by Diccon Bewes
For all its multi-tasking the Bundesplatz is primarily a political space, lying as it does at the foot of the Federal Parliament, an imposing building with chunky green sandstone walls and a towering lantern dome topped by a golden Swiss cross. The grand building belies the fact that the Swiss parliament doesn’t have much power; that lies elsewhere.
A PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC
Market day in almost any Swiss town is a good time to see politics in action. Not because there are speeches or party workers with stalls, but because that’s the best day for collecting signatures. Walking through the centre of Bern means running the gauntlet of clipboard-thrusting pen holders wanting your name. These aren’t charity muggers desperate for your cash, though such irritations have started to pop up more regularly on Swiss streets. And the papers are not futile petitions that will be delivered to the government without any prospect of anyone taking notice. This is not Britain. This is Switzerland, where the people have the power, and they use it. Collecting signatures is the first step towards a referendum, the basic tool of the direct democracy system. Don’t like a government decision? Then collect names to change it. Want to create a new law? Then collect names to initiate it. Hate minarets? Then collect names to ban them. You get the picture. Signature seekers are quite high up in the annoyance stakes, but at least I can escape with four simple words: I am not Swiss. As a foreigner I can’t vote, so there’s no use in them collecting my signature.
For outsiders, it’s hard to imagine how a country can function if every law and government action is subject to a popular vote. For the Swiss, it’s hard to understand how any country can be run without just that. The poll tax, the Iraq war, the privatisations and the tax hikes – all would be so much less likely to happen in Switzerland, precisely because they would be subject to a referendum. The Swiss people can initiate legislation or destroy it; they can force the government into new policies or reject decisions it’s already made. No one person or party ever has complete control – the people do. Forget China and North Korea; if any country deserves to be called a People’s Republic, it is Switzerland.
For most of the country the ballot box is the main method of expressing opinion, but in the canton of Appenzell Innerrhoden there’s a different way. A way that has changed little since the fourteenth century.
DIRECT DEMOCRACY IN ACTION
The sloping main square is packed. Early birds have nabbed the front row, with the crowd ten deep behind them. Hardier souls are perched precariously on bicycle racks or the edge of stone fountains, while the lucky ones sit in comfort at windows overlooking the square. The shops and restaurants seem almost lost amid a sea of people, all in Appenzell for just one thing: the canton’s community parliament, or Landsgemeinde, which occurs every year on the last Sunday in April.1
Appenzell Innerrhoden is one of only two cantons (Glarus is the other) where an open-air parliament is still used to decide community affairs, vote on referenda and elect the cantonal government. Every citizen entitled to vote can attend and votes are taken by the raising of hands. Even though its sister half-canton, Ausserrhoden, abandoned its Landsgemeinde in the late 1990s, Innerrhoden shows no sign of following suit. Things change very slowly here. After all, this was the last canton in Switzerland to (reluctantly) give women the vote in cantonal matters. In 1991. No, that’s not a typo. It was 1991, back when the first President Bush was fighting the first Gulf War, when both the Soviet Union and Dallas came to an end, and when Bryan Adams was number 1 for ever. At federal level, Swiss women had been able to vote since 1971 (itself shockingly late), but it took another 20 years before the men of Appenzell Innerrhoden gave up their stranglehold on cantonal affairs. And only then when forced to do so by a Federal Supreme Court decision.2
Today there are plenty of women in the small square wanting to exercise their hard-won democratic right. Exactly on time, at midday once the church service is over, drums roll, flags flutter, the brass band plays its tune and the dignitaries process from the church down the main street, around the square and on to the stage. The mass of spectators has to stand around the back and sides of the square, in ranks behind a rope barrier that separates off the inner circle, where the electorate is gathered. Between the two groups is a wide processional aisle, guarded by men in smart black uniforms and shiny helmets. Anyone wanting to cross the aisle has to show his (or her) voting card in order to duck under the rope and enter the central corral. Everyone has to stand, voters included, and endure the hot April sunshine.
The council members are solemnly dressed in black or grey robes, giving them a judicial air, but since they’re standing on an elevated dais behind a wooden railing, they look as if they are on trial rather than giving judgement. In effect they are, as they have to face their electorate assembled in front of them. But before any debating can begin, the councillors and voters have to take the oath, exactly like the three men at Rütli. A forest of right hands shoots up, all with thumb and two fingers in position, and everyone swears together. To someone less cynical it might seem like a video for a Queen song, but to me all those arms raised in unison look spookily like a mini-Nuremberg rally. Just don’t tell the Appenzellers I said that.
Once the session has begun, any voter can get up and speak on any issue being decided. No vote is taken until everyone who wants to has had their say, which can be a lengthy process. It’s rather like being at Speaker’s Corner in Hyde Park, though without the heckling. In fact it’s remarkably quiet. Speeches are heard in silence, with no clapping or cheering or even murmurs of discontent; audience participation, it seems, is limited to listening and voting. It’s all very civilised, if a little lacking in vitality. Each debate ends in a vote, with hands in the air for yea or nay and a winner declared without an exact count, and the session moves slowly on. The most excitement in the first hour comes when one voter faints in the heat and has to be helped out of the inner circle. Not that anyone really notices because the big issue of the day is up next. Naked hiking.
The Landsgemeinde always attracts a crowd and local TV, but today the audience is bigger and the reporters are international, all thanks to the naked hikers. A sharp rise in their numbers coming to Appenzell Innerrhoden led to a proposal banning the pastime, much to the glee of commentators from around the world. The debate is short and the vote overwhelmingly in favour, meaning that naked hikers now face a fine of 200Fr if caught.3 What amazes me is not the result but that a few brave souls voted against it. In a flash, all their friends and neighbours know the truth: either they like walking in the altogether or they are softy liberals who would let it happen. And that for me is the problem with this whole process.
This is a demonstration of democracy in its purest form. Everyone has a chance to be involved and have their say, and those elected are forced to answer directly to their voters. But it can also exert such peer pressure that democracy itself is strangled. Imagine everyone in your town knowing exactly what you think and how you vote – and in Switzerland that doesn’t just mean which party you vote for but, thanks to the referendum system, also your views on every other issue, from passive smoking and income tax to foreign policy and the age of consent. Literally standing up for your beliefs in the face of a huge majority could be a step too far for some people. It’s a world away from secret ballots or hanging chads, but is it the best way for a modern democracy to function? I am less than sure.
The naked vote over, the crowd begins to thin even though the debates carry on. Gregor and I retire to the shade for some much-needed sustenance and end up sharing a table with an elderly couple. It turns out they’re from over the border in Appenzell Ausserrhoden and they make a day out of it every year, now that Ausserrhoden no longer has its own Landsgemeinde. They clearly miss it. Unlike many other Swiss these two are happy to chat to anyone, and once they start there’s no stopping them. They gladly tell us that the men in smart uniforms and helmets are the Ausserrhoden firemen, drafted in for guard duty. And that when it rains, you can have an umbrella
up as long as you take it down to vote, so that all the raised hands can be seen. The most telling remark is that the Landsgemeinde is not only about debating and voting, important though they are, but about a sense of belonging. Thousands of voters from the whole canton, not just the main town, come in for the day to catch up with old friends, discuss the burning issues, go to church, eat a sausage and be part of the decision-making process. What is lost in anonymity is gained in community.
By the time we’ve all finished eating and chatting, the Landsgemeinde is over and the voters leave the square. Most are dressed in their Sunday best, which means lots of dark suits for the men, lending a funereal air to it all. Somewhat more bizarre is that many men are carrying a sword, more the Errol Flynn rapier type than a Crusader double-hander. Until 1991, the sword was the only symbol of being entitled to vote (and usually held aloft in each vote) and was handed down from father to son; these days it’s a ceremonial accessory, though men can still carry it instead of an official card as proof of their right to vote.4
It might seem old-fashioned and parochial, but the Landsgemeinde is the most prominent physical incarnation of direct democracy, the bedrock of Swiss politics. At a community level such public meetings are fairly common, though usually held indoors, but otherwise direct democracy takes the form of a referendum.
BEGINNER’S GUIDE TO THE REFERENDUM
Politics in Switzerland is, in effect, a series of conversations rather than confrontations: the government is a permanent coalition, so has to talk to everyone to build consensus; parliament is never dominated by one party, so is a talking-shop on a grand scale; and the people get their say through the referendum, an integral part of the system.
Introduced as part of the 1848 Federal Constitution, the referendum is used for any and every issue in the country. At a local level, about shop opening hours or a new tram line; at a cantonal level, on anti-smoking laws or foreign language in schools; at a federal level, about joining the EU or changing VAT. In short, the Swiss people are the final decision makers on almost every single policy, whether it affects their own neighbourhood or the whole country. This democratic freedom and the right to be heard are inalienable rights for the Swiss, who proudly view them as the source of their stability and prosperity.
Other countries use referenda, as do many US states, but no one does it quite to the same extent as the Swiss. They have to vote three or four times a year on whatever issue is up for debate. No wonder, then, that there are different types of referendum; it would be far too simple to have just one sort. Some are mandatory, some not; some start the legislative process, others end it; some require a simple majority, others are more complicated. It can seem rather like Eskimos and snow, with more than one word for the same thing, but here’s a quick guide to the rules at national level:
The obligatory referendum. This does what it says on the tin, and must follow any constitutional amendment or binding application to join international organisations like the EU.
The optional referendum. Parliamentary decisions and legislation can be put to a popular vote, but only if 50,000 valid signatures are collected within 100 days. This threat of rejection by the voters is the main force behind making most legislation a compromise acceptable to the majority.
The popular initiative. Anyone can propose a vote on any issue, as long as it doesn’t violate either the constitution or international law. Proposers have 18 months to collect 100,000 valid signatures in order to force a vote, be that on abolishing the army (failed) or joining the UN (passed).5 This can be thought of as the people’s referendum.
The counter-proposal. If parliament disagrees with a popular initiative, it can put forward its own alternative. Both are voted on at the same time and, bizarrely, both can be approved, known as a double yes. The one with the most yes votes is the winner.6
Much the same system operates at a cantonal level, with the big difference being the number of signatures needed to trigger a vote. For example, in Canton Bern a popular initiative needs 15,000 names, but an optional referendum only 10,000;7 in Canton Fribourg it’s 6000 for either type,8 and Canton Aargau requires only 3000 for either.9 It’s all relative to the population.
The most important thing to remember about the referendum is that the people’s say is final and binding. If the vote is no, the legislation falls or the treaty goes unratified or the initiative fails. The government does not resign if it loses; it just goes back to the drawing board and tries to find a new compromise. A yes vote approves legislation or forces the government to transform a popular initiative into law. But then there’s the small print, which can mean that a yes becomes a no. It’s all about a double majority, one from the people and one from the cantons.
For your average referendum, of which there are lots, a simple majority of the national vote is needed. Popular initiatives rarely manage even this; fewer than 10 per cent pass, making most of them unpopular initiatives. In addition to this electoral majority, all obligatory referenda also need a cantonal majority, as do any initiatives that propose constitutional changes. It’s a mechanism to protect the small, and generally more conservative, cantons from being outvoted, but it gives them disproportionate influence. Each canton is equivalent to one vote, so Canton Geneva, with its 200,000 or so voters, is equal to Canton Uri with 25,000. The exceptions are the six half-cantons, which only count as half a vote each, so that even though there are officially 26 cantons, a majority of 12 is needed in a referendum.10 In a close vote this can make all the difference. The irony is that changing this double-majority system requires a constitutional amendment, which needs double-majority approval. Since the small cantons are probably not going to vote for their own emasculation, it’s unlikely to happen.
It may seem complicated but it’s a system that works, albeit at a glacial pace. Transforming a popular initiative into an act of parliament, or getting a law passed by the people, can take years. Parliament approved giving women the right to vote in 1959, but it took another 12 years before the (male) voters agreed.11 And since fewer than half of all referenda are passed, trying to win the voters’ approval can be a long, fruitless task. Patience and a long-term view are needed, something the Swiss are rather good at: let’s contemplate having a meeting about forming a working group to look at the possibility of setting up a committee to plan an initiative that will propose a law that might come into effect in five years. That’s pretty much how the system works, and no one seems to mind that the rest of the world is moving at the speed of light. ‘Change’ would not be a winning theme in Switzerland.
STABILITY, PROSPERITY, COMMUNITY
The Swiss are right to see direct democracy, slow as it is, as the basis for their country’s stability and prosperity. Simply being a federation isn’t enough to sustain a nation; just look at what happened in the not so United States in the 1860s or to Yugoslavia in the 1990s. Involving all the people all the time, not just once every four years, gives everyone the chance to have their say and feel included. True, the process can sometimes be hijacked by single-issue campaigns, but these are the exception. More often, the referendum process can save the day when things threaten to spiral out of control.
A good example is the Jura separatism of the late 1970s. Every community in question was asked to choose between staying in Canton Bern or joining a new canton, Jura. A series of local referenda resolved each problem, silenced the rioters and created the newest Swiss canton; a decision ratified by a national referendum, of course. Boundaries were not determined by decree but decided by the people affected, perhaps the only peaceful way to progress. Thus, French-speaking Protestant communities along the new border could choose between being a religious minority in a Catholic canton or a linguistic one in a German-speaking canton. They chose the latter.
This attention to detail at a micro level gives the Swiss system the power and flexibility to deal with almost any issue, and not just because of referenda. Nationally Switzerland is divided into 26 cantons, but almost as imp
ortant is the smallest subdivision of Swiss politics: the community, or Gemeinde in German, commune in French. Ranging in population from fewer than 20 to over 370,000, there are more than 2500 Swiss communities,12 though their number is declining steadily as small ones struggle to survive so voluntarily merge with neighbours. Each community is almost like a mini-republic, with decisions made by an elected council or, more usually, an annual general assembly of voters. It is responsible for basic services such as schools, roads, police, water supply and health. More crucially, your income tax depends on which community you live in, and you can only become a Swiss citizen once you have been accepted into your community. It is the basic building block of Swiss democracy, but like every part of the system, the community is wholly answerable to its citizens.
At community, cantonal and national level, the referendum system works because it involves everyone. It forces the politicians to address the issues and engages the voters in the detail of the debate. Most Swiss people love nothing more than discussing whichever issue is coming up at the next referendum; they may end up not voting, but they’ll have an opinion, usually a well-informed one. In the weeks preceding a referendum, it’s hard to escape it. Every street corner seems to have a poster exhorting you to vote JA! or NEIN! (or even oui/si or non/no), with smaller versions in the newspapers. Political discussion programmes on television, which are inordinately popular all year round, become obsessed with debating the ins and outs of immigration or health insurance. A member of the government pops up on television to explain the official line, which in itself is unusual because political advertising on TV is banned: no party political broadcasts, no ads paid for by the committee to re-elect the president. But there’s no lack of information; all the voters have to do is decide.