striking resemblance with pages from the Egyptian revolution that toppled the dictator, Hosni Mubarak, two years ago. Some have even made comparisons between the iconization of Adam Adli here in Malaysia, with Wael Ghonim, the infamous Egyptian activist who organised the protests via Facebook. Real-time sharing of pictures of Adam while in police custody has struck a chord of authenticity among Malaysians, especially the young. There are no simple generalisations, as the situation and conditions of both countries are very different. But this new element of youth-driven protests, augmented and multiplied through social media platforms, forms the stuff of political reality in Malaysia, post-GE13.

Ending the Mahathirist state

As I’ve written here previously, I have argued that the Malaysian state in its present form is suffering from a systemic crisis of authority. (you can read it here: http://asiapacific.anu.edu.au/newmandala/2013/04/25/goodbye-lenin-hail-the-malaysian-caesar/ ) This authority to rule is maintained through a combination of both coercion and consent. UMNO-BN has failed in its attempt at hegemony, via the manufacturing of democratic consent, where its loss of the national popular vote (winning only 47% of the votes cast, compared to Pakatan Rakyat’s 51%), is the clearest of indications. It is now resorting to draconian coercive laws such as the Sedition Act, as the means to crush legitimate dissent. Since it no longer commands political and ideological leadership over subordinate groups, the regime reverts to exercising force and coercion as a means to survive.

The present wave of protests seem to suggest a fundamental shift in Malaysian society today – there is a collective change of mood, away from passive and subservient acceptance of an authoritarian political order towards an active and deliberate questioning of its legitimacy. It is a revolt against Mahathirism, the established political regime that combines both an authoritarian government with a rent-seeking market economy which benefits the elite. Just as the Arab Spring saw the return of ‘the people’ to the centre stage of political power and the undoing of what has been called the mukhabarat states, Malaysians are now faced with an equally daunting historical task of undoing the Mahathirist state (mukhabarat, meaning the intelligence or secret police in Arabic).

We need to see that the politicians who are only too quick to invoke the simplistic binary opposition of Malay versus Chinese, actually blinds us of the relations of power sustained by such phrases as the ‘Chinese tsunami’, selectively forgetting the countless other identities that make up our nation, which precisely works to the benefit of the ruling classes. There is no better time for Malaysians to gain such critical consciousness apart from the present, when the state’s arbitrary use of force and violence is unleashed upon ordinary citizens. Malaysians suffer from a collective fetishistic disavowal when it comes to Mahathirism. We criticise his authoritarianism from time to time, but would secretly trade our democratic freedoms away the moment there appears a great leader who can guarantee us peace, security and economic prosperity. The time to free ourselves from this national pathology is now. There is no other alternative.

First they came for the Socialist EO6, and I did not speak out–
Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for Tian Chua on the Lahad Datu issue, and I did not speak out–
Because I was not a PKR member.

Then they came for Adam Adli, and I did not speak out–
Because I was not a Malay university student.

Then they came for me–
and there was no one left to speak for me.

(adapted from Martin Niemöller, a prominent Protestant pastor who opposed the Nazi regime. He spent the last seven years of Nazi rule in concentration camps. Germany, 1937.)

Boon Kia Meng is an activist-filmmaker. His film ‘M-C-M’: Utopia Milik Siapa?’, a winner at the Freedom Film Festival 2012, documenting the issue of escalating house prices and debt in Malaysia, can be viewed here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hv9bWjgEXtc

Over the past year I have been working with Dr Marcus Mietzner to co-edit a special issue of the Australian Journal of International Affairs. Our focus is post-coup societies in Southeast Asia and the Pacific, and the more specific emphasis is understanding how processes of re-democratisation compare. The countries discussed include Thailand, Indonesia, Myanmar/Burma, Fiji and Papua New Guinea. The articles range from specific country studies to more general treatments of the conceptual and policy issues at stake.

As Marcus and I write in the introduction:

Military interventions break the rules. They require the mobilisation of men and materiel, alongside a commitment to rapid action and often violence, in the pursuit of an abrupt, illegal political outcome. Speaking generally — though they may be semi-regular events in some countries –  coups d’état remain exceptional. Even in countries where such action has been partly normalised, such as Thailand and Fiji, there is still widespread bewilderment when uniformed officers opt to overthrow their own government. Such direct, uncompromising military intervention makes the news. Whether it is the tanks or commando battalions that are used to seize power, the outcome is usually stark: a constitution shredded, media freedoms usurped and old leaders forced onto the ignominious sidelines. In the longer term, the questions that preoccupy analysts of post-coup politics habitually emphasise the prospects for redemocratisation. It is therefore the specific processes of military consolidation and potential for democratic change that are the central concern of this special issue. Why do some countries experience regular coups? Are there generalisable political and economic determinants of coup susceptibility? What encourages the entrenchment of military rule in some countries and what leads others to redemocratise? And what is the future for those countries that are judged ‘coup-prone’?

Chemin de Fer sur l’ïle de Khone

In recent weeks, the Lao Government approved the idea of borrowing a reported amount of USD 7.2 billion to fund construction of a 418km passenger and freight railway connecting Vientiane to Yunnan province, China.

Despite a number of articles and announcements about this rail project, there remains a lack of detailed discussion about the economic implications for Lao.

The most detailed information available about the project comes from a report delivered by the Vice Prime Minister and advisor on economic development of Lao, Mr. Somsavath Lengsavath, to the National Assembly on 18 August 2012. In the report, the railway is justified to transform Lao from a land-locked nation to a land and sea-linked nation. The growth of China and ASEAN-China trade links are central arguments used to justify the project. The report discusses a feasibility study that demonstrated a financial internal rate of return of 4.56 percent and an economic internal rate of return of 32.97 percent.

Yet despite the Government’s enthusiasm, The Asian Development Bank has said the project is “unaffordable” and the World Bank has said “A careful review of the implications for debt sustainability, in addition to careful cost-benefit analysis, is … critical before proceeding.”.

Looking at the numbers involved provides some insight into why this project is a big cause for concern. Especially when Lao is already considered by the IMF to be at high risk of debt distress and has taken on a “large amount of undisbursed loan commitments from China”.

The most commonly discussed measure of the potential scale of the loan is the size of the loan compared to Lao’s GDP. This figures is given as about 87 percent. The aforementioned report on the project suggests a proposed loan principal of RMB 37.9 billion with interest of RMB 6.1 billion. Converted to USD, these figures combined come to approximately 7.2 billion, the figure that is commonly discussed for the project. In most articles, this has appeared as the principal, with interested calculated on top. Based on the report of the Vice Prime Minister, it would appear that the actual proposed principal amount is actually closer to USD 6.15 billion, approximately 74 percent of Lao’s GDP in 2011.

Lao already has an estimated debt of $5.95 billion, meaning total debt-to-gdp would potentially rise to 146 percent. This would make Lao the fourth most indebted country in the world after Japan, Zimbabwe and Greece.

Such ratios should not to be ignored, but the real determinant of fiscal stability is the willingness of creditors to extend loans and the ability for Lao to repay its debt.

China and specifically, the China EXIM Bank is being discussed as the likely source of funds. The China EXIM Bank had stated assets in 2011 of RMB 1,199 billion. A loan of RMB 37.9 billion would equate to 3 percent of the EXIM Bank’s total loan book. This is not an insignificant amount, especially since the capital amount proposed by Lao is likely to be an underestimate due to several costs being excluded from calculations. Namely, the costs for compensation of land, removal of unexploded ordinance, security of the construction team, the potential use of liquid fuel where electricity from hydropower isn’t available and a contingency for unforeseen cost increases.

Even with strong support from Beijing for this project, the EXIM Bank will need to scrutinise this project and the final terms may not be as generous as currently proposed by the Government of Lao.

In-fact, a recent report through Radio Free Asia suggests that the EXIM Bank may not be willing to extend such favorable terms and an interest rate of 5.8 percent has been mentioned, rather than 2 percent.

Unfortunately, final details of the amount and terms of the loan are yet available. The report on the project by the Vice Prime Minister suggests that Lao is continuing to work with the Chinese on this and will release further details as part of a ‘debt contract’.

Whatever the final terms are, there are three basic ways for Lao to repay the loan. Through the annual budget with money generated primarily from mineral royalties and taxation. Through the income generated from the rail project itself and via guarantees on mineral resources.

The fact that the original Chinese partner pulled out of the project because it was deemed to be unprofitable indicates that the ability of the railway to pay for itself is unlikely. In-fact, very little information is available about the estimated ongoing operating and maintenance costs and it is possible that further loans or spending could be required if the project is unprofitable and requires further capital from the central government. As for the construction and early year costs being discussed at the moment, it is likely that Lao will fund the construction of the project through the budget and/or mineral resources.

The impact of principal and interest repayments of this size on the national budget will be significant and likely to cut into existing services. Additionally, because the loan is denominated in RMB, potential exchange rate fluctuations between the Lao KIP and the RMB will impact on annual repayments. Additionally, because the central bank of Lao states pursues a ‘managed floating exchange rate regime’ significant changes could have ramifications for Lao’s foreign exchange reserves.

In 2010/11, the Government of Lao reported revenue (including foreign grants) of USD 1.8 billion and expenditure of nearly USD 2 billion, but reported a deficit of USD 0.6 billion, 75 percent of which is financed through foreign grants. Expenditure by the government can be divided roughly in half to either ‘current expenditure’ or ‘infrastructure’.

Assuming no 10-year interest free window but a favorable 2 percent interest rate, principal and interest payments for the proposed railway loan would take up 19 percent of government revenue at the end of year 1. This would have to come from cuts to current expenditure or existing infrastructure. If the interest rate were to rise to the reported 5.8 percent, this percentage would increase to 31 percent.

(Click table for larger image)

In other words, the principal and interest payments will potentially take up a significant chunk of government revenue, particularly in the first 5 to 10 years, and will always be a very noticeable item on the budget. And these are all highly dependent on forecast growth in GDP and government revenue as well as any additional costs of the project.

Because the loan is likely to be denominated in RMB, an additional major concern is the potential for exchange rate fluctuation and the impacts of this on debt serviceability.

Should the RMB increase in value against the KIP by just 10 percent, the debt burden would increase accordingly. In other words, a RMB 37.9 billion loan could become a $41.7 billion loan in a short amount of time. If in such a year mineral prices or output were also at cyclical lows, the ability of Lao to service the debt could be impacted, since mining accounts for a large chunk of government revenue and export (and so forex) earnings)

If Lao over-borrows, there are several implications for various stakeholders.

Firstly, Lao will experience lower growth and austerity for a long time as government revenue effectively subsidises a loss-making project.

Second, Lao will need to accumulate significant quantities of RMB in order to service the loan. The actual mechanisms for this are difficult to predict but is likely to be the reason for using mineral resources as collateral. The implication for Laos is that it will end up locking itself into a single buyer, which may result in lower than world prices for minerals.

Thirdly, financial restraints may ensue as Lao is seen as a risky place to lend and as debt is written down, causing losses to banks and potentially depositors.  This may also result in currency depreciation which would further strain Lao’s ability to service debt denominated in foreign currencies.

And finally, that a debt restructuring will take place in which Lao negotiates with its creditors to alter the timing, duration of debt and the interest rate paid.

Given Lao’s dependence on mineral resources and the proposed guarantee for the loan from such resources, the impacts of fiscal mismanagement could also impact the minerals sector.

The outcomes above are not a foregone conclusion, but they point to the scenarios that may play out if Lao borrows for a project that fails to deliver sufficient returns commensurate to the costs and risks involved.

These benefits can be conservatively estimated at USD 275 million annually. That is, the project needs to direct (profits) or indirect (GDP and consequent government revenue growth) of at least USD 275 million per year to pay its way. But this only considers the capital costs for construction and early year costs and doesn’t factor in cost blowouts or the potential for operating losses. So in reality, this figure may be much higher.

Based on the reported benefits listed in the 2012 report by the Vice Prime Minister, we can hazard a simplistic preliminary benefit-cost analysis. The results of this are outlined in the table below.

(Click table for larger image.)

As the figures in the table show, the profits from the project are unlikely to cover the cost of the project. The key direct benefit is estimated to arise from benefits to customers in the form of reduced time for transportation, volume of transportation and improved service quality. Somewhat surprisingly, it is suggested that the key indirect benefit will come through digging and developing ‘new sources of natural resources’. It is unclear how these benefits were calculated. Further, no direct and indirect non-financial costs have been included, overstating the net benefits.

Nonetheless, taking these figures at face value, we can estimate a simple benefit-cost ratio (BCR) of 0.76 based on profits generated as a proportion of costs of the project. A direct economic BCR is estimated at 3.75 and total economic BCR at 9.55.

Due to the inclusion of benefits without sufficient transparency regarding assumptions and methodology and the lack of direct and indirect economic costs, these figures are overstated, potentially by a significant magnitude.

The economic, social, environmental and political repercussions of the proposed Vientiane to Yunnan railway will be felt for a generation. A rigorous and transparent benefit-cost analysis including detailed plans for servicing of construction debt as well as a business plan and forecast operational cash flows should be made available to assess the merits of the project. Details of wider economic costs and benefits should also be made available, along with the assumptions that underpin any estimates.

Stakeholders inside and outside Lao should be demanding this information now, before it is too late.

 Tristan Knowles is a Director of Economists at Large.

พระยาอนุมานราชธน ปราชญ์สามันชน ผู้นิรมิต ความเป็นไทย / ศาสตราจารย์สายชล สัตยานุรักษ์ (Anuman Rajadhon, the Commoner-scholar who created Thainess). Contemporary Thai national identity is a cultural creation of the twentieth century, shaped especially by the contributions of key individuals in public life. This book by the well known historian Prof. Saichon is a critique of Anuman Rajadhon ‘s written work (from 1932 to 1967), in relation to the ideas and ideals of Thainess and Thai identity. The professor cleverly shows us how the quest for Thainess served the interests of the elite in building the nation.

นายใน สมัยราชการที่๖ / ชานันท์ ยอดหงษ์ (Male Court Attendants in the rule of Rama VI). The book is derived from the author’s PhD thesis at Thammasat University. It explores the transformation of court society as Rama VI remodeled gender roles and relationship according to an adaptation of Victorian values. In particular we see the replacement of traditionally feminine roles with males and how these young men lived.

ประวัติศาสตร์ผ่านพระเครื่อง: คติความเชื่อและพุธพาณิชย์ /ณัฐพล อยู่รุ่งเรืองศักดิ์ (History through amulets: moral belief and Buddhist commerce). In today’s Thailand religious amulets are big business, and any visitor will notice the shop windows, street stalls and magazine advertisements for these curious and often expensive little items. The Silapakorn academic give us a history of amulets in Siam/Thailand up to the present day, with particular emphasis on the ways that the military, the establishment and the middle class have variously manipulated and marketed amulets and the beliefs connected with them.

การ์ตูนไทย จากสยามคลาสสิกสู่ ไทยโมเดิร์น / นายแพทย์ประเสริฐผลิตผลการพิมพ์ (A century of Thai cartoons: from Siamese classics to contemporary Thai). Another study of cartoons/comic books by Naiphaet Prasoet, this one charting the evolution of the art form over 100 years to the present. In Prasoet ‘s critical perspective, Thai cartoonists have failed to realise the full potential of their art in informing and developing society.

Soldiers never die: ใต้อุ้งท็อปบู๊ต / วาสนา นาน่วม (Soldiers never die: under the jackboots). Watsana exposes the extent to which serving and retired officers are embedded in the civil service, and the political establishment. The author is a famous military affairs journalist known for her Lap Luang Phrang series.

 ฉะ-เหลิม คนรักต้องอ่าน คนไม่รักยิ่งต้องอ่าน / อนุสรณ์ ศิริชาติ (Chaloem: the fans must read this, the foes even more so). A biography focusing on Chaloem’s political life. The text is based on transcripts of exclusive interviews and background research, touching upon many sensitive issues concerning past events and his private life.

เถียงคนถ่อย / จิตกร บุษบา (Quarreling with the obstinate). Well established independent radio/TV commentator/author crusading against Phua Thai and the Red Shirt movement; in this book Chitakon tackles dozens of individuals, chapter by chapter, attacking their support for the government, their advocacy of policy, and their intentions. The style is very much “Shock Jock” as he moves quickly from one target to another.

 ถอนพิษระบอบทักษิณกินเมือง / ดร. เจิมศักดิ์ ปิ่นทอง (Extracting the venom of Thaksinist corruption). Another conservative radio/TV commentator /author makes his case that the Yingluck government is trying to bring back Thaksin, and that this presents an unacceptable threat to society.

[This post is provided by the National Library of Australia as part of our BookZone 2.0 feature. For further information please contact Saowapha Viravong: sviravong@nla.gov.au]

In the recent New Mandala article “The People Rise Again?”, the author poses the following question in relation to the so-called ‘P-Move’: ‘Is this a resurgence of true people’s politics’.  Later on, she clarifies what this may entail in her statement that ‘The real voices of the people at the bottom are not ones tied to a political party’.

These sentiments raise the question of why Thai elites, or those within its minority civil society sector, harbor such a desire for a ‘people’s politics’ disassociated from political interests.  It is my contention that this virtual fetishization of a pure people’s politics, unsullied by entanglement with the muck and corruption of state and the political class, represents an unjust misunderstanding of the nature of contemporary politics and the claims of the poor.

In his book The Politics of the Governed, Indian political scientist Partha Chatterjee offers a powerful portrait of the kind of popular politics routinely deployed by those like P-Move inhabiting the lower rungs of the social ladder.  Chatterjee’s great point is that for those operating in what he calls ‘political society’, the political imperative of the poor and disaffected is precisely that of forming associations or presenting as legible communities through which they attempt to engage the state in order to solicit state support. So much the better if one has on one’s side support from state members or those from the political class.  Frequently these kinds of relations are developed on purely expedient grounds, with politicians taking up the cause of this or that group simply for calculated electoral purposes, or as part of the more routine practice of the need to provide some level of support and welfare to classes potentially problematic. This is a thoroughly pragmatic form of politics, in which strategic connections are sought with people of influence (politicians) in order to grant gravitas to a cause and to assist in achieving desired ends.

For Chatterjee, this kind of political dynamic, in which the poor enter into direct relations with the state and politicians in their quest to negotiate the transfer of resources (whether land, residency rights, water, health care etc) into local communities is considered a democratic and morally legitimate mode of subaltern politics.  It is democratic in that people engage directly with power and use the various ‘weapons of the weak’ available to them to negotiate the allocation of resources denied to them due to their exclusion from the realm of civil society and formal economy. It is morally legitimate simply because livelihood needs are at stake.

But this kind of politics is rarely pure or clean.  Frequently it involves violence or the threats thereof, bribes and petty corruption, favors and special interests, protests which prove inconvenient to civil society, and coalition arrangements with the corrupt and distasteful in order to add weight to the claims of the poor.  This is all part and parcel of political society – an often untidy affair.

Political society appears to be on the nose for the Thai elite.  Coalitions between politicians and the lower classes are dismissed as illegitimate.  Politicians are thought to simply be using the poor for personal interests.  But the concept of political society enables us to see that the poor may too be entering into calculated relations to pursue their own interests.  In turn, it’s not unreasonable to consider this both democratic and legitimate, no matter how much it may depart from the values and democratic brand of politics advocated by civil society.

The Thai elite find it hard to accept this. Mirroring their demands for ‘good men’ at the national political level, so there appears to be an insistence for ‘good men’ and pure people’s politics at the grassroots level.  Whilst they may indeed be found, one wonders why these values are projected onto the most vulnerable sectors of society, and whether this isn’t a form of subtle cultural imperialism.  One wonders also, if this isn’t just another excuse used by Thai civil society to ignore the serious demands made by the poor, regardless of the state and history of the package they come in or how they are made.

Must the poor learn to keep the right company before they are granted a seat at the table?

Ryan Lane is a graduate student in the College of Asia and the Pacific, The Australian National University

I wrote an article about how there is one extra woman in Malaysia’s new parliament.

Actually, it’s not even that good.

The numbers did not change at all.

My initial article did get some scrutiny regarding the make-up of Pakatan Rakyat’s (PR) women parliamentarians.

In it, I said:

Five of the nine women elected for PR were from its component party Parti Keadilan Rakyat (PKR). Two were from Parti SeIslam Malaysia (PAS), including Siti Mariam Mahmud in Kota Raja. It is believed that, despite coming from PAS, Siti Mariam won her seat in 2008 due to support from Chinese and Indian voters. The other two women elected for PR were from the Democratic Action Party (DAP).

A reader quickly pointed out that although nine women were indeed elected from PR, the make-up was a little different from what I had said. Instead, four were from DAP, three from PKR, and two from PAS.

The number of nine women from the opposition has stayed correct throughout other analyses, but the number of women from BN has changed considerably.

My initial analysis, published on May 6, had the number of women elected for BN at 15.

On May 13, the Malay Mail reported that 11 women had been elected to the federal parliament for BN.

On that same day, DAP politicians Teresa Kok, Lim Lip Eng and Ong Kian Ming released a statement that said 13 women had been elected for BN.

Is anyone else noticing a huge discrepancy here?

Today, a former colleague published a piece at the Malaysian Insider (MI) using similar numbers to the politicians’ statement.

I contacted asking her where she had gotten her numbers, and she acknowledged that she had seen the three different figures provided but decided to go with those on the statement.

So I started to look at my data again. The Malaysian non-governmental organization Empower had set up a website to help monitor women’s participation in the 13^th general election.

In examining the gender make-up of the new parliament, I had relied on data from that website to list the women candidates standing, and then as the results came in keep track of which of them had won seats.

Table 1: Elected PR women parliamentarians.

According to the information I had in my spreadsheet, the numbers I had were correct. There was no issue with the number of women politicians elected for PR, so I started to look at the politicians elected for BN.

And I started to look not only at my data, but also the data of others on whom I had relied.

Therein, I found a problem. In my data, and that of Empower’s, I had one BN candidate listed as a female when he was in fact a man.

Table 2: Elected BN women parliamentarians.

My former colleague who had written the MI piece also clued in very quickly. I had sent her my data, in the hope of getting to the bottom of these different numbers.

I had made a mistake in my initial analysis. I cannot blame Empower for this error, as a quick Google search on the concerned candidate would have cleared this up.

The work that not just Empower, but many women’s organizations in Malaysia, have done to promote women’s political participation in Malaysia is truly remarkable. Empower has done a great job in acting as a watchdog on women’s role in the 13^th general election.

But at the same time, I have to wonder: how was this not a big deal earlier? How did no other journalist or researcher think to hold people who had offered these numbers earlier to account?

Why is the number of women elected to parliament something that only individuals with a particular niche should care about?

Shouldn’t we all be concerned that, despite the lip service both sides of the political divide paid to women’s empowerment in the run-up to this election, nothing really changed?

That in fact, when it comes to women’s political participation in Malaysia, what we are seeing is the same pattern being repeated over and over?

I wrote this piece because to put an end to the incorrect figures now circulating on Malaysian women parliamentarians, and I had to acknowledge my role in allowing that to happen.

However, I worry that the lack of concern and lack of willingness to do further research on these numbers is perhaps indicative of how ingrained our belief in women’s issues as a cross between a non-issue and a niche is.

Edward Miller, Misalliance: Ngo Dinh Diem, the United States, and the Fate of South Vietnam

Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 2013. Pp.  419; maps, photographs, notes, index.

Reviewed by Keith Weller Taylor.

This book addresses events, issues, and personalities that have remained controversial for over half a century. It develops an interpretation that is complex, nuanced, and judicious. It is a major advance in scholarship on the first Republic of Vietnam (1955-63) that opens a new perspective on the U.S.-Vietnamese relationship during the Truman, Eisenhower, and Kennedy administrations. What gives it particular explanatory power is how it draws away from the simplistic and partisan interpretations based on ideology that have dominated writings on the topic and instead focuses attention upon the divergent thoughts, motivations, aims, and actions of Vietnamese and Americans during the ascendancy of Ngo Dinh Diem.

Nearly every interpretation of the Vietnam War rests in some way upon a particular understanding of Ngo Dinh Diem. For the most part, these interpretations need Ngo Dinh Diem to perform a role that is essential for exonerating the Hanoi government of responsibility for the war that broke out in the late 1950s; to accomplish this, Ngo Dinh Diem is usually described as the architect of his own demise, and, by extension, of the demise of a non-communist South Vietnam. Edward Miller also gives lip service to this perspective (pages 200-202), which helps to draw attention away from one aspect of the story that is missing in this book: the policies of the government in Hanoi toward South Vietnam. The force of Miller’s overall analysis minimizes Ngo Dinh Diem’s problems with communists and instead focuses upon his problems with Americans. The Hanoi side of the story is not part of Miller’s agenda.

Miller makes the troubled “misalliance” between Ngo Dinh Diem and the U.S. the center of his attention, but, unlike nearly everyone else who has written about this, he takes seriously the Saigon side of the story. At the same time he complicates the American side of the story. The result is a book brimming with information and fresh thought. It is a welcome addition to scholarship about Ngo Dinh Diem and U.S.-Vietnamese relations during the First Republic, and it can potentially alter the direction of scholarship on the Vietnam War by documenting how Vietnamese and American officials were at cross purposes in the early years of Hanoi’s efforts to overthrow the Saigon government.

The greatest value of this book is how it develops an analysis of rival American ideas about nation-building and how competing views among Americans failed to correlate with Ngo Dinh Diem’s idea of nation-building. The greatest interpretive weakness of the book is how it repeatedly resorts to a fixed idea about Ngo Dinh Diem’s triumphal faith in his nation-building policies as a deus ex machine for explaining his behavior in 1963. The problem that surely weighed on the minds of Saigon leaders at least as much as nation-building and troubled relations with Americans was that the neighboring Vietnamese state was determined to overthrow by force the nation they were trying to build. The book’s theme of the Ngo Dinh brothers’ delusional confidence in their own policies fills an analytical gap for Miller, but it is without plausible non-circumstantial evidence and is the one aspect of Miller’s analysis that lacks nuance.

Miller’s focus on comparative theories about nation-building is an excellent way to open up a topic that has long been little more than a shouting match between those for whom Cold War strategic imperatives explain all and those who explain all by affirming Saigon incompetence and American imperialism, if not by romanticizing Hanoi as riding upon the cusp of history. Miller writes: “ … the contests and clashes that I call the politics of nation building [Miller’s italics] shaped the entire history of the U.S.-Diem alliance, from its creation to its demise” (page 17). I like very much Miller’s discussion of American modernization theories of the “high” and “low” varieties in the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s and how they ran in two directions upon encountering Vietnam: a racial/cultural determinism that mandated American tutelage or a universalist belief that Vietnamese had a potential to successfully build their own nation in their own way. The particular turn that this struggle among Americans took during the second half of 1963 proved fatal to Ngo Dinh Diem, but it remained unresolved and continued to roil American policy thereafter.

Miller admirably develops the themes of his analysis, but some elements of the story are neglected, for example Ambassador Elbridge Durbrow’s idea about enforcing “linkage” between U.S. aid and political reform and the influence this had on Ngo Dinh Diem’s Vietnamese critics who signed the Caravelle Manifesto in April 1960. Likewise, Durbrow’s “demarche” of October 1960 and the attempted coup one month later occurred at a time of policy drift in the final year of Eisenhower’s presidency, after the death of John Foster Dulles, and when there were expectations in Saigon of a change in American policy after the election of a new American president.  The mounting criticism of Ngo Dinh Diem on the part of American officials and newspapers, as would be the case three years later, was a fundamental aspect of the calculations of Diem’s Vietnamese critics in 1960. Furthermore, all of this took place in the year that Hanoi began to implement a more active policy of overthrowing the Saigon government, sending men and weapons into South Vietnam and organizing what became known as the National Liberation Front to, among other things, mobilize political disaffection in Saigon. Miller’s focus on nation-building agendas leaves aside the larger context of events that gathered momentum with the South Vietnamese parliamentary elections of 1959, which alienated Diem’s political opponents in Saigon, and the decision in Hanoi to solve the so-called “southern question” by armed force.

Although Miller does not give much attention to the political ferment in Saigon during the late 1950s and early 1960s and its connection to perceptions of American disenchantment with the Saigon government, he provides a good study of the Ngo Dinh brothers: their aims, achievements, and failures. He portrays them as modernizers with a vision for bringing revolutionary change to their society while avoiding both the violence and communal discipline of the communists and the relatively undisciplined individualism of American-style democracy. In his book, Diem’s Final Failure, Philip Catton opened up this line of thought with his analysis of what has been called the Ngo Dinh brothers’ philosophy of Personalism. Here, Miller gives a detailed appreciation of how this way of thinking led to the Ngo Dinh policy for rural development. With a comprehensive and lucid discussion of American nation-building ideas, Miller creates an analysis for how American and Vietnamese ideas about nation-building overlapped and were in contention. This enables Miller to develop a more complex and more plausible explanation than other writers have done for how the Diem-U.S. alliance ended in a fatal rupture. It’s not that Diem and/or the Americans were acting stupidly or corruptly, as has so often been asserted, but rather that they were at cross purposes. Ultimately, under the pressures of a growing war, the “high modernism” of Americans confident that they knew what was best for the Vietnamese overwhelmed the “low modernism” of Americans who were more alert to the possibilities for Vietnamese initiative.

The Ngo Dinh brothers had a vision of how a poor country emerging from colonial rule and prolonged war and lacking democratic traditions could become a modern and Vietnamese version of a democratic country. They were unsuccessful in communicating this vision to either their Vietnamese critics or the Americans. At the same time, it might be useful to observe that their vision of nation-building, based on their idea of Personalism, was no more obscure and mystifying to ordinary people than was Marxism-Leninism. Unlike their enemy in Hanoi, however, the Ngo Dinh brothers lacked patrons who did not baulk at ruthless, homicidal policies to enforce compliance. Unlike the U.S.S.R. and the P.R.C. in the north, the U.S. faced no rival power in the Vietnamese situation and consequently found it difficult to resist the temptation to be in charge.

Miller contextualizes the activities of Americans within the Vietnamese situation; this is generally missing from nearly all accounts of this time and place. Most books written by Americans place Americans and American policy in the center of attention, but Miller helps us see how the American input into Vietnamese affairs was with rare exceptions not the main force that drove Vietnamese events. This is true of how Ngo Dinh Diem obtained his appointment as prime minister in 1954 and how he outwitted his many enemies to master the conspiratorial violence of Saigon politics in early 1955. While his success has been attributed to and claimed by Americans who were active in South Vietnam at that time, Miller provides a good description of the dynamic rivalries and relationships among the Vietnamese groups and personalities that drove Saigon politics during the year that followed the signing of the Geneva Accords.

This book also provides a good study of rivalry among the Ngo Dinh brothers and of factionalism in their Can Lao Party, both of which changed dramatically during the few years of the First Republic. One of the important achievements of this book is that it explores the dilemma of a nationalist leader seeking to instill democratic habits in a population under the stress created by war and by an ally that was both imperious and fickle. Apparently because of his focus on the theme of nation-building, Miller explains the downhill slide of the Ngo Dinh government in 1963 as an irrational clinging to faith in a particular nation-building agenda. Consequently, his explanation of events leading to the downfall of the brothers is more simplistic than a more comprehensive account of events is likely to support.

There are two noticeable absences in this book. Whether or not they should be considered weaknesses or simply as matters being legitimately outside of the author’s focus will be a matter of opinion. One absence is an appreciation of how American criticism of Ngo Dinh Diem and Diem’s frustration with the Americans was related to the fermentation of dissenting voices in Saigon.

Despite the relative weakness of the legislature, parliamentary elections revealed domestic criticism not simply of Ngo Dinh Diem but also of the American alliance. Relatively open dissent broke to the surface during the election of 1959, the year when Hanoi’s new policy of overthrowing Saigon by force first became discernible. In this election, Dr Phan Quang Dan campaigned, among other issues, against the Commercial Import Program by which the U.S. was supplying financial support to the Saigon government. He was elected but not allowed to take his seat. His criticism of the CIP was close to Ngo Dinh Diem’s worries about the program: that it created an institutional dependency of the South Vietnamese government upon the U.S. that squelched the local economy and made plausible the threat of Ambassador Durbrow’s “linkage” as a mechanism to enforce compliance with American “advice.” It was one thing to speak publicly about the negative aspects of the American alliance and another thing to be caught in the grip of its contradictions. Ngo Dinh Diem was not inclined to think that he had anything to learn from his Vietnamese critics when his American critics were so much more difficult to deal with.

The Caravelle Manifesto, produced by Ngo Dinh Diem’s Vietnamese critics in April 1960, specifically mentions the election of 1959 and the hopes and disappointments aroused by it; it was also closely related to and in some ways echoed the emergence of American criticism of Ngo Dinh Diem both by Ambassador Durbrow and in the American press. The resonance between Vietnamese perceptions of American disenchantment with Diem and Vietnamese daring to openly dissent was a large part of the context for not only the Caravelle Manifesto but also for the 1960 coup attempt.

The election of 1963, scheduled for late August, was postponed because of the imposition of martial law in mid-August. What is never mentioned in accounts of 1963 is that martial law was lifted in mid-September and the legislative elections were held at the end of September without the degree of heavy-handed intervention by the government that had characterized the election of 1959; the results were discernibly less favorable to Ngo Dinh Diem than had been the case in 1959.

The book also makes no mention of the scientist and South Vietnamese diplomat Buu Hoi’s mission to the United Nations in autumn 1963, which resulted in a seven-nation U.N. delegation to investigate the “pagoda raids” of August 1963. The delegation arrived in Saigon on October 24, and Ngo Dinh Diem allowed it to go anywhere and to speak with anyone; its report was generally favorable to the Saigon government’s handling of the Buddhist “crisis.” However, the U.S. government opposed the sending of this delegation, fearing that it might support Ngo Dinh Diem at the very moment that it was itself endeavoring to have him overthrown. Scholars have tended to ignore the U.N. mission, perhaps because it did not figure into any serious American policy calculations.

Probably the most fundamental absence in this book is any indication of how the policies of the government in Hanoi were producing effects in South Vietnam. Although this is not part of Miller’s agenda, without it the pressures pushing a misalliance into rupture are not fully apparent. Parts of this book read like the silence of “one hand clapping”; Saigon’s efforts to defeat communist insurgents are described but without any clear indication of the threat these efforts were designed to thwart. There is no indication of the shifts in Hanoi’s policy that affected insurgency in the south. This important lacuna conveys the impression that the problem was a purely South Vietnamese phenomenon with no connection to the line of command and supply from Hanoi, and it seems to allow the author to attribute the insurgency primarily to errors in Ngo Dinh Diem’s leadership.

Miller’s emphasis on the U.S.-Vietnamese misalliance misses early efforts on the part of the U.S. to respond to Hanoi’s initiation of a new war by shifting toward a strategy of counterinsurgency in mid-1960; this was before the presidency of John Kennedy, with whom counterinsurgency is conventionally associated, and before the formation of the National Liberation Front, which Miller tends to describe as if it were in some way disconnected from, and not a front organization for, the government in Hanoi. Lionel C. McGarr replaced Samuel T. Williams as commander of the U.S. Military Assistance Advisory Group in late summer 1960. McGarr was known for expertise in counterinsurgency and his appointment reflected the alacrity of the U.S. response to the changing situation even in the final months of the Eisenhower administration.

A subsidiary silence in this book is the role of Averill Harriman in crafting the International Agreement on the Neutrality of Laos in 1962. Ngo Dinh Diem opposed this agreement because it effectively opened South Vietnam’s border with Laos to the North Vietnamese and made Laos a relatively safe haven for the communists. The apparent American abandonment of Laos and lack of appreciation for the connection between Laos and South Vietnamese security alerted the Ngo Dinh brothers to the possibility that the U.S. could easily abandon South Vietnam, too. Harriman’s efforts to discredit Ngo Dinh Diem and to initiate a policy to overthrow him began from this time. Miller mentions that U.S. policy in Laos produced a “psychological shock” to leaders in Saigon (p. 230), but events in Laos and the “shock” are not explained and the significance of Hanoi having unrestricted access to South Vietnam’s border with Laos is ignored.

Miller’s conclusion is ironic: he writes that Ngo Dinh Diem’s greatest weakness was his unwillingness “to grapple with the range of nationalist imaginings within South Vietnam—especially those espoused by other noncommunist leaders and groups” and that both his and American nation-building “designs” were “undermined” by “failures to accommodate the diverse revolutionary aspirations that existed within South Vietnam and that resisted subordination to a single ideological formulation” (p. 326). To what extent this is a fair evaluation will depend upon the horizon of comparison. Compared with his enemy in Hanoi, Ngo Dinh Diem countenanced a much greater diversity of aspirations and of ideological formulations. However, scholars never describe Hanoi’s totalitarian style as a “weakness.” To be consistent, Miller might have stayed with his theme of misalliance, a theme that has not, to my knowledge, been attributed to Hanoi and its allies. Rather than veering off to join Ngo Dinh Diem’s American critics, as this conclusion does, a conclusion that would appear to have been more resonant with this book might have observed that an alliance between unequal partners without a counterbalancing power is dangerous for the weaker one.

All of this aside, Miller has written a fine book that reorients the study of Ngo Dinh Diem to see the First Republic of Vietnam as a Vietnamese experiment in wartime nation-building that ran afoul of ideas about nation-building espoused by its powerful American ally. The book is thoughtful, lucid, original, analytical, and readable.

Keith Weller Taylor is Professor of Vietnamese Studies, Department of Asian Studies, Cornell University.

Reference

Philip E. Catton. Diem’s Final Failure: Prelude to America’s War in Vietnam. Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2002.

How we depict or represent something influences how we think about or ‘know’ it, and the reverse is true as well. In the context of visual art, John Berger showed us this almost half a century ago now. Berger also helped us to realise that ‘ways of seeing and knowing’ are seldom as innocuous as they may first appear; they may hide violence beneath their gleaming, airbrushed surfaces or be tools of libido dominandi disguised as benevolence.

For instance, the pin-ups that one might find in a colleague’s office or in the department machine shop are not ‘just’ pictures of almost-naked women in provocative poses in semi-public places, but a particular way of representing and seeing women that ultimately leads to and comes from the objectification of women and their bodies, particular assumptions about women’s role in society, and a certain violence in social relations between the sexes.

Most of those who know of Malaysia are familiar with the ‘Malaysia, Truly Asia’ tourism ads; indeed, for many, these represent the only way they have ever seen Malaysia. It is therefore not surprising that much that has been written on Malaysia’s recent general elections has failed to transcend the carefully-constructed framing narrative which these ads embody and in which they are embedded. As such, the world’s chattering classes were, perhaps unwittingly but nevertheless inexcusably, complicit in reinforcing a ‘way of seeing’ which – in order to serve certain interests – is intentionally blind to Malaysia’s most vulnerable groups, most notably her indigenous peoples ( ~ 12% of her 28 million citizens), but also migrant workers (~2-4 million people) as well as refugees and asylum seekers.

One of the main planks of this narrative (hereafter called ‘MICO’ for ‘Malay’, ‘Indian’, ‘Chinese’ and ‘Others’) is the statement – and oft-quoted ‘factoid’ – that ‘Just over half of Malaysians are ethnic Malays, 7% are of Indian descent, almost a quarter are of Chinese descent and the rest come from Other Races.’ These ‘other races’, whom one might expect to be Europeans or other non-Asians, are in fact mostly Malaysia’s indigenous peoples, reduced by this statement to being negligible ‘others’ in their own land.

In the East Malaysian (Malaysian Borneo) states of Sabah and Sarawak, contrary to West Malaysia, indigenous peoples still form the majority of the population. These oil- and timber-rich states contribute ~60% of Malaysia’s geographical area, a fifth of its population and an outsize fraction of federal government revenue. They are also an embarrassment to the present ruling coalition, the Barisan Nasional (BN), as they do not (yet) fit into the racial framework they impose on the country and present to the world as ‘the only truthful way of seeing Malaysia’. Indeed, when people speak generally about Malaysia – especially in social or cultural terms – most of the time they really mean West Malaysia.

West Malaysian indigenous groups (known collectively as the Orang Asli/Asal, or ‘original people’) have been a minority for several centuries, and now form less than 1% of the population. As such, the MICO classification – along with the predecessor of today’s Orang Asli Affairs Department (JHEOA) – was created by the British to divide and rule West Malaysia (then called Malaya). For all that, it has never truly described Malaya’s population. In part, this is because each category lumped together and conflated a myriad of culturally distinguishable groups. (An indicator: collectively, Malaysians speak more than a hundred living languages.) In addition, MICO’s categories themselves were already blurring during colonial times through intermarriages and adoptions, and have only become more blurred with Independence and the gradual coming into being of a Malaysian identity.

Nevertheless, the BN, a coalition of race-based parties in power since West Malaysian Independence in 1957, has tried to maintain and reinforce MICO categories. For example, a West Malaysian with Irish, French, Javanese, Filipino, Arab, Hakka and Ceylonese ancestry could be ‘officially’ M, I, C or O depending on their paternal ancestry or their religion, or else by ‘accident’ or for other less-than-transparent reasons. (Both one’s race and religion are recorded on Malaysian national identity cards, as well as many other administrative documents.) To borrow an expression from the British, Malaysians are a mongrel race. Malaysian ethnicity is a fluid concept, forced into hard categories.

These hard categories – the MICO construct – ultimately sustain and nourish a corrupt system of patronage benefitting a small multi-racial ‘elite’ class of rent-seekers. The most obvious of its effects and enabling factors is Malaysia’s all-pervasive institutionalised racism and race-baiting politics, which has led millions of Malaysia’s most highly-qualified citizens to leave the country. Much ink has already been spilled on these topics. We shall therefore focus instead on bringing to light a less-known side of the story – the ongoing narrative and effective ethnocide of Malaysia’s indigenous peoples.

One of the main actors in the entrenchment and perpetuation of the MICO depiction of Malaysia as well as its corollary doctrine of the ‘supremacy of the Malay race’ was, ironically, a man who was himself a square peg in MICO’s round holes. This man was Dr. Mahathir Mohamad. Of Indian ancestry (some say he is the son of a migrant from Kerala), and from a recent-migrant neighbourhood, Dr. Mahathir reinvented himself as a ‘Malay’, not only that, as a ‘champion of the Malay race’. He rose through the ranks to become the leader of the United Malays National Organisation (UMNO, the dominant party in the BN).

As Malaysia’s longest-serving Prime Minister (1981-2003), Dr. Mahathir presided over two decades of impressive economic growth and modernisation. His legacy, as well as both UMNO and Malaysia, would be very different today had Dr. Mahathir not attempted to compensate for his origins by becoming ‘more Malay than the Malays’, or had the ideas of UMNO’s more inclusive founding fathers prevailed: One of them, Onn Jaafar mooted in the 1950s the opening of UMNO membership to all Malayans (West Malaysians). As it was, history took a different course.

To cement MICO, widen their ‘Malay’ voter base and to make ‘Malay Supremacy’ a demographic reality, Dr. Mahathir and UMNO played on the fact that, in the Malaysian Federal Constitution, Article 160 defines a Malay as a ‘Malaysian citizen born to a Malaysian citizen who professes to be a Muslim, habitually speaks the Malay language, adheres to Malay customs, and is domiciled in Malaysia or Singapore’. In addition, Article 153 guarantees Malays a ‘special position’ in the country.

This identification between Malays and Islam serves UMNO’s political purposes through two principal mechanisms.

If Malay, therefore Muslim: Over the years, it has become increasingly difficult for a person born Malay – and therefore by ‘legal definition’ Muslim – to convert out of Islam or to practice a non-Sunni form of Islam. Today, as the Lina Joy case has shown, this is for all practical intents and purposes impossible. Some who try are sent to re-education centres. Those classified as Muslims are subject to both civil and syariah law, as well as rulings of state religious departments.

Whereas in principle only civil law applies to non-Muslims, Malaysia’s dual legal system has created numerous legal, administrative and human problems in overlapping areas, notably family law. In the context of demographic manipulation, it is worth noting that non-Muslims who marry Muslims must convert to Islam; as with the impossibility of conversion out of Islam, this has not always been the case in Malaysia.

If Muslim, therefore Malay: Muslim migrants to Malaysia, whatever their origin, are rapidly assimilated into the ‘Malay’ category by the political will of UMNO. Thus, one finds individuals ‘issus de l’immigration récente’, such as Dr. Mahathir Mohamad, having a ‘special position’ vis-a-vis others who have been around for longer, but who simply happen not to be Muslim.

Given UMNO’s social engineering goals, Malaysia’s indigenous peoples clearly represent both a threat and an opportunity. The threat lies in their very existence, which negates the claim that Malays are indigenous ‘sons of the soil’ (bumiputera);  in particular, it greatly weakens the position of ‘assimilated’ or ‘constitutional’ Malays such as Dr. Mahathir Mohamad and others like him, of whom there are a considerable number among UMNO’s leaders. The opportunity lies in their status as undefined ‘others’ in MICO.

It does not take a Stanford Business grad at McKinsey to figure out what ‘the solution’ is: the embarrassing existence of the indigenous peoples must be ‘erased’ by making them into ‘Malays’. There have therefore been widespread official and semi-official efforts in this direction.

The most obvious of these was the introduction of large numbers of Muslim migrants  (some say up to 700,000) through a covert ‘citizenship for votes’ operation known as ‘Project IC’, which over the past few decades has significantly changed the demographics of Sabah, formerly a Christian majority state. Analysts believe that this may have led to a general destabilisation of the region and in particular indirectly enabled an armed incursion into the Malaysian state of Sabah by militants from the southern Philippine island of Mindanao, who claim the territory of Sabah .

Other ‘Malay-isation’ efforts are less well-documented and more subtle; they include soft – and sometimes not so soft – efforts to Islamise the indigenous peoples of both East and West Malaysia. (At the moment, two thirds of Malaysian Christians are indigenous East Malaysians and, conversely, just under half of indigenous East Malaysians are Christians. These facts seem to have escaped even the Missions Etrangères de Paris, but may no longer be true in the future if MICO persists and succeeds.) A 2008 report by the Asian Indigenous and Tribal Peoples Network called the Malaysian Department of Orang Asli Affairs (JHEOA) – whose ostensible mission is to ‘develop the socio-economic well-being of the Orang Asli’ – ‘a mechanism to control the Orang Asli’, one of whose ultimate aims since the late 1970s has been to integrate the Orang Asli into ‘mainstream Malay society’ through Islamisation.

Socio-economically, Malaysia’s indigenous people are among her poorest and most marginalised groups; they have benefitted far less than the ‘Malays’ from ‘bumiputera’ affirmative action policies, programmes and aid. Worse, land they live on has been ‘grabbed’ e.g. for the Kuala Lumpur International Airport and for its timber. A 2003 publication by the Centre for Orang Asli Concerns, an NGO, described the Orang Asli as ‘First in the Land, Last in the Plan’. Similarly, a recent report by the Malaysian Human Rights Commission (SUHAKAM) observed that the ‘economic self-reliance of [East Malaysian natives] has been progressively reduced…forcing them to become coolies in their own land’.

With Malaysia’s tightly-controlled media – many newspapers are owned outright by BN parties, RSF ranked Malaysia 145th out of 179 countries for press freedom – MICO partially succeeded in labelling and sowing distrust among Malaysians for a long time, but the game changed when internet access became widely available. Internet penetration is now at about 60%.

The mushrooming of independent news portals and other online forums starting a little over ten years ago enabled many Malaysians to broach the once-taboo ‘race issue’, first by venting frustrations pent-up for decades, then to engage in more sophisticated analysis, and finally to expose the MICO framework and its inherent violence for what they were and to reject them. This dynamic and rapidly-maturing national conversation has been, quite simply, amazing to watch, even for those who always had faith in the inherent goodness and basic common sense of the Malaysian people. It has resulted in initiatives such as ‘Saya Anak Bangsa Malaysia’ (My Race is Malaysian), Projek Dialog, Malaysian Artistes for Unity, ‘Kita Kawan Mah’ (We are all friends) and the Malaysia Forum, as well as growing support for non-race-based political parties, especially in areas with reliable internet access.

The results of GE13 – where the BN lost the popular vote but retained power amidst allegations of massive and widespread fraud – thus represent more than anything a resounding rejection of the BN and its MICO framework as well as corruption and abuse of public office by young, urban, connected voters. An online poll of 30,000 Malaysians under the age of 21, the age of voting majority, showed 90% support for the opposition Pakatan Rakyat and only 10% for the race-based political parties of the BN.

Unsurprisingly, in the immediate aftermath of GE13, the ruling BN – who do not seem willing or able to change with the times – immediately sought to reinforce their ‘tried and tested’ MICO methods of manipulating and controlling the population by speaking of a ‘Chinese tsunami’ and by inciting hatred between ‘races’ (as defined by them) in the front-page headlines of offline media. Dr. Mahathir Mohamad attributed the BN’s loss to ‘greedy Malays’ and ‘ungrateful Chinese’. Utusan Malaysia, owned by UMNO, screamed ‘Apa lagi Cina Mahu?’ (What more do the Chinese want?) and the Star, owned by MCA, the BN’s ‘Chinese’ party, dutifully played the echo chamber with ‘Chinese will be SIDELINED’.

To the international community, the BN attempted as usual to portray Malaysians as a divided, vengeful and violent people, whom only they are capable of keeping from springing at each other’s throats. And thus, no doubt, protect investments. It is in this light that Najib Razak, the leader of the BN’s disingenuous remarks on ‘national reconciliation’ must be read and understood. It is also in this light that calls for a BN merger with the opposition Democratic Action Party (social democrats) must be read and understood; in effect, the BN has a history of ‘neutralising’ ascendant opposition parties by absorbing and ‘racially pigeon-holing’ them – previous victims include Gerakan, the People’s Progressive Party (PPP) and Parti Bersatu Sabah (PBS).

The foreign press largely fell for, or chose to fall for, the BN’s ploy and continued to report on Malaysia within the MICO framework, ignoring the fact that this was precisely what Malaysians had rejected in the elections. Not only did many take the ‘Chinese Tsunami’ at face value and repeat it thought-for-thought as ‘analysis’; some major news outlets, including the Economist, le Monde and the Financial Times, went one step further and finished the BN’s work for them by ‘absorbing’ Malaysia’s indigenous peoples into the ‘Malay’ category in their ‘ethnic statistics’ of the Malaysian population, thus erasing those ‘first in the land’ in Malaysia with a single stroke of the pen. These were appalling and irresponsible acts of journalistic laziness, hermeneutic arrogance and ultimately demographic violence and narrative ethnocide.

Many Malaysians reading BN’s racist rhetoric, which reached new heights (or depths) immediately before and after the elections and in addition was amplified by the international press, felt like female engineers who popped over to the machine shop to mill a simple piece only to find themselves confronted with a life-size pin-up on the wall.

They were disgusted and outraged, and rightly so.

To tell their side of the story, ordinary Malaysians have come forward in increasing numbers recently to undermine the MICO framework and expose its distortions, in particular by pointing out that it does not accurately represent their ancestry or Malaysia’s complex cultural heritage. Sairana Mohamad Saad’s article in the Malaysian Insider is typical. It begins:

According to my birth certificate, I am a Malay. Based on my…features, I should be from [the state of] Penang. The truth is, both [sic] my grandparents sailed to Malaysia, therefore I was born [in the state of] Selangor…and am married to a foreigner. Most Malaysians would call me “rojak” [mixed]. To me, I am a Malaysian, with rights to speak up. Period.

Erna Mahyuni, an indigenous Sabahan, had this to say about an attempt to label her an ‘ungrateful Malay’ for having said that most Malaysians are ‘pendatang’ or immigrants:

I’m not Malay nor do I have ‘Malay’ blood anywhere in my ancestry. My birth certificate shows my father is Dusun; my mother is Bajau. Incidentally, one of my great-grandmothers is Chinese, as are quite a number of my relatives, and the other great-grandmother is Pakistani Indian. Which still makes me 100 per cent Malaysian.

And Karina Bahrin directly attacked the ‘tsunami’ statement in a remark addressed to the ‘Prime Minister and all in UMNO’:

I am, by your definition, Malay. Except…my paternal grandmother was probably biologically Chinese. And…my mother is a former Catholic from the Philippines…[A]s far as you are concerned, I am Malay. Only, I did not vote for you. And neither did a whole lot of other Malays…Do the math.

As a matter of fact, analysts – including independent pollster Ibrahim Suffian of the Merdeka Centre; Dr. Ong Kian Ming, an academic-turned-politician and director of the Malaysian Electoral Roll Analysis Project; and contributors to the Australian National University’s ‘New Mandala’ – have done the math. And they have found that the data do not support the ‘Chinese Tsunami’ hermeneutic but instead point to a swing across the board towards the opposition Pakatan Rakyat coalition, whose component parties are not race-based. If one must ‘enliven’ a headline with the word ‘schism’ (Associated Press, New York Times etc.), it would be more truthful to note that in GE13 the schism, if there was one, was along urban-rural, age, gender and class lines rather than ethnic ones.

Malaysians have undertaken a much-needed and democratically-driven paradigm shift. To a certain extent, it could even be said that the Malaysian people are finally constructing their own paradigm and finding their own voices. Commentators would do well to take note of and record if not applaud this historic event instead of acting as deadweights stuck in the old, racist paradigm; otherwise, they risk finding themselves on the wrong side of history.

Charis Quay Huei Li is a Malaysian academic working abroad. An outline of the main points in this article appeared in the form of comments on the Economist’s website.  These were removed by the moderator; no reason was given.

A well-established proposition in political science is that it is difficult to achieve and maintain stable democratic rule in a plural society (Lijphart 1977). Some also argue that competitive elections, a minimal procedural condition in a modern democracy, could potentially generate more instability and violence rather than rectifying them in such a society (Snyder 2000). Whoever comes into government, the challenges of maintaining delicate ethnic relations will remain the same in a deeply divided society like Malaysia. In spite of extraordinary economic, socio-cultural and political transformations over the past decades, the basic characteristics of Malaysia’s “plural society” and ethnic-based party mobilisation have remarkably remained the same. Will Malaysia’s increasingly “competitive” elections and more credible and assertive “multi-ethnic” opposition bring about more equity and stability, as promised by the opposition coalition, Pakatan Rakyat (PR)?

Beyond the short-term goals of winning elections, eliminating corruption, and ultimately achieving democracy, these are important deep-seated issues that need to be addressed among not only foreign observers like myself, but also Malaysian elites and citizens. What will a Malaysian democracy look like? Will the democracy à la PR be significantly different from a polity we have known in Malaysia under the BN in terms of equality and equity? Have issues, ideologies, and institutions of identity, ethnicity, and in particular religion, receded or increased as a result of more competitive elections? Do the opposition leaders have adequate political capital to settle these issues skilfully (and differently) to achieve a new democratic regime and peaceful society? Do they have a better vision of state and nation that they agree and commit themselves to in a long run? In order to address these questions beyond the immediate outcomes of the election, this essay seeks to place the recent political development in broader perspectives that pertain to the questions of identity, religion and ethnicity, based on the available data and tentative observations.

1. The political use of ethnicity and religion in election campaigns: political learning and ideological moderation

On the positive side, one thing that could be highlighted and commended in the recent election is that the use of parochial and divisive ethnic and religious identities and symbols for short-term electoral gains was not as significant as pessimistic observers may have expected. Sure, there were “racial” rhetoric and accusations circulated in media primarily by pro-regime forces. However, these racial and ethnic rhetoric and mobilisation aimed at inciting ultra-nationalistic sentiments has proven to be ineffective or counterproductive, as seen in the defeat of the ultra-nationalist candidate, Ibrahim Ali in his home state of Kelantan. Moreover, violence related to ethnic or religious divisions has largely been restrained. Overall, the PR has been reasonably successful in overcoming and limiting narrow parochial ethnic and religious sentiments in running election campaigns. Instead, they have focused on pragmatic—and universalistic—programs such as clean and fair elections, elimination of corruption and good governance.

Have such universalistic campaigns of PR worked for all the component parties to bring such an impressive electoral showing for the opposition? My quick calculation of the results seems to suggest some interesting (potentially worrying) findings and dynamics, beyond what already have been obvious and discussed, which merit our close observation and explanation. First, DAP is a clear winner while PAS is not, although PR contested parliamentary seats under single tickets. In the Peninsular (except Sabah and Sarawak), DAP won 28 (78%) out of 32 parliamentary seats they contested at the national level. By stark contrast, PAS won only 21 (36%) out of 59 seats they contested while PKR won 24 (41%) out of 58 seats (see Table 1 below). Second, so-called rising young “progressive” reformist leaders from PAS, Dzulkefly Ahmad, Mohamad Sabu, and Salahuddin Ayub, have lost not only in UMNO’s strong hold, Johor, but also in Muslim-dominant districts in Kedah and Selangor where PR won handsomely both at the national and state levels.

Table 1: Parliamentary Seats Contested and Won by PR

Source: Star 13^th Malaysian General Elections (http://elections.thestar.com.my/)

With everything equal, these outcomes may not simply be attributed to strategic miscalculation (e.g., a wrong candidate in a wrong constituency) or dirty tactics of the government. Although more thorough research needs to be done, one thing is clear; PAS is not gaining much from their position in the coalition and their new “reformist” identity and leadership they have chosen to adopt at the expense of their traditional “Islamist” identity, policies, and leadership. PAS’ support base remains exclusively in Kelantan as it was 10 years ago in contrast to a prediction that it has been transformed into a more open and national party.

Despite the deep ideological (and religious) differences and long-standing distrust between predominantly Chinese DAP and Islamist PAS, the PR has learned to work and stay together through what can be called “political learning” as well as a power-sharing formula they have crafted since 2008. Both parties, PAS in particular, have somewhat moderated their ideological positions and put aside their immediate goals they had been fighting hard for a number of years to gain popular support in their respective religious/ethnic communities. Now, it is argued, PAS is dominated by reformist and more urban (and secular-educated) young politicians. For them, an Islamic state based on Syariah (Islamic laws) is no longer the future of Malaysia. This new direction was a crucial step for survival of the coalition thus far because otherwise DAP would not have agreed to stay together. On the other hand, DAP’s national vision, “Malaysia for All”, has been revitalised to make a central slogan for the opposition. As the result seems to suggests, it worked so well to win the hearts and minds of Malaysian electorates especially in urban areas. These are clearly positive developments unimaginable a couple of decade ago, developments that the ruling politicians could not ignore, as seen in their “One Malaysia” slogan and programs. A big question is what would be an option for PAS now. Are the political and ideological costs they are paying small enough for them to stay as they are?

2. Will the minimal use of identities in election campaigns eliminate the ethnic and religious cleavages so deeply embedded in dominant ideologies and institutions in a Malaysian polity?

What interests and worries some of us in the Malaysian context is how committed the opposition parties actually are to their new “moderate” outlooks and national vision where ALL Malaysians are treated equally. The question looms large because so far the opposition leaders appear to have agreed NOT to talk about delicate issues, that is, precisely the issues of ethnicity, religion, and equity, for the reasons mentioned above.

This concern is derived from empirical realities of the Malaysian state and society as well as a global context under which Muslim-Majority Malaysia will have to live. First of all, the national and democratic vision based on equality among all Malaysians certainly sounds good and may work to win more urban votes as it obviously did. Alongside an unprecedented participation of Malaysian citizens in anti-regime rallies since the late 2000s, regardless of their socio-ethnic backgrounds, this encouraging development seems to be evidence of growing political awareness and maturity, at least among urban voters who overwhelmingly supported the opposition. This democratic national vision, “All Malaysians are equal” however, may be harder to articulate, let along attain, in more formal terms without considering the constitutional and legal constraints suggested at the onset of this essay.

The constitutional terms and conditions defining the place of ethnicity and religion have been explicitly fixed so that the supremacy of the Malay majority would never been challenged. Numerous legal codes and bureaucratic institutions and regulations are tightly in place to perpetuate the ethnic divisions. On top of these highly institutionalised state apparatuses that perpetuated an ethnically divided plural society, the Malaysian state has inherited the apparatus of religion, including the Syariah courts and many other religious agencies, that dispense generous public goods and services to increasingly pious Malay community. Are the votes cast for the opposition based on an understanding that these powerful and resourceful state institutions and massive interests attached to them will be reduced so that a truly democratic Malaysia for all ethnic and religious groups would be attained when the opposition comes to power? Or are these votes based on a tacit understanding that these institutions and interests—and of course the supremacy of the Malays—will never be challenged and a new multi-ethnic regime will try to figure out a better balance than the incumbent Barisan Nasional (BN) among contending interests based on ethnic and religious cleavages?  What do their power-sharing formulas look like?

On the global front, we have to remember that Muslim communities across the world are far more global oriented and at the same time far more defensive in relation to non-Muslim communities against the backdrop of post-9/11 global developments. Any idea that may possibly limit their visions and practices could be seen as a potential challenge to their communal (that is, religious) identity and interest. If Muslim elites and citizens in the opposition are gaining aspiration from the Arab Spring that brought down secular autocrats such as Egypt’s Mubarak, it is worth remembering that three successful post-Revolution Arab nations including Egypt, Tunisia and Libya are now controlled by parties connected to the Islamist Muslim Brotherhood. To be clear, I am not saying that Malaysian Muslim leaders are intended or should replicate the Arab Spring in Malaysia. Rather, the point here is that a new regime, just like the current regime under UMNO, will have to attend to the sentiments and interests of increasingly religious and global-oriented Muslim electorates. Moreover, the Malaysian state, as mentioned earlier and argued elsewhere is equipped with well-institutionalised and powerful religious apparatus which regulate the spiritual and socio-cultural life of the Muslim community. It is not difficult to expect that these religious apparatuses may be awarded wholesale to religious elites connected to PAS in turn for their allegiance, causing more conflict not only within PR but also among Muslim elites. It is in this context that their true commitment to “ideological” moderation and democratic ideals will be truly tested. Will PAS be likely to stay as a minor partner in the opposition after/if they realise that the “Malaysia for all” campaigns of the opposition (under which the role of religion is muted) actually worked against their political interests?

3. Will a PR rule enhance constitutional freedom of individual citizens and truly multi-ethnic society?

A transition to democracy (or the close proximity thereof) in Malaysia will have to take place against such challenging institutional, social, and global context.  An even more challenging question for Malaysia is if a new and more democratic regime is able and willing to protect and secure constitutional rights and freedom of citizens which do not always come together with democratic rules and competitive elections in deeply divided and religious societies (Stepan 2001). If we could gain some insight from her Muslim majority neighbour, Indonesia, the future of constitutional rights of religious and minority communities may not be so bright even if Malaysia somehow attains a new regime and manages to reduce corruption to attain clean governance. In a democratic Indonesia, Christian and Muslim minorities remain vulnerable to various abuses, intimidation, and discriminations both by state and societal actors, although the popularly elected ruling elites are equipped with more egalitarian national ideology and more secular constitution and legal institutions. It is speculated that electoral incentives in democratised and decentralised elections in part have facilitated the use of religious symbols and interests by opportunistic politicians, thereby leading to anti-minority mobilisation and violence.

In short, the competitive election and strong performances of the opposition certainly have threatened predominance and confidence of the ruling coalition, BN, and UMNO in particular. It is undeniable that an unprecedented large number of the Malaysian electorates are fed up with the BN’s decade-long undemocratic rule and ready to let it go to try out a new leadership. However, we are not certain yet if and how many of them are in fact ready to let go the fundamental features of ethno-centric state institutions and ideology that has sustained the incumbent regime so long. If the votes cast for the opposition are based on a tacit expectation that the fundamental rules and state institutions will be unaffected, it remains to be seen what formula the opposition leaders have intended—and are capable—to craft in order to bring about a truly new Malaysia with equality and equity in a peaceful manner. The bottom line is that changing the society and the regime is one thing, and changing the state is another. A tragedy of Malaysia’s plural society is not only that it is deeply divided socio-economically and culturally, but also that the state and legal apparatus have been developed so extensively and effectively to maintain these characters and structures based on ethnic and religious cleavages. Consequently, a regime change in itself will not automatically bring the powerful state down in order to advance a new deal for all Malaysians transcending narrow parochial and emotional boundaries.

Selected References

Lijphart, Arend. 1977. Democracy in Plural Societies: A Comparative Exploration. New Haven and London: Yale University Press.

Snyder, Jack L. 2000. From Voting to Violence: Democratisation and Nationalist Conflict. New York: Norton.

Stepan, Alfred. 2001. The World’s Religious Systems and Democracy: Crafting the “Twin Tolerations”. In Arguing Comparative Politics. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Kikue Hamayotsu is Assistant Professor at Department of Political Science and Faculty Associate at the Center for Southeast Asian Studies, Northern Illinois University, DeKalb, USA. She can be contacted at khamayotsu@niu.edu.