Professional Documents
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Audie Klotz, Department of Political Science, Maxwell School of Citizenship and Pub-
lic Affairs, Syracuse University, USA
Palgrave Studies in International Relations, produced in association with the ECPR Stand-
ing Group for International Relations, will provide students and scholars with the
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boundaries of conventional fields of study.
Titles include:
Robert Ayson
HEDLEY BULL AND THE ACCOMODATION OF POWER
Geir Hønneland
BORDERLAND RUSSIANS
Identity, Narrative and International Relations
Oliver Kessler, Rodney Bruce Hall, Cecelia Lynch and Nicholas G. Onuf (editors)
ON RULES, POLITICS AND KNOWLEDGE
Friedrich Kratochwil, International Relations, and Domestic Affairs
Pierre P. Lizee
A WHOLE NEW WORLD
Reinventing International Studies for the Post-Western World
Linda Quayle
SOUTHEAST ASIA AND THE ENGLISH SCHOOL OF INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS
A Region-Theory Dialogue
Simon F. Reich
GLOBAL NORMS, AMERICAN SPONSORSHIP AND THE EMERGING PATTERNS
OF WORLD POLITICS
Robbie Shilliam
GERMAN THOUGHT AND INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS
The Rise and Fall of a Liberal Project
Daniela Tepe
THE MYTH ABOUT GLOBAL CIVIL SOCIETY
Domestic Politics to Ban Landmines
Gideon Baker
Associate Professor, Griffith University
palgrave
macmillan
Selection, Introduction and Editorial Matter© Gideon Baker 2013
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10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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Contents
Introduction 1
Gideon Baker
v
vi Contents
Index 246
Illustrations
Maps
9.1 Outer London, inner London and central activities zone 228
9.2 London’s town centre network 229
vii
Acknowledgements
The chapters that form this collection were originally presented at a work-
shop on ‘Hospitality in International Political Theory’ hosted by Griffith
University in Brisbane, Australia, in July 2010. I would like to acknowledge
the generous support provided for this workshop by Griffith’s Centre for
Governance and Public Policy and especially the backing of its then Direc-
tor, Professor Patrick Weller. Many thanks also to the contributors (and to
Richard Devetak, who acted as a discussant) for the fine discussions that
took place during the course of this workshop and for their timely deliv-
ery of chapters – any tardiness in the appearance of this book has been
my fault alone (and Garrett Brown is to be thanked for ensuring that it
didn’t take even longer). Particular gratitude is due to Nicholas Onuf, who
gave the whole project his unstinting support and who greatly enriched the
workshop, instantiating the RD regime (see Chapter 7) at its best!
I’d like to dedicate this book to my wife, Julia Rudolph, recalling that if
it wasn’t for the encouragement that she gave it might never have seen the
light of day. I owe much else besides, but I’ll keep the telling of that to her.
∗ ∗ ∗
viii
Contributors
ix
x Notes on Contributors
Nations, Markets, and War (with Peter Onuf, 2006) and International Legal
Theory (2008).
Erin K. Wilson is Director of the Research Centre for ‘Religion, Conflict and
the Public Domain’ at the University of Groningen. She is the author of
After Secularism: Rethinking Religion in Global Politics (2011) and of articles in
International Studies Quarterly, Global Society, and Local Global.
Introduction
Gideon Baker
1
2 Hospitality and World Politics
You dogs!’ [Odysseus] cried. ‘You never thought to see me back from Troy.
So you fleeced my household; you raped my maids; you courted my wife
behind my back though I was alive – with no more fear of the gods in
heaven than of the human vengeance that might come. Once and for all,
your fate is sealed.5
has ever been. We need to know more about this – about what has changed,
when and why – and some thoughts on this important theme are advanced
in Part I of this book, which explores early modern discourses on hospitality
and how they helped supplant classical and Christian categories as part of a
wider move away from notions of a world society towards nationalism and
from natural to positive law.
Counterpoised to the inhospitality of modern states, hospitality ethics
(the focus of Part II of this book) is thus a large, and a largely untapped,
normative resource for those who wish to critique the exclusions of world
politics. This should be welcome news for, at present, students of world pol-
itics are compelled to look to all the usual suspects for ethics guidance: to
timeless moral laws that turn them into ethical machines (since they are
merely doing what they must); to future consequences that turn them into
calculating machines (though the calculations are impossible); or to ancient
virtue premised on the questionable idea that human beings only flourish in
particular ways. Given the well-known limits of these approaches, it is again
strange that we don’t look right under our noses at practices that already
have ethical meaning and significance for us. Hospitality is one of these and
maybe an especially important one since in hospitality we seek to relate
not to any old others, but to the Other (the stranger or foreigner). More-
over, hospitality is not solely about how to relate to others, as if the self
was a given, but also to ourselves. While few international relations scholars
would be prepared to go as far as the philosopher Emmanuel Levinas in say-
ing that self is welcome of the other (that, for this very reason, ethics, not
ontology, is first philosophy),13 it is now a staple of constructivist discourse
in academic international relations that identity – in this case, state iden-
tity – is intersubjectively constituted.14 And the point at which international
intersubjectivity takes place (since war is only an exceptional relationship
between states) is in hospitality, as the social-theoretical studies in Part III of
this book remind us. We will now turn to this core feature of hospitality
and draw out its ethical and social-theoretical implications for the study of
international relations, arguing that the refusal to engage with the full com-
plexity of questions of identity in international relations is both the reason
why hospitality remains largely invisible in the discipline and also the reason
why hospitality can prove so helpful to it.
society (which is indeed what was accepted from the Stoics right the way
through the natural law tradition), is simply incongruent with their reduc-
tion of international relations to a self-help system and with the axiom upon
which this assumption is built: fear; specifically, that fear can lead only to
self-helping behaviour. As we have seen, hospitality knows all about fear of
strangers, but it also knows about obligations to them, however unwelcome
these might be. Amongst other things, this is surely a richer way of captur-
ing that the dread of loss of self is complexly intertwined with that of desire
for escape from self when we encounter unknown others, a phenomenol-
ogy that Levinas developed in his vast treatise on hospitality, Totality and
Infinity.15
On the other side, idealism has also been no friend of hospitality for the
simple reason that idealism in international relations has usually taken the
form of cosmopolitan longings for a world in which no one is any longer
foreign to us.16 I recall discussing international ethics with a liberal cos-
mopolitan friend of mine who, in reply to my observation that hospitality
might have a part to play in our thinking, countered that this could only be
the case if by this was meant the truism that all are welcome in a cosmopoli-
tan world order. Of course, my friend was taking objection to the implication
of my argument that deciding on inclusion (and, by extension, also on who
is to be excluded) is preferable to an order in which all are already included.
But, on reflection on that conversation, things are not so simple. Nothing
would close down the horizons of human possibility more than an inclu-
sion that, precisely for being universal, one cannot not be included in (this is
the double-bind of inclusion: the more inclusive the more exclusive it gets).
Another way of making this point, this time in the terms of hospitality, is to
note that the only way to create a home from which I can welcome all is to
make the whole world my home – a global domestication project that, put
like this, seems somehow less benign. Thus does hospitality ethics help us
(force us) to revisit some of our most cherished truths and prod us to work
harder to think through the horrendously complex dialectic between self
and other, inclusion and exclusion, that ‘ethics in international relations’
has to grapple with.
In the 1986 film The Mission there is a scene that reminds us just how
far we have to go in finding a language appropriate to this dialectic. The
scene, set in the eighteenth century, involves a dialogue between the priest
of a remote South American Jesuit mission who is translating for the resi-
dent Chief in his discussion with a Papal emissary. Upon their conversion to
Christianity, the local tribe have made this mission their home. The emissary
of Rome, appearing second in the dialogue below, has come to tell this tribe,
reluctantly, that they are to lose the protection of the Church and come
under the authority of Portugal, though all parties know that Portugal is a
slaving nation that opposes the Jesuits and will close the mission, enslaving
any tribespeople it finds remaining there:
6 Hospitality and World Politics
Insofar as it has to do with the ethos, that is, the residence, one’s home, the
familiar place of dwelling, inasmuch as it is a manner of being there, the
manner in which we relate to ourselves and to others, to others as our own
or as foreigners, ethics is hospitality; ethics is so thoroughly coextensive
with the experience of hospitality.18
As already indicated, this book is divided into three parts. Part I explores
international hospitality in its historical aspect, specifically the early
8 Hospitality and World Politics
In Chapter 3, Georg Cavallar takes up where Baker leaves off, turning our
attention to the Epochenschwelle (dawn of an epoch) of European history, the
one hundred years between 1750 and 1850. This dawn of an epoch is usu-
ally considered as a zone of transition, with the right of hospitality being
replaced by the laws of immigration. From the perspective of this conven-
tional picture, the nineteenth century with its emphasis on state sovereignty,
legal positivism, nationalism and the society of civilized (European) states is
perceived as a kind of fall from the cosmopolitan heights of the previous
centuries, especially the cosmopolitan eighteenth century dominated (as it
seems today) by Kant. International legal theory, so the story goes, moved
from a generous right of hospitality to laws of immigration, which were,
by implication, restrictive and state-centred rather than flexible and inter-
national. Cavaller seeks to unsettle this picture, if not destroy it. He argues
that there were indeed paradigmatic changes in the one hundred years after
1750. However, natural law theories up to the eighteenth century were not
necessarily cosmopolitan, endorsing a right of hospitality. This assumption,
Cavallar suggests, is probably the result of our binary thinking by which we
contrast the positivist nineteenth century with the natural law thinking of
previous centuries.
Cavallar distinguishes among three ‘schools’ in terms of hospitality rights
in his epoch: the imperialist school, the society of states school and the
cosmopolitan school. The thrust of his argument is that the cosmopolitan
school has been retrospectively assigned a greater significance than it had at
the time. This has led to assumptions of a unidirectional shift during this
period ‘from natural law to legal positivism, from hospitality to a restric-
tive right of immigration, from cosmopolitanism to closed state borders’,
which must now be put in question. To the contrary, Cavallar suggests, a
form of state-centred early legal positivism can be found from Pufendorf’s
time, expressed in the firmly entrenched sovereign right to exclude aliens
after 1650. Similarly, far from the eighteenth century being simplistically
cosmopolitan, the cosmopolitan strands of some philosophy in this period
failed to influence international legal theory in any sustained way. From
the standpoint of intellectual history, Cavallar argues, the widespread focus
in disciplinary international relations on the ‘classical authors’ of the eigh-
teenth century such as Kant and Vattel is misleading. Apparently minor
authors were probably as influential because of their university lectures
and perhaps more representative of main trends. In particular, Kant’s ‘over-
whelming presence’ in hospitality discourse today (for example, in Derrida’s
interventions) is more an indication of how ‘Kantianised’ parts of the
Western academic community have become than anything else. Viewed
less anachronistically, the cosmopolitan school was in practice always
marginal.
Chapter 4, the first chapter of Part II, is a good link with Part I as Garret
Brown also provides a history of the idea of hospitality, but this time with
Gideon Baker 11
to act as a host to the world in the first place. Such hospitality, he argues, dis-
turbs oppositions of host and guest since these (g)hosts, though themselves
‘guests’ of the city, perform much of the traditional role of hosts.
However, an analysis of these governmentalising aspects of urban hos-
pitality is not all that is at stake. Bulley recalls that in ‘What is Critique?’
Foucault notes a perpetual question in our analyses of governmentalities:
‘how not to be governed like that, by that, in the name of those principles,
with such and such an objective in mind and by means of such procedures,
not like that, not for that, not by them’.23 And sure enough, despite their
illegal or semi-legal status, we can see that the (g)hosts of London ‘come
to exercise their agency by rejecting hospitality like that, in the name of
those principles and for those objectives’. Sometimes, Bulley suggests, these
objectives involve making use of London’s ‘welcome’ not in accordance
with official attempts to govern London so as to attract the creative classes,
but rather in order, say, to pass through, relatively unheeded, to elsewhere.
In ways reminiscent of the self-isolating bands considered by Klausen, in
some senses these (g)hosts stand to lose their subjectivity, and the precari-
ous agency that comes with it, were they to receive the formal welcome of an
amnesty that would make them official, recognised guests. Like the remote
tribes that flee contact, it is by definition difficult to ask ‘illegals’ who seek
invisibility just what welcome they would chose. But just maybe they, too,
would sometimes call to be left to their own devices? After all, as we have
reflected above, the welcome, inclusion, always comes at a price.
Notes
1. See, for example, Bartolome de Las Casas, The Devastation of the Indies: A Brief
Account, H. Briffault (trans.) (London: John Hopkins University Press, 1992), and
Francisco de Vitoria, ‘On the American Indians’, in Francisco de Vitoria (ed.),
Political Writings (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991).
2. Immanuel Kant, ‘Perpetual Peace: A Philosophical Sketch’, in H.B. Nisbet (trans.)
and H.S. Reiss (ed.), Kant: Political Writings (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1991).
3. Jacques Derrida, Adieu: To Emmanuel Levinas, P. Brault and M. Nass (trans.)
(Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1999); Jacques Derrida, Of Hospitality,
R. Bowlby (trans.) (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2000).
4. See Homer, The Odyssey, E.V. Rieu (trans.) (London: Penguin, 1946), 9.269–71 and
14.56–58.
5. Ibid., pp. 22.34–40.
6. Harry L. Levy, ‘The Odyssean Suitors and the Host–Guest Relationship’, Transac-
tions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association 94 (1963), pp. 145–53.
7. Homer, The Odyssey, pp. 17.44–7.
8. Ladislaus J. Bolchazy, Hospitality in Antiquity: Livy’s Concept of Its Humanizing Force
(Chicago, IL: Ares, 1995).
9. Gabriel Herman, Ritualised Friendship and the Greek City (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2002).
10. Ibid., p. 130.
Gideon Baker 17
Introduction
Thomas Hobbes starts his most famous political work, Leviathan, with a ded-
ication to his friend, Francis Godolphin, in honour and gratitude to the
memory of Francis Godolphin’s brother, Sidney Godolphin. Hobbes admires
Sidney Godolphin as an exemplary citizen:
For there is not any vertue that disposeth a man, either to the service of
God, or the service of his Country, to Civill Society, or private Friend-
ship, that did not manifestly appear in his conversation, not as acquired
by necessity, or affected by occasion, but inhaerent, and shining in a
generous constitution of his nature.1
21
22 Leviathan’s Children
Hobbes will use Universities to reshape our notions of hospitality. But what
dominant conceptions of hospitality does he seek to replace in the uni-
versities? He dedicates a large part of the Leviathan, especially the fourth
part, ‘Of the Kingdome of Darknesse’, in detailing and countering these
other contending doctrines. His argument is that this ‘Darknesse’ is due
to two main sources, an interpretation of scripture that in emphasising
eternal punishments after death gives extraordinary powers to ministers,19
and ‘vain philosophy and fabulous traditions’ of pagan philosophers, whose
‘naturall Philosophy’ or science is ‘rather a Dream than Science’ and whose
Moral philosophy ‘is but a description of their passions’ leading to a sub-
version of the commonwealth.20 Though Hobbes is especially critical of
Aristotle, his real concern is in fact scholasticism or Thomism – that is, the
Christian appropriation of classical political philosophy.21
St. Thomas Aquinas, Doctor of the Church, sought to address the chal-
lenge posed by classical political philosophy to Christian piety, especially
the recently discovered writings of Aristotle. In his magisterial work, Summa
Theologica, Aquinas attempted to harmonise the two wisdoms, philosophi-
cal and divine. Yet the primacy of the divine for Aquinas meant that the two
wisdoms emphasised and favoured different understandings of hospitality.
In classic political philosophy, the regime has as it aim not only the use-
ful but the good life. Because one of the highest goods is friendship, based
Haig Patapan 25
Hospitality as civility
‘Principles of Reason’ set forth in ‘this discourse’ will make the consti-
tution of Commonwealths ‘everlasting’.36 But what implications will this
Hobbesian innovation have for citizenship, civility and hospitality?
Hobbes’ political innovation is nothing less than an attempt to overthrow
the classical understanding of politics and the Christian conception of the
Kingdom of God. In classical understanding human beings are by nature
political animals.37 For Aristotle the crucial political insight is the regime
(politeia), which shapes and gives meaning to political life. Regimes are deter-
mined not only by the size of the ruling group or even their goodness –
whether they look to the common good or the benefit of the ruler – but also
by those things that they hold up or admire, such as freedom in democracy,
wealth in oligarchy, honour in timocracy and virtue in aristocracy. Impor-
tantly, as we have noted above, regimes aim not only for comfortable life but
also for the good life.38 The contrast with the Christian understanding could
not be more striking. For example, St Augustine’s account of the City of God
as our true destination shows the relative disregard he has for the kingdoms
of this world, which he likens to ‘grand larcenies’. The promise of eternal
happiness after death trans-values all aspects of mundane life for Augustine,
determining our actions in the light of everlasting life.39
Hobbes overturns both approaches to politics. His well-known solution is
to employ his theory of power to explain our natural condition and to show
how we can escape from it. Where there is no common power to keep all
in awe, the natural condition of man, due to our sense of equality, is that
of ‘warre, as is of every man, against every man’.40 Men with foresight who
want to leave the ‘miserable condition of Warre’ to preserve themselves and
to secure a more ‘contented life’ will establish a common power or sovereign
to whom they will submit their will and judegment.41 This new, ‘Mortall
God’, will use fear of punishment to keep all in awe, making men observe
their covenants and especially the Laws of Nature.42 Fear is needed, accord-
ing to Hobbes, because ‘without the terrour of some Power, to cause them
to be observed’, the Laws of Nature ‘are contrary to our naturall Passions,
that carry us to Partiality, Pride, Revenge, and the like’.43 Thus Hobbes’ solu-
tion to our natural condition is the institution of a new artificial entity, the
Leviathan state, with a sovereign to ensure security and thereby prosperity.
Hobbes’ new conception of the state rejects classical political thought.
We are not political creatures and are therefore forced to live together.
He also denies the classical emphasis on prudence and therefore relative
inequality. Consequently, he reinterprets and relegates the concept of the
regime as a form of the executive.44 Indeed, he argues that the names of
regimes, such as tyranny, are merely used to describe forms of government
people dislike: ‘And when the same men shall be displeased with those
that have the administration of Democracy, or Aristocracy, they are not
to seek for disgraceful names to expresse their anger in; but call readily
the one Anarchy, and the other, Oligarchy, or the Tyranny of the a Few’.45
28 Leviathan’s Children
Aristotle’s claim that some are wiser than others, he concedes that even if not
true, equality may be a necessary assumption to found the Hobbesian state:
‘If Nature therefore have made men equall, that equalitie is to be acknowl-
edged: or if Nature have made men unequall; yet because men that think
themselves equall, will not enter into conditions of Peace, but upon Equall
termes, such equalities must be admitted’.52 For Hobbesian subjects such a
belief will encourage the lesser pride – a belief in equality. As a result, all
claims of hierarchy, based on tradition, family and excellence will be imme-
diately suspect. Hobbes’ hosts and guests will treat each other as equals and
in doing so will be more familiar with, and therefore appreciate the needs,
desires and hopes of each other. There will be neither the grand generosity
of guest-friendship nor the cold charity of Christian hospitality; there will
instead be a more intimate fellow-feeling, moderated by the ever-present
suspicion that we are all power seekers.
This equality may seem to deny us sufficient honour. Yet in one important
respect Hobbes’ subjects gain extraordinary authority and therefore dignity.
Hobbes’ reinterpretation of natural law and natural right provides the foun-
dations for a new source of dignity for subjects. Hobbes defines the ‘Right’ of
nature as the ‘Liberty each man hath, to use his own power, as he will him-
selfe, for the preservation of his own Nature; that is to say, of his own Life;
and consequently, of doing any thing, which in his Judgment, and Reason,
hee shall conceive to be the aptest means thereto’.53 The Hobbesian subject
is given sole authority to judge what is good; the Hobbesian host to admit
who he will.
Such an extraordinary elevation of the individual is admittedly limited
by laws. The fundamental law of nature, ‘That every man, ought to endeavour
Peace, as farre as he has hope of obtaining it; and when he cannot obtain it, that
he may seek, and use, all helps, and advantages of Warre’,54 yields, according to
Hobbes, 19 other laws. As we have seen, one of the most important of these
is the Second Law of nature, a willingness, if others are also willing, to lay
down one’s right to all things. The other laws of nature include justice, grat-
itude, compleasance.55 Thus Hobbes apparently institutes a comprehensive
new morality to found his civility and hospitality, albeit one based on safety.
But the Laws of Nature, the ‘true Morall Philosophy’, which are eternal and
always bind in conscience, are no more than a ‘Precept, or generall Rule’
that do not bind in practice if there is no security. This decision, accord-
ing to Hobbes, can only be made by the individual.56 Hobbes makes the
historically radical claim that natural rights endow the individual and there-
fore also the host with supreme authority. This dignity is confirmed in the
political role Hobbes assigns to each person. As makers and authors of the
state, the subject is above all a founder; the shameful origins of the state,
founded on fear and necessity, are now obscured and salved with the knowl-
edge that each individual should be honoured as the author of peace and
prosperity.
30 Leviathan’s Children
Finally, the subject is above all rational. As we have seen, Hobbes rejects
prudence; natural equality means equality in prudence: ‘A plain husband-
man is more Prudent in affairs of his own house, then a Privy Counseller in
the affairs of another man’.57 The rationality he favours is the instrumental
rationality where reason is subordinate to the passions: ‘For the Thought, are
to the Desires, as Scouts, and Spies, to range abroad, and find the way to the
things Desired’.58 The most reasonable passion, fear, favours the certainty
of contract and law and not the high-minded and unreliable honesty or
honour that regularly lets people down. If the state is created by agreement
or contract, then all of life can adopt this template. Hobbesian subjects will
naturally favour contract in all their dealings. But Hobbes’ psychology sug-
gests that power and the feeling of being alive is most reasonably found in
‘commodius living’ – a situation of physical security and comfort in which
people are free ‘to buy, and sell, and otherwise contract with one another;
to choose their own abode, their own diet, their own trade of life, and insti-
tute their children as they themselves think fit; & the like’.59 Consequently
commercial dealings will characterise most relations between subjects in the
new state.60
We can see the nature of the new hospitality by observing the types of
individuals Hobbes admits to his new state. Hobbes knows that because
of people’s varying ‘dispositions’, there are many ways of ‘taking plea-
sure’, and hence many kinds of human beings: for example, the ‘luxurious’
look for a feeling of life in ‘sensuall pleasures’; those addicted to ‘Gain’
seek it in great wealth and those who crave ‘reputation’ turn to ‘Glory’.61
In his analysis of the ‘three principall causes of quarrell’ – Competition,
Diffidence and Glory – we see that Hobbes wants to accommodate the dif-
fident and competitive while moderating, if not simply removing, the glory
seeker.62
The diffident, according to Hobbes, is one of ‘those men who are mod-
erate’ – wants more power only because he ‘cannot assure the power and
means to live well, which he hath at present, without the acquisition of
more’.63 Diffidence makes a man invade for ‘Safety’ and use Violence to
‘defend’ his body and possessions. Thus it seems that hopelessness of the dif-
fident yields moderation – the diffident will not ordinarily seek to conquer or
master all other human beings. But he is forced to counter the competitive.64
The competitive does not simply desire, like the diffident, to secure and
defend his possessions. He wants more because he ‘cannot be content with a
moderate power’, and so he goes beyond defending his immediate safety and
uses violence to make himself ‘Masters of other mens persons, wives, chil-
dren, and cattell’.65 The competitive seek mastery for ‘Gain’ because they
are hopeful that they have the power necessary to overcome other peo-
ple.66 Yet the competitive never think that ‘Mastery’ is anything other than
a means to gain; they tend not to derive pleasure in exercising their power
Haig Patapan 31
over other human beings except in the sense that it indicates or is a mea-
sure, of gain. Consequently, their need to master is always constrained and
circumscribed by material gain, and they can tolerate others who do not
threaten that gain. By contrast, the glorious seek a type of ‘Joy’, which is an
‘exultation of the mind’ arising from ‘imagination of a mans own power and
ability’.67 For some individuals, intense delight can be found ‘in contemplat-
ing’ one’s ‘own power in the acts of conquest’, which produces great pleasure
at the confirmation to oneself of one’s power.68 But Hobbes notes that glory
seekers often pursue glory ‘farther than their security requires’, creating the
problem that some seek glory even at the risk of their life.69 For these peo-
ple, glory becomes disengaged from its source in the pursuit of the power
needed to preserve their vital motion. The difficulty of acquiring and main-
taining glory, due to our inability to judge or ‘value’ accurately, the problem
of construing ‘signs’ of valuing, and the need of the glory seeker to ‘extort a
greater value from his contemners, by dommage; and from others, by exam-
ple’ means that the glory seeker is compelled to risk himself to show his
power.70 Sustaining the joy that is glory may necessitate harming his body
or undermining his power as property. In the extreme case, the glorious may
risk his own life to show his power. Therefore, the pleasure of glory is not
checked by the moderating demands of security and property in two senses.
The first is in the sense that we have noted – the glorious will illogically sacri-
fice his life for his name. The second is that the pleasure of glory seeks to ever
increase its delectation – glory will in social terms seek ever greater mastery,
at the risk of security. From this perspective war for Hobbes is typically due
to the tendency of the glorious type to challenge and test each other regard-
ing their worth, thereby compelling both the diffident and the competitive
to enter into warfare far beyond what they would ordinarily wage. Hobbes’
solution is to provide for the diffident and the competitive, while undermin-
ing the claims of glorying. As a result the Hobbesian subjects will not be glory
seekers; indeed they will fear and also have contempt for such displays of
pride and hubris. Consequently, the Hobbesian subject will be less inclined
to take offense at slights and more open (within reason) to be hospitable.71
Though Hobbes directs our attention to these three types of individuals,
there is a fourth type who is arguably the most hospitable subject. The scien-
tist does not appear as a prominent type in Hobbes’ general political account
centring on the diffident, competitive and glorious. Yet as we will see, the
scientist appears to excel all three types both in his contribution to society
and in the intensity of his pleasures. Hobbes defines philosophy as:
The first notable difference between the scientist and the other types
of endeavours concerns the intense pleasure experienced by the scien-
tist. Though anxiety characterises all human beings,73 it would seem that
only in the case of the glorious and the scientist does the mind counter
and alleviate this anxiety with an intense pleasure.74 But unlike the joy
of the glory seeker, the scientist’s joy in apprehending novelty is uncon-
strained by the need to prove power, making his joy intense and potentially
unlimited.
This self-sufficiency does not mean that the scientist is simply removed
and unconcerned with the political. In Hobbes’ account, the scientist is supe-
rior to all three other types of humans in his contribution to political life.
First, scientists or philosophers are the most loyal subjects because ‘Leasure is
the mother of Philosophy; and Common-wealth, the mother of Peace, and
Leasure’.75 The scientist will always favour peace because peace provides the
means for commodious living, which in turn is the necessary foundation
for great and flourishing cities that sustain philosophy.76 As Hobbes puts it,
‘Desire of Knowledge, and Arts of Peace, enclineth men to obey a common
Power: For such Desire, containeth a desire of leisure; and consequently pro-
tection from some other Power than their own’.77 In addition, philosophy
contributes knowledge in the form of Agriculture, Geography, Chronology
and the Arts, and these make the goods of commodious living that lift us out
of our ‘solitary, poore, nasty, brutish, and short’ natural lives.78 In providing
security and comfort for humanity, philosophy thereby helps to create the
goods that satisfy the desires of the diffident and the competitive. From this
it would seem that, speaking politically, the scientist is the most hospitable
type of human being.
We can conclude from the above discussion that the ‘subjects’, the new
citizens of the state, will predominately be the diffident and competitive,
who are supported by the scientist in their pursuit of both a safe and con-
tented life. The new state will not rely on the fleeting hospitality of the
magnanimous or the pious. It will instead be based on the firm and broad
democratic foundations of a new hospitality, the dignity of individual rights,
the security of the social contract and the prosperity of commercial enter-
prise, nurtured and sustained by a philosophy that takes its bearings from
the application of discovery to the relief of the public weal.
International hospitality
The discussion above has focused on the way Hobbes’ new conception of
power shaped personal hospitality, and how in the innovation of the state
it redefined hospitality as the new civility of the ‘subject’. In this section,
we will explore the consequences of Hobbesian innovation for international
relations. What form of international hospitality does the new political
entity, the ‘state’ usher in?79
Haig Patapan 33
In the Leviathan, near the end of Chapter 30, ‘Of the OFFICE of the Sovereign
Representative’, Hobbes explains why he does not discuss international
politics extensively. The passage deserves quoting at length:
The international community will now only condone defensive wars, even
if sovereigns are still the sole judges of such threats to their security. Such
an approach not only is an important contribution to a more peaceful
international order but it also proves to be an essential aspect of securing
domestic peace, in so far as ‘externall violence’ is the principal threat to the
‘everlasting’ commonwealth.91
This approach to international relations, which will require the education
of the sovereigns, will also need to be endorsed by the ‘subjects’ who will
ultimately have significant influence in the initiation and the conduct of
war. Because the sovereign’s success is essentially linked to the strength and
prosperity of the state and its subjects, ‘salus populi’ becomes a powerful nat-
ural check on the sovereign’s actions. In this context, we should note the
importance of Hobbes’ conception of the Rights of Nature for international
relations and how it reinforces the demands for peace. Subjects who gen-
uinely come to view themselves as ‘rights bearers’ will inevitably see all other
human beings, especially those in other countries and nations, in the same
light. The universalism that such rights encourage will tend to undermine
international boundaries and barriers founded upon historical, cultural and
ethical principles. Natural rights will point to the idea of citizen of the world,
favouring a new international hospitality of peace and cooperation.92 Such
subjects will be ever suspicious of sovereigns who initiate wars on any basis
other than self-defence. Educated by Hobbes to fear and suspect power and
glory seeking, they will be ever-vigilant, distrusting the motives of sovereigns
who seem too interested in international aggrandisement. In this way, the
suspicion instilled by the idea of humans as power seekers will not only
assure domestic peace and prosperity but also protect it from the dangers of
external violence.
Leviathan’s children
Notes
1. Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan, C.B. Macpherson (ed.) (Middlesex, NJ: Penguin Books,
[1651] 1968), p. 75.
2. Ibid., p. 718.
3. Ibid., pp. 718–19.
4. Ibid., p. 719.
5. Ibid., p. 718.
6. Sidney Godolphin, a poet, was killed in action at the age of 33, while advancing
into Devon as a member of Sir Ralph Hopton’s Royalist forces.
7. Hobbes, Leviathan, pp. 728 and 775.
8. Ibid., pp. 728–9. At the very end of his most well-known work, Leviathan, Hobbes
states that having completed his ‘Discourse of Civill and Ecclesiasticall Govern-
ment, occassioned by the disorders of the present time’, he will ‘return to my
interrupted Speculation of Bodies Naturall; (if God give me health to finish it,)
I hope the Novelty will as much please, as in the Doctrine of this Artificial Body
it useth to offend’ (Ibid., pp. 728–9).
9. Hobbes, Leviathan, p. 408.
10. Ibid., p. 379.
11. Ibid., p. 407.
12. Ibid., pp. 82–3. As has often been noted, Hobbes regards his methodological inno-
vation as consisting of applying the principles of mathematics generally, and
geometry more specifically, to human beings. According to him, the results of
such an undertaking – starting with definitions and then adding or subtracting
words until proper conclusions are reached – are irrefutable truths regarding pol-
itics, especially concerning the essential rights of sovereigns and the obedience
owed by subjects.
13. Hobbes, Leviathan, p. 728.
14. Ibid.
15. Ibid., p. 379.
16. Ibid., p. 377. ‘Two sorts of men take up the greatest part of Man-kind’, according
to Hobbes: Those who out of necessity or covetousness keep to their labour or
Haig Patapan 37
trade and others, who out of ‘superfluity, or sloth’ pursue pleasures. Unable to
reflect deeply they receive their notions of duty from the ‘Divines in the Pulpit’,
from their Neghbours or acquaintances, who ‘having the faculty of discoursing
readily’ seem wiser than them. Because Divines and others who show learn-
ing derive their knowledge from Universities, ‘It is therefore manifest, that the
Instructions of the people, dependenth wholly, on the right teaching of Youth in
the Universities’ (Ibid., p. 384).
17. Hobbes’ consistent reference to his teaching as a ‘Novel Doctrine’ shows that his
attempt to refound politics on a rational basis is really a replacement of Scholastic
Doctrine with what appears to be his new scientific piety, with peace as its credo
and power as its theology (Ibid., p. 726). Therefore, his ‘Principles of Reason’
are another contending dogma, and Leviathan is the new Bible of the Hobbesian
world, even containing its own Ten Commandments (Ibid., pp. 380–3).
18. Compare this with his consistent attempt to reject trust and faith in the authority
of books. He says, for example, that ‘they that trusting onely to the authority of
books, follow the blind blindly’ (Ibid., p. 21). Indeed, words ‘are the mony of
fooles, that value them by the authority of an Aristotle, Cicero, or a Thomas, or
any other Doctor whatsoever’ (Ibid., p. 106).
19. Hobbes, Leviathan, pp. 627–81.
20. Ibid., pp. 682–703.
21. Although he does says that the Schoolmen may not have always appropriated
Aristotle’s true teaching because they did not understand his need to write in
such as way as to avoid the fate of Socrates (Ibid., p. 692). He singles out the
famous scholastic Suarez, whom he attacks for writing ‘whole volumes’ of so
much ‘Absurdity’ that Suarez must have been either ‘Mad’ or trying ‘to make
others so’ (Ibid., p. 147).
22. For a comprehensive account of friendship, see Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics
(especially books 8 and 9). For classical thinkers, influenced by Socrates, friend-
ship has an important political dimension. In Plato, friendship has a political
aspect as the fruit of the art of justice in the cities (Cleitophon, 409d; see also
Lysis). Xenophon’s Education of Cyrus shows how friendship is the essence of pol-
itics. According to Aristotle, friendship seems to hold cities together, and law
makers seem to take it more seriously than justice. For ‘when people are friends
there is no need of justice, but when they are just there is still need of friendship’
(Nicomachean Ethics, 1155a 20). It was this personal and political understanding
of friendship that was adopted and developed by Cicero in his famous Amicitia.
23. Hobbes, Leviathan, pp. 160 and 225.
24. Ibid., p. 160.
25. Ibid., pp. 120–1.
26. Ibid., p. 118.
27. Ibid., p. 160.
28. Ibid., pp. 124 and 161.
29. Ibid., p. 161.
30. Ibid., p. 139.
31. Ibid., p. 383.
32. Ibid., p. 190. ‘The Fundamental Law of Nature’ is ‘That every man, ought to endeav-
our Peace, as farre as he has hope of obtaining it; and when he cannot obtain it, that he
may seek, and use, all helps and advantages of Warre’ (Ibid., p. 190; original italics).
33. The ‘Desires, and other Passions of man, are in themselves no Sin’. Ibid., p. 187.
Indeed, it is so true that there is no ‘such thing as . . . simply good’ that ‘even the
38 Leviathan’s Children
experience, and ‘Science’, which relies on ‘Reason’ and ‘Reckoning (that is, Adding
and Subtracting) of the Consequences of generall names agreed upon’ (see Ibid.,
pp. 97 and 111–15).
58. Hobbes, Leviathan, p. 139.
59. Ibid., pp. 161, 188 and 264.
60. See Macpherson’s critique of Hobbes as the origin of ‘bourgeois equality’ (Ibid.,
p. 51). On this point, see also Leo Strauss, The Political Philosophy of Hobbes, Its
Basis and Its Genesis (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1953).
61. Hobbes, Human Nature, in Thomas Hobbes, The Elements of Law: Human Nature
and De Corpore Politico, J.C.A. Gaskin (ed.) (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994).
62. This discussion draws on Haig Patapan and Jeffrey Sikkenga, ‘Love and the
Leviathan: Thomas Hobbes’ Critique of Platonic Eros’, Political Theory: An Inter-
national Journal of Political Philosophy 36:6 (2008), pp. 803–26.
63. Hobbes, Leviathan, p. 161 and Hobbes, Human Nature, p. 3.
64. Hobbes, Leviathan, p. 185.
65. Ibid.
66. Ibid., p. 123.
67. Ibid., p. 125. There are two types of glorying: confidence and vain glory. Con-
fidence is a ‘constant hope of ourselves’ based on ‘the experience’ of our ‘own
former actions’ (Ibid., p. 39). Vain glory is imagining power based ‘on the flattery
or others; or onely supposed by himselfe, for delight in the consequences of it’
(Ibid., p. 39).
68. Hobbes, Leviathan, p. 184.
69. Ibid., p. 185.
70. Ibid.
71. On the problem of glory, see generally Strauss, The Political Philosophy of Hobbes;
Gabriella Slomp, Thomas Hobbes and the Political Philosophy of Glory (Houndmills:
Macmillan Press Ltd., 2000) and the chapters by Hampton, Sacksteder and Altman
in Peter Caws (ed.), The Causes of Quarrel – Essays on Peace, War and Thomas Hobbes
(Boston, MA: Beacon Press, 1989).
72. Hobbes, Leviathan, p. 682. Reason allows humans to proceed from elements
to assertions and to reduce consequences to general rules or ‘Theoremes, or
Aphorismes’ (Ibid., p. 113). Reason gives rise to Science, which is ‘the knowl-
edge of Consequences, and dependence of one fact upon another’ (Ibid., p. 115).
Proper reasoning thus results in ‘generall, eternall, and immutable Truth’ (Ibid.,
p. 682). A person who ‘pretends to Reasoning’ is a ‘Philosopher’, and the ‘Regis-
ters of Science, are such Books as contain the Demonstrations of Consequences
of one Affirmation, to another; and are commonly called Books of Philosophy’
(Ibid., pp. 147–8).
73. Hobbes, Leviathan, p. 169.
74. Curiosity itself is ‘a Lust of the mind, that by a perseverance of delight in the
continuall and indefatigable generation of knowledge, exceedeth the short vehe-
mence of any carnall Pleasure’ (Ibid., p. 124). These pleasures of the mind Hobbes
defines as ‘Joy’.
75. Hobbes, Leviathan, p. 683.
76. Ibid., pp. 683–4.
77. Ibid., p. 162.
78. Ibid., p. 186.
79. Note that in raising this question we indirectly examine the hospitality of the
other new entity created by the ‘Art of man’, the ‘Soveraigne’. For a more
40 Leviathan’s Children
This chapter engages the idea of a law of hospitality which was articu-
lated in the natural law tradition from Francisco de Vitoria in the early
sixteenth century to Immanuel Kant in the late eighteenth – Kant’s being
the last significant contribution to this tradition. It argues that the account
of hospitality in the ‘law of nations’ provided by this early modern tra-
dition of thought was bounded by two poles – right of communication
and right of property – which, while mutually constitutive of a law of
hospitality, also continually threatened to unravel it. While any law of hos-
pitality requires that travellers have rights to hospitable treatment, it also
depends upon their hosts having some claim to exclusive property in their
domains or territories. The tension between these two irreducible poles of
hospitality, a feature of hospitality that Jacques Derrida has demonstrated
in quite other contexts, is, it is argued, an enduring feature of otherwise
very different accounts of the law of hospitality in the early modern nat-
ural law tradition.1 Three of the natural lawyers who consider hospitality
in some detail, namely Vitoria, Grotius and Vattel (Vitoria and Vattel are
the focus of the first section), make little headway in stabilising the two
poles of right of communication – right of property in hospitality, despite
tending towards different poles (Vitoria towards right of communication
and Vattel towards right of property). Pufendorf and Kant, the subjects
of sections two and three respectively, make more headway in stabilising
their discussions of hospitality, Pufendorf by prioritising property and Kant
in the name of communication. However, the price paid for this stabilisa-
tion of the terms of international hospitality in these two accounts is fatal
for the law of hospitality itself – in Pufendorf’s case because hospitality is
reduced to charity, thereby ceasing to function as right of nature and in
Kant’s case because, though it is a matter of right, hospitality is instrumen-
talised, operating as the means to the accomplishment of a cosmopolitan
41
42 Right of Entry or Right of Refusal?
only lands and goods which belong to no owner can pass to the occupier.
Having established that the Indians have dominion, Vitoria is thereby able
to state that their goods ‘do not fall under this title’.23 The right to property
is hereby universalised. Christian nations are not the only ones entitled to
their domains; the Spanish are thereby guests in other people’s homes.
In which case, by what right were the Spanish in the Americas at all given
that they were not invited? The possible ‘just titles’ for Spanish colonisation
that Vitoria considers start with that of ‘natural partnership and communica-
tion’, a precept of ‘the law of nations’ ‘which either is natural law or derives
from it’.24 Vitoria’s right of hospitality here is constituted by a range of spe-
cific rights. These are, first ‘the right to travel and dwell in those countries,
so long as they do no harm to the barbarians, and cannot be prevented by
them from doing so’.25 Second, ‘The Spaniards may lawfully trade among
the barbarians, so long as they do no harm to their homeland’.26 Third,
‘if there are any things among the barbarians which are held in common
both by their own people and by strangers, it is not lawful for the barbar-
ians to prohibit the Spaniards from sharing and enjoying them’.27 Fourth,
‘if children born in the Indies of a Spanish father wish to become citizens
(cives) of that community, they cannot be barred from citizenship or from
the advantages enjoyed by the native citizens born of parents domiciled in
that community’.28
Although Vitoria clearly has serious doubts about Spanish conduct and
certainly does not claim unconditional rights for his compatriots, who must
do no harm, he thereby defends a right of hospitality. This right, if not
unlimited, is perfect in the sense that it creates non-voluntary obligations
on hosts – there is no communal right of inhospitality: ‘to refuse to wel-
come strangers and foreigners is inherently evil’.29 It is worth considering in
more detail Vitoria’s attempt to rule out the possibility that the American
Indians might justly close their doors to the Spanish. Vitoria starts by argu-
ing that it is universally considered inhuman to ‘treat strangers and travellers
badly without some special cause, humane and dutiful to behave hospitably
to strangers. This would not be the case if travellers were doing something
evil by visiting foreign nations’.30 In addition, at the beginning of the world
all was held in common; people could visit and travel through all lands as
they wished. The ‘division of property’ characteristic of the rise of nations
in no way invalidates this original ‘free mutual intercourse’.31 Besides, that
which does no harm is lawful; therefore benign guests cannot lawfully be
turned away. To banish a visitor is anyway tantamount to exile, which is
considered a punishment for the most serious crimes. Indeed, to expel from
or prevent entry to a territory is nothing less than an act of war, and ‘the bar-
barians have no just war against the Spaniards, assuming they are doing no
harm’.32 Bolstering his argument with classical, scriptural and ecclesiastical
injunctions to hospitality, Vitoria concludes that ‘the barbarians are obliged
to love their neighbours [the Spanish] as themselves and may not lawfully
46 Right of Entry or Right of Refusal?
bar them from their homeland without due cause’.33 As hospitality is thus a
law of nature it is also inalienable – any positive human law which sought
to bar foreigners would simply be without foundation, ‘without the force of
law’.34 The right of hospitality may therefore be enforced by Vitoria’s com-
patriots if it is not upheld since anyone whose right has been infringed may
justly resort to war.
In the context of the ongoing Spanish conquest of the Americas and
notwithstanding his ‘harm’ principle, the fact that Vitoria’s right of hos-
pitality is both a right to dwell and one that does not require the consent
of the native inhabitants appears to place it within a discourse legitimating
colonial appropriation. Indeed, Vitoria’s contemporary, Domingo de Soto,
wondered why native Americans were constrained to offer hospitality to
gold-mining Spaniards when ‘neither can the French enter into Spain for
the same purpose, nor can we enter France without the permission of the
French’.35 One reason stands out: despite having undermined the right to
property by emphasising a very extensive, indeed perfect, right of commu-
nication, Vitoria could not plausibly have applied this to relations between
Europeans. Such generous hospitality could seem reasonable only in regard
to Europeans as travellers to savage shores. In which case, as another of
Vitoria’s contemporaries, theologian Melchor Cano, put it, the problem was
that the Spanish had no more gone to America as mere ‘travellers’ than had
Alexander the Great on his sojourns, and ‘We would not be prepared to
describe Alexander the Great as a traveller’.36
Yet although the right of communication is perfect and extensive in
Vitorian hospitality, the parallel right to property, thin though it is, desta-
bilises this right. The Indians have dominion over their lands even if they
cannot claim exclusive property rights in them. Though the Spanish can
stay indefinitely and help themselves to ‘common’ property such as gold in
the ground, they are still ‘guests’ in some sense. Without going as far towards
the pole of communication as Vitoria, this unresolved tension between right
of communication and right of property in Vitorian hospitality is repeated
later in the accounts given by Hugo Grotius and Emmerich de Vattel. In The
Freedom of the Seas (1609), Grotius, despite universalising the right to prop-
erty, continues to hold the Aristotelian notion of natural sociability and so
makes hospitality a perfect – that is, enforceable – right.37 He thereby also sets
in motion a profound indeterminacy between natural sociability and private
property in hospitality. But it is in Vattel that we see this indeterminacy at its
most obvious. In his Law of Nations (1758), Vattel devotes a chapter to ‘Rules
with Respect to Foreigners’, specifying that he means to treat not foreign res-
idents but ‘only those foreigners who pass through or sojourn in a country,
either on business, or as travellers’.38 At the beginning of this chapter, Vattel
states his intention for it, which includes drawing a distinction between the
requirements of ‘humanity and justice’ and the ‘rules of the law of nations’
that would have made no sense to Vitoria:
Gideon Baker 47
the intention of this chapter is not so much to show what humanity and
justice requires towards foreigners, as to establish the rules of the law of
nations on the subject – rules tending to secure the rights of all parties,
and to prevent the repose of nations being disturbed by the quarrels of
individuals.39
that every man should still preserve some right to the things subjected
to property, in those cases where, without this right, he would remain
absolutely deprived of the necessary use of things of this nature. This
right is a necessary remnant of the primitive state of communion.45
which the entire earth was common to all mankind, and the passage was
everywhere free to each individual according to his necessities. Nobody can
be entirely deprived of this right’.47 ‘The introduction of property cannot
be supposed to have deprived nations of the general right of traversing the
earth for the purposes of mutual intercourse, of carrying on commerce with
each other, and for other just reasons’.48
Kant would soon appear to build his account of a cosmopolitan right of
hospitality on a near identical argument. Just as Kant’s foreigner cannot be
turned away if doing so will cause his destruction, so too for Vattel, ‘Extreme
necessity revives the primitive communion, the abolition of which ought
to deprive no person of the necessities of life’; ‘every man has a right to
dwell somewhere upon earth’.49 Also at one with Kant’s understanding of
cosmopolitan law as relating to rights (of hospitality) held by individual
subjects in relation to foreign states, Vattel is clear that the right to the neces-
sities of life ‘belongs to individuals, when a foreign nation refuses them a just
assistance’. But unlike Kant, whose right of hospitality is imperfect, Vattel
retains the Vitorian (and Grotian) emphasis on the perfect right of guests
to forcibly demand hospitality when it is denied to them, though only in
the case of necessity, a proviso absent in Vitoria given that right is always
perfect for him. For Vattel, contra Vitoria, ‘The right of innocent use’, that
right relating to the use of inexhaustible things such as rivers and ports, ‘is
not a perfect right, like that of necessity’ and can be legitimately withheld by
its owner.50 Notwithstanding this distinction, because the right of necessity
is a perfect right, hospitality can still be forcibly taken, narrowing the gap
between Vitoria and Vattel’s accounts. Indeed, in the following passage, and
despite his earlier assurance that ‘the lord of the territory may, whenever he
thinks proper, forbid its being entered’, necessity makes a perfect right of
hospitality where European travellers are concerned:
of property is, to give the proprietor’s advantage a preference over that of all
others’.53 He is ‘bound to grant a passage for lawful purposes’ only ‘whenever
he can do it without inconvenience to himself’.54 Yet this apparent resolu-
tion in favour of property over communication is repeatedly undermined:
when refused admission to a territory by its owner, ‘forcing a passage’, is still
rightful ‘in spite of him’ if one has ‘some reason more cogent than all his
reasons to the contrary. Such is the right of necessity’.55 At this point, like
Vitoria, Vattel appears to leave the final judgement on when hospitality can
legitimately be denied up to the guest to determine. The implication that
Europeans can continue to be the arbiters of their own reception might also
be thought the same as in Vitoria, except that, unlike Vitoria, Vattel is at
this point discussing ‘rights which belong to all nations’ rather than rights
which Europeans have in the Americas. Furthermore, another example that
Vattel gives in order to clarify his discussion appears to give the final trump
card to the host community when self-preservation is at stake:
In explaining the effects of domain we have said above that the owner
of the territory may forbid the entrance into it, or permit it on such
conditions as he thinks proper. We were then treating of his external
right, – that which foreigners are bound to respect. But now that we are
considering the matter in another view, and as it relates to his duties
and to his internal right, we may venture to assert that he cannot,
50 Right of Entry or Right of Refusal?
There is a natural law of hospitality here, but it is for states to decide when
and how it operates. Hospitality as an imperfect right is transformed into
the gift of the sovereign.60 And yet, while the sovereign himself cannot
ultimately be bound by the law of hospitality, every hospitable citizen ‘dis-
charges his duty to mankind, while at the same time render[ing] essential
services to his country’.61 Vattel’s assumption seems to be that hospitality
can unite twin duties to humanity and nation, but, on the basis of the man-
ifest indeterminacy of his own cases, we might fairly say that this optimism
seems misplaced. Like Vitoria and Grotius before him, Vattel ultimately
cannot decide between right of communication and right of property in
hospitality.
Now although Inhospitality be commonly, and for the most part justly
censured as the true Mark of a savage and inhuman Temper, yet the Point
will now and then bear a dispute, especially as to the Case of those who
wander into foreign countries purely on account of Curiosity.63
The Duties here meant, by such as could not have been extorted by Force
or Law, are such as are not absolutely necessary for the Preservation of
Mankind, and for the Support of Human Society in general, although they
serve to embellish it, and render it more commodious. Such are the Duties
of Compassion, Liberality, Beneficence, Gratitude, Hospitality, and in one
word all that is contain’d under that comprehensive Name of Charity, or
Humanity, as it is oppos’d to rigorous Justice properly so call’d, the Duties
of which, generally speaking, have their Foundation in Agreement.65
supposing that any one Nation, contented with what it finds at home,
utterly refrains from foreign Travel, it does not appear what Obligation
such a State can have to admit those who would visit it, without a
necessary or weighty Cause.74
this natural Communication [of Vitoria’s] does not hinder a just Proprietor
from communicating his Goods by such Methods, and upon such Con-
siderations as he finds necessary. And further, that it seems very gross and
absurd, to allow others an indefinite or unlimited Right of travelling and
living amongst us, without reflecting either on their Number, or on the
Design of their coming.76
Vitoria’s claim that ‘If the Indians had amongst them any Rights and Privileges
allow’d in common to natives and Foreigners, in these they ought not to hin-
der the Spaniards from their Share’ is also rejected on the grounds that it is
within the rightful gift of property holders to be ‘more liberal to one than
to another’ just as the owner of a garden may grant special privileges to one
neighbour over another.77 Although Pufendorf does not, as Diderot and Kant
do, use inhospitality explicitly to condemn European conquest, for Cavallar,
his insistence that foreign states may only intervene – first, on behalf of
their own citizens, second, when these citizens are harmed and third, when
they have arrived as ‘innocent guests or driven by storms’ – implicitly allows
for the same.78 However, as Cavallar also notes, Pufendorf’s interest in non-
European affairs is limited and his examples are mostly taken from classical
antiquity. We should not read into his defence of sovereign closure a critique
of European colonialism but rather see in it the reordering of natural law in
which, contra the Schoolmen, ‘the People’s Safety is the supreme Law’ which
the sovereign must enact in positive law.79
Counterpoised to his sovereign right of communal inhospitality,
Pufendorf continues to insist that hospitality expresses moral obligations
to foreigners: ‘it is barbarous to treat in the same cruel manner, those who
visit us as Friends, and those who assault us as Enemies’.80 But is hospitality
really reducible to the moral virtue of the host? At the limits of his account,
Pufendorf seems to allow for the rights of guests too – acknowledging that,
finding himself in extreme necessity, the shipwrecked traveller may ‘forcibly’
‘relieve himself’ out of the abundance of his host.81 Elsewhere, Pufendorf
summarises this right of necessity thus:
in case of extreme Necessity, the Imperfect Right that others have to the
Duty of Charity from us, becomes a Perfect Right; so that Men may by
force be obliged to the performance of these Duties at such a time . . . 82
What are we to make of this seeming collapse of imperfect right back into
perfect right in the case of strangers in extreme need of hospitality (especially
since, as we saw above, no such right revives in the case of the poor having
extreme need of property)? Does it destabilise the entire edifice of perfect–
imperfect right which, as Cavallar sees it, enables Pufendorf to be the first
to find a solution to the problem of hospitality as set out in the natural law
tradition since Vitoria?83 For Cavallar, by distinguishing between the realm
54 Right of Entry or Right of Refusal?
Kant’s Third Article of Perpetual Peace (1795) states that ‘The Law of World
Citizenship Shall be Limited to Conditions of Universal Hospitality’. Echo-
ing the right of communication upheld from Vitoria onwards, Kant’s cos-
mopolitan right of hospitality as laid out in Perpetual Peace entails a ‘right of
resort’ or visitation. This amounts to a right to offer oneself for exchange or
community, a communicative offer which Kant appears not to want to limit
Gideon Baker 55
given that his phraseology covers cultural and economic exchange as well
as civil association.88 Identifying hospitality with communicative rights also
makes sense in the context of Kant’s wider communicative claims to free-
dom of expression in Metaphysics of Morals and to the ‘freedom of the pen’
in Theory and Practice. A subjective cosmopolitan right to hospitality therefore
appears to complement these other two subjective rights to communication
which are, respectively, human and civil rights.89
While the ‘right of strangers’ allows foreigners to ‘attempt to enter into
relations with the native inhabitants’, the ‘right of a guest to be entertained’
requires a ‘special friendly agreement’ that cannot be the subject of universal
right.90 This right of host communities to refuse hospitality if by so doing
they do not threaten the destruction of their guest is the subject of intense
debate, though it is hardly a dilemma new to Kant, as we have seen. While
Derrida, in particular, has chosen to read this limitation as but one chapter
in a long story of European inhospitality towards guests, we might see it
rather as an attempt to extricate a cosmopolitan right of hospitality from
European justifications for colonialism given that the:91
For Niesen, there is, first, a systematic reason for Kant’s treating colonialism
under cosmopolitan law. This is that Kant had already defined international
law as the law of nations, such that relations between states and non-state
peoples could not be covered by it. Unlike states, non-state peoples are not
protected by Kant’s international law against intervention.93 Cosmopolitan
law has to make good on this lack. Second, argues Niesen (and this point is
especially important for our discussion here), Kant must have realised that
his own doctrine of private law, unless limited by a higher cosmopolitan law
(namely, the limits of hospitality), could easily legitimate colonial appropri-
ation given the steps it makes from private law to rights to set up a civil
condition or state. This is that Kant argues in Metaphysics of Morals for right-
ful, if provisional, appropriation of unowned objects in the state of nature
(since such appropriation must by definition be unilateral) and marries this
to a right to coerce all neighbours who might dispute my property claims
into a civil condition (since otherwise there can be no hope of anyone agree-
ing to respect my ownership arrived at in this unilateral way).94 Only by
such an imperfect process, Kant reasons, might public law finally regulate
property rights rightly. But, as an unintended consequence of this logic, the
claim of settlers to presumptively unowned territory could, on Kant’s private
law terms should, move easily from colonial trading post to the full politi-
cal domination of native inhabitants: just ‘one claim to private possession
56 Right of Entry or Right of Refusal?
The rational idea, as discussed above of a peaceful (if not exactly ami-
cable) international community of all those of the earth’s peoples who
can enter into active relations with one another is not a philanthropic
principle of ethics, but a principle of right. Through the spherical shape
of the planet they inhabit (globus terraqueus), nature has confined them
all within an area of definite limits. Accordingly, the only conceivable
way in which anyone can posses habitable land on earth is by possess-
ing a part within a determinate whole in which everyone has an original
right to share. Thus all nations are originally members of a community
of the land. But this is not a legal community of possession (communio)
and utilisation of the land, nor a community of ownership. It is commu-
nity of reciprocal action (commercium), which is physically possible, and
each member of it accordingly has constant relations with all the others.
Each may offer to have commerce with the rest, and they all have a right
to make such overtures without being treated by foreigners as enemies.
This right, insofar as it affords the prospect that all nations may unite
for the purpose of creating certain universal laws to regulate the inter-
course they may have with one another, may be termed cosmopolitan (ius
cosmopoliticum).105
In this way, continents distant from each other can enter into peace-
ful mutual relations which may eventually be regulated by public laws,
thus bringing the human race nearer and nearer to a cosmopolitan
constitution.126
Conclusion
Grotius and Vattel) in the context of Kant’s critique of notions of right based
on, and therefore limited by, territory. For Kant, explicitly, hospitality is not
‘concerned with philanthropy, but with right’ and a cosmopolitan right at
that.131 But, as we have also seen, while in Kant Pufendorf’s imperfect right
of hospitality is rearticulated as cosmopolitan right, yet Kant, too, does not
escape the double-bind of right of property versus right of communication
in hospitality. For Kant’s right of hospitality, it turns out, is strictly limited
to a right to make contact which may largely be refused. Thus, although
Kant arguably reverses the Pufendorfian prioritisation of property over com-
munication, the communication he has in mind has been accused of being
paltry stuff and doing little, if anything, to challenge right defined territori-
ally. To the extent that this is true, it is perhaps because Kant saw the fearful
consequences of a right of hospitality put at the hands of European ‘guests’.
On this reading, Kant, like Diderot, is aware of the paradox that hospitality
is always liable to destroy itself – as when the French explorer Bougainville’s
generous reception by the Tahitians became the opportunity for French colo-
nial appropriation of their island, an inhospitality which Diderot laments in
The Supplement to the Voyage of Bougainville (1772).132
However, the persuasive argument for Kant’s prioritisation of commu-
nication over property with which our discussion finished, implies that
hospitality is the driver, in Kant, of nothing less than a future global civil
condition under which humanity’s ownership of the earth’s surface might be
finally legitimate. But on this reading of his politics, Kant only gets ‘beyond’
the binary of property – communication by overcoming hospitality itself.
The universal right of hospitality is only necessary because existing pos-
session of territory remains to be fully legitimated. Once a cosmopolitan
civil condition (here: world federation of republics) is achieved and holdings
become truly rightful, the normative foundation of Kant’s right of strangers
is thereby removed. Alternatively, if the telos of hospitality is nothing less
than a world republic, then the right of hospitality is purely provisional – it
is only necessary because of the lack of global citizenship, because the inter-
national has not yet been domesticated and brought fully under the rule of
right, because territorial definitions of rights have still to give way to cos-
mopolitan right. Yet a transitional right of hospitality is no longer a natural
law of hospitality.
As much when the constitutive opposition of communication – prop-
erty is transcended in the name of the former as the latter, it destroys that
which it makes possible. Hospitality cannot live without the destabilising
but productive tension between communication and property that is not
so much a problem for as the very stuff of it. Focused only on one or
the other of the poles of communication – property, mainstream interna-
tional relations theory can’t ‘see’ hospitality – neither its effects (realists)
nor its conditions of possibility (idealists). Realist discourse, which finds an
antecedent in Pufendorf’s prioritisation of domain but which departs from
Gideon Baker 63
Acknowledgements
Notes
1. Jacques Derrida, Adieu: To Emmanuel Levinas, P. Brault and M. Nass (trans.)
(Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1999); Jacques Derrida, Of Hospitality,
R. Bowlby (trans.) (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2000); and Jacques
Derrida, On Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness, M. Dooley and M. Hughes (trans.)
(London: Routledge, 2001).
2. Anthony Pagden, ‘Human Rights, Natural Rights, and Europe’s Imperial Legacy’,
Political Theory 31:2 (2003), pp. 171–99; Georg Cavallar, The Rights of Strangers:
Theories of International Hospitality, the Global Community, and Political Justice
Since Vitoria (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002).
3. Baron de Montesquieu, Complete Works, Vol. 2 The Spirit of Laws (London:
T. Evans, 1777 [1748]), pp. 144–5.
4. David Hume, Political Essays (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994
[1748]), p. 122; Adam Smith, An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth
of Nations (New York: Random House, 1994 [1776]), pp. 440–1. However, see
Rousseau for a characteristically contrary view to his enlightenment contempo-
raries (Jean-Jacques Rousseau, ‘The Levite of Ephraim’, in C. Kelly and E. Grace
(eds.), Rousseau on Women, Love, and Family (Hanover, NH: Dartmouth College
Press, 2009 [1762]), pp. 178–93).
5. Pagden, ‘Human Rights, Natural Rights’.
6. The emphasis on sociability obviously had a strongly theological dimension, as
in Vitoria’s argument that human communication and cooperation are God’s
will. Thanks to an anonymous reviewer for this point.
7. Ibid., p. 184.
64 Right of Entry or Right of Refusal?
8. Ibid., p. 185. See also Brain Tierney, The Idea of Natural Rights (Cambridge:
Eerdmans, 1997), pp. 272 and 300–1.
9. Pagden, ‘Human Rights, Natural Rights’, p. 186.
10. Ibid., pp. 186–7; Martha Nussbaum, ‘Kant and Stoic Cosmopolitanism’, The
Journal of Political Philosophy 5:1 (1997), pp. 1–25.
11. Pagden, ‘Human Rights, Natural Rights’, p. 186.
12. Cavallar, The Rights of Strangers, p. 396.
13. Ian Hunter, ‘Global Justice and Regional Metaphysics: On the Critical History
of the Law of Nature and Nations’, in S. Dorsett and I. Hunter (eds.), Law
and Politics in British Colonial Thought: Transpositions of Empire (Houndmills:
Palgrave/Macmillan, 2010), p. 1.
14. Ibid., p. 2.
15. Although our thinkers assume, or so I argue, something like these two ‘rights’,
I am not claiming that these are the terms in which they couch their own argu-
ments on hospitality. ‘Right of communication’ and ‘right of property’ is rather
my own reconstruction of the key terms of the natural lawyers’ various discus-
sions of hospitality, as I read them. This reconstruction is then directed towards
deconstructive rather than historical understanding – that is, I seek to draw out
paradoxes at the heart of the thought of hospitality rather than to add to our
knowledge of how this thought has been differently articulated in diverse spatio-
temporal contexts. This deconstructive reading does not claim that hospitality
is a trans-historical concept, but rather that otherwise very different answers
to the question of how to receive the stranger nonetheless share an inability
to harmonise the ‘communication’ and ‘property’ that all talk of hospitality
always already assumes. Thanks to an anonymous reviewer for encouraging me
to clarify my point of departure.
16. Within the discipline, though instructively not in its mainstream, three recent
exceptions to this rule stand out: Roxanne Lynn Doty, ‘Fronteras Compasivas
and the Ethics of Unconditional Hospitality’, Millennium 35:1 (2006), pp. 53–74;
Dan Bulley, ‘Negotiating Ethics: Campbell, Ontopology and Hospitality’, Review
of International Studies 32:4 (2006), pp. 645–63; and Nicholas Onuf, ‘Friendship
and Hospitality: Some Conceptual Preliminaries’, Journal of International Political
Theory 5:1 (2009), pp. 1–21.
17. Onuf, ‘Friendship and Hospitality’, pp. 16–17.
18. Derrida, On Cosmopolitanism, p. 16 and Adieu, p. 50;
19. Francisco de Vitoria, Political Writings (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1991), p. 233.
20. Ibid., pp. 250; 243–6; 248.
21. Ibid., p. 258.
22. Ibid., p. 264.
23. Ibid., p. 265. For an extended discussion of Vitoria’s account of property, see
Tierney, The Idea of Natural Rights, pp. 260–4.
24. Vitoria, Political Writings, p. 278. Vitoria singles out language and friendship
as indicating that human beings are meant for social life. He, of course, cites
Aristotle’s zoon politikon on this point (Tierney, The Idea of Natural Rights,
p. 291).
25. Vitoria, Political Writings, p. 278.
26. Ibid., p. 279.
27. Ibid., p. 280.
28. Ibid., p. 281.
Gideon Baker 65
29. Ibid.
30. Ibid., p. 278.
31. Ibid.
32. Ibid.
33. Ibid., p. 279.
34. Ibid.
35. In Cavallar, The Rights of Strangers, p. 111.
36. In Pagden, ‘Human Rights, Natural Rights’, p. 185. For more on the inhospitality
of the conquistadores, see Gideon Baker, ‘The Spectre of Montezuma: Hospitality
and Haunting’, Millennium 39:1 (2010).
37. Hugo Grotius, ‘The Freedom of the Seas’, in L.E. van Holk and C.G. Roelofsen
(eds.), Grotius Reader (The Hague: T.M.C. Asser Instituut, 1983 [1609]), pp. 11;
63–4; and 8–9, respectively.
38. Emmerich de Vattel, The Law of Nations, J. Chiity (trans. and ed.) (New York:
AMS Press, 1863 [1758]), p. 171.
39. Ibid.
40. Ibid.
41. Ibid.
42. Ibid.
43. Ibid., p. 173.
44. Ibid.
45. Ibid., p. 177.
46. Ibid.
47. Ibid., p. 179.
48. Ibid., p. 183.
49. Ibid., pp. 178 and 180.
50. Ibid., p. 181.
51. Ibid., p. 178.
52. On Vattel’s uses of casuistry, see Ian Hunter, ‘Vattel’s Law of Nations: Diplo-
matic Casuistry for the Protestant Nation’, Grotiana 31: 1 (2010), pp. 108–40.
In some senses, casuistry is similar to deconstruction – concepts like hospitality
are revealed as not identical with or sufficient unto themselves. They always still
require a decision to be made, and for casuistry this is shown through sensitivity
to particular cases.
53. de Vattel, The Law of Nations, p. 179.
54. Ibid., p. 183.
55. Ibid., pp. 179–80.
56. Ibid., p. 180.
57. This tension between property and communication continues in Vattel’s dis-
cussion of rights of shelter held by exiled and banished peoples (see Ibid.,
p. 180).
58. de Vattel, The Law of Nations, p. 182.
59. Ibid., p. 184.
60. Ibid., p. 185.
61. Ibid., p. 185–6.
62. Samuel von Pufendorf, On the Law of Nature and Nations, B. Kennett
(trans.) and Barbeyrac (ed.) (Clark, NJ: The Lawbook Exchange, 2005 [1672]),
p. 244.
63. von Pufendorf, On the Law of Nature and Nations, p. 244.
64. Cavallar, The Rights of Strangers, p. 201.
66 Right of Entry or Right of Refusal?
65. Samuel von Pufendorf, The Whole Duty of Man, According to the Law of Nature,
A. Tooke(trans.) and I. Hunter and D. Saunders (eds.) (Indianapolis, IN: Liberty
Fund, 2003 [1691]), p. 50n.
66. Martti Koskenniemi, ‘Miserable Comforters: International Relations as New Nat-
ural Law’, European Journal of International Realtions 15:3 (2009), p. 397; Ian
Hunter, ‘Spatialisations of Justice in the Law of Nature and Nations: Pufendorf,
Vattel and Kant’, unpublished research paper, available at UQ e-space (http://
espace.library.uq.edu.au/), p. 23.
67. Pufendorf, The Whole Duty of Man, pp. 128–32.
68. John Salter, ‘Grotius and Pufendorf on the Right of Necessity’, History of Political
Thought 26:2 (2005), pp. 284–302.
69. Pufendorf, On the Law of Nature and Nations, p. 208.
70. Pufendorf, The Whole Duty of Man, p. 56.
71. Ibid., p. 104.
72. Pufendorf, On the Law of Nature and Nations, pp. 243–5.
73. Salter, ‘Grotius and Pufendorf’, p. 297.
74. Pufendorf, On the Law of Nature and Nations, p. 245.
75. Cavallar, The Rights of Strangers, p. 204.
76. Pufendorf, On the Law of Nature and Nations, p. 245; see also p. 246.
77. Ibid., p. 245.
78. Cavallar, The Rights of Strangers, pp. 206–7.
79. Pufendorf, On the Law of Nature and Nations, p. 739.
80. Ibid., p. 245.
81. Ibid., p. 207.
82. Pufendorf, The Whole Duty of Man, p. 50n.
83. Cavallar, The Rights of Strangers, p. 205. In the case of the necessitous poor
under civil law, Salter (‘Grotius and Pufendorf’) argues that Pufendorf’s right
of necessity does undermine the coherence of his distinction between perfect
and imperfect right. But we are considering international law here, where, for
Pufendorf, things are clearly very different.
84. Cavallar, The Rights of Strangers, p. 204.
85. Thanks to Ian Hunter for drawing this to my attention.
86. Though see (Koskenniemi, ‘Miserable Comforters’, p. 399) for an opposing view
here.
87. Pufendorf, On the Law of Nature and Nations, p. 245; see also p. 246.
88. Peter Niesen, ‘Colonialism and Hospitality’, Politics and Ethics Review 3:1 (2007),
p. 92.
89. Niesen, ‘Colonialism and Hospitality’, p. 92.
90. Immanuel Kant, ‘Perpetual Peace: A Philosophical Sketch’, in H.B. Nisbet (trans.)
and H.S. Reiss (ed.), Kant: Political Writings (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1991), p. 106.
91. See Derrida, Adieu, p. 68; Derrida, Of Hospitality, pp. 27 and 71–3; Jacques
Derrida, ‘Hostipitality’, Angelaki 5:3 (2000), pp. 3–4; and Derrida, On Cosmopoli-
tanism, pp. 11, 22 and 27. For an overview of Derrida on Kant’s right of
hospitality, see Baker, ‘The Spectre of Montezuma’, pp. 5–7. For a contrary view
to Derrida’s, see Garrett W. Brown, ‘The Laws of Hospitality, Asylum Seekers and
Cosmopolitan Right: A Kantian response to Jacques Derrida’, European Journal of
Political Theory 9:1 (2010), pp. 308–27.
92. Kant, ‘Perpetual Peace’, p. 106.
93. Niesen, ‘Colonialism and Hospitality’, p. 94.
Gideon Baker 67
94. Immanuel Kant, ‘The Metaphysics of Morals’, in H.B. Nisbet (trans.) and H.S.
Reiss (ed.), Kant: Political Writings (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1991), p. 138.
95. Niesen, ‘Colonialism and Hospitality’, p. 94.
96. Kant, ‘The Metaphysics of Morals’, pp. 172–3.
97. Niesen, ‘Colonialism and Hospitality’, p. 95.
98. Ibid., pp. 98–100.
99. E.g. Seyla Benhabib, The Rights of Others: Aliens, Residents and Citizens
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), p. 38.
100. Pauline Kleingeld, ‘Kant’s Cosmopolitan Law’, Kantian Review 2:1 (1998),
pp. 73–90.
101. Benhabib, The Rights of Others. See also Sharon Anderson-Gold, Cosmopolitanism
and Human Rights (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2001).
102. Kant, ‘The Metaphysics of Morals’, p. 137.
103. Niesen, ‘Colonialism and Hospitality’, p. 101.
104. Ibid., p. 102.
105. Kant, ‘The Metaphysics of Morals’, p. 172.
106. Niesen, ‘Colonialism and Hospitality’, p. 102. Katrin Flikschuh, Kant and Mod-
ern Political Philosophy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), p. 141.
See also Sankar Muthu, ‘Justice and Foreigners: Kant’s Cosmopolitan Right’,
Constellations 7:1 (2000), pp. 34–5.
107. Niesen extends Flikschuh’s ‘unilateral appropriation’ to include ‘colonial
usurpation’. Unlike the former, the latter is not even in principle ratifiable in
a global civil constitution and would instead have to be rectified.
108. Niesen, ‘Colonialism and Hospitality’, p. 103; Garrett W. Brown, ‘Kantian Cos-
mopolitan Law and the Idea of a Cosmopolitan Constitution’, History of Political
Thought 27:4 (2006), p. 664; Flikschuh, Kant and Modern Political Philosophy.
109. Niesen, ‘Colonialism and Hospitality’, p. 103.
110. Kant, ‘Perpetual Peace’, p. 106.
111. Niesen, ‘Colonialism and Hospitality’, p. 105; cf. F.H. Hinsley, Power and the
Pursuit of Peace (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1963).
112. Derrida, ‘Hostipitality’, p. 4.
113. Hunter, ‘Kant’s Cosmopolitanism from a Historical Viewpoint’, in B. Hindess
and R.B.J. Walker (eds.), The Cost of Kant (forthcoming).
114. Ibid., p. 10.
115. Immanuel Kant, ‘Critique of Practical Reason’, in M.J. Gregor (trans. and ed.),
Practical Philosophy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), p. 230.
116. Hunter, ‘Kant’s Cosmopolitanism from a Historical Viewpoint’, p. 17.
117. Kant, in Ibid., p. 17.
118. Hunter, ‘Kant’s Cosmopolitanism from a Historical Viewpoint’, p. 11.
119. Ibid., p. 21.
120. Ibid., p. 23.
121. Kant, ‘Perpetual Peace’, p. 106.
122. Kant, ‘Critique of Practical Reason’, p. 252.
123. Hunter, ‘Kant’s Cosmopolitanism from a Historical Viewpoint’, p. 23.
124. Ibid., pp. 27–8.
125. Kant, ‘The Metaphysics of Morals’, p. 418.
126. Kant, ‘Perpetual Peace’, p. 106.
127. Derrida, Adieu, p. 50; Derrida, On Cosmopolitanism, p. 16. For exemplary
recent statements of hospitality as instrumental to cosmopolitan right from
68 Right of Entry or Right of Refusal?
69
70 From Hospitality to the Right of Immigration
I can only offer a brief outline here and suggest a new way to make sense
of an often confusing variety of approaches in natural law thinking and
what we nowadays call international legal theory from about 1530 to 1750.6
I see the issue of hospitality as embedded in more comprehensive legal or
normative theories, and focus on these respective theories in the follow-
ing paragraphs. As just mentioned, I distinguish among three ‘schools’ in
terms of hospitality rights: the imperialist school, the society of states school
and the cosmopolitan school. Writers of the imperialist school believed in
a thick conception of the good and subscribed to a material end, which
trumped the rights of a community or state in case of conflict. Accord-
ing to this school, hospitality was an extensive natural right and could be
enforced.
thick conception of the good is based on and coincides with the Gospel and
the teachings of Catholic Christianity. The main aim of his famous lecture
De Indis (1539) is to justify preaching the Gospel and bringing salvation to
the natives. The Spaniards are the ambassadors of Christ, who are therefore
protected by the law of nations (ius gentium, roughly the basic norms of con-
duct shared by [almost] all [civilised] nations or gentes). The right to travel
and to communicate, based on natural law and the law of nations in this
sense, is merely a means to an end, namely the spreading of the Gospel,
not an end in itself (this is one key difference to the cosmopolitan school).
In addition, Vitoria conceptualises hospitality as a perfect right of the visi-
tors, who have – in a famous passage – the consent and the sanction of ‘the
whole world’ on their side.7 Perfect right implies implementation by force if
necessary.
This looks like mere ideology, but there are at least two elements which
prevent Vitoria’s theory from becoming just that: the ideas of justice and
of natural rights. Vitoria not only realises that minimal standards of jus-
tice are the necessary condition of a successful mission but also understands
that some form of natural justice is part and parcel of the Christian concep-
tion of the good. The lecture illustrates Vitoria’s honest struggle with this
tension between material ends (the spreading of Christianity) and formal
justice (for instance, the prohibition of unjustified use of force against the
natives or the reciprocity of conduct). In addition, Vitoria does not hesi-
tate to apply the idea of natural rights, which goes back to twelfth century
jurisprudence, to the natives – apparently fully aware of how this application
would complicate arguing for the express theological aim of his lecture.8
The right to preach the Gospel is a prerogative of the Christian, in partic-
ular Catholic, Europeans and thus does not allow for any form of reciprocity
or natural equality in this respect (though it does allow for it if non-religious
issues like property are concerned). In Vitoria, peace is not just a political
concept defined as the absence of war or as cooperation on an equal foot-
ing; it is above all a theological category. Genuine peace is only possible in a
community aiming at salus aeterna. War can be legitimate to preserve peace
in this theological sense.9
Indies. Grotius employed the language of natural law and rights and various
philosophical sources to offer convincing arguments for this political goal.
For instance, Grotius used and abused Stoic philosophy to justify alliances
with native rulers against Christian colonial rivals, to legitimise punishment
of transgressors of natural law or to defend Dutch interests in free trade
and navigation.10 There is no doubt that Grotius’ revised theories of nat-
ural rights, of natural law and of the law of nations were original, could
be (and actually were) read in isolation from their colonial contexts and
contemporary polemics and were tremendously influential.
This also holds true of what Grotius wrote about hospitality and the free-
dom of the seas (a formal principle which again served Dutch interests
against the Portuguese and Spanish colonial possessions). Closely following
Vitoria and other members of the Second Scholastic like Francisco Suárez,
Grotius claimed that the rights to travel and trade were natural, perfect
and enforceable and did not require consent. Grotius termed the first one
the ‘law of human fellowship’, called it ‘absolutely just’ and agreed with
Vitoria. Originally there had been no private ownership (dominium) but com-
mon possession (communio) and only in the course of history did common
possession become modified in certain areas in favour of private property.
If someone wanted to pass over a territory under the dominium of a peo-
ple, various conditions could be imposed and precautions could be taken
in order to protect the owner. However, the right of passage itself could
be demanded and enforced if refused. The rights to travel and trade were
universal and thus pertained ‘equally to all peoples’.11 Any defense of exclu-
sive rights or privileges such as those propagated by the Spanish or the
Portuguese was therefore bound to fail. These sweeping provisions served
a new goal, no longer (only) the spreading of the Christian faith, but above
all Dutch commercial interests and imperial power.
moral philosophy of theologians like Vitoria (see Alberico Gentili for an early
distinction) or that of the academics (Schullehrer; see Christian Thomasius).
Pufendorf’s natural law philosophy, for instance, was based on the principle
of ‘sociability’ (socialitas) and rejected an ethical understanding of natural
law. As a consequence, his theory was criticised by eclectic philosophers as
reductionistic.14 One result of jurisprudence’s autonomy was the weaken-
ing of moral theology. Third was a new and more comprehensive natural
law theory. This was the conditio sine qua non of any attempt to establish
the autonomy of jurisprudence. Natural law was no longer ‘written into the
hearts of people’ and inborn but derived from human nature with the help
of ‘right reason’ and ‘universally valid’. The science of natural law focused on
external, enforceable actions, the rights and duties of citizens and the obliga-
tion of the ruler to guarantee external peace and security (pax et securitas), the
sole end of the state. This modified natural law theory went hand in hand
with a new political anthropology, which emphasised self-love, sociability
(no longer seen as an innate human feature but as artificial and historical)
and possible conflict. Fourth came the secularisation of politics or its ‘decon-
fessionalisation’ or ‘desacralisation’ (Ian Hunter). The weakening of moral
theology was part of this process. In Hunter’s words:
The project of a single moral philosophy unifying church and state, morality
and politics was abandoned. The goal was a government neutral in confes-
sional terms. Still, authors like Pufendorf kept a kind of backup theology,
with the divine will as the ultimate source of civil obligations.
The consequences of this new legal philosophy were far-reaching. In the
first place, it meant the end of traditional jus gentium as a source of law
that (almost) all gentes (peoples) had in common.16 This was a result of the
dualistic concept of law (natural or rational versus positive), which left no
room for the older version of jus gentium. Hobbes, for instance, derived the
law of nature only from reason, and he identified the law of nations with
the law of nature. On this basis, Hobbes saw the international realm as a
state of nature. Second, this law of nations was seen as a distinct field of law
applying to a unique set of legal subjects, that is, to sovereign rulers or states
(civitates) only. Pufendorf, for instance, conceptualised the sovereign state
as a composite moral person (persona moralis composita), constituted by the
union of individuals under a government.
74 From Hospitality to the Right of Immigration
freedom and focuses on individuals and their rights rather than states. Rep-
resentatives go beyond the state-centred approach of the second school and
emphasise natural human rights of global reach but try to avoid the impe-
rialist and hegemonic implications of the first school. Hospitality, Vitoria’s
right to travel and to communicate is now an end in itself, no longer a means
to something else. I consider Christian Wolff as the first important represen-
tative of this school. He developed a new concept of law (lex) as a binding
body of rules no longer connected with the feature of the legislator (as in
Hobbes and Pufendorf). The decisive criterion is the obligatory force of the
law, with the law of nature based on the essence of man and of things (and
not on God’s will).21
This new concept helped Wolff to reject both Pufendorf’s identification of
the law of nations with the law of nature and his dualistic concept of law.
Wolff himself distinguished between four levels in his Ius gentium (1749):
The natural or necessary law of nations (ius gentium naturale vel necessar-
ium) was the application of natural law to nations (gentes). The volitional or
voluntary law of nations (ius voluntarium) was precariously located between
natural and positive law, based on right reason and the presumed consent
of nations. It specified ‘what nations ought to consider as law among them-
selves, although it does not conform in all respects to the natural law of
nations, nor altogether differ from it’. Wolff seemed to argue that acts which
violate the obligatory law of nature are ‘not indeed allowed, but endured’.22
Wolff divided positive law into stipulative law (ius gentium pactitium) which
derived from pacts or stipulations, thus from express consent and customary
law (ius gentium consuetudinarium) based on tacit consent, that is, long usage,
custom or das Herkommen.23 Wolff accepted both forms of positive law as
part of the body of the law of nations. However, he assumed a clear hierar-
chy. Nations form a universal commonwealth termed civitas maxima whose
norms are identical with the volitional law of nations.
Wolff distinguished the juridical notion of a civitas maxima from the ‘great
society (societas magna) . . . made up of the whole human race’.24 The idea of a
great society revived the Stoic notion of humans as sharing certain biological
and moral qualities, and thus being related to each other. The civitas max-
ima, by contrast, was an ideal or fiction which structured the legal sphere
and outlined how humans ought to interact with each other.25 Natural or
necessary law was logically prior to all other types of law, even to voluntary
law, which depended on ‘the free will of nations’ but had to be compatible
with natural law.26 The idea of a civitas maxima, a hypothetical society or
commonwealth based on tacit consent, underlined this primacy of natural
law and was logically prior to the society of sovereign states. Pufendorf had
implied that the establishment of particular societies rendered the notion of
an original commonwealth obsolete. In a passage apparently directed against
Pufendorf and the society of states school, Wolff argued that if we consider
the great society
76 From Hospitality to the Right of Immigration
which nature herself has established among men, to be done away with
by the particular societies which men enter when they unite into a state,
states would be established contrary to the law of nature, in as much
as the universal obligation of all toward all would be terminated; which
assuredly is absurd.27
The law of nature included universal obligations towards all people, such
as mutual assistance. This obligation was only partially fulfilled by unit-
ing into a state. Wolff continued: ‘After the human race was divided
into nations, that society which before was between individuals continues
between nations’. The regulative idea of civitas maxima was based on natural
law, right reason and on the implicit consent of all peoples, ‘as if they had
signed a contract’, ‘as if by agreement’. Based on implicit consent and the
equality of nations, this cosmopolitan world order was binding like positive
law, could not be revoked by unilateral decision and amounted to ‘a kind of
democratic form of government’.28
In agreement with some previous authors like Vitoria and Pufendorf, Wolff
accepted the true ownership of natives. Like Pufendorf, he rejected any
exclusive rights for Europeans. The right of each nation to own one’s ter-
ritory effectively abandoned Vitoria’s first title. Nations may decide ‘not to
tolerate missionaries’, since their purpose is ‘urging their religion upon the
inhabitants’.29 As in Pufendorf, Wolff’s system of natural law allowed for
a clear distinction between the spheres of law and religion. For authors
of the Second Scholastic, a thick conception of the good had trumped
considerations of reciprocity. In Vitoria or Francisco Suárez, for instance,
missionaries representing Catholic Christianity had a right to preach every-
where, and as it was the only true religion, standards of reciprocity did
not apply: unbelievers had no right to preach their faith in Catholic terri-
tories. This was the central dilemma of Vitoria’s lecture: divine command
took precedence over ius gentium and natural law and established privi-
leges for Catholic Christians. This hierarchy could not easily be reconciled
with the assumed natural equality of political communities and their inde-
pendence and dominium. Wolff opted for natural equality, independence
and dominium, rejected any thick concept of the good (religions are legally
equal) and reasoned that European arguments based on civilisation were also
invalid.
Although Wolff differed profoundly from Pufendorf and rejected the soci-
ety of states school, their respective theories of hospitality rights drew similar
conclusions. As pointed out, Wolff distinguished between necessary or nat-
ural and positive law. One type of the latter is stipulative law (ius gentium
pactitium) which derives from pacts or stipulations, thus from express con-
sent. Wolff’s account of hospitality builds upon these distinctions. In the first
place, states have perfect duties towards themselves, such as self-preservation
Georg Cavallar 77
equality (§ 919), natural legal freedom (§§ 895 and 920; both are not inalien-
able) and owning one’s territory (§§ 929–30). Therefore, no people is allowed
to enter or transverse foreign territory, unless this people consents to it (§
935). This right of property is not qualified; even territories of ‘barbarians’
must not be occupied (§ 939); the right of innocent use (innoxiae utilitatis
principum), discussed at length in some previous authors, is simply dropped
(§ 935). The category of imperfect duties towards strangers is missing – it is
part and parcel of ‘ethics and politics’ (§ 208) and perhaps part of the ‘prac-
tical European law of nations’ (ius gentium Europaearum practicum, § 976),
promised at the end of this book.
‘Natural law developed in the eighteenth century into increas-
ingly more specialized governmental sciences such as Cameralism and
Polizeywissenschaft – a science of politics as a technology of government’.37
Achenwall and Pütter’s natural law theory included elements of reason of
state (ratio status; § 207), especially in cases of ‘extreme necessity’, when
the nation was entitled to violate perfect duties in the name of the more
basic right of public self-preservation (§ 911; cf. §§ 203–5). The authors did
not endorse the primacy of natural law, but rather its opposite, the pri-
macy of positive legislation. The yardstick is the salus publica, the common
welfare as interpreted by the sovereign and she may order actions ‘which
are not prescribed by natural law’ (§ 695).38 If one compares Achenwall’s
and Pütter’s textbook to Wolff, one can see that the category of imperfect
duties towards strangers has vanished. This eclipse goes hand in hand with
a stronger emphasis on positive legislation.
that they felt ‘outside the network of reciprocal relationships and expec-
tations that had once given them the cultural contexts for their actions,
beliefs, and values – for their moeurs’.48
persons ‘who can mutually affect one another must belong to some civil
constitution’.59 All spheres of external freedom had to be subject to the rule
of law.
In terms of content, Kant’s cosmopolitan right followed what authors
before him had written about the subject. Diderot, for instance, antici-
pated Kant’s distinction between the right to visit and the right to be a
guest. Others had also criticised colonialism, defended Chinese or Japanese
isolationism or attempted to balance the rights of visitors with those of
the natives. Kant’s demarcation of spheres of freedom was probably more
precise. The originality of Kant’s contribution lies in his revision of the tradi-
tional argument from original ownership, his new justification of hospitality
rights and the thinness of his account. Diderot, for instance, was deeply pes-
simistic that European incursions and atrocities could be stopped.60 Though
Kant found clear words denouncing British and Dutch colonialism, Diderot’s
pessimism and cynicism were absent.
My short overview demonstrates that most authors after Wolff discussed
here can be assigned to the society of states school, namely Achenwall
and Pütter, Vattel and Martini. Writers like Heumann and Diderot kept
the cosmopolitan school alive, but were rather marginal. Perhaps it is safe
to assume that the imperialist school receded into the background. The
society-of-states school was further bolstered by developments I am going
to discuss next.
subjects ‘in general and without express permission’ to enter, pass through or
stay in other countries, except in times of war. This liberal practice was usu-
ally based on contracts, and it was up to the sovereign to impose limitations,
such as introducing passports or denying entry to certain groups of people.
Martens’ summary was constructed on and synthesised an impressive list of
bilateral treaties as well as on authors such as Moser.
Probably the most widespread story of the rise of legal positivism focuses
on two British authors, Jeremy Bentham (1748–1832) and John Austin
(1790–1859), with Bentham (1789) using the term ‘international law’ instead
of ‘the law of nations’ and changing the boundaries of the discipline. How-
ever, if the interpretation offered here (based on Jan Schröder and others)
is correct, Bentham merely repeated two familiar assumptions of the society
of states school: international law was only about the rights and obligations
of states among themselves and not about those including individuals, and,
as a consequence, cases involving foreign transactions adjudicated by local
courts were not decided by the norms of the law of nations but by internal
rules.70 Austin (1832) followed suit, also drawing a sharp distinction between
international and domestic spheres and declaring that international law was
not really law in the strict sense, since law was set by sovereign authority,
which was absent in the international realm.71
As pointed out, this familiar story about Bentham and Austin may have to
be revised as a form of incipient positivism can be found since Hobbes and
Pufendorf. Austin’s claim that the so-called ‘law of nations consists of opin-
ions or sentiments current among nations generally’ was similar to Moser
and Martens.72 The turn to positive European law of nations goes back to the
1780s. The novel element in Austin (and in legal science of the early nine-
teenth century in general) was a fresh attempt to ‘determine the province of
jurisprudence’, as indicated in the title of Austin’s lectures. Jurisprudence’s
sole focus was positive law, though drawing clear disciplinary boundaries
was difficult since this type of law was intimately ‘allied or related’ to other
types, such as the laws of God or positive moral rules.73 The generic shift
is indicated by the replacement of the umbrella term ‘natural law’ with
‘philosophy of (positive) law’.74
pirates were still ‘the enemies of all mankind’, but not because they violated
standards of natural law (an argument found in Grotius, for instance) but
because pirates were not ‘authorized by any sovereign State’.76 State-centred
international law gave rise to the concept of ‘private international law’ reg-
ulating the interactions of private individuals and corporations. Sovereign
states had the ‘exclusive power of legislation’ over citizens and aliens alike,
including the right to naturalise foreigners. Rights of immigration were not
mentioned.77
itself to the danger of incurring the enmity of other nations, and without
exposing to hazard its own existence. The motive which induces each par-
ticular nation to observe this law depends upon its persuasion that other
nations will observe towards it the same law. The jus gentium is founded
upon reciprocity of will. It has neither lawgiver nor supreme judge, since
independent states acknowledge no superior human authority. Its organ
and regulator is public opinion: its supreme tribunal is history, which
forms at one the rampart of justice and the Nemesis by whom injustice
is avenged. Its sanction, or the obligation of all men to respect it, results
from the moral order of the universe, which will not suffer nations and
individuals to be isolated from each other, but constantly tends to unite
the whole family of mankind in one great harmonious society.84
Conclusion
‘Minor’ authors like Achenwall, Martini and Moser were probably as influ-
ential because of their university lectures and perhaps more representative
of main trends.94 In addition, there was a split between les philosophes on
the one hand and international lawyers on the other – which is surpris-
ing, since philosophers often did influence the latter, especially in terms of
methodology.95
I have pointed at a certain tendency to reinterpret representatives of
the imperialist school as cosmopolitans; Vitoria and Grotius are cases in
point.96 As mentioned, Martens labelled Bluntschli a cosmopolitan, though
he was probably an imperialist. Representatives of the philosophically ori-
ented law of nations leaned towards or founded the cosmopolitan school
(Wolff, Diderot and Kant are outstanding examples), but they never became
mainstream, in contrast to the society of states school, which was usually
endorsed by (natural and international) lawyers. Kant’s overwhelming pres-
ence in current hospitality discourses is an indicator of how ‘Kantianized’
parts of Western academic communities have nowadays become, a fact
deplored by Ian Hunter.97 A fine example is Derrida’s paper on hospi-
tality, delivered in Frankfurt an der Oder in 1996 and quoting Kant at
length.98 However, this clouds how marginalised the cosmopolitan school
actually was.
Notes
1. This chapter builds on my own The Rights of Strangers: Theories of International Hos-
pitality, the Global Community, and Political Justice Since Vitoria (Aldershot: Ashgate,
2002) and Imperfect Cosmopolis: Studies in the History of International Legal Theory
and Cosmopolitan Ideas (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2011). See Imperfect
Cosmopolis, Chapter 1 for an extensive introduction.
2. See, for instance, Garrett W. Brown, ‘Moving from Cosmopolitan Legal Theory to
Legal Practice: Models of Cosmopolitan Law’, Legal Studies 28 (2008), pp. 430–51;
and Robert Post (ed.), Another Cosmopolitanism (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2006).
3. Jacques Derrida, Of Hospitality (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2000);
On Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness (London: Routledge, 2001); Gideon Baker,
‘Cosmopolitanism as Hospitality: Revisiting Identity and Difference in Cos-
mopolitanism’ (manuscript), The Politics of Hospitality: Sovereignty and Ethics in
Political Community, Chapter 3 (ms). Garrett Wallace Brown, ‘The Laws of Hos-
pitality, Asylum Seekers and Cosmopolitan Right: A Kantian Response to Jacques
Derrida’, European Journal of Political Theory 9 (2010), pp. 1–20 is a succinct critique
of Derrida from a Kantian perspective. Nicholas Onuf, ‘Friendship and Hospi-
tality: Some Conceptual Preliminaries’, Journal of International Political Theory 5
(2009), pp. 1–21 is a useful discussion of the concept of hospitality in Aristotle,
Kant, Derrida and others.
4. Reinhart Koselleck, ‘Einleitung’, in Otto Brunner, Werner Conze and Reinhart
Koselleck (eds.), Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe: Historisches Lexikon zur politisch-
sozialen Sprache in Deutschland (Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1979), 1:XV; Hans
Blumenberg, Aspekte der Epochenschwelle (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1976);
Georg Cavallar 89
Peter Seele, Philosophie der Epochenschwelle (Berlin and New York: Walter de
Gruyter, 2008).
5. I presume my own Rights of Strangers; pp. 6 and 370–2 is an illustrative example
of this picture.
6. I offer more detailed analyses in my Rights of Strangers, in Imperfect Cosmopolis,
Chapters 2 and 6, and in the recent essay, ‘From Francisco de Vitoria to Alfred
Verdross: Continuity and Discontinuity in the Debate on the Rights of Non-
European Peoples’, in Matthias Lutz-Bachmann (ed.), Die Normativität des Rechts in
der spanischen Spätscholastik (Stttgart: frommann-holzboog, 2011, in preparation).
7. Francisco de Vitoria, ‘On Civil Power’, in Anthony Padgen and Jeremy Lawrance
(ed.), Political Writings (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), pp. 1–44,
at p. 40.
8. On Vitoria and nautral rights, see especially Brian Tierney, ‘The Idea of Natu-
ral Rights – Origins and Persistence’, Northwestern Journal of International Human
Rights 2 (2004), pp. 2–12.
9. Francisco de Vitoria, ‘On the American Indians’, in Political Writings, pp. 233–92,
at pp. 283–6; cf. Heinz-Gerhard Justenhoven, Francisco de Vitoria zu Krieg und
Frieden (Köln: Bachem, 1991), pp. 103–7 and 165–81.
10. Richard Tuck, The Rights of War and Peace: Political Thought and the International
Order From Grotius to Kant (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999); Martine Julia
van Ittersum, Profit and Principle: Hugo Grotius, Natural Rights Theories and the Rise
of Dutch Power in the East Indies 1595–1615 (Leiden: Brill, 2006); and Edward
Keene, Beyond the Anarchical Society: Grotius, Colonialism and Order in World Pol-
itics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002). Recent secondary literature
is listed in Martine Julia van Ittersum, ‘The Wise Man is Never Merely a Private
Citizen: The Roman Stoa in Hugo Grotius’, De Jure Praedae (1604–1608), History
of European Ideas 36 (2010), pp. 1–18, at 2. The thrust of these works contrasts
with my own naiveté in Rights of Strangers, pp. 138–55, where I express only some
scepticism towards the end of my analysis.
11. Hugo Grotius, Commentary on the Law of Prize and Booty [1603], Gwladys
L. Williams (trans.) (New York: Oceana Publishing, 1964), Chapter 12, pp. 216–20
with all quotations, the last one p. 218. I have also used the online ver-
sion Martine Julia van Ittersum (ed.) (Indianapolis, IN: Liberty Fund, 2006); De
Jure Belli ac Pacis Libri Tres [1625; The Law of War and Peace]. vol. II, trans.
Francis W. Kelsey. 3 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1925; reprint New York:
Oceana Publications, 1964), 2.2.13, p. 198 (on the right of passage). I have also
used the online-version Richard Tuck (ed.), from the edition of Jean Barbeyrac
(Indianapolis, IN: Liberty Fund, 2005).
12. On Hobbes, see, among others, Dieter Hüning (ed.), Der lange Schatten des
Leviathan (Berlin: Duncker und Humblot 2005); Patricia Springborg (ed.), The
Cambridge Companion to Hobbes’s Leviathan (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2007); David Armitage, ‘Hobbes and the Foundations of Modern Inter-
national Thought’, in Annabel Brett and James Tully with Holly Hamilton
Bleakley (eds.), Rethinking the Foundations of Modern Political Thought (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2006), pp. 219–35; and Horst Dreitzel, ‘The Recep-
tion of Hobbes in the Political Philosophy of the Early German Enlightenment’,
History of European Ideas 29 (2003), pp. 255–89. A recent and helpful volume on
Pufendorf is Dieter Hüning (ed.), Naturrecht und Staatstheorie bei Samuel Pufendorf
(Baden-Baden: Nomos, 2009, with more secondary literature). Not to be missed:
Ian Hunter, Rival Enlightenments: Civil and Metaphysical Philosophy in Early Modern
90 From Hospitality to the Right of Immigration
22. Christian Wolff, Ius gentium methodo scientifica pertractatum, in quo ius gentium
naturale ab eo, quod voluntarii, pactitii et consuetudinarii est, accurate distinguitur
[1749], Joseph H. Drake (trans.) (reprint New York: Oceana Publications, 1964),
‘Prolegomena’, §§ 4, 20 and 21. This passage follows my essay: ‘The Law of
Nations in the Age of Enlightenment: Moral and Legal Principles’, Annual Review
of Law and Ethics 12 (2004), pp. 213–29, at 219–22.
23. Wolff, Ius gentium, §§ 23 and 24.
24. Ibid., § 11, note. The distinction is pointed out by Wolfgang Röd, Geometrischer
Geist und Naturrecht: Methodengeschichtliche Untersuchungen zur Staatsphilosophie
im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert (München: Verlag der bayerischen Akademie der
Wissenschaften, 1970), p. 139.
25. Wolff, Ius gentium, §§ 9–22. The most reliable interpretations are Walter Schiffer,
The Legal Community of Mankind (New York: Columbia University Press, 1954),
pp. 63–78; Nicholas Greenwood Onuf, The Republican Legacy in International
Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), pp. 60–70; and Francis
Cheneval, Philosophie in weltbürgerlicher Bedeutung: Über die Entstehung und die
philosophischen Grundlagen des supranationalen und kosmopolitischen Denkens der
Moderne (Basel: Schwabe, 2002), pp. 132–213.
26. Wolff, Ius gentium, ‘Preface’, p. 6.
27. Ibid., prol., § 7 note. The following quotation ibid.
28. Christian Wolff, Grundsätze des Natur und Völckerrechts worinn alle Verbindlichkeiten
und alle Rechte aus der Natur des Menschen in einem beständigen Zusammenhange
hergeleitet werden [1754], in Gesammelte Werke, vol. 19 (reprint Hildesheim: Georg
Olms Verlag, 1980), § 1090; Wolff, Ius gentium, prol., §§ 9 and 19. Cheneval,
Philosophie, p. 206: ‘Seine civitas maxima ist [ . . . ] ganz klar ein erster Versuch
der Begründung einer menschenrechtlich verfassten Rechtsgemeinschaft und
globalen Demokratie.’
29. Wolff, Ius gentium, § 297.
30. Ibid., §§ 28 and 29, pp. 20–1; 255, pp. 130 and 269, pp. 137–8.
31. Ibid., § 157, pp. 85 and 159, pp. 85–6; § 206, p. 107.
32. Ibid., § 296.
33. Paras. 75 §, p. 44; § 187 note, p. 98.
34. Johann Heumann von Teutschenbrunn, ‘Disquisitio de civitate gentium’, in
Exercitationes juris universi praecipue Germanici, vol. 2 (Altdorf: Johann Adam
Hessel, 1749–1757). My interpretation follows Cheneval, Philosophie, pp. 332–51.
35. See my own ‘Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712–1778)’, in Bardo Fassbender and
Anne Peters (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of the History of International Law
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), ‘Educating Émile: Jean-Jacques Rousseau
on cosmopolitanism’, European Legacy 17: 4 (2012); and Cheneval, Philosophie,
pp. 351–99.
36. Gottfried Achenwall and Johann Stephan Pütter, Anfangsgründe des Naturrechts
(Elementa iuris naturae; 1750), Jan Schröder (ed. and trans.) (Frankfurt am Main
and Leipzig: Insel, 1995). The paragraphs in the text refer to this edition, transla-
tions are my own. See the remarks in Dreitzel, ‘Reception of Hobbes’, pp. 284–6
and the excellent essay by Jan Schröder, ‘Gottfried Achenwall, Johann Stephan
Pütter und die “Elementa Iuris Naturae” ’, in Achenwall and Pütter, Anfangsgründe,
pp. 331–51.
37. Koskenniemi, ‘Miserable Comforters’, p. 402.
38. Jan Schröder, ‘Achenwall’, p. 347 and ‘ “Naturrecht bricht positives Recht” in der
Rechtstheorie des 18. Jahrhunderts’, in Schröder, Rechtswissenschaft, pp. 283–96.
92 From Hospitality to the Right of Immigration
39. Emer de Vattel, The Law of Nations or the Principles of Natural Law [1758], Charles
G. Fenwick (trans.) (Washington, D.C.: Carnegie Foundation, 1916), ‘Introduc-
tion’, § 16, pp. 6–7; 1.19.230, p. 92; 2.10.135–7, pp. 154–5. I have also used the
new edition, The Law of Nations, or, Principles of the Law of Nature, Applied to the
Conduct and Affairs of Nations and Sovereigns, B. Kapossy and R. Whatmore (ed. and
intro.) (Indianapolis, IN: Liberty Fund, 2008). Useful and recent introductions to
Vattel are the following: Simone Zurbuchen, ‘Vattel’s Law of Nations and Just War
Theory’, History of European Ideas 35 (2009), pp. 408–17; and Karl-Heinz Ziegler,
‘Emer de Vattel und die Entwicklung des Völkerrechts im 18. Jahrhundert’, in
Markus Kremer and Hans-Richard Reuter (eds.), Macht und Moral – Politisches
Denken im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2007), pp. 321–41.
40. Vattel, Law of Nations, 2.8.100, p. 144; 2.8.104, p. 145.
41. Ibid., ‘Preface’, p. 11a; ‘Introduction’, §§ 10–13, pp. 5–6; 3.12.189, pp. 304–5.
42. Denis Diderot, ‘The Supplément au Voyage de Bougainville [1772]’, in John Hope
Mason and Robert Wokler (trans. and eds.), Political Writings (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1992), p. 42; ‘Extracts from the Histoire des Deux
Indes [1780]’, in Political Writings, pp. 178 and 186; ‘Observations sur le Nakaz’
[1767], in Political Writings, pp. 159 and 134–5. The basic text is: Guillaume-
Thomas Raynal, Histoire philosophique et politique des établissements et du commerce
des Européens dans les deux Indes, 10 vols. (Genève: Jean-Leonard Pellet, 1780).
For interpretations, see Lectures de Raynal: l’Histoire des Deux Indes en Europe et en
Amérique au XVIII siècle, Hans-Jürgen Lüsebrink (ed.), Manfred Tietz, Studies on
Voltaire and the Eighteenth Century, vol. 286 (Oxford: The Voltaire Foundation at
the Taylor Institution, 1991) and especially Sankar Muthu, Enlightenment against
Empire (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2003), pp. 72–121, to
whom I am much indebted.
43. Denis Diderot, ‘Extracts from the Histoire’, in John Hope Mason and Robert
Wokler (trans. and eds.), Political Writings (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1992), p. 175.
44. Ibid., pp. 175–7.
45. Ibid., pp. 178–9; 197, and 173 and the discussion in Muthu, Enlightenment,
pp. 87–104.
46. Muthu, Enlightenment, p. 98 and Cavallar, Rights of Strangers, pp. 71–4.
47. Raynal, Histoire, IX, 5, translated in Muthu, Enlightenment, p. 85.
48. Muthu, Enlightenment, p. 86.
49. See the summary in Annette Brockmöller, Die Entstehung der Rechtstheorie im 19.
Jahrhundert in Deutschland (Baden-Baden: Nomos, 1997), pp. 36–42. The impor-
tant historians are Diethelm Klippel and Jan Schröder: Diethelm Klippel (ed.),
Naturrecht im 19. Jahrhundert. Kontinuität – Inhalt – Funktion – Wirkung (Goldbach,
1997); and Jan Schröder, Recht als Wissenschaft, especially pp. 97–187.
50. The two key works are the following: Karl Anton Freiherr von Martini,
Lehrbegriff des Natur-, Staats- und Völkerrechts (1783; reprint Aalen: Scientia,
1969) and Erklärung der Lehrsätze über das allgemeine Staats- und Völkerrecht
(1791; reprint Aalen: Scientia, 1969). The definitive study is Michael Hebeis,
Karl Anton von Martini (1726–1800): Leben und Werk (Frankfurt am Main et al.:
Lang, 1996).
51. Martini, Erklärung, II, §§ 13–15; the quotation at II, § 17.
52. Ibid., II, § 22.
53. Ibid., II, §§ 19–20; II § 29.
54. Ibid., II §57. See also II § 87.
Georg Cavallar 93
55. Brown, ‘Cosmopolitan Legal Theory’; Pauline Kleingeld, ‘Kant’s Changing Cos-
mopolitanism’, in Kant’s Idea for a Universal History with a Cosmopolitan Aim.
A Critical Guide, Amélie Oksenberg Rorty and James Schmidt (eds.) (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2009), pp. 171–86 and my own Imperfect Cosmopolis,
Chapter 4.
56. Immanuel Kant, ‘Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals’, in Mary
J. Gregor (trans. and ed.), Practical Philosophy (Cambridge: Cambridge Univer-
sity Press, 1996), p. 64; 4: 410 (the second reference is to the Akademie-
Ausgabe).
57. Immanuel Kant, ‘The Metaphysics of Morals Part I: Metaphysical First Principles
of the Doctrine of Right’ [1797], in Practical Philosophy, p. 387; 6: 230.
58. For an extensive analysis, see Cavallar, Rights of Strangers, pp. 359–68.
59. Kant, ‘Perpetual Peace’, in Practical Philosophy, p. 322; 8: 349.
60. Muthu, Enlightenment, pp. 117–18.
61. Robert Ward, An Enquiry into the Foundation and History of the Law of Nations in
Europe from the Time of the Greeks and the Romans to the Age of Grotius, 2 vols.
(London: Allen and Unwin, 1795); Arthur Nussbaum, A Concise History of the Law
of Nations (New York: Macmillan, 1954), p. 293; C.F. Amerasinghe, ‘The Historical
Development of International Law – Universal Aspects’, Archiv des Völkerrechts 39
(2001), pp. 367–93, at 367.
62. Ward, Enquiry, vol. 1, pp. 130 and 60. See also Ibid., pp. XV, XX, XIII–XIV and 131.
63. See Johnson Kent Wright, ‘Historical Writing in the Enlightenment World’, in
Martin Fitzpatrick, Peter Jones, Christa Knellwolf and Iain McCalman (eds.), The
Enlightenment World (London and New York: Routledge, 2007), pp. 207–16; and
Karen O’Brien, Narratives of Enlightenment. Cosmopolitan History from Voltaire to
Gibbon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997).
64. Ward, Enquiry, vol. 1, pp. 232–3. See Ibid., pp. 228–31 on the impact of
Christianity.
65. Ibid., pp. 234–5.
66. Nussbaum, History, pp. 139 and 172; Karl-Heinz Ziegler, Völkerrechtsgeschichte: Ein
Studienbuch (München: Beck, 1994), pp. 201–2.
67. Georg Friedrich von Martens, Einleitung in das positive europäische Völkerrecht
auf Verträge und Herkommen gegründet (Göttingen: Nabu Press, 1796), §§ 2–3;
Nussbaum, History, pp. 172–3; and Walter Habenicht, Georg Friedrich von Martens
(Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1934), pp. 67–74.
68. Martens, Einleitung, VI, X; § 1 and § 117, §§ 122 and 136; § 5. See also Nussbaum,
History, pp. 174–5; and Habenicht, Martens, pp. 77–81.
69. Martens, Einleitung, § 74, with the following quotations.
70. Jeremy Bentham, An Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation (1789),
J.H. Burns and H.L.A. Hart (ed.) (London: The Athlone Press, 1970), pp. 293–300.
See the interpretation in Mark W. Janis, An Introduction to International Law,
second edition (Boston: Aspen, 1993), pp. 227–35.
71. John Austin, The Province of Jurisprudence Determined (1832), Wilfrid E. Rumble
(ed.) (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), pp. 110–11, 123–4 and 285.
72. Austin, Province, p. 124. This, ‘familiar story’ is told in my own Rights of Strangers,
pp. 370–1, for instance Austin knew Martens’ writings; see Province, for instance
pp. 182–3.
73. Austin, Province, pp. 110 and 288.
74. Gustav Hugo, Lehrbuch des Naturrechts, als einer Philosophie des positiven Rechts
(Berlin: Springer, 1799); Schröder, Recht, pp. 200–4; Diethelm Klippel, ‘Naturrecht
94 From Hospitality to the Right of Immigration
und Rechtsphilosophie in der ersten Hälfte des 19. Jahrhunderts’, in Otto Dann
and Diethelm Klippel (eds.), Naturrecht – Spätaufklärung – Revolution (Hamburg:
Felix Meiner Verlag, 1995), pp. 270–92; Heinhard Steiger, ‘Völkerrecht und
Naturrecht zwischen Christian Wolff und Adolf Lasson’, in Diethelm Klippel (ed.),
Naturrecht im 19. Jahrhundert. Kontinuität – Inhalt – Funktion – Wirkung (Goldbach:
Keip Verlag, 1997), pp. 45–74, at pp. 46 and 67.
75. Henry Wheaton, Elements of International Law (1836), in The Classics of Interna-
tional Law, vol. 19 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1936), §§ 11, 12 and 15.
76. Ibid., §§ 124 and 122.
77. Ibid., §§ 19, 77, 82, 85 and 115.
78. August Wilhelm Heffter, Das europäische Völkerrecht der Gegenwart [1844], eighth
edition, by Heinrich Geffcken (Berlin: Verlag Müller, 1888), pp. 1–22 and
22–30.
79. Heffter, Das europäische Völkerrecht, pp. 3–4.
80. Ibid., pp. 62–5.
81. Ibid., p. 140.
82. Ibid., p. 48.
83. Ibid., pp. 157 and 118–19. See also the interpretation in Fisch, Expansion, pp. 284
and 315–16.
84. Heffter, Völkerrecht, § 2, quoted in Wheaton, Law, § 10, pp. 14–15.
85. Wheaton, Law, § 10, p. 13.
86. For an introduction, see Cavallar, Imperfect Cosmopolis, Chapter 6.
87. Friedrich von Martens, Völkerrecht: Das internationale Recht der civilisirten Nationen
(Berlin: Weidmann, 1883), §§ 3 and 4, pp. 18 and 21; § 53, p. 231.
88. Martens, Völkerrecht, § 41, p. 184.
89. Steiger, ‘Völkerrecht’, p. 45 refers to, profound change (tiefgreifenden Wandel)’;
see also Jan Schröder, ‘Die deutsche Rechtswissenschaft des 19. Jahrhunderts:
Theorie und Verbindungen zur Rechtspraxis’, Zeitschrift für neuere Rechtsgeschichte
28 (2006), pp. 33–47.
90. Kleindienst v. Mandel, 408 U.S. 753, 765 (1972), with the full text at http://
supreme.justia.com/us/408/753/case.html, visited 14 September 2007.
91. James A.R. Nafziger, ‘The General Admission of Aliens under International Law’,
American Journal of International Law 77 (1983), pp. 804–47, especially 808–9 and
805.
92. See my own ‘Zwischen Integration und Abgrenzung: das Fremdenrecht als Teil
der Europa-Ideen’, in Markus Kremer and Hans-Richard Reuter (eds.), Macht und
Moral – Politisches Denken im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer
2007), pp. 143–60, at pp. 150–2.
93. See Imperfect Cosmopolis, passim.
94. Jan Schröder, ‘Naturrecht als Lehrfach an den deutschen Universitäten des 18.
und 19. Jahrhunderts’, in Rechtswissenschaft in der Neuzeit, pp. 297–311.
95. Jan Schröder, ‘Definition und Deskription in der juristischen Methodenlehre der
frühen Neuzeit’, in Ibid., pp. 179–89.
96. See for instance James Brown Scott, The Spanish Origin of International
Law: Francisco de Vitoria and his Law of Nations (Oxford: Clarendon Press,
1934).
97. Ian Hunter, ‘Kant’s Regional Cosmopolitanism’, at http://sisr.net/events/docs/
Hunter.pdf, accessed 12 February 2010; ‘Global Justice and Regional Metaphysics:
On the Critical History oft he Law of Nature and Nations’, in S. Dorsett and
Ian Hunter (eds.), Law and Politics in British Colonial Thought: Transpositions
Georg Cavallar 95
The above quote by Francisco de Vitoria upholds an idea that has consis-
tently underpinned the moral requirements of cosmopolitan legal theory.
It is a principle that demands that justice should be a universal and equal
concern for all humanity, one which should be impartially applied at the
global level as a normative commandment for all human law. It is in relation
to this cosmopolitan vision that Vitoria uttered these words, maintaining the
normative idea that ‘the whole world has the power to enact laws’.1 In other
words, Vitoria argued that natural reason, public reason and law are compat-
ible, consistent and necessary at the global level; that the ethical treatment
of all human beings is a moral requirement of universal justice and that it is
a further requirement for international law to mirror this sense of mutually
consistent justice.
As in the time of Vitoria and the School of Salamanca, the last decade
has witnessed a renewed and reinvigorated debate about cosmopolitan legal
theory and its relevance to contemporary global politics and international
law. Nevertheless, within this contemporary debate, many cosmopolitan
theorists are guilty of resting their more elaborate institutional models on
the assumption of an already existing and thoroughgoing practice of cos-
mopolitan law. This is often done without detailed consideration regarding
the jurisprudentia entrenched within this assumed legal foundation. In order
to respond to this, the purpose of this chapter is to explore the concept
of hospitality and cosmopolitan law as it has evolved through three of its
most influential periods and to examine how this history of ideas underpins
contemporary cosmopolitanism. Through this exploration, this chapter will
illustrate how cosmopolitan law acts as the necessary juristic foundation for
institutionally based forms of contemporary cosmopolitanism and to estab-
lish the normative grounds which this jurisprudentia has inherited. To do
99
100 Between Naturalism and Cosmopolitan Law
so, the chapter is divided into three sections. The first section will provide
insights into the historical development and normative components that
underpin the cosmopolitanism put forward by Greco-Roman thought. From
this discussion, the second section will further outline the contributions
made by the School of Salamanca and discuss how this movement built
upon not only Greco-Roman thought but also on how it provided a nec-
essary conduit to Immanuel Kant and the Enlightenment. Building upon
these key legal traditions, section three outlines the idea of cosmopolitan
law as championed by Kant and illustrates how his vision of hospitality
and cosmopolitan law has influenced the legal theory of contemporary
cosmopolitans. The chapter will conclude by pointing out that cosmopoli-
tan law acts as the necessary foundational element in all forms of applied
cosmopolitan theory but that its recommendations for how to move the-
ory to practice remain incomplete. From this, the conclusion will highlight
why additional work on cosmopolitan jurisprudence is needed and how the
notion of hospitality as a form of transitional global justice might be able
to fill the lacuna towards which a more robust cosmopolitan legal condition
can be generated.
that many Roman Stoics interpreted the works of the early Stoa as fusing cos-
mopolitan moral principles with a call to create an applied human law that
mirrored cosmopolitan morality. Of these later Stoic thinkers, it is within the
works of Marcus Cicero and Marcus Aurelius that the idea of cosmopolitan
law was elaborated and tied to the notion of cosmopolitan legal obligation
and to notions of a world-wide state.
To understand the legal theory of Cicero and Aurelius, it is important to
comprehend the normative logic that underpinned their conception of cos-
mopolitanism. For both Cicero and Aurelius held that human beings were
potential members of a unified moral community. The basis for this unified
community stemmed from a universal human potential for reason, which
is a capacity shared between all humans. This capacity for human reason
meant that every person had the ability to communicate, self-reflect and
to live as moral beings. Since all humans are able to be self-reflecting moral
beings, individuals hold a unique universal moral purpose, one in which rea-
soned individuals can command equal and universal respect. Since human
beings share an equal ability for reason, they also share an equal ability
to create universal principles of human law. In fact, many Stoics believed
that humanity had a unified cosmopolitan purpose and that all human
law should comply with this universal law of nature. The naturalism that
underpins human law could be derived from a human capacity for reason
and from this reason, morality and law are not mutually exclusive. This
formulation is best expressed by Aurelius, when he states that
From this Stoic belief, three principle elements of moral and legal cos-
mopolitanism emerge. First, cosmopolitanism is inherently individualistic.
Meaning, the primary unit of moral concern is the worth of the reasoned
individual and that it is necessary for human law to organise and promote
a political state that could capture the demands of Stoic humanism. Sec-
ond, cosmopolitanism is egalitarian in that it holds that human beings are
equal in their moral capacities. Third, cosmopolitanism is about universal
application to all humans. Thus, humans are embroiled in a universal moral
community, and it is the requirement of human law to establish a universal
condition that could unite all of humanity. As the quote by Cicero suggests,
these principles are given to us by nature, they act as commands of reason,
as laws of reason and therefore as laws of nature, and ‘we need not look
outside ourselves for an expounder or interpreter of it’. Since these princi-
ples are discernible through reason, ‘true law is right reason in agreement
with nature’. In other words, it is a requirement of nature that human law is
in agreement with these natural laws and therefore respects a universal set
of laws for everyone everywhere, regardless of local decree, as if they were
citizens of the world.
The proposed legal practice of this philosophy is expounded in Cicero’s
reformulation of the Posidonius doctrine, as related in De Republica, where
‘the common nationality of the human race becomes the guiding rule for
Roman statesmen and the basis for the cultural mission of the Roman world
empire’.13 Here the exercise of rule is not based on power alone but on the
rule of law, which should be equally applied, for the furtherance of friendly
relations between all individuals. This law should be ‘valid for all subjects’
and if constituted properly and consistently, this human law will eventually
‘make way for the law of the world society’.14
Nevertheless, there exists a tension within this vision of Stoic cosmopoli-
tanism. This tension stems from the jurisprudence that is meant to underpin
the transition of its moral principles to human law. This is due to the fact
that many Stoics seem to champion universal principles of human worth
at the theoretical level, while at the same time promoting the exclusion of
various human beings from cosmopolitan legal practice. This is evident in
the fact that both Cicero and Aurelius seem to tie the idea of universal citi-
zenship to the additional requirement that persons are also members of the
Roman Empire. In other words, universal citizenship in practice was anal-
ogous to the practice of Roman citizenship and therefore also based on a
form of legal obligation associated with Roman law. In this regard, Cicero’s
104 Between Naturalism and Cosmopolitan Law
large-scale military and civilising missions to the far corners of the world,
and these missions often received apologies from many of the more legally
minded Stoics.
However, it would be unfair to judge the Roman Stoics from our con-
temporary perspective alone. This is because, in the history of ideas, the
Greco-Roman legal theorists have been highly influential in the develop-
ment of cosmopolitan law. This influence (or rejection of certain influences)
can be seen in the claims for universal hospitality during the Second Scholas-
tic, in the Natural Law tradition of Grotius and Pufendorf and in the
cosmopolitanism advocated by Kant during the Enlightenment. Further-
more, these ideas have underpinned many contemporary models of moral
and institutional cosmopolitanism. It is therefore necessary to understand
that the Roman Stoics were radical in their day, while also understanding
that they were constrained by the philosophical traditions they inherited
and by the historical influences of their lifeworld.
The debate that endured during the Second Scholastic17 can be seen as an
attempt to directly challenge the ‘civilizing mission’ of empire building and
the legal apologies that sought to excuse European expansion. Many of the
Neo-Thomist thinkers associated with the School of Salamanca sought to
expand arguments of natural law in order to broaden support for a legal
duty to hold all humanity as equally valuable. This was particularly the
case in their resistance to empire building in the New World, where ‘non-
believers’ were often subject to a systematic policy of destruction and where
the non-religious beliefs of the indigenous people were used as an excuse
for their ‘wholesale slaughter’.18 Nonetheless, it is important to note that
the theoretical debates of the Second Scholastic are not always uniform in
their cosmopolitan aspirations. For many theorists remained apprehensive
in relation to the application of natural law arguments for the equal pro-
tection of Native Americans. Some considered the indigenous population to
be lawless and uncivilised peoples who believed in cannibalism, witchcraft
and cultural barbarism, from which they needed to be saved in order to be
civilised and to avoid eternal damnation.19
As with any period of thought as rich and sophisticated as the Second
Scholastic, it is impossible to thoroughly explore the subtle distinctions
involved in this debate within one chapter. In addition, since this chapter
is on cosmopolitan law and its historical and philosophical roots, it will be
necessary to limit my discussion to cosmopolitan legal theory, which will
inevitably leave out considerable detail and sophisticated nuance. Further-
more, due to considerations of space, it will be most useful to single out
two thinkers of primary importance in the relationship between hospitality,
106 Between Naturalism and Cosmopolitan Law
In 1552, Bartolome de las Casas wrote, ‘all the peoples of the world are
human and there is only one definition of all humans and of each one, that
is that they are rational . . . and thus all the races of humankind are one’.20
As one can see, this quote contains obvious similarities with the cosmopoli-
tan logic of both Aurelius and Cicero. In comparison to Cicero and Aurelius,
the capacity for human reason creates a universal fraternity, and it is from
this capacity for reason that we share a similar human purpose. However,
unlike Aurelius and Cicero, Las Casas held a different theoretical premise in
relation to his foundation for natural law. Diverging from the Stoics, who
believed ‘we need not look outside ourselves for an expounder or interpreter
of it,’ Las Casas believed that natural law stems from a universal natural right
that is enshrined within all human beings by God. In variant logic from the
Roman Stoics and comparable with Thomas Aquinas, humans are born with
inalienable natural rights where the violation of these rights would be equal
to an act against the will of God. Since he believed this to be the case, Las
Casas also believed that all human law that permits the violation of natural
rights is in violation of natural law. For in Las Casas, natural law is deriva-
tive of natural right and we discover these natural laws through our human
ability to reason, which Las Casas also argues is conferred to human beings
as God’s chosen creatures on earth. As with the Stoics, human reason helps
to expose these laws of nature and it is from these immutable laws that
all human law should be based. Nevertheless, while the Stoics believed the
rights of universal citizenship to be a function of legal positivism, Las Casas
believed natural rights precede their codification into human law. It is due
to this fact that Las Casas believed that human law should do nothing more
than enforce the natural rights that already exist.
Based on this conception of universal natural right, Las Casas implies that
the native Indians were not only ‘men like us’ but that they also had basic
rights as ‘God’s rational creatures’. Furthermore, Las Casas argued that these
basic natural rights were equal to any held by Europeans and thus should be
equally respected by all those visiting the New World. As Las Casas states, the
Spanish exploration of the New World represents nothing more than the act
of ‘cruel tyrants’ who are engaged in ‘a series of violent incursions’ into lands
rightfully occupied and owned by native peoples.21 Through his writings,
Las Casas sought to highlight the cruelty and hypocrisy of the Spanish con-
quistador. In particular, Las Casas was wary of the claims of conquistadors
like Hernan Cortes, who often legitimated their violent actions by arguing
that the Spanish were ‘justly’ defending themselves against ‘a formidable
enemy’ that was acting inhospitably against the Spanish in order to defend
an unholy ‘Aztec Empire’.22 By doing so, Cortes attempted to paint a pic-
ture of military conquest between two powerful empires that was similar to
those witnessed in European theaters of war. This was done in order to legit-
imise himself against the claim that he was an inhospitable ‘violent invader’
while also allowing himself to claim that he was a righteous defender of
108 Between Naturalism and Cosmopolitan Law
Christendom.23 It was against these claims that Las Casas believed that
through violence and force the Spanish were acting in violation of both
natural right and natural law, which demanded mutual consistency, peace-
ful acts of reciprocity and acts of basic hospitality to all. Although Las Casas’
cosmopolitanism is predicated on a religious foundation, where conquis-
tadors were blamed for systematically killing ‘God’s rational creatures’, it
still maintains a firm cosmopolitan belief that humankind is a community
that morally demands the equal application of universal laws across political
borders.24
Nevertheless, a more thorough explanation of the relationship between
hospitality, natural law and the foundations of cosmopolitan human law
is presented in the works of Vitoria. For it is in Vitoria and other scholars
of the Second Scholastic that a relationship between natural rights, human
rights and a cosmopolitan vision is reworked with significant detail. As with
Las Casas and many Neo-Thomists, Vitoria believed that natural law is a
function of reason and delivers immutable axioms that are applicable to
all humanity. Like many cosmopolitans before him, Vitoria believed that
the legitimacy of human positive law depended on its consanguinity with
the axioms of natural law, where any ‘manifest injustice’ between the two
weakened the moral authority of human law and in essence rendered that
law illegitimate and open to reformulation.25 The implication of this stance
taken by Vitoria is considerable. First, the idea that humans have rights
becomes an a priori foundation of law that is unquestionable and inalienable.
As with many modern conceptions of universal human rights, the idea that
rights exist is taken philosophically for granted as divinely bestowed or as an
a priori metaphysical construct, where they are often held as an immutable
truth. Second, the legitimacy of law is predicated on a strict identification
relationship between natural rights and the ability and/or willingness of
law to uphold these inalienable principles. This suggests that law should
be as much a function of right as of having a utilitarian function of ordered
authority. Third, Vitoria seems to argue that the ability of human law to
mirror these natural laws is a concern open to public reason and reformula-
tion. In this regard, just law must be consistent with principles that can be
shared by all individuals regardless of their immediate political affiliations,
and these principles must be determined by a form of public reason as nat-
ural laws of reason. Vitoria suggests this is ultimately a cosmopolitan vision
when he states that ‘the whole world, which in a sense is a commonwealth,
has the power to enact laws which are just and convenient to all men; and
these make up the law of nations . . . [and] no kingdom may choose to ignore
this law of nations, because it has the sanction of the whole world’.26
In comparison to the Roman Stoics, the world is a universal common-
wealth, where human beings share not only a capacity for human reason
and thus the ability to be moral beings but also a similar human fate. It is
this similar fate as rational beings that establishes, as it were, a political
Garrett Wallace Brown 109
law between citizens and non-citizens.36 Instead, most natural law scholars
(Thomas Wolff possibly excluded) built upon the theoretical foundations
of Thomas Hobbes and suggested that the sovereign state was the ultimate
source of ethical law and human emancipation.37 In this regard, the laws of
nations were predicated on an almost inviolable form of Hobbesian contrac-
tarian theory, the creation of bounded political organisations as states and
the creation of state citizenship as distinct from outsiders. In addition, based
on these contractual foundations, natural lawyers believed that states should
follow a reformulated natural law doctrine of jus gentium, with its focus on
balance of power, the approximation of absolute sovereignty and a rather open-
ended reasoning for just war. In other words, what separates cosmopolitan
thought from the theories of the natural law tradition is that cosmopoli-
tanism takes the individual as holding primary status above state sovereignty
and sees the laws of reason as having a universal validity and potential
legal scope, far beyond any self-interested modus vivendi and impermanent
compact between states.
In this regard, like Cicero and Aurelius before him, Kant acknowledged
the cosmopolitan idea that humanity belonged to a universal community
of moral beings and that jus gentium should in some thoroughgoing way
reflect these cosmopolitan principles.38 Like Las Casas and Vitoria, Kant also
believed that all humans possessed a free will which grounds their power
to formulate human laws through the exercise of public reason. Unlike Las
Casas and Vitoria, however, Kant did not believe that one could prove the
existence of a natural right as inherited by God or that humanity could ever
experience true freedom. What Kant asserts, in contrast to Vitoria, is that
freedom and morality can only be understood transcendentally and that
morality necessarily requires the existence of a free will in order for it to
have the ability to be a self-imposed duty. Otherwise, moral duties would
simply be a coerced action by external determinates. In order for the idea
of morality to have subjective imperative, individuals must be understood
as having the capacity for self-prescribed duty. These duties find imperative
force through one’s autonomous free will and allow human beings to act as
moral beings in relation to others. It is due to the fact that morality assumes
a freedom of will to choose right or wrong and for moral judgements to
be based on those choices that all human beings share a universal moral
condition. In this regard, like Vitoria, but seemingly without the theologi-
cal component, humans share natural laws of reason and a moral fate that
in essence creates a common political fate and one that should be subject
to universal laws. This condition cannot be known as pure fact but can be
understood through the transcendental deduction so as to give philosophi-
cal meaning to the experience of nature. For Kant, natural rights do exist,
but not necessarily as a precept of God. As natural rights emerge from the
human capacity to be moral beings, which can be experienced in nature
and which ultimately highlight a similar human fate, we are able to confirm
Garrett Wallace Brown 113
the conditions for this public right through our experiences of practical and
public reason.39
In many ways, Kant’s idea of cosmopolitan law shares similarities with
the Roman Stoics and the School of Salamanca. As did Las Casas and to
some degree Vitoria, Kant rejects imperialism, empire and civilising mis-
sions. As Kant states, the ‘inhospitable conduct of the civilized states of
our continent, especially the commercial states, the injustices which they
display in visiting foreign countries and peoples (which in their case is
the same as conquering them) seems appallingly great’. Kant goes on to
argue that this has ‘led to oppression of the natives, incitement of the var-
ious Indian states to widespread wars, famine, insurrection, treachery and
the whole litany of evils which can afflict the human race’.40 Similar to
the normative position of the Roman Stoics, Kant believed in something
resembling what is commonly known as globalisation, where experiences of
increased interconnection force us to think normatively at the global level
and to measure the boundaries of our nation by the sun. This is because
he believed that through exploration and trade the world was no longer
a set of isolated peoples but that the world had in essence become a uni-
versal community, which demands universal laws of humanity. As Kant
suggests:
The peoples of the earth have entered in varying degrees into a universal
community, and it has developed to the point where a violation of rights
in one part of the world is felt everywhere. The idea of cosmopolitan right
is therefore not fantastic and overstrained; it is a necessary complement
to the unwritten code of political and international right, transforming it
into a universal right of humanity.41
false contracts cannot form a legitimate basis for international law. In line
with the spirit of Vitoria, however, Kant does argue that international law
must be representative of public reason. In this regard, both the ability
to communicate freely as well as to have access to public deliberation
about the substance of law are seen as necessary transitional foundations
of global justice for the evolutionary establishment of a cosmopolitan legal
condition.
Nevertheless, Kant distinguished this vision of cosmopolitan hospitality
from both the Stoics and the School of Salamanca by seeking to define
(and limit) the evolutionary path and expansionary potential for estab-
lishing a condition of cosmopolitan law. In many ways this limitation
represents how Kant saw cosmopolitan right and the corresponding laws
of hospitality not as the final word regarding justice but as the necessary
transitional principles of global justice needed to guarantee intersubjective
communication at the global level. From this baseline condition of hos-
pitality, Kant sought to provide the conditions for a mutually consistent
deliberation about the future robustness of cosmopolitan law and to make
sure that this formulation would be subject to a form of global public rea-
son.42 A limitation on how cosmopolitanism should expand is contained in
Kant’s Third Definitive Article in Perpetual Peace, which specifically demands
that ‘Cosmopolitan Right shall be limited to Conditions of Universal Hos-
pitality’.43 In addition, in a radical separation from Vitoria, Kant makes
a distinction between the right to visitation (Besuchsrecht) and the right
to residence (Gastrecht), demanding that any right to residence requires ‘a
special friendly agreement’ whereby one could be allowed to legitimately
reside.44
The separation of Gastrecht from Besuchsrecht is an important line of
demarcation and sets Kant’s laws of hospitality apart from those advo-
cated by Vitoria and other members of the Second Scholastic. Whereas
the laws of hospitality under Vitoria were vague regarding a right to use
common property, to settle in foreign lands and to use any land deemed
to be terra nullus, Kant’s requirement for an additional friendly agreement
set a limit to the ability of imperialist powers to manipulate natural law
arguments for an unrestricted right to settlement. As Kant clearly states,
‘there is not a right to make settlement on the land of another nation
(ius incolatus); for this, a special contract is required’.45 This contractual
requirement is a necessary condition for mutually consistent justice and
public right since cosmopolitan right postulates that ‘the sum of conditions
under which the choice of one can be united with the choice of another
is in accordance with a universal law of freedom’.46 It is from this minimal
foundation of hospitality and transitional global justice that ‘we may enter
into peaceful mutual relations which may eventually be regulated by public
laws, thus bringing the human race nearer and nearer to a cosmopolitan
constitution’.47
Garrett Wallace Brown 115
thus bringing the human race nearer and nearer to a cosmopolitan constitu-
tion’.57 In other words, the practice of cosmopolitan law is to be applied in a
slow and evolutionary fashion by those who believe in its principles, which
would include legal and extra-legal norms, so that ethical expectations could
‘gradually spread further and further’ as a form of transitional global justice
towards a more robust cosmopolitan legal order.58
Most contemporary cosmopolitans suggest that they are indebted to Kant
and this vision of cosmopolitan law. This is because for many cosmopolitans
Kant was instrumental in outlining a more progressive, internally consis-
tent and complete conception of cosmopolitanism. As many cosmopolitans
suggest, Kant was the first to develop an additional level of law at the
cosmopolitan level. Whereas Natural Law theorists often advocated strong
conditions of international law between states, Kant was the first to suggest
that the law of nations could only be reasonably secure in tandem with an
additional legal condition of cosmopolitan right. In this regard, Kant advo-
cated the creation of an additional level of law, at the global level, under
which both domestic law and international law would be supported and
protected. This was not to replace or weaken international law per se but was
designed specifically to compliment international law and to broaden the
scope of public law in all internal and external relations. Furthermore, many
cosmopolitans who are concerned with claims of cultural imperialism see
Kant as representing an important move away from the cosmopolitanism
of the Roman Stoics. This is because Kant suggested that instituting cos-
mopolitan law was an evolutionary matter of time and dedication to its
principles as a form of a mutually consistent transitional global justice and
that it was antithetical to cosmopolitan principles to force it as a civilis-
ing mission. In this regard, Kant understood that it is necessary to reform
existing law to comply with the minimal laws of hospitality so that human
beings could peacefully relate to one another, in order to provide a possibil-
ity for a more robust system of cosmopolitan law in the future. This was to be
done through the consistent moral behaviour of like-minded states, which
would help to set legal and extra-legal expectations between peoples. Lastly,
many see Kant as imagining a more radical, yet necessary, theoretical move
to promote cosmopolitan law and interconnected governance in an increas-
ingly globalised world. This is evidenced by Kant’s commitment to a pacific
federation and a world system based on a cooperative legal order. In many
ways, this represents Kant’s most radical formulation of cosmopolitan law
and one that contemporary scholars are still debating. For it highlights the
fact that cosmopolitanism requires a fairly strong commitment between like-
minded states to uphold the principles of public right, internally (domestic
law), externally (international law) and universally (cosmopolitan law).59
It is to the continued problem of how contemporary cosmopolitans suggest
we secure these legal commitments that the conclusion of this chapter will
now turn.
118 Between Naturalism and Cosmopolitan Law
of cosmopolitan law but also because in many ways the world has glob-
alised (for better or for worse) to the point where cosmopolitan legal theory
and global justice have greater relevance. In this regard, as in the time of
Cicero, Vitoria and Kant, the history of the idea of cosmopolitan law remains
an evolutionary and enthusiastic project which, ‘as solutions are gradually
found, constantly draws nearer fulfillment, for we may hope that the periods
within which equal amounts of progress are made will become progres-
sively shorter’.75 In other words, what is now required is to reinvigorate our
theorising and implementation of basic laws of hospitality so as to generate
this slow transition to a globally just world.
Notes
1. Francisco de Vitoria, ‘On the American Indians’, in A. Padgen and J. Lawrence
(eds.), Political Writings (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), p. 281.
2. Huge Harris, ‘The Greek Origins of the Idea of Cosmopolitanism’, The Interna-
tional Journal of Ethics 38:1 (1927), pp. 1–10.
3. Moses Hadas, ‘From Nationalism to Cosmopolitanism in the Greco-Roman
World’, Journal of the History of Ideas 4:1 (1943), pp. 105–11.
4. Diogenes Laertius, The Lives of Eminent Philosophers, vol. 1 (Cambridge: Loeb
Classical Library, 1925).
5. Donald Dudley, A History of Cynicism: From Diogenes to the 6th Century A.D.
(London: Ares Publishers, 1937), p. 34.
6. Nevertheless, he is certainly not the first to suggest human law based on a law
of nature. For it is Heracleitus and Empedocles who are often seen as the first
proponents of the idea that ‘immanent in the order of the universe is a moral law
of reason, in which all men as rational creatures naturally share, and to which
human laws everywhere should conform’. For quote see Harris, p. 7.
7. Zeno of Citium, The Fragments of Zeno and Cleanthes, Alfred Pearson (ed.)
(London: C.J. Clay, 1891), p. 102.
8. William Woodthorpe Tarn, Hellenistic Civilization (London: Plume, 1930), p. 73.
9. Plutarch, ‘On the Fortune of Alexander’, in A. Long and D. Sedley (eds.), The
Hellenistic Philosophers, vol. 1 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1987),
p. 429.
10. John Sellars, ‘Stoic Cosmopolitanism and Zeno’s Republic’, History of Political
Thought 28:1 (2007), pp. 1–29.
11. Marcus Aurelius, The Meditations (New York: Hackett, 1983), Section 14.
12. Marcus Tullius Cicero, The Republic and The Laws, J. Powell (ed.) (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1998), 3:28.
13. Hadas, Nationalism to Cosmopolitanism, p. 110.
14. Cicero, ‘The Republic’, 3:28.
15. It is interesting to note that the word barbarian stems from its usage by the Greeks
and meant that a person/peoples were ‘foreign or alien’ and these aliens were
uncivilised, lacking the development of reason. The Stoic seeming acceptance of
this distinction would seem to contradict Seneca’s grand cosmopolitan declara-
tion that ‘nothing human is alien to me’ and that humanity should ‘measure the
boundaries of our nation by the sun’. For quote see Seneca, De Otio, A. Long and
D. Sedley (eds.) (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), p. 431.
Garrett Wallace Brown 121
38. In doing so, Kant rejected the principles of the contemporary natural law tradi-
tion as a ‘pure illusion’ and maintained that natural law scholars such as Grotius
were ‘sorry comforters’ and apologists for the supremacy of poor state behaviour
under a misappropriated form of Roman jus gentium. See Immanuel Kant, ‘On the
Common Saying: This May be True in Theory, But It Does Not Apply in Practice’,
in Hans Reiss (ed.), Kant’s Political Writings (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1970), p. 92.
39. Immanuel Kant, Grounding for the Metaphysics of Morals (Cambridge: Hackett
Publishing Company, 1981).
40. Immanuel Kant, ‘Perpetual Peace: A Philosophical Sketch’, in Hans Reiss (ed.),
Kant’s Political Writings (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1970), p. 106.
41. Ibid., pp. 107–8.
42. Garrett Wallace Brown, ‘The Laws of Hospitality, Asylum Seekers and Cosmopoli-
tan Right: A Kantian Response to Jacques Derrida, European Journal of Political
Theory 9:3 (2010), pp. 308–27.
43. Kant, ‘Perpetual Peace’, p. 105.
44. Ibid.
45. Immanuel Kant, The Metaphysics of Morals, M. Gregor (ed.) (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1996), p. 121.
46. Ibid.
47. Kant, ‘Perpetual Peace’, p. 106.
48. Kant, The Metaphysics of Morals, p. 24.
49. Mary Gregor, ‘Kant’s Approach to Constitutionalism’, in A. Rosenbaum (ed.),
Constitutionalism: The Philosophical Dimension (New York: Greenwood Press,
1988), p. 71.
50. Garrett Wallace Brown, Grounding Cosmopolitanism: From Kant to the Idea of a Cos-
mopolitan Constitution (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2009), pp. 110–17.
51. Kant, ‘Perpetual Peace’, p. 104.
52. Ibid., p. 99.
53. Antonio Franceschet, Kant and Liberal Internationalism: Sovereignty, Justice and
Global Reform (New York: Palgrave, 1990), Chapter 4.
54. Kant, ‘Perpetual Peace’, pp. 98–102.
55. Kant, The Metaphysics of Morals, pp. 89–95.
56. Brown, Grounding Cosmopolitanism, Chapter 3.
57. Kant, ‘Perpetual Peace’, p. 106.
58. Ibid., p. 104.
59. Garrett Wallace Brown, ‘Bringing the State Back into Cosmopolitanism: The Idea
of Responsible Cosmopolitan States’, Political Studies 9:1 (2011), pp. 53–66.
60. Charles Beitz, ‘International Liberalism and Distributive Justice: A Survey of
Recent Thought’, World Politics 51 (1992), p. 287.
61. Brian Barry, ‘International Society from a Cosmopolitan Perspective’, in D. Maple
and T. Nardin (eds.), International Society (New Jersey: Princeton University Press,
1998), p. 143.
62. Jugen Habermas, The Divided West (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2006).
63. Brown, ‘Bringing the State Back into Cosmopolitanism’.
64. This might explain why some cosmopolitans have intuitively used the term
institutional cosmopolitanism and legal cosmopolitanism interchangeably.
65. David Held, Democracy and the Global Order: From the Modern State to Cosmopoli-
tan Governance (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1995); David Held, ‘Reframing Global
Governance: Apocalypse Soon or Reform!’, in G.W. Brown and D. Held (eds.), The
Cosmopolitanism Reader (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2010), pp. 293–311.
Garrett Wallace Brown 123
66. Thomas Pogge, World Poverty and Human Rights (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2002).
67. Mary Kaldor, Global Civil Society: An Answer to War (Cambridge: Polity Press,
2006).
68. Patrick Hayden, Cosmopolitan Global Politics (Burlington, MA: Ashgate, 2005).
69. Raffaele Marchetti, Global Democracy For and Against: Ethical Theory, Institutional
Design and Social Struggles (New York: Routledge, 2008); Cabrera, Luis Cabrera,
Political Theory and Global Justice: A Cosmopolitan Case for a World State (New York:
Routledge, 2004).
70. Daniele Archibugi, The Global Commonwealth of Citizens: Toward Cosmopolitan
Democracy (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2008); Held, ‘Global Democ-
racy’, and ‘Reframing Global Governance’.
71. Brown, Grounding Cosmopolitanism.
72. Ronald Tinnevelt and Gert Verchraegen, Between Cosmopolitanism Ideals and State
Sovereignty: Studies in Global Justice (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2006).
73. Habermas, The Divided West.
74. Jeremy Waldron, ‘Cosmopolitan Norms’, in R. Post (ed.), Another Cosmopolitanism
(Oxford: Oxford University Press).
75. Kant, ‘Perpetual Peace’, p. 130.
5
The Wolf at the Door:
Hospitality and the Outlaw in
International Relations
Renée Jeffery
124
Renée Jeffery 125
Derrida’s argument, and others like it, has sparked considerable debate on
many fronts, two of which dominate discussion. First, many scholars have
questioned whether or not a right to hospitality does in fact exist. For those
who have concluded in the affirmative, this has been followed by further
debate about the limits, if any, within which such a right may be applied and
the bounds of the obligations that accompany it. In particular, precisely who
can legitimately exercise a right to hospitality as an asylum seeker remains a
matter of some considerable contention.9 Related to this debate is a second
that is primarily concerned with the risks associated with affording migrants
and, in particular, asylum seekers’ hospitality. In the absence of an invita-
tion to enter and often lacking identifying documents, the asylum seeker is
viewed as presenting the greatest potential risk to the host state: the hosts
have no way of knowing if the asylum seeker will accept their hospitality
in good faith or cause them harm. Thus, by virtue of being unknown to
the host, the asylum seeker is assumed to pose a great, perhaps the greatest,
challenge to the politics and ethics of hospitality in international relations.
This chapter argues that an even greater challenge is posed by the outlaw,
considering the implications of extending Derrida’s list of those to whom
hospitality ought to be afforded to include the outlaw alongside the for-
eigner, ‘the immigrant, the exile, the deported, the stateless . . . [and] the
displaced person’.10 Unlike the foreigner or stranger who is simply unknown
to their host, the outlaw is marked as being ‘other’ for the transgressions
they are thought to have committed against individuals and societies, both
domestic and international. Standing outside both the law and society, the
outlaw is deemed a stranger in his own land and cast out or self-exiled for
being unwilling to submit to the rigours of the legal system. The outlaw is
thus at once a stranger and a known quantity whose risk to the would-be
host is well understood.
In both the medieval origins of outlawry and in contemporary world
politics, however, outlaws are often extended the arm of hospitality and
assume the role of the guest in its associated rituals and practices. In par-
ticular, contemporary post-conflict reconciliation processes operate under
the assumption that despite their actions and the demonstrable risk they
pose to their host, outlaws are accepted back into their communities and
offered hospitality, sometimes even by the direct victims of their past mis-
deeds. In this context, hospitality does not simply ask hosts to extend
the benefit of the doubt to completely unknown strangers but to guests
who have given real cause for mistrust. Here what is unknown is not so
much the identity of the outlaw guest (although their very designation
as an outlaw makes them a stranger of sorts) but their risk of reoffend-
ing: unlike the completely unknown guest, the outlaw guest has form.
This application of hospitality thus has profound implications for the con-
cept of hospitality and, in particular, the place of the unknown stranger
within it.
126 The Wolf at the Door
Originally necessary for a ‘degree of safety for travelers, without which there
could be no travel or trade’ in the ancient world, hospitality has always been
concerned with the acceptance and mitigation of risk.11 Offering and accept-
ing hospitality is, indeed, a risky business: for both hosts and guests, theirs
is a relationship marked simultaneously by trust and mistrust of the other.
At its heart, the act of hospitality requires the hosts to welcome the stranger
or foreigner into their home, community, society, or state, despite the poten-
tial threat they pose to the host’s safety and security. At the same time, guests
find themselves in a double-bind: they must trust that the host will provide
for their safety and security and yet know that the host may ultimately be
one who harms them. Hosts and guests, unknown to one another and pre-
senting an unknown risk, place themselves at the mercy of each other in
extending and accepting hospitality. As such, the very possibility of hos-
pitality rests on the idea that hosts and guests must grant each other the
benefit of the doubt, trusting without basis that the unknown other will not
cause them harm.
In general terms, hospitality can be conceived in terms of four defining
characteristics, the last of which hints at the place of risk within it:
requires that I open up my home and that I give not only to the for-
eigner . . . but to the absolute, unknown, anonymous other, and that I give
place to them, that I let them come, that I let them arrive, and take
place in the place I offer them, without asking of them either reciprocity
(entering into a pact) or even their names.22
128 The Wolf at the Door
The outlaw
The outlaw, it is almost too obvious to note, lives outside the law. Being
unwilling to submit to the rigours of the law, the outlaw is one who, tradi-
tionally through decree and latterly by inference, resides outside the sphere
of legal protection. The practice of outlawry thus entails ‘putting a person
outside the protection of the law so that he is incapable of bringing any
action for redress of injuries’ that may befall him.34 The outlaw is thus
deprived of recourse to the law to protect himself from harms inflicted
as retribution or revenge for the wrongs he has committed against others.
Although formally a legal sanction, the effect of outlawry was primarily
social, resulting in the outlawed individual’s banishment from society and
the imposition of severe penalties upon those who harboured, sheltered or
assisted him.35
A wolf’s head
The practice of outlawry was a feature of many, if not most, ancient and
medieval societies. At various times in ancient Greek history, for example,
130 The Wolf at the Door
he who has been banned is not, in fact, simply set outside the law and
made indifferent to it but is rather abandoned by it, that is exposed
and threatened on the threshold in which life and the law, outside
and inside, become indistinguishable. It is literally not possible to say
whether the one who has been banned is outside or inside the juridical
order.49
For Agamben, the history of Western politics is thus ‘the history of the pro-
duction of homines sacri . . . the transformation of human life into sacred,
hence perishable, life’.50 From this starting point, he examines more recent
examples of homines sacri, particularly in the context of the concentration
camp, that are not for us to discuss here.
Of relevance to this chapter, however, is Agamben’s understanding of the
representative figure that resides in this state of exception as the werewolf,
or lupo mannaro. The werewolf is ‘a man who is transformed into a wolf
and a wolf who is transformed into a man’ and is equated with ‘a bandito
(‘he who is banned’)’ or with a homo sacer.51 The origins of this connection
between the outlaw and the wolf or werewolf are common to at least Roman,
Anglo-Saxon and Old Norse history. In ancient Germanic law, the wargus
was a figure ‘excluded from the community’ whom ‘anyone was permitted
to kill’.52 The ancient Germanic tribes thus designated the ‘non-conformer a
sacred monster and banished him as a wargus to the outside’.53 The Germanic
word wacrer, meaning ‘to wander’ thus provided the root of the Old Norse
word of the Vikings, ‘vargr’, which signified both a wanderer (as the outlaw
was forced to become) and a wolf. As we will see shortly, in the Anglo-
Saxon language, the word ‘waerg’ also came to denote a wolf, felon, outlaw
or criminal.
However, it was not just the Old Norsemen or the Anglo-Saxons who
adopted the ancient Germanic understanding of the outlaw as a wolf but
the Romans appear to have done so too. In particular, in the late nineteenth
century, the German jurist and author of Der Kampf ums Recht (The Struggle
for Law) (1872), Rudolph von Jhering, posited that ‘the wargus notion was
borrowed by Rome’ and somehow connected to the notion of homo sacer.54
However, where the ancient Germans banished the wargus to the outside,
thus keeping the myth of the sacred wolf-man alive, Roman law ‘snuffed
[him] out’.55
Where the notion of the outlaw as wolf continued to find form was
in Anglo-Saxon England. Here the concept of outlawry flourished in the
era after the Norman Conquest, becoming ‘a fierce sanction against contu-
mancy, subjecting those who failed to answer court summonses to severe
penalties’.56 Indeed, although outlawry was sometimes used to remove
potential threats to the King’s power, the majority of medieval English out-
laws were people who were suspected of having committed a crime and ‘had
fled rather than risking instant hanging by coming before the justices’.57
132 The Wolf at the Door
Thus, although the ‘sentence of outlawry was . . . one to be dreaded’, its impo-
sition indicated that the legal system had proven itself incapable of bringing
the perpetrator of a crime to justice. What is more, ‘[i]f a man was powerful
enough, or if he could retreat to some distant and deserted place’ it may well
have been in his best interests to defy the law and live in the wilds as an
outlaw.58
In English common law, the ‘Writ of Outlawry’ equated the criminal with
a wolf with the pronouncement, Caput gerat lupinum, ‘May he bear a wolfish
head’. As Henry Bracton wrote of outlawry in his thirteenth century work
on the laws and customs of England:
henceforth they bear the wolf’s head and in consequence perish with-
out judicial inquiry; they carry their judgement with them and they
deservedly perish without law who have refused to live according to law.
This is so if they take to flight or resist when they are to be arrested; if
they are arrested alive or give themselves up, their life and death will be
in the hands of the lord king.59
The outlaw as wolf was thus no longer afforded the designation of a human
in the eyes of the law. He was considered civiliter mortuus, civilly dead, and
thus ‘could be killed on sight’ with impunity.60 For example, the 1263 rolls of
the Surrey eyre – a court circuit presided over by an itinerant judge – recorded
that ‘William Denner, common robber and outlaw, was pursued with hue
and cry in the time of David de Jarpenville, then sheriff, and before the
coroner by suit of the country was beheaded being a fugitive’.61 With this,
the outlaw continued to live in a vague space where neither life nor death
was assured.
By the reign of Edward III, however, ‘such a fate was effectively forbid-
den’ as the decision to execute a captured outlaw was reserved for the king
alone.62 From this time, outlawry came to primarily entail the imposition of
‘legal and financial disabilities’.63 In his Commentaries on the Laws of England,
Sir William Blackstone (1723–1786) thus wrote:
. . . the law, as hath formerly been observed and though anciently an out-
lawed felon was said to have caput lupinum, and might be knocked on
the head like a wolf, by any one that should meet him; because, having
renounced all law, he was to be dealt with as in a state of nature, when
every one that should find him might flay him: yet now, to avoid such
inhumanity, it is holden that no man is entitled to kill him wantonly
or willfully; but in so doing is guilty of murder, unless it happens in the
endeavour to apprehend him. For any person may arrest an outlaw on
a criminal prosecution, either of his own head, or by writ or warrant of
capias utlagatum, in order to bring him to execution.64
Renée Jeffery 133
leapt into the room and cut [the jester who had been entertaining the
party] down with a single blow of his sword. Then he began to lay about
him; the Normans were too drunk to resist . . . No one was left alive. In the
morning their fourteen heads grinned down in the place of his brother’s
at the doorway.71
With a band of men, Hereward then attacked and plundered the monastery
at Peterborough, taking all he could to the Isle of Ely which he held against
the Normans for some time. When William the Conqueror led his forces
to Ely, Hereward was able to foil his plans to build a causeway across the
marshes to the island three times. However, with time the ‘monks of Ely
grew tired of the siege and let the Normans in by a secret path’.72 Hereward
and his men escaped and were led through the forests by a great white
wolf that disappeared as soon as they realised that their guide was not a
local dog.73
Although there is some disagreement over the course that Hereward’s life
took after the fall of Ely, the Gesta Herewardi claims that he was reconciled
with King William. As the story goes, the king was petitioned by Robert
de Horepole whom Hereward’s men had set free. He assured the king that,
if granted clemency, ‘Hereward would in every way serve his most dear
lord’. To this the king replied that ‘Hereward had not been justly treated’
and granted him a pardon and the rights to his father’s estates. However,
Hereward was warned that ‘if he wishes to retain the king’s friendship here-
after, he must henceforth be willing to pursue peace rather than folly’.
This he did for many years, ‘faithfully serving King William and devotedly
reconciled to his compatriots and friends’.74
Hereward was thus welcomed as both one who was known and, on
account of his status as an outlaw and mythical hero, as a stranger. The
hospitality he was offered was an expression of trust that, despite the risk he
posed, he would act for good rather than ill. It was not unconditional but
required Hereward’s continued fidelity to king and community. Rather than
being based on an assumption or act of faith on the part of the host, the
benefit of the doubt granted to Hereward was thus based on his own active
commitment. What is more, it left open the possibility that the hospitality
he was afforded could be revoked if he gave reason for renewed mistrust by
posing an active, as opposed to potential, risk.
Renée Jeffery 135
Despite the fact that outlawry is itself outlawed in most contemporary legal
systems, the outlaw lives on in many forms and guises in contemporary
international politics. While some modern day outlaws simply choose to
live outside the bounds of society, insofar as that is possible, others can be
conceived as outlaws for committing actions prohibited by law and refus-
ing to submit themselves to the legal processes and its associated sanctions.
Thus, although they are not officially designated as outlaws, actors who
commit crimes proscribed in international criminal law and who refuse
to submit themselves to the processes of the international criminal legal
process by evading capture, arrest and trial may be considered outlaws of
sorts. Just as the Writ of Outlawry was imposed on individuals who refused
to answer court summonses in the medieval period so too those individu-
als who have been served indictments at the International Criminal Court
(ICC) and other international criminal tribunals but remain at large reside
outside the law. Like the outlaws of old, they too suffer the social sanc-
tion of being exiled from their communities and are forced to become
strangers to all but the few individuals who are willing to risk aiding and
abetting them.
In recent years, debate about the designation of contemporary outlaws
has centred on the question of whether or not Al Qaeda and members of
other international terrorist organisations ought to be considered outlaws
and denied the protection of legal process at both the domestic and interna-
tional levels. In an opinion piece published in the New York Times in 2001,
Anne-Marie Slaughter argued against the United States’ plan to try accused
terrorists before military commissions as ‘non-privileged combatants’ who
had violated the laws of war. This, she argued, would send out the wrong
message because rather than designating these individuals as ‘common crim-
inals’ it would ‘dignify’ them by ‘acknowledging them as combatants’. ‘Al
Qaeda members’, she argued, ‘are international outlaws, like pirates, slave
traders or torturers’.75
Directly criticising Slaughter’s stance, George Fletcher argued that ‘the
frequent analogy to Al Qaeda as “outlaws” ’ is ‘inapt’.76 He continued:
Outlaws inhabit a twilight space outside the legal order, and they are sub-
ject to being shot at will. The idea of killing enemy soldiers on the spot
is compatible neither with the pursuit of justice nor with the laws of war.
The outlaw is subhuman, undeserving of minimally decent treatment.
I do not think that we really want to make that claim about terrorists. Nor
does it make sense to flatter terrorists by associating them with romantic
outlaws who retreat from society to live, metaphorically, with Robin Hood
in Sherwood Forest.77
136 The Wolf at the Door
at once the victims and perpetrators of grotesque atrocities making the pur-
suit of justice a complicated enterprise. While many have been forced to
commit atrocious acts against their will, others have retained an element
of choice over their actions and can therefore be held accountable for the
acts they have committed.83 Thus, although they have not been indicted
by an international criminal tribunal, many of Kony’s soldiers remain out-
laws, living rough and committing crimes proscribed in both domestic and
international law.
Together, Kony and his LRA have continued to evade capture, Kony explic-
itly refusing to submit himself to the proceedings of the ICC as part of a
peace deal with the government of Uganda (which has for its own part
failed to arrest Kony and surrender him to the Court). Like the wolves of
medieval outlawry, they live as fugitives in the wild, moving between sev-
eral national parks in Southern Sudan, the Central African Republic, and the
Democratic Republic of Congo, and continuing to inflict violence on civilian
populations.84 Refusing to submit to the law, they are also without recourse
to the law, regularly finding themselves at the mercy of the communities
they terrorise, communities they were often previously a part of. They thus
stand outside both the law and society. In these circumstances, the outlaw
becomes an outsider, a stranger, an ‘other’, even to those who once knew
him well.
Welcoming wolves
As the story of Hereward the Wake tells us, the medieval outlaw could be
readmitted into his community after his period of outlawry expired or after
having been granted a pardon. So too in certain contexts some of today’s
outlaws are also welcomed back, even into communities where they have
committed heinous acts. Although the offer of such hospitality has not been
extended to Mladić, it has been extended to Kony and his followers through
a number of different mechanisms.
In northern Uganda, the state has encouraged perpetrators of serious
humanitarian atrocities to relinquish their outlaw status through the grant-
ing of amnesties precluding prosecution for their actions. The Ugandan
Amnesty Act of 2000 sought to provide ‘amnesty for anyone who had
engaged in armed rebellion against the government since 1986 and who
agreed to renounce and abandon such rebellion, and to surrender his or
her arms’.85 The granting of an amnesty thus acts in a similar way to the
pardons awarded to the outlaws of old and, at heart, entails the provision
of hospitality. The state, as host, welcomes the outlaw as a guest, promises
not to pass judgement on him and provides him with the material com-
forts they require, in this case in the form of a resettlement package.86 The
guest, in turn, is required to ‘denounce their activities by signing a decla-
ration, after which they are registered, receive an Amnesty Certificate, and
138 The Wolf at the Door
then, in theory’ their resettlement package.87 Thus, the host state must trust
that their guest will cease inflicting harm on their citizens, while the guest
must trust that the state will welcome him without judgement or prejudice.
By the end of January 2005, 14,695 people had presented themselves to the
Amnesty Commission, although senior LRA leaders rejected the offer and
implored their soldiers to keep fighting, some of whom did.
More complicated from the perspective of the politics and ethics of hos-
pitality is the welcome afforded outlawed individuals by the communities
to which they once belonged and, in many cases, terrorised. As with hos-
pitality more generally, in the Ugandan case the stranger is readmitted into
the community through a series of welcoming rituals. Just as the guest must
knock on the door of his prospective host, the returnee must ‘stand outside
the “Gate of the Village” and tell the people his/her name and the names
of his/her parents and uncle’.88 Rather than the substance of the risk they
pose remaining unknown or subject to conjecture or doubt, the stranger
returnee is required to confess his or her wrongs. They then take part in a
series of cleansing, reconciliation and peacemaking ceremonies.89 With this,
the outlaw is welcomed into the community as a guest received by a host.
Critically, despite being a stranger, someone whose behaviour has marked
them as ‘other’, the outlaw is known to his or her host. The crimes of the
outlaw, the harms they have inflicted, are well known to the host: the host
has witnessed these harms, experienced them herself or learned of them
through the outlaw’s confession. The risk posed by the outlaw guest is not,
therefore, constituted by not knowing who they are or what wrongs they
are capable of committing. Rather, the unknown here is whether they will
continue to commit the harms they have inflicted in the past. The trust
demanded here is perhaps even greater than that afforded the absolutely
unknown guest for it requires the host to give the guest the benefit of a
substantiated doubt.
For many would-be hosts that find themselves in situations such as this,
the risk posed by the outlaw guest is simply too great. As several surveys
of the Acholi populations of northern Uganda reveal, in this context many
people do not feel comfortable with welcoming outlaws back into their com-
munities, some going so far as to deny hospitality even to child soldier
abductees. Nonetheless, most submit to the prevailing social expectation
that they will act hospitably towards those who have returned. That is, for
some hospitality has become an act imposed on the victims of wrongs. Even
for those who willingly welcome the outlaw guest, theirs is a conditional
hospitality. It requires the stranger to present himself to the community, be
it at the village gate or at the Amnesty Commission, to identify himself, to
confess what he has done and to enter into a pact by which he agrees to
cease and desist from his criminal activities. The balance of power in this
act of hospitality is thus unevenly distributed in favour of the host, and so
should it be.
Renée Jeffery 139
Conclusion
The outlaw poses an interesting challenge to the politics and ethics of hos-
pitality. For Derrida, pure hospitality involves the unconditional welcoming
of the absolutely unknown guest and brings with it unmitigated risk. That
risk, to borrow from Donald Rumsfeld, exists as a known unknown: the
hosts know that they do not know whether the guest will cause them harm
and, as such, place themselves at risk by welcoming the guest. What is
more, the ethics of pure hospitality does not permit the host to mitigate
this risk by requiring the guest to identify himself, to promise not to bring
harm or to submit to conditions limiting the extent of the hospitality he
receives. As Derrida acknowledged, however, pure hospitality does not exist.
All hospitality ultimately involves the mitigation of risk.
Where the outlaw is concerned, this is particularly the case: pure, uncondi-
tional hospitality cannot be afforded by the outlaw guest. The contemporary
outlaw, like the exile, is one who is known and known especially for his
crimes. As such, the potential risk he poses exists as a ‘known known’ rather
than a ‘known unknown’. For the medieval outlaw, an element of doubt
additional to the potentiality of the risk they pose is added to the equation.
While some medieval outlaws were known for particular crimes, others fled
for fear of being wrongly punished for crimes they did not commit. Their
outlaw status was thus built on a perceived but questionable set of ‘knowns’.
This has major implications for the place of trust in the politics and ethics
of hospitality.
Extending and receiving hospitality fundamentally relies on trust. Both
acts require the would-be host and their would-be guests to give each other
the benefit of the doubt, to trust that they will bring no harm. However, trust
is a fragile beast. As Paul Slovic notes, trust is slow to establish and, once
gained, ‘can be destroyed in an instant – by a single mishap or mistake’.90
Far ‘easier to destroy than to create’, trust depends to a great extent on ‘the
distribution of positive and negative information people receive’.91 What
is more, negative information plays a far greater role in influencing trust
and mistrust than positive information.92 That is, humans possess not just a
psychological tendency to distrust, but these tendencies ‘create and reinforce
distrust in situations of risk’.93 For the would-be host of the outlaw guest this
is particularly the case.
The outlaw as guest is not unknown but comes with a wealth of negative
information that naturally serves to promote mistrust in the would-be host.
Indeed, the would-be host has good reason to mistrust the would-be guest;
after all, the outlaw is one who has brought them harm in the past, and yet,
the welcoming of the outlaw in processes of post-conflict justice requires
trust on the parts of both guests and hosts. This trust is not unconditional,
for that would be simply impossible, but in some contexts may be far less
conditional than the victim host would ultimately like. On a fundamental
140 The Wolf at the Door
level, this state of affairs begs the questions of whether or not would-be hosts
should be expected to extend any amount of trust or, indeed, hospitality to
the outlaw guest; whether there are good reasons for arguing that hospi-
tality, in both conditional and unconditional forms, is ultimately limited –
that some categories of strangers cannot legitimately claim a right to hospi-
tality; or, indeed, whether hosts ought to fight their psychological urge to
mistrust the known outlaw guest and rather perceive him simply as a guest
who brings with him only the potential to do harm. In the end, all guests
are both known and unknown, all bring with them an unknown potential
to cause harm, and all hospitality must entail the mitigation of risk for both
the host and her would-be guest.
Notes
1. From the English Common Law ‘Writ of Outlawry’.
2. See for example, Jacques Derrida, Adieu to Emmanuel Levinas (Stanford, CA:
Stanford University Press, 1999); Jacques Derrida, Of Hospitality (Stanford, CA:
Stanford University Press, 2000); Jacques Derrida, On Cosmopolitanism and Forgive-
ness (London: Routledge, 2001); Elizabeth Telfer, ‘Hospitableness’, Philosophical
Papers 24:3 (November 1995), pp. 183–96; Christine P. Pohl, Making Room: Recov-
ering Hospitality as a Christian Tradition (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans,
1999); Gideon Baker, ‘Cosmopolitanism as Hospitality: Revisiting Identity and
Difference in Cosmopolitanism’, Alternatives 34:2 (2009), pp. 107–28; Gideon
Baker, ‘The “Double Law” of Hospitality: Rethinking Cosmopolitan Ethics in
Humanitarian Intervention’, International Relations 24:1 (2010), pp. 87–103;
Jennie Germann Molz and Sarah Gibson, Mobilizing Hospitality: The Ethics of
Social Relations in a Mobile World (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007); Conrad Lashley,
Paul Lynch and Alison J. Morrison (eds.), Hospitality: A Social Lens (Amsterdam:
Elsevier, 2007); Clive Barnett, ‘Ways of Relating: Hospitality and the Acknowl-
edgment of Otherness’, Progress in Human Geography 29:1 (2005), pp. 11 and
12 rest of reference; David J. Gauthier, ‘Levinas and the Politics of Hospitality’,
History of Political Thought XXVIII:1 (Spring 2007), pp. 158–80; Mustafa Dikeç,
‘Pera Peras Poros: Longings for Spaces of Hospitality’, Theory Culture Society 19:1–2
(2002), pp. 227–47; Dan Bulley, ‘Negotiating Ethics: Campbell, Ontopology, and
Hospitality’, Review of International Studies 32 (2006), pp. 645–63.
3. Suzanne Metselaar, ‘When Neighbours Become Numbers: Levinas and the
Inhospitality of Dutch Asylum Policy’, Parallax 11:1 (January 2005), pp. 61–9;
W. Gunther Plant, Asylum: A Moral Dilemma (Westport, CT: Praeger, 1995); Avril
Bell, ‘Being “At Home” in the Nation: Hospitality and Sovereignty in Talk About
Immigration’, Ethnicities 10:2 (2010), pp. 236–56; S. Van Dev, ‘Asylum in Africa:
The Emergence of the “Reluctant Host” ’, Development 46:3 (September 2003),
pp. 113–18; Sarah Gibson, ‘Accommodating Strangers: British Hospitality and the
Asylum Hotel Debate’, Journal for Cultural Research 7:4 (October 2003), pp. 367–86;
Mireille Rosello, Postcolonial Hospitality: The Immigrant as Guest (Stanford, CA:
Stanford University Press, 2001).
4. Heather Worth, ‘Unconditional Hospitality: HIV, Ethics and the Refugee “Prob-
lem” ’, Bioethics 20:5 (2006), p. 224.
5. Plant, Asylum, p. 11; Worth, ‘Unconditional Hospitality’, p. 224 and 225.
Renée Jeffery 141
6. The European Charter of Cities of Asylum. See S.E. Kelly, ‘Derrida’s Cities of
Refuge: Toward a Non-Utopian Utopia’, Contemporary Justice Review 7:4 (2004),
pp. 421–39.
7. Derrida, On Cosmopolitanism, p. 6.
8. Baker, ‘The “Double Law” of Hospitality’, p. 91.
9. Worth, ‘Unconditional Hospitality’, p. 224.
10. Derrida, On Cosmopolitanism, p. 6.
11. Carol A. King, ‘What is Hospitality?’, International Journal of Hospitality Manage-
ment 14:3/4 (1995), p. 221.
12. King, ‘What is Hospitality?’, p. 220; see J. Hepple, M. Kipps, and J. Thomson, ‘The
Concept of Hospitality and An Evaluation of Its Applicability to the Experience
of Hospital Patients’, International Journal of Hospitality Management 9:4 (1990),
pp. 305–17.
13. Gauthier, ‘Levinas and the Politics of Hospitality’, p. 162.
14. King, ‘What is Hospitality?’, p. 221.
15. Ibid., p. 222.
16. Immanuel Kant, Perpetual Peace in Perpetual Peace and Other Essays, Humphrey
(trans. and ed.) (Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing, 1983), p. 118.
17. Ibid.
18. Ibid.
19. Ibid.
20. Ibid.
21. Ibid., p. 119.
22. Derrida, Of Hospitality, p. 25.
23. Rosello, Postcolonial Hospitality, p. 11.
24. Derrida, Adieu, p. 137.
25. Mark W. Westmoreland, ‘Interruptions: Derrida and Hospitality’, Kritike 2:1 (June
2008), p. 7.
26. Bulley, ‘Negotiating Ethics’, p. 654.
27. Michael Naas, Taking on the Tradition: Jacques Derrida and the Legacies of
Deconstruction (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2003), p. 157.
28. Rosello, Postcolonial hospitality, p. 11; Jacques Derrida, ‘The Principle of Hospital-
ity’, Parallax 11:1 (2005), p. 6; Barnett, ‘Ways of Relating’, pp. 11 and 12.
29. Derrida, ‘The Principle of Hospitality’, pp. 6–7.
30. Jacques Derrida, ‘The World of Enlightenment to Come (Exception, Calculation,
Sovereignty)’, Research in Phenomenology 33 (2003), p. 40.
31. Derrida, ‘The Principle of Hospitality’, p. 7.
32. Ibid.
33. Derrida, Adieu, p. 137.
34. Steve Russell, ‘The New Outlawry and Foucault’s Panoptic Nightmare’, American
Journal of Criminal Justice XVII:1 (1992), p. 39.
35. Maurice Hugh Keen, The Outlaws of Medieval Legend (Padstow: T.J. Press, 1961),
p. 10; Susan Stewart, ‘Outlawry as an Instrument of Justice in the Thirteenth
Century’, in John C. Appleby and Paul Dalton (eds.), Outlaws in Medieval and Early
Modern England: Crime, Government, and Society, c.1066–c.1600 (Farnham: Ashgate,
2009), p. 45.
36. For example, at different times in ancient Athens bastards were subjected to
various degrees of outlawry and denied the status of Athenian citizens. See P.J.
Rhodes, ‘Bastards as Athenian Citizens’, The Classical Quarterly New Series 28:1
(1978), pp. 89–92.
142 The Wolf at the Door
37. Jesse L. Byock, ‘Outlawry’, in Phillip Pulsiano and Kirsten Wolf (eds.), Medieval
Scandinavia: An Encyclopedia (London: Taylor and Francis, 1993), p. 116.
38. In James Hastings and John A. Selbie (eds.), Encyclopedia of Religion and Ethics
(Whitefish, MT: Kessinger, 2003), Part 10, p. 670.
39. N. Lynnerup, ‘The Norse Settlers in Greenland: The Physical Anthropological
perspective’, Acta Borealia 8:1 (1991), p. 93.
40. Giorgio Agamben, Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life, Daniel Heller-Roazen
(trans.) (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1995).
41. Joseph Jenkins, ‘Inheritance Law as Constellation in Lieu of Redress:
A Detour Through Exceptional Terrain’, Cardozo Law Review 24 (2002–2003),
p. 1050.
42. The Law of the Twelve Tables (451–450 B.C.E), VIII.21, The Avalon Project: Docu-
ments in Law, History and Diplomacy, Yale Law School, available at http://avalon.
law.yale.edu/ancient/twelve_tables.asp
43. See for example John Paul Adamson’s translation, available at http://www.csun.
edu/∼ hcfll004/12tables.html
44. Agamben, Homo Sacer, p. 93.
45. Ibid.
46. Claudio Minca, ‘Agamben’s Geographies of Modernity’, Political Geography 26
(2007), p. 82.
47. Agamben, Homo Sacer, p. 94.
48. Ibid., p. 111.
49. Ibid., p. 34.
50. Kalliopi Nikolopoulou, ‘Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life (Review)’,
SubStance 29:3 (2000), p. 125.
51. Agamben, Homo Sacer in Minca, ‘Agamben’s geographies of modernity’, p. 84.
52. Jenkins, ‘Inheritance Law as Constellation’, p. 1050.
53. Ibid, p. 1051.
54. Ibid., emphasis in original.
55. Ibid.
56. Ralph B. Pugh, ‘Early Registers of English Outlaws’, The American Journal of Legal
History XXVII (1983), p. 319.
57. Timothy S. Jones, ‘The Outlawry of Earl Godwin’, in Thomas H. Ohlgren (ed.),
Medieval Outlaws: Twelve Tales in Modern Translation (Indiana: Parlor Press, 2005),
p. 5; Stewart, ‘Outlawry as an Instrument of Justice’, p. 41. As R.H. Hilton notes,
‘[t]he outlaws were not necessarily guilty homicides. They were often victims of
oppression, especially when legal processes were subject to the pressure of power-
ful interests’. R.H. Hilton, ‘The Origins of Robin Hood’, Past and Present 14 (1958),
p. 38.
58. Keen, The Outlaws of Medieval Legend, p. 10.
59. Bracton quoted in Stewart, ‘Outlawry as an Instrument of Justice’, p. 41.
60. Keen, The Outlaws of Medieval Legend, pp. 9–10; Pugh, ‘Early Registers of English
Outlaws’, p. 319.
61. The 1263 Surrey Eyre, ed. S. Stewart (Surrey Record Society, 40, Guildford, 2006)
quoted in Stewart, ‘Outlawry as an Instrument of Justice’, pp. 41–2.
62. Pugh, ‘Early Registers of English Outlaws’, p. 319.
63. Ibid.
64. William Blackstone, Commentaries on the Laws of England, Book IV, Chapter 24,
available at http://avalon.law.yale.edu/subject_menus/blackstone.asp.
65. Ohlgren, Medieval Outlaws, p. xviii.
Renée Jeffery 143
66. Michael Swanton, ‘The Deeds of Hereward’, in Thomas H. Ohlgren (ed.), Medieval
Outlaws: Twelve Tales in Modern Translation (Indiana: Parlor Press, 2005), p. 41.
67. John Hayward, ‘Hereward the Outlaw’, Journal of Medieval History 14 (1988),
p. 295.
68. Thomas Bulfinch, The Age of Fable: Or Beauties of Mythology, vol. III: The Age of
Chivalry (New York: Review of Reviews, 1913; New York: Bartleby.com, 2000),
available at http://www.bartleby.com/182/303.html.
69. Swanton, ‘The Deeds of Hereward’, p. 42.
70. Hayward, ‘Hereward the Outlaw’, p. 296.
71. Keen, The Outlaws of Medieval Legend, p. 15.
72. Karl Bedingfield, ‘Herewark the Wake – 1066’, elyonline, available at http://www.
elyonline.co.uk/archives/2005/01/30/hereward-the-wake-1066/.
73. Hayward, ‘Hereward the Outlaw’, pp. 299–300.
74. Swanton, ‘The Deeds of Hereward’, p. 91.
75. Anne-Marie Slaughter, ‘Al Qaeda Should Be Tried Before the World’,
New York Times, 17 November 2001, A23, available at http://query.nytimes.
com/gst/fullpage.html?res= 9C00E4D7153BF934A25752C1A9679C8B63; See also
Gabriella Blum and Philip B. Heyman, Laws, Outlaws, and Terrorists: Lessons from
the War on Terrorism (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2000) which argues that whether
considered acts of war or crimes, terrorist acts remain governed by law: the laws
of war or domestic laws. However, Blum and Heyman acknowledge that nei-
ther domestic law nor the international laws of war have addressed the issue
of terrorism well, allowing a ‘No-Law Zone’ to be established in which terrorists
are designed as outlaws and treated as such. They thus argue that a new legal
paradigm that combines elements of the laws of war and domestic law must be
developed to deal with the problem of terrorism.
76. George Fletcher, ‘On Justice and War: Contradictions in the Proposed Military
Tribunals’, Harvard Journal of Law and Public Policy 25 (2001–2002), p. 637.
77. Fletcher, ‘On Justice and War’, p. 637.
78. International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia, Case No IT-95-5-I, The
Prosecutor of the Tribunal Against Radovan Karadzic and Ratko Mladic, available
at http://www.icty.org/x/cases/mladic/ind/en/kar-ii950724e.pdf.
79. Interpol, Wanted, Ratko Mladic, available at http://www.interpol.int/public/data/
wanted/notices/data/1995/54/1995_47754.asp.
80. Statement by Luis Moreno-Ocampo, Prosecutor of the International Criminal
Court, Statement by the Chief Prosecutor on the Ugandan Arrest Warrants, The
Hague, 14 October 2005, p. 4.
81. Zachary Lomo and Lucy Hovil, Behind the Violence: Causes, Consequences, and the
Search for Solutions to the War in Northern Uganda, Refugee Law Project Working
Paper No. 11 (2004), available at http://www.refugeelawproject.org (2 February
2010); ‘Some 66,000 children abducted by Uganda’s LRA’ (2007) ReliefWeb, avail-
able at www.reliefweb.int/rw/RWB.NSF/db900SID/lsgz-6ych83?OpenDocument
(28 November 2007); Tim Allen, Trial Justice: The International Criminal Court and
the Lord’s Resistance Army (London: Zed Books, 2006), p. 60.
82. Payam Akhavan, ‘The Lord’s Resistance Army Case: Uganda’s Submission of the
First State Referral to the International Criminal Court’, American Journal of
International Law 99:403 (2005), p. 406.
83. Allen, Trial Justice, pp. 61 and 64.
84. The LRA brutally slaughtered almost 500 Congolese civilians on 25 and
26 December 2008, in an incident now known as the Christmas Massacres. This
144 The Wolf at the Door
brings the total number of Congolese killed by the LRA since the middle of 2008
to more than 1200. During the same period, more than 2000 individuals, many
of them children, have been kidnapped by the LRA and subjected to the same
brutal methods of control that have long been inflicted on Ugandan abductees.
85. Akhavan, ‘The Lord’s Resistance Army Case’, p. 409.
86. Amnesty Commission Handbook, Section 3.11 in Lucy Hovil and Zachary Lomo
(2005) Whose Justice? Perceptions of Uganda’s Amnesty Act 2000: The Potential for
Conflict Resolution and Long-Term Reconciliation, Refugee Law Project Working
Paper No. 15, p. 7 available at http://www.refugeelawproject.org (2 February 2010)
87. Amnesty Commission Handbook, Section 3.11, in Hovil and Lomo, Whose
Justice?, p. 6.
88. Ochola quoted in Manisuli Ssenyonjo, ‘The International Criminal Court and the
Lord’s Resistance Army: Prosecution or Amnesty?’, Netherlands International Law
Review LVI (2007), p. 64.
89. Lucy Hovil and Joanna R. Quinn, Peace First, Justice Later: Traditional Justice
in Northern Uganda, Refugee Law Project Working Paper No. 17 (2005), p. 24,
available at http://www.refugeelawproject.org (2 February 2010); Ssenyonjo, ‘The
International Criminal Court’, p. 64; International Crisis Group, Africa Briefing
No. 41, ‘Peace in Uganda’, Nairobi/Brussels, 13 September 2006, http://www.
crisisgroup.org (28 November 2007); Allen, Trial Justice, p. 133.
90. Slovic, ‘Trust, Emotion, Sex, Politics and Science’, p. 697.
91. Ibid., p. 698; Marc J. Hetherington, ‘The Political Relevance of Political Trust’, The
American Political Science Review 92:4 (December 1998), p. 794.
92. Slovic, ‘Trust, Emotion, Sex, Politics and Science’, p. 698.
93. Ibid.
6
Be Welcome: Religion,
Hospitality and Statelessness
in International Politics
Erin K. Wilson
In Victor Hugo’s epic novel, Les Miserables, the central character, Jean
Valjean, is forever changed by a brief encounter he has with a humble
bishop in a remote country village in France. Although time and place differ,
Valjean possesses many of the characteristics and receives similar treatment
from political authorities and communities as many asylum seekers and
refugees today. Imprisoned for 19 years by an unjust government for stealing
a loaf of bread to feed his sister and her seven starving children, Valjean is
now marked for life. Upon his release from gaol, he travels through France,
rejected and despised by all he meets, an experience which, Elie Wiesel has
argued, defines the refugee.1 All are suspicious of Valjean and refuse to pro-
vide him with food or shelter. Many even fail to recognise that he is a human
being, instead calling him a dog.
Refugees and asylum seekers in the twenty-first century are often subjected
to similar harsh, degrading and dehumanising treatment. Forced to flee their
homes due to violence, persecution, famine, disease and a variety of other
life-threatening factors, refugees and asylum seekers often find themselves
‘marked’. Experiences of torture and suffering leave psychological and phys-
ical marks that are difficult to erase. In addition to this, however, refugees
and asylum seekers become marked as people who do not have the protec-
tion of a state. Despite the challenges of globalisation to the authority of the
state in the area of economics, trade, environmental disasters, disease pan-
demics and the like, population movements and migration are major areas
in which states are trying to ‘reclaim’ some of their control over borders.2
Yet these other factors that challenge state sovereignty are frequently the
root cause of forced migration and flight. In this ironic context, states, in
particular resettlement countries in the global north, are adopting harsher
and stricter immigration policies with a view to keeping people out. Those
that are permitted to enter and remain in the state often bring financial and
material benefit to the state in the form of their skill sets. It is generally the
145
146 Be Welcome
most vulnerable and destitute people who are excluded and abandoned.3
This suggests that a significant power imbalance exists between the rights of
the state and the rights of the individual within global politics, and in the
context of asylum and protection regimes in particular, making a mockery
in some sense of the concept of universal human rights that belong to every
individual solely on the basis of being human. In contemporary world pol-
itics, the reality is that individual rights require the institutional protection
of the state to be realised.4
Jean Valjean, too, is a man whose rights as a human being are no longer
recognised by the state. This situation causes Valjean to become hard, bit-
ter, conniving and willing to do almost anything to ensure his own survival
against the immense power and reach of the law of the state. Yet Valjean’s
circumstances are altered when he encounters the Bishop of Digne, a man
with a reputation for abundant hospitality, so much so that his parishioners
affectionately renamed him Monseigneur Bienvenu. Unlike the officers of
the law, innkeepers, employers and other people Valjean encounters who
openly despise, ridicule and reject him, at the bishop’s house Valjean finds
a completely opposite reception awaiting him. Despite openly informing
the bishop of his identity as a released convict, the bishop insists Valjean
dines with him and his sister and stays with them for the night. He refuses
Valjean’s offer of payment and treats him as an honoured guest. Even when
Valjean repays the bishop’s kindness by stealing his only valuable posses-
sion – six silver dinner plates – the bishop does not accuse or berate but
instead gives Valjean the matching silver candlesticks, insisting that the
whole was a gift, thereby saving Valjean from returning to prison and trans-
forming him from a hardened, bitter, cynical man to one full of compassion,
grace and mercy.5
‘Monsieur Curé,’ said the man, ‘you are good; you don’t despise me. You
take me into your house; you light your candles for me, and I haven’t hid
from you where I come from, and how miserable I am.’
The bishop, who was sitting near him, touched his hand gently and said:
‘You need not tell me who you are. This is not my house; it is the house
of Christ. It does not ask any comer whether he has a name, but whether
he has an affliction. You are suffering; you are hungry and thirsty, be
welcome. And do not thank me; do not tell me that I take you into my
house. This is the home of no man, except him who needs an asylum.
I tell you, who are a traveller, that you are more at home here than I;
whatever is here is yours. What need have I to know your name? Besides,
before you told me, I knew it.’
The man opened his eyes in astonishment:
‘Really? You knew my name?’
‘Yes,’ answered the bishop, ‘your name is my brother.’6
Erin K. Wilson 147
I then discuss the place of religious actors and organisations within this
regime as outlined in literature on religion and forced migration. I explore
specifically what faithful hospitality is, drawing on examples from Hugo’s
Bishop and his encounter with Valjean, alongside sacred texts and theologi-
cal writings to demonstrate different aspects of this tradition. I contrast the
logic of faithful hospitality with the primarily realist and economic ratio-
nalist logic that underpins current state responses to refugees and asylum
seekers. I also note similarities with Derrida’s notion of unconditional hos-
pitality. Following this, I discuss practical examples of faithful hospitality in
action today in religious responses to asylum seekers and refugees around
the world, highlighting the significant place of faithful hospitality in inter-
national protection. Faithful hospitality in practice encompasses three main
activities – the meeting of immediate needs, protection from harm and advo-
cacy, and negotiation for justice and redistribution of power. These activities
have been an important part of asylum and protection regimes in the last
20–30 years.
Perhaps one of the most poignant and tragic articulations of the power
imbalance between the individual and the state in contemporary politics
is articulated by Hannah Arendt. In speaking of the plight of refugees and,
in particular, Jewish refugees in the 1930s and 1940s, Arendt highlights the
hopelessness of their situation:
they had lost those rights which had been thought of and even defined
as inalienable, namely the Rights of Man. The stateless and the minori-
ties . . . had no governments to represent and to protect them and there-
fore were forced to live either under the law of exception of the Minority
Treaties [of the League of Nations], which all governments . . . had signed
under protest and never recognized as law, or under conditions of
absolute lawlessness.12
are unable to claim those rights unless they enjoy membership or citizen-
ship in a state. Thus, the state ultimately holds the power of life and death
over individual human beings, whatever may be said about universal human
rights.
International institutions and international human rights and refugee
law have developed exponentially since Arendt penned these words. Yet
the unequal relationship between state and individual to a certain extent
remains. Unprotected persons or ‘non-citizens’ first need to be able to iden-
tify themselves as entitled to a specific set of rights before they are welcomed
into a community. An asylum seeker must prove they are a refugee in order
to claim welcome into the political community of the state. A stateless per-
son has even less claim to rights, since in practice asylum rights are conferred
through citizenship.15 Thus, the individual is dependent on the state for
the realisation of their rights, placing the state permanently in the posi-
tion of power, authority and autonomy and the individual in the position
of vulnerability, obligation and subjection. Through the theoretical lens
of hospitality, then, the state occupies the position of the Self, while the
stateless individual is the ‘absolute, unknown other’. Once the unprotected
person is identified as a ‘refugee’, ‘asylum seeker’, ‘IDP’ and so on, their
interaction with the state through protection agencies and bureaucracies is
filtered through the lens of that legal identity in place of more humanising
characteristics.16
Processes of globalisation are in many ways aggravating this unbalanced
relationship, causing states, particularly developed resettlement states, to
become more closed and hostile to the ‘others’ that would attempt to cross
their borders and claim their protection.17 Developed states seem more
focused on asserting sovereignty through border control than they are in
upholding and protecting human rights.18 In Global North countries, this
position reinforces and is reinforced by the negative attitudes of domestic
populations towards refugees, asylum seekers and other unprotected persons
in the international community.19
This reassertion of sovereignty and reluctance to provide protection sug-
gests a tension regarding the relationship between states and individuals in
global politics. They point to unresolved questions in International Rela-
tions theory regarding the purpose of the state and the sources of power and
authority in global politics.20 It also suggests that International Relations
scholars and anyone else concerned with issues of protection and injustice
in global politics need to engage with possibilities for intervening in and
altering this unequal relationship between the state and the individual that
has emerged over time, an inequality that emerges particularly in the con-
text of asylum seekers, refugees and stateless persons. There are few other
institutions or organisations that have the capacity or authority to be able
to intervene against the power of the state on behalf of the individual in con-
temporary politics. Yet the moral authority which many religious traditions
150 Be Welcome
In the last few years there has been a growing attempt by scholars and
practitioners alike to engage with questions of religion in regard to dif-
ferent aspects of the experiences of refugees and asylum seekers, from
the point of crisis, through flight, stays in refugee camps and resettle-
ment. Religion can be an important personal influencing factor as well
as a broader external factor impacting on people’s choices throughout the
entire refugee and asylum seeker journey.22 Religion’s influence on refugees
and asylum seekers is mixed with religious persecution identified as one
of the causes of flight and defining features of being a refugee outlined in
the 1951 Refugee Convention and 1967 Optional Protocol. Religion is also
frequently a source of conflict that leads to increased refugee and migra-
tion flows.23 Religious actors have been involved in conflicts in complex
ways.24 As such, religion is inextricably bound up with experiences of forced
migration.
This interconnection between religion and forced migration stems back
to ancient Israel and ancient Rome, where religious actors provided sanctu-
ary and asylum for those accused of crimes.25 Indeed, up until the advent
of the modern state, religious actors were the primary providers of refuge
for those forced to flee their homes.26 Between the sixteenth and eighteenth
centuries, the right of religious bodies to provide asylum throughout Europe
was gradually revoked, with the state taking up this role.27 Yet the rise of the
modern state and its usurpation of the right to provide sanctuary established
a sad irony that continues to affect contemporary international politics.
Through the processes of nation state formation both prior to and follow-
ing the Peace of Westphalia, the modern state became the main provider
of sanctuary, yet also the primary instigator of the need for sanctuary and
asylum. Arguably, the development of the state led to the creation of the cat-
egory of the refugee, since state formation entails a level of revolution and
social reorganisation, whereby people are either included or excluded from
the new political entity, thus generating new forms of oppression and injus-
tice.28 Consequently, as well as becoming the main hope for protection and
asylum through usurping the power of the church, the state also became the
main source of oppression and injustice for the individual in world politics.
This irony further highlights the imbalance between states and individu-
als in the context of modern international protection. Yet religious actors
Erin K. Wilson 151
I have chosen to use the term ‘faithful hospitality’ over other possible
descriptors such as ‘religious’ or ‘faith-based’ hospitality for two main
reasons. Firstly, it seems important to distinguish hospitality grounded in
152 Be Welcome
in Islam as coming directly out of the belief that all human beings have
been transformed by God’s love and grace and thus possess dignity that
makes them worthy of compassion and respect.41 Timothy Keller has argued
that it is the transformative power of God’s grace that inspires (or should
inspire) Christians to pursue justice on behalf of the poor, oppressed and
vulnerable.42 Pohl has also highlighted the notion of the sacredness of the
human being in Christian doctrine, particularly the writings of John Calvin
with regard to hospitality to strangers.43 Every human being is believed
to be marked with the image of God, establishing ‘a fundamental dig-
nity and value that cannot be undermined’.44 Elie Wiesel emphasises the
same belief within the Jewish tradition – ‘Any human being is a sanctu-
ary. Every human being is the dwelling of God – man or woman or child,
Christian or Jewish or Buddhist. Any person, by virtue of being a son or
daughter of humanity, is a living sanctuary whom nobody has the right to
invade’.45 This view that all human beings are reflections of the divine in
one way or another lies at the heart of much social justice work that religions
engage in.46
Thomas Reynolds expands on this idea and offers perhaps the most suc-
cinct explanation of the connections between love of God and faithful
hospitality in Judaism, Christianity and Islam. He describes it as a ‘love trian-
gulation’, a ‘three-fold relationship between God’s love for humans, the love
of God and the human task of living justly and doing good to others’.47 This
in some ways resembles Levinas’ idea of the Self, Other and Third.48 Thus,
love of God, love of neighbour and love of justice are intimately connected
through and in faithful hospitality. Reynolds notes that this connection
between love of God, neighbour and justice is present in all three major
monotheistic religions.49 In each case, he suggests, the human love for God,
for each other and for justice extends out of God’s love for humanity, which
is considered prior to the human love of God.50 This theological perspective
provides the background to the practical outworkings of hospitality in the
provision of asylum, assistance with food, shelter, legal services, counselling
and advocacy with and on behalf of refugees and asylum seekers with legal
and government authorities.
Another perspective on the source of hospitality in religion comes from
feminist theologian Letty M. Russell. Russell’s analysis is focused particu-
larly on Christian hospitality but incorporates non-Christian perspectives
into her study. For Russell, like Reynolds, hospitality emerges from the foun-
dational expression of God’s love for humanity. Individuals and humanity
as a whole respond to this love by showing love for God and for one
another, individually and collectively. Also like Reynolds, justice for Russell
is a critical component of any theology or practical expression of hospital-
ity. Without justice, there can be no hospitality. Equally, hospitality plays
an important part in establishing justice, because hospitality makes all equal
and makes all welcome.51
154 Be Welcome
By interceding in this way, the bishop uses his own authority – not only
legally as the owner of the silver but also morally as a religious leader – to
take the power over Valjean’s life away from the gendarmes and give it back
to Valjean.60 Part of faithful hospitality then is interceding and advocating,
‘standing in the gap’, for those who are dispossessed and powerless in an
effort to alter established power structures.61
There are two main theological foundations that underpin these aspects
of faithful hospitality. These theological foundations relate primarily to core
beliefs of Christianity, Judaism and Islam, albeit with some variation across
the three.
The first of these foundational beliefs is that all human beings have been
separated from God by sin. The story of the fall of humanity is told in Gene-
sis 3 in both Judaism and Christianity, with a correlative story in the Qu’ran
Al-A’raf 7:11–27. In Romans 3:23, the apostle Paul writes that ‘all have sinned
and fall short of the glory of God’. To put this into the language of hospi-
tality, the Christian faith holds that all people have become ‘other’ through
sin, separated from God. Thus, there is not (or at least should not be) any dis-
tinction by Christians on the basis of class, race, gender, sexual orientation,
education, vocation, religion or any other category – all have sinned and
therefore all are ‘other’, excluded, separated and marginalised.62 Similarly in
Islam, human beings are all considered ‘creatures of lowly origins’ in com-
parison with God and therefore are ‘other’ to God.63 With regard to asylum
seekers and refugees, who are often demonised or depicted as ‘illegal’ and
‘potential criminals’ in state discourses, the approach of faithful hospitality
156 Be Welcome
is to remember that all are inadequate and unworthy in one way or another,
not just a marginalised few.
The second foundational belief follows on from this first one and has
equally significant ramifications for the tradition of faithful hospitality.
In order to reconcile human beings and God, God Himself intervened.
In Judaism this is done through God providing the law to the Israelites
so that they will know how to live in order to avoid sin and thus be
welcomed into the presence of God. In Islam, God intervenes by breath-
ing ‘into him [man] of his spirit’, so that, although human beings come
from lowly origins, God’s intervention made man ‘a creature truly wor-
thy of being His vicegerent on earth’.64 Indeed, according to Ahmad
Achrati, ‘hospitality in the Qu’ranic sense is a measure of man’s per-
fectibility that is yet to be accomplished’, that is, hospitality points to
man’s eventual redemption.65 In Christianity, God physically entered the
world, became fully human in the person of Jesus of Nazareth, lived an
innocent, sin-free life and died to pay the price of the sin of human-
ity. Through this sacrificial act, Christians believe, Jesus reconciled God
with humanity and made it possible for human beings to live in rela-
tionship and fellowship with God. Thinking about this specifically in
relation to hospitality, each of these interventions by God suggest that all
are now welcome and included, rather than all being marginalised and
excluded.
These two foundational beliefs set up a distinct pattern that colours the
nature of faithful hospitality. The monotheistic religions are often depicted
as being underpinned by dualisms – dichotomies that divide the world into
Manichean categories of good and evil, us versus them.66 To some extent
this depiction is deserved. Christianity, Judaism and Islam all appear to
set up dichotomous relationships between God and Satan and to a degree
between God and human beings. This dualism has often been translated into
dichotomous relationships between believers and non-believers, with believ-
ers being those that are welcomed and included and non-believers being
excluded and denigrated.67 Believers form the ‘Self’ while non-believers are
positioned as the ‘other’.
On reconsidering these foundational beliefs, particularly as they relate
to the language of hospitality, that dualistic pattern does not seem to be
accurate. What emerges resembles more of what Raia Prokhovnik calls a rela-
tional ‘both/and’ model of thinking.68 There is no sense that either people
are fallen or they are redeemed, that they are ‘other’ or they are welcome.
Rather what the two beliefs suggest is that all are both fallen and saved, all
are both lowly and worthy, all are both ‘other’ and self.
These ideas, then, are the beliefs that drive religious individuals to
engage in acts of faithful hospitality. Yet in addition to these foundational
beliefs, there are a number of different characteristics of faithful hospital-
ity that emerge throughout the scriptures, in theological writings and are
Erin K. Wilson 157
present within Hugo’s narrative about the humble bishop of Digne. These
characteristics highlight what is unique about faithful hospitality.
The first of these characteristics is that faithful hospitality is transforma-
tive.69 Either guest, or host, or both walk away changed by an encounter
facilitated or catalysed by faithful hospitality. In the sacred scriptures of
Judaism, Islam and Christianity, this often occurs because the stranger who
is welcomed is actually God in disguise. The first story in the scriptures of
all three religious traditions that highlights this is of Abraham and his wife
Sarah, who entertain three strangers who arrive near their camp.70 The three
strangers are standing nearby when Abraham sees them and runs over to
invite them to rest and eat with him. Abraham and Sarah then prepare
an elaborate feast for the three strangers. As the story unfolds, it emerges
that one of the three strangers is the Lord himself, who promises a child to
Sarah and informs Abraham of his intention to destroy Sodom. As a result
of showing hospitality, Abraham and Sarah have their lives transformed.
Yet God’s plan is also altered, because Abraham reasons with God not to
destroy all the inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah indiscriminately but
to seek out the righteous that live there and preserve them. Thus, through
faithful hospitality, both host and guest are transformed. This same trans-
formative power of faithful hospitality is seen in the encounter between
Valjean and the Bishop in Les Miserables. Valjean, the hardened criminal,
cynical and resentful, is transformed into a compassionate, self-sacrificing
and generous person largely through his encounter with the bishop’s faithful
hospitality. Arguably, this transformative nature of hospitality also explains
the importance of justice to the tradition – faithful hospitality involves the
transformation of situations of injustice to ones that are just, transforma-
tions of unequal, oppressive power relationships to relationships of mutual
respect and equal distribution of power. The recognition of the transforma-
tive power of hospitality within Islam in fact stems back to pre-Islamic Arab
civilisation, which ‘saw hospitality as a humanizing element that involves
both the guest and host, creates trust between them, leads to an ennobling
and transformative moment, and evokes a restorative energy crucial for the
survival of the human race’.71 In this way, faithful hospitality is closely
related to religious ideas of unconditional forgiveness. Faithful hospitality
offers unconditional welcome, not expecting any reciprocity, in the same
way that unconditional forgiveness is offered for unforgivable acts, where
the recipient of the forgiveness does not, indeed cannot, offer anything in
return.72
Abraham and Sarah’s encounter with God reveals a second aspect of faith-
ful hospitality: that the roles of guest and host are not mutually exclusive.73
Although Abraham began as the host, arguably, once the Lord revealed his
identity, Abraham became the invited guest (since God, as the creator of the
world, is viewed as the ultimate host). It also highlights the different realms
in which a person can hold the roles of host and guest. A person not only is
158 Be Welcome
host within a fixed geographic space but can also be host to ideas or expe-
riences, which they then invite others to participate in as their guests. This
emerges in the encounter between the Bishop of Digne and Jean Valjean in
Hugo’s novel as well. Although the bishop begins in the role of host, Valjean
shares with the bishop some of his experiences from the galleys, thereby
inviting the bishop into his life and to share some of his experiences. This
insight has important ramifications for attitudes and policies towards asy-
lum seekers and refugees. While nation states and their populations may be
the hosts of the safe space into which asylum seekers and refugees come
as guests, the asylum seekers and refugees themselves possess ideas, experi-
ences, skills, talents and stories that they as hosts can share with and thereby
enrich their new community.
There are two other aspects of faithful hospitality, particularly as they
relate to strangers and foreigners, which emerge out of the sacred scriptures
that are important to mention here. Firstly, much of the scriptures encourage
followers of God not to mistreat foreigners and aliens because the follow-
ers of God themselves are or have been in the past foreigners and exiles in
strange lands. In the Torah, God commands Israel not to mistreat or oppress
foreigners and aliens since ‘you yourselves know how it feels to be aliens,
because you were aliens in Egypt’.74 This represents a negative injunction
against cruelty towards foreigners and aliens but not necessarily hospital-
ity.75 However, in Leviticus 19:33–34 God extends the negative injunction
against cruelty. ‘When an alien lives with you in your land, do not mistreat
him. The alien living with you must be treated as one of your native-born.
Love him as yourself, for you were aliens in Egypt’. Israel were to love for-
eigners living amongst them as one of their own because they knew how it
felt to be aliens, to be vulnerable and insecure. Having experienced God’s
compassion and mercy themselves through their rescue from slavery and
oppression in Egypt, Israel were to be generous and hospitable towards the
aliens and foreigners amongst them, showing them compassion and mercy.
A similar sentiment is expressed in some of the Christian New Testament
books. Having accepted salvation from sin through Christ, Christians were
encouraged to view themselves as citizens of heaven, with earth a temporary
residence for them. Everything that they possessed on earth had been given
to them by God and therefore ultimately belonged to God and was to be
used for God’s glory and God’s purposes. Christians viewed themselves as
the beneficiaries of the abundant and unlimited hospitality of God. Acting
out of the knowledge of this abundant and unlimited hospitality, Christians
were thereby encouraged to show unlimited hospitality to ‘neighbours’, with
neighbours encompassing those near and far, known and unknown.76
Secondly, the New Testament reminds Christians that Jesus himself was a
stranger and a foreigner many times in his life, often with nowhere to shel-
ter, reliant on the kindness and hospitality of strangers.77 This conception of
Jesus ties in with the narratives in the scriptures where God appears to His
followers in disguise and they often do not recognise him until after he has
Erin K. Wilson 159
Come to Me, all you who labour and are heavy-laden and overburdened,
and I will cause you to rest. [I will ease and relieve and refresh your souls.]
Take My yoke upon you and learn of Me, for I am gentle (meek) and
humble (lowly) in heart, and you will find rest (relief and ease and refresh-
ment and recreation and blessed quiet) for your souls. For My yoke is
wholesome (useful, good – not harsh, hard sharp or pressing, but com-
fortable, gracious and pleasant), and My burden is light and easy to
be borne.
In this statement, Christ invites all who are burdened, regardless of what
their burden is, to seek refuge in him. There are no conditions here. Christ
does not ask names, does not set any criteria but simply invites all who are
burdened. The bishop does the same in his meeting with Valjean.
The bishop then goes on to mention suffering, hunger and thirst.
In Matthew 25:31–46, Jesus tells of how he will welcome into his Father’s
kingdom all those who gave him shelter, food, clothing and who visited him
in prison and will reject those who did not. Several theologians have pointed
to this statement from Jesus as evidence for the need to provide hospitality
and welcome for those who are traditionally forgotten or neglected by the
world.81
160 Be Welcome
Theologians are also quick to point out the distinction between mod-
ern popular understandings of hospitality and the hospitality of religious
actors. Hospitality is most often understood as entertaining and usually
entertaining people who are in a position to reciprocate or who are able
to assist the host through some favour or other.82 Pohl highlights that this
was what differentiated early Christian hospitality from the dominant prac-
tice of hospitality in ancient Rome.83 Christian hospitality was extended to
the poor, weak, oppressed and marginalised, whilst Roman hospitality was
done for the purpose of gaining benefit for the host rather than the guest.
Pohl emphasises that this type of economic rationalist thinking dominates
state responses to refugees and asylum seekers today, leading states to give
preferences to those asylum seekers and refugees who will provide most eco-
nomic benefit for the host state, rather than those who are most in need.84
Pohl goes on to argue that religious actors are well placed to advocate on
behalf of ‘those people and places that are desperately in need but have lit-
tle strategic importance’.85 Religious actors following faithful hospitality are
encouraged not to discriminate on the basis of what will most benefit the
host, but based on those with the greatest need, the most vulnerable of the
vulnerable strangers.
Faithful hospitality then exhibits features and concepts common across
Judaism, Islam and Christianity – the value of each individual as reflect-
ing the image and/or divinity of God, the identity of all as both ‘fallen’
and ‘redeemed’ through the actions of God, the need to show welcome to
strangers in case they be God in disguise and because communities of believ-
ers have been sojourners and strangers and therefore know what it feels
like (the Israelites in Egypt, Christians as residents of earth but citizens of
heaven and early followers of Muhammad who fled to Mecca and Medina
and received welcome there).86 These foundational beliefs inform three main
areas of practice within faithful hospitality – provision of immediate need,
protection from harm and advocacy for justice and changing power relation-
ships. In the final section of the chapter, I discuss some examples of these
aspects of faithful hospitality in action particularly with regard to asylum
seekers and refugees.
status with relevant state authorities and campaigned for broader systemic
and institutional change in policies and attitudes towards asylum seekers
and refugees. Indeed, Nawyn has suggested that the most powerful part of
the ‘ethic of refuge’ or faithful hospitality, as I have called it here, lies in
education of the broader public, campaigning for higher numbers of refugee
admissions, more access to services and increased levels of compassion in
the community.113
While religious organisations in Australia have not been as involved in the
provision of sanctuary for asylum seekers and refugees, they have played a
significant part in providing for immediate needs and for voicing concerns
about government policy and community attitudes towards this group of
vulnerable people. The National Council of Churches in Australia has been
involved in opposing Australian government policy towards asylum seekers
since the early 1990s, in particular mandatory detention.114 Other religious
organisations have spoken out in the media to raise awareness about the
consequences of Australia’s harsh policies towards refugees and asylum seek-
ers.115 FBOs and churches have formed campaign networks and movements
such as Justice for Asylum Seekers (JAS) and used these networks to organise
campaigns, rallies and other forms of protest to raise awareness and advocate
for change of policies towards asylum seekers.116 As well as utilising religious
arguments, identified earlier as the basis for faithful hospitality, these actors
draw on standards set out in international law to argue for changes in policy
and practice. There is, however, little empirical evidence of how effective the
efforts of these organisations have been.
These examples demonstrate the transformative power of faithful hospi-
tality. Individual circumstances are changed through the hospitality of these
religious actors as well as contributing to broader systemic change. Yet it
is not just the situation for refugees and asylum seekers that is changed.
Through the actions of a few religious organisations, other religious and
non-religious actors, organisations and individuals are also inspired and
encouraged to join in hospitality towards refugees and asylum seekers.
In some cases, the policies and attitudes of the state are also altered, an
example of this being the recent shift in Australian government policy to
community detention for asylum seeker families and children, rather than
detention in a prison-like facility.117
These practical examples highlight that religious actors, as institutions and
organisations guided by strong moral principles and with significant inde-
pendence from state authorities, are well placed to offer hospitality – in all
its facets – towards asylum seekers and refugees. Religious actors and organ-
isations thus form a critical part of international protection mechanisms
through provision of immediate needs, sanctuary and asylum and advocat-
ing for change. In this way, religious organisations are able to intervene to
some degree on behalf of vulnerable individuals against the power of the
state in current global protection regimes.
Erin K. Wilson 165
Conclusion
Notes
1. E. Wiesel, ‘The Refugee’, in G. MacEoin (ed.), Sanctuary: A Resource Guide
for Understanding and Participating in the Central American Refugees’ Struggle
(New York: Harper and Row, 1985), p. 10.
2. A. McNevin, ‘The Liberal Paradox and the Politics of Asylum in Australia’,
Australian Journal of Political Science 42:4 (2007), p. 612; E.K. Wilson, ‘Protect-
ing the Unprotected: Reconceptualising Refugee Protection Through the Notion
of Hospitality’, Local Global 8 (2007), p. 101.
3. C.D. Pohl, ‘Responding to Strangers: Insights from the Christian Tradition’,
Studies in Christian Ethics 19:1 (2006), p. 94.
4. H. Arendt cited in R. Bernstein, ‘Hannah Arendt on the Stateless’, Parallax 11:1
(2005), pp. 55–6.
5. V. Hugo, Les Miserables, vol. 1, Ware (Hertfordshire: Wordsworth Editions, 1994),
pp. 72–3; M. Vargas Llosa, The Temptation of the Impossible: Victor Hugo and Les
Miserables (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2007), p. 66.
6. V. Hugo, Les Miserables, p. 51.
7. J. Derrida, ‘Foreigner Question’, in R. Bowlby (trans.), Of Hospitality: Anne
Dufourmantelle Invites Jacques Derrida to Respond (Stanford, CA: Stanford Uni-
versity Press, 2000), p. 25; G. Baker, ‘The Politics of Hospitality: Sovereignty and
Ethics in Political Community’, in G. Baker and J. Barthelson (eds.), The Future
of Political Community (Hoboken: Routledge, 2009), p. 61.
8. Baker, ‘The Politics of Hospitality’, p. 61.
166 Be Welcome
66. M. Juergensmeyer, Terror in the Mind of God: The Global Rise of Religious Vio-
lence (Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press, 2000); N. Rengger and
R. Jeffrey, ‘Moral Evil and International Relations’, SAIS Review 25:1 (2005),
pp. 6–7.
67. Juergensmeyer, Terror in the Mind of God, p. 176.
68. R. Prokhovnik, Rational Woman: A Feminist Critique of Dichotomy (Manchester:
Manchester University Press, 2003).
69. Reynolds, ‘Towards a Wider Hospitality’, p. 182.
70. W. Griffiths, ‘Abraham, Moses, Jesus and Gabriel in the Qu’ran’, The Old and
New Testament Student 12:5 (1891), p. 273; See also Genesis 18.
71. S. Akpinar, ‘Hospitality in Islam’, Religion, East and West 7 (2007), p. 23.
72. Achrati, ‘Deconstruction, Ethics and Islam’, p. 484.
73. Reynolds, ‘Towards a Wider Hospitality’, p. 182; Russell, Just Hospitality, p. 84.
74. Exodus 23:9; see also Exodus 22:21; Pohl, ‘Responding to Strangers’, p. 87.
75. P. Hallie, ‘From Cruelty to Goodness’, The Hastings Center Report 11:3 (1981),
p. 26.
76. Luke 10:25–37; Pohl, ‘Responding to Strangers’, pp. 88–9.
77. A. Sutherland, I Was a Stranger: A Christian Theology of Hospitality (Nashville, TN:
Abingdon Press, 2006), p. 2.
78. Hebrews 13:2–3; Luke 24:13–33; Matthew 25:31–46.
79. ‘Abd al-Rahim, ‘Asylum’, p. 19.
80. Keller, Generous Justice.
81. Pohl, ‘Responding to Strangers’, p. 92; Reynolds, ‘Towards a Wider Hospitality’,
p. 183.
82. Pohl, Making Room; Pohl, ‘Responding to Strangers’, pp. 91–2.
83. Pohl, ‘Responding to Strangers’, p. 91.
84. Ibid., p. 94.
85. Ibid.
86. ‘Abd al-Rahim, ‘Asylum’, p. 19.
87. Ai, Peterson and Huang, ‘The Effect of Religious-Spiritual Coping’, p. 42.
88. Nida Kirmani and Ajaz Ahmed Khan, ‘Does Faith Matter’, Available at www.
islamic-relief.com, accessed 30 May 2010, p. 46.
89. Ibid., p. 47.
90. Arthur, Interview concerning FBOs and asylum seekers in Australia; Vichie, Sr
S. Former Hotham Mission ASP employee and member Catholic Missionary
Sisters of Service. Interview concerning FBOs and asylum seekers in Australia.
17 September 2010.
91. Arthur, Interview concerning FBOs and asylum seekers in Australia.
92. S.J. Nawyn, ‘Faithfully Providing Refuge: The Role of Religious Organizations
in Refugee Assistance and Advocacy’, The Center for Comparative Immigration
Studies, San Diego: University of California, Available at http://ccis.ucsd.edu/
PUBLICATIONS/wrkg115.pdf, accessed 25 May 2010.
93. Nawyn, ‘Faithfully Providing Refuge’, p. 24.
94. Ibid., p. 19.
95. Ibid., p. 15.
96. Refugee Council of Australia, ‘Organisational Members of the Refugee Council
of Australia’, Refugee Council of Australia. Available at http://www.refugeecouncil.
org.au/resources/links.html, accessed 29 June 2010; E.K. Wilson, ‘Rights, Hos-
pitality and Luck: Faith-Based Organisations and the Politics of Asylum in
Australia’, Journal of Refugee Studies 24:3 (2011), pp. 548–64.
170 Be Welcome
97. J.L. Carro, ‘Sanctuary: The Resurgence of an Age-Old Right or a Dangerous Mis-
interpretation of an Abandoned Ancient Privilege’, University of Cincinnati Law
Review 54 (1985–6), p. 748.
98. Blum, ‘The Settlement of American Baptist Churches’, pp. 348–9; Inter-
American Commission on Human Rights of the Organization of American States
(OAS). ‘Chapter IV: El Salvador’, Annual Report (1984–5). Available at http://
www.cidh.org/annualrep/84.85eng/chap.4a.htm, accessed 29 June 2010.
99. Blum, ‘The Settlement of American Baptist Churches’, p. 349.
100. Carro, ‘Sanctuary’, pp. 747–8.
101. Ibid., p. 747.
102. Blum, ‘The Settlement of American Baptist Churches’, pp. 350 and 356.
103. Ibid., p. 351.
104. Ibid., pp. 352–3.
105. V. Mittermaier, ‘Church Asylum in Germany: Experiences of More than 20 Years
Work in the Field, Relevance within the Church, Political Framework’, German
Ecumenical Committee on Church Asylum. Available at http://www.kirchenasyl.de/
1_start/English/Church%20asylum%20in%20Germany.pdf, accessed 30 June
2010, p. 2.
106. I.I. Koop, ‘Refugees in Church Asylum: Intervention between Political Conflict
and Individual Suffering’, Peace and Conflict: Journal of Peace Psychology 11:3
(2005), pp. 355–6; Mittermaier, ‘Church Asylum in Germany’, pp. 3–4.
107. Mittermaier, ‘Church Asylum in Germany’, p. 4.
108. Conference of European Churches, ‘European Churches Responding to
Migratio’, Available at http://www.migration2010.eu/, accessed 30 June 2010.
109. Asyl in der Kirche, ‘Basic Information on Church Asylum’, p. 4.
110. C.B. Ecoffey, ‘Asylum in Switzerland: A Challenge for the Churches’, University
of Manchester Masters Dissertation. Available at http://oikoumene.org/uploads/
tx_wecdiscussion/Asylum_in_Switzerland_a_challenge_for_the_church.pdf,
accessed 16 June 2010.
111. City of Sanctuary, ‘Who Is Involved?’, City of Sanctuary. Available at http://www.
cityofsanctuary.org/cities, accessed 30 June 2010.
112. Hallie, ‘From Cruelty to Goodness’, p. 26.
113. Nawyn, ‘Faithfully Providing Refuge’, p. 33.
114. D. Gosden, ‘ “What If No One had Spoken Out Against this Policy?” The
Rise of Asylum Seeker and Refugee Advocacy in Australia’, Portal Journal of
Multidisciplinary International Studies 3:1 (2006), p. 2.
115. M. Vincent, ‘Returned Asylum Seekers Killed, Jailed: Advocate’, ABC News
19 May 2010, Available at http://www.abc.net.au/news/stories/2010/05/19/
2903429.htm, accessed 30 June 2010.
116. Coleman, C. Director of Hotham Mission Asylum Seeker Project. Interview
concerning FBOs and asylum seekers in Australia, 6 September 2010.
117. Coleman, C. Director of Hotham Mission Asylum Seeker Project. Follow-up
interview regarding FBOs, asylum seekers and recent changes to government
policy, 1 November 2010.
Part III
Understanding Hospitality in
World Politics: Social-Theoretical
Approaches
7
Relative Strangers: Reflections on
Hospitality, Social Distance and
Diplomacy
Nicholas Onuf
173
174 Relative Strangers
Such is the ‘double law of hospitality,’ which, for Derrida, ‘defines the unsta-
ble site of strategy and decision’.5 On Baker’s interpretation of this summary
claim (and following one of Derrida’s most familiar themes), the double
law presents the host with an undecidable choice that must nevertheless be
decided. Every stranger’s arrival is a singular event; ‘there is always a decision
to be made.’ It follows from this line of reasoning that ‘the ethics of hospi-
tality must necessarily be particular to each case’, and making a decision is a
responsible act. ‘Undecidability becomes a condition of ethical action rather
than an obstacle to it’.6
While I am sceptical that deciding the undecidable constitutes a sufficient
basis for an alternative to Kant’s cosmopolitan ethics, my concern here is
not the undecidable. Nor is it the decision or even the moment of decision
when host and guest make themselves each other’s hostage.7 This is, I should
point out, an extended moment, and one that shifts the ethical centre of
gravity to the household (and by implication, the state), which ‘shelters
and duly domesticates the hostages within its walls’.8 My concern instead
is an ethics of ‘straddling,’ as Derrida put it, ‘the two regimes of hospital-
ity’ – an ethics ‘depending on whether the living environment is governed
by fixed principles of respect and donation, or by exchange, proportion, a
norm, etc.’9
Regrettably, Derrida said little to clarify this remark. Whether it suffices
for an alternative cosmopolitan ethics, I will consider in the last section of
this chapter. In the next two sections, I will develop the implications of
Derrida’s suggestion that, by straddling the contradiction between absolute
and conditional hospitality, two second-order regimes of hospitality present
themselves, one based on respect and donation (hereinafter, the RD regime),
and the other based on exchange and proportion (the EP regime). Even if we
reject the term proportion as an indicative feature of the EP regime (not least
Nicholas Onuf 175
because Aristotle used the term to suggest an unequal relation), the regime
would seem nevertheless dependent on people owning what they have, on
property (thus leaving the acronym EP intact). In any event, we should think
of these regimes as ideal types. As the term straddling suggests, both regimes
are likely to be in evidence, across social settings, in different proportions.
Kant, Derrida and just about everyone else who is writing about hospital-
ity today take it to be a universal phenomenon, an entailment of human
sociality in a world where people have separated themselves into house-
holds, bands and polities. Insofar as exchange is another consequence of
human dispersion and social separation, it too will be construed as a uni-
versal phenomenon, but one to which hospitality is necessarily attached –
by definition, strangers cannot deal with each other. In an age of discov-
ery and commercial expansion, early modern writers held that nature itself
demanded the right to visit and the duty to receive visitors; natural law
made hospitality, like property, indispensable to exchange. Most contempo-
rary observers take reciprocity to constitute an ethical principle undergirding
any sort of exchange.
Insofar as reciprocity implies that parties to any transaction both give
and take, as equals, for the purpose of that transaction, I accept its nor-
mative function in an EP regime. Yet I do not equate social relations with
exchange and thus do not see any necessary symmetry between giving and
giving back: I can give you some token of my esteem or some trouble to be
endured or some piece of unsolicited advice and take nothing from you in
return. In such situations, I have no reason to think that you have conducted
yourself inappropriately.
In a RD regime, gifts do not generally call for reciprocity – a ‘countergift’,
to use Derrida’s term. In a discussion of giving that parallels, not too surpris-
ingly, his discussion of hospitality’s paradoxical impossibility, Derrida held
that giving back ‘annuls’ the gift. ‘For there to be a gift, there must be no
reciprocity, return, exchange, countergift or debt’. Nor must giving be a con-
scious act. ‘At the limit, the gift as gift ought not to appear as gift: either to the
donee or the donor’.10 Properly speaking, a gift taken exists only in the past
tense: the act, the very moment, of giving annuls the gift. In this sense, the
gift is unconditional in just the way that hospitality is.
Derrida made the case for unreciprocated giving, for ‘the without-return
of the gift’, in a brilliant reading of Marcel Mauss’s seminal monograph,
The Gift. Because Mauss viewed ceremonial giving as a system of exchange,
Derrida’s concern was giving back, not unconditional giving. Gift and coun-
tergift compose a ‘cycle of restitution’, in which the rules specify conditions
under which a gift is given in response to a gift taken. These rules consti-
tute an EP regime in which, according to Derrida, the ‘thing’ given (which
cannot be a gift) ‘gives, demands, and takes time’.11
Derrida failed to consider giving in an RD regime, in which rules spec-
ify conditions under which a gift must not be reciprocated. If, for Derrida,
176 Relative Strangers
Objects in motion
Aristotle held that nature endows living things with the faculties necessary
for them to fulfil their potential.18 Animals have mental faculties and, of
course, a faculty for language distinguishes human beings from other liv-
ing things. Aristotle’s importance for medieval thought assured a continuing
emphasis on mental faculties, which we also find even, or especially, in Kant
but not thereafter, when cultural variability and positivist science dictated a
modern preoccupation with the mind as a vessel to be filled. Only recently
have scholars rediscovered mental faculties, renaming them ‘domains of
human cognition’ or ‘modular cognitive systems’.19 There has since been
raging discussion of domain specificity and modularity, much of it centred
on daunting issues – how are domains bounded, how many modules does
the mind possess? – that need not detain us.20
Noam Chomsky identified three domains: one specific to language, a
second specific to physical objects and a third specific to numbers. Music
may constitute a forth domain. Many scholars divide the second into three
domains, each of which produces commonsense knowledge about physi-
cal objects: objects that only move when moved (folk physics), objects that
move themselves (folk biology) and objects whose movements are goal-
directed or intentional (folk psychology).21 All three domains presuppose
an ability to sort objects according to some discernible property (in speech,
this is predication).
Insofar as classification is a core feature of folk biology, the latter might
better be characterised as the domain where, after assigning properties to
objects, we go on to classify them by reference to movement as a differen-
tiating property and then direct our attention to objects that seem to be
able to move themselves (slowly, by growing, or more quickly, through loco-
motion). From an early age, children see – sense – what we adults take to
be a world of objects. They see that like objects go together – put them
together – in what we call categories. They see – single out – the relation
between objects that we call cause. They are naturally disposed to perform
these operations without any help from language, learning and culture.
In a much cited paper, Alan Leslie has suggested that children have a
naïve theory of mechanical contact and the transmission of FORCE.22 While
using the term theory in this context is rather fanciful and the analogy
between children’s domain specific knowledge and self-conscious theorising
is strained, its connotative sense more or less parallels understanding as that
term and its cognates are used in ordinary language.23 In other words, chil-
dren seem to understand that inanimate objects can be made to move. ‘From
Nicholas Onuf 179
of causes, external and internal. They cannot see which cause accounts for
continuous motion until they fully understand goal-directedness.
It is wildly misleading to say, as Leslie did in an earlier paper, that ‘infants
possess a capacity for primary representation from the outset of develop-
ment’ – a capacity ‘defined in terms of its direct semantic relation with the
world’.25 Whatever it means to say that we have a ‘direct’ relation to the
world (say, through Kant’s ‘faculty of intuition’26 ), any ‘semantic relation’
is prima facie mediated by language. Representations are models, whether
arrangements of objects or verbal constructions. They are built with or from
representations, in an apparently infinite regress that can only end with the
natural disposition to give names to what we think we see.27
At about the age that children begin to understand goal-directed beings
and their interactions, they begin to develop their faculties for using words
and numbers. In making models, in manipulating the world in their minds,
they use imagination (to make associations), judgement (in dealing with
rules) and reason (to reach beyond the limits of possible experience).28 They
master the relevant faculties with remarkable speed. That all these things
happen at once can hardly be a coincidence.
Children begin to speak by repeating words that they hear in use. These
words are typically nouns, the names for objects in their world. When they
repeat verbs, they are making simple sentences to represent what is hap-
pening in their world of objects. In so doing they acquire beliefs, translate
needs into desires, form goals and achieve them when others respond to
their sentences. Verbs are key.
A verb, then, is not just a word that refers to an action or state but
the chassis of a sentence. It is a framework with receptacles for the
other parts – the subject, the object, and various oblique objects and
subordinate clauses – to be bolted onto.29
Verbs come in different forms, which tell how to put sentence parts together.
These coded instructions may well correspond to specific domains of human
cognition, but they do vary from language to language, just as their inter-
pretation varies from one speaker to another. Scholars typically estimate
the reach of specific verb constructions (as linguists have traditionally called
them – a revealing choice of terms) by offering examples and asking if they
sound right to native speakers of the language. In what follows, I offer exam-
ples in English, which is my native language, judging what sounds right
for myself. I assume my constructions will more or less correspond to the
verb forms that native speakers of other languages are likely to put forward
because human beings tend to represent the world that we see pretty much
the same way. At least this seems like a reasonable assumption for the world
of objects in motion that very young children are naturally disposed to see –
again, pretty much the same way.
Nicholas Onuf 181
Even the most elementary survey of verb constructions must take transi-
tivity into account. In sentences with intransitive verbs, subjects are agents
and the verb tells us that their acts are sufficient or complete as performed
(thunder rumbled; doors open; wars start; I almost gave up). Recalling the
child’s world of objects, subjects are acting objects. Intransitive verbs have
the effect of making motion into an object: an agent, which is an object posi-
tioned as the sentence’s subject, launches a moving object. When verbs are
transitive, subjects are agents performing acts and having effects on objects
directly (lightning struck the embassy; the embassy guard opened the door),
even at a distance (the ambassador saw the lightning; we gave thanks). Tran-
sitive constructions specify two objects, one represented as affecting the
other.
As children, we are naturally disposed to see objects in motion, theorise
cause and express what we see in sentences with transitive verbs. We are also
disposed to locate moving objects in space and time (Ambassador, your hus-
band called you), very often with help from additional instructions, variably
coded as prepositions and adverbs (the foreign minister flew from Bangkok
to Tokyo; call him back right away). Some transitive verbs have a subject and
two objects, in which case we call them dative or ditransitive. They relate a
subject as agent to an object (a noun in the accusative case) and that object
to another object (a noun in the dative case). The causal effect is indirect,
even when there is an observable connection (a moving object) between the
source of motion and the object affected (the indirect object): the ambas-
sador (object as subject) said (verb in dative construction) some harsh things
(direct or first object) to the first secretary (indirect or second object).
At least in English a few dative verbs can take two forms: The embassy
guard threw the ball to the child; the guard threw her the ball (and, drop-
ping the preposition to, it sounds perfectly natural to put the indirect object
first). By contrast, it sounds wrong to say: The ambassador said me some
harsh things; the guard opened the door to her. Using a direct object and a
preposition or the double object interchangeably is a phenomenon linguists
call alternation. Malka Rappaport Hovay and Beth Levin classify alternating
dative verbs as follows:
Verbs that inherently signify acts of giving: give, hand, lend, loan, pass,
rent, sell . . .
Verbs of future having: allocate, allow, bequeath, grant, offer, owe,
promise . . .
Verbs of communication: tell, show, ask, teach, read, write, quote, cite . . .
Verbs of sending: forward, mail, send, ship . . .
Verbs of instantaneous causation of ballistic motion: fling, flip, kick, lob, slap,
shoot, throw, toss . . .
182 Relative Strangers
Having given the dative case its name, give is the leading example of a dative
verb. Among alternating dative verbs, give is the most common – according
to one source, 53 per cent of the total in English usage – and the one that
seems richest in metaphorical extension and social meaning.31
Alternation is a puzzle, a paradox, begging solution.32 It is not to be found
in languages, such as Russian, where word order is more flexible than it is
in English.33 How do we, as natural-born theorists and syntactically com-
petent speakers, know which datives are alternating and, by implication,
why they are and other dative verbs are not? In looking for an answer to
these questions, linguists attach a great deal of importance to ‘give type verbs’
causing possession and ‘throw type verbs’ causing motion.34 To throw (send,
toss, bring, fax: all alternating verbs in the last four of Rappaport Hovay and
Levin’s categories) is to cause to go.
Classification implies an answer to my questions, a solution to the puzzle.
As Stephen Pinker has put it, there is a shift in what the speaker thinks is
happening to the objects of the world – ‘a conceptual gestalt shift between
causing to go and causing to have’.35 Here is his example: ‘Give a muffin to a
moose means “cause a moose to go to a muffin,” whereas give a moose a muffin
means “cause a moose to have a muffin” ’.36 Pinker went on to observe that
Pinker then argued that inanimate objects cannot own things and so
we cannot say, for example, ‘Annette sent the border a package’ except by
metaphorical extension.38
Even when we take metaphorical extension into account (personified gov-
ernments maintain border facilities on behalf of the personified states to
which these borders metaphorically belong), I think that there is something
odd about these claims. When it comes to things – gifts in the usual sense of
the term – we are naturally disposed to think we can choose to keep them as
possessions, use them as we see fit, give them to someone else, or exchange
them for other things of value to us. The ambassador gave her husband a
hug; Annette sent the border station a package; the second secretary sold
his replacement his car, and usually the alternate form sounds right (but not
Nicholas Onuf 183
always: the ambassador gave a hug to her husband) because, as Pinker sug-
gested, causing-to-go and causing-to-have are normally indistinguishable in
effect (although giving a hug favours having over going). So far, so good.
Yet this is not all that happens. When subjects cause direct objects to go,
they go somewhere and they have an effect there – on the indirect object.
All three objects (subject, direct object, indirect object) have new properties.
When we say The president gave the ambassador a medal, we mean to say:
The president, who has medals to give out, gave one to the ambassador so
that the president now has one less medal (and one more medal holder in
his retinue), the medal has moved to a new location and the ambassador
has a ‘new’ medal. If we were to say instead The president gave a medal to the
ambassador, we are shifting the weight of the sentence from the medal to the
ambassador, on the view that we load what is most important in a sentence
on its two ends.39
It would seem then that we use alternating dative verbs to indicate that
the subject, direct object and indirect object have undergone a change in
state. To give means to have the direct object in the subject’s possession, to cause
it to go, and to have an effect not just on the indirect object – the recipient – but also
on the subject and the direct object, without implying that the indirect object,
the recipient, owns or can alienate the direct object. Just as with inalienable
possession in the genitive case (the ambassador’s right hand, motor reflexes,
handshake), the indirect object, as recipient, may not own what it has been
given (the ambassador’s medal is not for the ambassador to give away). The
indirect object has the properties (location and condition) that the subject
gave it until some other subject gives it a new location and properties.
Alternating dative verbs always indicate changes in state, whatever the
properties of the objects in question. Indirect objects of every kind and not
just inanimate objects may be caused to change without being able to alien-
ate whatever it is (direct object, gift) that caused them to change. As the
object of giving, animate beings are not always free to alienate what they are
given. Animals are obviously animate, but we are disposed to see them as
owners only as metaphorical extensions of ourselves. We generally take our
faculties to be inalienable gifts of nature; many of us hold certain rights to
be inalienable.
The verb give identifies objects that by having been caused to go (as mobile
objects also known as gifts) may become possessions in the sense that lin-
guists seem to take for granted. Also, always and simultaneously, the verb
give causes possession in the more fundamental sense of an object possess-
ing new properties. As I have said, the subject as giver, the gift and the gift’s
recipient will have new properties, whether a change in location, condition
or both. All gifts start off in the subjects’ possession. Being alienable, they
are caused go and cause to have (despite what hair-splitting linguists say).
Not all gifts cause to have in both senses of possession – once received, not
all are alienable.
184 Relative Strangers
This distinction is not splitting hairs. For children theorists, objects have
properties such as movement, agents cause objects to move, some moving
objects have an effect on other objects, agents cause objects to have an effect
on other objects: the verb give codes all of this information. As they learn to
use their verbs, they learn that exchange is predicated on the alienation of
mobile things, on giving things in order to get things. They participate as
agents in the EP regime.
Yet this is not all that children learn. They also learn that many other kinds
of social relations depend on the continuous supply of inalienable gifts. Gifts
make us what we are through the effects that they have on us. In doing so,
they constitute the RD regime and regulate our social relations by marking
the differences among us and thus the distances between us, pair by pair, set
by set.
When the president gives a medal to the ambassador, that act enhances
(confirms, perhaps even diminishes) the president’s esteemed position as
someone who dispenses honours, the ambassador’s esteem as honoured
recipient and the esteem that all parties hold for the medal as an honour
and the occasion for its bestowal. Orientational metaphors reveal a natural
disposition to position objects in space, at a distance from each other and
the observer.40 On a horizontal plane, social distance makes us all strangers
to each other, but only relatively – we know where we stand. Rotate the axis,
and we find our rank. Even as children we are naïve geometers who perform
these operations effortlessly as we find our place in the RD regime.
On diplomacy
Not every instance of a gift given is equally important for the constitution
and regulation of social distance. Giving the passing stranger a nod is less
important than giving the ambassador a medal. Formal occasions for giving
and acknowledging gifts – ceremonies, festivals, anniversaries, holidays – are
especially important for social distancing, and they almost always involve
hospitality under rule-specified conditions and the sharing of possessions –
meals and memories, songs and stories, common concerns and good feel-
ings. Sharing describes a situation in which the many give some of what is
theirs to alienate, not to each other, but to the whole as a generalised indi-
rect object. Egalitarian in its thrust, communal sharing may indeed be yet
another natural disposition that human beings share, one that prompts the
formation of a CS regime to mitigate social distance and vitiate any feelings
of alienation that social distancing induces.
It is an ethnographic commonplace that humanity’s evolutionary circum-
stances resulted in small bands of hunters and gatherers, some few of which
have persisted to the present. As an ideal-typical social arrangement such
bands are said to share everything of value; whatever band members acquire
they alienate immediately to the band as a whole.41 Lacking alienable objects
Nicholas Onuf 185
to separate them and to signify rank, band members have no need for the
conditional hospitality and the rituals of giving and getting characteristic
of an RD regime. Instead they form a rankless society – one that rewards or
rankles no one in particular.
One need not accept the claim well known to evolutionary psychology
that mating necessarily results in a ‘dominance hierarchy’ to be sceptical
that living conditions were ever so simple: needs readily met, band size
stable, strangers rarely encountered.42 The natural, cultivable disposition to
circulate esteemed objects, set conditions for hospitality and calibrate social
distance (in time by generations; in horizontal space by reference to kin,
neighbours, strangers; in vertical space by rank) will always find opportu-
nities to assert itself. As a natural disposition, sharing is hardly likely to
dominate social relations for long, even if we decide to cultivate it. Nor is
communal sharing likely to disappear, even as we cultivate other natural
dispositions making us relative strangers in rank-ordered sets.
How the rules of conditional hospitality and the circulation of esteemed
objects instantiate social distance is, on examination, not altogether obvi-
ous. While my focus is on gifts as tokens of esteem and distancing mecha-
nisms (and therefore the RD regime), most scholars focus on gift exchange
as a (re)distributive mechanism and not gifts as such. Focusing on the EP
regime, they follow Mauss, who linked generosity and honour, most spectac-
ularly in the potlatch.43 Blessed with natural abundance and accumulating
largess, the native tribes of the northwest coast of North America engaged
in profligate hospitality, with families giving away their stores of goods in
hopes of being seen as more generous and therefore worthier than their
neighbours. The practice induced imitation, fostered reciprocity and resulted
in a more egalitarian distribution of material goods through their destruction
by consumption.
The rampant alienation of potlatch is not to be confused with communal
sharing. The potlatch did nothing to reduce social distance beyond the cere-
monial confines of seasonal hospitality. On the contrary, some families were
always in a position to give more goods away, with greater honour their
reward. We see this phenomenon repeatedly. Wealthy donors endow art
museums and professorial chairs, always calibrating their generosity against
the honour it accrues their names, the esteem it produces and effect it has
on their position in society. We also see its converse operating to the same
effect. For hundreds of years, China’s tributaries gave less tribute than the
recipient could have extracted by other means, but the occasion for tribute
conferred honour, connoted esteem and codified social distance.44
With Derrida, I see no reason to call this process exchange, as if it involved
alienable possessions or even reciprocity as if some sort of parity is implied.
Only when esteem is reified (as it often is: the ambassador’s medal) and then
commodified (as it is, much less often, in markets, such as for endowed pro-
fessorial chairs) can there be exchange in the usual sense. Only when gifts
186 Relative Strangers
are judged comparable in social value, can there be reciprocity. Only then
does the EP regime override or overlay the RD regime. Yet esteem, as a prop-
erty, typically has different values for different people, depending on their
relative positions in society. If the president gives the ambassador a medal,
the effects on their esteem (self-esteem, esteem for each other, esteem in the
eyes of others) will not be comparable. The RD regime prevails.
Unconditional hospitality is an unconditional gift. If there are rules of
conditional hospitality, then there are rules on giving, taking and giving
back – as Mauss claimed, separate sets of rules telling people when and what
kinds of gifts are obligatory, when and under what circumstances they are
obliged to accept gifts and whether accepting a gift creates an obligation to
give a gift under what circumstances.45 When a humble graduate student
invites an exalted professor home for dinner, the professor is not obliged
to invite the student to her home. Conversely, when an exalted profes-
sor invites a humble graduate student out for a beer, the student is not
obliged to do the same or indeed to share the bill. Again, the RD regime
prevails.
Few settings in the modern world make the rules of hospitality – the
RD regime – clearer or more consequential than the relations between
states manifest in the activities of chiefs of state, government ministers and
other senior officers and diplomats as standing guests in other states-as-
households. When chiefs of states meet, the occasion is treated as a festive
day warranting extraordinary displays of hospitality and ritual exchanges –
gifts, toasts, reassurances – affirming the formal parity of the states and
their chiefs. The host initiates a carefully calibrated ritual of physical con-
tact (by giving a hand, an embrace, a kiss). If two chiefs meet in neither
one’s country, they give and take back inalienable body parts in a single syn-
chronised moment. Much the same holds for ministers and ambassadors on
appropriately less elaborate scales. Expressions and tokens of mutual esteem
foster solidarity and sharing within ranks, even as they confirm the distance
between ranks.
While important rules make chiefs, ministers and ambassadors formally
equal at each rank, there are additional rules, many of them informal,
acknowledging them to possess or assigning them different properties, all
of which have the effect of differentiating them within ranks. When the
ambassador of large country in a major capital hosts a grand reception and
invites many dignitaries, the ambassador of a smaller country is not obliged
to host an equally grand reception. Indeed, it would be presumptuous for
the ambassador of the smaller country to do so. Finally, there are all sorts of
informal rules for social relations across formal ranks. When the president
gives the ambassador a medal, the ambassador should give her thanks to
the president (confirming her esteem for him) and her thanks to her staff
(raising its members’ esteem for her). That there are so many rules, that so
many of them are informal, suggests that mastering the code of hospitality
Nicholas Onuf 187
in the relations of states takes time and skill – protocol matters because social
distance is a large concern in those relations.
The general features of the RD regime in the relations of states go back
to the fifteenth century. At that time, sovereigns were steadily tightening
their control over lesser lords, with a proportionate increase in the for-
mer’s majesty – the property of inspiring awe.46 This process also saw the
transformation of the sovereign’s lords from warriors to courtiers,47 and the
institution of permanent embassies.48 Before the last of these developments,
occasional visitors representing sovereigns and their interests were of two
sorts: those with symbolic duties such as delivering a message or gracing
a ceremony and those with powers to negotiate.49 Permanent embassies
effectively ended a distinction already tenuous in practice, and resident
ambassadors assumed a variety of duties taking them to their hosts’ courts.50
Together, resident ambassadors constituted the diplomatic corps, defined as
such by set rules for the corps’s members – rules for presenting credentials,
rules assuring respect for each other, rules for dealing with notables and
officials of every rank, rules granting them local privileges and immunities.
The large effect of these closely related developments was to order social
distance within the proto-states of Europe on the same vertical axis and to
routinise the ongoing conduct of relations among them. Over time, the shift
from state sovereigns to sovereign states has done little to change the RD
regime or working relations among states’ agents within and across ranks.
Judging from Garrett Mattingly’s account (1964: 30–8), the first book on
diplomatic practice (Bernard du Rosier’s Ambaxiator breviologus, 1436) failed
to discriminate in any systematic way between what diplomats are, as hon-
oured members of a ranked society subject to an elaborate code of hospitality
and what they do as agents engaged in relations on behalf of sovereigns.51
Indicatively, the two most important manuals on diplomatic practice to
appear before the last century – Abraham de Wicquefort’s L’ambassadeur et ses
functions (1680) and François de Callières’s De la manière de négocier avec les
soverains (1716) – refer to the diplomat as ‘an honorable spy’.52 Both consider
rank and conduct to be inseparable features of the ‘art’ of diplomacy.
Only gradually did later commentators develop the distinction between
ceremony and the conduct of relations – communicating wishes, negotiating
differences – and view the latter as the diplomat’s primary function. Harold
Nicolson, as the twentieth century most influential diplomatic participant-
observer, could emphasise negotiation as the diplomat’s primary function, at
least in theory, all the while concerning himself with the personal qualities
of an ideal diplomat, just as his predecessors had.53 Indeed he also wrote
a book on good behaviour and civility.54 The prevailing sentiment today is
that diplomats are, and have always been, communicators and negotiators
first and foremost, their practical responsibilities warranting their privileges
and immunities.55 Their ceremonial duties come a distant second, their high
standing suiting them to the social whirl of frivolous activities.
188 Relative Strangers
Codes of conduct
can tell us nothing about the specifics of conditional hospitality, the con-
tents of any given RD regime – this is exactly the thrust of Derrida’s double
law of hospitality.
In my opinion, recent efforts to jump from Kant (as if he had unam-
biguously formulated a universal duty of unconditional hospitality) to the
contents of an immigration regime are simply fatuous for this very reason.
Moreover, natural dispositions often pull in different directions. If empa-
thy is a natural disposition, so is Hobbesian fear as an evolved, entirely
reasonable response to danger. Unconditional hospitality requires an open
door; fear commends a closed door. In other words, the links between nat-
ural dispositions and particular rules are far too tenuous to call any such
rules natural or necessary. ‘Natural reason’ notwithstanding, general princi-
ples, which are so often at odds with each other, are the weak link in these
chains of association and derivation. How can conflicting general principles
be universal in scope and equally compelling normatively?
The quest for universal principles and binding inferences is the pro-
grammatic core of modern ethics. Given the importance of liberalism for
modernity, it can be no surprise that this quest centres on the general prin-
ciples of the EP regime as an ideal-type – as I said earlier – autonomy, parity,
reciprocity, exchange and fairness. At least in recent times, relative indiffer-
ence to the RD regime as an ideal-type has pretty much spared it from efforts
to generalise such virtues as fortitude, seemliness and magnanimity, which
have always been calibrated by status: higher standing and greater virtue go
hand in hand. Nor do we find any sustained interest in deriving binding
content for particular RD regimes from such principles.
While the recent revival of virtue ethics suits the RD regime by emphasiz-
ing personal traits, I have something more in mind. After all, unconditional
hospitality is arguably a universal duty. The demands of respect and honour
may also have the same unconditional properties and result in Derrida’s dou-
ble law, since every society has at least one RD regime – a code of honour
and of hospitality, however, different in reach, content and effect. I have else-
where argued that honour is a constituent feature of what I called everyday
ethics.72 Here I maintain that we should extend everyday ethics to include
the requirements of conditional hospitality and the many rituals of giving
that make us relative strangers in known degrees.
The ethical status of the RD regime as an ideal-type can only be realised
in specific RD regimes. All such regimes function as normatively weighty
codes of conduct. In practice, I should point out, the same holds for the EP
regime. Whatever we might say about universal principles, specific codes of
conduct, often formalised as law, significantly shape our immediate ethical
situations.
Codes of honour and hospitality constitute an everyday ethics for peo-
ple in every society and every walk of life because people know what rules
are – what they are for, why they are to be followed, when they can be
192 Relative Strangers
broken, how they relate to each other. On the evidence, Gopnik has con-
cluded that very young children, as born imitators, understand what rules
are about, implicitly before they are two years old and explicitly by the
time they are three.73 Such claims recapitulate Hans Kelsen’s grundnorm as
a human universal: we ought to behave as we customarily have behaved.74
Whether we have a natural disposition to understand normativity, becoming
linguistically competent provides the necessary equipment.
Any speaker who knows how to modify verbs with such auxiliaries as can,
may, would and should (or their equivalents in other languages) knows that
she is imagining (un)desirable states of affairs. Normativity is latent in this
sort of competence.75 A more explicit awareness of obligation may have to be
learned in different ways in diverse social settings. The rules of any specific
RD regime give children the practice with rules that they need to get along
in their worlds. More than this, I suspect, the rules about gifts that are such
central features of every RD regime teach children and remind adults that
normative force is relative, whatever modern ethicists say.76
As we have seen, not every gift compels reciprocity. Every gift given or
received tells us who (we should think) we are, what we (should) value,
where we (can) stand, and does so with fine discrimination. If relative
normativity makes us relative strangers, it gives us the relative comfort of
being strangers in familiar ways. The RD regime so conspicuous, so impor-
tant, in diplomatic culture and international relations – two aspects of the
same world – works this way in order for diplomats to be able to mediate the
relations of states. Other RD regimes conspicuously constitute and regulate
social reality in non-modern worlds (perhaps excepting hunting and gather-
ing bands). RD regimes are pervasive; we find them even where EP regimes
seem to dominate. Rearing children readies them for a world of objects where
location – position, social distance – always matters.
Acknowledgements
Notes
1. Immanuel Kant, ‘Perpetual Peace: A Philosophical Sketch’, in Hans Reiss
(ed.), Kant: Political Writings, second edition (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1991), pp. 105–8; see Seyla Benhabib, Another Cosmopolitanism (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2006), pp. 148–52; and Nicholas Onuf, ‘Friendship
Nicholas Onuf 193
23. Leslie is not alone in using the term theory for whatever children seem to know
in a domain-specific way. See, for example, David Premack, ‘The Infant’s The-
ory of Self-Propelled Objects’, Cognition 36 (1990), pp. 1–16; Alison Gopnik and
Henry M. Wellman, ‘The Theory Theory’, in Lawrence A. Hirschfeld and Susan A.
Gelman (eds.), Mapping the Mind (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994),
pp. 257–93; Paul L. Harris, ‘Thinking by Children and Scientists: False Analo-
gies and Neglected Similarities’, in Hirschfeld and Gelman (eds.), Mapping the
Mind, pp. 294–315; Gopnik and Andrew N. Meltzoff, Words, Thought, and Theories
(Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997).
24. Leslie, ‘ToMM, ToBy, and Agency’, p. 133; see generally pp. 123–37.
25. Alan M. Leslie, ‘Pretense and Representation: The Origins of “Theory of Mind” ’,
Psychological Review 94 (1987), p. 414.
26. Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Reason, Norman Kemp Smith (trans.) (New York:
St Martin’s, 1929), p. 105.
27. For an accessible overview, see Stephen Pinker, The Stuff of Thought: Language as a
Window into Human Nature (New York: Viking, 2007), pp. 281–96.
28. Kant, Critique of Pure Reason, pp. 141 and 177.
29. Pinker, The Stuff of Thought, p. 31. See generally pp. 25–87 for a fascinating
disquisition on verbs and their analysis.
30. Malka Rappaport Hovay and Beth Levin, ‘The English Dative Alternation: The
Case for Verb Sensitivity’, Journal of Linguistics 44 (2008), p. 134.
31. Joan Bresnan and Tatiana Nikitina, ‘The Gradience of the Dative Alternation’,
in Linda Ann Uyechi and Lian-Hee Wee (eds.), Reality Exploration and Discovery:
Pattern Interaction in Language and Life (Stanford, CA: CSLI Publications, 2010),
p. 178.
32. Pinker, The Stuff of Thought, pp. 58–60; Rappaport Hovay and Levin, ‘The English
Dative Alternation’, pp. 129–33.
33. Rappaport Hovay and Levin, ‘The English Dative Alternation’, p. 161.
34. Ibid., p. 132.
35. Pinker, The Stuff of Thought, p. 58, his emphasis.
36. Ibid., pp. 58–9, citation deleted.
37. Ibid., p. 59.
38. Ibid.; also see Rappaport Hovay and Levin, ‘The English Dative Alternation’,
p. 138.
39. Compare Rappaport Hovay and Levin, ‘The English Dative Alternation’, p. 156,
on ‘heaviness’.
40. The locus classicus on orientational metaphors is George Lakoff and Mark
Johnson, Metaphors We Live By (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1980);
also see Onuf, The Republican Legacy, pp. 193–219, on levels.
41. See Jack Donnelly, ‘The elements of the Structures of International Systems’,
International Organization 66 (2012), pp. 609–16, for an overview.
42. On dominance hierarchy, see especially David M. Buss, The Evolution of Desire:
Strategies of Human Mating, revised edition(New York: Basic Books, 2003), and see
Buller, Adapting Minds, pp. 201–345, for a critical assessment.
43. Marcel Mauss, The Gift: Forms and Functions of Exchange in Archaic Societies, Ian
Cunnison (trans.) (New York: Norton, 1967). On the potlatch, see pp. 31–7 and
Derrida’s, Given Time, pp. 37–47, which reads Mauss against Mauss and his many
followers.
44. David C. Kang, ‘Hierarchy in Asian International Relations: 1300–1900’, Asian
Security 1 (2005), pp. 53–79.
Nicholas Onuf 195
Introduction
Just as in war and politics there is no definitive victory, but only a rela-
tive and precarious superiority or equilibrium, so in the order of life there
are no successes that radically devalorize other attempts and make them
appear failed. All successes are threatened, since individuals and even
species die. Successes are delayed failures; failures are aborted successes.1
In other words, there is no single, absolute metric for judging among the
various strategies undertaken to live on. What may look like mere living
from one point of view may, seen otherwise, signal the exuberance of surplus
living.2
One strategy of international contact that has returned to prominence
among political theorists of late is hospitality. Some scholars have mar-
shalled accounts of duties, rights, religious rites, or customary practices of
197
198 Reservations on Hospitality
What may seem most curious, indeed perhaps perverse, about the formu-
lation of hospitality in Toward Perpetual Peace is that hospitality for Kant
amounts to nothing more than non-hostility. In contrast to the other the-
ories and practices of hospitality (e.g., the hostly duties that Francisco de
Vitoria derives from a presumption of natural human fellowship),7 Kantian
hospitality as a mere abstention from hostility will likely disappoint. Kant’s
abstentionism is double: Kantian hospitality entails abstention not only
from hostility but also from positing ‘thick’ duties of hospitality and yet,
to count as right, abstention from hostility must be supplemented mini-
mally by moral duty. Kantian theory thus emphasises the form of right (the
right of hospitality) by minimising any possible empirical contents of con-
textually specific practices of hospitality (e.g., determinate rituals of xenia,
guest-friendship that developed in Archaic Greece). By judging interactions
between peoples by a formal right of hospitality rather than measuring such
interactions according to a standard of hospitality derived from particular
practices, Kant aims at universality. However, this universality is illusory –
for it is yoked to thick, perfectionist, progressive conceptions of nature
and humanity that generate hierarchies of culture. Nevertheless, even if the
200 Reservations on Hospitality
what nature does for this purpose [of perpetual peace] with reference to
the end that the human being’s own reason makes a duty for him, hence
to the favoring of his moral purpose, and how it affords that guarantee
that what man ought to do in accordance with laws of freedom but does
not do, it is assured he will do, without prejudice to his freedom, even by
a constraint of nature, and this in terms of all three relations of public
right . . . . When I say of nature, it wills that this or that happen, this does
not mean, it lays upon us a duty to do it (for only practical reason, without
coercion, can do that) but rather that nature itself does it, whether we will
it or not . . . 12
202 Reservations on Hospitality
Nature may constrain – may will – that humans act or forebear to act in
ways that look like peace, but duty is something else entirely. What Kant
calls the mechanism of nature grounds right conduct for the wrong reasons –
namely, abstention from hostility produced by natural impasse between two
opposed egoisms – while morality asks humans to aspire to right conduct
for the right reason – namely, peace as a duty that humans morally and
rationally impose on themselves beyond nature’s constraint. ‘A condition
of peace’, Kant insists, ‘must therefore be established’: a peaceful condition
must be deliberately posited in order to distinguish it from the non-hostility
that nature wills for humans by default.13
So in Kant there is a simultaneity and yet a gap between nature’s provi-
dence and the point at which humans freely initiate properly moral actions.
Nature brings humans to the threshold of right conduct, but humans bear
the burden of stepping across. Yet they need not amble too far. Although
Kant and Hobbes crucially part ways on concepts of reason, Kant neverthe-
less retains important features of Hobbesian thinking precisely in refusing –
in spite of his reputation for moralism – to expect much of humans. Rather
than extravagant faith in philanthropy, Kant grounds morality on nothing
beyond a rational ordering of what the mechanism of nature already pro-
vides. Humans may transgress this threshold, but such supersession counts
as philanthropy and no longer as right stricto sensu. Philanthropy, moreover,
may indeed harm others in not respecting their freedom. The fundamen-
tal problem of public right, Kant insists, ‘is not the moral improvement of
human beings’,14 and this holds true in regard to each of its three relations.
First, in light of Kant’s emphasis on a republican constitution, the right of
a state might seem in principle to demand a depth of intimacy among citi-
zens that in fact goes absent from his account. To be sure, Kant grounds the
right of a state in neighbourliness, which must be positively established as
a relation. It is, furthermore, a moral relation rather than a spatial relation,
for mere proximity amounts to enmity in the state of nature. Yet neigh-
bourliness actually implies very little in practice: an abstention from active
hostility supplemented, quite minimally, by nothing beyond the formal
assurance of a lawful condition. As Kant explains, ‘suspension of hostilities is
not yet assurance of peace, and unless such assurance is afforded one neigh-
bor by another (as can happen only in a lawful condition), the former, who
has called upon the latter for it, can treat him as an enemy’.15 Humans must
give assurance for peace to prevail locally, and nature grounds at least local
conditions of peace by bidding humans to ‘form itself internally into a state’
if only to repel ‘another people pressing upon it’.16 In order to direct their
hostility outwards, they must assure one another of non-hostility internally,
which they do by erecting a sovereign who has power over them all yet
who (pace Hobbes) cannot exempt herself from the minimal duty of neigh-
bourliness (and is aided in understanding what it takes to be a neighbourly,
republican sovereign by public philosophy).
Jimmy Casas Klausen 203
But a human being (or a nation) in a mere state of nature denies me this
assurance and already wrongs me just by being near me in this condition,
even if not actively (facto) yet by the lawlessness of his condition (statu
iniusto), by which he constantly threatens me; and I can coerce him either
to enter with me into a condition of being under civil laws or to leave my
neighborhood.17
Thus, in regard to the right of nations and the right of citizens of a state as
well, progress in moral culture brings about an ‘equilibrium’ of discrete forces
‘in liveliest competition’,20 i.e., not friendship but rather neighbourliness.
Friendship is characterised by forms of intimacy too empirically specific and
too locally particular to count as formal, universal right; it is better subsumed
under philanthropy. By contrast, neighbourliness retains a morally mini-
malist sense and yet involves more than mere abstentionism without going
so far as to oblige philanthropy. That is, Kantian neighbourliness demands
not only the absence of hostility between proximate persons or societies
that nature’s providence would bring about anyway but also humans’ posi-
tive, moral assurance of mutual non-hostility. Among individuals deliberate
assurance establishes peace (because a sovereign power enforces it), while
among nations this assurance merely averts war (precisely because there can
be no supersovereign power to enforce a pacific league). In both cases, right
merely enjoins abstention from harmful conduct rather than positively insti-
tuting good conduct and to the degree that Kant refuses to legislate moral
improvement, he takes inspiration from Hobbesian realism, although Kant
exceeds Hobbes in morally (though not legally) binding the sovereign to
neighbourly conduct both domestically and internationally.
Third, the construction of cosmopolitan right follows the pattern given by
the prior two relations of right; however, hospitality displaces neighbourli-
ness as the relevant duty, although, as we shall see, hospitality maintains
a curious relationship to the (natural) proximity that neighbourliness had
turned into a (moral) duty. In considering cosmopolitan right, Kant finally
makes explicit the distinction between philanthropy and right heretofore
left implicit. He writes: ‘it is not a question of philanthropy but of right,
so that hospitality (hospitableness) means the right of a foreigner not to be
treated with hostility because he has arrived on the land of another’.21 Thus,
hospitableness too amounts to no more than non-hostility. Kant elaborates
as follows:
The other can turn him away, if this can be done without destroying him,
but as long as he behaves peaceably where he is, he cannot be treated
with hostility. What he can claim is not the right to be a guest (for this a
special beneficent pact would be required, making him a member of the
household for a certain time), but the right to visit; this right, to present
oneself for society, belongs to all human beings by virtue of the right of
possession in common of the earth’s surface . . . ; but originally no one had
more right than another to be on a place on the earth.22
The mere absence of hostility seems to suffice for according a stranger hos-
pitality understood not as philanthropy, but as right; i.e., delimited as not
the right to be a guest, but the right to visit. Hospitality, then, is non-
hostility, and in regard to right, Kant assures us, the category ‘nonhostility’
Jimmy Casas Klausen 205
does not expand to include everything except hostility, for it does not, after
all, include the right to be a guest, whose empirically local and interpersonal
specificities far exceed right per se and push into philanthropy proper.
This third definitive article for perpetual peace continues the abstention-
ist trend of the previous two, then. Yet, by comparison to them, there is
something curious about its moral minimalism: peculiarly, the minimalism
that Kant heretofore superadds to abstention from hostility is now col-
lapsed into the abstentionism itself. As relations of right per se, the right
of citizens of a state and the right of nations required a gap so that the
apparent simultaneity between humans’ right conduct for the wrong rea-
sons (non-hostility brought about by impasses between egoisms as willed by
providential nature) could be marked off from right conduct for the right rea-
son (abstention from hostility out of moral duty). Assurance of non-hostility
marked this gap and was externally guaranteed either by sovereignty or by
the device of a league among sovereignties. In the third definitive article,
that assurance – and therefore the gap between abstentionism and moral
minimalism – goes missing. Not only is hospitality indistinguishable from
abstention from hostility but so also is the assurance of hospitality. To the
external spectator (an important figure in Kant’s philosophy),23 hospitality,
positively practiced though minimally construed, will thus look exactly like
hostility negated.
The collapse of the gap between abstentionism and minimised morality
generates a number of interconnected effects for Kantian hospitality. Above
all, the collapse of minimalism into abstentionism necessarily entails col-
lapse of moral duty into nature’s constraints. Nature wills that humans be
sociable through the constraint of territorial finitude. Even if humans spread
out to avoid each other’s hostile proximity (or outright war24 ), they nev-
ertheless cannot do so infinitely but rather bump up against one another
again on the other side of the spherical earth, a collision that returns a
reactive shock back through each prior migratory wave. Hence, as ‘they
cannot disperse infinitely,’ they ‘must finally put up with being near one
another’.25 So if nature constrains humans to be near one another, then
the parallel moral duty is that humans try to enter into relations peace-
ably. The collapse of natural constraint into moral duty raises two questions:
(1) what specifically characterises cosmopolitan relations so as to render the
prior categories of (natural) proximity and (moralised) neighbourliness now
inadequate or insufficient?; (2) absent a discrete device for assurance, what
counts as ‘present[ing] oneself for society’ ‘peaceably’?26
First, as conceived in the third definitive article, the attempt to enter into
relations is engendered by distance. That is, Kant emphasises contacts across
distance rather than proximity, even though the right to visit which cir-
cumscribes Kantian hospitality is grounded in the eventuality of nearness
under conditions of territorial finitude. Significantly, distance already organ-
ises cosmopolitan right’s proximity in that an eventual, global effect is what
206 Reservations on Hospitality
drives humans finally to tolerate others’ nearness, but this nearness that
humans must put up with differs from proximity as considered under the
right of a state and international right. For it is not a would-be neighbour but
rather a would-be visitor whose proximity one must make a duty of tolerat-
ing – visitors come from afar, approaching others across the ‘[u]ninhabitable
parts of the earth’s surface, seas and deserts’, that ‘divide this community’ of
citizens of the world.27 Kant names this seeking of others across distance com-
merce, which serves as a conceptual substitute for the function that proximity
had served in the prior two relations of public right. Their interrelationships
can be expressed as an analogy; hence: commerce: hospitality:: proximity:
neighbourliness.
And yet, while proximity is by definition hostile in the state of nature,
commerce (understood more broadly than mercantile relations) seems not to
be by definition hostile. Indeed, nature utilises the self-interest that animates
commerce to unite nations, though obviously the unity comes about for the
wrong reasons:
It is the spirit of commerce, which cannot coexist with war and which
sooner or later takes hold of every nation. In other words, since the power
of money may well be the most reliable of all the powers (means) subordi-
nate to that of a state, states find themselves compelled (admittedly not
through incentives of morality) to promote honourable peace and, when-
ever war threatens to break out anywhere in the world, to prevent it by
mediation, just as if they were in a permanent league for this purpose.28
the cases of China and Japan, after having ‘given such guests a try’, native
societies turned away foreigners presumably out of an actual – rather than
projected – experience of harm.
The account of motivation that we might glean from Kant, then, goes
as follows: native societies may turn away or turn away from foreign vis-
itors out of an intimation – whether based on past experience, reports of
similar societies’ experiences or extrapolations of consequences from within
indigenous knowledge frames – that they must avoid their own destruction
(including destruction of freedom), which may follow from contact with
these visitors. The anthropologist Pierre Clastres and the political scientist
James C. Scott have argued that certain small-scale societies in Amazonia
or Zomia isolate themselves in rejection of encroaching statist forms of
political organisation – they aim to remain ‘societies against the state’.37
With truly inaccessible peoples, of course, the motivations for self-isolation
escape our knowledge, perhaps will remain forever radically unknowable.
Whatever may have motivated them historically and empirically to isolate
themselves, the Kantian right of hospitality bids us to expect that they have a
good reason for doing so. The national, statist and late capitalist global soci-
eties that surround them, according to right, ought to respect self-isolating
societies’ reason or reasons alongside their freedom. My reconstruction of
an extremely minimalist duty of hospitality that collapses into (naturally
willed) abstention from inhospitality suggests that one cannot judge native
groups that turn away non-neighbouring foreigners by a thick standard of
hospitality. We ought to take self-quarantine seriously as a strategy for living
on rather than judge it as an instance of imperfect or incomplete hospitality.
However, applying Kantian hospitality to the contemporary nation state
system raises questions. What does the Kantian right of hospitality now
become with the statist enclosure of and administrative claims over all
territorial space? Analysis of the issues is complicated by other questions.
First, who now assumes the position of ‘host’? Different designations
have now superseded Kant’s pair native/foreigner, though none adequately
captures all, and some surely obscure certain parts of what is at stake:
aborigine/settler-colonist, indigene/national, internal alien/citizen, and so
on. Even if the self-isolating peoples in question were indigenous to the
nation states in which they now find themselves, they now ironically
seem intruders in their respective national ‘state spaces’.38 Nevertheless,
for a variety of reasons ranging from topography to weak state capac-
ity, national communities and state police and administrative agents can
only saturate their state spaces incompletely, and so for all intents and
purposes self-quarantining peoples fiercely guard a modicum of practiced
self-determination under enormous external constraint from state powers
bent on effective capture of the entire jurisdictional domain. This statist
propensity is one among many forces that marginalises internal self-isolating
societies.
210 Reservations on Hospitality
fait accompli while making the preservation of the lives of both natives and
foreigners an object of right, then the effects of the exercise of this right of
hospitality certainly have biopolitical dimensions. To what effect are life and
livelihood preserved when the scene of Kantian hospitality is transposed to
the contemporary nation state? In respecting – or not – the self-quarantine
of some indigenous peoples in their midst as consonant with hospitality,
agents of contemporary neoliberal nation states exercise powers to foster or
disallow self-isolating life.
When we read Kant’s Perpetual Peace through Foucault on biopower in
regard to nation state policies towards self-quarantining indigenous soci-
eties, we see that both hospitality and philanthropy foster life. In other
words, hospitality’s abstentionism fosters life as much as does an inter-
ventionist philanthropy. However, the effects of these fosterings diverge
drastically: hospitality, because minimal and negative, fosters life by not
disallowing it to the point of death, while philanthropy, because maximal
and positive, turns out to disallow life in fostering it. In order to make
sense of how hospitality and philanthropy produce these effects in the
case of disease-vulnerable indigenous populations, though, I first reconsider
the historical simultaneity of contact and contagion. Then I analyse two
policies, the creation of reservations and biomedical intervention, for the
way they reveal contemporary biopolitical effects of Kantian hospitality and
philanthropy.
Contact/contagion
discrete human communities. In other words, fast, frequent transit can link
multiple, dispersed, but now increasingly porous communities into a single
stable human reservoir for disease.
There is a vast historical and anthropological literature arguing that dis-
ease transfer after Columbus’s discovery of America for European states over-
whelmingly advantaged (especially urbanised) Europeans who had adapted
to their own crowd-type contagious diseases through painfully having built
up immunities and establishing endemicities over centuries, as against peo-
ples in the Americas, Australia and the Pacific. These latter groups, previously
unexposed to the pathogens causing diseases such as measles and smallpox
and therefore lacking what McNeill dubs ‘disease experience’, had con-
sequently been unable to acquire any immunities against these foreign
contagions and so served as so-called ‘virgin soil’ populations in which the
pathogens could run virulently rampant.42 As for the question of virulence,
according to broadly Darwinian hypotheses, pathogens and hosts both seek
to survive their encounter. Too virulent an expression will kill the host and
therefore endanger the disease pathogen’s continued survival. Therefore,
over time and after generations of hosts and pathogens have died, ‘a process
of mutual accommodation between host and parasite’ is arrived at43 : poten-
tial human hosts will have acquired relative biological or cultural immunity
through development of antibodies after infection or other means, while
pathogens will have undergone a process of natural selection resulting in the
evolution of less self-destructive and more host-adaptive expressions. Thus,
disease expression becomes less virulent and endemicity is achieved: ‘over
time a kind of symbiosis evolves in which the host works for the parasite,
but both host and parasite survive’.44 Having never had the opportunity to
participate in establishing such a symbiosis with pathogens, virgin soil popu-
lations have never consequently produced any of the antibodies that would
blunt or even completely mask the expression of a pathogenic infection.
(Even those with naturally or artificially acquired immunities – those won,
respectively, through infection or vaccination – endure, often unawares, very
low-grade infections, whose side effect is the temporary boosting of antibody
production.)
Variability in exposure to the three highly infectious diseases of Eurasia –
smallpox, measles and bubonic plague – contributed to enormous global
differentials in vulnerability during disease transfer. Whereas, of course, pre-
modern Europeans had also endured the demographic stresses of virgin soil
epidemics on the path to endemic fixity, what substantially differed about
the experience of aboriginal peoples in the Americas and Oceania is that
these populations suffered the simultaneous onslaught of multiple disease
transfers. The historian Suzanne Austin Alchon puts it thus: ‘before the fif-
teenth century, there is no evidence to suggest that any human population
anywhere in the world ever experienced the nearly simultaneous arrival
of three such highly virulent pathogens. The most devastating epidemics
Jimmy Casas Klausen 213
recorded in the Old World involved only one new pathogen at a time . . . ’45
(By comparison, it is generally accepted that, though many Europeans died
of illnesses in the Americas, the only major disease transferred to Europe
itself was syphilis.46 ) Through intergroup communication, epidemic ill-
ness in native communities could precede actual European contact thereby
facilitating conquest, colonisation and enslavement (all of which in turn
intensified mortality). Moreover, excess mortality during virulent epidemics
often occurred due to starvation or dehydration because pandemic illness
broke down all normal community maintenance structures: there were sim-
ply not enough healthy bodies to hunt, gather, tend to crops or fetch
water. All told, mortality rates based on comparison of pre-contact and post-
contact population estimates reveal a catastrophic demographic collapse –
only between 10 and 25 per cent of indigenous inhabitants’ surviving the
first century of New World contact.47
Native societies suffered severe cultural disruptions as a result. Thus, even
when not destroyed physically, native survivors underwent destruction as
moral-cultural subjects. In the stark words of the Mesoamerican chronicle,
Annals of the Cakchiquels (circa 1559–1581):
Great was the stench of the dead. After our fathers and grandfathers
succumbed, half of the people fled to the fields. The dogs and vultures
devoured the bodies. The mortality was terrible. Your grandfather died,
and with them died the son of the king and his brothers and kinsmen.
So it was that we became orphans, oh my sons! So we became when we
were young. All of us were thus. We were born to die!48
Societal collapse from disease may already have made native peoples feel
annihilated as persons – unmoored by a birth pointing only to death – even
without Europeans’ needing to be present and actively treating the natives
‘as nothing’.49 At the same time, cultural devastation of native societies
as peoples and in their persons also provided opportunities for regrouping
movements on the order of nativism and ethnogenesis.50
in high morbidity from pneumonia and other infectious diseases and killed
one of every two Matis.60 To correct such devastating policies, anthropolo-
gists Magdalena Hurtado, Kim Hill, Hillard Kaplan and Jane Lancaster have
elaborated the following argument:
Hurtado et al. assume that health professionals and policy makers must
hospitably confer biomedically acquired immunity on heretofore isolated
and now contacted virgin soil populations. Fostering indigenous lives by
imposing an alien conception of immunity, they would inhospitably destroy
alternate strategies of living on. Seeing through their interventionary lens,
Hurtado et al. themselves become arbiters of successful and unsuccess-
ful forms of life: they presume that self-quarantine cannot itself serve
as an effective cultural strategy to immunise living bodies. Thus, ironi-
cally perhaps, these anthropologists choose biology above culture by seeing
each from a standpoint authorised by the culture of biomedicine. From
their interventionary lens and against Canguilhem’s admonition above,
self-quarantine appears to be a failed strategy for living on because the
immunity it would confer is imperfect or incomplete. Likewise, condon-
ing self-isolation is imperfect or incomplete hospitality as against their
more perfect interventionary hospitality in the name of life. Authorising
themselves to make these judgements, they enact an altogether different col-
lapse of morality into nature than the Kantian collapse I reconstruct above.
Whereas Kant’s collapse of minimalism into abstentionism and moral duty
into nature’s constraints opens hospitality and therefore strategies for liv-
ing on, this other collapse binds moralising conceptions of ‘health’ to the
biomedically conceived body. Yet if, according to Canguilhem, for humans
especially, ‘health is precisely a certain latitude, a certain play in the norms
of life and behavior’,63 then it seems that the ‘health’ that supposedly
hospitable, though strictly philanthropic, ‘life’-fostering interventionary
contact would impose on the exuberance of self-quarantining indigenous
peoples is a sickness unto that other perpetual peace Kant mentions:
death.
Notes
1. Georges Canguilhem, ‘The Normal and the Pathological’, in Stefanos Geroulanos
and Daniela Ginsburg (trans.) Knowledge of Life (New York: Fordham University
Press, 2008), p. 126.
Jimmy Casas Klausen 219
2. Cf. Jacques Derrida, ‘Living On: Border Lines’, in Harold Bloom, Jacques Derrida,
Geoffrey Hartman, Paul de Man, and J. Hillis Miller (eds.), Deconstruction and
Criticism (New York: Seabury Press, 1979), pp. 75–176.
3. Sankar Muthu, Enlightenment Against Empire (Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 2003), Chapters 3 and 5; Jimmy Casas Klausen, ‘Of Hobbes and Hospi-
tality in Diderot’s Supplement to the Voyage of Bougainville’, Polity 37:2 (April 2005),
pp. 167–92. Cf. Georg Cavallar, The Rights of Others: Theories of International Hos-
pitality, the Global Community, and Political Justice since Vitoria (Aldershot: Ashgate,
2002).
4. Jacques Derrida, Of Hospitality and Forgiveness, Mark Dooley and Michael Hughes
(trans.) (London: Routledge Press, 2001); Seyla Benhabib, The Rights of Others:
Aliens, Residents, and Citizens (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004),
and Another Cosmopolitanism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006); Bonnie
Honig, Emergency Politics (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009), Chapter 5;
Gideon Baker, ‘The “Double Law” of Hospitality: Rethinking Cosmopolitan Ethics
in Humanitarian Intervention’, International Relations 24:1 (2010), pp. 87–103.
5. Gideon Baker’s consideration of hospitality as involving differential ‘risks’ (espe-
cially when imperial power is involved) is consonant with my emphasis on
vulnerabilities here. See Baker, ‘The Spectre of Montezuma: Hospitality and
Haunting’, Millennium: Journal of International Studies 39:1 (2010), pp. 23–42.
6. Immanual Kant, ‘Toward Perpetual Peace’, in Mary J. Gregor (trans. and ed.),
Practical Philosophy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), p. 329.
7. Francisco de Vitoria, ‘On the American Indians’, in Anthony Pagden and Jeremy
Lawrance (eds.), Political Writings (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991),
pp. 278–84.
8. Kant, Toward Perpetual Peace, 322n.
9. Thomas Hobbes, On the Citizen, Richard Tuck and Michael Silverthorne (eds. and
trans.) (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), pp. 3–4.
10. Kant, Toward Perpetual Peace, p. 335.
11. Cf. Kant, ‘Idea for a Universal History with a Cosmopolitan Purpose’, in Hans
Reiss (ed.) and H. B. Nisbet (trans.) Political Writings (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1991), pp. 41–53.
12. Kant, Toward Perpetual Peace, pp. 334–5.
13. Ibid., p. 322.
14. Ibid., p. 335.
15. Ibid., p. 322.
16. Ibid., p. 335.
17. Ibid., p. 322n., first emphasis added.
18. Ibid., pp. 328 and 327.
19. Ibid., p. 336.
20. Ibid.
21. Ibid., pp. 328–9.
22. Ibid., p. 329.
23. E.g., Hannah Arendt, Lectures on Kant’s Political Philosophy (Chicago, IL: University
of Chicago Press, 1992), pp. 50–65.
24. Kant, Toward Perpetual Peace, pp. 333–4.
25. Ibid., p. 329.
26. Ibid.
27. Ibid.
28. Ibid., p. 337, final emphasis added.
220 Reservations on Hospitality
50. Stuart B. Schwartz and Frank Salomon, ‘New Peoples and New Kinds of Peo-
ple: Adaptation, Readjustment, and Ethnogenesis in South American Indigenous
Societies’, in Richard E.W. Adams and Murdo J. Macleod (eds.), Cambridge
History of the Native Peoples of the Americas, Vol. III: South America, Part 2
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 443–501; Paul Kelton, ‘Avoid-
ing the Smallpox Spirits: Colonial Epidemics and Southeastern Indian Survival’,
Ethnohistory 51:1 (winter 2004), pp. 45–71; Hilary M. Carey and David Roberts,
‘Smallpox and the Baiame Waganna of Wellington Valley, New South Wales,
1829–1840: The Earliest Nativist Movement in Aboriginal Australia’, Ethnohistory
49:4 (fall 2002), pp. 821–69.
51. Daniel T. Reff, Disease, Depopulation, and Culture Change in Northwestern new Spain,
1518–1764 (Salt Lake City, UT: University of Utah Press, 1991), p. 208, citing
Gonzalo Aguirre Beltrán, Regions of Refuge (Washington, DC: Society for Applied
Anthropology, 1979).
52. Reff, Disease, Depopulation, and Culture Change, pp. 206 and 207.
53. Kant, Toward Perpetual Peace, p. 329.
54. Though the term has caused some grumbling in the scholarly community, Sur-
vival International refers to ‘Uncontacted Tribes’ in its campaign literature. See
the discussion on the Savage Minds blog: http://savageminds.org/2008/07/01/
are-there-uncontacted-tribes-the-short-answer-no/, accessed 21 March 2010.
55. On controversies associated with authenticity of accounts of ‘lost tribes’ in New
Guinea, see Edward L. Schieffelin, ‘Early Contact as Drama and Manipulation
in the Southern Highlands of Papua New Guinea: Pacification as the Structure
of the Conjuncture’, Comparative Studies in Society and History 37:3 (July 1995),
pp. 555–80; Pierre Lemonnier, ‘The Hunt for Authenticity: Stone Age Stories out
of Context’, The Journal of Pacific History 39:1 (June 2004), pp. 79–98.
56. Survival International, Disinherited, p. 21; Pierre Clastres, Chronicle of the Guayaki
Indians, Paul Auster (trans.) (New York: Zone Books, 1998), p. 113; Clastres, Society
Against the State, pp. 7–26, 77–100; Scott, Art of Not Being Governed, Chapter 6.
57. An image – in a gallery called ‘ “Uncontacted” and Isolated Tribes’ – is
available through the National Geographic Society website, http://travel.
nationalgeographic.com/places/gallery/tribe-gallery_sentinelese-man.html, acce-
ssed 23 June 2010.
58. FUNAI’s Sydney Possuelo qtd. in Survival International, Disinherited, p. 24.
59. Elizabeth A. Povinelli, Labor’s Lot: The Power, History, and Culture of Aboriginal
Action (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1993), p. 27.
60. Survival International, Disinherited, pp. 34–7.
61. Magdalena Hurtado, Kim Hill, Hillard Kaplan, and Jane Lancaster, ‘The Epidemi-
ology of Infectious Diseases among South American Indians: A Call for Guidelines
for Ethical Research’, Current Anthropology 42:3 (June 2001), pp. 425–40, 427 qtd.
62. Tess Lea, Bureaucrats and Bleeding Hearts: Indigenous Health in Northern Australia
(Sydney: University of New South Wales Press, 2008), p. 16.
63. Canguilhem, ‘The Normal and the Pathological’, p. 132.
9
Conducting Strangers: Hospitality
and Governmentality in the
Global City
Dan Bulley
222
Dan Bulley 223
With the rise of globalisation, whatever it may mean, the ‘global city’ has
come to be seen as a crucial node that commands and controls the flows of
people, goods and services.13 The very idea of global cities is that they are
open, welcoming strangers from all over the world in order to exert a con-
trol over those strangers and their economic activities. A significant aspect
of this rise of global cities is that they compete to offer a better welcome,
to offer a more hospitable environment in which to enjoy both business
and leisure. This is far from being an entirely novel phenomenon. Rather,
it draws on long-standing traditions: European cities have been competing
from the late seventeenth century over population size, public improve-
ments and fashion.14 More recently and despite some arguments to the
contrary,15 most agree that cities increasingly compete with one another over
tourism, infrastructure, investment, environmental standards and quality
of life.16
One particularly high profile way in which major cities across the world
have come to overtly compete is through the staging of spectacular ‘mega-
events’, ‘large-scale cultural (including commercial and sporting) events
which have a dramatic character, mass popular appeal and international
significance’.17 While the Olympics are the most grand or ‘mega’ of mega-
events, the category also includes all trade fairs and expos as well as sporting
and international book fairs. These events have great significance to the
international fortunes of cities – for example, Barcelona has been hailed
as ‘the most successful global model for post-industrial urban regeneration’
on the back of its 1992 Olympics, whereas Montreal is still repaying debts
accrued from hosting the 1976 games.18 Certainly cities compete over the
Dan Bulley 225
Nick Griffin is right to say London is not his city. London is a welcoming,
tolerant, cosmopolitan capital which thrives on its diversity. The secret
of its long-term success is its ability to attract the best from wherever
they are and allow them to be themselves – unleashing their imagination,
creativity and enterprise. The BNP has no place here and I again urge
Londoners to reject their narrow, extremist and offensive views at every
opportunity.32
Here Johnson not only places hospitality as the foundation of London’s eco-
nomic success but also demonstrates the way this welcome is governed – it
is only offered to those who share London’s values. It is offered to partic-
ularly valued guests (‘the best’, with imagination and creativity – echoing
Florida), while those who do not abide by London’s ‘welcoming, tolerant,
cosmopolitan’ ways are excluded.
In this chapter, I am particularly interested in examining the way London
has ‘officially’ produced itself as space of hospitality (and government)
through its ‘plans’ and ‘strategies’ published around the year 2010. These
documents, such as The London Plan and the Economic Development Strategy,
have emerged from the London Mayor’s Office; the Greater London Author-
ity (GLA) and the London Development Agency (LDA),33 have been sent
out for extensive public consultation and now offer a useful lever on how
London has been spatially produced. This is not to say that the Mayor,
the GLA or the LDA have single-handedly created hospitable London,
merely that they are important examples of how ‘London’, a contested and
problematic space, is being interpreted and represented to the world.
Very much relying upon truths established by influential spatial planners
like Richard Florida, it is established within the plans and strategies that
London’s cultural and creative industries are key to its ‘competitive advan-
tage’ and that this stems from its ‘cosmopolitan character’.34 The result is
Dan Bulley 227
Governing hospitality
It would appear from what we have seen above that London’s hospitality
is open and liberating, allowing any guest ‘to be themselves – unleash-
ing their imagination, creativity and enterprise’. Yet, in fact, the London
Plan and its attendant strategies describe a highly controlled and restricted
environment and a thoroughly managed welcome. After all, one of the
top priorities of the London Tourism Action Plan is to ‘deliver and pro-
mote a world class sense of “Welcome” throughout the visitor experi-
ence’.41 This welcome is far from spontaneous, but is planned to appear
as such. Indeed, hospitality and welcome is promised ‘from pre-arrival to
post-departure’, and this includes ‘inspiring all customer facing staff to
raise the standard of welcome’,42 though there is no clear example of how
such inspiration will be achieved. More concretely, the London Ambassador
Scheme includes a “‘welcome” role’ for personnel ‘patrolling the streets,
transport gateways and public spaces of London’.43 The mention of ‘pub-
lic’ spaces, as opposed to private, is important here and becomes a key
way in which London is spatially produced, and thereby governed, as a
hospitable home.
This division is mapped from the Mayor’s foreword to the London Plan.
Here, Johnson suggests that the secret of understanding London is seeing it
from above via a satellite map; from here, we see that London is divided into
‘private space’ and ‘shared space’:
Map 9.1 Outer London, inner London and central activities zone52
Source: GLA 2009 © Crown copyright. All rights reserved. Greater London authority 100032379
(2009).
Dan Bulley 229
Wood Green
Harrow Romford
Ilford
Uxbridge Shepherds
Bush West End
Ealing Kinghtsbridge
Hounslow
International centre
Kingston Bromley
Metropolitan centre
Croydon Major centre
Sutton
District centre
Central activities zone
governed. Traditionally, the positions of host and guest structure our under-
standing of what hospitality means, and the assignment of one’s role in this
regard always involves an operation of power or violence. Max Beerbohm’s
claim from 1920 is exemplary in this regard:
In every human being one or the other of these two instincts is predom-
inant: the active or positive instinct to offer hospitality and the negative
or passive instinct to accept it. And either of these instincts is so signifi-
cant of character that one might well say that mankind is divisible into
two great classes: hosts and guests.79
The premise of Beerbohm’s claim that guest and host are separable entities
and instincts has been widely problematised, not least by Derrida’s observa-
tions on the figure of the hôte which will be discussed later.80 But we can see
how the characteristics of hosting (active, positive) are already valued more
highly, placed hierarchically above, those of guesting (passive, negative).
It was noted in the Introduction that hospitality generally encourages us
to think of an autonomous host, with complete mastery of his (conven-
tional hospitality being heavily gendered)81 home, who acts with a form
of sovereign power to grant or refuse entry. As outlined by Michel Foucault,
sovereign power was based on the ability or right to put to death or to let live:
‘the right of life and death was one of sovereignty’s basic attributes’.82 In a
similar way, it is conventional to think of hospitality in terms of sovereign
power – the right of the host to decide who does and does not gain entry to
the home. Thus Derrida argues that hospitality structurally implies sovereign
‘mastery’ of the space of a home, control over its thresholds and the decision
to welcome or reject.83 Jean-Luc Nancy conceives of sovereign power as that
of abandoning or banning – a power which casts out from under its own law,
under its own jurisdiction. ‘To abandon is to remit, entrust, or turn over to
such a sovereign power, and to remit, entrust, or turn over to its ban, that is,
to its proclaiming, to its convening, and to its sentencing’.84 This is in a sense
an inverse of hospitality (a banishing, or casting out from within the com-
munity, rather than a rejection of the already outside), but sovereign power
as the decision on the ban holds nonetheless. Either way, sovereign power
works via an inclusive exclusion, defining the limits of the community (the
inside) through exclusion (to the outside) of what does not belong.85
In contrast to this, the sovereign host – ‘London’ – in London’s offer of
hospitality is always ephemeral or spectral, always both present and absent.
Even the space of the global city, the boundaries of its ‘home’, is not clearly
defined. When we refer to ‘London’ as welcoming the world, are we talking
only about the CAZ (see Map 9.1)? Or do we include the less acceptable
‘inner London’? Where ‘London’ stops is blurred – after all, of London’s
five airports (City, Gatwick, Heathrow, Luton and Stansted) only two (City
and Heathrow) are to be found within the area marked on Maps 9.1 and
Dan Bulley 233
9.2 (above), while one (Stansted) is in Cambridgeshire. This means that the
‘Key Diagram’ of the London Plan has five large shaded areas, complete with
arrows in and out, crossing the boundaries of London and designated as
‘Regional Coordination Corridors’.86 Cities like London are thus continually
‘seeping out at the edges’ and cannot be reduced to anything but the ‘illusion
of unity and stability conferred by the proper name’.87 This is why Ash Amin
and Nigel Thrift contend that the city’s ‘boundaries have become far too per-
meable and stretched, both geographically and socially, for it to be theorized
as a whole. The city has no completeness, no centre, no fixed parts’.88 As a
‘home’ London is blurry and indefinite, its ‘windows’ and ‘doors’ appearing
a long way from its shifting ‘walls’.
Even if London were geographically or socially definite, as a host it does
not have the power simply to welcome or reject the guest. Its control over
the guest’s movement, and the encouragement of the guest to remain in the
CAZ, the ‘international’ as opposed to ‘metropolitan’, ‘major’ or ‘district’
centres, is obviously not an operation of the sovereign ban, and as a ‘host’
London does not appear singular or clearly defined. It defines itself as a space
which welcomes, a space of hospitality, but with no obvious figure of host.
Under the title ‘Who Runs London’, the GLA website notes that ‘We have
our own unique way of running London. It involves a number of key players
with different roles and responsibilities and a shared commitment to making
London the best city in the world’.89 Thus, for instance, much of the material
I have examined above has been produced by the office of the Mayor of
London. But the Mayor’s role is one of ‘strategic development’, for setting
the ‘vision for how to make London an even greater city’ and encouraging
and backing action to ‘realise that vision’.90 He/she cannot operate without
the extensive support on development of policy offered by the GLA and the
LDA, and the actual delivery of policy is largely handled by the 32 London
Boroughs, the City Corporation of London and Central Government.91
But the governmental structure does not just stop there. As is emphasised
in the Economic Development Strategy, the Mayor works ‘closely and collabora-
tively with a wide range of public and private institutions’ in the formation
and delivery of policy.92 Indeed, every framework and strategy which pro-
duces London as a welcoming space and outlined in the London plan or its
corollaries, involves working with QUANGOs, non-ministerial government
departments or private bodies. For instance, the Ambient Noise Strategy,
referred to earlier, requires working with actors such as central government,
the Highways Agency and Heathrow Airport.93 Indeed, despite the continued
emphasis on the centrality of culture and the creative industries in mak-
ing London a welcoming, hospitable space for both key denominations of
‘guest’ – it is ‘the key reason why people visit’ and ‘move to’ London94 – the
Mayor’s cultural strategy emphasises the lack of control he has over cultural
policy. Though the GLA has ‘strategic responsibility for culture, no single
agency for culture exists in London, and nor is the GLA a major direct funder
234 Conducting Strangers
of culture’. The GLA and Mayor work together to ‘set priorities, provide lead-
ership’ and ‘encourage innovation’.95 Thus the ‘host’ of London’s hospitality,
for whom cultural and creative activities are key, is never identifiable.
While London’s hospitality does not enact sovereign power in a straight-
forward manner, neither is this a politically neutral or benign form of
democratic or bureaucratic governance. It does not designate an absence of
power relations or control. Rather, it is perhaps better conceived as what
Michel Foucault called a matter of ‘governmentality’,96 power as ‘le con-
duire des conduits’ – famously translated by Colin Gordon as ‘the conduct
of conduct’.97 This designates the diffusion and spread of the mentality and
power of government, the power to conduct conduct, something which for
Rose and Osborne is intimately connected with cities and the urban.98 The
new strategies of government ‘multiply the agencies of government whilst
enwrapping them within new forms of control. The autonomy of politi-
cal actors is to be shaped and used to govern more economically and more
effectively’.99 The government of hospitality is to be handed over to those
who know best, those with expertise and knowledge of the issue at hand,
regardless of their political status. After all, who are the people and groups
helping to influence and deliver these strategies? The Mayor’s Cultural Strat-
egy, to take one example, was heavily reliant on the London Cultural Strategy
Group (made up from ‘individuals from key agencies and institutions’ in the
cultural sector), which is headed up by the unelected and unaccountable
Iwona Blazwick (Director of the Whitechapel Art Gallery).100 Such individu-
als are thus governmental actors, involved in the ‘practices and programmes
aiming to shape, guide and govern the behaviour of others and the self’,101
in this case through the shaping of London’s ‘culture’.
Indeed, each strategy, each aspect of the London Plan and its corollaries,
engages in the production and conduct of London, its space, its people and
its guests. As Huxley emphasises, governmentality involves all ‘the calcula-
tions, measurements and technologies involved in knowing and directing
the qualities of a population’.102 The Plan is thus full of such mundane
statistics which produce London as a space and population with a certain
percentage of regeneration potential, a specifically identified network of
‘open spaces’, groupings of land for industrial transfer, clusters of night-time
economies and ‘heating density’ measured in kWh/m2 /year.103 Even the nar-
ratives of London as always having been an open, welcoming place are part
of its government – control being inseparable from continual attempts to
generate truths about the city.104 Thus the apparent withdrawal of official
organs of state government, the concentration on collection and publica-
tion of statistics, is not a matter of their being less control, less government.
The aim is not to govern less but ‘to govern better, in the sense of ingrain-
ing the power to govern more deeply into the social body’105 such that
it becomes barely noticeable and a constitutive part of the openness of
the city.
Dan Bulley 235
Much of the last section involved demonstrating that there was no singular
host of London’s offer to ‘welcome the world’. Rather, the hospitality works
generally through the dispersed relations of governmentality, with the exer-
cise of sovereign power at certain points within the system. But another way
into this question is to ask who does the physical, material work of hosting.
Who is it that carries out the mundane tasks of servicing, feeding, shelter-
ing, cleaning and securing those temporary and semi-permanent creative
guests which London seeks? The documents we have examined thus far give
us very little answer in this regard. In fact, they are almost entirely disem-
bodied, with only the Tourism Action Plan speaking of nameless ‘volunteers’,
the ‘tourism workforce’ and ‘customer facing staff’.107 In most documents,
hosting tasks appear to be performed merely by ‘agencies’ or even by the
‘strategies’ themselves. Hospitality seems to materialise or simply happen,
without any human involvement.
This unaddressed issue of embodied hosting brings us to what Saskia
Sassen calls a ‘structural process’: that global cities are a ‘key site for the
incorporation of large numbers of immigrants in activities that service the
strategic sectors’.108 As global cities do all they can to welcome the creative
classes and wealthy tourists they need to sustain their own global compet-
itiveness, those same cities also require an equally large flow of workers
whose talents are not as valued to carry out traditional hosting services.
As Sassen continues, private households are developing with no traditional
‘wife’ figure, as both partners have equally demanding jobs, thus ‘we are see-
ing the return of the so-called “serving classes” in all the global cities around
the world, made up largely of immigrant men and women’.109 The creative
classes, many of whom are guests from across the globe, are welcomed into
global cities by guests whose skills are less valued, but who are no less impor-
tant to maintaining London’s competitive cosmopolitan openness. Despite
236 Conducting Strangers
carrying out the activities of the host by generally being placed in low-
paid service jobs, such as catering and cleaning (literally, the ‘hospitality’
industry), these hosts are ostensibly guests of the global city.
While Sassen stresses the role that such guest/hosts play in New York,110
they perform a crucial role in enabling London to ‘welcome the world’.
London is in fact ‘seriously dependent for its normal functioning on labour
from elsewhere’.111 Simply in order to sustain its own health and deliver its
babies, London welcomes nurses from countries in Asia and Africa which are
paid to train them. As Massey puts it, Sri Lanka and Ghana are effectively
‘subsidising the reproduction of London’.112 But such parasitic reliance on
foreign nurses is, perversely perhaps, the more acceptable side of London’s
reliance.113 Official data from 2001 suggests that up to 46 per cent of those
doing far less ‘skilled’ work in the city, such as domestic labour, caretaking,
refuse collection and cleaning (the jobs of a host), were not born in the UK,
the majority from poorer parts of the globe.114 Unsurprisingly, the ‘hospital-
ity industry’ is most dependent on such immigrant labour, with rates well
over 50 per cent.115 Indeed, in 2004–5, it is thought that 76 per cent of chefs
and cooks in London and 69 per cent of cleaners were foreign born.116
These guests that host are thus central to the operation of London’s hospi-
tality, but crucially, they are often not caught in official statistics. They play
no role in London’s Economic Development Strategy in spite of the essential
part they play therein. ‘The mode of incorporation is one that renders these
workers invisible’ such that they emerge ‘as the systematic equivalent of the
offshore proletariat’.117 They are guests that host, but are largely invisible as
such to the official narrative of London: they are the global (g)hosts who
make the hospitality of London possible. This was brought into stark relief
in a series of stories: in May 2006 it came to light that five illegal immigrants
had been working illegally as cleaners in the Home Office, and in 2007 it
emerged that an illegal immigrant had been employed on the front desk
security team at the Home Office in Whitehall.118 One government minister,
the Attorney General Baroness Scotland, was even found to have employed
an illegal immigrant as her housekeeper in London.119
Thus, Rosello’s observation that the post-colonial guest’s point of view is
‘that of the subject who can never become the host’120 is only partially true –
the post-colonial subject is all too frequently the exploited (g)host, unde-
cidably caught between a host and a guest,121 and amusing though these
stories of the Home Office may be, the arrest of these guest hosts reveals the
dangers they face. After all, those most willing to work in the most exploita-
tive and low-paid jobs are those who do not have the legal status to work –
those truly trying to be invisible.122 This constitutes perhaps the darkest side
of London’s cosmopolitan welcome: the illegal and semi-legal immigrants
from Asia and Eastern Europe who play a significant role in London’s cater-
ing firms, restaurants and hotels.123 These are the guest hosts who are the
most vulnerable – as ‘dismissal is equivalent to deportation’124 – and suffer
Dan Bulley 237
the worst violence. An investigation for the UK’s Channel 4 show Dispatches,
aired in the summer of 2010, found that thousands of foreign domestic
workers, especially based in London, were living as slaves, suffering sexual,
physical and psychological abuse daily.125
The real irony is that such (g)hosts make London’s hospitality possible
in a second sense: they help constitute the diversity which London prides
itself on and parades to the world. As the London Plan stresses, London’s
‘diversity is one of its greatest strengths . . . more languages and cultures are
represented here than in any other major city’.126 Its ‘diverse culture’ is what
attracts so many talented people from all over the world,127 and it ‘draws
strength from the immense variety of its people’.128 (G)hosts, those which
formed this diversity over many years and those which currently arrive and
contribute in great part to this diversity are finally revealed here in London’s
hospitality script. But they appear only as a backdrop. They appear merely as
an attraction or spectacle, something the creative classes can enjoy sampling
or experiencing in the form of an ‘authentic’ curry on Brick Lane, much like
a boat cruise on the Thames. The only other way London’s dependence on
silent, invisible (g)hosts is revealed is through an understated attempt to
make the ‘best’ of them less invisible. Increasing immigration controls are
presented as a ‘threat’,129 but the Mayor also advocates ‘an earned amnesty
for irregular migrants who have been law abiding and working in London
for a number of years’. This is supported by a London School of Economics
(LSE) study which estimates that an amnesty could add £3 billion to the UK’s
gross domestic product (GDP).130
So London’s hospitality is literally dependent upon these legal, illegal and
semi-legal (g)hosts in two ways: to provide the diversity which helps it pro-
duce itself as a genuinely open and hospitable space and to carry out the
work, the material acts of hosting, despite themselves being guests. But this
productive confusion of hosts and guests, this apparently malign hostile hos-
pitality, is not carried out by a sovereign host. Rather, the diffusion and
confusion of the host and guest is a product of, and helps to reproduce,
the most efficient and effective governmentality of hospitality. The use of
(g)hosts both makes London a more efficient (cheaper) host and a more wel-
coming one, as its diversity means it is a place everyone feels at home. Thus,
the conduct and control of governmentality is not primarily about plac-
ing restrictions on movement but ‘the opening up and release of spaces, to
enable circulation and passage’.131 The conduct of conduct is about enabling
rather than disabling circulation, though only along acceptable channels and
preferably within the CAZ for privileged guests. An ‘earned amnesty’ for
good (g)hosts would work in this vein to enable more efficient circulation
of the (g)hosts who could now pay taxes.
Yet the operation of the modern government of hospitality in the global
city does not operate without an opposition, which is never entirely external
to it. As Foucault emphasises, where there is power there is resistance,132 and
238 Conducting Strangers
Thus the city provides not only a set of objectives and knowledges but also
a set of . . . gaps, blind spots, mistakes, unreliable paradoxes, ambiguities,
anomalies, invisibilities, which can only ever be partially taken in, since
they are, to an extent, one of the means by which knowledge itself is
created and justified. Even as the city creates objects to be governed, these
are exceeded . . .135
Acknowledgements
Notes
1. Mireille Rosello, Postcolonial Hospitality: The Immigrant as Guest (Stanford, CA:
Stanford University Press, 2001), p. 11.
2. Two recent collections are Jennie Germann Molz and Sarah Gibson (eds.), Mobi-
lizing Hospitalities: The Ethics of Social Relations in a Mobile World (Aldershot:
Ashgate, 2007); and Mustafa Dikec, Nigel Clark and Clive Barnett (eds.), ‘Extend-
ing Hospitality: Giving Space, Taking Time’, Special Issue, Paragraph (March
2009).
3. Jacques Derrida, On Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness (London: Routledge, 2001),
pp. 16–17.
4. An exception may be Seyla Benhabib, Another Cosmopolitanism, Robert Post (ed.)
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006); and Bonnie Honig’s excellent response,
‘Another Cosmopolitanism? Law and Politics in the New Europe’, pp. 107–27
(especially p. 112).
5. Jacques Derrida, in Jacques Derrida and Bernard Stiegler, Echographies of Televi-
sion: Filmed Interviews (Oxford: Polity Press, 2002), p. 81.
6. See Jennifer Hyndman, Managing Displacement: Refugees and the Politics of
Humanitarianism (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 2000).
7. See Dan Bulley, Ethics as Foreign Policy: Britain, the EU and the Other (London:
Routledge, 2009).
8. See Nick Vaughan-Williams, Border Politics: The Limits of Sovereign Power
(Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2009), pp. 24–59.
9. Rosello, Postcolonial Hospitality, p. vii.
10. See Roxanne Lynn Doty, Anti-Immigrantism in Western Democracies: Statecraft,
Desire, and the Politics of Exclusion (London: Routledge, 2003).
11. London Development Agency and the Mayor of London, The Mayor’s Economic
Development Strategy for London (London: Greater London Authority, 2010),
p. 36.
12. London Mayor, Cultural Metropolis: The Mayor’s Cultural Strategy – 2012 and
Beyond (London: Greater London Authority, 2008), pp. 63–4.
13. Saskia Sassen, The Global City: New York, London, Tokyo, second edition
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), pp. 5–6. An important forerunner
of these claims is John Friedman, ‘The World City Hypothesis’, Development and
Change 17:1 (1986), pp. 69–83. See also Peter Marcuse and Ronald van Kempen,
Globalizing Cities: A New Spatial Order (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2000); and
Peter J. Taylor, World City Network: A Global Urban Analysis (London: Routledge,
2004).
Dan Bulley 241
14. Peter Clark, European Cities and Towns: 400–2000 (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2009), p. 132.
15. See Ash Amin and Nigel Thrift, Cities: Reimagining the Urban (Oxford: Polity
Press, 2002), p. 56.
16. William F. Lever and Ivan Turok, ‘Competitive Cities: Introduction to the
Review’, Urban Studies 36:5–6 (1999), p. 791.
17. Maurice Roche, Mega-events and Modernity: Olympics and Expos in the Growth of
Global Culture (Abingdon: Routledge, 2000), p. 1.
18. Monica Degen, ‘Barcelona’s games: The Olympics, Urban Design, and Global
Tourism’, in Mimi Sheller and John Urry (eds.), Tourism Mobilities: Places to Play,
Places in Play (London: Routledge, 2004), p. 131.
19. For more on this see Dan Bulley and Debbie Lisle, ‘Welcoming the World: Gov-
erning Hospitality in London’s 2012 Olympic Bid’, International Political Sociology
6:2 (2012), pp. 186–204.
20. Fred Inglis, The Delicious History of the Holiday (London: Routledge, 2000), p. 150;
see also Robert Maitland and Peter Newman (eds.), World Tourism Cities (London:
Routledge, 2008).
21. See B. Hayllar, City Spaces – Tourist Places: Urban Tourism Precincts (Burlington,
MA: Butterworth Heinemann, 2008); Dan Knox, Tourism Cities (London:
Routledge, 2011); Stephen Page and C. Michael Hall (eds.), Managing Urban
Tourism (Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall, 2002); Martin Selby, Under-
standing Urban Tourism: Image, Culture and Experience (London: I.B. Tauris,
2003); Costas Spirou, Urban Tourism and 21st Century Cities (London: Routledge,
2010); and Duncan Tyler, Yvonne Guerrier and Martin Robinson (eds.), Man-
aging Tourism in Cities: Policy, Process & Practice (London: John Wiley & Sons,
1998).
22. Gerard Dunne, Joan Buckley and Sheila Flannigan, ‘City Break Travel
Motivation – The Case of Dublin’, UCC Department of Management and
Marketing Working Paper Series, http://www.ucc.ie/en/mgt/ResearchActivities/
WorkingPaperSeries/DocumentFile,30790,en.pdf, accessed 12 January 2010.
23. Doreen Massey, World City (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2007), p. 51.
24. Richard Florida, The Rise of the Creative Class . . . and How It’s Transforming Work,
Leisure, Community & Everyday Life (New York: Basic Books, 2002), pp. 68–9.
25. Richard Florida, Cities and the Creative Class (London: Routledge,
2005), p. 7.
26. Ibid., p. 131. For an excellent series of critiques of Florida’s highly contestable
claims see Jamie Peck, ‘Struggling with the Creative Class’, International Journal
of Urban and Regional Research 29:4 (2005), pp. 755–66.
27. Florida, Cities and the Creative Class, p. 139.
28. Ken Livingstone, Singapore Presentation, 6 July 2005. Interestingly, the phrase
‘welcomes the world’ survives Livingstone’s term as Mayor and appears in the
London Tourism Action Plan, 2009–2013, p. 22.
29. Ken Livingstone, in a letter to Jacques Rogge, President of the IOC, in London
2012, ‘Introduction’, Candidature File, Volume 1, November 2004, p. 7.
30. It should be noted that, perhaps because of the documents I have chosen to
focus upon, security does not appear as a major concern of London’s hospitality.
This has enabled me to focus on other areas, but security is of course a key
concern in the discourse of a global city’s ‘openness’. For more on this, see the
meticulous study by Jon Coaffee, Terrorism, Risk and the Global City: Towards
Urban Resilience, revised edition (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2009).
242 Conducting Strangers
246
Index 247