Driving in the Fog: An Uzbek Election

By Dr. Chris Seiple on 08 February 2002

On January 27, 2002, 91.5% of eligible Uzbek voters (12.1 million people) voted in a national referendum that consisted of two questions. Regarding the first question, 93.6% of the voters (11.3 million) voted to change the Uzbek parliament from a unicameral body to a bicameral one. On the second question, 91.7% of the voters (11.2 million) decided to extend the presidential term from five to seven years.

Seemingly innocuous, this vote was widely-perceived by the international community as a rubber-stamp of President Karimov's authoritarian government. Although invited, no observers participated from the Organization of Security and Cooperation in Europe or the European Union. As a result, the government of Uzbekistan invited its own observers from around the world (136 people from 14 states), paying for their travel. I was one of those observers.

After much research and reflection, I participated because I believe that:

• We now live in a time period analogous to 1945-1950 when the actions that we take in the next three to five years will form and inform global engagement and international relations for the next fifty years.
• We must have a sustained and integrated approach to Central Asia if we are to prevent the bin Laden after next (the next bin Laden has already been created); indeed, the need for experts who can comment on both national security and human rights is greater than ever before.
• The literal and figurative fulcrum of future stability in Central Asia is its center, Uzbekistan.
• Uzbekistan has been plagued by the same national security threat that the United States experienced on 9/11.
• Uzbekistan has used that threat to commit human rights violations.
• Uzbekistan has among its leaders progressive men and women who seek to be a part of the international community, with the responsibilities that this entails.
• We must stand with Uzbekistan if we are to encourage human rights, especially religious freedom, in a practical way.
• Standing with Uzbekistan is not done from a distance, but within the arena itself… the only place where truth is effective.
• Finger-pointing and rock-throwing from afar reinforce stereotypes and help no one.

(For a full description of my decision to participate, written before I left for Uzbekistan, please read "Engaging Complexity" from the sidebar).

As most western press and observers consigned this election to irrelevance prior to the actual vote, what follows are some unique pictures and commentary by someone who was actually there. In telling this story, it is my purpose to be passionate about the middle — to be balanced in the presentation of a complex situation.

On Friday, January 25, 2002, I joined my fellow monitors at the Uzbek Parliament in order to be briefed by its Central Electoral Commission. In his opening statement, Mirzayusef Rustamboev cited the proverb that "there is no limit for excellence." He noted that this proverb is applicable to state power as well, which works at different speeds in different countries. Summing up the case for a bicameral legislature, Rustamboev argued that such a system "avoids extra debate, gives people the right to have a voice, and is more democratic and pluralistic... it is a fundamental step into a legal state and society." Each country, he noted, has "its own way of development." Regarding the extension of the presidential term from five to seven years, he suggested that "five years is a short term to solve problems and implement solutions" resulting in "extra discussion and non-stability."

Notably, the Central Electoral Commission did not have monitor instructions and regulations published in Russian and English for distribution. I never did receive instructions from them. After the brief, Uzbek One, the national TV channel, asked me for an interview. I refused. Uzbek One has been known to provide its own translation for interviews, using words never said to approve the governmental policy at hand.

I played a monitoring role in the city of Namangan. I chose to go to Namangan because it is one of the most conservative cities in the Fergana Valley, a fertile plain located to the northeast of Tashkent (see map) and home to Uzbekistan's most conservative Muslims.¹

I got to Namangan at 10 am on the morning of the referendum. I was duly informed that 88.3% of the population had already voted… a phenomenon not unusual for an agrarian area. I concurred, but noted that it would have been nice to know that fact before making the long trip up to Namangan. They had known since Friday that I would be coming and I would have been more than happy to arrive early in the morning. In any event, my immediate thought was that I would spend the day visiting Potemkin polling places.

Because Namangan is also the state capital, I was continuously escorted by Lieutenant Governors and local Mayors. To be sure, this was a function of "keeping an eye on me," but it was equally a function of the great courtesy that this part of the world demonstrates toward a guest. I was treated extremely well by these leaders.²

I visited five polling stations. At each place, I asked the same general set of questions, seeking out different people at different levels of responsibility — everyone from the person at the registration desk to the polling station chief to the local Mayor. These questions included, but were not limited to, the following:

• How is each polling station organized? What is the standard?
• How are people trained to handle their responsibilities?
• What are your specific responsibilities?
• How is the vote conducted? What are the rules and procedures?
• What is the vote about?

Meanwhile, I also gauged each place intuitively, trying to discern the comfort level of workers and voters as well as the general atmosphere. I use Polling Station #277 as a model and reference point for these questions and my overall experience on January 27, 2002.

Each polling station has a master list of the registered citizens eligible to vote within its district. Ten days prior to the referendum, the polling station posts this list so that local people can individually check their status. Additionally, the local election committee sends each citizen an invitation to vote, telling him or her where to go to vote.

Upon entering the polling station, the voter immediately encounters a uniformed "fireman." Ostensibly there for building safety reasons, there were no clear indications on his uniform that he was actually a fireman. Despite the fact that he was not in the polling area itself, a uniformed guard still presents the possibility of intimidating voters or symbolically representing the government. I do not think that it was a significant issue for Uzbek voters, but the situation was inconsistent with international norms.

Entering the next room, the voter brings his or her invitation to the registration table. The worker behind the table checks the invitation, comparing the name and proof of identification with the master list. Once this match is complete, the voter signs by his or her name to verify receipt of a ballot.

The ballots, according to the total number of people on the master list, have been pre-counted, stamped with the polling station number and seal, and double-signed by two different election officials, one of whom is the polling station chief. Each ballot is identical with no distinguishing marks.

The voter then proceeds to the right, to the private booths, to vote.

Once alone in the booth, the voter examines the ballot, considering the two questions:

• Should the Uzbek parliament change from a unicameral system to a bicameral one?
• Should the Presidential term be extended from five to seven years?

Here is where it gets interesting. If the voter wants to vote "yes," he or she does nothing, leaves the ballot as is, exits the stall, and places the ballot in the box. If the voter is against either of the proposed changes, he or she must line-out the question(s), exit and vote.

In other words, the "act" of voting for something is not an act at all. This process begs the theoretical and practical questions of whether or not a vote actually took place if no active measure was taken by the citizen to vote.

(Regarding the ballot box, there are two. The first is located on the opposite side of the voting booths and is large enough to contain all of the votes. The second is a miniature that is used to visit shut-ins who are unable to come to the polling station. This box is always accompanied by two officials.

Both boxes are sealed with a symbolic string that extends from the front "lock" of the box up through the box's lid and back down to the "lock," where it is sealed in the wax seal of the polling station number. Although delicate enough to prevent major tampering, the ballot boxes I saw were not completely sealed and therefore remained "open" to someone slipping extra ballots between the lid of the box and the box itself. Of course, because positive votes required no action, it was also possible to stick ballots through the regular opening).

The polls closed at 8 pm. I stayed around, wanting to witness the process by which the votes are counted. I returned to visit with the election committee of Polling Station #277 to observe this process.

Once the polls are closed, the election committee chairman (who also acts as the polling station chief) collects and counts the unused ballots. In this case, there were 104 unused ballots out of the 758 possible votes for this station. The polling chief cuts the same corner off of each of these ballots — of which I was not allowed to keep one, even as a souvenir — making them invalid for counting. They are later destroyed.

The seals on both boxes are then broken and the ballots are dumped onto the table. Ballots that have questions lined out are separated into three piles, according to which question — or questions — had been lined out. These amounted to approximately 30 ballots.

Ballots with any kind of writing whatsoever on them were also disqualified (in this case, about ten). Roughly speaking then, about 30 out of 644 votes (that is, less than 5%) could not be counted toward the two questions posed on the referendum at this polling station. This is roughly consistent with the national results reported by the Uzbek government.

What does this mean? Make no mistake, my observations at five polling stations were not scientific. And I was clearly not a part of any systematic monitoring process governed by an internationally recognized body, nor had I any training in monitoring. But my sense was that this process — the mechanical part of the actual vote that I observed, not the context in which it took place — was relatively fair.

But what does that mean, especially when based on such limited observations? Cheating in this situation is as easy as controlling the master list. As we know from our 1960 Chicago experience — where the dead voted early and often for Kennedy — that the key to this process is the master list or, more properly, the census which generates it (which, in Uzbekistan, is at least ten years old). Any observation that does not have access to this information is limited. And any observations that are not systematically coordinated by a recognized and independent body are essentially meaningless. (There was no attempt to systematically debrief monitors or learn lessons by the Central Election Committee in Tashkent). And even then, as we know from the Florida Fiasco during our own 2000 presidential election, a vote that reflects the majority of the people might not ever be known.

In other words, while I believe that my election monitoring serves as a useful data point for those who do this kind of work on a regular basis, I do not believe that one can draw any definitive conclusions from my own experience in Namangan. What I do know, however, is that the real monitoring done was one of context. By observing at the national and local levels, I was able to develop a better sense of the two primary contexts in which this referendum took place.

First, the immediate political context. There was no free discussion in the press about the two questions posed and there were certainly no alternative positions offered by opposition political parties because there are none. For example, almost everyone I asked about the meaning of "bicameral" parroted the official explanation: That's what all democracies have, therefore, so should we. In this sense, the international experts and pundits were right: this election was neither fair nor free.

Second, and more important, however, is the overall long-term context of Uzbekistan and its people and their evolution. This context accounts for how far Uzbekistan has come in its ten years of independence and is comparatively aware of its development as measured against other countries, including the United States. In this sense, while there are serious human rights problems in the country, I believe that Uzbekistan is evolving toward a more democratic system. In other words, the Uzbekistan that I experienced is one of ordinary people doing their best to live their lives amidst extraordinary change to their country and region. Two examples follow.

While I waited for the polls to close I had the opportunity to visit a Namangan cotton factory. The factory began in 1995 and is 58% owned by a Turkish businessman (the rest is owned by Uzbek businessmen). The factory borrowed $6.6 million dollars from a German bank in 1995. The loan will be repaid next year. Meanwhile they make cotton for underwear products in Turkey and Russia.

I also visited a high school, spending time in their computer lab. The Uzbek government is completely committed to the education of its youth, in part because they recognize the tragic role that the extremist Madrasas in Pakistan had creating the Taliban. Access to the internet is a "trickle up" approach that will only accelerate the awareness that transparency is not a bad thing. This generational approach may just be the right pace for true democracy to emerge, especially as the structure of Uzbek democracy takes root.

Metaphors for This Moment in Time

Was my experience in Uzbekistan one of being in a democracy? No. Were these elections free and fair? No. Does this mean some kind of Uzbek democracy is not taking shape? No.

I tend to think in metaphors because it helps me to visualize vague concepts like democracy in a practical manner. I conclude with three "metaphors for the moment" that might be of use to you as you consider Uzbekistan and its relationship with the United States.

Metaphor #1: Catching the Bus

On the way to Namangan, I photographed the above woman and child running for the bus. I thought to myself, Will Uzbekistan catch the "democracy bus?" One Uzbek told me that "there is no hope among Uzbeks that our government can change anything... Karimov is a former communist and an oriental man [which I took to mean against human rights]... a terrible mix." Another Uzbek told me that there are "no other alternatives [to Karimov]... this is a kind of Uzbek democracy. People haven't any choice."

These words really stuck with me, especially the first quotation. But I later reconsidered them: What else would Karimov be besides a communist with an oriental mindset at this point in history? Indeed you can count on one hand the number of Asian leaders — especially in Central Asia — with democratic inclinations and respect for human rights. That is not to be an apologist for Asian authoritarians, but it is to recognize that this phenomenon is not unique to Uzbekistan.

Still, Karimov is a leader who released 28,000 people from jail last September to celebrate the 10th anniversary of Uzbekistan's independence.³ He is funding education, making opportunities for Uzbek youth to study in the West. Despite his methods, he has stood against Islamic extremism long before the United States got serious about it. And it was his government that recently (January 30, 2002) convicted four police officers of beating and torturing the Haitov brothers (one died as a result and the other is now an invalid) because they were accused of belonging to an extremist Islamic group.

Even if this past referendum was neither fair nor free, Karimov has put into place a structure through which democracy might grow. Although there were very few Uzbeks who understood what a bicameral system really meant, one did capture the essence of where Uzbekistan is "at" in the development of democracy: "If you have two houses, then you are a democracy like Kazakhstan, England, and Russia. A second house is for ordinary people, so they can say what people want. The first house is for old bureaucrats." It is not a perfect understanding, but it is enough for an Uzbek form of democracy to grow. The woman and child made the bus.

Metaphor #2: The U.S. Embassy in Tashkent

I was in Tashkent on 9/11. Before I left I went to our embassy for my usual round of meetings. Walking up to the embassy, the flag was at half-mast and surrounded by flowers from a people most of whom had never met an American. Powerfully poignant, this image will remain with me for the rest of my life.

When I returned for meetings this last trip, the flag was at full-mast, the flowers were gone and they were building a wall. I think this is where most Americans are these days: we have moved beyond the mourning, but not the memory, and we are now prepared to defend ourselves. Yet most of us are also at a point where we recognize that a wall does not mean as much as it used to. Most of us realize now that there is a difference between security and defense, that our military cannot defend us against this kind of terrorism or against anthrax.

And so we must ask ourselves, what is the best kind of "wall" to provide for our security? In my mind, it must be a proactive policy based on a strong military but completely integrated with an approach that enables economic opportunity and religious freedom. This is tough stuff and, quite frankly, not something we are very good at. It is just so much easier to react, to simplify, to stereotype.

A proactive policy requires great nuance and political leadership. And while this kind of comprehensive policy is no substitute for the political responsibility of Uzbek and Central Asian leaders, such a policy can enable this strategic window of opportunity as the American gaze holds steady on this part of the world. As one Uzbek told me: "America is not an angel, but with good cooperation [with Uzbekistan], America will raise [human rights] a level and Uzbekistan will not be able to continue the repression." For example, on the day after the referendum (January 28, 2002), the largest U.S. government delegation ever to visit Tashkent held a one-day meeting with its counterparts in order to establish a framework for the future of U.S.-Uzbek relations. According to both Uzbek and American sources, this meeting made clear the high regard that the U.S. places on human rights.

Metaphor #3: Driving in the Fog

As we came up to Namangan the morning of the referendum, the fog was so thick that we could barely see but ten feet in front of the car. Like anyone, the driver of the car (Sergei) tried different options. He knew he could not drive too fast because his reaction time was limited by what he could see. He knew that we could not go too slow because we would never get there. And he knew that turning on the bright lights, despite the illusion of creating more sight, might refract back into his own eyes, making the situation, ironically, all the more dangerous.

The same is true with Uzbekistan. We cannot move too fast, if only because this people and this region do not have an understanding of democracy as we know it. If we go too slow, we will only have what we had during the Cold War: people who suffer at the hands of leaders we deem critical to our national security even as we banter about the difference between totalitarian and authoritarian regimes. (The distinction, of course, is lost on the individual who is being tortured.) And if we shine too much light on the system, exposing it all at once in its entirety — from human rights violations to corruption — then it just might implode.

So we must drive democracy carefully in Uzbekistan, encouraging human rights, maintaining stability and providing for our national security. It will not be easy and it requires sustained leadership. It requires also a profound sense of humility to get the questions right as we proceed.

As I left Tashkent, one of my Uzbek friends sarcastically said to me: "Mr. Chris, my three-and-a-half-year-old daughter stays up at night, crying, asking me why there are no black senators, telling me about what the Americans did to the Indians, and about American human rights violations...." What do you say to that?

Indeed, what can we say but that it's true? As Americans, our past is not so distant. And certainly, it is not so perfect. Humility in our engagement is not only a good thing. It is a necessary thing.

Last updated 12 January 2009