Former colonies should do more than just abolish the monarchy

Long-mooted plans to move to a republican system of government in Jamaica are likely to get a boost. Tiny Antigua and Barbuda has promised a referendum, following Barbados's decision to remove the monarchy last year. Still, in the largest foreign countries ruled by the British monarch, change is a much more distant prospect.

That's a peculiarly ironic legacy of the British empire. Constitutional monarchy, a fairly worthless element of the Westminster system, has been inherited in the 14 Commonwealth Realms that recognize Charles as their king. Constitutional flexibility — the ability to change the ground rules of a nation without a deadening round of referendums and legislative votes — has prevailed in just one: New Zealand. That's a shame, since it's one of the most worthwhile aspects of the Westminster set-up.

Canada has long been profoundly disinterested in removing the monarchy. "There isn't a huge appetite" for republicanism, Prime Minister Justin Trudeau said in a 2015 interview. Australia's Anthony Albanese, a republican, has made clear that the issue won't be looked at until a referendum on an Indigenous voice to parliament is complete. That's likely to be the only constitutional change during his current term in office.

This reticence isn't just a natural coyness about sounding discordant notes during a period of mourning. Far more important in the mind of any politician is the fact that constitutional change in most of the countries ruled by the British monarch is enormously difficult. 

The British parliament tweaks its constitution with almost as much regularity as other chambers make points of order, needing only an act of parliament to overturn the existing rules. Within the last 25 years, it's devolved power to assemblies in Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland, and Greater London; introduced and then abandoned fixed parliamentary terms; and incorporated the European Convention of Human Rights into UK law. That's all before you consider the vast constitutional upheaval involved in Brexit.

Things are very different in its former colonies. In most, a constitution was considered an essential part of the toolkit of nationhood. Constitutions, by their nature, tend to be set in stone. Australia hasn't amended its founding document since 1977, and a 1999 referendum over becoming a republic was rejected comfortably. Canada's constitution is regarded as being "almost impossible to amend." Those in Caribbean countries, which form eight of the Commonwealth Realms, are notoriously resistant to change. 

Only New Zealand — which abolished its upper house of parliament without fuss in 1950, and offers changes to its electoral system every few years — has followed the UK's straightforward tradition of dispensing with a codified constitution, so that voters choose the parliament, and parliaments choose the laws.

That resistance to reform is a mistake. The three constitutions which are hardest to change, according to a 2005 study by Astrid Lorenz of Leipzig University, are the 1789 one in the US; the 1831 Belgian one; and the 1967 Bolivian law. None is a strong advertisement for rigid founding documents.

Belgium has for years struggled to form governments and suffered separatist divisions between its French and Flemish-speaking regions. Problems with Bolivia's constitution prompted civil unrest in the early 2000s, paving the way to a new law and two decades of constitutional turmoil. The US, meanwhile, got itself a civil war in the 19th century, legalized segregation in the 20th century, and a rolling constitutional crisis in the 21st. Puerto Rico and Washington DC remain barred from statehood years after they should have been admitted to the union.

Constitutional flexibility isn't perfect. The ease with which Saudi Arabia and Hong Kong upended their systems of government — with the former's 2017 anti-corruption purge and the latter's 2020 national security law — show how useful the constraint of solid ground rules can be. The UK will long rue the ease with which it severed its links with Europe.

Still, a constitution that can't grow with the nation it describes ends up holding back change until it boils over in unpredictable ways. Canada has no real way of resolving the tensions between French-speaking Quebec and its English-speaking provinces — something that almost tore the country apart in 1995. Nor is there a way to address the under-representation of the affluent western provinces in its Senate.

Australia faces similar issues of unequal apportionment in its upper house. It also endured a minor crisis in 2017 after a neglected rule banning dual citizens from sitting caused the removal of 15 politicians. Thanks to the difficulty of changing the constitution, there's no real plan to remove the clause, despite roughly half of the population being a first- or second-generation migrant.

The arduousness of switching to another system of government is likely to keep the British monarchy in charge from Belize to Tuvalu well past its use-by date. That's a welcome result, for monarchists at least. But for the rest of us, it should be seen as an admission of failure that needs to be fixed in its own right. Antiquated constitutions are quite as much a legacy of the colonial era as the monarchy itself. If the former British colonies want to become republics worth keeping, they'll have to find a way to address that issue, too.

David Fickling is a Bloomberg Opinion columnist covering commodities, as well as industrial and consumer companies. He has been a reporter for Bloomberg News, Dow Jones, the Wall Street Journal, the Financial Times and the Guardian.

Disclaimer: This article first appeared on Bloomberg, and is published by special syndication arrangement