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<strong>Historical</strong><br />
<strong>Social</strong> <strong>Research</strong><br />
<strong>Historische</strong><br />
<strong>Sozialforschung</strong><br />
Special Issue<br />
Cornel Zwierlein, Rüdiger Graf &<br />
Magnus Ressel (Eds.)<br />
The Production of Human Security in<br />
Premodern and Contemporary History<br />
Die Produktion von Human Security in<br />
Vormoderne und Zeitgeschichte<br />
Mixed Issue<br />
Cliometrics<br />
No. 134<br />
HSR Vol. 35 (2010) 4
INTRODUCTION AND CONCEPTS<br />
CONTENTS<br />
Special Issue<br />
Cornel Zwierlein & Rüdiger Graf<br />
The Production of Human Security in Premodern and Contemporary<br />
History. 7<br />
Christopher Daase<br />
National, Societal, and Human Security: On the Transformation of<br />
Political Language. 22<br />
DOMESTIC SECURITY REGIMES<br />
Karl Härter<br />
Security and “Gute Policey” in Early Modern Europe: Concepts, Laws,<br />
and Instruments. 41<br />
Rebecca Knapp<br />
Communicating Security: Technical Communication, Fire Security, and<br />
Fire Engine ‘Experts’ in the Early Modern Period. 66<br />
Klaus Weinhauer<br />
Youth Crime, Urban Spaces, and Security in Germany since the 19th<br />
Century. 86<br />
Achim Saupe<br />
Human Security and the Challenge of Automobile and Road Traffic<br />
Safety: A Cultural <strong>Historical</strong> Perspective. 102<br />
PIRATES AND SECURITY OF THE SEAS<br />
Magnus Ressel<br />
The North European Way of Ransoming: Explorations into an Unknown<br />
Dimension of the Early Modern Welfare State. 125<br />
Joachim Östlund<br />
Swedes in Barbary Captivity: The Political Culture of Human Security,<br />
Circa 1660-1760. 148<br />
Erik Gøbel<br />
The Danish Algerian Sea Passes, 1747-1838: An Example of Extraterritorial<br />
Production of Human Security. 164<br />
3
Leos Müller<br />
Swedish Shipping in Southern Europe and Peace Treaties with North<br />
African States: An Economic Security Perspective. 190<br />
ENVIRONMENTAL CRISES, DISASTERS, AND HUMAN SECURITY<br />
Gerrit Jasper Schenk<br />
Human Security in the Renaissance? Securitas, Infrastructure, Collective<br />
Goods and Natural Hazards in Tuscany and the Upper Rhine Valley.<br />
209<br />
Dominik Collet<br />
Storage and Starvation: Public Granaries as Agents of Food Security in<br />
Early Modern Europe. 234<br />
Cornel Zwierlein<br />
Insurances as Part of Human Security, their Timescapes, and Spatiality. 253<br />
Uwe Lübken<br />
Governing Floods and Riots: Insurance, Risk, and Racism in the Postwar<br />
United States. 275<br />
Melanie Arndt<br />
From Nuclear to Human Security? Prerequisites and Motives for the<br />
German Chernobyl Commitment in Belarus. 289<br />
Thorsten Schulz<br />
Transatlantic Environmental Security in the 1970s? NATO’s “Third<br />
Dimension” as an Early Environmental and Human Security Approach. 309<br />
Rüdiger Graf<br />
Between National and Human Security: Energy Security in the United<br />
States and Western Europe in the 1970s. 329<br />
CLIOMETRICS<br />
Mixed Issue<br />
Maria Eugénia Mata<br />
Environmental Challenge in the Canning Industry: The Portuguese Case<br />
in the Early Twentieth Century. 351<br />
4
Special Issue<br />
The Production of Human Security in<br />
Premodern and Contemporary History<br />
Die Produktion von Human Security in<br />
Vormoderne und Zeitgeschichte<br />
INTRODUCTION AND CONCEPTS<br />
No. 134<br />
HSR Vol. 35 (2010) 4
The Production of Human Security<br />
in Premodern and Contemporary History<br />
Cornel Zwierlein & Rüdiger Graf �<br />
Abstract: »Die Produktion von Human Security in Vormoderne und Zeitgeschichte«.<br />
Since the end of the Cold War, Human Security has become an important<br />
approach in international politics, law, and political science. In contrast<br />
to the so-called ‘Westphalian System’ that knows only states as subjects and<br />
objects of security, human security aims at the security of individual human<br />
beings if failed or failing states do not protect them nor provide for their basic<br />
needs. Thereby, such heterogeneous forms of security as security from war,<br />
food security, energy security or security from crime and traffic accidents become<br />
common problems of international politics. Developing this new concept<br />
of security, UN documents as well as some experts suggest that the extended<br />
concept of security is a recurrence of the premodern concept of security that<br />
prevailed before the clear-cut distinction between domestic and international<br />
politics and the evolution of the system of states. This introduction discusses<br />
contributions on the premodern and contemporary history of (human) security<br />
and tries to assess the heuristic potential of the concept for historical research.<br />
Keywords: Human security, History of security regimes, intertemporal comparison,<br />
interepochal comparison, new medievalism, Westphalian system, failing<br />
states.<br />
The concept of human security was introduced at the level of global politics<br />
and the United Nations in the 1990s and is intended to complement the traditional<br />
concept of state security, but can also stand in opposition to it. Human<br />
security demands that the policies of international organizations must be directed<br />
towards the protection of individual human beings, that their security<br />
and basic rights must be more than just a side-effect of the protection of borders,<br />
governments and the sovereignty of countries against external violence.<br />
Human security emerged as a central category in debates on security policies<br />
after the Cold War and often alludes to a new postmodern and postnational age.<br />
While social and political scientists as well as experts on international law<br />
intensively debate the concept and its policy implications, historians rarely<br />
touch on it. In this special issue of <strong>Historical</strong> <strong>Social</strong> <strong>Research</strong>, historians explicitly<br />
deal with “human security” as both an object of study and, to a certain<br />
� Address all communications to: Cornel Zwierlein, Faculty of History, Ruhr-University<br />
Bochum, Universitätstraße 150, 44780 Bochum, Germany;<br />
e-mail: cornel.zwierlein@rub.de.<br />
Rüdiger Graf, Faculty of History, Ruhr-Universität Bochum, Universitätsstraße 150, 44780<br />
Bochum, Germany; e-mail: ruediger.graf@rub.de.<br />
<strong>Historical</strong> <strong>Social</strong> <strong>Research</strong>, Vol. 35 — 2010 — No. 4, 7-21
extent, a heuristical device of historical research combining the social and<br />
political sciences with specifically historical approaches.<br />
The Human Development Report of 1994, the first official UN document to<br />
introduce the concept, defined security as “safety from the constant threats of<br />
hunger, disease, crime, and repression. It also means protection from sudden<br />
and hurtful disruptions in the pattern of our daily lives – whether in our homes,<br />
in our jobs, in our communities or in our environments”. Consequently it enumerated<br />
“job security, income security, health security, environmental security,<br />
security from crime” as the “emerging concerns of human security all over the<br />
world” – a catalogue that is broad but not exhaustive. 1 The Human Development<br />
Report was intended as preparation for the <strong>Social</strong> Development Summit<br />
of 1995 and, consequently, tried to combine the new formula of development<br />
policy, “sustainable development”, 2 with a new concept of security. Therefore,<br />
issues from the agenda of development policies were implicitly labeled as<br />
security issues. This process or strategy of the securitization of development<br />
issues (intentionally) raised attention to the threats to security in everyday life.<br />
A couple of years later, in 2003, the Commission on Human Security which had<br />
been formed in the meantime explained the shift towards “human security” as<br />
follows:<br />
The international community urgently needs a new paradigm of security.<br />
Why? Because the security debate has changed dramatically since the inception<br />
of state security advocated in the 17th century. According to that traditional<br />
idea, the state would monopolize the rights and means to protect its citizens.<br />
State power and state security would be established and expanded to<br />
sustain order and peace. But in the 21st century, both the challenges to security<br />
and its protectors have become more complex. The state remains the fundamental<br />
purveyor of security. Yet it often fails to fulfill its security obligations<br />
– and at times has even become a source of threat to its own people.<br />
That is why attention must now shift from the security of the state to the security<br />
of the people – to human security. 3<br />
Secure living conditions away from slums, security in the face of natural and<br />
human-made catastrophes, security against violence, criminality, the effects of<br />
civil war or even the effects of badly coordinated road traffic are objects of<br />
human security policy, of NGOs as well as of broader initiatives such as the<br />
United Nations Human Settlement Programme. Framing all these issues under<br />
the comprehensive concept of security allows the UN to assume responsibility;<br />
moreover, it increasingly blurs the once clear distinction between domestic and<br />
foreign policies.<br />
1 Human Development Report 1994, 3.<br />
2 Report of the World Commission on Environment and Development 1987; “sustainable<br />
development” had been the main issue of the UN Conference on Environment and Development<br />
(Rio de Janeiro 1992).<br />
3 Final Report of the Commission on Human Security 2003, 2.<br />
8
Behind these definitions and the respective UN programs stand well-defined<br />
interests. In particular, some medium powers, such as Canada, Norway or<br />
Japan, try to use the human security agenda in order to play a major role in<br />
international politics; “human security” is a programmatic and, to a certain<br />
extent, even an ideological term. As a positive formula, human security corresponds<br />
to development policies and relies on – while simultaneously contributing<br />
to – the much discussed erosion of the old concept of undivided state sovereignty<br />
during the 20th Century: 4 Human security is supposed to overcome<br />
state borders for the sake of people’s human rights and the security of their<br />
basic livelihoods when failing or failed states do not accomplish the function of<br />
protecting their citizens from harm and violence. Correspondingly, in international<br />
law the “responsibility to protect” has been developed, fostered once<br />
again by Canada and similar states, and first mentioned officially in a final<br />
resolution of the UN General Assembly in 2005. 5 To a certain extent, “human<br />
security” is the positive complement to the negatively connoted idea that a<br />
hegemonic power or the UN should become a “world police” after the security<br />
architecture of the Cold War disappeared. 6 But its political function does not<br />
prevent the term from having analytical implications; “human security” is the<br />
latest and apparently most successful term in a longer series of notions which<br />
have come up since the Second World War in order to describe changing security<br />
regimes: “extended security”, “common security”, “global security”, “cooperative<br />
security” or “comprehensive security”. All these new notions of<br />
international security try to incorporate political questions which used to be<br />
chiefly domestic into the realm of international affairs. Thus, to some observers,<br />
they seem to correspond to the erosion or end of the so-called “Westphalian<br />
System” of sovereign nation states. Official UN documents such as the<br />
above-cited report by the Commission on Human Security refer explicitly to an<br />
“obsolete Westphalian System”, thus positioning the present development<br />
towards human security as a development which ushers in a new era after<br />
classical modernity. 7 What began with the doctrines of sovereignty by Jean<br />
Bodin and Thomas Hobbes and the classical concepts of civil rights since Hugo<br />
Grotius seems to find a swift end in the present day. From this perspective,<br />
classical modernity becomes an exceptional period of world history sandwiched<br />
between structurally similar premodern and postmodern conditions.<br />
Accordingly, the clear-cut divisions of internal and external security policies<br />
appear as an exception, historically appropriate only for the 19th and the first<br />
two thirds of the 20th century. Therefore, the current questioning of state<br />
4<br />
Cf. the select titles Biersteker 1999; Camilleri and Falk 1992; Krasner 1999; Walker 2003;<br />
Sassen 1996.<br />
5<br />
Verlage 2009.<br />
6<br />
A still worthwhile critical analysis for this point is Paris 2001.<br />
7<br />
E.g. Final Report of the Commission on Human Security 2003, 2.<br />
9
oundaries within the concept of human security also challenges our view of<br />
history and of the boundaries between epochs.<br />
As far as we can see, historians have only partially addressed this challenge.<br />
While transnational history and territoriality have emerged as important topics<br />
of historical research 8 and migration, transnational flows of goods and ideas, as<br />
well as the constitution and maintenance of state borders have ranked among<br />
the most fashionable topics of historical inquiry, 9 these studies only rarely deal<br />
explicitly with the concept of security. Studies of historical security regimes,<br />
on the other hand, still largely focus on the national and military security of<br />
nation states. The concept of “human security”, which has so far been neglected<br />
by historians, might thus provide the means to connect the new approaches<br />
to statehood, citizenship, and borders with security concerns and offer<br />
a coherent frame that can also deal with the classical concerns of nation states.<br />
In this way, “human security” could overcome the artificial divide between<br />
state-centered and transnational history, integrating both into a common<br />
framework while connecting them to highly relevant issues in contemporary<br />
international politics. This volume assembles initial attempts to assess the<br />
utility of “human security” for historical research. Its articles deal with the<br />
issue in two ways: 1) they historicize “human security” or corresponding notions<br />
of security, security policies and practices through time; 2) they explore<br />
the analytical and heuristic value of “human security” for historiography.<br />
1. Historicizing Human Security<br />
Looking at the state of research on the history of security, at first glance the<br />
topic seems to be ubiquitous and to have belonged to the core of historical<br />
research for a long time; if we take a closer look, however, it is not that clear<br />
which studies should be included in such a presumably long bibliography. Even<br />
though Lucien Febvre called for a history of the “sentiment de securité” encompassing<br />
religious, economic, political, and social aspects of security production<br />
as early as 1956, 10 curiously, that path has not been taken by many<br />
historians. In France, in reaction to his demand, on the one hand, a history of<br />
the spread of late Medieval and Early Modern maritime insurance business was<br />
published 11 and, on the other hand, Jean Delumeau’s works on fear, punishment<br />
and culpabilization in Early Modern times appeared. 12 Since fear is the mental<br />
and emotional counterpart to security, Delumeau focused on the inner subjective<br />
reactions to “fear” and how the different confessional cultures in Early<br />
8<br />
Geyer and Bright 1995; Maier 2006; Maier 2000; Conze 2004, 15-43; Osterhammel 2001.<br />
9<br />
As excellent examples see Ngai 2004; Reinecke 2010.<br />
10<br />
Febvre 1956.<br />
11<br />
Boiteux 1968.<br />
12<br />
Delumeau, 1978; Delumeau 1983; Delumeau 1989.<br />
10
Modern Europe reacted to those fears. The broad research on the discourses<br />
and practices of “Policey” put the issue of “security” only very recently in the<br />
forefront. 13 Insurance history remained enclosed for a long time in the narrow<br />
methodological and disciplinary frames of law and business. 14 Only in the light<br />
of the history of knowledge and sciences did it come back in relation to the<br />
history of probability. 15 The fast-growing field of the history of (natural) hazards<br />
and resilience seldom focused on the problem of “security regimes” but<br />
mostly looked at its objects of study from the other side of the coin, from the<br />
perspective of threat and risk. 16 Histories of national security policies still<br />
mostly deal with military capabilities and preparedness, while studies on inner<br />
security discuss, above all, terrorist threats. 17 Apart from some early efforts to<br />
establish “security” as a distinct theme of sociology that also contained short<br />
histories of security, 18 it is only recently that some broader collaborative enterprises<br />
to write histories of security regimes have re-emerged, but these were<br />
discontinued and did not focus on human security. 19 With the exception of one<br />
classical but now quite out-dated attempt by Werner Conze, we do not even<br />
have thorough research on the history of the word and concept of “security” in<br />
a long-term perspective. 20 While the most recent conceptual history has been<br />
elaborated by Christopher Daase, 21 for the earlier epochs, e.g. the Medieval era,<br />
there are only very vague assumptions that “securitas” was not a very frequently<br />
used concept compared to the prevailing notions of “peace” 22 and<br />
“tranquillity”; we have no systematic attempt to describe the functionally<br />
equivalent and synonymous notions, or to give a detailed explanation of that<br />
absence of “security” apart from the obvious answer that the idea of internal<br />
and external security seems to be intrinsically connected to the notion and the<br />
practice of Early Modern state-building.<br />
The contribution by Gerrit Jasper Schenk takes up this task, concentrating<br />
on the exceptional example of the securitas fresco in the Palazzo Publico in<br />
Siena, which shows that the security/state liaison had its roots not in the later<br />
territorial states and big kingdoms but rather in the late Medieval Italian signories<br />
with their tendency to territorialize dominion and governance. The<br />
13 Härter et al. 2010; Lüdtke et al. 2008.<br />
14 Cf. only, as representative for a bulk of studies, Niekerk 1998; La Torre 2000; Koch 1998;<br />
Pearson 2004.<br />
15 Daston 1988; Hald 1990; Hacking 1975.<br />
16 Bennassar 1996; Favier 2002; Kempe and Rohr 2003; Gisler 2003; Schenk 2007; Favier<br />
and Remacle 2007; Favier 2000; Groh et al. 2001; Favier and Granet-Abisset 2005; Mercier-Faivre<br />
et al. 2008; Favier 2007.<br />
17 See for example Leffler 1992; Bluth 2002; Weinhauer 2004.<br />
18 Kaufmann 1973.<br />
19 Gerwen and van Leeuwen 2000.<br />
20 Conze 1984.<br />
21 See Christopher Daase’s contribution to this volume.<br />
22 For the late Medieval notion of peace in the international field cf. only Kintzinger 2000.<br />
11
paper by Karl Härter follows chronologically and shows, for the Germanspeaking<br />
lands, how “security” became central to the 17th and 18th centuries’<br />
discourse on Policey, that is the discourse on the administration and order of<br />
the territorial states. Here, as in the contribution by Rebecca Knapp on technical<br />
knowledge as a driving motor of security production, the authors do not<br />
stress the present notion of “human security” too much, but rather use a more<br />
general notion of “security”. Nevertheless, their papers contribute in important<br />
ways to our overall knowledge of the historical production of security. Moreover,<br />
this special issue contains a whole section on an important Early Modern<br />
security problem: the maritime security of Northern European sailors who were<br />
often captured by North African “pirates” during their Mediterranean journeys<br />
from the 16th century until 1830 (Ressel, Östlund, Gøbel, Müller). The North<br />
African Barbaresque cities (Tunis, Tripolis, Algier) never became real states,<br />
not even in the Early Modern sense. They remained under Ottoman suzerainty<br />
but nevertheless acted quite autonomously on the international scene. In particular,<br />
they negotiated many peace treaties with the European states. Capturing<br />
European ships and sailors and earning the ransom money was for centuries a<br />
main source of income and wealth for the corsair elite of these semi-states.<br />
Until 1830, many attempts by European sea powers to destroy the system of<br />
piracy by force were unsuccessful, so that insecurity was a continuing problem<br />
for the Mediterranean sea trade. Because of its steadiness, the European traders<br />
and sea powers adapted to this problem in various ways, inventing and institutionalizing<br />
new forms of security production.<br />
The contributions dealing with the contemporary history of security production<br />
cover very different thematic aspects of the broad term: threats to urban<br />
security by crime and youth violence (Weinhauer), traffic and road security at<br />
the conceptual border of safety and security – terms that can be differentiated<br />
in English but not in every other language – (Saupe), environmental security in<br />
a larger sense, especially with regard to natural and technical catastrophes<br />
(Arndt, Lübken, Schulz), and energy security (Graf). They exemplify how,<br />
after the Second World War, and especially since the 1970s, discourses on and<br />
conceptions of security widened long before the notion of “human security”<br />
was coined (Daase). They thereby deliver initial suggestions for a history of<br />
“human security” in a narrower sense as an important field of contemporary<br />
history and go beyond the hitherto rare attempts at such treatments of “human<br />
security”. 23 Moreover, they enrich and nuance the currently expanding field of<br />
a political and cultural history of security in a broader sense. 24<br />
23 MacFarlane and Khong 2006, the only monographic attempt to this end, is mainly (143-<br />
259) devoted to the period from the 1990s onwards.<br />
24 Conze 2005.<br />
12
2. Human Security as a Heuristical Device<br />
The second mode of using “human security” in historiography would be as a<br />
heuristical device. This procedure implies complex problems which become<br />
obvious if we look at the division, intentionally produced by the editors of this<br />
special issue, between contributions concerning premodern (mostly Early<br />
Modern) and contemporary states of affairs. This juxtaposition of different<br />
periods of security regimes reflects the prevailing historical narrative in political<br />
science and politics:<br />
In the report by the 2003 UN Commission on Human Security which was<br />
quoted above, the preoccupation of UN politics with the new notion of security<br />
was framed within a historical narrative of a pre-Westphalian world, a modern<br />
Westphalian world of state security, and a (postmodern) 21st-century world of<br />
a yet-to-be-achieved reign of “human security”. This rudimentary historical<br />
narrative has been expanded by S. Neil MacFarlane and Yuen Foong Khong in<br />
their attempt to write a short – and very selective – critical history of the UN<br />
human security concept: They claim that in the case of human security “we are<br />
speaking more of the recovery of very old understandings of security rather<br />
than the generation of new ideas”. 25 In their “archaeology” of the concept they<br />
take big steps through the European history of ideas, claiming that securitas in<br />
the classical and medieval periods “was [rather] an individual matter and was<br />
not used in reference to communities or states”. 26 While the period of the Cold<br />
War “laid down important foundations for the subsequent architecture of human<br />
security in the internationalization of human rights norms” and was at the<br />
same time “paradoxically” a time of “a further strengthening of norms concerning<br />
sovereignty and nonintervention”, 27 MacFarlane and Khong interpret the<br />
idea of “human security” as a return to the pre-Westphalian system, to premodern<br />
conceptions of universal ethical and spiritual principles which do not stop<br />
at state borders. Emma Rothschild sees the horizon of re-entry rather differently,<br />
arguing that “the new security principles of the end of the twentieth<br />
century constitute a rediscovery, of sorts, of […] late eighteenth and early nineteenth-century<br />
politics”, i.e. of late Enlightenment Liberalism from the 1770s<br />
to the 1820s. 28 Similarly, the German historian Alf Lüdtke considers the increasing<br />
surveillance, controlling, and disciplinary activities of state police<br />
forces since the 1990s to be a return of the Early Modern universalistic concept<br />
of “Policey”. 29 One could link that point with the former discussion by stressing<br />
that, in fact, the cameralist administrative sciences of Policey already<br />
25<br />
MacFarlane and Khong 2006, 19.<br />
26<br />
MacFarlane and Khong 2006, 25, following Rothschild 1995, 61 – but Rothschild only<br />
refers to Cicero and Seneca.<br />
27<br />
MacFarlane and Khong 2006, 262-263.<br />
28<br />
Rothschild 1995, 65.<br />
29<br />
Lüdtke 2006.<br />
13
treated all of the above-mentioned “new” UN categories of threats to human<br />
security (crime, violence, tenure insecurity, natural and human-made disasters<br />
etc.) on the same categorical level. Thus, in many of the analyses by historically<br />
arguing political scientists as well as by historians, we find the idea of a<br />
“return to...” or of a structural similarity between premodern and “late” or<br />
“postmodern” conceptions of security. This implies that the time of “high modernity”<br />
and nation states can no longer function as the finally achieved standard<br />
against which aberrations are to be measured but that it appears rather as a<br />
comparatively brief historical exception.<br />
A similar and even more comprehensive mode of understanding the present<br />
as a “return to...” has been around for quite a while: As early as 1977, Hedley<br />
Bull developed the scenario of a “new medievalism” 30 in which, unlike during<br />
the Westphalian System of states with undivided sovereignty, governmental,<br />
sub-, and non-governmental actors as well as hybrid regional-politically integrated<br />
systems might coexist. 31 Until after the end of the Cold War this vision,<br />
to which Bull himself, after having developed it extensively, finally did not<br />
subscribe, received no positive resonance. Since then, however, there have<br />
been attempts in the political sciences – always developed without consulting<br />
historians – to further develop the metaphor or analogy of a “new medievalism”.<br />
32 There are many other analogous observations on the contemporary<br />
political world system which seem to fit in with these metaphorical schemes,<br />
such as pre-Bodin and post-Westphalian concepts of sovereignty; old and new<br />
asymmetric wars; old and new warlords etc.<br />
Finally, one could add another similar historical narrative which occurs in<br />
the studies on the counterpart of “security”: that is, “risk” and “hazard”: When,<br />
in 1986, Ulrich Beck wrote risk society in the aftermath of the Chernobyl catastrophe,<br />
his vision of the historical development of the concept of risk and uncertainty<br />
was still quite opaque. However, he postulated that the “risk society”<br />
of the present, in which the unintended consequences of industrialization politics<br />
rebounded on humankind, was a new epoch, a “second modernity”, which<br />
had to struggle with the heritage of the “first modernity”. Under the influence<br />
of François Ewald’s État providence of the same year (1986), risk sociology’s<br />
historical narrative consolidated and converged with that of Anthony Giddens,<br />
Barbara Adams and other time sociologists, now consisting of three steps: 1)<br />
premodern societies exposed to simple “threats”, handling them as strokes of<br />
fate, living within the horizon of a “closed future”; 2) societies of high or<br />
30<br />
No literature exists concerning Bull’s sources. Already in the 1930s, we can read some<br />
similar observations under this title: Nulle 1937.<br />
31<br />
Bull 1977, 240-271. For some recent literature on “new medievalism” cf. Zwierlein’s<br />
contribution in this volume.<br />
32<br />
Some even compare the competing universal powers of Pope and Emperor with today’s<br />
competing universalisms of the nation states and the transnational market economy:<br />
Friedrichs 2001.<br />
14
“first” modernity calculating “risks” in the conceptual frame of an open future,<br />
“colonizing” the future by planned actions; 3) risk societies or societies of the<br />
“second or late modernity”, living in an extended present and forced to deal<br />
with the unintended consequences of first modernity’s planning efforts, confronted<br />
with new “uncertain uncertainties”. 33 This historical vision – never<br />
precisely developed by Beck or Giddens, but deepened by Beck’s longtime<br />
colleague and collaborator Wolfgang Bonß 34 – coincides with the three-step<br />
“archaeology of human security” mentioned above, even though risk sociologists<br />
seldom define the “second modernity” as a return of “premodernity”.<br />
While some sociologists deepen their theories with historical narratives as<br />
Bonß does, historians have started to deal with the problem and history of<br />
“risks” as well. Outside the field of research on the history of natural and human-made<br />
disasters – where current risk sociology is normally cited only cursorily<br />
–, a debate among historians about the historicization of the concept of<br />
“risk society” has begun only recently. 35<br />
Most of the talk of the “return” of a premodern condition is only metaphorical<br />
in nature and seldom thoroughly reflected; premodern and post- or late<br />
modern phenomena may, at best, look similar in certain respects, but they are<br />
certainly not identical. Paradoxically, part of the plausibility of the metaphor<br />
may derive from globalization and the dramatic revolutions in technological<br />
communications that have changed our ways of perceiving the world and dealing<br />
with our contemporaries. Sociologists and philosophers of time such as<br />
Helga Nowotny describe this as the immersion into an extended present which<br />
they distinguish from modern teleological or historicist conceptions of a linear<br />
time leading into a determinable or open future. 36 The perception of the world<br />
in the mode of such an “extended present”, which replaces the open future of<br />
modern times, decreases the plausibility of classical modern categories (progress,<br />
perfectibility, nation-states as the “containers” of linear conceptions of<br />
growth) while simultaneously suggesting that other concepts (hybridizations,<br />
entanglements of “traditions” and (multiple) “modernities”) should take their<br />
places. Consequently, the autodescriptive discourse of post- or late modernity<br />
finds it plausible to play with mirroring itself in historical patterns that may<br />
even be labelled as “medieval”, the period from which modern thinkers were<br />
careful to distance themselves.<br />
How should historians react to this predicament? Does such thinking in rhetorical,<br />
but sometimes quite systematically developed, analogies produce any<br />
33 Cf. Beck 1993.<br />
34 Bonß 1995; cf. similarly the historical narrative in Peretti-Watel 2000, 31-62.<br />
35 Cf. Fressoz 2007, who argues, as many do, that “risk society” is not really new but rather<br />
that the dialectics between planning, technology and unintended consequences can also be<br />
found in the 19th century. This argument can even be widened to yet earlier periods.<br />
36 Rosa 2005; Nowotny 1989, 47-76.<br />
15
new insights? Or is it just a way of mystifying the obvious, used by sociologists<br />
and philosophers while among practical, technological elites the modern categories<br />
of time- and self-perception are still in full swing? How big is its explanatory<br />
value – does it not create more problems than it solves? How do we<br />
deal with the highly contested notion of “modernity” 37 which forms, as “pre-”,<br />
“post-” and “classical modernity”, the cornerstone of all reflections? This question<br />
is further complicated by modernity’s twofold relation to the study of<br />
security: On the one hand, we use “modernity” and its derivative concepts as<br />
simple temporal notions in order to structure our narratives or to develop arguments<br />
about regimes of security in Early Modern or Late Modern history. But,<br />
on the other hand, according to many accounts the notion of modernity itself<br />
depends on people’s changing relationship towards security. One only has to<br />
think of Reinhart Koselleck’s conceptualization of modernity by means of the<br />
gap opening up between the “space of experience” and “horizon of expectation”.<br />
38 As security – at least in its mental and emotional aspects – is a mode of<br />
anticipation, it is located exactly within this gap and is, thus, essential for understanding<br />
modernity. Moreover, although not referring to temporal horizons,<br />
the differentiation between certain regimes of fear and security is also an important<br />
element constituting Zygmunt Bauman’s distinction between a “solid”<br />
and a “liquid modernity”. 39<br />
If one were to use “human security” seriously as a heuristical device, one<br />
would have to start differently and enter the field of structural intertemporal<br />
comparative reasoning. It would be necessary to extract the structural dispositions<br />
that are associated with the notion today and to try to find similar patterns<br />
in history. The most important structural ingredient of “human security” is the<br />
shift from a perspective centered on the state to one centered on human beings,<br />
and this implies that one would have to focus specifically on all effects of the<br />
processes of growth or erosion of statehood, of the forming of individuality etc.<br />
Several articles in this volume offer arguments along these lines. While “food<br />
security” and the difference between availability and access to food constitute<br />
important elements of development policies and of human security today, reacting<br />
to capacity problems of states and societies at the threshold between the<br />
“first” and the “third” world, they appear to have had “striking” counterparts in<br />
the reflections and practices of food storage in public granaries in Early Modern<br />
states structurally positioned at the threshold of “modernity” (Collet). The<br />
production of human security via insurances also exhibits salient resemblances<br />
between Early Modern and contemporary practices that differ from the intermediate<br />
period of the “normal secure state” (Zwierlein). Papers on Barbaresque<br />
37<br />
For an instructive and skeptical assessment of its analytic potential see Cooper 2005, 113-<br />
152.<br />
38<br />
Koselleck 1995, 349-375.<br />
39<br />
Bauman 2006.<br />
16
piracy in Early Modern times are inspired by the recurrence of piracy around<br />
the Horn of Africa since the late 1990s. While piracy today lies rather at the<br />
margins of the human security approach, the best informed current analyses<br />
suggest that it is a consequence of unstable living conditions in the societies<br />
that host the pirates and, thus, of failed or failing states which are a paradigmatic<br />
human security problem. 40 Intertemporal comparisons have to deal with<br />
the problem that Barbaresque city-states were far away from any forms of<br />
statehood even in Early Modern terms. Comparing the two phenomena might<br />
already suggest that they share enough common features in terms of security<br />
production, which, considering the differences, is highly doubtful.<br />
While many political scientists already do not hesitate to conduct such interepochal<br />
comparisons without waiting for a prior elaboration of a real method<br />
– comparing, for example, Ancient Rome, the Mongolian Empire, the USSR,<br />
and the USA as types of empires 41 – many historians are more hesitant, searching<br />
for the explanatory value for specific phenomena as well as for a theory and<br />
methodology of intertemporal/interepochal comparisons which does not yet<br />
exist. Therefore, at the current state of historiographical reflection, we can<br />
leave the reader only with the suggestion that there is an important problem to<br />
be solved. While a full elaboration of a method of intertemporal comparisons<br />
of human security cannot be delivered in this volume, we hope that the juxtaposition<br />
of Early Modern and contemporary ways of thinking about and producing<br />
(human) security will establish the fruitfulness of this field of study for<br />
future research on security regimes and discourses, focusing on “human security”<br />
as a more specific and narrower object than merely “security”.<br />
This issue of <strong>Historical</strong> <strong>Social</strong> <strong>Research</strong> was prepared by a conference at<br />
Ruhr University Bochum on April 8-10, 2010, which was financed by the DFG<br />
project “Taming of Risk in Premodernity”. We thank the contributors for accepting<br />
a very tight deadline and quickly reworking their contributions and the<br />
DFG for financial support. Rebecca Knapp was central to the organization of<br />
the conference. Laura Sembritzki, Marianne Timpe, Sören Nolte, Anne<br />
Meißner, Sven Speek and Christine Schröder all contributed greatly to its success<br />
in various ways.<br />
References<br />
Printed Sources<br />
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40 Sauvageot 2009.<br />
41 Münkler 2005.<br />
17
Human Development Report 1994 – New Dimensions of Human Security. (accessed July 27, 2010).<br />
Report of the World Commission on Environment and Development: Our Common<br />
Future. (accessed July 27, 2010).<br />
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21
National, Societal, and Human Security:<br />
On the Transformation of Political Language<br />
Christopher Daase �<br />
Abstract: »Nationale, gesellschaftliche und menschliche Sicherheit: Zum<br />
Wandel politischer Sprache«. The article traces the extension of the concept of<br />
security over roughly the last fifty years. It differentiates between four dimensions<br />
of conceptual change: the referent object, the issue dimension, the spatial<br />
dimension and the dimension of perceived danger. The process of conceptual<br />
extension is explained not only as securitization, i.e. the result of voluntary<br />
speech acts, but as a macro-social process of the dissociation of state and society<br />
and the prevalence of liberal values.<br />
Keywords: Security, threat, vulnerability, risk, conceptual change.<br />
1. Introduction<br />
Security is the core value of our modern – or rather post-modern – society. This<br />
has not always been the case. For centuries, not security but spiritual and secular<br />
peace dominated theological, philosophical and even political thinking. At<br />
the beginning of the 20th century, however, peace and security started to compete<br />
with each other for primacy in strategic debates and political programs.<br />
Today, global security is an undisputed value and peace has become a concept<br />
widely regarded as only suited for political sermons. While the conceptual<br />
history of the complex relationship between peace and security has still to be<br />
written, it might be useful to concentrate here just on security and the transformation<br />
of the security discourse over the last fifty years.<br />
It is rarely the case that political change can be captured by analyzing one<br />
single concept. But, as I will argue, the concept of security enables us not only<br />
to describe the change in a political discourse, but to explain the transformation<br />
of political practice of Western states and international society in general. This<br />
transformation goes beyond mere policy adaptation, and rather signals a fundamental<br />
change in the underlying security culture. Security culture can be<br />
defined as the sum of beliefs, values and practices of institutions and individuals<br />
that determine (1) what is considered to be a danger or insecurity in the<br />
widest sense and (2) how and by which means this danger should be handled. 1<br />
� Address all communications to: Christopher Daase, Lehrstuhl Internationale Organisation,<br />
Exzellenzcluster “Normative Orders”, Goethe-Universität Frankfurt am Main, Senckenberganlage<br />
31, 60325 Frankfurt am Main, Germany; e-mail: daase@normativeorders.net.<br />
1 Daase 2009.<br />
<strong>Historical</strong> <strong>Social</strong> <strong>Research</strong>, Vol. 35 — 2010 — No. 4, 22-37
The concept of security is the most visible aspect of security culture, for depending<br />
on how insecurity and security are conceptualized, dangers are emphasized<br />
or de-emphasized and specific political and social issues come to the fore<br />
or are put in the rear. 2<br />
This is the reason why in order to analyze security culture it is necessary to<br />
concentrate on the conceptual change in security. According to historians of<br />
political thought such as Reinhard Koselleck or Quentin Skinner, the transformation<br />
of language signifies political transformation. However, it seems to be<br />
important to avoid the constructivist shortcut of believing that security has<br />
become today’s core value through willful speech acts of securitization, i.e. the<br />
deliberate denomination of problems as security issues in order to procure<br />
higher significance for them in the political process. 3 While securitization<br />
might be part of the process, the change of security culture goes deeper and can<br />
be explained as the result of political and social de-nationalization and transnationalization,<br />
which in turn is the unintended effect of the emancipation of<br />
society from the state. The concept of security is thus cause and effect of political<br />
change.<br />
The crucial point of this change is that the liberal state – and along with it<br />
the international liberal society – are becoming the victims of their own success.<br />
For the social process of emancipation depends on a relatively peaceful<br />
and secure environment. Societal security demands are only articulated if the<br />
fundamental security needs of the state – i.e. peace in the traditional sense – are<br />
fulfilled. As soon as this is the case, however, further-reaching security demands<br />
are made which tend to overburden the state and international organizations.<br />
Wilhelm von Humboldt was among the first who saw the latent tension<br />
between state and societal security when he wrote in his 1792 treatise “Ideas<br />
about an Attempt to Determine the Limits of Effectiveness of the State” the<br />
following: “Those whose security has to be preserved are on the one hand all<br />
citizens in perfect equality and on the other the state itself”. 4 My argument is<br />
that under the condition of globalization and de-nationalization this latent contradiction<br />
has become a manifest contradiction that is most visible, for example,<br />
in the fight against terrorism.<br />
In the following – after a short note on conceptual history as a method of political<br />
science – I will describe the conceptual change in security by analyzing<br />
the extension of its meaning over roughly the last fifty years. I do so by differentiating<br />
between four conceptual dimensions. The first dimension refers to the<br />
referent object, i.e. the question of whose security is to be guaranteed. In the<br />
last fifty years a dramatic shift of meaning has taken place insofar as the state<br />
was first superseded by society and than society by the individual as the main<br />
2 Wolfers 1962; Daase 1993.<br />
3 See Weaver 1995; Buzan et al. 1998.<br />
4 Humboldt 1967, 118.<br />
23
eferent object of security. The second dimension is the issue area, i.e. the<br />
question: In which policy field are insecurities perceived? Again an extension<br />
has taken place by gradually adding to military dangers economic, environmental<br />
and humanitarian concerns. The third dimension refers to the spatial<br />
application of the term. Here a conceptual broadening can be seen in the gradual<br />
extension from national to regional, international and global security. The<br />
fourth dimension finally refers to the conceptualization of danger itself. Here I<br />
argue that an extension has taken place insofar as the purpose of security policy<br />
has shifted from the defense against threats via the reduction of vulnerabilities<br />
to the management of risks. Figure 1 tries to capture these dimensions graphically.<br />
Figure 1: Four Dimension of Extended Security<br />
Geographical<br />
Scope<br />
Issue<br />
Area<br />
global<br />
international<br />
ecological<br />
humanitarian<br />
regional<br />
national<br />
economic<br />
vulnerability<br />
threat<br />
military<br />
24<br />
state<br />
society<br />
risk<br />
individual<br />
Operationalized<br />
Danger<br />
Referent<br />
Object<br />
2. Conceptual History as a Method of Political Science<br />
Conceptual history is not a standard method of political science. Political scientists<br />
either concentrate on what they see as “brute facts” by defining, operationalizing<br />
and measuring political phenomena in order to explain their causal<br />
relationship or interpret the meaning of concepts and discourses in order to<br />
understand political articulation and communication. Rarely, however, is the<br />
difficult interplay between language and action analyzed. This is the reason<br />
why political scientists can learn a lot from the different approaches to conceptual<br />
history – most importantly from the German school of Begriffsgeschichte
(‘history of concepts’) and the so-called Cambridge School of conceptual history<br />
– which have developed in more or less (willful) ignorance of each other. 5<br />
Begriffsgeschichte “designates the study of concepts in the texts of individual<br />
thinkers and bodies of thought in the past”. 6 The central idea is to cautiously<br />
connect conceptual to social and political history. Concepts are taken as<br />
contested intellectual constructions “which both register and shape what<br />
changes and what persists in the structures of society”. 7 This approach sharply<br />
departs from the earlier German tradition of Geistes- or Ideengeschichte (‘intellectual<br />
history/history of ideas’) which Reinhard Koselleck criticized for “treating<br />
ideas as constants, which although articulated in different historical forms,<br />
do not themselves change”. 8 The underlying hypothesis of Koselleck’s work<br />
and of much of the collaborative venture of the Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe<br />
(‘historical basic concepts’) is that in a relatively short timespan between about<br />
1750 and 1850, what Koselleck termed Sattelzeit (‘saddle period’), the political<br />
and social vocabulary in Germany changed fundamentally and specific modern<br />
political and social concepts were created or reformulated. Thus, Begriffsgeschichte<br />
assumes that concepts determine and affect the transformation of<br />
social, political and economic structures.<br />
Quentin Skinner, John Pocock and others developed a similar approach at<br />
Cambridge University. Pocock, for example, speaks of concepts as building<br />
conceptual worlds that affect social worlds. “These conceptual and social<br />
worlds act as contexts to each other”. 9 Thus, in order to understand political<br />
change, it is important to understand conceptual change by reconstructing the<br />
vocabulary – or what Pocock now calls “discourses” – of the time in order to<br />
restore the true meaning of a text or the actual intention of a speaker. Arguing<br />
on a more systematical level, Quentin Skinner linked this basic idea to the<br />
philosophy of Wittgenstein, Austin and Searle and developed a theory of language<br />
games. Such language games, he argues, have to be reconstructed historically<br />
to find out what particular authors in particular situations had intended<br />
to say and to do. 10<br />
Thus, while Begriffsgeschichte emphasizes structural social and political<br />
changes and their relation to conceptual change, the Cambridge School links<br />
conceptual change with historical agency not only by stressing the importance<br />
of major political philosophers but by pointing to the performative function of<br />
language in general. Whatever the differences between the two approaches 11 ,<br />
what political scientists can learn from both of them is that there is no true<br />
5 Palonen 2004.<br />
6 Richter 1990, 39.<br />
7 Richter 1990, 41.<br />
8 Koselleck 1985, 80.<br />
9 Richter 1990, 50.<br />
10 Skinner 1969, 37.<br />
11 Cf. Palonen 2004; Richter 1995.<br />
25
original meaning of concepts that has to be defended as, for example, Carl<br />
Schmitt believed when he maintained: “The theorist cannot do more than preserve<br />
the concepts and call the things by their names”. 12 Equally problematical<br />
might be a positivist approach to concept analysis that tries, in the words of<br />
Felix Oppenheim, “to reconstruct” conceptual meaning in order to gain clear<br />
and unambiguous technical terms for empirical research. 13 Rather, historical<br />
concept analysis takes the contentedness of concepts as given and unavoidable.<br />
14 It therefore does not reconstruct concepts but rather conceptual change.<br />
Conceptual change, however, is not the result of individual action (as insinuated<br />
by securitization theory) but the cumulative effect of many linguistic<br />
actions. 15 On the other hand, language change does not come out of the blue.<br />
Rather it is a reaction to new political and social circumstances that are linked<br />
to power, interests and values of human beings and social groups. Thus, the<br />
micro-perspective of the Cambridge School and the macro-perspective of Begriffsgeschichte<br />
have finally to be integrated if conceptual and political change<br />
are to be understood as co-constitutive. Far from having succeeded in doing so,<br />
I would like to present some preliminary ideas on the following pages as to<br />
how this could be done with regard to the concept of security.<br />
3. The Conceptual Extension of Security<br />
Above, I mentioned four dimensions in which the meaning of security has<br />
expanded over the last fifty years: the reference dimension, the issue dimension,<br />
the spatial dimension and the dimension of operationalized danger. These<br />
dimensions, however, are interrelated. While in the 1950s and 60s a narrow<br />
concept of security referred mainly to military threats to national territory,<br />
today an extended concept of security also captures the individual risk of global<br />
human rights violations. However, at the same time the four dimensions can be<br />
freely combined so that, for example, regional vulnerability through environmental<br />
catastrophes (e.g. in the Gulf of Mexico) or the risk of global financial<br />
crises for the stability of states (e.g. Greece) can come into view. This suggests<br />
that the dimensions I am referring to are relatively independent from each other<br />
so that it is justifiable to treat them separately for analytical purposes.<br />
The analysis starts from a very narrow understanding of security as it had<br />
established itself after the Second World War in strategic debates and public<br />
discourse. However, the concept of security has a much longer history in European<br />
thought and can be related to the diverging spheres of internal public<br />
12 Schmitt 1963, 96.<br />
13 Oppenheim 1981.<br />
14 Gallie 1956; Connolly 1981.<br />
15 Keller 2003.<br />
26
safety and external state security in the process of European nation building. 16<br />
Nevertheless, the 1950s suggest themselves as a starting point since they represent<br />
a time in which the meaning of security narrowed to the greatest possible<br />
degree, focusing on the national survival of states and communities in the face<br />
of existential threats such as world wars and nuclear annihilation. No wonder,<br />
then, that external security became the key concept of international politics<br />
throughout the second half of the twentieth century and remained separated<br />
from social notions of security for quite some time. 17 This separation has<br />
gradually disappeared and meanings of internal and external, national and<br />
human, military and economic, territorial and global security have merged into<br />
an extended concept of security over the last fifty years.<br />
Reference Dimension<br />
The first dimension in which conceptual extension can be seen is the reference<br />
dimension that determines whose security should be safeguarded. <strong>Historical</strong>ly,<br />
the concept of security is closely linked to the consolidation of the nation state<br />
as the only legitimate actor in international politics. In early modern times, the<br />
state established itself as a guarantor for the safety of its citizens, as Thomas<br />
Hobbes has famously described. The security of the state, however, remained<br />
precarious in an interstate system without a strong central power. Thus, security<br />
in international relations meant first and foremost state security, i.e. the<br />
safeguarding of the nation’s territory and the defense of national borders vis-àvis<br />
other states. This is the understanding of national security advocated by socalled<br />
political realists such as Hans Morgenthau, John Herz and others after<br />
WW II and throughout the Cold War. 18 As long as no international monopoly<br />
of power exists, they claim, all states live in a self-help system and their first<br />
and foremost duty is to assure national survival. As Kenneth Waltz famously<br />
wrote: “In anarchy, security is the highest end”. 19<br />
This idea of national security as the absence of threats to the sovereignty of<br />
a state did not go unchallenged, however. <strong>Historical</strong>ly, liberal theorists such as<br />
John Locke and Immanuel Kant had stressed that the state is only an instrument<br />
to provide safety for the public. Liberal theorists in the 1970s took up this idea<br />
and challenged state-centric Realist thinking by arguing that the main reference<br />
of security policy and the focus of international politics in general should be<br />
society. 20 Societal security was thus understood as a situation in which a collec-<br />
16<br />
Kaufmann 1973; Conze 1984.<br />
17<br />
Cf. Frei 1977; Krell 1980; Haftendorn 1983; Conze 2009.<br />
18<br />
Morgenthau 1954; Herz 1950.<br />
19<br />
Waltz 1979, 126.<br />
20<br />
Keohane and Nye 1977; Doyle 1983.<br />
27
tive of citizens lives in safety and freedom so that it can develop its productivity<br />
and wealth. 21<br />
This line of argument was taken another step further when the concept of<br />
human security became prominent after the end of the Cold War. In this view,<br />
not the state and not even social collectives are the referent object of security<br />
policy, but the individual human being. The human security approach challenges<br />
not only the traditional state-centric view, but also the focus on social<br />
groups. Championed by the United Nations and a number of expert commissions<br />
(among them the Commission on Global Governance and the Commission<br />
on Human Security), the concept is closely linked to a cosmopolitan understanding<br />
of international politics, i.e. the conviction that human beings, not<br />
states, have an intrinsic value and should be protected. 22 Wherever state rights<br />
and human rights come into conflict, human rights should be given priority.<br />
Thus human security does not only refer to the protection of individuals and<br />
communities from war and other forms of violence, but also to the protection of<br />
“the vital core of all human lives in ways that advance human freedoms and<br />
human fulfillment”. 23<br />
Clearly, the extension of the reference dimension of security signals a desire<br />
to politically live up to changing social values and the prevalence of liberal<br />
ideas about human rights and state obligations. It drastically broadens the range<br />
of addressees of security policy and establishes a general moral “duty of care”<br />
and “responsibility to protect” in international politics. This in turn enables the<br />
empowerment and self-empowerment of actors (e.g. states, groups of states or<br />
international organizations) to act – even militarily – on behalf of the international<br />
community and for the benefit of others, and thus to extend the limits of<br />
international politics hitherto in place.<br />
Humanitarian interventions have often been denounced as power politics in<br />
disguise. But they are much more, and precisely therefore even more troubling:<br />
They are a new practice of security policy that is based on an extended security<br />
concept and a new understanding of normative obligations in international<br />
politics. But critical questions remain: Who is entitled to claim to provide security<br />
for others? Who decides when military force is legitimate? Currently, the<br />
political promise of human security outstrips by far the willingness and ability<br />
of states and international organizations to actually deliver it. 24 Political discourse<br />
has outgrown political practice, and many problems that the international<br />
community faces today, be it in Congo, Darfur, Iraq or Afghanistan, are<br />
at least to some extent the result of conceptual extension.<br />
21 Weaver 1993.<br />
22 Beitz 1979; Pogge 2001.<br />
23 Thakur and Newman 2004, 37.<br />
24 Paris 2001.<br />
28
Issue Dimension<br />
The conceptual extension in terms of the referent objects has implications for<br />
the issue areas that security comprises. Traditional security threats were mainly<br />
perceived in military terms. The reason is that by far the greatest security concerns<br />
for states are military attacks and the danger of being conquered. Thus,<br />
traditional national security interests are military in nature. Military security, in<br />
turn, was expected to be threatened for the most part by hostile states. Particularly<br />
the focus on nuclear weapons underlined the Realist perspective on stateto-state<br />
threats and deterrents throughout the Cold War. 25 Non-state military<br />
threats only came into view when in the 1960s “national liberation movements”<br />
in the Third World were perceived as “communist” threats to US and Western<br />
interests and new strategies of “limited war” and “counter-insurgency” had to<br />
be developed. 26 As the terrorist attacks of 9/11 have shown, even small groups<br />
have gained the capacity to inflict disproportional damage and challenge states’<br />
security. That is the reason why the concept of security nowadays does not only<br />
refer to hostile states, but also non-state actors as source of military threats.<br />
However, the traditional focus on military threats changed in the early 1970s<br />
when economic security became an issue. The oil crises of 1973 and 1979<br />
made people aware that their well-being was not just threatened by military<br />
threats, but also by economic vulnerabilities. 27 The concept of security was<br />
therefore broadened to include the access to so-called “vital resources”. The<br />
objective of resource security was said to be to mitigate or dominate vulnerabilities<br />
to supply disruptions. 28 States and societies are vulnerable in this sense<br />
by being embargoed (i.e. by intentional use of the resource weapon), or by<br />
being cut off unintentionally from resources by natural catastrophes, civil wars<br />
or pure shortage. Thus, the conclusion was drawn that in order so safeguard<br />
energy security, economic, political and military instruments had to be integrated<br />
into a single framework of comprehensive security. 29<br />
A further step towards extending the meaning of security was taken when<br />
the notion of environmental security was introduced. The Brundtland Report<br />
stated in 1987 that “environmental threats to security are now beginning to<br />
emerge on a global scale”. 30 Since then environmental degradation and climate<br />
change have been discussed as national and international security issues. 31 The<br />
key argument is that the increasing destruction of the natural habitat of human<br />
25<br />
Kissinger 1957; Brodie 1959.<br />
26<br />
Deitchman 1962; Blaufarb 1977.<br />
27<br />
Wolf 1977.<br />
28<br />
Maull 1989.<br />
29<br />
Nye 1982.<br />
30<br />
Brundlandt Report 1987.<br />
31<br />
Renner 1989; Myers 1989.<br />
29
eings can directly lead to conflict. 32 However, the empirical link between<br />
environmental degradation and the risk of violent conflict has remained controversial.<br />
33 Nevertheless, advocates of environmental security defend the securitization<br />
of the environment by pointing to the magnitude of potential consequences<br />
and the urgent need to rally public support for more resolute<br />
environmental policies. Richard Ullman nicely redefined security in 1983 by<br />
specifying the newly perceived threats:<br />
A threat to national security is an action or sequence of events that (1) threatens<br />
drastically and over a relatively brief span of time to degrade the quality<br />
of life for the inhabitants of a state, or (2) threatens significantly to narrow the<br />
range of policy choices available to the government of a state or to private,<br />
nongovernmental entities (persons, groups, corporations) within the state. 34<br />
In his view, and in the view of many of his colleagues at the time, environmental<br />
degradation and climate change can have exactly these effects and are<br />
therefore legitimate security issues.<br />
A more recent development is the extension of security into the humanitarian<br />
field. With this move the last great issue area of international politics –<br />
namely human rights – comes under the influence of the security discourse.<br />
Humanitarian security refers not only to the human rights situation of groups<br />
and individuals (as the term human security does), but also to the security of<br />
development aid volunteers and disaster relief workers in crisis areas. However,<br />
the protection of so-called safe havens and humanitarian zones is also<br />
seen as the purpose of humanitarian security. 35 The conceptual affinity of humanitarian<br />
security and humanitarian intervention shows how easy it is to<br />
imagine “military humanism” 36 and even “humanitarian wars” 37 by linking<br />
human rights and security.<br />
The consequence of the extension of the issue dimension of security is a dedifferentiation<br />
of tasks and institutions. The subsumption of previously separated<br />
issue areas under the concept of security leads to the gradual suspension<br />
of traditional distinctions between internal and external security and consequently<br />
between institutional spheres of police and the military. This in turn<br />
has consequences for the operative implementation of security policy and the<br />
constitutional structure of national systems and international organizations. In<br />
Germany, for example, the recurring debate over whether to deploy the<br />
Bundeswehr to deal with internal security issues is a case in point. While the<br />
help of the military in disaster relief might be unproblematic, its use for dealing<br />
32<br />
Tuchman Mathews 1989, 166.<br />
33<br />
Homer-Dixon 1999; Deudney and Matthew 1999.<br />
34<br />
Ullman 1983, 133.<br />
35<br />
Simon 2003.<br />
36<br />
Chomsky 1999.<br />
37<br />
Woodward 2001.<br />
30
with internal terrorism or checking mass rallies raises constitutional concerns.<br />
Internationally as well, the de-differentiation of security issues causes problems,<br />
for example in peacekeeping and post-conflict peacebuilding operations<br />
when security sector reform is undermined by the broad mandate that security<br />
forces enjoy. Thus, the de-differentiation of security concerns caused by an<br />
extended notion of security undermines the traditional division of tasks and<br />
possibly institutional legitimacy.<br />
Spatial Dimension<br />
A third dimension of extended security is its geographical scope. The question<br />
is: How far do security concerns reach geographically? Traditional security<br />
policy only applied to the national level. Realists held that it would be foolish<br />
to design security policies beyond the nation state and that even if global security<br />
problems existed, the international system would only allow national solutions:<br />
“World-shaking problems cry for global solutions, but there is no global<br />
agency to provide them”. 38 National security therefore strictly refers to the<br />
security of the territorial state and derives its ends and means from so-called<br />
national interests.<br />
This limitation becomes problematic as soon as states develop common<br />
strategies to defend their common interests regionally. When NATO was<br />
founded in 1949, a process set in that led gradually to the development of a<br />
“security community”. 39 Security communities develop if states integrate politically<br />
by renouncing violence as a means of settling conflicts among each<br />
other and by developing common ideas of how to establish and maintain regional<br />
stability. In many regions of the world security communities have<br />
emerged, overcoming the narrow notion of national security. 40<br />
The term international security refers more broadly to inter-state cooperation<br />
in security issues. It departs from the Realist assumptions by arguing that<br />
cooperation among security-seeking states is possible even in the absence of an<br />
overarching framework that could coerce states to keep their promises. 41 International<br />
security thus redirects the focus from purely national and even regional<br />
concerns towards the stability of the international system as a common<br />
good. The question then is no longer how to maximize national security but<br />
how to create international conditions so that all states enjoy a reasonable degree<br />
of security. Institutions – conventions, regimes and organizations – are<br />
seen as the principal tools for the multilateral preservation of international<br />
security. 42<br />
38 Waltz 1979, 109.<br />
39 Deutsch 1954.<br />
40 Adler and Barnett 1998.<br />
41 Axelrod and Keohane 1986.<br />
42 Martin 1992; Haftenforn et al. 1999.<br />
31
Finally, the concept of global security goes beyond even international security.<br />
While international security still refers primarily to states, global security<br />
refers to human beings all over the world. The Palme Commission argued as<br />
early as 1982 for a notion of “common security” that would transform the<br />
existing inter-state society into a world society. The concept of global security<br />
gave rise to strategies for enhancing living conditions for the world society, i.e.<br />
for all human beings. Thus, global security often goes hand in hand with human<br />
security and integrates measures to protect the environment and the climate,<br />
to secure access to food and clean water, and to end civil strife and violent<br />
conflict.<br />
Again, the liberal intention to go beyond state-centric international politics<br />
and to empower international organizations to provide better life chances for<br />
human beings worldwide is evident. And yet, a consequence of this conceptual<br />
shift could be institutionalized irresponsibility. So far, security responsibility<br />
has grown hand in hand with institutional developments. National security was<br />
guaranteed by nation states. Regional security was dealt with by regional organizations<br />
(either sub-organizations of the UN such as the Organization of<br />
American States or the African Union, alliances of collective defense such as<br />
NATO, or regional dialogue fora such as ASEAN). International security was<br />
the task of international organizations and regimes (such as the UN and the<br />
Nuclear Nonproliferation Regime). Yet global security has no other institutional<br />
supporter than again the UN, which is more and more overstretched. The<br />
consequence is that although many international actors exist who claim responsibility<br />
in theory, often they shun the obligation in practice. The effect is what<br />
is sometimes called a “diffusion of responsibility”, a phenomenon that is explained<br />
by organization theory as the result of overlapping competencies and<br />
an incongruence between the role and task of organizations. Thus, the long<br />
inactivity of the international community during the Yugoslav crisis or in the<br />
case of the Rwanda genocide can be explained in terms of the so-called “bystander<br />
effect”, which was not only caused by inter-institutional competition<br />
but by the mismatch between institutional claims of competence and the acceptance<br />
of responsibility. If many actors are “in principle” competent for many<br />
security issues, the propensity is high that costly decisions will be passed over<br />
to others. As long as the relationship between national, regional, international<br />
and global security is not clarified, institutional irresponsibility is likely to<br />
remain a severe problem.<br />
Danger Dimension<br />
The fourth, and arguably the most important dimension of conceptual change<br />
concerns the operationalization of danger. Traditionally, political challenges to<br />
the state had been operationalized as threats, which could be measured on the<br />
basis of what was known about the enemy actor, his hostile intentions and his<br />
32
military capabilities. 43 This was the paradigmatic case during the Cold War<br />
when East and West stood heavily armed eyeball to eyeball. Defusing threats<br />
either by counter-threats and deterrence or by threat-reduction and détente<br />
became the crucial endeavor during the Cold War. 44<br />
This concept of insecurity as symmetrical threat became problematic, however,<br />
when more diffuse dangers to the well-being of societies were perceived.<br />
In times of great social and economic interdependence, dangers emanate not<br />
necessarily from hostile actors and through military capabilities, as the oil<br />
crises demonstrated. Thus, insecurity had to be measured in alternative ways,<br />
for example as the degree of vulnerability to externalities, whatever their<br />
sources might be. 45 Thus the security debate was re-focused from the enemy<br />
strength to one’s own alleged weakness. The famous “window of vulnerability”<br />
was thus a byproduct of détente, since disarmament raised the fear that the<br />
good-will of cooperation could be exploited by the enemy.<br />
From the concept of vulnerability it is only a small step to the paradigmatic<br />
shift of security policy after the Cold War. 46 Today, risks, not threats, dominate<br />
the discourse about international politics. The “clear and present danger” of the<br />
Cold War has been replaced by unclear and future “risks and challenges”. The<br />
proliferation of weapons of mass destruction, transnational terrorism, organized<br />
crime, environmental degradation and many other issues are discussed in terms<br />
of uncertainty and risk. What makes them similar is their relative indeterminableness.<br />
Why is this conceptual change so significant? Because with the concept of<br />
risk, new existential dangers come into view that do not yet exist, but that have<br />
the potential to develop in the future. The incorporation of uncertainties is the<br />
ultimate extension of the perception of insecurity and it changes the demands<br />
for security policy fundamentally. 47 When the task of security policy is to deal<br />
with uncertainties and risk, it can no longer be reactive as during the Cold War,<br />
but must become proactive. A policy is proactive if it reduces possible dangers<br />
by anticipating future problems, developments and needs. In general, proactive<br />
security policy can be directed towards the causes or the effects of a risk, i.e. it<br />
can be preventive or precautionary. Political prevention aims at prohibiting a<br />
future loss from occurring, i.e. it affects the probability part of the risk equation.<br />
Political precaution aims at reducing the costs of a loss and at mitigating<br />
its consequences if prevention fails, i.e. it affects the loss part of the equation.<br />
Prevention and precaution in turn may be practiced either cooperatively or<br />
repressively, i.e. based on diplomatic means and political cooperation on the<br />
43 Cohen 1979; Knorr 1976.<br />
44 Gaddis 1987.<br />
45 Keohane and Nye 1977.<br />
46 Daase 2002.<br />
47 Daase and Kessler 2007.<br />
33
one hand or on military means and political coercion on the other. Given these<br />
options, the impression is that at least four proactive strategies exist to address<br />
international risks: cooperation, intervention, compensation, and preparation. 48<br />
What is crucial is that all proactive strategies to reduce international risks are<br />
much more active and offensive than traditional security policies aimed at<br />
averting threats or mitigating vulnerabilities. The reason is that the state has to<br />
prevent a danger before it emerges, and thus to intrude – internally – into the<br />
civil rights of citizens and – externally – into the sovereign rights of states.<br />
Thus, the operationalization of security as the absence of risks contributes to<br />
the emergence of what has been called the Prevention State. 49<br />
The so called “war on terror” is a paradigmatic case, since its purpose is to<br />
lower the risk of future attacks. Domestically it compromises civil liberties for<br />
the sake of internal security, internationally it undermines the sovereignty of<br />
states by lowering the threshold for intervention and preventive war. Thus,<br />
proactive policies tend to undermine traditional normative orders and could<br />
lead back to traditional state-centric power politics.<br />
Conclusion<br />
This is not the place to further expand on the benefits and costs of international<br />
risk policy. But it is important to stress that with the emergence of the concept<br />
of “international risk” the extension of the security concept has reached its peak<br />
– at least for the time being. With this concept the liberal definition of security<br />
has prevailed. For risks do not relate only to threats to territorial spaces or<br />
vulnerabilities of collective goods, but also to natural and social nexuses in<br />
which every individual is embedded. Thus, the secular dissociation of state and<br />
society culminates in a concept of security that is de-nationalized and at the<br />
same time globalized and individualized.<br />
To explain today’s security policy, the military entanglement in places such<br />
as Afghanistan and Iraq, the humanitarian activity in some and inactivity in<br />
other places of the world, the overstretch of international organizations and the<br />
attempts at institutional reforms, one has to understand the change in security<br />
culture, nationally and internationally, in the values, ideas and practices of how<br />
insecurity is perceived and security is produced. The conceptual history of<br />
security provides a unique key to that understanding.<br />
48 Daase 2002, 18-21.<br />
49 Denninger 2008.<br />
34
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37
Special Issue<br />
The Production of Human Security in<br />
Premodern and Contemporary History<br />
Die Produktion von Human Security in<br />
Vormoderne und Zeitgeschichte<br />
DOMESTIC SECURITY REGIMES<br />
No. 134<br />
HSR Vol. 35 (2010) 4
Security and “Gute Policey” in Early Modern Europe:<br />
Concepts, Laws, and Instruments<br />
Karl Härter �<br />
Abstract: »Sicherheit und “Gute Policey” im frühneuzeitlichen Europa: Konzepte,<br />
Gesetze und Instrumente«. The article demonstrates that the development<br />
of “security” as a leading category and main field of state activity in the<br />
Early Modern Era was closely interconnected with the concept of “gute Policey”<br />
and the increasing body of police ordinances. Within Early Modern administrative<br />
law as well as in the theoretical discourses of the administrative<br />
sciences, “security” became a crucial objective of the well-ordered police state<br />
and thus succeeded “peace” and “unity” as a leading category. In this respect,<br />
the growing importance of security indicates the “secularization” of authoritarian<br />
regulatory policy. In parallel to this, administrative law was characterized<br />
by the differentiation between “internal” and “social” security. Whereas the<br />
former focused on exterior security threats, for example mobile marginal<br />
groups, the latter manifested itself in scopes such as “poor relief”, the “health<br />
sector” and measures dealing with risks and hazards including bad harvests,<br />
epidemic plagues, fire hazards and natural disasters. The resulting regulatory<br />
policy gave rise to the gradual establishment of administrative measures in the<br />
area of internal and social security, ranging from surveillance to insurances.<br />
However, the addressees of ordinances and the subjects also participated in the<br />
production of security via “guter Policey”, and in this respect security policy<br />
partially adopted popular demands for security and security discourses. Altogether,<br />
the Early Modern “gute Policey” could well be interpreted as a prototype<br />
of “human security”. But on the other hand, “gute Policey” also implied<br />
the juridification of security and the implementation of a state-based security<br />
policy, which ultimately led to the fundamental separation between internal<br />
security and police on the one hand and welfare policy/administration on the<br />
other hand, by the beginning of the 19th century.<br />
Keywords: public law, administrative law, police ordinances, public/internal<br />
security, social security, administration, social control, security policy.<br />
I. Introduction:<br />
Notion and Purposes of Policey and “Security”<br />
In the history of Early Modern Europe, the development of “security” as a<br />
leading category and main field of state activity is closely interconnected with<br />
� Address all communications to: Karl Härter, Max-Planck-Institut für europäische Rechtsgeschichte,<br />
Hausener Weg 120, 60489 Frankfurt am Main, Germany;<br />
e-mail: haerter@mpier.uni-frankfurt.de.<br />
<strong>Historical</strong> <strong>Social</strong> <strong>Research</strong>, Vol. 35 — 2010 — No. 4, 41-65
the concept of “gute Policey”. 1 Nowadays the term police (Polizei) indicates<br />
an institution primarily dealing with security and order; “human” or social<br />
security as well as welfare or the common weal are out of range of the police. 2<br />
However, the contemporary notion of police is the result of a lengthy process in<br />
which the concept and notion of “Policey” was narrowed to an executive<br />
agency primarily dealing with the maintenance of “internal security”. When the<br />
terms police and Policey first appeared in the 15th century in France and in the<br />
Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation respectively they referred to the<br />
general concept and the overall purpose of the “good order” of a community,<br />
society or state: the so-called well-ordered police state. 3<br />
The pivotal instrument of establishing and maintaining good order was the<br />
police ordinance – the so-called Policeyordnung: administrative laws, ordinances,<br />
regulations, edicts and so forth, primarily enacted by the Early Modern<br />
authorities (Obrigkeiten) and covering a variety of subject matters in the wide<br />
area of public order. From the 15th century onwards a growing number of<br />
police ordinances (Policeygesetze) in virtually all European states, territories<br />
and cities reacted to crises and topical problems within society and the economy<br />
and aimed at a long-term regulation of social behaviour. Police ordinances<br />
and regulations dealt with religious matters, blasphemy and swearing, deviant<br />
sexual behaviour and sexual offences, sumptuousness and luxury, clothing,<br />
feasts, drinking and gambling, violent offences and larceny as well as with<br />
marginal groups, beggars, poor relief, public health, agriculture and forests,<br />
market and price regulations, commerce, guilds and craftsmen, infrastructure,<br />
fire, natural disasters – to name but a few of the expanding scopes of the Early<br />
Modern police norms, of which many could be subsumed under the purposes of<br />
“welfare” and “security”. As “laws”, Policeygesetze were addressed to all<br />
social groups as the recipients and objects of gute Policey, because society as a<br />
whole was to be policed, regulated, disciplined and ordered. In this respect the<br />
police ordinances also helped to establish “welfare” and “security” as leading<br />
categories which crossed the social order and applied to society as a whole.<br />
Beyond legislation and norms, gute Policey as an overall concept was<br />
closely connected to government and administration (Regiment und Verwaltung)<br />
and with respect to the implementation and enforcement of police ordinances,<br />
it became a central field of concrete administrative action. Although<br />
the Early Modern state had to rely on intermediate powers, local social<br />
groups/communities and traditional institutions to enforce police ordinances,<br />
gute Policey allowed the authorities to expand executive administrative instru-<br />
1 On the conceptual history (Begriffsgeschichte) of security, see: Conze 1984.<br />
2 On the history of social as well as human security, albeit without giving any attention to the<br />
concept of “gute Policey”, see: MacFarlane and Khong 2006, 23-60; Metz 2008.<br />
3 On the history of gute Policey as a whole and its notion in particular, see: Härter 2010; Iseli<br />
2009; Nitschke 1992; Raeff 1983.<br />
42
ments and institutions, especially with regard to the overall purposes of welfare<br />
and security. Within the concept of gute Policey from the 17th century onwards,<br />
“security” slowly but steadily gained a more and more prominent role as<br />
a crucial element of “good order”: as a general purpose of good government, as<br />
an important sector of police legislation (Policeygesetzgebung) and as a field of<br />
concrete administrative action.<br />
Hence, the police ordinances as well as the theoretical discourses of Policeywissenschaft<br />
(police and administrative sciences) allow us in the following<br />
to analyse the intentions and aims of “security” which were to be established<br />
and maintained by police ordinances, as well as the more specific security<br />
regulations and the concrete fields of administration in which security was<br />
considered to be the primary purpose. With regard to legislation in the field of<br />
public order, security was considered as the primary task of the emerging Early<br />
Modern state. In this respect, gute Policey is tightly knitted to authorities, state<br />
and concepts such as social control, norm enforcement or security policy. But<br />
the analysis of the police ordinances reaches beyond the level of the authorities<br />
and the state and also touches on general social motives, fears and demands for<br />
security interrelated with common risks, dangers, challenges and threats. Recent<br />
historical research on “gute Policey” no longer considers Policeygesetzgebung<br />
and the implementation and administration of gute Policey as top-tobottom<br />
law-making, but as an interactive process of communication, negotiation<br />
and bargaining between social/local communities, intermediary powers,<br />
local office-holders, administration and the authorities/rulers. In this respect the<br />
specific regulations and security matters of the Policeygesetzgebung enable<br />
further-reaching conclusions about the requirements, needs and demands for<br />
“security” within Early Modern society and therefore seem to correspond with<br />
the concept of human security in a historical perspective. 4<br />
II. Security and Policey Within the Theoretical Concepts of<br />
Policeywissenschaft<br />
Nearly all authors of the so-called Policeywissenschaft of the 18th century<br />
agreed that besides welfare, “security” constituted the leading purpose of gute<br />
Policey. 5 In his Traité de la police, the French author Delamare named “la<br />
Secureté, & la Tranquillité publique” as a primary task of police. 6 In the second<br />
half of the 18th century, Justi shaped the relationship between security and<br />
Policey, concentrating on internal security, prevention and the state: “Diese so<br />
4 For recent perspectives on gute Policey as a key concept of Early Modern society see:<br />
Stolleis et al. 1996; Härter 2000a; Blickle and Schüpbach 2003.<br />
5 In general see: Maier 1966; Stolleis 1988; Simon 2004.<br />
6 Delamare 1707, 4.<br />
43
nothwendige innerliche Sicherheit ist nicht allein ein Gegenstand der Policey;<br />
sie ist eben so sehr, und so gar in ihren wichtigsten Umständen ein Gegenstand<br />
der Staatskunst” (This so necessary internal security is not solely an object of<br />
the police; it is equally, and even in its most important aspects, an object of<br />
state government). Therefore he distinguishes between specific and general<br />
internal security, for the latter concerns “sowohl die Wohlfarth und Ruhe aller<br />
Bürger in ihrem Zusammenhange, als auch die oberste Gewalt in ihrem<br />
Verhältniß gegen die Staatsverfassung” (both the welfare and tranquillity of all<br />
citizens in its interrelationship, and the highest power in its relation to the states<br />
constitution). The more specific internal security, on the other hand, was solely<br />
the subject matter of Policey and concerned the individual burgher:<br />
Die besondere innerliche Sicherheit ist diejenige, welche die Bürger, einzeln<br />
betrachtet, genießen müssen, und welche denen Bürgern in Ansehung ihres<br />
Lebens, ihrer Güther, und ihrer Ehre, Schutz und Ruhe verschaffet, und alle<br />
Beeinträchtigungen und Gewaltthätigkeiten von ihnen abwendet; und dieses<br />
zu bewirken, ist die Sache der Policey. Dieses ist einer ihrer vornehmsten<br />
Endzwecke; und die besondere innerliche Sicherheit ist demnach einer von<br />
denen haupsachlichsten Gegenständen, worauf sie ihre Aufmerksamkeit zu<br />
richten hat. (Specifically internal security is that which individual citizens<br />
must enjoy, and which gives protection and tranquility to these citizens with<br />
regard to their life, their goods and their honour, and which averts all damages<br />
and violent acts from them; and effecting this is the task of the police. This is<br />
one of its most noble ultimate purposes; and specifically internal security is<br />
therefore one of the primary objects to which it should direct its attention). 7<br />
Other authors came up with very similar concepts of Policey and security.<br />
Sonnenfels classified internal security in general as a primary task of gute<br />
Policey, and therefore Policeywissenschaft had to comprehend the main principles<br />
of security. With regard to police ordinances and the administrative tasks,<br />
he distinguished two main fields: “Vorsorge für die innere öffentliche Sicherheit”<br />
(provision for internal public security) and “Vorsorge für die innere Privatsicherheit”<br />
(provision for internal private security). Whereas public security<br />
primarily concerns internal state security (“der Zustand, worinnen der Staat von<br />
seinen Bürgern nichts zu befürchten hat”: the condition in which the state has<br />
nothing to fear from its citizens), the latter – innere Privatsicherheit – concerns<br />
“Handlungen, Personen, Ehre und Güter der Bürger” (actions, persons, the<br />
citizens’ honour and property). Gute Policey should provide security in a preventative<br />
and protective way for every individual subject or burgher with regard<br />
to his actions (especially economic ones), his physical body (against violence,<br />
disease, starving etc.), his honour or social reputation (against<br />
defamation etc.) and his property (against fire hazards, larceny etc.). 8 Finally,<br />
in 1799 Berg amalgamated public and private security in his encompassing<br />
7 Justi 1761, vol. 2, 264, 266.<br />
8 Sonnenfels 1787, 25.<br />
44
concept of Sicherheitspolicey, for the precondition of internal security in the<br />
broadest sense was “die Ruhe des Staates selbst […], wenn für die Ruhe und<br />
Sicherheit jedes Einzelnen mit Erfolg gesorgt werden soll” (the tranquillity of<br />
the state itself […], if one is successfully to ensure the tranquillity and security<br />
of every individual). 9 Only a secure state could provide security and welfare for<br />
its subjects by establishing and maintaining gute Policey through a comprehensive<br />
legislation and an effective administration. At the turn of the century several<br />
authors of German public law narrowed the notion of Policey solely to<br />
security by excluding “welfare” and the “common weal” as the main purposes<br />
of gute Policey, such as Gönner (referring to Pütter’s definition): “Die Polizei<br />
hat es immer nur mit Sicherheit zu thun, Erhöhung des Wohlstands liegt ausser<br />
ihrem direkten Zweck” (the police is always concerned solely with security; the<br />
increase of prosperity lies outside its direct objective). 10<br />
Besides the restriction of Policey to security, the important advancement of<br />
Policeywissenschaft in the interconnected conceptual history (Begriffsgeschichte)<br />
of Policey and security in Early Modern Europe can be discerned in the<br />
differentiation of external and internal security – brought up initially by Thomas<br />
Hobbes in 1651 in his Leviathan 11 – as well as between the public (internal)<br />
security of the state and the “social security” of the individual burgher. In<br />
this respect the Early Modern concept of gute Policey points to more or less<br />
modern concepts of state-based internal public security (innere Sicherheit),<br />
dealing for instance with terrorism and similar violent threats, on the one hand,<br />
and social or human security, which focuses on the security needs of the individual<br />
human or social groups on the other hand. It almost seems that gute<br />
Policey could be described as a precursor of the modern concept of “human<br />
security”. For one of its crucial assumptions is that the focus of research and<br />
concrete security policy should be on the people and not only on the state. 12<br />
However, Policeywissenschaft as well as the Early Modern authorities subordinated<br />
(or integrated) social security to the concept of gute Policey and<br />
Policeygesetzgebung in particular, for the primary instruments to establish and<br />
maintain internal, public as well as social security were the police ordinances<br />
and the strict observance of them. As Berg puts it:<br />
Gehorsam gegen die Gesetze und die Obrigkeit, und die freye, ungestörte<br />
Wirksamkeit der Regierung für den allgemeinen Zweck … darauf beruht die<br />
innere öffentliche Sicherheit, und diese ist natürlicher Weise der erste Gegenstand<br />
der Sicherheitspolicey. (Obedience to the ordinances and the authorities,<br />
and the free, undisturbed activity of the government for the common pur-<br />
9 Berg 1802, vol. 1, 207.<br />
10 Gönner 1804, 424-425. Compare in general Matsumoto 1999.<br />
11 Schrimm-Heins 1990.<br />
12 Boer and Wilde 2008.<br />
45
pose... this is the basis of internal public security, and this is naturally the first<br />
object of the security police). 13<br />
The “Stärke und Glückseeligkeit des Staats” (strength and happiness of the<br />
state), underlines Justi, is based on the condition that “die innerliche Sicherheit<br />
auf diese Art als eine Frucht der Gesetze entstehet” (internal security emerges<br />
in this way as the fruits of the ordinances). 14 Inner (public as well as social)<br />
security should be produced primarily through laws/police ordinances which<br />
the state should enforce and which the subjects have to obey. In this respect<br />
many authors tried to systematize the vast bulk of police ordinances, indicating<br />
specific fields of regulation and related administrative measures (Sicherheitsanstalten)<br />
in which security matters were of prime importance, thus providing<br />
police knowledge and advice for governments on how to conceive the “best”<br />
police ordinances. In this regard the writing/discourses of Policeywissenschaft<br />
were part of law-making and reflect the development of security as an overall<br />
purpose and intention within the growing body of Early Modern police ordinances.<br />
III. Legislation (Policeygesetzgebung) and Security<br />
in the 16th and 17th Centuries<br />
Since the second half of the 15th century the imperial cities, the territorial<br />
rulers and the Imperial Diet of the Holy Roman Empire had enacted a growing<br />
body of police ordinances comprising many regulations which pointed at typical<br />
security issues: revolts and social upheaval, vagrants, robbers and bandits,<br />
marauding soldiers, poverty and poor relief, diseases and plagues, famine and<br />
food shortage, fire, natural hazards and many more. From the perspective of the<br />
authorities and the public, Early Modern society always seemed to be in a state<br />
of disorder – unstable, risky and threatened by permanent crises. However,<br />
neither the police ordinances of the 15th and 16th centuries nor the early treatises<br />
of Policeywissenschaft bore any substantial relation to the term security or<br />
even named it, although they were indicating the prevention of dangers and<br />
threats as well as evil (Übel), abuses, wrongs, deficiencies and shortages<br />
(Gebrechen und Mängel). But on the whole such threats as epidemics, war,<br />
revolts, religious crises, rising prices, bad harvest or natural catastrophes were<br />
regarded as the wrath of God who reacted with divine punishment to the sinful<br />
and deviant behaviour of human beings: God was “zu billichem zorn gegen den<br />
menschen bewegt worden/ und theüwrunge/ krieg/ pestilent/ und andere manigfaltige<br />
plagen/ auf erden kommen” because people had not obeyed “Gottes<br />
13 Berg 1802, vol. 1, 207.<br />
14 Justi 1761, 263.<br />
46
gebot” (God’s law) as well as the imperial police ordinances, argued the<br />
Reichspoliceyordnung of 1548. 15<br />
In this respect the police regulations indicated as their main intentions social<br />
as well as religious peace, tranquility, unity, stability and the common weal,<br />
which were to be established mainly through godly and disciplined behaviour<br />
according to religious norms and the Policeyordnungen, at least to appease the<br />
wrath of God and prevent divine punishment. 16 The Statuten, Satzung, Reformation<br />
und Ordnung, Burgerlicher Pollicey (1541) of the imperial city of Heilbronn<br />
stated the “handthabung gemeynes nützs / Rechtlicher Ordnung / frydens<br />
vnd eynigkeyt” (maintaining the common weal, legal order, peace and unity) as<br />
well as “fryd / Recht vnnd eynigkeyt in vnser Stat” (peace, law and unity in our<br />
city) as its main intentions. 17 Very similarly, the Archbishop of Cologne in<br />
1537 and the Elector of the Palatinate in 1598 indicated the purposes of their<br />
comprehensive Policeyordnungen as “fridds und eynigkeit […] unsern landen<br />
unnd lüden zue wolfart/ nutz/ uffnemmen unnd gedeihen” (peace and unity ...<br />
so that the welfare and utility of our lands and people may thrive), and “stiller<br />
Ruhe/ Frieden und gutem Gemach” (tranquility, peace and comfort), respectively.<br />
18<br />
Although many police regulations contained preventative and practical<br />
means as well as instructions for concrete administration which could certainly<br />
be regarded as security measures, the pivotal idea of gute Policey was to establish<br />
a good order – including security, without naming it – by prescribing a<br />
normative order based on religious and moral norms and covering all aspects of<br />
deviant behaviour, abuses and disorder in a comprehensive and exhausting<br />
Policeyordnung to which everyone (including the higher orders) was to behave<br />
accordingly: human security was to be achieved through social and religious<br />
discipline 19 – or as the Hessian Reformationsordnung in Policey-Sachen (1526)<br />
stated: “abstellung erneuter sünde und mißbräuch, versönung gottes zorn, anrichtung<br />
und pflantzung eines ehrlichen zuchtigen lebens, Christlicher eynyckeit<br />
und ordentlicher sidten, und furderung gemeynes nutzes” (prevention of<br />
renewed sin and abuses, appeasement of God’s fury, the establishment and<br />
foundation of an honest and modest life, Christian unity and proper customs,<br />
and the promotion of public utility). 20<br />
In the course of the 17th century we can observe a growing importance of<br />
security within the framework of gute Policey. First of all the sheer number of<br />
police ordinances, enacted mainly by the territorial rulers, increased after the<br />
15<br />
Cited in Weber 2002, 168. Compare Härter 1993.<br />
16<br />
See Simon 2004, 218-225.<br />
17<br />
Statuten Haylpronn 1541.<br />
18<br />
Policei 1537.<br />
19<br />
Härter 1994; Härter 2000b.<br />
20<br />
Kleinschmidt and Apell 1767, 50.<br />
47
Thirty Years’ war, as Figure 1 shows. 21 In the course of this development the<br />
form of the laws (Gesetzesform) changed as well. Single laws (Einzelgesetze)<br />
were more and more dominant, such as mandates, edicts, decrees, and prescriptions,<br />
which in contrast to the comprehensive Policeyordnung dealt only with<br />
particular matters and regulations of Policey (Policeymaterien) and facilitated a<br />
more flexible and prompt legal reaction to current threats, risks and dangers. In<br />
this respect the police ordinances aimed more at prevention and governance,<br />
indicating and defining areas of the “good order” as a subject of security, occasionally<br />
using the term and explicitly stating “security” as the purpose and<br />
justification of Policeygesetzgebung. Moreover, within the growing body of the<br />
ordinances, typical security issues gained more importance, especially concerning<br />
strolling soldiers, vagrants and bandits as well as duels or the carrying of<br />
weapons, all of them regarded as a matter of public security.<br />
7000<br />
6000<br />
5000<br />
4000<br />
3000<br />
2000<br />
1000<br />
0<br />
1500<br />
1510<br />
Figure 1: Police Regulations 1500-1799<br />
10 Territorien<br />
7 Reichsstädte<br />
1520<br />
1530<br />
Policeygesetzgebung (regulations) 1500-1799, 7 imperial cities, 10 territories<br />
1540<br />
1550<br />
1560<br />
1570<br />
1580<br />
1590<br />
1600<br />
1610<br />
1620<br />
1630<br />
An edict by the Archbishop of Cologne issued in 1696 claimed that plundering<br />
gangs had overturned public security in the archbishopric altogether (“die<br />
öffentliche Sicherheit im rheinischen Erzstifte gänzlich aufgehoben”). 22 The<br />
Policeyordnung Brandenburg-Bayreuth (1672) dealt in several paragraphs with<br />
21 Based on Härter and Stolleis 1996-2010; included are the data of: Nördlingen, compiled by<br />
Barbara Rajkay; Schweinfurt, compiled by Marian Opalka. They count not the number of<br />
ordinances but the different regulations according to the index of “police matters” (Policeymaterien).<br />
In the following, police ordinances covered by the repertory are merely referenced<br />
with the name of the territory/city, number of the repertory, form and date.<br />
22 Kurköln 182 [Reskript], 07.12.1696.<br />
1640<br />
1650<br />
48<br />
1660<br />
1670<br />
1680<br />
1690<br />
1700<br />
1710<br />
1720<br />
1730<br />
1740<br />
1750<br />
1760<br />
1770<br />
1780<br />
1790
vagrants, gypsies and robber bands, stating that the primary aim of the regulations<br />
was<br />
daß die strasen und wege fuer raube und plackereyen sicher und rein gehalten,<br />
und dadurch handel und gewerbe im lande ohne gefahr getrieben werden, reisende<br />
personen ungehindert wandeln, und ein jeder in seinem hause und stande<br />
sich ruhesam naehren moege” (that the streets and paths may be kept secure<br />
and clear of robberies and feuds, so that trade and business can be carried<br />
out in the country without danger, travellers may make their journeys unhindered,<br />
and every man can peacefully support himself in his own house and<br />
station in life). 23<br />
Maintaining public peace and security with regard to trade and commerce<br />
endangered by ambulant masterless marginal groups was also the prime subject<br />
matter of a police ordinance issued by the Archbishop of Mainz in 1680. 24<br />
The growing number of police ordinances dealing with marginal, migrating<br />
groups defined and distributed the normative label of criminal, dangerous<br />
groups as an external – socially as well as spatially – threat to internal/public<br />
security. 25 They depicted such groups in general as a menace to the common<br />
people: raiding, plundering and burning villages, killing and raping people,<br />
stealing or destructing their property. In addition, the regulations described<br />
certain spaces and places as insecure: the borders, country roads, woods, lonely<br />
spots, farmhouses, mills, or inns in the countryside, where such criminal vagrants<br />
and bandits could hide or were even welcomed. Admittedly, authorities<br />
tended to exaggerate the imminence of such dangerous groups in order to<br />
“stimulate” their reluctant subjects to perform security duties, pay more taxes<br />
for security measures, or to inform them about the habits of beggars, vagrants<br />
or the “criminal milieus”. However, such police ordinances cannot be reduced<br />
to a purely symbolic function and ineffective products of a failed security or<br />
social policy. For the concept of Sicherheitspolicey implied the labelling and<br />
criminalization of marginal groups (independently from the “real” crime rate)<br />
as well as the forming of the enduring stereotype of external dangerous groups<br />
which threatened internal security and endangered specific “insecure” locations.<br />
And beyond this, the Early Modern state did in fact establish and extend<br />
specific security measures and institutions (especially police forces) to enforce<br />
the ordinances, to control and prosecute dangerous groups and to maintain<br />
public security. 26<br />
In the second half of the 17th century we can also discern the growing importance<br />
of public security in the legislation of the Empire, the imperial circles<br />
23<br />
Policeyordnung Brandenburg-Bayreuth (1672), printed in: Wüst 2003, 574-668, cit. 631<br />
24<br />
Kurmainz 342, Verordnung, 30.04.1680.<br />
25<br />
Härter 2003a; Härter 2003c; Fritz 2004; Härter 2005a, chapter 9. For a slightly different<br />
view see: Ammerer 2003.<br />
26<br />
Compare for instance Nitschke 1990; Härter 1999a. This will be discussed subsequently<br />
more in detail.<br />
49
and the permanent diet of Ratisbone (since 1663) respectively, which deliberated<br />
certain issues of gute Policey and securitas publica concerning the Empire<br />
as a whole. 27 In 1668/1670 the diet and the Emperor issued a resolution<br />
(Reichsgutachten) “vom Policey-Wesen/ und sonderlich von Abstellung des<br />
höchst-schädlichen Duelliren/ Balgen und Kugel-Wechseln” (concerning the<br />
police and in particular the prevention of the highly dangerous duelling/fighting<br />
and exchanging of bullets). This was followed by a comprehensive law on the<br />
Puncti Securitatis publicae (later called Reichsexekutionsordnung: imperial<br />
execution order), which dealt with vagrants and gypsy gangs, strolling and<br />
marauding soldiers, robbery and banditry, breach of the peace (Landfriedensbruch),<br />
social upheaval and revolts as well as several security measures such as<br />
safe conduct (sicheres Geleit), prosecution (Nacheile), alarm (Alarmwesen),<br />
patrols and visitations, with regard to the rural areas and country roads in particular.<br />
28 The imperial diet enacted only a few laws concerning public security,<br />
but they were part of and stimulated the increasing Policeygesetzgebung of the<br />
imperial circles and the imperial estates as well as the burgeoning public discourses<br />
on “internal security”.<br />
At the start of the 18th century, “security” had achieved a stable and increasingly<br />
important role within the Policeygesetzgebung, which had established and<br />
was using the concept of allgemeine Landessicherheit (general security of the<br />
land) with regard to “dangerous groups” as well as to property (Eigentum),<br />
trade and commerce. 29 However, the concept of Policey and security and the<br />
Policeygesetzgebung in particular still focused primarily on internal security,<br />
which was threatened by marginal, criminal and violent groups: the poor, vagrants,<br />
ethnical/religious minorities such as the gypsies and the Jews, gangs of<br />
thieves and robbers (Diebes- und Räuberbanden) as well as ex-soldiers, deserters,<br />
duellists or rioting subjects. In this respect the authorities and the Policeygesetzgebung<br />
conceived security as a reaction to criminal behaviour and deviant/dissident<br />
groups, endangering above all the life and property of subjects in<br />
rural areas, small towns and villages as well as the country roads, mail, coaches<br />
and transport of passengers and therefore trade and commerce. Thus society<br />
and economy on the whole as well as individual property were considered as a<br />
matter of public security within the scope of gute Policey, conceiving security<br />
as a crucial precondition of property and economic prosperity and progress.<br />
27 Härter 2003b.<br />
28 “Reichs-Abschieds-Anfang“ 1740, part 1, 324-327, 437-445, 634-670.<br />
29 Compare as examples the “security ordinances” of the imperial circles: “Edikte des Fränkischen<br />
Kreises“ 1700; “Verordnungen des Oberrheinischen Kreises“ 1722; Neue und mehr<br />
geschärffte Poenal-Sanktion und Verordnung des löbl. Ober-Rheinischen Creyßes,<br />
20.12.1726; Instruction, wornach die vom Löblichen Ober-Rheinischen Crayß bestellte<br />
Crayß-Land-Lieutenants mit der untergebenen Mannschafft/ in denen Ihnen aufgetragenen<br />
Verrichtungen sich zu achten haben, 19.12.1726.<br />
50
The reasons for the growing importance of this particular concept of Sicherheitspolicey<br />
in the second half of the 17th and the first decades of the 18th<br />
century can be discerned in certain socioeconomic developments: first of all the<br />
growth of population and the increase of migrating, marginal groups after the<br />
Thirty Years’ War. These groups were not only suspected of committing violent<br />
crimes but also of spreading epidemic plagues, which menaced Europe and<br />
the Empire in several pandemic waves (1660-1670, 1709-1713, 1720-21).<br />
Furthermore, marginal groups and the growing strata of the “idle poor” were<br />
blamed for endangering the basic food resource or causing lack of food. In<br />
general, the Policeygesetzgebung merged different security threats and hazards:<br />
marginal and criminal groups, epidemic diseases and supply crises. In this<br />
regard the police ordinances not only reflected common fears and popular<br />
images of a gradually unfolding topical security discourse but were equally<br />
interrelated with cameralist theory, which influenced the current economic and<br />
population policy as well as the burgeoning Policeywissenschaft. The latter<br />
likewise postulated the growth of population, state-based mercantilist economic<br />
and welfare policies, as well as security, as the primary aims of gute Policey<br />
and Policeygesetzgebung – ultimately to strengthen the power of the state. 30<br />
IV. The Differentiation Between Public/Internal and<br />
<strong>Social</strong>/Human Security in the 18th Century<br />
Political theory and Policeywissenschaft had additionally further developed the<br />
concept of security and established the fundamental distinction between external<br />
and internal security as well as addressing public security – besides welfare<br />
– as a primary task of the state within the framework of gute Policey. 31 Öffentliche<br />
and gemeine Sicherheit (public/general security) on the one and common<br />
weal/welfare on the other hand merged into the common formula of Sicherheit<br />
und Wohlfahrt, indicating the – modern – differentiation between internal and<br />
social security (innere und soziale Sicherheit). In contrast, the Policeygesetzgebung<br />
as well as the Policeywissenschaft rarely referred to the traditional concept<br />
of universal peace. In this respect the process of establishing public security<br />
as a crucial concept and purpose of gute Policey after the Thirty Years’<br />
War could be interpreted as a “secularisation” of the traditional concept of<br />
peace as related to the internal order of society. Based on the development of<br />
gute Policey and the Policeygesetzgebung in particular, security had become a<br />
leading concept of the state in the 18th century, justifying and stimulating the<br />
expansion of government and administration as well as further legislation in the<br />
fields of order, welfare and security.<br />
30 Compare Simon 2004, 381-562.<br />
31 Conze 1984, 846-847; Simon 2004, 522-524.<br />
51
The following figure (Figure 2) shows the increase of the Policeygesetzgebung<br />
of ten selected imperial territories between 1640 und 1799 in five sectors<br />
of police matters (Policeymaterien) related closely to internal/public as well as<br />
social security. 32<br />
1400<br />
1300<br />
1200<br />
1100<br />
1000<br />
900<br />
800<br />
700<br />
600<br />
500<br />
400<br />
300<br />
200<br />
100<br />
0<br />
5 Infrastructure<br />
3.3 Health Sector<br />
3.2 <strong>Social</strong> Relief<br />
1.3 Marginal Groups<br />
Figure 2: Regulations in 5 sectors<br />
Regulations in 5 sectors of 10 territories 1640-1799<br />
2.2 Security, Crime, Military<br />
1640 1650 1660 1670 1680 1690 1700 1710 1720 1730 1740 1750 1760 1770 1780 1790<br />
The main issues covered by these regulations can be systematized as follows:<br />
1) “Internal/Public Security”: crimes/violence against people (body, property)<br />
or society/the state (= 2.2 Security, Crime, Military and 1.3 Marginal<br />
Groups):<br />
- marginal groups, criminal vagrants, gangs, thieves and robbers<br />
- military: ex-soldiers, deserters, military excesses<br />
- political crimes: revolts, propaganda, pamphlets, “secret” associations<br />
- and the corresponding security institutions/measures such as patrols, visitations,<br />
rural militia and paramilitary police forces (hussars), wanted lists,<br />
passport control etc.<br />
Within these sectors of police regulations, security was to be established<br />
mainly through repressive executive measures and institutions to protect subjects<br />
and their property as well as society and the state against criminal behaviour<br />
and dangerous groups.<br />
2) “<strong>Social</strong> Security” with regard to everyday risks, accidents, natural hazards<br />
and disasters:<br />
32 Data/territories such as those given in footnote 21.<br />
52
- poverty/the poor and poor relief<br />
- everyday supply/starvation; bad harvest, high prices, plagues (grasshoppers,<br />
vermin), storms, floods<br />
- health sector: epidemic plagues, accidents, hygiene, first aid<br />
- infrastructure: natural disasters (floods, storms, fires) as well as buildings,<br />
roads, street lighting, traffic, transport, mail<br />
In these sectors of police regulations the focus was on the security of individual<br />
persons, social groups, communities or society endangered by topical<br />
risks, hazards and disasters which were not primarily caused by deviant/criminal<br />
humans but by natural or human accidents; thus the security measures<br />
concerned laid more emphasis on prevention, support, relief and insurances.<br />
Although security as a primary purpose shows up in the course of the 18th<br />
century in new, and more of the existing, sectors of the increasing Policeygesetzgebung,<br />
the different regulations and measures can be clearly differentiated<br />
according to the categories of “internal/public” and “social” security, with the<br />
latter gaining more importance in the second half of the 18th century in relevant<br />
sectors of the Policeygesetzgebung such as health, poor relief, infrastructure,<br />
building and traffic (as Figure 2 shows). 33 Despite the fact that regulations<br />
dealing with the poor, fire hazards or epidemic plagues reached back to the late<br />
Middle Ages, health, poverty, food shortages and building (Bauwesen) were<br />
more and more considered as an issue of welfare and human security, which<br />
the state should provide through Policeygesetzgebung as well as administrative<br />
and preventative measures. Joseph von Sonnenfels, by way of example, expanded<br />
the concept of “personal” or “physical” security (persönliche/ körperliche<br />
Sicherheit), which was threatened not only by crime but also by diseases,<br />
poverty, bodily defects, inability to work or shortage of food, and similarly<br />
enhanced the “security of goods and property” by the inclusion of fire hazards,<br />
storms and lightning in addition to robbery, larceny and fraud. 34 In this respect,<br />
internal/public and social security and the corresponding sectors of Policeygesetzgebung<br />
remained interrelated in many ways: policing marginal groups and<br />
poor relief constituted two sides of the same coin; vagrants and the poor were<br />
suspected of spreading epidemic diseases, of committing arson and endangering<br />
country roads, transport and mail. In this respect, many police regulations<br />
merged internal and social security and therefore also repressive policing of<br />
“dangerous groups” and technical preventative measures.<br />
However, since the end of the 17th century the expansion of the security<br />
concept to “personal security” and the human being as a primary object of<br />
security is clearly discernable in police ordinances dealing with health/diseases,<br />
33<br />
See in general on these sectors of gute Policey: Landwehr 2000b; Holenstein 2003; Härter<br />
2005b.<br />
34<br />
Sonnenfels 1787, 123-192, 200-219.<br />
53
social relief, fire, building or traffic. The Medizinalordnung of Kurtrier (the<br />
electorate of Trier) stated for instance in 1683 for the first time that gute Policey<br />
should aim at “der Unterthanen Conservation, Wolfahrt wie auch derer<br />
Leibsgesuntheiterhaltung” (the conservation and welfare of the subjects as well<br />
as the preservation of their physical health). 35 Although since the late Middle<br />
Ages many authorities had issued laws and ordinances dealing especially with<br />
medical affairs and epidemic diseases in particular, the health sector not only<br />
obtained a greater share within the Policeygesetzgebung in the second half of<br />
the 18th century but evolved into the Gesundheitspolicey/Medicinalpolicey:<br />
state-based health policy via medical laws aiming at the security of persons,<br />
bodies and minds and establishing more or less new provisions and institutions<br />
to provide more security. 36 In his ground-breaking work System einer vollständigen<br />
medicinischen Polizey (A Complete System of Medical Policy)<br />
(1779-1819), Johann Peter Frank defined the health of society as a crucial<br />
constituent of internal security and gute Policey:<br />
Die innere Sicherheit des Staates ist der Gegenstand der allgemeinen Polizeywissenschaft;<br />
[…] ein sehr ansehnlicher Theil davon ist die Wissenschaft, das<br />
Gesundheitswohl der in Gesellschaft lebenden Menschen […] nach gewissen<br />
Grundsätzen zu handhaben, folglich die Bevölkerung […] zu befördern. (The<br />
internal security of the state is the object of general police science; ... a very<br />
considerable part thereof is the science of handling the health of the people living<br />
in society ... according to certain principles, and consequently ... of promoting<br />
the population). 37<br />
Thus the regulations of the Gesundheitspolicey/Medicinalpolicey ranged<br />
from first aid in case of accidents and natural catastrophes, instruction sheets<br />
with remedies for epidemic diseases and cattle plagues, hygiene regulations<br />
concerning refuse, water or food, to the control of apothecaries and medicine<br />
and obligatory vaccination to health passports (Gesundheitspaß), the education,<br />
qualification, examination and accreditation of a “professional” medical staff<br />
(physicians, midwives, etc.) and the institution of state-based hospitals and<br />
birth houses; only the instrument of medical insurance was missing in the broad<br />
range of state-based health-care policy, but was established in the 19th century.<br />
38<br />
We can observe a similar development in the sector of Baupolicey and Feuerpolicey:<br />
The new building regulations (Bauordnung) of 1690, issued after<br />
military devastation and fire disasters in some towns of Kurmainz (the electorate<br />
of Mainz), ordered the rebuilding in such a way “dass jeder genugsame<br />
Sicherheit darin habe” (that everyone should have sufficient security in<br />
35 Kurtrier 285, Medizinalordnung, 1683.<br />
36 Dinges 2000; Wahrig and Sohn 2003; Möller 2005; Grumbach 2006.<br />
37 Frank 1779, vol. 1, 3-4.<br />
38 Frevert 1984.<br />
54
them). 39 In the 18th century the Policeygesetzgebung of many territories and<br />
cities comprised a growing quantity of building and construction regulations as<br />
well as technical provisions, regulating such matters as construction, architecture,<br />
plans, licences, supervision, inspection, material, fireplaces, and increasingly<br />
aiming at the security of buildings, streets, passengers and inhabitants. 40<br />
Although the primary purposes of such comprehensive Bauordnungen concerned<br />
the topographic order and planning of a city or town in general as well<br />
as the prevention of fire disasters, other issues interrelated with security such as<br />
hygiene, waste disposal, street cleaning, street lighting, and also traffic safety<br />
(Verkehrssicherheit) gained in importance. 41 One of the first police ordinances<br />
dealing with traffic safety was the Prussian “Avertissement, wegen des sachte<br />
und vorsichtigen Fahrens in den Residentzien” (announcement concerning<br />
steady and careful driving in the residences), which obliged all carriage drivers<br />
and waggoners to drive slowly for the health and safety of pedestrians, children<br />
and elderly people. 42 The imperial city of Frankfurt similarly issued in 1789 the<br />
“Verbot des schnellen Fahrens und Reutens in der Stadt” (ban on fast driving<br />
and riding in the city); and the city of Mainz threatened serious penalties to all<br />
drivers and equestrians harming pedestrians. 43<br />
However, the main topic of police ordinances dealing with security matters<br />
in the wide array of infrastructure remained fire hazards and Feuerpolicey. The<br />
elector of Cologne, who had already established fire ordinances in the Policeyordnung<br />
of 1695, issued in 1718 a decree in which prevention and the rescue of<br />
subjects from fire hazards (caused by smoke) was mentioned as a primary<br />
purpose for the first time, and the elector stated as his aim: “solchem Uebel<br />
dermahlen mit allem Ernst vorzubiegen, und ihre Unterthanen von sothaner<br />
Grund-verderblichen Brands-Gefahr zu erretten” (to make every effort to<br />
prevent such an evil, and save his subjects from this highly ruinous fire hazard).<br />
“Verhüt- und Abwendung sothaner Land und Leuten Grundverderblichen<br />
Brands-Gefahr” – the prevention of conflagration endangering land and people<br />
– emerged as a topical argument in many of the following ordinances dealing<br />
with fire hazards. This was completed by the launch of an obligatory fire insurance<br />
in 1773, indicating the final shift from reaction and punishment to preventative<br />
supporting measures and insurances respectively. 44 Like the elector of<br />
39 Kurmainz 377, Verordnung, 27.05.1690.<br />
40 See the Repertorium der Policeyordnungen, vol. 1-10, systematic index “5.4 Bauwesen”.<br />
Compare further as an example Süßmann 2007.<br />
41 Compare for instance Württemberg 800, Bauordnung, 02.01.1655: Deß Hertzogthumbs<br />
Würtemberg revidierte Baw-Ordnung, comprising more than hundred pages.<br />
42 Brandenburg-Preußen 2720, Avertissement, 05.05.1758.<br />
43 Frankfurt 4358, Verordnung, 13.01.1789; Kurmainz 2561, Verordnung, 25.08.1792.<br />
44 Kurköln 306, Verordnung, 26.08.1718, cited: Vollständige Sammlung deren die Verfassung<br />
des Hohen Erzstifts Cölln betreffender Stucken, [...] dan in Regal- und Cameral-Sachen, in<br />
Justitz-, Policey- und Militair-Weesen vor- und nach ergangener Verordnungen, und Edic-<br />
55
Cologne, in the 18th century many other rulers issued police ordinances imposing<br />
statutory fire insurances as well as enhancing technical provisions and<br />
measures.<br />
One of the first authors in the Holy Roman Empire who supported such insurances<br />
as a means of security and gute Policey (“einer guthen Policey ganz<br />
gemäß”) was Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz, who drafted five treatises on public<br />
insurances around 1678-1680, 45 shortly after he had issued in 1670 his primary<br />
work on security: “Bedencken welchergestalt Securitas publica interna et<br />
externa und Status praesens im Reich ietzigen Umbständen nach auf Festen<br />
Fuß zu stellen” (Thoughts on how public internal and external security and the<br />
current state of affairs can be put on solid ground in the empire according to<br />
present conditions). 46 From the start of the 18th century onwards, nearly all<br />
authorities and rulers in the Old Reich issued police ordinances prescribing fire<br />
insurances, offices and associations, as well as often regulating nearly all matters<br />
of “Feuerpolicey”, from fire services to building regulations. 47<br />
Insurances evolved into an important instrument of social security and gute<br />
Policey, which was expanded to include more hazards: the fire insurances were<br />
sometimes extended to damages by storms or floods. Beyond that, some rulers<br />
in the 18th century initiated social insurances for widows and orphans of office-holders,<br />
issuing ordinances and statutes regulating the Pfarr-Wittwen Cassa,<br />
Wittwen-Casse vor die weltliche Dienerschaft, Wittwen- und Waysen Kassen<br />
Institut (parsons’ widows’ fund, secular servants’ widow’s fund, institute of<br />
widows’ and orphans’ funds), etc. 48 Whilst earlier charitable foundations supporting<br />
widows and orphans used as their argument the prevention of divine<br />
punishment, the new insurances and funds of the 18th century aimed explicitly<br />
at the protection (“Absicherung”) of specific groups exposed to poverty, such<br />
as for instance the ordinance establishing the “Wittwen-Fiskus” in Württemberg<br />
in 1700. 49 Although earlier efforts at “private” insurances by guilds, trad-<br />
ten [...], 2 vol. (Köln 1772/739), vol. 2, 148 (Nr. 346); Kurköln 588, Verordnung,<br />
14.08.1750, cit. Vollständige Sammlung II, 148f. (Nr. 347); Kurköln 848, Brand-Societäts<br />
Ordnung, 20.06.1773.<br />
45 Printed in: Knobloch et al. 2000.<br />
46 Printed in: Guhrauer 1838, 151-255; compare Schrimm-Heins 1990, 240-241.<br />
47 The territories and cities covered in Härter and Stolleis 1996-2010, issued nearly 200<br />
ordinances dealing with fire insurances.<br />
48 Pfalz-Zweibrücken 681, Verordnung, 13.02.1730; Pfalz-Zweibrücken 1218, Verordnung,<br />
24.12.1749; Kurtrier 1552, Ordnung, 26.07.1779. Compare in general Härter 2009, passim,<br />
especially 63.<br />
49 Württemberg 1495, Verordnung, 09.03.1700; compare further the outline of the development<br />
of the orphans’ and widows’ charity in Württemberg from the 16th century onwards<br />
in Württemberg 2763, Witwenkassenordnung, 1739: Gründliche Nachrichten von dem<br />
Württembergischen Fisco Charitativo, wie solcher [...] Vor arme Pfarrers- und Präceptors-<br />
Wittwen aufgerichtet [...], 1739.<br />
56
ing companies etc. can easily be discerned, 50 the insurances embedded in the<br />
concept of gute Policey implied a new dimension: they were often obligatory/statutory,<br />
state-based, regulated in police ordinances, and in principal<br />
aimed at future prevention and the whole of society (or the concerned target<br />
group of social security). As the Herzoglich-Würtembergische allgemeine<br />
Brand-Schadens-Versicherungs-Ordnung expressed it: because a voluntary<br />
association would fail to cover the possible extent of fire damages, it was necessary<br />
to establish the allgemeine Brand-Schadens-Versicherungs-Anstalt<br />
(general fire damage insurance institution) to which every house owner was<br />
obligated to contribute according to the taxation of his property; for this could<br />
be the only general remedy to ensure not only that aggrieved parties would be<br />
able to rebuild their ruined houses immediately, but that “Häuser und Gebäude<br />
[…] in Zukunft ein sicheres Capital werden” (houses and buildings should<br />
become a safe capital in future). 51<br />
The increase of police ordinances dealing with matters of human security in<br />
the second half of the 18th century is clearly connected to the cameralist economic<br />
and social policies of the Early Modern state, which aimed at the increase<br />
of revenues and the amplification of power. In this regard social security<br />
and gute Policey interlocked closely with the reform politics of so-called<br />
enlightened absolutism. Furthermore, the amalgamation of Policeygesetzgebung<br />
as administrative law and the establishment of concrete state-based institutions<br />
constituted the inception of social law and a primarily state-based social<br />
policy (staatliche Sozialpolitik), which differed from traditional charity based<br />
on the Church, the guilds or traditional communities. 52<br />
V. Conclusion: The Production of Security through<br />
Administration and Communication<br />
The expansion of social/human as well as internal/public security within the<br />
framework of gute Policey indicates an intensification of administration, government<br />
and social control which could certainly be interpreted as statebuilding.<br />
Security and gute Policey at least provided an effective justification<br />
and legitimization for establishing and expanding more state-based, professional<br />
measures and institutions and for transferring security tasks from traditional<br />
services and institutions such as local communities, the Church, guilds,<br />
local courts, rural militia etc. Because of its institutional weakness, the Early<br />
Modern state depended on intermediate powers and traditional social commu-<br />
50<br />
See Schewe 2000; Zedtwitz 2000.<br />
51<br />
Württemberg 3587, Feuerversicherungsordnung, 16.01.1773, cited in Reyscher, Sammlung,<br />
vol. 14, 871-905, 875.<br />
52<br />
Stolleis 2001; Schmid 1981; Reidegeld 2006.<br />
57
nities to perform security services and even fostered participation with regard<br />
to patrolling, guard duties, informing/denunciation and the enforcement of<br />
police ordinances in general. But this proved to be difficult with regard to the<br />
intensification of security policies in the 18th century and led to increasing<br />
problems und conflicts with reluctant or inapt subjects who could make productive<br />
use of security arguments and police ordinances by claiming that security<br />
services would interfere with their daily labour for mere subsistence (and<br />
would also decrease productiveness and taxes). With regard to threats to internal/public<br />
security – especially armed gangs, and robber bands – subjects as<br />
well as local officials were prone to exaggerate the potential number and dangerousness<br />
in order to argue that they could not cope and perform effectively in<br />
the face of such a menace.<br />
In a way, such arguments coincided with the perception of the authorities,<br />
who considered traditional services as ineffective in maintaining security and<br />
endeavoured to expand state-based security measures and institutions, albeit<br />
without having the necessary means and funds and therefore often merely<br />
experimenting with more modern and/or traditional institutions and measures<br />
(or a mixture of both) such as patrols, visitations, inspections, passport control,<br />
or tracing (using wanted lists) performed by peasants, rural militia, military<br />
forces, or new police forces (such as hussars, dragoons, Landjäger, “Hatschiere”,<br />
Landreiter, Landleutnants, Policeykommissare). 53 Similar problems and<br />
developments can be observed in the sectors of human/social security in which<br />
Armenpolicey (poor relief), Gesundheitspolicey (health-care), Baupolicey<br />
(building regulations) or Feuerpolicey remained embedded within local communities,<br />
intermediary powers, the Church, the guilds, and families on the one<br />
hand, while on the other hand new state-based institutions and provisions were<br />
established in the course of the 18th century (as depicted above).<br />
In this respect gute Policey contributed to the establishment of modern security<br />
agencies and instruments as well as to the incorporation of traditional local<br />
institutions into the emerging modern security policy, which altogether could<br />
be interpreted as the expansion of formal social control and the nationalization<br />
(Verstaatlichung) of security. Apart from the recent controversial debate on the<br />
question of the success and effectiveness of Early Modern security policy and<br />
norm enforcement, which we cannot discuss here in detail, 54 it seems indubitable<br />
that this peculiar amalgamation – and in a way, the deficiencies – also<br />
stimulated the differentiation of security instruments and the discourses on<br />
security. On the one hand the Early Modern state could demonstrate, with its<br />
administrative and policing activities in the realm of gute Policey, its ability to<br />
establish and maintain public security and to protect its subjects; but on the<br />
other hand the latter could use “security” (or insecurity) as an argument to<br />
53 Nitschke 1990; Holenstein et al. 2002a.<br />
54 Härter 1999b; Stolleis 2000; Landwehr 2000a.<br />
58
avoid traditional services or to claim governmental benefits and security provisions.<br />
In this respect the growing importance of security in the framework of<br />
gute Policey was by no means solely the result of intended state-building and<br />
modernization, but rather the product of the diverse problems with the administration<br />
of security and gute Policey as well as the corresponding communications<br />
and discourses.<br />
It may be true that the prevention and control of hazards, threats, dangers,<br />
risks, catastrophes, crime and their effects indicates the extent of security, but<br />
in the Early Modern period such a thing was nearly impossible to achieve.<br />
Moreover, the state of “security” is difficult to measure or to determine and<br />
besides such a relatively technical approach it could well be argued that security<br />
is rather a complex product of the relationship between power, mentalities,<br />
and communication. 55 Based on such an approach, we may emphasize the<br />
impact of gute Policey on the increasing importance of security and the forming<br />
of a distinct security policy.<br />
Although police ordinances were enacted by the authorities, they can be<br />
considered as part of the communication process or legal/administrative discourse<br />
on order, welfare and security between different actors: the authorities,<br />
the legislators, the rulers, the jurists, the officials, the local administration,<br />
intermediary powers, local office-holders, social communities, and subjects;<br />
though by no means equal participants of mutual interaction, gute Policey<br />
nevertheless provided options to communicate about security. The media of<br />
this discourse/communication on gute Policey and security can be systematized<br />
as the Policeygesetze themselves; the corresponding official or semi-official<br />
publications (ranging from wanted lists to operating instructions); the reports,<br />
lists, charts and statistics of local officials and office-holders on the enforcement,<br />
implementation and administration of gute Policey; the supplications,<br />
dispensations and complaints of subjects; the writings and treatises of the Policeywissenschaft,<br />
and popular media such as illustrated broadsheets or pamphlets<br />
dealing with catastrophes, crimes, hazards etc. The array of communication<br />
ranged from the genesis of police norms and the law-making procedure via<br />
the process of implementation and enforcement of the ordinances to reactions<br />
and complaints. 56<br />
Already the promulgation of police ordinances generated a wider public<br />
sphere, for they had to be brought to the knowledge of the Gemeiner Mann<br />
(common man), who should be able to understand the regulations, obey them<br />
and help to enforce them. In addition, governments and administrations demanded<br />
responses and information on the implementation, transgressions and<br />
the effect of ordinances and measures as well as on potential threats, hazards<br />
55 Compare in general on the “nature” of security: Foucault 2004; Sofsky 2005.<br />
56 Holenstein 2000; Schilling 2000; Holenstein 2005; Holenstein 2002; Härter 2002; Härter<br />
2005a, 189-241; Härter et al. 2010.<br />
59
and risks; the governments of Baden or Kurmainz ordered the local official to<br />
report periodically on all “Merck- und Nachrichts-würdigen Begebenheiten”<br />
(interesting and newsworthy events) as well as on a multitude of issues concerning<br />
security and gute Policey. 57 And the addressees of ordinances reacted<br />
and communicated actively on matters of Policey and security via supplications,<br />
petitions or complaints, informing governments and administrations,<br />
sometimes articulating their concerns and interests in security and regulations<br />
as well as negotiating for dispensations, concerning for instance security services<br />
that they had to perform. Precisely because local communities and subjects<br />
were essentially integrated into security measures and services, they could<br />
make “productive use” of police ordinances and the security argument.<br />
Within this increasing communication process, security was shaped, negotiated,<br />
demanded, rejected, and conceived with regard to gute Policey as well as<br />
to common fears and popular images. This included exaggeration and even<br />
hysteria: the fear of the black death in the twenties and seventies of the 18th<br />
century, the food crises of 1770-1773 or the robber band of Schinderhannes<br />
(reportedly consisting of hundreds of robbers, militarily organized, and terrorizing<br />
entire towns) are only a few examples of overstated hazards which did,<br />
however, lead to a wave of ordinances as well as to concrete administrative<br />
activities. In this respect, gute Policey as a communicative process and administrative<br />
discourse not only produced security but also exaggerated and even<br />
devised images of threats and hazards, influenced the perception of them and<br />
therefore could also produce insecurity. 58<br />
On the other hand, we should not underestimate the crucial function of gute<br />
Policey in developing and producing security on a symbolic as well as a practical<br />
level. Policeygesetzgebung implied a normative legal order characterized<br />
ultimately by the stability, predictability and calculability of law, an essential<br />
precondition and instrument of modern security – internal/public as well as<br />
social/human. Police ordinances initially defined security threats and hazards as<br />
well as the institutions, instruments and provisions of the responding security<br />
policy in legal terms, reacting to socioeconomic developments and integrating<br />
public discourses, but also according to social and economic attributes. This<br />
included the labelling and criminalization of “dangerous groups” which threatened<br />
internal/public security, as well as the stipulation of inclusion-exclusion<br />
criteria concerning the beneficiaries of security: native or foreign, wealthy or<br />
poor, able or unable to work, genuinely indigent or cheating, accidents/diseases<br />
which merited support or not, etc. Within the framework of gute Policey only<br />
the propertied, industrious, productive, disciplined and “useful” subject should<br />
benefit from social/human security, whereas masterless vagrants and marginal<br />
57<br />
Kurmainz 1066, Verordnung, 13.02.1753; Holenstein 2003, 258-281.<br />
58<br />
For a short summary of the debate on these issues, see the introduction to: Härter et al.<br />
2010, 1-23.<br />
60
groups were considered as external threat to internal security. In this regard<br />
gute Policey formed a state-based security policy and contributed to the juridification<br />
(Verrechtlichung) and nationalization (Verstaatlichung) of security, but<br />
also induced in the long run the fundamental separation of internal security<br />
(innere Sicherheit) on the one hand and welfare policy (Sozialpolitik) on the<br />
other hand. Whether the latter could or should be reintegrated as “Human Security”<br />
in an overall historical concept of security remains an open and controversial<br />
question.<br />
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Gesellschaft, edited by Karl Härter, 413-452. Frankfurt am Main: Klostermann,<br />
2000.<br />
Schmid, Felix. Sozialrecht und Recht der sozialen Sicherheit: Die Begriffsbildung<br />
in Deutschland, Frankreich und der Schweiz. Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 1981.<br />
Schrimm-Heins, Andrea. Gewißheit und Sicherheit: Geschichte und Bedeutungswandel<br />
der Begriffe certitudo und securitas. Bayreuth, 1990; PhD Univ.<br />
Bayreuth.<br />
Simon, Thomas. “Gute Policey”: Ordnungsleitbilder und Zielvorstellungen politischen<br />
Handelns in der Frühen Neuzeit. Frankfurt am Main: Klostermann, 2004.<br />
Sofsky, Wolfgang. Das Prinzip Sicherheit. Frankfurt am Main: S. Fischer, 2005.<br />
Stolleis, Michael. Reichspublizistik und Policeywissenschaft 1600-1800. Geschichte<br />
des öffentlichen Rechts in Deutschland. München: Beck, 1988.<br />
Stolleis, Michael. “Was bedeutet ‘Normdurchsetzung’ bei Policeyordnungen der<br />
frühen Neuzeit?” In Grundlagen des Rechts: Festschrift für Peter Landau zum<br />
65. Geburtstag, edited by Richard H. Helmholz, Peter Mikat, Jörg Müller, and<br />
Michael Stolleis, 740-757. Paderborn: Schöningh, 2000.<br />
Stolleis, Michael. “<strong>Historische</strong> Grundlagen. Sozialpolitik in Deutschland bis 1945.”<br />
In Geschichte der Sozialpolitik in Deutschland seit 1945. Vol. 1., edited by Hans<br />
G. Hockerts, 199-332. Baden-Baden: Nomos-Verl., 2001.<br />
Stolleis, Michael, Karl Härter, and Lothar Schilling. Policey im Europa der Frühen<br />
Neuzeit. Frankfurt am Main: Klostermann, 1996.<br />
Süßmann, Johannes. Vergemeinschaftung durch Bauen: Würzburgs Aufbruch unter<br />
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Wahrig, Bettina and Werner Sohn, eds. Zwischen Aufklärung, Policey und Verwaltung:<br />
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Zürich: vdf Hochsch.-Verl.an der ETH, 2000.<br />
65
Communicating Security:<br />
Technical Communication, Fire Security, and<br />
Fire Engine ‘Experts’ in the Early Modern Period<br />
Rebecca Knapp �<br />
Abstract: »Kommunikation & Sicherheit: Technische Kommunikation zur<br />
Feuersicherheit und ‘Experten’ für Löschgeräte in der Frühen Neuzeit«. This<br />
article deals with the question weather, and if so how, security could be produced<br />
by technical innovations and communication about these innovations in<br />
the Early Modern period. The linkage between fire security, by fire engines,<br />
technical knowledge and communication about this knowledge will be pointed<br />
out. With the discourse of the improvement of fire engines in journals of the<br />
Enlightenment a trigger for the change in the communication about fire engines<br />
can be found. Further it is discussed how inventions for fire-safety can be<br />
evaluated in the transforming scientific society in the Early Modern period.<br />
Keywords: Security, Technical Communication, Expert, Fire Engine, Enlightenment,<br />
Technical Knowledge, Journals of the Enlightenment, Development of<br />
Technique, Scientific Revolution, Scientific Society, Public Experiments, Invention.<br />
1. Introduction<br />
The following article deals with the main question of whether, and if so how,<br />
security could be produced by technical innovations and communication about<br />
these innovations in the Early Modern period. To clarify this idea, one might<br />
envisage a triangle comprising technique and technical knowledge, technical<br />
communication and security. To trace such an information flow for a technical<br />
security topic, I will use the public discussion about ‘fire engines’ to enhance<br />
the fire security in cities, mainly in journals of the Enlightenment. Between<br />
1700 and 1800 a shift took place concerning the technical standard of fire extinguishing<br />
equipment, particularly of fire engines. This can predominantly be<br />
seen in the lists of fire equipment in cities’ fire regulations. 1<br />
To connect this shift with media of communication, a before/after distinction<br />
2 will be presented concerning information exchange and dissemination<br />
� Address all communications to: Rebecca Knapp, Ruhr-Universität Bochum, Fakultät für<br />
Geschichtswissenschaft, Juniorprofessur Umweltgeschichte, 44801 Bochum, Germany;<br />
e-mail: rebecca-knapp@web.de.<br />
1 While in the beginning these fire regulations listed leather buckets and ladders, they later<br />
listed more and more different fire engines stored in their arsenal.<br />
2 Koselleck 1987, 270.<br />
<strong>Historical</strong> <strong>Social</strong> <strong>Research</strong>, Vol. 35 — 2010 — No. 4, 66-85
during the 18th century. But which factors were decisive for this development?<br />
Neither an exclusive ‘top-down’ model of expansion of knowledge and scientific<br />
research 3 nor the approach of the diffusion of scientific knowledge are<br />
sufficient to describe the diverse processes of knowledge transfer in the 18th<br />
century. 4 In the following, some of these processes will be analysed, considering<br />
the idea that communication, public discussions and demonstrations of<br />
inventions 5 of fire engines served as a trigger or motor for the transfer and<br />
diffusion of this technical knowledge. Furthermore, I will consider the general<br />
effect of this shift in the 18th century and its consequences for technical communication<br />
and knowledge.<br />
In the sense of the triangle described above in the context of fire engines, the<br />
following questions arise:<br />
- Who were the ‘producers’ of technical knowledge about fire engines and<br />
which different ways existed to communicate or spread technical information?<br />
- How did they legitimate themselves as ‘experts’ or become legitimated and<br />
by whom?<br />
- How can the inventions or innovations be evaluated?<br />
- What is the interest in communication and public discussions and who are<br />
the addressees?<br />
- Finally, consideration should be given to the consequences of the change in<br />
communication described as ‘expert’.<br />
2. ‘Experts’ and Knowledge<br />
The changes of knowledge and communication undergone mainly in the 17th<br />
and 18th century seem to be a process which is difficult to comprehend. Since<br />
the early 20th century the sociology of knowledge has dealt with questions<br />
about relations between knowledge and society. 6 On the one hand the development<br />
of sciences by scholars, on the other hand the tacit knowledge of<br />
craftsmen which was made visible, and the institutionalization of knowledge,<br />
for example through the foundation of scientific societies, are all named as part<br />
of the so-called “scientific revolution”. 7<br />
3<br />
Hochadel 2008, 336.<br />
4<br />
Remenyi 2008, 349.<br />
5<br />
Although the term ‘innovation’ in the sense of the conversion of an idea into products or<br />
methods might be more suitable for the described processes, it cannot be found in the<br />
sources. The use of the term ‘invention’ follows the analysed sources. As today, in the<br />
Early Modern period this term described genuinely new ideas, mostly in a technical context.<br />
But as may be seen in the following, the use of this term was overstrained.<br />
6<br />
Burke 2000, 13.<br />
7<br />
The discussion about this term is continuous in historical science. Inter alia it can be found<br />
in Shapin 1996, 1-8.<br />
67
But more than this, the change might be found in the combination of these<br />
different circles of knowledge, the reciprocal effect between scholarly knowledge<br />
and practical knowledge, and in the pluralization of knowledge. 8<br />
Within the group of technical experts, one can distinguish between the traditional<br />
knowledge of craftsmen and scholarly theories, although this is very<br />
simplified. While in the Late Middle Ages a strict separation between the technical<br />
domain of craftsmen and scholarship existed, both spheres moved towards<br />
each other from the second half of the 17th century. The ‘new’ professional<br />
group of engineers, besides their practical knowledge, increasingly used<br />
mathematics as a theoretical tool. Science started to benefit from technology<br />
and in a limited way vice versa, but the consolidation of technology into a<br />
science of its own still had a long way to go. However, both ‘schools’ found<br />
their commonalities in their effort to find useful solutions for the further development<br />
of society and for the ‘Landeswohlfahrt’ (state welfare). 9 The main<br />
‘innovation’ of the Early Modern period was not the increase of genuinely new<br />
technical knowledge but the upgrading of useful and practical knowledge in the<br />
mid-18th century. 10 Useless knowledge was increasingly criticized and ‘the<br />
new’ was no longer rejected but in a way became a recommendation for ‘experts’.<br />
11 Under these circumstances it is not surprising that craftsmen in cities,<br />
which were a hub for technical communication and knowledge, or other practitioners<br />
took this chance to participate in the ‘scientific society’, a rising group<br />
which was no longer strictly accessible to the privileged classes only. 12 The<br />
authorities, as well as the public, were now interested in the specialist and<br />
useful knowledge of ‘experts’ who did not need to be legitimated solely by<br />
universities, or to be scholars. Every ‘expert’ was asked to communicate his<br />
knowledge. In the case of fire engines, producers of technical knowledge were<br />
bell founders or coppersmiths as well as mathematicians. Some ideas about the<br />
way of communicating and its change will be shown in the following chapters.<br />
3. ‘Classical’ Media for Communication Before<br />
High Volume Printing<br />
In the times before the spread of knowledge through periodicals such as the<br />
journals of the Enlightenment, a traditional medium of communication about<br />
8 Cf. Burke 2000, 22-27.<br />
9 Troitzsch 2004, 458.<br />
10 Burke 2000, 132; Feldner 2003, 9.<br />
11 Burke 2000, 136.<br />
12 But different actors of the ‘science society’ still tried to differentiate themselves from each<br />
other through the attempt at hierarchization of knowledge. This fact shows the heterogeneity<br />
of this emerging group. Cf. Hochadel 2003, 249-308.<br />
68
inventions was correspondence. 13 An interesting example of correspondence<br />
about fire engines can be found in Dresden from the year 1686. It seems that<br />
after or because of the blaze in ‘Altdresden’ in 1685 14 , the urban authority was<br />
still endeavouring to produce security by means of functional and useful fire<br />
engines. A letter written by Johann Wilde, “Bestalter der Artillerie und Schlangen-<br />
und Sprützenmeister” (“commander of the artillery and hose and fire<br />
engine master”) in Hamburg, of March 27th 1686 to Christian Zencker in ‘Altdresden’<br />
tells that the residence in Dresden had previously contacted Mr. Wilde<br />
and asked for a retrofitting of their fire engines with hoses and other technical<br />
innovations. He answered that he had received the drawings of the engines, on<br />
the basis of which he was to inspect them, and he evaluated the fire engines as<br />
defective. Furthermore, he described his own ‘invention’ of fire engines which<br />
were more useful than the predecessors. 15 Additionally he suggested for the<br />
Dresden fire engines that the copper and brass of the old engines could be reused<br />
to manufacture new ones for a price of 1000 to 1200 Mark. The letter also<br />
reported a recent fire and stated that only the new ‘Schlangen Sprützen’ (fire<br />
engines with hoses) had prevented the city from a major hazard. 16 To give a<br />
clearer idea of his new fire engines, the ‘Spritzenmeister’ from Hamburg sent<br />
five sketches of them to give the city council in Dresden a basis for their decision<br />
about the procurement. 17<br />
This correspondence shows how the formation of ‘experts’ for the construction<br />
of fire engines functioned over hundreds of years and that they enjoyed a<br />
good reputation across territorial borders. Such requests as the one described<br />
above could be used by these ‘experts’ to promote their own ‘inventions’. The<br />
requesting authority had the possibility of being directly informed about the<br />
13 Cf. Döring 2008; Gierl 2004.<br />
14 Cf. Blaschke 1999, 157-172.<br />
15 “… Ich befinde, daß es grosse und schwäre Wercke, nicht allein zu bearbeiten, sondern<br />
auch fort zu bringen, und daneben invendig auch sehr mangelhafft seien. Dann die jezigen<br />
von mir inventierten wercke, so wol in als außwendig sind andere gestalt, auch nicht so<br />
schwär fort zu bringen und zu bearbeiten, wie Messieurs selben gesehen. … Messieurs hat<br />
selber gesehen, dass mir die Sprützen hiesiger Ohrter die so groß und schwär von holz gewesen<br />
alle verworffen, und neue darvon mit Schlangen und Röhren gemachet; und weil die<br />
nun von Küeffer und Eysen, so gar kein Holz als nur die Räder, sein sie nicht allein leicht<br />
fort zu bringen, sondern auch leicht zu bearbeiten …”, Stadtarchiv Dresden,<br />
RA/2.1/F.XIV.13, 17r-19v.<br />
16 “… hetten wir keine Schlange Sprützen gehabt, wehre leider wieder eine grosse Einäscherung<br />
vieler Häuser zu besorgen gewest …”, Stadtarchiv Dresden, RA/2.1/F.XIV.13, 17r-<br />
19v.<br />
17 “Hochgeehrter herr, Hierbey sende demselben fünff Abriesse, welche er E. E. Rathe zeigen<br />
kann, damit sie die Neuen Inventiones sehen können, so ich alhier gemacht, da sich als dan<br />
der Unterschied zeigen und finden wird, und mir solche nach belieben wieder zusenden<br />
…”. One of these sketches is still conserved, and its simplicity clearly shows that the innovations<br />
were merely to be made visible, whereas the secret of this new invention was to be<br />
protected. Stadtarchiv Dresden, RA/2.1/F.XIV.13, 18r.<br />
69
current state of fire engine technology by a capable craftsman and of improving<br />
their existing material or purchasing new inventions. Since the 16th century, the<br />
common way of procurement of craftsmen had been to decide on the basis of<br />
tendered sketches 18 , and this practice can still be found at the end of the 17th<br />
century. The increment of craftsmen’s drawings in the Early Modern period<br />
simultaneously shows the increasing differentiation of experts’ technical<br />
knowledge. 19 Furthermore, the correspondence shows the knowledge transfer<br />
‘from the bottom up’. Due to its bipolar character, the communication about<br />
and the spread of technical knowledge via letters was heavily personalized. It<br />
was almost left to chance through which inofficial ways the contact with such<br />
an ‘expert’ craftsman was first generated. An active intention to establish such<br />
an information flow had to be present, but we cannot speak of a medium to<br />
form public technical communication, knowledge or understanding. Besides all<br />
the information about Dresden fire engines, the above-mentioned correspondence<br />
is significant because of the additional information given in it. Mr Wilde<br />
wrote that he had manufactured two fire engines for Amsterdam and that he<br />
intended to go there for a few weeks. 20 This little comment allows the construction<br />
of a communication network of fire engine experts.<br />
In Amsterdam, Jan van der Heyden (an artist, but also inventor and administrative<br />
practitioner) and his brother Nicolas (a hydraulic engineer) had been<br />
very committed to fire security needs since 1672. Inter alia they invented and<br />
sold “fire engines with water hoses”. It is evident that the Hamburger<br />
‘Spritzenmeister’ Wilde gained some of his knowledge about how to manufacture<br />
fire engines with hoses from his visits to Amsterdam and maybe from<br />
personal contact with the van der Heyden brothers. 21 He transferred it to his<br />
own work and used it for improving fire security in Hamburg. In addition, he<br />
offered his knowledge inter alia to Dresden. For Dresden, again, a direct con-<br />
18 Popplow 2006, 109f.<br />
19 Popplow, 2006, 111.<br />
20 “… und weil ich vor die Stadt Amsterdam auch zwei Spritzen gemacht, dass ich nach<br />
Amsterdam wollte …”, Stadtarchiv Dresden, RA/2.1/F.XIV.13, 17r-19v.<br />
21 One very important work about fire engines and the method of fire fighting, which is more<br />
than merely a machine book, should be kept in mind here: the “Description of the recently<br />
invented and patented Fire Engines with Water Hoses and the Method of Fighting Fires<br />
now used in Amsterdam” by the inventor Jan van der Heyden and Jan van der Heyden Junior,<br />
printed in 1690: Beschryving der nieuwlyks uitgevonden en geotrojeerde slang-brandspuiten<br />
en haare wyze van brandblussen, teegenwording binnen Amsterdamin gebruik<br />
sinde.<br />
About Jan van der Heyden and his son: Both were very engaged in civic duties as Fire-<br />
Chief Generals of Amsterdam and certainly played a great role in the production and communication<br />
of specialist knowledge of fire engines. With their ‘Brandspuitenfabrik’, they<br />
successfully sold their fire engines all over Europe. Of course, the book and separated leaflets<br />
were written mainly for promotional reasons, and addressed to authorities who were<br />
willing and had the financial possibilities and consultants to understand and use this new<br />
fire engine technology in order to generate security. Heyden 1996, xxi.<br />
70
tact to Amsterdam by means of the import of a “Holländische Feuer Sprütze”<br />
in the year 1685 can be proven. 22 This, in short, gives an idea of how communication<br />
and knowledge transfer based on personal contact and correspondence<br />
functioned to advance fire security with useful fire engine inventions. These<br />
ways of communication before the spread of knowledge by journals represent<br />
the high level of technical knowledge about fire engines existing in different<br />
circles and the generation of networks. But the level of this communication<br />
should be understood to have a single, pragmatic function. With the journals of<br />
the Enlightenment, we can ascertain a transformation of this communication to<br />
a higher level of display which was to some extent professionalized.<br />
A link between both levels can be found in the ‘machine books’ of the late<br />
16th and 17th century. They were a ‘new’ medium in the Early Modern period<br />
for the general popularization and pluralization of knowledge. A generalizing<br />
discourse about technical equipment began with the praise of new, useful and<br />
innovative machines in the printed theatra machinari 23 of the late 16th century.<br />
With the help of these books, contemporary engineers tried to increase their<br />
social status, especially by proving the intellectual fundament of their own<br />
profession. 24 However, the authors of the machine books focused on informing<br />
the reader about the results of their own efforts and had less interest in discussing<br />
technical skills. The models of the machines in the machine books served<br />
as an idealization of techniques through which their creators tried to distinguish<br />
themselves from the group of craftsmen. 25<br />
Thorsten Meyer states that the machine books were one of the most important<br />
media of spreading technical knowledge. 26 From the 16th century, the<br />
printed book served as a new structure to spread knowledge between experts<br />
and laymen who were able to read; this led to the popularization of technical<br />
know-how. This might also be described as a dialectic between specialized<br />
science and unspecialized public. 27 The machine books were first addressed to<br />
the nobility and the literate bourgeois. 28 Unfortunately, they showed little interest<br />
in fire extinguishing equipment and because of this, they contain only a<br />
little information about fire engines. 29 In the 18th century the machine books<br />
disappear as media of technical communication. 30 The machine books can be<br />
22<br />
“… die … aus Hollandt … anhero gebrachte große Schlangen Brand Sprüze …”, Stadtarchiv<br />
Dresden, RA/2.1/F.XIV.13, 2r-5v.<br />
23<br />
Literature on machine books inter alia: Popplow 1998; Popplow 2006; Meyer 2004.<br />
24<br />
Popplow 1998, 8.<br />
25<br />
Troitzsch 2004, 451.<br />
26<br />
Meyer 2004, 147.<br />
27<br />
Daum 1995, 27.<br />
28<br />
Meyer 2004.<br />
29<br />
The theatrum machinarum of Heinrich Zeising, printed in 1610, introduced three fire engines<br />
with figures and explanations: Zeising 1610.<br />
30<br />
Meyer 2004, 157.<br />
71
seen as an interlude between correspondence and periodicals. They were an<br />
instance or element used to translate technical knowledge onto a higher level,<br />
but their authors had completely different fundamental ideas from the actors in<br />
journals of the Enlightenment. The medium ‘(machine) book’ was very inflexible<br />
compared to a fast-moving and customizable periodical.<br />
4. The Discourse about the Improvement of<br />
Fire Engines in Journals of the Enlightenment<br />
Besides books, one other medium increasingly replaced correspondence as a<br />
messenger: periodicals. 31 In particular, the 18th century was shaped by the<br />
Enlightenment and closely linked with this was the effort to popularize knowledge.<br />
The formation of the ‘modern’ sciences from the early 17th century led to<br />
the foundation of scientific Academies, followed by the publication of scientific<br />
periodicals and journals. These technical periodicals were predominantly<br />
the most effective medium of spreading knowledge 32 and caused a major<br />
change to communication in the mid-18th century. By degrees, social communication<br />
processes were generated which brought about and intended the access<br />
to technical knowledge of different interested social groups. 33 Popular journalism<br />
served not only as information, enlightenment and amusement but was also<br />
used for social control over the interpretive power of knowledge. Within popular<br />
scientific rhetoric, natural science and new disciplines but also the delimitation<br />
between ‘experts’ and ‘laymen’ could be legitimated, which was appreciated<br />
by the scientists. 34<br />
While the social situation limits information to family or insider knowledge,<br />
as is usual in the technical crafts, the journal transforms knowledge into science.<br />
35 Following this statement, it becomes evident that technical know-how<br />
spread through publication in journals brought about the depersonalization of<br />
knowledge and its sustainable use. The border between crafts and sciences was<br />
softened. Through journals which were printed periodically in large volumes,<br />
specialist knowledge was accumulated, formalized and made publicly available,<br />
in complete accordance with the sense of Enlightenment. 36<br />
Some examples of the depersonalization of technical knowledge in the case<br />
of fire engines and its spread through scientific journals will be presented in the<br />
following. The examples will be evaluated with the focus on actors, legitima-<br />
31 Döring 2008, 101.<br />
32 Burke 200, 132; Feldner 2003, 209.<br />
33 Tschopp 2004, 471.<br />
34 Remenyi 2008, 348.<br />
35 Gierl 2004, 430.<br />
36 Troitzsch 1966, 105.<br />
72
tion, specialist rhetoric of inventiveness 37 and the demand for invention and<br />
inventive content.<br />
The basic idea behind the discussion about the improvement of extinguishing<br />
equipment, especially fire engines, is based on the hazard of a blaze in<br />
cities. Everyone who tried to find ways to diminish or prevent such a hazard for<br />
the good of society was authorized to consider the question of fire-fighting. 38<br />
Thus there was a demand for everyone for useful tools to increase fire security<br />
and diminish or prevent disasters. This wide demand for specialist knowledge<br />
complied with the idea of the scientific academies of a linkage between “theoria<br />
cum praxi”; 39 this is what is meant by a linkage or conflation of scientific<br />
knowledge, technical-empirical know-how and economic knowledge.<br />
4.1 Transformation of Lost Tacit Knowledge<br />
Through Theoretical Reconstruction<br />
In 1759 in an issue of the journal “Hannoverische Beyträge zum Nutzen und<br />
Vergnügen” (“Hanoverian articles for utility and enjoyment”), an article entitled<br />
“a proposal for fire fighting” can be found. 40 The author states that twenty<br />
years ago, a leaflet reached his hands in which an unknown person announced<br />
that he had invented a kind of water catapult that would be more sustainable to<br />
extinguish an ember than a fire engine. The author of this leaflet was deceased<br />
and his sketches of the invention could not be found. 41 In addition, the author<br />
of the article tried to reconstruct theoretically the specialist knowledge which<br />
was lost due to the death of the craftsman. His solutions were wooden vats,<br />
filled with water and thrown into the fire by “Feuerwerker” (fire workers). 42<br />
However, in the same breath he stated that until now his theoretical thoughts<br />
had not been practically proven. With regard to such a practical use, the author<br />
stated that this proof should be made by somebody else. 43 He was satisfied and<br />
saw his work as done because of his proposal of such an invention, which he<br />
37<br />
The terms ‘scientific rhetoric’ or ‘rhetoric of inventiveness’ are used in the sense of the<br />
formation of specialist elements and a way of describing ‘inventions’ which was establishing<br />
itself, including the translation of practical elements in journals.<br />
38<br />
Claproth 1762, 1106.<br />
39<br />
Troitzsch 1999, 275.<br />
40<br />
S., A. C. 1759.<br />
41<br />
“… Vor etwa 20 Jahren [machte] … ein Unbekannter … mit vieler Gründlichkeit, obgleich<br />
schlechter Schreibart bekannt: es seyn die bisherigen Löschmaschinen dem großen Feuer<br />
nicht proportional … Seine Erfindung … ein Wurfwerk … sey mit seinem Geräthschaften<br />
nicht so kostbar, als eine Feuersprytze … und sey ganz zuverlässig … Der Mann war bald<br />
nachher … verstorben [und] mir entgiengen alle Mittel aus dieser Erfindung eine Entdeckung<br />
zu machen …” S., A.C. 1759.<br />
42<br />
“… so haben wir, was der gute Erfinder mit sich ins Grab genommen.” S., A.C. 1759.<br />
43<br />
“… Nun versuche, ändere, verbessere und führe aus, wer will. Den übrigen wird ein Spott,<br />
verachten und auslachen auch gerne vergönnet. Mich genüget, zu einer Erfindung Vorschläge<br />
gethan zu haben …”. S., A.C. 1759.<br />
73
declares to be “A thousand million times better ... than what Schwarz, Coehorn,<br />
Gernhard von Gahlen and other butcher-birds have hatched, to the misfortune<br />
of the world”. 44<br />
Because of the way that the writer describes the deceased inventor, the<br />
above-mentioned separation between theory and practice and his alienation<br />
from empirical experiments, it can be assumed that he considered himself to be<br />
part of the group of scholars within the group of ‘technical intelligence’. The<br />
justification of the usefulness and importance of his reconstructed invention is<br />
twofold. On the one hand he states that these vats could be more suitable than<br />
fire engines in some cases. On the other hand he alludes to the securitizing<br />
factor of his invention in contrast to, for example, Coehorn’s weapon of war.<br />
The ‘invention’ that vats filled with water could extinguish a fire seems to<br />
be in itself neither new nor even inventive. But the way in which the author of<br />
this article sets this alleged lost knowledge in context with the case of the ineffectiveness<br />
of fire engines and ‘negative inventions’ such as weapons of war<br />
can be seen as a developing ‘rhetoric of inventiveness’. It seems that it was<br />
mainly not genuinely new inventions that were communicated and recognised<br />
by these journal articles, but that the way they were described and set in context<br />
was becoming increasingly important. In the developing knowledge society<br />
and with public communication through journals, authors knew how they<br />
could represent themselves as ‘inventors’ and ‘experts’ in this way.<br />
4.2 Prize Questions for the Collection of Knowledge<br />
In 1771, the Danish Society of Sciences in Copenhagen posed a prize question<br />
concerning the most advantageous configuration of fire engines. 45 Johann<br />
Gustaf Karsten Wenceslaus, mathematics professor, received the prize for his<br />
“Treatise on the most advantageous arrangement of fire engines”. 46 In the preface<br />
of his book, he relates that since 1770 he had had orders from the ducal<br />
government of Mecklenburg to coordinate the procurement of useful fireextinguishing<br />
machines for small rural towns and to control their capability and<br />
price-quality ratio. These experiences were the basis for his treatise. 47<br />
However, these competitions were not genuinely addressed to scholars and<br />
their theories. In 1772 the “Royal Prussian general chief finance, war and domains<br />
directorate” tendered a prize concerning the best manufacture of a fire<br />
engine for the use of the flat country. This prize was halved and awarded to two<br />
people. The first was the professor of mathematics and teacher Georg Simon<br />
44 “… Millionen tausendmal besser … als was Schwarz, Coehorn, Gernhard von Gahlen und<br />
andere Neuntödter der Welt zum Unglücke ausgebrütet haben.” S., A.C. 1759.<br />
45 Meister “Review” 1775a.<br />
46 Wenceslaus 1773.<br />
47 Wenceslaus 1773, 3.<br />
74
Kügel, who had authored the treatise, 48 and the second the “hand fire engine<br />
maker” Insel from Berlin who had proven himself as the most legitimate to<br />
manufacture a fire engine following the theoretical guidelines made by Kügel.<br />
This fire engine was compared to other useful fire engines and performed excellently.<br />
49 Regarding the awarding of prizes, scholars as well as craftsmen<br />
participated in competitions and were thus recognised in the literate discourse<br />
about fire engines. However, in cases of prize questions one can see that the<br />
main intent was not the generation of new knowledge or new inventions. The<br />
first aim was rather to collect and combine different tacit knowledge. The legitimation<br />
for participants in these prize questions was given by the tendering<br />
institutions themselves and some participants could show their suitability by<br />
official posts or particular skills concerning their daily business. It could be<br />
stated that competitions aimed firstly at the inventory of different technical<br />
knowledge in different circles; they were intended to support useful knowledge<br />
and bring different circles of knowledge together. The prize questions by academies<br />
and authorial institutions were a practice to generate stocks of knowledge.<br />
50 Of course, the institutions also intended to find special knowledge for<br />
their own efforts and by awarding prizes to technical specialists, these persons<br />
became ‘experts’.<br />
4.3 Economic Competition in the Manufacture of Fire Engines<br />
A teaser by J. C. Riepenhausen was published in the ‘Hannoverisches Magazin’<br />
in 1772 with the title “Invention of a new kind of fire engines or so-called<br />
water mills”. 51 At first he remarked that fire engines available on the market<br />
cost between 500 and 700 Reichstaler and procurement was too expensive. 52 As<br />
he emphasized, he offered an equivalent alternative for about 100 Reichstaler.<br />
As a reason for this cheap manufacture, he stated that his design got along<br />
without a bellows and screws, but nevertheless ensured a continuous water jet<br />
from the pipe. Furthermore, he claimed that this sort of engine would have<br />
more advantages concerning its handling, compared to the familiar fire engines.<br />
At the end of his article, he even advertised other, optical, mathematical and<br />
physical instruments that he had produced.<br />
The author of this article was a ‘Practicus’, which is not surprising, since<br />
only by manufacturing fire engines would it be possible to see which components<br />
can be omitted while still retaining the function of the machine. It is not<br />
possible to verify whether this so-called “new invention” really functioned as<br />
48 Kügel 1774.<br />
49 Meister, “Review” 1775b.<br />
50 Keller 2008, 37.<br />
51 Riepenhausen, “Erfindung” 1772.<br />
52 “… trotz aller Nützlichkeit [wird] oft vom Kauf abgesehen …, da man ein solches Kapital<br />
nicht investieren möchte …”, in: Riepenhausen, “Erfindung” 1772.<br />
75
well as described. The article gives no information about any test or any other<br />
kind of legitimation of the ‘inventor’s’ ability. The only legitimation one could<br />
imagine is the cheap price, but it is not possible to determine whether this was<br />
assessed in general. Taking as a starting point Riepenhausen’s assumption that<br />
his fire engine worked, the importance of the economic aspect concerning a<br />
cheaper production seems to have increased and been further promoted through<br />
more active competition, which developed owing to public discussions. Its<br />
positive effect was that functional fire engines and thereby better fire security<br />
became generally affordable. This development was based on the step-by-step<br />
efforts to equip rural and small towns with fire engines too. The addressees of<br />
those teasers were no longer only ‘major cities’ which had the financial power<br />
to procure the highly developed and very expensive fire engines. With the<br />
small cities, a new market focused on the economic aspect was opened up. To<br />
fill this market niche, enter the market and successfully place the offered products,<br />
a fire engine manufacturer had to spread information about the (mainly<br />
economic) advantages of his ‘inventions’ through a ‘mass medium’ such as a<br />
journal. This example shows that the spread of information about fire engines<br />
not only supported the idea of development of techniques but also of economic<br />
aspects. Fire security was not only triggered by the spread of genuinely new<br />
and better fire engines but also by the promotion and rising availability of<br />
existing technical standards and a change of the audience from a few cities to<br />
the multitude of smaller towns.<br />
4.4 Public Experiments and their Description<br />
in Journals as Legitimation<br />
In 1770 the “Berlinische Sammlungen” 53 reported about a bell founder’s assistant<br />
from Saxony, who had created a fire engine which evoked great admiration<br />
during a public test. The water was lifted through the pipe for 193 “Salzburg<br />
shoes” or 102 “Leipzig cubits”. 54 With the fire engines created and built by<br />
him, Mr. Thilläyn (“fire engine maker with royal privileges at Rouen”) made<br />
an attempt in which he lifted the water without the help of leather hoses and in<br />
a constant beam up to 100 “foot”. 55 Expectedly, he promised to create such fire<br />
engines for everyone at a low price but could not publish the secret of his in-<br />
53 Anonymous, “Neue Wassersprützen” 1770.<br />
54 “[Diese Feuerspritze hat] bei der öffentlichen Probe eine allgemeine Bewunderung erreget.<br />
… das Wasser ist vermittelst derselben [Röhre], noch 70 Schuhe höher, als das Dach der<br />
Salzburgischen Domkirche und also 193 Salzburger Schuhe oder 102 Leipziger Ellen hoch<br />
getrieben worden.” Anonymous, “Neue Wassersprützen” 1770.<br />
55 “Herr Thilläyn … hat mit einigen neuen Brandsprützen, von seiner eigenen Erfindung,<br />
einen Versuch gemacht, unter welchen sich eine befindet, die … [das Wasser] ohne Hülfe<br />
von lederner Schlangen, mit einem beständigen Strahl 100 Fuß hoch treibet.” Anonymous,<br />
“Neue Wassersprützen” 1770.<br />
76
vention for any price. 56 This article was written anonymously, so the author’s<br />
motivation is not known, but it might be suspected that the author was an eyewitness<br />
of the public test, because of the nearly emotional way he describes<br />
what happened. It might be suspected that he was not very well educated in<br />
technical knowledge, because he does not give any information about the technical<br />
details of the fire engines tested. For him the yardstick for the functionality<br />
and usefulness of the fire engines was how high they could bring the water<br />
and if the beam was constant. Certainly these two factors were inter alia important<br />
to evaluate the suitability of fire engines, but not solely. In this case, much<br />
more important is what he tells the reader about the manufacturers of the engines.<br />
They are both craftsmen, but in different social positions. The journeyman<br />
is from Saxony, while Mr. Thilläyn comes all the way from Rouen.<br />
In his study of electricity in the German Enlightenment, Oliver Hochadel<br />
analyses the role of electricity showmen with the example of the ‘electrifier’<br />
Martin Berschitz and explains the kind of space such showmen took up in the<br />
culture of science of the Enlightenment, how far they produced knowledge,<br />
what this knowledge was about and how it was transferred. 57 A comparable<br />
practice seems to be evident for fire engine manufacture. The above-mentioned<br />
manufacturers of fire engines travelled to cities to promote their engines. In this<br />
way they informed about fire engines by demonstrating their useful function, of<br />
course without revealing their technical ‘inventions’. But in contrast to the<br />
‘electrifiers’ and their demonstrations, the manufacturers of fire engines had to<br />
prove the applicability of their inventions for fire-fighting. Hence a reciprocal<br />
result of these demonstrations was that a successful public test was equivalent<br />
to a proof of usefulness. In this way different kinds of fire engines gained public<br />
acceptance and recognition in the micro-historical city circle of knowledge.<br />
Through public opinion, they were perceived as an ‘invention’ or technical<br />
progress for fire security nearly without reflection on whether in a wider context<br />
of knowledge this could really be considered ‘new’ or not.<br />
In the “Journal von und für Deutschland”, the ‘fountain master’ Karl Kirn<br />
from Trier published a description of a new fire engine in 1785. Inter alia he<br />
advertised his machine, which could be offered at a reasonable price in the<br />
sense of an economic improvement. He emphasised the convincing functionality<br />
of this fire engine in its public demonstration at the cathedral’s square.<br />
Therefore the spectators and laymen were considered as witnesses. 58<br />
This article shows two things: On the one hand the above-mentioned economic<br />
aspect; on the other hand the fact that the public proof for fire engines<br />
56<br />
“Er wird für jeden, der es verlangt, dergleichen Sprützen um einen billigen Preis verfertigen,<br />
kann aber vor der Hand, sein Geheimnis, dessen Erfindung ihm viel Zeit und Mühe<br />
gekostet, noch nicht entdecken.” Anonymous, “Neue Wassersprützen”1770.<br />
57<br />
Hochadel 2008, 331.<br />
58<br />
Kirn 1784, 92.<br />
77
was not only used as a legitimation medium by travelling showmen but also by<br />
craftsmen in situ to present their skills in manufacturing useful fire engines to<br />
the public.<br />
In the category “Dresden curiosities”, the “Magazin der sächsischen<br />
Geschichte” (magazine of Saxon history) 59 reported a general fire engine test<br />
(‘Hauptspritzenprobe’) at the old market square on October 6th 1787, which<br />
was attended by the chancellor and the governing mayor among other spectators.<br />
The “ingenious Inspector Köhler” was sent to Weimar by the elector to get<br />
a personal impression of the excellent fire engine facility there. According to<br />
his plans, he supervised the construction of an engine which could also be used<br />
as a water-feeder. The ‘copper-molder’ La Mare had also manufactured a new<br />
big fire engine and a water-feeder. Both machines were tested with different<br />
hoses and different distances of the feeder. As a result it was stated that it<br />
would be “desirable for the encouragement of diligence as well as for the good<br />
of the city that the public should acquire this engine as their property.” 60 Again,<br />
the author is anonymous. His descriptions prove the continuous efforts of the<br />
authorities to collect and exchange knowledge through the inducement and<br />
financing of these journeys. Although personal contact is still essential, a<br />
change of tactic can be recognised. To create public acceptance it was no<br />
longer correspondence, which had been the most important way for many<br />
years, but public proof that was used as a medium. The official Dresden general<br />
fire engine tests demonstrated the special interest of authorities in the assessment<br />
and advancement of new technologies. The public discussion, although<br />
not always about genuinely new ‘inventions’ and improvements, led to<br />
a rising perception and acceptance of technological progress for the welfare of<br />
the whole society.<br />
Many descriptions of such tests of fire engines can be found in journals of<br />
the Enlightenment over the years. As indicated, they can be interpreted on two<br />
levels. Firstly, the public experiment itself: The idea of an empirical, rational<br />
and experimental renewal of sciences began with Francis Bacon in the<br />
16th/17th century. 61 With public tests this experimental science seems to have<br />
been transferred to the daily business of fire engine manufacturers. In accordance<br />
with this, the tacit knowledge of craftsmen rose as a public legitimation<br />
for fire engine ‘experts’ at the end of the 18th century. Clearly committed demonstrations<br />
with nearly identical machines were put on repeatedly, although in<br />
the meantime everybody knew about the function of fire engines. These repetitions<br />
made the public test of fire engines become more and more of a ritual.<br />
59 Anonymous, “Dresdner Merkwürdigkeiten” 1787.<br />
60 “Es wäre sowohl zu Aufmunterung des Fleisses als zum Besten der Stadt zu wünschen,<br />
dass das Publicum diese Spritze zu seinem Eigenthum erhielte.”, in Anonymous, “Dresdner<br />
Merkwürdigkeiten” 1787.<br />
61 Krohn 1990, 211.<br />
78
Secondly, their description in journals of the Enlightenment: For the most<br />
part these descriptions were not written by the manufacturers themselves. But<br />
because of their publication in journals, they were recognised in scholarly<br />
circles and adopted. The practice of experimental legitimation was spread<br />
through ‘technical intelligence’, which led to a decline of philosophical constructs<br />
and the integration of tangible elements into theorems. 62 This shift towards<br />
experience and experiment in journals of the Enlightenment made the<br />
public test into an inventiveness-rhetoric element. From being an auxiliary<br />
method of legitimation, the experiment was transferred from practice into theoretical<br />
thinking.<br />
4.5 Utopian Theorems or ‘Inventions’?<br />
The journals of the Enlightenment did not only report about obviously successful<br />
‘inventions’ of fire engine technique. The case of the ‘invention’ by the<br />
mining master (‘Bergmeister’) Löscher can prove that not everything named<br />
‘invention’ was accepted. First, a review written by Löscher about his own<br />
publication “invention of a fire engine without pipework, pistons and valves” 63<br />
can be found. 64 Most likely because of this review, a second article on<br />
Löscher’s invention by an anonymous author followed. Assessing the ‘invention’<br />
in the context of fire engine standards at the end of the 18th century, it<br />
seems probable that the ‘funnel fire engine’(‘Löschers Trichterspritze’) would<br />
not have found any consideration in the Gelehrtenrepublik (scholars’ republic).<br />
It does not provide any technical refinements and is based on merely the simplest<br />
physical laws of pressure. Accordingly, the “Neue Allgemeine Bibliothek”<br />
stated that this funnel fire engine was cost-effective and could be a useful<br />
machine for the peasantry, at least. 65 But all in all this funnel fire engine had no<br />
genuinely new usefulness owing to the lack of hose connections and air vessel.<br />
Therefore it was not even able to produce a constant water jet. Perhaps this fact<br />
is the reason why Löscher did not try to keep the secret of his ‘invention’. On<br />
the contrary: Löscher described the engine and its functionality so precisely<br />
that “every artist could manufacture this machine”. 66<br />
Another example that seems to belong to the less successful improvement<br />
concepts is the ‘invention’ by Mr. Fürst, described in the “Monatsschrift für<br />
Mecklenburg”. The results of the tests using the equipment (probably a hose<br />
attached to a frame to produce higher water lifting) were damaging for the<br />
62 Fischer 2004, 158.<br />
63 Löscher 1792.<br />
64 Löscher 1793.<br />
65 “… wenigstens für das Landvolk eine nützliche Maschine.” Anonymous, “Review” 1793.<br />
66 Anonymous, “Review” 1793.<br />
79
competence of its inventor: 67 The hose broke and for fire fighting it was not<br />
useful in any way. 68 It is inconceivable that, following such a public report<br />
about the unsuitability of a certain invention, any actor of security production<br />
would consider a purchase. Thus the publication and public declaration of<br />
unusable inventions contributed to the production of fire security in cities by<br />
preventing the production of insecurity.<br />
One example of a nearly utopian theoretical idea, which was insufficiently<br />
tested under laboratory conditions and could not be practically realized, is the<br />
description of an allegedly fireproofed suit. This suit, made of raw material and<br />
soaked with ash water, was intended to enable a human to stand in the fire.<br />
This might have been retrospectively perceived as a quack theory, since in<br />
order to do this it would constantly have to be poured with ash or salt water by<br />
bystanders, and the person would also have to be guided because his eyes<br />
would have to be protected by the suit. The ‘theoreticus’ Justus Calproth himself<br />
barely thought about the practical possibilities of realizing this idea. He<br />
wanted to leave this to others. But in order to avoid the rejection of his theory<br />
by the population, he indicated that this work, which only seemed to be dangerous,<br />
must be made savoury and plausible to the common man by public<br />
tests. 69 Claproth was a lawyer and taught in Göttingen. Maybe he and his<br />
thoughts were ahead of his time, as today we have refractory suits, and his<br />
invention for recycling paper also required centuries to assert itself. 70 Nevertheless<br />
this invention can be seen as an insecurity and danger-producing theoretical<br />
consideration for fire-fighting. Probably the practical impossibility appeared<br />
here as a healthy regulation to the formation of theories. However, in<br />
this example the tactic of inventive rhetoric can be seen too. For the scholars,<br />
the laboratory tests were not enough to strengthen the persuasiveness of the<br />
invention, so the genuine legitimation tool of the practitioner, the public test,<br />
was used. The practice of using practical legitimation rituals to break down a<br />
scholarly theory becomes evident.<br />
5. Conclusion<br />
These examples are proof of a shift in the self-imaging of the technical intelligence<br />
and in its public image, and a change in communication and information<br />
about technical topics. To summarize:<br />
67<br />
“… was bei dem Versuche geleistet worden, wird jedermann von dem Werthe dieser Erfindung<br />
Licht geben …” Anonymous, “Beschreibung des Versuchs” 1790.<br />
68<br />
“… von einer Maschine, die mit langen Stängen gerichtet werden muß, nicht wohl<br />
Gebrauch zu machen”, Ibid.<br />
69<br />
“bloß dem Anschein nach gefährliche Arbeit dem gemeinen Mann durch Versuche<br />
schmackhaft und plausibel gemacht werden [soll]”, Claproth 1762.<br />
70<br />
Claproth 1774.<br />
80
- New institutions and their efforts at the collection of useful knowledge led<br />
to new media for technical communication.<br />
- These institutions and their media served as a legitimation for ‘experts’.<br />
- These ‘experts’ were no longer only scholars since, according to the idea of<br />
usefulness, the demand for tacit knowledge and craftsmen’s skills arose.<br />
- Due to the concentration and conflation of these different processes of information<br />
and communication in the journals of the Enlightenment, the former<br />
hierarchy of knowledge had softened. Thereby the reciprocal character<br />
should be pointed out.<br />
- Because the practice of craftsmen was now becoming visible, the method of<br />
empirical experiment was distributed and accepted as producing knowledge.<br />
71<br />
- Hence it was not the actors of the production of technical knowledge for fire<br />
engines that were changing but the attention to and the emphasis on them.<br />
Access to wider and new markets was opened. The radius for the diffusion<br />
of knowledge increased.<br />
Regarding the inventiveness of the fire engineers described in the presented<br />
articles, it must be granted that the communication of genuinely new inventions<br />
was less significant compared to the tacit knowledge of them becoming public.<br />
Owing to the legitimation and general validity that they achieved in different<br />
ways, they received public acceptance, and these ‘inventions’ were transferred<br />
from ‘specialized or even secret knowledge’ to ‘general knowledge’.<br />
This transfer of special knowledge and, as a consequence thereof, legitimation<br />
as an ‘expert’ also comprised a lucrative incentive to participate, not only<br />
in the fire engine discussion. Hence it is not surprising that scholars as well as<br />
practitioners promoted their ‘inventions’ in journals. Based on this, communication<br />
in the 18th century seems to have taken place on a secondary level of the<br />
‘knowledge revolution’: The rhetoric of inventiveness had become daily business<br />
and a process of self-fashioning inventors was set in motion. The participants<br />
knew which instruments and arguments they could use for stylization and<br />
legitimation of themselves as an ‘inventor’ or ‘expert’. There was a recognised<br />
need to describe or demonstrate the function of inventions. For this reason the<br />
difference between the demand for invention and the innovative contents can<br />
be ascertained.<br />
To conclude, a few considerations should be mentioned concerning shifting<br />
communication, invention, fire security and security in general.<br />
The general Enlightenment idea of the usefulness of technical knowledge, of<br />
pluralizing knowledge and of general education seemed to cause more security.<br />
There was a general fear of the population and a need for security which could<br />
71 Shapin 1996, 96-100.<br />
81
only be produced if there was a common perception and reception and a general<br />
understanding of the operating mode.<br />
Although a quantitative analysis is still lacking, the qualitative analysis allows<br />
us to state that the articles concerning fire engines in the journals of<br />
Enlightenment support the effect of security, because topics concerning fire<br />
security were mentioned more often than, for example, they were in machine<br />
books. The examples presented show how fire hazards in a technical sense<br />
were prevented and handled. They demonstrate processes to enhance security<br />
in case of the disasters pointed out.<br />
After the mid-18th century, a general change in technical communication<br />
and in the diffusion of different knowledge systems can be seen. The ideal type<br />
of a scholarly inventor who created new inventions for security did not function<br />
without practical elements. Theorems led to the borders of the thinkable and to<br />
utopian ideas. The transference of practical and tacit knowledge to a theoretical<br />
level by the inclusion of it in the scriptualization process and the increasing<br />
rhetoric of inventiveness can be found. And vice versa, theorems were broken<br />
down to practical usefulness. The combination of emerging sciences and the<br />
diffusion of empirical knowledge produced security in general. In Early Modern<br />
cities the main actor of security production were the authorities, and the<br />
market of security products was mainly focused on them. The predominant aim<br />
was the ‘promotion of the state’s welfare’ (‘Beförderung des Landeswohls’).<br />
One of the major influential factors might not be seen in genuinely ‘new inventions’<br />
but in the developing communication and the involvement of the<br />
public, resulting in depersonalization and the formation of a pool of knowledge<br />
which was used to develop this ‘Landeswohlfahrt’. Not only a few outstanding<br />
inventors but the collectivity of them affected the flow of information and the<br />
knowledge about fire engines. But although the popular Enlightenment and<br />
within it the technical Enlightenment is tangible in the second half of the 18th<br />
century, distinguishing this time from ‘before’, there was no discernable overall<br />
progress of inventive knowledge but rather a progress of the spread of inventive<br />
communication.<br />
Nevertheless, the discourse about fire engines and other fire-securing methods<br />
led to so-called shifting baselines and changed the fundamental sense of<br />
security of following generations.<br />
References<br />
Printed Sources<br />
Anonymous. “Beschreibung des Versuchs mit einer von dem Herrn Fürst erfundenen<br />
Feuerlöschungs-Maschine.” In Monatsschrift für Mecklenburg, 1790: 129-<br />
132.<br />
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Anonymous. Review of “Erfindung einer Feuerspritze, welche ganz ohne Röhrwerk,<br />
ohne Kolben und Ventile, durch die Kraft zweyer Menschen eine überaus<br />
große Menge Wasser zu einer beträchtlichen Höhe in die Luft treibt.” Löscher,<br />
Carl Immanuel. In Neue allgemeine deutsche Bibliothek, Vol. 3, no. 2 (1793):<br />
396-399.<br />
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Claproth, Justus. Erfindung aus gedrucktem Papier wiederum neues Papier zu<br />
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Kügel, Georg Simon. Abhandlung von der besten Einrichtung der Feuerspritzen<br />
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Meister, A.L.F. Review of “Abhandlung über die vorteilhafteste Anordnung der<br />
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23, no. 2 (1775a): 534-540.<br />
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S., A. C. Ein Vorschlag zum Feuerlöschen. In Hannoverische Beyträge zum Nutzen<br />
und Vergnügen 1 (1759): 375-380.<br />
Wenceslaus, Johann Gustaf Karsten, Abhandlung über die vorteilhafteste Anordnung<br />
der Feuersprützen, nebst noch einer Abhandlung über die allgemeine Theorie<br />
von der Bewegung des Wassers in Gefässen und Röhren (Greifswald 1773).<br />
Zeising, Heinrich. Theatri Machinarum Theil II, In welchem Vielerley Kunstliche<br />
WasserKünste die wasser durch jeder Pumpen Truck unnd Sprutzwerck zuerheben,<br />
zusehen […] Leipzig: Grosse, 1610.<br />
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‘Neue Königsstadt.’” In Stadtzerstörung und Wiederaufbau, Zerstörungen durch<br />
Erdbeben, Feuer und Wasser, edited by Martin Körner, 157-172. Bern, 1999.<br />
Burke, Peter. Papier und Marktgeschrei, die Geburt der Wissensgesellschaft (translated<br />
by Matthias Wolf, original: A <strong>Social</strong> History of Knowledge (Cambridge: Polity<br />
Press/Blackwell, 2000)). Berlin: Klaus Wagenbach, 2000.<br />
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im 18. Jahrhundert, edited by Ulrich Johannes Schneider, 101-104. Berlin, New<br />
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Feldner, Heiko. “The new scientificity in historical writing around 1800.” In Writing<br />
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Passmore, 3-23. London, New York, 2003.<br />
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und die Entwicklung der gelehrten Medienrepublik zwischen 1670 und 1730.”<br />
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by Richard van Dülmen and Sina Rauschenbach, 417-438. Köln: Böhlau, 2004.<br />
Hochadel, Oliver. “Die Fußtruppen der Aufklärung. Umherziehende Elektrisierer<br />
im 18. Jahrhundert.” In Kulturen des Wissens im 18. Jahrhundert, edited by Ulrich<br />
Johannes Schneider, 329-337. Berlin, New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2008.<br />
Hochadel, Oliver. Öffentliche Wissenschaft, Elektrizität in der deutschen Aufklärung.<br />
Göttingen: Wallstein 2003.<br />
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Neuzeit 500-1750.” In Geschichte des Ingenieurs, Ein Beruf in sechs Jahrtausenden,<br />
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Hanser Verlag, 2006.<br />
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mathematischen Wissenschaften und ihre Vermittlung im 18. Jahrhundert.” In<br />
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85
Youth Crime, Urban Spaces, and Security in<br />
Germany since the 19th Century<br />
Klaus Weinhauer �<br />
Abstract: »Jugendkriminalität, städtische Räume und Sicherheit in Deutschland<br />
seit dem 19. Jahrhundert«. This article focuses on juvenile delinquency<br />
and on its perceptions in the last thirds of the 19th and of the 20th centuries.<br />
Three questions are discussed: Were there any debates on (human) security in<br />
both time phases and if yes, which problems were discussed; which larger social<br />
developments were mirrored in these debates; what were the implications<br />
of potential threats posed by juvenile delinquency for life in urban settings?<br />
In the last third of the nineteenth century the perception of and fears about<br />
youth crime focused on easily discernable proletarian male youth (groups and<br />
individuals) who mainly lived in densely populated urban neighborhoods. As<br />
(youth) crime was mainly interpreted as a threat towards the state and authorities<br />
were convinced that the police could successfully handle all challenges in<br />
this field, there were no debates about security at that time.<br />
In West Germany during the 1960s and the 1970s, two important changes in<br />
juvenile delinquency, in its perception and fears could be discerned. First, a<br />
twofold – spatial and social – dissolution of boundaries (Entgrenzung) of youth<br />
crime developed. The establishment of the transnational networks of the youth<br />
cultural underground, in which drug consumption played an important role,<br />
was instrumental in these developments. Second, in the early 1970s, as the case<br />
of the Rockers shows, youth crime had become a potentially omnipresent phenomenon<br />
of everyday urban life evoking diffuse spatial fears. Every seemingly<br />
friendly boy from the neighborhood could all of sudden turn into a “juvenile<br />
violent offender”. Thus, crime could potentially lurk everywhere, in every<br />
niche of (urban) society. It was against this background that the age of security<br />
dawned as it promised a safe haven against all future urban threats.<br />
Keywords: youth crime, juvenile delinquency, security, urban space, crime<br />
statistics, urban violence, “Underground”, “Rockers”, drug consumption,<br />
working-class youth.<br />
1. Introduction<br />
With its Trust Fund of Human Security, established in 1999, the United Nations<br />
attempts to promote human security. Its main aims are the protection and<br />
� Address all communications to: Klaus Weinhauer, Universität Bielefeld, Fakultät für Geschichtswissenschaft,<br />
Philosophie und Theologie, Abt. Geschichtswissenschaft, Universitätsstrasse<br />
25, 33615 Bielefeld, Germany; e-mail: klaus.weinhauer@uni-bielefeld.<br />
http://wwwhomes.uni-bielefeld.de/kweinhau/.<br />
<strong>Historical</strong> <strong>Social</strong> <strong>Research</strong>, Vol. 35 — 2010 — No. 4, 86-101
empowerment of people and communities whose survival, livelihood or dignity<br />
are threatened. Recently it was pointed out that human security is a concept “so<br />
vague that it verges on meaninglessness and consequently offers little practical<br />
guidance to academics who might be interested in applying the concept”. 1<br />
From a social and cultural historical perspective, however, security is a promising<br />
but still neglected field of research. This is especially true when it comes to<br />
an analysis of security in urban spaces. In a contribution which tries to overcome<br />
the pitfalls of the concept of security, two problems should be tackled: It<br />
should be clarified what is meant by security and the analysis should be focused<br />
on clear-cut time phases and also on relevant social fields.<br />
While a history of security written from the perspective of the state has a<br />
long and well-established tradition dating way back into the eighteenth century,<br />
2 much less historical scholarship exists that is focused on social aspects of<br />
security. In Germany the sociologist Franz-Xaver Kaufmann was among the<br />
first to include such a perspective in his studies. 3 He emphasized that in order<br />
to care for or about the future, the present must be safe. 4 As social science<br />
research suggests, security is about providing against indefinable future threats.<br />
Seen from this angle, security is a social value which tries to work against the<br />
contingency of time and against the uncertainty of the future and aims at a<br />
controllable complexity (beherrschbare Komplexität). 5 This leads to a double<br />
paradox: the safer the living conditions appear to be, the more people strive for<br />
security. Every new step towards a secure society, however, produces new<br />
potential risks.<br />
The crimes committed by juveniles figure prominently when it comes to describing<br />
the state of security in contemporary urban spaces. 6 This relationship<br />
between youth and (imagined) crimes has a long history which dates back to<br />
the nineteenth century. Thus, in focusing on youth crime 7 , urban space and<br />
security I would like to present a comparison of two time phases: the last third<br />
of the nineteenth and the last third of the twentieth century. The main focus of<br />
the whole contribution, however, will be on the 1960/70s. Both periods were<br />
phases of multiple social transitions. 8 These changes were brought about by<br />
three interrelated processes: industrialization, urbanization, and migration/social<br />
mobility. In Germany and elsewhere during the last third of the<br />
1 Paris 2001, 102.<br />
2 Lüdtke and Wildt 2008; Zedner 2009; Loader and Walker 2007.<br />
3 See Kaufmann 1970.<br />
4 Kaufmann 2003, 73-104, 93; See recently Münkler 2010, 11-34.<br />
5 Kaufmann 2003, 9.<br />
6 Space is understood not as a pre-existing container but as a socially constructed entity. With<br />
this I follow Lefèbvre 1991.<br />
7 The terms crime and delinquency are defined by Brusten 1999, 507-555. In this paper the<br />
terms youth crime and juvenile delinquency will be used synonymously.<br />
8 Overviews are given in Osterhammel 2009; Mazower 2000; Hobsbawm 1998.<br />
87
nineteenth century, industrialization and urbanization closely interacted and<br />
changed the economic structure but also led to rapidly growing cities. Moreover,<br />
there were big transnational migration movements and a highly mobile<br />
working-class population. The very high mobility of large sections of the working<br />
class led to a huge body of casual laborers which in many European countries<br />
aroused social fears. 9 Moreover, in this phase of intense social changes the<br />
state’s monopoly of physical violence was firmly established in a process<br />
where police forces began to emancipate themselves from their roots in the<br />
military. In the last third of the twentieth century these processes came to an<br />
end or took different directions. Many former industrial towns became deindustrialized<br />
while cities were strongly affected by the redevelopment of city<br />
centers and by the building of high-rises at the periphery. Waves of migration<br />
and international agreements brought refugees and laborers (“guest workers”)<br />
to Germany. Looking at the state’s monopoly of physical violence, its erosion<br />
began in the 1970s when private security institutions were allowed to handle<br />
services which in former times had been provided by the police.<br />
In my analysis of juvenile delinquency and of its related perceptions in the<br />
last third of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries three questions are at the<br />
center: Was youth crime in both time phases discussed against the background<br />
of security, and if yes, which problems were put to the forefront; which larger<br />
social developments were mirrored in these debates; what were the implications<br />
of potential threats posed by juvenile delinquency for life in urban settings?<br />
While such an approach can benefit from the analysis of crime statistics,<br />
it must be taken into consideration that such statistics are questionable: Crime<br />
statistics tell more about social norms and values than about ‘real’ crime figures.<br />
10 Moreover, it seems promising not only to analyze the social historical<br />
aspects but also to scrutinize the social perception of youth crime among politicians<br />
and police personnel as well as in the media. Simultaneously, it should<br />
also be checked which offences stood at the center of public interest. 11 It also<br />
needs to be inquired whether there were certain urban spaces where juvenile<br />
delinquency could develop or where it was imagined that such crimes could<br />
take place.<br />
2. Youth Crime in the Last Third of the 19th Century<br />
The 1880s were a phase in which the dangerousness of youth, mainly the male<br />
proletarian youth, was discovered. 12 In the public debates these imagined<br />
9<br />
See Jones 1984.<br />
10<br />
See Reinke 1992, 199-214; Dinges and Sack 2000, 42-43.<br />
11<br />
See the pioneering studies Cohen 1973; Hall 1978.<br />
12<br />
Von Trotha 1982; Roth 1983. See as a general overview Benninghaus 1999; Speitkamp<br />
1998.<br />
88
threats were combined with the dangers of life in big cities. 13 On the one hand,<br />
the population of the Kaiserreich in the late nineteenth century had a fairly<br />
high percentage of young people. 14 This was especially true for big industrial<br />
cities where, for example, in 1905 in Barmen or Essen 63 resp. 67 percent of<br />
the inhabitants were younger than 30. 15 On the other hand there is the Reichskriminalstatistik<br />
(imperial crime statistics), established in 1882. These court<br />
statistics were used to point at the rising figures of convicted juveniles aged<br />
between 18 and 22.<br />
While criminality of all types was predominantly the preserve of young men<br />
between the age of eighteen and thirty, the “most crime prone group was men<br />
between the ages twenty-one and twenty-five” 16 . Two additional aspects, however,<br />
must be taken into consideration: First, in the last third of the nineteenth<br />
century, it was mostly the working-class youth which stood at the center of the<br />
heated public discussions about rising youth crime. Second, although at least in<br />
the first years of its statistical measurement there were high numbers of convicted<br />
juveniles in rural areas, from the turn of the century, the city became the<br />
major site of crime and crime fears. 17 Thus, many contemporary studies focused<br />
on young proletarian males as the central figures of urban crime which<br />
was thought to be mainly situated in proletarian neighborhoods. 18 Clemens<br />
Schultz, a Hamburg pastor, published a classical account which was later often<br />
quoted. In 1912 he wrote: The urban Halbstarke was<br />
the ‘degenerate’ young person (...) his preferred activity is to stand around idly<br />
in the marketplace and ... he is the sworn enemy of order, he has a passionate<br />
distaste for order; he therefore hates regularity, and equally hates all that is<br />
beautiful and, in particular, work, especially the regular, ordered fulfilment of<br />
duty. (...) When social life is convulsed, for example by a revolution, or perhaps<br />
just by a general strike or by great political commotions, this scum<br />
comes to the surface and has a dreadful effect. This mob is much worse than<br />
individual, so-called hardened criminals. It is possible to protect oneself against<br />
those, but these powers of darkness have a poisoning, polluting effect,<br />
much worse than any contagious epidemic. It is ... the State’s duty to take action<br />
against these dreadful elements. 19<br />
Contemporary counter-measures against youth crime mainly concentrated<br />
on the time phase between the end of school attendance and the beginning of<br />
military service. State and church officials and medics relied in their countermeasures<br />
mainly on social pedagogical education, on work and work-related<br />
13<br />
Roth 1997; Malmede 2002; Oberwittler 2000; see also the pioneering study written by<br />
Peukert 1986.<br />
14<br />
Tenfelde 1982. “Young” includes people between 0 and 30 years of age.<br />
15<br />
Tenfelde 1982, 203.<br />
16<br />
Johnson 1995, 198.<br />
17<br />
Malmede, 104. See for rural areas Gestrich 1986.<br />
18<br />
See as a classical account Schultz 1912; also Mischler 1889, 197-198; Appelius 1892.<br />
19 Schultz 1912, 8 and 33-34.<br />
89
discipline and on military discipline but also on actions that could be taken by<br />
the police and on the effects of incarceration. 20<br />
Until 1914 fear of crime was about two things: It was a fear about the total<br />
downfall of the bourgeois order and it was a fear of political upheaval. These<br />
fears were focused mainly on highly mobile young male workers. Crime and<br />
social democratic orientation were believed to go hand in hand. 21 Moreover,<br />
these debates often concerned the racial purity and strength of the German<br />
nation. 22 As current research has elaborated, the main settings which contributed<br />
to the rising numbers of violent youth crime were: 23 migration, job mobility,<br />
and also a growing state interest in punishing the rough young proletarian<br />
males. The importance of the latter becomes obvious when we take a closer<br />
look at the imperial crime statistics, where three offences figured prominently:<br />
firstly property offences (mainly theft) and acts of bodily harm (Körperverletzung).<br />
These crimes were often committed by groups of young male working-class<br />
lads. 24 Both offences were often expressions of a proletarian way of<br />
life of “playful adventure” 25 and they were committed by proletarian youth<br />
against proletarian youth. Third on the list were offences against state and<br />
public order such as damage to property, breach of the domestic peace, and<br />
resistance against officers (Sachbeschädigung, Hausfriedensbruch, Widersetzlichkeit<br />
gegen Beamte). All in all, these were offences against the growing<br />
number of order norms issued by the bourgeois state. 26 This becomes evident<br />
when we look at the offence of “gefährliche Körperverletzung” which was<br />
created in February 1876. With this addition to the Reichstrafgesetzbuch justice<br />
and police were intensifying their crusade against physical violence. 27 This<br />
indicates, as Ralph Jessen has convincingly underlined, not only that there were<br />
rising numbers of violent offences but also that a much stricter law enforcement<br />
and a lessening tolerance towards violence became prominent. Sometimes<br />
these violent acts were even interpreted as political terrorism, as the confusing<br />
and somewhat strange term “Buben der Propaganda der That” 28 (boys of the<br />
propaganda of the deed) underlines. These young lads were mainly described<br />
as the lumpen proletarians: the avant-garde of social democracy. 29 In the crime<br />
20 See Saul 1971.<br />
21 Oberwittler 2000, 32.<br />
22 See Dix 1902, 3.<br />
23 Malmede 2002, 62.<br />
24 Malmede 2002, 47.<br />
25 Malmede 2002, 49.<br />
26 Malmede 2002, 111.<br />
27 Jessen 1992, 248. See also Jessen 1991.<br />
28 Appelius 1892, 85.<br />
29 Malmede 2002, 67.<br />
90
statistics, however, such political offences were of minor importance, which<br />
contrasted greatly with public perception. 30<br />
Although juvenile delinquency was intensely debated until World War I, the<br />
current state of research shows that the topic of security was completely absent<br />
from these discussions. There was no public debate about security against<br />
(youth) violence. It was mainly about saving the state order or about protecting<br />
everyday order (Ordnung). Crime was conceived less as a threat to individuals<br />
or to social groups. All in all, before World War I authorities were sure that<br />
when it came to discussing and punishing youth crime they were confronted by<br />
clearly discernable individuals who failed. In these views two facts were inevitable:<br />
First, it was clear that these individuals were overwhelmingly of proletarian<br />
origin and mostly lived in the densely populated urban neighborhoods.<br />
Second, if any severe troubles might occur in this social field, state authorities<br />
were convinced that the police (sometimes assisted by military troops) would<br />
meet these challenges successfully.<br />
3. Youth Crime in the 1960/70s<br />
From a social and cultural historical perspective the 1960/70s saw some farreaching<br />
social changes. In general, for West German society the 1960s were a<br />
decade of new departures, which already started at the beginning of this decade<br />
and not, as it is often thought, only as late as ‘1968’. 31 In particular, changes in<br />
the norm and value systems – be they already visible or still underway – must<br />
be taken into consideration when youth crime and its social construction are<br />
studied. There was also a breakthrough of mass consumer society with its inherent<br />
challenges of making choices in many situations. <strong>Social</strong> science research<br />
was discovering youth culture(s) 32 and a path was taken to virtually equate<br />
youthfulness with social change. Thus, the changing patterns of consumption<br />
among youth gained public attention.<br />
Beginning in the last third of the 1950s in West Germany, sceptic concerns<br />
were articulated about the ever faster changing society. These anxieties culminated<br />
in the case of the Halbstarke, whose protests were dramatized by media,<br />
politicians and social institutions which were all alarmed by these young people.<br />
33 The latest studies, however, underline that these actions should be interpreted<br />
as an expression of a minority promoting a hedonistic lifestyle. Their<br />
actions pointed at tensions between, on the one hand, social change in a consumer<br />
society and conservative moral norms and values on the other hand. 34<br />
30 Malmede 2002, 83; see for a later time period Wagner and Weinhauer 2000.<br />
31 See for the state of historical research: Frei 2008; Klimke and Scharloth 2008.<br />
32 Compare Siegfried 2000, 588; for an overview compare Sander and Vollbrecht 2000.<br />
33 See as the latest study Kurme 2006; Poiger 2000.<br />
34 See Heintz and König 1957; Kaiser 1959.<br />
91
In the second half of the 1960s (around 1967), however, crime became a<br />
main issue in the field of domestic concerns. The caesura in the numbers of<br />
crimes registered by the police as well as in the perception of crime and its<br />
inherent dangers is underlined by three developments. 35 First, roughly by the<br />
middle of the 1960s, the figures of the crime statistics (including juvenile delinquency)<br />
collected by the police showed a marked increase in the number of<br />
offences. Second, public concern about crime grew stronger. This trend is<br />
supported by the fact that new television programs were established (for instance<br />
in March of 1964 and in October of 1967) which dealt with criminal<br />
cases. 36 At the same time, opinion polls were taken that demonstrated that from<br />
the mid-1960s onwards, there was a heightened need for security among West<br />
Germans. 37 To this day it is not clear whether these TV programs and opinion<br />
polls were expressions of fears about crime or whether they contributed to the<br />
increase of such fears. 38 Third, among policemen and politicians the term “Innere<br />
Sicherheit” began to gain importance at the end of the 1960s. Under this<br />
vague umbrella term the police set out to define the fight against crime as a tool<br />
to deliver security.<br />
In January 1973, the news magazine Der Spiegel quoted the North Rhine-<br />
Westphalian minister of the interior Willi Weyer, who had said that juvenile<br />
delinquency has “‘risen in an alarming way.’” Moreover, in the same article the<br />
magazine reported an “over-proportional rise in violent crime” committed by<br />
young people. 39 In the 1960s, however, it was not mainly working-class youth<br />
on which public concern was focused, but youth in general. Besides violent<br />
offences, police personnel, politicians, and journalists of the late 1960s put one<br />
set of offences at the center of their concern about youth crime: drug consumption.<br />
40 Starting during the mid-1960s, drug consumption took the shape that is<br />
has today: It became an international youth problem – which, at least in the<br />
case of Germany, is still not well-studied. 41 On the one hand, within the youth<br />
culture, drugs were an expression of a revolt in lifestyle, 42 which can be characterized<br />
by self-realization, hedonism, and by the “attainment of new worlds of<br />
35 See for further details Weinhauer 2005; Weinhauer 2003.<br />
36 Zimmermann 1969, 11 and 45.<br />
37 See Reuband 1995; Weinhauer 2003, 249-250. Compare as an opinion poll Allensbacher<br />
Berichte, no. 19, August 1971.<br />
38 Compare Weinhauer 2003, 251-262.<br />
39 Der Spiegel 26, 1 January 1973, 64. More detailed information on the following is given in<br />
Weinhauer 2006, 376-397.<br />
40 In this essay, the term drugs includes cannabis products (hashish and marijuana), opiates<br />
(morphine and heroin), cocaine, LSD, mescaline, amphetamines, and barbiturates. Alcohol<br />
is not included. For details see Weinhauer 2006, 187-224. Problems of definition are discussed<br />
in Renggli and Tanner 1994, 10-15.<br />
41 See as a local study Stephens 2007; also Marwick 1998, 78, 480-496; Tanner 1998.<br />
42 Compare Klessmann 1991.<br />
92
experience”. 43 On the other hand, debates about drugs figured prominently in a<br />
process of “normative self-assurance” made to combat the erosion of social<br />
norms and values. 44<br />
3.1 Threats of the Underground<br />
Leaving aside the rising numbers of criminal offences, as registered by the<br />
police, and the growing importance of crime for domestic concerns, during the<br />
mid-1960s youth crime transformed in two important ways: Juvenile delinquency<br />
lost its traditional spaces and offences were no longer exclusively<br />
committed by juveniles coming from the lower social stratums but also from<br />
those belonging to higher social classes. With regard to (juvenile) delinquency,<br />
for a long time, the police were mostly concerned with the red light and entertainment<br />
districts as well as the port areas of big cities. It was there that runaway<br />
youths found hiding-places when they had left their parental homes or<br />
reformatories. Moreover, large parts of the criminal underworld could be found<br />
in these precincts. 45 Starting in the mid-1960s, however, police, social workers,<br />
and politicians had to face juveniles who were part of a complex – more or less<br />
counter-cultural – underground. 46 Political actions such as demonstrations,<br />
happenings, sit-ins etc. were only one part of these international networks,<br />
which were also structured by inner-city meeting points in the streets and in<br />
other public places.<br />
This vaguely defined underground was not exclusively concentrated in the<br />
traditional red light or port districts but also in the city centers, in wealthy<br />
quarters as well as in the suburbs. 47 Moreover, it was not the underclass youth<br />
which constituted the core groups of the underground. Instead, members of the<br />
middle and higher stratums of society dominated this new underground. Thus,<br />
the emergence of the underground meant a spatial as well as social expansion<br />
of delinquent milieus. During the mid-1960s, in West Germany the dropouts<br />
(Gammler) could be seen as the harbingers of the underground that developed<br />
in big cities like Munich, Frankfurt, Berlin, or Hamburg. 48 The dropouts, whose<br />
disposition (Habitus) and political directions differed from town to town, were<br />
predominantly 17 to 25-year-old males of middle-class background. 49 The long<br />
43<br />
Tanner 2001, quote on 245.<br />
44<br />
Tanner 1990, 399.<br />
45<br />
Compare the descriptions of Werner 1969, 41-45; Pietsch 1965, 126; compare also Falck<br />
1965, 161-173; see as a broader interpretation Reinke 2010, 539-553.<br />
46<br />
For the term underground, compare Hollstein 1969, 24-27, 106-142; Der Spiegel 21, June<br />
9, 1969, 142-155; for an international overview compare Marwick 1998, in particular 489-<br />
492.<br />
47<br />
A summary is given by Kreuzer 1975, 137-149.<br />
48<br />
Compare Claessens and Ahna 1982, 103-106; a good contemporary impression is provided<br />
by Kosel 1967.<br />
49<br />
Compare Jaedicke 1968, 87.<br />
93
hair of the dropouts especially “attacked the image of the masculine man; their<br />
untidiness challenged bourgeois feelings of cleanliness; having no job and<br />
possessions they questioned the capitalist achievement-orientated society.” 50<br />
The underground networks – just as the later student protests – were instrumental<br />
in changing the police’s analysis of threats. From this time, there were<br />
so many patterns of social behavior that juveniles could exhibit that the spectrum<br />
of normality (and of delinquency) could not be very easily defined. The<br />
international youth/cultural underground had too many ways of delinquent<br />
behavior ready to explain crime/delinquency with the help of individual abnormal<br />
behavior. Moreover, it was not only the underground youth which used<br />
the supplies of new consumer goods (clothes, beat, rock, and pop music, drugs,<br />
motorbikes, etc.) to create their personal lifestyles. This also became increasingly<br />
true for ‘normal’ young men and women. 51 Moreover, during the mid-<br />
1960s, the term society (Gesellschaft) 52 gained the upper hand vis-à-vis community<br />
(Gemeinschaft) when it came to describing and analyzing the social<br />
order in West Germany. Because of this and owing to the discovery and the<br />
development of the underground, criminologists and police personnel were<br />
able to understand delinquency and criminality as a social problem.<br />
3.2 Working-Class Youth Crime: The Rockers<br />
Working-class-based youth crime and the corresponding fears did not disappear<br />
in the 1960s. It was in cities such as Hamburg, Berlin, or Essen in 1968/69<br />
where the press, in particular the Bild-Zeitung, turned the Rockers into a public<br />
threat – into real folk devils. The interest that the Rockers garnered from the<br />
police and from the press lasted until the early 1970s. 53 Rockers were seen as<br />
the tip of an iceberg of ever-increasing juvenile delinquency and violence. 54<br />
Press reports gave the impression that anybody could become the victim of the<br />
violent acts of the Rockers – anywhere, anytime. 55 Thus, the Rockers’ case was<br />
an example of the breakthrough of the term violence when it came to describing<br />
and analyzing security and social order in these years. 56<br />
When the Hamburg police force checked their card files, it became evident<br />
that nearly two thirds of the Rockers were unskilled, many of them pursuing<br />
50<br />
Hollstein 1981, 12.<br />
51<br />
For the term “bricolage”, compare Hebdige 1979.<br />
52<br />
Nolte 2000.<br />
53<br />
The state of research on the Rockers is reviewed in Cremer 1992; for an analysis of the<br />
press in Essen, compare Adam 1972, 57-69; for a paradigmatic opinion poll, compare<br />
Staatsarchiv Hamburg, Behoerde fuer Inneres [Federal archive of the city of Hamburg, Office<br />
for domestic affairs], Infas Hamburg Report. Bad Godesberg, 1974, 824.<br />
54<br />
See as an statistical overview Thome and Birkel 2007; for local details see Adam 1972, 62-<br />
63.<br />
55<br />
Der Spiegel 26, January 1, 1973, 8, 15 and 22; Konkret (1972) 13.<br />
56<br />
See Cremer-Schaefer and Steinert 1998, 99-100, 117-122.<br />
94
only odd jobs. 57 Similar to the members of the underground, the Rockers did<br />
not meet in the traditional delinquent areas of the red light districts or in the<br />
city districts close to the ports. Instead their pubs were spread all over the<br />
city. 58 Some Rockers lived in high-rise concrete-laden residential districts such<br />
as the Maerkisches Viertel in West Berlin. 59<br />
The Rockers imported the long hair of the contemporary dropouts into their<br />
rough working-class outfit, wore black leather jeans and jackets, heavy boots<br />
and later also rode motorbikes. They gave their groups names like “Bloody<br />
Devils”, “Hell’s Dogs”, “Black Souls” or “Hell’s Angels”. 60 The Rockers<br />
showed off an aggressive pattern of masculinity with which they distinguished<br />
themselves from all current social tendencies, which they considered would<br />
lead towards softness and femininity. Therefore, Rockers often attacked homosexuals<br />
and disliked ‘soft’ hashish smokers. 61 The Rockers of the late 1960s,<br />
who resembled the Halbstarke of the late 1950s only in a limited sense, were a<br />
working-class component of contemporary youth delinquency in Western<br />
Germany. 62 Their provocative appearance owing to their rough and aggressive<br />
masculinity was reinforced by their usage of Nazi symbols.<br />
In the early 1970s, the big gangs of the Rockers dissolved and only small<br />
groups were left. Simultaneously the outfit of the Rockers began to change<br />
towards a more civilian disposition (Habitus). They wore leather vests, jackets<br />
with leather fringes, and jeans jackets with inscriptions. The Hamburg police<br />
approached this end of old certainties by ‘inventing’ a new group of juvenile<br />
delinquents. They were “outwardly totally inconspicuous in their group behavior<br />
and performance”; however, they were “threatening in a similar way” to the<br />
Rockers. Beginning in early 1972, this “Taetertyp nach ‘Rockerart’” (a quasi-<br />
Rockeresque perpetrator-type) was also labeled as “young violent offender”<br />
(Junge Gewalttaeter). 63<br />
This definition made it easy for the police to include all young delinquent<br />
boys and girls who wore ordinary clothes. As a consequence, the numbers of<br />
“young violent offenders” in Hamburg skyrocketed from 563 in 1971 up to<br />
1,909 in 1972. 64 This example underscores the close relationship between youth<br />
(culture) and youth delinquency, 65 since the changes in the way of clothing led<br />
to this redefinition of youth crime. On the one hand, the ‘normal’ youth copied<br />
the leather clothing style of the Rockers. The clothing industry had made this<br />
57<br />
Kreuzer 1970, 348.<br />
58<br />
Simon 1997, 270.<br />
59<br />
Homann 1969, 12-15.<br />
60<br />
See Wolter 1973, 293.<br />
61<br />
Compare Kreuzer 1970, 339, 352.<br />
62<br />
For literature on Halbstarke see footnotes 19, 33 and 34.<br />
63<br />
Wolter 1973, 294.<br />
64<br />
Piesch 1975, 12.<br />
65<br />
This is underlined by Trotha 1982.<br />
95
style palatable to non-Rockers. On the other hand, Rockers apparently integrated<br />
new styles into their outfits. Even without Rockers, the threat of juvenile<br />
delinquency could be maintained by this widening of definition. Since the<br />
police decentralized the perspective on delinquency, its threat seemed to be<br />
omnipresent with deep roots in society. Even a friendly, normally-dressed boy<br />
next door could turn into a “young violent offender.”<br />
4. Conclusion<br />
In the last third of the nineteenth century the perception of and fears about<br />
youth crime and youth violence were focused on easily discernable proletarian<br />
male youth (groups and individuals) who mostly lived in densely populated<br />
urban neighborhoods. If any severe troubles should occur in this social field,<br />
state authorities were convinced that the police (sometimes assisted by military<br />
troops) would meet these challenges successfully. In the last third of the twentieth<br />
century juvenile delinquency and youth violence became much more<br />
diffuse and was not so easy to locate in urban spaces. In West Germany during<br />
the 1960s and the 1970s there were two important changes in juvenile delinquency,<br />
in its perception, and in the related fears which influenced the search<br />
for security in a society which was felt to be changing ever faster. First, there<br />
was a double dissolution of boundaries (Entgrenzung) of youth crime. From the<br />
mid-1960s delinquent behavior was no longer concentrated in its traditional<br />
centers such as red light or port districts of the cities. At the same time, delinquency<br />
reached broader strata of society. The establishment of the international<br />
underground networks, in which drug users played an important role, was<br />
instrumental for this development. The early 1970s brought a second impulse<br />
for this end of certainties about the social and spatial aspects of youth crime.<br />
As the case of the Rockers has shown, from now on it was impossible to ascribe<br />
delinquency predominantly to abnormal individuals. Youth crime had<br />
become a potentially omnipresent phenomenon of everyday urban life. Thus<br />
the fight for security as a social value which tries to work against the contingency<br />
of time and against the uncertainty of the future gained unprecedented<br />
importance.<br />
Both time phases under consideration here mirrored changes in the urban<br />
setting of delinquency. In the last third of the nineteenth century the debates<br />
focused on the interaction of industrialization, urban growth and social life in<br />
overcrowded working class neighborhoods. The fears about crime of the<br />
1960/1970s occurred against the background of radical changes in the built-up<br />
urban environment caused particularly by urban renewal with its focus on<br />
concrete high-rises and the redevelopment of city centers. As a consequence,<br />
96
the resurgence of the scholarly field of criminal geography in the mid 1970s 66<br />
was one effort to locate more precisely the origins, spaces, and fears of crime in<br />
Western Germany. In short: In the early/mid 1970s there were diffuse spatial<br />
fears. Every seemingly friendly boy from the neighbourhood could all of sudden<br />
turn into a “juvenile violent offender”. Thus, crime could lurk everywhere,<br />
in every niche of (urban) society. It was against this background that the age of<br />
security dawned as it promised a safe haven against all future urban threats.<br />
References<br />
Printed Sources<br />
Allensbacher Berichte, no. 19, August 1971.<br />
Der Spiegel 21, June 9, 1969, 142-155.<br />
Der Spiegel 26, January 1, 1973, 64.<br />
Der Spiegel 26, January 1, 1973, 8-22.<br />
Homann, Peter, “Marmor, Stein – Pflastersteine. Polit-Rocker in Westberlin.”<br />
Konkret (1969) 2, 12-15.<br />
Konkret (1972) 13.<br />
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Zimmermann, Eduard. Das unsichtbare Netz. Rapport fuer Freunde und Feinde.<br />
Munich: Südwest Verlag, 1969.<br />
101
Human Security and the Challenge of<br />
Automobile and Road Traffic Safety:<br />
A Cultural <strong>Historical</strong> Perspective<br />
Achim Saupe �<br />
Abstract: »Die UN-Agenda zur menschlichen Sicherheit und die Herausforderungen<br />
der Verkehrssicherheit aus kulturhistorischer Perspektive«. The<br />
worldwide enhancement of road traffic safety is one aspect of the UN agenda<br />
on “human security”. The article examines the history of road traffic safety and<br />
the development of automobile safety technologies since the mid twentieth<br />
century with a strong focus on West Germany. From a historical perspective<br />
there are two reasons why the UN agenda includes the enhancement of road<br />
traffic safety. Firstly the development of road traffic safety is a “success story”<br />
in industrialized countries even though there are still high death rates globally.<br />
Secondly, the enhancement of road safety is linked to advanced civil societies<br />
with all their stakeholders, and strengthening civil society is a key concern of<br />
the UN worldwide.<br />
Beyond that, automobility is a symbol of modernity. Discourses about automobile<br />
safety inform us about the conceptions and regulation of individual freedom<br />
and security in different societies. Moreover, new safety technologies<br />
such as the safety belt modify the interactions between human beings and machines<br />
and thus the idea of freedom, autonomy and responsibility.<br />
Keywords: automobility, road traffic safety; automobile safety; safety belt;<br />
individualization, autonomy; freedom.<br />
With the rise of the concept of human security, terms such as national security,<br />
internal and domestic security, social and economic security were fundamentally<br />
expanded. This expansion of security as an important political term and<br />
concept integrates new societal values into the political discourse about security.<br />
1 The human security agenda focuses on the global as well as the regional<br />
and integrates the protection of individuals, groups, and people. The UN program<br />
strengthens individual rights, while the rights of groups, ethnicities or<br />
nations and in this respect the sovereignty of states have ostensibly taken a<br />
back seat. The report “Our Global Neighborhood” of the Commission on<br />
Global Governance claims the protection of individuals as its main concern,<br />
and therefore new threats such as crimes, social distress, diseases, poverty,<br />
� Address all communications to: Achim Saupe, Zentrum für Zeithistorische Forschung<br />
(ZZF), Am Neuen Markt 1, 14467 Potsdam, Germany; e-mail: saupe@zzf-pdm.de,<br />
.<br />
1 Daase 2009, 150.<br />
<strong>Historical</strong> <strong>Social</strong> <strong>Research</strong>, Vol. 35 — 2010 — No. 4, 102-121
unemployment, migration, drug traffic, and arms trade have entered the political<br />
agenda under one comprehensive heading. 2<br />
The “Commission on Human Security” concluded in its final report that<br />
“human security means protecting vital freedoms” and offers two strategies:<br />
“protecting people from critical and pervasive threats and situations”, and<br />
“empowering” people’s “strengths and aspirations”. 3 Critics have argued that<br />
this<br />
new conceptualization of security […] is so vague that it verges on meaninglessness<br />
– and consequently offers little practical guidance to academics who<br />
might be interested in applying the concept, or to policymakers who must prioritize<br />
among competing policy goals. 4<br />
The rise of the concept of human security is often interpreted in the context<br />
of the rise of the discourse about individual human rights, which refers to an<br />
individualization, privatization and juridification of social relations in the second<br />
half of the twentieth century. The collective and individual rights to security<br />
were mentioned by the Charta of the United Nations of 1948 and became<br />
vital in the OSCE process. In the 1980s they were discussed in Germany by<br />
various political theorists such as Gerhard Robbers und Josef Isensee who<br />
demanded a fundamental “right to security”, which was in a way related to the<br />
American concept of “freedom from fear”, first mentioned in Theodor Roosevelt’s<br />
Four Freedoms speech in 1941. 5 German critics swiftly responded, raising<br />
fears that such a fundamental right to security could include a considerable<br />
loss of freedom and constitutionality. 6<br />
As Zygmunt Bauman has remarked, the German terms Sicherheit and its antonym<br />
Unsicherheit in German are much more inclusive than “security” in<br />
English. Sicherheit manages to squeeze into a single term complex phenomena<br />
for which English has at least three terms: security, safety and certainty. Hence,<br />
the linguistic difference between safety from accidental events and security as a<br />
protection against intentional damages does not exist in the German language.<br />
Of course, in German there is “Sicherheit”, “Gewissheit” (certainty) and<br />
“Schutz” (protection), but the term “Sicherheit” integrates all of them. For<br />
Bauman, all these ingredients of “Sicherheit” are prerequisites of selfconfidence<br />
and self-reliance on which “the ability to think and act rationally<br />
depends”. 7 With the overall inclusive concept of “human security”, the differences<br />
between “security” and “safety” seem to dissolve in the English-speaking<br />
world, too.<br />
2 Commission 1995, 145.<br />
3 Commission on Human Security 2003, 1.<br />
4 Paris 2001, 102.<br />
5 Isensee 1983; Robbers 1987.<br />
6 Denninger 1990. The relation between the “human security” concept and “human rights” is<br />
critically discussed by, among others, Oberleitner 2002.<br />
7 Bauman 1999, 17.<br />
103
Empowering people to live a secure life implies, at first glance, the idea of<br />
strengthening individual and collective responsibilities while simultaneously<br />
restricting the sovereignty of the national states. The worldwide enhancement<br />
of road traffic safety is one component of the UN agenda on “human security”.<br />
In the following article, I will reflect on the concept of “human security” by<br />
using the example of the development of automobile and road traffic safety<br />
since the mid-twentieth century with a strong focus on Germany. The discourse<br />
about automobile and road traffic safety is also linked to the interaction of<br />
stakeholders in advanced civil societies and developing countries (and the<br />
development of a “world society”) and the interactions of human beings and<br />
safety technologies. Therefore, finally, I will discuss the conception of the<br />
individual contained in contemporary discourses about automobility and the<br />
enhancement of road traffic safety.<br />
Road Traffic Security as World Politics<br />
As mentioned above, the human security paradigm includes a lot of aspects of<br />
security and safety right up to engineering standards and road traffic safety. 8<br />
The 1994 UN Human Development Report on “New Dimensions of Human<br />
Security” listed injuries from road accidents under the rubric “human distress<br />
in industrial countries”, and even mentioned road traffic noise as an indicator<br />
for (in)security:<br />
In industrial countries, traffic accidents are the leading cause of death for people<br />
aged 15-30 – with some of the highest injury rates in Austria, Belgium,<br />
Canada and the United States. And in developing countries, traffic accidents<br />
account for at least 50% of total accidental deaths. The highway death toll in<br />
South Africa in 1993 was 10,000, three times the number of death from political<br />
violence. 9<br />
In 2004, the World Health Organization (WHO) focused on the theme of<br />
road safety in cooperation with the World Bank. In the same year the World<br />
Bank supported the Global Road Safety Forum (GRSF) in alliance with the<br />
foundation of the Fédération Internationale de l’Automobile (FIA) – an important<br />
stakeholder of the automobile industry. In its 2004 report, WHO drew<br />
attention to the fact that road traffic collisions kill more than 1.2 million people<br />
a year around the world. As main traffic risks WHO mentioned speeding, alcohol,<br />
non-use of helmets, seat belts and other restraints, poor road design, poor<br />
enforcement of road safety regulations, unsafe vehicle design, and poor emergency<br />
health services. Therefore, World Health Day 2004 tried to advocate a<br />
“systems approach” to road safety, which took into consideration the key as-<br />
8 Unesco 2008, 41.<br />
9 United Nations Development Programme 1994, 31-32.<br />
104
pects of the system: the road user, the vehicle, and the infrastructure. 10 This<br />
relates to a classical concept developed in the 1950s and 1960s, that road traffic<br />
accidents could be minimized by enforcement, education, and engineering.<br />
In general, since the 1960s and 1970s there has been a decrease in the numbers<br />
and rates of fatalities in “high-income” countries – a term defined by the<br />
World Bank. 11 At the same time, there has been a pronounced rise in numbers<br />
and rates in many so-called “low-income” and “middle-income” countries. 12<br />
The case of reunification in Germany provides a good illustration of how economic<br />
factors can influence car crashes. 13 After the reunification many people<br />
suddenly experienced a surge in affluence and access to previously unavailable<br />
cars and in the two following years, the number of cars that were bought and<br />
the total distance travelled by cars increased by over 40 percent. At the same<br />
time, there was a four-fold increase in death rates for car occupants, with an<br />
eleven-fold increase for those aged 18-20. The overall death rate in road<br />
crashes in this period nearly doubled, from 4 per 100,000 in 1989 to 8 per<br />
100,000 in 1999. On the basis of this experience, the Deutsche Gesellschaft für<br />
Technische Zusammenarbeit (“German Society for Technical Cooperation”,<br />
GTZ) supported international cooperation among various stakeholders in road<br />
safety projects and initiatives and helped to shape national strategy development<br />
processes from 2004. 14<br />
The Myth of the Car and<br />
the German Discourse about Automobile Safety<br />
Cars are more than a means of transportation. In 1956, David Riesman and Eric<br />
Larrabee argued that the symbolic meanings of automobiles overwhelmed<br />
instrumental meanings. 15 Roland Barthes compared the representative car with<br />
a Gothic Cathedral, and Henri Lefebvre saw the car as a “magical” object, “a<br />
denizen of the land of make-believe”. 16 A few years later in 1974, while the<br />
design of cars had become less representative and more functional, Ron Horvarth<br />
claimed that “the automobile may prove to be the single most significant<br />
innovation in American culture during the twentieth century”. For Horvath, the<br />
automobile was “so shrouded in myth and has so much symbolic meaning that<br />
we could call it our ‘sacred cow’”. 17 Automobiles and automobility are still a<br />
10 WHO 2004.<br />
11 Cf. World Bank 2010.<br />
12 Yitambe et al. 2009.<br />
13 GTZ 2006.<br />
14 GTZ 2004.<br />
15 Riesman and Larrabee 1993.<br />
16 Barthes 1972, 88. Lefebvre 1971, 102.<br />
17 Horvath 1974, 168.<br />
105
symbol of mobility, prosperity, freedom, and stand for the possibilities of modernity<br />
and development. Besides the enormous death rates from car accidents,<br />
this is possibly an important factor in understanding why UN and WHO agendas<br />
focus their particular interest on road traffic and car accidents: They represent<br />
in a way the obvious risks of modernization. 18<br />
In 2009, the German historian Eckart Conze characterized the history of the<br />
Federal Republic of Germany from 1949 to 2009 as a constant “search for<br />
security”. 19 It has been argued that the 1950s and early 1960s were dominated<br />
by a discourse about national and social security, while the 1970s have been<br />
seen as the “decade of internal security” because of the political response to the<br />
terrorism of the Red Army Faction (RAF). 20 In 1969 the German sociologist<br />
Franz Xaver Kaufmann described the rise of the semantics of security to a<br />
“normative concept”. Besides traditional fields of security policies – such as<br />
public security, national security, and social security (the latter was his main<br />
focus) – he emphasized the importance of technical safety. He differentiated<br />
between the safety of systems, operational reliability, and road traffic safety<br />
and built up many categories such as “instrumental safety”, “self-reflective<br />
safety”, and “autotelic safety”. For Kaufmann, technological safety and, in<br />
particular, road traffic safety and automobile safety was one of the most important<br />
factors which strengthened the normativity of the security paradigm in<br />
everyday life. 21<br />
Before the political concept of “internal security” was established in the<br />
domestic policies of the Federal Government in West Germany, the same term<br />
was used by car manufacturers and popularized by print media which commented<br />
on new developments in the automobile industry. The development of<br />
“internal safety” features in the car industry was part of a “safety race” in the<br />
last few decades, in which regulatory administrations, car and insurance companies,<br />
and road users were all involved. 22<br />
18<br />
At the same time, the number of deaths in car accidents was always an argument used to put<br />
other societal risks into perspective: Thus the historian Keith R. Jackson observed that since<br />
1976, “more Americans have died on the road than in all the wars of the history of the<br />
United States combined” and calculated that the “500,000 young men on the desert sand,<br />
about 100 of whom died in pushing the Iraqi Army back to its own boundaries, were<br />
actually safer than if they had been at home, where a statistically larger number of them<br />
would have died accidental deaths, mostly in automobile crashes.”, in: Jackson 2006. And<br />
the expert for internet security Bruce Schneier, who was called a “security guru” by the<br />
press, relativized the risk of becoming a victim of a terrorist attack with the same argument.<br />
Schneier 2003, 28-30.<br />
19<br />
Conze 2009.<br />
20<br />
Braun 1978. Funk and Werkentin 1977.<br />
21<br />
Kaufmann 1973, 49-90.<br />
22<br />
MacGregor 2009. Several studies draw attention on the history of automobile safety technologies.<br />
Cf. Niemann 1999; Weishaupt 1999. From a more cultural-historical point of<br />
view, Norbert Stieniczka showed that after the Second World War the German discourse on<br />
automobile safety was structured by the dispositive of the “disciplined road user”. Later in<br />
106
Since the 1950s, the number of car accidents increased in West Germany as<br />
in other industrialized countries, and safety experts had to develop new safety<br />
technologies and new societal strategies to prevent road traffic risks. This led to<br />
new definitions of automobile technical safety in the mid-1960s. Safety experts<br />
now focused not only on the causes of car accidents, but also on the consequences<br />
of car accidents in order to reduce the effects of a crash. Therefore,<br />
German car manufacturers differentiated between “external security” and “internal<br />
security”. With the rise of the term “internal security” as a political key<br />
concept in the fight against crime and terrorism in the 1970s, car manufacturers<br />
ceased to use this concept. Automobile safety experts in Germany began to use<br />
the terms “primary” and “secondary”, and in particular “active” and “passive”<br />
safety as was customary in the English-speaking world. 23<br />
In the course of mass motorization after World War II the death rates on<br />
West German streets increased nearly as much as the number of new registered<br />
vehicles. In 1951, when the Federal Motor Transport Authority was founded to<br />
manage the Central Vehicle Register, the Central Register of Traffic Offenders,<br />
and the Central Register of Driving Licences, Federal Minister for Transportation<br />
Hans-Christoph Seebohm (DP/CDU) remarked in a speech about the fight<br />
against road traffic offenders: “We have to be in a position to eliminate from<br />
our roads those vermin which hamper the flow of traffic and continually<br />
threaten to involve respectable drivers in accidents.” 24 This rhetoric to protect a<br />
Volksgemeinschaft (“people’s community”) of drivers went hand in hand with a<br />
strengthening of “individual responsibility and self-discipline”. 25<br />
This stood in contrast to the liberal automobile and road traffic policy. In<br />
1952, all existing speed limits were abolished, even, and against all reason, in<br />
the inner cities. During the Wirtschaftswunder (“economic miracle”) the automobile<br />
was not only a symbol of new prosperity, but also of freedom which<br />
was understood in an anti-totalitarian way. On the one hand, these policies<br />
intended to emancipate the citizens from the paternalism of the traditional<br />
German authoritarian state, on the other hand there were new instruments for<br />
the control of road traffic such as the Traffic Registers. The abolition of all<br />
speed limits led to a rapid increase in the number of accidental deaths, and in<br />
1958 inner-city tempo limits were reintroduced.<br />
the 1970s, the idea of the “representative sports car” was broadened and the automobile<br />
industry developed the “foolproof automobile”. This “foolproof automobile” reduced<br />
driving risks through the implementation of new safety technologies. See Stieniczka 2006,<br />
23.<br />
23 It is not very surprising that in the United States, car manufacturers did not use the term<br />
“internal security”, because it could have been connoted with the “Internal Security Act” of<br />
1950 and the persecution of Communists in American society.<br />
24 “Bundesverkehrwacht, ADAC und Sicherheit der Straße” 1951, 7.<br />
25 Klenke 1994, 158.<br />
107
In the debates about the control of road traffic and the improvement of road<br />
traffic safety, the experience of National <strong>Social</strong>ism was an ambivalent discursive<br />
point of reference. On the one hand, German highways were propagandized<br />
by the Nazis as National <strong>Social</strong>ist modernization. 26 On the other hand,<br />
National <strong>Social</strong>ist road traffic policies began in 1934 with the general abolition<br />
of speed limits, but they were reintroduced on the eve of World War II: in May<br />
1939 for motor trucks and then in October for all automobiles. In order to save<br />
resources needed for the war, high speed on German roads was now judged to<br />
be “unnationalsozialistisch”.<br />
From the 1950s onwards as a part of an “ideology of free automobility”, the<br />
tightening of road traffic regulations and the fight against road traffic offenders,<br />
road traffic controls and fixed speed limits were discredited with reference to<br />
“Gestapo methods”, “blind obedience” or “the steerable masses”. 27 In 1960 this<br />
led the German sociologist Rudolf Gunzert to remark, during a hot debate<br />
about speed limits at Whitsun, that the West German citizens would “give up<br />
fundamental democratic rights without too much objection”, while a speed<br />
limit “would cause them to practically mount the barricades”. 28<br />
Nevertheless, the concept of the “disciplined road traffic user” and the antitotalitarian<br />
ideology of the “freedom to drive” went hand in hand. Up to the<br />
1960s, many participants of the debate were convinced that automobile accidents<br />
were caused by black sheep and were not a consequence of increasing<br />
automobility. The campaign “Free speed for free citizens” (Freie Fahrt für<br />
freie Bürger) was promoted by Germany’s largest automobile club (ADAC) in<br />
1974 in the aftermath of the oil crisis as a provocative answer to the speed<br />
limits on federal highways and traffic-free Sundays. This once more made<br />
visible that automobilism was linked with a liberal concept of freedom. In the<br />
end, the campaign of the German automobile club was successful and mandatory<br />
limits were lifted and replaced with an advisory limit of 130 kilometers per<br />
hour. While the discussion about a mandatory speed limit returned from time to<br />
time in the following years, even at the end of the 1970s the arguments against<br />
speed limits still drew on Nazism. As the news magazine Der Spiegel wrote,<br />
“with the end of the Nazi regime came the end of the period of speed limits on<br />
German highways”. 29<br />
The Enhancement of “Passive Safety”<br />
In the meantime, the car industry enhanced the “internal” and, in particular, the<br />
“passive” safety of cars in response to growing public interest. The “passive<br />
26 Schütz and Gruber 1996.<br />
27 Klenke 1994, 158-159.<br />
28 Gunzert 1960, 326.<br />
29 “Neue Glaubenskrise ums Tempo-Limit,” Der Spiegel 26/1979, 20.<br />
108
safety” included a safety cage with two crumple zones, at the front and back,<br />
patented by Daimler-Benz engineer Béla Barény in 1951, a padded dashboard,<br />
shock absorbing bumpers, burst-proof door locks, safety glass windscreens,<br />
snap-off mirrors, flush-mounted switches and mirrors, head restraints to prevent<br />
whiplash, a collapsible steering column, side impact bars, and (in the early<br />
1980s) airbags. One of the most important new passive safety technologies was<br />
the invention of the safety belt. After 1955, Ford and Chrysler offered seat belts<br />
as optional extras, and from 1957 onwards, Porsche and Mercedes-Benz equipped<br />
some of their production series with lap belts. In the same year, Swedish<br />
engineer Nils Bohlin invented the three-point safety belt, and from 1959 in cars<br />
the three-point safety belt became standard equipment in Volvos. In 1961, 70<br />
percent of newly registered cars in Sweden were fitted with front seat belts.<br />
In the United States, the insurance company Liberty Mutual Insurance financed<br />
the construction of the “Liberty Safety Car” by the Aeronautical Laboratory<br />
of Cornell University in 1955. One year later, Ford tried to sell its “Fairlane<br />
Sedan” on the basis of its new safety features and launched the first safetyled<br />
automobile advertising campaign with the slogan: “You’ll be safer in a ’56<br />
Ford!” In Ford showrooms, photographs were presented that claimed to show<br />
that passengers in a new Ford were more likely to survive an accident than<br />
those who travelled in a Chevrolet. 30 The campaign, which presented photographs<br />
of car accidents to potential car buyers, failed.<br />
Between 1961 and 1966 the number of annual traffic deaths jumped from<br />
38,000 to 53,000 in the United States, a 38 percent increase. In 1965, Ralph<br />
Nader’s book “Unsafe at any speed” 31 and the consumer movement surrounding<br />
it – such as the “Center for Auto Safety” (1970) and “Public Citizen”<br />
(1971) – brought public criticism to bear on General Motors and other manufacturers,<br />
forcing them to pay more attention to traffic safety. Discussing safety<br />
was a long-held taboo in car industry, and Stan Luger has argued that this remained<br />
so until the 1990s. 32 Lee Iacocca, a top manager of Ford in the 1960s,<br />
was cited in the publication “Safety Last: An Indictment of the Auto Industry”:<br />
“Styling cars sells cars but safety does not.” 33<br />
In the same year that Ralph Nader’s publication appeared, the General Service<br />
Administration (GSA) established safety standards for governmentpurchased<br />
cars following a five-year-long debate about this topic and after<br />
some federal states had launched initiatives to enhance automobile safety. 34<br />
The National Highway Safety Act and the National Traffic and Motor Vehicle<br />
30 Stevenson 2008, 193-196.<br />
31 Nader 1965.<br />
32 Luger 2000.<br />
33 O’Connell and Myers 1966. At the beginning of the 1970s this was still an argument of<br />
German car manufacturers; see for this the interview with VW manager K. Lotz:<br />
“Sicherheit verkauft sich schlecht,” Der Spiegel 43/1970, 252.<br />
34 Luger 2000, 66-68.<br />
109
Safety Act established the role of federal government in auto safety and<br />
“brought to an end the auto industry’s long-held political hegemony” in the<br />
United States. 35 New regulations were controlled by the Department of Transportation,<br />
which was set up in 1966 to ensure “a fast, safe, efficient, accessible<br />
and convenient transportation system that meets our vital national interests and<br />
enhances the quality of life of the American people, today and into the future”.<br />
36<br />
The American automobile industry was well prepared for these government<br />
measures, which can hardly be described as far-reaching. Seat belts were standard<br />
equipment in all Buicks from 1964, and an advertisement in 1966 told<br />
consumers: “Use them.” Other advertisements followed this new strategy of<br />
mentioning new passive security items which were built into the cars of the<br />
1960s. Ford offered in its 1966 Thunderbird an “overhead safety convenience<br />
panel” of control switches and warning lights, into which a seat belt warning<br />
light was built. This had aeronautical connotations and anticipated a technological<br />
development in which cars would “communicate” with the driver to<br />
uphold safety.<br />
From the 1960s onwards, debates about automobile safety in the United<br />
States have been conducted along an ideological divide. One side has argued<br />
that individual drivers must take precautions to ensure their own safety. This<br />
was the widespread opinion of the powerful economic lobby of the automobile<br />
industry which insisted that automobile safety could not significantly rise unless<br />
motorists actively cooperated. Those on the other side of the argument –<br />
safety activists, insurance companies and government officials – maintained<br />
that the public would never behave properly and that therefore “technical fixes<br />
must be developed and mandated to decrease the risk of driving” while auto<br />
makers should accept their responsibilities. 37 Throughout the 1970s seat belt<br />
use in the US remained between 3 percent and 10 percent and increased when,<br />
beginning with New York in 1984, federal states adopted mandatory seat belt<br />
laws. By 1994, seat belt usage had increased to 73 percent, but even in 2008<br />
seat belt usage in the United States had still not topped 75 percent. 38<br />
These new American safety standards had an impact upon export nations<br />
such as the Federal Republic of Germany and its car industry, bringing with<br />
them an “Americanization” of German business policies. 39 As in the United<br />
States, West Germany’s critical press argued that the automobile industry was<br />
avoiding the installation of relatively expensive new safety technologies. In<br />
35<br />
Luger 2000, 74.<br />
36<br />
Taken from the Department of Transportation “Mission & History”: (accessed June 19, 2010).<br />
37<br />
Wetmore 2009, 111. Also: Irwin 1985, 227.<br />
38<br />
Wetmore, “Implementing Restraint”, 117.<br />
39<br />
Cf. Hilger 2004.<br />
110
1970, there was a turning point in West Germany. Official statistics counted<br />
1.4 million traffic accidents and 500,000 injuries, while 21,332 persons died in<br />
road traffic accidents. 40 Since then, the absolute numbers of traffic accidents<br />
dropped owing to the introduction of speed limits on ordinary highways in<br />
1972 and a year later on federal highways in response to the oil crisis, the establishment<br />
of alcohol limits in July 1973, and the compulsory wearing of<br />
helmets for motorcyclists in 1980. This was coupled with a lower rate of newly<br />
registered cars, the extension of highways, and last but not least new safety<br />
standards. 41<br />
In 1971, the news magazine Der Spiegel demanded “days without dead people”,<br />
the introduction of a “safe vehicle” in which individuals could “survive<br />
the crash”. 42 Three years later Der Spiegel wrote about the “motorized world<br />
war on the streets” and demanded the installation of airbags in cars, which the<br />
car industry appeared to be resisting. 43 At the beginning of 1976 the West German<br />
government implemented a law for mandatory seat belt use, although<br />
those breaking this law were not subject to prosecution at first. The mandatory<br />
seat belt use led to a heated debate among safety engineers, health and legal<br />
professionals, politicians, journalists, and drivers who were both for and<br />
against the seat belt and disagreed whether the seat belt was a “life-saver” or a<br />
“shackle”. 44 The legal obligation to wear a seat belt was commented by Der<br />
Spiegel in 1976 with a front page headline “Bound to the car”. This was a reaction<br />
to widespread fears about not being able to free oneself in the case of an<br />
accident. A year earlier, the same news magazine posed the question whether<br />
“the liberal state should be allowed to coerce the car-citizen into surviving” 45 –<br />
which might have awakened associations with the contemporaneous debate<br />
about the forced feeding of RAF terrorists on hunger strike. In the course of the<br />
debate critics denounced the mandatory seat belt use as “state-decreed suicide”.<br />
46<br />
The Federal Government reacted to these reservations against seat belt use<br />
with a nationwide campaign “click: first belt up, then drive”, which promoted<br />
seat belt use with numerous ads in magazines and posters on German high-<br />
40 The relative numbers in relation to newly registered cars and individual distance had<br />
dropped since the invention of the automobile. König 2010, 218.<br />
41 In the years after 1970 the number of traffic deaths dropped more or less continuously (as<br />
mentioned with the exception of the years after reunification), and by 2008 4,467 traffic<br />
deaths were counted in 2.2 million road traffic accidents, the lowest rate since 1950.<br />
42 “Sicherheitsautos: Für Tage ohne Tote,” Der Spiegel 34/1971, 86-104.<br />
43 See also the publication of the German theologian Klaus-Peter Jörns from 1992: “Krieg auf<br />
unseren Straßen. Die Menschenopfer der automobilen Gesellschaft” (“War on Our Streets.<br />
Human Sacrifices of the automobile society”).<br />
44 Beckmann 2004.<br />
45 “Sicherheitsgurte. Furcht vor der Fessel,” Der Spiegel 50/1975, 40-52, 40.<br />
46 “Das ist eine Art Todesurteil. Spiegel-Interview mit dem Stuttgarter Verkehrsrichter Hans<br />
Kindermann über die Anschnallpflicht,” Der Spiegel 35/1982, 100-101.<br />
111
ways. But it took until 1984, when fining for non-seat belt users was adopted,<br />
for seat belt use to increase from 60 to 90 percent. Nevertheless, the introduction<br />
of fines did not stop an obstinate judge from acquitting a “belt grouch”<br />
(“Gurtmuffel”) with the comment that the freedom not to use the seat belt<br />
distinguished a citizen from a subject. 47<br />
Road Traffic Safety as Mass Education<br />
and the Changes to Car Safety in Commercials<br />
Since the early years of automobility, measures to improve road traffic safety<br />
went hand in hand with road traffic education. Since the 1960s, television programs<br />
about road traffic safety became commonplace. In Germany, between<br />
1966 and 2005 public television aired the weekly program Der siebte Sinn<br />
(“The Seventh Sense”) which confronted the viewing public with road traffic<br />
dangers and gave advice about how to reduce the risks of automobility. British<br />
television broadcast public information films from 1971 onwards that promoted<br />
the use of seat belts with the catchphrase “Clunk, click, every trip!” presented<br />
by the media personality Jimmy Savile. In the United States organizations such<br />
as “Traffic Safety Now”, an organization of some thirty safety organizations,<br />
lobbied state governments from the 1980s for mandatory seat belt use laws and<br />
promoted seat belt use in brochures, in elementary schools, in educational<br />
programs with police officers, and public service announcements. In 1985, the<br />
US Department of Transportation, the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration<br />
and the Ad Council created a television commercial with Vince<br />
and Larry, known as “The Crash Test Dummies”, who demonstrated what<br />
could happen when a person did not wear a seat belt. Unlike humans who die<br />
or become crippled in real crashes, Vince and Larry dusted themselves off after<br />
each crash and lived to joke another day. In 1999, Vince and Larry were retired<br />
along with their campaign slogan “you could learn a lot from a dummy” when<br />
the Department of Transportation revised the campaign and a new slogan simply<br />
advised “Buckle Up. Always.”<br />
Technically, the improvement of automobile safety was also a result of the<br />
scientific simulation of accidents. In the 1960s the automobile industry began<br />
to use crash tests to do research on the consequences of automobile accidents<br />
for vehicle occupants using crash test dummies developed in the military aircraft<br />
industry. With the technical perfection of crash test dummies in the 1980s,<br />
safety engineers abandoned the use of dead bodies to develop new automobile<br />
safety measures. Crash tests and their illustrations in magazine articles and TV<br />
reports mass-produced accidents, making them appear less like chance events. 48<br />
47 Sternsdorff 1985.<br />
48 Cf. Virilio 2009, 7-8.<br />
112
The accident was no longer something improbable since the accident had become<br />
a statistical and recursive quantity. 49 From the 1970s, the crash test results<br />
as well as their illustrations belonged to the common evaluation criteria of<br />
public car magazines like Auto, Motor und Sport and ADAC Motorwelt which<br />
were more and more concerned with the problem of automobile safety.<br />
Meanwhile, West German political parties promised comprehensive national<br />
and social security in their electoral campaigns in the 1950s. After the 1957<br />
elections, in which the <strong>Social</strong> Democratic Party used the slogan “security for<br />
all”, Mercedes-Benz promoted its cars with the slogan “safety accompanies<br />
you”. The ad showed a Mercedes star, which led the way over a dark and wet<br />
gleaming cobbled street. The iconography of the advertisement created a film<br />
noir atmosphere as well as connoting the compass rose motif in the NATO<br />
flag. 50 While the brand symbolized total safety and security in this advertisement<br />
in 1965, at the time Ralph Nader formulated his vigorous critique of<br />
safety standards in the automobile industry, Mercedes-Benz’s commercial<br />
experts were forced to take a more differentiated approach:<br />
Often it is said: Don’t talk about security, it is a dangerous topic. Why? Because<br />
there is no such thing as absolute safety? Because even the safest car is<br />
driven by humans who have different temperaments and react differently? No,<br />
this is not a reason for us to avoid the topic. On the contrary, you have the<br />
right to know how safe an automobile can be and what the manufacturers of<br />
motor vehicles can contribute. 51<br />
Twenty years later, such caution about the question of automobile safety no<br />
longer existed. By 1984 Volvo Germany was promoting its vehicles with the<br />
slogan “safety at a speed of 200 kilometers per hour” and linked speed with<br />
safety. In a way, this was a prelude to Ulrich Beck’s study on the “risk society”<br />
and his theory of self-generated risks at the heart of a self-reflexive “second<br />
modernity”. 52 This development towards a risk society allowed advertising<br />
campaigns to use pictures of simulated and controlled car crashes.<br />
In 1994 there was a campaign featuring a crashed Mercedes-Benz S-Class,<br />
renowned for its length. The ad asserted that the vehicle would also convince in<br />
the crashed “short version”. Advertising with crash test pictures was formerly<br />
unthinkable, but in the 1990s it reached the marketing strategists. In another<br />
more recent advertisement, car manufacturer Peugeot used the slogan “more<br />
fun with safety” just as Opel did for its “Astra”. In 2009 Fiat presented a crash<br />
test picture of a damaged Fiat 500 with a panda at the wheel, using the catchphrase:<br />
“engineered for a lower impact on the environment”. Here, safety and<br />
49<br />
Bickenbach 2009.<br />
50<br />
NATO was founded two years before in 1955.<br />
51<br />
“Mercedes Benz nimmt Stellung zu einer aktuellen Fragen der Autofahrer von heute”,<br />
1965, cited in Sproß 1999, 95.<br />
52<br />
Beck 1992.<br />
113
environmental aspects were combined. And in 2008, an advertising agency<br />
headlined a co-campaign for Mercedes-Benz and the Dutch Cancer Society,<br />
which decided to no longer advise women to perform monthly breast selfexaminations<br />
with the words: “some tests you’re better off not doing yourself”.<br />
53<br />
In recent decades, crash test pictures have formed our view of damages<br />
caused by road traffic accidents in a stereotypical manner, playing down the<br />
still existing risks of driving, reducing the image of a fatal accident to a harmless<br />
fender bender. Therefore, the risks of road traffic and automobility are<br />
nowadays not only a matter for state legislators, insurance companies and<br />
safety engineers; we are visually insured against accidents in the images that<br />
surround us.<br />
Morality in the Age of Safety Technologies<br />
The French philosopher of technology Bruno Latour has argued that artifacts –<br />
and in particular the safety belt – are bearers of morality as they constantly help<br />
people to make all kinds of moral decisions. In this understanding, safety techniques<br />
are “techniques of morality”. 54 In 1977, the Carter administration mandated<br />
that by 1983 every new car should have either airbags or automatic seat<br />
belts that closed over vehicle occupants when they closed the car door, despite<br />
strong lobbying from the auto industry. When driver-side airbags became mandatory<br />
in all passenger vehicles in 1994, the automatic seat belt was abolished.<br />
Nowadays, many cars produce an irritating sound to remind the driver to use<br />
the safety belt.<br />
For Latour, such technical equipment embodies morality because the decision<br />
to wear a safety belt is not made exclusively by the driver, but also by the<br />
car. With the technology of the seat belt, the saying “never drive faster than<br />
your guardian angel can fly” no longer applies. As Latour puts it:<br />
The driver may become more careless, the car more intelligent. What one loses,<br />
the other gains. Each learns to live with the other: the belt needs a human<br />
being to put it in place and to take it off, the human being learns to live ‘on<br />
probation’ without making abrupt movements. Drivers no longer have to try to<br />
restrain themselves in case of sudden braking, the seat belt does it for them,<br />
but they retain the supreme freedom: to engage or disengage the guardian angel.”<br />
55<br />
53 Available online under (accessed 19.6.2010).<br />
54 Latour 1996. Cited from the unpublished translation by Lydia Evans, “The moral dilemmas<br />
of the Safety-belt”, http://www.bruno-latour.fr/poparticles/poparticle/P-31-MORAL-SEAT<br />
-BELT-GB.pdf (accessed 19.6.2010).<br />
55 Ibid., 4.<br />
114
In 1973 the novelist James Graham Ballard wrote his famous novel Crash,<br />
which was made into a movie directed by David Cronenberg. For Ballard the<br />
car driver lives within a “huge metallized dream” that includes “speed, drama<br />
and aggression, the worlds of advertising and consumer goods, engineering and<br />
mass manufacture, and the shared experience of moving together through an<br />
elaborately signaled landscape”. 56 For Ballard, the century of the automobile<br />
created a culture of death, and the only way out for Ballard “would be to dehumanize<br />
driving with electronically controlled cars and traffic flow”. 57<br />
This vision would be the end of traditional “autonomy” in automobility, and<br />
in a way it has become true. In 1978, advanced braking system (ABS) was<br />
pioneered and the electronic stability control (ECS) was developed in the 1990s<br />
to “assist” the driver to keep the vehicle under control in critical maneuvering<br />
situations. With these new developments the driver’s domination over technology<br />
was not called into question, with car sellers emphasizing not without<br />
reason that these technologies “assist” the driver rather than “governing” the<br />
driver. Intelligent navigation-based speed control amplified the tendency to<br />
delegate the control of the car to the technology and developments such as<br />
advance collision warning, automatic braking and lane departure warning systems<br />
that assist drivers to avoid accidents and are said to reduce injuries have<br />
actually come into use. 58 A further technological innovation was the development<br />
of driverless cars by the research project “Eureka-Prometheus” (Programme<br />
for a European Traffic of Highest Efficiency and Unprecedented<br />
Safety), financed by the European Community in the years from 1987 to 1995.<br />
The pivotal idea of the research project was to reduce the human factor, such as<br />
“a limited field of vision, lack of experience, uncertainty, deficiencies, limited<br />
faculty in information processing and in the manner of reaction”. 59 The electronically<br />
controlled vehicle “VaMP” achieved a distance of 158 kilometers<br />
without human intervention (on average, however, human intervention was<br />
required once every nine kilometers).<br />
In 2001, the German Federal Ministry of Transport proclaimed that “the final<br />
decision and responsibility in the system human-machine-environment has<br />
to rest in the hands of the road traffic user” and that “external control which<br />
could not be influenced by the driver” were not desirable. 60 A similar argument<br />
was formulated by a management board member for research and technology at<br />
Daimler-Benz, who remarked in 2002 that “cars nowadays integrate much<br />
computing power, whereas the pleasure of driving still remains – because that’s<br />
what customers want.” Additionally, he noted that nobody knows today<br />
56 Cited by Wollen 2002, 16.<br />
57 Featherstone 2004, 16.<br />
58 See Insurance Institute for Highway Safety 2008.<br />
59 Cited in Stieniczka 2006, 337.<br />
60 Bundesministerium für Verkehr 2001, 21.<br />
115
whether motorists in 50 years’ time will want to be driven by remote control –<br />
something that very few desire today. 61<br />
However, new technological safety solutions delegate control tasks from the<br />
human being to the technology and, therefore, some critical commentators have<br />
argued that we have to conceptualize the driver as a “cyborg” or a “car-driverhybrid”:<br />
The interplay between car and actor is no longer “merely in the hands<br />
of the driver”, and new smart cars “eliminate any sort of independence that was<br />
assigned to earlier stages of automobility”. 62<br />
Conclusion<br />
Up to the beginning of the 1970s the car industry and its managers often argued<br />
that “safety doesn’t sell”, not least because they wanted to avoid having to<br />
equip cars with relatively expensive new safety technologies. Increasingly, car<br />
safety was constructed as a positive quality in a similar way to motor performance<br />
and nowadays efficiency. New safety features were optional extras and<br />
regarded as attributes of social distinction – until they became, in part, standard<br />
equipment. In recent years, car safety has become a key concern of the car<br />
industry, and now “safety has to be there because cars don’t sell on price<br />
alone”, as the American economic journalist Joseph R. Perone wrote. 63<br />
Today, security and safety are not only guaranteed by states and governments.<br />
While governments formerly legitimized themselves on the basis that<br />
they were there to establish “public tranquility, security and order” and subsequently<br />
national and social security, between the 1970s and the 1990s security<br />
and safety were discovered as commodities by the private sector. This “marketorientated<br />
privatization of security” 64 has led to a private service sector for<br />
security, in which the car industry is only one obvious example. In West Germany<br />
the international trade fair “Safety 1974” for security technologies took<br />
place for the first time in 1974 and expanded in the following years.<br />
Contemporary history of automobility and road traffic safety reveals that<br />
there has been a change from a discourse about road traffic safety conducted in<br />
terms of security, freedom, mobility and autonomy (often understood as the<br />
naïve pleasure of driving and individual mobility) to a pragmatic discourse<br />
about the dynamic relations between safety and risks that are socially and technologically<br />
controlled. The implementation of new safety standards is additionally<br />
part of a strong narrative about the rise of (global) civil society and the<br />
negotiation processes between its various stakeholders: consumer pressure<br />
61 Abele 2002.<br />
62 Beckmann 2004, 87-89. Schmucki 1999.<br />
63 Cited in MacGregor 2009, 103.<br />
64 Weinhauer 2007, 218.<br />
116
groups, the media, insurance companies, government officials, and lobbyists<br />
from the automobile industry.<br />
The implementation of the seat belt and the improvement of seat belt use illustrate<br />
different attitudes to civil liberties, different concepts of social engineering<br />
and different roads to a modern civil society. In the United States,<br />
national authorities passed controversial bills to strengthen the responsibility of<br />
the car industry and to enhance the implementation of technical safety while<br />
preventing laws for mandatory seat belt use for a long time. In West Germany,<br />
in the course of an “Americanization” of German business policies the compulsory<br />
installation of seat belts was out of question; authorities passed controversial<br />
bills to force individuals to fasten their seat belts while preserving at the<br />
same time the “freedom of speed”.<br />
The development of passive safety technologies indicates that there has been<br />
a change in the conception of the relation between human beings and the technology.<br />
The development of the human-machine-system has shown that the<br />
control of technology by the individual has been replaced by the “assistance” of<br />
the individual driver by technology. Of course, the popular visions of a future<br />
in which humans are entirely governed and controlled by technology have not<br />
yet become true, but autonomy in the age of automobility has changed. The<br />
discourse about the “disciplined road traffic user” and the “responsible road<br />
traffic user” has come to an end. In addition to governmental sanctions such as<br />
driving bans and other punishments against road traffic offenders there are new<br />
technological possibilities controlling the drivers’ behavior nowadays, such as<br />
the development of smart cars or radar controls on public streets, which are<br />
indicated in advance.<br />
The UN program of “human security” is an expression of a shift in the semantics<br />
and the political dimensions of security and safety and has itself<br />
changed because it strengthens at first glance the role of individuals, their<br />
rights and their responsibility in comparison to national governments and their<br />
mandate to protect social groups and the individual. Of course, the rather vague<br />
concept of “human security” includes the development of road traffic safety.<br />
Firstly, the death toll is still a problem in high-income countries and indeed a<br />
serious problem in developing countries and societies. Secondly, the experience<br />
in high-income countries with road traffic safety exemplifies the fact that<br />
risks of modernization can be reduced. Thirdly, the enhancement of road traffic<br />
safety is linked to the strengthening of civil society with all their stakeholders.<br />
Fourthly, and of interest for further study, the idea of the individual and therefore<br />
the idea of autonomy in the age of automobility and new passive safety<br />
technologies have changed considerably. Individuals are no longer in full control<br />
of themselves and therefore no longer subjects of discipline, and they are<br />
no longer understood as dominating over nature and technology. Individuals<br />
are instead an integral part of a complex social and technological “insurance<br />
culture” in which they are encouraged to take part.<br />
117
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Weishaupt, Heike. Die Entwicklung der passiven Sicherheit im Automobilbau von<br />
den Anfängen bis 1980 unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Daimler-Benz<br />
AG, Stuttgart (=Wissenschaftliche Schriftenreihe des DaimlerChrysler Konzernarchivs,<br />
vol. 2). Bielefeld: Delius & Klasing, 1999.<br />
WHO. World report on road traffic injury prevention. Geneva, 2004.<br />
Wetmore, Jameson M. “Implementing Restraint. Automobile Safety and the US<br />
Debate over Technological and <strong>Social</strong> Fixes.” In Car troubles. Critical studies of<br />
automobility and auto-mobility, edited by Jim Conley and Arlene Tigar McLaren,<br />
111-125. London: Ashgate, 2009.<br />
Wollen, Peter. “Introduction.” In Autopia: Cars and Culture, edited by Peter<br />
Woolen and Joe Kerr, 10-20. London: Reaction Books, 2002.<br />
Yitambe, Andre et al. “Road Traffic Accidents as an everyday hazard.” In Disaster<br />
risk reduction: Cases from urban Africa, edited by Mark Pelling and Benjamin<br />
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121
Special Issue<br />
The Production of Human Security in<br />
Premodern and Contemporary History<br />
Die Produktion von Human Security in<br />
Vormoderne und Zeitgeschichte<br />
PIRATES AND SECURITY OF THE SEAS<br />
No. 134<br />
HSR Vol. 35 (2010) 4
The North European Way of Ransoming:<br />
Explorations into an Unknown Dimension<br />
of the Early Modern Welfare State<br />
Magnus Ressel �<br />
Abstract: »Die nordeuropäische Art des Gefangenenfreikaufs: Eine unbekannte<br />
Dimension des frühmodernen Wohlfahrtsstaates«. This article is concerned<br />
with distinctly “confessional” characteristics in the organization of buying<br />
back captured sailors out of Northern Africa. The history and ways of slave<br />
redemption of Hamburg, Lubeck, the Kingdom of Denmark-Norway and the<br />
Netherlands are presented, analyzed and compared. As a result it is possible to<br />
distinguish the comparatively prominent role that centralized, bureaucratized<br />
and governmentally administered institutions played in the ransoming business<br />
of the Lutheran world.<br />
Keywords: white slavery, captivity, Barbary corsairs, welfare state, confessional<br />
mentality, imagined empathy.<br />
Introduction<br />
When in 1994, with the United Nations Development Report, the concept of<br />
“human security” was introduced into political discourse, the concept was<br />
exemplified in somewhat solemn words:<br />
In the final analysis, human security is a child who did not die, a disease that<br />
did not spread, a job that was not cut, an ethnic tension that did not explode in<br />
violence, a dissident who was not silenced. Human security is not a concern<br />
with weapons – it is a concern with human life and dignity. 1<br />
The most important change that the concept of “human security” is expected<br />
to bring is the departure from a narrow perspective of security. It is meant as a<br />
global and people-centered security concept that is expressly set in contrast to<br />
the traditional focus on state security. 2 Even though the concept is clearly<br />
meant to be used for problems of our time, the universal aim of prevention of<br />
human suffering as the ultimate goal is certainly not a novelty in itself. This is<br />
� Address all communications to: Magnus Ressel, Ruhr-Universität Bochum, Fakultät für<br />
Geschichtswissenschaft, Juniorprofessur Umweltgeschichte, 44801 Bochum, Germany;<br />
e-mail: Magnus.Ressel@ruhr-uni-bochum.de.<br />
1 Human Development Report 1994, 22.<br />
2 Human Development Report 1994, 23.<br />
<strong>Historical</strong> <strong>Social</strong> <strong>Research</strong>, Vol. 35 — 2010 — No. 4, 125-147
acknowledged by important authors on “human security”, who see this concept<br />
as being rooted in history with its origins going back to Greek antiquity. 3<br />
For a historian it is tempting to elaborate on this point and to look more<br />
deeply at the historical dimension of “human security”, i.e. the origins and the<br />
development of the emphasis on the individual’s rights. One contribution was<br />
made in 2007, when the historian Lynn Hunt argued that the reason why human<br />
rights gained such importance in the 18th century was a growing “imagined<br />
empathy” of large parts of the society for suffering individuals, a development<br />
that she sees at this time as peculiar to the Western world. 4 The equality of<br />
human beings was stressed more and more and as a consequence, the state and<br />
other institutions were increasingly regarded as providers and protectors of<br />
these rights. The idea of “imagined empathy” has not yet gained widespread<br />
currency and its connection with an increasing insistence on basic human rights<br />
is rarely found in the existing literature. At this point, the concept of “imagined<br />
empathy” therefore remains vague and unspecific.<br />
It is here that this article aims to contribute. I will try to exemplify the phenomenon<br />
of “imagined empathy” with a certain subject within to a certain<br />
subject in history and try to connect it to a directly related “production of human<br />
security”. In order to do so, a definition is needed beforehand: Wherever<br />
we see in history a phenomenon where suffering of individuals leads towards<br />
recognizable actions of large group-systems with the goal of reducing or removing<br />
the origins of this suffering, we may speak of a form of “production of<br />
human security” avant la lettre. With this definition at hand, “imagined empathy”<br />
becomes specifiable in the concrete modes of security production for<br />
individuals organized by larger groups. In the following article I will try to give<br />
an example of this by examining a very specific form of “production of human<br />
security” and connecting it with the mentality of distinguishable groupsystems.<br />
I. The Problems of the Barbary Corsairs<br />
for Northern Europe<br />
For over 300 years (roughly ~1520-1830), the so-called “Barbary pirates”,<br />
Muslim corsairs operating from the present-day Maghreb states, cruised in the<br />
waters of Southern Europe and posed a serious danger towards Christian<br />
Europe. The ships of all European nations came under threat as soon as they<br />
operated in a zone comprising the entire Mediterranean and the Atlantic, within<br />
a sector that reached from Cape Finisterre in the north to the Canary Islands in<br />
the south-west. Because the southbound ships of Northern Europe were usually<br />
3 MacFarlane and Khong 2006, 19-60.<br />
4 Hunt 2007, 32-69.<br />
126
the largest of their time, carrying a cargo of great value and making exchanges<br />
between two distinct geographical zones, the profitability of this branch of<br />
shipping was exceptionally high. Therefore, many merchants of all nations<br />
were attracted and consequently had to deal with the problem of the Muslim<br />
corsairs.<br />
One of the most pressing aspects of this conflict for contemporaries was the<br />
high number of Europeans who found themselves imprisoned in Northern<br />
Africa. A flood of letters pleading for rescue emanated from Northern African<br />
cities and found its way to concerned relatives in all parts of Europe. These<br />
letters and actively petitioning relatives were a heavy burden on the conscience<br />
of the merchants and the governmental authorities, both of whom benefited<br />
most from the trade with Southern Europe.<br />
During the Early Modern epoch, all important continental Northern nations<br />
were at some time heavily involved in long-distance trade with Southern<br />
Europe. The two most prominent Early Modern German harbor cities, Hamburg<br />
and Lubeck, began to conduct this trade in large quantities in the last third<br />
of the 16th century. The northern Netherlands were able to inherit the rich trade<br />
connections of Flanders and Brabant after the beginning of the Dutch revolt<br />
and after 1590 began to appear in great numbers in the Mediterranean. Denmark,<br />
in contrast, did not organize a trade beyond Cape Finisterre on a considerable<br />
scale before the beginning of the 18th century, but was then quickly able<br />
to catch up with its competitors. 5 The two Hanseatic cities, the Netherlands and<br />
Denmark consequently all had to deal with the problem of incarceration of their<br />
sailors in Northern Africa.<br />
In the following, I will elaborate on the reactions this problem triggered in<br />
Northern Europe and try to connect the findings with confessional characteristics.<br />
Put more abstractly: The relation between a confessional mentality and its<br />
embedding in institutions charged with a specific production of human security<br />
are the main subject of this article. I will argue that the answer to the question<br />
“Why did states dominated by the Lutheran or Calvinist creed react towards<br />
this problem in the specific way they did?” can give us profound insights into<br />
the “imagined empathy” of the respective confessions. In order to make this<br />
claim, I will follow a step-by-step approach. First, I will briefly present an<br />
overview of the history of Catholic ransoming. Then, I will describe the discourse<br />
and practice of ransoming in the Hanseatic cities, Denmark and the<br />
Netherlands but with the important reservation that I will only look at the most<br />
important level of this business, the governmental layer. 6 Finally, I will inter-<br />
5 For an overview of the southern trade of the Hanseatic cities see: Beutin 1933, 1-58. For<br />
Denmark see: Degn and Gøbel 1997, 130-141. For the Netherlands see: Bruijn 1977.<br />
6 Below the governmental level we find all over Europe a wide array of brotherhoods or local<br />
institutions pledged to this business, which shall not be regarded here.<br />
127
pret the findings with the help of current research in the sociology of welfare<br />
states and try to put the entire business of ransom into a broader perspective.<br />
II. The Origins and Practice of Ransoming<br />
in the Mediterranean<br />
With the intensification of the “petite guerre” 7 between Muslims and Christians<br />
during the 16th century, the numbers of captives in Northern Africa swelled to<br />
disproportionate sizes. 8 Even if the number of 1.25 million Christian slaves in<br />
the Barbary states which a historian has put forward 9 may be “fantasmatique” 10 ,<br />
the great dimensions of this problem for the Mediterranean world cannot be<br />
doubted. With the foundation of the “Santa Casa della Redenzione dei Cattivi”<br />
in Naples in 1548, the state stepped in for the first time on the Italian peninsula<br />
to organize the ransoming independently from the religious orders. Soon, the<br />
other important Italian territorial states followed suit and founded governmentally<br />
controlled bodies to organize the ransoming of their own nationals. Venice<br />
gave its “Provveditori sopra Ospedali e Luoghi Pii” the control of ransoming in<br />
1586 11 and Genoa opened its “Magistrato per il riscatto degli Schiavi” in<br />
1597 12 ; other Italian states did the same in the second half of the 16th century. 13<br />
In Spain, in contrast, the Trinitarians were able to dominate the ransoming<br />
throughout the Early Modern Era. 14 One of the most eminent historians on the<br />
Barbary corsairs, Salvatore Bono, thus distinguishes between two Catholic<br />
ways of ransoming: The monastic orders operated in the larger Catholic monarchies<br />
and the Case di redenzione worked “quasi esclusivamente” in Italy. 15<br />
What were the main features of these two models? In both cases, the incomes<br />
derived not from obligatory duties, but from donations or bequests collected<br />
by clerics of the Catholic Church. Operating on a grand scale with close<br />
proximity to the field of action, these institutions seem to have been rather<br />
professional at conducting their business. Yet, whereas a Casa di redenzione<br />
operated directly on behalf of the home state, the orders retained more independence<br />
in their ransoming activities. At the moment, it seems that the orders<br />
were the more effective ransomers within the Mediterranean. Even if the number<br />
of over 100,000 redeemed captives, which a historian has put forward for<br />
7<br />
Panzac 2009, 55.<br />
8<br />
Heers 2001, 246.<br />
9<br />
Davis 2001.<br />
10<br />
Panzac 2009, 129-140. He arrives at the number of 180,000 white slaves in the period from<br />
1574-1644.<br />
11<br />
Davis 2002, 456.<br />
12<br />
Lucchini 1990.<br />
13<br />
Davis 2003, 150.<br />
14<br />
Friedman 1983.<br />
15<br />
Bono 1993, 204.<br />
128
the Trinitarians, 16 might be exaggerated, their efficacy of ransoming cannot be<br />
doubted. However, this large number cannot conceal the great problems that<br />
the Catholic world had in ransoming their brethren. From a detailed study of<br />
four ransoming missions from 1660-1666, we learn that the average duration of<br />
captivity of a Catholic in Northern Africa was, due to lack of funds, four to five<br />
years. 17<br />
III. The Governmental Institutions of Ransom<br />
in the Cities of Hamburg and Lubeck<br />
The weakness or often total absence of orders in the Protestant world after the<br />
Reformation forestalled the activity of redemptionist orders in Northern<br />
Europe. Alms-collecting by relatives of the captives to finance the ransom was<br />
the obvious recourse of which we have the first notice in the year 1547 in the<br />
city of Danzig. 18 For the following 70 years, this was the usual recourse in the<br />
entire northern German world. It sufficed as long as the numbers of captives<br />
remained small. After the beginning of the Dutch uprising against their Spanish<br />
overlords in 1568, however, the southbound trade of Lubeck and Hamburg<br />
soared. Thus, in the last third of the 16th century, for the first time large numbers<br />
of Germans found themselves caught in Northern Africa. The problem got<br />
out of hand in the last decade of the 16th century when alms-collecting no<br />
longer proved adequate to buy the large numbers of captives back. The average<br />
duration of captivity grew longer, the number of letters begging for rescue<br />
increased. In the first decade of the 17th century, we see brotherhoods of sailors<br />
intervening in the Hanseatic cities and paying for ransom, because the alms<br />
collections no longer sufficed.<br />
With the renewal of fighting between the Dutch and the Spanish after 1621,<br />
the Hanseatic trade to Iberia and the Mediterranean experienced another great<br />
rise, which coincided with the greatest Muslim corsair activity ever seen. 19 The<br />
ensuing clash led to the largest number of Germans ever caught by Muslim<br />
corsairs. Only one year after the fighting had recommenced, the captains and<br />
officers of the Hamburg ships founded the “Stück-von-Achten-Kasse”, a fraternity<br />
pledged to the redemption of its members. Membership was on a voluntary<br />
basis but was restricted to captains and ship officers. 20 Thus, the lower<br />
deck found itself abandoned and left to the risk of having to remain in Muslim<br />
bondage without the least bit of hope of being rescued. Since the ordinary<br />
16 Dams 1985, 148.<br />
17 Larquie 1991, 82.<br />
18 Rühle 1925, 111-112.<br />
19 Panzac 2009, 133-135.<br />
20 Kresse 1981, 38-39.<br />
129
sailors mostly came from the poorer parts of society, the necessary ransom<br />
sums were in all likelihood never payable by their relatives.<br />
At this point the state stepped in and took on responsibility for its subjects.<br />
An institution was founded, which can be called, with some justification, the<br />
first obligatory social insurance in the world. In May 1624, after some months<br />
of debate within the governing apparatus and with the society of the shipmen,<br />
the Hamburger Sklavenkasse was created. 21 It was an office administered by<br />
the Hamburg Admiralty, which had the duty to collect from every sailor and<br />
respective shipowner a fixed amount of money if the ship had a destination<br />
west of the Netherlands. This money was to be used to buy back captives from<br />
Northern Africa. The basic principle of the Sklavenkasse was to eliminate the<br />
risk of captivity by transforming it to a fiscal fee shared by all risk-bearers. The<br />
message of the government to its sailors was clear: you will be safe in southern<br />
waters, you are protected by your state regardless of the perils which wait for<br />
you there, even if the worst happens and you get caught by the Muslim enemy.<br />
Soon after the foundation of the Hamburg Sklavenkasse, Lubeck followed<br />
with its own Sklavenkasse in 1627. 22 Immediately after their foundation both<br />
institutions came under heavy financial pressure from the exacting demands of<br />
the situation in the southern waters. This often led to a lack of funds and resulted<br />
several times during their first years in the inability to pay for the redemption.<br />
23 Nevertheless, the Sklavenkassen continued their business even<br />
when an ever-increasing number of captives had to be ransomed. Because the<br />
profits in this trade at this specific time of war were very large, a merchant<br />
class prone to engage in profitable risks would not let itself be stopped even by<br />
intense corsair activity, and continued to send large numbers of ships southwest.<br />
The port cities of Hamburg and Lubeck were two of very few places in<br />
Europe which could maintain their neutrality throughout the entire Thirty<br />
Years’ War. Their shipping was thus able to penetrate deep down southward<br />
during this conflict and provide the cities with large revenues. One can regard it<br />
as a sign of steadfast Hanseatic loyalty that the two founding cities of the old<br />
league allowed their twin institutions to share the burden of ransoming by<br />
giving money to the respective Sklavenkasse in case of need. Yet, even this<br />
sharing of burdens did not suffice to finance the tolls which the intense war<br />
with the corsairs put on the Sklavenkassen. Their income basis needed to be<br />
enlarged quite early after their foundation. The Lubeck Sklavenkasse had to be<br />
21 Baasch 1897, 202-212.<br />
22 Wehrmann 1884, 161-162.<br />
23 Beutin 1933, 40-41.<br />
130
eformed only two years after its start, in 1629. 24 Hamburg followed suit in<br />
1641. 25<br />
Before these reforms, apart from the money which the Sklavenkassen obtained<br />
from collections in the churches, the individual crew members had to<br />
pay the lion’s share for these institutions. After 1629 in Lubeck and 1641 in<br />
Hamburg, the shipowners were obliged to contribute substantial sums according<br />
to the load a ship carried and its destination. The closer the destination was<br />
to the Barbary corsairs, the higher the rate that was to be paid. Thus, we have<br />
three different sources of income for the German Sklavenkassen. The first one<br />
was provided by the crew members: they had to pay a high percentage of their<br />
income if the ship’s destination lay west or south-west of Brest and only half of<br />
this rate for the “safer” destinations east of Brest. 26 The next source came from<br />
the shipowners according to shipload and a division of the map into risk zones;<br />
and a third one were the always ongoing alms collections.<br />
Until 1750 both institutions remained under great strain to pursue the ransoming.<br />
In the 14 “hot” years from 1615-1629, the smaller of the two cities,<br />
Lubeck, lost at least 22 large ships to the corsairs. 27 In the relatively “calm” 28<br />
years between 1719 and 1747 we know of 50 Hamburgian ships which got<br />
caught by the corsairs; this meant captivity in Northern Africa for 633 sailors. 28<br />
It should be noted that this number of captives is more than thrice that of Denmark<br />
during the same time, which gives a good hint at the respective size of<br />
Hamburg’s and Denmark’s southbound trade in these years. Apart from the<br />
1,809,200 Mark Lübisch, which Hamburg had to pay for ransom, the loss of<br />
the precious ships was disastrous for a single city, even of the size of Hamburg.<br />
After 1750, it rarely happened to a German ship to get caught by the corsairs<br />
since German shipping to Southern Europe had been much reduced owing to<br />
heavy competition of states which had peace treaties with the regencies 29 and<br />
because the corsair activity had decreased sharply.<br />
The Hamburg Sklavenkasse ceased to exist in 1810; Lubeck’s Sklavenkasse<br />
was closed in 1861. 30 Both offices underwent some fundamental reforms in the<br />
18th century which greatly changed their modes of operation. Regardless of<br />
these reforms, the fundamental structure always remained the same, i.e. the<br />
production of human security, assured by obligatory payments coming from<br />
crew members and shipowners. For nearly 200 years, these institutions ensured<br />
that almost no sailor who served on Hamburg or Lubeck ships and got caught<br />
24<br />
Wehrmann 1884, 162-166.<br />
25<br />
Baasch 1897, 212-215.<br />
26<br />
In contrast to Lubeck, sailors from Hamburg did not have to pay for destinations east of the<br />
Scheldt, see: Baasch 1897, 213.<br />
27<br />
Wehrmann 1884, 167.<br />
28<br />
Baasch 1897, 237.<br />
29<br />
Beutin 1933, 58-59.<br />
30<br />
Wehrmann 1884, 193.<br />
131
y the corsairs had to remain in North African captivity. Their success in this<br />
endeavor was so remarkable that in 1754 the Hamburg senate could publicly<br />
and triumphantly put into print that due to the work of the Sklavenkasse<br />
all slaves caught from our ships who had been captives in Algiers had been<br />
completely ransomed and were given back their freedom. 31<br />
This is in essence what the German Sklavenkassen had always tried to be:<br />
the providers of nothing less than absolute human security for all of Hamburg’s<br />
and Lubeck’s sailors. This had been their foremost goal and it had been, at<br />
tremendous cost, nearly always attained.<br />
IV. The Governmental Institutions of Ransom<br />
in Denmark<br />
Denmark intermittently sent out some ships to southern waters during the 17th<br />
century. In general, it seems that Denmark could not effectively compete with<br />
Dutch, English or German shipping. This was in all likelihood not due to the<br />
several wars in which Denmark was involved, but rather to the underdeveloped<br />
state of its shipping industry and, probably, a lack of mercantile thinking at the<br />
governmental level in the first half of the 17th century. 32 A noticeable increase<br />
can be remarked during the last decade of the 17th century, when the rest of<br />
Europe was at war and the two Nordic states maintained their neutrality. 33<br />
Even though its shipping remained limited during the 17th century, Denmark<br />
was sometimes faced with the problem of Danish sailors in captivity in<br />
Northern Africa. The obvious recourse was, like in the rest of Europe, to alms<br />
collections. 34 This sufficed as long as the shipping to Southern Europe remained<br />
comparatively small. After the failure to redeem hundreds of Icelanders<br />
35 it seems that better measures were demanded. In 1634 therefore, when<br />
Copenhagen’s Skipperlav 36 was inaugurated, we find in its articles the obligation<br />
to collect money from all sailors to buy back sailors from Northern Africa.<br />
This Skipperlav resembled in some regards the German Sklavenkassen. There<br />
was the element of obligatory membership, but only for the ships’ officers:<br />
31<br />
Hamburger Staatsarchiv, 111-1 Senat Cl. VII Lit. Ca. No. 2 Vol. 3 Fasc. 7, No. 11.<br />
32<br />
Nielsen 1933, 272-284.<br />
33<br />
Ekegård 1924, 67-78; Degn and Gøbel 1997, 131.<br />
34<br />
Fossen 1979, 235-239.<br />
35<br />
After the raid on Iceland in 1627 with a capture of roughly 400 inhabitants, collections were<br />
the recourse of the Kingdom of Denmark-Norway to buy back the captives. See: Helgason<br />
1997, 275-276; Andersen 2000, 41-42. However, these measures failed to a large extent:<br />
Fossen 1979, 240-241.<br />
36<br />
The Skipperlav was a semi-public organization of the sailors of the capital, which fulfilled<br />
many governmental tasks and had considerable executive power.<br />
132
Article 4: All Merchant-skippers and steersmen, which are based or live here<br />
in the city, shall be or are obliged to betake themselves into this Guild. 37<br />
Even though the money for the Skipperlav came only from its members, i.e.<br />
the higher decks, its duties included the ransom of all sailors of a ship taken:<br />
Article 10: All money, which incurs into this Skippers-Guild, shall be used for<br />
these members, which either by Turks or religious enemies have been captured<br />
and ransomed. Crews of poor ships-brothers from this guild, as well as<br />
sick or injured shall also be helped. 38<br />
We are presented with the curious situation of an organization where the income<br />
base was smaller than that of the Sklavenkassen in the Hanse cities, even<br />
though its duties were the same and even far greater (they included many tasks<br />
in and around the harbor of Copenhagen). This can be explained by the rarity<br />
of Copenhagen ships taken by Barbary corsairs. Thus, the organization was<br />
theoretically equivalent to the German Sklavenkassen, but not in substance.<br />
Whereas the Sklavenkassen were under tremendous strain to ransom their<br />
sailors from the first day after their foundation, the Skipperlav was not seriously<br />
tested for the greater part of the 17th century. It seems that most Danish<br />
ships that were caught in the 17th century came from Bergen, where a special<br />
fee existed since 1653 for the freeing of slaves from Africa. 39<br />
In the years from 1670-1680, important changes took place in the patterns of<br />
shipping throughout Europe. French corsairs effectively reduced German and<br />
Dutch shipping to southern waters, much more than the Barbary corsairs had<br />
ever been able to. Danish shipping could not be hit hard, not having had great<br />
relevance south-west of Great Britain until then. Thus, the competitors were<br />
weakened just at the time when Danish shipping became the object of more and<br />
more support from the governmental side. The creation of the Kommercekolleg<br />
in 1668/71 in Copenhagen signaled the rapid advent of mercantilist thinking in<br />
Denmark, which translated into an ever-increasing commerce fleet. 40 Consequently,<br />
in these years we find more mentions of captured vessels from the<br />
Kingdom.<br />
In 1675, the Skipperlavs’ income base was broadened. Now, the ordinary<br />
sailors, though not allowed membership, also had to pay into its coffers exactly<br />
half the rate of the ship’s officers. 41 And in 1685, this was again extended:<br />
After this year Danish sailors not living in Copenhagen also had to pay if their<br />
ship sailed from the city. 42 After these changes the institution resembled the<br />
first German Sklavenkassen before the reforms of 1629 and 1641. One obliga-<br />
37 Hassø 1934, 13.<br />
38 Hassø 1934, 15.<br />
39 Fossen 1979.<br />
40 Hassø 1934, 25.<br />
41 Hassø 1934, 40-44.<br />
42 Bro-Jørgensen 1935, 65.<br />
133
tory institution was responsible for the safety of all sailors on the ships of the<br />
city of Copenhagen. Because Europe was embroiled in huge wars after 1687<br />
and Denmark kept its neutrality for most of the time, the Dannebrog could<br />
advance further and further south in the years around 1700. 43 This in turn led to<br />
more captives who needed ransoming. As a result, in the last decade of the 17th<br />
century, we see a ransoming activity of one or two Danish sailors per year. 44<br />
At the turn of the century, this decentralized system of ransoming failed,<br />
when it became really demanding for the first time. In 1706 the armed frigate<br />
“St. Christopher” from Bergen was caught by Barbary corsairs and more than<br />
40 Danish sailors found themselves caught at once after having fought with<br />
great courage. 45 Already in 1708, another Norwegian ship, the “Fortuna” from<br />
Drammen got caught by Algerian Corsairs. Four years later, in 1712, more than<br />
26 Danish sailors still remained in bondage, when two large Norwegian ships,<br />
the “Jomfru Anna” from Bergen and the “Ebentzer” from Arendal, were captured<br />
by the corsairs. These events again swelled the numbers of the King’s<br />
subjects in Northern Africa. At this point, it became obvious that the traditional<br />
ways of coping with this problem could no longer suffice. Collections in the<br />
entire kingdom did not bring in enough money and Bergen itself was overstretched<br />
to conduct the ransoming of its ships’ crews on its own. 46 Copenhagen’s<br />
Skipperlav had sufficient funds, but it lacked the will to use them for the<br />
Norwegian ships’ crews and it lacked professionalism in conducting its task. A<br />
special institution, led by experts with connections to a network of merchants<br />
spread throughout Europe, was needed. This institution should have its only<br />
duty in organizing the ransom of the Danish captives from Northern Africa.<br />
The model which was now imitated was the one the southern neighbors of<br />
Denmark had by then already used successfully for decades. A Sklavenkasse<br />
was to be founded. 47 The King personally ordered its creation, following the<br />
advice of Sealand’s Bishop, Christian Worm. 48 It was to be led by the Bishop<br />
and two well-connected merchants from the capital, Abraham Klöcher and<br />
Johan Jørgen Soelberg.<br />
In one of their first letters to the magistrate of Copenhagen, the new board<br />
immediately liquidated the old ineffectual heritage of the skipperlav, explicitly<br />
stating in scathing words that they had<br />
43 Degn and Gøbel 1997, 89.<br />
44 Hassø 1934, 81.<br />
45 Møller 1998, 105.<br />
46 Møller 1998, 108.<br />
47 Called “Slavekasse” in Denmark<br />
48 Bro-Jørgensen 1935, 159-160.<br />
134
heard that the money, which the skipperlav has collected according to its 16<br />
articles, has swelled to a great and sufficient capital, without any captives having<br />
been ransomed in a long time (one or another excepted). 49<br />
The skipperlav had failed even in its core task, the ransoming of sailors from<br />
Copenhagen. Therefore, the new board demanded all the money from the skipperlav<br />
reserved for the business of ransoming, which it quickly received.<br />
Within a few weeks, a network of ransom was established with its financial<br />
hubs in Hamburg and Amsterdam and the German merchant, Johannes Pommer<br />
in Venice, as its key contact person, managing the business of ransom in<br />
the Mediterranean itself. 50<br />
Already before the foundation of the Slavekasse a list of 82 subjects of the<br />
Danish King who were languishing in Northern Africa had been compiled. 51<br />
With the beginning of its business in April 1715, the board decided to ransom<br />
only the captives who had served on Danish ships when they had been caught. 52<br />
Of these, eight could already be ransomed in just seven months, and 23 more<br />
were freed in the following year. 53<br />
The Danish Slavekasse drew its income from the same sources as the German<br />
Sklavenkassen; yet in the Kingdom the burden was much higher for the<br />
shipowners and much lower for the sailors. All ships which sailed to Holland,<br />
England, France, Spain, or Portugal had to pay three shillings per last directly<br />
to the Slavekasse (in Hamburg the shipowners only had to pay two thirds of<br />
this rate). Also, all sailors of the entire Kingdom were obliged to pay to the<br />
Slavekasse (in Hamburg the sailors had to pay three times as much). It is interesting<br />
to remark these sailor-friendly rates in the monarchy and the shipownerfriendly<br />
rates in the trade-cities. Additionally, biannual collections in the<br />
churches throughout the Kingdom also brought revenue for the Slavekasse.<br />
Thus, we see after 1715/16 three fully-functioning Sklavenkassen in Hamburg,<br />
Lubeck and Denmark, each one closely resembling its sister institutions.<br />
All Sklavenkassen were remarkably efficient, with almost no cases of captivity<br />
in Northern Africa of an insured sailor lasting longer than one year. Like its<br />
German counterparts, the Danish Slavekasse had always tried to be the provider<br />
of absolute security for Danish sailors on Danish ships. We can legitimately<br />
conclude: It attained this goal at most times of its existence.<br />
The Danish Slavekasse existed until 1757. After Denmark had made its last<br />
peace treaty with a Maghreb state, i.e. Morocco in 1753, there was no longer a<br />
49<br />
Landsarkivet Sjælland, EA-001, Stifts Bispeembede, Kopibog for udgående breve vedr.<br />
Slavekassen. 15.5.1715 – Slavekassen til Magistrat i Kiöbenhavn.<br />
50<br />
Landsarkivet Sjælland, EA-001, Stifts Bispeembede, Kopibog for udgående breve vedr.<br />
Slavekassen. 20.4.1715 – Slavekassen til Johannes Pommer i Venedig.<br />
51<br />
Møller 1998, 108.<br />
52<br />
Bro-Jørgensen 1935, 160.<br />
53<br />
Landsarkivet Sjælland, EA-001, Stifts Bispeembede, Kopibog for udgående breve vedr.<br />
Slavekassen. 30.12.1716 – Slavekassen til Kongen.<br />
135
need to insure Danish sailors against the risk of Muslim captivity. For the<br />
Slavekasse, the only tasks remaining were the ransom of the last Danish captives<br />
and the unwinding of its business. During over forty years of its existence,<br />
the Slavekasse had not only ransomed well over two hundred Danish sailors<br />
from captivity 54 , it had also initiated and financed 55 the first peace talks with<br />
the Barbary rulers, which in 1746 had brought Denmark the long sought-after<br />
peace treaty with Algiers. It had thus worked as a kind of “Ministry for Barbary<br />
affairs”.<br />
V. The Governmental Institutions of Ransom<br />
in the Netherlands<br />
After having inherited the merchants and thus the know-how and trade routes<br />
from Antwerp, Amsterdam became the center of the 17th century world economy.<br />
56 The common enmity of the Netherlands and Algiers against Spain<br />
helped the Dutch in the two decades after 1590 to liberate captured sailors from<br />
Algiers more easily and ensured a certain benevolence for Dutch ships. 57<br />
With the beginning of the 12-year truce in 1609, the Netherlanders had a<br />
breakthrough into the Mediterranean. 58 In 1611 they were able to obtain a<br />
treaty with the Ottoman Emperor and to install an ambassador at Constantinople.<br />
It was hoped at The Hague that this would also ensure safety for Dutch<br />
ships from attacks from the North African corsairs. Yet the respect for orders<br />
from the Sultan was not too high at Algiers and the Dutch cease-fire with Spain<br />
irritated Algiers. Thus in the decade from 1610-1620, more and more Netherlanders<br />
found themselves on the slave-markets of Algiers. It was decided at<br />
The Hague to conclude a treaty with the regency and install a consul there. The<br />
consul Wijnant de Keyser arrived in 1616 at Algiers and immediately began<br />
ransoming all Dutch slaves at the place. He used governmental funds for this<br />
business, expecting the States-General to pay for the liberation of the sailors.<br />
Yet, in this point he miscalculated. In 1618, the States-General expressly forbade<br />
him to continue ransoming with governmental money, officially stating<br />
that the state was only responsible for the sailors on warships, not for the sailors<br />
on merchant ships. 59<br />
Hereby the States-General set a precedent which would remain valid for<br />
more than a century to come. It took the Netherlands until 1726 to obtain a<br />
54<br />
The most eminent historian of the Danish Slavekassen has counted 224 ransomed slaves<br />
from 1715-1753, in: Bro-Jørgensen 1935, 161-163.<br />
55<br />
Wandel 1919, 5-9; Andersen 2000, 37-54.<br />
56<br />
Israel 1989, 38-42.<br />
57<br />
van Krieken 2002, 16-19.<br />
58<br />
Israel 1986, 164-169.<br />
59<br />
van Krieken 2002, 23.<br />
136
stable peace treaty with Algiers and even longer to get one with Morocco.<br />
Therefore, Dutch ships were constantly being captured in the 17th and at the<br />
beginning of the 18th century. A historian has arrived at a number of 6,000-<br />
7,000 Netherlanders who may have at some time been captives in Northern<br />
Africa. 60 The ransoming of the Netherlanders was normally carried out by the<br />
single provinces and these in turn financed it mostly through collections, lotteries<br />
and money from relatives. 61 On a national level, several nationwide collections<br />
were held in the aftermath of peace accords for this purpose. 62 On several<br />
occasions, wholesale expeditions with squadrons of warships were sent out to<br />
do the ransoming, always with explicit orders to catch as many North Africans<br />
as possible in order to exchange them for their Dutch counterparts in the regencies.<br />
63<br />
All these measures never sufficed. Algerians were hard to catch and the exchange<br />
rate of prisoners was disadvantageous for the Netherlanders. The great<br />
problem of voluntary donations was their irregularity, in stark contrast to the<br />
permanent collections in Denmark and the Hanse cities. Due to scarcity of<br />
funds, it was explicitly decided in 1663 to only ransom Netherlanders, not<br />
Scandinavians or Germans who had served on Dutch ships. 64 Yet, even for<br />
Netherlanders, the money available was never enough. It has been estimated<br />
that the quota of Netherlanders ever ransomed was 33-50%. 65 This percentage<br />
is much lower than the quota in Hamburg, Lubeck or Denmark, which ranged<br />
between 80 and 90%. 66<br />
At times the creation of a national Sklavenkasse was seriously deliberated.<br />
For example, in 1717 the powerful province of Holland tried to push through<br />
the foundation of a Sklavenkasse, modeled after the Hamburgian, in the assembly<br />
of the States-General. 67 It did not succeed with this because the other provinces<br />
– Zeeland is explicitly named – opposed the proposal for the following<br />
reasons:<br />
1) The corsairs would be encouraged to cruise even more if the Dutch Republic<br />
guaranteed all its sailors their ransom.<br />
2) The prices for captives would soar, thus buying back through private means<br />
would become more difficult.<br />
60 van Krieken 2002, 131.<br />
61 Ridder 1986, 5-12.<br />
62 Ridder 1986, 12.<br />
63 Ridder 1986, 16-17.<br />
64 van Krieken 2002, 62.<br />
65 van Krieken 2002, 139.<br />
66 This figure has been established for the Danish Slavekasse and is in all likelihood also valid<br />
for the German Sklavenkassen: Bro-Jørgensen 1935, 161.<br />
67 van Krieken 2002, 93.<br />
137
3) The North African rulers would lose interest in a peace with the Netherlands,<br />
because a state with a Sklavenkasse is a source of revenue for the corsairs.<br />
4) The sailors would no longer defend themselves adequately if they were<br />
assured of their later ransom. 68<br />
The last reason is especially noteworthy. In all openness it was stated that<br />
the terribly feared slavery in Northern Africa was helpful for the commercial<br />
interests of the republic’s shipping. This gruesome image put enough scare into<br />
the sailors to fight to the last and thus to defend the ship and the cargo better.<br />
The value of human security was explicitly put below security of the economy.<br />
The United Provinces decided not to intervene and to retain their insufficient<br />
system which left the ransoming to local initiatives, voluntary contributions<br />
and family members.<br />
The Dutch ransoming system seems to have been on the verge of a fundamental<br />
change after 1730. In 1728, after the stable peace with Algiers had been<br />
attained, the States-General decided to ransom all remaining 256 slaves who<br />
had been taken on ships from the republic, be they from the Netherlands or<br />
from foreign countries. 69 Even after this decision, it took another seven years<br />
until the last one of these was liberated. From 1728 until 1736 and from 1743<br />
until 1749, two pastors from the Netherlands were appointed in Algiers to take<br />
care of the slaves from the Netherlands, Germany and Scandinavia. 70 At this<br />
time a Sklavenkasse was also founded in Zierikzee, which lasted from 1732<br />
until 1747. 71 From that year on (1747), the States-General finally accepted the<br />
duty of the entire state to buy back all its subjects from Northern Africa. 72<br />
When in 1755 the long-sought peace with Morocco was finally achieved, the<br />
Netherlands from then on no longer needed to use governmental money to<br />
ransom their brethren. Had the peace treaties not been attained, the ransom<br />
system of the Sklavenkassen might have been introduced.<br />
VI. Typologies of North European Ransom<br />
What are we to make of these observations? We have looked at several prominent<br />
Early Modern maritime states which all had to deal with the problem of<br />
captivity of their own subjects on a large scale and their institutional reactions<br />
towards the problem. Three of these states have in common that they created<br />
governmental offices to collect funds from their sailors and shipowners and<br />
68<br />
Nationaal Archief Den Haag, 1.01.03 – Staten Generaal, 3392, 06.07.1717.<br />
69<br />
Van Krieken 2002, 103. Krieken states that this happened more to ensure the peace with<br />
Algiers than out of compassion for the captives.<br />
70<br />
Van Krieken 2002, 137.<br />
71<br />
Ridder 1986, 13-15.<br />
72<br />
Ridder 1986, 14.<br />
138
used these funds to buy back their subjects out of Northern African captivity.<br />
We may summarize our findings in a simplified table:<br />
Northern European Ransoming<br />
Systems<br />
Number of captives in Northern<br />
Africa from 1590-1830<br />
Money for ransom<br />
Organization of ransom<br />
Denmark, Hamburg,<br />
Lubeck<br />
139<br />
Netherlands<br />
5-8000 73 6-7000 74<br />
Progressive taxation of the<br />
group concerned, additional<br />
alms collections<br />
Mostly state-run,<br />
centralized<br />
Mostly alms collections,<br />
only little help from the<br />
state<br />
Mostly privately,<br />
decentralized<br />
Average duration of captivity Mostly less than one year 75 Three to five years 76<br />
Quota of redeemed captives 80-90 % 77 33-50 % 78<br />
Many numbers in this table are certainly highly debatable. Yet, even if we<br />
allow for a substantial error range, the basic and fundamental differences between<br />
the two blocs remain the same. One group created professional organizations<br />
dedicated to the ransoming of their own nation’s sailors only, and these<br />
institutions, everywhere called Sklavenkassen, were financed by obligatory<br />
duties imposed upon the endangered group. The other bloc decided expressly<br />
and repeatedly not to do so, even though the problem here was more or less the<br />
same, qualitatively and quantitatively. The lack of such organizations in the<br />
Netherlands had dire consequences for the Netherlanders captured in Northern<br />
Africa. Longer periods of slavery and a high uncertainty of an eventual ransom<br />
were direct consequences of the refusal of the state to intervene and to take the<br />
entire business into its hands.<br />
How are we to explain the refusal of the Netherlanders to install a Sklavenkasse,<br />
even though this had dramatic consequences for its sailors? Is it due to<br />
the very different naval power of the two blocs? Being the center of the world<br />
economy until and beyond 1726, when they finally concluded a lasting peace<br />
with the Algerians, the Netherlanders always had very different means at hand<br />
to take on the corsair enemy. The naval power of the Hanse cities was marginal<br />
in comparison with the United Provinces. The idea of naval power as a deterrent<br />
of Sklavenkassen gains plausibility if we look at Denmark’s Slavekasse. It<br />
73<br />
The wide range is due to the insufficient data available, especially in the cases of the German<br />
Sklavenkassen. Yet, the figure with its two limits is the result of intense calculation<br />
and taking into account of all available numbers and therefore reliable.<br />
74<br />
Van Krieken 2002, 131.<br />
75<br />
See footnote 66.<br />
76<br />
Boon 1987, 18-19.<br />
77<br />
Only “national” sailors are taken into account, e.g. Hamburgians on Hamburg ships etc.<br />
78 Van Krieken 2002, 139.
was founded in 1715, when its naval power was rather weak and the institution<br />
ended with the ascent of Denmark’s naval power after the mid-18th century.<br />
The Danish case seems to confirm the thesis of incompatibility of Sklavenkassen<br />
with a strong navy.<br />
Yet, naval power is not a very important factor in the decision process about<br />
Sklavenkassen. For one thing, naval expeditions against the corsairs were in<br />
most of the cases blatant failures. Only the British and French expeditions in<br />
the late 17th century had achieved their aims. But these were the exceptions to<br />
the general rule. The Dutch expeditions of 1618-20, 1655-56, 1662, 1664, 1670<br />
and 1721-24 were all costly and only partly effective at attaining their goal. 79 In<br />
the end, The Hague had to accept a peace treaty in which permanent tributes<br />
were stipulated, in contrast to the tribute-free peace treaties which England and<br />
France were able to attain.<br />
But even more to the point, why should naval power stand in contradiction<br />
to state-organized ransoming? The historical evidence simply does not support<br />
such an imagined dichotomy. A state with a powerful navy like Great Britain<br />
had its “Algiers-duty”, very much resembling a Sklavenkasse, to finance the<br />
ransoming of its subjects. 80 When in 1720 a “Project tot het ruineeren der<br />
Turkze Rovers” was put forward in the Netherlands, it was explicitly stated in<br />
one of its articles that a Sklavenkasse should flank the massive naval attack on<br />
the corsairs. 81 Thus, governmentally organized ransoming and a strong navy<br />
within one state are not contradictions. They could and did come together, one<br />
could and did exist without the other or both could and often were absent. In<br />
the minds of the decision-makers they were to a large measure independent of<br />
each other.<br />
Are the observed differences due to the political structure of the states in<br />
question? The two Hanse cities were small political units, where a Sklavenkasse<br />
could easily be introduced by and for limited groups. The entire cities being<br />
very dependent on the trade towards southern waters, it was easy to convince<br />
all decision-makers of the advantages of Sklavenkassen for all people of the<br />
cities. This was not so in Denmark-Norway, where the trade routes went to a<br />
large degree east and northwards when the Slavekasse was introduced. Yet, in<br />
the absolute monarchy of Denmark-Norway, the decision-making process<br />
could at times be very easy. It took one memorandum from Sealand’s Bishop to<br />
the King to get the Slavekasse going, without any amendment. 82 With a different<br />
political structure we may well believe that Denmark-Norway would have<br />
gone the same way that the Netherlands did. Here, a central government with<br />
limited powers could only act in accord with the provinces. In an absolute<br />
79 Van Krieken 2002, 26, 53-55, 57-67, 94-97.<br />
80 On the Algiers-duty: Matar 2005, 38-75.<br />
81 Project tot het ruineeren der Turkze Rovers [...] 1720.<br />
82 Bro-Jørgensen 1935, 159-160.<br />
140
monarchy, this opposition could be overcome, which was not so in a republic<br />
with independently-minded constituent parts.<br />
However, it is precisely this observation that allows us to rule out the different<br />
political structures as the causator of the (non-)introduction of Sklavenkassen.<br />
The political structure was certainly important on the national level, where<br />
the decentralized Netherlands could not agree upon a foundation of a Sklavenkasse.<br />
Yet, at the local level the differences between the two blocs still remain.<br />
In Copenhagen after 1634, we have a de facto Sklavenkasse in the form of the<br />
Skipperlav with its obligatory duties and its responsibility to ransom Copenhagen’s<br />
sailors. It would have been very easy for the single provinces or cities in<br />
the Netherlands to introduce Sklavenkassen at the local level. Yet, the only<br />
Sklavenkasse that ever existed in the Netherlands was the local one at<br />
Zierikzee, a short-lived and very late foundation. Amsterdam, Middelburg and<br />
other great cities never had a Sklavenkasse, even though it would have been<br />
very easy to found one. The political structure of the large Dutch harbor cities<br />
was very much comparable to Hamburg and Lubeck. In all these cities the<br />
power lay in the hands of the richer merchants and the emerging bourgeoisie.<br />
The same groups of power-holders easily founded Sklavenkassen in the cities<br />
east of the Elbe and refused to do so west of the Elbe. Thus a political structure<br />
did not stand in the way of a foundation of Sklavenkassen in the Netherlands.<br />
VII. The Combination of <strong>Historical</strong> “Facts”<br />
and Sociological “Theory”<br />
After having refuted the more simple explanation for the found typologies, we<br />
are still left without a satisfying answer for the discrepancy of the ransoming<br />
modes. A more complex model is needed as explanandum for the differences in<br />
the organization of ransoming of the two blocs. This shall be done by setting<br />
the established typology in a broader perspective and then analyzing it anew.<br />
The entire phenomenon of slave ransoming has to be regarded not as something<br />
exceptional but structural for the affected maritime societies. The ransoming of<br />
Europeans was an affair so stable that we can regard it as an integral part of<br />
Early Modern welfare. Like the poor, the group of the slaves to be redeemed<br />
was an inherent part of every seafaring society in Early Modern Europe. The<br />
authorities were confronted with endless petitions from individuals who needed<br />
money to save husbands, relatives or friends from a mortal threat and, regarded<br />
much more dangerously, their souls from the arch-enemy of God. The endless<br />
flow of supplications aimed at the “imagined empathy” of an entire society. As<br />
we have seen, the typology of the chosen ways to produce security for the<br />
suffering captives exactly follows confessional lines.<br />
In recent years, sociology has turned considerable attention towards the<br />
connections between features of the modern welfare states and their respective<br />
dominant confession. As an offspring of the widespread discussion and re-<br />
141
search about and on the welfare state, which was sparked by the first publication<br />
of Esping-Andersen’s work on the typologies of the modern welfare states<br />
in 1990 83 , the origins of the essential variations between the states of the modern<br />
West are now being traced more and more towards religious roots. 84 Also,<br />
the historians and sociologists with an interest in the Early Modern Epoch have<br />
raised their voices in this debate. In his book “The disciplinary revolution”, the<br />
American sociologist Philip Gorski has put religion at the centre of the stage of<br />
Early Modern history and used it as an explanation of many different phenomena<br />
of the epoch. 85 Though he is mostly interested in the connections between<br />
the state’s power and its respective confession, he has also devoted quite considerable<br />
thought to the links between the Reformation and Early Modern<br />
forms of poor-relief. 86 Gorski in essence argues that Protestant poor-relief was<br />
marked by a high degree of centralization and bureaucratization at the level of<br />
the state. A sharp line was drawn in the Protestant world between “deserving”<br />
and “undeserving” poor; the former received alms, the latter were sent to the<br />
“Zuchthaus”. Gorski contrasts this with Catholic poor-relief, which remained to<br />
a large degree in the hands of the clergy and never knew a sharp distinction<br />
between “deserving” and “undeserving”. He also distinguishes sharply within<br />
Protestantism between Calvinist and Lutheran poor-relief: according to him the<br />
former was marked by “considerable decentralization, and a harsher but more<br />
activist approach towards the poor.” 87<br />
Another sociologist, Sigrun Kahl, has elaborated on Gorski’s theses and<br />
made far-reaching connections between the religious doctrines of the respective<br />
three confessions and the social welfare systems of our present-day states. 88<br />
Kahl finally arrives at a table of twelve stylized features of the three confessions.<br />
In this table we find core theological statements on work and poverty and<br />
the way the poor were treated in the area of the respective confession. The<br />
strength of Kahl’s article lies in the very serious attempt to bridge the research<br />
of modern sociology on the welfare state and historical research on the Reformation,<br />
both of which have more or less ignored each other in the last decades.<br />
Even though Kahl never uses the terms explicitly, she clearly tries to describe<br />
83<br />
Esping-Andersen 1990.<br />
84<br />
Philip Manow has pointed out the many flaws of Esping-Andersen’s model of the three<br />
types of modern welfare state: “there is ample evidence that the religious cleavage dimension<br />
was also critical to the way that the capitalist conflict was pacified by means of the<br />
welfare state. Especially if we account for the crucial differences between Lutheran and<br />
reformed Protestantism, we can solve many of the empirical and theoretical problems in<br />
Esping-Andersen’s approach”, in: Manow 2004.<br />
85<br />
Gorski 2003.<br />
86<br />
Gorski 2003, 125-137.<br />
87<br />
Gorski 2003, 137.<br />
88<br />
Kahl 2005.<br />
142
distinct group attitudes of inclusion and exclusion towards its poorer members,<br />
the groups being distinguished by their confessions.<br />
Kahl tries very hard in her article to accentuate the differences between the<br />
Lutheran and Calvinist approach towards the poor. She empirically bases these<br />
differences mainly on the denseness of “Zuchthäuser” in the Calvinist and<br />
Lutheran areas and the degree of centralization of systems of poor-relief. From<br />
her article one gets the impression that the distinction between “deserving” and<br />
“undeserving” poor was marked in Calvinist areas more by punishment of the<br />
“undeserving” and in Lutheran areas more by a relatively effective help for the<br />
“deserving”. The “deserving” got no great assistance in the Calvinist world,<br />
while in the Lutheran world the state actively intervened on their behalf. Kahl<br />
emphasizes that this state intervention in the Lutheran world happened not in<br />
opposition to the church but with intimate collaboration between church and<br />
state. 89<br />
Since we have established that the Sklavenkassen were not an exotic but a<br />
normal institution of poor-relief in Early Modern Northern Europe, we can now<br />
look at them from the “confessional” angle. We can certainly count the sailors<br />
among the “deserving” poor, since they had usually fought bravely to protect<br />
the merchandise of their masters, the flag of their state and thus the honor of<br />
their rulers. 90 Here was a group that clearly did not deserve the drastic plight<br />
into which they had fallen. Thus, the decision-making process towards finding<br />
an answer to the slaves’ petitions must therefore have been a very hard exercise<br />
for the petitioned, since they knew that they were deciding upon the fate of<br />
brave members of the community. Their answer to it, whether positive or negative,<br />
was thus certainly a reflection of deep convictions with regard to the<br />
“imagined empathy” of a given society.<br />
It is remarkable how well the models of Gorski and Kahl fit with the Lutheran<br />
Sklavenkassen. Centralized and bureaucratically operating governmental<br />
offices, relentlessly collecting obligatory duties and using this money in one of<br />
the most complicated businesses conceivable: is that not Lutheran poor-relief to<br />
its maximum extent? Since the buying back of sailors from slavery was just a<br />
form of poor-relief in extremis, we see here the Lutheran way of poor-relief at<br />
its extreme. This always happened, as is clearest in the case of the Danish<br />
Slavekasse, where Sealand’s Bishop led the entire agency, in close cooperation<br />
with the churches. The obligatory insurance is the qualitatively new element of<br />
these institutions, to which only Lutheran states resorted. For its subjects in<br />
danger of and actually in slavery, the Lutheran state was expected and ready to<br />
89 Kahl 2005, 105.<br />
90 It is important to note that only the sailors who had defended themselves bravely were<br />
bought back; see: § 5 of the Hamburg Sklavenkasse, printed in: Baasch 1897, 207.<br />
143
provide absolute human security, firstly with institutions, later with the readiness<br />
to sign expensive peace treaties with the Barbary regents. 91<br />
This strong role of the Lutheran state as a redistributor of money and producer<br />
of human security was demanded by the ruled and the authorities were<br />
willing to accede in this demand. An unavoidable and undeserved risk of any<br />
deserving member of this state was regarded as not tolerable. When such a<br />
danger lured, the entire system reacted and secured the neutralization of this<br />
threat by spreading the financial burden on the shoulders of all risk-bearers.<br />
This differs markedly from the Calvinist world, where the state as a nexus<br />
binding the people together was not as strong as in the Lutheran world.<br />
What can we deduce from our presentation about the Calvinist welfare<br />
state? Kahl has emphasized Calvin’s rejection of state involvement in matters<br />
of poor-relief:<br />
According to Calvin, poor relief should be part of the church’s ministry.<br />
Church and private charities retained a key role in the administration of poor<br />
relief. Private charity was part of proving and displaying election. In this<br />
sense, Calvinism kept the traditional ostentation of public giving. 92<br />
Having no Sklavenkasse but only its repeated discussion and ultimate nonintroduction<br />
at hand, it is not hard to see a rejection of state involvement in the<br />
Calvinist-dominated Netherlands. Even the hard plight of its sailors in Northern<br />
Africa could not move the society at home to overcome its basic propositions<br />
on relief-giving. The result was dire for thousands of Netherlanders who got<br />
caught by the Muslim corsairs.<br />
We have to remark that the people of the United Provinces did care a lot for<br />
their brethren in Northern Africa. The Netherlanders gave intensely and over<br />
decades huge sums of alms for the ransoming of their relatives. At the moment,<br />
we have no data at hand but we can presume that the alms-giving in the Netherlands<br />
for the caught sailors brought in much more money in relation to national<br />
wealth than in the Lutheran world. Individual generosity tried hard to compensate<br />
for the lack of a Sklavenkasse. Yet, the ratio of just 33-50% liberated sailors<br />
in the richest parts of Europe proves that in the 17th century, the state as<br />
machinery of organization and redistribution had already far surpassed the<br />
ability of individual generosity and voluntary commitment. The only way to<br />
really produce sustainable and absolute human security lay in the intervention<br />
of the state, as the examples of the Lutheran neighbors showed.<br />
91 These treaties have usually been regarded solely as parts of a commercially activist policy,<br />
see e.g.: Andersen 2000, 37-54. This cannot be doubted, but it should be remarked that in<br />
Denmark’s case the Slavekasse had initiated these peace talks, an institution whose function<br />
was not commercial but to produce security for its sailors. The aspect of generating security<br />
from slavery is thus not just a side-effect of these treaties, but inextricably connected with<br />
their commercial aims.<br />
92 Kahl 2005, 110.<br />
144
The Netherlanders had often been asked if they wanted a Sklavenkasse to<br />
produce human security for all their sailors. This question could only come<br />
before the highest assembly of the state because the slaves in Northern Africa<br />
were the poor with the greatest merit. The fact that these proposals had caused<br />
the Netherlanders intense debates and thorough questioning of their traditional<br />
approach proves that the ultimate refusal of a Sklavenkasse was well-considered<br />
and has to be a reflection of the “imagined empathy” of the Netherlandish<br />
society at the time. In the end, the state’s intervention was even regarded<br />
as harmful for the private ransomers. 93 We know that this was not true and that<br />
individuals, for all their endeavors, could not compensate for the state in this<br />
regard.<br />
So with the case studies of the Protestant way of ransoming captives out of<br />
Northern Africa, we finally arrive at an observation which in itself fits very<br />
well into the established picture of sociological and historical literature. The<br />
strong role of the Lutheran state as an embodiment of mutual insurance of a<br />
given group and thereby as an active producer of human security can be traced<br />
to sources in the existing confessional mentality. The Calvinist state did not act<br />
the same way that the Lutheran did; it openly decided not to produce human<br />
security when this came into conflict with trade security. The Calvinist state<br />
left this most essential sort of poor-relief to the society at large and thus preferred<br />
the production of security for the economy of its system, not for individuals.<br />
The Lutheran state appears as a social system marked by a high degree<br />
of inclusiveness for all deserving members of the community, while the Calvinist<br />
state appears as a social system marked by more exclusive tendencies, even<br />
for its deserving members.<br />
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147
Swedes in Barbary Captivity: The Political Culture<br />
of Human Security, Circa 1660-1760<br />
Joachim Östlund �<br />
Abstract: »Schweden in Gefangenschaft der Barbaresken: Die politische Kultur<br />
humaner Sicherheit, circa 1660-1760«. This article aims to present a specific<br />
form of “Human Security” during the Early Modern era. As a case study,<br />
the relationship between Sweden and the North African states will be put forward.<br />
The Swedish maritime expansion in the Mediterranean during the 17th<br />
century resulted in insecurity for the men who manned the ships when they became<br />
targets for Muslim corsairs from North Africa. This article explores how<br />
the Swedish state responded to the threat towards its seamen during a period of<br />
100 years (1660-1760). The Kingdom not only reacted militarily or diplomatically<br />
towards this threat. Intense attention was also paid to humanitarian aspects<br />
on the level of the individual. The state tried several preventative measures<br />
to reduce the risk of captivity and installed a nation-wide ransoming<br />
system. The article highlights the complex relationship between state security<br />
and human security and shows how cultural values, economy, institutions and<br />
international politics also give form and substance to the praxis of the “Production<br />
of Human Security”.<br />
Keywords: Sweden-North Africa relations, national security, human insecurity,<br />
human security, captivity, ransoming.<br />
Introduction<br />
The Swedish maritime enterprise in the Mediterranean during the middle of the<br />
seventeenth century not only resulted in the import of cheap salt but also in<br />
new politics of security for the men who manned the ships. Muslim corsairs<br />
operating from the present-day Maghreb states posed a serious danger towards<br />
the shipping of all European nations in the Mediterranean. The biggest threat<br />
was their attempts to seize the cargo and carry their crew to the slave markets<br />
of North Africa. Usually the captives were engaged in hard labor and held for<br />
ransom. In their letters asking for help and in the writings of eyewitnesses, this<br />
bondage was described as slavery. The reactions from relatives and authorities<br />
were intense, and the social anxiety about the captivity of large groups of men<br />
� Address all communications to: Joachim Östlund, Department of History, Lund University,<br />
P.O. Box 2074, 220 02 Lund, Sweden; e-mail: joachim.ostlund@hist.lu.se.<br />
This article is a part of an individual research project financed by Stiftelsen Riksbankens<br />
Jubileumsfond, 2009-2011.<br />
<strong>Historical</strong> <strong>Social</strong> <strong>Research</strong>, Vol. 35 — 2010 — No. 4, 148-163
esulted in responses unusual for the Early Modern period. The purpose of this<br />
paper is to discuss humanitarian aspects of the necessary protection of trade.<br />
The human dimension of security, or the question of security in people’s<br />
daily lives, emerged in the 1990s as a conceptual response to two changing<br />
dimensions of the international order, referred to as globalization and the end<br />
of the Cold War. This shift was defined and explicated in the 1994 UN Human<br />
Development Report. According to the UNHDR, human security meant “safety<br />
from chronic threats such as hunger, disease and repression” and “protections<br />
from sudden and harmful disruptions in the patterns of daily life”. 1 The UN<br />
identifies seven specific sources of human insecurity: economic, food, health,<br />
environmental, personal, community and political sources of human insecurity.<br />
Since then the term has been used in different ways. On the online database<br />
“Human Security Gateway”, the human security concept is defined separately<br />
from national security, and where the latter is defined, its focus is on the defending<br />
of the physical and political integrity of states from external military<br />
threats. This distinction is put forward to highlight the fact that the goals of<br />
national security may in many cases threaten human security: “Ideally, national<br />
security and human security should be mutually reinforcing.” 2 In summary, the<br />
model of human security consists primarily of four features: its focus on the<br />
individual, its concern with values of personal safety and freedom, its consideration<br />
of indirect threats, and its emphasis on non-coercive means.<br />
In the following I will show how human security became an important instrument<br />
in the Swedish maritime expansion. The purpose of this article is to<br />
trace policies of human security during the period 1660-1760, and to discuss its<br />
form and substance. The following questions will be highlighted and discussed<br />
in the article: (a) How did the human aspect of security initially become identified?<br />
(b) In what ways did human security become an organized and institutionalized<br />
part of the Swedish state? (c) How is the Swedish policy of human<br />
security related to political, cultural and historical factors?<br />
Identifying Human Insecurity<br />
During the middle of the seventeenth century Swedish economic politics formulated<br />
a new interest: to find cheap salt and markets for Swedish staple commodities<br />
in Southern Europe. The rising salt prices in Setubal and Lisbon<br />
pushed the Swedish merchants into the Mediterranean, and there they entered a<br />
world dominated by sea warfare and violence. The struggle for control between<br />
the two dominant empires of the region, Spain and the Ottoman Empire, resulted<br />
in an unstable and insecure environment. During the seventeenth century<br />
1 Human Development Report 1994, 23.<br />
2 Human Security Report Project.<br />
149
the conflict transmuted into coastal raids, semi-official privateering and piracy.<br />
Constantinople’s control over its North African vassals declined and the Barbary<br />
Coast became a center of corsairing. On the Christian side, Malta and<br />
Livorno played similar roles. 3<br />
The insecurity in this area was identified rather quickly when letters from<br />
captives in North Africa reached the King, state officials or family members in<br />
Sweden. For example, in 1661 a galley slave in Algiers, Johan Arvidsson, sent<br />
a letter to the Admiralty about his poor condition. The message was then forwarded<br />
to the Church authorities along with the question of whether they could<br />
organize alms for a ransom. That was the usual process, and it was repeated in<br />
many other cases. But Arvidsson’s case was also taken care of by the Lord<br />
High Admiral Carl Gustaf Wrangel himself when he informed the Council<br />
about a ransom. Later, alms were collected and the Admiralty also gave money<br />
to pay the ransom of the galley slave Arvidsson. This example shows that one<br />
human being mattered and that it was a question of high priority. 4 How is it<br />
possible to understand this response? As Linda Colley has put forward, the<br />
Barbary captives embodied a particularly dramatic form of vulnerability. Collections<br />
on behalf of North African captives seem to have elicited higher levels<br />
of generosity. 5 This might also explain why Swedish subjects even gave alms<br />
to Greeks who begged for aid in Sweden for their captured family members in<br />
Turkey. In 1705 alms were collected all over Sweden for captured monks belonging<br />
to the Greek Catholic Archimandrite at the St. Athanasius Cloister. 6<br />
But ransoming was sometimes lacking, for different reasons. This becomes<br />
visible in a report about a ransom written by Johan Gabriel Sparwenfeldt to the<br />
King. Sparwenfeldt was a traveller and researcher who, during a journey in<br />
North Africa in 1691, had interviewed Swedish captives. In his report he recommended<br />
that a ransom should be paid for “the best, the most functional, the<br />
youngest and purest Swedes”. Old, damaged and “un-Swedish” bodies should<br />
not be liberated according to this line of thought. Many of the individuals interviewed<br />
by Sparwenfelt had been held in captivity for more than ten years, and<br />
most of them had been captured on ships from Holland. Because of their Swedish<br />
citizenship they had been left behind, according to Sparwenfeldt. 7 This was<br />
also the praxis among the European states: Each state ransomed its own citizens.<br />
It is therefore important to emphasize that human security at this stage<br />
was dependent on citizenship.<br />
In Sweden, information about what was happening in North Africa was<br />
fragmented during the second half of the seventeenth century. This can partly<br />
3 Müller 2004, 30-31, 49-51.<br />
4 Ekman 1962, 70.<br />
5 Colley 2002, 77-78.<br />
6 Forsell and Granstedt 1949, 28; Lundström 1906, 119.<br />
7 Riksarkivet Stockholm, Diplomatica Turcica: bihang Tripolitana, vol. 7, 1694.<br />
150
e explained by the Protestant Reformation, which ended the contact with<br />
ransoming organizations that had existed in Catholic European states since the<br />
thirteenth century, such as the Mercedarians and the Trinitarians. The Church<br />
of Sweden was indeed active in raising ransoms and publishing the plight of<br />
Barbary captives, but it lacked the contacts and knowledge of the Catholic<br />
redemptionist orders in Continental Europe. The basic information came from<br />
sporadic official contacts, and the letters from captives. Let’s take a closer look<br />
at the letters – this is where the discourse of security was formulated by the<br />
victims.<br />
The letters from captives in North Africa give information about what they<br />
expected from relatives or authorities at home. What demands were possible?<br />
Did they beg for help, demand help, or did they even ask when they would be<br />
helped? When Swedish seamen in bondage wrote letters for help, many of<br />
them sought aid directly from the King. In a Lutheran society this was a normal<br />
thing, since the King was not only the head of state but also the head of the<br />
church. According to the Lutheran state ideology, the sovereign symbolizes the<br />
Lord – judging, preserving order, and guaranteeing prosperity – and the good<br />
shepherd who demonstrates virtues, comforts and gives his blessing. This paternalistic<br />
idea of double responsibility was a commonly held norm repeated<br />
from the middle of the sixteenth century in prayer days, proclamations and<br />
propaganda in everyday life in Swedish society. According to this line of<br />
thought, an imagined bond was created between the King and each and every<br />
individual in the realm. 8 This ideology is also reflected in the letters.<br />
Many letters are signed by five, ten or even fifteen people. The first item is<br />
typically a salutation to the addressee, and after that there is an explanation of<br />
the case. Some petitions are broader in scope, giving details about what has<br />
happened and the problems they are dealing with. All the letters are united by<br />
their paternalistic subordination in line with Lutheran ideology, the descriptions<br />
of their misery, and their ambition to evoke benevolence. The detailed description<br />
of their misery should be taken seriously, but at the same time, this was<br />
also a rhetorical strategy used to create an emphatic identification and<br />
strengthen the will to do honorable deeds. This idea is very distinct in the letters.<br />
In many of the early letters compassion with the victim is most important<br />
argument for aid, but in some cases demands for help are also put forward, as<br />
in the following example:<br />
some of us here gathered in greatest truth, on our bare knees, with buoyant bitter<br />
tears of the heart and the eyes, praying and demanding, one more time, for<br />
Your Royal Highness’ help and liberation. 9<br />
8 Östlund 2007, 55-56.<br />
9 Riksarkivet Stockholm, Diplomatica Turcica: bihang Algerica, vol. 15, 1680.<br />
151
The next argument is formulated as a direct reflection of the Lutheran ideology.<br />
This time the King, not his subjects, is addressed and informed of the<br />
consequences of the deeds which reflect the fundament of the political and<br />
moral order. The letter says that if the King liberates them, this will be “very<br />
delightful to God the Almighty”, and therefore, the King’s “great richness<br />
should not diminish, but by the good God many times be blessed and increase”.<br />
10 In a religious world view, this argument should not be taken too<br />
lightly. The religious view of human security is common to many letters: for<br />
example, “all this pain to my body does not hurt me as much as their will [for<br />
me] to give up my religion”. 11 This shows what they feared. It is also clear that<br />
the captives turned the ideological statements back towards the party that represented<br />
them, and even raised demands to be liberated. But what is the meaning<br />
of freedom according to the captives? Many captives argue that they want<br />
to be subjects under a rightful and benevolent king, not a tyrant: “that we one<br />
more time could return to our dear fatherland with joy and health … and that<br />
we poor slaves continue to be His Royal Highness’ and our most merciful<br />
King’s most humble servants.” 12 Security, or even freedom, is here defined as<br />
belonging to the benevolent King. If the King does not help, his legitimacy is<br />
contested and therefore the messages are composed as a reminder of the moral<br />
obligation defined by the state. What was the impact of these cries for help?<br />
Solutions to Human Insecurity<br />
The Swedish response to corsair activity was not entirely similar to how other<br />
European states reacted. At an early stage the Swedish state chose negotiation<br />
instead of “forceful persuasion”, or coercive diplomacy, towards the North<br />
African states. Swedish ships never participated in any bombings of harbors,<br />
and even in the beginning of the nineteenth century wars were believed to be<br />
“an infinitely high price for security”. 13 The first attempt by the state to ransom<br />
Swedish captives was made by Captain Jöns Barkman in 1661, the same year<br />
that the first letter, from Johan Arvidsson, arrived in Sweden. His visit and<br />
contact with the Dey in Algiers was also related in a letter from a large group<br />
of captives addressed to the Chancellor of the State in 1662. They wrote that<br />
Barkman had visited them twice, but failed in the negotiation to get them re-<br />
10 Riksarkivet Stockholm, Diplomatica Turcica: bihang Algerica, vol. 15, 1680.<br />
11 Riksarkivet Stockholm, Diplomatica Turcica: bihang Algerica, vol. 15, 1707.<br />
12 Riksarkivet Stockholm, Diplomatica Turcica: bihang Algerica, vol. 15, 1724.<br />
13 Lunds universitetsbibliotek, De la Gardieska collection: historical documents, 25:4, 800-01-<br />
09. Eric Sköldebrand, consul in Algiers, report: “Upplysningar, rörande De Barbariska<br />
Staterne samt olägenhetene och förmonera af Krig eller fred med de samma”, signed in<br />
Stockholm, 9 January 1800.<br />
152
leased. 14 His failure might explain the next reaction from the state: retribution<br />
by corsairing. In 1663 a secret privateer company was founded by the Queen<br />
Dowager and a number of councilors. The purpose was to capture Muslim<br />
ships in the Red Sea. In September one ship out of two reached its destination<br />
and was successful in taking two richy-laden Muslim vessels. But from the<br />
investors’ point of view the expedition was not a success. 15 This corsair activity<br />
was an exception, and after this failure, Swedish politics towards the North<br />
African states changed.<br />
Among state officials and merchants, the relationship now turned into a<br />
question of how to implement solutions for human security. Swedish merchants<br />
met the threat from the corsairs with insurance from companies in Amsterdam.<br />
Different strategies about “security from the Turk” are also put forward. In a<br />
legal case from 1666 about such insurance, it was mentioned that seamen were<br />
skeptical towards this shipping; a merchant wrote in a document that “no seaman<br />
will sail on that ship because of fear of the Turk.” 16 A different kind of<br />
insurance, or systems of convoying to meet the risk of Turkish captivity, were<br />
discussed by Swedish merchants during the middle of the seventeenth century,<br />
and ideas of human security were transformed in this way into an important<br />
factor for a successful economic enterprise.<br />
On a state level, different non-coercive strategies towards human insecurity<br />
were formulated in 1668 when the Board of Trade decided that a peace treaty<br />
was needed. This had a humanitarian dimension where one of the motives was:<br />
“so that our subjects can trade under secure conditions”. This response reveals<br />
an awareness of the importance of the sailors. This was further underlined<br />
when, in the same year, the Board of Trade took the initiative of a collection of<br />
alms for the ransoming of captives. 17 To accomplish peace with the most powerful<br />
state in North Africa, Algiers, the plan was to send the Jewish professional<br />
negotiator, Azeweda from Amsterdam, together with the Swede Eosander.<br />
Unfortunately this plan was cancelled because the ship was caught in ice,<br />
and because of certain political factors. Then a new expedition was planned, to<br />
be undertaken by Jöns Barkman in 1669. But this initiative was also cancelled<br />
when a group of powerful politicians objected with the argument that a Swedish<br />
peace with Algiers could create irritation in Holland and England. 18 Swedish<br />
loyalties in European power politics become a hindrance, and the first step<br />
to a harmonization between state security and human security failed.<br />
14<br />
Riksarkivet Stockholm, Diplomatica Turcica: bihang Algerica, vol. 15, 1662.<br />
15<br />
Krëuger 1854, 25-26.<br />
16<br />
Söderberg 1935, 140.<br />
17<br />
Riksarkivet Stockholm, Topographic index, Letter from the Board of Trade to His Royal<br />
Majesty, 1668, 26/4.<br />
18<br />
Ekegård 1924, 252.<br />
153
In 1671 the Swedish seamen in Barbary captivity were officially described<br />
as a serious problem in a national proclamation in the churches by the Queen<br />
Regent Hedevig Eleonora. Benevolence towards the seamen in bondage was<br />
her main argument: Everybody should give alms and show compassion towards<br />
these poor victims. This was the wish of the Queen Regent, and it was also<br />
motivated by the duty to love one’s neighbor. This view of the victim shows<br />
that the individual had a double relationship towards the sovereign: one bound<br />
to religion, and the other to the fatherland. Therefore the Queen concluded that<br />
there were two motives for collecting ransom funds for these individuals: to<br />
save their souls and to secure their bodies. 19 This was a rather forceful reaction<br />
to a problem that was not yet very serious. At the same time, this announcement<br />
reflected one of the greatest fears during the second half of the seventeenth<br />
century: the fear of the Turk.<br />
In the mid-seventeenth century the salt trade between Sweden and Portugal<br />
was established, but Swedish merchants did not enter the Mediterranean extensively<br />
until the late 1690s. 20 It is clear that the Swedish authorities and merchants<br />
were well aware of the risks of sailing in Southern waters, and that a<br />
number of strategies had already been put to the test to reduce the risk. During<br />
this period no insurance company existed in Sweden, nor was there any official<br />
organization for dealing with ransoming. The payment of ransoms depended on<br />
initiatives taken by the captives in their letters as a request, hoping for the<br />
goodwill of relatives, county governors, the Church, the Admiralty, the King,<br />
or the Board of Trade. For example, in 1699 the carpenter Jonas Thorson was<br />
captured by corsairs from Algiers, and in 1707 one of his many letters finally<br />
reached its destination, his parents in Karlskrona. 21 In this letter he told them<br />
that he had been sold twice on the slave auction, and then asked them for help<br />
to request a collection of alms for his freedom. His parents took the letter to the<br />
magistrate and explained the situation. Then the magistrate contacted the<br />
county governor, who finally sent a letter to the King requesting national<br />
alms. 22 Even former captives took the initiative to collect ransoms: for example,<br />
Mats “Moor” Börgesson in 1666, who was granted royal permission to<br />
collect ransom funds (probably for his comrades left behind in North Africa). 23<br />
These examples show that solutions to human insecurity could differ. There<br />
existed no formal organization to which the captives could send their letters,<br />
19<br />
Lunds universitetsbibliotek, Kongl: may:ts placat, om hielp til the fångnas i Turckiet<br />
åtherlösn. Stockholm, 1671.<br />
20<br />
Müller 2004, 55.<br />
21<br />
Riksarkivet Stockholm, Diplomatica Turcica: bihang Algerica, 1707.<br />
22<br />
Riksarkivet Stockholm, Topographic index, Landshövdingarnas skrivelser till Kungl. Majt<br />
Blekinge län vol. 2. Landshöv. Otter om en kollekt öfver hela riket för befrielse af<br />
sjömannen Jonas Thorson som blifigt tillfångatagen af sjöröfvare och såld till slaf. 1707,<br />
26.7.<br />
23<br />
Landsarkivet i Göteborg, Göteborgs rådhusrätts dombok, January 1666 (digital archive).<br />
154
ut as these instances demonstrate, help was given anyway. Because of the<br />
irregular system, it is quite difficult to give reliable answers about the results of<br />
the practice of human security. More research is needed in order to estimate<br />
how many people made it back home during this period. In the beginning of the<br />
eighteenth century the situation in Swedish society had changed in major ways<br />
– changes that would affect the outcome of human security in the Southern<br />
waters.<br />
The Realization of Human Security<br />
Following the end of the Great Northern War of 1700-1721, secure trading and<br />
the economy were of the utmost importance for the bankrupt Swedish state.<br />
The humanitarian disaster caused by the war and the downfall of Caroline<br />
absolutism resulted in a changed view of citizenship. This can be seen in the<br />
constitution of 1720, which, for example, caused Voltaire to declare Sweden to<br />
be the “the freest land in the world”. Rousseau called the constitution “an example<br />
of perfection” and Gabriel Bonnot de Mably called it “a masterpiece of<br />
modern legislation”. 24 The disastrous war ended the Swedish era of great power<br />
and changed the attitude of many politicians. War was now believed to be the<br />
greatest threat to national security, and therefore economic development became<br />
a question of national security.<br />
With the end of the war, the protection of shipping in the Mediterranean received<br />
high priority. This can be seen in a couple of decisions. In 1724 the<br />
Swedish Convoy Office (Konvojkommissariatet) was founded, with the purpose<br />
of organizing and securing shipping in Southern Europe. Convoying,<br />
peace treaties with and consular service in North African states, and the ransoming<br />
of captured Swedes were now carried out under the umbrella of one<br />
institution. It was financed with the Extra-Licent, a duty established by merchants<br />
in 1723 to be paid on exports and imports. 25 And in 1726 a decision was<br />
made to organize four national collections of alms each year to pay the ransoms<br />
of Swedes in Barbary captivity. During these years large amounts of money<br />
were collected through alms in Sweden. The Swedish Parliament also established<br />
a committee that would be responsible for these funds, the “Algerian<br />
Fund Office” (Riksens Ständers deputation öfwer det Algiereiska Fondwercket).<br />
As an example of the monetary sums involved, during the years<br />
1755-1760 the Swedish state paid 130,000 Riksdaler for ransomed Swedish<br />
captives in Morocco. This amount is equivalent to approx. 5 million Euros<br />
today. 26 What is important here is that these decisions show how the question<br />
24 Roberts 1995, 91.<br />
25 Krëuger 1854, 25-27.<br />
26 Olán 1921, 108.<br />
155
of human security was transferred to the state level, and that as a consequence<br />
the system became professionalized and institutionalized. Of great importance<br />
is the treaty made between Sweden and Algiers in 1729. This treaty was shaped<br />
along the lines of other treaties between European states and Algiers, and with<br />
it a consular service and the system of Algerian passports were established. The<br />
purpose of the treaty was to ensure trade security and, not least, that of the<br />
seamen. The Swedish treaty with Algiers also stated that the consul had the<br />
right to have a priest at the consulate and that Christian slaves had the right to<br />
attend the sermons. The religious aspect of human security was also followed<br />
up when Jacob Serenius, a Swedish priest in London, received permission to<br />
send “forbidden” hymn books to Swedish captives in Algiers and to other seamen<br />
sailing in these waters. 27 State officials were also concerned about captives<br />
who were held in bondage for longer periods, that “these poor slaves without<br />
hope of ransoming should take injury to body and soul”. 28<br />
Compared to the political situation during the second half of the seventeenth<br />
century, when European power politics became a hindrance for a peace treaty<br />
with Algiers, Sweden gained a powerful ally in the beginning of the eighteenth<br />
century, namely the Sublime Porte. Together they were united against the<br />
common enemy, Russia. This, in turn, affected the relationship towards the<br />
North African states. According to David Gustaf Ankarloo, the Swedish consular<br />
secretary in Algiers (1801-10), the peace treaty with Algiers was struck<br />
under good conditions thanks to the agency of the Sublime Porte. 29 With the<br />
changing political map, Swedish diplomats could now use the friendship of the<br />
Sublime Porte. Swedish diplomats too, for example, raised questions about<br />
security from corsairs from the Ottoman regencies Tunis and Tripoli. 30 In 1737<br />
the Swedish-Turkish economic relations were settled, and later strengthened<br />
with a treaty of commerce and a military alliance. 31 According to the researcher<br />
Verner Söderberg, the relationship with the Sublime Porte resulted in cheaper<br />
treaties and tributes compared to countries such as Denmark, France, England<br />
and Spain. 32<br />
After the treaty with Algiers, treaties were made with Tunis (1736), Tripoli<br />
(1741) and Morocco in 1763. Another important institution during the middle<br />
of the eighteenth century was the organization of seamen’s establishments<br />
(Sjömanshus) in different cities. There are examples of seamen’s wives apply-<br />
27<br />
Jacobowsky 1930, 95.<br />
28<br />
Riksarkivet Stockholm, Topographic index, Marocko Tanger ang. 3ne svenskar utlösen ur<br />
slaveri in T. Composite offices to His Royal Majesty, 1737, 23.11, vol. 13.<br />
29<br />
Lunds universitetsbibliotek, De la Gardieska collection, Codices VIII 32. Ankarloo, David<br />
Gustaf, Utdrag af mina bref till M.F., skrifna under mitt vistande i Alger[…]. 1802-1811.<br />
30<br />
Eliasson 2005, 54.<br />
31<br />
Karlson 2003, 52-55.<br />
32<br />
Söderberg 1912, 94-95. Around a half billion Euros in today’s value was paid in total to the<br />
North African states.<br />
156
ing for and receiving economic help when their men were enslaved, or worse,<br />
when they died in captivity. Ransomed seamen could also get economic help. 33<br />
Before the founding of seamen’s establishments, the Convoy Office could also<br />
give social funds to ransomed slaves. 34 With the seamen’s establishments one<br />
can say that the human security aspect was in some way extended to the families<br />
of the victims.<br />
The consuls in different parts of the Mediterranean world also played an important<br />
role for the captives. The duties of the consuls were many. They collected<br />
business information, assisted the subjects of their home state in handling<br />
contacts with local authorities, and influenced the “protection costs” of<br />
the home state’s subjects by informing them of risks, and taking measures to<br />
diminish such risks. 35 They also gave a helping hand to individuals during their<br />
captivity in states with no treaty. The latter is shown in letters by captives and<br />
in books written by former captives. In Marcus Berg’s book “Description of the<br />
barbarous slavery in the kingdom of Fez and Morocco” (1757), he portrays the<br />
help given by the consul in Algiers, George Logie. Berg writes that during their<br />
visit in Fez the survival of the group was totally dependent on the help that was<br />
given by George Logie, and according to Berg, Logie also gave them money<br />
without the permission of the Swedish state. Berg also writes that he met eight<br />
French captives who told him that they had received money and food from the<br />
Swedish consul George Logie, but non from the French consul. 36 Help from a<br />
consul is also mentioned in a letter from four Swedish captives in Morocco, but<br />
this time from Consul Jakob Martin Bellman in Cadiz (the uncle of the famous<br />
Skald Michael Bellman). 37 This contact probably meant a lot to the captives. It<br />
is also worth mentioning that George Logie is a common reference in a wide<br />
range of documents concerning the relationship between Sweden and the North<br />
African states. He was not only one of the most important actors in the politics<br />
behind peace treaties between Sweden and the North African states but also<br />
one of the most active agents of human security in his work of ransoming<br />
Swedes, as well as captives of other nationalities. His work was also well rewarded<br />
by the Swedish King when his service ended in 1758. 38<br />
As has been shown, different agendas were discussed during the seventeenth<br />
century in dealing with the threat from the Barbary corsairs. This continued<br />
during the eighteenth century. The question of a Swedish insurance system was<br />
raised to meet the fear of the Mediterranean waters. Many ship-owners were<br />
33<br />
Stockholms stadsarkiv, Sjömanshuset, Gratialansökningar 1749-1775 E IVa kolon 3, 1750-<br />
1756 E IVa kolon 1.<br />
34<br />
Riksarkivet Stockholm, Topographic index, ang. förskotterade medel för bl.a. underhåll åt<br />
lösgivna slavar 1732 23.5. City offices vol. 34.<br />
35<br />
Müller 2004, 20.<br />
36<br />
Berg 1757, 35.<br />
37<br />
Riksarkivet Stockholm, Diplomatica Turcica: Bihang Maroccana, vol. 6, 7 May 1760.<br />
38<br />
Krëuger 1854, 15, 240, 355, 399.<br />
157
disappointed with the convoys – they were slow and difficult to organize in an<br />
adequate way – but were also skeptical of ideas of a Swedish insurance company:<br />
What if only the captain was insured and not the seamen? etc. The importance<br />
of this question was also demonstrated when even the government<br />
demanded an inquiry (1728) from the Board of Trade, the latter also noting the<br />
dilemma if only the skipper, rather than the whole crew, was covered by the<br />
insurance. 39 These examples speak for themselves: The simple seaman should<br />
also be protected from the fear and risk of enslavement.<br />
During the seventeenth century there was not enough capital for the establishment<br />
of a Swedish insurance company, but in 1739 the “Stockholms<br />
sjöassuranskompani” (“Stockholm sea insurance company”) was established.<br />
Its purpose was to break the dependence on foreign companies. And, following<br />
this, a Swedish “slave insurance” was also created in 1745: “Insurance on the<br />
danger of the Turk and on human life” (“Om Försäkring på Fahra för Turcken<br />
och på Menniskiors lif”). This insurance was a direct copy of the Hamburg<br />
Laws, which date from 1731. The Hamburgian “Assekuranz- und Havarie-<br />
Ordnung” (“Insurance and Damage Regulation”) was also copied directly by<br />
Denmark and Prussia. But this insurance was said to be unpopular in Sweden<br />
among the foreign companies. Information about the practical use of this insurance<br />
is not available yet, but it was probably of no great importance. Still, it is<br />
an interesting example of how people tried to deal with the fear of captivity and<br />
human security. The captivity of some hundreds of Swedish seamen, maybe up<br />
to a thousand in the end, received serious attention. It is noteworthy that the<br />
insurance makes a reference to the Admiralty’s “Sclav-Cassa” (slave fund).<br />
The term “Slaf-Cassa” is also used by the famous economist Anders Berch in<br />
one of his books (1747). According to him, the security for shipping in the<br />
Mediterranean was dependent on convoys and treaties. He also wrote that for<br />
the seamen there should also be “Slaf-Cassor” when peace was not possible<br />
with the corsairs, so that they would not fear sailing in the Southern waters. 40<br />
This term refers to the existing institutions, Sklavenkassen, in Copenhagen,<br />
Lübeck and Hamburg. 41 The praxis was the same, but in Sweden the Konvojkommissariatet<br />
was the central institution for both ransoming and protection of<br />
the shipping.<br />
Previous analysis has shown that the implementation and realization of human<br />
security was related to different historical, political and cultural factors. In<br />
the following the analysis will highlight how the legal status of human security<br />
could differ in relation to the different political and cultural contexts during the<br />
beginning of the eighteenth century.<br />
39 Söderberg 1935, 148-150.<br />
40 Berch 1747, 323.<br />
41 Ressel 2010. This volume.<br />
158
The Political Culture of Human Security<br />
As already mentioned, the European praxis of ransoming was that every state<br />
was only responsible for its own subjects. Human security was in this sense<br />
limited to citizenship. Other limitations were set by cultural differences. This<br />
becomes clear if we compare European treaties regarding prisoners of war with<br />
the European peace treaties with the North African states. The praxis among<br />
Christian nations of not enslaving prisoners, or civilians, can be seen in an<br />
agreement between Sweden and Denmark from 1719. The treatment of the<br />
prisoners is regulated in detail. A prisoner of war should be held captive for a<br />
maximum of three weeks; he should be treated well and with compassion; he<br />
should not be put into any hostile prisons nor forced into any labour, and finally,<br />
the wounded or sick have the right to treatment and medicine so that they<br />
can be ransomed in good health. 42 But in relation to non-Christian societies,<br />
these types of agreement were in general not considered applicable in Western<br />
Europe. 43 The same can be said of the perspective from the other side. In the<br />
Swedish treaty with Algiers in 1729, the power relationship becomes clear if<br />
we look at the regulations for the captives. According to the treaty no Swedish<br />
subjects should be harmed or tortured, and no Swedish subject should be enslaved.<br />
If a slave flees to a Swedish warship, this person should be taken back<br />
(not according to the treaty with Tunis – in this case the slave is free). Finally, a<br />
Swedish subject cannot be forced to ransom a slave, even if the slave is his<br />
family member, nor can the slave’s owner be forced to sell against his will (the<br />
deal should be struck with both parties’ consent). 44<br />
From this we can draw the conclusion that human security is related to the<br />
contact between states, and that the animosity between the Muslim world and<br />
the Christian world played an important role in how human security was implemented.<br />
The legal standards in the Swedish treaty are also related to the<br />
international standard, where the more powerful states defined the level of<br />
human security. The stipulation of the lack of obligation to ransom subjects is<br />
also a blueprint from the English treaty with Algiers of 1682. According to<br />
Linda Colley this “meanness”, in terms of human security, was partly a function<br />
of the English state’s limited resources at this stage, but also plain meanness.<br />
45 The stipulation that the Swedish state, or other European states, was<br />
under no obligation to ransom its subjects can therefore partly be interpreted as<br />
a failure of human security, even if the treaty resulted in the ending of kidnapping.<br />
It is also important to highlight that the price for upholding the peace with<br />
42 Lunds universitetsbibliotek, Cartel emellan Swerige och Danmark/om Krigs-fångarne slutet<br />
Stockholm den 30 April/11 Maji Åhr 1719.<br />
43 Rosas 2005, 48-50.<br />
44 Lunds universitetsbibliotek, Freds och handels tractat, emellan kongl. maj:t och cronan<br />
Swerige, och republiqven Alger, afhandlad och sluten i Alger then 5/16 aprilis åhr 1729.<br />
45 Colley 2002, 53.<br />
159
the North African states was paid not only with gold, but also with large<br />
amounts of weapons and ammunition. In this sense the European states also<br />
made it possible for the North African states to continue to threaten their own<br />
seamen. It was easier to implement human security where the state had a monopoly<br />
of violence, at home.<br />
The system of human security that was established by the Swedish state had<br />
strict instructions, especially for the Algerian Sea Passes. In January 1730 the<br />
“Rules for Algerians Sea Passes” were published. According to the directions,<br />
an Algerian Sea Pass could only be given to Swedish skippers and to foreigners<br />
if they had been Swedish burghers for three years. Ship-owners had to swear an<br />
oath that they were the only owner, and that the pass should only be used on<br />
the ship at hand. The documents were then sent from the Magistrate to the<br />
Board of Trade, which then issued a pass. All changes regarding ownership had<br />
to be reported the Board of Trade. The Sea Pass was restricted to one journey,<br />
and when the ship got back home the skipper had to restore the pass to the<br />
Board of Trade within eight days if the harbor was in Stockholm, and in other<br />
cases within fourteen days to a county governor, who in turn was to restore the<br />
pass to the Board of Trade. The same strict regulations were given if the ship<br />
was sold on foreign ground. If somebody falsified or misused a pass on a foreign<br />
ship, the punishment was death. If a ship-owner gave false information on<br />
the pass, large sums of money were to be paid in fines. If a ship sailed without<br />
a sea pass, fines were given, and if a ship was captured without a sea pass, the<br />
skipper was – if he came back – punished with prison for one month. The fines<br />
were shared between the informer and the ransom for captured Swedish subjects<br />
in Turkey or Barbary. Fines were also given to any shipper who sailed in<br />
the Mediterranean without the Algerian Sea Pass, because this threatened the<br />
safety of the crew. 46 This clearly shows the importance that was placed on the<br />
safety of the seamen. The importance of the correct use of the Algerian Sea<br />
Passes was also discussed among state officials. For example, in a document<br />
about the security of the Swedish shipping with respect to Algerian cruisers,<br />
the importance of following the rules given by passes was discussed: “when an<br />
Algerian galley closes in it should be met with friendship and according to the<br />
directives”. 47 This was a reminder of the directives given in the peace treaty,<br />
but also a wish to avoid misunderstandings when Swedish ships were inspected.<br />
The strict standards of human security given by the directions of the Algerian<br />
Sea Passes were not only meant to protect the seamen from Muslims corsairs<br />
but also from “doubtful” merchants engaged in long-distance shipping.<br />
This new attitude might also explain the diplomatic conflict between Sweden<br />
46 Sandklef 1952, 88-89.<br />
47 Riksarkivet Stockholm, Topographic index, ang. säkerhet för svenska sjöfaranden mot<br />
algeriska kryssare 1743 6.9. Composite officers vol. 15.<br />
160
and Hamburg. This conflict began in 1731 with a request from the Swedish<br />
resident at Hamburg, Carl Christoph Stralenheim, to responsible authorities in<br />
Hamburg. Stralenheim was instructed to act for the ransoming of 10-12 enslaved<br />
Swedes, left in Algiers, who had been caught while serving on Hamburg<br />
bottoms. 48 This type of request was unusual, maybe unique, between European<br />
states at this stage, but the request might be explained by the cultural similarities<br />
and the long tradition of economic alliances and friendship between Sweden<br />
and Hamburg. 49 The debate, in which the Swedes pushed hard for the security<br />
of their subjects, can be followed in a numbers of documents in the<br />
archives to the end of 1746. 50 As an aftermath to this diplomatic controversy,<br />
the King and the Board of Trade officially proclaimed in 1748 that Swedish<br />
subjects sailing under a foreign flag must ensure their security through the<br />
responsible shipping company to avoid the risk of becoming enslaved by any of<br />
the African states. 51 This was both a warning and a recommendation from the<br />
state. Swedish state officials put forward a ransoming request when Swedes<br />
were captured on Danish ships, which was implemented, and in turn also<br />
helped Danes in captivity in Morocco. 52 In these cases we can see that cultural<br />
resemblances and contacts had a positive effect on human security. It is therefore<br />
important to keep in mind that cultural values and contact between states<br />
also gave form and substance to the political process of human security.<br />
Conclusion<br />
Today, human security is described as an emerging paradigm for understanding<br />
global vulnerabilities. Its proponents challenge the traditional notion of national<br />
security by arguing that the proper referent for security should be the individual<br />
rather than the state. It is well known that policies for state security do not<br />
necessarily include policies for human security. States are in many cases providers<br />
of human insecurity outside as well as inside their own borders. There-<br />
48<br />
Hamburger Staatsarchiv 111-1 Senat C1. VII Lit. Ca. Nr. 2, vol. 3, Fasc. 5a, Document 1.<br />
49<br />
Kellenbenz 1958; Hildebrand 1884.<br />
50<br />
Riksarkivet Stockholm, Topographic index, Medelhavet ang. tryggandet av sjöfarten i<br />
Medelhavet samt ang. den s.k. slavkassan i Hamburg m.m. Chancellery office to His Royal<br />
Majesty 1735 30.1 vol. 23. ang. svenska slavars utlösande i A. Composite offices to His<br />
Royal Majesty 1738 12.4 vol. 13. ang. den i algeriska slaveriet varande fältskiären<br />
Hiedenreichs 1740 5.2 Composite offices vol. 14. ang. säkerhet för svenska sjöfaranden<br />
mot algeriska kryssare 1743 6.9. Composite offices vol. 15. ang. några svenska slavars i A.<br />
utlösande genom kollekter 1746 6.12. Chancellery office vol. 37.<br />
51<br />
Publication, angående the swenske siömän utlösen, som under främmande flagg blifwa<br />
fångne, 20 June 1748.<br />
52<br />
Landsarkivet Sjælland – EA-001 Sjællands Stift Bispeembde - 1715-1758 Kopibog for<br />
udgaaede breve vedr. slavekassen - Bind 1734-1745. fol. 235-239. Riksarkivet Stockholm,<br />
Topographic index. Danmark ang. ur marockansk fångenskap utlösta danska undersåtar.<br />
Composite offices to His Royal Majesty 1766 1.7, vol. 19a.<br />
161
fore situations where state security and human security are combined are highly<br />
interesting to study. This article has used the relationship between Sweden and<br />
the North African states as an example of this.<br />
This analysis has shown the complex process of human security from 1660-<br />
1760: how human insecurity was identified, how solutions were implemented,<br />
the realization of human security, and what political and cultural factors affected<br />
this process. It is clear that the Swedish security policy was not only<br />
orientated towards state concerns but definitely also humanitarian and responded<br />
to ordinary people’s needs when dealing with sources of threats. An<br />
interesting shift in the relationship between Sweden and the North African<br />
states began around 1720. With the establishment of the Swedish Convoy Office,<br />
the policies of national security and human security started to mutually<br />
reinforce each other. This was believed to be the most effective tool for the<br />
Swedish state to accomplish further economic development in the Mediterranean<br />
world. The professionalization and institutionalization of the human security<br />
policy (consulates, consuls, Sea Passes etc.) also made it easier for individuals<br />
such as George Logie to act more freely as agents of human security,<br />
compared to their predecessors. The difficult practice of human security during<br />
the Early Modern epoch was partly a function of the state’s limited resources,<br />
but different historical, political and cultural variables also played an important<br />
role. The complex working of these factors has been highlighted. The Protestant<br />
Reformation, Lutheranism, the outcome of the disastrous Great Northern<br />
war, and the alliance with the Sublime Porte, were all factors that gave form<br />
and substance to the praxis of Swedish human security. In summary, this article<br />
has shown that cultural, political and historical factors played an important<br />
role for how human security could be carried out in different parts of Early<br />
Modern Europe.<br />
References<br />
Printed Sources<br />
Berch, Anders. Inledningen till Almänna huhållningen, innefattande grunden til<br />
Politie, oeconomie och Cameral Wetenskapare. Stockholm, 1747.<br />
Berg, Marcus. Beskrifning Öfwer Barbariska Slafweriet Uti Kejsaredömet Fez och<br />
Marocco i korthet förtattad af Marcus berg, som tillika med många andra<br />
Christna det samma utstådt Twenne År och Siu Dagar, och derifrån blifwit utlöst<br />
tillika med Åtta stycken andra Swenska den 30 Augusti 1756. Stockholm: Lor.<br />
Ludv Grefing, 1757.<br />
Human Development Report 1994 – New Dimensions of Human Security (1994).<br />
(accessed July 29, 2010).<br />
Human Security Report Project. (accessed July 29, 2010).<br />
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Colley, Linda. Captives. Britain, Empire, and the World, 1600-1850. New York:<br />
Anchor Books, 2002.<br />
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Ekman, Carl. Amiralitets-armbössan och amiralitets-krigsmanskassan. Karlskrona:<br />
Kungl. Örlogsmannasällskapet, 1962.<br />
Eliasson, Henrik. “Handel och allianser. Sveriges förbindelser med Osmanska<br />
riket.” Dragomanen 9 (2005): 49-64.<br />
Forsell, Arne, and Granstedt Erik. Prästerståndets riksdagsprotokoll 1642-166.<br />
Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksells Boktryckeri, 1949.<br />
Hildebrand, Emil. “Den svenska diplomatins organisation i Tyskland under 1600talet.”<br />
Historisk Tidskrift (4) (1884).<br />
Jacobowsky, C. Vilhelm. Svenskar i främmande land under gångna tider.<br />
Göteborg: Elanders Boktryckeri aktiebolag, 1930.<br />
Karlson, Åsa. “Familjen Celsing och de svensk-osmanska relationerna under 1700talet.”<br />
In Minnet av Konstantinopel: den osmansk-turkiska 1700-talssamlingen<br />
på Biby, edited by Karin Ådahl, 35-74. Stockholm: Atlantis, 2003.<br />
Kellenbenz, Hermann. “Hamburgs Beziehungen zu Schweden und die Garantieakte<br />
von 1674.” In Zeitschrift des Vereins für Hamburgische Geschichte 44 (1958).<br />
Krëuger, Johan Henrik. Sveriges förhållande till Barbareskstaterna i Afrika.<br />
Stockholm: Norstedt, 1854.<br />
Lundström, Herman. “Sverige – protestantismens skyddsmakt i Europa.” In<br />
Kyrkohistorisk Årsbok. Uppsala: Svenska kyrkohistoriska föreningen, 1906.<br />
Müller, Leos. Consuls, Corsairs, and Commerce. The Swedish Consular Service<br />
and Long-distance Shipping, 1720-1815. Uppsala: Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis.<br />
2004.<br />
Östlund, Joachim. Lyckolandet, Maktens legitimering i officiell retorik från<br />
stormaktstid till demokratins genombrott. Lund: Sekel bokförlag, 2007.<br />
Olán, Eskil. Sjörövarna på Medelhavet och Levantiska Compagniet. Historien om<br />
Sveriges gamla handel med Orienten. Göteborg: Elanders Boktryckeri<br />
Aktiebolag, 1921.<br />
Ressel, Magnus. “The North European Way of Ransoming: Explorations into an<br />
unknown dimension of the Early Modern Welfare State.” <strong>Historical</strong> <strong>Social</strong> <strong>Research</strong><br />
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Åbo Akademi University, 2005.<br />
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(1912): 91-110<br />
163
The Danish Algerian Sea Passes, 1747-1838:<br />
An Example of Extraterritorial Production<br />
of Human Security<br />
Erik Gøbel �<br />
Abstract: »Die “Algerischen Seepässe” Dänemarks, 1747-1838: Ein Beispiel<br />
der extraterritorialen Produktion humaner Sicherheit«. This paper discusses<br />
the Danish “Algerian sea passes”, 1747-1838, as an example of production of<br />
“Human Security”. Since the seventeenth century, privateers from the Barbary<br />
States (i.e. Morocco, Algiers, Tunisia, and Tripoli) had seized ships under the<br />
Danish flag and captured the sailors. Often they were ransomed, in the beginning<br />
by family members and from 1715 by the Slave Fund in Copenhagen. Beginning<br />
in 1746, however, Denmark signed peace treaties with the Barbary<br />
States. Thereafter Danish shipmasters would carry so-called Algerian sea<br />
passes which secured safe passage. The system worked well until after 1830<br />
when the privateering business stopped. The Danish authorities issued 28,000<br />
Algerian sea passes which produced specifically “Human Security” for hundreds<br />
of thousands of Danish sailors. Insights into this system may challenge<br />
our notion of the so-called “Westphalian System”.<br />
Keywords: Security at sea, maritime insurance, sea pass, Slave Fund, Barbary<br />
States, privateering, Danish maritime history.<br />
Introduction<br />
The concept of “human security” as it was formulated in 1994 by the United<br />
Nations Development Report is a very visible reflection of a marked change of<br />
the meaning of “security” in our contemporary world. 1 The older, allegedly<br />
narrower focus on the military security of nation-states within this field has<br />
been more and more relativized and the security of the individual, dubbed<br />
“human security”, has become the ultimate goal, at least within the discourse. 2<br />
Whereas in the time of the Cold War, a “production of security” meant an<br />
easing of tensions between the blocs, nowadays an aspired “production of<br />
human security” can serve as justification to infringe on the sovereignty of<br />
nation-states. 3 One of the qualitatively “new” elements is said to be the de-<br />
� Address all communications to: Erik Gøbel, The Danish National Archives, Rigsdagsgården<br />
9, 1218 Copenhagen, Denmark; email: eg@ra.sa.dk.<br />
I wish to thank Magnus Ressel for useful remarks on an earlier version of this paper.<br />
1 Human Development Report 1994.<br />
2 On the discourse, see: Gasper 2005.<br />
3 See e.g.: Kaldor 2007, 182-197.<br />
<strong>Historical</strong> <strong>Social</strong> <strong>Research</strong>, Vol. 35 — 2010 — No. 4, 164-189
territorialization of “security production”, often constructed in opposition to a<br />
state-based “Westphalian System”. 4<br />
This dichotomical construction shall serve here as the starting point for an<br />
essay on a specific mode of “production of human security” during the Early<br />
Modern Era. If there was a given “Westphalian System”, in which clearly defined<br />
rules and demarcations ensured stability and security 5 , it may be of interest<br />
to look at the fringes of it in order to see more clearly its peculiarities and<br />
the weaknesses of such a branding. Serving as an example here is the Kingdom<br />
of Denmark, a medium-sized power within Early Modern Europe and the<br />
Northern African regencies. These were the so-called Barbary States in Northern<br />
Africa – Morocco, Tunisia, Tripoli, and especially Algiers, all of which<br />
threatened the most basic security of the Danish 6 King’s subjects in two ways,<br />
as they both raided Danish coasts and seized Danish ships. 7 Any territorially<br />
based mode of securing the King’s subjects was impossible since most of the<br />
danger lured in international waters, i.e. was extraterritorial. Therefore the<br />
ways in which a classical European power reacted towards this difficult and<br />
often unsolvable threat may give us profound insights into the underlying systems<br />
of both sides at large. In this essay the intention is to specify in detail<br />
what this danger meant, where it lured and how it was met. The aim of the<br />
following is to give a complex example of extraterritorial “production of human<br />
security” during the Early Modern Era and thereby enrich our understanding<br />
of issues of security production for individuals in a time and international<br />
system which is perhaps too narrowly simply called “Westphalian”.<br />
The Threat to “Human Security”<br />
The Danish King’s subjects living in the islands of the North Atlantic were the<br />
ones most threatened by the corsairs from Northern Africa. The corsairs sent,<br />
from the sixteenth century, sailing expeditions to the Faroe Islands and Iceland<br />
among other places where they went ashore, plundered, killed, and captured<br />
many people whom they took as prisoners to Northern Africa. This kind of<br />
terror culminated in the early seventeenth century.<br />
They landed, for instance in 1627, in several places in Iceland and made<br />
more than a hundred people captives after having robbed and destroyed the<br />
4 An overview and a critical examination of this idea is given in: Bacon 2001.<br />
5 It may be remarked that the idea of a “Westphalian” system is not very popular among<br />
historians, see e.g.: Duchhardt 1999.<br />
6 The Danish Kings ruled over Denmark, Schleswig, Holstein, Southern Sweden (until 1658),<br />
Norway, Faroe Islands, and Greenland, as well as small tropical colonies. In this article,<br />
“Danish” refers to all of these possessions.<br />
7 A general history of Danish shipping can be found in Degn and Gøbel 1997; Feldbæk 1997;<br />
and Møller 1998. A history of Danish shipping with special regard to the Barbary States,<br />
Algerian sea passes etc. can be found in Gøbel 1982-1983; and in Rheinheimer 2001.<br />
165
villages. The same year Algerians killed at least thirty-four people and took<br />
with them as prisoners 242 inhabitants from the small island of Heimaey off<br />
the southern coast of Iceland. 8 In 1629, they carried off thirty women from the<br />
settlement of Hvalba in the Faroe Islands. 9 The Barbaresques also landed in<br />
many other places in Northwest Europe. In 1631, two Barbaresque vessels<br />
attacked Baltimore near Cork in Ireland where they took 111 captives, and five<br />
years later they went ashore just twelve miles from Bristol and took prisoners;<br />
thus 2,000 people were captured and carried away from that region in 1634-<br />
1635. 10 Such raids went on for a very long time, as two Tunisian ships cruised<br />
in 1817 near the Thames where they seized a vessel from Hamburg and another<br />
from Lübeck. 11<br />
In order to prevent this odious practice the Danish King sent out men-of-war<br />
on several occasions. For instance the ‘Lindormen’ and the ‘Gabriel’, in 1638,<br />
whose commanders were instructed “to cruise diligently around the Faroe<br />
Islands and Iceland in order to prevent the Turks or others from molesting the<br />
King’s subjects”. 12 Again, in 1687, a flotilla of six men-of-war was equipped in<br />
order to fight against the Moslems in the North Sea around Helgoland and the<br />
Elbe’s estuary. But of course the Mediterranean coasts of Spain, France, and<br />
Italy were the most endangered by raids from the nearby Barbary States.<br />
Another kind of threat to human security was the fact that vessels from the<br />
Barbary Coast often attacked Christian shipping, captured ships and cargoes<br />
and made the crew members prisoners in Northern Africa. This had happened<br />
since the Middle Ages, but as European trade and shipping increased through<br />
the centuries, the Barbaresque problem became more and more serious, also to<br />
Danish sailors, shipowners, and merchants.<br />
Danish shipping to the Mediterranean had been very limited before the<br />
eighteenth century. 13 But as time went on the Barbary seizures became a significant<br />
problem to ships under the Danish flag in the Mediterranean as well as<br />
in the Atlantic off North Africa and the Iberian Peninsula.<br />
Several Danish ships were seized and the eyewitness accounts of that time<br />
clearly reflect the fact that the exotic Barbaresques made up a formidable threat<br />
to the Christian sailors, who were unable to communicate with them and who<br />
were frightened by the hard fate they expected as slaves in the Barbary.<br />
We do have a description of such an encounter at sea. 14 The ‘Jomfru Christina’,<br />
mastered by Hans Thode Gram, departed from its home port Trondheim<br />
on 7 September 1769 bound for Lisbon. A month later Cape Finisterre (i.e. the<br />
8 Helgason 1997.<br />
9 Wandel 1919,1.<br />
10 Barnby 1970, 27-29; Field 1932, 277-282.<br />
11 Wandel 1919, 120.<br />
12 Bricka 1885-2005, 11 April 1638 and 01 April 1633.<br />
13 Feldbæk 1997, 232. Cf. Bang and Korst 1930, 144-145, 178-179.<br />
14 Moss 1773. Other accounts are e.g. Diderich 1756; and Ravn 1754; and Jacobsen 1821.<br />
166
north-westernmost point of Spain) was sighted, and three days afterwards when<br />
the ship was just north of Lisbon, a vessel was sighted to the windward at 2<br />
o’clock in the afternoon.<br />
As it approached we became anxious that it might be a Turkish privateer, but<br />
did neither expect it to be an Algerian nor that they had declared war on Denmark.<br />
Therefore we had confidence in our Turkish sea pass which we had acquired<br />
not long ago. As the other vessel came closer it fired a bow cannon so<br />
that the cannonball passed us close to our stern. We had no choice but to clew<br />
up our course and heave to as the wind was almost calm. When the other vessel<br />
came so close that its crew was able to call us, we were ordered to come<br />
onboard the privateer and produce our passport 15 … Our master went there by<br />
the ship’s boat manned by four sailors. The four stayed in the boat waiting for<br />
the master to return. After having waited for some time, a lot of Turks and<br />
Moors came down and took us onboard their vessel. We became very frightened<br />
as we thought they would kill us … Thereupon the Turks took possession<br />
of our boat and rowed to our ship. Upon their approach our shipmates<br />
heard their strange chattering speech and became aware of the many people,<br />
they could not figure out what all this meant. But when they came to our ship<br />
it became clear that they were Turks, and they entered the ship like ravenous<br />
lions, chased the helmsman away, stroke our Danish colours, and sent our remaining<br />
six shipmates down into the ship’s boat. Some of the Turks took the<br />
captured sailors to their own xebec, while the rest of them took possession of<br />
our ship – which they considered as a lawful prize 16 .<br />
A week earlier the same privateers had succeeded in taking the ‘Rigernes<br />
Ønske’ of Copenhagen, so the xebec could disembark a total of twenty Danish<br />
prisoners in Algiers.<br />
This happened when Algiers had just broken the peace with Denmark, but<br />
under normal circumstances the Danes would be allowed to pass without hindrance<br />
after having produced their Algerian sea pass.<br />
Before the peace treaties were signed, the Danes often avoided being attacked<br />
by demonstrating their will to defend themselves. This was the case, for<br />
instance, in 1672 near the Canary Islands when the large armed frigate, the<br />
‘Oldenburg’, deterred four Moslem privateers from attacking by showing all its<br />
cannons and handguns. 17<br />
The Moslems were, however, not definitively illegal pirates. They considered<br />
themselves, as did their rulers, as participants in a kind of holy war against<br />
the infidels – and thereby qualified as privateers. A privateer (or corsair) was as<br />
a rule a private warship authorized by its own government by a letter of marque<br />
to capture enemy shipping for profit during a war and to bring their prizes<br />
before a prize court. Some privateering vessels were owned partly or even<br />
15<br />
Danish National Archives, Kommercekollegiet, Algiersk søpasprotokol no. 202, passport<br />
no. 111/1769.<br />
16<br />
Moss 1773, 3-7.<br />
17<br />
Henningsen 1953, 52.<br />
167
wholly by governments or princes. Privateering was a different practice from<br />
pirates who would attack all vessels at all times and simply take ship, cargo,<br />
and crew just like that. Privateering was abolished from international maritime<br />
law by the Paris declaration of 1856. 18<br />
Figure 1<br />
On 4 October 1769 the Danish ship ‘Rigernes Ønske’ of Copenhagen (in the middle) was<br />
seized by an Algerian settee armed with ten guns (to the right). The Danish captives were<br />
transferred to the Admiral’s xebec (to the left) which took them to Algiers a month later.<br />
Contemporary drawing by Christian Børs who was among the captivated. (Bergen Maritime<br />
Museum).<br />
The most important base for the privateers was Algiers, but privateering expeditions<br />
were also equipped in the ports of Morocco, Tunisia, and Tripoli. The<br />
Strait of Gibraltar and the Sicily Channel, which are ten and one hundred-andforty<br />
kilometres wide respectively, were the most frequently used hunting<br />
grounds.<br />
On the other hand, the narrowness of the Strait of Gibraltar meant that in<br />
1796, for instance, the Danish consul Lynch in Gibraltar could send a small<br />
boat out west in order to warn Danish shipping entering the Mediterranean that<br />
the prince of Algiers had started, in spite of the peace treaty, to seize Danish<br />
ships. The Swedes, it can be added, warned their shipping in the same way. 19<br />
Ships which were not bound for the Mediterranean were instructed to keep<br />
at safe distance from the danger. Thus the West India and Guinea Company’s<br />
18<br />
Montmorency 1976, 258-259.<br />
19<br />
Danish National Archives, Board of Commerce, box 1063, Royal resolution of 23 November<br />
1796; Olán 1921, 151.<br />
168
commanders had orders to steer a course west of the Canary Islands so as not to<br />
come into sight of these islands and thereby “risk to meet the Turks who often<br />
cruise in those waters”; the same held true with regard to the Cape Verde Islands.<br />
20 The ships’ articles of the Asiatic Company likewise stated that everybody<br />
onboard the large India-men and China-men should be prepared to defend<br />
the ship against the Barbary privateers and be ready to die if necessary. Even<br />
the ship’s chaplain onboard the ‘Kronprinsen’ en route from Copenhagen to<br />
Tranquebar in India in June 1709 had to participate in preparations for defence<br />
when a privateer approached. 21<br />
As a rule privateers operated first and foremost from April to October, as<br />
they wintered in harbour for the rest of the year, as did much European shipping.<br />
Most seizures took place in the Mediterranean or within a semicircle<br />
within Cape Finisterre, the Azores, and the Canaries. The privateers often lay<br />
waiting near the ports, but sometimes they operated instead on the open sea,<br />
even as far away as the fishing grounds off Newfoundland. Two or three vessels<br />
would operate together and normally only attack weak opponents such as<br />
fishing boats or other small vessels. The privateers, on the other hand, were<br />
characterized by being fast sailing and effective ships equipped with many<br />
sails, much armour, and large crews. 22<br />
The size of the total privateering fleet is not known. But the Moroccans, for<br />
instance, would have as a rule a fleet of only twelve large and small vessels.<br />
Thus, in 1766, they had four frigates armed with sixteen to forty-five cannons<br />
and 130 to 330 men, three xebecs with twelve to sixteen guns and 120 to 126<br />
men, as well as three gallions with four to eight guns and 80 to 120 men. 23<br />
Traditionally it has been supposed that the privateering business and slavery<br />
were essential elements of the economy of the Barbary States, and that the total<br />
number of enslaved Europeans was a little higher than one million. 24 It has<br />
been demonstrated, however, that this was not the case, 25 even though 20,000<br />
Christians were kept as slaves in Algeria alone between 1621 and 1627, while<br />
the number was a little more than 36,000 in all Barbary together in 1680. 26 The<br />
latest estimate is that around 180,000 persons were enslaved during the golden<br />
days of the corsairs, namely from 1574 to 1644. 27 In the eighteenth century, the<br />
20<br />
Danish National Archives, West India and Guinea Company, box 27, Instruction of 31<br />
October 1682, par. 11, and instruction of 08 November 1689, par. 4; box 29, Instruction of<br />
10 July 1697; etc.<br />
21<br />
Articler 1752, 32-33; Hans Mesler’s journal. Corresponding rules, dated 18 February 1636,<br />
can be found with regard to other mercantile shipping, cf. Secher 1897, 656.<br />
22<br />
Coindreau 1948, 99-101, 113-123.<br />
23<br />
Høst 1779, 175-176.<br />
24<br />
Davis 2003, 3-26.<br />
25<br />
Braudel 1966, 190-212; Weiner 1979, 205.<br />
26<br />
Dan 1684, 310.<br />
27<br />
Panzac 2009, 137-138.<br />
169
number of Christian slaves in Algeria had been reduced to 2,000-3,000, and in<br />
the early nineteenth century it was only 1,200. 28<br />
Ransom Money<br />
An important purpose behind making Christian sailors captives was the possibility<br />
of obtaining ransom money from their homes. Therefore, slaves were<br />
allowed to write home to their families or authorities and in some instances a<br />
few selected slaves were allowed to go home in order to give information about<br />
the prisoners, their harsh conditions, and the possibilities for ransoming them.<br />
Letters from slaves can be found scattered in Danish and German archives. 29<br />
For very long it was up to family and friends to raise the often very large<br />
amounts of money necessary to ransom their loved ones from slavery. In many<br />
instances, nevertheless, they succeeded, often after having raised a collection in<br />
the churches. Severe problems remained, however, in having the money transferred<br />
safely to Africa and in seeing to it that the right persons were ransomed.<br />
Instead of such individual actions it was realized that it would be much more<br />
expedient if a more general and coordinated effort could be established.<br />
Through the 1620s sporadic collections of ransom money had been arranged<br />
by Danish authorities. But on 2 August 1630, the King and his Council decided<br />
that 20,000 rix-dollars should be used for ransoming Danish prisoners from the<br />
Barbary States. The large sum turned out, however, to be insufficient to ransom<br />
all slaves, so extra money still had to be collected in the early 1640s. 30<br />
Seventy of the prisoners taken at Heimaey were still alive in Algeria in 1635<br />
– half of them were ransomed and came home in the summer of 1637, the rest<br />
never returned and we do not know their fate. 31 It must be supposed, however,<br />
that some may have escaped, some have converted to Islam, some have been<br />
exchanged for Moslems captured by Christian powers, some may have been<br />
ransomed by other Europeans, and some have arranged for their own release. 32<br />
In the late seventeenth century, ransom money had become ordinary alms to<br />
be asked for in Denmark, either by relatives of slaves or by general collections<br />
in the churches. In order to arouse pity in the churchgoers wooden figurines of<br />
sailors in chains were exhibited at the church doors. 33<br />
28<br />
Bennett 1960.<br />
29<br />
E.g. Rheinheimer 1999; Rheinheimer 2001; Møller 1998.<br />
30<br />
Bricka 1885-2005, e.g. 2 August 1630, 12 September 1634, 22 December 1636, 18 January<br />
1639, and 9 March 1637; cf. Erslev 1887-1888, 230, 242-243; Braudel 1966, 209-211.<br />
31<br />
Blöndal 1924, 52-72.<br />
32<br />
For instance Bricka 1885-2005, 9 March 1637 and 3 January 1639.<br />
33<br />
E.g. Rheinheimer 2001, 27.<br />
170
Figure 2<br />
Algerian sea pass issued on 5 January 1781 for the ship ‘de Friede’ of Bergen, burthen 67<br />
lasts, commanded by Hans Ellertsen, and bound for Saint Croix in the Danish West Indies.<br />
The size of the parchment is 30x40 cm. It is written on the sea pass that the shipowner had<br />
taken his oath that vessel and cargo was Danish property. The top section was cut off along<br />
the wavy line. (Danish National Archives)<br />
An addition to the church collections were the small amounts of money<br />
which were provided by the shipmasters’ associations in Bergen and Copenhagen.<br />
34 From 1653 and 1707, respectively, every shipmaster and mate paid a<br />
small part of their wages, so-called ransom money, to help free Danish sailors<br />
from slavery in the Barbary States. From 1715 the money was administered by<br />
34 Hassø 1934, 15, 52, 81-83, 122.<br />
171
the Danish envoy in Brussels who had, before that, been responsible for recovering<br />
Danish ships captured by European privateers. 35<br />
At that time a number of ships under the Danish flag were seized. The large<br />
armoured frigate ‘St. Christopher’ from Bergen with a crew of forty men was<br />
taken when it was homebound from Leghorn in June 1706. 36 On this occasion<br />
the King allowed a collection both in the churches and at peoples’ homes. The<br />
revenues were to be administered by the municipal authorities in Bergen to<br />
ransom the ship’s officers and as many ordinary sailors as possible. In August<br />
1708, the ‘Fortuna’ of Drammen was seized en route to Cadiz and taken to<br />
Algeria, and in August 1712 two more ships under Danish colours were seized<br />
on their way home from Portugal and Spain. Supplications from relatives to the<br />
King resulted in a comprehensive collection all over his realm.<br />
The results were not satisfactory, as all slaves could not be ransomed. For<br />
instance twenty-nine out of the forty men from ‘St. Christopher’ were still held<br />
as slaves in 1714, and had been so for eight years.<br />
Some prisoners, most often masters or mates, succeeded in freeing themselves.<br />
Sometimes they borrowed the necessary ransom money from their<br />
shipowners or others at home, but often these sums were so high that they<br />
could not meet their obligations once they had come back home and had to<br />
spend the rest of their lives in poverty. 37<br />
The Slave Fund, 1715<br />
In 1715, the slave issue had become a matter of urgency, as more than eighty of<br />
the King’s subjects were held as prisoners in Algeria alone. 38 The King issued<br />
therefore, on 12 April 1715, three ordinances. 39 The first one introduced a duty<br />
on all shipping to France, Spain, England, Portugal, and Holland, namely three<br />
shillings per commercial last of burthen. 40 The second ordinance decreed that<br />
on two Sundays every year collections should be held in all churches, after the<br />
pastors had aroused Christian pity in their flocks. The collected money was to<br />
be sent to the Slave Fund in Copenhagen which was established by the third<br />
ordinance. The Fund should also receive the afore-mentioned money from the<br />
shipmasters’ associations, which was extended, in 1716, to all ports and fixed<br />
at two shillings per rix-dollar for shipmasters and mates and at one for ordinary<br />
35 Danish National Archives, Danske Kancelli, Indlæg til Sjællandske Tegnelser 174, 175, and<br />
177/1715 (box D.21-20).<br />
36 Møller 1998, 104; Fossen 1979, 240.<br />
37 Møller 1998, 108.<br />
38 Ibid.<br />
39 Fogtmann 1786-1854, 12 April 1715. – The latest survey of the history of insurance in<br />
Denmark is Feldbæk et al. 2007.<br />
40 Danish ships were measured in commercial lasts which roughly equalled a carrying capacity<br />
of 2.6 tons. Cf. Møller 1974; Müller 2004, 242.<br />
172
sailors – respectively two and one percent, that is. 41 Thus, the collections contributed<br />
about one half of the money in the Slave Fund, while money from<br />
sailors and ships made up the other half. 42 (By decree of 26 November 1768,<br />
the duty on burthen was abolished, and afterwards only crew-members on<br />
vessels with an Algerian sea pass had to pay the so-called ransom money. This<br />
had to be paid until 1827). 43<br />
Appointed as members of the Slave Fund Commission were a bishop and<br />
two competent merchants. 44 The Commission had to find the best ways of<br />
ransoming slaves, if necessary after having consulted experts in this field. First<br />
of all the commissioners should ransom slaves from the Barbary States, and<br />
keep accounts of the Slave Fund as well as of the numbers and names of the<br />
ransomed slaves. The funds might be increased a little by trying to have ransom<br />
money paid for the Turk prisoners who were held in Copenhagen. Finally, the<br />
Commission was ordered to present an annual report on their activities and the<br />
results.<br />
Ordinary marine insurance was not relevant with regard to the odious practice<br />
of Moslem privateering. First, it could not be considered as piracy because<br />
the privateers were authorized by their governments, and second, there was no<br />
war declared against the North Africans. As time went on, special slave insurance<br />
was developed, but it was not in common use in Scandinavia. A few<br />
shipmasters and mates were, nevertheless, insured in order to make sure that a<br />
certain amount of ransom money would be paid out. 45<br />
Ransom money fluctuated quite a lot according to circumstances. A shipmaster<br />
cost, for example, more than an ordinary sailor, and the amounts also<br />
changed over time. 46 During the 1630s, ransom money is known to have fluctuated<br />
from less than one hundred rix-dollars to almost six hundred rix-dollars. 47<br />
In 1714, two shipmasters ransomed themselves at 3,200 and 2,350 rix-dollars<br />
each. At the same time a sailor was ransomed for a little less than four hundred<br />
rix-dollars, but even that was a sum much larger than what an ordinary family<br />
could afford. 48 From 1715 to 1736, the Slave Fund Commission ransomed 163<br />
41<br />
Fogtmann 1786-1854, 13 mar 1716; Schou 1777-1850, 13 March 1716.<br />
42<br />
Wandel 1919, 9.<br />
43<br />
Fossen 1979; Kong Friderich den Fierdes Forordninger fra Aar 1707 til 1708 1708, Copenhagen<br />
Shipmasters’ Association’s articles of 25 January 1707, par. 16; Schou 1777-<br />
1850, 13 March 1716; Fogtmann 1786-1854, 12 April 1715; Forordning … over … Told,<br />
Consumption og Accise … 26de Novembr. Ao 1768 (Copenhagen, 1768): chapt. 21;<br />
Forordning om Tolden og Kiøbstad-Consumtionen … 1ste Februarii 1797 (Copenhagen,<br />
1797): par. 367; Schou 1777-1850, 21 August 1747.<br />
44<br />
Instructions for the Slave Fund Commission can be found in Danish National Archives,<br />
Danske Kancelli, Sjællandske Tegnelser 177/1715 (box D.20-9).<br />
45<br />
Bro-Jørgensen 1935, 157-167; Lorange 1935, 74 Söderberg 1935, 139-140, 148-151.<br />
46<br />
E.g. Høst 1779, 157.<br />
47<br />
Bricka 1885-2005, 4 October 1627, 2 March 1636, and 9 April 1641; Fossen 1979, 240.<br />
48 Møller 1998, 108.<br />
173
Danish subjects for 154,649 rix-dollars or 949 rix-dollars on average, an average<br />
which was valid until the Slave Fund was closed down in 1754. 49 When, on<br />
the other hand, a Danish man-of-war was lying in the roads of Algiers for instance,<br />
the prices were drastically reduced. Thus, the ‘Delmenhorst’ ransomed<br />
prisoners at eighty rix-dollars per person in 1746, and nine years later the<br />
‘Fyen’ had a slave at only thirty-nine rix-dollars. 50<br />
We do not know how many of the Danish King’s subjects were slaves in the<br />
Barbary States during the centuries for shorter or longer periods. Even though<br />
the number of seizures declined after the middle of the eighteenth century, the<br />
number of enslaved Danes probably amounted to thousands. We do know that<br />
from 1716 to 1754, the Barbary privateers seized no less than nineteen Danish<br />
vessels with 208 men onboard, and when the Staten van Holland, in 1682,<br />
ransomed 178 slaves in Algeria who had been engaged on Dutch ships, seven<br />
Danes were among the liberated. 51 The Danish Slave Fund Commission, nevertheless,<br />
would not ransom Danish subjects who had been engaged on foreign<br />
vessels. 52 The commissioners reported proudly, in 1736, that at that time no<br />
Dane was held prisoner in the Barbary States. 53<br />
Very soon after its establishment the Slave Fund had engaged local representatives<br />
in the financial centres of Hamburg and Amsterdam, as well as the<br />
merchant Johannes Pommer in Venice, from where he managed the ransoming<br />
business on behalf of the Danes. Between 1715 and 1753 the Fund and its<br />
representatives ransomed a total of 224 slaves. Before 1746 fourteen ships were<br />
captured and 180 slaves ransomed, i.e. on average 0.5 ships and 6.0 ransomed<br />
slaves per year. From 1748 to 1754 it amounted to five seized ships and 44<br />
ransomed seamen, i.e. on average 0.7 and 6.3 respectively per year. 54 Even<br />
though more ships were seized and more sailors were to be ransomed, the Algerian<br />
sea passes were a success as the trade and shipping activities under the<br />
Danish colours in the Mediterranean increased at an even higher rate, as demonstrated<br />
for instance in the Sound Toll Registers. 55<br />
It must be added briefly that many other privateers operated in European<br />
waters, yet without taking sailors as slaves. Especially ill-famed were the Maltese<br />
Knights and the corsairs of Zeeland during the War of the Spanish Succes-<br />
49 Wandel 1919, 6-9; Bro-Jørgensen 1935, 161-163; cf. Lorange 1935, 74.<br />
50 J. J. Ihnen, Journal was auf der im Jahre 1746 von … C VI nach der mittelländischen See<br />
… ausgesandten … Orlog-Schiffe Delmenhorst … sich vorgetragen (copy in Danish National<br />
Maritime Museum after manuscript in Stadtarchiv Aurich): 32; Zimmer 1927, 78.<br />
51 Bro-Jørgensen 1935, 157-167; Vries 1684, 160-168.<br />
52 Rheinheimer 2001, 29-30.<br />
53 Wandel 1919, 6.<br />
54 Bro-Jørgensen 1935, 160-164.<br />
55 Bang and Korst 1930.<br />
174
sion. But by far the most seizures were done by British and French privateers<br />
during the Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars. 56<br />
Figure 3<br />
Typical pages of an Algerian sea pass protocol, 1795. The first ships’ names are ‘Anna Dorothea’,<br />
‘Kron Printz Friderich’, ‘Christian Severin’, and ‘die Hoffnung’. Home ports are Copenhagen,<br />
Christiansand, Farsund, and Apenrade. Destinations include Saint Croix, Genoa,<br />
the Mediterranean, and Lisbon. (Danish National Archives).<br />
Treaties, 1746-1845<br />
All Christian seafaring nations experienced the same problems with the Barbary<br />
privateers, even great maritime powers such as Britain, the Netherlands,<br />
and France. Even though several authors recommended common action against<br />
the Moslems, no such action was taken. 57 So, the seafaring nations had to cope<br />
with the problem on an individual basis – and ended by signing peace treaties<br />
with the Barbary States. These, except for Morocco, were not states as such,<br />
however, but peripheral territories under the control of the Ottoman Empire. It<br />
may seem a little strange to sign a peace treaty in such cases where no war had<br />
been declared, but according to Islamic law there was by definition an eternal<br />
war going on against the Christians.<br />
56 Feldbæk 1997.<br />
57 E.g. Project 1721; Herrmann 1815.<br />
175
The peace treaties were as a rule made after the same pattern. The Europeans<br />
promised to deliver once-and-for-all presents as well as annual presents<br />
typically consisting first and foremost of bullion, weapons, ammunition, and<br />
pretiosa. Even though this was very expensive, it was considered less expensive<br />
than the alternative which would be protection by men-of-war of the merchantmen<br />
in convoys, a practice which was rather slow and complicated to<br />
organize.<br />
In return for the presents the Christian mercantile shipping would not be disturbed<br />
by the Moslem privateers. This would be secured by providing the merchantmen<br />
with a special kind of sea passports which were cut into two pieces,<br />
of which the upper part was sent to the Barbary States while the large lower<br />
part with the text, which was in a European language, was to be carried by the<br />
shipmaster. 58 As neither privateers nor European seamen were able to read or<br />
understand the spoken language of their counterparts they simply produced<br />
their own part of the passport – and if the parts fitted together the European<br />
ship should be allowed to pass on without any hindrance. The Christian seafaring<br />
nations made use of individual wave lines to cut their passes. 59<br />
Entering into a treaty with the Dey of Algiers was discussed in Denmark for<br />
a long time, especially after Sweden had concluded such a treaty in 1729. 60 The<br />
Danish Slave Fund Commission gave their opinion on the matter, in 1736, and<br />
suggested to the King a draft which was very much like the text of the peace<br />
treaty which was – after futile efforts at contact in 1738 and 1742 – signed by<br />
Denmark and Algeria on 10 August 1746. 61<br />
In the treaty, King Frederik the Fourth and Dey Ibrahim Pasha assure that<br />
they will live in peace with each other for ever, and that “all ships, be they<br />
small or large, should never in any way cause each other any harm or damage”<br />
(paragraph one); 62 the ships must not delay each other (paragraph three); and<br />
“when an Algerian privateer meets one of His Majesty’s subjects’ ships, the<br />
Algerians may only approach the ship with a barge manned with two persons in<br />
addition to the bargemen, no more than two persons are allowed onboard the<br />
58<br />
Foreign sea passes are shown e.g. in Müller 2004, 145; Bowen 1926, 189; Granville 1924,<br />
32.<br />
59<br />
Harboe 1839, 418; Henningsen 1970, 17.<br />
60<br />
Müller 2004, 55-60; Boëthius 1922, 99-106.<br />
61<br />
Holm 1897, 159-161; and Holm 1898, 204-211; Bjerg 1996; Wandel 1919, 6-11; Andersen<br />
2000, 37-54; Danish National Archives, Foreign Department of the German Chancery, Special<br />
Part, Barbary States, box 1, Report of 13 October 1736 from the Slave Fund Commission.<br />
62<br />
Danish National Archives, Treaty Collection, Original treaties in Turkish, Danish, and<br />
French; printed edition published in Danish and German as an appendix to Kong Friderich<br />
den Femtes Forordninger 1746 1748; abridged version in Reedtz 1826, 197-198; translation<br />
in Wandel 1919, 10-11. This treaty is identical with the treaty of 22 January 1752 with<br />
Tripoli, except for an insignificant difference in paragraph 9, cf. Udenrigsministeriet 1882,<br />
22-29.<br />
176
Danish ship, and when the shipmaster has produced his passport they must<br />
leave the ship immediately, and no merchant vessel must be detained” (paragraph<br />
four). No Dane may be “taken, sold, or made a slave” (paragraph<br />
twelve). Furthermore, the rights and obligations of Danish consuls and men-ofwar<br />
are acknowledged (paragraphs fifteen through eighteen). It is also agreed<br />
that “no Algerian ship, be it large or small, is allowed to run into sight or enter<br />
any port belonging to Denmark, as such might give occasion for misunderstandings”<br />
(paragraph eight). Strangely enough, no mention of presents or<br />
tribute can be found in the peace treaty, but this must have been an implicit<br />
condition. After ratification of the treaty by the Danish King and the Divan, its<br />
contents were published in Denmark by proclamation of 12 January 1747. 63<br />
The Danish treaty was verbally correspondent with the Swedish one from<br />
1729; only two paragraphs differ, as paragraphs eight and twelve are not to be<br />
found in the Swedish treaty. 64 The Dutch-Algerian treaty of 18 June 1712 is<br />
also very much like the Danish and Swedish ones; several paragraphs have<br />
identical wording. 65 The Dutch tradition dates back to the first treaty with Constantinople<br />
in 1660, in which dispositions to many of the later provisions can<br />
be found. These were developed in the following treaties between the Netherlands<br />
and the Barbary States, culminating in the treaty with Algeria dated 30<br />
April 1629, the content of which is identical with the 1712 treaty. 66 The French<br />
King signed a treaty with Algeria for the first time in 1619, the English in<br />
1662, and the German Kaiser in 1727. 67<br />
The same provisions as in the Danish treaty of 1746 were reiterated almost<br />
unchanged in the other treaties which were signed by Denmark and the Barbary<br />
States: namely Tunisia on 8 December 1751, Tripoli on 22 January 1752, Morocco<br />
on 18 June 1753, the Sublime Porte in Constantinople on 14 October<br />
1756, Morocco again on 25 July 1767, Algeria on 16 May 1772, and Tripoli in<br />
1816, 1824 and 1826 – until the last Danish obligation to pay tribute was repealed<br />
by treaty with Morocco dated 5 April 1845. 68<br />
The Danish reason for signing these slightly ignominious treaties was<br />
mainly economic, namely the important shipping and trade under the Danish<br />
flag. However, we should also be aware that these treaties ensured absolute<br />
safety for all Danish sailors for the future. That this was also an important<br />
63<br />
Schou 1777-1850, 12 January 1747.<br />
64<br />
Even though paragraph 8 in the Dutch-Algerian treaty of 26 March 1662 says that both<br />
Danish and Swedish sailors onboard Dutch ships might be enslaved, according to Dan<br />
1684, 102.<br />
65<br />
Cau 1725, 449-452; a brief mention can be found in Sandbergen 1931, 155-156.<br />
66<br />
Vries 1684, 19-26, 84-86, 99-103, 134-141.<br />
67<br />
Reftelius 1739, 464-465.<br />
68<br />
Udenrigsministeriet 1882 passim; Udenrigsministeriet 1877, passim. The most important<br />
Dutch follow-up treaties were from 1726, 1757, 1794, and 1816, while the Swedish were<br />
from 1736, 1741, 1758, 1763, and 1771.<br />
177
eason to sign these treaties can be clearly read from the petition of the Slave<br />
Fund to begin peace negotiations with the Barbary States. Here not one economic<br />
reason is stated but instead the authors elaborate on the misery of the<br />
Christian slaves in Northern Africa. 69 However, this did not always ensure full<br />
security. On three occasions Barbary States violated the treaties and began to<br />
seize Danish ships: Algeria 1769-1772, Tripoli 1796-1797, and Tunisia 1800-<br />
1802. Denmark reacted by sending out squadrons of fifteen, three, and eighteen<br />
men-of-war respectively to demonstrate naval force and strength of will, but it<br />
turned out to be almost impossible to force the Barbaresques. Instead the Danes<br />
had to accept new economic demands from the Moslems, a solution to the<br />
conflicts which was still much cheaper than sending out sufficient men-of-war<br />
to protect the Danish shipping by convoying the merchantmen. 70 Thus, in the<br />
1790s it was estimated that the value of the tributes made up only fifteen percent<br />
of the net earnings of the Mediterranean trade and shipping under the<br />
Danish flag. 71 Considerable additional expenditures by the foreign service and<br />
the navy must not be forgotten, however. A very important factor in producing<br />
human security was the installation of Danish consuls in the Barbary States:<br />
1747 in Algiers, 1752 in Tunisia and Tripoli, and 1753 in Morocco. 72<br />
Another matter for concern was the fact that not a few prisoners converted<br />
and abandoned their Christian faith for the sake of Islam, either for practical<br />
reasons or from conviction. This, in addition to the hardships of the captured<br />
countrymen and the need to have the sailors back to man the Danish fleet, was<br />
also an important driving force behind the ransoming efforts. 73<br />
It is strange that none of the Danish treaties mention explicitly the introduction<br />
of so-called Turkish or Algerian sea passes. Probably it has been implied<br />
that this special kind of passport, which was already well known, should be<br />
made use of. This was suggested in 1736 by the Slave Fund Commission. 74<br />
The Danish Vice Consul in Morocco could state that in the 1760s the sea<br />
pass system was working well. When a privateer captain was to depart he<br />
picked up from every consul a sea pass (i.e. upper part only) for which he had<br />
to make a receipt, and he even received a small gift “in order to prevent him<br />
from mistreating ships of those nations at sea”. 75<br />
69<br />
Wandel 1919, 5-9.<br />
70<br />
Andersen 2000, 184-195, 204-206; Garde 1852, 255-260, 311-326; Linvald 1923, 118-120,<br />
313-318. Cf. Olán 1921, 156-158.<br />
71<br />
Bjerg 1996, 87.<br />
72<br />
Marquard 1952, 440-458.<br />
73<br />
E.g. Bishop Worm’s letter to the King 05 April 1714, in Danish National Archives, Danske<br />
Kancelli, Indlæg til Sjællandske Tegnelser 174, 175, and 177/1715 (box D.21-20).<br />
74<br />
Wandel 1919, 6; Müller 2004, 144; Eck 1943, 190-191.<br />
75 Høst 1779, 179.<br />
178
The sea pass system did provide security as is demonstrated from the following<br />
example. 76 On 30 May 1749, a ship under the Danish colours bound for<br />
Marseille was seized near Cape Finisterre by a xebec from Tetuan (a Moroccan<br />
port just east of the Gibraltar Strait), because Denmark had not signed a peace<br />
treaty with Morocco. The ten Danes were taken prisoners onboard the xebec.<br />
The next day, however,<br />
our xebec met an English ship from where the shipmaster was ordered to come<br />
onboard to us to show his English sea pass. When he had done that the answer<br />
to him was: We have peace together. Thereupon he went back to his own<br />
ship again to proceed his voyage.<br />
The Danes were taken ashore and enslaved.<br />
Algerian Sea Pass Protocols, 1747-1848<br />
Fulfilment of the Barbaresque treaties was rather expensive for the Danish<br />
government, but it was considered so advantageous after all that Danish authorities<br />
made every effort to secure that Algerian sea passes were not abused.<br />
A considerable number of regulations were published in Denmark in order to<br />
make sure that the authorities could supervise and control the issue of passes<br />
etc.<br />
On 1 May 1747, the royal ordinance concerning Algerian sea passes was<br />
given. 77 It was probably inspired from two Dutch placards of 1713 and 1715,<br />
which together comprised the same provisions as the Danish ordinance, and<br />
which had their roots in the States-General’s ordinances of 1623 and 1625<br />
concerning Turkish sea passports. Another obvious source of inspiration was<br />
the Swedish ordinance of 12 January 1730, as the Danish and Swedish texts are<br />
very much concordant. 78<br />
The Danish ordinance prescribed that the shipowners should take their oath<br />
and produce documents which proved to the municipal authorities that the ship<br />
belonged to subjects of the Danish King and that it was equipped at the expense<br />
of Danes. Furthermore, the shipmaster had to take an oath that he would not in<br />
any way abuse the sea pass. Only then could the Board of Commerce in Copenhagen<br />
issue an Algerian sea pass. It was written on a large, beautiful<br />
parchment form. The sea pass was valid for only one voyage, and the shipmaster<br />
had to return it to the Danish authorities immediately upon his return. The<br />
Board of Commerce’s supervision was carried out by means of protocols,<br />
76<br />
Diderich 1756, 11-12.<br />
77<br />
Danish and German text in Kong Friderich den Femtes Forordninger 1747 1748, 31-46;<br />
Schou 1777-1850, 1 May 1747. Cf. Andersen 1925, 301-304, 356-357.<br />
78<br />
Cau 1725, 619-620; Vries 1684, 54-56, 62-63; Olán 1921, 66-68, and Müller 2004, 144-145<br />
(ordinance of 1730).<br />
179
called the Algerian Sea Pass Protocols, in which information about all Algerian<br />
sea passes that had been issued were registered.<br />
Figure 4<br />
Title page of the printed version of the royal Danish ordinance of 1 May 1747 concerning<br />
Algerian sea passes. It is written on it that the text has been read at the town hall to the burghers<br />
present on 12 May 1747. The name of the town is unknown. (Danish National Archives)<br />
At least from March 1748, it was compulsory for all ships under the Danish<br />
colours destined to ports beyond Cape Finisterre to carry an Algerian sea pass.<br />
This held true for voyages to Spain, Portugal, all ports in the Mediterranean, as<br />
well as to Africa, America, and Asia. 79<br />
The price of a sea pass was considered rather high by the shipowners. They<br />
had to pay fifty rix-dollars to the Slave Fund for having an Algerian sea pass<br />
79<br />
For the following, see Fogtmann 1786-1854, passim; and Schou 1777-1850, passim. Cf.<br />
Link 1959, 140.<br />
180
issued, plus two rix-dollars for the form itself, and in many cases also perquisites<br />
to the municipal authorities. As from 1783, payment to the Slave Fund<br />
was instead regulated according to the burthen of the vessel.<br />
When France, in 1830, conquered Algeria the situation with regard to privateering<br />
in the Mediterranean changed completely, because Tunisia and Morocco<br />
also committed themselves to stopping their privateering business at<br />
once. Danish shipowners now wished to have the obligation to carry an Algerian<br />
sea pass abolished. The Board of Commerce agreed, whereas the Africa<br />
Consular Directorate found that Denmark still had to respect obligations with<br />
regard to sea passes stipulated in the treaty with Morocco. Thus, a new Danish<br />
ordinance dated 9 July 1831 maintained the sea pass obligation but reduced to<br />
one third the fees to be paid.<br />
The shipowners were not satisfied and repeated their dissatisfaction, supported<br />
by the Board of Commerce. Only when it could be shown, in 1840, that<br />
only Sweden and to some degree Norway 80 maintained the sea pass obligation<br />
– while it had become voluntary in Russia, England, the Netherlands, and Belgium,<br />
and had been abolished in Prussia and the Hanseatic Towns – could the<br />
Danish Department of Foreign Affairs (which had taken over the issue after the<br />
Africa Consular Directorate) and the Board of Finance be persuaded, but only<br />
insofar as it should hereafter be voluntary for Danish shipping to take out an<br />
Algerian sea pass. 81 The result was a royal ordinance of 1 July 1840 in accordance<br />
with this cautious point of view. The year after, Sweden also adjusted its<br />
sea pass rules. 82<br />
The effect came immediately. While 261 Algerian sea passes had been issued<br />
in Denmark in 1839, the number was reduced to 149 in 1840, and further<br />
to fifty, fifteen, nine and only six in 1844. No Algerian sea pass was issued<br />
thereafter.<br />
A sea pass was, as already mentioned, only valid for one voyage. But gradually<br />
it was accepted that the ships could sail beyond Cape Finisterre from port<br />
to port for up to two years. Thereupon the Danish consul in a foreign port<br />
would renew the passport for another two years. 83 This was important to the<br />
many ships which were engaged in the tramp trade without returning to their<br />
home port for years on end. But as soon as such a ship returned to domestic<br />
waters, the voyage was considered to be finished and the sea pass had to be<br />
returned to Copenhagen. 84 It was decreed, however, that if this meant delay to<br />
80 From 1814, Norway was no longer ruled by the Danish King.<br />
81 Danish National Archives, Udenrigsministeriet/Kommercekollegiet, Samlede sager til<br />
konsulatsjournal, file no. 440 (concerning the ordinance of 1 July 1840), file no. 233 (concerning<br />
reduction of fees), file no. 772 (concerning fees for Algerian sea passes). Cf. Marwedel<br />
1938, 29.<br />
82 Krëuger 1856, 34-35.<br />
83 Schou 1777-1850, 26 February 1781.<br />
84 Schou 1777-1850, 3 July 1793; Fogtmann 1786-1854, 2 October 1802.<br />
181
the shipping then the old sea pass could be renewed anywhere in the monarchy.<br />
85<br />
The Board of Commerce’s Algerian Sea Pass Protocols are preserved in the<br />
Danish National Archives from the period 1747-1848, but with a lacuna from<br />
mid-October 1771 to the end of 1777. 86<br />
The look and layout of the registers changed over time, but the eighteen<br />
volumes do contain almost the same kind of information about the individual<br />
voyages: 1) passport’s serial number, 2) name of shipowner, 3) name of shipmaster,<br />
4) ship’s name, 5) burthen, 6) home port, 7) destination, 8) date of oath,<br />
9) date of issue of sea pass, 10) date of return of sea pass, 11) name of person<br />
who has returned the passport, 12) any other information. At times there would<br />
also be information about the amount paid and whether or not the passport had<br />
been renewed.<br />
The Algerian sea pass form which was handed over to the shipmaster was<br />
sealed by the Board of Commerce and signed by the Board members. The<br />
document was in Danish and guaranteed that the ship was Danish property;<br />
furthermore it mentioned the ship’s name, home port, and burthen, as well as<br />
the destination and the shipmaster’s name.<br />
<strong>Research</strong> Potential<br />
The research potential of the Algerian Sea Pass Protocols shall not be discussed<br />
in detail here. Suffice it to mention that the protocols constitute an unrivalled<br />
source material for mapping all long-distance shipping under the Danish colours<br />
in the second half of the eighteenth century and the early nineteenth century.<br />
The Algerian Sea Pass Protocols have been made use of in mapping shipping<br />
to the Mediterranean (by Dan H. Andersen), 87 and to Guinea and the West<br />
Indies (by Erik Gøbel). 88 With regard to India shipping the sea pass protocols<br />
have just provided supplementary information compared to other sources. 89 The<br />
completeness and reliability of information in the Algerian Sea Pass Protocols<br />
have been tested and confirmed in different ways. 90<br />
Information from the Algerian Sea Pass Protocols can be used both for<br />
mapping general trends over time and for following shipping from a single port<br />
or even individual shipowners or a single master – all with regard to chronology,<br />
number of voyages, burthens, destinations, etc.<br />
85 Schou 1777-1850, 1 July 1803 and 9 April 1810.<br />
86 It is known that in that period too, a considerable number of Algerian sea passes were<br />
issued. One volume of Algerian Sea Pass Protocols has been lost.<br />
87 Andersen 2000, 319-330; Andersen and Voth 2000.<br />
88 Gøbel 1990; Gøbel 1995; Gøbel 2002.<br />
89 Feldbæk 1969, 248-254. Cf. Diller 1999, 79-136.<br />
90 Andersen 2000, 319-330; and Gøbel 1982-1983, 89-98. Cf. Henningsen 1985, 313-316.<br />
182
900<br />
800<br />
700<br />
600<br />
500<br />
400<br />
300<br />
200<br />
100<br />
No. of Voyages<br />
0<br />
1748<br />
1750<br />
1200<br />
1000<br />
800<br />
600<br />
400<br />
200<br />
0<br />
Diagram 1<br />
Algerian Sea Passes for the Mediterranean, 1748-1806<br />
1752<br />
1754<br />
1756<br />
1758<br />
1760<br />
1762<br />
1764<br />
1766<br />
1768<br />
1770<br />
1772<br />
1774<br />
Diagram 2<br />
Destinations, 1788, 1798, and 1806 (Total)<br />
183<br />
1776<br />
1778<br />
1780<br />
1782<br />
1784<br />
1786<br />
1788<br />
1790<br />
1792<br />
1794<br />
1796<br />
1798<br />
1800<br />
1802<br />
1804<br />
1806<br />
Mediterranean Atlantic West Indies Guinea Asia Other<br />
Denmark Schleswig-Holstein Norway<br />
An example of mapping of a general trend is represented by the adjoining<br />
Diagram 1 which shows shipping under the Danish flag in the Mediterranean,<br />
1748-1806. 91<br />
Another example is represented by Diagram 2 which demonstrates the enormous<br />
importance of Mediterranean shipping compared to other long-distance<br />
91 Calculated from Andersen 2000, 197, 331-332.
shipping, as well as the contributions by the different parts of the Danish<br />
King’s dominions. 92<br />
Epilogue<br />
Sailors and ships were exposed to many dangers at sea. Sickness and death<br />
were difficult to prevent; shipwreck or general average 93 were also inevitable in<br />
many cases, but the economic consequences could be modified by means of<br />
maritime insurance; privateers, or even pirates, were also a nuisance to shipping.<br />
Privateers from the Barbary States used for centuries to be a threat to European<br />
shipping and to the human security of Christian sailors, including many of<br />
the Danish King’s subjects. The structure of the international political and<br />
economic system was therefore important as a decisive background or framework.<br />
In the beginning of this article it was asked how the Kingdom of Denmark<br />
produced extraterritorial security against these threats from the fringe of the<br />
“Westphalian System”. As we have seen, it was with a mixture of measures<br />
that the Kingdom tried over the centuries to produce this security for Danish<br />
seamen. The most effective way of ensuring respect for its subjects was the<br />
signing of tribute-based peace treaties between Denmark and the Barbary<br />
States in the mid-eighteenth century. Both parties won by agreeing upon this<br />
system and they saw to it that the treaties were usually respected, apart from a<br />
few brief periods of disagreement and hostility. After 1830, the threat from the<br />
Barbary States faded away and the passports were no longer necessary. But<br />
from 1747 to 1844 the Danish authorities issued around 28,000 Algerian sea<br />
passes (i.e. almost 300 per year on average) which produced security for hundreds<br />
of thousands of Danish sailors.<br />
Many peculiarities of a modern understanding of “Human Security” can be<br />
found in the examples presented. We find diplomacy, military intervention,<br />
ransoming and the payment of tributes. At the centre of all these measures was<br />
mostly the ultimate aim of reducing suffering of individuals. An important<br />
difference stands out between our modern concept and the ways of production<br />
of this sort of security for the individuals of the Early Modern Era, which is<br />
that the Danish King acted only for his own subjects and not for the individuals<br />
92 Danish National Archives, Kommercekollegiet, Algierske søpasprotokoller no. 1188<br />
(1788), no. 1850 (1798), and no. 1852 (1806).<br />
93 “General average” is a term in marine insurance for the adjustment of a loss when cargo on<br />
board a ship belonging to one or more owners has been sacrificed for the safety of the<br />
whole, whereby the amount of the loss is shared by all who have shipped cargo in the vessel,<br />
for instance if the deck cargo of a ship has had to be jettisoned to safeguard the ship in<br />
rough weather.<br />
184
of other states. Yet, it was the individual’s security on which the emphasis was<br />
already placed centuries ago, not the security of the state. Both were seen as<br />
inextricably linked and the state was ready to devote quite substantial resources<br />
to reducing the threat to its subjects. In opposition to a state-centred viewpoint,<br />
we can clearly identify a striving towards “human security” in many actions of<br />
an absolute monarchy of the so-called classical “Westphalian System”. 94 For<br />
our modern understanding it may be helpful therefore to take better into consideration<br />
the “longue durée” of “human security” and to see it as a result of a<br />
centuries-old evolution, which can often be found or even measured throughout<br />
history in specific examples, of which one was presented here.<br />
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189
Swedish Shipping in Southern Europe and<br />
Peace Treaties with North African States:<br />
An Economic Security Perspective<br />
Leos Müller �<br />
Abstract: »Die schwedische Schifffahrt in Südeuropa und die Friedensverträge<br />
mit den nordafrikanischen Staaten. Eine Betrachtung aus der Perspektive<br />
ökonomischer Sicherheit«. In the late eighteenth century, Swedish ships frequently<br />
sailed in the Western Mediterranean. They could be found in Marseilles,<br />
Livorno, Genoa, Alicante, Sicily, Sardinia, and North Africa, as well as<br />
in Cadiz and Lisbon outside the Mediterranean. Indeed, the Mediterranean was<br />
an area of great importance for Swedish shipping. How was it possible that<br />
Sweden – a small country in northern periphery of Europe – could play such a<br />
prominent role in carrying trade in Southern Europe? There are a number of<br />
plausible explanations but an especially significant factor was the fact that<br />
Sweden had peace treaties with North African states. The treaties improved the<br />
security of Swedish-flagged vessels, reducing their protection and operation<br />
costs, insurance premiums, etc. It was economically reasonable for foreigners<br />
to employ Swedish carriers.<br />
The topic of this essay is this connection between the establishment of peace<br />
relations between Sweden and North African states and the success of the<br />
Swedish carrying business in Southern Europe. The issue is approached from<br />
the protection-cost perspective (institutional economics) and related to the different<br />
concepts of security: state security, economic security and in a certain<br />
sense also human security.<br />
Keywords: Swedish Long-Distance Trade, Swedish Shipping Business, Swedish<br />
Consular Service, Swedish Convoy Office, Barbary-States, Protection-<br />
Costs.<br />
Introduction<br />
According to a French report from the mid-eighteenth century, the Swedish<br />
merchant marine was the fifth in Europe, behind that of Britain, France, the<br />
Dutch Republic and Denmark, but ahead of Spain and the Two Sicilies. 1 Sweden<br />
was indeed an important maritime state, with a large carrying trade in<br />
Southern Europe. At the same time, by conventional economic standards, it<br />
� Address all communications to: Leos Müller, Department of History, Centre for Maritime<br />
Studies, Stockholm University; Södra huset, Hus D, 106 91 Stockholm, Sweden;<br />
e-mail: leos.muller@historia.su.se.<br />
1 Romano 1962.<br />
<strong>Historical</strong> <strong>Social</strong> <strong>Research</strong>, Vol. 35 — 2010 — No. 4, 190-205
was underdeveloped country. The urbanization rate, a good indicator of Early<br />
Modern level of development, was extremely low in Sweden. 2 What were the<br />
causes of the discrepancy between the large merchant fleet and the relative<br />
backwardness of the state’s economy? To understand this we have to look<br />
closer at origins of Swedish trade and shipping in Southern Europe.<br />
The original commercial interest of Sweden in Southern Europe was not<br />
shipping business: it was Portuguese salt. Carried by the Dutch, the salt from<br />
Setubal had already become the preferred salt quality in Sweden by the first<br />
half of the seventeenth century, and because the salt was a strategically important<br />
commodity the connection with Southern European salt sources became<br />
strategically significant. Sweden’s trade policy in the seventeenth and eighteenth<br />
centuries paid much attention to the issue of salt supplies. 3<br />
In the first half of the seventeenth century Sweden’s foreign trade was dependent<br />
on the Dutch carrying capacity. After 1650 Sweden entered a new<br />
mercantilist policy aiming to reduce the kingdom’s dependency on the Dutch,<br />
and a part of the policy involved building up its own merchant marine for trade<br />
with Southern Europe. This policy was successful. In the 1670s and 1680s<br />
Swedish trade with Southern Europe already became a well-established trade,<br />
concerning a large number of ships. Swedish vessels sailed to Portugal in convoys<br />
loaded with bar iron, tar and pitch, and weapons, and retuned with cargoes<br />
of salt. About twenty vessels annually sailed to Portugal by the late century. 4<br />
When the prices of the Portuguese salt increased dramatically, in the early<br />
1690s, the Swedish skippers went into the Mediterranean to find new cheaper<br />
sources of salt. This move opened the way for direct Swedish trade within the<br />
Mediterranean basin.<br />
However, shipping in Southern Europe was a risky business. Vessels were<br />
under threat from corsairs from North Africa, cargoes and vessels could be sold<br />
and sailors put into captivity. This even applied to Swedish vessels and Swedish<br />
sailors. The guerre de course, corsair war, went on for centuries – an expression<br />
of the struggle between Muslims and Christians. 5<br />
Barbary corsairs had often been characterized as pirates – both by contemporaries<br />
and in the historical literature. Such a description is not correct. The<br />
corsairs acted with the permission of their rulers in Tunis, Tripoli, Algiers and<br />
Morocco. A more proper way to characterize them is as privateers. However,<br />
the situation was even more complicated because Tunis, Tripoli and Algiers<br />
2<br />
For a comparative view of Scandinavia in Europe see e.g. van Zanden 2001, 70-80. Stockholm,<br />
by far Sweden’s largest city, had about 60,000 inhabitants. Gothenburg and<br />
Karlskrona, the second and third cities, had only about 10,000 inhabitants by the late eighteenth<br />
century.<br />
3<br />
Carlén 1994; Carlén 1997.<br />
4<br />
Müller 2004, 51.<br />
5<br />
For details see Magnus Ressel’s contribution in this volume.<br />
191
were not independent states but vassals under formal Ottoman rule. In spite of<br />
this, they carried out their own “foreign policy”. Indeed, the guerre de course<br />
was an important argument for the legitimacy, and semi-independence, of the<br />
local rulers. 6 The only truly independent state in North Africa was Morocco.<br />
The warfare did not only concern shipping. Barbary corsairs were raiding<br />
coastal areas of Spain and Portugal and the Canary and Balearic Islands. The<br />
numbers of Christian Europeans who were enslaved were substantial. In Algiers<br />
there were about 740,000-760,000 slaves between 1520 and 1830. In total<br />
there were more than a million European slaves in North Africa. 7 The majority<br />
were Spanish and Italian, but among the slaves there were also sailors from<br />
Northern Europe, including Swedes and Danes.<br />
The European powers met the corsair challenge by naval force or by convoying<br />
of their shipping. But none of these strategies was efficient. The solution<br />
preferred by the North European states was instead peace treaties with the<br />
North African states and payment of tribute or ransom for leaving the nation’s<br />
merchant marine in peace. This system was fully developed by the seventeenth<br />
century. In Sweden the idea of establishing peace treaties with the North African<br />
states had already appeared in the 1660s, but nothing happened then. 8<br />
The Shipping Policy Package:<br />
The Swedish Navigation Act and Peace Treaties<br />
During the Great Northern War 1700-1721, the Swedish shipping activities in<br />
Southern Europe declined. Especially during the Danish involvement in the<br />
war, between 1709 and 1720, the Swedes were excluded from the long-distance<br />
carrying trade. Exports and imports were once again carried by the Dutch. The<br />
peace with Russia in 1721 ended the war. After that the dependency on Dutch<br />
shipping was heavily criticized and in the coming years Sweden launched an<br />
ambitious shipping policy.<br />
The policy package consisted of three parts. In 1724 Sweden enacted Produktplakatet,<br />
the Swedish Navigation Act, which prohibited imports to Sweden<br />
on other ships than those of Sweden or the cargo-producing country. 9 The Act<br />
was inspired by the English Navigation Acts. It was a result of the political<br />
discussion about the condition of Sweden’s foreign trade after 1721. The balance<br />
of trade was negative and the Dutch were accused of causing this by high<br />
carrying costs. Moreover, dependency on a foreign carrying capacity made<br />
Sweden vulnerable, which was an especially sensitive issue as regards salt<br />
6 Windler 2000, 172.<br />
7 Harrison 2007, 413.<br />
8 Ekegård 1924, 78.<br />
9 Müller 2004, 61-65; see also Heckscher 1922; and Heckscher 1940.<br />
192
supplies. Salt, together with Baltic grain, was the most capacity-demanding<br />
import. Thus the primary aims of the new shipping policy were securing imports<br />
of salt from Southern Europe and reducing the role of Dutch shipping in<br />
the import trade. In the long term the purpose was the strengthening of exchange<br />
with Southern Europe, not only the imports of the strategically important<br />
salt but also the encouragement of exports of Swedish export produce –<br />
bar-iron, tar, pitch, and sawn goods.<br />
The Swedish Navigation Act appeared to fulfill these aims well. In the years<br />
immediately following 1724 the number of ships under the Swedish flag passing<br />
the Danish Sound – the best indicator of Swedish shipping activities –<br />
increased rapidly. The Dutch shipping to Sweden collapsed. There were in the<br />
Sound over a hundred Dutch ships coming from Swedish ports by 1720. In<br />
1725 and 1726 their numbers collapsed to six and three respectively. 10 The<br />
number of registered ships in Sweden increased from 230 in 1723 to 480 in<br />
1726. 11<br />
Thus, in the short term, the Swedish Navigation Act was a big success. Yet<br />
it is difficult to evaluate the effect in the long term. There was in eighteenthcentury<br />
Sweden a drawn-out discussion about the benefits and costs of the<br />
Navigation Act. A large number of political actors argued that it actually made<br />
the Swedish carrying trade more expensive, and so increased the prices of<br />
imports in Sweden – primarily salt – and made exports less profitable. 12<br />
The second part of the institutional package relating to the shipping policy<br />
of the 1720s was the peace treaties with North Africa and the innovation of<br />
Sweden’s convoy system. Increasing shipping under the Swedish flag to<br />
Southern Europe naturally entailed problems with Barbary corsairs. The Swedish<br />
policy-makers were well aware of it and in parallel with the work on the<br />
Navigation Act they reformed Sweden’s convoy system. A new Convoy Office<br />
(Konvojkommissariatet) was established in 1724, with its seat at Gothenburg<br />
on Sweden’s west coast. 13 This office was responsible for the organization of<br />
convoying, a practice that the Swedish merchant marine had used since the<br />
1690s.<br />
But convoying was not the only duty of the new office. In addition, the office<br />
was dealing with all the problems raised by Barbary corsairs. Thus it handled<br />
the payments of ransom and release of Swedish sailors from North Africa.<br />
It soon dealt also with negotiations with the North African rulers, the exchange<br />
of gifts between Sweden and these states, and the keeping of consular representation<br />
on the spot. To fund the Office a new duty, the so-called extra licenten,<br />
10 Bang and Korst 1930-1953, 60-67.<br />
11 Müller 2004, 142, table 5.5.<br />
12 For the discussion see Carlén 1997.<br />
13 Müller 2004, 65-66.<br />
193
was introduced in 1723, and collected by the Convoy Fund (Konvojkassan). 14 It<br />
is important to point out that this Swedish system differed from that of Denmark,<br />
even if the basic precondition of peace with the North African states was<br />
the same. The duty, extra licenten, was imposed on all Swedish exports and<br />
imports, which was perceived unfair by merchants and ship-owners who had no<br />
use of convoying (trade in the Baltic and North Seas). Moreover, the funding<br />
by extra licenten was never sufficient and the annual costs of the Convoy Office<br />
became a burden of the state. 15 Consequently, the system continued to be<br />
controversial during the remaining part of the century – in similarity with the<br />
Navigation Act. However, in spite of the broad criticism, and a short break<br />
(1790-1797), it survived until 1867.<br />
Instead of expensive convoying of Swedish merchantmen in Southern<br />
Europe and paying ransom for captives, the Swedish authorities aimed to establish<br />
peaceful relations with the Barbary corsairs. Three years after the Swedish<br />
Navigation Act, in 1727, the steps were already being taken to sign a peace<br />
treaty with Algiers. This was actually a consequence of the Dutch treaty with<br />
Algiers of 1726. Before 1726, Swedish and Dutch ships went in the same convoys,<br />
protecting each other. The Dutch treaty of 1726, however, exclusively<br />
concerned the Dutch ships, which left the Swedes out in trouble.<br />
The Swedes empowered George Logie, a Scottish merchant with long experience<br />
of North Africa, to negotiate the treaty, in which he soon succeeded.<br />
The treaty between Sweden and Algiers was signed in April 1729 by Jean von<br />
Utfall, the Swedish representative, and the Algiers Dey. A part of the agreement<br />
was the exchange of gifts, or perhaps more exactly Sweden’s tributes to<br />
Algiers. Sweden sent to Algiers two vessels loaded with 40 guns, 800 sabres,<br />
1,600 cannon balls, masts, anchors, with a total value of 21,000 rix-dollars – a<br />
very substantial sum. The Algiers Dey expressed his satisfaction and reciprocated<br />
with a liberated captive, two lions and a couple of other wild animals.<br />
First, the exchange confirms the picture of small European powers supplying<br />
the Barbary fleets with naval necessities and weapons: items that could and<br />
were used in the guerre de course against other European powers. Second, the<br />
characteristics of the exchange even had a highly symbolic meaning, stressing<br />
the superiority of a Muslim ruler over a Christian power. 16<br />
Another part of the agreement was the establishment of Swedish consular<br />
representation in Algiers, in accordance with the traditional Mediterranean<br />
consular system. 17 The first Swedish consul appointed to Algiers was George<br />
Logie. The consuls in North Africa were supposed to mediate between the<br />
Algiers Dey and Sweden, so the consuls had an important diplomatic function.<br />
14 Müller 2004, 68-69, Åmark 1961, 762-775.<br />
15 Åmark 1961, 755.<br />
16 Windler 2000.<br />
17 Steensgaard 1967, 13-55.<br />
194
This was a significant difference in comparison with consular representations<br />
in European states. In France, Britain, the Dutch Republic, Russia and other<br />
members of the European state system, even including the Ottoman Empire,<br />
there was a clear distinction between the diplomatic representation, the embassy<br />
at the capital, and consular representation with consulates situated at<br />
major ports. The consuls dealt with the promotion of commerce between their<br />
home and host countries and with the collection of commercially useful information.<br />
The semi-diplomatic role of consuls in North Africa reveals the fact<br />
that Algiers and other Barbary states were not seen as members of the European<br />
state system. The commercial exchange between Sweden and North Africa<br />
was very limited, in spite of the high-flying plans launched during the<br />
negotiations. In 1738, nine years after the signing of the treaty, George Logie<br />
described the state of Sweden’s trade with Algiers in these words:<br />
I find not that Algier can be otherways beneficiall to Sweden than that by having<br />
peace with them it gives free liberty to our Ships to go safely on the coasts<br />
of Spain and Portugalland to all ports of the Mediterranean with our own Cargoes<br />
and have the benefit of being employed and freighted by other Merchants<br />
with the same safety that they can ships of other nations and now I am on this<br />
subject I must begg leave to acquaint and inform your Lordships that I find no<br />
other method or possibility of keeping a firm and secure peace with the kingdom<br />
of Algier than now and then that is once in two or three years to give<br />
some handsome presents to the Dey and Leading men of the Gouvernment to<br />
keep them steadfast in our friendship which is what is practiced by the French<br />
by the Hollanders and all other nations in peace with them…. 18<br />
The treaty between Sweden and Algiers also included an article on the introduction<br />
of Algerian passports. Accordingly, all vessels under the Swedish<br />
flag sailing beyond Cape Finisterre in Spain were obliged to keep a special<br />
passport issued by Sweden’s Board of Trade. The passport confirmed for an<br />
inspecting corsair crew that the ship under the Swedish flag was indeed from<br />
Sweden, had a Swedish crew, captain and ship-owner. Without such a passport<br />
the ship and its crew could be taken as captives. 19<br />
In similarity with other parts of the treaty, the introduction of Swedish Algerian<br />
passports copied a model established by other North European powers.<br />
The issuing of Algerian passports by the Board of Trade was a regulated and<br />
controlled activity because abuse of passports would put in danger the whole of<br />
Sweden’s shipping business in Southern Europe. Articles regarding the Algerian<br />
passport issued by the Swedish King on 12 January 1730 indicate how<br />
seriously this issue was treated. 20 The strict procedure and control of the issuing<br />
18 Riksarkivet Stockholm, Kommerskollegium Huvudarkiv, Skrivelser från konsuler, Liverpool<br />
Livorno 1725-1822, EVIaa: 229, George Logie to the Board of Trade, Leghorn/Livorno<br />
2/13 Oktober 1738.<br />
19 Müller 2004, 144-147.<br />
20 Modée 1740, 803-807: Den 12 Jan. 1730 Reglemente om Algeriske Siöpass.<br />
195
procedure also means that the surviving registers of passports contain reliable<br />
data on Swedish shipping beyond Cape Finisterre. The registers will be employed<br />
here for the mapping of Swedish shipping activities in Southern Europe.<br />
In 1736 George Logie left Algiers for Tunis to negotiate a peace treaty with<br />
another Barbary state. This treaty was signed in December 1736 and the text<br />
closely followed that of Algiers. Yet the gifts were not as expensive as in the<br />
Algiers case. The first Swedish consul arrived in 1738. 21 The treaty with the<br />
third North African state, Tripoli, was signed in 1741, also negotiated by<br />
George Logie. It took another twenty years before the fourth treaty, the treaty<br />
with Morocco, was signed. The negotiations were opened in 1761 and the<br />
treaty signed in 1763. The Swedish negotiator, Peter Kristian Wulf, became the<br />
first Swedish consul in Morocco, seated at Salé. Morocco was the strongest and<br />
only truly independent North African state.<br />
The third part of the institutional package to promote Swedish shipping was<br />
the expansion of the consular system in the Mediterranean and on the Atlantic<br />
coast of Europe. Between 1700 and 1750 about twenty new consulates were<br />
established in the area – from Smyrna in the Levant to Rouen in France. 22 Remarkably,<br />
no consulates were established in Northern Europe – with the exception<br />
of the consulate in London. Sweden’s trade in Northern Europe was based<br />
on other, more traditional trade patterns than the trade in Southern Europe, a<br />
new area for the Swedes.<br />
The shipping policy package that the Swedish authorities launched in the<br />
1720s also combined a number of aims. It was supposed to replace foreign –<br />
read Dutch – carrying capacity in Sweden’s trade. It was supposed to secure<br />
sufficient supplies of salt for Sweden and open new trading opportunities for<br />
Swedish exports in Southern Europe. Another less apparent intent of the policy<br />
was the building-up of a strong Swedish merchant marine and an experienced<br />
marine labor that in the case of war could be recruited to the navy. This aspect<br />
did not receive much attention in the remaining part of the century, in spite of<br />
the fact that this was also common to the English and Swedish Navigation<br />
Acts. Finally, it was supposed to make Swedish shipping in Southern Europe<br />
safer, reducing risks and protection costs for the Swedish actors. This, most<br />
probably, was a very important aspect of the Swedish shipping boom in the<br />
second part of the century, a boom which has nothing to do with the Navigation<br />
Act of 1724.<br />
Swedish authorities appear to have chosen a different solution to security<br />
problems in North Africa in comparison with the Dutch, Danes and the Hanseatic<br />
cities studied in Magnus Ressel’s article here. From about 1730 the<br />
Swedes, instead of paying ransom for individual seamen, formed a semidiplomatic<br />
relation with the North African states, paying gift-tributes and with<br />
21 Müller 2004, 127.<br />
22 Müller 2004, 42, table 2.1.<br />
196
consular representation in the area. The system was connected to the Convoy<br />
Office. It was a public solution ideally financed by the special duty on trade.<br />
But the duty had never been sufficient to pay the system and the state was<br />
repeatedly forced to cover the missing sums. As the major benefactors of the<br />
system were a few merchants and ship-owners engaged in trade in Southern<br />
Europe, often members of Stockholm’s mercantile elite, the system was criticized<br />
as a exploitation of public means by private interest. Such a criticism was<br />
a typical feature of the political struggles in eighteenth-century Sweden. Indeed,<br />
exactly the same argument was used against the Navigation Act.<br />
The Costs of the Convoy Office and Shipping Activities<br />
From the accounts of the Convoy Office, we have a detailed picture of the<br />
public costs of the peace treaties with the North African states. The figures as<br />
such say a lot. In addition to these transparent public costs there were other<br />
large, less visible costs, for example in insurance premiums, relative wages of<br />
sailors, freight rates and others. No comparison of the costs and benefits of the<br />
system is possible because we have very scattered data on the profitability of<br />
the shipping in Southern Europe. Thus the figures may be used to illustrate<br />
tendencies and sudden changes in the cost structure.<br />
Looking at the long term development of the costs of the Convoy Office, we<br />
can notice a slow increase until the 1760s. The annual expenditures oscillate<br />
between 50,000 and 100,000 dollar silver money until the 1750s. Then they<br />
increase rapidly in the 1760s. The large expenditures during the 1760s related<br />
to the peace treaty with Morocco, which was unusually expensive. Some annual<br />
expenditures are extremely large, far exceeding the average. This seems to<br />
be related to extraordinary outlays: special gifts related to political changes in<br />
the principalities, newly appointed consuls, and similar. Such appointments<br />
were often connected with additional tributes. The increases are related to new<br />
treaties signed. The graph for the period 1777-1796 (in new rix-dollars) indicates<br />
a stable level of expenditure. This was the period of boom in Swedish<br />
shipping to Southern Europe.<br />
197
Figure 1: The Costs of the Swedish Convoy Office 1726-1796<br />
(1726-1776 Dollars Silver Money)<br />
Figure 1 (Cont.): (1777-1796 new rix-dollars).<br />
Source: Karl Åmark, Sveriges statsfinanser, 1719-1809 (Stockholm, 1961), 762-775.<br />
Note: In 1777 Sweden introduced a new monetary system that makes it difficult to compare<br />
data from the periods.<br />
It is interesting to compare the development of the Office outlays with the<br />
data of shipping activities based on Algerian passport registers. As pointed out<br />
above, the registers provide a reliable data set for the long-term development of<br />
Swedish shipping in Southern Europe. 23 The registers cover the period between<br />
1739 and 1831 and they include information about 30,000 passports, represent-<br />
23 Müller 2004, 144-149.<br />
198
ing on average about 300 voyages per annum destined south of Cape Finisterre.<br />
However, when we look closely at the data, it is apparent that until 1760 the<br />
annual number of ships never exceeded 200. The level of shipping activities<br />
was quite stable at about 150 voyages per annum, with a noticeable increase<br />
during the Seven Years’ War. This indicates that the shipping policy package<br />
introduced in the 1720s and 1730s did not actually have any significant effect.<br />
It seems to strengthen the argument of critics of mercantilist policy: that the<br />
policy was costly but did not promote shipping very much.<br />
The situation changed in the 1770s. The number of ships annually sailing<br />
beyond Cape Finisterre rapidly increased. First, between 1770 and 1778 the<br />
number of passports issued rose from 198 to 287, almost by 50 percent. Another<br />
jump came between 1778 and 1782, when the passports issued reached<br />
441, another increase by 50 percent in only five years. The expansion was<br />
directly related to the American War of Independence. The war entailed a<br />
demand for neutral carrying capacity and Sweden, which stayed out of the war,<br />
could provide such a capacity. The situation became even more beneficial in<br />
1780 when Russia, Denmark and Sweden created the League of Armed Neutrality.<br />
The British, who did not respect Sweden’s neutral flag before 1780,<br />
now began to treat the Swedes in a better way. In addition, from the end of<br />
1780 the Dutch Republic, the largest neutral carrier in Europe, became involved<br />
in the war with Britain – the Fourth Anglo-Dutch War (1780-1784).<br />
The neutral Swedish and Danish vessels replaced the missing Dutch capacity. 24<br />
It became apparent that neutral shipping could be a very profitable business for<br />
Sweden.<br />
The same strategy was then applied during the French Revolutionary Wars.<br />
The Dutch and French were again involved in the war against Britain, leaving<br />
the Danish and Swedish – and this time even the US – merchant marines as the<br />
neutral tonnage. According to the Swedish Algerian passport registers, the<br />
number of Swedish-flagged voyages increased from 257 in 1792 to 624 in<br />
1800. The figures for the Napoleonic Wars (1803-1815) are volatile owing to a<br />
new vulnerability of European neutrals. The policy employed by the Dutch,<br />
Danes and Swedes between 1756 and 1800 did not work during the total war of<br />
1804-1815.<br />
The picture of Swedish shipping booms directly related to the wartime conditions<br />
is confirmed by the data for traffic in the Sound and the development of<br />
registered Swedish vessels. 25 Does this mean that the Anglo-French warfare<br />
and Sweden’s neutrality are the only determinants of the development, and that<br />
the shipping policy package from the early eighteenth century is insignificant?<br />
We have seen that the shipping policy package of the 1720s did not matter<br />
24 On the League of Armed Neutrality and shipping business see Feldbæk 1971; Feldbæk<br />
1983; Feldbæk 1969; De Madariaga 1962; and Müller 2010.<br />
25 Johansen 1983; Müller 2004, 142, table 5.5; and Kilborn 2009.<br />
199
much. Such a view would confirm the criticism of shipping policy by contemporaries,<br />
but it would not explain why the policy was also used during the<br />
French Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars and why it survived until the midnineteenth<br />
century.<br />
The peaceful relations with North Africa and the consular network in Southern<br />
Europe were the precondition of the development. A very large share of the<br />
Swedish shipping boom in the 1770s, 1780s and the 1790s was located in<br />
Southern Europe. About one third of the Swedish carrying capacity was actually<br />
employed in Southern Europe, in commodity trade and tramp shipping. 26<br />
All this suggests that the shipping policy package was necessary. The willingness<br />
of authorities to pay for the Convoy Office and to accept the costs of keeping<br />
peace relations with North Africa also confirms that the policy was seen as<br />
a necessity. Without the peace in North Africa, Swedish ships would be at risk<br />
in the Mediterranean even during the Napoleonic Wars.<br />
The significance of peace in the Mediterranean is illustrated by the last conflict<br />
between Sweden and a Barbary state, namely the Tripoli “war” of 1801-<br />
1802. The Swedish naval presence outside Tripoli was of no avail, nor was<br />
cooperation with the US navy. Eventually peace was bought at a price of<br />
650,000 rix-dollars. 27<br />
Figure 2: Number of Algerian Passports Issued 1739-1820<br />
Source: Kommerskollegium, Huvudarkivet, Sjöpassdiarier för åren 1739-1800, C II b. Board<br />
of Trade, Swedish National Archives, Stockholm.<br />
26 It was somewhat different in Denmark with its large Atlantic and Asiatic shipping. See<br />
Johansen 1992 and Feldbæk 1969.<br />
27 Borg 1987; Krëuger 1856, 71-78.<br />
200
Economic Security, National Security, and<br />
the Protection-Cost Approach<br />
The differences between the Swedish policy regarding North African states and<br />
the exploitation of Sweden’s neutrality point at the diverse options that Sweden<br />
had regarding security and risk-diminishing strategies. Sweden’s eighteenthcentury<br />
neutrality was vulnerable, dependent on the good will of Britain and<br />
other great powers and the overall functioning of an anarchical European state<br />
system. 28 Sweden had very limited possibilities of influencing the behavior of<br />
the great powers. A military confrontation was out of reach; the only way to<br />
meet the challenge of a great power was through diplomatic means. The same<br />
limited options, and a final failure of neutrality policy, may be noted in the<br />
Dutch Republic and in Denmark. All three neutrals were forced into “impossible”<br />
wars against great powers: the Dutch Republic (1780) and Denmark<br />
(1807) against Britain, and Sweden (1808) against Russia. That kind of risk<br />
was also impossible to predict, calculate or insure against. The peace with<br />
Russia or Britain could not be bought for any calculable price, which points at<br />
the different kind of security concept in this context – namely national security.<br />
29<br />
The vulnerability of Swedish shipping in Southern Europe was of a different<br />
kind. It could be met by combined diplomatic and economic means. The threat<br />
posed by Barbary corsairs concerned economic security – the possibility of a<br />
loss of cargo and ship, and human security – the possibility of captivity or<br />
enslavement. But the threat never concerned the national security of Sweden.<br />
This distinction is very important if we aim to study Swedish shipping in<br />
Southern Europe from an economic perspective. National security, on the one<br />
hand, is about the state’s security; the issue of costs or profits does not matter if<br />
the state is in danger. Economic security, on the other hand, is about costs and<br />
profitability of a business. Regarding the situation in the Mediterranean, the<br />
security was about protection costs and competitive advantages, and human<br />
risks, not about the threat to national security.<br />
The role of protection costs in shipping has traditionally been related to the<br />
successful development of seaborne trade. European seaborne trade expanded<br />
during the whole Early Modern period, and the expansion could not be explained<br />
by any significant technological change in shipping which would affect<br />
the production costs of shipping. Indeed, a sailing ship of 1800 did not differ<br />
very much from a sailing ship of 1500, whereas a steam ship of 1900 was very<br />
different in comparison with a sailing ship of 1800. Thus, the expansion of<br />
seaborne trade before 1800 had to be explained in another way.<br />
28 Schroeder 1994, passim.<br />
29 For the different concepts of security see Paris 2001.<br />
201
One explanation that has attracted much attention and that is relevant in the<br />
context of this essay is the decline in transport costs. 30 The larger the share of<br />
transport costs in the commodity price, the larger the impact of the decline in<br />
transport costs on the final commodity price. Lower transport costs made<br />
commodities cheaper and so more affordable. With a limited technological<br />
change in shipping before the mid-nineteenth century, the most efficient way to<br />
reduce overall transport costs was the decline in transaction and protection<br />
costs. The issue of protection costs is especially interesting in waters that were<br />
troubled by violence, such as the Mediterranean owing to the guerre de course.<br />
Even small improvements in the security of shipping could significantly improve<br />
the profitability of the whole business. Improved security of shipping had<br />
an impact on many other costs. It reduced insurance premiums. The lower<br />
insurance premiums are actually mentioned by Swedish consuls as a competitive<br />
advantage of Swedish shipping in the Mediterranean. 31 Most probably,<br />
improved security made seamen less hesitant to sail in the Mediterranean and<br />
so it might have reduced wages. Contemporary treatises show that Swedish and<br />
Danish sailors were paid less than their Southern counterparts, even if this fact<br />
cannot immediately be related to the improved security of Danish and Swedish<br />
shipping. 32<br />
The protection cost approach was first employed by Frederic C. Lane, a historian<br />
of Venice, to explain the success of Venice as a commercial republic. He<br />
pointed out the significance of a state that provides security for the shipping of<br />
its citizens. In this way protection costs are made public: instead of paying for a<br />
large crew and armaments on his ship, the ship-owner pays the state for protection.<br />
33<br />
The Swedish historian Jan Glete employed the same logic to explain the<br />
boom of Dutch seaborne trade in the Baltic Sea. The royal navies of Denmark<br />
and Sweden made the Baltic waters safe and so kept the protection costs low –<br />
especially of Dutch shipping. The Fluit could be such a superior carrier in the<br />
Baltic trade because it sailed in relatively safe waters. 34<br />
Glete’s and Lane’s works were concerned primarily with the sixteenth- and<br />
seventeenth-century Baltic Sea and the Mediterranean. But the same approach<br />
might be used to characterize the Northern European policies toward the Barbary<br />
corsairs in the eighteenth century. The policy package employed by Sweden<br />
from the 1720s made the protection costs of Swedish ship-owners public,<br />
and the ship-owners paid the state for protection – extra licenten. Because the<br />
30<br />
For the effect of the decline in transport costs (transport revolution) on the expansion of<br />
overseas trade see O’Rourke and Williamson 2002; O’Rourke and Williamson 2004; for a<br />
contrary view see Flynn and Giraldez 2004; and others.<br />
31<br />
Müller 2004, 73.<br />
32<br />
Liljencrants 1768.<br />
33<br />
Lane 1950; Lane 1958.<br />
34<br />
Glete 2000, 125-126; on the fluit design’s advantages see Barbour 1996, 122-123.<br />
202
use of naval force – convoying – was expensive and inefficient, the office<br />
instead chose to pay for security by the acknowledgment of North African<br />
states and payments of tributes.<br />
Sweden, owing to the peace treaties with the North African states and owing<br />
to its neutrality, had low protection costs, and these costs were made public.<br />
Certainly, this was an important factor for the improved economic security of<br />
the shipping business under the Swedish flag and one explanation for the successful<br />
development of the Swedish merchant marine, becoming the fifth in<br />
Europe after the American War of Independence.<br />
It is worth mentioning that even Douglass C. North, a Nobel laureate in economics,<br />
and his colleague Gary M. Walton back in the 1960s argued that the<br />
success of North American shipping in the eighteenth century was related to<br />
the reduced uncertainties such as piracy and privateering. 35 Another factor was<br />
the improved organization of shipping, but that is not our focus here. The protection-cost<br />
approach employed in the development of Swedish shipping in<br />
Southern Europe also relates closely to the neo-institutional economic school,<br />
to the idea of protection costs as a component of transaction costs.<br />
References<br />
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gennem Øresund 1661-1783. Copenhagen, 1930-1953.<br />
Liljencrants, Johan Westerman. Om Sveriges fördelar och svårigheter i sjöfarten, i<br />
jämförelse emot andra riken [...]. Stockholm, 1768.<br />
Modée, Reinhold Gustaf. Utdrag utur alle ifrån ... utkomne publique Handlingar,<br />
Placater, Förordningar, Resolutioner ock Publicationer, som Rikhens Styrsel<br />
samt inwärtes Hushållning ock Författningar i gemen, jämväl ock Stockholms<br />
Stad i synnerhet angår. Vol. 2, Stockholm 1740.<br />
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Special Issue<br />
The Production of Human Security in<br />
Premodern and Contemporary History<br />
Die Produktion von Human Security in<br />
Vormoderne und Zeitgeschichte<br />
ENVIRONMENTAL CRISES, DISASTERS,<br />
AND HUMAN SECURITY<br />
No. 134<br />
HSR Vol. 35 (2010) 4
Human Security in the Renaissance?<br />
Securitas, Infrastructure, Collective Goods and<br />
Natural Hazards in Tuscany and the Upper Rhine<br />
Valley<br />
Gerrit Jasper Schenk �<br />
Abstract: »Human Security in der Renaissance? Securitas, Infrastruktur, Gemeinschaftsgüter<br />
und Naturgefahren in der Toskana und im Oberrheintal«.<br />
This article investigates the character of collective perceptions of security in<br />
the Renaissance. In addition to the findings of conceptual history, an picture<br />
analysis will be used. Besides the concern for salvation and protection from<br />
violence and injustice, public welfare was the task of a good government in<br />
material terms as well (provision of food, infrastructure). It also comprised the<br />
prevention of natural hazards. Legitimation strategies of those who governed<br />
and the needs of those who were governed had – according to the region – an<br />
impact on the development of specific ways of dealing with natural hazards.<br />
“Human security” thus played a part in state-building processes.<br />
Keywords: security, infrastructure, collective goods, natural hazards, disasters,<br />
Lorenzetti, Tuscany, Florence, Alsace, Strasbourg, Arno, Rhine.<br />
Point of Departure<br />
In this article, several considerations of a systematic type are developed concerning<br />
the concept of security and its sociopolitical provision in the Renaissance.<br />
A working hypothesis is the consideration that the height of the Western<br />
Modern Age, in which the state functioned principally as a guarantor for “human<br />
security”, represents an occurrence that is extremely rich in historical<br />
conditions. In fact, with respect to postmodern privatisation even of state security,<br />
the Western Modern state is perhaps even an exception. 1 The first step<br />
therefore deals with the reconstruction of a stage in the development of – perhaps<br />
typically European – perceptions of “human security” and several early<br />
conditions for their current establishment as, depending on the standpoint, a<br />
post-colonial instrument of power or a cosmopolitan ideal. Using two regions<br />
as an example, a second step will be to consider which role the understanding<br />
of what security is, or should be, played with respect to collective goods and to<br />
the threat that natural risks pose for these goods. The regions chosen – Tuscany<br />
� Address all communications to: Gerrit Jasper Schenk, Technical University Darmstadt,<br />
Residenzschloss, 64283 Darmstadt, Germany; e-mail: schenk@pg.tu-darmstadt.de.<br />
1 See MacFarlane and Khong 2006, 11-14 on questions of definition.<br />
<strong>Historical</strong> <strong>Social</strong> <strong>Research</strong>, Vol. 35 — 2010 — No. 4, 209-233
and the Upper Rhine Valley – of course cannot stand for the whole of Europe.<br />
Their differences, from geomorphology to the sociopolitical structure, can,<br />
however, in terms of comparative heuristics, reveal similarities and differences<br />
when handling natural risks. 2<br />
Several researchers, from Kingreen to MacFarlane/Foong Khong, view the<br />
European Middle Ages as a chaotic phase of competing powers which, at best,<br />
knew fragmented forms of “human security”. 3 It makes sense to broach the<br />
issue of safety from violence for the Middle Ages too, in particular safety<br />
within or among communities, as has been carried out many times for other<br />
eras. 4 However, a second topic area is also closely connected to the question of<br />
security of the people. In this area, prospective answers are also possible for the<br />
question of the origin and path dependency 5 in the development of the concept<br />
and reality of modern “human security”. The reference here is to the descriptively<br />
portrayed, sociopolitical “public services” and “infrastructure” 6 , and the<br />
threat which is posed to these by natural occurrences such as, for example,<br />
floods and earthquakes along with all of their consequences, including the<br />
destruction of streets, interruptions to trade, crop failures, hunger, migration<br />
and social insecurity. Here it can namely be shown that, firstly, towards the end<br />
of the Middle Ages there were highly pragmatic perceptions of “security” in<br />
connection with perceptions of the common good and the fair use of collective<br />
goods. 7 In addition, it can be demonstrated how a close sociopolitical connection<br />
between security perceptions and security requirements on the one hand,<br />
and the institutional methods of dealing with the threat to this security on the<br />
other, developed. This development, which resulted from the interests of a<br />
social “above” and “below” which to a certain extent stood in contrast to one<br />
another, converged in the culmination of “the state”.<br />
Securitas in the Renaissance –<br />
a Different Conceptual History<br />
Around 1338/1339, Ambrogio Lorenzetti painted frescoes that conveyed a<br />
highly political meaning in the governmental hall of the ruling administration,<br />
the Nove, in the town hall of the Republic of Siena. 8 Until the 18th century,<br />
2<br />
With respect to the methodical functions of the comparison and heuristical, descriptive,<br />
analytical and paradigmatic aspects cf. Haupt and Kocka 1996, 12-15.<br />
3<br />
Kingreen 2003, 28; MacFarlane and Foong Khong 2006, 29-36.<br />
4<br />
Cf. the articles in this volume, in addition e.g. Härter 2010; Lüdtke and Wildt 2008; Tomuschat<br />
2008, 73-74.<br />
5<br />
Werle 2007.<br />
6<br />
On this somewhat problematic concept cf. Vec 2008. On (modern) infrastructure cf. Laak<br />
2004.<br />
7<br />
Cf. Moss et al. 2009; Gailing et al. 2009.<br />
8<br />
Cf. Starn 1994, 12-20. The dating is attested by accounts.<br />
210
peace and war were identified as the topic of the opposing frescoes; in 1792,<br />
Luigi Lanzi interpreted them as a moralising instruction about good and bad<br />
government and the effects of these on town and country: a perspective that<br />
served as a model, that helped the frescoes to be characterised as Buon Governo<br />
und Malgoverno, and that still shapes art historical discussion about this<br />
masterpiece by Lorenzetti today. 9<br />
An extremely complex allegory of good government or social peace is indeed<br />
portrayed on the northern wall of the governmental hall. Peace, or Buon<br />
Governo, is suggestively characterised by nine virtues: fides, charitas, spes,<br />
pax, fortitudo, prudentia, magnanimitas, temperantia, iustitia. Added to these<br />
are sapientia, iustitia comutativa and distributiva as well as concordia. The<br />
eastern wall, joining on to this, shows the peaceful and benedictory effects on<br />
town and country, which discernibly represent Siena and its contado. 10 On the<br />
western wall and dialectically connected with the latter, one finds the portrayal<br />
of Malgoverno, or war, together with the effects on town and country, above<br />
which fear (timor) hovers, akin to a dark angel. 11<br />
Image 1: Securitas<br />
9 Cf. Southard 1980, 361-365; Rowley 1958; Rubinstein 1958; Feldges-Henning 1972;<br />
Frugoni 1979a; and Frugoni 1979b; Skinner 2009; Starn 1994, 12-20. Gibbs 1999 presumes<br />
that Lorenzetti, in the allegory of good government, originally gave Iustitia a positioning as<br />
prominent as Pax; this does not affect my interpretation.<br />
10 Cf. Feldges-Henning 1972, 159-162; Frugoni 1979a, 24.<br />
11 Cf. Starn 1994, 42-43; Frugoni 1979a, 24.<br />
211
The personification of security takes an unmistakably central position in the<br />
fresco of peace with respect to the portrayal of Buon Governo and its effects on<br />
town and country. The angel-like winged securitas hovers above the city gate<br />
at the city limits, facing towards the peaceful cultural landscape, wrapped in<br />
filigree white fabric, holding a banner in her right hand, and in her left, gallows<br />
with a person hanging from them (see image 1). In terms of her form, she visibly<br />
corresponds to an important figure in the allegory of Buon Governo: pax. In<br />
Lorenzetti’s fresco, pax is striking due to her leaning position in comparison<br />
with the other virtues. The way in which she is portrayed is also comparatively<br />
unusual: her feet rest on pieces of armour. She is dressed in white clothing,<br />
which traces the shape of her body in classical folds, and holds a large olive<br />
branch in her left hand. According to Chiara Frugoni, who interprets the frescoes<br />
as political propaganda of the ruling Nove, the figure of pax corresponds<br />
to that of securitas: “Securitas and pax form the binominal of concordia …<br />
The picture even suggests a yet subtler differentiation: Security in the city rests<br />
upon peace among its inhabitants…”. 12<br />
Lorenzetti’s frescoes have inspired a multitude of art historical and historical<br />
interpretations, from Nicolai Rubinstein to Quentin Skinner: 13 They are<br />
interpreted, for example, as a theological argumentation for the government of<br />
the Nove, drawing on the biblical Book of Wisdom; as a portrayal of Siena as<br />
the divine Jerusalem (or Babylon); as a pre-humanistic rediscovery of ancient<br />
Roman ideals; as a depiction of the secular ideal of a republican society in the<br />
wake of a rediscovery of Aristotelian politics, whether inspired by Thomas<br />
Aquinas, or conveyed by Brunetto Latini’s encyclopaedic Li livres dou tresor;<br />
as praise of the bourgeois work ethic and industriousness, owing to, for example,<br />
the portrayal of the artes mechanicae in town and country; or as a depiction<br />
of astrological concepts concerning the ways in which the planets influence<br />
life on earth (the concept of planet children) – the embodiments of planets<br />
are indeed located above the frescoes.<br />
Each interpretation can be supported by strong arguments, but two things<br />
are clear among the variety of interpretations: Ambrogio Lorenzetti’s frescoes<br />
provide information – maybe exceptionally – about late medieval perceptions<br />
of salus publicua, which can be described as public welfare or good social<br />
“configuration of order”. 14 Securitas plays an important part in this configuration<br />
of order. The frescoes convey messages almost propagandistically, such<br />
as, for example, the statement that security in the Middle Ages is primarily<br />
12 Frugoni 1979b, 76: “Securitas e Pax costituiscono un binomio nella concordia ...<br />
L’immagine suggerisce una distinzione ancora più sottile: nella città la sicurezza è nella<br />
pace dei suoi abitanti...”. Following the reconstruction by Gibbs 1999 securitas also corresponds<br />
iconographically to iustitia.<br />
13 Differentiated survey by Schmidt 2002, 84-137.<br />
14 On salus publicus and its relation to securitas since antiquity see Eberhard 1986, 244. On<br />
the concept of configuration of order see Schneidmüller and Weinfurter 2006.<br />
212
connected with peace and justice, which are guaranteed internally by good<br />
jurisdiction and government, and that this security is based on the models of the<br />
above-mentioned virtues. However, there are even subtler traces of contemporary<br />
concepts of security, which Lorenzetti perhaps did not consciously aim to<br />
portray. The frescoes must hence be examined not for perceptible intentions,<br />
but rather for implicit perceptions and collective attitudes. 15<br />
In the research it is discussed whether the images of pax and securitas have<br />
Roman templates, e.g. coin designs. From Nero to Constantine, coins personified<br />
the Securitas Augusti as an objective of the ruling powers within the Imperium<br />
Romanum and aimed at legitimising the policies of the emperor. 16 If<br />
Lorenzetti was really making a reference to this iconographic tradition, then he<br />
did so loosely – his pax is holding an olive branch instead of (like the Roman<br />
securitas) a spear in her hands, and the grim attribute of his securitas is nowhere<br />
to be found on Roman coins. Robert Gibbs recently called attention to<br />
the fact that Lorenzetti is more likely to have been referring back to illustrations<br />
in contemporary Bolognese law manuscripts of the Decretum Gratiani<br />
and in the Digest. Here the man hanging from the gallows can be found as an<br />
illustration for the second book of the Digest (de iurisdictione), harvest scenes<br />
as illustrations for texts about usufruct, pictures of cultural landscapes for texts<br />
about border and access rights, and scenes of building activity very similar to<br />
those that shape Lorenzetti’s cycle of frescoes. 17 Following Gibbs’ line of<br />
reasoning, the juristic emblems refer to the everyday administration of justice<br />
as a guarantor of social securitas. This much more direct connection to contemporary<br />
images strikingly accentuates the public dimension of securitas 18<br />
and emphasises the concern of the ruling parties for public welfare. In terms of<br />
the history of ideas, a long line can therefore be drawn, with the help of either<br />
ancient coins or the contemporary illustrations of the Institutiones of Justinianus,<br />
from the legitimisation strategies of the Roman emperors to those of the<br />
governments of Italian city states during the Renaissance. 19<br />
15<br />
The intention is to interpret the frescoes not only as a ‘source of tradition’ but also as a<br />
‘remainder’.<br />
16<br />
Cf. Rowley 1958, 95. A Neroic Dupondius, Lugdunum, 64 AD is particularly close to the<br />
way securitas is portrayed, cf. Cohen 1880, 300-301, nos. 321-25; Mattingly 1923, 267-<br />
268, for example nos. 344-349; Mattingly and Sydenham 1923, 164-165, nos. 284-297.<br />
17<br />
Gibbs 1996-1997, 210-212 with Fig. 6; Gibbs 2002, 174; L’Engle 2002, 229-230 with Fig.<br />
4.<br />
18<br />
Cf. also Ebel et al. 1988, 162-163, 196.<br />
19<br />
More probably in terms of a perception of ancient conceptions than in terms of a continuous<br />
tradition.<br />
213
Image 2: Landscape<br />
The art historian Max Seidel goes even further and sees a depiction of the<br />
security, agricultural, trade and traffic policies of the Republic of Siena in the<br />
magnificent panoramic picture of the cultural landscape before the gates of the<br />
well-governed city (see image 2). On three levels, he claims, one can discern<br />
firstly a very clear depiction of Sienese politics in town and contado, secondly<br />
a symbolic depiction of the underlying state theory and thirdly the mythological-astrological<br />
superelevation of a political doctrine of security by means of<br />
peace and harmony. 20 In my opinion, Seidel convincingly shows that one can<br />
find very specific, material connections to the governmental politics of the<br />
Nove in the first third of the 14th century in the picture. For this purpose, he<br />
consults council minutes on crop policies, statutes of the Sienese road construction<br />
authorities, land and tax registers as well as chronicles of that period. 21 The<br />
scenes of grain cultivation and of harvesting could therefore be understood, for<br />
example, as an illustration of the reactions of the Nove to the climate-related<br />
crop failures and years of famine in the first third of the 14th century. 22 In order<br />
to prevent the imminent danger of social unrest and strife due to a lack of corn,<br />
the council minutes state, the Nove levied a forced loan of 15,000 florins in<br />
1330 for the purchase of grain and in 1340 they even imported grain for 40,000<br />
florins. 23 The argument used here is hence a type of social emergency situation,<br />
which justifies the impingement of ownership rights for the higher aim of ensuring<br />
“state” security. While the reason for tax collection is explained in the<br />
council minutes as the preservation of public security and the concern for pub-<br />
20 Seidel 1999, 7.<br />
21 Seidel 1999.<br />
22 Seidel 1999, 49. On the famines from 1315-1317 in (mainly Northern) Europe and a possible<br />
climate impact cf. Dodds 2007.<br />
23 Seidel 1999, 51.<br />
214
lic welfare, the frescoes, with their portrayal of a secure, rich harvest can also<br />
be understood as a subtle depiction of the government’s legitimisation strategy.<br />
According to Seidel, the policies of the republic concerning infrastructure<br />
are depicted even more concretely. Although the responsibility for maintaining<br />
land and water routes theoretically fell under the regalia of the emperor, from<br />
the High Middle Ages onwards the related rights and duties had in fact mostly<br />
been handed over to various rulers depending on the region. 24 Residents were<br />
often called upon to maintain the routes, but in the Italian city states the local<br />
council usually organised the construction and maintenance of public roads<br />
itself. 25 The street in the foreground of the picture displaying the effects of<br />
Buon Governo on the countryside is, according to Seidel, a classic example of a<br />
strata magistra. It has a plastered surface, as stipulated by the Sienese Statuto<br />
dei Viarî, is well lit and traverses the country in a clear manner, as laid down<br />
by the security measures of the Nove against highwaymen. 26 In terms of its<br />
building technique, the bridge visible in the background also provides a reference<br />
to the contemporary measures of the Nove, who replaced the old wooden<br />
and stone bridges in the valley of the Arbia River and thereby enabled the<br />
transport of heavy materials such as millstones as well as roof beams for the<br />
construction of cathedrals. 27 Moreover, it is indubitably no coincidence that the<br />
cultural landscape in the background displays a mill, as a rich harvest and the<br />
transport of crops into the town were closely connected with the concern for<br />
milling grain. 28 Here too, the regiment of the Nove is celebrated in the picture<br />
as a guarantor of security and economic prosperity, or, read inversely, the controlling,<br />
possibly expropriating involvement of the “state” is discernible here.<br />
The Republic of Siena, in fact, not only operated an active policy of street<br />
construction, but in the area of water supply even ensured the well-being of the<br />
city inhabitants as early as the 14th century with miles of subterranean aqueducts.<br />
29<br />
What the banner of securitas demands is thus made visible in the cultural<br />
landscape: “That each person may go on his way freely without fear and everyone<br />
may cultivate his field by means of work, as long as the local authorities<br />
keep this lady in power, for she has taken all strength away from the wrongdoers”.<br />
30 The allegory of Buon Governo repeats this on an abstract level, in con-<br />
24 Szabó 2007, 107.<br />
25 Cf. Duvia 2007, 212-213; Stopani 1993, 28-29.<br />
26 Seidel 1999, 53-54; 55-58.<br />
27 Seidel 1999, 54-55.<br />
28 Cf. Balestracci 2003.<br />
29 Cf. Balestracci 2003.<br />
30 “SENZA PAURA OGN UOM FRANCO CAMINI/ E LAVORANDO SEMINI CIASCU-<br />
NO/ MENTRE CHE TAL COMUNO/ MANTERRÀ QUESTA DON[N]A I[N] SIGNO-<br />
RIA/ CH’EL À LEVATA A’ REI OGNI BALIA”. In historical scholarship the lady<br />
(donna) is generally considered to be Iustitia, but the inscription on the board seems to refer<br />
215
nection with state theory. The equivalent is ultimately also found in macrocosmic<br />
congruence on the medallions above the fresco by means of the portrayal<br />
of the planet Mercury and the moon, which are understood to be the cause of,<br />
or at least a beneficial factor in, the human activities shown on the fresco –<br />
something that is disputed by contemporaries. The embodiment of astrology in<br />
the medallion under the fresco supports this interpretation. 31 Lorenzetti’s frescoes<br />
can be read on several levels and from different perspectives. Securitas is<br />
portrayed, among other things, as a worldly governmental aim to be striven for<br />
in a sociopolitical sense and is brought into connection with very pragmatic,<br />
material concerns: security of the roads, agricultural well-being and livelihood,<br />
trade and exchange, peace and legal security.<br />
This observation therefore expands findings from conceptual history relating<br />
to contemporary intellectual discourses, which were usually shaped by clergymen<br />
and sometimes by lawyers, and clearly differentiates them. The conceptual<br />
history of the semantic field of securitas (and related terms) is unfortunately<br />
not sufficiently elaborated for the Medieval millenium. 32 On the one hand, a<br />
theological discourse which opposed securitas and certitudo to each other can<br />
be traced from late antiquity to the period of the Protestant Reformation<br />
(strongly simplified): Augustine sees securitas as a negative standpoint in<br />
contrast to certitudo, certainty of faith, and Martin Luther still describes securitas<br />
as the standpoint of those who do not trust God. The term certitudo underwent<br />
a differentiation in the course of the Middle Ages, which can ideally be<br />
divided along three lines: theological ‘salvation certainty’, philosophical<br />
‘knowledge certainty’ and political ‘operation certainty’, whereas in the Late<br />
Middle Ages, the term securitas, in terms of ancient perceptions, still seems to<br />
have been experiencing a kind of Renaissance. 33 This ancient perception of<br />
securitas publica, which referred to the pragmatic aspects mentioned above<br />
(security of the streets, etc.) had been taken up again since the High Middle<br />
Ages, at the latest in the context of the discussion of the ruler’s concern for<br />
utilitas publica (John of Salisbury, Thomas Aquinas). 34<br />
Lorenzetti’s frescoes therefore show conceptual facets of securitas which<br />
only at first glance have little to do with the high-brow discourse of the theolo-<br />
to the personification who holds her and who is labeled as SECVRITAS; see Delumeau<br />
1989, 22. The differentiation between iustitia and securitas is actually not clear here, either<br />
iconographically or conceptually.<br />
31 Starn 1994, 96; Greenstein 1988, 498-500. On the planet children see Blume 2000. There<br />
was no agreement on the impact of stars on human life among contemporaries since the<br />
determination of man by stars was not in line with the religiously motivated postulate of<br />
human autonomy. The majority of contemporaries, however, assumed at least a certain impact<br />
of stars on human action, cf. Kunze, 1986, 183-185.<br />
32 Cf. for this passage Arends 2008; Liesner 2002; Conze 1984; Makropoulos 1995; Schrimm-<br />
Heins 1990; Kingreen 2003, 27-28.<br />
33 Liesner 2002, 80-81.<br />
34 See below note 37; Eberhard 1985, 196-198.<br />
216
gians. They tie in with the ancient tradition, but are conceptually broadened by<br />
transcendent cosmological references and are interspersed with Christian ideals:<br />
ideal concepts such as peace and justice, material goods as well as income,<br />
livelihood and advancement. These very practical, material concepts shaped the<br />
social order and the material housing of the people, namely city and nature, as<br />
shown by the cultural landscape in front of the gates of the city. Microcosm<br />
and macrocosm, city and country, rulers and ruled are analogously related to<br />
one another. The astrological interdependence of macrocosm and microcosm<br />
was compatible with Christian perceptions, since in the book of nature it was<br />
possible to recognise the will of God, who at the same time, using Aristotelian<br />
logic, was also thought to move the stars as a prima causa. 35 Hence, in descriptive<br />
terminology, the unmistakable aims of Renaissance security can be identified<br />
as public welfare and services. Christian ideals (caritas, misericordia) not<br />
only obligated individuals but also governances to care for public welfare. 36<br />
The public services stretched to collective goods such as the construction and<br />
maintenance of roads and bridges, but also the provision of food and protection<br />
from violence and injustice. Classic areas of what is today understood as “human<br />
security”, which it was in the interest of the government to provide owing<br />
to the benefit of it for trade and exchange, are thereby covered. 37 A Buon governo<br />
that saw a threat to this security thus had to seek counter-measures, preventively<br />
protect its citizens, organise help in emergencies and rebuild what<br />
was destroyed.<br />
Using Siena as an example, it has already been seen how these kinds of<br />
counter-measures might have looked in the case of crop failures, imminent<br />
price increases and famine in 1330 and 1340. It was possible to supplement<br />
measures such as forced loans and the import of grain with regulations against<br />
price increases and the construction and maintenance of city corn houses as<br />
storage facilities to ensure against supply shortages. 38 They were intended to<br />
guarantee the security of the community, but were also necessary for the military,<br />
and were part of city politics. However, not only the city as an enclosed<br />
space, but also the infrastructure built in the contado provided security against<br />
the threat from hostile nations and from nature. This infrastructure included<br />
roads and bridges, ditches, dams, fountains and roadhouses. These had to be<br />
constructed and maintained, and not only in Siena, but also in Florence, the<br />
35<br />
Cf. North 1986, 55-56, 74-75; Weltecke 2003, 188-189; Schenk 2010, 508-509.<br />
36<br />
Levin 2004, 22-24.<br />
37<br />
Cf. note 1; on the duty of the ruler see Ptolemaeus, book 2, chapter 12, 553: “Ut autem<br />
stratae in sua communitate sint liberae, et transeuntibus forent securae, iura principibus<br />
permittunt pedagia. […] amplius autem, et viarum securitas in regimine regni principibus<br />
est fructuosa, quia illuc magis confluunt mercatores cum mercibus, unde et regnum in<br />
divitiis crescit […].” Cf. also Conze 1984.<br />
38 th<br />
For Florence cf. Pinto 1978, 22-23, 107-120. For examples from the 15 century north of<br />
the Alps cf. Jörg 2008, 178-318.<br />
217
whole of Tuscany, and generally throughout Europe, albeit with strong regional<br />
differences in quality, quantity and day-to-day administration. 39<br />
Securitas, Infrastructure and Averting Danger<br />
A second aspect of the topic now comes into focus: Natural hazards and disasters<br />
also represent a threat to societal security owing to the destruction of infrastructure.<br />
In fact, an extreme natural occurrence by definition only becomes a<br />
disaster if society is affected. Disasters are always the result of complex, historically-induced<br />
and process-driven causalities at the intersections between<br />
nature and culture. 40 The sociopolitical dimension plays a large part in the<br />
reaction to or prevention of disasters by societies. Political power thereby consists<br />
not only of forms of causal power such as, for example, the ability to<br />
assert one’s own wishes in a social relationship, even in the face of adversity. 41<br />
In the sense of Hannah Arendt, it can also include modal forms of political<br />
power, for example, the self-empowerment of groups by means of common<br />
perceptions, attitudes and specific actions. 42<br />
This becomes particularly perceptible in the case of disasters that are not<br />
connected with an everyday threat from natural forces, but instead shake a<br />
community suddenly and perturbingly, such as earthquakes, for example. These<br />
occurrences were often understood as God’s reaction to sinful behaviour of the<br />
community and as a warning sign encouraging people to return to God and<br />
repent – a demonstration of certitudo in belief was therefore desired in order to<br />
regain the securitas of the community. Common practices of this kind were<br />
masses and Rogation processions for the purpose of re-establishing unity,<br />
strength of belief and solidarity, and to protect the community from future<br />
danger. 43 When in 1466 Siena was shaken by an earthquake on the Feast of the<br />
Assumption of Mary (15th August), the day of the city’s patron saint, of all<br />
days, the people reacted with a procession – quite typical behaviour, as will be<br />
seen. 44<br />
However, besides tradition-bound forms of behaviour, the ways of dealing<br />
with recurring dangers could also lead to specific formalised behavioural patterns<br />
and sociopolitical order configurations, e.g. rule-governed behaviour as<br />
well as the formation of cooperatives and administrations that were responsible<br />
39<br />
Cf. e.g. Seidel 1999, 139-140; Casali 1995, 53-91.<br />
40<br />
Cf. Hewitt 1997; Oliver-Smith 2002, 25-26 (“multidimensionality of disaster”), 43-45;<br />
Garçia-Acosta 2002, 60-62.<br />
41<br />
Weber 2005, 38.<br />
42<br />
Arendt 1970, 45; Krause and Rölli 2008, 7-18.<br />
43<br />
Delumeau 1989, 90-176; Schenk 2009a, 73-74.<br />
44<br />
Morandi 1964, 98-99; the earthquake is not registered by Guidoboni and Comastri 2005 and<br />
would deserve a detailed investigation.<br />
218
for the construction and maintenance of infrastructure. These types of reaction<br />
to and the prevention of disasters were often oriented towards public welfare,<br />
which, however, was defined in different ways and could become the subject of<br />
dispute. Conflicts concerning what brings security to the community are particularly<br />
illuminating for the question of competing agents, beneficiaries, winners<br />
and losers and their argumentation and legitimisation strategies when<br />
providing security. 45 In the following, a few examples of these kinds of conflicts<br />
and of how they were handled administratively beyond the Republic of<br />
Siena will be presented.<br />
Case Studies: Florence and Strasbourg<br />
The commune of Florence, which established itself as a republic in the 12th<br />
century and constructed an extensive network of roads and bridges throughout<br />
its contado in a phase of expansion in the 13th and 14th centuries, serves as the<br />
first example. 46 During the years 1360-1370, the plain from San Salvi and<br />
Ricorboli to the east of the gates of Florence faced the threat of floods due to<br />
the meandering Arno. After a catastrophic flood that claimed hundreds of lives<br />
in November 1333, the commune passed a strict ban on obstructing the course<br />
of the river in this zone with weirs for mills, for example. 47 However, the security<br />
of the city faced a different threat as a result, because no mills for the production<br />
of flour would have been available in the case of a siege. 48 Soon the<br />
commune allowed mills to be operated precisely in the aforementioned zone,<br />
which increased the danger of floods due to backwater, but also generated jobs<br />
and tax revenues. 49 In 1371, the republic decided by way of precaution to protect<br />
the northern banks with a wall at the residents’ expense, because a vital<br />
street to Bologna traversed this area. 50 No lasting success seems to have been<br />
achieved, however, because in 1380/81 a commission of the responsible administrative<br />
body, the Ufficio di Torre, inspected the locality and decided on extensive<br />
building measures. 51 A short time later, one of the local mill operators was<br />
sued for damages by a neighbour, because the backwater had damaged his<br />
private property. In 1383, the defendant fought back with an expert’s report<br />
based on Roman law about ownership rights and liability laws in connection<br />
45<br />
Schenk 2009b, 18<br />
46<br />
Cf. for general issues Luzzati 1986; La Roncière 2005, 27-100.<br />
47<br />
Cf. Schenk 2007, 367, 373-374; La Roncière 2005, 130-133.<br />
48<br />
Cf. on the communal mills Muendel 1991, 375; Papaccio 2008, 76-79.<br />
49<br />
Archivio di Stato di Firenze, Provvisioni Reg. 55, fol. 135r+v (February 1368).<br />
50<br />
Cantini 1800, 118.<br />
51<br />
Archivio di Stato di Firenze, Capitani di Parte guelfa, numeri rossi 105, fol. 33r; ibid.,<br />
Provvisioni Reg. 70, fol. 65r+v; ibid., Provvisioni Dupl. 37, fol. 145v-157v. On the<br />
complex history of the multifunctional Ufficio di Torre and its different elements and<br />
names see Guidi 1981, 283-293; Casali 1995, 53-72; La Roncière 2005, 57-73.<br />
219
with the private usage of public goods, which was compiled by the Florentine<br />
lawyer Donato Ricchi de Aldighieri. The expert was a pupil of the famous<br />
jurist Bartolo de Sassoferrato (1313/14-1357), in his time the author of the first<br />
large medieval treatise about usage rights, property rights and liability law in<br />
the context of meandering rivers. 52 The legal situation was complicated, because<br />
the mill operator’s private usage led to damages for the commune, whose<br />
costs were transferred to the general public by means of taxes. Nevertheless,<br />
the expert acquitted the mill operator of indemnity claims. 53 However, the<br />
flooding problem remained virulent and at intervals it caused severe, sometimes<br />
catastrophic damage to the course of the Arno. During the course of the<br />
next two centuries, institutions specialising in building infrastructure, such as<br />
the above-mentioned Ufficio di Torre, among others, worked to combat the<br />
consequences of flooding. Although the term “security” is not explicitly used in<br />
the sources here, we can talk about a kind of “security policy” in the Florentine<br />
republic. Just as Lorenzetti’s allegory of securitas implicitly addresses the<br />
responsibility of the Buon Governo of the Nove for the infrastructure in Siena,<br />
the responsibility of the republic of Florence for the bonum commune in the<br />
city and Contado becomes perceptible.<br />
After the Medici came to power in 1530, taxes were regularly levied on<br />
draught cattle in order to finance the costs of building infrastructure. 54 This was<br />
justified with reference to the economic benefits of using streets and bridges for<br />
trade, and the duty of the Medici government to the felice stato. 55 Stato is not to<br />
be understood as the modern state; the term has an overtone here that can perhaps<br />
be expressed in English as “state” in the sense of “situation, circumstances”,<br />
or as “public welfare” – the rulers were under obligation to create a<br />
state of contentment within the community. This wording should not hide the<br />
fact that the cattle tax primarily affected not the traders in the city, but the<br />
regional farmers. However, land owners also benefitted from repair and adjustment<br />
measures. After a flood in September 1557, for example, the property<br />
belonging to the heir of Ottaviano de’ Medici on the river Marina, just before it<br />
joins the Bisenzio, was damaged. The commune of Florence examined and<br />
52 Significant edition: Cavallar 2004.<br />
53 Edition of the expert opinion in Cantini 1800, 119-122.<br />
54 Cf. for general issues Mannori 2005, 59-90; on the history of administration of infrastructures<br />
under the Medici cf. Spini 1976; Pratilli 1998; Vivoli 1998.<br />
55 Cf. Archivio di Stato di Firenze, Capitani di parte guelfa, numeri rossi 105, fol. 299v<br />
(1533), fol. 311v (1545); ibid., Senato dei quarantotto, 14, fol. 56r (23 July 1549), Volendo<br />
l’illustrissimo et eccellentissimo s(ign)or il s(ign)or Duca di Fiorenza per remedio<br />
all’infiniti danni che fanno et farebbono e fiumi del suo amplissimo et felice stato se e’ non<br />
vi si obviassi et advertendo che di tal suo desiderio e non se ne può vedere facilmente<br />
l’effecto senza qualche buono et certo assegnamento di denari […]. The republic had<br />
charged fees as well but in most cases limited in duration or location.<br />
220
epaired the damages in this zone. 56 From the middle of the 13th century onwards,<br />
the Republic of Florence, later the Grand Duchy of Tuscany, at first<br />
reacted to the threat posed by floods to security, infrastructure and prosperity<br />
with commissions that were formed ad hoc, then in the course of time, due to<br />
the expansion of the territories and the growing complexity of the state system,<br />
with specialised administrative units. 57 Despite certain tendencies towards<br />
centralisation, the actions of the Florentine administration were mostly just<br />
reactions. Private economic interests, political-military expansions, natural<br />
hazards and security requirements drove this development. The interplay of<br />
local requirements and the reaction from Florence had a formative effect on<br />
administration and ‘state’. 58 In line with recent research, one can speak here of<br />
“empowering interactions” between the sociopolitical “below” and “above”. 59<br />
It was only in the period of the Medici that this trend towards a type of refeudalisation<br />
was broken. 60<br />
However, the provision of security could also take place on other levels,<br />
which are discussed in more detail in historical research due to their (reputedly)<br />
typical “Medieval” character. For example, from the middle of the 14th until<br />
the 17th century, the commune of Florence was accustomed to ask for divine<br />
help in the case of bad weather, earthquakes, epidemics, war, religious or political<br />
unrest, or for intercession and mercy in view of these afflictions, by<br />
carrying out processions in honour of and with a picture of the Madonna from<br />
nearby Impruneta. 61 Moral wrongdoing was namely seen as a cause of threats<br />
to security, even those posed by natural hazards. This was supported by a widespread<br />
school of thought based on the theological concept of punishment,<br />
which saw analogies with the biblical Flood in the sense of a “peccatogenic<br />
cause study”: God was cautioning or punishing the sinful world by means of a<br />
disaster. 62<br />
Soon after a devastating earthquake turned thousands of houses into rubble<br />
in the Mugello valley north of Florence in the night of 12th to 13th June 1542,<br />
the senate forbade sodomy and blasphemy in unusually clear language, seem-<br />
56<br />
Archivio di Stato di Firenze, Capitani di parte guelfa, numeri neri 960, no. 87 and the<br />
drawing between nos. 248 and 249: Report by Dominico di Zanobi on damage to the property<br />
of Filippo Arrighetti and Carlo Strozzi. It probably refers to the former property of Ottaviano<br />
de’ Medici (1484-1546), father of the later Pope Leo XI (1605).<br />
57<br />
See comments above, notes 51 and 54 and Guarini 2000, passage 2.<br />
58<br />
Nicholas 1997, 156 even characterises the late medieval Italian city administration as<br />
“overgoverned”.<br />
59<br />
On this concept see Blockmans et al. 2009.<br />
60<br />
Cf. Rombai 1994, 4.<br />
61<br />
Casotti 1714; Trexler 1972; Processions might be a kind of ritual to calm God’s anger.<br />
62<br />
Groh et al. 2003, 20, mentions “peccatogene(n) Ursachenforschung”.<br />
221
ingly owing to this sign of God’s wrath. 63 The Florentine senate was under the<br />
control of the Medici family, who originally came from the Mugello valley.<br />
Even though Duke Cosimo I de’ Medici himself seems to have rejected an<br />
interpretation of the occurrence along the lines of the theological concept of<br />
punishment, as a letter reveals, nevertheless the government of Florence clearly<br />
held itself responsible for the moral “state” (stato) of the community. 64 Thus,<br />
processions, moral obligations and bans on luxury items could be understood as<br />
contemporary security policies.<br />
This was not only the case in Florence. When the earth moved in Strasbourg<br />
in 1357, but without causing much damage, the Strasbourg City Council forbade<br />
its citizens from wearing gold jewellery not befitting their social status. In<br />
addition, the City Council specially decreed an annual procession of penitents,<br />
which had the explicit purpose of pacifying God’s wrath and can therefore be<br />
understood as a type of appeasement ritual. 65 This procession was to be repeated<br />
yearly and was connected with a sacrifice in honour of Mary, the patron<br />
saint of the city, and with alms given to the city’s poor. This so-called “Saint<br />
Lucas procession” was in fact continued until the first third of the 16th century<br />
as a type of admonitory memoria of the earthquake. The decree of alms additionally<br />
represents a demonstration of Christian virtues such as caritas and<br />
misericordia. 66 The aim of this was evidently to spell out the duty of the rich to<br />
take care of the poor. As was the case with the ban on gold jewellery, the correct<br />
social order, i.e. the relationship between the social upper and lower class<br />
that prevailed despite all differences, is thereby choreographed. The objective<br />
of the portrayal is thus the establishment of the order willed by God as a condition<br />
for the security of the whole community.<br />
Nevertheless, this provision of security by means of actions was by no<br />
means socially inclusive, but rather the opposite. For one thing, it aimed only<br />
symbolically, not materially, at a social balance. For another, it also allowed<br />
communities to react to the actual or perceived threat to their security by<br />
searching for scapegoats. In historical scholarship, this is discussed using the<br />
example of the Jewish pogroms of 1348 as a reaction to the plague (Jews as<br />
well-poisoners) and the witch-hunting as a reaction to the worsening of the<br />
climate and the crop failures of the Little Ice Age. 67 Both examples are not<br />
without their problems, however: The Jewish pogroms very often had other<br />
63 Cf. Archivio di Stato di Firenze, Senato dei Quarantotto 5, fol. 7v-9v, 33r+v; ibid., Senato<br />
dei Quarantotto 14, fol. 56r; on the earthquake Bellandi and Rhodes 1987, 1 and the Catalogo<br />
dei forti terremoti d’Itali, dated June 13, 1542.<br />
64 Letter: Archivio di Stato di Firenze, Mediceo del Principato, Filza 4299, fol. 253r. On the<br />
theology of punishment cf. Ildefonso 1785, 251-253 with regard to bad weather in 1511.<br />
65 Cf. Schenk 2010, 516-517.<br />
66 For the presence of the virtues in daily life cf. Nari 1991.<br />
67 Cf. with differences in detail Graus 1988, 335-340, 377-389; Behringer 1999.<br />
222
causes – for example, economic, political, or religious. 68 There are also arguments<br />
against drawing parallels between the worsening climate and witch<br />
hunts: The accusations of weather-related magic were frequently rooted in, for<br />
example, familial, neighbourly or sociopolitical conflicts and only had serious<br />
effects when a particularly zealous inquisitor was in the area. 69 Nevertheless,<br />
there are connections between catastrophic weather events, the increase in the<br />
number of accusations of weather-related magic and witch hunts. A causal<br />
connection between strong precipitation, a landslide and the persecution of<br />
Jews can even be attested to in at least one case (Ravensburg 1430). 70 This<br />
form of social security provision by means of persecuting “guilty” fringe<br />
groups thus had an extremely excluding character. With the cultural anthropologist<br />
Mary Douglas, one can suspect that a common cultural model underlies<br />
both the moral obligations and the search for scapegoats, namely a culturespecific<br />
perception of purity that is threatened by sin in the form of deviant<br />
behaviour or maladjusted groups. 71 It is still to be clarified to what extent this<br />
search for culpability and culprits after a disaster is rooted more in cultural than<br />
religious conditions and to what extent it is culture- and epoch-specific.<br />
Caritas as a kind of elementary care for the members of a society who were<br />
in need was more widespread in the Middle Ages than it appears at first glance.<br />
Survival was part of human security, while the securing of this survival was a<br />
duty of the government, even if all too often the means did not suffice for this<br />
purpose. This was also the case in connection with disasters. In the summer of<br />
1529, the Upper Rhine Plain was struck by a flood disaster. Hundreds, perhaps<br />
even thousands of refugees made their way to Strasbourg and found acceptance.<br />
The city brought them to a Barfüsserkloster and other religious establishments,<br />
fed them, and let those fit for employment work on the city fortifications.<br />
72 Contemporaries suspected that not only the weather, but also flaws in<br />
the water engineering of the smaller rivers Ill, Bruche, Zembs and Brunnwasser<br />
had caused the flood disaster. The Strasbourg bishop, Wilhelm (III) von<br />
Hohnstein (1506-1541) formulated this very clearly, as a letter from 28th September<br />
1529 reveals. 73 He was a member of a cooperative which since the start<br />
of the 15th century had been dealing with improvements to watercourses as<br />
68<br />
Cf. the overview of previous research in Toch 2003, 59-67, 110-120.<br />
69<br />
Cf. especially with regard to Alsace Behringer and Jerouschek 2000, 9-97.<br />
70<br />
Cf. Wolff 2008, 486-487. I owe this evidence to Karel Hruza.<br />
71<br />
See Douglas 1992, 3-121.<br />
72<br />
Cf. Winckelmann 1922, 150; Jütte 2005, 231-233; Jörg 2008, 264, 340.<br />
73<br />
Strasbourg, Archives de ville, série VI 209 (33), No. 4: “Ersamen wÿsen lieben getruwen<br />
und besondern gut frundt, wir stehend jnn dheinen zwÿfel, euch sÿge unverborgen unnd jnn<br />
gutem wissen, wie die größe unnd uberfluß der wassern des Rheins, Ÿll, Zems unnd Brunwasser<br />
disß vergangnen summer den gemeinen man, dern lantz ort von Colmar oben herab<br />
bisß gein Straßburg ein mercklichen schweren unnd verderblichen schaden zugefügt hatt …<br />
dwil wir dann vernemen, das sollichs die groß mercklich nodturfft erfordert, domit unuberbringlicher<br />
verderblicher schad verhütet blibe”.<br />
223
transport routes, the regulation of competing rights of use (fishing, mills, irrigation)<br />
and preventive measures against floods: the so-called Illsassen. 74 The<br />
earliest still existing contract between residents and persons holding rights in<br />
the watercourses, with a duration of 10 years, dates from the year 1404. The<br />
residents subsequently formed a cooperative and established an official river<br />
regiment dealing with rights and duties, the construction of dams and canals,<br />
bank reinforcement, inspections, penalty clauses, arbitration processes in the<br />
case of conflicts, etc. As stated in an Ill regulation of 1459, the union took<br />
place with the purpose of gemeines nutzes und notdurfft (common usage and<br />
emergency aid). 75 In other words: The Ill cooperative, with public welfare and<br />
the elimination of hardship as its objectives, represents a further type of institutionalised<br />
security provision in the Late Middle Ages.<br />
The complex development of the Ill cooperative can only be mentioned<br />
briefly here. Besides the bishop and the Strasbourg cathedral chapter, the cities<br />
of Strasbourg, Schlettstadt and Kolmar, Ebersmunster Abbey, the Rappoltstein<br />
family, the Herrschaft Rathsamhausen and numerous small communes, among<br />
others, were involved in the cooperative during its first phase. As early as the<br />
15th century, damage prevention is mentioned as a task of the cooperative in<br />
connection with river regulations; finally, in 1531, there are concrete discussions<br />
about the “prevention of future ruinous damages”. 76 In the years of crisis<br />
after 1530, the cooperative formed an einung (union) with detailed instructions<br />
that were summarised in a wasserordnung (water regulations). In the long run,<br />
this Ill cooperative was to become a political factor, but above all it played an<br />
important part in resolving conflicts, and ultimately, at the start of the 17th<br />
century, referred to its 29 members (incorrectly according to the law) as “Illstände”<br />
in the emerging corporative state. The Ill cooperative only came to an<br />
end with the French occupation of Alsace, whereby even the French intendant<br />
referred to the old rules, which were still to be taken as an approved basis. 77 In<br />
reality, the administration, which on the surface was highly centralised, seems<br />
to have been structured in a subsidiary manner.<br />
In contrast to the situation in Florence, a pragmatic culture of adjustment established<br />
itself here amid converging and competing interests. The Illsassen,<br />
organised in a cooperative, carried out their tasks for centuries with some suc-<br />
74 Only basically known through Sittler 1952; and Eichenlaub 1990, 189-195. The author is<br />
preparing a detailed study on the Ill cooperative.<br />
75 Quotation: Strasbourg, Archives de ville, série VI 209 (1, 4); on ‘gemeiner Nutzen’ (common<br />
usage) in the friction between authority and cooperative cf. Eberhard 1986.<br />
76 Strasbourg, Archives de ville, série VI 209 (33), no. 11: The council of the bishop writes to<br />
the councillor of Strasbourg on November 6, 1531 on the extension of tasks to the river:<br />
“Zembs sampt anderen nebenflusßen mit besichtigen und nach jren guten gewißnen ordnen<br />
sollen, wie sie am nutzlichstenn zu furkhemung verrer verderblicher schadenns achtenn<br />
mogenn […]”.<br />
77 Cf. Sittler 1952, 145-146; Eichenlaub 1990, 193.<br />
224
cess. In this context, it is almost certainly possible to speak of a type of statebuilding<br />
from below, which led to characteristic forms of regional politics with<br />
a subsidiary character. This political-legal concept of regulating a river for<br />
economic reasons is no exception, but is rather the rule in the Late Medieval<br />
and Early Modern Southwest of the empire. 78 In the empire to the north of the<br />
Alps, the cooperative organisation of public interests represented a substantial<br />
line of tradition in dealing with common goods as well as the political organisation<br />
of public welfare and the provision of security in town and country.<br />
Here the term ‘security’ does not appear in the sources either, but can be interpreted<br />
descriptively. The differences between Tuscany and the Upper Rhine<br />
Valley with regard to the public organisation of security issues can be related to<br />
the specific historical development of the communities south and north of the<br />
Alps, but can also result from different legal traditions and last but not least,<br />
socioeconomic conditions. The differences as well as their reasons would deserve<br />
a detailed analysis.<br />
Conclusion and Hypotheses<br />
In Renaissance Europe, the provision of security represented a significant task<br />
of many different political communities. This encompassed firstly the concern<br />
for individual salvation, meaning that it searched for certitudo in faith. On a<br />
pragmatic level though, the provision of security was also the concern for protecting<br />
citizens from violence, war, injustice, hunger, price increases, disasters<br />
such as epidemics; the concern for public welfare (salus publica, gemeiner<br />
nutzen – the common good) 79 and thus ultimately also the concern for public<br />
services, i.e. food and infrastructure. The leaders legitimised their actions by,<br />
among other things, at least symbolically taking care of this security. The<br />
unique and early allegory of securitas in Lorenzetti’s fresco stands at least for<br />
this symbolic responsibility of a Buon Governo. Evidently only very modest<br />
instruments were available for this purpose in comparison to the present day.<br />
However, it needs to be stated that already prior to the beginning of the Early<br />
Modern period and maybe starting from the Italian town republics in an unique<br />
amalgam of ancient and medieval traditions a new, pragmatic concept of “security”<br />
began to develop. Without being mentioned explicitly, it represented one<br />
of several reasons for the development of specialised institutions which were<br />
supposed to take care of e.g. infrastructure, buildings, protection from misery<br />
78 Of importance are e.g. the “Runsgenossenschaften” and the “Schuttergenossen” east of the<br />
river Rhine, with a “Schutter” court to resolve legal issues and quarrels. Cf. Mone 1852 for<br />
the east of the Rhine; Gerlach 1990, 45, for the river Main 125-129.<br />
79 Cf. Eberhard 1986.<br />
225
and violence and the maintenance of law and order. 80 In the Late Middle Ages,<br />
the provision of security itself displays an astonishing plurality of forms. It<br />
took place at the most diverse levels, from the emerging gute policey and the<br />
developing legal system to city statutes and sovereign regulations. Politically, it<br />
tended to be organised from above, as was the case in Florence, but in certain<br />
sectors there was also interaction between above and below, as the example of<br />
the Ill cooperative shows. André Holenstein coined the term “empowering<br />
interaction” for this and characterised the related effects as “statebuilding from<br />
below”. 81 The question of who provided security in the encompassing sense<br />
mentioned, and in what way, has a place at the centre of political debate.<br />
In 1981, the economic historian Eric Lionel Jones identified the specific<br />
connection between environment, the capitalist economic system and political<br />
structure as a significant basis for the “European miracle”. He especially makes<br />
a strong case for the argument that in Europe a particular ability to combat<br />
disasters in the form of politically, economically and technologically organised<br />
protection of society from the environment was developed as early as the European<br />
Middle Ages. 82 Although this appears questionable in its exclusivity –<br />
societies outside of Europe also knew how to protect themselves from disasters<br />
– nevertheless, the combination of political legitimisation with institutionalised<br />
provision of security as an interrelated strategy of rulers and the ruled could be<br />
unique to Europe.<br />
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233
Storage and Starvation: Public Granaries as Agents of<br />
Food Security in Early Modern Europe<br />
Dominik Collet �<br />
Abstract: »Horten und Hungern: Öffentliche Getreidespeicher als Agenten<br />
frühneuzeitlicher Food Security«. The development of the ‘food security’ concept<br />
in the 1990s marked a significant change away from state-centred strategies<br />
that focused on food availability, towards policies aimed at food access<br />
and strengthening individual ‘entitlements’ (A. Sen) to food. This essay applies<br />
the food security approach to early modern food regimes, drawing on the example<br />
of the state-granary system in 18th century Prussia to investigate their<br />
agents, zones of conflict, and limits. The evident failure of technology-centred<br />
approaches raises questions about established periodisations, and modernisation<br />
narratives on the ‘great escape’ from hunger. The granary as a ‘technology<br />
of risk’ illustrates the social construction of ‘security’ through the labelling of<br />
security providers and security takers as well as the performance of exclusion<br />
and inclusion.<br />
Keywords: Food security, famine, granary, Prussia, Frederick II of Prussia,<br />
food regime, security regime, entitlements, exclusion.<br />
Food security is a relatively recent addition to the political concerns governing<br />
development, nutrition and human rights. The concept rose to prominence<br />
alongside ‘human security’ during several UN-sponsored conferences in the<br />
late 1990s. It marked a decisive shift away from earlier strategies that had<br />
focused not on food security, but on food availability. These earlier approaches<br />
considered food access only in terms of physical accessibility, resulting in<br />
programs to raise global food production and to ensure rapid deployment of<br />
stored grain during emergencies. By the 1990s, however, it had become depressingly<br />
obvious that the physical availability of foodstuffs alone did very<br />
little to prevent malnutrition and starvation. Even though per-capita production<br />
of food has grown, hunger has not gone away. 1<br />
� Address all communications to: Dominik Collet, Graduiertenkolleg Interdisziplinäre Umweltgeschichte,<br />
Seminar für Mittlere und Neuere Geschichte, Universität Göttingen, Platz<br />
der Göttinger Sieben 5, 37073 Göttingen, Germany;<br />
e-mail: dominik.collet@phil.uni-goettingen.de.<br />
1 Hall 1998. The development of the ‘food security’ concept is closely related to that of<br />
‘human security’, sharing its shift away from state-focused approaches to a wider scope of<br />
providers or ‘agents’ of security, analysing multi-polar ‘governance’ instead of state ‘policy’.<br />
Translated into political action, it has also been accused of sharing the latter’s neocolonial<br />
undertones, facilitating the de-legitimisation and circumvention of non-Western<br />
governments.<br />
<strong>Historical</strong> <strong>Social</strong> <strong>Research</strong>, Vol. 35 — 2010 — No. 4, 234-252
Accordingly new approaches began to focus less on physical and more on<br />
economic and social access to food. These policies highlighted poverty, inequality<br />
and the shifting ‘entitlements’ (A. Sen) to foodstuffs. They would look<br />
at individual rather than household provisions, reconsidering the skewed distribution<br />
of food according to gender and age. They would identify cultural barriers<br />
to certain foods and distributive practices, and analyse the wide range of<br />
environmental challenges to food access. In short: the concept of food security<br />
shifted the focus away from technological towards political, socio-economic<br />
and cultural factors. 2<br />
Significantly for the historical sciences, this shift challenges established demarcation<br />
lines between contemporary and pre-modern societies. Railroads, for<br />
example – once cherished as the ultimate weapon against famine – are no<br />
longer regarded as crucial prerequisites to food security. In fact they have frequently<br />
been shown to exert a negative impact, facilitating outward as well as<br />
inward flows of food during shortages. 3<br />
In most historical narratives, however, it is still improved storage and transportation,<br />
silos and railways which delineate the advent of supposedly ‘modern’<br />
and ‘secure’ food regimes. Historians have by and large ignored the challenge<br />
of development economics and held on to established modernisation<br />
narratives. Accordingly, they have focused predominantly on technological<br />
developments that supposedly mark a clear break, ‘the great escape’ to use<br />
David Arnold’s term, from the pre-modern cycle of perpetual subsistence crisis:<br />
demographic growth, climatic disaster, famine, and population decline. 4<br />
This essay will test the reach of the ‘food security’ concept on one prominent<br />
example of early modern society’s food regimes that figured strongly in<br />
historical debates as well as in later narratives: the public granary. I will briefly<br />
sketch its genesis, focusing especially on late 18th century Prussia, where they<br />
were widely regarded as a cure-all to food insecurity. In a second part I will<br />
discuss some of the conflicts that surrounded these structures and try to explain<br />
their ultimate failure to provide secure food access by looking at their socioeconomic<br />
and cultural role in early modern societies. Finally, I will use these<br />
observations to speculate on the more general issues of security and risk as well<br />
as their periodisation.<br />
The Ecology of the Granary<br />
For most of the developed world, hunger resides in the past. In 2006 a study<br />
claimed that the 800 million clinically obese people now slightly surpass the<br />
2 Hall 1998, Chapter 3: The History of Food Security.<br />
3 Davis 2002, 26-27, 332.<br />
4 Arnold 1988, 68-72.<br />
235
numbers of malnourished humans living on our planet. 5 This ‘balanced’ picture,<br />
however, cannot mask the fact that food deficiency has never left us,<br />
neither in the so-called developing world, nor in the industrialised nations. In<br />
fact, one of the reasons politicians in the West have embraced the ‘food security’<br />
concept is the possibility of re-labelling the increasing number of poor<br />
people in Western, industrialised countries as ‘food insecure’, thereby avoiding<br />
the politically far more damaging term: hungry.<br />
Even though the ‘right to food’ has only recently been incorporated into<br />
many national laws, the protection from want has always been a policy cornerstone.<br />
Indeed it lies at the very heart of why humans form a society. To secure<br />
access to food for his people is the prime responsibility of any ruler and a<br />
foundation of legitimate government. Some of the oldest written documents<br />
describe grain supply as a crucial statecraft. Chinese texts from the 5th century<br />
BC reckon that provisions for 9 years are advisable while 3 years are necessary<br />
for any government to survive and that only “when the granaries are full [the<br />
people] will know propriety and moderation.” Similar provisions abound in<br />
Roman scripture and the Bible. 6<br />
Public granaries can be found in most complex societies. The growth of<br />
towns constituted one of the driving factors for ever larger granaries. The ruins<br />
of ancient Rome’s public storehouses or the massive Chinese ‘ever-normal’<br />
granaries continue to amaze people today. 7 Europe’s earliest surviving buildings<br />
date from the heyday of medieval cities. Later public granaries followed<br />
the increasing division of labour to the sites of mines, manufactories and military<br />
garrisons that often lay too far away from farming resources to support<br />
their residents. In the 17th and 18th centuries, granaries rapidly expanded<br />
alongside the early modern state and its growing populations.<br />
Early modern granaries occupied increasingly massive structures (Illustration<br />
1). They were designed to support heavy weights and to protect the grain<br />
from fire, moisture and rodents, storing it in waist-high boxes, often on multiple<br />
low storeys with a raised ground floor and double walls to keep out humidity.<br />
8 Their solid appearance also reflected positively on their communal or<br />
noble patrons, visualising their respective commitment to the support of subjects<br />
or citizens, very much helped by the fact that granaries had to be placed in<br />
easy reach of large populations and were often situated right in the city centre<br />
(Illustration 2). A prominently positioned granary also marked and illustrated<br />
security claims in opposition to other providers of relief such as the church or<br />
5<br />
BBC, “Overweight ‘top world’s hungry’” 2006.<br />
6<br />
Cf. Will and Wong 1991, 2, 15, who also consider the establishment of a comprehensive<br />
public granaries system in early modern China as a consequence of the Quing conquerors’<br />
increased need for legitimisation.<br />
7<br />
Cf. Rickman 1988.<br />
8<br />
On the structural design and the turning and preservation techniques of early modern granaries,<br />
cf. Dinglinger 1768.<br />
236
private charity. Granaries only lost their prominence when improved transportation<br />
made it possible to store grain close to the producer and free precious<br />
city space during the 19th century. Even in today’s distributed markets, however,<br />
the German government still keeps a strategic ‘Bundesreserve’ (federal<br />
reserve) of grain, stored in secret locations according to the ‘Ernährungssicherstellungsgesetz’<br />
(food securitisation law) which last provided uncontaminated<br />
food supplies during the Chernobyl fallout of 1986. 9<br />
Illustration 1: Vertical Section of an Ideal Granary (1768)<br />
Dinglinger 1768, Table 1 (Staats- und Universitätsbibliothek, Göttingen).<br />
This brief sketch of the granary’s genesis already hints at some zones of<br />
conflict. Many depots originated not from the need to provide secure food, but<br />
to store tribute grain – grain constituting not just a food resource but a form of<br />
currency in pre-monetary societies. 10 The appearance of granaries in towns,<br />
mining villages and the sites of factories illustrates the momentous inequalities<br />
in supply between producers and consumers. Similarly, the construction of<br />
storage for military purposes foreshadows conflicts of access and precedence,<br />
relief and war. Finally many granaries, such as the Roman storehouses, started<br />
as private enterprises and became ‘public’, that is controlled by the authorities,<br />
only through coercion or forceful appropriation – a process that indicates di-<br />
9 These reserves cover only a few weeks demand and would thus have met with strong<br />
disapproval from ancient China’s statesmen. Cf. Horn 2005.<br />
10 Cf. Karl Polanyi’s concept of the storage economy and ‘Staple Finance vs. Market Finance’<br />
in his pioneering work on the cultural anthropology of economics: Polanyi et al. 1957, esp.<br />
243-270.<br />
237
verging interest between private trade, governments and consumers. 11 Granaries<br />
occupied a strongly contested field, divided between the state and private<br />
actors, military and humanitarian interests as well as fiscal and charitable policies.<br />
Illustration 2: Mauthalle, Nuremberg,<br />
Built by Hans Behaim the Elder as a Public Granary in 1498-1502.<br />
Photography: Andreas Praefcke.<br />
The Prussian ‘Granary State’<br />
All these ruptures are visible in what is possibly the most daring and most<br />
highly publicised European endeavour at a comprehensive storage system: the<br />
Prussian state granaries of the 18th century. Contrary to what a host of accompanying<br />
tracts claimed, their origins lie not in the people’s welfare or economic<br />
policy. Instead they owe their existence to the effects of the ‘military revolution’.<br />
The need to support a large, well-disciplined and increasingly mobile<br />
army without damage to the growing fiscal state required an extended provisioning<br />
system. 12 However, the enormous costs of their upkeep in peacetime<br />
quickly generated ideas about additional uses.<br />
11 Rickman 1988, 164-173.<br />
12 Cf. Atorf 1999, 66-67.<br />
238
Grain deficits were common in Prussia as in most of Europe. The effects of<br />
the Little Ice Age and rapid demographic growth resulted in large parts of the<br />
population going hungry or living close to subsistence level. Three major harvest<br />
failures in 1709, 1740 and 1771 as well as the aftermath of the Seven<br />
Years’ War led to all-out famines, with population losses of up to 10%. But<br />
even in normal years, grain prices fluctuated and rose steadily the longer the<br />
harvest had passed, indicating that few people could afford to stockpile provisions<br />
in autumn. 13<br />
Eminent cameralists such as Justi, Bergius or Sonnenfels argued that the finances<br />
tied up in state granaries could be put to use by employing them as<br />
price-balancing mechanisms. By releasing grain when the price was high, and<br />
buying when the price was low, they could support grain producers and city<br />
consumers in turn through a ‘just price’. 14 Others petitioned for the granaries to<br />
artificially inflate prices, thereby supporting grain producers and preventing<br />
servants and labourers from becoming “willfull and unruly” in times of abundance.<br />
15 Many more lobbied for low prices in order to stimulate trade and industry<br />
and assist city artisans or even the poor. 16 Some scholars pointed to the<br />
success of contemporary fire insurance and argued for an extension of granary<br />
schemes to cover the whole population, thereby exterminating the hated grain<br />
traders often denounced as ‘Corn-Jews’. 17<br />
The 1709 famine spurred some of these plans into action in Prussia, but<br />
when another harvest failed in 1721 most of these new granaries were found<br />
empty. 18 Prussia’s granary schemes finally gathered momentum when Frederick<br />
II became king in 1740 during yet another catastrophically failed harvest.<br />
He immediately realised the granaries political potential and dramatically<br />
opened Berlin’s magazines to coincide with his accession ceremonies (Illustration<br />
3). A fresh spell of new granaries followed, leaving Prussia with 32 major<br />
state magazines at the beginning of war in 1756.<br />
While they served the Prussian war effort well during the extended campaigns<br />
of the Seven Years’ War, they also helped to combat the sharp price<br />
hikes that followed the military clashes. 19<br />
13<br />
Von Münchhausen 1772, 118 and Abel 1972, 34-37.<br />
14<br />
Cf. Bergius 1777 and Justi 1771, 4, 22 and 96; Sonnenfels 1777, 376-381.<br />
15<br />
D. V., “Untersuchung“ 1752, 136.<br />
16<br />
Justi 1771, 75-78, 102.<br />
17<br />
D. V., “Untersuchung” 1752, 136 and Wehrs 1791, 142.<br />
18 Atorf 1999, 124.<br />
19 Atorf 1999, 182, 214.<br />
239
Illustration 3: Johann David Schleuen, Berlin’s Grain Magazines are Opened<br />
During the Famine of 1740 on Occasion of the Oath of Allegiance to<br />
Frederick II<br />
In: Schultz 1988, 44.<br />
Their biggest challenge, though, was still to come. In 1770 a sharp winter<br />
with snow that lasted until June followed by catastrophic rainfall destroyed<br />
crops all over central Europe. 20 What ensued has been branded by Borussophile<br />
historiography as an “immensely successful fight against famine”, “an example<br />
of superior social policy” 21 that transformed Prussia into “an island of security”<br />
22 , thereby following the assessment of Frederick II in his famous ‘political<br />
testament’:<br />
20<br />
A comprehensive study of this momentous disaster is still lacking. An overview can be<br />
found in: Abel 1972, 191-266.<br />
21<br />
Atorf 1999, 385 closely following the assessment of Naudé 1905, 178.<br />
22 Hinrich 1933.<br />
240
In the year 1770 frost destroyed all crops. Fresh suffering threatened the people<br />
[....]. The King, however, had great granaries in Silesia and other places.<br />
These wise measures protected his people from famine [...]. The agony experienced<br />
by the subjects of other states was due to the fact that no country<br />
save Prussia had [sufficient] grain magazines. Only here was one prepared for<br />
emergency and could resolve it by policies dictated by reason. 23<br />
<strong>Historical</strong> sources covering grain and food supply abound, as their supervision<br />
resided at the core of early modern government. In the case of Prussia,<br />
however, a critical rereading of the sources is complicated by substantial<br />
losses, the limited governmental perspective of surviving documents and the<br />
political spin the administration deliberately introduced to embellish their own<br />
efforts. 24 This tendency is further aggravated by the fact that for the ordinary<br />
consumer the bakery, not the storehouse, constituted the point of contact with<br />
governmental food regimes.<br />
However, even the few surviving records show that at the start of 1770 the<br />
granaries lay half-empty. King Frederick’s repeated appeals to his administrators<br />
to buy grain during the bumper crop of the previous year had been futile.<br />
Most of them were military men who saw few merits in this laborious task<br />
during peacetime. 25 They were supported by local landowners eager to avoid<br />
the strenuous transport to outlying depots. Cunning merchants even managed to<br />
convince the authorities to support the export of grain, as the recent war had<br />
supposedly shrunk the population and “led to a higher percentage of children<br />
who need less food”. 26 As the state benefited from export taxes and was itself<br />
one of the largest producers of grain, permission was granted promptly. Accordingly,<br />
all through 1770 Prussia continued to export large quantities of<br />
grain. When the central administration finally realised the extent of the shortfall<br />
and closed all borders, the Frisian territories had already managed to sell the<br />
largest share of their reserves at good profit to the prosperous Dutch states<br />
rather than the state granaries. 27 The King was soon petitioned for magazine<br />
23 Volz and Oppeln-Bronikowski 1913, 63-64.<br />
24 As large parts of the Preussische Kriegsmagazinsverwaltungsakten have been lost, most<br />
modern studies had to fall back on Skalweit’s edition of documents, often, however, without<br />
reflecting on their tendentious and highly selective nature. A prominent example is<br />
Atorf’s dissertation (Atorf 1999) that credulously echoes Skalweit’s benign assessments.<br />
For a rare critical assessment of Frederick II poor policies see: Kluge 1987.<br />
25 Cf. Cabinet Orders, Berlin Dec-Jan 1769/79, in: Skalweit 1931, 258-259.<br />
26 Nor did the report from Silesia fail to mention potatoes and meliorations, two favourite<br />
projects of the Prussian sovereign: Skalweit 1931, 267.<br />
27 Correspondence of the General Directory with the Chamber of East Frisia, in: Skalweit<br />
1931, 268-287. The reports illustrate the scope for strategic disinformation by local parties<br />
with trading interests. Harvest predictions only changed from “quite good” to a catastrophic<br />
“loss of 50%” when challenged by the centre. Similarly, Magdeburg’s petitions to continue<br />
free trade in order to acquire grain from abroad were soon suspected of being pretexts for<br />
internal grain speculation. Accordingly, the administration had to resort to sending out in-<br />
241
supplies from all regions. Quite unusual for his time, Frederick II dealt with<br />
many of these supplications personally. His focus, however, was centred firmly<br />
on provisioning the army and the capital city. Rural petitioners were addressed<br />
in Frederick’s usual candid style: “I have nothing to give, go and buy on the<br />
market” or “What an evil letter! They are a restless and riotous people”, or<br />
“They must be mad, in Saxony grain stands at twice the price” or “The village<br />
is right on the border, they must have sold their grain to the Saxons, and now<br />
they dare expect it back from our magazine!” 28<br />
When the harvest catastrophically failed for a second and even a third time<br />
in 1771 and 1772, complaints reached the King of his famished subjects being<br />
reduced to eating unhealthy food substitutes for sustenance. Storage grain was<br />
accordingly provided for soldiers and their families, who constituted a large<br />
part of the population in Prussia. 29 Supplies, however, largely failed to reach<br />
the poor, who were expected to pay ‘normal’ grain prices at a time when they<br />
had spent their assets, often including all their possessions and even their<br />
clothes. 30 At the same time, many soldiers and well-to-do citizens were able to<br />
resell magazine grain to rich city consumers at substantial premiums. 31 As the<br />
magazines emptied rapidly, the administration stepped up campaigns against<br />
scapegoats: “Corn-Jews” who supposedly hoarded grain, distillers, rich foreigners<br />
or the “lazy”, “idle” or “incompetent” tradesmen who failed to provide<br />
relief. 32<br />
In this situation the king chose to move his troops deep into neighbouring<br />
Poland under the pretext of erecting a safety cordon against epidemics raging<br />
there. This strategy proved successful in two ways. It provided forage for the<br />
large number of soldiers involved and yielded, through force, intimidation and<br />
requisitioning, fresh grain supplies for the King’s granaries. The move efficiently<br />
turned the granaries from storehouses into clearing-houses of Polish<br />
grain. 33 While it exported the famine eastwards, it allowed the King to uphold<br />
spection teams of their own recruited from the military: Skalweit 1931, 269, 278-279 and<br />
Cabinet Orders to the Ministers Hagen and Derschau, Sep. 26th, 1770, Skalweit 1931, 271.<br />
28<br />
Skalweit 1931, 275, 307-308.<br />
29<br />
Skalweit 1931, 109.<br />
30<br />
While the intention to provide for the poor (“die Armuth”) was occasionally mentioned,<br />
specifications for handouts listed soldiers and their families only. See Skalweit 1931, 273.<br />
The administration certainly hoped that provisioning the military – often more than 30% of<br />
Prussia’s urban consumers – would reduce market pressure with benefits to other consumers.<br />
The inflexible demand for grain, however, resulted in sharp price hikes even during<br />
smaller shortfalls, quickly pricing the poor out of the market.<br />
31<br />
Skalweit 1931, 312.<br />
32<br />
Skalweit 1931, 281, 285-286, 291, 309 and Geheimes Staatsarchiv Preussischer Kulturbesitz,<br />
I. HA, Rep. 96B, Nr. 72 (1771), 441 and (1772), 395.<br />
33<br />
Geheimes Staatsarchiv Preussischer Kulturbesitz, I. HA, Rep. 96B, Nr. 72 (1771), 146, 163,<br />
261, 308, 324, 333, 342 and (1772), 61, 140-141. The famine eventually proved consequential<br />
for the ensuing First Partition of a weakened Poland in 1772. Frederick II’s eager enquiries<br />
about the magazine supplies of his rivals illuminate the extent to which he regarded<br />
242
the well-publicised fiction of granaries as sources of food security, even though<br />
they served only a selected few, had been plagued by neglect, and encouraged<br />
complacency, profiteering and misappropriation.<br />
Illustration 4: The Great Granary in Berlin-Kreuzberg (1801-1805)<br />
Engraving by T. Barber. Landesarchiv Berlin / Photography Marburg.<br />
At the height of the crisis the price of grain almost tripled, a disaster for a<br />
population that regularly spent two-thirds of their income on food. It resulted in<br />
a serious rise in deaths from starvation, exhaustion and disease as well as a<br />
significantly reduced rate of marriages and offspring. Indeed, fear and desperation<br />
had become so widespread that even two average harvests in 1773 and<br />
1774 failed to improve the situation. Many countrymen anxiously held onto<br />
their food, leading to a renewed wave of accusations against suspected “Jewish<br />
mischief”. 34<br />
granaries as part of warfare rather than provisioning: Volz 1913, 354, 400, 472, 584, 673.<br />
At a ministerial request for rural aid he replied: “My war magazines are not built with the<br />
intention to supply subjects with bread, fodder and seed [...] To feed the country as well [as<br />
well as my soldiers, D.C.] is simply impossible.” Geheimes Staatsarchiv Preussischer Kulturbesitz,<br />
I. HA, Rep. 96B, Nr. 72 (1771), 37.<br />
34 Skalweit 1931, 309, 651-653 and the reports about famine victims and population decline in<br />
Prussia in: Geheimes Staatsarchiv Preussischer Kulturbesitz, II. HA, Tit. CCLXV, Nr. 6,<br />
Vol. 1, 108-109 and I. HA, Rep. 96 B, Nr. 72 (1772) 15. Based on notoriously unreliable<br />
243
The Prussian experience, however, was far from unique. In a second step I<br />
will therefore try to map four areas of conflict for granary-based food regimes:<br />
I. The Politics of Inequality<br />
As in the case of Prussia, granaries were often imagined and publicised as tools<br />
of redistribution. What they illustrate, in fact, is the high levels of inequality,<br />
the distorted distribution of risk, security and entitlements in a stratified society.<br />
Food shortages pitted rich against poor, the military against civilians, producers<br />
against consumers. They put country folk against town people, smaller<br />
cities against larger cities, and larger cities against capitals. 35 Elsewhere, the<br />
local communities on Lake Constance and the Rhine struggled hard against the<br />
superior purchasing power of the Swiss and Dutch communes draining their<br />
food stocks. Similarly, the Leipzig authorities justly feared that the advent of<br />
the spring fair in 1771 with its influx of affluent traders would result in a famine<br />
amongst the town’s poorer inhabitants. 36<br />
When the Prussian administration tried to fill their storehouses, they too became<br />
subject to competition along those divisions. Even in famine times, Berlin’s<br />
distillers turned grain into spirits to cater to the wealthy. Prussian regions<br />
such as Silesia, Pomerania or Minden boycotted the centre’s ‘national’ agenda<br />
and stopped the delivery of granary grain, while rich neighbours and private<br />
traders continued to buy up supplies at prices the Prussian agents could no<br />
longer afford to pay. 37<br />
More often, however, the state reinforced and strengthened asymmetrical<br />
power relations: it prioritised the gentry, people close to the king, such as the<br />
Oder colonists, and above all the military (“Meine Truppen müssen leben”<br />
[“my troops must live”]). At the same time the rural population and the urban<br />
poor remained excluded from direct support. 38 Civil granary distributions in<br />
Prussia, as well as elsewhere, remained firmly focused on the capital. 39 When<br />
deciding on granary interventions in the periphery, the King and his administration<br />
dealt not with individuals but with communal representatives. Accordingly,<br />
granary handouts never discriminated between the needs of well-off<br />
artisans and working poor, large landlords or smallholders, thereby supporting<br />
demographical material Prussia’s population losses in 1770-1772 have been estimated at<br />
7%. Kluge 1987, 77.<br />
35<br />
Examples of such conflicts persist even in the carefully selected edition of Skalweit 1931.<br />
See 286, 291, 322.<br />
36<br />
Cf. Schmidt 1994, 252-272; Skalweit 1931, 284.<br />
37<br />
Skalweit 1931, 285, 289-290, 310, 329.<br />
38<br />
Skalweit 1931, 81, 294-296, 302, 312.<br />
39<br />
Skalweit 1931, 271; Atorf 1999, 132. For non-Prussian examples see Will and Wong 1991,<br />
511; Kaplan 1984 or Revel 1975.<br />
244
and even deepening social divisions. 40 Means-tested distribution schemes, as<br />
advocated by Enlightenment thinkers such as Justi or Georg Friedrich Wehrs,<br />
failed to materialise as did the contemporary obsession with a disinterested<br />
state, levelling the playing field or a “just” or even a “natural” price suitable for<br />
producers, consumers, rich and poor alike. 41 Instead, magazine schemes enacted<br />
regimes of exclusion that mirrored rather than mellowed the inequalities<br />
of a stratified society.<br />
II. The Government of Fear<br />
It is little wonder that under these circumstances, panic and fear of inadequate<br />
individual food supplies could be triggered easily. Unlike other natural disasters,<br />
crop failures develop slowly, allowing plenty of room for speculation and<br />
rumours. Extended spells of unfavourable weather quickly fostered panic buying<br />
and hoarding. As a result, it was often the fear of shortages, not shortages<br />
themselves that led to rising prices and famine. 42<br />
Granaries performed poorly as instruments of price balancing or as backbones<br />
of food supply. What granaries did, however, was to act as confidence<br />
measures. They constituted “the best security against danger” and panic. 43<br />
Examples can be found as far back as Roman Antiquity. Emperor Augustus<br />
was known to have warded off imminent panic by publicly destroying granary<br />
grain, supposedly in order to make room for the imminent arrival of fresh<br />
stock. His celebrated ploy allegedly ended grain hoarding and opened up the<br />
cities’ frozen grain markets. 44 A similar confidence trick is reported in the<br />
1770s from Neuwied, when the strong rains “had led the common man to be<br />
afraid and fear a famine”. People reacted immediately by reporting inflated<br />
figures of their demand and lowered ones about their supplies to the local<br />
Duke. The Duke, however reacted by “making it known in his city to the sound<br />
of drums, that fresh supplies were under way, and that until they arrived every<br />
man was free to take whatever he needed from the public granary” – an offer<br />
that supposedly restored public confidence to such an extent that only a handful<br />
40<br />
Differences in the market share play an important role in a famine economy. Accordingly,<br />
in 1771 price hikes meant that large estates actually managed to increase their profits even<br />
though the production total had fallen. At the same time flocks of small-scale farmers were<br />
forced to ‘sell’ future harvests at cut prices to their well-off neighbours in order to feed their<br />
families, thereby perpetuating their disadvantages. The King, however, regarded the<br />
‘Landmänner’ as a homogeneous group. Skalweit 1931, 302 (memorandum of the Mindener<br />
Kammer, 26.6.1772) and 307 on the refusal to deal with individuals.<br />
41<br />
Cf. Wehrs 1791, 144; Bergius 1771, 22 and Justi 1771, 83, 104-105.<br />
42<br />
Münchhausen 1772, 21, 41 and 167. See also Rau 1862, 291, 295; Justi 1771, 111 and more<br />
generally: Ferrières 2002.<br />
43<br />
Münchhausen 1772, 170.<br />
44<br />
Garnsey 1988, 223-224.<br />
245
ever took up his offer. As the Duke’s publicist remarked proudly: “We have<br />
created grain, without producing it.” 45<br />
Of course, the use of the granary for political spin could turn in other directions<br />
as well. Emperor Augustus was also known to create artificial famines,<br />
only to relieve them by opening up his granaries in order to stage himself as a<br />
saviour of the Roman people. 46 Similarly, many 18th-century scholars voiced<br />
their concerns about the high public profile of granaries as an encouragement to<br />
abuses. They warned that their prominent position in public policy could lead<br />
people to carelessly sell on their own provisions, expecting them to be replenished<br />
and alimented out of public stores. Large parts of the population also<br />
bought into official rhetoric that opposed good granaries to evil trade, eagerly<br />
supporting calls for the denunciation of supposed ‘Corn-Jews’. 47<br />
Granaries therefore amount to much more than physical sources of food.<br />
They constituted the nodes of a ‘security regime’ that governed food consumption<br />
not just in materialistic terms, but through public discourse, scientific<br />
rationalities, emotions and disciplinary measures.<br />
III. The Moral Economy of Hunger<br />
While these discourses undoubtedly helped to shape the perception of food<br />
security and risk, they did not go unchallenged. The sources list numerous<br />
forms of deviance, appropriation and resistance, famously described in E. P.<br />
Thompson’s seminal study on the ‘Moral Economy’. 48 Granaries suffered from<br />
persistent thefts and misappropriations by their labourers. People used fake<br />
identities and documents to apply for higher rations. Inflated or twisted supplications<br />
to the granaries were common and, as the Prussian records show, often<br />
successful. Many town dwellers managed to turn granaries into a source of<br />
regular supplements rather than emergency relief. 49<br />
While such collaborative actions mark the fringes of food regimes, critics<br />
have also pointed to the fact that they served a small number of well-organised<br />
people who were able to enter into a process of negotiation. 50 Indeed, for many<br />
of the disenfranchised poor, alternative sources of relief remained crucial. The<br />
churches, fraternities, guilds, neighbourhoods and extended families continued<br />
to be the key provider of aid and charity. Additional strategies focused on a<br />
rich tradition of substitute foods, sub-market economies, temporary migration<br />
45 Anonymous 1787, 485-486, 496.<br />
46 Garnsey 1988, 220.<br />
47 Cf. Gailus 2001.<br />
48 Thompson 1971.<br />
49 Wehrs 1791, 138.<br />
50 Stevenson 1987, 218-238.<br />
246
or even drug abuse – practices that have led Piero Camporesi to speak of a<br />
“culture of hunger” that effectively subverted official food regimes. 51<br />
IV. The logic of corruption<br />
In addition to the play of security discourses and the practices of resilience,<br />
granaries faced significant structural problems. Management issues posed<br />
serious challenges: While the public held the sovereign accountable for providing<br />
secure food access, the day-to-day administration of the granaries was<br />
organised by local authorities, who were well aware of this distinction. 52 Even a<br />
mid-sized granary such as the one in Rohrschach had a staff of 98 people: a<br />
director, cashiers, clerks, sworn surveyors, carriers and drivers, many with<br />
work that left them ample room for personal gain. 53 The competing and often<br />
ambivalent targets of granaries – balancing prices, providing relief, securing<br />
military operations – gave administrators further leeway to pursue their own<br />
interests. Granaries were simultaneously expected to keep grain prices high to<br />
support farming and to keep them low to support city labourers. They were<br />
charged with regulating market prices, without, however, damaging the grain<br />
trade that swelled the state’s tax coffers. They were asked to keep stocks for<br />
times of dearth, while being expected to sell their stocks to pay for their own<br />
upkeep. 54 Such inconsistencies opened granaries up to corruption and favouritism.<br />
Accordingly, complaints about skewed measurements, biased price fixings,<br />
bribery, and sleaze abound. 55<br />
The scale of corruption resulted not least from the enormous sums involved.<br />
While grain might not have carried the same stigma as money, it was certainly<br />
worth as much. Prussia spent huge sums of its tax income on granaries. However,<br />
the total value of food consumed by its population vastly exceeded the<br />
early modern state’s financial capabilities. China – a veritable ‘granary state’ –<br />
devoted 25% of its total tax revenue to pay for granaries, an enormous amount<br />
that nevertheless bought less than 3% of annual consumption. 56 Under such<br />
circumstances comprehensive control of food markets remained out of the<br />
reach of the early modern fiscal state. The considerable sums involved, however,<br />
served to attract fraud and misappropriation.<br />
51<br />
Camporesi 1989.<br />
52<br />
Cf. Shiue’s discussion of Chinese granary (mis-)management which raises more general<br />
points on storage administration, asymmetrical information flows and competing targets:<br />
Shiue 2004. For the ‘loyal non-cooperation’ strategy of local elites, see: Skalweit 1931,<br />
284.<br />
53<br />
Rau 1862, 288.<br />
54<br />
For examples of conflicting and often mutually exclusive targets, see Wagemann 1802,<br />
266, 270 and Schreber 1772.<br />
55<br />
Cf. Wagemann 1802, 272; Bergius 1771, 28-30; Wehrs 1791, 143; Skalweit 1931, 68.<br />
56<br />
Shiue 2004, 105.<br />
247
Furthermore, the state’s actions generated a string of unintended consequences.<br />
Paradoxically, more security measures can encourage more risky<br />
behaviour. 57 The protection offered by public granaries was prone to result in<br />
the reduction of private stocks, the delay of agricultural investment and the<br />
discouragement of trade, effectively increasing rather than decreasing the need<br />
for public grain supplements. Liberal donations of subsidised granary grain<br />
only tended to be bought up by affluent traders and resold elsewhere at higher<br />
market prices. Carefully controlled handouts, however, cut into the margins of<br />
local merchants, thereby damaging rather than supplementing essential markets,<br />
resulting in even greater shortfalls. Granaries could even create artificial<br />
famines by deterring the import of grain with their submarket price fixings or<br />
by driving up prices through purchases in a volatile market with an inflexible<br />
demand. As Reimarus briskly put it in 1770: Granaries “never produced security,<br />
disturb the trade, and do more harm than good.” 58<br />
Considering the potential for political conflict, the likelihood of corruption,<br />
the consistent spending necessary for their upkeep and their detrimental sideeffects,<br />
the granaries’ limited impact is hardly surprising. In fact, there are<br />
numerous reports of granaries that had been initiated at the height of famine but<br />
at the onset of the next crisis were found to have been abandoned or even “disappeared”.<br />
59 While public granaries undoubtedly benefited prioritised parts of<br />
the population and played an important declamatory role in the symbolical<br />
construction of security and good government, they failed as agents of food<br />
security in the modern sense.<br />
Food Security?<br />
There are obvious flaws in the technology-centred narrative of ‘the great escape’<br />
from hunger. Food availability does not secure food access. Even in early<br />
modern Europe, starvation is regularly the result of “people not having enough<br />
food to eat. It is not the characteristic of there being not enough food to eat” –<br />
to quote Amartya Sen again. 60 Participation, inclusion and ‘entitlements’ to<br />
food are what the malnourished were missing, not food per se. The examples<br />
discussed here strongly suggest that the eventual reduction in famines was due<br />
less to agrarian ‘revolutions’, improved and bigger storage, railways or market<br />
57 Cube 1990.<br />
58 Reimarus 1772, 1070. For examples of granaries deterring trade and creating even greater<br />
shortfalls, see Skalweit 1931, 293, 305. For Justi’s verdict that granaries constituted “Säugammen<br />
der Faulheit”, fostering idleness, see: Justi 1771, 75 and Jacobi 1773, 1517.<br />
59 Rau 1862, 293; Atorf 1999, 80, 124; Monahan 1993, 35. Rome, with its long-lived ‘Annona’<br />
system of price control and public storage, was certainly exceptional in its scope<br />
though less in its ineffectiveness. See Reinhardt 1991.<br />
60 Sen 1981, 1.<br />
248
integration, than rather to changes in participation and strengthened entitlements<br />
to food – a result that raises questions about the traditional periodisation<br />
focusing on food availability and technological change.<br />
It has become obvious, in fact, that public granaries are more than just a<br />
storage technique. They occupy a central position in a security regime that<br />
aimed at governing public discourse, emotions and discipline. In a marked<br />
departure from earlier approaches, the security it was hoped to foster was conceptualised<br />
as universal. 61 Its advocates saw the granary as a crucial technology<br />
of risk that helped societies “sich wegen der Zukunft in Sicherheit zu setzen”<br />
(secure themselves for the future). As a concept, this is strikingly reminiscent<br />
of Anthony Giddens’ ‘colonising the future’ – not least because putting it into<br />
practice was fraught with uncertainty, exclusion, and the creation of new<br />
risks. 62<br />
Embracing the ‘food security’ approach can therefore prove instrumental in<br />
identifying hidden zones of conflict, reassessing state-focused approaches,<br />
encouraging a critical rereading of partial source material and discovering<br />
additional agents of security that are easily masked by modernisation narratives.<br />
However, it has also become evident that the ‘food security’ concept employs<br />
‘security’ in the far too limited sense of ‘safety from harm owing to protection<br />
from or the absence of danger’. While an institution such as the granary<br />
might have failed to provide safety from hunger, it was certainly instrumental<br />
in encouraging a feeling of security that – far from being a mere “security<br />
theatre” (B. Schneier) – could itself become an effective deterrent.<br />
‘Security’ in this sense is a social construction that could manifest itself in<br />
public discourse and practices as well as in buildings. The creation of a granary<br />
constituted a symbolic act that visualised political claims and secured food<br />
policy against competing institutions. It constituted a policy by marking its<br />
patrons as security conveyors and its customers as security takers, while simultaneously<br />
illustrating social distinction via the constant performance of inclusion<br />
or exclusion. Even though it did not deliver physical access to food, it was<br />
thus intimately tied to the ruler’s claim to power and constituted an important<br />
part of pre-modern security regimes. In the words of the Duke of Neuwied: It<br />
created security without producing it.<br />
61 Rüther, “Sicherheit im Mittelalter” [forthcoming].<br />
62 Jacobi 1773, 1517 and Giddens 1991, 117, 133.<br />
249
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252
Insurances as Part of Human Security,<br />
their Timescapes, and Spatiality<br />
Cornel Zwierlein �<br />
Abstract: »Versicherungen als Element von Human Security, ihre Zeitregime<br />
und ihr Raumbezug«. In the present discussion on ‘Human Security’, Insurances<br />
have been only lately involved. The contribution starts with the assumption<br />
that Insurances are historically an especially fruitful object of research for<br />
the general question of the history of security regimes. It shows that, contrary<br />
to some suggestions held in risk sociology, early Mediterranean maritime insurances<br />
are to be judged rather as something completely different than the<br />
modern insurances from the 17th century onwards managed by merchants’<br />
companies and states. The latter belonged to a secular process of constructing a<br />
‘normal secure society’ during enlightenment. The relationship between<br />
Timescapes, Spatiality and Insurances is analyzed: are Insurances per se an instrument<br />
of colonizing ‘the future’ because they are instrumental in calculating<br />
and constructing clearly defined ‘risks’? or is that future orientation just one<br />
element, but is perhaps the wider socio-political context with its prevailing<br />
timescapes in which the insurance operations were embedded a changing one<br />
from pre- to postmodernity? Asking those questions the article contributes to<br />
an approach of using ‘human security’ as a heuristical device to explore the<br />
history of security production.<br />
Keywords: Insurances, Insurance history, fire insurance, risk, conceptions of<br />
time, spatiality, timescapes, colonial perceptions, normal secure society, Sun<br />
Fire Office, microfinance.<br />
Insurances do not play a great role in the standard discussion of ‘Human Security’:<br />
Even though the core element of the concept is the dismissal of a statecentered<br />
perspective on security politics, for a great deal the problems treated<br />
under that notion are situated in quite classical fields of political thinking and<br />
international relations: consequences of asymmetric wars, responsibility to<br />
protect, Crime and Violence. 1 Still, we always think of the providers of Human<br />
Security rather as actors in the larger sphere of politics (UN, states, state affine<br />
NGOs). Only with the general idea of microfinance, starting with the microcredit<br />
system linked habitually with Nobel Peace Prize winner Muhammad<br />
Yunus and the Grameen Bank in Bangladesh, the sphere of private economics<br />
� Address all communications to: Cornel Zwierlein, Faculty of History, Ruhr-University<br />
Bochum, 44780 Bochum, Germany; e-mail: cornel.zwierlein@rub.de.<br />
I thank Rüdiger Graf for helpful critics on that paper.<br />
1 E.g. Hampson and Penny 2008, 539-557, stress the proximity of human security and the<br />
discourse of human rights; Verlage 2009; UNHSP 2007.<br />
<strong>Historical</strong> <strong>Social</strong> <strong>Research</strong>, Vol. 35 — 2010 — No. 4, 253-274
was included to a certain degree into the realm of developmental security<br />
agency. Since about 10 years, the notion and practice of ‘micro-insurance’ is<br />
making its way in developmental politics: health and food security should be<br />
provided to a certain degree by insurance mechanisms also for the poor which<br />
are normally not to be addressed by profit seeking insurance companies. Even<br />
micro-insurances (crop and drought insurance) against outcomes of climate<br />
instabilities are discussed with special catastrophe insurance schemes. 2 Because<br />
instruments of micro-finance do address specially the poor, and so ‘everyone’,<br />
not only the rich or large collectives, they would fit well into the larger framework<br />
of the Human Security approach. But not including insurances into the<br />
broader human security framework seems rather an error of the conceptual<br />
framing than a logical consequence of the notion: that is illustrated by the fact<br />
that nearly all data about global natural catastrophe statistics is borrowed by the<br />
UN and other institutions from the big Reinsurers MunichRe and SwissRe. 3<br />
The most sensible observer of natural disasters is the insurance market. So,<br />
what seems to be a rather marginal element of contemporary security politics is<br />
in fact central if we follow the direction of the notion of Human Security by<br />
which we have to abandon for a good deal the classical distinction between<br />
internal and external affairs, between the different spheres like politics and<br />
economics to get an encompassing view of how human security could be provided.<br />
At this point, insurances seem to be a very good object of investigation<br />
into the history of security regimes, especially if we ask for the relationship<br />
between insuring practices or, more comprehensively, security regimes and the<br />
division of history and the present in epochs with different characters.<br />
I. Security Regimes and Modernity<br />
As said in the introductory essay to this special issue, the widening of the narrow<br />
political and state security into Human Security after the end of the Cold<br />
War is sometimes seen as a part of a return to a pre-Westphalian state of affairs<br />
or as a ‘new medievalism’, a coexistence of governmental, sub- and nongovernmental<br />
actors and hybrid regional-politically integrated systems instead<br />
of the clear definition of an international system where the only actors are<br />
sovereign states and no sub-governmental institutions, organizations or individuals.<br />
4 The metaphor of ‘new medievalism’ implies a certain neo-cyclical<br />
view of history: classical modernity becomes sandwiched between premodernity<br />
and postmodernity which are structurally similar. That would also imply<br />
2 Cf. Hochrainer et al. 2009.<br />
3 Cf. UNHSP 2007.<br />
4 For some uses of the metaphor of ‚new medievalism‘ cf. Bull 1977, 240-271; Anderson<br />
1996; Anderson and Goodman 1995; Marquand 1997, 110-137; Mathews 1997; Arend<br />
1999, 165-188; Gamble 2009; Khanna 2008<br />
254
that the widening of the notion of human security today would be similar to the<br />
very wide notion of security politics during enlightenment. 5 Emma Rothschild,<br />
a distinguished historian of political theory 6 , finds similarly the liberalism and<br />
cosmopolitanism of rights directed towards the individual of the late Enlightenment<br />
and revolutionary wars of circa 1770 to 1820 to be the template of<br />
current developments. 7 Even if the first attempts of investigations into the<br />
history of ‘human security’ by political scientists start with the idea of a certain<br />
recurrence in history (see below), they tend to tell a linear history of the notion<br />
from antiquity to the present. 8<br />
Like the historical narrative of human security discourse, risk sociology as<br />
the field of social studies mostly concerned with the insurance principle has<br />
established its historical narrative also in a three-fold structure which at first<br />
seems to follow a linear, not a neo-cyclical structure: 9<br />
- Premodernity: god-given threats, closed future<br />
- First / High Modernity: calculability of risks, open future<br />
- Second / Late Modernity: manufactured uncertainties, unknown unknowns,<br />
extended present<br />
Ulrich Beck, Helga Nowotny, Gerda Reith, Barbara Adams and others suggest<br />
that three-step consecution of time, of risk, of security production. Beck<br />
holds that the insurability of hazards by private insurance companies is the best<br />
indicator of the borderline between ‘first modernity’ with its normal industrial<br />
society and ‘second modernity’ with its ‘risk society’ where we are constantly<br />
undertaking risks that are not manageable and where the state has always to<br />
play the role of the insurer of last resort. 10 But that argument, which implies a<br />
whole historical narrative of the distinction between the last two epochs, is<br />
quite loosely elaborated and it is not well combined with a clear vision of how<br />
insurances emerged as a new instrument of security production in earlier times,<br />
how they were related to the division of public and private in the long history<br />
of the separation between those fields in different societies. The distinction<br />
between first / second modernity is not at all aligned with a deeper conception<br />
of the earlier developments. The argument seems even to start with the presupposition<br />
that the normal would be a total cover of given risks by private insurances<br />
– but in the long history since the 14th century the contrary has been<br />
5<br />
Something similar is suggesting Lüdtke 2006.<br />
6<br />
She came perhaps very early in contact with the new concept of security through her husband,<br />
the Peace Nobel Prize Winner Amartya Sen, who became famous for his work on<br />
food security.<br />
7<br />
Rothschild 1995.<br />
8<br />
MacFarlane and Khong 2006.<br />
9<br />
Beck 2007, 62-64, 234-251; Ewald 1993, 541-542.<br />
10<br />
This is the thesis of Ulrich Beck (Beck 1993; repeated in: Beck 2007, 234-251.); this idea<br />
has been criticized with good arguments by Ericson and Doyle 2004.<br />
255
always the normal and so many hybridizations between state and private issues<br />
were the normal – not at least because the differentiation itself between ‘private’<br />
and ‘public’ was a long enduring process.<br />
If we have those two historical narratives in security politics and political<br />
sciences and in risk sociology in mind, the question how time regimes and<br />
security regimes can be related one to each other can be raised with regards to<br />
the aforementioned instrument of security production, insurances. We will ask<br />
if and how we can differentiate between non-modern and modern forms of<br />
insurances and how those differences relate to timescapes and conceptions of<br />
spatiality.<br />
Insurance companies and state-based insurance institutions are, I would argue,<br />
a specific modern tool to produce security. Even if the premium insurance<br />
contract originates already in late medieval Italy and if we can individuate the<br />
medieval corporations and guilds as a second early root of insurance practices,<br />
nevertheless it is only at the very borders of modernity around 1680 that the<br />
insurance principle is fostered by specialized merchants’ companies in England<br />
and by the cameralist state in Germany. 11 It is not the place here to discuss the<br />
myriads of definitions of modernity/modernities. 12 With respect to our purposes<br />
one can identify anyway the moment of diffusion of the prime insurance practice<br />
into society beyond the traditional realm of maritime merchants as a<br />
marker of specific modern security regimes whether one focuses on the first<br />
emergence of that pattern in Europe around 1680 or on the moments of diffusion<br />
into other societies in a process of globalization in the 19th century. 13<br />
Before that shift to modernity in the realm of insurance history, it is even heuristically<br />
appropriate to understand late medieval insurances as something<br />
‘completely different’, as just an accounting trick created in response to the<br />
system of double entry bookkeeping. 14 The time aspect of the insurance contract<br />
does not differ from the time aspect of the other transactions noted in the<br />
account books of double-entry book-keeping. Every transaction noted in the<br />
books has a time index: the expenditures happen at one time – normally earlier<br />
11 Cf. Zwierlein 2010.<br />
12 Still an actually leading concept are the ‘multiple modernities’ stressing the multiple own<br />
ways of different cultures into different modernities while denying the diffusion of an overall<br />
and always equal form of Western Modernity: Eisenstadt 2000. Nonetheless, Eisenstadt<br />
uses implicitely a double notion of modernity, one stable that defines modernity as an overall<br />
measure valid for all societies if one wants to call a society ‘modern’, one fluid and plural<br />
for the diversity of possible phenotypes of modernity. There are still new theories of ‘the<br />
modernity’, corresponding to the former part of Eisenstadt’s theory, e.g. Wagner 2008, who<br />
argues that ‘modernity’ has a unifying core denotation, the “commitment to autonomy”.<br />
The different classical sociological approaches are analyzed by Martuccelli 1999.<br />
13 For early Insurances in England cf. Dickson 1960, 1-16.; Raynes 1964, 70-83.; Cockerell<br />
and Green 1976, 26-28; for the early development in Germany cf. Zwierlein 2010, chap.<br />
A.III, D.I.2. and Zwierlein 2009, 235-260.<br />
14 Cf. for that argument Zwierlein 2011.<br />
256
– and the earnings happen at another time – normally later. It is true that the<br />
content of the insurance contract is special because it focuses on the possible<br />
occurrence or non-occurrence of a future event, while the content of a transport<br />
contract also aims at a future event, but just at one to be effected. Nevertheless,<br />
that difference is minimal and does not legitimize to understand medieval insurances<br />
as ‘colonizers of future’ in a definitely modern sense. If we contextualize<br />
the insurance polices and the little insurance entries in the merchants’<br />
ledgers with the rest of their world of communication as we can reconstruct it<br />
from the rest of commercial communication still extant in the archives, we<br />
should imagine the late medieval Mediterranean merchant encapsulated in a<br />
dense web of incoming and outgoing letters carried by relay couriers. The hubs<br />
of the Mediterranean communication and trading network from about 1380 to<br />
1500 were Florence, Pisa, Genova, Venice, Rome, Naples in Italy, the islands<br />
of Majorca and Ibiza, Valencia, Barcelona, in Spain, Perpignan, Avignon,<br />
Paris, Marseille, Montpelier in France and Bruges in the Netherlands; the latter<br />
figured as the only Mediterranean foothold in the northern maritime trading<br />
centers. Therefore, the 153000 letters in the Datini archive for a mere twenty<br />
years of communication of one single merchant family, the Datini, show that<br />
the merchants sent and received letters daily and hourly. 15 The mental world of<br />
the late medieval and Renaissance merchant is, certainly, temporalized in the<br />
new Le Goffian sense of the merchant’s time, orientated towards the hours of<br />
the city clocks 16 , but it is also a new orientation of a networked space, a space<br />
clustered with some 20 important knots; it is space that divides the knots from<br />
each other and it is the crossing of space that brings with it the rischio expressed<br />
in the insurance polices. The main emotional focus inscribed into the<br />
new insurance contract was the fear concentrated on that insecure space, it was<br />
rather not something with an emphatic orientation on the future in the sense of<br />
Koselleck’s ‘open future’. That was only the case when the insurance principle<br />
became being reflected in an abstract way beyond the narrow circles of maritime<br />
merchants and lawyers. The principle became incorporated into institutions<br />
– state departments or specialized commercial companies – and by that it<br />
was widened and abstracted.<br />
Even if our sources on the first broader insurance schemes of the 17th century<br />
are always very scattered, they show that in both lands where insuring<br />
became already at that date a major force, in England as well as in Germany,<br />
there was an idea of progress and ‘improvement’ behind it: The first published<br />
insurance scheme in England from 1679 by Augustine Newbold was entitled<br />
‘Londons Improvement’ and rejoined by that the early modern discourse on<br />
improving agrarian and economic situations, the precursor of full modern progressive<br />
ideology. Similarly we have some evidence that Nicholas Barbon, the<br />
15 Cf. Melis 1973, 389-424.<br />
16 Cf. Rossum 1992.<br />
257
founder of the first Fire Office in 1681, belonged to the very rare pre-18thcentury<br />
economic thinkers who believed in economic growth and progress. 17<br />
Leibniz who, in Germany, first, in 1680, transferred the thinking on insurances<br />
in a wider horizon in an important advising letter to the emperor Leopold envisioning<br />
a fire insurance for the whole Holy Roman Empire, also understood<br />
insurances as an instrument of economic growth or at least of production of<br />
security and of stabilization of the balance of happiness of a given society. 18<br />
So, only in those late 17th-century contexts of early enlightened progressive<br />
state and economic thinking, we find insurances embedded in a vision of an<br />
open future; they respond now to problems of a world which is projecting itself<br />
in an imagined and pre-formed futurescape trying to make things (society,<br />
economy) greater and larger. In contrast, here before the single contracts were<br />
rather an accounting technique in a world where economic exchange was not<br />
embedded in a perception of possible growth of the whole, where it was rather<br />
the spatial dimension of the open sea that attracted the fears of merchants, of<br />
insured and insurers.<br />
If we concentrate in the following on fire insurances, we do that because the<br />
first and most important type of ‘modern’ insurances in the sense outlined<br />
above has always been, until the end of the 19th century, the fire insurance<br />
sector.<br />
II. The Construction of the ‘Normal Secure Society’<br />
in the Enlightenment<br />
It is indeed only with the age of enlightenment that an ideal of a completely<br />
secure society is emerging. The ‘normal secure society’ is a product and a<br />
construction of enlightened thinking and administration. Only now the hitherto<br />
every-day threats and natural hazards were seen and experienced as violations<br />
of the expected normal: the statuses of normality and exception were reversed.<br />
It is the eudemonistic foundation of enlightened visions of state and society<br />
which led unto that end, and insurances were one of the most important elements<br />
of a normal, secure, happy society: Let’s hear one of the 18th century<br />
cameralists who promoted in 1756 the inauguration of territorial fire insurances<br />
as a part of ‘big politics’:<br />
The state is a society where many have assembled to maintain and promote<br />
their common good. Consequently all its members must participate according<br />
17 Ullmer 2007; and specially Finkelstein 2000, 95-97, who asks whether the progressive<br />
thinking of Barbon is inspired by his heterodox millenarist descendence (his father was<br />
probably a preacher of the Fifth Monarchy Men, perhaps he read Giordano Bruno). For an<br />
actual re-contextualization of the Fire Office and Barbons activities cf. Zwierlein 2010,<br />
chap. D.I.1.b.<br />
18 Leibniz 1986, 421-432; Zwierlein 2010, chap. D.I.2.b.; and cf. Zwierlein 2008.<br />
258
to their measure in the common happiness which is her aim […] A prince is<br />
obligated according to the main duties of his vocation to make the common<br />
happiness the main aim of his care and preoccupation and to maintain that<br />
happiness with the aid of the nearest, easiest and surest instruments. […] Furtheron,<br />
because all members of the state are obligated to maintain the common<br />
happiness by the virtue of their social life, according to their christians’ and<br />
citizens’ obligations, they are also obligated that one carries the burden of the<br />
other – especially there, where those burdens may cause the ruin of some<br />
members or of the state as a whole or at least in some of its main parts. 19<br />
Justi, who is well known as the perhaps most straightforward eudemonistic<br />
cameralist 20 , treats the topic of insurances in his ‘State economy [Staatswirthschaft]’<br />
under the main rubric ‘About the prince’s methods and measures to<br />
maintain and increase the wealth of the state promoting by that way the happiness<br />
of the subjects”. 21 Besides the fact that the orientation at happiness was<br />
generally the all overarching topic of cameralist thinking in the 1750ies, for the<br />
insurance theorists it was intrinsically important because insurances were<br />
thought of as ‘institutions against accidents [Anstalten wider die Unglücksfälle]’<br />
22 – accidents, Unglücke, like blazes and conflagrations, were just the<br />
reverse of Glück, the happiness at which the state aimed. At this point, the old<br />
notion of the casus fortuiti was still shining through all its metamorphoses,<br />
from the narrow sense in the Roman law of impairment of performance to its<br />
application to a realm beyond the law of obligations: the law of insurance in the<br />
maritime trade. 23 Unglücke like floods, conflagrations, epidemics were a minus<br />
in the balance of happiness and had to be prevented.<br />
More general remarks on the place of insurances in a wider model of society<br />
and state are only to be found in later treatises. Ferdinand Friedrich Pfeiffer, a<br />
school friend of Friedrich Schiller an otherwise not important Wurttemberg<br />
public servant (teacher, than secretary of the chamber), started his treatise on<br />
insurances in a half neo-Aristotelian, half Rousseauian way from the very origins<br />
of human society, the association of many for common purposes following<br />
the destiny of man (instinct of self-preservation, necessity to combine forces to<br />
enable human progress).<br />
If the security of a nation is threatened from one side, the whole society is<br />
obliged to remove the danger if possible or at least to share the inevitable misfortune<br />
that hit every single man because from now on no one lives for him-<br />
19 Anonymous, Vorschlag 1756, 675, 702.<br />
20 Cf. Engelhardt 1981; Adam 2006.<br />
21 Justi 1758, 284-289.<br />
22 That is a common rubric under which insurances are treated in more general academic<br />
introduction books into cameralism: Pfeiffer 1779, chap. 3 ‚Wider die Unglücksfälle, sind<br />
vernünftige Maßregeln zu nehmen‘, 332-340; Pfeiffer 1783, chap. 32 ‚Von den Verwahrungsmitteln<br />
wider die Unglücksfälle‘, 567-680; similar Jung 1788, 4. Hauptstück ‚Unsicherheit<br />
des Eigenthums durch Unglücksfälle‘, 360-390.<br />
23 Cf. FN 18.<br />
259
self. Without doubt the base of all institutions to insure the property and in a<br />
certain way also the income/profit [Ertrag] lies in the nature of the social contract<br />
because they are founding a greater security of life by ensuring livelihood.<br />
24<br />
Pfeiffer asserts also with proud that only nowadays in enlightened times one<br />
does not aspire [sc. to stabilize] the inner security [of a state] by the external<br />
security but vice versa the external by the inner because it has been realized<br />
that those states where the best possible police institutions were to be found<br />
usually had also the most potential instruments to procure security from external<br />
threats and to guarantee its duration. 25<br />
So, according to Pfeiffer, state-biased insurance institutions like the fire insurances<br />
belong to an enlightenment governmentality which reverses the primate<br />
of foreign affairs into a primate of domestic policy. Pfeiffer at this point is<br />
not citing Rousseau’s Du contrat social but Emile:<br />
Natural man is everything for himself. He is the numerical unit, the absolute<br />
whole, accountable only to himself or to his own kind. Civil man is only a<br />
fractional unit dependent on the denominator, whose value is in his relationship<br />
with the whole, that is, the social body. Good social institutions are those<br />
that know best how to denature man, to take away his absolute existence in<br />
order to give him a relative one, and to transport the “me” into a common unity<br />
so that each individual no longer regards himself as one but as a part of the<br />
unity and is sensitive only to the whole. 26<br />
The difference between natural man and citizen enrooted in the social contract<br />
is expressed here by Rousseau in a mathematical manner, as it is often the<br />
case in his political theory. Pfeiffer is citing this ‘mathematical’ version of the<br />
social contract in relationship to the insurance institutions because in those<br />
institutions, the ‘conversion’ of subjects, buildings, cities into numbers was<br />
most evident. The numbers and sums of insured property prevailed in the perception<br />
of the world as capital. The construction of a ‘secure normal society’<br />
went hand in hand with a conversion of society into numbers. 27 In nearly all<br />
texts published from the 1750ies onwards the big promise which enlightened<br />
administrators found in the insurances lay in their potential to increase ‘credit’.<br />
In one of his contributions to insurance theory, Justi arranged the passage on<br />
insurances explicitely under the rubric ‘Of the country’s credit’: as one of the<br />
most important instruments to promote ‘circulation’ – one of the main aims of<br />
enlightened economic vision 28 – the country’s credit had to be as perfect as<br />
possible. He divides into 1) the prince’s credit, 2) the public credit of the country<br />
which means a) the credit of the whole country with other nations, or b) the<br />
24 Pfeiffer 1780, 2.<br />
25 Pfeiffer 1780, 3.<br />
26 Rousseau 1969, 249, cited by Pfeiffer 1780, 2.<br />
27 Cf. for the prehistory of such processes Crosby 1997.<br />
28 Cf. Schmidt and Sandl 2002.<br />
260
credit of the estates and their exchequers, or c) the credit of a big common<br />
commercial society which represents the whole nation, 3) the particular credit<br />
in the country which for Justi seems to mean the average easiness for particular<br />
people to get a private loan. 29 Natural hazards diminish the wealth and credit of<br />
particulars. But insurances do not only help to balance the deficit at plus minus<br />
0, the dream of enlightened thinkers was that they could double the particular<br />
credit in a certain way, because insured houses were much more mortgageable<br />
and would enable hereby a greater circulation of capital. Here reflections typically<br />
start with the topos that uninsured houses are to be perceived as future<br />
piles of ashes, whereas insured houses are like a second ‘virtual’ house, the<br />
rebuilt house in the future, added to the capital of the owner. Or in nowadays<br />
economic language: Insured houses enable an intertemporal transfer of propriety<br />
and were counted among admitted assets. 30<br />
It is a truth affirmed by experience that the security with which we can enjoy a<br />
thing much increases its value and vice versa that the value of a thing decreases<br />
to the same degree as we are exposed to greater and manifold threats<br />
in respect to that thing […]. So it is natural that also buildings have to receive<br />
a much higher value if they are not exposed to fire hazard or, which is the<br />
same, if in the case that they perish in a conflagration an indemnity will be<br />
paid. […] So, many well off people will decide much easier to build or buy a<br />
house if they are sure that their invested capital does not perish through a conflagration.<br />
As the value of the buildings increases, also the fortune of every<br />
proprietor increases and in consequence the fortune of the whole state, of<br />
which the buildings form an important part. With the fortune there also progressively<br />
increases a country’s credit. 31<br />
So, enlightened thinking and practice of insuring firstly founded the normal<br />
secure society which was also a society of wealth, of growth and a society of<br />
numbers.<br />
29 Justi 1758, 276.<br />
30 Someone who insures his house has „also in der That noch ein Haus in der Casse, oder sein<br />
ietziges Haus sicherer, und dieses wird dadurch ein solideres Stück seines Vermögens, dieses<br />
aber dem Werthe nach eben darum erhöhet.“ Uninsured houses are to be seen „als einen<br />
Brandhaufen im voraus“. On insured houses one can borrow money with greater security,<br />
so an insurance is an instrument to increase the wealth of a city (Georg Heinrich Zincke:<br />
Vorrede zum Siebenden Bande der Sammlungen. Von den nöthigen Policey-Anstalten in<br />
Städten, wegen derer Folgen und Wirckungen der Unglücks-Fälle, die man nicht verhüten<br />
können; insonderheit aber denen Feuer- und Brand-Cassen, in: Leipziger Sammlungen<br />
1751, III-LIV, XXVI. The topos of the uninsured houses as possible or future piles of ashes<br />
also Anonymous, Gedanken 1751, 294; Anonymous, Vorschlag 1756, 675; Moser 1754, 3;<br />
Schaeffer 1791, 1v; Waser 1778, 5.<br />
31 Gäng 1792, 20.<br />
261
III. Timescapes and Spatialities of Insuring<br />
in High-Modern Times<br />
Contemporary risk sociology understands Insuring always as a man’s tool to<br />
‘colonize the future’ using the notion of Torsten Hägerstrand rendered famous<br />
by the systematization of Anthony Giddens: 32 Insurance is a child of modernity<br />
because by calculating probabilities of hazards, threats hitherto experienced<br />
helplessly as Acts of God are converted into clearly delineable parts of a future<br />
which can be planified. The calculable and colonized ‘future’ is isomorphic<br />
with the present, a present just not yet here.<br />
Guided by those ideas, insurance history was always combined with the history<br />
of sciences and the history of probability, a theme rendered very wellknown<br />
by the historians who had studied that what they had called the 18th<br />
century ‘probabilistic revolution’. But probabilistic mathematical theory did<br />
play a role in insurance practice only in the realm of Life Insurance and only<br />
very lately at the end of 18th century in Britain. The most important branch of<br />
the fire insurance operated nearly until the 20th century without any application<br />
of probabilistic theory. So, how much ‘taming of future’ is visible in the practice<br />
of insuring in classical modernity? Let’s look at the work of 19th century<br />
insurance agents of the then world’s oldest and biggest fire insurance company,<br />
the Sun Fire Office, founded in 1720: from 1835 on and strongly after 1850<br />
that insurance company as other British companies spread over the world in a<br />
breath-taking quick process of globalizing business. Indeed the company’s<br />
agents did collect local fire data and extrapolated from past fire distribution<br />
into the future, but always very roughly, never using probabilistic theory. Fixing<br />
the primes was a process of trial and error or rather of imitation and falsification<br />
following the first insurances installed on the site and then trying out<br />
what rates would function durably.<br />
We have a very precious genre of sources in the archives of the Sun Fire Office<br />
besides business balances, management minutes and some correspondances<br />
to study the globalization of business, the so-called ‘memorandum<br />
books’. Those about 300 volumes, each with some 200 to 400 pages consist of<br />
detailed reports on foreign agencies, describing inter alia the extent of local fire<br />
insurance, fire brigade provision and recent notable fires. Usually the volumes<br />
were compiled on the inspection of an agency by visiting members of the Foreign<br />
Department (often by Francis Boyer Relton, Foreign Superintendent from<br />
1868 and George Saward Manvell, Clerk in the Foreign Department from<br />
1864). Along with hand-written analysises by the men at place and by the<br />
members of the Foreign department in London, the volumes often contain<br />
32 Hägerstrand 1988; Giddens 1991, 109-143; Reith 2004.<br />
262
sketch plans, photographs, newspaper clippings, 33 printed circulars and statistics.<br />
Those volumes functioned as a sort of steadily growing special encyclopedia<br />
and in-house knowledge ressource of the London headquarter. It was strategic<br />
orientative knowledge about the hundreds of places on the globe where<br />
the insurance was active, a certain kind of a global economic memory. 34 They<br />
already were used by Dickson in his monograph on the Sun Insurance 35 but<br />
they still contain a huge bulk of unused material. The agency made them accessible<br />
to the public not before 1994 when they were handed out to the Guildhall<br />
Library London. 36<br />
What forms of perception, of timescapes and spatiality do we find expressed<br />
in the writings and analyses of 19th century insurance agents? For the agent<br />
Woods who analyzed where in Istanbul the Company should engage, only the<br />
6th district, being the area of the city elected for modernization, seemed to be a<br />
secure starting point for insurance business. Woods provided himself with a<br />
German map of the 6th district of 1861 (with French inscriptions). Already in<br />
the original print, ‘Muslim’ and ‘Christian’ blocks of streets were divided visually<br />
(grey vs. pink areas) according to the habitual division which reigned in<br />
the city. 37 Woods now walked through the whole district, analyzed all the<br />
streets and marked in red the blocks where the building stock was in his opinion<br />
good enough to be insurable: in any case this only applied to Christian<br />
blocks according to Woods. 38 In Pera and in Galata – in the latter quarter,<br />
nearly all houses were built of stone – he applied yet another criteria of discrimination:<br />
I have rejected these portions of Galata & Pera where there is either a great<br />
mass of very inferior wooden buildings or where the Houses, stone or woo-<br />
33<br />
Unfortunately, the clippings not always reveal all source information (name of the newspaper,<br />
date, page).<br />
34<br />
As to my knowledge, at least for British and German insurances and with the exception<br />
perhaps of the Phoenix material in the Cambridge University library, there exists no other<br />
comparable big corpus giving insight into the logistic and cultural orientation of a globalizing<br />
insurance company in 19th century. Today we can find some similarly constituted archives:<br />
The Natural risk department of the MunichRe, Germany, for example disposes of a<br />
suspension file archive on global regions from the 1950ies onwards which parallels the 19 th<br />
century precursor, but certainly – as belonging to a Reinsurer – it does not contain information<br />
about agencies.<br />
35<br />
Dickson 1960, 162-233.<br />
36<br />
Guildhall Library London [hereafter GLL] Ms 31522 vol. 257 to 266.<br />
37<br />
„The colors Brown & Pink characterize respectively the Turkish & Christian quarters as<br />
nearly as possible, but as the map was made several years ago, some portions of the brown<br />
might now be colored pink.” (GLL Ms. 31522 vol. 258, 72).<br />
38<br />
The map in GLL Ms. 31522 vol. 257, Appendix: ‘Plan der zum 6.ten Communalbezirk<br />
vereinigten Vorstädte Galata, Pera und Pancaldi von Constantinopel […] ergänzt […] bis<br />
ins Jahr 1861 durch C. Stolpe [...] / Plan des Faubourgs de Constantinople Galata, Pera et<br />
Pancaldi [...]’. A grey reproduction is to be found under (accessed August 7, 2010).<br />
263
den, are devoted to drunkeness or debauchery – for the former reason I have<br />
omitted to color nearly the whole of the district which lies on the north side of<br />
the Grande Rue de Pera for the latter reason, I have omitted several blocks<br />
which are entirely given up to people of bad character. 39<br />
The heuristics of insurability thus spatially extracts the supposedly secure<br />
christian-european, stone-built and morally civilized ‘modernity’ out of the<br />
aggregate of the closely contiguous plurality of ‘nationalities’ and cultures. In<br />
1865, a huge fire destroyed large parts of the Muslim quarter of Istanbul<br />
(Stamboul) and seemed to confirm the prejudices of the insurance company.<br />
But only five years later another big fire destroyed exactly the quarters of the<br />
European 6th district in Galata and Pera where the company had engaged<br />
largely: all the prudent labours of agent Woods to cut out the pretended secure<br />
space revealed fruitless.<br />
A similar but inverse story happened in Bombay; again, the Sun Fire Office<br />
gave directives oriented on limitations of cultural space:<br />
[…] but it is considered a point of great importance, to limit our Insurances<br />
strictly to those for European Firms & of the best Class of Buildings only. Our<br />
rule of business must, for the present at least, altogether exclude insurances<br />
for native Firms & be confined as to locality to the European part of the Port<br />
& Colaba on the same terms as the Imperial – say 18 annas pr C for the former<br />
& 14 annas pr C for the latter. 40<br />
The firm aimed strongly at a precise definition of the space where insurances<br />
were to be taken and where not following a very strong orientalist dichotomy<br />
between ‘native’ and ‘European’:<br />
First, as to the definition of the term ‘Native Town’, we think that this term<br />
should be applied only to that part of the island inhabited exclusively by natives<br />
and which you will find marked ‘Native Town’ in the small map accompanying<br />
the Times of India Calendar forwarded to you by last mail. We do not<br />
as a rule, recommend the acceptance of such risks, but your Managers might<br />
have us a discretionary power in the matter, in that case we should use the<br />
greatest caution, and with regard to the rates we submit that they should be the<br />
same as those charged by the Alliance & Phoenix, in preference to that given<br />
by the North British. 41<br />
But after some years of engagement in India, the Sun realized that things<br />
were very different on that subcontinent in comparison with all their experiences.<br />
The insurance company tried again to get a very precise definition of the<br />
‘good European’ space to insure and of the ‘bad native’ space to be avoided.<br />
They drew up maps indicating thoroughly the limits between both spaces, in<br />
1893 even the general assembly of all Insurance company agents acting in<br />
39<br />
GLL Ms. 31522 vol. 258, 72.<br />
40<br />
Sun Fire Office London an die Agenten Leckie & Co., Bombay, 12.8.1852: GLL Ms.<br />
18249, vol. 13, f. 14v.<br />
41<br />
Ibid., 258.<br />
264
Bombay (Bombay Association of Fire Insurance Agents) came up with a formal<br />
consensus about those limitis between native and european distributing a<br />
map only of those limits among all agents. The companies were suspicious<br />
against the native way of building: all houses were built “with a very heavy<br />
proportion of wood-work, in a large number of cases the frame work, the floors<br />
and roofs are finished before a wall is commenced either external or internal”.<br />
Map of Bombay from the /Times of India/ 1866 (GLL Ms. 31522 vol. 152, p. 127).<br />
265
1893 Consensus of all Insurance agencies on the borders of the insurable ‘European town’ in<br />
Bombay (GLL Ms. 31522, vol. 152, p. 127; vol. 156, p. 324).<br />
But after some twenty years of business in India with permanently low<br />
losses they were surprised “how few fires there are either in the Fort or thickly<br />
populated native town, and still more surprising when a fire does occur, how<br />
very rarely it is known to spread to the adjoining houses”. 42 An author in the<br />
Bombay Gazette uttered his astonishment still in 1883:<br />
We have never been, in a large city, so exempt from serious fires as Bombay.<br />
In one year a greater destruction of property from this cause takes place in<br />
New York than we have known in 35 years in Bombay. We confess that we<br />
are unable to explain the comparative immunity of Bombay in this particular.<br />
The agents noted that the “natives, who, encouraged by the immunity from<br />
Fire which Bombay has so long enjoyed, prefer to take their chance rather than<br />
pay the heavy rates asked for.” 43<br />
There were many cumulative reasons for the missing of major conflagrations<br />
in the three important British-Indian cities Bombay, Calcutta and Madras:<br />
teak wood and the refractory chunam mortar is much less inflammable than<br />
42<br />
Extract from report by Messrs. Scott & McLelland [1872], GLL Ms. 31522, vol. 153, p.<br />
112-113.<br />
43<br />
Ibid.<br />
266
normal European wood and mortar, the monsun occupying nearly half of the<br />
year is producing such a humid climate that the outbreak of fires is much less<br />
probable. If modern cities are cities free of the danger of big conflagrations,<br />
perhaps the traditional Indian cities were in a certain way since a long time<br />
‘modern’ even if they seemed to a European visitor in many other respects<br />
completely unmodern – one empirical data to enforce Eisenstadts argument of<br />
the multiplicy of modernities. 44<br />
The two examples of late 19 th century analyzing processes by insurance<br />
agents in the age of globalizing business do teach us some general lessons: We<br />
are in front of two disoriented seemingly empirical and rational ‘high-modern’<br />
Western perceptions of different largely non-European cities – disoriented,<br />
because the spatial division between European and Muslim zones in Istanbul<br />
did not function as a valid marker of higher or lower risk: the risk was much to<br />
high in both areas; disoriented, because the similar spatial division between<br />
European and native zones in the Indian cities had not any sense being no real<br />
fire risk in both zones. The failure of those pre-formed schemes of perception<br />
shows that under conditions of globalization the previously seemingly universal<br />
distinction between ‘Tradition’ and ‘Modernity’ is reduced to a rather arbitrary<br />
labeling depending on the standpoint of the attributing person; what remains<br />
is pure diversity with no given epochal index. 45<br />
Analyzing the schemes of perception, we see that the guiding principle is<br />
rather not a general mood of future orientation, even if perhaps a general conviction<br />
of progress is behind the big movement of globalization. The agents did<br />
not use much time-related vocabulary when they analyzed a new site for an<br />
agency. On the contrary, a deeply spatialized vision of the cities in question<br />
and of ‘insurability’ was frequent, the zoning of risk followed that pre-given<br />
division of spaces. Surely, insuring was still a business selling the security of (a<br />
well defined part of) one own’s ‘future’. 46 It was still a modern instrument in<br />
the sense we defined it in the first part in contrast to the late medieval notion of<br />
insuring. The orientation of preoccupation, care or even fear was not concentrated<br />
and even mingled with the open space of the sea and with the wandering<br />
of goods through that space as in the Mediterranean case, insuring was not just<br />
an accounting trick but a tool of ‘taming the future’ to vary the formulation of<br />
Ian Hacking. But the zoning of risk reintroduced a heavy mood of spatial orientation<br />
and segregation of the fears on which insurers and insured were concentrated.<br />
Insurance having become a sober routine, the agents did not show much<br />
44 Eisenstadt 2007.<br />
45 Stichweh 2000, 207-219.<br />
46 To clarify this, we could distinguish here between a ‘future1’ and a ‘future2’, the former<br />
meaning the operational orientation of insurances on well-defined risks (the burning of<br />
houses), the latter meaning the broader social, political and economic timescape in which<br />
the insurance processes as a whole are embedded.<br />
267
conviction to act as promoters of progress as it was the case with the enlightened<br />
pioneers establishing the first insurances in 18th century when they contextualized<br />
the functions of insurances in broader schemes of the progress of<br />
society, state and its economy. Insuring one’s property’s future was less linked<br />
with Insurance as an agent of the future orientation of states and societies<br />
themselves or that link was bracketed and neutralized in the daily practice. If<br />
spatial zoning was not functional in dividing West/Non-West and as such between<br />
‘Modernity’ and ‘Tradition’, insurance and insurability itself failed to be<br />
a marker between ‘epochs’; so, the Overvaluing of Spatiality led to a certain<br />
presentisme (re-)conquering the practice of insuring.<br />
If in those examples the frontiers of insurability are crossfaded with the<br />
frontiers of Westerness in a deeply counterfactual way, that what is coined<br />
‘uninsurable’ is not the unthinkable and uncalculable mega-catastrophe, it is<br />
just the non-western part of the world. Beck and others think that the measure<br />
of ‘insurability’ is also a tool of distinction between first and second modernity,<br />
between high and post-modernity, but we could not find that well documented<br />
in the material. Surely the argument was rather that dangers like a maximum<br />
credible accident in nuclear power plants or like effects of terrorism are never<br />
insured as risks, that those types of dangers transcend the frontiers of accountability,<br />
that with those ‘new’ technological dangers like the nuclear ones we are<br />
facing signs of a new age and a new epoch which are completely beyond the<br />
imagination of traditional normal modern institutions like insurance companies.<br />
But that thesis is not convincing probably on multiple levels. One argument for<br />
the contemporary situation is that the frontier of insurability has always been<br />
enlarged and extended and that, for example, even terrorism has been insurable<br />
to some extent. 47 Another argument looking at the examples given from 19 th<br />
century modernity would be that the frontier of insurability has been always<br />
traced by the insurance agencies along some preformed divisions like that<br />
between westerness and non-westerness without any strong empirical backing<br />
as has been shown. So, the uninsurable is not necessarily the unmarked space<br />
of the great unknown, and in an auto-reflexive way, ‘insurability’ is a marker<br />
of selected forms of cultural spaces and their frontiers.<br />
IV. Insuring at the Edges of Late Modernity<br />
Facing the global ‘new’ risks or uncertainties of climate change in a world<br />
divided into a changing ‘multiple West’, ‘developing’ countries, and future<br />
leading states, insurances are more and more at the center of interest and discussion<br />
as actors of global security production. The enlightenment had constructed<br />
the secure society as the normal ideal, as a promoter of wealth and<br />
47 Ericson and Doyle 2004.<br />
268
progress and, vice versa, states of unhappiness and misfortune as the exception.<br />
In late modernity the notion of ‘insurability’ has gained more and more importance<br />
as a contested marker of the boundaries between normal modernity and<br />
the unmodern; having had a closer look at that boundary we have seen that it<br />
was rather a purely self-referential boundary of ‘westerness’ without defining<br />
really the boundaries of empirical insurability.<br />
In the contemporary world, the concept of ‘insurability’ is used as a heuristic<br />
instrument transferred from insurance theory to the discussion on sustainability<br />
governance. It is argued that from the existing relation between technological<br />
innovation, risk definition by insurers and sustainable development, the<br />
expertise of insurance business in defining insurable risks can be used as an<br />
indicator in analyzing the ‘borderline’ between nation-states and private business<br />
as actors, but also the ‘borderline’ between sustainable and unsustainable<br />
technology, presuming that uninsurable technology is also unsustainable. 48<br />
Only actions of which the risk of environmental destruction is measurable and,<br />
in case of necessity, manageable or avoidable, can claim to be legitimate from<br />
a sustainability perspective. Similarly, an insurer would sign only risks which<br />
are measurable and, in case of necessity, payable without ruining the company.<br />
In other contexts, analysts of climate politics do ask for “Innovations in insurance”<br />
and they express that “New thinking will be needed to push back the<br />
boundaries of insurability”. Only if insurers will create new products, the state<br />
as insurer of last resort will be discharged. Only new products of microinsurance<br />
can help to penetrate the developing world and to increase the overall<br />
degree of ‘human security’. 49 So, in a certain way, insurances are objects of<br />
hope; even sociologists like Anthony Giddens who subscribe like Beck to the<br />
vision of a late or post-modernity as a new and different age in contrast to the<br />
classic ‘modernity’, judge that by pushing back the boundaries of insurability,<br />
some ground will be gained for humanity.<br />
In a certain way one may judge that the fact that insurance and reinsurance<br />
giants are nowadays actors on a same level of importance for the management<br />
of global catastrophes as whole states. That shows that the enlightenment vision<br />
or utopia of a normal secure society is, to a certain extent, realized or is, at<br />
least, still present as a vision, perhaps an utopia, but at least as a directing idea.<br />
Asking for new insurance innovations for developing countries, like Giddens is<br />
doing, seems to be in a good continuity to that enlightenment vision. But studying<br />
the insurance practices of classical 19th century modernity with its strong<br />
emphasis on cultural spatiality and the multiplicity of forms and outcomes, it<br />
seems rather that the somewhat steady binarity and dichotomy of secure spaces<br />
48 Stahel 2003; Dahlström et al. 2003.<br />
49 Giddens 2009, 172-174; cf. also Stern 2009, 88-89.<br />
269
and unsecure spaces is continued or even re-enforced today. 50 If we look at the<br />
notion of insurability depending rather on preformed schemes in the 19th century<br />
and if we have in mind how that expertise in delineating the borders of<br />
insurability was completely erroneous, one may wonder if one is well advised<br />
to use that ‘knowledge’ on so many levels: on the level of sociological theory<br />
to divide epochs; on the level of sustainable economics to define environmentally<br />
prudent actions; on the level of climate politics to enlarge the secure<br />
world.<br />
Classical modern insurance practices in the context of globalization seemed<br />
to have lost much of the mood of ‘colonizing the future’. May we close with<br />
the idea that the process of globalization itself was active in a certain detemporalization<br />
of insuring? Hartmut Rosa has written on the process of ‘deceleration’<br />
(Entschleunigung) as the general outcome of globalization, Helga<br />
Nowotny has underlined that an ‘extended present’ is increasingly replacing the<br />
open future of classical modernity in the globalized world. Perhaps, the practice<br />
of modern insuring that was formerly linked with that open future as a<br />
particularly significant instrument of ‘taming’ and calculating that future would<br />
be more and more an action oriented dominantly in timescapes of presentness<br />
and would follow the fixation on ‘zoning’. 51 Future-orientation would be<br />
shrunk down to presentedness? or to something like a ‘project time’ with a<br />
fixed future which would resemble more the closed future of premodernity than<br />
the open future of classical modernity. 52 Thus, our investigation seems to consolidate<br />
the three-step form of time regimes and spatialities in the realm of<br />
insurance practice and theory. But, from a historical perspective of the comparison<br />
between different epochs, it also casts doubt on the validity and importance<br />
of ‘insurability’ as a mighty theoretical and practical tool of measurement<br />
in different contexts. In this way, the article should have contributed to the<br />
history of human security or the use of ‘human security’ as a heuristical device<br />
in historical research by concentration on the relations between timescapes and<br />
spatialities as correlates to regimes of security: analysing those elements and<br />
dimensions and their interrelations together may be a step to a more formalized<br />
practice of transepochal comparisons and a transepochally arguing history of<br />
human security that would not just be a research on the ‘prehistory’ of patterns<br />
of human security.<br />
50<br />
Slums are still burning down uninsured in the growing mega-cities with its ‘western’ centers<br />
well insured: Davis 2007, 129-136.<br />
51<br />
Cf. for the practice of spatial zoning in the context of insuring also the contribution of Uwe<br />
Luebken in this volume; cf. also the yet unpublished Bochum Master thesis of Christoph<br />
Wehner on the practice of risk zoning in the context of insuring elements of nuclear power<br />
planes.<br />
52<br />
That’s the argument or the pleading of Dupuy 2004, 175-197, following the ideas of Hans<br />
Jonas on future ethics.<br />
270
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274
Governing Floods and Riots: Insurance, Risk, and<br />
Racism in the Postwar United States<br />
Uwe Lübken �<br />
Abstract: »Zur ‘Beherrschung’ von Überschwemmungen und ‘Riots’: Versicherung,<br />
Risiko und Rassismus in den USA«. In the late 1960s, the United<br />
States Federal Government resorted to publically funded insurance systems to<br />
deal with two quite different problems: floods and riots. Both programs were<br />
administered by the same agency, both relied heavily on the spatial mapping of<br />
risk, and both were haunted by problems of moral hazard. Curiously, and most<br />
importantly, however, riots as well as floods were viewed as “environmental<br />
hazards” by the insurance industry and the government agencies involved. The<br />
underlying assumption was that social problems could be treated as quasinatural<br />
hazards, i.e. as a homogeneous and unpredictable force that could be<br />
contained by actuarial means. Yet uprisings, civil commotions, and riots are<br />
not “acts of god” that are located outside of society (and neither are floods).<br />
This article discloses the origins of both programs, it describes their communalities<br />
and differences, and it reveals the views of those who were subject to<br />
racist steering practices.<br />
Keywords: Insurance, Risk, floods, riots, Redlining; racism, USA.<br />
Mr. Jones.<br />
Our companies could not insure the same properties under the same<br />
underwriting conditions and at the same rates. Now, if it’s insurable<br />
property and there are no environmental conditions, it would be insured<br />
under the FAIR plan.<br />
Ms. Gear.<br />
What does ‘environmental condition’ mean? […] I’ve heard that so<br />
much. You know, what is ‘environmental condition’? What do you<br />
classify as ‘environmental condition’? Maybe then I could give you<br />
a reply, because I need to know what that is. 1<br />
On February 28, 1980, the Subcommittee on Insurance of the Committee on<br />
Banking, Housing, and Urban Affairs, United States Senate, gathered to review<br />
“the progress of the flood, crime, and riot reinsurance program and to consider<br />
new authorization”. During congressional hearings a year before, questions had<br />
been raised as to the continued need for these programs and about whether they<br />
� Address all communications to: Uwe Lübken, Rachel Carson Center for Environment and<br />
Society, Leopoldstrasse 11a, 80802 München, Germany;<br />
e-mail: Uwe.Luebken@carsoncenter.lmu.de.<br />
1 U.S. Senate “Flood Insurance and Crime and Riot Reinsurance” 1980, 324.<br />
<strong>Historical</strong> <strong>Social</strong> <strong>Research</strong>, Vol. 35 — 2010 — No. 4, 275-288
“were operating in full accordance with congressional intent”. 2 Invited to give<br />
statements before the committee and to submit reports were, amongst others,<br />
State insurance commissioners, representatives of the insurance industry, the<br />
Administrator of the Federal Insurance Administration, and “other knowledgeable<br />
persons concerned about hazard litigation, protection of the environment,<br />
and revitalization of the Nation’s neighborhoods”. 3<br />
What at first glance appears to have been (and most likely was) a long and<br />
exhausting congressional hearing unworthy of further scholarly research, raises<br />
a couple of interesting questions if we take a closer look. Why, one might ask,<br />
were such highly diverse topics such as floods and riots dealt with in the same<br />
hearing in the first place? Secondly, why was insurance the chosen means to<br />
cope with these problems? Finally, if insurance was the preferred tool to solve<br />
these problems, why was the Federal government involved at all and why<br />
wasn’t the whole matter left to the private insurance industry, as was the case<br />
with the actuarial management of so many other hazards such as theft, fire, car<br />
accidents, or death? Ultimately, the question is why the United States government<br />
decided to use publically funded insurance systems to deal with both<br />
social and natural problems.<br />
The Problem: Floods<br />
In the United States, as in almost every other industrialized country, flooding<br />
became more and more of a problem over the course of the nineteenth and<br />
twentieth centuries. With the increasing utilization of the floodplains for agricultural,<br />
urban, infrastructural and industrial purposes, riverine and coastal<br />
settlements grew ever more vulnerable to high water levels of rivers and<br />
oceans. Several devastating river floods in the first three decades of the twentieth<br />
century along the Mississippi River, the Ohio River, and in New England<br />
had clearly disclosed this vulnerability. The main response to this challenge,<br />
however, had remained the same ever since the Army Corps of Engineers had<br />
firmly established its so-called “levee-only doctrine” in the late nineteenth<br />
century: physical protection from flooding by dams, levees, and, later on, also<br />
reservoirs. With total flood damages steadily rising despite these earthen and<br />
concrete devices, 4 it became increasingly clear, however, that structural measures<br />
were insufficient to relieve the financial burden of the state and the suffering<br />
of the people. 5 Disaster relief – a Federal task since 1950 – only added to<br />
2 U.S. Senate “Flood Insurance and Crime and Riot Reinsurance” 1980, 1.<br />
3 U.S. Senate “Flood Insurance and Crime and Riot Reinsurance” 1980.<br />
4 See Pielke et al. 2002, 56.<br />
5 “Insurance and other Programs for Financial Assistance to Flood Victims”, A Report from<br />
the Secretary of the Department of Housing and Urban Development to the President, as<br />
required by the Southeast Hurricane Disaster Relief Act of 1965, 8 August 1966, 40, United<br />
276
the costs of flooding and, in addition, diminished the awareness of personal<br />
risk: “Whenever a major disaster strikes anywhere in the United States today,”<br />
the Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) noted in 1966,<br />
“substantial public help and relief are available.” 6 Together, these developments<br />
were not sustainable and called for new approaches to the flood problem.<br />
For several reasons, insurance seemed to be an ideal solution for this problem.<br />
Not only did it offer financial help to flood victims after a disaster (provided<br />
they had signed a policy), it also transferred risk and financial liability<br />
from the state (in the form of a moral or legal obligation to provide relief payments)<br />
to those potentially affected by floods. Furthermore, insurance schemes<br />
applied different premium rates to different regions of risk and thus encouraged<br />
a prudent utilization of the floodplain. The only problem was: flood insurance<br />
was not provided by the insurance industry.<br />
Unlike other hazards, extreme natural events such as earthquakes or volcanic<br />
eruptions are in most cases confined to a more or less demarcated geographical<br />
space which limits the number of potential customers who demand<br />
protection by insurance. It would be next to impossible, for example, to sell<br />
avalanche insurance to people in the Baltic region or, for that matter, insurance<br />
against tidal inundations to someone living in Switzerland. As a consequence,<br />
insurance companies specializing in natural hazards attract a large number of<br />
“bad risks”, which makes these companies extremely vulnerable to extreme<br />
events because too many insured persons might be affected at the same time.<br />
But it is not only the distribution of natural risks over space that creates problems<br />
for insurers; their distribution over time can be equally problematic because<br />
of the “highly unfavourable, if only temporary, ratio of claims to premiums”<br />
immediately after a devastating event. 7 In California, for example,<br />
earthquake premiums in 1994, the year of the Northridge disaster, amounted to<br />
$500 million while $11.4 billion had to be paid out for property damages. 8<br />
Flood insurance suffers from the same structural problem. 9 The demand for<br />
financial protection from floods is extremely volatile. As a rule, it rises tremendously<br />
after a major flood event while people lose interest in signing policies<br />
after a couple of years without floods. Thus, private flood insurance companies<br />
have been made bankrupt again and again by severe inundations. In one extreme<br />
case in 1899 even the office buildings of one insurance company were<br />
washed away by a flood in Cairo, Illinois. 10 Even if a company survives, the<br />
States National Archives, College Park, MD, Record Group 311, Entry 2, Box 44, 40. See<br />
also Rozario 1999, 70.<br />
6<br />
U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development, “Insurance and other Programs”<br />
1966, 54. See also Platt 1999.<br />
7<br />
Smith 1996, 91. See also Lübken 2008.<br />
8<br />
Smith 1996, 91.<br />
9<br />
See Langbein 1953.<br />
10<br />
Grutzner 1955.<br />
277
“pattern of large claims following years with few losses makes premiumsetting<br />
difficult and the funding of claims unpredictable”. 11 With the damage<br />
potential in the floodplains (both coastal and riverine) growing at tremendous<br />
rates after World War II, the burden on the federal budget was increasing correspondingly<br />
and new methods of dealing with this problem were sought.<br />
The Problem: Riots<br />
The lack of insurance coverage by private companies was also a key component<br />
of another, quite different post-war problem in the United States: the decline<br />
of American inner cities and the resulting uprising of impoverished people<br />
living in dilapidated housing conditions. After the end of World War II,<br />
millions of African-Americans left behind a legacy of poverty and racism in the<br />
South and migrated to the urban centers in the North, Northeast, Midwest and<br />
far West. 12 This process was accompanied by “white flight” to the suburbs. The<br />
suburban population, which was and continues to be mostly Euro-American,<br />
jumped from roughly 35 to 75 million between 1950 and 1970. 13 Suburbanization,<br />
officially supported by the Federal Government, allowed white Americans<br />
to leave “what deteriorated into inner-city reservations of racialized poverty”. 14<br />
Thus, these processes established a unique form of post-war urban segregation<br />
and fostered the equation of being black with being poor and with living in a<br />
pathological ghetto space.<br />
One important but often overlooked fact in the history of inner-city ghettoization<br />
in the post-war United States is the role that racial steering practices of<br />
lending institutions and insurance companies played. For decades, as Gregory<br />
D. Squires has pointed out, “U.S. central city residents, particularly in minority<br />
areas, have often been unable to obtain property insurance at affordable<br />
rates”. 15 The National Inspection Company, for example, a consulting firm<br />
which catered mostly to insurers, bore witness in a 1958 report on Chicago to<br />
the “encroachment of Negroes” and held that the “Puerto Ricans, Mexicans,<br />
Japanese and ‘Hillbillies’ have worked into some colored areas, particularly on<br />
the fringe of the cheaper or poorer districts and, in some cases, are in the same<br />
category with the lower-class Negroes”. As a consequence, the report, heavily<br />
resorting to racial and class stereotypes, demanded that any “liability in the<br />
areas described should be carefully scrutinized and in case of Negro dwellings,<br />
11 Smith 1996, 91.<br />
12 Wilson 2005, 21.<br />
13 Avila 2004, 4.<br />
14 Avila 2004, 5.<br />
15 Squires 1979, 80-81.<br />
278
usually only the better maintained, owner-occupied risks are considered acceptable<br />
for profitable underwriting.” 16<br />
The availability of property insurance, however, is a key component of the<br />
status of housing conditions and of a community’s overall situation. “Insurance<br />
is essential to revitalize our cities,” a 1968 report to President Lyndon B. Johnson<br />
stated. “It is a cornerstone of credit. Without insurance, banks and other<br />
financial institutions will not – and cannot make loans.” Thus, the renovation<br />
and improvement of property became more difficult and mortgages were hard<br />
to obtain. The report gloomily continued that<br />
new housing cannot be constructed, and existing housing cannot be repaired.<br />
New businesses cannot expand, or even survive. Without insurance, buildings<br />
are left to deteriorate; services, goods and jobs diminish. Efforts to rebuild our<br />
nation’s inner cities cannot move forward. Communities without insurance are<br />
communities without hope. 17<br />
The availability of reinsurance, on the other hand, “influences the capacity<br />
of the primary insurers to underwrite” and “permits underwriters to assume a<br />
larger volume of risk than would otherwise be possible.” Furthermore, “it enables<br />
the insured to accept a larger amount of exposure in a particular area or<br />
kind of area.” 18 After the violent clashes between residents of urban ghettos and<br />
national security forces in the 1960s, a direct result not only of dilapidated<br />
housing and ridiculously high rents, but also of unmet demands by the Civil<br />
Rights Movement and the assassination of key figures within the movement, an<br />
already bad situation took a turn for the worse. The economic damages resulting<br />
from these riots were staggering. In Watts, Los Angeles, for example, the<br />
1965 riots resulted in insured losses of $38 million; the 1967 Detroit riot<br />
caused $41.5 million and the 1967 Newark riot $11 million. 19 These huge (insured)<br />
losses led many insurance companies to give up property insurance in<br />
these areas altogether.<br />
Flood and Riot Insurance<br />
Thus, at first glance, floods and riots seemed to create similar problems in the<br />
postwar United States: The amount of financial damages they caused was increasing<br />
tremendously and demanded special solutions; in both cases, the private<br />
insurance market failed to deliver the protection deemed necessary and, as<br />
a result, the Federal government took the initiative and created state-sponsored<br />
systems of risk management.<br />
16 Quoted after Squires 1996.<br />
17 President’s Advisory Panel, “Meeting the Insurance Crisis of Our Cities” 1968, 1.<br />
18 Statement submitted by James E. Jones, Jr., Alliance of American Insurers, in U.S. Senate,<br />
“Flood Insurance and Crime and Riot Reinsurance” 1980, 283.<br />
19 “The Central City Insurance Crisis” 1971.<br />
279
First attempts of the United States government to intervene in the flood insurance<br />
business date back to the early 1950s when record floods in Kansas<br />
and Missouri induced the Truman administration to take a more active course.<br />
In 1956, the Federal Flood Insurance Act was enacted, which envisioned a<br />
system in which the Federal government acted as a kind of reinsurer for flood<br />
insurance companies, but Congress refused to appropriate substantial amounts<br />
of money. 20 Ten years later, however, Hurricane Betsy, which devastated large<br />
parts of New Orleans, triggered the Southeast Hurricane Disaster Relief Act<br />
which, besides authorizing relief payments to the flood victims, also mandated<br />
a feasibility report on a national flood insurance program. In 1968, the National<br />
Flood Insurance Act was finally passed, which, at least theoretically, made<br />
flood insurance available to all potential flood victims. 21<br />
The 1968 Urban Property Protection and Reinsurance Act, too, was more or<br />
less a direct result of a series of catastrophes. 22 It originated in the urban riots of<br />
the 1960s and was<br />
enacted to keep essential property insurance available in urban areas where the<br />
insurance industry had grown fearful that the riot and civil commotion hazards<br />
made even reasonably well-maintained buildings uninsurable.” 23<br />
In 1968, the Hughes Report by the National Advisory Commission on Civil<br />
Disorders warned that if nothing was done about this problem, it might grow<br />
worse and affect even more cities in the future. 24 Thus, under the Urban Property<br />
Protection and Reinsurance Act, federal riot reinsurance was made available<br />
to insurance companies in states that established a Fair Access to Insurance<br />
Requirements (FAIR) Plan. The National Flood Insurance Program<br />
(NFIP) worked in a similar way. Municipalities could participate in the NFIP<br />
(and hence their citizens could benefit from federally funded flood insurance)<br />
if, in turn, they agreed to establish zoning laws and building codes in order to<br />
guarantee a thoughtful utilization of the floodplain. 25<br />
The two programs were institutionally joined in their first year of existence<br />
when in 1968 the Federal Insurance Administration (FIA) was established<br />
within the Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) on August<br />
1, 1968, to administer federal flood, riot, and crime insurance programs. The<br />
20<br />
U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development, “Insurance and other Programs”<br />
1966, 65; King 2005, 6-7.<br />
21<br />
See U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development, “Insurance and other Programs”<br />
1966.<br />
22<br />
Statement submitted by James E. Jones, Jr., Alliance of American Insurers, in U.S. Senate,<br />
“Flood Insurance and Crime and Riot Reinsurance”, 283.<br />
23<br />
Statement by Gloria Jimenez, Administrator, FIA, in U.S. Senate, “Flood Insurance and<br />
Crime and Riot Reinsurance” 1980, 21-22.<br />
24<br />
Statement submitted by James E. Jones, Jr., Alliance of American Insurers, in U.S. Senate,<br />
“Flood Insurance and Crime and Riot Reinsurance” 1980, 283.<br />
25<br />
Cf. Bernstein 1971.<br />
280
FIA was later transferred to the Federal Emergency Management Agency<br />
(FEMA) but has retained autonomous status under its new umbrella organization.<br />
Besides being administered by the same agency, the two programs also<br />
had a lot in common in a functional sense. Both were based on mapping regions<br />
of risk. This is, of course, a standard procedure for almost every branch<br />
of the insurance business, but the geographical containment of hazards acquires<br />
special importance where the spatial distance between (real or imagined)<br />
“good” and “bad” risks is often only a few feet up the hill to higher ground (as<br />
in the case of floodplains) or one or two blocks (as in the case of redlining<br />
practices). The NFIP mapped the flood risk by publishing Flood Insurance<br />
Rate Maps (FIRM), while the riot reinsurance program had to identify hazardous<br />
urban areas. 26<br />
Furthermore, both programs were haunted by moral hazard and fraud. With<br />
the Federal government acting as an insurer of last resort and as such assuming<br />
the entire (floods) or at least large parts (riots) of the financial risk, there was a<br />
high incentive for property owners, the private insurance industry, and sometimes<br />
even city officials to actively create or redefine the very events they were<br />
supposed to be protected from, i.e. fires and floods. The riot reinsurance program,<br />
for example, triggered arson. In 1973, the Ohio FAIR Plan Underwriting<br />
Association ascribed eighty percent of its losses to arson or “suspicious circumstances”.<br />
27 Cleveland, Ohio, accounted for no less than 1,593 arson incidents<br />
in 1974 and 1,976 incidents in 1975. Paid claims by the fire insurance<br />
underwriters in that city from November 1970 through September 1973 amounted<br />
to $2,386,457. 28 The American Insurance Association complained that the<br />
1978 amendment to the Urban Property Protection and Reinsurance Act (the<br />
so-called Holtzman amendment), which requested rate parity between conventional<br />
insurance policies and those created under the FAIR Plans, had made the<br />
latter “a dumping ground for high risks,” that “would provide a disincentive for<br />
sound housing management and would encourage arson.” 29<br />
With regard to the National Flood Insurance Program, the AIA warned that<br />
“the program will prove counterproductive because the premium subsidies and<br />
loss payments will actually encourage irresponsible construction and result in<br />
added loss of life and property.” 30 Indeed, one of the most important problems<br />
26<br />
Monmonier 1997. See also Cornel Zwierlein’s article in this volume.<br />
27<br />
Kerr, “Who Burned Cleveland” [forthcoming].<br />
28<br />
Cleveland Plain Dealer, April 7, 1975, quoted after Kerr, “Who Burned Cleveland” [forthcoming].<br />
29<br />
Testimony of George K. Bernstein on behalf of the American Insurance Association, in U.S.<br />
Senate, “Flood Insurance and Crime and Riot Reinsurance” 1980, 269. See also Senate<br />
Committee, “Arson in America” 1979; General Accounting Office, “Arson for Profit”<br />
1978.<br />
30<br />
Testimony of George K. Bernstein on behalf of the American Insurance Association, in<br />
U.S. Senate, “Flood Insurance and Crime and Riot Reinsurance” 1980, 268.<br />
281
of the NFIP were “Repetitive Loss Properties” (RLPs), i.e. properties that had<br />
been damaged twice or even more often. Contrary to the practices in the private<br />
insurance industry, the NFIP decided to continue insuring such bad risks. Consequently<br />
a huge percentage of all NFIP claims were made by property owners<br />
who had been affected by flooding before (more than 25 percent, for example,<br />
in 1998). 31<br />
Riots as “Environmental” Hazards<br />
The most striking similarity, however, is that floods as well as riots were<br />
treated as “environmental hazards” by the insurance industry and the government<br />
agencies involved. While this is not so surprising as far as floods are<br />
concerned (although the more recent literature on the history of natural hazards<br />
and catastrophes convincingly contests the view that such events are entirely<br />
“natural”), it is remarkable in a policy debate about riots. 32 The February 1980<br />
hearing before the Senate Subcommittee on Insurance on the progress of the<br />
flood, crime, and riot reinsurance program is especially interesting insofar as it<br />
not only illustrates the insurance industry’s view on the “nature” of riots (as<br />
well as floods); it also displays the citizens’ criticism and resistance against this<br />
naturalization of social problems.<br />
The American insurance business had originally supported the 1968 Urban<br />
Property Protection and Reinsurance Act. George K. Bernstein pointed out in<br />
1968 that the organization he directed, the American Insurance Association,<br />
“was among the leading proponents of both the National Flood Insurance Program<br />
and the Urban Property Protection and Reinsurance Program”. 33 After<br />
nearly 12 years of operation, however, the industry’s perspective had changed.<br />
James E. Jones, Jr., the AIA’s government affairs representative, now called for<br />
a termination of the Federal program since it had outlived its existence. Jones<br />
acknowledged that the program had been successful in providing “coverage in<br />
urban centers for essential property insurance”. 34 However, he also told Senator<br />
Stewart, who was presiding over the hearings, that “our companies believe that<br />
the potential for riots and exposure to riot losses have greatly diminished. Private<br />
reinsurance is, today, available. We urge you to finalize the liquidation of<br />
the Federal riot reinsurance program.” 35 In a statement prepared for the January<br />
31 Platt 1999, 73.<br />
32 See Oliver-Smith 1999; Mauch and Pfister 2009.<br />
33 Testimony of George K. Bernstein on Behalf of the American Insurance Association, in<br />
U.S. Senate, “Flood Insurance and Crime and Riot Reinsurance” 1980, 265.<br />
34 James E. Jones, Jr., government affairs representative of the Alliance of American Insurers<br />
in U.S. Senate, “Flood Insurance and Crime and Riot Reinsurance” 1980, 277-278.<br />
35 U.S. Senate, “Flood Insurance and Crime and Riot Reinsurance” 1980, 281.<br />
282
1980 hearing, Jones explained that almost four million new and renewal policies<br />
had been issued by FAIR Plans over the last five years.<br />
Yet, a more substantial reason why the AIA demanded the termination of<br />
the program – besides the decreasing threat of riots and the growing availability<br />
of private property insurance in the inner cities – was very likely the fact that<br />
the losses encountered exceeded the premiums earned by more than $11 million.<br />
“When one considers that companies have also incurred substantial expenses<br />
to pay for state premium taxes, agents’ commissions, administrative<br />
costs, etc.,” Jones continued, “state FAIR plans have been an utter disaster for<br />
private insurers, and the losses generated by those plans have prevented the<br />
companies from expanding their voluntary operations.” 36<br />
“Back of the Bus” Insurance<br />
The image that representatives of the insurance industry painted of their role in<br />
the riot reinsurance program was one of generous companies who had more or<br />
less sacrificed themselves in order to offer financial protection to inner-city<br />
residents. Despite the fact that they encountered huge losses, the homeowner<br />
policies they offered under the FAIR umbrella were allegedly equal in both rate<br />
and content to conventional policies. This view, however, was challenged by<br />
those for whom the lack of inner-city insurance coverage was a first-hand experience<br />
and not just the result of a technical report. Juanita Gear, for example,<br />
who represented the South Austin Coalition Community Council, a Chicago<br />
neighborhood organization, questioned the equality of insurance coverage<br />
under the FAIR Plans and conventional policies respectively, and demonstrated<br />
that parity existed in theory only. In practice, FAIR Plans were either more<br />
expansive or they provided less protection than conventional policies. 37<br />
Gear pointed out that clients of FAIR Plan policies often paid two to five<br />
times more than those who were able to insure their property conventionally.<br />
Also, FAIR Plans in most cases did not include theft or liability coverage. And<br />
even after Congress had passed the Holtzman Act demanding rate parity, 11 of<br />
36 Statement submitted by James E. Jones, Jr., Alliance of American Insurers in U.S. Senate,<br />
“Flood Insurance and Crime and Riot Reinsurance” 1980, 285. Jones claimed that in Rhode<br />
Island, $147 of losses were paid to FAIR Plan policyholders for every $100 of premiums<br />
earned. See James E. Jones, Jr., Alliance of American Insurers, to Donald L. Stewart,<br />
Chairman, Senate Subcommittee on Insurance, 26 March 1980 in U.S. Senate, “Flood Insurance<br />
and Crime and Riot Reinsurance” 1980, 296.<br />
37 Statement of Juanita Gear before the Senate Subcommittee on Insurance, ibid., 300. Gear<br />
was also a member of the National People’s Action, a national coalition of grassroots organizations<br />
which had, “for a number of years, been involved in a variety of efforts, both<br />
legislatively and through direct negotiation with insurance companies, to increase the availability<br />
of essential property insurance in urban neighborhoods.” in U.S. Senate, “Flood Insurance<br />
and Crime and Riot Reinsurance” 1980, 296.<br />
283
the 28 FAIR Plans did not comply with this mandate. Insurance companies did<br />
not hesitate, however, to broaden the categories of risk that could be insured<br />
under the new program so that the FAIR Plans, once designed for only those risks<br />
in specifically defined riot affected areas, are now the major insurer of good risks in<br />
neighborhoods that were not then and never have been subject to extreme environmental<br />
hazards.<br />
As a result, in 1980, more than 1,000,000 homeowners and businessmen<br />
were “relegated” to the state FAIR Plans. In Illinois alone, the number of FAIR<br />
insured homes and businesses rose from 44,600 in 1975 to over 76,000 in<br />
1979. 38<br />
The most insulting aspect of the FAIR Plan system, however, was the spatial<br />
segregation it produced. An insurance map of Chicago, for example, showed a<br />
considerable overlapping of areas with high FAIR Plan coverage with predominantly<br />
African-American neighborhoods. “If you notice where the blackout<br />
is, the red, which we indicate as redlining,” Gear pointed out, “is the area<br />
which is predominantly black. OK? To the north, which is predominantly white<br />
[…] the insurance companies write without any problem whatsoever.” When<br />
asked by Senator Stewart whether one could purchase homeowner’s insurance<br />
under the FAIR Plan in those areas, Juanita Gear replied:<br />
Yes, but why should you get FAIR plan homeowner’s [insurance] when you<br />
could have conventional insurance? Why are you segregating us differently<br />
from the conventional world? Why can’t you have complete conventional insurance<br />
if it’s available and there is nothing wrong with your policy? 39<br />
AIA director George K. Bernstein finally acknowledged the existence of differences<br />
between FAIR and conventional plans but tried to explain them with<br />
different loss situations. The separation of different regions of risk was a prerequisite<br />
for a successful operation of the FAIR program, he argued: “And<br />
that’s exactly what FAIR plans are for: to recognize the fact that in key urban<br />
areas you must make a separate market”. 40 Gear did not oppose the creation of<br />
a separate market; she questioned, however, the criteria on the basis of which a<br />
specific property was categorized as a FAIR Plan property. For insurance companies,<br />
she held, the most important factor was not the individual risk of a<br />
building, but its location inside an allegedly hazardous area. “I know for a fact<br />
that insurance companies took zip codes – okay? and placed them on the FAIR<br />
plan because of geographical location or because of the age of the dwelling,”<br />
38 U.S. Senate, “Flood Insurance and Crime and Riot Reinsurance” 1980, 316.<br />
39 U.S. Senate, “Flood Insurance and Crime and Riot Reinsurance” 1980, 301.<br />
40 U.S. Senate, “Flood Insurance and Crime and Riot Reinsurance” 1980, 302. See also Bernstein’s<br />
Testimony on behalf of the American Insurance Association in U.S. Senate, “Flood<br />
Insurance and Crime and Riot Reinsurance” 1980, 268: “The [Riot Reinsurance] Act did<br />
not require that all risks be written voluntarily, but it provided that in return for federal riot<br />
reinsurance, private reinsurers would create a separate market in the form of FAIR Plans.”<br />
284
Juanita Gear explained. 41 Nine out of ten of Chicago’s 76,000 FAIR Plan policyholders<br />
lived in the city’s South and Westside neighborhoods, she continued:<br />
the same neighborhoods that housed, “by no small coincidence,” almost 90<br />
percent of the city’s minority population. 42<br />
Thus, by its segregative effects, the FAIR Plan reintroduced and legalized to<br />
a certain extent the decades-old and prohibited practice of redlining. 43 Even<br />
worse, it had “a definite racial component”, and reminded many African-<br />
Americans of the “separate but equal” doctrine which basically held that segregation<br />
was not discrimination as long as the facilities for different parts of the<br />
population were “equal”. 44 “Perhaps the best way to demonstrate the serious<br />
implications of adopting so naïve a policy as ‘separate but equal’ insurance<br />
availability,” Gear reminded her audience during the hearing in 1980, “is to<br />
point out that residents of my neighborhood now commonly refer to the Illinois<br />
FAIR Plan as ‘back of the bus’ insurance.” 45<br />
Conclusion<br />
The somewhat strange parallels between flood and riot (re)insurance are based<br />
on the assumption that both are “catastrophal” risks, i.e. events with a low<br />
probability of occurrence but a very high damage potential. 46 Unlike car accidents<br />
or theft, these risks are difficult if not impossible to contain by probabilistic<br />
methods and hence extremely hard to model and to translate into actuarial<br />
terms. 47 One of the main problems in dealing with both floods and riots is that<br />
41 U.S. Senate, “Flood Insurance and Crime and Riot Reinsurance” 1980, 302.<br />
42 Gear Statement, U.S. Senate, “Flood Insurance and Crime and Riot Reinsurance” 1980,<br />
316.<br />
43 “Insurance Redliners Fined $100,000”, Chicago Tribune, 3 June 1979: “The largest fines<br />
ever imposed by the Illinois Department of Insurance for redlining violations have been<br />
levied against the Insurance Company of Illinois (ICI), and its manager, W. W. Vincent and<br />
Co. Inc., the Tribune has learned. […] The action climaxes a seven-month investigation of<br />
W.W. Vincent and ICI which established what one source called ‘a clear pattern of geographic<br />
discrimination’ in the writing of homeowner insurance. Redlining is the commonly<br />
used phrase for the denial of homeowners’ insurance to people living in certain designated<br />
geographic areas, particularly those characterized as black, Hispanic, ‘changing’, or decaying.<br />
The practice has been prohibited by the Illinois Insurance Code since September,<br />
1977”.<br />
44 Gear Statement, in U.S. Senate, “Flood Insurance and Crime and Riot Reinsurance” 1980,<br />
316-317. This view was confirmed by the infamous Supreme Court decision in Plessy vs.<br />
Ferguson in 1896, and only overruled in 1954 in Brown vs. Board of Education.<br />
45 Gear Statement, in U.S. Senate, “Flood Insurance and Crime and Riot Reinsurance” 1980,<br />
317.<br />
46 This view was already expressed in the Advisory (Hughes) Report to President Johnson in<br />
1968. See also Statement submitted by James E. Jones, Jr., Alliance of American Insurers,<br />
in U.S. Senate, “Flood Insurance and Crime and Riot Reinsurance” 1980, 283-284.<br />
47 See Lockett 1980; Greene 1976; Moss 2002.<br />
285
years with huge (insured) losses are followed or preceded by years with hardly<br />
any damage at all. “Civil Disorder Losses”, for example, amounted to $38<br />
million in 1965 and to $67 million in 1967, but to only one million dollars in<br />
1966. 48 Thus, in order to provide insurance coverage for those affected by these<br />
events, the Federal government in both cases stepped in as an insurer of last<br />
resort. 49<br />
Here, however, the commonalities end. Both programs rely heavily on the<br />
geographical mapping of risk but while this is a sound (and indeed indispensable)<br />
policy as far as flood insurance is concerned, it represents a racist strategy<br />
when applied to allegedly “riot-prone” areas. By characterizing whole blocks,<br />
neighborhoods, or even zip code areas as “hazardous”, rather than looking at<br />
individual buildings or businesses, the FAIR Plans and the companies involved<br />
fostered racial stereotypes and severely limited both the quality and quantity of<br />
insurance protection available in those inner-city areas. The underlying assumption<br />
was that social problems could be treated as quasi-natural hazards,<br />
i.e. as a homogeneous, yet unpredictable force that could (literally) be contained<br />
by actuarial ghettoization. From this perspective, every citizen who was<br />
living in one of these specified areas became a potential rioter. Uprisings, civil<br />
commotions, riots, etc., however, are not “acts of God” that are located outside<br />
of society (nor are floods, by the way 50 ) and hence they require other solutions<br />
than racist steering practices.<br />
References<br />
Printed Sources<br />
General Accounting Office. Arson for Profit: More could be done to Reduce it.<br />
Washington, DC, 1978.<br />
Grutzner, C. “Flood Insurance: Pros and Cons.” New York Times, 28 August 1955.<br />
“Insurance Redliners Fined $100,000.” Chicago Tribune, 3 June 1979.<br />
President’s Advisory Panel on Insurance in Riot-Affected Areas, Meeting the Insurance<br />
Crisis of Our Cities. Washington, DC, 1968.<br />
Senate Committee on Governmental Affairs, Arson in America. Washington, DC,<br />
1979).<br />
United States Congress. Senate. Committee on Banking, Housing, and Urban Affairs,<br />
Subcommittee on Insurance. Flood Insurance and Crime and Riot Reinsurance:<br />
Hearing before the Subcommittee on Insurance of the Committee on Banking,<br />
Housing, and Urban Affairs, United States Senate, Ninety-sixth Congress,<br />
second session, February 28, 1980. Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing<br />
Office, 1980.<br />
48 See Lewis 1971, 29.<br />
49 See Moss 2002.<br />
50 See Steinberg 2000.<br />
286
United States Department of Housing and Urban Development. Insurance and<br />
other Programs for Financial Assistance to Flood Victims. A Report from the<br />
Secretary of the Department of Housing and Urban Development to the President,<br />
as required by the Southeast Hurricane Disaster Relief Act of 1965. Washington,<br />
DC: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1966.<br />
References<br />
Avila, Eric. Popular Culture in the Age of White Flight: Fear and Fantasy in Suburban<br />
Los Angeles. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2004.<br />
Bernstein, George K. “Critical Evaluation of Fair Plans.” The Journal of Risk and<br />
Insurance 38, no. 2 (1971): 269-276.<br />
Greene, Mark R. “The Government as an Insurer.” The Journal of Risk and Insurance<br />
43, no. 3 (1976): 393-407.<br />
Langbein, Walter B. “Flood Insurance.” Land Economics 29, no. 4 (1953): 323-<br />
330.<br />
Lewis, John R. “A Critical Review of the Federal Riot Reinsurance System.” The<br />
Journal of Risk and Insurance Vol. 38, no. 1 (1971): 29-42.<br />
Lockett, J. E. “Catastrophes and Catastrophe Insurance.” Journal of the Institute of<br />
Actuaries Students’ Society 24 (1980): 91-134.<br />
Lübken, Uwe. “Die Natur der Gefahr. Zur Geschichte der Überschwemmungsversicherung<br />
in Deutschland und den USA.” Behemoth: A Journal on Civilisation 1<br />
no. 3 (2008), Special Issue: Surviving Catastrophes, Anne Dölemeyer, ed., 4-20.<br />
Kerr, Daniel. “Who Burned Cleveland, Ohio? The Forgotten Fires of the 1970s.”<br />
[forthcoming] In Flammable Cities, edited by Greg Bankoff, Uwe Lübken, Jordan<br />
Sand.<br />
King, Rawle O. “Federal Flood Problem: The Repetitive Loss Problem.” In Congressional<br />
<strong>Research</strong> Service Report for Congress, June 30, 2005 <br />
(accessed June 21, 2010).<br />
Mauch, Christof, Christian Pfister eds. Natural Disasters, Cultural Responses: Case<br />
Studies Toward a Global Environmental History. Lanham, MD: Lexington<br />
Books, 2009.<br />
Monmonier, Mark. Cartographies of Danger: Mapping Hazards in America. Chicago:<br />
University of Chicago Press, 1997.<br />
Moss, David A. When All Else Fails: Government as the Ultimate Risk Manager.<br />
Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002.<br />
Oliver-Smith, Anthony. “Peru’s Five-Hundred-Year Earthquake: Vulnerability in<br />
<strong>Historical</strong> Context.” In The Angry Earth: Disaster in Anthropological Perspective,<br />
edited by Anthony Oliver-Smith, Susanna Hoffman, 74-88. New York, London:<br />
Routledge, 1999.<br />
Pielke, Roger A. Jr., Mary W. Downton, and J. Z. Barnard Miller. Flood Damage in<br />
the United States, 1926-2000: A Reanalysis of National Weather Service Estimates.<br />
Boulder, CO: UCAR, 2002.<br />
Platt, Rutherford H. Disasters and Democracy: The Politics of Extreme Natural<br />
Events. Washington, DC: Island Press, 1999.<br />
Platt, Rutherford H. “From Flood Control to Flood Insurance: Changing Approaches<br />
to Floods in the United States.” Environments 27, no. 1 (1999): 67-78.<br />
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Rozario, Kevin. The Culture of Calamity: Disaster and the Making of Modern<br />
America. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007.<br />
Smith, Keith. Environmental Hazards: Assessing Risk and Reducing Disasters.<br />
London/New York: Routledge, 1996.<br />
Squires, Gregory D. “Policies of Prejudice: Risky Encounters with the Property<br />
Insurance Business.” Challenge 39, no. 4 (1996): 45-60.<br />
Squires, Gregory D., Ruthanne Dewolfe, and Alan S. Dewolfe. “Urban Decline or<br />
Disinvestment: Uneven Development, Redlining and the Role of the Insurance<br />
Industry.” <strong>Social</strong> Problems 27, no. 1 (1979): 79-95.<br />
Steinberg, Theodore. Acts of God: The Unnatural History of Natural Disaster in<br />
America. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000.<br />
“The Central City Insurance Crisis: Experience under the Urban Property Protection<br />
and Reinsurance Act of 1968.” The University of Chicago Law Review 38, no. 3<br />
(1971): 665-685.<br />
Wilson, Frank Harold. “Recent Changes in the African American Population within<br />
the United States and the Question of the Color Line at the Beginning of the<br />
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32.<br />
288
From Nuclear to Human Security? Prerequisites and<br />
Motives for the German Chernobyl Commitment<br />
in Belarus<br />
Melanie Arndt �<br />
Abstract: »Von nuklearer Sicherheit zu Human Security? Voraussetzungen<br />
und Motive des deutschen Tschernobylengagements in Belarus«. This paper<br />
analyses the involvement of West German initiatives in Belarus following the<br />
Chernobyl disaster, with special regard to the social construction of human security.<br />
It focuses on the prerequisites for this involvement and the New <strong>Social</strong><br />
Movements of the 1960s and the 1970s, in particular the “new” peace and antinuclear<br />
power movement. Based on the change in the emotional regime in<br />
West Germany, where fear was increasingly being openly expressed, civil society<br />
groups committed themselves to mitigating the consequences of the disaster.<br />
The paper explores perceptions and the criteria of security/certainty and,<br />
more specifically, the criteria of insecurity/uncertainty by which those actors<br />
were governed in their involvement.<br />
Keywords: security, Chernobyl, civil society, fear, commitment, atom, nuclear<br />
energy, New <strong>Social</strong> Movements.<br />
“We need another profound transition in thinking – from nuclear to human<br />
security”, postulated the United Nation’s Human Development Report in<br />
1994. 1 Thus it marked the new challenges and perceptions which followed the<br />
clear-cut division of the world during the Cold War era. Even if we are far<br />
away from guaranteeing either nuclear or human security, the latter phase of<br />
the Cold War marked a crucial shift in the perception of security not only in the<br />
political realm, but also in civil society. The understanding of security moved<br />
away from a concept which was mainly military and directed at nation states to<br />
a concept which focuses on individual security and the “freedom from fear and<br />
want” 2 as “legitimate concerns of ordinary people (…) in their daily lives”, as<br />
� Address all communications to: Melanie Arndt, Zentrum für Zeithistorische Forschung<br />
Potsdam, Am Neuen Markt 1, 14467 Potsdam, Germany; e-mail: arndt@zzf-pdm.de.<br />
This paper is based on a presentation given at the conference “The Production of Human<br />
Security in Premodern and Contemporary History” in Bochum, 10.4.2010, and Arndt 2010.<br />
I am very thankful for all the helpful comments given during the conference and the critical<br />
eyes of all the reviewers; special thanks to Rüdiger Graf and Cornel Zwierlein.<br />
1 United Nations Development Programme 1994, 22.<br />
2 “Freedom from fear and want” were already key aspects in Roosevelt’s and Churchill’s<br />
Atlantic Charter of 1941 and the preamble of the 1948 Universal Declaration of Human<br />
Rights of the United Nations. Later on they were turned into major components of human<br />
security. United Nations Development Programme 1994, 24.<br />
<strong>Historical</strong> <strong>Social</strong> <strong>Research</strong>, Vol. 35 — 2010 — No. 4, 289-308
the Human Development Report states. 3 These concerns became especially<br />
virulent and influential after the Chernobyl disaster in 1986 which became a<br />
metaphor for many of the challenging processes taking place at the end of the<br />
Cold War.<br />
As early as the 10th anniversary of the disaster, the oft-cited Belarusian<br />
writer Svetlana Aleksievich declared that Chernobyl had already become “a<br />
metaphor, a symbol”. 4 The 1986 Chernobyl nuclear accident has indeed become<br />
a manifold metaphor for many issues – whether directly related to the<br />
disaster or not. At the heart of these issues lies a deep uncertainty, undermining<br />
belief in technological progress, our ability to control risky technologies, and<br />
the relative security of everyday life. The “symbolic fallout” 5 of the Chernobyl<br />
disaster, as anthropologist Sarah Phillips put it, comprises, among other things:<br />
“anthropological shock” (Beck), the nuclear age, industrial and environmental<br />
disasters, the end of the Soviet Union, radioactive contamination, incomprehensible<br />
(in the most literal sense) afflictions, new forms of adventure tourism,<br />
ambiguity, fear, disability, and disease.<br />
However, Chernobyl has been more than a “semantic catastrophe”, as a<br />
German nuclear physicist succinctly surmised. 6 The disaster not only disclosed<br />
the limits of technical progress, but also the limits of the state’s power to protect<br />
its own citizens. As a “focusing event” 7 Chernobyl changed prior conceptions<br />
of science, technology, security, and citizenship. The disaster 8 accelerated<br />
the breakdown of state socialism 9 , which claimed to have taken on a wide<br />
range of social provision, which had previously been provided by families.<br />
However, Chernobyl did more than just question the authority of scientific<br />
expertise and the Cold War rhetoric of technological progress in socialist systems.<br />
This “politicization of knowing” also produced many laypersons, such as<br />
worried parents, and also experts who began to perceive themselves as citizens<br />
and as citizens with concerns about the environment: what the anthropologist<br />
Krista M. Harper called a “politicization of caring”. 10<br />
While the discussion about the dangers of nuclear energy in the Federal Republic<br />
of Germany had started long before the incident in the Ukrainian nuclear<br />
power plant, on the 26th of April 1986, the hitherto only hypothetical case of<br />
3<br />
United Nations Development Programme 1994, 22.<br />
4<br />
Aleksievich 1998, 25. In the paper I use scientific transliteration from the Russian and<br />
Belarusian languages – with the exception of commonly used terms, such as “Chernobyl”.<br />
5<br />
Phillips 2008, 159.<br />
6<br />
Quoted in Lenk 1996, 363.<br />
7<br />
Birkland 1996.<br />
8<br />
Disaster is here to be understood in the sense of the sociologically dominated Disaster<br />
Studies as process and not merely event.<br />
9<br />
Here I doubt the assertion of Herfried Münkler that the breakdown of the socialist regimes<br />
was a consequence of maximized security and the corresponding perceptions of the population.<br />
Münkler 2010.<br />
10<br />
Harper 2001, 114.<br />
290
the “maximum credible accident” actually occurred, the conciliatory “remaining<br />
risk” became an everyday danger and existential threat. Thinking in terms<br />
of categories of positive security was displaced by a negative understanding of<br />
security – the general certainty that the consequences of the disaster will last,<br />
and the radiation released will cause health threats and limits on quality of life<br />
without the possibility of having concrete certainty about these consequences in<br />
the near, as well as distant, future. This all-embracing uncertainty expressed<br />
itself not least in experiences of paralysis and fear. 11<br />
At the same time, Chernobyl marked a clearly perceptible turning point in<br />
the transnational commitment of civil society. Though it did not immediately<br />
follow the catastrophe, step by step, perestroika opened up methods and forms<br />
of involvement which had not existed in Cold War thinking, but which were at<br />
the same time an expression and result of those processes which had occurred<br />
since the 1970s in the environmental and peace movements. Alongside all the<br />
lugubrious metaphors, “Chernobyl” has therefore also become a symbol of a<br />
movement of solidarity reaching beyond Europe’s borders, a symbol of civil<br />
society involvement consisting of innumerable smaller and larger groups. Besides<br />
the US, Italy and Japan, the Federal Republic of Germany provided the<br />
largest part of private help for the afflicted of Belarus. 12<br />
Since the beginning of the 1990s, more than 1,000 larger and especially<br />
smaller organisations have been established in Germany, which are concerned<br />
with helping the victims of the Chernobyl disaster. They invited hundreds of<br />
thousands of children from radioactively contaminated areas to recuperate<br />
and/or get medical attention for some weeks or months in “safe” and “clean”<br />
environments. Even if the number of children invited has been declining,<br />
around 10,000 Belarusian children still spend their holidays in Germany every<br />
year. 13 At the same time that the recuperation of children was taking place<br />
abroad, recreational centres in “clean” Belarusian areas arose, for example<br />
“Nadezhda” (Hope), which is directed by the German-Belarusian organisation<br />
of the same name. Additionally, the initiatives brought countless trailer-loads<br />
of donations – clothes, medicine, medical and technical equipment, toys and<br />
the like – to the most affected countries. Together with the recuperation of<br />
children, this has represented only the most visible part of the intensive cooperation<br />
between German and Belarusian civil-society organisations. Addition-<br />
11 I prefer the use of “fear” and “anxiety” instead of the highly connotated term of “angst”.<br />
Furthermore, I share Joanna Bourke’s scepticism about the usefulness of the dominant distinction<br />
between “fear” (as referring to an immediate, objective threat) and “anxiety” (as<br />
referring to an anticipated, subjective threat) in historical research and thus will use the<br />
terms synonymously. Bourke argues: “The distinction between fear and anxiety too often<br />
rests on a distinction between the rational and the irrational. However, there is no strict division<br />
between reason and emotion.” Cf. Bourke 2003, 126.<br />
12 Sahm 2006, 108.<br />
13 Ibid.<br />
291
ally, training courses were organised for Belarusian farmers, nurses and doctors.<br />
German citizens’ groups used German money to build entirely new settlements<br />
using alternative energy concepts for evacuees and resettlers from<br />
radioactively contaminated areas in Belarus.<br />
At the centre of this paper is the involvement of German 14 Chernobyl initiatives<br />
in Belarus, which will be analysed with special regard to the social construction<br />
of (human) security. In particular, the prerequisites for this involvement<br />
– which are to be found in the New <strong>Social</strong> Movements of the 1960s and<br />
the 1970s and especially in the peace and anti-nuclear movement – shall be<br />
presented and historicised. A central issue is the question: by which perceptions<br />
and criteria of security/certainty and particularly insecurity/uncertainty were<br />
actors governed in their involvement? How did they apply the concept of human<br />
security to their actions without even referring to it by name? The paper<br />
starts with a short sketch of the ambiguous nuclear euphoria of the 1950s. The<br />
following section will be a brief outline of the anti-nuclear power plant movement<br />
(anti-NPP movement) and the “new” peace movement, to which the majority<br />
of the initiatives and actors attached themselves. The outline thereby<br />
emphasises the changing perceptions of fear and security as an impetus for civil<br />
societal involvement in the late Cold War phase. After a short survey of the<br />
scale and consequences of the incident at the Ukrainian nuclear power plant,<br />
finally, the German commitment, its supporters, and the motives involved will<br />
be examined.<br />
I assume a very broad understanding of security as a (basic) need and emotion<br />
15 , which will be unlocked by a broad semantic field of complementary<br />
counter- and extension terms (such as certainty, insecurity, uncertainty 16 , threat,<br />
risk, and danger). Fear as a consequence and, at the same time, expression of<br />
insecurity and uncertainty takes on a special position, because it can be neither<br />
regulated nor suppressed on the level of society. In the all-embracing situation<br />
of uncertainty and insecurity, fears not only become increasingly verbalized,<br />
but at the same time also an important engine for political involvement and<br />
civil society mobilization. Fear will be understood not as an anthropological<br />
14 This paper concentrates on West German initiatives, but their East German counterparts are<br />
also part of the larger research project.<br />
15 Febvre 1990, 116.<br />
16 As Bauman correctly stated, the German concept of “Sicherheit” is “considerably more<br />
inclusive” than the English word “security”. It encompasses – at the very least – all the dimensions<br />
of “security”, “certainty” and “safety”. Since the “effects of weakened security,<br />
certainty and safety are remarkably similar” with “symptoms being virtually indistinguishable”,<br />
as Bauman also noted, it becomes increasingly difficult to differentiate between these<br />
three dimensions and most authors actually tend to use them simultaneously. Nevertheless,<br />
I try to distinguish between these various dimensions (and their respective negations) by<br />
applying “certainty” in reference to positive assurance and confidence in a certain outcome<br />
and “security” in reference to policy-related issues, and the physical realm. “Safety” will be<br />
used in technical terms only. Cf. Bauman 1999, 17-18.<br />
292
constant, but rather as a phenomenon becoming manifest and thus measurable<br />
in different historical and social constellations by its public expression. 17<br />
From Atomic Age to Atomic Angst?<br />
As infernal as the metaphors for the Chernobyl disaster turned out to be, just as<br />
many hopeful pictures were connected to the causa efficiens, the “atom” 18 ,<br />
against the background of devastating World War II experiences and the frontlines<br />
of the Cold War in the 1950s. 19 From today’s point of view, these extended<br />
well into the realm of fantasy and were tied to the enthusiasm for radioactivity<br />
of the 1920s. The peaceful use of nuclear power was promoted as an<br />
“integration ideology” in the 1950s. 20 If nuclear power had served only for<br />
electricity production, the “myth of the ‘atomic age’” would never have<br />
arisen. 21 It was precisely these utopian metaphors which fuelled the enthusiasm<br />
for radioactivity. At the same time they seemed to be a useful means of relativising<br />
the horrible memories of Hiroshima and Nagasaki and turning people’s<br />
attention to a literally – and, at this time, still positively – radiant future. 22<br />
Apart from some electricity producers, scientists, politicians and writers<br />
were also captivated by the all-embracing use of the atom in biology, medicine,<br />
agriculture, and even tourism. The capabilities of nuclear physics seemed to be<br />
almost unlimited: from the revolution in the chemical industry through radiochemistry<br />
via desalination of seawater and desert irrigation, culminating in the<br />
development of the Arctic. Small nuclear power reactors were planned for use<br />
not only in ships and submarines, but also in aeroplanes, trains, cars and air<br />
conditioners. 23 Thus, such prospects were not limited to hotheads and it was not<br />
just a shallow, media-fuelled phenomenon without further repercussions, as<br />
Radkau proved. 24 While in Germany the population at large, affected by the<br />
Hiroshima pictures, remained rather sceptical and fearful, there were many<br />
17<br />
Cf. Zill 2007; Greiner 2009, 18.<br />
18<br />
The oversimplifying term “atom” corresponds with the use in the period described and<br />
stands synonymously for the whole complex of its capabilities. For a discussion of the<br />
changing usage of the term see Jung 1994.<br />
19<br />
Cf. for the importance of the World War II and Cold War experiences in this development:<br />
Nehring 2004.<br />
20<br />
Rusinek 1993, 14; Radkau 1983, 78.<br />
21<br />
Radkau 1983, 78.<br />
22<br />
Cf. for the French case: Hecht 1998.<br />
23<br />
Cf. Rusinek 1993, 14; Radkau 1983, 79-100; Engels 2006, 344-346; Tiggemann 2004, 54-<br />
57; Müller 1990, 3-12. Recently Microsoft founder Bill Gates attracted attention with his<br />
plans for the resumption of mini-reactors. Cf. “Bill Gates will mit Mini-Meilern die Kernkraft<br />
revolutionieren”, Spiegel online, 23.3.2010.<br />
24<br />
Radkau 1983, 87.<br />
293
supporters, in particular amongst the intellectuals. In the course of this euphoria,<br />
alternatives to the use of nuclear power fell prey to repression. 25<br />
The political reality in the “long 1950s” 26 regarding nuclear power was anything<br />
but free of fear: the threatening and aggressive competition between the<br />
nuclear states involving ever more precarious bomb tests induced a change in<br />
the assessment of nuclear energy in the hitherto passive West German population<br />
in 1956. 27 The Atomic Ministry even spoke of a “psychosis of radiation<br />
fear (…) here and there”. 28 Even if the diagnosis was exaggerated, people did<br />
indeed begin to articulate anxieties, which also opposed peaceful uses and<br />
which started to penetrate into everyday conversation. In the light of the emerging<br />
knowledge of the devastating consequences of American nuclear weapons<br />
tests at the Bikini atoll for uninvolved Japanese fishermen, fear of radioactive<br />
fallout became a topic beyond the “hot” war for the first time. According a<br />
survey in 1959, only a small proportion of the West German population (eight<br />
percent) supported the unrestrained use of nuclear power. 17 percent suspected<br />
that the development of its civil use would one day lead to atomic war. 29<br />
In the 1950s, instead of an undamped euphoria, there was rather atomic<br />
euphoria accompanied by a simultaneous public insight into the dangers connected<br />
with nuclear weapons. 30 Worries about damage to health by released<br />
radionuclides were increasingly expressed – worries that could already have<br />
emerged after Hiroshima and Nagasaki, but which only took shape ten years<br />
after. This perceived insecurity found its first institutionalized expression in the<br />
Pugwash conferences against nuclear weapon tests and the Göttingen Manifesto,<br />
where 18 German nuclear scientists warned about the “life-destructing<br />
effects” of nuclear weapons, against which there is no protection at all. 31 While<br />
in 1968 the majority of the West German population still predominantly associated<br />
“atom” with the bomb and only in exceptional cases with nuclear power<br />
plants 32 , in the course of the 1970s the topic became strongly symbolically<br />
loaded and increasingly encompassed the civil use of nuclear energy. Consequently,<br />
the nuclear discourse took a central place in the emerging environmental<br />
debates at a time when “security” became one of the key notions in the<br />
domestic political discourse. 33<br />
25<br />
Radkau 1983, 78-89.<br />
26<br />
Abelshauser 1987.<br />
27<br />
On the change of the emotional regime in postwar West Germany see also: Biess 2009,<br />
215-243.<br />
28<br />
Radkau 1983, 98.<br />
29<br />
Ibid.<br />
30<br />
Radkau 1983, 92. Cf. for a comparison with Great Britain: Nehring 2004.<br />
31<br />
Göttinger Manifest 1957.<br />
32<br />
Cf. Radkau 1983, 435.<br />
33<br />
Cf. Weisker 2005, 211; Nehring 2004, 154.<br />
294
The development of the anti-nuclear power movement, one of the largest<br />
protest movements in the history of West Germany, had passed through four<br />
phases by the end of the 1970s. 34 The early phase started with the building of<br />
the first research reactors in Karlsruhe and Jülich in 1957. This phase lasted<br />
until the end of the 1960s and was limited to the locality. It carried its protest<br />
out through official channels. Mayors and city or municipal councillors were<br />
the leading figures. Initially, they concentrated less on the specific dangers of<br />
radioactivity, and more on general transformations of the landscape and the<br />
local economic structure. With the opposition against the nuclear power plant<br />
in Würgassen at the end of the 1960s, the protest movement expanded beyond<br />
the regional level for the first time and referred increasingly directly to nuclear<br />
power. The threshold to extra-legal methods had not yet been passed in Würgassen.<br />
Only with the anti-nuclear power protest in Wyhl in 1975 did the<br />
movement transform into a mass movement and develop elements of campaign<br />
protest, which today belong to the standard repertoire. 35 Wyhl became a “symbolic<br />
term” 36 for the anti-NPP resistance movement. However, even here the<br />
motives for the protests initially did not directly correlate with the planned<br />
nuclear power plant, but were aimed above all against the creation of a “Ruhr<br />
region on the Upper Rhine”, which was associated with foreign infiltration,<br />
destruction of the agricultural landscape, and deterioration of the Kaiserstuhl<br />
wines by the wafts of mist produced by the plant’s cooling towers.<br />
In Wyhl the local resistance for the first time formed a series of influential<br />
alliances – with the political Left, the sciences (above all Freiburg University)<br />
and the so-called “atomic tourists”. Thus, it succeeded in attracting attention on<br />
a supra-regional level and in formulating new lines of argument against nuclear<br />
energy. Additionally, the movement increasingly addressed the problem of<br />
hazardous incidents – something which reactor safety experts had done long<br />
before, but which had not entered the public sphere. The escalation phase of the<br />
protests in 1976 and 1977 was particularly defined by violence. With the establishment<br />
of the Gorleben “nuclear disposal park”, the protest focused on the<br />
unsolved problem of atomic waste. 37 During this phase, the nuclear power<br />
controversy developed into a central socio-political issue. Numerous publications<br />
appeared, more and more voices could be heard and fuelled a broad discourse<br />
of fear and individual concerns. A mere month before the reactor explosion<br />
in Chernobyl the anti-NPP movement experienced yet another climax in<br />
Wackersdorf on the Easter weekend of 1986. 38<br />
34<br />
The following according to Radkau 1983, 434-455.<br />
35<br />
For details see, for example, Engels 2006, 346-376; Engels 2003, 103-130; Engels 2002,<br />
407-424.<br />
36<br />
Weisker 2005, 210.<br />
37<br />
For details concerning Gorleben and the disposal problems see: Tiggemann 2004.<br />
38<br />
Cf. Kretschmer and Rucht 1987, 134-163.<br />
295
The anti-NPP movement was formed in the context, which Frank Biess described<br />
as the “incubation time of a new subject culture” in the 1960s and<br />
1970s, where a “new subjectivity defined by fear” and an increasingly “ubiquitous<br />
fear” spread. 39 Thereby the “fearful self” of the 1970s reacted to the increasing<br />
number of real dangers in the age of economic recession, ecological<br />
degradation, and terrorism. At the same time, the “new subjectivity” only created<br />
those patterns of perception by which the meanings of these dangers could<br />
be made accessible for individuals. Central to this was the articulation of personal<br />
concern and emotionality in as authentic a manner as possible which – in<br />
contrast to the emotionally silent traditional culture – gave fear a tongue. Thus,<br />
the key concerns of the human security concept, individual “human life and<br />
dignity” 40 , came to the fore. Personal emotional concern and perceived insecurity<br />
could thereby become the trigger for political and societal involvement –<br />
also, and in particular, through anxiety. 41 To be sure, this does not mean that<br />
every single West German citizen felt fear in the 1970s. As Biess showed, fear<br />
was rather just one dimension in the “subjective balance of emotions”, namely<br />
at the normative level of subject culture as well as at the level of everyday<br />
emotional practices. Precisely this increasing acceptance and ability to verbalize<br />
emotional concern were essential preconditions for the involvement with<br />
Chernobyl.<br />
Fear and the perception of insecurity were also central benchmarks of the<br />
“new” peace movement. They appeared almost as a direct response to the<br />
atomic (war) danger. 42 The movement bundled a multitude of fears and fundamental<br />
threats: the fear of a third world war, the threat of environmental deterioration<br />
as well as fear of technology and the uncontrollable consequences of<br />
its use. The campaigners moved beyond pure protest and demanded an alternative<br />
way of life, which should possess more solidarity, be more peaceful, and<br />
be more ecologically appropriate. In this way the peace movement partially<br />
overlapped with the environmental or anti-NPP movement, a development<br />
which found its expression in their self-identification as the “Ökopax” 43 movement.<br />
The “new” peace movement was – in opposition to the so-called “first”<br />
peace movement of the 1960s – ideologically heterogeneous; however, its<br />
protagonists mainly had Christian, pacifist, left-wing or alternative backgrounds.<br />
Because their principles were the far-reaching renunciation of force<br />
and the focus on symbolic actions, they gained credibility and reputation well<br />
39<br />
Cf. Biess 2008, 52.<br />
40<br />
United Nations Development Programme 1994, 22.<br />
41<br />
Cf. United Nations Development Programme 1994, 23.<br />
42<br />
Cf. Schregel 2009, 508; more in detail on the peace movement: Wasmuth 1987, 109-133.<br />
43<br />
“Öko” is an abbreviation of “Ökologie” (German: ecology), and “pax” (Latin) stands for<br />
“peace”.<br />
296
into the conservative camp and could rest on a “thick cushion of sympathy” in<br />
almost all sectors of the population. 44<br />
An important prerequisite for the later involvement in Chernobyl was not<br />
only the increase in “atomic fear”, but also the decrease in “fear of the Russians”.<br />
As a basis for legitimizing the Western armament effort and also partly<br />
because of the discussion of alternative – and in many cases this also meant<br />
communist – concepts of life, its credibility in terms of national security became<br />
increasingly eroded and thus, little by little, tended to be excluded from<br />
the “repertoire of legitimate emotional expressions”. 45<br />
Particularly within the Ökopax movement, fear “as a politicized and politically<br />
accepted emotional condition” merely described an intermediate stage on<br />
the way to action. As a semantic counterpart of fear, campaigners did not elect<br />
the direct negation (“no fear”), but rather made use of allegorical antonyms<br />
such as “bravery” and “hope”, making involvement appear almost compulsory.<br />
46<br />
The Occurrence of the “Remaining Risk”:<br />
the Chernobyl Disaster<br />
Even today not all technical, physical, biological, medical, and psychological<br />
consequences of the reactor explosion of the 26th of April 1986 are disclosed<br />
in detail; only conflicting and imprecise representations are available. 47 What is<br />
certain is that a planned test triggered the explosion, radioactively contaminating<br />
large areas of Belarus, Ukraine, and Russia, but also parts of the rest of<br />
Europe and far beyond its borders. Today’s Belarus which, in the public and<br />
scientific perception of Chernobyl, is still in Ukraine’s shadow, received approximately<br />
70 percent of the total radioactive fallout. 23 percent of the Belarusian<br />
territory was contaminated with more than one Curie Caesium-137 per<br />
square kilometre. 48<br />
44 Brand et al. 1986, 263.<br />
45 Schregel 2009, 518.<br />
46 Schregel 2009, 515-518.<br />
47 As introduction see the special issue of the journal OSTEUROPA on the occasion of the<br />
20th anniversary of the disaster or the short introduction by Brüggemeier 2006; Brüggemeier<br />
1998, 7, 33.<br />
48 Caesium-137 with a radioactive half-life of thirty years was the most widely distributed<br />
long-lived radioactive element after the incident. Maps and descriptions therefore usually<br />
refer to it, although it is only one among approximately 40 other radionuclides. The contamination<br />
per square kilometer is given either in the former unit, Curie (Ci), or in Becquerel<br />
(Bq). Both units indicate how much radiation is measured by Geiger counters in<br />
these areas. One Bq is equivalent to one nucleus decay per second. The value “over 1<br />
Ci/km 2 caesium-137” does not in itself indicate how much radiation is absorbed by the people<br />
living in these areas. As experts estimate, people living in an area contaminated with 1<br />
to 5 Ci/km 2 absorb an average of less than 1.0 millisieverts (mSV) per year. mSv and<br />
297
Shortly after receiving the first announcements from Scandinavia, rumours<br />
also circulated in Germany about a Soviet nuclear incident with devastating<br />
consequences. While the federal government urged calm, the federal states<br />
assessed the dangers very differently, partly issuing panic recommendations.<br />
Open-air pools and swimming lakes were to be avoided, children were not to<br />
play outdoors, outdoor shoes were to be left at the front door, and also adults<br />
were not to expose themselves to rain without protection. With every new<br />
directive, insecurity, uncertainty, and disorientation increased. In addition to<br />
the difficulties of measuring radioactivity and its impact on human beings,<br />
radioactive pollution is highly variable and thus complicates risk assessment.<br />
Locally it can vary strongly even within a single settlement. It is out of question<br />
that life could continue in “the normal way” in the most affected regions,<br />
as the Belarusian president Aliaksandr Lukashėnka never tires of stressing. 49 In<br />
Belarus, it is not only the case that settlement patterns have been changed by<br />
evacuation, relocation, and resettlement since Chernobyl – it is also perceptions<br />
of landscapes, nutritional practices, and cultural practices which have altered.<br />
Even more difficult to judge than the radioecological impacts are long-term<br />
medical consequences. Indeed, cancer – and here particularly the previously<br />
very rare forms of childhood thyroid cancer – as well as respiratory, eye, blood,<br />
heart and gastrointestinal diseases, diabetes, immune defects (“Chernobyl<br />
Aids”) and various forms of dystonia (a neurological movement disorder) and<br />
encephalopathy (a collective term for different brain disorders) increased considerably<br />
following the disaster. However, to draw a direct connection to the<br />
catastrophe is often problematic, because there are several other factors which<br />
might have triggered the disease. Furthermore, every human organism reacts<br />
differently to radiation. Expert statements concerning the additional cancer<br />
deaths resulting from the emanated radioactivity fluctuate between several<br />
hundreds and hundreds of thousands because of the different methodical approaches.<br />
50 These imprecise indications, together with the use of consistently<br />
differing numbers and references, form the sounding board of manifold uncertainties,<br />
fears, and also panic.<br />
Sieverts (Sv) are the internationally recognized units used to measure the harmful effects of<br />
radiation on the human body (biologically effective dose). According to most sources, only<br />
when soil contamination is over 5 Ci/km 2 are people likely to absorb more than 1 to 5 mSv<br />
per year. As a comparison: within the European Union, 1 mSv per year is the dose limit for<br />
people living near a nuclear power station. Cf. Internationale Kommunikationsplattform zu<br />
den Langzeit-Folgen des Tschernobyl Unglücks. (accessed August<br />
5, 2010).<br />
49 Lukashėnka 2006. Cf. also Arndt 2006.<br />
50 Cf. Sahm 1999, 191-192.<br />
298
From the Expression of Fear to Involvement<br />
“Fear always demands a counterdraft (Gegenentwurf)”, Bernd Greiner points<br />
out, because in the long run it is bearable neither for individuals nor for collectives.<br />
51 While individuals can sustain psychological damage, societies can meet<br />
the limits of political integration and cohesion if the state fails to fulfil its own<br />
unique task, namely to provide security and freedom from want, fear, and uncertainty.<br />
52 The involvement of German civil society initiatives in the mitigation<br />
of the consequences of Chernobyl in Belarus can be seen as one possible<br />
countercurrent. Thus, from the very beginning, German uncertainty stood in a<br />
mutual relationship with the fear on the Belarusian side. The emotional concern<br />
was linked to a moral commitment to getting involved. Here one ought to consider<br />
that benevolence as “individual pro-social action” contains an accentuated<br />
subjective component. It aims at helping people who, in the eyes of the benefactor,<br />
appear to be needy. Thus, the changeable horizon of values of those<br />
involved is critical. 53<br />
Instead of speaking of a dichotomy between pro-social motives of action<br />
such as solidarity, helping or orientation towards common welfare on the one<br />
hand, and concern about individual welfare, improving one’s self-esteem or<br />
self-realisation on the other hand, it is much more appropriate to look at benevolence<br />
not as a burden, but as a “potential gain” for the initiatives. Thus,<br />
pro-social behaviour and self-interest are not mutually exclusive. 54<br />
Because of diffusion via the mass media, the West was better informed<br />
about the possible consequences and dimensions of the incident, which also led<br />
much more quickly to a perception of insecurity amongst large parts of the<br />
population than in Soviet Belarus. 55 There, the fear of those not directly affected<br />
took shape only bit by bit, as the statement by Henadz’ Hrushavys, the<br />
head of the Belarusian organisation “For the children of Chernobyl” confirms:<br />
Fear did not come immediately. It did not go with the peaceful atom in our<br />
consciousness. Our world view looked like this: the martial atom is a baleful<br />
mushroom in the sky such as in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, people who burn into<br />
ashes in one second; the peaceful atom in contrast was as harmless as a<br />
light bulb. 56<br />
If, in the very beginning, the involvement in Chernobyl was not a reaction to<br />
a “call for help” from Belarus, an explanation is needed for what it was, in fact,<br />
a reaction to. In the involvement with Chernobyl, one also finds such “positive<br />
51 Greiner 2009, 21.<br />
52 Greiner 2009.<br />
53 Cf. Lingelbach 2009, 14.<br />
54 Lingelbach 2009, 20.<br />
55 For the perceived threat after Chernobyl in Western European countries see the survey<br />
based study of Tønnessen et al. 2002.<br />
56 Gruschewoi 2006, 7.<br />
299
psychological gratification” as significant individual psychological motives,<br />
which Lingelbach elaborated for the West German market for charitable donations:<br />
57 commitment to others – be it by charitable donation or the temporary<br />
accommodation of a “Chernobyl child” – allows the acting out of paternalistically<br />
motivated feelings of pre-eminence. It is accompanied by the affirmation<br />
that one does not belong to those who are in need of help. Involvement can turn<br />
into an effective tool for coping with fears, if those involved put themselves<br />
empathically in the place of those in need and thus identify with the uncertainty<br />
and anxiety of the others (or at least their own perceptions of it). In turn, via<br />
this involvement, feelings of insecurity can be reduced.<br />
“Reconciliation with rolled-up sleeves” is what the journalist Johannes<br />
Voswinkel called the German involvement in Chernobyl. 58 The inception of the<br />
involvement stood in close connection with the partial opening of the Soviet<br />
Union in the course of perestroika and the coming to terms with the crimes<br />
committed by Germans on Soviet territory under National <strong>Social</strong>ism. Official<br />
Soviet statistics number the deaths at more than 2.2 millions in Belarus alone. 59<br />
The Germans razed to the ground more than 209 Belarusian towns and 9,200<br />
villages/settlements. 60 In 1988 and 1989, the first Protestant pilgrimages into<br />
the still-existing BSSR took place to ask for “peace and reconciliation”. 61 A<br />
large part of the German Chernobyl involvement originated in the Christian<br />
reconciliation work. 62 By this route, the first links to the hitherto unknown<br />
country were made, where the memories of the atrocities of WWII are top<br />
issues even today and often mentioned in the same breath as the memory of<br />
Chernobyl. The vanguard of the Chernobyl initiatives could rely on substantial<br />
experience in reconciliation work, for example in Israel, Poland, or Norway.<br />
Here one can observe a far-reaching impact of the 1960s’ and 1970s’ culture<br />
of remembrance on the actors. The emotionalized, subjective discussion of the<br />
German past was amplified by the increasing media exposure of the issue. 63<br />
Attention to the sufferings of the Belarusian people brought most notably the<br />
broadly recognised 1985 movie produced by Mosfilm and Belarusfilm “Idi i<br />
smotri“ [“Go and look“], which was voted “movie of the month” by the “Jury<br />
of Protestant film work” in West Germany in 1987. Based on the work of the<br />
57<br />
Lingelbach 2009, 400-409.<br />
58<br />
Voswinkel 2003. He referred to the mud brick building project of “Heim-statt Tschernobyl”.<br />
But other associations can also be subsumed under this motto, not least the volunteer<br />
service “Aktion Sühnezeichen Friedensdienste” (Action Reconciliation Service for Peace),<br />
which has been sending volunteers to Belarus since 1992.<br />
59<br />
See also Gerlach 2000.<br />
60<br />
Marples 2001, 150.<br />
61<br />
Steinacker 2001, 24.<br />
62<br />
For East German, non-Christian initiatives this aspect obviously did not play such an influential<br />
role. They built their commitment on contacts already established during GDR times,<br />
as the results of a survey show (archive of the author).<br />
63<br />
Cf. Biess 2008, 60.<br />
300
Belarusian writer and later Chernobyl activist Ales’ Adamovich, it tells, dramatically<br />
and through the eyes of the boy Florya, of the atrocities committed by<br />
the National <strong>Social</strong>ists in Belarus.<br />
The reservations of older Belarusians in particular with respect to the German<br />
donors is an expression of the multidimensional area of conflict “victim of<br />
National <strong>Social</strong>ism/winner/victim of the atomic disaster versus offender of<br />
National <strong>Social</strong>ism/defeated/helper after the atomic disaster”, whose further<br />
exploration and historicization through research looks as though it would be<br />
very rewarding. To look at it through the Cold War prism of friend and foe<br />
does not explain it entirely; rather it is necessary to break down the complex<br />
processes of victimization on the one hand and heroization on the other.<br />
Between Knowledge of the Affected and Expert Knowledge<br />
The discussion of the disaster’s consequences within the German initiatives, as<br />
well as their interplay with their Belarusian partners, was from the very beginning<br />
influenced by the tension between the subjective, mainly emotionally<br />
based knowledge of those affected (uncertainty and fear of disease and death),<br />
and the claimed factual objectivity of expert knowledge. 64 Even if, far into the<br />
1970s, the development of nuclear energy in the Federal Republic was presented<br />
as a non-political issue, as determined by factual rationality and expertise<br />
alone, it was extremely difficult to distinguish those who were experts and<br />
those who were not. 65 Even if confidence in experts had decreased during the<br />
course of the development of the “New <strong>Social</strong> movements” in West Germany,<br />
in tandem with additional uncertainty, the “experts’” opinions gained in power<br />
immensely following Chernobyl. The demand for reliable, reassuring numbers<br />
in a time full of uncertainty and the increasing importance of human security<br />
seemed to be boundless. Statistics on disease, contamination, and deaths<br />
played, and still play, an important role in the arguments of both the helping<br />
and receiving initiatives. It is particularly remarkable with regard to disease<br />
and, especially in this case, cancer statistics. The search for criteria to classify<br />
the non-classifiable and simultaneously to legitimize the honorary involvement<br />
contributed to the amalgamation of highly complex factual arguments with<br />
value convictions. 66 Experts, above all physicians and physicists, were granted<br />
considerable confidence in advance. 67 Statistics became a resource in the competition<br />
for support in Germany, as well as for German assistance in Belarus.<br />
Sometimes it seemed that scientific arguments were of superficial importance<br />
64<br />
For expert culture see, for example, Kurz-Milcke and Gigerenzer 2004; Fisch and Rudloff<br />
2004.<br />
65<br />
Radkau 1983, 14, 85.<br />
66<br />
Cf. Weisker 2004, 416.<br />
67<br />
Cf. Weisker 2005, 203; Weisker 2004.<br />
301
only and could become independent when scientific and humanitarian aspects<br />
were intermingled. The initiatives used the statistics in an appellative and mobilizing<br />
way to gain aid money, supporters or new activists, and to reassure<br />
themselves of the legitimacy of being involved. Cases of overstatement, inappropriate<br />
comparisons or the passing on of stereotypes also occurred. 68<br />
At the same time, the initiatives generated a new group of experts for themselves:<br />
the activists and those involved. According to them, they became the<br />
real Chernobyl experts, with their own eyes and ears. 69<br />
Discourses on health and increasing concern about physical and mental<br />
well-being played an important role in civil society mobilization in the environmental<br />
movement in the 1970s. A paradigmatic change in the area of conflict<br />
between environment and health took place. The definition of health became<br />
much more socio-ecologically induced and linked closely to normative<br />
concepts of security, well-being, quality of life, environmental awareness and<br />
sustainability. Cancer took the central place in these discourses. A discussion<br />
of the “disease of civilisation” occurred in literature, popular science, and science,<br />
and was often accompanied by an autobiographical component and an<br />
understanding of the environment as pathogenic. This development fostered a<br />
sensitization to invisible carcinogenic substances in the environment and in<br />
food. The subjective discussion concerning disease had a strong socio-critical<br />
component; it granted political criticism a new form of “existential exigency<br />
and emotionality”. 70<br />
The “Chernobyl Children”<br />
“When the children come to Germany, they bring along their own message.<br />
Their bodies and souls are the witnesses of the largest industrial disaster of<br />
history and the beginning of nuclear genocide, an unmistakable warning for all<br />
of us. Their message reads baldly and simply: I want to live.” 71 With these<br />
metaphorical and empathic words the former first chairperson of the federal<br />
association “For the children of Chernobyl”, the former Protestant priest<br />
Burkhard Homeyer, described the foundation of the commitment of the largest<br />
German Chernobyl network. By far the largest part of the German Chernobyl<br />
initiatives, numerically speaking, has dedicated itself to the “Chernobyl chil-<br />
68 Thus, one initiative answered on the question of what they are aiming for with their commitment:<br />
“To show the children that there is another life – without vodka, with regular<br />
work and so on.” Archive of the author.<br />
69 Homeyer 2006.<br />
70 Biess 2008, 63. Compare also his notions about the paradoxical consequences of the increasing<br />
medical check-ups, which eventually tend to cause more fear than they reduce.<br />
Biess 2008, 68.<br />
71 Homeyer 1995, 2-3.<br />
302
dren”, as is also expressed in the names of the organisations involved. As in<br />
Belarus, a multitude of initiatives in Germany have chosen almost identical<br />
names. Even today, the organisation of the disputed recuperation holidays is<br />
the most common form of involvement. 72<br />
The amount given as charitable donations in the Federal Republic is, according<br />
to Lingelbach, generally at its largest when it is aimed at the helping of<br />
children. This is also true in the case of Chernobyl, if “donation” includes the<br />
involvement of volunteers. Children are seen as especially “worthy”, innocent,<br />
and vulnerable. They call up instincts of help and patronage. At the same time,<br />
they also produce a feeling of power and feasibility for those involved, which<br />
tends to be much more limited in the case of adults who are in need. 73 In the<br />
external communication concerning the Chernobyl children, there are, on the<br />
one hand, optimistic, pro-life metaphors such as “bridge to peace”, while on the<br />
other hand there is also nihilistic, stigmatising rhetoric such as “children without<br />
future”, “the moribund” or “generation Chernobyl”.<br />
With regard to visual depiction, at times the boundaries of the “pornography<br />
of misery” 74 were overstepped by exhibiting handicapped, deformed children,<br />
who were even naked in some cases, without any need of doing so. 75 Even if<br />
there is a medical-educational motivation behind it, it does not explain why<br />
such pictures are used in non-medical works. The use of such pictures obviously<br />
serves to win attention, which, for the initiatives, is connected with the<br />
hope of inducing others to help.<br />
The classical principle of childcare as an investment for the future is in some<br />
initiatives also connected with political ambitions. With regard to the authoritarian<br />
regime in Belarus, hopes for democratization are particularly resonant<br />
for those involved. Many initiatives hope that the experience the children have<br />
gained with their West German host families will contribute to a democratization<br />
of the political situation in Belarus. To what extent former “Chernobyl<br />
children” have indeed internalized Western democratic values, whether they<br />
really are connected with their stay in Germany, whether those values have<br />
matured into action, and whether “Chernobyl youth” does indeed stand for a<br />
72<br />
The dispute about the usefulness and appropriateness of taking child-recuperation abroad<br />
was – and in some cases still is – divided into defined supporters and opponents. The supporters<br />
stress among other things the importance of the multifaceted (democratic) experience<br />
they gain abroad, while the opponents fear a “cultural shock” and emphasise the advantages<br />
of recreation in “clean” areas in Belarus. Cf. for example: Schuchardt and<br />
Kopelev 1996, 22-38.<br />
73<br />
Lingelbach 2009, 398.<br />
74<br />
Liebel and Wagner 1986, 18.<br />
75<br />
See, for example, the illustration of a paper by Sebastian Pflugbeil with a picture by Igor<br />
Kostin. Pflugbeil 2006, 95. A latest example is the photo exhibition “Chernobyl – living<br />
with a tragedy”, photos by Rüdiger Lubricht and Gerd Ludwig, 18.9.-30.10.2009, Loftgalerie<br />
Berlin.<br />
303
democratic public as some initiatives explicitly aspire to in their aims, still<br />
needs to be investigated.<br />
Summary<br />
There can be no understanding of the German Chernobyl commitment without<br />
taking into account the development of the New <strong>Social</strong> Movements in the<br />
1970s and 1980s, particularly the anti-NPP movement and the “new” peace<br />
movement. The “new culture of expressive emotionality” 76 , which was closely<br />
intertwined with an increasing sense of ecological insecurity, had a decisive<br />
influence on the forms of action, self-interpretation, and the communication<br />
styles of the associations. East and West were thereby united in some respects:<br />
The commitment to the mitigation of the disaster’s consequences was not<br />
solely based on the perception of the direct consequences, which were in any<br />
case not entirely comprehensible, but were also based on a general feeling of<br />
insecurity, uncertainty and an increasing sensitization during the “environmental<br />
age”. As has been shown, the expression of fear – in particular fear of<br />
disease and loss of well-being − played a central role. Fear became capable of<br />
being verbalized and displayed, contrasting and intermingling with expert<br />
knowledge, and thus developing its potential for mobilization. The underlying<br />
shared assumption of the necessity of human security, taking individual anxieties<br />
and concerns seriously, thus enabled action and social practices beyond the<br />
framework of conventional understandings of security. Human security, with<br />
its proclaimed focus on the actions of non-state actors and the protection and<br />
empowerment of individuals 77 , impedes efforts to establish clear cut divisions<br />
between the different dimensions of security and actually tends to offer an<br />
opportunity to include all of them. Thus its meaning becomes even vaguer.<br />
This, however, might still be a fitting reflection of the complex processes taking<br />
place in the “environmental age”.<br />
At the same time, the change in the emotional regime also affected the remembrance<br />
culture, which gave a crucial, albeit indirect, stimulus to the commitment.<br />
The majority of the associations define themselves not only as initiators<br />
of reconciliation, but also – and often in the same breath – as reminders of<br />
the atomic disaster. They were successful in taking the threats of the use of<br />
nuclear energy far into the provinces. Furthermore, the transnational consequences<br />
of the disasters and the commitment automatically heightened awareness<br />
of Europe as a geographical space where ecological hazards do not stop,<br />
even when they run up against an iron curtain. Ecological security is not a<br />
76 Biess 2008, 53.<br />
77 Cf. Commission on Human Security 2003, 6.<br />
304
matter of nation states and cannot be dealt with using conventional concepts of<br />
security.<br />
The various forms of civil society commitment and the formation of transnational<br />
alliances at the level of civil society, partly even with state financial<br />
support, can be read as a new form of security and foreign affairs within a<br />
global civil society. In this global civil society the perspective of the mass<br />
media is dominant and the active commitment of non-governmental organisations<br />
weakens the competences of the state. The focus of this global civil society<br />
is human security, concentrating attention on the (security) needs of individuals<br />
instead of states, and closely linked to discourses on civil and human<br />
rights as well as international development. The social networks which were<br />
manifested following Chernobyl not only led to transnational interpersonal<br />
contacts, but also developed skills on all sides for coping with situations of<br />
uncertainty and thus strove for something which might be called human security.<br />
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308
Transatlantic Environmental Security in the 1970s?<br />
NATO’s “Third Dimension” as an Early<br />
Environmental and Human Security Approach<br />
Thorsten Schulz �<br />
Abstract: »Transatlantische “Umweltsicherheit” in den 1970er Jahren? Die<br />
“Dritte Dimension” der NATO zwischen Umwelt- und menschlicher Sicherheit«.<br />
This paper deals with the early stages of NATO’s “Committee on the<br />
Challenges of Modern Society” (CCMS), established as environmental “Third<br />
Dimension” of the Alliance in 1969. It discusses “environmental security” as a<br />
prime CCMS motive, assuming that the early CCMS-pioneers already projected<br />
global environmental uncertainty factors as security threats to the Atlantic<br />
Alliance. NATO’s environmental concept already showed elements of environmental<br />
and human security being considered in the face of the<br />
environmental crisis. The interrelation between both is examined by means of a<br />
knowledge-based history approach on the example of the CCMS “Road<br />
Safety” project (1970-1974). In the course of the project, NATO’s environmental<br />
security assumptions turned into a technological leitmotif dealing with<br />
technically controllable environmental risks as well as basic human and individual<br />
needs for security in a technological society. Therefore, the CCMS provided<br />
technical solutions to environmental and security policy problems and,<br />
finally, did not develop any political patterns of acting as a risk orientated environmental<br />
alliance.<br />
Keywords: Environmental Security, Human Security, Transatlantic History,<br />
NATO, Environmental History, Environmental Conflict, Environmental Problems,<br />
Road Safety, Knowledge Development, Knowledge Society, Knowledge<br />
Transfer, Scientification, 1970s.<br />
In July 1969, Apollo 11 discovered another unexpected spacecraft during its<br />
spectacular moon landing mission: Planet Earth. The pictures from outer space<br />
showed mankind impressively that the blue planet was a unique and tremendous<br />
“spaceship”. 1 But it was also a highly fragile planet, as scientists and<br />
doomsday prophets alike warned at the same time. Trained in the art of prediction,<br />
they opined grimly that a worldwide environmental crisis would lead to a<br />
global environmental breakdown within a few decades. 2 Simultaneously, social<br />
movements such as the New Left challenged the political system as well as the<br />
� Address all communications to: Thorsten Schulz, Universität zu Köln, <strong>Historische</strong>s Seminar,<br />
Albertus-Magnus-Platz, 50923 Köln, Germany;<br />
e-mail: thorsten.schulz@netcologne.de.<br />
1 Höhler 2008, 65.<br />
2 Hünemörder 2004, 209-221.<br />
<strong>Historical</strong> <strong>Social</strong> <strong>Research</strong>, Vol. 35 — 2010 — No. 4, 309-328
economic and social order of Western societies with their ecological rhetoric<br />
and critique of consumption. 3<br />
In this tense atmosphere of environmental insecurity, the newly elected<br />
American president Richard Nixon introduced the idea of a new transatlantic<br />
task to the North Atlantic Treaty Organization. On April 10, 1969, the foreign<br />
ministers of NATO celebrated the twentieth anniversary of the Atlantic Alliance<br />
in Washington DC and Nixon used his home advantage in order to take<br />
his audience by surprise. In addition to its political and military tasks, he stated,<br />
the alliance was missing out on a “third dimension” – the social and natural<br />
human environment:<br />
The industrial nations share no challenge more urgent than that of bringing<br />
20th century man and his environment to terms with one another – of making<br />
the world fit for man, and helping man learn how to remain in harmony with<br />
his rapidly changing world. 4<br />
In order to master this task, Nixon proposed the creation of a NATO<br />
“Committee on the Challenges of Modern Society”, which was eventually<br />
established in November 1969 and later became known as the CCMS.<br />
The following paper deals with the creation of the CCMS and examines<br />
whether its work contributed to the emergence of an environmental security<br />
regime. 5 Moreover, it analyzes how human security tied in with environmental<br />
concerns. At the onset of the 1970s, “environmental protection” and “environmental<br />
policy” were almost synonymous items. “Environment” was equivalent<br />
to the livelihood of man and covered the natural as well as the social human<br />
sphere. 6 Since this implied a strong anthropocentric component, the paper uses<br />
this contemporary meaning of “environment” in order to ensure that contemporary<br />
and today’s connotations are not being intertwined. According to Jakob<br />
von Uexküll, the natural and social interdependency of “environment” was<br />
interpreted as that surrounding influences are deeply relevant to the life and<br />
3 Zelko 2006, 26-28.<br />
4 The White House (Office of the White House Press Secretary), “Address of the President at<br />
the Commemorative Session of the North Atlantic Council, April 10, 1969”, in Public Record<br />
Office, CAB 164-642, 4/130.<br />
5 It is part of a larger project on “Environmental Security in international European politics,<br />
1969 to 1975”, which uses the examples of the Federal Republic of Germany, the United<br />
Kingdom and the United States as a point of reference in order to examine the development<br />
of early environmental security regimes within NATO, the European Union, the United Nations<br />
and the Conference for Security and Co-operation in Europe. The PhD is mentored by<br />
Professor Jost Dülffer at the University of Cologne and was supported by the German <strong>Historical</strong><br />
Institutes in London (2007) and Washington, D.C. (2008). Since 2009, the author<br />
has been a PhD fellow of the Schmittmann-Wahlen Foundation, Cologne, supported by the<br />
Schmittmann-Wahlen Foundation and the University of Cologne (2010-2011). The dissertation<br />
will be published in 2011.<br />
6 Hartkopf and Bohne 1983, 2-4.<br />
310
survival of a biotic community (Lebensgemeinschaft). 7 Against this backdrop,<br />
the paper defines “environmental security” for a state as the absence of threats<br />
against the environmental preconditions essential to the well-being of its population<br />
and to the maintenance of its functional integrity. 8<br />
<strong>Research</strong>ers have often enquired about Nixon’s motives for putting the environment<br />
on NATO’s agenda. 9 Today, a cluster of reasons appears to be comprehensible,<br />
ranging from the consolidation of the Atlantic Alliance or the<br />
reduction of domestic political pressure evolving from social unrest within<br />
Western societies to the need to establish an effective international environmental<br />
protection regime. The following paper, however, represents the first<br />
attempt to analyze environmental security as a prime CCMS motive, its central<br />
assumption being that the early conceptualization of the CCMS already included<br />
insecurity considerations such as the global deterioration of the natural<br />
environment. In contrast to those political scientists who assume that contemporary<br />
forms of environmental security only emerged with the end of the Cold<br />
War, I argue that they were already being developed at the onset of the 1970s. 10<br />
The second part of the paper focuses on the interrelation between environmental<br />
and human security within the NATO context. While examining the<br />
CCMS project on “Road Safety” (1970-1974) by means of a knowledge-based<br />
approach to environmental history, it pays particular attention to the production<br />
of “human security” and the realization of an early CCMS “environmental<br />
security” concept – the former being interpreted in terms of today’s United<br />
Nations concept which indicates a turn away from state-centered securitization<br />
towards new threats to “human security” such as crime, health, migration,<br />
poverty, unemployment etc. – and finally, environmental destruction. 11 In 2003,<br />
the Commission on Human Security (CHS) acknowledged that “people’s security<br />
around the world is interlinked” and defined “human security” as an individual<br />
approach<br />
protecting people from critical and pervasive threats and situations, building<br />
on their strengths and aspirations [… by] creating systems that give people the<br />
building blocks of survival, dignity and livelihood […] It complements state<br />
security by being people-centered and addressing insecurities that have not<br />
been considered as state security threats. By looking at ‘downside risks’, it<br />
broadens the human development focus beyond ‘growth with equity’. 12<br />
7 von Uexküll 1909, 5.<br />
8 Frédérick 1999.<br />
9 Blaney 1973, 236; Kyba 1974, 256; Train 1974, 167; Sudarskis 1976, 69; Bungarten 1977;<br />
Krusewitz 1985, 33-47; Ditt 2003; Hünemörder 2004, 141-147; Humblin 2010, 54.<br />
10 For example, Matthew 1999; Dyer 2001, 441; see also the contributions to the “17. Forum<br />
Globale Fragen” discussing the worldwide implications and risks of the global climate<br />
change: Auswärtiges Amt 2007.<br />
11 United Nations Development Programme 1994, 22-40.<br />
12 Commission on Human Security 2003.<br />
311
On the face of it, “human security” appears too vague to be of analytic<br />
value. However, international organizations such as the United Nations pursued<br />
the concept further and states such as Canada or Japan fell into line with it,<br />
which reflects a recent shift in social moral concepts and a rethinking of today’s<br />
globally interconnected human security issues. 13 I argue that the firstgeneration<br />
projects of the CCMS already produced some decisive aspects of<br />
human security. This paper examines the way in which this production of security<br />
knowledge interlinked human with environmental security.<br />
“… Are we prepared to see New York underwater?” –<br />
CCMS Pioneers and the Environmental Crisis<br />
The head of the West German CCMS delegation, the parliamentary secretary<br />
Ralf Dahrendorf, opened the first plenary session of the committee in December<br />
1969 by stating that “the very fact that this Committee has been created<br />
shows that for us security depends as much on the vitality of our societies as it<br />
does on the strength of our armies.” 14 Indeed, security was an intrinsic factor of<br />
CCMS considerations from the beginning, although NATO itself only used an<br />
extended security definition officially from 1991 15 and the first concrete CCMS<br />
study dealing with “Environment and Security in an International Context” did<br />
not appear until 1995. 16<br />
On closer examination, however, it becomes clear that the considerations of<br />
1969 already foreshadowed the findings of the 1995 study. Since in 1969 the<br />
term “environment” was defined as social and natural human environment, 17<br />
the predicted global environmental crisis was perceived as an urgent threat to<br />
the vitality of Western societies. Or, as the NATO Information Service argued<br />
in 1970:<br />
The survival of human society as we know it – perhaps the survival of Man<br />
himself as a species – is threatened now by a new factor: the rapid deterioration<br />
of the globe itself as an ecological system […] The world-wide ecological<br />
crisis (for crisis it is) has […] the components of potential breakdown. 18<br />
This NATO perception of the global ecological crisis as an uncertainty factor<br />
for mankind stems from one of the spiritual fathers of the CCMS – Nixon’s<br />
13 Daase 2009.<br />
14 “Statement by State Secretary Dahrendorf at the first Meeting of NATO Committee on<br />
Challenges of Modern Society on 8 December 1969 in Brussels”, in United States Government<br />
Library of Congress, Washington D.C., Papers of Daniel Patrick Moynihan: Part I,<br />
Richard M. Nixon Administration, 1967-1972, Subject File, I:292.<br />
15 Ziegerer 1998, 33-35.<br />
16 Committee on the Challenges of Modern Society 1999.<br />
17 Concerning the contemporary perception of the environment as a social and natural issue,<br />
see also Uwe Lübken’s paper in this volume.<br />
18 Huntley 1972, 11-12.<br />
312
presidential counselor on urban questions and head of the US Delegation at the<br />
CCMS Preparatory Committee, Daniel Patrick Moynihan – the “number one<br />
‘Urbanologist’ … in the White House”. 19<br />
Moynihan was the driving force behind the CCMS, although his assessment<br />
of the CCMS’s role and importance differed markedly from Henry Kissinger’s<br />
approach to NATO’s third dimension. 20 Kissinger perceived the environmental<br />
subject in the first place as a promising way to consolidate the transatlantic<br />
alliance. 21 Therefore, beyond all intentions to protect the environment, the<br />
CCMS was indeed a primary vehicle to achieve a cohesive transatlantic policy.<br />
In the face of France’s withdrawal from NATO’s military structures in 1966<br />
and the credibility dilemma of NATO’s leading member state USA, 22 at least<br />
the political cohesion was meant to be strengthened by the agreeable “soft<br />
politics” of the environment, “adding internal strength to our external security”.<br />
23<br />
Moynihan, in contrast, assessed NATO as the appropriate platform to fight<br />
the social and natural environmental problems of the industrialized nations. 24 In<br />
terms of world policy, he perceived the environmental question as one of the<br />
most urgent international political issues, although he acknowledged internally<br />
that the environmental issue did not have enough integrative power to keep the<br />
Atlantic Alliance alive without any military-political functions. 25<br />
19 Joseph Glazer, “An Urbanologist in the White House”, in Bundesarchiv Koblenz, B 142-<br />
5009; “Daniel P. Moynihan, biographic Data”, in “Behandlung von Umweltproblemen<br />
durch die NATO”, September 1, 1969, in Bundesarchiv Koblenz, B 142-5009; Katzmann<br />
1998, Appendix A: Biographical Facts Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan, 181-195.<br />
20 Russel E. Train (EPA) to Henry Kissinger (Secretary of State), “Future of the NATO<br />
Committee on the Challenges of Modern Society”, November 21, 1973 (confidential), in<br />
National Archives and Records Administration. General Records of the Department of<br />
State, RG 59, Political and Defense Files, 150-66/67-2899.<br />
21 Kissinger 1968; Memorandum Kissinger to Nixon, “Clarence Streit Letter on Atlantic<br />
Union”, August 27, 1969, in National Archives and Records Administration. Nixon Presidential<br />
Material: President’s Office, President’s Office Files, Handwritings Box 2.<br />
22 Haftendorn 1994; Nixon 1968, 805; “Die Zukunft der NATO” 1969, 46; Brosio 1967, D23.<br />
23 Department of State, “Memorandum for Mr. Henry A. Kissinger. Your Meeting with<br />
NATO Secretary General Manlio Brosio, July 3, 1969 / Briefing Memorandum”, July 2,<br />
1969 (secret), in National Archives and Records Administration. General Records of the<br />
Department of State, RG 59, Central Foreign Policy Files, 150-64/65-3160.<br />
24 Moynihan to Nixon, “Memorandum for the President: NATO Committee on the Challenges<br />
of Modern Society”, September 16, 1969 (confidential), in National Archives and Records<br />
Administration. Nixon Presidential Material: President’s Office, President’s Office Files,<br />
Handwritings, Box 3; Memorandum Moynihan to Nixon, “Report on CCMS”, March 21,<br />
1970, in National Archives and Records Administration. Nixon Presidential Material: The<br />
National Security Council (NSC), Central Files, NSC-CenFiles-312.<br />
25 Memorandum Moynihan to Nixon, “Report on CCMS”, March 21, 1970, in National<br />
Archives and Records Administration. Nixon Presidential Material: The National Security<br />
Council (NSC), Central Files, NSC-CenFiles-312.<br />
313
With regard to the CCMS’s conception, papers of its Preparatory Committee<br />
(PrepCom) reveal that security aspects already played a prominent role in<br />
the creation of the new organization. In the PrepCom Moynihan defined as the<br />
challenges of modern society<br />
to protect individuals and society from the unheeded effects of technological<br />
change [, …] to minimize the harmful effects that arise from imperfect use of<br />
technological developments, to achieve a more effective use of technology<br />
and more human forms of complex systems to the end of extending welfare<br />
and freedom of individuals and strengthening the bases of world peace. 26<br />
He concluded that “the stability and well being of nations rests fundamentally<br />
on the success with which they face these challenges”. 27 His statement<br />
formed the basis of the North Atlantic Council’s report on the proposed CCMS.<br />
For the first time, the Americans cited concrete examples of this new type of<br />
environmental insecurity factor. As Moynihan wrote to Nixon:<br />
We pointed out that at the expected rate of release of carbon dioxide into the<br />
atmosphere by fossil fuels, the temperature of the atmosphere could rise 7 degrees<br />
by the year 2000. [...] Carbon dioxide has the same effect of glass in a<br />
green house [and ...] this [...] could raise the level of the sea by 10 feet. What<br />
then would become of London, Hamburg, Amsterdam, [and] New York? 28<br />
Essentially, he resumed some specific recommendations of the President’s<br />
Science Advisory Committee of 1965, which had informed President Johnson<br />
that “marked changes in climate, not controllable through local or even national<br />
efforts” 29 could occur. In comparison, Moynihan created a more complex worst<br />
case scenario. The inversion of his arguments reveals that he expected social<br />
and political instability, deterioration of the quality of life and the environment<br />
and finally a threat to all world peace efforts.<br />
In terms of the domestic environmental policies of NATO’s members, this<br />
interdependence manifested a more complex dimension than conventional<br />
environmental efforts so far ever realized. The PrepCom assessed the environmental<br />
destruction as a global uncertainty factor concerning NATO’s integrity<br />
– a theory the Western diplomats were confronted with for the first time. 30<br />
26 “Report of the Chairman on the Discussion in the Preparatory CCMS on Subjects which the<br />
CCMS might consider”, September 16, 1969, in National Archives and Records Administration.<br />
Nixon Presidential Material: President’s Office, President’s Office Files, Handwritings,<br />
Box 3.<br />
27 Ibid.<br />
28 Moynihan to Nixon, “Memorandum for the President: NATO Committee on the Challenges<br />
of Modern Society”, September 16, 1969 (confidential), in National Archives and Records<br />
Administration. Nixon Presidential Material: President’s Office, President’s Office Files,<br />
Handwritings, Box 3.<br />
29 President’s Science Advisory Committee 1965, 9.<br />
30 Moynihan to Nixon, “Memorandum for the President: NATO Committee on the Challenges<br />
of Modern Society”, September 16, 1969 (confidential), in National Archives and Records<br />
314
Moreover, Moynihan already calculated costs resulting from environmental<br />
risks in comparison with the CCMS expenses. He summarized that the actions<br />
would cost a vast sum – but in the face of the environmental threat, capital<br />
spending appeared unavoidable: “If we conclude that the carbon dioxide projection<br />
is sound, are we prepared to see New York underwater?” 31 With this in<br />
mind, Moynihan worked along the same lines as scientists on both sides of the<br />
Atlantic, such as for instance Paul Ehrlich who was criticized in the US as a<br />
doomsday prophet because he discussed the global greenhouse effect 32 or Sir<br />
Frank Fraser Darling in the UK who explained the causal relationship between<br />
the environment, technology, and potential security threats to posterity. 33 Darling<br />
argued that it was a dangerous misconception that only later generations<br />
would have to deal with environmental problems. As Moynihan consulted<br />
Darling’s results, 34 his CCMS concept assessed the critical environmental<br />
situation in a symptomatic way. In October 1969, he told the North Atlantic<br />
Assembly that the threat of a “nuclear holocaust” had been regarded so far as<br />
the ultimate disaster to humanity. But now “it has come to be perceived that<br />
this would be only the most spectacular of the fates that might await us. […]<br />
An ecological crisis is surely upon us; and developing at quite extraordinary<br />
rates.” 35 As CCMS pioneers like Moynihan considered Western society and<br />
mankind as such to be endangered by the global environmental deterioration,<br />
the CCMS of 1969 expressed a programmatic shift from state to societal-based<br />
security, as Christopher Daase explains. 36 Therefore, the development of the<br />
CCMS shows vividly that society substituted the state as main security interest<br />
at the onset of the 1970s, gradually shifting in the dimension of space (from<br />
national to global level), danger (from threat to risk), point of reference (from<br />
state to society to the individual) and subject (military, economic, ecological<br />
and finally human security). 37<br />
Administration. Nixon Presidential Material: President’s Office, President’s Office Files,<br />
Handwritings, Box 3.<br />
31<br />
Ibid.<br />
32<br />
McCormick 1989, 69-73; Hünemörder 2004, 219-221.<br />
33<br />
“Not with a bang but a Gasp”, The New York Times, December 15, 1969; McCormick 1989,<br />
129.<br />
34<br />
“Remarks by Daniel P. Moynihan on the Committee on the Challenges of Modern Society”,<br />
Brussels, December 8, 1969, in United States Government Library of Congress, Washington<br />
D.C., Papers of Daniel Patrick Moynihan: Part I, Richard M. Nixon Administration,<br />
1967-1972, Subject File, I:292.<br />
35<br />
“The NATO Committee on the Challenges of Modern Society. Address by Daniel P.<br />
Moynihan, North Atlantic Assembly”, Brussels, October 21, 1969, in United States Government<br />
Library of Congress, Washington D.C., Papers of Daniel Patrick Moynihan: Part I,<br />
Richard M. Nixon Administration, 1967-1972, Subject File, I:292.<br />
36<br />
See Christopher Daase’s paper in this volume.<br />
37 Daase 2009, 138-149.<br />
315
For all these reasons, security was an intrinsic factor of CCMS considerations.<br />
NATO’s environmental concept already showed elements of environmental<br />
and human security being considered in the face of the environmental<br />
crisis. However, since we cannot take our present knowledge as a yardstick, it<br />
would be wrong to regard the CCMS concept as a matter of course. Images of<br />
destruction such as the “Deepwater Horizon” disaster or scientific reports on<br />
global warming were not established in the collective consciousness. Regarding<br />
the level of experience and science at the end of the 1960s, Moynihan did not<br />
present generally agreed facts – rather, he and other CCMS pioneers advanced<br />
a working hypothesis for NATO’s environmental initiative. What Moynihan<br />
and the North Atlantic Council did was not to create or complete an environmental<br />
security paradigm. It was a thought process which aimed at the combination<br />
and investigation of environmental and security factors under NATO<br />
conditions. CCMS projects were to show to what extent environment and security<br />
really were interconnected and to combine technical, ecological, and social<br />
factors with the political courses of NATO’s actions. In this respect, the Third<br />
Dimension was really a new political initiative which marked a period of transition<br />
in NATO’s political strategy from conventional concepts of “peace” and<br />
“security” to an early form of environmental security.<br />
“… Tens of thousands of scarce engineering man-hours” –<br />
Road Safety Knowledge and the Production of “Human<br />
Security”<br />
In 1970, eight CCMS projects started in a new type of pilot-copilot model on<br />
Disaster Relief (USA), Road Safety (USA), Air Pollution Control (USA), Open<br />
Water Pollution (Belgium), Inland Water Pollution (Canada), Work Satisfaction<br />
in a Technological Era (UK), Scientific Knowledge and Political Decision<br />
Making (FRG), and Regional Planning (France). 38 The pilots expected an extensive<br />
transatlantic environmental technology transfer. Almost every operation<br />
aimed at the exchange and development of environmental technology. The<br />
United States in particular attracted large technological projects, which promised<br />
economic and national benefits closing the apparent mutual American-<br />
European “technological gap” in the environmental field. 39 Business journals<br />
38 Pilot nations of the CCMS projects are listed in brackets. If interested, one “pilot” nation<br />
took up a certain environmental problem and led a corresponding research project. Thus,<br />
the pilot was responsible for its planning, financial expenditure, organization and results.<br />
Within the project, “copilot” nations were able to establish subprojects on more concrete<br />
problems.<br />
39 “Examples for U.S. in meeting the ‘Challenges of Modern Society’”, February 2, 1970, in<br />
United States Government Library of Congress, Washington D.C., Papers of Daniel Patrick<br />
Moynihan: Part I, Richard M. Nixon Administration, 1967-1972, Subject File, I:292;<br />
316
predicted expanding environmental technology markets while economists<br />
considered the environmental sector as the “next big industry”. 40 Such technological<br />
innovation appeared only feasible in cooperation with national industries<br />
and companies. Thus, the CCMS projects gave American and European<br />
industry the opportunity to improve in the field of environmental engineering. 41<br />
As the example of the Road Safety project illustrates, industrial science and<br />
engineering facilities became heavily involved in the CCMS research and technology<br />
exchange.<br />
To analyze the scientific process of the CCMS and the production of security<br />
knowledge within its projects, this paper historicizes the sociological concept<br />
of “knowledge society” (Wissensgesellschaft). 42 The concept assumes that<br />
knowledge-based actions such as information processing, expert systems, and<br />
symbolic analysis permeated societal processes and relegated traditional factors<br />
of reproduction to the background. 43 The review of the Road Safety project<br />
pays special attention to the former aspect. According to the sociologist Nico<br />
Stehr, it was the growing significance of science after 1945 which enabled<br />
society to influence itself, its social institutions and its relations to the natural<br />
environment. 44 With regard to environmental history, critics have complained<br />
that this view was too euphoric about scientification and neglected “nonscientific<br />
knowledge” and its “non-professional producers” such as the environmental<br />
movement. 45 Nevertheless, since the CCMS projects were run exclusively<br />
by a group of scientists and experts, a historically reconsidered definition<br />
of Stehr’s thesis is worthwhile. In the context of the CCMS, “knowledgebased”<br />
chiefly signified engineering and the natural sciences. Overall, as I<br />
Memorandum Dr. DuBridge to President Nixon, “The Technological Gap”, February 19,<br />
1969, in National Archives and Records Administration. Nixon Presidential Material: The<br />
National Security Council (NSC), Central Files, NSC-CenFiles-442; Memorandum Dr.<br />
DuBridge to President Nixon and Henry Kissinger, “Cooperation in Science and Technology<br />
with Europe”, February 20, 1969, in National Archives and Records Administration.<br />
Nixon Presidential Material: The National Security Council (NSC), Central Files, NSC-<br />
CenFiles-442.<br />
40 “Gewinnchancen für eine bessere Umwelt”, Business Week, April 11, 1970; Quinn 1971,<br />
120.<br />
41 Foreign and Commonwealth Office/Science and Technology Department (Ronald Arculus),<br />
“NATO Committee on the Challenges of Modern Society: U.S. Study on Road Safety: Proposal<br />
on Air Bags (Passive Restraints Systems)”, April 23, 1970, in Public Record Office,<br />
CAB 164-643: 42; Moynihan to Bundeskanzleramtschef Horst Ehmke, June 10, 1970, in:<br />
United States Government Library of Congress, Washington D.C., Papers of Daniel Patrick<br />
Moynihan: Part I, Richard M. Nixon Administration, 1967-1972, Subject File, I:292.<br />
42 Concerning the methodical advantages of the concept see Szöllösi-Janze 2004, 277, 310-<br />
313.<br />
43 Wilke 1998, 161.<br />
44 Stehr 1994, 220.<br />
45 Uekötter 2006, 102, 104-107; Uekötter 2006, 145, 147-148; with regard to scientification in<br />
the environmental field – especially concerning the “amateurish knowledge” of the environmental<br />
movement – compare Radkau 2002, 309.<br />
317
argue, the Road Safety project produced a CCMS-specific environmental<br />
techno-science knowledge which dealt with security risks in traffic and mobility<br />
and defined individual human security for driving and, thus, living conditions.<br />
The project on Road Safety 46 was once again the brainchild of Patrick<br />
Moynihan. Throughout the 1960s, he pursued a new approach to the subject,<br />
stating that “traffic accidents constitute one of the greatest, perhaps the greatest,<br />
of the nation’s public health problems.” 47 He criticized the American automobile<br />
industry and government for their reluctance towards an efficient road<br />
safety methodology. There was no relevant data available, nor had any scientific<br />
and technological projects been pushed ahead:<br />
The only moderately reliable statistic that exists is the number of persons<br />
killed […] It is hardly a complicated matter to conceive what basic national<br />
data ought to be collected: rates for deaths, injuries, and accidents; geographical<br />
and temporal distribution as such; types of vehicles involved; types of<br />
driver failure; types of vehicle failure; types of drivers involved; types of<br />
roadway and environmental failures […] To repeat: none of this data now exists,<br />
save the death rate. 48<br />
Moynihan advocated not only producing adequate cars but also developing<br />
traffic systems able to minimize potential accidents. In this respect, he raised<br />
the question of individual risk limitation and individual security in a technological<br />
society. With this in mind, he defined road safety, in the first place, as a<br />
scientific task and not only as a matter of bureaucracy.<br />
However, NATO’s road safety project went far beyond this projection. It<br />
aimed at the combination of automotive engineering, human and ecological<br />
factors as well as accident prevention and investigation to produce a “highly<br />
effective format … bringing all dimensions of the problem and their interrelationships<br />
into sharp focus.” 49 In order to harmonize Western road safety standards,<br />
it intended that all interested states should be able to draw conclusions<br />
from a catalogue of technological insights. 50 This matrix consisted of six subprojects<br />
on (1) emergency medical services, (2) road hazards, (3) increasing<br />
use of seatbelts, (4) alcohol and driving, (4) passive restraints, (5) accident<br />
investigation and most importantly, (6) the development of an Experimental<br />
Safety Vehicle. 51<br />
46<br />
Accredited by the North Atlantic Council in February 1970; see NATO Doc. C-R(70)5,<br />
February 13, 1970.<br />
47<br />
Moynihan 1966, 10, quoted according to 20.<br />
48<br />
Moynihan 1966; italics used in the original text.<br />
49<br />
“Road Safety. Summary of proposed pilot study” 1970, 19; quoted according to 22.<br />
50<br />
United States Department of Transportation, “US Pilot Study on Road Safety for the Committee<br />
on the Challenges of Modern Society. Proposed Agenda, Implementation and Working<br />
Plan”, February 6, 1970, in Public Record Office, FCO 55-451: 2.<br />
51<br />
Huntley 1971, 23-26.<br />
318
Mobility and traffic are important parts of the anthropogenic environment.<br />
Consequently, it was not as peculiar as it seems at first sight that the CCMS<br />
developed traffic guidance systems, airbags or safety cars. Contemporary figures<br />
showed that in the United States 55,000 road deaths and 3.5 million injured<br />
persons were estimated in 1968 alone. 52 In 1965/66, the death toll from<br />
traffic accidents numbered 111,000 NATO-wide – almost as much as the losses<br />
suffered by the UN forces in the Korean War. 53 In addition to driving safety,<br />
the subprojects covered important environmental matters such as the development<br />
of a pollution-free car and better emission measurement technology. In<br />
this way, Road Safety was directed at reduced CO2 emissions and less urban<br />
smog. 54<br />
The number of growing cooperation partners indicates that no major automotive<br />
nation wanted to miss the technology transfer within the project. The<br />
Europeans were particularly interested since the American National Traffic and<br />
Motor Vehicle Safety Act of 1966 set new motor vehicle safety standards in the<br />
US. 55 Car and motorbike manufacturers such as AMF, Ford, Fairchild Industries<br />
and General Motors (USA), Volkswagen, Mercedes-Benz, Opel, BMW<br />
and Porsche (FRG), British Leyland (UK), Fiat (Italy), Peugeot, Renault and<br />
Citroen (France), Nissan, Toyota and Honda (Japan) as well as Volvo and Saab<br />
(Sweden) worked in subprojects on safety measures, new kind of propulsion<br />
methods and Experimental Safety Vehicle prototypes (called ESV in the following).<br />
Road Safety turned out to be a big business investment: By 1974, the state<br />
and private capital investments for the ESV subproject itself amounted to 250<br />
million US dollars. 56 The same year the project presented 13 different ESV<br />
variants, designed corresponding to mass production standards and the purchase<br />
interests of prospective buyers. 57<br />
International conferences, trade fairs and car exhibitions such as the Frankfurt<br />
Internationale Automobil-Ausstellung (IAA) (1970), the ESV conferences<br />
in Paris (1970), Stuttgart (1971), Washington, DC (merged with the transport<br />
fair “TRANSPO ’72” (1972)) and Ann Harbor (1973) formed an extensive<br />
“space of automotive engineering knowledge”. 58 Within this knowledge space,<br />
government officials, state facilities, non-governmental organizations and<br />
actors alike met and established a horizontal and vertical cooperation between<br />
national departments of transportation, federal agencies, car and insurance<br />
52<br />
“Road Safety. Summary of proposed pilot study” 1970, 19.<br />
53<br />
Huntley 1971, 23.<br />
54<br />
“NATO move to encourage pollution-free cars”, The London Times, October 20, 1970.<br />
55<br />
US want air bag safety at 85₤ car”, The London Times, July 8, 1968; “American safety laws<br />
criticized”, The London Times, March 29, 1971.<br />
56<br />
Blaney 1974, 236; Committee on the Challenges of Modern Society 1974, 5.<br />
57<br />
Blaney 1974.<br />
58<br />
The concept of “Wissensraum” (knowledge space) is interpreted according to Ash 2000,<br />
235.<br />
319
associations, independent and government-sponsored research institutes as well<br />
as research facilities of the world’s most important car manufacturers.<br />
Throughout the project, technical engineers of the car industry dominated<br />
the scenery and established an environmental knowledge concerning the style<br />
of the ESV. As a result, there was no competition between different scientific<br />
knowledge systems, but rather cooperation among the prevailing fields of the<br />
project. Up to 1977, the number of scientists, experts and government representatives<br />
integrated together in such CCMS projects increased to an annual average<br />
of more than 1,000 persons meeting at 30 conferences and workshops. 59<br />
Within the projects, scientists and engineers established subject-specific communities<br />
and networks extending beyond the operations, as three former CCMS<br />
experts explained:<br />
During the pilot study, the ‘community’ of experts communicate directly with<br />
each other, often by telephone. These connections […] often continue even after<br />
the conclusion of the pilot study. […] The interaction within the scientific<br />
‘communities’ is the real medium of reciprocal transmission of technology<br />
[…] and it is the CCMS’ greatest achievement and greatest success. 60<br />
Owing to these networks, the national boundaries set by the CCMS pilot<br />
model became blurred, and researchers and experts exchanged their views and<br />
results inside and outside “their” scientific community. In consequence, transnational<br />
collaborative company and research interconnections developed, for<br />
instance exchanging experiences on airbag or catalytic converter know-how. 61<br />
The Road Safety community obtained its knowledge mainly from experiments,<br />
for example crash tests and experimental emission measurements, as<br />
John A. Volpe explained:<br />
Auto design engineers […] have thrown themselves into the ESV task with<br />
unparalleled enthusiasm. Top company managements have unhesitatingly<br />
committed millions of dollars to the ESV program. They have allotted tens of<br />
thousands of scarce engineering man-hours to the project and have constructed<br />
and equipped extensive new test facilities. Governments have come to<br />
the support of these efforts by undertaking new research at government centers,<br />
as well as underwriting a great deal of private research. 62<br />
59 Özdas 1977, 20.<br />
60 Ward et al. 1980, 19; Paul von Ward was the US coordinator of the CCMS between 1977<br />
and 1979; Glen Kendall und James Bresee collaborated on several CCMS US pilot projects.<br />
61 “US Car giants study anti-pollution system”, The London Times, December 8, 1971; Foreign<br />
and Commonwealth Office/Science and Technology Department (Ronald Arculus),<br />
“NATO Committee on the Challenges of Modern Society: U.S. Study on Road Safety: Proposal<br />
on Air Bags (Passive Restraints Systems)”, April 23, 1970, in Public Record Office,<br />
CAB 164-643: 42.<br />
62 John A. Volpe (Secretary of the United States Department of Transportation) on the occasion<br />
of the third ESV conference and international transport fair “TRANSPO ’72” in Washington,<br />
DC, May 1972, in U.S. Department of Transportation 1972, 1-5.<br />
320
The experiments of the “test facilities” formed the arsenal of information<br />
through which the CCMS experts legitimized “their” redefined environment<br />
before science, politics, and society. 63 While “scientists” produced new knowledge,<br />
“experts” reproduced it as a feasible subject. At the ESV conferences and<br />
car exhibitions, automobile and traffic experts made their technical knowledge<br />
available to an expertise-demanding clientele in politics, bureaucracy, industry<br />
and the media. 64 Because of their ability to transform the flood of information<br />
and data into scientific insights, products, and expertise, the automotive engineers<br />
and technical-administrative experts possessed a powerful knowledge of<br />
interpretation and orientation.<br />
Road Safety experts coined the image of the technological as the “environmentally<br />
suitable” know-how. As this kind of environmental techno-science<br />
knowledge evolved in the course of the projects, the CCMS’s idea of environmental<br />
protection shifted in line with market conditions towards a predominant<br />
technology-centered approach. For example, American, European, and Japanese<br />
engineers worked on the environmentally most suitable and most profitable<br />
propulsion method. They presented Catalytic converters and new types of<br />
propulsion such as turbine engines, electric and hybrid drives as well as a revised<br />
sterling engine. 65 The project’s experts established the eco-friendly automobile<br />
as being market-conforming, announcing that “the ‘clean car’ of 1975<br />
will also have to be a ‘safe car’”. 66<br />
Simultaneously, this CCMS techno-science redefined “environmental<br />
threats” as technologically controllable “environmental risks”. Specific mechanisms<br />
of risk limitation were anticipated in a kind of a “safeguarding technology<br />
complex”, closely corresponding to Ulrich Beck’s sociological concept of<br />
“risk society” (Risikogesellschaft). 67 Although it is questioned by environmental<br />
historians for various reasons today, 68 some of its sociological ideas are<br />
still worthwhile in a historicized way. 69 According to Beck, environmental risks<br />
are basically invisible and based on causal interpretations. They are extremely<br />
dependent on experts’ knowledge as they are influenced by social processes of<br />
definition. 70 In the case of the knowledge production within the CCMS projects,<br />
transatlantic researchers and experts dealt with regionally invisible envi-<br />
63<br />
According to Gooding 1989, 16.<br />
64<br />
In general: Szöllösi-Janze 2004, 282; in the context of the Road Safety project: Huntley<br />
1972, 25-26.<br />
65<br />
Huntley 1972, 25-26; Train 1974, 177.<br />
66<br />
Huntley 1972, 28.<br />
67<br />
Beck 1986; for the latest definition of risk society see Schubert and Klein 2006.<br />
68<br />
Engels 2006, 32; Brüggemeier 2006, 56.<br />
69<br />
From a historical perspective, it rather encourages questions about historical safety philosophies,<br />
as Joachim Radkau suggested: Radkau 1999; Radkau 1990, 345, 357; Radkau 1989,<br />
130.<br />
70<br />
Beck 1986, 29-30.<br />
321
onmental risks such as the greenhouse effect or acid rain. 71 Besides these,<br />
visible risks such as road accidents appeared on the research agenda. Beck<br />
excluded “road accidents” from his analytical risk pattern, arguing that they are<br />
“attributable to the individual” and “chanced voluntarily”. 72 However, the<br />
historical reality differed as the development of road safety represented a concrete<br />
attempt to control social risks of modern technology and society. Joachim<br />
Radkau correctly pointed out that the 20th century’s rise of mass motorization<br />
in particular accepted social and individual risks to a high degree. 73 With this in<br />
mind, conventional automobiles and the extensive postwar highway networks –<br />
such as the one created by US town planners on the assumption of endless<br />
cheap fossil energy 74 – appeared as uncertainty factors to an increasingly mobile<br />
automotive society.<br />
Against this backdrop, the Road Safety project created, in a bottom-up process,<br />
a post-modernist risk management of social and individual human mobility.<br />
Experts’ reports and feasibility studies demonstrated technological prospects<br />
in the control of potential human security threats such as the “road<br />
accident”. Therefore, the project exemplifies a process of professionalization,<br />
indicating that the 1970s’ production of human security was still centralized in<br />
the hands of a few experts who generated and consolidated new realities in<br />
everyday life. 75 At the onset of the 1970s, this techno-science culture of environmental<br />
innovation participated in standardization and harmonization processes<br />
and thus influenced automobile design and culture. Whether it concerned<br />
airbags or seat belts, pedestrian protection devices or crash systems, catalytic<br />
converters or engine design – American and European car buyers of the 1970s<br />
and 1980s were confronted with a new kind of functionalist safety car design<br />
shaped by state legislation, scientific experts, consumer demands for safety and<br />
environmental features, and a new type of overall technological safety philosophy.<br />
76<br />
Conclusion<br />
The analysis has shown that early CCMS pioneers such as Patrick Moynihan or<br />
Ralf Dahrendorf already anticipated present scientific and political environmental<br />
security discourses. Unlike other contemporary observers, they were in<br />
the position to formulate a first environmental security thesis for NATO’s<br />
71<br />
US Secretary of State to all NATO Capitals, “US Précis for NATO/CCMS Air Pollution<br />
Pilot Study”, December 5, 1969, in Public Record Office, CAB 164-642, 40P.<br />
72<br />
Beck 1988, 266.<br />
73<br />
Radkau 1989.<br />
74<br />
McNeill 2005, 87.<br />
75<br />
According to the “technological momentum” assumed by Hughes 1975, 358-384.<br />
76 Gartman 1994, 213-215.<br />
322
environmental activities, which failed for two reasons: On the one hand, the<br />
prevailing mood within the Alliance towards the CCMS initiative was “responsive<br />
in principle but cautious in practice”. 77 Important allies such as the United<br />
Kingdom were not enthusiastic about NATO’s new third dimension for financial<br />
reasons, because of duplication of work with other international environmental<br />
organizations and conceivable political implications such as the impression<br />
of a bloc-to-bloc politicization within the environmental field. 78 Therefore,<br />
the CCMS focused its attention in a top-to-bottom process upon technological<br />
options rather than political grand designs. The nature of the Alliance was too<br />
restricted to provide political or scientific answers for global environmental<br />
problems. 79 On the other hand, assertive large-scale projects like the Road<br />
Safety project established a prevailing techno-science culture of environmental<br />
innovation which left its mark on the CCMS’s objectives. The CCMS as such<br />
did not steer the “eco-technological policy line” all by itself. Rather, it was the<br />
knowledge production within the projects which developed an efficacious<br />
power of definition and promoted environmental technology only in a bottomup<br />
process. Whether it was oil tanker design, disaster relief, contingency plans<br />
or air pollution control: At the end of the day, this power was so decisive that<br />
“the heart of the NATO CCMS programme was […] to stimulate a significant<br />
exchange of technology amongst a major group of industrialized nations of the<br />
world”. 80<br />
Consequently, the CCMS projects of 1970 did not examine the global environmental<br />
security hypothesis projected in 1969. In a tacit understanding, all<br />
projects took a technological turn, leaving “environmental security” virtually<br />
aside. The Road Safety project demonstrates that the task of investigating environmental<br />
and security factors under NATO conditions very quickly turned<br />
into a technologically dominated leitmotif dealing with basic human and individual<br />
needs for security in a technological society. The activities established<br />
77 Foreign and Commonwealth Office/Western Division to Cabinet Office, “NATO and<br />
Environmental Problems. Visit of the Secretary General on 26 June”, June 23, 1969 (confidential),<br />
in Public Record Office, CAB 164-642, 12M.<br />
78 Foreign and Commonwealth Office to Prime Minister’s Office, “Note for the Prime Minister<br />
on how Nato came to be involved in environmental problems – Nato and environmental<br />
problems”, August 5, 1969 (confidential), in Public Record Office, CAB 164-642: 25;<br />
Moynihan to Nixon, “Memorandum for the President: NATO Committee on the Challenges<br />
of Modern Society”, September 16, 1969 (confidential), in National Archives and Records<br />
Administration. Nixon Presidential Material: President’s Office, President’s Office Files,<br />
Handwritings, Box 3.<br />
79 Antoine 1973, 1-6; Sudarskis 1976, 71 on “Limits of the CCMS”.<br />
80 Robert Brenner, scientific head of the US National Highway Traffic Safety Administration<br />
(NHTSA) at the fourth CCMS plenary session, Brussels, April 19-20, 1971, in: Committee<br />
on the Challenges of Modern Society, “Summary Record of a meeting held at the NATO<br />
Headquarters, Brussels, on 19th and 20th April, 1971”, NATO Doc. AC/274-R/7, July 23,<br />
1971, in Bundesarchiv Koblenz, B 106-25901.<br />
323
international and transnational bodies which produced specifically safeguarding<br />
knowledge and expertise in their field of research. If “technology” is defined<br />
as manufacture and application for a specific purpose, the project aimed<br />
at individual human security. It linked road safety to the security of the individual<br />
by exploring the environment from a technical perspective. Basic human<br />
needs such as the freedom to move were redefined in terms of a general technological<br />
safety philosophy. As a first major international organization dealing<br />
with road safety and individual security, NATO anticipated present human<br />
security discourses such as the United Nations Habitat “Global Report on Human<br />
Settlements 2007” which explicitly defines road safety as a human security<br />
issue while bringing together security and safety in one urban policy concept.<br />
81<br />
In the face of the CCMS pioneers’ ambitious vision, NATO’s environmental<br />
committee nevertheless produced a sobering outcome. Although its projects<br />
indicated for the first time the complexity of “environmental security” and<br />
“human security”, these two elements were not integrated into a political<br />
framework of action. Rather, the specialists of the CCMS provided technical<br />
solutions to environmental and security policy problems. Even if individual<br />
human security was considered, at no point did the CCMS projects develop an<br />
analytical pattern of environmental or human security combining technical,<br />
ecological, and social uncertainty factors and risks with political courses of<br />
action. Owing to this, NATO and its environmental projects did not develop<br />
any political structures or objectives of acting as a risk-orientated environmental<br />
alliance. Only at the end of the 1970s did NATO discuss that it had to<br />
bear in mind ecological, scientific-technological and social factors on a global<br />
and long-term basis. 82 However, as the Cold War heated up again, NATO’s<br />
environmental dimension lost significance. Once more Western diplomats<br />
fought on familiar terrain and focused on military-political matters. It was not<br />
until the lifting of the Iron Curtain that NATO’s policy-makers retrieved the<br />
environmental security dimension assumed by their predecessors and revived,<br />
unknowingly, Moynihan’s idea of 1969 as an integral part of the Atlantic Alliance.<br />
81 United Nations Human Settlements Programme (UN-Habitat) 2007.<br />
82 Cleveland 1978, 14.<br />
324
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328
Between National and Human Security:<br />
Energy Security in the United States and Western<br />
Europe in the 1970s<br />
Rüdiger Graf �<br />
Abstract: »Zwischen Sicherheit und Human Security: Energiesicherheit in den<br />
USA und Westeuropa in den 1970er Jahren«. The article examines, on the one<br />
hand, the changes to the concept of energy security in the second half of the<br />
twentieth century, particularly in the 1970s, and on the other hand, the influence<br />
of these conceptual changes on the overall change to the perception and<br />
architecture of “security”. It argues that the concept of “energy security” lost<br />
its close connection to state and military security while being extended with<br />
respect to its spatial scope, reference object, issues, and classification of dangers.<br />
This extended the notion of energy security and, in turn, exerted a crucial<br />
influence on the overall extension of the security debates from state to human<br />
security via the Brandt, Palme and Brundtland Commissions, which tried to<br />
address global security issues. Thus, in the 1970s our current energy and security<br />
constellation emerged, partially superseding the logic of the Cold War.<br />
Keywords: energy, energy security, security, USA, 1970s, oil crisis, oil embargo,<br />
United Nations, Brandt Commission.<br />
1. Human Security and Energy Security –<br />
Concepts and <strong>Historical</strong> Analysis<br />
Since the publication of the Human Development Report in 1994 the concept<br />
of human security has undergone an impressive career. Today, many texts<br />
celebrate the term as setting a new political agenda in the post-Cold War world,<br />
but almost as many bemoan its vagueness that allegedly precludes both thorough<br />
political analysis and concrete policy-making. 1 Despite major disagreements<br />
over the contents and usability of the term, there is a consensus at least<br />
about a core meaning of human security. The term extends classical notions of<br />
security that dominated in the 20th century or even, as some argue, since the<br />
creation of the so called Westphalian System. These older conceptions of security<br />
considered the state to be the primary subject and object of security. 2 In<br />
� Address all communications to: Rüdiger Graf, Faculty for History, Ruhr-Universität Bochum,<br />
Universitätsstraße 150, 44780 Bochum, Germany; e-mail: ruediger.graf@rub.de.<br />
For critical suggestions I thank Moritz Föllmer and Cornel Zwierlein.<br />
1 Hampson and Penny 2007; Study Group on Europe’s Security Capabilities 2004; Paris<br />
2001; King and Murray 2001-2002.<br />
2 Ogata 2001.<br />
<strong>Historical</strong> <strong>Social</strong> <strong>Research</strong>, Vol. 35 — 2010 — No. 4, 329-348
contrast or rather in addition to state security, human security focuses on individual<br />
human beings and attempts to guarantee and expand their vital freedoms,<br />
encompassing freedom from fear and freedom from want. 3 Therefore,<br />
human security also concerns new types of threats that were not at the center of<br />
state security, such as economic risks or environmental hazards. Moreover, it<br />
expands the number of possible conveyors of security from states to international<br />
and non-governmental organizations.<br />
In general, ‘human security’ is mostly used in order to describe the security<br />
of the basic core of people’s livelihoods which may be threatened by civil wars,<br />
natural disasters, or failing states. Because of its empowering dimension, however,<br />
it is far from clear where the scope of human security ends. As Roland<br />
Paris enumerates, depending on the context, human security may refer to:<br />
(1) economic security (e.g. freedom from poverty); (2) food security (e.g. access<br />
to food); (3) health security (e.g. access to health care and protection<br />
from diseases); (4) environmental security (e.g. protection from such dangers<br />
as environmental pollution and depletion); (5) personal security (e.g. physical<br />
safety from such things as torture, war, criminal attacks, domestic violence,<br />
drug use, suicide, and even traffic accidents); (6) community security (e.g.<br />
survival of traditional cultures and ethnic groups as well as the physical security<br />
of these groups); and (7) political security (e.g. enjoyment of civil and political<br />
rights, and freedom from political oppression). 4<br />
Today, the extensive use of energy and especially the burning of fossil fuels<br />
are essential to several of the above-mentioned dimensions: Economic security<br />
depends on the access to sufficient energy resources and, above all, on the<br />
continuous flow of oil; food security has largely been achieved by the use of<br />
artificial fertilizers which are based on hydrocarbons; environmental security is<br />
threatened by the extensive burning of coal and oil, and even political and thus<br />
personal and community security are endangered by military conflicts which<br />
are fought over the access to natural resources. However, the concept of energy<br />
is conspicuously absent from both the 2003 Human Security Now Report and<br />
the 2004 Human Security Doctrine for Europe. 5 The former only vaguely acknowledges<br />
the necessity of securing everybody’s access to sufficient natural<br />
resources and sees this access – particularly in the case of water – as a potential<br />
source of conflict. The latter even argues that, while older conceptions of security<br />
had focused on strategic assets such as oil, today human security concentrates<br />
on “five key threats to Europe: terrorism, the proliferation of weapons of<br />
mass destruction, regional conflicts, failing states, and organised crime”. 6 En-<br />
3<br />
Commission on Human Security 2003.<br />
4<br />
Paris 2001, 90.<br />
5<br />
Commission on Human Security 2003; Study Group on Europe’s Security Capabilities<br />
2004.<br />
6<br />
Study Group on Europe’s Security Capabilities 2004, 8.<br />
330
ergy and oil, however, do not seem to be related to Europe’s major security<br />
questions.<br />
Because of this discrepancy, I will examine the relationship between energy<br />
and security in Western Europe and the United States since the Second World<br />
War in greater detail. This analysis is complicated by the changes to “energy”<br />
and “security” on both a conceptual and a factual level in the period under<br />
scrutiny. On the one hand, the global economy of oil and energy and its conceptualization<br />
underwent fundamental changes in the second half of the twentieth<br />
century which accelerated significantly in the 1970s as a consequence of<br />
the oil embargo and the oil price increases. On the other hand, security regimes<br />
changed and, as Emma Rothschild or Christopher Daase have shown, the concept<br />
of security was extended from a narrow understanding of state to the<br />
broader idea of human security. 7 In Christopher Daase’s analysis the widening<br />
took place in four different dimensions: with respect to the spatial scope, the<br />
reference object, the issue area, and the classification of dangers. 8<br />
Owing to these conceptual changes, my questions point in two directions:<br />
On the one hand, I will ask how energy supply and demand were situated<br />
within the context of the changing debates on security in Western Europe and<br />
the United States: When, how and why was energy supply perceived as a matter<br />
of state and military security? When was it related to broader concepts of<br />
security and when was it even considered to be an element of human security?<br />
On the other hand, I will ask if and how the rising importance and politicization<br />
of energy and especially oil in the 1970s influenced the conceptual change<br />
within the discourses about security: Did the emergence of “energy security” as<br />
a central political category influence more general conceptions of security and<br />
the discursive change from national to human security?<br />
While the first set of questions uses “national” and “human security” as analytical<br />
concepts in order to examine the changing perceptions of energy and<br />
energy security, the second set tries to elaborate the influence of changing<br />
energy regimes on the conceptual change from national to human security. The<br />
simultaneous use of terms as both analytical and source concepts poses severe<br />
problems for historical analysis. In attempting to write a theoretically informed<br />
contemporary history, however, it is hardly possible to avoid using terms of the<br />
neighboring disciplines while at the same time historicizing them. So far, historical<br />
theory has not addressed the problems arising from this constellation for<br />
contemporary history in a satisfying way. While this article is not the place to<br />
develop a theoretical account of how to deal with concepts from neighboring<br />
disciplines, it still tries to explore how it might be done.<br />
Moreover, it deals with a crucial period in the history of Western security<br />
systems in which détente led to an easing of East-West tensions while simulta-<br />
7 Rothschild 2007, 2.<br />
8 See Christopher Daase’s paper in this volume.<br />
331
neously new threats arose. With the emergence of energy security as a central<br />
concern of political decision-making on all levels, the logic of the Cold War<br />
that had prevailed since 1945 seemed to be in question and was even partially<br />
superseded. New lines of confrontation between the First and the Third World<br />
or rather the producers and consumers of raw materials emerged which, for<br />
many observers, foreshadowed a new world order. As both energy systems and<br />
security architectures were globalized, their transformation in the 1970s<br />
changed the perception of the world and one’s own position within it, anticipating<br />
the post-Cold War debates of the 1990s. Hence, focusing on “energy” and<br />
“security,” the 1970s appear as a crucial transformative period in the history of<br />
Western industrial countries, heralding the beginning of our time.<br />
2. Energy – from National and Military to International<br />
and Economic Security<br />
In the First World War, oil emerged as the essential resource for the successful<br />
conduct of warfare. From then on national security, understood as military<br />
security of a nation state, depended on the availability of sufficient amounts of<br />
oil in order to fuel warships, planes, tanks, and other military vehicles. 9 The<br />
importance of oil as a strategic resource became even more apparent in the<br />
Second World War when it propelled Germany’s Blitzkrieg, motivated the<br />
Japanese decision to attack the USA, and was decisively lacking after the failure<br />
of the German armies to capture the oil fields in the Caucasus. 10 In the<br />
course and the aftermaths of the wars, and especially after the Second World<br />
War, the United States and its allies placed access to sufficient oil reserves at<br />
the center of their national interests. 11 In the postwar world these oil reserves<br />
were increasingly found in the Middle East, which became a highly contested<br />
region. The importance of oil for the security strategies of the Western alliance<br />
became particularly clear every time its continuous flow was endangered, as for<br />
example after the nationalization of the Iranian oil industry in 1951, in the Suez<br />
Crisis in 1956, the Six Day War in 1967 or the oil crises in 1973/74 and<br />
1978/79.<br />
Over the course of the three postwar decades from 1945 to the mid-1970s,<br />
the structures of the global economy of oil and, accordingly, the conditions of<br />
the relation between oil/energy and security changed fundamentally. This was,<br />
above all, owing to the sharp rise in demand in Western industrialized countries.<br />
The postwar economic boom required growing energy supplies which<br />
9 Yergin 1991, 167-183.<br />
10 Yergin 1991, 303-388; Barnhart 1987, 215-234; Eichholtz 2006.<br />
11 Stoff 1980; Painter 1986; Kapstein 1990. But, as early as “the 1940s, Secretary of Interior<br />
Harold Ickes and other government officials recognized that oil was strategically important<br />
not only for the military, but the national economy as well.” (Beaubouef 2007, 3).<br />
332
were increasingly met by oil, substituting coal as the primary source of energy.<br />
12 Apart from mass motorization and residential heating, more and more<br />
parts of the economy became dependent on the continuous flow of oil, while<br />
the oil industry presented itself as the basis not only of economic growth but<br />
also of modern civilization and its social and political stability. As Halliburton<br />
asserted in an advertisement in 1959, oil was the “energy for civilization”:<br />
The needs of civilized man have increased throughout the ages based on desires<br />
of increasing populations to live better. Oil and its energy making components<br />
have been and will continue to be part of this progressive program of<br />
civilisation which guarantees function and preservation of this ideology. On<br />
this theme the future of democracy will forever depend. Halliburton’s extensive<br />
research and development programs are devoted to this progressing civilization<br />
... through scientific application of Halliburton services and techniques,<br />
our tomorrows will be better ... because of oil. 13<br />
The growing dependence of Western industrial nations on oil and especially<br />
oil imports from the Middle East did not necessarily pose a problem for their<br />
national security. Energy experts carefully distinguished between “dependence”<br />
and “vulnerability”. As long as the United States remained the world’s<br />
largest producer of crude oil and had a significant surplus production capacity<br />
at its disposal, energy imports did not produce national security risks. In fact,<br />
advocates of oil imports argued that foreign oil would enhance US national<br />
security as it would spare oil reserves at home. 14 As late as during the Six Day<br />
War in 1967, the United States could counter an embargo attempt by OPEC<br />
countries by simply augmenting its own production. Owing to increasing domestic<br />
demand, however, this possibility ceased to exist soon afterwards and<br />
the security of oil supplies and especially the possibility of intentional oil supply<br />
interruptions became a matter of great concern to the governments of Western<br />
industrialized countries. 15<br />
How far did these developments influence or change the conception of energy<br />
security in itself? Traditionally, energy and particularly oil security had<br />
been linked to a conception of national security that was largely understood in<br />
military terms. According to this narrow conception, national security was<br />
guaranteed as long as the state was able to provide sufficient oil supplies for its<br />
armies in order to defend itself. In 1971 the independent analyst and former<br />
member of the Army Nuclear Power Program with the US Atomic Energy<br />
Commission, Carl Vansant, produced a late and, at the time of publication,<br />
almost anachronistic expression of this view analyzing the “strategic energy<br />
supply and national security”. Vansant argued that energy sources were “fun-<br />
12 Chick 2007.<br />
13 Halliburton 1959.<br />
14 Chick 2007, 16.<br />
15 Yergin 1991, 598-599.<br />
333
damental to a nation’s strength” and that they had to be secured, above all, by<br />
military and political means. 16 But even Vansant acknowledged that there was<br />
more to energy security than its military dimension:<br />
From a military point of view, it is important that the energy supplies for military<br />
forces be designed for, and maintained in, a secure posture. It is even more<br />
important, however, that national systems for energy supply be built on secure<br />
foundations of political, technical, and economic policy; for, in fact, it is<br />
the civil structure of energy systems that underlies and braces strategic security.<br />
17<br />
In general, energy experts as well as experts of national security acknowledged<br />
the rising importance of oil for the functioning of industrialized economies<br />
in the postwar world and, therefore, broadened the concept of energy<br />
security, which was essential not only to the conduct of modern warfare but to<br />
the vital functions of economy and society as a whole. This conceptual change<br />
was to a large extent induced by political actors, national governments, and<br />
international organizations. Still bearing in mind the Suez crisis and facing<br />
threats to a continuous flow of oil throughout the 1960s, the countries organized<br />
in the Organization of Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD)<br />
tried to coordinate their oil and energy policies in order to achieve security<br />
against interruptions of supply. In May 1960 the Council of the OECD recommended<br />
that its member countries should “prepare, in advance, plans that will<br />
enable them to introduce prompt and effective reductions in consumption of<br />
petroleum products if an oil supply emergency should occur”. 18 In order to<br />
review the degree to which these plans had been developed and implemented,<br />
the OECD Special Committee for Oil sent detailed questionnaires to the governments<br />
and in turn distributed the results of these surveys to all member<br />
countries in 1963, 1966, 1970, and 1972. 19 In the member countries these questionnaires<br />
raised attention to oil and energy issues and induced national activities<br />
in these fields. The efforts mainly aimed at politically motivated short term<br />
supply interruptions and were intended to guarantee the ability of the states to<br />
sustain their vital functions and military capabilities. However, in the late<br />
1960s and early 1970s the relevant ministries in most Western industrialized<br />
countries started to develop plans to restructure their energy sectors in order to<br />
secure the continuous availability of sufficient energy sources at low prices,<br />
which indicates a diversion from the close connection between energy and<br />
military security.<br />
16 Vansant 1971, 7, 47-74.<br />
17 Vansant 1971, 83.<br />
18 OECD. Council: Recommendation of the Council Concerning the Apportionment of Oil<br />
Supplies in an Emergency, 5.5.1960, National Archives of the United Kingdom (NA UK),<br />
POWE 63/642.<br />
19 OECD. Oil Committee Reports, NA UK, POWE 63/642.<br />
334
In this process the concept of energy security was broadened in exactly<br />
those dimensions that Rothschild and Daase observed for the overall development<br />
of the concept of security: Energy and especially oil supply security was<br />
not only related to military ability and strength but also to economic development<br />
as a whole and, thus, the issue area of energy security was widened. It<br />
was fundamental for economic, but also for political stability, as the legitimacy<br />
of Western democracies depended on delivering a high standard of living and<br />
sufficient consumer goods. Accordingly, energy security concerned not only<br />
the well-being of the state but also of individual human beings in the industrialized<br />
countries, i.e. the reference group was significantly extended. As the oil<br />
economy was a global system and Western industrialized countries became<br />
increasingly dependent on oil imports from the Middle East, threats to energy<br />
security ceased to be domestic and regional – they became increasingly globalized<br />
and therefore the geographical scope of energy security widened. Among<br />
the central and most disturbing experiences of the oil crises in the Western<br />
world in the 1970s was the perception that the decisions and actions of rulers in<br />
remote regions of the world who seemed to be irrational and hard to control<br />
had an almost immediate effect on the everyday life of the people in Western<br />
Europe, Japan, and the USA. Moreover, categorization of dangers moved from<br />
direct threats to discussions of vulnerability and risk. Finally, for various reasons<br />
states had only limited capacities to influence the flow of oil and to secure<br />
their own supplies. Thus, several looked for internationally coordinated strategies,<br />
for example within NATO, the European Community or the OECD, in<br />
order to achieve energy security. Accordingly, the number of possible providers<br />
of energy security increased as well.<br />
This tendency towards the widening of the concept of energy security and<br />
the loosening of its connection with military and national security became<br />
apparent in the workings of the United States National Security Council in the<br />
early 1970s. In order to assess the consequences of the changes in the global<br />
economy of oil for the national security of the United States, the Security<br />
Council issued two National Security Study Memoranda (NSSM) that influenced<br />
US strategy and decision-making in the field of energy throughout the<br />
so-called first oil crisis: NSSM 114 on the “World Oil Situation” was produced<br />
in 1971 and NSSM 174 on “National Security and US Energy Policy” was<br />
composed in the spring and summer of 1973. 20 NSSM 114’s aim was to answer<br />
the question of how the changing world oil situation – that is the increasing<br />
prices due to OPEC and the producing countries’ demands of sovereignty over<br />
their mineral resources – affected “US security, political, and economic inter-<br />
20 National Archives and Record Administration, Nixon Library (NARA), NSC Institutional<br />
Files (“H-Files”), Box H-180 and Box H-197.<br />
335
ests”. 21 It distinguished between two different positions: On the one hand,<br />
experts judged that the growing dependence on oil from the Middle East posed<br />
a severe security risk for the USA and NATO. While the oil import control and<br />
domestic resources put the USA in a comparatively good position, NATO<br />
partners only had petroleum inventories for about three months which would be<br />
used up much faster in the case of East-West tensions. This might cause serious<br />
problems, but the Department of Defense did not believe that “US military<br />
operations in Southeast Asis [sic] would be seriously endangered by an oil<br />
crisis – in the event of a Libyan or Persian Gulf shutdown.” On the other hand,<br />
experts thought that even these fears were exaggerated because politically<br />
motivated interruptions of supply were very unlikely, as the producing countries<br />
were primarily concerned about prices and most of them could not afford<br />
supply interruptions. 22<br />
Two years later, NSSM 174 was commissioned by Henry A. Kissinger as a<br />
“study of the national security implications of world energy supply and distribution”<br />
in order to “define and discuss the national security aspects of the<br />
prospected situation and propose alternative policies”. Compared to NSSM 114<br />
it expressed a greater sense of urgency concerning the security of oil supplies<br />
while at the same time diminishing the military aspect of the problem. Projecting<br />
energy supply and demand up to 1985, it judged that the USA would “become<br />
increasingly vulnerable” to oil supply disruptions that might be caused by<br />
three factors: a non-nuclear war, a war in the Middle East or a politically motivated<br />
embargo. In all cases military security was the smallest problem. Experts<br />
argued that the Department of Defense’s “needs for oil would be greatest in a<br />
general non-nuclear war involving NATO. However, these needs would be<br />
only about 10 percent of US domestic production and could be met, on a priority<br />
basis, solely from our domestic production.” Rather, they suggested that the<br />
“major effect of a supply cut-off on our military capabilities would likely be<br />
indirect: the adverse effect on our economy as a whole and the pressure which<br />
cutoffs would create for diversion of military oil supplies to civilian use.” 23<br />
Because of the different degrees of dependence on oil from the Middle East,<br />
the oil question might also cause frictions within the Western alliance and thus<br />
weaken its security structure. All in all, NSSM 174 concluded that “the energy<br />
question does not stand in isolation from our major monetary, trade, environmental<br />
and national security issues facing this country. It is intrinsically related<br />
to these issues.” 24<br />
21<br />
NSSM 114: World Oil Situation, January 24, 1971, NARA, NSC Institutional Files (“H-<br />
Files”), Box H-180, 17.<br />
22<br />
bid., 41.<br />
23<br />
NSSM 174: National Security und U.S. Energy Policy, August 1974, NARA, NSC Institutional<br />
Files (“H-Files”), Box H-197, 17.<br />
24<br />
Ibid., 57.<br />
336
In October 1973 the Organization of Arab Petrol Exporting Countries announced<br />
overall oil production cuts and a full embargo against the United<br />
States and the Netherlands in order to pressure Western governments to assume<br />
a pro-Arab stance in the conflict with Israel, which had again become violent in<br />
the Yom Kippur War. Supported by oil price increases unilaterally implemented<br />
by OPEC as a whole, the so-called first oil crisis confirmed expectations<br />
of the possibility of an intentional supply interruption. However, even in<br />
the European countries and Japan, which were much more dependent on oil<br />
from North Africa and the Middle East, the oil crisis had consequences not for<br />
military but for economic, social and, thus, political security. Already in preparation<br />
for oil supply emergencies, the British Central Policy Review Staff and<br />
an interdepartmental group of officials headed by the Department of Trade and<br />
Industry developed strategies to secure energy supplies not because of the<br />
expected military but because of the general economic effects of an oil shortage.<br />
25 When the oil crisis coincided with a miners’ strike at the end of 1973, the<br />
conservative Heath government introduced a state of emergency and announced<br />
a three-day working week. Even the gloomy Joint Intelligence Committee<br />
Report of December 5, however, did not see Britain’s or NATO’s military<br />
capabilities endangered. Yet it argued that a prolonged embargo might lead<br />
to international tensions, military conflict and even superpower confrontation.<br />
Thus, it suggested that an oil shortage might have severe consequences for<br />
Britain’s national security, but also for the (as we might say human) security of<br />
people around the globe. 26 As in Great Britain, neither the state planning commission<br />
in France nor the Expert Council on the Assessment of Economic<br />
Development (Sachverständigenrat zur Begutachtung der gesamtwirtschaftlichen<br />
Entwicklung) in Germany saw the oil embargo and the oil price hikes as<br />
threats to national security and military capabilities. 27 However, they diagnosed<br />
significant consequences for economic and social development and suggested<br />
alternative energy strategies.<br />
The only constellation in which the oil crisis seemed to endanger military<br />
capabilities occurred at the beginning of November 1973 when the Saudi Arabian<br />
government imposed a secondary embargo on those countries from which<br />
the American fleet, which was distributed around the globe, obtained its oil. 28<br />
Noting that the oil embargo’s effect on the United States was not severe<br />
enough, the Saudi Arabian government had requested that Aramco obtain the<br />
25 Central Policy Review Staff: An Energy Policy for Great Britain. Summary and Recommendations<br />
for 1973 and 1974, 2.5.1973, NA UK, PREM 15/1847; Interdepartmental<br />
Group of Officials: Report on Oil Policy, January 1973, NA UK, POWE 63/848.<br />
26 Report by the Joint Intelligence Committee (A), JIC (A) (73) 34 CAB 186/15, 5.12.1973.<br />
27 Centre des archives contemporaines, Service du Premier Ministre, Commissariat General<br />
du Plan, 19890617, Art. 99-101; Sachverständigenrat zur Begutachtung der gesamtwirtschaftlichen<br />
Entwicklung 1973.<br />
28 US Congress. Senate. Committee on Government Operations 1974.<br />
337
elevant data for a secondary embargo from its mother companies in the US:<br />
Exxon, Texaco, Mobil and Standard Oil. Despite the fact the American fleet<br />
was on strategic alert because of the seemingly impending superpower confrontation<br />
in the Middle East in the course of the Yom Kippur War, executives of<br />
the multinational corporations complied without hesitation to Aramco’s demands<br />
and supplied Saudi Arabia with the data. In the ensuing hearings in front<br />
of the Senate Committee on Government Operations, the Democratic Senator<br />
Henry A. Jackson asked:<br />
Didn’t anyone say ‘Look, boys, we are in the midst of a strategic alert.<br />
Shouldn’t the Secretary of Defense, the highest people in the government, be<br />
advised of the October 31 wire and what do we do about it?’ Wouldn’t that be<br />
the thing an ordinary stiff would understand? 29<br />
As it appears, none of the executives had had this idea; instead they called<br />
the Pentagon only shortly before the end of the deadline set by the Saudi Arabian<br />
government in order to make sure that they could not be sued for giving<br />
out the data.<br />
Even this incident, however, did not cause a serious impediment to US military<br />
security. However, the oil embargo and the oil price hikes as a whole<br />
changed the perception of energy security. Even though energy security had<br />
been an important concern of OECD governments throughout the 1960s, in<br />
most countries it was only the energy crisis of the early 1970s that established<br />
it as central field of political activity. The awareness of energy as a basis of<br />
economic and political life rose as experts constantly talked about it in the<br />
media and the highest government officials received weekly, and at times even<br />
daily, reports on the energy supply situation in their countries. Experiencing or<br />
rather expecting a lack of oil supplies, governments restructured and centralized<br />
energy competences and some sought international cooperation in the field<br />
of energy, which led to the Washington Energy Conference in 1974 and to the<br />
establishment of the International Energy Agency. However, energy security<br />
did not become a central concern because oil was needed for military purposes,<br />
but because it was closely connected to economic development and the wellbeing<br />
of the people. Contemporary fears concerning the possible consequences<br />
of supply disruptions for the economy and the people in Western industrialized<br />
countries were magnified as the oil crisis coincided with general worries about<br />
the exhaustibility of mineral resources. Criticizing American-style consumerism<br />
and arguing that the German economic growth rates in the 1960s had depended<br />
on the unlimited availability of cheap oil, the German weekly magazine<br />
Der Spiegel, for example, declared that the oil crisis heralded the coming end<br />
of “affluent societies” and of the age of abundance in the West and painted the<br />
future in dark colors. 30<br />
29 US Congress. Senate. Committee on Government Operations 1974, 900.<br />
30 “Mit knappen Vorräten sorglos geaast,” Der Spiegel, November 19, 1973.<br />
338
Reading drastic depictions like these, the discourse on energy security in the<br />
1970s appears almost as a discourse on human security avant la lettre. Of<br />
course, in the industrialized countries energy supply interruptions did not pose<br />
such severe limitations to people’s vital freedoms as wars or ecological disasters,<br />
which are commonly associated with the concept of human security. Yet,<br />
“security” and especially its emotional components are relative to the achieved<br />
living standard and, therefore, threats to embargo Europe and to wreck its<br />
economies could engender significant fears concerning the security of the people<br />
in Western industrialized societies. 31 Moreover, less-developed countries<br />
were hit much harder than industrialized countries that could afford higher<br />
prices more easily, and the plight of the people in these countries for whom a<br />
lack of oil could indeed affect very basic freedoms was discussed intensively as<br />
consuming countries used them as an argument against OPEC. 32 Finally, as the<br />
above-mentioned British Joint Intelligence Report argued, the structure of<br />
energy regimes had severe implications for the security of the international<br />
system. Particularly advocates of alternative energy paths, such as Amory<br />
Lovins, suggested that the current, highly centralized energy systems that relied<br />
heavily on fossil fuels would foster undemocratic political structures and destabilize<br />
the international order, thus affecting conditions we deem essential for<br />
human security worldwide. 33<br />
3. The Energy Crises of the 1970s and the<br />
Changing Perceptions of Security<br />
As I have shown so far, due to increasing oil consumption, the notion of energy<br />
security changed over the course of the postwar decades and especially in the<br />
1970s. While it had been closely connected with conceptions of military capability<br />
and national security, it gradually widened and encompassed economic,<br />
social, and political security. In certain respects the discussions on energy<br />
security even resembled later debates on human security. Thus, I will now<br />
continue to scrutinize whether the widespread discussions on energy in the<br />
1970s, and especially the broadened notion of energy security, influenced the<br />
widening of the overall discourse on security: Did energy security contribute to<br />
the conceptual change from state and military to human security?<br />
31<br />
See for example Muammar al-Gaddafi’s interview in Le Monde, October 23, 1973, quoted<br />
in: Middle East Economic Survey 17 (October 26, 1973), 11: “We’ve made all the preparations<br />
– and so have the other Arabs – to deprive Europe completely of oil. We shall ruin<br />
your industries as well as your trade with the Arab world.”<br />
32<br />
Jungblut 1973. See also NA UK, FCO 15/1866, Effects of Energy Crisis in South East<br />
Asia.<br />
33<br />
Lovins 1976.<br />
339
Most authors consider the emergence of “human security” and the widening<br />
of the security concept as a product of the post-Cold War era when the confrontation<br />
between the United States and the Soviet Union lost its dominant position,<br />
but its beginnings can be located earlier. While Emma Rothschild traces<br />
ideas of human security back to the Enlightenment, she depicts the 1970s as a<br />
formative period for contemporary conceptions of human security. 34 In the<br />
same vein, Christopher Daase argues that the awareness of threats to national<br />
security other than military attacks rose in response to the economic crises in<br />
the 1970s and that, therefore, the contents of the concept of national security<br />
widened. 35 Indeed, in the 1970s economic stability and growth became essential<br />
elements of national security concerns; in the opinion of the democratic<br />
Senator and later US Vice President Walter F. Mondale “the risk that the operation<br />
of the international economy may spin out of control” even overshadowed<br />
the dangers arising from nuclear armaments and superpower confrontation. 36<br />
For this change in the perception of threats as well as the feelings of insecurity,<br />
the Arab oil embargo and OPEC’s oil price increases of 1973/74 were crucial.<br />
As the American President Richard Nixon put it when addressing the Washington<br />
Energy Conference of non-communist oil-consuming countries in February<br />
1974, for Western politicians it had become evident that “security and economic<br />
considerations are inevitably linked, and energy cannot be separated<br />
from either”. 37 In a similar way, the German Chancellor Helmut Schmidt argued<br />
in front of the International Institute of Strategic Studies in London in<br />
1977 that the economy was first among the “new dimensions of security”.<br />
Schmidt continued that if there was one single most important question for the<br />
economic security of the West, it was the energy question for which, in turn, oil<br />
was essential. 38 This assessment was shared throughout the political spectrum.<br />
As the Christian Democrat Manfred Wörner had already declared at the Munich<br />
Security Conference in 1975, NATO was not autarchic any more in providing<br />
security to its member states. Following Karl Kaiser, Wörner held the<br />
view that, while NATO could span a nuclear umbrella to shelter its members, it<br />
could not offer an umbrella of raw materials. 39 For both Schmidt and Wörner,<br />
the oil embargo of 1973 had been the event that sparked this insight and, therefore,<br />
Wörner even called it a “fundamental watershed” and the “key event of<br />
the Western world in the second half of the 20th century”. 40<br />
This appreciation was shared and to a large extent produced by political scientists<br />
and foreign policy experts, who wrote in the aftermath of the embargo<br />
34<br />
Rothschild 2007, 3-4, 7-11.<br />
35<br />
See Christopher Daase’s paper in this volume.<br />
36<br />
Mondale 1974.<br />
37<br />
Nixon 1974.<br />
38<br />
Schmidt 1979, 627.<br />
39<br />
Wörner 1979, 593.<br />
40<br />
Wörner 1979, 590, 594.<br />
340
and the oil price hikes and constructed them as a turning point in world history.<br />
41 Reviewing the contemporary literature on energy security and foreign<br />
policy for the newly founded journal International Security, Linda B. Miller<br />
argued that since 1973 the close connection between energy and security as<br />
well as the impossibility of guaranteeing national security by military means<br />
alone had been obvious to everybody. 42 According to Miller, the oil crisis and<br />
its aftermath from 1973 to 1975 had already become a new paradigm case for<br />
the study of world politics. This paradigm suggested that state-centered views<br />
were insufficient because the complex interactions in the fields of energy and<br />
other resources involved a multitude of non-state actors. 43 In the same vein,<br />
Joseph S. Nye discussed the prospects of collective security in 1974 and argued<br />
that it was insufficient to treat it as a military question but rather that one also<br />
had to integrate economic stability. As economic security was a matter of degree,<br />
Nye suggested that it could be severely endangered by resource supply<br />
disruptions and advocated international structures on a mutually beneficial<br />
basis for producing and consuming countries. 44 In the discourse on oil/energy<br />
and national security after the first oil crisis, only a few authors still concentrated<br />
on the military aspects of the question, such as Bo Heinebaeck. 45 Apart<br />
from the geopolitics of scarce resources and their importance for economic<br />
development, authors dealing with “energy” and “security” also discussed<br />
nuclear proliferation, military preparedness, the possibility and risk of a military<br />
confrontation at the Persian Gulf and the consequences of energy policies<br />
for conflict behavior. 46<br />
At the beginning of the 1980s, however, the economically widened notion of<br />
security, and the essential importance of energy and particularly oil in this<br />
context, had been firmly established as the majority view. 47 Thus, Philip<br />
Odeen, who had been a staff member of the National Security Council during<br />
the preparation of NSSM 174, preached to the already converted when he argued<br />
that the essential connection between energy and national security had<br />
been neglected too long and that energy had to be put at the center of US national<br />
security concerns. 48 This had become the official US strategy at least<br />
with the announcement of the Carter Doctrine, according to which the United<br />
41<br />
Vernon 1976.<br />
42<br />
Miller 1977, 111. By contrast, Joan Edelman Spero argued in 1973 that for twenty years<br />
energy self-sufficiency had been at the center of US national security concerns, which had<br />
already been guided by a wider notion of security (Spero 1973, 123).<br />
43<br />
Miller 1977, 114.<br />
44<br />
Nye 1974.<br />
45<br />
Heinebaeck 1974.<br />
46<br />
Deese 1979.<br />
47<br />
Krapels 1977; Dafter 1979; Deese and Nye 1981; Nye 1982; Blair and Summerville 1983;<br />
Fesharaki 1983; Luttwak 1984.<br />
48<br />
Odeen 1980.<br />
341
States understood any attempt to change the power structure around the Persian<br />
Gulf as an attack on its vital national security interests. 49 The Carter Doctrine<br />
points at another dimension in which energy and security became linked and<br />
which also contributed to an extension of the security concept: Energy and<br />
security were not only closely connected because supply interruptions endangered<br />
the economic, social, and political security of the people in the consuming<br />
countries, but also because the fear of supply interruptions might engender<br />
military conflicts or resource wars. As Richard H. Ullmann observed in 1983,<br />
“‘resource wars’ (as some call them) [had] figured prominently in the doomsday<br />
literature for more than a decade”. 50 This understanding that the heavy<br />
reliance on fossil fuels and particularly oil posed a primary international security<br />
risk can still be found today in both scholarly treatises and the popular<br />
media. 51<br />
Another influence of oil and energy on the broadening of the security concept<br />
was exerted via the debates on international development and on the establishment<br />
of a fairer economic world order. Since the late 1960s and throughout<br />
the 1970s there had been intensive discussions among the developing countries<br />
to take OPEC and the oil embargo as an example and turn other natural resources<br />
into strategic assets in order to achieve more favorable terms of trade<br />
or even a New International Economic Order. 52 These claims of permanent<br />
sovereignty over natural resources voiced by so-called Third World countries<br />
raised significant fears in the Western world 53 and led to the establishment of<br />
various commissions and discussion groups in order to avoid confrontation,<br />
such as the Euro-Arab dialogue. These groups aimed at the establishment of<br />
more secure living conditions in both the developing and the developed countries.<br />
At the level of the UN or at least inspired by the UN, several commissions<br />
dealt with global security issues and constituted important precursors of<br />
the 1990s debates on “Human Security” within the United Nations Development<br />
Program: From 1977 to 1980 the “Independent Commission on International<br />
Development Issues” (the so-called Brandt Commission) produced the<br />
report North-South – A Programme for Survival; two years later the “Independent<br />
Commission on Disarmament and Security” (Palme Commission)<br />
published Common Security, and from 1984 to 1987 the “World Commission<br />
on Environment and Development” (Brundtland Commission) worked on the<br />
report Our Common Future. 54<br />
49 Horowitz 2005; Hakes 2008.<br />
50 Ullmann 1983, 140.<br />
51 Klare 2001; Rutledge 2005; Seifert and Werner 2005; Gelpke and McCormack 2007.<br />
52 Murphy 1984; Rahman 2002.<br />
53 Bergsten 1973.<br />
54 Hampson and Penny 2007.<br />
342
Named after the Swedish Prime Minister Olof Palme, who had headed the<br />
commission, the Palme Report dealt mostly with questions of military security<br />
and – particularly nuclear – disarmament. Characteristically, it turned the already<br />
established connection between national and economic security around,<br />
suggesting that a common security structure between the East and the West<br />
would reduce the costs of military armaments and thus free financial capacities<br />
for achieving social and economic security. 55 However, the Palme Report also<br />
advocated a wider notion of security, arguing that security could not be<br />
achieved by military means alone. 56 Yet, on its priority list of how to reach the<br />
new “common security”, economic issues were only ranked at the sixth and last<br />
spot. 57<br />
By contrast, the Brandt Commission had set itself the broader task of “securing<br />
survival” and, accordingly, laid much greater emphasis on the importance<br />
of addressing economic and especially energy questions in order to overcome<br />
the contemporary worldwide dangers and security risks. The focus on energy as<br />
the crucial factor for the global security situation is not surprising if we look at<br />
the biographies of the members of the Brandt Commission, which first met in<br />
1977. Several of them had held high government positions during the first oil<br />
crisis and had thus experienced how disruptive an imagined or real shortage of<br />
oil could be to both economic life and international relations: Willy Brandt<br />
himself had been Chancellor of the Federal Republic of Germany, Edward<br />
Heath the British Prime Minister, Haruki Mori the Japanese ambassador in<br />
London, Olof Palme the Swedish Prime Minister, Layachi Yaker the Algerian<br />
minister of trade and Jan P. Pronk the Dutch minister for developmental cooperation.<br />
On the basis of their first-hand experience of the oil crisis, they argued<br />
that the world economy was in severe danger because of the huge differences<br />
in wealth between the North and the South. If nothing changed and developments<br />
simply continued, they envisioned ecological disasters, hunger and poverty<br />
in the developing world, inflation and high deficits in the industrialized.<br />
Considering the exceptional position of oil in the international economy and its<br />
use by OPEC in order to voice Third World demands, they saw energy as the<br />
decisive issue that had to be addressed in an “Emergency Programme” in order<br />
to “secure survival”. 58 While secure oil supply at a reasonable price concerned<br />
the standard of living in industrialized countries, it affected the basic life<br />
chances of people in the least developed countries. The “Emergency Programme”<br />
therefore recommended that oil-producing countries should pledge<br />
not to decrease or interrupt supplies, oil-consuming countries should reduce<br />
demand, oil prices should be fixed at a fair level, and the international commu-<br />
55 Palme 1982, 9.<br />
56 Palme 1982, 20.<br />
57 Unabhängige Kommission für Internationale Entwicklungsfragen 1980, 158-192.<br />
58 Unabhängige Kommission für Internationale Entwicklungsfragen 1980, 201-215.<br />
343
nity should invest in collaborative research and development of alternative<br />
energies. 59<br />
With its goals to secure survival and distribute life chances more equally or<br />
at least to secure basic necessities of human life for everybody on this planet,<br />
the Brandt Report already resembled later visions of human security which<br />
were formulated in the 1990s. The central trigger for the formulation of the<br />
report, however, was the changing energy scene of the 1970s and its consequences<br />
for both the security of living conditions in Western industrialized<br />
countries and the lives of people in least developed countries which might be<br />
threatened by lack of resources, future resource wars or even the ecological<br />
consequences of the burning of fossil fuels. Ecological problems and the threat<br />
they posed to worldwide survival but also to economic well-being and security<br />
were the main issues of the “World Commission on Environment and Development”,<br />
which was headed by the former Norwegian Prime Minister Gro<br />
Harlem Brundtland, who had also been a member of the Brandt and the Palme<br />
Commissions. The report argued that the traditional concept of security which<br />
concerned political and military threats to national sovereignty had to be extended<br />
because of the increasing influence of environmental pollution on a<br />
local, national, regional and global level. 60 In this respect, energy, understood<br />
not as a single product but as a combination of products and services, was<br />
essential: On energy, the report maintained, depended the well-being of the<br />
individual, the sustainable development of the nations, and the life-sustaining<br />
capacities of the world ecosystem. 61 With the upheavals of the oil economy in<br />
mind, the report argued that oil was crucial in the field of energy.<br />
4. Conclusion: Energy Security as Human Security?<br />
This article pursued the twofold goal of examining, on the one hand, the<br />
changes in the concept of energy security in the second half of the twentieth<br />
century and, on the other hand, the influence of these conceptual changes on<br />
the overall change to “security”. Following Emma Rothschild’s and Christopher<br />
Daase’s theses that the concept of security was significantly extended in<br />
the postwar world, that this extension accelerated in the 1970s, and engendered<br />
current conceptions of human security, I showed how the scope of “energy<br />
security” increased in a similar fashion. As oil became increasingly important<br />
for modern industrialized economies in the postwar world, more and more<br />
often discourses on “energy security” did not treat oil as a strategic resource<br />
necessary to fuel the war effort, but rather as the foundation of economic, so-<br />
59 Unabhängige Kommission für Internationale Entwicklungsfragen 1980, 347-348.<br />
60 Hauff 1987, 22.<br />
61 Hauff 1987, 204.<br />
344
cial, and political life in Western industrialized countries. Owing to its vital<br />
importance for a wide variety of economic processes, even short supply disruptions<br />
or minor price increases posed threats to economic development, to the<br />
social cohesion of consensual democracies, the stability of political institutions,<br />
and thus to national security. In drastic depictions of the consequences of a loss<br />
of oil supplies for the industrialized, but especially for the developing countries,<br />
as well as in the debates concerning the destabilizing effects that the<br />
world energy economy might have on the international system and the increasing<br />
risk of military confrontations, discourses on energy security anticipated<br />
later discourses on human security.<br />
This resemblance is not coincidental, as the flourishing debates on energy<br />
security in the 1970s directly influenced the extension of the concept of security<br />
in the postwar world from state-centered military to human security. The<br />
challenge of energy security during the oil crises of the 1970s opened the security<br />
debates up to the appreciation of new risks, their global nature, and thus<br />
also the relevance of international cooperation, the importance of non-state<br />
actors, and the acknowledgment of individual people whose livelihood was to<br />
be secured. The Brandt Report in particular focused on energy, as it aimed at<br />
securing survival on the planet by bringing about a fairer world order. Against<br />
the backdrop of the 1970s oil crises, high government officials, who had experienced<br />
the economic and political upheavals a lack of oil supplies or even<br />
rising oil prices could cause, judged that energy was the crucial issue that had<br />
to be addressed in order to achieve ecological, economic, social, and political<br />
stability. In its broadened conception of security the Brandt Report already<br />
resembled later UN reports on Human Security. From the point of view of the<br />
twenty-first century’s discussions on climate change and resource wars, its<br />
diagnoses and recommendations appear to be surprisingly up-to-date. However,<br />
it would be exaggerated to describe the Commission as prescient. Rather, the<br />
changes in the energy and particularly oil economy in the 1970s had cut<br />
through the traditional Cold War structure of threats and security, which was<br />
ultimately abolished in the years around 1990. The oil crises of the 1970s<br />
thereby created a situation in which several of the most fundamental political,<br />
economic, and cultural problems emerged which continue to occupy us today,<br />
so that they appear as an important watershed in the history of Western industrial<br />
nations.<br />
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Mixed Issue<br />
Cliometrics<br />
No. 134<br />
HSR Vol. 35 (2010) 4
Environmental Challenge in the Canning Industry:<br />
The Portuguese Case in the Early Twentieth Century<br />
Maria Eugénia Mata �<br />
Abstract: »Ökologische Herausforderung in der Konservenindustrie: Der Fall<br />
Portugal im frühen zwanzigsten Jahrhundert«. Fish-canning industries are<br />
closely-linked to, and have an impact on environmental conditions, bringing<br />
great challenges to optimality. While entrepreneurship perspectives focus on<br />
the survival and profitability of firms, social utility perspectives focus on collective<br />
welfare and long-term sustainability. This paper illustrates the theoretical<br />
puzzle of the fish-canning industry in examining the historical experience<br />
of Portuguese public policies from the point of view of industrial economics<br />
and collective welfare.<br />
Keywords: Portuguese canning, environmental challenges, fishing sustainability,<br />
regulation.<br />
Fisheries and the Ecosystem Equilibrium<br />
Fishing has been a well documented economic activity in Portugal since ancient<br />
times, as limited agricultural potential coupled with a long Atlantic sea<br />
coast offering ample fishing resources. 1 Commercially valuable species have<br />
supported a labour-intensive fishing industry along this coast from Roman<br />
times until today. 2 The historical record of fisheries in Portugal and their role in<br />
the exports of fish-preserves continue on through medieval and modern times. 3<br />
Fish stocks offering valuable commercial opportunities remained comfortably<br />
abundant for many centuries, but the depletion of resources following industrialisation<br />
brought strong incentives to study efficient levels of harvesting in<br />
fisheries and critical thresholds among valuable species. According to the tools<br />
of environmental economics, there is a stable relationship between the growth<br />
� Address all communications to: Maria Eugénia Mata, Associate Professor, Universidade<br />
NOVA de Lisboa, Faculdade de Economia, Campus de Campolide, 1099-032 Lisbon,<br />
Portugal; e-mail: memata@fe.unl.pt.<br />
I am grateful to John Huffstot for correcting my English, José António Pinheiro and Patrícia<br />
Xufre for analytical support, and Joseph Love for bibliography. Any error that remains is<br />
mine.<br />
1 Parreira, 1938.<br />
2 There are abundant historical vestiges at Tróia, an archeological site south of Lisbon.<br />
According to excavations, this was one of the most important fish-salting and preserving<br />
centers of the Western Mediterranean in the first century.<br />
3 On the virtues of fish in the human diet, see Jorge, 1938.<br />
<strong>Historical</strong> <strong>Social</strong> <strong>Research</strong>, Vol. 35 — 2010 — No. 4, 351-372
of fish populations, the size of the fish populations and the scale of fishing and<br />
canning activities. 4<br />
As fisheries and canning were labour-intensive sectors, seaports were nests<br />
of marine and industrial jobs that supported local commerce, exports, consumption,<br />
standards of life, and intensive urban growth phenomena. Major threats to<br />
fisheries were also major economic threats to local urban activities. At the<br />
same time, business prosperity and growth were perverse to ecosystem destruction,<br />
and were severe threats to marine-life. In Portugal, strong fluctuations<br />
occurred in the availability of alternative species for canning, the most important<br />
of which were sardines, tuna and mackerel. These species occupy niches in<br />
the food chain in such a way that an abundance of tuna means a scarcity of<br />
sardines and mackerel. 5 If the stock of the prey species is more abundant, this<br />
implies a scarcity of the predator. Cycles for canning different species matched<br />
the needs of the canneries and provided a good answer to business and commerce<br />
opportunities, as well as to employment. Balancing the effects of booms<br />
were ecosystem difficulties arising from wastes, pollution, and sanitation problems.<br />
Depletion effects on the ecosystem also brought great difficulties for<br />
maintaining the scale of production. Conservation and protection of wildlife<br />
habitats became decisive features of production in vertical integration strategies<br />
of canning and fishing for long-term double-edge equilibrium.<br />
Canning Industry: Scale and Depletion<br />
Traditional preserving technologies were based on drying and salting, two<br />
methods to support exports and specialisation. The exceptional climatic conditions<br />
and the abundance of commercially valuable species for fishmeal activities<br />
explain why so many generations embraced this sector using traditional<br />
technologies. Sterilisation methods became widespread only in the second half<br />
of the nineteenth century, benefiting from the Appert method. 6 Evidence on the<br />
introduction of sterilisation technology in Portugal is available for sardine<br />
canning since 1855, achieved by boiling the cans at high temperatures after<br />
soldering them closed. 7 The world exhibition of Paris in 1855 presented showcased<br />
brands of sardines canned in olive-oil, from Portugal. 8 Plants belonging<br />
to Feliciano António da Rocha and Manuel José Neto introduced the method<br />
for canning sardines in oil in the city of Setúbal. A third brand, belonging to<br />
Gustavo Carlos Herlitz & Company was operating in 1861. 9<br />
4<br />
Tientenberg, 2007.<br />
5<br />
Brandão, 1938.<br />
6<br />
On the presence of germs and bacilli, see May (1938).<br />
7<br />
On the safety of sterilisation methods, see Lepierre, 1938.<br />
8<br />
Moura, et al, 1957, p. 57. Parreira, 1938.<br />
9<br />
Mata, 2009.<br />
352
As preserving technologies improved and the average revenue per capita<br />
grew, the consumption of canned fish increased throughout Europe, the main<br />
international market for Portuguese produce. The continued abundance of<br />
fishing resources off the Portuguese shores must mean that the reduction in the<br />
stock due to out-migration, mortality and fishing was compensated by increases<br />
resulting from in-migration and growth of the fish populations. 10 Fishing is<br />
predation and is sustainable if and only if the catch harmonizes with the specie’s<br />
growth rate, that is, the maximum sustainable yield for a specie’s population<br />
is “the largest catch that can be perpetually sustained”. 11<br />
Some problems occurred because of certain species’ erratic migration routes<br />
in the Atlantic. In the 1880s sardines were scarce on the French and Italian<br />
coasts and some canning entrepreneurs moved to Portugal. An industrial inquiry<br />
in 1880 revealed that only twelve factories for food industries existed in<br />
Portugal at the time, and among them only five were devoted to canning fish.<br />
Four were on the Southern coast (Parodi & Roldan, S. Francisco, belonging to<br />
Francisco Rodrigues Tenório, Santa Maria, and Sebastião Migoni) and one on<br />
the western coast (Santos, Cirne & Cª). 12 In the space of a decade the number<br />
of factories devoted to food industries increased to 52, and among the 45 which<br />
were devoted to canning fish, 11 belonged to foreigners who came to Portugal:<br />
Victor Tortrais, Emile Roullet, Wenceslau Chancerelle, F. Delany, Joseph<br />
Pierre Chancerelle & Cª, Sebastian Stephan, Jalma & Seguena, Frederico Delary,<br />
J. Labrouche, Domenico Migone, and Angelo Parodie. 13<br />
Delocalisation to Portugal brought new opportunities to foreign firms, more<br />
jobs in the Portuguese seaports, and dramatic competition to Portuguese producers.<br />
14 Canning became the dominant industry along the coast, outstripping<br />
the importance of salt production, but shoals could disappear from the coast for<br />
unknown reasons. Fishermen’s wages were not paid on a piecemeal basis, so<br />
demand and supply could adjust their revenues in the fish auction market, but<br />
poor catches always meant social problems. 15 If shoals changed their movement<br />
along the coast, fishing had to adjust, but the species’ movements were<br />
difficult to predict, in spite of practical knowledge on the colour of the sea<br />
water to discover their location. To offset these difficulties, oceanographic<br />
studies were undertaken by the end of the nineteenth century. 16 Scientific observation<br />
discovered the species’ main routes and habits. Frequently public<br />
10<br />
Schaefer, 1957.<br />
11<br />
Tietenberg, 2007, p. 219.<br />
12<br />
Ministério das Obras Públicas, Comércio e Indústria, 1880.<br />
13<br />
Ministério das Obras Públicas, Comércio e Indústria, 1890; Archive of the Portuguese<br />
Ministério das Obras Públicas, Comércio e Indústria, Sociedades Estrangeiras.<br />
14<br />
Mata, 2009.<br />
15<br />
Only in codfishing were wages paid on a piecemeal basis.<br />
16<br />
Difficulties in locating shoals still exist today, in spite of the modern technologies employed.<br />
353
authorities charged the cost of this research to public institutions. Portuguese<br />
Royal Navy vessels devoted efforts to marine biology and oceanographic research,<br />
particularly from 1896 to 1906, and provided valuable information for<br />
the potential future development of fishing and canning industries. 17<br />
As massive sums were invested in the fishmeal industry, the depletion of<br />
ocean resources continued: The massive extraction of sardines contributed to<br />
disappearance of tuna, as the 1st level of the food chain was destroyed. 18 The<br />
danger of species extinction was already visible in the 1920s, as tuna moved<br />
away from the coast.<br />
International Competition, Cycles and Times of War<br />
Factories required hygiene, and required much washing for beheading and<br />
cleaning the fish. Wastewater from canning was a challenge, beaches became<br />
dangerous places to swim or play, and canning seaports became toxic dumpsites.<br />
The floor of the plants needed to be cleaned and washed frequently because<br />
of the residues and smell. Plants needed abundant water supply, sinks<br />
and systems for draining waste water, even though they might be nothing more<br />
than light constructions along the beaches. Waste water was typically drained<br />
into the sea. Scaling the fish was avoided in order to preserve their fresh appearance<br />
and minimize the residues. The fishmeal industries’ impact on the<br />
environment was a managerial challenge in increasing costs because of the<br />
blood-water and stick-water resulting from the production process, as these<br />
proved to be among the worst pollutants. 19<br />
The canning industry was soon driven by foreign firms located in Portuguese<br />
seaports. Of course, newcomers faced some entrance barriers resulting<br />
from the operation of the established producers. They had to struggle for market<br />
shares and learn about local conditions. 20 Local producers could also react<br />
by adopting better technologies and marketing their brands to retain consumers’<br />
loyalties and defend their market shares against the newcomers’ competition.<br />
21 However, the new entrants also had their own brands in their home<br />
markets or were established even in the global market of consumers. 22 Technological<br />
improvements were introduced among the established firms through<br />
new investment, providing innovation and scale, and increasing barriers to new<br />
entrants. 23 Moreover, business practices might also have reflected some deter-<br />
17 D. Carlos, 1899.<br />
18 Sousa, 1938.<br />
19 Clarke, 2008: 67.<br />
20 Schmalensee, 1981.<br />
21 Ferguson, 1974.<br />
22 Cubin, 1981.<br />
23 Stigler, 1968. Dixit, 1980.<br />
354
ence effects, both in exhausting raw material and in lowering prices of the<br />
final product, in order to squeeze out competition. 24 Following a strategy for<br />
growth and internationalisation under high-quality standards, profits and reinvestment<br />
meant expansion into geographically diverse locations for factories. 25<br />
Some firms managed to achieve vertical-integration to reinforce their positions.<br />
26 Ramirez family and Júdice Fialho were successful entrepreneurs who<br />
followed this strategy from 1892 to 1934, and obtained positions among the<br />
eight largest producers in the 1950s. 27 Fishing by steamship was an important<br />
technological improvement that helped the Ramirez plants benefit from scale<br />
economies, a feature that increased deterrence effects. 28 Fialho’s factories were<br />
vertically integrated with their own fleet of fishing vessels, which were built<br />
and serviced in the firm’s own shipyard. Ramirez today boasts its status as ‘the<br />
oldest cannery in the world’, as it is now one of the few fifth-generation business<br />
families in Portugal). 29<br />
As it happened, deterrence effects against newcomers were blurred by foreign<br />
markets. 30 The increased scale of production after the 1880s thanks to new<br />
units belonging to foreign competitors worried the established canners, although<br />
one must consider the competitiveness consequences on the locally<br />
established producers, who could raise entry barriers to the newcomer. 31 The<br />
number of factories in Portugal increased during the war from 116 in 1912 to<br />
188 in 1917. 32 Increased consumption resulting from the military demand during<br />
the First World War brought new opportunities for all producers. Food<br />
scarcity on the battlefields and in civilian markets increased the international<br />
demand, and most of the cannery entrants were European firms. 33 Increased<br />
production coupled with technological innovations linked to the use of steampower<br />
to boil and sterilize the cans increased social welfare in the European<br />
and Latin American countries, due to higher overall demand. However, for<br />
such a large number of plants and scale of production, the urban equipment<br />
could not assure hygiene.<br />
24 Caves & Porter, 1977.<br />
25 Soares (2005), p. 40. On the brand Cocagne see pp. 42 and 45.<br />
26 Spence, 1977.<br />
27 The other six large producers were Algarve Exportador &Cº, Ângelo Parodi Bartolomeo,<br />
Lopes da Cruz &Cº, Conservas Unitas, João Gargalo Herdeiros, and Francisco Alves &<br />
Filhos. Moura et al, 1957, p. 74. Fialho’s traditional brands were Marie Elisabeth, Falstaff<br />
and Désirées. Faria, 2001, p. 44-45.<br />
28 Soares, 2005: 34, 35. Spence, 1980.<br />
29 Soares (2005), p. 27.<br />
30 Stigler, 1968; Schmalensee, 1978.<br />
31 Demsetz,1982.<br />
32 And employed 14,679 people. Moura; Dubraz; Dores; Gonçalves; Chaves; Oliveira (1957),<br />
pp. 57-58. The estimation at Soares (2005), pp. 42, 45 is too optimistic.<br />
33 Dowell, 2006.<br />
355
Hygiene and Health Problems.<br />
Environmental Effects<br />
Running plants produced large quantities of harmful residual wastes that were<br />
tragic to ecosystems, both on land (near the urban core or residential shore<br />
zones in canning seaports) and in the sea, where fetid emissions were emptied<br />
directly into the bays. Although sanitation was a fashionable issue, there was a<br />
lack of piping for carrying sewage into septic tanks. In Portugal, fishmeal<br />
plants existed alongside the living quarters in the cities, and plants accumulated<br />
deposits of wastes on neighbouring lots. 34 As the cans were made of tin-plate,<br />
the terrain around the fish-canning factories littered with very dangerous sharpedged<br />
metal waste. Such pollution coupled with the destruction of the ecosystem<br />
to threaten the sustainability of the fish-canning industry. 35 Overfishing<br />
was also a problem. Discarding fish on the beach to rot or throwing them back<br />
into the sea also aggravated environmental problems and provoked poor public<br />
relations.<br />
Economic booms sometimes translate into ecological setbacks or even the<br />
extinction of some species. 36 Not only were some species being seriously overfished,<br />
but pollution from fish cleaning and canning increased the amount of<br />
pressure that was being put on the catch because industrial residues made it<br />
ever more difficult to harvest the decreasing stock of fish, as species moved<br />
away from the increasingly polluted coastal waters. Moreover, there was the<br />
need to avoid contaminating the potable water supply. 37<br />
For reasons that are perfectly clear, the fish-canning industries were very<br />
concentrated. As fresh fish were quickly perishable, proximity to beaches,<br />
seaports and auction markets for fisheries was critical for the provision of fresh<br />
raw-material, and avoiding transportation costs, (and refrigeration systems,<br />
later on). Concentration was (and still is) the rule for canning industries. The<br />
same occurs all over the world, and the higher is the concentration, the more<br />
impressive is the environmental challenge, with strong effects on health problems.<br />
38 The estimation of concentration coefficients for the location of canneries<br />
in Portugal reveals that they are similar to those in the UK and US (0.68 in<br />
1940 and 0.63 in 1950, in Portugal, against 0.66 in Great Britain and 0.70 in the<br />
USA). 39 However, for the districts of Setúbal on the western coast and Faro on<br />
the southern coast the coefficient attained very high levels (4.2 and 12.6, re-<br />
34<br />
Brandão, 1923.<br />
35<br />
Archive of the Portuguese Ministério das Obras Públicas, Comércio e Indústria, Sociedades<br />
Estrangeiras, Emile Louis Roullet. Stavins, 2007.<br />
36<br />
Perman, R.; Ma, Yue; McGilvray, J., Natural Resources & Environmental Economics, New<br />
York, Longman, 1996.<br />
37<br />
Lemos, 1991.<br />
38<br />
Clarke, 2008.<br />
39<br />
Moura et al, 1957, p. 61.<br />
356
spectively, in 1954). 40 The higher the concentration, the greater was the proliferation<br />
of dirt and noxious odours.<br />
Billowing factory smokestacks characterized the typical canning city of the<br />
nineteenth-century, and the unpleasant atmosphere represented a deterioration<br />
of living conditions, which also were unhealthy because of epidemics. Cholera<br />
and typhus killed 9,000 in Lisbon in the winter of 1855-56 and re-appeared in<br />
1865. By the end of the century, smallpox was endemic in densely populated<br />
quarters, killing over 200 people annually in Oporto, and bubonic plague hit<br />
this city in 1899. 41 Jobs attracted labour from agricultural regions to canning<br />
seaports, exacerbating the demographic explosion. Contagious diseases were<br />
responsible for 44.2% of the deaths in the country, and tuberculosis was especially<br />
common among industrial workers. 42 The 1919 influenza epidemic alone<br />
killed 100,000 people in Portugal. In spite of citizens’ complaints, the medical<br />
authority for factory inspections was not enough to control unhealthy industries.<br />
Local metropolitan authorities were overwhelmed, as resources were<br />
insufficient to meet public expenditures. Central state controls might have been<br />
effective, but petitions failed to bring intervention.<br />
As a consequence, intense pollution arising from the canning industry dominated<br />
the cities’ skylines. The number of factories increased from 188 to 400<br />
from 1917 to 1925, but this depleted fishing resources. Government regulation<br />
sought to ensure that fisheries supporting the canning industry would become<br />
ecologically sustainable in perpetuity.<br />
Public Regulation<br />
Maximizing the net benefits from the use of the biological resources is a good<br />
definition for economic efficiency allocation, considering the associated costs<br />
and benefits. From a static perspective, an efficient sustainable yield is a catch<br />
level that will produce the highest annual net profit, if maintained perpetually. 43<br />
Such a static-efficient sustainable yield allocation to canning has constant net<br />
benefits for constant catches, species’ populations, and effort levels.<br />
If fishing effort increases, a maximum sustainable yield will be attained for<br />
identical levels of net benefits, catches, and species’ populations. 44 In a longrun<br />
perspective, fishing is motivated to increase until profit becomes zero. To<br />
maximize profit, a fisherman increased his fishing effort until marginal cost<br />
equalled price. As ocean fisheries were common-property with open-access,<br />
entry barriers did not exist, deterrence effects could not take place, leading to<br />
40 Moura, 1957, p. 62.<br />
41 Ferreira, 1990.<br />
42 Cascão, 1993.<br />
43 Tisdell, 1994: 240-242.<br />
44 Tientenberg, 2007: 217-240.<br />
357
increased effort levels (Figure 1 presents thousand gross-registered tons of<br />
fishing boats).<br />
th.grossTons<br />
100<br />
90<br />
80<br />
70<br />
60<br />
50<br />
40<br />
30<br />
20<br />
10<br />
0<br />
1896<br />
1900<br />
1904<br />
Figure 1<br />
BOATS th.grossRegTons<br />
1908<br />
1912<br />
1916<br />
358<br />
1920<br />
1924<br />
year<br />
Source: Valério, 2001, pp. 241, 242; 246, 247, quoting Estatística das Pescas Marítimas from<br />
1896 to 1945.<br />
Thanks to the technological improvements before the First World War, the<br />
marginal cost of fishing declined. The new equilibrium corresponding to the<br />
higher effort level must have been associated with increased catches, lower<br />
species’ populations and higher net benefits.<br />
Too much fishing effort with too many boats and too many fisheries was<br />
leading to overexploitation of resources and decreasing fish stocks damaging<br />
the future level of activity and profits of coming generations.<br />
Many things may be done to avoid unrestricted access to valuable species.<br />
The rationale for government intervention rests on the adverse economic consequences<br />
of depletion and overexploitation, as this implies lower income for<br />
fishermen, depression, and social crisis. 45<br />
The link between the economic and biological aspects is illustrated in the<br />
following equations:<br />
where C a, t is the amount of canned fish of age α at the year t , and F a, t the<br />
fish catches of age α at the year t . Note that<br />
45 Morais, 1938.<br />
1928<br />
1932<br />
1936<br />
1940<br />
1944
dC<br />
� 0<br />
dF , because stocks are abundant in the beginning, and because fresh-fish<br />
consumption is subject to satiety.<br />
2<br />
d C<br />
� 0 2<br />
dF , because the system is pressed by new-entrants, (as entrance barriers<br />
were not efficient to prevent newcomers to canning), and because of the large<br />
international demand for canned fish, which war periods increase still more.<br />
where P t + 1 means the effect of pollution effluents, and Ct is the amount of<br />
canned fish of any age at the year t . Note that<br />
dP<br />
� 0<br />
dC , because canning produces effluents that are highly toxic for fish species.<br />
2<br />
d P<br />
� 0 2<br />
dC , because investing in hygiene and recycling were managerial abilities<br />
to help in decreasing the pollutant effects on the sea.<br />
where E t + 1 means the effects on the effort level, and P t means the effect of<br />
pollution effluents from year t . Note that<br />
dE<br />
� 0<br />
dP , because increasing pollution requires increasing effort levels to compensate<br />
the negative effects on the survival of fish species.<br />
2<br />
d E<br />
� 0 2<br />
dP , because efforts must be very increased in introducing not only more<br />
(and larger) boats, but also more efficient technology (such as steamships and<br />
oceanographic studies).<br />
for a given fish stock St. Where Fa, t the fish catches of age α at the year t and Et means the effort level<br />
in year t. Note that<br />
dF<br />
� 0<br />
dE , because more and (or) larger boats combined with more efficient<br />
technology can increase the fish catch.<br />
2<br />
d F<br />
� 0 2<br />
dE , because there are always technological constraints to consider (as<br />
no-freezing possibilities for harvesting too far away, at the time).<br />
As a result, the four equations close a model. It represents a cobweb. Depending<br />
on the shape of the equations, the adjustments to face the challenges<br />
359
expressed in each one of the four equations may lead the system to increasing<br />
or decreasing levels of fishing and canning.<br />
The case of increasing levels of fishing and canning, that Figure 2 represents,<br />
require that the birth rate of the species may benefit from highly efficient<br />
reactions to avoid pollution, and also accommodate the highly efficient effort<br />
levels, so that the stock may provide higher catches.<br />
Note that<br />
where S t+1 means the fish stock at the year t+1, S t means the fish stock at the<br />
year t, Bt means fish births in year t, F t fish catches in year t, and D t fish deaths<br />
in year t.<br />
P<br />
Figure 2<br />
The case of decreasing levels of fishing and canning, that Figure 3 represents,<br />
will occur whenever highly efficient reactions to avoid pollution are not<br />
enough for reaching the birth rates that can accommodate the predation that<br />
results from the higher effort levels. (Decreasing levels of fishing and canning,<br />
that Figure 3 represents, also will occur if less efficient reactions to avoid pollution<br />
and less efficient effort levels are adopted).<br />
C<br />
E<br />
360<br />
F
P<br />
Figure 3<br />
Unless regulation will be adopted, the consequences will translate into business<br />
failures, unemployment, setbacks of economic activities, and social problems<br />
in the urban life of seaport cities.<br />
Sardine scarcity afflicted the Portuguese canneries during the 1920s (1927,<br />
1929 and 1933 were the most severely affected), after the rapid expansion it<br />
experienced throughout the First World War and thereafter. 46 This difficulty<br />
brought high opportunity costs for jobs in a context of military demobilisation<br />
and political uncertainty, as well as for the exports and trade balance, as the<br />
Portuguese currency depreciated sharply from the end of the War until 1924.<br />
The temptation to not interfere and not regulate sanitary conditions resulted<br />
from the favourable effects of the sector on exports and the trade balance. The<br />
government’s prospect of earning high tax revenues from the industry may<br />
have had the same effect. 47 However, fish scarcity and falling production gave<br />
the policymakers their opportunity to choose. The crisis in the fish-canning<br />
industry led to heated debate in the Portuguese political circles. In 1927 a Congress<br />
on fisheries and canning was held, which led to the prohibition of founding<br />
new factories. 48<br />
Soon the Great Depression of 1929-33 provoked even graver difficulties,<br />
and the number of fishing workers declined, as Figure 4 illustrates.<br />
46 Valério, 2001:317-318.<br />
47 Coutinho, 1938.<br />
48 Decree 15581 of 15 June 1928.<br />
C<br />
361<br />
F
Thousand fishing workers<br />
50<br />
45<br />
40<br />
35<br />
30<br />
25<br />
20<br />
15<br />
10<br />
5<br />
0<br />
1896<br />
1899<br />
Figure 4<br />
Th.Fishing Workers<br />
1902<br />
1905<br />
1908<br />
1911<br />
1914<br />
1917<br />
1920<br />
362<br />
1923<br />
Year<br />
1926<br />
1929<br />
1932<br />
1935<br />
1938<br />
1941<br />
1944<br />
1947<br />
Source: Valério, 2001, pp. 241, 242; 246, 247, quoting Estatística das Pescas Marítimas from<br />
1896 to 1945.<br />
Although prices declined, exports fell by 38% from 1930 to 1933. 49 Note<br />
that reactions for adjustments that would invert the trend could not work properly<br />
because disruption of international trade meant not only market lacunae,<br />
but also lack of raw-material for production, such as olive oil, which was another<br />
problem. The disruption of international trade had dramatic consequences<br />
for the fishmeal industry, raising the hope of increased consumption of canned<br />
fish, domestically and in the colonies, as Colonial territories only absorbed 1 to<br />
2% of the Portuguese canning production, a luxurious consumption for the low<br />
local per capita average revenue. 50 To distinguish between private and social<br />
costs, a definition of property rights must be introduced to share the existing<br />
scarcer rent, because each new fishery and canning activity should enter until<br />
cancelling the rent.<br />
The government aims were to maximize production and exports in a sustainable<br />
way, to create jobs, and implement economic growth. The solution<br />
settled on, was to reorganize the whole sector in 1933 under the government<br />
philosophy of Corporatism, after António de Oliveira Salazar, the Prime Minister,<br />
visited several factories and published a report on canning (when he was<br />
the Minister of Finance). 51 The state wished to enact and enforce a reorganisation<br />
for canneries under a bureaucratic structure. This is an inherently<br />
political issue that the Republican regime (1910-1926) could not manage, not<br />
49 R., J. M. V. 1996.<br />
50 Moura, et al, 1957, pp. 57-58, 83.<br />
51 Published in Diário de Notícias, 8 December 1931. Rodrigues, 1996:196. Salazar, 1935. For<br />
Corporatism and codfish, see Garrido, 2003.
only because of its short longevity, but also because of the overall political<br />
instability resulting from the short duration of governments.<br />
Beginning in 1931, and according to decree nº 20521, the idea was<br />
to extend the beneficial effects of the government intervention to a larger field<br />
of industrial activity (…) being necessary to protect the national industry from<br />
the competition that the foreign industry is doing or might do, through skilful<br />
manoeuvres.<br />
Such protection was beneficial for the largest producers, but many companies<br />
went bankrupt or were bought by larger firms. The general framework<br />
introduced institutional constraints that affected new-entrants. Industry was<br />
subject to government control, as all new units needed authorisation from the<br />
Minister of Commerce and Industry (with the exception of the Atlantic Islands,<br />
where fishing resources were abundant and the number of point-source pollutants<br />
was small). Existing firms also needed authorisation if they wished to<br />
increase their production. 52<br />
The decree nº 24947 of 10 January 1935 protected the existing operators and<br />
forbade the creation or transformation of existing firms into joint-stock companies,<br />
unless other companies exited. This obligation might be considered as a<br />
constraint on free enterprise, free market competition and free location. Moreover,<br />
the preservation of free access to commercial biological resources would<br />
mean initial higher catches at the expense of a lower steady-state profit level.<br />
Small units (having fewer than 5 workers) were not subject to government<br />
control and were free to innovate, grow and move, but canneries were labourintensive<br />
factories employing dozens of workers.<br />
Government intervention in policing ports, inspecting factories, or enforcing<br />
maximum permissible catch levels, always meant higher costs. The surveillance<br />
of these activities was attributed to the association of fishermen and canning<br />
producers (Grémios) in order to avoid ruinous competition, stimulate cooperation<br />
in grouping them to produce some brands together, and regulate<br />
maximum and minimum prices (for both fishmeal and canned fish) to avoid<br />
predatory practices. 53 The cooperation received from the police and the customs<br />
clerks was a decisive element. 54 As a result, the number of plants decreased<br />
from 203 in 1933 to 179 in 1954. By then, 6% of the firms (the largest)<br />
accounted for 28% of the production. The Gini coefficient showed a 20% concentration,<br />
as the survivors were the major producers – the only ones who<br />
could respond to the need of research for technological improvement and quality<br />
control, taking advantage of scale economies and government protection.<br />
52 Decree 21623 of 27 August 1932.<br />
53 Decree nº 40787, Diário do Governo. Salazar, 1953.<br />
54 Decree nº 24947, (10 January 1935), Articles 78 and 86.<br />
363
Alternative Regulations<br />
Today it is common that a politicisation of the aquatic ecosystems addresses<br />
the regulation of coastal waters to avoid or limit the access of foreign fishing<br />
vessels to national waters, demanding public expenditure for naval surveillance<br />
and intervention. In Portugal, the adoption of Corporatism solutions sought to<br />
respond to several problems resulting from simple quota-systems for fishing or<br />
canning.<br />
Alternative systems could include a control mechanism based on raising<br />
taxes, or one based on individual quotas. 55 Taxation might be seen as an approach<br />
to protect ecosystems, but it is inefficient, because of the perverse incentives<br />
to fish and work for more hours, to operate with more boats or<br />
enlarged plants or to adopt better equipment to increase fisheries and canning.<br />
If producers dislike taxation control-systems, they also eschew individual auctioned<br />
quotas. Producers who fail to reach their quota limits will sell them to<br />
others, who, having lower costs, soon discover that they may increase profits<br />
by enlarging their scale of production. It may be true that such a regulation<br />
system can improve technology, because those producers feel encouraged to<br />
adopt or introduce new cost-reducing equipment. 56 In any event, producers will<br />
always trade (transferable) quotas until market equilibrium is reached, and all<br />
obtainable rent is realized by that generation of producers, unless the government<br />
decides to auction the quotas and appropriate the whole rent for the central<br />
state. Systems for controlling these practices are expensive and may encourage<br />
evasion and/or bribery. Bribes, corruption of deputies (or<br />
congressmen), and lobbying may have the same effect of defending the interest<br />
of producers, with externalities for the smaller ones. Moreover, the aim of<br />
government should be to help industry to reach and sustain an efficient level of<br />
catch and allocation to canning to sustain a perpetual industrial activity.<br />
The system adopted in Portugal in the 1930s did not solve all of the problems.<br />
Canning was a seasonal activity and this fact had consequences on the<br />
labour force, which was idle for much the year. Sardines, for example, have a<br />
better quality for canning during the five months around November. In 1935<br />
the government forbade canning sardine from 1 January to 30 April in canneries<br />
located in the North of the country, 16 January to 15 May in canneries located<br />
in the centre, and 1 February to 30 May in canneries located in the<br />
south. 57 This policy defines seasonal bans on fishing and processing, Vedas, as<br />
well as off-loading fish on weekends. The largest producers could take advantage<br />
of the down-time for repairing ships and nets, or improving production<br />
techniques, to make fishmeal an extremely profitable venture.<br />
55 Tientenberg, 2007: 230.<br />
56 Stigler, 1968.<br />
57 Decree nº 24947 (10 January 1935) , article 78.<br />
364
To protect the species’ reproduction, regulation was enacted defining the<br />
minimum length of fish for canning (sardines no smaller than 12cm, for example,<br />
a two-year old fish). This control was already in place in the 1880s and<br />
continued throughout the twentieth century. 58 Government management of<br />
wharves and docks provided an opportunity for more surveillance over sanitary<br />
conditions of fish for canning, without onerous bureaucracy.<br />
Port captaincy licences to fish was also an alternative way to regulate the<br />
sector. However, there are many negative effects in such a system. As fishermen<br />
were paid according to the quantity of fish off-loaded, no wages were paid<br />
if they remained on land and no money was available for shops and markets in<br />
the communities. 59 The policy of seasonal bans on canning mainly affected<br />
women, who were the dominant gender in this work, as they were more devoted<br />
to cooking activities, docile, and less well-paid. 60 Women made up more<br />
than 80% of the labour force in canneries in the 1950s and 99% of the seasonally<br />
recruited labour force. Women were competing with men even to solder<br />
the cans, thanks to the introduction of new technology for this purpose. In<br />
Portugal, as in the USA, the loss of men’s jobs to machines and women<br />
brought success to unions and gender conflicts in the industrial labour-market,<br />
from the early twentieth century to the Second World War. 61<br />
Some factories also canned other foods, namely vegetables and meat in<br />
olive oil, or fruits in sugar, as profitability criteria were dominating survival<br />
and business rationale. These policies stimulated managerial solutions to overcome<br />
the inconvenience of closed seasons. Following a diversified-product<br />
strategy, Fialho’s factories coupled fish canning with agricultural production<br />
and animal husbandry, and the subsequent canning of the vegetables and fruits,<br />
all “produced on his 16 farms, using cans that were made in his own locksmith<br />
workshop, and decorated in his own lithography shop to be packed in wooden<br />
crates from his own carpentry workshop”. 62<br />
Public Policies versus Managerial Initiatives<br />
The Consórcio Português de Conservas de Peixe, (re-named União dos Industriais<br />
e Exportadores de Conservas de Peixe, by the Decree 24947) was the<br />
institution comprising all producers and exporters, watching over and improv-<br />
58<br />
Ministério das Obras Públicas, Comércio e Indústria, Direcção Geral do Commercio e<br />
Industria, Repartição do Trabalho Industrial (nº2), (Lisbon, Imprensa Nacional, 1905), p.<br />
94.<br />
59<br />
Morais, 1938.<br />
60<br />
Moura et al, 1957 p. 66 mentions that the average female wage was about one half of the<br />
male average wages in the 1950s: 14$25 and 26$00, respectively.<br />
61<br />
R. 1996: 196. For the USA, May, 1938.<br />
62<br />
Mata, 2009: 52. (Faria, 2001, cap. III). This firm survived until 1988, when it was bought<br />
by the American Heinz.<br />
365
ing production to ensure quality, establish minimum prices for domestic sales<br />
and exports, avoid predatory managerial policies, and decide on producers’<br />
shares in the market. It also introduced strict rules on hygiene, preserving the<br />
environment, decreasing operation costs, and contributing to rationality and<br />
collective welfare. Other very important missions for The Union were the efforts<br />
in marketing, branding, protection against unfair competition, defining<br />
rules for labour-force protection, and the regular apportioning of raw-material<br />
to the sector. 63 The enforcement was assured through a regime of severe penalties<br />
that included fines, temporary suspension of activity, or even forced closure.<br />
64<br />
The Portuguese seaports with canneries developed an exporter bourgeoisie<br />
from middle-class origins that became a genuine local oligarchy. Literature<br />
addressing historical cases in other countries observes that local oligarchies<br />
were living in elegant quarters of nearby regional capital cities, doing little<br />
effort to improve local conditions in the cannery seaports. 65 Contrary to these<br />
situations, in Portugal most of the nineteenth-century canning families lived in<br />
the coastal cities where their factories were located. 66 Canners made some<br />
efforts to improve the ecological impact of the fishmeal plants or improve<br />
social infrastructures. If not, the Portuguese cannery communities would have<br />
been slums, unacceptable to the wealthy families owing the firms. 67 Fishwashing<br />
water was recycled to produce oils, although they had limited use<br />
(because of odours acquired), but were used as lubricants for ships’ masts,<br />
animal harnesses, in the soap industry. 68 The fish waste was also recycled in the<br />
production of fertilizers. 69 However, collection and storage were in the open<br />
air, not always far from residential areas. Ca(OH)2 was added to accelerate the<br />
decomposition into humus, so that it could be used to fertilize soils. The Portuguese<br />
seaport of Setúbal, for example, had large stores of this kind of fertilizer,<br />
and even Lisbon, the Portuguese capital, had one. 70 Government regulation also<br />
stipulated that fish wastes should be removed daily from the factories in the<br />
Portuguese seaports, in order to improve the urban centres’ sanitation. 71<br />
The tin-waste, mentioned above, was also re-cycled. Using a pitchfork, the<br />
small pieces were collected in a cubic wooden box and beaten down with a<br />
63 On the advantages of firms’ coordination in clusters, see Chandler et al, 1998: 325.<br />
64 Chapter X (articles 95-99) of the Decree 24947.<br />
65 Clarke, 2008.<br />
66 The Spanish-origin Ramirez & Cº Ltd always lived near the family plant, The Cumbrera &<br />
Cº,from 1853 on, Soares (2005), pp. 28, 30, 32.<br />
67 Reis, 1988.<br />
68 Ferreira (1906), p. 181.<br />
69 Ferreira (1906), pp. 179, 180 for evidence on the period before 1914. Moura et al, 1957, p.<br />
64 for twentieth-century evidence.<br />
70 Fertilizer was sold at a price of about £3.1/ton ($15/ton or 14 milreis/ton) at the Pereira<br />
Lima fertilizers.<br />
71 Article nº 82 of Decree 24947 (10 January 1935).<br />
366
mace. Two men were enough in the port city of Setúbal, the largest canning<br />
centre in Portugal until 1936, to do this. 72 Removing the sides of the box revealed<br />
a cubic foot of compressed tin-plate pieces to be melted down and exported<br />
to produce toys. 73 The polluter-pays-principle was at work. 74<br />
To appraise the effects of government regulation of the 1930s, many features<br />
related to explicit and control costs must be weighed. 75 Portuguese historians<br />
long discussed the public regulation policies. As the 1920s were a very<br />
unstable period, the1930s’ abundant legislation, which imposed severe government<br />
regulation, must be studied and interpreted according to the tools of<br />
industrial and environmental economics. 76 Most of the industrial sectors were<br />
included in the entrance-deterrence law that sought to limit excessive competition<br />
to Portuguese industries. 77 This kind of regulation is frequently identified<br />
as a negative measure, because protection is inefficient. Historians also point<br />
out that the 1930s government policy resulted from the political power of industrial<br />
families in Portuguese society, and lobbying is recognized as a restriction<br />
to the market structure, reducing collective welfare, in comparison with<br />
free-entrance. 78 Fish canning received special attention from the regulatory<br />
authorities. 79 The 1930s regulation was imposed from the perspective of employment<br />
and social justice for disadvantaged groups, preventing competition<br />
to defend the firms’ survival in the Great Depression years and its aftermath. 80<br />
Moreover, economics literature shows that an oligopolistic market with firms<br />
generating high-quality products to compete among themselves for market<br />
share, and lobbying to try to overcome their rivals in looking after higher profits,<br />
can improve growth and welfare under general-equilibrium conditions,<br />
depending on the adjustments in the labour market. 81<br />
From an international perspective, in the 1930s, the greater the difficulties<br />
facing the Spanish, French and Moroccan producers vis-à-vis the Portuguese<br />
canners, the better it was for the largest Portuguese firms. It is well-known that<br />
one country’s production constricted the other countries’ market shares, and<br />
vice-versa. The Spanish Civil War was a new opportunity for exporting Portuguese<br />
canned goods, as was the Second World War. Not only was the main<br />
competitors’ production ravaged, but the increased international demand<br />
72<br />
Matosinhos would take the first position from then to now. Moura et al, 1957, p. 62.<br />
73<br />
Tin plate waste was sold at the price of £2.7/ton (about$13/ ton or 12 milreis/ton). Ferreira<br />
(1906), p. 183.<br />
74<br />
Tisdell, 1993:240, 242.<br />
75<br />
Callan & Thomas, 2000: 237-250.<br />
76<br />
Field, 1997:179-190.<br />
77<br />
Decree 19354 of 01-03-1931.<br />
78<br />
Brito, 1989. Confraria, 1992.<br />
79<br />
Decree 24947 of 01-10-1935.<br />
80<br />
On moral aspects and justice see Chapman: 79.<br />
81<br />
Pereto, (1996, 1998). Júlio, 2008.<br />
367
ought in a new boom for Portuguese canners. 82 In the next decades, regulatory<br />
inspections became ineffective, bureaucracy grew out of control, and historians<br />
recognize that public policies failed, as the factories implemented their<br />
initiatives without authorisation. 83 This means that external and agglomeration<br />
economies could work, as operators were enacting independent decisions to<br />
expand along the Atlantic coast and to relocate in the Portuguese seaports,<br />
according to Krugman’s analysis. 84 The petitions for government authorisation<br />
reflected this desire to benefit from clustering, and the authorisations granted<br />
simply confirm the trend. 85<br />
Conclusion<br />
As the size of fish stocks is jointly determined by oceanographic biology and<br />
management decisions for production levels in the fishing and canning industries,<br />
technological improvements impacted the rate of depletion of ocean resources.<br />
The species of fish particularly desirable for canning were overfished<br />
in some periods, threatening the ecosystems in a variety of ways, including<br />
depletion and pollution (land, air and sea), and giving origin to business crises<br />
in the sector. Technological improvements stimulated economic links, particularly<br />
to the shipbuilding industry, and entrepreneurs’ pursuit of profits put<br />
ecosystems under great stress, as booms and contractions were extended from<br />
the fishmeal industry to shipyards. The First World War stimulated canning so<br />
strongly that mature open-access fisheries were severely exploited, putting<br />
Portugal into the rankings of fishing and canning nations. Fishing and canning<br />
represented an assault upon the ecosystem resources and polluted the coastal<br />
bays through the run-off of blood from the factories.<br />
The need to reduce the pressure on biological resources and sustain the economic<br />
activity in the long run is obvious. Fishermen, canners, local authorities<br />
and central government were the main actors, using their own strategies. Entrepreneurs<br />
bought larger boats, built more plants, reinvested in raw-materials,<br />
promoted the marketing and branding of their high-quality produce, and took<br />
measures to control refuse. 86 The government performed a role in regulating<br />
and organizing the sector for business survival, shortening fishing seasons,<br />
minimizing damage to the ecosystem, and preserving jobs. The methods to<br />
reach these goals were difficult to implement and control by government, but<br />
business rationality always created managerial abilities that overcame the challenges.<br />
82 According to Barbosa, 1941, WWII brought a local 41 thousand tons maximum of exports.<br />
83 Brito, 1989. Confraria, 1992. Brito, 2004.<br />
84 Krugman, 1995.<br />
85 Moura et al, 1957, pp. 73-74.<br />
86 Vernon, 1973.<br />
368
Producers performed an important role in disposing of human and industrial<br />
wastes and building local infra-structures to control pollution, such as sewer<br />
systems and potable water provision. Canning was thus an inventive sector.<br />
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372
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SCOPUS (Elsevier) is the largest abstract and citation database of research<br />
literature and quality web sources. It covers peer-reviewed journals from<br />
international publishers (<strong>Social</strong> Sciences: 2,850 titles), including coverage of<br />
Open Access journals, Conference Proceedings, Trade Publications and Book<br />
Series (since 2004).<br />
Online: http://www.scopus.com/<br />
SocINDEX with FULL TEXT (EBSCO) is the world’s most comprehensive and<br />
highest quality sociology research database. It contains abstracts for more than<br />
1,260 “core” (incl. HSR), 500 “priority” and 2,950 “selective” coverage journals.<br />
Further, extensive indexing for books/monographs, conference papers, and other<br />
nonperiodical content sources is included. Searchable cited references are also<br />
provided. It contains full text for 820 journals (incl. HSR, no moving wall).<br />
Online: http://www.epnet.com/<br />
Sociological Abstracts (Cambridge Scientific Abstracts) abstracts and indexes<br />
the international literature in sociology and related disciplines in the social and<br />
behavioral sciences. Covers journal articles, book reviews, books, book chapters,<br />
dissertations, and conference papers (since 1963).<br />
Online: http://www.csa.com/<br />
<strong>Historical</strong> Abstracts (ABC-CLIO) covers the history of the world (excluding the<br />
United States and Canada) from 1450 to the present, featuring coverage of<br />
academic historical journals in over 40 languages (since 1955).<br />
Online: http://www.abc-clio.com/<br />
International Political Science Abstracts (SAGE) provides non-evaluative<br />
abstracts of articles in the field of political science published in journals (and<br />
yearbooks) all over the world (since 1951).<br />
Print: http://www.sagepub.co.uk<br />
<strong>Social</strong> <strong>Research</strong> Methodology Database (SAGE / NIWI) provides references to<br />
literature on social and behavioral research methodology, statistical analysis, and<br />
computer software. Covers international periodicals, readers, research reports,<br />
congress proceedings, and books (since 1970).<br />
Online: http://www.srm-online.nl/index.htm<br />
SOLIS (<strong>Social</strong> Science Literature Information System / GESIS) provides<br />
references to German social science literature – journal articles, contributions in<br />
compilations, monographs, and grey literature (since 1977).<br />
Online: http://www.gesis.org/en/services/specialized-information/<br />
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The Journal: Archiving Coverager by Information Services<br />
JSTOR (ITHAKA) is a non-profit organization dedicated to preserving and<br />
increasing access to scholarly journal literature. JSTOR has created a highquality,<br />
interdisciplinary “trusted digital archive for scholarship”. The JSTOR<br />
archives include scholarship published in the highest-quality academic journals<br />
(incl. the HSR-Journal and the HSR-Supplement, moving wall: two years) across<br />
the humanities, social sciences, and sciences, as well as monographs and other<br />
materials valuable for academic work. JSTOR has created an electronic archive<br />
of the complete back runs of over 1,000 journals in 50 disciplines. More than<br />
6,000 academic institutions and over 700 scholarly publishing organizations<br />
around the world participate in this endeavor (since 1995).<br />
Online: http://www.jstor.org/<br />
SSOAR (<strong>Social</strong> Science Open Access Repository / GESIS) offers scholars and<br />
scientists from the social sciences and neighbouring disciplines an organisational<br />
and technical framework in which they can make their documents electronically<br />
available. SSOAR includes HSR-articles from back issues (moving wall: two<br />
years). SSOAR is an open-access full-text server, SSOAR’s goal is to implement<br />
the “green road” to open access by providing users with free electronic access to<br />
journal article preprints and postprints and also to other document types. SSOAR<br />
saves, catalogues and archives scholarly and scientific electronic documents from<br />
the social sciences. These documents can be either born-digital publications or<br />
digitised versions of print works (since 2007).<br />
Online: http://www.ssoar.info/en.html<br />
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