The Charter, Federalism, and the Constitution, La Charte, le

Transcription

Editorial Board / Comité de rédaction
Editor-in-Chief
Rédacteur en chef
Kenneth McRoberts, York University, Canada
Associate Editors
Rédacteurs adjoints
Alan Cairns, University of British Columbia, Canada
Mary Jean Green, Dartmouth College, U.S.A.
Lynette Hunter, University of Leeds, United Kingdom
Danielle Juteau, Université de Montréal, Canada
Managing Editor
Secrétaire de rédaction
Guy Leclair, ICCS/CIEC, Ottawa, Canada
Advisory Board / Comité consultatif
Alessandro Anastasi, Universita di Messina, Italy
Michael Burgess, University of Keele, United Kingdom
Paul Claval, Université de Paris-Sorbonne (Paris IV), France
Dona Davis, University of South Dakota, U.S.A.
Peter H. Easingwood, University of Dundee, United Kingdom
Ziran He, Guangzhou Institute of Foreign Languages, China
Helena G. Komkova, Institute of the USA and Canada, USSR
Shirin L. Kudchedkar, SNDT Women’s University, India
Karl Lenz, Freie Universität Berlin, Germany
Gregory Mahler, University of Mississippi, U.S.A.
James P. McCormick, California State University, U.S.A.
William Metcalfe, University of Vermont, U.S.A.
Chandra Mohan, University of Delhi, India
Elaine F. Nardocchio, McMaster University, Canada
Satoru Osanai, Chuo University, Japan
Manuel Parés I Maicas, Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona, Espagne
Réjean Pelletier, Université Laval, Canada
Gemma Persico, Universita di Catania, Italy
Richard E. Sherwin, Bar Ilan University, Israel
William J. Smyth, St. Patrick’s College, Ireland
Sverker Sörlin, Umea University, Sweden
Oleg Soroko-Tsupa, Moscow State University, USSR
Michèle Therrien, Institut des langues et civilisations orientales, France
Gaëtan Tremblay, Université du Québec à Montréal, Canada
Hillig J.T. van’t Land, Rijksuniversiteit Groningen, Pays-Bas
Mel Watkins, University of Toronto, Canada
Gillian Whitlock, Griffith University, Australia
Donez Xiques, Brooklyn College, U.S.A.
ii
International Journal of Canadian Studies
Revue internationale d’études canadiennes
7-8 Spring-Fall/7-8 printemps-automne 1993
The Charter, Federalism, and the Constitution
La Charte, le fédéralisme et la Constitution
Table of Contents/Table des matières
Alan C. Cairns
Introduction/Présentation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
José Woehrling
La crise constitutionnelle et le réaménagement des rapports entre le Québec
et le Canada anglais . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
Peter H. Russell
Attempting Macro Constitutional Change in Australia and Canada: The
Politics of Frustration . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41
David M. Thomas
Turning a Blind Eye: Constitutional Abeyances and the Canadian
Experience . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63
Richard LaRue et Jocelyn Létourneau
De l’unité et de l’identité au Canada. Essai sur l’éclatement
d’un État . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81
Richard Sigurdson
Left- and Right-Wing Charterphobia in Canada: A Critique of the
Critics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95
Janet Hiebert
Rights and Public Debate: The Limitations of a ‘Rights must be Paramount’
Perspective . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117
Linda Cardinal
Les mouvements sociaux et la Charte canadienne des droits et
libertés . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137
Andrew D. Heard
Quebec Courts and the Canadian Charter of Rights . . . . . . . . . . . 153
François Rocher et Daniel Salée
Démocratie et réforme constitutionnelle : discours et pratique. . . . . . 167
Stephen McBride
Renewed Federalism as an Instrument of Competitiveness: Liberal Political
Economy and the Canadian Constitution . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187
Lilianne E. Krosenbrink-Gelissen
The Canadian Constitution, the Charter, and Aboriginal Women’s Rights:
Conflicts and Dilemmas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 207
Radha Jhappan
Inherency, Three Nations and Collective Rights: the Evolution of
Aboriginal Constitutional Discourse from 1982 to the
Charlottetown Accord . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 225
Jill Vickers
The Canadian Women’s Movement and a Changing Constitutional Order
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 261
Max Nemni
La Commission Bélanger-Campeau et la construction de l’idée de sécession
au Québec . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 285
Review Essays/Essais critiques
Michael Oliver
The Impact of the Royal Commission on Bilingualism and Biculturalism on
Constitutional Thought and Practice in Canada . . . . . . . . . . . . . 315
David R. Cameron
Not Spicer and Not the B & B: Reflections of an Insider on the Workings of
the Pepin-Robarts Task Force on Canadian Unity . . . . . . . . . . . . 333
Allan Tupper
English-Canadian Scholars and the Meech Lake Accord . . . . . . . . 347
Introduction
Présentation
To an anthropologist from distant
lands, the Canadian obsession with
the constitution might be seen as a
cargo cult—the millenarian belief
that the perfect constitution will be
delivered up by some magical
process, after which Canadian lions
and lambs will cavort peaceably
together. Undoubtedly, Canadians
have devoted inordinate time to
constitutional introspection in the
last three decades. Canadian
scholars have accompanied, and
sometimes tried to lead, the public
and the political elites in the search
for a new constitutional
equilibrium.
À les voir tant obsédés par leur
Constitution, un anthropologue de
l’autre bout du monde doit bien
penser que les Canadiens pratiquent
un culte millénariste et attendent
d’un processus magique la parfaite
constitution qui permettra aux lions
et aux agneaux canadiens de
gambader côte-à-côte. C’est vrai
qu’ils ont consacré au cours des
trente dernières années un temps
fou à l’introspection
constitutionnelle. Les universitaires
et les spécialistes canadiens ont
souvent accompagné et tenté de
guider le public et les élites
politiques dans leur quête d’un
nouvel équilibre constitutionnel.
Both the authors and the subjects of
the articles that follow confirm the
contrast between yesterday’s and
today’s constitutional world.
Constitutional analysis is no longer
dominated by lawyers; federalism
does not enjoy an unchallenged
pride of place as the subject matter
par excellence of the written
constitution; and French- English (or
Quebec-Rest of Canada) cleavages do
not exhaust the contemporary
national question in Canada.
As this volume reveals, the opening
up of the constitution means,
among other things, diversifying the
disciplinary backgrounds of those
who study it to include political
scientists, philosophers and
sociologists. This is the academic
version of the recent democratizing
of Canadian constitutional
discourse. The catalyst for this
democratization, which induced
resort to a referendum judgement
on the 1992 Charlottetown Accord,
is the Charter. The Charter’s
powerful symbolism, and the
concomitant relative displacement
of federalism as a constitutional
organizing principle, are illustrated
by the Charter’s central place in at
Autant les auteurs que les sujets des
articles ici publiés font voir le
contraste entre l’univers
constitutionnel d’hier et celui
d’aujourd’hui. La recherche
constitutionnelle n’est plus
l’apanage des juristes; le
fédéralisme n’occupe plus la place
d’honneur en tant qu’objet par
excellence de la constitution écrite;
et les divisions franco-anglaises
(Québec-Reste du Canada)
n’épuisent pas la question nationale
dans le Canada contemporain.
Comme ce numéro le montre bien,
le réexamen de la Constitution
suppose désormais que les
intervenants oeuvrent dans
plusieurs disciplines différentes,
dont la science politique, la
philosophie et la sociologie. C’est
la variante universitaire de la
récente démocratisation du débat
constitutionnel canadien. Le
catalyste de cette démocratisation,
qui a entraîné la tenue d’un
référendum sur l’Accord de
Charlottetown de 1992, c’est la
Charte canadienne des droits et
libertés. Le symbolisme puissant de
la Charte et le déclin relatif et
IJCS / RIÉC
least a third of the following
articles.
The emergence of Aboriginal
peoples to constitutional
prominence, aspects of which are
lucidly explored in two of the
essays, is no less revealing of the
kind of constitutional people(s)
Canadians have become. Their
evolution from constitutional
objects to constitutional participants
transforms what used to be the two
nations debate (French-English)
into a more complex debate about
the appropriate institutional and
constitutional response to a
multinational rather than binational
Canada.
Canada’s recent constitutional
pilgrimage has also undermined the
former virtual monopoly of men
over constitutional discourse and
the agenda of constitutional change.
Yesterday’s constitution, although
this was only dimly seen by our
predecessors, was male. The
unsettled relation of women to the
constitutional order, in particular to
future Aboriginal self-governments,
is a major constitutional issue
explored in the articles that follow.
The intrepid cover-to-cover reader
of this volume will perhaps emerge
shaken, but he or she will also have
gained an appreciation of the
complexities of Canada’s
constitutional existence, and
therefore of why it is so difficult to
transform aspirations for change
into realized constitutional reform.
It may be, as the Thomas article
suggests, that Canadians would
have been wiser to have asked less
of the constitution, and to have
understood that it is wisdom, not
lack of courage, to leave some
constitutional stones unturned.
Unfortunately, however, the
momentum behind the pressure for
constitutional reform is unlikely to
disappear when where we are is an
unacceptable resting place to many
6
concomitant du fédéralisme en tant
que principe organisateur de la
Constitution sont clairement
illustrés par la place centrale
qu’occupe la Charte dans au moins
le tiers des articles du présent
numéro.
L’importance nouvelle des peuples
autochtones dans les discussions
constitutionnelles — deux essais
sont consacrés à certains aspects de
cette question — n’est pas moins
révélatrice de l’évolution des
Canadiens, tous « peuples »
confondus, en matière
constitutionnelle. De sujets de
discussion constitutionnelle qu’ils
étaient, ils sont devenus des
participants essentiels, transformant
ainsi un débat qui se déroulait entre
deux nations (Français — Anglais)
en une discussion complexe sur la
solution institutionnelle et
constitutionnelle qui conviendrait le
mieux à l’heure d’un Canada
multinational et non plus binational.
Le tout dernier pèlerinage canadien
en terre constitutionnelle a aussi
mis à mal le quasi-monopole des
hommes sur le discours
constitutionnel et sur les priorités à
l’ordre du jour. La Constitution
d’hier, même si nos prédécesseurs
n’en étaient guère conscients, était
mâle. L’importante question,
toujours pendante, du rapport des
femmes à l’ordre constitutionnel,
surtout en ce qui a trait aux futurs
gouvernements autochtones, est
également analysée dans les articles
qui suivent.
Le valeureux lecteur qui lira ce
numéro de la première à la dernière
ligne en sortira peut-être ébranlé. Il
ou elle en aura néanmoins mieux
saisi la complexité de la réalité
constitutionnelle et compris
pourquoi il est si difficile de
traduire les aspirations au
changement en solutions
constitutionnelles concrètes. Peutêtre, comme l’article de Thomas le
The Charter, Federalism, and the Constitution
La Charte, le fédéralisme et la Constitution
of the key actors, especially
Quebecois and Aboriginal
nationalists, and Alberta Senate
reformers.
We offer this volume to our readers
on the premise that no matter how
difficult a constitutional
rapprochement will be, an
understanding of the dialectic
between social forces and
constitutional arrangements is a
necessary if not sufficient
prerequisite for successful
constitutional change.
Alan C. Cairns
University of British Columbia
conseille, les Canadiens auraient-ils
été plus sages en exigeant moins de
leur Constitution, car en pareille
matière, la prudence — et non pas
la pusillanimité — veut qu’on évite
de remuer ciel et terre.
Malheureusement, les pressions en
faveur d’une révision
constitutionnelle ne se relâcheront
vraisemblablement pas, compte
tenu de la situation inacceptable de
nombre d’acteurs clés,
particulièrement les Québécois, les
nationalistes autochtones et les
Albertains qui préconisent une
réforme du Sénat.
Bien que fort conscients des
difficultés d’un rapprochement
constitutionnel, nous avons préparé
ce numéro dans le dessein d’aider
nos lectrices et lecteurs à saisir la
dialectique qui régit les rapports
entre les forces sociales et les
aménagements constitutionnels.
Nous n’ambitionnions pas de
résoudre le problème; seulement de
l’éclairer.
Alan C. Cairns
University of British Columbia
7
José Woehrling
La crise constitutionnelle et le réaménagement des
rapports entre le Québec et le Canada anglais*
Résumé
Si, en 1867, le Canada a été créé sous la forme d’une fédération plutôt que
d’un état unitaire, c’était essentiellement pour faciliter la coexistence de ses
deux « peuples fondateurs » : les francophones — qui ne sont majoritaires
qu’au Québec — et les anglophones — qui forment la majorité dans les neuf
autres provinces. Or, en 1982, malgré l’opposition du Québec et
contrairement à ses intérêts, le Canada anglais a apporté d’importantes
modifications à la Constitution du pays. Par la suite, le Québec a vainement
tenté d’obtenir des garanties qui protégeraient son caractère distinct en tant
que seule collectivité francophone sur un continent anglophone. L’échec de
cette tentative de réconciliation a entraîné la plus grave crise constitutionnelle
que le Canada ait connu depuis sa création. L’auteur examine l’évolution des
rapports entre le Québec et le Canada anglais, de 1867 à aujourd’hui, et
analyse les perspectives d’avenir.
Abstract
If Canada was created in 1867 as a federation rather than a unitary state, it
was largely to facilitate the coexistence of the two “founding peoples”:
Francophones, a majority only in the province of Quebec, and Anglophones,
the majority in the rest of Canada. However, in 1982, some important changes
in the Canadian Constitution were imposed by English Canada against the
wishes of Quebec and contrary to Quebec interests. Subsequently, Quebec has
tried in vain to obtain certain guarantees to protect its distinct character as the
sole Francophone society on an English-speaking continent. The failure of this
attempt at reconciliation has brought about the most serious constitutional
crisis that Canada has known since its creation. The author examines the
evolution of relations between Quebec and English-speaking Canada from
1867 to our day, and concludes by analyzing possible future scenarios.
Le Canada et le Québec traversent actuellement l’une des pires crises
constitutionnelles de leur histoire. Le réaménagement des accords politiques
qui servent de cadre à leurs rapports est devenu inévitable. Dans l’introduction,
nous ferons un rapide survol de l’évolution des relations entre le Québec et le
Canada anglais depuis 1867, année de la Confédération, jusqu’au
« rapatriement » de la Constitution en 1982, contre la volonté du Québec. Nous
examinerons ensuite les circonstances et les raisons de l’échec des deux
tentatives majeures qui ont été faites au cours de la dernière décennie pour
réformer la Constitution canadienne. Ce double échec a mis en lumière
l’ampleur des divergences qui existent entre les aspirations du Québec et celles
International Journal of Canadian Studies / Revue internationale d’études canadiennes
7-8, Spring-Fall/Printemps-automne 1993
IJCS / RIÉC
du Canada anglais. Nous concluerons par une analyse des différentes options
qui s’offrent pour l’avenir des relations entre le Québec et le Canada anglais.
Au moment de la création du Canada, en 1867, les francophones étaient déjà
minoritaires partout en Amérique du Nord, sauf au Québec. Aussi
favorisaient-ils l’adoption d’un système fédéral afin de s’assurer, au moins, le
contrôle démocratique d’un des États membres de la fédération et de disposer
d’instruments politiques susceptibles de protéger leur triple particularisme,
tenant à la langue française, à la religion catholique et au droit civil. Par la
suite, pendant près d’un siècle, le Québec réussit à préserver son autonomie et
sa spécificité sur un mode principalement défensif dans la mesure où la société
québécoise restait repliée sur elle-même et fondée sur des valeurs
traditionnelles. Les Canadiens français de cette époque cultivaient une
idéologie de la survivance et se cantonnaient dans un univers fermé aux
influences extérieures. Sur le plan constitutionnel, l’objectif des
gouvernements québécois était moins d’étendre leurs pouvoirs que de les
protéger contre tout empiètement. Cette attitude changera radicalement durant
la période qui va de 1955 à 1965 pendant laquelle se déroule la « Révolution
tranquille ». La société québécoise connaît alors une série de transformations
qui lui font rattraper en quelques années le retard qu’elle avait accumulé par
rapport aux autres sociétés occidentales.
À cette époque, le Québec se dote d’un appareil étatique moderne par la
création de nouveaux ministères et le développement de sa fonction publique.
Dans le domaine économique, les nouvelles élites québécoises cherchent à
conquérir une partie du pouvoir de décision traditionnellement détenu par les
anglophones. Pour y parvenir, elles utilisent les ressources et les instruments
de l’État québécois pour favoriser l’émergence d’une nouvelle classe
d’entrepreneurs et de capitalistes francophones. La fin des années soixante
marque également la mise en oeuvre d’une véritable politique linguistique
québécoise. On pouvait alors constater deux phénomènes sociaux fort
inquiétants : d’une part, la désaffection des immigrants à l’égard de l’école
française et, d’autre part, l’infériorité du français par rapport à l’anglais dans la
vie économique, et cela, même au Québec. À partir de là, les objectifs de la
politique linguistique québécoise vont s’imposer en quelque sorte d’euxmêmes : le premier sera d’amener les immigrants à fréquenter l’école française
et le deuxième visera à rehausser le prestige de la langue française et son utilité
dans la vie économique. Ces deux objectifs n’ont jamais été remis en cause; au
contraire, ils ont été poursuivis de façon systématique par tous les
gouvernements qui se sont succédés au Québec depuis 1970 : le gouvernement
libéral de M. Robert Bourassa, qui a fait adopter en 1974 la Loi sur la langue
officielle (ou « loi 22 »); puis le gouvernement du Parti québécois, dirigé par
René Lévesque, qui a fait voter en 1977 la Charte de la langue française (ou
« loi 101 »). De la loi 22 à la loi 101, les buts sont restés les mêmes, seuls les
moyens et les modalités ont changé : la loi 101 est plus sévère, plus coercitive
et plus « englobante » que la loi 22. En 1985, lorsqu’il est revenu au pouvoir,
le gouvernement libéral de M. Bourassa a conservé la loi 101 sans y apporter
de modifications très importantes. La loi régit le statut des langues dans trois
secteurs principaux : les institutions publiques, la vie économique et
l’éducation. Dans ces trois domaines, elle a pour objectif de rehausser le statut
du français. Pour y parvenir, elle limite en partie les droits ou privilèges
traditionnels des anglophones.
En matière constitutionnelle, la « Révolution tranquille » a fait passer le
Québec de la simple défense des pouvoirs acquis à la revendication de
10
rapports entre le Québec et le Canada anglais
pouvoirs nouveaux et nombreux. Après 1960, les gouvernements québécois
successifs vont tous réclamer une modification de la Constitution pour obtenir
les compétences supplémentaires estimées nécessaires à l’épanouissement de
la société québécoise. Ils demanderont donc soit une décentralisation générale
des pouvoirs valable pour toutes les provinces, soit la création d’un « statut
particulier » pour le Québec par lequel celui-ci se verrait reconnaître davantage
de compétences que les autres provinces.
Au fur et à mesure que le temps passe, les revendications constitutionnelles du
Québec vont d’ailleurs se durcir. Le gouvernement libéral de Jean Lesage, au
pouvoir entre 1960 et 1966, était resté foncièrement fédéraliste et avait adopté
le slogan « Maîtres chez nous ». Par contre, avec le gouvernement de l’Union
nationale de Daniel Johnson, qui s’était fait élire en 1966, le mot d’ordre était
devenu « Égalité ou indépendance ». En 1967, René Lévesque quittait le Parti
libéral pour créer le Parti québécois, dont le programme consiste à réaliser
l’indépendance du Québec. Neuf ans plus tard, en 1976, le Parti québécois
prenait le pouvoir et s’engageait à tenir un référendum sur un projet de
souveraineté politique du Québec, combiné avec une association économique
et monétaire avec le Canada.
Le référendum eut lieu en mai 1980, le « non » obtenant 59,56 p. 100 des voix
et le « oui », 40,44 p. 100. Cependant, après avoir rejeté le projet souverainiste
du Parti québécois, la population devait le maintenir au pouvoir lors des
élections qui suivirent, en 1981. Très rapidement, le gouvernement fédéral de
M. Trudeau allait mettre à profit la situation de faiblesse dans laquelle le
référendum avait placé le Québec. En 1982, avec l’appui des neuf provinces
anglaises, il faisait adopter une nouvelle loi constitutionnelle, sans l’accord du
gouvernement québécois et contre sa volonté clairement exprimée. Ainsi, pour
la première fois depuis 1867, la Constitution était modifiée sans l’accord du
Québec. En outre, la Loi constitutionnelle de 1982 contient un processus
d’amendement permettant d’eventuelles modifications sans le consentement
du Québec. Par ailleurs, les demandes formulées par le Québec depuis 1960
pour obtenir de nouveaux pouvoirs restaient insatisfaites et, pis encore,
certaines dispositions de la nouvelle Constitution avaient pour effet de
diminuer les pouvoirs traditionnels du Québec dans le domaine crucial de la
protection de la langue française.
L’échec de l’Accord du lac Meech en 1987-1990
Dans un jugement du 6 décembre 1982, la Cour suprême du Canada avait
déclaré à l’unanimité qu’il n’existait aucune règle de droit ou convention
constitutionnelle permettant au Québec de s’objecter aux modifications de la
Constitution. Par conséquent, l’opposition du gouvernement du Parti
québécois à l’adoption de la Loi constitutionnelle de 1982 n’a pas empêché
celle-ci de s’appliquer pleinement au Québec dès son entrée en vigueur le 17
avril 1982. Cependant, le fait que la deuxième plus grande province du Canada
— et la seule qui soit majoritairement francophone — n’adhère pas à la
Constitution pose évidemment un problème politique grave et fait planer une
menace sur l’unité du Canada.
En 1985, le Parti québécois cédait le pouvoir au Parti libéral de M. Robert
Bourassa, qui s’est toujours présenté comme résolument fédéraliste. Le
nouveau gouvernement allait formuler cinq conditions pour donner l’accord
du Québec à la Loi constitutionnelle de 1982 :
1) la reconnaissance du Québec comme société distincte;
11
IJCS / RIÉC
2) la garantie d’un rôle accru des autorités provinciales en matière
d’immigration;
3) la participation du gouvernement québécois à la nomination de
trois des neuf juges de la Cour suprême du Canada;
4) la limitation du « pouvoir de dépenser » du gouvernement fédéral
(c’est-à-dire le pouvoir de ce gouvernement d’intervenir
financièrement dans les domaines relevant de la compétence
exclusive des provinces);
5) la reconnaissance d’un droit de veto au Québec sur la réforme des
institutions fédérales et la création de nouvelles provinces.
Il faut souligner que ces cinq demandes représentaient une réduction
considérable des exigences traditionnelles du Québec. En effet, le
gouvernement Bourassa ne revendiquait de nouveaux pouvoir que dans le seul
secteur de l’immigration alors que tous ses prédécesseurs, depuis la
« Révolution tranquille », exigeaient d’obtenir l’exclusivité des compétences
dans de très nombreux domaines, notamment la politique familiale et celle de
la main-d’oeuvre, les télécommunications, l’aménagement régional et ainsi de
suite. En fait, mis à part l’immigration, les quatre autres demandes du Québec
correspondaient à des mécanismes de protection des pouvoirs provinciaux
existants bien plus qu’à un quelconque élargissement de ceux-ci.
En juin 1987, après deux ans de négociation, les dix provinces et le
gouvernement fédéral concluaient un accord (appelé l’« Accord du lac
Meech ») en vertu duquel on convenait de modifier la Constitution pour
donner satisfaction au Québec. Il faut cependant souligner que sur les cinq
modifications réclamées par le Québec, quatre avaient été étendues à toutes les
provinces. Par conséquent, la seule modification propre au Québec était la
reconnaissance du caractère distinct de la société québécoise. Par ailleurs, une
modification non réclamée par le Québec avait été ajoutée à l’Accord du lac
Meech, à la demande des provinces de l’Ouest, concernant le processus de
nomination des sénateurs.
Pour entrer en vigueur conformément à la procédure de modification adoptée
en 1982, l’Accord du lac Meech devait être ratifié dans un délai maximal de
trois ans par les deux Chambres du Parlement fédéral et chacune des dix
assemblées législatives provinciales. Ce délai devait être fatal, car les critiques
contre l’Accord n’ont cessé de se multiplier au Canada anglais et l’appui dont
il y bénéficiait au départ a constamment diminué. Certaines de ces critiques
étaient parfaitement fondées alors que d’autres, au contraire, semblent avoir
découlé d’une mauvaise compréhension de l’Accord, ou même d’une
intention délibérée de le faire échouer. Rappelons rapidement les griefs qui ont
été faits au Canada anglais à chacun des six éléments de l’Accord pour tenter
d’en évaluer le bien-fondé et mesurer l’importance des divergences qui
existent entre le Québec et le reste du pays.
La réforme du Sénat
La Constitution du Canada prévoit que les sénateurs sont nommés par le
gouvernement fédéral. En pratique, depuis 1867, tous les gouvernements ont
procédé à des nominations partisanes, presque toujours destinées à servir de
récompense politique. Cette pratique a fait en sorte que les sénateurs, qui ne
sont pas élus par la population des provinces, ne peuvent pas davantage
prétendre parler au nom des gouvernements provinciaux. Par conséquent, les
sénateurs ne sont investis d’aucune légitimité politique et, pour cette raison, le
Sénat devrait normalement s’abstenir d’exercer les pouvoirs que la
12
Constitution lui reconnaît en matière législative et qui sont, à peu de choses
près, les mêmes que ceux de la Chambre des communes1. L’Accord du lac
Meech prévoyait que les sénateurs représentant une province devraient être
choisis par le gouvernement fédéral d’après une liste de candidats établie par le
gouvernement de la province en question. La réforme consistait donc à
substituer au pouvoir discrétionnaire et incontrôlé du gouvernement fédéral un
pouvoir de nomination conjoint qui obligerait les deux gouvernements à
s’entendre sur le choix des candidats.
En fait, ce n’est pas tellement ce changement qui a provoqué la critique, car les
adversaires de l’Accord du lac Meech se sont surtout attaqués aux dispositions
concernant la procédure de modification constitutionnelle nécessaire pour
réformer les autres caractéristiques du Sénat. En effet, avec l’Accord du lac
Meech, une telle réforme deviendrait pratiquement impossible parce qu’on
exigeait pour sa réalisation l’accord unanime des dix provinces. Or, depuis une
dizaine d’années, les provinces de l’Ouest avaient fait de la réforme du Sénat
leur cheval de bataille dans le dessein d’acquérir une plus grande influence sur
le processus décisionnel fédéral. Faiblement peuplées, ces provinces
n’envoient à la Chambre des communes qu’un trop petit nombre de députés
pour pouvoir y exercer une influence comparable à celle des deux grandes
provinces du « Canada central », le Québec et l’Ontario. Les provinces de
l’Ouest privilégient par conséquent la formule dite « Triple E », soit un Sénat
« élu, égal et efficace » où chaque province serait représentée par le même
nombre de sénateurs élus au suffrage universel direct2. En outre, ce nouveau
Sénat exercerait les mêmes pouvoirs que la Chambre des communes. Ce
modèle s’inspire du Sénat australien.
Cependant, l’égalité de représentation de toutes les provinces au Sénat
entraînerait des conséquences difficiles à accepter sur le plan démocratique.
En effet, les six plus petites provinces (les quatre provinces de l’Atlantique, le
Manitoba et la Saskatchewan) détiendraient ensemble 60 p. 100 des voix alors
qu’elles ne représentent que 17 p. 100 de la population canadienne. Une telle
formule serait au surplus inacceptable pour les Québecois à qui elle ne
laisserait que le dixième des sièges. Pour tenter de convaincre le Québec
d’accepter une diminution de sa proportion des sièges, certains suggèrent
d’exiger, dans le cadre d’un Sénat réformé, une double majorité (celle de
l’ensemble des sénateurs et des sénateurs francophones) pour l’adoption des
projets de loi relatifs à la langue et à la culture françaises. Un tel système ne
protégerait cependant pas le Québec pour ce qui est des questions autres que
linguistiques ou culturelles. Au surplus, les sénateurs francophones ne seraient
pas tous québécois, puisque certains d’entre eux devraient être désignés pour
représenter les minorités francophones hors du Québec. Or, les intérêts des
Québécois et des minorités francophones du Canada anglais sont loin d’être
identiques par rapport aux interventions fédérales en matières culturelle et
linguistique.
De façon plus générale, l’élection des sénateurs au suffrage direct ne paraît pas
être une bonne solution dans le cadre canadien, car pareille modalité
entraînerait de graves inconvénients dans le contexte d’un système
parlementaire de type britannique, caractérisé par le principe de la
responsabilité ministérielle, le bipartisme et la discipline de parti. Du point de
vue de la composition partisane, un Sénat élu au suffrage universel risque en
effet d’être trop semblable à la Chambre des communes, ce qui lui enlèverait
sa raison d’être ou, au contraire, trop différent, ce qui pourrait amener les deux
Chambres à s’affronter et à se neutraliser mutuellement. En effet, dans la
13
IJCS / RIÉC
mesure où elles seraient pareillement élues au suffrage direct et posséderaient
par voie de conséquence une même légitimité démocratique, aucune des deux
Chambres ne se sentirait tenue de céder à l’autre. En outre, conformément aux
règles de la discipline de parti, la loyauté des sénateurs irait aux partis auxquels
ils doivent leur élection et dont dépend leur réélection plutôt qu’à la province
ou à la région qu’ils représentent. Comme le montre l’exemple du Sénat
australien, dont le fonctionnement est généralement dominé par la politique
partisane, l’élection des sénateurs a pour conséquence d’affaiblir
considérablement leur capacité d’agir en tant que représentants des États
membres de la fédération. Par ailleurs, il serait illogique de donner au Sénat
une forte légitimité démocratique sans lui reconnaître également des pouvoirs
importants. Plus précisément, dans la mesure où le Sénat et la Chambre des
communes sont l’un et l’autre élus, il est difficile de ne pas reconnaître à celuici les mêmes pouvoirs qu’à celle-là. Or, un système parlementaire exige que la
Chambre basse ait des pouvoirs supérieurs à ceux de la Chambre haute, car
c’est de la première qu’émane le gouvernement et, par conséquent, c’est
devant elle seule qu’il est responsable.
Il existe donc une incompatibilité certaine entre l’élection des sénateurs au
suffrage direct, qui suppose que le Sénat ait les mêmes pouvoirs que la
Chambre des communes, et la logique interne du système parlementaire, qui
veut, au contraire, que la Chambre basse ait des pouvoirs supérieurs à la
Chambre haute. Si, comme le réclament les tenants de la formule « Triple E »,
la Constitution était modifiée pour faire élire le Sénat canadien, on se
trouverait placé devant des choix difficiles. Pour maintenir l’intégrité du
système parlementaire, il faudrait refuser au Sénat le pouvoir de rejeter la
plupart des lois adoptées par les Communes et ne lui attribuer qu’un simple
droit de veto suspensif, ce qui reviendrait à dire que les sénateurs ne
représentent pas la population au même titre que les députés bien qu’ils soient
élus. Mais si l’on donnait au Sénat un droit de veto absolu sur les lois
présentées par le gouvernement, cela serait contraire aux principes
fondamentaux du système parlementaire.
Il faut également souligner qu’un Sénat doté de pouvoirs significatifs peut
paradoxalement constituer un facteur de centralisation du système fédéral. En
effet, l’expérience de l’Allemagne et des États-Unis tend à démontrer que les
États constituants acceptent d’autant plus facilement de voir leurs
compétences propres diminuer qu’ils obtiennent en contrepartie une plus
grande participation au processus décisionnel central par le biais de la
Chambre fédérale. À cet égard, il est révélateur que les provinces canadiennes
qui réclament le Sénat « Triple E » soient également opposées à un
affaiblissement du rôle d’Ottawa. C’est que dans la mesure où ces provinces
espèrent que la réforme du Sénat leur permettra d’exercer une influence accrue
au sein des institutions du pouvoir central, elles veulent que ce dernier reste
fort, ou même qu’il soit renforcé. Par ailleurs, il faut voir que l’élection des
sénateurs au suffrage universel risque de renforcer encore le caractère
centralisateur d’une réforme du Sénat. En effet, la légitimité des autorités
fédérales s’en trouverait accrue et des sénateurs fédéraux élus pourraient
prétendre représenter les intérêts de la population provinciale au même titre
que les politiciens provinciaux3.
La procédure de nomination des juges de la Cour suprême
Actuellement, les juges de la Cour suprême sont nommés de façon
pratiquement discrétionnaire par le gouvernement fédéral. L’Accord du lac
14
Meech prévoyait que celui-ci serait tenu de les nommer sur proposition des
gouvernements provinciaux4. Ne craignant pas le ridicule, certains adversaires
de l’Accord du lac Meech ont prétendu que cette modification enlèverait à la
Cour suprême sa neutralité en tant qu’arbitre du fédéralisme. C’est plutôt le
fait que les juges soient actuellement nommés par le seul gouvernement
fédéral qui enlève à la Cour toute crédibilité en tant qu’instance véritablement
impartiale. On peut même penser qu’un système de nomination conjointe des
juges de la Cour suprême par le gouvernement fédéral et les provinces
donnerait à la Cour une légitimité fédérative, qui lui fait actuellement défaut et
pourrait donc avoir pour effet paradoxal de la mettre davantage à l’abri des
critiques sans véritablement modifier la portée centralisatrice de son
intervention, celle-ci tenant à des facteurs économiques, sociaux et politiques
bien plus profonds que les simples modalités de désignation des juges. Pour
terminer, il faut souligner qu’en vertu de l’article 96 de la Loi constitutionnelle
de 1867, le gouvernement fédéral nomme de façon discrétionnaire les juges
des cours supérieures et des cours d’appel provinciales. Or, les membres de la
Cour suprême du Canada sont désignés dans neuf cas sur dix parmi les juges de
la Cour supérieure ou de la Cour d’appel. On constate donc que le fait de
dresser les listes de candidats n’aurait pas conféré aux gouvernements
provinciaux une très grande latitude.
Les ententes relatives à l’immigration
Actuellement, la Constitution du Canada attribue des pouvoirs concurrents en
matière d’immigration au Parlement canadien et aux législatures des
provinces tout en prévoyant la prépondérance de la législation fédérale en cas
d’incompatibilité5. Cette disposition permet donc au Parlement fédéral
d’exercer une véritable hégémonie dans le domaine de l’immigration,
puisqu’il lui suffirait de légiférer de façon incompatible avec les lois
provinciales en vigueur pour rendre celles-ci inopérantes.
L’Accord du lac Meech prévoyait la constitutionnalisation d’une entente sur
l’immigration intervenue en 1978 entre le Québec et le gouvernement fédéral
par laquelle ce dernier acceptait de laisser le Québec établir les critères de
sélection de certaines catégories d’immigrants. L’entente en question n’était
cependant valable que pour une période déterminée et pouvait être dénoncée
moyennant un préavis. Aux termes de l’Accord du lac Meech, cependant, il
était prévu qu’après approbation par le Parlement fédéral et celui du Québec,
elle serait constitutionnalisée et ne pourrait plus être modifiée qu’avec
l’assentiment de ces deux mêmes corps législatifs. En outre, le gouvernement
fédéral s’engageait à négocier avec les autres provinces qui en feraient la
demande des accords similaires et à les constitutionnaliser également.
Les adversaires de l’Accord du lac Meech ont prétendu que les autorités
fédérales avaient ainsi abandonné aux mains des provinces leurs pouvoirs en
matière d’immigration. Cette critique est largement exagérée si l’on tient
compte du fait que l’Accord prévoyait également que pareille entente « n’a
d’effet que dans la mesure de sa compatibilité avec les dispositions des lois du
Parlement du Canada qui fixent des normes et objectifs nationaux relatifs à
l’immigration et aux aubains, notamment en ce qui concerne l’établissement
des catégories générales d’immigrants, les niveaux d’immigration au Canada
et la détermination des catégories de personnes admissibles au Canada ». Par
conséquent, les autorités fédérales se réservaient le pouvoir discrétionnaire de
rendre inopérantes les dispositions les plus importantes des ententes
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IJCS / RIÉC
susceptibles d’être conclues avec les provinces, même après que leur
enchâssement dans la Constitution.
La limitation du pouvoir fédéral de dépenser
Le « pouvoir de dépenser » désigne la capacité d’un ordre de gouvernement
d’affecter des ressources financières à certains objectifs. Lorsque les buts
poursuivis relèvent de la compétence de l’autorité qui engage les dépenses, il
n’existe aucune difficulté particulière. Par contre, le problème se pose quand
les dépenses ainsi faites permettent une intervention dans les compétences de
l’autre ordre de gouvernement. Comme les ressources financières fédérales
sont plus importantes que celles des provinces, ce sont ces dernières qui ont à
craindre l’exercice du pouvoir de dépenser du gouvernement central, plutôt
que l’inverse.
Dans l’exercice de son pouvoir de dépenser, le fédéral verse aux provinces des
subventions qui doivent servir à des programmes précis (par opposition aux
paiements de péréquation que les provinces peuvent affecter librement aux
fins qu’elles déterminent). En outre, ces subventions sont souvent
conditionnelles au respect de certains objectifs ou normes fixés par les
autorités fédérales. Enfin, les provinces sont parfois tenues de participer
financièrement au programme, qui devient alors un programme « conjoint »
(ou « cofinancé »). Des vérificateurs fédéraux contrôlent la bonne marche des
opérations et l’utilisation des sommes versées par Ottawa. Le fédéral a
commencé à proposer de tels programmes aux provinces dès l’époque de la
Première Guerre mondiale dans des domaines relevant de la compétence
provinciale. Depuis lors, plus de cent programmes de ce genre ont été établis,
toujours à l’initiative des autorités fédérales, certains de nature temporaire,
mais la plupart avec vocation à la permanence. Il est évidemment très difficile
pour les provinces de refuser d’y participer, puisque cela désavantagerait leurs
ressortissants qui paient à Ottawa des impôts dont une partie sert à financer les
programmes en question. Pourtant, en se pliant aux objectifs et aux normes
imposés par les autorités fédérales, les provinces consentent à modifier leurs
propres priorités budgétaires et à se laisser dicter la manière d’exercer les
compétences que la Constitution leur attribue de façon exclusive, sans compter
qu’elles risquent, au bout d’un certain temps, de voir le fédéral se retirer
unilatéralement du programme ou diminuer sa participation à un moment où il
n’est plus politiquement possible de le supprimer à cause des attentes et des
habitudes qu’il a créées dans la population6.
L’Accord du lac Meech prévoyait qu’une province qui refuserait de participer
aux futurs programmes à frais partagés, créés par le gouvernement fédéral
dans un domaine de compétence provinciale exclusive, recevrait une « juste »
compensation, qui correspondrait, si l’on comprend bien, au montant que le
fédéral aurait dépensé chez elle si elle avait accepté le programme. Les
adversaires de l’Accord considéraient que cette limitation du pouvoir fédéral
de dépenser menaçait la capacité d’Ottawa de créer de nouveaux programmes
sociaux (par exemple, un programme national de garderies) et d’en imposer
l’implantation dans toutes les provinces. Encore une fois, la crainte semble
exagérée. En effet, l’Accord du lac Meech prévoyait également qu’une
province qui se retirerait d’un programme à frais partagés ne recevrait une
compensation financière qu’à la condition d’affecter celle-ci à « un
programme ou une mesure compatible avec les objectifs nationaux ». Il est vrai
que la notion d’« objectifs nationaux » était imprécise et pouvait être
diversement interprétée. Il aurait donc fallu attendre que les tribunaux lui
16
donnent une signification plus précise avant de savoir quelles contraintes le
respect des « objectifs nationaux » imposait réellement aux provinces.
La procédure de modification de la Constitution
L’Accord du lac Meech apportait certains changements à la procédure de
modification de la Constitution. Il prévoyait notamment que les modifications
actuellement visées par l’article 42 de la Loi constitutionnelle de 1982 et
relevant par conséquent de la procédure générale des deux tiers seraient
soumises à la règle de l’unanimité énoncée à l’article 41. Ce faisant, il
assujétissait notamment la réforme des institutions fédérales et la création de
nouvelles provinces à l’exigence d’un accord unanime des dix provinces, alors
que ces modifications ne nécessitent actuellement que l’accord du Parlement
fédéral et des deux tiers des provinces (c’est-à-dire sept provinces sur dix)
représentant la moitié de la population totale.
Il semble que les critiques adressées à ce dernier élément de l’Accord du lac
Meech étaient justifiées. L’exigence de l’unanimité aurait conféré à la
Constitution une rigidité excessive et rendu pratiquement impossible la
réforme du Sénat et l’accession des Territoires du Nord-Ouest et du Yukon au
statut de province. C’est pourquoi l’opposition à ces dispositions de l’Accord
fut particulièrement vive, notamment dans les territoires et dans les provinces
de l’Ouest, ces dernières tenant beaucoup à une réforme du Sénat. Le sort de
l’Accord du lac Meech, qui a succombé à la règle de l’unanimité, démontre en
quelque sorte par l’absurde les inconvénients qu’aurait entraînés l’extension
de cette règle.
Les difficultés de fonctionnement de la procédure de modification qu’a mises
en évidence l’échec de l’Accord du lac Meech amènent actuellement le
gouvernement fédéral à rechercher les moyens de simplifier cette procédure et,
en particulier, de diminuer les cas où l’unanimité serait exigée. Cependant, en
vertu de l’article 41(e) de la Loi constitutionnelle de 1982, tout changement de
la procédure de modification exige l’accord unanime des autorités fédérales et
des dix provinces7.
La reconnaissance de la dualité linguistique du Canada et du caractère
distinct du Québec
L’Accord du lac Meech contenait également des dispositions reconnaissant la
dualité linguistique du Canada et le caractère distinct de la société québécoise.
Ce sont ces dispositions, surtout celles relatives au caractère distinct du
Québec, qui ont suscité les critiques les plus virulentes. Les adversaires de
l’Accord ont prétendu tout à la fois qu’elles avaient pour effet de conférer au
Québec plus de pouvoirs qu’aux autres provinces et qu’elles lui permettraient
de limiter, voire de supprimer les droits et libertés garantis dans la Constitution
canadienne. Ces craintes étaient très nettement exagérées.
D’abord, en ce qui concerne le partage des compétences, l’Accord du lac
Meech contenait une disposition qui empêchait de façon très claire qu’on
puisse faire découler de la reconnaissance du caractère distinct du Québec
quelque modification que ce soit à l’actuelle répartition des pouvoirs entre le
Parlement canadien et l’Assemblée législative du Québec. Par conséquent,
l’Accord n’augmentait pas les pouvoirs de la province, pas plus qu’il ne les
diminuait.
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IJCS / RIÉC
Ensuite, il faut relativiser les dangers que l’Accord constitutionnel faisait
prétendûment courir aux droits et libertés. À cet égard, il y a lieu de distinguer
entre les droits individuels et les droits collectifs des minorités.
Les droits individuels, universels par nature, ne semblaient guère menacés : il
eût été en effet fort difficile de prouver que le caractère distinct du Québec
exigeait leur limitation, puisque par définition, ils sont les mêmes partout. Par
contre, les droits à portée culturelle et linguistique, de nature collective, étaient
à première vue plus vulnérables, puisqu’ils portent sur les mêmes réalités que
celles qui constituent le caractère distinct du Québec (la langue et la culture) et
qu’ils ne sont pas eux-mêmes universels et fondamentaux, mais propres à une
situation sociale et culturelle contingente. Cependant, toutes les précautions
avaient été prises pour que la reconnaissance du caractère distinct du Québec
ne vienne pas diminuer les droits reconnus dans la Charte canadienne des
droits et libertés ou dans d’autres dispositions constitutionnelles aux minorités
qui vivent sur le territoire québécois. Pour ce qui est des droits de la minorité
anglophone du Québec, ils étaient réaffirmés par la disposition faisant de la
dualité linguistique une « caractéristique fondamentale de la fédération
canadienne ». Manifestement, la protection de la minorité anglophone aurait
toujours priorité sur la promotion du caractère francophone distinct du
Québec. Quant aux autres minorités ethniques et culturelles du Québec, elles
sont protégées par l’article 27 de la Charte qui garantit « le maintien et la
valorisation du patrimoine multiculturel ». Or, cet article 27 a été purement et
simplement soustrait à la portée de l’Accord du lac Meech, tout comme
d’ailleurs les dispositions constitutionnelles qui protègent les droits des
peuples autochtones (articles 25 de la Charte canadienne des droits et libertés
et 35 de la Loi constitutionnelle de 1982).
Ce bilan rapide tend donc à démontrer que l’incidence des dispositions
relatives au caractère distinct du Québec sur les droits garantis par la
Constitution, qu’ils soient individuels ou collectifs, ne pouvait être que
négligeable8.
Les causes de l’échec de l’Accord du lac Meech
Pour entrer en vigueur, l’Accord du lac Meech devait être ratifié par le
Parlement fédéral et l’assemblée législative de chacune des dix provmces.
Dans les deux ans qui ont suivi la conclusion de l’Accord, des élections
provinciales au Nouveau-Brunswick, au Manitoba et à Terre-Neuve
amenèrent au pouvoir des chefs de gouvernement qui n’avaient pas participé à
la négociation et à la signature de l’Accord et qui refusèrent de le faire ratifier
par leur assemblée législative ou même — dans le cas de Terre-Neuve — firent
révoquer par cette dernière la résolution d’agrément qu’elle avait déjà
adoptée9.
L’échec de l’Accord du lac Meech s’explique en bonne partie par la
« globalisation » du processus de modification de la Constitution qui, à
l’origine, était exclusivement destiné à permettre l’adhésion du Québec à la
Loi constitutionnelle de 1982. Mais la raison la plus importante de cet échec
tient à l’incompatibilité profonde qui s’est manifestée entre les aspirations
constitutionnelles du Québec et celles d’une grande partie du Canada anglais.
18
La « globalisation » du processus de modification constitutionnelle
Le processus de modification de la Constitution, qui était d’abord destiné à
satisfaire les conditions du Québec, s’est rapidement « globalisé ». Les trois
provinces récalcitrantes liaient leur acceptation de l’Accord à une réforme du
Sénat. Il faut reconnaître que cette attitude se justifiait par le fait que la réforme
du Sénat serait devenue beaucoup plus difficile si l’Accord du lac Meech était
entré en vigueur, puisqu’elle aurait été soumise à la règle de l’unanimité (alors
qu’à l’heure actuelle, une telle réforme n’exige que l’accord des autorités
fédérales et de sept provinces, représentant 50 p. 100 de la population).
En outre, de nombreux groupes d’intérêt ont voulu profiter de l’occasion pour
obtenir la satisfaction de leurs propres revendications constitutionnelles.
Ainsi, les peuples autochtones du Canada ont vivement combattu l’Accord du
lac Meech. Leur opposition était en partie motivée par les dispositions portant
sur la procédure d’amendement de la Constitution qui faisaient en sorte, une
fois l’Accord entré en vigueur, que la création de nouvelles provinces au
Yukon et dans les Territoires du Nord-Ouest exigerait l’assentiment de toutes
les provinces et non plus l’accord de sept d’entre elles comme c’est le cas à
l’heure actuelle. Mais le principal grief des autochtones à l’égard de l’Accord
se situait sur le plan de la symbolique constitutionnelle. En effet, de tous les
groupes opposés à l’Accord du lac Meech, les autochtones étaient le seul à
revendiquer d’être reconnu comme une « société distincte » parce qu’il est le
seul, avec le Québec, à avoir des ambitions « nationales » ou, du moins, des
revendications en matière d’autonomie gouvernementale. Les autochtones
considéraient que leur reconnaissance comme « société distincte » aurait
favorisé ces revendications sur un plan politique. Il faut également souligner
que celles-ci avaient été présentées une nouvelle fois, quelques semaines
seulement avant l’Accord du lac Meech, lors d’une conférence
constitutionnelle qui avait échoué. Enfin, alors que les peuples autochtones
peuvent invoquer une légitimité historique antérieure à celle des deux
« peuples fondateurs » — les anglophones et les francophones — leur
existence n’a pas été reconnue comme une « caractéristique fondamentale »
dans l’Accord du lac Meech ni ailleurs dans la Constitution.
L’Accord du lac Meech a également entraîné l’intervention des associations
féministes du Canada anglais qui prétendaient que la limitation du pouvoir de
dépenser du gouvernement fédéral empêcherait celui-ci de mettre sur pied un
programme national de garderies. Ces associations craignaient également que
la reconnaissance du caractère distinct du Québec ne menace le droit des
femmes à l’égalité. De même, les Anglo-Québécois sont intervenus pour
dénoncer l’Accord dans la mesure où ils considéraient que les dispositions
reconnaissant le caractère distinct du Québec menaçaient leurs droits
linguistiques. De leur côté, les francophones du Nouveau-Brunswick ont
cautionné l’opposition de leur gouvernement à l’Accord du lac Meech parce
qu’ils voulaient profiter du processus pour faire inscrire dans la Constitution le
principe de l’égalité de statut des communautés francophone et anglophone de
la province, ce qui aurait cependant pu être réalisé par simple entente entre les
autorités fédérales et celles du Nouveau-Brunswick10. Enfin, de nombreuses
minorités culturelles et ethniques ont eu le sentiment que l’Accord du lac
Meech rabaissait le statut que leur octroyait l’article 27 de la Charte
canadienne des droits et libertés qui prévoit le maintien et la promotion du
multiculturalisme. C’est pourquoi ces groupes voulaient faire modifier
l’Accord de façon à ce que le multiculturalisme soit également reconnu
comme une « caractéristique fondamentale du Canada ».
19
IJCS / RIÉC
On peut donc constater que toute tentative de réforme constitutionnelle
provoque désormais l’intervention quasi automatique de nombreux groupes
d’intérêts. Toute légitime que soit cette tendance sur le plan démocratique, il
n’en reste pas moins qu’elle augmente considérablement les difficultés de
fonctionnement de la procédure de modification.
Le choc des aspirations et des identités nationales du Québec et du Canada
anglais
Il est vrai que deux provinces seulement (le Manitoba et le NouveauBrunswick), représentant moins de 8 p. 100 de la population canadienne, ont
finalement refusé l’Accord, les sept autres provinces anglophones l’ayant
entériné. Cependant, les sondages démontrent qu’à l’intérieur de celles-ci, une
large majorité — entre 60 p. 100 et 70 p. 100 de la population — était fortement
opposée à l’Accord du lac Meech. En fait, la controverse autour de l’Accord a
révélé les divergences profondes qui existent entre les visions et les aspirations
constitutionnelles du Québec et celles du Canada anglais, qu’il s’agisse de la
répartition des pouvoirs entre l’État central et les provinces, du rôle reconnu à
la Charte constitutionnelle, de la politique linguistique et des droits des
minorités ou encore — et surtout — de la place du Québec au sein de la
fédération canadienne.
La répartition des pouvoirs
En ce qui concerne le partage des pouvoirs entre les deux ordres de
gouvernement, il paraît clair que les Canadiens anglais, en majorité, sont
désireux de voir s’établir une plus grande centralisation, notamment dans les
domaines de l’éducation, de la culture, des télecommunications et de la
politique sociale, domaines pour lesquels le Québec réclame, au contraire, une
plus grande décentralisation. Aux yeux de nombreux Canadiens anglais, cela
est nécessaire pour assurer une plus grande égalité entre les citoyens et
consolider l’identité nationale canadienne face à l’influence des États-Unis.
Cette opinion est particulièrement répandue chez les élites canadiennesanglaises de gauche et de centre-gauche: bien que traditionnellement
sympathiques aux revendications du Québec, celles-ci se sont opposées à
l’Accord du lac Meech parce qu’elles y voyaient une diminution des pouvoirs
du gouvernement fédéral.
Il faut également souligner que six des neuf provinces anglophones ont des
revenus fiscaux inférieurs à la moyenne nationale et, par conséquent,
bénéficient des paiements de péréquation et autres transferts fédéraux par le
biais desquels le gouvernement central procède à une certaine redistribution de
la richesse nationale. Pour la plupart de ces provinces, les versements fédéraux
constituent une part fort importante de leur budget et, pour cette raison, elles
sont évidemment opposées à toute réforme constitutionnelle qui affaiblirait
l’État centrall1.
En outre, comme on l’a mentionné précédemment, les provinces de
l’Atlantique et de l’Ouest, moins peuplées que le Québec et l’Ontario, espèrent
qu’une réforme du Sénat leur accordera plus de pouvoir au sein des institutions
centrales; dans cette mesure, elles veulent évidemment qu’elles le deviennent
davantage. Elles recherchent donc plus d’influence sur le processus politique
fédéral par le biais d’une Chambre haute renforcée où elles seront mieux
représentées qu’à la Chambre des communes.
Enfin, il faut constater que le sentiment d’identité nationale des Canadiens
anglais est davantage associé à l’État central et à ses institutions qu’aux
20
pouvoirs publics provinciaux. Par conséquent, toute dimininution du rôle et
des pouvoirs d’Ottawa est perçue comme une menace ou une attaque contre
cette identité. Les Québécois, au contraire, surtout depuis la « Révolution
tranquille », accordent principalement leur confiance et leur loyauté à l’État
provincial, ce qui est fort compréhensible, puisque c’est le seul État qu’ils
contrôlent de façon démocratique. Par conséquent, à l’inverse de ce qui se
passe pour les Canadiens anglais, ce sont les visées centralisatrices qui
menacent le sentiment d’identité nationale des Québécois francophones.
Les attitudes à l’égard de la Charte canadiennes des droits et libertés
La même divergence existe en ce qui concerne les attitudes respectives des
Canadiens anglais et des Québécois francophones à l’égard de la Charte
constitutionnelle. Au Canada anglais, celle-ci sert désormais de symbole
national. L’universalité des principes qui y sont enchâssés permet de
transcender les nombreuses différences de culture et d’origine qui existent
dans une population composée en grande partie d’immigrants venus de toutes
les parties du monde. Cependant, dans la mesure précisément où les droits de la
personne sont généralement considérés comme devant être appliqués et
interprétés partout de la même façon, l’application d’une charte
constitutionnelle commune au Canada anglais et au Québec pourrait, à la
longue, avoir des effets socialement uniformisateurs et par conséquent,
menacer le caractère distinct de la société québécoisel2. La mise en œuvre des
droits et libertés touche des problèmes de culture et de civilisation et amène les
tribunaux à se substituer au législateur pour effectuer certains « choix de
société ». Or, dans le cadre de la Charte canadienne, cette mise en oeuvre se fait
à l’echelle nationale par le truchement d’une hiérarchie judiciaire centralisée
qui utilise inévitablement une approche uniforme pour interpréter les
standards constitutionnels (on a souligné précédemment que les juges des
cours supérieures et des cours d’appel provinciales sont nommés de façon
discrétionnaire par le gouvernement fédéral). Dans la mesure où l’application
de la Charte canadienne est susceptible de limiter les pouvoirs et la liberté de
choix des organes démocratiques de l’État québécois, on comprendra qu’elle
ne suscite pas au Québec les mêmes sentiments de ferveur que dans les autres
provincesl3. En cherchant à faire reconnaître le caractère distinct de la société
québécoise, l’on voulait précisement se protéger contre les effets
uniformisateurs de la Charte espérant que cette disposition inciterait les
tribunaux à tenir compte des besoins particuliers du Québec14.
En 1975, l’Assemblée nationale du Québec a adopté une Charte des droits et
libertés de la personne15 qui possède une valeur « quasi constitutionnelle »,
puisqu’elle a primauté sur les lois québécoises ordinaires. Les Québécois
francophones considèrent généralement que cet instrument les protège
adéquatement et que, s’il y a lieu de le constitutionnaliser, il devrait figurer
dans une nouvelle constitution du Québec, laquelle pourrait être adoptée soit
dans l’actuel cadre fédéral canadien, soit à l’occasion de l’accession du
Québec à la souverainetél6.
Les droits des minorités et les politiques linguistiques
En ce qui concerne la politique linguistique et les droits des minorités, le
Canada anglais reproche au Québec de limiter les droits de sa minorité
anglophone au moment même où le statut juridique des francophones hors du
Québec benéficie d’une certaine amélioration. Cette vision « symétrique »
méconnaît cependant le fait que les francophones, même s’ils sont en situation
de majorité au Québec, constituent une minorité en perte d’influence à
21
IJCS / RIÉC
l’echelle du pays. En effet, tous les efforts consentis par les autorités fédérales
et certaines provinces pour améliorer le sort des minorités francophones n’ont
pas réussi à freiner le taux d’assimilation de ces groupes. Même au Québec, où
90 p. 100 des francophones du Canada sont désormais concentrés, le fait
français n’est pas à l’abri du danger, puisque les immigrants continuent de
s’assimiler de préférence à la communauté anglophonel7. Pour protéger la
langue française, les autorités québécoises considèrent donc qu’il faut parfois
limiter les droits traditionnels des anglophones, dans la mesure où les deux
langues sont en situation de concurrence. La plupart des Canadiens anglais
rejettent cependant ces arguments et considèrent que la politique québécoise
de la langue française viole le « pacte linguistique » tacite auquel ils ont
consenti en acceptant la politique de bilinguisme officiel du gouvernement
fédéral et celle de deux provinces anglophones (le Nouveau-Brunswick et,
dans une moindre mesure, l’Ontario).
La place du Ouébec au sein de la fédération
Enfin, l’opposition la plus radicale qui se manifeste entre le Canada anglais et
le Québec concerne la reconnaissance de celui-ci comme communauté
nationale distincte. Depuis 1867, mais plus encore à partir de la « Révolution
tranquille », le Québec aspire à un « statut particulier », qui se traduirait par
l’obtention de pouvoirs supplémentaires, considérés comme nécessaires à
l’épanouissement de la société québécoise. Cependant, à cette revendication
de l’égalité entre les deux « peuples fondateurs », le Canada anglais a toujours
opposé le double principe de l’égalité des provinces et des individus.
L’insistance mise sur l’égalité juridique de toutes les provinces empêche
évidemment de reconnaître à l’une d’entre elles un statut ou des pouvoirs
particuliers. Mais il s’agit là d’un principe plutôt artificiel, qui ne correspond
d’ailleurs pas au droit positif, puisque la Constitution canadienne contient déjà
plusieurs dispositions qui traitent certaines provinces différemment des autres,
notamment sur le plan des droits linguistiques. Quant à l’égalité des individus,
garantie par la Charte constitutionnelle, l’interprétation radicale et quelque
peu simpliste qu’on lui donne parfois rend également plus difficiles les
arrangements institutionnels qui reconnaîtraient au Québec un statut
particulier. En effet, comme le montrent certains arguments des opposants à
l’Accord du lac Meech, de tels arrangements sont considérés au Canada
anglais comme accordant aux Québécois plus de droits qu’aux Canadiens des
autres provinces18.
On peut donc conclure en affirmant que l’opposition entre le Canada anglais et
le Québec a pris les allures d’un choc entre deux « sociétés globales », deux
communautés nationales distinctes, dont la coexistence ne semble plus guère
possible dans le cadre des structures constitutionnelles actuelles19. Il faut alors
se demander si une association — ou communauté — entre ces deux nations
est encore possible, et sous quelle forme.
Le rejet de l’Accord de Charlottetown en 1992 et l’avenir des rapports
entre le Québec et le Canada anglais
Un peu plus de deux ans après l’échec de l’Accord du lac Meech, un nouvel
accord constitutionnel, appelé « l’Accord de Charlottetown », était conclu par
les onze premiers ministres auxquels s’étaient joints cette fois les
représentants des Peuples autochtones du Canada. Soumis à référendum le 26
octobre 1992, l’Accord de Charlottetown a été rejeté par la population de façon
décisive, tant au Québec que dans le reste du Canada. Après avoir examiné sa
22
genèse et son contenu, puis les causes de son échec, on terminera en tentant
d’analyser les options encore disponibles pour l’avenir.
La genèse et le contenu de l ’Accord de Charlottetown
En septembre 1990, le gouvernement Bourassa et l’opposition péquiste se sont
entendus pour créer une commission parlementaire élargie (la Commission
Bélanger-Campeau, du nom de ses deux coprésidents) qui a reçu le mandat
d’étudier les options possibles et de proposer des solutions pour l’avenir
politique et constitutionnel du Québec. La Commission a remis son rapport en
mars 1991 dans lequel elle conclut que les deux seules voies de solution qui
s’ouvrent pour l’avenir sont la modification en profondeur du cadre
constitutionnel actuel ou, sinon, l’accession du Québec à la souveraineté avec
ou sans l’accord du Canada anglais20. Les principales recommandations de la
Commission B.-C. ont été entérinées par le gouvernement quelques mois plus
tard lorsque celui-ci a fait adopter par l’Assemblée nationale la Loi sur le
processus de détermination de l’avenir politique et constitutionnel du
Québec21. Celle-ci prévoyait la tenue d’un référendum sur la souveraineté du
Québec au plus tard le 26 octobre 1992. Entre-temps, il restait loisible au
gouvernement fédéral et aux autres provinces d’offrir au Québec de nouveaux
arrangements constitutionnels.
Le 24 septembre 1991, le gouvernement fédéral de M. Brian Mulroney
présentait ses propositions de renouvellement constitutionnel22. Un comité
mixte spécial du Sénat et de la Chambre des communes était créé pour
parcourir le Canada afin de recueillir les réactions à ces propositions et de
suggérer, le cas échéant, des modifications. Le rapport du comité a été déposé
le 28 février 199223. En outre, à partir de la fin du mois de janvier, une série de
conférences fut organisée pour permettre à certains groupes d’intérêts et à des
personnes choisies dans le grand public de discuter les propositions
constitutionnelles du gouvernement fédéral. Entre le 12 mars et le 7 juillet
1992, les recommandations du comité mixte allaient servir de base de
discussion lors d’une série de rencontres entre les représentants des autorités
fédérales, des provinces (le Québec excepté), des territoires et des peuples
autochtones. À partir du 4 août 1992, se tinrent ensuite un certain nombre de
réunions des premiers ministres, fédéral et provinciaux, auxquelles accepta de
participer le chef du gouvernement du Québec, M. Robert Bourassa. Elles
devaient aboutir, le 28 août, à un accord constitutionnel appelé « l’Accord de
Charlottetown ». Cependant, ce n’est que le 9 octobre suivant que furent
rendus publics les textes juridiques définitifs de l’entente, lesquels
comportaient de nombreuses questions en suspens, qui devaient par
conséquent faire l’objet de négociations futures. C’est sous cette forme
quelque peu inachevée et programmatique que le projet de réforme
constitutionnelle fut soumis à la populatlon, qui le repoussa — tant au Québec
que dans cinq autres provinces — lors d’un référendum qui eut lieu le 26
octobre 199224. Étant donné le rejet de l’Accord de Charlottetown, il n’est pas
nécessaire d’en analyser le contenu en détail. Nous en ferons cependant une
brève description pour tenter de comprendre pourquoi il a été rejeté et quelles
conséquences sont susceptibles de découler de ce nouvel échec.
Dans le nouveau projet de modification constitutionnelle, les dispositions
relatives au caractère distinct du Québec étaient désormais inscrites dans une
« clause Canada », destinée à étre placée au début de la Constitution, qui
énonçait huit « caractéristiques fondamentales » avec lesquelles devrait
concorder l’interprétation de la Constitution, notamment la Charte
23
IJCS / RIÉC
canadienne des droits et libertés. Parmi les sept autres « caractéristiques
fondamentales » ainsi consacrées, deux au moins risquaient d’entrer en conflit
avec le caractère distinct du Québec : d’une part, le principe de l’égalité de
toutes les provinces et, d’autre part, « l’attachement [commitment en anglais]
des Canadiens et de leurs gouvernements à l’épanouissement et au
développement des communautés minoritaires de langue officielle dans tout le
pays » (c’est-à-dire, au Québec, de la minorité anglophone). Par ailleurs, le
paragraphe 2 de la clause Canada affirmait que « [l]a législature et le
gouvernement du Québec ont le rôle de protéger et de promouvoir la société
distincte. »
Toutes ces règles d’interprétation auraient eu sensiblement le même poids
juridique. Par conséquent, il n’aurait pas été possible pour les tribunaux
d’interpréter la Constitution de façon distincte pour le Québec, puisque cela
aurait été contraire à l’égalité interprovinciale. De même, interpréter la
Constitution comme permettant une mesure qui affecterait négativement le
développement et l’épanouissement de la minorité anglo-québécoise serait
allé à l’encontre de la disposition protégeant les minorités de langue officielle.
Avec cette disposition, la minorité anglophone aurait même disposé d’une
nouvelle arme pour contester les réglementations linguistiques québécoises
considérées comme incompatibles avec la protection et l’épanouissement de la
langue anglaise. Il est vrai que le Québec aurait alors pu arguer que les mesures
contestées étaient necessaires pour protéger et promouvolr son caractère
distinct. Les tribunaux auraient dès lors été obligés de constater qu’il y avait
contradiction entre la promotion des droits de la majorité, fondée sur le
caractère distinct du Québec, et l’épanouissement des droits de la minorité et
auraient donc dû déterminer laquelle de ces deux « caractéristiques
fondamentales » devait se voir reconnaître la primauté.
Pour terminer, il faut souligner que dans l’Accord de Charlottetown,
contrairement à l’Accord du lac Meech, la « société distincte » était définie
comme « comprenant notamment une majorité d’expression française, une
culture qui est unique et une tradition de droit civil ». Bien que n’étant pas
exhaustive, cette énumération était de nature à limiter le contenu de la société
distincte dans la mesure où les tribunaux auraient pu appliquer la règle voulant
que seuls des éléments analogues à ceux qui sont énumérés peuvent être
ajoutés par interprétation à une liste non exhaustive (règle ejusdem generis).
Or, le « genre » des trois éléments mentionnés, leur trait commun, était leur
caractère traditionnel : il s’agissait de caractères particuliers du Québec qui
existaient déjà au moment où celui-ci était entré dans la fédération en 1867. Par
conséquent, on pouvait prétendre que le caractère distinct du Québec, tel qu’il
était reconnu dans la clause Canada, était lié au passé et à l’histoire. Rien ne
permettait évidemment de prétendre avec certitude que les tribunaux auraient
retenu ce genre d’interprétation, mais cette possibilité ne pouvait pas
davantage être exclue.
En tenant compte des différences qui viennent d’être mentionnées, il faut donc
constater que la reconnaissance du caractère distinct du Québec dans l’Accord
de Charlottetown avait perdu de sa portée par rapport à l’Accord du Lac
Meech.
L’Accord constitutionnel de Charlottetown comprenait également des
dispositions relatives à la réforme du Sénat, de la Chambre des communes et de
la Cour suprême.
24
Concernant la réforme du Sénat, l’accord constitutionnel prévoyait que celuici serait « égal », chaque province étant représentée par six sénateurs et chaque
territoire par un. Dans un premier temps, la proportion des sièges du Québec au
Sénat serait donc passée de 23,1 p. 100 à 9,7 p. 100. Mais elle aurait ensuite
continué à diminuer. En effet, l’accord constitutionnel prévoyait également de
nouvelles négociations pour ajouter des sièges au Sénat afin d’y représenter les
peuples autochtones. En outre, au fur et à mesure de la créaton de nouvelles
provinces, il aurait fallu à nouveau augmenter le nombre des sièges de la
Chambre haute. À cet égard, il faut souligner que le Québec n’avait pas obtenu,
comme il le demandait, un droit de veto sur la création de nouvelles provinces.
Au contraire, l’Accord de Charlottetown entraînait un recul de la position
provinciale sur ce plan. Alors qu’à l’heure actuelle, en vertu de la Loi
constitutionnelle de 1982, il faut le consentement de sept provinces
représentant 50 p. 100 de la population pour créer une nouvelle province à
partir d’un des deux territoires, l’Accord de 1992 prévoyait qu’il suffirait d’un
accord entre les autorités fédérales et le territoire intéressé. Il est vrai, par
contre, qu’il était également prévu que les provinces existantes devraient
consentir, à l’unanimité, aux modalités de participation de la nouvelle
province à la procédure de modification de la Constitution ainsi qu’à
l’augmentation de sa représentation au Sénat. Il aurait donc pu arriver, par
exemple, que deux nouvelles provinces soient créées pour les Territoires du
Nord-Ouest, mais qu’une ou plusieurs provinces s’opposent à l’augmentation
du nombre des sénateurs, avec le résultat que le principe de l’égalité de
représentation des provinces au Sénat n’aurait pas pu être respecté. Les
pressions pour l’augmentation des membres de la Chambre haute seraient
alors devenues très fortes et, sur un plan pratique et politique, les provinces
récalcitrantes auraient eu beaucoup de difficultés à maintenir leur obstruction.
Selon l’Accord de Charlottetown, les sénateurs devaient être élus soit par la
population, soit par l’assemblée législative provinciale, selon ce que chaque
province déciderait.
En ce qui concerne les attributions législatives du nouveau Sénat, l’Accord de
Charlottetown distinguait quatre catégories de projets de lois. Le Sénat
disposerait d’un droit de veto absolu sur les projets de loi supposant « des
changements fondamentaux du régime fiscal directement lié aux ressources
naturelles ». Par contre, pour les projets de loi traitant des recettes et des
dépenses (les projets de loi de crédits), le nouveau Sénat n’aurait qu’un droit de
veto suspensif de trente jours, la Chambres des communes pouvant réadopter
le projet au bout de cette période par une majorité ordinaire. Quant aux projets
de loi « touchant de façon importante à la langue ou à la culture française », ils
devraient être adoptés par une majorité de tous les sénateurs et par une majorité
des sénateurs francophones (les sénateurs francophones étant ceux qui se
déclarent comme tels au moment de leur accession au Sénat). Enfin, pour ce
qui est des projets de loi « ordinaires », c’est-à-dire n’entrant dans aucune des
trois catégories précédentes, le rejet ou la modification d’un projet de loi par le
Sénat déclencherait un processus de séance conjointe des deux Chambres; un
vote à la majorité simple en séance conjointe déciderait alors du sort du projet
de loi. Par ailleurs, le nombre des députés serait augmenté substantiellement.
Par conséquent, lorsque le gouvernement aurait disposé d’une solide majorité
à la Chambre des Communes, comme c’est normalement le cas, il n’aurait pas
eu de difficulté à faire renverser par celle-ci le veto que le Sénat pouvait
opposer à ses projets (autres que ceux portant sur la fiscalité des ressources
naturelles et la langue ou la culture française). En revanche, dans les cas où le
25
IJCS / RIÉC
gouvernement fédéral aurait été minoritaire ou n’aurait disposé que d’une
faible majorité (comme cela est quelques fois arrivé au cours des quarante
dernières années), l’alliance entre les partis d’opposition aux Communes et un
certain nombre de sénateurs aurait pu être fatale à de nombreux projets de loi
s’ils avaient fait l’objet d’un vote en séance conjointe. Dans un tel cas, le
Cabinet pouvait même être contraint de dissoudre le Parlement et de faire des
élections, bien qu’en théorie, selon l’Accord constitutionnel, le nouveau Sénat
ne se voyait pas reconnaître le pouvoir de renverser le gouvernement.
On constate donc que la réforme du Sénat risquait de compliquer, voire
d’entraver sérieusement le fonctionnement du système parlementaire
canadien. On peut ajouter à cela que la réforme aurait mis en mouvement une
dynamique dont il était fort difficile d’évaluer les effets futurs. Dans la mesure
où les sénateurs auraient été titulaires d’une légitimité démocratique
semblable à celles des députés fédéraux, ils auraient pu exercer un pouvoir
politique et moral, sinon juridique, considérable (il est illogique de donner au
Sénat une forte légitimité démocratique sans lui reconnaître d’importants
pouvoirs). Cela risquait de susciter de fortes pressions en faveur de
l’augmentation des prérogatives de la Chambre haute.
L’Accord de Charlottetown accordait au Québec la garantie de n’avoir jamais
moins de 25 p. 100 des sièges à la Chambre des communes sans égard à
l’importance relative de sa population. Il s’agissait là d’une protection qui était
loin d’être négligeable pour l’avenir. En effet, si la population québécoise
représente actuellement un peu plus du quart de l’ensemble canadien, elle
devrait, selon les estimations, bientôt tomber sous ce seuil et continuer de
diminuer au cours du XXIe siècle. La Chambre des communes restant le
principal lieu d’exercice du pouvoir législatif fédéral, il est important que le
Québec y soit protégé contre une diminution de sa représentation. Cependant,
il ne faut pas exagérer la portée de cette garantie. En effet, les députés sont
généralement prisonniers de la discipline de parti et votent par conséquent bien
plus en fonction des consignes de leur parti politique que des intérêts de la
province qu’ils représentent. Par conséquent, la présence d’un fort contingent
de députés québécois à Ottawa ne constitue pas nécessairement une garantie
que le gouvernement fédéral respectera les orientations et les priorités du
gouvernement du Québec.
Concernant la nomination des juges de la Cour suprême, l’Accord de
Charlottetown reprenait essentiellement les dispositions de l’Accord du lac
Meech. En effet, il était prévu de constitutionnaliser les dispositions de la Loi
sur la Cour suprême voulant que trois des neuf juges de la Cour doivent avoir
été reçus au Barreau du Québec, c’est-à-dire être des civilistes, et l’on
prévoyait que le gouvernement québécois pourrait présenter la liste à partir de
laquelle le gouvernement fédéral devrait nommer les juges venant du Québec.
Par contre, contrairement à ce que prévoyait l’Accord du lac Meech, les
modifications futures du processus de sélection des juges de la Cour suprême
n’exigeraient pas le consentement de toutes les provinces (ce qui aurait donné
au Québec un droit de veto), mais seulement l’accord de sept d’entre elles,
représentant la moitié de la population.
Au chapitre de la répartition des pouvoirs, où le Québec réclame depuis trente
ans une augmentation de ses compétences dans de nombreux domaines ainsi
qu’une véritable limitation du pouvoir fédéral de dépenser, l’Accord
constitutionnel consacrait essentiellement une forme de statu quo
« remodelé ». En outre, rappelons que l’Accord n’énonçait dans ce domaine
26
aucune règle propre au Québec, qui se trouvait donc traité exactement comme
toutes les autres provinces.
En premier lieu, dans un certain nombre de domaines (forêts, mines, tourisme,
logement, loisirs, affaires municipales et urbaines) où les provinces possèdent
déjà les pouvoirs législatifs, ceux-ci étaient formellement réaffirmés, en même
temps qu’était également consacré le pouvoir de dépenser du gouvernement
fédéral, lequel s’engageait à négocier son retrait par des accords valables pour
cinq ans et renouvelables.
Ensuite, la compétence législative exclusive des provinces était reconnue dans
le domaine du développement et de la formation de la main- d’oeuvre, le
fédéral conservant cependant le droit d’établir — de concert avec les provinces
— des objectifs nationaux pour le premier de ces domaines. Là encore, le nonexercice du pouvoir fédéral de dépenser devait d’abord être négociée par les
provinces. En outre, le fédéral conservait sa compétence exclusive à l’égard de
l’assurance-chômage, y compris le soutien du revenu et les services connexes
qu’il fournit dans ce cadre.
En troisième lieu, en matière de culture, l’accord prévoyait une nouvelle
disposition constitutionnelle reconnaissant la compétence exclusive des
provinces relativement au « domaine de la culture dans la province »; en
réalité, il ne s’agissait que d’une explicitation de la solution jurisprudentielle
en vigueur , qui a été développée par les tribunaux sur la base de l’article 92 de
la Loi constitutionnelle de 1867. Par ailleurs, la responsabilité des autorités
fédérales sur les « affaires culturelles nationales » était également confirmée,
le gouvernement fédéral conservant, là encore, son pouvoir de dépenser et
s’engageant seulement à négocier des ententes visant à assurer aux provinces
la « maîtrise d’oeuvre » de la politique culturelle sur leur territoire. Le même
engagement fédéral de négocier des ententes de coordination et
d’harmonisation s’appliquait aux domaines du développement régional et des
télécommunications.
En matière d’immigration, l’Accord de Charlottetown reprenait la substance
des dispositions de l’Accord du lac Meech, c’est-à-dire que les ententes
conclues dans ce domaine entre le gouvernement fédéral et les provinces
étaient « protégées » constitutionnellement, de façon à ne pouvoir être
modifiés, en principe, que par entente entre les deux parties. En fait, les
autorités fédérales conservaient la possibilité de les modifier unilatéralement
sur certains points en adoptant des normes nationales portant notamment sur
les niveaux généraux d’immigration et les catégories d’immigrants
admissibles.
Enfin, dans tous les autres domaines de compétence provinciale exclusive —
la santé ou l’éducation —, par exemple, le gouvernement fédéral conservait
son pouvoir de dépenser, les provinces se voyant seulement reconnaître,
comme dans l’Accord du lac Meech, le droit de refuser de participer à un
nouveau programme cofinancé que le gouvernement fédéral créerait et
d’obtenir une compensation financière, mais uniquement à condition de mettre
elles-mêmes sur pied un programme « compatible avec les objectifs
nationaux».
En résumé, le principe général qui inspirait les dispositions de l’Accord
relatives à la répartition des pouvoirs semble avoir été que toutes les
compétences provinciales, y compris celles que la Constitution attribue aux
provinces de façon « exclusive », sont en réalité perméables à l’intervention
27
IJCS / RIÉC
fédérale par le biais de son pouvoir de dépenser. Lorsque le fédéral acceptait de
limiter ce pouvoir, c’était toujours de façon conditionnelle par des accords
temporaires qu’un nouveau gouvernement, autrement disposé, pourrait
refuser de renouveller.
Parmi les autres dispositions de l’Accord de Charlottetown pertinentes à notre
propos, rappelons celles portant sur les droits des peuples autochtones. On y
consacrait le droit « inhérent » des peuples autochtones à l’autonomie
gouvernementale et la création, à cet effet, d’un troisième ordre de
gouvernement. Pendant une période de cinq ans, les onze gouvernements et les
intéressés auraient tenté de préciser par voie de négociation la teneur de ce
droit, à défaut de quoi celui-ci deviendrait exécutoire et pourrait alors être être
défini par les tribunaux. Outre le fait qu’un tel projet déléguait ainsi un pouvoir
trop considérable aux tribunaux, trois autres aspects ne manquaient pas
d’inquiéter. En premier lieu, il n’était pas clair dans quelle mesure les lois
autochtones devaient être compatibles avec les lois fédérales et provinciales25.
Ensuite, l’Accord prévoyait que les autorités autochones pourraient déroger à
la Charte canadienne des droits et libertés, ce qui inquiétait vivement les
femmes autochtones, qui avaient peur que l’égalité sexuelle ne soit pas
toujours respectée par les futurs gouvernements autochtones. Enfin, il semble
que l’Accord aurait permis aux gouvernements autochtones de refuser les
droits politiques aux non-autochtones vivant sur leur territoire; il se serait donc
agi de gouvernements fondés au moins en partie sur l’appartenance raciale.
Les causes du rejet de l’Accord de Charlottetown
Comme on vient de le constater, l’Accord de Charlottetown ne répondait
aucunement aux demandes traditionnelles du Québec en matière de répartition
des pouvoirs. Par ailleurs, sur de nombreux autres points, comme par exemple
la réforme du Sénat, la reconnaissance du caractère distinct du Québec, le droit
de veto sur les amendements à la Constitution, l’Accord représentait un recul
par rapport Meech. Non seulement, le Québec ne se voyait pas reconnaître les
nouveaux pouvoirs considérés comme nécessaires à son développement, mais
pis encore, il n’obtenait pas même toutes les garanties nécessaires à la
protection efficace de sa position minoritaire dans le cadre des institutions
fédérales. Il n’est donc pas étonnant que l’Accord est été rejeté au Québec par
une majorité de 56,6 p. 100 des électeurs parmi lesquels on trouvait, bien sûr,
les souverainistes, mais également un grand nombre de fédéralistes
insatisfaits.
Par ailleurs, l’Accord de Charlottetown contenait une réforme de la Chambre
haute qui devait fatalement mécontenter les tenants du Sénat « Triple E »,
puisque si le Sénat proposé était « égal » et élu, il était loin d’être aussi efficace
que ces derniers l’auraient voulu. Il n’est donc pas étonnant que l’Accord ait
aussi été rejeté dans les quatre provinces de l’Ouest de façon encore plus
décisive qu’au Québec (par une majorité de 63,1 p. 100 des électeurs). La
mesure garantissant à perpétuité au Québec 25 p. 100 des sièges de la Chambre
des communes a été particulièrement mal reçue en Colombie-Britannique, qui
aurait ainsi continué à avoir une proportion de sièges moindre que ne le justifie
sa forte croissance démographique. Les trois seules provinces où l’Accord a
été accepté par une nette majorité sont Terre-Neuve, l’Île-du-Prince-Édouard
et le Nouveau-Brunswick. En Nouvelle-Écosse, il a été rejeté par une mince
majorité alors qu’en Ontario, une majorité encore plus réduite l’acceptait (à
l’échelle nationale, l’Accord a été rejeté par 54 p. 100 des électeurs).
28
En fait, on peut penser que l’Accord de Charlottetown était en quelque sorte
condamné d’avance, puisqu’il heurtait de front les revendications des deux
principaux « demandeurs » en matière de réforme constitutionnelle : le
Québec, qui n’obtenait pas les pouvoirs qu’il réclame depuis trente ans; les
provinces de l’Ouest, qui se voyaient frustrées d’un véritable Sénat « Triple
E » leur principale revendication depuis le milieu des années soixante-dix.
Même les peuples autochtones ont majoritairement voté contre l’Accord, ce
qui est plus difficile à comprendre étant donné qu’ils avaient réalisé des gains
considérables, encore impensables il y a deux ou trois ans.
Avec le bénéfice du recul, on comprend que pour avoir quelque chance de
succès, les rédacteurs de l’Accord de Charlottetown auraient dû accepter
d’augmenter les pouvoirs du Québec de façon « asymétrique » et donner en
échange satisfaction aux provinces de l’Ouest pour ce qui est du Sénat « Triple
E ». Sans doute, chacun des deux camps aurait-il encore eu des raisons de
s’opposer à l’entente, mais également certains motifs puissants pour
l’appuyer. Bien sûr, pour en arriver là, il aurait fallu accepter d’abord le
principe d’un « statut particulier » pour le Québec, ce que la majorité des
Canadiens anglais ne semble pas encore disposée à faire. Pourtant, il s’agit
probablement de la seule avenue de changement qui reste encore ouverte pour
l’avenir, mis à part l’accession du Québec à la souveraineté.
La redéfinition du statut du Québec au sein du régime fédéral canadien : le
fédéralisme « asymétrique » (ou statut particulier)
Au cours des discussions constitutionnelles qui ont eu lieu en 1992, certains
membres de l’intelligentsia et des milieux dirigeants canadiens-anglais ont
présenté l’hypothèse d’un « fédéralisme asymétrique », qui permettrait au
Québec d’exercer certains pouvoirs qui ne seraient pas nécessairement
étendus aux autres provinces. Ce statut particulier devait cependant être
« compensé » par une diminution correspondante de l’influence du Québec au
sein des institutions centrales. Ainsi, les représentants du Québec au sein du
Parlement canadien — députés et sénateurs — ne voteraient plus sur les lois
touchant les domaines où la compétence aurait été transférée aux autorités de
la province26. De même, les ministères correspondants ne devraient plus être
dirigés par des Québécois et, à toute fin pratique, ceux-ci ne pourraient plus
prétendre occuper le poste de Premier ministre fédéral ou celui de chef d’un
parti politique national27.
Selon les modalités retenues, pareil régime pourrait constituer soit un marché
de dupes pour le Québec, soit une transformation profonde du système
canadien qui évoluerait ainsi vers une « quasi-confédération » à deux.
Le Québec perdrait évidemment au change si le transfert de pouvoirs en sa
faveur n’était que minime et, par conséquent, insuffisant pour compenser sa
perte d’influence subie au sein des institutions fédérales. Pour être satisfaisant,
le transfert devrait porter sur la majeure partie des pouvoirs que les
gouvernements québécois successifs revendiquent avec constance depuis une
trentaine d’années. La liste en est longue28. Par ailleurs, le pouvoir de dépenser
des autorités fédérales devrait être aboli — ou du moins ne s’exercer qu’avec
l’accord du gouvernement québécois — autant dans les nouveaux domaines
transférés au Québec que dans ceux qui sont traditionnellement de sa
compétence exclusive. En effet, si ce pouvoir demeurait intact, le Québec ne
tirerait rien de l’acquisition de nouvelles compétences, puisque le pouvoir de
dépenser permet au fédéral d’obliger les provinces à se plier aux objectifs et
29
IJCS / RIÉC
aux normes qu’il fixe, même dans leurs champs de compétence exclusive. En
outre, le transfert au Québec de nouvelles compétences législatives devrait
s’accompagner du transfert correspondant de ressources financières, sous
forme de ressources fiscales. Par conséquent, les Québécois bénéficieraient
d’une réduction d’impôts fédéraux, ce qui permettrait un supplément de
taxation provinciale correspondant aux services désormais fournis par la
province. Étant donné que le Québec est la deuxième plus importante province
(25 p. 100 de la population canadienne), un tel bouleversement fiscal et
financier exigerait le réaménagement du système de la péréquation. Pour ce
qui est de la réforme du Sénat, l’asymétrie pourrait être poussée jusqu’au point
où celui-ci ne réunirait que les représentants du Canada anglais et, dès lors,
n’interviendrait plus que pour les lois ne s’appliquant uniquement qu’à
l’extérieur du Québec29. En outre, la Charte constitutionnelle pourrait être
déclarée inapplicable au Québec et la Charte québécoise, en échange, se voir
attribuer un véritable statut constitutionnel en étant « enchâssée » par une
procédure spéciale d’amendement. La Cour suprême du Canada pourrait
perdre sa compétence à l’égard des affaires de droit civil québécois, la Cour
d’appel du Québec devenant la juridiction de dernière instance dans ce
domaine : l’on pourrait même créer au sein de la Cour suprême une chambre
spécialisée en matière constitutionnelle dont les membres seraient nommés
conjointement par le gouvernement fédéral et le gouvernement du Québec.
Enfin, la proportion des sièges du Québec à la Chambre des communes devrait
être garantie et le Québec devrait obtenir un droit de veto sur les modifications
constitutionnelles affectant sa place au sein des institutions centrales ainsi que
le droit de recevoir une pleine compensation financière dans tous les cas où il
exercerait son droit de « désaccord » (ou droit de retrait) contre une
modification constitutionnelle transférant une compétence provinciale au
Parlement fédéral30.
Si le « fédéralisme asymétrique » respectait ces conditions, il aurait pour effet à
moyen et à long terme d’instaurer entre le Québec et le Canada anglais des
relations de nature quasi confédérale, plutôt que fédérale. Le Parlement et le
gouvernement canadiens pourraient en quelque sorte jouer deux rôles
différents : celui d’institutions fédérales pour le Canada anglais, et celui
d’institutions confédérales pour le nouvel ensemble formé par le Québec et le
Canada. Le Québec et le Canada ne maintiendraient alors que le degré d’union
politique nécessaire pour permettre le fonctionnement de l’union économique
et monétaire et chacun d’eux pourrait poursuivre plus librement ses aspirations
et développer davantage sa propre identité nationale. Il s’agirait en somme
d’une forme de « souveraineté-association » avec la différence qu’elle serait
négociée à partir de l’actuelle situation fédérale plutôt qu’après la séparation
du Québec. C’est précisément pour cette raison qu’il est peu probable que le
Canada anglais accepte cette solution à l’heure actuelle, craignant qu’elle ne
constitue l’« antichambre du séparatisme ».
Cependant, si la menace d’une séparation du Québec redevenait plus réelle, la
solution du fédéralisme asymétrique pourrait gagner des adeptes au Canada
anglais dans la mesure où elle serait alors l’unique solution de rechange à
l’éclatement du Canada. En outre, le Canada anglais pourrait y trouver son
compte en voyant ainsi diminuer l’influence, souvent considérée comme
disproportionnée, du Québec en matière de politique fédérale. En effet, les
Québécois ont tendance à voter massivement pour le même parti aux élections
fédérales et décident donc souvent du résultat. Par conséquent, ils jouent
également un rôle considérable au Cabinet fédéral. Comme on le sait, depuis
30
une génération, le Premier ministre fédéral a toujours été un Québécois, sauf
pendant deux brèves périodes de quelques mois. L’influence que le Québec
exerce sur la politique fédérale est ainsi parfois supérieure à son poids
démographique, ce qui provoque des ressentiments au Canada anglais.
L’accession du Québec à la souveraineté — avec ou sans le consentement
du Canada anglais
Si le Québec décidait de devenir souverain, il pourrait en théorie y parvenir en
utilisant la procédure de modification contenue dans la Loi constitutionnelle
de 1982 à condition d’obtenir le consentement des autorités fédérales et d’un
certain nombre d’autres provinces, ce qui semble peu vraisemblable31. Si ce
consentement lui était refusé, le Québec devrait alors s’engager dans un
processus de sécession unilatérale. Une telle démarche devrait préalablement
avoir été endossée par une majorité suffisante de la population québécoise, de
préférence à l’occasion d’un référendum. Dans un premier temps, le Canada
anglais refuserait probablement de reconnaître cette sécession illégale.
Cependant, les pays ayant intérêt à la normalisation de la situation, notamment
les États-Unis et la France, feraient presque certainement des pressions pour
qu’Ottawa reconnaisse le nouvel État. À moyen et à long termes, si l’existence
du Québec était reconnue par d’autres États et s’il était admis dans certaines
organisations internationales, le Canada finirait probablement par trouver
opportun de le reconnaître à son tour. À partir de ce moment, les deux
gouvernements pourraient entamer les négociations relatives à la succession
d’État et à toutes les autres questions restées en suspens au moment de la
déclaration unilatérale d’indépendance.
La sécession serait considérée comme réussie si, durant un laps de temps
suffisamment long, les autorités québécoises parvenaient à exclure
l’application du droit canadien sur leur territoire et, au contraire, réussissaient
à y faire régner l’ordre juridique découlant de leurs propres lois et décisions. Le
Québec devrait alors être considéré comme un nouvel État souverain.
Si une éventuelle sécession unilatérale échouait, le Québec serait à nouveau
réuni à la fédération canadienne et le problème de son intégrité territoriale se
poserait dans le cadre de la Constitution du Canada. En vertu de celle-ci, le
territoire d’une province ne peut être modifié sans le consentement de ses
autorités législatives32. Si la sécession réussissait et que le Québec devenait un
État souverain, le principe de l’intégrité territoriale des États et de la stabilité
des frontières que pose le droit international (principe de l’uti possidetis juris)
empêcherait les autres États, y compris le Canada, de porter atteinte au
territoire québécois, si bien que les frontières du Québec seraient
officiellement celles qui existaient au moment de son accession à la
souveraineté.
Cependant, une menace sérieuse contre l’intégrité territoriale du Québec
pourrait résulter de l’attitude des peuples autochtones — Inuit et Amérindiens
— qui habitent la partie septentrionale du Québec33. En effet, ces peuples, qui
sont les premiers occupants de ces territoires, pourraient prétendre exercer leur
propre droit à l’autodétermination afin de continuer à faire partie du Canada et
de se séparer du Québec si celui-ci décidait de quitter la fédération canadienne.
Sans doute, le Québec pourrait-il répondre, à juste titre, que certaines
conditions requises pour l’autodétermination des peuples autochtones sur le
plan international ne sont pas réunies, voire même qu’un tel droit n’existe
tout simplement pas34. Il n’en reste pas moins que la cause des autochtones
31
IJCS / RIÉC
leur attirerait beaucoup de sympathie, tant au Canada qu’ailleurs dans le
monde. En outre, les autorités fédérales trouveraient là une bonne raison pour
affirmer le maintien de leur souveraineté sur le Nord québécois, la
Constitution leur attribuant une responsabilité de fiduciaire à l’égard des
peuples autochtones et ceux-ci considérant traditionnellement le
gouvernement fédéral comme leur interlocuteur privilégié35. Comme le
Canada dispose d’une armée, ce qui n’est pas le cas du Québec, le maintien de
la souveraineté canadienne et l’exclusion de la souveraineté québécoise sur les
territoires septentrionaux s’avéreraient aisés sur le plan militaire et, sur le plan
juridique, finiraient par éteindre les droits du Québec par application du
principe de l’effectivité (en vertu duquel l’exercice réel de la souveraineté est
nécessaire pour conserver le titre juridique sur un territoire).
Par conséquent, il apparaît que l’accession pacifique du Québec à la
souveraineté, sans diminution de son assiette territoriale, serait beaucoup plus
facile si elle était précédée d’un accord entre les autorités québécoises, les
autorités fédérales et les peuples autochtones établis au Québec. Pour favoriser
la conclusion d’une pareille entente, le Québec devrait dès maintenant
s’engager à enchâsser dans une future constitution québécoise les droits des
autochtones qui ne pourraient plus ensuite être modifiés qu’avec le
consentement de ces derniers. Ces droit devraient être formulés, à tout le
moins, de la même façon que dans l’actuelle Constitution canadienne et, de
préférence, plus clairement et plus généreusement en incluant notamment une
certaine autonomie gouvernementale interne. Par ailleurs, les autochtones
québécois craignent sans doute que l’accession du Québec à la souveraineté ne
rende plus difficiles les contacts avec leurs frères et soeurs du Canada. Pour les
rassurer sur ce point, l’accord tripartite entre le Québec, le Canada et les
peuples autochtones pourrait prévoir la liberté de circulation des autochtones
de part et d’autre de la nouvelle frontière. Un tel accord pourrait également
consigner les droits des autochtones à l’égard des deux États signataires et
confier à un organisme mixte canado-québécois le soin d’entendre et de
trancher les litiges futurs pouvant s’élever entre le Québec ou le Canada, d’une
part, et leurs peuples autochtones, d’autre part. Cela permettrait sans doute
d’améliorer les rapports difficiles qui existent actuellement entre ces peuples
et les deux ordres de gouvernement.
Conclusion
Depuis plus de trente ans, tous les gouvernements québécois, de quelque parti
qu’ils soient, ont tenté d’obtenir pour le Québec les nouveaux pouvoirs
considérés comme nécessaires afin de lui permettre de se développer en tant
que société nationale distincte. Non seulement ces revendications n’ont eu
aucun succès, mais elles se sont heurtées à une évolution en sens inverse au
Canada anglais, où l’on privilégie de plus en plus l’augmentation du rôle et des
pouvoirs d’Ottawa. Cet affrontement entre les aspirations du Québec et celles
du reste du Canada s’est soldé, dans la dernière décennie, par une double
défaite pour le Québec. La première est survenue en 1982 lorsque la
Constitution a été « rapatriée » et modifiée contre la volonté du gouvernement
de René Lévesque et la seconde, en 1990, avec l’échec de l’Accord du lac
Meech, qui consacrait pourtant une réduction draconienne des demandes
traditionnelles du Québec, réduction à laquelle le gouvernement de M. Robert
Bourassa avait consentie.
Ces échecs répétés expliquent que les Québécois, malgré l’attachement réel
que beaucoup d’entre eux continuent d’éprouver pour le Canada, rejettent
32
désormais de façon très majoritaire le statu quo constitutionnel et, a fortiori, la
tendance du Canada anglais vers une plus grande centralisation. L’opinion
publique québécoise reste cependant hésitante dans la mesure où elle se divise,
dans une proportion variable selon les sondages, entre les partisans d’un
renouvellement du système fédéral et ceux de la souveraineté du Québec36. En
outre, la très grande majorité des « souverainistes » insistait sur le maintien de
l’union économique et monétaire entre le Canada et un futur Québec
indépendant. Il est cependant loin d’être clair quel degré d’union politique doit
être considéré comme nécessaire pour permettre le maintien de l’intégration
économique à son niveau actuel. Ceux qui prônent le statu quo ou le
« fédéralisme renouvelé » estiment que seules des institutions véritablement
fédérales permettraient d’arriver à ce résultat alors que les tenants de la
souveraineté politique du Québec — combinée avec le maintien de
l’association économique avec le Canada — pensent, au contraire, qu’il
suffirait pour y parvenir d’institutions de nature mixte, partiellement fédérales
et partiellement confédérales, comme celles qui caractérisent actuellement la
Communauté économique européenne37. Cette dernière thèse serait
évidemment confirmée si l’on pouvait démontrer que le degré d’intégration
économique qui unit les États de la C.E.E. est comparable à celui qui existe au
Canada. De façon plutôt ironique, c’est précisément ce que prétendent de
nombreux tenants du maintien du système fédéral en voulant ainsi prouver que
la souveraineté du Québec irait contre le « sens de l’histoire ». Comble du
paradoxe, certains promoteurs d’un système fédéral plus centralisé vont
jusqu’à prétendre que l’union économique constituée par la C.E.E. est d’ores
et déjà plus parfaite que celle qui existe entre les provinces canadiennes,
cherchant ainsi à démontrer qu’il est nécessaire d’éliminer les barrières
économiques entre celles-ci en conférant davantage de pouvoirs dans ce
domaine au gouvernement central.
En fait, une comparaison moins polémique entre la situation canadoquébécoise et celle de l’Europe permet de souligner que les Européens
semblent actuellement tout aussi hésitants à renforcer l’union politique qui
existe déjà entre leurs pays que les Québécois le sont à diminuer les liens qui
les unissent au reste du Canada. C’est que ni les uns ni les autres n’échappent
aux deux grands courants qui caractérisent l’évolution du monde en cette fin
du XXe siècle, à savoir l’élargissement des espaces économiques, d’une part,
et l’affirmation, ou la réaffirmation, des identités nationales d’autre part38. Ces
deux tendances sont évidemment liées dans la mesure où les menaces
d’homogénéisation qui accompagnent l’unification économique provoquent
en réaction la défense des spécificités nationales menacées. Mais les deux
mouvements sont probablement moins contradictoires qu’il n’y paraît à
première vue. En effet, l’appartenance à un espace économique qui dépasse les
frontières nationales n’est pas incompatible avec le maintien — ou, dans le cas
du Québec, l’élargissement — de la souveraineté politique dans les domaines
où existent des spécificités importantes qui distinguent les communautés
nationales les unes des autres.
On peut donc espérer qu’à plus long terme, la raison prévaudra et que le
Québec et le reste du Canada réussiront à réaménager leurs relations de façon
mutuellement bénéfique et satisfaisante. Le sens démocratique du Canada
anglais devrait faire en sorte que cette transformation se produise de façon
pacifique, le Québec se voyant reconnaître le droit de décider de son avenir
sans être soumis à des menaces de représailles économiques, voire de
diminution de son territoire. Ainsi, c’est aux Québécois eux-mêmes que
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IJCS / RIÉC
reviendra le dernier mot à condition qu’ils réussissent à faire preuve d’une
volonté inébranlable et clairement exprimée. Après l’échec de l’Accord de
Charlottetown, la lassitude de l’opinion à l’égard des questions
constitutionnelles poussera vraisemblablement le Canada anglais à refuser
pendant un temps plus ou moins long toutes nouvelles négociations, ce qui
pourrait avoir pour effet de faire augmenter les appuis à la souveraineté au
Québec. Cependant, comme on l’a mentionné, dans la mesure où de nombreux
Québécois sont encore attachés au système fédéral et où la plupart d’entre eux
insistent sur le maintien de l’espace économique avec le reste du Canada, il est
douteux que l’accession à la souveraineté par le biais d’une séparation pure et
simple, sans union économique et monétaire négociée d’avance, puisse
l’emporter dans un avenir prévisible. La véritable échéance sera, semble-t-il,
de nouveau reportée.
Notes
*
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
34
Une version plus détaillée du présent article a été publiée dans l’ouvrage suivant : « La
Constitution canadienne et l’évolution des rapports entre le Québec et le Canada anglais, de
1867 à nos jours », Edmonton, Centre for Constitutional Studies (University of Alberta),
1993. En outre, le présent article reproduit les pages 543 à 553 du texte de l’auteur intitulé
« L’évolution constitutionnelle du Canada et du Québec de 1867 à nos jours » qui a paru dans
Les Constitutions du Canada et du Québec, du Régime français à nos jours, Éditions
Thémis, Montréal, 1992. L’auteur remercie les deux éditeurs pour la permission de
reproduire les extraits que reprend le présent article.
La seule différence tient à ce que les projets de lois de nature financière doivent être d’abord
déposés aux Communes, conformément à l’article 53 de la Loi constitutionnelle de 1867,
L.R.C. (1985), app. II, no 5, alors que les autres projets peuvent émaner indifféremment de
l’une ou l’autre des deux Chambres. Cependant, avant d’être présenté pour la sanction
royale, un projet de loi sur la finance, comme tout autre projet de loi, doit nécessairement
avoir été adopté dans les mêmes termes par les deux Chambres.
La répartition actuelle des cent quatre sièges du Sénat est la suivante : Ontario et Québec,
vingt-quatre chacun; Nouveau-Brunswick et Nouvelle-Écosse, dix chacun; Île-du-PrinceÉdouard, quatre; Colombie-Britannique, Alberta, Saskatchewan et Manitoba, six chacun;
Terre-Neuve, six; Yukon et Territoires du Nord-Ouest, un chacun.
Pour une étude plus systématique des problèmes soulevés par la réforme du Sénat, voir José
Woehrling, « Les enjeux de la réforme du Sénat canadien », (1992) 23, Revue générale de
droit, 81.
Conformément à l’article 6 de la Loi sur la Cour suprême, L.R.C. (1985), c. S-26, au moins
trois des neuf juges sont choisis parmi les juges de la Cour d’appel ou de la Cour supérieure
de la province du Québec ou parmi les avocats de celle-ci; l’Accord du lac Meech prévoyait
également la constitutionnalisation de cette règle.
Loi constitutionnelle de 1867, art. 95.
Sur le pouvoir de dépenser du gouvernement fédéral, voir Jacques-Yvan Morin et José
Woehrling, Les Constitutions du Canada et du Québec. Du Régime français à nos jours,
Montréal, Éditions Thémis, 1992, pp. 360 et suiv.
Loi constitutionnelle de 1982, L.R.C. (1985), app. II, no 44, art. 41(e). La procédure de
modification de la Constitution canadienne est prévue aux articles 38 à 49 de la Loi
constitutionnelle de 1982. Dans certains cas, l’accord des dix provinces et du Parlement
fédéral est nécessaire; dans d’autres, celui du Parlement fédéral et de toutes les provinces
intéressées par la modification suffit; enfin, la procédure la plus courante exige l’accord du
Parlement fédéral et d’au moins deux tiers des provinces (c’est-à-dire sept sur dix) dont la
population confondue représente au moins la moitié de la population de toutes les provinces.
Par ailleurs, certaines modifications qui visent la constitution interne d’une province
peuvent être faites par la législature de la province intéressée et d’autres, relatives au
fonctionnement des organes fédéraux, par les deux Chambres du Parlement fédéral. Pour
une analyse systématique du mécanisme de la procédure de modification constitutionnelle,
voir J.-Y. Morin et J. Woehrling, op. cit., note 6, pp. 487 et suiv.
8.
Pour une analyse plus développée de l’incidence de l’Accord du lac Meech sur les droits et
libertés garantis par la Constitution du Canada, voir José Woehrling, « La modification
constitutionnelle de 1987, la reconnaissance du Québec comme société distincte et la dualité
linguistique du Canada », (1988) 29, Cahiers de droit, 3; José Woehrling, « La
reconnaissance du Québec comme société distincte et la dualité linguistique du Canada :
conséquences juridiques et constitutionnelles » dans The Meech Lake Accord—L’Accord du
lac Meech, numéro spécial de Canadian Public Policy/Analyse de politiques, septembre
1988, p. 43; José Woehrling, « L’Accord du lac Meech et l’application de la Charte
canadienne des droits et libertés », dans Gérald-A. Beaudoin (dir.), Vues canadiennes et
européennes des droits et libertés (Actes des journées strasbourgeoises de l’Institut canadien
d’études juridiques supérieures — 1988), Cowansville, Éditions Y. Blais, 1989, p. 377; José
Woehrling, « A Critique of the Distinct Society Clause’s Critics » dans Michael D. Behiels
(dir.), The Meech Lake Primer : Conflicting Views of the 1987 Constitutional Accord,
Ottawa, University of Ottawa Press, 1989, p. 171; José Woehrling, « Les droits linguistiques
des minorités et le projet de modification de la Constitution du Canada (l’Accord du lac
Meech) » dans Paul Pupier et José Woehrling, Langue et droit (Actes du premier congrès de
l’Institut international de droit linguistique comparé), Montréal, Wilson et Lafleur, 1989, p.
291.
9.
En fait, la législature du Nouveau-Brunswick finit par adopter, quelques jours avant la date
limite du 23 juin 1990, la résolution d’agrément nécessaire pour ratifier l’Accord du lac
Meech. Si celui-ci échoua en fin de compte, ce fut donc à cause de l’absence de ratification
par les législatures du Manitoba et de Terre-Neuve. Pour plus de détails sur les péripéties de
l’échec de l’Accord du lac Meech, voir J.-Y. Morin et J. Woehrling, op. cit., note 6, pp. 553 et
suiv.; José Woehrling, « L’échec de l’Accord du lac Meech et l’avenir constitutionnel du
Canada » dans Le Canada au seuil du 21ème siècle : réflexions européennes sur l’avenir du
Canada/Canada on the Treshold of the 21st Century : European Reflexions upon the Future
of Canada (Communications présentées à la première conférence paneuropéenne d’études
canadiennes, La Haye, Pays-Bas, 24-27 octobre 1991), Amsterdam/Philadelphie, John
Benjamins Publishing Co., 1991, p. 383; José Woehrling, « La tentative de modification
constitutionnelle de 1987: la reconnaissance du Québec comme société distincte et la dualité
linguistique du Canada », (1990) 39, Jahrbuch des Öffentliches Rechts, 537.
10. L’article 43 de la Loi constitutionnelle de 1982 permet de modifier les dispositions de la
Constitution qui n’intéressent qu’une seule province par accord entre les autorités fédérales
et celles de la province intéressée.
11. Ces six provinces sont le Manitoba, la Saskatchewan, le Nouveau-Brunswick, la NouvelleÉcosse, l’Île-du-Prince-Édouard et Terre-Neuve. Le Québec bénéficie également des
paiements de péréquation, mais il en est moins dépendant que les six autres provinces.
L’Ontario, l’Alberta et la Colombie-Britannique ont des revenus supérieurs à la moyenne
nationale et ne bénéficient donc pas de la péréquation.
12. Sur les effets potentiellement uniformisateurs de la Charte canadienne des droits et libertés,
en particulier les dispositions relatives à l’égalité et à la non-discrimination, voir José
Woehrling, « Le principe d’égalité, le système fédéral canadien et le caractère distinct du
Québec », dans Pierre Patenaude (dir.), Québec—Communauté française de Belgique :
autonomie et spécificité dans le cadre d’un système fédéral (Actes du colloque tenu le 22
mars 1991, Faculté de droit, Université de Sherbrooke), Montréal, Wilson et Lafleur, 1991,
p. 119. Un certain nombre de constitutionnalistes ont prédit que l’application de la Charte
canadienne des droits et libertés entraînera des effets uniformisateurs, principalement sur le
droit d’origine provinciale; voir par exemple, R.R. Knopff et F.L. Morton, « Le
développement national et la Charte » dans A. Cairns et C. Williams (dir.), Le
constitutionnalisme, la citoyenneté et la société au Canada (vol. 33 des études commandées
dans le cadre du progamme de recherche de la Commission royale sur l’union économique et
les perspectives de développement du Canada, Ottawa, Centre d’édition du gouvernement
du Canada, 1986; P.H. Russell, « The Political Purposes of the Canadian Charter of Rights
and Freedoms », (1983) 61, Revue du Barreau canadien 31; A. Cairns, « The Politics of
Constitutional Conservatism », dans K. Banting et R. Simeon (dir.), And No One Cheered:
Federalism, Democracy and the Constitution Act, Toronto, Methuen, 1983, p. 28. Les
professeurs Knopff et Morton et le professeur Russell considèrent même que l’objectif caché
du gouvernement fédéral de M. Trudeau en faisant adopter la Charte, était précisément de
35
IJCS / RIÉC
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
20.
21.
22.
23.
24.
36
provoquer une centralisation indirecte des pouvoirs qui résulterait de l’interprétation
judiciaire : P.H. Russell, loc. cit., 32 et 33; R.R. Knopff et F.L. Morton, op. cit., pp. 153 et
154.
Sur les différences d’attitude à l’égard de la Charte au Québec et dans le reste du Canada,
voir notamment F.L. Morton, Peter H. Russell et Michael J. Withey, « The Supreme Court’s
First One Hundred Charter of Rights Decisions: A Statistical Analysis », (1992) 30,
Osgoode Hall Law Journal, 1, 31-33 et 48.
On peut également faire remarquer que la « rhétorique » des droits et libertés confère un
caractère absolu et non débattable à des questions qui sont pourtant traditionnellement
considérées comme pouvant faire l’objet de divergences légitimes entre personnes
raisonnables. Ainsi, par exemple, si l’on présente la question de l’ouverture des commerces
le dimanche comme un problème de politique économique et sociale ordinaire, il est évident
qu’aucune solution uniforme ne s’impose d’une province à l’autre étant donné que les
conditions objectives et les mentalités peuvent varier grandement à propos d’un tel
problème. Si l’on présente la même question comme une affaire de liberté de religion, il
semble nécessaire d’adopter une solution universelle et impérative, car il est difficile
d’admettre que la liberté de religion soit moindre dans certaines provinces que dans d’autres.
Sur la tendance à interpréter les droits de la personne de façon universaliste et, par
conséquent, uniformisatrice, voir, par exemple, J. Donnely, « Cultural Relativism and
Universal Human Rights », (1984) 6, Human Rights Quarterly 400; A.D. Renteln, « The
Unanswered Challenge of Relativism and the Consequences for Human Rights », (1985),
Human Rights Quarterly, 514; R.R. Knopff et F.L. Morton, op. cit., note 12, pp. 164 et 165;
K.E. Swinton, The Supreme Court and Canadian Federalism: The Laskin-Dickson Years,
Toronto, Carswell, 1990, pp. 338 et suiv.
Charte des droits et libertés de la personne, L.R.Q. c. C-12.
Avant d’être constitutionnalisée, la Charte québécoise devrait cependant subir certaines
modifications, notamment pour limiter le pouvoir de l’Assemblée nationale du Québec de
déroger aux droits et libertés. Pour certaines propositions en ce sens, voir José Woehrling,
« La protection des droits et libertés et le sort des minorités », dans Alain-G. Gagnon et
François Rocher (dir.), Répliques aux détracteurs de la souveraineté du Québec, Montréal,
VLB éditeur, 1992, p. 131, pp. 156-161.
Sur l’évolution des groupes linguistiques, voir Kenneth McRoberts, English Canada and
Quebec—Avoiding the Issue, York University Robarts Centre for Canadian Studies, 1991,
pp. 13-14 et 20-21; Réjean Lachapelle, « Évolution des groupes linguistiques et situation des
langues officielles au Canada », dans Tendances démolinguistiques et évolution des
institutions canadiennes, (Communications présentées lors d’un colloque tenu à Hull le 10
février 1989), numéro spécial de la collection « Thèmes canadiens » de l’Association
d’études canadiennes, Montréal, 1989, p. 7.
On pourrait ajouter que le principe du multiculturalisme qui présuppose une certaine égalité
de toutes les cultures s’oppose également aux notions de « dualité linguistique » et de « deux
peuples fondateurs ».
Sur ce point, voir notamment Simon Langlois, « Le choc de deux sociétés globales », dans
Louis Balthazar, Guy Laforest et Vincent Lemieux, Le Québec et la restructuration du
Canada, 1980-1992, Sillery (Québec), Éditions du Septentrion, 1991, p. 95.
Rapport de la Commission sur l’avenir politique et constitutionnel du Québec, Québec, mars
1991, 180 pages.
L.Q. 1991, c. 34.
Bâtir ensemble le Canada—Propositions, Ottawa, Approvisionnements et Services Canada,
1991, 60 p. Pour une analyse de ces propositions, voir J.-Y. Morin et J. Woehrling, op. cit,
note 6, pp. 564-571.
Un Canada renouvelé, Rapport du Comité mixte spécial du Sénat et de la Chambre des
communes sur le renouvellement du Canada (Coprésidents : Gérald Beaudoin et Dorothy
Dobie), Ottawa, Approvisionnements et Services Canada, 1992. Pour une analyse des
recommandations du comité, voir Peter H. Russell, Constitutional Odyssey. Can Canadians
Become a Sovereign People?, Toronto, University of Toronto Press, 1992, pp. 181-189.
En septembre 1992, la Loi sur le processus de détermination de l’avenir politique et
constitutionnel du Québec, précitée, note 21, avait été modifiée pour permettre la tenue d’un
25.
26.
27.
28.
29.
30.
31.
référendum sur l’entente constitutionnelle du 28 août 1992 plutôt que sur l’accession du
Québec à la souveraineté.
Il était prévu que les lois autochtones ne pourraient pas être incompatibles « avec les lois
fédérales ou provinciales essentielles au maintien de la paix, de l’ordre et du bon
gouvernement du Canada ». Cette expression n’ayant aucune signification connue dans un
tel contexte, il était impossible de savoir d’avance avec quelles lois fédérales ou provinciales
au juste les lois autochtones devaient être compatibles.
Cela impliquerait évidemment de modifier les règles de mise en jeu de la responsabilité
ministérielle.
Voir, par exemple Alan C. Cairns, « Constitutional Change and the Three Equalities », dans
Ronald L. Watts et Douglas M. Brown, Options for a New Canada, Toronto, University of
Toronto Press, 1991, p. 77; Tom Kent, « Une asymétrie viable et équitable », Le Réseau
(Bulletin du Réseau sur la Constitution), vol. 2, no 3, mars 1992, p. 4; K. McRoberts, op. cit.,
note 17, pp. 44-46.
En 1985, le gouvernement du Québec, alors dirigé par le Parti québécois, avait indiqué ses
conditions pour adhérer à la Loi constitutionnelle de 1982. Dans le domaine du
réaménagement des pouvoirs, il voulait avoir la main haute sur tout le secteur de la maind’oeuvre; exigeait d’être responsable au premier chef de l’orientation générale de son
développement économique, y compris celui de ses régions; réclamait une compétence
prépondérante en matière de sélection et d’établissement des immigrants ainsi qu’un
accroissement important de ses pouvoirs en matière de télécommunications; ne revendiquait
une compétence exclusive en matière de mariage et de divorce et, enfin, que soit reconnue,
en matière internationale, la situation spécifique du Québec en tout ce qui touche à ses
compétences et à son identité, notamment dans le cadre de la Francophonie. Voir Projet
d’accord constitutionnel : propositions du Gouvernement du Québec, mai 1985, pp. 26-30.
En fait, on peut se demander si la réforme du Sénat ne deviendrait pas inutile. En effet, le
retrait des votes des 75 députés québécois à la Chambre des communes sur certaines
questions importantes augmenterait considérablement le poids relatif des députés de
l’Ouest, des provinces de l’Atlantique, du Yukon et des Territoires du Nord-Ouest qui
compteraient alors un total de 121 voix par opposition à l’Ontario qui en aurait 99. Les
régions « périphériques » obtiendraient donc, dans les cas où les députés québécois ne
votent pas, la majorité des voix, ce qui satisferait leur désir d’exercer une plus grande
influence au sein des institutions fédérales. Elles pourraient par conséquent abandonner
leurs exigences en ce qui concerne la réforme du Sénat sur le modèle « Triple E ». Sur cette
question, voir Gordon Laxer, « Un statut radicalement distinct pour le Québec », Le Devoir,
Montréal, 28 décembre 1991, p. B-12.
À l’heure actuelle, l’article 40 de la Loi constitutionnelle de 1982 ne prévoit de
compensation financière que dans le seul cas où une province exerce son droit de retrait
contre un amendement constitutionnel transférant au Parlement fédéral la compétence
législative provinciale « en matière d’éducation ou dans d’autres domaines culturels ».
Aucune disposition de la Partie V de la Loi constitutionnelle de 1982 ne prévoit
expressément la sécession d’une province. Le pouvoir de modification constitutionnelle de
la législature provinciale ne permet manifestement pas à celle-ci de réaliser la sécession de la
province par simple loi provinciale. L’article 43, qui vise les modifications qui ne
concernent que certaines provinces, ne permettrait pas davantage de réaliser la sécession
d’une province par accord entre les autorités fédérales et celles de la province en cause. En
effet, la sécession d’une province affecterait un grand nombre de dispositions
constitutionnelles qui concernent également d’autres provinces. Enfin, de toute évidence, le
pouvoir de modification constitutionnelle du Parlement fédéral, prévu à l’article 44,
n’autorise pas celui-ci à opérer la sécession d’une province. Par conséquent, seules la
procédure de l’unanimité de l’article 41 et celle de la majorité des deux tiers de l’article 38
restent à envisager. L’une de ces deux modalités doit forcément permettre la sécession d’une
province étant donné que toute la Constitution du Canada peut être modifiée conformément
aux pouvoirs conférés par elle. Pour plus de détails sur cette question, voir José Woehrling,
« Les aspects juridiques de la redéfinition du statut politique et constitutionnel du Québec »
dans Éléments d’analyse institutionnelle, juridique et démolinguistique pertinents à la
révision du statut politique et constitutionnel du Québec, Commission sur l’avenir politique
37
IJCS / RIÉC
32.
33.
34.
35.
36.
37.
38.
38
et constitutionnel du Québec, Document de travail no 2, 1991, p. 1, aux pp. 57-58 [texte
également reproduit dans (1991-1992) 7, Revue québécoise de droit international, 12].
Loi constitutionnelle de 1871, L.R.C. (1985), app. II, no 11, art. 3; Loi constitutionnelle de
1982, art. 43.
Quelque 60 000 Amérindiens et Inuit, répartis en onze nations, vivent au Québec, dont 18
000 appartenant aux communautés crie et inuit dans la partie septentrionale du territoire
québécois.
Les peuples autochtones, qu’ils soient établis dans le Nord québécois ou dans la partie
méridionale du territoire, ne sont pas en nombre suffisant pour remplir les conditions exigées
par le droit international pour l’exercice du droit à l’autodétermination externe. Quant à la
communauté anglophone, concentrée principalement à Montréal, son autodétermination
externe serait impraticable dans la mesure où elle nécessiterait la création d’enclaves au sein
du territoire québécois. Certains vont même plus loin et affirment qu’en vertu du droit
international, les peuples autochtones et les minorités ne disposent jamais, peu important les
circonstances, du droit à l’autodétermination externe; cette thèse est défendue dans un avis
juridique émis par cinq spécialistes de réputation internationale appartenant respectivement
aux universités de New York (New York University), Londres (London School of
Economics), Paris (Institut d’études politiques), Leicester (Grande-Bretagne) et Bonn
(Allemagne); voir Thomas Franck, Rosalyn Higgins, Alain Pellet, Malcolm N. Shaw et
Christian Tomuschat, « L’intégrité territoriale du Québec dans l’hypothèse de l’accession à
la souveraineté », Assemblée nationale du Québec, Commission d’étude des questions
afférentes à l’accession du Québec à la souveraineté, Exposés et études, volume 1 (« Les
attributs d’un Québec souverain »), 1992, p. 377 aux pp. 430-443.
En vertu de l’article 91(24) de la Loi constitutionnelle de 1867, le Parlement fédéral est
exclusivement compétent pour légiférer sur « les Indiens et les terres réservées aux Indiens ».
Selon un sondage CROP publié par le journal La Presse, le 30 mars 1992, à la question
« Voulez-vous que le Québec devienne un État souverain ? », 42 p. 100 répondaient oui et 39
p. 100 disaient non, 20 p. 100 restant indécis; la marge d’erreur était de 3 p. 100. Par ailleurs,
de nombreux répondants semblent avoir baigné dans la confusion, puisque 55 p. 100 d’entre
eux croyaient qu’un Québec souverain continuerait à faire partie du Canada, 40 p. 100
pensaient qu’advenant la souveraineté du Québec, ils pourraient néanmoins conserver la
nationalité canadienne et 20 p. 100 s’imaginaient qu’ils continueraient d’élire des députés à
la Chambre des communes d’Ottawa; voir Denis Lessard, « Un Québec souverain ferait
toujours partie du Canada », La Presse, p. A-12.
Une confédération est un groupement d’États habituellement établi par un traité
international où les membres possèdent le droit de sécession et conservent leur souveraineté,
c’est-à-dire participent chacun directement aux relations internationales. Les organes
confédéraux sont composés de représentants des États membres nommés par les
gouvernements de ceux-ci, en nombre généralement égal pour chaque État; ils prennent
normalement les décisions à l’unanimité, chacun des États membres disposant donc d’un
veto. Les décisions confédérales doivent parfois être approuvées par les États membres et
leur exécution relève habituellement de ces derniers étant donné qu’il n’existe ni
administration ni force publique confédérale. Il peut exister des modèles mixtes présentant à
des degrés divers des caractéristiques fédérales et confédérales. La Communauté
économique européenne (l’Europe des douze) constitue actuellement un tel système
complexe qui présente certaines caractéristiques fédérales (par exemple, la primauté et
l’applicabilité directe du droit communautaire dans les ordres juridiques des États membres)
et d’autres qui sont plutôt confédérales (par exemple, la règle de l’unanimité pour certaines
décisions du Conseil des ministres).
Sur le dilemne de l’affirmation et de l’unification, de la diversité et de l’homogénéisation
auquel font actuellement face les pays membres de la Communauté économique
européenne, voir notamment Dominique Schnapper et Henri Mendras (dir.), Six manières
d’être européen, Paris, Éditions Gallimard, 1990.
Peter H. Russell
Attempting Macro Constitutional Change in
Australia and Canada: The Politics of Frustration
Abstract
Australia and Canada stand out among the more settled constitutional
democracies in the largely fruitless efforts of their political elites at grand
constitutional restructuring. Both countries may now experience a prolonged
respite from these macro constitutional frustrations—in Australia, through
Labour’s abandoning its ideological drive for centralization and in Canada,
by the realization that cleavages in the nature of the political community are
too deep to provide the basis for a popular consensus on its constitutional
restructuring. Neither country has found an effective way of combining
constitutional negotiations, which are inescapably elitist, with a democratic
ratifying process. While the two countries have influenced each other, their
constitutional reform efforts have been much more profoundly shaped, in
terms of both ideas and economics, by global factors.
Résumé
Parmi les démocraties constitutionnelles les mieux établies, l’Australie et le
Canada remportent la palme pour ce qui est des efforts infructueux de leurs
élites politiques pour réviser de fond en comble leur Constitution. Dans
l’immédiat, l’un et l’autre pays vont vraisemblablement s’accorder un sérieux
répit pour oublier leurs frustrations respectives — le Parti travailliste
australien mettra sûrement en veilleuse sa volonté de centralisation, alors que
le Canada devra accepter l’évidence que les clivages politiques sont trop
profonds pour qu’un consensus suffisamment large puisse se faire autour de sa
réforme constitutionnelle. Aucun de ces deux pays n’a trouvé une façon
efficace d’associer les négociations constitutionnelles — élitistes par
définition — à un processus de ratification par le peuple. S’il est vrai que ces
pays se sont mutuellement influencés, ce sont des facteurs globaux de
caractère idéologique et économique qui ont le plus profondément marqué
leurs tentatives de réforme.
Among the western constitutional democracies, Australia and Canada stand
out in their prolonged efforts at macro constitutional change. In both countries,
a good deal of constitutional change has taken place through the normal
processes of constitutional development: judicial decisions, informal changes
in the exercise of constitutional powers (such as fiscal federalism) and
piecemeal reform through discrete constitutional amendments. But in both
countries, influential components of the political system have been dissatisfied
with these regular forms of constitutional adaptation and have pressed for
major constitutional re-structuring. These efforts at what I call “macro
IJCS / RIÉC
constitutional change” have produced very little by way of concrete results.
Hence, I have dubbed them “the politics of frustration.”1
This article is a comparative examination of the experience of these two
kindred federations in the frustrating politics of macro constitutional change.
The first part will provide accounts of the main developments in the two
countries’ involvement in constitutional politics, concentrating on the most
recent episodes. The second part will offer some reflections on what might be
learned from a comparative analysis of the two countries’ experience with the
politics of frustration.
Efforts at Macro Constitutional Change
Earlier Efforts
Agitation for large constitutional restructuring by leading politicians in both
federations began fairly soon after their founding. The first major Australian
effort was the Peden Royal Commission in 1927 consisting of federal and state
parliamentarians along with some prominent citizens and constitutional
experts (Russell, 1988). The Commission’s report, issued in 1929, found its
members divided four to three on the fundamental question of whether
Australia should continue as a federation. That was followed by
intergovernmental conferences during the depression and war years that
endeavoured to negotiate overall changes in the structure of the federation
(Sawer, 1963). In 1956, the Commonwealth Parliament struck a Joint
Committee on Constitutional Revision whose final report in 1959 endorsed a
wide-ranging package of constitutional proposals (Australia, Joint
Committee, 1959). From 1973 to 1985, the Australian Constitutional
Convention laboured away on a total review of all aspects of Australia’s
Constitution. The Convention was, in effect, a peripatetic constituent
assembly made up of Commonwealth, State and municipal politicians. Over
its twelve year lifespan, it met six times — once in each of the State capitals. It
had its own secretariat, was assisted by expert committees and issued
voluminous reports (Ryan and Hewitt, 1977; Russell, 1988).
In Canada, while there were tentative moves in the direction of macro
constitutional change in the inter-provincial meeting of 1887 and again in the
work of the Rowell Sirois Commission at the end of the 1930s, the effort was
not engaged in earnest until the 1960s when Quebec’s “quiet revolution”
generated a demand for a fundamental constitutional restructuring (Russell,
1992). The first response to Quebec’s demands was a series of
intergovernmental conferences culminating in 1971 in a package of
constitutional proposals called the Victoria Charter. The 1970s witnessed a
number of efforts at macro constitutional change beginning with a Joint
Committee of the federal Parliament (the Molgat/ MacGuigan Committee)
that made over one hundred recommendations for constitutional change
(Canada. Joint Committee, 1972). Following the election of a separatist
government in Quebec in 1976, there was another flurry of attempts at
wholesale constitutional revision, including a Trudeau government proposal
for an entirely new Constitution, a Task Force on national unity and a series of
First Ministers meetings (Cairns, 1984). The attempt to negotiate an
intergovernmental agreement on a large package of constitutional proposals
was resumed after the defeat of the separatist option in the Quebec referendum
of 1980. When that failed, Prime Minister Trudeau launched his own unilateral
initiative to patriate the Canadian Constitution with a Charter of Rights, an
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Attempting Macro Constitutional Change in Australia
and Canada
effort which, after a negotiated agreement with all of the provinces except
Quebec, produced the Constitution Act, 1982 (Milne, 1982).
The one striking feature which these earlier efforts at macro constitutional
change in Australia and Canada have in common is the paucity of concrete
results. On the Australian side, only a few scattered constitutional
amendments can be associated with the various efforts. One of the Joint
Parliamentary Committee’s recommendations—to empower the
Commonwealth to legislate in relation to aborigines—was approved in a 1967
referendum. Only three of the Constitutional Convention’s numerous
resolutions led to actual constitutional amendments and these were all on
relatively minor matters: the proposals approved in the 1977 referendums on
the retirement age of federal judges, territorial voting on referendums and
filling Senate vacancies. Five other constitutional proposals were approved in
referendums (and thirty rejected) but these changes were not the offspring of
grand efforts at constitutional revision (Campbell, 1989). The Australian
amending process is indeed quite inhospitable to projects of macro
constitutional change. It is not just that proposals must win the approval of a
majority of voters nationally and of majorities in a majority (four of six) States.
But constitutional proposals are put to the voters one-by-one, so that a
brokered set of proposals built around cross-cutting compromises cannot be
put to the people as a package deal.
In Canada, too, the efforts at wholesale constitutional revision bore little
tangible fruit. The 1940 constitutional amendment transferring jurisdiction
over unemployment insurance did come out of the Rowell Sirois Royal
Commission. The only other formal constitutional changes stemming from
macro constitutional politics were those incorporated in the Constitution Act,
1982. While there can be no doubt about the importance of the constitutional
changes effected by this measure— especially the adoption of an all-Canadian
amending process, a constitutional charter of rights and freedoms and the
recognition of aboriginal rights—they nonetheless fell well short of the total
overhaul of the Constitution aimed at by the political elites participating in the
macro projects. Most significantly, the 1982 constitutional changes did not
accommodate the constitutional aspirations of Quebec that had originally
launched the effort at constitutional revision in the 1960s (Dufour, 1990).
While the impetus for these efforts at macro constitutional change in Australia
and Canada came from opposite directions, the results were much the same:
failure to resolve the underlying source of conflict. In Australia the major
impetus came from the Labor Party’s ideological drive against federalism and
towards centralization, whereas the impetus for Canada’s prolonged
indulgence in macro level constitutional politics has been Quebec’s drive for
national status within a looser federation. In both countries, the gadflies of
macro constitutional politics, far from realizing their objectives, aroused
counter movements which deepened the constitutional conflict. In Australia’s
Constitutional Convention, Labour’s centralism was held in check by political
forces supporting State powers and a strong Senate—but produced no
consensus on constitutional change. In Canada, patriation with a Charter of
Rights, though a victory for the Canadian nationalist forces resisting Quebec
nationalism, did not slake Quebec’s thirst for more autonomy.
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Recent Efforts
Nor did the limited results of the macro efforts slake the thirst of political elites
in either country for the macro constitutional game. The effort continued
through one more big round in Australia and two mega rounds in Canada.
These rather gargantuan efforts in both countries failed to bring about any
constitutional changes. But, in their different ways, they succeeded in
producing a constitutional truce in their respective polities and at least a
temporary respite from the macro constitutional wars. If this period of truce
proves to be more than just a pause for breath, the recent rounds of macro
constitutional politics in Australia and Canada will have been more decisive
than either their participants or critics appreciated.
Since 1987, Canada has been through two very heavy rounds of constitutional
politics, the Meech Lake round and the so-called “Canada round” ending with
the referendum on 26 October, 1992. Both, concluding as they did with the
rejection of large packages of constitutional proposals, were case studies in the
politics of frustration.
The package of proposals constituting the Meech Lake Accord, while large by
any normal standard, was relatively small in the context of Canadian
constitutional politics. Its limited size, and single-purpose shape were indeed
major points of contention. Meech Lake’s singular purpose was to secure the
support of the Province of Quebec for the changes contained in the
Constitution Act, 1982. Hence, it was built around a federalist Quebec
government’s five conditions for accepting the 1982 outcome (Monahan,
1991). For Canadians who shared Pierre Trudeau’s constitutional vision, this
agenda was entirely unnecessary, or worse, subversive of what had been
achieved in 1982. For those who were willing to engage in another round of
constitutional change, the Meech Lake agenda was far too small as it left out
constitutional issues, such as Senate reform and aboriginal self-government,
of vital concern to other parts of the Canadian community.
If Canada’s constitutional process had remained thoroughly elitist, it is
possible that the restricted nature of the Meech agenda would not have
mattered. After all, the federal government and all ten provincial governments
did agree to the Accord. But by the 1980s, Canada’s constitutional process
could no longer be controlled by its First Ministers. Not only was there now the
formal requirement of legislative ratification in the federal and provincial
legislatures but, more fundamentally, the Meech round demonstrated that a
democratic mutation had taken place in the country’s constitutional culture.
This transformation, of which the Charter of Rights was both a cause and
effect, had the tendency, in Alan Cairns words, to convert a “governments’
constitution” into a “citizens’ constitution” (Cairns, 1991). In negotiating the
Meech Lake Accord through closed-door meetings, then unveiling it to a
surprised and ungrateful public with the admonition that their elected
legislatures could discuss it all they wished so long as they did not change a
word of it, the federal and provincial premiers showed that they had failed to
grasp the full importance of the change taking place in Canada’s constitutional
culture. Nor did they anticipate how difficult it would be to combine the
traditional process of executive federalism with the new requirement of
legislative ratification. It was the Meech process as much as its substance that
accounts for its failure (Simeon, 1990).
In the end, even though there was no referendum, public opinion was crucial in
the defeat of the Meech Lake Accord. When time ran out on the Accord in the
44
and Canada
spring of 1990, although it had been ratified in all but two legislatures
(Manitoba and Newfoundland), legislators in those two provinces were
fortified in their resistance by polling data showing that the Accord was
opposed by a substantial majority of Canadians outside Quebec (Cohen,
1990). And while the Meech Lake Accord may still have been supported by a
majority in Quebec, it was by then a clear second choice to Quebec
sovereignty. The Meech Lake round ended with the Canadian people more
insistent than ever that they must be the ultimate constitutional sovereign but
more divided than ever about how their constitution should be changed
(Russell, 1992, pp. 152-3).
Even if the process of ratifying the Meech Lake Accord had been completed in
June 1990, another round of macro constitutional politics would have
immediately followed. That is because the conditions on which the hold-out
provinces nearly agreed to ratify Meech—the so-called “son-of-Meech”
agreement reached by the First Ministers on June 9, 1990—entailed a
commitment to proceed with an extensive list of additional constitutional
reforms including an elected Senate, aboriginal self-government and a
comprehensive “Canada clause” expressing the defining features of the
Canadian community (Russell, 1992, pp. 150-1). The post-Meech round did
not begin with this agenda but with Quebec’s federalist and separatist leaders
collaborating in the organization of a Quebec “estates general” (the BélangerCampeau Commission) to explore Quebec’s constitutional future in the wake
of the rest of Canada’s rejection of Quebec’s “minimal demands” (Fidler,
1991). Nonetheless, it was clear that if Quebec and the rest of Canada ever
came together in this constitutional round it would be through an agenda from
which no serious constitutional aspiration or discontent in the land could be
excluded.
That was not the only legacy of Meech Lake. The other was that the
constitutional process in this the so-called “Canada round” would have to be
far more participatory than it had ever been in the past. And this it surely was,
although not in any measured, disciplined or well-planned manner. Not only
was there the two-month referendum campaign on the Charlottetown Accord
at the end, but also in the two years leading up to that Accord, through all kinds
of committees and commissions, the public was “consulted” on constitutional
questions perhaps more thoroughly and exhaustingly than the public in any
constitutional democracy has ever been consulted (Russell, 1992).
The Canada round process can be likened to a rather peculiar hour-glass. The
top part of the glass, representing the public consultation stage of the process
when most of the proposals contained in the Charlottetown Accord were
discussed and debated is, fairly wide. When these proposals were handed over
to political leaders and government officials for negotiation and refinement,
the glass narrows. (Though the inclusion of territorial and aboriginal leaders
made the multilateral negotiations more inclusive than they had been in the
past.) It comes to its narrowest point in the summer of 1992 when the final
terms of the Charlottetown Accord were hammered out in a process dominated
by First Ministers. From that narrow neck, the process widened out again in the
referendum campaign. Indeed, this bottom part of the glass, though much
shorter, is considerably wider than the upper part.
The short, wide bottom and tiny neck are not the only unusual features of this
hour-glass. A more serious flaw in the process is the structure of the upper-part
of the glass: the public consultation, negotiation and refinement stages. The
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process represented by this part of the glass was, for most of its length, divided
into very nearly water-tight compartments: Quebec and the Rest of Canada.
Following Meech, public discussions of constitutional options in the two parts
of Canada were disconnected. Not only were they different in time and in
forum, but, most significantly, they addressed different questions. In Quebec,
through Bélanger-Campeau and the Liberal Party’s Allaire Committee,
consultations that had run their course by the spring of 1991, discussion
focused almost exclusively on the question of what Quebec needs to fulfil its
constitutional aspirations. In the rest of Canada, through the Spicer
Commission (Canada, Citizens’ Forum, 1991) and the various provincial,
territorial and parliamentary committees culminating in the Beaudoin-Dobbie
proposals at the end of February 1992 (Canada. Special Joint Parliamentary
Committee, 1992), the critical question was how to reform the Constitution in
a manner acceptable to all parts of the Canadian community.
As the process narrowed in the negotiating and refinement stage, the Quebec
section of the glass was nearly empty. Only when it reached the narrowest
point of the neck did Quebec, in the person of Premier Bourassa, engage
directly in the process. By then Bourassa confronted what was very nearly “a
done deal”—a set of proposals striking a delicate balance among
constitutional interests in the Rest of Canada. At this stage another deal was
made by literally pulling a rabbit out of a house: a guarantee to Quebec of 25%
of the seats in the House of Commons in return for Quebec’s acceptance of
provincial equality in an elected Senate. This proposal, though potentially a
very integrative way of accommodating Quebec’s special status in Canada,
was an entirely novel proposal for which the public, neither inside or outside
Quebec, had been prepared. Is it any wonder that this accord of governments
could not, in two months, be converted into an accord of peoples?
There was never much doubt that the culmination of this round would be the
submission of proposals to the people in a national referendum. The swelling
sentiment of popular sovereignty was fortified by legislation in British
Columbia and Alberta requiring referendums before legislative ratification of
any constitutional proposal (Boyer, 1992). As of May 1991, Quebec was
legislatively committed to having a referendum by October 26, 1992 either on
Quebec sovereignty or the “best offer” forthcoming from the rest of Canada.
And yet it was not until June 1992 that the Mulroney government brought in
federal legislation to authorize a federal referendum and not until the final
signing of the Charlottetown agreement that it signified its intention to submit
the Accord to the people. This late conversion to a referendum meant that the
politicians, officials and experts who were closeted together negotiating the
Accord through the spring and summer of 1992 were never consciously
working towards a referendum (Johnson, 1993). As a consequence, the
product of their labours—an agreement containing some sixty clauses
sprinkled with asterisks marking unfinished business to be settled by more
negotiations in the future—was not designed as a document for popular
ratification. In the Canada round, elite negotiations and popular ratification
came together too late and too fast to provide the foundation for a genuine
social contract.
Though the referendum was not legally binding and the federal referendum
law did not specify what would constitute a definitive yes or no, the results of
the October 26 referendum were not difficult to interpret. To the question “Do
you agree that the Constitution of Canada should be renewed on the basis of the
agreement reached at Charlottetown on August 28, 1992?” 54% of the voters
46
and Canada
answered “no.” Only in Ontario (and there only by a hair), New Brunswick,
Prince Edward Island, and the Yukon Territory did the “yes” side win
majorities (Russell, 1993). Given that parts of the Accord required legislative
ratification by all of the provinces and most of it by seven, an attempt to
achieve legislative ratification was out of the question. The Charlottetown
Accord was dead.
In rejecting the Charlottetown Accord, Canadians demonstrated their capacity
as a sovereign people to reach a negative result. But when one bears in mind
that the primary reason for the Accord’s rejection in the rest of
Canada—namely that the Accord appeared to give Quebec too much—was the
exact reverse of the main reason for the Accord’s rejection in
Quebec—namely that the Accord did not give Quebec enough—there are no
grounds for believing that the basis exists for a positive consensus among the
Canadian people on fundamental changes in their constitutional arrangements.
That hard thought should cool the ardour of most politicians for yet another go
at the macro constitutional game.
While Canada was swirling through two intense rounds of constitutional
politics, Australians were subjected to one more macro constitutional effort
which was followed by a much more pragmatic and reflective treatment of
constitutional matters as the federation prepares for the completion of its first
century. Just as the Meech Lake round was generated by dissatisfaction on the
part of Quebec, Canada’s principal gadfly of constitutional change, with the
1982 constitutional settlement, Australia’s last macro round was unleashed by
dissatisfaction within the Australian Labour Party, Australia’s main
constitutional gadfly, with the Australian Constitutional Convention.
Australia’s Constitutional Commission was a major and unsuccessful effort to
generate public interest in comprehensive constitutional reform. The
Commission was established in 1985 by the Commonwealth Government as a
direct reaction to the Labour Party’s disillusionment with the Constitutional
Convention. The Convention was the one Australian effort at macro
constitutional reform that was primarily State-inspired. The Commonwealth
government under both Whitlam and Hawke participated but failed to
persuade the Convention either to abandon proposals designed to curb
Canberra’s fiscal domination of the Australian federation or to adopt Labour’s
centralizing agenda. Lack of bi-partisan consensus on major issues prevented
action from being taken on most of the Convention’s recommendations.
Immediately following the Convention’s 1985 meeting in Brisbane, the
Commonwealth Attorney General, Lionel Bowen, announced the Labour
government’s intention to form a “Peoples Convention.” By going over the
heads of politicians to citizens “with expertise but with no political axe to
grind,” he thought it would be possible to develop a program of “progressive”
constitutional reform (The Australian, 30 July, 1985).
From the very beginning, the Constitutional Commission was flawed by its
partisan rationale and sponsorship. By 1985, Labour’s interest in
constitutional reform had cooled considerably since the 1975 crisis. But those
like Lionel Bowen, who still carried the constitutional torch, continued to
assume that if the people were adequately exposed to the limitations of the
rickety old Constitution they would, among other things, come to appreciate
the inefficiencies of federalism, the undemocratic nature of a Senate based on
the principle of State equality and the Governor General’s powers, and the
need for a constitutional bill of rights. This was the “progressive agenda” of
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IJCS / RIÉC
constitutional reform which not only was Labour’s motive in establishing the
Commission but also—and this is the essential point—was seen by its partisan
political opponents as the Commission’s primary purpose (Cooray, 1989). The
Commission’s composition did little to allay these partisan suspicions.
Though its six members included two law professors, a Federal Court judge
and a former Liberal State premier, its other two members were prominent
Labourites, former Labour Prime Minister Gough Whitlam and Sir Maurice
Byers, a former Commonwealth Solicitor General, who chaired the
Commission.
To give some semblance of reality to the notion of a “Peoples Convention,” an
effort was made to broaden the Commission’s base by establishing Advisory
Committees on the Distribution of Powers, Trade and National Economic
Management, Individual and Democratic Rights, Executive Government and
the Judicial System (Australia. Constitutional Commission, 1988, Appendices
A and B). The membership of these committees included academic experts
and lawyers, persons from the arts, the media and industry. The efforts of the
Commission and its Advisory Committees to engage the people in the process
of constitutional renewal were olympian—even by Canadian standards.
Hearings were conducted throughout the country, issue papers and interim
reports widely distributed (on one occasion in comic-book form, Australia.
Constitutional Commission, 1987) and several hundred thousand copies of the
Constitution printed for free distribution. The Commission even sponsored
essay-writing contests for school children and adults on “What the
Constitution means to us.”
Despite these strenuous public relations efforts, the public took very little
interest in the work of the Commission. The Commission’s survey of public
attitudes to the Constitution gives a good indication of why public interest in
constitutional politics in Australia is not easily aroused: only 53.9% of
Australians knew that Australia has a written Constitution (Australia,
Constitutional Commission, 1988, p. 43). In the end, when the Hawke
government rudely pulled the rug out from under its own Commission, no hue
and cry could be heard from the Australian people.
And jettison the Commission’s work is exactly what the Labour government
did to its Constitutional Commission. A few days after the Commission
released its mammoth two-volume First Report on May 6, 1988, the
government introduced in the House of Representatives proposals for
constitutional referendums on four proposed amendments. It has been
suggested that the government’s hasty response to the Commission’s report
was prompted by a desire to get the constitutional reform initiative out of the
way before the next general election (Sharman, 1989). Whatever the
explanation of the government’s action, it put paid to the work of the
Commission. By the time the Commission’s Final Report was tabled in the
House of Representatives in October 1988 (Australia. Constitutional
Commission, 1988), the four proposed amendments associated had been
firmly rejected by the people in the September referendum rendering the
Commission’s report, in the poignant words of Enid Campbell, one of the
Commission’s hardest working members, “a document of little more than
academic interest” (Campbell, 1989).2
The four proposals put to the people in the September referendum bore little
relationship to the comprehensive program of constitutional reform proposed
by the Commission. Three of the proposals were based on the more populist
48
and Canada
items among the Commission’s recommendations. One of these would simply
have given constitutional recognition to the existence of local government. A
second was designed to overcome maldistribution in federal, State and
Territorial elections, while the third, rather than putting forward the full charter
of rights proposed by the Commission, simply proposed that the three basic
rights which are already in the Australian Constitution but apply only to the
Commonwealth—namely freedom of religion, trial by jury and “just terms” in
expropriating property —become limits on State and Territorial governments.
The fourth proposal, to increase the maximum term of the House of
Representatives from three to four years and reduce Senators’ terms from six
to four years, was a vintage piece of Labour constitutionalism similar to
proposals for simultaneous elections rejected in referendums in 1974, 1977
and 1988.
The opposition parties attacked all four constitutional proposals just as
vigorously as they had attacked the Constitutional Commission throughout its
existence. Although early polls showed majority support for the proposals,
they were soundly rejected in the September referendum. Indeed, the four
proposed amendments “suffered the worst defeat of any slate of referendum
proposals ever put to the Australian people” (Galligan, 1989, p. 119). None of
the four proposals was able to win an overall majority or a majority in any of
the States. Thus, in abject failure, ended Australia’s latest fling at macro
constitutional change.
The death of the Constitutional Commission in 1988 has not been followed by
anything that could be considered another effort at macro constitutional
change. It is not so much that Australians are suffering from what Canadians
call constitutional fatigue, but that their political elites have learned two things
about constitutional politics: first, that constitutional restructuring cannot be
achieved as a partisan political project, and second, that constitutional reform
is not a necessary condition for making the federation operate more efficiently.
Constitutional politics are proceeding accordingly, and quietly, along two
tracks.
The first track is linked to the completion of Australia’s first century, and is
fundamentally educational and non-partisan in character. The key event in
inaugurating activity along this track was a Conference held at Sydney in April
1991 to celebrate another centenary (Australians are very keen on centennial
celebrations): the constitutional convention held in Sydney in 1891 which
drafted much of what was to become the Australian Constitution. The 1991
assembly was a considerably more representative body than its 1891
predecessor. The 89 persons who attended came from all parts of Australia and
New Zealand, and besides academics, lawyers, judges, bureaucrats, business
and labour leaders, included women, aborigines and school children
(Solomon, 1991). Prime Minister Hawke, the Opposition leaders and State
Premiers did not join the Conference until its fourth and final day.
The Sydney conference did not attempt to draft constitutional proposals.
Indeed, there was no consensus among its participants that constitutional
reform was necessary. Instead, it identified a dozen issues “to be pursued over
the course of this constitutional decade” (Australia, Constitutional Centenary,
April 1992, p. 7). This cluster of issues marked a distinct shift from the
traditional, constitutional, Australian agenda and a considerable convergence
with constitutional concerns in other industrial democracies. In reforming
federalism, the emphasis shifted from Labour’s interest in reducing the powers
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IJCS / RIÉC
of the Senate and the States to the broader themes of accountability and
globalization. There was “broad agreement” to reduce the vertical, fiscal
imbalance in Australian federalism that separates responsibility for delivering
programs from raising revenues to pay for them. Globalization was evident in
the commitment not only to strengthen the economic union within Australia
but to explore “the constitutional implications of closer economic relations
with New Zealand and other countries.” Concern was expressed about
reducing executive domination of parliament, and there was a hint of growing
republicanism in the desire to review the powers and selection of the Head of
State. Individual and group rights were also a major concern with
commitments to move towards a “guarantee of basic rights” through a process
of public education and discussion and to achieve a “reconciliation between
the aboriginals and Torres Strait Islander peoples and the wider Australian
community” (Constitutional Centenary, April 1992, p. 8).
The process for working on this agenda was decidedly low key and laid-back.
Through the 1990s, Australians would consider constitutional changes that
would prepare their country for its second century. To facilitate this
constitutional review, there would be a series of centenaries commemorating
various stage in the 1890s federating process.3 To steer this process along, a
Constitutional Centenary Foundation was established. It is headed by former
High Court judge and Governor General, Sir Ninian Stephen. The Foundation
works in association with the Centre for Comparative Constitutional Studies
recently established at the University of Melbourne under the leadership of the
Foundation’s Deputy Chair, Professor Cheryl Saunders. To ensure the
Foundation’s independence, its funding is to come from both levels of
government, the private sector and individuals.
The second track was opened up by Prime Minister Hawke’s “New
Federalism” speech at the National Press Club in Canberra in July 1990, and
represents a return to a process of constitutional adaptation which a generation
of constitutional reformers in Australia and Canada have tended to spurn. The
objective of Hawke’s “New Federalism” was entirely functional: “to improve
our national efficiency and international competitiveness.” The first task in
achieving this reform was not constitutional reform but moving “by sensible,
practicable steps to get better co-operation within the framework of the Federal
Constitution as it stands” (Hawke, 1990, pp. 1 and 19). Hawke emphasized the
need for harmonizing state regulatory standards. Noting that by 1992 there
would be fewer impediments to the free flow of commerce among the twelve
sovereign nations of the European Community than among the States of
Australia, he called for a strengthening of Australia’s economic union. While
improvement at the micro-economic level was to be achieved through
Commonwealth-State co-operation, at the macro-economic level—here his
traditional Labor centralism showed through—“Australia must have one
central level of effective economic management” (Hawke, 1990, p. 5). Even
though much of the New Federalism could be accomplished through intergovernmental co-operation, Hawke still clung to the belief that, eventually,
some formal constitutional change would be required. But constitutional
reform would not be pushed by his government for he had come to the
conclusion, long obvious to most observers of Australia’s constitutional
politics, “that it is almost impossible to amend our Constitution in an
atmosphere of partisan controversy” (Hawke, 1990, p. 11).
The process for working at the new federalism employed an instrument well
known to Canadians: First Ministers’ meetings. At the first two Special
50
and Canada
Premiers’ meetings (October 1990 in Brisbane and July 1991 in Sydney),
progress was made across a broad front in moving towards a more harmonious
and efficient federal partnership (Intergovernmental News, November 1990,
August 1991). This progress included agreements on mutual recognition of
regulatory standards, an intergovernmental agreement on the environment,
and agreements to establish a national rail corporation and a national electric
grid.
This happy interlude of co-operative federalism was soon overtaken by the
storm clouds of fiscal federalism and Labour Party politics. When Prime
Minister Hawke indicated that at the next Special Premiers’ Conference
scheduled for November 1991, he would be willing to discuss a proposal of the
State Premiers’ that they should have a guaranteed share of the personal
income tax field (6% of taxable income), Hawke’s leadership rival moved
against him. Before the November conference could take place, Paul Keating,
responding to Labour’s traditional centralism, took the stage at Canberra’s
National Press Club to denounce Hawke’s sell-out to the States. Reducing the
States’ fiscal dependence on Canberra by guaranteeing them tax-room, in
Keating’s view, was pushing cooperative federalism over the line which “the
Federal Labour Government will not cross” (Keating, 1991, p. 1). Although
denying that he was “an evangelical centralist,” Keating said he could not
accept “the dismembering of the national government which would inevitably
follow from surrendering revenues and other national responsibilities to the
States” (Keating, 1991, p. 19). In words which have a familiar ring to Canadian
ears, Keating also attacked the process of executive federalism. The
willingness to discuss major changes in the federation “behind the closed
doors of Commonwealth-State committees” was a sorry contrast with the
open ways of Australia’s founders (Keating, 1991, p. 6).
Hawke got the message. He was unwilling to put his shaky hold on the
leadership further at risk and so pulled out of the November Conference. The
State Premiers and Territorial Chief Ministers met anyway—at Adelaide
rather than Perth. The twenty-three page communique issued at the end of their
meeting outlines an ambitious program of cooperative federalism including
the establishment of a Council of the Federation, constituted by First
Ministers, to foster and direct intergovernmental cooperation (Australia,
Premiers’ and Chief Ministers’ Communique, November 1991, pp. 14-15).
But the Premiers recognized that little progress could be made without the
participation of the Commonwealth government. That participation, it soon
became clear, might not be forthcoming for quite some time. On December 19,
1991, the Labour caucus in Canberra “rolled” Bob Hawke and installed Paul
Keating as Prime Minister. Keating consolidated his hold on power by leading
his party to victory in the general election of March, 1993.
Despite Keating’s ascendency and his centralism, the “New Federalism” is not
dead in Australia. Under Keating, there will be no marked diminution of the
Commonwealth government’s fiscal hegemony in the Australian federation.
But there is too much at stake in terms of global competition for Australia to
abandon its efforts at removing unnecessary federal impediments to the
efficient functioning of its internal, political economy. The Council of
Australian Governments called for by the Premiers has survived its first
meeting, a meeting in which Mr. Keating’s government participated
(Intergovernmental News, December 1992). Introducing a special 1992 issue
of the Australian Journal of Political Science, devoted to the new federalism,
Brian Galligan writes that “Although there remain some pressures for, and
51
IJCS / RIÉC
advocates of greater centralization, the future is more likely to be with greater
diversity and complexity coupled with co-operative arrangements for
harmonization” (Galligan, 1992, p. 6).
Meantime, on the constitutional reform track, there has been some movement
though the pace is far from feverish. The Constitutional Centenary Foundation
has established its headquarters in Melbourne where its official launch took
place on April 14, 1992. Its approach at this stage is largely educational.
Indeed, the Foundation has responded to the Constitutional Commission’s
findings on Australians’ ignorance of their Constitution by making public
education on the Constitution one of its four priorities. The other priorities are
parliamentary reform, the economic union and aboriginal peoples.4 If there is
to be another effort at macro constitutional change in Australia to mark the
country’s centenary, it will be attempted in a manner which is more organic,
community-based and with much broader political support than previous
efforts.
Points of Comparison
The Need for Macro Constitutional Reform
In my study of constitutional politics, I have drawn a distinction between
ordinary, piecemeal constitutional change and efforts to accomplish much
larger projects of constitutional renewal (Russell, 1992, pp. 75-6). These
larger efforts at constitutional change I have termed macro or mega
constitutional politics. Australia and Canada stand out among the
constitutional democracies in the sustained attention their political elites have
given such efforts over the last generation or so and, as the first part of this
paper has shown, in the low level of positive achievement these efforts have
yielded. Constitutional politics in the two countries since 1987 indicate that
there is much less need for Australia, than there is for Canada, to indulge in
macro constitutional politics. Indeed, an unkind observer might conclude that,
in the Australian case, the politics of frustration has been basically a selfinflicted misery—inflicted, that is, by part of the country’s political leadership
on itself.
The very ease with which Australia moved away from macro constitutional
politics just as Canada was engaging in yet another intense round supports this
conclusion. One can point to periods in Canada’s recent history, too, —1971 to
1976 and 1982 to 1987—when the constitutional debate simmered down for a
while. But even during these periods, forces were at work within the Canadian
political community: the growth of a democratic Quebec separatist party, the
decolonization of aboriginal peoples, the development of western alienation
and a growing sense of Canadian nationalism in English-speaking Canada—
which would force the constitutional issue to resurface at the macro level.
Indeed, I have used the term “mega constitutional politics” to capture the depth
of the crisis generated by the conflicting constitutional aspirations and
grievances fuelling Canada’s constitutional debate (Russell, 1993). The
Canadian constitutional debate is fundamentally about the nature of the
political community on which the Constitution is to be based. However much
Canadians may weary of this debate, they have been kept engaged in it because
its terms—its contending definitions of the nation—touch their sense of
personal identity and self-worth, and entail competing principles of political
justice.
52
and Canada
In Australia, the efforts of the would-be constitutional reformers have been
macro in that they have aspired to much more than piecemeal change but not
mega in that they have not deeply engaged the people. If the Australian Labour
Party had continued to adhere to a socialist ideology requiring Australia’s
transformation from a federal to a unitary state, the debate might well have
approached the mega level. But even in Gough Whitlam’s era, Labour was
making its peace with federalism. The High Court’s centralism has helped in
this process (Mason, 1988). Prime Minister Hawke acknowledged this in his
speech inaugurating the New Federalism when he noted that “High Court
decisions have done more to alter the Constitution than all the referendums”
(Hawke, 1990, p. 15). By the 1980s, while Labour leaders still harboured
constitutional reform sentiments, they could not and did not claim that
constitutional change was needed to achieve their policy objectives (Galligan,
1989). No doubt there are constitutional changes which both State and
Commonwealth leaders would welcome, but the impressive reform agenda
produced by the November 1991 Premiers’ Conference demonstrates how
much could be done to operate Australian federalism more efficiently (if not
more accountably) without formal constitutional change.
I am not suggesting either that Australia will or should forsake formal
constitutional change in the foreseeable future. There are a number of reforms
whose time may soon come. As in Canada, the gravest issue of constitutional
injustice in Australia is the subjugation of its indigenous peoples. Though
aborigines have not advanced nearly as far as Canada’s aboriginal peoples in
asserting their right to be governed through constitutional arrangements to
which they have consented, there are signs of progress in that direction. In the
courts, at long last, Australian judges are recognizing the existence of
aboriginal rights (Brennan and Crawford, 1990, Brennan, 1992), and, at the
political level, the establishment of a broad-based Council for Aboriginal
Reconciliation in December 1991 may lead to a formal reconciliation
treaty—a social contract—between aboriginal and non-aboriginal Australians
(Easterbrook, 1991). There are also signs that the Australian republican
movement is livelier now than even at the height of resentment over the
Governor General’s sacking of Whitlam in 1975. A resolution passed at the
Labour Party’s annual conference in 1991, committing the Party to a ten-year
campaign to make Australia a Republic (Sidney Morning Herald, 26 June,
1991), was followed by the founding of a new Australian Republican
Movement chaired by well-known author, Tom Keneally (Sidney Morning
Herald, 7 July, 1991). Paul Keating seems determined to build a republican
consensus by making it a rallying point for Australian nationalism. An even
stronger consensus is building for a constitutional bill of rights. It would be a
mistake to interpret the failure of the rights proposals in the 1988 referendum
as a rejection of the idea of a full bill of rights (Galligan, Knopff and Ure,
1990). That proposal’s failure probably has more to do with its partisan
sponsorship and Catholic fear of the implications of the freedom of religion
guarantee for state-supported religious schools than with the unpopularity of
entrenching fundamental rights. A recent, in-depth study of Australian
attitudes to civil liberties indicates that the level of support for a constitutional
bill of rights is at 70%.5
Any of these possible constitutional changes—and others might be
accomplished each in its own time. On the other hand, Australia’s
constitutional reformers might, once again, be inclined to attempt macro
constitutional reform and celebrate the country’s centennial by presenting a
53
IJCS / RIÉC
package of proposals to the people at the end of the decade. If that occurs and is
successful, it will not be an example of the Banting and Simeon theory that
“[l]ack of consensus makes constitutional change necessary. The same lack
makes resolution supremely difficult” (Banting and Simeon, 1984, p. 25). On
the contrary, it would be a constitutional restructuring introduced not to
resolve a deep cleavage in the body politic but to mark a new, non-partisan
consensus on the conditions of nationhood for Australia’s second century.
Canada has the dubious honour of remaining a clear example of a nation-state
driven to constitutional politics at the mega level by deep dissensus. This
dissensus is as much the effect as the cause of constitutional politics. It is
possible that had the federal political leaders in the 1984 election not
committed themselves to constitutional changes sufficient to overcome
Quebec’s repudiation of the 1982 changes, and had Robert Bourassa’s Quebec
Liberal Party been able to win power without committing itself to obtaining
such changes, Quebec nationalism might have lost its momentum as a serious
political force, thus removing any “necessity” to continue the macro
constitutional effort. We can only speculate about such historical “might have
beens.” However, we do know that the Meech Lake round deepened the
cleavages within the Canadian political community and made a further round
inevitable.
It is too early to tell whether this round has produced some finality—even a
decade or two—to Canada’s constitutional travails. What is clear is that the
present generation of Canadians will not try again to reach an accord on a broad
package of constitutional changes designed to prevent a national unity crisis.
Such was the effort and agony of the Canada round, that most of Canada’s
politicians and most of its people have no stomach for resuming the
constitutional struggle. If, in the near future, Canada plunges back into the
constitutional maelstrom, it will be because there is an actual not just an
apprehended national unity crisis. Such a crisis will occur if the next Quebec
election (which is due by 1994) produces a government committed to
Quebec’s sovereignty and if that government wins a subsequent referendum
on Quebec’s independence.
In Canada, as in Australia, abandoning efforts at macro constitutional change
need not mean a constitutional deep freeze. If the Quebec majority does not
push for a radical constitutional restructuring, it is just possible that Canadians
might recover their capacity for incremental constitutional change and
adaptation. Such a reversion to ordinary, low key constitutional politics would
require nothing less than the political class adopting what Stephen Holmes
calls “gag rules” on the big mega questions of national identity and political
justice (Holmes, 1988). The November 1982 referendum in the Eastern Arctic,
paving the way for the self-governing, largely Inuit, region of Nunavut
(Financial Post, November 17, 1992) and the quiet passage in early 1993 of a
constitutional amendment recognizing New Brunswick’s dualistic nature
(Canada, House of Commons Debates, 1993) provide some early indication
that constitutional change, retail rather than wholesale, is not impossible in
Canada.
The Process of Macro Constitutional Politics
In both Australia and Canada, the final stage of the constitutional amendment
process requires a form of democratic ratification: in Australia direct
democracy through referendums; in Canada, since patriation, indirect
54
and Canada
democracy through legislative approval. Further, in Canada, the
Charlottetown Accord precedent makes it politically imperative to have a
referendum before legislative ratification of major constitutional changes
(Boyer, 1992, p. 236). Both countries require extraordinary majorities for
ratification: in Australia, two-thirds of the States and in Canada, two-thirds or,
in some cases, all of the provinces.6 Requiring extraordinary majorities for
formal constitutional change is normal for democracies practising
constitutionalism. For the very essence of constitutionalism, as Jon Elster has
argued, is to protect principles and minorities from simple majority rule
(Elster, 1988). Nonetheless, the unanimity rule in Canada, even though of
limited application, is a pathological case of constitutionalism, reflecting deep
distrust within the political community.
The requirement of extraordinary majorities, quite properly, makes ordinary,
piecemeal constitutional change a difficult task. But the difficulty is
compounded mightily when macro constitutional change is attempted.
Political elites in both Australia and Canada who have attempted macro
constitutional change have under-estimated the difficulty. They have not
appreciated how far removed macro constitutional change is from normal
constitutional reform and how close it comes to constitution-making. Among
people practising a democratic form of constitutionalism, constitution-making
is the supreme political challenge.
The packages of constitutional reform proposals under consideration in
Australia and Canada have involved negotiations among political 1eaders
representing different, and sometimes conflicting, constitutional ideals and
aspirations. Negotiating is unavoidably an activity carried out by small
numbers of people and is, in that sense, elitist. Electorates and legislatures, the
democratic ratifiers in Australia and Canada, do not negotiate. Of course there
are degrees of elitism. A First Ministers’ meeting is more elitist than a
convention of legislative delegations and the latter is narrower than constituent
assemblies containing more than party politicians. These and other devices
(parliamentary committees and federal commissions) have been tried, but
neither country has established a negotiating process capable of producing an
elite accord possessing sufficient democratic legitimacy to change the terms of
the social contract. In their attempts at macro constitutional change neither
Australia nor Canada have been able to marry an elitist drafting process to a
more participatory democratic ratifying process.
Although neither country has anything very positive to teach the other about
how to accomplish macro constitutional change, both have negative lessons to
impart. The clearest lesson to be derived from Australia’s experience is that
political elites with conflicting constitutional aspirations will not
accommodate their differences within a broad-based assembly such as
Australia’s Constitutional Convention when they are not under the pressure of
a genuine national crisis. Two recent Canadian studies of constituent
assemblies support that conclusion (Fafard and Reid, 1991; Monahan, Covello
and Batty, 1992). These studies would go further and question the
effectiveness of any form of constituent assembly except to reorganize
regimes when a breakup is either imminent or actual.
The principal negative lesson to be gleaned from Canada’s Meech Lake
experience is the folly of achieving a constitutional agreement through a
closed, secretive process of elite accommodation before there has been wide
public discussion of constitutional alternatives. In the Canada round,
55
IJCS / RIÉC
politicians tried to heed this lesson by staging extensive public discussions
before engaging in elite bargaining. But their accommodation was fatally
flawed by its dependence on a proposal which had not been publicly aired.
Australia, with its much longer tradition of democratic constitutionalism, may
not need this Canadian lesson. However, the populist cannon-ball Mr. Keating
fired across the bow of the Special Premiers’ Conferences warned of the
danger of moving too fast towards a reshaping of Australian federalism
through a relatively closed and elitist process.
As a result of their recent experiences, the political leadership in both countries
should be older and wiser about the difficulty of putting brokered
constitutional packages to the people. Australia’s Constitution requires that
each “proposed law,” not packages of proposed laws, be submitted to the
electors. The highest number of proposals ever submitted at one time was six.
This was in 1913 and they were all defeated. Even if a great pile of proposals
were submitted at one time (the Constitutional Commission recommended
over 100 amendments), there is no guarantee that those which are adopted will
maintain the balance struck in negotiating the package. In Canada’s recent
referendum, many people resented that they had to vote “yes” or “no” on the
Charlottetown Accord as a whole rather than on each of its elements.
The defeat of the Charlottetown Accord in the October referendum adds an
important caveat to a maxim gleaned from Australia’s constitutional politics.
As even Bob Hawke came to acknowledge, a positive outcome in a national
referendum, particularly one requiring an extraordinary majority, is most
unlikely if the proposals are opposed by a major political party. The Canadian
caveat is that multi-partisan support, though a necessary condition, is not a
sufficient condition for success in a referendum on fundamental constitutional
change. The three major national parties—the Conservatives, Liberals and
NDP—all supported the Accord. Still, it failed. Here Canadian experience
coincides with rejection of the Masstricht Treaty by the Danish people despite
its support by that country’s major political parties.
The deepest lesson would-be constitutional reformers might take from these
events is the need to have a little more reverence for their existing constitutions
and their peoples. Constitutional reverence need not mean total acquiesence in
the constitutional status quo. But it should foster respect for methods of
constitutional adaptation that are more incremental and less contentious than
macro constitutional restructuring. In constitutional democracies worthy of
the name, the people should not readily be persuaded to accept major
transformations of their constitutional arrangements.
The Globalization of Constitutional Politics
As might be expected, Australian and Canadian constitutionalism show a good
deal of reciprocal influence. Canada’s discussion of an Australian style “triple
E” Senate and Australia’s discussion of a Canadian-style Charter of Rights are
clear examples. But the care with which Australian constitutionalists study
Canadian experience is not reciprocated by Canadians. Australia’s
Constitutional Commission, for example, in considering a constitutional bill
of rights, looked carefully at Canada’s Charter of Rights and Freedoms,
adopted the exact wording of its Section 1 (the reasonable limits clause) but
split three-to-two against recommending its notwithstanding clause
(Australia. Constitutional Commission, 1988, ch. 9). The architects of the
Charlottetown Accord, on the other hand, in excluding elected Senators from
56
and Canada
the Cabinet, appear to have given no in-depth consideration of Australia’s
experience in combining an elected Senate with a parliamentary regime.
But there are signs of a wider set of international forces influencing
constitutional developments in both countries. One can certainly see this
globalization at the level of ideas. The growing support in Australia for a
constitutional bill of rights represents much more than the Canadian influence.
Much of Alan Cairns analysis of the international influences on the Canadian
Charter applies to Australia—especially the international human rights
movement (Cairns, 1992).7 It is difficult to untangle the influence of American
constitutionalism from this broader, world-wide interest in the codification
and entrenchment of fundamental human rights. I have speculated that it is the
relatively greater strength of the American influence on Canada that accounts
for its adopting a constitutional bill of rights earlier than its sister
Commonwealth countries, Australia and New Zealand (Russell, 1990). Even
if American constitutionalism is on its way to becoming the modern analogue
of Roman law, it is clear that each society stamps its own identity on the
adopted paradigm (Henkin and Rosenthal, 1990). This is evident in Canada’s
Charter with its group rights, legislative override and absence of property
rights. Australia’s constitutional bill of rights, when it comes, will no doubt
have its distinguishing features.8
There is also an important international dimension to the strengthening of
aboriginal rights in Australia and Canada. Aboriginal peoples from Australia
and Canada have linked together with indigenous peoples from other
European-settler countries to form a world-wide movement. Through these
interactions, aboriginal peoples have stimulated one another in asserting their
rights to collective survival. Indigenous minorities have gained recognition as
the “fourth world” and associated their political objectives with the whole
process of decolonization (Manuel and Posluns, 1974). There are many factors
which account for Canada’s aboriginal peoples progressing more quickly in
the constitutional arena than their Australian counterparts, but perhaps the
most important is the demonstration effect of Quebec nationalism in creating a
political environment conducive to claims of ethnic or racial selfdetermination (Brock, 1989). Even if the macro constitutional struggle is not
resumed in Canada or Australia, there are many indications that the movement
of aboriginal peoples towards self-government in both countries will continue.
Globalization of the international economy has had a more tangible effect on
constitutional po1itics in the two countries. In recent constitutional
discussions in Australia and Canada, much concern is expressed about the
impediments to the flow of commerce across borders within the federations
being greater than those at national borders in regional trading blocks. Much of
the impetus behind Australia’s new federalism and the economic union
proposals in Canada’s current constitutional round stems from a desire,
particularly within the business class, to adapt the economies of the federations
to the imperatives of an increasingly competitive global economy (Business
Council of Australia, 1991). In both countries, this tendency is counterbalanced by a social democratic tradition concerned about protecting national
standards of social and environmental policy from the competitive pressures
of a commercial union (Howse, 1992). This, in turn, puts a check on tendencies
within the federations to decentralize power to governments more responsive
to local majorities.
57
IJCS / RIÉC
As the Australian and Canadian economies become more closely integrated
with neighbouring states, these international pressures on the operation of their
federal systems will surely intensify. International trade agreements which
aim at removing non-tariff barriers propel the parties, inexorably, towards
homogenization of a broad range of policies. When these international
arrangements severely constrain the policy-making of both levels of
government, only a strict formalist would deny their constitutional
significance. At first, of course, the constitutional form of these international
regimes is confederal—all sovereignty being retained by the member states.
But as the evolution of the European Community so clearly demonstrates, the
expansion of delegated authority at the centre generates a demand for a more
democratic central authority and a more federal form of political union. At this
point, the question of political community and the locus of sovereign
constitutional authority is raised, and the realm of mega constitutional politics
is entered.
Canada, as it contemplates the North American Free Trade Agreement, is
much closer to this international stage of constitutional politics than Australia.
That may be one consolation Canadians can take from their having been more
deeply inflicted than Australians with the frustrations of macro constitutional
politics. That experience has better prepared them to be citizens of the multinational states that lie in the future of human kind. On the other hand, a decade
of quiet, non-partisan, constitutionalism with a strong emphasis on public
education could produce a popular consensus on national renewal in Australia.
If that were to occur, Australia will embark on its second century more secure
in its national identity than Canada and with the confidence needed to take full
advantage of regional integration.
Notes
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
In an earlier article I used this phrase to characterize constitutional politics in Australia and
Canada from 1900 to the mid-1980s (Russell, 1988).
The report is indeed of academic interest. Altogether aside from its recommendations, its
background accounts of constitutional issues in each chapter are of great value to
constitutional cholars.
There are numerous possibilities: the 1893 Corowa Conferenœ, the 1895 Premiers’ meeting
in Hobart, election of the Constitutional Convention in 1897 and its meetings that year in
Adelaide and Sydney, and in 1898 in Melbourne, the ratifying referendums in 1898, the
second referendum in New South Wales in 1899, the London conference in 1900, and the
coming into force of the Constitution on January 1, 1901 (La Nauze, 1972).
Interviews with Sir Ninian Stephen, Chairman of the Foundation and Mr. Denis Tracey,
Executive Director of the Foundation, Melbourne, December 1991.
The study is being carried out by Brian Galligan and other colleagues in Canberra using the
same methodology employed in the survey conducted in Canada by Paul Sniderman, Joseph
Fletcher, Philip Tetlock and the author (Galligan, 1992).
Of course, Canada’s amending formula is considerably more complicated than this. For a
full discussion see Meekison, 1988.
On December 10, 1991, Australia took an important step in committing the country to
complying with international human rights standards when it acceded to the First Optional
Protocol to the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights.
A likely example is a religious freedom clause that does not threaten state-funded religious
schools.
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Milne, David 1982 The New Canadian Constitution. Toronto: James Lorimer.
Monahan, Patrick 1991 Meech Lake: The Inside Story. Toronto: University of Toronto Press.
Monahan, Patrick, Lynda Covello and Jonathan Batty (Eds.) 1992 Constituent Assemblies: The
Canadian Debate in Comparative and Historical Context. North York: York University
Centre for Public Law and Public Policy.
Russell, Peter 1988 “The Politics of Frustration: The Pursuit of Formal Constitutional Change in
Australia and Canada,” Australian-Canadian Studies. Vol. 6, pp. 1-32.
Russell, Peter 1990 “The Diffusion of Judicial Review: The Commonwealth, the United States
and the Canadian Case,” Policy Studies Journal, Vol. 19, pp. 113-21.
Russell, Peter 1992 Constitutional Odyssey: Can Canadians Become A Sovereign People?
Toronto: University of Toronto Press
Russell, Peter 1993 Constitutional Odyssey: Can Canadians Become A Sovereign People? (2nd
Edition) Toronto: University of Toronto Press.
Ryan, K.W. and H. D. Hewitt 1977 The Australian Constitutional Convention. Canberra: Centre
for Research on Federal Financial Relations.
Sawer, Geofrrey 1963 Australian Federal Politics and The Law, 1929-1949. Melbourne:
Melbourne University Press.
Sharman, Campbell 1989 “The Referendum Results and Their Context” in Brian Galligan and
John Nethercote (Eds.) The Constitutional Commission and the 1988 Referendums.
Canberra: Federalism Research Centre, Australian National University, pp. 105-117.
Simeon, Richard 1990 “Why Did the Meech Lake Accord Fail?” in Ronald Watts and Douglas
Brown (Eds.) Canada: State of the Federation 1990. Kingston: Queen’s University Institute
of Intergovernmental Relations.
Solomon, David 1991 “Getting a constitution fit for the future,” The Australian, 5 April, 1991.
60
David M. Thomas
Turning a Blind Eye: Constitutional Abeyances
and the Canadian Experience
Abstract
Mature and workable constitutions contain areas of great ambiguity and
imprecision that are not mere compromises between principles, or weak
constitutional conventions. These gaps in a constitution, kept in place by
deliberate non-exposure, are known as abeyances. Canada’s Constitution has
contained a great many such areas: the long-standing lack of an amending
formula was one example, fraught as it was with the dangers of FrenchEnglish conflict, and raising as it did other abeyances. The rise of Quebec
nationalism forced some of our abeyances into the open. The Unity Task Force
Report of 1979 shows us struggling to deal with abeyances, especially
binationalism, rooted in the federal system itself. The Report was dismissed by
Trudeau; his response to Quebec nationalism helped create a new
constitutional, intellectual and political dynamic, married to a changing
social and demographic structure. New and symbolically powerful areas of
conflict now clash with the old. The amending formulae created in 1982 did
not, however, resolve former abeyances; these have been worsened in ways
that were not anticipated. Elite accommodation no longer seems capable of
keeping abeyances in check. The Meech and Charlottetown Accords and the
referendum of October 1992 are proof that we have exposed the Constitution’s
anomalies, breached its abeyances (not without reason) and put in place a
process that offers us slim hope that our “gaps of unsettlement” can be
resolved satisfactorily.
Résumé
Les constitutions qui ont résisté à l’épreuve du temps comportent toutes des
zones d’ambiguïté et d’imprécision qui ne résultent pas forcément de
compromis entre des principes ni d’arrangements constitutionnels médiocres.
Dans une constitution, ces lacunes, que l’on camoufle délibérément, sont dites
« questions pendantes ». La Constitution canadienne renfermait un grand
nombre de ces zones, par exemple la très longue absence d’une formule
d’amendement, qui risquait de soulever des conflits entre francophones et
anglophones et qui créaient, elle-même, d’autres questions pendantes. La
montée du nationalisme québécois a mis en évidence plusieurs de nos
questions pendantes. Le rapport du Groupe de travail sur l’unité canadienne,
paru en 1979, s’efforçait de résoudre certaines de ces questions pendantes,
notamment le binationalisme qui pousse ses racines dans le régime fédéral luimême. Ce rapport a été écarté par Trudeau, dont la réaction au nationalisme
québécois a mis en branle une nouvelle dynamique constitutionnelle,
intellectuelle et politique associée à une structure sociale et démographique
en évolution. Aujourd’hui, de nouveaux sujets de conflit, chargés d’un
symbolisme puissant, viennent s’ajouter aux anciens. La formule
IJCS / RIÉC
d’amendement adoptée en 1982 n’a cependant pas résolu les questions en
suspens; elle les a même envenimées d’une façon tout à fait inattendue. Les
compromis entre les élites ne semblent plus capables de tenir ces questions
sous le boisseau et le sort qui a été réservé à l’entente du lac Meech, à celle de
Charlottetown et au référendum d’octobre 1992 montre clairement que les
défauts de la Constitution sont désormais à découvert, ainsi que les questions
en suspens, et que nous avons mis en marche un processus qui n’aidera guère à
résoudre les contradictions et les malentendus.
At the 1964 annual meeting of the Canadian Political Science Association in
Charlottetown, Pierre Elliott Trudeau presented an unfinished version of a
paper entitled “Federalism, Nationalism and Reason.”1 In the summer of 1992,
the University of Prince Edward Island was once again hosting the
Association’s annual gathering, but now scholars were wrestling with the
legacy of the Trudeau era and with the results of a further twenty-eight years of
constitutional change, debate and frustration. It is indeed Trudeau, above all,
who has been responsible for forcing us to consider some of our deepest
constitutional disjunctions and incompatibilities. And he has left us, once
again, with unfinished business. Not that we should lay the opening of
Pandora’s constitutional box at his feet alone. Far from it. He was as clearly
aware as anyone that constitutional incrementalism was preferable to activism.
In 1965, one year after his Charlottetown lecture, he wrote:
I should be very surprised if real statesmen, given the facts of the
problem, arrive at the conclusion that our constitution needs drastic
revision. 2
Yet this is precisely what happened. And as a result of these changes, we now
face, in extreme form, the clash of almost every constitutional principle and
problem imaginable.
The argument presented in this paper is as follows:
• Mature and “living” constitutions are capable of containing unsettled areas
of great importance, or “abeyances” which they leave well alone. The
Canadian Constitution has contained a great many such areas; the
amending question is particularly illustrative of the kind of difficulties we
have faced. Over the past quarter of a century, we have seemed increasingly
determined to leave no abeyance undisturbed; we have been loathe to admit
that such things should exist. We have tended to assume that all our
constitutional problems have constitutional answers. Indeed we may also
have assumed that many of our non-constitutional problems have
constitutional solutions.
• The period following the triumph of the Parti Québécois in 1976 saw a
flurry of proposals for major constitutional change. Those efforts were
exemplified by Bill C-60 and, in particular, by the Report of the Task Force
on Canadian Unity (the Pépin-Robarts Report).3 It attempted to tackle
matters previously left as abeyances, and well crafted and drafted though it
was, it ran headlong into the problem of what abeyances to avoid or address.
• The Task Force report became a “political orphan” 4 and was upstaged and
contradicted by Pierre Trudeau’s single-minded and consistent devotion to
a different set of principles. His determination to undermine Quebec
nationalists and to avoid confronting, head on, the deepest abeyance of all,
namely the recognition of a special role and place for Quebec, led to
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Turning a Blind Eye:
Constitutional Abeyances and the Canadian Experience
changes that have had the effect of further isolating Quebec and of raising
other abeyances from their slumber.5
• The Trudeau vision has taken deep root and is now protected, in ways that
were not anticipated, by the provisions of the amending formulae, by the
Charter of Rights and Freedoms, by a newly provincialized referendum
process, by the intractable and symbolic nature of the issues, and by the
ways in which they have become linked. Our abeyances have become
matters of public debate; competing visions struggle to emerge victorious;
one principle leads on to another.
It is concluded that there is but slim hope that the abeyances that have been
made the subject of so much debate can be put to rest. The rejections of the
Meech Lake and Charlottetown Accords are proof that Canadians have been
unable to agree on fundamental principles: our search for clarity has breached
the Constitution’s abeyances, exposed its anomalies, created new problems
and shown our unwillingness to retreat into the ambiguous safety of
constitutional uncertainty even when given the chance to do so. Our abeyances
are in public view, and the referendum process recently utilized seems
inherently unsuited to the avoidance or resolution of longstanding and
complex “gaps of unsettlement.”
Macro-Constitutional Politics
Our Constitution is rife with well-known contradictions and incongruities.
Parliamentary sovereignty and the conventions of cabinet government sit
uneasily with federalism and demands for such things as Senate reform (along
U.S. lines). Binationalism and dualism confront notions of provincial equality,
multi-culturalism and founding peoples. Demands for the entrenchment of
difference blindness clash with demands for difference valorization and
recognition.6 The equality of citizens contends with collective and group
rights; liberty and community, constitutionalism and communitarianism,
collide.7 Recent court cases raise questions about the effectiveness and
fairness of the system of representation. Perhaps, above all, as Peter Russell
pointed out in his Presidential Address to the Canadian Political Science
Association in 1990, we cannot decide where sovereignty resides and how it is
to be exercised:
Canadians have not yet constituted themselves a sovereign people.
So deep are their current differences on fundamental questions of
political justice and collective identity that Canadians may now be
incapable of acting together as a sovereign people.8
To say all of this is merely to belabour the obvious; we have been deeply
divided on almost every conceivable constitutional issue. It is not that we are
short of answers and expert opinion. Our best and brightest have laboured for a
whole generation on these problems. One could argue that Canadian political
science as a discipline has been distorted by the pull (and lure) of constitutional
analysis and debate. Political scientists have been drawn to the Constitution
like moths to a flame.
There have been numerous wonderfully perceptive and critical commentaries.
The MacDonald Royal Commission alone saw the production of over seventy
volumes of research studies. Surely we have to recognize that it is not for lack
of brainpower, patriotism, money, time or effort that we have reached such an
extraordinary impasse which everyone still strives to solve in his/her own way
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and to such little effect? Surely no other country can have undergone such a
rigorous yet unproductive national examination by its political scientists and
constitutional lawyers?
Other countries have spent a long time examining certain facets of their
constitution. Australia established a Constitutional Convention (in 1973) and a
Constitutional Commission (in 1985) whose labours have brought forth
referendum proposals, some of them successful. However, the latest batch
recently went down to resounding defeat. Britain has long discussed electoral
and parliamentary reform. Yet these matters are as nothing compared to the
efforts we have made. It has been a preoccupation for our political scientists,
our political elites, and the country generally. The point is, when we put our
ongoing “macro-constitutional” crises into perspective, it is not hard to
understand why agreement has been so difficult to reach:
Macro-constitutional politics is distinguished in two ways from
ordinary or micro-constitutional politics. First, macro-constitutional
politics goes beyond disputing the events of specific constitutional
proposals and addresses the very nature of the political community on
which the constitution is to be based ... precisely because of the
fundamental nature of the dispute ... macro-constitutional politics is
exceptionally emotional and intense.9
Who or what is to blame? An intransigent Quebec led by professional and
bureaucratic elites would probably top the list. It would be followed by an
obdurate, anti-nationalist Trudeau, along with self-aggrandizing provincial
barons and their courtiers. Or we could blame the Fathers of Confederation, the
BNA Act, the decentralizing actions of the imperial Judicial Committee of the
Privy Council, the lack of cohesion and balance in Section 91 and Section 92 of
the Constitution Act of 1867, and more recently, the contradictions inherent in
the Constitution Act 1982, the workings of executive federalism, a lack of
leadership, and the vagaries of fortuna. There is clearly no shortage of
candidates for the Governor-General’s Scapegoat of the Year awards.
The problem with any or all of these explanations, or with the view that it is
simply the cumulative weight of such issues that now presses down upon us, is
that this is still to assume that we can (a) identify the problems and (b) find a
solution to what ails us. Not all have presumed this to be so. As usual, a
prescient Alan Cairns noted in 1970 that “cryptically we might say that the
constitution has not failed us, so much as we, by our inadequate understanding
of its living nature, have failed it.”10 To this he later added, when commenting
on the spate of proposals that emerged in the late 1970s, that “the patient may
stagger on in a kind of half life for a long time to come. Not only is there yet no
cure. There is also no easy way to die.”11 Perhaps we have loved not wisely but
too well. We have not been content to let matters lie, and we may, ironically,
have done far too much.
Constitutional Abeyances
A recent provocative and powerful work by the British scholar Michael Foley
casts light on our situation, and may help explain why constitutional peace and
quiet have been impossible to achieve. A reading of Foley’s aptly titled The
Silence of Constitutions12 does not tell us what we should do, it tells us instead
why what we have been doing has not succeeded, and what we should, in fact,
not do. It is the thesis of this paper that Foley is correct in this key
66
respect—mature and workable constitutions contain abeyances which one
approaches and disinters at one’s peril. We have been, and are, digging up the
entire graveyard and one doubts that there is an abeyance left unturned.
So what are abeyances, and why are they so important? They are, in effect,
holes or gaps in a constitution. They are areas to be avoided at all costs. One
blunders into an abeyance only to retreat as quickly and quietly as possible.
They are constitutional quicksand. They exist, says Foley, in a sort of “twilight
zone,” in an “intermediate layer of obscurity” between the micro workings of
uncodified rules and customs and the macro world of recognized rules and
constitutional conventions. Without this layer of obscurity a constitution may
well cease to function. They remain unwritten and obscure because:
It is recognized that any attempt to define them would be not merely
unnecessary or impossible, but positively misguided and even
potentially threatening to the constitution itself. This is because such
“understandings” only remain understood as long as they remain
sufficiently obscure to allow them to retain an approximate
appearance of internal coherence and clarity, while at the same time
accommodating several potentially conflicting and quite unresolved
points of issue. The resolution of conflict in such cases is that of
suspended irresolution—either consciously secured or, far more
probably, unconsciously and unintentionally acquired. These
packages of aggregated positions are preserved by studied
inattention. They may include contradictions, tensions, anomalies,
and inequities, but the fragility and, at times, total illogicality of such
packages are kept intact through a convention of non-exposure, of
strategic oversight, and of complicity in delusion—in short, through
an instinctive reversion to not breaking ranks when confronted with
the constitutional equivalents of the emperor’s clothes.13
This passage should strike a responsive chord in many a Canadian scholar’s
heart. It is, therefore, not enough to think of such abeyances as merely
encompassing the unwritten parts of a constitution. The standard, first year
undergraduate explanation of unwritten (i.e. British) and written (i.e.
American) constitutions, along with a hybrid (Canada) does not suffice. In the
first place, such distinctions between written and unwritten constitutions do
not in themselves make much sense anyway and have long been discarded.
Secondly, conventions are not abeyances, as Foley uses the term.
Conventions, as discussed by Heard in his recent book on the subject, can be
divided into categories which range from the fundamental conventions
“supported by general agreement on the existence and value of the principle
involved” through meso-conventions and semi-conventions to infraconventions, “whose existence may be hotly contested.” Finally there are
embryonic conventions, such as the non use of the notwithstanding clause.
Below all of these will lie usages.14
It may be true that some of these conventions represent the tip of the abeyance
iceberg, as is the case with those surrounding parliamentary sovereignty. Yet
the point is that we can argue about the strength of specific conventions
without calling into question the larger issues which lurk in the shadows
behind them. It should also be noted that mere ambiguity does not in itself
constitute an abeyance, useful adjunct though it may be. The Charter of Rights
and Freedoms is, for example, ambiguous in some areas, but other areas it
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avoids entirely. Abeyances are thus NOT recognizable rules or compromises,
nor are they in any sense legally precise notions. They amount to “strategic
gaps” kept in place by a sort of deterrence theory, namely the knowledge that to
subject them to public view and open debate is to court disaster, for they are too
intractable and dangerous. If they do become the subject of conflict, Foley
argues that they are “not so much accompanied by an intense constitutional
crisis, they are themselves the essence of that crisis.”15
To students of Canadian politics, Foley’s thesis may offer some important
insights. First of all, it can give us hope. Even those constitutions that are
seemingly well worked out, and agreed upon, are not. In Canada, the United
States’ Constitution is often held up as the very essence of constitutionalism. It
is seen as clear, binding, consistent and democratic. Not so, says Foley:
In reality, the U.S. Constitution is replete with anomalies, gaps, and
areas of utter unsettlement...judicial consistency is unknown, final
authoritative judgements are unavailable.16
It leaves unresolved and unclear the issues surrounding popular sovereignty
and judicial review, and it does not explain the mysteries (and myths) of
Presidential power and how this is to be kept in check by the other parts of the
Constitution. To Foley, it is a mark of maturity that in both Britain and the
United States there is a desire to leave such matters in a state of “settled
unsettlement,” and that there is a deep conservatism to constitutional practice.
In the British case it may be due to historical traumas, such as the Civil War,
and a collective acceptance of “tradition.” In the United States, the Supreme
Court has played a key role in working “creatively with ambiguity.”17
One can hope that we, too, have tolerated our abeyances: it would seem in the
cautious Canadian character to have done so. This is what appears to have
happened until well into this century.18 We proceeded cautiously and slowly.
We appear to have recognized, implicitly, that a federal system by its very
nature will embody a changing conception of roles and powers, of identities
and loyalties. This federal conception, especially if it embodies assumptions
about unstated prerogatives which apply to some but not all the federal units,
cannot be put down on paper. A central, crucial, abeyance was, and is, the
constitutional definition of Quebec’s place within the Canadian federal state.
Another was and is the assumed equality of the provinces. These could not and
cannot be written down in such a way that they are dealt with satisfactorily. To
have attempted to do so ran the risk of picking one constitutional principle over
another, of freezing, at a particular moment, the received constitutional
wisdom of the time, and of creating new and unperceived incompatibilities.
Amendment
A quintessentially Canadian example of a problem behind which abeyances
lurked was our amending formula, and lack thereof until 1982. Clearly, most
federations settle this at the outset. To those gathered at Philadelphia, the need
for a new amending process was clear, and the process that emerged clearly
embodied principles that rendered it both national and federal, (although it was
still held, as Calhoun was later to argue, to leave unanswered ultimate
questions of sovereignty).
Australia and Switzerland likewise paid attention to the principles behind the
amending process. At a series of conventions, which took almost a decade,
68
Australians devised an amending formula which, it was assumed, would prove
flexible, simple, democratic and federal.19 In Switzerland the drafting
committee of the 1848 formula (still the basis of the revisions of 1874 and
1891), said:
The committee proposes to render the constitution very easily
amendable because a truly sovereign people must be able to change
its fundamental law whenever it is so inclined ... in order to come into
force, the Federal Constitution must be accepted by a majority of
Swiss citizenry and by the majority of the Cantons.20
The Canadian situation was completely different. The initial procedural
question was whether or not the Federal Cabinet could submit its request
directly to Britain, without consulting and obtaining the consent of the national
Parliament. What we got was an amending process that worked quite well in
spite of itself. It was viewed in terms of political expediency. Jennifer Smith
comments that:
... as far as ratification and amendment were concerned the real
question in both instances was the consent required domestically
before the British parliament could be requested to act.21
Amendments were made but we left unresolved the debate over sovereignty
which the amending problem created. As one shrewd American commentator
has noted:
When there is no agreement on the proper allocation of authority, or
(more fundamentally) no agreement on the desired level of unity
within a society, as has been the case in Canada, agreement on a
wholly satisfactory amendment process becomes impossible ... until
a substantial consensus is reached on the underlying question of
nationhood, no satisfactory agreement can be reached on a process of
amendment.22
The Canadian system changed in some dramatic ways not via amendments but
by judicial interpretation and informal federal-provincial agreements. We
seemed to be verifying the point made in Livingston’s classic work Federalism
and Constitutional Change.23 His assumption that federalism is “a function
not of constitutions but of societies” is well known. Accompanying this is his
view that societies employ what he calls “instrumentalities” to serve the needs
of their diversity. These instrumentalities can be procedures, institutions and
conventions but he also adds to the list concepts, habits and attitudes, all of
which serve to “articulate and protect the diversities that constitute the psychosociological basis of the federal community.”24 Our instrumentalities were
protecting our abeyances and our lack of an amending formula.
It was not until the aftermath of the Commonwealth Conference of 1926 that
we launched the first of a series of federal-provincial conferences which
discussed the amending problem. The 1950 conference actually managed to
reach unanimous agreement of the division of the constitution into six different
categories each with different rules for change—surely a Canadian approach if
ever there was one.
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In these debates, we were trying to skirt our abeyances and the questions that
came with them: did we subscribe to the compact theory; to what extent were
the provinces sovereign; should Quebec be treated differently; should any
single province have a constitutional veto; could regional assent be substituted
for a provincial approach; was there to be any popular ratification; who
initiated the amending process; could there be opting out; must there be the
same rules for all; how were we to reconcile popular sovereignty and
federalism? Thus rather than arguing about the substance of future
amendments, the focus switched to the process itself. It became “the essence of
the crisis,” and we were subjected “to a series of federal-provincial
conferences which, like the woes inflicted on sinners by the God of the Old
Testament, have lasted unto the third and fourth generations.”25
“A Diversity in Ignorance of Itself”
A notable effort to tackle our disinterred and emergent abeyances
simultaneously was made in 1979 by the Task Force on Canadian Unity report
entitled A Future Together. Better known as the Pépin-Robarts Report after its
two co-chairs, it represented an inter-connected and comprehensive approach.
Even its critics saw it as well written, succinct and willing to tackle deep-seated
problems. Ideas from it, and individuals associated with it, have continued to
play a significant part in our on going constitutional saga.
It attempted to deal with dualism, regionalism, the functional distribution of
power and the role of the national government.
We have tried in this report to answer three questions: How do we
secure the fuller expression of duality in all the spheres to which it
relates? How do we accommodate more satisfactorily the forces of
regionalism that are altering the face of Canadian society? How do
we make the principle of sharing an “operational value” in our
country, and within and between our governments, so that duality and
regionalism and the other features of Canadian life are given
appropriate recognition?26
It thus came face to face with at least the following abeyances:
• the constitutional recognition of dualism and Quebec’s distinctiveness;
• the redistribution of powers;
• the need for a legitimizing amending formula in which Quebec’s consent
was required;
• the problem of provincial equality and symmetry;
• the clash between federal and parliamentary principles;
• the recognition of individual as well as group rights;
• the clash between judicial constitutional supremacy and democratic
control.
In some respects it appeared to tackle these problems head on. It said of
Quebec that:
We support the efforts of the Quebec provincial government and of
the people of Quebec to ensure the predominance of the French
language and culture in that province. Quebec is distinctive and
should, within a viable Canada, have the power necessary to protect
and develop its distinctive character; any political solution short if
this would lead to the rupture of Canada.27
70
Thus, language policy was to be a provincial matter, counterbalanced by
French/English educational opportunities “where numbers warrant” and the
availability of federal services in both languages.
It dealt with the parliamentary/federal problem by proposing a totally
restructured Senate modelled on the Bundestag, and partial proportional
representation for the Commons. The membership and powers of the Council
of the Federation—as the restructured Senate would be called—were set out
clearly; it was to comprise a maximum of 60 delegates “acting under
instruction” from the provinces. These were bold and sweeping
recommendations that would have had a profound effect. The same could be
said of their approach to the amending problem, popular sovereignty
requirements, and the Quebec “veto.” Along with passage by the federal
Parliament, a four region referendum was proposed, Quebec being one of the
regions.
Thus, abeyances were tackled in a way that saw the proposed solutions closely
linked together. At the same time, it can be argued that even Pépin-Robarts &
Co. tried to skirt or fudge some of the central issues, and this was to get them
into hot water. In particular, they tried to defuse the asymmetry versus
provincial equality problem, and special status for Quebec, by allotting:
... to all provinces powers in the areas needed by Quebec to maintain
its distinctive culture and heritage, but to do so in a manner which
would enable the other provinces, if they so wished, not to exercise
these responsibilities and instead leave them to Ottawa. There are two
methods for achieving this: to place these matters under concurrent
jurisdiction with provincial paramountcy, thus leaving provinces
with the option whether to exercise their overriding power in these
fields; and to provide in the constitution a procedure for the
intergovernmental delegation of legislative powers. In our view both
methods should be used.28
This particular provision illustrates clearly a desire to see how things will work
out (and should sound familiar to us now!). There was a similar vagueness in
their recommendations for a Declaration of Rights which was to include “the
usual political, legal, economic and egalitarian rights.” Such individual and
collective rights would have to be those “on which the central and provincial
governments are in agreement.” Yet another example of issue avoidance can
be found in the discussion of native rights: there is no mention here of native
sovereignty, inherent rights or any of the other demands now made.
The Report’s wise disinclination to provide clarity and the corollary that much
remained to be worked out was, not surprisingly, seen as a major weakness in
the document. It could thus be attacked for its concerted attempt to entrench
intra-state federalism, popular sovereignty, and a special place for Quebec
and, at the same time, for its “smorgasbord” of principles and criteria, and its
pandering to Quebec nationalism and regionalism.
Alan Cairns, in a trenchant and harsh criticism of the overall Report, argued
that the provision for concurrency and delegation noted above “is capable of
producing two antithetical outcomes at the opposite ends of the spectrum and
anything in between.”29 In other words, we could have found ourselves, in
future, with an extraordinarily decentralized system due to our desire to paper
over the Quebec problem. Cairns also noted, amongst other things, that the
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Report stressed “what divides us,” it “lacked the subtlety necessary to handle
the complexities” of the national question, it utilized an “ahistorical
approach,” and it suffered from “hesitation and embarrassment” on the
question of national identity.
One cannot help but feel sorry for the authors. They were trying to tackle
abeyances that had haunted us for years. They were prisoners of a climate of
opinion that was heavily provincialist. First Ministers’ Conferences had come
into their own. Premiers strutted their hour upon the stage, and the entire
Pépin-Robarts Report was premised on the notion that with respect to powers
there must be “equality of status of the central and the provincial orders of
government.”30
In Pépin-Robarts, a revised and subtle version of the compact theory had
wrestled with the questions of inter- and intra-state federalism, panCanadianism, dualism, individual rights and founding nations. Whether or not
Pépin-Robarts was a noble effort doomed to failure, a constitution that could
have grown and matured but was strangled at birth, or a vision that was fatally
flawed and rife with contradictions, became irrelevant. The Unity Task Force
had tried—how it had tried—to solve these problems imaginatively and
constructively, in the light of socio-political realities as well as constitutional
principles. Certainly, if one considers what has happened since their report
appeared, it is difficult to argue that we have done any better.
A Constitution with Crystal Clear Principles
When Pierre Trudeau returned to power in 1980, Pépin-Robarts, and its search
for a “third option,” lay neglected and disparaged. Trudeau’s agenda was very
different. It was to be an irony, a paradox, that Trudeau the pragmatist—the
cool, clear, cerebral anti-nationalist, the defender of incrementalism and of the
need to establish our national identity so that it could accommodate
Quebec—should end up pushing through an amending formula and a charter
that forced our abeyances into the open and created new and fundamental
tensions in the state.
Trudeau was rather like the Charles I portrayed by Foley. Trudeau also had a
strict legality on his side, had little regard for the legislature, was not prepared
to let sleeping issues lie and was convinced, not without reason, that his logic
and clarity of vision were superior to those of his opponents. In fairness, he had
to act as a result of the promises made during the referendum of 1980. Once
Quebec had pushed its way out of its own protective cocoon and had seen itself
as an actor on a larger stage (to mix metaphors) notions such as abeyances or
“stops in the mind” became almost impossible to handle.
But now the Quebec abeyance and the amending abeyance became the focal
point for what Foley has called other “deeply embedded disjunctions.” A
strengthened West, led by a powerful Alberta premier, was willing to fight for
provincial equality as were other premiers. Trudeau was adamantly committed
to a Charter of Rights, to official bilingualism, to strengthening Federal
institutions and to a recognition of multiculturalism. His desire for
constitutional coherence, his inability and unwillingness to accept the coexistence of (seemingly) irreconcilable positions, and his acceptance of
provincial equality, constituted the antithesis of a reliance on obfuscation and
avoidance. In his criticism of this approach, Guy LaForest uses “Foleyian”
terminology when he argues that:
72
My point here, simply put, is that these checks, ambiguities, and
blurred sovereignties between visions were necessary to the
flourishing of complex federalism in Canada. When all this is
discarded in favour of a constitution with crystal clear principles...
the very nature of our federalism becomes threatened and so does
Canada.31
Many of these issues were not new, but this time there was a difference; there
was a Prime Minister willing to go it alone, a federal government able to claim
its own Quebec mandate, a separatist government in Quebec emasculated by
the referendum of 1980, and, gathering force on the fringes of the debate, a
growing assembly of new constitutional players pushing for change if the
opportunity arose.
Would we have been better off opting for as limited a constitutional package as
possible? Was there a chance in the autumn and winter of 1981-82 that we
could have muddled through and tolerated ambiguity? It must be admitted that,
then and now, there is a strong case to be made for the view that constitution
making does indeed require a stand on principles, for some fundamental
questions cannot be ignored.
But we ended up with constitutional arrangements that have made our
abeyances all too apparent. Behind the oddities of the amending formulae,
such as the extent of the unanimity rule, the acknowledged provincial right of
rescission, the three-year time limit and the inability to co-ordinate legislative
amendment or approval, lie even larger questions.32
It could, perhaps, be argued that in 1982 certain abeyances were left alone.
There was no attempt to define Quebec’s role and place in the scheme of
things. The operation of First Ministers’ Conferences was left unclear. Native
claims to sovereignty were ignored. Citizens were not given a constitutional
role. Nevertheless, we still ended up with changes that led to Meech Lake and
to Charlottetown, and which juxtaposed our former abeyances in ways that
make them extremely difficult to handle.
Unsettled Settlement
What can be said in conclusion? Is there hope that we can take some of our
abeyances off the table? The Trudeau legacy has been extraordinary, and his
view of the Constitution has taken hold. His interventions in defence of his
endeavours have been decisive. Well-known scholars can now proclaim that
the end of our constitutional journey is in sight:
Canada is, de facto, now a republic; the people of Canada are
sovereign. Sooner or later, by law or by convention, Canada’s
constitution will reflect both those realities de jure. So too will its
legislators and courts.33
To argue thus assumes that our deepest abeyances are now being laid to rest:
like old soldiers, they will just fade away. Our political and constitutional
culture will have changed; even Quebec, in this view, could become
“charterized.” The new, demarcated, ascertainable, liberal-democratic rules of
the constitutional and political game are seen as in place, buttressed by
referendum-rooted popular sovereignty and by the Charter itself.
73
IJCS / RIÉC
This optimistic view does not accord with the recognition of the importance of
abeyances. It can be argued that the failure of the Meech and Charlottetown
Accords, and the referendum process itself, demonstrated clearly that we have
not come to terms with the idea of the need for abeyances in a general sense, or
with the specific, dormant dangers we have pushed and prodded out of the
interstitial constitutional caves where they were hibernating.
Let us remind ourselves that Foley’s thesis holds that gaps of significant
constitutional unsettlement are marks of maturity and a source of considerable
strength; that constitutional incoherence can be a positive and necessary value;
that legal precision is less desirable than social consensus and the willingness
to turn a blind eye to our idiosyncrasies. Constitutional cowardice is a virtue:
we live to fight another day.
Are we prepared and able to turn our backs on the very real and dangerous
sources of conflict that have surfaced so dramatically since 1982? Do we have
the social and political skills, and the leadership, to handle our constitutional
unsettlement? Will our institutional mechanisms permit us to change even if
there is widespread support for so doing?
The attempt, in the Meech Lake Accord, to constitutionalize Quebec’s
distinctiveness, illustrates all of these problems. Meech was an effort to go
beyond de facto or implicit recognition34 that the two founding nations view
“was the only form in which confederation would be ultimately acceptable to
French Canada.”35 Meech was an attempt to set it down on paper, and people
wanted to know exactly what it meant. At the same time, it was raising an
abeyance that was now symbolically tied to other intractable questions. In
Patrick Monahan’s view:
... (the) symbolic messages associated with the distinct society clause
provide the most powerful explanation of its massive unpopularity
outside of Quebec.36
Survey data on the October referendum now show that, once again, the most
important issue, outside Quebec, was that Quebec was seen as getting too
much. Inevitably, in Meech and Charlottetown, other abeyances came into
play, particularly those surrounding the question of provincial equality,
affecting both the amending formula, and the proposals for a Triple E Senate.
Many seemed surprised to find out that raising what was seen as a straightforward federal principle, namely the political equality of disparate geopolitical units in a second house, trailed in its wake such a host of deep
problems, old and new. Less of a surprise, perhaps, was the clash of principles
surrounding who we are as citizens, and how we are to be treated, individually
and collectively. The fact that these questions, too, were once abeyances is
revealed by Charles Taylor’s comment that in this debate over what constitutes
a liberal society “aspirations which are as such perfectly compatible come to
be seen as deadly rivals.”37
The left has a great deal of difficulty coming to terms with these issues38 and,
on the right, in the shape of the Reform Party, one finds certitude. Populist
diagnoses seem inherently intolerant of abeyances. When Preston Manning
speaks of his “New Canada” he is talking of a country that will operate
according to a few seemingly straightforward principles: we will all be equal;
we will all be treated equally; there will not be a need for hyphenated
Canadianism; the provinces will be equal; and our institutions will be
74
reformed. Manning’s populism seeks to find simple answers to complex
problems, and prudence is not an adjective that comes to mind in this context.
Populists dislike ambiguity and equivocation, and because of that they do not
want “suspended irresolution.” Supporters see in the Reform Party the answers
to what bothers them; they want politicians to listen and be accountable to the
electorate, to stop pandering to Quebec, and to stop wasting the taxpayers’
money.
Populism demands referendums, but because abeyances are “the product of
long historical experience and accumulated practice of which the public is but
dimly aware,”39 they are exceptionally difficult to deal with during a
referendum campaign. The fact that a referendum was used would seem to be a
vindication of the view that the Constitution is an affair, ultimately, of citizens
and not governments. It would thus seem to settle a longstanding abeyance and
overturn the predominance of governments and of executive federalism
established by the amending formulae. Matters are not this simple.
The fundamental incompatibilities of the 1982 arrangements have not given
way to clarity, and the referendum was, in certain key ways, not an act of
national public affirmation; it was a new version of inter-state federalism in
which provincialized communities, rather than governments, spoke for
themselves. It was precipitated by pre-emptive referendum legislation in three
provinces: Quebec, Alberta and British Columbia. It is no coincidence that
these three provinces soundly rejected the Accord. We tackled, in part, what
Jennifer Smith has called the problem of constituting power: “Process—not
any process, but one that embodies consent requirements—replaces
sovereignty,”40 (i.e., as the key issue). But what has been added is the
provincial equality abeyance in a new guise. Furthermore, if we are to use
referendums in the future “how are we to avoid drawing abeyances into the
public debate? How do we avoid spelling out what we know cannot be spelled
out?”41 Our old mechanisms of elite accommodation were, it would appear, by
their very nature inherently tolerant of abeyances. Consensus was to be
produced due to a common desire to maintain the system and avoid undue
fragmentation, whilst accommodating divergent interests and subcultures.
Constitutional affairs were dealt with in an ordinary political way.
Rather than being content with the virtues of “settled unsettlement,” we have
got instead “unsettled settlement” of some things, and no settlement at all of a
long list of other items, driven as they are by political crises, values,
personalities and great social and demographic change. While the rest of
Canada’s values have been changing, in Quebec, in yet another paradox,
devotion to British traditions of representative government and
parliamentarianism have, if anything, increased. We have Quebec scholars
who would normally “prefer specificity in constitutional matters”42 now
arguing that vagueness is desirable and that a clear vision is dangerous.
Christian Dufour puts the point thus:
Beyond the reality of the country, beyond the ideal, Canada is
foundering in an idealism, in an ideology of the ideal, that is
constraining and compulsory. This is not surprising: in politics
idealism corresponds to losing touch with reality. It results from an
inability to integrate some aspects of that reality.43
75
IJCS / RIÉC
In sum, events from Pépin-Robarts to Charlottetown reveal how deep our
“disjunctions” are (and even so, there are still abeyances left untouched, such
as those surrounding responsible government).
To ask, in conclusion, whether we can get at least some of our key abeyances
under control is to try to forecast the future. This is dangerous terrain. The
vagaries of the moment, and our own hopes and fears, can turn scholars into
journalists; trying to gain a perspective on our past is difficult enough. Even so,
if we accept the idea of abeyances, their role and crucial importance, and the
usefulness of the concept in putting our macro-constitutional debate into a
new, comparative perspective, then the question of how we are to handle them
cannot be avoided.
It may be that the results of the referendum, and the process itself, have made
us realize how far apart we are. We might come to take a more resolutely Tory
view of our living, evolving Constitution with its areas of contradiction and
imprecision, although when we were given the opportunity, in Meech, to
obfuscate on “distinct society” and pass the buck to the Supreme Court, we did
not take it.
The metaphors of marriage and the family have often been used to describe the
Quebec-“Rest of Canada” relationship. Such metaphors seem particularly
applicable to abeyances. In most longstanding and successful relationships
there are, (in Foleyian terms), “understandings”; there is “suspended
irresolution” of some matters; there are “conventions of non-exposure”; and
there is “complicity in delusion” so that we can, quite simply, continue to get
along with each other. There may well be an increasing realization of this in
Quebec, and in the rest of the country.
The one abeyance that might be uncoupled from the others is the question of
aboriginal rights. There could be sufficient public support for this, and the
work of the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples could set the scene. To
say this is to be optimistic. Finally, we might hope for new and creative
leadership, greater tolerance, more imagination and less certitude as we try to
break free of “the late modern century.”44 New abeyances can flourish and
assimilate diverse principles if we let them do so, but first there are grave areas
of “unsettled settlement” to resolve.
Notes
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
76
Pierre Elliott Trudeau, “Federalism, Nationalism and Reason” in Federalism and the French
Canadians (Toronto: Macmillan & Company, Ltd., 1968).
Pierre Elliott Trudeau, “Quebec and the Constitutional Problem” in Federalism and the
French Canadians, op. cit., 36. Trudeau has repeated this point of view recently in his
pamphlet “Fatal Tilt: Speaking Out About Sovereignty” (Toronto: Harper Collins
Publishers, 1991), 14-15. He states: “I am on record since the mid-sixties as having pointed
out the dangers of embarking on a constitutional voyage when the virus of consititutionitis
had begun to infect the ship of state. But the provinces took matters into their own hands in
1967 ... surely the federal government had no choice but to accept the challenge and sail on.”
Canada, Task Force on Canadian Unity, A Future Together: Observations and
Recommendations (Ottawa: Supply and Services Canada, 1979).
See Cristine Andrea Beauvais De Clercy, “Holding Hands with the Public: Trudeau and the
Task Force on Canadian Unity, 1977-79.” Unpublished M.A. Thesis, University of
Saskatchewan, 1992.
Note in particular the discussion of the ironies of the Trudeau legacy in Kenneth McRoberts,
English Canada and Quebec: Avoiding the Issue (York: Robarts Centre for Constitutional
Studies, 1991).
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
20.
21.
22.
23.
24.
25.
26.
Charles Taylor has presented a case for the recognition of what he calls second level or
“deep” diversity. See his “Shared and Divergent Values,” a paper prepared for the Business
Council on National Issues Symposium on Canada’s Constitutional Options (Toronto,
January, 1991), and his brief but important remarks regarding “The Politics of Recognition”
in Douglas Brown, Robert Young, and Dwight Herberger, (eds.), Constitutional
Commentaries: An Assessment of the 1991 Federal Proposal. (Kingston: Institute of
Intergovernmental Relations, conference paper number 10, 1991).
See Robert C. Vipond, Liberty and Community: Canadian Federalism and the Failure of the
Constitution (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1991). Note also Janet Ajzenstat
(ed.) Canadian Constitutionalism 1791-1991 (Ottawa: Canadian Study of Parliament
Group, 1992). This collection of essays “illustrates the origins and contours of the quarrel
between Constitutionalists and Communitarians that underlies today’s debate on
constitutional reform.”
Peter H. Russell, “Can the Canadians Be a Sovereign People,” Presidential Address to the
Canadian Political Science Association (Kingston: Queen’s University, 1991), reported in
the Canadian Journal of Political Science, 24 (1991), 691-709.
Ibid., 699-700.
Alan C. Cairns, “The Living Canadian Constitution” in Blair and McLeod (eds.), The
Canadian Political Tradition (Toronto: Methuen, 1987), 11.
Alan C. Cairns, “Recent Federalist Constitutional Proposals” in Douglas E. Williams (ed.),
Disruptions: Constitutional Struggles form the Charter to Meech Lake (Toronto:
McClelland, Stewart, 1991), 57.
Michael Foley, The Silence of Constitutions (London: Routledge, 1989).
Ibid., 9.
See Andrew Heard, Canadian Constitutional Conventions: The Marriage of Law and
Politics (Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1991), ch. 7.
Foley, op. cit., XI.
Ibid., 126.
Ibid., 119. See chapters three and five for a detailed discussion of British and American
experience.
See D.V. Smiley’s comment that “I can find only two major and important sets of
suggestions for basic constitutional change prior to the 1960s: the report emanating from the
interprovincial conferences of 1887, and the highly structuralist thrust of the proposals of the
League for Social Reconstruction in 1935.” This is attached as a footnote to “A Dangerous
Deed: The Constitution Act, 1982” in Banting and Simeon And No One Cheered:
Federalism, Democracy and the Constitution Act, (Toronto, Methuen, 1983), 94.
In Peter Russell’s view “Australia’s founding fathers, it would seem, were more committed
federalists than Canada’s. Certainly they knew more about federalism”. See “The Politics of
Frustration; The pursuit of Formal Constitutional Change in Australia and Canada” in
Hodgins, Eddy, Grant and Struthers (eds.), Federalism in Canada and Australia: Historical
Perspectives, 1920-88 (Peterborough: Trent University, 1989), 59. In practice it should be
noted that this formula hasn’t been that flexible: only eight out of 42 proposed amendments
have passed.
For a classic and still extremely useful analysis of the amending problem in federal societies
and states see W.S. Livingston, Federalism and Constitutional Change, (Oxford: Clarendon
Press, 1956), 178. This quote is used by Livingston in his discussion of the Swiss experience.
Jennifer Smith, “Canadian Confederation and the Influence of American Federalism,”
Canadian Journal of Political Science, 21 (1988), 459.
Walter Dellinger, “The Amending Process in Canada and the United States: A Comparative
Perspective” in Davenport and Leach (eds.), Reshaping Confederation: The 1982 Reform of
the Constitution (Durham, Duke University Centre for International Studies, 1984), 286.
Livingston, op. cit.
Ibid., 305.
Garth Stevenson, Unfulfilled Union. (Canada: Gage, 1989), 239. Stevenson unleashes a
stinging criticism of the 1982 agreement, saying that “the ‘new’ Canadian Constitution was
an untidy collection of miscellaneous provisions reflecting sordid and undignified
compromises with a variety of provincial interests,” 238.
A Future Together, op. cit., 41.
77
IJCS / RIÉC
27.
28.
29.
30.
31.
32.
33.
34.
35.
36.
37.
38.
39.
40.
41.
42.
43.
44.
78
Ibid., 87.
Ibid.
Alan C. Cairns, “Recent Federalist Constitutional Proposals,” op. cit., 53.
A Future Together, op. cit., 125.
Guy Laforest, “Interpreting the Political Heritage of André Laurendeau” in Smith,
Mackinnon and Courtney (eds.), After Meech Lake: Lessons for the Future (Saskatoon: Fifth
House Publishers, 1991), 102.
See Alan C. Cairns, Charter versus Federalism: The Dilemmas of Constitutional Reform
(Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1992), ch. 3.
David J. Bercuson and Barry Cooper, “From Constitutional Monarchy to Quasi Republic:
The Evolution of Liberal Democracy in Canada” in Ajzenstat, op. cit., 27.
Christopher Dunn in fact uses the phrase “the silence of the constitution” to explain
Quebec’s de facto acquisition of power. See “Do Canada and Quebec Need Each Other,”
paper presented at the Annual Meeting of the Canadian Political Science Association,
(Kingston: Queen’s University, 1991), 13.
See Taylor, “Divergent Values,” op. cit., 16.
Patrick Monahan, Meech Lake: The Inside Story (Toronto: University of Toronto Press,
1991), 258.
Taylor, “Divergent Values,” op. cit., 31. Taylor lists aspirations which should be
compatible: duality and multiculturalism; aboriginal and Quebec claims to distinctiveness;
regional equality and Quebec’s demands.
A useful discussion of this problem is to be found in Serge Denis, Le Long Malentendu: Le
Québec vu par les intellectuels progressistes au Canada anglais 1970-1991 (Québec: Les
Éditions du Boréal, 1992).
Roger Gibbins and David Thomas “Ten Lessons from the Referendum,” Canadian
Parliamentary Review, vol. 15, No. 4. 1992-3, 6.
See Jennifer Smith, “Representation and Constitutional Reform in Canada” in Smith,
Mackinnon, Courtney (eds.), After Meech Lake, op. cit., 78.
Gibbins and Thomas, op. cit.
Dunn, op. cit., 4.
Christian Dufour, “A Canadian Challenge / Le défi québécois,” (Lanzantville, B.C. and
Halifax, N.S.: Oolichan Books and the Institute for Research on Public Policy, 1990), 145.
See Ged Martin’s optimistic conclusion in “The Canadian Question and The Late Modern
Century,” British Journal of Canadian Studies, vol. 7, No. 2 (1992), 215-247.
Richard LaRue
Jocelyn Létourneau
De l’unité et de l’identité au Canada.
Essai sur l’éclatement d’un état
Résumé
Comment expliquer les déchirements de tous ordres qui font craindre
aujourd’hui l’éclatement du Canada ? Essentiellement soucieux des
tendances lourdes qui semblent pousser à la désagrégation de l’unité politique
et de l’identité collective, les auteurs estiment que certains aspects du
postkeynésiannisme qui caractérisent le pays entraînent une crise virtuelle sur
les plans de la représentation, de la légitimation et de la régulation. Par
ailleurs, cette crise serait exacerbée et infléchie diversement par trois facteurs
structurels : l’épuisement du modèle politique; l’irruption de la mondialité au
coeur du projet nationalitaire; et la fin des grands récits collectifs. Bref, cet
article propose une problématique générale qui permet d’examiner dans une
optique macroscopique la phase actuelle du « problème canadien ».
Abstract
How can we explain the divisions of every description that now threaten to
rend Canada asunder? Mindful of the weighty trends that seem to be pushing
toward the dissolution of political unity and collective identity, the authors
believe that some of the country’s post-Keynesian characteristics are leading
to a virtual crisis in representation, legitimation and regulation. As well, this
crisis seems variously exacerbated and altered by three structural factors: the
bankruptcy of the political model; the intrusion of globalization into the heart
of the national plan; and the end of the great collective narratives. In short, this
article describes a general situation that allows for a macroscopic
examination of the current phase of the “Canadian problem.”
Depuis sa fondation en 1867, le Canada a été marqué par des tendances à
l’éclatement profondes, permanentes et invariablement vécues sous la forme
de crises d’unité et d’identité. Il serait d’ailleurs instructif de se demander
pourquoi, malgré les risques de rupture dont il a été le théâtre tout au long de
son histoire, le Canada a su perdurer en tant qu’état national. En fait, la
production de l’unité et de l’identité au Canada est un problème fondamental
qui s’inscrit au coeur même du devenir de cet état, et les tergiversations
récentes sur la question constitutionnelle n’ont fait que traduire un nouveau
moment du processus pénible et perpétuel de la recherche d’une forme de
régulation, de légitimation et de représentation politique qui satisfasse les
aspirations de tous les groupes de la société canadienne.
Cela dit, en dépit du fait que le problème de l’unité et de l’identité canadiennes
soit, à cet état, structurel, sa nature est historiquement changeante, et sa facture
IJCS/RIÉC
actuelle, ainsi que ses causes, ne sont plus les mêmes. Aussi paraît-il pertinent
de s’interroger sur les facteurs qui, dans la présente conjoncture, favorisent
l’éclatement de l’union.
À cet égard, deux options sont ouvertes : nous en tenir à une analyse
synchronique du débat compliqué qui, depuis le rapatriement de la
Constitution en 1982, marque l’horizon politique canadien et, par ce biais,
nous livrer à une évaluation des différentes stratégies employées par les
acteurs en présence pour parvenir à leurs fins; ou, à travers une perspective
diachronique, identifier un certain nombre de « tendances lourdes » qui,
s’inscrivant au coeur du devenir historique de l’état canadien, posent les
conditions actuelles de sa rupture « par le haut » et « par le bas ». Nous
préconiserons cette seconde option en essayant de faire ressortir comment le
Canada vit au fond un problème que partagent à des degrés divers nombre
d’états contemporains1 : la production des sujets politiques dans les sociétés
postkeynésiennes, c’est-à-dire le problème de la recherche d’une concordance
entre l’unité et l’identité de la société à une époque d’inflexion et d’altération
significatives des principes d’organisation et des modes d’action formels,
sociaux et politiques, qui étaient propres aux états marqués et définis par ce que
certains ont appelé la « régulation monopoliste »2 — et dont le Canada était un
exemple parmi bien d’autres.
Dans le cadre de cet article, nous nous limiterons à présenter trois facteurs
majeurs qui affectent la production de l’unité et de l’identité canadiennes en
ces temps troubles et qui, ce faisant, provoquent une crise des modes de
régulation, de légitimation et de représentation à l’oeuvre au sein de cet état.
Avant d’en arriver là, nous formulerons cependant quelques éléments d’une
problématique concernant la production des sujets politiques dans les sociétés
postkeynésiennes. Pour nous interroger ensuite sur les changements et les
altérations qui ont affecté le Canada à un point tel que l’on puisse en parler
comme d’un état postkeynésien.
Des sujets politiques dans les sociétés postkeynésiennes
Dans notre esprit, le keynésiannisme ne désigne pas seulement un mode
d’intégration économique des travailleurs-consommateurs dans la dynamique
générale d’un régime d’accumulation du capital. Il renvoie aussi à un mode de
production des sujets politiques dans lequel ceux-ci, définis en tant qu’acteurs
normalisés — « comme lieu d’une synthèse identitaire unique, irréductible et
absolue » — cautionnent réciproquement leurs agirs par l’acceptation des
termes d’un contrat sociopolitique dont le fiduciaire et le légataire unique est
l’État. Vendant en quelque sorte leur « personne privée » en contrepartie d’une
identité octroyée, celle de la « personne civile », qui les assure d’une
couverture tout risque (filet de la sécurité sociale) accordée par un État
providentiel et bienfaiteur, les sujets politiques, en honorant les termes du
contrat, s’assurent également les privilèges d’une reconnaissance et d’un
endossement officiels, ceux que leur procure la nation dans laquelle ils
trouvent en outre, par décret, « ancienneté » (celle-ci confondant allègrement
la tradition), c’est-à-dire histoire et mémoire.
La notion de postkeynésiannisme, à laquelle nous n’accolons aucun statut
théorique mais que nous voulons essentiellement descriptive, cherche à
résumer et à décrire certaines inflexions ou dissolutions des principes et des
modes d’action formels de l’état keynésien, de même que l’altération des
formes d’identité politique dominante prévalant en son sein. On pourrait
82
De l’unité et de l’indentité au Canada.
Essai sur l’éclatement d’un État
longuement discuter pour savoir si le postkeynésiannisme marque une rupture
ou une altération, une inflexion ou une accentuation, une intensification ou une
hypertrophisation, une sophistication ou une stylisation, une radicalisation ou
une exacerbation des formes politico-sociales propres au keynésiannisme.
Disons qu’il est probablement tout cela à la fois, qu’il est vulnérable aux
interfaces et qu’il n’échappe pas à la logique convulsive et paradoxale de
l’évolution des choses. Les tendances centrifuges que l’on dit être
caractéristiques du postkeynésiannisme étaient certainement déjà présentes,
contenues à l’« état de possible », dans le keynésiannisme et les décentrements
à l’oeuvre dans tous les pores du tissu de la société canadienne traduisent une
crise — à moins que ce ne soit une mutation encore inachevée — des formes
régulatrices qui agissaient au sein de la société keynésienne (envisagée ici
comme un idéal-type) et qui contribuaient à la structurer en tant qu’entité
productrice de puissants effets de recentrement, de massification et de
nivellement.
Cela dit, la question principale qui nous occupe dans le cadre de cet article est
la suivante : si on postule que le postkeynésiannisme marque une transition par
rapport au keynésiannisme au plan de la régulation, de la légitimation et de la
représentation, quelle est, dans ce nouveau contexte, la forme existentielle que
prend le sujet politique ? En d’autres termes, comment s’établit (ou ne s’établit
pas encore) la concordance entre l’unité et l’identité dans la société
postkeynésienne ?
Pour répondre à cette question, nous profiterons de la réflexion de Michel
Freitag qui, toutefois, parle plus volontiers de postmodernité que de
postkeynésiannisme3. On dira ainsi que, dans la société postkeynésienne, le
sujet politique est d’abord un individu qui, conscient de son identité subjective
et l’assumant, cherche à l’accréditer, l’asseoir, la promouvoir et la réaliser
dans toute l’extension que lui permet son inscription dans un corps social. Il y
entretient des relations d’intérêts avec d’autres individus dans le cadre de
mouvements sociaux fondant leur existence dans le partage d’un certain
nombre de valeurs, de modèles culturels ou civilisationnels et de caractères
particuliers. Il faut souligner ici l’importance de ces mouvements sociaux qui,
certes, ne sont pas apparus récemment mais dont l’émergence comme force
politique a considérablement changé les modalités d’expression de la
citoyenneté dans la société civile. Dans la mesure où, nous dit Freitag, ces
mouvements sociaux expriment la consolidation organisationnelle de toutes
sortes d’intérêts particuliers (de nature corporative) qui acquièrent un statut
officiel à travers leur reconnaissance publique, judiciaire et médiatique, on a
vu s’instaurer un décalage croissant entre, d’un côté, l’universalisme
transcendental (associé au concept d’État) et l’unité de l’identité
communautaire (lié au concept de nation), et, de l’autre, la spécificité
empirique de plus en plus marquée des formes de mobilisation portées par ces
mouvements sociaux qui revendiquent désormais des droits au nom de leurs
identités et de leurs intérêts particuliers (You are what you believe!, suggère un
slogan). Ces intérêts sont fondés sur l’idée d’une reconnaissance de la
différence et de l’autonomie. C’est ainsi, continue Freitag, que l’idée
d’appartenance et de participation politique s’est trouvé modifiée : la
citoyenneté s’est décomposée en une multitude de modalités et de degrés de
participation organisationnels et corporatifs par rapport auxquels les groupes
se trouvent hiérarchisés : a) selon la puissance qu’ils détiennent
empiriquement dans les jeux de l’influence; b) selon la capacité qu’ils ont de
mobiliser toutes sortes d’intérêts et d’identités spécifiques; et c) selon les
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aptitudes qu’ils déploient pour faire reconnaître au « public », de manière
médiatique, la légitimité de leurs objectifs ou la valeur des finalités qu’ils
poursuivent. Il n’est certes pas excessif de prétendre, dès lors, que le sujet
politique dans l’état keynésien, « sujet social identitaire et synthétique », s’est
complètement fragmenté en un ensemble de subjectivités catégorielles de plus
en plus immédiatement concrètes et particulières, lesquelles recherchent, par
le biais d’une action protectrice, la constitution de sphères singularisées
d’autonomie privée en se référant, pour justifier leur prétention, aux « droits
de la personne » et donc à une « liberté » définie de manière entièrement privée.
Le Canada en tant qu’état postkeynésien ?
Quels sont donc, pour reprendre les termes de la question plus tôt formulée, les
changements et altérations qui ont à ce point affecté le Canada que l’on puisse
en parler comme d’un état postkeynésien ? Sans épuiser le sujet, on exposera
les idées qui suivent.
Le premier changement concerne certainement le mode de représentation
politique auquel aspire un grand nombre de citoyens qui, cherchant de
nouveaux lieux d’intervention et d’incorporation, contredisent la tradition de
s’en remettre aux autorités politiques pour administrer, par délégation
complète de pouvoir, la chose publique (la revendication pour un « Sénat triple
E », portée principalement par des intervenants provenant de l’Ouest du pays
lors des dernières négociations constitutionnelles, incarnait en partie cette
aspiration)4. Le deuxième changement majeur a trait à la critique de l’idée du
« citoyen universel », fiduciaire d’un État exécutif qui se fait en retour
bienfaiteur et protecteur, au profit du concept de « groupe opprimé » qui non
seulement offre une alternative à la participation active de citoyens regroupés
sur la base de la proximité et du partage de leurs conditions de vie, mais les
assure aussi d’une représentation directe dans l’agora (à cet égard, certains
groupes féministes ont dit que la Chambre des communes devrait être une
« Chambre d’égalité » plutôt qu’une « Chambre des provinces »). Le troisième
changement affectant la matérialité de l’état canadien tient à l’érosion de
l’identité canadienne au profit d’autres identités plus restreintes ou plus larges.
Ce phénomène confirme la tendance, observée par nombre de commentateurs,
d’un délestage marqué de l’appartenance des personnes de leurs ancrages
traditionnels (l’État-nation et la communauté politique territorialisée,
notamment). Autrement dit, dorénavant l’importance des parcours personnels
combinée à l’obtention de certaines garanties juridiques qui protègent leurs
droits, permettent en quelque sorte aux personnes de désaccorder leur histoire,
donc leur être politique, d’un parcours collectif qui n’est ni vécu, ni perçu
comme le lieu de leur action. En termes concrets, cette déconnexion entre
l’action personnelle et le parcours collectif se traduit souvent par le fait que,
pour un citoyen, l’intégration à un groupe n’entraîne plus nécessairement le
partage d’un seul lieu commun ni d’une seule culture. Du point de vue de la
constitution de communautés d’appartenance de type national, ce phénomène
constitue un problème majeur qui se vit sous la forme d’une « crise de la
référence et de la symbolique nationales ». Cette crise de la représentation
symbolique du lieu commun — il s’agit là d’un quatrième changement
affectant structurellement l’état canadien — trouve ses conditions au niveau
de la remise en cause des interprétations traditionnelles de l’histoire et des
conceptions spatio-temporelles sur lesquelles elles sont fondées. À ce
chapitre, les Autochtones, les femmes, les écologistes et les membres des
communautés ethniques ont le plus activement contesté les paramètres connus
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du grand récit historique du Canada — lequel est fondé sur une vision linéaire
et progressive, libérale et patriarcale, dualiste et totalisante des choses — pour
insister plutôt sur les notions de « différence », de « relativité » et
d’« historicité », façon de marquer leur désir de rompre avec la trame infirme,
réductive et archi-classique de cette configuration narrative du « Nous
collectif ». Le cinquième changement altérant le substrat de l’état canadien
découle de l’importance grandissante acquise par les immigrants de fraîche
date. Contrairement à l’idée répandue, ceux-ci ne « vivent » pas naturellement
l’identité qui leur est octroyée par leur statut de nouveau citoyen résidant au
Canada, mais l’adoptent ou la refusent, la modifient ou la recomposent dans
des formes souvent originales qui, si elles élargissent singulièrement le
paysage culturel de la nation, déstabilisent en même temps la théorie depuis
toujours acceptée d’une société canadienne basée sur deux peuples fondateurs
(ou trois si on inclut les Autochtones).
La remise en cause des équilibres régulateurs existants — tant sur le plan
politique et social que culturel et symbolique — à partir d’une critique de
l’universalisme indifférencié et de l’égalité substantielle; la déconstruction
des grandes représentations communes; l’émergence de nouvelles identités
fondées sur le particularisme culturel et sur la différenciation individuelle; et la
déterritorialisation des appartenances et des visions collectives montrent que
l’état canadien est entré dans une période de transition que résume bien la
notion descriptive de postkeynésiannisme (suivant la définition que nous en
donnons). Comment, dans ces conditions, produire un sujet politique en même
temps qu’un état national (en d’autres termes, comment produire de l’unité et
de l’identité dans la dissension), tel est le dilemme et telle est l’impasse du
Canada. Au lieu de proposer des modalités de résolution à cette véritable
équation infernale, nous tenterons plutôt de faire ressortir l’ampleur et la
profondeur des germes d’implosion et d’explosion plantés au sein de l’état
canadien par l’affirmation virulente des tendances que nous venons de décrire.
Facteurs d’éclatement de l’unité canadienne
Au début des années 1990, la production simultanée de l’unité et de l’identité
devient un défi majeur. En évitant de continuellement nous référer aux
données de la conjoncture actuelle, nous nous limiterons à identifier trois
tendances lourdes et rampantes qui agissent au coeur de la matérialité de l’état
canadien en la modifiant et qui, de ce fait, provoquent une crise majeure des
modes de régulation, de légitimation et de représentation à l’oeuvre au sein de
cet état.
L’épuisement d’un modèle politique
La production concordante de l’unité et de l’identité se révèle un grand défi à
cause de l’épuisement du modèle politique dans le cadre duquel s’est
historiquement formée la nation canadienne (le fédéralisme exécutif) et a
fonctionné l’état canadien depuis ses débuts. Trois causes interreliées
expliquent cet épuisement.
1. la dynamique à l’origine de la représentation au sein des instances
décisionnelles du système politique canadien est fortement contestée par
nombre d’acteurs, réunis en groupes ou associations, qui recherchent des
modes d’intervention plus directs et des formes d’incorporation plus
définies et plus achevées dans les structures du pouvoir — d’où l’idée de
« constitutionnaliser » leurs demandes et d’influencer les rondes de
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négociations pour que les intervenants à la table centrale tiennent compte
de leurs intérêts spécifiques qu’ils définissent en terme d’une réforme de la
représentativité et des institutions;
2. la dualité fondatrice (l’idée des deux peuples fondateurs et ses incidences
sur l’aménagement des équilibres internes de l’union), l’un des principes
fondamentaux qui régularisent l’état canadien tant sur le plan politique que
sur le plan social et culurel, est également remise en cause. Bon nombre de
groupes se sentent peu concernés par ses aspects réducteurs (c’est le cas
des Amérindiens et de plusieurs mouvements sociaux, par exemple celui
des femmes) ou estiment que les paramètres qu’il impose à la vie politique
canadienne sont inefficaces ou insuffisants pour permettre leur
épanouissement en tant que collectivité agissante (c’est le cas des
nationalistes québécois qui préféreraient que le Québec devienne un état à
part entière, mais c’est aussi le cas des membres des communautés
ethniques et raciales)5;
3. la reconnaissance des personnes comme citoyens garantie par leur accès à
un vaste système de protection sociale et d’égalité des droits fondé sur
l’idée de l’universalité des chances et de l’effacement des différences
(« citoyen universel ») constitue un deuxième principe régulateur
fondamental également débattu sous prétexte que ce système, en
massifiant les perspectives (donc en homogénéisant les problèmes et les
solutions) ne répond plus aux conditions d’épanouissement d’acteurs qui
recherchent des réponses particulières à leurs besoins existentiels distincts
tout en souscrivant à l’idée générale et généreuse de l’équité6.
On voit bien comment ces trois ordres de revendications : plus de pouvoir
direct, un équilibre de l’union qui ne repose plus sur la dualité fondatrice —
donc une ouverture vers la pluralité administrative — et le délestage de
l’égalité formelle des individus au bénéfice de l’équité pratique entre les
groupes, sont susceptibles de miner les fondements du système politique
canadien et de provoquer une crise profonde de la régulation, de la légitimation
et de la représentation. Il importe en effet de comprendre, pour prendre cet
exemple, que l’abandon du principe de l’égalité formelle des citoyens remet en
cause, dans sa dynamique même, le mode de régulation sur la base duquel
l’État central avait assis sa légitimité et bâti sa « figure providentielle » depuis
le milieu des années 1930 : celui d’une gestion centralisée et homogénéisante
d’individus pratiquement interchangeables et perçus comme facteurs de
production qui circulent et consomment de manière optimale à l’intérieur
d’une économie intégrée et pannationale7. Il en va de même pour la
revendication de l’accès au pouvoir. À cet égard, la tendance inéluctable du
rétrécissement de l’espace démocratique consécutive à la centralisation qui
découle des modalités d’opération de l’État-providence (et dont ont
directement bénéficié les technocrates et la classe politique canadienne en
s’instituant les mandataires d’un gigantesque système de redistribution des
richesses) se voit stoppée, sinon renversée, au profit de groupes en voie de
légitimisation qui ne détiennent pour l’instant aucune assise politique stable ou
fondée sur un consensus national. Finalement, la remise en cause de l’idée de
la dualité fondatrice comme paramètre essentiel de la régulation et de la
représentation de l’État canadien provoque d’angoissants vertiges à toute la
classe politique canadienne, et ce, bien qu’elle démontre les ouvertures
apparentes pour endosser les desiderata de certains groupes, les Autochtones
notamment. En fait, remettre en question ce principe d’équilibre de la
fédération canadienne — principe auquel s’accroche résolument le
gouvernement du Québec pour entériner tout nouveau projet de constitution et
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auquel semblent également tenir bon nombre d’hommes et de femmes
politiques à travers le Canada qui y trouvent leur assise et une certaine
sécurité8 — crée un vide représentatif que cherchent à combler autant de
groupes inspirés par l’idéologie de la rectitude politique (political
correctness). Ne se définissant ni par rapport à une territorialité bien arrêtée
(cas des Autochtones) ni par rapport aux catégories jusque-là admises de
« personnes de langue et de culture française ou anglaise détenant des droits
individuels » (cas de la plupart des groupes opprimés : femmes, personnes
âgées, personnes handicapées, pauvres, victimes de ceci ou de cela, etc.) ces
groupes désirent néanmoins avoir voix au chapitre et inscrire leur historicité
particulière au coeur du devenir de l’État canadien.
Jusqu’ici, la crise de régulation, de légitimation et de représentation de l’État
canadien a été « absorbée » par le système politique de deux manières : par la
négociation continuelle (et on sait à quel point ce mode de « résolution » des
conflits, peu importe qu’il retarde, englue ou fasse avancer les choses,
constitue une dimension permanente de l’expérience politique canadienne); et
par le recours systématique aux tribunaux de la part des intervenants, façon
d’inscrire ou de faire valoir leurs droits dans les cadres du régime
constitutionnel associé à l’instauration de la Charte des droits et des libertés de
la personne en 1982. Cette absorption de la crise a cependant donné lieu à une
digestion très difficile de ses effets pervers. D’une part, les rondes de
négociation constitutionnelle, en plus d’être extrêmement onéreuses sur le
plan financier et humain, ont complexifié la situation en élargissant
sensiblement le débat et en faisant écho à tous les groupes qui se manifestent
sur la scène publique, sans pour autant rompre avec la perspective dualiste
traditionnelle — ce qui rend hasardeuse la découverte d’une « régulation »
nouvelle9; d’autre part, l’utilisation fréquente des tribunaux, en plus de
favoriser l’apparition d’une véritable culture institutionnalisée de la
complainte, a substitué à l’incorporation des acteurs dans l’agora un mode de
représentation essentiellement judiciarisée des points de vue. Cette pratique
fait bien sûr la fortune des juristes mais contribue à accroître le déficit
démocratique de la société canadienne.
La mondialité inscrite au coeur du projet nationalitaire
La production simultanée de l’unité et de l’identité au Canada s’avère un grand
défi pour une deuxième raison — liée à ce que l’on pourrait appeler
l’apparition de nouvelles territorialités de référence et d’appartenance — celle
en particulier de la « mondialité » et de son pendant culturel
« l’internationalisme »10. Contrairement à ce que l’on pourrait croire, cette
tendance est majeure, concerne une proportion importante de la population et
se traduit par une remise en cause assez dramatique de l’idée d’État-nation
comme espace d’intervention politique, d’allégeance et de référence — d’où la
crise de légitimité qui s’ensuit pour les entités nationales.
Au cours des vingt dernières années se sont en effet multipliés les groupes et
les réseaux d’action pour qui la planète est le terrain d’intervention privilégié,
celui à partir duquel ils se définissent une identité, celui aussi par rapport
auquel ils entendent reconfigurer l’espace politique. Contribuant à ce que R.
Falk a appelé des « évasions de l’État »11, ces actions politiques d’acteurs nonétatiques qui font des problèmes globaux (écologie, sida, droits de la personne,
pauvreté endémique du Tiers-Monde, etc.) leur affaire, ont inscrit dans
l’agenda politique des gouvernements nationaux tout un ensemble d’items
pour lesquels des solutions lucides ne peuvent être trouvées, le cas échéant,
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qu’en autant que les états se dissolvent dans une espèce de communauté transnationale, cédant ainsi une grande partie de leur souveraineté traditionnelle et
amenuisant par conséquent leur capacité à se représenter comme états
indépendants définissant leur autonomie, c’est-à-dire leurs propres frontières
d’inclusion et d’exclusion.
Au cours de cette même période de vingt ans s’est également imposée, dans
l’horizon politique et symbolique des états contemporains, une nouvelle figure
identitaire : celle de l’être performant dont le champ d’action est le monde et
qui trouve son fondement existentiel dans les stratégies d’accumulation des
entreprises, si ce n’est dans les accords commerciaux12. Ce « monde » a bien
sûr une extension spatiale, littéralement celle de la planète, mais il consiste
surtout en une arène de réalisation du destin individuel de personnes dont le
principe vital est d’assurer leur survie (Life is short. Play hard, dit un slogan),
donc de démontrer leur appartenance au clan des gagnants — façon d’acquérir
une identité optimale et de se farder du look impressionniste, « bon chic bon
genre », y correspondant — en prouvant leur capacité à jouer ou à déjouer la
concurrence internationale. Comme l’écrivait Benjamin R. Barber dans un
article récent (article dont l’argumentation s’applique tout à fait au cas
canadien)13 : « Commercial pilots, computer programmers, international
bankers, media specialists, oil riggers, entertainment celebrities, ecology
experts, demographers, accountants, professors, athletes — these compose a
new breed of men and women for whom religion, culture and nationality can
seem only marginal elements in a working identity. » Dans un ouvrage bien
connu, Robert Reich14 estimait que cette nouvelle classe internationaliste, qui
diffuse ses valeurs par l’entremise de médias prestigieux dans lesquels nombre
de « non-admis » trouvent leurs mirages quotidiens, comptait pour environ 10
p. 100 de la population américaine.
Cette figure identitaire est endossée par l’élite politique et économique
canadienne, ce qui signifie un idéal existentiel particulièrement valorisé dans
les sphères où on élabore les représentations symboliques qui visent à assurer
une cohérence au couple État-nation. Préparant l’arrivée prochaine dans les
cercles du pouvoir d’une méritocratie internationaliste aux savoir-faire
performants, elle a pourtant contribué à démembrer la représentation
traditionnelle de l’État national et a inscrit, au coeur même de l’appareil
étatique et du projet de promotion nationalitaire, l’esprit et la trace de la
mondialité, si ce n’est ceux du McWorld soul et de la « culture Benetton »
(dont l’éthique et l’esthétique s’incarnent dans un slogan génialement
équivoque : « Toutes couleurs unies »). Si bien que, l’enjeu mondial
déstructure la capacité des états à se représenter comme lieu de convergence et
d’agrégation, l’internationalisation des communications et la métaphore du
« village global » ne faisant qu’accentuer l’érosion des liens culturels qui
unissaient autrefois les Canadiens.
L’arrimage des acteurs à cette double structure référentielle, en apparence
contradictoire, de la mondialité et de la nationalité n’a pas été vécu sur le mode
de la confusion. Au contraire — et le slogan à la mode Think globally, act
locally en fait foi — ce double bind dans lequel ils sont pris favorise leur
inscription au sein d’un espace public et médiatique dont les frontières ne
coïncident pas avec le territoire national. Il ouvre de ce fait la voie à
l’affirmation d’une citoyenneté mondiale dont les porte-étendards, toujours
plus nombreux, cherchent à faire reconnaître la trace dans les chartes
universelles et au sein des organismes internationaux.
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L’affirmation d’une véritable culture politique transnationale, dont l’impact
premier est de faire ressortir le côté obsolète de l’idée de territorialité
nationale, n’est pas un phénomène excentrique à la dynamique sociale
canadienne. Suivant l’hypothèse émise par Breton et Jenson, il y a lieu plutôt
de reconnaître, dans cette culture transnationale, l’expression d’un « processus
social réel qui s’enracine dans des réseaux d’action et de pouvoir en voie de
globalisation ». Dès lors, il faut saisir l’importance des enjeux posés par la
mondialité à l’État-nation : celle-ci, par la façon dont elle est assumée et prise
en charge par des groupes et des segments toujours plus nombreux de la
population, porte une redéfinition spatiale des grands paramètres de la vie
politique canadienne, si ce n’est un forum d’expression positive du citoyen qui
trouve désormais ses allégeances, ses reconnaissances et ses lieux
d’identification dans une arène aux dimensions supranationales.
La fin des grands récits collectifs ?
Nous avons vu dans les paragraphes précédents comment l’état canadien, à la
suite de pressions venant de l’intérieur et de l’extérieur, tendait à l’implosion et
à l’explosion. Un troisième facteur, qui dans les circonstances accentue la
tendance plus qu’il ne la provoque, concourt également à amplifier les
menaces de rupture de l’union. Il s’agit de l’inefficacité des grands récits
d’édification de la nation à activer un sens communautaire qui, sur le plan
symbolique, propose un mode de représentation de l’état satisfaisant les
aspirations et les visions des groupes. En d’autres termes, l’un des défis à la
production de l’unité au Canada tient au fait que l’on ne trouve plus de lieu de
reconnaissance et de réciprocité (sauf celui du social conçu comme un espace
de valorisation et de promotion de ses droits particuliers ou corporatisés,
espace notamment créé par la Charte de 1982) et que, plus que jamais, en
l’absence surtout de héros récipiendaires de la ferveur populaire (héros
incarnant probablement le Sujet fictif de la société unifiée), le discours de la
nation, celle qui s’étend uniformément d’un océan à l’autre sonne creux ou
reste inaudible. À cet égard, il est symptomatique qu’une enquête récemment
effectuée pour le compte de l’Association d’études canadiennes ait révélé que
les Canadiens avaient du mal à identifier, dans l’histoire ou dans l’actualité de
leur pays, plus de deux personnages ou événements qui, par leur envergure ou
leur importance, pouvaient être des sources de motivation et de fierté
collectives15. Cette même enquête soulignait par ailleurs le fait que, dans leur
ensemble, les Canadiens croyaient impératif de mettre plus d’efforts à faire
connaître l’histoire nationale, ses personnages principaux, ses événements
significatifs, etc. Malheureusement, aucune question spécifique n’invitait les
répondants (que l’on avait catégorisé par appartenance linguistique, par lieu de
résidence et par tranche d’âge) à préciser ce qui, dans la matière du passé,
devait être promu au rang d’histoire nationale. On peut raisonnablement
penser que les réponses, donc que les trames historiques proposées, auraient
été nombreuses et éclatées, surtout si l’on avait réalisé l’enquête auprès de
« catégories sociales » moins classiques.
L’inefficacité des grands récits d’édification de la nation à représenter une
communauté de sens dans laquelle se reconnaîtraient les sujets politiques tient
au fait que ces récits restent fondamentalement basés sur une conception
dualiste de la destinée canadienne — ce qui fait que les moments forts de
l’histoire collective concernent la saga ininterrompue des rapports conflictuels
entre Francophones et Anglophones, entre l’Est et l’Ouest, entre le fédéral et
les provinces — ; sur une espèce de conception naïve du Canada, éden dont la
matérialité résiderait dans un ensemble d’images, de symboles ou
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d’institutions universelles suscitant le patriotisme de ses habitants (la beauté
environnementale du pays, sa grandeur et ses ressouces; les programmes
sociaux; la possibilité de s’installer n’importe où sur un vaste territoire; etc.),
ou encore sur la promotion de grands projets incarnant l’« esprit canadien ». Or
de tels récits arrivent mal, en ces temps troubles, à aviver les consensus16. On a
vu plus tôt que la représentation dualiste de l’état canadien (et par conséquent
de son histoire et de son actualité), bien qu’elle satisfasse divers intervenants
sur la scène publimédiatique (pensons au gouvernement du Québec et à la
classe politique canadienne), contrevenait à de nombreux autres. De même, la
perspective unifiante et homogénéisante d’un Canada fondant sa matérialité
dans l’idée d’une égalité formelle de ses sujets devant l’histoire et dans la
primauté de ses normes nationales (ce qui implique l’existence d’un
fédéralisme exécutif) s’accorde mal avec les perspectives et les visions
spécifiques de bien des groupes. Enfin, comme l’affirmait Donna Dasko dans
un article proposant une analyse très intéressante17, « nous n’avons pas vu,
dans la dernière décennie, l’équivalent de la construction d’un chemin de fer
transcontinental, de la création d’un réseau national de radio et de télévision ou
de l’établissement d’un régime d’assurance-maladie, et il semble peu probable
qu’un projet d’une telle envergure puisse être réalisé d’ici la fin du siècle »; en
d’autres termes, c’est comme si l’on manquait de « matière » pour écrire
l’histoire de l’« esprit canadien », si ce n’est pour fonder de nouveaux mythes
unitaires, et force est de dire que les « grands projets de l’heure » (traités de
libre échange; projet d’accord constitutionnel; désengagement de l’État et
privatisation de sociétés publiques), en déconstruisant l’édifice dans lequel
s’enracinait, se reflétait et se réalisait la nation, ne sont pas facteurs de création
d’unité nationale.
Pour étayer notre thèse d’une érosion graduelle de l’idée du Canada, on
pourrait aussi faire état des résultats de deux sondages, l’un portant sur les
symboles d’identité canadienne et l’autre mesurant le sentiment d’identité des
citoyens18. Ainsi, les recherches sur l’opinion publique d’Environics révèlent
un déclin de l’importance que les Canadiens attachent à virtuellement tous les
symboles de l’identité canadienne mesurés entre 1985 et 1991 (le drapeau,
l’hymne national, le multiculturalisme, le bilinguisme, la Société RadioCanada et la monarchie) au profit d’un nouveau symbole d’identité, la Charte
des droits et des libertés de la personne, qui incorpore tout un train de valeurs
(parmi lesquelles l’individualisme et le pouvoir de la personne) dont les effets
fédératifs, contrairement à ce que l’on anticipait au départ, sont faibles. De
même, à la lumière de la série de sondages Focus Canada, il apparaît manifeste
que la préférence des Canadiens pour un gouvernement central fort s’est
étiolée depuis 1979 au profit de l’idée de « compétence provinciale »,
renforçant ainsi l’allégeance locale et contribuant au relâchement de l’unité
canadienne.
L’inefficacité des grands récits d’édification de la nation à construire une
communauté de sens a jusqu’ici entraîné l’apparition d’un vide consensuel qui
s’est rempli de ressentiments, d’antagonismes, de désirs de rectitude et de
complaintes exprimés par autant d’intervenants sur la scène publimédiatique,
provoquant ce que Dominique Schnapper appelle une « cohésion par le flou »,
sorte de dissolution du lien social prophétisé (et craint) par les penseurs de la
modernité. À première vue, une telle polyphonie peut être interprétée comme
un moment fort de restructuration de l’esprit communautaire où chacun
exprime librement son point de vue et fait reconnaître la valeur et la justesse de
ses revendications. En réalité, c’est une véritable boîte de Pandore qui a été
90
ouverte et, dans la mesure où le jugement et l’éthique politiques ont été
remplacés par l’injonction légale et le discours des juristes, on ne sait plus
comment la refermer ou en canaliser les effets générateurs. Dans cette logique
de la réciprocité, un droit n’appelle pas un devoir mais advenant une réplique
de l’adversaire suggère le recours à un autre droit et ainsi de suite. La
conséquence est évidente : au lieu de permettre le rapprochement de groupes
de personnes désormais constitués en parties légales et au lieu de favoriser la
recréation du sens communautaire et de l’esprit démocratique, le débat public
s’enlise dans des affrontements insolubles qui atrophient davantage le
politique (entendu ici comme réflexivité du vivre-ensemble et responsabilité
collective des finalités de la vie sociale)19 en plus de provoquer un
recentrement des doléances vers la seule dimension groupusculaire. Ce
recentrement n’entraîne aucun dépassement de la perspective des anciens
récits mais, plutôt, un approfondissement de leurs limites en les remplaçant par
des micro-récits qui font de l’« essentialisme » (dialectique de l’inclusion et de
l’exclusion centrée sur une recherche de Soi-même en évitant la réciprocité
avec l’Autre — s’agit-il du retour en force d’une sorte d’intégrisme fondée sur
l’idéologie ambiguë du politically correct ? ) le point de départ et le point
d’arrivée de leur rhétorique. Sous le couvert d’une richesse participative et
d’un élargissement de l’espace démocratique, c’est un carnaval grotesque qui
se déroule à longueur d’année, c’est une méga-inertie de l’agora qui en résulte.
Triomphatrice comme jamais, la parole fragmentée (surdéterminée par la
pensée légale) provoque l’aplatissement du sens civique, favorise l’avènement
de l’identité narcissique et nourrit le processus techno-bureaucratique de
gestion et de régulation du social qui, désormais, ne traite que des demandes
provenant d’interlocuteurs dotés de puissances variables d’intervention
publique et s’étant emparés, à la suite d’une joute très compétitive et
spécialisée, d’une position avantageuse au sein de l’espace discursif, puissant
lieu de formation identitaire à l’ère de la société médiatique.
Conclusion
Nous avons parlé, tout au long de cet article, d’éclatement, de dissension et de
menace de rupture du Canada. Certes, un état d’équilibre, et donc une forme
d’unité et d’identité politique, celle qui s’était incarnée dans l’Étatprovidence, est en train de s’écrouler à la suite de pressions internes et externes
portées par de nombreux mouvements sociaux, véritables corporations
identitaires20 qui s’agitent localement, nationalement et internationalement.
Cette nouvelle dynamique qui traverse l’état canadien a jusqu’ici détruit des
valeurs communes et fomenté des conflits d’intérêt. Cela ne veut pas dire que
toute forme d’unité soit impossible mais l’horizon semble pour l’instant
bouché. Or comment sortir de l’impasse ? Sans vouloir jouer aux devins, il se
pourrait bien que l’unité nouvelle du Canada se fasse dans la reconnaissance et
dans l’institutionnalisation de la dissension, ce qui est une perspective assez
différente de celle qui avait été préconisée sous les gouvernements de Pierre
Trudeau et qui a été enchâssée dans le réaménagement constitutionnel de
1982. Cette démarche de reconnaissance et d’institutionnalisation
(postnationaliste?) est rendue particulièrement difficile parce que l’on
s’interdit, d’un côté comme de l’autre, de réfléchir l’avenir du Canada en
dehors de catégories et de modèles politiques devenus dysfonctionnels.
L’insistance des participants au débat constitutionnel à recourir, pour
examiner ou solutionner le « cas canadien », à des schèmes de compréhension
qui renvoient à des modèles associatifs ou à des formations politiques révolues
91
IJCS/RIÉC
ou idéalisées (telle la Suisse par exemple), fait que l’on s’imagine pouvoir
résoudre les impasses actuelles du Canada en réaménageant autrement, mais
toujours dans un même cadre général, les instances d’exercice du pouvoir
entre des intervenants qui, faisant fi de toute considération politique lucide,
s’agitent sur la scène médiatique pour conquérir une opinion publique dopée
par le charabia de constitutionnalistes eux-mêmes en voie de
constitutionnalisation! À vrai dire, un tel réaménagement permettra au mieux
d’aboutir à un repositionnement différent, mais toujours instable et précaire,
des groupes en présence qui continueront, au-delà de tout « règlement »
constitutionnel, à se livrer à des joutes de concurrence dans la logique
culturelle du postkeynésiannisme. En somme, l’avenir quel qu’il soit
entraînera, à moins qu’un nouveau régime politique ne soit instauré, un
approfondissement des tendances à l’éclatement « par le haut » et « par le bas »
de cet état. Or il importe de commencer à mesurer les effets désastreux de cette
situation : l’accroissement du nombre des exclus au sein d’un pays pourtant
fier de se présenter comme le premier au monde en terme de niveau de vie et de
bien-être collectif; l’évincement de la parole raisonnable et du bon sens
pratique par la rhétorique implacable des juristes, sophistes des temps actuels
et animateurs d’une culture de la complainte institutionnalisée; et la
transformation de la place publique en une arène de compétition où, munis
d’une règle du calcul opportuniste, des figures rendues blafardes par la
performance se rencontrent en vue de s’imposer sur des concurrents tous aussi
soucieux de leur image, mirage dans lequel ils fondent … leur absence
d’identité.
Notes
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
92
Nous assumons cette position. Cela dit, faute de place, nous ne procéderons pas dans cet
article à une analyse comparative.
Cf. J. Létourneau, « L’économie politique des trente glorieuses. Apport et originalité des
analyses en terme de régulation », Historical Reflections/Réflexions historiques, 14, 2
(1987), p. 345-379. On trouvera dans l’ouvrage de Robert Delorme et Christine André
(L’État et l’économie. Un essai d’explication de l’évolution des dépenses publiques en
France, 1870-1980, Paris, Seuil, 1983) une analyse historique poussée des formes de la
régulation étatique dans l’occident moderne. Enfin, pour une application au cas canadien du
concept de régulation monopoliste, voir les textes de François Houle « La crise et la place du
Canada dans la nouvelle division internationale du travail » dans Le Canada et la nouvelle
division internationale du travail, sous la dir. de D. Cameron et F. Houle, Ottawa, Éditions
de l’Université d’Ottawa, 1985, p. 79-102; de Jane Jenson
« Different but not Exceptional : Canada’s Permeable Fordism », Revue canadienne de
sociologie et d’anthropologie, 26, 1 1989, p. 69-94; et l’ouvrage publié sous la direction de
Gérard Boismenu et Daniel Drache, Politique et régulation. Modèle de développement et
trajectoire canadienne, Paris/ L’Harmattan, Montréal/Méridiens, 1990, 360 p.
Voir son article intitulé « L’identité, l’altérité et le politique. Essai exploratoire de
reconstruction conceptuelle historique », Société [Montréal], no 9 (hiver 1992), p. 1-55.
Idée avancée par Jane Jenson dans un article inédit intitulé « Le refus de la dualité. Nouvelles
revendications de la citoyenneté au Canada » à paraître dans La question identitaire au
Canada francophone : récits, parcours, enjeux, hors-lieux, sous la dir. de R. Bernard et J.
Létourneau, Québec, Presses de l’Université Laval, 1993, coll. « Culture française
d’Amérique ».
Ibid.
Idée développée par Gilles Breton et Jane Jenson dans un texte intitulé « Globalisation et
citoyenneté : quelques enjeux actuels » publié dans L’ethnicité à l’heure de la
mondialisation, sous la dir. de Caroline Andrew et al., Ottawa, ACFAS-Outaouais, 1992, p.
35-55.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
20.
On sait à quel point cet idéal fut porté loin par Pierre Trudeau qui, pendant tout le temps où il
occupa le pouvoir, incarna l’idéal d’un nationalisme fondé sur le fédéralisme centralisateur
et exécutif.
Sous prétexte que le Canada deviendrait un pays totalement ingouvernable.
L’ensemble du débat constitutionnel (à tout le moins la dernière ronde de négociations) est
en effet envenimé par le paradigme nationalitaire qui, pour les uns et pour les autres, semble
une donnée incontournable pour penser, poser et solutionner les problèmes d’aménagement
des rapports politiques internes à l’union. Du côté canadien, ce nationalisme s’exprime à
travers le principe de l’égalité des provinces, de l’homogénéité pancanadienne et de la
primauté des normes exécutives du gouvernement central. Du côté québécois, il s’incarne à
travers l’idée d’un provincialisme offensif, distinct, aux ambitions souveraines et
recherchant la maîtrise d’oeuvre de sa destinée. À quand l’avènement du post-nationalisme?
Par culture de l’internationalisme, nous entendons cet ensemble de pratiques et de
comportements, de codes de paraître et d’habitudes qui constituent autant de marqueurs
distinctifs d’une élite en voie de structuration et dont le modèle existentiel, diffusé par une
pléiade de media « in » allant des aéro-magazines (En Route) aux journaux d’affaires (Globe
& Mail ) en passant par les revues-mode (Vogue, Uomo), définit l’horizon d’un nombre
grandissant de personnes qui s’identifient à la culture haut-de-gamme et dont le sentiment
d’appartenance évolue au gré des opportunités d’investissement du capital financier,
immobilier ou idéel (les idées sont en effet un capital symbolique dont la valeur se mesure
désormais en terme d’« aéro-miles ») à travers le monde.
R. Falk, « Evasions of Sovereignty » dans R.B.J. Walker et S.H. Mendlovitz, eds.,
Contending Sovereignties. Redefining Political Community, Boulder/Londres, Lyne Rienne
Publishers, 1990, cité dans Breton et Jenson.
Idée développée dans J. Létourneau, « La nouvelle figure identitaire du Québécois. Essai sur
la dimension symbolique d’un consensus social en voie d’émergence », British Journal of
Canadian Studies, 6, 1 (1991), p. 17-38.
« Jihad Vs McWorld », The Atlantic Monthly, vol. 269, no 3 (March 1992), p. 53-63.
The Work of Nations, New York, Vintage Books, 1992.
Les résultats de cette enquête ont été publiés dans le Bulletin de l’AEC, vol. 13, no 3 (automne
1991), en même temps que les observations d’un certain nombre de commentateurs, dont les
nôtres (p. 14-16).
Pour un plaidoyer semblable mais à partir de considérations opposées, voir Michael Bliss,
« Fragmented Past, Fragmented Future », University of Toronto Magazine (Winter 1991),
p. 6-11.
« Les liens qui nous unissent : l’évolution de la perception qu’ont les Canadiens du système
fédéral » dans Le Réseau, vol. 2, no 6/7 (juin-juillet 1992), p. 5-11.
Pour plus de détails, voir l’article cité de Donna Dasko.
Définition empruntée de Michel Freitag, op. cit.
Aurions-nous raison d’analyser, à partir de cette idée de « corporation identitaire », le fait
qu’une multitude de personnes affichent maintenant leur allégeance, leur appartenance, leur
partisannerie, leurs aspirations, leurs identifications individuelles et sociales en faisant
imprimer, sur les T-shirts qu’elles portent, le slogan, l’idée ou la formule-choc qui résume
l’idéal, noble ou vulgaire, auquel elles croient ? Ou le fait qu’un nombre grandissant
d’entreprises, désireuses de créer chez leurs clients un sentiment d’appartenance ou de
distinction fondée sur la notion de privilège, se transforment en clubs (Club Price, Club Z,
Aéroplan, etc.) où l’on est formellement admis et où la détention d’une carte — d’identité
corporative ? — donne droit à des avantages refusés à ceux qui n’en sont pas titulaires ?
93
Richard Sigurdson
Left- and Right-Wing Charterphobia in Canada:
A Critique of the Critics*
Abstract
Although various leading scholars have long been concerned that some
aspects of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms would have an
unwelcome influence upon Canada’s political institutions and processes, a
recent, more ideological, academic attack on the Charter has developed. The
author’s intention in this paper is to outline and discuss this new development,
which can be called “Charterphobia,” and to discuss its effects on Canadian
political discourse. In particular, there are two fundamental strains of
Charterphobia—left- and right-wing Charterphobia—that rely upon
curiously similar arguments about the impact of the Charter and the perils of
judicial review. The author argues that these critiques are unnecessarily
alarmist, and that the Charterphobes are largely unable to provide attractive
reasons to believe that Canada would be better off without an entrenched
charter.
Résumé
Ce n’est pas d’hier que des spécialistes en vue s’inquiètent des effets sur les
institutions et le processus politiques canadiens de certains aspects de la
Charte canadienne des droits et libertés. Depuis peu, cependant, on assiste au
déferlement d’une nouvelle vague d’attaques à caractère plus idéologique
originant des milieux universitaires. L’auteur de cet article entend décrire et
examiner ce phénomène, qu’on peut baptiser « chartophobie », et d’en
apprécier l’influence sur le discours politique au Canada. On observe deux
types principaux de chartophobie — celle de gauche et celle de droite — qui,
curieusement, font appel aux mêmes arguments pour décrier les effets de la
Charte ainsi que les dangers de la judiciarisation. Selon l’auteur, ces critiques
sont largement exagérées et les chartophobes n’offrent guère de raisons
valables à l’encontre de la constitutionnalisation des droits et des libertés.
One reason for the failure of the Charlottetown Accord that was often cited by
its critics was the alleged damage it would do to the Canadian Charter of Rights
and Freedoms. There were those, of course, who insisted that such fears were
unfounded, that the Accord would do no harm to the precious Charter. Seldom
did we hear from anyone who might say that the Charter is not worth
protecting, that it was a mistake to enter into Charterland in the first place. For
these sorts of arguments, one has to turn to academics, many of whom are
highly critical, not just of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms
specifically but of the constitutional entrenchment and codification of rights in
general.
IJCS / RIÉC
Various writers have long suggested that the Charter’s “importance in terms of
Canada’s constitutional future is that it is centralizing, legalizing and
Americanizing” (Cheffins and Johnson, 1986: 148). And many leading
scholars have been critical, or at least sceptical, of these tendencies right from
the start. For instance, Donald Smiley (1983) worried that the attempt to
achieve national unity by means of a centralizing, entrenched charter would
have precisely the opposite effect to the one desired. Peter Russell (1983) told
us that the principal impact of the Charter would be to “judicialize politics and
politicize the judiciary” and that the danger of this would lie not so much in the
fact that non-elected judges would impose their will in an undemocratic
fashion, but that social and political questions would become transformed into
abstract, technical ones that the bulk of the citizenry will feel incompetent to
debate and attempt to resolve. And William Christian and Colin Campbell
(1983) warned that the adoption of a charter would shift Canadian political
culture away from its tory and collectivist past towards a much more
individualistic, Lockean liberal focus. In other words, that the Canadian
Charter of Rights and Freedoms would exacerbate the trend which George
Grant (1965) so eloquently lamented.
In this paper I wish to take a closer look at a more recent trend in Charter
scholarship—one that has produced a highly normative literature, often on the
basis of the observations noted above. My intention, then, is to outline and
discuss this new, more ideological, academic attack upon the Canadian
Charter of Rights and Freedoms. I will refer to this anti-Charter position as
“Charterphobia” because I see in it not just a scepticism about our specific
Charter but a more generalized fear of, and antipathy towards, any
constitutionally entrenched bill or charter of human rights in a modern, liberal,
democratic state. I think that this anti-Charter attitude is unnecessarily
alarmist—that is, I can find little concrete evidence to support the
Charterphobic account of what is going on in Charterland. I will argue, as well,
that the Charterphobes are largely unable to provide appropriate alternative
methods for addressing the major social and economic concerns of a modern
and diverse liberal democracy. My main strategy, however, is not to
counterattack with discussions of specific provisions and cases and their
interpretation. Rather, I am concerned with the rhetorical significance of
recent anti-Charter scholarship and will discuss its effects on our political
discourse.
In particular, I will identify two fundamental strains of Charterphobia— leftwing Charterphobia and right-wing Charterphobia—that rely upon curiously
similar arguments about the impact of the Charter and the perils of judicial
review. In fact, both left- and right-wing Charterphobes assail the Charter in
the way best calculated to evoke shock and horror in a society like ours—that
is, they accuse it of generating anti-democratic political consequences. As we
will see, there are some interesting points of overlap between these two types
of Charterphobia and it is worth pondering just what this tells us about the
persistence of certain Canadian intellectual traditions. Of course, there are
significant differences, too, and we will have to explore the arguments used to
portray the Charter as an instrument of anti-democracy and what each side
means by “democratic”.
My discussion will be presented in three parts. First, I will outline and explain
the major objections to the Charter put forward by leading, leftist, legal
scholars. Second, I will look at the critique of Charter politics by
conservatives, mainly in the discipline of political science. In the third section,
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A Critique of the Critics
I will review the arguments, try to show that the Charterphobes have not made
a convincing case, and sketch a defence—albeit a qualified one—of the
Charter, warts and all.
Left-Wing Charterphobia
I shall begin with a discussion of the left-wing fear of the Charter. This was
evident during the 1981 constitutional negotiations in the position taken by
Saskatchewan Premier Alan Blakeney, who feared, among other things, that
the Charter would have a centralizing influence on Canadian federalism. Still
smarting from recent Supreme Court decisions against his province in CIGOL
(1978) and Potash (1979), Blakeney did not relish the prospect of federallyappointed courts setting uniform national standards, often in policy areas of
exclusive provincial jurisdiction.
What is more, Blakeney was certain that the Charter would constitute a threat
to the interests of organized labour. He based this opinion, in part, on his
critical observations of the American experience, where the Bill of Rights has
been used to strike down laws setting minimum wages, minimum hours of
work, etc. (Greunding, 1990: 192). Blakeney was convinced, moreover, that
his province’s progressive social programs, such as medicare, might have been
struck down by a conservative court. Since he considered the state as an
instrument for providing important public services while pursuing greater
equity for all citizens, Blakeney could see no benefit in a charter that would
restrain government in order to protect the rights of citizens to be free from
state interference in their economic or social lives. Indeed, he was “aghast that
any social democratic party would be in favour of transferring power from
legislatures to courts” (Greunding, 1990: 196).
An additional, more personal, dimension to Blakeney’s opposition to the
Charter links him to a significant British-tory streak within the tradition of
English-Canadian social democracy. That is, Blakeney simply preferred the
tory-collectivist features of the British parliamentary tradition over the liberal
individualism of the US model and its rights-based constitution. The son of a
traditional Tory family in Nova Scotia, product of a Loyalist legal education at
Dalhousie and a British one at Oxford, Blakeney defined himself as a “British
constitutional lawyer type” who believes that rights are best protected by
Parliament and not by a constitution which is interpreted by the courts. After
all, he said, “the British Parliament has worked not all that badly” (Greunding,
1990: 192). Not surprisingly, then, Blakeney was an adamant champion of
parliamentary sovereignty throughout the constitutional negotiations,
reluctantly giving in to the pressure to accept an entrenched charter only once
he was assured that there would be a clause allowing legislatures to make laws
“notwithstanding” certain rights. And even on this matter he proved to be a
tenacious Charterphobe, demanding for longer than anyone else that both the
gender equality provision in Section 28 and the aboriginal rights clause in
Section 35 should remain within the jurisdiction of the provincial override.
It must be noted, of course, that Blakeney’s position was far from being the
majority one within his own party, especially at the national level. Indeed,
support for an entrenched charter had been party policy since the days when
M.J. Coldwell was leader of the CCF. What is more, Blakeney’s opposition to
the Charter put him in direct and public conflict with the national party leader,
Ed Broadbent, with party elders Tommy Douglas, David Lewis and Stanley
Knowles, and with several groups usually supportive of the party, including
97
IJCS / RIÉC
civil libertarian and feminist organizations. In the end, the national party
backed the Charter. In fact, the only NDP MP to vote against the Charter,
Svend Robinson, did so not because it undermined parliamentary sovereignty
but because it included a legislative override clause. Since then, leftist
politicians have rarely been vocal in their opposition to the Charter and lately
prefer a strategy of attempting to increase the list of constitutionally protected
rights to include, for example, social and economic entitlements to be set out in
some sort of social charter.
Nowadays, then, pure left-wing Charterphobia is most evident in the academy,
most notably in writings by Canadian legal scholars (rather than political
scientists). The most thorough example of this can be found in Michael
Mandel’s book, The Charter of Rights and the Legalization of Politics in
Canada (1989). Excellent examples can also be found in articles by Joel Bakan
(1991) and Robert Martin (1991). But perhaps the most vociferous leftist
assaults on the Charter have been launched by Andrew Petter, who is now
British Columbia’s Aboriginal Affairs Minister, and Osgoode Hall Law
School’s Alan Hutchinson (Petter, 1986, 1987, 1989; Petter and Hutchinson,
1988, 1989, 1990; and Hutchinson, 1989, 1991).
Simply put, these scholars argue that despite its marketing as part of a
“people’s package” the Charter is yet another tool for the advancement of the
private interests of corporations, professionals, and other privileged groups at
the expense of workers, the unemployed, women, aboriginals, racial
minorities, and other socially and economically disadvantaged Canadians.
The principal lines of argument advanced to support this conclusion involve
discussions of (1) the nature of rights; (2) the nature of the judicial process
itself, including problems with access to the judicial system and concerns with
the composition of the judiciary; and (3) the Americanizing influence of the
Charter. First, left-wing Charter critics suggest that all those who supported the
Charter because they saw it as a means of advancing the interests of
disadvantaged Canadians failed to understand the true nature of rights, i.e., that
“the conferral of rights under a charter is a zero-sum rather than a positive-sum
game” (Petter, 1986:474). Hence, expanding rights for some groups will result
in the loss of entitlements for others. Moreover, the disadvantaged will not be
on the winning side of these disputes because of the ideological nature of the
rights enshrined in our Charter. As Andrew Petter puts it, the Charter is “a 19th
century document let loose on a 20th century welfare state. The rights in the
Charter are founded on the belief that the main enemies of freedom are not
disparities in wealth nor concentrations of private power, but the state” (Petter,
1987: 857).
In other words, the rights conferred in the Charter are largely negative rights
aimed at protecting individuals from state interference rather than positive
rights or entitlements to, say, employment, shelter or health care services. And
since Charter politics is a zero-sum game, private rights are given to
individuals only insofar as they are taken away from governments and public
institutions. This explains why the judicial activism of the courts has so far
been confined to cases dealing with the Charter’s legal rights provisions (e.g.,
procedural rights of accused persons, prisoners and immigrants). Individuals
and groups without much social power are sometimes beneficiaries of these
legal rights decisions; but, from the perspective of the legal left, the real
winners are criminal lawyers and the system itself—the former benefits from
more money and prestige, the latter benefits from much needed legitimation
services (Mandel, 1989: 128-83).
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Petter and his colleagues see it as ironic that the groups who supported the
Charter as a means of aiding the socially and economically disadvantaged are
those who insist most forcefully upon the need for greater positive intervention
by government. This is ironic since it is these very groups who are likely to
suffer the loss of hard-won entitlements as courts inhibit governmental ability
to implement measures aimed at achieving greater social justice. Like
Blakeney before him, then, Petter fears that the power of governments to
provide social services, to attempt to redistribute economic resources, and to
regulate private conduct will be successfully attacked in the courts (Petter,
1989: 152). Indeed, there is already a body of evidence to suggest that some of
this is now occurring—e.g., corporations are using the Charter to protect
themselves against governmental regulation and control (Mandel, 1989: 21738; Martin, 1991: 124-25).
In their second line of attack on the Charter, leftist legal scholars argue that its
supporters who see it as a distributive instrument are wrong because they fail to
understand the ideological nature of the judicial framework in which Charter
rights operate. “In a word,” explains Michael Mandel, “the Charter has
legalized our politics. But legalized politics is the quintessential conservative
politics” (1989: 4). There are two interrelated dimensions to this analysis of the
adjudicative process: the first concerns the unequal access to the judicial
process and the other concerns the composition of the judiciary and the biases
of the courts.
On the former matter, critics observe that access to the courts is extremely
unequal. Although the formal equality provisions that govern the legal system
entitle all to litigate, litigation is very expensive. Consequently, “oppressed
and disempowered groups who are the supposed beneficiaries of progressive
Charter litigation will, because of their lack of resources, be the least likely to
have genuine access to the courts” (Bakan, 1991: 318). And even if these
groups are able to muster enough cash to get into court in the first place, they
are likely to be at a competitive disadvantage since the lawyers on the other
side, representing business or government, will have greater resources to fight
the case. Groups representing left-wing causes are thus in a no-win situation
when it comes to the Charter: if they resist Charter litigation they may risk the
eradication of legislation beneficial to their interests; but if they do succumb to
the pressure to defend or promote their causes in court, that will mean that
money, time and energy will be taken away from lobbying and other forms of
political action (Petter, 1987: 859; Mandel, 1989: 70).
As well as these worries about unequal access, leftist scholars have raised
concerns about the unrepresentativeness of the judiciary and the ideological
biases within the judicial system. Judges in Canada are for the most part white,
male and wealthy. Moreover, the legal training and work experience of judges
tends to encourage affinities between the attitudes and beliefs of those on the
bench and the interests of litigants who represent the social and economic elite.
Thus there exists an inevitable set of judicial biases against the economically
and socially disadvantaged. By legalizing politics, then, the Charter has vastly
enhanced the political power of lawyers and judges who possess neither the
“background, the experience, [n]or the training to comprehend the social
impact of claims made to them under the Charter, let alone to resolve those
claims in ways that promote, or even protect, the interests of disadvantaged
Canadians” (Petter, 1989: 157).
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Finally, left-wing Charterphobes have noted that the Charter has effected a
shift from a British to an American conception of the appropriate relations
between the legal profession and representative institutions. In particular, the
Charter has promoted a redefinition of the judicial role along American lines.
Unelected and unaccountable judges increasingly see the Supreme Court as
the guardian of the Constitution rather than simply as an adjudicator of
disputes between parties. For many left-wing Charterphobes this is an antidemocratic departure from our traditions of parliamentary supremacy. No one
is more upset about this than Robert Martin, who complains that
“Parliamentary government was the democratic heart of our political system.
To subvert parliamentary government in Canada is, then, to subvert
democracy” (1991: 123).
Martin goes on to discuss three ways in which the Charter has been used in the
process of the Americanization of Canada. First, the Charter undermines the
sense of Canadian uniqueness. Now that we have a Charter similar in most
respects to the US Bill of Rights, we are quickly forgetting that we once had
our own values, institutions and practices. And it does not help that Canadian
courts, in the absence of any significant history of home-grown civil liberties
case law, have relied upon American precedents to determine solutions to
Canadian legal problems. This underlines the fact that large numbers of
Canadians, especially students, now believe that prior to the enactment of the
Charter in 1982 Canadians enjoyed virtually no rights.
Second, Martin complains that Canadian judges have taken to proclaiming the
social and political primacy of the individual. Not only is this contrary to our
tory past, but it undermines the potential legitimacy of collectivist public
policy. We are being taught to conceptualize our needs, desires and whims as
rights. This rights-thinking, by its nature, is alienating and socially divisive.
Michael Mandel (1989: 239) agrees, adding that the individualism of the
Charter can be damaging to subordinate groups, such as women and
aboriginals, who see their interests best served by the protection of their
collective rights rather than the individual rights of their members. And Petter
and Hutchinson (1988: 292) point out that the individualizing thrust of Charter
rights has allowed judges to support a mythical public/private distinction that
limits the Charter’s applicability to legislative or governmental action while
excluding from Charter scrutiny the major source of inequality within our
society—the maldistribution of private property entitlements among
individuals.
Third, Martin argues that the Charter has encouraged the contemporary
process of deligitimizing politics and worshipping economics. It does so
because the negative nature of rights means that Charter cases almost
inevitably involve an individual seeking protection against the strong arm of
the state. So, Martin assumes, if rights are seen as “good,” then the state will be
seen as “bad.” This process is especially insidious in Canada, Martin worries,
since here there has traditionally been a higher acceptance rate for positive
state action than in the USA. In some ways, Canadian society has been a virtual
creation of state action, and state institutions have played a decisive role in the
development of a unique Canadian identity. Hence, “to put the legitimacy of
the state in doubt is to put the legitimacy of Canada in doubt” (Martin, 1991:
130).
It is interesting to note, in conclusion, that the left-wing attack on the Charter
concerns almost exclusively its promise to better protect fundamental rights
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and freedoms. Leftist legal scholars are largely silent on the other primary
political purpose of the Charter, as identified by Peter Russell, which “has to
do with national unity and the Charter’s capacity to offset, if not reverse, the
centrifugal forces which some believe threaten the survival of Canada as a
unified country” (1983: 30). Nor do they raise any concerns about the process
that Alan Cairns has traced. In his writings, Cairns has shown how a Charter
that emphasizes the rights of citizens rather than the powers of governments
tends to transform, in his words, a “Government’s Constitution” to a “Citizens’
Constitution” (1991: 108-38, 199-222).
Why is it that the leftist fear of the Charter is not so great when it comes to its
centralizing influence? One reason might be that socialists and social
democrats in Canada have historically believed that a strong central
government is necessary in order to redistribute wealth and income, to provide
social security and to constrain the power of big business. To the extent that the
Charter actually works as a nationalizing force, then, it is consistent with social
democratic purposes. Moreover, the left is not about to lament the demise of
elite accommodation (“eleven men in suits deciding the nation’s future”) if the
result is an increased role in the decision-making process for representatives of
various citizens’ groups—e.g., women’s groups, aboriginal groups and
minority groups. To the extent that the Charter really works to make ours more
of a citizens’ constitution, then, it is again consistent with social democratic
principles.
Right-Wing Charterphobia
Turning next to right-wing Charterphobia, we should note that it, too, was
present during the 1981 negotiations in the person of Manitoba Premier
Sterling Lyon—“the stubby, irascible, Praetorian guardsman of a vanishing
British Canada” (Sheppard and Valpy, 1982: 10-11). Premier Lyon expressed
concerns that the Charter would undermine the role of the monarchy in Canada
and that it would dictate the behaviour of provincial governments in relation to
their religious, ethnic and ideological minorities. Most importantly, however,
he saw entrenched rights as a threat to the doctrine of parliamentary
supremacy. In the end, these views held even less sway than did Blakeney’s.
As we know, Lyon, who had returned to Manitoba to fight a provincial
election, suffered the indignity of being shut out, along with Quebec’s
representatives, of the all-night negotiations that produced a draft agreement
for the patriation of the Constitution with a Charter of Rights and Freedoms.
Lyon himself went down to electoral defeat and, since then, conservative
politicians, like their leftist brethren, have ceased to play leading roles in the
anti-Charter movement.
Nowadays one has to look to representatives of right-wing interest groups to
find a concerted political attack on the Charter and its values. For example,
REAL Women argues that the Charter is being used by feminist group elites
promoting their own personal extremist views to force governments to allow
abortion, extend rights to same sex couples, provide universal subsidized
childcare, and implement pay equity and affirmative action schemes. Many
concerns have been raised in the conservative media as well—i.e., that
expensive social programs will be forced on governments by courts
sympathetic to the needs of various equality-seeking groups (Simpson,
1992a). Another fear is that the “substantive equality” (equality of results)
sought by these groups will have to come at public expense and at the costs of
the idea that formal rights must be enjoyed equally by all members of
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society—as Clifford Lincoln would say, that “rights are rights are rights”
(Simpson, 1992b: 14A).
Of course, many conservative politicians have raised similar concerns about
the dangers of an overtly activist court. For instance, Justice Minister Kim
Campbell worried that activist Supreme Court justices might force elected
politicians to spend public money against their wishes. She fears, moreover,
that if courts become unduly activist, and parliaments lose their ability to make
key decisions, then politicians will use this as an excuse to abdicate their
policy-making responsibilities and leave all difficult or controversial
decisions to the courts (Campbell, 1992). Other conservative politicians,
especially in the West, adopt the position most forcefully advanced by Reform
Party Leader Preston Manning that Canada should have, like the USA, a
concept of rights that makes no mention of race, gender or language. In
addition, many right-wing politicians in Canada wish to emulate the American
model of individualism and free-enterprise by including a provision for
property rights in the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms.
Nevertheless, most conservative politicians today appear to accept the notion
that rights and freedoms should be guaranteed and the integrity of the Charter
defended. Indeed, Conservative Prime Minister Brian Mulroney has gone on
record saying that “the constitution is not worth the paper it is written on”—but
not because the Charter places unnecessary limits on the power of elected
parliamentarians. On the contrary, the reason for the Prime Minister’s outrage
is that the Charter goes too far in accommodating the supremacy of Parliament
(especially of provincial parliaments) since its infamous “notwithstanding
clause” allows for the override of Charter provisions.
Quite the opposite view is expressed by those academics I will call “right-wing
Charterphobes.” The most powerful figures in this movement are political
scientists rather than lawyers, and the most prominent among them are
University of Calgary professors Rainer Knopff and F.L. Morton. These two
have espoused their views on the Charter separately, collectively and with
other collaborators in recent books, articles and conference papers (Knopff,
1988, 1989; Morton, 1990, 1991, 1992; Morton, et al., 1990; Morton and
Knopff, 1990, 1992); but perhaps the most accessible single source is their new
book, Charter Politics (1992). It must be noted, however, that in Charter
Politics Knopff and Morton take considerable pains to subordinate their own
views to the general task of clarifying the debates about the Charter. Thus they
portray these quarrels in terms of the opposition between “Charterphiles” and
“Charter sceptics” (of both the left and right), not between Charterphiles and
Knopff and Morton. Nevertheless, they are themselves key participants in the
debate they are attempting to clarify, and there can be no doubt that their work
should be identified as a Charter critique from the political right.
Knopff and Morton argue that the Charter is neither democratic nor consistent
with the traditional liberal respect for the private sphere and limited
government. Their principal lines of argument include (1) the idea that the
Charter promotes equality at the expense of private liberty and individual
rights, and that its implementation involves a massive and unwelcome exercise
in “social technology”; (2) the notion that the judiciary has neither the
democratic legitimacy nor the political competence to justify its
transformation since the introduction of the Charter from an adjudicative body
to a policy-making one; and (3) the claim that a “court party” of feminists, civil
libertarians, environmentalists, and racial and ethnic minorities have, with the
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aid of their left-liberal lawyers, used the Charter to advance their own narrow
(“special”) interests over and against the wishes of the majority and its duly
elected servants.
First, the right-wing critique of the Charter is grounded on a theoretical
analysis of the shifting meanings of democracy and rights from their classical
liberal roots to the present. That is, the original idea of democratic government
emphasized political rights and formal equality of individuals, while today’s
rights advocates have in mind social rights and the equality of group results. In
the earlier view, rights would secure a sphere of private liberty invaded only by
the few limits on personal action that could be consented to by self-interested
individuals in order for them to live as safely as possible. According to this line
of thought, inequality of political or legal rights would be prohibited but other
forms of inequality were expected to flourish. Indeed, as the greatest liberal
theorists all seemed to agree, the very purpose of government was not to make
individuals better or to force them to live in equal conditions, but rather to
protect their unequal capacities of acquiring and enjoying property (Knopff,
1989: 17-31).
In contemporary rights theory and practice, however, the terms of the classical
liberal equation are reversed—individual liberty is restricted in the name of
social equality and the private domain is whittled away in favour of increased
public authority. In what Knopff calls “the new war on discrimination,” the
systemic deficiencies of existing society are attacked by a set of rationalist
rules designed to achieve the intellectually derived criteria of “individual
treatment” and “equality of result.” For Knopff, the irony of the situation is that
the language of human rights, originally a bulwark of individual liberty and
democracy, has been appropriated by the foes of liberal democracy who use it
to deny personal freedom and to suppress democratic decision making
(Knopff, 1989: 213).
The argument runs that today’s rights enthusiasts wish to subject essentially
unplanned social processes to a variety of unrealistic and illiberal policy
initiatives—e.g., anti-discrimination legislation enforced by human rights
commissions, equality provisions entrenched in the Charter, and affirmative
action programs. The shared characteristic of these policy developments is
their attempt to remake human beings by changing the social environment.
According to Knopff, these exercises at “constructivist social technology” are
bound to fail since the anti-social tendencies they seek to eradicate are rooted
in nature. Consequently, “such projects in social engineering are
fundamentally misconceived and the suppression of freedom they require will
be permanent, not temporary” (Knopff, 1989: 22).
Moreover, the principal result of entrenching the Charter has been to transfer
political power from more accountable democratic institutions to relatively
unaccountable judicial and quasi-judicial agencies that are under the sway of a
leftist and partisan intellectual elite. That is why Morton and Knopff argue that
the Charter is both undemocratic and illiberal. It is undemocratic because it
results in a legalized politics that bypasses the traditional democratic processes
of collective self-government through popular elections and responsible
parliamentary government. And it is illiberal to the extent that its “most ardent
partisans and practitioners are imbued with an ‘unconstrained’ vision of
politics that is antithetical to the respect for the private sphere and limited
government that informs the tradition of constitutionalism” (Morton and
Knopff, 1992: 2).
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This underpins Knopff’s and Morton’s second main line of criticism of the
Charter—that the triumph of legalized politics means that the courtroom is
now more than ever a political arena and that judges are, at least potentially,
“politicians in robes.” Whether judges will exercise this power to its full
potential depends upon how they view their role in the political process. Hence
the crucial importance of the debates discussed in Charter Politics, i.e., those
over the proper balance between judicial “activism” and “self-restraint,” as
well as over the merits of the leading theories of constitutional interpretation—
“interpretivism” and “noninterpretivism.”
Although they are not always dogmatic on this point, Knopff and Morton tend
to side with restrained interpretivism over noninterpretivist activism. That is,
they prefer a court limited to enforcing original or traditional understandings in
a restrained manner rather to one that boldly exerts its policy influence in order
to keep political institutions relevant in rapidly changing times. It is generally
felt that this sort of judicial self-restraint should impede radical policy
initiatives or, at least, reduce the possibility that radical policies will be
generated by a judiciary itself over-anxious to prescribe political remedies for
legal problems. The usual defence of this view is a separation of power
argument: there is a division of responsibilities between the executive and
legislative branches on the one hand, and the judicial branch on the other; to the
extent that judges allow themselves to engage in courtroom politics, they have
overstepped their proper authority and become instruments of anti-democratic
forces.
Knopff and Morton suggest that violations by the courts of this separation of
powers doctrine have been vastly multiplied since the introduction of an
entrenched charter. With its vaguely worded provisions, generally open to a
variety of interpretations, the Charter rarely involves judges in simply
enforcing law-like rights against insensitive governments. Rather, the judges
are now actively involved in making laws, in creating new rights. Hence the
Charter has been a catalyst for an unprecedented style of activist judicial
review. Courts are no longer content with simply invalidating, and hence
delaying (perhaps temporarily), policy decisions by elected representatives.
They now feel emboldened to tell the other branches of government what they
have to do and how they have to do it. This is problematic for reasons the leftist
critics might have advanced themselves: (1) it is undemocratic to have
appointed judges trespassing on the policy-making jurisdiction of duly elected
politicians, and (2) the judges doing the trespassing have no special
competence in resolving difficult social, moral and political problems.
Knopff and Morton object to both the consequences of an increasingly
noninterpretivist activism among judges and to the general belief that helps
sustain this practice—i.e., that judges and not politicians are the best oracles of
what the law requires. In Charter Politics, therefore, Knopff and Morton
ponder alternatives to the politics of the oracular courtroom. One possibility
would be to restrict judicial decisions to the immediate adjudicative context.
Under this scheme, judicial opinions would be persuasive but not binding on
other branches of government (Knopff and Morton, 1992: 178-79). Another
proposal, one which they seem to endorse more heartily, would see the policy
opinions of the judiciary fully integrated into an overtly political system of
checks and balances. In this way, one could reject judicial finality without
rejecting judicial review (even noninterpretivist activism). One way in which
judicial policy-making can be integrated into a system of checks and balances
involves what Peter Russell (1982: 32) has called “the legislative review of
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judicial review.” Although a version of this already exists in the override
clause (at least for provisions in Sections 2 and 7-15), Knopff and Morton point
out that the existing Canadian legislative and executive institutions would
have to be reformed before they enjoyed the legitimacy necessary for them to
act as effective counterweights for the courts (1992: 232-33).
In any case, replacing oracular legalism with a healthy system of checks and
balances would have the special merit of discouraging interest groups from
using the courtroom as a political arena. If decisions by the courts are no longer
final, then interest groups will be less likely to attempt to use the Charter and
the courts to circumvent the traditional channels of policy making. Indeed, the
fact that so many organized interests have succeeded in doing just this is the
third major feature of the right-wing argument against the Charter.
Knopff and Morton argue that “the Charter’s main beneficiaries are special
interest groups, who invoke it to persuade appointed judges to reverse the
decisions of democratically elected representatives” (Knopff and Morton,
1992: 28). In other words, these groups turn to an undemocratic institution to
seek victories that eluded them in the normal arena of free and open democratic
competition. The Charter, then, rewards losers who whine loudly enough
about the importance of their specific rights and entitlements to get a
sympathetic hearing in court. Activist judges, meanwhile, will open wide their
courtroom doors to these interest group litigants, even those who have no more
direct stake in the outcome of the case than the ordinary citizen generally.
What is more, courts will hear moot cases when interest groups convince them
that the issues posed are of sufficient public importance (Knopff and Morton,
1992: 193).
For Knopff and Morton, the introduction of the Charter has not made ours a
more democratic “Citizens’ Constitution” but a constitution of special
interests. The argument runs that the transfer of power from the legislatures to
the courts has promoted the growth of a “court party” in Canadian politics that
consists of new citizens’ interest groups, state bureaucracies, academics and
media elites (Knopff and Morton, 1992: 79-80; Morton and Knopff, 1992: 621). Unlike political parties that participate in elections, the “court party” is a
new social movement that prefers the policy-making power of the courts to the
democratic world of polling booths and legislatures. The Charter provides the
foundation for this “court party” to the extent that it officially recognizes a
number of specific groups and interests. Women receive explicit recognition
in Sections 15 and 28; racial and ethnic minorities are included in Sections 15
and 27; Section 15 also bestows official status on age-based groups, and on
those representing the interests of the mentally or physically handicapped; the
rights of minority language groups are enshrined in Sections 16 to 23; and
aboriginal interests are recognized in Sections 25 and 35.
The politics of the “court party” involves the calculated attempts by these
groups to maintain and expand their visibility and status. The key currency
here is explicit recognition as a constitutional category: “Constitutional status
gives a group official public status of the highest order, and groups who enjoy
it have an advantage impressing their claims against government over groups
who do not” (Knopff and Morton, 1992: 82). The self interest of those groups
demands that any who are already in the “Charter club” must seek to exclude
other entrants, no matter how politically relevant. And the club members
constantly fight amongst themselves for relative power, attempting to
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construct pecking-orders or hierarchies of constitutionally protected interests
that are to their own particular advantage.
Needless to say, this is not a flattering picture of the role in Charter politics
played by contemporary citizens’ groups. Indeed, they are portrayed as a
divisive and potentially undemocratic element in our public life. Yet even
right-wing Charterphobes recognize that the formalism of legalized politics
and the biases of the judicial process have so far combined to limit the legal
victories of feminist, aboriginal, social action or ethnocultural groups. Still, as
Alan Cairns and others have shown, the greatest influence of such groups has
been realized in constitutional politics. This, too, is a result of their official
recognition as Charter club members—that is, as potentially affected groups
they demand involvement in any process that might be consequential for their
constitutional fate. According to many right-wing Charter critics, this has a
divisive rather than a unifying influence. Thus, in this area at least, the dreams
of Charter supporters to forge a national consensus around shared Charter
rights is unrealized. Indeed, it may be argued that the very multiplicity of group
concerns works against the Charter’s intended success at creating a single,
unifying Canadian identity.
Review and Criticism
As we have seen, both left- and right-wing Charterphobes condemn the rise of
legalized politics and bemoan the undemocratic consequences of judicial
review of the Charter. But as is the case in interpretations of legal decisions, the
important part is less the verdict than the reasons behind it. It is here that we
find considerable tension between the philosophies underlying these majority
concurring decisions.
The bottom line for the legal left is that the Charter is a disaster because it is a
liberal document. For these critics, “Liberalism is a failure: it cannot pass
conceptual, social, legal, or political muster. A continued reliance on its
intellectual assumptions and ideological prescriptions is indefensible” (Petter
and Hutchinson, 1988: 295). The immediate need is to abandon liberal
individualism and to replace it with some form of social democracy that might
be capable of responding to the inequalities of economic and political power
that liberalism and its disciples permit and condone. This would entail a real
redistribution of power in ways contradicting the logic of the marketplace. It
would mean, at a minimum, a significant expansion of the public sector and a
contraction of the private sphere (Mandel, 1989: 267).
Needless to say, this is not a prospect to which right-wing Charterphobes look
forward with great joys of anticipation. They are more likely to respond, in the
spirit of Adam Smith, that a system of private property rights is the best way to
channel natural human selfishness into socially useful projects. What is more,
intervention by the state on the behalf of groups who are disproportionately at
the lower levels of status and class hierarchies is seen by most on the right as a
violation of the democratic idea of the formal equality of rights. It should be
condemned, as well, for strictly practical reasons: human nature being what it
is, success in planning the lives of other people or of society as a whole is likely
to be limited.
In any event, the eradication of free market capitalism in Canada does not seem
immanent. Hence, right-wing Charterphobes are willing to take their chances
that the ideas of Mandel, Petter, and others on the anti-Charter left will fail to
capture much of a market share in any free and open democratic competition.
106
What is more troublesome, from their point of view, is the ascendancy of a proCharter, left-liberal egalitarian democracy. It is this ideology that Knopff and
Morton fear has taken over the legal profession and justified the granting of an
unfair advantage to “special” interest groups—groups based more on gender,
race and ethnicity than on class.
But is there any concrete evidence to support these claims? I think not. First,
right-wing Charterphobes can point to few cases where their fears have been
realized concerning activist judicial review of the Charter forcing
governments to spend money against their wishes. Second, recent evidence
suggests that we should not exaggerate the audacity of the courts, except
perhaps in legal rights cases. After an original spurt of judicial activism, the
Supreme Court seems to have settled back to a more comfortable role of
simply ensuring that Charter rights are not violated flagrantly. The Court has
rather tired of actively challenging governments’ decision-making
prerogatives. One indication of this is the steep drop in the rate at which the
Court has been striking down legislation. It is often pointed out that in its first
fifteen Charter decisions the Supreme Court upheld the Charter claim in a
staggering nine cases—a 60% success rate for Charter claimants. According to
one recent count, however, the Charter success rate fell to 17.5% in 1989-90 (7
out of 40 cases), and to a minuscule 11.8% (2 out of 17) in cases outside
criminal law (Eliot: 1992). There might be several reasons for this: the
changing nature of cases coming forward; the conservative influence of recent
judicial appointments; or a rethinking by the justices themselves of their role in
the political process. In any event, the evidence seems to point to a greater
acceptance of judicial self-restraint, at least since the Edwards Books decision
in 1986.
Of course, the numbers may not tell the whole story. The very possibility of
negative judicial decisions may be forcing governments to make corrections or
assessments prior to the enactment of legislation. Since politicians would
inevitably rely upon lawyers within their Justice Departments to carry out
these assessments—to make sure that legislation is “Charterproof,” to use
Patrick Monahan’s phrase (1992)—political power may have gravitated
towards the technical, legal experts and away from the elected politicians. This
means another triumph for legalized politics and raises alarms about
democratic legitimacy and policy-making competence similar to those
sounded by left- and right-wing Charterphobes.
But is it necessarily a bad thing that governments have learned to double-check
their plans against the prevailing values and standards of Charter provisions?
Indeed, if politicians cannot convince their own bureaucrats that their policies
and programs are sensible, necessary, or otherwise “demonstrably justifiable
in a free and democratic society,” then perhaps they have no business enacting
them, after all. And anyway, the courts are only assessing legislation according
to provisions placed in a charter only recently by duly elected governments,
governments that have the power to amend those provisions (or to override
most of them) in the event of overwhelming popular evidence that this is
necessary. Yet Canadian governments have still failed to demonstrate that,
when left to themselves, they can be trusted to make sure that their legislation
passes Charter standards. This was proved during the three years allotted to
them to clean up statutes that might violate Section 15. Few governments made
wise use of that time and many found themselves having to react in a near panic
situation.
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Moreover, even the most progressive gains that have been made in the courts
against the will of governments by certain individuals and groups have not, in
my mind, come at the expense of any fundamental principles of Canadian
democracy. Voting rights for people with disabilities, new rules about
sentencing individuals found not guilty by reason of insanity, expansion of the
due process rights of alleged perpetrators or incarcerated persons,
decriminalization of abortion, rollbacks of pay equity caps, rights to UIC
benefits for those over sixty-five, limited expansion of benefits to same sex
couples, abolition of discriminatory “spouse in the house rules” for social
services—all of these victories for underprivileged individuals and groups
enhance, rather than undermine, the democratic character of our society. The
fact that they were won in the courts rather than in the legislative arena does not
make them any less democratic.
And what about the central component to the right-wing Charterphobic
attack—the rise of a “court party”? Here, too, I see little evidence that
feminists, anti-racists, multicultural activists, or any other special groups have
pursued their social policy agendas in the courts to the disregard of other, more
direct, forms of democratic politics. And even if they did, would this not be
more of a condemnation of our system of party politics that has shut them out
rather than of our legalized Charter politics?
Indeed, the very assumption that there are “special” interest groups that
somehow shun the open glare of the public stage to pursue their narrow
interests behind the closed doors of the courtrooms conveys a distorted image
of reality. First, it ignores the fact that representatives of disadvantaged
individuals and groups have been extremely active for generations in a variety
of political forums, though not always successfully. The advent of the Charter
has simply increased access to the courts of Canada for a wider range of
groups. This only means that now they, too, can approach the courts as a
supplement to their other forms of activity, in the exact same way more
institutionalized groups—largely business -oriented ones—have done for
years. What seems to disturb right-wing Charterphobes most, then, is the types
of groups that have now gained access. Yet groups with “special”
interests—those from specific provinces or regions—have always been
recognized players within federal- provincial relations or federalism
jurisprudence. On this score, I fail to see why the narrow focus of regional
interest is proper and legitimate, while the same is not true of the shared
interest of women or people of colour.
More important philosophically is the argument that special-interest group
activity violates democratic ideals. This is said to be so because group or
collective rights contradict the formal logic of free competition between
equally rights-empowered individuals, and this makes it impossible for the
majority will to have the final say on all public issues. Political scientist Iris
Young shows how this view assumes the intrinsic value of attaining some sort
of “universality of a general will that leaves difference, particularity, and the
body behind in the private realms of family and civil life” (Young, 1990: 97).
Young demonstrates that this idea of an “impartial general will” is a myth that
serves ideological functions by masking the ways in which the particular
perspectives of dominant groups claim universality, thus justifying
hierarchical decision-making structures. Hence, she argues that the full
inclusion and participation of everyone in public discussion requires more
than a formally equal right for individual participation—it requires
mechanisms for group representation. Social justice and equality for members
108
of disadvantaged groups will only be had, she says, if difference is recognized
and affirmed. And this sometimes means the accommodation of special rights
that attend to specific group differences in order to undermine oppression and
disadvantage (Young, 1989: 117-41). Our Charter certainly does not
guarantee that less advantaged groups will be given the means to overcome
oppression and inequality. But by recognizing the special needs of those who
have historically been targets for discrimination, the Charter helps to prevent
at least the worst rights abuses and announces our society’s commitment to a
certain standard of decency and respect for others. And contrary to the
suspicions of some right-wing Charterphobes, it does so without harming
unnecessarily the privileges of those already relatively well off in terms of
social and economic power.
For the anti-Charter left, of course, the fact that some fundamental rights are
protected is not enough. The Charter, they say, recognizes only negative and
not positive rights, and its formalism demands that rights protection be applied
equally to everyone. Furthermore, whatever marginal utility is derived from
rights discourse is perceived by the legal left as being had at the expense of
agendas for social reform. So concerned are these scholars that some
imaginary future government’s progressive social or economic policies might
be overturned by conservative judges, that they are willing to allow existing
governments to do what ever they want.
This left-wing Charterphobic argument exaggerates, in my view, the disutility
of rights in political advancement for disadvantaged groups. It ignores (or at
least downplays) the fact of a long history of Canadian legislation against the
interests of women, the poor, aboriginals and racial and ethnic minorities. And
its argument that negative rights are disutile, even harmful, trivializes the lived
experience of any person or group whose vulnerability has been truly protected
by rights. As Patricia Williams, an African American legal scholar, explains:
“For the historically disempowered, the conferring of rights is symbolic of all
the denied aspects of their humanity: rights imply a respect that places one in
the referential range of self and others, that elevates one’s status from human
body to social being. For blacks, then, the attainment of rights signifies the
respectful behaviour, the collective responsibility, properly owed by a society
to one of its own” (1991: 153). Williams reminds us that one’s sense of
empowerment defines one’s relation to the law and to rights. Hence, the male
white left, already rights-empowered, may feel that rights discourse should be
replaced by some sort of needs discourse that would justify positive state
action on behalf of the truly needy. But those who have been historically
disempowered may not trust that the replacement of a formal legal rights
system by a more informal political one will lead to better outcomes.
A case in point is the debate within aboriginal communities over the utility of
Charter rights. Male Native leaders tend to want aboriginal self-governments
to be exempt from the Canadian Charter. Representatives of Native women’s
associations see things differently: “Native women and children need a
safeguard against the abuse of power by male leaders and,” Gail Stacey Moore
says, “until an acceptable alternative is put in place, we insist on having the
safeguard of the Charter” (Globe& Mail [Toronto], 29 May 1992: A6). One
cannot assume that the accommodation of collective or group aspirations will
include the protection of significant individual rights. Nor should we assume
that the majority of citizens out in the larger world want to overcome sexism,
racism and alienation rather than heartily embrace them. This underscores
Williams’ sense of the importance of rights: “rights are to law what conscious
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commitments are to the psyche. This country’s worst historical moments have
not been attributable to rights assertion but to a failure of rights commitment”
(1991 159).
On a more empirical level, as well, the left-wing Charterphobic argument is a
poor guide to life in Charterland. As many have pointed out since 1982, the
Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms includes not just negative
individual rights but also a long list of collective rights and some exemptions
from rights (Elkins, 1989: 699-716). Without exhausting the list, one could
mention “society’s rights” as conferred in Section 1; linguistic and minority
language education rights; aboriginal and treaty rights; multicultural rights;
affirmative action provisions in Sections 6(4) and 15(2); provincial group
rights in Sections 38(2) and (3); and the override provision in Section 33.
Moreover, the Charter lacks some of the more individualistic concepts found
in the American Bill of Rights, most importantly property rights.
Consequently, the Charter is not as liberalizing, individualizing and
Americanizing as some critics would suggest.
Still, left-wing Charterphobes have been right to point out that the introduction
of the Charter has highlighted some real problems in our legal system: e.g.,
access to the courts is unequal and judges are unrepresentative of the general
population. But is this the fault of the Charter or are these structures the
products of social forces and of individuals who want them this way? It is
certainly true, for instance, that by making it difficult for all but the
economically powerful to access the courts, high litigation costs help to
determine how Charter guarantees will be interpreted. This is because vague
Charter provisions will only be clarified through a process of judicial
interpretation. If the issues and concerns of the wealthy and powerful are given
disproportionate attention in the courts, then that will shape and influence the
authoritative decisions about the nature and scope of various rights in ways
that reflect these vested interests (Petter, 1989: 156-57). Yet governments can
make policy decisions that would equalize access either by changing the rules
to reduce litigation costs or by providing public funds to allow economically
disadvantaged groups to participate in Charter cases as litigants or as
interveners. The Court Challenges Program, recently terminated by the
Mulroney government, is a very modest example of the latter approach. The
crucial point, however, is that decisions about the creation, expansion and
demise of this program were made by elected politicians, the representatives of
the many, and not by the few who are judges or lawyers.
What is more, discussions about the high costs of litigation should not
overlook the fact that there is also an extremely high cost associated with
electoral participation or with non-judicial, interest-group activity. This works
to exclude socially and economically disadvantaged individuals and groups
from democratic politics just as surely as it does from legalized politics.
Likewise, one should not dismiss judicial review because of the
unrepresentativeness of judges without looking at the reality of representation
in the other two branches of government. In fact, there are more reasons to be
optimistic about the possibility of greater representativeness in the judiciary
than in Parliament, where the party-centred system continues to create
obstacles for the advancement of females and other disadvantaged individuals.
For instance, the composition of the judiciary is closely tied to law school
populations, and there have been dramatic changes in these institutions: in
1971, only nine percent of law school graduates were women; by 1991,
however, a full 51 percent of law students were women. This expanding pool
110
of female lawyers will no doubt have its effect on the composition of the
judiciary in a few years. Moreover, the very fact that so many leftist and
feminist scholars are now teaching in law schools bodes well for the future
development of a progressive left-liberal orientation in the legal profession.
This brings us to a paradoxical feature of left-wing Charterphobia—it is in
many ways the more “conservative” of the two approaches. Left-wing
Charterphobes want to “conserve” or “preserve” the parliamentary status quo,
partly in order to help protect those practices and attitudes that distinguish
Canadian from American political culture. Yet can we assume, as Blakeney
and Martin do, that our British-style, parliamentary democratic institutions
work well enough as it is? A brief glance at the historical record should dispel
any notions that freedom was better protected in the past by parliamentary
governments than we can expect it to be by the courts in the future.
The Charter of Rights and Freedoms joins four other instruments that have
long been part of our constitutional system: (1) the rule of law; (2) the division
of jurisdiction; (3) statutory bills of rights; and (4) the institutions of
Parliament. But how effective have these been as rights protectors? The idea
that the rule of law is the bulwark that protects us from arbitrary treatment from
the executive was brought home dramatically by the case of Roncarelli v.
Duplessis in 1959. But there are few other such dramatic cases. Reference re
Alberta Statutes (1937) and Switzman v.Elbling (1957) prove that when courts
decide on jurisdictional matters they can also protect rights and freedoms. But
these cases were rare and they do not demonstrate that the violation of
democratic freedoms would be beyond all legislatures, only provincial ones.
Moreover, the federal government’s passage of the Canadian Bill of Rights in
1960 did not usher in a bright new dawn of rights enjoyment in this country.
Aside from Drybones v. the Queen (1970), the Supreme Court was notoriously
unwilling to strike down legislation even when it was clear that rights or
freedoms mentioned in the Bill were being denied. Finally, there is little
evidence to suggest that the institutions of Parliament also serve to protect the
rights and freedoms of individuals. The party system and the rules of the House
of Commons help to make sure that the opposition has little weight as an
important sanction against repressive laws, even if it is opposed to them.
Conclusion
In conclusion, then, I remain unconvinced by the recent crop of anti-Charter
writers that we have taken the wrong path by adopting an entrenched charter.
This does not mean that I think the Charter is perfect, that it cannot be
improved upon. Indeed, the response from citizens and interested parties
during the so-called “Canada Round” of constitutional negotiations
demonstrates that the Charter suffers from several serious omissions. Most
importantly, there is a lack of a better recognition that, as self-governing,
majority cultures, aboriginals and Quebeckers have claims to distinct rights
that are different in status to claims made by, say, religious or ethnic
minorities. The Charlottetown Accord would have addressed some of these
concerns by entrenching into the Constitution an inherent right to aboriginal
self-government and by recognizing Quebec as a distinct society within
Canada. What is more, there has been a concerted effort in recent years to
expand the existing list of rights to include some social or economic rights as
well. It was more difficult for governments to agree to this change, however,
and the Charlottetown Accord included only an unjusticiable provision
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IJCS / RIÉC
committing governments to the principle of preserving and developing
Canada’s social and economic union.
What is more, there are still concerns with the incompatibility between an
entrenched charter and a legislative override provision. In fact, the
notwithstanding clause—the only Charter provision applauded by both rightand left-wing Charterphobes—remains the most unpopular element of the
Charter. Consequently, the Special Joint Committee on a Renewed Canada,
the Beaudoin-Dobbie Committee, heard pleas for the dismantling of Section
33 in every city where hearings were held. Representatives from minority
groups, in particular, ureed that at least Section 15 (1) should be exempted
from the clause. With the legislative override still in place, they argued,
minorities and other less advantaged Canadians remain inadequately protected
from rights abuses. Any changes to this provision would require unanimous
provincial consent, however, and knowing that this would be impossible, the
drafters of our various constitutional reform packages since 1982 have
consistently left out any such change.
In the end, of course, the Charlottetown Accord was rejected in the October
1992 referendum. Crucial to its defeat were the lobbying efforts made by
various pro-Charter constituencies, including women’s groups, social justice
advocates, and groups representing ethnic and racial minorities. Governments
that supported the constitutional reforms were consistently put on the
defensive, forced to insist that the rights recognized and protected under the
Charter would not be infringed or denied by any of the new provisions.
Canadians, it would seem, have not only become used to life after the Charter,
but recognize the Charter as a valuable and authoritative symbol of this
country’s commitment to freedom, equality and human dignity.
I would add, nevertheless, that in spite of all the ink spilled over it, the Charter
is only a part of our political system as a whole and its nature and function will
be shaped and formed within the same matrix of social and economic forces
that influence the other parts of the system. As a result, the Charter has not had
a dramatic effect on the distribution of wealth and power or on the level of
social justice in Canadian society, nor should it have been expected to on its
own. As Shelagh Day notes: “It doesn’t mean that women aren’t still being
beaten, it doesn’t mean that women aren’t still earning less than men”
(Victoria Times-Colonist [Victoria], 12 April 1992: A5). Of course, she is
right: we still have children living in poverty; we have rampant racism and
homophobia; and we have people with disabilities who are prevented from
achieving their full potential or who are not institutionalized when they ought
to be.
Still, the constitutional guarantees in the Charter have altered the way
Canadians view their relationship with government and the way they argue for
change. In my view, this has been for the better. Not only has the Charter given
women and other disadvantaged groups access to an additional arena of
democratic participation, it has also signalled to those who resist progressive
change that they cannot so easily ignore the claims of Charter rights-holders.
In this sense, the Charter, by holding out the prospect of attainment of equality
or fairness under the law, has been a fiercely motivational force for those who
have not always enjoyed much hope. It is for this reason that we must be
warned against debasing rights or abandoning the project of rights protection
under a charter. “In discarding rights altogether,” as Williams points out, “one
112
discards a symbol too deeply enmeshed in the psyche of the oppressed to lose
without trauma and much resistance” (1991: 165).
Notes
*
An earlier version of this paper was delivered at the annual meetings of the Canadian
Political Science Association in Charlottetown, PEI, June 1992. The author would like to
thank Ted Morton and Rainer Knopff for helpful comments on the text.
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114
Janet Hiebert
Rights and Public Debate: The Limitations of a
“Rights Must be Paramount” Perspective
Abstract
This paper focuses on the impact of rights-based language on constitutional
debate. After a decade of entrenchment there has been a tendency to embrace a
“rights must be paramount” view of Canadian politics where protected rights
are assumed to be paramount to all non-enumerated values. This perspective
is criticized in the paper for its constraining effect on political debate. The
paper speculates that a “rights must be paramount” approach is only a
transitional feature of learning to live with the Charter; that the more we face
conflicts between enumerated rights and non-enumerated values, the more
likely we are to realize that the resolution of difficult and contentious political
issues may not be amenable to assumptions about the primacy of protected
rights. One example of this was the relative lack of rights-based opposition to
the distinct society clause in 1991 which can be explained, in part, by an
implicit recognition of the limitations of a “rights must be paramount”
approach in accommodating Quebec’s sense of community.
Résumé
Cet article traite des effets sur le débat constitutionnel d’un discours basé sur
la primauté des droits. Au cours des dix années qui ont suivi leur
enchâssement, on a eu tendance à considérer la politique canadienne selon
une optique qui affirme la « suprématie absolue » des droits
constitutionnalisés sur les valeurs non inscrites dans la Charte. Or, cette
perspective gêne le déroulement du débat politique. Selon l’auteure, il ne
s’agit que d’une attitude transitoire permettant d’apprivoiser la Charte. Plus
les oppositions entre les droits inscrits et ceux qui ne le sont pas se
multiplieront, plus nous nous rendrons compte que la solution des dossiers
politiques délicats et litigieux suppose la désacralisation des droits
constitutionnalisés. Soulignons, à titre d’exemple, qu’on s’est très peu opposé
en 1991 à la clause de la société distincte en invoquant la Charte. Cela tient en
partie au fait qu’on admet implicitement la nécessité de relativiser la « priorité
absolue » des droits constitutionnalisés afin de reconnaître la personnalité
collective du Québec.
The Charter of Rights and Freedoms has significantly influenced the way we,
as a polity, assess the priorities of competing social, political and economic
values. For many, the Charter has fundamentally altered the political system
by prescribing rights which are insulated from government action. This
approach is misleading because it does not recognize the role of s. 1, the
Charter’s limitation clause, in accommodating values not specifically
enumerated but which are demonstrably justified and consistent with a free
IJCS / RIÉC
and democratic society.1 Nevertheless, an unbridled enthusiasm for the
Charter has generated a propensity to assume a “rights must be paramount”
view of Canadian politics2 which affords little scope for s. 1 in justifying
values not easily accommodated in the specific rights-based provisions of the
Charter.
A “rights must be paramount” perspective was evident in many of the
interventions on the proposed Charter before the Joint Parliamentary
Committee on the Constitution in 1980-1981 which argued that the inclusion
of an explicit limitation clause was not necessary because courts would impose
the appropriate limits when two specific Charter rights collide. This implies,
though, that the Charter itself provides exhaustive coverage of the range of
values worthy of protection: that governments may not legitimately assert the
primacy of non-enumerated values (Hiebert, 1990, 127). A “rights must be
paramount” perspective is often characteristic of the assumptions of many
Charter litigants and intervenors, particularly as expressed in factums.3 A
“rights must be paramount” perspective was also assumed by some critics of
the proposed distinct society clause in the Meech Lake constitutional accord,
in particular, Newfoundland Premier Clyde Wells and some women’s groups,
who argued that it was constitutionally illegitimate for non-enumerated
collective values to be given primacy over protected Charter rights. More will
be said of this later in the paper.
Despite the ascendency of a “rights must be paramount” perspective, the paper
will argue that it is not a particularly helpful way of engaging in “Charter”
debate. Further, the paper will argue that those who assume that protected
rights must at all times be paramount to other competing values will likely be
challenged by new circumstances and conflicts which fundamentally test their
assumptions of the primacy of protected rights. These arguments are premised
on the assumptions that 1) many provisions in the Charter are indeterminate
and, therefore, offer incomplete guidelines on the basic values that need to be
respected in the course of state action, 2) the Charter’s emphasis on individual
rights may not easily accommodate the more collective or communitarian
tenets of the Canadian polity, particularly the cultural aspirations of the
Québécois, and 3) we are in a transitional phase of learning to live with the
Charter.
A working hypothesis in the paper is that the more we face conflicts between
protected rights and strongly held values, the more we will come to realize that
not only does the Charter fail to provide the necessary answers, but that
resolving conflicts may involve making choices that go beyond the vindication
of rights-based claims. Any polity which attempts to codify fundamental rights
and values will face conflicts between these protected values and others which,
while not specifically enumerated, may also be strongly respected. In Canada,
this conflict is even more inevitable given our commitment to collective and
general welfare values which may not be easily accommodated in the
primarily individualistic language of the Charter. Yet the reluctance implicit in
a “rights must be paramount” perspective to recognize that s. 1 serves a broader
role than to reconcile conflicts between explicitly enumerated “Charter”
rights4 or serve as an emergency safety valve (Cohen) places constraints on the
political process. It represents the potential frustration of meaningful debate
about the appropriate priorities of competing social, cultural and political values.
In the decade since the Charter took effect, we have faced few situations in
which a judicial review of the competing values at stake challenged our
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The Limitations of a “Rights Must be Paramount”
Perspective
intuitive, moral and political senses of what is right, just or fair, or engage us in
protracted and contentious discussions of the merits of values in conflict with
protected rights. The abortion debate, it might be argued, has pitted
fundamentally contested views of rights-based entitlements against
conflicting societal expectations; however, the full scope of this issue has yet
to be addressed.5
Perhaps the best example of an issue that required a difficult choice between
protected rights and non-enumerated values was the entrenchment of a distinct
society clause. Constitutional recognition of Quebec as a distinct society was
one of five demands by the Quebec government in return for participating in
the 1986 constitutional renewal. Of the political issues that contributed to the
failure of the Meech Lake Accord, the role of the distinct society clause most
encapsulated the different perceptions of the appropriate relationship between
citizens and the state and between protected rights and non-protected values.
This paper will examine debate on the distinct society clause in the 1987
Meech Lake Accord and 1991 federal constitutional proposal in terms of
whether there has been a movement away from a “rights must be paramount”
assessment of constitutional change. The pivotal role of the distinct society
clause in the Meech Lake round contrasts significantly with the comparatively
minor role it played in the 1991-1992 constitutional discussions. Whether out
of a change in commitment to the primacy of protected rights or a realization of
the possible difficulties of accommodating Quebec’s sense of nationhood in a
Charter- based constitutional order, the 1991-1992 constitutional debate did
not demonstrate the same degree of concern to insulate protected rights from
the possible implications of a distinct society clause. Before exploring this
argument, we must first examine more closely how the Charter affects the way
the political process is viewed.
Overview of Charter’s Impact on the Political Process
The language of rights promoted by the Charter has contributed to a growing
tendency to assume that non-enumerated values in conflict with protected
rights are constitutionally inferior. One problem with this perspective is the
assumption that the Charter is exhaustive of all fundamental values and that
recourse to it offers an exclusive basis for resolving rights-based conflicts.
Many commentators have observed the general and vague nature of the
Charter’s provisions (Mandel 1989; Monahan 1987). For example, the
wording of the Charter offers no clear explanation why freedom of expression
should protect the ability to advertise in one’s preferred language on
commercial signs or communicate for the purposes of prostitution, or why
freedom of association should not protect collective bargaining. There are no
universal or self-evident “principles” that dictate these findings; rather, they
are the result of judicial reasoning or “policy” determinations. While courts
develop judicial rules and principles to aid in the interpretation of rights (for
example, the Supreme Court has adopted the position that the scope of
freedom of expression should not depend on the content of the message) the
Charter itself provides little direction as to the specific circumstances that are
protected by its vague and general provisions. Further, even if we have the
utmost faith in the judicial capacity to expound, at all times, the appropriate
values and circumstances protected by the Charter (this is an assumption that
many, including the author, are not prepared to make), can we be confident that
the bureaucratic and political drafters of the Charter have captured all of the
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fundamental values that we, our children and their descendants will value in
the future?
It is not only the protected rights that are indeterminate of particular outcomes.
Even more significant is the indeterminacy of the limitation clause in s. 1.
Courts have assumed the responsibility of determining whether government
policies that conflict with a protected right are nevertheless reasonable and
justified in the context of a free and democratic society. The difficulty for the
Court, however, is that the values integral to a free and democratic society are
subject to dispute. There is little reason to assume that nine judges are
inherently more capable of expounding democratic principles than
governments, political philosophers or citizens. Yet a core assumption in a
“rights must be paramount” position is that the requirements of a democratic
society can be readily inferred from the Charter. Some consider the reference
in the limitation clause to a free and democratic society and the actual
enumerated rights in the Charter to be one and the same. In other words, the
specified rights in the Charter embody the rights necessary for a free and
democratic society6 and, therefore, exhaust the range of values entitled to limit
a protected right.
The language of rights encourages the positing of Charter claims in terms of
inviolable and non-negotiable principles that supersede and surpass the
importance of alternative “policy” considerations. This assumption that
rights-based claims immediately and unquestionably vault ahead of
alternative values (often interpreted by rights claimants as little more than
utilitarian, politically expedient or institutionally self-interested
considerations) has significant implications on how government power is
conceptualized. Those subscribing to this or some similar reading of the
Charter’s impact on government, no longer consider it valid for governments
to exercise discretion when determining the issues, interests, values that
should shape policy, at the expense of protected rights. While conflicts
between competing rights are inevitable and require resolution, many believe
that entrenchment itself resolves disputes about the relative importance of
competing values clearly in favour of those explicitly provided for in the
Charter.
One implication of this assumption on policy development is that legislative
objectives not easily accommodated within the language of the Charter are
deemed by many to lack sufficient importance to warrant limiting a protected
right. This is because these objectives relate merely to policy objectives, not
matters of rights and, therefore, are not entitled to restrict a protected right. By
assuming that the Charter is exhaustive of the most fundamental values in
society and that the requirements of a free and democratic society consist
primarily, if not exclusively, of the enumerated rights themselves, this view
offers little recognition that the values essential to a free and democratic
society are contested.
Further, assumptions concerning the primacy of protected rights discourage an
approach to the Charter which recognizes collective or general welfare values.
The assumption in a “rights must be paramount” approach that the Charter is,
and should be considered, exhaustive of all fundamental values places an
ideological and institutional constraint on the values that can be promoted. It
excludes those values which fall outside the specific, and highly
individualistic, language of the Charter. While the Charter gives limited
recognition to collective rights, such as minority education rights, the extent to
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which the Supreme Court recognizes collective values as a protected activity
depends largely on judicial assumptions about the philosophical content of
these values. A telling example of this was in the labour trilogy cases where a
majority of the Supreme Court declined to recognize the collective right to
strike as a protected form of freedom of association because striking did not
have any individual analogy.7
The predominantly individual rights contained in the Charter do not address
the ideological and cultural aspirations of a polity whose political culture
reflects collective values generated by tory and socialist influences
(Horowitz). Evidence of our hybrid political culture is suggested in strong
public support for a range of collective or general welfare concerns, even when
they conflict with the individualistic assumptions of the Charter. One such
example is the attempt to promote the collective security of women through a
rape shield policy (to prevent a woman’s sexual past from being raised in
court) despite possible implications on individual legal rights.8 A challenge to
the primacy of individual rights also arises in public support for regulating
election expenses (and hence restricting free speech) for the general welfare
objective of promoting a fair and equitable election process.9 Although these
are but two examples of collective values, they raise important questions
concerning whether elements of our political culture which diverge from a
strictly individualistic perspective will be unduly inhibited by an approach that
assumes that protected rights must invariably be paramount to all other values.
The question of how much discretion governments should retain to impose
limits on protected rights invites controversy precisely because questions of
limits on rights strike at the heart of debates about the relationship between
individuals and community: specifically, should the state promote a particular
substantive view of the “good life” if so doing conflicts with individual rights?
That there are fundamentally contested views around this issue in Canada was
particularly apparent in the controversy surrounding the use of the legislative
override by the Quebec government in 1988 to protect its cultural policy of
promoting the French language from rights-based challenges under the
Charter. Basing his reasons on the need to protect collective rights, Premier
Robert Bourassa’s assumptions about the requirements of preserving and
promoting the French culture clearly contradict the belief of many that the
protected rights in the Charter, which are primarily individual based, should
have primacy over all other policy objectives:
When two fundamental values clash, someone has to make a choice,
and find a balance between both. An unavoidable arbitration has to
take place. Anywhere else in North America, the arbitration would
have been made in favour of individual rights. . .
At the end, when a choice had to be made between individual rights
and collective rights, I arbitrated in favour of collective rights, by
agreeing to invoke the notwithstanding clause.
. . . I am the only head of government in North America who had the
moral right to follow this course, because I am, in North America, the
only political leader of a community which is a small minority (Globe
and Mail, 1988).
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Aside from reduced confidence in the legitimacy of governments exercising
discretionary judgments about the priority of values, a “rights must be
paramount” interpretation of the Charter potentially constrains debate. In
rejecting the legitimacy of other values because they lack the same status as
rights, and therefore do not warrant constitutional protection, the language or
terms of the debate are altered to an extent that compromises are more difficult
to achieve.10 How can society, after all, compromise fundamental
constitutional principles?
Notwithstanding the powerful rhetoric of appealing to principles, if the
circumstances protected by the Charter cannot be readily inferred from the text
and the values essential to a democracy are contested, it seems misdirected to
assume that only those claims which can be neatly collapsed into rights-based
terms are worthy of protection. Further, if the Charter is neither determinate
nor exhaustive of fundamental values, it is equally questionable to assume that
governments themselves should not play some role in advancing, under s. 1,
values that represent reasonable and justifiable limits on protected rights. The
principal objection to a “rights must be paramount” position, therefore, is its
assumption that governments no longer have the legitimacy to pursue and
promote values that conflict with protected rights. This criticism neither
presumes a particular ideological or value preference nor is motivated by
disdain for the Charter. It must be stressed that this paper is not arguing that
governments do not have an obligation to respect protected rights or that courts
should defer to whatever choices governments make. Courts should be
anything but deferential to legislative policies where these do not reflect
sincere attempts to debate the relative merits of competing values, or design
legislation in a way which imposes as minimal an infringement on the
protected right as is reasonably possible. But this argument is for another
paper. The argument here is that a “rights must be paramount” position
implicitly rejects the legitimacy of governments or societies questioning and
challenging the parameters of Charter protection. By doing so, it becomes
difficult to engage in necessary and meaningful political debate about the
priorities that should be attached to competing values.
Even if the indeterminacy and incompleteness of the values promoted by the
Charter are accepted, many will continue to place greater trust in judicial rather
than political resolutions to rights-based conflicts. This greater faith in the
courts is often associated with the institutional differences between courts and
legislatures; courts, for example, are thought to be insulated and detached from
popular passions that may be hostile to minority interests. This paper does not
intend to debate which institution is best equipped to protect Canadians’ rights
and values. Rather, it seeks the more modest task of questioning the
assumption that it is illegitimate to look beyond the specific provisions of the
Charter or court interpretations of them, when seeking answers to rights-based
conflicts.
Rights-based Criticisms of Distinct Society in Meech
Opposition to the distinct society clause in the Meech Lake Accord arose for a
number of reasons. Although this paper focuses on the implications of the
clause on the Charter, it is difficult to disentangle Charter-based objections
from broader concerns. The clause was not only debated in terms of how it
would affect protected rights, but also in terms of which vision of Canada it
represented. Critics argued that the clause was an invitation to re-emphasize a
territorially-focused polity and a rejection of the pan-Canadian rights-based
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approach embodied in the Charter. Where the two fronts of the Meech Lake
debate intersected was on critics’ conception of the purpose of entrenched
rights. One of the purposes of entrenchment was to be an instrument of nation
building. By applying to all Canadians by virtue of citizenship rather than
geographical residence, centralists hoped that the Charter would strengthen
national identity at the expense of regional affiliation. Further, by altering the
political system and modifying the concept of “legislative supremacy” the
Charter would undermine province-building. While Charter proponents, for
pragmatic reasons, were quick to suggest that the Charter does not actually
transfer power from one level of government to the other, many analysts
expected that the impact of judicial review would be felt more pronouncedly
by the provinces (Knopff and Morton, 1985; Russell, 1983).
The relationship between the distinct society clause and the protected rights in
the Charter went to the heart of the debate over what vision of Canada should
be promoted. Not only did the distinct society clause prescribe a shift away
from the pan-Canadian model but, in the opinion of many, it also represented a
rejection of our newly enacted “Charter regime.” By failing to provide
explicitly for the Charter’s exemption from the distinct society clause, many
feared that the clause would remodify the political system to the extent that
some decisions about limiting rights in Quebec would effectively remain in the
hands of governments. This view presumed that courts would have given a
generous interpretation of the distinct society clause, granting Quebec
governments significant latitude to limit protected rights for the purpose of
promoting cultural values.11
Some of the most significant rights-based objections to the distinct society
clause came from women’s groups, primarily outside Quebec. In the 1987
hearings on the proposed constitutional amendments, five national women’s
organizations argued before the Parliamentary Committee that the Accord
would jeopardize equality rights.12 Language minority groups, especially
English-speaking groups in Quebec, were also concerned that the distinct
society clause would weaken protection for language rights in the province.
Although it is difficult to generalize the nature of objections to the clause, a
number of concerns were shared by more than one group. Women’s groups
argued that the distinct society clause could undermine women’s equality
rights in essentially four ways. First, the clause could encourage courts to
adopt a more restrictive interpretation of equality rights in light of possible
conflicts with the objectives of a distinct society clause. Second, the clause
could create a constitutionally stated justification for limiting rights. The
assumption was that the consideration of reasonable limits in s. 1 would
become more expansive, to include cultural objectives associated with the
distinct society clause and, as a result, provide additional grounds and greater
ease for a Quebec government to promote cultural values that require limiting
equality rights. Third, the distinct society clause might insulate legislation
from Charter review. This would occur if courts were to define distinct society
as constituting a fundamental principle of Confederation and, therefore, of
parallel constitutional importance and not subject to the Charter. And fourth,
the distinct society clause could place a lower priority on equality rights than
on the collective rights of Québécois. This is because the proposed clause s. 16,
which stated that multicultural and aboriginal rights in ss. 25, 27 and 35 would
not have been affected by distinct society, did not explicitly exclude equality
rights in ss. 15 and 28. It was argued, therefore, that equality rights could be
subordinated to or affected by the distinct society clause because they, unlike
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some rights, were not explicitly exempted from its ambit (Smith, 1988; Brock,
1990).
It would be misleading to characterize all women’s groups’ opposition to the
distinct society clause as embodying a “rights must be paramount”
perspective. A significant factor in women’s opposition to the Meech Lake
Accord was their frustration at not being able to engage in open and honest
debate about the potential implications of a distinct society clause for equality
rights (Baines, 1988). Further, while many considered it illegitimate to treat
collective or cultural values as being paramount to equality or other protected
rights, others called for debate on the priorities that should be attached to each
(Smith, 1988). Also, for those frustrated with the traditional legislative
processes, a “rights must be paramount” perspective offers an important
symbolic and political position from which to challenge systemic inequalities.
This is particularly true in light of the concern that equality rights, being
excluded from the list of provisions exempted from the scope of the distinct
society clause, might be interpreted as of lesser importance.
These caveats notwithstanding, many of the women’s groups’ objections to
the distinct society clause shared similarities with the assumptions of a “rights
must be paramount” perspective: namely, that the clause could allow for
collective and non-enumerated rights to be given primacy over individual
rights; that governments would continue to play a discretionary role in
promoting values that conflict with protected rights; and that protection for
equality rights may not be universal but rather might vary in and out of Quebec.
While these assumptions are legitimate depending on one’s vision of society
and of governmental responsibilities, they are limiting in their capacity to
allow debate where disagreement exists on the priority of contested values. For
example, the perception that protected rights must be insulated from
government attempts to promote collective values made it difficult for nonFrancophone women’s groups to reconcile themselves to the likelihood that
the Charter would be interpreted in the context of the distinct society clause.
Further, suspicions of any differentiation in the limits imposed on equality
rights for collective purposes made it difficult to be assured by Francophone
women’s claims that part of what it means for Quebec to be a distinct society is
the progress made in the last couple of decades in terms of equality concerns
and the status of women (Bonenfant, 1987).
Political Proponents’ Response
Federal and provincial supporters of the Accord seemed impervious to
women’s concerns. Early criticisms of the distinct society clause were greeted
with disparaging comments implying that anyone opposing the amendment
was somehow “anti-Quebec.”13 Not only did political proponents dismiss the
need to reassess the clause,14 there was little recognition that protected rights
would even be affected. Instead of acknowledging the possibility that
interpretations of the distinct society clause could influence what activities are
considered a justifiable limit on equality or other protected rights, political
supporters of Meech Lake insisted that the distinct society clause would not
“override” protected rights.15
The combined effect of a “rights must be paramount” critique of the distinct
society clause and political proponents’ refusal to sincerely address rightsbased concerns was an absence of meaningful debate on the following
important questions: would distinct society likely affect the interpretation of
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equality or other rights (either by influencing their definition or, more likely,
by broadening the scope of permissible limits on them); given Quebec’s sense
of community and the importance of collective rights, are territorial-based
differences in how limits on rights are interpreted acceptable; and would the
kind of collective values envisaged in a distinct society be consistent with a
free and democratic society?
Distinct Society Clause in the 1991 Federal Proposal
In sharp contrast to the Meech Lake round, one interesting aspect of the 19911992 constitutional debate was the relative lack of contention surrounding the
distinct society clause. Although Charter-based criticisms of the clause were
raised, the level cannot be compared with the experience of the Meech Lake
round.
The 1991 distinct society clause would have been explicitly placed within the
text of the Charter, requiring that courts interpret the Charter in a manner
consistent with “the preservation and promotion of Quebec as a distinct society
within Canada” and “the preservation of the existence of French-speaking
Canadians primarily located in Quebec but also throughout Canada, and
English-speaking Canadians, primarily located outside Quebec but also
present in Quebec.” In contrast to its vague definition in Meech, the new
distinct society clause was defined to include a French-speaking majority, a
unique culture and a civil law tradition (“Shaping Canada’s Future Together:
Proposals,” 51).
Placing the distinct society clause within the Charter left little doubt that
interpretations of protected rights would be affected. The Charter already
recognizes the existence of collective values in the aboriginal rights and
multicultural heritage clauses of ss. 25 and 27. Like these clauses, distinct
society would have been an interpretive clause, providing guidelines for
interpretation. Rather than conferring a substantive entitlement on its own, it
would more likely have affected the way protected rights were interpreted and,
more significantly, potentially widened the scope of permissible limitations on
protected rights under s. 1. As an interpretive clause, distinct society does not
appear to have been paramount to any single Charter provision. Of particular
concern for women, the clause seems to have been subordinate to s. 28 which is
a gender “notwithstanding” clause; s. 28 provides for equality between men
and women “notwithstanding anything in this Charter” and, presumably,
notwithstanding the distinct society clause. In contrast to the Meech clause,
which exempted from its ambit certain rights but not equality rights, the
proposed federal clause did not lead to the same concern that a hierarchy of
rights would be created.
The new clause addressed some of the concerns raised in the Meech round, but
not all of them. For individuals and groups concerned about the rights-based
implications of the Meech version, the 1991 version was still vulnerable in at
least two respects: the clause could have affected how courts interpret the
scope of a protected right — what circumstances are actually protected — and
would likely have entered into judicial decisions about whether limits on
protected rights are reasonable and demonstrably justified.
This second role is the most significant. Judicial review of the Charter has
tended to proceed in two analytically distinct stages in which decisions about
whether a right has been infringed are often distinct from the determination of
whether a limit is justified. Because the distinct society clause would provide
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an interpretive aid when determining reasonable limits, courts could expand
the scope of permissible limits on equality or other protected rights for distinct
society purposes. This could include either enlarging or altering the definition
of what objectives are considered reasonable or worthy of limiting protected
rights to include those necessary for the promotion of a distinct society. Or it
could affect the way courts assess whether distinct society objectives meet the
proportionality guidelines in the Oakes test (R. v. Oakes, [1986] 1 S.C.R. 103).
Many have argued that judicially created guidelines for determining s. 1 issues
are generally indeterminate of specific outcomes (Peck 1987; Hiebert 1991).
Therefore, judicial discretion in determining whether a legislative or executive
objective has been designed or administered in a manner that itself is
reasonable, could be affected by judicial commitment to the objective itself.
The potential of the 1991 distinct society clause to influence judicial opinion
on the worthiness of related objectives may have been significant for those
concerned with the primacy of equality rights. It could be argued that the
Supreme Court has already indicated some sympathy for the promotion of a
distinct society. In the Ford case (Quebec signs law), the Court went a
considerable distance in reading a distinct society interpretation into the
limitation clause of s.1. In that case, the Court agreed with the Quebec
government’s claim that protecting the French language is crucial to the
survival of French culture to assure the “reality of Quebec society is
communicated through the visage linguistique” and that this was a justifiable
objective in a free and democratic society. Its difficulty and reasons for finding
the signs law invalid were not based on the objective itself but on the fact that
some attempt had not been made to accommodate the use of other languages
(Ford v. Quebec [Attorney General], [1988] 2 S.C.R. at 778-779).
Despite the potential implications of the 1991 distinct society clause in
undermining the primacy of protected rights, little concern was expressed
about its rights-based implications. Most of the commentary and criticisms of
the 1991 federal proposal focused on issues other than distinct society. And
when distinct society was considered, particularly during the constitutional
conferences, the issue was not its impact on rights but whether the concept of a
distinct society should also be applied to aboriginal peoples (Renewal of
Canada Conferences: Compendium of Reports, 1992).
As significant as the magnitude of criticisms during the Meech Lake process
was the relative absence of a sustained critique of the distinct society clause in
the 1991-92 discussions. Many of the women’s groups who went on record for
criticizing aspects of the distinct society clause in Meech were noticeably
silent in the 1991-92 round of constitutional hearings. Only the National
Action Committee on the Status of Women took a public stand on the issue.
And NAC, which endorsed the distinct society clause in the hearings, focused
little attention on the Charter implications of the clause (NAC, 1991).
Unlike NAC’s response to the Meech version of distinct society, there was no
explicit criticism of the clause in terms of its potential effect on equality rights.
In NAC’s view, some of the concerns of women’s organizations in the Meech
Lake round had been addressed by placing the provision explicitly in the
Charter. The result of this, NAC implied, was that the sexual equality clause of
s. 28 would be paramount to other Charter provisions or interpretive clauses
(Ibid.) Further, NAC President Judy Rebick indicated that it may be
inappropriate to require universal treatment of equality concerns; that just as
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sameness of treatment may not be desirable in a sexual context, it may also be
undesirable in the context of cultural or aboriginal concerns:
. . . (W)e understand in the women’s movement . . . that equality
doesn’t mean treating everyone the same way. Equality often means
special measures — that terrible word — to correct historical
inequalities. . . [W]e also need special powers . . . for Quebec . . . to
recognize the fact that they have a disadvantage in being the only
French-speaking nation or province in the whole of North America.
They need those powers and they want those powers to protect their
language, their culture and the institutions. (Rebick, 29 Oct. 1991,
10:18-19).
Some might object to this characterization of Quebec’s concern for special
status as a measure to overcome historical disadvantages. They may, instead,
interpret Quebec’s claims for different treatment as reflecting collective
values and state obligations that are the result of a political culture different
from the rest of Canada. Nevertheless it is significant that NAC moved away
from a pan-Canadian approach to protected rights. It has also indicated a
significant movement away from the principle that “rights must be
paramount” under all circumstances.
Another significant change in support for the distinct society clause came from
one of the most ardent critics of the distinct society clause in the Meech Lake
round, and subscriber to a “rights must be paramount” position,
Newfoundland Premier Clyde Wells. Having earlier argued that the distinct
society clause should serve little purpose other than an historical and
sociological recognition of Quebec as a distinct society, Wells grudgingly
accepted the principle that distinct society allows for possible variations in
how protected rights are interpreted. Wells made it clear that this was not his
preference but implied it was a reasonable concession to accommodate the
constitutional concerns of the Quebec Francophone majority.16
While philosophically I personally . . . would prefer to see the Charter
apply to every part of the country and to each individual in exactly the
same manner, if the majority of citizens of Quebec want their
individual charter rights to be somewhat subordinated to their
collective rights, then it is difficult for the citizens of any other
province to say we don’t want to see that happen in Quebec . . . Some
limited subordination of individual rights to collective rights within
Quebec, if that is what the people of Quebec want, may not be an
unreasonable concession to accommodate the legitimate concerns of
a province that is, by reason of its culture, language and legal system,
distinctly different from any other province in the country. (Wells, 22
October 1991, 8).
The comparatively minor role of Charter-based criticisms of the distinct
society clause does not mean all groups changed their opinions on the
legitimacy of the clause. A handful of smaller women’s and minority language
groups continued to criticize the distinct society clause precisely because of its
potential to undermine a “rights must be paramount” position. For example,
the Brandon Women’s Study Group opposed the idea that women’s equality
rights could be “subject to the collective interests of Quebec’s distinct
society.”
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The issue here is not whether Quebec society is distinct or whether it
should have the capacity to preserve and promote its culture; it is
about whether the preservation and promotion of a collectivity
should be done at the expense of individual, disadvantaged, or
minority group rights. It will not help the women of Canada to have a
clearly articulated statement that the interests of women must be
subordinate to those of their national or linguistic group.
. . . we respect the right of Quebec to claim a distinct society, but
request that it does so in a way that would not override the
fundamental equality rights of women . . . Equality rights must be
maintained above any cultural, linguistic or ethnic encroachments.
(Everitt, 6 Nov. 1991, 18:7-8).
Similarly, another women’s group, Equality Eve, raised concerns that locating
the distinct society clause in the Charter could “trump” protected rights. For
example, it argued that had the distinct society clause been entrenched at the
time of the signs law decision, the Supreme Court “would probably find that
freedom of expression would not be violated” (Equality Eve, 1991).
Concerns of how the 1991 version of the distinct society clause would affect
interpretations of protected rights were not confined to women’s groups.
Anglophones in Quebec expressed concern, as they did during Meech, that the
clause could undermine individual rights. This objection was similar to that of
women’s groups — that the clause would either narrow the interpretation
given to protected rights or broaden the scope of permissible limits
(Henderson, 1991).
Notwithstanding these objections, there was an order of magnitude change in
the criticism extended towards the clause in the 1991-92 constitutional debate,
despite the potential for rights-based objections. Those who opposed the
distinct society clause in Meech, because of its potential to narrow the
interpretation of protected rights and, more significantly, broaden the scope of
permissible limits on rights, should have had similar concerns with the 1991
version. So why were these criticisms not more vocal?
An important part of the explanation for the relatively minor role the distinct
society clause played in the 1991-92 constitutional process is no doubt
accounted for by the political fallout over the death of the Meech Lake Accord.
Given that the clause generated significant differences between Quebec and
other women’s groups, it is not surprising that equality concerns were pursued
in different forms, for instance, increasing political representation of women
via a reformed Senate with a gender rather than territorial composition, the
implications of entrenching property rights, and the effects of decentralization
on family law, among others (Schneiderman, 1992).
While significant, this is only part of the explanation for why rights-based
criticisms of the distinct society clause did not play a more prominent role in
the 1991 and early 1992 constitutional debate. This paper partly attributes the
relative lack of criticism to an implicit reassessment of the utility of a “rights
must be paramount” approach. Considerations in 1991-92 about whether or
not to accept an entrenched distinct society clause approximate the kind of
dilemma discussed earlier, in which protected rights clash with important,
although contested, non-enumerated values. Given the gulf that existed
between Francophones and Anglophones on the desirability of the clause, it
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has become increasingly apparent that the resolution of our constitutional
impasse may depend less on vindicating rights-based claims than on making
difficult choices about the priorities that should be attached to competing
values. In this context, the choice may be seen as having been between 1) a
universal approach to rights, which would likely be rejected by Quebec and 2)
possible variations on how limitations on rights are interpreted to better reflect
and accommodate the different political culture of Quebec. That there has been
greater accommodation of the latter choice seems clear in NAC’s willingness
to extend concern about “sameness of treatment” from the sexual equality
realm to recognize Quebec’s different sense of community. In a less generous
manner, Wells similarly recognized that for the sake of unity we may have to
accommodate Quebec’s different understanding of the balance between
collective and individual rights and the role of governments in promoting this
balance.
The relative lack of contention surrounding the distinct society clause in the
1991-92 constitutional debate indicates a greater sensitivity among
constitutional participants and commentators to the difficulties of
accommodating Quebec’s sense of nation in a Charter-based constitutional
order. Whether out of consignment to the view that the price of remaining a
unified country may involve tolerating some variation in the Charter’s
interpretation or recognizing that the range of Quebec’s cultural objectives is
consistent with a free and democratic society, the implication is that the
vindication of rights-based concerns may not resolve all of our constitutional
difficulties.
Having argued this, however, it is premature to conclude that a “rights must be
paramount” perspective no longer influences the way many assess
constitutional proposals. This was made abundantly clear during debate on the
Charlottetown Accord in the fall of 1992. Unlike the 1991 federal proposal, the
Charlottetown Accord did not contain a separate distinct society clause but
included it within a broader Canada clause. The Canada clause, which was an
interpretive clause, defined a number of fundamental characteristics of
Canada, including Canada’s parliamentary and federal system of government
and the principles of aboriginal self-government and Quebec as a distinct
society. While the majority of criticisms focused on aspects of the clause other
than distinct society,17 they emphasized similar objections to those raised
about the distinct society clause during the Meech Lake debate: that the
Canada clause would increase the discretion given to governments to limit
protected rights. The most blunt characterization of this was that the Charter
would be “trumped” by the Canada clause (Baines, 24, 1992).
Rights-based criticisms of the Canada clause speculated on the implications of
Canada’s fundamental characteristics being defined in terms of certain
institutional features, such as federalism, parliamentary government and
aboriginal self-government, while failing to specify the Charter. The
complaint was that this could undermine the relative significance of the
Charter in the judicial review of conflicts between governmental and rightsbased claims. It was also argued that the rights protected under the Charter
might suffer because the clause provided that the entire Constitution, including
the Charter, “shall be interpreted in a manner consistent” with these
fundamental characteristics. The concern raised was that the use of the word
“including” might encourage the courts to assume that the Charter is
subordinate, and therefore inferior, to the Canada clause:
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[The draft text uses] “including” which is not an ambiguous word. To
the contrary, it means to treat as subsumed, as subordinated. At the
present time, Charter values are not subordinated to any other values.
However, if the Charlottetown agreement is adopted, they will be
subordinated to the contents of the Canada Clause.
More specifically, Charter values will be measured against the first
three fundamental characteristics that are itemized in the Canada
Clause. These three are flat-out assertions of governmental and
federalism characteristics...Both their wording and their positioning
will be interpreted as indicative of the strength of the call for
deference to governmental actors. (Ibid., 25).
The preceding criticism of the Canada clause faulted the proposal for its failure
to secure protected rights against governmental encroachments. Critics
rejected the Canada clause on the basis of assumptions that governmental
power and the Charter are inherently conflictual and that governments ought
not to be permitted to promote non-enumerated values that conflict with
protected rights. This “rights must be paramount” critique of the clause had a
constraining effect on debate. It allowed opponents to reject the Accord on the
basis of “principle,” in that the Canada clause did not adequately insulate
protected rights from government action, without addressing the following
questions which would have contributed to a healthier and more vibrant
debate: are there fundamental values, in addition to those in the Charter, that
governments might promote in light of this clause; where conflicts with
protected rights arise, is the wording of the clause sufficient to ensure that
rights are appropriately considered; and will the clause encourage a
meaningful assessment of the justification of governmental objectives in
conflict with rights?
A second and more compelling criticism of the Canada clause was its
ambiguity regarding whether aboriginal women, under a system of aboriginal
self-government, would be protected by the Charter. The Native Women’s
Association of Canada (NWAC) sought an injunction to halt the referendum
on the bases that 1) its members were excluded from the constitutional review
process and 2) the Accord would undermine protection under the Charter. This
second argument is most relevant here. The concern arose from a proposal to
entrench a “contextual statement” to ensure that the Charter would not prevent
aboriginal governments from safeguarding and developing their languages,
cultures, economies, institutions and traditions. NWAC’s criticism was that
the Accord would confer significant discretion upon aboriginal governments
to promote traditional and collective values that may undermine protection for
individual women’s rights (NWAC, 3).
In response to heavy pressure from aboriginal women, the drafters of the
constitutional accord inserted a clause to address the equality of aboriginal
men and women (Fine). However, the draft legal text, which was available
only late in the referendum debate, contained ambiguous clauses on the
relationship between aboriginal policy values and the Charter. While a
proposed amendment to the Constitution Act 1982 would have guaranteed the
rights of aboriginal peoples equally regardless of gender (s. 35(7)), the Canada
clause, an interpretive clause for the entire constitution including the Charter,
would have guaranteed aboriginal governments the “right to promote their
languages, cultures and traditions and to ensure the integrity of their societies”
130
Perspective
(s. 2(b)). These clauses did little to address NWAC’s concern that women can,
and historically have been, harmed by actions taken in the name of cultural or
traditional values (NWAC, 3).
It is difficult to conclude that aboriginal women’s reliance on a “rights must be
paramount” framework to assess the constitution discouraged meaningful
debate on the relationship between rights and aboriginal self-government. It
would have been virtually impossible to engage in thoughtful debate about the
relative significance of collective values, given the undefined nature of the
proposal for aboriginal self-government as well as the ambiguity and apparent
conflict between the preceding clauses.
Conclusions
It is difficult to draw any sharp conclusions about whether the rights must be
paramount perspective will continue to characterize constitutional debate.
Despite an implicit reassessment of the utility of this approach in the 1991 and
early 1992 constitutional debate, rights-based assessments assumed an
important role in criticisms of the Charlottetown Accord in the fall of 1992.
Memories of the sharp Anglophone/Francophone division generated by the
distinct society debate in the Meech Lake Accord likely created a reluctance to
engage in a similar debate in 1991 and early 1992. Further, as this paper has
suggested, this ethnic/linguistic division subsequently encouraged greater
sensitivity to the issue of whether Quebec’s more collective approach to rights
and values could be accommodated within a “rights must be paramount”
perspective.
Rights-based assessments of the proposed constitutional amendments did not
generate the same Anglophone/Francophone division in the later
Charlottetown round. Secure in the knowledge of wide-spread opposition to
the Accord (both in and out of Quebec), conveyed and reinforced by frequent
public opinion polling, those with rights-based objections did not have to
weigh these principles against the risk of further alienating Quebec. There was
not, in other words, sufficient or compelling reason to reassess the prudence of
adopting a “rights must be paramount” assessment of the Accord.
Given our limited experience with the Charter, it is hardly surprising that
attitudes about the relationship between citizens and the state, limits and rights
or governments and courts are still adjusting to the significant societal and
institutional changes represented by the Charter. Aside from the distinct
society debate, we simply have not been compelled by circumstances to
reassess uncritical assumptions about the primacy of protected rights. Further,
we have not yet been exposed to many fundamentally divisive judicial
outcomes in which Charter-based entitlements are fundamentally at odds with
deeply held values. While there has been a handful of contentious judicial
cases, these have not been of the kind that fundamentally challenge our
intuitive, moral and political senses of what is right, just or fair, or that engage
us in protracted and contentious discussions of the merits of values in conflict
with protected rights. Increasingly, as rights-based claims call into question
the validity of strongly held values, we may realize that, under some
circumstances, the Charter’s contribution to the political process will be less a
matter of vindicating rights-based claims and more a responsibility of
determining where our priorities and emphases should be placed when
reconciling conflicting values. One consequence of living with the Charter
may be pressure to rethink the utility of a “rights must be paramount”
131
IJCS / RIÉC
perspective, given its inherent limitations in fostering and contributing to a
meaningful debate about the priorities we assign to competing values. In light
of the incompleteness and indeterminacy of the Charter’s values, it is simply
no answer to argue that if a value is not explicitly mentioned in the Charter, it
cannot and should not be accommodated in the constitutional order.
Notes
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
132
Nor does it recognize the potential of s. 33 as a means of reconciling non-entrenched values
by temporarily limiting the applicability of the Charter. However, the unpopularity of the
legislative override outside Quebec makes it difficult to engage in this discussion.
This argument was first made by the author in “Representation and the Charter: Should
Rights be Paramount?” in David Smith and John Courtney (ed.), Drawing Boundaries:
Legislatures, Courts and Electoral Values, 1992.
See for example, Hiebert, “Representation and the Charter: Should Rights be Paramount?”
The word Charter here is placed in quotations to recognize the limitations of talking about
Charter rights as opposed to protected rights. The difficulty with using the word Charter in
this context is that it connotes, to many, the belief that only those rights actually contained in
the Charter, as recognized by the Court, are constitutionally legitimate. But the argument
being made in this paper is that by recognizing different values and policies not specifically
enumerated, as a reasonable limit under s. 1, courts may provide constitutional protection to
a broader range of values than those specifically enumerated. Through section 1
interpretations, therefore, other values also receive Charter recognition. For this reason, the
term “protected rights” is preferable to “Charter rights.”
One other particularly controversial decision was R. v. Seaboyer; R. v. Gayme (1991) 2
S.C.R. 577, in which rape shield legislation (designed to shield women from having their
sexual histories discussed in sexual assault proceedings) was struck down. Intensive
lobbying, however, resulted in revised legislation which, because it defines consent and
places the onus on the alleged assaulter to show intent had been given, may be viewed as a
significant improvement over the previous provisions. This revised legislation has not yet
been challenged under the Charter.
One of the clearest expressions of this position is offered by Lorraine Weinrib, “The
Supreme Court of Canada and Section One of the Charter.” Supreme Court Law Review, v.
19, 1988.
The trilogy consisted of Reference re Public Service Employee Relations Act (Alta.), (1987)
1 S.C.R. 313; Government of Saskatchewan v. Retail Wholesale and Department Store
Union, Locals 544, 496, 635 & 955, (1987) 1 S.C.R. 460; and R. v. Public Service Alliance of
Canada (1987) 1 S.C.R. 424.
See, for example, the intervening factums by Women’s Legal Education Action Fund in R. v.
Seaboyer; R. v. Gayme (1991) 2 S.C.R. 577.
During the public hearings of the Lortie Commission (Royal Commission on Electoral
Reform and Party Financing), four-fifths of intervenors who addressed the issue of election
spending limits favoured this principle. This sentiment was mirrored by the results of an
attitudinal study in which 93% of respondents supported spending regulations for political
parties. Reforming Electoral Democracy, v. 1, 1991, p. 334.
Mary Ann Glendon raises similar criticisms of American “rights talk”. See Mary Ann
Glendon, Rights Talk: The Impoverishment of Political Discourse, 1991.
Critics who viewed the distinct society clause in this manner ascribed little significance to
the pan-Canadian aspects of the clause; specifically, the recognition in s. 2(1)(a) of Frenchspeaking Canadians present in Quebec which are part of the fundamental characteristics of
Canada.
These organizations were the National Association of Women and the Law (NAWL), the
Women’s Legal Education and Act Fund (LEAF), the Canadian Advisory Council on the
Status of Women (CACSW), the National Action Committee on the Status of Women
(NAC) and the Ad Hoc Committee of Women on the Constitution.
Carol Goar, “How PM Infuriated Women’s Groups,” Toronto Star, August 27, 1987, A2.
Perspective
14.
15.
16.
17.
The only change made was a modification of the skeleton proposal of the April 30, 1987
meeting of 11 First Ministers. In that day-long session the Ministers achieved agreement in
principle for the Meech Lake proposals but left, for a later date, the task of fleshing out the
legal text. Changes were in response to criticisms that the clause, as originally worded,
promoted the notion of “two Canadas.” The original clause recognized “the existence of
French-speaking Canada, centred in but not limited to Quebec, and English-speaking
Canada, concentrated outside Quebec but also present in Canada.” The new phrasing
reflected an attempt to eliminate the conception of two Canadas by altering the reference to
“French-speaking Canada” and “English-speaking Canada.” The new wording recognized
“the existence of French-speaking Canadians . . . and English-speaking Canadians”. The
significance of the change is the clause defined groups of people rather than geographical
regions.
Senator Lowell Murray was particularly emphatic in his suggestion that the distinct society
clause would not adversely affect protected rights in the Charter. Joint Parliamentary
Committee, August 4, 1987, 2:50.
While Wells was willing to consider having the Charter interpreted in a manner consistent
with the preservation and promotion of Quebec as a distinct society within Canada, he did
express concern with the wording of the federal proposal. His recommendation was to make
it clear that the distinct society clause would only affect Charter interpretations of Quebec
and not federal laws. A second concern with the wording was the possibility that the
definition of “distinct society” might be broadened over time to include considerations other
than language, culture and the civil law tradition.
Some individuals and groups have continued to argue that the distinct society clause would
undermine individual rights. However, like the 1991 federal proposal, the clause did not
generate the same degree of opposition as during the Meech Lake debate. For criticism of
distinct society in the Charlottetown Accord, see Deborah Coyne and Robert Howse, No
Deal: Why Canadians should reject the Mulroney Constitution, 1992.
Bibliography
Baines, Bev. “Why Lawyers Should Vote ‘No’,” Kate Sutherland, ed., Perspectives on the
Charlottetown Accord, Centre for Constitutional Studies, 1992.
Bonenfant, Claire. Fédération des femmes du Québec, Minutes of Proceedings and Evidence of
the Special Joint Committee of the Senate and of the House of Commons on the 1987
Constitutional Accord, 13:44-45.
Brock, Kathy L. “A Mandate Fulfilled: Constitutional Reform and the Manitoba Task Force on
Meech Lake.” 1990.
Canada. Reforming Electoral Democracy, v. 1, 1991.
Canada. Renewal of Canada Conferences: Compendium of Reports, Constitutional Conferences
Secretariat, 1992.
Canada. “Shaping Canada’s Future Together: Proposals,” Minister of Supply and Services, 1991.
Cohen, M. Joint Parliamentary Committee Hearings, 18 October 1980, 7:86.
Dworkin, Ronald, “Liberalism,” in Michael Sandel, ed., Liberalism and its Critics, 1984.
Equality Eve. “The Government’s Proposals and How They Could Affect You,” 1991.
Everitt, Donna. Brandon Women’s Study Group. Special Joint Committee.
Fine, Sean. “Native Women aim to block national referendum campaign in Court,” Globe and
Mail, Oct. 13, 1992, A10.
Globe and Mail, “Bourassa’s use of Charter clause shows his vision of distinct Quebec”,
December 22, 1988, A1, A5.
Goar, Carol. “How PM Infuriated Women’s Groups,” Toronto Star, August 27, 1987, A2.
Henderson, Keith. Canadians for Equality of Rights under the Constitution, Special Joint
Committee, 17 December 1991, 32:34.
Hiebert, Janet. “The Evolution of the Limitation Clause in the Charter,” Osgoode Hall Law
Journal, Winter 1990.
Hiebert, Janet. “Representation and the Charter: Should Rights be Paramount?”, David Smith and
John Courtney (ed.), Drawing Boundaries: Legislatures, Courts and Electoral Values,
1992.
Hiebert, Janet. Ph.D dissertation, “Determining the Limits of Charter Rights: How Much
Discretion do Governments Retain?”, University of Toronto, 1991.
Horowitz, G. “Conservatism, Liberalism and Socialism in Canada: An Interpretation,” Canadian
Journal of Economics and Political Science, v. xxxii, 1966.
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Knopff, Rainer and F.L. Morton. “Nation-Building and the Canadian Charter of Rights and
Freedoms,” Constitutionalism, Citizenship and Society in Canada, Alan Cairns and Cynthia
Williams, eds., Coordinators, 1985.
Mandel, Michael. The Charter of Rights and the Legalization of Politics in Canada, 1989.
Monahan, Patrick. Politics and the Constitution: The Charter, Federalism and the Supreme Court
of Canada. 1987.
NAC Response to Federal Constitutional Proposals. Oct. 25, 1991.
Native Women’s Association of Canada, Press Release, September 21, 1992.
Peck, Sidney. “An Analytical Framework for the Application of The Canadian Charter of Rights
and Freedoms.” Osgoode Hall Law Journal, v. 25, 1987.
Rebick, Judy. President National Action Committee on the Status of Women. Special Joint
Committee on a Renewed Canada, 29 Oct. 1991, 10:18-19.
Russell, Peter H. “Political Purposes of the Canadian Charter,” The Canadian Bar Review, March
1983.
Schneiderman, David. (ed.) “Conversations Among Friends,” Proceedings of an interdisciplinary
Conference on Women and Constitutional Reform, Centre for Constitutional Studies,
Edmonton, 1992.
Smith, Lynn. “The Distinct Society Clause in the Meech Lake Accord: Could it Affect Equality
Rights for Women?” in Competing Constitutional Visions. 1988
Wells, Clyde. “Commentary on the Federal Government’s Proposals, Shaping Canada’s Future
Together,” 22 October 1991, Presented to the Newfoundland and Labrador Committee on
the Constitution.
134
Linda Cardinal
Les mouvements sociaux et la Charte canadienne
des droits et libertés*
Résumé
Cet article propose une analyse critique de trois modes d’interprétation quant
à la portée de la Charte canadienne des droits et libertés : la judiciarisation de
la politique; la prédominance des droits individuels sur les droits collectifs; et,
enfin, les rapports entre démocratie et citoyenneté. Bien que ces modes aient
donné le ton aux débats sur les possibilités de changement dans la société
canadienne, leur validité est loin d’être démontrée. En conclusion, l’article
tente d’élucider les rapports entre les mouvements sociaux et la Charte.
Abstract
This article offers a critical analysis of three ways of interpreting the scope of
the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms: the judicialization of politics;
the predominance of individual over collective rights; and, lastly, the ties
between democracy and citizenship. Although these interpretations have set
the tone of debate over possibilities for change in Canadian society, their
validity is far from proven. In conclusion, the article attempts to elucidate the
ties between social movements and the Charter.
L’éclosion, dans les années 1980, de mouvements sociaux avant tout
préoccupés de la précarité des droits de la personne semble avoir favorisé
l’émergence à l’échelle mondiale des conditions nécessaires à l’action sociale
et politique (Cairns, 1986). Scandalisés par le totalitarisme de plusieurs pays
dits démocratiques et populaires, des gens de divers horizons ont entrepris de
remettre en cause la problématique révolutionnaire (Ferry et Renault, 1985), si
bien que l’idée d’une transformation « radicale » de la société ne se posera plus
réellement (Keane, 1988). Désormais, le changement découlera davantage de
l’action de groupes à l’intérieur de mouvements qui deviendront, eux, des
lieux d’appartenance et des espaces de rassemblement (Melucci, 1983).
Le Canada n’a pas échappé à ce courant. Soucieux de protéger les citoyennes et
citoyens contre les abus, le gouvernement fédéral adopte en 1982 la Charte
canadienne des droits et libertés, ce qui devait entraîner l’apparition au pays
d’un « mouvement social » voué à la défense des droits de la personne.
Quoique fragmenté, ce mouvement en vient à constituer une force bien
supérieure à celle de tout groupe particulier. La nouvelle loi constitutionnelle
ouvre en outre aux mouvements sociaux des champs d’action en faveur des
personnes directement touchées par la Charte : femmes, autochtones,
personnes handicapées, membres des minorités raciales, ethniques et
linguistiques. Elle encourage la politisation de leurs revendications,
notamment en matière d’avortement, d’action positive, de droits des
autochtones et des minorités de langue française de l’extérieur du Québec. Si,
IJCS / RIÉC
en un sens, la Charte ne fait qu’accompagner des changements qui étaient déjà
en marche avant 1982, son adoption marque toutefois un moment important
pour les mouvements sociaux. Elle les amène à sortir leurs revendications du
domaine des questions spécifiques pour en faire des questions de droits de la
personne en même temps que des enjeux politiques reliés à la définition de la
citoyenneté au Canada, leur permettant d’acquérir en corollaire une légitimité
politique sans précédent au pays.
Cette situation fait du Canada un cas intéressant en vue d’une réflexion sur les
mouvements sociaux d’aujourd’hui, puisque la Charte nous oblige à
reconsidérer le rapport entre les intervenants sociaux et l’espace politique.
Malheureusement, on n’a guère étudié l’incidence de la Charte sur les
mouvements sociaux au Canada. Nous savons que les groupes, notamment le
mouvement des femmes (Gotell, 1991), ont pris part au débat menant à
l’adoption de la Charte, mais peu d’analyses ont porté sur l’utilisation qu’ils en
ont fait par la suite. À l’exception de certaines études de cas, réalisées surtout
par les féministes (Fudge, 1987; Brodsky et Day 1989; Razack, 1991; Brodie
et al., 1992), presque tout reste à faire1.
On s’en est tenu jusqu’ici à débattre ses effets sur la société canadienne, se
demandant, par exemple, si elle ne condamnait pas le Canada à suivre la voie
des États-Unis dans l’utilisation que l’on pourra faire de la référence aux droits
de la personne. Certaines, certains ont décrit de nouveaux phénomènes qui
confirmeraient cette hypothèse : la judiciarisation2 de la politique (Mandel,
1989) et la prédominance des droits individuels sur les droits collectifs
(Bourque, 1990). D’autres ont cherché à comprendre comment la Charte
permettait de repenser les rapports entre la démocratie et la citoyenneté
(Cairns, 1986; Taylor, 1986).
Sans porter directement sur les mouvements sociaux, ces différents modes
d’interprétation ont cependant donné le ton aux débats sur les possibilités de
changement aujourd’hui, agissant ainsi sur l’articulation du lien entre les
groupes et la Charte. Or, aussi bien sur les plans théorique qu’empirique, la
validité des hypothèses qu’on nous propose reste à démontrer, surtout
lorsqu’elles intéressent les mouvements sociaux. Comme, par ailleurs, la
sociologie s’oriente depuis 1982 vers l’analyse de l’action des groupes, une
lecture critique des modes d’interprétation de la Charte s’impose donc. Qui
plus est, nous tenterons dans ce texte d’articuler les deux domaines en vue de
repenser les mouvements sociaux en fonction de la Charte.
Il s’agira, dans un premier temps, de procéder à un bref rappel de la sociologie
des mouvements sociaux afin d’en préciser l’expression et de situer nos propos
dans le temps avant de nous livrer à une lecture critique des différentes
interprétations de la portée de la Charte sur la société canadienne. Pour
conclure, nous reprendrons ces analyses pour mieux revenir à notre
questionnement : définir le rapport des actrices et acteurs à l’espace politique
et tenter d’esquisser les grandes lignes de notre compréhension de la
pertinence de la Charte dans l’étude des mouvements sociaux et du
changement.
Parce qu’elle repose essentiellement sur l’efficacité de notre dialectique et, en
bout de ligne, sur nos opinions, pareille entreprise a des limites évidentes,
notamment celle de ne pas éclairer la portée de la Charte sur le plan empirique.
Néanmoins, elle nous apparaît nécessaire dans la mesure où nous sommes
138
Les mouvements sociaux et la Charte canadienne des droits
et libertés
insatisfaite de ce que nous proposent les interprètes de la Charte, surtout
lorsqu’ils interpellent les mouvements sociaux.
La sociologie des mouvements sociaux
Nous rattachons notre étude du cas canadien à la sociologie des mouvements
sociaux, car notre intérêt principal est le changement social contemporain tel
qu’il a été étudié dans ce champ. Alain Touraine (1974), qui a donné le ton aux
analyses sur la question, a réussi à créer un consensus autour de la définition de
mouvement social, définition que son collaborateur Michel Wieviorka résume
ainsi :
...une action conflictuelle, inscrite dans un rapport structurel de
domination, portée par un acteur capable de se reconnaître dans une
identité sociale et d’en reconnaître une à son adversaire, capable
également de se situer sur un terrain qui est le même pour l’acteur
auquel il s’oppose — et donc d’agir pour le contrôle des mêmes
enjeux, des mêmes ressources culturelles. (1991 : 154)
Depuis les années soixante-dix, la sociologie des mouvements sociaux
s’appuie largement sur cette définition et ses analyses portent principalement
sur les protagonistes, leurs projets, leurs luttes, leur culture politique et leur
capacité à limiter le pouvoir de l’État (Castoriadis, 1975, 1979; Maheu, 1983;
Touraine, 1978, 1980, 1981, 1984). Pendant les années quatre-vingts, nous
avons aussi été amenés à nous demander si les mouvements étaient porteurs
d’une stratégie de radicalisation de la démocratie (Laclau et Mouffe, 1985),
d’une politique de radicalisme auto-limitatif (Cohen 1985), d’une action en
vue du développement d’une société civile démocratique et socialiste (Keane
1988) ou de pratiques individuelles et collectives mondiales (Hégédus, 1989).
Au Canada, les analyses des mouvements sociaux ont accordé une grande
importance à la société civile (Briskin, Adamson et McPhail, 1988; Gagnon et
Rioux, 1988; Magnusson, 1990; Thériault, 1985).
Ces quelques références montrent que la sociologie des mouvements sociaux a
beaucoup été préoccupée par les fins, c’est-à-dire par l’option politique, se
caractérisant par une approche de type volontariste selon laquelle les acteurs
seraient au centre des changements sociaux (Skocpol, 1985). Par conséquent,
elle s’est moins intéressée au rapport entre les protagonistes et le contexte
politique et ses institutions. Au Canada, avant comme après l’adoption de la
Charte, la sociologie s’est peu penchée sur la façon dont, par exemple, l’État
(les pouvoirs législatif, exécutif et judiciaire) a contribué au développement et
à la structuration de l’action.
De surcroît, la sociologie des mouvements sociaux n’a pas encore, à notre
connaissance, proposé de repères d’ordre théorique susceptibles de nous
éclairer sur la question des droits. Elle est demeurée relativement silencieuse
sur la signification des revendications en matière notamment d’avortement,
d’égalité, de paix, d’autodétermination3. Elle a plutôt pensé les mouvements
sociaux à l’extérieur de la problématique des droits pour analyser leurs visées
de changement plus radical.
Également, elle a étudié les mouvements sociaux en postulant essentiellement
que l’État ne pouvait que s’employer à les contrôler (Keane, 1988; Ng, 1990).
Or, au Canada, les gouvernements ont, jusque pendant les années quatrevingts, joué un rôle relativement important dans la mobilisation des groupes
139
IJCS / RIÉC
sociaux, que ce soit au moyen de programmes visant à encourager la
participation démocratique des citoyennes et des citoyens au développement
communautaire4, de commissions royales d’enquête5 ou de subventions
directes à des groupes donnés.
Ces quelques observations montrent que nous n’avons pas suffisamment de
moyens pour expliquer la part qui revient aux mouvements sociaux dans le
changement contemporain. Nous savons qu’ils sont des espaces de
rassemblement et de débats, qu’ils soulèvent des enjeux importants et qu’ils
font avancer les mentalités. L’absence d’études de cas pouvant nous éclairer
sur la question traduit toutefois la nature plutôt générale à ce jour des analyses à
ce sujet. Notre intérêt pour la Charte provient donc de ce fait qu’elle oblige la
sociologie à situer l’action des groupes sur le plan politique6 et à comprendre
son développement.
La Charte
Rappelons rapidement que la Charte vient remplacer la Loi canadienne sur les
droits de la personne promulguée en 1960, laquelle n’avait aucune portée
constitutionnelle ni effet dans les champs de compétence provinciaux. À cet
égard, la Loi constitutionnelle de 1982 va beaucoup plus loin, reconnaissant,
entre autres, certains droits à caractère collectif et la légitimité des mesures
d’accès à l’égalité (affirmative action). Ainsi, l’article 15 (1), par exemple,
stipule que : « La loi ne fait acception de personne et s’applique également à
tous, et tous ont droit à la même protection et au même bénéfice de la loi,
indépendamment de toute discrimination, notamment des discriminations
fondées sur la race, l’origine nationale ou ethnique, la couleur, la religion, le
sexe, l’âge ou les déficiences mentales ou physiques », tandis que le
paragraphe (2) du même article exempte expressément les mesures visant à
« améliorer » la situation des groupes des effets restrictifs des dispositions
relatives à l’égalité formelle7.
L’article 27 consacre le principe du multiculturalisme de la société canadienne
alors que l’article 28 précise que la Charte s’applique également aux hommes
et aux femmes8. De plus, ses articles 16 à 20 consacrent la nature bilingue du
pays et l’article 23 garantit les droits à l’éducation dans la langue maternelle
des membres des minorités linguistiques.
Tandis que la Loi canadienne sur les droits de la personne donne lieu à peu
d’activisme juridique en ce qui a trait à la défense des droits civils, la Charte
inaugure un important processus de révision judiciaire. Mis à part les cas
relevant du Code criminel qu’on attendait de régler avec l’entrée en vigueur de
la Charte, les mouvements sociaux, tout particulièrement, choisiront de
soumettre aux tribunaux diverses questions touchant les droits à incidence
collective, comme ceux des femmes et des minorités. Pour faciliter ce
processus, le Secrétariat d’État créera la Commission des droits de la personne
qui subventionnera les groupes désireux d’emprunter la voie judiciaire pour
faire reconnaître leurs droits. Jusqu’en 1992, le gouvernement canadien
finance aussi un programme de contestation judiciaire dont le budget de plus
de 8 millions de dollars servira à appuyer financièrement « la contestation
devant les tribunaux judiciaires de causes types reliées, entre autres, aux litiges
de nature linguistique » (1991 : 1). Ce programme soutenait aussi les causes
touchant le droit des groupes (femmes, autochtones, personnes handicapées et
minorités visibles) à l’égalité.
140
et libertés
De plus, certains groupes créent leur propre fonds pour « financer des
contestations découlant de la Charte » (Knopff et Morton, 1986 : 175) et
intervenir dans des causes types afin de faire avancer la jurisprudence dans ces
dossiers9. Signalons, entre autres, l’Association canadienne pour les libertés
civiles, le Comité canadien d’action sur le statut de la femme (CCA),
l’Association nationale des femmes et du droit (ANFD), le Women’s Legal
Education and Action Fund (LEAF). Pour leur part, les juges, sous le nouveau
régime de 1982, ont eu à prendre des décisions importantes en ce qui a trait, par
exemple, au choix en matière d’avortement (Morgentaler, 1988), à la Loi 101
au Québec (Brown, 1990), ou à la gestion scolaire en milieu francophone
minoritaire (Mahé, 1990).
Manifestement, la Charte a poussé les mouvements sociaux sur la voie de
l’activisme juridique et du changement institutionnel. Elle a aussi eu pour effet
de les sortir du modèle traditionnel de gestionnaires de la revendication sociale
pour devenir des gestionnaires de droits qui favorisent l’avènement de
titulaires de nouveaux droits et donc de nouveaux protagonistes
constitutionnels. Or, si la sociologie s’est peu intéressée à ce phénomène, des
interprètes de la Charte n’ont pas tardé à faire connaître leurs vues sur ses
effets. En se demandant si la Charte contribuait à l’américanisation de la
société, à la prédominance des droits individuels sur les droits collectifs et à la
remise en cause de la démocratie politique, ils ont indiqué des pistes de
réflexion fécondes pour une sociologie des mouvements sociaux qui tente de
comprendre le politique. D’où l’intérêt que nous leur portons.
La Charte et ses interprétations
Trois types d’interprétation de la Charte et de sa portée sur les groupes et, de
façon plus large, sur le développement de la société canadienne, soit la
citoyenneté méritent d’être examinés. Un premier discours, formulé par
Michael Mandel (1989) et la gauche canadienne-anglaise, juge que la Loi
constitutionnelle de 1982 relève d’actions non démocratiques servant à
dépolitiser le débat sur les questions sociales. Elle aurait pour effet de réduire
la politique au juridique accélérant ainsi le mouvement, déjà en cours,
d’américanisation de la société canadienne. Un deuxième, tenu par Gilles
Bourque (1990) et les nationalistes québécois, estime que la Charte consacre
la prédominance des droits individuels sur les droits collectifs, ce qui
accentuerait également l’américanisation de la société canadienne et
renverrait à l’histoire toute vision de la nation fondée sur la communauté. Une
troisième approche, adoptée par Alan Cairns (1986) et une certaine élite
libérale canadienne-anglaise, concentre son analyse sur les objectifs initiaux
de la Charte : la protection des droits des citoyennes et des citoyens et
l’épanouissement de la nation canadienne (le « nation-building »).
Les deux premières interprétations interpellent les mouvements sociaux parce
qu’elles supposent que la Charte les condamne à participer à l’américanisation
de la société canadienne. Aux yeux des tenants de la troisième interprétation, la
Charte favoriserait plutôt « la reconnaissance de clivages sociaux au pays à
partir desquels la capacité de la Charte à contribuer à l’unité canadienne
semble plus difficile à réaliser que prévu. » En effet, selon Cairns, « du point
de vue de la démocratie, le problème est le suivant : la politisation des divisions
sociales, jointe à la multiplication des différentiations typiques de la société
moderne, érode notre identité de citoyens préoccupés par la totalité de la
société » (1986 : 92). De plus, le rapprochement de l’État et des groupes pour
structurer l’action de ces derniers mène à l’établissement d’un rapport patron-
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client, ce qui rend encore plus difficile l’identification de ces groupes à une
vision commune de la citoyenneté.
Ainsi, les objectifs politiques de la Charte interpellent les mouvements
sociaux dans la mesure où ils seraient, selon cette dernière interprétation,
devenus la cinquième roue du carosse. Doit-on conclure que les mouvements
sociaux entravent la réalisation des objectifs d’unité nationale ou d’une
redéfinition de la citoyenneté au Canada ? La thèse de Cairns porte à réfléchir
sur cette dernière question, et c’est ici qu’une sociologie des mouvements
sociaux devrait permettre de la valider ou non. De surcroît, elle pourra aussi se
demander si les mouvements sont l’objet d’une manipulation politique au
profit d’une américanisation de la société ou encore des besoins de légitimité
de l’État canadien. Nous allons, dans les pages qui suivent, tenter de jeter un
certain éclairage théorique sur ces questions.
L’hypothèse de la judiciarisation de la politique
La première hypothèse, nous l’avons déjà dit, a été formulée largement par
l’intelligentsia canadienne-anglaise (de gauche), notamment par Michael
Mandel, auteur du livre The Charter of Rights and the Legalization of Politics
of Canada (1989). Selon lui, la Charte est une initiative non démocratique
relevant d’un mouvement qui vise la judiciarisation de la politique au Canada
et qui est, de surcroît, au service du plus fort. Ainsi, les individus et les groupes
concernés par la Charte deviendraient des victimes de garanties
constitutionnelles qui devaient, en principe, les protéger contre les abus des
plus forts.
Évidemment, nous ne pouvons nier le fait que la Charte encourage une
certaine judiciarisation des débats politiques au Canada et l’avènement d’un
gouvernement des juges qui peuvent désormais se substituer aux législateurs.
Les juges interviennent dans les débats en vertu de leur autorité et du pouvoir
qui leur est conféré, ce qui peut parfois inquiéter même dans les cas où ils
décideraient en faveur des « plus faibles ». Mais à l’opposé des tenants de
l’hypothèse de la judiciarisation, nous estimons que cette situation est
antérieure à 1982. À titre d’exemple, de 1969 à 1988, le débat sur le droit des
femmes en matière d’avortement a été fortement caractérisé par l’intervention
des juges chargés d’interpréter la loi existante. Par contre, en 1988, le jugement
de la Cour suprême du Canada dans l’affaire Morgentaler se démarque de cette
tendance en déclarant la Loi sur l’avortement inconstitutionnelle. Ainsi, les
juges renvoient aux femmes et aux hommes politiques la responsabilité de
légiférer sur la question. Ils s’abstiennent également de recommandations en la
matière, indiquant clairement à la classe politique leur refus d’assumer son
rôle. Pour sa part, le gouvernement Mulroney tire profit du fait que ce soit les
juges qui tranchent la question de l’avortement, évitant ainsi de se mettre à dos
une partie de l’électorat. De fait, le débat sur le droit des femmes en cette
matière illustre bien comment, au Canada, les législateurs et le gouvernement
veulent confier aux juges le soin de décider de quel côté il faut pencher10 ! De
plus, le droit qui se projette comme un moyen de transformation sociale est ici
perçu comme une échappatoire.
Néanmoins, les questions qui hantent la société canadienne — avortement,
droits linguistiques et équité—ainsi que les débats n’en sont pas pour autant
dépolitisés et les mouvements démobilisés. Aussi, l’idée de la judiciarisation
de la politique semble bien constituer un prétexte pour faire valoir une vision
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manichéenne du pouvoir : celle des « forts » contre les « faibles », celle du
pouvoir juridique contre le pouvoir politique.
Cependant, la critique selon laquelle la judiciarisation du politique se
produirait au détriment du lien communautaire qui unit les membres d’un
groupe ne manque pas d’intérêt (Thériault, 1988). Elle vise à comprendre
l’incidence du droit sur le développement des communautés francophones et
acadiennes du Canada tout en permettant de contextualiser le recours au droit
au lieu de le dénoncer. Selon Thériault (1990), il faut reconnaître que les luttes
judiciaires francophones pour le droit à l’éducation se situent dans la
mouvance actuelle de l’individualisme en ce qu’elles libèrent « l’individu des
pesanteurs du social » (1990 : 141). Cela lui permet d’entretenir une relation
légale avec le monde plutôt qu’un rapport organique. Et plus une société se
posera la question des droits, plus on assistera à un élargissement de son espace
juridique11. Ainsi, le phénomène de la judiciarisation de la politique fait appel
à une réflexion plus large sur le droit comme facteur de modernisation des
sociétés.
Cette analyse rejoint celle de Taylor (1986 : 253) selon qui on ne peut, en effet,
nier la pertinence du droit ou des droits dans la société moderne. Il nous ramène
néanmoins à la question de l’américanisation de la société canadienne en
proposant de situer le droit dans le contexte de la démocratie. Le Canada,
précise-t-il, est une société davantage fondée sur un modèle politique de
participation que sur celui des droits individuels. Aussi, une société qui prône
un modèle de droits individuels comme les États-Unis reconnaît aux groupes
ou particuliers la possibilité d’affirmer leurs droits contre l’opinion de la
majorité (1986 : 237). On doit donc conclure que le choix du droit comme
moyen de faire avancer la situation des groupes sociaux défavorisés peut
conduire à l’américanisation de la société. Or, il n’en demeure pas moins que
l’utilisation qu’en ont fait, par exemple, les femmes et les minorités
linguistiques a enfin permis d’actualiser des droits que la majorité
reconnaissait en principe.
Des droits qui s’affrontent
La question de la judiciarisation de la politique déborde sur une autre
interprétation selon laquelle la Charte conduit à renforcer la prédominance des
droits individuels sur les droits collectifs. Cette idée, soutenue tout
particulièrement par les nationalistes québécois, a été formulée
principalement par Gilles Bourque (1990) puis étudiée par Robert Vandycke
(1990).
Selon Bourque, « la Charte tend à provoquer une véritable régression des
aspects communautaires de la représentation du monde12 » (1990 : 158),
ajoutant qu’elle produit « un net rétrécissement de la communauté nationale
minoritaire » (159). Pourtant, certaines de ses dispositions, notamment celles
portant sur l’action positive (affirmative action) reconnaissent l’existence de
groupes même s’il est vrai qu’elle n’enchâsse pas le droit des Québécoises et
des Québécois à l’autodétermination, lequel correspondrait à un droit collectif.
Mais la Charte ne peut être réduite, comme dans le cas des jugements par les
dispositions de la Loi 101 en matière d’affichage, à certaines interprétations de
juges qui auraient accordé la priorité au droit individuel d’afficher en anglais
sur les droits collectifs des Québécoises et des Québécois. L’accent que le
Québec met sur les droits collectifs peut donner l’impression que celui-ci est
prêt à sacrifier les droits individuels de sa population alors que la Charte
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québécoise des droits et libertés reconnaît elle aussi des droits individuels à ses
citoyennes et citoyens.
L’interprétation selon laquelle la Charte fait prédominer les droits individuels
sur les droits collectifs participe elle aussi d’une vision manichéenne du
pouvoir : celle des Canadiens anglais contre les Québécois francophones et
vice-versa. La distinction entre les deux notions de droits individuels et de
droits collectifs relève plutôt de la confusion. On mélange, comme l’écrit
Marie (1988 : 191-200), « le titulaire des droits de l’homme » et « les
conditions de réalisation de ceux-ci en réduisant le sujet au mode d’exercise de
ses droits ». Droits individuels et droits collectifs ne sont pas nécessairement
des synonymes mais, selon Marie, « le droit des peuples à l’auto-détermination
a souvent été présenté, tant lors de l’élaboration de pactes qu’après l’adoption
de ces instruments, comme la condition indispensable du respect des droits de
l’homme » (194).
Nous pourrions citer longuement ce spécialiste des droits de la personne qui a
réussi à clarifier les ambiguïtés « sémantiques » et « méthodologiques » qui
caractérisent les notions de droits individuels et de droits collectifs13. En effet,
le Québec reconnaît dans sa propre Charte la question des droits individuels et
le Canada, nous l’avons vu précédemment, fait de même pour les droits
collectifs. D’ailleurs, l’actualisation des droits, que l’on parle de droits à portée
individuelle ou collective, est identique dans les deux cas.
Tout comme Thériault (1990), nous insistons sur le fait que les droits, qu’ils
soient individuels ou collectifs, remettent en question l’espace de la
communauté et ses fondements historico-génétiques, et c’est en cela qu’ils
sont intéressants. Le droit permet aux individus de se projeter dans l’avenir à
partir d’une discussion sur leur devenir et de participer à une communauté ou à
des mouvements sur une base volontaire. Ainsi, le droit rejoint les aspirations
des mouvements sociaux d’une société qui vise l’autonomie individuelle et
collective. Autrement, ils sont condamnés à fonder leur appartenance au
monde sur une communauté empirique et inscrite dans une autre réalité,
notamment biologique, alors que le rejet du naturalisme est justement un de
leur cheval de bataille14.
Comme cas d’espèce, le conflit entre francophones et anglophones correspond
plutôt à une incompatibilité d’idéologies politiques justifiée par la référence
symbolique aux droits individuels par rapport aux droits collectifs qu’à des
réalités nécessairement contradictoires15. Il faudrait voir davantage le jeu de
l’idéologie dans le contexte de la Charte afin de mieux comprendre pourquoi
des groupes peuvent se prévaloir de certains droits alors que cela est
impossible pour d’autres, comme c’est le cas pour les Québécoises et les
Québécois par rapport au Canada16. Si la Charte contribue à la dépolitisation
des débats, elle révèle d’emblée sa nature politique. Par contre, affirmer
qu’elle aurait été conçue, comme le veut le sens commun nationaliste, en vue
de remettre le Québec à sa place dans la Confédération relève autant de la
théorie de la conspiration que de dire qu’elle ne sert que le droit du plus fort. On
confond l’effet avec la cause.
Vers une nation éclatée ?
La troisième interprétation fait porter son analyse sur les objectifs politiques de
la Charte, soit la protection des droits et libertés des citoyennes et citoyens
canadiens et le rafermissement de l’unité nationale. Alan Cairns,
principalement, s’intéressera aux objectifs politiques de la Charte pour
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constater que « les processus politiques complexes qui en ont permis
l’émergence ont fait en sorte que maints clivages et divisions internes ont été
reconnus, et parfois même stimulés » (1986 : 73). Et il ajoutera :
...ce qui surprend davantage, et qui révèle la politisation d’une
gamme toujours plus étendue de clivages et d’identités, c’est la
mesure avec laquelle la Charte complète sa reconnaissance de base de
droits individuels en établissant des distinctions à l’égard d’un
certain nombre de groupes particuliers, lesquels font l’objet d’une
reconnaissance constitutionnelle spéciale.
Cairns s’intéressera à la façon dont la Charte amorcera l’avènement d’un
« mouvement social » des droits de la personne au Canada, mouvement dont
l’influence risque, selon lui, de remettre en cause la réalisation de l’unité
nationale. Ainsi, les mouvements sociaux seront-ils directement interpellés
par les objectifs politiques de la Charte sur la question de la citoyenneté. Or, ils
seront aussi, par le fait même, les premiers à être véritablement concernés par
les attentes vis-à-vis l’État que la Charte contribuera à susciter chez les
groupes en question. Entre autres, l’État devra participer à la mise en place de
mesures visant à garantir le bien-être de certains groupes qui totalisent, par
ailleurs, pratiquement 70 p. 100 de la population du pays. On intègrera de
nouveaux groupes sociaux à l’État-providence, non seulement sur la base de
leur situation socio-économique, mais sur celle de la reconnaissance de la
nécessité de mesures spéciales visant à réparer des erreurs et à rompre avec la
discrimination.
Cette situation amènera Alan Cairns à conclure également que les
mouvements sociaux se retrouveront dans un rapport de clients à patron par
rapport à l’État (1986 : 75). Selon lui, la Charte aura contribué à l’avènement
d’une plus grande proximité des groupes avec l’État et une plus grande
intégration au processus bureaucratique. Devenus des professionnels de la
négociation et de la consultation, les groupes s’installeront dans le rapport
clients-patron au détriment de leur lien avec la communauté et ses membres.
Le réseau associatif francophone est un bon exemple d’un mouvement
propulsé dans la négociation et la consultation avec les gouvernements et qui,
au détriment de leur base et de leur référence au développement
communautaire, se muera en groupe d’intérêts. Au nom de la « participation »,
les groupes auront à évaluer des lois, des projets, des programmes. Ainsi, l’État
garantira le financement d’une certaine bureaucratie d’expertes et d’experts
détachés de leur base et bénéficiera du fait que le rapport clients-patron
contribuera à maintenir les clivages entre les groupes. En effet, chacun viendra
défendre ses intérêts particuliers et non une vision commune de la nation. Nous
confirmons donc les inquiétudes de Cairns.
Par contre, les groupes gagneront de ne pas avoir à se justifier politiquement.
Ils représentent, et cela semble suffire pour engager le dialogue avec l’État. Or,
qui parle et à quel titre ou au nom de quel « nous » ? Qui parmi les
organisations nationales des groupes de femmes au Canada sont les plus
représentatives de la population féminine canadienne ? En quoi, les
regroupements autochtones sont-ils représentatifs de leur base ? Quelle est la
place du processus démocratique et de la représentation au sein des
mouvements sociaux ? Ces questions semblent plus ou moins importantes. Les
groupes sont, en partie, devenus des groupes d’intérêts dont on ne remet pas en
cause la représentativité, car, en bout de ligne, ils confèrent une légitimité à
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l’État. Or, si la démocratisation de la société est inévitablement accompagnée
d’une certaine bureaucratisation (Turner, 1986), ce processus ne se déroule-til pas au détriment d’une reconstruction des mouvements sociaux comme lieu
de socialisation politique (Urry, 1981) ? La bureaucratie devient une forme de
vie en soi, détachée de son contexte, d’où la démobilisation des groupes et
l’avènement d’une oligarchie de militants professionnels. D’où aussi la
vulnérabilité de ces groupes devant l’État.
En résumé, largement intégrés à l’État, les mouvements sociaux semblent
contraints à ne rien faire d’autre que de négocier, voire de surveiller le
processus de reconnaissance de leurs droits. L’État devient un mal pour le
meilleur ou pour le pire et cela risque même d’avoir une portée sur la parole
politique des groupes, notamment sur leur capacité de proposer une vision
commune de la nation.
Citoyenneté et mouvements sociaux : une autre hypothèse
Selon Alan Cairns, nous l’avons vu plus haut, le rapprochement entre l’État et
la société civile vient exacerber les différences nationales et risque de porter
atteinte à l’unité nationale. La Charte aurait contribué à politiser différentes
formes d’identité constitutives du tissu social canadien, mais peu de groupes
seraient en mesure de donner un contenu universel à leur situation particulière.
« Du point de vue de la démocratie, affirme-t-il, le problème est le suivant : la
politisation des divisions sociales, jointe à la multiplication des
différentiations typiques de la société moderne, érode notre identité de
citoyens préoccupés par la totalité de la société » (1986 : 92). Bref, la Charte
entraînerait une sorte de balkanisation des spécificités sociales.
Par ailleurs, Cairns (1992) reconnaît que l’on ne peut plus négliger les intérêts
des nouveaux « citoyens de la Charte », — le cas des francophones hors du
Québec qui insistent sur le fait qu’ils ont des intérêts divergents d’avec ceux du
Québec est ici pertinent. Quoiqu’il en soit, on voit mal pourquoi cette situation
empêcherait les mouvements sociaux de se projeter politiquement dans une
nouvelle définition de la citoyenneté ? La sociologie des mouvements sociaux
n’a-t-elle pas réussi à démontrer qu’ils constituent des espaces de
rassemblement (Melucci, 1983), de discussion et de politisation (Keane, 1988;
Laclau et Mouffe, 1985) et non pas de simples extensions des gouvernements
? Aussi ne faudrait-il pas voir comment cette dimension de leur réalité est ou
n’est pas (ou n’est plus) à l’oeuvre dans le rapport des groupes à l’espace
politique. C’est ici que s’impose aussi une autre réflexion sur l’État et le droit
pour approfondir l’analyse des mouvements sociaux comme actrices, acteurs
constitutionnels participant, à ce titre, au débat politique sur la citoyenneté au
lieu de jouer un rôle plus passif au niveau du processus d’institutionnalisation
de leurs revendications. Notre hypothèse est que le droit a fait avancer la cause
des groupes et, contrairement aux hypothèses de l’américanisation de la
société et de la difficulté du « nation-building », que les mouvements sociaux
contribuent plutôt à un renouvellement du débat sur la citoyenneté. À titre
d’exemple, le droit de gestion scolaire accordé aux francophones vivant en
milieu minoritaire a permis de faire passer l’importance de la culture dans le
droit (Bastarache, 1986). Aussi, les interventions du Women’s Legal and
Education Action Fund ont permis d’exposer les inégalités entre les hommes et
les femmes dans les jugements des différents tribunaux (Razack, 1992).
Grâce à la fonction de socialisation politique des mouvements sociaux, nous
assistons en vérité à l’avènement d’un discours sociologique dans le droit qui
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et libertés
force la reconnaissance de réalités collectives et montre que tous les groupes
n’ont pas également accès à la citoyenneté. Ce discours met à nu le pouvoir de
domination d’un groupe sur l’autre sans pour autant tomber dans
l’essentialisme ou le génétique. Concurremment, le droit oblige la
communauté ou le groupe à se départir de ses fondements historicogénétiques, donc à dénaturaliser le social. Rappelons-le, le droit, nous dit
Thériault, « libère l’individu des pesanteurs du social » (1990 : 141); il lui
permet d’entretenir une relation légale et non plus seulement organique avec le
monde. Ainsi, les groupes deviennent des représentants de catégories
politiques et de sujets agissant au sein de l’espace public. Même s’ils sont aussi
toujours un peu l’« autre », ces sujets s’affirment puisqu’ils résistent à la
totalisation17. Les mouvements sociaux participent à la construction d’un
« nous » articulé autour d’un principe d’équivalents démocratiques, c’est-àdire d’un principe qui reconnaît l’égalité de chaque élément. Chantal Mouffe
(1992), à qui nous empruntons l’expression d’équivalents démocratiques
définit celui-ci comme « un principe d’articulation qui touche l’agent dans ses
différentes situations de sujet en même temps qu’il lui permettrait une pluralité
d’allégeance particulière et la liberté individuelle18. » À travers ce principe,
une nouvelle vision « commune » de la citoyenneté respecterait la pluralité des
groupes et des individus. Il n’y aurait donc plus d’identité qui dominerait
l’ensemble des identités.
Nous n’avons pas le choix, semble-t-il. Pour contrer ce que Cairns appelle une
balkanisation des particularismes sociaux encouragée par l’État, il faut
repenser la citoyenneté commune à partir de ce nouveau langage de
« l’équivalence démocratique ». Autrement dit, si la citoyenneté sert à traduire
notre appartenance à la société politique canadienne, elle devra s’articuler
autour d’une nouvelle définition de l’égalité, qui doit se fonder sur une
reconnaissance des groupes. Et si l’État exerce un certain contrôle sur les
groupes par le truchement du processus de négociation et de bureaucratisation,
rien n’indique qu’il puisse orienter de façon décisive le débat sur la
citoyenneté.
En somme, à notre avis, la Charte donne enfin la possibilité aux Canadiennes
et aux Canadiens de se retrouver autour d’un ensemble de valeurs communes
redéfinissant la problématique de l’égalité sans pour autant tomber dans
l’essentialisme et le génétisme ni entraîner l’américanisation de la société. Ce
discours, les mouvements sociaux en sont les principaux porte-parole, et la
légitimité qu’ils ont gagnée depuis 1982 leur permet de l’exprimer sur la scène
politique. Certes, il est simultanément restreint par le jeu politique et
l’omniprésence de l’État dans la gestion de leurs droits, ce qui montre à quel
point le changement est un processus complexe qui n’est pas régi par la seule
volonté des groupes ou de l’État.
Ainsi, l’analyse du versant proprement politique de la Charte nous oblige à
relativiser ou à contextualiser davantage la capacité des mouvements à
participer au changement sans pour autant tomber dans le volontarisme des
acteurs ou le déterminisme des structures. La sociologie des mouvements
sociaux a tout à gagner d’un passage par l’analyse du politique. Or, des
analyses de la Charte que nous proposent les Cairns, Mandel, etc., aucune ne
nous permet de voir comment la Charte est porteuse d’avenir pour la société
canadienne. Le pessimisme aurait-il plus de crédibilité que l’optimisme, ou
est-ce justement la frontière entre la sociologie et la politique qui fait que les
uns s’occupent trop de la volonté des acteurs et les autres, des forces
incontrôlables ? En fait, c’est à une étude du jeu d’équilibre entre le juridique et
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le politique, les mouvements sociaux et l’État, la socialisation et la
bureaucratisation que nous sommes aujourd’hui conviés. Alors que le contexte
politique participe à la structuration de l’action des groupes, l’étude du jeu
d’équilibre entre l’État et le droit permettrait de voir si les acteurs peuvent
jouer un rôle dans le débat sur la citoyenneté.
Conclusion
Nous avons tenté dans ce texte de passer en revue les différentes
interprétations de la Charte canadienne des droits et libertés pour déterminer
leur apport à l’analyse des mouvements sociaux actuels, nous arrêtant à
chacune d’elles. Ainsi, nous avons commenté les thèmes de la judiciarisation
de la société, de son américanisation, de la prédominance des droits
individuels et de l’éclatement d’une vision commune de la nation. Notre
analyse critique nous a aussi conduite à une autre interprétation de la Charte
selon laquelle la question des droits collectifs pouvait nous porter à repenser
favorablement la question de la citoyenneté.
Quant à la sociologie des mouvements sociaux, elle acquiert, de ce passage par
l’analyse politique, une approche dynamique et complexe de la place du
politique, notamment de l’État et du droit, dans la structuration de l’action.
Elle doit s’ouvrir au droit qui s’ajoute aux modes d’action des groupes et leur
donne une relative efficacité malgré l’omniprésence de l’État. La sociologie
des mouvements sociaux doit aussi examiner davantage la question de
l’égalité dans ses rapports avec la citoyenneté : elle a tout à gagner en
reconnaissant que les mouvements vivent à l’heure des droits et des choix,
bref, qu’ils ont eux aussi droit à une certaine légèreté de l’être !
Notes
*
1.
2.
3.
4.
148
Une première version de ce texte a été présentée en 1991, à Madrid, au colloque « Le Canada,
un défi ». Nous tenons à remercier Anne-Andrée Denault, Carole Dion, Martine Perrault,
Marie-Blanche Tahon ainsi que les évaluateurs anonymes pour leurs commentaires et
suggestions de révisions. Nous remercions aussi Danielle Juteau pour ses précieux conseils.
Cet article a pu être rédigé grâce à une subvention du Conseil de recherche en sciences
humaines du Canada.
Un des évaluateurs de ce texte nous a fait remarquer qu’une analyse de la littérature portant
sur les mouvements sociaux dans d’autres pays « pourrait peut-être laisser entrevoir que ce
qu’on impute à la Charte sont des phénomènes très semblables à ce qu’on retrouve ailleurs. »
On pourrait aussi poser la question autrement et demander pourquoi, au Canada, il a fallu
l’avènement de la Charte pour que l’on assiste à certains changements, certes en marche
avant 1982, alors que dans d’autres pays, les mouvements sociaux n’ont pas eu besoin
d’invoquer un tel document pour faire avancer leur cause ? Une sociologie comparée des
trajectoires des mouvements sociaux dans des pays qui possèdent une Charte et d’autres qui
n’en ont pas permettrait de vérifier cette hypothèse. Malheureusement, nous ne pouvons pas
nous consacrer à cette question dans ce texte.
En anglais, le terme legalization traduit bien l’idée selon laquelle le politique est soumis au
juridique. En français, nous utiliserons le néologisme « judiciarisation » pour exprimer la
même chose.
Claude Lefort, dans L’invention démocratique (1981), propose une réflexion des plus
pertinentes sur la question, sauf qu’elle n’a pas vraiment réussi à trouver sa place dans les
analyses sur les mouvements sociaux.
À titre d’exemple, en 1968, le gouvernement fédéral mettait sur pied un programme au sein
du Secrétariat d’État en vue de contribuer au développement des communautés
francophones vivant en milieu minoritaire. À la même époque, le ministère de l’Emploi et de
l’Immigration implantait des programmes devant contribuer au développement
communautaire. Les groupes sociaux ont fortement bénéficié de ces programmes. Nous
et libertés
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
pensons ici aux groupes de femmes qui ont réussi par ce moyen à embaucher des animatrices
sociales qui les ont aidées à s’organiser, à faire du recrutement et à se mobiliser. Ces
quelques exemples montrent que l’État n’était pas qu’au service de ses propres intérêts
« absolutistes ». Il a contribué à la mobilisation des groupes au sein de la société civile. Qu’il
ait récupéré les groupes comme le veut le sens commun est une autre question qu’il ne faut
pas négliger. Mais alors que le sens commun veut que la question de la récupération ou de
l’intégration soit perçue comme la cause ultime de l’engagement étatique dans le
changement social, la sociologie des mouvements sociaux devrait proposer une analyse plus
dynamique qui articule le rapport État-société dans toute sa complexité.
Nous n’avons qu’à penser à la façon dont la Commission royale d’enquête sur le bilinguisme
et le biculturalisme au Canada (Commission Laurendeau-Dunton, 1963) a mobilisé la
population canadienne de même que la Commission royale d’enquête sur le statut de la
femme au Canada (Commission Bird, 1971), pour prendre conscience du rôle important joué
par les gouvernements dans le développement des mouvements. Il est maintenant courant de
voir les théoriciennes du mouvement des femmes se rapporter à la Commission Bird comme
catalyseur du féminisme au Canada. Voir notamment Jeri Wine et Janice Ristock (1991).
On pourrait objecter qu’une sociologie des groupes d’intérêts réalise déjà ce type d’analyse.
En réalité, une telle sociologie ne s’intéresse pas au développement de l’action mais à la
capacité d’influence de certains groupes sur le processus de formulation des politiques ou de
l’opinion publique. À l’opposé, une sociologie qui analysera le développement de l’action
devra plutôt faire apparaître la situation qui contribue à l’action et voir comment les groupes
sont différemment situés et motivés politiquement. Elle devra s’intéresser au déroulement
de l’action et voir si les résultats sont ce que les groupes escomptaient.
L’article 15 (2) se lit comme suit :
Le paragraphe (1) n’a pas pour effet d’interdire les lois, programmes ou activités destinés à
améliorer la situation d’individus ou de groupes défavorisés, notamment du fait de leur race,
de leur origine nationale ou ethnique, de leur couleur, de leur religion, de leur sexe, de leur
âge ou de leurs déficiences mentales ou physiques.
Cette disposition a été incluse à la suite d’une campagne intensive de démarchage politique
de la part des groupes de femmes auprès du gouvernement et des partis politiques. Cette
revendication faisait partie d’un ensemble de garanties que les féministes n’ont pas pu
décrocher, notamment la garantie à « la liberté de reproduction » ainsi que la protection
contre toute discrimination fondée sur le statut marital et l’orientation sexuelle (Hosek,
1983).
Pour plus de détails, voir l’étude du groupe LEAF par Sherene Razack dans Canadian
Feminism and the Law. The Women’s Legal Education and Action Fund and the Pursuit of
Equality. Toronto, Second Story Press.
Pour plus de détails, voir l’ouvrage de Janine Brodie, Shelley A.M. Gavigan et Jane Jenson,
The Politics of Abortion, Toronto, Oxford University Press, 1992.
Le phénomène de différentiation sociale a été largement étudié par Talcott Parsons, Le
système des sociétés modernes, Paris, Dunod, 1973. Il a vu ce mouvement bien en place dans
le système américain, système qui était, selon lui, le plus moderne. Il accorde une place
centrale à l’individu et fonctionne de façon autonome selon le mode du pluralisme social et le
développement de sphères précises de compétence : juridique, politique, sociale,
économique, culturelle. D’où l’équation entre États-Unis et modernité, bien que ce
phénomène se pose pour l’ensemble des systèmes sociaux qui épousent ce mode de
fonctionnement. D’où aussi l’idée selon laquelle la société canadienne s’américaniserait
continuellement.
Voir aussi, sur cette même question, J.-Yvon Thériault dans « Individualisme, nationalisme
et universalisme : l’affaire Durham », communication présentée au colloque Québec-Brésil,
à Montréal, 1991.
Voir Marie (1988 : 195) :
Si l’on peut éventuellement parler « de droits individuels », c’est seulement en raison de
« l’individualité » qui caractérise le sujet des droits de l’homme, et non parce que ceux-ci se
trouveraient restreints à une sphère imaginée comme un vase clos où l’individu évoluerait
dans un superbe isolement... Au sens strict, il n’existe sans doute pas plus de « droits
individuels » qu’il n’existe de « droits collectifs » en matière de droits de l’homme, ou plutôt
149
IJCS / RIÉC
tous les droits sont « individuels » par leur titulaire et tous sont « collectifs » par leur
processus de reconnaissance, leur mode d’exercice et leur méthode de protection.
14. Pour plus détails, voir Danielle Juteau, « Visions partielles, visions partiales : visions (des)
minoritaires en sociologie », Sociologie et sociétés, vol. XIII, no 2, 1981, 33-49.
15. Sur cette question, nous rejoignons Yvon Thériault dans « Individualisme, nationalisme et
universalisme », op. cit.
16. L’entente constitutionnelle de Charlottetown, rejetée par la population canadienne le 26
octobre 1992, montre à nouveau la réalité de cette incompatibilité de vision entre le Canada
qui revendique l’égalité des provinces et le Québec qui se reconnaît comme le pôle central
d’affirmation de l’existence politique d’une société particulière francophone.
17. Pour Hannah Arendt, le sujet est aussi un paria soit, « l’irréductible, le non assimilable,
l’anti-conformiste, celui dont l’étrangeté résiste à l’anonymat du social » (Colin, 1986 : 60).
En tant que paria (Arendt était juive), le sujet ne peut que s’affirmer comme autre (58);
« sujet qui s’il n’est pas auteur de ses actes n’en est pas moins l’agent, ou l’acteur » (58).
18. Notre traduction de : « It is an articulating principle that affects the different subject positions
of the social agent while allowing for a plurality of specific allegiances and for the respect of
individual liberty » (1992 : 32). Cette idée rappelle aussi les réflexions de Georges Gurvitch
sur le pluralisme juridique dans Déclaration des droits sociaux, 1944.
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l’Université de Montréal, 1992.
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151
Andrew D. Heard
Québec Courts and the Canadian Charter of
Rights*
Abstract
Many Québécois initially viewed the Canadian Charter of Rights with
hostility, since it was part of the 1982 Constitution Act enacted over the
objections of the Québec government and legislature. This paper studies the
subsequent treatment of the Canadian Charter in the reported decisions of
Québec’s Appeal Court and Superior Court in order to examine whether the
Québécois have treated the Charter in any manner remarkably different than
that found in other jurisdictions. The results demonstrate that Québec litigants
have frequently relied on the Canadian Charter, and that the reception given
to it by Québec judges falls within comparable patterns seen elsewhere.
Résumé
À l’origine, nombre de Québécois furent hostiles à la Charte canadienne des
droits et libertés parce qu’elle faisait partie intégrante de la Loi
constitutionnelle de 1982, promulguée en dépit des objections du
gouvernement et de l’Assemblée nationale du Québec. Cet article examine les
décisions publiées qui ont été rendues par la Cour d’appel et la Cour
supérieure de la province dans des causes s’appuyant sur la Charte, afin de
déterminer si les Québécois se sont comportés en cette matière d’une façon
nettement différente des autres juridictions. Les résultats indiquent qu’au
Québec, les plaideurs ont fréquemment invoqué la Charte et que les décisions
judiciaires correspondent grosso modo à celles qui ont été prises par les
autres tribunaux canadiens.
While the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms is intended as a national
rights document, it came into force without the consent of the Québec
government, legislature or people. Indeed, the Québec legislature objected to
the 1981 federal-provincial accord that led to the 1982 Canada Act, through
which the Charter came into being.1 Once the Charter took effect, the Parti
Québécois quickly ushered a bill through the National Assembly that inserted
a clause into all provincial legislation exploiting the Charter’s notwithstanding
clause to the full. Every existing statute was declared to operate independently
of Sections 2 and 7 through 15 of the Charter; a similar provision was later
added to each new bill introduced prior to the 1985 election.2 The Charter was
seen by many in Québec as an unwanted development foisted upon them by
English Canada.
With this hostile genesis in mind, an examination is long overdue of the
subsequent treatment by the Québécois of the Canadian Charter of Rights.
One might suspect that the citizens of Québec would turn their backs on this
piece of “legal imperialism” from English Canada, or that Québec judges and
IJCS / RIÉC
lawyers would try to develop a distinctive Québécois jurisprudence whenever
the Canadian Charter was raised. After all, much has been made in many
contexts of the fact that Québec operates under its own Code civil and that its
traditional values purport to favour collective over individual interests. The
fear of an antagonistic treatment of the Charter has fuelled much of the
animosity towards a “distinct society” clause outside Québec since the 1987
Meech Lake Accord.
The aim of this study is to provide an insight into how the Canadian Charter of
Rights has fared in Québec through an empirical analysis of the reported
judgments delivered by the Québec Court of Appeal and Superior Court
between 1982 and 1989. To gain some appreciation of how the Canadian
Charter has been employed in Québec, a variety of issues need to be explored.
A broad view of the Charter’s use emerges from examining who has resorted to
it and which particular rights have been raised. However, the best insight into
the Canadian Charter’s reception in Québec is revealed by the way in which
Québec judges have dealt with these claims. The use made of precedents from
outside the province gives an indication of the acceptance of the national
values that the Charter supposedly embodies. The interplay between the
Canadian Charter and Québec’s own Charter of Human Rights and Freedoms
may also reveal the extent to which the Canadian Charter’s interpretation in
Québec is rooted in the province’s distinctive legal culture.
While the focus of this paper remains Québec, references will be made where
possible to research on approaches to the Charter in other jurisdictions. A
previously compiled identical data set for Nova Scotia will be used to make
many comparisons between these two provinces.3 The Québec experience
will also be compared to the results of other studies on the Charter in
Saskatchewan, the Supreme Court of Canada and Ontario, as well as one paper
based on national data.4 This comparative perspective is crucial to
understanding the significance of the Charter’s particular treatment in Québec.
The manner in which the Canadian Charter has already been dealt with in
Québec has an important bearing on current constitutional disputes. Much
public debate has raged over whether the force of the Canadian Charter would
in some way be diminished if references to Québec’s distinct society were
included in the Constitution. Although uncertainties about future
interpretations cannot be dispelled, evaluations of the impact of a distinct society
clause should be based upon an understanding of how distinctively the Canadian
Charter has already been treated in Québec.
Data Collection
The data for this study were collected from 216 Appeal and Superior Court
judgments published in two sources, the Québec Appeal Cases and the Recueil
de jurisprudence du Québec, all delivered by the end of 1989.5 Data for a
further 49 unreported Superior Court judgments were compiled from the
reported decisions of their later appeals.
A reliance upon published judgements poses particular problems for empirical
research such as this, since only a subset of all judgments end up in print. A far
smaller portion of Québec court decisions is published in comparison with
other jurisdictions, presumably because of the smaller market for these
expensive volumes. Most substantive Appeal Court judgments are published,
but only a selection of trial decisions are reported. The inferential reliability of
generalizing trends in Québec courtrooms from the sample used here depends
154
Québec Courts and the Canadian Charter of Rights
upon all cases having a relatively equal chance of being reported; this is
believed to be the case with the present sample set. The Société québécoise
d’information juridique receives and reviews copies of all Superior Court
judgments, and publishes those considered to be the most important. Although
not ideal from a methodological viewpoint, this selection process does ensure
that all judgments have had a chance to be included in the data set. Since the
reported cases form the vast majority of those cited as precedents in later cases,
this data set depicts the working reality of Québec courts.
This study includes any case where an attempt was made to raise a claim under
the Charter, regardless of whether the judge refused to consider the argument
or decided the case on other grounds, since even these cases involve a judge’s
discretionary reaction to the Charter. A case is deemed to result in a successful
claim only if some remedy is granted. In a number of cases, judges find that a
right has been infringed but offer no remedy—either because the infringement
is saved by another section of the Charter or because the infringement is not
serious enough to warrant a remedy; these are not regarded as successful
claims in this study.
Players, Claims and Outcomes
Despite hostile reactions by Québec’s provincial politicians to the Canadian
Charter of Rights, little evidence indicates that this antipathy carries over into
the Charter’s treatment in Québec courts. Québec litigants have frequently
launched claims based on the Charter, with no overt reluctance by judges to
consider or allow them. A broad cross section of Québec society has advanced
claims under the Charter in a variety of contexts, and the overall rates of
acceptance are consistent with those of Charter claims in other Canadian
jurisdictions. Nevertheless, some variations emerge when the particular use
made of the Charter in Québec is compared to other jurisdictions.
One measure of the Canadian Charter’s general acceptance among the
Québécois is the proportion of Québec cases that involve the Charter. The
easiest way to estimate the relative use of the Charter is to calculate the
percentage of reported Appeal Court decisions involving the Canadian
Charter. The first 30 volumes of the Québec Appeal Cases, covering mid-1986
to 1989, contain 1,035 fully reported cases, 56 of which raise Charter claims.6
Thus, 5.4% of the Québec Appeal Court’s workload in this period involved
Charter cases. This is somewhat less than the 8.4% of such cases heard by the
Nova Scotia Appeal Court between 1986 and 1989. Given these low
percentages it is difficult to infer whether the fewer Charter cases heard in
Québec indicate a reluctance to use the Charter, or whether the mix of cases
reflects different procedural rules; the Nova Scotia Appeal Court was unable to
refuse leave to a substantial number of Charter appeals that were only minor
variations of criminal cases it had already dealt with. A more difficult issue is
the extent to which the blanket use of the notwithstanding clause has reduced
the number of Charter cases in Québec. While some diminution must be
attributed to this factor, a number of challenges to the use of the
notwithstanding clause added to total number Charter cases in Québec.
Nevertheless, the data do not indicate that Québec litigants were strikingly
hesitant to raise the Canadian Charter.
During the period from 1982 to 1989, the judges of Québec’s two most senior
courts granted some remedy in 27.5% of all cases involving claims under the
Canadian Charter. As with other jurisdictions, the Appeal Court accepted
155
IJCS / RIÉC
fewer claims than did the superior trial court (24.4% and 29.1% respectively).
These rates of acceptance are quite consistent with those of other jurisdictions,
as indicated by the following table of the success rates of Charter claims in
other appellate courts.
Table 17
Charter Success Rates
Appeal Court
Québec – 1982-89
Nova Scotia – 1982-90
Ontario – 1982-89
Saskatchewan – 1982-87
Supreme Court of Canada – 1982-89
Percentage of Charter Cases
with Successful Claims
24.4
17.4
25.7
19.6
31.4
Thus, Québec judges do not demonstrate any greater reluctance to grant
Charter claims than their colleagues in other Canadian jurisdictions. Indeed,
Appeal Court judges in Nova Scotia and Saskatchewan rejected far more
claims than Québec Appeal Court judges.
Unfortunately, the data do not permit a reliable analysis of the individual
voting patterns of particular judges. Other work has demonstrated that
individual judges evolve widely differing track records in their acceptance of
Charter claims.8 Although 90 Charter decisions of the Québec Appeal Court
were reported during the period under study, the division of the sixteen-judge
court into three- or five-judge panels means that too few judges have dealt
singly with a sufficient number of cases to allow a detailed analysis of their
voting behaviour. However, the data indicate that Québec judges are likely to
be as individualistic in their approach as other judges. For example, two of the
Appeal Court judges with the most Charter experience show quite different
rates of claim acceptance: Vallerand granted a remedy in only two of the
sixteen Charter cases he heard, while Chouinard accepted claims in seven of
his seventeen cases.
Significant differences of opinion among Québec Appeal Court judges emerge
in the frequency with which members of a panel hearing a Charter case
disagreed with each other. The following table presents this information with
comparative data from other jurisdictions.
156
Table 2
Rate of Agreement on Charter Claims Among Panel Members
in Senior Appellate Courts
Percentage of
Cases Decided
Unanimously
With Concurring
Opinions
With Dissenting
Opinions
Québec
Ontario
Nova Scotia
Supreme Court
of Canada
51.1
92.9
94.1
48.8
39.6
4.9
2.2
38.0
17.7
7.1
7.2
30.6
Clearly, members of Québec’s Appeal Court hold significantly different views
on either the general outcome of a case or the reasons for that outcome, or at
least are much more willing to express those differences than judges in Nova
Scotia or Ontario. However, the behaviour of Québec Appeal Court judges is
more consistent with that of Supreme Court of Canada judges; both courts
have low rates of unanimity, although Québec judges dissent less frequently
than Supreme Court judges. Some of the differences between Québec and the
Nova Scotia or Ontario appeal courts may relate to institutional traditions.
Until the mid-1980s, all judges who sat on Québec Appeal Court panels
consistently delivered their own opinions, even if only a few brief paragraphs
to say they agreed with one or both of the other opinions. Since then, Québec
judges have followed closer in line with their common law counterparts, with
the more regular delivery of a single opinion for the panel or the majority.
In the Québec cases studied, the Charter was raised by individuals in 73.6% of
cases; and by corporations, unions and media groups in 21.1% of cases. This
indicates a much broader use of the Charter than in Nova Scotia, where
individuals accounted for 94% of Charter claimants compared to only 5%
involving unions, media or other corporations.9 Part of this discrepancy may
relate to the presence of many more corporate head offices in Québec than
Nova Scotia, as well as the relative prosperity of Québec companies and
unions; one would expect that Ontario might exhibit a pattern closer to
Québec’s than Nova Scotia’s.
One important finding relates to the infrequent permission to participate
granted to intervenors by Québec judges. In only 3% of Québec Charter cases
were either individuals or groups allowed to participate as intervenors, which
is similar to Nova Scotia’s record of 2.2% of cases with private intervenors.
This low participation rate is largely due to the very restrictive rules governing
permission to intervene that discourage such participation.10 The closed
nature of Charter litigation has important policy implications, since the courts
hear only from a very small number of interested parties before reaching their
decisions. This contrasts with the parade of groups and individuals who testify
before legislative committees examining policy issues that may later be
challenged in court. The situation in Québec and Nova Scotia appears to differ
somewhat from the Supreme Court of Canada, where a higher proportion of
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IJCS / RIÉC
hearings (6.6%) involve submissions by private intervenors. It is quite
understandable that interest groups would participate in a larger number of
Supreme Court cases, since the high costs of preparing and arguing a case
likely encourage groups with scarce resources to concentrate on the most
important hearings by the nation’s top court.
As with other jurisdictions, the Charter is most likely to be referred to in
Québec by parties facing prosecution for federal or provincial offenses; 57.7%
of the cases studied were criminal cases. However, this figure is significantly
lower than the 80.9% of Nova Scotia’s 1982 to 1990 cases that involved
criminal charges, 80% in Saskatchewan from 1982 to 1987, and 77% which
Morton and Withey found nationally between 1982 and 1985.11 The lower
proportion of criminal cases in Québec appears to reflect the greater use made
of the Charter by the Québec media and trade unions, who rarely were charged
with offenses.
Québec has displayed a distinctive pattern in its relative use of the Charter for
different types of rights. Table 3 indicates that Québec litigants raised fewer
claims under the legal rights of the Charter than did Nova Scotians,
considerably more fundamental rights claims, and fewer claims for equality;
neither province saw many claims under the sections involving language
education rights.
Table Three12
Type of Right Claimed
Fundamental
Mobility
Legal
Equality
Language Education
Jurisdiction
Québec
Nova Scotia
13.6
4.5
70.7
9.3
1.9
5.5
2.5
75.7
14.3
1.9
Percentage of all claims in s96 (1982-89)
The greater emphasis on fundamental freedoms in Québec appears to arise
from the larger overall involvement of corporations, the media and trade
unions. These litigants accounted for 55% of Québec cases in which
fundamental freedoms were raised, compared to only 11% of such cases in
Nova Scotia.
The use made of individual sections of the Charter reveals the most striking
differences among jurisdictions. The three most frequently litigated sections in
Québec were s7, s11d and s8, which were respectively involved in 33.5%,
22.3% and 15.1% of all cases.13 This mix of rights differs considerably from
the top three rights in Nova Scotia: s10b, s7, and s15(1).14 But two of the three
rights most frequently argued in Québec are among the top three that Morton
and Withey found in their national study of the 1982 to 1985 period: s7, s8, and
s10b. The surprising difference is the virtual absence in Québec of s10b claims
to the right to counsel on arrest or detention. While this right was a recurrent
158
subject in Nova Scotia and nationally, less than 5% of Québec Charter cases
involved this section. Possible explanations for the paucity of s10b cases
include: very meticulous work by Québec police officers, the unlikely
possibility that lawyers are overlooking a good argument, or some problem in
the reporting of Québec cases.
There were also different success rates for the various groups of rights. The
following table indicates the success rates of the three most frequently litigated
groups of rights.
Table 415
Success Rates
Most Litigated Types of Rights
Type of Right
Jurisdiction
Québec
Nova Scotia
Nationally
21
26
11
46
17
32
24
28
25
Fundamental
Legal
Equality
Que & N.S.: s96 courts; National: all
Québec judges accepted more claims to legal rights, and fewer claims to
fundamental freedoms or equality rights, than did Nova Scotia’s judges;
Québec judges fell only slightly below the national average seen in the first
three years of the Charter for legal and fundamental claims, but accepted
significantly fewer claims for equal treatment under s15 than did courts across
the country during the initial period of this section’s enactment. The low
success rate of equality claims largely reflects the failure of cases arguing
discrimination against particular professional groups by regulatory schemes or
disciplinary procedures; these represented one-quarter of all equality cases,
and all but one were rejected.16
In some respects, the general objects of Charter claims were quite similar in
Québec and other jurisdictions. More challenges involved the actions of
officials (75%) than legal rules (37%); these figures were 75% and 33%
respectively for Nova Scotia between 1982 and 1990, while Morton and
Withey found the national aggregate proportions to be 66% and 34%
respectively between 1982 and 1985.17
However, Québec courts produced a fairly distinctive pattern of outcomes
with very similar success rates for cases involving laws and actions. This
relative uniformity contrasts with other provincial jurisdictions, with
challenges to legal rules being much less successful than claims against an
official’s actions, as the following table illustrates.
159
IJCS / RIÉC
Table 518
Success Rates of
Challenges to Laws and Actions
Jurisdiction
Québec (1982-89)
Nova Scotia (1982-90)
Ontario & Federal Courts (1982-86)
Nationally
Law
Challenge to:
Action
27
22
26
28
29
32
34
33
Percentage of cases with successful claims
The approach by Québec judges to these two kinds of Charter cases is
interesting; one would anticipate a substantially higher success rate for
challenges to actions for two reasons. First, the construction of the Charter is
such that any infringement by a law of a right may be saved under s1, if it is
found to be “demonstrably justified in a free and democratic society.”
However, there is no such general saving provision for officials’ actions; only
when the exclusion of evidence is sought must a judge overtly decide whether
the infringement is serious enough to warrant a remedy. Secondly, the nature
of the historic relationships between the three branches of government would
suggest that the judiciary is less reluctant to overrule executive actions than
legislation; the courts perform judicial oversight of officials in many contexts
outside Charter litigation.
Québec produces a further surprise within the group of cases that challenged
legislation. In other jurisdictions, more claims have been made against federal
than provincial legislation. In Québec, however, 59 challenges related to
provincial statutes, while only 21 cases involved federal laws. The
preponderance of challenges to provincial statutes may seem a little
astonishing, given that the sweeping use of the notwithstanding clause (s33)
should have greatly reduced the number of these cases. But the employment of
s33 became the object of many challenges itself. Even though Jules Deschênes
of the Superior Court upheld the validity of the original use of s33 in an April
1983 decision, litigants continued to attack its general use on the grounds that
exempting all legislation violated the intent of the Charter. Other Superior
Court judges followed their Chief Justice’s lead, until the Court of Appeal
overturned his decision in June 1985.19 In all, sixteen cases during the period
studied in Québec involved s33. By the time the Supreme Court of Canada
eventually upheld the blanket use of the notwithstanding clause in the 1988
Ford case, the original amendments to pre-Charter legislation had reached
their five-year limit and expired.20 This course of events may help explain the
many challenges to Québec statutes; following a number of initial challenges
to the use of s33, the existing statutes amended by the 1982 blanket use
reverted back to the Charter’s authority between 1985 and late 1988. In any
event, it is quite clear that Québec residents have not hesitated to challenge
their own laws under the national values embodied in the Canadian Charter of
Rights.
160
Québec judges have accepted a lower proportion of challenges to provincial
legislation to federal law: 22% as opposed to 28.6%. One may be tempted at
first to say that this deference to provincial legislation illustrates an attempt to
protect the provincial political system from the centralizing influences of the
national Charter. However, such speculation is complicated since the lack of
success in challenges to provincial laws is augmented by ten cases in which a
notwithstanding clause precluded any judgment of the merits of the
legislation. When these cases are excluded, the success rate of challenges to
provincial laws rises to 26.5%.
The comparative data on the relative vulnerability of federal and provincial
legislation shows rather mixed patterns. However, Québec judges acted in a
somewhat similar fashion to Ontario judges, who allowed fewer challenges to
provincial than federal statutes.21 Nova Scotia’s Appeal Court, on the other
hand, showed virtually identical treatment of federal and provincial statutes;
roughly 17% of challenges to either set of laws were accepted.
The Use of Precedents
Since the wording of much of the Canadian Charter of Rights is vague, judicial
decisions play a key role in giving substance to particular sections of the
Charter. Only through judicial decision-making do we come to know just what
sort of activities are protected by any one of the rights enunciated in the
Charter, as well as what kinds of limitations on those rights are acceptable. As
the body of court decisions on the Charter grows, judges have more material at
their disposal to solve the dilemmas of a case at hand. However, a certain
amount of latitude is available to lawyers and judges in choosing which past
decisions are considered in a particular case. While lower court judges are
bound by the decisions of higher courts in the same jurisdiction, and of the
Supreme Court of Canada, they are very free to draw from decisions handed
down by courts in other jurisdictions. With so many Charter decisions
available, judges have considerable discretion in choosing and applying
precedents to a current case. Just how often judges in one jurisdiction consider
precedents from other jurisdictions is an indication of how much crosspollination of values may result from the Charter. Considerable use of
precedents from other provinces or from the national courts could lead to a
strengthening of uniform values; indeed, early speculation about the Charter
centred on its potential as a centralizing force on the political and legal cultures
across Canada that had evolved so differently under our federal structures.22
In order to gain some idea of how autonomously Québec judges have been
interpreting the Canadian Charter, a record was kept of which jurisdictions
judges drew their precedents from in Charter cases. The following table shows
the distribution of precedents considered by Québec judges and by Nova
Scotian judges for comparison purposes.
161
IJCS / RIÉC
Table 6
Percentage of Reported Cases Citing Precedents From:
Jurisdiction23
NFLD
NS
PEI
NB
QUE
ONT
MAN
SASK
ALTA
BC
FED CT
SCC
USA
UK
Québec
Nova Scotia
3.2
3.2
0.5
1.9
47.7
32.9
6.9
7.4
13.4
14.4
9.7
65.7
6.5
7.4
2.8
46.2
2.4
2.4
2.1
45.2
11.0
17.6
11.0
16.2
3.8
54.1
11.0
4.8
Several important points emerge from this table concerning the breadth of
sources which Québec judges rely upon.24 First, Québec judges consider
precedents from their own jurisdiction as frequently as Nova Scotian judges.
Secondly, the two sets of data reveal a rough similarity in the geographic
distribution of the precedents considered. Within these corresponding
patterns, however, a couple of differences emerge: Québec judges rely more
heavily on Supreme Court of Canada decisions and less on Ontario precedents
than Nova Scotian judges. The Supreme Court of Canada clearly enjoys a
tremendous influence in the shaping of Charter decisions in Québec. In 16% of
reported cases where the Charter issue is substantively addressed, only
precedents from the Supreme Court of Canada are considered; by contrast,
7.4% of these cases considered Québec decisions alone. The greater use of
Supreme Court precedents in Québec than in Nova Scotia may be partially
explained by the Supreme Court having decided seventeen appeals from
Québec but only four from Nova Scotia by the end of 1989. Ontario also
emerges as a very strong influence on the Charter’s interpretation in other
provinces; the sheer volume of reported Ontario decisions allows that province
to play a leading role. Québec judges have clearly depended upon values
shaped by a national dialogue in order to interpret the Charter.
While judges in Québec may be drawing from the national debate on the
Charter, it is quite apparent that judges in other jurisdictions pay very little
attention to judicial interpretations of the Charter in Québec. Nova Scotian
judges considered Québec precedents in just over 2.1% of their Charter cases.
Peter McCormick has established that the appeal courts of both Saskatchewan
and Manitoba have also referred to very few Québec precedents. In analyses of
all (not just Charter) decisions in 1987, McCormick found that Québec Appeal
Court precedents were referred to in only 1.1% of Manitoba’s Appeal Court
162
decisions, and in only 0.8% of Saskatchewan’s Appeal Court judgments.25
Thus, Québec’s judges are interpreting the Charter with full consideration of
precedents from across the country, but judges in the rest of Canada are
reaching their decisions in blissful ignorance of most developments in Québec.
This state of affairs is probably due to the fact that most Québec judges and
lawyers are functionally bilingual, and can readily use judicial decisions
written in English, while judges and lawyers in the rest of Canada are
predominantly unilingual. Since only a tiny fraction of Québec decisions are
either written in English or later translated, most Canadian courts operate
without the benefit of the important Charter interpretations being delivered in
Québec.
The evidence of this linguistic divide challenges the established line of judicial
reasoning that has not required judicial decisions to be translated. The right to
use French and English in Québec and New Brunswick courts has been
interpreted to mean that litigants and judges have the choice of language, not
that all proceedings and judgments must be conducted and written in both
languages. This is quite different from the duties imposed on the executive and
legislature to publish laws and regulations in both languages.26 It seems
strange to require that statutes and the regulations expanding or defining them
be in both languages, while the court decisions that ultimately give substance
to these statutes and regulations can be in only one language. Even more
peculiar is that litigants across Canada who try to make a claim under one of
the rights in the Charter may be deprived of key judicial decisions simply
because they, their lawyers, or the judges hearing the case are unilingual.
The Québec Charter of Human Rights and Freedoms
One distinguishing feature of the use of the Canadian Charter in Québec courts
is the frequent, simultaneous submission of claims under Québec’s own
Charter of Human Rights and Freedoms.27 The provincial Charter came into
force in 1975, but initially lay little used. However, the Parti Québécois
government greatly strengthened the provisions of the Québec Charter around
the time that the Canadian Charter came into effect.28 During the 1980s, many
more claims have been launched under the Québec Charter; indeed, there is an
almost identical number of cases in the first 30 volumes of the Québec Appeal
Cases (covering mid-1986 to 1989) that involve either Charter.
Claims under the Québec Charter have been raised in 34.7% of the cases in
which the Canadian Charter has been argued. In most instances, the provincial
Charter is simply a reinforcement of the Canadian Charter, since several of
both Charter’s provisions are very similar. In other cases, however, the Québec
Charter claims are additional or complimentary to those made under the
Canadian Charter. Where claims are made under both Charters, the outcome of
the claims is identical 81.5% of the time, with both sets of claims either being
accepted or rejected. In only 15.2% of the dual-Charter cases are the
provincial claims accepted and the national ones rejected; most of these would
involve cases where the Canadian Charter was excluded because of the use of a
notwithstanding clause.
The frequent use of the Québec Charter could conceivably have led to a more
distinctive interpretation of the Canadian Charter, with precedents from the
provincial Charter affecting interpretations of the national Charter. This
direction of influence was extremely rare, however, whereas precedents from
the Canadian Charter are frequently used to interpret the Québec Charter. As a
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IJCS / RIÉC
result, the national values of the Canadian Charter of Rights have strongly
shaped the substance of the Québec Charter. However, the actual extent of the
Canadian Charter precedents’ influence on the Québec Charter cannot be
ascertained without a full study of all cases involving the provincial Charter. If
any nationalist aversion exists in Québec to the Canadian Charter, it would
likely occur among those who have chosen to make claims under the Québec
Charter, rather than the Canadian one. Unfortunately, this factor cannot be
measured without determining how many of the Québec Charter cases involve
claims that could also have been argued under the Canadian Charter, but were
not.
Conclusion
The results of this empirical study clearly indicate that the Canadian Charter of
Rights has become an integral element of Québec’s legal culture. The
Canadian Charter has been relied upon frequently and by a wide range of
Québec litigants. Québec judges have shown no reluctance to entertain or
accept claims under the national Charter. The overall success rates of Charter
claims in Québec are well within the range seen in other jurisdictions where
comparable data are available. While the cases studied reveal that a different
mix of particular rights has been argued in Québec, and with varied results,
each jurisdiction for which there is data enjoys its own distinctive patterns as
well. Perhaps the most telling evidence of Québec’s absorption of national
values through the Canadian Charter is seen in the geographical range of
precedents considered by Québec judges, as well as the interpretation of the
Québec Charter through the Canadian Charter. While the Canadian Charter of
Rights may have had a controversial political origin, it has since been widely
accepted in Québec.
Notes
*
1.
2.
3.
4.
164
The author wishes to express his gratitude to the Social Sciences and Humanities Research
Council of Canada, whose funding of a Canada Research Fellowship has made this research
possible.
One of the objections listed in the resolution was aimed at the Charter of Rights, where
Québec wanted an override in any matter within provincial jurisdiction. See: Sheilagh M.
Dunn, The Year in Review 1981: Intergovernmental Relations in Canada, (Kingston:
Institute of Intergovernmental Relations, 1982), 35-36.
Loi Concernant la Loi Constitutionnelle de 1982, L.Q. 1982, c.21. This Act removed
Québec legislation from the purview of the sections of the Canadian Charter that provide
fundamental freedoms, legal rights and equality rights.
Some of the results were included in: “The Charter of Rights in Nova Scotian Courts, 19821990,” a paper presented at the Canadian Political Science Association meeting in Kingston,
June 1991.
The results of this research on Québec may be compared to those examining the treatment of
the Charter in Ontario and the Federal Court [Patrick Monahan, Politics and the
Constitution, (Toronto: Carswell, 1987) at 33-49], Saskatchewan [Saskatchewan Law
Review Editorial Board, “The Saskatchewan Court of Appeal and the Charter” (1988), 52
Saskatchewan Law Review 191; Peter McCormick, “Case-Load and Output of the
Saskatchewan Court of Appeal: An Analysis of 12 Months of Reported Cases” (1989), 53
Saskatchewan Law Review 341], and Manitoba [Peter McCormick, “Caseload and Output of
the Manitoba Court of Appeal: An Analysis of Twelve Months of Reported Cases” (1990),
19 Manitoba Law Journal 31]. McCormick’s studies of Saskatchewan and Manitoba
involve the whole range of the appeal courts’ caseload, rather than just relating to the
Charter. The Supreme Court of Canada’s Charter record has been examined in: Andrew D.
Heard, “The Charter in the Supreme Court of Canada: The Importance of Which Judges
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
20.
21.
22.
Hear an Appeal” (1991), 24 Canadian Journal of Political Science 287; and, F.L. Morton,
Peter H. Russell, and Michael J. Withey, “Judging the Judges: The Supreme Court’s First
One Hundred Charter Decisions,” in Paul W. Fox and Graham White (eds), Politics:
Canada, 7th ed., (Toronto: McGraw-Hill Ryerson, 1991). A national of study of the use
made of the Charter has been published in: F.L. Morton and Michael J. Withey, “Charting
the Charter, 1982-1985: A Statistical Analysis” (1987), Canadian Human Rights Yearbook
65.
These two report series are the principal sources for reports of full judgments of Québec
cases. Digest summaries of many more cases can be found in Jurisprudence express, but the
information in these summaries was insufficient to be used in this study.
These Charter cases included two which were decided in 1990, and are thus not included in
other analyses in this paper.
In this and following tables, data are from original research except where otherwise noted.
Data for Saskatchewan is calculated from Saskatchewan Law Review Editorial Board, “The
Saskatchewan Court of Appeal and the Charter,” 193.
See: Morton, Russell, and Withey, “Judging the Judges: The Supreme Court’s First 100
Charter Decisions,” 73-75; and Heard, “The Charter in the Supreme Court of Canada.”
In Québec, the figures for these litigants are: media 6.4%, non-media corporations 11.3%,
trade unions 3.4%; in Nova Scotia the comparable breakdown of litigants is: 0.4%, 3.5%,
and 0.9% respectively.
An indication of how narrow the rules are is seen in the only case where LEAF was allowed
to intervene: R. c. Caron [1988] 20 QAC 45.
Saskatchewan Law Review Editorial Board, “The Saskatchewan Court of Appeal and the
Charter,” 193; Morton and Withey, “Charting the Charter, 1982-1985,” 73.
All data are from original research.
Section 7 of the Charter states: “Everyone has the right to life, liberty and security of person
and the right not to be deprived thereof except in accordance with the principles of
fundamental justice.” The provision in s8 reads: “Everyone has the right to be secure against
unreasonable search and seizure.” Section 11d provides, “Any person charged with an
offence has the right to be presumed innocent until proven guilty according to law in a fair
and public hearing by an independent and impartial tribunal.”
Section 10b stipulates, “Everyone has the right on arrest or detention to retain and instruct
counsel without delay and to be informed of that right.” Equality rights are protected in
s15(1): “Every individual is equal before and under the law and has the right to equal
protection and equal benefit of the law without discrimination and, in particular, without
discrimination based on race, national or ethnic origin, colour, religion, sex, age or mental or
physical disability.”
National data are from: Morton and Withey, “Charting the Charter, 1982-1985,” 71.
The exception was a case which allowed a challenge to the differing benefits due under
worker’s compensation to various occupational groups: Coulombe c. Commission d’appel
en matière de lésions professionnelles, (1987) R.J.Q. 1822 (C.S.).
Morton and Withey, “Charting the Charter, 1982-1985,” 72.
National data are from Ibid., 72; data for Ontario s96 courts and the Federal Court combined
are from: Monahan, Politics and the Constitution, 38. The other data are from original
research.
Deschênes’ decision was given in: Alliance des professeurs de Montréal c. P.G. du Québec,
(1985) CS 1272. The judgment of the Appeal court which overturned this case is found at:
(1985) CA 376.
Ford v Quebec (Attorney General), [1988] 2 SCR 712.
Monahan, Politics and the Constitution, 38.
See some early discussion of this topic in: Donald Smiley, The Canadian Charter of Rights
and Freedoms, 1981 (Toronto: Ontario Economic Council, 1981) at 56-61; Peter H. Russell,
“The Political Purposes of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms” (1983), 61
Canadian Bar Review 30. A later discussion of the effects of the Charter can be found in:
F.L. Morton, G. Solomon, I. McNish, and D.W. Poulton, “Judicial Nullification of Statutes
under the Charter of Rights and Freedoms, 1982-1989” (1990) 28 Alberta Law Review 396427.
165
IJCS / RIÉC
23.
24.
25.
26.
27.
28.
166
Québec decisions are for all reported decisions of s96 courts where the Charter was
substantively considered; Nova Scotia figures are for all levels of courts.
It is worth noting that the civil law setting in Québec appears to have virtually no bearing on
the treatment of precedents in Charter cases. At an impressionistic level, no differences
could be seen in the way in which Nova Scotian and Québec judges considered and applied
precedents. In 16.2% of Québec cases, the Charter issues were settled without referring to
any previous cases, while 17.6% of Nova Scotian cases were similarly decided.
McCormick, “Caseload and Output of the Manitoba Court of Appeal,” p.47; McCormick,
“Caseload and Output of the Saskatchewan Court of Appeal,” p.356.
These rights are found in several sources. Québec and the federal government are bound by
s133 of the 1867 Constitution Act, while the New Brunswick and the federal government are
bound by sections 16 to 20 of the Charter of Rights. Judicial decisions are routinely
translated in the Federal Court and the Supreme Court of Canada. Some key decisions on
these rights are: A.G. Quebec v Blaikie (No.1), [1979] 2 SCR 1016; A.G. Quebec v Blaikie
(No.2), [1981] 1 SCR 312; Société des Acadiens v. Association of Parents, [1986] 1 SCR
549; Pilote c. Corporation de l’Hôpital Bellechasse, (1988) RJQ 380 (C.S).
R.S.Q. c.C-21.
For more information on the Québec Charter see: J.-Y. Morin, “La constitutionnalisation
progressive de la Charte des droits et libertés de la personne,” (1987) 21 Revue juridique
Thémis 25; André Morel, “La coexistence des Chartes canadiennes et québécoise:
problèmes d’interaction,” (1986) Revue de droit, Université de Sherbrooke 49.
François Rocher
Daniel Salée
Démocratie et réforme constitutionnelle :
discours et pratique1
Résumé
Comme on a pu l’observer, aussi bien les représentants des groupes d’intérêts
qu’une majorité de citoyens ont violemment critiqué le caractère non
démocratique du processus de révision de la Constitution canadienne. Le
présent article analyse les propos à cet égard des uns et des autres avant
d’examiner l’approche des intellectuels afin de voir si ces derniers ont
renouvelé la pensée sur la démocratie en des termes différents de ceux utilisés
par les élites politiques et sociales au Canada.
Enfin, en opposant au discours constitutionnel que l’on nous a servi une vision
de la démocratie qui se veut large et ancrée dans le social, les auteurs
démontrent qu’aucune tentative de penser l’imbrication du corps politique et
de la société civile à la lumière de concepts aussi fondamentaux que liberté,
égalité, autorité ou obligation n’a jamais véritablement marqué les exercices
de révision constitutionnelle.
Abstract
Both the representatives of interest groups and a majority of Canadians have
harshly criticized the undemocratic nature of the Canadian constitutional
review process. This article analyzes statements in this regard by the various
parties concerned, and then proceeds to examine the approach taken by
intellectuals, to determine whether they have reopened the discussion of
democracy in different terms than those used by Canada’s political and social
elites.
Lastly, by comparing the constitutional discourse already presented to us with
a broad, socially-centred vision of democracy, the authors demonstrate that
the process of constitutional review has never truly attempted to situate the
body politic and civil society within such fundamental ideas as freedom,
equality, authority or obligation.
À l’instar des sociétés occidentales, le Canada vit actuellement l’épuisement
du modèle de développement hérité des années d’après-guerre. Cet
épuisement, on le sent à travers une certaine crise de légitimité socioinstitutionnelle qui, si elle n’est pas toujours manifeste dans le comportement
quotidien des Canadiens, n’en est pas moins en train d’affaiblir le tissu social.
Un sondage réalisé par le Globe and Mail en octobre 1990 indiquait que
seulement 4 p. 100 des répondants estimaient que le régime actuel fonctionnait
bien. Par contre, 34 p. 100 réclamaient une « refonte complète » du système
IJCS/RIÉC
alors que 32 p. 100 souhaitaient des « changements considérables » et 29
p. 100, « certains changements » (Dobell et Berry, 1992 : 19). Une compilation
des sondages effectués depuis quinze ou vingt ans sur la satisfaction des
Canadiens à l’égard de leurs institutions politiques montre un net déclin de la
confiance et du respect vis-à-vis le système, le gouvernement et les élus
(Dobell et Berry, 1992 : 5-12). Le rapport Spicer faisait d’ailleurs écho à ce
désenchantement en notant la « perte de la foi envers le système politique » et
le « désir unanime d’un changement profond » (Panitch, 1991 : 19).
Le processus intense de révision constitutionnelle dans lequel le
gouvernement a engagé le pays depuis l’Accord du lac Meech ne peut faire
abstraction de ce mécontentement et du malaise socio-politique qui marquent
cette fin de siècle. Alors que cela aurait pu être un moment privilégié de
réflexion collective sur les paramètres de l’existence sociale, sur les valeurs et
les normes qui doivent régir les rapports socio-économiques mutuels et la
reconfiguration même de la communauté, les débats sur la Constitution ont
souvent été un vain exercice de rhétorique politique et juridique dominé par les
experts et les politiciens.
Faut-il s’en étonner ? Reg Whitaker n’observait-il pas, il y a dix ans, que toute
réflexion sur la nature de la Constitution canadienne ou sur les réformes qu’il y
aurait peut-être lieu d’y apporter a toujours eu tendance à mettre l’accent sur
les rapports entre les différents ordres de gouvernement plutôt qu’entre l’État
et la population ou entre les divers agents sociaux. Avec pour résultat que la
révision constitutionnelle n’a jamais abordé la question pourtant cruciale de
l’imbrication du corps politique et de la société civile à la lumière de concepts
tels que la liberté, l’égalité, l’autorité ou l’obligation (Whitaker, 1992 : 207).
Ce texte participe de la conviction que peu de choses ont changé depuis dix
ans. En dépit des dénonciations de l’approche exclusiviste qui a présidé à la
négociation de l’Accord du lac Meech (11 hommes blancs réunis à huis clos
décidant de l’avenir du pays), en dépit aussi de l’engagement maintes fois
réitéré après son échec de solliciter l’avis de la population et d’inclure les
représentants des divers groupes dans le processus de renouvellement
constitutionnel, les débats sur la Constitution canadienne et les propositions de
réforme qui en émanent restent étrangement confinés à la mécanique de
partage de pouvoirs administratifs et à la reconfiguration des institutions
parlementaires. Même les groupes dont on aurait pu espérer qu’ils forcent un
déplacement vers des questions de fond sont le plus souvent cooptés par la
logique institutionnaliste du discours sur la Constitution et s’enferment eux
aussi dans ses paramètres étroits.
Bizarrement, personne ne semble s’être encore attardé de manière sérieuse aux
fondements sociétaux sur lesquels devrait reposer, au moins théoriquement,
toute refonte de la Constitution. Peu d’intervenants réalisent que le débat
constitutionnel est aussi un débat de société et que l’État et la société n’existent
pas en vase clos, indépendamment l’un de l’autre. Nous soutiendrons dans ce
texte que c’est là une erreur eu égard aux exigences de la démocratie. Tout le
débat autour de la Constitution s’est fait en fonction d’une conception étroite
de la démocratie, comme si des garanties institutionnelles suffisaient pour
maintenir un niveau acceptable de démocratie en assurant un modus vivendi
non seulement entre les institutions parlementaires et politiques, mais aussi et
surtout des interactions multiples et variées entre les agents sociaux. L’enjeu
véritable des réformes constitutionnelles ne doit pas se limiter aux seules
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discours et pratique
modifications institutionnelles; il réside aussi dans un vouloir vivre collectif,
dans la capacité d’empathie, de solidarité et de réciprocité.
Le but du présent texte est de démontrer que le discours autour de la réforme
constitutionnelle canadienne, tant celui des experts que celui des politiciens et
des divers autres intervenants, n’a fait que reconduire les catégories
traditionnelles de la démocratie parlementaire et les principes de base sur
lesquels le fédéralisme canadien s’est historiquement constitué et développé.
Dans un premier temps, il s’agira de relever les propos tenus par les
représentants de différents groupes ou par les particuliers qui se sont
prononcés sur les pratiques démocratiques de l’exercice constitutionnel, soit
pour en dénoncer les carences ou pour en justifier les mécanismes existants.
Depuis 1987, les Canadiens ont eu de nombreuses occasions de faire valoir
leurs points de vue sur les modalités de modification de la Constitution. Nous
avons particulièrement retenu les opinions exprimées devant les comités
parlementaires pertinents : le comité Tremblay-Speyer, le comité BeaudoinEdwards ainsi que sur les propositions déposées par le gouvernement fédéral
en septembre 1991 (comité Beaudoin-Dobbie). Nous croyons que ces
différents moments permettent de saisir la multiplicité des positions
défendues. Dans un second temps, nous nous pencherons sur la manière dont
les experts, les universitaires et les intellectuels ont envisagé la problématique
de la démocratie. La question qui se pose est de savoir dans quelle mesure ils
ont renouvelé la pensée sur la démocratie en des termes différents de ceux mis
de l’avant par les élites politiques et les figures de proue des mouvements
sociaux au Canada. Finalement, en opposant au discours constitutionnel que
l’on nous a servi jusqu’à maintenant une vision de la démocratie qui se veut
large et ancrée dans le social, nous tenterons de démontrer combien l’exercice
actuel de réforme de la Constitution canadienne participe d’une fiction
institutionnelle qui risque en fait de nous éloigner d’une pratique authentique
de la démocratie.
La démocratie parlementaire et le fédéralisme exécutif au banc des
accusés
Nombre de gens ont reproché au processus qu’a mené à l’Accord du lac Meech
un caractère élitiste et oligarchique qui favorisait le secret et écartait
délibérément la participation du public. Aux yeux de plusieurs, le mépris des
politiciens à l’endroit des principes démocratiques exigeait une remise en
question des mécanismes politiques présidant aux modifications
constitutionnelles. Si ces critiques avaient toutes en commun un certain
désenchantement à l’égard de la conduite des affaires publiques par les
politiciens, elles ne partagaient pas une identité de point de vue quant aux
origines du mal à circonscrire et aux moyens à mettre en oeuvre pour y arriver.
Il importe donc de jeter un regard critique sur les doléances formulées à
l’endroit du processus pour saisir la vision de la démocratie qui les alimente.
On peut classer les points de vue soulevés en deux catégories : d’une part, ceux
ayant trait à la représentation de certaines catégories de la population dans le
cadre des négociations constitutionnelles formelles et, d’autre part, ceux
touchant la participation du public aux diverses étapes du processus. D’un côté
comme de l’autre, il s’agit d’une remise en cause de la démocratie
parlementaire et du fédéralisme exécutif tels que pratiqués au Canada.
Ce sont surtout les représentants des groupes autochtones et de femmes qui ont
protesté contre leur absence à la table des négociations. Pour les premiers, la
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structure politique du Canada et le principe de la majorité électorale
contribuent à marginaliser les peuples autochtones (Canada, 1987, 9 : 29) et ne
leur permettent pas de vraiment participer à la Confédération canadienne. Ils
réclamèrent donc d’être partie prenante aux conférences des premiers
ministres afin de pouvoir veiller à la protection de leurs droits et oeuvres à une
refonte de la Constitution qui leur soit favorable (Canada, 1991a, 26 : 32).
Quant aux représentantes des groupes de femmes, elles ont reproché aux
gouvernements leur exclusion du processus (Canada, 1987, 15 : 154) et exigé
d’être présentes lorsque leurs droits font l’objet de discussions, car aucun autre
intervenant n’était mieux en mesure que les femmes elles-mêmes de faire
valoir leur point de vue avec l’angle d’approche qui est le leur (Canada, 1992,
10 : 26). En somme, chez les autochtones comme chez les femmes, on voulait
participer au processus afin d’infléchir le cours des événements : pour les
premiers, en vertu de leur statut de minoritaires; pour les seconds, à cause
d’une absence de sensibilité aux problématiques des femmes. Les
représentantes des groupes de femmes soutenaient même que les députées
étaient moins en mesure qu’elles de défendre la cause des femmes étant donné
que leurs groupes avaient jusqu’alors été les porte-parole de leurs intérêts
auprès des institutions politiques (Maillé, 1992).
Leur inclusion respective à la table des discussions répondrait, pour une large
part, aux critiques formulées à l’endroit du processus des négociations
constitutionnelles. Il faut toutefois faire remarquer que, ce faisant, c’est
l’économie générale des institutions politiques et de la démocratie formelle
qui en aurait été modifée, et ce, pour deux raisons.
D’une part, l’ajout de nouveaux intervenants sociaux dans les mécanismes
traditionnels de négociations issus du fédéralisme exécutif mettrait face à face
des porte-parole dont la légitimité ne repose pas sur les mêmes bases. Les
premiers ministres tiennent leur autorité de leur élection et du mandat qu’ils
ont reçu d’une pluralité d’électeurs. La légitimité des représentants de groupes
d’intérêts repose davantage sur la nature des liens qui les unit à leurs groupes
respectifs. Ces leaders doivent bien entendu rendre des comptes, mais sur la
base d’une obligation de résultats touchant à des aspects beaucoup plus
restreints. Élus à partir d’un vaste programme, les politiciens sont les
mandataires de la volonté populaire qui s’est exprimée à l’occasion d’élections
générales.
La participation des groupes d’intérêts aux négociations soulève donc la
question de leur représentativité. Dans le cadre d’une démocratie
parlementaire, les élus sont des fondés de pouvoir pour l’ensemble des
électeurs. L’arrivée de nouveaux intervenants peut être interprétée comme un
aveu d’incapacité de la part du régime politique traditionnel de représenter
certains intérêts particuliers. Dans le cas des autochtones et des femmes, leurs
situations respectives expliquent en grande partie leur insatisfaction à l’égard
d’une démocratie qualifiée de tyrannie de la majorité. Toutefois, l’inclusion de
leurs représentants constituerait une reconnaissance implicite de l’illégitimité
des politiciens à les représenter et confirmerait même l’incapacité de ces
derniers à comprendre les tenants et aboutissants de leurs revendications et
signifierait qu’ils ne parlent désormais que pour une portion de plus en plus
congrue de la population, tous les autres clivages étant confondus.
La remise en question du processus de négociation de la Constitution a soulevé
un second ordre de critiques faisant référence à l’absence ou à la faible
participation de la population. Suite à Meech, on a reproché au processus de
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manquer de transparence et de favoriser indûment le secret. En d’autres
termes, Meech fut pris à partie pour avoir été concocté en catimini, entériné par
onze premiers ministres sans consultation publique préalable et présenté
comme intouchable jusqu’à sa ratification finale, qui n’eût d’ailleurs jamais
lieu (Canada, 1987, 3 : 92; 13 : 27; 15 : 139; Canada, 1991a, 25 : 81). Certains
ont même accusé les gouvernements d’avoir délibérément privilégié
l’exclusion du public. La démocratie parlementaire et le fédéralisme exécutif
ont été dénoncés comme favorisant la complicité des élites sans égard aux
attentes de la population (Canada, 1991a, 31 : 48), renforçant le pouvoir d’une
« oligarchie » constituée des premiers ministres (Canada, 1991a, 15 : 47),
illustrant la manipulation du public par les élites et, par le fait même, niant les
principes du gouvernement responsable (Canada, 1991a, 31 : 38). On y
stigmatise le fédéralisme exécutif, lequel n’exige aucune participation de la
population au processus (Canada, 1991a, 10 : 70). Ce phénomène est
parfaitement bien illustré par la formule d’amendement qui est définie
uniquement dans la perspective du fédéralisme, laissant de côté les dimensions
démocratique et populaire de la gouverne politique. En somme, au fédéralisme
exécutif on oppose la souveraineté populaire. On soutient que la Constitution
appartient d’abord au peuple et qu’elle ne saurait être modifiée sans que celuici n’ait eu l’occasion de se prononcer sur le nouveau contrat social négocié par
les élites, que ce soit par le biais de la convocation d’une assemblée
constituante ou par la tenue d’un référendum (Canada, 1991a, 29 : 60-61 et 9 :
37). Pour plusieurs, la modification de la Constitution pourrait se réaliser non
plus en ayant recours au fédéralisme exécutif, mais par la convocation d’une
assemblée constituants chargée d’en rédiger une nouvelle. Manifestement,
pareille idée s’oppose au pouvoir des élites politiques traditionnelles qui ne
seraient pas investies du mandat de transformer la loi fondamentale du pays.
Les pourfendeurs de la démocratie parlementaire ne sont pas moins virulents.
Selon eux, le principe du gouvernement responsable serait entaché par la règle
de la discipline de parti qui écarte l’idée que les gouvernements sont d’abord
élus à titre de représentants de la population et doivent démissionner ou obtenir
un nouveau mandat s’ils perdent la confiance du public. Dans les faits,
soutiennent-ils, le gouvernement responsable et représentatif est une vue de
l’esprit. Encore ici, la formule d’amendement constitutionnel illustre bien
l’exclusion de la population du processus politique (Canada, 1991a, 2 : 88-89).
C’est donc toute la légitimité du processus qui est remise en cause. Pour les
uns, comme Cairns, il importe d’abord et avant tout d’y incorporer les
principaux groupes sociaux : « la légitimité du processus et son utilité à long
terme pour les Canadiens dépend de l’incorporation d’une pluralité d’intérêts
incluant les gouvernements, les groupes visés par la Charte, les peuples
autochtones et un nombre important d’autres groupes qui restent souvent sur la
touche » (Canada, 1991a, 23 : 22-23). Cette nécessité découle non seulement
de la nouvelle réalité politique qui s’est mise en place au Canada depuis 1982 et
de l’adoption de la Charte des droits et libertés, comme le prétend Cairns, mais
traduit aussi un sentiment de déception, pour ne pas dire d’animosité, à
l’endroit des politiciens. Certains en sont même venus à accorder une
crédibilité équivalente, sinon supérieure, aux représentants des groupes
sociaux (Canada, 1991a, 26 : 25). Pour d’autres, comme Brad Morse, il s’agit
plutôt d’accorder une plus large place aux citoyens et de les consulter tout au
long du processus, ne serait-ce que pour leur donner l’impression qu’ils
participent aux changements constitutionnels (Canada, 1991a, 3 : 67).
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Derrière cet ensemble de critiques se profile la volonté exprimée par plusieurs
intervenants de donner à la population l’occasion de se prononcer à un moment
ou à un autre du processus de négociation constitutionnelle. La démocratie est
perçue d’abord sous sa forme institutionnelle. La question posée est celle de
savoir quels mécanismes permettraient une meilleure participation populaire.
Ou cherche en partie à atténuer le cynisme des citoyens à l’égard de leurs
politiciens et du système politique en suggérant une foule de propositions en
vue d’accroître cette participation, allant de l’assemblée constituante à un
référendum national.
Comme l’a fait remarquer Katherine Swinton, il faut distinguer au moins trois
étapes dans le processus de modification de la Constitution : l’élaboration des
modifications proposées, leur négociation et, enfin, leur ratification (Canada,
1991a, 9 : 37). Le type de participation peut donc varier en fonction de chacune
des étapes. Les promoteurs de l’idée de la convocation d’une assemblée
constituante, dont la composition et le rôle variaient selon les intervenants,
visaient surtout à accroître la participation du public lors de la première étape.
Ce mécanisme est présenté comme le seul véritablement démocratique dans la
mesure où il garantit la présence des citoyens dans le processus, regroupe des
individus plus représentatifs de la société canadienne, limite la partisanerie qui
entrave la représentation et la possibilité d’établir un consensus et rend
légitime les propositions aux yeux des Canadiens (Canada, 1991b : 47). Ceuxci sont tenus de représenter les points de vue de ceux qui les ont élus.
Le référendum, quant à lui, correspond à l’étape de la ratification des
modifications proposées. Pour Vincent Lemieux, c’est le meilleur moyen de
faire participer la population; à cet égard, il est supérieur aux audiences
publiques ou aux commissions parlementaires (Canada, 1991a, 2 : 86-87).
Toutefois, la formule du référendum n’est pas en soit miraculeuse. Certains ont
exprimé la crainte que les résultats sèment la discorde en révélant des clivages
nationaux ou régionaux préjudiciables à la recherche ou la consolidation de
l’unité nationale. Un référendum ne saurait contredire la nature fédérale du
régime politique et être utilisé pour faire l’économie d’une entente entre les
premiers ministres (Canada, 1992, 38 : 24).
Force est de constater qu’à travers toutes ces récriminations à l’endroit du
processus et de son caractère plus ou moins démocratique, on ne retrouve
aucune réflexion approfondie sur le sens de la démocratie. On s’est surtout
penché sur le caractère formel de l’exercice (possibilité plus ou moins grande
de participation). Cela étant, il était facile à certains observateurs de faire
remarquer, comme l’a fait Swinton, que « les négociations constitutionnelles
du lac Meech ont sans doute été les plus démocratiques de notre histoire si tant
est que la démocratie se mesure au degré de participation du pouvoir
législatif » (Canada, 1991a, 9 : 37). Au sens strict, il n’est pas faux de faire
remarquer que si l’élaboration du projet de réforme a été le fait du pouvoir
exécutif, la participation du pouvoir législatif a été sans précédent, car toutes
les assemblées législatives se devaient d’entériner l’Accord. En ce sens,
l’échec de Meech s’explique en grande partie par l’opposition d’une forte
majorité de la population canadienne qui a trouvé écho au sein de deux
assemblées législatives plus récalcitrantes que d’autres. Paradoxalement,
certains pourraient même soutenir que l’échec de Meech confirme le succès de
la démocratie, vue comme la manifestation de la volonté populaire.
De la même manière, d’un point de vue instrumental, on peut arguer que la
formule actuelle de modification de la Constitution n’a pas besoin d’être
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changée pour permettre une plus grande participation du public. Il s’agirait
seulement de généraliser la tenue d’audiences publiques pour que la
population ait davantage d’occasions de faire valoir ses attentes (Brock, 1991).
La transparence du processus pourrait être assurée par une meilleure
information du public sur les progrès accomplis et les consensus atteints. De
plus, il est loin d’être certain que la formule de l’assemblée constituante
produirait les effets attendus. L’élection des participants ne pourrait être
impartiale compte tenu des intérêts partisans en jeu. Plutôt que d’être ouverts
aux compromis, les élus de ces assemblées pourraient bien s’en tenir à la
position défendue au moment de leur élection, insufflant dans le processus
plus de rigidité qu’il n’y en a à l’heure actuelle (Canada, 1991b : 51).
D’autres ont soutenu, comme Richard Simeon et J. Peter Meekison, que le
processus ayant conduit à Meech n’était pas illégitime. Cette entente n’a pas
été conçue subitement au cours des quelques heures de négociations en mai et
juin 1987. Au contraire, les éléments qui s’y sont retrouvés ont fait l’objet de
débats approfondis pendant de nombreuses années et l’ordre du jour fut établi
publiquement. On rappelle que le gouvernement conservateur avait fondé une
partie de sa campagne électorale sur cette question (Canada, 1987, 5 : 74, 87 et
10 : 41).
Il importe de faire remarquer qu’en dépit de l’omniprésence des discours sur la
démocratie dans les critiques à l’endroit du processus de révision
constitutionnelle, les intervenants — groupes sociaux ou particuliers — s’en
sont essentiellement tenus au caractère instrumental de la pratique de la
démocratie. On n’y retrouve pas de véritable remise en question du mode
d’insertion des individus et des groupes marginalisés au sein de la société
canadienne. En vérité, le débat constitutionnel a tourné autour de questions
relativement techniques : les modalités de nomination des participants à une
assemblée constituante, les bienfaits de la tenue d’un référendum, les
mécanismes devant présider à la conduite des audiences publiques, etc. Bien
sûr, certains n’ont pas manqué de souligner au passage les lacunes du
fédéralisme exécutif et de la démocratie parlementaire, mais toujours pour
faire ressortir l’absence d’une véritable participation des citoyens. Cette
approche fait l’économie d’une réflexion approfondie sur les faiblesses de la
pratique démocratique, une réflexion qui mettrait l’accent sur les principes de
solidarité sociale et les conditions de la citoyenneté. Au contraire, tout se passe
comme si les individus et les groupes s’opposaient les uns aux autres à travers
les institutions formelles du système politique, recherchant à la fois protection
et promotion de leurs droits, définis sur la base de catégories sociales
déterminées.
Le fédéralisme comme fondement de la démocratie et de la
citoyenneté ?
Reg Whitaker, qui réfléchit depuis longtemps à la problématique de la
démocratie dans le cadre fédéral canadien (1992 : 165-230, 283-328), a été
l’un des premiers à prévoir la dénonciation du caractère antidémocratique du
processus constitutionnel. Son analyse fine des sources politiques et
idéologiques de la Constitution canadienne indique la nature profondément
élitiste et antidémocratique de ses fondements et des pratiques politiques
qu’elle a soutenues. Certes, avec le temps, reconnaît-il, la notion britannique
de souveraineté incarnée par le « Gouverneur en conseil » de même que la
doctrine à la fois rivale et complémentaire de suprématie parlementaire se sont
quelque peu étiolées sous l’action combinée de l’extension du suffrage
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universel et de la montée des partis politiques. Mais c’est plutôt du côté du
fédéralisme, non pas en tant que système administratif de partage de pouvoir
mais comme appui de la démocratie, que Whitaker propose de regarder pour
élargir le champ de la pratique démocratique. Le fédéralisme moderne,
soutient-il, permet d’éviter que l’expression de la volonté de la majorité
nationale agisse comme seule base légitime de législation. Le cadre fédératif
empêche que la majorité nationale s’impose comme seul critère de la
souveraineté, cette dernière se répartissant entre diverses souverainetés
régionales. Certes, Whitaker admet que les particularités du système électoral
canadien peuvent parfois diluer le potentiel démocratique du fédéralisme : au
Canada, la majorité nationale n’équivaut bien souvent à rien de plus que la
suprématie d’une province ou d’une région sur les autres. Quoi qu’il en soit,
Whitaker n’en proclame pas moins la compatibilité du fédéralisme et de la
démocratie en ce que l’un et l’autre se renforcent mutuellement. Le
fédéralisme, prétend-il, offre les garanties institutionnelles d’une citoyenneté
plus complexe et plus large. Cela peut, bien sûr, conduire à une multiplicité
d’expressions politiques, de volontés contradictoires de représentation et de
loyautés identitaires antagoniques qui constituent autant de défis à la pratique
démocratique, mais qui l’obligent aussi à se renouveler.
Whitaker symbolise en quelque sorte le malaise et l’ambiguïté actuels de la
pensée sur la démocratie au Canada. En posant le fédéralisme comme un
fondement important de la démocratie, il montre combien sa conception de la
démocratie est finalement dépendante de l’appareillage institutionnel qui en
permet l’exercice. On cherchera en vain chez Whitaker une définition précise
des éléments constitutifs de la citoyenneté préalable à la pratique
démocratique. L’intérêt du fédéralisme à cet égard tient au fait que sur le plan
institutionnel, il assure une représentation plus juste et égalitaire des droits des
individus contre la tyrannie de la majorité. Whitaker nous met peut-être sur
une piste intéressante, car dans sa forme pure et absolue, le fédéralisme permet
en effet une décentralisation de la souveraineté. Cependant, dans la mesure où
les paramètres d’insertion des particularismes restent indéfinis, on ne peut se
rallier complètement à Whitaker. En bout de piste, la position qu’il défend
approuve la démocratie de représentation — surtout si elle est tempérée par des
codes de libertés fondamentales qui protègent les opinions minoritaires — et
se range à l’intérieur de la conception territoriale traditionnelle de la politique
canadienne qui ne cherche finalement qu’à assurer la protection des volontés
régionales. Whitaker n’offre aucune vision sociétale de la démocratie, dont la
problématique s’identifie aux mécanismes de la gouverne.
En fait, Whitaker compte peut-être parmi les rares à avoir cherché quelque sens
démocratique à la quête constitutionnelle canadienne. De façon générale, les
experts, les universitaires et les intellectuels qui s’intéressent au dossier et qui
ont exprimé leur avis durant ou en marge des débats ont rarement poussé leur
pensée jusque sur le terrain d’une reconceptualisation du sens de la
démocratie. Dans presque tous les cas, ils ou elles se sont conformés au cadre
étroit de réflexion imposé par les élites politiques. Il suffit pour s’en
convaincre de consulter les procès-verbaux des audiences des diverses
commissions sur la Constitution qui ont sondé les Canadiens au cours des
dernières années. Que ce soit dans le cadre des ces commissions lors de forums
publics ou semi-publics, ces gens n’ont jamais tenté de renouveler le discours
sur la démocratie. Tout comme les groupes, associations et particuliers qui ont
présenté des mémoires, l’intelligentsia canadienne s’est surtout attachée à
relever les faiblesses institutionnelles qui menacent l’exercice de la
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démocratie sans se préoccuper des conditions sociales essentielles à la
démocratie ou encore des paramètres idéaux d’une citoyenneté élargie. Elle est
tombée, elle aussi, dans le panneau des discussions de plomberie
institutionnelle. À lire l’imposante documentation sur la question (à titre
indicatif voir Behiels, 1989; Barrie, 1988; Smith, 1991; Cairns, 1992a; Silipo,
1991), on s’aperçoit vite que c’est d’abord la démocratisation du processus de
réforme constitutionnelle qui retient l’attention des experts et non pas le
contenu même de la démocratie. En cela, leurs propos ne s’écartent guère des
multiples positions exprimées devant les comités parlementaires. Certes, il
n’est pas inutile de chercher les moyens d’une juste représentation, mais
l’élargissement de la démocratie ne tient pas aux seuls mécanismes de la
représentation.
Alan Cairns (1988) fournit les éléments d’une explication à cette espèce
d’obsession institutionnelle. D’après lui, la Loi constitutionnelle de 1982
marquait une rupture dans la façon d’aborder la chose constitutionnelle au
Canada et dans la manière surtout de s’y sentir partie prenante.
L’enchâssement d’une charte des droits et libertés dans la Constitution a créé,
d’après Cairns, une Constitution de citoyens encourageant les groupes et les
individus historiquement exclus de la dynamique politique à prendre la place
qui leur revient de droit. Alors que les discussions relatives à la Constitution
ont toujours été le moment de tractations entre élites bureaucratiques et
politiques, la Loi constitutionnelle de 1982 a invité les citoyens à se considérer
aussi comme acteurs à part entière. Ce changement important dans la culture
politique du pays pose inévitablement tout le problème de la participation et de
la représentation et donc des modalités d’insertion institutionnelle des intérêts
multiples et antagoniques appelés à se manifester (Fortin, 1992 : 5-6). L’échec
de l’Accord du lac Meech tiendrait en partie à ce qu’on avait compté sans la
réaction des groupes et citoyens nouvellement « accrédités » par la Charte, qui
n’auront pas accepté de n’avoir pas été inclus dans le processus (Cairns, 1991 :
19).
Dans un texte récent (1992), Jane Jenson a bien retracé cette dynamique
qu’elle lie à l’évolution du sens de la citoyenneté et aux modifications du
contenu identitaire au Canada. Durant presque toute la première moitié du 20e
siècle, observe-t-elle, la région et la culture ont défini les clivages politiques
les plus importants. Les groupes dont l’action se réclamaient de l’identité
régionale utilisaient le système de partis pour obtenir d’Ottawa un partage
équitable des ressources socio-économiques. De même, ceux qui se
mobilisaient sur la base de l’appartenance culturelle utilisaient à la fois les
canaux provincial et fédéral pour faire valoir leurs revendications. Jusqu’à la
Deuxième Guerre mondiale, les intérêts régionaux et ethnoculturels
s’exprimeront essentiellement à travers la représentation partisane et
ministérielle. Après 1945, c’est dans le cadre de négociations
intergouvernementales surtout que se manifesteront les prétentions à la
citoyenneté. Toujours selon Jenson, depuis l’entrée en vigueur de la Charte,
cependant, l’action des groupes tend à se situer en dehors du système partisan
et des mécanismes intergouvernementaux. Ainsi, l’échec de Meech manifeste
l’échec des institutions représentatives de la démocratie libérale, à savoir le
système de partis et le fédéralisme exécutif. Le processus de prise de décision
fut dénoncé parce qu’il niait les principes de la souveraineté parlementaire
ainsi que les nouvelles formes de représentation des mouvements sociaux et
des groupes d’intérêts. Ces nouvelles formes de représentation offrent une utre
voie au secteur populaire qui ne compte plus sur le système de partis pour faire
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valoir ses intérêts (Breton et Jenson, 1991 : 201). L’espace politique vital de
ces groupes serait autrement défini : leur identité est intimement liée à leur
préférence pour des formes nouvelles de démocratie politique. Jenson soutient
que l’émergence de nouveaux mouvements sociaux, de même que la récente
prééminence politique de groupes tels que les autochtones, marquent le point
de départ d’une reformulation de la démocratie au Canada. Leurs positions et
revendications particulières remettraient en cause le « déficit » démocratique
que représentent la définition de la Constitution et l’opération des institutions
intergouvernementales et partisanes. En fait, Jenson n’est pas loin de
suggérer que ces nouveaux mouvements sociaux pourraient constituer les
fondements d’une pratique élargie de la démocratie au Canada.
Notre lecture de la situation n’est pas aussi enthousiaste que celle de Jenson.
Sur la base des préoccupations exprimées devant les comités parlementaires,
nous croyons plutôt que les revendications des nouveaux mouvements sociaux
participent d’abord d’un désir de reconnaissance institutionnelle et ne
remettent pas en cause les paramètres fondamentaux actuels du système
politique et de la citoyenneté. D’après ce que nous avons pu déceler, rares sont
les groupes qui essaient d’amener le débat sur le terrain d’une conception qui
transcenderait leur intégration aux mécanismes institutionnels tels qu’ils
existent à l’heure actuelle. Ainsi, ils ne remettent pas en question les
fondements usuels de la citoyenneté et de la démocratie. Bien sûr, certains
groupes se sont montrés fort critiques à l’endroit du mode de fonctionnement
de la démocratie et ont souligné avec véhémence la faible participation de la
population au processus constitutionnel. La mise en application de leurs
suggestions aurait certes pour effet de modifier les institutions, mais en suivant
toujours les principes de la démocratie parlementaire. De plus, leur volonté
d’être entendus ou représentés, d’une manière ou d’une autre, à la table
constitutionnelle, ne modifie que marginalement le fédéralisme exécutif et le
recours à l’accommodation des élites comme lieu de prise de décision comme
l’a pertinemment rappelé Smith (1991 : 80).
Mais au-delà de ces critiques et de ces suggestions, les groupes et les nouveaux
mouvements sociaux dont parle Jenson ont adopté une posture étroitement
individualiste en cherchant simplement à obtenir la parité de leurs droits avec
ceux des autres groupes. Leur conception de la citoyenneté se limite en fait à
leur seule inclusion dans l’appareil institutionnel existant. Pire, leurs
inquiétudes quant à la défense de leurs intérêts propres ne se manifestent bien
souvent qu’en fonction des pertes ou des gains relatifs à la plus ou moins
grande centralisation du fédéralisme canadien. Par exemple, les groupes de
femmes considèrent souvent que le gouvernement fédéral offre de meilleures
garanties de respect des principes d’universalité et d’accessibilité aux soins de
santé que les provinces, d’où leur attachement à l’adoption de normes
nationales (McLellan, 1992 : 10). Mais pour plusieurs, la réflexion s’arrête là.
Toute la problématique est toujours posée selon l’axe traditionnel
centralisation- décentralisation alors que le problème de la santé des femmes a
un caractère éminemment social qui va au-delà des calculs renvoyant
uniquement à la mécanique administrative et institutionnelle du partage des
compétences. Ces questions sont, certes, pertinentes. Mais limiter la réflexion
à ces seules balises réduit la complexité du problème et fait peu pour situer le
débat à l’extérieur des institutions gouvernementales et partisanes comme le
soutient Jenson. De plus, cette façon d’aborder la question ne contribue que
marginalement à une redéfinition plus globale de la citoyenneté.
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En raison de leur « obsession institutionnaliste, » les représentants des groupes
et des nouveaux mouvements sociaux ne contribuent pas véritablement au
changement de la culture politique qui assurerait un renouvellement de la
pratique démocratique au Canada. Alors que ces groupes pourraient être le
ferment de valeurs nouvelles à la base d’une citoyenneté et d’une pratique
démocratique renouvelée, leurs actions et leurs intérêts respectifs semblent les
diviser. En d’autres termes, la démarche privilégiée par certains groupes peut
les amener à opposer leurs intérêts et leurs droits à ceux mis de l’avant par
d’autres. Par exemple, on peut s’interroger sur la complémentarité entre la
reconnaissance du principe de l’autonomie gouvernementale réclamée par les
chefs autochtones et le respect des droits des femmes autochtones. Celles-ci
n’avaient-elles pas demandé un siège à la table constitutionnelle craignant
l’édulcoration de leurs droits contenus dans la Charte ?
L’attention des intervenants socio-politiques et des spécialistes qui se sont
penchés sur notre problématique s’est essentiellement portée sur les modalités
d’une participation accrue sans qu’il ne soit question des fondements
théoriques de la Charte. En d’autres termes, les interrogations ne portent pas
sur les valeurs qui l’animent, sinon pour reprendre les grands principes du
libéralisme. Or, il nous faut nous demander si ces valeurs sont suffisantes pour
garantir l’exercice d’une véritable démocratie. C’est maintenant cette question
qui va faire l’objet de nos propos.
Repenser la démocratie
Selon la conception généralement acceptée dans les sociétés occidentales,
l’exercice de la démocratie relève de la dimension politico-administrative de
la vie sociale; la démocratie n’a de sens et d’existence propres qu’à travers les
manifestations directes et indirectes des institutions parlementaires. La
démocratie est d’abord une question de droits politiques consentis aux
individus et le progrès en la matière se mesure à l’aune de la protection qu’une
société est prête à garantir à ces mêmes droits. La démocratie s’appuie ainsi sur
les préceptes du libéralisme individualiste qui pose comme prémisses
ontologiques fondamentales la défense et la promotion de la liberté
individuelle. Elle participe d’un concept négatif de la liberté, puisque celle-ci
apparaît d’abord comme l’absence de contraintes ou d’interférences
extérieures à l’individu. Dans ce cadre, le rôle de l’État se limite à protéger
l’individu contre les menaces à sa liberté et surtout contre toute atteinte à son
droit inaliénable à la propriété privée. La tradition libérale en ce domaine ne se
préoccupe guère d’objectifs de coopération, de justice ou d’égalité sociale;
légiférer de tels objectifs porterait ombrage à la liberté que doit avoir l’individu
de faire ses propres choix.
L’émergence de l’État-providence et la primauté accrue accordée à la
promotion de l’égalité socio-économique ont démontré en un sens
l’inadéquation d’une application stricte du libéralisme individualiste à la
démocratie. L’expérience welfariste des sociétés occidentales au cours des
quarante ou cinquante dernières années prouve que la démocratie se joue aussi
en dehors des frontières de la sphère politique. Les revendications constantes
pour la reconnaissance de droits sociaux et économiques, les luttes pour
l’égalité non pas simplement politique mais aussi sociale montrent que pour
plusieurs, la démocratie n’est pas qu’affaire de droits politiques et de libertés
civiles. Au cours des années récentes, plusieurs penseurs ont remis en question
les principes traditionnels de fonctionnement de la démocratie libérale. Non
seulement s’inscrivent-ils souvent en faux contre l’adéquation qui est
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généralement faite entre libéralisme et démocratie ou encore entre
parlementarisme et démocratie (Mouffe, 1992a; 1992b), mais encore ils
cherchent à déborder les confins institutionnels étroits dans lesquels on
enferme aussi l’exercice de la démocratie. On s’oriente ainsi vers une
reconceptualisation plus globale, plus sociétale de la démocratie (Labica,
1992) qui permettrait la création d’espaces publics de participation qui ne
tiendrait pas seulement aux critères de la représentation, mais aussi et peut-être
surtout au désir d’inclusion sociale et économique. Cette vision « alternative »
ne cherche pas la reviviscence de la démocratie dans le remaniement
cosmétique des institutions en place, elle lie le renouvellement de la
démocratie à la reconfiguration du rapport salarial, à la transformation des
rapports sociaux, au recul des hiérarchies, au respect de l’égalité dans la
différence et à la mise en place de nouvelles formes de solidarité et de
mécanismes de représentation plus organiques (Lipietz, 1992 : 283-284). Bref,
le renouvellement de la démocratie tiendrait dans la capacité des sociétés
modernes d’opter pour une remise en question du paradigme démocratique
dominant.
Dans la pratique sociale, le plein développement de la démocratie n’est
possible que si l’on consent à en camper l’exercice, par-delà le formalisme
parlementaire et représentatif, dans le champ beaucoup plus global et généreux
d’un dialogue ouvert entre tous ceux et celles dont l’épanouissement personnel
est à la merci des conditions sociales et matérielles. Or, il ne peut y avoir
épanouissement de la personne sans coopération sociale, sans solidarité entre
les individus, sans réciprocité; c’est un préalable. La garantie sociale d’un
bien-être matériel et moral pour tous sans exception représente la condition
nécessaire à l’épanouissement de la personne et, de manière concomitante, à
l’expansion de la démocratie (Gould, 1988; Guttman, 1988; Doyal et Gough,
1991).
Le projet démocratique exige l’égalité entre les individus. Il ne s’agit pas ici
d’une égalité formelle ou de principe, mais d’une égalité d’accès aux
conditions sociales et matérielles d’épanouissement individuel. Le droit égal
pour tous de participer aux décisions relatives aux activités communes liées à
l’épanouissement individuel doit constituer une facette incontournable de la
démocratie. Ces aires communes de décision ne relèvent pas seulement du
domaine politique; elles doivent aussi s’insérer dans tous les domaines de la
vie sociale et économique. Vivre la démocratie, c’est donc dépasser la tyrannie
de la majorité pour aller vers des formes plus consensuelles où les minoritaires
ne sont pas exclus d’emblée des choix de société. C’est également travailler à
combler les écarts socio-économiques qui éloignent et polarisent les divers
segments de la société. Vivre la démocratie, c’est penser une société fondée sur
le partage des biens, des obligations et du savoir, une société axée sur la
possibilité offerte à tous de participer aux mécanismes du devenir collectif.
Vivre la démocratie, c’est finalement investir l’espace public et exercer
pleinement les responsabilités de la citoyenneté.
Mais de quelle citoyenneté s’agit-il ? L’idée de citoyenneté a historiquement
été élaborée et comprise dans son sens universel et général. Elle repose d’abord
et avant tout sur la présence de traits communs, presque toujours
institutionnels, auxquels peuvent s’identifier les agents sociaux, sans égard à
ce qui les différencie. L’universalisme du concept classique de souveraineté
conduit à la mise en place de lois et de règles socio-institutionnelles qui se
répercutent sur tous et chacun indistinctement. Les lois et les règles qui
émanent de la citoyenneté traditionnelle ne tiennent pas compte des
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particularités individuelles et des différences socio-économiques qui
distinguent et opposent même les agents et les groupes sociaux. Dans son
acception actuelle, la citoyenneté équivaut ni plus ni moins à un déni de
l’existence de réalités sociales multiples. Le véritable défi de la réflexion sur la
démocratie à l’aube du 21e siècle consiste à penser la citoyenneté non plus
comme un idéal universel et général — essentiellement défini par les classes
dominantes et auquel tous se doivent d’adhérer — mais bien comme un
objectif politique tangible qui viserait à donner la parole aux groupes socioéconomiques qui ont été historiquement exclus du processus socio-politique et
des mécanismes institutionnels et administratifs et qui continuent d’être
relégués à la marge des lieux de pouvoir et laissés pour compte dans
l’élaboration de projets de société (Young, 1990).
En clair, il ne saurait y avoir de projet véritablement démocratique sans
solidarité ni réciprocité, mais surtout sans l’apport de tous à la définition de
l’architecture sociale et de l’économie générale de la société. Les sociétés
libérales se sont toujours cachées derrière l’illusion rassurante qu’offre la
représentation parlementaire : l’exercice régulier du droit de vote n’est-il pas la
preuve la plus tangible, le signe le plus irrévocable de la citoyenneté ? Rien
n’est moins clair aujourd’hui alors que le processus électoral se confond bien
souvent avec pratique civique ritualisée, passive et sans substance. Le système
électoral simule la citoyenneté; il ne permet pas l’engagement direct et critique
de l’électorat au processus de formulation et de discussion des politiques
publiques. Certes, le pluralisme bon teint dont se targuent les sociétés libérales
offre l’image d’une démocratie sereine et enviable. Dans les faits, la
consultation, par élection ou sondage, des citoyens participe de l’illusion
démocratique. Non seulement reconduit-elle, quelle que soit sa forme, le
système socio-politique dans toute sa conformité, jamais elle ne fait vraiment
participer le citoyen. Spectacles orchestrés par des élites socio-économiques
qui ne cherchent qu’à assurer leur propre dominance sociale et politique, ces
coups de sonde ne servent plus qu’à entretenir l’impression de la démocratie
auprès de populations repoussées à la marge et que l’on entend surtout
maintenir là. Et ainsi se reproduit le cercle vicieux du désengagement politique
: éventuellement persuadées qu’il leur est impossible d’agir sur le système, ces
populations ne voient plus l’utilité de s’informer et de revoir la légitimité du
système; leur apathie et leur ignorance confirment en bout de piste l’idée
qu’entretiennent les élites politiques au sujet de l’incapacité du peuple à se
gouverner lui-même (Lyon, 1992 : 125).
Au Canada, fédéralisme et démocratie sont généralement associés. On sait
aujourd’hui que l’un n’est pas garant de l’autre (Whitaker, 1992) et qu’ici, ils
ne l’ont jamais été. Pourtant, l’on persiste à penser que le fédéralisme à la
canadienne est porteur de démocratie. La crise constitutionnelle actuelle
reflète en grande partie l’insatisfaction croissante face à la nature même du
régime démocratique que prétend être le fédéralisme canadien. La grande
problématique qui ressort des différentes consultations relatives à la
Constitution porte dans presque tous les cas sur l’inadéquation ressentie par les
individus, les groupes ou les associations des mécanismes de représentation et
d’inclusion dans les processus décisionnels. Que ce soit pour des questions de
représentativité territoriale, ethnique, linguistique, sociale, économique ou
sexuelle, les doléances de tous et chacun témoignent de l’incapacité du
fédéralisme canadien et des institutions parlementaires qui le soutiennent
d’assurer une place et un rôle équivalents dans la formulation des politiques
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publiques et des décisions politico-administratives qui influent sur la vie des
citoyens.
À certains égards, le processus de fragmentation du tissu social et la tendance
vraisemblablement irrévocable à la personnalisation du social (Lipovetsky,
1983) qui caractérisent la dynamique sociétale de cette fin de siècle sonnent le
glas des institutions politiques traditionnelles. L’emprise croissante sur le
discours politique des revendications en faveur des droits individuels et la
multiplication des regroupements d’êtres identiques pour la reconnaissance
publique de leur différence ou simplement pour partager leur vécu rend
obsolète un système politique comme celui du Canada, attaché qu’il reste à
l’idée d’un État territorial souverain et centralisé.
Dans un tel contexte de transformation des valeurs, des normes et des
paramètres de la vie sociale, le système politique devient inapte à répondre aux
exigences et aux attentes d’une partie croissante de la population. Au Canada,
cela se vérifie d’autant plus que la Loi constitutionnelle de 1982 a donné voix
aux chapitre aux groupes et aux individus qui avaient été historiquement
exclus du processus politique. Forts de la caution juridique que leur offre la
Charte canadienne des droits et libertés, ceux-ci exigent plus que jamais la
reconnaissance de leur différence et de leur particularité, exerçant du même
coup des pressions auxquelles ni le système politique ni les élites ne peuvent
donner suite (Cairns, 1988; Rocher et Salée, 1991; Whitaker, 1992). Force est
de constater que la structure institutionnelle et administrative du fédéralisme
canadien est en train de céder parce qu’elle est de plus en plus inapte à combler
les aspirations démocratiques suscitées à la fois par la nouvelle donne imposée
par la Charte, le mouvement général de personnalisation du social et la
redéfinition concomitante de la citoyenneté.
La tradition théorique qui anime le système politique canadien (c’est celle en
fait sur laquelle se fonde toute la conceptualisation de l’organisation politique
en Occident et qui puise dans la pensée des Bodin, Hobbes et Machiavel) est
ancrée dans la conviction que la fonction de régie (governance) est l’objet
privilégié du politique. Suivant cette optique, l’élaboration de projets de
société passe d’abord par la mise au point des mécanismes de régie; les
impératifs de la raison d’État conditionnent et stabilisent la société. Or, vivre la
démocratie en ces temps de fragmentation sociale, c’est tenter de dépasser
cette vision du politique qui n’a de sens finalement qu’en contexte de grande
homogénéité sociale. Vivre la démocratie, c’est tenter de réorganiser la société
non plus en fonction du pouvoir de l’État et d’un idéal institutionnel et
instrumental, mais bien en fonction de la société elle-même, c’est-à-dire des
réalités multiples et variées qui la composent et des volontés d’autonomie qui
la traversent (Hueglin, 1992). Ces questions n’ont malheureusement pas
alimenté le débat sur le nécessaire arrimage entre la transformation de la
pratique démocratique et la transformation des mécanismes de négociations
constitutionnelles au cours des dernières années.
On peut d’ailleurs se permettre d’être sceptique quant à la possibilité
d’enregistrer à plus ou moins long terme quelque progrès à cet égard , tant et
aussi longtemps que l’on continuera d’agir à l’intérieur des mécanismes
institutionnels actuels.
Au-delà des raisons particulières et souvent partisanes qui ont poussé une
majorité de Canadiens à rejeter l’entente de Charlottetown, l’issue du
référendum d’octobre 1992 traduit aussi un désaccord populaire assez profond
face au processus même de révision constitutionnelle, un certain cynisme
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quant au potentiel de développement démocratique qu’aurait pu contenir une
telle révision, de même qu’un désenchantement à peine voilé face à la classe
politique canadienne. Il serait étonnant que le débat constitutionnel soit
rouvert dans un avenir rapproché. Les tribulations constitutionnelles et
référendaires des dernières années ont conduit à l’écoeurement politique des
Canadiens qui, à court terme tout au moins, refuseront de s’interroger
sérieusement à propos de leur système politique ou des tenants et aboutissants
de la démocratie. En attendant, le problème reste entier.
En dernière analyse, ce que démontre le rejet de l’entente de Charlottetown et,
avant cela, l’échec de l’Accord du lac Meech, c’est bien l’épuisement, voire la
faillite, du modèle traditionnel des relations fédérales-provinciales pour
solutionner les problèmes inhérents à la dynamique de la société civile. Il y a
peut-être là un mal pour un bien. La défaite référendaire vient en quelque sorte
confirmer ce qu’Alan Cairns a si finement identifié comme la nonconcordance, provoquée par la constitutionnalisation de la Charte canadienne
des droits et libertés, entre deux logiques contradictoires : celle des citoyens
désormais détenteurs de droits et drapés de prétention multiples et
polymorphes à la différence; et celle des gouvernements, gestionnaires
historiques et souverains de l’expression des droits individuels et des
revendications communautaires. Ces deux logiques commandent des
mécanismes institutionnels opposés et, somme toute, irréconciliables (Cairns,
1992b). Le drame de l’histoire constitutionnelle canadienne récente tient dans
cet entêtement à arrimer l’une et l’autre logique, et même parfois la tentation
d’imposer l’une à l’autre. Le référendum de 1992 enseigne finalement que cet
arrimage est impossible et qu’il faut chercher ailleurs.
La question demeure ouverte : où chercher ? La forme et la cohérence
institutionnelle de l’État participent toujours plus ou moins des modulations
particulières de la société civile, bien que dans certaines conjonctures
historiques, il arrive que l’État imprime à celle-ci ses propres paramètres. En
instaurant une mouvance politique désormais fondée sur les droits, la réforme
constitutionnelle de 1982 a remis en quelque sorte la société civile à l’avantscène. La dynamique politique s’accomplit de plus en plus dans l’interface
entre des citoyens parés de leurs droits distinctifs, individuels et
collectifs—droits des femmes contre ceux des hommes, droits des
Autochtonnes et des minorités visibles contre ceux de la majorité blanche.
C’est dans ce registre nouveau et inhabituel pour la culture politique
canadienne que s’expriment maintenant les prétentions à la citoyenneté et que
d’aucuns entendent jeter les fondations d’une démocratie élargie, inclusive,
cherchant à équilibrer la reconnaissance des droits individuels universels à la
nécessaire reconnaissance des particularismes.
Tout n’est pas réglé pour autant. Si l’échec référendaire a démontré les limites
de l’hégémonie institutionnelle du fédéralisme canadien et annoncé la
réaffirmation de la société civile, cela ne garantit pas une redéfinition
institutionnelle idéale exempte de conflits. Dans le contexte actuel où les droits
individuels dominent de plus en plus le discours politique, l’unanimité devient
presque impossible, puisque tout est contestable et qu’il n’existe plus de
rationalité unique et universelle.
Pour certains, le processus de personnalisation, évoqué plus haut, constitue un
premier pas vers le renouveau démocratique des sociétés occidentales, la
garantie de l’essentielle remise en question des consensus (Lipovetsky, 1983 :
183 et sq.). Certes, on peut espérer, à la façon de certains philosophes libéraux
181
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communautariens, que, puisque la production de l’identité subjective résulte
du désir humain de reconnaissance par les autres, et donc d’un nécessaire
dialogue, le respect des identités individuelles et des différences débouche sur
une société inévitablement plus démocratique où chacun est ouvert à l’autre,
où les identités individuelles s’épanouissent par le dialogue collectif et une
conception unanimement partagée de la communauté (Taylor, 1992).
Dans la réalité, la glorification actuelle des droits individuels et l’obsession
juridique qui l’alimente reposent sur une vision atomiste du social — vision
décriée avec conviction par les philosophes communautariens, Taylor en tête
— où chaque être est une île autosuffisante qui ne doit rien à la communauté.
Dans un tel contexte, le dialogue est forcément, et plus souvent qu’autrement,
un dialogue de sourds. Une juriste américaine observait récemment qu’aux
États-Unis, la primauté accordée aux droits individuels dans le discours
politique avait conduit à une situation qui
in its absoluteness, promotes unrealistic expectations, heightens
social conflict, and inhibits dialogue that might lead toward
consensus, accommodation, or at least the discovery of common
ground. In its silence concerning responsibilities, [rights talk] seems
to condone acceptance of the benefits of living in a democratic social
welfare state, without accepting the corresponding personal and civic
obligations. In its relentless individualism, it fosters a climate that is
inhospitable to society’s losers, and that systematically
disadvantages caretakers and dependents, young and old (...). We
make it difficult for persons and groups with conflicting interests and
views to build a coalition and achieve compromise, or even to acquire
that minimal degree of mutual forbearance and understanding that
promotes peaceful coexistence and keeps the door open to further
communication (Glendon, 1991 : 14-15).
Sans doute que le Canada n’en est pas rendu là. Mais comme le donne à penser
le rejet de l’entente de Charlottetown, l’incapacité à définir les conditions
minimales de coexistence des identités plurielles laisse croire que le processus
est déjà bien amorcé.
Comme nous l’avons indiqué plus haut, seule la reviviscence des liens
fondamentaux de solidarité communautaire et de réciprocité peut stopper ce
glissement. Mais entre pareille exhortation normative et la réalité, un fossé
semble se creuser dont personne ne peut prédire l’ampleur, ni même s’il ira en
s’élargissant. Tout dépendra de la dynamique sociétale que les Canadiens se
forgeront.
Notes
1.
Nous tenons à remercier Michel Sarra-Bournet qui nous a assistés dans la phase préliminaire
de la recherche.
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184
Stephen McBride
Renewed Federalism as an Instrument of
Competitiveness: Liberal Political Economy and
the Canadian Constitution*
Abstract
This article examines attempts by Canada’s Conservative government to
introduce proposals based on the principles of liberal political economy into a
constitutional renewal process driven by other issues. From the viewpoint of
liberal political economy, a suitably renewed Constitution and federal system
could serve as an instrument of economic success and competitiveness. The
Meech Lake Accord, the government’s 1991 constitutional proposals, and the
Charlottetown Accord are analyzed. The article concludes that although
Canada’s ongoing constitutional crisis provided an opportunity for the
introduction of this type of constitutional proposal, other aspects of Canada’s
political system—political culture and the federal system itself—have
obstructed the government’s agenda. The rejection of Charlottetown was, in
this respect, less decisive than the dilution of the government’s proposals that
had occurred earlier in the process.
Résumé
Cet article porte sur les tentatives du gouvernement conservateur canadien de
profiter du processus de révision de la Constitution pour faire adopter des
propositions fondées sur les principes de l’économie politique libérale. Dans
l’optique de cette dernière, un renouvellement efficace de la Constitution et du
régime fédéral pouvait favoriser l’essor et le compétitivité du pays. Après
avoir passé en revue l’Accord du lac Meech, les propositions
constitutionnelles de 1991 ainsi que l’Accord de Charlottetown, l’auteur en
arrive à la conclusion que le débat constitutionnel en cours offrait
manifestement une bonne occasion de soumettre un tel projet, mais d’autres
aspects de la situation politique canadienne — la culture politique et le régime
fédéral lui-même — ont fait avorter le programme gouvernemental. Le rejet de
l’Accord de Charlottetown a été moins déterminant que les modifications qu’il
a subies au cours des négociations antérieures.
Liberal Political Economy and the Constitution
The end of the Keynesian era has stimulated a renewed interest in the
connection between economic doctrines and political programs. The
conservative, or neo-conservative, political parties that have benefited from
Keynesianism’s failure to deal with the problems created by an increasingly
internationalized economy have become much more doctrinaire organizations
than their pragmatic predecessors of the 1950s and 1960s. Despite the neoInternational Journal of Canadian Studies / Revue internationale d’études canadiennes
IJCS / RIÉC
conservative label, however, the doctrine they espouse consists of a
refurbished version of classical liberal political economy.
There is a large literature on the policy agenda of various neo-conservative
governments. Much has been written on the policy impact of the economic
theory which inspires these parties. Thatcher’s Britain and Reagan’s America
are seen as laboratories in which liberal political economy has been applied.
Perhaps because of the emphasis on these two countries, much less has been
written about the constitutional impact of liberal political economy; neither
Mrs. Thatcher nor Mr. Reagan were great constitutional innovators. Nor were
they leaders of countries in which constitutional politics plays a great role.
Yet liberal political economy has much to say about the “good constitution”
and its potential role in facilitating such economic ends as competitiveness. In
Canada, which has been in the throes of constitutional crisis and debate for
quite some time, a greater opportunity existed to take action on the
Constitution. Canada’s own neo-conservatives may have had to play second
fiddle to their more renowned foreign cousins in many areas, but in attempting
to constitutionalize the principles of liberal political economy they have been
in the vanguard. This article explores their efforts.
Liberal political economy’s response to economic globalization and
intensifying competitive pressures is to downsize the state and liberate market
forces from its regulatory constraints. Restraint and retrenchment of state
activity can, of course, be accomplished without constitutional change. The
role of the state may simply be reduced by normal political processes.
However, there is a corresponding danger that such processes will, in a later
period, lead to an expansion of the state’s role—thus reversing the neoconservative revolution. Hence, the possibility of rendering the neoconservative assault on the state’s role permanent, through constitutional
change, has its attractions.
A number of analysts have noted the challenge posed for all nation-states by
the growing power of transnational corporations and the markets in which they
operate (eg. Simeon 1991:47-9). And, in light of Canada’s free trade solution
to these pressures, it is worth noting the widespread perception that North
American integration and Canadian disintegration are directly correlated (eg.
Simeon 1991:51; and Watkins quoted in Norman, 1991:27). The impact of
globalization on Canada’s political system has increased the constitutional
strains generated by Canada’s internal and idiosyncratic cleavages based on
language and region.
Thus, the fact that the institutional arrangements of the country are unsettled
has provided an opportunity for Canadian neo-conservatives that has been
denied their colleagues in other countries. Even though the process of
constitutional change itself has been driven by a different agenda, expressed in
the discourse of Quebec’s demands, provincial powers, and the dissatisfaction
of regions, it has been possible for neo-conservatives to initiate constitutional
reforms that reflect their political and economic agenda.
Indeed, according to Jenson (1989, 1990), the connection between the two
constitutional agendas may be more intimate than suggested by this
discussion. This is because “the paradigm which helped to stabilize the fordist
mode of regulation in Canada after World War II was organized around
national identities... The social compromises and institutionalized
relationships of the welfare state were rationalized in terms of the needs of the
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Renewed Federalism as an Instrument of Competitiveness
whole nation and of the federal system. Therefore, when the fordist paradigm
began to dissolve, it would do so around the issues of national existence and
proper state forms” (Jenson 1989:84). This is not the place to explore this
insight in great depth, but there is certainly a conjunction between the
development of a crisis in Canada’s institutions and the opportunity to use the
Constitution to bind the state to a role consistent with neo-conservative ends.
These ends include reducing the role of government generally, and in
particular the welfare state (Marchak 1991: Chapter 5; Shields 1990; Whitaker
1987), although students of actually existing neo-conservative governments
have noted a tendency to condemn the state in theory while simultaneously
relying on a strong state in certain spheres of state activity. Given these
ambiguities, is it possible to identify a body of neo-conservative constitutional
theory which might serve as a benchmark in evaluating the Mulroney
government’s constitutional initiatives?
Three themes may be emphasized. First, there is a genuine desire to confine the
state to a much more restricted sphere of intervention in the economy and
social policy. While this might be accomplished by normal political activity, it
is also possible to restrict the state’s role by constitutional provisions. By
prohibiting the state from certain activities it can also be insulated from
democratic pressures—a goal some have attributed to liberal political
economy (Shields 1990:162). Second, however, the state must be sufficiently
strong to confront and defeat the special interests that can be expected to
defend the welfare state, to police and protect the market order, and to uphold
authority in society. Finally, in federal political systems we may not find a
permanent theoretical position in favour of assigning powers to a particular
level of government, but in practice decentralization will be viewed in most
cases as more likely to lead to “less government in general and less
redistributive activity in particular” (Boadway 1992:3).
These guidelines provide a profile of the constitutional preferences of liberal
political economy. How are these preferences connected to the basic economic
strategy favoured by Canadian neo-conservatives? What kinds of specific
constitutional proposals emerge from the conjunction of economic and
constitutional preferences?
The interplay of economic strategies and constitutional preferences has been
most comprehensively analyzed by Peter Leslie (1987: especially Chapter 9)
who outlines the constitutional and political implications of three potential
economic strategies. In one of these, which he terms the liberal-continentalist
option, minimal government intervention occurs and continental free trade
obtains. It is the strategy recommended by the Macdonald Commission and, in
broad terms, adopted by the Mulroney government. What are the
constitutional correlates of this option?
Although liberal political economy generally favours a reduced role for the
state in the economy and in social policy, it is often necessary to assign matters
to one or other level of government given the constitutional principle of the
supremacy of Parliament. In general this will lead to a preference for a
decentralization of powers to the provinces. An alternative approach would be
to expand those elements in the Canadian Constitution which prohibit either
order of government from undertaking certain activities. One might therefore
look for some combination of limits on federal powers and transfer of
jurisdictions to the provinces. Through decentralization and deference to the
market, the ideal of a limited and constrained state might be approximated.
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However, Leslie (1987:167-70) notes that even the liberal-continentalist
option requires a strong state: “the market-enhancing policies advocated by
the [Macdonald] commission are anything but anodyne in their constitutional
effects. Indeed, they demand more extensive limitations on provincial powers
than anything proposed by the federal government during the [earlier
constitutional] negotiations” (Leslie 1987:24). For example, the divided
jurisdiction over fiscal policy that is involved in any federal system of
government opens the possibility that one level of government may use its
fiscal powers to offset initiatives taken by the other. If a low tax and low
spending policy is to prevail, some form of coordination would seem
necessary. Similarly, for a truly free market to exist in Canada, a more
complete economic union than that guaranteed by Section 121 of the British
North America Act is necessary. Section 121 has not prevented the creation of
barriers to interprovincial trade by both levels of government. Striking down
such obstacles seems to require strengthened national institutions. Finally, the
Macdonald Commission anticipated that the federal government’s lack of a
treaty implementation power, where treaties touched areas of provincial
jurisdiction, might make problematic the implementation of continental free
trade with the United States (see Leslie 1987:108-9).
Thus, the constitutional program of liberal political economy might include a
general predeliction to weaken the powers of the central government,
especially as far as economic and social intervention are concerned, together
with a selective strengthening of the federal government’s ability to overcome
interventionism by the provinces. One might expect also some reliance upon
the American connection, as manifested in the Free Trade Agreement, to
provide strong state support for a free market economy should domestic
politics in Canada deny it. Among the chief supporters of such an agenda have
been the business community, especially as represented by the Business
Council on National Issues, and the mainstream of the economics profession,
many of whose ideas found expression in the report of the Macdonald Royal
Commission (Simeon 1987; Carmichael, Dobson, Lipsey 1986). Other vocal
supporters of the agenda include a range of think-tanks and research institutes
associated with the business community (see, for example, Ernst 1992).
Canadian Business and the Constitution: Macdonald, Meech and PostMeech
The Macdonald Commission devoted most of the third volume of its report to
political institutions and reforms to the political system. Many of its
recommendations found their way, in one form or another, into either the
Meech Lake Accord or the federal government’s 1991 constitutional
proposals, Shaping Canada’s Future Together. The Macdonald Report (v.3,
385-408) recommended Senate reform to enhance regional representation,
recognition of the distinctive character of Quebec, a form of constitutional
veto for Quebec, and opt-out rights with compensation to all provinces. The
existence of barriers within the Canadian economic union occupied the
attention of the Commissioners and the report called for an amendment to
extend the provisions of Section 121 to include services, and for a Code of
Economic Conduct to help eliminate non-tariff barriers to trade in goods and
services. An intergovernmental agency to police the economic union was
proposed and the Commission foresaw that if a Code of Economic Conduct
were eventually made legally enforceable it would become “a regulatory
agency ... that regulates governments” (v.3:393). The Commission also
190
recommended a constitutional amendment to make international treaties
enforceable, even when their substance lay in areas of provincial jurisdiction,
subject to the proviso that the relevant sections of the treaties be approved by
the legislatures of seven provinces containing 50 percent of the population.
The Commission stopped short of recommending formal limitations on the
federal spending power, but felt its future use ought to be subject to conditions
and guidelines.
Some of the Commission’s thinking found its way into the Meech Lake
Accord. Both were supported by the Business Council (BCNI 1990). The
Accord’s demise, though regrettable to business among others, did provide an
opportunity to initiate a new constitutional round. It was widely conceded that
the agenda in this—the Canada Round—would need to be broader than that of
Meech. As a result one finds a more consistent expression of liberal political
economy than had been possible in the Quebec round represented in Meech.
The BCNI became more specific about the linkages between the economy and
political system, and the ways in which the latter might be restructured to more
adequately serve the former. “In the quest for competitiveness, the Canadian
political system must be an ally and not an impediment. First and foremost, the
reforms to our federal system must ensure that the Canadian common market is
established in fact and that the Canadian economic union is strengthened. The
free movement of labour, capital, goods and services must be guaranteed under
any new constitutional arrangement, and in this area, we see the federal
government having a strengthened role” (Business Council on National Issues
1991:8). This goal outweighed all others in business’s mind. So while the
BCNI was prepared to countenance “meaningful decentralization or a reduced
federal government role in fields assigned to the provinces under the current
Constitution or a revised Constitution,” this was subject to the proviso that
“any decentralization must be accompanied by concrete arrangements to
assure greater coordination or co-operation—otherwise, the existing Canadian
economic union, and the benefits it confers, will be threatened” (Business
Council on National Issues 1992:24). Essentially the Business Council’s
constitutional program consisted of contriving a new balance such that the
threat of Quebec separatism would be removed and a reformed federation,
characterized by political stability, could function effectively and contribute to
economic competitiveness and prosperity. A re-ordered division and sharing
of powers was viewed as necessary to this end—but this by no means implied a
wholesale decentralization of powers; in some areas, at least, enhanced federal
power would result. To render this palatable to regional opinion, reform of
federal institutions, including the Senate, the Supreme Court, and the
development of new consultative procedures for federal-provincial
communication, was necessary (Business Council on National Issues 1991).
Clearly these measures amount to a form of intra-state federalism.
Meech Lake
The Meech Lake Accord was driven by the refusal of the Quebec government
to endorse the 1982 Constitution. A number of propitious circumstances in the
mid 1980s—the departure of Trudeau and Levesque, the election of a federal
Conservative government pledged to national reconciliation and wishing to
consolidate its new found electoral support in Quebec, and the election of a
Liberal government in Quebec whose chief priority was to normalize the
position of the province (McRoberts 1988: Ch.11) explain why the attempt
was made when it was.
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My own concern here, of course, is not with the Quebec issue or Meech Lake
per se, but with the opportunity which Canada’s unfinished constitutional
agenda afforded for the neo-conservative view of the good Constitution to be
implemented. The federal government sensed that success in “bringing
Quebec back in,” a considerable political prize in its own right, would be
enhanced to the extent that the agenda was limited (see Monahan 1991:50-4).
This meant that it should be restricted, as far as possible, to the specific points
raised by the Quebec government. For this reason it is unrealistic to search for
the intrusion, into an already difficult set of negotiations, of an explicit
commitment to the constitutional principles of liberal political economy. The
most that one can expect to find is a correspondence or consistency between
the federal government’s position in the Meech Lake Accord and its general
ideology.
Much of the fabric of Canada’s post-war welfare state was developed at federal
initiative but in areas of provincial jurisdiction. The federal government’s
spending power was used as an instrument to create shared-cost social
programs. While the precise arrangements varied by program, a common
feature was provincial delivery of the service, but with significant financial
contribution from the federal government which, also, imposed conditions
designed to produce national coherence in the programs.
Under the Meech Lake Accord, the Government of Canada undertook to
provide “reasonable compensation to the government of a province that
chooses not to participate in a [new] national shared-cost program... in an area
of exclusive provincial jurisdiction, if the province carries on a program or
initiative that is compatible with national objectives.” The opposition to
federal spending power had originated with Quebec and thus forms part of the
traditional constitutional agenda, based on language and territory. However,
significant support existed among the other provinces for Quebec’s proposal
to limit the spending power. Some of them had argued for years that Ottawa’s
social policy initiatives distorted provincial priorities and that, in an era of
fiscal restraint, the federal government had become an unreliable financial
partner. Once established, social programs were politically difficult to
terminate. As the federal government pared back its financial support, the
provinces were left to sustain some very expensive programs. Quebec,
therefore, could rely on considerable support, from other provinces on this
issue. Some of this support came from provinces in which neo-conservative
thinking was influential, such as Alberta and British Columbia, and which had
been in the forefront of demands for constitutional change.1 What was new in
the mid-1980s was the hostility of the federal government to the nationbuilding and social reform agenda that the spending power had promoted. This
meant that the provinces’ demands met little resistance. There was thus a
conjunction of interest between those whose theory of federalism was based on
the claims of language and territory and the neo-conservative desire, on the
part of both federal and some provincial governments, to reduce the state’s role
in economic and social policy.
The linkage between the Accord’s provisions and the preferences of liberal
political economy was drawn most clearly by those opposed to Meech. Coyne
(1989:246-8) argued that the ability to opt-out of future national programs,
without financial disincentive, would erode Ottawa’s ability to build a national
identity based on relatively standardized access to social provision. When
combined with other provisions in the Accord, she considered that the effect
“involves a substantial devolution of power to the provinces and significant
192
shift of political dynamism on matters of national importance away from the
federal Parliament, as well as undermining the Charter of Rights and
Freedoms” (247).
Probably the most controversial item in the Meech Lake Accord was the
inclusion in the constitutional draft of an interpretive clause recognizing
Quebec as a distinct society. Since this article concerns the neo-conservative
agenda that is driven largely by the economic and social values expressed in
liberal political economy, while the distinct society clause addresses the
traditional linguistic cleavage in Canadian federalism, the debate need not
detain us unduly.
The neo-conservatives conditional preference for a decentralized federation
may have played a minor role in rendering asymetrical arrangements palatable
to them, in a way that they never were for the nationally-focused Trudeau
Liberals. However, the Mulroney government’s prime motivation was probably
to be found in the political and partisan imperatives of building a coalition
between Western provincialists and Quebec nationalists. Other elements of the
Meech package appear to demonstrate the strength and impact of the “all
provinces are equal” doctrine. In making these concessions to provincial
pressure, neo-conservative tolerance for a decentralized federation is probably
of greater significance; quite simply, there were few purposes for which neoconservatives required a strong national government (though there were
some), and many uses to which a strong national government could be put that
were inimical to the neo-conservative project.
This interpretation of Meech is reinforced when it is considered in tandem with
the Free Trade Agreement. The connection between the two has been
forcefully expressed by Simeon (1989:4-6): “the Free Trade Agreement is far
more significant a restraint on governments in general than Meech Lake is, and
more of a restraint on the federal government than it is on the provinces ... each
does have this one element underlying it: a sense of the need to limit and
constrain the state in the modern era...one can at least make the argument that
both in the long-run are likely to increase domestic fragmentation and certainly
to inhibit a strong nation-building policy led by the federal government...for
the many who argue for both, the two are tied together by hostility towards an
activist, interventionist, national state, both in its nation-building role and in its
economic development role...decentralization and a degree of noninterventionism go together.”
To what extent, then, can the Meech Lake Accord be viewed as an expression
of a neo-conservative constitutional agenda? Banting (1988: 588-9) views the
debate over Meech Lake as one between those committed to a nation-building,
centralist view of federalism in which a strong central government is the key
instrument of national integration, and between those who view Canadian
politics as being about the reconciliation of regional, territorial and linguistic
differences. The latter view favours a decentralized federation since the
cleavages to which it is sensitive require locally differentiated policies and
programs. Meech Lake, therefore, involved asserting the primacy of linguistic
and territorial cleavages over those class-based cleavages which led to an
agenda of social reform and national integration. Neo-conservatives would
clearly prefer the former to the latter since it involved weakening the federal
level: “the new stress on interdependence is purchased almost entirely at the
cost of reducing the autonomy and discretion of the federal government, and of
strengthening the role of provincial governments in virtually every area
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IJCS / RIÉC
touched by the Accord” (Cairns 1991:158). In this sense at least the Accord
was decentralizing and could be viewed with favour by neo-conservatives,
even if the strengthening of provincial governments was somewhat
problematic. And, although there are various explanations for federal
compliance, one of these is that provincial governments were less likely to
impede realization of a neo-conservative economic and social agenda. This
perception is based upon the historical roles played by the two levels of
government: “The creation of a political culture conducive to the creation of a
social service state was slow to emerge. Governments, particularly those at the
provincial level, preferred to spend their tax revenues on private and public
projects that contributed directly to capital accumulation. Provincial
governments saw little or no political advantage to involving revenues in
projects of legitimization, such as health and social welfare programs”
(Behiels 1989:236). When this situation began to change it was primarily as a
result of federal government initiatives. On the basis of historical experience,
transferring powers to the provinces might reasonably be expected to lead to
policy outcomes consistent with liberal political economy.
Certainly, these calculations could help to account for a striking feature of the
federal government’s negotiating posture: an apparent indifference to the
maintenance of federal authority. One provincial premier has been reported as
saying that Mulroney “kept asking if we had a deal... It was as if he didn’t have
any idea what the deal was or he didn’t care that much as long as he got one”
(cited in Cairns 1991:252). Yet a journalist’s account, also cited by Cairns
(153), points to the underlying content or substance of an otherwise
incomprehensible attitude. According to this account, the Prime Minister gave
Lowell Murray “carte blanche to negotiate away whatever federal powers
were necessary to get Quebec into the Constitution.” Obviously, there was no
shortage of willing takers. Moreover, as Trudeau pointed out (1989:90),
Mulroney had already made major concessions of powers to the provinces
before the constitutional talks began (abolition of the National Energy
Program, grant of offshore resources to Newfoundland, etc.).
There are some interesting parallels between the government’s negotiating
strategy at Meech Lake and that adopted in the Free Trade negotiations with
the Americans. In Clarkson’s view (1991:116), Mulroney:
...put Canada in the weakest possible bargaining situation ... As
demandeur in the negotiations, Canada laid its cards on the table....
The United States made no concessions but sat back and waited.
When the bargaining crunch came, the Canadian negotiators were
under instructions to do anything to get a deal.
The ultimate document represented an astonishing gain for American
trade diplomacy while surrendering virtually no American
sovereignty. ... Canada had made enormous concessions that limited the
federal and provincial governments’ capacity to make industrial
policies to promote their exports, to husband their energy reserves, or
to foster their cultural industries.
How can we explain the negotiating stance of the federal government? Was it
monumental incompetence? Or, as the substance of the agreements suggests,
was it the practical extension of the logic of liberal political economy? In my
view the latter is the more realistic position. Both Meech and the Free Trade
194
Agreement constrained governments: the federal (and most interventionist)
government most severely. And, although the Meech Lake Accord
strengthened provincial governments, the exercise of some of the new powers
would be constrained by the Free Trade Agreement. Taken together the two
agreements may not represent the perfect situation from the viewpoint of
liberal political economy; but they do represent a preferable situation to that
inherited by the Mulroney government.
Awkwardly, from the point of view of this happy scenario, the Meech Lake
Accord was not ratified. In 1991-92 the constitutional question had to be
addressed once more.
The “Canada Round,” 1991-92
The demise of the Meech Lake Accord and the sense of crisis it occasioned led
inevitably to another round of constitutional proposals. The agenda was
broadened partly by Quebec’s shift to a “maximalist” set of demands
expressed in the Allaire and Bélanger-Campeau reports (in contrast to the
modest proposals of 1986). These were reinforced by legislation to hold a
referendum by the fall of 1992.
However, there was intense and widespread activity elsewhere on the fate of
the Constitution which featured initiatives by both governments and private
individuals and organizations. The demand for citizen input in the new round
of constitutional renewal sprang from the widespread perception that the
Meech Accord had been hatched in the back rooms or, more formally, that it
was the result of executive federalism rather than popular participation.
The federal government unveiled its own constitutional proposals in
September 1991 (Canada 1991a). Quantitatively, in terms of the proportion of
proposals dealing with “prosperity,” the government seems to have accorded
greatest priority to transforming the Constitution into the help-mate of
economic success. The federal proposals in this part of the package, together
with property rights which was included elsewhere, represent the core of the
neo-conservative constitutional agenda.
Competitiveness as a Rationale for Renewed Federalism
In the past, the government argued, the mutually supportive combination of a
federal political system and an economic union, had enabled Canada to
become one of the world’s most prosperous countries. For these benefits to be
maintained in the face of the impact of globalization on national sovereignty,
the basic combination must continue—“economic and political integration go
hand-in-hand” (Canada 1991b:9). But a variety of challenges, internal and
external, meant that continuity was insufficient—“to prosper we must change”
(Canada 1991a:29).
More specifically, the external challenge of globalization and technological
change required “Greater adaptability and more effective approaches to how
federal and provincial governments interact with each other and with the
private sector” (Canada 1991b:1). Internally, the existence of barriers to the
free flow of goods and services, combined with the phenomena of federal and
provincial policies working at cross purposes to each other, pointed in the
same direction. In the government’s view, one of the key ingredients of future
competitiveness lay in strengthening the free market basis of the economic
union: “At the heart of effective economic integration must be the absence of
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restrictions to the free flow of people, goods, services and capital and the
existence of a common currency, which encourages this free flow by removing
exchange rate uncertainty and transaction costs that can impede trade.”
Strengthening the Economic Union
The impact of various government policies was recognized as on-going and
the need as one of harmonization and predictability. However, the core of the
proposal is the laissez-faire notion that, as far as possible, governments should
be constrained from interference with the operation of markets. This
viewpoint, dear to the hearts of liberal political economists, found expression
in the text of the proposal to amend Section 121, the common market clause of
the existing Constitution: “(1) Canada is an economic union within which
persons, goods, services and capital may move freely without barriers or
restrictions based on provincial or territorial boundaries. (2) Neither the
Parliament or Government of Canada nor the legislatures or governments of
the provinces shall by law or practice contravene the principle expressed in
subsection (1).” Although some exceptions follow, the core of the proposed
article is clear: the principle that no government can legitimately interfere
with market relations would be constitutionally entrenched. It is a clear case of
the Canadian government seeking to constitutionalize its particular economic
theory or ideology.2
General exceptions could be made by the federal government, with the consent
of seven provinces with at least 50 percent of the population: (a) to exempt any
barrier from judicial review, by declaring it in the national interest; (b) to
legislate on anything related to the efficiency of the economic union.
Thus, the substance of the proposed amendment was both decentralizing, in
than it prohibited any level of government from interfering with the free flow
of economic activity, and centralizing, in its impact on federal-provincial
relations. If provinces wish exemptions they must obtain federal permission
(plus that of sufficient other provinces). On the other hand, the federal
government “has almost unlimited capacity to interfere with democratic
outcomes within a particular province, as long as enough other provinces
agree” (Howse 1991:15). Traditionally, centralization in the Canadian
political economy has been a formula for an active government and for nationbuilding projects. But as the earlier discussion of business’ constitutional
program indicated, a degree of central political authority is necessary for other
policy regimes as well. Under the Mulroney government, centralization seems
to be envisaged as an instrument to enforce a minimalist conception of
government. If we bear in mind the “free economy, strong state” depiction of
neo- conservative political economy, any paradox is only apparent.
Liberal political economy posits that large, barrier-free markets permit
economies of scale, more efficient use of resources, and thus maximize the
general welfare. There is no shortage of documentation that existing provincial
and federal practices deviate from the neo-classical ideal. Many of these
policies have, of course, been the stock-in-trade of the nation-building (and
province-building) efforts of activist Canadian governments. Their
prohibition, and its entrenchment in the Constitution, would represent a strong
defence for the market order against democratically-elected governments
seeking to satisfy their electorates by moderating market outcomes. Of course,
the assumption that free trade, whether internally or internationally, will
produce a net increment in welfare depends upon assumptions, such as full-
196
employment, which demonstrably are not present in Canada (Jackson
1992:73-5; Furlong and Moggach 1990).3
Such a development entrenches one value—efficiency—as the prime goal of
social activity in the country. Entrenchment constrains potential democratic
majorities who may favour a different value, say equity, from achieving their
ends. The effect is to insulate from democratic control something which ought
to be subject to it. In the context of a federal system, a watertight economic
union may be incompatible with the theory of federalism: “The very purpose
of fiscal federalism ... inevitably leads to differences in the levels of taxation
and public services ... (which) ... may interfere with the most efficient
allocation of resources and location of industry for the region (nation) as a
whole; such is the cost of political subdivision” (Musgrave, cited in Courchene
1986:204). The federal proposals, therefore, had far reaching implications.
Harmonization Measures
A related proposal was designed to achieve better coordination of federal and
provincial fiscal policies, to improve the harmonization of these with Canada’s
monetary policy, and to apply moral suasion to a province pursuing
disharmonious policies. The government proposed new procedures such as a
relatively fixed annual budget cycle; a fixed annual schedule of the Finance
Minister’s meetings; the publication by all governments of pre-budget
economic/fiscal outlooks; and common accounting conventions (Canada
1991a:32). Beyond that, however, “guidelines” to better coordinate policies
were foreseen. If approved by the federal government and seven provinces
with at least fifty percent of the population, meeting in a new Council of
Federation, the guidelines would be set in federal legislation under the new
economic union power. Although up to three provinces could opt-out, with a
60 percent vote in their legislative assemblies, the opt-out was only for three
years and it was unclear, in the federal proposals, whether such measures were
renewable. The federal government also favoured establishing an independent
agency “to monitor and evaluate” the macroeconomic policies of the federal
and provincial governments.
The effect was clearly centralizing (albeit requiring substantial provincial
consent). Certainly a common reaction in Quebec was that the proposals
represented a federal “power grab.” More generally, it is reasonable to infer
that the ability of any province, or small number of provinces, to deviate from a
national majority viewpoint would be circumscribed under these proposals. In
the context of Canadian electoral history this might be expected to be more of a
problem for provinces with a left-leaning government than for those with more
conservative administrations.
Reforming the Bank of Canada’s Mandate
The government included in its constitutional proposals a number of ideas for
changing the Bank of Canada’s mandate, and for changing the appointments
system to the Board and Governorship of the Bank. Since the Bank is under the
exclusive jurisdiction of the federal authorities this could be accomplished
without provincial involvement and without amending the Constitution in any
way.
The changes in appointment procedures must be seen as largely symbolic.
This is because the Bank’s mandate, under the rest of the federal proposal,
would be focused on a single goal—the preservation of price stability. At
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IJCS / RIÉC
present the Bank’s mandate is much broader: “to regulate credit and currency
in the best interest of the economic life of the nation, to control and protect the
external value of the national monetary unit and to mitigate by its influence
fluctuations in the general level of production, trade prices, and employment,
so far as may be possible within the scope of monetary action, and generally to
promote the economic and financial welfare of Canada” (Canada 1991b:38).
Nothing in the package demonstrates more clearly the influence of liberal
political economy upon the government’s constitutional agenda than the
argumentation surrounding this proposal: “The only contribution the Bank of
Canada can make to the well-being of all Canadians in the long run is to pursue
policies which maintain the purchasing power of the nation’s money.... The
references to mitigating fluctuations in production, trade and employment and
other objectives should be eliminated as they represent objectives either that
history has taught us a central bank cannot achieve or that can only be achieved
through price stability” (Canada 1991b:38-9). This is, of course, a somewhat
selective and theoretically blinkered reading of what history has to offer.
Pierre Fortin (1991:3) comments that the new mandate, zero inflation would
“force our central bank to support a priori a scientific position that is highly
controversial at best and, at worst, completely in error.”
Re-distribution of Powers
The decentralization of federal powers previously noted in the Meech Lake
Accord was replicated and expanded in the 1991 proposals. A number of areas
were to be recognized as being within exclusive provincial jurisdiction:
training, tourism, forestry, mining, recreation, housing, and municipal and
urban affairs. A number of other areas were identified for review to see which
level of government could best provide them. With respect to immigration and
culture, the federal government was prepared to negotiate and
constitutionalize agreements with individual provinces. In addition, the
government proposed a constitutional amendment to permit the delegation of
legislative authority between the two levels of government. It was also willing
to remove the federal declaratory power from the Constitution and to
recognize provincial possession of the residual power on “non-national
matters not specifically assigned to the federal government under the
Constitution or by virtue of court decisions.” Finally, the Meech objective of
limiting the federal spending power found a place in the 1991 proposals. The
result would be major decentralization of Canadian federalism (Johnson
1992). Most of the decentralizing measures are consistent with neoconservative principles, and the federal government’s desire to rid itself of
these responsibilities is unsurprising. However, the impulse to
decentralization should be placed in the context of other proposals which, in
certain areas, would have had the effect of enhancing federal authority.
Property Rights
The government failed to advance any rationale for its proposal to include in
the Charter of Rights and Freedoms a guarantee for property rights. Bakan
(1992:118) offers three possible reasons: a desire to undercut Reform Party
support, to give themselves a bargaining chip in the constitutional
negotiations, or a desire “to elevate their market ideology to constitutional
status. David Milne argued that property rights provisions are a “favourite
vehicle for conservative interests resisting social legislation and the welfare
state” (cited in Mittelstaedt 1991). Such comments demonstrate the
198
consistency of the property-rights proposal with the general neo-conservative
constitutional agenda. The government’s precise motivation in making the
proposal at this time, however, remains unclear.
The Process 1991-92
The government’s economic constitutional proposals were not well- received
by the Renewal of Canada conferences called to discuss them. The principle of
a strong economic union seems not to have been problematic. However, the
proposed mechanisms for achieving it were. In particular, the proposed
Section 91A granting Parliament (subject to provincial approval on the 7/50
formula) the right to make laws it declared to be for the efficient functioning of
the economic union, was rejected almost unanimously on the grounds that it
was unnecessary, illegitimate and inappropriate (Canada 1992a:10-13; 1922). The proposals for greater harmonization of fiscal policies, and of fiscal
policy with monetary policy, received the same response. Delegates to the
conference were quite suspicious of rigid and constitutionally entrenched
mechanisms for dealing with problems they felt ought to be addressed flexibly
(Canada 1992a:14-16). Delegates unequivocally felt that the Bank of Canada
reforms ought not to be part of the constitutional process and that the Bank’s
mandate should not be narrowed to focus only on price stability (Canada
1992a:17-18; Canada 1992b:11). The Conference on Identity, Rights and
Values overwhelmingly rejected the inclusion of property rights (Canada
1992c:15-16). Further, the proposal to include a Social Charter in the
Constitution, clearly neither part of the federal government’s proposals nor a
neo-conservative preference, surfaced in a number of the conferences and it
was apparent that the idea enjoyed substantial support. Finally, although the
results of the Conference on the Division of Powers could not be construed as a
repudiation of the federal proposals, there was clearly strong support for a
strong central government, national standards, and a willingness to deal with
Quebec’s aspirations through asymmetry rather than through generalized
devolution (Canada 1992d:21).
Given its composition, one could expect the Beaudoin-Dobbie Committee to
be generally supportive of the federal proposals. While this expectation was
met, even the Conservatives who belonged to it were affected by the process of
public discussion. In a number of areas the Report suggested alterations to the
federal package; the Committee felt further consultations with the artistic and
cultural communities should take place before proceeding with the proposal to
transfer jurisdiction over culture to the provinces (Beaudoin- Dobbie
1992:77); it favoured a non-judicial dispute settlement mechanism for
policing the economic union (87); the inclusion in it of undertakings to pursue
the goals of full-employment and ensuring that all Canadians have a
reasonable standard of living (88-9); and the inclusion of a “social covenant”
(87). In addition, the report recommended that the issue of the Bank of
Canada’s mandate not be part of the constitutional discussions.
Enter the Provinces
However widespread the public consultations, the amendment of the
Constitution remains an intergovernmental process. A number of provinces
had well defined constitutional demands to pursue once the negotiations
began in the spring of 1992. These included Alberta’s advocacy of a Triple E
Senate, Manitoba’s concern to see a “Canada clause” in the new package that
would express the underlying values of Canadians and thus help unify the
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country, and Ontario’s demand for a social charter to guarantee social
programs and national standards. A number of provinces had differing
concerns about aboriginal issues and the proposed recognition of an inherent
right to self-government. The most detailed, longest, and most public list of
constitutional requirements was that of Quebec, which declined to participate
in the negotiations until the rest of Canada came up with an acceptable
“offer”—a position Premier Bourassa had adopted after Meech unravelled.
Despite the complexities and the clash of agendas the nine provinces and the
federal government arrived at an agreement covering a wide range of topics on
July 7, 1992. On this basis Quebec rejoined the constitutional negotiations and
on August 28, in Charlottetown, an agreement was reached between the
federal government, all provinces, and native and territorial leaders. Here we
shall be concerned only with those provisions previously identified as part of a
neo-conservative constitutional agenda. All references will be to the
Charlottetown agreement unless otherwise stated.
A number of the federal government’s original proposals, including measures
to harmonize fiscal policy, change the Bank of Canada’s mandate, and
entrench property rights, were absent. A number of the items that were
included were either undesirable from the viewpoint of liberal political
economy or, at best, a mixed blessing. A non justiciable provision described
the commitment of the governments and legislatures to preserve and develop
Canada’s social and economic union, and called for a monitoring mechanism
to be established by a future First Ministers’ Conference. Presumably such a
mechanism could apply moral suasion against any goverment deviating from
the policy objectives of the social and economic union. The policy objectives
themselves, however, provide little joy to the liberal political economist. In
addition to a commitment to strengthen the economic union and the free
movement of persons, goods, services, and capital, which was obviously
acceptable, the clause included items that were not.
Under the social union, governments and legislatures would be committed to
maintain a health care system which met the criteria established by the current
Canada Health Act, provision of adequate social services, and high quality and
accessible education, together with protection of workers’ rights to organize
and bargain collectively. Under the economic union, the goals of fullemployment and ensuring that all Canadians have a reasonable standard of
living were prominent. Another provision, which was to be justiciable,
strengthened the federal government’s commitment to regional equalization
under Section 36 of the Constitution Act. Henceforth the federal government
would be charged with ensuring that “provincial governments have sufficient
revenues to provide reasonably comparable levels of public services at
reasonably comparable levels of taxation” and to provide “reasonably
comparable economic infrastructures of a national nature in each province and
territory.” Although the precise impact of such language was difficult to
predict, its fiscal consequences were potentially contrary to the goals espoused
by liberal political economy. Certainly the wish list of policy objectives in the
non-justiciable clause could have served to legitimate Keynesian policies as or
more easily than neo-conservative ones.
In the July 7 accord, Section 121, the common market clause, was to be
strengthened by preventing any interprovincial trade barrier “by law or
practice that arbitrarily discriminates on the basis of province or territory of
residence, origin or destination and unduly impedes the efficient functioning
200
of the Canadian economic union.” The provision was to have been policed by
an independent tribunal which, to strike down a barrier, would have to find that
it (a) was arbitrary and (b) unduly impeded the economic union. Liberal
political economists were quick to denounce this language as weak and limited
(e.g. Corcoran 1992). In addition there was a lengthy list of areas in which
interprovincial trade barriers could continue to function. This included
subsidies or tax incentives aimed at encouraging investment, “reasonable”
public sector investment programs, agricultural marketing and supply
management programs, consumer and environmental protection, and the
establishment and maintenance of government-owned monopolies. Clearly
these were much weaker measures than originally proposed by the federal
government.
During the summer’s negotiations, a number of changes were made to the
provisions affecting the common market. Under the August 28 agreement,
Section 121 would remain unchanged and a future First Ministers’ Conference
would discuss how best to implement a number of “principles and
commitments related to the Canadian Common Market” that were included in
the accord. These principles included a prohibition against governments
erecting interprovincial trade barriers and the criteria that a possible future
enforcement agency would apply were strengthened slightly. Instead of
having to find that an arbitrarily discriminatory measure unduly impeded the
efficient functioning of the Canadian economic union, it would suffice to find
that such a measure did impede its efficient functioning. However, a lengthy
list of exemptions continued to be appended to this section.
Only in the area of transferring powers to the provinces did the Charlottetown
package reflect the federal agenda. Although decentralization is consistent with
the preferences of liberal political economy, it is a second best solution unless
combined with measures to prohibit market intervention by all levels of
government. This clearly was the purpose of the strong economic union
proposals. Without those proposals, decentralization represents only a partial
victory for liberal political economy since the interventionism it abhors at the
federal level could continue at the provincial level. Also, the non-justiciable
but highly symbolic language on the social and economic union could be used
to legitimate provincial or popular pressures for federal interventionism.
Conclusions
The defeat of the Charlottetown proposals brought the process of
constitutional reform to a no doubt temporary conclusion. No definitive
explanations have yet emerged for the defeat of the Accord; clearly there were
many factors at work and their interaction was complex. What can be stated
with some certainty is that the 1991-92 constitutional process served to
highlight some of the obstacles to implementing a constitutional agenda based
on neo- conservative political economy.
Since the introduction of the Charter, it is apparent that a great many
Canadians, especially in English Canada, have become attached to the
(primarily liberal) individual rights it contains—they have, as Cairns has put it,
become “Charter Canadians.” But there is little evidence of attachment to
liberal political rights extending to the liberal economic values expressed in
the federal government’s constitutional agenda. If the views of the Renewal of
Canada conferences can be taken as in any way representative of informed
Canadian opinion, it would seem that Canadian political culture still inclines
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toward collective social provision and tolerates reasonable levels of
government intervention in the economy to moderate the effects of market
forces. Members of the current Canadian government may have become “true
believers” in liberal political economy but, in this respect, their position is
incongruent with the broader political culture.
A second obstacle, of course, is the federal system itself. Although many
provinces are prepared to accept some decentralization of the federal system,
this is normally accompanied by a desire to maximize the powers of the
provincial government rather than to repudiate the powers of government in
general. Certainly many of them found the attachment to pure market
economics represented in the economic union proposal to be unacceptable in
practice. Further, a number of provinces continue to support and demand a
strong federal role in some areas. In taking this position they seem to be
congruent with the preferences of Canadians—at least those outside
Quebec—where opinion poll data regularly demonstrates a preference for a
strong federal government.
Canada’s ongoing constitutional crisis provided an opportunity for Canada’s neoconservatives to attempt to shape the outcome along the lines of their ideology. To
date, however, it appears that Canada’s traditionally statist political culture,
combined with its federal institutions, have been strong enough to dilute that effort
to a very significant degree. Indeed, given the context, neo-conservative
constitutional proposals were widely viewed as an unhelpful intrusion into an
already complicated situation. As a result, any renewed federalism that
eventually emerges may not provide a better instrument to achieve
competitiveness, as defined by liberal political economy, than the present
arrangements. Yet the neo-conservative effort continues. Having failed to
strengthen the Canadian economic union by constitutional means, the federal
government, spurred on by business pressure (Globe and Mail, 5 December
1992:B3), is trying to achieve it through a new approach to intergovernmental
negotiations. If agreed to by the provinces, the comprehensive negotiating
process, modelled on the free trade negotiations with the United States, would
force the governments to come up with an all-or-nothing agreement by June
30, 1994, and to pass enforcing legislation by mid-1995. There are other
parallels with free trade: many of the goals pursued in the constitutional talks
may be achievable through the provisions of the Free Trade Agreement (and its
NAFTA successor, if ratified). Informed commentators on the latter refer to it
as an “economic Constitution for North America.” It remains to be seen
whether this approach will be more successful from the neo-conservative
viewpoint than the constitutional renewal process ended for the moment by the
October 26 Referendum.
Notes
*
1.
2.
202
An earlier version of this article was prepared for presentation at the annual conference of the
Atlantic Provinces Political Studies Association, Halifax, October 16-18, 1992. I am
grateful for comments received from participants at the conference, and thanks are also due
to my colleagues Gary Munro and Douglas West, and an anonymous reviewer, for other
comments and suggestions.
These provinces, together with Quebec, were also, of course, among the most enthusiastic
about the centrepiece of the neo-conservative policy agenda—free trade with the U.S. I am
grateful to an anonymous reviewer for emphasizing this linkage.
It might be argued that the priority accorded a stronger economic union pre-dated the
Mulroney government and that the identification of that government with an agenda based
on liberal political economy is therefore overdrawn. Certainly the Trudeau government
3.
advocated a stronger economic union. Two differences between the Trudeau government’s
proposals and those of the Mulroney government should be noted. First, the Trudeau
government was “far less accommodating to the devolutionary demands of the provinces”
[Russell 1992: 110]. This was a government about to launch an interventionalist “third
national policy.” It was more concerned to assert federal power over the economy than to
deny such power to any level of government. Second, and consistent with the first point, in
the Trudeau proposals the power of the federal government to escape the limitations imposed
by stronger language on the economic union, on the grounds of “overriding national
interest,” were unconstrained by the need for provincial approval. In the Mulroney proposals
this would only be possible with provincial approval on the 7/50 formula. This made federal
intervention less likely and was therefore more consistent with the principles of liberal
political economy.
In addition to its utility in constraining domestic government intervention, the Business
Council on National Issues pointed to the advantages it believed a strengthened economic
union would confer in international trade negotiations: “Canadian negotiators are able to
offer our trading partners improved access to the broad, diversified Canadian market. ... Two
concessions made by Canada to win better access to the U.S. market during the free trade
negotiations illustrate the advantage of having a national economic union. Under the FTA,
Canada agreed: i) to provide the U.S. with certain guarantees with respect to access to
Canadian energy, and ii) to modify duty remission schemes and certain other policies related
to the Auto Pact. Only a single central government authority, able to negotiate on behalf of
all regions of the country, could deliver on these issues. A fragmented Canada would not
have been in a position to offer these concessions“ (Business Council on National Issues
1992, 17).
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204
Lilianne E. Krosenbrink-Gelissen
The Canadian Constitution, the Charter, and
Aboriginal Women’s Rights:
Conflicts and Dilemmas
Abstract
This article examines Indian women’s conflicts and dilemmas with the
Constitution and the Charter of 1982 as a result of their culture and gender.
Their dual identity has made it difficult for them to settle on an acceptable
balance between their aboriginal and sexual equality rights. By examing the
views of the Native Women’s Association of Canada, a national, aboriginal
women’s group, the author describes Indian women’s aspirations and
strategies for reformulating an Indian female identity within the aboriginal
constitutional reform process.
Résumé
L’article examine les tiraillements que provoquent la Constitution de 1982 et
la Charte canadienne des droits et libertés chez les amérindiennes en raison de
leurs antécédents culturels et de leur sexe. Leur double identité rend difficile la
réalisation d’un équilibre entre les aspirations à l’autonomie de leurs peuples
et leurs droits à l’égalité sexuelle. À partir des vues adoptées par la Native
Women’s Association of Canada, un organisme national de femmes
autochtones, l’auteure expose les aspirations et les stratégies des
amérindiennes eu égard à la redéfinition de leur identité en tant que femme à
l’occasion de la réforme constitutionnelle.
Having been classified as a Métis, as a non-status person, and now as
a status Indian, having lived in a city all my life, and having to deal
with discrimination whether I was or was not a status Indian, I believe
that all native people, including women, have aboriginal rights in
this country no matter where they live, no matter what distinctive
category has been assigned to them. (Aggamaway Pierre, former
president of NWAC 1983:68; emphasis added)
The time has come to break down the mentality forced upon us as
Aboriginal people by the Indian Act. The time has come to rebuild
our nations with all of our people — not just those who meet criteria
established not by us but by the government. (NWAC, cited in: Govt.
of Canada 1992:32)
Since the repatriation of the Constitution and the establishment of the Charter
of Rights and Freedoms in 1982, the profile of aboriginal issues in the
Canadian political culture has grown considerably. Three aboriginal issues
have become especially prominent: aboriginal peoples and the criminal justice
IJCS / RIÉC
system; aboriginal land title; and the legal rights of aboriginal groups and
individuals within the Canadian state (cf. Hall 1992:42). Aboriginal selfgovernment, which integrates these three areas, has emerged as a preeminent
issue on the aboriginal constitutional reform agenda.
The Canadian Constitution and the Charter have vitally affected aboriginal
women as a group. However, aboriginal women’s experiences as well as their
political concerns have been largely neglected in academic and political
discourse on both aboriginal rights and women’s rights. Aboriginal rights
demands largely reflect the interests of aboriginal men, while women’s rights
demands, until very recently, have largely reflected the interests of white,
middle-class women. In both cases, aboriginal women’s distinct perceptions
are ignored. This article focuses on the Constitution, the Charter and women’s
rights specifically as they pertain to First Nations’ women. I will explore the
nature and degree of the problems that the Constitution and the Charter raise
for Indian women,1 based on the views of their national political body, the
Native Women’s Association of Canada (NWAC). Because they face a double
discrimination, in contrast to their male counterparts, Indian women encounter
special conflicts and dilemmas in trying to reconcile, as aboriginal persons and
as women, their self-government aspirations and their sexual equality
aspirations.
First, I will describe NWAC’s political aspirations and arguments with respect
to the Constitution and the Charter of 1982. Secondly, I will review sexual
equality as it relates to aboriginal rights within the Constitution Act of 1982,
and the problems NWAC perceives in this Act. Thirdly, I will briefly review
the constitutional process on aboriginal matters (1982-1987) and NWAC’s
strategy to re-define the aboriginal female identity in order to balance Indian
women’s self-government aspirations with their feminist aspirations. I will
also discuss Indian women’s problems after the 1984 constitutional
amendment and the new Indian Act of 1985. These problems remain intact and
have a bearing on NWAC’s strong rejection of the aboriginal rights provisions
set out in the Charlottetown Accord which went down to defeat on October 26,
1992. Although the material for this article primarily covers the period from
1982 to 1987, it is also relevant to the period from 1987 to 1992. Indian
women’s problems concerning the legal protection of their rights as First
Nations citizens and as women remains, and NWAC continues to pursue its
political aspirations and arguments.2
The Native Women’s Association of Canada
The development of a distinct, aboriginal women’s movement in the early
1970s is rooted in two global movements; the human rights movement and the
women’s movement. The first movement redirected the public’s and
politicians’ attention to the fundamental group rights of minorities within
nation-states. As a consequence, since 1970 (and after the withdrawal of the
1969 “White Paper” plans to terminate Indian people’s separate legal status
and special rights), the Canadian federal government began to promote selfcontrol mechanisms on Indian reserves and to foster the establishment of
national aboriginal organizations that could effectively negotiate with the
government aboriginal peoples’ future status within the Canadian cultural and
political constellation. The second movement brought about a growing
awareness of women’s subordinate status, made women’s issues more
relevant to the public discourse, and fostered the political will to change the
position of women in society. The creation of the Royal Commission on the
208
The Constitution, the Charter, and Aboriginal Women’s
Rights: Conflicts and Dilemmas
Status of Women (later the Advisory Council on the Status of Women) by the
government in 1967 reflects these new developments.
The Native Women’s Association of Canada (NWAC) was established in
1974 to politically represent aboriginal women’s views. NWAC’s mandate
consisted of promoting the interests of aboriginal women, and changing their
image among Canadian society at large and among aboriginal men. Aboriginal
women felt that existing national aboriginal organizations, particularly the
National Indian Brotherhood (later the Assembly of First Nations), were maledominated in their leadership, their decision-making processes, and their
political mandates. As a result, aboriginal women’s particular concerns were
not addressed (cf. Jamieson 1979; Krosenbrink 1991:67-90). Although
NWAC was an Indian (status and non-status), Inuit and Métis women’s
organization, it predominantly reflected Indian women’s grievances and
aspirations since they comprised the overall majority. To date, Indian men and
women in particular have serious political differences. These can largely be
accounted for by colonial Indian policies that were sex-discriminatory and
detrimental to Indian women’s legal and socio-political status both in their
own communities and in Canadian society as a whole.
The Indian Act of 1876 is synonymous with federal Indian policy. To this day,
the Indian Act regulates who may legally claim to be Indian and controls
Indian people’s lives to a significant degree. Traditional Indian political
institutions were largely replaced and Indian male chieftainship was instituted
to back-up the colonial system. Women were barred from political decisionmaking processes. From 1869 until 1951, they could not hold electoral office
nor vote for male representatives in their own communities. Furthermore, the
imposed Eurocanadian nuclear family structure, and the roles and rights of
women therein, constructed Indian women as a subordinate gender. Women
were assumed to be dependent subjects who could only derive rights from their
fathers or husbands.
Most importantly, Indian ethnic belongingness could only be legally
established through the male line of descendance. As a result, Indian women
suffered from discrimination on the basis of their sex and marital status. Indian
women, in contrast to men, could lose their legal status as Indians upon
marriage to a non Indian man, including their offspring. Status Indians, who
were automatically band members, enjoyed certain exclusive rights such as the
right to live on a reserve, to participate in band politics, and to receive free
education and health care assistance. More importantly, status Indians had
their cultural identity officially recognized, including their link to a homeland
(reserve). Several other Sections of the Indian Act discriminate against Indian
women (cf. Sections 4, 10-6, 74, 76, 109, and 110 of the Indian Act 1970).
However, I will limit my comments to Section 12(1)b of the Indian Act since it
came to symbolize sexual discrimination against women. Jamieson (1978:1)
summarizes the impact of the Indian Act on Indian women who lost their legal
status as follows:
The woman, on marriage, must leave her parents’ home and her
reserve. She may not own property on the reserve and must dispose of
any property she does hold. She may be prevented from inheriting
property left to her by her parents. She cannot take any further part in
band business. Her children are not recognized as Indian and are
therefore denied access to cultural and social amenities of the Indian
community. And most punitive of all, she may be prevented from
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IJCS / RIÉC
returning to live with her family on the reserve, even if she is in dire
need, very ill, a widow, divorced or separated. Finally, her body may
not be buried on the reserve with those of her forebears.
Until the Indian Act was amended in 1985, the “old” Indian Act implicitly held
19th century European assumptions on women. Legal Indian status
regulations did not respect the cultural variety of Indian people’s social and
political organizations. They imposed a uniform, Eurocanadian system
reflecting racial images of Indians and male dominance in gender relations.
Gradual internalization of the western notions of femaleness distorted the
Indian consciousness. Over the years, sexually discriminatory regulations had
dramatic consequences not only for women, who lost their legal status as
Indians by being deprived of their birth right, but also in terms of gender
relations within Indian communities. The Lavell and Bedard cases of 1973 as
well as the Lovelace case of 1977, involving non-status Indian women who
fought to regain their Indian rights, proved that Indian women could hope for
little support from Indian men. Male Indian political leaders merely used
women’s grievances with the Indian Act to force the federal government into
negotiating a revised Indian Act (or better, a repeal) to allow for Indian selfgovernment (cf. note 3; Fiske 1992:12-4; Krosenbrink 1991: 84-102; Silman
1987).
The 1970s can be characterized as a period when Indian men and women,
through their political organizations, engaged in often bitter debates over the
nature of “Indian rights” and “women’s rights.” It appeared that the National
Indian Brotherhood more or less interpreted “Indian rights” to mean rights to
which only status Indian men were entitled. The Native Women’s Association
argued that Indian women did not fight for sexual equality as such; they fought
for “Indian rights for Indian women” which were withheld through both the
legal instruments of the federal government and male chauvinist attitudes
within band councils on the reserves. Thus, Indian women felt that there was a
serious denial through sex discrimination of equal Indian rights for Indian
women (ibid).
Considering the different experiences of Indian men and women, it is no
wonder that NWAC formulated different goals within the framework of
constitutional aboriginal reform. All national, aboriginal organizations,
including NWAC, focused on defining the nature of self-government within
the constitutional aboriginal rights provision. However, NWAC claimed that
the principle of sexual equality between aboriginal men and women must
clearly and constitutionally stand above and permeate all aspects of aboriginal
rights, including self-government (NWAC 1980, 1981). Indian women, and
also Métis and Inuit women, wanted clear, unambiguous and adequately
secured constitutional protection for aboriginal women. Thus, the main issue
for NWAC was that aboriginal self-government, irrespective of its diversity,
should always legally guarantee and practically reflect gender equality.
NWAC’s sexual equality aspirations grounded its arguments for rejecting the
aboriginal self-government wording of the Charlottetown Accord. NWAC
primarily concerns itself with constitutional protection of aboriginal women’s
rights. The Association considers law a valid instrument in seeking changes in
women’s status and ensuring their full participation within their own
aboriginal communities. So, when speaking in terms of legal rights, what is it
that the Native Women’s Association of Canada explicitly wants?
210
Aboriginal Women’s Rights
Part I of the Constitution Act (Sections 1-34) is referred to as the Canadian
Charter of Rights and Freedoms. The Charter sets out basic guarantees of
rights and freedoms that apply to all Canadians, including aboriginal persons.
According to Section 15(1):
Every individual is equal before and under the law and has the right to
the equal protection and equal benefit of the law without
discrimination and, in particular, without discrimination based on
race, national or ethnic origin, colour, religion, sex, age or mental or
physical disability (Govt. of Canada 1981:6).
Gibson (1985:45) argues that before the establishment of the Charter there was
no constitutional protection for aboriginal persons against discrimination
based on their aboriginal ancestry. On the contrary, Section 91(24) of the
British North America Act provided the Canadian state with the constitutional
right to discriminate particularly against Indian persons. However, the Indian
Act is now subject to the Charter.
Section 15 was not to come into effect until three years after patriation of the
Constitution (April 17, 1985) to enable the federal and provincial governments
to make the necessary adjustments to their laws. One of the many reasons for
the three year delay was to allow time to revise the Indian Act (cf. Govt. of
Canada 1982:13-4).
Section 15 makes it difficult for the courts to restrict sexual equality. The listed
grounds, such as race or sex, serve to alert the courts that any form of
discrimination should be combatted in a more rigorous fashion than was
previously the case. For instance, that marital status is not spelled out in the
equality rights provision does not mean that discrimination is allowed. Should
an Indian woman ever decide to litigate on the grounds that the sexdiscriminatory provisions of the Indian Act violate Section 15 of the Charter
(after April 17, 1985), it is most likely that the Supreme Court would be
compelled to declare the offending Sections of the Indian Act invalid. Thus, a
decision such as in the Lavell case could not be repeated (cf. Mahoney 1992;
NWAC Newsletter 1, 5, 1982:7).3
The sexual equality rights in Section 15 refer to individual human rights which
are nevertheless quasi-collective human rights as well. Indian women, as a
group, have suffered as a result of the sex-discriminatory provisions of the
Indian Act (cf. Richstone 1983:42-43). Affirmative action, as set out in
Section 15(2) of the Constitution Act 1982, will enable aboriginal women in
general, and Indian women in particular, to further their needs and goals as a
collectivity (ibid:52).
Section 15, albeit crucially important to aboriginal women, is not of primary
concern to them. Whereas the women’s movement in Canada focuses on
Section 15, the aboriginal women’s movement focuses on Section 25 of the
Charter.4 The reason for this difference may be that equality rights, as
formulated in Section 15, are perceived as non-aboriginal, liberal democratic
concepts that may contravene the cultural traditions of aboriginal peoples. For
instance, the traditionally exclusive right of Iroquois women to choose a
(male) chief violates the rights of Iroquois men as stipulated in Section 15 of
the Charter (cf. Tooker 1984, in Spittal 1990). Nevertheless, we should not
underestimate the power of Section 15. It dictated foremost a repeal of all
211
IJCS / RIÉC
Sections in the “old” Indian Act which discriminate against Indian women on
the basis of their sex and marital status. Furthermore, according to Section 28:
Notwithstanding anything in this Charter, the rights and freedoms
referred to in it are guaranteed equally to male and female persons
(Govt. of Canada 1981:10).
This section is meant to ensure that “person” includes females as well as males.
It should restrict loopholes for the provinces to legislate outside total
agreement with Charter rights. Thus, Section 28 does assert the primacy of
sexual equality rights over all other Charter rights, and in this respect it is
important to aboriginal women as well (Gibson 1985:48-49; Mahoney
1992:242; NWAC Newsletter, 1,5, 1982:8-9). The term “notwithstanding”
could eventually create problems. Although it may be presumed that the courts
will subject the collective rights of aboriginal peoples to individual equality
rights, there is no absolute guarantee. No matter how important to aboriginal
women’s rights, Section 28 could be used to debilitate the collective rights of
aboriginal peoples which are referred to in Section 25:
The guarantee in this Charter of certain rights and freedoms shall not
be construed so as to abrogate or derogate from any aboriginal, treaty
or other rights or freedoms that pertain to the aboriginal peoples of
Canada including (a) any rights or freedoms that have been
recognized by the Royal Proclamation of October 7, 1763; and (b)
any rights or freedoms that may be acquired by the aboriginal peoples
of Canada by way of land claims settlement (Govt. of Canada
1981:9).
This Section creates an exemption for aboriginal rights from being subjected to
Charter rights. It ensures that Section 15 will not be used to strike down any
collective rights of the aboriginal peoples.5 In contrast to Section 15, Section
25 does nothing to advance the position of the aboriginal peoples (Gibson
1985:46). Aboriginal rights also refer to the collective right of aboriginal
peoples to decide group membership for themselves. The Indian Act,
therefore, violates Section 25 of the Charter, for it prevents Indian people from
determining Indian status and band membership as long as the Indian Act
remains intact. Within this framework, a repeal of the Indian Act is necessary
as well.6 However, the important question is whether Section 25 is subject to
the equality rights of individuals. If not, then the rights of aboriginal women in
aboriginal constitutions could be easily ignored. Indian self-governing bands
may design constitutions that provide for the equality rights of Indian men and
women, but they could be easily modified to do away with the rights of women
by majority consent of the band. Given the internalization of patriarchal
notions as a result of the sex-discriminatory provisions of the Indian Act,
Section 25 could represent a potential risk to Indian women that their equality
rights may be denied by their own communities. Furthermore, it could mean
that Indian self-government does not provide uniform equality rights for
Indian men and women (Richstone 1983:55). The uneasiness experienced by
Indian women in trying to reconcile their culture (Section 25) and gender
(Section 15) was clearly expressed by the president of the Native Women’s
Association during 1992 debates on the Charlottetown Accord. She argued
that when First Nations exercise powers under self-government, individuals
deserve a guarantee of their basic human rights as set out in Section 15. If a
First Nation should develop its own aboriginal Charter of Rights and
212
Freedoms, it must include equality. This should be entrenched in the Canadian
Constitution and be enforceable in courts. Only then would she agree to
replacing the Canadian Charter (cf. note 4; Govt. of Canada 1992:32).
Indian women’s serious concerns are closely related to their experience. When
local Indian control was established in the early 1970s—meaning that Indian
agents as government representatives left the reserves, thereby assigning the
execution of Indian Act regulations to band councils— differences among
bands in the treatment of women became evident. Whereas one band might
have decided not to evict Indian women upon loss of their legal status, a
neighbouring band might have done just the opposite. Furthermore, in 1981,
bands were given the opportunity to request suspension of Section 12(1)b of
the Indian Act although less than twenty percent of all bands appears to have
done so (Holmes 1987:6n6; NWAC Newsletter 1, 3, 1982:18).
The relationship between Sections 15 and 28—in providing for (individual)
sexual equality rights—and Section 25—in providing for (collective)
aboriginal rights—is seriously strained. Given the experiences that Indian
women, in particular, have faced as a result of their dual discrimination, the
Charter presented them with a dilemma. What rights should come first, those
relating to their gender or those relating to their aboriginal ancestry?
Feminist groups have continually argued that sexual equality under all
circumstances should prevail over aboriginal self-government. The National
Indian Brotherhood (later the Assembly of First Nations) has always taken the
position that no constitutional provision may supercede the aboriginal
peoples’ right to self-government, including sexual equality rights. To
aboriginal women, and most particularly Indian women, the situation was not
that clear at all. They could not escape conflicts in reconciling their gender and
cultures. The implications of the sex-dicriminatory status regulations of the
Indian Act play a crucial role in their experiences of conflict and dilemma (cf.
Duclos 1990:369).
The aboriginal rights provision considered the most important victory by
aboriginal peoples is Section 35:
(1). The existing aboriginal and treaty rights of the aboriginal peoples
of Canada are hereby recognized and affirmed. (2). In this Act,
“aboriginal peoples of Canada” includes the Indian, Inuit and Metis
peoples of Canada’ (Govt. of Canada 1981:11).
Although Section 35 is not part of the Charter, there is no doubt that the rights
described in it are as effectively enforceable by the courts as the Charter rights
(Gibson 1985: 46-47). Its entrenchment was vigorously fought for by
aboriginal peoples, especially during the November 1981 Constitution
repatriation upheavals. Because of its entrenchment, aboriginal peoples
regained new pride in their distinct cultures and identities. For instance, the
inclusion of the Métis as an aboriginal people gave a considerable boost to the
Métis’ self-image.
The term “existing” aboriginal rights in Section 35 creates ambiguity. With
reference to aboriginal women, “existing” aboriginal rights could be
interpreted as the perpetuation of existing discrimination, against Indian
women in particular, as stipulated in the Indian Act (NWAC Newsletter, 1, 5,
1982:10). For this reason, NWAC insisted that not only sexual discrimination
213
IJCS / RIÉC
be repealed but also that women and children who had previously lost their
Indian rights as a result of sex discrimination should have their rights restored.
The meaning of aboriginal rights is not clear. For the purpose of defining these
rights, Section 37 of the Constitution provided for a negotiation process
between state authorities and national aboriginal organizations. Aboriginal
peoples in general refer to aboriginal rights as a multitude of socio-economic,
political, legal and cultural rights. More specifically, these rights are integrated
in the aboriginal peoples’ concept of aboriginal self-government which has
become the single most important issue on the agenda for Section 35
discussions. Neither First Nations nor the federal government are precise
about what self-government means. Most generally, it refers to a collective
right of the aboriginal peoples—in accordance with their own traditions—to
control their lands, their resources, their own destiny and their own political
future.
Whereas the collective rights of aboriginal peoples are referred to in Sections
25 and 35, Sections 15 and 28 pertain to the equality rights of individuals.
There is an obvious tension between individual and collective rights of
aboriginal peoples that creates a serious dilemma for Indian women: if they
give priority to women’s rights, they might endanger the collective (selfgoverning) rights of Indians; and should they give priority to the collective
rights of Indians, they risk sexual discrimination by their own people. As a
result of the Indian Act system, the collective rights of Indians as a group
collide with individual Indian women’s rights. Thus, Inuit and Métis women’s
issues are more integrated into community issues and they do not experience
conflicts and dilemmas in their political aspirations to the extent that Indian
women do. As yet, the Native Women’s Association has argued that women do
not see their rights as First Nations citizens and as women explicitly protected
in the Canadian Constitution.
The Constitutional Process: The Indian Traditional Motherhood
Concept in Defence of Aboriginal Women’s Rights
For the purpose of defining “aboriginal rights” in Section 35 of the
Constitution Act the federal government invited the Assembly of First Nations
(AFN), the Native Council of Canada, the Métis National Council, and the
Inuit Tapirisat of Canada to participate in the First Ministers’ Conferences on
Aboriginal Constitutional Matters that took place in 1983, 1984, 1985 and
1987. Both the federal government and the Native Women’s Association’s
male counterpart, the AFN, objected to its participation. The government
denied Indian women a formal seat on the grounds that NWAC was not
democratic since it only represented women. Furthermore, the government felt
that aboriginal women were already represented in the negotiation process by
their respective national (male-dominated) organizations. The Assembly of
First Nations objected because it feared that Indian women would steer the
constitutional discussions away from self-government by focussing on the
sexual equality issue. Hence, the Native Women’s Association was only
accorded observer status. Even after 1987, and to this day, NWAC has never
won a seat at the constitutional table.7
In contrast to the AFN, the federal government nevertheless recognized the
need to address aboriginal women’s rights within the constitutional context.
Except for NWAC, each one of the four national aboriginal organizations
received extra funds to study sexual equality rights (Krosenbrink 1986;
214
Secretary of State 1985:21). However, it took until May 1984 before the
Assembly of First Nations was willing to discuss with the Native Women’s
Association the issue of sexual equality among Indian men and women. AFN
nevertheless insisted that sexual equality was a matter that could only be dealt
with by individual bands once self-government was constitutionally
entrenched as an aboriginal right and became operational. Hence, the AFN did
not consider non-status Indian women wrongly deprived of their birth rights or
entitled to participate in band decisions on developing self-government
(Krosenbrink 1991:160-4).
NWAC’s fundamental condition that the principle of sexual equality should
constitutionally stand above aboriginal self-government aimed to clearly
guarantee that status as well as (in future reinstated) non-status Indian women
have an equal right to participate in First Nations community life and would
not encounter discrimination by band councils under self-government (cf.
NWAC Newsletter, 1, 8, 1983:3; Silman 1987:219). The following quote from
NWAC (1984:15) is most illustrative:
There is an obvious contradiction in attempting to negotiate
[aboriginal] rights that predate the very existence of the Canadian
government if the only base for recognition is a registration system
[Indian Act] created by that government. It is therefore essential that
all aboriginal people, whether or not they possess a government
number, realize the potential consequences of endorsing the status
quo.
Indian women did not want to wait until Indian self-government was
established on reserves for fear that the bands would not treat them fairly and
would not be willing to restore their rights. Whether sexual inequality is
authentically Indian or an historical offshoot of the Indian Act is not important.
Nowadays, Indian women, as well as Metis and Inuit women, do not wish to be
sexually discriminated against either by law or in practice:
In any case the appeal to tradition is irrelevant. If it had been part of
our tradition to castrate first born males, this would not make it right
or just to practise now. There is always room for improvement (IRIW
1980:5).
As long as the constitutional right of aboriginal self-government was not
entrenched, the Indian Act remained a regulating force. NWAC realized that
one cannot do away with the Indian Act overnight, because several generations
of Indians had based their identity and existence on it. Therefore, a lot of Indian
bands would most likely establish their self-government, including band
membership, along the lines of the Indian Act regulations. Constitutional
equality guarantees were perceived as a prerequisite to aboriginal selfgovernment or a review of the Indian Act. NWAC eventually aimed to legally
upgrade the socio-political status of Indian women in particular. Whoever or
whatever would decide membership in the future, Indian women were not
prepared to tolerate sexual discrimination anymore. As one of my female
Indian informants summarized: “Sexual equality in law will help women to
resume their traditional roles and to exercise the power that comes with them
naturally” (cited in: Krosenbrink 1991:139).
215
IJCS / RIÉC
To NWAC and its constituency, sexual equality comprised a whole range of
issues, such as employment, political decision-making, recognition of
women’s roles in communities, political respect by band councils and, most
importantly, the equal right to transmit status and band membership to their
families. The main problems for NWAC were: how to resolve differences of
opinion with the Assembly of First Nations; how to get involved in and have an
impact on decision-making in the constitutional process despite Indian
women’s marginalization; and, how to legitimatize the notion that aboriginal
self-governing powers should not extend beyond the sexual equality
provisions of the Charter (meaning that NWAC’s political claims contravened
the principle of aboriginal self-government).
Within the aboriginal constitutional process from 1982 to 1987, NWAC began
to re-define “female Indian identity” and to re-formulate its political goals to
make them valid and relevant within the self-government negotiations. The
Native Women’s Association knew that the federal government was in no
position to oppose its objectives. Through equality provisions in the Charter,
as well as through international legal obligations, the government was
compelled to resolve sexual discrimination against Indian women before April
17, 1985. The federal government in particular appeared prepared to repeal the
sex-discriminatory status regulations in the Indian Act while at the same time
providing for an equality guarantee within the aboriginal rights Section of the
Constitution Act.
In order to make its claims relevant, particularly to its male counterpart, the
Assembly of First Nations, NWAC began to operationalize the Indian people’s
traditional motherhood notion. Traditional Indian motherhood reflects Indian
men’s and women’s contemporary views of women’s past, de-symbolizes
male authority, and expresses women’s distinct double identity as women and
as Indians. During fieldwork in Ottawa (1985, 1986, and 1987) among
national aboriginal organizations, all male and female informants claimed that
aboriginal women from all different cultures traditionally played central roles.
Just as in other societies, and in other times, Indian women were
predominantly defined by their reproductive role. However, this role was
esteemed much differently. Indian women were traditionally responsible for
the biological and cultural continuity of their communities. In the “old days,”
they were much respected for their ability to give birth and for their family and
community roles. This was so strongly felt that metaphors of motherhood
came to stand for female Indian identity. Mottos such as: “Indian women are
the centre and wheel of life”; “Women are the core of Indian cultures”; “Indian
women are the ultimate leaders”; “Women are the keepers of Indian cultures”;
and “Without Indian women there would be no Indian nations” directly refer to
the symbolism of traditional Indian motherhood. There is no question that
Indian people recognize cultural diversity among themselves and differences
in sociopolitical organization. They are well aware that women in traditionally
matrilineal cultures have more fundamental rights than women in patrilineal
cultures. In spite of this, Indian men and women confirm that there was still
more equality among the sexes in all traditional Indian cultures than nonIndians would ever recognize. For example, Lavell, an important
spokesperson for the Native Women’s Association during the early 1970s,
argued:
[Indian] women had much respect and had decision-making powers
within their own community. Perhaps it was not as evident to the
216
anthropologist, but within our system it was there (cited in: House of
Commons:15).
Furthermore, it was claimed:
The fundamental role of the Indian mother as a basic link in the
cultural and linguistic continuity must not be underestimated if the
preservation and growth of the Indian way of life in Canada is indeed
a priority (IRIW 1979:14).
Irrespective of the many cultural differences, Indian men and women do
believe that their traditional societies were egalitarian; that the sexes had
different but equal socio-political positions (Krosenbrink 1991:44-8, 123-8).8
By contextualizing and exploring the functional mechanisms of the
ideological concept of traditional Indian motherhood, its importance for a
political strategy becomes comprehensible.
Unity, Boundary Establishment, and Mobilization
Firstly, NWAC supported the Assembly of First Nations’ notion of selfgovernment:
As women we speak for ourselves, our children and the generations
yet unborn, and join with the aboriginal peoples of this land in unity to
declare that our rights, our nations and our sovereignty are ours to
proclaim and ours to exercise (NWAC 1980).
Secondly, by using the ideological concept of traditional Indian motherhood,
NWAC facilitated group cohesiveness since Indian, Inuit and Métis women
and men agreed upon it. Lastly, the motherhood concept was instrumental to
the aboriginal peoples’ political opposition to Canadian society at large. The
Federal government’s colonial policies were blamed for the current gender
inequality within Indian communities which is considered inherently unIndian. Paula Gunn Allen (a famous Pueblo Indian woman, feminist, scholar
and poet) claims that gender equality inhered in all traditional First Nations’
cultures of the North American hemisphere: “Among the major conceptual
gifts First Nation people shared with the world is the concept of the central
value of women in every sphere of community life; that the proper place of
women, especially of elder women, is at the center of the spiritual, social,
political, and economic life of the nation” (1992:3). Hence, NWAC did not
have to publicly blame the AFN for its reluctance to perceive women’s issues
as relevant. AFN’s statement (1984:10-1) on Indian women’s sexual equality
during the 1984 constitutional conference is most illustrative:
The discrimination they [women] suffered was forced upon us by
white colonial government through the Indian Act. It was not the
result of our traditional laws, and in fact it would not have occurred
under our traditional laws. We must make it perfectly clear why we
feel so strongly that we must control our own citizenship (...).
The AFN maintains that “equality” does already exist within the
traditional “citizenship code” of all First Nations people.
217
IJCS / RIÉC
As the president of NWAC argued earlier: “Band governments must not mimic
the discriminatory practices of the dominant governments” (NWAC
Newsletter, 1, 8, 1983, p. 3). And, in accordance with the Native Women’s
Association’s Declaration of Principles and Beliefs (1980):
We believe that it is the right of the aboriginal people to determine
their own citizenship, and that it is the right of all people of aboriginal
descent who so wish to be recognized as such ... We believe that it is
the fundamental right of Native women to have access and
participation in any decision-making process, and full protection of
the law without discrimination based on sex or marital status ... We
believe that our future lies as sovereign nations with our rights as
women protected. We desire to live under a government of our own
making.
The traditional Indian motherhood concept is an integral part of the traditional
culture argument used in the Indian people’s struggle for self-government.
Indian self-government is only attainable when cultural traditions
reestablished. Hence, there cannot be true Indian self-government without
sexual equality. NWAC’s arguments therefore compelled the AFN to discuss
sexual equality within the aboriginal constitutional context.
Legitimization of NWAC’s Separate Existence and Exclusive Mandate
The traditional motherhood concept is inextricably tied to notions of care as
they apply to women. Indian women are traditionally held responsible for
caring about the cultural and biological continuity of their families and their
communities. Firstly, NWAC expanded these notions of care to legitimize
Indian women’s political separateness, respecting both their organization and
their aspirations:
In fact, all subject areas have a direct affect on us, as they do on all
segments of aboriginal society. However, there are some issues
which are of more particular interest to us because of our special role
in aboriginal society and the direct influence those issues have on
native women (NWAC Newsletter, 1, 8, 1983:2).
Secondly, in fulfilling their caring roles, Indian women integrate their care for
themselves with care for their families and their communities, and this
automatically motivates women to political participation and action. For
example, women’s political struggle to acquire clear water and sewer systems
on today’s reserves is motivated by their responsibility to care. This entails that
women’s roles and responsibilities cannot be met unless women have
decision-making rights (cf. Fiske 1990-1, 1992). NWAC claimed that, on the
basis of women’s caring responsibilities, they had to politically take care also.
This way, the Association was able to legitimize itself among its own
constituency, other (male-dominated) national aboriginal organizations, and
the Canadian government. This was necessary for NWAC to become involved
and to play a role in the constitutional process on aboriginal matters in spite of
lacking a formal participant position.
Mainstreaming Indian Women’s Constitutional Challenge for Change
Particularly with respect to NWAC’s lack of a formal position it was necessary
to formulate political aspirations within the frame of reference of both the
218
government and the AFN (cf. Adamson et al. 1988:180-190). NWAC had to
reckon with non-aboriginal perceptions of aboriginal peoples, as well as the
views of women held by society at large and those held by aboriginal men.
Hence, because of Indian women’s double identity—gender and
culture—they were in triple jeopardy.9 If NWAC had disengaged from the
aboriginal movement it would have seriously risked compromising its goals
within the aboriginal constitutional context.10 It is not a matter of “buying-off”
but rather an Indian women’s challenge to re-define femaleness and to
engender aboriginal identity. In view of the above, the only avenue open for
NWAC was to formulate its aspirations within the context of aboriginal selfgovernment.
Dissociation from the Women’s Movement
There can be no doubt that aboriginal women and their way of politically
organizing has been considerably influenced by the Canadian women’s
movement since the late 1960s and early 1970s. But Indian women in
particular faced the challenge of balancing loyalty to the aboriginal peoples’
self-government aspirations and their feminist aspirations. In order for NWAC
to integrate women’s rights into aboriginal rights, it had to choose a strategy of
dissociation from the Canadian women’s movement, which was largely
portrayed as white, middle-class dominated. Discussions on Indian women’s
issues—through the underlying traditional motherhood notion—were
replaced from the context of human, individual and white feminist rights to
that of aboriginal, collective rights. The connection between sexual equality
and aboriginal rights was necessary to establish better terms with the
Assembly of First Nations and to gain support (Krosenbrink 1991:128-41; cf.
NWAC 1980). However, it appears that after 1990 the old controversy
between NWAC and AFN revived, and that the Native Women’s Association
(particularly the national office) re-established relations with the National
Action Committee of Women, an umbrella organization of Canadian women’s
groups (The Globe and Mail, October 9/92).
The strategic use of the ideological concept of Indian traditional motherhood
together with Indian women’s actions and lobbying was not without positive
results. NWAC was able to play a role in the negotiations on aboriginal
constitutional rights. NWAC presented position papers to the heads of the
federal and provincial governments as well as to the other national aboriginal
organizations. It vigorously lobbied through its National Committee on
Aboriginal Rights. After all, it took part in the First Ministers’ Conferences on
Aboriginal Constitutional Matters as delegates from several provincial
governments (e.g. Ontario, Manitoba, Quebec, and Saskatchewan), as
delegates of the Native Council of Canada (1983 and 1984), and later of the
AFN (1985 and 1987). The Association also participated in parliamentary
commissions on Indian self-government and on the Indian Act (Krosenbrink
1991:146-79).
When the constitutional process on aboriginal matters officially ended in
March, 1987, NWAC could count its gains. Sexual equality was put on the
aboriginal constitutional agenda by the government. The Constitutional
Accord on Aboriginal Rights of 1983, which became the 1984 Constitution
Amendment Proclamation, entailed a sexual equality guarantee in the
aboriginal rights provision of Section 35. However, since the matter of
aboriginal rights (self-government) was not resolved during the constitutional
process—and the Charlottetown Accord that included recognition of the right
219
IJCS / RIÉC
to aboriginal self-government was defeated by referendum in 1992—the
provision has only symbolic value. Furthermore, AFN and NWAC joined in
May 1984 to uphold an Indian Act amendment whose details they objected to
(cf. AFN/NWAC Press Statement on Bill C-47, 22-6-84). Lastly, in 1985 the
Indian Act was amended by Bill C-31. The sex-discriminatory regulations in
the old Act were repealed and reinstatement was provided to persons who had
lost or who had never had these rights as a result. The new Indian Act also
provided for Indian band control of membership, meaning that legal status and
band membership in future are disconnected and that bands may decide to
include certain non-status Indians in, and to exclude certain status Indians,
from their membership (cf. Indian Act 1985; Krosenbrink 1991:170-94).
Since self-government has not been constitutionally defined and entrenched as
yet, the Indian Act, with its legal status stipulations, is still the most important
regulator of Indian people’s lives. The new Indian Act, Bill C-31, is far too
complex to discuss in this article.
Where Do Indian Women Go From Here?
Given NWAC’s marginal position, and in view of Indian women’s conflicts
and dilemmas in balancing aboriginal and feminist aspirations, we can
conclude that NWAC was relatively successful in reaching its goals with
respect to the Constitution and the Charter by 1987. NWAC’s strategic use of
the Indian traditional motherhood concept largely attributed to its success.
However, as Mancini Billson argues:
Although the 1982 Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms
entrenches equality for women and minorities, the eradication of
racism, ethnocentrism and sexism will be harder to guarantee
(1991:64).
A comprehensive assessment of the impact of Bill C-31, which was released
by Indian Affairs in 1990 (in conjunction with particularly NWAC and AFN),
clearly illustrates that Indian women still suffer from sexual discrimination
(INAC 1990). The Indian Act may have done away with some aspects of
sexual discrimination but has given room to others. Not all persons who had
lost or never gained Indian status are eligible for reinstatement. Children of
reinstated Indian women do not have the same right to transmit status and band
membership as children of their mother’s brother. Not only do the new rules
appear to perpetuate (residual) sexual discrimination, but Indian bands
themselves appear to put up barriers to prevent directly or indirectly reinstated
women from exercising their (automatic) band membership rights. Indian
women who have their birth rights restored are excluded from their
communities’ political processes and are hampered from residing on their
homeland and from voting in band elections. Thus, Indian women still face
legal and practical problems in reconciling their culture and gender (cf.
Holmes 1987; Duclos 1990).
To some bands, practical and economical reasons for denying reinstated
women the exercise of their Indian rights, such as access to their reserves, may
have a greater weight than any argument leading in the direction of sexual
discrimination. However, Indian women who have never lost their status and
who have lived on a reserve all their lives appear to suffer from sexual
discrimination also (cf. Silman 1987). Many bands oppose the old as well as
the new Indian Act as the government’s tool for setting the parameters of
220
Indian self-government. To these bands, the issue of sexual discrimination or
sexual equality is not relevant (cf. Duclos 1990). However, to Indian women,
their struggle for sexual equality remains inextricably tied to Indian selfgovernment.
So, where do Indian women go from here? Firstly, I argue that it is necessary
that both the government and the Assembly of First Nations recognize the
Native Women’s Association as a separate organization with a legitimate
mandate and that they include it in all national political discussions on an equal
footing. This is particularly important in view of future self-government
negotiations during the “Charlottetown aftermath.” Secondly, the
government, which was responsible for Indian women’s problems in the first
place, has to provide very explicit and unambiguous guarantees of Indian
women’s equality rights. This means also that residual sexual discrimination
in the new Indian Act should be eliminated. Thirdly, Indian women in the
communities have to take action to alter sex-discriminatory attitudes. Lastly,
the matter of Indian self-government should be constitutionally resolved in
due course. Only when men’s and women’s special legal status and rights are
explicitly and constitutionally recognized and affirmed may the Indian Act’s
status regulations become redundant and Indian men and women better able to
work together towards a future as truly self-governing First Nations.
Conclusion
The Native Women’s Association of Canada can be viewed as manifestation
of the Canadian Indian women’s movement. It is unique in its claim that
equality between the sexes can only be established through the restoration of
cultural traditions, among which gender equality. By strategically using the
ideological concept of traditional motherhood the Association was able to
resolve conflicts and dilemmas in connecting aboriginal and equality rights.
The author argues that explicit sexual equality guarantees within the frame of
constitutionally entrenched Indian self-government are a prerequisite in order
for women to have their rights as First Nations’ citizens protected.
Notes
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
I am grateful for the financial support of The Netherlands Organization for Scientific
Research (NWO) during the preparation of this article.
Informants’ data for the article were gathered during fieldwork in Canada in 1983, 1985,
1986, 1987 and 1990. For a more extensive study on Canadian Indian women, see
Krosenbrink (1991).
The Supreme Court decided in a five to four vote against Lavell. The Canadian Bill of Rights
(1960) was not considered effective to overrule the Indian Act, and the fact that Indian
women were treated differently was not considered relevant to the case as brought forward
(Eberts 1985:61; Jamieson 1978:85-86; Kerr 1975:23).
This argument holds specifically for the period 1982-1987. During the debates on the
Charlottetown agreement in the summer of 1992, it appeared that NWAC shifted its focus to
Section 15. The Association’s President argued that basic human rights as recognized in
international law and enforceable under the Charter must be guaranteed to every individual
including First Nations persons (Govt. of Canada 1992:32).
Ethnic (immigrant) groups in Canada cannot claim collective rights, other than the quasicollective rights spelled out in section 15 of the Charter. The aboriginal peoples’ rejection of
being classified as ethnic group stands in close relationship to section 25 of the Charter.
The U.N. decision in 1981 on the Lovelace case particularly referred to the self- determining
rights of minority groups in relation to membership (cf. article 27 of the International
Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, 1976).
221
IJCS / RIÉC
7.
8.
9.
10.
In August 1992, NWAC tried through the Federal Court of Appeal to obtain the right to a
formal seat at the constitutional bargaining table. Although the Association won, the federal
government continued negotiations with the other four national aboriginal organizations and
refused direct participation to the Native Women’s Association. On October 13, 1992,
NWAC tried to block the national referendum in Federal Court because the aboriginal selfgovernment provision of the Charlottetown Accord was not explicitly subordinated to the
equality provision in the Charter (The Globe and Mail, Oct. 13/92:A8).
Primary and secondary source material on the (re)evaluation of Indian women’s traditional
roles and positions have grown since the second women’s movement of the late 1960s and
early 1970s (cf. e.g. Brant 1988; Green 1983; Gunn Allen 1989; Jamieson 1982;
Krosenbrink 1984:5-27, 1991:39-48).
According to Hall: “Compelling arguments can be made in support of the assertion that the
oppression of women in Aboriginal communities represents a distilled variety of the basis
present more generally throughout Canadian society” (1992:42).
The National Committee on Indian Rights for Indian Women (IRIW) favoured a strategy of
disengagement in the 1970s. The consequence was that they continued their existence as
merely an Alberta (non-status) Indian women’s group after 1981 (Krosenbrink 1991:99).
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223
Radha Jhappan
Inherency, Three Nations and Collective Rights:
the Evolution of Aboriginal Constitutional
Discourse from 1982 to the Charlottetown Accord*
Abstract
The 1992 Charlottetown Accord proposed to enshrine Canadian Aboriginal
peoples’ inherent right to self-government. Had it been approved in the
national referendum of October 1992, the Accord would have created a third
order of government within the federation. Aboriginal governments would
have enjoyed great latitude in exercising a variety of powers currently
available only to the provincial and federal governments. As governments and
the majority of citizens have previously resisted Aboriginal claims for a
constitutional right to self-government, the Accord’s provisions indicated a
profound shift in the Canadian mind-set regarding Aboriginal entitlements.
Through analysis of position papers of the national Aboriginal organizations
and other parties to the reform process, this paper surveys the central dialogue
surrounding the main constitutional developments in Aboriginal affairs over
the past decade. There is evidence of considerable convergence on selfgovernment and its meaning, especially as politicians and citizens appear to
have substantially accepted several of the core elements of Aboriginal
discourse; inherency, the three nations concept and collective rights.
However, questions regarding the application of the Charter and gender
equality rights show a continuing dissonance between individual and
collective rights as applied to Aboriginal governments.
Résumé
L’Accord de Charlottetown de 1992 proposait la constitutionnalisation du
droit inhérent des peuples autochtones à l’autonomie. Si le référendum
d’octobre de la même année avait entériné l’Accord, on aurait alors assisté à
la création d’un troisième ordre de gouvernement au sein de la fédération. Les
gouvernements autochtones auraient pu exercer un large éventail de pouvoirs
qui n’appartiennent aujourd’hui qu’aux autorités fédérales et provinciales.
Comme, jusqu’alors, les gouvernements et la majorité de la population
s’étaient opposés à la reconnaissance officielle du droit à l’autonomie des
peuples autochtones, les dispositions à cet égard de l’Accord de
Charlottetown indiquaient un changement radical des mentalités chez les
Canadiens. En procédant à l’analyse des exposés de vues présentés par les
organismes autochtones et d’autres participants au processus de réforme, le
présent article scrute le dialogue principal qui, depuis une décennie, a mené
aux développements constitutionnels majeurs dans le dossier autochtone. Une
nette convergence des opinions sur l’autonomie des peuples autochtones s’est
réalisée au fur et à mesure que les hommes politiques et les citoyens ont
accepté les éléments clés du discours autochtone : les droits inhérents; le
IJCS/RIÉC
concept des trois nations; et les droits collectifs. Des désaccords persistent
toutefois au sujet des droits collectifs et des droits individuels quant au respect
par les gouvernments autochtones de la disposition de la Charte en matière
d’égalité des sexes.
In October 1992, the five hundredth anniversary of the arrival of Columbus in
the Americas, the citizens of Canada voted on a constitutional reform package
which could have begun the restoration of that which the European invasion
was to suppress: the right of the indigenous peoples to govern themselves. If
passed, the self-government provisions would have put Canada’s Aboriginal
peoples in the forefront of the international movement of indigenous peoples
dedicated to reclaiming the lands and the socio-economic, cultural and
political rights usurped over five centuries of European settlement. In the end,
however, Canadian voters rejected the package, which included a wide range
of proposals apart from Aboriginal self-government. Indeed, although all but
one of the Inuit communities of the North voted overwhelmingly in favour of
the Accord, 62% of the on-reserve status Indian population rejected it.1 Yet
despite the Accord’s ultimate defeat, what is exceptional is that constitutional
entrenchment of such a far-reaching bundle of rights was contemplated at all.
There has undoubtedly been a major contextual shift in Aboriginal politics in
recent years. Just two decades ago, the federal government’s proposal to
abolish the Indian Act met with the concerted and ultimately successful
resistance of First Nations 2 across the country, who feared that they would be
cut adrift from the federal government’s fiduciary responsibilities and the
admittedly limited benefits of the Act.3 Furthermore, although Aboriginal
peoples made an historic break-through in winning the entrenchment of
Aboriginal and treaty rights in the 1982 Constitution Act (discussed below),
they were unable to secure an amendment on the right to self-government in
the four First Ministers Conferences on Aboriginal Matters held between 1983
and 1987. This failure was principally due to the provinces’ refusal to entrench
a right, the scope and nature of which the Aboriginal organizations involved
were reluctant to limit via definition. As Gibbins has argued, in the political
arena, politicians could be persuaded to deal with “domain-specific” issues
which were both demonstrable and amenable to remedy (issues such as
unemployment, housing shortages, inadequate education and infant mortality,
for example). However, while they were willing to contemplate Aboriginal
autonomy in some areas of jurisdiction on an incremental basis, when issues of
constitutional principle and national symbolism arose, “constitutional
recognition of Indian sovereignty was a pill upon which the political system
gagged.”4
In view of these problems, the recent constitutional negotiations and the
proposed constitutional amendments (outlined below) have revealed a seachange in the discourse surrounding Aboriginal peoples’ constitutional
entitlements. The metamorphosis of this discourse is perceptible, not primarily
among Aboriginal peoples, who have steadfastly held a core set of concepts
and demands. Rather, this change is evident among political decision-makers
and the public, where support for Aboriginal peoples’ political aspirations is at
an all-time high.5
The Charlottetown Agreement was reached after a long process of public
discussions and hearings, sparked by the government of Canada’s
constitutional reform proposals of September, 1991, entitled Shaping
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the Evolution of Aboriginal Constitutional Discourse
Canada’s Future Together.6 The proposals were followed by a series of crosscountry hearings by a Special Joint Committee of the House of Commons and
Senate (the Beaudoin-Dobbie Committee), which issued its recommendations
in February 1992.7 In addition, the federal government sponsored a series of
six constitutional conferences which included a sprinkling of “ordinary
citizens” along with representatives of various interest groups, academics,
politicians and other “experts.” Finally, the federal government provided
funding for four of the major national Aboriginal organizations—the
Assembly of First Nations (AFN), the Native Council of Canada (NCC), the
Inuit Tapirisat of Canada (ITC), and the Metis National Council (MNC)—to
hold “parallel processes,” the better to ascertain the views of Aboriginal
peoples on the issue of constitutional reform.
Through an analysis of position papers and reports of the national Aboriginal
organizations’ “parallel constitutional process” of 1991-92, this paper
examines the permutations and continuities of Aboriginal constitutional
discourse over the past decade, with a view to identifying its major themes and
their expression. The nucleus of national Aboriginal organizations’
constitutional goals has been self-government. However, while some of the
orbital concepts (such as the claims of an inherent right to self-government and
to distinct society status) have persisted over the period, they have been
articulated in different forms as the constellation of political forces at work in
constitutional reform has shifted. Moreover, the early 1990s have witnessed
the re-emergence of issues such as Aboriginal women’s rights, the “two
founding nations” concept and equity of access. These issues are either relative
newcomers to the Aboriginal constitutional agenda, or they have assumed
enhanced significance due to the florescence of previously marginalized
voices within both Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal society.
The first part of the paper outlines Aboriginal peoples’ constitutional position
under the 1982 Constitution Act, and their potential constitutional rights under
the proposed provisions of the Charlottetown Accord. The second part
examines some of the factors which have induced change in Aboriginal
constitutional discourse, both among Aboriginal peoples themselves and
among politicians and the public. The third part of the paper tracks the
development of three sets of essential, interrelated themes in the contemporary
discourse. The first set of themes links assertions of Aboriginal nationalism
and sovereignty to the demand for constitutional recognition of an inherent
right to self-government. The second set of themes relates to the intersection of
the Aboriginal constitutional agenda with Quebec’s claims to distinct society
status based on the “two founding nations” concept. The analysis shows that
Aboriginal peoples have launched a successful assault on the latter conception
of the Canadian compact. Finally, the third set of themes is associated with the
attempt to reconcile individual with collective rights. The discussion focuses
on the application of the Charter of Rights and the Native Women’s
Association of Canada’s quest for protection of gender equality rights under
Aboriginal governments. The tension between individual and collective rights
is an especially important element of constitutional discourse; it involves
unresolved issues both between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal communities,
and within Aboriginal communities themselves.
Spatial limitations inevitably require a focus on some themes to the exclusion
of others. Aboriginal constitutional discourse is complex, and features many
interrelated elements. Quite apart from spatial constraints, however, I have
chosen not to analyze (other than tangentially) issues such as the treaties,
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equity of access, the Indian Act, the creation of new provinces and ethnic
versus public government, on the grounds that they are of special interest to
specific sections of the Aboriginal population, but not to everyone. Instead, I
have selected what are, in my view, the major conceptual elements of
Aboriginal peoples’ discourse in view of the new political relationship they
wish to craft with Canada, and their preferred status in the constitutional order.
The analysis shows that Aboriginal peoples have made some major conceptual
breakthroughs in terms of constitutional talk in Canada, breakthroughs which
appeared in the Charlottetown proposals. Finally, although the Accord failed
(due to a range of factors mostly unrelated to the self-government provisions),
it is possible that amendments on self-government may proceed separately.
The paper thus concludes with an analysis of the impact of the discourse to
date, and the prospects for future reforms in the area.
Comparison of the 1982 Constitution Act and the Charlottetown
Accord
Under the Constitution Act, 1982, Aboriginal organizations had secured for
the first time in Canadian history constitutional entrenchment of Aboriginal
and treaty rights, though their precise meaning has not to date been fully
fleshed out by the courts. As amended in 1983, the Act provided that:
25. The guarantee in this Charter of certain rights and freedoms shall not be
construed so as to abrogate or derogate from any Aboriginal, treaty or other
rights or freedoms that pertain to the Aboriginal peoples of Canada
including
(a) any rights or freedoms that have been recognized by the Royal
Proclamation of October 7, 1763; and
(b) any rights or freedoms that now exist by way of land claims
agreements or may be so acquired.
35. (1) The existing Aboriginal and treaty rights of the Aboriginal peoples of
Canada are hereby recognized and affirmed.
(2) In this Act, “Aboriginal peoples of Canada” includes the Indian,
Inuit and Metis peoples of Canada.
(3) For greater certainty, in subsection (1) “treaty rights” includes
rights that now exist by way of land claims agreements or may be
so acquired.
(4) Notwithstanding any other provision of this Act, the Aboriginal
and treaty rights referred to in subsection (1) are guaranteed
equally to male and female persons.
The Charlottetown Accord of August 28, 1992, would have added
substantially to these provisions. Briefly, the Accord proposed to entrench
Aboriginal peoples’ “inherent right of self-government within Canada,”8
thereby creating a new institutional framework under the rubric of federalism.
The Canada Clause, an interpretive clause governing the entire constitution,
provided that “the Aboriginal peoples of Canada, being the first peoples to
govern this land, have the right to promote their languages, cultures and
traditions and to ensure the integrity of their societies, and their governments
constitute one of three orders of government in Canada.”9 A contextual
statement in s.35(3) of the Constitution Act, 1982, would have specified that
duly constituted legislative bodies of the Aboriginal peoples had the right “(a)
228
to safeguard and develop their languages, cultures, economies, identities,
institutions and traditions, and (b) to develop, maintain and strengthen their
relationship with their lands, waters and the environment, so as to determine
and control their development as peoples according to their own values and
priorities and to ensure the integrity of their societies.”10
There were to be certain limitations on the inherent right. First, the Canadian
Charter of Rights and Freedoms was to apply to Aboriginal governments.
However, the extent of the Charter’s application was rendered ambiguous by
three provisions. Aboriginal governments were to have access to s. 33 (the
override clause) so that they could exempt their laws from the Charter’s
fundamental freedoms, legal and equality rights. In addition, the existing s. 25
exemption of Aboriginal, treaty or other rights from the Charter was to be
strengthened by adding “(c) any rights or freedoms relating to the exercise or
protection of their languages, cultures or traditions.” Finally, the democratic
rights in s. 3 of the Charter were only to be applied to the federal and provincial
legislatures, not to Aboriginal governments. Hence, it is not clear whether the
Charter would have applied to Aboriginal governments in any significant way,
though this is discussed in more detail below.
Nevertheless, a second limitation in s. 35.4(1) stated that federal and
provincial laws of general application would continue to apply until they were
displaced by laws passed by Aboriginal governments pursuant to negotiated
authorities. Section 35(2) represented a third limit, providing that “no
Aboriginal law or any other exercise of the inherent right of selfgovernment...may be inconsistent with federal or provincial laws that are
essential to the preservation of peace, order and good government in Canada.”
Fourth, no new land rights were to be created, though nothing in the provisions
were to derogate from existing land rights. Fifth, s. 35.7 provided that the
rights of the Aboriginal peoples of Canada were to be guaranteed equally to
male and female persons. Finally, there was to be a five-year delay on
justiciability.
These limitations notwithstanding, the Accord would have committed
governments to negotiate in good faith the implementation of selfgovernment, including issues of jurisdiction, lands and resources and
economic and fiscal arrangements. In addition, treaty rights were to be
interpreted in “a just, broad and liberal manner taking into account their spirit
and intent,” and the government of Canada was to establish treaty processes to
clarify, implement, or rectify the terms of the treaties. In fact, the Aboriginal
components of the Accord were quite extensive. They included: guaranteed
Aboriginal representation in the Senate; an Aboriginal veto over constitutional
amendments directly affecting Aboriginal peoples; and at least four biennial
constitutional conferences on Aboriginal issues starting no later than 1996.
Aboriginal representatives were to have items of their choice included on the
agendas.11
Compared with the rather sparse 1982 provisions, the Charlottetown Accord
would have signalled a massive change and considerable improvement in the
constitutional position of Aboriginal peoples. It would have given Aboriginal
governments unassailable constitutional status, while at the same time
recognizing that the right to self-government preceded the Canadian
constitution. At a philosophical level, several of its key provisions are
indicative of the transformation of Aboriginal constitutional discourse in
recent years and its acceptance by political elites. In particular, the concept of
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an inherent right to self-government enshrines collective rights and is an
implicit recognition of Aboriginal nationhood and sovereignty. Meanwhile,
the establishment of a third order of government in the Canadian federal
system displaces the traditional “two nations” conception of the Canadian
federal compact. These elements of Aboriginal constitutional discourse are
discussed below.
Explaining the Discursive Shift
As noted above, Aboriginal organizations were unable to secure constitutional
recognition of the right to self-government during the 1980s. During that
decade, public interest in and support for Aboriginal political aspirations was
moderate, and had even declined somewhat since the 1970s.12 Hence, there
was no particular public pressure for governments to act on their demands. In
fact, in 1983 the Special Committee on Indian Self-Government (the Penner
Committee) had released its report which recommended that Indian selfgovernment be constitutionally entrenched as an Aboriginal right, and that
First Nation governments should form “a distinct order of government in
Canada.”13 Although hailed as a breakthrough by the AFN, the Report’s
recommendations were never implemented. Moreover, less than a month after
the failure of the 1987 F.M.C. on Aboriginal Constitutional Matters, the
Governments of Canada and the ten provinces signed the Meech Lake Accord,
a reform package which dealt wholly with Quebec’s agenda, and which made
no attempt to address Aboriginal concerns.
In view of these events, the political process of 1991-92 and the final package
proposed by the Charlottetown Accord almost suggested that we had been
flipped into an alternate universe. What seemed impossible in the 1980s had
suddenly become not only possible, but unavoidable. In the early 1990s,
Aboriginal organizations were able to force their demands onto a
constitutional agenda which was intended by the Mulroney government to
address Quebec’s demands for recognition as a distinct society (among other
things). Now it seems unlikely that any attempt at constitutional reform which
fails to address Aboriginal demands for self-government could succeed in the
foreseeable future. What has caused this curious turn of events?
One of the principal explanations for the inclusion of Aboriginal demands for
self-government involves the role of Aboriginal peoples in the death of the
Meech Lake Accord. When Elijah Harper, an Aboriginal member of the
Manitoba Legislature, used a procedural loophole to postpone debate in the
Legislature until it became impossible to ratify the Accord before the deadline,
he was supported by Aboriginal organizations (and many citizens) across the
country. Indeed, Frances Abele has noted “the way in which Quebec and the
First Nations have stumbled over each other’s progress” in the process of
constitutional reform:
In 1982, Aboriginal peoples registered a limited victory, in securing
constitutional entrenchment of “existing Aboriginal and treaty
rights” while Quebec, absent, was excluded; then the urgency of
resolving Quebec’s exclusion led to the Meech Lake Accord, which
in turn contributed to the failure of the First Ministers’ Conferences
on Aboriginal Matters; the apparent victory of reconciliation at
Meech Lake was turned into a debacle by Aboriginal resistance to
their exclusion from the process.14
230
Shortly after the failure of Meech, a centuries-old dispute between the
Mohawks of Oka, Quebec and the imperial and Canadian Crowns flared up
afresh as the town of Oka proposed to expand a golf course on their traditional
burial grounds. After a peaceful blockade over several months had failed to
dissuade the developers, Mohawk Warriors responded by engaging in an
armed confrontation with the Quebec Provincial Police (and later the
Canadian Armed Forces) at Oka and several reserves in Quebec in the late
summer of 1990. The ninety-day stand-off sparked a spate of sympathetic
protests by Aboriginal communities and non-Aboriginal groups and
individuals across the country. Although many citizens reacted negatively to
the tactic of armed protest, Oka demonstrated the profound frustration felt by
many Aboriginal people. The siege provoked anxiety that more serious and
possibly more bloody confrontations might ensue if Aboriginal peoples’
socio-economic conditions and political position were not remedied. This
unusual demonstration of militancy drove the message home to politicians and
to the viewing public that Aboriginal people were serious, impatient with the
normal political process, and determined to resist encroachments on their land
and political rights. Indeed, Meech and Oka are widely credited by Aboriginal
leaders as the chief explanations of the discursive shift:
However hideous the Oka confrontation was, it could hardly have
done a better job of changing Canadian opinion, as white Canadians
watched the QPP charge Mohawk barricades in order to preserve the
Mayor of Oka’s self-assumed right to expand the municipal golf
course. The ugliness at the Mercier Bridge brought racism out into
the open, to be confronted. The Donald Marshall case, the
investigation into the cover-up of Helen Betty Osborne’s murder,
task forces on Aboriginal justice in various provinces—all of these
have opened white Canadians’ eyes as never before, to Native issues
and concerns...And then there was Meech Lake. In the brangling and
hysteria of the last weeks of the Meech Lake fiasco, Elijah Harper’s
quiet dignity...deeply impressed many white Canadians.15
Whereas the Aboriginal role in the demise of the “Quebec Round” of
constitutional reform and the militancy of Oka signalled the growing political
potency of Aboriginal peoples, renewed conceptions of collective rights
following the 1982 Charter of Rights were empowered by a series of Supreme
Court decisions in the 1980s. The Guerin, Sioui, Simon and Sparrow decisions
acknowledged the survival of Aboriginal and treaty rights, and breathed new
life into Aboriginal claims that their “natural rights” nevertheless had the force
of law in the Eurocanadian legal system. In particular, in the Sparrow decision,
the Supreme Court found that regulation of a right (in this case a fishing right)
could neither extinguish nor determine “the scope and content of an existing
Aboriginal right.”16 Moreover, in its first interpretation of s. 35 of the 1982
Constitution Act, the Supreme Court found that the section implies a fiduciary
responsibility on the part of the federal government, suggesting “some
restraint on the exercise of sovereign power.”17 Section 35, the Court held, was
to be given “a generous and liberal interpretation,” applied as it is to a sui
generis category of rights.18
Certainly, these far-reaching legal victories impressed upon politicians the fact
that Aboriginal peoples’ claims to land, treaty and unextinguished Aboriginal
rights were much stronger in legal and constitutional terms than many had
believed. Hence, taken together, the enhanced legal recognition of Aboriginal
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rights, Aboriginal peoples’ role in the defeat of the Meech Lake Accord, and
the new wave of militancy and direct action inspired by the cataclysm of Oka
account at least in part for the transfiguration of Aboriginal constitutional
discourse and the willingness of political elites to embrace it.
Aboriginal Nationhood, Sovereignty and the Inherent Right to SelfGovernment
Aboriginal nationalism has been developing in Canada since at least the 1970s,
when the Red Power movement began to craft an ideology of opposition which
rejected the dominant political ethos and the place of Aboriginal people within
it. As Chartrand observes, the recently mobilizing movement of Aboriginal
peoples “is characterized by an emerging sense of nationalism which presents
a number of challenges to traditional notions about the nation-state in
Canada...[including]...the legitimacy of a constitutional order based upon a
division of powers between the federal Parliament and the provincial
Legislatures.”19
Two of the core elements of Aboriginal political and constitutional discourse
in recent years have been claims to nationhood and sovereignty, which have
culminated in a demand for the recognition of an inherent right to selfgovernment. The concepts of nationhood and sovereignty are not understood
by Aboriginal peoples in quite the same way as they are comprehended by nonAboriginal people. “Nationhood” is not normally understood by Aboriginal
people in Canada in the sense of “nation-state.” The latter would imply an
international status whereby the nation would exercise complete sovereignty
over a discrete territory, while enjoying the right to make foreign policy and to
enter into treaties with other nations. Rather, Aboriginal nationhood is
generally understood as describing a socio-cultural (usually tribal) group,
sharing a common language, history, territory and identity.
Yet Aboriginal nationalism is more than cultural nationalism: it has political
implications, even if these do not extend as far as a claim to full-fledged nationstatehood. As Boldt has suggested, nationalism can refer to a range of
autonomous political conditions, and if full independence is one extreme on a
continuum, Canada’s Aboriginal peoples are best characterized as
“autonomists.”20 Perhaps the most renowned assertion of nationhood and
sovereignty was the Dene Declaration of 1975, which read in part:
We the Dene of the [Northwest Territories] insist on the right to be
regarded by ourselves and the world as a nation. Our struggle is for
the recognition of the Dene Nation by the Government and people of
Canada and the peoples and governments of the world....The Dene
find themselves as part of a country. That country is Canada. But the
Government of Canada is not the government of the Dene. The
Government of the N.W.T. is not the government of the Dene. These
governments were not the choice of the Dene, they were imposed on
the Dene. Our plea to the world is to help us in our struggle to find a
place in the world community where we can exercise our right to selfdetermination as a distinct people and as a nation. What we seek then
is independence and self-determination within the country of
Canada.21 (emphasis added)
In the 1970s, various Aboriginal writers and organizations pointed out that
before colonization, Aboriginal societies were sovereign. The British Crown,
232
they argued, recognized the pre-existing sovereignty of Indian nations in
particular through the Royal Proclamation of 1763,22 and through the treaties
it authorized, which were conducted on a nation-to-nation basis. They argued
that they never gave up their right to govern themselves. The treaties may have
limited sovereignty, but they did not erase it:
Prior to colonial settlement in North America, the Indian... people
had uncontested dominion over their tribal territories and all the
people therein. They could govern, make laws, wage war, and had
their own political, social, cultural, educational, economic, and
property systems. Each tribe had absolute control over the resources
and products of the land. In other words, the tribes had political
sovereignty. To Indian people, their title to tribal lands was explicit in
this political sovereignty. The actions of the colonial powers in
entering into treaties with Indian peoples were an acknowledgement
of sovereignty and a recognition of Indian rights to the land.23
In contemporary discourse, however, Aboriginal nationalism and assertions of
sovereignty do not require a return to the absolute autonomy of the pre-contact
period. Chartrand notes that in general, “Aboriginal peoples...have not been
anxious to assert that their right of self-determination requires that they
separate politically and economically from Canada.”24 John Moss notes that in
the early 1980s, the NIB (National Indian Brotherhood, forerunner to the
Assembly of First Nations), NCC and ITC each stated that their members
represented separate and distinct nations, the NIB even declaring that
“sovereignty continues to reside in each [Indian] nation.” For the NIB and the
NCC, their status as nations gave them the right to choose whether they wished
to be part of Confederation or not.25
The prescription, however, was not secession from Canada, but rather
“internal sovereignty” via new political arrangements and institutions by
which Aboriginal peoples might govern their own internal affairs. For the NIB
and the NCC, the answer lay in the formation of a “third order of government”
where Aboriginal governments would exercise a wide range of powers
(combining municipal, provincial and some federal powers). Such
governments would exist within current provincial boundaries, but would not
be municipalities or “arms of the provincial governments.” 26 The ITC, on the
other hand, envisioned the creation of a new province in the Northwest
Territories in which Inuit would form the majority, though the ITC was not
proposing “ethnically-exclusive government institutions [or] anything outside
this country’s fundamental political principles.”27
In the 1991-92 round of constitutional reform, the themes of nationhood and
sovereignty were expressed anew. The AFN’s Constitutional Commissioners
for example, reiterated the historical basis of the Aboriginal-Eurocanadian
relationship:
The Canadian government may try to sidestep the question of
nationhood for the First Peoples, but in the 17th and 18th centuries, its
predecessors had no such doubts. Treaties weren’t made between
victor and defeated or between superior and inferior; they were made
between equals, on the basis of mutual respect...[Presenters] said that
treaty after treaty...recognized the First Nations as independent
equals....[However], unilaterally, the Federal government assumed
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responsibility for “Indians” and passed the Indian Act through a
Parliament for which “status Indians” were not even eligible to
vote....But the people who came to join the circle were quite clear. At
no point had they or their ancestors ever consented to be governed by
the incomers. We govern ourselves; we have never given up that
right, they told us. Self-government exists. It has always existed; it
will always exist. Recognition of this fundamental fact would be
simple justice, but whatever happens, we are our own people, our
own Nations, with our own culture and traditions to treasure.28
As in the 1970s, the national Aboriginal organizations used the language of
sovereignty, but did not see the notion as requiring secession from Canada.
The ITC, for example, noted that Inuit have not advocated sovereignty or a
desire to separate from Canada. Instead, “our position signifies the opposite
approach, a desire to seek unity with other Canadians and become equal
partners in the federation.”29
While the national organizations concurred in this view, it is not necessarily
the view espoused by all First Nations, however. Indeed, some Aboriginal
groups have a long history of asserting complete sovereignty and
independence from Canada. For example, since the late 1950s, the Iroquois of
the Six Nations Confederacy have resisted Canada’s claims to sovereignty
over their peoples and territories,30 and at the 1984 FMC on Aboriginal
Matters, Chief Billy Two Rivers of the Kahnawake Mohawk Council declared
that:
The Haudenosaunee Six Nations Confederacy have no desire to
separate from Canada, since the Confederacy have never been part of
Canada....[The] new constitution will have no jurisdictional authority
within our territories or over our people. Our people are citizens of
our nation and do not seek citizenship within the nation of Canada.31
In view of this position, it is not surprising that the Mohawks boycotted the
October referendum. Nor are the Mohawks the only Aboriginal group to
challenge the authority and jurisdiction of the Canadian state. In 1989, the
Haidas of the Queen Charlotte Islands off the coast of British Columbia
declared themselves an independent nation, and even issued passports to
underscore the point. While such dramatic declarations have been the
exception rather than the rule in Aboriginal politics, there is some evidence
that the idea of absolute sovereignty has begun to take hold among more
Aboriginal groups, and Chartrand notes that “Aboriginal leaders are now
concerned with asserting the illegitimacy of the Canadian state and its
constitution on the basis that it was imposed upon Aboriginal peoples.”32 Not
surprisingly, the issue of sovereignty was to surface in the 1991-92 round of
constitutional reform.
The logic of the claim to nationhood and continuing sovereignty ultimately
produces a claim to an inherent right to self-government in the present. When
the federal government’s September 1991 document, Shaping Canada’s
Future Together, proposed to enshrine in the Constitution a general right to
self-government (subject to the Charter of Rights, federal and provincial laws
of general application and a ten-year delay on justiciability), Aboriginal
leaders across the country reacted with considerable skepticism. Ovide
Mercredi and Saul Terry of the Union of British Columbia Indian Chiefs
234
(among others) took the position that nothing less than the recognition of selfgovernment as an inherent right would be acceptable. Within a month,
Mercredi was threatening to boycott the Parliamentary “unity” process unless
the inherent right to self-government was recognized. At the opening of the
AFN’s “parallel process,” Mercredi even went as far as to say that if inherent
rights were not acknowledged, Aboriginal people could form their own
national government and declare sovereignty and independence from
Canada.33 Although they did not necessarily support the latter claim, the other
national Aboriginal organizations lined up behind the demand for the inherent
right.
The language of inherency has much more than merely symbolic importance. It
recognizes the fact that Aboriginal peoples were historically self-governing, that
they never gave up the right to govern themselves, and that the right is not
granted by any other government or legislative or constitutional enactment.
Ultimately, it signifies a pre-existing, natural and continuing right which cannot
be abrogated or revoked by any other government, especially without the
consent of Aboriginal peoples.
Throughout the Aboriginal parallel process of 1991-92, speakers emphasized
the inherent nature of Aboriginal rights, although its consequences were
expressed in different ways. The AFN’s Commissioners noted that:
The word “inherent” has caused considerable confusion. In fact, it’s
very simple. The people say that First Nations self-government
exists; the question is one of recognition only. The federal
government cannot grant self-government to the First Nations any
more than the Mayor of Sudbury can declare war on Japan. A man
cannot divorce a woman who never married him....The people claim
that this right stems from First Nations’ occupation of the land from
time immemorial, from Aboriginal title and rights recognized under
international conventions, from elementary principles of democracy.
We heard that the federal and provincial governments cannot give the
First Nations the right to self-government, because that right has been
given them by an even more powerful governor [the Great Creator].
All governments can do is to recognize the fact.34
Each of the national organizations insisted that the inherent right should be
enshrined without limitations. The ITC took the view that “by virtue of being
inherent and a fundamental right of indigenous peoples, the right of selfgovernment is of a permanent nature and cannot be restricted or limited to
delegated powers.35 Meanwhile, the NCC’s Constitutional Review
Commission recommended: that the inherent right be immediately entrenched
without a delay on enforcement; that it include title and ownership of lands and
resources; that the Indian Act system not be the basis for self-government; that
the right should be “freely exercisable by all Aboriginal people regardless of
their status under the Indian Act, or of where they live”; and that it could not
limit or detract from “existing rights and our original jurisdictions.”36
The appearanœ of the conœpt of inherency in 1991-92 seemed to surprise the
viewing public, as well as many politicians, who seemed never to have heard
of it before. Yet the four national Aboriginal organizations had been using it
for some years. In fact, they had tabled a “Joint Aboriginal Proposal for SelfGovernment” during the 1987 FMC, which proposed to recognize and affirm
the inherent right. Negotiations were to proceed on such issues as lands,
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resourœs, economic and fiscal arrangements, education, preservation and
enhanœment of Aboriginal languages and cultures, and equity of access.37 It
must be noted, however, that at that time Aboriginal issues did not enjoy a
particularly high profile in Canadian politics, nor were Aboriginal
organizations able to flex the political muscle developed latterly by virtue of
the collapse of the Meech Lake Accord, the militancy at Oka and a variety of
other factors.
For several months after the release of Shaping Canada’s Future Together, the
federal government vigorously resisted the idea of inherency. Tom Siddon, the
Minister of Indian Affairs, said that Ottawa was willing to make jurisdictional
spaœ for native self-government, “but not if it means yielding the ultimate
sovereignty of the Crown and of Canada.”38 The major concern was that the
idea of inherency might import a right to sovereign independence from
Canada, that it might produce a “Swiss cheese map riddled with tiny pockets of
independent native nations.”39 Joe Clark, the Minister Responsible for
Constitutional Affairs, did not rule out inherency, but told the NCC at a
meeting in Hull, Quebec on November 7, 1991, that:
We believe that the word—undefined or unmodifed—could be used
as the basis for a claim to international sovereignty or as the
justification of a unilateral approach to deciding what laws did or did
not apply to Aboriginal peoples....If Aboriginal Canadians can help
define what inherency would mean in practical terms—in terms of
authorities and jurisdictions and powers—in such a way that the
integrity of this federation is not put in question, we would welcome
that. We are not opposed to inherency.”
These concerns were certainly not alleviated by the threats of secession made
by Mercredi and others, and particularly by Aboriginal leaders in Quebec, who
feared for their collective fate should Quebec itself secede from Canada. Nor
were the government’s fears tranquilized by assurances that Aboriginal groups
were really after inclusion in the federation, particularly as Aboriginal
lobbying on the international front in recent years has been devoted to gaining
recognition of indigenous peoples’ right to self-determination, whether within
or outside existing nation-states.40
Nevertheless, governments’ concerns notwithstanding, by early 1992 the
concept of inherency appeared to have penetrated the Canadian political
psyche. Amid government charges that Aboriginal (and other “special
interest”) groups were “hijacking” the five constitutional conferences, the
final wrap-up conference in Vancouver concluded that “the inherent right of
self-government, exercised within Canada, should be recognized in the
Constitution, including jurisdictions over lands, resources, culture, and
language.”41 Similarly, the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples
intervened in the process in mid-February. The Commission recommended
that “...any new constitutional provision dealing with the Aboriginal right of
self-government...should indicate that the right is inherent in nature,
circumscribed in extent, and sovereign in its sphere.”42 Although some
Aboriginal leaders (such as Yvon Dumont of the Metis National Council)
objected to the limitations the Commission would place on the right even
before negotiations had begun,43 the intervention nevertheless lent added
credibility to the demand for an inherent right.
236
In a similar vein, the Beaudoin-Dobbie Committee, which reported in late
February after conducting nation-wide hearings, recommended “the
entrenchment in section 35 of the Constitution Act, 1982 of the inherent right
of Aboriginal peoples to self-government within Canada.”44 With two of the
government’s own committees on-side, the demand for entrenchment of the
inherent right to self-government seemed unassailable. It survived the
subsequent rounds of bargaining among the First Ministers, the territorial
governments and representatives of the four national Aboriginal organizations
held from May to August, 1992, and appeared in the Draft Legal Text of the
Charlottetown Accord of October 9, 1992.
Hence, with regard to the inherent right to self-government, the Charlottetown
Accord was an exceptional coup for the Aboriginal organizations and leaders
(particularly Ovide Mercredi) who risked exclusion of their demands from the
process of reform altogether by holding out for an unassailable inherent right.
This achievement is the more notable, since, as Chartrand notes, “traditionally,
the judicial dialogue of ‘rights’ has considered rights as legal boundaries
beyond which the individuaT is shielded from the legislative intrusion of the
State [whereas] governmental ‘rights’ to legislate have been expressed in
terms of ‘powers’, not of ‘rights.”’ 45 What is significant then, is the fact that
whereas the other two levels of government cannot claim “rights” vis-à-vis one
another (they can at most claim the improper exercise of power beyond the
jurisdictional powers set out in the Constitution Act), Aboriginal governments
would have been able to claim a right to govern, and they would claim it vis-àvis other governments. Moreover, Aboriginal governments were to enter the
domain of law-making under the Constitution (albeit subject to some
constraints), an historic reversal of over a century of colonial law.
The Intersection of the Aboriginal and Quebec Constitutional
Agendas: “Two Founding Nations” and Distinct Society Status
Since before Confederation, the relationship between English and French
Canada has been characterized as a compact between “two founding nations.”
Indeed, federalism itself has been regarded as an arrangement designed to join
the two ethnic/linguistic groups in a system which would allow each to flourish
while reaping the benefits of broader union. Since Quebec’s “Quiet
Revolution” of the 1960s, the agenda of constitutional reform has revolved
largely around Quebec’s demands for a renegotiation of the division of powers
to facilitate its nation-building strategies. The conception of Canada as a
compact between English- and French- speaking peoples has been reinforced
by federal policies such as official bilingualism. Moreover, various initiatives,
from the Victoria Charter of 1971 to Meech Lake, to the post-Meech round of
1991-92, have attempted to solve the problem of Quebec’s demands for more
provincial powers as well as a veto over subsequent constitutional change.
Although challenged by the principle of the equality of the provinces and by
multiculturalism, the two nations conception has survived as a dominant
element of Canadian political discourse.
Canada’s Aboriginal peoples, however, have long rejected the “two founding
nations” conception of Canada. In fact, it is almost always characterized as a
“myth.” For example, as early as 1979, the National Indian Brotherhood (NIB,
later retitled the Assembly of First Nations) told theTask Force on Canadian
Unity that “the myth suggesting that the French and English are founding
peoples of Canada... is historically inaccurate and an insult to the Indian people
of Canada.”46
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However, the Aboriginal challenge to the dominant conception of the national
compact did not gain currency until the 1991-92 “Canada Round.” Throughout
the four Aboriginal parallel processes (and elsewhere), opinion was uniform
that this conception was in need of revision as it excluded the original
inhabitants of the continent. For example, an ITC position paper pointed out
that “the myth of English and French speahng Canadians as the two founding
peoples of Canada ignores the contribution and needs of Aboriginal peoples as
Canada’s first citizens.”47 Similarly, a number of submissions to the AFN’s
First Nations Circle asserted the prior presence and unique rights of Aboriginal
peoples:
The principle of two founding nations is one of the biggest fallacies in
this century. Time did not start ticking on this continent when the
European people arrived. The constitution must recognize and give
due regard to the special status the First Nations have in Canada.48
On the other hand, perhaps because a significant proportion of its constituency
is Metis, the NCC has taken a less pointed and perhaps more conciliatory view
of the “two founding nations” discourse. The NCC’s Executive Task Force on
the Constitution in fact called for “a recognition of French Canada as a
founding or distinct society,” on the basis that the Quebec and Aboriginal
positions should be “mutually supportable.”49
Nevertheless, during the 1991-92 process, the two nations concept was under
siege, displaced by an alternate concept: three founding peoples. The AFN
First Nations Circle Commissioners, for example, concluded that “there is
widespread and growing support for the position that First Nations are one of
Canada’s three founding peoples.”50 In fact, the idea had surfaced during the
five constitutional conferences held in various cities in early 1992. The
Toronto conference in particular (which focussed on the “distinct society”
clause) endorsed NCC President Ron George’s insistence that Aboriginal
peoples be accepted as the first of three “founding national communities.”51
Indeed, so powerful was the displacement of the two nations concept that even
central Canadian academics, who had long accepted it, began to make space in
their constitutional discourse for Aboriginal peoples.
Of course, the three founding peoples concept is an unsatisfactory rival to the
two nations concept, since Aboriginal peoples have been adamant in their
insistence that they are not an undifferentiated mass, but are distinctive nations
in their own right. However, the idea was to displace the previous exclusionary
discourse. More than anything, the “three founding peoples” concept
challenges the core of the Canadian federal community’s self-definition; it
requires a radical reconceptualization of the political compact. As Chartrand
observes:
The nationalistic movement among Aboriginal peoples presents a
challenge to the notion of two founding nations in establishing the
Canadian state. Since the Aboriginal peoples had virtually no say in
the establishment of Canada, the legitimacy of Canada, not only as a
constitutional entity, but as a country with a legitimate vision of its
own society is being challenged. It so happens, however, that the
Aboriginal nationalism is occuring at a time when the nationalism of
one of the “offficial founding nations” is itself causing a fundamental
re-examination of the legitimacy of the existing order.52
238
The problem with the alternative conception, however, concerned its
implications for the manner in which Aboriginal peoples would be recognized
in the Constitution. Since the Meech Lake Accord, in which Quebec was to be
recognized as a “distinct society,” the term had become widely associated with
Quebec’s status claims. However, Aboriginal groups had been using it since at
least the 1970s.53 In May 1987, the leaders of the four national Aboriginal
organizations had written a letter to the Prime Minister asking for recognition
of Aboriginal peoples as a distinct society in the Meech Lake Accord.54 Hence,
by the 1990s, Aboriginal leaders resented the implication that Quebec had
somehow gained a copyright on the concept. Thus began the discursive
competition between Aboriginal versus Quebec claims. It was not simply a
question of “whatever Quebec gets, we want too.” Instead, it was a question of
prior claims, as well as of the effect of distinct society status for Quebec on the
Aboriginal populations of that province. As the Commissioners of the AFN’
First Nations Circle noted:
The people who spoke to us said this: of course Quebec is distinct
from English Canada...The cultures are not the same...We
sympathize with Quebec’s desire to preserve and transmit what is
uniquely Quebecois. All we ask is that they give us the same right that
they claim for themselves...Aboriginal peoples are not merely
another ethnic group like the Ukrainians or the Dutch. We too are a
distinct society. We are the original society....how does one define
“distinctness”? Linguistic differences? As one white contributor
pointed out, French and English belong to the same family of
languages....Our languages belong to an entirely different group.
Legal systems? The Common Law of English Canada and the
Napoleonic Code may differ, but they share the same approach to
crime and punishment, an approach totally unlike Aboriginal justice.
Cultural differences? Consider Aboriginal attitudes towards land and
ownership, which are radically different from whites’. [One]
presenter noted that Aboriginal peoples are so distinct that even their
biochemistry, their blood types and metabolism, are not quite the
same as Eurocanadians’...If there is to be competition for Most
Distinct Society in Canada, the French would not be winners. The
competition matters only because Quebec, in demanding its rights,
risks trampling on ours. Fear for the future of First Nations in Quebec
was voiced...all across the country. It is not in Quebec’s interests to
respect First Nations’ rights.55
In a similar vein, Ovide Mercredi, National Chief of the AFN, addressed the
Commons-Senate Committee on a Renewed Canada (the Beaudoin -Dobbie
Committee), outlining not only the Aboriginal claim to distinct society status,
but also the potential dangers to Aboriginal interests if Quebec were so
recognized:
We want to preserve a distinct way of life that has suffered
dramatically under policies of assimilation. So we look at the
constitution as a vehicle for accomplishing that objective...The
recognition of Quebec as a distinct society can be very detrimental to
First Nations within Quebec. It does not take much to conjure
numerous possibilities of how this recognition can be used to the
detriment of First Nations, from land claims to hydroelectric
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developments to language programs to education and even military
defence.56
These concerns were echoed by the other national Aboriginal organizations.
The ITC, for example, took the position that:
Inuit strongly believe that it is necessary to identify Aboriginal
peoples as distinct societies...[T]he constitutional recognition of
Quebec as a distinct society wlthout also recognizing Aboriginal
peoples places us in a disadvantageous position. For example, it
could result in Inuit language rights in certain regions of Canada
being accorded secondary status.57
Again, the NCC’s position was less pointed, and the organization’s
Constitutional Review Commission took the view that there was no need to
apply the words “distinct societies” to Aboriginal nations, provided that
terminology with an “equivalent significance and authority within the
Constitution” was used.58 The NCC was concerned, nevertheless, about
Quebec’s reluctance to recognize distinct society status for Aboriginal
peoples, particularly as off-reserve Indian and Metis people in Quebec would
be threatened by the imposition of the province’s cultural and language laws.59
It was at the Toronto conference, however, that the competition between
Aboriginal peoples and Quebec over distinct society status reached new
heights. Though Aboriginal organizations had not been formally invited to
participate in the conference, Mercredi went anyway. He was successful in
demanding the right to speak and complained about the exclusion of
Aboriginal groups at the conference. The opening plenary ended with Zebedee
Nungak of the ITC displaying a map of Quebec in which approximately one
half of the territory (coloured red) was carved out as the Aboriginal territories
which could secede from Quebec if Quebec seceded from Canada.60 A few
days later, Mercredi addressed the Quebec National Assembly committee
examining sovereignty, and disputed Quebec’s right to self-determination:
Self-determination is not a right of a “province.” It is the right of all
peoples. Are the “people of Quebec” a “people” in the international
legal sense? The population of Quebec is made up of a wide range of
racial and ethnic groups. It cannot be considered to be a single
“people” with the right of self-determination. Otherwise, the “people
of Canada” would also be a “people” for the purpose of international
law. Through such interpretations, the essential purposes of selfdetermination would be defeated....It is not clear to whom the term
“Québécois” refers. Does it imply that people of all racial, national
and ethnic origins living within Quebec are a single people...with one
right to self-determination? Are French Quebeckers and First
Nations within Quebec part of a single people? If this is your view,
then it is contrary to our right to self-determination and selfidentification.6l
The map incident, together with Mercredi’s comments, provoked angry
reactions in Quebec It also sparked dissent among Aboriginal organizations.
Ron George of the NCC, for example, told the Beaudoin-Dobbie Committee
that “we are not going to get dragged into a phony war with French Canada or
240
Quebec,” and maintained that Aboriginal peoples did not need distinct society
status as well as recognition of the inherent right to self-government.62
Perhaps because Mercredi realized that Quebec’s consent would be required
for any constitutional amendment package (and perhaps in part because
Constitutional Affairs Minister, Joe Clark, warned that such “inflammatory”
demands could result in the exclusion of Aboriginal issues from the
package63), Mercredi’s position softened considerably over the ensuing
months. In the final rounds of negotiation over the summer of 1992, the
demand for recognition of Aboriginal peoples as distinct societies was
dropped. The Charlottetown Accord, however, though avoiding that
terminology, included what amounted to a distinct society clause for
Aboriginal peoples in s.2(b) of the Canada clause (quoted above).
Hence, while Aboriginal leaders did not succeed in their quest to obtain
distinct society status for Aboriginal peoples, the language of the Canada
clause, together with recognition of the inherent right to self-government,
were arguably stronger guarantees than that imported by the distinct society
terminology. The discursive breakthrough was significant, moreover, since
the bubble of “two nations” had been pricked, and as it was widely realized that
Aboriginal peoples had a legitimate claim to special status which could not be
neglected in constitutional reform.
Individual versus Collective Rights: Gender Equality and the
Application of the Charter of Rights
One of the cornerstones of Aboriginal constitutional discourse in recent years
has been the primacy of collective over individual rights. Aboriginal rights
claims are claims to collective rights, wherein rights inure to individuals by
virtue of their group membership. Whereas an Aboriginal right (such as the
right to hunt or fish) may be exercised by individuals, access to the right is predetermined by their membership in Aboriginal communities. However, land
rights under Aboriginal title, for example, cannot be claimed by individuals, as
the notion of Aboriginal title is founded upon the idea that lands are held by
communities, not by individuals.
The discourse of rights is a rather recent phenomenon among Aboriginal
peoples, who did not traditionally structure their communities around rights
concepts. Aboriginal leaders and scholars in recent years have critiqued the
entire basis of the rights approach to mediating the competing claims of
individuals and groups. Mary Ellen Turpel, for example, points out that “rights
discourse has been widely appropriated by Aboriginal peoples in struggles
against the effects of colonialism.”64 However, rights discourse is based on
liberal, individualist ideology with its celebration of the right to private
property. This discourse, she argues, is not congruent with Aboriginal
philosophies, since rights are seen as erecting fences around the individual the
better to protect her against harm from others:
Although there is no culture or system of beliefs shared by all
Aboriginal peoples, the paradigm of rights based conceptually on the
prototype of right of individual ownership of property is antithetical
to the widely shared understanding of creation and stewardship
responsibilities of First Nations peoples for the land, for Mother
Earth. Moreover, to my knowledge there are no narratives among
Aboriginal peoples of living together for the purposes of protecting
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an individual interest in property....The collective or communal basis
of Aboriginal life does not really...have a parallel to individual rights:
the conceptions of law are simply incommensurable....Aboriginal
rights claims are, in my view, requests for the recognition by the
dominant (European) culture of the existence of another, and for
toleration of, and respect for, the practical obstacles that the request
brings with it. While this may be cloaked in rights talk, there is
something at stake that is larger than rights, and that is conceivably
outside of the texts of particular documents intended to guarantee
human rights...What is at stake is a more basic, less “legalized”
condition of survival: the dignity of existing as Peoples.65
The clash of individual and collective rights was most clearly demonstrated in
1969 when the Trudeau government’s proposal that “the Indian people’s role
of dependence be replaced by a role of equal status, opportunity and
responsibility”66 was resoundingly rejected by status Indians. Those who
would have been stripped of their special status and rights under the Indian Act
were manifestly uninterested in the sacred cows of liberal individualist
ideology—equality of opportunity and freedom from discrimination based on
race, ethnicity, religion, gender and so on. That is not to suggest that they
favoured inequality and discrimination. Instead, they objected that such
individual rights and liberties were being offered at the expense of special
status and group rights.
The problems of individual versus collective rights are pertinent to Aboriginal
constitutional discourse in two major respects. In the first instance, Aboriginal
rights (such as self-government, hunting, fishing and treaty rights) are
collective claims in the positive sense of extending power to Abonginal
nations to take certain actions (to make laws, for example). They are also
negative in the sense of requiring freedom from interference by others in the
exercise of rights. Essentially, these are rights claimed against other
governments; they concern relations of power between Aboriginal and nonAboriginal peoples. On the other hand, the intersection of individual and
collective rights within Aboriginal communities is a different order of
problem.
With regard to the relations of power between Aboriginal and non Aboriginal
peoples, many have pointed out that while the Charter of Rights may be the
coronation of liberal individualism, it has nevertheless recognized certain
group entitlements, such as language rights. Cenainly, the mainstream
discourse of rights has expanded sufficiently to include collective rights, and
in a series of cases, the Supreme Court has recognized that equality may mean
treating groups (not just individuals) differently to ameliorate conditions of
disadvantage.67 As the Charlottetown Accord proposed to add to the collective
rights of Aboriginal peoples which had been enshrined in l982, Canadian
political elites at least have shown themselves willing to accommodate certain
group rights.
However, the question of rights within Aboriginal communities, and
particularly under self-government regimes, is an especially delicate one. It
involves the ability of individuals to claim individual rights against a group
exercising collective rights. This issue surfaced in the 1991-92 constitutional
talks, revolving around the application of the Charter of Rights to Aboriginal
governments. Aboriginal leaders have long rejected the idea that Aboriginal
governments should be subject to the Charter on the grounds that some Charter
242
rights could be inconsistent with the exercise of self-government, particularly
in the case of communities wishing to follow their traditional modes of
governance. For example, in 1982 the National Chief of the AFN told the
Commons Standing Committee on Aboriginal Affairs that:
...as Indian people we cannot afford to have individual rights override
collective rights. Our societies have never been structured that way,
unlike yours, and that is where the clash comes...If you isolate the
individual rights from the collective rights, then you are heading
down another path that is even more discriminatory...The Canadian
Charter of Rights is in conflict with our philosophy and culture.68
Mary Ellen Turpel (coincidentally the AFN’s chief constitutional adviser) has
offered a number of arguments against the application of Charter or individual
rights to Aboriginal governments. She points out that “it is difficult for a
culturally distinct people to define the trajectory of its own development if
individuals from within or outside the culture can challenge collective
decisions on the basis that they infringe their individual rights under the
Charter in the Canadian legal system that does not understand, or give priority
to, collective goals.”69 Turpel warns of the threat to the cultural identity of
communities pursuing their idiosyncratic political and spiritual traditions if
they are subject to either internal challenges by their own members, or external
challenges by non-Aboriginal individuals arguing that Aboriginal laws do not
conform to the Charter:
In the case of an external challenge, for example, on the basis of
voting or candidacy rights where a non-Aboriginal complainant
argued that they could not vote or stand for elections in an Aboriginal
community, a Canadian court would be given the authority to decide
an important part of the future for an Aboriginal people. It would have
to [weigh] the protections afforded Aboriginal rights by section 25 of
the Charter [against] the individual right to vote recognized in section
3. Should Canadian courts (and non-Aboriginal judges) have
authority in such cases? The critical question is, do they have cultural
authority?...
The...internal challenge is conceivable where a member of an
Aboriginal community who feels dissatisfied with a particular course
of action the Aboriginal government has taken, or envisages taking,
turns to the Charter for the recognition of a right. This is an equally, if
not more, worrisome prospect. This kind of challenge would be a
dangerous opening for a ruling by a Canadian court on individual
versus collective rights within an Aboriginal community. It
would...break down community methods of dispute resolution and
restoration....It would also have the effect of encouraging people to
go outside the community and its customs, to settle disputes in formal
courts, instead of dealing with problems within the community. This
is particularly threatening, perhaps even ethnocidal, to Aboriginal
peoples who are on the brink of cultural destruction because of the
legacy of colonialism and paternalism under the Indian Act.70
These sorts of concerns explain why Aboriginal organizations insisted that s. 3
should not be applied to Aboriginal governments. Further, in addition to
democratic rights, it is possible that the legal rights in Sections 7 to 14 of the
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Charter may pose similar problems for Aboriginal governments seeking to
follow Aboriginal justice traditions. Mobility and equality rights could
likewise make Aboriginal governments vulnerable to both internal and
external challenges. The solution in the Charlottetown Accord was to offer
Aboriginal governments access to Section 33, the override clause, so that they
could exempt certain of their laws from fundamental freedoms, legal and
equality rights.
The antagonism between individual and collective rights was not to be so
easily resolved, however. One of the keenest ironies of the recent process was
that, at the very moment when non-Aboriginal governments (and a large
proportion of the citizenry) were accepting for the first time the idea of
entrenching Aboriginal peoples’ collective rights to self-government, those
rights were being assailed by the individual rights claims of the Native
Women’s Association of Canada (NWAC). Essentially, NWAC’s challenge
was based on the claim that the male-dominated Aboriginal organizations and
Band Councils were not representing and would not in the future guarantee
gender equality for Aboriginal women under self-government regimes. Hence
they demanded: first, independent funding for and representation at any and all
constitutional negotiations regarding Aboriginal self-government; and
second, that the Charter be applied to Aboriginal governments so that
Aboriginal women would be shielded from the potentially discriminatory
effects of traditional forms of government. The latter concerns are examined
after a discussion of the question of representation and funding.
The Native Women’s Association’s demand for independent representation
and funding was to be the subject of two court cases. It must be noted, however,
that NWAC had been allowed to participate in its own right at the 1983 and
1985 First Ministers’ Conferences on Aboriginal Constitutional Matters. But
in the 1991-92 round of talks, it was not. However, members of NWAC
participated in the parallel processes of the national organizations. In fact,
Sharon McIvor, a member of NWAC’s national executive, was one of the
Commissioners of the AFN’s First Nations Circle on the Constitution. In
addition, each of the national organizations included women’s workshops in
their parallel processes.71 The AFN and NCC had each allocated $130,000 of
their grants from the Secretary of State to NWAC, money which had been
earmarked in the Contribution Agreements with the federal government. A
supplementary grant from Secretary of State brought NWAC’s funding to
about 5% of what the Agreements had provided to each of the four national
organizations, a total of some $10 million.72 Moreover, the NCC had
responded to NWAC’s lobbying by assigning some of its seats to NWAC
representatives in the constitutional conferences, particularly the Aboriginal
Conference of March 13-15, 1992.
NWAC’s main concerns about independent funding and representation were
not, however, satisfied by these arrangements. In the spring of 1992, NWAC
went to court to block federal grants to the four organizations. The Federal
Court of Appeal substantially upheld NWAC’s claims in a judgement issued
just a week before the Charlottetown Consensus Report was signed. NWAC
asked the court for an order prohibiting funding to the AFN, NCC, MNC and
ITC until the federal government provided equal funding to NWAC and an
equal right of participation in the constitutional review process. The NCC,
ITC, and MNC intervened in the case, challenging NWAC’s claim that it
represented Aboriginal women. The NCC denied that it was a male or maledominated organization, noting that the Presidents of its Alberta, Yukon and
244
Labrador constituents were women, and that it had been active in opposing
gender discrimination under the Indian Act. The MNC and ITC each denied
that NWAC represented Métis and Inuit women, the latter noting that Inuit
women are represented by Pauktuutit, a national organization whose President
is a member of the Board of Directors of ITC. In a unanimous decision,
however, three judges found that:
There is ample evidence that they individually [the Appellants, Gail
Stacey-Moore and Sharon McIvor] and native women as a class
remain doubly disadvantaged in Canadian society by reason of both
race and sex and disadvantaged in at least some Aboriginal societies
by reason of sex. The uncontradicted evidence is that they are also
seriously disadvantaged by reason of sex within the segment of
Aboriginal society residing on or claiming the right to reside on
Indian reservations....The evidence establishes that [NWAC] is a
grassroots organization founded and led by Aboriginal women, at
least Métis and non-status Indian women.... NWAC is a bona fide,
established and recognized national voice of and for Aboriginal
women.73
Significantly, the Court held that none of the other national organizations
adequately represented Aboriginal women’s interests. Moreover, although the
AFN did not intervene in the case, the Court found that First Nations women’s
interests were “likely to be injured if AFN’s position prevails”:
...AFN, and its forerunner the National Indian Brotherhood, has
vigorously and consistently resisted the struggle of native women to
rid themselves of the gender inequality historically entrenched in the
Indian Act and has intervened in Parliamentary and legal proceedings
to oppose those efforts. It opposed repeal of s.12(1)(b) of the Indian
Act... and it opposed proclamation of the amendment to the
,Constitution Act, 1982 which added s. 35(4) [guaranteeing
Aboriginal and treaty rights equally to male and female persons].”74
The court concluded that by inviting and funding the participation of the four
national organizations, but excluding NWAC, “the Canadian government has
accorded the advocates of male dominated Aboriginal self-governments a
preferred position in the exercise of an expressive activity, the freedom of
which is guaranteed to everyone by s. 2(b), and which is, by s. 28, guaranteed
equally to men and women.”75
The court did not prohibit the government from funding the other
organizations, holding that it could not compel the government either to fund
NWAC equally or to invite its representatives to the bargaining table.
Nonetheless, the finding that NWAC’s freedom of expression rights had been
infringed should have been enough to prompt an invitation to the last round of
negotiations in Charlottetown. However, no such invitation was forthcoming.
NWAC subsequently petitioned the Federal Court Trial Division for an
injunction prohibiting discussions between the governments and the four
national organizations on subjects dealt with in the Consensus Report until
NWAC was accorded the right to participate in the talks. NWAC also asked for
an injunction prohibiting the Referendum scheduled for October 26, 1992, on
the grounds that it was “based on a nullity” given the Appeal Court’s finding of
a violation of NWAC’s freedom of expression right in the earlier case.76 After
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the AFN intervened, the Federal Court delayed hearing the case in order to give
other groups time to prepare their arguments.77 Though the decision was
negative, in the end, events were to render the case moot as the Charlottetown
Accord succumbed to defeat at the polls.
Notwithstanding the play of events, however, the importance of such legal
interventions cannot be underestimated. The court challenges exemplify
precisely the sorts of concerns raised by Turpel and others that the overall
collective rights of Aboriginal peoples would be prostrated before nonAboriginal courts deferring to the individual rights discourse in which the
Charter rejoices. They represented a challenge to the representivity of the four
national organizations which in their various incarnations have been accepted
and funded by the federal government for more than twenty years. As such,
they question the federal government’s right to decide which groups are
representative of all of the various interests of Aboriginal peoples, as well as its
right to select those whose interests are to be given voice.
The question of voice is especially significant in light of the aftermath of the
Charlottetown Accord, when a number of First Nations (such as the Mohawks)
claimed that the AFN did not represent them and that the agreement reached by
the national organizations did not meet the aspirations of all Aboriginal
peoples. It is also significant in view of the controversy over the government’s
ability to decide who is and who is not an Indian for the purposes of the Indian
Act, a power which has historically robbed thousands of Aboriginal people
(mostly women) of their Aboriginal and treaty rights. This is a recurring theme
in Aboriginal political discourse, since artificial legal classifications have
determined access to rights and benefits. They have also created political
divisions between different categories of Aboriginal peoples who have as a
consequence different material and political interests. Hence, one of the major
demands in the constitutional discourse has been that membership be
determined by Aboriginal communities themselves, rather than by the federal
government with its vested interest in limiting the number of people who can
claim status and entitlements under the Indian Act. The question of equity of
access to Aboriginal and treaty rights for Métis and non-status Indians has
been a major concern for the MNC and the NCC.78 Hence, their inclusion in
the self-government provisions of the Charlottetown Accord represented a
major coup for those organizations. Unhappily, however, the issue of equal
access to Aboriginal self-government rights has been cited by some
Aboriginal leaders as one of the main explanations for the overwhelming
treaty and status Indian rejection of the Accord.79
As noted above, throughout the 1991-92 process, NWAC demanded that the
Charter be applied fully to Aboriginal governments. The concern was that
Aboriginal women’s rights could be breached under self-governing regimes if
they did not have access to a set of fundamental rights enforceable by an
external authority. The demand was based on the history of discrimination
against Aboriginal women by the Indian Act, as well as by the Band Councils it
spawned. NWAC cited Section 12(1)(b) of the Act which, until its repeal in
1985, had stripped Indian women and their children of their status and rights
upon marriage to non-Indian men; the provision that made women members of
their husbands’ bands if they differed from their own and which imposed
‘enfranchisement’ on them if their husbands became enfranchised; and the
1869 legislation which imposed the Band system with a European-style
electoral system which permitted only males to vote.80 These provisions
amounted to “the statutory banishment”81 of thousands of Aboriginal women
246
and their children from their cultures. Taken together, the provisions meant
forced assimilation in the dominant society.
Further, NWAC noted that when Jeanette Lavell challenged s. 12(1)(b) of the
Indian Act in 1971, thirteen Aboriginal organizations (including the NIB and
various provincial and territorial organizations) funded by the Departments of
Justice and Indian Affairs intervened to uphold the sexually discriminatory
section. Finally, when s. 15 of the Charter made the section untenable, the
male-dominated Aboriginal organizations had opposed the introduction of
Bill C-31, which abolished s. 12(1)(b). The Aboriginal organizations claimed
that their opposition was not motivated by sexism, but rather by the fact that
they were not provided with extra resources to meet the housing and other
material needs of those who would be reinstated. In addition, they feared an
influx of non-Aboriginal men married to Aboriginal women, who might
attempt to gain control of their communities through the Band Councils. These
arguments notwithstanding, by 1990, some 14,000 women and their 40,000
children had regained their status, but only two percent of them have been
allowed to return to their reserves.82 In view of this history, NWAC was not
prepared to trust that male-dominated organizations would safeguard gender
equality, especially if constitutional provisions exempted Aboriginal
governments from the Charter. Indeed, although NWAC supported the idea of
self-government, it was pointed out that:
Some Aboriginal women have said no to self-government. Some of
our women do not want more power, money and control in the hands
of men in our communities. It is asking a great deal to ask us as
women to have confidence in the men in power in our communities.
We do not want you to create Aboriginal governments with white
powers and white philosophies in our communities. We do not want
the western hierarchical power structure which you have given us.
We do not want Chieftain overlords created by the Indian Act.83
The Native Women’s Association directly challenged the collective rights
canonized by the Aboriginal organizations on the grounds that the individual
rights protected by the Charter are recognized as fundamental human rights in
the U.N.’s Universal Declaration. NWAC recognized that there was a clash
between the collective rights of sovereign Aboriginal governments and the
individual rights of women. Nevertheless, the Charter had to be applied to
them because patriarchal laws of colonial origin had stripped women of the
equality they had enjoyed in traditional societies, establishing “male privilege
as the norm on reserve lands.”84
The Native Women’s Association’s basic objections to the Charlottetown
package were four-fold. First, NWAC objected to the Accord’s provision that
Aboriginal governments were empowered to “safeguard and develop their
languages, cultures, economies, identities, institutions, and traditions,” on the
grounds that it was not clear who would determine the meaning of these
elements. The gender equality provision in s. 35(4) had not been strengthened
to ensure that it applied explicitly to s. 35(1), so there was potentially no
protection against “discriminatory cultural practices emanating from the
current patriarchal Indian Act governments.”85 Secondly, the Accord
proposed to change the wording of democratic rights in Sections 3-5 of the
Charter to exempt Aboriginal governments. Although this provision was
ostensibly included in order to prevent non-Aboriginal people from claiming
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the right to vote in Aboriginal elections, there was no provision that such
governments would have to hold elections at all. Hence, NWAC argued that
“Aboriginal citizens will have no democratic rights within Aboriginal
communities under self-government.”86 This might have meant, for example,
that Aboriginal governments could restrict the franchise and the rights to run
for and hold public office to males only.
Thirdly, NWAC opposed the extension of s. 33, the override clause, to
Aboriginal governments. This would have meant that those governments
could suspend fundamental freedoms (such as freedom of assembly, belief,
expression, the press, religion and association), legal rights (such as “life,
liberty, and security of the person,” and protection against “unreasonable
search and seizure” and arbitrary detention and imprisonment), as well as s. 15
equality rights. Aboriginal governments’ ability to restrict mobility rights was
especially worrying in view of the problem of the Bill C-31 reinstatees, the
majority of whom have not been allowed to return to their reserves. In
NWAC’s view, these provisions would have put “awesome power...in the
hands of Aboriginal patriarchs.”87 Fourthly, NWAC was concerned that
Aboriginal women would be forbidden to use the courts in the event of sex
discrimination by Aboriginal governments. Hence, NWAC demanded not
only that the Charter apply (and that s. 33 not be extended to Aboriginal
governments), but that an unequivocal gender equality clause be included
which was not vulnerable to suspension or subordination to any conflicting
collective rights.
By and large, the national organizations took the position that gender equality
rights would be guaranteed by Sections 15, 28, and 35(4) of the Charter. This
position seemed to ignore the fact that s. 15 is subject to the override. In
addition, there is much uncertainty as to whether s. 35(4) of the Constitution
Act, 1982 only guarantees general Aboriginal and treaty rights equally to male
and female persons, or whether it would actually apply to the actions taken by
Aboriginal governments once instituted under negotiated agreements.
Basically, the NCC took the position that “governments other than our own
can never be trusted to end discrimination,” and that:
...the Charter must not be used to suppress our collective titles and
jurisdictions by imposing non-Aboriginal concepts of property and
civil rights on us that could extinguish our status as founding peoples
and nations...On the one hand, we must protect and promote the
suppressed rights of women...and others who have suffered so much
under colonial rule and the Indian Act. On the other hand, we must
never allow European ideas about culture...to suppress the reemergence of our traditional laws and governing systems.88
The NCC recommended that, instead of applying the Charter, the national
Aboriginal organizations “should examine the idea of a manifesto of
Aboriginal rights which would address the problem of how people would
participate in their nation.”89 This proposal brought little comfort to those
concerned about potential incursions on the individual civil rights of
Aboriginal people under First Nations governments dominated by men. In
fact, only the ITC was willing to have the Charter apply, and recommended
including in the package an explicit “restriction on all governments—federal,
provincial, and Aboriginal—preventing them from passing laws or creating or
248
recognizing rights in such a way that discriminates between men and
women.”90
It was AFN’s position, however, which caused the most concern to NWAC.
The AFN had included a Women’s Assembly in its parallel process, and had
received many submissions from women. However, in their report, the AFN
Commissioners departed from their practice of recording submissions without
evaluating them, and commented on the role of the Charter. They noted the
women’s argument that the Charter had been instrumental in forcing the repeal
of s. 12(1)(b) and was thus required under self-government so that women who
are discriminated against would have legal recourse against their oppressors.
They then argued against this position, and their comments are worth quoting
at length:
If we may step outside the circle for a moment and present our own
opinions, the Charter is a well-intentioned document. And there is
absolutely no doubt that women have suffered from appalling
treatment, in the past at the hands of the federal government, in the
present as victims of rapes, domestic violence and discrimination.
But the Charter is no answer to women’s problems, for three reasons.
First, [it is true that] a woman can go to court to force her council to
award her membership, a house on reserve, and similar rights. But the
Charter cannot protect a woman from violence; it cannot force her
leaders to listen to her problems or help her; it cannot get her a job.
The problems that the Charter is designed to overcome are not, on the
whole, the day-to-day problems that Aboriginal women confront. Job
discrimination and pay inequity are low priority when there are no
jobs at all.
Second, traditional Aboriginal society has no need of feminism, for
the simple reason that women held the real power in
it....Grandmother makes the rules; Grandfather enforces them. If
traditional values are re-established, Aboriginal women will have
more power, more status, more respect than their feminist white
sisters—who, since the passage of Bill C-31, have shown little
interest in Aboriginal women’s problems. But the Charter could
easily stand in the way of, or even prevent, the re-establishment of
traditional values. Fundamentally, Eurocanadian culture values
individualism; Aboriginal culture values the collective. Certainly
individual rights must be protected, and past injustice must be ended.
But if the right of the individual conflicts with the right of the group,
our tradition is clear. The Charter is not an Aboriginal document.
Third, applying the Charter means, in effect, that women would be
asking the Canadian government to look after their interests,
probably through litigation....Not only is litigation a non-Aboriginal
way of solving disputes, but Canadian courts may or may not give
these women what they want. In any event, real membership in the
community cannot be litigated; it can only be earned, and insisting on
“my rights” is neither an Aboriginal custom nor a good way of
winning a welcome from the community.91
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IJCS/RIÉC
In view of this statement, it is not difficult to see why NWAC took little
comfort from the AFN’s position. Certainly, the Charter is not designed to
deal with the problems of inadequate resources and inter-personal violence to
which the Commissioners refer. However, it is designed to deal with equity of
access and non-discrimination on the basis of gender in the provision of
services. Secondly, it is not at all clear that Aboriginal women would have
more power, status and respect than “their feminist white sisters” under
traditional governments. The problem here is what is to be defined as
“traditional”? Are “traditional values” those prevalent in Aboriginal societies
prior to contact with Europeans? If so, it must be noted that not all pre-contact
Aboriginal societies were matriarchal or matrilineal. Furthermore, equality in
most of those societies meant “equal but different.”92 In other words, women
and men had different socially constructed roles and responsibilities, and these
did not cover the range of possibilities in modern life. This could mean that
Aboriginal women’s right to engage in certain occupations would be
prescribed by “traditional” roles. Moreover, several hundred years of
European occupation has resulted in cultural cross-fertilization, so that the
patriarchy imported into Aboriginal communities by church and state over the
centuries since contact may now be considered “traditional” and hence
impregnable to gender equality claims.
The Commissioners’ unequivocal statement that, in the event of a conflict
between individual and collective rights, the latter are to prevail means that, in
effect, Aboriginal women are to have fewer rights of Canadian citizenship than
their non-Aboriginal counterparts. Instead, Aboriginal women’s rights are to
be defined by their membership in enclave ethnic governments. Here,
litigation is not to be an available option. Therefore, once a collective decision
is taken, the individual is to have no recourse to external authorities even if the
decision violates civil rights.
The Commissioners’ answer to the problem of balancing individual and
collective rights was “to return to our tradition of respect for women, to heal
the sources of the violence, and to educate the men who have adopted white
attitudes towards women.”93 However, this will be neither an easy nor a swift
process, and in the meantime, gender equality (and other civil and political)
rights are subject to suspension under Aboriginal governments.
As a result of NWAC’s publicity campaign, the court challenges, and the
support of groups such as the National Action Committee on the Status of
Women, the final legal text of the Charlottetown Accord was amended to
include the kind of guarantee that NWAC had been demanding. Section 35.7
(replacing the old s. 35[4]) provided that “Notwithstanding any other
provision of this Act, the rights of the Aboriginal peoples of Canada referred to
in this part are guaranteed equally to male and female persons.” Although it
still did not specify that gender equality would apply to the legislative actions
of Aboriginal governments, many of the provincial native women’s
organizations began to formally endorse the Accord after the legal text was
released. Thus, s. 35.7 represented a partial victory for NWAC, without whose
efforts it would not have been included.
Although the Charlottetown Accord is now an historical artifact, it is possible
that constitutional amendments to recognize the inherent right to selfgovernment will proceed separately. In this event, the problems of individual
versus collective rights, and particularly gender equality, will resurface.
Meanwhile, the tension between collective rights to self-government
250
according to Aboriginal customs and values and individual rights to equal
treatment in modern society has yet to be resolved in Aboriginal political
discourse.
Conclusion
The foregoing discussion has demonstrated that Aboriginal constitutional
discourse has made substantial strides over the past decade. Although all the
elements of the discourse examined in this paper were present in the early
1980s, they only came to fruition in the constitutional reform process which
culminated in the Charlottetown Accord. This was produced by the combined
factors of Aboriginal peoples’ increased political influence following their
pivotal role in derailing the Meech Lake Accord in 1990 and escalating
militancy in the slip-stream of the Oka crisis. It was also a result of broader
forces in Canadian society (and internationally) which together have induced
an expansion of rights conceptions to legitimize notions of collective rights.
The renewed Aboriginal constitutional discourse has had a number of farreaching effects. First, even though the Charlottetown Accord floundered,
Aboriginal organizations’ participation in all facets of the negotiations has
changed Canadian constitutional discourse irreversibly. Political elites and a
large proportion of the citizenry have been willing to acknowledge an inherent
right to self-government. This is tantamount to an acceptance of Aboriginal
sovereignty claims (albeit within the federation). Secondly, the “two nations”
doctrine has been dealt a mortal wound. We can no longer conceive of Canada
as consisting of two founding nations and cultures. This is bad news for
Quebec, which has banked on the two nations idea as the basis of its claims for
distinct society status. Nor can Aboriginal interests be excluded from future
attempts at constitutional reform. Aboriginal organizations are almost
guaranteed representation at future talks. They cannot now be ignored with
impunity.
Thirdly, Aboriginal peoples have succeeded in legitimating their claims to
collective rights as between themselves and other governments, though they
have not yet resolved the problem of balancing them against individual rights
within Aboriginal communities. The challenge posed by the Native Women’s
Association exposed a serious weakness in the discourse. Although it is
impossible to estimate how many of the 56% of Canadians who voted against
the package were swayed by NWAC’s and NAC’s arguments on gender
equality, they doubtless had some impact. By flagging these issues in public,
NWAC may well have contributed to the Accord’s downfall. Hence,
considerable refinement of the discourse is required if the issues of gender
equality and Charter rights are not to derail future constitutional deals.
Nevertheless, the ante has been upped so that the inherent collective right and
the other provisions of the Charlottetown Accord will become the minimal
demands made in the next round of bargaining.
It must be noted that there was dissent among Aboriginal peoples over the
terms of the Charlottetown Accord, particularly within the AFN’s ranks.
Treaty groups were concerned about the potential effects on treaty rights,
while non-treaty groups were anxious about the “no new land” provision. In
the end, on the advice of the Mohawks, Elijah Harper, and others who felt that
Aboriginal people had not been given enough time to study the proposals,
many Aboriginal people boycotted the referendum. But the most serious
source of dissent were sovereigntist groups such as the Mohawks, who argued
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that they did not need their rights recognized in the constitution of another
country.94 We can expect to see this sort of position adopted by many other
groups in the coming years if increased militancy is the by-product of
Charlottetown’s ruin.
Now that the Charlottetown Accord is dead, Aboriginal leaders such as Ron
George and Ovide Mercredi have warned of the possibility of more Okas, more
direct action, and more activity at the international level. The point will be to
gain recognition by the international community of rights Aboriginal people
have not been able to convert into constitutional trumps at home. Hence we can
probably expect more assertions of sovereignty in the international sense by
Canadian Aboriginal groups.
Since the referendum, and in response to Aboriginal leaders’ profound
disappointment, various non-Aboriginal leaders have suggested that the selfgovernment agenda can proceed separately. However, this is unlikely to
happen in the immediate future for three reasons: first, many Aboriginal
people have taken the fall of the Accord as yet another rejection of Aboriginal
people’s legitimate aspirations; second, only a constitutional amendment on
the inherent right will do, but it is doubtful whether Quebec will agree to
constitutional reform for Aboriginal peoples when its own agenda has also
been rejected again; and third, even if all the provinces were willing to agree to
substantially the same package, it is not clear that any major constitutional
reform can now be legitimated without the stamp of public approval. If a
referendum solely on Aboriginal rights had to be held, the risk would be that
the Canadian public would say “no.” In that event, there could be no doubt that
voters were rejecting the Aboriginal package, unbuckled as it would be from
the many other issues in the Charlottetown Accord which could have
explained its undoing.
In conclusion, therefore, although it seems that Aboriginal constitutional
discourse has established a new floor of minimal requirements for
constitutional reform, the possibilities of constitutional change will depend on
many factors. These include the outcome of the next federal election and the
swerve of events in Quebec. Given the shifting sands of constitutional
discourse in the aftermath of the Charlottetown Accord, the prospects for the
near future look less than promising. However, it is to be hoped that the
Aboriginal peoples of the northern part of North America at least will be
governing themselves well before the six hundredth anniversary of Columbus’
arrival. Mercifully, even in Canada, the pace of change is not that slow.
Notes
*
1.
2.
252
I would like to thank Daiva Stasiulis and Sharon Sutherland for their thoughtful
commentaries on an earlier draft of this paper. Thanks are also due to the anonymous
reviewers and the Editorial Board of this journal.
Unfortunately, no figures are available for the Métis and non-status population, since
Elections Canada was only able to collect specific data from reserve-based polling units.
In this paper, the term “Aboriginal peoples” refers to the Indian, Inuit and Métis peoples of
Canada. In current usage, the term “First Nations” denotes the 633 Aboriginal societies
whose members are defined as “Indians” under the Indian Act. Some 311,000 status Indians
reside on reserves and are politically represented at the national level by the Assembly of
First Nations. Some 36,000 Inuit are represented by the Inuit Tapirisat of Canada, while the
Native Council of Canada claims to represent the interests of approximately 750,000 nonstatus Indians and Métis (those who are not registered under the Indian Act and do not qualify
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
20.
21.
22.
23.
for its benefits). The Métis National Council represents the Métis of the Prairie provinces,
who number around 5,000.
For an Aboriginal response to the “termination” policy, see H. Cardinal, The Unjust Society:
the Tragedy of Canada’s Indians (M.G. Hurtig, Edmonton, 1969). For an analysis of the
policy and its rationales, see S. Weaver, Making Canadian Indian Policy: the Hidden
Agenda, 1968-70 (University of Toronto Press, Toronto, 1981).
R. Gibbins, “Canadian Indian Policy: the Constitutional Trap,” Canadian Journal of Native
Studies, Vol. IV, No. 1, 1984, p. 4.
For example, a national Angus Reid poll of 1670 Canadian adults conducted between May
26 and June 3, 1992, found “an evident reservoir of public goodwill...towards Aboriginal
peoples.” See Canadians and Aboriginal Peoples 1992: A Syndicated National Public
Opinion Research Study (Angus Reid Group, 1992) p .9. Sixty percent of Canadians polled
adhered to the view, either that “Aboriginal peoples in Canada have a ‘historic, existing,
inherent right to self-government,’ or that ‘the federal and provincial governments should
allow Aboriginal peoples to govern themselves’ (p. 15). Moreover, the study concluded that
“residents of Canada are fully twice as likely to support than oppose the entrenchment of
Aboriginal self-government in the Canadian constitution [65% to 31%]” (p. 16).
Shaping Canada’s Future Together: Proposals, (Ottawa, Supply and Services Canada,
1991).
Report of the Special Joint Committee on a Renewed Canada, (Queen’s Printer for Canada,
Ottawa, February 28, 1992).
“The Charlottetown Accord”, Draft Legal Text, October 9, 1992, p. 37.
Ibid., p. 1.
Ibid., pp. 37-38.
For an analysis of the Aboriginal self-government provisions of the Charlottetown Accord,
see R. Jhappan, “Aboriginal Self-Government,” in Canadian Forum, Vol. LXXI, No. 813,
October 1992, pp. 15-16.
See J.R. Ponting, “Public Opinion on Aboriginal Peoples’ Issues in Canada,” Canadian
Social Trends, No.11, Winter 1988, p. 9. Ponting’s data suggested that a core of 30% of adult
non-native Canadians was supportive of special constitutional rights for Aboriginal peoples,
though Canadians in general did not know or care much about natives and native issues.
Canada, Indian Self-Government in Canada: Report of the Special Committee on Indian
Self-Government, (the Penner Report), (Queen’s Printer, Ottawa, 1983), p. 44.
Frances Abele, “Oddly Incongruent Cases: The Constitutional Prospects of First Nations
and Quebec,” (paper presented to the Annual Meeting of the Political Science Association,
Charlottetown, May 31, 1992), p. 7.
To the Source: First Nations Circle on the Constitution, Commissioners’ Report, (Assembly
of First Nations, Ottawa, 1992), p. 74.
Sparrow v. the Queen, SCC 20311, May 31st, 1990, at p. 3.
Ibid., at p. 4.
Ibid.
Paul Chartrand, “The Claims of the Aboriginal Peoples in Canada: A Challenge to the Idea of
Two Founding Nations,” (paper presented to a Conference on Federalism and the Nation
State, Centre for International Studies, University of Toronto, June 5, 1992), p. 2.
Menno Boldt, “Indian Leaders in Canada: Attitudes Towards Equality, Identity, and
Political Status,” (Ph.D thesis, Yale University, New Haven, 1973), p. 10.
Dene Declaration, reprinted in full in Mel Watkins, The Dene Nation: the Colony Within,
(University of Toronto Press, Toronto, 1977), pp. 3-4.
The Royal Proclamation of 1763 was Canada’s first constitutional document. It was
primarily designed to lay down a policy for treating with Indians, and declared that Indian
lands could only be alienated to the Crown under specified conditions. It also reserved
unceded territories to the exclusive use of the Indians.
Fred Plain of the Nishnawbe-Aski Nation outlined the claim to nationhood in international
terms: “The criteria for recognition as a nation are as follows: that the people have a
permanent population...a defined territory...a government...[and] the ability to enter into
relations with other states. We can assure Canada and the international community that...we
can define ourselves as a nation....The Royal Proclamation of 1763 refers to our sovereignty;
and the government of Canada approached us as a nation to enter into treaty with them.” See
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IJCS/RIÉC
24.
25.
26.
27.
28.
29.
30.
31.
32.
33.
34.
35.
36.
37.
38.
39.
40.
41.
42.
43.
44.
45.
46.
47.
48.
49.
50.
51.
254
Fred Plain, “A Treatise on the Rights of the Aboriginal Peoples of the Continent of North
America,” in M. Boldt and J.A. Long, The Quest for Justice, (University of Toronto Press,
Toronto, 1985), p. 31.
Chartrand, op. cit., p. 21.
John E. Moss, “Native Proposals for Constitutional Reform”, Journal of Canadian Studies,
Vol. 15, No. 4, Winter 1980-81, pp. 86-87.
Ibid., pp. 87-88.
Ibid., p. 87.
To the Source: The First Nations Circle on the Constitution, Commissioners Report, op. cit.,
pp. 13-15.
Constitutional Position Paper—Inuit in Canada: Striving for Equality, (Inuit Tapirisat of
Canada, Ottawa, February 6, 1992), p. 6.
In 1959, the Six Nations reserve near Brantford, Ontario, “ceded” from Canada and sent a
Declaration of Independence to the Queen, the Prime Minister, the President of the United
States and the United Nations. In 1969, the Six Nations responded to the White Paper, which
proposed to terminate the Indian Act and special status for Indians, by declaring the reserve a
sovereign state.
First Ministers Conference on Aboriginal Matters, March 8-9, 1984, unofficial verbatim
transcript, pp. 256-257.
Chartrand, op. cit., pp. 36-37.
Andre Picard, “Mercredi warns of native independence,” Globe and Mail, October 22, 1991,
p. A2.
To the Source: The First Nations Circle on the Constitution, Commissioners Report, op. cit.,
pp. 15-16.
Constitutional Position Paper—Inuit in Canada: Striving for Equality, op. cit., p. 3.
The First Peoples Constitutional Congress: Parallel Process on the Constitution Report,
0(Native Council of Canada, Ottawa, June 1992), p. 33.
Assembly of First Nations, Native Council of Canada, Metis National Council, Inuit
Committee on National Issues, “Joint Aboriginal Proposal for Self-Government,” First
Ministers’ Conferences on Aboriginal Constitutional Matters, Ottawa, March 27, 1987,
CICS Document 800-23/030.
Quoted in Rudy Platiel, “Inherent sovereignty, unity process linked”, Globe and Mail,
October 22, 1991, p. A7.
Ibid.
Aboriginal peoples’ international lobbying efforts at the United Nations, the European
Community, the Organization of American States and other bodies are analyzed in R.
Jhappan, “A Global Community?: Supranational Strategies of Canada’s Aboriginal
Peoples,” Journal of Indigenous Studies, Spring 1993, forthcoming.
The Constitutional Chronicles: First Peoples Constitutional Congress, March 27-30, 1992,
(Native Council of Canada, Ottawa, 1992), p. 4.
Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples, The Right of Aboriginal Self-Government and
the Constitution: A Commentary, (February 13, 1992), p. 23.
See Rudy Platiel, “Native rights inherent, panel says,” Globe and Mail, February 14, 1992, p.
A5.
Report of the Special Joint Committee on a Renewed Canada, (Supply and Services Canada,
Ottawa, February 28, 1992), p. 29.
Chartrand, op. cit., p. 33.
Statement by the NIB, quoted in The Task Force on Canadian Unity, A Time to Speak: the
Views of the Public, (Ottawa, Supply and Services, 1979), p. 30.
Inuit in Canada: Striving for Equality, (Constitutional Position Paper, Inuit Tapirisat of
Canada, Ottawa, February 6, 1992), p. 3.
Russell Roundpoint of Akwesasne, quoted in To the Source: First Nations Circle on the
Constitution, Commissioners’ Report, (Assembly of First Nations, Ottawa, 1992), p. 27.
Backgrounder: Executive Task Force on the Constitution of Canada, (Native Council of
Canada, January 28, 1992), p. 5.
To the Source: First Nations Circle on the Constitution, op. cit., p. 74.
Ibid., p.4.
52.
53.
54.
55.
56.
57.
58.
59.
60.
61.
62.
63.
64.
65.
66.
67.
68.
69.
70.
71.
72.
73.
74.
75.
76.
77.
78.
79.
Paul Chartrand, “The Claims of the Aboriginal Peoples in Canada: A Challenge to the Idea of
Two Founding Nations,” (paper presented to a Conference on “Federalism and the Nation
State,” Centre for International Studies, University of Toronto, June 5, 1992), p. 24.
For example, Moss cites ITC and NCC claims that they are not just elements of Canada’s
ethnic minorities, but rather are “distinct national groups.” See John E. Moss, “Native
Proposals for Constitutional Reform,” Journal of Canadian Studies, Vol. 15, No. 4, Winter
1980-81, p. 86.
Jack Aubry, “Mercredi shows consistency in distinct society campaign,” Ottawa Citizen,
February 13, 1992, p. A3.
To the Source: First Nations Circle on the Constitution, op. cit., pp. 37-38.
Quoted in Susan Delacourt, “Natives want own distinct society,” Globe and Mail, February
11, 1992, p. A6.
Inuit in Canada: Striving for Equality, op. cit., pp. 6-7.
The First Peoples Constitutional Congress: Parallel Process on the Constitution Report,
(Native Council of Canada, Ottawa, June 1992), p. 18.
Backgrounder: Executive Task Force on the Constitution of Canada, op. cit., p. 5.
See Roy MacGregor, “Natives demand meeting: First Nations Chief takes off gloves at
Toronto conference,” Ottawa Citizen, February 10, 1992, pp. A1-A2.
Quoted in Rheal Seguin, “Quebec right to self-rule disputed by Mercredi”, The Globe and
Mail, February 12, 1992, p. A4.
Ibid.
See Joan Bryden, “Quebec urged back to table”, The Ottawa Citizen, March 16, 1992, p.A 1.
Mary Ellen Turpel, “Aboriginal Peoples and the Canadian Charter: Interpretive Monopolies,
Cultural Differences,” in R. Devlin, Ed., Canadian Perspectives on Legal Theory, (Emond
Montgomery Publications, Toronto, 1991), p. 507
Ibid., pp. 517-520, passim.
Canada, Department of Indian Affairs and Northern Development, Statement of the
Government of Canada on Indian Policy, 1969, (Queen’s Printer, Ottawa, 1969), p. 5.
See, for example, Andrews v. Law Society of British Columbia, [1989] 1 SCR 143.
Quoted in Turpel, op. cit., p. 524.
Ibid.
Ibid., pp. 524-525.
There is some dispute about this. Gail Stacey-Moore of NWAC claimed that the AFN had
decided to set aside $228,000 for a women’s conference as part of the parallel process, but
that the money was never received and the conference never held. See NWAC v. the Queen,
op. cit., Exhibit F, Affidavit of Gail Stacey-Moore, September 16, 1992, at p. 22.
NWAC v. the Queen , Federal Court of Appeal, Reasons for Judgement, August 20, 1992, at
p. 4.
Ibid., at p. 2.
Ibid., at p. 9.
Ibid., at p. 15.
IN RE the Referendum Act: NWAC v. the Queen, the Right Honourable Brian Mulroney and
the Right Honourable Joe Clark, Statement of Claim, Federal Court of Canada, September
15, 1992, at pp. 9-10.
“Judge delays attempt by native women to halt referendum,” Globe and Mail, September 23,
1992, p. A8.
For discussions of the consequences of what Chartrand has called “outside-naming,” see To
the Source: First Nations Circle on the Constitution, op. cit., pp. 21, 35, 36, and 52; and
various NCC documents, including Parallel Process on the Constitution Report, (NCC,
Ottawa, June 1992), pp. 25-28; Backgrounder: Executive Task Force on the Constitution of
Canada, op. cit., pp. 17-18; Ron George, Becoming Visible: Urban Self-Government in the
1990’s, (NCC, Ottawa, July 1992); and Jill Wherrett and Douglas Brown, Self-Government
for Aboriginal Peoples Living in Urban Areas: A Discussion Paper Prepared for the Native
Council of Canada, (Institute of Intergovernmental Relations, Queen’s University,
Kingston, April 1992).
Ron George, interviewed in Ottawa, February 10, 1993. Treaty Indians and band council
leaders were apparently concerned about a further influx of non-status Indians to the reserves
if the latter were granted equal access.
255
IJCS/RIÉC
80.
81.
82.
83.
84.
85.
86.
87.
88.
89.
90.
91.
92.
93.
94.
NWAC v. the Queen, op. cit., Exhibit F, Affidavit of Gail Stacey-Moore, September 16,
1992, at p. 6. Kathleen Jamieson traces the development of gender-biased legislation and
Aboriginal women’s struggle against it in “Sex Discrimination and the Indian Act,” in J.R.
Ponting, Ed., Arduous Journey: Canadian Indians and Decolonization, (McClelland and
Stewart, Toronto, 1986), pp.112-136.
This term was used by Justice Laskin in a dissenting opinion in Lavell v. A.G. Canada,
[1974] S.C.R. 1349, at p. 1386.
“Memorandum to Premiers, Government Leaders of NWT and Yukon Re Gender Equality,”
(NWAC, Ottawa, September 14, 1992), p. 2.
“Statement on the Canada Package,” (NWAC, Ottawa, 1991), pp. 7-8.
Ibid., pp. 10-11.
Teressa Nahanee, “Native Women and the Charlottetown Package: Plain Language
Version,” (prepared for the NWAC Board Meeting, Ottawa, Sept. 12-13, 1992), p. 2.
Ibid., p. 4.
“Statement on the Canada Package,” op. cit., p. 12.
The Constitutional Chronicles, op. cit. p. 5.
Parallel Process on the Constitution Report, op. cit., p. 41.
Discussion Paper on the Constitution, Draft # 2, (ITC, Ottawa, May 6, 1992), p. 5.
To the Source: First Nations Circle on the Constitution, op. cit., pp. 62-63.
Ibid., p. 59.
Ibid., p. 64.
Rheal Seguin, “Quebec chiefs suspicious of accord,” Globe and Mail, September 26, 1992,
p. A5.
Bibliography
Abele, Frances. “Oddly Incongruent Cases: The Constitutional Prospects of First Nations and
Quebec.” Paper presented to the Annual Meeting of the Political Science Association,
Charlottetown, May 31, 1992.
Angus Reid Group. Canadians and Aboriginal Peoples 1992: A Syndicated National Public
Opinion Research Study. Vancouver: 1992.
Assembly of First Nations. To the Source: First Nations Circle on the Constitution,
Commissioners’ Report. Ottawa: 1992.
_____Native Council of Canada, Metis National Council, Inuit Committee on National Issues.
“Joint Aboriginal Proposal for Self-Government.” Ottawa: First Ministers’ Conferences on
Aboriginal Constitutional Matters, March 27, 1987, CICS Document 800-23/030.
Boldt, Menno. “Indian Leaders in Canada: Attitudes Towards Equality, Identity, and Political
Status.” Ph.D thesis. New Haven: Yale University, 1973.
Canada. The Charlottetown Accord: Draft Legal Text. Ottawa: October 9, 1992.
_____Shaping Canada’s Future Together: Proposals. Ottawa: Supply and Services Canada,
1991.
_____Report of the Special Joint Committee on a Renewed Canada. Ottawa: Queen’s Printer,
February 28, 1992.
_____First Ministers Conference on Aboriginal Matters: unofficial verbatim transcript. Ottawa:
Queen’s Printer, March 8-9, 1984.
_____Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples, The Right of Aboriginal Self-Government and
the Constitution: A Commentary. Ottawa: February 13, 1992.
_____Report of the Special Joint Committee on a Renewed Canada. Ottawa: Supply and Services
Canada, February 28, 1992.
_____Indian Self-Government in Canada: Report of the Special Committee on Indian SelfGovernment, (the Penner Report). Ottawa: Queen’s Printer, 1983.
_____The Task Force on Canadian Unity, A Time to Speak: the Views of the Public. Ottawa:
Supply and Services, 1979.
_____Statement of the Government of Canada on Indian Policy, 1969. Ottawa: Queen’s
Printer,1969.
Cardinal, Harold. The Unjust Society: the Tragedy of Canada’s Indians. Edmonton: M.G.
Hurtig,1969.
Chartrand, Paul. “The Claims of the Aboriginal Peoples in Canada: A Challenge to the Idea of Two
Founding Nations.” Paper presented to a Conference on Federalism and the Nation State,
Centre for International Studies, University of Toronto, June 5, 1992.
Gibbins, Roger. “Canadian Indian Policy: the Constitutional Trap.” Canadian Journal of Native
Studies IV, 1, 1984:1-9.
256
Inuit Tapirisat of Canada. Constitutional Position Paper—Inuit in Canada:
Striving for Equality. Ottawa: February 6, 1992.
Discussion Paper on the Constitution, Draft # 2. Ottawa: May 6, 1992.
Jamieson, Kathleen. “Sex Discrimination and the Indian Act.” In Arduous Journey: Canadian
Indians and Decolonization, pp. 112-136. Edited by J.R. Ponting. Toronto: McClelland and
Stewart, 1986.
Jhappan, R. “A Global Community?: Supranational Strategies of Canada’s Aboriginal Peoples.”
Journal of Indigenous Studies. April 1993, forthcoming.
“Aboriginal Self-Government.” Canadian Forum, LXXI, 813, October 1992, pp. 15-16.
Moss, John E. “Native Proposals for Constitutional Reform.” Journal ofCanadian Studies. 15, 4,
Winter 1980-81: 85-92.
Native Council of Canada. Backgrounder: Executive Task Force on the Constitution of Canada.
Ottawa: January 28, 1992.
_____Becoming Visible: Urban Self-Government in the 1990’s. By Ron George. Ottawa: July
1992.
_____The Constitutional Chronicles: First Peoples Constitutional Congress, March 27-30, 1992.
Ottawa: 1992.
_____The First Peoples Constitutional Congress: Parallel Process on the Constitution Report.
Ottawa: June 1992.
Native Women’s Association of Canada. “Memorandum to Premiers, Government Leaders of
NWT and Yukon Re Gender Equality.” Ottawa: September 14, 1992.
_____“Native Women and the Charlottetown Package: Plain Language Version.” Prepared by
Teressa Nahanee for the NWAC Board Meeting, Ottawa, Sept. 12-13, 1992.
_____“Statement on the Canada Package”. Ottawa: 1991.
Plain, Fred. “A Treatise on the Rights of the Aboriginal Peoples of the Continent of North
America.” In The Quest for Justice, pp. 31-40. Edited by M. Boldt and J.A. Long. Toronto:
University of Toronto Press, 1985.
Ponting, J.R. “Public Opinion on Aboriginal Peoples’ Issues in Canada.” Canadian Social Trends.
11, Winter 1988: 9-17.
Turpel, Mary Ellen. “Aboriginal Peoples and the Canadian Charter: Interpretive Monopolies,
Cultural Differences.” In Canadian Perspectives on Legal Theory, pp. 503-538. Edited by
R. Devlin. Toronto: Emond Montgomery Publications, 1991.
Watkins, Mel. The Dene Nation: the Colony Within. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1977.
Weaver, Sally. Making Canadian Indian Policy: the Hidden Agenda, 1968-70. Toronto:
University of Toronto Press,1981.
Wherrett, Jill, and Brown, Douglas. “Self-Government for Aboriginal Peoples Living in Urban
Areas: A Discussion Paper Prepared for the Native Council of Canada.” Kingston: Institute
of Intergovernmental Relations, Queen’s University, April 1992.
Legal Cases Cited
Andrews v. Law Society of British Columbia, [1989] 1 SCR 143.
IN RE the Referendum Act: NWAC v. the Queen, the Right Honourable Brian Mulroney and the
Right Honourable Joe Clark, Statement of Claim, Federal Court of Canada, September 15,
1992.
Lavell v. A.G. Canada , [1974] S.C.R. 1349
NWAC v. the Queen , Federal Court of Appeal, Reasons for Judgement, August 20, 1992.
Sparrow v. the Queen, SCC 20311, May 31st, 1990.
257
Jill Vickers
The Canadian Women’s Movement And a
Changing Constitutional Order1
Abstract
In this paper, I examine a decade of women’s constitutional activism focusing
on debates about the Charter, the Boyer Committee on Equality Rights, and
the Meech Lake and Charlottetown Accords. I provide a typology of a
women’s movement composed of two majoritarian elements (EnglishCanadian and Quebec francophone) and a number of minority elements,
including francophone women outside of Quebec, First Nations women, racial
minority women and others, such as lesbians and women with disabilities, who
sought to present distinct constitutional views. The paper explores the
constitutional concerns Canadian women had in common and the different
and sometimes conflicting concerns they had because of their
majority/minority cultural locations. In general, I offer tools of gender
analysis to help observers understand women’s new and often disruptive and
surprising entrance into Canadian constitutional politics as women.
Résumé
Axé sur les délibérations concernant la Charte, le Comité Boyer sur l’égalité,
l’Accord du lac Meech et l’Accord de Charlottetown, cet article examine les
dix dernières années de militantisme effectué par les femmes eu égard à la
Constitution canadienne. Il fournit également une typologie du mouvement
des femmes : deux éléments majoritaires (les Canadiennes anglaises et les
Québécoises francophones) et quelques éléments minoritaires (les
Francophones hors Québec, les femmes des Premières nations, les femmes
provenant des minorités ethniques, les lesbiennes et les handicapées).Les
membres de ces éléments ont essayé de présenter une vision de la Constitution
qui leur étaient propres. L’auteure explore les questions constitutionnelles
qu’ont en commun les Canadiennes ainsi que les questions divergentes voire
contradictoires dues à leur emplacement culturel de majoritaires/
minoritaires.Cet article servira d’outil à une analyse féministe et aidera le
lecteur ou la lectrice à comprendre l’entrée nouvelle, surprenante et, parfois,
perturbatrice des femmes en tant que femmes dans la politique
constitutionnelle canadienne.
In 1993, the Canadian women’s movement marks a century of continuous
organization. Yet it is only in the past decade that Canadian women, acting
through more than 3,000 groups organized to advance women’s status and
condition, have engaged in constitutional politics. Initially, many women,
especially in English Canada, approached constitutional politics with
reluctance. That reluctance overcome, women have created a collective
presence in the constitutional arena, acknowledged by the (mostly male)
IJCS / RIÉC
politicians, academics and media gurus who consider constitutional change
their purview. Progressive women have insisted on their right to be heard as
women who need autonomous voices in the process because women may be
differently affected than men by constitutional change. And yet, women have
not always agreed on the substance of the constitutional arrangements desired
despite frequent agreement on the nature of the changes needed to improve
women’s status and condition. It is this puzzle I will address in this paper.
This process of women relating to the constitutional order as women; as
citizens differentiated from men by their sex/gender characteristics, is little
understood. In liberal theory, it is assumed that the constitutional citizen is an
undifferentiated abstraction.2 In Canadian practice, the constitutional citizen
is characterized by language, religion and place of residence. Only with the
Charter of Rights and Freedoms was the process begun of recognizing other
identities and the interests organized around them.
My study of a decade of women’s constitutional activism shows that women
were drawn into constitutional politics because their “unique reproductive
roles created a significantly different relationship between women and
the state than...between men and the state,” (Vickers, 1992b: 19; Young,
1989, 1990; Pateman; 1988). This led women to create a widely shared agenda
for change. Also widely shared, was a belief in the appropriateness of state
action in achieving this agenda (Vickers, 1992a; Vickers, Rankin and Appelle,
1993). Thus, women’s increased involvement in constitutional politics came
partly from an evolving awareness that changes in the constitutional order,
including in the division of powers, mattered to them as women. Despite the
shared agenda, however, and a common pro-statism, the various elements of
the women’s movement often have differed sharply on strategic issues such as
which level of government should be charged with achieving particular
changes for women.
In this text, I will not explore in any detail my underlying assumption that
constitutional politics matters to women because they are differently related to
the Canadian state than their menfolk. In this assertion, I follow analyses
offered by Carol Pateman (1986; 1988), Susan Okin (1978; 1986), Linda
Lange (1979) and Iris Marion Young (1990). As Young notes, however, the
ideal of impartiality, whether in the constitutional relationship of citizens to
states or in our theories of justice, denies the political significance of difference
(ch. 4). It is not my view, however, that difference always has political or
constitutional implications in some eternal, essential sense, although this is an
issue on which feminists often disagree. The historically situated organization
of sex/gender, however, underlies the conflict among the different parts of the
women’s movement as they engage in constitutional politics (Vickers, 1993).
While the women’s movement is not monolithic, there actually have been few
major differences in the agendas for change of its two majoritarian strands,3
the English-Canadian and Quebec francophone strands. Issues related to
reproduction, sexuality, health care, childcare, economic well-being and
participation in decision making have dominated both agendas (Dumont,
1991; 1992; Vickers, Rankin and Appelle, 1993). Minority elements within
the movement, including ethnic and racial minorities, aboriginal women,
women with disabilities, lesbians and immigrant women, however, have
challenged some aspects of these majoritarian agendas. Although these
differences are important (indeed, they are the very stuff of “politics as if
262
The Canadian Women’s Movement and a Changing
Constitutional Order
women mattered”), in this text I will focus on the differences of strategy and
philosophy which underlie women’s positions in constitutional politics.
Elements of the Canadian women’s movement have differed fundamentally
on the relative importance of individual and collective rights and on the value
of a centralized or decentralized federal system for the achievement of feminist
goals. (Indeed, some Quebec and First Nations women reject federalism
completely.) They have also differed about the value of a strategy of legal and
constitutional protection. In exploring these positions, I will outline how
women, who are differently situated as part of a majority or minority culture,
for example, could be affected differently by and, hence, have different views
on constitutional change than women with whom they shared identical views
on the substance of the feminist agenda.
In summary, then, my framework involves three basic assumptions:
1. The constitutional citizen must be viewed as a sexed and
gendered citizen, and women understood as differently related to
the state(s) the constitution regulates;
2. Women may differ on the substance of the changes desired
because they are differently situated, especially as members of
majority or minority cultures;
3. Women who hold identical views on the substance of the
movement’s agenda for change may nonetheless hold different
philosophical and strategic views concerning how the agenda
can best be realized. It is this third proposition on which I will
focus in this paper.
In preparing this text, I have based my analysis primarily on the feminist
literature about constitutional politics.4 This literature consists of three parts:
the popular feminist press, briefs submitted by women’s groups to committees
and commissions and writings by feminist lawyers and academics. I have also
relied on my own experiences as an observing participant in the process.5 The
text which follows is divided into three sections: first, I outline the two
majoritarian elements of the movement and the racial, ethnic and other
minority elements which operate in relation to them. In the second section, I
outline the issues which have motivated Canadian women’s constitutional
politics. In the third section, I explore these issues as they evolved over the
decade from the patriation crisis to the defeat of the Charlottetown Accord.
Finally, I offer some conclusions and my prognosis for women’s involvement
in constitutional politics in the future.
The Women’s Movement in Canada — A Brief Overview
The typology I will use to characterize the Canadian women’s movement does
not rely on the usual ideological differences within feminism. Instead, I begin
with the proposition that there are two dominant elements—the EnglishCanadian movement, which relates primarily to the federal state, and the
largely Francophone movement, which relates primarily to the Quebec state.
Each is a majority position in relation to “its” state and has more power than the
minority elements with which it interacts. Majoritarian elements represent
women of cultures which are dominant within their state, although Quebec
Francophones are in a minority relationship vis-à-vis the Anglo-Canadian
element, and English- Canadian feminists feel dominated by the U.S.
movement, while Francophone feminists in Quebec are more comfortable
with U.S. influences (Vickers, 1991b; Dumont, 1992).
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IJCS / RIÉC
The majoritarian movements have similar agendas, although they differ in
organization and constitutional strategies. Diane Lamoureux (1990) and
Sylvia Bashevkin (1985), in strikingly similar analyses, identify in each
movement a fundamental tension between a desire for integration, evidenced
by work within the existing system, and a desire for autonomy expressed by the
use of non-traditional tactics in independent movement organizations.
Lamoureux (1990) believes that this tension explains the oscillation of Quebec
feminism between modernity (women’s rights) and post-modernity (women’s
liberation). Vickers, Rankin and Appelle (1993) similarly identify a number of
forces within English-Canadian movement organizations, such as the National
Action Committee on the Status of Women (NAC). Micheline de Sève argues
that “the history of the Canadian and Quebec women’s movements is
interwoven with complex relationships between equally feminist tendencies,
reflecting the diverse and composite identities of the women’s groups at
various times” (1992: 137).
The similarities in these two majoritarian elements continue in their
relationships with the minorities with whom they interact. Both, in the past,
have “included” some aboriginal women and their projects but, more recently,
the relationships have become more complex as aboriginal women create their
own movements centred primarily on the issues raised by aboriginal selfgovernment. Immigrant, ethnic and racial minority women perceive
themselves to have been marginalized by the two majoritarian elements, and
both English-Canadian and Quebec feminists have had to respond to these
perceptions (Basseletti and Méhu, 1991; Day, 1991). Similarly, lesbian
women and women with disabilities, while not part of minority cultures in the
same sense, have nonetheless experienced marginalization and have
expressed constitutional positions they feared would otherwise be
unrepresented.
For the purposes of this paper, then, I will characterize the Canadian women’s
movement as composed of four major elements. The first three “elements”—
the Anglo-Canadian, the Quebec Francophone and the aboriginal—have
internal dynamics of their own and each could be analyzed as a movement in its
own right. Each also interacts with the others, however, especially in the
context of constitutional politics. The fourth “element” is more artificial,
including francophones outside of Quebec, immigrant and racial minority
women, lesbians and women with disabilities, all characterized by their
marginalization from the dynamics of the other three. Each of these four
“elements” and each of the groups within the fourth element has developed a
conscious identity in relation to the constitutional order.
These fragments are reflected in something as simple as when Canadian
women got the right to vote. The “official” answer is 1918, when white women
got the federal franchise. Quebec women might answer 1940, when they won
the Quebec franchise after a long struggle. Some racial minority (Asian)
women suffered exclusion along with their menfolk, and aboriginal women
who retained their government-assigned “status” under the Indian Act were
denied the vote until 1960, first exercising it in 1961. Hence, Mohawk poet
Lee Maracle declared recently: “So women got the vote in 1961 and not a
second before. I want every single person to put it that way and never again (to)
erase any woman in this country” (1991: 67). This fragmentation and the
limited (elite) interaction among the different fragments in the past led women
to assume their experiences were common to all. With a decade of involvement
in constitutional politics, however, knowledge of other women’s experiences
264
has grown and there is now greater awareness that the relative power of the
different elements is not the same. My accounts of these identities will be
sketchy but should illuminate both the movement’s complexity and its success
in developing stable movement institutions within which dialogue can occur.
The Aboriginal Element
Aboriginal women have experienced the most profound oppression both
because of gender and because of the expropriation, cultural disruption,
racism, poverty and marginalization which resulted from conquest and
colonization. In 1928, shortly after white women received the federal franchise,
the aboriginal women and men called “Indian” by the Europeans were denied
the right to organize politically (Maracle, 1991: 67).
Aboriginal women’s responses to damage they suffered from colonial and
post-colonial racism and oppression has differed. Patricia Monture-Okanne,
for example, argues:
Aboriginal persons cannot be healed until the truth is told about the
history of this country. Until this is possible, I cannot do the womanspecific healing that is also necessary to my well-being. This is so
because my woman’s identity flows from my racial and cultural
identity. (1991: 30)
Monture-Okanne’s view is that “rights”6 for individual women can only result
from securing their nation’s collective right to self-government (indeed, for
Monture-Okanne, its sovereignty). Only an autonomous nation could develop
an appropriate understanding of “rights.” Other women seek a balance
between individual and collective rights and between traditional and modern
understandings of “rights.” A third position has been advanced primarily by
women who were denied “Indian rights” under the Indian Act. Having
successfully employed the power of a constitutional regime protecting
individual “rights” to regain their Indian “status,” they fear the possible effects
of any exemption of First Nations from the Charter. The Native Women’s
Association of Canada (NWAC), for example, while supporting recognition of
aboriginal people’s inherent right to self-government, also argued for
protecting aboriginal women’s “sexual equality rights” which, it believed,
would not be respected if governments “simply choose to recognize the
patriarchal forms which now exist in our communities” (Stacey-Moore, 1991:
5). Many aboriginal leaders, however, argue that “to place aboriginal groups
under the higher authority of the Charter...would sabotage the fundamental
principle that the Aboriginal governments drew their authority from the
inherent rights of Aboriginal people” (Hall, 1992: 42).
These positions have not always been easy for the majoritarian movements to
understand. Anglo-Canadian feminists have been supportive of the position
advanced by NWAC with organizations like NAC providing moral and
tangible support. The aboriginal element, however, involves women along a
continuum. While most support some kind of self-government, many also
want some kind of protection for their rights as women. Francophone women
in Quebec have also been faced with accommodating the aboriginal fact. The
Fédération des femmes du Québec (FFQ)’s 1992 forum “Un Québec féminin
pluriel : pour un projet féministe de société,” included plans for a pluralist,
feminist Quebec which would “respect” First Nations while still asserting the
rights of the Francophone majority in the territory of Quebec. The FFQ’s
265
IJCS / RIÉC
recognition of aboriginal women as subject to double discrimination, like
NAC’s support for the NWAC, however, was not based on an understanding of
the full range of positions among aboriginal women from acceptance of full
integration within a sovereign Quebec to demands for complete sovereignty.
Aboriginal women, eight of ten of whom are survivors of abusive
relationships, often reject majoritarian feminist “solutions” for these
problems, preferring a community healing approach, which keeps abusers out
of white jails. This difference in philosophy has limited the practical
interaction between aboriginal women and most majority feminists. In
general, the stance of the majoritarian movements has been to “integrate”
(incorporate) aboriginal women and their projects. Many aboriginal women
have resisted this trend, especially in the last decade.
As the most disadvantaged women in Canada, it is not surprising that the
constitutional views of aboriginal women were rarely unanimous. Aboriginal
women have not enjoyed the opportunity or the financial support necessary to
build parliamentary umbrella organizations like NAC and the FFQ within
which a common strategy could have been attempted. Both the NWAC and
Métis women, for example, were denied access as groups of women to the
federal funding provided to aboriginal associations for preparing and
presenting constitutional positions and to the constitutional bargaining table.
The Federal Court of Appeal ruled on August 20, 1992, that the NWAC’s
Charter freedom of expression had been violated. The court also held that the
Assembly of First Nations (AFN), the Inuit Tapirasat, the Métis National
Council and the Native Council of Canada “do not speak for the women of the
First Nations” (Bayevsky, 1992:1). Other aboriginal women, however, did not
agree with this position. The President of the Metis National Council stated
that Métis women “do not feel that the Native Women’s Association (NWAC)
speaks for them,” (Genaille, 1992). Similarly, Rosemarie Kuptana and Mary
Simon represented the Inuit Tapirasat at the bargaining table in the
Charlottetown “round” of constitutional talks and supported the Accord,
indicating that there is significant division among aboriginal women both on
how they ought to be represented and on matters of constitutional substance.
The Quebec Element
In Quebec, the largely Francophone movement grew to maturity in symbiosis
with Quebec’s drive to modernization. As Micheline Dumont argues: “The
truth is that feminism in Quebec was stimulated and nurtured by the powerful
nationalist movements which swept Quebec between 1963 and 1990”
(1992:89). The movement’s major institution is the FFQ, founded in 1966
(Clio Collective, 1987). The FFQ has become more inclusive and multi-ethnic
with many more members, although most leftist and radical feminist groups
remain outside (Maroney, 1988). In 1987, it included 58 associations and
45,000 individual members (FFQ, 1987).
Most elements of the Quebec movement favour the decentralization of the
federal system; that is, most Quebec feminists, whether federalists or
separatists, support the devolution of more power to Quebec. Ethnic and racial
minority women in Quebec along with Anglophone and many aboriginal
women, are less accepting of this devolution of power. Most Francophone
feminists are nationalists because they are feminists not in spite of it. Their
feminist “project of the state” involves making feminism fully
institutionalized within the Quebec state and society (Clio Collective, 1987;
266
FFQ, 1992). For Dumont, “the slogan ‘No women’s liberation without Quebec
liberation. No Quebec liberation without women’s liberation’” is at the heart
of Quebec feminism (1992:76). Nonetheless, Francophone feminists in
Quebec are divided on how to complete “the project of the state.” As Ginette
Busque notes, “Canadian women outside of Quebec do not have to choose
between federalism and sovereignty, while Quebec women find it difficult to
decide on their future as women without taking into account the status of the
province,” (1991:15). The FFQ, however, while remaining neutral in the first
sovereignty referendum, now advances a sovereigntist position.
Whether federalist or sovereigntist, Francophone feminists trust the Quebec
state more than the federal state. Writing about women’s groups outside of
Quebec, an FFQ brief in 1987 noted, “these groups are usually much more
distrustful of the provincial authorities than we are,” (26). Many in Quebec
believe that “...it is probably easier to initiate changes at the provincial level
than at the federal level,” (Maillé, 1991:80). Some, like Chantal Maillé,
believe that women are best served by the government closest to them having
the powers critical to their lives as women.
Thus, Francophone feminists in Quebec operate as a majoritarian movement
vis-à-vis aboriginal and minority women within Quebec society. Claire
Bonenfant argues that continuing as part of Canada would preclude the
development in Quebec of the feminist “projet de société” which could meet
the needs of women because of the inefficiencies and duplication she views as
inherent in Canadian federalism. This rejection of federalism began with
Quebec feminists’ inability get divorce transferred to the Quebec jurisdiction
where other aspects of family law reside (Bonenfant, 1991). This frustration
with their inability to create a coherent policy on the family has marked the
views of the Francophone majority in Quebec from the late 1970s to the
present.
No women in Canada have undergone changes in their beliefs and behaviour
as profound as Francophone women in Quebec since the 1960s, making
Quebec society Canada’s most progressive jurisdiction on many issues
(Lipset, 1990). Not all Francophone feminists in Quebec, however, fully share
this view of Quebec as a jurisdiction so advanced as to gain nothing from, for
example, an entrenched federal Charter of Rights and Freedoms. In a
September, 1987 brief, apparently written in reaction to accusations made
against “les féministes anglophones” by well-known Québécois feminist
Lysianne Gagnon, the Réseau d’Action et d’Information pour les Femmes
(RAIF) argued that Quebec feminists should have joined with their
Anglophone colleagues seeking to strengthen gender equality in the context of
a constitutional recognition of Quebec as a “distinct society.” In fact, RAIF
believed that, from 1981 on, Quebec feminists should have joined the
campaign to gain the best possible legal protection from a dual jurisdictional
constitution. The RAIF brief identified a number of areas in which RAIF
believed Quebec law was severely lacking in terms of women’s rights,
especially in economic areas. RAIF expressed fear that a clash of loyalties
could weaken or subordinate women’s rights under a distinct society regime
by elevating collective over individual rights (RAIF, 1987).
Anglophone feminists have had mixed views about the “projet de société.”
Historically, left-wing feminists in English Canada tended to sympathize with
Quebec’s desire for self-determination. More recently, especially since
Quebec’s embracing of Mulroney conservatism and free trade, this support has
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weakened. Nonetheless, current support in NAC, for example, for a “three
nations” position reflects a growing awareness of the position put by
Micheline de Sève that national identity rather than always hostile to feminism
is “a potential tool for creating adequate space of all kinds of individual and
group self-awareness,” (1992:135).
The Anglo-Canadian Element
The Anglo-Canadian movement has a history of continuous organization since
1892, with the many organizations founded during the early period of
mobilization being revitalized by the cross-country hearing of the Royal
Commission on the Status of Women (Begin, 1992) so that most came to
support feminist causes. Hence the older women’s organizations, which
played a key role in establishing the Canadian welfare state (Andrew, 1984),
were not alienated from the movement as it was reshaped by the women’s
liberation movement and by left feminism. Consequently, in English Canada,
ideologically diverse groups, instead of being organized into separate
“wings,” share institutions such as NAC and co-operate in alliances to achieve
common goals (Vickers, Rankin and Appelle, 1993).
Anglo-Canadian feminists have been deeply distrustful of their provincial
governments, looking instead to the federal government. Albertan Ann
McLellan argues that many women “have viewed provincial governments as
less tolerant and receptive to their claims for equality than the national
government” (1991:10). By contrast to Chantal Maillé’s logic, McLellan
argues for the greater practicality and efficiency in women’s groups directing
their lobbying to one (federal) government instead of ten (provincial) ones,
concluding that “once the federal government is convinced of the need of a
program or initiative, it can ensure its availability on a national basis,”
(1991:10).
These conclusions reflect the quite different experiences of the two
movements. The Quebec movement, made optimistic by two decades of
substantial progress for women under different Quebec governments, has
experienced frustrations with federal governments which they see as less
progressive and inclined to intervene in Quebec in ways harmful to women.7
Anglo-Canadian feminists are part of a movement which has been a client of
and, until recently, significantly funded by the federal government. Shelagh
Day, currently Chair of the NAC constitution committee reveals the roots of
this pro-federalism when she argues “...as a woman from B.C., a province
which has suffered government by car dealer for all but four of the past forty
years...I fear...powers being devolved to my province,” (1991:98). Moreover,
some recent research suggests that in most of English Canada (Alberta is an
exception) regionalism, that is political loyalty to a province or region, is more
characteristic of men than of women in contemporary Canada at least on issues
such as free trade (O’Neill, 1992; Gidengil, 1992). Indeed, gender would
appear to be a more salient political force among Anglophone women who can
reach a “national” approach on major issues more easily than Anglophone men
for whom regionalism is a more potent force. The English-Canadian
movement, then, is composed of women who often see their views as Canadian
views to be defined in opposition to male-stream views or U.S. views. It is also
clearly a majoritarian element vis-à-vis minority and marginalized women.
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The Fourth Element: Minorities and Marginalized Voices
Until the 1980s, the Canadian movement was largely bi-national in character
with the two majoritarian movements dominating the agenda and debate (De
Sève, 1992:111). In the past decade, this dominance was challenged by waves
of women marginalized because of race, ethnic minority status, disability or
sexual orientation. Because racial and immigrant minority communities have
often chosen to operate in English, these pressures have been especially
evident in NAC (Vickers, Rankin and Appelle, 1993). Nonetheless, as the FFQ
became increasingly multi-ethnic, it also experienced these pressures
(Basseletti and Méhu, 1991; FFQ, 1991; 1992).
The women who make up what I have called the “fourth element” have created
networks of their organizations through which they advocate for change. The
struggle for the institutions of the two majoritarian movements has been to
“become a voice for all women...(so) that we articulate the many issues of
women, not only those of white middle-class women” so as to foster “the
politics of inclusion,” (Day, 1991:96). A genuine acceptance of difference,
however, may challenge what were previously thought of as “bottom-line”
feminist positions, as when women with disabilities challenge the view that a
fetus which will result in a child with a disability ought routinely to be aborted.
Canadian feminists have insisted that equality between men and women does
not necessarily result from same treatment (Vickers, 1984). Using this
principle, as a way of understanding the needs and views of minority and
marginalized women has not always been so easy.
In NAC, women representing groups of minority and otherwise marginalized
women now constitute almost half of the executive and hold several major
leadership positions representing a major change over the past decade. This
has resulted in NAC policies being more supportive of positions advanced by
minority and marginalized women. In particular, women in this category have
tended to feel especially dependent on the protection of the Charter and on the
federal government’s provision of programs of support. While minority and
marginalized women tend to share these constitutional positions, nonetheless,
there are important differences among them. In Quebec, some minority
women have integrated their concerns into the “projet de société” and, indeed,
Quebec explicitly protects the rights of gays and lesbians at a much higher
level than the federal Charter.
Francophone women outside of Quebec represented by the Fédération
nationale des femmes canadiennes-françaises (FNFCF), have had a unique
perspective on the issues raised in a decade of constitutional debate and
bargaining. Founded in 1914, the Fédération includes forty women’s groups
and is a member of NAC. In a 1990 brief, the FNFCF, while not taking a stand
on the possibility of independence for Quebec, stressed its members’ desire to
weave alliances, especially with Quebec women’s groups. In a 1992 brief,
while supporting NAC’s constitutional positions, the FNFCF expressed its
own ten principles regarding constitutional renewal. It stressed such things as
linguistic duality in Canada and in the Senate, and the protection (with no override) of the rights of minority linguistic communities. In general, it supported a
vision of an asymmetrical federation supporting the transfer of many powers to
Quebec but not to the other provinces. In this, it influenced NAC’s
development of the asymmetrical federalism position.
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Issues in Common and Issues in Conflict: What Makes the Women’s
Movement “Tick” Constitutionally?
A common thread in all feminist commentary is a profound sense of exclusion
from the process of constitution-making. Until 1992, when Inuit Tapirasat
leaders Rosemarie Kuptana and Mary Simon, and Northwest Territories
government leader Nellie Cournoyea took their hard-won places at the First
Ministers’ bargaining table, Ginette Busque’s declaration that “our country
has had many ‘fathers’ but no ‘mothers,’” (Busque, 1991:13) held true.
Intellectually, most feminists still feel it is true. At least half of Canada’s
population, women have been forced to lobby from outside the process,
described as a “special interest” by the constitutional gurus and media alike.
Distrustful of political parties, many have no great trust in women of the
political class.
In my survey of feminist writings on the Constitution, I identified four basic
sets of issues:
(1) the process of constitution making;
(2) federal/provincial powers and the issue of decentralization/
sovereignty;
(3) women’s representation in political institutions;
(4) the entrenchment of legal rights in the Constitution and the
legal approach to equality-seeking it entails.
Women tended to advance common positions on the nature of the
constitutional process and on the issue of women’s representation. By
contrast, there were significant differences expressed on the issues of
federalism and decentralization and on a legal approach to equality-seeking. In
this text, I will pay rather more attention to the three substantive issues dealing
only briefly with the matter of process.8
Federalism, the Division of Powers and Decentralization
Women’s original interest in constitutional matters stemmed from questions
concerning the division of powers. Quebec women supported their
government’s request to have divorce transferred to the provincial jurisdiction
to permit an integrated approach to family law.9 English-Canadian women
mobilized in opposition when the federal government proposed to transfer the
regulation of divorce to the provinces in 1978.
Throughout the decade, this divide is evident with Quebec women supporting
greater decentralization (many of their groups favour sovereignty) while
English-Canadian and most minority women support the use of the federal
spending power and shared jurisdictions to achieve a greater standardization
of programs across Canada. Given that there is little difference in terms of the
substance of their agendas, why do they disagree about how these goals should
be achieved?
The divorce issue illustrates one reason for the difference quite clearly, and
shows the kind of analysis we must develop to understand the others. To
women outside of Quebec, transferring responsibility for divorce to the
provinces would have created a patchwork quilt with different grounds and
waiting periods from province to province. For Francophone feminists this
does not cause concern if they anticipate living all of their lives in Quebec.
Other women, however, face the possibility of being moved from province to
270
province while married and of being marooned in a province without a divorce
law or with one which is not helpful to women.10
This central difference reflects the fact that English-Canadian and minority
women feel they must be concerned with conditions anywhere in Canada
because they may find themselves living there. Quebec women, who must
accept less physical mobility if they wish to live in French, wish to get the best
possible system there (Vickers, 1991a; Dumont, 1991). Ann McLellan has
argued that the inclusion of an enforceable social charter would make women
outside of Quebec less fearful of decentralization, provided they could use it to
ensure some comparability of benefits, legal conditions and support programs
wherever they might end up living (McLellan, 1991:11). This point of view is
also apparent in the FNFCF analysis (1992).
This analysis points to women’s recognition that at this point in our history
they are more likely to be dependent on the state than men for programs of
support. Indeed, the FNFCF brief argued this explicitly (1992:18-19).
Canadian women, however, also have been concerned with the obstacles that
the division of powers has put in the way of women’s political objectives such
as the “federalism foxtrot” in which governments compete in not invading one
another’s jurisdiction by not doing what women need or want all the while
saying “my hands are tied.” English-Canadian and most minority women,
while frustrated by the “federalism foxtrot,” nonetheless see shared
jurisdictions as providing leverage for federal influence on reluctant provinces
in achieving desired goals. By contrast, Quebec feminists see “une
irresponsabilité partagée” (Lamoureux, 1991:60) as something to be
eliminated (FFQ, 1990; 1992; Bonenfant, 1991).
The debate about federalism has not yet developed a philosophical dimension
among feminists. The position of Lord Acton (which is associated in Canada
with P.E. Trudeau) that concentrated power permits the abuse of power more
easily than a federal system in which power is deliberately divided, is not
advanced or refuted by feminists of any ethnicity or ideology. Philosophically,
Francophone feminists in Quebec appear to favour the concentration of all (or
most) powers in Quebec to allow for greater participation by women in
decentralizing decision making, for example, to the local state (FFQ, 1992:
Fiche 9, e.g.; Begin, Marine, 1991; Dumont, 1991; Lajoie; 1991; Lamoureux,
1991).
Most Francophone feminists believe the success of their agenda in Quebec has
depended on the decentralization of powers in areas where this has been
possible. Chantal Maillé concludes, for example, that “...it has been possible
for the women’s health movement to obtain positive results...because the
claims were negotiated with a provincial government which had already
negotiated a maximum amount of autonomy in the definition of policies and
programs,” (1991:79). While the decentralized and non-bureaucratic
administration of programs is consistent with women-centred philosophies,
most Anglophone and most minority women believe “national standards” and
coast-to-coast programs are also important to their well-being.
Representation in Political Institutions
Within the movement, there is wide agreement with the demand for the more
equitable representation for women in Canada’s political institutions and the
reform of its electoral system. In 1981, Mary O’Brien argued that the
movement should demand proportional representation “to erode the
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monolithic substance of the state” (O’Brien, 1981:7).11 The movement seeks
equitable political representation12 and has identified the structural barriers
which inhibit this. Quebec women have also recognized their exclusion as
women. Ginette Busque notes, for example:
...women exerted pressure to be represented as a group on the
Bélanger-Campeau Commission...which was not granted. They were
told that ‘women’ had already been named...[but] [n]o significance
was attached to the fact that these women had no mandate to represent
the interests of women. (1991:13)
She concludes, “this probably denotes a fundamental refusal to believe that
women, as a group, have special interests” (1991:13) or that most men believe
women’s interests can be represented by male leaders or that any woman can
“represent” the interests and views of all women.13
Aboriginal women agreed that women should be equitably represented. But
they differed significantly among themselves and with the majoritarian
movements concerning what that meant. In 1992, Wendy Moss, lead
constitutional advisor to the Inuit Tapirasat, wrote: “if one of the goals of the
organized struggle of women is to ensure that women participate in
governments and have a real voice, why have NAC and NWAC so discounted
the role and the voice of the aboriginal women who were at the table on behalf
of the Inuit nation, namely, Mary Simon and Rosemarie Kuptana?” (2).
NWAC, denied a seat at the constitutional “table” in 1992 on the grounds that
the male-led organizations could represent them, could not accept assurances
that their concerns were being represented by Kuptana and others at the table.
Sharon McIvor of NWAC argued “We want a seat at the table and recognition
as a separate group...” (Hill, 1992:3). One court eventually established
NWAC’s right but only after the event. NAC’s demand for a constituent
assembly and its support for the NWAC position reflects the view that women
need to articulate their diverse constitutional views directly and not through
the voices of men or of women of other nations. Of course, this also reflects
NAC’s view that it should have been “at the table” (presumably along with the
FFQ) to represent majoritarian women’s specific interests, as women.
The Entrenchment of Rights and Equality-Seeking as a Legal Enterprise
The majoritarian women’s movements in Canada have tended to see equalityseeking as a sociopolitical and economic process (Vickers, 1986). Pursuing
legal equality goals, therefore, was controversial. As Chaviva Hosek notes,
“...the drive for legal rights did not spring spontaneously from within the
women’s movement. Rather it developed in response to the determination of
the federal government to entrench a Charter of Rights and Freedoms during
the patriation process,” (1983:283). If there was to be a Charter, most feminists
agreed it must not become an obstacle to the broader, substantive equalityseeking process. The legal strategy created a cadre of prominent feminist
lawyers. Over the decade, they have played a central role in educating
Canadian women about legal and constitutional matters affecting women’s
rights. Through the work of organizations like the Legal, Education and Action
Fund (LEAF), most Anglophone and minority feminists came to see some
value in the legal option.
Despite this pragmatic acceptance of the legal equality project, others opposed
the enterprise. Most Francophone feminists in Quebec were hostile because of
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the overall alienation of Quebec from the patriation process. They also
believed that the Quebec “Charter” passed in 1976, while not entrenched,
made the protection offered by the federal Charter unnecessary. RAIF later
disagreed, arguing that, in the case of human rights, too much protection is
better than not enough (1987). Few Anglophone feminists even comprehended
that their Quebec Francophone sisters were absent from the constitutional
debates or why. Francophones from outside Quebec were present and most
supported the Anglophone position on the Charter. To this day, many
Anglophone feminists believe the struggle for women’s Charter rights is a
great victory in which all feminists share equal pride.
Other philosophical positions are expressed in opposition to the legal approach
to equality. As labour lawyer Sheila Greckol has argued: “I do not believe in
the legal system and the law as a vehicle for achieving social justice for
women,” (1991:103). Similar, Donna Greschner argues that “constitutional
politics...historically have submerged the concerns and experiences of
women,” (1991:55). Sherene Razack, speaking from the perspective of
minority women, argues that the very nature of the law and the legal system
“tended to characterize femaleness in ways that reflect the experiences of...the
kind of women likely to be working in law—a white middle-class woman,”
(1991:39). Megan Ellis concluded that the judiciary is not capable of acting to
advance substantive equality for women because of its use of gender-neutral
terms like sexual assault which harm women by hiding the fundamentally
gendered nature of sexual violence (1986:17). Finally, many grass-roots
feminists are resentful of the extent to which pursuit of the legal strategy has
involved the dominance of movement strategy by lawyers and academics and
siphoned off money previously available for services. The government
strategy of incorporating women’s equality-seeking under the Constitution
threatened the stability of coalitions within and between movement
organizations. Although the movement has largely recovered from those
conflicts, the problems raised by the legal equality approach continue to
threaten its effectiveness.
The Canadian Women’s Movement and Constitutional Politics
Historically, Canadian constitutional politics have been so dominated by the
issues of dualism and regionalism that, “...the concerns of women...[were]
simply not visible against the two parameters of Canadian cleavage...” (Ayim,
1980:218). Given this constitutional invisibility and the reluctance of EnglishCanadian feminists to enter into constitutional politics, how did movement
leaders find a point of entry around which they could mobilize support?14
Once Prime Minister Trudeau proposed to patriate the BNA Act along with a
Charter of Rights and Freedoms, the mobilizing event for English-Canadian
women was the resignation of Doris Anderson, then the President of the
government-appointed Canadian Advisory Council on the Status of Women
(CACSW), in January 1981, charging that government interference had
resulted in the cancellation of a Women’s Constitutional Conference. The
timing was crucial; the Special Joint Committee of the Senate and the House
was still deliberating but the government had brought a revised Charter into the
House. A later conference would not do. The Council, moreover, like most
autonomous women’s groups, was critical of the equality guarantees in the
proposed Charter (Hosek, 1983:288). Anderson’s resignation meant that:
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The women’s movement suddenly had a heroine, a villain and an
event, all of which symbolized its exclusion from the constitutional
process. The media had a field day. The complex issues involved
were reduced to a dramatic fight between a woman and a man (Lloyd
Axworthy, the minister responsible for the status of women).
(Hosek, 1983:289)
Not all feminists, however, rallied round. A majority of the executive and
council of the CACSW declined to support Anderson and endorsed cancelling
the conference. NAC was “sidelined” by internal conflict, part of which was
resistance by left-wing members of the executive to a legal strategy (Vickers,
Rankin and Appelle, 1993). Progressive Conservative feminists resisted
unilateral patriation and were also divided on the value of an entrenched
Charter. As late as the fall of 1981, Saskatchewan women’s groups opposed
entrenching the sex equality guarantee (Section 28) as did the Saskatchewan
NDP government on the grounds that, by shifting decisions about equality to
the courts, progressive governments would be limited in advancing women’s
equality (Hosek, 1983:289).
The briefs presented to the Joint Committee, show that women wanted any
constitutional guarantees of equality for women to go beyond equality in the
administration of justice to equal benefit and effect of the law. They also
wanted sexual orientation, marital status and political beliefs added to the
grounds on which discrimination would be prohibited. They wanted no
possibility that the proposed Charter could be interpreted as conferring rights
on a fetus. They wanted affirmative action programs protected against possible
charges of reverse discrimination and the proposed Charter to confer what they
called “Indian rights” on non-status Indian women. They also wanted women
to be fairly represented on the Supreme Court which would play an enlarged
role under a Charter regime.
A Women’s Constitutional Conference of over a thousand women, held on
February 14, expanded women’s demands to include guarantees of
reproductive freedom and equitable representation throughout the political
system. After the conference, the process was directed by the largely Torontobased Ad Hoc group of “experts” in law and lobbying15 which was revived to
play a role in the Meech Lake debates and the referendum on the
Charlottetown Accord. The Ad Hoc group drew heavily on NAC networks.
The lobbying which followed the Constitutional Conference focused on
getting legally effective texts for the equality rights sections (15 and 28) and
ensuring that Section 28 was not subject to governmental override. The experts
marshalled thousands of women, now enraged at the intransigence of male
politicians who sought to deny them the legal equality they thought they had
always had in what became widely viewed as an “icon of feminist
effectiveness” (Black, 1992:104).
Few English-Canadian feminists understood the resistance to the new
constitutional regime by most of Quebec’s Francophone feminists. The
misconception that in their resistance Quebec feminists were acting more as
nationalists than as feminists developed. Majoritarian feminists also had
difficulty understanding the views of many aboriginal women. Hastings and
Lawrence, for example, in reporting on the Women’s Constitutional
Conference, concluded “native women constituted a strong presence, although
their presentation requesting a supportive resolution could not be considered
because it asked for support of their plea for independent nationhood rather
274
than anything to do with issues of specific concern to native women
themselves,” (my emphasis;1981:4). Few white feminists understood why
some aboriginal women could believe that the rights of individual women
couldn’t be secured until the collective rights of their nations were secured,
while many non-status aboriginal women sought “status” through an
individual rights regime.
Many racial and ethnic minority women were mobilized into movement
organizations like NAC, as were women with disabilities, by these high profile
campaigns for equality rights. Other minority women, however, became
involved in constitutional politics when they were mobilized to fight against
the Meech Lake Accord.16
The Road to Meech Lake
From 1982 to 1987 was a period of great activity and expansion for all parts of
the Canadian women’s movement with the rapid mobilization of minority and
marginalized women in particular. There was also an extension of services in
small towns, rural areas, ethnic and some aboriginal communities for women
encountering rape and battering. Groups were created to fight Charter cases.
Women’s unionization increased significantly as did the presence of women
leaders in unions. Women in traditional occupations, especially nurses, were
radicalized and fought a series of long, tough and successful strikes which
gained wide support.
In this period, English-Canadian society also became more ideologically
polarized with the development of anti-feminist groups which rapidly
mobilized right-wing women. The new Progressive Conservative government
issued a Discussion Paper on Equality Issues in Federal Law (Sessional Paper
No. 331-416) on January 31, 1985. When the Charter was enacted, the equality
sections were suspended until 1985 to allow governments to conduct statute
audits. Instead, the Discussion Paper argued “that if there is something in the
present law then this indicates that it is acceptable social practice and therefore
should be immune from Charter challenge” (Proceedings 16:115). The
Committee to which it was referred reflected the government’s huge
majority—five Conservatives, one Liberal and one New Democrat. The
Committee Chair, Toronto MP Patrick Boyer, however, was a progressive on
rights issues and determined to hold national hearings. NAC established an
Equality Rights project to support its members in attending hearings and
preparing briefs, which seventy NAC affiliates did (Feminist Action,
December, 1985:11).
NAC’s strategy was to discredit the “acceptable social practice” approach to
equality rights and to “fill” the concept of equality with content about women’s
lives during the hearings so that an “equality equals same treatment”
formulation would not be endorsed by Parliament. Anti-feminist groups,
which had not had time to organize during the Charter debate, now argued that
the very existence of constitutional equality guarantees were a “total attack on
the foundation of a good stable country—the family,” (Proceedings 17:113).
But they were too late. Traditional women’s groups supported the equality
sections advancing an equality of results approach similar to that advanced by
NAC’s affiliates. The out-pouring of experiences from gay and lesbian groups
seeking the explicit protection of the Charter was perhaps the most moving
aspect of the Committee’s hearings, leading the Committee to endorse explicit
protection.
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To the surprise of many, the Committee produced a unanimous report in under
a year. Forty-one of its eighty-five recommendations involved changes in
government legislation, policy or practice related to sexual equality
guarantees. It also supported positive action such as contract compliance to
achieve equality of results and rejected the view that this was “reverse
discrimination.” While the government refused to act on many of the
Committee’s recommendations and dragged its feet on others, the body of
arguments developed was important in creating a discourse which focused on
substantive instead of formal equality. Many grass-roots feminists, however,
were disappointed that the Committee made no recommendations concerning
abortion rights or pornography and declined to see denial of family status to
same-sex couples as discrimination (Eliot, 1986:5).
The Charter also provided leverage to achieve changes in the Indian Act,
allowing many Indian women to regain their “status” under the Act. Although
majoritarian feminists saw this as the righting of an injustice imposed by a
racist and patriarchal government, many aboriginal women and men, who
were demanding self-government for their nations, saw it as another attempt
by white society to define citizenship in their nations, adding population
without adding the resources needed to actually re-integrate women into their
bands.
Quebec’s continuing alienation from the constitutional order led the new
Prime Minister to negotiate the Meech Lake Accord, which recognized
Quebec’s conditions for accepting the new Constitution. Many women were
concerned about the recognition of Quebec as a distinct society, fearing that
their hard-won equality rights could somehow be “trumped” by the “distinct
society” provision which some feminist lawyers warned would create a
hierarchy of rights. The limitation to be placed on the federal spending power
also caused concern. The national shared-cost programs women had hoped to
gain, such as childcare, now seemed impossible if the federal spending power
were to be constrained as the Accord proposed. As Ginette Busque notes:
“What Quebec women eventually began to realize...was that, maybe more
than distinct society, it was the structuring of shared-cost programs which
caused profound apprehension,” (1991:16).
Ginette Busque notes that “Quebec women would have remained relatively
remote from the issue had they not been deeply offended by the interpretations
placed by some groups on the distinct society clause and the impact it could
eventually have on women both inside and outside Québec,” (1991:15). As
Diane Lamoureux points out, “Ces groupes considèrent que l’expérience
sociale des femmes fait également partie de la société distincte québécoise,”
(1991:60). Quebec women “...repudiated... [a] vision of a small-minded
Quebec where a distinct society could be promoted to the detriment of women
and minorities.” As Ginette Busque concluded, in any event, “We also felt
perfectly able to defend ourselves on our own ground, if need be,” (1991:15).
Resentment of Quebec’s claims for special treatment, felt especially by some
western, aboriginal and minority women, would perhaps have been softened if
they had known these views.
The revived Ad Hoc group, with LEAF and other feminist legal groups,
directed the campaign. When the Prime Minister called Anglophone feminists
“racists” in the House, Christie Jefferson, executive director of LEAF, replied
that “Most women’s organizations have predicated all critiques of
the...Accord with a statement saying we favour Quebec’s status as a unique
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society...” (quoted Broadside, November 1987:3). Indeed, most of the briefs
from the non-Quebec organizations to the Joint Committee on the 1987
Accord did support distinct or unique society status for Quebec, but few
showed any deep understanding of how this might create a different
relationship to the constitutional order for the Quebec movement. On Section
28 and the “distinct society” issue, however, NAC and the FFQ managed to
develop a joint position on the protection of women’s equality guarantees
(Roberts, 1988:14,15). This moved NAC closer to the “three nations” position
it currently holds in support of asymmetrical federalism.
Aboriginal and minority women were especially concerned about the Accord,
although for different reasons. Most aboriginal women rejected the accord
because of the possible impact of recognizing Quebec as a “distinct society” on
their nations’ claims to land and self-government. Marginalized women,
especially those with disabilities, wanted to strengthen not weaken federal
power. As Shelagh Day has argued:
The desire of the equality-seeking groups is not to see the federal
spending power dismantled through decentralization of
responsibilities to the provinces. On the contrary, their desire is to
ensure that the federal responsibility is enhanced by requiring the
federal government to ensure that every dollar that goes to other
levels of government is spent in a way that complies with
constitutional guarantees. (1991:98)
In addition to these substantive concerns, many feminists also opposed the
Meech Lake Accord because of the process used by the eleven white men
whose constitutional “baby” it was. Grass-roots feminists in English Canada
again had clear enemies and viewed the process through jaundiced eyes and,
although the Meech Lake Accord was supported by the majority of women’s
groups in Quebec, the closed processes of executive federalism caused offense
there as well. Moreover, as NAC and the FFQ struggled to develop a
compromise position on the Accord, some minority and marginalized women
objected to their exclusion from this process of elite accommodation within
organized feminism as well.
These controversies were an important learning opportunity in which the two
majoritarian elements, came to understand one anothers’ positions on
constitutional issues far more clearly as a result. In January 1988, moreover,
the efficacy of the legal strategy became more apparent as the Supreme Court,
relying on the Charter, removed the legal impediments to abortion in Canada.
Quebec women, however, were shocked in 1989 when the Quebec Superior
Court upheld an injunction granted to an ex-boyfriend preventing Chantal
Daigle from having an abortion. Although the Supreme Court overturned the
injunction and made such third-party interventions impossible in the future,
most Quebec feminists remained unpersuaded of the value of an entrenched
Charter or of a federal court system. Indeed, as the presentations of prominent
Francophone feminists and women’s groups to the Bélanger-Campeau
Commission made clear, by the 1990s the Quebec francophone movement was
largely, if not universally, supportive of a sovereigntist position.
The Charlottetown Accord
The threat of another referendum on sovereignty in Quebec and the civil
disturbances surrounding aboriginal land claims led to renewed efforts to
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reform the constitutional order in what has been called the “Canada round” of
negotiations leading up to the Charlottetown Accord. To the surprise of many,
most elements of the women’s movement united in opposition to the
Charlottetown Accord, although most women of the political class supported
it. NAC organized another, smaller women’s constitutional conference, in
which fifty major groups took part, including the FFQ, the FNFCF, the
National Organization of Immigrant and Visible Minority Women, the
Business and Professional Women’s organizations and the NWAC (NAC,
1991).
Opposition to the Accord was directed at both process and substance. One
demand was for a “full seat at the constitutional table for aboriginal women,
including NWAC and the National Métis Women’s Association (NWMA),”
(NAC, 1991:2). Substantive changes demanded included “full protection of
equality rights for aboriginal women”; “racially representative gender equality
in the Senate”; a “political accord” to establish “proportional representation in
the House of Commons” within two years; proper protection from diminution
for equality and language rights; and a regime of asymmetrical federalism
which would require the federal government “to spend on social programs
outside Quebec” and would prevent opt-outs from new social programs or the
“devolution of labour market training, immigration and culture” to the
provinces, except for Quebec. (NAC, 1991:2) Although women of the political
class and the media attempted to discredit NAC’s opposition (Vienneau, 1992;
Laframboise, 1992), it quickly became apparent that most women’s groups
had too many concerns about the possible impact of the Accord to vote “yes.”
The extensive decentralization envisioned in the Accord posed problems for
women outside of Quebec for reasons which I have already outlined. A
justiciable social charter, which could have allayed some of the fears of women
about a more decentralized federation, was watered down into an
unenforceable statement of intent. NAC’s decision to oppose the Accord
reflected the concerns of its most vulnerable members, minority, marginalized
and non-status aboriginal women in particular, who feared the dilution of their
Charter rights and loss of strong programs of support guaranteed by the federal
government wherever they might live. And it was feared that decentralization
would mean that federal funding of movement groups would be withdrawn
even further and would not be replaced by provincial funding in most cases.
Some women of the political class were particularly offended by opposition to
the Accord and NAC’s support for the NWAC position. The Inuit Women’s
Association (Pauktuutit) was represented on the Inuit “Yes” Committee and
Inuit believed their women leaders had acted to protect women’s
constitutional rights (Moss, 1992:2,3). Political women of all parties urged
women’s groups to be “realistic” and to accept the accord in a spirit of
compromise. But they were no more persuasive than their male colleagues.
In the referendum debate, the Canadian women’s movement came to be
recognized as a significant player in Canadian constitutional politics.
Although women’s concerns were still often treated dismissively, it was now
clear after a decade of effort that there were distinctive women’s concerns.
There were also substantial gains made in this process for the women’s
movement. English-Canadian feminists, in developing their new “three
nations” constitutional vision, came to understand collective rights better.
Indeed, feminists of both majority cultures came to understand the hurts of
racism, ablism and homophobia more clearly. Many bridges were built,
278
reducing the fragmentation of the movement which, in 1993, is stronger than it
has ever been.
Conclusions
The outcome of this decade of women’s involvement in constitutional politics
remains unclear as I write. It is possible that women in Quebec and the First
Nations will both seek and achieve greater autonomy, even sovereignty, in the
future. But it is also clear, as Linda Trimble argues, that “women, and
especially marginalized women, need power to make their interests
interesting” (1991:90). And it is clear to all elements of the Canadian
movement that we have more power when we can co-operate in one another’s
projects. Constitutional politics was not an arena women chose to enter, at
least in part because of its potential for conflict within the movement. While
feminist leaders and lawyers (especially of the majoritarian cultures) have
gained more profile, it is not clear that ordinary women have yet gained enough
power to make their interests “interesting” enough to keep them “on the table”
when the final round of constitutional bargaining comes around again. Nor
have women yet gained the clout to enforce on elites a more open process in
which women can participate effectively.
Francophone feminists in Quebec with their project of a society in which
women’s powers and vision are fully integrated have set us on the path of
constitutional transformation, rather than just reform. Aboriginal women with
their often conflicting views challenge us to think of rights regimes which can
encompass both individual and collective rights. Majoritarian feminists are
learning to hear and respond to the constitutional needs of minority and
marginalized women. The past decade of engagement by progressive
Canadian women in constitutional politics was possible because of the
movement’s strength, flexibility and energy. It is also true, however, that
involvement in constitutional politics has strengthened and energized the
movement further and has been the catalyst for a quantum leap in the
movement’s intellectual flexibility.
Notes
1.
2.
3.
4.
The author wishes to acknowledge the financial support of the Social Science and
Humanities Research Council which permitted the conduct of this research.
See for example, Kenneth Karst, “Paths to Belonging: The Constitution and Cultural
Identity.” North Carolina Law Review, 64 (January, 198 ): 303-77. The ideal of the
disembodied constitutional citizen, however, is relatively new with modern liberalism.
Certainly Aristotle, Machiavelli, Hegel and others knew women could not be citizens
because of their sex/gender characteristics.
I introduce this distinction between majoritarian and minority feminists in “Notes Toward a
Political Theory of Sex and Power” (forthcoming 1993). In it, I theorize that women and
men of secure, dominant cultures who have access to state instruments (i.e., media, schools)
to protect their community identity understand reproduction and its links to political power
differently than members of threatened, minority communities.
The newspapers surveyed were Broadside, Cayenne, Herizons, La Vie En Rose, The Emily,
The Womanist, NAC Memo, Status and Feminist Action. My thanks to Marcella Munro for
her assistance in this survey. For the views in Quebec, I relied more heavily on the views of
feminist scholars. With the assistance of such scholars as Micheline Dumont and Micheline
de Sève, and the staff of the Canadian Research Institute for the Advancement of Women
(CRIAW), FFQ publications and briefs were located. My thanks to Dorine Chalifoux who
undertook this research and precised translations.
279
IJCS / RIÉC
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
I was parliamentarian for NAC (an umbrella organization of 500-600 women’s groups)
during the 1980s. I also attended women’s Constitutional conferences and meetings and was
invited to present briefs as an “expert” before the Boyer Committee.
Many First Nations traditionalists and sovereigntists reject altogether a rights-based
understanding of the relationship between individual and collectivity. I use the term “rights”
here only to aid understanding.
For example, the Quebec government eventually stopped enforcing the old criminal code
sections concerning abortion. The federal government jailed Dr. Henry Morgentaler after
Quebec juries acquitted him. To Anglo-Canadian feminists, this was evidence that
governments are patriarchal. To Francophone feminists in Quebec, it was evidence that the
federal government had over-ruled a more progressive Quebec government. Eventually, the
law was struck down under the Charter and Canada currently has no criminal law concerning
abortion.
Throughout the decade, NAC demanded longer hearings, constitutional conferences,
constituent assemblies and the official representation of women as women at the
constitutional table. NAC opposed the national referendum process because of the absence
of strict spending limits based on the experience of the free trade election in 1988, in which
the business lobby, unregulated by the electoral spending limits because of a court decision,
poured huge sums of money into a last minute media blitz.
This mattered to Quebec feminists in part because the federal government had rejected “le
principe du divorce à l’amiable” while the provincial government was not opposed
(Lamoureux, 1991).
Women’s dependent mobility when in relationships, while no longer having the force of law,
is re-inforced by the fact that women earn only two-thirds of men’s wages on average. Hence
even an egalitarian family often can’t choose to follow the wife’s work.
Geographically organized electoral systems disadvantage “interests” and groups which are
geographically dispersed and reward those which are geographically concentrated.
Women are now about 14% of both the elected House and the appointed Senate. They are
represented at slightly higher rates in provinces like Quebec, Ontario, British Columbia and
P.E.I. Two of the nine members of the Supreme Court are currently women. Nowhere do
they constitute a critical mass, which is usually viewed as 35-40%, except in the Ontario
cabinet.
The lack of legitimacy of political parties, the well-documented gender gap on many issues
and the demonstrated differences among women which are, nonetheless, not the same as the
differences among men (regionalism, e.g.) all challenge these views.
Aboriginal leaders faced similar problems as they attempted to insert the issues of selfgovernment and race into a discourse entirely organized around the dualism of “the founding
nations.”
The original Ad Hoc group also included a number of “ordinary” women in Ottawa who put
together the original conference. Strategy decisions, however, were taken by the Torontobased group and the parliament hill “politicos.”
Only these women are usefully described as “Charter Canadians”; a concept has been used to
described all women by some constitutional commentators, following Alan Cairns (1988,
e.g.).
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Max Nemni
La Commission Bélanger-Campeau et la
construction de l’idée de sécession au Québec1
Résumé
Depuis près d’un quart de siècle, l’idée de la sécession du Québec fait partie
du paysage politique canadien. Pour expliquer ce phénomène il est essentiel
d’identifier les effets de l’utilisation du nationalisme à des fins politiques.
C’est dans cet esprit que cette étude analyse la démarche et les travaux d’une
commission mise sur pied par le gouvernement québécois de Robert Bourassa.
Née au lendemain de « l’échec du lac Meech », cette commission fut créée
notamment pour instaurer un rapport de force plus favorable au Québec vis-àvis du reste du Canada.
On verra que bien que cette commission n’ait pas contribué à accroître les
pouvoirs de négociation du Québec, elle permit au gouvernement Bourassa de
sortir du cul-de-sac politique dans lequel « Meech » l’avait placé. On verra
surtout qu’un des effets les plus marquants de tout ce processus fut le
renforcement de l’idée de sécession au Québec.
Abstract
For almost a quarter of a century, the idea of Quebec’s secession has been an
integral part of the Canadian political landscape. In order to understand this
phenomenon it is essential to assess the use of nationalism for political
purposes.
This study focuses on the social and political impact of an organism created by
the Quebec government of Robert Bourassa. Born as a result of the failed
Meech Lake Accord, the political function of this body was to bolster Quebec’s
negotiating position vis-à-vis the rest of Canada.
The findings of this study are that while this organism did not strengthen
Quebec’s position, it did allow Bourassa’s government to come out of the
political impasse created by Meech. More importantly, the fundamental effect
of this entire process was to bolster the idea of secession in Quebec.
La menace de la sécession du Québec hante l’univers politique canadien
depuis plus d’un quart de siècle. Or, selon un classement des Nations Unies, le
Canada offre la meilleure qualité de vie du monde. S’il est possible de
comprendre l’émergence de féodalités ethniques quand s’est brisé le joug de
l’ancienne U.R.S.S., on s’explique plus difficilement les déchirements
internes que subit le Canada2.
IJCS/RIÉC
Après le référendum de mai 1980, où les Québécois dirent « non » à l’option
sécessionniste que leur offrait le Parti québécois, voilà que douze ans plus tard,
en octobre 1992, la question de la place du Québec au sein de la fédération
canadienne a forcé le Canada tout entier à jouer son avenir sur un nouveau
référendum.
Mais avec, cette fois, une différence importante. Alors que jusque-là, le reste
du Canada se demandait, avec un candide étonnement, « What does Quebec
want? », c’était maintenant un Québec plein d’assurance qui lançait un double
défi au reste du Canada. Premièrement, sous le titre frondeur Un Québec libre
de ses choix, le Rapport « Allaire » traçait les grandes lignes de la politique
constitutionnelle du Parti libéral du Québec, dirigé par Robert Bourassa. Du
fédéralisme, ce rapport ne retenait guère que le nom en exigeant le transfert
massif de presque tous les pouvoirs du gouvernement central. Ce premier défi
au reste du Canada fut lancé en mars 1991, lors du congrès annuel de ce Parti.
Le deuxième ne tarda pas à venir.
Quelques mois après le 23 juin 1990, date de l’échec de la ronde de
négociations contitutionnelles dite du lac Meech, fut instituée, sous l’autorité
de l’Assemblée nationale du Québec, la Commission sur l’avenir politique et
constitutionnel du Québec. Dotée du vaste mandat « d’étudier et d’analyser le
statut politique et constitutionnel du Québec et de formuler à cet égard des
recommandations », son rapport ne se fit pas attendre. En moins de six mois, la
Commission « Bélanger-Campeau » fit le tour de la question qui divise le
Canada depuis ses premiers jours. Non seulement elle identifia les problèmes,
mais elle édicta un diagnostic radical. Le 27 mars 1991, la Commission
recommanda à l’Assemblée nationale d’adopter une loi prévoyant la tenue
d’un référendum sur la souveraineté du Québec à une date bien précise (entre
le 8 et le 22 juin 1992 ou entre le 12 et le 26 octobre 1992). Advenant la victoire
du « oui », cette loi prévoyait, avec la même précision, une date d’accession
du Québec à l’indépendance, soit un an jour pour jour après la tenue du
référendum. Le deuxième défi était lancé.
Cependant, entre août et octobre 1992, le Parti libéral de Bourassa changea
radicalement de cap. Reniant sa propre conception de la place du Québec au
sein du Canada, définie dans le Rapport Allaire devenu la politique officielle
du Parti, ainsi que la loi 150 qu’il avait fait adopter par l’Assemblée nationale à
la suite du rapport de la Commission Bélanger-Campeau (qu’on appellera ici
la « Commission »), le gouvernement Bourassa fit voter presque unanimement
par ses membres, lors du congrès annuel d’août 1992, une résolution dictant la
tenue d’un référendum sur un renouvellement relativement mineur du cadre
fédéral existant, et non plus sur la souveraineté comme l’exigeait la loi 150.
La preuve semblait ainsi faite que la sécession n’était qu’une menace, qu’un
élément stratégique de négociation du gouvernement Bourassa. Cette
stratégie, dite du « couteau sur la gorge », avait d’ailleurs été promue par de
grandes personnalités québécoises, dont Léon Dion. C’est en effet lui qui, lors
de la présentation de son mémoire à la Commission le 12 décembre 1990,
affirmait qu’il n’y avait qu’une façon de faire bouger le « Canada anglais » :
« Il ne cèdera — et cela même n’est pas assuré — que s’il a le couperet sur la
gorge3. »
Onze mois plus tard, après avoir pris connaissance du texte de l’entente
constitutionnelle négociée à Charlottetown, Léon Dion exprima son
étonnement devant l’échec de la stratégie qu’il avait promue :
286
construction de l’idée de sécession au Québec
Ici plane un mystère qu’il faudra dissiper un jour... Les Québécois
avaient procuré à leur premier ministre un rapport de force à triple
ressort en 1991 — la Commission Bélanger-Campeau, la loi 150 et le
programme du PLQ (Rapport Allaire).... Cette force qui était entre
ses mains, pourquoi l’a-t-il laissée s’échapper4 ?
Ce qui stupéfie cet éminent spécialiste, c’est, à première vue, le fait que le
gouvernement Bourassa ait si mal utilisé un rapport de force qui semblait le
favoriser. Mais au-delà de cet aspect stratégique, ce qui explique cet
étonnement, partagé d’ailleurs par la plupart des spécialistes québécois à
tendance nationaliste, ce fut la minceur des réformes acceptées par le
gouvernement Bourassa eu égard à l’ampleur des demandes « minimales » du
Québec. L’étude de Guy Laforest, présentée quelques mois avant le dépôt du
rapport de la Commission, illustre bien ces attentes. Ce spécialiste,
représentatif d’un point de vue prédominant alors dans les milieux
intellectuels et politiques du Québec, affirmait en effet que « le régime fédéral
canadien de 1867, partiellement rénové en 1982, a fait faillitte au Québec et ne
peut être regénéré. » Le problème était d’autant plus profond, à ses yeux, que
« l’idée de fédéralisme avait été détruite à tout jamais au Québec depuis
l’échec de Meech5. » C’est ce qui amenait Laforest à prévoir que le rapport de
la Commission exclurait l’option fédéraliste et exigerait « soit un
réaménagement de type confédéral, soit une forme d’association entre États
souverains6. »
Ainsi, non seulement la réforme du fédéralisme canadien était considérée
comme hautement illusoire, mais la notion même de « fédéralisme » avait,
affirmait-on fréquemment, perdu toute crédibilité au Québec. Tout comme
Laforest, de nombreux experts québécois à tendance nationaliste percevaient
la Commission à la fois comme l’étape ultime vers la restructuration radicale
de l’espace géopolitique canadien et comme un instrument stratégique en vue
d’atteindre cet objectif. On comprend donc leur déception et leur étonnement
lorsque Bourassa accepta avec enthousiasme l’entente de Charlottetown qu’ils
percevaient au mieux comme un réaménagement mineur du cadre fédéral
existant. D’où le « mystère » évoqué par Dion.
Peut-on élucider ce mystère ou, plus modestement, peut-on soulever quelque
peu le voile qui l’entoure ?
Pour y parvenir, on analysera la démarche ainsi que les travaux de la
Commission Bélanger-Campeau qui était au coeur des négociations
constitutionnelles canadiennes. Ces travaux nous permettront de pénétrer dans
un univers complexe où s’entrecroisent passion et raison. Car pour remplir son
mandat qui lui dictait de se prononcer sur « l’avenir constitutionnel du
Québec », cette Commission fonctionna sur deux registres. D’une part, elle
prit le pouls des Québécois et, d’autre part, elle étudia systématiquement
plusieurs aspects fondamentaux des rapports entre le Québec et le reste du
Canada. Ainsi, elle était à la fois une commission d’étude et un forum qui
permit à de nombreux Québécois d’exprimer leurs doléances. Mais avant
d’aborder l’analyse des travaux de cette Commission, il est nécessaire de
décrire brièvement les nombreux documents qu’ils ont engendrés.
On y distingue nettement trois catégories de matériaux. Premièrement, le
rapport final. Il s’agit là d’un texte de 180 pages, signé par tous les membres de
la Commission ainsi que par le premier ministre, Robert Bourassa, et par le
chef de l’opposition officielle, Jacques Parizeau. C’est à ce document
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ambivalent, recommandant soit le référendum sur la souveraineté, soit le
renouvellement en profondeur du cadre fédéral, que sera consacrée la première
partie de ce travail intitulée : « Le rapport Bélanger-Campeau et la stratégie du
gouvernement Bourassa ».
Une deuxième catégorie de matériaux comprend les mémoires, soumis à titre
privé tant par des particuliers que par des associations de tous genres. Ces
quelque 600 documents, qui totalisent environ 15 000 pages, représentent le
produit final de la vaste consultation populaire mise en branle par le
gouvernement Bourassa. Bien qu’exprimant les intérêts de leurs auteurs et que
l’option fédéraliste y soit parfois préconisée, c’est dans ces mémoires qu’on
trouve généralement l’expression des sentiments sur lesquels s’appuie le
projet sécessionniste. Nous les étudierons dans la deuxième partie de ce travail
intitulée : « La voix des citoyens ».
Finalement, la troisième catégorie de matériaux qu’a fait naître la Commission
comprend exclusivement des documents soumis par des experts. C’est
généralement là qu’on trouve des analyses approfondies de diverses questions
relatives aux rapports entre le Québec et ses voisins advenant l’accession à
l’indépendance ou tout autre statut constitutionnel. Nous procédérons à l’étude
de ces matériaux dans la troisième et dernière partie de ce travail intitulée : « La
voix des experts ».
Cette examen en trois temps des travaux de la Commission tente de mieux
cerner l’interaction complexe des facteurs émotifs et rationnels autour
desquels se construit et se déconstruit depuis le 23 juin 1990, date de l’échec de
la ronde constitutionnelle du lac Meech7, l’idée de sécession du Québec.
Penchons- nous d’abord sur l’aspect stratégique de la démarche de la
Commission en analysant brièvement son rapport final.
Le rapport Bélanger-Campeau et la stratégie du gouvernement
Bourassa
En tant qu’instrument stratégique de négociation, le rapport final étonne par
ses ambiguïtés et ses contradictions. Mais avant de l’analyser, décrivons-le
brièvement.
À part la liste des recommandations et les annexes incluant divers addenda des
commissionnaires exprimant leurs réserves, ce rapport comprend en tout sept
chapitres. De ceux-là, un présente les membres, un autre énonce le mandat de
la Commission et deux autres sont consacrés à l’introduction et à la
conclusion. Les éléments de fond se trouvent donc tous dans les chapitres 4, 5
et 6, soit une cinquantaine de pages en tout, en gros caractères et à double
interligne. Que disent ces trois chapitres ?
Le chapitre 4, « Le Québec : une société moderne, une identité propre », brosse
un tableau presque idyllique du dynamisme de la société québécoise
contemporaine. L’idée maîtresse de ce chapitre est que, lorsqu’il l’a voulu, le
Québec a réussi à devenir une société prospère, moderne et cultivée. On lit, en
effet, qu’à partir des années soixante, les Québécois « marquent un tournant
dans la prise en main de leur développement8 » et qu’en conséquence, « le
Québec a donné le coup de barre nécessaire à l’émergence d’une société
moderne, complète et ouverte sur le monde9. » On souligne de plus que « la
place du français dans les communications, le travail, le commerce et les
affaires est ainsi réaffermie et élargie10. »
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Ce chapitre étonne. On se serait attendu à ce qu’un rapport recommandant un
référendum sur la sécession du Québec mette en relief les insuffisances du
système politique actuel. Mais au lieu d’un constat d’échec, on y trouve une
image reluisante des exploits du Québec sur tous les plans, allant de
l’économie jusqu’à la langue et la culture en passant par le rôle bénéfique du
gouvernement provincial. Ce chapitre surprend d’autant plus qu’au-delà de ce
beau portrait du Québec et de ses institutions, on y trouve également un éloge,
plus modéréré il est vrai, du cadre institutionnel actuel considéré dans sa
globalité.
Contrairement à ce qu’on lit à la page 12 de l’introduction de ce rapport, l’acte
confédératif de 1867 n’est pas présenté ici selon la perspective nationaliste
usuelle d’un « pacte entre deux peuples », mais plutôt à la manière
« fédéraliste », c’est-à-dire comme un acte visant la création d’un « espace
économique qui devait consolider les liens entre les quatre anciennes
colonies11. » Quelques lignes plus loin, on reconnaît même la nécessité de la
centralisation à Ottawa de certains pouvoirs, idée franchement antinationaliste. On lit, en effet, que « cet espace initial et son développement
ultérieur... on les doit aussi au fait que la Constitution de 1867 accorda au
Parlement fédéral de larges pouvoirs...12 »
L’étonnement grandit quand on voit quelques paragraphes plus loin la Charte
canadienne des droits et libertés recevoir sa part de louanges. Comme on le
sait, cette Charte constitue une des pièces maîtresses de la Constitution de
1982, rapatriée sans le consentement du Québec. C’est d’ailleurs pourquoi elle
est souvent décriée, y compris dans ce rapport, comme étant « dépourvue de
légitimité politique faute d’avoir jamais reçu la pleine et libre adhésion du
Québec13. » Pourtant, à la page 25, on lui reconnaît certains effets heureux,
notamment quant à la transférabilité du droit aux programmes sociaux
fédéraux et à la liberté de circulation des citoyens.
On trouve bien dans ce chapitre quelques critiques du cadre fédéral actuel,
mais dans l’ensemble, on y fait surtout un éloge implicite, et parfois même
explicite, de ce cadre si bien que le message central qui s’en dégage est que le
Québec contemporain se porte très bien. Le lecteur est donc mal préparé à la
mise en accusation du fédéralisme à laquelle se livre le chapitre 5 titré
« L’évolution vers l’impasse ».
Après avoir identifié comme origine de « l’impasse » l’échec de l’accord du lac
Meech, le chapitre 5 lance une affirmation déconcertante. On y lit en effet que
« les réformes majeures mises en oeuvre au Québec pendant les années 1960
ont démontré combien était essentielle la révision du partage des
compétences, rendu problématique par l’évolution du régime fédéral14. » Or,
aucune démonstration n’accompagne cette affirmation. Au contraire, comme
on vient de le voir, le chapitre 4 met en relief le fait que le Québec a
parfaitement réussi son passage à la modernité.
Loin de faire la « démonstration » de la nécessité d’un nouveau partage de
pouvoirs, ce chapitre brosse une large fresque des transformations
constitutionnelles récentes et, surtout, à la page 33, présente une liste assez
brève des effets perçus comme négatifs de ces modifications. On y souligne
deux points. D’abord, la réduction de la compétence du Québec dans la langue
d’enseignement (sans noter la protection correspondante du français à travers
le Canada ni la portée de la clause dérogatoire de la Charte fréquemment
utilisée par le gouvernement québécois). On y relève ensuite la perte du droit
de veto du Québec sur les modifications constitutionnelles (sans noter que ce
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« veto », purement conventionnel, n’avait pas été « perdu » mais plutôt « cédé »
par le gouvernement Lévesque avant le rapatriement de la Constitution en
1982 dans une manoeuvre politique qui arrangeait son Parti).
Essentiellement, ce chapitre insiste bien plus sur la série de blocages dans les
rondes de négociations subséquentes au rapatriement de la Constitution en
1982 que sur la justification d’un nouveau partage de pouvoirs.
Le chapitre 6, dernier des trois chapitres de fond, intitulé « Les voies de
solution », trace dans un premier temps les grandes lignes des exigences
constitutionnelles dites « minimales » pour que le Québec demeure au sein du
Canada. De cette première partie se dégage l’impression très nette que ces
« exigences minimales » sont tellement élevées qu’il est improbable qu’elles
soient acceptées par le reste du Canada. La conciliation des attentes du Québec
et des intérêts des autres provinces dans le cadre fédéral actuel « nécessiterait,
affirme-t-on, des efforts considérables de la part des membres de la
fédération15. » Cette idée est soulignée en conclusion où il est noté que « les
attentes de la population sont élevées : elle veut voir le Québec récupérer des
compétences dans tous les secteurs, qu’ils soient du domaine économique,
social ou culturel16. » Une fois cela établi — la légitimité des nombreuses
revendications du Québec et l’improbabilité de leur acceptation par le reste du
Canada —, émerge tout naturellement la deuxième voie de solution : « La
démarche du Québec vers la souveraineté... qui devrait se fonder sur une
volonté populaire incontestable et clairement exprimée17. »
L’ambiguïté ne cesse de grandir. Le chapitre 4 montre que le Québec se porte
très bien dans le cadre actuel. Le chapitre 5 affirme, sans aucune
démonstration, que le Québec ne contrôle pas dans le cadre fédéral canadien
les pouvoirs essentiels à son développement. Le chapitre 6 d’un côté brandit la
menace de la sécession et de l’autre, il se ravise en évoquant la possibilité
d’une refonte du cadre fédéral actuel. C’est sur ces bases que repose la
conclusion du rapport présentée au chapitre 7. Conclusion qui, comme on peut
s’y attendre, s’avère tout aussi ambivalente que le raisonnement sur lequel elle
s’appuie. En effet, la Commission affirme que : « deux voies seulement
s’offrent au Québec : d’une part, une nouvelle et ultime tentative de redéfinir
son statut au sein du régime fédéral et, d’autre part, l’accession à la
souveraineté. »
Ainsi, derrière l’idée maîtresse, et ambivalente, des « deux voies ultimes » se
dessine en filigrane l’idée du renforcement du pouvoir de négociation du
Québec. Étonnamment, le rapport trahit sa propre fonction stratégique dans un
passage en conclusion où l’on affirme que, tout en se préparant pour la
sécession, le Québec devrait mettre « à profit le temps dont il dispose et les
arrangements en vigueur pour étayer son dossier tout en renforçant son
pouvoir de négociation19. »
Il est important de noter ici que ces recommandations furent explicitement
endossées par le premier ministre lui-même et par son ministre délégué aux
Affaires intergouvernementales canadiennes, Gil Rémillard. Dans une lettre
intégrée au premier des deux addenda accompagnant le rapport, MM.
Bourassa et Rémillard affirmaient qu’à « la croisée des chemins », le Québec
était « non seulement... libre de ses choix mais... maintenant plus en mesure de
les apprécier et de les arrêter grâce au rapport que nous recevons aujourd’hui. »
Ces choix étaient d’après eux bien clairs : « Ce rapport nous confirme que deux
avenues doivent être considérées... : un réaménagement en profondeur du
système fédéral actuel ou la souveraineté du Québec. Les autres solutions ne
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sauraient répondre aux besoins et aux aspirations de la société québécoise20. »
Cette notion des « deux voies » — le réaménagement en profondeur du cadre
fédéral ou la sécession du Québec — fut reprise dans le cadre de la loi 150
adoptée par l’Assemblée nationale selon la recommandation de la
Commission. En effet, cette loi recommandait d’une part un référendum sur la
souveraineté, suivi de l’accession proprement dite au statut d’Etat
indépendant, et d’autre part l’institution d’une commission parlementaire
spéciale « ayant pour mandat d’apprécier toute offre de nouveau partenariat de
nature constitutionnelle faite par le gouvernement du Canada21. »
Ainsi, le rapport de la Commission, tout comme l’interprétation qu’en
faisaient Bourassa et Rémillard tout comme la loi 150 qui en découlait étaient
marqués d’une double ambiguïté. Premièrement, on présentait une image
contradictoire de la place du Québec au sein du Canada. En effet, alors qu’on
affirmait que le cadre institutionnel actuel convenait parfaitement au Québec,
on affirmait en même temps qu’il était nécessaire de s’en défaire.
Deuxièmement, les « voies de solution » reflétaient cette même contradiction.
Tout en semblant s’engager résolument sur la voie de la sécession, le Québec
offrait au reste du Canada une dernière et « ultime tentative » de
renouvellement du cadre fédéral. Comment expliquer ces ambiguïtés qui ne
pouvaient passer inaperçues et qui risquaient d’affaiblir la position du
Québec ? Comment expliquer que ce « couperet » que le Québec s’apprêtait à
placer sur la gorge du reste du Canada était si mal emmanché ?
Comme nous tenterons de le montrer, l’ambiguïté de ce rapport reflète
l’ambivalence plus profonde qui imprègne l’ensemble des documents que
cette Commission a engendrés. D’une part, le processus de consultation
populaire, qui constituait l’une des deux assises des travaux de la Commission,
déclencha des revendications de toutes sortes que seule la sécession pourrait
satisfaire, disait-on généralement. D’autre part, la plupart des expertises
soumises à la Commission tendaient à freiner ces élans sécessionnistes.
Les deux prochaines sections de ce texte examinent ces tendances. La
première scrutera la voix des citoyens et la deuxième, celle des experts.
La voix des citoyens
La Commission déclencha un vaste processus de consultation populaire. Elle
se déplaça à travers la province pour écouter un grand nombre d’individus et de
groupes lors d’audiences publiques, souvent télédiffusées. Pendant plusieurs
mois, tout le Québec et, dans une certaine mesure, le reste du Canada étaient à
l’écoute de Bélanger-Campeau. Cette tribune connut un succès retentissant et
plus de 600 mémoires, représentant un large éventail de revendications, furent
reçus. Très souvent, la question du « statut constitutionnel du Québec » ne
servait que de toile de fond à l’expression de doléances diverses. Il n’est donc
pas étonnant que ces quelque 15 000 pages de texte furent résumées en un
document officiel de 27 pages, inodores et sans vie, intitulé Les
préoccupations et les perceptions se dégageant de la consultation populaire et
catégorisé Document de travail numéro 3. S’il est en effet impossible de
« résumer » ces centaines de mémoires, on peut néanmoins y trouver
l’expression de diverses émotions sur lesquelles peut s’appuyer le projet
sécessionniste. Cette section tentera de définir ces sentiments.
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Notons d’emblée un fait intéressant. Alors que durant l’épisode « Meech », le
sentiment dominant dans l’univers symbolique du Québéc était
« l’humiliation », mal attribué à « l’exclusion » du Québec de la Constitution
de 198222, dans le nouvel épisode lancé par Bourassa en juin 1990, ce
traumatisme semble avoir été exorcisé. Les nouveaux sentiments s’expriment
généralement sur un régistre plus combatif.
Dans une étude récente sur le nationalisme québécois, Stéphane Dion met en
lumière deux sentiments en apparence contradictoires qui favorisent, selon lui,
la montée du sécessionnisme :
Any secessionist movement is rooted in two antithetical feelings: fear
and confidence. The fear is of being weakened or even disappearing
as a distinct people...; the confidence is that it can perform as well, or
even better, on its own23.
En effet, ces deux sentiments de confiance en soi et de peur de disparaître
marquent profondément l’univers symbolique de la vague récente du
sécessionnisme au Québec. Cependant, la lecture des travaux de la
Commission revèle également la force d’au moins deux autres sentiments : la
foi en un Québec souverain et le dénigrement du Canada et de son cadre
fédéral. Examinons de plus près la manifestation de ces sentiments dans les
mémoires soumis à la Commission.
Le mémoire du Conseil du patronat du Québec, une des rares voix
profédéralistes, fait le point sur les progrès accomplis par les élites
francophones. Rédigé par André Raynauld, qui a minutieusement décrit dans
les années cinquante le contrôle anglophone et étranger de l’économie
québécoise, ce mémoire met en relief un revirement absolument spectaculaire.
Par exemple, alors qu’en 1961, les francophones ne contrôlaient que 47,1 p.
100 de l’économie québécoise, ce contrôle passait à 61,6 p. 100 en 1987. Ces
données, et de nombreuses autres, l’amènent à affirmer que « les francophones
ont investi le monde de l’entreprise comme ils avaient investi l’agriculture
autrefois. Sans attendre la souveraineté, ils sont devenus une collectivité
normale dans un univers normal24. » Ce sont des constatations analogues que
l’on retrouve souvent dans les analyses de l’économie québécoise25 et qui
illustrent un aspect clé du modèle de développement appelé communément
« Québec Inc. ».
Il s’agit là de la montée d’une élite économique qui, dans les termes de
Raynauld, est devenue « normale » en faisant la démonstration, surtout envers
elle-même, que le monde des affaires n’avait rien de sorcier. Enivrée par
l’expansion économique des années 1983 à 1987, alliée au gouvernement
provincial dans sa conquête du monde des affaires, cette élite pensait, tant que
l’expansion des années quatre-vingts durait, que rien ne pouvait l’arrêter.
D’ailleurs, le rapport final, dans ses multiples louanges de la vitalité du Québec
contemporain, souligne notamment le fait que « la vigueur économique du
Québec repose aujourd’hui sur la compétitivité des entreprises du secteur
privé26. »
Ce thème revient très fréquemment dans de nombreux mémoires. La Chambre
de commerce de Québec, par exemple, relève fièrement la réputation acquise
par cette nouvelle élite :
292
L’orientation récente de la politique économique au Québec lui
confère déjà une solide crédibilité en matière de libertés
économiques, d’appui à l’économie privée et de recherche de
compétitivité législative et fiscale27.
À ce sentiment de confiance en soi et de progrès, qui alimente l’idée
d’indépendance, s’allie le sentiment que le Canada, lui, régresse. C’est ainsi
que le mémoire de la Chambre de commerce, comme d’ailleurs de nombreux
autres, établit un parallélisme hâtif entre l’essor du Québec et « l’échec » du
Canada :
Il est important que les changements constitutionnels proposés par le
Québec contribuent à corriger les vices du système fédéral qui ont pu
entraîner le gouvernement central dans la débâcle financière
actuelle28.
Ces mots « vices » et « débâcle », lourds de sens, font allusion, bien sûr, à
l’énorme déficit du Canada, mais aussi au fait que le gouvernement fédéral
aurait, selon la Chambre de commerce, « perdu le contrôle sur ses dépenses » et
favorisé « d’une manière tout à fait disproportionnée des taux d’intérêt
élevés. » Ce mémoire critique par ailleurs le principe même du fédéralisme qui
favorise « un coûteux chevauchement des compétences législatives » et donc
le grossissement des structures administratives. D’où l’accusation fracassante
et conforme aux discours nationalistes de l’heure : « Le fédéralisme pratiqué au
Canada est un échec économique. »
Mais ce n’est pas seulement sur le plan économique que « l’échec » du
fédéralisme est dénoncé. Nombreux sont les mémoires qui présentent le
gouvernement central comme une grosse bureaucratie assoiffée de pouvoir. La
Société nationale des Québécois (section Richelieu- Yamaska), par exemple,
présente l’histoire du Canada, de 1759 à 1990, sous l’angle de la lutte éternelle
du Québec contre les empiètements injustifiés du « Canada anglais » :
Le gouvernement fédéral n’a jamais cessé de prendre de plus en plus
de place et de s’approprier des pouvoirs qui étaient pourtant réservés
au Québec31.
Cette idée apparaît à maintes reprises et de diverses manières tout au long du
texte. Ainsi, loin d’en rappeler la « grande noirceur », on reconnaît au régime
Duplessis le mérite d’avoir vaillamment résisté à « la soif de centralisation du
fédéral32. »
Cette vision d’un Québec, véritable Sisyphe, qui lutte éternellement et
futilement contre les ingérences d’Ottawa est très fréquente. On la retrouve,
par exemple, dans les mémoires des trois centrales syndicales les plus
influentes : la CEQ, la CSN et la FTQ. Rejetant « le carcan fédéral » la CSN
affirme même que :
L’idée d’un Canada incluant le Québec n’a toujours été qu’une
illusion... implantée de force qui n’a jamais vraiment su s’incarner et
répondre aux aspirations de la minorité francophone33.
Pareillement, la C.E.Q. reproche au Canada d’être un régime quasi fédéral
étouffant pour le Québec34.
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Sans s’encombrer de preuves, de nombreux mémoires présentent si
fréquemment cette image d’un Québec résistant héroïquement à l’ingérence
néfaste du pouvoir central qu’il serait fastidieux d’en énumérer ici les
nombreuses variantes. Contentons-nous d’en signaler deux autres : l’une
provenant d’un mouvement de jeunes et l’autre, du milieu universitaire.
Selon le Conseil permanent de la jeunesse, la souveraineté du Québec
s’impose parce que les jeunes Québécois souhaitent se développer dans une
société qui « agit pour une plus grande équité et une plus grande justice
sociale... qui priorise... la qualité de l’environnement... [la lutte contre le
chômage et la pauvreté... et qui donne] aux gens des régions les pouvoirs
nécessaires à leur plein épanouissement... » Or, affirment sans aucune
démonstration les auteurs de ce mémoire, ceci ne peut se réaliser dans le cadre
actuel parce que :
L’histoire démontre clairement que le fédéralisme canadien, tel
qu’on le connaît, ne peut répondre aux aspirations du Québec et que
les multiples tentatives de modifier les choses... se sont soldées par
des échecs35.
L’Université du Québec, l’une des universités québécoises les plus
importantes pour ce qui est de la population étudiante, semble partager cette
opinion. En effet, d’après elle, en dépit de la résistance acharnée du Québec, le
gouvernement central : « a malgré tout réussi à instituer les modes
d’intervention qui perturbent le développement des universités
québécoises36. » D’ailleurs, ajoute-t-elle sans plus de démonstration, le
« Canada anglais » n’a jamais rien compris au Québec :
Le Québec constitue une société distincte. C’est là un fait avéré, que
seules les instances politiques du Canada anglais s’obstinent à ne pas
reconnaître37.
On voit donc comment trois notions reviennent fréquemment pour rejeter et
dénigrer tout ce qui a trait au Canada, au système fédéral et au gouvernement
central : le Canada est une idée « imposée de force » aux francophones; le
régime fédéral est essentiellement l’histoire d’un « échec » qui « étouffe » le
Québec; le gouvernement central ne cherche qu’à « s’ingérer » dans ce qui ne
le regarde pas et, en dépit de toute la vigilance des Québécois, ses interventions
sont toujours « perturbantes. »
D’un point de vue stratégique, ce type de discours peut aisément renforcer la
voie sécessionniste préconisée par la Commission. Il est cependant important
de noter que Léon Dion lui-même, qui préconisait la stratégie du « couteau sur
la gorge », sentit le besoin de rappeler que : « contrairement à l’opinion reçue
au Québec, le Canada est une fédération fortement décentralisée... » Il souligna
également que le Québec avait bénéficié de son appartenance au Canada :
Il ne faudrait pas oublier que les liens qui unissent le Québec au
Canada lui ont été bénéfiques au cours de la décennie 1940 et de
celles qui ont suivi38.
Cette insistance sur la distanciation entre le Québec et le reste du Canada, qui
semble au coeur du sentiment sécessionniste, se retrouve tant dans le mémoire
de l’Université du Québec que dans ceux des centrales syndicales, des
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Chambres de commerce, du Mouvement des Caisses Desjardins, de l’Union
des producteurs agricoles, des groupes de femmes des groupes de jeunes. Ces
mémoires « oublient » régulièrement que c’est au sein du Canada que
l’épanouissement du Québec s’est réalisé.
De plus, souvent les intervenants sont tellement pris par leur propres
problèmes qu’ils accordent peu ou pas de place à la question de l’heure, c’està-dire au statut constitutionnel du Québec. Professant leur foi en un Québec
souverain, ils espèrent que celui-ci résoudra les problèmes qui leur tiennent à
coeur.
À titre d’exemple, le mémoire d’un groupe de centres de femmes affirme, sans
aucune forme de démonstration, « qu’il ne fait aucun doute qu’un Québec
indépendant est la solution à la sauvegarde de la langue et la culture39. » Cette
confiance débordante ne les empêche pas cependant, deux pages plus loin de
l’assortir de conditions : « Oui à un Québec souverain si... » Suit une très
longue liste de revendications qui constitue l’essentiel du mémoire. Par
exemple :
UN QUÉBEC SOUVERAIN SI :
Il met en place des mesures sociales adéquates favorisant la place des
femmes dans la société... 40
Les auteures de ce mémoire imaginent un Québec indépendant doté d’un
meilleur système de sécurité sociale.
Dans un même élan de confiance, le Mouvement Desjardins imagine, lui, un
Québec indépendant tout à fait en contradiction avec cette dernière vision. En
effet, soutient-il, non seulement le Canada freine le Québec par sa rigidité et
son incapacité de s’adapter au nouvel environnement international mais, en
plus, ses programmes de sécurité sociale constituent un fardeau trop lourd à
porter. Reconnaissant la générosité envers le Québec des programmes
fédéraux dans ces domaines, le mémoire déplore cependant l’utilisation de
sommes considérables à des fins si peu productives :
Il faut souligner que ces dépenses ne font que soutenir le pouvoir
d’achat de personnes démunies, de façon temporaire ou permanente,
mais qu’elles sont loin d’être aussi productives, sur le plan
économique, que des engagements consacrés à la recherche...41.
Critiquant ainsi certains programmes d’assistance sociale, contrastant cette
forme d’intervention du gouvernement central avec celle du gouvernement
québécois, comme s’il s’agissait de deux pays distincts, le mémoire affirme
que c’est l’encouragement des initiatives privées qui fut la source de
l’expansion économique du Québec.
Ce faisant, le Mouvement Desjardins passe sous silence deux aspects
importants de cette question. Premièrement, s’il était souverain, c’est le
Québec qui aurait eu à financer son système de sécurité sociale.
Deuxièmement, la péréquation n’existant plus, ce système pourrait coûter plus
cher au Québec surtout s’il décidait, par exemple, de répondre aux
revendications du mémoire du groupe de femmes cité plus haut.
Mémoire après mémoire, groupe après groupe, on retrouve cette même
conviction qu’un Québec souverain solutionnerait ses propres problèmes.
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Pour les femmes, un Québec souverain aurait des programmes de sécurité
sociale plus généreux; pour le Mouvement Desjardins, il élaguerait l’ÉtatProvidence. Pour la Chambre de Commerce, il encouragerait davantage la
liberté des échanges; pour les associations syndicales, il ferait le contraire. Ce
qui étonne, c’est non la divergence des solutions proposées, mais la
convergence fréquente dans l’identification de la source des problèmes.
Autant on attribue à la structure fédérale actuelle la cause de tous les maux,
sans que les intervenants n’en ressentent une responsabilité quelconque, autant
on proclame sa foi dans la dynamique sociale positive qui prévaudrait dans cet
hypothétique État indépendant.
D’autre part, comme on l’a noté plus haut, un autre sentiment alimente aussi
les poussées sécessionnistes : la crainte de « disparaître ». On sait que sur le
plan démographique, le Québec subit les effets négatifs conjugués de deux
phénomènes : la dénatalité et l’émigration. Dans le passé, la « revanche des
berceaux », encouragée par le clergé, a donné au Québec un des plus hauts taux
de natalité de l’Occident. Mais comme le constate le démographe Henripin, les
moeurs ont changé avec une rapidité foudroyante et les Québécois et les
Québécoises
se sont... lancés avec une rare hardiesse dans le recours à la méthode
la plus destructrice de la nature : la stérilisation42.
Mais peu importe la méthode, le fait est que le taux de fécondité du Québec est
tombé de 3,78 en 1951 à 1,43 en 1986, soit un des taux de fertilité les plus bas
du monde43. Bien que ce taux soit récemment remonté à 1,7, il se situe encore
bien en dessous du taux minimal de 2,1 requis pour maintenir la population à
son niveau actuel. C’est ce qui explique qu’une étude commanditée par le
Conseil de la langue française prévoit que la part du Québec dans la population
totale du Canada passera de 26,5 p. 100 en 1981 à 24,1 p. 100 en 202144.
Il n’est pas étonnant que ces projections inquiètent les Québécois, et surtout les
Québécois francophones. La décroissance démographique du Québec peut
signifier une diminution de son poids politique et donc, possiblement, la perte
de la vitalité du français en Amérique. Telle est la leçon que tirent, presque
immanquablement, de nombreux organismes nationalistes.
Le mémoire du Mouvement national des Québécois (section de Montréal) en
est une frappante illustration. Près des deux tiers sont consacrés à ce problème
qui, aux yeux de ce Mouvement, présente un double danger : d’abord sur le
plan des relations externes du Québec avec ses voisins anglophones; danger
également sur le plan interne, puisqu’un Québec vieillissant et stagnant serait
moins productif et plus coûteux. S’appuyant sur des sources scientifiques
fiables, les auteurs écrivent :
Tous les signes apparaissent d’un rapide déclin démographique aux
conséquences désastreuses.... [il faut] regarder en face le problème le
plus troublant de notre histoire collective : celui de notre survie45.
Notant la baisse du taux de natalité, les pertes du Québec en terme de
migrations interprovinciales et le faible apport de l’immigration
internationale, le mémoire ne camoufle pas le problème:
Bref l’immigration est nécessaire mais pas suffisante. La natalité est
nécessaire mais peu assurée.
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À ce problème bien réel, et fort complexe, analysé avec lucidité, les auteurs
n’offrent comme solution que leur foi dans l’indépendance du Québec :
Le Québec n’a pas le choix. S’il veut maîtriser son avenir, il lui faut
rapidement disposer de tous les moyens d’un pays complet pour agir
sur l’évolution de la population46.
Ici, comme dans de nombreux autres mémoires, le lien entre le problème (par
exemple, la crainte de disparaître), et la solution envisagée (la sécession), est
affirmé plutôt qu’établi.
Pour résumer cette première partie, rappelons qu’une diversité de sentiments
sous-tendent les velléités sécessionnistes du Québec. D’une part, conscients
de la fragilité du fait français et des progrès notoires du Québec francophone
contemporain, nombreux sont les mémoires qui expriment simultanément la
crainte des Québécois de disparaître et leur confiance en leur capacité de faire
face à l’avenir tout seuls. D’autre part, le poids de la dette nationale, les
déchirements internes autour de négociations constitutionnelles qui semblent
sans issue et les nombreux autres problèmes auquels le Canada fait face
légitiment la vieille habitude d’accuser « Ottawa » de tous les maux. On
constate ainsi, dans la plupart des mémoires, une absence presque totale de
référence aux bienfaits dérivés du Canada ainsi que du poids considérable dont
jouit le Québec au sein de la fédération. Par exemple, le fait que, depuis plus
d’un quart de siècle, le Premier ministre du Canada ait été québécois et que le
Québec ait constitué l’axe central de la base électorale du parti au pouvoir
n’occupe aucune place dans les analyses présentées.
Au delà des faits, c’est la convergence de ces sentiments, et de beaucoup
d’autres, qui accentue l’identification de nombreux Québécois à la « nation »
québécoise et affaiblit le sentiment d’appartenance au Canada. Perçu, sinon
comme un pays étranger, du moins comme une « super-structure politique » —
dans les termes du premier ministre Bourassa —, le Canada doit ainsi faire tous
les jours la preuve qu’il mérite de survivre. Alors que les sentiments affectifs
sont canalisés vers le Québec, les calculs utilitaristes portent sur le Canada et
son cadre fédéral.
Il convient donc de voir si, aux yeux des experts consultés par la Commission,
cette « super-structure » répond encore aux besoins et intérêts du Québec.
La voix des experts
Examinons maintenant le point de vue des spécialistes consultés par la
Commission Bélanger-Campeau. Ce sont les « documents de travail » numéro
1 et numéro 2 que nous privilégierons, car c’est surtout là que l’on trouve des
analyses approfondies des questions touchant l’accession à l’indépendance.
Le premier traite des questions économiques et le second, des questions
juridiques, institutionnelles et démographiques. Nous examinerons d’abord
les aspects « démolinguistiques » de la question, puis ses aspects économiques
et, enfin, ceux d’ordre « juridique » et « institutionnel ».
Les aspects démolinguistiques
Comme nous l’avons vu, la « peur de disparaître » est étroitement liée au déclin
de la population du Québec. Par contre, la solution préconisée, comme
l’illustre le mémoire du Mouvement national des Québécois, est, elle, moins
concrète et consiste souvent en un simple acte de foi dans l’indépendance du
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Québec. Comment les spécialistes consultés par la Commission analysent-ils
cette question ?
Cette tâche fut confiée à Marc Termote, démographe bien connu à l’INRS.
Celui-ci confirme la possibilité très réelle du déclin démographique :
Tous les auteurs de perspectives récentes semblent donc arriver à un
consensus : si le « cours des choses » ne se modifie pas rapidement et
drastiquement, les effectifs de la population québécoise (et
montréalaise) devraient commencer à décroître au cours du prochain
demi-siècle47.
Poursuivant son analyse, il examine les trois principales sources
d’accroissement de la population — la fécondité, l’immigration internationale
et les flux migratoires inter-provinciaux — afin d’évaluer les effets de la baisse
de population sur les divers groupes linguistiques du Québec.
Concernant le taux de fécondité, Termote confirme qu’en dépit d’une légère
hausse, celui-ci reste nettement inférieur au niveau requis pour assurer le
maintien de la population. De ce fait, dit-il, « le groupe français du Québec a
perdu ce qui représentait son seul atout démographique par rapport au groupe
anglais48. »
Du point de vue de l’immigration internationale, l’auteur note que celle-ci
apporte peu au groupe francophone : environ 20 000 en cinq ans (en 19811986)49.
Quant aux flux migratoires interprovinciaux, trois facteurs importants
affectent négativement l’évolution démographique du Québec. D’abord, le
groupe anglophone ne cesse de décliner tant relativement qu’absolument. Ce
déclin, amorcé depuis les années 1930, s’est grandement accentué entre 1976
et 1986, soit depuis l’arrivée au pouvoir du gouvernement sécessionniste du
Parti québécois (de 12,8 p. 100 de la population en 1976 à 10,3 p. 100 en
198650). D’autre part, étant donné que ce sont les personnes âgées de 20 à 39
ans qui quittent le Québec, le groupe anglophone décline et veillit51.
Enfin, l’apport, même faible, des immigrants se combine à un solde migratoire
net en faveur des autres provinces. Termote ajoute un fait peu connu et bien
surprenant :
Les immigrants en provenance des pays francophones ne manifestent
pas une propension plus élevée à rester au Québec, au contraire52.
Non seulement le Québec n’attire pas assez d’immigrants, mais il n’arrive pas
à les retenir, peu importe leur langue maternelle. Par ailleurs, Termote relève la
très faible mobilité des francophones originaires du Québec contrairement à la
grande mobilité des anglophones :
Le Québec apparaît vraiment déconnecté du reste du Canada, sauf en
ce qui concerne les anglophones (et encore est-ce pour en sortir...)53
Projetant toutes ces données vers l’avenir, il conclut :
Selon toute probabilité, on parlera de plus en plus le français au
Québec... Mais ce sont des Québécois de moins en moins nombreux
qui le parleront54.
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Ainsi, l’analyse de Termote revèle que le vrai problème du Québec ne réside
pas dans son « anglicisation », mais dans sa dépopulation. À ce grave
problème, Termote n’offre pas de solution tranchée. Il se contente plutôt de
suggérer quelques hypothèses qui pourraient faciliter la recherche de
solutions.
Premièrement, dit-il, même si le taux de fécondité remontait à des niveaux
élevés et, hypothèse peu probable, s’y maintenait, « cela ne ferait que retarder
de dix ans (2016) le début de la décroissance55. » Deuxièmement, même si
l’immigration atteignait 42 000 personnes par an et qu’elle se maintenait à ce
niveau, l’année 2016 marquerait toujours le début de la décroissance56. Selon
Termote, le chiffre de 42 000 semble fort improbable, puisqu’il n’a été atteint
que très rarement et seulement dans des périodes de forte expansion
économique.
L’étude scientifique rigoureuse de cet expert met en relief la complexité du
problème qui se prête mal à une solution tranchée, comme celle que préconise
la Société nationale des Québécois. C’est pourquoi Termote suggère qu’avant
d’envisager des mesures draconiennes, le Québec devrait essayer, très
sérieusement, d’enrayer l’exode de ses résidents :
Un afflux majeur d’immigrants internationaux serait d’ailleurs moins
nécessaire si l’on parvenait à au moins garder ceux que l’on a57.
Alors que la voix des citoyens dictait un changement radical appuyé sur la foi
en un Québec indépendant, la voix des experts évoque plutôt des réformes
pondérées dans un climat social favorisant la tranquilité et la sécurité. La
sécession favorise-t-elle la réalisation d’un tel climat social ?
Pour répondre à cette question, tournons-nous de nouveau vers les spécialistes
consultés par la Commission. Nous examinerons d’abord les questions d’ordre
économique, puis celles d’ordre « juridique » et « institutionnel ».
Les aspects économiques
On évalue souvent les conséquences économiques de la sécession du Québec
en répondant à deux types de questions : le Canada est-il « rentable » ? un
Québec souverain serait-il « viable » ? Ces questions lancent les débats sur de
mauvaises pistes. En effet, l’une renvoie à une guerre de chiffres et donc à des
interprétations inévitablement très élastiques de données très complexes.
L’autre présuppose qu’il suffit d’avoir démontré la « viabilité » de la
souveraineté pour avoir démontré sa nécessité. Or, de toute évidence, un
Québec souverain serait viable. Nombreux sont les pays souverains qui
disposent de ressources matérielles et humaines bien inférieures à celles du
Québec. D’ailleurs, et fort justement, la question qui se posait à la Commission
n’était pas de savoir si un Québec souverain serait viable, mais si l’on vivrait
mieux ou moins bien dans un Québec souverain que dans le Québec actuel.
Quel est son verdict ?
Les analyses des spécialistes consultés par la Commission permettent
d’entrevoir une réalité autre que celle qu’on trouve dans les mémoires
mentionnés plus haut. L’étude de Pierre Fortin, un des chapitres clés du
Document de travail numéro 1 sur l’économie, en est une bonne illustration.
Examinons-le.
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Analysant le problème du chômage, Fortin note que même dans une bonne
année, comme 1988, « le taux de chômage au Québec est demeuré parmi les
plus élevés du continent (9,4 p. 100)58. » Il note également que la situation
s’aggrave et que, de 1966 à 1989, la hausse du chômage était « deux fois plus
importante que la dérive qu’a connue l’Ontario59. »
Fortin cerne systématiquement les sources de l’accroissement du chômage,
dont certaines, selon lui, pourraient être indirectement attribuables au cadre
fédéral. C’est ainsi qu’il déplore, par exemple, l’accès plus facile aux
prestations d’assurance-chômage résultant de la refonte, en 1971, de la loi
fédérale :
Cette loi a considérablement allégé les conditions d’accès aux
indemnités-chômage et fait augmenté... la fréquence et la durée du
chômage... 60
Fortin déplore également une autre source de chômage sous contrôle fédéral :
« la persistance du chômage engendrée par la lutte incessante contre
l’inflation61. »
Cependant, parmi les nombreuses autres causes qu’il signale, certaines, selon
lui, ne sont attribuables qu’au Québec, notamment l’effet « locomotive » de la
hausse du salaire minimum, « la poussée des salaires de 1970 à 1980 dans les
conventions collectives du secteur public62, » ainsi que l’exode de l’élite
anglophone de Montréal qui aurait « accentué les difficultés de la
métropole63. »
Le portrait complexe et subtil qui se dégage de cette étude ne ressemble guère à
celui des nombreux mémoires qui, comme on l’a vu, attribuent
automatiquement tous les maux québécois au fédéralisme canadien à moins,
bien sûr, que l’on ne suppose qu’un Québec indépendant s’en tirerait en
réduisant les prestations d’assurance-chômage et en abandonnant la lutte
contre l’inflation. On trouve ces solutions simplistes dans certains mémoires
(la première émanant souvent des milieux d’affaires, la deuxième, du monde
syndical et des groupes populaires). Au contraire, Fortin présente une analyse
rigoureuse et équilibrée.
Tout au long du texte, Fortin met en relief le poids de ce qu’il appelle les
« causes structurelles » du chômage. Selon lui, un Québec souverain, même
s’il gérait d’une manière autonome sa politique monétaire et son taux de
change, ne parviendrait pas « à maintenir le plein emploi de ses travailleurs
dans le contexte inflationniste contemporain, puisque le chômage québécois
est en partie élevé pour des raisons structurelles importantes64. » Toute
l’analyse de fond du texte, développée dans les deux parties centrales du
document, l’une intitulée « La photo » et l’autre « Le film », soit cinquante des
soixante-quatorze pages, est consacrée à l’étude de ces causes structurelles.
Ainsi, l’image qui se dégage de la lecture de ce document, c’est que la
sécession ne constitue pas la solution au problème du chômage, puisque ces
« causes structurelles » perdureraient. De plus, advenant la sécession, Fortin
souligne, à plusieurs reprises, la nécessité pour le Québec d’établir des
relations étroites avec le Canada et les États-Unis « en raison de sa forte
intégration financière et commerciale au continent65. »
En conclusion de cette analyse, Pierre Fortin note en passant que : « Bien que le
fait soit encore peu connu, nous avons vécu depuis 1982 au Québec une forme
spontanée d’action directe sur les salaires et les prix66. » Au Québec, affirme-t-
300
il, sans avoir au préalable développé cette idée dans les sections analytiques,
les syndicats et les entreprises ont déjà fait preuve d’esprit de modération et de
conciliation. De plus, ajoute-t-il, toujours sans autre forme de preuve, l’esprit
communautaire des Québécois s’épanouira encore plus dans un Québec
indépendant et leur permettra de résoudre leurs problèmes mieux que le reste
du Canada :
Il n’est pas évident que la dynamique socio-politique canadienne se
prêterait facilement à ce type de pratique. Mais l’esprit
communautaire qui caractérise le Québec augmenterait certainement
les chances de réussite d’une telle démarche chez nous67.
Après un diagnostic très rigoureux du problème, Fortin évoque comme remède
« l’esprit communautaire » des Québécois. Ce contraste entre la grande rigueur
de l’analyse et la solution souhaitée est d’autant plus surprenant qu’il affirme,
par ailleurs, que la politique canadienne des années soixante-dix du contrôle
des prix et des salaires « a produit de bons résultats en permettant au taux
d’inflation de baisser68. » Ainsi, selon Fortin lui-même, « l’esprit
communautaire » a déjà fait ses preuves dans l’ensemble du Canada et ne
distingue donc pas le Québec du reste du Canada. Par ailleurs, Pierre Fortin
affirmait :
Mon mémoire à la Commission vise précisément à démontrer... que
la menace de souveraineté politique brandie par nos concitoyens est
parfaitement crédible sur le plan économique et qu’il faut la prendre
au sérieux69.
Mais, comme on l’a vu, la « crédibilité économique » de la sécession n’a pas
vraiment été établie dans la cinquantaine de pages d’analyse, elle a plutôt été
évoquée en quelques lignes en conclusion. Pierre Fortin a peut-être contribué à
rendre « la menace » plus crédible.
Il est impossible d’examiner ici tout le Document de travail numéro 1 sur
l’économie. Soulignons cependant que bien que la « viabilité » d’un Québec
indépendant ne soit jamais mise en doute, immanquablement tous les auteurs
soulignent la nécessité absolue du maintien de liens très étroits avec le reste du
Canada.
Par exemple, dans le chapitre 2, produit par le secrétariat de la Commission, on
lit que l’espace économique canadien dans lequel le Québec est fortement
ancré sert bien les intérêts des Québécois. Les auteurs rappellent, par exemple,
le fait bien connu que l’industrie laitière du Québec, un des piliers de son
économie, bénéficie grandement du cadre politique canadien70. Le secrétariat
ajoute en outre que le Québec « est la province dont les industries
manufacturières sont les plus protégées par la politique commerciale
canadienne71. » On apprend d’ailleurs que l’intégration du Québec aux
marchés canadien et américain est si profonde que celui-ci aurait tout intérêt,
advenant sa sécession, à calquer sa politique monétaire sur celle du Canada.
Autrement, « il verrait rapidement sa monnaie se déprécier, son inflation et ses
taux d’intérêts augmenter72. » En fait, le secrétariat n’hésite pas à
recommander tout simplement que le Québec « poursui[ve] l’utilisation d’une
monnaie commune73. » Ces faits, parmi bien d’autres, l’amènent à
recommander avec vigueur le maintien de liens très étroits entre le Québec et
ses voisins :
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Le maintien de l’accès [aux marchés du Canada et des États-Unis] est
une condition essentielle à la prospérité économique du Québec, et
ce, quel que soit son statut politique et constitutionnel74.
Dans un autre texte analysant « Les options monétaires d’un Québec
souverain », l’auteur, Bernard Fortin, montre que l’adoption d’une monnaie
québécoise produirait des coûts « non négligeables » qui, précise-t-il,
« auraient tendance à s’accroître avec le degré d’indépendance monétaire du
Québec vis-à-vis le Canada75. » Ainsi, plus le Québec s’éloigne du Canada
plus les coûts augmentent. C’est ce qui amène l’auteur à recommander une
union monétaire avec le Canada76.
Daniel Racette reprend cette même idée dans un autre chapitre, mais cette fois
sous l’angle de l’accès aux marchés financiers. Notant la grande mobilité des
capitaux dans le monde contemporain, ainsi que la concurrence intense des
divers marchés financiers, l’auteur insiste sur la nécessité pour le Québec de
s’entendre avec le reste du Canada. Un nouvel État québécois aurait tout
avantage, affirme-t-il, à adhérer [à une entente avec le reste du Canada] pour
bénéficier dès le départ de la crédibilité que cette entente permettra77.
Texte après texte toutes les recommandations vont dans le même sens. Le
Québec devrait s’employer à maintenir le marché commun avec le Canada. Il
devrait adopter sa monnaie, sa politique monétaire, sa politique financière, et
ainsi de suite. On s’aperçoit même que, advenant la sécession, le traité de libreéchange avec les États-Unis et le Mexique, si souvent perçu comme essentiel
au développement économique du Québec, ne s’appliquerait pas
automatiquement ni dans les mêmes conditions. C’est ce que le secrétariat
concède dans un style assez hermétique :
Il y a donc tout lieu de croire qu’en l’absence d’un accord entre les
États-Unis et le Canada pour modifier l’Accord de libre-échange
existant en vue d’y intégrer le Québec, il ne saurait être question, pour
ce dernier, d’une succession d’États de plein droit. Il n’est pas
impossible cependant que l’Accord devienne applicable au
Québec...78
Et c’est ainsi que texte après texte, on retrouve les mêmes mises en garde :
advenant la souveraineté du Québec, la première tâche de ce nouvel État
devrait être... de rétablir des liens très étroits avec le Canada ! Ou d’assumer
des « coûts de transition » élevés.
Pierre Fortin traite de cette dernière « option » avec humour dans un texte
moins spécialisé intitulé « Le passage à la souveraineté et le déficit budgétaire
du Québec ». Examinant les effets du partage de la dette fédérale advenant la
sécession du Québec, Fortin évalue à 7 p. 100 du PIB le déficit budgétaire du
nouvel État, déficit qui serait « le plus élevé des grands pays industriels
avancés, à l’exception de l’Italie79; » ce qui l’amène à adresser des mises en
garde très sévères aux gestionnaires des fonds publics. Il recommande en
particulier, un « vigoureux programme de rationalisation budgétaire » et des
réductions des dépenses de l’ordre de trois milliards de dollars. « L’État
québécois devrait être maigre et souple, le plus rapidement possible »,
souligne-t-il :
302
Bref, le « party de l’indépendance » devrait être limité à une seule nuit
et il faudrait avoir, au préalable, envoyé en détention préventive les
politiciens patriotards portés à la dépense somptuaire80.
Vu la propension de la fonction publique québécoise, comme peut-être celle de
tout État, de grossir allègrement, et vu les promesses du Parti québécois
d’absorber les quelque dizaines de milliers de fonctionnaires fédéraux
québécois advenant la sécession cette remarque laisse perplexe.
Comme nous venons de le voir, le Document de travail numéro 1, qui tente de
déterminer si l’économie québécoise serait mieux gérée et plus prospère
advenant la sécession, n’aboutit certainement pas à une conclusion tranchée en
faveur de cette option. En fait, ce document établit plutôt que cette option, qui
impliquerait des « coûts de transition » probablement élevés, serait possible.
Néanmoins, tous les experts consultés soulignent la nécessité, advenant la
sécession, du maintien de relations très harmonieuses et très serrées avec le
Canada.
Le maintien de telles relations est tenu pour acquis dans les milieux
nationalistes québécois. L’idée que le Québec ne rencontrerait pas d’obstacles
dans l’établissement de rapports sereins avec le Canada et ses autres voisins
repose sur le postulat dit de la « rationalité économique ». Autrement dit, pour
protéger leurs propres intérêts, les partenaires économiques traditionnels du
Québec, devenus des États frontaliers, ne refuseraient pas une telle
collaboration. Est-ce un modèle valable ?
« Non », affirme l’ASDEQ, l’Association des économistes québécois dans son
mémoire à la Commission :
Cette définition d’un comportement « rationnel » en situation de
choix interdépendant constitue une grossière simplification. Tous
ceux qui sont familiers avec la théorie des jeux en percevront
immédiatement les faiblesses81.
Pour ces économistes, advenant la sécession, il n’est pas du tout « rationnel »
de penser qu’un climat idyllique de coopération prévaudrait. Évoquant toute la
série de désaccords qui ont marqué l’histoire récente du Canada, ils affirment
que rien dans cette histoire ne prédispose à la coopération : « Tout, au contraire,
suggère des stratégies d’affrontement82. » Or, pour eux, l’existence d’un
climat favorable à la coopération constitue la condition si ne qua non du bienêtre des Québécois. C’est ce qui amène ces économistes, triés sur le volet, à
affirmer qu’advenant la sécession du Québec, « le rôle des considérations non
économiques doit donc être — et sera — déterminant83. » Car à leurs yeux,
« l’essentiel tient à la présence ou l’absence d’un climat de coopération, de
confiance mutuelle au moment où les choix stratégiques sont effectués84. »
Pour évaluer « la présence ou l’absence d’un climat de coopération » advenant
la sécession du Québec, tournons-nous, une dernière fois, vers les spécialistes
consultés par la Commission.
Les aspects juridiques et institutionnels
Le chapitre 1 du Document de travail numéro 2 (plus de 100 page rédigées par
José Woerhling) analyse très soigneusement toute une série de questions
relatives à la nature du climat qui prévaudrait advenant la sécession du Québec.
L’auteur présente deux scénarios possibles : accession à l’indépendance avec
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l’approbation et la collaboration du Canada; sécession sans l’accord du
Canada. On pourrait croire que la première option pose si peu de problèmes
qu’elle ne mérite pas notre attention, mais tel n’est pas le cas.
L’auteur note, tout d’abord, qu’en cas de sécession, :
la situation du Québec serait véritablement unique, puisqu’il s’agirait
du seul cas contemporain de sécession d’un État membre d’une
fédération faisant partie des démocraties libérales et des pays
développés et riches85.
C’est, comme on l’a vu plus haut, ce qui étonnait Francis Fukuyama. De plus,
nous apprenons que cette situation serait non seulement unique mais illégale,
puisqu’aucune disposition constitutionnelle canadienne ne prévoit la
sécession d’une province. Il faudrait donc qu’au préalable la Constitution du
Canada soit amendée de manière à reconnaître le principe de la sécession.
Selon l’auteur, dans la meilleure hypothèse, une telle modification pourrait se
faire en vertu de l’article 38 de la loi constitutionnelle de 1982 n’exigeant
qu’une majorité des deux tiers des provinces. Aucune démarche propre au
Québec, y compris un référendum, ne peut contourner cette barrière :
Le fait qu’un gouvernement provincial sécessionniste obtienne
l’appui de la population provinciale lors d’un référendum ne
changerait rien aux données juridiques du problème86.
Nous apprenons ainsi que le référendum sur la sécession recommandé par la
Commission n’aurait aucun poids légal. Mais nous apprenons aussi qu’une
sécession légale du Québec exigerait qu’au préalable le gouvernement fédéral
ainsi que sept des dix provinces canadiennes acceptent d’amender la
Constitution.
Considérant, comme le souligne très justement l’auteur, « l’extraordinaire
complexité et la très grande rigidité de la procédure de modification de la
Constitution du Canada », le défi serait de taille. Comme d’autre part une telle
modification introduirait au sein de la Constitution un mécanisme
désintégratif autorisant la sécession de toute autre province, cette première
barrière semble, à toutes fins pratiques, infranchissable.
Mais on se rend vite compte que là n’est pas le seul problème. En effet, dit
l’auteur, même dans l’hypothèse d’une sécession « approuvée par le Canada
anglais et réalisée en respectant la Constitution canadienne... les questions à
résoudre resteront nombreuses et complexes87. » C’est à l’analyse de ces
questions, que l’auteur se consacre.
Selon Woerhling, l’un des problèmes les plus épineux a trait aux droits des
peuples autochtones qui « soulèveraient sûrement des difficultés
particulières88. » En effet, non seulement le Québec devrait-il respecter leurs
droits, y compris leurs droits territoriaux, mais de plus il devrait s’adapter au
fait que ces peuples autochtones voudront, très probablement, maintenir des
liens avec le gouvernement fédéral. Le Québec ne pouvant s’y opposer, la
coopération entre le Québec et le Canada devient essentielle. C’est pourquoi
l’auteur suggère « un accord Québec-Canada confiant à un organisme mixte...
le soin d’entendre et de trancher les litiges89. » Ainsi, pour les affaires
autochtones, un Québec indépendant devrait très vite partager sa souveraineté
avec le Canada.
304
En fait, plus on avance dans la lecture de ce texte, plus on se rend compte de
l’extrême complexité du processus d’accession à l’indépendance et plus
augmente le nombre de sphères dans lesquelles le Québec devrait partager sa
souveraineté avec le Canada. Par exemple, contrairement à ce qu’on pourrait
croire, un Québec indépendant ne pourrait pas, à sa guise, abandonner toute la
législation relevant du gouvernement fédéral qui s’appliquait à son territoire
en tant que province. Toutes les causes en cours dans les tribunaux
d’obédience fédérale exigeraient une étroite collaboration entre les deux États.
Ce n’est qu’ainsi qu’on éviterait le recours à « des principes complexes tirés du
droit international90. »
De plus, prévient l’auteur, un vide juridique dans des champs aussi importants
que le droit criminel et le système bancaire, présentement de compétence
fédérale, pourrait engendrer une situation chaotique. Pour l’éviter, l’auteur
propose bien plus qu’une simple collaboration avec le Canada, puisqu’il
suggère que le Québec garde les lois fédérales qui lui sont utiles :
Il faudrait donc que l’Assemblée nationale adopte, dès l’accession à
la souveraineté, une loi stipulant que... les lois fédérales existantes
continueraient de s’appliquer au Québec91.
Mais là ne s’arrête pas l’étroite collaboration entre les deux nouveaux États.
Abordant la question délicate et très complexe de la citoyenneté, l’auteur note
le fait bien évident que tous les citoyens canadiens domiciliés au Québec
devraient recevoir la citoyenneté québécoise. Mais il laisse entendre, en plus,
que les Québécois pourraient conserver la citoyenneté canadienne :
Il serait préférable que le Québec et le Canada s’entendent... quant à
la citoyenneté et à un éventuel droit d’option des personnes affectées
par le changement de souveraineté92.
Que les Québécois veuillent le meilleur des deux mondes, on le comprend.
Mais pourquoi le Canada accorderait-il aux Québécois le droit de demeurer
des Canadiens et donc de bénéficier des avantages politiques, institutionnels
et sociaux que confère la citoyenneté du pays qu’ils auraient rejeté ? L’auteur,
probablement conscient de l’improbalitié de cette option, se contente
d’ailleurs de dire qu’une telle entente serait « préférable ».
Woehrling identifie, en outre, toute une série de problèmes de divers ordres
requérant une très étroite collaboration entre le Québec et le Canada, tels le sort
des fonctionnaires fédéraux en poste au Québec, le sort des députés québécois
au Parlement canadien, la disposition des biens fédéraux situés au Québec, la
répartition des dettes, la succession aux traités, l’admission dans les
organismes internationaux, et ainsi de suite. Pour résoudre ces problèmes :
Dans tous les cas, il vaut évidemment mieux que la situation soit
réglée par des accords bilatéraux de succession, afin d’éviter le plus
possible les litiges après l’indépendance93.
Mais en plus de cette étroite collaboration sur le plan interne, l’aide du Canada
serait également requise sur le plan des relations internationales. En effet,
l’auteur nous rappelle que le Québec ne serait pas automatiquement admis au
sein des organisations internationales auxquelles appartient le Canada :
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La règle générale est que tout État nouveau doit demander son
admission et se soumettre aux procédures habituelles d’acceptation
de sa candidature94.
Le même principe régirait l’admissibilité du Québec aux traités internationaux
négociés par le Canada. Ainsi, par exemple, les termes du traité de libreéchange nord-américain devraient être renégociés avec les États-Unis et le
Mexique. Comme nous l’avons vu plus haut, Woerhling confirme de la sorte
ce que le secrétariat de la Commission avait déjà établi à ce sujet. Or, il
convient de rappeler que ce traité était fort apprécié par la plupart des élites
québécoises. Woerhling note qu’un nouveau traité désavantagerait
probablement le Québec, entre autres, parce que sa négociation inclurait de
nouveaux intervenants :
Le Canada et le Québec pourraient signer un accord de dévolution...
Cependant, un tel accord ne pourrait pas être imposé aux États tiers
sans leur consentement95.
C’est pour toutes ces raisons que Woerhling souligne que la collaboration du
Canada serait essentielle pour aider le Québec à se faire une place au soleil
international :
Les autorités fédérales pourraient assister grandement le Québec
dans son entrée sur la scène internationale96.
Reprenons, en conclusion, l’analyse du scénario 1 de Woerhling, laquelle
suppose une collaboration des plus harmonieuses entre le Canada et le Québec
tant avant qu’après la sécession. Le premier geste requis du Canada serait
l’amendement de sa constitution de façon à accorder au Québec, et à toute
autre province, le droit à la sécession. Une fois la Constitution modifiée, le
Canada devrait aider le Québec à régler la question autochtone et à tempérer
les revendications territoriales qui s’y rattachent. Cela fait, le Canada devrait
permettre au Québec de conserver, à sa guise, toutes les lois fédérales et pour
aussi longtemps qu’il le voudrait. Le Canada devrait également collaborer
avec le Québec pour éviter un vide juridique et le chaos qui peut en découler.
Cette étroite collaboration devrait s’étendre également au partage de la dette, à
la répartition des biens publics, à la réintégration des fonctionnaires fédéraux
travaillant au Québec, à la renégociation des traités internationaux, à
l’admission du Québec aux organismes internationaux... Et, pour finir, le
Canada devrait accorder aux nouveaux Québécois qui auraient rejeté leur pays
le droit de rester Canadiens avec les privilèges qui s’y rattachent.
Nous voyons donc que même selon le scénario d’une collaboration étroite du
Canada — cas plutôt rare dans l’histoire récente des relations entre le Québec
et le reste du Canada — la situation du nouvel État demeurerait fragile. Il est
donc inutile de considérer ici le deuxième scénario de Woerhling, pourtant
nettement plus probable, d’une sécession sans l’accord du Canada.
L’analyse de Woerhling constitue un complément indispensable à celle des
questions d’ordre économique présentée plus haut et, notamment, à la mise en
garde servie dans le mémoire de l’ASDEQ. Rappelons que selon ce groupe
d’économistes québécois de renom, incluant Pierre Fortin et André Raynauld,
la faisabilité de la sécession dépend en dernière analyse de considérations non
économiques. « L’essentiel, affirmaient-ils, tient à la présence ou l’absence
306
d’un climat de coopération, de confiance mutuelle97. » Woerhling a montré
l’improbabilité d’une telle occurrence. On peut donc conclure que les analyses
des experts ne justifient pas les risques d’une sécession.
Stratégie et politique : les lendemains d’une Commission
On a vu que la recommandation à « deux voies » de la Commission — la
transformation « en profondeur » du fédéralisme canadien ou un référendum
sur la sécession — ne constituait en réalité qu’une stratégie de négociation.
Cette dimension proprement politique de la mission de la Commission
Bélanger-Campeau est soigneusement notée par Woerhling lui-même dans la
présentation de son rapport où il met en relief deux éléments. Premièrement,
comme Fortin, il affirme qu’une des principales, sinon l’unique fonction, de la
Commission consiste à renforcer la main du Québec dans ses négociations
avec le reste du Canada :
La Commission sur l’avenir politique et constitutionnel du Québec a
été créée notamment pour rechercher les moyens d’instaurer un
nouveau rapport de force entre le Québec et le Canada anglais, afin de
dénouer l’impasse créée par l’échec de l’Accord du lac Meech98.
Deuxièmement, il souligne, à plusieurs reprises, la prépondérance des facteurs
politiques. Pour utiliser sa terminologie, la « légitimité des positions en
présence » prend le pas sur leur stricte « légalité », puisque, selon lui, pour les
institutions démocratiques la « volonté populaire constitue leur justification et
le véritable moteur de leur fonctionnement99. » Parallèlement, dit-il, « cette
même réalité se constate dans l’application du droit international qui est fondé
sur le principe de l’efficacité vaut titre100. » Ainsi, pour que la démarche
sécessionniste réussisse, tant sur le plan interne que sur le plan externe, il faut,
selon Woerhling, qu’essentiellement deux conditions « politiques » soient
satisfaites. Premièrement, il faut que tous les changements au statut politique
du Québec «soient endossés par une majorité suffisante de la population
québécoise, de préférence à l’occasion d’un référendum » et, deuxièmement, il
faut que le Québec s’assure de la collaboration du reste du Canada, tant avant
qu’après la réalisation de ce changement.
En dernier ressort, la « faisabilité » de la sécession, ou de tout autre
changement de statut constitutionnel, relève de considérations d’ordre
« politique ». Très clairement, Woerhling relance la balle dans le camp des
politiciens :
Il convient de souligner au départ que la mise en oeuvre du droit
constitutionnel et du droit international est fortement conditionnée
par des facteurs politiques tenant à la primauté des faits, aux rapports
de force et à la légitimité des positions en présence101.
On comprend donc l’échec de la stratégie de négociations axée sur la
Commission Bélanger-Campeau : le gouvernement prit la balle au bond.
En effet, plus avançait la date du référendum, plus il devenait clair que le
premier ministre Bourassa, qui avait certainement scruté attentivement les
travaux de la Commission et qui connaissait fort bien les enjeux, ne voulait à
aucun prix faire la sécession. De plus, il devenait également clair que la
majorité des Québécois n’auraient pas dit « Oui » à la sécession102. Coincé par
sa stratégie du « couteau sur la gorge », le gouvernement Bourassa en était
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réduit à chercher une entente à tout prix. Selon le célèbre dossier publié par
L’Actualité, le ler novembre 1992, Bourassa aurait dit lui-même au premier
ministre Mulroney :
Je suis coincé... Ou je reporte le référendum, et je me fais accuser de
ne pas respecter ma parole et de tricher avec l’histoire, ou je fais un
référendum auquel les Québécois ne sont pas prêts...103
Là se trouve la réponse au « mystère » évoqué par Léon Dion qui s’étonnait que
Bourassa ait laissé s’échapper « le triple rapport de force qu’il avait entre les
mains ». Bourassa savait que cette stratégie s’était retournée contre lui.
Si la Commission Bélanger-Campeau a échoué sur le plan stratégique, elle a
toutefois réussi à renforcer l’idée même de sécession au Québec.
En effet, lorsque pendant des mois, se déplaçant à travers la province, elle a
prêté l’oreille à tous ceux qui avaient matière à se plaindre, elle a canalisé leurs
revendications dans le sens de la sécession. Après tout, la souveraineté du
Québec, présentée comme souhaitable et imminente, devenait la réponse à
tous les problèmes. En favorisant ainsi l’expression de tels sentiments, pour les
utiliser à des fins stratégiques, le Parti libéral du Québec a réussi à légitimer la
raison d’être de son adversaire : le Parti québécois. D’ailleurs, ce Parti, voué à
la sécession, entend utiliser à ses propres fins la dynamique déclenchée par la
Commission. En effet, comme on peut le lire dans un document distribué aux
médias, ce Parti se promet d’utiliser toutes les occasions pour reconstruire « le
formidable consensus établi dans la société québécoise au cours des travaux de
la commission Bélanger-Campeau. » Ce « formidable consensus », c’est le
gouvernement fédéraliste de Robert Bourassa qui l’a offert au Parti québécois;
sur un plateau d’argent.
Et c’est ainsi que, par le biais de la Commission « Bélanger-Campeau »
s’unirent, dans un même élan, la stratégie d’un parti fédéraliste et les visées
d’un parti indépendantiste pour ajouter une pierre de plus à la construction de
l’idée de sécession au Québec.
Notes
1.
2.
3.
4.
308
C’est dans le cadre d’un séminaire sur le nationalisme, à Laval, que les thèmes analysés ici
ont germé. Comme toujours, je dois donc beaucoup à mes étudiants. Je tiens également à
remercier Jean-Pierre Derriennic, Stéphane Dion et William Johnson pour leurs
commentaires sur une première version de ce texte. Merci également aux rédacteurs ainsi
qu’aux évaluateurs anonymes de cette revue. Merci enfin, et surtout, à Monique, sans qui ce
texte n’aurait pas vu le jour.
La situation canadienne constituant un cas d’espèce, elle étonne de nombreux observateurs.
Francis Fukuyama, par exemple, y voit même une sorte de test des valeurs démocratiques et
libérales face aux pressions du nationalisme ethno-culturel :
The best test case of this in the world right now is Quebec... This is because Quebec is a
subdivision within a prosperous and stable liberal democratic country... The breakup of
Canada along national lines would be an interesting piece of evidence concerning the
adequacy of modern liberal democracy. (Journal of Democracy, octobre 1992, p. 28)
« Pour sortir de l’impasse constitutionnelle » Document de travail, numéro 4. Les avis des
spécialistes invités à répondre aux huit questions posées par la Commission, Québec, 1991,
p. 279.
La Presse, ler octobre 1992, p. B3.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
20.
21.
22.
23.
24.
25.
26.
27.
28.
29.
30.
31.
32.
33.
34.
35.
36.
37.
38.
39.
40.
41.
42.
« Quebec Beyond the Federal Regime of 1867-1982: From Distinct Society to National
Community » dans R. Watts et D. Brown, éd. Options for a New Canada, University of
Toronto Press, 1991, p. 103.
Ibid., p. 105.
Presque tous les sondages montrent que la période de juin à octobre 1990, immédiatement
« après Meech », marque le faîte de la vague sécessionniste. Les sondages Angus-Reid du 20
juillet, par exemple, ou de Léger-Léger de la fin octobre 1990 ou encore l’étude d’Édouard
Cloutier et de ses collaborateurs, Le virage, (Québec/Amérique, 1992) indiquent tous la
même tendance. Selon la formulation de la question, entre 50 et 64 % des Québécois
favorisaient la sécession.
1991, p. 17.
Ibid., p. 18.
Ibid., p. 20.
Ibid., p. 24.
Ibid., p. 24
Ibid., p. 35
Ibid., p. 31. C’est moi qui souligne.
Ibid., p. 58.
Ibid., p. 84.
Ibid., p. 60.
Ibid., p. 81.
Ibid., p. 83. C’est moi qui souligne.
Ibid., p. 96.
Ibid., p. 92
Cet épisode et ce sentiment ont été longuement analysés dans M. Nemni, « Le ‘dés’accord
du Lac Meech et la construction de l’imaginaire symbolique des Québécois », paru dans L.
Balthazar, G. Laforest, V. Lemieux, Le Québec et la restructuration du Canada, 19801992 : enjeux et perspectives, Québec, Septentrion, pp. 167-197. Une étude plus succincte
de cette même question a paru dans le Queen’s Quarterly, vol. 99, no 1, printemps, 1992.
« Explaining Quebec Nationalism » dans R. Kent Weaver The Collapse of Canada ?,
Washington, D .C., The Brookings Institution, 1992, p. 78.
« Les enjeux économiques de la souveraineté, » octobre 1990, pp. 37-38.
On retrouve ces données non seulement dans les documents de la Commission mais aussi
dans les statistiques gouvernementales. Voir, par exemple, Le Québec statistique, 59e
édition, Gouvernement du Québec, 1989.
1991, pp. 18-19.
L’avenir politique et constitutionnel du Québec : sa dimension économique, Montréal, 1er
novembre 1990, p. 9
Ibid., p. 13.
Ibid., p. 11.
Ibid., p. 2.
Moins de discours, plus d’action, 2 novembre 1990, p. 4.
Ibid., p. 5.
Un choix clair pour la CSN : L’indépendance du Québec, novembre 1990, p. 14.
Centrale de l’enseignement du Québec (CEQ), Indépendance nationale et souveraineté
populaire, novembre 1990, p. 37.
Les jeunes et l’avenir politique et constitutionnel du Québec, novembre 1990, p. 25.
Ibid.
Mémoire de l’Université du Québec à la Commission parlementaire sur l’avenir politique et
constitutionnel du Québec, 31 octobre 1990, p .2.
« Pourquoi je voterai Non », dans La Presse, 1er octobre 1992, p. B3.
Centres de femmes du Saguenay-Lac-St-Jean-Chibougamau, Mémoire soumis à la
Commission sur l’avenir politique et constitutionnel du Québec, octobre 1990, p. 3.
Ibid., p. 5.
Ibid., p. 19.
Naître ou ne pas être, Québec, Institut québécois de recherche sur la culture, 1989, p. 78.
309
IJCS/RIÉC
43.
44.
45.
46.
47.
48.
49.
50.
51.
52.
53.
54.
55.
56.
57.
58.
59.
60.
61.
62.
63.
64.
65.
66.
67.
68.
69.
70.
71.
72.
73.
74.
75.
76.
77.
78.
79.
80.
310
Ibid., p. 73.
Marc Termote et Danielle Gauvreau, La situation démolinguistique du Québec, Éditeur
officiel du Québec, 1988, p. 253.
Sans les moyens d’un pays complet, le Québec français ne fera bientôt plus le poids,
novembre 1990, pp 23-24. Rappelons que cette question fit une entrée très remarquée dans
l’univers médiatique, en hiver 1989, lorsque parut le documentaire Disparaître de l’Office
national du film. Mme Lise Payette, ex-ministre au sein du gouvernement Lévesque,
présentait la dénalité comme la principale menace au fait français, et l’immigration comme
un mal nécessaire vu la difficulté « d’assimiler » ces nouveaux arrivants.
Ibid., p. 47.
« L’évolution démolinguistique du Québec et du Canada », Éléments d’analyse
institutionnelle, juridique et démolinguistique pertinents à la révision du statut politique et
constitutionnel du Québec, Document de travail numéro 2, Québec, 1991, p. 270.
Ibid., p. 256.
Ibid., p. 254.
Ibid., p. 239.
Ibid., p. 247.
Ibid., p. 273.
Ibid., p. 253.
Ibid., p. 276.
Ibid., p. 271.
Ibid., p. 270.
Ibid., p. 273.
« La question de l’emploi au Québec : la photo et le film », chapitre 4, Éléments d’analyse
économique pertinents à la révision du statut politique et constitutionnel du Québec,
Document de travail numéro 1, Québec, 1991, p. 167.
Ibid., p. 169.
Ibid., p. 231.
Ibid., p. 170.
Ibid., p. 172.
Ibid., p. 231.
Ibid., p. 176.
Ibid., p. 176.
Ibid., p. 234.
Ibid., p. 237.
Ibid., p. 235.
« Le choix forcé du Québec : aspects économiques et stratégiques » Document de travail
numéro 4, p. 342.
Secrétariat de la Commission sur l’avenir politique et constitutionnel du Québec, « L’accès
du Québec aux marchés extérieurs et à l’espace économique canadien », Document de
travail numéro 1, p. 45.
Ibid., p. 45.
Ibid., p. 40.
Ibid., p. 41.
Ibid., p. 50.
Ibid., Bernard Fortin, p. 287.
Ibid., p. 299.
« Intégration financière internationale et interdépendances des politiques macroéconomiques nationales » dans ibid., p. 273.
Op. cit., p. 35, mes italiques. Notons, que la Commission admet là ce que de nombreux
spécialistes, surtout anglophones, ont maintes fois répété. Voir, par exemple, les travaux du
John Deutsch Institute for the Study of Economic Policy et, notamment, Robin W. Boadway
et al., éd., Economic Dimensions of Constitutional Change, deux volumes, Kingston (Ont.),
Queens’s University Press, 1991. Voir également The Gazette du 1er octobre 1992, qui cite
de hautes autorités américaines confirmant ce fait.
Dans Alain-G. Gagnon et François Rocher, Répliques aux détracteurs de la souveraineté du
Québec, Montréal, VLB éditeur, 1992, p. 457.
Ibid., p. 458.
81.
82.
83.
84.
85.
86.
87.
88.
89.
90.
91.
92.
93.
94.
95.
96.
97.
98.
99.
100.
101.
102.
103.
104.
ASDEQ, Mémoire à la Commission sur l’avenir politique et constitutionnel du Québec,
novembre 1990, p. 40. Ce mémoire, approuvé par l’association, est le fruit des délibérations
de sept économistes issus de divers milieux québécois. Parmi les auteurs, notons la
participation de Pierre Fortin et d’André Raynauld.
Ibid., p. 41.
Ibid., p. 39.
Ibid., p. 41.
« Les aspects juridiques de la redéfinition du statut politique et constitutionnel du Québec »,
Le rapport de la Commission sur l’avenir politique et constitutionnel du Québec, Éléments
d’analyse institutionnelle, juridique et démolinguistique pertinents à la révision du statut
politique et constitutionnel du Québec. Document de travail numéro 2, Québec, ler trimestre
1991, p. 81.
Ibid., p. 57.
Ibid., p. 60.
Ibid., p. 64.
Ibid., p. 64.
Ibid., p. 69.
Ibid., p. 68.
Ibid., p. 70.
Ibid., p. 74.
Ibid., p. 78.
Ibid., p. 77.
Ibid., p. 80.
Op. cit., p. 40.
Op. cit., p .2.
Ibid., p. 1
Ibid., p. 2.
Ibid., p. 1.
Un sondage très fiable du Centre de recherches sur l’opinion publique, effectué pour La
Presse et le réseau TVA, établit une chute considérable de l’option souverainiste (dans sa
version « molle ») de 64 % en novembre 1990 à 40 % en octobre 1992.
L’Actualité, ler novembre 1992, p. 71. Ce dossier, basé sur des documents secrets obtenus par
ce périodique, parut quelques jours avant le référendum du 26 octobre 1992. Il contribua, très
probablement, à la défaite du camp du « Oui » de Bourassa ainsi qu’à la chute de sa cote
personnelle de popularité.
La Presse, 15 janvier 1993, p. A8.
311
Review Essays
Essais critiques
Michael Oliver
The Impact of the Royal Commission on
Bilingualism and Biculturalism on Constitutional
Thought and Practice in Canada
Abstract
The Royal Commission on Bilingualism and Biculturalism had an immediate
impact on the status and use of the two official languages of Canada,
especially at the federal level of administration. The federal Official
Languages Act, in particular, followed its recommendations very closely.
Nevertheless, the key concept of the Commission,—equal partnership—had
much less influence. Although accepted at the time of the Commission’s
creation, it faded in influence and popularity during the 1970s and 1980s. It is
argued that the Charlottetown agreement of the Canadian provinces in August
1992 may be seen as a return to an altered and expanded version of the concept
of equal partnership.
Résumé
La Commission royale d’enquête sur le bilinguisme et le biculturalisme a eu
une influence immédiate sur le statut et l’utilisation des deux langues
officielles du Canada, en particulier au sein de l’appareil fédéral. La Loi sur
les langues officielles, notamment, respectait scrupuleusement ses
recommandations. Toutefois, la notion clé qui fondait la position de la
Commission — l’égalité des deux partenaires — a eu une portée beaucoup
plus limitée. Bien qu’admise au moment de la création de la Commission, sa
popularité et son crédit n’ont cessé de diminuer au cours des années 1970 et
1980. L’auteur estime que l’accord intervenu entre les provinces à
Charlottetown en 1992 constitue une version modifiée et élargie de cette
notion d’égalité entre les partenaires.
Accomplishments
The Royal Commission on Bilingualism and Biculturalism (henceforth B &
B Commission) began its work in 1963 and completed publication of its
reports in 1970. The Preliminary Report of early 1965 and the General
Introduction and Book I on the Official Languages, published together in
October 1967, carried the main themes of the Commission’s findings.
Although subsequent reports were far from unnoticed, they did not attract the
same attention. The regional meetings which formed the basis of the
Preliminary Report and the formal public hearings of 1966 commanded at least
as much media notice as the Commission’s publications, and much of the
importance of the Commission on public consciousness—on the way people
defined and debated French-English and other cultural and linguistic
problems—came from these meetings and media reports on them. When their
IJCS / RIÉC
work was completed, the Commissioners could see their ideas translated into
public policy in many different ways.
The Official Languages Act of 1969 embodies the substance of what the B & B
Commission had recommended as “the keystone of any general programme of
bilingualism in Canada” (RCBB I 1967:138). It laid out the rules for language
services and for language use. It established the Commissioner of Official
Languages and gave that officer a mandate that followed closely the B & B
Commission’s ideas. Transforming a massively English-language federal
public service into a reasonably effective bilingual one changed the character
and the image of the Canadian government profoundly. To dismiss this
achievement, as Quebec separatists (and even some non-separatists [Guindon
1978]) are wont to do, as something Quebec did not really want, is nonsense. It
was not all that French-Canadians and especially Francophone Quebecers
wanted; but it was wanted, and strongly demanded as brief after brief to the
Commission attested. Because a federal bilingual regime is not a sufficient
condition for the survival of Canada does not mean that it is not a necessary
condition.
The decision of New Brunswick to turn itself into an officially bilingual
province is again a clear implementation of a B & B Commission
recommendation. Ontario’s refusal to do the same was equally clearly a
rejection of the Commission’s recommendation and had quite a different
quality than the traditional sweeping of the question under the provincial rug.
Radio and television were made available in both official languages under the
auspices of the Canadian Radio and Television Commission (CRTC), a body
that was fully cognizant of the B & B Commission’s recommendations and
accepted them. In both federal and some provincial bodies, the language
prescriptions of the Commission were a recognized guide (Frith 1978).
In a less precise way, the Commission’s report had an enormous influence on
the pattern of language learning in the country. The vast program of language
instruction undertaken by the federal government followed directly from the
Official Languages Act. But the flowering of French immersion courses
across the country and the widespread improvement in the teaching of French
as a second language deserve to be counted as indirect products of the
Commission and its work, if not always the conscious implementation of its
recommendations in the Book on education (RCBB II 1968).
The B & B Commission pioneered the use of the terms “Anglophone” and
“Francophone”1 which have since become standard in the Canadian
constitutional vocabulary. The use of these terms made it easier to concentrate
on language rather than ethnicity, a vital shift of emphasis that the Commission
promoted to differentiate between the positions of the “two founding races”
specified in its mandate and “other ethnic groups.” It actively discouraged the
use of the term “race,” an expression that occurred only in the Englishlanguage words of its mandate. The French version, in a much more acceptable
way, spoke of “peuples.”
The Mainspring of the Commission
Where the Commission’s perception of Canada had most difficulty imprinting
itself on the politics and the political thought of the country was in the concept
of “equal partnership.” In the working paper that the Commission prepared to
guide those who intended to submit briefs for the Commission, “Equal
316
The Impact of the Royal Commission on Bilingualism and
Biculturalism on Constitutional Though and Practice
partnership between the two founding races” was described as the “mainspring
(idée-force)” of the terms of reference, and consequently of the Commission.
Yet the concept of equal partnership faded from view after the end of the 1960s
in most English-language commentaries. It remained in some pro-federalist
discourse in the French language; but in the rhetoric of many Francophone
exponents of federalism, it received little attention. Liberals who followed the
intellectual lead of Pierre-Elliott Trudeau were particularly chary of it for
reasons that will become apparent.
Equal Partnership in the 1960s
The term equal partnership was very widely accepted in the early 1960s when
the establishment of the Commission and its terms of reference were
announced. The Prime Minister wrote to each of the provincial Premiers
eliciting comment on the enterprise and received replies that, with the one
exception of Premier Manning of Alberta (RCBB 1965: App. III), varied from
welcoming to accepting. What did equal partnership mean to those who were
using it happily in the 1960s? And how did the Commission’s own
amplification of the term fit in with the understandings of those who wrote
about equal partnership?
In seeking replies to these questions, it is useful to turn to the late Donald
Smiley, one of the most prolific and influential writers on the Canadian
Constitution. He began his contributions to the constitutional debate in the
1960s and it is possible to follow the evolution of his ideas (and his use of
various terms) through to his death in 1990. His endorsement of the concept of
equal partnership in 1967 was strong: “Whatever the substance of the New
National Policy and under whatever party auspices it is undertaken, it must, to
be successful, be pursued through ‘equal partnership’ between English- and
French-speaking Canadians” (Smiley 1967: 110-111). He immediately went
on to contrast individual rights and the claims of collectivities and made it clear
that the partners he had in mind were aggregations of persons who had made an
individual choice and had no more “collective” claim to recognition than, say,
the Ascot-tie wearers of the country. This highly individualistic position is one
he never explicitly modified, but it proved a difficult one to articulate without
straying into collectivist terminology. While insisting that language groups are
simply aggregations of individual choosers (and their presumably minor
children), Smiley also talked of two “cultures” and of “cultural communities”
as part of the partnership.
Despite occasional slips, the equal partnership of the early Smiley was
unflinchingly individualist. Partnership based on equality between cultures
had to be rejected because it undermined majoritarian democracy: “If the
relevant equality as defined is between cultures or any other kind of grouping,
and, as is almost always the case, the numbers of individuals in these groupings
are unequal, the principle of individual equality and its majoritarian corollary
must perforce be sacrificed” (Smiley 1967:112). The “relevant equality” for
Smiley was between English-speakers and French-speakers and did not
threaten majoritarianism. The proper kind of partnership conferred rights on
individuals to “practice” their language, much in the way that an individual
might practice religion. But there was an important difference in the obligation
that language rights imposed on the state. Religious freedom simply meant
tolerance, except in the still controversial field of denominational education
where state subsidy (but not state provision) might be needed. Language
rights, as Smiley envisaged them, required that federal, provincial and local
317
IJCS / RIÉC
public services be provided in either language. This new public responsibility
required bilingualism in a large proportion of public servants. The percentage
would increase if French and English were recognized not only for service to
the public but for internal communication.
Smiley did not wince at any of this. For the predominantly unilingual
Anglophone public servants, the transformation required of them would be
immense; but Smiley assumed they would and should bear the social costs.
When it came to proposals that gave recognition to a culturally-based
collectivity—a French-Canadian or Québécois nation—his reaction was
totally different. He asked: “under what conceivable set of circumstances
could English-speaking Canada be expected to find such reforms acceptable?”
(Smiley 1967:118). His answer was a quotation from Eugene Forsey: “Some
French-Canadians seem to believe that the rest of us are so enamoured of them,
or so convinced we cannot get on without them, that we will pay almost any
price to preserve even the most tenuous connection with them. This is a
dangerous delusion” (Forsey 1962:486).
To many Francophone Québécois in the 1960s, equal partnership meant just
what Smiley and those who thought like him rejected out of hand. Quebec
should be recognized in a newly-conceived Confederation as the primary
social unit to which Francophones belonged, and its government should have
vested in it the powers necessary for the realization of collective projects. The
rights of Francophone minorities outside Quebec were of secondary concern.
It was utopian to think that partnership in Canada as a whole could be “equal”
for Francophones. They would constitute a permanent minority and the best
they could hope for was a reasonable set of minority rights. An equal
relationship could only be achieved if Québécois had their own majority
community armed with adequate powers. These powers would logically be
much more extensive that those of any other Canadian province, for the
citizens of those other provinces already had, in Canada as a whole, a state and
a government in which they were a majority. The essence of equal partnership
was thus the provision of new powers for Quebec, either as an associate state
or as a province with a “special status” (Morin 1965).
Equal Partnership and the Commission
It was not surprising that the B & B Commission, handed a mandate that
required it to “recommend what steps should be taken to develop the Canadian
Confederation on the basis of an equal partnership between the two founding
races,” should take some time to decide what equal partnership meant. It was
fully aware of the changes being rung on the theme of equal partnership in
academic, political and media circles and fully conscious of the mutually
exclusive character of individually-based and community-based discussions
of the term. The definition it worked out over its first months of meetings was a
blend of individualistic and communitarian features. It cannot be claimed that
it was totally consistent in its use of words like “society” or that it reconciled
collective and individual perspectives in a fully satisfactory way. But in its
initial plan of work, it laid out a way of defining and realizing equal partnership
that, had it been able to complete its work, might have given greater strength
and longevity to the concept of equal partnership.
The Commissioners believed that developing equal partnership could only be
achieved by combining a transformation in the language use patterns of
Canada as a whole with a fuller recognition of the crucial role of Quebec in
318
sustaining French Canada. It refused to see action in Quebec alone as the
remedy to bilingual and bicultural imbalance in the country. With equal
fervour, it strongly rejected the idea that official language recognition was all
that was needed. What it said was something like this: what cannot reasonably
be changed at the country-wide level, and in the composition and language
practices of the national government, to make Francophones the equal partners
of Anglophones must be attained through an enlarged role for Quebec and its
government. If equal partnership meant roughly balancing the costs and
benefits of being Canadian between Francophones and Anglophones, and if, at
the national level, costs would always be higher and benefits less for
Francophones, then compensating action had to be taken in Quebec to ensure
that benefits to Francophones living there were high enough and costs low
enough to get the overall balance right, or as nearly right as possible.
These are not the Commission’s words. Nonetheless, a careful reading of the
“blue pages” that introduced the final report (RCBB I 1967: xi-lii) brings out
the “balancing of costs and benefits” approach quite unmistakably. Those
pages embody particularly the conception of a just Canada held by André
Laurendeau who wrote most of this part of the Commission’s report. They
document his conviction that the work of the Commission could not be
complete if it did not tackle the question of the role of Quebec in the bilingualbicultural balance of Canada. The commitment to look into the constitutional
division of powers between Quebec and Ottawa, and the relationship between
Quebec and the other provinces of Canada, is laid out in these terms:
...as soon as ...[a]... minority [such as Canada’s Francophones] is
aware of its collective life as a whole, it may very well aspire to the
mastery of its own existence and begin to look beyond cultural
liberties. It raises the question of its political status. It feels that its
future and the progress of its culture are not entirely secure, that they
are perhaps limited, within a political structure dominated by a
majority composed of the other group. Consequently, it moves in the
direction of greater constitutional autonomy. Ideally, the minority
desires the same autonomy for the whole of the community to which
it belongs; but where it cannot attain this objective, it may decide to
concentrate on the more limited political unit in which it is
incontestably the majority group.
This viewpoint, so hotly opposed by some, is deeply entrenched in
Quebec. It has even been, in recent years, at the root of some of the
most spectacular, if not the most serious, manifestations of the crisis
in Canada. To ignore it in this Report would not only constitute an
error; it would very likely mean that Quebec would refuse to listen to
us, and that English-speaking Canada would be deprived of the
chance to become aware of an especially grave element in the present
situation. (RCBB I 1967: xlvii -xlviii)
In fact, the B & B Commission did ignore the division of powers between
Quebec and Ottawa and the extent to which equal partnership demanded
greater autonomy for Quebec. The death of André Laurendeau was a crucial
factor in the truncation of the Commission’s report, but other factors, including
division and fatigue amongst the Commissioners, took their toll, (Lacoste
1990[1] and [2]).2 The full concept of equal partnership and its implications
for Canadian federalism were therefore never fully developed. One can be
319
IJCS / RIÉC
reasonably certain where Laurendeau himself would have wanted the
Commission to go, for Claude Ryan has reported that Laurendeau told him:
“J’ai l’impression qu’éventuellement, nos recherches actuelles pourraient
déboucher sur une formule intermédiaire entre le statut particulier et l’État
associé” (Ryan 1990). But carrying the Commission with him would have
been another matter.
Distinct Societies and Other Ethnic Groups
The Commission could have based its justification of the concept of equal
partnership between Francophones and Anglophones simply on the historical
grounds that they were the “founding” peoples of Canada. They chose instead
to differentiate between the “partners” and other ethnic groups in sociological
terms. The reason why Francophones were quite different from any other
language and cultural group in Canada (except Anglophones) is that
Francophones constituted a “society”. The word “society” designated a
complex of organizations and institutions sufficiently rich to permit people to
lead a full life in their own language. In Quebec, Francophones could find such
a “distinct” society: a substantial French-speaking population (about four
million), with its own legal system, the Civil Code; its own education system;
hospitals, trade unions and a network of voluntary organizations; and, in some
part, its own economic institutions. German-, Ukrainian-, or Italian-speaking
Canadians might have a language of their own, a sense of group identity, a
shared history, common customs, common cultural expression in literature,
dance or music; but only English- and French-language groups had “distinct
societies,” complete or nearly complete societies. Only English and French
Canada could therefore be required to give recognition to one another as
“equal partners” in Canada.
Citizens who came from other language and cultural groups were not thereby
excluded from the partnership, nor relegated, as some groups were claiming, to
the status of second-class citizens. This was because each of the two
“societies” of Canada was an open society. “What we are aiming for, then, is
the equal partnership of all who speak either language and participate in either
culture, whatever their ethnic origin” (RCBB I 1967: xxxix). Membership in
the “founding peoples” was based on learnable, choosable attributes: language
and the culture carried by that language. It did not depend on birth, on
unchangeable, unsheddable characteristics like ethnic origin or colour; nor on
attributes that might be changeable but were deemed irrelevant, like religion.
For the Commission, the peoples of the partnership and the societies they
constituted were thus fundamentally different from the baskets of individual
atoms that Smiley and Forsey believed must be the sole objects of public
“partnership” policy. There were some circumstances, notably that of
immigrants for whom neither French nor English was mother tongue, when the
choice of a new “language group” and new culture might be a cool decision
based on a calculus of self-interest. But at the core of both English-speaking
Canada and French-speaking Canada were people for whom language, and the
culture associated with that language, were given, not chosen. The analysis of
the Commission clearly implied that to create policy for the “partnership” by
pretending that Francophones and Anglophone were choice-based aggregations
risked failure and frustration.
320
The Decline of Equal Partnership
Shortly after the Commission had reported, the concept of equal partnership
went into a steep decline. At the scholarly level, the post-B & B Commission
discussions of French-English relations took a strange turn. English-language
writers on the whole were favourable to language change and especially to the
efforts to make the French-language capability of the federal public service
much greater. The concept of a bilingual Canada won many converts, some of
whom went far beyond the carefully demarcated official bilingualism of the
Commission and called for personal bilingualism for all Canadians
(Bercovitz and Logan 1978: 253). French-language writers, fascinated by the
success of the Parti Québécois and the revival of separatist thought,
concentrated on problems of how much jurisdiction a Quebec government
should have. The concept of equal partnership, with its roots in FrenchCanadian spokesmen like Henri Bourassa and in the Quebec literature on a
“compact between nations,” (Anglophone historians viewed any form of the
compact theory with scepticism and suspicion), was now being hesitantly and
increasingly rarely enunciated—and only in its “linguistic parity” form—by
Anglophones and by those federally-oriented Francophones who clustered
around Pierre Trudeau. Equal partnership as a frame for the analysis of
Quebec or Canadian politics was largely ignored by the history and political
science departments of Quebec’s French-language universities.
Why was the possibility of examining Quebec’s claims for autonomy and for
enhanced powers within the framework of equal partnership so rarely
exploited? In large part, one may conjecture, because of the failure of the B &
B Commission to elaborate that framework as it had promised to do. A
literature could have developed, one may speculate in retrospect, around the
trade-offs between power and recognition for Francophones across Canada
and power and recognition for Quebec. In English Canada, comparisons could
have been made between the costs and benefits of recognizing Quebec as a
distinct society, apt to go its own way, and the costs and benefits of increased
efforts to make the public service fully representative of French Canada and to
strengthen the institutions of the French-language minorities outside Quebec.
In French Canada, and especially in Quebec, the risks of breaking the
partnership with English Canada rather than attempting to improve it could
have been assessed not only in economists’ costs (the ineffable “bottom line”)
but in terms of that rare study of Christian Dufour, which grasps the
interpenetration of French and English Canada and takes into account social
and political (and indeed cultural) costs that a break in the partnership would
probably entail (Dufour 1990).
Whatever the reasons may have been, the fact of the near disappearance of the
concept of equal partnership by the late 1980s can readily be documented.
Smiley himself, in the few years that separate his enthusiastic espousal of
“individualistic” equal partnership (1967) and the publication of his study on
Canadian federalism for the B & B Commission (1970) concentrated on
categories of analysis that required only a casual mention, in quotation marks,
of “two founding races” (Smiley 1970: 119). His fear that a statut particulier
for Quebec was becoming the main thrust of Francophone demands on the
Constitution, a possibility that he had recognized and flatly opposed in 1967,
perhaps induced a fear that continued support for any concept of equal
partnership might reinforce that trend. Thenceforth, “equal partnership”
disappears from Smiley’s political lexicon.
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IJCS / RIÉC
Where did it survive? We can find reference to it in John Meisel’s contribution
to the University of Toronto’s “Options” conference in 1977, where he
described the results of a survey which showed that between 80 and 90 percent
of Anglophones in Canada “tacitly reject the notion that this country is based
on a compact between the two founding peoples” (Meisel 1977:16). It is
resoundingly re-endorsed by Davidson Dunton, one of the B & B
Commission’s Co-Chairmen, when he called for “a true mutual sense of
equality and partnership” (Dunton 1978). But when one turns to compilations
on Canada’s constitutional problems in the 1980s and the first years of the
1990s, one is hard put to find “equal partnership” in any other form than a
quotation from the B & B Commission’s mandate, on the rare occasions when
that Commission is still referred to.3
The disappearance of the B & B Commission’s “mainspring” phrase from
scholarly discussions of Canadian politics, especially in the English language,
is probably best accounted for, however, by reasons relating only remotely to
the incompleteness of the Commission’s final report. The following factors
were telling: 1) opposition from a new Liberal Prime Minister of Canada,
Pierre-Elliott Trudeau; 2) the rise of multiculturalism, especially in its initial
form as a “third force”; 3) the increased strength of Western regionalism; 4)
Quebec’s repudiation of bilingualism for the province (and not just by Parti
Québécois indépendentistes); 5) the thrust of claims from indigenous peoples;
and 6) the emergence of “Charter” Canadians with a new sense of citizenship.
Prime Minister Trudeau
Trudeau’s thought on the Canadian Constitution coincides with that of the B &
B Commission on the meaning of bilingualism and on its fundamental
importance. When it comes to equal partnership, as defined by the
Commission, he is miles away. He summed up the difference succinctly in
1988. “Bilingualism unites people; dualism divides them. Bilingualism means
that you can speak to the other; duality means you can live in one language and
the rest of Canada will live in another language...” (Senate 1988). The B & B
Commission insisted that effective public recognition of two languages must
be coupled with recognition of a French society in Quebec, thus permitting a
duality based on an equilibrium of contexts in which two peoples are
alternately majority and minority. Trudeau’s model is quite different and a
shared belief in bilingualism as a national policy should not be permitted to
cover up the contrasts between the two.
Multiculturalism
Canadians who did not come from the “two founding races” choked on the
concept of equal partnership. The Commission made a strong effort to explain
that it repudiated the word “race”; its equal partnership was between languages
groups into which there was free entry and, therefore, every citizen was
potentially included in the partnership. Its biculturalism was also based on an
open set of categories, for by adopting one or other of the two official
languages one could enter into the culture for which that language was the
major vehicle. Finally, the Commission proposed ways by which the other
cultural groups might maintain their vitality and contribute to Canadian
enrichment. In doing so, it was careful not to give credence to the idea that by
adding together all the “other” ethnic groups in Canada, one could identify a
“third force,” non-French, non-English, that rivalled the founding peoples in
significance. André Laurendeau was particularly unconvinced by an
322
arithmetic that added Chinese, Italian, Caribbean and Slavic Canadians
together to create a summed social entity equivalent to French Canada. The B
& B Commission concluded that: “All the available evidence indicates that
those of other languages and cultures are more or less integrated with the
Francophone and Anglophone communities, where they should find
opportunities for self-fulfilment and equality of status. It is within these two
societies that their cultural distinctiveness should find a climate of respect and
encouragement to survive” (RCBB IV 1970:10).
None of this flattened the wave of resentment against equal partnership that
came from the politicians and associations that spoke for the citizens and
descendants of citizens who came from non-Anglophone, non- Francophone
countries. Shortly after Trudeau became Prime Minister, multiculturalism
replaced biculturalism as official policy and in official rhetoric. That element
of “equal partnership” that came from a recognition of “founding” cultures—
those who gave the original shape and character to the state that was created in
1867 and in the years before—was thus undermined, and using the term “equal
partnership” became more touchy. A spokesman for Ukrainian Canadians was
using language quite acceptable to many ethnocultural minority associations
when he referred to “the outdated and discredited concept of two founding
nations” (Special Joint Committee 1987 [2]).
Western Assertions
Often the term “regionalism” is used to describe the campaign for greater
recognition that became a fixed (though by no means novel) part of western
Canadian politics during the 70s, 80s and 90s. But though echoes of protest
against central Canadian dominance came from the Atlantic and the North, the
constitutional position that regional equilibrium was just as important as
French-English equilibrium gained its greatest strength in the West. Smiley is
undoubtedly correct when he interprets the 1979 Pepin-Robarts Report’s upgrading of “regional cleavage” to almost the same level as the French- English
cleavage as the consequence of primarily Western pressures (Task Force on
Canadian Unity 1979). It is not tempting to base analysis of Canadian
constitutional problems primarily on “equal partnership” between
Francophones and Anglophones if regionalism is almost as important.
Quebec’s Dilution of Quebec Bilingualism
Among English-speaking Canadians, “equal partnership” meant putting the
French language on the same plane as English for federal government
operations across Canada, and increased recognition of French by provincial
governments with significant Francophone populations. Bilingualism as
public policy was “equal partnership.” For a Quebec government to reduce the
extent to which it gave recognition to bilingualism thus meant that “equal
partnership” was undermined in a radical fashion. Whatever temptation one
might have had to make use of the concept seemed to evaporate if that was not
after all what Quebec really wanted. That a separatist party in power in Quebec
passed a language law (Bill 101) that reduced Anglophone’s rights and
privileges might be understandable: the separatist Parti Québécois had no
interest in “equal partnership” within the Canadian federal system. But for a
Liberal party government to override the Supreme Court and pass an only
slightly less restrictive law (Bill 178) seemed to make nonsense of equalpartnership-as-bilingualism.
323
IJCS / RIÉC
Claims from Indigenous Peoples
The B & B Commission was quite conscious that inclusion of Canada’s native
peoples in the fundamental partnership could not be accomplished in exactly
the same way as they had deemed appropriate for “allophones.” They noted
that they were “less integrated in the life of the Canadian community than any
other group and would thus require special study” (RCBB 1965: 22). In Book I
of the final report, the “Blue Pages” refer again to “very complex problems” of
integration and urge that “help be given to the native populations to preserve
their cultural heritage” and that necessary steps be taken to assure the survival
of the Eskimo language and “the most common Indian dialects” (RCBB 1967:
xxvi-xxvii). How the special characteristics of indigenous cultures fit the
concept of partnership is left unexamined, although the use of “integration”
seems to prejudge that question, and it is not surprising that those who speak
for the native peoples have had, since then, little time or sympathy for “equal
partnership between the two founding races.” Recognition in the Meech Lake
Accord that the existence of English-speaking and French-speaking
Canadians “constitutes a fundamental characteristic of Canada” and that it is
the role of the Parliament of Canada and the provincial legislatures to preserve
this fundamental characteristic (Constitution Act, 1987. 1.2.(1) (a) and 1.2)
provoked anger and dismay in the leaders of indigenous groups and a demand
for constitutional recognition of aboriginal peoples as distinct societies that
constitute a fundamental characteristic of Canada (Special Joint Committee
1987 [2}).
“Charter” Canadians
There is a certain irony in the fact that the late John Porter used to label
English- and French-Canadians as the two “Charter” groups in Canadian
society (Porter 1964). By the 1990s, references to the “Charter” meant the
Charter of Rights and Freedoms, and Professor Cairns had launched the idea of
Charter Canadians “who see themselves as citizens of a national community”
(Cairns 1989:118). Cairns identifies an “implicit and explicit assumption of
groups and interests defined by gender, by ethnicity, by aboriginal
background, by social policy concerns, and by basic conceptions of a national
community of rights bearers that the Canadian constitution of the late eighties
with its Charter of Rights is a citizens’ constitution” (117). For them, the idea
of equal partnership is far from the basis of the Canadian state; it is close to
being the antithesis of what they believe Can

The Charter, Federalism, and the Constitution, La Charte, le

Transcription

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