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Culture and citizenship in
Europe. Questions for
anthropologists
Culture and citizenship have frequently been regarded as concepts on separate
trajectories to be researched independently in the disciplines of anthropology and
sociology respectively. The anthropological focus on cultural issues in Europe has long
kept them from exploring concepts of citizenship. Sociologists are more concerned
with issues of civic and political belonging. However, some recent anthropological
publications have crossed disciplinary boundaries and have highlighted the significance
of citizenship for anthropologists (Kockel 2001; Shore and Black 1994; Shore 2000;
Wright 2000). Sociologists have also begun to address the matter of culture (Delanty
2002; Stevenson 2003; Turner 1993; 2001).
Def initions
Anthropologists typically define culture as a way of life, ‘as simply a way of talking
about collective identities’ (Kuper 1999: 3). The concept of culture is communal rather
than individual and culture has been defined as ‘a shared and negotiated system of
meaning’ (Lassiter 2002: 40). Geertz (1973) construed forms of culture as ‘webs of
significance’ in which people interact. Culture is a matter of ideas, a pattern of meanings
that are embedded in symbolic forms with which people identify and through which
they communicate with one another (Thompson 1990: 132). Drawing on the theory
of Claude Lévi-Strauss, Bauman (1973) proposes that culture is an ongoing process or
praxis, and the making of social forms or community is the oldest definition of culture
(Chaney 1994: 193).
Citizenship has historically been viewed as a political rather than a cultural concept
and a matter primarily for sociologists rather than anthropologists. This rationale
derives in part from the emphasis of social theorists such as T. H. Marshall (1992
[1950]) on the civil, political and social aspects of citizenship. His neglect of the cultural
dimension was characteristic of many conceptions of citizenship, which emphasised
a ‘culture-blind’ or neutral relationship between individual and state. However this
scenario is changing and some recent designations recognise a cultural dimension,
defining citizenship as a ‘set of practices (juridical, political, economic and cultural)
that define a person as a component member of society’ (Turner 1993: 2).
While culture is a concept that operates mainly in a communal context and
citizenship emphasises primarily individualistic elements, both concepts imply some
relationship between individual and community. Although culture is chiefly enjoyed
Social Anthropology (2004), 12, 3, 289–300. © 2004 European Association of Social Anthropologists
DOI: 10.1017/S0964028204000515 Printed in the United Kingdom
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in community with others, one can savour aspects of culture at an individual level.
The status of citizen implies a communal context that is the political entity, with the
autonomy of the citizen based on the rights and privileges that citizenship confers on
individuals who recognise the legitimacy of the political state. Like culture, citizenship
is an active rather than a passive process.
Citizenship as a ‘culture-blind’ concept
The concept of citizenship has traditionally emphasised the reciprocal political
relationship between individual and state, and ‘is intimately related to the question
of belonging to a nation’ (Rex 1991: 5). Despite its obvious links with national identity,
citizenship has largely been considered a culture-blind concept, particularly in the
civic republican tradition. France is usually proffered as the classic example of civic
nationalism and culture-blind citizenship. At the heart of the French Revolution was
a new conception of citizenship as an active and radical process – one that emphasised
the universal and egalitarian potential of each person. Emphasis was placed on the
individual, so rights would reside in citizens rather than in minorities or specific groups.
The French Revolution can therefore be perceived as an event that asserted the primacy
of citizenship over culture and of universalism over specificity. France is regarded as
a prime illustration of an approach to social membership that is political more than
cultural; the key to membership in France is the acceptance of secular republican values
on the part of would-be citizens.
In theory, civic nations such as France are culturally neutral – states that emphasise
civic rather than cultural values. Yet in practice this is hardly the case. The French
Revolution introduced the notion of citizenship, but it also provided a strong impetus
for cultural and linguistic unification. Although a language census in 1790 revealed that
less than 12.5 per cent of the population spoke French as their mother tongue, the
message of the Revolution was nevertheless carried in French (Wright 2000: 38). In
subsequent decades and centuries, the nation-state pursued an official assimilationist
policy (Ager 1999; Judge and Judge 2000). French was authorised as the sole medium
of communication in public life. Languages and cultures such as Breton, Basque or
Occitan, were regarded as divisive and a danger to the territorial unity of the nation
state. In this example of ‘civic’ nationalism, there was (and is) an inextricable link
between language, culture and imagined community.
Unlike France, Germany (the usual example cited of ethnic nationalism) has
traditionally stressed ethnic origins rather than political commitment when defining
legitimate membership of the nation. Germany’s citizenship law in 1913 established
the ethnic basis of citizenship for almost a century; the acquisition of citizenship
was dependent on genetic factors and did not necessarily imply any commitment
to German culture, which was of limited importance in defining members of the
imagined community. Second- and third-generation Turks who adapted to German
culture, lived in Germany and spoke fluent German were still considered Ausländer
(outsiders).
In reality, culture and language are insufficient criteria for German ethnic
nationalism. Recent events have indicated some changes in the emphasis on genetic
factors. In May 1999 the German parliament opted to revise their traditional citizenship
policies and introduced a new law that offers automatic citizenship rights to immigrant
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children born on German soil. These individuals are permitted to retain two passports
until the age of 23, when they must choose their preferred citizenship (Kivisto 2002:
169). This arrangement differs starkly from the situation in France, where the children
of immigrants must now apply for citizenship. The idea of a secular France that ignores
cultural and religious particularity is therefore largely a myth.
The distinction between civic and ethnic nationalism is usually perceived in terms
of their respective emphasis on civic or ethnic elements of nationalism; they are
usually presented as distinct entities rather than as variations of the same phenomenon.
However, I believe that this is a false dichotomy. Each variant of nationalism places
great emphasis on the majority culture, but places it differently. While ethnic nationalists
openly acknowledge the majority culture, civic nationalists speak in terms of citizenship
rather than culture and portray the majority culture as secular, as civilization or simply
‘the norm’.
Civic nationalists assume that the public realm is culturally neutral and that ethnic
identification is hardly relevant for the concept of citizenship. In a civic state such as
the United Kingdom, which hardly had a concept of citizenship until 1981, British
culture – the majority culture – is hardly conceived in cultural terms. The ethnic ties of
the majority are legitimated as ‘civic’ in what Michael Billig (1995) has described as the
naturalisation of one’s own nationalism. In these circumstances, majority groups equate
the majority culture with civic loyalties to the state and project the ideology of ‘culture’
on to others. This false distinction gives civic nationalists a sense of respectability
whereas cultural nationalism is frequently regarded as the obsession of minorities,
separatists and sometimes terrorists.
Walker Connor (1993) has explored the phenomenon by which the culture and
language of a dominant group come to be represented as the ‘national’ norm. The nation
state is presented as a single community and, historically at least, minority groups have
been excluded in varying degrees from the process of affirmation and citizenship. At
the same time minorities were strongly encouraged to assimilate to the national norm.
This frequently placed such groups in a ‘Catch-22’ situation.
If they resist, their attempts at maintaining a distinct identity are often labelled as a parochial and
anti-national form of communication . . . If they acquiesce, and assimilate, minority groups may
still face exclusion from the full benefits of a ‘national’ identity determined and delimited by the
dominant ethnic (May 2001: 81).
But is it ever possible for the political culture of a state and its public realm to be
politically neutral? Hardly. ‘A morally and culturally neutral state which makes no
moral demands on its citizens and is equally hospitable to all cultures and conceptions of
the good is logically impossible’ (Parekh 2000: 201–2). In many instances the perception
of neutrality is simply ‘a system of “group rights” that supports the majority’s language,
history, culture and calendar’.
Will Kymlicka (1995: 24) has argued that the real difference between civic and
ethnic nationalism is that in the case of former, anyone – indeed everyone – can
and must assimilate to a common culture, regardless of class or race. This majority
culture is usually regarded as ethnically neutral. In contrast, participation in the cultural
life of an ethnic nation is more overt, but does not guarantee citizenship or cultural
membership, and language is not a unifying factor. This differs from the interpretation
of the dichotomy advanced by Soysal (1996), who argues that national citizenship
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has always embodied components of civic and ethnic citizenship which are distinctly
different.
The first challenge to traditional liberal theory is that political culture and the
public realm are not, and cannot be, neutral. Citizenship (in my view) is not a cultureblind concept. ‘Fundamental to modern citizenship are action-orientations to civic
responsibility. Cultural forces anchor just these components of modern citizenship’
(Karlberg 1993: 97). It is time to recognize the degree to which the majority culture is
implicit in the notion of citizenship. From this perspective all citizenship is cultural,
and thus firmly within the realm of anthropology.
Citizenship and the ‘other’ culture
in the Baltic States
While the debate on the relevance of culture for citizenship continues, some of the
newly established Baltic republics have explicitly acknowledged a link between state
culture and citizenship, and have actually used the process of citizenship as a tool of
cultural exclusion. Prior to independence from the Soviet Union, the three Baltic states
had begun to claim some degree of autonomy. Initially they confined their demands
to cultural self-determination, all introducing language laws in 1989. In the case of
Estonia, for example, legislation established Estonian as the state language and required
that all official personnel be competent in the language within four years. The other
states had similar requirements. In March 1990 Lithuania declared its independence
from the former Soviet Union and a year later Latvia and Estonia followed suit.
At that point in their history the Baltic states had experienced large-scale
immigration of the Slavic population and proportions of indigenous Balts were quite
low. The number of ethnic Estonians in Estonia fell to 62 per cent of the population in the
late 1980s, while that of ethnic Latvians in Latvia dropped to 52 per cent. Because of its
geographical position Lithuania did not experience a large-scale migration of Russians,
so the proportion of indigenous Balts remained at around 80 per cent (Tsilevich 2001).
The proportions of ethnic Russians have decreased somewhat in the intervening period;
censuses at the beginning of the twenty-first century indicate that Russians form 25.6
per cent of the population in Estonia and 29.6 per cent in Latvia (Hogan-Brun 2003:
122–4).
After independence in the early 1990s, the indigenous peoples sought to re-establish
Baltic cultures and languages as the national norm and wherever possible prevent those
of Russian origin from acquiring automatic citizenship. This was hardly an issue in
Lithuania, which opted for inclusive citizenship policies because the proportion of
ethnic Russians was relatively low. By contrast, Estonia and Latvia insisted that only
those residents (and their descendants) who acquired Estonian/Latvian citizenship
before the annexation of 1930 were automatically entitled to citizenship (Hogan-Brun
2003: 129).
This provision excluded from automatic citizenship Russian-speakers who arrived
after the Second World War, effectively preventing them from having any major input
into the formulation of the new linguistic legislation. However, this was not an entirely
exclusive process. A linguistic qualification was introduced through which individuals
prepared to learn indigenous Baltic languages and pass certain basic examinations in
linguistic competence could earn citizenship. With this requirement the Baltic states
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sought to ensure that the new republics were political expressions of the indigenous
culture and language (Tsilevich 2001).
The link between language and citizenship in Estonia and Latvia has had significant
consequences for Russian speakers, who were effectively deprived of certain key rights.
In Estonia, for example, ethnic Russians became ineligible to vote in national elections,
to hold any elective office, to join political parities or serve in the higher civil service or
police force. Even more significantly, they were unable to own land (Laitin 1996: 45).
All citizens in certain public sphere were required to rely on their use of Estonian.
One intriguing factor in this entire process is the terminology that has been
used to deal with the Russian language. Categories such as ‘minority language’ are
generally avoided in Latvia and Estonia, and terms such as ‘state language’ or ‘foreign
languages’ are preferred. The Language Act of Estonia deals explicitly with this issue
and determines that any language other than the Estonian, the official state language,
is effectively a foreign language. This applies even to languages historically spoken in
Estonia as the mother tongue of Estonian citizens who belong to a national minority
(Tsilevich 2001). The lack of recognition of Russian as a minority language could be
construed as a strategy to ensure that Russians in the Baltic Republics cannot claim
rights on the basis of minority status.
The linking of language competency with citizenship was probably inevitable when
one considers that the drive for independence in the Baltic States had its roots in the
language movements. Prior to the acquisition of self-determination there were serious
concerns about the increasing presence of Russian language and culture in the Baltic
states and the decline and possible extinction of Estonian and Latvian in particular.
Historical factors were also at work. There is no doubt that tensions between the Balts
and the Russians at this time were caused less by linguistic differences than historical
power relationships between conquerors and conquered.
The implications of these citizenship laws for the Russian way of life in the Baltic
states is surely of great interest to anthropologists. Russian speakers have taken the case
of discrimination against Russian minorities in the Baltic States to several international
organisations such as the UN, the OSCE and the Council of Europe (Hogan-Brun
2003: 129). International institutions have responded with various criticisms, which
were eventually acknowledged by the Baltic states. Now it appears that pressure from
the OSCE has had the effect of liberalising the language laws to some extent (HoganBrun 2003: 129), although the overall principle remains and the process of citizenship
is still intrinsically linked to official state culture. Estonians and Latvians generally
see it as ironic that they are willing to offer citizenship to those individuals who are
able to speak the national language, while other European countries will not grant
citizenship to certain minorities no matter how much of the national culture they
have absorbed or how fluent they have become in the national tongue (Ozolins 1995:
258).
Promotion of indigenous languages at the expense of Russian in the Baltic states
symbolises the new geo-political orientation of these independent republics and their
rejection of former Russian domination. Accession to the EU could be perceived
as evidence of the Balts ‘turning their backs’ on Russia, and the curtailment and
suppression of Russian languages is evidence of Baltic attempts to eradicate any trace
of Russia’s former domination. Modern Baltic citizens wish to be associated with
progressiveness in Europe and are seeking to re-claim a western identity that was
concealed under communist rule.
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Culture in EU citizenship
The development of a concept of citizenship in the Baltic states was contemporaneous
with the establishment of a transnational, EU citizenship, which was formally
introduced with the revised Treaty on European Union. This was signed in Maastricht on
7 February 1992 and came into force on 1 November of the following year. Article 8 of
the treaty inserted the notion of ‘Citizenship of the Union’ into the amended Treaty
of Rome and conferred obligatory freedoms of goods, persons, services and capital
on citizens. Article 8a granted citizens ‘the right to move and reside freely within the
territory of any Member State’ while 8b recognised the right of every citizen ‘to vote and
to stand as a candidate in election’ in the European Parliament and in municipal elections
in the state in which they resided. The third section gave EU citizens diplomatic or
consular protection in the territory of a non-EU country while 8d gave citizens the
right to petition the European parliament and appeal to an ombudsman (Treaty On
European Union 1992).
These articles gave little recognition to the cultural content of citizenship by EU
policy makers, placing the focus instead on economic rather than cultural issues. From
this and subsequent treaties it would appear that the citizen is primarily perceived as
a worker rather than a cultural being, an emphasis that ultimately limits the scope of
citizenship rights at European level. This narrow perspective reflects the emergence
of the European Union from a grouping focused primarily on European economic
integration (initially it was the European Economic Community). EU citizenship is
rooted in market rather than cultural forces. Unless EU politics shifts its focus from
the removal of barriers to trade and commerce, Lehning (1999) has argued that EU
citizenship will therefore remain constrained within the boundaries of the economic
sector.
The emergence of an EU citizenship agenda might appear to herald the development
of a post-national form of citizenship, but this is not the case as nationality of an
EU member state is a precondition of EU citizenship. Article 8i of the Treaty of
Amsterdam affirms that ‘every person holding the nationality of a Member State shall
be a citizen of the Union’. It also asserts that ‘citizenship of the Union shall complement
and not replace national citizenship’ (Treaty of Amsterdam 1997). This effectively
reinforces the traditional construction of citizenship centred on principles of nationality
and statehood, and assumes a dominant, majority culture in the national context that
dominates many of Europe’s political and social structures.
The dominance of nation-state structures is also reflected in the minimal attention
given to matters of culture in these treaties. Article 8ii of the Amsterdam Treaty
reflects the EU’s commitment to official, nation-state languages and establishes that
citizens have the right to petition the European parliament, to apply to the European
Ombudsman, and to write to the institutions and advisory bodies of the Union in any
of the constitution’s languages and to obtain a reply in the same language (Treaty of
Amsterdam 1997).
Article 151 of the same treaty suggests that ‘the Community shall contribute to
the flowering of the cultures of the Member States while respecting their national and
regional diversity and at the same time bringing the common cultural heritage to the
fore’. Tensions between national cultures hardly augur well for the development of a
supranational heritage, but these treaties appear to suggest that Europe’s overarching
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identity is the sum of its diverse national and regional units. ‘National cultural icons are
thus appropriated, re-interpreted and then offered up as indices of a unitary “European”
history’ (Shore 2000: 54).
The Treaty of Amsterdam also affirms in Article 151 that action by the community
should contribute to the ‘improvement of the knowledge and dissemination of
the culture and history of the European peoples’ and to the ‘conservation and
safeguarding of cultural heritage of European significance’ but the EU is quite vague
and unclear about who it is and what actually constitutes its collective cultural identity
(Kostakopolou 2001: 14). Despite several attempts to engender a sense of collective
identity, the EU it is not certain whether this is its ‘true’ identity or culture.
There are several reasons for this sense of ambiguity, not least of which is its
uncertain history and the presence of several ‘Europes’ within Europe: the Europe
of Greek mythology, the Holy Roman Empire, the Europe of the Enlightenment,
and so on (Kostakopolou 2001: 26). Despite the predominance of English, the EU
lacks a common lingua franca, and has no uniform system of education or mass
media. There have been some attempts to develop a set of EU symbols such as the
EC anthem, emblem and flag, and harmonised EU passports and car number-plates,
but these have failed to inspire individual citizens. There have also been EC-funded
initiatives that have had little overall impact such as the European City of Culture,
the European Woman of the Year Award and the Jean Monnet awards for universities.
At an organizational level the EU has received input more recently that emphasises
the cultural context for citizenship. When the prospect of an EU convention was first
discussed, a series of public meetings were established to offer participants an input into
the process. The language issue was championed by the European Bureau for Lesser
Used Languages (EBLUL), which argued that for ‘EU-based speakers of regional and
minority languages, the notion of European citizenship has an important additional
dimension’ in those circumstances ‘when the European Union respects its lesser-used
languages as an important part of – and an added value to – the European heritage and
culture’. In this they were making an explicit link between language and citizenship
(European Bureau for Lesser Used Languages 2001).
In a resolution adopted at a council meeting in Ljouwert/Leeuwarden on 15 June
2002, EBLUL argued that European identity and European citizenship as defined by
the Treaty on European Union should incorporate the notion of cultural and linguistic
diversity. For speakers of regional or minority languages in particular, ‘the notion
of European citizenship has an important dimension only if the European Union
effectively respects its lesser-used languages as an important part of – and an added value
to – the European heritage and culture’ (European Bureau for Lesser Used Languages
2002).
Since then a draft constitution has been published. This hints at the notion of
an European civilisation (rather than culture) that goes undefined but is apparently
obvious to all. ‘Conscious that Europe is a continent that has brought forth civilisation;
that its inhabitants arriving in successive waves since the first ages of mankind, have
gradually developed the values underlying humanism; equality of persons, freedom,
respect for reason’ (The European Convention 2003: 5). Yet the notion of European
cultural identity remains unclear and could usefully receive much more attention from
anthropologists.
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Migration and citizenship in the EU context
In the context of European citizenship, the only aspect of European culture that seems
explicit is its exclusion of Muslim cultures. The logo of the Council of Europe (twelve
stars set against a blue background) is associated, among other things, with the twelve
apostles (cf. Shore 2000: 47); Bainbridge and Teasdale (1995: 189) even postulate an
association with the Virgin Mary’s halo. Much of Europe’s history has been associated
in a vague sense with Christendom and this has been reinforced by images such as
banner-waving Saracens on horseback taken to symbolise Christendom defending itself
against Islam. Any construction of a sense of identity inevitably involves the erection
of some boundaries and in the case of the EU it would appear that Islam – especially of
the fundamentalist kind – has become the primary Other. How should anthropologists
respond to such questions?
In the first instance we need to revisit the cultural context (rather than the content)
of European citizenship and query the significance of indigeneity for European cultures.
As noted at the beginning of this essay, culture is a process rather than a product and is
fluid rather than static. Cultures in Europe are shaped by migrant as well as indigenous
elements – if one can tell the difference – and are influenced, for example, by Asian and
Indian food, eastern spirituality, Chinese herbal medicine and Afro-Caribbean music.
If we accept that some notion of culture is inherent (rather than necessarily
obvious) in our conception of citizenship, this provokes the question ‘Whose culture is
citizenship designed to protect and why?’ Can it simply pertain to an allegedly secular
culture (as in France or in a Baltic culture such as Estonia and Latvia) or a Christian
culture (as may be the case in the EU), or should it endeavour to accommodate the
increasing plurality of cultures that typifies contemporary society as migrants move
from one country to another? Some sociologists suggest that the development of an
EU citizenship points the way for a new form of post-nationalist politics that separates
nationality from citizenship rights.
Gerard Delanty (1995) argues that since a collective European identity can hardly be
constructed on the basis of language, nationality and religion without serious conflicts
emerging, citizenship may be a possible alternative. He proposes a form of citizenship
that is separated from territory and based instead on a human rights agenda. Yasemin
Soysal (1996) similarly proposes the decoupling of identity and rights, and suggests
that immigrants in Europe have been granted many of the rights and privileges of
citizenship even though they have never been formally incorporated into a formal
scheme of citizenship.
While these are valid concerns, both writers assume the separation of culture and
citizenship, which to me feels impractical because it ignores the sense of belonging
that is excluded when the cultural context of any form of citizenship is excluded or
left undefined. From an anthropological perspective, I believe that citizenship is an
inherently cultural process. The issue is not whether we can separate citizenship from
culture, but which culture does the process of citizenship reflect and how should we
define that culture without essentialising it?
A major concern is whether culturally distinct minority groups should be granted
special rights or not ( Joppe 1999: 632). Although many citizens of nation states are
blissfully unaware of the prevalence of their own majority culture, it is an unavoidable
issue for migrants.
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As carriers of ethnic difference, immigrants notice that even liberal states, which are philosophically
indifferent to the cultural preferences of their members are couched in distinct cultural colours – its
official language, holidays or church relations cannot but privilege the ethnic majority population
over the immigrant minorities ( Joppe 1999: 630).
Iris Young (1989: 274) has argued that the universalised notion of citizenship has failed to
accommodate difference and led to the oppression of minorities. For Young, liberalism
advocates universality and assumes that all members of a polity actively participate in
the political process. This ignores the constraints on many members of society caused
by inadequate financial resources or partial access to information. More seriously from
her perspective, liberalism advocates a universal viewpoint and assumes an identical
perspective, regardless of the impact of cultural difference on our ability to exercise
rights and responsibilities. From a practical point of view this implies that state laws
apply to everyone regardless of their diverse needs or inequalities.
Young argues that liberalism is an ideology that ignores difference in society.
It represents the domination of one interpretation of equality over difference, and
subsumes cultural diversity ‘in the name of an abstract and unattainable conception of
citizenship’ (Faulks 2000: 85). She proposes a theory of democratic or differentiated
citizenship designed to overcome cultural imperialism and protect ideological groups
such as women, gay groups or the oppressed.
As an anthropologist, I am more interested in the work of Will Kymlicka, who uses
an anthropological definition of culture that refers to way of life. In this context, culture
is interchangeable with the notion of ‘people’. Given the importance of the context
national culture provides for citizenship, Kymlicka advocates a form of multicultural
citizenship that would support all those ethnic cultures in a polity that its members
consider important.
Kymlicka (1995) criticises liberals who separate ethnic identity from the state and
regard citizenship as universal, public and culture-blind. As the majority culture is
implicit in the notion of citizenship, this approach renders cultural minorities vulnerable
to unjust treatment by the majority. He therefore advances a theory of minority
rights that includes universal rights for all individuals regardless of group membership
along with specific group-differentiated rights for minority cultures. ‘A comprehensive
theory of justice will include both universal rights, assigned to individuals, regardless
of their group membership, and certain group-differentiated rights or “special status”
for minority cultures’ (Kymlicka 1995: 6).
In a national context Kymlicka proposes the devolution of powers to minorities
within the boundaries of a nation state, a move that would ultimately lead to the
development of federal polities. He also argues for the establishment of polyethnic rights
that would recognize the importance of cultural difference in a stable multicultural
context and protect minority cultures through legal means and public finance. In
addition, he seeks rights for special representation for minorities in the prevailing
political institutions.
Whereas this last proposal could ultimately generate an unfounded fear of secession,
his other suggestions would more clearly integrate minorities into the polity. This
accommodation of difference would acknowledge the cultural content of liberal
citizenship and ensure some affirmation of cultural difference. It would also recognize
that citizenship has been traditionally defined ‘by and for white, able-bodied, Christian
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men’ and acknowledge that it is ultimately a group-differentiated notion (Kymlicka
1995: 90).
There are, however, many problems for anthropologists with this line of reasoning.
First and foremost are the difficulties of ascertaining what constitutes a particular
culture or cultural group without resorting to a process of essentialisation. Which
groups could legitimately claim to be special cases deserving of additional entitlements
not available to other members of the polity? And how does one decide which minority
cultures should receive official recognition? In addition, a process of citizenship based
on group rather than individual identities may ultimately generate more rather than
less oppression as a result of minority groups effectively repressing their members in
an endeavour to preserve or maintain cultural difference.
There is also the question of how one reconciles illiberal practices in one culture
with liberal ideals of individual freedom? Kymlicka attempts to address this issue
by arguing for internal and external cultural restrictions. As liberals recognise the
significance of cultural diversity within a nation state, they should make an effort to
protect minority cultures from the external restraints of the majority, but also argue
against internal restrictions within minority cultures that could infringe the civil rights
of members of cultural minorities.
Conclusion
Because societies were much more homogeneous centuries – even decades – ago,
citizenship in culturally diverse contexts is a new issue that raises many questions
of relevance to anthropologists. Does recognition of the majority cultural context
of citizenship imply the need for a multicultural model? If so, are we happy
with multiculturalism as the appropriate way forward? Do we endorse a model of
multicultural citizenship such as that espoused by Kymlicka or would we propose an
alternative strategy. This raises the question of how majority cultures are defined at
national and international levels, and how models of citizenship can be adapted to meet
the needs of different cultural groups without resorting to the essentialisation of such
cultures. This is a question of international significance to which anthropologists can
make a significant contribution and on which they can bring a unique methodology to
bear.
Máiréad Nic Craith
Academy for Irish Cultural Heritages
University of Ulster
Aberfoyle House
Northland Road
Belfast BT48 7JA
Northern Ireland
m.niccraith@ulster.ac.uk
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