Cultural trauma and constitution: Precursors of political traditions and collective identities

The sociology of constitutions is a rather new domain. This paper adds to the legal and political literature on national constitutions and their effects on political traditions and collective identities by using the theory of cultural trauma. Using cultural sociology's analyses of national trauma, it demonstrates that the meaning of national constitutions and their particular articles become clear when juxtaposed with the narratives of trauma that national leaders eternalised in their stories of constitution. Close scrutiny of the constitutions of the USA, France, Italy, Croatia, Poland and Ukraine shows that beneath the legal jargon and the distinct political worldviews of modern national constitutions lay constitutive national traumas. Those national traumas motivated constitutional authors to make sure that those traumas will never recur. In so doing they charted particular political destinies and created unique collective identities.

The sociology of constitutions is a relatively new area of empirical study. Until recently, constitutions have been the domain of legal and political scholars (Teubner, 2012; Thornhill, 2011), following the theoretical contributions of Niklas Luhmann’s systems theory (Luhmann, 1995). For example, there has been a growing interest in the role of constitutions in global society (Beck et al., 2017; Přibáň, 2012; Thornhill, 2016) and the role they play in cross-state global networks, organisations, and structures (Fischer-Lescano, 2003; Schwöbel, 2011). However, those recent preoccupations have left state-centered studies of constitutions sociologically and empirically wanting. As a leader in this field admitted, ‘A fully sociological approach to constitutions and their normative functions of legitimation [has] not yet been established’ (Thornhill, 2010, p. 315). Indeed, Thornhill provided the necessary lead in stating that ‘The classical theory of constituent power suggests that the legitimacy of a political system is derived from an ex nihilo moment of foundation’ (2016, p. 33). However, Thornhill stopped short of explicating what that ex nihilo moment of foundation really is. Consequently, the field still lacks an understanding of the particular worldview of national constitutions, the unique political destinies they chart, and the distinctive collective identities they have given rise to.

This paper augments the legal and political literature on national constitutions and their effects on political traditions and collective identities by applying the theory of cultural trauma (Eyerman, 2019). Specifically, it employs the evolving insights of cultural sociology that emphasise the role of trauma in constituting cultural codes and collective identities (Alexander, 2012; Eyerman, 2001; Sztompka, 2000). This fresh approach demonstrates how the meanings of national constitutions and their particular articles become clear when juxtaposed with the narratives of trauma that the national leaders eternalised in their stories of constitution. This new interpretation shows that beneath the legal jargon and distinct political worldviews of modern national constitutions lie constitutive cultural traumas. Those ‘chosen’ or ‘elected’ traumas (Volkan, 2001) motivated the constitutional authors to ensure they could never recur. In doing so, they charted particular political destinies and created unique collective identities.

The stories of constitution that political leaders narrate in the preamble of their constitution eternalise a national traumatic memory. Some preambles tell of arbitrary taxation, some of ethnic cleansing, while still others describe military colonisation or a lack of representation under tyranny. Constitutions thus describe national humiliation and defeat (Mock, 2012), and, in response to those historical national traumas, constitutional authors attempt to guarantee that the shaming and humiliating conditions will never recur. Consequently, traumatic stories of constitution become the foci – and constitutive drivers – of national political traditions and collective identities. This paper shows that the narratives of trauma that underlie national constitutions impregnate them with unique meanings. The following comparative study of the traumatic bases of constitutions in six countries provides a compelling case for combining the distinct literature of the sociology of constitutions with the theory of cultural trauma.

The fragmented nature of the social sciences has separated political analyses of constitutions from their cultural precedents. Indeed, political and legal studies of constitutions have often neglected the cultural elements of emotion, memory, trauma, and myth. As Edkins suggested,

In the years since Edkins’ contribution, however, a few scholars have corrected this gap by showing that emotions and national traumas do affect politics and international relations in significant ways (Budryte, 2014; James, 2004; Pace & Bilgic, 2018). As judge and sociologist Andras Sajo noted, the field has until recently suffered from a rationalist bias against emotions. The legalistic tradition presented constitutions as resulting from rational interests and high cognitive processes. As he wrote, In his groundbreaking work on constitutional sentiments (Sajo, 1992), he argued that emotions ‘had a formative impact on the making and maintenance of modern constitutional institutions’ (Sajó, 2016, p. 45).

This emerging field of study (Maroney, 2016) corrects for prior failures to appreciate the role of emotions and culture in constituting political traditions, international conflicts, and national identities (Bell, 2006). The present paper adds to those leading contributions by studying how constitutions are pre-written by traumatic narratives of national formation, and how, with the promise of ‘never again,’ those stories of traumatic constitution have determined political traditions and collective identities in the long term (Alexander et al., 2004).

To do so, the paper draws on the theory of cultural trauma and the strong programme of cultural sociology (Alexander, 2012). Leading scholars in this field have highlighted the role of national trauma in creating national memories and collective identities (Giesen, 2000; Robben & Suarez-Orozco, 2000; Smelser, 2004). They have argued, for example, that past traumas create national worldviews that colour contemporary perceptions and actions (Kalberg, 2004). Those traumas are at the basis of national culture and collective identity, as they create the basic narratives of origin, identity, and destiny (Alexander et al., 2004). As Parr argued, ‘As the social field remembers, grieves, mourns, weeps over, and shares a sense of collective trauma, a political community emerges’ (Parr, 2008, p. 5). The analyses below suggest that constitutional authors use national traumas to create a historical turning point that re-directs the trajectory of national political sovereignty (Abbott, 2001).

The present study thus applies the theory of cultural trauma to the realm of national constitutions to demonstrate that political traditions and collective identities are often associated with long-buried historical pains. Going beyond ‘presentist’ legal and political readings of constitutions or institutional theories that argue that nations copy or adapt a ready-made blueprint (Beck et al., 2012, 2017), the present study demonstrates that awareness of historical traumas allows a deeper and more nuanced understanding of constitutions’ particular national spirit. It is this deep trauma – rather than dry legal statements – that determines the spirit of the constitution and, hence, the particular political tradition and collective identity that emanate from its particular story of constitution. In some cases, authors of constitutions made sure that future generations would understand why they codified specific rights; in other cases, they made sure that the trauma – and its political lessons – would be ‘constantly before all the members of the Social body’ to ‘remind them continually of their rights and duties’ (adapted from the French Declaration of the Rights of Man – 1789).

As suggested, political leaders choose a historical trauma and use it to chart their nation's story of constitution – and thus decree a political constitution that sets their nation on a unique trajectory (Alexander, 2012). In the preamble to the constitution, or in the text itself, the authors eternalise the ‘chosen trauma’ by providing the historical justification for turning humiliation and shame into national sovereignty and a commitment to human rights (Kinnvall, 2002; Thornhill, 2016; Volkan, 2001). Consequently, the constitution offers a justification for the political tradition they set in motion while simultaneously narrating a story of political destiny. In this way, the traumatic justification for the constitution also inspires a collective long-term identity, as the trauma and the constitution combine to tell citizens where they came from, who they are, and what they – or their nation and country – should stand for.

Having been taught those stories of constitution from a young age – through formal and informal means (Lomsky-Feder, 2004) – citizens can often spell out the trauma that prompted their constitution, justifying their collective identity and explaining their political destiny. As Parr suggested, narratives of trauma also create an unconscious libidinal connection to the nation and its destiny (Parr, 2008). And, as Fierke added, those:

Essentially, then, in writing a national constitution, the authors turn cultural and national traumas into political vehicles that create unique national identities and political destinies.

I provide evidence for this theoretical argument through a comparative analysis of six national constitutions – some old, some contemporary. I begin by analysing the American, French, and Italian constitutions, which provide clear evidence for the role of trauma in charting particular political traditions and collective identities. I then analyse the constitutions of post-communist ‘new states’: Croatia, Poland, and Ukraine. This analysis shows that, in contrast to institutional theory (Beck et al., 2017; Drori et al., 2006), contemporary authors of constitutions do not ‘cut and paste’ all their articles from a globally accepted script. Rather, they too approach their constitutions from the perspective of particular national traumas and decree specific articles that are meant to ensure that the trauma is never repeated.

True, not all national constitutions bear the scars of trauma (the Canadian and Austrian constitutions, for instance, do not), but many do (e.g. Iran, Japan, and China). Furthermore, national traumas do not dictate all the articles of a constitution; however, some articles clearly reflect historical or national trauma and aim to ensure it will never recur. In those cases, a focus on trauma provides unique keys to the interpretation of political traditions and collective identities. It also provides a theoretical causal explanation that connects deep historical traumas with contemporary political affairs and perceptions of identity. For some countries, the constitution provides a crucial link in this theoretical model.¹

The American and French constitutions are historical and paradigmatic examples of the role that trauma plays in creating political traditions and collective identities. Each constitution is rooted in the historical trauma that motivated and justified its respective revolution, and the articles in each ensure that their specific trauma will never transpire again. The narrative of creation that the authors put into words eternalises the particular traumas as a constitutive national identity that seeps into individual identities and creates distinct political passions. Although they mention ex nihilo universal ‘Laws of Nature,’ ‘Nature’s God,’ or ‘The Supreme Being’ as justifications for their political positions, their deep convictions actually emanate from particular traumatic circumstances.

The trauma that the American Founding Fathers promised to end spanned the period from the English Civil War (1642–1651) through the American Revolution (1775–1783) and revolved around religious persecution, the abuses of the British monarchy, and its arbitrary and non-representative rule. Close scrutiny of the Founding Documents reveals that the Founding Fathers promised to end the British crown’s abuses of power and ‘secure the blessings of liberty.’ While promising to safeguard Americans from foreign control, they emblematically eternalised those historical traumas, turning them into an ever-present justification of American libertarian ideals. Indeed, the promise to secure liberty and democratic representation was predicated on the pains of British colonialism and military occupation (Mennell, 2007).

This interpretation is supported by the three Founding Documents that determined the direction of the American political tradition and collective identity. The Founding Fathers opened the Declaration of Independence (1776) with a principled argument that might apply across various contexts, but they immediately proceeded to detail how those principles applied in the American case. As the Declaration states,

The Declaration then continues with a litany of eighteen grievances (with sub-grievances), claiming that the King of Great Britain robbed the Americans of their rights and liberties. The following verbs provide a glimpse of those traumatic experiences, as the King ‘refused, forb[ade], plundered, dissolved, prevented, obstructed, deprived, imposed, took away, suspended, and constrained’ the rights of action, the liberties, and the representation of the people. These grievances lay the groundwork for the conclusion, namely, ‘that these united Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States.’ This document – and the trauma that it promises to ward off whilst simultaneously eternalising in memory – created a constant fear of a strong government that would betray the people's liberties.

The American Constitution (1787) and Bill of Rights (1789) attest to the cultural and political trauma of the past. Each amendment in the Bill of Rights, for example, testifies to traumatic past events and abuses – and promises that such will never happen again. For example, Article I states that:

This amendment reminds Americans of times when religious beliefs were imposed on their predecessors, who could not criticise the Monarch's power or petition for revisions. Actually, each phrase in the Bill of Rights is imbued with meaning by reference to the memory of the traumatic past of British colonialism, and each also makes sure that such abuses of liberties would never again be possible in America.

These Founding Documents are deeply embedded in American culture and are extensively taught in school. They are also present in daily and mundane settings (e.g. sitting in a taxi, reading ‘your rights as a passenger,’ or quoted in any movie with police arrest), creating a national habitus of rights-bearing people. The presence of constitutional rights in daily life always comes with the partly subconscious baggage of an underlying traumatic past. In this way, the American Founding Documents constitute a palpable reality, a mnemonic to a traumatic historical experience that retains contemporary daily lessons. The statutes make clear what Americans should be afraid of, what the meaning of being American is, and what Americans need to stand for. By constantly reminding them of the trauma of the past, those documents shape the American political tradition and its collective identity (Mennell, 2007); they also inspire mundane messaging campaigns (‘know your rights’) and individual habits. Deeply embedded in American education, those Constitutional dictums have become ‘standard practice for Americans, who historically have been quick to anticipate tyranny, despotism, and a full spectrum of apocalyptic scenarios, from red coats to black helicopters’ (Uscinski & Parent, 2014, p. 3).

Similarly, the French Declaration of the Rights of Man (1789) is predicated on trauma resulting from the monarchy of the ancien régime. Rather than a trauma-from-the-outside, as in the American case, the French created their political tradition and collective identity by eternalising the memory of the arbitrary exploitation their own leaders indulged in before the Revolution of 1789. Indeed, the meaning of the Declaration becomes clearer when juxtaposed with the exploitation, inequality, and remorselessness of the monarchy and the aristocracy in the pre-revolution years. True, philosophical ruminations were critical for the formulation of the Declaration (Doyle, 1999; Livesey, 2009; Soboul, 1988), but it is the historical trauma of dispossession and lack of rights that sheds light on the document as a whole, as well as on particular articles that its authors chose to incorporate.

On the eve of the revolution, French society consisted of twenty-six million people, who were separated into three estates or social classes: the first estate prayed (the clergy), the second estate fought (the nobility), while the third estate financially supported the monarchy and the other two estates. Thus, the majority of impoverished people carried the unjust burden of two indifferent and privileged social classes. This arbitrary order of the estates was ruled by an absolutist monarchy, without any form of representation for the multitude in the third estate. The ancien régime was based on extreme forms of taxation, exploitation, and inequality that, up until the Revolution, were simply accepted as ‘the order of things,’ or ordained by God. It was, indeed, an arbitrary and unjust division of labour that stretched the absence of fraternity and solidarity to an unbearable limit (Behrens, 1967; Censer & Hunt, 2001; Doyle, 1999; Lefebvre, 1962; Soboul, 1988).

The history of this ‘order of things’ constitutes the French national trauma. As the following examples suggest, the constitutional edicts that the authors of the Declaration deemed crucial were put into force to make sure that the ancien régime would never return. Indeed, this historical trauma helps readers appreciate that the revolutionary motto of ‘liberté, égalité, fraternité’ and each statement in the Declaration of the Rights of Man are post-traumatic edicts (namely, edicts that came after the trauma and were put in place in fear of its return). As the preamble to the 1791 declaration states,

But the declaration goes beyond abolishing past institutions by establishing – as if ex nihilo – the paradigm of human rights. For example, Article 1 in the Declaration states, ‘Men are born and remain free and equal in rights.’ This statement makes better sense when positioned against the background of the three estates and their inequalities. Similarly, Article 2 proclaims: ‘The aim of all political association is the preservation of the natural and imprescriptible rights of man. These rights are liberty, property, security, and resistance to oppression.’ The meaning of this statement is also understood in reference to the reality of people in the third estate during the ancien régime: lacking private ownership, freedom, and safety from the arbitrary and unjust manipulation of power. Article 3, which states that ‘The principle of all sovereignty resides essentially in the nation,’ justifies the elimination of the monarchy as not representing the nation. ‘Equal rights’ ensure that arbitrary privileges are abolished (Article 4). ‘No one may be forced to do anything not provided for by law’ was instituted to guarantee that power is applied equally and according to universal criteria (Article 5). Similarly, Article 6 replaces past artificial and arbitrary advantages with open, meritocratic procedures: ‘All citizens, being equal in the eyes of the law, are equally eligible to all dignities and to all public positions and occupations, according to their abilities, and without distinction except that of their virtues and talents.’ And so it goes on.

Indeed, the seventeen articles of the Declaration are all ‘post-traumatic’ in the sense defined above. Their deep meaning comes to the fore when they are read in conjunction with the trauma of the ancien régime. Moreover, the individual function of each article in the Declaration, and of the document overall, is to ensure that the French people never experience arbitrary power, exploitation, and structured inequalities again. The past trauma of the ancien régime – and the political tradition born out of the response to the trauma – explain the repeated calls for liberté, égalité, fraternité in French civil society to this day. This trauma, in conjunction with the political and cultural reactions against its pains, constitutes an important ingredient of the French collective identity over the last two hundred years (Kumar, 2006). The constitution, which ‘reminds them continually of their rights and duties,’ motivates students and workers to ensure contemporary institutions are aligned with the promises of the revolution (Yair, 2009).

Although France has seen revolutions and setbacks since 1789, and its leaders have revised its constitution along its hiccupping march towards contemporary French democracy, the current Constitution of France (1958) still opens by referencing its founding trauma and holds fast to the constitutional rights laid down in the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen. It states that ‘The maxim of the Republic shall be “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity”’ and that ‘The principle of the Republic shall be: government of the people, by the people and for the people.’ Although modern and constantly updated, the French constitution eternalises the trauma of the ancien régime while keeping the French political tradition and its collective identity on the course that the revolutionaries set in 1789.

Italy provides another and more contemporary case, with the trauma of WWII looming large over its 1947 constitution. A naive reading of the constitution suggests that it is one more rendition of the institutionalised dissemination of constitutions (Beck et al., 2017). But studying it through the lens of historical and cultural trauma sheds new light on the Italian collective identity in the aftermath of WWII. Even three generations hence, Italians still live in the shadow of WWII and the political regime responsible for its collective trauma.

As Prof. Piero Calamandrei said in 1955,

In this unequivocal statement, Calamandrei referenced the trauma suffered by the Italian people as a result of the complicity between the Italian Monarch Victor Emmanuel III, who reigned from 1900 to 1946, and the totalitarian Fascist regime of Prime Minister Benito Mussolini (1922–1943). Without understanding that totalitarian regime and how the people suffered under it, one cannot understand, said Calamandrei, ‘where our constitution was created.’

The 1947 constitution includes three unusual proclamations that reference the trauma. First was the commitment to never allow the family of Victor Emmanuel III to have political authority again. Leading Italy into two world wars that ended in defeat and loss of territory, the constitution went beyond the 1946 referendum that ended the Italian monarchy by stating that the family of the monarch would never hold power again.

The second unusual constitutional dictum reflects the trauma of living under the Fascist totalitarian regime. The constitution eternalised this trauma, stating that ‘It shall be forbidden to reorganise, under any form whatsoever, the dissolved Fascist party.’ The authors of the constitution added a clause that mandated that the political leaders of the Fascist regime would have no political rights for five years after the constitution came into effect. Finally, the third trace of trauma captured in the constitution was the defeat in two world wars, with the document stating that ‘Italy rejects war as an instrument of aggression against the freedom of other peoples and as a means for the settlement of international disputes.’ As in the constitutions of Germany and Japan, the trauma of defeat was eternalised in the Italian constitution as a determination to promote peace and avoid future military interference.

In new states of Eastern Europe, trauma is a major element – even an asset – in the construction of a collective identity (Bedlek, 2016; Fuhr, 2016; Plotkin-Amrami & Brunner, 2015). When authoring their new democratic constitutions, some political leaders of post-communist states used the trauma inflicted by the Soviet dictatorship; most used a story of trauma to claim national continuity under duress and foreign occupation. In the case of post-Yugoslav Croatia, for example, the nation's leaders narrated a historical trajectory of Croatian national identity that spans millennia. After Yugoslavia broke down into its constituent nations, Croatia's leaders defined its cross-national unification (1918–1992) as an arbitrary imposition upon their historical sovereignty that forcefully bound them together with non-suiting partners. After breaking away from this conglomerate of nations, Croatia's leaders used a narrative of trauma to recreate the Croatian collective identity. The trauma of communist imposition served them well in this regard.

Croatia's Constitution of 2010 begins with a section devoted to ‘Historical Foundations,’ enumerating a long list of historical junctures, spanning from the seventh century to ‘the historic turning-point characterised by the rejection of the communist system … in 1990 when the Croatian nation reaffirmed, by its freely expressed will, its millennial statehood.’ The authors proclaimed that Croatian nationalism had been evident throughout history. By detailing a national continuity of over a millennium they justified their sovereignty and independence and solidified an ‘imagined’ collective identity (Anderson, 1983). They based the phrasing of their constitution on historical awareness and promised to never lose their sovereignty again:

The general preamble and historical context of Croatia's constitution are followed by specific articles that demonstrate the trauma of the communist past. Article 1 reflects the trauma of Yugoslav cross-national unification, in which Croats, Serbs, Macedonians, Bosnians, Slovenians, and Kosovars were united in a single communist state. The article states that ‘The Republic of Croatia is a unitary and indivisible democratic welfare state,’ thereby making it unconstitutional to create cross-national alliances again. Article 2 adds that ‘The sovereignty of the Republic of Croatia is inalienable, indivisible and non-transferable,’ again representing the trauma of former occupation. The reference to the Croatian army (Article 7, ‘The armed forces of the Republic of Croatia shall protect its sovereignty and independence’) also signifies a reaction to the absence of independence under communist rule. Another example of the presence of trauma is evident in Article 1, which also states that ‘Power in the Republic of Croatia derives from the people and rests with the people as a community of free and equal citizens.’ In this, the authors make use of prior constitutional precedents (Beck et al., 2017), but in their particular case, they also seem to be responding to external control and the loss of representation under the Yugoslav communist regime. These and other articles in the Croatian constitution are not merely legal statements. Rather, close scrutiny of the text reveals the ghosts of national humiliation and loss of sovereignty, and these ghosts promise to set Croatia on a new political path. The references to historical continuity and the trauma of communism provide a rallying flag for the Croatian collective identity to coalesce around a sense of pride, democracy, and human rights.⁴

Poland's constitution provides another example of the confluence between ancient traumas and more recent ones in delineating its moral and political sovereignty. The preamble begins with the trauma of Soviet colonisation, stating that the Polish homeland ‘recovered, in 1989, the possibility of a sovereign and democratic determination of its fate.’ The Soviet occupiers attempted to erase Poland's unique traditions and collective identity, but the constitution makes clear that Polish culture and identity go back a thousand years, and that the Polish state is committed to maintaining this uniqueness and continuity for generations to come. As the constitution declares, the Polish state is ‘Obliged to bequeath to future generations all that is valuable from our over one thousand years’ heritage.’

The trauma of the loss of Polish sovereignty – and its ramifications – is stated explicitly. Though the phrases are general, they reflect historical scars. The authors of the constitution are ‘Mindful of the bitter experiences of the times when fundamental freedoms and human rights were violated in our Homeland,’ and they use the preamble to set out the Third Republic’s new commitment to the country’s past and future. Celebrated annually on 3 May (Constitution Day), the Poles are reminded of the invasions by Prussia, Austria, and Russia – the time when Poland disappeared from Europe's map for 123 years.

Like many other constitutions, that of Poland affirms a commitment to universal values of freedom and justice, social solidarity, and the dignity of the person (Beck et al., 2017). However, the shadows of past trauma keep reappearing. Silently bringing to mind the invasions of the Soviet Union and Germany, Article 5 states that ‘The Republic of Poland shall safeguard the independence and integrity of its territory and ensure the freedoms and rights of persons and citizens.’ A commitment to safeguarding against loss of sovereignty and the imposition of a Soviet-style one-party system is again made in Articles 11 and 12, which affirm the country’s commitment to a multiple-party system and the voluntary creation of associations and foundations: ‘The Republic of Poland shall ensure freedom for the creation and functioning of political parties’ (11); ‘The Republic of Poland shall ensure freedom for the creation and functioning of trade unions, socio-occupational organisations of farmers, societies, citizens’ movements, other voluntary associations and foundations’ (12). Moreover, in case anyone might suspect that the above mentions of the traumatic past are but polite intimations, Article 13 states the trauma explicitly:

When Russia’s invasion of Ukrainian territory took place in February 2022, many commentators were surprised by the reaction of neighbouring countries, including Poland. Its steadfast alignment with Ukraine is a clear testament to Poland's constitutional commitments and its promise to protect against aggression and territorial invasion. The war in Ukraine was a test of Poland's collective identity, and the unflinching response displayed by individual citizens and the state demonstrates that historical lessons have been learned.

But the case of Ukraine itself is perhaps the most telling, in this moment of European history and test of nations’ politics and identities. Ukraine has a similarly troubled and traumatised history, as for centuries it has been split and subsumed by different empires. The eastern regions of the country were part of the Russian Empire, while its western parts were controlled by the Austro-Hungarian Empire and later by Poland. Despite its ethnic or national continuity, Ukraine’s history is overshadowed by a lack of sovereignty. This state of affairs has motivated its recent political leaders to write a constitution in which sovereignty is the leading theme – as well as providing justification for contemporary events that Europe has not witnessed since WWII.

Ukraine broke free from Soviet control through its Declaration of Independence in 1991. Seeking to be liberated from the Soviet Union, the Ukrainian parliament stated that:

This declaration led to the adoption of the Ukrainian constitution (the Fundamental Law of Ukraine 1996), which likewise defied the Ukrainians’ centuries-old political humiliation by the Russian empire and Soviet dictatorship.

Like Croatian lawmakers, Ukrainian leaders opened their constitution by declaring that their sovereignty would never be compromised again. Article 1 states that ‘Ukraine is a sovereign and independent, democratic, social, law-based state,’ and Article 2 adds that ‘The sovereignty of Ukraine extends throughout its entire territory. Ukraine is a unitary state. The territory of Ukraine within its present border is indivisible and inviolable.’ While the authors of the Fundamental Law were silent about their past trauma, their decision to begin the Law with those two articles makes clear that threats to sovereignty loomed large above their efforts to achieve and maintain national independence.

Other articles in the constitution also demonstrate the role played by the trauma of lack of sovereignty. Article 10, for example, declares that ‘The state language of Ukraine is the Ukrainian language.’ While allowing for ‘the free development, use and protection of Russian, and other languages of national minorities,’ Article 10 is a clear response to trauma. This article reflects a firm rejection of the language policies of the former USSR, which imposed and prioritised the Russian language (Bilaniuk, 2005). After years in which Russian was the more respected language, the new constitution prioritised Ukrainian as the state language. Recent conflicts in Ukraine and Crimea suggest that while the Fundamental Law attempted to put an end to Russian control, the trauma of sovereignty and national humiliation is still ‘in progress.’⁵

Indeed, the constitution made clear that in the battle between Russia and Europe, Ukraine is committed to Europe and fears renewed Russian aggression. The preamble states that:

At the present moment of history – following Russia’s invasion of Crimea in 2014 and the subsequent aggressive advance of Russian forces in 2022, including the attempt to stage a coup in Kyiv – the constitution probably plays an important role in maintaining Ukraine’s unbroken commitment to its sovereignty and the Euro-Atlantic alliance. This was true during the ‘Revolution of Dignity,’ when president Viktor Yanukovych attempted to bring Ukraine back under Russian control; it remains true in the current war between the two countries. True, the Ukrainian constitution’s commitment to being part of Europe probably motivated Russia's aggressive efforts to bring Ukraine back under its control. However, this commitment to the West is another element that solidifies the new Ukrainian collective identity and provides Ukraine with the necessary Western support to block the Russian invasion and push its forces back into Russian territory.

The above analyses fill the gap that Thornhill left open in his statement that ‘The legitimacy of a political system is derived from an ex nihilo moment of foundation’ (2016, p. 33). Legitimacy – as well as political traditions and collective identities – does not arise ex nihilo; rather, in many cases, they spring from a story of constitution that rests on national trauma. As noted, not all national societies rest on traumatic foundations, but many of them do. Furthermore, some national constitutions lack any reference to trauma, and some take the form of de-contextualized human-rights-centered documents – and in some cases, they are dead letters indeed.

But as the present analyses have shown, there are numerous cases where close scrutiny brings the nexus of trauma and constitution into sharp relief. Such is the case in the constitutions of the United States and France, where the traumatic past is buried down the centuries. Nevertheless, since their national traumas were eternalised by their constitutional authors, their effects on American and French political traditions remain distinct, as do their lingering and palpable effects on the unique collective identities of the American and French peoples. The cases of Croatia, Poland, and Ukraine, in that respect, have yet to withstand the test of time, as these countries are still in the midst of national trauma and regeneration – they still face the prospect of invasion and colonisation by Russia. Time, indeed, is essential for conflict and suffering to be transformed into institutionalised – and constitutionalised – cultural trauma (Alexander, 2012; Eyerman et al., 2011).

Acknowledging the theoretical importance of trauma and emotions in studies of constitutions reflects a broader emotional turn in the humanities and the social sciences (Lemmings & Brooks, 2014). This shift implies that interpretations of constitutions should expand their analytical frame to encompass a wider perspective of cultural and historical sociology. A de-contextualized reading of any constitution is bound to leave the naïve reader with a very partial understanding of the cultural and historical background that motivated it. Broad historical and cultural perspectives go beyond legalistic analyses of constitutions, and the present moment in European history is the best testament to the necessity of this theoretical orientation (e.g. Snyder, 2004).

Perhaps unsurprisingly, while eternalising the lessons of national trauma, constitutional authors never admit that their nation was responsible for the trauma of others. From a political and emotional perspective, suffering seems to be a better political tool than guilt and shame (Lerner, 2020; van Kleef & Côté, 2022). For example, the Polish constitution never acknowledges the historical Polish invasion of Ukraine. It only immortalises the Polish suffering under Austro-Hungarian and Russian invasions. More generally, constitutional authors probably find it easier to legitimatise national sovereignty through reference to trauma rather than aggression against foreign collectives and the colonisation of external territory. Moreover, capturing aggressive campaigns against other nations in the constitution opens up the possibility of claims over responsibility for war crimes and legal battles over reparations. This is why trauma rather than victory is the ex-nihilo moment of the creation of collective identities.

Time Matters, proclaimed Andrew Abbott in his book of that title (Abbott, 2001). In the thoughtful treatise ‘On the Concept of Turning Point,’ Abbott argued that ‘Turning points are … consequential … because they give rise to changes in overall direction or regime, and do so in a determining fashion’ (p. 249). Turning points are eras that break societies free from prior long-term trajectories and set them on new ones. The past and the future are disconnected by a transformative present moment. This study of the effects of national traumas on national constitutions has provided concrete historical examples for Abbott's general model of turning points and their determining effects on long-term political trajectories and collective identities. It has suggested that national traumas often lead to revolutions. In some, political leaders have opted to break free from past trajectories by formulating – out of trauma, not ex nihilo – a new constitution for a future society.

This revolutionary moment, almost in itself, has the power to constitute a historical turning point, as it breaks the grip of the past over the future. New political trajectories evolve from the successful revolutionary moments of ‘post-traumatic constitutions.’ New collective identities also emerge – as if by some magic of the constitution – from those iconic historical moments (Adair-Toteff, 2005; Turner, 2003; Weber, 1968). Constitutions, in this respect, constitute the epitome of societal change, and their traumatic stories often play a determinative role in the long term. The constitutional promise of ‘never again’ – e.g. never again will we lose sovereignty or lack human rights – sets societies on distinct trajectories. Their original trauma – immortalised in the constitution – remains the determining factor of their political tradition and collective identity for years to come.

Stories of national constitutions – with the heroic moment of revolution as a defining moment – thus determine political traditions and collective identities. Both the preamble and specific articles are written so as to guarantee that past wrongs will never again transpire. In that sense, the underlying trauma motivates constitutional authors to adopt the principle etched by the case of Marbury vs. Madison (1803), which affirmed that the constitution is law – and that, as such, it is unbendable and unchangeable. Through this legal power, it creates a new forward trajectory that negates all past wrongs. This is how constitutions answer questions of ‘How’ – how they keep the new political and social order on track – as they create detailed rules for the new political order. They define the separation of powers, the rules for political parties, the right to vote, the rights and duties of citizens, and the rules for their participation in decision-making. At times, they create barriers against war and aggressive invasion; at others, they steer societies towards peace and global integration (e.g. the German constitution). Though there are cases where countries deviate from the global spirit of human rights that most constitutions adopt (Beck et al., 2017), constitutional aspirations usually determine the trajectory along which political systems evolve and function in the long run.⁶

The manner in which stories of constitution create collective identities is less obvious. But, as Norbert Elias suggests, trauma and the story of eventual victory or revolution provide people with answers to the existential questions of life: Who are we? Where did we come from? What is our eternal mission? The story of a constitution – when it takes the form of a tale of trauma, war, and revolution – helps unite people by providing them with clear answers. National ceremonies and school textbooks help inculcate the story of the constitution and turn it – year by year – into the national habitus of homo nationis (Pickel, 2004), into a taken-for-granted and collectively agreed-upon response to the question of ‘Who are we?’ For Americans, the core of this national habitus becomes liberty and the suspicion of all power. For the French, equality and solidarity go hand-in-hand with liberty. The Italians are sensitised to war and invasion, and the new post-Soviet states mostly inculcate a desire for national sovereignty and independence – rightly so, as the recent Russian invasion of Ukraine proves.

The traumatic moments leading up to their constitution set these countries on distinct long-term political trajectories and established particularistic collective identities. True, institutional forces push countries to adopt human rights articles in their new constitutions (Beck et al., 2012, 2017). However, specific traumas and the particular collective identities they inspire are likely to persist in the long term. And they are likely to change again when they encounter the next historical jolt – the next world war, the next occupation by some empire – that sends political leaders back to square one, to write – and right – anew their traumatic story of constitution, thereby determining a new political tradition and a new collective identity.

No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author(s).