Is a developmental state possible?

SINCE its inception, Pakistan has frequently undergone immense socio-political and economic crises.

The latter, according to the practice of interventionist military orthodoxy, have been managed with military takeovers and various post-martial law (erroneously called democratic) regimes that have been tactfully inducted into office and then overthrown by the powers that be in Islamabad.

The current political phase that started in October 1999 and which has been on a bumpy ride since March 2007 is no exception to this pattern, although it provides ample opportunities for challenging the above-mentioned orthodoxy.

In the search of such opportunities, a vast array of frameworks capable of analysing the recurrence of home-grown stresses can be employed. However, at least one such framework should attempt to unearth the politico-economic malaise latent in the role of the state earmarked and in the economic growth models which the country is currently pursuing.

One such framework identified for this article is the theory of the developmental state. There are two basic reasons why I have chosen this specific developmental state framework. The first reason is that it is time to move away from the Washington Consensus (read confusion) approach which emerges from a more political than economic framework called neo-liberalism as a prescriptive diagnostic tool.

This approach calls for “rolling back the government” and creating a “minimalist state”. The neo-liberal agenda, which Pakistan has been following since the mid-1980s, needs revision involving an institutionalist political economy approach embodied in the developmental state model.

The second reason is that instead of looking at the situation from the perspective of Pakistan as a failed state, one can try to prescribe what political leaders and economic managers should do to take the high road towards a possible developmental state.

It is worthwhile to mention that the developmental state model emerged during the 1980s as a unified theoretical construct, explaining the economic and industrial transformation of the East Asian miracle economies.

Being the principal architect of the concept, Chalmers Johnson wrote about the distinctive features of the economic development schema deployed in Japan. This theory was later enriched by the seminal works of eminent scholars such Robert Wade, Alice Amsden, Ha-Joon Chang and Peter Evans who provided valuable insights into econo-industrial development elsewhere in East Asia.

Generally speaking, the developmental state framework pointed out that the state in East Asia was neither a minimalist state nor a centrally planned politico-economic management one. Four typical characteristics, namely, political stability, the elaborate division of labour between the state and the private sector, investment in education while ensuring equitable distribution of wealth and opportunities, and establishing intervention in price mechanisms were identified. From these four characteristics, one can understand the length and breadth of the road ahead for revising economic growth and governance strategies in Pakistan.

The current situation in Pakistan, however, indicates that these four characteristics are hardly existent. Bureaucracy, which forms the lifeline and administrative face of a developmental state, is largely inefficient, ineffective, dishonest, and poorly fed. Inequality both in opportunity and income terms is rising with the state almost unable to guide the markets to adjust prices for social and developmental objectives. The current wheat crisis and a deplorable state of high-value generating industrialisation speak volumes for the state of affairs. Over and above, political stability is invisible like a black cat in a dark room.

Interestingly, in Pakistan, since the 1980s, the interventionist econo-industrial developmental role of the state has been demonised by the predominantly neo-liberal economic managers. According to this school of thought, free market is the only answer to the economic- and governance-related ills of Pakistan because of sheer “government failure”. This propaganda is tangent to the equitable economic development vision rooted in the institutionalist political economy and developmental state model.

The developmental state model is about strengthening and capacitating the institutions in line with developmental objectives rather than rolling them back.

Can Pakistan follow the developmental state model? The answer lies in Peter Evan’s words that replication can be the adaptive reverse engineering of transferable lessons found in East Asian economic policies and institutional prerequisites.

In order to manage the crisis of the state, while moving away from neo-liberal free-market theory as a diagnostic-prescriptive tool, Pakistan may try rediscovering the role of the state that can facilitate industrial and economic transformation. This vision is not about “macroeconomic fundamentals” only; it is also about much deeper intervention to reduce Pakistan’s rising financial, structural, regional and social inequality with industrial and economic growth and productivity.

Pursuing a developmental state model, the economic managers in Pakistan and the international development establishment need to recognise a basic fact. In the words of Ha-Joon Chang, this is that the capitalist system offers greater institutional diversity than recognised by the neo-liberal orthodoxy believing in the “primacy of markets”. This primacy of market is no more than a myth because the market, in essence, is the exposition of certain rights and obligations. It performs better if governance is better. The wheat, water and electricity production and distribution crisis indicate that these rights and obligations are being trampled upon ruthlessly in Pakistan.

However, along with seeking a developmental economic outlook, political stability — not in terms of perpetuating personal rule but in terms of the legitimacy to rule — has to be established. Such political stability, a hallmark of a developmental state, cannot be instituted without restoring the independence of those institutions which establish the rule of law and generate respect for the constitution. This is the respect for the constitution and system of judicial dispensation which promotes the people’s trust in the autonomy of the state.

Respectful behaviour towards the constitution, which is a supreme document giving ideology and structure to a state, tells the citizens that their state is not captured and will never become predatory. Such autonomy anchored in political stability gives the strongest signals to systems of economic production (firms), exchange (markets) and governmental regulation that vested interests will not rule the economy but that the principles of equity and the provision of secure livelihood will.

The autonomy of the state also communicates to the neo-liberal prescriptions of privatisation and liberalisation that these prescriptions will be scrutinised in the light of the developmental objectives of the state and not blindly followed. To cut a long story short, the developmental state framework embodies a host of viable prescriptions for the many crises which Pakistan is experiencing. The basic issue is, however, the need to take the framework seriously.

While concluding, let us consider for a while that if Botswana, Uganda, Ghana and Mauritius in Africa can show that commitment to institution-building to establish a democratic developmental state is possible then why not Pakistan? Perhaps we need to seriously challenge the interventionist military orthodoxy’s position that the state can be managed well by frequently suspending the state’s ideology-structure nexus.

This vision needs to be replaced with a nationalistic one that democratic developmental states are established on the principles of political legitimacy, the rule of law, democracy and autonomy, with a commitment to ensuring equity in economic development. Pakistan has the potential so let us try it out. Lawyers, the media and civil society are out there to give it a try.

Living on the edge

“I CANNOT relax or sleep. I have no appetite and have lost 10kgs in weight. I am frightened of going out or letting my children go out. I cannot stay alone in the house. My family is getting exasperated with me.” These symptoms were related by a 39-year-old housewife who was caught in the traffic jam on the evening of Dec 27, 2007, following the news that Benazir Bhutto had been assassinated in Rawalpindi.

The car she was travelling in was attacked by a mob near Kala Pul and set on fire. She barely managed to escape with her young son and daughter. The incident has affected her so profoundly that she breaks down every time she thinks about it.

I relate the story to illustrate the terrible toll the present political crisis is taking on the mental health of our people. Thousands of people are suffering from the after-effects of the tragedy at Liaquat Bagh and the mayhem that followed it. Within minutes of the announcement of Benazir’s death the country — from Khyber to Karachi — exploded. The rapidity with which the country reacted surprised everyone.

We heard stories of people being caught unawares, on the roads, while shopping, visiting relatives or at their workplaces. People had to take refuge in relatives’ houses or with strangers or stayed at their workplace.

Many got home the next day. In Karachi many rushed to get home, only to be caught up in one of the worst traffic jams in the history of the city. Many people were robbed of their valuables as they waited helplessly in long queues.

Almost everyone had a story to relate. Pictures of burning vehicles, of looting and violence were flashed on our television screens.

Later, just when it appeared we were regaining some sense of normality a rumour that Dr Farooq Sattar had been killed was spread in Karachi. Until the rumour was quashed, the reaction and the ensuing panic was almost as swift as that witnessed on Dec 27. Such is the mental state of the people.

The present crisis is taking a heavy toll on the mental health of the people of Pakistan. We know that even during so-called normal times, the mental health of Pakistanis is severely compromised.

We have one of the highest rates of depression and anxiety (known as Common Mental Disorders or CMDs) in the developing world, with an estimated 34 per cent or 25 million of our adult population being affected. If cases of drug abuse, psychosomatic disorders and child psychiatry are added to the list, this figure would increase substantially.

We know there is a high usage of tranquillisers, sleeping tablets and anti-depressants, all of which are available over-the-counter.

Unlike the West, factors associated with CMDs in Pakistan include a high degree of social adversity faced by the population who have to contend with poverty, unemployment, the lack of housing, a severely compromised position for women, the deteriorating law and order situation and poor access to justice.

Since the political crisis that started in March last year, there has been a strong sense of insecurity and uncertainty amongst the people who appear to be living on the edge perpetually. The subsequent events of May 12, Oct 18, Nov 3 and Dec 27 have further frayed their nerves. There is a sense of hopelessness and helplessness (bezaari and bebassi).

People have watched the humiliating treatment meted out to the highest law officers of the country. They have watched the treatment of the few true cricketing icons of this country. Their sense of insecurity becomes more intense and their sense of hopelessness even more profound. They ask that if the Chief Justice and a national hero can be treated with so much disdain, where do the common people stand? They have watched aghast the police brutality against lawyers and others including women and students protesting peacefully, and are wondering what kind of country they are living in.

They are confused when they read that the president of the Supreme Court Bar Association is under house arrest under the Maintenance of Public Order, while the whole country is rioting. Could there be a greater mockery of misuse of government power than this?

They are terrified of suicide bombings which have become an everyday occurrence, and fear going out. They have erratic electricity, there is food crisis in the country, poverty is increasing day by day and there is a serious law and order situation in Pakistan.

The current crisis is having a very negative effect on our children. Children hear and see what is happening around them. They hear their parents and elders discuss the grave political situation. This can leave a scar on their innocent psyche and affect them for years. This may become apparent in their behaviour, affect their relationships and their academic performance. It can lead to all kinds of psychological problems, from post-traumatic stress disorders to depression and anxiety, to alcohol and drug abuse.

At the very least it can change them from civilised human beings with values and principles and leading respectable lives to violent and aggressive ones with little respect and regard for others. Many a traumatised Pakistani child of today is tomorrow’s suicide bomber. Our ‘leaders’ ought to look at such causes of terror if they want to prevent future acts of terror.

With already so much poverty, disease and misery in the country, without the added burden of a man-made political crisis, could the billions being spent on the so-called war on terror not be employed to improve the lot of the suffering masses? Should we not be declaring an emergency in the education and health sector instead?

This madness and needless psychological trauma that our people are being subjected to has to stop. Our leaders have to step back and think of the trauma they are causing, the effects of which will last for years to come. They need to read and to heed the lessons of history. Above all, they need to respect the sanctity of human life.

John Adam Smith (1723-1790) the Scottish economist and philosopher wrote: “No society can surely be flourishing and happy, of which the far greater part of the members are poor and miserable.”

Leaders in Islamabad ought to reflect on Adam Smith’s words. If they are able to do that, they may yet prevent the needless psychological trauma being inflicted on the already fragile and abused psyche of the Pakistani people. If they do not, neither the people nor history will ever forgive them.

The writer is professor of psychiatry at the Aga Khan University, Karachi

muradmk@gmail.com

Use and misuse

IF someone were to write the annals of day-to-day government work, he would find the business of the so-called misuse of official facilities a most common subject, yielding so many stories that a whole book could be compiled.

You will find this piece full of anecdotes about this subject; all of them true and calculated to keep you amused till my next weekly column.

This so-called misuse of facilities by government officials and their families is a favourite topic with newspaper reporters. Whenever some of them are short of a story, and the editor pulls them up for not working hard enough, they resort to this good old stand-by. Sometimes a photograph is also given, showing as an example a staff car parked outside a school. Such a photograph is most easily available.

According to an agency report some weeks ago, a Punjab minister warned officers of his department that misuse of official transport would not be tolerated any more. Having worked in the provincial government for a long time, I can say that this was probably the hundred and twenty-fifth such warning ever since the Punjab government came into existence in August 1947.

Ministers seem to think that staff cars can only be misused by officers. It never occurs to them that they themselves are the biggest culprits in this regard. Allotted one car, they use up to five at a time, “requisitioned” from the departments given in their care. I suppose they feel that as elected representatives of the people they have a special privilege to do so.

An officer I knew always used to scoff at these allegations of misuse. “What do you mean by misuse?” he used to ask. “Misuse is when you use a thing for a purpose other than it is meant for. A car is for transporting people.

That is what I use it for. It would be misuse if I were to treat it as a refrigerator or employ it as a kennel for my Alsatian. I never misuse it.”

In the days of One Unit an officer in the provincial information department ran his office station wagon regularly on the Hyderabad-Hala route as a minibus. He was able to supplement his meagre salary this way, and so was the driver. His nemesis came when one day he raised the fare.

A magistrate who was a regular commuter refused to pay the extra charge, and when he was not allowed to board the wagon he reported the matter to the authorities. The magistrate’s only objection was to the arbitrary increase in fare, otherwise he thought the information man was doing a useful public service.

I am glad the authorities also thought so, and the chap was let off with a reprimand.

This particular officer was quite enterprising.

Deprived of his extra income and posted to a less lucrative place, he once loaded a stray donkey into his official vehicle during a journey from Mirpurkhas to Hyderabad, and sold it off at the next small town that fell en route.

The story eventually got around, but thankfully nothing came of it. Readers can debate the point whether this was a proper misuse of the staff car or improper.

Staff cars became hot news in 1988 when Prime Minister Mohammad Khan Junejo suddenly decided that officers (including army officers) should be allowed to use smaller cars. The bigger ones were auctioned off in their hundreds all over the country. I was in service then, and had to shift from a Toyota Corolla to a Suzuki. We called it the soapdish. A colleague, having a figure of a Punjabi wrestler, had to be pushed in and pulled out by his PA and naib qasid. The officers were very unhappy at this. If Mr Junejo had held office at their pleasure, or by their votes, he would have lost it.

A friend of mine had been using a 1600 cc car through one of those administrative sleights of hand which only experience can teach. He was supposed to transfer himself into an 800 cc car that was waiting for him but he could not bring himself about to do so.

He tried to convince his ministry that if allowed to retain the big car he would always seat another officer of his grade with him so that each of them would only be using 800 cc of the car’s capacity. Unfortunately this mathematically correct offer was not accepted. Ministries can be really mean.

Mr Junejo’s decision was scathingly criticised by the families of the affected officers. Begums in particular are very touchy on questions of prestige. Bureaucrats may not consider themselves specially privileged but their wives are not given to modesty in such matters. They can frequently be heard referring to old days as “When we were commissioner of Bahawalpur,” or “When we were posted as JS in the economic affairs division,” and so forth.

For them the new situation was nothing short of a trauma, and only they could appreciate the feelings of their children when they refused to go to school in anything less than 1300 cc. You have to have a sensitive mind to understand such feelings.

So let the Punjab minister, referred to above, issue as many warnings as he likes. Even if all his cabinet colleagues joined him in threatening officers with dire consequences (which is never going to come about), the use or misuse of staff cars for private purposes is not going to end.

This is now a right derived from usage (or misusage, if there is such a word) and lapses only with death or superannuation.

The morning after

ANYONE who expects to wake up on the morning of Feb 19 and find himself languishing on a bed of roses needs a refresher course in political floriculture.

Whatever the outcome of the unequal contest for the seats in the national and provincial assemblies, that post-election morning the realities that will confront any government — regardless of its political complexion or composition — are far graver than even the present contenders might perhaps realise at the moment.

There are some obvious ones that everyone acknowledges — the creeping cancer of terrorism, the nose-diving economy, the abrasive civil-military partnership. There are others, more long-term, that no one wishes to recognise: education, energy and evolution.

Take education — if you can get it. The only Pakistanis who can afford to be complacent about the state of education in the country are those who are either a few years away from their birth, or from their death. No one in between should dare to, and no prospective government should be allowed to.

Less than 10 years ago, in 1999-2000, the enrolment of our next generation of voters in all types of schools was 25 million. Out of them, eight million could pay for their education in private schools. The remaining 17 million went to public schools where the state paid for their education and they themselves paid for their state-sponsored ignorance. In that same year, an equal number — 25 million — of our children never went to school.

Less than three years ago, in 2004-05, the comparable enrolment figure was 33 million, of whom 12 million went to private schools and 21 million to public institutions. The number who could not go to any school decreased to 19 million. Optimists used to viewing a half-filled glass will see this as a sign of social improvement; pessimists will cavil about its vacuous half-emptiness.

Realists though will concern themselves with the quality of its contents and the speed of its evaporation. An indication of both is startlingly obvious when one is told by government functionaries that the dropouts in 1999-2000 were almost eight million children and in 2004-5, about 5.5 million. More than half in each year dropped out during their primary, formative years. Can any nation take pride in being a nuclear power when almost 20 million of its youth will never have the opportunity to learn how to spell the word ‘nuclear’, in any national language or in any regional dialect?

Take energy — if you can get it. Forecasts show a broadening gap between inexorable demand and attainable availability. Each organisation involved in the management of our energy needs and resources — whether at the government or at the corporate level, whether in the generation, transmission or the distribution sectors — realises that the future can never be better than the past.

The panic in the late 1990s that led to indiscriminate alliances with IPPs is likely to be repeated again shortly. This time the situation is grimmer. Countries like China and India are already ahead of us in the queue for power plants. Book now, if you want to avoid disappointment seven years from now.

Responsible officials in the Planning Commission have been advising past governments (as they will undoubtedly the next one) that the present power generation capability in the country can be increased almost eight-fold in the next 20 years, that our power generation capacity can make a giant leap from an existing 20,000MW or so to over 160,000MW by 2030. This is the kind of impossible target pen-pushing planners leave as a curse for their successors.

Take water — if you can find it. Environmentalists, used to serving mineral water in bottles at seminars they organise to lament the depletion of our water resources, will not tell you that the per capita availability is now one-fifth of what it was 50 years ago, nor that by 2025 it will be less than the level at which other nations declare drought conditions.

Take evolution. As human beings we may have learned how to walk but we have not yet learned how to walk upright, as socially responsible citizens. We bend with every breeze and genuflect at the sound of every noise. On Feb 18, we will vote in a government that — if it is to succeed — must be accepted by all as the nation’s government. That is easier said than ordered.

In December 1970, the morning after the elections conducted by President Yahya Khan, the results were accepted by all the political contestants, particularly the Awami League and the Pakistan People’s Party. None of them questioned the results; their quibble was over the disturbing consequences those results held out for them, in East or West Pakistan or at the federal level.

On Feb 19, the true laurels, therefore, should be awarded not to the victor but to those contestants who accept the general election results and then agree to sit in the opposition benches. At the same time, those expecting the seat of government should prepare themselves not for a bed of roses but for a treasury bench of thorns.