Social mobilization is a name given to an overall process of change, which happens to substantial parts of the population in countries which are moving from traditional to modern ways of life. It denotes a concept which brackets together a number of more specific processes of change, such as changes of residence, of occupation, of social setting, of face-to-face associates, of institutions, roles, and ways of acting, of experiences and expectations, and finally of personal memories, habits and needs, including the need for new patterns of group affiliation and new images of personal identity. Singly, and even more in their cumulative impact, these changes tend to influence and sometimes to transform political behavior.

The concept of social mobilization is not merely a short way of referring to the collection of changes just listed, including any extensions of this list. It implies that these processes tend to go together in certain historical situations and stages of economic development; that these situations are identifiable and recurrent, in their essentials, from one country to another; and that they are relevant for politics. Each of these points will be taken up in the course of this paper.

Social mobilization, let us repeat, is something that happens to large numbers of people in areas which undergo modernization, i.e., where advanced, non-traditional practices in culture, technology and economic life are introduced and accepted on a considerable scale. It is not identical, therefore, with this process of modernization as a whole, but it deals with one of its major aspects, or better, with a recurrent cluster among its consequences.

Presidential addresses in our Association are frequently discourses on the state of our discipline. In the past twenty years nine presidents have reflected on its status, trends and needs. It would be presumptuous for another president to return to the topic now if the moment did not validate the need. After a period of novel developments, accompanied by uncertainties and tensions, there is need to reemphasize our community of interest and our common obligation.

It is a community extending across diversities and an obligation with many components. The study of the science and art of government has many facets which reflect search in that eternal triangle of science, values, and utility.

In the beginning it is well to remark that we are constantly drawn toward two poles in a dual quest. We would like to find verifiable propositions or working assumptions about political activity which, like the law of gravity or the laws of motion, transcend time, and technology and culture variations. We would like even to extend our vision further: just as the biologist seeks for the origins of life and the astronomer for the initial creative impulse for the universe, we want to know if there is a universal plan in history and a destiny for man.

Such cosmic vision must be based on the assumption of some constants in human behavior, such as self-love; or in human relations, such as power; or in natural morality, such as justice. Yet grasp for certainty fades as we wonder whether all such things are relative to environment, and hence whether ecology and the search for the laws of change must be the centers of inquiry. As we contemplate how such great cultural changes as the secularization of thought in the Enlightenment, or such tremendous physical events as the discovery of America have upset the assumptions of thought, and as we try to think of what nuclear energy, automation and the dominion of scientists may mean, we are humble before the task of building an endurable science of politics.

When Francis Gary Powers was asked by the presiding judge of the Soviet military tribunal trying him for espionage whether he had not considered the possibility that his U-2 flight might provoke armed conflict, the captured pilot answered, “The people who sent me should think of these things. My job was to carry out orders. I do not think it was my responsibility to make such decisions.” This article deals with a similar problem, a predicament which to this day, fortunately, has remained hypothetical, but which may become distressingly real at some time in the future. It concerns the unenviable position of the military subordinate commanded to use nuclear weapons, who may be punished today if he disobeys and prosecuted tomorrow if he obeys. The discussion initially evolves around three issues in international law: (1) the validity of the plea of superior orders as a defense in war crimes trials; (2) the question of the legality of using nuclear weapons; and (3) the present status and future of the law of war. That these problem areas are intimately related should become clear as we proceed.

The disregard for humanitarian and moral considerations which has increasingly characterized the conduct of war in the twentieth century, and, more recently, the development of nuclear weapons—the tools of mass extermination par excellence—have led many students of international law to conclude that the laws of war are dead. Grotius' doctrine of the temperamenta belli, requiring belligerents to conduct hostilities with regard for the principles of humanity and chivalry, as well as the many conventions drawn up prior to World War I in order to regulate the use of violence, are said to have become largely obsolete.

John F. Kennedy's narrow popular vote margin in 1960 has already insured this presidential election a classic position in the roll call of close American elections. Whatever more substantial judgments historical perspective may bring, we can be sure that the 1960 election will do heavy duty in demonstrations to a reluctant public that after all is said and done, every vote does count. And the margin translated into “votes per precinct” will become standard fare in exhortations to party workers that no stone be left unturned.

The 1960 election is a classic as well in the license it allows for “explanations” of the final outcome. Any event or campaign strategem that might plausibly have changed the thinnest sprinkling of votes across the nation may, more persuasively than is usual, be called “critical.” Viewed in this manner, the 1960 presidential election hung on such a manifold of factors that reasonable men might despair of cataloguing them.

Nevertheless, it is possible to put together an account of the election in terms of the broadest currents influencing the American electorate in 1960. We speak of the gross lines of motivation which gave the election its unique shape, motivations involving millions rather than thousands of votes. Analysis of these broad currents is not intended to explain the hairline differences in popular vote, state by state, which edged the balance in favor of Kennedy rather than Nixon. But it can indicate quite clearly the broad forces which reduced the popular vote to a virtual stalemate, rather than any of the other reasonable outcomes between a 60-40 or a 40–60 vote division.

Those who specialize in the study of Soviet government and politics are beginning to feel and acknowledge the need for a more effective theoretical apparatus. The post-war years of expanded research in this field have been fruitful in empirical studies of Soviet political history and institutions, but the theoretical development has not kept pace; and now the lag is beginning to inhibit the further fruitful progress of empirical research itself. Instead of a gradually developing body of theory, we still have a mélange of “ten theories in search of reality,” as Daniel Bell has summed it up in the title of a recent article.

The purpose of the present paper is not to propound an eleventh theory. It is only an exploratory effort, a consideration of a somewhat different approach to the problem than has been customary in the field of Soviet studies. In presenting it, I shall try to shed the blinkers of a Russian specialist and take a look at the whole political galaxy in which Russia is only the biggest star and probably no longer the brightest one.

The best way out of the theoretical difficulty may lie in making the study of Soviet government and politics more comparative than it has generally been so far, thus bringing it into much closer working relations with political science as a whole and particularly with the slowly growing body of theory in comparative politics. As this statement implies, our work on Soviet government and politics has been characterized by a certain theoretical isolationism.

Social scientists are finding an increasingly useful and stimulating tool in the application of statistical techniques to their problems. As in the employment of any new tool, both the utility and the limitations of this one must be learned. It seems beyond reasonable doubt, however, that quantification of data in the social sciences will become a more widely used and rewarding procedure as time goes on.

Prudence dictates that stress be laid on its limitations. The enthusiasm with which a new tool—toy, some would say—is adopted should not blind the user to dangers which may be implicit in its overuse. One cannot squeeze more juice from an orange than the orange contains, no matter how modern the squeezer. Care must be exercised, too, lest the bitter essence of the rind become mixed with the nourishing juice of the fruit itself.

The present analysis is an attempt, in not too complex a fashion, to make use of such techniques to organize and validate data which might otherwise permit only the broadest sort of generalizations by way of conclusion, conclusions unsatisfactory roughly in proportion to their breadth. The senior author of this article has for more than a decade and a half been interested in the problem of objective measurement of certain aspects of political change in Latin America with particular respect to the sum total of phenomena falling under the rubric of “democracy.” On four occasions, 1945, 1950, 1955, and 1960, he conducted a survey among groups of specialists on Latin America to elicit evaluations which then, with the help of such statistical procedures as seemed useful, were summarized and analyzed.

Perhaps the most striking characteristic of the “behavioral approach” in political science is the ambiguity of the term itself, and of its synonym “political behavior.” The behavioral approach, in fact, is rather like the Loch Ness monster: one can say with considerable confidence what it is not, but it is difficult to say what it is. Judging from newspaper reports that appear from time to time, particularly just before the summer tourist season, I judge that the monster of Loch Ness is not Moby Dick, nor my daughter's goldfish that disappeared down the drain some ten years ago, nor even a misplaced American eight heading for the Henley Regatta. In the same spirit, I judge that the behavioral approach is not that of the speculative philosopher, the historian, the legalist, or the moralist. What, then, is it? Indeed, does it actually exist?

Although I do not profess to know of the full history of the behavioral approach, a little investigation reveals that confusing and even contradictory interpretations have marked its appearance from the beginning. The first sightings in the roily waters of political science of the phenomenon variously called political behavioral approach, or behavioral(ist) research, evidently occurred in the 1920s. The term “political behavior,” it seems, was used by American political scientists from the First World War onward. The honor of first adopting the term as a book title seems to belong, however, not to a political scientist but to the American journalist Prank Kent, who published a book in 1928 entitled Political Behavior, The Heretofore Unwritten Laws, Customs, and Principles of Politics as Practised in the United States. To Kent, the study of political behavior meant the cynical “realism” of the tough-minded newspaperman who reports the way things “really” happen and not the way they're supposed to happen. This meaning, I may say, is often implied even today. However, Herbert Tingsten rescued the term for political science in 1937 by publishing his path-breaking Political Behavior: Studies in Election Statistic. Despite the fact that Tingsten was a Swede, and his work dealt with European elections, the term became increasingly identified with American political science.

Ever since President Eisenhower broached the “open skies” proposal in 1955, American “disarmament” policy has given prior emphasis—apart from diplomatic and propagandistic purposes—to the objective of stabilizing the military balance of power, as distinguished from the traditional objective of abolishing or reducing the arms that sustain that balance. So Secretary of State Herter on February 18, 1960, described the first goal of America's disarmament policy as creating “a more stable military environment” by reducing the risk of war resulting from a surprise attack launched by miscalculation or from the promiscuous spread of nuclear weapons production. And so on May 25 President Eisenhower took the occasion of the U-2 incident to reiterate the urgent need for an international agreement providing mutual assurance against surprise attack; and on September 22, in an address to the U.N. General Assembly, proposed a United Nations surveillance body to permit nations to prove to each other that they are not preparing to launch a surprise attack.

If stability is the objective, then arms control policy is clearly the logical complement rather than the antithesis of defense policy. Yet in the absence of an overall strategy of stability, linking arms control with military strategy, the two may work against each other. Thus in the context of recent developments in missile technology, stabilizing the military environment requires the American government to make a basic decision, not only about arms control, but about the whole strategy of deterrence, lest its concern for providing mutual assurance against surprise attack conflict with its reliance upon a nuclear response to discourage a wide range of aggressions.

The political activities of the business community in Japan have not received the scholarly attention they deserve. Because of the paucity of information and the lack of serious studies, the nature of the political power of Japanese business is poorly understood. The popular notion that big business is influential in politics is quite correct, but just how the influence is exercised, or how much influence can be brought to bear in a particular field of policy, or what conditions limit or augment business influence are far from clear.

This paper seeks to single out some of the important conditions affecting the impact of business influence in Japanese government and politics. The case approach is used, and the case is the abortive effort toward central bank reform. Even though this episode concerns only a small portion of the government machinery and the single field of monetary policy, it nevertheless demonstrates the methods commonly employed by business to reach decisions within its own group, the competition with others encountered in persuading the government to act, and the strength of bureaucratic forces resisting change. The simplicity of this case is an advantage in depicting the conflicting groups and the influence they were able to exert. Later studies may reveal more of the pattern of business action on other economic problems and in other areas of government and politics. The bank case showed the great influence of group and personal loyalties as well as the power of one of the government ministries.

“Conventional wisdom” (to purloin a phrase from Galbraith) holds that interservice competition necessarily undermines economy, efficiency, and effective central control in the military establishment. The remedy is further unification, possibly even the merger of the services into a single uniform. The conventional wisdom also holds that political action by military groups necessarily threatens civilian control. The remedy is to “keep the military out of politics.” The pattern of American military politics and interservice rivalry since World War II, however, suggests that the conventional wisdom may err in its analysis of their results and falter in its prescription of remedies.

Service political controversy between the world wars had two distinguishing characteristics. First, on most issues, a military service, supported, perhaps, by a few satellite groups, struggled against civilian isolationists, pacifists, and economizers. The Navy and the shipbuilding industry fought a lonely battle with the dominant forces in both political parties over naval disarmament. The Army lost its fight for universal service after World War I, and throughout the Twenties clashed with educational, labor, and religious groups over ROTC and with other groups over industrial mobilization preparation. In the annual budget encounters the issue usually was clearly drawn between service supporters who stressed preparedness and their opponents who decried the necessity and the legitimacy of substantial military expenditures. To the extent that the services were in politics, they were involved in conflicts with civilian groups.

Political activity is dangerous. Arising inevitably out of men's ability to influence each other, conferring upon them the benefits of joint endeavour, an indispensable source of social boons, it is also capable of doing great harm. Men can be moved to injure others or to ruin themselves. The very process of moving implies a risk of debasement for the moved and for the mover. Even the fairest vision of a good to be sought offers no moral guarantee, since it may poison hearts with hatred against those who are deemed an obstacle to its achievement.

No apology is required for stressing a subjective dread of political activity: the chemist is not disqualified as a scientist because he is aware that explosives are dangerous: indeed that chemist is dangerous who lacks such awareness.

This feeling of danger is widespread in human society and has ever haunted all but the more superficial authors. Although, to be sure, few have, like Hobbes, brought it out into the open, it has hovered in the background, exerting an invisible but effective influence upon their treatment of the subject; it may be, to a significant degree, responsible for the strange and unique texture of political science.

There are no objects to which our attention is so naturally drawn as to our own fellows. It takes a conscious purpose to watch birds or ants, but we can not fail to watch other men, with whom we are inevitably associated, whose behaviour is so important to us that we need to foresee it, and who are sufficiently like us to facilitate our understanding of their actions. Being a man, which involves living with men, therefore involves observing men. And the knowledge of men could be called the most fairly distributed of all kinds of knowledge since each one of us may acquire it according to his willingness and capacity.

In this paper I propose to examine the tendency towards single-party systems in West Africa, particularly in relation to the social structure and the historical circumstances in which the parties emerged. I shall therefore point up the distinction between “mass” and “patron” parties, and then consider the new single-party governments, most of them based on mass parties, in relation to the prospects of of democracy in West Africa. My argument is that mass parties are created by African leaders out of the very liberating and egalitarian forces we in this country generally associate with democracy. Some of the mass parties encourage the growth of forces and institutions which may ultimately make possible the machinery of democratic systems familiar to us: as, for instance, competition for every citizen's vote by more than one organized team of candidates. At this stage of West African party history, it seems to me, the number of parties is far too simple a criterion upon which to decide whether or not a system is democratic.

General statements about parties in the new West African states can be made only tentatively. Significant rights to vote and organize parties came to West Africa only after the Second World War. Since then formal institutional change has taken place at a rapid pace. The constitutional framework in which the parties grew changed continuously. The franchise expanded until it became universal, the powers of African elected representatives grew by stages from consultative to legislative and eventually to executive, and the locus of political power shifted from London or Paris to Africa.

This essay will attempt to define an abstract model of the international system (or, more precisely, a model of the structure of that system), as a supplement to the types presented by Morton A. Kaplan. Before attempting such a construction, it is well to show the utility of the “multi-bloc system” as an alternative to his six models. Kaplan's “balance-of-power” and “unit veto” systems are essentially defined in terms of nation-states as “actors”; and his “universal” and “hierarchical” systems have essentially but one “actor,” though in the former the nation-state subsists as an administrative and local political unit. The two “bipolar” models (“loose” and “tight”) have, by definition, two major bloc “actors,” with uncommitted nation-states on the margin and an “international actor” such as the U.N. playing a limited role in the former model. It is true that his “unit veto” system may have blocs instead of nation-states for “actors,” but by this very token the difference between a system with a multiplicity of states and one with a multiplicity of blocs is not suggested by Kaplan's typology.

The possibility of an international system composed of a multiplicity of blocs has been considered by a number of writers in the past few years. Even before the end of the Second World War, Walter Lippmann wrote:

The question is whether some sixty to seventy states, each acting separately, can form a universal organization for the maintenance of peace. I contend that they cannot, and that single sovereign states must combine in their neighborhoods, and that the neighborhoods must combine into larger communities and constellations, which then participate in a universal society.

In all advanced societies there is a distinct tendency for political and economic power to be held and exercised by different kinds of individuals. Even in modern totalitarian states it has been possible to observe quite distinguishable groups playing the leading roles in political and economic life. The aptitudes that go to make a successful political leader and those that produce an effective economic manager are analytically separable. And if the men who comprise the political and economic elites in a single society are markedly different in character and social background, then certain tensions are bound to arise in the areas where their power and authority interact. These tensions may develop even if the two sets of people profess to sharing a common ideology and even if they are ostensibly committed to working toward common objectives. For the kinds of men who enter political and economic vocations are prone to view social reality from different vantage points, and consequently they will interpret their shared ideology in the light of different experience. What will follow, then, is a comparative study of two elite groups in contemporary American society. The purpose of this study, quite simply, is to ascertain what the members of these elites have in common and what they do not.

Historically the character of civil-military relations in the United States has been dominated by the concept of civilian control of the military. This has largely been a response to the fear of praetorianism. As recently as 1949, for example, the first Hoover Commission asserted that one of the major reasons for strengthening the “means of exercising civilian control” over the defense establishment was to “safeguard our democratic traditions against militarism.” This same warning was raised in the report of the Rockefeller Committee on defense organization in 1953. While the overriding purpose of the committee's recommendations was to provide “the Nation with maximum security at minimum cost,” the report made it clear that this had to be achieved “without danger to our free institutions, based on the fundamental principle of civilian control of the Military Establishment.” Finally, during the debate on the reorganization proposals of 1958, senators and congressmen used the theme of a “Prussianized” military staff to attempt to slow down the trend towards centralization in the military establishment.

Despite this imposing support, the concept of civilian control of the military has little significance for contemporary problems of national security in the United States. In the first place, military leaders are divided among themselves, although their differences cannot be reduced to a crass contrast between dichomatic doctrines. Air Force leaders who are gravely concerned over the need to maintain a decisive nuclear retaliatory force are by now acknowledging the need to develop a limited war capability.

Public policy is not self-generating; it emerges from institutions. Foremost among the institutions charged with monetary and credit policy formation—an area, like fiscal policy, that has not received from political scientists the attention accorded to micro-economic regulation of particular firms or industries—is the Federal Reserve System. The purpose of this paper is to examine the “fit” of the System's formal structure to (1) the policy functions and the informal policy-forming mechanisms of the “Fed,” and (2) the pattern of interests and values affected by monetary policy. Its thesis is that a substantial gap has developed between these elements.

A brief sketch of the formal structure of authority and the historical development of System functions is needed to begin with; this is followed by analysis of the formal and the effective roles of each component of the System along with the internalized interest representation at each level. Then the linkage between the Federal Reserve System and general economic policy is explored. Finally, the conclusion summarizes the findings and suggests briefly how formal structure and policy functions might be brought into closer, more effective alignment.

One result of the advent of the behavioral sciences in political science is that political things are now being studied, to an ever increasing extent, by men with little or no training in political science. Of the 27 authors of essays in the Burdick and Brodbeck volume, American Voting Behavior, for example, only six are political scientists, the others being mainly sociologists, social psychiatrists, and, to a surprising extent, psychiatrists; so that if people were once thought to vote for political reasons, and if a decade ago they were said to vote for sociological reasons, we are now told that in fact votes are expressions of “individual needs to secure gratification of repressed wishes for a certain type of parental image ….” I use the example of voting studies because it is in this area that the approach and the research techniques of modern behavioral science are said to have had the greatest impact.

There would be no disposition to resist this development—certainly it would be indefensible for political science to cut itself off from the insights provided by other social sciences—were it not for the tendency in such works for the political to be reduced to the sub-political and the danger that in this process the political will disappear altogether, so that we will have a political science that refuses to address itself to political questions. This is not a remote possibility. The basic premise of modern social science is the so-called distinction between facts and values.

Over the last century and a half, the work of the Constitutional Convention and the motives of the Founding Fathers have been analyzed under a number of different ideological auspices. To one generation of historians, the hand of God was moving in the assembly; under a later dispensation, the dialectic (at various levels of philosophical sophistication) replaced the Deity: “relationships of production” moved into the niche previously reserved for Love of Country. Thus in counterpoint to the Zeitgeist, the Framers have undergone miraculous metamorphoses: at one time acclaimed as liberals and bold social engineers, today they appear in the guise of sound Burkean conservatives, men who in our time would subscribe to Fortune, look to Walter Lippmann for political theory, and chuckle patronizingly at the antics of Barry Goldwater. The implicit assumption is that if James Madison were among us, he would be President of the Ford Foundation, while Alexander Hamilton would chair the Committee for Economic Development.

The “Fathers” have thus been admitted to our best circles; the revolutionary ferocity which confiscated all Tory property in reach and populated New Brunswick with outlaws has been converted by the “Miltown School” of American historians into a benign dedication to “consensus” and “prescriptive rights.” The Daughters of the American Revolution have, through the ministrations of Professors Boorstin, Hartz, and Rossiter, at last found ancestors worthy of their descendants. It is not my purpose here to argue that the “Fathers” were, in fact, radical revolutionaries; that proposition has been brilliantly demonstrated by Robert R. Palmer in his Age of the Democratic Revolution.

Mexico's political experience over the last fifty years—since the Revolution of 1910—is highly significant, not only for the rest of Latin America, but for much of the rest of the world. For Mexico has accomplished the exceedingly difficult feat of breaking out of the vicious circle of dictatorship, misery, and revolution, and finding a way to a regime that is at once increasingly democratic, stable, and progressive. Despite a relative lack of many of the social, economic, and cultural characteristics which are often treated as prerequisites of stable democracy, Mexico seems to have solved the problem of assuring peaceful succession to leadership positions, while at the same time permitting wide participation in policy formation and allowing full civil freedom.

This type of end-result is almost always the conscious goal of political leaders throughout Latin America, Africa, and Asia. While the Mexican road is hardly likely to be followed exactly elsewhere, other countries, to reach the same goal, will have to find equivalents for the solutions that Mexico has devised, for the obstacles in their paths are much the same. A study of the difficulties which Mexico has faced and how they were overcome may therefore have a generic interest, as being suggestive of some broader hypotheses about political development.