authority, since it is the Commission alone—the EU’s unelected executive—that can propose the laws on which the Council and (more notionally) the Parliament deliberate. The violation of a constitutional separation of powers in this dual authority—a bureaucracy vested with a monopoly of legislative initiative—is flagrant. Alongside this hybrid executive, moreover, is an independent judiciary, the European Court, capable of rulings discomfiting any national government.
At the centre of this maze lies the obscure zone in which the rival law-making instances of the Council and the Commission interlock, more impenetrable than any other feature of the Union. The nexus of ‘Coreper’ committees in Brussels, where emissaries of the former confer behind closed doors with functionaries of the latter, generates the avalanche of legally binding directives that form the main output of the EU: close on 100,000 pages to date. Here is the effective point of concentration of everything summed up in the phrase—smacking, characteristically, of the counting-house rather than the forum—‘democratic deficit’, one ritually deplored by EU officials themselves. In fact, what the trinity of Council, Coreper and Commission figures is not just an absence of democracy—though it is certainly also that—but an attenuation of politics of any kind, as ordinarily understood. The effect of this axis is to short-circuit—above all at the critical Coreper level—national legislatures, which are continually confronted with a mass of decisions over which they lack any oversight, without affording any supranational accountability in compensation, given the shadow-play of the Parliament in Strasbourg. The farce of popular consultations that are regularly ignored is only the most dramatic expression of this oligarchic structure, which sums up the rest.
Alongside their negation of democratic principles, two further, and less familiar, features of these arrangements stand out. The vast majority of the decisions of the Council, Commission and Coreper concern domestic issues that were traditionally debated in national legislatures. But in the conclaves at Brussels, these become the object of diplomatic negotiations—that is, of the kind of treatment classically reserved for foreign or military affairs, where parliamentary controls are usually weak to nonexistent, and executive discretion more or less untrammelled. Since the Renaissance, secrecy has always been the other name of diplomacy. What the core structures of the EU effectively do is to convert the open agenda of parliaments into the closed world of chancelleries. But even this is not all of it. Traditional diplomacy typically required stealth and surprise for success. But it did not preclude discord or rupture. Classically, it involved a war of manoeuvre between parties capable of breaking as well as making alliances; sudden shifts in the terrain of negotiations; alterations of means and objectives—in short, politics conducted between states, as distinct from within them, but politics nonetheless. In the disinfected universe of the EU, this all but disappears, as unanimity becomes virtually de rigueur on all significant occasions—any public disagreement, let alone refusal to accept a prefabricated consensus, increasingly being treated as if it were an unthinkable breach of etiquette. The deadly conformism of EU summits, smugly celebrated by theorists of ‘consociational democracy’ as if it were anything other than a cartel of self-protective elites, closes the coffin of even real diplomacy, covering it with wreaths of bureaucratic piety. Nothing is left to move the popular will, as democratic participation and political imagination are each snuffed out.
These structures have been some time in the making. Unreformed, they could not but be reinforced by enlargement. The distance between rulers and ruled, wide enough in a Community of nine or twelve countries, can only widen much further in a Union of twenty-seven or more, where economic and social circumstances differ so vastly that the Gini coefficient in the EU is now higher than in the US, the fabled land of inequality itself. It was always the calculation of adversaries of European federalism, successive British governments at their head, that the more extended the Community became, the less chance there was of any deepening of its institutions in a democratic direction, for the more impractical any conception of popular sovereignty in a supranational union would become. Their intentions have come to pass. Stretched to nearly 500 million citizens, the EU of today is in no position to recall the dreams of Monnet.
So what? There is no shortage of apologists prepared to explain that it is not just wrong to complain of a lack of democracy in the Union, conventionally understood, but that this is actually its greatest virtue. The standard argument, to be found in journals like Prospect, goes like this. The EU deals essentially with the technical and administrative issues—market competition, product specification, consumer protection and the like—posed by the aim of the Treaty of Rome to assure the free movement of goods, persons and capital within its borders. These are matters in which voters have little interest, rightly taking the view that they are best handled by appropriate experts, rather than incompetent parliamentarians. Just as the police, fire brigade or officer corps are not elected, but enjoy the widest public trust, so it is—at any rate tacitly—with the functionaries in Brussels. The democratic deficit is a myth, because matters which voters do care strongly about—preeminently taxes and social services, the real stuff of politics—continue to be decided not at Union but at national level, by traditional electoral mechanisms. So long as the separation between the two arenas and their respective types of decision is respected, and we are spared demagogic exercises in populism—putting issues the masses cannot understand, and which should never be on a ballot in the first place, to referenda—democracy remains intact, indeed enhanced. Considered soberly, all is for the best in the best of all possible Europes.
In an unreflective sense, this case might seem to appeal to a common immediate experience of the Union. If asked in what ways they have personally been affected by the EU, most of its citizens—at least those who live in the Eurozone and Schengen belt—would certainly not mention its technical directives; they would probably answer that travel has been simplified by the disappearance of border controls and the need to change currencies. Beyond such conveniences, a narrow stratum of professionals and executives, and a somewhat broader flow of migrant workers and craftsmen, have benefitted from occupational mobility across borders, though this is still quite limited, with less than 2 per cent of the population of the Union living outside their countries of origin. In some ways, more significant may be the programmes that take growing numbers of students to courses in other societies of the EU. Journeys, studies, a scattering of jobs: agreeable changes all, not vital issues. It is this expanse of mild amenities that no doubt explains the passivity of voters towards rulers who ignore their expressions of opinion. For nearly as striking as repeated popular rejection of official schemes for the Union is lack of reaction to subsequent flouting of it. The elites do not persuade the masses; but, to all appearances, they have little to fear from them.
Why then is there such persistent distrust of Brussels, if so little of what it does impinges on ordinary life, and at that quite pleasantly? Subjectively, the answer is clear. There are few citizens who are not banally alienated from the way they are governed at home—virtually every poll shows how little they believe in what their rulers say, and how powerless they feel to alter what they do. Yet these are still societies in which elections are regularly held, and governments that become too disliked can be evicted. No one doubts that democracy, in this minimal sense, obtains. At European level, however, there is all too obviously not even this vestige of accountability: the grounds for alienation are cubed. If the EU really had zero impact on what voters actually care about, of course, their distrust could be dismissed as a mere abstract prejudice. But in fact the intuition behind it is accurate. Since the Treaty of Maastricht, the Union has by no means been confined to regulatory issues of scant incidence or interest to ordinary folk. It now has a Central Bank, without even the commitment of the Federal Reserve to sustain employment, let alone its duty to report to Congress, that sets interest rates for the whole Eurozone, backed by a Stability Pact that requires national governments to meet hard budgetary targets. In other words, determination of macro-economic policy at the highest level has shifted upwards from national capitals to Frankfurt and Brussels. What this means is that just those issues that voters do indeed usually feel strongest about—jobs, taxes and social services—fall squarely under the guillotines of the Bank and the Commission. The history of the past years has shown that this is no academic matter. It was pressure from Brussels to cut public spending which led the Juppé government to introduce the
