Civil Action and the Dynamics of Violence 0190056908, 9780190056902

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Civil Action and the Dynamics of Violence

 

 

Civil Action and the Dynamics of Violence EDITED BY D E B O R A H AVA N T, M A R I E E . B E R RY, E R I C A C H E N O W E T H , R A C H E L E P S T E I N, C U L L E N H E N D R I X , O L I V E R K A P L A N, A N D TIMOTH Y SISK

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1 Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and certain other countries. Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America. © Oxford University Press 2019 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by license, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reproduction rights organization. Inquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above. You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer. CIP data is on file at the Library of Congress ISBN 978–​0–​19–​005690–​2  (pbk.) ISBN 978–​0–​19–​005689–​6  (hbk.) 1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2 Paperback printed by WebCom, Inc., Canada Hardback printed by Bridgeport National Bindery, Inc., United States of America

 

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments  vii List of Contributors  ix

1. Introduction: Civil Action and the Dynamics of Violence in Conflicts  1 D e b o r a h Ava n t, M a r i e E . B e r r y, E r i c a C h e n o w e t h , R a c h e l E p s t e i n , C u l l e n H e n d r i x , O l i v e r K a p l a n, a n d T i m o t h y   S i s k

PART I   CIVIL ACTION AND MAINTAINING REL ATIONSHIPS

2. Civil Action in the Syrian Conflict  35 Wendy Pearlman

3. Staging Peace: Community Organizations, Theatrical Performance, and Violent Conflict in Peru  64 S t e v e n T.   Z e c h

4. Northern Kenya: Civil and Uncivil Action under Conditions of State Fragility  89 F l e t c h e r   D.   C ox

PART II   CIVIL ACTION AND LEVELS OF LOCAL VIOLENCE

5. The Impact of Civil Action on Levels of Violence: Comparing Two Communities during Northern Ireland’s Troubles  123 Amy E. Grubb

 

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6. Doing Business amid Criminal Violence: Companies and Civil Action in Mexico  147 Sandra Ley and Magdalena Guzmán

7. Civil Action and the Microdynamics of Violence during the Bosnian War  178 Marie E. Berry

8. Nonviolent Communal Strategies in Insurgencies Case Study on Afghanistan  203 Christoph Zürcher

PART III   CIVIL ACTION AND THE RESOLUTION OF VIOLENT CONFLICT

9. Civil Action against ETA Terrorism in Basque Country  229 J av i e r A r g o m a n i z

10. The Colombian Private Sector in Colombia’s Transition to Peace  255 Angelika Rettberg

11. Conclusion   279 D e b o r a h Ava n t, E r i c a C h e n o w e t h , R a c h e l E p s t e i n , and Cullen Hendrix

Index  297

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

In 2009, John and Anna Sie endowed the Sié Chéou-​Kang Chair and Center for International Security and Diplomacy at the University of Denver’s Josef Korbel School of International Studies. It is in the Sié Center that we all began to interact regularly and realize our intersecting interest on how nonviolent action by nonstate actors affects conflict. So our first thanks go to the Sie family for the opportunity their gift provided. The questions that drove this research were not born from theoretical puzzles within academic debates, but from each of us seeing, on the ground, the impact of these different authorities and their action. We saw patterns that encompassed civil resistance, but went far beyond civil resistance alone. Our observations led us to look for a broader conception with which we could describe and understand these impacts. Generous support from the Carnegie Corporation of New York Program on Peace and Security’s Rigor and Relevance Initiative allowed this project to grow and encouraged us to explicitly embrace our engagement with these different authorities as members of policy communities. We are particularly grateful for Stephen del Rosso’s stewardship of this initiative and efforts to link the growing group of academics concerned with bridging the gap between that academic and policy worlds. As we designed our processes of investigation to encourage interaction with practitioners, rather than seeking to convince them, after the fact, of what our research could tell them, we sought to better understand what they experienced in practice so as to foster better questions and more pertinent concept development. We gained many insights from this process, including our attention to exclusionary practices even when they were not overtly violent and our disaggregated conception of how civil action can shape the dynamics of violence (through relationships as well as levels of local violence and the overall trajectory of the conflict). This coproduction of knowledge from different vantage points vii

 

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made this project what it is, and is an important model for engaged scholarship that we hope others will adopt. Among the many activities the Carnegie support allowed was a post-​doc program and our first cohort of post-​docs: Cassy Dorff, Devin Finn, and Steve Zech played an important role in pushing the project forward. We also benefited from conversations with those who received our Engaged Scholar Awards during the grant period: Wendy Pearlman, Christian Davenport, Robert Gallucci, Samuel Popkin, Sarah Sewall, Daniel Drezner, Martha Finnemore, and Mary King. We held two conferences to develop and then hone our concepts and cases. We are grateful to the following participants: Consuelo Amat, Javier Argomaniz, David Atkins, Howard Barrell, Tanja Borzel, Robert Braun, Hollie Nyseth Brehm, Jo-​Marie Burt, Susanna Campbell Allison Coppel, Fletcher Cox, Cassy Dorff, Tamra Pearson d’Estree, Devin Finn, Ellen Furnari, Janice Gallagher, Scott Gates, Natasha Greenberg, Amy E.  Grubb, Lindsey Heger, Jill Hereau, Joseph Hewitt, Matthais Hofferberth, Sarah Holewinski, Danielle Jablanski, Bruce Jones, Michael Kalin, Sabrina Karim, Marla Keenan, Peter Krause, Sandra ley, Jason Lyall, Erin Mazursky, Althea Middleton-​Detzner, Hardy Merriman, Will Moore, Amanda Murdie, Manel Omar, Evan Perkoski Angelika Rettberg, Thomas Risse, Candace Rondeaux, Michael Rubin, Kurt Schock, Conor Seyle, Maria Stephen, Carla Suarez, Isaac Stone Fish Emmanuel Teitelbaum, Linda Tropp, Jodi Vittori, Stephen Wittels Reed Wood, Steve Zech, and Christoph Zürcher. The open engagement among our editors and case-​study authors made this project both fruitful and fun. We also benefited from presentations in the political science departments at Stanford and University of Maryland. Special thanks to Sean Rao, Virginia Haufler, Paul Huth, David Cunningham, and Susanna Campbell for their helpful comments. We want to give special recognition to Will Moore, who provided his characteristic good humor and excellent comments at our final conference; we only wish he were here to see the result. Finally, we thank our faculty, staff, and student colleagues at the Josef Korbel School and the University of Denver’s leadership for their ongoing interest and support and are particularly grateful to the Sié Center staff:  Jill Hereau, Liz McKinney, Danielle Jablanski, and Kate Morgan.

 

L I ST O F   CO N T R I B U TO R S

Javier Argomaniz, University of St. Andrews Deborah Avant, University of Denver Marie E. Berry, University of Denver Erica Chenoweth, Harvard University Fletcher D. Cox, William Jewell College Rachel Epstein, University of Denver Amy E. Grubb, Department of Security Studies & International Affairs, Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University Magdalena Guzmán, Vía Educación Cullen Hendrix, University of Denver Oliver Kaplan, University of Denver Sandra Ley, Centro de Investigación y Docencia Económicas (CIDE) Wendy Pearlman, Northwestern University Angelika Rettberg, Universidad de los Andes Timothy Sisk, University of Denver Steven T. Zech, Monash University Christoph Zürcher, University of Ottawa

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 Introduction Civil Action and the Dynamics of Violence in Conflicts Deborah Avant, Marie E. Berry, Erica Chenoweth, Rachel Epstein, Cullen Hendrix , Oliver Kapl an, and Timothy Sisk

1.1.  Introduction The Second Liberian Civil War (1999–​2003) ended not on the battlefield but in meeting rooms and peaceful demonstrations. Tired of the seemingly intractable violence, a network of women’s groups coalesced under the Women in Peace Network (WIPNET) banner to try to bring an end to it. The women organized a Lysistrata-​inspired sex strike, which received a great deal of international media attention.1 But they also lobbied Liberian president Charles Taylor directly to attend peace talks with Liberians United for Reconciliation and Democracy and the Movement for Democracy in Liberia and, once the talks were under way, created a human barrier to prevent negotiators from leaving the table before a deal could be concluded. Two leaders of the movement—​Ellen Johnson Sirleaf and Leymah Gbowee—​received the 2011 Nobel Peace Prize in recognition of their efforts. The story of WIPNET provides a striking example of how a civil society group taking civil action can dampen violence. And this example is not unique. In Colombia, community-​based organizations, including local NGOs, unions, and faith groups, negotiated with government forces, rebels, and paramilitaries to reduce violence in their communities during the war (Kaplan 2017). Firms in Colombia committed to best practices, such as the Voluntary Principles on Business and Human Rights, and spent money and effort to push for peace (Rettberg 2009). A nonviolent protest movement in Ukraine led former president Viktor F. Yanukovych to flee.2 After that, small pockets of nonviolent activism continued to confront violence, at times successfully. For instance, in spring 2014 in the city of Mariupol, steel workers from the company Metinvest 1

 

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joined with community activists and local police to patrol the city, remove barricades, and restore order.3 These are not isolated incidents in the context of a few conflict-​affected settings. Indeed, from the Bosnian War (1992–​1995) to Mexico’s ongoing drug-​related violence, we find examples of civil action—​ nonviolent strategies that promote deeper engagement with stakeholders—​that often improve the prospects for peace. This volume constructs a logic of civil action. We conceptualize “civil action” as behavior characterized by (a)  a reluctance to engage in violence and (b)  a willingness to abide by a minimal level of respect to maximize engagement with others.4 We and our contributing authors argue that civil action often makes it harder to activate the relational processes that generate violence, even though it can involve civil disobedience and mass noncooperation and other disruptive acts, as well as explicit efforts to reduce or prevent violence. Civil action can be undertaken by a wide range of social actors, driven by different bases of authority. Although civil action sometimes escalates violence, it often has violence-​ dampening effects. This volume highlights the crucial and often-​neglected role that civil action has played in deciding the fates of conflicts around the world. Below, we elaborate on the logic of civil action and demonstrate its intersection with analyses of microdynamics and contentious politics. We then examine who takes civil action and the authority claims and capabilities that affect this potential. Next, we then explore three ways in which civil action might matter for conflict dynamics: through its effect on relationships, on levels of local violence, and on the overall conflict. We elaborate on how civil action matters—​ through process and relationships—​and when it should be most likely to work. Finally, we provide an outline of the remainder of the book.

1.2.  What Is “Civil” about Civil Action? Our concept of civil action builds on civil resistance and the notions of civility on which it is based. The vast literature on civil resistance has largely equated “civil” with “nonviolent.” It examines action that seeks political change and is thus explicitly contentious. Civil resistance is, by definition, transgressive and extra-​institutional. Nonetheless, analysts hold that proscribing violence is key to a style of resistance that yields more-​beneficial results (Roberts 2009, 2–​3; Sharp 2011, 87). Chenoweth and Stephan (2011) demonstrated not only that these campaigns are successful, but how they succeed. Refraining from violence “facilitates the active participation of many more people than violent campaigns, thereby broadening the base of resistance and raising the costs to opponents of maintaining the status quo” (10–​11). The number and diversity of participants enlarges the strategies for resistance. It also makes it more likely that government

 

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repression will backfire. Even erstwhile supporters of the status quo are often uncomfortable with repression against nonviolent action and are more likely to shift their support to an opposition that is nonviolent. It is this effect on relationships that makes nonviolent movements more likely to achieve their goals. These relational dynamics also increase the likelihood that the resulting changes will be democratic. Civil action is broader than civil resistance in one way, and somewhat narrower in another. While both civil resistance and civil action are nonviolent, civil resistance typically refers to a form of conflict in which people actively confront oppression using disruptive, transgressive, and extra-​institutional methods. Civil action is broader because it also includes less conflictual engagement with various stakeholders—​legally or illegally, institutionally or extra-​institutionally. Civil action is narrower, though, in that it typically eschews exclusionary action. Methods that opponents find unsettling, insulting, disrespectful, or threatening—​such as public shaming and social ostracization—​should be tamed through personal connection or recognition in other arenas such that constructive engagement can persist, even in the midst of conflict. Civil action subsumes much of what we count as civil resistance even as it refines what forms of resistance should count as civil action and broadens the ends at which it aims. Thinking through the broader concept of civil action led us to revisit debates over civility to clarify how we would draw the line between actions that are considered “civil” and those considered “uncivil”—​terms that remain contested. In his two-​volume series, The Civilizing Process, German sociologist Norbert Elias traced civility to notions courtesy in the Middle Ages. With transitions to modernity that grew into a “more self-​conscious molding of personal behavior to conform to norms of appropriateness and to facilitate coordination in increasingly complex urban communities” (Bybee 2016, 9; Elias 1978). Many scholars take a maximalist view of civility, seeing it as attending to “our better angels,” respecting good manners, and abiding by social norms. By this logic, insult and verbal attacks are evidence of incivility. Scholarship has taken this maximalist view in a Hobbesian direction, urging silence on issues that prompt too much disagreement, or in a Lockean one, aiming tolerance of all civilized beings and building ever larger areas of consensus (Bejan 2017). Seen this way, though, exhortations for civility can preclude just the sort of civil resistance that leads to social change. Silence on issues of great disagreement can be a tool for the continuation of practices that advantage some over others. Privileging civility can be a mechanism for the elite and powerful to silence opposition and dissent. Indeed, one of the significant critiques of civility is that it can be used to preserve an unfair status quo (Bybee 2016). Instead, we build on what Teresa Bejan (2017) calls “mere civility.” The “mere” to which she refers appeals both to a minimal image of restraint and

 

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an image that separates two spheres in which people can bond—​over mundane interactions or over commitments to broader social purpose. Drawing on the writings and life of Roger Williams, Bejan (2017) explains that “mere civility” eschews violence (is peaceable), respects some (any) social graces, and is restrained based on something that is shared, a “bond of civility” (57–​61). The minimal restraint it entails is crucially separate from the values over which people can, and do, legitimately disagree (60–​61). In William’s writing, these values were religious, but we extend them here to any values that pertain to broad social purpose. Thus mere civility does not require agreement or consensus and does not entail avoiding conversation about issues on which people vehemently disagree. Mere civility is distinguished from more robust ideas of civility because it places value on the human connections that can be established in even ordinary interactions and continued dialogue between perspectives. Unlike the dominant Hobbesian or Lockean schools that either restrict what is said or require some level of agreement on which to base interactions, mere civility requires only peaceable actions that are respectful enough of basic human decency to keep a conversation going (Bejan 2017, 164). Instead of discouraging discourse, it encourages open conversation even among those who neither respect nor agree with one another. Bejan (2017) shows how this conception of civility is inclusive—​radically so. It led Williams to call for, and implement, a much more open vision of who was part of society—​“one that included American ‘Barbarians’ and Catholic ‘Antichristians’ alike” (65).5 Williams founded the Rhode Island settlement on these terms. As Bejan explains, what drove William to this notion of mere civility was his strident proselytizing and the logic through which he thought it would most likely be successful (50–​81). The conception of civil action we put forth, then, refers to behavior that is animated by (a) reluctance to engage in violence and (b) willingness to abide by a minimal level of respect in order to continue engagement with others. It includes, but does not end with, civil resistance. It may be contentious, conciliatory, or cooperative. It can be undertaken by a wide range of social actors, driven by different motives and bases of authority. To be considered civil, however, action must resist violence and curtail interactions that exclude others.

1.3.  Civil Action, Microdynamics, and Contentious Politics Traditional analyses of war and civil war often assume that there is unity among “protagonists” and focus on their overarching, or macro narratives. One of the important insights from microstudies on violence, though, is that not all citizen

 

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actions are motivated by a macronarrative and not all violence stems from one. Stathis Kalyvas (2006) shows how in civil war, action motivated by personal or small-​group concerns often feeds violent dynamics. Violence not only can, but often does, escalate inadvertently because violent episodes provide openings that ordinary people, alone or as part of a group, take advantage of to enrich themselves or settle scores in ways that lead to more violence. While studies on microdynamics have uncovered how actions unrelated to overarching policy matter for violence, they tend to see ordinary civilians as either opportunistic perpetrators or as victims (Kalyvas 2006; Weinstein 2006). They have rarely focused on the ways citizens and groups use their agency to de-​escalate or reduce violence.6 But the empirical record reveals that citizens and groups do this all the time. A local business consortium in Kenya worked to dampen violence during the 2013 elections (Owuor and Wiser 2014). Community groups worked to reduce the impact of Colombia’s civil war on their neighborhoods (Kaplan 2017). And even during the Rwandan genocide, individual Hutu engaged in transactions to desist from killing Tutsi (Luft 2015). The uncivil and violent activity Kalyvas and others document often works alongside civil action, and the two can play off each other. The relational insights offered by contentious politics scholars offer one path toward whether and how violence unfolds. The contentious politics literature has long noted overlap in the general relational qualities that accompany political violence. The exclusivity, polarization, radicalization, and evocation of enmity that are activated in wars between states also accompany civil or intrastate wars (Esteban and Schneider 2008) and political violence more generally (Tilly 2003). Scholars have recently begun to draw this relational logic into the security studies field (Avant and Westerwinter 2016; Goddard and Nexon 2016). Much of the contentious politics literature focuses on uncivil action and its impact on violence. Exclusivity and polarization engender violence by othering, leading to what sociologists call social “closure” (Barth 1969; Burt 2005; Tilly 2006). Othering denotes who is outside the circle and, at the most extreme, who is the enemy. The process of social closure often reduces individuals with many different social identities and roles to only one. Closure then keeps the other out by choking off new information and options for action. Studies of war are also littered with this logic of enmity (Clausewitz 1989; Howard 1970). Related work in political science, sociology, and social psychology demonstrate that these general “uncivil” relational processes accompany violence in a variety of settings (see, for example, Schmitt 1996; Tilly 2003; Staub 1996). Generally, the contentious politics literature focuses on the logic of the process—​but the violent process. The related work focuses less on the process than on the structural variables that make it likely.

 

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We see civil action as something that often makes it harder to activate the relational processes that generate violence. Building out the logic focused on processes that lead away from violence reveals many possibilities. Resisting closure by maintaining a more complex view of others increases the potential for identification with the different social roles or identities any given individual might occupy (Varshney 2001). Respecting those with whom one disagrees, even on mundane matters, opens the potential for listening to them, as Kupchan’s (2010) analysis in How Enemies Become Friends demonstrates. Listening can lead to changes in framing that benefit all sides—​as Javier Argomaniz (­chapter  9) documents in his analysis of the peace movement’s separation of pro-​Basque from pro-​violence. Listening can also build relationships. The mundane bonds people develop in day-​to-​day life or over efforts to provide public goods can temper their reactions to disagreements they have over values, as we have seen in the growing literature on rebel rule (Arjon, Kaspir, and Mampilly 2015). And maintaining even a small amount of openness in relationships allows new information to flow in ways that may limit the spread of extreme claims in support of opportunistic action, as Solingen has demonstrated in looking at the relative proliferation and war-​prone activities of more open and more closed governments (Solingen 2007a, 2007b). The same openness that limits the spread of extreme claims can help build greater understanding between parties. Interaction with others on everyday issues can engender identification that reduces violence against others. Serious examination of civil action in particular settings may help reveal more ways through which violence can be forestalled than the conventional wisdom currently accepts. We hope our analysis is seen as a response to analysts’ calls for greater attention to a more varied set of processes through which peace can be built (Muggah and Krause 2009; Paffenholz 2010). Investigating civil action, how it is undertaken by various social actors, and how it shapes conflict trajectories in particular circumstances is this volume’s task. Through this exploration, we aim to demonstrate the value of a larger research agenda taking into account both civil and uncivil action.

1.4.  Who Undertakes Civil Action and Why? Civil action is defined by behavior rather than the characteristics of different people or groups. Thus all people have some capacity for civil action. Here, we focus on civil action undertaken on behalf of different common social identities. Our analysis builds on several streams of research that highlight the effects of nonstate actors on conflict dynamics. In theorizing what civil action a particular group might take and why, we focus on the logic of authority behind particular social identities (or types of actors) and their relative capacities.

 

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We define authority as the ability to induce deference in others (Avant, Finnemore, and Sell 2010; Barnett and Finnemore 2004; see also Raz 1990). Different social identities induce deference in different ways, which constrains what actors can do when acting in this role. Authority-​claims provide insights into the meanings or collective purpose that charge an authority’s relations—​ why followers pay attention to the authority in the first place. For instance, a church might induce deference among its followers through its commitment to religious doctrine. It might also induce deference from a broader community by virtue of its ability to represent its followers’ views or perform good works for that community. These various bases of authority animate action. They help actors justify engaging in civil (or uncivil) action and thus shape the sorts of action they can take. We define capacities as the relational and other resources a group can tap into to generate effect. These include levels of organization, relational ties with which to spread information and generate a following, and material resources. A church, for example, is organized to perform services, collect contributions, and do other works in the community. It also has access to resources through donations. A  church’s relationships with worshipers and others in the community can increase its capacity to act, and its ties to national or transnational churches of the same ilk can generate resources and draw attention to its actions. A group’s relational ties and other capacities shape its ability to take action. The most obvious authority that might undertake civil action is the government. Max Weber (Gerth and Mills 1946, 77–​78) defined the state as “a human community that (successfully) claims the monopoly of the legitimate use of physical force within a given territory.” As many others have pointed out, states often legitimate that monopoly by providing public goods (North 1986)  or claiming to represent the public interest. They also often claim to limit when and how agents of the state, including police and military personnel, use physical force (Loader and Walker 2007). But other local authorities of all sorts can also take civil action. These include community organizations, NGOs, churches and religious leaders, businesses, journalists and artists, and even elders or other traditional authorities. These vary in their claims to authority and in their capacities. Transnational authorities may also engage in civil action. Transnational networks can connect local organizations with advocates in international nongovernmental organizations (Keck and Sikkink 1998). Transnational corporations may have stakes in particular conflicts through their investments or supply chains. Finally, international or intergovernmental organizations (IOs) gain authority via delegation by governments or a broader community of governments (the international community), and they often have a commitment to peace and security that can inform civil action.

 

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In what follows, we offer some initial thoughts on the authority and capacity these local and transnational social identities can draw from to undertake civil action, and we highlight examples of actions that have been taken in conflict-​ affected areas. Though our focus is on civil action, there are also logics by which each can also undertake uncivil action.

1.4.1. Governments Weber’s oft-​cited definition of a state ties a state’s claim to a monopoly on violence to its legitimacy, which we take to be a commitment to marshal violence for purposes that are widely accepted among a population. In the best of circumstances, citizens widely defer to the government, and its actual use of violence is restrained; the government offers its citizens various resources—​such as a legal system—​that allows for the nonviolent resolution of conflict and protects them from violence. In the midst of conflict, though, parts of governments can become tools for uncivil action. During the Troubles in Northern Ireland, for instance, the police in the town of Dungannon allied with the loyalists—​against government policy and law. This increased the capacity for loyalist violence, and when they were seen as taking partisan action, reduced the trust of Catholics in the police and enhanced the Irish Republican Army’s ability to recruit new members (Grubb 2016 and ­chapter 5, this volume). Governments often have significant capacity, by virtue of their resources and organization, to shape collective behavior. The police in Northern Ireland, for example, have budgets, equipment, standard operating procedures, and institutional authority. In the midst of conflict, these capacities may be diminished (if the tax base goes down, for instance, or offices are attacked) or increased (if the public rallies, outside groups lend support, or governments begin raising more revenue to address threats).

1.4.2.  Movements and Local Civilian Groups Studies on the microdynamics of violence focus on civilians as individuals who either take advantage of, get roped into, or become victims of violence (Kalyvas 2006; Valentino 2004). But civilians can also organize collectively. The most obvious work on collective organization focuses on civilians as part of movements. Groups advocating political change are generally committed to achieving some broader social good. Resistance movements generate authority through both this commitment to change and the quality of their behavior. The appeal to civil action can help to draw larger numbers of participants to the group and, in some circumstances, encourage a shift in loyalty among regime supporters. In

 

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response to state repression or violence, though, some may be tempted to retaliate. And as group solidarity grows, so can efforts to exclude those with different views, as was the case with Viktor Orbán’s Civic Circles Movement in Hungary (Greskovits 2017). Civilian groups can also explicitly aim to tamp down violence. Kaplan documents this in Colombia, where community organizations stepped in to engage with different armed groups that were operating in their midst and negotiate strategies to reduce the risk to the community (Kaplan 2017). These local groups may mobilize existing institutional authority for this new purpose, as was the case with the Asociación de Trabajadores Campesinos del Carare (Kaplan 2013b). Community groups can also form in direct response to the violence, generating authority as a voice for a particular sort of inclusive community, as Marie Berry (­chapter 7) explains happened in Tuzla, Bosnia, during the 1990s conflict there. In the Tuzla case, local leaders with various authority bases—​from government to religious to commercial—​participated in an umbrella organization committed to maintaining the multiethnic character of the city. Groups can also influence or manage local-​justice procedures, such as providing conciliation services, discouraging or sanctioning those who join armed groups, and so on, which can discourage residents from resolving their disputes through armed actors and thereby dampen the potential for cycles of violence (see García Durán 2005; Van Cott 2006). Community groups can name and shame violent actors and use religious and moral commitments to persuade armed groups to reduce their aggressive or violent behavior (as documented by Guerra Curvelo 2004). Local community groups often have far fewer resources than governments and vary widely in levels of organization. They gain capacity according to the strength and extent of their social ties and the appeal of their mission. Local groups can repurpose quotidian networks to generate more participation, more information, and more connection with other authorities (Parkinson 2013). Local groups can also build capacity through their accomplishments. Small gains can increase participation and overall capacity. A  commitment to using civil action to accomplish change can legitimize a group and potentially attract other authorities, to establish a broader and more diverse following.

1.4.3. Local NGOs Closely related to local community groups are local NGOs (sometimes called community-​based organizations, or CBOs). They can either be entirely local or a branch of a national organization. Some generate authority by virtue of their principled commitments to, for instance, furthering human rights, women’s

 

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concerns, or environmental issues; others are professional membership organizations, such as lawyer or teacher associations, and gain additional authority from those who also appreciate the social purpose these professionals provide. Their civil action is often tied to their social purpose. To the extent that the conflict impacts that purpose, they may also be drawn into attempts to tamp down the conflict. Local NGOs and associations also arise during armed conflicts to address the specific problems the residents of the community are facing, such as Fundación Dario Maya, in Pensilvania, Colombia, or Medica Zenica, in Bosnia. In Syria, the Local Coordination Committees and other national networks emerged to support grass-​roots protest efforts as they took shape throughout the country, while the Violations Documentation Center formed to report on human rights abuses by the government and opposition alike (Pearlman, c­ hapter 2). Women’s NGOs often form to protest violence (e.g., Women in Black in Israel/​Palestine), demand accountability for the death (or disappearances) of loved ones (Las Madres de la Plaza de Mayo in Argentina), or mobilize for social-​psycho care (e.g., Avega Agahozo in Rwanda). Local NGOs may work to serve local needs or may monitor the numbers of civilians killed and wounded by combatant forces and advocate for justice, reparations, or changes in the military strategies of armed actors. They frequently partner with transnational actors to develop methods of systematically tracking civilian harm and to gather evidence of killings and damages. We have seen this evidence-​based advocacy take place most recently in Afghanistan and Syria, facilitated by mobile phones and other technological tools (Niland 2011). Like local community groups, local NGOs gain their greatest resource from their connections. By virtue of their commitments to issues, though, they may also link up with other national and transnational actors that can lend them additional reach and capacity. For instance, in Colombia, the Jesuit think tank Centro de Investigación y Educación Popular interacts with and provides information to Human Rights Watch and other groups. Local groups that do not support transnational action can also counteract its effectiveness, as has been the case in some areas of Afghanistan. NGOs that take successful civil actions related to their missions may also generate greater commitment from others.

1.4.4. Religious Authorities Researchers have also tied religious institutions and leaders to behavior that both exacerbates and alleviates violent dynamics (Appleby 2000; Sisk 2011; Kaplan 2013a). Religious institutions and leaders gain authority from the commitment to doctrine and from the special role faith plays in shaping many people’s moral

 

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compass. Even nonadherents may defer to a religious leader as someone possessed of moral authority—​evident in the broad popularity of the Dali Lama or Pope Francis. The larger religious organization of which individual institutions are a part may also delegate authority to them. And they may gain the deference of both their followers and a broader constituency by virtue of the public service they carry out, such as charity work, social services, and schools. Religious leaders can be driven to undertake civil action in keeping with the teachings of peace and tolerance that are common to many religions. Like Roger Williams in Rhode Island, they may also be drawn to civil action in the hopes of wooing new adherents. They can also, however, be drawn to uncivil action, fomenting exclusion and violence. Berry’s analysis of the Bosnian war in ­chapter 7 of this volume shows both. Religious institutions such as mosques, churches, and temples have generally developed significant organizational capacities to serve their communities. Religious leaders are also often connected to others in their faith communities at the national and transnational levels. Their ties to other faith leaders can generate the potential for interfaith dialogues. Finally, they have resources from tithes and may garner additional resources through their many connections to other religious institutions, political actors, or business elites. The combination of their special authority and significant capacities gives religious institutions and leaders noteworthy capacity for civil (and uncivil) action.

1.4.5. Businesses Businesses generate authority through both purpose and profit, but profitability shapes each of their authority relations. It is when a purpose promises profit that companies grow; without the promise of profit, a company is not likely to sustain itself (Litvin 2004). Local businesses gain authority with consumers for producing goods or services and with employees for providing jobs. Their role in the local economy may also generate some authority among the population at large and within government circles based on expertise, but also on continued profitability. Larger companies may also have shareholders as additional constituents. Businesses do not always push for social change, and often depend on the government to protect their property; however, many are averse to violence that disrupts markets or threatens that property. This can give some businesses leaders both the reason and authority to try to tamp down violence. Indeed, there is some evidence that local companies can conduct “quiet diplomacy” with actors in local conflicts or use their economic influence to lobby for peace agreements. For instance, Wood (2003) attributes the success of the El Salvadoran and South African dissidents in part to significant conflict fatigue

 

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on the part of commercial interests, who then used their economic influence as leverage over those countries’ governments. Individual business leaders can also have particular leanings that lead them to act. Businesses vary widely in size. Their authority claims are often linked to particular as well as common purposes, but they often have strong levels of organization both at the company level and also sometimes through business groups in their sector (Soule 2009). Many have ties to different levels of government that can generate both resources and potential influence over government actions. Their material resources are generally greater than many movements or NGOs.

1.4.6.  Journalists and Artists Journalist and artists are a category that is left out of much of the work on nonstate actors, but the fact that journalists (and to a lesser degree artists) are often targeted during conflicts should alert us to their potential importance. Journalists gain authority by virtue of their access to and reporting of information; artists of all sorts gain it from their ability to move people aesthetically or emotionally and by reflecting the culture and history of groups under attack. Both are frequent features of conflict—​journalists reporting it and artists depicting it in ways that interpret its cost and meaning (or lack thereof). As the fourth estate, the political importance of journalism and journalists is widely recognized (Schultz 1998), and the so-​called CNN effect is said to shape the issues we attend to and the frames through which we see them (Robinson 2002; Harcup 2014). Art, too, has played a multitude of roles in conflict throughout history (Brandon 2007). Journalists are charged with sensationalizing conflict in ways that may exacerbate social closure and othering, but they can also bring truth to bear in ways that humanize the other or report on the atrocities being committed on all sides in ways that call the violence into question. Artists play a unique role because their expression is not seen as fact. They may have more leeway to interpret conflict in ways that lead people to reflect critically on their assumptions. Of course, artists and journalists can also take uncivil action and become tools for propaganda. The resources of both artists and journalists depend on the networks of which they are a part. Moving stories or artworks, however, can rapidly increase the size of a network. For instance, Steven Zech (­chapter 3) demonstrates how staging moving performances that took on the violence on both sides of Peru’s civil war elevated the profile of the Vichama theater group, and then violence against one of its champions propelled it much further. Pearlman (­chapter 2) adds that free expression and citizen journalism are particularly important forms of civil action against regimes that make censorship and control of information a primary pillar of authoritarian rule.

 

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1.4.7. Traditional Authorities Traditional authorities gain their authority through the customary legacy they embody. Their claim to represent a people and provide some benefit to them is often made both in the community and with some outside authority. The benefits they provide may include services, such as mediating disputes or, in some cases, the capacity to wield violence. The overlap between quotidian ties, claims to a people, and history often give traditional authorities deep influence over their populations. They tend to be more relevant in areas where a modern national government is less present. But they frequently have ties to the central government, or even to its local representatives. Indeed, governments sometimes delegate authority over specific matters to these leaders. Although traditional authorities can include tribal elders or chiefs who play integral roles in fostering stability and development, they can also include those more likely to use violence, often termed “warlords,” who can engage in uncivil action to undermine stability and augment violence. Scholars have acknowledged that traditional authorities can undertake what we would call civil action to generate benefits to themselves or their people under particular circumstances (Ahram and King 2012; Marten 2012; Wahtchekon 2004). The wealth and the levels of formal organization among traditional authorities vary widely. Their quotidian ties are generally strong, however, and their greatest resource is their ability to interface between their legacy and internal patronage system and the outside authority; they are arbitrageurs (Ahram and King 2012) or brokers (Marten 2012). Where traditional authorities are relevant, they exert an important pull on their populations and efforts at civil action without their blessing are likely to yield limited effect.

1.4.8. Transnational NGOs Transnational NGOs can be categorized according to their focus on advocacy or implementation (Murdie 2014). Advocacy groups gain authority and resources from their commitment to principles. Implementing NGOs gain authority and resources from their commitment to a mission, but also from their capacities to deliver services. Advocacy organizations are often committed to political change; they undertake mobilization to prescribe proper behavior and to “name and shame” offending parties (Hendrix and Wong 2014). Implementing NGOs often provide humanitarian relief, environmental protection, or development in the midst of conflict. They tend to be more willing to get along with rebels or other conflict actors, maintaining neutrality to gain access to populations and reduce the potential that the work they do will incite violence against them. Their

 

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commitments to their mission and to service provide ample justification for civil action. International NGOs often have greater access to material resources than their local counterparts do. They are likely to have highly developed organizational capacities, though these vary and may be stronger among implementing organizations than advocacy organizations. They frequently have stronger connections than local NGOs do, though, with governments outside a conflict zone and with international organizations—​from whom they may also receive contracts and resources (Cooley and Ron 2002). They vary widely in their connections with local NGOs, religious organizations, businesses, civilian groups or local government officials, but these ties are generally less well developed.

1.4.9. Transnational Corporations Transnational corporations (TNCs), like local companies, are concerned with profitability. They gain authority from a similar array of constituencies as local firms, though expertise is often more important, shareholders often play a larger role, and government officials from their home countries add an additional constituency. Like local companies, TNCs rarely push for political change (indeed, they often lobby against it), and they frequently rely on the government for protection. Like local companies, they are generally averse to violence (Alt et  al. 1996). Mining, oil, or other extractive companies are committed to their operations and their property, however, in ways that regularly lead them to try to continue working in amid conflict zones (Alt et al. 1996). Their resources and linkages have frequently led transnational NGOs to assign authority to them for their complicity in violence (Haufler 2010; Mirshak 2010). This, in turn, has sometimes led transnational corporations to civil action. Traditional analyses have examined how transnational companies sometimes lobby their home governments to pressure foreign governments to pursue peace agreements (Keck and Sikkink 1998). It has become increasingly common, however, for TNCs to participate more directly. This can mean using economic rewards to encourage peaceful behavior or demobilization, appointing ombudspersons to develop community dispute-​resolution mechanisms and address localized grievances involving the company, or providing social services and infrastructure (healthcare, electricity, etc.) to compensate the community and reduce the negative perception of the company (Bebbington, Bornschlegl, and Johnson 2013). In some cases, companies have participated in multi-​stakeholder initiatives or standards to encourage nonviolent behavior by others and to guard against the potential that their actions will spark conflict. The Kimberly Process, Extractives Industry Transparency Initiative, the Voluntary Principles, and similar efforts

 

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aim to reduce violence by establishing systems that allow or encourage business activity without feeding into corruption or violence (Nelson 2000; Banfield, Haufler, and Lilly 2005). TNCs have significant material resources and strong organizational capacity. They also have strong connections to national and international governments. They may have more conflictual relationships with local and transnational NGOs and variable relations with local communities. As with transnational NGOs, these local ties are quite variable.

1.4.10. International Organizations International organizations (IOs) gain authority via delegation from states but also through their missions, many of which are tied to promoting peace. Since the United Nation’s landmark “Agenda for Peace,” in 1992, IOs have directed more attention to intrastate conflict (Peon 2002). They have focused on prevention; negotiation; securing peace agreements; peacebuilding; and assisting local institutions to make them more legitimate, inclusive, and capable (Walter and Snyder 1999; Doyle and Sambanis 2006; Sisk 2013). IOs do not always eschew violence. The United Nations has a long history, dating to the Congo Crisis of the early 1960s, of “peace enforcement” or “robust peacekeeping,” and NATO has often taken bellicose actions. IOs also take civil action, though, including mediation, monitoring (including security guarantees), norm promotion, and institution building. IOs also have significant material resources and strong organizational structures. Their strongest ties are to governments, but they also often have ties to the transnational NGO community and transnational companies. As with the other transnational actors, their local ties and understandings can be more tenuous (see Autesserre 2014; Campbell 2017).

1.5.  What Effects Should We Attend To? The case studies presented in this book examine the actions authorities have taken and their justifications for doing so during periods of armed conflict. Some of the case studies also offer explanations for why particular groups or authorities undertake civil action or uncivil action, but our primary focus is on the effects that civil action produces. As the discussion thus far suggests, we anticipate that civil action often dampens the potential for violence. But its effects are not always peace promoting. For example, when the Rwandan Armed Forces (Forces Armées Rwandaises, or

 

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FAR) were defeated by the Rwandan Patriotic Front following the 1994 genocide, the majority Hutu government, along with its forces and Hutu refugees, fled into the border areas, creating a public health disaster. Humanitarian NGOs, including CARE and Medicines Sans Frontiers, engaged nonviolently to set up camps to support the desperate population. But the camps also provided shelter and support to the government and to FAR. The FAR forces then used violence to consolidate their control over the refugees in the camps and remobilized to attack the new government in Rwanda. An estimated 4,000 died as a result of the violence. The remobilization eventually led the new Rwandan president, Paul Kagame, to attack the camps, in 1996 (Terry 2002). This example, juxtaposed with the civil action the group undertook in Liberia, highlights the Janus-​faced impact civil action can have and heightens the importance of understanding its logic and tracing its various effects. The relational perspective that informs this project directs our attention to a multilevel analysis of effects that may indicate movement away from (or toward) social processes that are known to produce violence. This should include the macro indicators of conflict resolution that are often a part of conventional analyses, such as peace agreements or reductions in overall yearly violence. It should also direct our attention to the variation in violence levels in different locales in conflict-​affected states, as has become common among those whose work focuses on the micro processes of conflict. Finally, at the most microlevel, we should also attend to how civil action affects the maintenance (or building) of the trusting relationships on which the open systems of governance and order that minimize overall prospects for violence depend. Let us unpack these effects in reverse order. At its most basic level, civil action can preserve or enhance the space for human interactions that maintain relationships. Relationships are the critical social fabric on which collective action and governance are built. During the siege in Sarajevo between 1992 and 1995, for instance, women would put on lipstick, style their hair, and walk to work each day as if they were living in a normal city. Artists used satire to lampoon the war and those who engaged in it—​putting on a “Miss Besieged Sarajevo 93” beauty contest and performing the musical Hair as a deliberate and radical rejection of the fighting (see Berry, ­chapter 7). This did not end the siege, but it may have weakened the recruiting efforts by the radical parties who were championing the war. Moreover, these forms of creativity and resistance helped maintain relationships and energize a collective spirit that was critical to governance during the crisis. These relationships were also central to rebuilding order after the siege was over. In a more heartbreaking example, the White Helmets in Syria, considered for a Nobel Peace Prize in 2016, have saved tens of thousands of lives by rushing to the scenes of bombings to rescue those trapped under collapsed buildings

 

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(Pearlman, ­chapter 2). These efforts to carve out space for human interaction had obvious personal impact in the lives of those involved. But such efforts can also be important for maintaining—​and, in some cases, strengthening—​the social fabric that is necessary for governance, either during the war or after its conclusion. In many of even the most difficult cases, including Syria, civil action enables these relationships to develop. Civil action may also reduce the likelihood of violence in particular spaces. As Séverine Autesserre has reported, despite widespread violence in other parts of the Democratic Republic of Congo, the island of Idjwi remains peaceful. Activity we would categorize as civil action by a network of grass-​roots groups—​women’s groups, youth groups, religious groups, and traditional institutions—​works to head off violent mobilization in Idjwi (Autesserre 2016). Similarly, civil action can tamp down violence after it has emerged, as it arguably has in Mariupol, Ukraine. Tamping down local violence is important in its own right, particularly for those living in more peaceful areas, but because violence in one locale is often used to justify violent responses in another, dampening violence in one place can also reduce the intensity of the overall conflict. Many of our cases—​ including Mexico, Afghanistan, Northern Ireland, and even Bosnia—​offer evidence linking civil action to declining levels of local violence. Along with the general literature, we are also interested in whether or not a war ends. We look for links between civil action and the ultimate resolution of a conflict. The settlement of the Liberia Civil War we mentioned at the beginning of the chapter is one example. The “sex strike” was only a small part of this; overall, a variety of civil actions undertaken by the movement played a critical role in the steps that led to the Accra Comprehensive Peace Agreement (Gberie 2005). Evidence from two of the cases, Colombia (Rettberg, c­ hapter 10) and the Basque Country in Spain (Argomaniz, ­chapter 9), also links civil action to processes that contributed to the resolution of the conflict.

1.6.  How Civil Action Matters: Processes and Relationships Like civil resistance, civil action should work through its effect on relationships. Avoiding violence—​peaceable behavior—​is key. Violence often results from efforts to achieve something without earning it according to established social rules (Gould 2003). It frequently works to undermine established collective purpose. Even violence by government forces often reveals failures or injustices in governance processes or attempts to use the authority of government to benefit few rather than many. Violence is often justified with an appeal to enmity, closing off the potential to interact with the other as criminal or enemy. This

 

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closure chokes information flow and arouses suspicion around those with ties to the other.7 If social capital in a group is gained by reproducing biases instead of by assessing the consistency or accuracy of information, it amplifies bias and encourages the “othering” that is key to polarization. As we discussed earlier, this situation also allows for opportunism. When individuals can kill to grab land for themselves in the name of collective purpose, it can spur retribution and spark a spiral in which violence begets violence (Kalyvas 2000). Although a collective intensity of purpose can spike during violence, the results rarely generate collective benefits and often lead to regret (Hedges 2002). Violence is not only destructive to life and property; it also leaves those it spares socially damaged, reducing openness, allowing solidarity to be exclusive and prone to opportunism, and restricting new connections. The wounds are lasting. Civil action’s nonviolent and minimally respectful behavior (either in ordinary daily existence, such as toward those one shares a Friday market with, or based on shared concern about important social issues, such as the commitment to democracy) can help build more open solidarity. Although much civil action work focuses shared social purpose, shared daily experiences can bring people together around an experience—​such as wanting to keep the market open. The solidarity that is generated by working to keep the market open can generate conversations about different approaches to social issues—​and the reverse. Respectful behavior generates a predisposition toward inclusiveness. Recognizing someone as worthy of respect, even in a nominal way, is often puts a break on polarization. Staying open to connecting with others and encouraging information to flow, even among those who see situations differently, allows for new interpretations of social situations. Openness to connections and to information are key mechanisms for resisting the poison closure process that Burt (2005) and others have warned against. The “mere civility” on which our concept of civil action relies requires neither a censoring of disagreement nor placing restrictions on resistance to injustice, repression, or violence. Indeed, disagreement, resistance to wrongs, and conversations about them are key to resisting complicity in violence or injustice. Its focus on decorum and respect as tools to encourage conversations also has critical importance for relational dynamics. These parameters for action foster connections, solidarity among connections, and openness among connections. Its reticence to violence is fundamental to each. Through these mechanisms, civil action is more likely to maintain or build relationships upon which an effective and just governance can be built—​those that are most likely to maximize voice in keeping with a collective purpose and thus productive in generating a resilient approach to common affairs (Hirschman 1970).

 

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Connections. Connections are fundamental to collective action. More people participating in a more meaningful way is key to successful civil resistance (Chenoweth and Stephan 2011, 30). The reason civil resistance works better than its violent alternative is that it is more likely to attract large numbers of participants across a broad spectrum of society. In South Africa and El Salvador widespread participation was key to changing governmental behavior (Wood 2000). Corporate elites at Nestle and Shell (Friedman 2006, 50) and military elites in Yemen (Brooks 2013; Nepstad 2013) also shifted their perspectives and behavior as a result of large movements. And new norms often reach tipping points once they are held by a large enough group, at which they have cascading effects (Finnemore and Sikkink 1998). Thus far in studied history, if enough people participate in a movement, it is successful—​the so-​called 3.5 percent rule (Chenoweth 2013). Successful movements often turn societal authorities away from a regime, leaving them either agnostic toward or supportive of the movement. This dynamic is associated with civil resistance campaigns that are both successful and result in more democratic processes. Solidarity. For connections to gain meaning there must be a collective logic to them—​some agreement or solidarity within a group around a purpose. Our conception that civil action encourages articulation and voice around moral and ethical commitments, or purpose, is critical to developing solidarity. Building solidarity requires communication, but its form can vary from clandestine conversations that can be critical to organization to open political speeches or subtler public demonstrations of meaning. Civil action can thus be highly contentious.8 But to be civil, action should demonstrate some capacity to tolerate and even respect those with whom one disagrees. Doing so enables active conversations about social issues that can both attract the likeminded and hold open the most potential for persuading others—​or generating creative new understandings. Civil action may also reveal ways to shape incentives that pull in participants or gather followers who may be less committed to a cause but are eager to continue particular relationships.9 Balancing these twin impulses, toward connection and toward solidarity, increases the potential to generate solidarity among more people. Solidarity, though, is a Janus-​faced mechanism. It is critical to civil action’s potential but can also be a source of uncivil action. Openness. Openness to information, connections, and opportunities is critical for keeping meaningful relationships vibrant. Change is ubiquitous and remaining open to information allows groups to identify problems and opportunities. Furthermore, innovative responses are often the product of connections with other networks (Granovetter 1973; Padgett and Powell 2012).10 Brokers, or people who sit in two different networks and connect them, are often the

 

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mechanisms through which innovative ideas for resolving the conflict originate (McAdam, Tarrow, and Tilly 2001; Goddard 2012). Brokers’ potential for innovation is similarly elevated by openness to arguments for reconstructed meanings, or shifts in solidarity logic. Openness is also important for avoiding opportunistic action, when brokers use the meaning surrounding social purpose for personal gain (often with the use of violence) at costs to the purpose. Information flow and openness to outside sources make it more difficult to hide such moves and easier to generate social reactions that punish opportunism and reward behavior that appeals to common concerns. Openness to information can thus interrupt processes of closure. It can also allow the consideration of alternatives that can engender commonality or reduce violence. The commitment to remain open to information should encourage openness and interrupt closure even within large solidarity networks. Civil action thus aims to manage the different social benefits that come through connections and solidarity by recognizing the social value of trust in particular relationships (Burt 2005) but being biased toward openness. Through these mechanisms civil action can affect mobilization processes, framing, the perception of opportunities or threats, and repertories of action. It can thus affect the balance between contention and interaction that is key to conflict dynamics (McAdam et. al. 2001, 17). There is always the potential, though, for solidarity to become captured, for brokers to use their positions opportunistically, and for social capital to be bound to a particular vision, leading to uncivil action—​that is, exclusion and othering. Just because an actor takes civil action one day does not mean it will the next. Under what circumstances does civil action seem most likely to maintain relationships, reduce levels of local violence, or affect the overall dynamics of the conflict?

1.7.  When Does Civil Action Work? To begin, civil action appears most likely to reduce violence when it resonates locally. Local dynamics play the largest role in shaping civil action’s relational potential. Local actors are those whose lives have built quotidian and other connections that they can pull into local political and social circles to enable more consequential action (Parkinson 2013; Braun 2016). Cultivation of even very personal relationships can maintain civil space in the middle of a conflict. Preexisting connections and organization can also be redeployed for civil action during a conflict. This can be important given the difficulty of organizing amid violence or in periods of polarization. Robert Braun (2016) has documented how the strong networks of trust and empathy that developed among members of a minority church in a majority-​dominated locale motivated Catholics when

 

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they were the minority and Protestants when they were to rescue Jews during the Holocaust. Long-​standing connections can also link networks in new ways when individuals play multiple roles and thus can act as what network theorists refer to as “multiplex nodes” (Padgett and Powell 2012). Public efforts to resist violence, even in private arenas such as artistic performance or ways of dressing, can also generate solidarity and attract others to strengthen local relationships. And new connections can be important for reconfiguring how people identify. Identifying in different ways often leads actors to move between more and less violence (McAdam et. al. 2001). Transnational civil action can contribute resources, organization, and new ideas, but its impact on relationships and violence is often secondary and may be distorted if it does not tap into, and further develop, local connections. This finding ratifies what some have already shown: international help yields its intended result in conjunction with local actors and relationships at various levels (Murdie 2014; Campbell 2017), but these relationships are often fraught (Autesserre 2014). Relationships with international groups may lead organizations on the ground taking civil action to gain material support but lose legitimacy (Chenoweth and Stephan 2011). Transnational civil action by those who misunderstand local relationships may be resisted or co-​opted, or it may backfire. Even when it has a positive impact on the local economy or other social benefits, transnational civil action may still feed into violence if its impact threatens those committed to uncivil action (Zürcher, ­chapter 8). Though the dynamics change from case to case, in general we find that local relational dynamics play a critical role. This also suggests that transnational actors should attend as much to the relational impact their intervention has as they do to the type of intervention or level of resources behind it. Second, civil action by any one party is not determinative; it is interaction that shapes relationships and leads to, or away from, violence. Interactions have greater impact with greater coordination. Coordination helps to pull the actors taking civil action into a wave, increasing the potential to make even more connections and encouraging solidarity. In Tuzla, coordination among political parties and then the creation of the Tuzla Citizen’s Forum enabled synchronization among the many different organizations that were engaged in civil action in the city, including different parts of the local government (Berry, ­chapter 7). On the outskirts of Lima, popular theater groups coordinated with women’s associations and other community organizations to resist insurgent violence and to denounce the state’s human rights abuses, demonstrating that greater coordination, even among low-​capacity groups, can have effect (Zech, c­ hapter 3). We find many instances in which coordination builds on existing organizations but allows them greater impact than if they were working alone. All the cases we examine in which civil action had an impact on local violence involved coordination.

 

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Third, a greater breadth of actors undertaking civil action also enhances its potential impact. Differences along ethnic, religious, class, political, gender, or other lines means that actors have different bases of authority and different constituencies. As more of them tap into their respective networks, they bring more potential participants to engage in civil action. They also can shape a more inclusive solidarity and help translate its meaning for people in different societal positions. When activists are joined by housewives and lawyers and business people and church leaders, civil action is more impactful. Within-​ case comparisons of different cities during the 1990s Bosnian conflict (Berry, ­chapter 7) and recent violence in Mexico (Ley and Guzmán, ­chapter 6) demonstrate different ways in which diversity and breadth of participation can matter. Often, conflicts end not because the two sides finally come to terms over what they have been fighting about but because the character of the sides changes or how they see themselves shifts. McAdams et al.’s (2001, 191–​94) analysis of the civil war that did not occur in Spain provides a useful illustration. Contention in Spain was diverted away from violence by new connections (in particular, deepening relationships with Europe) that strengthened a focus on Spain as a democracy and on modern economic relations. These frames changed the way elites saw themselves vis-​à-​vis those they represented and thus the type of action they saw as productive. Goddard’s (2012) analysis of brokers in Northern Ireland also demonstrated that peace can be found in shifting identities. The cases examined here show how civil action can matter for these shifts. Argomaniz (­chapter 9) finds a similar dynamic in the Basque region of Spain, where peace activists were able to shift the narrative in ways that drew in a great breadth of participants to work in complement to, if not coordination with, shifts in the government’s strategy. We also include a cautionary note about the interaction between civil and uncivil actions. Extreme levels of polarization and violence can make civil action dangerous, limiting its likelihood and effect (Fujii 2009). As the example of Prijedor, Bosnia, demonstrates, sustained organization around exclusion, othering, and violence can erode trust in relationships, unsettle norms, and raise the costs of undertaking civil action (­chapter 7). And the case studies of Syria and Peru demonstrate civil actions can have a boomerang effect that escalates violence even as they transform action possibilities. Notwithstanding these cautions, Table 1.1 summarizes the actors, mechanisms, conditioning factors and outcomes associated with the civil action described in this volume.11 We look separately at our three different dependent variables or effects. This is useful for better understanding shifts in conflict dynamics, particularly over short periods of time. In the longer term, however, these effects are rarely distinct. Civil action that works to maintain or enhance relationships is crucial for the local social fabric, but it can also, with coordination and broad participation, increase the prospect of tamping down local violence. And tamping down local violence in one area can generate shifts in how parties see themselves and others

 

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Table 1.1 Repertoires of Civil Action11 Actors

Mechanism/civil actions

Government authorities

Nonviolence Quality of local Denounce/​resist violence ties (+) Monitor violence Prior relationships Maintain restraint and organization (+) Connections Coordination of Promote dialogue action (+) Aid/​rescue Breadth of actors Collaborate with other taking action (+) nonviolent action Offer engagement with Intensity of violence/​ opponents polarization (–​)

Citizen groups Religious authorities Local companies Artists and journalists Transnational advocates Transnational implementers Transnational companies International Organizations

Factors conditioning civil action’s effects

Outcomes Preserve and build relationships Dampen local violence Move toward conflict settlement

Solidarity Assert/​create collective frames Assert commonality Name and shame perpetrators Create conflict aware practices Aid/​rescue Openness Facilitate information exchange Report on violence

to lead to less violence overall. Although we examine each case separately for analytical ease, it is worth noting their relationship to one another.

1.8.  Cases and Outcomes We trace the logic of civil action and its effects through nine case studies. The case studies examine the actions of a variety of authorities undertaking civil action in an array of violent conflict situations. The cases ask whether civil action (and by whom or what) contributed to the maintenance of relationships, the levels of local violence, or the ending of conflict. Our goal is to introduce and explain civil action and trace the mechanisms through which it renders its effects. Considering civil action and how it works is likely to shift our understanding of

 

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conflict dynamics, foster additional research on its effects, and ultimately lead to greater understanding and better policy. We group the chapters according to the primary relational outcome on which they focus. Though many of the chapters are built around within-​case comparisons, and thus exhibit a variety of outcomes, their attention is primarily directed toward maintaining relationships, levels of local violence, or the conflict overall. Part I  contains three chapters that examine how civil action primarily worked to maintain or build relationships even in the midst of extreme violence. Chapter 2, by Wendy Pearlman, examines civil action in Syria’s current conflict. Although she notes the role of civil action in leading to repressive violence against protesters in the first place, her primary point is to demonstrate the endurance, and even blossoming, of civil action amid an extraordinary level of violence by the regime, and then a violent resistance to it. Pearlman charts two phases. In the first, a popular uprising saw the emergence of local committees that organized street protests, citizen journalists and artists who created new forums for free expression, expatriates who mobilized support, and medical teams who established alternative healthcare. In the second, after the conflict escalated to a multidimensional civil war, citizens created institutions of self-​ government, developed means of delivering relief and rescue to bombarded communities, and built an array of support mechanisms by and for the forcibly displaced. Though impeded by both the relative lack of preexisting organizations on which to build and the relentless and extreme violence, civil action by many different actors in Syria has carved out space for new relationships that hold a critically important place in the country’s landscape. They provided a bridge away from its authoritarian past, and represented a crucial component of any hope for a more democratic future. Even as these hopes fade, it is worth reflecting on these relationships. In ­chapter  3, Steven Zech analyzes how civil action by Vichama Teatro, a theater group in Peru, affected violence on the outskirts of Lima. Through its performances and commitment to nonviolence, the group was instrumental in turning a critical eye on all sides during the civil war and preventing closure in a highly polarized environment. Vichama’s performances took place amid escalating terrorist violence that culminated in the brutal assassination of a key activist ally. But the community rallied around the group in the wake of this violence, and the continuation of its work opened avenues for dialogue and solidarity and helped to build connections among community members—​ women’s associations, mother’s clubs, and community groups delivering social services—​across political lines. Despite the initial violence, Vichama Teatro enabled relationships that laid a foundation for less violent interactions in the years to come.

 

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Chapter 4 is by Fletcher Cox, who focuses his research on the long-​running Samburu-​Turkana range war in Kenya. There, civil and uncivil action on the part of traditional authorities, local civilian groups, and the government, along with civil action by various transnational peacebuilding and development organizations, have worked to maintain the authority of local militias in ways that have frozen conflict. Although the local elders sometimes mobilize to prevent escalation, their authority is vested in exclusionary identities and violent capacities that have also inhibited the resolution of the conflict. Only a transformation of their authority will make an end to the conflict possible. Part II contains four chapters, each examining within-​case comparisons of different conflicts to demonstrate civil action’s effects on levels of local violence. Chapter  5 by Amy Grubb looks at the behavior of local representatives of government, particularly the police, in two communities in Northern Ireland during the Troubles. Civil action on the part of protestors and police maintained a level of calm in Omagh; whereas uncivil action by the police in Dungannon, particularly their collusion with loyalist radicals, caused violence to escalate rapidly. Sandra Ley and Magdalena Guzmán, in ­chapter  6, demonstrate how civil action by businesses began processes that de-​escalated criminal violence in Mexico. In Monterey, a coordinated effort by large companies drew in parts of the national government to work alongside civil-​society organizations to create a new, less corrupt police force. Training and monitoring programs also helped to moderate the violence. They were accompanied, though, by increased allegations of human rights abuses. The new connections and the breadth of participation helped contain the violence in Monterey even though violence continued in many other parts of Mexico. The authors contrast the experience of Monterey with that of Acapulco, where businesses did not cooperate with one another. In Acapulco, some businesses used violence as a justification to engage in uncivil action, to reap commercial advantage. And the levels of violence in Acapulco remained high. During the Bosnian civil war in the 1990s, violence levels varied markedly in different parts of the country. In ­chapter 7, Marie Berry describes how different levels of civil action affected the violence in Tuzla, Sarajevo, and Prijedor. In Tuzla, civil action by a robust set of religious and other local organizations, which coordinated with one another and the local government through a “Citizen’s Forum,” generated solidarity, maintained and developed connections, and expanded openness in ways that contributed to the relatively peaceful outcome there. In Sarajevo, less-​coordinated civil actions by a variety of groups—​ religious organizations, artists, NGOs, and others—​generated solidarity and maintained relationships, even during the siege, but was not enough to contain the local violence. In Prijedor, however, sudden and massive violence, resulting

 

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from an uncivil partisan takeover of the local government, reduced the space for civil action. In ­chapter  8, Christoph Zǜrcher uses survey data from local communities in Afghanistan to explain at least two civil-​action strategies they used to reduce violence. One involved attempts to use the Taliban’s narrative in pleading with them to use restraint. The second was to claim neutrality in the fight between the government and the Taliban. Although both strategies depended on characteristics of the Taliban’s local organization and generated costs, in some circumstances, the villagers reported that their actions were effective in reducing violence. Zǜrcher also finds that civil action involving transnational aid, though it was designed to improve villagers’ lives, often did so at the cost of making local violence-​reduction strategies less effective. Part III describes two cases in which civil action was consequential for resolving the conflict. In ­chapter  9, Javier Argomaniz examines how a nascent peace movement in Basque Country in Spain undertook civil action to challenge the violent narratives promoted by ETA’s sympathizers. In collaboration with local authorities, public figures, and other civil-​society organizations, support for this movement grew over the course of decades, and eventually a narrative of peace, democracy, and human rights became dominant in Basque society. Although many other factors contributed to the conflict’s resolution, civil action by the peace movement, Argomaniz argues, is essential to understand how the end to ETA violence became possible. Angelika Rettberg, in ­chapter 10, focuses on the civil action undertaken by parts of the business community that helped end the conflict in Colombia. Much of her analysis seeks to understand why particular elements of the business community took action to support peace. She also demonstrates, however, that the actions these businesses took were consequential in reducing an inadvertent acceleration of violence and in aiding the effort to end the conflict more generally. Even in highly violent contexts, civil action can affect conflict processes and outcomes. Investigating the civil action and the uncivil action of many different social identities generates new insights into the interactions that produce conflict dynamics. These insights point the way to better theorizing and a wider range of valuable policy options. The conclusion summarizes the insights gained from the case studies and extends their potential usefulness to examining contentious politics more generally, particularly in the context of contemporary political struggles.

1.9. In Sum The volume elaborates on the logic of civil action and shows how this concept follows from and builds on important developments in the microdynamics

 

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of conflict and contentious politics literatures. Many of the chapters articulate the reasoning different authorities use to justify taking civil action. The chapters that follow build out and highlight the agency of various social actors as a function of their claims to authority, constituencies, and capabilities. They also disaggregate the ways in which civil action may affect violence: in relationships, levels of local violence, and the overall conflict. The cases described here illustrate the mechanisms through which civil action works and the conditions under which it is likely to dampen or escalate violence. By investigating the agency of a broad array of social actors and attending to the civil—​as well as uncivil—​actions they take, the volume provides new insights into conflict dynamics that we hope will inspire better theory and more useful policy options in conflict-​affected contexts.

Notes 1. Lysistrata is a classical Greek comedy, written by Aristophanes, in which women endeavor to end the Peloponnesian War by denying all the men of the land sex. 2. Ukraine is not alone. From 2000 to 2014, over 50  percent of such mass movements have succeeded in overthrowing sitting governments (Chenoweth 2016). 3. “Pro-​Russian Insurgents Retreat from Buildings in Mariupol,” CBC News, May 16, 2014. 4. Based on an analysis by Roger Williams, respect can be based on day-​to-​day interactions that are unrelated to general values. This respect allows those who disagree, even vehemently, to nonetheless talk with one another. See Bejan (2017). 5. Williams founded the Rhode Island settlement on these terms. As Bejan (2017) explains, what drove Williams to the notion of “mere civility” was his strident proselytizing and the logic he thought would most likely make it successful (pp. 50–​81). 6. For exceptions see Wood (2000, 2003). 7. Burt (2005) refers to this process as “echo.” 8. This is in sharp contrast to Hobbsean notions of civility that advise remaining silent on issues over which there is great disagreement (Bejan 2017). 9. Rublee (2009, 16–​21) outlines three mechanisms through which behavior can be shifted: persuasion (change in preferences), cost-​benefit calculation, and identification (social esteem). 10. Although our overall logic is not confined to this approach, the benefits of openness we define here are similar to those described in North, Wallis, and Weingast (2009). 11. It is possible, indeed probable, that the authority that an actor—​or actors—​claims affects the civil action it undertakes and the reception of that action.

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PA RT  I

CIVIL ACTION AND MAINTAINING RELATIONSHIPS

 

 

2

Civil Action in the Syrian Conflict Wendy Pearlman

2.1.  Introduction Against the backdrop of the wave of regional demonstrations known as the Arab Spring, tens and then hundreds of Syrians went out into the streets in 2011 to call for freedom and dignity. The regime of Bashar al-​Assad responded with repression, bringing sweeping numbers of citizens to participate in a nationwide popular uprising. As government reprisals intensified, the rebellion took up arms, and conflict descended into a multidimensional war marked by state brutality, rebel fractionalization, and penetration by external actors. A 2016 report estimated that 11.5 percent of the country’s prewar population of 22 million had been killed or injured since 2011 (Black 2016). Some 60  percent of the population had been forcibly displaced (Connor 2018). As of 2019, some 128,000 individuals had disappeared in government prisons (Barnard 2019). Torture and inhuman conditions in regime prisons, including the hanging of some 13,000 people in one prison alone, amounted to crimes against humanity (Amnesty International 2017). Although the conflict was distinguished by shockingly ferocious violence, it also witnessed not only the continuation of steadfast nonviolent opposition, but also its unprecedented blossoming. In Alia Malek’s (2014) words, Syria witnessed a “veritable explosion in organizations and associations founded by Syrians” during the conflict. The United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs counted 600 to 700 local groups that were initiated between 2011 and 2015 (Svoboda and Pantuliano 2015, iii). While even former United Nations officials chastised the failures of the international community vis-​à-​vis Syria (Hearn 2016), many Syrian groups did heroic work that was both overlooked and underfunded. As the Middle East Institute (2016), “Syrian civil society groups have faced seemingly insurmountable challenges  .  .  .  and can count few friends among the violent actors on the ground. Nevertheless, their 35

 

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work and determination continue unabated, with little external attention, recognition or support.” Most of these civil-​society groups emerged in opposition to the Assad regime and in interaction with its use of violence to hold power, as well as with the violence of other rebel groups that emerged in this context. Civil action evolved across two general phases of conflict. The first phase saw the rise of a largely unarmed popular uprising. During this period, local committees organized street protests and sustained communities under siege; networks of citizen journalists and artists forged new forums for self-​expression; expatriates mobilized financial and logistical support; medical teams established alternative healthcare; and a political leadership in exile attempted to act as the international representative of the grass-​roots movement. A second phase took root as oppositionists took up arms and the conflict escalated to a bloody war with intrastate, regional, and international dimensions. As the street protests declined (though did not fully disappear), activists adapted the forms and functions of civil action to the new context of state withdrawal and humanitarian crisis. They created institutions of self-​government in swaths of the country that came under rebel control, developed means of delivering relief and rescue to bombarded communities, and built an array of support mechanisms both by and for the forcibly displaced. Still other phases of Syrian civil action may crystallize as the conflict enters different stages in the years to come. Following Russia’s military intervention on Assad’s behalf in late 2015, the regime made advances in reconsolidating authority, reconquering territory from rebel control, and trying to win acceptance by the international community as a legitimate partner for postconflict reconstruction. These changes in Syria, as well as the increasing reality that some portion of refugees will not return home, will likely dampen some earlier forms of unarmed resistance. Yet this will not mark the end of Syrian civil action as much as push it toward novel forms with different attributes and time horizons. Scrutiny of this multifaceted civil action and its complex interplays with violence can contribute to the research program on what has been dubbed the “protest-​repression nexus.” Estimations of the effect of state coercion on collective challenges to authority are famously inconsistent (Zimmerman 1980; Davenport 2005, 2007). Nevertheless, many case studies argue that repression generates individual-​level motivations and group-​level pressures that radicalize rebellion (Olivier 1991; White 1989; Khawaja 1993; della Porta 1995). Some research has found that states’ use of indiscriminate repression drives movements from nonviolent protest to violent protest. When protestors perceive that they are punished whether their strategies are moderate or radical, they opt for that which inflicts higher costs on their opponent (Lichbach 1998). When regimes respond to nonviolent protest with violence rather than concessions, rational

 



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dissenters may similarly conclude that nonviolence is ineffective and that a stronger course of action is necessary (Mason 2004). The Syrian conflict offers a rich and varied setting in which to explore these dynamics and also broaden their scope. This case shows how civil action in the form of unarmed dissent can boomerang, leading the government to escalate violence. But it also demonstrates how use of force by the government can boomerang to increase the size and magnitude of grass-​roots collective action, intensify its demands, and eventually trigger its militarization. No less, the Syrian experience can inform debates on the protest-​repression nexus by illustrating how state violence does not simply accelerate or decelerate civil action but also alters its forms. Syrian state violence spurred civic activists’ “tactical adaptation” (McAdam 1983; Lichbach 1987; Moore 1998; Moss 2014) insofar as it led them to choose new strategies in response to changing conditions. Beyond mere tactics, state violence also fueled tremendous diversification in the very agents of civil action and the kinds of work in which they engaged. Study of this case shows how conflict can push and pull civil activists into a host of activities that are unarmed and engaging but are not, strictly speaking, protest. It does so by generating both needs and opportunities that invite a new repertoire of civic behaviors that go far beyond contentious claims-​making to center on coping, defending, building, expressing, supporting, and surviving. Emerging and transforming in interaction with violence, civil action in Syria had impacts on conflict that resonate with other cases examined in this volume. Facing violence by the state, civil action groups monitored and exposed violations of human rights and international law and alleviated some of the destructive consequences of violence by providing vital services that saved lives. Facing violence by armed groups, they monitored their activities and pressured those groups to better safeguard civilians. Perhaps most significantly, civil action groups carved out spaces for inclusive deliberation and democratic participation, building an alternative to coercion as a way of organizing social and political life. In this way, the groups involved in this work sustained a popular revolution, despite tremendous odds. This chapter analyzes the evolution, variety, and effects of civil action in the Syrian conflict in six sections. The first two sections present the chapter’s research methodology and Syria’s basic historical context. The third section traces major categories of civil action that emerged during the two phases of conflict since 2011, offering some illustrations but in no way providing a complete catalogue. The fourth section assesses the impact of civil action. The fifth section explores how this impact was mediated by coordination or its absence, both among local civil-​society actors and between them and international organizations. The sixth section concludes by recapping the achievements of Syrian civil action and its limits, as well as the larger theoretical contribution of this work.

 

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2.2.  Methods The chapter is informed by life-​history interviews that I conducted with more than 300 displaced Syrians from 2012 to 2016 in Jordan, Turkey, Lebanon, United Arab Emirates, Denmark, Sweden, and Germany (for more details, see Pearlman 2016a, 2016b, 2017). Because of the danger inside Syria, nearly seven million citizens have taken refuge outside the country, and they offer an important source of firsthand accounts of the manifold forms of action that emerged during the conflict. I  identified interview subjects using a snowball sampling, an appropriate approach for “hard to reach” populations for which no sampling frame exists (Goodman 2011, 350). Carrying out research in several towns in several countries allowed me to access multiple entry points into different social networks, which gave me an interviewee pool that varied by age, class, region, and rural or urban background, among other characteristics. Refugees offer a particularly valuable channel to the universe of Syrians who participated in activity opposed to the Assad regime, because most fled after they or their towns faced violent reprisals for their anti-​regime stances (Özden 2013, 3; United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees 2013, 15). Though my open-​ended interviews did not concentrate on civil action specifically, they yielded an array of testimonials about how ordinary people came to contribute to such activities. Though I employ a selection of these comments as illustration, the bulk of the chapter synthesizes published articles and reports. Some of these studies are based on primary field research, including discussion groups, individual interviews, and surveys of Syrians inside or outside Syria (Halabi 2013; Khalaf, Ramadan, and Stolleis 2014; Menapolis 2013; Swisspeace 2016). Others are written by Syrian researchers who were themselves eyewitnesses to the phenomena they describe (Abu Hamed 2014). In the volatile context of a brutal war, data are usually incomplete and difficult to fully verify. Still, each of the collected sources provides a window into a different facet of Syrian civil action, and their sum offers an abundance of information with which to map its general landscape.

2.3. Historical Context In 1970, General Hafez al-​Assad seized power within the Baath Party regime that had been established by a coup in 1963. Over the next three decades, he built a durable authoritarian regime based on a well-​organized ruling party, populist welfare policies, alliances across society, and extensive employment in a bloated public sector (Hinnebusch 1989, 1990; Perthes 1995; Batatu 1999). When an omnipresent security apparatus did not forestall opposition, regime violence

 



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did. Islamist extremists began fighting the regime with armed attacks in the late 1970s and the Muslim Brotherhood led an insurrection in the city of Hama in 1982. Assad launched a scorched-​earth assault that flattened the city and left tens of thousands dead (Middle East Watch 1991). A generation of Syrians was warned of how the regime would respond to challenges. In 2000, Assad died and his son Bashar assumed power. Many Syrians supported the young, Western-​educated ophthalmologist and his pledges of reform. In an opening known as the Damascus Spring, new civil-​society forums engaged in debate and unprecedented petitions demanded change (George 2003; Wieland 2012). Within months, however, the government cracked down. Security forces arrested and tried leading activists, closed organizations, and spread malicious rhetoric accusing civic activists of being aligned with enemies of the state. This authoritarian state left a legacy that would shape civil action after 2011. Unlike in other Arab countries that saw uprisings, such as Egypt, Yemen, or Bahrian, Syrian oppositionists were not able to draw upon the organizational resources, networks, or accumulated know-​how of a preexisting field of professional associations, labor unions, critical blogosphere, or political parties. Activists thus faced the task of developing civil action during the very process of rebelling and surviving an extreme crackdown.

2.4.  Civil Action in the Syrian Conflict 2.4.1.  Phase One: Unarmed Uprising Starting in late 2010, Tunisia and then Egypt launched mass demonstrations that diffused across the region. Many analysts and Syrians themselves judged that Syria would remain immune from the regional wave. The Assad regime’s grip on the population seemed too strong; and society’s capacity for organized opposition, too weak. Nevertheless, successive forms of civil action emerged and gave rise to a national uprising. 2.4.1.1.  Protest and Dissent

The first major form of civil action in the Syrian revolt was nonviolent street protest. Spontaneous opposition to the oversteps by a police officer in the Damascus old city emboldened bystanders, as did a handful of vigils held in solidarity with the revolts in other countries. Answering expatriates’ online calls to make March 15 a “Day of Rage,” citizens in a few localities held demonstrations, which were quickly repressed. A  demonstration in Daraa, on Syria’s southern periphery, attracted mass participation and sparked indignation when security

 

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forces shot and killed two unarmed protestors. Funerals, demonstrations, and casualties intensified that week in Daraa. The following Friday, tens of thousands joined solidarity demonstrations in towns across Syria. In the wake of the first mass demonstrations, small groups of oppositionists met at the local level to support the growing movement with greater planning. The organic way in which friends, neighbors, and family members came together confirms this volume’s conclusions about the ability of actors to make use of quotidian connections to take consequential civil action. An activist recalled the experience in his village: “Leading figures in the community, and anyone with drive and an eagerness to contribute, gathered together. They divided themselves into groups to deal with specific tasks” (Pearlman 2017). These grass-​ roots groups became called tanseeqiyat, or “coordination committees.” Within a year, several hundred such units were active around the country (Khoury 2014, 79). A few activists, among them the acclaimed human rights lawyer Razan Zeitouneh, helped to link the grass-​roots groups in a national network called the Local Coordination Committees (LCCs). This umbrella structure demonstrated the role of coordination in enhancing the impact of civil action, as investment in linkages across groups helped empower a united political message, facilitate the flow of resources and information between localities, and aggregate information about human rights violations that regime forces were committing across the country (Yassin-​Kassab and Al-​Shami 2015, 58). Because most field activists needed to remain anonymous to protect their safety, Zeitouneh and a few other figures emerged as the movement’s media spokespeople. A national-​level executive committee, media office, relief office, and website took shape (Carnegie Middle East Center, 2012). The network released a few political statements and, in June 2011, elaborated a “vision paper” on Syria’s political future (Abu Hamed 2014, 8, 12). Though LCCs were the “dynamo” of the Syrian revolution (Abu Hamed 2014, 6), dozens of other civic groups emerged to coordinate dissent as well. Among them were the Syrian Revolution Coordinators Union, which organized a boycott of regime-​supporting businesses; the Union of Free Syrian Students, which represented university communities; the Syrian Revolutionary Youth, which advocated for greater attention to socioeconomic issues; and Nabd, which concentrated on intersectarian coexistence (Yassin-​Kassab and Al-​Shami 2015, 58–​61). 2.4.1.2. Citizen Journalism

During this early phase of peaceful protest, Syrians championing revolution battled against not only repression by the security force but also a

 



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government media apparatus that systematically ignored protests or denounced demonstrators as criminals, foreign agents, or terrorists. In this context, citizens began acting as journalists, covering demonstrations and reporting on regime repression. This form of civil resistance was nearly as important as the demonstrations themselves. Given the severe limits on foreign press access, citizen journalists became essential in chronicling events, giving voice to the people living them, exposing violations, and generally keeping the world informed about what was happening on the ground. Besides working as freelancers or in small collectives, media activists founded some eighty new publications and several new television and radio stations (Charaf 2014). They undertook mortal risks to do so. For six consecutive years, from 2011 to 2016, the Committee to Protect Journalists named Syria the deadliest country for journalists (Committee to Protect Journalists 2017). 2.4.1.3.  Forums of Free Expression

Cultural expression might not constitute civil action in every conflict context. Where an authoritarian regime monopolizes public discourse and uses fear to silence dissent, however, citizens’ expansion of free voice represents a critical form of resistance (Pearlman 2016a). Such was the case in Syria, which saw, in the words of one report, a “renaissance of freedom of expression” (Charaf 2014). An explosion of creative works, including filmmaking, painting, graffiti, banners, caricature, song, theater, dance, satire, and writing, engaged social and political themes previously considered off limits (Al-​Zubaidi 2012; Halasa, Omareen, and Mahfoud 2014; Cooke 2017). Some expressive works acquired iconic roles. Kafranbel’s Media Centre led its village in unveiling weekly banners on which they wittily commented on current events, denounced violence against civilians, and deplored the international community’s inaction. The group Masasit Mati created “Top Goon:  Diaries of a Little Dictator,” a YouTube finger-​puppet show that criticized both Bashar al-​A ssad and the revolt’s turn to arms. The Abounadara collective provided a platform for anonymous filmmakers, who posted, on a nearly weekly basis, short films reflecting on life in Syria (Halasa, Omareen, and Mahfoud 2014). Another essential realm of civil engagement in Syria unfolded on social media. The regime lifted its ban on Facebook in February 2011, after which its use skyrocketed. Despite a significant risk that intelligence agencies would track down and arrest users (al-​Farhan 2014), more than 3,000 Syrian Facebook pages, blogs, and media groups had emerged by 2015 (Citizens for Syria 2015, 15).

 

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2.4.1.4. Medical Relief

Government forces not only injured unarmed protestors, but also regarded injuries as proof of participation in protest that warranted further punishment. In this context, the regime came to target patients, caregivers, and medical transport (Al-​Saiedi and Sollom 2011). Activists responded by covertly smuggling medical supplies into besieged areas and by creating alternatives to public clinics. One man described the civil work in his community: During the first few days of the revolution, we weren’t careful, and we brought the wounded to government-​run hospitals. In the morning, we’d take an injured person to the hospital with a gunshot wound in his leg. At night, we’d return to find him dead with a gunshot to the head. Guys would die and they’d force families to say that their sons had been killed by terrorist gangs. So we created field hospitals. A  friend of mine donated his house and they transformed it into a place to help the wounded. There were doctors and nurses, and young women and men volunteered to help. (Pearlman 2017) By 2013, some 200 field hospitals were conducting surgeries and thousands of emergency points were offering basic life support across the country, many thanks to funding from international or nongovernmental organizations (Sankari, Atassi, and Sahloul 2013, 85). Under constant danger of reprisals by the Syrian army, these makeshift clinics typically hid in basements, factories, or other underground sites. Later, when rebel control of territory allowed hospitals to operate more openly, many would be deliberately bombed. By March 2016, Physicians for Human Rights recorded 359 attacks on medical facilities and the killing of 730 medical workers, the vast majority perpetrated by the Syrian government or its allies (Coster 2016). 2.4.1.5.  Diaspora-​Based Support and Solidarity

During the first months of the protest movement, many Syrian expatriates also rallied to aid civil action. Some formed groups that they, like their compatriots inside the country, called coordination committees (Dickinson 2015). A Syrian in the United Arab Emirates recalled: After a few months of protests, I found that some people had started a tanseeqiya in Abu Dhabi. Like everything in the revolution people just came together and started working.

 



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We were connected to the coordination committees in Riyadh and Dubai and the US and elsewhere. We had a regular weekly meeting, with men and women, from every kind of Syrian background . . . People in the coordination committee were well connected with the people on the inside. In the beginning, [people inside Syria] only wanted cell phones, cameras, satellite Internet, satellite phones. So we were shipping cell phones like crazy. When the sieges began, things became more dire, and people started asking for material aid: food, blankets, things like that. (Interview with author, Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates, March 16, 2016)  2.4.1.6.  Formal Political Leadership

A final category of civil action that emerged during this phase was work to develop political leadership or diplomatic representation for the popular revolt. Formed in Istanbul in August 2011, the Syrian National Council brought together exiled opposition figures to articulate the demands of the uprising and serve as interlocutors with the international community on its behalf. Despite initially enthusiastic popular support, it quickly came under criticism for infighting, domination by the Muslim Brotherhood, failure to address the unique interests of the Kurdish population, and generally being out of touch with the grass roots (Yassin-​Kassab and Al-​Shami 2015, 185–​186).

2.4.2.  Phase Two: War and Humanitarian Crisis The revolt’s first five months were dominated by unarmed people’s power. Increasingly thereafter, citizens and army defectors took up guns under the banner of the Free Syrian Army (FSA). Assailed by the regime, lacking preexisting bases for organization, and divided by competing external patrons, the militarized rebellion was unable to build a cohesive structure. In this fragmented context, the al-​Qaeda-​linked Nusra Front announced its formation in January 2012 and the Islamic State of Iraq and Greater Syria (ISIS) did likewise in April 2013. By summer 2013, these and other rebel groups pushed the regime from approximately 60 percent of the country’s territory. The Syrian state, fortified by support from Iran, Russia, and Hezbollah, intensified its counterattack with use of artillery, missiles, airpower, scorched-​earth assaults, “kneel or starve” sieges, barrel bombs, and chemical weapons. The hardening of a multidimensional war and humanitarian crisis had major effects on civil action, the most prominent of which was the continuation of the shift from mass demonstrations toward relief, self-​governance, and service

 

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provision. Consistent with the effect of repression not only to escalate dissent, but also to alter its forms, prior categories of civil action evolved in this phase and new categories emerged. As José Ciro Martínez and Brent Eng (2018) argue, some civil actions enacted a kind of “stateness” to the degree that they endeavored to meet civilians’ expectations for basic welfare which had long been vital domains for the Assad regime. Consistent with the posited boomerang effect, the regime unleashed a campaign of aerial bombardment specifically targeting these challenges to its claim to a monopoly on legitimate political authority. Reflecting still other, complex boomerangs, aerial bombardment gave rise to rescue groups that in turn prompted other state backlash in the form of a propaganda onslaught to discredit those very groups (di Giovanni 2018). The section 2.4.2.1 explores these and other forms of civil action that came underway in interaction with violence during this second phase of conflict. 2.4.2.1.  Shifts in Earlier Forms of Civil Action

As the conflict militarized, the enormous crowds that brought millions into the streets in joyous street protests receded. Nevertheless, demonstrations never fully ceased and during some junctures—​such as after the signing of a regime-​ opposition ceasefire in February 2016 (Al-​Khatieb 2016) and in Idlib province after diplomacy forestalled a regime assault in September 2018 (Al-​Khateb 2018)—​came out in force across rebel-​controlled areas. Citizen journalism, human rights monitoring, and various forms of cultural expression likewise continued into the phase of war. With the increasing salience of foreign governments in providing weapons and financial support to armed groups, the prior role of Syrian expatriates in informally raising funds for phones and cameras diminished as a consequential form of involvement. Rather, as expatriates in the Gulf told me, many individuals shifted their financial priorities from general fundraising toward urgent support for their own displaced or besieged relatives. In addition, some expatriate groups’ prior unity behind the cause of peaceful protest broke down as members took conflicting positions on armed resistance. At the same time, formal diaspora-​led associations took on increasingly prominent roles in humanitarian relief. United States–​based 501(c) nonprofit aid organizations, such as the Syria Relief and Development (http://​syriareliefanddevelopment.org/​), the Syrian American Medical Society (https://​www.sams-​usa.net/​foundation/​), NuDay Syria (http://​www.nudaysyria.net/​home.html), and the Karam Foundation (http://​www.karamfoundation.org/​) delivered millions of dollars of aid and services to Syrians in need, both inside the country and among swelling refugee communities.

 



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Exile-​based bodies continued to attempt to offer political leadership during this phase. In November 2012, after an accumulation of criticism, the National Council folded into a new leadership body: the National Coalition for Syrian Revolutionary and Opposition Forces (http://​en.etilaf.org/​). Dozens of states recognized the Coalition as the legitimate representative of the Syrian people and many citizens initially applauded its formation. Coalition representatives participated in repeated rounds of peace talks with the Assad regime organized by the international community, without success. It also took on new functions in response to the humanitarian crisis. In December 2012, it created the Assistance Coordination Unit to serve as its humanitarian wing to facilitate the distribution of aid (Svoboda and Pantuliano 2015). In March 2013, it created the Syrian Interim Government, a set of institutions and ministries that aspired to coordinate services and governance in opposition-​held communities, though its presence remained limited on the ground. It was not long before the grass roots—​was criticizing the Coalition of mismanagement, internal squabbling, corruption, being beholden to foreign patrons, and general failure. Emblematic of this disappointment was a saying that became popular among activists: “We are in the trenches (khanadik) while they are in the fancy hotels (fanadik).” 2.4.2.2. Local Governance

As the regime withdrew from opposition strongholds, local leaders came together to fill the vacuum. “People were worried about survival,” one activist described conditions in rebel-​controlled Eastern Aleppo. “As revolutionary activists, the most important thing we could do was offer people an alternative to the regime. We had to provide food, shelter, and services. We had to create a new system” (Pearlman 2017). Beginning in the Damascus suburb of al-​Zabadani in 2012 and then spreading to other areas, these alternative bodies in opposition-​controlled areas came to be called “local councils” (Institute for War and Peace Reporting 2014, 16). Local councils became de facto authorities taking on administrative responsibility for functions ranging from waste collection to overseeing educational and medical services, creating judicial and policing systems, resolving conflicts, organizing health insurance, administering bakeries, distributing humanitarian aid, managing utilities, obtaining fuel, stabilizing prices, clearing rubble, and implementing economic development projects. The breadth of these roles varied with the geography of the conflict. In areas that remained militarily contested, under blockade, or only partially liberated from regime control, local councils tended to focus on distributing humanitarian assistance. In the large swathes of northern Syria that became effectively autonomous in 2013, local councils

 

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took on fuller responsibilities in governance and service provision (Menapolis 2013,  4–​5). Local councils varied in their authority as organizers of civil action. Their different degrees of local contextual legitimacy were linked to the personal bona fides of the members that comprised them. In a few places, such as Eastern Aleppo and in Idlib after January 2017, members were chosen by election (Institute for War and Peace Reporting 2014, 36; AFP 2017). Otherwise, council members tended to come from one of three different backgrounds (Menapolis 2013, 7). Some council members were former government employees. They had practical qualifications gained from prior experience staffing governmental institutions, yet tended to be oriented toward bureaucratic approaches out of sync with the revolutionary ethos and circumstances. Revolutionary activists, by contrast, enjoyed greater popular legitimacy and youthful enthusiasm for building participatory democracy, but often lacked administrative or technical skills. Finally, tribal elders or familial leaders often possessed customary prestige in local communities. However, a history of accommodation with Assad rule sometimes undermined their standing in the revolutionary context, and their traditional orientation impelled generational conflicts with younger activists. Apart from these ranging bases of authority, observers noted that local councils also varied in size, capacities, and effectiveness. While some worked diligently to ensure the transparency and accountability of their operations, others were accused of corruption, mismanagement, or recreating hierarchical structures that mimicked the autocratic state they aspired to replace (Institute for War and Peace Reporting 2014, 18, 32–​33). One critical assessment concluded that local councils “as a whole are characterized by disparate functions, fractured service delivery, and occasionally competing authority” (Halabi 2013, 21). A more generous view hailed them as a “civic breakthrough . . . [that] may help to nudge the ideological direction of the rebellion . . . by building up a groundswell of popular support for secular, accountable local governance” (Dettmer 2015). Local councils could only function to the degree that their communities remained free of regime control. Regime sieges and reconquest of territory forced many to cease operations. In consequence, the number of local councils fell from approximately 800 in early 2015 to 395 a year later (Becker and Stolleis 2016, 2). 2.4.2.3. Rescue Services

In the wake of aerial bombings, civilians often spontaneously rushed to salvage neighbors from under the rubble of collapsed buildings. These efforts formalized after some volunteers from northern Syria received technical training

 



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from Turkish earthquake rescue workers ( Jan 2015). In 2013 they formed the Syrian Civil Defense, also known as the White Helmets. With time, the Syrian Civil Defense came to be organized in a pyramidal structure according to which the leaders of local centers reported to sectors heads, who in turn reported to governorate directors who then reported to a national management overseen by a board of directors and supported administratively by an executive staff (Syria Civil Defense n.d.). By 2016, the White Helmets claimed to have saved some 41,000 lives (Dagher 2016). In the words of the Center for Civilians in Conflict (2016), “When international humanitarian aid and protection cannot be delivered, civilians are the first line of defense . . . Post-​attack rescue efforts, in particular, emerged as one of the most critical services for civilian survival” (29). With time, the organization expanded its service delivery to other sectors, such as management of emergency shelters, decontamination, and repair of public utilities (Syria Civil Defense n.d.). The White Helmets earned local trust and international acclaim, and were nominated for the Noble Peace Prize in 2017 and 2018. The group’s head was famously denied entrance to the United States when he came to receive the 2016 Humanitarian Award from the InterAction Forum (InterAction 2016). 2.4.2.4.  Action by and for the Displaced

Citizens forced to flee Syria also contributed substantially to civil action. In the six years of the conflict, the southern Turkish city of Gaziantep emerged as a hub for Syrian associational life in exile, as well as a base for international nongovernmental organizations working in rebel-​controlled Syria. For activists escaping regime retribution, engagement in civil action on the other side of the border was a natural continuation of their political commitments. The Moham Volunteering Team began as a group of students wanting to lend a helping hand to fellow refugees and evolved into an essential nonprofit provider of humanitarian relief (https://​molhamteam.com/​en). Kesh Malek began as a team of revolutionary friends distributing leaflets in Aleppo at the outset of the uprising and then developed projects in East Aleppo after the regime’s withdrawal (http://​ www.keshmalek.org/​). Subsequent conditions, such as the increasingly violent presence of extremist groups in the area, later forced some members to flee, bringing the group to manage many of its campaigns from outside the country (Interview with author, Gaziantep, Turkey, January 11, 2016). Dozens of groups committed to civil action similarly came to straddle the border in their staffs and operations. Over the years they supported work by local councils and local journalists, brought activists from Syria to Turkey for trainings, brought trainers and consultants inside Syria, aided development

 

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projects, and in myriad other ways helped communities survive siege and self-​ rule. These linkages showed that, in conflicts involving mass displacement, many of the “local ties” that this volume finds to be critical for civil action might be simultaneously local and cross-​border. Or, as Eva Svoboda and Sara Pantuliano (2015, 9) commented on Syria, “[T]‌he distinction between local and diaspora groups is not easily made.” Given the sheer density of these civic efforts, umbrella groups or networks formed to unite their work. Launched in Beirut, the Syrian Civil Coalition became an alliance of Syrian civic organizations that acted as a lobby representing their shared work on behalf of a democratic, civil Syrian state (http://​ civilsyria.net/​). Based in Gaziantep, Baytna Syria hosted workshops and discussion groups to empower Syrian groups’ networking, training, and grant-​making capacities (http://​baytnasyria.org). Founded in France, the Union of Medical Care and Relief Organizations undertook to increase the humanitarian response effectiveness of member organizations based in seven countries (https://​ www.uossm.org/​). While many exile-​based civil action initiatives concentrated on supporting Syrians who remained in the homeland, others focused on the needs of the displaced themselves. The focus on refugees increased in accord with twin developments increasingly defining the conflict after 2015: the Assad regime’s reconquest of rebel territory, which put an end to activities in formerly liberated zones, and the accumulating dire need of displaced communities with dwindling expectations of return. In this context, Hamisch, a Syrian arts and cultural center in Istanbul, sponsored lectures, exchanges, and other activities aimed at cultivating cross-​cultural understanding between Syrians and Turks (Keddie 2014). Based in Lebanon, the nongovernmental organization Basmeh and Zeitooneh operated multiple community centers through which more than a dozen different programs—​ranging from shelter renovations to embroidery workshops—​served more than 17,000 Syrian refugees (http://​www.basmeh-​ zeitooneh.org/​).

2.3.  Impact of Civil Action International efforts—​from United Nations envoys to Arab League Monitors to repeated rounds of peace talks and the tireless efforts of two American secretaries of state—​produced little progress toward ending the Syrian war. Syrian civil action groups did not succeed where the entire apparatus of the international community failed. Yet they exerted a range of other impacts on the conflict. Echoing other chapters in this volume, the Syrian case suggests that the greater the breadth of actors and activities, the larger the impact of civil action

 



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upon conflict. It also recommends a major caveat that harkens back to literature on the protest-​repression nexus: when a government is committed to crushing dissent by any means, civil action is only possible to the degree that it manages to evade state violence.

2.3.1.  Carving Out Space, Provoking Backlash Perhaps the most important impact of civil action upon violence in Syria lay in the initial launch of a popular uprising. In leading peaceful dissent, grass-​roots groups disrupted the structural violence by which an authoritarian regime sustained oppressive rule for four decades. It effectively carved out space for free speech, assembly, association, and dissent, in defiance of a coercive political system that long fought precisely that. This achievement divulged a paradox. As the editors of this volume argue, existing literature identifies inclusivity, mediation, social solidarity, evocation of friendship, and orientation toward collective goals as relational processes that reduce the likelihood of violence. The early phase of Syrian nonviolent protest embodied the triumph of those values over the distrust, atomization, fear, hierarchy, and opportunism that undergirded the pre-​uprising status quo (Saleh 2011; Yassin-​Kassab and Al-​Shami 2015; al-​Shami 2017; Pearlman 2016a, 2017). In challenging the status quo, however, popular mobilization “boomeranged” to prompt the government’s application of extreme military violence and activation of relational processes known to aggravate conflict. The regime deliberately provoked polarization in effort to “divide and conquer” society and weaken a united front behind revolution (Yassin-​Kassab and Al-​Shami 2015). More specifically, its rhetoric and maneuvers appeared designed to sectarianize the conflict, largely in effort to intimidate religious minorities to choose loyalty to the regime that they knew rather than the uncertainty of a revolution that they did not (Wimmen 2014; Pinto 2017). Affirming findings from the investigation of the protest-​repression nexus in other cases, the Assad regime’s backlash against the initial outpouring of civil action was the most significant engine of violence in the Syrian conflict. It drove the militarization of initially civil action and the spiraling of the horrors for years.

2.3.2.  Alleviating the Devastating Effects of Violence As revolution became war, many Syrian activists shifted from protest to charitable relief, rescue, governance, service provision, and other activities aimed at alleviating the effects of violence upon beleaguered civilians. Thanks to these efforts, hundreds more men, women, and children were fed, treated, sheltered,

 

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or kept alive than would otherwise be the case. Local activists not only organized their own humanitarian work, but also proved vital in helping international organizations carry out their humanitarian missions.

2.3.4.  Countering Sectarianism in Society Sectarianization, militarization, and polarization were intertwined processes escalating violence in the Syrian context. Civil action opposing sectarian attitudes and rhetoric was thus an important strand of work against violent conflict at large. Swisspeace, Conflict Dynamics, and FarikBeirut.net (see Swisspeace 2016, 21–​23) uncovered five main strategies that Syrian nonstate actors employed toward this end. First, groups convened workshops, seminars, youth circles, dialogue sessions, and training sessions focused on such issues as religious tolerance, diversity, coexistence, and conflict resolution. Second, actors used creative arts, such as dance, song, and theater, to build bridges and promote peaceful values. Third, initiatives sponsored projects, ranging from rooftop gardens to collective meals, that effectively practiced cross-​sectarian cooperation. Fourth, actors employed traditional and social media to offset sectarian speech with values of respectful dialogue. Finally, groups sponsored educational activities, embracing education as a strategy both in terms of the antisectarian content of lessons and the social exercise of gathering people from divergent backgrounds to learn together. The focus on schooling as an avenue of peacebuilding proved especially important because of internal displacement, which brought children from different parts of Syria in contact and thereby created opportunities for cross-​cultural exchange.

2.3.5.  Documenting, Monitoring, and “Naming and Shaming” In a conflict in which even the United Nations gave up on updating death tolls, Syrian groups took the lead in documenting and monitoring violations on the ground. Two principal organizations were the Syrian Observatory for Human Rights, directed by a Syrian exile in Britain (MacFarquhar 2013)  and the Violations Documentation Center (VDC), founded by activists inside Syria (http://​vdc-​sy.net/​en/​). Committed to uncovering violations by the government and opposition alike, staff in both organizations grappled with siege and bombardment, electricity and Internet cuts, obstruction of free movement, informants’ fears of speaking, and other barriers to verifying and communicating information. In 2013, masked gunmen abducted four human rights defenders from the VDC offices in Douma. The “Douma four,” Razan Zaitouneh, Samira al-​Khalil, Wael Hamada, and Nazem Hammadi, have not been heard from as of this writing.

 



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Other grass-​roots initiatives contributed to this “naming and shaming” work, as well. “Raqqa is being slaughtered silently” (http://​www.raqqa-​sl.com/​en/​) provided one of few sources of reliable news about life in what ISIS regarded as its capital. The collective’s news site exposed not only atrocities committed by ISIS, but also casualties caused by the Assad regime, other rebel forces, and United States–​led airstrikes. Activists and citizen journalists inside Raqqa worked in secrecy for fear for their lives. Two members, as well as a third journalist supporting the collective, were assassinated in Turkey in late 2015. The Committee to Protect Journalists awarded it an International Press Freedom Award in 2015.

2.3.6.  Changing the Behavior of Armed Groups To a more limited degree, civil action activists and groups also affected conflict processes by shaping the behavior of armed groups. They did so via a range of tactics, considered here in order from most cooperative to most confrontational. 2.3.6.1.  Allying with Armed Groups

Groups engaged in civil action sometimes worked together with rebels for shared goals. Some of the first oppositionists to take up arms did so in coordination with peaceful protests and with the goal of blocking government forces from crushing them. Many demonstrators supported such use of arms as a justified and necessary complement to civil resistance. A doctor from Homs explained: The revolution needed demonstrations to continue. And for the demonstrations to continue, they had to be protected. So some people started to carry arms. Why? To prevent security cars from being able to reach a demonstration and kill people. When you see armed people protecting demonstrators, you feel safe. If a security car approaches, you’ll be able to get away. This was the start of taking up weapons in the Syrian revolution. (Interview with the author, Amman, Jordan, August 26, 2013) Alliances between civil and armed actors took different forms as rebels took control of territory and local councils formed to help govern them. In some towns, military groups exercised sweeping influence over local council candidates and decisions (Institute for War and Peace Reporting 2014, 18). Rarely, civilians wielded authority over military groups. The civilian-​led local council in the Damascus suburb of Daraya effectively integrated local

 

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armed forces into its bodies and under its oversight (Narbone et  al. 2016, 13), until the regime’s siege and bombardment enabled it to retake the town in 2016. Elsewhere, rebels and local activists engaged in different kinds of partnerships. In Saraqeb, in the Idlib countryside, they formed joint legislative, administrative, and judiciary bodies (Elhamoui and al-​Hawat 2015, 32). In some neighborhoods of East Aleppo before it fell to regime forces, FSA brigades protected local councils from criminal elements and extremist groups (Narbone et al 2016, 13). 2.3.6.2.  Negotiating with Armed Groups

Rebel-​controlled areas came to witness informal, even ad hoc, alliances between unarmed and armed actors, as well. For example, in some areas, local councils negotiated with violent actors on a limited basis on issues such as garnering their cooperation on facilitating the flow of humanitarian aid and relief across checkpoints, attaining release of detainees, and protecting civilians from armed groups’ violence (Institute for War and Peace Reporting 2014, 23; Souria Houria 2014). In these encounters, civil action organizations acted as brokers between civilian communities and armed groups. Civilians’ negotiations with armed groups were typically more effective with rebels who were socially tied to local populations than with foreign fighters or extremist factions (Svoboda and Pantuliano 2015, 18). With some exceptions, community groups’ attempts to reach agreements with ISIS, even on matters as simple as allowing food to enter or university students to exit, were largely unsuccessful (Swisspeace 2016, 21). Still, mediation even with nationalist forces was a considerable feat. As one activist expressed it, “I believe that . . . just the fact that a group of individuals can push those in conflict to make agreements even if it is related to food, is something which serves Syria now and in the future” (Swisspeace 2016, 23–​24). 2.3.6.3.  Pressuring Armed Groups to Change Their Practices

With time, even many of the communities that championed armed resistance became frustrated with fighters’ arrogance and abuses. Some engaged in campaigns to persuade groups to curb lawless behavior or violence against civilians. Appeals for better conduct were articulated in such friendly slogans as “The people want the reform of the Free Syrian Army” and “We love you. Correct your path” (Barnard 2012). Observers credited popular pressure with helping push the FSA to issue statements about respecting human rights (Center for Civilians in Conflict 2012, 6).

 



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Grass-​roots appeals also sometimes undertook to change the behavior of extremist Islamist factions, adapting their strategies for maximum impact. For example, after the Nusra Front stoned a woman accused of adultery, civilians invoked religious sources to persuade the group that stoning was unIslamic (Elhamoui and al-​Hawat 2015, 34). An activist described the emergence of such campaigns in Eastern Aleppo: We created the first movement against Islamization after Islamic groups killed a fourteen-​year-​old who used to sell coffee on the street. Three Islamists—​an Egyptian, a Tunisian, and a Syrian—​wanted to take coffee and pay the boy later. He told them, “Even if the Prophet Mohammed came I would not give it to him on credit.” The Islamists considered that blasphemy and killed the boy. We called our movement “Enough is Enough.” We started doing small civil campaigns. One, called “Don’t be part of the chaos,” urged people not to drive cars without license plates. Another, called “I want my school,” asked battalions to return schools that they had seized as military centers. (Pearlman 2017) Syrian civil action to pressure rebel groups appeared to have greater success than did similar interventions by international human rights groups aiming to encourage armed actors to abide by human rights norms. This is in part because rebel commanders appeared to view community-​based activists as more legitimate, and because those activists strategically framed their outreach in the language of shared commitments and goals (Kaplan 2013, 11). Nonetheless, it is difficult to measure the impact even of local outreaches of this sort. One study (Swisspeace 2016, 1, judges that they could only “constitute rather small islands of temporary stability” in the midst brutal war. 2.3.6.4.  Protesting Armed Groups

Syrians also engaged in direct protest against rebel groups. When battles between the Army of Islam and other militant factions spilled into residential areas of Douma, residents protested to demand an end to the wanton violence (Atallah 2014). After one year during which the Syrian army prevented humanitarian aid from entering the town, starving civilians launched another protest, dubbed “the hunger demonstrations,” and stormed the warehouses where armed groups were stockpiling food (Atallah 2014). Women have also played an important role in this kind of protest. For example, when word spread that militants were going to kill detainees in Idlib,

 

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female teachers rallied area women, including mothers of detainees, and demanded to speak with the battalion leader. The executions were halted and the detainees were subsequently released as part of a prisoners swap. In another instance, dozens of women protested against fighting and tit-​for-​tat arrests among armed groups. Their mobilization contributed to diminishing the spiraling violence between rival factions (Swisspeace 2016, 9, 18). Civilians in Nusra Front–​controlled Idlib also mobilized. In the village of Salqin, Nusra-​controlled police publicly beat three girls for not wearing the clothing required by the armed group. Residents launched demonstrations denouncing that act. When Nusra responded by attacking and arresting demonstrators, civilians organized larger demonstrations the next day (Sweid 2015). Protests gained force after a United States-​Russia-​backed ceasefire in February 2016. Emboldened by a relative respite from bombardment, communities across Syria took to the streets to chant against Assad. In Maraat al-​Nu’man, protestors demanded the release of an activist detained by Nusra and also lifted the Syrian revolution flag, which Nusra had banned (Melhem 2016). Nusra attacked the demonstrations, impelling protestors to return in greater force. Over the following days, civilians stormed and burned Nusra posts, tore down their black flags, and even pushed their fighters from the town (Cambanis 2016). Instances of protest were relatively fewer and smaller in areas under ISIS control. Nevertheless, even there, communities risked retribution to hold vigils and raise banners against the movement’s brutal rule (Syria Untold 2013b; Hassan 2014; Lister 2015, 157, 162, 187, 283).

2.4.  Mediating Impact: Coordination among Agents of Civil Action The impact of civil action was mediated by the varying ways that civil action groups did or did not coordinate constructively with each other. Different patterns of more or less fruitful cooperation were apparent among local organizations or between them and international organizations.

2.4.1.  Local-​Local Coordination The Syrian case supports the conclusion, discussed elsewhere in this volume, that local ties are an important source of impact for civil action. The greater the coordination among local actors, the greater the possibilities for impact. During the uprising’s first phase, local coordination committees were the most important embodiment of this general rule. Without them, protest might never have produced

 



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an uprising, and an uprising might never have been sustained long enough to challenge authoritarian rule. Another example of local-​local coordination increasing impact was in the naming of protests. At the outset of the uprising, communities held Friday demonstrations under different banners. To unify and amplify the uprising’s political message, a system developed whereby, each week, oppositionists voted on a popular Facebook page to determine a single slogan for the upcoming Friday, and then demonstrations across the country went out under that name (Friedman 2011). Another major attempt at local coordination was several revolutionary organizations’ joint call for a “Dignity Strike” in December 2011(Yassin-​Kassab and Al-​Shami 2015, 59). As articulated by the LCCs, the hope was that the strike would initiate a multi-​staged campaign that would evolve to include student boycotts, store closures, and a civil servants’ work-​stoppage, and then climax in all-​out civil disobedience (Syria Untold 2013a). Though the plan did not come to fruition, it was not for want of genuine coordination among groups working together to imagine a strategy for overthrowing the regime through civil action. Regime repression deliberately obstructed local-​local coordination from the outset. Such coordination became increasingly difficult as the conflict entered a stage of war, humanitarian emergency, and dire scarcity of such basics as food and electricity. Under such circumstances, the inflow of foreign monies tied to different agendas spurred fragmentation and competition. Those involved in local governance and relief sometimes engaged in power struggles or turf wars, or exchanged accusations of corruption. In the associational world, stories were ripe of supervisors who reduced employee salaries or inflated expenditure reports in order to pocket budget surpluses (Haj 2013). In some ways, such mistrust and mismanagement was a legacy of authoritarianism. As one activist expressed it, “We have a bad competition between Syrian initiatives because it is the first time we have ever had a chance to launch our own orgs that doesn’t fall into government custody, and for many of us, they are so proud of those organizations that they are not willing to cooperate with others. Like, ‘Let me do my thing’ ” (Malek 2014). Robin Yassin-​Kassab and Leila Al-​Shami’s (2015, 188)  words about the National Coalition leadership thus sometimes also applied to grass-​roots efforts:  “The ability to put aside personal and factional interests for the sake of a common goal, to adapt, to accommodate the other’s point of view, requires . . . long experience in democratic collaboration. Syria had been a cast-​iron dictatorship for four decades, so these conditions did not apply.”

2.4.2.  Local-​International Coordination Coordination among Syrian groups and international nongovernmental organizations (INGOs) and donor agencies was complex. Their relations confirm

 

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an argument highlighted in other cases examined in this volume:  transnational groups engaging in civil action can offer important resources, but their impact is often secondary to that of local groups and may in fact distort local groups’ contributions. International interactions with Syrian civil society also show that the relational dynamics that transnational actors generate with their interventions are more important than the qualities of particular actors, per se. In the Syrian conflict, INGO-​NGO dyads were the engines of a diversity of projects on the ground in realms such as violence prevention, documentation, civilian protection, institution-​building, empowerment, and psychosocial support. These joint programs allowed each party’s comparative strengths to compensate for others’ relative weaknesses. INGOs seeking to do work in Syria often had big budgets, but needed local contacts to navigate Syria’s complex conflict terrain and gain access to target populations. Syrian NGOs had local understanding and networks, yet stood to benefit from INGO’s funding, training, and technical support. In theory, that complementarity could have been the making of fruitful teamwork. In practice, it often carried perverse power dynamics. Echoing patterns documented in other cases, INGOs often treated Syrian local groups as “subcontractors” (Haj 2013)  or “mere service providers” (Svoboda and Pantuliano 2015, iii), rather than equal partners. Beyond this, Syrian NGOs and INGOs also engaged in direct competition. Some local groups lamented that donor agencies directed most of their funding to big-​name foreign INGOs rather than invest in grass-​roots organizations (Middle East Institute 2016). Securing even more funding, INGOs were then able to use the promise of better salaries and benefits to lure away staff members from smaller local groups (Malek 2014). Relationships were also sometimes problematic between Syrian civil action groups and the international state and nonstate donors on whose funding their survival depended. Financial dependence dramatically shaped associations’ programming, insofar as they were pushed to design projects that echoed donors’ priorities. These sometimes diverged considerably from what Syrian groups regarded as the country’s most urgent needs. Donors’ funding provisions were often project-​driven and thus focused on short-​term activities rather than longer-​ term institutional development and sustainable change (Khalaf, Ramadan, and Stolleis 2014, 13). Moreover, donors’ pressures to comply with stringent counterterrorism statutes could lead them to closely scrutinize local NGOs’ finances, creating sometimes insurmountable barriers for the small grass-​roots groups with the least capacity to prove that they were not risky investments (Redvers 2015). Resonating with other forms of satire that were prominent in the Syrian revolution, activists found creative ways of expressing their discontent with this state of affairs. In a viral social media campaign titled #That’s_​what_​the_​donor_​

 



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wants, Syrian activists expressed sardonic criticism of international donors’ disconnectedness, inflexibility, unstable priorities, and shortsightedness (Syria Untold 2015). Joking aside, this sarcasm spoke to structural problems in Syrian oppositionists’ aspirations to build the foundations for a democracy built on accountability and rule of law. Some activists said that dependence on external funding transformed Syrian civil society from “an independent authority . . . between the individual and the state” into “instruments carrying out the strategic plans of governmental agencies and Western countries.” Others went further, calling civil society “a stock market” answering to supply and demand or mere “clearing offices” preparing grant paperwork for other associations in exchange for a percentage of the funding earned (Haj 2013). Ironically, struggling NGOs still received far less funding than they needed to do the work to which they aspired while also keeping their poorly compensated staffs on board (Khoury 2013; Middle East Institute 2016). The problem of inadequate funding likewise undercut local councils and the humanitarian arm of the National Coalition that supported them. Sami Halabi (2013, 21–​22) observed a chicken-​and-​egg scenario. International donors were hesitant to provide more aid to the Assistance Coordination Unit and local councils until they improved their administrative, monitoring, and evaluation capacities. Local councils, in turn, claimed that they were unable to make those improvements due to lack of funding. Unwilling to take that gamble on the long-​term capacity building of Syrian self-​governance institutions, some foreign donors instead elected to distribute humanitarian aid through INGOs with which they already had relationships. The result was proliferation and fragmentation in aid channels, considerable expenditure in overhead costs, and a general undermining of the centrality of local councils in international agencies’ programming inside Syria. The problem of international funding for Syrian civil initiatives hit a new low in 2018, when the Trump administration froze more than $200 million in stabilization funds for Syria. In rebel-​controlled northwest Syria, at least 150 civil-​society organizations dependent on this aid were forced to stop operations. Some of their newly unemployed workers had no choice but to seek jobs with the few entities that could still offer salaries: armed factions, including those that the United States identified as terrorist groups (Nassar and Edelman 2018).

2.5. Conclusion The Syrian conflict stands as the most brutally violent conflict of the twenty-​ first century. Nevertheless, civil action played a role in every phase of its trajectory. Scrutiny of the evolution of this collective action offers a wealth of data

 

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with which to probe the relational ontology adopted in this volume, especially as it applies to the nexus between protest and repression. This case study shows how government use of force can both escalate civil action and lead it to take unforeseen forms. In Syria, a long history of state violence was the context in which initial civil action called for political change. That civil action, in turn, boomeranged to elicit more state violence intended to crush civil action. In turn, state violence created new needs that impelled novel types of civil action seeking to address them. New civil action then elicited new logics of state violence, the intensification of which made it more and more difficult for civil action groups to function. These and other complex interplays between armed and unarmed actors in conflict settings illustrate how they not only interact but also transform in the course of that interaction. As of this writing, enormous bloodshed and a humanitarian disaster of historic proportions leaves little reason for optimism. Yet the achievements of civil action hold kernels of hope. LCCs and other local NGOs trained large numbers of citizens in democratic deliberation, collective action, and community service. Forums for citizen journalism and cultural expression carved out a free public sphere where none previously existed. Human rights monitoring groups amassed evidence than can be used for transitional justice. Local councils earned praise as a potential “building block of post-​Assad local municipal administrative institutions” (Menapolis 2013, 4). The civic experiences, norms, and structures that civil action forged extend one of the most valuable resources for building a free, peaceful Syria. Whether or not future circumstances will allow for the realization of this democracy-​building potential is dependent not only on how the war ends, but how Syrians inside and outside the country continue to mobilize after that. Since the start of the conflict, hundreds of thousands of individuals who once championed unarmed forms of protest and civic engagement have been killed, injured, disappeared, or forced into exile. That many Syrians remain active in nonviolent civic work is a heroic achievement against exhaustion, despair, and death. International parties that call for nonviolent action in Syria must remember that Syrian activists’ ability to make sacrifices and assume mortal risks is not boundless.

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Mason, David T. 2004. Caught in the Crossfire: Revolutions, Repression, and the Rational Peasant. Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield. McAdam, Doug. 1983. “Tactical Innovation and the Pace of Insurgency.” American Sociological Review 48 (6): 735–​754. Melhem, Ali. 2016. “Locals in Idlib Take on al-​ Nusra Front.” News Deeply, March 19. Accessed July 10, 2016. https://​www.newsdeeply.com/​syria/​op-​eds/​2016/​03/​19/​ locals-​in-​idlib-​take-​on-​al-​nusra-​front. Menapolis. 2013. “Local Councils in Syria: A Sovereignty Crisis in Liberated Areas.” Menapolis Report. September. Accessed July 1, 2016. http://​menapolis.net/​publications/​files/​ 1425551004pdf1SyriaLAC.pdf. Moore, Will H. 1998. “Repression and Dissent:  Substitution, Context and Timing.” American Journal of Political Science 42 (3): 851–​873. Moss, Dana. 2014. “Repression, Response, and Contained Escalation under ‘Liberalized’ Authoritarianism in Jordan.” Mobilization: An International Quarterly 19 (3): 261–​286. Middle East Institute. 2016. “Syrian Civil Society on the Front Lines against Extremism.” May 5.  Accessed July 5, 2016. http://​www.mei.edu/​content/​at/​ syrian-​civil-​society-​frontlines-​against-​extremism. Middle East Watch. 1991. Syria Unmasked: The Suppression of Human Rights by the Assad Regime. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Narbone, Luigi, Anges Favier, and Virginie Collombier. 2016. Inside Wars:  Local Dynamics of Conflicts in Syria and Libya. Florence, Italy: European University Institute. Accessed June 1, 2019. http://​cadmus.eui.eu/​handle/​1814/​41644 Nassar, Alaa, and Avery Edelman. 2018. “‘Forced to Take Arms’: Syrian Civil Society Turns to Factions after US Funding Freeze.” Middle East Eye, July 18. Accessed October 22, 2018. https://​www.middleeasteye.net/​news/​forced-​take-​arms-​syrian-​civil-​society-​workers-​turn-​ factions-​after-​us-​funding-​freeze-​1710366795. Olivier, Johan L. 1991. “State Repression and Collective Action in South Africa, 1970–​84.” South African Journal of Sociology 22 (4): 109–​117. Özden, Şenay. 2013. “Syrian Refugees in Turkey.” Migration Policy Centre Research Report 2013/​05. Florence, Italy:  European University Institute. Accessed June 1, 2019. http://​ cadmus.eui.eu/​handle/​1814/​29455. Pearlman, Wendy. 2016a. “Narratives of Fear in Syria.” Perspectives on Politics14 (1): 21–​37. Pearlman, Wendy. 2016b. “Supplementary Materials:  Online Methodological Appendix for ‘Narratives of Fear in Syria.’” March 2016. Accessed April 1, 2016. https://​ www.cambridge.org/​core/​journals/​perspectives-​on-​politics/​article/​narratives-​of-​fear-​in-​ syria/​4ABF48BEE7D4796DD1EA4554D55A2566#fndtn-​supplementary-​materials Pearlman, Wendy. 2017. We Crossed a Bridge and It Trembled:  Voices from Syria. New York: HarperCollins. Perthes, Volker. 1995. The Political Economy of Syria under Asad. London: I.B. Tauris. Pinto, Paulo Gabriel Hilu. 2017. “The Shattered Nation:  The Sectarianization of the Syrian Conflict.” In Sectarianization: Mapping the New Politics of the Middle East, edited by Nader Hashemi and Danny Postel, 123–​142. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Redvers, Louise. 2015. “Syrian Aid Groups Seek Greater Role.” IRIN News, March 18. Accessed July 10, 2016. http://​www.irinnews.org/​analysis/​2015/​03/​18/​ syrian-​aid-​groups-​seek-​greater-​role. Saleh, Yassin Al-​Haj. 2011. “The Syrian ‘Common’:  The Uprising of the Working Society.” Jadaliyya, August 14. Accessed October 27, 2015. http://​www.jadaliyya.com/​pages/​index/​ 2377/​the-​syrian-​common_​the-​uprising-​of-​the-​working-​soci. Sankari, Abdulghani, Basel Atassi, and Mohammed Zaher Sahloul. 2013. “Syrian Field Hospitals: A Creative Solution in Urban Military Conflict Combat in Syria.” Avicenna Journal of Medicine 3 (3): 84–​86. Souria Houria. 2014. “Negotiating Peace in Syria:  Civil Military Relations in Times of Armed Struggle.” Souria Houria [Syria Freedom] website. January 23. Accessed July 12, 2016.

 



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http://​souriahouria.com/​negotiating-​peace-​in-​syria-​civil-​military-​relations-​in-​times-​of-​ armed-​struggle/​. Svoboda, Eva, and Sara Pantuliano. 2015. “International and Local/​Diaspora Actors in the Syrian Response.” HPG Working Paper. Humanitarian Policy Group, March. Accessed May 31, 2019. https://​www.odi.org/​sites/​odi.org.uk/​files/​odi-​assets/​publications-​opinion-​files/​ 9523.pdf. Sweid, Rami. 2015. “Opposition to Nusra Front Growing across Syria.” Al-​Araby, January 4.  Accessed May 31, 2019. https://​www.alaraby.co.uk/​english/​news/​2015/​1/​4/​ opposition-​to-​nusra-​front-​growing-​across-​syria. Swisspeace. 2016. “Inside Syria: What Local Actors Are Doing for Peace,” Report by Swisspeace, Conflict Dynamics International, and FarikBeirut.net. March. Accessed May 31, 2019. http://​www.swisspeace.ch/​fileadmin/​user_​upload/​pdf/​Mediation/​Inside_​Syria_​en.pdf. Syria Civil Defense. n.d. “Volunteers to Save Lives.” Accessed July 6, 2016. http://​ syriacivildefense.org/​volunteers-​save-​lives. Syria Untold. 2013a. “The Strike of Dignity.” June 5.  Accessed July 1, 2016. http://​ www.syriauntold.com/​en/​event/​the-​strike-​of-​dignity/​. Syria Untold. 2013b. “Syrian Activists, between the Struggle against the Regime and the Struggle against the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria.” October 10. Accessed July 1, 2016. http://​ syriauntold.com/​en/​story/​2013/​10/​10/​5512. Syria Untold. 2015. “That’s What the Donor Wants.” July 13. Accessed July 1, 2016. http://​ www.syriauntold.com/​en/​2015/​07/​thats-​what-​the-​donor-​wants/​. United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees. 2013. “Regional Analysis Syria.” June 23. Accessed June 1, 2019. https://​data2.unhcr.org/​en/​documents/​download/​38137. Wedeen, Lisa. 1999. Ambiguities of Domination:  Politics, Rhetoric, and Symbols in Contemporary Syria. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. White, Robert W. 1989. “From Peaceful Protest to Guerilla War:  Micromobilization of the Provisional Irish Republican Army.” American Journal of Sociology 94 (6): 1277–​1302. Wieland, Carsten. 2012. Syria—​a Decade of Lost Chances: Repression and Revolution from Damascus Spring to Arab Spring. Seattle, WA: Cune Press. Wimmen, Heiko. 2014. “Divisive Rule:  Sectarianism and Power Maintenance in the Arab Spring:  Bahrain, Iraq, Lebanon and Syria.” Research Paper 4.  German Institute for International and Security Affairs. Accessed May 31, 2019. https://​www.swp-​berlin.org/​ fileadmin/​contents/​products/​research_​papers/​2014_​RP04_​wmm.pdf. Yassin-​Kassab, Robin, and Leila Al-​Shami. 2015. Burning Country: Syrians in Revolution and War. London: Pluto Press. Zimmerman, Ekkart. 1980. “Macro-​Comparative Research on Political Protest.” In Handbook of Political Conflict:  Theory and Research, edited by Ted Robert Gurr, 167–​ 237. New York: Free Press.

 

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Staging Peace Community Organizations, Theatrical Performance, and Violent Conflict in Peru Steven T. Zech Art is not what you see, but what you make others see. Art is the lie that enables us to realize the truth.

—​Edgar  Degas —​Pablo Picasso

3.1.  Introduction In this study I examine how nonstate actors affected violence during armed conflict in Peru with a focus on art and theater groups. I contend that art serves as a mobilizing force that can move collective actors both toward and away from violent strategies. I argue that popular theater groups in Peru took civil action inside activist networks to resist revolutionary violence and to make demands on an increasingly abusive state. They used theatrical performance to articulate the importance of nonviolent strategies and to communicate the political objectives of activist allies. Theater served as an important means to dampen violence. However, theatrical performance also incited punitive violence meant to discourage particular messages and political goals being expressed by the theater groups and their allies. Activists and artists who challenged the political program of the Shining Path revolutionary movement became targets of its violence, and state security forces often incorrectly assumed links between activist civilian groups and militants. This illustrates a “boomerang effect,” where civil action led to increased violence in the short run but subsided as civilian groups more clearly articulated their goals and found increased popular support in the community. A  case study of the theater group Vichama Teatro in Peru demonstrates how theatrical performance, and art more broadly, can simultaneously facilitate and constrain violent action during conflict.1 64

 



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I begin with a brief discussion of the relationship between art, civil action, and outcomes of violence. I  describe my research design and methodology, followed by a summary of Peru’s internal armed conflict. I then identify the different armed actors and a variety of activist, artist, and community groups that influenced the violence during and after the conflict period. I describe the ways in which theater groups in particular may influence the level and nature of violence during a conflict and then evaluate these propositions using the experiences of theater groups in the Peruvian case. I draw from personal interviews with theater group members and residents in Lima’s Villa El Salvador district, where the principal theater from my study is located. I conclude with remarks on how cultural associations such as artist collectives and theater groups also affect change in “postconflict” settings. For example, many groups participated in Peru’s truth and reconciliation projects and continue to influence outcomes in contemporary social conflicts.

3.2.  Artists and Civil Action The chapter focuses on civil action by the Vichama theater group and its influence on violence in the Villa El Salvador district on the outskirts of Lima. I build on a growing academic literature that examines nonstate actors and civilian strategies in violent contexts (see Wood 2003; Barter 2014; Kaplan 2010, 2013, 2017). Like other collective actors, theater groups choose to take actions of varying levels of civility: remaining neutral, allying with particular groups, actively resisting through efforts to name and shame abusers, creating an alternative frame or narrative, and numerous other strategies. The strategies they adopt interact with factors such as organizational capacity, prior relationships, conflict intensity, and many others, to ultimately influence the level and nature of violence during armed conflict.

3.2.1.  The Transformative Role of Art Historically, art has been a driver of social transformation in Latin America (Craven 2002). Art simultaneously reflects the world and seeks to change it (Kalyva 2016). Art serves as a mobilizing force that can move collective actors both toward and away from violent strategies. Art and theatrical performances provide a means to communicate ideas and identities during and after a conflict. Events do not speak for themselves, and interpretation plays a crucial role in how collective actors come to understand conflict and to define relationships with other important actors. Community members share stories with one another to help “give shape” and meaning to events in the context of violent conflict

 

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(Bruner 2002) and can influence support for and opposition to armed and unarmed groups. Theater groups can use performance to communicate ideas about what is possible, desirable, and effective in achieving collective goals. Ideas not only affect how we see the world around us; they also influence our behavior within it (Schmidt 2008, 2010). In other contexts of armed conflict in Peru, rural communities communicated evolving notions about violence and intergroup relations before taking action (Zech 2016). I suspect that the ideas communicated by theater groups also influenced how urban communities came to understand conflict events, affecting their actions and the subsequent violence. Theater can exacerbate violence or reduce it. The content of a performance can influence how groups interpret events and define their relationships with important actors, armed or otherwise. Theatrical performance could have aided the Shining Path, though, alternatively, theater might also have served as a means for nonviolent activist groups to block militant recruitment and indoctrination. The Shining Path understood the important role of theater in defining itself, in articulating its political goals, and in relating to both the opposition and its own potential supporters. The revolutionary group used theater in prisons, universities, and the “red zones” under its control to transmit political messages and to facilitate popular mobilization (Valenzuela Marroquín 2009, 2013). Sympathetic artist collectives, such as the Movimiento de Artistas Populares, also provided some support for the Shining Path in its political campaign through performances. When Peruvian theater groups articulated certain values and beliefs through performance, they sought to influence how both the Shining Path militants and the state security forces used violence. The Vichama theatre Teatro’s work affected civilian responses and helped to foster dialogue about Shining Path militancy and state human rights. In my research, I  found that the group played an important role in generating alternative frames, empowering local activist organizations, and facilitating nonviolent civilian mobilization. Vichama maintained a critical stance throughout the 1980s and 1990s. Vichama’s theatrical performances allowed the public to resist closure around one idea or group, providing a space for debate and a bulwark against extreme polarization. As contemporary Peruvian political activist and artist Jorge Miyagui argues, “Art is a battleground.” Theater became an important front in that battle.

3.3.  Research Design and Methods To assess propositions about how theater groups affected violence during the conflict, I  draw from secondary sources and personal interviews with theater group members and residents in Villa El Salvador. I  use these materials and personal interviews to identify changes in ideas and relationships in the

 



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communities where Vichama Teatro operated and to evaluate how the changes related to the level and nature of violence during the conflict period. I evaluate the myriad ways in which Vichama and other theater groups used civil action to affect outcomes related to violence during and after conflict. Researchers who focus on specific types of actors and groups may risk assigning them a more central role than is merited, and interview subjects belonging to these groups may overestimate their own influence. However, in the case of Peru and Villa EL Salvador, long-​time residents unfamiliar with Vichama’s work during the conflict period did indicate an awareness of the parallel actions taken by the group’s activist allies. Because establishing a direct causal link between theater-​group actions and violence levels proves challenging, I focus on how the theater group’s actions influenced these activist organizations, which, in turn, worked to reduce Shining Path and state violence. Scholars and local residents both recognize the effects activist organizations had on conflict dynamics within communities, and this research illustrates how local-​level processes could translate to macrolevel outcomes. I assess whether theater groups that engaged with themes of militant and state violence strengthened the voices of important nonstate actors, such as NGOs or other community organizations that were fighting parallel struggles for political and social change. I look for evidence of greater capacity within movements and discern whether actions by groups like Vichama concurrently privileged particular ideas over others and how those actions affected violence. Theater groups can make the goals of activist allies a more prominent part of public debate. For example, if proponents of nonviolence and groups that prioritize human rights abuses can reach a broader audience and more easily facilitate popular mobilization, they may help to limit state violence against civilians. Alternatively, militant groups like the Shining Path may view these other nonstate actors as competing authority structures and use punitive violence against nonviolent pillars of support.

3.4.  Internal Armed Conflict in Peru The Shining Path initiated an armed revolutionary campaign in May 1980, when militants burned ballot boxes in a remote mountain village. The symbolic act took place on the eve of the presidential election, as Peru transitioned to democracy after over a decade of military rule. The group’s goal was to overthrow the fledgling government and establish a communist state directed by a party vanguard. The state security forces responded with a heavy-​handed counterinsurgency campaign that led to widespread civilian victimization, disappearances, internal displacements, and human rights abuses. The Peruvian Truth and

 

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Reconciliation Commission (Comisión de Verdad y Reconciliación, CVR) estimates that over 69,000 Peruvians died between 1980 and 2000. The CVR assigned responsibility for more than half the victims to the Shining Path and the Túpac Amaru Revolutionary Movement (MRTA) and the rest to police, military, and civilian self-​defense forces (CVR 2003, Annex 2). Shining Path militants initially used intimidation and selective violence against the police and local authorities in the countryside, and then expanded their campaign and targeted civilians with greater frequency. Violence in Peru peaked between 1983 and 1984, after the government declared a state of emergency and the military began arriving in rural communities like occupying forces. Murders, disappearances, torture, and massacres perpetrated by both sides became increasingly common. Despite the Shining Path’s goal of mobilizing the countryside and later “strangling the cities,” urban environments played an important strategic role early in the conflict (McCormick 1992). Notwithstanding the disproportionate effects of the violence in the remote Ayacucho region, where the conflict began, the Shining Path militants actually perpetrated more acts of violence in Lima between 1982 and 1987. Lima eventually became the primary focus of the revolutionary campaign, from 1989 through 1992, the year the intelligence services captured the Shining Path’s leader Abimael Guzmán (CVR 2003, Volume 4, Chapter 1.5). Many of the “young towns” around Lima became sites of popular organizing in the decade prior to the armed conflict. When the Shining Path shifted its focus to urban environments in the latter part of the 1980s, it sought to disrupt labor unions, foment unrest, and call attention to the state’s inability to provide security or meet the demands of the people, especially in marginalized districts on the periphery of Lima. The Shining Path sought to weaken and replace the “social bulwark” that had developed in the poor towns surrounding Lima (Burt 1998). The state security forces came to view many of these districts, including Villa El Salvador, as places where the Shining Path was garnering significant support. The security forces, in their attempts to combat the Shining Path’s growing influence among Lima’s urban poor, perpetrated high levels of violence against civilians, and arbitrary detentions became common practice. A variety of groups undertook civil action for social change in Peru during the conflict period, despite the disproportionate role of armed actors. Civilian groups, labor unions, and NGOs are just a few examples of those whose actions also influenced the conflict’s outcomes and violence. These groups became targets for the Shining Path. The revolutionary movement sought to co-​opt, replace, or eliminate competing institutions. It used brutal violence against any actors making collective claims that might exert influence over its potential supporters. The Shining Path targeted local authorities, rural labor organizations, political competition from the Left, progressive churches, and development

 



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NGOs, among others. The Shining Path planned to destroy state institutions, seize power, and establish a new state guided by a party vanguard. The militants deliberately targeted victims who, based on their beliefs, represented the “old order.” The movement sought to forge a guiding relationship with the masses and did not tolerate competition. Its leadership cadre saw the population as clay to be molded by the party and its ideology (Degregori 1989). However, many resisted the Shining Path’s hegemonic ambitions and had alternative visions for how best to structure political, social, and economic relations in Peru. Government security forces also targeted civil-​society groups. The Peruvian government saw most of the political organizations on the Left as sympathetic to the Shining Path’s goals and often viewed civil action to push for reform as part of the same violent movement. Evangelical Christians in rural communities, for example, largely worshiped in simple buildings, and soldiers commonly mistook their prayer gatherings for subversive meetings. The government also targeted student groups, social-​service organizations, and counterculture movements. Civilians were caught “between two fires” as militants and the government security forces engaged in a battle of attrition. In the face of threat, collective actors could adopt any number of strategies that could have varied effects on the intensity and nature of violence. For example, at different stages in the conflict many rural communities took up arms and organized self-​defense forces to confront the Shining Path revolutionaries. Armed civilian mobilization prevented militant incursions in some cases and invited retaliatory attacks in others (Starn 1995; Fumerton 2001; La Serna 2012; Zech 2016). Religious groups took both civil and violent actions. For example, many evangelical Christian organizations denounced state human rights violations and mobilized to limit violence (López 1998; Ranly and Yong 2003), while some joined or led armed civilian self-​defense forces and took up arms to fight against the Shining Path (Armas Asín 2000; Chirinos and del Pino 1994; del Pino 1996). Communities without strong ties to the National Council of Evangelical Christians of Peru—​which maintained a policy of nonviolence—​were more likely to take action based on local leadership beliefs and interpretations of scripture.2 Some evangelical communities maintained nonviolent strategies; others actively engaged in armed resistance and altered the landscape of violence in Peru. The Catholic Church also affected the violence. The Church, with some exceptions, undertook civil action, pushing for peace and critically engaging the government to limit human rights abuses. The church’s actions also helped to halt Shining Path expansion into some regions (CVR 2003, Volume 3, Chapter 3.3). NGOs operated in a variety of contexts during the conflict. Many preexisting NGOs continued to engage with groups that were pursuing themes unrelated to the conflict (e.g., environmental organizations). Other NGOs emerged locally or arrived from abroad as a direct result of the violence, disappearances,

 

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and mass displacements. Amnesty International, and other international human rights NGOs, worked with Peruvian lawyers to collect testimonies, conduct investigations, and produce reports on the violence and forced disappearances. Amnesty International shared its findings on human rights issues with international audiences and those at the highest levels of political power in Peru, including a report it submitted to President Fernando Belaúnde as early as 1983 (CVR 2003, Volume 3, Chapter 3.1). Local NGOs also emerged during the conflict to solve problems related to civilian victimization. For example, the National Association of Families of the Kidnapped, Detained and Disappeared (ANFASEP) took direct civil action to support populations experiencing the devastating effects of armed conflict. Mothers, wives, and other family members of the disappeared mobilized on behalf of victims, helped search for the missing, and provided aid to orphans and victims’ families. Artist and activist Mauricio Delgado, who has drawn dozens of portraits of women who organized and participated in the National Association’s civil actions, explained, “In 1983 these women made demands before anyone started to denounce human rights. They made signs on flour sacks donated by local bakeries and wrote, ‘Alive you took them, alive we want them.’ ”3 Some credit these popular mobilizations with dampening both state and militant violence. Many other NGOs undertook civil action to support populations experiencing the devastating effects of armed conflict. Their presence, however, sometimes invited additional attacks by Shining Path militants, who viewed NGOs as threats to their hegemonic goals or as imperialist agents who facilitated foreign influence. Non-​Peruvian organizations faced even greater risks. Early in the conflict, Peru’s military and police had believed that an international directorate controlled the revolutionary movement and thus often viewed foreign NGOs as Shining Path agents from abroad (Smith 1992). Rural labor unions and businesses also took civil action. For example, the Peasant Federation of the Apurímac River Valley (FECVRA), worked with national-​level peasant associations and other local labor syndicates to resist and denounce abusive police. Civilians organized to confront exploitation by powerful business interests and took steps to weaken local monopolies and disrupt consolidated commercial interests (Instituto de Defensa Legal 1990). Unfortunately, Shining Path militants perceived a political advantage in targeting these same businesses with violence to gain support from the peasants. Large commercial interests then seized the opportunity to link terrorist attacks and raids on their large stores to FECVRA and its leaders. Business owners denounced and persecuted union leaders who threatened their interests, generating additional violence in the Peruvian jungle. In Lima, the MRTA engaged in a parallel campaign that frequently bombed symbolic targets such as

 



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banks and business centers to advance “anti-​imperialist” demands, including breaking with the International Monetary Fund and the selective payment of external debt. The MRTA even attacked several Kentucky Fried Chicken franchises for “representing the social abyss that separates the people.”4 A variety of other groups took civil action leading up to and during the conflict. Mass student protests in Ayacucho and Huanta in the 1970s set the stage for revolutionary violence (Degregori 1990; Heilman 2010). The detention of political leaders, professors, and student activists culminated in the police firing blindly into angry mobs. Many students joined the ranks of the Shining Path; others became victims of state violence aimed at limiting political action in Peruvian universities, and in some cases, student groups organized to actively confront the Shining Path presence within educational institutions (CVR 2003, Volume 3, Chapter  3.6). Universities became important sites for militant intimidation and state repression, as well as for protest and resistance by student groups.

3.5.  Peruvian Theater, Civil Action, and Violence A variety of civil-​society groups, including neighborhood associations, communal kitchens, and women’s organizations, took actions that obstructed the Shining Path’s plans to foment violent revolution on the outskirts of Peru’s capital city. Several theater groups operated in the political and social spaces around Lima. The world-​renowned Yuyachkani theater group, which formed in 1971 and has spent over forty-​five years engaging with important political and social themes, sought to bring visibility to events from the conflict and to confront persistent social problems. The participants saw theater as a way to engage with the events of the 1980s and 1990s as they were happening. In a time of intimidation and silence, performance provided a means of experiencing the collective trauma. The theater group wanted the audience to recognize its own ongoing role in a history of violence and oppression (Taylor 2008). The director of Yuyachkani, Miguel Rubio, described the role of art and theater during the conflict: In those years everyone thought the revolution was just around the corner, so we worked in coordination with parties at strikes and demonstrations. However, over time we began to think a little differently about power and started to work in micropolitical spaces. We maintain a critical stance, responsive to individual communities, and the theater itself was a means to change.5

 

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Theater placed Yuyachkani’s actors inside communities and in important activist networks. Their performances brought meaning to the conflict and placed violent events in a broader historical framework that made sense to many Peruvians. For example, in the play Encuentro de Zorros (A meeting of foxes, 1985), the Yuyachkani group touched on the issue of internal armed conflict. The play’s title refers to an Andean myth and to a short novel by José María Arguedas, El Zorro de Arriba y el Zorro de Abajo. Foxes are symbols of change that appear during significant social crises, and the Yuyachkani group uses the “fox from up above (the highlands) and the fox from down below (the lowlands)” to describe mass migration and a world that was turned upside down when worlds collided during the conflict (Taylor 2003, chap. 7). The plays Contraelviento (Against the wind, 1989)  and Adiós Ayacucho (Farewell Ayacucho, 1990) engaged with horrific experiences from the conflict and the subsequent social trauma.6 The former provides the testimony of an indigenous woman who survived a massacre perpetrated by the armed forces in the village of Soccos, in rural Ayacucho. The latter portrays a victim of state violence who was tortured, his body chopped up, and disappeared, who denounces the crimes perpetrated against him as he goes in search of his discarded body parts. The protagonist in Adiós Ayacucho describes a fictional letter he wrote to the president: “On the 15th of July I was arrested by the civil guard in my town, held incommunicado, tortured, burned and mutilated. I  was dead, but was declared disappeared.” Both plays contextualize the conflict and portray the reality of life in rural Ayacucho before the public had better access to information. Yuyachkani performances made the political problems visible, gave voice to victims, and criticized militants and the government alike for their roles in the violence.

3.5.1.  The Vichama Theater Group in Villa El Salvador At the height of the violence around Lima, the Vichama theater group worked to address social issues, encourage political change, and reduce violence in Villa El Salvador and other parts of Peru. César Escuza, the group’s director, worked with friends to found Vichama, on June 20, 1983, to empower a community facing new political and social challenges.7 The group included recent arrivals, along with participants who drew from previous experiences at the community’s Popular Communication Center. Villa El Salvador had a strong history of theatrical performance and workshops dating back to 1974, only a few years after tens of thousands of Peruvian migrants, from all corners of the country, had come together to establish the new community, on May 11, 1971.

 



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Active community theater groups in Villa El Salvador have their roots in residents’ ability to confront challenges and solve social problems on their own. The founders of Villa El Salvador seized sandy, inhospitable lands in the “southern cone” of Lima to build their community. They arrived from all parts of Peru; most were seeking new economic opportunities. Residents often remark, “Because we had nothing, we had to build everything.” Community members brought a wide variety of cultures and histories, along with distinct visions for the world they hoped to create. César Escuza explained, “They arrived with empty suitcases, but they also carried with them their historical, cultural, and ideological experiences. They developed strong labor unions and the extremely skilled community leaders had an immense organizational capacity.”8 Leaders organized the tens of thousands of residents in the arid desert landscape into a well-​planned community, overcoming significant challenges. In the early years, the community focused on finding solutions to immediate problems. Residents did not have access to water, electricity, or adequate transportation. Early theater productions served to call attention to these challenges and provided a space for residents to discuss community needs and organize action. Villa El Salvador consisted of mostly families arriving with their young children. Residents created the Self-​Managed Urban Community of Villa El Salvador (CUAVES) organization in 1973 to facilitate development efforts. A  planned community emerged, split into sectors that included residential elements, an industrial park, and public spaces. In the original design, each residential group was subdivided into sixteen smaller “blocks,” and each of these consisted of twenty-​four family manzanas. Each block chose six leaders who served as secretaries of education, acts, economics, health, sports, and security. The blocks surrounded community parks. Community organizations focused on the importance of solidarity and direct participation to strengthen mutual obligations and foster a spirit of cooperation. Residents prioritized education and practiced progressive politics. The family system worked well until Villa El Salvador was made into its own district in 1983 amid the increasing political violence throughout the 1980s. The Vichama theater group came out of the Popular Communication Center and sought to strengthen a sense of community and affect positive social change. I  found that theater affected violence in two important ways before, during, and after the conflict. First, groups like Vichama empowered activist allies and other social organizations. Popular education-​reform movements and women’s associations worked in coordination with the theater group to advance their goals. And second, theater provided new opportunities for dialogue. Vichama’s performances opened up new spaces for opposition to the Shining Path’s violent campaign while simultaneously permitting communities to voice grievances and

 

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make demands on the government concerning political, social, and economic problems. Early community theater operated in the context of failed political reforms under the military regimes that had ruled the country before Peru’s transition to democracy in 1980. César Escuza described theater in Villa El Salvador prior to his arrival: They started with very short plays. Four actors would carry cylinders, boards, and set up a makeshift stage lit by a kerosene lamp. And there it was—​a theater. And the people came. They went out because there was no electricity, no television. It was a sleepy town. Theater helped to achieve an inter-​cultural dialogue  .  .  .  . Imagine an Afro-​ Peruvian and a Quechua-​speaking Peruvian from the Andes talking. There were elements of racism and the potential for conflict, so they wanted to create a cultural laboratory where encounters could take place.9 Theater helped the community organize and mobilize into action. Residents would hold meetings and discuss urgent issues after the performances. They identified community needs, organized, and formulated strategies. The Popular Communication Center played a crucial role in community development and helped to provide residents with new tools for action by holding workshops on radio, press, music, and theater. Graciela Díaz, one of the founding members of Vichama, became involved with the center when she was participating in national strikes with the United Education Workers Union, which was fighting for education reform. The center helped with local organizing efforts in Villa El Salvador and provided support for other collective projects, such as communal kitchens to feed the strikers. She sees these early experiences as crucial to the development of popular theater in Villa El Salvador and believes they demonstrate the important role such associations can play during social conflict: The theater workshops looked to identify and develop participants that were interested in issues of class struggle and to defend the people against authorities in a vertical system that could be more democratic. We were still living at the end of a dictatorship. [Theater] was more than entertainment; it was advancing these efforts and proposing an alternative vision for the organization of political and social relations.10 The prior campaigns influenced the community’s ability to organize and make collective demands during the conflict years. The Popular Communication Center

 



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helped to strengthen participatory democracy and connect organizations—​ creating an active rather than a passive citizenry. Some of the most important organizations in Villa El Salvador include women’s associations, mother’s clubs, and other community groups delivering social services. Women played a disproportionate role in building Villa El Salvador and became important agents in its development. In the early years, when the men went into Lima to work, women remained to confront the demands of everyday life in the nascent community. María Elena Moyano, one of the community’s most important social activists and political figures, helped run the Glass of Milk organization and served as an organizer for women’s groups. Moyano’s activism began at a young age, when she pushed for children’s education reform while still a teenager. She later helped unify dozens of women’s associations into the Popular Women’s Federation of Villa El Salvador (Federación Popular de Mujeres de Villa El Salvador, FEPOMUVES) as a way to centralize and expand activities within a broader movement to empower women (Moyano 2000). She was elected deputy mayor of Villa El Salvador in 1989 and continued to strengthen community organizing efforts and to improve social-​service provision. Moyano opposed the Shining Path’s proselytizing in Villa El Salvador, and she worked closely with the Vichama theater group, before militants murdered her and then blew up her body with dynamite in front of her children, on February 15, 1992, at a Glass of Milk barbeque. The Shining Path made significant inroads into Villa El Salvador throughout the 1980s. As Isabel Coral Cordero (1998) explains: [The] Shining Path chose the so-​called “eastern cone” of Lima as its center of operations because of the area’s strategic importance as a popular industrial zone. The “southern cone,” particularly Villa el Salvador, became a key objective as well, since Sendero wanted to destroy an experience of autonomous communal government and development, linked to the non-​Senderista Left, that had become a symbolic example. (363) When the Shining Path expanded its urban operations during the 1980s, the group’s success in Villa El Salvador would represent an important strategic and symbolic victory that would position the movement to establish a strong foothold near Peru’s capital city. The social and political organizations in Villa El Salvador provided a means to resist the Shining Path’s mobilization efforts in the “young towns” on Lima’s periphery. When economic collapse in the late 1980s led to hyperinflation and significant cuts to social expenditures, the Shining Path increased its political organizing in Villa El Salvador. Extreme poverty, rising crime, and massive

 

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internal migration from the war-​torn countryside led many to lose faith in the country’s increasingly weak political institutions and corrupt police. The Shining Path sought to provide an alternative to what had been a “vibrant network of social organizations” that had emerged throughout the 1970s and 1980s in Villa El Salvador (Burt 1998). The Shining Path’s penetration of local politics, along with residents’ distrust of the government security forces, threatened the community. César Escuza explained, “The Shining Path and the state both contributed to the destruction of the social fabric that held organizations together in Villa El Salvador. The Shining Path wanted to destroy the organizations because they were like a stone in its shoe. [For the Shining Path] popular deliberative democracy was bad.”11 By 1991, the Shining Path had strengthened its position with the population of the popular district, especially among rank-​and-​file members of women’s organizations (Burt 1998, 2011). Entrenched Shining Path supporters served as the “one thousand eyes and ears” of the militant movement, providing surveillance and intelligence to promote closure in the community. Clear divisions emerged in what had once been a close-​knit community, along with fear and distrust. But the theater groups, religious organizations, and many women’s associations did not give in to the terror that penetrated most of civil society in Villa El Salvador.12 Vichama’s director had an especially close relationship with Moyano, and the group supported activist organizations that resisted Shining Path intimidation and violence and criticized the state for its abuse of power. From the very beginning, community theater sought to strengthen community identity in an inclusive way and to address the political violence. Escuza recalled, “During the time of political violence, it was the cultural associations that went out to oppose political violence. The fight on the ground regarding values takes place through a living community culture. It’s not as if we’re always in solidarity or egotistical, it’s a continual debate among human beings.”13 The theater group coordinated with community organizations and gained notoriety for its efforts. To reach a wide audience, actors distributed announcements and sometimes staged multiple performances in a single day. The Vichama production Dialogo entre Zorros (A conversation between foxes, 1985)  provided a history of the founding and development of Villa El Salvador. The play sought to reinforce community identity by staging this history of its popular struggle and of residents’ efforts to organize and overcome local challenges. The theater group’s next major production, Carnaval por la Vida (Carnival for life, 1987), paid tribute to the role of women in popular organizing and their contributions to communal kitchens in Villa El Salvador. The play also engaged with the new challenges presented by Shining Path violence in Peru. During interviews, participants explained that they wanted to talk about the Shining Path presence, not as something far away in the highlands, but as

 



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something knocking at their door, because the movement had already started to infiltrate organizations in Villa El Salvador.

3.5.2.  Generating Dialogue by “Staging Peace” in Villa El Salvador and Other Sites of Conflict Theater and other forms of art can generate space for dialogue where conversation remains muted. Vichama’s César Escuza spoke of the importance of building a community in which citizens must “understand rights and duties in a social, communal, cooperative, and collective sense” (quoted in in Chuez Herrera 2012). During a television interview, he elaborated on the role of theater during the conflict, “Theater is a place between the state and civil society where we can build democratic spaces through culture.”14 Rafael Virhuez, one of Vichama’s original participants, described how theater could help to address issues like violence in the community through preventative action and by reorienting young people to make better decisions: “In those years we dreamed of a better future and we saw art, specifically theater, as a means to do it. Theater is a powerful tool for reflection and transformation. We could propose and discuss new possibilities.”15 Vichama participants brought greater visibility to issues surrounding militant and state violence, and one of their primary goals was the production and diffusion of knowledge. They wanted to identify the greatest threats to the community, educate the population, and identify potential solutions. María Elena Moyano represented the voice of civil action and a search for dialogue. Escuza recalled, “Up until the moment of her death she insisted, ‘Come here. Talk with us.’ But the Shining Path was afraid of dialogue. We believed there were differences, but we could talk about those differences.”16 He described the theater group’s work in the community alongside Moyano. Just days before her death the director had reluctantly promised Moyano that he would write a play about her efforts if anything happened to her. He recalled: I told her I wouldn’t do it because she wasn’t going to die. She insisted and I made her the promise that I would. Days later they murdered her. We went through a very difficult period. There were attacks. Many of my friends were arrested or wounded. It was hard, but we did the play. We followed through on the promise. I’ve never met a woman, a human being, so unafraid of death.17 Moyano insisted on nonviolence and the need to foster dialogue because she believed that it was education and the sharing of ideas that brought power and change. She never advocated killing Shining Path militants despite the

 

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continuous threats on her life. In her speeches, she became a champion of peace and social justice. There had been a spike in militant and state violence just before the Shining Path killed María Elena Moyano. Although her murder stoked fear in the community, it also generated great indignation and became one of the Shining Path’s greatest political mistakes. The theater continued collaborating with women’s associations and later followed through on its promise to honor Moyano’s memory with the production of Lirio de Esperanza (Iris of hope, 1996). The play looked at themes of memory, gender, democracy, and the violence directed at nonviolent community organizations. It sparked heated discussions among women after performances and, for many, reaffirmed the need for action and revitalized community participation. Graciela Díaz, who played Moyano in the production, described the environment in Villa El Salvador before and immediately after the murder. Theater groups started engaging with themes of violence with greater frequency after Vichama performed Carnaval por la Vida in 1987. The performances opened up a space for discussion, and the violence temporarily subsided. However, she recalled, “the fear in the community was very real. María Elena Moyano died in 1992, but so many died before. [Her murder] shut off dialogue a bit and many closed themselves off in the face of such extreme radicalization and threat.”18 Díaz explained that in a place like Villa El Salvador, almost everyone took a side. Moyano and the Vichama theater group were rare in their vision for an alternative autonomous option. As in so many rural highland communities, the decision to side with neither militants nor the state security forces carried a significant human cost. Moyano’s murder was retaliation for her vocal disagreement and resistance to the Shining Path. The Shining Path recognized Vichama’s influence on the population and spoke out against the group. When Vichama actors visited the women’s prison, inmates who supported the Shining Path labeled them “revisionists” and continued to threaten its opponents in other parties on the political Left. Graciela Díaz explained: They said that we had turned our back on the people. Instead of joining their side we had taken the wrong path and that only they knew the correct way. Everyone in Villa El Salvador was on the Left and [the Shining Path] polarized decisions about politics. They said, “If you’re not with us, then you’re with them. You’re either with us or against us. You’re with the people or against the people.” In their eyes there was no other option. Period.19 But the Shining Path’s brutal violence and demands for total obedience alienated many potential allies on the Left. The theater group continued its efforts despite

 



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their fears and the threat, maintaining its vision for an alternative way forward through civil action for political change. Theater also affected how the government responded to the Shining Path’s political efforts in Villa El Salvador. When I asked Vichama participants about the government reactions to their work, they described a suspicious and abusive state security apparatus. Graciela Díaz laughed uncomfortably and said bluntly, “Well, the state arrested us.” The CUAVES flag in Villa El Salvador displayed symbols that represented the community’s story—​a gun and a shovel, a house, a book, and people gathered together. Red symbols appeared on a white flag, and when the police saw the flag during performances of plays, they mistook it as signaling the group’s support of violent revolutionary change. Theater participants were arrested on numerous occasions. Several members recalled an event in the mid-​1980s when the police rounded up all the actors at the end of a performance. Luckily, Rafael Virhuez had already changed out of his costume and appeared to be a spectator on the side of the stage as the police detained his colleagues. He was able to enlist the help of several politicians, who interceded on the actors’ behalf and secured their release a day and a half later. During the mid-​to late 1980s, when the group performed Dialogo Entre Zorros, the actors looked to important political theorists for ideas and inspiration for their next play. They read Mariátegui, Gramsci, Marx, and Lenin. Rafael Virhuez described an occasion when he and another actor were questioned and searched by the police, and then arrested for possessing controversial books. He described a memorable incident during his arrest: They knew César and his work at the Popular Communication Center, so they left him. But they took Arturo and I. There were probably more than forty of us packed together in the cell. I remember they took us one by one to write down our details. There was one prisoner who stood up and stated that what they were doing was against his rights as a citizen. An officer hit him. I don’t know if it was anger or rage, perhaps even fear or a combination of all these emotions, but the officer started to walk away and [the man] stood back up and stated once again that what they were doing was a violation of his rights as a citizen. [The officer] hit him, and he stood up again and again until [the prisoner] disappeared.20 The actions of the officer were commonplace at the time. The police remained suspicious of organizing efforts by actors engaged with social and political issues, regardless of whether they actually supported violent action. Virhuez affirmed Vichama’s commitment to the transformational role of theater even in the face of state violence:

 

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The military and police would patrol in the area at night. They might knock on your door at any moment. It was in this environment, in this context, that we decided to perform theater—​to speak, to believe it was necessary to express our point of view in relation to the violence. We didn’t agree with this kind of violence and based on our experiences in Villa El Salvador we maintained that the best way to improve things was through organizing, solidarity, and participation.21 Despite the police’s and the military’s widespread human rights abuses, theater helped to articulate and to educate the public about alternative strategies for change. It raised awareness of nonviolent movements that the government often incorrectly assumed were linked to the Shining Path.

3.5.3.  Theater outside Villa El Salvador in the Highlands Vichama also saw the importance of creating dialogue outside Villa El Salvador. The theater group performed in other parts of Peru, including a performance in a town located at the epicenter of violent conflict. Rural communities in regions around the highlands of Ayacucho suffered disproportionately as victims of militant violence and a heavy-​handed counterinsurgency. In the late 1980s, Vichama actors traveled to Andahuaylas, in the Apurímac region, and all parties to the conflict attended their performance. César Escuza recalled: We performed in Andahuaylas in 1988 I believe. It was in a huge Italian-​ style theater that held around two thousand people. The organizers were very worried because we were in the middle of the conflict. [The organizers] told us that people from the Shining Path, police, soldiers, and intelligence services would all be there. We were off to the side watching the crowd before the performance and we saw a soldier. A slightly tipsy peasant made a movement he didn’t like. The soldier pushed him to the ground and kicked him over and over again with his boots, all over his body. The peasant held on to his boots and began to plead, “No, no, please.” He ended up kissing his boots because [the soldier] was hitting and kicking him. The crowd pled with the soldier to stop striking the man and the peasant left. The situation was intense.22 He continued: Part of the play we were performing told the story of a soldier—​a young man who goes off to fulfill his military service, which at that time was

 



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obligatory. The organizers came in and said, “César, that back part is filled with soldiers. You have a lot of intelligence officers taking notes and recording in the theater. What do we do? It’s your group’s decision.” I went to the dressing room and spoke with my colleagues. One of the actresses said, “This is for dignity. We have to do it. It’s a matter of dignity.” We came to perform, so we decided to perform.23 The group went ahead with the performance not knowing what would happen or even if they would finish the play. The director described the content of Carnaval por la Vida and the tension in the theater: In the play there was a young soldier who was in the Andean region. It was dark. He appeared alone with his gun. A light appeared illuminating the character. He was shouting, “Who goes there?! Who goes there?!” He was shaking. “Identify yourself! Who goes there?!” He was sweating. The play isn’t meant to make people laugh. In the back of the theater the soldiers were laughing and someone shouted, “It’s you! That’s Quispe. Hahaha. It’s Guzman. It’s you, shaking just like you!” What a relief that they reacted that way. The play was not meant to be destructive. It was to put the characters in context and lead to reflection. Behind the uniform is a human being.24 César Escuza added, “[The Shining Path] was in the crowd too. They weren’t wearing their masks, but people knew who they were. Actors playing those roles shouted typical slogans of “Traitors! Sell-​outs to the system!” It was a public dialogue between the two forces. It lasted for an hour and fifteen minutes.”25 Open discussion of themes related to the conflict helped to break the taboo. Prior to performances by Vichama and a handful of other groups, theater and other forms of popular culture mostly refrained from broaching themes like Shining Path violence and state human rights abuses. Vichama’s work inspired other theater groups, which had traveled to Andahuaylas to see the performances. Graciela Díaz and Rafael Virhuez both saw the Andahuaylas event as an important moment in opening up dialogue about the conflict. The group had engaged with the conflict themes to reach a wider audience and to generate reflection, with the goal of ultimately affecting political change. Graciela Díaz explained: We thought about how to present the violence in different ways. It was a challenging production. I  remember that we went to Andahuaylas one time, which was strongly affected by the violence. At this time, it was somewhat under control, but [Andahuaylas] had recently been a site of incredible conflict. The play spoke about soldiers, Shining Path

 

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militants, and the MRTA as the principle actors in the conflict and the organizers were terrified before we performed the play. A bullet could fly at any moment and you wouldn’t know where it came from because we were talking about everyone. We were face to face with a crowd of soldiers and the masses, many of which were with the Shining Path. You didn’t know who to speak to or who to look at. It was a complete change for me after this performance.26 Rafael Virhuez described civilians being “sandwiched” between the Shining Path and the armed forces. He clarified the theater group’s goals and how the community received the performance: We had conviction and ideals. We saw the possibility for a peaceful revolution and that was what we proposed. We carried our experiences in Villa El Salvador with us and shared them with others. It was weird, when we finished the play no one applauded. They stood up and got on the stage to surround the eight of us. The theme was controversial and there was a fear that the military might detain us. This sort of thing had already happened to us before. In other events the police would show up and arrest everybody.27 After the performance, five hundred residents surrounded the theater group so people would not know who the actors were, and then shuffled them out of the building. The actors went back to their rooms and some of them cried. Graciela Díaz described the reaction as a catharsis. There was a sense of fear, but also of solidarity. The performance generated greater discussion among the other theater groups who were in attendance, as well as the population. The play humanized the participants in the conflict with a focus on victims and how the violence affected the home. The play Carnaval por la Vida generated dialogue and opened up new possibilities for community action. Subsequent plays had a similar effect. Vichama participants believed that communities needed to find their own paths. Graciela Díaz described their broader strategy and a desire to affect positive change: Organizations came together to provide solutions to related problems because there were no real solutions to the civil war and the violence. Sometimes there was direct confrontation and resistance, but more importantly, the community provided their own solutions to the issues that armed groups like the Shining Path could not resolve. A community could make the changes with nonviolent organizing and mobilization.28

 



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Vichama demonstrated the contradictions between the Shining Path’s professed ideals and goals and the militant group’s actions. The theater group opened up a space for discussion and provided aid to organizations that pushed for peaceful change through direct action by the residents themselves.

3.5.4.  Theater and a Legacy of Nonviolent Social Change Theater groups acted to strengthen civil society, and they continue to play an important role in contemporary social conflicts. Vichama also worked in “postconflict” Peru engaging with themes of violence and the disappeared in such plays as Memoria para los Ausentes (Remembering the missing, 2001). Many of the original Vichama participants have gone on to serve political roles in the community, and they continue to work with organizations to address pressing social challenges. Some have launched new theater projects to confront the evolving challenges in Villa El Salvador. Rafael Virhuez left the Vichama group shortly after the performances of Carnaval por la Vida. He worked with an NGO in Villa El Salvador throughout the 1990s. In 1999, he founded the Casa Infantil Juvenil de Arte y Cultura (CIJAC), an arts and culture workshop for children and youth. He worked closely with thirteen gang leaders in the community to perform theater. He coordinated with a broader activist network that included representatives from the church, the Glass of Milk organization, and communal kitchens to establish a Committee for Nonviolence. The organizations also work closely with local authorities, the police, and the municipality. The police were not receptive at first, but women from the Glass of Milk mobilized and occupied the police station in 2001 to insist on greater collaboration to address the problem of violence in the community. Rafael Virhuez explained, “The role of women in this moment, like the entire history of Villa El Salvador, was decisive in organizing and marching, accompanying people, and going out at night. They participated in the cultural events and seized public space to allow for change.”29 The women’s associations and communal kitchens were important allies in moving from ideas to action. By 2007 and 2008, the violence situation improved drastically and the sector had transformed into a peace community, though some problems persist. They held marches and used theater, festivals, and workshops to develop a “peace culture” in which the community rejects violence and advocates for nonviolent social transformation. It was not an easy task, and it took several years to lower the violence levels. The movement began following an especially brutal incident of violence that forced residents to take action. Rival youth gangs that aligned with different soccer teams fought constantly in 1999 and 2000. One evening in 2001, a small group from one gang was standing around the plaza talking. A massive group

 

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from the rival side mobilized and entered the plaza from various points. Faced with nearly a hundred of their rivals, the small group fled. However, one young man was not able to get away. Virhuez recalled: They simply massacred him with rocks and machetes; it was absolutely brutal. No one intervened. There was a horde of a hundred young people. Sixteen-​and seventeen-​year-​olds destroying another human being as people looked on. When they left we approached the body. We couldn’t even move him, all we could do was stand there and watch him die. The event struck us; it made us question ourselves and we could no longer remain indifferent. This event sparked the coordination and mobilization of all the civil-​society actors and pushed us to make demands on local government and the police.30 Virhuez had to send his family away for a time because he lived under threat while working to counteract violence in sector 7 of Villa El Salvador. He admits: It’s been a lot of work, but there is no other way. They ask why I do this and I say, “This is the place I live.” It has to get better. My children are growing up in this neighborhood. I don’t have any other choice. I also don’t want to move; this is my home. Sure, I’m swimming against the current and it’s certainly difficult and complicated. But, everything is complicated.31 Virhuez worked with police to remove some of the gang leaders, who saw his efforts as a challenge to their control. However, all the gang participants were not going to just disappear. He took steps to incorporate others in his efforts. Virhuez had to work directly with those responsible for much of the violence, getting them invested in the transformative power of theater. The CIJAC theater group’s actions unified a community and empowered organizations to express demands and take action to reduce violence. CIJAC stages performances about pressing issues in the community to generate dialogue and push for collective solutions to common problems like violence and drugs. Virhuez credits his experiences with Vichama as essential in preparing him to confront the challenges he and his community continue to face, “Everything I learned there, I brought with me here. The skills and abilities, but I also maintain the same values and ideals. I won’t remain indifferent and I fight apathy.”32 Theater will undoubtedly continue to play a role in the community’s struggle.

 



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3.6. Conclusion Theater can serve as a means for empowerment and social change (Boal 1985). Theatrical performance played an important and understudied role during and after armed conflict in Peru. I found that theater groups used performance to empower activist allies that were working toward peace and to maintain the space for some civility, dialogue, and the transmission of new information. Their efforts empowered communities to resist the attempts of the Shining Path to stifle debate and helped to generate creative ideas for advancing political change. I also found that theater helped to foster dialogue in a time of fear and silence. During armed conflict, theater groups brought greater visibility to violent events that affected the population. Theatrical performance helped nonviolent activist allies to limit violence and to mobilize for positive social change. Theater provided a venue to share alternative ideas and define relationships among militants, state representatives, and other civilian groups. Theater also affects prospects for sustained peace. Art helped to articulate experiences in war and served as a tool of remembrance (Milton 2014). Armed conflict and authoritarian politics in Peru eventually gave way to memory and truth projects during the early 2000s. The Peruvian Truth and Reconciliation Commission encouraged the public to revisit the past and confront the horror and atrocity of the conflict period. Groups like Yuyachkani and Vichama played an important part in promoting understanding, reconciliation, and coexistence in “postconflict” Peru. Different forms of art can nourish the attitudes, values, and capacities people need not only to end violent conflict but also to rebuild peaceful communities (Cohen 2003). Artists, activists, and academics collaborated on projects meant to invite reflection and to increase public awareness about the conflict period. Installations such as the Eye that Cries and the Place of Memory commemorate the victims of violence. The Peruvian government, NGOs, and artists also encouraged communities to investigate and remember their own experiences by doing ethnographic drawings or working in traditional artistic media such as tablas, retablos, or arpilleras. These works of “folk” art depict massacres and other attacks perpetrated by militants and the state security forces. Art and theater helped to facilitate public engagement with the recent national trauma. Vichama continues to perform theater that engages with pressing contemporary social issues. The group’s most recent production raises awareness about the dangers of the extractive industries, the exploitation of natural resources, and environmental degradation. They work closely with other artists to offer classes and workshops. In July 2015, they initiated a program to call attention to violence against children. Although establishing a clear causal relationship between theater and outcomes like violent conflict is challenging, the relationship appears to be a two-​step process that moves from dialogue to action to bring about

 

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political change. As Brazilian educator and philosopher Paulo Freire observed, “Education doesn’t change the world. Education changes people. People change the world.” Theater in Villa El Salvador plays an important part in this first step.

Notes 1. Vichama is the Andean God of creation. 2. Personal interview with National Council of Evangelical Christians of Peru director Víctor Arroyo Cuyubamba, Lima, February 20, 2012. 3. Conversation with artist and activist Mauricio Delgado, Lima, June 19, 2015. 4. Venceremos ( July 1985), the official publication of the MRTA. Found in the Gustavo Gorriti Collection on the Peruvian Insurrection, box 1, folder 2, Official Publications/​Manifestos, Movimiento Revolucionario Túpac Amaru. 5. Conversation with Miguel Rubio after a performance of Sin Título: Técnica Mixta, Lima, July 10, 2015. 6. Video performances of Contraelviento (Against the Wind) and Adiós Ayacucho (Farewell Ayacucho) by Yuyachkani can be found through New York University’s Hemispheric Institute Digital Video Library. See Contraelviento, http://​hidvl.nyu.edu/​video/​003964081.html, and Adiós Ayacucho, http://​hidvl.nyu.edu/​video/​000559999.html. An English translation of the script of Adiós Ayacucho can be found in Margaret Carson, Diana Taylor, and Sarah J. Townsend, eds., 2008, Stages of Conflict: A Critical Anthology of Latin American Theater and Performance, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. 7. The nucleus of the group between 1983 and 1988 included César Escuza, Miguel Almeyda, Graciela Díaz, Arturo Mejía, Martha Moyano, Ricardo Vizcardo, Yolanda Díaz, Rocío Paz, and Rafael Virhuez. 8. Personal interview with César Escuza, Villa El Salvador, June 23, 2016. 9. Ibid. 10. Personal interview with Graciela Díaz, Villa El Salvador, July 8, 2016. 11. Personal interview with César Escuza, Villa El Salvador, June 23, 2016. 12. Conversation with long-​time resident and community leader, Antonio “Tonny” Palomino, Villa El Salvador, June 23, 2015. 13. Canal 11 television interview with César Escuza, “Arte y Compromiso, Teatro Vichama,” March 30, 2012, https://​www.youtube.com/​watch?feature=player_​embedded&v=rY7IR1blsrE. 14. Escuza Canal 11 television interview. 15. Personal interview with Rafael Virhuez, Villa El Salvador, June 24, 2016. 16. Personal interview with César Escuza, Villa El Salvador, June 23, 2016. 17. Conversation with César Escuza after a performance by Vichama, Villa El Salvador, June 23, 2015. 18. Personal interview with Graciela Díaz, Villa El Salvador, July 8, 2016. 19. Ibid. 20. Personal interview with Rafael Virhuez Villa El Salvador, June 24, 2016. 21. Ibid. 22. Personal interview with César Escuza, Villa El Salvador, June 23, 2016. 23. Ibid. 24. Ibid. 25. Ibid. 26. Personal interview with Graciela Díaz, Villa El Salvador, July 8, 2016. 27. Personal interview with Rafael Virhuez, Villa El Salvador, June 24, 2016. 28. Personal interview with Graciela Díaz, Villa El Salvador, July 8, 2016. 29. Personal interview with Rafael Virhuez, Villa El Salvador, June 24, 2016. 30. Ibid. 31. Ibid. 32. Ibid.

 



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References Armas Asín, Fernando. 2000. “Libertad religiosa, violencia y Derechos Humanos en el Perú de Fines del Siglo XX.” In La Religión en el Perú al Filo del Milenio, edited by Manuel M. Marzal, Catalina Romero, and José Sánchez, 109–​137. Lima: Fondo Editorial de la Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú. Barter, Shane Joshua. 2014. Civilian Strategy in Civil War: Insights from Indonesia, Thailand, and the Philippines. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Boal, Augusto. 1985. Theatre of the Oppressed. New York: Theatre Communications Group. Bruner, Jerome S. 2002. Making Stories:  Law, Literature, Life. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Burt, Jo-​Marie. 1998. “Shining Path and the ‘Decisive Battle’ in Lima’s Barriadas: The Case of Villa El Salvador.” In Shining and Other Paths: War and Society in Peru, 1980–​1995, edited by Steve J. Stern, 267–​306. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Burt, Jo-​Marie. 2011. “Accounting for Murder: The Contested Narratives of the Life and Death of Maria Elena Moyano.” In Accounting for Violence: Marketing Memory in Latin America, edited by Ksenija Bilbija and Leigh A. Payne, 69–​97. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Chirinos, Guillermo, and Ponciano Del Pino. 1994. “Evangélicos fueron los primeros en luchar contra la subversion.” Caminos no. 47 (October): 16–​17. Chuez Herrera, Maria del Rosario. 2012. “Procesos de Inducción Ciudadana Utilizando el Teatro como Espacio Comunicacional. Dos Casos de Estudio en el Distrito de Villa El Salvador: “Arena y Esteras” y “Vichama Teatro.” B.A. Thesis, Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú. Cohen, Cynthia. 2003. “Engaging with the Arts to Promote Coexistance.” In Imagine Coexistence:  Restoring Humanity after Violent Ethnic Conflict, edited by Antonia Handler Chayes and Martha Minow, 267–​310. San Francisco: Jossey-​Bass. Coral Cordero, Isabel. 1998. “Women in War:  Impact and Response.” In Shining and Other Paths: War and Society in Peru, 1980–​1995, edited by Steve J. Stern, 345–​374. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Craven, David. 2002. Art and Revolution in Latin America, 1910–​1990. New Haven, CT:  Yale University Press. CVR (Comisión de Verdad y Reconciliación). 2003. Informe Final. http://​www.cverdad.org.pe/​ ifinal/​index.php. Degregori, Carlos Iván. 1989. Que Dificil Es Ser Dios:  Ideología y Violencia Política en Sendero Luminoso. Lima: El Zorro de Abajo Ediciones. Degregori, Carlos Iván. 1990. Ayacucho 1969–​ 1979:  El Surgimiento de Sendero Luminoso. Lima: Instituto de Estudios Peruanos. del Pino, Ponciano. 1996. “Tiempos de Guerra y de Dioses: Ronderos, Evangélicos y Senderistas en el Valle del Río Apurímac.” In Las Rondas Campesinas y la Derrota de Sendero Luminoso, edited by Carlos Iván Degregori, José Coronel, Ponciano del Pino, and Orin Starn, 117–​188. Lima: Instituto de Estudios Peruanos. Fumerton, Mario. 2001. “Rondas Campesinas in the Peruvian Civil War: Peasant Self-​Defense Organisations in Ayacucho.” Bulletin of Latin American Research 20 (4): 470–​497. Heilman, Jaymie Patricia. 2010. Before the Shining Path:  Politics in Rural Ayacucho, 1895–​1980. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Instituto de Defensa Legal. 1990. Perú 1989:  En la Espiral de Violence. Lima:  Instituto de Defensa Legal. Kalyva, Eve. 2016. “The Rhetoric of Disobedience:  Art and Power in Latin America.” Latin American Research Review 51 (2): 46–​66. Kaplan, Oliver. 2010. “Civilian Autonomy in Civil War.” PhD thesis, Stanford University. Kaplan, Oliver. 2013. “Protecting Civilians in Civil War: The Institution of the ATCC in Colombia.” Journal of Peace Research 50 (3): 351–​367.

 

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Kaplan, Oliver. 2017. Resisting War: How Communities Protect Themselves. New York: Cambridge University Press. La Serna, Miguel. 2012. The Corner of the Living: Ayacucho on the Eve of the Shining Path Insurgency. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. López, Darío. 1998. Los Evangélicos y los Derechos Humanos:  La experiencia social del Concilio Nacional Evangélico del Perú 1980–​ 1992. Lima:  Centro Evangélico de Misiología Andino-​Amazónica. McCormick, Gordon H. 1992. From the Sierra to the Cities: The Urban Campaign of the Shining Path. Santa Monica, CA: RAND. Milton, Cynthia E. 2014. “Images of Truth: Rescuing Memories of Peru’s Internal War Through Testimonial Art.” In Art from a Fractured Past Memory and Truth Telling in Post-​Shining Path Peru, edited by Cynthia Milton, 37–​74. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Moyano, María Elena. 2000. The Autobiography of María Elena Moyano: The Life and Death of a Peruvian Activist. Edited by Diana Miloslavich Tupac. Gainesville: University of Florida Press. Ranly, Ernesto, and Julia Yong. 2003. Los Religiosos en Tiempos de Violencia en el Perú: Crónica y Teoría de la No-​violencia. Lima: Congregación de los Misioneros de la Preciosa Sangre and Conferencia de los Religiosos del Perú (CONFER). Schmidt, Vivien A. 2008. “Discursive Institutionalism:  The Explanatory Power of Ideas and Discourse.” Annual Review of Political Science 11 (1): 303–​326. Schmidt, Vivien A. 2010. “Taking Ideas and Discourse Seriously:  Explaining Change through Discursive Institutionalism as the Fourth ‘New Institutionalism.’” European Political Science Review 2 (1): 1–​25. Smith, Michael L. 1992. Entre Dos Fuegos: ONG, Desarrollo Rural y Violencia Política. Lima: Instituto de Estudios Peruanos. Starn, Orin. 1995. “To Revolt against the Revolution:  War and Resistance in Peru’s Andes.” Cultural Anthropology 10 (4): 547–​580. Taylor, Diana. 2003. The Archive and the Repertoire: Performing Cultural Memory in the Americas. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Taylor, Diane. 2008. “Adiós Ayacucho.” In Stages of Conflict: A Critical Anthology of Latin American Theater and Performance, edited by Diana Taylor and Sarah J. Townsend, 291–​300. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Valenzuela Marroquín, Manuel Luis. 2009. El Teatro de la Guerra: La Violencia Política de Sendero Luminoso a Través de su Teatro. Los Olivos, Peru: Grupo Editorial Arteidea. Valenzuela Marroquín, Manuel Luis. 2013. “Violencia Política y Teatro en el Perú de los 80: El Teatro Producido por Sendero Luminoso y el Movimiento de Artistas Populares.” Pacarina del Sur 4 (14) ( January–​ March). http://​www.pacarinadelsur.com/​home/​pielago-​de-​ imagenes/​625-​v iolencia-​politica-​y-​teatro-​en-​el-​peru-​de-​los-​80-​el-​teatro-​producido-​por-​ sendero-​luminoso-​y-​el-​movimiento-​de-​artistas-​populares. Wood, Elisabeth Jean. 2003. Insurgent Collective Action and Civil War in El Salvador. New York: Cambridge University Press. Zech, Steven T. 2016. Between Two Fires: Civilian Resistance during Internal Armed Conflict in Peru. PhD diss., University of Washington.

 

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Northern Kenya Civil and Uncivil Action under Conditions of State Fragility Fletcher D. Cox

4.1.  Introduction Compared to its neighbors—​Somalia, South Sudan, and Uganda—​Kenya is the most stable state on the Horn of Africa. Over the past decade, the country has achieved consistent economic growth and made significant improvements in governance. Notwithstanding these very positive developments, Kenya remains vulnerable to violence. In particular, it remains vulnerable to nonstate conflict between organized armed groups not directly associated with the government.1 Beyond the well-​known outbreak of severe election-​related violence in 2007 and 2008, between 2008 and 2014, deadly armed conflict broke out in multiple counties, including Tana River, Marsabit, Turkana, Samburu, Pokot, Mandera, and Wajir. Best estimates from the Uppsala Conflict Data Program (UCDP) database indicate Kenya experienced 6,000 fatalities due to nonstate violence over the past fifteen years.2 The majority of these fatalities occurred in Northern Kenya, a periphery region that borders Uganda, South Sudan, Ethiopia, and Somalia, also known as the arid and semi-​arid lands (ASALs).3 With gains in governance, institutional development, and economic growth concentrated in Central and Southern Kenya, the persistent problem of substate fragility4 increases the risk of violence across Northern Kenya. The absence of strong, formal government institutions in the region creates gaps in the government’s capacity5 to provide basic human security and public goods, which creates security dilemmas for communities living in a region where the state does not have a monopoly over the use of violence (Posen 1993). Theories of state fragility help explain the concentration of armed conflict in Northern Kenya. However, they do not fully explain why patterns of violence vary across the region, often at the communal, or “micro” level (Autesserre 2014a). 89

 

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In areas of with very similar demographic and ecological features, and very similar root conflict drivers, the microdynamics of peace and conflict vary broadly.6 Across a range of diverse conflicts, from the Greek Civil War to ethnic riots in India, the war in Bosnia, interclan clashes in Somalia,7 and militia wars in DR Congo, scholars have documented microlevel variation and sought to explain it (Ron 2000; Varshney 2002; Kalyvas 2006; Shortland, Christopoulou, and Makatsoris 2013; Autesserre 2014). Northern Kenya is no exception. Some conflicts in relatively similar communities escalate to include acts of mass violence, while others do not. Why is this the case? One of the most important explanations of variation in patterns of local violence is that strong civil-​society organizations (CSOs) act as firewalls, containing the further spread of violence following smaller scale attacks (Paffenholz 2010). Strong CSOs and interorganizational networks help maintain cross-​cutting, intergroup relationships that are essential for the coordination of civil action (Varshney 2002). There is evidence from multiple conflicts to support this approach. Trade associations in India and Nigeria, churches and faith-​based organizations in Rwanda, international nongovernmental organizations (INGOs) in Eastern Europe and East Timor, and grass-​roots organizations in Colombia and DR Congo have effectively used civil action to limit violence and maintain “peace islands” in war zones (Kaplan 2013; Autesserre 2016). Some civic groups clearly have the power to contain violence, even in the most difficult conflict settings. CSOs with significant capacity and the resources to organize preventive civil action have, in many cases, limited and interrupted the spread of violence under conditions of state fragility. Looking to civic organizations alone, however, does not fully solve the puzzle of microlevel variation in armed violence. Theories of civil society and violence reduction risk underestimating the important ways civil action and uncivil action interact and co-​evolve. Civic groups with strong intergroup relationships, networks, and capacity previously used for effective civil action also provide useful tools for political entrepreneurs interested in uncivil action. In Meagher’s (2007) study of the Bakassi Boys in Nigeria, political elites and armed militias “hijacked civil society,” causing a previously protective civic organizational network to support and mobilize for violence, rather than prevent and contain it. Some types of civic groups may not be as effective as others in maintaining “mere civility,” or minimal social bonds necessary for preventing major disagreements from escalating toward violence. When violence escalates, actors involved in civil action may lose organizational capacity, lose local legitimacy, and fail to be able to maintain relationships that cut across communities in conflict. Firebreaks might fail. Other case-​study research suggests that not all civil-​society groups are created equal. Research in other cases in Sub-​Saharan Africa, such as Côte d’Ivoire, the

 



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Democratic Republic of the Congo (DR Congo), and Rwanda, indicates that similar civic organizations may face very different organizational challenges in different locations. Civic groups may be able to use civil action to contain some types of violence but not others. Autesserre, for example, finds evidence in DR Congo that during long-​running, protracted armed conflicts, community-​based peacebuilding organizations with ties to international organizations regularly encountered crises of capacity and local legitimacy. Crises of local legitimacy limited the ability of civil action to effectively prevent increasingly complex forms of violence (Autesserre 2014b). Evidence in this field,8 therefore, presents a clear research puzzle: Why do some civic groups develop the authority, capacity, and relationships necessary to effectively use civil action to contain violence and sustain peace, while others do not? To address this puzzle, this case study analyzes the strategies various community-​based organizations use and the relationships these groups build to try to contain violence in an underanalyzed conflict zone in Northern Kenya. In the northern part of Kenya’s Great Rift Valley, just south of Lake Turkana, there is a long-​running range war between the seminomadic Samburu and Turkana communities living along the Nyiro Mountain–​Suguta Valley conflict corridor (see Figure 4.1). Compared to other conflict zones across what Menkhaus describes as Kenya’s “arc of crisis,”9 this region is relatively less violent than other areas, such as the “Somali cluster” in the northeastern corner of Kenya, and the “Karamoja cluster” in the northwestern corner.10 However, there is also a high level of microlevel variation within the Nyiro Mountain corridor. Some Turkana and Samburu settlements are less prone to experience and condone violent attacks than others. This conflict setting, therefore, provides a unique opportunity to use comparative analysis to study how civic groups in general, and traditional authorities and local nongovernment organizations (NGOs) in particular, develop relationships that shape highly localized patterns of violence within a larger conflict. The Samburu-​Turkana range war is a critical case for looking at both the positive contributions of civic action to relatively lower levels of intergroup violence overall and the limitations of civil action in fully eliminating violence. Methodologically, the case study is a within-​case comparison of episodes of conflict escalation and nonescalation in a long-​running nonstate conflict. It assesses how civil and uncivil action co-​evolve and interact to shape patterns of violence in the Turkana-​Samburu Range War. Civil action and uncivil action are deeply interrelated. Analyzing interactive effects is critical for understanding both whether and how violence occurs. The case study uses four methods:  microlevel case studies; analytic narratives; process tracing; and structured, focused comparison of microlevel conflict episodes (Bates 1998; George and Bennett 2005; Bennett and Elman 2006). The conflict narratives are

 

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Figure 4.1  Map of the Nyrio Mountain—Suguta Valley Conflict Corridor

based on original data collected through focus group dialogues, semistructured interviews, and participant observation of local peacebuilding processes during field research conducted across the Nyrio Valley Conflict Corridor in 2013 and 2014.

 



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The study relies significantly on the experiences and insights of individual actors who were directly involved in the conflict. Following Brass’s (1997) approach to the study of local violence in India, the analytic narratives draw significantly from local interpretations and the viewpoints of actors from groups that were directly involved in coordinating both civil and uncivil actions. Similar to the research methods used by Pearlman in the Syria case (see ­chapter  2), I  identified research participants in collaboration with Kenyan peacebuilding experts and local research assistants using a snowball approach, as is appropriate for fieldwork in remote, conflict-​affected communities with highly dispersed, mobile populations. The timing of the field research provided access to unique insights on the relationship between civil action and patterns of violence. In 2014, intergroup tension was rising within the Nyiro Mountain Conflict Corridor with the daily spread of rumors of impending retaliatory attacks. This allowed for direct interactions with a broad range of groups involved in coordinating rapid responses to the increased threat of violence. My research team conducted over a hundred interviews with members and supporters of the Samburu and Turkana militias, government officials, local religious and faith-​based organization leaders, peacebuilders and NGO program managers, and United Nations actors who were working to support community-​based conflict resolution and peacebuilding programs in the area. Each microlevel analysis explains informants’ key claims and identifies the most plausible explanation for the escalation or nonescalation of violence following events with the potential to trigger the spread of violence. Although the approach is appropriate for the context and the research puzzle, it still has potential weaknesses. Three limitations deserve scrutiny. First, actors working to support civil action in conflict settings that receive very little media attention have incentives to overstate the effectiveness of their work or the impact of their group’s action on the conflict trajectory. Overstating effectiveness could create a spotlight effect to garner scholarly and media attention or attract donations and support from larger international organizations or UN officials. Peacemakers and CBOs in the Samburu-​Turkana conflict face severe financial-​ resource constraints, which makes overstating effectiveness highly likely. Formal security actors, in contrast, may have incentives to understate the effectiveness of a civil action to build a case for their effectiveness as formal security actors. Second, in long-​running conflicts among groups with high levels of illiteracy, participants construct and share oral conflict histories, creating the potential for recall bias. More recent events and changes in the context of the conflict may shape the accuracy or completeness of respondents’ memories of past events. Recall bias makes it complicated for researchers to identify the most trustworthy narratives, and to explain how and why the logic of civil or uncivil action changes

 

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over time. Triangulation using news articles from multiple sources and conflict reports from multiple local NGOs helps to mitigate this problem but does not fully resolve it. Third, the positionality of researchers may affect the overall interpretation of what counts as a “civil” versus an “uncivil” action. For example, covert informant networks that comprise traditional authorities (among others) shape the overall pattern of “frozen” conflict described in this case study. Cooperative, cross-​cutting relationships among Turkana and Samburu communities and clans form through long-​running conflict-​resolution dialogues, livestock trading markets, and education programming. However, they also form through closed, illicit trade networks. Samburu communities, for example, do not have direct access to borders with countries experiencing civil war., They must therefore negotiate with “enemies” to gain access to weapons. Whether or not these relational networks should be considered more “civil” than “uncivil” may depend upon positionality, interpretation, and the ethical framework of the analysts (Wibben 2016). As listed in Table I.1, Repertoires of Civil Action (see the introduction), these illicit networks, “promote dialogue,” provide access to resources for “aid and rescue,” and offer opportunities for “engagement with opponents.” However, these actions also increase capacity of local militias to threaten opponents and coordinate violent acts. Should this change the classification? If traditional elders attend a peacemaking dialogue hosted by a local NGO, but only with the intent of getting insider information on the strength or weakness of their opponents as the basis for coordinating attacks, does this make conflict-​resolution efforts an “uncivil” action? Are the peacemakers who travel with the armed militia convoys from one particular group engaged in “civil” action? Cultural, political, and economic context may shape conceptions of what should count as “mere civility.” Identifying the potential limitations of field research–​based inquiry is critical for the ongoing study of civil action in deeply divided, conflict-​affected communities. To explore how civil action co-​evolves with uncivil action to shape conflict dynamics in the region, the chapter first provides a historical analysis of the conflict context. It identifies the root drivers of long-​lasting grievances between the Turkana and Samburu communities living in the area, and explains how initial conflict dynamics, starting in 1996, triggered to two key changes: (a) the increased organizational capacity of traditional leaders and the increased local authority of ethnic militias, and (b) the formation of relationships and networks among local civic organizations, also with increased authority and capacity to support a broad range of civil actions to prevent conflict escalation and dampen violence.

 



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Second, the chapter compares and analyzes the strategies and relationships of the Turkana and Samburu communities living near the conflict corridor. This section deals with proximate conflict dynamics and explains how both communities use civil action and uncivil action to prevent the rapid escalation of violence in the wake of major attacks, rising intergroup suspicion, and increasing intergroup polarization. Overall, the study builds a case that civil and uncivil actions co-​evolve and are highly interactive in Northern Kenya. Frozen conflict occurs in this setting because of the ways nonviolent activity works alongside violent activity. Civil action by local CBOs and traditional authorities commonly interrupts the process of violence escalation. It reduces the frequency of violence, yet also contributes to the increasing severity of acts of violence when they do occur. Violence occurs less often in the area because of the work of local civic groups to build peace and respond rapidly to threats; but when violence does occur, it is deadlier because the local armed groups are better armed, better organized, and better informed, having access to more detailed information that has been channeled through the local relational networks that are built through civic networks. Civil action in Northern Kenya dampens violence, but at the same time, it unintentionally continues to facilitate it. Traditional authorities play dual roles in the conflict, consistently supporting both civil action and uncivil action. They play roles as brokers and gatekeepers for civic organizations working to access key conflict actors. Long-​running insecurity in the Nyrio Valley Conflict Corridor following the rapid escalation of violence in 1996 limits the mobility of nomadic groups and their access to seasonal grazing areas, and thus increases overall human insecurity. In response, a broad number of CBOs and faith-​based organizations (FBOs) work with local traditional authorities to distribute humanitarian resources and conduct peacebuilding programs. Humanitarian aid and peacebuilding in the conflict corridor supports not just civilians but also well-​armed moran based in remote locations under very harsh living conditions. A  network of CBOs provides communication, transportation, and education support for youth who are involved in militias. Civil action introduces new opportunities for intergroup interaction, rather than intragroup bonding alone. It helps build intergroup relationships among highly mobile and geographically dispersed villages and highly mobile youth militias that travel with community-​owned cattle. Civil action improves local threat monitoring and helps protect increasingly valuable yet vulnerable communal livestock resources. CSO-​ led educational programming, peacemaking dialogues, and local livestock market programming create and sustain opportunities to form cross-​cutting relationships during the ongoing conflict. These civic actions reduce the likelihood of predatory, opportunistic attacks in

 

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the larger, ongoing conflict, which respondents report are the most common trigger of the rapid escalation of violence escalation in the overall conflict. Such civic actions have helped local CBOs in the Nyrio Valley conflict corridor to develop a very significant capacity to coordinate rapid responses to potential threats of violence escalation. NGO-​led collaboration with elders and militias in long-​running humanitarian and local peacebuilding efforts have led to the development of a strong civic network with very significant threat-​ monitoring and rapid-​response capacity. When they have direct access to real-​ time information about conflict dynamics and the movements of armed groups from moran living on the front lines, local CBOs and traditional authorities have far more capacity to mobilize the resources needed to coordinate civil actions than do the state authorities. This capacity provides CBOs with far more legitimacy and authority than state actors. Networks of local civic groups, with elders as key actors, commonly mobilize scarce community resources to respond quickly to quell rumors of pending attacks, engage in preventive diplomacy, and even help pool resources to support conflict-​affected communities. Local threat monitoring networks create opportunities for intergroup collaboration during aid and rescue efforts. Even if there is minimal day-​to-​day interaction between the Turkana and Samburu elders, they have developed the minimal mutual respect required during crises to sustain covert information-​ sharing mechanisms that create a bias toward violence restraint in the overall conflict. Local, informal protection systems help dampen violence in the most insecure locations along the Turkana-​Samburu border. At the same time, even though networks of local civic organizations and traditional authorities help to contain violence and reduce the likelihood of rapid escalation in the Turkana-​Samburu range war, they have not to date been able to fully resolve the root drivers of the conflict. Nor do they only use civil action to contain violence. Traditional authorities, even those viewed as key local peacemakers, remain intimately involved in supporting the development of relationships and the mobilization of resources necessary to increase the capacity of their own militias to use violence. Traditional authorities have not fully abandoned the use of violent tactics, largely because of the extreme lack of legitimacy, authority, and capacity of the government-​based security forces deployed to the area. Turkana and Samburu elders view state police and security actors in the region, including rapid-​deployment units (RDUs) and Kenya Defense Forces as a potential threat because of the prior state-​led violence and the persistence of corruption. They have such little authority, capacity, and local legitimacy that local elders and leaders of militias do not build relationships with formal security actors or share accurate information with them. The lack of trust creates an

 



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incentive for the ongoing mobilization of youth militias as the basis of communal protection. This creates a dilemma for CBOs, FBOs, and NGOs that are working to distribute aid or conduct peacebuilding efforts in the area. Civil groups need access to security to travel in the area because of the persistent risk of banditry. But if they collaborate with the state security actors, they risk losing local legitimacy and access to very valuable insider information about the conflict dynamics. Without access to insider information from the elders and youth militia leaders, peacebuilding efforts have only limited effect. As a result, civic organizations continue to circumvent the state and work closely with the traditional authorities and local militias in order to gain legitimacy, trust, information, and access necessary to deliver aid, support rescue operations, and promote peacebuilding efforts. As an unintended consequence, local civic groups ultimately help mobilize, rather than demobilize, local militias, and increase their capacity to use violence. The co-​evolution of civil and uncivil action in the Samburu-​Turkana Range War yields a slower-​burning, yet deeply protracted violent conflict.

4.2.  Historical Context of the Samburu-​Turkana Range War: The 1996 Tipping Point Turkana and Samburu communities along the Nyiro Mountain–​Suguta Valley conflict corridor, such as Waso Rongai, Kawap, Tuum, Parikati, Sarima, and Loongerin, virtually live with the complete absence of the government authority. Administrative and police posts are absent or abandoned; there are no paved roads; and there is minimal cell phone coverage.11 The area has no international borders, no oil deposits, and there is minimal state interest in economic development. This means that there is minimal long-​term, state-​led intervention in the conflict and distinguishes the area from other conflict-​affected areas in Northern Kenya. For example, the government of Kenya deploys more political and military actors to Turkana, Mandera, and Wajir to protect economic interests, such as oil, and larger state-​security interests stemming from acts of terrorism related to the war in Somalia.12 The Kenyan government sometimes deploys short-​term policing units along the Turkana-​Samburu border, but only on an ad hoc basis. Without security support from the state, the communities living in the fragile, semi-​arid desert ecology along the Northern Rift Valley maintain very high levels of support and identity-​based attachment to the local youth militias. Historically, seminomadic groups living in the area upheld strong social incentives to raiding and use force against rival ethnic out-​groups. Detailed

 

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anthropologies of groups in the area, including the Samburu, Turkana, Pokot, Borana, and Gabra, account for rituals and cultural practices related to violence among pastoralist groups (Spencer 1970).13 This work highlights heroism and raiding, age-​set social status and rewards, rituals of animal sacrifice following deadly attacks, scarification, and tattooing as ritualistic violence during rites of passage. With the introduction of automatic weapons, persistent state fragility, and spillovers from regional conflicts in Somalia, Ethiopia, and South Sudan, the overall logic of violence across Northern Kenya has changed (Mirzeler and Young 2000).14 The following section explains how the changing logic of violence led to key changes in civil and uncivil actions used to contain violence and protect communities living in the area, focusing on how moran and elders have adapted to increasing insecurity along the Nyiro-​Suguta Valley.

4.2.1.  Violence Escalation and Uncivil Action: Evolution of a Local Arms Race While semi-​nomadic groups across Northern Kenya have long conflict histories, the Samburu and Turkana conflict escalated in December 1996.15 The conflict evolved into a complex, protracted range war between the Turkana and Samburu along the Nyiro Mountain–​Suguta Valley corridor. Before the outbreak of violence, a severe regional drought caused pastoralist groups from Marsabit County to relocate to more fertile grazing areas in the Nyiro Mountain Valley. In response, Samburu elders negotiated informal land-​and resource-​sharing arrangements with Gabra, Rendille, and Somali groups. Informal diplomatic action allowed for the accommodation of multiple ethnic out-​groups and set the terms for establishing temporary settlements in Samburu County.16 Samburu communities accommodated a rapid influx of outside groups in response to resource scarcity. Resource scarcity was met with civil action. The initial civil action, however, had an unintended consequence—​it created a perception of marginalization and increased fear and suspicion among the Turkana clans living in semipermanent settlements along the western border of Samburu County.17 Turkana clans, who also depend on seasonal access to the Nyrio Valley, feared that alliances would form among the Samburu, Gabra, and Rendille militias. They feared that such intergroup cooperation would lead to future acts of aggression against Turkana communities, and the loss of access to land near Nyiro Mountain.18 In response, Turkana elders organized six hundred moran and recruited reinforcements from Pokot militias, well known for having access to arms through networks in Northern Uganda. In December of 1996, the joint Turkana-​Pokot

 



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militia raided the area and attacked multiple Samburu and Rendille settlements. The smaller and widely dispersed Samburu, Rendille, and Somali militias were not prepared for large-​scale, very well-​coordinated attacks. After the initial round of attacks, the Kenyan government sent a team of police, military, and political leaders into the area by helicopter to attempt to arrest Turkana and Pokot militia leaders and recover stolen animals.19 During the government operation, the Turkana-​Pokot militia attacked police posts and shot down a government helicopter using a rocket-​propelled grenade. The downed helicopter carried a well-​known Samburu leader, the district commissioner Henry Nyandoro, and “ten other senior security personnel who were trying to monitor [militia] movements, killing all of them on the spot” (Daily Nation, December 28, 1996). The loss of a key Samburu elder and political leader made the attack especially egregious for the Samburu community. Turkana and Samburu respondents reported that the conflict dynamics in 1996 continue to shape the logic of the conflict, and clearly created a tipping point that triggered innovation in both civil and uncivil action. With clear evidence that the Turkana militias would use violence against government security forces (a very high-​risk tactic), and falling trust in the state’s capacity to provide adequate protection for their community, the elders began drawing on all available resources to protect civilians. For example, Samburu elders reported pooling communal resources and making large donations of livestock so they could purchase more sophisticated weapons through preexisting livestock trade networks.20 Respondents also reported pooling livestock resources to bribe the police, who were threatening to conduct disarmament operations. A Samburu informant described the reaction of the elders:  “[W]‌e began then [1996] to deal in illegal arms with our other enemies [Gabra and Borana] because we could not access arms as easily as the Turkana. We have no international border, and the Turkana accessed many weapons from the war in South Sudan.”21 The Samburu, like the Turkana, formed an alliance with the Pokot to coordinate rapid counterattacks against Turkana settlements that were close enough to serve as outposts for coordinating attacks against Samburu settlements. In January and February of 1997, the joint Samburu–​Pokot militia attacked the Turkana settlements set up along the Suguta Valley in order to try to create a more defensible border between the Turkana and Samburu settlements. During the first major phase of escalation, local Samburu and Turkana churches, in cooperation with Catholic and Presbyterian mission stations, provided material support for communities that lost members during the attacks. In particular, the largest coordinated civic action was the mass relocation of Turkana minority groups to more secure locations along the Nyiro Mountain range, including South Horr and Baragoi.22 Before 1996, Turkana and Samburu

 

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communities shared a large number of semipermanent, integrated settlements along the main trade route through the Nyrio Valley. Waso Rongai, Tuum, and Loongerin were all populated with both Turkana and Samburu community members. After the major attacks, area chiefs and councilors from both communities helped out-​group members relocate to more secure locations. Chiefs and councilors are both local traditional elders and appointed local representatives of the state. Historically, district commissioners in the Provincial Administration government system23 appointed local chiefs and councilors. Their formal authority was based on their relationship to the state. However, traditional authorities involved in relocating civilians did not draw upon their formal authority or access to state resources. State capacity was so limited that elders donated their personal resources to the effort to relocate Turkana away from predominantly Samburu settlements, and vice versa. Local elders thus drew on their own personal resources and their informal authority based on long-​term intergroup relationships. For example, elders negotiated with local missionary stations to gain access to vehicles with which they could effectively coordinate the large-​scale relocation of Turkana and Samburu communities to more homogenous settlements. Traditional authorities played dual roles. They utilized their own resources and informal authority to protect and relocate civilians, but also to increase the capacity of their militias to use force and threaten the use of force. They were very important actors in coordinating minority-​group protection efforts in collaboration with faith-​based organization (FBOs). At the same time, elders leveraged relationships with the FBOs to increase their capacity to deter militias through the use force. For example, Samburu elders reported using radio-​ communication systems across church mission stations to gain information about Turkana settlements before engaging in the counterattacks: “We had to find ways to get more information about the Turkana and the Pokot before those first big attacks—​not everyone knew it, but the church bases helped us do that.”24 Although it was very unintentional, the FBOs provided Samburu elders with access to technology and information that enhanced the capacity of moran to use uncivil action. Best estimates indicate that the Samburu-​Pokot militia killed sixty Turkana in multiple revenge attacks conducted in 1997 and 1998. The severity of Samburu-​led revenge attacks contributed to the overall change in the logic of the conflict. Turkana respondents, for example, indicated that after 1996, “women and children started to die. Violence against women and children did not happen. It was not allowed among the Samburu or Turkana moran.”25 Traditional social norms against carrying out violence against women and children deteriorated during the process of conflict escalation.

 



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News reports about conflict around the Suguta Valley began to refer to the area as the “valley of death” (AllAfrica 2006). The state, fearing further attacks, also stopped operating in the area. The region became a no-​go zone for state police and the Kenya Defense Forces. The Kenyan government became less likely to support long-​term policing efforts in the area to prevent mobilization of militia groups, and more likely to use force randomly and excessively. With the absence of government security, retirees from Kenyan police and military forces from pastoralist groups returned to the area. They began to train warriors in both offensive and defensive military strategies. Former state-​based security actors began operating from their traditional roles as elders in the community, working to enhance skills of moran as the basis for communal protection. Opportunistic militias from the broader region also began to use the area as a base for banditry rather than as a community protection strategy or a more symbolic form of raiding associated with traditional cultural practices (Greiner 2013; Triche 2014). This dynamic created even more pressure for amassing weapons,26 increasing militant skills among the warrior class, and developing uncivil and civil strategies for communal protection. Overall, the conflict dynamics of 1996 to 1997 changed the logic of violence in the Nyrio Valley Conflict Corridor. It triggered the evolution of uncivil protection strategies. Before 1996, anthropologists had argued that elders organized the attacks, not the younger, less experienced moran. Attacks were therefore opportunistic and more risk averse, resulting in very low levels of fatalities. Parenti and other analysts, for example, describe the traditional form of banditry that had existed in the area prior to 1996, as a game of “social exchange.” This approach assumes that intergroup conflict had a social function—​to increase and develop the status and household wealth of the young warriors that they needed to make the transition to elder status (Meier, Bond, and Bond 2007; Sterzel et al. 2014). As the logic of violence changed, the youth militias became increasing militarized; almost all groups abandoned relatively peaceful “games” of social exchange, especially given the higher risk of attacks by smaller rogue militia groups not directly associated with particular ethnic groups and age sets. In contrast to relatively peaceful forms of traditional theft, banditry began to be used not only for the purpose of the accumulation or exchange of wealth, but to undermine the power of other ethnic groups living in the area (Triche 2014). The changing logic of violence required larger, less mobile militias in charge of communal security in semipermanent settlements to use scarce resources as efficiently as possible to reduce the risk of violence. As raids became increasingly militarized, armed groups changed tactics, and intergroup violence escalated in relationship to the changing nature of attacks and uncivil group-​protection tactics.

 

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4.2.2.  Violence Escalation and Civil Action: The Evolution of Local Networks Besides the evolution of uncivil actions, the changing logic of violence in the Turkana-​Samburu range war led to other types of communal innovation and adaptation. Nonviolent civil action also evolved in response to changing uncivil action. As uncivil action increased and evolved, civil action also increased and evolved. As the changing logic of violence affected the nature of relationships between moran and elders, local civic groups developed new tactics to help protect communities and scarce resources without abandoning communal lands. This section describes the key actors involved in supporting the formation of a network or groups involved in civil action along the Turkana-​Samburu border. It describes a relatively complex informal warning response system that developed along the conflict corridor over time after the escalation of violence and changing logic of violence. It focuses on five key civic groups that were involved in a network along the largely Samburu-​controlled side of the conflict. Each group in the network has a different form of authority and capacity to respond to outbreaks of violence: (a) ad hoc state security forces, (b) elders’ councils, (c)  local FBOs, (d)  local teachers’ unions, and (e)  cross-​cutting informant networks. The network’s effectiveness hinges on both intragroup and intergroup relationships. The state’s primary response to rising insecurity in the area was the ad hoc use of RDUs with anti-​stock theft police forces. One of the largest, most prominent RDU camps in the Suguta Valley is located on the outskirts of Tuum, the westernmost Samburu settlement point along Nyrio Valley Conflict Corridor. Police involved in RDUs come from more urban areas in Southern Kenya and serve short stints in the area. They commonly express negative attitudes toward the overall conflict. An informant in Tuum, for example, pointed toward the RDU camp, stating, “[T]‌hose guys would never die for us or our cows.”27 Respondents mapped out a range of reasons why state-​mandated police forces had minimal capacity to contain the violence. First, they had limited access to day-​to-​day interactions and exchanges between the Samburu and Turkana militias regarding potential threats. Samburu and Turkana communities reported suspicion of police units comprising soldiers from “down country.” Samburu militia leaders and elders in Tuum reported not providing accurate, up-​to-​date information to formal security actors, and often providing inaccurate information. This tactic is used largely because of the high financial burden of engaging with the police, who commonly expect bribes from the community in exchange for security services. Militia actors and elders also resist engaging with the police out of fear that the RDU will confiscate their illegal, and costly weapons. While the RDUs do

 



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not have a direct mandate for disarmament, past state interventions in the area have attempted to disarm the moran groups. Disarmament campaigns in the early 2000s included heavy-​handed tactics, such as abusing local elders for withholding information and threatening violence against communities not willing to hand over weapons. A group of young boys in Tuum, too young to be initiated into moran protection groups, frequented the military camp and, in exchange for food, provided some information to the military. State actors in Tuum, however, functioned well outside the primary coalition of local associations responsible for the day-​to-​day management of threat warnings and organized scouting missions. With minimal authority and high distrust of state security forces, a set of local civic associations largely made up of local elders with insider links to the leaders of youth militias stationed in remote outposts and involved in day-​to-​day scouting and warning response in the Tuum area, provide the foundations for the network of local civic groups. This network includes five key civic organizations. First, the Protestant Church in Tuum operated as a major communication hub for leaders, elders, and, indirectly, the leaders of armed communal protection units dispersed across the Nyiro-​Suguta Valley. The mission station in Tuum had the only Thuraya (satellite) phone in the village. Early warning messages were sent to that phone, which was in the hands of a local missionary. Vehicles from the mission station regularly deployed on tracking and scouting missions as well, to obtain information about other groups moving across the area. Second, elders groups played a key role in monitoring conflict dynamics and potential threats. Elders are the primary patrons for moran entrenched in the day-​to-​day process of livestock protection, information gathering, and the positioning of resources. This is very different from the social structure in the past. Traditional social order, as reported in anthropological studies of the region, was based on a hierarchical, segmentary descent system (Evans-​Prichard 1940). The social system was organized by ethnic group, clan, subclan, and patrimonial lineage. Clans and age sets are the key organizing features of life in Samburu. They impact marriage and interclan collaboration. Traditionally, Samburu moran operated independently. However, the divisions between age sets changed in line with new forms of insecurity, resulting in more collaboration between elders and youth in day-​to-​day forms of communal protection. Leaders of youth militias now have more authority to use armed force if necessary (choosing to use violence does not require authorization by elders). They also have more technical support and backing from elders, who are more deeply involved in mobilizing resources to support moran than in the past. Elders collaborate closely with moran to provide support and protection while they are in mobile camps. As an informant explained, “Last year we failed in a raid and lost warriors. Elders came

 

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in to support us and help organize the next one [so] we could learn quickly from the mistakes.”28 Elders also play multiple roles within various civic organizations, which increases their capacity to acquire broad and detailed information about conflicts and negotiation processes to provide to moran. Warriors living in remote, clan-​ based cattle camps use information provided through informal networks to make day-​to-​day decisions about moving the herd, scouting locations, or mobilizing for an offensive theft or attack if low-​risk opportunities have been identified. In short, there is a higher level of intragroup cohesion, and the “segmentary” social system is no longer segmented. Third, the Catholic Church of Tuum was a major hub for civil action designed to contain violence. The church placed signs around the valley displaying the message “Tuum—​Land of Peace.” It has been involved in a broad range of civic actions including peace messaging and coordinating peace dialogues designed for long-​term norm change, or a “discursive shift” (see Cameron, Weatherbed, and Onyiego 2013). In other words, the Catholic Church has supported long-​ running peace dialogues in the conflict corridor with the goal of convincing groups living in the area to identify those responsible for violent acts as murderers rather than as “legitimate members of the larger collective.”29 These interventions, respondents claimed, helped increase intragroup cohesion among diverse clan-​based militias among the Samburu and improved information sharing and coordination among militias from diverse Samburu clans. The Catholic Church also organized “peace markets,” helping to re-​ establish an open exchange between Turkana and Samburu. Peace markets created rare opportunities for open interactions between Samburu and Turkana communities, and increased the opportunities for information sharing among cross-​cutting informant networks. Fourth, the teachers’ union played a role, as well, in the network civic groups operating along the conflict border. Teachers engage with Samburu youth daily, many of whom choose “to stay in town rather than in the camps.”30 Samburu students maintain direct relationships with age-​mates stationed in more remote camps, allowing teachers the opportunity access and relay information related to rumors, conflict dynamics, and potential threats that is circulating within the community. This civil action makes it more difficult for large armed groups to move freely and inconspicuously across the territory. Dense informant networks increase the costs of mobilization and planning required to engage in large-​scale attacks and the risk for large armed groups to operate in the area. Fifth, respondents described covert, Samburu-​Turkana informant networks as important relationships for maintaining security across the conflict corridor. A broad range of civic leaders and associations form the basis for covert informant networks. Turkana informants, for example, used the Catholic Church–​led

 



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peace markets as opportunities to share information about potential threats and the movement of militias with Samburu elders. The absence of an international border forces Samburu militias and patrons to purchase goods from outsider ethnic groups instead of through intragroup networks alone. Trade networks that cut across identity boundaries strengthen informant networks and help strengthen alliances formed to monitor threat and police intergroup boundary areas within the conflict corridor. Respondents also reported that one of the keys to the effectiveness of the local protection network along the Suguta Valley conflict corridor was the ability to resist interference from outside actors. Local associations reported preventing external NGOs and civic groups that lacked internal legitimacy and had strong, supportive relationships with local militias from operating in the area. Respondents reported not allowing access to the area to external CSOs and church groups that were only interested in short-​term, ad hoc civic action. The Samburu elders stated, “Other NGOs and other missionaries do not support our moran. They tell them to disarm and go to school, but without the moran, no one can live here.”31 Since the state cannot ensure security in the area, local civic associations, even FBOs involved in peacebuilding programming, collaborate with and support armed militias to ensure they have capacity to respond quickly to information about potential threats.

4.3.  Proximate Context of the Samburu-​Turkana Range War: Violence Escalation In the day-​to-​day of the Turkana-​Samburu range war, the Turkana and the Samburu communities continue to subsist in a dangerous environment. Samburu politicians regularly express fear of Turkana expansionism. The Samburu area chief, Dominic Lepulelei, stated, “Their [the Turkana] home area, Suguta Valley, is a terrible place. They keep moving into our territory. They have it in their minds take over our areas.”32 Because of this suspicion, Samburu political leaders regularly threaten “to push the ‘Samburu-​Turkana’ back toward ‘Turkana-​Turkana.’  ”33 And because of their fear of a long-​term Turkana expansionist strategy, Samburu politicians consistently threaten to remove the Turkana settlements that were established during the first wave of violence.34 The persistence of such narratives creates a risk of flare ups and escalation. The next section describes proximate violent events in 2012 that increased the likelihood of retributive Samburu-​led attacks against Turkana settlements. To focus on explaining why violence did not escalate rapidly, the second section employs insights from interviews and focus group conversations about threat response strategies employed among Turkana communities living in high-​risk

 

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areas. Insights from the most plausible sites of retributive attacks following the Baragoi and Maralal attacks (described below), suggest civic associations help maintain minimal intergroup relationships that play key roles in interrupting conflict and delaying counter-​attacks. Local civic associations contributed to this outcome, although with some unintended consequences.

4.3.1.  The Baragoi Massacre and the Maralal Riots, 2012–​2013 The Baragoi Massacre was the most severe episode violence between Turkana and Samburu communities in Samburu County within the past five years. According to local informants, the initiating event for the Baragoi Massacre occurred in early August of 2012. A Samburu militia stole 600 animals and killed 11 Turkana moran in Narokwe.35 In response, Turkana militias conducted two major raids. They stole 600 animals from the Samburu near Baragoi, then stole 450 cattle two days later in a raid near Lotikal. The Turkana militia killed 10 Samburu moran during the raids. Three months later, in November of 2012, a Turkana militia massacred 42 security personnel, predominantly Samburu KPR or “home guards,”36 during an ad hoc policing mission to recover the stolen livestock—​one of the worst acts of violence in the protracted conflict. After the initial Turkana raids at Baragoi and Lotikal in August of 2012, the Catholic Justice and Peace Commission (CJPC) in Baragoi and the Samburu North DPC ramped up long-​running intergroup peacebuilding dialogues. At the same time, Samburu elders organized a protest in Baragoi. The elders group demanded a response from local government officials for failing to protect the community from major acts of Turkana aggression (Standard Media 2012). In response, the Kenya Ministry of Internal Security coordinated a team of 107 local security actors. A BBC Media report claims the group was composed of, “the regular police, reservists, and paramilitary officers” (BBC, November 14, 2012). The ad hoc group included different types of security personnel, but Samburu KPR or informal home guards were the major participants. A Samburu informant described the composition of the police force as follows:  “even though some members of the General Service Unit (GSU) were involved, they [the Turkana] assumed we [the Samburu] were going for a counter-​attack and revenge, rather than a peace negotiation.”37 The composition of the supposedly formal security group indicated to the Turkana that a Samburu militia had backing from the government. As a Turkana informant described, “the government was with the Samburu, our enemies; we thought they were going to clear us.”38 With dense informant networks across the area, the composition, organization, and route of the police group was well known: “with informers on both sides, the Turkana knew the exact date and time of movement of the group coming after them.”39 Some informants presumed

 



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Turkana political elites alerted local militias of the policing mission and directly authorized the use of extreme force.40 In this case, external intervention by state actors, increased the intensity of violence beyond what local civic groups were immediately capable of containing through dialogue-​based civic action. With sufficient foreknowledge of the policing mission, Turkana leaders could have engaged in sustained negotiations rather than violence, especially through the Catholic Church and the local District Peace Committee. However, the nature of prior policing missions affected their decision to organize and use violent tactics rather than engage with nonviolent civic actors to continue dialogues. Prior policing missions in the area involved excessive force against civilians who were accused of harboring militia members. Philip Ongunje described this logic as follows, “In the absence of a political settlement to ensure the hybrid police force would deal with [the Turkana] justly, the militia choose extreme violence as the mode of resistance, rather than civil action.”41 The depth of uncertainty around the operation created conditions conducive for one of the most severe acts of violence within the long-​running range war between the Samburu and Turkana. Notwithstanding, after the massacre, the CJPC in Baragoi and the Samburu North DPC canceled intergroup dialogue programming, but shifted civil action toward peace messaging to try to stabilize conditions and prevent acts of post-​massacre revenge.42 Turkana villages near Baragoi dissipated and engaged in mass flight with support from mission stations and civic groups. In particular, the Turkana community abandoned the town of Lemerok—​the village nearest the site of massacre and the most likely location for Samburu militias to target for revenge attacks. The Turkana attack was driven by a logic of intracommunity defense, as well as retaliation for prior acts of state-​sanctioned violence against the Turkana community. This episode increased the likelihood of escalation in the overall conflict. The Turkana militia took all of the weapons from the bodies of the Samburu KPRs who died in the massacre, which increased the expectation among the Samburu of more aggressive attacks against Samburu settlements. An informant stated, “The problem now is the Turkana took 57 guns from the officers they killed, but only 3 have been recovered. We know those guns have circulated among the Turkana, because we’ve heard the voice of the G-​3 in other raids.”43 The perception of an imbalance in weapons stockpiles set up conditions conducive to further acts of violence. Less than one year after the Baragoi Massacre, on October 30, 2013, major riots broke out between the Samburu and Turkana in the town of Maralal. One week prior, a Turkana militia attacked a Samburu community on the outskirts of Baragoi. Respondents reported The militia stole 200 cattle and killed two Samburu moran.44 Informants indicate the Turkana militia used G-​3 rifles

 

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acquired during the Baragoi Massacre during the attacks. On October 28, a week after the raid, Samburu living in Morijo village identified the stolen animals in two trucks in route to Maralal: “All Samburu clans know the marks of Samburu animals. They noticed our marks.”45 Samburu elders in Maralal received the report and organized a large group to blockade the road and watch for the trucks. When the lorries arrived in Maralal, the group stopped them and escorted the vehicles to the police station. The trucks and livestock were then impounded in the police compound.46 After two days, Samburu in Maralal, “started thinking the animals would go back to the Turkana, so they organized a demonstration at the police station.”47 A  well-​known student from Laikipia University organized a group of 500 Samburu youth. Early in the morning of October 30, they walked through Maralal town to the police station with posters, destroyed the padlock to the police station gate, and let the cattle off the trucks. To disperse protestors, a police officer shot into the air, but then shot at the crowd killing a 14-​year-​old boy. A Samburu university student, one of the lead organizers of the protest, took photos of the shooting and showed the images to the Officer Commanding the Station. The protest dispersed, and the police took back the cattle and locked them in the trucks at the station. Then, the station commander pursued and apprehended the student who took the photos and ordered an officer to shoot the student. The officer refused. The commander took a rifle from the officer and publicly assassinated the student in front of the group of Samburu protestors.48 In response, the Catholic Church in Maralal convened peace dialogues and conducted a broad peace messaging effort after the riots. The town, however, dis-​ integrated in the wake of the clash.49 Discrimination and threats against Turkana increased. Samburu business owners stopped working with Turkana actors, and a large majority of the Turkana community relocated away from Maralal. Even though the Samburu were aggressors, the event deepened perceptions of inequality, victimhood, and suspicion among the Samburu community. Police released the cattle and lorries to the Turkana one week after the riots, causing local Samburu leaders to make claims that: “the police are part of this syndicate of Turkana cattle rustling.”50

4.3.2.  Violence Interruption: Civic Networks and Microlevel Communal Protection Strategies In the wake of the Baragoi Massacre the Maralal riots, tension, mistrust, and intergroup fear were very high between Samburu and Turkana communities and militias. Intergroup hostility was very high due to prior, major acts of violence

 



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in Baragoi and Maralal, providing an opportunity to derive insights related to strategies and logics used to delay and contain expected escalation for an extended period of time in proximate out-​group villages most likely to be targeted. In other words, this point of the conflict provided an opportunity for asking: to what extent did prior intergroup relationships hold, and create reticence to violence? The following conflict narratives provide specific examples the actions of civilians and civic associations that interrupted and delayed the rapid escalation of violence under conditions of rising intergroup hostility. During 2014, the conflict continued with a series of very small-​scale attacks, described below, rather than mass violence. Tactics used by communal leaders and local civic associations were strategically designed to increase the difficulty of coordinating and organizing large-​scale retributive or “score-​settling” attacks by both Samburu and Turkana militias, which interrupted violence. 4.3.2.1.  Waso Rongai, Tuum, and Kawap

Less than a year after the Baragoi massacre in 2012, on the morning of October 17, 2013, a Turkana militia attacked the village of Waso Rongai. The militia killed four Samburu moran, injured three, and stole 600 cattle. One day prior to the attack, Turkana abandoned the village of Kawap, a semipermanent settlement 8 kilometers west of Waso Rongai along the Turkana militia’s principal escape route—​evidence of direct collaboration between the Kawap community and the Turkana militia. Following the attack, the Samburu North DPC and the Catholic Church in Baragoi convened a peace dialogue between Samburu and Turkana elders with roles as ward representatives. With direct evidence of collaboration between the community at Kawap and the Turkana militia, the dialogue led to a new boundary agreement. Respondents also reported, however, that the dialogue led to a new rule of engagement for Samburu militias working to protect Samburu settlements: “shoot on sight.”51 Elders from both groups informed leaders of remote Samburu and Turkana militias of the new boundary rules and the lower restraint on the use of force. However, shortly after the dialogue, on October 27, 2013, a Turkana militia broke the agreement. A Turkana militia attacked Tuum, injuring one Samburu moran and stealing 120 cattle. Families who lost animals in Tuum demanded a direct retributive attack from Samburu militias, increasing the potential for a revenge attack against Turkana settlements. Even though only one injury occurred, a local elder stated, “[the Tuum attack] was not at all acceptable for the Samburu—​it was cowardly, shameful, and happened right beside the KPR

 

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barracks.”52 During the attack, only one warrior monitored a large herd of cattle belonging to seventeen families, and fog covered the valley. Informants indicated the animals belonged to the poorest families in the community, stating, “There is no way we can stand still when the poorest among us lost so much.”53 The proximity of the attack to the most recent peace dialogue, “made the Tuum raid so bitter.”54 Respondents expressed that the Turkana were “speaking peace with one mouth, and organizing violence against us with the other.”55 In the words of a key moran leader, “Turkana must die, and the cows must be brought back, due to the way they attacked us at Tuum.”56 With the increased hostility and direct demands from the Tuum community that the moran coordinate revenge attacks, immediate attacks did not occur. On the brink of escalation, what factors interrupted violence and prevented Samburu militias from engaging in indiscriminate revenge attacks against Turkana settlements? In July of 2014, drought was a common explanation. In the words of one informant: “when it rains, there will be trouble.”57 Without access to water and resources away from the mountain range, moran could not travel inconspicuously to conduct a counterraid operation. With clear evidence of increased tension, Turkana militias stationed scouts across the rangeland, especially close to well-​known water points and raiding routes. Militia vigilance increased the risk of Samburu mobilization, especially under drought conditions. With the Samburu community demanding a revenge attack, a plausible explanation for restraint is that environmental conditions increased the cost and risk of conducting a counterraid, containing escalation (see also, Witsenburg and Adano 2009). However, respondents also indicated civil action limited the rapid spread of retributive attacks against Turkana communities. In particular, insights from the closest Turkana villages to major Samburu militia locations, suggest that the intergroup relationships sustaining through the local civic network described above, helped maintain a level of minimal trust and “mere civility” between Turkana and Samburu traditional authorities in the settlements, sufficient enough to ensure Samburu moran would not attack those particular, most vulnerable Turkana communities, even with rising tension and rising intragroup demand for immediate retribution.

4.3.2.2.  Parikati-​Tuum

The first example of effective violence interruption through civic networks is the village of Parikati. Parikati, Kenya is a Turkana village on the edge of the Suguta Valley, between Turkana and Samburu Counties, 15 kilometers from Tuum. There is very little trust between the two groups and a persistent threat of attack. Samburu do not allow Turkana from Parikati direct access to daily markets in

 



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Tuum out of fear of spying, and access to information related to militia locations and resources. Livestock and basic resource trade between Parikati and Tuum occur only through heavily policed sokko, or “peace markets,” organized by the Catholic Church with support from the KPR, or through intermediaries who conduct exchanges in remote locations between the two villages. Samburu militia members assume the Turkana community in Parikati is likely to collaborate with highly mobile Turkana or Pokot militias to attack Samburu resources.58 Under these conditions, Turkana civilians living in Parikati articulated a range of tactics to reduce the likelihood of Samburu targeting the village following the escalation of violence in 2012–​2013. Local elder Jonathan Losokon stated, “Parikati is a very dangerous place, but we trained ourselves to survive in this area.”59 A small network of Turkana leaders in Parikati share threat information with Samburu elders in Tuum. In the absence of communication technology, Turkana source information on potential threats through intraclan trade networks.60 Though it initially appears mundane, this is still high-​risk strategy. Turkana militias have assassinated actors caught spying for Samburu (or other “out-​ group”) militias.61 The covert informant network limited, however, limited the likelihood and pace of rapid escalation. As a local Samburu militia leader stated, “We still do not trust them at all. We would attack them if we knew they were working with other enemies, but as long as they share information with us, we cannot attack them.”62 Clandestine informant networks establish a minimal form of cross-​ethnic group relationship that limits the likelihood of immediate, indiscriminate, out-​group targeting by Samburu militias tasked with retribution. Respondents from Parikati also reported that a broad range of informal, intragroup policing63 strategies complimented covert intergroup information networks. The tenuous relationship between civilians living along the conflict corridor would break down if Samburu suspected Turkana of forming an outside alliance to allow an external Turkana or Pokot militia to use the village as a forward base for coordinated and conducting raids or attacks. As Joseph Lokinei described: We do not let other Turkana or Pokot pass through Parikati, even just to trade. There are spies for the Turkana in Parikati and in Tuum and spies for the Samburu in Parikati and Tuum. All of the spies want peace and to protect their own animals and families. They tell each other if the other group is coming through their territory to attack. We do not want those who kill to be part of our community, so we keep them out.64 The GoK also promoted heavily an informal community policing strategy for pastoralist communities living in the area called the nyumba kumi (“ten houses”) initiative. This initiative, replicating communal policing structures put in place in wake of

 

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genocide in Rwanda, involved local political leaders encouraging villages to develop community watch systems to control movement of potential spoilers in and out of settlements along the most insecure areas of the conflict corridor. Respondents reported this system was also important for interrupting conflict escalation. Livestock management strategies complimented clandestine informant networks and intragroup policing. For example, the Turkana community in Parikati established livestock identification and tracking systems for each specific clan, and enforced a shared communal rule to not purchase animals from unknown Turkana or Pokot markets or traders. They do not purchase livestock if they do not know and trust the source in order to reduce suspicion among Samburu militias:  “if they think we are thieves, there will not be peace.”65 Turkana in Parikati also reported over-​accumulating livestock. A prominent elder stated, “We do not sell animals, even if we need the money for school fees. Sometimes, we really struggle for food, but if raided, at least we can forgive and not organize for revenge.”66 Respondents claim these tactics prevent Samburu from attacking Turkana living in Tuum following Turkana militia attacks on Samburu resources: “In these ways, we suffer to keep peace.”67 4.3.2.3.  Sarima-​Loonjerin

Similar to Parikati, Sarima, Kenya is a Turkana settlement in close proximity to major Samburu routes, at high risk of revenge attacks. Civil action applied in this case also helps limit the rapid spread of violence. Loonjerin and Sarima, in the words of a local official, are, “two villages in the danger zone. When the Turkana attack Samburu, they must first attack Loonjerin. It is just at the base of the mountains and easy to scout for warriors and animals. When the Samburu attack, they first attack Sarima.”68 Due to the severity of past attacks that have occurred in these two locations at the intersection of major raiding routes, there is a very high level of intergroup suspicion. For example, a Samburu elder stated: “Those of Sarima also give us fake names of raiders when we go to them after the attack to see what happened. They use diversion and lies to try to keep the peace and protect their own people.”69 Despite severe suspicion and mistrust between the Samburu and Turkana, similar to Parikati, both groups have in place covert informant networks. Samburu informants described, “They [Turkana of Sarima] are still our enemies, but they let us know if Turkana, Pokot, or Gabra militias are on the other side. This is a dangerous strategy. Sometimes bandits from other groups make tracks leading to Sarima to make us think [the Turkana] were involved when they were not. We have to talk to prevent these rumors from causing all-​out war.”70

 



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An ex-​militia leader,71 and now key elder of the Turkana clan described the strategic dilemma for the settlement, as follows: “We live at a very dangerous point along the road between Maralal and Loiyangalani. Many people pass through here, so we have to be welcoming to everyone for our businesses. This makes the Samburu suspicious of us. They think we are always working with others to coordinate attacks on them. That is why we have to make sure they know this is not the case. We have to be a town of peace. If we are not, the Samburu will clear us.”72 Due to high levels of suspicion, and shared knowledge of the various ways groups avert blame and mislead local policing missions with tracking or misinformation about impending attacks, informant networks between civilians living in these locations are complex and layered. One respondent stated, “we have spies to spy on our spies.”73 The main Turkana elder based in Sarima was infamous. Respondents from the area said, “that guy was a real warlord” and accounted stories of his leadership and behavior during deadly clashes. The same elder now chairs the Local Peace Committee (LPC) of Sarima. As a major local power broker, the leader of the Sarima settlement works in close collaboration with Samburu elders, informants, and militia leaders, and has become a central figure for information sharing and monitoring of militia movement. Critically, his status as a former militia leader also protects him from threats from other Turkana militias, and creates room for him to operate as a gatekeeper. Respondents from Sarima village claimed they disarmed the village to make it less prone to attacks, stating: “home guards (KPR) have weapons to protect us, so we do not need weapons.”74 Further inquiry indicated that this is not the case: “Turkana in Sarima have a lot of weapons. Everyone does. But it is true that they do not try to get more. If they did, we would know and they would have to leave.”75 Samburu elders also maintain relationships with actors involved in regional weapons trade that provide them with information about who is purchasing or transporting weapons into the area, which plays into calculations related to potential threats.

4.4.  Conclusion: The Co-​evolution and Coexistence of Civil and Uncivil Actions In line with the primary pathways to violence restraint described in ­chapter 1, civil action dampens and interrupts local violence processes in the Turkana-​Samburu

 

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range war. Empirically, the area experiences fewer attacks than neighboring regions (e.g., Pokot, Marsabit, and Mandera counties) with similar root conflict drivers. Civil-​society groups involved in networks that engage in civil action that opts for coordination with local militias and traditional elders help contain and interrupt violence in the day-​to-​day. This approach, however, fails to fully resolve deeply protracted armed conflict. The overall summary of the most important relationships that shape this pattern of violence is as follows. On one hand, local civic organizations working to build peace in the Nyiro Mountain–​Suguta Valley Conflict Corridor increase opportunities for traditional authorities and youth militias to develop relationships as the basis for intergroup information sharing and coordination, which helps maintain minimum respect among Turkana and Samburu elders and related militias. Minimum respect and intergroup contact are necessary for the maintenance of clandestine intergroup communication networks. Even if intergroup relationships must remain clandestine, they still improve threat monitoring, rapid response mobilization, and communal capacity for violence prevention. In the absence of minimal organizational networks built through the peacebuilding efforts CBOs and traditional authorities, there would be far less militia restraint. Participation in clandestine information networks protects ethnic out-​group communities from targeting and increases the cost of militia coordination and organization, effectively limiting the likelihood of rapid escalation. Organizational relationships also alter targeting decisions and help build zones of relative peace that operate as conflict buffers. On the other hand, the case study also finds that civil action commonly leads to unintended consequences, or a “boomerang effect.” Civil action also created opportunities for violent reaction. In the case study, civil action triggered counter attacks by groups left out of local negotiations. It also provided unintended channels for improved arms acquisition and coordination for increased militarization of local militias. “Civil” organizational networks increased the capacity for armed groups to threaten to use force. Civil action in the Turkana-​Samburu range war dampens and interrupts violence consistently, but also intermittently creates incentives for uncivil action that undermines conflict settlement. Civil action, in this case, provides platforms for both inter-​ and intragroup coordination and collaboration. The authority of elders and their capacity to mobilize resources and more groups to contain conflict is based on their affiliation with youth militias with deep social ties to particular ethnic groups. With increased access to external support through civic organizations, humanitarian aid and local peacebuilding efforts free up scarce communal resources. In a sense, CBO networks create opportunities for traditional leaders to “out-​source” civic action other groups, effectively preserving the capacity of elders to build

 



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the coercive capacity of their own youth militias. Elders are not expected to fully commit to civil action, which remains problematic for conflict resolution. The efforts of traditional authorities to supply weapons and more advanced military training increases the capacity of militias to coordinate more strategic attacks and more effectively use violent, uncivil action. The intergroup relationships built through civil action, also allow for the clandestine sharing of information about intragroup arms flows in the region. The spread of information about access to increasingly sophisticated weapons and training for moran causes an ongoing local arms race. Uncivil action also has a twin effect. It raises the potential cost of violence, and operates as a deterrent, especially for poorly coordinated opportunistic attacks. However, it increases the overall intensity of violence when it does occur, and does not move the conflict toward settlement. Civil action in the Turkana-​ Samburu range war isolates severe escalation to very particular instances with high levels of uncertainty, usually occurring when state actors begin to play a larger role in the larger conflict, and erode already fragile levels of intergroup trust and legitimacy of local civic organizations. In the absence of state authority, capacity, and legitimacy, networks of local civic associations evolve to play key coordinating roles. Interrupting violence rarely hinges upon one organizational structure. It depends upon relationships among multiple organizations, and highly tailored and context-​specific communal protection strategies designed to resist threats from violent actors and undermine their capacity to organize and mobilize large groups. The study also shows how elders play dual roles in supporting both civil and uncivil action. They play central roles as gatekeepers for civil-​society groups working to build peace in the conflict zone, and operate as key actors for mobilizing resources and gathering information for youth militias involved in the coordination of violence. Elders operate as local peacebuilders, but also as the primary patrons of militias. Where the state is absent and formal police and military actors are not trusted, civic associations and traditional authorities help to extend informal threat-​monitoring networks through local militias. Clandestine information sharing through local organizational networks provides communities on both sides of the conflict with greater access to information about potential threats, which increases the amount of time civic groups have to coordinate responses to potential threats, and reinforce local protection strategies. Cooperation between militias and local civic associations improves scouting and threat response capacity for local militias and for civic groups. The informal coalition of local civic associations and networks of elders in Tuum, for example, improved intragroup communication and extended the threat response capacity of Samburu militias.

 

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Overall, civil and uncivil actions co-​evolve and are deeply interrelated. Militias leverage the resources, networks, and legitimacy of civic associations to extend informal policing and threat-​response capacity. At the same time, the codependent relationship between local militias and civic groups allows for armed groups operating along the most insecure locations of the conflict corridor to engage in more strategic, and controlled interactions and negotiations with militias, effectively reducing (but not fully eliminating) the likelihood of very rapid, asymmetrical revenge attacks against proximate out-​group communities. Civil action interacts with and helps maintain the possibility of violence, but also, most importantly, works to interrupt and freeze violence in a long-​running conflict.

Notes 1. As a global conflict trend, nonstate conflict concentrates in Sub-​Saharan Africa. Between 1989 and 2008, 74 percent of total fatalities related to nonstate conflicts (58,940 deaths) occurred in states in Sub-​Saharan Africa. See Sundberg, Eck, and Kreutz (2012, 357). In 2014, half of the top fifteen states that experienced intrastate conflict were in Sub-​Saharan Africa. Nigeria, South Sudan, Sudan, Somalia, Central African Republic, Libya, and the Democratic Republic of Congo were the most severe cases. See Themnér and Wallensteen (2014, 541–​54). India was the only state outside Sub-​Saharan Africa in the top six most severe cases. In Somalia, Sudan, and DR Congo, nonstate conflict led to more fatalities than conflict between the state and armed rebel groups. 2. Sundberg, Eck, and Kreutz (2012, 351–​62). 3. Seventy-​five percent of the landmass of Kenya is classified as arid and semi-​arid land (ASAL), characterized by harsh climatic and environmental conditions that are not conducive to agricultural production. These areas are also the poorest regions in the country, having the highest poverty and the lowest human-​development scores. Up to 80 percent of the Kenyan population living across the ASALs subsists on less than one dollar per day (World Bank 2015). The ASALs lack infrastructure, and have very few government services. 4. Conceptually, state fragility refers to the absence of state authority, capacity, and legitimacy, or the state’s failure to provide security, rule of law, and basic services for its citizens. 5. On measuring state capacity, see Hendrix S.  Cullen (2010), “Measuring State Capacity: Theoretical and Empirical Implications for the Study of Civil Conflict,” Journal of Peace Research 47 (3): 273–​285. See also Graziella Bertocchi and Andrea Guerzoni (2012), “Growth, History, or Institutions:  What Explains State Fragility in Sub-​Saharan Africa?,” Journal of Peace Research 49 (6): 769–​783. 6. See Autesserre (2014a, 492–​500).. 7. Shortland, Christopoulou, and Makatsoris (2013) use innovative satellite imaging of light emissions to show variation in local violence patterns in Somalia. 8. For further detail on the state of the larger research program on civil society and local violence, see Varshney (2007). . 9. This region runs from the Karamoja Conflict Cluster in Northern Uganda through Turkana, Samburu, Marsabit, to Wajir on the Kenya-​Somalia border. 10. USAID (2012). . 11. A cell tower was under construction in Tuum in July 2014. 12. Granted, there are rumors of mineral deposits in parts of Samburu County, but at present they are not being actively pursued. One major development effort, the Turkana Windpower Project, is currently under construction in the area. To date, it has caused only minimal, nondeadly conflict between groups in the area, largely around land value. 13. Spencer (1970)..

 



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14. For further detail on the “AK-​47 as change Agent,” see Mirzeler and Young (2000, 407–​29). 15. Multiple informants set the start date of the range war between the Samburu and Turkana as 1996. In the study, I employ local narratives as primary points of departure. 16. Research Participants 107, 111, 121, interviews with the author, Kurungu, Kenya, August 16–​20,  2014. 17. Respondents referred to these groups as “Samburu  –​Turkana,” as opposed to the “Turkana –​ Turkana.” 18. This land functioned as reserve pasture for Turkana livestock, the primary basis of subsistence. 19. This is the prominent mode of state-​led response to outbreaks of violence across the rural periphery to this day. 20. Covert trade networks may establish interethnic group bonds that can then help to strengthen informant networks (also covert). Types of weapons in the region include rifles, AK-​47, SKS, G-​3, M-​16. Cost varies. Informants indicate that one semi-​automatic weapon (60,000 KSH) costs roughly three bulls. Ammunition is also expensive: 150–​200 per round. Ammunition is purchased through informal networks from Somalia, Ethiopia, Pokot, or KPR. Research Participants 105, 106, 108 (Samson Leriano), iinterviews with the author, South Horr, Kenya, August 14–​21, 2014. 21. Research Participant 110 (Namugie Leokoe), interview with the author, Kurungu, Kenya, August 16, 2014. 22. Research Participant 121, interview with the author, Tuum, Kenya, August 18, 2014. 23. Note: this system changed with constitutional changes approved in 2010 during the process of “devolution” and decentralization, but communities in Samburu still use the title “chief ” to denote local leaders with prior authority based on state appointment. 24. Research participant 117 (anonymous), dialogue with the author, Tuum, Kenya, August 18, 2014. 25. Godfrey Godana, interview with the author, Marsabit, Kenya, September 10, 2014. 26. Saferworld and SRIC survey indicate a 100% ownership rate among adults for the area. 27. Anonymous, dialogue with the author, Tuum, Kenya, August 20, 2014. 28. Focus Group 122, dialogue with the author, Kawap, Kenya, August 19, 2014. 29. Focus Group  120, Catholic Peacebuilding Team, dialogue with the author, Tuum, Kenya, August 18, 2014. 30. Boniface Lekenit, dialogue with the author, Tuum, Kenya, August 19, 2014. 31. Research Participant 121, interview with the author, Tuum, Kenya, August 18, 2014. 32. Dominic Lepulelei, chief, interview with the author, South Horr, Kenya, August 15, 2014. 33. Ibid. 34. Research Participants 105 and 106, interviews with the author, Marsabit, Kenya, August 13–​14,  2014. 35. Stephen Lobert, interview with the author, Waso Rongai, Kenya, August 19, 2014. 36. KPR policing actors are former ethnic militia members. They are provided access to G-​3 rifles from the Kenyan Police. They operate in areas that lack formal police stations and, because of high levels of corruption, often purchase their weapons from the police. They have very minimal oversight by and accountability to formal policing institutions. For a good assessment of the KPR system and its related shortcomings, see http://​www.smallarmssurvey.org/​ fileadmin/​docs/​C-​Special-​reports/​SAS-​SR16-​Kenya-​ES-​EN.pdf 37. Namugie Leokoe, interview with the author, Kurungu, Kenya, August 16, 2014. 38. Research Participant 115, interview with the author, Tuum, Kenya, August 18, 2014. 39. Fred Langaltei, interview with the author, South Horr, Kenya, August 14, 2014. 40. This claim cannot be verified, but it is broadly shared among multiple actors across the district. The insight aligns with Horowitz’s argument that ethnic violence rarely occurs without “disinhibition,” or actions that reduce internal restraints among armed actors for engaging in high-​risk collective violence. It is plausible that elite justification occurred in this case (Horowitz 1985). 41. Philip Ongunje, interview with the author, Nairobi, Kenya, July 15, 2013. 42. Halkano Bukuno, interview with the author, Nairobi, Kenya, September 21, 2014. 43. Frank Lekitap, interview with the author, South Horr, Kenya, August 15, 2014.

 

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44. This analytical narrative is derived from interviews with informants who were present in Maralal on the day the conflict broke out, as well as on secondary sources and news reports. 45. Samson Leriano, interview with the author, Kurungu, Kenya, August 13, 2014. 46. K24-​TV, “Tension High in Maralal Following Killings,” Governor Moses Kasaine press statement, October 31, 2013. 47. Ibid. 48. Namugie Leokoe, interview with the author, Kurungu, Kenya, August 16, 2014. 49. Ibid. 50. K24-​TV, “Tension High in Maralal.” 51. Research Participant 125, interview with the author, Kawap, Kenya, August 19, 2014. 52. Focus Group 120, Catholic Peacebuilding Team, interviews with the author, Tuum, Kenya, August 18, 2014. 53. Ibid. 54. Raphael Leparkiras, interview with the author, Tuum, Kenya, August 18, 2014. 55. Ibid. 56. Samson Leriano and Lchagi Amin, interview with the author, Kurungu, Kenya, August 13, 2014. 57. Samuel Lekinet, interview with the author, South Horr, Kenya, August 16, 2014. 58. Research Participants 122, dialogue with the Author, Tuum, Kenya, August 19, 2014. 59. Jonathan Losokon Lokinei, interview with the author, Tuum, Kenya, August 18, 2014. 60. Research Participant 117, interview with the author, Tuum, Kenya, August 18, 2014. 61. Ibid. 62. Focus Group 122, dialogue with the author, Kawap, Kenya, August 19, 2014. 63. Fearon and Laitin (1996). 64. Research Participant 117 (Turkana moran, anonymous), interview with the author, Tuum, Kenya, August 18, 2014. 65. Ibid. 66. Research Participant 112, interview with the author, Tuum, Kenya, August 18, 2014. 67. Ibid. 68. Steven Lepaul Lemadada, interview with the author, Loongerin, Kenya, August 16, 2014. 69. Focus Group  139, Loonjerin Elders dialogue with the author, Loongerin, Kenya, August 26, 2014. 70. Samson Leriano and Lchagi Amin, interview with the author, Kurungu, Kenya, August 13, 2014. 71. N.B.: This actor is also the chairman of the local peace committee. 72. Naisei Erupe Esunyen, interview with the author, Sarima, Kenya, August 22, 2014. 73. Samson Leriano and Lchagi Amin, interview with the author, Kurungu, Kenya, August 13, 2014. 74. Naisei Erupe Esunyen, interview with the author, Sarima, Kenya, August 22, 2014. 75. Research Participant 138, interview with the author, South Horr, Kenya, August 23, 2014.

References AllAfrica. 2006. “Kenya: ‘Valley of Death’ Swallows up People, Livestock.” https://​allafrica.com/​ stories/​200604280529.html Autesserre, Séverine. 2010. The Trouble with the Congo: Local Violence and the Failure of International Peacebuilding. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Autesserre, Séverine. 2014a. “Going Micro:  Emerging and Future Peacekeeping Research.” International Peacekeeping 21 (4) (August 8): 492–​500. Autesserre, Séverine. 2014b. Peaceland: Conflict Resolution and the Everyday Politics of International Intervention. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

 



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Autesserre, Severine. 2016. “Here’s What the Congo Can Teach the World about Peace.” Washington Post. https://​www.washingtonpost.com/​news/​monkey-​cage/​wp/​2016/​10/​ 19/​heres-​what-​this-​island-​in-​congo-​can-​teach-​the-​world-​about-​peace Bates, Robert H. 1998. Analytic Narratives. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Bennett, Andrew, and Colin Elman. 2006. “Qualitative Research: Recent Developments in Case Study Methods.” Annual Review of Political Science 9 (1): 455–​476. Brass, Paul R. 1997. Theft of an Idol: Text and Context in the Representation of Collective Violence. Princeton Studies in Culture/​Power/​History. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Brosché, Johan, and Emma Elfversson. 2012 “Communal Conflict, Civil War, and the State:  Complexities, Connections, and the Case of Sudan.” African Journal on Conflict Resolution 12 (1): 33–​60. Cameron, Lynne, Simon Weatherbed, and Evans Onyiego. 2013. “Living with Uncertainty Working Paper 8.” Open University. Evans-​Pritchard, E. E. 1940. The Nuer:  A Description of the Modes of Livelihood and Political Institutions of a Nilotic People. London: Oxford University Press. Fearon, James D., and David D. Laitin. 1996. “Explaining Interethnic Cooperation.” American Political Science Review 90 (4) (December): 715–​735. George, Alexander L., and Andrew Bennett. 2005. Case Studies and Theory Development in the Social Sciences. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Greiner, Clemens. 2013. “Guns, Land, and Votes: Cattle Rustling and the Politics of Boundary (Re)making in Northern Kenya.” African Affairs 112 (447): 216–​237. Horowitz, Donald L. 1985. Ethnic Groups in Conflict. University of California Press. Kalyvas, Stathis N. 2006. The Logic of Violence in Civil War. Cambridge Studies in Comparative Politics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kaplan, Oliver. 2013. “Protecting Civilians in Civil War the Institution of the ATCC in Colombia.” Journal of Peace Research 50 (3): 351–​367. Meagher, Kate. 2007. “Hijacking Civil Society:  The Inside Story of the Bakassi Boys Vigilante Group of South-​Eastern Nigeria.” The Journal of Modern African Studies 45 (1): 89–​115. Meier, Patrick, Doug Bond, and Joe Bond. 2007. “Environmental Influences on Pastoral Conflict in the Horn of Africa.” Political Geography 26 (6): 716–​735. Mirzeler, Mustafa, and Crawford Young. 2000. “Pastoral Politics in the Northeast Periphery in Uganda:  AK-​ 47 as Change Agent.” Journal of Modern African Studies 38 (3) (September): 407–​429. Paffenholz, Thania. 2010. Civil Society and Peacebuilding:  A Critical Assessment. Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner. Posen, Barry R. 1993. “The Security Dilemma and Ethnic Conflict.” Survival 35 (1):  27–​47. doi.10.1080/​00396339308442672. Ron, James. 2000. “Boundaries and Violence:  Repertoires of State Action along the Bosnia/​ Yugoslavia Divide.” Theory and Society 29 (5) (October): 609–​649. Shortland, Anja, Katerina Christopoulou, and Charalampos Makatsoris. 2013. “War and Famine, Peace and Light? The Economic Dynamics of Conflict in Somalia 1993–​2009.” Journal of Peace Research 50 (5) (September): 545–​561. Spencer, Paul. “The Function of Ritual in the Socialization of the Samburu Moran.” In Socialization:  The Approach from Social Anthropology, edited by Philip Mayer, 127–​157. New York, NY: Routledge. Standard Media. 2012 “Baragoi Killings:  The Untold Story.” Standard Media. https://​ www.standardmedia.co.ke/​article/​2000071128/​baragoi-​killings-​the-​untold-​story Sterzel, Till, Matthias Lüdeke, Marcel Kok, Carsten Walther, Diana Sietz, Indra de Soysa, Paul Lucas, and Peter Janssen. 2014. “Armed Conflict Distribution in Global Drylands through the Lens of a Typology of Socio-​ecological Vulnerability.” Regional Environmental Change 14 (4): 1419–​1435. Sundberg, Ralph, Kristine Eck, and Joakim Kreutz. 2012. “Introducing the UCDP Non-​state Conflict Dataset.” Journal of Peace Research 49 (2) (March): 351–​362.

 

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Themnér, Lotta, and Peter Wallensteen. 2014. “Armed Conflicts, 1946–​2013.” Journal of Peace Research 51 (4) ( July): 541–​554. Triche, Ryan. 2014. “Pastoral Conflict in Kenya:  Transforming Mimetic Violence to Mimetic Blessings between Turkana and Pokot Communities.” African Journal on Conflict Resolution 14 (2): 81–​101. Varshney, Ashutosh. 2002. Ethnic Conflict and Civic Life: Hindus and Muslims in India. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Varshney, Ashutosh. 2007. “Ethnicity and Ethnic Conflict.” In The Oxford Handbook of Comparative Politics, edited by Carles Boix and Susan C. Stokes. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wibben, Annick T. R., ed. 2016. Researching War: Feminist Methods, Ethics, and Politics. New York, NY: Routledge. Witsenburg, Karen M., and Wario R. Adano. 2009. “Of Rain and Raids: Violent Livestock Raiding in Northern Kenya.” Civil Wars 11 (4): 514–​538. World Bank. 2015. “The World Bank Microdata Library—​Kenya.” http://​data.worldbank.org/​ country/​kenya.

 

PA RT   I I

CIVIL ACTION AND LEVELS OF LOCAL VIOLENCE

 

 

5

The Impact of Civil Action on Levels of Violence Comparing Two Communities during Northern Ireland’s Troubles Amy E. Grubb

5.1.  Introduction In between Dungannon and Portadown lies an area held by reputable journalists to be the centre of sectarian crime for a good part of Northern Ireland—​Bond’s Plantation, Birches, Tullyroan, Loughgall are names which worry these men. . . . —​Fr. Denis Faul and Fr. Raymond Murray, The Triangle of Death, 1975

We appeal . . . to ensure that the proceedings go over with decorum and dignity, and that the scourge of sectarian feeling be not visited upon Omagh. We have not come through seven years of turmoil to have the relative peace of Omagh disturbed at this stage by any group, regardless of who they are. —​Social Democratic and Labour Party statement, Ulster Herald, 1976

Thirty miles lay between these locations yet they were a world apart during Northern Ireland’s Troubles. While the district of Dungannon experienced intense violence, the neighboring Omagh district was much less affected. Civil action was key to the different trajectories of violence. Though members of the police, military, Irish Republican Army (IRA), and loyalist paramilitaries perpetrated violence at times, the degree of civility in interactions between these groups and civil rights protesters, counterprotesters, politicians, and community members was different in these two communities and impacted the trajectories and levels of violence. In Dungannon, uncivil action by members of the police, particularly collusion with loyalist counterprotesters, exacerbated local polarization and subsequent republican and loyalist radicalization.1 A retaliatory cycle 123

 

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of IRA and loyalist violence commenced that institutionalized a sectarian, community-​wide conflict as paramilitaries targeted civilians based on identity and many residents, particularly Catholics, refused to support police and military security efforts given their fear of state collusion, inadvertently benefiting the paramilitaries. Conversely, Omagh experienced more civil action on the part of police, protesters, and counterprotesters that minimized polarization and led to more outwardly oriented republican radicalization and minimal loyalist radicalization, containing the overall level of violence. These districts show that if state security forces align with one side, civilians see the state less as a forum for mediating conflict and more as a tool for supporting one or another partisan group, and the effect is escalating violence.2 To unravel violent trajectories, it is useful to imagine violence in phases: prelude, outbreak, and reaction (see Kriesberg 2010; King 2004). In the prelude phase, if challengers, counterchallengers, and state agents meeting at protests and other public claim-​making moments act with less civility, it can polarize groups by widening the social and political space and hardening “us” and “them” identities (McAdam, Tarrow, and Tilly 2001; Tilly 2003; Tilly and Tarrow 2007). Crucially, uncivil action by representatives of the state, such as attacking protestors in public, exacerbates this dynamic.3 As Donatella della Porta (2012) explains, the radicalization of conflict is found in relations: “the interaction of various actors, institutional and non-​institutional.” In the outbreak phase, as challengers radicalize and begin committing violence against state forces or their supporters, and supporters of the state also radicalize to retaliate, uncivil action by state forces to aid radicals affects the third phase of violence: reaction that results in escalation or containment. When state representatives aid radicals, they escalate violence. Systemic collaboration with radicals to perpetuate violence against opposition radicals and their perceived civilian supporters is intentional and escalatory. But because opposition radicals and civilians also react, part of the escalation is inadvertent. Violence engulfs the community as civilians become targets for reprisal attacks based on identity and civilians may refuse to support the state’s security efforts because of its perceived collusion with radicals. Where state forces take civil action, treating individuals as citizens and resisting collusion with radicals on either side, the process of polarization can be mediated and the level of violence lower. Even excessive force by state security forces may be excused if security forces refrain from regularized association with radicals. Violence is contained because radicals have less access to state resources, and retaliatory escalation against civilians is less pervasive. Examining two districts with divergent experiences during the early and most violent period of the Troubles, from 1971 to 1976, allows a window into how civil action by protesters, counterprotesters, and state representatives influenced violence.4 I trace this argument in the following sections. In section 5.2, “Case

 



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Selection and Methodology,” I describe the logic behind examining Dungannon and Omagh districts, based on a most similar systems design (George and Bennett 2005). In section 5.3, “The Dungannon District,” I  examine the trajectory of violence in Dungannon and show how it became polarized through uncivil action between protesters, loyalist counterprotesters, and partisan and repressive Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC) and Ulster Special Constabulary (USC) forces (and later the British Army and the Ulster Defense Regiment, UDR). These interactions led to an outbreak of strong IRA organization and activity. In reaction, loyalists radicalized and members of the police and military colluded with them, instigating retaliatory sectarian attacks and civilian self-​ protection efforts that inadvertently benefited the paramilitaries. This finding supports Valentino’s (2004) argument that civilians who cannot distance themselves from armed groups become targets. However, section 5.4, “The Omagh District,” details how in Omagh more civil interaction between protesters, counterprotesters, and police (and later the military) minimized polarization; consequently, republican radicalization was more outwardly oriented. Thus, sectarian retaliations did not develop. The lesser republican threat influenced more limited loyalist radicalization and made it less likely that members of the police and military would act uncivilly and collude with weak loyalists. Though the IRA and the government were still at odds, there was less violence in Omagh. I conclude by examining an additional form of uncivil action that may have impacted Dungannon’s violence and explaining my contribution to research on civil action in conflict.

5.2.  Case Selection and Methodology Dungannon and Omagh are two neighboring districts in rural County Tyrone in the western part of Northern Ireland. The two districts are similar on many of the measures analysts use to explain violence but vary in their level of violence.5 Comparing them allows me to examine how civil and uncivil action affected security outcomes in each district and whether civil action can help explain the variation between the locations. Dungannon and Omagh shared similar demographic, economic, and political characteristics during the 1971–​1976 period. In 1971, Dungannon, which lies along the southern border with the Republic of Ireland, had a population of 42,606, with approximately 52 percent of its population identifying as Catholic and an unemployment rate of 13.3 percent (Northern Ireland General Register Office 1975; Compton 1978).6 The Omagh district, directly northwest of Dungannon, had a population of 41,175 in 1971; approximately 62 percent of its population identified as Catholic, and it had a 10 percent unemployment rate

 

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(Northern Ireland General Register Office 1975; Compton 1978).7 When the Northern Ireland civil rights movement expanded in the late 1960s, the districts had comparable histories of prejudice and injustice, with disenfranchised Catholic voters, gerrymandered districts benefiting Protestant Unionist party officials, and discrimination in public housing allocation and employment (Gallagher 1957; CSJ 1969; Northern Ireland Parliament 1969; NICRA 1972; Darby 1976). Despite these similarities, between 1971 and 1976 Omagh and Dungannon experienced a large variation in the intensity of violence. The Dungannon district had 63 murders, 64 attempted murder incidents, and at least 142 bombings and attempted bombings.8 Omagh was the site of 20 murders, 10 attempted murder incidents, and an estimated 60 bombings and attempted bombings.9 Comparing these cases provides an opportunity to examine the impact of civil action in similar settings with puzzlingly different outcomes within a larger intrastate conflict. For these cases, evidence is found in a variety of sources, including military security and intelligence reports, government investigations, nongovernmental organizations’ reports, personal accounts, and newspaper articles. There are biases in these sources; for instance, each newspaper appealed to a different segment of the community. However, these varying perspectives are vital to understanding how different people saw certain events and why they reacted as they did. In addition, the clandestine nature of the paramilitaries creates limitations in knowledge of their local organizations, participants, and behaviors, so a complete account of many events is difficult. But in the past decade new data has become available through state-​sponsored investigations and the release of archival records, and this information has shed significant light on state, loyalist, and republican relationships that were previously only alleged or not fully known.10 Together these sources are meant to create an account of the events and relationships in each district that reflect the different perspectives and information presently available.

5.3.  The Dungannon District 5.3.1.  Polarization and Radicalization At civil rights protests in the late 1960s and early 1970s, confrontations between protesters, counterprotesters, and the RUC and USC fueled the escalation of conflict in Dungannon. The RUC was the state police agency present at protest events, supported at times by its reserve force, the USC, known as B Specials. The RUC was predominantly Protestant and the B Specials were exclusively Protestant, and both had poor reputations concerning relations with Catholics (NICRA 1972). As local events unfolded, the poor relations deteriorated further

 



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when some members of the police affiliated with loyalist counterprotesters in protest moments. This uncivil action by police polarized the community and encouraged strong republican radicalization. Dungannon was an early site of rights demands in the mid-​1960s, when local citizens organized small-​scale protests and groups calling for reforms. It quickly became a regional center when local activists and the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association coordinated the first civil rights march in Northern Ireland between the towns of Coalisland and Dungannon in August 1968 (Purdie 1990). Many protests and meetings followed, attracting large antireform Protestant crowds. Loyalist politician Ian Paisley’s supporters, known as Paisleyites, would sometimes organize counterprotests, which included people who were armed and people believed to be paramilitary members.11 Polarization was set in motion, as suddenly crowds were mobilizing for and against change. An “us” versus “them” environment developed, as groups shouted slogans, songs, and insults through walls of armed police. The physical spaces where crowds congregated further generated tension. For instance, confrontations over the right to protest in the town of Dungannon’s Market Square, which extreme Unionists considered “Unionist territory,” reinforced the growing social distance between rights supporters and opponents (Northern Ireland Parliament 1969, chap. 3, para. 31). Throughout these protest events, protesters saw the police response as overtly partisan. During some confrontations, police allowed counterprotesters leeway to throw stones and attack protesters (see, for example, Northern Ireland Parliament 1969). Indeed, investigating attacks that occurred at two rights meetings, the government’s Commission of Enquiry determined that police did not have an adequate force to prevent these incidents and criticized the police in the first incident for not bringing charges against the attackers and for not showing more pronounced disapproval of Protestant extremists (Northern Ireland Parliament 1969). Protesters also noticed off-​duty B Specials in the crowds at the second incident, publically exhibiting their partisanship (Northern Ireland Parliament 1969). These uncivil actions by members of the police gave implied permission to loyalists and indicated to protesters that the state forces would not protect them (see Dungannon Observer 1969). Both led tensions to escalate. Anger among rights supporters and Catholic residents over this police behavior grew dramatically following disturbances in August 1969. Protests by two opposing groups during a council meeting turned physical in the town of Dungannon, but these events happened concurrently with large riots in the city of Derry.12 Despite pleas for peace by rights leaders, a succession of hostile police and protester interactions unfolded over the next three days in the towns of Dungannon and Coalisland. On the first night, police in the town of Dungannon

 

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baton-​charged only the Catholic crowds and intruded unnecessarily into a mainly Catholic housing estate, and on the third, the county inspector allowed B Specials to bring firearms against higher-​level orders (Northern Ireland Parliament 1972). Shots at the protesters wounded three, and then the police colluded to deny firing (Northern Ireland Parliament 1972). These events led to deep polarization. Civil rights and unionist organizations claimed there were threats in Catholic and Protestant neighborhoods, and rights leaders declared that the public had lost confidence in the police and that fear had led people to evacuate their homes (Dungannon News & Tyrone Courier 1969a, August 27; Dungannon News & Tyrone Courier 1969b, August 27). The animosity between Catholics and the police quickly transferred to the new UDR, the locally recruited part-​time army force. Although this force was designed to be inclusive, district Catholics refused to join because the local commander was a former B Specials commandant, and a large protest was held in Dungannon to reject the UDR ([Dungannon Observer 1970, March 7]; Dungannon Observer 1970, February 14). In this situation, the new force increased rather than dispelled sectarian feelings against the security regime. The British government sent in its army to quell the disturbances. Although Catholics first welcomed the British Army, its behavior only reinforced people’s hostile views of state institutions. Regionally, animosity intensified following the July 1970 Falls Road Curfew in Belfast, when troops locked down the area searching for IRA members and weapons. In Dungannon, people protested against army brutality and illegal raids (see, for instance, Dungannon News & Tyrone Courier 1971, February 24). The relationship between Catholics and state security forces in Dungannon declined to its lowest point after the army introduced internment and detained hundreds of nationalists in select towns across Northern Ireland on August 7, 1971. The internees included no loyalists and, as it turned out, few IRA members. Internment included twenty men in Dungannon and Coalisland and led to district rallies, strikes, and riots (Ulster Herald 1971, August 14; Dungannon News & Tyrone Courier 1971, August 18; Dungannon Observer 1971, August 21). For local Catholics, internment was the last straw. Following another raid in October 1971, Austin Currie, a civil rights activist and local Member of the Northern Ireland Parliament for the Nationalist Party, explained, “Almost the entire population of Coalisland and area is now completely alienated from the Army” (Dungannon Observer 1971, October 9). From the perspective of nationalist community members, the military had joined the local RUC in their partiality and the population felt threatened, not protected. This was a peak moment of polarization and many in Dungannon adopted a more radical position through supporting the IRA (Dungannon Observer 1971, October 9; Dungannon Observer 1971, October 2).

 



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Dungannon became a center of radicalization.13 The East Tyrone Brigade organized in the area through “a strong nucleus of mature experienced terrorists” (Assistant Chief Constable [South] and Brigade Commander 3 Infantry Brigade 1980, 44). The Brigade began bombing government and commercial establishments and attacking members of the police and military, along with anyone employed in support of these forces, and even civilians that the IRA claimed were involved in informing or paramilitary activities. Security forces noted that “the East Tyrone PIRA is centered on Dungannon” (Assistant Chief Constable [South] and Brigade Commander 3 Infantry Brigade 1980, 39). Republicans committed forty-​one district murders from 1971 through 1976.14

5.3.2.  Escalation of Violence In Dungannon, the IRA threat against Protestant residents instigated loyalist radicalization and security force uncivil action in the form of collusion. This response created a retaliatory cycle of IRA and loyalist violence, institutionalizing the conflict as sectarian and community-​w ide as paramilitaries targeted civilians based on identity and residents, particularly Catholics, refused to support police and military security efforts given fears of collusion. This finding supports Benjamin Valentino’s (2004) contention that civilians will be targeted when they are perceived to be associated with armed groups. Although Valentino is theorizing about mass killing, his arguments about the strategic and resource-​based reasons for targeting civilians is applicable to the Troubles. First, he argues that armed groups strategically use reprisals to intimidate civilians, which allow the groups to gain loyalty and control over the population (Valentino 2004).15 Valentino (2004) further contends that counterguerilla forces specifically target the population “not simply to prevent civilians from actively supporting the guerrillas but also to force civilians to cooperate in the effort to defeat the insurgency,” which frequently results in collective punishment (201). Civilians choosing not to assist either side are viewed by each armed group as unsupportive and potential targets of coercion. Second, Valentino (2004) suggests civilians can be mistakenly targeted because state forces (and by extension other armed groups, who typically have even less resources) do not have the intelligence capabilities or resources to always distinguish civilians from combatants. Indeed, thirty-​one murders in Dungannon occurred because the IRA and loyalist paramilitaries carried out reprisals against or mistakenly targeted civilians. Dungannon’s dynamic of sectarian reprisal killings was rooted in the IRA’s targeting of local Protestant security force members, activating a local Protestant victim identity. Thirteen of the first fifteen district murder victims were members of the police and military killed by the IRA. Targeting security forces, even those

 

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off duty, was a crucial aspect of IRA local strategy, claiming they were valid targets as crown representatives (Assistant Chief Constable [South] and Brigade Commander 3 Infantry Brigade 1980; Shanahan 2009).16 While these were not considered sectarian killings to the IRA, Protestants saw them as such since RUC and UDR personnel were locally recruited, lived off base, and worked part-​ time (Patterson 2010).17 For example, after the murder of an off-​duty reserve RUC constable, local citizens denounced the targeting of an unarmed community member (Dungannon News & Tyrone Courier 1976). Responding to these attacks, in mid-​1973 loyalists radicalized, and members of the police and military colluded with them to commit reprisals against Catholic civilians. Local loyalists felt the state was unable or unwilling to contain the IRA threat and began a campaign against Catholic civilians intended to defend against the IRA, pressure Catholics to force the IRA to end its campaign, and thwart political compromise ( Joint Committee on Justice, Equality, Defence and Women’s Rights 2003; Headquarters 3 Infantry Brigade 1973c; Headquarters 3 Infantry Brigade 1973e). Public threats indicate that loyalists targeted civilians as retribution for the IRA attacks. For instance, following the IRA shooting of a police reservist, the Ulster Freedom Fighters (UFF, a subgroup of the Ulster Defense Association [UDA] paramilitary) threatened retaliation for the “slaughter of innocent Protestants” (Ulster Herald 1975, September 13). Accordingly, from mid-​1973 through 1976, loyalists murdered nineteen Catholic civilians in the district. The most active local loyalist paramilitary was the Ulster Volunteer Force’s (UVF) Mid-​Ulster Brigade, based east of Dungannon in County Armagh (Pat Finucane Centre 2010; Joint Committee on Justice, Equality, Defence and Women’s Rights 2003).18 These loyalists depended on their relationship with the security forces in the Glenanne group, which comprised UDR and RUC members, UVF members, and people with both state security and paramilitary memberships ( Joint Committee on Justice, Equality, Defence and Women’s Rights 2003; Cassel et al. 2006). Glenanne members and firearms were linked to many of the nineteen murders, and bullets used in certain killings were traced to the army ( Joint Committee on Justice, Equality, Defence and Women’s Rights 2003; Cassel et al. 2006; Tyrone Democrat 1975, November 27). The loyalists committed reprisal attacks, such as the brutal murder of a Catholic couple, James and Gertrude Devlin, which the UFF claimed was retaliation for a bombing at the home of a unionist politician (Ulster Herald 1974, May 11).19 Uncivil action in the form of collusion between loyalists and members of the police and military, in turn, activated a Catholic victim identity that sparked IRA responses and further alienated Catholic residents from the state. The IRA continued to target members of the RUC, UDR, and the British Army but also killed seven Protestant civilians and three Catholic civilians.20 Like the loyalist attacks,

 



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these murders were based on connecting civilians to armed groups through identity. For example, following the murders of two Protestant brothers, The Guardian labeled the killings “cold-​blooded sectarianism,” and it was believed the IRA killed them in retaliation for the bombing of a nearby Catholic-​owned bar (see McKittrick et al. 1999). Although many Protestants and Catholics issued pleas for peace, the paramilitaries were able to continue their attacks because of the inadvertent effects of civilian self-​protection efforts. The state depended on residents to provide it with intelligence. But many Catholic residents refused to assist in security efforts because of their mistrust of the state. Their refusal stemmed from security members continuing to behave in a spectrum of ways that maintained Catholic alienation. Accusations included harassment, prisoner mistreatment, and questioning of people about their religion at checkpoints (see, for example, Dungannon Observer 1972, June 17; Dungannon Observer 1972, January 15; Tyrone Democrat 1976, March 4). Most significantly, there was a common belief that the security forces colluded in murder, and politicians and activists such as Fr. Denis Faul demanded investigations and justice for crimes involving collusion (Tyrone Democrat 1975, November 27; Faul and Murray 1975). Catholic and Protestant residents would not give evidence to directly identify a suspect, and security forces noted how slowly the public provided information and how most intelligence was retrospective (Assistant Chief Constable [South] and Brigade Commander 3 Infantry Brigade 1980; Headquarters 3 Infantry Brigade 1976; Headquarters 3 Infantry Brigade 1973b). Catholic residents believed it was unsafe to provide information about loyalist crimes, given security forces’ sympathies to the loyalists and knowing that the loyalists had gained localized knowledge about many murder victims (Tyrone Democrat 1975, May 1; Tyrone Democrat 1975, May 22). Consequently, the paramilitaries operated locally with relative freedom, knowing that residents were unlikely to go to the police. Locations such as Coalisland and along the border with Ireland became areas in which the IRA could function fairly easily (see, for example, Headquarters 3 Infantry Brigade 1973a; Headquarters 3 Infantry Brigade 1973c; Headquarters 3 Infantry Brigade 1973f; Assistant Chief Constable [South] and Brigade Commander 3 Infantry Brigade 1980). Additionally, the IRA threatened civilians to get them to support its campaign and to keep quiet about its activities, and the loyalists threatened Protestants to keep them from participating in the government’s community relations’ efforts (see, for example, Ulster Herald 1976, October 30; Headquarters Squadron 16th/​5th The Queen’s Royal Lancers 1972; Dungannon Community Development Team 1972). This environment of alienation, fear, and self-​ preservation strengthened the paramilitary positions, and the conflict continued. The resultant retaliatory cycle of loyalist and republican murders became institutionalized violence, or “lasting patterns of contention” (Papachristos 2009, 100).

 

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Twenty-​nine civilian murders (46  percent of the district total) were based on sectarianism, in which people were targeted based on their identities as perceived supporters of the IRA or the government and its loyalist allies. The conflict pervaded Dungannon, as civilians feared retribution and the area became known as the Murder Triangle (Tyrone Democrat 1975, May 22; Tyrone Democrat 1975, August 7). In this terrifying environment, there were also two murders based on mistaken identity. The IRA killed a Protestant civilian misidentified as an undercover soldier and the British Army killed a Catholic civilian misidentified as a threat (McKittrick et al. 1999). Overall, these civilian murders are strong evidence supporting Valentino’s (2004) theory that civilians are targeted when perceived to be associated with armed groups.

5.4.  The Omagh District 5.4.1. Limited Polarization and Radicalization In contrast, Omagh experienced more temperate interactions between protesters, counterprotesters, and police. This civil action contained polarization and radicalization. As regional protests expanded in 1968, Omagh’s local protest movement and countermovement were active but limited in strength. Most district protests occurred in the town of Omagh, the center of political and economic life for the mainly rural district, and these events were smaller compared to ones in Dungannon. One large, peaceful march in April 1969 drew an estimated 1000 to 1500 people, but other protests were more modest, with organizers at one expressing disappointment at the poor turnout (Ulster Herald 1969, February 15; Tyrone Constitution 1970, April 24). The military believed the large geographical area made it difficult for people to congregate, contributing to lower attendance (Assistant Chief Constable [South] and Brigade Commander 3 Infantry Brigade 1980). Counterprotester involvement was also modest. At several protests counterprotesters were not reported present (see, for example, Ulster Herald 1970, February 14; Tyrone Constitution 1970, April 24), and loyalists even canceled a counterprotest during a 1970 council meeting “in the interests of good relations” (Tyrone Constitution 1970, April 17). Without mass interest, local contention involved much smaller crowds and there was less overall potential for volatile behavior. There are indications that Omagh, in contrast to Dungannon, had a history of informal intergroup engagement that may have paved the way to civility. Ashutosh Varshney (2002) suggests that informal engagement, particularly in rural areas, may diffuse hostilities and promote peace. A long-​time resident of Omagh believes that cooperation on farming and market issues caused Catholic and Protestant residents to have more interaction and good relations.21 Others

 



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have cited the cordial relationships between residents of the town of Omagh and the local long-​established military encampments (Assistant Chief Constable [South] and Brigade Commander 3 Infantry Brigade 1980; Ulster Herald 2007; Tyrone Constitution 1972, February 11; Poole 1990). It is possible that these relationships affected civil behavior by dampening participation in marches and radical group activity. Although these historical social relationships may have set the stage, interactions during protest moments were key to restraining escalation. Both protester and police behavior contained tensions at events that had the possibility of turning more volatile. At a large march in April 1969, with 350 to 400 counterprotesters present, civil rights stewards kept discipline over marchers and 400 police formed lines three deep to separate protesters and counterprotesters and push back loyalists trying to break police lines (Ulster Herald 1969, April 19). Newspapers praised protesters and police for keeping the peace (Ulster Herald 1969, April 19; Tyrone Constitution 1969, April 25). Crucially, during this event and in other key moments police remained relatively impartial and even acted against counterprotesters (see also Ulster Herald 1970, August 15). This civil action signaled that state forces would protect all citizens. In addition, the RUC and later the British Army had a large presence at most events and acted civilly, which prevented small hostilities from becoming mass actions. Rights supporters did criticize local police behavior around the town of Omagh during this period but did not complain of extensive brutality and never expressed the complete alienation found in Dungannon. During the August 1969 regional disturbances, conflict was again contained. On the first night activists marched peacefully with no counterprotesters, and on the second night, when protesters and counterprotesters threw stones and petrol bombs, the police quickly dispersed them by baton-​charging the protesters and firing shots in the air (Tyrone Constitution 1969, August 22; Tyrone Constitution 1969, October 3). These actions were only mildly hostile compared to actions in other areas and did not create lasting community animosity. Months later, a judge described how “relationships between the sections of the community in Omagh . . . were good” aside from those two nights (Tyrone Constitution 1969, November 14). The town was framed as peaceful before and after this potentially polarizing event, contrary to Dungannon’s experience. This less hostile atmosphere was self-​reinforcing. The army did not raid the town of Omagh when internment was introduced and the area remained on the periphery of major hostilities. The army did raid two villages at the district’s eastern edge, Carrickmore and Beragh, leading to protests there and in the town of Omagh (Ulster Herald 1971, August 14; Ulster Herald 1971, August 28). But few people experienced raids and partisanship firsthand, and thus anger was lower and protests were smaller. Discussions at a rights meeting following internment demonstrate this. Local Nationalist MP of the Parliament of Northern

 

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Ireland R. H. O’Connor pleaded for people to support a Rent and Rates strike even though “the people of Omagh were not suffering the privations of some areas” (Ulster Herald 1971, November 20). Citizens criticized farmers and professionals for not showing more support for the civil disobedience campaign (Ulster Herald 1971, November 20). The anger produced from direct experiences with the police and military did not resonate strongly in Omagh (with the exception of the Carrickmore area). Overall, in Omagh all sides engaged in more civil action, leading to less polarization than in Dungannon. In this context, local IRA members were largely oriented toward the outer reaches of and outside the district in their organization and activities. The nearest IRA brigade was centered in Dungannon. Its 2nd Battalion did organize around Carrickmore, a village in the district, but its operational area was a complex space including three other districts with more polarized towns (see Coogan 2002; O’Callaghan 1998; Magee 2011). The IRA was thus more limited in its ability to operate locally, particularly in the security-​heavy town of Omagh (Assistant Chief Constable [South] and Brigade Commander 3 Infantry Brigade 1980; O’Callaghan 1998). In this restricted environment, the IRA needed high-​ level operators and extralocal assistance to conduct operations, even with a strong network of local supporters (Headquarters 3 Infantry Brigade 1973d; O’Callaghan 1998; Magee 2011). Further, in the rural areas, cautious and less regularized police and army forces were difficult to target, and, combined with the IRA’s smaller presence, this limited attacks (see discussion of limited policing in O’Callaghan 1998).22 Thus, the IRA attempted fewer local attacks. After a bomb killed five civilians, two years passed without an IRA murder (mid-​1971 to mid-​1973), with thirteen murders and a limited number of attempted attacks occurring through 1976.23 The IRA did conduct nonlethal bombings of commercial and government buildings, but even this campaign was more limited than elsewhere. Overall, early differences in civil action between state security forces, protesters, and counterprotesters in Omagh and Dungannon impacted the districts’ trajectories.

5.4.2.  Containment of Violence Unlike Dungannon, Omagh did not experience the dynamic of reprisals. Only one district murder was considered retaliatory. Coinciding with the IRA’s more limited activities, loyalist activities and collusion were similarly smaller in scale. Steve Bruce (1992) explains how the “[p]‌otential for paramilitary activity . . . depends on the balance between a sense of threat and perceptions of the competence of the security forces” (199). In the Omagh district, the IRA was less threatening and the state maintained a strong presence in the town of

 



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Omagh, the district’s population center. With less need for extrajudicial defense, little organized loyalist paramilitarism occurred and fewer members of the police and military colluded to commit violence. As loyalists committed only two murders, the conflict did not spill into the civilian community. Two local newspapers with unionist and nonunionist perspectives, respectively, had few reports on loyalist activities. Military reports also indicate the UDA and UVF were not very active (see, for example, Headquarters 3 Infantry Brigade 1973e). In 1974 the Protestant Action Group (UVF) admitted to bombings to protest army treatment of local UDR members, but there are few other known incidents (Ulster Herald 1974, December 14). Additionally, there is some evidence that a Protestant norm against paramilitarism was present in the district. Research has found that norms can establish a “culture of peace” and expectations of nonparticipation with armed groups (see discussion in Kaplan 2017). These norms may operate as informal understandings of civil action rather than organized strategic tactics to limit violence. In a study of the UDA, McDonald and Cusack (2004) find that Protestants in rural areas across Northern Ireland were too law abiding to join an extremist group and did not trust the working-​class urban Protestants in the UDA. Neighboring County Fermanagh had little paramilitarism, and the norm seemed to extend to Protestants in the Omagh district. A former member of the local security forces explained that everyone he knew joined the police or military; they did not consider joining the UDA, UVF (with a larger base in County Tyrone), or other paramilitaries.24 Residents articulated similar attitudes against paramilitarism in a study of Protestants in western rural Northern Ireland, including part of the Omagh district (Gardiner 2008). The Protestants interviewed explained that people there hated paramilitaries and their belief in violence (Gardiner 2008). The security forces were seen as the legitimate option for defending the community. This normative inclination may have directed Protestants in the Omagh area away from organizing or joining a nearby paramilitary. Further, evidence shows that collusion within the police and military to commit violent crimes was not as extensive. In Omagh, some security members mistreated the Catholic population and individual cases of violent collusion occurred. But unlike Dungannon, systemic collusion within the local forces, characterized by collaboration across forces at multiple levels, was not apparent.25 Since collusion typically produced violence through members of the police and military participating in murder, the lack of collusion further contained the conflict. Indicators that systemic collusion was absent include fewer publicized complaints about security force behavior and the reported complaints mainly regarded mistreatment, particularly in Carrickmore. For example, one of the major complaints occurred in 1974 when UDR members in rural areas were

 

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accused of searching, interrogating, and beating up Catholics (see Dungannon Observer 1974, July 27). In Carrickmore, the small village and IRA stronghold where the police and military treated the population more suspiciously, more frequent accusations included soldiers shouting obscenities during mass, shots fired near and threats made against passersby, ill treatment of detainees, and unwarranted searches and house raids (Ulster Herald 1971, November 13; Ulster Herald 1974, May 4; Ulster Herald 1975, December 6). The accusations in Carrickmore and in the larger district indicated discrimination, harassment, and excessive force but largely did not implicate the police and military in colluding with each other or paramilitaries to commit murder, as in Dungannon. Evidence of interagency conflict also indicates a lack of systemic collusion. In 1974 the UVF (under the cover name of the Protestant Action Force) claimed to have planted bombs in the district to protest poor treatment of UDR members by RUC Special Branch and British Army members (Ulster Herald 1974, December 14). The actions and attitude against other security forces suggest that even if some local UDR members were colluding with each other or radicals not employed by the state they were not collaborating in a systemic way with members from other agencies. The lack of systemic collusion is particularly noteworthy given the military’s opportunity structure. UDA membership (and for a time UVF) was legal, and the military allowed dual UDA and UDR membership. Also, the British Army’s 3rd Brigade Headquarters was in charge of Division M covering Omagh and was linked to collusion in other divisions, including K covering Dungannon ( Joint Committee on Justice, Equality, Defence and Women’s Rights 2003). With a lesser threat and without close loyalist organization, local police and military forces did not take advantage of these openings to collude. Thus, Omagh experienced only one retaliatory civilian murder. In June 1974, Patrick Kelly, a Catholic and a nationalist councilor on the Omagh District Council, was apparently killed by local rogue UDR members for his political involvement and in retaliation for the IRA-​perpetrated murders of fellow UDR members, including one locally (Impartial Reporter 2001; McKittrick et al. 1999; Graham 2004).26 The eighteen local IRA-​perpetrated murders were either accidental or based on the victim’s identity as a current or former state security force member. Overall, Omagh’s experience supports Valentino’s (2004) argument that armed groups commit civilian reprisals when they perceive civilians as supporting the opposition. With less community involvement on all sides and on the periphery of more hostile areas, sectarian retaliation against civilians did not occur and Omagh’s conflict remained between the IRA and state security forces, containing the level of violence.

 



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5.5.  Additional Evidence of Uncivil Action: Civilian Denunciations The districts show indications that another form of uncivil action may have contributed to moving Dungannon toward violence and Omagh away from violence. The evidence regarding the circumstances of murders in these two districts provides some support for Stathis Kalyvas’s claim that civilians may denounce other civilians to armed actors in order to settle private quarrels using violence (Kalyvas 2006). This uncivil action involves civilians providing specific nonpublic information about victims to armed groups, who use the information to selectively target victims. Based on the open source data, there is circumstantial evidence in Dungannon and no evidence of this action in Omagh, indicating the possibility that this action contributed to the overall violence level in Dungannon. IRA and loyalist perpetrators specifically targeted nineteen civilian victims in Dungannon. The IRA selectively killed five Protestant civilians and two Catholic civilians accused of informing. Loyalists selectively killed twelve Catholic civilians. Many of these deaths were sectarian reprisals, but the perpetrators may have chosen these particular victims based on access to private information. Given that most of the deaths occurred outside of victims’ homes or at their workplaces, other civilians may have been necessary to provide information such as addresses and schedules. Circumstantial evidence suggests this occurred. In the murders of James and Gertrude Devlin, activists Faul and Murray (1975) determined that “[t]‌he assassins were waiting at the back of their house at midnight. This indicated that they were local people or had been well instructed by local people,” since the Devlins never used the front door and Gertrude picked up James from work every night (6).27 In many of the loyalist murders, the weapons and bullets used were tied to members of the police and military ( Joint Committee on Justice, Equality, Defence and Women’s Rights 2003; Cassel et al. 2006; Tyrone Democrat 1975, November 27), showing collusion and indicating that the security forces could have provided the perpetrators with information they had access to from their government positions. It is unclear exactly how the perpetrators obtained private information, but overall, the circumstances of many murders indicate that civilian denunciation cannot be ruled out as a possible factor affecting Dungannon’s violence. Conversely, none of the open source data on Omagh’s twenty murders between 1971 and 1976 include evidence that civilians denounced other civilians to perpetrators. The IRA caused eighteen of the deaths by either targeting ten security force (or former) members, mistakenly killing five civilians, or accidentally exploding their own bombs. Loyalists’ two victims were selective targets, but

 

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Albert Ballantine was killed by alleged fellow paramilitary members and Patrick Kelly was a well-​known Catholic bar owner and Nationalist councilor targeted as his bar closed for the night (see Ulster Herald 1975, November 22; Graham 2004; Impartial Reporter 2001, November 8). Private information would not have been necessary in either case. In fact, Kalyvas (2006) notes that denunciation may have limited applicability in ethnic civil wars, where identities can be publicly signaled in many ways and “no private information is generally needed for violence to be selective” (181). In Omagh and Dungannon, identities were publicly visible through people’s employment, address, the bar they patronized, or their political party. Nonetheless, in Dungannon there are indications denunciation may have helped perpetrators by making it easier to target already identifiable victims. In Omagh, which had a less disruptive and sectarian conflict, there is no evidence that the additional uncivil action of denunciation existed.

5.6. Conclusion I have argued that the degree of civil interactions between state security forces, republican and loyalist paramilitaries, protesters, counterprotesters, politicians, and community members affected the trajectory and intensity of the violence in two rural districts during Northern Ireland’s Troubles. In Dungannon, uncivil action in the form of police colluding with loyalist counterprotesters against protesters exacerbated local polarization and subsequent republican and loyalist radicalization. An escalatory cycle of violence began as loyalists had police and military support to attack civilians and the IRA had room to maneuver as this collusion drove Catholic civilians’ mistrust of state institutions. Conversely, the events in Omagh show that civil interactions between the police, protesters, and counterprotesters minimized polarization and contained the conflict to a state-​ challenger dynamic between state security forces and the IRA, which resulted in less violence. Tracing the impact of civil action within the violence process is critical for understanding the breadth, length, and end of conflict. The dynamics between paramilitaries, colluding police and military, and civilians in one location can broaden and prolong the national conflict. For example, because of Catholic civilian fears of collusion, the IRA’s East Tyrone Brigade thrived and was able to attack outside its area and provide resources to other units.28 Utilizing support from state forces around Dungannon, loyalists thrived and could conduct larger attacks, such as bombings in Dublin and Monaghan ( Joint Committee on Justice, Equality, Defence and Women’s Rights 2003). These strong local paramilitary positions, influenced by earlier security force interactions with loyalists and Catholic citizens, contributed in part to the collapse of regional efforts to

 



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bring paramilitaries into the political process.29 At times, the momentum to find political solutions grew, and the continuing interactions between these actors had the opposite effect of escalating the national conflict. This effect cannot be understood without analyzing the violence process. Further, identifying how actors are jointly involved in the process of escalating violence offers insights into how the process may be interrupted or slowed down. The engagement between state security forces and loyalist counterprotesters as the contention in a community develops is particularly important. If the security forces have the space to form relationships with radicals, they can increase the likelihood of threats to the state. If, however, high-​level state officials can influence their agents by disrupting and prosecuting collusion, they are better able to minimize the radicals’ strength and thus the threats they face. Over the long term, building stronger, more accountable local state institutions may even alter the identity conceptions of state agents and change their behaviors (and hence their initial decisions in protest moments) in relation to that identity. Evidence of the state-​radical relationship in other cases of intrastate conflict, including Kenya’s 2007–​2008 election violence and Burma’s 2012 sectarian violence (Kenya National Commission on Human Rights 2008; Human Rights Watch 2012), indicates that this relationship may have the potential to help explain how escalation occurs (and may be contained) across different types of conflicts. Additionally, the findings highlight the impact of civilian choices within the dynamics of conflict. These choices are partly affected by the social structure preexisting in a community as conflict emerges. Neither Dungannon nor Omagh had formal institutional resources or channels in place before the outbreak of the Troubles that could funnel and dispel polarizing beliefs, rumors, or actions, which left the communities particularly vulnerable to radicalism. Without these institutional resources, civilians may use other strategies to try to reduce violence, such as alignment with an armed group, dialogue with armed groups, or linking to outside actors to report information and shame armed groups (see Kaplan 2017; Keck and Sikkink 1998), but these strategies depend on community organization. Although numerous civil rights and religious organizations were active in both districts during this time, there is little indication that they played an active role in tamping down what otherwise would have been violence. In communities that are already somewhat polarized because of their histories of discrimination and disenfranchisement, such as Dungannon and Omagh, mistrust is embedded and must be overcome just to organize intergroup community efforts, let alone successfully utilize that organization to influence the behavior of armed groups. Different segments of the community could potentially have used formal intragroup institutions such as churches to organize on their own, yet there was immense divergence in intragroup political beliefs about how to address the conflict. The behavior of religious institutional

 

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leaders varied considerably in both districts; some were involved in polarizing protest moments, and some were involved in peace rallies, making intragroup organizing difficult. Consequently, civilians had to contend on their own and in many cases improvise their reactions to the contention and subsequent radicalization in their communities. Those choices, such as refusing to assist the state security efforts in Dungannon, may have had larger consequences for the continuation of conflict, but those immediate choices were made based on individual civilian strategies of protection and survival in a terrifying, uncertain environment. These types of choices lead back to the importance of examining the on-​ the-​ground circumstances and relationships that develop throughout conflict. Donatella della Porta (2012) argues that violence has “emergent phenomena” and “develops in action,” and by extension, so does the containment of violence.30 Seemingly small moments, such as noticing an off-​duty police officer who is present at a counterprotest or a composed discussion between a member of the security forces and a protester (see, for example, Northern Ireland Parliament 1969; Ulster Herald 1971, August 7), can have larger consequences when they are seen, reported on, and replicated. Containing violence does not require strong civilian coordination or strategically calculated choices; on-​the-​spot uncoordinated civil actions have the power to build on each other and impact the course and severity of a conflict.

Acknowledgment This chapter is derived in part from an article published in Security Studies, July 2016, copyright Taylor & Francis, available at:  http://​tandfonline.com/​ 10.1080/​09636412.20161195625.

Notes 1. The term republican refers to people who believed in using arms to remove the British from Northern Ireland and establish a republic encompassing all of Ireland. The term nationalist refers to people who believed in reforming Northern Ireland’s political system and peaceful reunification with Ireland. The term loyalist refers to anyone supporting armed struggle (outside the state’s forces) to continue British rule. The term unionist refers to those who supported British rule but did not support violence outside state-​sanctioned acts. Republicans were responsible for 59 percent, loyalists for 29 percent, and the security forces for 10 percent of all deaths during the Troubles (McKittrick et al. 1999). For conciseness, the Dungannon and Omagh districts are called “Dungannon” and “Omagh,” while the “town of Dungannon” and “town of Omagh” are used in reference only to the towns. 2. On a state’s claim to legitimacy and the legitimate use of force in protecting citizens, see Weber (1965) and Gilley (2009).

 



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3. For arguments on local state agents’ discretion when responding to protests, see Irons (2006) and Luders (2003). 4. The Troubles began in the late 1960s. Following the partition of Ireland in 1921, a Protestant majority (known mainly as unionists for their support of British rule) controlled Northern Ireland’s political system under Home Rule at the expense of the Irish Catholic minority (known mainly as nationalists for their desire for a united Ireland). Making up close to 35 percent of the 1.5 million population (Northern Ireland General Register Office 1975), Catholics felt continually aggrieved over the region’s political status and the discrimination they experienced in employment, politics, and housing (Gallagher 1957; CSJ 1969; Northern Ireland Parliament 1969; Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association 1972; Darby 1976). In the 1960s, a civil rights movement grew that was inclusive of nationalists and moderate unionists demanding reform, but by the late 1960s Northern Ireland’s parliament along with the British government had responded weakly (see Purdie 1990; Northern Ireland Parliament 1969). The protests became more hostile, leading to riots in August 1969 that turned violent in several towns owing to clashes between nationalists, a loyalist (extreme unionist) countermovement, and the police force, the Royal Ulster Constabulary. As a result, the British Army deployed to maintain order. The IRA, facing intense criticism and internal dissension for its inability to defend the nationalist community, split into the Official IRA (OIRA) and the Provisional IRA (PIRA, or just the IRA) in late 1969, with the IRA taking up arms against the state (Moloney 2007). Loyalist extremist groups also organized, and the conflict raged for the next thirty years, until the Good Friday Agreement in 1998. The conflict led to 3,637 deaths, 47,541 injuries, and 16,209 bombings/​attempted bombings (Poole 1990; McKittrick et al. 1999; PSNI 2003a, 2003b). 5. They thus follow a Most Similar Systems Design or Mill’s method of difference (George and Bennett 2005). 6. The populations of Dungannon and Omagh districts include their rural and urban districts and parts of the Clogher Rural district, as these old districts were consolidated under new boundaries in 1973. Religious population percentages are based on adjustments made to the 1971 census by Compton (1978). The unemployment rate is based on data from the Northern Ireland General Register Office (1975). 7. See note 6. 8. All numbers other than deaths are estimates. Deaths from McKittrick et al. (1999); incidents and bombings from local newspapers such as Dungannon News & Tyrone Courier, Dungannon Observer, Ulster Herald, and Tyrone Constitution. 9. See note 8. 10. These include British military security reports released after being classified for the requisite thirty-​year period, investigations by human rights group the Pat Finucane Centre, and the Barron Report (see Joint Committee on Justice, Equality, Defence and Women’s Rights, Interim Report on the Report of the Independent Commission of Inquiry into the Dublin and Monaghan [Interim Barron Report] (Dublin: Houses of the Oireachtas, Joint Committee on Justice, Equality, Defence, and Women’s Rights, December 2003). 11. See discussion of Paisley in Boulton (1973). 12. In what became known as “Battle of the Bogside,” nationalists in Derry attacked a Protestant Apprentice Boys parade when it marched provocatively close to the Catholic Bogside neighborhood. The RUC and loyalists counterattacked, and street fighting occurred over the next two days; riots also took place in several other towns across Northern Ireland. This was a regional turning point, which led to British Army deployment and disbandment of the B Specials. 13. This was not the first time. Dungannon had a tradition of rebellion (Gallagher 1957; Moloney 2007). 14. This includes four IRA members killed when bombs they were planting prematurely exploded. 15. His discussion on reprisals references Lindsay (1962). 16. PIRA leadership reportedly called off attacks on off-​duty security forces in 1972 (confirmed in 1974), but this policy was ignored in Dungannon. See Patterson (2010). 17. For a discussion on Protestant victim identity, see Bruce (1997).

 

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18. UVF and UDA (the largest loyalist paramilitary) membership overlapped in the Dungannon/​ Armagh area. See Pat Finucane Centre (2010). 19. For details on one of the perpetrator’s membership in the UVF and UDR and the weapons’ connection to the Glenanne group, see Cadwallader (2013) and Cassel et al. (2006). 20. The IRA killed two Catholic civilians, claiming one was an informer and one was a “liability,” and another Catholic civilian was killed by an IRA roadblock. See McKittrick et al. (1999); Belfast Telegraph (2010); and Irish Independent (1973). 21. County Tyrone resident, email message to author, January 20, 2013. 22. Also, the military discussed but put on hold the idea of reinforcing troops in the Pomeroy-​ Carrickmore area in order to more intensively patrol in April 1973 (Headquarters 3 Infantry Brigade 1973g). 23. This includes three IRA members killed when a bomb they were transporting prematurely exploded. 24. Former County Tyrone security force member, interview with author, Northern Ireland, July 20, 2011. 25. For a detailed discussion of systemic deviance, see Punch (2012). 26. The second local murder by loyalists was also committed by rogue individuals. In May 1975, two young men shot Albert Ballantine, a Protestant and suspected fellow paramilitary member, because he had allegedly supplied bad information and guns to the UVF (Ulster Herald 1975, November 22). This murder was unconnected to local violence, again indicating the weakness of local loyalist paramilitaries and state collusion. 27. In her examination of the murders, Cadwallader (2013) states that there was evidence that the murderers had been observing the Devlins’ movements. The only convicted perpetrator, William Thomas Leonard (a member of the UVF and UDR), admitted that UVF member Wesley Somerville ordered him to drive the car for the gunmen and that he was told the time the Devlins typically arrived home and participated in a dry run the night before the murders (Cadwallader 2013). But it is not clear how the person who informed Leonard of the time had obtained information on the Devlins in the first place. 28. For instance, Brigade leader Kevin Mallon conducted attacks in Omagh, increasing violence there. See Headquarters 3 Infantry Brigade (1973d). 29. For example, the local IRA continued attacks despite a regional ceasefire in 1975. See details on ceasefire in Lynn (2013). 30. Emphasis in original.

References Assistant Chief Constable (South) and Brigade Commander 3 Infantry Brigade. 1980. “East Tyrone Area Review.” Portadown, March 25. National Archives of the UK: CJ 4/​3086. Belfast Telegraph. 2010. “Woman Who Fought for 37 Years to Get to Truth of an IRA Murder,” September 25. Boulton, David. 1973. The UVF 1966–​ 1973:  An Anatomy of Loyalist Rebellion. Dublin, Ireland: Torc Books. Bruce, Steve. 1992. The Red Hand: Protestant Paramilitaries in Northern Ireland. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bruce, Steve. 1997. “Victim Selection in Ethnic Conflict:  Motives and Attitudes in Irish Republicanism.” Terrorism and Political Violence 9 (1): 56–​71. Cadwallader, Anne. 2013. Lethal Allies: British Collusion in Ireland. Cork: Mercier Press. Cassel, Douglass, Susie Kemp, Piers Pigou, and Stephen Sawyer. 2006. Report of the Independent International Panel on Alleged Collusion in Sectarian Killings in Northern Ireland. Notre Dame, IN: Centre for Civil and Human Rights, Notre Dame Law School. Compton, Paul Compton. 1978. Northern Ireland: A Census Atlas. Dublin: Gill and Macmillan. Coogan, Tim Pat. 2002. The I.R.A. New York, NY: Palgrave.

 



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CSJ (Campaign for Social Justice). 1969. Northern Ireland:  The Plain Truth. 2nd ed. Dungannon: Campaign for Social Justice in Northern Ireland. Darby, John. 1976. Conflict in Northern Ireland:  The Development of a Polarised Community. Dublin: Gill and Macmillan. della Porta, Donatella. 2012. “Some Reflections on the Relationship between Terrorism and Social Movements?” Mobilizing Ideas, April 16. http://​mobilizingideas.wordpress.com/​2012/​04/​ 16/​some-​reflections-​on-​the-​relationship-​between-​terrorism-​and-​social-​movements/​. Dungannon Community Development Team. 1972. “1972 Annual Report.” Dungannon: Public Record Office of Northern Ireland: CREL 5/​5/​1. Dungannon News & Tyrone Courier. 1969a. “‘Irrefutable Evidence’ Say Unionist Association,” August 27. Dungannon News & Tyrone Courier. 1969b. “Police Deny C.R.A Statement,” August 27. Dungannon News & Tyrone Courier. 1971. “Protest March,” February 24. Dungannon News & Tyrone Courier. 1971. “Civil Disobedience Effects in Coalisland,” August 18. Dungannon News & Tyrone Courier. 1976. “Murdered Outside Church,” December 8. Dungannon Observer. 1969. “‘Paisleyites in Uniform’–​Currie,” April 26. Dungannon Observer. 1970. “A Unanimous No to U.D.R,” February 14. Dungannon Observer. 1970. “Reluctant to Join the U.D.R,” March 7. Dungannon Observer. 1971. “The End of the Beginning or the Beginning of the End?,” August 21. Dungannon Observer. 1971. “‘Non-​Violent’ Taking a Back Seat,” October 2. Dungannon Observer. 1971. “Coalisland Folk Will Remember This Selective Search,” October 9. Dungannon Observer. 1972. “Storm Erupts-​Ill-​Treatment of Tyrone Youth,” January 15. Dungannon Observer. 1972. “People Being Harassed—​Republican Statement,” June 17. Dungannon Observer. 1974. “Fr. Faul Again Slams U.D.R. in West Tyrone,” July 27. Faul, Fr. Denis, and Fr. Raymond Murray. 1975. The Triangle of Death: Sectarian Assassinations in the Dungannon-​Moy-​Portadown Area. Dungannon: Denis Faul and Raymond Murray. Gallagher, Frank. 1957. The Indivisible Island:  The History of the Partition of Ireland. London: Gollancz. Gardiner, David. 2008. Whatever You Say Nothing. Enniskillen:  Church of Ireland Hot Gospel Project. George, Alexander L., and Andrew Bennett. 2005. Case Studies and Theory Development in the Social Sciences. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Gilley, Bruce. 2009. The Right to Rule: How States Win and Lose Legitimacy. New York: Columbia University Press. Graham, William. 2004. “Kelly Family Renew Call for Independent Inquiry.” Irish News, March 16. Headquarters Squadron 16th/​5th The Queen’s Royal Lancers. 1972. “Operation Instruction No 3.” Omagh Lisanelly Camp. National Archives of the UK: WO 305/​4251. Headquarters 3 Infantry Brigade. 1973a. “Intelligence Summary No 13/​73 for the Period 26 March–​2 April 1973.” Lurgan:  Headquarters 3 Infantry Brigade, April 3, 1973. National Archives of the UK: WO 305/​4212, fol. G1. Headquarters 3 Infantry Brigade. 1973b. “Intelligence Summary No 14/​73 for the Period 2 April–​ 9 April 1973.” Lurgan: Headquarters 3 Infantry Brigade. National Archives of the UK: WO 305/​4212, fol. G2. Headquarters 3 Infantry Brigade. 1973c. “Intelligence Summary No 22/​73 for the Period 28 May–​ 4 June 1973.” Lurgan: Headquarters 3 Infantry Brigade. National Archives of the UK: WO 305/​4214, fol. G1. Headquarters 3 Infantry Brigade. 1973d. “Intelligence Summary No 25/​73 for the Period 18–​25 June 1973.” Lurgan:  Headquarters 3 Infantry Brigade. National Archives of the UK:  WO 305/​4214, fol. G6. Headquarters 3 Infantry Brigade. 1973e. “Intelligence Summary No 38/​73 for the Period 17 September–​ 24 September 1973.” Lurgan:  Headquarters 3 Infantry Brigade. National Archives of the UK: WO 305/​4217, fol. G7.

 

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Headquarters 3 Infantry Brigade. 1973f. “Minutes of the South Eastern Security Committee Meeting Held at Lurgan on 17 August at 1030 Hours.” Lurgan:  Headquarters 3 Infantry Brigade. National Archives of the UK: WO 305/​4215, fol. G7. Headquarters 3 Infantry Brigade. 1973g. “Minutes of the Western Security Committee Meeting Held at Lisanelly Camp Omagh on 27 April 1973.” Omagh Lisanelly Camp. National Archives of the UK: WO 305/​4213, fol. G1. Headquarters 3 Infantry Brigade. 1975. “Minutes of Police Division K Local Security Committee Meeting Dungannon District Held at Dungannon on 6 November 1975.” Dungannon. National Archives of the UK: WO 305/​4210. Headquarters 3 Infantry Brigade. 1976. “Minutes of Police Division K Local Security Committee Meeting Dungannon District, Held at Dungannon on 29 Jan 76.” Dungannon. National Archives of the UK: WO 305/​4210. Human Rights Watch. 2012. “The Government Could Have Stopped This”: Sectarian Violence and Ensuing Abuses in Burma’s Arakan State. New York: Human Rights Watch. Impartial Reporter. 2001. “A DUP Assembly man is denying rumours . . . ” November 8. Irish Independent. 1973. “West Belfast Becomes ‘No Go’ Area,” November 29. Irons, Jenny. 2006. “Who Rules the Social Control of Protest? Variability in the State-​ Countermovement Relationship.” Mobilization:  An International Quarterly 11 (2): 165–​180. Joint Committee on Justice, Equality, Defence and Women’s Rights. 2003. Interim Report on the Report of the Independent Commission of Inquiry into the Dublin and Monaghan Bombings (Interim Barron Report). Dublin: Houses of the Oireachtas. Kalyvas, Stathis N. 2006. The Logic of Violence in Civil War. New York: Cambridge University Press. Kaplan, Oliver. 2017. Resisting War: How Communities Protect Themselves. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Keck, Margaret E., and Kathryn Sikkink. 1998. Activists beyond Borders:  Advocacy Networks in International Politics. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Kenya National Commission on Human Rights. 2008. On the Brink of the Precipice:  A Human Rights Account of Kenya’s Post-​2007 Election Violence: Final Report. Nairobi: Kenya National Commission on Human Rights. King, Charles. 2004. “The Micropolitics of Social Violence.” World Politics 56 (3): 431–​455. Kriesberg, Louis. 2010. “Conflict: Phases.” In The Oxford International Encyclopedia of Peace, vol. 1, edited by Nigel Young, 399–​403. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lindsay, Franklin A. 1962. “Unconventional Warfare.” Foreign Affairs 40 (2): 264–​274. Luders, Joseph. 2003. “Countermovements, the State, and the Intensity of Racial Contention in the American South.” In States, Parties, and Social Movements, edited by Jack A. Goldstone, 27–​44. New York: Cambridge University Press. Lynn, Brendan. 2013. “IRA Truce:  9 February 1975 to 23 January 1976—​Summary of Main Events.” CAIN. Accessed November 27. http://​cain.ulst.ac.uk/​events/​truce/​sum.htm. Magee, Gerard. 2011. Tyrone’s Struggle. Omagh: Tyrone Sinn Fein Commemoration Committee and Gerard Magee. McAdam, Doug, Sidney G Tarrow, and Charles Tilly. 2001. Dynamics of Contention. New York: Cambridge University Press. McDonald, Henry, and Jim Cusack. 2004. UDA:  Inside the Heart of Loyalist Terror. London: Penguin Books. McKittrick, David, Seamus Kelters, Brian Feeney, and Chris Thornton. 1999. Lost Lives:  The Stories of the Men, Women and Children Who Died as a Result of the Northern Ireland Troubles. Edinburgh: Mainstream. Moloney, Ed. 2007. A Secret History of the IRA. 2nd ed. London: Penguin Books. NICRA (Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association). 1972. Discrimination! The Facts. Belfast: NICRA. Northern Ireland General Register Office. 1975. Census of Population 1971:  Summary Tables Northern Ireland. Belfast: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office.

 



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Northern Ireland Parliament. 1969. Disturbances in Northern Ireland:  Report of the Commission Appointed by the Governor of Northern Ireland (Cameron Report, Cmd. 532). Belfast: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office. Northern Ireland Parliament. 1972. Violence and Civil Disturbances in Northern Ireland in 1969 (Scarman Report, Cmd. 566). Belfast: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office. O’Callaghan, Sean. 1998. The Informer. London: Corgi. Papachristos, Andrew V. 2009. “Murder by Structure:  Dominance Relations and the Social Structure of Gang Homicide.” American Journal of Sociology 115 (1): 74–​128. Pat Finucane Centre. 2010. “Collusion in the South Armagh /​Mid Ulster Area in the Mid-​ 1970’s.” May 20. http://​www.patfinucanecentre.org/​glenanne-​lethal-​allies/​ collusion-​south-​armagh-​mid-​ulster-​area-​mid-​1970s Patterson, Henry. 2010. “Sectarianism Revisited:  The Provisional IRA Campaign in a Border Region of Northern Ireland.” Terrorism and Political Violence 22 (3): 337–​356. Poole, Michael. 1990. “The Geographical Location of Political Violence in Northern Ireland.” In Political Violence: Ireland in a Comparative Perspective, edited by John Darby, Nicholas Dodge and A. C. Hepburn, 64–​82. Belfast: Appletree Press. PSNI (Police Service of Northern Ireland). 2003a. Persons Injured as a Result of the Security Situation in Northern Ireland 1969–​2003. http://​cain.ulster.ac.uk/​ni/​security.htm#05. PSNI (Police Service of Northern Ireland). 2003b. Security Related Incidents 1969–​2003 (by Calendar Year). http://​cain.ulster.ac.uk/​ni/​security.htm#05. Punch, Maurice. 2012. State Violence, Collusion and the Troubles. London: Pluto Press. Purdie, Bob. 1990. Politics in the Streets: The Origins of the Civil Rights Movement in Northern Ireland. Belfast: Blackstaff Press. Shanahan, Timothy. 2009. The Provisional Irish Republican Army and the Morality of Terrorism. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Tilly, Charles. 2003. The Politics of Collective Violence. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tilly, Charles, and Sidney Tarrow. 2007. Contentious Politics. Boulder, CO: Paradigm. Tyrone Constitution. 1969. “Police Victory,” April 25. Tyrone Constitution. 1969. “Shots Fired during Riots in Omagh,” August 22. Tyrone Constitution. 1969. “C. R. March Was Criminal Folly—​Judge,” October 3. Tyrone Constitution. 1969. “Suspended Jail Sentences on Three after C. R. March,” November 14. Tyrone Constitution. 1970. “Council Meeting Halted by C. R. Protest Group,” April 17. Tyrone Constitution. 1970. “Police Give C. R. Protesters a Helping Hand,” April 24. Tyrone Constitution. 1972. “Town Stunned by Gun Attack on Off-​Duty Troops,” February 11. Tyrone Democrat. 1975. “Triangle of Death,” May 1. Tyrone Democrat. 1975. “Hunt for Murder Gang Continues,” May 22. Tyrone Democrat. 1975. “Murder Ring on Verge of Being Smashed?” August 7. Tyrone Democrat. 1975. “Bullets Used in Moy Murders Were Army Issue—​‘Sunday Observer,” ’ November 27. Tyrone Democrat. 1976. “Motorists Asked Their Religion,” March 4. Ulster Herald. 1969. “Those ‘Estimates,’” February 15. Ulster Herald. 1969. “Omagh’s Big Civil Rights Demonstration,” April 19. Ulster Herald. 1970. “Protest at Omagh,” February 14. Ulster Herald. 1970. “Sequel to Omagh Protest Meeting,” August 15. Ulster Herald. 1971. “C.R.A. Protest March in Omagh:  Petition Handed into Military Camp,” August 7. Ulster Herald. 1971. “Military in Pre-​Dawn Swoops on Homes: Will Tyrone Men Be Interned?,” August 14. Ulster Herald. 1971. “One-​Day Close Down in Omagh,” August 28. Ulster Herald. 1971. “Troops Shouted Obscenities During Mass,” September 13. Ulster Herald. 1971. “‘Rates Strike Is Daily Protest against Internment,’” November 20. Ulster Herald. 1974. “‘Army is harassing Carrickmore,’ says Cllr. McElroy,” May 4. Ulster Herald. 1974. “Tyrone’s Grim Placing in a Horrifying Week,” May 11.

 

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Ulster Herald. 1974. “‘Protestant Action Group’ Responsible Claims `Phone Caller,” December 14. Ulster Herald. 1975. “Another Warning in ‘Triangle’ Causes Apprehension,” September 13. Ulster Herald. 1975. “Life Sentence for Two Young Omagh Men,” November 22. Ulster Herald. 1975. “Deep Concern in Carrickmore,” December 6. Ulster Herald. 1976. “S.D.L.P Slam Orange Marchers’ Insults,” May 29. Ulster Herald. 1976. “Fr. Faul Condemns ‘Insane Campaign by Provo. I.R.A,’” October 30. Ulster Herald. 2007. “British Soldiers Gone from Tyrone,” May 8. Valentino, Benjamin. 2004. Final Solutions:  Mass Killing and Genocide in the Twentieth Century. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Varshney, Ashutosh. 2002. Ethnic Conflict and Civic Life: Hindus and Muslims in India. 2nd ed. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Weber, Max. 1965. Politics as a Vocation. Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press.

 

6

Doing Business amid Criminal Violence Companies and Civil Action in Mexico Sandra Ley and Magdalena Guzmán

6.1.  Introduction Mexico stands today as the eighth most violent country in Latin America (WHO 2015). Since 2006, more than 100,000 people have died as a result of the fight between drug cartels, their private armies, and the Mexican armed forces and police. This violence has had devastating consequences for the entire country. Children’s educational achievement has been negatively affected by rising crime (Caudillo and Torche 2014; Jarillo et al. 2016). Insecurity has also depressed electoral participation (Carreras and Trelles 2012; Ley 2018). Criminal activity has negatively affected economic behavior, ranging from labor participation and consumption (Robles, Calderón, and Magaloni 2013)  to investment (Ashby and Ramos 2013). How have Mexicans reacted in response to rising criminal violence? We seek to understand the civil actions of the Mexican business sector in the midst of violence and their potential ability to affect violent trends. Drawing from the Mexican National Business Victimization Survey, we analyze general trends on how the commercial sector has been affected by criminal violence, and how businesspeople have reacted to it. Survey data shows that companies respond to violence in varied ways, from more civil actions such as engaging with communities or civil-​society groups to less civil ones such as paying extortion fees. Other actions, such as building up physical security measures or ending operations, fall somewhere in between on the spectrum. We also conduct a more detailed examination of the security initiatives organized by the private sector in Monterrey, the capital of the state of Nuevo León, and compare them briefly with different experiences in Ciudad Juárez and 147

 

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Acapulco.1 We find that businesses can undertake civil action, often in concert with other authorities. It is plausible to argue that civil action by business impacts the level of local violence. Business elites in Monterrey undertook a set of civil actions. They bargained and allied with top government authorities to create a new state police force. They also invested in complementary strategies that sought to strengthen crime reporting in the city and hold government officials accountable for crime and insecurity. And although these actions corresponded to a drop in crime, the human rights performance of the new police force has been mixed. In Ciudad Juárez, business collaboration with different levels of government, along with civil-​society groups, resulted in a broader array of civil actions, which was also associated with a drop in crime but without the claims of human rights abuse. In Acapulco, business efforts at civil action have been minimal, and uncivil actions have fed into violence. This chapter is organized as follows:  We first examine the history of criminal violence in Mexico and the reactions of different nonstate actors across the country. We then analyze what it means to do business in the midst of criminal violence. Next, we move beyond basic security measures and examine the civil actions by local companies’ that were aimed at reducing crime in Monterrey. Finally, we briefly describe the role of business leaders in Ciudad Juárez and Acapulco as a way of pointing out brief points of comparison that can help provide a better understanding of the organizational capacity and impact on violence of Monterrey’s private sector.

6.2.  Organized Crime and Criminal Violence in Mexico 6.2.1.  Characterizing Organized Crime Organized crime groups (OCGs) are informal business enterprises that regulate and control the production and distribution of illicit services or products in order to extract economic benefits (Reuter 2009; Varese 2011). To carry out these activities, organized crime needs an internal and operational structure that is quite different from that of “non-​organized crime groups” or petty criminals. To operate, organized crime requires a highly controlled structure in terms of hierarchy, membership, and secrecy (Hagan 1983). Perhaps most importantly, unlike with other criminal actors, the existence and survival of organized crime highly depends on corruption. When and where OCGs settle, as well as whether they use violence, depends to a great extent on the availability of informal local networks of government protection (Snyder and Durán-​Martínez 2009). In general, OCGs make offers of

 



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plata o plomo (silver or lead) to buy protection for their territories and impunity for their crimes. In return, public officials refrain from enforcing the law or enforce it selectively. Multiple accounts from across the world have demonstrated this criminal-​political nexus (Arias 2006; Chin and Godson 2006; Felbab 2010). Given this description, we must also acknowledge that OCGs, unlike insurgent groups, are not essentially politically motivated actors seeking to topple the government and replace it (Kalyvas 2015). This does not mean, of course, that OCGs lack a political agenda. On the contrary, they can and do get involved in politics—​from murdering candidates to funding campaigns (Trejo and Ley forthcoming; Arias 2017)—​and their activity has profound political implications (Ley 2017, 2018). However, their involvement in politics is likely to differ from that of rebel groups.

6.2.2.  General Overview of Criminal Violence in Mexico Mexican cartels coexisted peacefully during the 1980s. However, intercartel wars broke out in the 1990s. According to the Criminal Violence in Mexico (CVM) Dataset by Trejo and Ley (2016, 2018), organized crime-​related deaths reached 350 in 1997, and quickly increased in the 2000s, reaching 1,400 deaths in 2006. Violence was initially concentrated in the northwestern Mexican states of Baja California, Chihuahua, and Sinaloa, where the Tijuana, Juárez, and Sinaloa cartels engaged in major turf wars (Blancornelas 2002; Grillo 2011). However, intercartel conflict later spread to the northeast and to the Pacific coast, where the Sinaloa and Gulf cartels sought to establish control over these territories (Grillo 2011). And by the early 2000s, a new cartel, La Familia Michoacana, emerged in the western state of Michoacán as a major contender for control over the drug-​trafficking corridors (Maldonado 2012). According to Trejo and Ley (2018), between 1995 and 2006, drug cartels and their criminal associates had perpetrated more than 4,000 murders. This outbreak of intercartel wars is in part related to subnational democratization and the rotation of political parties at the gubernatorial level. The arrival of new parties at the state level undermined the informal networks of protection that the cartels had for decades relied on to facilitate their operations under the country’s one-​party rule (Trejo and Ley 2018). Without informal government protection or party protection, the cartels created their own private militias to defend themselves against rival groups and incoming opposition authorities. Once they had secured their turf, they used these militias to conquer rival territory. Starting in December 2006, criminal violence increased dramatically. After a highly competitive and disputed election, Mexico’s new president, Felipe Calderón, declared a “war on drugs” and ordered the deployment of the military

 

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to fight drug cartels throughout the country (Presidencia de la República 2006). Although the Calderón believed that the federal intervention would help reunite the country and help his government overcome a major post-​electoral crisis, intercartel violence multiplied, expanded, and diversified during his tenure. By the end of the Calderón administration in 2012, more than 70,000 lives had been lost (Shirk and Wallman 2015); 22,000 people were missing, many of whom were forcibly disappeared by corrupt state forces (Human Rights Watch 2013); over 300 local authorities, political candidates, and party activists had been victims of assassination attempts or had been murdered by the drug cartels (Trejo and Ley forthcoming); and drug trafficking had expanded into new criminal markets, including extortion, kidnapping for ransom, human smuggling, and the looting of natural resources (Guerrero 2011; Grillo 2011). After the Calderón presidency ended, the former authoritarian party, Partido Revolucionario Institucional (PRI, “Institutional Revolutionary Party”), returned to power. It initially sought to differentiate itself from the Calderón administration’s security policy by emphasizing crime prevention programs (Presidencia de la República 2012). However, it primarily continued to pursue a more militant strategy—​deploying the army to carry out public security and law-​enforcement tasks—​through which the violence increased, together with human rights violations. The mass abduction in September 2014 of forty-​three students in Iguala, Guerrero, revealed the prevalence of corruption and impunity in some government forces, as well as the tolerance of torture. This is merely one case of many that have been documented in which the local police participated in forced disappearances, as federal cops and soldiers stood by and tolerated it, and confessions were elicited by torture (Grupo Interdisciplinario de Expertos Independientes 2016). As a result, human rights violations by state forces have been a main subject of debate between the Mexican federal government and various international organizations (Human Rights Watch 2013; Open Society 2016). As noted, to a large extent, drug violence in Mexico has been made possible by informal networks of government protection for drug cartels (Astorga 2005, Snyder and Durán-​Martínez 2009). From informing criminal organizations about police and military operations to derailing investigations to avoid criminal punishment, corrupt national and local government authorities have been crucial for the survival and expansion of organized crime. Therefore, unlike in some civil wars, where militant actors and state forces are visibly separate entities in confrontation with each other, in criminal wars, they are often deeply intertwined and sometimes inseparable. This is a crucial characteristic that we must consider when examining the challenges and options that nonstate actors face or ponder when adopting civil strategies to resist and transform the violence.

 



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6.3.  Doing Business amid Criminal Violence To understand the actions of company executives in response to crime, we must first examine what it means to do business in the midst of criminal violence. Considering the mounting challenges that businesspeople face in Mexico, the National Institute of Statistics and Geography (INEGI) developed the first large-​scale survey on the victimization of the Mexican private sector, the National Business Victimization Survey (Encuesta Nacional de Victimización a Empresas, or ENVE).2 The survey has been conducted biannually since 2012. We present some of the survey’s main findings and complement them with further qualitative information from various sources.

6.3.1.  Main Challenges and Victimization Experiences in the Mexican Private Sector According to the ENVE, between 2011 and 2015, approximately one-​third of the firms in Mexico were victims of at least one crime (Encuesta Nacional de Victimización a Empresas 2012, 2014, 2016). The crimes are varied and range from shoplifting and fraud to robbery and extortion. From the list of crimes the ENVE asks about, extortion comes closest to the kind of organized crime-​ related violence we are interested in.3 As was already noted, the deployment of thousands of army troops to the country’s most conflictive areas between 2007 and 2012 had the unintended consequence of increasing the levels of intercartel violence, and it pushed criminal groups to finance their wars by expanding their grip and entering new illicit markets, including extortion and kidnapping for ransom. Criminal organizations demanded that local businesses and industries pay “protection fees” if they wanted to continue operating and avoid being attacked by these same criminal organizations. This increase in victimization through extortion is further evidenced by the ENVE. From 2011 to 2015, extortion was one of the three most frequent crimes against Mexican companies. According to the survey, throughout this period, one of every six enterprises was extorted by criminal groups demanding money in exchange for protection. One of the biggest challenges in resolving this type of crime is that 90 percent of extortion cases go unreported. Companies are reluctant to report for several reasons: They may fear being further extorted during the process; they may distrust the authorities; they may think it would be a waste of time; or they may have had previous bad experiences after reporting crime. Micro, small, and medium enterprises—​from tortilla stores to restaurants and pharmacies—​are the most affected by extortion, particularly in the states facing the highest levels of criminal activity (Guerrero, the State of Mexico, and

 

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Tamaulipas, as reported in ENVE 2014).4 Beginning in 2008, some businesses that did not pay extortion fees were set on fire. This has been a widespread strategy among criminal organizations, mainly to force businesspeople to pay protection fees and to send a message to others to do the same. Between 2008 and 2015, the press documented at least 230 fires against businesses (Guazo 2015). In other cases, business owners and their employees were murdered in retaliation for not paying the corresponding fee (Salgado 2016). Given the resulting widespread fear and mounting pressures from organized crime to pay higher quotas, small businesses often simply close and leave ( Juárez 2016b). Transnational corporations have also been targets of arson attacks, though to a lesser extent. Among the most notorious of these incidents was that of the potato-​chip company Sabritas, a subsidiary of PepsiCo, whose forty trucks and five warehouses in the states of Guanajuato and Michoacán were torched in May 2012. The Knights Templar organized crime group, which carried out the attacks, argued that they were meant to punish the company for providing a cover for government agents and serving as a launching point for intelligence work against the organization. Sabritas claimed, however, that they were acts of retaliation after the company had refused to pay the extortion fees (Stone 2012). These events made national news again in April 2016, when Sabritas’s trucks, along with the trucks of other food companies, were set on fire again in the state of Michoacán (García 2016). The Sabritas case indicates that large and transnational corporations, though they experience lower victimization rates, are not exempt from falling victim to extortion by organized crime groups. Similarly, the mining sector has been a particularly attractive target to extortionists. In the state of Guerrero alone, organized crime groups collect US $100,000 monthly in extortion fees from the mining industry ( Jiménez 2015). However, the mining industry has not limited its response to simply paying the quotas. The Canadian company McEwen Mining admitted that it has coordinated its activities with the cartels: “If we want to go explore somewhere you ask [the cartels] and they tell you, ‘No’. But then they’ll say ‘Come back’, in a couple of weeks; ‘We’ve finished what we were doing’ ” (Lohmuller 2015). The president of the Mexican Association of Mining, Metallurgical, and Geological Engineers confirmed that other mining companies in the country do the same type of negotiations with organized crime groups, along with paying extortion fees (Villanueva and Gómez 2013). Like extortion, kidnapping often goes unreported. Victims and their relatives fear retaliation from criminals. Reporting the crime to the authorities frequently puts their negotiations with the kidnappers at risk. A clear example of the underreporting of kidnappings took place in Monterrey, where more than 600 businesspeople were kidnapped in 2008, yet only fifty cases were reported to authorities (Tapia 2008). Businesspeople, who have been main targets of

 



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kipnappers, have mobilized intensely around the issue. In fact, long before the war on drugs, the first anticrime protest events in Mexico were organized in 1997 and 2004 by businesspeople whose children had been kidnapped (López Leyva 2015; Méndez 2015). The federal government responded to these mobilizations with increases in the national security budget and harsher prison sentences. A few years later, in June 2008, Fernando Martí, son of the business executive Alejandro Martí, was kidnapped in Mexico City. On August 1, 2008, Fernando Martí’s body was found in the trunk of an abandoned car. The case outraged citizens across the country—​particularly the middle-​and upper-​ class citizens who were often kidnapping targets—​because the incident occurred just as the federal government was trying to convince the public that its strategy against organized crime was being effective. On August 30, 2008, thousands of citizens, in eighty-​eight cities, took to the streets for the national march “Iluminemos México” [Let’s illuminate Mexico], organized by the Martí family and civil-​society groups. The participants demanded an end to violence, insecurity, and impunity. Alejandro Martí subsequently founded his own nongovernmental organization, Mexico SOS, and has become one of the main activists on the issues of insecurity, judicial reform, and rule of law. He served as one of the five representatives of civil society on the National Public Security Council, through which the federal government proposed and designed security policies.

6.3.2.  Security Measures by the Mexican Private Sector in Reaction to Crime Given the prevalence of crime and the difficulty of reporting it, two-​fifths of companies have implemented some type of physical security measure. Across each of ENVE’s survey waves, a third of businesses that implemented security measures have reported changing or installing locks. Approximately 15 percent have changed doors or windows, as well as set up closed-​circuit security television systems and fences. Also, each year 6 percent of businesses have reported hiring a private security service. This figure may seem relatively low compared with the other types of measures, but the cumulative demand for private security has translated in a considerable increase of private guards in the country as a whole. Between 2005 and 2015, the number of private security companies that registered with the Ministry of Interior—​which allows them to operate in more than one state—​increased from 173 to 1,103 and totaled approximately 70,798 guards (Ángel 2016a, 2016b). There are an additional 3,069 companies registered exclusively at the state level, whose operations are restricted to the state of registration only. This group includes 87,583 guards. Thus the number of

 

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registered private guards had reached approximately 158,381 by 2015, a number larger than that of any other public security corporation at the federal or state levels. These numbers do not consider the thousands of companies that are not officially registered, either in the Ministry of Interior or at the state level, mainly because they often do not meet the required quality control standards. According to a recent study, regulated and unregulated private guards in the aggregate exceed the total number of state and municipal police forces in Mexico (Baranda 2015). Overall, as in many other contexts, the privatization of security tends to further fragment the state’s monopoly on the use of force and multiply the sources of violence (Arteaga 2002; Zamorano and Capron 2013). Gaps in regulation have even led some cartels to create fake private security enterprises that have in turn allowed them to forcefully recruit civilians (Animal Político 2016) and extort migrant communities (Martínez 2015). The proliferation of private security forces thus threatens the state’s capacity to control public spaces and opens the possibility for organized criminal groups to control territory. Ultimately, it limits the state’s ability to carry out the legitimate use of force. Beyond these basic physical security measures, other companies have chosen a different set of strategies to help reduce the possibility of extortion or victimization. For example, between 2014 and 2016, on average, one out of five enterprises surveyed reported canceling investment plans. This number was twice as large in Guerrero and Tamaulipas, two of Mexico’s most violent states. Interestingly, a study by Ashby and Ramos (2013) showed that criminal violence in Mexico deters foreign investment in financial services, commerce, and agriculture but is positively associated with investment in the mining sector and has a null effect on foreign investment in manufacturing. The authors argue that these findings reflect each sector’s differentiated costs, their distinct experiences in coping with difficult regional conditions, and the location constraints across industries. Fiscal concessions may also explain why the so-​called exit option has not prevailed across foreign manufacturing companies. Local governments have tried to attract FDI by exempting companies from paying state taxes and offering to pay for local services. For example, in the state of Nuevo León, Governor Rodrigo Medina granted state property to the Kia Motor Corporation on which to build its plant, as well as twenty years of payroll-​tax exemptions (Campos 2015; Expansión 2016). Kia then moved forward with its investment plans despite the continued violence in the Monterrey metropolitan area. Recently, the Toyota Motor Corporation received similar economic benefits from the government of the state of Guanajuato, where criminal violence has risen rapidly over the past five years (Tamayo 2015).5 This overview of the two main types of illegal activities conducted by organized crime groups against businesses and entrepreneurs—​extortion and

 



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kidnapping—​suggests that even though certain types of businesses and citizens may be more likely to fall victim to these crimes, the private sector as a whole has been significantly affected by the expansion of illegal and violent activity across the country. Companies have responded to this violence in a myriad of ways, from agreeing to pay the protection fees without complaint to coordinating with the cartels, closing their businesses, or collaborating with other actors to stand up against the criminals. The latter strategy is closest to what was defined as civil action in c­ hapter 1. Thus, section 6.4 explores the case of Monterrey, a city significantly affected by rising trends of violence, where large-​scale companies were able to undertake civil action as a group. By organizing collectively, they creatively addressed some of the city’s most immediate security needs.

6.4.  Beyond Security Measures: Collective Business Action against Crime in Monterrey Monterrey, an industrial hub located in northeastern Mexico, is considered the business powerhouse of the country. It is the most populous municipality and the one with the largest economy in the state of Nuevo León. In 2012, the metropolitan area of Monterrey had a GDP per capita of US $17,661, accounting for 90 percent of the state’s GDP and forming the third-​largest economy in terms of the country’s metropolitan areas (Banamex 2014). To understand the trends of violence in Monterrey—​and across Mexico—​ we rely on the homicide rate. Compared to other crime statistics, such as those for extortion or kidnapping, the homicide rate is more reliable because it does not depend on citizen reporting but instead on the numbers of death certificates, which must be filled out in order to bury a body. This makes homicides are more visible and detectable by government authorities (Ouimet and Montmagny-​Grenier 2014). As Figure 6.1 shows, violence—​measured through the homicide rate—​ increased abruptly in Monterrey between 2009 and 2011. To a large extent, this was due to ruptures and fragmentation within organized crime groups operating in the city and its metropolitan area (Guerrero 2012). In early 2010, Monterrey’s dominant drug-​trafficking organization, the Gulf Cartel, split into two factions, which had a significant impact on the trends of violence in the area. Between 2010 and 2011, the homicide rate doubled from 30 per 100,000 to 69 per 100,000 population. During the same period, kidnapping was also on the rise, and businesspeople were particularly targeted. In 2011, several company directors and vice presidents were kidnapped by criminal organizations.6 These cases, unlike homicides, frequently went unreported, and negotiations with the kidnappers were often done

 

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Figure 6.1  Intentional homicide rate in Monterrey, 2006–​2015

through the risk management department of each corporation. Therefore “not only were there increasing security costs, but the activities and responsibilities of the risk management and security personnel multiplied.”7 As the head of security of a multinational conglomerate headquartered in Monterrey noted, the situation of insecurity in 2011 was “unparalleled and could not even be compared with what has occurred in terms of violence in Brazil or Russia,”8 where the company also conducts business. By 2012, however, things had begun to change. The homicide rate began to drop, falling to 13 homicides per 100,000 by the end of 2015 (Figure 6.1). According to public opinion surveys, citizens’ perceptions about security consistently improved over the same period. While only 17.4  percent felt safe in their municipality in 2012, this number had nearly doubled, to 30.6 percent by 2015 (Ramos 2015). The ENVE also reported a considerable reduction in the prevalence of victimization of companies in Nuevo León—​most of them located in Monterrey’s metropolitan area—​from 48.7 percent in 2011 to 33.7 percent in 2015. Below, we examine how Monterrey’s private sector reacted to criminal violence and evaluate the extent to which businesses’ civil actions may have shaped the decrease in the city’s violent dynamics. From a methodological point of view, Monterrey stands as a crucial case for the study of civil action by local companies amid criminal violence. The density, vigor, and unity of the private sector in the city allow us to analyze the types of civil actions undertaken by local companies and to assess the importance of the factors conditioning such actions, as well

 



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as their results. For this purpose, we conducted in-​depth interviews with some of the main local businesspeople and civil organization leaders in Monterrey. Interviews took place from January 11 to 15, 2016. We talked with six heads of security and risk management at major corporations, two leaders of civil-​ society organizations, two heads of chambers of business and commerce, and one public official. The diversity of our sources allows us to address and mitigate concerns about recall bias and misrepresentation or any exaggeration of the role of the business sector’s civil actions. However, it is important to also note that we collected additional statistics and consulted several secondary sources to further assess the claims made during our interviews, as well as provide a more objective evaluation of the outcomes of the different civil actions presented here. For security reasons, we omit the names of our interviewees and only refer to their general job descriptions or business profiles. Overall, we find that the surge in criminal violence precipitated an active and mostly civil response by business leaders and local civil-​society groups in Monterrey. The first and more renowned initiative was the creation of an entirely new state police force (Fuerza Civil), the product of the strong collaboration between businesses and parts of the national and state governments. A second initiative consisted of creating an online platform (Centro de Integración Ciudadana, CIC) to encourage crime reporting among citizens. Two additional projects—​a monitoring and evaluation program for mayors (Alcalde ¿cómo vamos?); and a survey on crime perceptions (Pulsómetro)—​were also consequential. Drawing from our interviews and complementary secondary sources, we provide an analysis of each of the initiatives and examine their potential impact on violence. Overall, our analysis of the case of Monterrey provides an example of collaboration between businesses and government actors—​as well as collaboration within the private sector itself—​in undertaking civil actions to reduce the epidemic of criminal violence in Monterrey and its neighboring cities.

6.4.1.  Fuerza Civil: Designing a New Police Force to  Confront Organized Crime The top priority of the main businesses in Monterrey was to reform the state police. Organized crime groups had deeply infiltrated the state and local police forces. In 2011, more than 4,000 police were fired or jailed after failing lie-​ detector tests (Economist 2013)  and more than a hundred municipal police were arrested by the military (Salazar 2012). As a risk management chief put it, “The root of all the violence was police corruption and we realized we needed to create something new. The police were simply unreliable; they were working for organized crime instead of protecting civilians.”9 Consistently, citizen trust in

 

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the local police was extremely low. In 2011, the National Victimization Survey (Encuesta Nacional de Victimización y Percepción sobre Inseguridad Pública, ENVIPE) indicated that municipal police forces in the state of Nuevo León were trusted less than any other authority—​70 percent of the interviewees reported low to no confidence in the local police. Citizens had somewhat more trust in the state police—​55 percent reported little to no confidence in them. The private sector was convinced that to reduce the high levels of violence, it had to start with the police. In late 2010, the business elites in the metropolitan area of Monterrey became coparticipants in the design, implementation, and initial oversight of a new state police force, called Fuerza Civil (Civil Force). Together with supporters in the state and national governments, the business elites created the Alliance for Security. Large-​scale business corporations, known locally as the Group of 1010—​including Alfa,11 Femsa,12 Cemex,13 and Axtel14—​provided both financial and technical resources to spearhead the initiative. The business members of the Alliance for Security sponsored forums with the world’s leading security experts to help them envision what the new police force should look like. In addition, the human resources departments of the group’s corporations advised and assisted the national recruitment strategy to hire members for the new state police force, which largely consisted of people from outside Nuevo León who were new to law enforcement. One of our interviewees noted that “the best part of the state police force was that they were all from out of state,” suggesting that those who were from the state were plagued with corruption. Together with the state government led by Governor Medina, leaders from the main corporations in Monterrey carefully designed a marketing and branding strategy that would portray the new state police force as an attractive employment opportunity. The new force would (a) be more selective and meritocratic and offer more extensive training—​to take place in a brand new university specifically built for the state police, the University of Security Sciences; (b) have access to new technology; (c) be paid higher wages—​twice what the regular police forces earned; and (d) offer employees and their families a comprehensive health and education package—​benefits unavailable to workers in other state-​level corporations. These features were intended to eliminate possible sources of police corruption and defection to organized crime. One of the challenges was to focus on the quality over the quantity of members. According to a public official who was behind the creation of Fuerza Civil, “Politicians always want to see numbers, but the private sector helped convince government officials that longer training and ongoing certification renovations were crucial.”15 Fuerza Civil’s training program increased in length from three months to six months, and members of the force were required to renew their certification at the university every two years. Although

 



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this extended training program was needed and desirable, it was challenging, and many of the recruits were not willing to be away from their families for that length of time.16 Consequently, “Fuerza Civil quickly became the police force with the highest dropout rates, more so than the federal police.”17 Nonetheless, Fuerza Civil eventually expanded. Starting with 1,483 police members in 2011, Fuerza Civil grew to more than 7,500 members by the end of 2013, more than five times its original size.18 The dialogue and collaboration between Monterrey’s business elites and public authorities were not entirely seamless, but the business coalition used creative tactics to overcome the political obstacles to state police reform. At the state level, Governor Medina initially did not want the private sector involved in the reform. However, once Nuevo León’s top business executives urged President Calderón to intervene, Medina was persuaded and allowed them to participate.19 Connections between business executives and the national government were thus critical in facilitating dialogue and cooperation between the private sector and the state government. One key question was who would take credit for the new force. Even though the top corporations contributed significant resources to its creation—​both in terms of funding and in establishing public legitimacy—​they agreed to refrain from advertising their involvement in the media. This was critical in avoiding friction with the state government, and according to our interviews, a key factor in the smooth rollout of Fuerza Civil. As the risk management head of a multinational corporation in Monterrey put it, “We gulped down our pride when the government took all the credit [for the policy’s success] in order to provide continuity to Fuerza Civil.”20 Still, tensions between the business elites and the state government continued. At one point after Fuerza Civil had begun its operations, the state government “attempted to change its name despite all the millions [of pesos] that had been invested in the marketing studies that proved this was the most effective brand name.”21 When the governor raised the state’s payroll tax from 2 percent to 3 percent to help expand Fuerza Civil, the partnership with business was further strained.22 These stresses accumulated, and eventually, the involvement of the business corporations in the Alliance for Security came to an end. The federal government established a close, collaborative relationship with Monterrey’s private sector nonetheless. The federal government shared key security information with the heads of risk management of the companies that had participated in the Alliance for Security. In fact, one of the risk management directors recalled directly consulting with General Cuauhtémoc Antúnez—​ commander of the 7th Military Region based in Nuevo León—​about the company’s transportation routes and to share information about security threats or concerns.23 The federal government also provided Fuerza Civil with specialized training in intelligence and crime analysis at no cost to the state government

 

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0

Homicide rate per 100,000 20 40 60

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and coordinated with the new state police force in the detention of drug lords operating in Monterrey’s metropolitan area (Ramírez and Ruiz 2016). As can be seen in Figure 6.2 below, the metropolitan area of Monterrey—​ covered by the new state police force—​saw a steep fall in violence trends (measured by the homicide rate) after 2011, when Fuerza Civil was launched and deployed throughout the nine municipalities that make up this region. It is not entirely clear how instrumental Fuerza Civil was in bringing about this reduction because the municipalities surrounding the metropolitan area also experienced declines in violence. However, Fuerza Civil’s efforts to dismantle criminal organizations in the metropolitan area may have contributed to reducing organized crime activity beyond those nine municipalities. Demonstrating Fuerza Civil’s effect on violence requires more detailed information regarding its deployment and strategies within each municipality. Unfortunately, the security situation makes gathering that data impossible, because the federal and state governments do not release such sensitive information to the public. The degree to which Fuerza Civil’s actions are civil is complicated by its human rights record. This has become a major concern among civil-​society leaders in Nuevo León.24 Between 2013 and 2015, the number of complaints against Fuerza Civil documented by the State Human Rights Commission of Nuevo León increased from 25 to 43 (Comisión Estatal de Derechos Humanos de Nuevo León 2013, 2014, 2015). Once the commission receives a complaint, it evaluates the case and issues a recommendation to the authorities it considers responsible. The number of recommendations Nuevo León’s Human Rights

2006

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Monterrey Metropolitan Area Fuerza Civil begins operations

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Rest of Nuevo León

Source: INEGI, Homicide Statistics

Figure 6.2  Intentional homicide rates in the state of Nuevo León, 2006–​2015

 



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Commission issued for Fuerza Civil increased from 21 in 2013 to 35 in 2015.25 Meanwhile, the number of recommendations filed against municipal police forces across the state remained relatively stable, between 22 and 25 during the same period (Comisión Estatal de Derechos Humanos de Nuevo León 2013, 2014, 2015). At the local level, Fuerza Civil stood as the police force with the highest number of human rights violations during our study period.26 Survey data—​collected as part of the private sector’s efforts to evaluate the situation of insecurity in the region (see section 6.4.3)—​suggests that citizen perceptions of Fuerza Civil follow the trends previously described. In 2012, after its first year in operation, close to 20  percent of the Monterrey metropolitan area’s citizens expressed having “a lot” of trust in the new state police force (Ayala 2012). The level of trust increased as violence in the region dropped in 2013, with 30  percent expressing “a lot” of trust in Fuerza Civil (Rodríguez 2013). The increase is important because it was the first time citizens had expressed higher levels of trust in the state police force than in federal police —​for which 25.8 percent of citizens expressed a lot of trust. Throughout these years, trust in the municipal police remained low, as barely 10 percent of citizens expressed “a lot” of trust. However, as the reduction in violence became less steep and human rights violations by Fuerza Civil grew, citizen trust in this police force diminished. By 2015, only 21.3 percent expressed having a lot of trust in Fuerza Civil (Lara 2015). Regardless of the shifting perceptions among citizens and the link between violence reduction and human rights complaints, other Mexican states considered Fuerza Civil to be so effective that they followed suit (Zamudio 2014; Guardiola 2015). While this highlights the importance of business-​government efforts for the generation and implementation of security policies, the public-​private partnership that characterized the creation of Fuerza Civil in Monterrey has not been replicated elsewhere in Mexico.

6.4.2.  Center for Citizen Integration: An Innovative Societal Accountability Mechanism amid Criminal Violence As in the rest of the country, 90 percent of crimes in Nuevo León are not reported to public authorities (Encuesta Nacional de Victimización y Percepción sobre Seguridad Pública 2011). The lack of reliable information on the prevalence of crime makes it harder to prosecute it and, at the same time, easier for public authorities to minimize it, particularly regarding kidnapping and extortion crimes.27 As part of the relationship between business elites and the state government through the Alliance for Security, and as it was beginning to plan Fuerza Civil,

 

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the state attorney set up an office in one of Monterrey’s chambers of commerce to facilitate the crime-​reporting procedure.28 However, this channel had limited effect because it was only accessible to select businesses (those that were members of the chamber), and not to all citizens. Nonetheless, in 2011, Cemex—​ the multinational cement company headquartered in Monterrey—​created a platform that specifically addressed citizens’ worries about reporting crimes to state authorities. The online platform, called the Center for Citizen Integration (Centro de Integración Ciudadana, CIC), not only guarantees citizens reporting a crime complete anonymity; it also offers on-​site legal and psychological counseling throughout the reporting process. With more than 150,000 reports29 filed via email, text message, Facebook, and even WhatsApp,30the CIC is both data-​driven and user-​friendly, offering geotagging technology that zeroes in on the location of each crime report. Each report is validated and verified by CIC staff before it is made public and the appropriate authorities are contacted. Out of the 6,343 security-​related reports submitted on the platform to June 2016, 6,180 have been resolved. Given the CIC’s close relationship with Fuerza Civil, when citizens report a sensitive security issue, such as a kidnapping, disappearance, or extortion, the center has been able to bring the police into its office to work on specific cases and file official reports. In these cases, the CIC provides full legal and psychological counsel to the victims. It is important to note that the security-​related reports represent a small portion of the vast array of issues submitted to the CIC. Most of the reports relate to traffic issues instead (60%). However, according to CIC managers, the fact that even this type of reporting receives the government’s attention has helped the center gain the public’s trust and contributed to the reporting of security-​related issues. The CIC’s high number of users (over 121,000) and its state-​of-​the-​art geotagging technology have enabled a continuous exchange of information between the CIC and government authorities. As a result, the center set up collaboration agreements with the nine municipalities that make up Monterrey’s metropolitan area and even expanded to other cities outside Nuevo León, such as Saltillo (capital of Coahuila) and Puebla (capital of Puebla). Through these agreements, the CIC grants local authorities access to its platform to keep them up-​to-​date with the latest information on the submitted reports. The CIC then works together with authorities to attend and resolve pending reports. While the CIC continues to be mainly funded by Cemex, it also receives monetary contributions from other local, national, and even international enterprises. The CIC represents an innovative societal accountability mechanism31 that was created to increase the low incidence of reporting crime to the authorities by facilitating the exchange of information between the government and its

 



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constituents. The platform offers a new public space for reporting, applied in the context of digitalization and the surge of social media. Its expanded use by citizens and government authorities alike signals that the platform is now a trusted source of crime reporting, and provides insight into the mechanisms that encourage higher levels of reporting. Creating this platform is a particularly valuable effort in a context in which public authorities are likely to collude with organized crime and a limited scope of action is available for citizens to confront violence. The case of CIC, therefore, opens an opportunity to begin a new and needed discussion on the ways in which future civil action can take place in the face of new social media; it can help us analyze the implications of such digitalized resources for the potential of civil action and its effects on violence.

6.4.3.  Other Business Initiatives in Monterrey Business elites in Monterrey have been particularly concerned about societal accountability. They have sought mechanisms to expose governmental wrongdoing, bring new issues onto the public agenda, and activate the operation of horizontal agencies with respect to crime and insecurity. To accomplish this, they created two additional initiatives, Alcalde, ¿cómo vamos? (Mayor, how are we doing?) and Pulsómetro de Seguridad (Metropolitan Security Pulse), a survey instrument. Both actions were particularly focused in facilitating information and explicitly naming and shaming authorities that failed to address specific security policy goals. Alcalde, ¿cómo vamos? began, in May 2012, to act as an accountability mechanism for mayors in the metropolitan area of Monterrey, as well as to bring civil society’s demands, such as security, to the table. The program is led by the umbrella organization Consejo Cívico (Civic Council), which groups more than sixty organizations from business, academia, and neighborhood associations. The platform gathers all nine participating mayors at the start of their terms, when they pledge to embrace ten goals, which span from security and governance to human development and accountability. Each municipality’s progress is graded quarterly. The data are available to the public. The Alcalde, ¿cómo vamos? platform has worked to keep the mayors in check. Every three months, they must attend a mandatory meeting at which their grades on each of the ten goals are disclosed. The grades are then released to the public. Security goals for the 2012–​2015 term at the local level were (a) the regeneration, dignification, and hiring of police forces, and (b) the development of public spaces to repair society’s broken social fabric. Security goals during the 2015–​2018 term focused on the consolidation and professionalization of the local and state police. Specifically, the platform

 

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evaluated the percentage of members of each police force who had passed the confidence tests and been certified by the University of Security Sciences.32 It also incorporated measures of police density and continuous training programs. These initiatives were met with some resistance. In December 2015, the nine mayors who presided over the metropolitan area of Monterrey were reported to have boycotted the meeting (Frutos 2015). Their absence was met with a call from civil society urging the mayors to attend the next meeting, which they did, signaling that the program is in fact a mechanism of social pressure, accountability, and increased transparency. The Pulsómetro de Seguridad, or Metropolitan Security Pulse, survey was created by a private university, the Monterrey Institute of Technology, and backed by large-​scale business executives in the city. The purpose of the survey is to provide a snapshot of the perception of security among the citizens of the metropolitan area of Monterrey and their levels of trust in government institutions at the local, state, and federal levels. The survey is intended to indicate the effectiveness of public policies related to security.33 In fact, Consejo Cívico has used the survey as an instrument to set goals for municipal administrations. Municipal governments also use the survey’s results as a tool to support their progress in the fight against crime and insecurity.

6.4.4.  Factors Conditioning Local Companies’ Civil Actions in Monterrey The close relationship between large-​scale corporations and government was generated in the face of high levels of criminal violence in Monterrey has been unparalleled compared with other areas of the country. Large corporations in Monterrey looked beyond their concerns about their own companies and strove to provide a collective good for society. Instead of simply hiring more private security guards, they used their economic power to lobby government authorities and then collaborated with them to undertake civil action. They offered both money and technical expertise and helped to recruit and create a new state police force. Monterrey’s business elites helped to strengthen the state’s professional capacity against criminal groups. At times, however, this force has abused the human rights of citizens. As an experiment in civil action, the new police force thus has a mixed record. It appears to have escaped corruption and curbed criminal violence, but its overall respect for human rights continues to be questioned. Through the CIC, Monterrey’s business elites further helped shorten the distance between the government and the public and created new mechanisms for holding public authorities accountable to carry out their responsibilities, the provision of security among them. In this sense, the private sector in Monterrey

 



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also served as an ally of civil society. This is an innovative strategy that should be particularly important in contexts in which the violence results from the collusion between state actors and criminal groups. One may wonder what explains the collaboration of large-​scale companies in Monterrey, as well as between them and the state government. Guzmán (2016) has shown that Monterrey’s business elites have a long history of collaboration that can be traced back to the early twentieth century. Many of the members of Monterrey’s private sector are not only descendants of prominent business families from the Porfiriato era (1876–​1910); they are also the products of generations of intermarriage. Moreover, these families participated in joint economic ventures throughout the twentieth century and have a history of collaboration extending beyond their business projects, into areas of government, education, and civil society (Cerutti 1992, 2015, 2016). For example, the Monterrey Institute of Technology, one of the country’s leading universities and an important actor in Monterrey’s civil society, was the product of a joint venture among the city’s business elites in 1943. As Guzmán (2016) has argued, the structural cohesion of Monterrey’s business elite through strong personal connections, shared economic interests, and a long history of collaboration has most likely facilitated the capacity for collective action, by multiplying communication channels and strengthening trust among themselves. Overall, the high quality, strength, and long history of business networks catalyzed the collective action of the Monterrey business community and proved useful for persuading the local and state governments to become co-​creators of security policies. It is also important to note that at different points—​as noted by the different programs led by the business sector in Monterrey such as CIC, Alcalde, ¿cómo vamos? and Pulsómetro—​local companies coordinated not only with government authorities but also with a variety of civil-​society actors in academia and nongovernmental organizations. Coalitions made up of such diverse groups further strengthened the power and influence of civil actions intended to encourage the reporting of violence, facilitate the exchange of such information, and hold government officials accountable.

6.4.5.  Other Civil Actions in Nuevo León Other, nonbusiness actors in Nuevo León have also worked to manage violence and hold government authorities accountable. Although their actions are not coordinated with business efforts, civil action by victims, victim’s groups, and human rights NGOs have complemented business efforts to control violence. Protest marches have been a prominent civilian collective-​action strategy in Mexico. These have been mainly led by victims and their relatives, initially

 

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brought together by the Movement for Peace with Justice and Dignity. During the 2006 to 2012 period, more than a thousand protest events against crime and insecurity were organized across Mexico’s states (Ley 2014). Nuevo León experienced sixty-​six of these protests; the state had the third largest number of citizen mobilization efforts (Ley 2014).34 The main goal of these events was to demand the resolution of specific cases of victimization, as well as changes in security policies ranging from militarization to judicial reform. By providing information on civilian victimization—​initially minimized by the federal government—​as well as about corrupt public officials who were colluding with organized crime, protests have become a form of civilian resistance (Ley 2014). They have been crucial in changing the Mexican government’s approach to the issue of violence and in pressing it to acknowledge civilian victimization (Villagrán 2013). Those who participate in these protests often face many risks. Criminal groups feel threatened by calls for stronger state reactions to crime or demands to reform the judicial or political systems. Similarly, complicit state actors worry that mobilizing to oppose and control violence will expose the corruption and impunity in the justice system. Protesting against crime and insecurity thus entails a double threat: retaliations from criminal groups and reprisals from corrupted or co-​opted state authorities. As recently as 2011, nine political activists protesting insecurity were killed in Mexico. Moreover, the collusion between local authorities and organized crime reduces the chances that the protesters will succeed. The data on protests against crime collected by Ley (2014) reveals that human rights groups have been the main organizing force behind these mobilization efforts in Nuevo León. Human rights groups organized thirty-​seven of the sixty-​six protests against criminal violence that occurred in the state between 2006 and 2012 period. None of these protest events were developed in coordination or collaboration with Nuevo León’s business sector. In fact, as a head of risk management at a leading company in Monterrey, noted, part of the agreement reached with Governor Medina in the joint Fuerza Civil project was that the participating business executives would not call or join marches for peace because it would be interpreted as a criticism of the Medina administration and put their relationship at risk.35 Beyond marches and demonstrations, human rights organizations have been essential in fighting for victims’ legal assistance and defense, and have also greatly contributed to the process of societal accountability in the state. They have created opportunities for victims to come together and speak about their experiences in relatively safe environments. This process has increased victims’ political engagement, which has been fundamental in shifting government and

 



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media attention—​both national and international—​to civilian victimization. Human rights groups have also served as mediators between victims and government authorities. Among local human rights organizations, Ciudadanos en Apoyo a los Derechos Humanos (Citizens Supporting Human Rights) stands out, not only in Nuevo León, but in Mexico in general. Led by Sister Consuelo Morales, this group, in 2011, established an innovative methodology that allowed victims of crime to collaborate with the state government in the investigation and resolution of their cases (Gallagher 2017). The NGO holds bimonthly collaborative meetings with the state prosecutor’s office at which state investigators review cases and allow the victims and their relatives to guide them on a variety of administrative tasks they consider necessary to the investigation—​such as requesting surveillance videos or cellphone records, as well as sending letters to hospital and prisons to potentially identify victims among patients or inmates. As Gallagher (2017) noted, “These working groups virtually guaranteed that each case the NGO brought was, at the very least, opened, escaping the fate of the majority of cases [of disappearances] in Mexico: never having any signs of being looked at after being reported” (1680).

6.5.  Comparing Local Companies’ Collective Action in Mexico The collective action capacity of businesses in Monterrey—​particularly their leadership and the type of actions they organized in response to growing criminal violence—​is unique in Mexico. At the peak of violence, company executives in Ciudad Juárez were active in creating new security policies that helped curb violence in the city, but they did not have the same leading role the business sector in Monterrey did. In Juárez, unlike in Monterrey, businesses did work in coordination with a broader group of civil-​society actors. Another contrasting experience is that of Acapulco—​Mexico’s second largest national tourist destination, after Mexico City (Reforma 2016a) and second most violent city in the world (Yagoub 2016)—​w here collective action among businesses has not materialized. The port’s business elites are highly fragmented and their actions they have focused on individual self-​ protection rather than on any collective concern about controlling crime and holding authorities accountable. We now summarize the role of businesspeople in these two cities as a way to provide brief points of comparison that can help produce a better understanding of the organizational capacity and impact of Monterrey’s private sector on violence.

 

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6.5.1.  Ciudad Juárez: Coordinated Business Elites beyond the Private Sector In 2009, more than 2,200 homicides associated with organized crime made Ciudad Juárez Mexico’s most violent city. Faced with escalating violence and an increasingly negative public image, President Calderón launched a multimillion-​ dollar federal program to combat and prevent crime and violence in Juárez, known as Todos Somos Juárez (We are all Juárez). The program involved the three levels of government and the active participation of both civil society and the commercial sector. This new strategy brought diverse civil-​society groups together in a security task force, or mesa de seguridad, which, among other things, guided security policy; strengthened the attorney general’s office staff by demanding additional investigative police; and collected, reviewed, and tracked the indicators of crime. In the task force, bar associations, business chambers, and maquiladora associations worked hand in hand with the state’s human rights commission, unions, and academics (Conger 2014). The business elites in Ciudad Juárez did not play a leading role, as they had in Monterrey, and the private sector in Juárez collaborated not only with the government, but also with a broader set of civil-​society actors that actively participated in brainstorming and implementing security-​related policies. Besides the security task force, other working groups also undertook civil action to address crime-​related issues. For example, university professors trained public servants and local police forces in data collection and crime-​ scene preservation (Ramírez and Ruiz 2016). An education and social-​ development task force led campaigns to lengthen the school day in sixty elementary schools in high-​risk neighborhoods, improve parks and public spaces, and build community centers—​all efforts aimed at keeping youth away from crime. They also promoted and stimulated investment and employment. Together, those collaborating in Todos Somos Juárez were able to lower the incidence of crime. Homicides decreased from 3,766 in 2010 to 850 in 2012 to 256 in 2015.36 More than 30,000 corporations in the state of Chihuahua have also come together in a nonprofit, nonpartisan, independent and autonomous grant-​making foundation, Fechac (Fundación del Empresariado Chihuahuense). Among other activities, the foundation funds crime-​prevention programs for communities in need. For example, the program “Expanding Children’s Development” seeks to prevent children between the ages of 10 and 16 years from becoming involved in criminal activities by lengthening the school day in elementary and secondary schools and organizing summer camps.37 The civil action in Chihuahua is thus broader than in Monterrey, where the coordination is only between the business

 



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and government elites, and it includes crime-​prevention programs, which have not been the focus of business elites in the Monterrey area.

6.5.2.  Acapulco: Atomized Business Elites As in Monterrey, violence increased dramatically in Acapulco as a result of the fragmentation of drug cartels in 2010. Open shootouts between the police and drug gangs have taken place in the middle of the port’s main tourist avenue (Guerrero 2016). More than 300 small and medium-​sized bars and restaurants shut down their operations in Acapulco because of the growing violence, and it is estimated that more than 1,200 people were left unemployed as a result ( Juárez 2016a, 2016b). Unfortunately, reporting crime to the authorities has frequently led to further violence and retaliation. Roger Castro, a restaurant owner, reported that he was being extorted to operate his business. The next day, an armed group killed him in his own restaurant (Reforma 2016b). The businesspeople in Acapulco, unlike in those in Monterrey, have not responded collectively to this violence. Instead, divisions have arisen across the tourism industries and between local and foreign enterprises, as well as between business leaders. The tensions have made it increasingly hard to generate coherent strategies to contain crime or hold local authorities accountable, as happened in Monterrey. In response to the violence, the port’s nightclub industry, in 2010, attempted to “unify Acapulco’s nightlife by taking turns and providing a specific location where all tourists could party each night with guaranteed security.”38 But the hotel owners did not share this information with their clientele, and instead took advantage of the violence to create their own nightclubs inside their hotels. This generated division within the tourism business elites in Acapulco. Tensions have also arisen between local and large foreign businesses. International hotels are relatively less targeted by organized crime and have not directly suffered the consequences of violence. From a cost-​benefit perspective, then, there have been few incentives for foreign hoteliers to generate or become involved in business initiatives against crime and insecurity.39 This has further distanced hoteliers, because many local hotel owners and managers are suspicious of their international counterparts. According to one of Acapulco’s main business leaders, “International luxury hotels are exempt from paying taxes and receive economic benefits from the state government.”40 Some business leaders in Acapulco have engaged in civil action but followed separate and uncoordinated strategies. Julián Urióstegui, the leader of Guerrero’s industrial chamber (Concamingro), served as the coordinator of the state’s anti-​ kidnapping unit. Javier Morlett, a renowned local businessman, leads a new

 

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organization, Sentimientos del Sur, which, along with other civil-​society groups, seeks to guide security policy. Together with José Gallegos, the leader of another business group (Grupo Aca), Morlett directs the state’s Executive Commission for Attention to Victims. Business leader Jorge Ochoa serves as president of the Citizens Council for Public Security and State Economic Development. The leaders of these multiple efforts, though, rarely interact or collaborate with each other or with those they purportedly represent. In fact, in 2016, the port’s main business organizations signed a petition to remove Ochoa from his position as president of the Citizens’ Council for Public Security because he “does not represent Acapulco’s business community” (Quadratín 2016). In the few instances in which local businesspeople have come together in response to violent events, their actions have not been aimed at reducing crime. Instead of taking a zero-​tolerance stance against the alarming levels of insecurity in their city and organizing collectively to effectively contain criminal violence, business leaders in Acapulco have asked the state government to (a)  exempt them from paying taxes, in exchange for their paying extortion quotas to organized crime ( Juárez 2016a), and (b) give them permission to buy and use guns for their own protection (Marín 2016). The payment of protection quotas is fundamental to the survival of businesses in Acapulco, but this strategy has fed resources into the criminal market and enhanced the power of criminal groups. According to security expert Eduardo Guerrero, criminal organizations in Guerrero have multiplied and the state now ranks second among off Mexico’s states for having the most organized crime groups (Guerrero 2015, 2016).

6.6. Conclusion Mexican businesspeople have responded to the rising criminal violence in varied ways. Investing in physical security measures and hiring private guards have been particularly popular in recent years. However, long before the war on drugs began, mounting protests against crime was one of the private sector’s first collective strategies for confronting violence and demanding security. Although their demands led to changes in security policies, they did not have an impact on actual violence. The protests did, however, open opportunities for business executives to obtain more influence in government and to quietly lobby. Our examination of the role of business executives in Monterrey revealed innovative ways in which the private sector and governments can collaborate with each other, both as allies and as a system of horizontal checks and societal accountability. Given that criminal violence cannot operate without some degree of cooperation from the government, Monterrey’s business elites introduced

 



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new mechanisms to break those linkages. They were interested both in directly helping to reduce the violence and in indirectly affecting the relationships that fed into criminal violence. First, they pushed the state government to purge the state police and then sponsored a new police force that was relatively less prone to being corrupted by organized crime. This coordinated action was undertaken through dialogue and collaboration between businesspeople and national and state government actors. Based on the available information, however, it is difficult to assess the mechanism’s precise effect on violence; but since Fuerza Civil’s inception, violence has indeed decreased in the city’s metropolitan area. The new police force’s human rights record, though, remains questioned. Second, Monterrey’s companies also invested in societal accountability mechanisms that have helped close the gap between citizens and government officials in matters of security. The focus of this second group of civil actions was on the reporting and monitoring of violence through open and accessible processes that facilitated information exchange among actors and, ultimately, helped keep a check on local security policies, as well as on the behavior of local authorities and police forces. A brief examination of the role of businesspeople in other Mexican cities shows that the actions, organizational capacity, and impact of Monterrey’s private sector are quite unique. Although businesses in Ciudad Juárez have played an active role in the generation of civil action to help curb violence in the city, local companies in Juárez have not played a leading role as did those in Monterrey. The coalition undertaking civil action in Ciudad Juárez, though, has been broader (including civil-​society groups) and resulted in a larger array of actions to both prevent crime and fight it. In Acapulco, the private sector remains highly divided; it has failed to implement civil action to dampen crime. These contrasting experiences emphasize the importance of the diversity and breadth of participation for the reduction of violence. This analysis also highlights the importance of a research agenda examining how and why business elites respond differently when faced with very similar violent circumstances. The case of Monterrey suggests that preexisting local ties and organization within the private sector can prove very useful for the deployment of civil action during conflict (Guzmán 2016). Getting a better understanding of these questions will help social scientists and policymakers create or manage the civil action potential that firms and business elites have when faced with criminal violence. From a policy point of view, the case of Monterrey also underscores the importance of police reform for confronting organized crime, whose survival highly depends on corruption among government authorities. Most importantly, the case of Monterrey stresses that successful police reform also requires civil-​society oversight. In this regard, the involvement of the private sector in the creation of more effective security policies need not only be financial. Its

 

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expertise and infrastructure can support the creation of societal accountability mechanisms that help to establish checks on local authorities and assess policy implementation.

Notes 1. We base our analysis on in-​depth interviews with businesspeople and members of local civil-​ society organizations, as well as on news reports and secondary sources. 2. The survey is only representative at the state level. Given the detailed information that the survey gathers on each firm, INEGI protects the microdata associated with each unit. We were therefore unable to conduct a finer statistical analysis with this information. 3. Although kidnapping and terrorist acts are part of the list of crimes the survey asks about, detailed information is provided only for extortion. Given their relatively lower incidence, kidnapping and terrorist acts are grouped under “others.” However, we provide more information about kidnapping in the following paragraphs. 4. The level of criminal activity is measured by the organized-​crime-​related homicide rate. 5. Guanajuato’s homicide rate per 100,000 increased from 7.86 in 2010 to 15.11 in 2015 (Secretariado Ejecutivo del Sistema Nacional de Seguridad Pública 2019). 6. Interview with public security official, Monterrey, January 13, 2016. 7. Interview with head of risk management in multinational corporation, Monterrey, January 11, 2016. 8. Anonymous interviews, Monterrey, January 15, 2016. 9. Interview with head of risk management at a multinational corporation, Monterrey, January 11, 2016. 10. Referring to ten large-​scale corporations that operate in Monterrey (Grupo de los 10). 11. Mexican multinational conglomerate headquartered in Monterrey. 12. Mexican multinational beverage and retail company headquartered in Monterrey. 13. Multinational cement company based in Monterrey. 14. Monterrey-​based national phone company. 15. Interview with public sector official, Monterrey, January 15, 2016. 16. Turnover is still a concern for this police force. In a six-​month period, from July 2015 to January 2016, 574 police elements left the state police force (El Horizonte 2016). 17. Interview with public sector official, Monterrey, January 15, 2016. 18. Still, lower than the 10,000 police initially expected. 19. Anonymous interview. 20. Interview with head of risk management in multinational corporation, Monterrey, January 11, 2016. 21. Interview with civil society leader, Monterrey, January 14, 2016. 22. Interview with public sector official, Monterrey, January 15, 2016 23. Interview with head of risk management in multinational corporation, Monterrey, January 15, 2016. 24. Interview with civil society leader, Monterrey, January 14, 2016. 25. Recommendations over this period mainly refer to the violations of at least three human rights: (a) the right to freedom, as a result of the detention of citizens in an arbitrary fashion; (b) the right to personal integrity, in terms of being treated with dignity when arrested; and (c)  the right to judicial security, which corresponds to the respect and protection of the human rights of the victim. 26. This was also confirmed by a civil society leader interviewed in Monterrey, on January 14, 2016. 27. As noted before, despite lack of citizen reporting, homicide statistics are more reliable because homicides are more traceable by state authorities, and other mechanisms, such as death certificates, are available for their registration. Prosecution and sanction, nevertheless, remain

 



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challenging for the case of homicides, partly due to weakened state capacity when facing hundreds of thousands of homicide cases. 28. Interview with leader of a business chamber, Monterrey, January 13, 2016. 29. As of June 2016. 30. More than 50% of inhabitants of the metropolitan area of Monterrey have access to the internet (Encuesta Nacional sobre Disponibilidad y Uso de Tecnologías de la Información en los Hogares 2015). 31. Societal accountability refers to “nonelectoral, vertical mechanism of control that rests on the actions of multiple array of citizens’ associations, movements, and the media, aimed at exposing governmental wrongdoing, bringing new issues onto the public agenda, or activating the operation of horizontal agencies” (Smulovitz and Peruzzotti 2000). 32. The percentage requirement increases by 5 percentage points every 4 months—​ending with a 100% requirement by the August-​October period in 2018. 33. The Metropolitan Pulse survey was conducted every four months across the nine municipalities that make up the metropolitan area of Monterrey. However, given the apparent improvement in crime levels, the survey is now conducted on a semester basis. It is financed by chambers of business and commerce and civil society organizations. 34. Chihuahua had the highest levels of protest: 224 events (22%) were organized between 2006 and 2012. Citizens in Guerrero organized 97 protests (9.6%) during that period. 35. Interview with head of risk management in a multinational corporation, January 11, 2016. 36. See INEGI Homicide Statistics, https://​www.inegi.org.mx/​sistemas/​olap/​proyectos/​bd/​ continuas/​mortalidad/​defuncioneshom.asp?s=est. 37. For more information, see http://​www.fechac.org/​web/​proyecto.php?p=58. 38. Interview with business leader, Monterrey, January 26, 2016. 39. This was also the case with large transnational corporations in Monterrey, such as Kia, that did not become involved in the creation of civil actions against violence in the city. However, it is important to note that the “Group of 10” that led the efforts behind Fuerza Civil did include multinational conglomerates headquartered in Monterrey. 40. Interview with business leader, Monterrey, January 26, 2016. We were unable to confirm this information through official sources.

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Banamex. 2014. “Indicadores Regionales de Actividad Económica 2014.” Banamex, March. Accessed June 28, 2016. https://​www.banamex.com/​resources/​pdf/​es/​estudios_​finanzas/​ mercados/​publicaciones/​IRAE-​2014-​HD.pdf. Baranda, Antonio. 2015. “Superan a policías guardias privados.” Reforma, October 2, 5. Blancornelas, Jesús. 2002. El Cártel:  Los Arellano Félix, la mafia más poderosa en la historia de América Latina. Mexico City: Debolsillo. Campos, Luciano. 2015. “Revela ‘El Bronco’ contrato ‘ventajoso’ entre Medina y Kia Motors.” Proceso, November 20. Accessed June 28, 2016. http://​www.proceso.com.mx/​421235/​ denuncia-​el-​bronco-​contrato-​ventajoso-​entre-​medina-​y-​kia-​motors. Carreras, Miguel, and Alejandro Trelles. 2012. “Bullets and Votes:  Violence and Electoral Participation in Mexico.” Journal of Politics in Latin America 2: 89–​123. Caudillo, Mónica, and Florencia Torche. 2014. “Exposure to Local Homicides and Early Educational Achievement in Mexico.” Sociology of Education 87 (2): 89–​105. Cerutti, Mario. 1992. Burguesía, Capitales e Industria en el Norte De México: Monterrey y su Ámbito Regional (1850–​1910). Monterrey: Alianza Editorial. Cerutti, Mario. 2015. “Grandes Empresas y Familias Empresariales en México.” In Familias Empresarias y Grandes Empresas Familiares en América Latina y España: Una Visión de Largo Plazo, edited by Paloma Fernández Pérez and Andrea Lluch. Bilbao:  Fundación Banco BilbaoViscaya Argentaria. Cerutti, M. 2016. “El Gran Empresariado de Monterrey (1848–​ 2007).” Working Paper Universidad Autónoma de Nuevo León. Chin, Ko-​lin, and Roy Godson. 2006. “Organized Crime and the Political-​Criminal Nexus in China.” Trends in Organized Crime 9 (3): 5–​44. Comisión Estatal de Derechos Humanos de Nuevo León (CEDHNL). 2013. Informe de Actividades XXI. Accessed January 23, 2017. http://​www.cedhnl.org.mx/​servicio34.html. Comisión Estatal de Derechos Humanos de Nuevo León (CEDHNL). 2014. Informe de Actividades XXII. Accessed January 23, 2017. http://​www.cedhnl.org.mx/​servicio34.html. Comisión Estatal de Derechos Humanos de Nuevo León (CEDHNL). 2015. Informe de Actividades XXIII. Accessed January 23, 2017. http://​www.cedhnl.org.mx/​servicio34.html. Conger, Lucy. 2014. “The Private Sector and Public Security:  The Cases of Ciudad Juárez and Monterrey.” Working Paper Series on Civic Engagement and Public Security in Mexico. Wilson Center, University of San Diego. Economist. 2013. “The New Face of Mexican Policing.” The Economist, June 15. Accessed June 28, 2016. http://​www.economist.com/​news/​americas/​21579457-​public-​private-​effort-​ reduce-​ violence-​mexicos-​wealthiest-​city-​new-​face-​mexican. El Horizonte. 2016. “Fuerza Civil pierde 574 policías en un semestre.” El Horizonte, January 26. Accessed June 28, 2016. http://​elhorizonte.mx/​monterrey/​area-​metropolitana/​620247/​ sufre-​fuerza-​civil-​racha-​de-​deserciones. Encuesta Nacional de Victimización a Empresas. 2012. Instituto Nacional de Estadística y Geografía. Accessed June 24, 2016. http://​www.inegi.org.mx/​est/​contenidos/​proyectos/​ encuestas/​establecimientos/​otras/​enve/​default.aspx. Encuesta Nacional de Victimización a Empresas. 2014. Instituto Nacional de Estadística y Geografía. Accessed June 24, 2016.http://​www.inegi.org.mx/​est/​contenidos/​proyectos/​ encuestas/​establecimientos/​otras/​enve/​default.aspx. Encuesta Nacional de Victimización a Empresas. 2016. Instituto Nacional de Estadística y Geografía. Accessed January 12, 2017. .http://​www.inegi.org.mx/​est/​contenidos/​ proyectos/​encuestas/​establecimientos/​otras/​enve/​default.aspx. Encuesta Nacional de Victimización y Percepción sobre Seguridad Pública. 2011. Instituto Nacional de Estadística y Geografía. Accessed June 24, 2016.http://​www.inegi.org.mx/​est/​ contenidos/​proyectos/​encuestas/​hogares/​regulares/​envipe/​. Encuesta Nacional sobre Disponibilidad y Uso de Tecnologías de la Información en los Hogares. Instituto Nacional de Estadística y Geografía. Accessed June 24, 2016. https://​inegi.org.mx/​ programas/​dutih/​2015/​

 



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Expansión. 2016. “El gobierno de Nuevo León acuerda con Kia la reducción de incentivos en planta.” Expansión, June 8. Accessed June 28, 2016.http://​expansion.mx/​empresas/​ 2016/​06/​08/​el-​gobierno-​de-​nuevo-​leon-​acuerda-​con-​k ia-​la-​reduccion-​de-​incentivos-​ en-​planta. Felbab, Vanda. 2010. Shooting Up:  Counterinsurgency and the War on Drugs. Washington, DC: Brookings Institution Press. Frutos, Melva. 2015. “Desairan ‘Alcalde ¿cómo vamos?’” Reporte Índigo, December 11. Accessed June 28, 2016.http://​www.reporteindigo.com/​reporte/​monterrey/​ desairan-​alcalde-​como-​vamos. Gallagher, Janice. 2017. “The Last Mile Problem: Activists, Advocates, and the Struggle for Justice in Domestic Courts.” Comparative Political Studies 50 (12): 1666–​1698. García, Adán. 2016. “Prevé IP desabasto por narcobloqueos.” Reforma, Nacional, April 4, 4. Grillo, Ioan. 2011. El Narco: Inside Mexico’s criminal insurgency. London: Bloomsbury. Grupo Interdisciplinario de Expertos Independientes. 2016. “Informe Ayotzinapa II. Avances y nuevas conclusiones sobre la investigación, búsqueda y atención a las víctimas.” Grupo Interdisciplinario de Expertos Independientes. April. Accessed June 28, 2016. https://​ www.oas.org/​es/​cidh/​actividades/​giei/​giei-​informeayotzinapa2.pdf Guazo, Daniela. 2015. “Crimen causa incendios para extorsionar.” El Universal, July 12. Accessed June 28, 2016.http://​www.eluniversal.com.mx/​articulo/​periodismo-​de-​datos/​2015/​07/​ 12/​crimen-​causa-​incendios-​para-​extorsionar. Guardiola, Magda. 2015. “Coahuila replicará en 2016 el modelo de Fuerza Civil de Nuevo León.” El Financiero, August 20. Accessed January 23, 2017. http://​www.elfinanciero.com.mx/​ nacional/​coahuila-​replicara-​en-​2016-​el-​modelo-​de-​fuerza-​civil-​de-​nuevo-​leon.html. Guerrero, Eduardo. 2011. “La Raíz de la Violencia.” Nexos, June 1. Guerrero, Eduardo. 2012. “Epidemias de Violencia.” Nexos, June 1. Guerrero, Eduardo. 2015. “¿Bajó la violencia?” Nexos, February 15. Guerrero, Eduardo. 2016. “La inseguridad 2013-​2015.” Nexos, January 1. Guerrero, Jesús. 2016. “Causa balacera alarma en Acapulco.” Reforma, Estados, April 25, 13. Guzmán, Magdalena. 2016. “The Private Sector and Public Security in Mexico: A Network Theory of Business Collective Action in Contexts of Large-​Scale Criminal Violence.” Bachelor of arts thesis. University of Notre Dame. Hagan, Frank E. 1983. “Organized Crime Continuum:  A Further Specification of a New Conceptual Model.” Criminal Justice Review 8: 52–​57. Human Rights Watch. 2013. Mexico’s Disappeared:  The Enduring Cost of a Crisis Ignored. Washington, DC: Human Rights Watch. Jarillo, Brenda, Beatriz Magaloni, Edgar Franco, and Gustavo Robles. 2016. “How the Mexican Drug War Affects Kids and Schools? Evidence on Effects and Mechanisms.” International Journal of Educational Development 51: 135–​146. Jiménez, Benito. 2015. “Pega a las mineras extorsión del narco.” Reforma, Nacional, November 6, 3. Juárez, Alfonso. 2016a. “Piden no tributar para pagar ‘piso.’” Reforma, March 10, 1. Juárez, Alfonso. 2016b. “Cierran restaurantes en Acapulco por crimen.” Reforma, March 29, 1. Kalyvas, Stathis. 2015. “How Civil Wars Help Explain Organized Crime—​and How They Do Not.” Journal of Conflict Resolution 59 (8): 1517–​1540. Lara, Antonio. 2015. “Ciudadanos perciben relajamiento en seguridad.” El Financiero, October 1.  Accessed January 23, 2017. http://​www.elfinanciero.com.mx/​monterrey/​ciudadanos-​ perciben-​relajamiento-​en-​seguridad.html. Ley, Sandra. 2014. “Citizens in Fear: Political Participation and Voting Behavior in the Midst of Violence.” PhD thesis. Duke University. Ley, Sandra. 2017. “Electoral Accountability in the Midst of Criminal Violence: Evidence from Mexico.” Latin American Politics and Society 59 (1): 3–​27. Ley, Sandra. 2018. “To Vote or Not to Vote: How Criminal Violence Shapes Electoral Participation.” Journal of Conflict Resolution 62 (9): 1963–​1990.

 

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Lohmuller, Michael. 2015. “Mining Company Admits to Relationship with Mexico Organized Crime.” InSight Crime, April 13. Accessed June 28, 2016.http://​www.insightcrime.org/​ news-​briefs/​mining-​company-​admits-​relationship-​mexico-​organized-​crime . López Leyva, Miguel. 2015. ““Ya marchamos . . . pero no solucionan el problema”: protesta social y respuestas gubernamentales en torno a la inseguridad.” Perfiles Latinoamericanos 23 (46): 91–​120. Maldonado, Salvador. 2012. Drogas, violencia y militarización en el México rural:  El caso de Michoacán. Revista Mexicana de Sociología 74 (1), 5–​39. Marín, Alfonso. 2016. “Ante la violencia, 100 empresarios capitalinos pidieron permiso para portar armas:  Coparmex.” El Sur, June 27. Accessed January 23, 2016. http://​ suracapulco.mx/​5/​ante-​la-​v iolencia-​100-​empresarios-​capitalinos-​pidieron-​permiso-​para-​ portar-​armas-​coparmex/​. Martínez, César. 2015. “Ligan a seguridad privada con homicidios.” Reforma, December 16. Méndez, Perla. 2015. “La acción colectiva contra la inseguridad:  La participación de las víctimas con origen empresarial.” Master’s thesis. Facultad Latinoamericana de Ciencias Sociales–​México. Open Society Justice Initiative. 2016. Atrocidades Innegables:  Confrontando Crímenes de Lesa Humanidad en México. New York: Open Society Foundation. Ouimet, Marc, and C. Montmagny-​Grenier. 2014. “‘Homicide and Violence—​International and Cross-​National Research’:  The Construct Validity of the Results Generated by the World Homicide Survey.” International Criminal Justice Review 24 (3): 222–​234. Presidencia de la República. 2006. “Presentación del Gabinete de Seguridad.” November 30. Accessed January 7, 2015.http://​calderon.presidencia.gob.mx/​2006/​11/​presentacion-​del-​ gabinete-​de-​seguridad/​. Presidencia de la República. 2012. “Mensaje a la Nación del Presidente de los Estados Unidos Mexicanos.” December 1.  Accessed December 3, 2013.http://​www.presidencia.gob.mx/​ articulos-​prensa/​mensaje-​a-​la-​nacion-​del-​presidente-​de-​los-​estados-​unidos-​mexicanos/​] Quadratín. 2016. “Reprocha sociedad civil a Evodio no respetar acuerdos en seguridad.” Quadratín, January 26. Accessed June 28, 2016.https://​guerrero.quadratin.com.mx/​ Reprocha-​sociedad-​civil-​a-​Evodio-​no-​respetar-​acuerdos-​en-​seguridad/​. Ramírez, Arturo, and Reyes Ruiz. 2016. Security Strategies:  Experiences of the Mexican States of Chihuahua and Nuevo León. Stanford, CA: Hoover Institution Press. Ramos, Mirna. 2015. “Frena entre ciudadanos percepción de seguridad.” El Norte, October 9. Reforma. 2016a. “Son los más visitados en Semana Santa.” Reforma, March 20, Negocios. Reforma. 2016b. “Persisten extorsiones pese a planes de seguridad.” Reforma, Nacional, March 19, 6. Reuter, Peter. 2009. “Systemic Violence in Drug Markets.” Crime, Law and Social Change 52 (3): 275–​284. Robles, Gustavo, Gabriela Calderón, and Beatriz Magaloni. 2013. “Economic Consequences of Drug Trafficking Violence in Mexico.” Working Paper IDB-​WP-​426. Inter-​American Development Bank. Rodríguez, Alberto. 2013. “Sube confianza ciudadana en Fuerza Civil.” El Norte, June 12. Salazar, Patricia. 2012. “Ejército detiene a 106 policías en Monterrey.” El Universal, January 21. Accessed June 28, 2016.http://​archivo.eluniversal.com.mx/​notas/​824278.html. Salgado, Abel. 2016. “Pagan derecho de ‘piso’ al crimen y no los respetan, se quejan en marcha empresarios de tortillerías.” El Sur, January 9.  Accessed June 28, 2016. https://​ en.calameo.com/​books/​00305825430adbeddc13a . Secretariado Ejecutivo del Sistema Nacional de Seguridad Pública. 2019. “Tasas por cada 100 mil habitantes 1997–​2017.” Centro Nacional de Información, April 20. Accessed May 26, 2019. https://​drive.google.com/​file/​d/​1yalSaN1uElVKCDNOMwt_​WvqaGw465374/​view Shirk David, and Joel Wallman. 2015. “Understanding Mexico’s Drug Violence.” Journal of Conflict Resolution 59 (8): 1348–​1376.

 



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Smulovitz, Catalina, and Enrique Peruzzotti. 2000. “Societal Accountability in Latin America.” Journal of Democracy 11 (4): 147–​158. Snyder, Richard, and Angélica Durán-​Martínez. 2009. “Does Illegality Breed Violence? Drug Trafficking and State-​Sponsored Protection Rackets.” Crime, Law and Social Change 52 (3): 253–​273. Stone, Hannah. 2012. “Mexico Drug Gang Claims Pepsi Subsidiary Helped Govt Agents.” InSight Crime, June 1. Accessed June 28, 2016.http://​www.insightcrime.org/​news-​briefs/​ mexico-​drug-​gang-​claims-​pepsi-​sub-​helped-​govt-​agents. Tamayo, Zacarías. 2015. “¿Qué hay detrás del boom automotriz en algunos estados?,” Forbes, December 23. Accessed June 28, 2016. http://​www.forbes.com.mx/​que-​hay-​detras-​del-​ boom-​automotriz-​en-​algunos-​estados/​. Tapia, Jonathan. 2008. “Monterrey, meca del secuestro.” El Universal, December 30. Accessed June 28, 2016.http://​archivo.eluniversal.com.mx/​estados/​70508.html. Trejo, Guillermo, and Sandra Ley. 2016. “Federalism, Drugs, and Violence:  Why Inter-​ governmental Conflict Stimulated Inter-​cartel Violence in Mexico.” Política y Gobierno 23 (1): 9–​52. Trejo, Guillermo, and Sandra Ley. 2018. “Why Did Drug Cartels Go to War in Mexico? Subnational Party Alternation, the Breakdown of Criminal Protection, and the Onset of Large-​Scale Violence.” Comparative Political Studies 51 (7): 900–​937. Trejo, Guillermo, and Sandra Ley. Forthcoming. “High-​Profile Criminal Violence. Why Drug Cartels Murder Government Officials and Party Candidates in Mexico.” British Journal of Political Science. Varese, Federico. 2011. “What Is Organized Crime?” In Organized Crime, edited by F. Varese. London: Routledge. Villagrán, Lauren. 2013. “The Victims’ Movement in Mexico.” Working Paper Series on Civic Engagement and Public Security in Mexico. Woodrow Wilson Center–​Mexico Institute. Villanueva, Mónica, and María Gómez. 2013. “Controla narcotráfico minas en 5 estados.” Vanguardia, August 16. Accessed June 28, 2016. https://​vanguardia.com.mx/​ controlanarcotraficominasen5estados-​1812239.html . WHO (World Health Organization). 2015. Homicides:  Global Health Statistics. Accessed November 6, 2018. http://​apps.who.int/​violence-​info/​homicide/​. Yagoub, Mimi. 2016. “Caracas World’s Most Violent City:  Report.” InSight Crime, January 27. Accessed June 28, 2016.http://​www.insightcrime.org/​news-​briefs/​caracas-​most-​violent-​ city-​in-​the-​world-​2015-​report. Zamorano, Claudia, and Guénola Capron. 2013. “Privatization of Security and the Production of Space in Mexico City: Challenges for Urban Planning.” International Journal of E-​Planning Research 2 (4): 59–​74. Zamudio, Isabel. 2014. “Veracruz estrena Fuerza Civil con 2 mil elementos.” Milenio, October 21. Accessed January 23, 2017. http://​www.milenio.com/​policia/​Veracruz-​estrena-​Fuerza-​ Civil-​elementos_​0_​394760552.html.

 

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Civil Action and the Microdynamics of Violence during the Bosnian War Marie E. Berry*

7.1.  Introduction The war in Bosnia and Herzegovina raged between 1992 and 1995, leaving more than 100,000 Bosnians of all ethnicities dead in its wake. Because the war was characterized by vastly different levels of violence across the country, it presents an important case study in which to explore how civil action can shape the course, severity, and effects of violence. For many Bosnians the war was a shock; as the most multiethnic state in the former Yugoslavia, Bosniaks (Muslims), Croats (Catholics), and Serbs (Orthodox Christians) had historically lived side by side (Bringa 1995; Malcolm 1996).1 When war broke out in neighboring Croatia and, briefly, in Slovenia in 1991, Bosnians took to the streets en masse to protest the nationalist politics that were fueling the conflicts and declare their opposition to Serbian territorial aggression. When the violence extended into Bosnia, a host of different actors—​from local politicians to religious leaders—​ mobilized in an effort to resist the country’s descent into fratricidal bloodshed. Widespread opposition to the war catalyzed various forms of civil action aimed at countering nationalist politics, but once the war was underway, there was often little civilians could do to counter and resist the violence. As such, Bosnia and Herzegovina (hereafter referred to as Bosnia) reveals both the potential and the limitations of civil action during violence. Because the war in Bosnia was characterized by vastly different dynamics in different parts of the country, I focus on three cities in particular: Tuzla, Sarajevo, and Prijedor. These cities roughly reflect low, moderate, and high levels of violence respectively, proportionate to their population size.2 The violence in each city varied because of a range of factors, including Serb military objectives and strategy, geographic proximity to Serbia, the presence of industry or resources, 178

 



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ethnic composition, and local politics. Among these, Serb military strategy ranks at the top for understanding why some parts of Bosnia experienced more violence than others. In what follows, however, I focus on how civil action was another factor that shaped the levels and severity of violence in each case. I  argue that civilians, local political elites, and religious institutions played critical roles in carving out civil spaces in the midst of violence, dampening local levels of violence and, in some cases, contributing to the resolution of the broader conflict. The varied levels of violence across the three cases allow me to unpack the conditions under which such civil action was possible. In Tuzla, a city proud of its multiethnic character, civil action helped reduce local support for violence and shut down radical factions within the city. In besieged Sarajevo, civil action helped carve out spaces of normalcy amid the bloodshed and resist the logic of war; however, these actions had limited impact on the level of violence directed at the city. In Prijedor, a city overtaken by Serb nationalists who unleashed a brutal campaign of ethnic cleansing, civil action was all but impossible as those opposed to the war effort faced direct threats to their lives. Together, these three cases illuminate instances of civil agency during war and both the potential and limitations of civil action to counter armed conflict.

7.2.  Scope of Case and Historical Context In 1991, Slovenia and Croatia declared their independence from Yugoslavia. Within a month, both countries were embroiled in fighting against the well-​ equipped Yugoslav National Army ( Jugoslavenska Narodna Armija, or JNA), which was still controlled by Belgrade (in Serbia, or “Rump Yugoslavia”). Shortly thereafter, the United Nations Security Council adopted Resolution 713, which called for an end to all violence in the former Yugoslavia and commenced an embargo on all weapons imports to the region. In early March 1992, Bosnians voted overwhelmingly in favor of independence—​although Serbs largely boycotted the referendum (Ramet 1999, 205). Immediately after, Alija Izetbegović, the Bosnian Muslim Chairman of the Bosnian Presidency and head of the Muslim-​ based Party for Democratic Action (SDA), declared Bosnian independence from Yugoslavia. In response, Radovan Karadžić, the Bosnian Serb leader and head of the Serb Democratic Party (SDS), ordered barricades to be set up around Sarajevo and began to actively talk of war in an attempt to keep the Serbian portions of Bosnia affiliated with former Yugoslavia (Ramet 1999, 205). In an attempt to appease Belgrade and thwart an active war, Izetbegović authorized the JNA to confiscate all the weaponry held on Bosnian soil by local territorial defense units (Teritorijalna Odbrana, or TOs). This left most of

 

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the country unarmed. Bosnian leaders, religious institutions, and other elites took many steps to avoid war and resolve Serbia’s territorial claims peacefully. However, the Yugoslav leadership in Belgrade, led by Slobodan Milošević, refused to let Bosnia secede. On April 6, 1992, the European Council officially recognized Bosnia’s independence from Yugoslavia. This led Serbian insurgents to begin a coordinated assault on eastern Bosnian territory (Ramet 1999, 206). The insurgents were made up of irregular forces, typically criminal networks and paramilitaries. Also involved was the newly formed Bosnian Serb Army, led by Karadžić, and the JNA.3 The collective goal of the attack was to partition off parts of Bosnia for Serbia. To accomplish this, these forces aimed to remove non-​Serbs—​namely, Bosniaks and Croats—​from the land. They did this by murdering non-​Serbs in the street, raping women, and pillaging in order to terrorize the non-​Serb population into flight. Because Izetbegović had agreed to allow the JNA to confiscate the vast majority of weapons, Serbian forces moved with relative ease to take control of the country. At the beginning of the war, the formal defense on the Bosniak side was limited to the Patriot League, a well-​organized but poorly equipped paramilitary with about 40,000 members that was affiliated with the SDA political party (CIA 2002, 130). As the war progressed, the structure of the Patriot League became the backbone of the newly formed Army of Bosnia and Herzegovina. Beyond the Patriot League, less formal local defense units were scraped together from local police forces and members of TOs. These local defense forces were a result of the bipartite structure of the Yugoslav military, which included the JNA and the “all people’s army” consisting of reservists organized within TOs across the republic. This structure meant that each opština, or municipality, had a list of reservists who had completed their military service in the JNA and were now “on call.” Different war dynamics emerged across the country. The early military assault was directed at towns in eastern Bosnia, such as Bijeljina, Zvornik, Višegrad, and Foča. Eventually, the United Nations Protection Force (UNPROFOR) established “safe zones” in the region. Meanwhile, the JNA surrounded Sarajevo, commencing a siege that would last for more than three years and cut the city off from the world. The JNA also bombed cities, such as Bosanski Brod and Foča (Malcolm 1996, 235). Serb forces set up concentration camps to detain non-​ Serbs, which were concentrated in the northwestern Krajina region. They also attacked Kozarac and other towns, massacring thousands. As the war progressed, alliances shifted. In 1993, an arrangement between Zagreb and Belgrade led Croatia and its Croatian Defense Council (HVO) to ally against the Bosnian Army in attempt to split Bosnia between Serbia and Croatia. Fighting then began between the Bosniak and Croat factions, particularly in the

 



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region of the country around Mostar, as Bosnian Croats began advancing a separatist agenda. In the central and southwest of the country, and in Herzegovina in particular, violence between the Croatian Army–​backed HVO and the hastily formed Bosnian National Army intensified. On top of the varied political dimensions of the war, there was also tremendous variation in access to weapons (see Andreas 2004). According to one report, Serb forces out-​gunned Bosnian government forces by nine to one (Cortright and Lopez 2000, 65, cited in Andreas 2004, 34). The CIA (2002) estimates that the Bosnian government probably had merely between 40,000 and 50,000 small arms and virtually no heavy weapons when the war broke out (143). The Bosnian Serb Army’s superior position owed to both its relationship with the JNA and the proliferation of trafficking networks that had ties to Serbia and beyond. A United Nations Committee of Exports Report from 1994 noted that most of the paramilitaries were sustained through trafficking in weapons, drugs, and people, fueling grey and black economies across the region. These paramilitaries were responsible for some of the most egregious crimes during the war, including abhorrent sexual violence, torture, and murder. As a result of these political and resource dynamics there was tremendous variation in the type, level, and speed of violence across the country—​and therefore in the degree to which actors were able to engage in civil action to counter the bloodshed. In what follows, I examine the war in Tuzla, Sarajevo, and Prijedor (see Figure 7.1) in more depth, highlighting the agency of those committed to civility and how it shaped the course, severity, and effects of the violence.

7.3. Methodology The data for this chapter are from more than 120 interviews I  conducted with local stakeholders—​including local politicians, religious leaders, and women’s activists—​during approximately six months of fieldwork in Bosnia between 2010 and 2016. Though I primarily conducted these interviews during the course of another research project focused on women’s mobilization during and after war (see Berry 2018), I conducted fifteen interviews in 2016 specifically for this case study in order to strategically target key actors within prominent civilian and religious organizations during the war. In addition, I collected and translated articles from local newspapers and institutional newsletters that were published during the war. These publications reflect an important “check” on the recollections of individual interviewees, as they reveal the discourse of various religious or civic organizations during the war period itself. I also draw heavily on the secondary literature, including on CIA documents, UN reports, and testimonies from the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY), to lend texture to the discussion.

 

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Figure 7.1  Map of Bosnia and Herzegovina (Source: Cartographic Section of the United Nations)

7.4. Tuzla Tuzla, today the fourth largest city in Bosnia, is located in the country’s central northeast on the edge of the Podrina region, where the Drina river has historically served as the border between Serbia and Bosnia. Tuzla has long been an industrial city, with salt and coal mines at the center of industry. Notably, Tuzla’s identity since before the war was strongly associated with Titoism and Yugoslavia. It

 



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is often referred to fondly as one of Bosnia’s “red cities” with a strong preference (and nostalgia) for the socialist period. In the 1991 census, Tuzla had a population of approximately 130,000; 47.6 percent of the city’s residents identified as Muslim, 15.4 percent as Serb, and 15.5 percent as Catholics, and 16.7 percent identified more broadly as “Yugoslav.” Tuzla also reportedly had higher than average rates of ethnic intermarriage, and the city was known for its ethnic tolerance and cooperation. Although Tuzla was subjected to a ten-​month siege during the war that deprived residents of food, fuel, and other supplies, it managed to avoid a widespread outbreak of violence. Moreover, the siege was considerably less violent than the siege of Sarajevo, as it was more designed to limit the flow of goods in and out of the city. As such, the city gained international acclaim as the “last bastion of harmony” in Bosnia (Pomfret 1993)  and is widely considered a “successful case” of local residents, corporations, and political elites taking civil action to defuse conflict (Armakolas 2011, 230). Together, these local actors worked to resist pressure from nationalist extremists and present a counternarrative to the dominant war discourse, which emphasized Yugoslav identity and a history of interethnic solidarity. All told, the war claimed around a thousand of the city’s residents; most were killed outside the city itself. Much of the literature on the Bosnian war has treated Tuzla as an exceptional case; however, Armakolas’s work (2007, 2011) has shown that Tuzla’s structural characteristics were not particularly unique. In terms of history, population structure, cultural and ideological factors, industry, and a range of other sociopolitical dynamics, Tuzla is roughly comparable to other urban centers in Bosnia (see Armakolas 2011, 231). It thus serves as a useful and important case through which to examine how civil action can shape the course, trajectory, and level of local violence. In what follows, I illustrate the various actors engaged in civil action and how their activities carved out spaces of normalcy and affected the trajectories of violence in the city.

7.4.1.  Local Political Elites As a result of Tuzla’s multiethnic identity, during the first post-​Socialist era multiparty elections in 1990, it was one of the few cities in Bosnia that avoided having nationalist politicians from extremist parties win seats in the local government. Indeed, Tuzla was the only major city in which leftist political parties were able to form a coalition (Armakolas 2011, 235). This meant that when the war broke out in Croatia, in 1991, Tuzla’s mayor, Selim Bešlagić, and other local political elites were vocal about their opposition to

 

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war and disdain for ethnic politics.4 When the JNA called on Tuzla to mobilize its army reserves to fight in Vukovar, the bloodiest site of violence in Croatia, Bešlagić responded: The Tuzla Municipality will not mobilize its citizens to fight in Croatia. The Yugoslav National Army has allowed itself to be used as an instrument of force in solving political problems. Tuzla is for peace, not for war and Tuzlans will not enter the war on the territories of another republic. They won’t attack anybody . . . Tuzla will not disgrace itself in this way. (Bešlagić 1998, 711) Approximately 800 reservists followed Bešlagić’s lead and tore up their draft cards in front of the municipal assembly.5 By refusing to serve, these residents laid the groundwork for collaboration between local government and civilians aimed at rejecting ethnic closure among different segments of the population. The number of draft refusals in the Tuzla region caused real problems for the JNA, and ultimately, the JNA corps from Tuzla was unable to take part in the military offensive in Croatia because there were not enough reservists to fill out the formation (CIA 2002, 126). As the war spread throughout Bosnia, Bešlagić stuck fast to his philosophy of “unity in diversity,” which he articulated to the citizens of Tuzla through local radio broadcasts on Radio Tuzla, press announcements, and town-​hall meetings. He condemned the Serbian nationalists as fascists, vowing to “fight fascism with anti-​fascism,” and frequently called for a political solution to the conflict (Imamović 1998, 712). When it became clear that Tuzla would soon be targeted by the Serbian offensive, Bešlagić and other local elites negotiated with JNA commanders to keep Tuzla out of harm’s way by emphasizing the city’s history of socialism and unity—​a clear example of political elites using civil action to reduce violence. The result of these negotiations was a plan for the Tuzla-​based JNA forces to withdraw from the city. As the withdrawal began, on May 15, 1992, however, shooting broke out—​to this day, nobody knows with certainty who shot first, why, or how many people died. Most estimates are that at least eighty people died in the ensuing shootout between the local police and JNA troops. This incident swiftly escalated ethnic tensions in the city. Despite this violence and the insecurity that followed, Bešlagić and other elites actively worked to preserve the city’s multiethnic character and commitment to peace. Although nationalist radicals from all sides existed, local political elites like Bešlagić joined with civilians, corporations, NGOs, and religious organizations to present a unified front opposed to the war. This unified front

 



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meant that local nationalists were never able to galvanize sufficient local support to foment violence between different groups, even though this kind of local violence was a defining feature of the war in other cities across Bosnia.

7.4.2.  Civilians and Local NGOs Despite the strong history of interethnic harmony and the dominance of antinationalists in local government, Tuzla did experience an expansion of radical nationalism in the lead-​up to the war. This happened alongside the growing prominence of Bosnia’s nationalist political parties—​SDS, HVO, and SDA—​ across the country. In Tuzla, some media outlets and community associations became closely associated with radical fringes within these political parties, which often provided them material support. These groups took extreme stances that supported the ethnic homogeneity of Tuzla and ethnic separation. Within Tuzla, the strongest radical contingent came from SDA, the Bosnian Muslim side, which put forth a vision of Bosnia as a Muslim state under Islamic law. As a result of rising nationalism and the ongoing threat of war, civilians in Tuzla engaged in critical forms of civil action during the war. Civil action both preserved the city’s multiethnic character and curtailed the influence of the local radicals, which ultimately diminished the level of local violence. Because of Tuzla’s strong socialist tradition, it lacked a history of civic activism that was independent from the state (Armakolas 2011, 248). This meant that many of the early, prewar efforts to counter nationalism were uncoordinated, or were closely associated with different political parties. This changed after 1991, when a group of citizens, led by Vehid Šehić, founded the Tuzla Citizen’s Forum (Foruma Građana Tuzle). The Forum was a citizen-​committee-​turned-​local NGO that rallied the population to protest the war in Croatia and initiated events and meetings in an effort to condemn nationalist politics. The Forum was made “for all citizens of Tuzla city who care for keeping as well as developing of traditional, democratic, urban, cultural and ethic values of the city Tuzla as international—​multinational, inter-​religious civil environment.” The Forum aimed to rally citizens to raise their “voice[s]‌against insanity and fascism and all evil that goes together with this,” referring to the nationalist Serbian aggression during the war.6 Critically, many of the Forum’s earliest champions were prominent local authorities from the former socialist regime, industry, and media. These high-​ profile members lent credibility to the organization’s efforts to counter radicalism. The involvement of local business elites, including the managers of the city’s largest state-​owned industrial and financial firms—​such as Dita, a manufacturer of laundry detergent, and Sodaso Holding, an industrial holding company (Armakolas 2011)—​meant that the economic powerbrokers of the city were

 

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visibly engaged in antiwar efforts. With support from these local elites, membership in the Forum expanded rapidly. By 1993, more than 15,000 residents of Tuzla had joined the Forum as members, signing official membership cards that indicated their commitment to counter nationalist rhetoric.7 The Citizen’s Forum served as a coordinative body for host of different actors—​including citizens, international humanitarian NGOs, regional peace-​ advocacy networks, religious institutions, and local leaders—​to engage in civil action against the war. Members held regular meetings at which they listened to speeches about the importance of staying united in the face of efforts to ethnically cleanse the country. They also issued press statements to the international community, imploring foreign actors to “stop the killing spree perpetrated by Serbian soldiers” (translated, June 23, 1993, press statement). This pressure by the Forum likely helped motivate international actors to join the effort to stop the war, whether through diplomatic channels or through military intervention. The Forum also mobilized different actors to discredit and shut down local extremists. For example, a local newspaper, Zmaj od Bosne, was controlled by Bosniak radicals, including Islamists.8 The paper had a circulation of several thousand at the beginning of the war and, owing to funding from the SDA, was often distributed for free in order to obtain broad readership. It occasionally published propaganda calling for Bosniaks, and Muslims more generally, to pick up arms against their Christian neighbors. It also condemned Bosniaks who were not nationalists. The Forum mobilized its membership to counter the paper’s rhetoric; it issued press statements and wrote to the local prosecutor calling for Zmaj to be shut down, arguing that its writings were in clear violation of the international principles of freedom and human rights (November 17, 1993 Forum document).9 The Forum undertook similar actions against extremism from the Serb side, issuing statements decrying “Chetnik” brutality, hosting interethnic meetings rejecting nationalism, and calling for Tuzla to stand as a symbol of hope that “opens its door to different cultures, religions, and ethnic divisions” (Final statement, November 1994). These efforts successfully reduced the visibility and power of local radical factions. If the Forum was the largest such citizen-​led effort to reduce support for the war, many other civic associations were also involved in both countering radicals and in distributing humanitarian relief. One women’s organization, which was originally formed to organize vacations and sightseeing excursions for its members, became a key source of both information and aid during the war. During 1993, the “hungry year,” when the city was under siege and food was limited, one member described how they “just started doing things that were helpful.” She continued, “When the aid would come, the food, [we] were the one would distribute that.”10 The 200 members of this organization also took charge of bringing food and cigarettes to the Bosnian Army soldiers stationed

 



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near Tuzla, suggesting that civil action can also collaborate with and facilitate violent action. Youth and women’s wings of different political parties played a similar role in humanitarian efforts, which were essential in carving out spaces of normalcy during the war.

7.4.3. Religious Institutions The Catholic Church, Islamic Community, and Orthodox Church were also involved civil action that shaped the course, severity, and effects of violence in Tuzla. Given the city’s strong history of interethnic harmony, the key religious leaders in Tuzla had long celebrated their different traditions. As nationalism swept the region in the 1980s, these religious leaders actively cultivated tolerance by attending major religious holidays together to celebrate their rich interfaith heritage. These meetings continued as the war broke out.11 Several key figures at these religious institutions stand out. According to my interviews and many other reports, it was widely known that the Orthodox Bishop of Tuzla, Vasilije Kačavenda, was a strong supporter of radical Serb extremists during the war. He had a close relationship with both Radovan Karadžić and Ratko Mladić, and there is documentary evidence of him blessing radical Chetnik groups before they stormed Bijelina and committed mass atrocities. He regularly preached extremism and hate from the pulpit and is widely considered one of the key authorities who sanctioned much of the more brutal and bloody forms of violence during the war. For many, Kačavenda’s status within the Orthodox Church’s is evidence of the church’s complicity in escalating the violence.12 The local mufti,13 Mohammed Lugavić, played a very different role. Working closely with his Catholic counterpart Petar Matanović, Lugavić worked tirelessly to challenge nationalist extremism. This extremism, as noted, was not only from the Serbian and Orthodox side. A  radical Islamic movement also emerged in Bosnia at the beginning of the war. Lugavić described members of the Bosnian Army Special Forces coming to his house and insisting that he bless the troops by telling them that they were martyrs who should die for their country. Lugavić refused, stating that he would only bless them with the wish that they should do no harm to others, and that he hoped they could all return to their families.14 This was a dangerous and professionally risky position to take at the time, because this radical movement had links to the SDA, the Bosnian Muslim nationalist political party led by Alija Izetbegovic. This radical Islamic movement was not strictly a domestic movement:  it received considerable financial and ideological support from some Muslim-​ majority countries, especially from those within the Arab world. Perhaps 400

 

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mujahideen foreign fighters (sometimes called El Mudžahid) from North Africa, the Middle East, and elsewhere arrived in Bosnia in the second half of 1992 in order to help the Bosnian Muslims defend themselves. Some of these fighters—​ though not all—​encouraged adherence to an extreme version of Islam. At its most harmless, this Islamic movement aimed to change the relationship that Tuzla’s Muslims had with their faith, promoting increased diligence to Islamic customs, such as praying daily and abstaining from alcohol. Yet at its most noxious, this Islamic movement called for genocide against Serbs. One infamous Zmaj article said that “every Muslim should have his own Serb to execute” and that “genocide is the duty of every Muslim” (Kljucanin 1993). Lugavić and other local Imams actively rejected these attempts at radicalization by holding meetings and services at which they emphasized the importance of interfaith harmony.15 Because Lugavić was held in such high regard by many in the community, these interfaith meetings severed an important role in symbolically rejecting radical nationalists. This was perhaps most notable toward the end of the war when an errant shell killed more than seventy people who were gathered at a coffee bar in the city to watch a football game. The average age of those killed was twenty-​four, and several young children were among the dead. Their deaths shocked the city. Immediately after, the reis (head of Islamic community in Bosnia) from Sarajevo came to Tuzla and declared that the dead had to be buried in their respective religious cemeteries. He further declared that that the mufti could only preside over the funeral prayers of the Muslims who were killed in the attack. Lugavić was incensed and refused, insisting that he and the other religious leaders be together to comfort the families and lead the prayers at the burial. The reis fired him on the spot, taking away his title of mufti. Yet as Lugavić put it, this act of insisting on interfaith cooperation was part of doing “peace work” during the war. By taking this stand, Lugavić effectively dampened violence through his public condemnation of radical religious nationalism. Petar Matanović, the head of the Catholic parishes for the Tuzla region, played a similar role, promoting peace and interfaith tolerance for the Catholic community. His long-​standing relationship with Lugavić and, before the war, with Kačavenda, made him a highly respected symbol of interreligious trust and cooperation. He regularly organized interfaith dinners and events for his congregation. As the war broke out, he organized essential humanitarian relief efforts in the city, giving food and medical supplies freely to those in need of any religious background. He also published a newsletter that had a broad readership within the Catholic community and beyond, which condemned ethnic politics and called for an end to the violence. His efforts were backed by the Catholic Church of Bosnia as a whole, which actively worked to delegitimize and de-​escalate the war and initiated some of the most direct efforts to bring all the warring sides together to negotiate a path to peace.

 



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In many ways, Tuzla is an example of how individual actors—​politicians, civilians, and religious leaders alike—​engaged in civil action to dampen violence and carve out civil spaces amid bloodshed. Of course, it is difficult to fully disentangle the impact that these local actors had from the Serbian military strategy and the dynamics of war more broadly; Tuzla was undoubtedly a less important military target than Sarajevo, for instance, and thus likely experienced less aggressive tactics. But it is highly likely that the civil actions of local actors such Mayor Bešlagić, the Tuzla Citizen’s Forum, Mohammed Lugavić, and Petar Matanović helped Tuzla escape some of the most horrific forms of violence that plagued other parts of the country because they limited the ability of local radical nationalists to gain platforms and recruit adherents. Moreover, these actions certainly helped to establish spaces of normalcy and multiculturalism during the war, which allowed the Yugoslav spirit to persevere. In the years since the war, Tuzla has been at the forefront of antinationalist work, drawing international praise.

7.5. Sarajevo The dynamics of war in Sarajevo different greatly from those in Tuzla. Before the war, Sarajevo was a cosmopolitan urban center of approximately 500,000 residents, nestled in a valley amid steep hills. It boasted a rich history of interethnic harmony and collaboration, and had even hosted the 1984 Winter Olympics. As one walks through the city center even today, the legacy of the Ottoman Empire is visible in Baščaršija, the “old town,” with its cobbled streets and cafes that serve Turkish-​style coffee. Continue west and the architecture changes to reflect the Austro-​Hungarian period. Sarajevo is the only European city to boast a mosque, a Catholic church, an Orthodox church, and a Jewish synagogue all situated on the same square (Clancy 2007). Before the war, perhaps as many as 40 percent of all marriages in the city were between couples of mixed nationality (Dizdarevic 1993, 6).16 Despite this history of interethnic harmony, the city was subjected to the longest siege of a capital city in modern history, lasting from April 5, 1992 to February 29, 1996. Many attempts by domestic and foreign political leaders to bring about a negotiated end to the siege failed, and it was not until the Dayton Peace Agreement was implemented that the siege came to an end. By that time, 13,952 people had been killed—​including approximately 1,500 children. The siege inflicted extensive structural damage on the city. Moreover, the siege stopped normal flows of goods and communication into the city, cutting Sarajevans off from food, oil, and medical supplies. Residents were forced to survive on their own ingenuity and humanitarian relief orchestrated by the United

 

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Nations, which brought more than 160,000 tons of food and humanitarian aid to residents during the siege.17 The primary lifeline for the city was the 800-​meter-​ long underground tunnel, built by the Bosnian Army, which opened in 1993. Despite the difficult conditions, many foreign war correspondents covered the siege from inside the city, which helped mobilize the international community’s response to the war. Despite the duration and intensity of the siege, the Serb forces never successfully took the city or succeeded in bifurcating it. The Bosnian Army, Patriot League, and UNPROFOR forces deserve much of the credit for this success; however, other actors also mobilized to preserve the security and multicultural integrity of the city. In particular, civilians, community organizations, and religious institutions engaged in different forms of civil action during the siege, deriving their authority from the population of Sarajevo, which was overwhelmingly opposed to the war. This involved carving out spaces of safety and relative normalcy while under constant threat and finding creative ways to symbolically counter the war—​efforts that shaped the severity and duration of the violence in important ways.

7.5.1. Civilians Sarajevo’s citizens became alarmed in early 1992, when they discovered JNA tanks surrounding the city with their sites trained inward on the city’s residents, rather than outward for the city’s defense. But for many residents, war still seemed unthinkable. As Karadžić boasted that he would take Sarajevo within several days, many Sarajevans laughed off his threats given his provincial roots in Montenegro. Nevertheless, by February 1992, as war became increasingly likely, Sarajevans assembled en mass in front of the Parliament, proclaiming a “citizen’s assembly” that rejected the nationalist rhetoric they worried was a harbinger of violence. Many have attempted to identify the organizers of these protests, but the general consensus is that they were genuinely spontaneous and organic citizen-​led movements18 (Pejanović 2004). For days, the sheer number of Sarajevans who gathered publically helped to counter the increasingly powerful nationalist politicians. Soon, protestors formed an informal organizing committee that initiated conversations with the JNA and political officials (Pejanović 2004, 53–​54). But for a variety of reasons, the “citizen’s initiative” was never able to get solidly off the ground (see Pejanović 2004). On April 6, 1992, as 50,000 Sarajevans were in the streets protesting the war, Serbian snipers killed two young women in the crowd. Shock swept over the population as people realized that war had arrived. JNA forces began shelling the city, sending the startled residents indoors and into basements and stairwells.

 



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All exits and points of entry to the city were blocked. The Bosnian government declared that all healthy adults must stay in the city on the grounds that they were needed for the city’s defense, and, perhaps more critically, to ensure that there was a city to defend in the first place. Daily shelling continued for the first six weeks of the siege, combined with sniper fire and other assaults on residents in front-​line neighborhoods such as Grbavica and Iliđa, which Serb troops quickly controlled. Because city officials had previously given over the arms of its TO forces to the JNA, Sarajevo was virtually defenseless. As a result, civilians mobilized in the city’s defense, engaging in both civil and uncivil actions. The earliest defenders primarily fell into two camps. The first were the criminal elements, which had their own weapons and, often, the means to get more. Among these, gangs organized by notorious criminals such as Juka Prazina or Mušan “Caco” Topalović were ironically integral in defending the city’s perimeter, although they often also looted and engaged in other crimes as they went (Andreas 2004). As the siege continued, these criminal gangs helped organize the transport of weapons into the city. The second camp consisted of groups like the Patriotic League and the Green Berets, comprising civilians with military experience, who served as a sort of “special forces” during the war. These groups eventually became the foundation of the Army of Bosnia and Herzegovina, which then slowly pushed out the criminal gangs. While the Army often engaged in uncivil action as it waged offensive campaigns against the Serb aggressors, many civilians participated in civil action in the city’s defense, either practically or symbolically. For instance, when various armed groups erected barricades throughout the city to limit the population’s movement, groups of women set up “counter-​barricades,” where they served traditional Bosnian food like čevapcici and burek as a way of rejecting the war and maintaining some semblance of normalcy and community (Udovički and Štitkovac 1997, 182). The citizens of Sarajevo also engaged in civil action to carve out civil space amid the violence. These actions were wide-​ ranging and included satire, comedy, and art, in addition to public meetings and training, in order to put a forth unified stance that their ethnic differences should not result in bloodshed. During the siege there were countless examples of art and humor that expressed resistance to the violence, which intensified Sarajevans’ disdain for the war (see Maček 2009). Yugoslav celebrities and performance groups, such as Top lista nadrealista, captivated the city with humorous skits broadcast via radio or on the television (when it functioned). According to Zenit Đozić, a musician and satirist, art and humor were incredibly important for all the residents of the city because “if you don’t appreciate a joke, you are broken.”19 This logic, of using humor as a form of nonviolent protest, also motivated the authors of the satirical Sarajevo Survival Guide that was published during the siege. The guide

 

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includes descriptions such as “Sarajevo is a city of slender people . . . wearing youthful clothes of teenage size” (3), as well as instructions on how to cook such “delicacies” as “Canned mackerel floating in humanitarian aid.” Although such forms of humor and satire did not directly challenge the violence itself, they served a powerful role in diffusing the public support for the war and creating solidarity against the war effort. Moreover, the international press coverage of these activities helped mobilize international efforts aimed at stopping the war. Sarajevans also maintained a vibrant art scene during the siege, which Ivana Maček (2009) has described as a product of their “determination to resist the omnipresence of war” (54). Residents staged art exhibitions, musical performances, and various other events in cellars, apartments, courtyards, and other communal spaces beyond the reach of sniper fire. Classical musicians donned formal wear and played concerts in the bombed out National Library.20 Other residents staged a beauty contest, dubbed “Miss Besieged Sarajevo 93,” where scantily clad participants held up a banner reading “Don’t Let Them Kill Us.” Some theater actors even performed the musical Hair in Sarajevo’s Chamber Theater, drawing powerful parallels between contentious objectors during the Vietnam War and their own situation at the time. The selection of Hair over other musicals was a deliberate attempt to send a radical antiwar message—​the musical itself is a form of protest against the absurdity of violence. In sum, art and humor served as a medium for rejecting war and the nationalist politics that had come to dominate Bosnia’s political landscape. They constituted, furthermore, a form of resistance as well as an avenue for bringing various actors together in acknowledgment of their shared humanity. For the citizens of the city, art and humor—​especially black humor—​became both the means for establishing a sense of normalcy within war, as well as a more political means of rejecting the ethnic politics and violence that had come to characterize the country’s plight. International press coverage of many of these events also helped mobilize international action in Bosnia, which ultimately led to NATO intervention and a negotiated peace.

7.5.2. Religious Institutions As in Tuzla, religious institutions also engaged in important forms of civil action during the siege. The three main institutions—​the Serbian Orthodox Church of Bosnia, the Catholic Church, and the Bosnian Islamic Community—​became involved in the conflict in different ways. Each was associated with a flagship charity—​Caritas (Catholic), Merhamet (Islamic), and Srpska Pomac (Orthodox Christian)—​which provided critical humanitarian aid during the siege and thereby helped to carve out civil space amid the conflict. All groups coordinated

 



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bi-​or trilateral visits to key political leaders in conjunction with their Islamic, Orthodox, or Catholic counterparts. This occurred during the siege on religious holidays and featured members of the different communities praying together and in their respective places of worship. There were also informal football (soccer) games between members of the various religious communities and UN peacekeepers during the siege, which cultivated a sense of solidarity as members of the various warring parties disavowed their ethnic divisions. But the various religious institutions played very different roles when it came to escalating or de-​escalating the violence, and intra-​institutional differences manifested in some regional variations in each institution’s role. Again, as in Tuzla, members of the Orthodox Church became infamous for blessing Serb troops before they went off on violent sprees, often raping and murdering as they went. Other members of the Church were tightly linked to Belgrade or to the Serb nationalist politicians. However, because of the Orthodox church’s strong ties to Belgrade, the majority of its most senior members left Sarajevo for Belgrade during the war, leaving the local church without strong leadership (Maček 2009, 152).21 The Bosnian Islamic Community also officially sought a peaceful resolution to the conflict from the outset. Along with the Catholic Church, many imams explicitly instructed their followers not to harm any property in Sarajevo owned by the Orthodox Church or their Serb neighbors. This meant that the Orthodox churches in the city were unharmed by vandalism (though some were damaged in the shellings). The Reis of Sarajevo also advocated for tolerance. Some individuals within the Bosnian Islamic Community, however, took a more radical view that advocated for violence against Serbs and championed a Muslim-​ dominated Bosnian state. Different representatives of the Islamic Community thus chose more or less civil actions. The former carved out civil space amid the siege; the latter extended and amplified the violence. The Catholic Church walked a very different line. From the beginning, the official position of the church was to achieve a peaceful resolution of the conflict. Deriving authority from the church’s extensive network around the globe, members of the clergy inside and outside of Bosnia used a variety of tactics to try to stop the violence. Besides issuing public statements condemning the war,22 the clergy organized to bring Pope John Paul II to Sarajevo, in September 1994, hoping that his presence would force a reduction in violence. They believed that if the pope were to arrive, condemn the war, and speak to the world from the besieged city about the importance of religious tolerance, they might be able to use him as leverage to initiate peace talks and, in the meantime, preserve the security situation in the city. However, just two days before the pope was scheduled to arrive, the UN Representative issued a stark warning that it could not guarantee the security situation in Sarajevo and that the pope’s presence could

 

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lead to civilian deaths (VRHBOSNA 1998).23 The trip was then cancelled. Yet according to Ivo Tomasović, the head of the Bishops Conference in Bosnia, the Catholic Church saw its primary mission as “getting the powerful countries to realize they need to do something to stop the violence,” above and beyond their critical role in distributing humanitarian aid.24 Thus the Catholic Church contributed by promoting civil space, tamping down violence, and promoting an ultimate resolution of the conflict. Many in the church, though, including Tomasović, remain frustrated about how long the war raged before these efforts at garnering international intervention were realized. Sarajevo’s small Jewish community also played an outsized role in carving out civil space during the siege. In the lead-​up to the war, Jakob Finci, the head of the Sarajevo Jewish community, encouraged members to ready their passports and apply for Israeli visas so they could leave if the situation took a turn for the worse.25 The Jewish community in Sarajevo also began to stockpile basic medicines and nonperishable food they obtained through its global connections and alliances with other Jewish organizations, such as the Jewish American Distribution Committee. As a predominantly Sephardic community, the timing of the impending violence was depressingly poetic, marking exactly 500 years since the Jewish community had been expelled from Spain in 1492. La Benevolencja, named after the Spanish word for goodwill, became the Jewish community’s primary humanitarian organization, and it served as a critical supplier of aid during the siege. It had perhaps the city’s biggest supply of medicine, donated in the lead-​up to the war by the Jewish community around the globe, and it supplied approximately 40 percent of the city’s medicine during the siege. Like Caritas and Merhamet, it also played an important role in providing food relief to the hungry population and thus carving out civil spaces during the violence. But unlike the other groups, the Jewish community was in a unique situation because their national identity was not part of the war dynamics. Jakob Finci described how this allowed them to make deals with Serbs and Croats so that they would allow safe passage of Jewish aid convoys. These networks made it possible for the Jewish community to relocate many Bosnian Jews to neighboring countries or Israel, and also to smuggle or negotiate the relocation of many Muslims and Christians. These convoys often required someone recognizable—​ such as Finci—​to be in the trucks to navigate the multiple roadblocks between the humanitarian distribution center in the coastal town of Split, Croatia, and Sarajevo. Finci described feeling “almost like James Bond” crossing multiple checkpoints carrying four sets of documents for the various groups in control of territory. Such convoys were extremely dangerous, but Finci felt, “It was my duty and responsibility to help and I was ready to take the risk.”26 In addition to smuggling people out of Sarajevo in aid convoys and distributing critical humanitarian aid, Israeli Jews on several occasions sent their

 



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own identification cards and documents to Muslims living under the siege in Sarajevo to help get them out of the city. Because Jews could more easily move in and out of the city than the parties to the conflict, the foreign ID papers provided the recipient safe passage.27 Finci estimates that all told, the Jewish community was responsible for relocating 2,500 people—​around 1,000 Jews and more than 1,500 others. The siege of Sarajevo came to an end after more than three years as a result of the internationally negotiated Dayton Peace Agreement. The combined efforts of civilian militias, the newly formed Bosnian Army, and UNPROFOR successfully thwarted a Serb takeover of the city. Civil action by nonviolent actors also ensured the survival of the city’s residents—​and the city’s multiethnic identity. Citizen groups deployed humor, art, and satire to discredit the war and express their disdain for the ethnic politics of the times. The Catholic, Islamic, and Jewish communities also provided essential humanitarian aid during the siege, carving out civil spaces under conditions of threat and scarcity. The Catholic Church, in particular, worked to mobilize an international response to the crisis, which may have eventually affected the duration of violence. Combined, various forms of civil action helped to attract international attention, which ultimately led to the NATO intervention and the Dayton Peace Agreement. In the end, the city remained part of the newly formed Bosniak-​Croat Federation, and East Sarajevo, an outlying suburb, was made part of the Republika Srspka.

7.6.  Prijedor and Surrounding Areas The violence in the area around Prijedor, a small city located in the Krajina region in the northwest of Bosnia, assumed a very different quality than that in either Tuzla or Sarajevo. Like Tuzla, Prijedor was one of Bosnia’s industrial centers and the home of large steel and chemical production plants. Before the war, approximately 43 percent of Prijedor’s 112,000 residents were Muslim; 42 percent were Serb; and about 6  percent were each Catholics and Yugoslavs. The city retained a proud association with the multiethnic legacy of Tito’s partisans from World War II, as a major partisan victory occurred nearby at Kozara mountain (Gilbert 2008, 29). Despite this history, Prijedor was the site of one of the most severe ethnic cleansing campaigns in Bosnia during the war. In the 1991 municipal elections in Prijedor, the SDS failed to gain an outright majority and was forced to form a coalition with SDA. After this setback, Serb nationalists—​in a much more extreme version of the collusion that occurred in Dungannon, Northern Ireland (see Amy Grubb, ­chapter 5 this volume)—​began secretly developing a parallel administrative structure. This “Serbian Opština Prijedor” was Serb-​only; it included its own police force, local assembly, political

 

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administration, and paramilitary forces. A  small, affiliated paramilitary group also took control of the television transmitter on the nearby Kozara mountain at the beginning of 1992, which prevented the population from viewing television programs from Zagreb or Sarajevo. On April 30, 1992, with the war underway, this parallel governing structure secretly took over control of the city administration (United Nations 1995). The furtive nature of this political takeover thwarted an organized resistance at the outset. Shortly after this shift in local power, the purges of non-​Serbs began. All the non-​Serbs in the local government, the police, and any other public position were dismissed and required to hand over their property to the authorities. The new authorities began to repossess the weapons of non-​Serbs and to redistribute them to Serb civilians. A Bureau of Population Exchange forced non-​Serbs to sign away the rights to their property and homes (Silber and Little 1997). The local authorities required all non-​Serbs to wear white armbands in public to identify themselves. Radio and television broadcasts slandered non-​Serbs and spread rumors that Muslims in the area were preparing vicious attacks on their Serb neighbors (UN Committee of Experts 1994). Soon, these purges became more violent. Bosniak (and some Croat) men were rounded up and transported to hastily constructed prison camps in the area, including Omarska, Keraterm, Manjaca, and Trnopolje (Udovički and Štitkovac 1997). The purpose of the camps was, supposedly, to prevent non-​ Serb men from fighting, but they became sites of severe maltreatment, harassment, torture, rape, and murder (Human Rights Watch 1992). Women, children, and the elderly were typically taken to Trnopolje, which functioned as a transit center, and then placed on buses and deported to areas of the country that were under Bosnian or Croat control. A handful of women were detained for months at Omarska, where they were subjected to sexual violence, starvation, and forced participation in various rituals, such as singing “Chetnik” songs.28 Full-​scale military operations against non-​Serbs began in early May 1992 with the bloody assault on Kozarac, a largely Muslim town near Prijedor. Within several days, the Bosnian Serb Army and affiliated irregular forces had killed upward of 1,500 people. Serb militias razed mosques and churches in an attempt to ready the region for its new Serb inhabitants. The majority of Croat and Bosniak residents fled into the woods, where they were eventually cornered and put on buses: the men were taken to concentration camps, where some were later summarily executed; women and children were typically sent to parts of the country controlled by the Bosnian Army. Until Croatia began restricting refugee flows in July, many also fled to nearby Zagreb. When a small group of Bosniak and Croat men launched a suicide counterattack on Prijedor in protest, they were quickly overwhelmed (CIA 2002, 145). By June 1994, of the 550,000 Muslims

 



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and Croats living in the broader Krajina region, fewer than 50,000 remained (Human Rights Watch 1994, 5). During this period of time, many local Serbs helped their Bosniak and Croat neighbors survive by warning them about impending attacks, helping to transport food or medicine into the concentration camps, or refusing to participate in beatings or abuse (Gilbert 2008; Udovički and Štitkovac 1997, 188). These acts of resistance were incredibly risky—​several Serbs who were caught helping Muslims were sent to the front lines of the war or to Omarska, where they were tortured alongside non-​Serbs. These acts were uncoordinated, and though they suggest that there were efforts to engage in civil action, they had limited effect on the overall levels of violence or on the ability of residents to carve out civil spaces amid the fighting. Moreover, because of the speed and intensity of the violence, non-​Serbs had little opportunity to organize nonviolently against the war. Most of the people I interviewed from the region expressed their clear understanding that attempting to organize against the Serb forces would have been suicidal. In short, the violence in Prijedor reveals the limitations of civil action when there is collusion between elements in the government and its armed forces on one side. It is outside the scope of this chapter to fully unpack why more nonstate actors did not mobilize against violence in the region; nevertheless, a few unique challenges are worth noting. These challenges may serve as scope conditions on the ways civil action can develop and have effect. First, the takeover of local government institutions by those colluding with the aggressors thwarted an organized resistance in Prijedor. This takeover eliminated the free flow of information because media channels (e.g., radio) were controlled by the new administrators. It also prevented resistance from within the government, which was a key element of Tuzla’s success. Without the ability to form alliances among sympathetic local politicians, community organizations, and individual civilians, a robust formal resistance movement was unable to develop. Second, the speed with which the violence in Prijedor unfolded greatly surpassed that in Tuzla and Sarajevo. The “cleansing” of the city and its surrounding area of non-​Serbs was nearly complete after merely a few weeks. Within a few months of the takeover of local government, an estimated 5,000 non-​Serbs in the region —​mostly men and boys—​were killed. Those who survived were forced into flight. Unlike Sarajevo’s slow and drawn out siege or Tuzla’s evolving relationships with the JNA over the course of the war, the Serb forces had fully achieved their primary military objectives around Prijedor by the fall of 1992. This may suggest that the speed of violence limits the ability of actors to effectively engage in civil action to counter its course and local effects. Third, the type of violence in Prijedor was, to put it crudely and problematically, generally more brutal than the violence in Tuzla and Sarajevo. This

 

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was perhaps most significantly because the actors leading the charge, many of whom were members of notoriously violent paramilitary groups and had access to government resources. Using data from ICTY testimonies, the late Lee Ann Fujii has detailed some of the more sadistic episodes of violence in the Prijedor region, illustrating how members of Serb paramilitary groups frequently employed castration, dismemberment, sodomy with foreign objects, and more, against the Bosniaks and Croats (see Fujii’s forthcoming book). Fujii found that much of that brutality did not subscribe to an overtly political logic or authority but, rather, stemmed from the ability of individuals to use extreme violence to gain personal power within organizational structures. Although it is not within the scope of this chapter to investigate, it is possible that ordinary civilians harbored such fear of similar abuses that they refrained from organizing nonviolently against Serb aggression. This may suggest that the brutality of violence and its use for individual aggrandizement provides a disincentive for actors to engage in civil action. Finally, notably absent from the Prijedor region were religious leaders committed to stopping the violence. While it is possible that such leaders existed, I have found little to no evidence that local imams allied with their Catholic counterparts against Serb aggression; nor did I  find evidence of a history of interfaith religious celebrations that continued in the lead-​up to the war. When juxtaposed with the subsequent levels of violence in the region, this absence suggests that strong local religious leaders who were opposed to the violence may have served to discredit or delegitimize nationalist extremism in other places, potentially reducing the number of local recruits into violence and providing support for other antinationalist civilian groups. This lends support to the idea that religious leaders and institutions can serve a critical role in either condemning or condoning the violence, shaping the willingness of their congregations to engage in civil action (see also Sisk 2011).

7.7. Conclusion This chapter has focused on how grass-​roots actors engaged in civil action during the Bosnian war. The violence was different in Tuzla, Sarajevo, and Prijedor for a number of reasons, including the Serbian military objectives and strategy, geographic proximity to Serbia, the presence of industry or resources, and the historical composition of the population, among others. Though Serbian military strategy ranks at the top in understanding why some parts of Bosnia experienced more violence than others, civil action also shaped the course, severity, and effects of the violence in each region. Local political elites, religious institutions,

 



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and civilian groups, in particular, worked to prevent and dampen some of the violence. This was most pronounced in Tuzla, where these different actors were more organized and farther away from the center of Serbian aggression. Even when there was little chance of reducing the violence, such as in Sarajevo, which was a key military target, civil action worked to carve out civil spaces where life could carry on as normally as possible. These forms of civil action condemned the war and discredited the individuals who were calling for bloodshed in ways that preserved space in which relationships could continue. Regrettably, in the struggle between civility and violence in Bosnia, violence emerged victorious more often than not. More than 100,000 Bosnians of all nationalities lost their lives between 1992 and 1995, and thousands more were wounded during the bloodshed, both physically and emotionally. But if the Bosnian case reveals the limitations of nonviolent action, it also shows the critical importance of civil action during war. In Tuzla, local actors were able to rally the population around a multiethnic, antiwar identity, securing relative peace for the city’s residents. In Sarajevo, dark humor, art, and satire served as civilians’ own way of rejecting ethnic politics and shouted loudly, “This was not our war” (see Hunt 2004). Finally, the case of Prijedor reveals the difficulties of engaging in civil action against an armed, aggressive, and organized opponent. Although this chapter, and the broader project of this volume, has focused on civil action during war, this case also reveals a rich area for future research on the aftermath of civil action. As the Bosnian war came to an end in 1995, many of the same actors who had been involved in civil action during the war became integral to the postwar rebuilding and peace-​building process. Civilian groups, such as the Tuzla Citizen’s Forum, transitioned to programming focused on refugee return, rebuilding, and interethnic trust. Civilian-​led satire and art also continued after the war, often turning its ire toward the ineptitude of the international humanitarian industry and foreign diplomats who arrived in Bosnia in the wake of the Dayton Peace Agreement. Religiously affiliated humanitarian organizations, such as Caritas and Merhamet, served as essential service providers to a war-​fatigued population, and often worked to create civil spaces in situations of protracted displacement. When Pope John Paul II did finally make it to Sarajevo, in 1997, he stressed the importance of reconciliation and forgiveness and encouraged all citizens—​regardless of religious background—​to seek harmony and peace over all else. This message served as an important contrast to the nationalist politics that continued to characterize Bosnian politics in the late 1990s, which ultimately led Serbia into further war in Kosovo. Future researchers would be well served to map the links between civil action during and after war, as the durability of postwar peace may be shaped by the strength of such efforts.

 

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Acknowledgments I am grateful for feedback on earlier versions of this chapter from Deborah Avant, Hollie Nyseth Brehm, Rachel Epstein, Will Moore, and participants at the Sié Chéou-​Kang Center’s Non-​State Actors in Violent Settings conference, in August 2016. I am also grateful for research assistance from Annie Kraus and Trishna Rana, and to Halil Dedic, Mirza Slatina, Emir Slatina, Elida Vikic, and Emina Gasal in Bosnia for providing critical assistance and translation.

Notes *. [email protected]. 1. Note that Bosniak, Croat, and Serb all refer to groups within Bosnia. Serbians differs from Serbs in that they are citizens of Serbia, although both categories refer to Orthodox Christians. Similarly, Croats refers to Catholic Bosnians, whereas Croatian refers to citizens of Croatia. Note that while these ethno-​national labels have religious roots, it does not mean that members of these groups are active members of any religious community. 2. See death toll statistics in the Bosnian Book of the Dead (Research and Documentation Center 2012). 3. The Bosnian Serb army was closely affiliated with the JNA but directed from within Bosnia’s national borders. 4. Selim Bešlagić, interview with the author, Tuzla, May 2016. 5. Muhamed Alic, interview with the author, Tuzla, May 2016. 6. Tuzla Citizen’s Forum publication, March 9, 1993. 7. Vehid Šehić, interview with the author, Tuzla, May 2016. 8. The primary difference between Bosniak extremists and Islamists was that some Bosniak extremists were extreme nationalists who advocated for Bosniak autonomy and statehood but were not particularly religious. Islamists, however, were invested in creating an Islamic state with strong collaboration between religious institutions and the state. 9. See also Šehić, interview with the author. 10. Jasmina (last name withheld for privacy), interview with the author, Tuzla, July 2016. 11. Petar Lugavić, Mohammed Matanović, and Selim Bešlagić, interviews with the author, Tuzla, May 2016. 12. Kačavenda was also later found to have engaged in the sexual abuse of young men. See Elvira M.  Jukic, 2013, “Bosnian Serb Bishop Faces Sex Abuse Charges,” BalkanInsight, April 19, http://​www.balkaninsight.com/​en/​article/​priests-​announce-​suing-​bosnian-​serb-​ orthodox-​bishop-​kacavenda. 13. A mufti is a Muslim scholar or legal expert who is empowered to give rulings on religious matters. 14. Petar Lugavić, interview with the author, Tuzla, May 2016. See also Bešlagić, interview with the author. 15. Lugavić, interview with the author. 16. Other estimates suggest that this number is high. According to Gjelten (1995, 10), the Bosnian Institute for Statistics reports that 34.1% of marriages in 1991 were of mixed nationalities. 17. Remarks by UNHCR spokesperson Melissa Flemming, April 3, 2012. “Looking back at the siege of Sarajevo—​20  years later,” UNHCR, http://​www.unhcr.org/​en-​us/​news/​briefing/​ 2012/​4/​4f7acfb5c7/​looking-​siege-​sarajevo-​20-​years.html. 18. Jakob Finci, interview with the author, Sarajevo, April 2016; Goran Bubalo, interview with the author, Sarajevo, April 2016; Munib Bujak, interview with the author, Sarajevo, May 2016; Ivo Tomasović, interview with the author, Sarajevo, May 2016.

 



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19. Zenit Đozić, interview with author, Sarajevo, June 2016. 20. See a stunning slideshow of the Siege that includes such images performances here: http://​ www.theatlantic.com/​photo/​2012/​04/​20-​years-​since-​the-​bosnian-​war/​100278/​http://​ www.theatlantic.com/​photo/​2012/​04/​20-​years-​since-​the-​bosnian-​war/​100278/​ 21. Note:  I was unable to speak with any official representatives from the Serbian Orthodox Church during my fieldwork, despite repeated attempts to secure interviews. 22. See the VRHBOSNA Pastoral Letter collection (1998), published by the Catholic Church of Bosnia and Herzegovina. 23. Tomasović, interview with author. 24. Tomasović, interview with author. 25. Finci, interview with author. 26. Finci, interview with author. 27. Eli Tauber, interview with author, Sarajevo, May 2016. 28. Tabiha (former prisoner), interview with author, May 2013.

References Andreas, Peter. 2004. “The Clandestine Political Economy of War and Peace in Bosnia.” International Studies Quarterly 48 (1): 29–​52. Armakolas, Ioannis. 2007. “Political Competition, Civic Politics, and War in the Bosnian Model City: A Study of Tuzla, 1990–​1995.” PhD diss., University of Cambridge, Cambridge, UK. Armakolas, Ioannis. 2011. “The “Paradox” of Tuzla City: Explaining Non-​nationalist Local Politics during the Bosnian War.” Europe-​Asia Studies 63 (2): 229–​261. Berry, Marie E. 2018. War, Women, and Power: From Violence to Mobilization in Rwanda and Bosnia-​ Herzegovina. New York, NY: Cambridge University Press. Bešlagić, Selim. 1998. Tuzla: The City and Its Man. Tuzla, Bosnia: DJL Non Plus Ultra. Bringa, Tone. 1995. Being Muslim the Bosnian Way: Identity and Community in a Central Bosnian Village. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. CIA (Central Intelligence Agency). 2002. Balkan Battlegrounds: A Military History of the Yugoslav Conflict, 1990–​1995. Washington, DC: Central Intelligence Agency, Office of Russian and European Analysis. Clancy, Tim. 2007. Bosnia and Herzegovina. 2nd ed. Bradt Travel Guide. Cortright, David, and George Lopez. 2000. The Sanctions Decade. Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner. Dizdarevic, Zlatko. 1993. Sarajevo: A War Journal. New York: Fromm International. Fujii, Lee Ann. 2016. Show Time: The Logic and Power of Violent Display. Working paper presented at Korbel School Sie Research Seminar, University of Denver, Denver, CO. Gilbert, Andrew. 2008. “Foreign Authority and the Politics of Impartiality in Postwar Bosnia–​ Herzegovina.” PhD diss., University of Chicago, Chicago, IL. http://​gradworks.umi.com/​ 33/​38/​3338346.html Gjelten, Tom. 1995. Sarajevo Daily: A City and Its Newspaper under Siege. New York: HarperCollins. Human Rights Watch. 1992. “War Crimes in Bosnia-​Hercegovina.” New York: Helsinki Watch. Human Rights Watch. 1994. “‘Ethnic Cleansing’ Continues in Northern Bosnia.” New York: Human Rights Watch. Hunt, Swanee. 2004. This Was Not Our War:  Bosnian Women Reclaiming the Peace. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Imamović, Jasmin. 1998. “Postscript.” In Selim Bešlagić, Tuzla, The City and Its Man. Tuzla, Bosnia: DJL “Non Plus Ultra.” Kljucaninis, Zilhad., 1993. “Rijeci podrske ubicama.” Zmaj od Bosne, June 17. Tuzla, Bosnia. https://​www.bhdani.ba/​portal/​arhiva-​67-​281/​160/​t1605.htm. Maček, Ivana. 2009. Sarajevo under Siege:  Anthropology in Wartime. Philadelphia:  University of Pennsylvania Press.

 

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Malcolm, Noel. 1996. Bosnia: A Short History. New York: New York University Press. Pejanović, Mirko. 2004. Through Bosnian Eyes:  The Political Memoir of a Bosnian Serb. West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Press. Pomfret, John. 1993. “Tension Invades Bosnian Bastion of Harmony.” Washington Post, November 21. Ramet, Sabrina. P. 1999. Balkan Babel: The Disintegration of Yugoslavia from the Death of Tito to the War for Kosovo. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Research and Documentation Center. 2012. Bosnian Book of the Dead. Research and Documentation Center, Sarajevo, Bosnia. Silber, Laura, and Allan Little. 1997. Yugoslavia: Death of a Nation. 3rd ed. New York: Penguin Books. Sisk, Timothy D., ed. 2011. Between Terror and Tolerance:  Religious Leaders, Conflict, and Peacemaking. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press. Udovički, Jasminka, and Ejub Stitkovac. 1997. “Bosnia and Herzegovina:  The Second War.” In Burn This House: The Making and Unmaking of Yugoslavia, edited by Jasminka Udovicki and James Ridgeway, 174–​214. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. United Nations. 1992. Commission of Experts Established Pursuant to Security Council Resolution 780. Final Report of the Commission of Experts Established Pursuant to Security Council Resolution 780 (1992), S/​1994/​674, 27 May 1994 and Annexes. International Human Rights Law Institute, De Paul University. VRHBOSNA. 1998. Official Bulletin of Brhbosna Metropoly:  Pastoral Letters, statements and Appeals of the Catholic Bishops of Bosnia and Herzegovina, 1990–​1997. Sarajevo, Bosnia: Biskupska Konferencija Bosne i Hercegovine.

 

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Nonviolent Communal Strategies in Insurgencies Case Study on Afghanistan Christoph Zürcher

8.1.  Introduction A majority of casualties in today’s wars are civilians. Most casualties are caused by what is euphemistically called collateral damage—​when civilians are caught in the line of fire between the warring parties. Civilians also suffer from violent predation. Warring parties often prey on the local population, by looting or extorting taxes (Wood 2010, 2012, 2014; Weinstein 2007). Violence against civilians is also widely used by warring parties to punish those who cooperate with the other side. Cynical warlords in particular use atrocities against civilians to signal their resolve and military strength to competing warlords, thereby increasing their bargaining power and status in the political market (De Waal 2015). Finally, violence is sometimes a result of a principled hostility toward the other. Often, the ultimate objective is to physically unmix two identity groups. In Afghanistan, thousands of civilians have been killed each year since 2002. Common causes include aerial attacks; engagements by the US military against insurgents; indiscriminate insurgent violence, such as bombings in public spaces and roadside IEDs; and efforts by government forces to try to recapture villages where insurgents are hiding. In 2016 (the year in which the data for this chapter was collected) there were 11,418 civilian casualties (3,498 deaths and 7,920 injured). Since 2009, the armed conflict in Afghanistan has claimed the lives of 24,841 civilians and injured 45,347 others (UNAMA 2016) Clearly, for civilians in conflict zones, finding strategies that can reduce the risk of getting harmed is a matter of life and death. This chapter tells the story of how rural communities in Afghanistan strategize staying out of harm’s way 203

 

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during war. I  seek to uncover “civil actions” by Afghan rural communities, as they are described in the introduction to this volume: [Civil actions are] explicit efforts to reduce or prevent violence, provide safe havens, resolve and transform conflicts, build solidarity, or simply maintain or deepen relationships . . . Civil action may also reduce the likelihood of violence in particular locales. . . . Similarly, civil action can tamp down violence after it has emerged. Afghanistan’s ongoing insurgency is certainly an unlikely setting for civil action. Afghan rural communities are among the most insulated and deprived communities of today’s world. They are caught between an astoundingly resourceful insurgency and a government that is supported by a powerful international coalition. However, as the chapter demonstrates, Afghan communities are still capable of pursuing a variety of violence-​reducing strategies. As we learn more about these strategies of civil action, we may eventually find better ways to support them or, at the very least, to not undermine them. I do not want to romanticize these civil actions. They are not nearly sufficient to protect civilians from harm; they can offer some breathing space and may have some effect on the safety of one of the most vulnerable segments of the world’s population. However, they are rarely able to transform the conflict and bring lasting peace. Macrolevel conflict dynamics often override locally designed, nonviolent strategies. Nevertheless, nonviolent strategies that have only a marginal effect still translate to saved lives. Furthermore, if the central argument of this story is correct—​that rural communities have agency and use it to employ nonviolent strategies—​then the external actors who bring their considerable resources into the field must become aware of those strategies. Otherwise, we will not learn how to support—​or at least not inadvertently undermine—​them. The chapter has four sections. I  first provide a brief section on data and methods. I  then describe the context on the war in Afghanistan and on Afghan rural communities. I  show that despite being extremely vulnerable, Afghan communities still have remarkable capabilities for collective action, and that the conflict environment in Afghanistan offers some space for using these capabilities. The third section describes a number of strategies that rural communities frequently use and believe can be effective. In the final section of this chapter, I discuss how external civilian actors influence the space for such civil action. I focus on development actors because they are among the few external civilian actors who bring considerable resources and continue to operate on the ground during insurgent violence.

 



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8.2.  Data and Methods The following narrative is based on various data sources. I have had the opportunity to travel several times to Afghanistan since 2006. Personal experiences and numerous conversations and interviews provide much of the anecdotal evidence presented here. During a field trip in October 2016, I conducted twelve extensive semistructured interviews with political analysts working in Afghanistan. These analysts coordinate a large network of several dozen local Afghan field officers who provide civilian situational assessment for a large German development organization working in North Afghanistan. These analysists constantly interact with their contacts in rural areas. The network thus generates a wealth of local knowledge, based on primary information collected by people not impeded by cultural or language barriers who are often trusted members of their local communities. All members of the network—​those in the field as well as the analysts—​are civilians. The interviews, which lasted between 90 and 130 minutes, inquired about the relations between local communities, insurgents, and development actors. Analysts were asked to provide examples of how local communities deal with the presence of insurgents, how the insurgents relate to development aid, and how the presence of development projects influences the relation between local communities and insurgents. I also asked about the strategies rural communities might use to reduce the risk of violence, and how their receipt of development aid may defuse or attract violence. The interviews were semistructured and open-​ended, so the respondents had the opportunity to point to strategies that I  may not have specifically asked about. However, in every conversation I also specifically asked about four distinct strategies for civil action that seemed plausible, based on the existing literature and my previous experience in Afghanistan. They were neutrality, self-​ defense; pleading and negotiating; and searching for protection. These four strategies are also among the possible civil actions identified in the introduction to this volume. While the details of the specific examples mentioned in the expert interviews were rich and diverse, they all broadly confirmed that these four strategies are indeed the most often used forms of civil action in Afghan rural communities. In addition to the twelve expert interviews, I also conducted sixty-​eight background interviews with Afghan and international aid practitioners with experience in Afghanistan. These interviews did not deal exclusively with the relations between local communities, insurgents, and development actors on the ground, but they nevertheless added a wealth of additional information. All the interviews were conducted under the condition of confidentiality and anonymity.

 

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My second data source is a survey that was conducted in the fall of 2016 among 3,200 respondents in nineteen districts of Northern Afghanistan.1 The survey was conducted as a booster sample of the annual Survey of the Afghan People conducted by the Asia Foundation. The survey has been conducted annually since 2006. It is representative at the national level and has become an important source for identifying trends and developments in Afghanistan. In the 2016 wave, in cooperation with the German Ministry of Economic Cooperation and Development, the booster sample was included. This booster increased the number of sampling points in nineteen districts in six provinces in North Afghanistan, so that the data became representative at the district level. The districts were Balkh, Bangi, Dara-​i-​soof-​i-​bala, Dehdadi, Faizabad (Badakhshan), Farkhar, Kishim, Mazar-​e-​sharif, Taluqan, Warsaj, Ali Abad, Aybak, Dawlat Abad (Balkh), Dushi, Hazrati Imam Sahib, Khinjan, Pul-​i-​ khumri, Qala-​i-​zal, and Zari. At the time of the survey, ten districts were under government control and nine were contested or under Taliban control. This variation in local security allowed me to explore the impact of security and local governance on the frequency and effectiveness of the applied strategies of civil action. The booster survey added twenty-​ seven questions to the ninety-​ one questions in the standard survey. The survey covered a broad range of topics, which included security, governance, development, women’s rights, democracy, health, and education. Several of the questions are relevant to the purpose of this chapter, but three speak directly to it. These are:



Q1: You said the people in your village have improved security. To help us understand, could you tell me to what extent the following statements are true: “Our village is safer because [insert item].” a) No one takes sides in the conflict between the government and other armed groups. b) We have our own armed men, from local areas/​villages, to protect us. c) Our elders have asked armed groups to stay away from our village. d) Our elders have good relations with the Afghan government security forces. Answers were: great extent; moderate extent, small extent; not at all; not asked; refused; don’t know Q2: Can you think of an instance, in your community or in a neighboring community, when groups such as the Taliban used violence in order to obstruct a development project? Q3: If yes, what kind of development project was it? (We recorded the first two mentioned projects.)

 



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The first question asks about possible civil actions that help local communities to stay out of harm’s way. It is designed to test the four strategies identified in this section: neutrality, self-​defense, pleading and negotiating, and searching for protection. The second and third questions refer to the possibility that the actions of development actors involuntarily attract violence—​a topic that has been discussed at length in the literature (for a recent overview, see Zürcher 2017)  and that came up often in the expert interviews. Using both open-​ended semistructured expert interviews and large-​n survey data in a mixed-​methods design enabled me to cross-​check and corroborate findings. Furthermore, while the survey data provided information about the frequencies of these strategies, the semistructured expert interviews provided additional context and depth to the causal narrative.

8.3.  The Context: Afghan Rural Communities in War Afghanistan’s most recent war began in 2001, when a US-​led, international alliance supported the Northern Alliance in toppling the Taliban regime. Since then, the Afghan government, installed by the international community at the Bonn conference in 2001, has—​with the support of international forces—​been fighting an asymmetric war against the Taliban and various allied militias. In early 2015, the mandate of the International Security Assistance Force (ISAF) ended. Most of the international combat forces left Afghanistan, and the remaining contingent began operating primarily under a training-​and-​equipping mandate named Resolute Support. This insurgency has proven to be surprisingly resourceful. Despite the massive support of the international coalition, the insurgency steadily gained more ground. In late 2016, approximately half of all districts were under threat of being taken over by the Taliban. Districts in only seven of the thirty-​four provinces were not under threat. In the northeast, where the data for this chapter was collected, in 2016, approximately 40  percent of all districts were no longer controlled by the government but were either contested or under Taliban control. Most observers describe the current situation as an unstable stalemate: The government is too weak to defeat the Taliban on the battlefield, but the government will continue to hold major urban centers as long as its military has the support of the international community. Many of the rural areas, where from 70 percent to 80 percent of the population lives, will remain insecure and contested.

 

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This most recent war between the government and the Taliban has been going on for fifteen years, but the country has been caught up in violence for thirty-​seven years now. One consequence of this is that beneath the macroconflict between the government and the Taliban, many extremely localized conflict dynamics are in place. The stability of a district and its political loyalty depends on the volatile relations and alliances between local and regional militias, local power brokers, various insurgent groups, ethnic or tribal loyalties, and power brokers from the provincial centers and Kabul. Sometimes, these power constellations are enduring, such as in the province of Balkh, where Governor Atta, a former commander of the Northern Alliance, provides stability. More often, however, the power constellations are volatile, and sudden breakdowns of authority can happen. Because of these microdynamics, the security situation and governance patterns vary greatly from district to district. Perhaps typical of lengthy, asymmetric wars, the macro-​ cleavage in Afghanistan is, at the local level, criss-​crossed by very local dynamics of conflict. These dynamics involve frequent changes of allegiances and loyalties, and an oftentimes surprising tolerance for the other. This is because today’s enemy may be tomorrow’s ally. It is also because many households have relatives fighting for different factions—​not necessarily because they believe in a different cause, but because it is one way of hedging their bets. An important implication of such constellations is that there is rarely a principled hostility between the insurgents and local communities. Before we turn to a description of how Afghan rural communities exploit that space, we must briefly describe some characteristics of these communities. As is typical in most developing countries, there is a massive rural-​urban divide in Afghanistan. The approximately 80  percent of the Afghan population who live in the villages are separated from the urban centers of power—​ geographically; culturally; and, most visibly, in terms of modernization, or lack thereof. Traveling from Kabul to the village is like traveling back hundreds of years in time. Throughout Afghan history, the ruling elite in Kabul had little interest in its rural population. There were very few social and political ties between the central state and rural society. The Afghan state was barely capable of establishing dominance, and it did not have a social contract in place between the rulers and ruled. In fact, during much of Afghanistan’s modern history, the state had little need for a social contract with its citizens because it was a typical rentier state that financed itself by rents from foreign powers. There were periodical attempts to expand the center’s dominion over the periphery, but they all failed, and usually led to civil war. The most recent attempt to create a modern, centralized state that would have the capability to penetrate society was launched in 2002, after the ousting of the Taliban. The international community very generously bankrolled Afghanistan’s attempts at state-​building.

 



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But despite these efforts, the reach of the Afghan state remains very limited. While the provision of basic services, such as healthcare, education, drinking water, and basic transportation networks to the villages has been massively improved, the reach of the state remains minimal. The village and the center remain two different planets. The state’s neglect of the village means that the village continues to be the most important social and political unit for the rural population. The village community has its own institutions for self-​governance and rural Afghans widely perceive their community—​to a very large extent—​as self-​governed and self-​sufficient. The two most important institutions are the village elders, and the village shura (village council). Recently, international aid donors backed by the Afghan state made efforts to install a third institution, the so-​called community development council (CDD), whose members, including a mandatory female member, would be elected. The Afghan state now accepts the CCD as the official representative of the rural communities and treats it as its main partner in development. In some villages, CDDs and the more traditional shura coexist, and in others, the CDD has assumed the role of the shura (often ignoring or “faking” the election). There can be little doubt that the elders and the shura, whether in their more traditional forms or in their modernized versions, are the most important and widely accepted social and political institutions for Afghanistan’s rural communities, and are at the heart of their self-​governance and self-​reliance. In surveys, respondents regularly say that village elders are the most important people in the community, that the shura is the most trusted institution, and that their decisions are in the best interest of the entire community. The shuras and the elders are also named as the first institutions the villagers turn to when they need a conflict resolution, and they think that these institutions usually resolve disputes in a just way.2 All of this clearly suggests that the institution of the shura (or its modernized version, the CDD) and the elders have the capacity (defined as relational and other resources that a group might tap into to generate effects; see the introduction) and the authority (defined as the ability to induce deference in others; see the introduction) necessary for civil action.

8.4.  Strategies for Communities in War Zones Do Afghan rural communities use the capacity and space available to them and, if so, how? Afghan villagers give a clear answer to the first question. In 2016, when asked “whether village people themselves contributed to increased security,” approximately half of all respondents (51.3  percent) said yes.3 This is a surprisingly high value that clearly shows that villagers see themselves not

 

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only as victims, but also as actors with a capacity to act. We can put that value in perspective by comparing it to the assessments for other security actors. For example, 71  percent said that the Afghan National Police contributed to better security; 55.4 percent said the same for the Afghan National Army. The Afghan Local Police, which is a formalized local militia, is seen by 30.4 percent as contributing to better security; the Arbakai, which are informal local militias, receive only 13.5 percent; and foreign security forces only 7.9 percent.4 Clearly, Afghan villagers are convinced that they have a space for civil action. But how do they use this space? The next sections will address this, based on insights from the expert interviews (see the section “Data and Methods”).

8.4.1.  Negotiate and Plea A first strategy, which was prominently mentioned in many of the expert interviews, is to “negotiate and plea.” Many respondents stressed that the Taliban try not to alienate the rural population and instead make efforts to “win hearts and minds” by presenting themselves as a viable alternative to the government. This, and their many social, tribal, and, frequently, family ties with rural communities, make them—​to a certain degree—​susceptible to negotiations. As I have mentioned before, so-​called collateral damage is perhaps the main source of violence against villagers. Communities are in harm’s way when insurgents are hiding in or near their villages. Many respondents mentioned that it is not unusual for insurgents to leave the village when asked to do so by the elders, in order to prevent the village from being shelled and bombed by the Afghan army or US Air Force. It was also mentioned that negotiations would often be more successful when the insurgents were from the region. Foreign fighters are less likely to be bound by family ties, patronage ties, and reputation. Often mentioned was that the plea for restraint—​in the foregoing case, retreat from the village in order to avoid collateral damage—​is typically framed in a narrative that is meant to convey that villagers and Taliban have the same Islamic and traditional values, and that helping to avoid civilian casualties by respecting the council of the elders is a value that is important for both. In other words, Afghan elders appear to use the Taliban’s own Islamic, traditional narrative to persuade them to leave the village. However, even if villagers can convince the insurgents to leave the village in order to avoid collateral damage, they will often still have to make considerable concessions. The Taliban typically tax the communities over which they have some influence. The Taliban frame these taxes in their usual Islamic, traditional narratives, such as ushr. Ushr, which literally means one-​tenth, is a traditional Islamic tax on agricultural produce. Giving 10 percent of the net yield

 



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of agricultural produce is seen as a religious duty. Strictly speaking, ushr is not a tax but a religiously mandated act of charity. It is—​to a certain extent—​up to the farmers to whom they chose to give ushr. Most Muslim farmers around the world give their ushr to the poor within their own community. Because ushr is a religious duty (as opposed to a secular law), however, its interpretation is open to debate. Powerful actors who claim to have the authority over the rightful interpretation of religion also often claim the right to collect ushr. The Taliban routinely tax Afghan farmers by referring to ushr as a religious duty. Whereas ushr is traditionally a part of the harvest, however, the Taliban often demand payment in other goods and services—​money, a donkey, a motorcycle, or a couple of new recruits—​instead. Communities can try to negotiate the terms of these taxes, but they usually have to pay them unless they want to resist the insurgents by force. Insurgents often demand other things from communities where they have influence. The insurgents may force communities to let them operate in the vicinity of their villages, which gives them control over who has access to the village, including national or international aid organizations that need permission to operate in these communities. Often, such permissions are informal, brokered by the community elders, who mediate between the aid actors and the insurgents, but sometimes such permissions are granted officially, in writing. The insurgents then become the gatekeepers for development projects. They can and do veto projects that are not compatible with their ideological values (for example, they may not allow coeducational schools) or that pose a strategic threat (for example, they may veto building new road connections or setting up a police checkpoint). As a result, the communities may lose development projects, which are often vital to their livelihoods. In return for this, the communities receive some form of security guarantees. Often, governance in such regions takes the form of “government control by day, Taliban control by night.” It is difficult to know to what extent such arrangements emerged spontaneously because the local communities were simply too weak to resist the insurgents setting up camp in their villages, or whether there were more formal negotiations between insurgents and village authorities. Only the latter case would qualify as a strategy, as defined in this book. Much anecdotal evidence from Afghanistan suggests that agreements between the Taliban and village authorities are indeed often based on informal pacts and hence would thus qualify as a strategy. It is evident that communities incur costs for these kind of arrangements—​ “taxes” must be paid to the insurgents and their access to aid and governmental services is restricted. It would obviously be more beneficial to the community to keep insurgents completely out of the village to evade taxes and possible collateral damage. One way to achieve this is to be strictly and publicly neutral.

 

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8.4.2. Being Neutral “Being neutral” is a second strategy of civil action that was frequently mentioned in the qualitative interviews. It involves not only the ability to credibly communicate the community’s intention to remain neutral in the ongoing conflict, but also the capacity to control community members to deter collaboration with one of the warring parties. There are many historical examples of communities applying this strategy. The historian Benny Morris documented that, in the early stages of the 1948 Arab-​Israeli War, many nonaggression pacts between Arab villages and Israeli military forces were in place. The Arab villages would commit to keeping Arab irregular forces out of the village and, in return, Israeli forces would not attack the village (Morris 2009). However, these nonaggression pacts broke down the in later stages of the conflict, not only because of the dramatic increase in distrust and hatred between the groups, but also because macrolevel strategic considerations overrode local-​level arrangements. Similar examples can be found in the early stages of the ethnic conflicts in Yugoslavia and the Caucasus. Local arrangements between ethnic groups were possible and frequent, but they could rarely withstand the pressure from the macrodynamics of the conflict. The neutrality strategy therefore appears to be extremely vulnerable in situations of intense polarization, when macronarratives and macrodynamics destroy the fragile local balance. Nevertheless, it appears that the neutrality strategy appears is sometimes successfully applied in the Afghan context. One respondent gave a detailed narrative of two villages in a very contested district. The communities were approached by the Afghan Local Police and asked to provide ten them with armed men. The Afghan Local Police comprise regional militias, which formally report to the Afghan Ministry of the Interior. They were created and financed by the United States as an attempt to create local allies in the fight against the Taliban. The village shuras of the two communities deliberated the request for the armed men and turned it down. They said that they would pay taxes to the Afghan Local Police if they must, or they would pay taxes to the insurgents if they must, but they would not take up arms and side with one or the other of them. This decision was communicated to the Afghan Local Police, to the Afghan army, and to the insurgents. Both villages have successfully stayed out of harm’s way. The respondent also said that neutrality works better in districts where insurgents have a stronger presence and reliable structures that enable them to make and honor deals or, as in this case, to ensure that the neutrality of the two communities is respected by all units. He also added that neutrality as a strategy only works when the communities were seen as governed by the traditional village shuras (council). However, many communities in Afghanistan are controlled by local commanders, who built their militias during the war against the Soviet Union

 



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and who tend to be presently allied with the government. The presence and influence of such commanders makes it difficult for communities to credibly argue that they are neutral. The neutrality of a community also depends on how effective it is at self-​ policing. Communities have to control their own members and prevent them from visibly taking sides. Many respondents said that self-​policing was more effective in ethnically homogenous communities. It is much more difficult to achieve in ethnically mixed communities, where mistrust between the Pashtu and the Uzbek and Tajik populations is often high.

8.4.3.  Self-​Defense and Seeking Protection A third strategy communities may use is self-​defense. Many communities form their own “community defense units.” These are usually very small and are made up of only a handful of armed men from the village. But because they are small, these self-​defense units are not always capable of deterring the warring factions from entering the villages. There are also many larger militias. However, once a militia has reached a certain strength, it is very likely that it will be co-​opted by stronger regional power brokers to become part of their own patronage networks. They are then no longer perceived as community self-​defense units, but rather as units in a larger network of militias. This may actually increase the risk for communities, since they are now perceived to be firmly on the side of one of the warring parties. Furthermore, these larger militias—​whose membership can range from a few dozen to a few hundred—​are often ethnically and tribally based, which also makes them less likely to be perceived as purely self-​defensive local forces. If communities don’t have their own militias, they may seek the protection of a militia from outside the community. There is no shortage of militias that offer protection services, but these come at a price. In general, informal militias, as well as those that now operate under the umbrella of the Ministry of Interior, have a well-​earned reputation for looting and taxing communities. Many respondents reported that communities often prefer to be taxed by the Taliban than by the pro-​government militias, because the Taliban are widely perceived to be fairer and less corrupt. Seeking protection against insurgents by allying with larger militia groups therefore appears to be a strategy that often backfires and is therefore rarely used. In sum, respondents in the qualitative interviews confirmed that communities routinely pursue a variety of strategies:  pleas, framed in the narrative of the insurgents; negotiations; neutrality; self-​defense; and, occasionally, seeking protection from outside militias. The agency for carrying out these strategies comes from the highly respected and embedded community shuras and from

 

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the elders. Negotiations tend to be more effective when the shuras are seen as independent and not under the control of local strong men. Ethnic homogeneity appears to be a precondition for the self-​policing that is required for the neutrality strategy. Negotiations have a greater chance of succeeding when the insurgents are primarily recruited locally and have social and reputational ties to the community, and when they have sufficient organizational capacity to credibly commit to deals.

8.5.  Strategies for Communities in War Zones: Additional Insights from Survey Data These findings from the qualitative data are corroborated with survey data. Recall that 51  percent of all respondents said that the “villagers themselves” contributed positively to better security. To further investigate the mechanisms by which this is achieved, survey questions were formulated to proxy the major strategies identified in the expert interviews; however, this still presented challenges. For example, asking a straightforward question about whether respondents directly negotiated with the Taliban is obviously not possible. Instead, we used the following questions: To proxy the “negotiation strategy,” we asked respondents to what extent they thought the following statement was true: “Our elders have asked armed groups to stay away from our village.” We avoided the word “Taliban” here and asked in generic terms about armed groups so that the various private militias that also prey on communities were included. To proxy the “neutrality strategy,” we asked respondents to what extent they thought the following statement was true: “Our village is safer because no one takes sides in the conflict between the government and other armed groups.” To proxy the “self-​defense strategy,” we asked respondents to what extent they thought the following statement was true: “We have our own armed men, from local areas/​villages, to protect us.” The results provide support for the findings from the qualitative research. Sixty-​three percent of respondents said that it was to a “great extent” or a “moderate extent” true that the negotiation strategy led to better security. Fifty-​nine percent said this for the neutrality strategy, and 50 percent for the self-​defense strategy. The data are representative at the district level. There are nineteen districts in the sample. At the time of the survey, ten were classified as mainly under the control of the government and nine were classified as contested between the government and armed opposition groups. We would expect that the security

 



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environment has an impact on which strategies are seen as effective. For example, neutrality should be more important in contested districts and less so in districts that are controlled by one party. The data show the expected trends. In contested districts, “neutrality” is seen as an efficient strategy by 63 percent of respondents. For the government-​controlled districts, that number is only 55 percent. Self-​defense units should be more important in contested districts. Again, the data show the expected trend—​54 percent of respondents say it is efficient in contested districts, compared to 47 percent in government-​controlled districts. In government-​controlled districts, armed groups should be more restrained and be less powerful, which should increase the bargaining power of the communities. The data again confirm this. “Negotiation” is seen as effective in government-​controlled districts by 65 percent of respondents, and by 60 percent in contested districts, as expected. Table 8.1 summarizes these results. Table 8.1 Respondents’ Assessment of Effectiveness of Various Strategies. Percentage Answering True “to a Great Extent” or “to a Moderate Extent.” Strategy and Statement

All respondents

Respondents from mainly government-​ controlled districts

Respondents from contested districts and districts under control of armed opposition groups

Negotiation “Our elders have asked armed groups to stay away from our village.”

63

65

60

Neutrality “Our village is safer because no one takes sides in the conflict between the government and other armed groups.”

59

55

63

Self-​defense “We have our own armed men, from local areas/​villages, to protect us.”

50

47

54

Source: Survey of the Afghan People 2016, see footnote 5. 

 

In sum, both the qualitative data and the survey data strongly suggest that there is a space for civil action, and that rural communities use this space. Next I discuss how external actors often—​inadvertently—​make this space smaller.

8.6.  External Involvement and the Space for Civil Action External actors—​military and civilian—​are heavily involved in Afghanistan. However, development actors often inadvertently make communities less safe, either by directly attracting violence or by undermining the effectiveness of the civil-​action strategies. In this section, I offer a few ideas on how external actors may help to preserve the civil-​action space or, at least, not inadvertently shrink it. I focus on development actors. This is not to say that military actors do not have a substantial impact on the security of rural communities: military operations cause a great deal of collateral damage. Additionally, military actors have formed, trained, and paid some of the militias that now harm civilians, often by causing collateral damage and, more often, by looting and “taxing.” However, because the overall focus of this research project is on civilian actors, I do not elaborate on possible impacts of military actors. Despite the increasingly difficult security environment, national and international aid organizations continue to work in the rural areas of Afghanistan, even in regions that are no longer fully under government control. The resources these development actors bring—​or simply their presence—​can have an impact on the relations between rural communities and armed groups. While aid often does improve livelihoods of rural communities, it can also make communities less safe and less resilient.

8.7.  When Aid Attracts Violence The notion that aid can do harm is not new. A recent systematic review concluded that aid given in situations of conflict more often increases than dampens violence (Zürcher 2017). This finding is in line with the a sizeable “do-​no-​harm” literature, which warns that aid can be misappropriated by local violent actors and used to sustain violence (for example, Anderson 1999; Uvin 1998). Scholars have shown that aid can be misused by rebels to finance their wars (Bradbury and Kleinmann 2010; Goodhand 2002; De Waal 1997; Easterly 2001); that it can alleviate the pressure on local actors to provide basic services to their constituencies, freeing up resources that can be invested in violence (Polman

 



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2010; Nunn and Qian 2014); that it can fuel conflict by increasing corruption (Goodhand 2005, 2006) or by providing private security firms with a perverse incentive to encourage conflict (Aikins 2010; Wilder and Gordon 2009). While this literature has asked how aid can provide incentives for violent actors to commit more violence, I ask how aid can enlarge or shrink the space for civil action. This is a slight but important shift in perspective, which helps to discover new mechanisms by which aid can make a community less safe. I have again employed a mixed-​methods approach: I first report important insights from the semistructured expert interviews. I then provide additional evidence from the survey data. Broadly speaking, external actors have an impact on the coping strategies described in this chapter in two ways. First, they can—​inadvertently—​attract more violence to communities. Their actions can increase the risk of collateral damage, and even of direct and targeted violence against civilians. Second, they can damage the social fabric that enables some of the coping strategies. For example, they can make negotiations between rural communities and armed groups more difficult or can make it more difficult or impossible for communities to be perceived as neutral.

8.7.1.  Insights from Expert Interviews A first lesson that emerged from the expert interviews was that whether aid attracts violence to a community depends on who or what group delivers the aid. Some donors are seen as neutral; others are labeled “enemies.” These labels are ascribed by the insurgents, mainly based on the national origin of the organizations and donors. All Western actors are as seen as alien and potentially threatening to local, traditional Islamic values; however, some are clearly labeled as enemies. Many respondents reported that US and British NGOs, even though they may be strictly humanitarian, are often seen as the extended arm of the military enemy. NGOs from other nations, even if those nations took part in the ISAF, however, were often considered “acceptable.” Insurgents do attack the specific projects and personnel of aid organizations they have labeled as “enemy.” Shutting down such projects does not always involve direct violence against community members. Typically, contractors and equipment are targeted. But since the contractors are often locals, and “collateral damages” are frequent, the community typically also suffers violence. According to respondents, insurgent violence against aid projects and the communities that host those projects can also happen when insurgents do not approve of the type of project. Aid projects can attract violence when they are deemed “un-​Islamic” by the Taliban. For example, many respondents mentioned

 

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that schools for girls or projects specifically for women were often labeled un-​ Islamic. More generally, projects that can be perceived as attempts to change traditional social and cultural patterns are much more likely to encounter resistance than are infrastructure projects aimed at providing basic services, such as clean drinking water, irrigation, or electricity. The projects most likely to attract violence are those the Taliban perceives to benefit the government or its security structures. These often include roads and bridges that will make remote villages accessible for vehicles, including military vehicles. Another example of infrastructure that appears attracts violence is buildings for government use, such as courthouses or police stations.

8.7.2.  Insights from Survey Data The survey data corroborates what many respondents already reported—​ development aid can indeed attract violence. We asked respondents to try to “think of an instance, in your community or in a neighboring community, when groups such as the Taliban used violence in order to obstruct a development project?” If they could, we also asked about the specific type of development aid that had attracted the violence. Over the whole sample, 6.4  percent said they could think of such an instance.5 Looking only at districts that were mostly under government control, the number was lower, as expected, dropping to 4 percent. This was to be expected because in the districts under government control, insurgents should lack to capacity to attack development aid. Conversely, we would expect to see that the number of those who recall instances of violence against aid projects is higher in districts where the Taliban exercise some or most control. This was in fact the case. In such districts the number reached 10 percent. Looking only at respondents from the one district that was fully under the control of armed groups, the number was higher still, reaching 15 percent. We then asked all the respondents who had mentioned instances of violence against development projects to specify, if possible, the type of project it was. This was an open-​ended question, which was coded afterward. Only 6 percent of the respondents who were asked the follow-​up question could not specify the type of aid project, which increases our confidence that the majority of respondents referred to specific instances of violence about which they indeed had firsthand knowledge. The clear majority of all violence, 48 percent, was directed against the construction of roads and bridges. This suggests that violence is predominately used when the insurgents see a project as a possible military threat, just as many interview partners had suggested in qualitative interviews. This is compared to

 



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13 percent of the reported attacks that were directed against school construction. The data cannot tell us whether schools that were supposed to teach both boys and girls were targeted more frequently than other schools, but anecdotal evidence suggests that it is especially the notion of co-​teaching boys and girls in the same building or even in the same classrooms that infuriates the Taliban. Electrification projects were mentioned by 9 percent. It is possible that violence against electrification is not motivated by tactical or ideological motivations but is rather a sign of violent competition among local contractors. None of the other mentioned development projects received more than 6 percent.

8.7.5.  Damaging the Authority Needed for Civil Action As we have seen, development actors can inadvertently help to attract violence when insurgents see their projects as threatening or incompatible with their ideology. But there are other, subtler ways in which external actors may undermine some of the strategies for civil action. According to many of the experts we interviewed, one such way is by inadvertently undermining the authority and the position of the institutions that have the agency to exploit the space for civil actions. These are the traditional shuras and elders. As we have seen, elders and shuras often negotiate with insurgents, and many respondents noted that the success of such negotiations depends on whether a particular shura or elders are respected and believed to be independent from local commanders. But external actors sometimes undermine the shuras. For example, Karell (2015) describes how in one district in Helmand province, foreign donors channeled resources to the locals they could best, or most easily, understand and relate to. These locals were usually not the socially embedded, traditional community leaders, but farmers who had become members of armed local militias and were now posing as community leaders. As the traditional elites in the community became weaker and the newly empowered elites grew stronger, intercommunity tensions and grievances increased. The social fabric of the community suffered, which, as we have been, can make communities less capable of negotiating and thus more vulnerable to violence. External actors, working closely with the Afghan state, have also forced significant changes on the village structures by introducing the so-​called Community Development Councils (CDCs). Unlike traditional shuras, the CDCs are elected bodies and are required to include a female member. They often exist in parallel to the traditional shura, but sometimes they also replace it. It depends very much on the local situation whether the coherence and organizational capacity of communities is strengthened or weakened by the councils. The new

 

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CDCs can be as respected and effective as the older shuras, but there are also examples of increased community tensions and less community coherence in the wake of these forced institutional reforms, making the communities less resilient and less able to reach deals with armed groups.

8.7.6. Damaging Neutrality External actors can also undermine the neutrality of communities, again, mostly inadvertently. We have already seen that some aid organizations, by virtue of their national origins, can attract hostility. Additionally, some types of aid attract more violence than others. But there are other, subtler ways of undermining neutrality. For example, most donors want to showcase their projects and make their contributions highly visible. It is common to see all kinds of flags and signs highlighting that a given project was funded by this or that Western organization. From the perspective of the organization, one of the rationales for doing this is that they hope to earn the gratitude of the community, which may in turn lead to better security for the organization. But the effect may be that all the visible signs of cooperation between a Western organization and a community puts that community on the radar of insurgents as potential collaborators or as potentially taxable. External actors could make more efforts to symbolically support the neutrality of communities, for example, by putting up fewer signs, or by working through non-​Western local NGOs. They could also learn to frame the discourse about what they want to achieve in ways that are more compatible with the frames and discourses of the very traditional Afghan society. As of now, many development actors (and also the Afghan central government) frame the discourse very much in terms of modernization and progress based on Western models. Most rural communities are keen to cooperate with aid agencies, but at the same time, they are very critical of social change. Development actors are not always aware that many rural residents deeply mistrust the “modernization discourse” and associate it with a threat to their cultural values. That mistrust runs deep: in 2016, 67.2 percent of rural residents said that they “strongly agreed” or “somewhat agreed” with the statement, “Foreign development aid is threatening our local way of life and Islamic values in our community, although it may bring material benefits.” This widespread cultural mistrust of Western values makes it easy for the Taliban to brand cooperating with Western development actors as un-​Islamic and thus legitimize violence against those communities. Whether or not this violence is intended to shut down aid projects or is used for other tactical purposes—​taxing, deterring collaboration, or securing locations with strategic value—​does not matter. What matters is that Western frames make it easier for the insurgents to legitimize violence.

 



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8.7.7.  How Development Actors Can Avoid Shrinking the Space for Civil Action Assuming that these observations are correct and that development actors often do contribute to decreased security, the question is, Can development actors do better? I believe they can do more to avoid causing inadvertent harm, but there are opportunity costs involved, which could mean that less aid reaches communities. As we have seen, whether or not aid attracts violence also depends to no small degree on the capacity of the insurgents. In relatively secure and government-​controlled districts, the violence against aid projects and communities cooperating with aid actors is far less frequent. Development actors could take a principled decision to focus their activities these districts. This would, however, imply that less aid should be delivered to communities in less secure districts, which may need it most. This presents development actors with a dilemma: They can try to do less harm, but it may mean that fewer people benefit from their assistance. Or they can continue to provide assistance in insecure regions, but it may increase violence. Which has the greater value—​more access to essential services or less violence? Although there is no easy answer to this question, the aid agencies should not ignore it. If development actors decide to continue delivering aid in less secure districts, they should—​whenever possible—​use participatory approaches. In our context, that would mean discussing aid projects with communities’ traditional authorities, the shuras and elders and letting them decide on the types of project. It is unlikely that local institutions would pick projects they think may attract violence. The downside of this is that communities may prioritize not the projects that promise to have the most developmental impact, but those that are the least controversial. In fact, one such participatory project ended up predominantly funding the construction of schools. When the elders were asked why they so often preferred schools over other pressing needs, they responded that school projects were the least likely to create problems in their districts. Development actors should avoid infrastructure projects that could benefit military actors. As we have seen, roads and bridges that make remote villages accessible also increase the risk for violence. One respondent gave a telling example. A  community wanted the US Army, within the framework of the Commanders Emergency Response Program, to build a bridge that would make the village accessible year-​round. The bridge that was built was strong enough to bear the weight of a Humvee. Sadly, the Taliban immediately destroyed it. The respondent added that he was certain that the bridge would not have been destroyed if it had been built to only hold the weight of, for example, a donkey. There is probably some deeper truth is this anecdote. More modest projects

 

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often tend do more good and less harm than some ambitious projects. Bridges for donkeys may be better than bridges for Humvees. Finally, external actors working in insecure regions who are truly committed to minimizing the risks for civilians need to better understand the complex social fabric of their environment. They need to learn to appreciate that the civil space in insecure regions depends on the ability of civilians to plea, negotiate, and be neutral, and that this space depends—​to some extent—​on continued existence of family ties and tribal ties between members of the community and member of the insurgency. Social, cultural and often ethnic similarities, as well as shared traditional and Islamic values enable communities and insurgents to speak the same cultural language. They can invoke similar values, refer to the same narratives, and use the same frames. Community leaders can and do frame their pleas in a language that uses the same values and symbols used by many of the insurgents. It is these ties and the shared value system that enables the cooperation needed for civil actions. This also means that the boundaries between friend and foe are often fluid in rural communities in Afghanistan. Recognizing this does not come easily to many Western actors (nor to many Afghan actors in Kabul), who are much more at home in the master narrative of macrolevel conflict that pits “modernizers” and “Westerners” against the Taliban and terrorists. But for any actor at the local level, this master narrative does not adequately reflect their social reality they have to navigate. Knowing the local social fabric and its frames may help external actors better appreciate and support the space for civil action that continues to exist, even in such an unlikely context as Afghanistan.

8.8.  Civil Action in Insurgencies This chapter has demonstrated that civil action is possible and takes place even in the most unlikely circumstances—​amid a cycle of insurgency-​counterinsurgency violence that kills thousands of civilians every year. The civil actions describe here consist of mainly four strategies: pleading and negotiating with armed groups using the same cultural and religious frames that motivates the armed groups; taking a neutral position, which includes preventing community members from taking part on either side of the war; setting up self-​ defense units; and seeking the protection of larger armed groups. These four strategies are enabled by the authority and the capacity of the village councils and the village elders, institutions that are both rooted in traditional structures and traditional value systems (even though the Afghan state has attempted to slightly modernize these institutions and to co-​opt them into the official governance system).

 



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Village shuras and elders can speak for the community, and they have the authority and capacity to guide and discipline community members. This is a precondition for the “negotiating and pleading” and the “neutrality” strategies. Negotiations tend to be more effective when the shuras are seen as respected and independent and not under the control of local strong men, and when they have sufficient organizational capacity to credibly commit to the terms of the deals they negotiate. Negotiations also have a better chance of succeeding when the insurgents are primarily locally recruited and have social and reputational ties to the communities. These conditions are often met in Afghanistan. Villagers see these strategies as quite effective. About half of all respondents think that the villagers themselves can contribute to their own security. Nevertheless, we should not overestimate or even romanticize the effectiveness of civil action in this context. These are the coping strategies of the most vulnerable segments of society, and they cannot transform the structure of the conflict. But they may help to generate some breathing space and to dampen violence in some locales. The opportunities and incentives for ending up with more violence or less violence depend on the relations of actors. This chapter was concerned with the relations between insurgents, rural communities and development actors. As we have seen, the actions of development actors in relations to the communities has an impact on the relations between communities and insurgents. Often, the result is less, not more security for the communities. This is because development aid can attract violence by insurgents which want to prevent communities working together with development actors. Furthermore, development actors can damage the social fabric which enables some of the coping strategies, for example by damaging and bypassing local authority structures, or by too tightly engaging with local communities thereby damaging their neutral position. In such a context, development actors face a real dilemma: They can continue to work with rural communities, and risk attracting more violence. Or they can withdraw, abandoning communities in need of basic support. There is not easy way out, but in order to make an informed and ethical decision, it is important that external actors learn to understand how they may impact the space for civil action.

Notes 1. All this data is free and accessible at the Asia Foundation website. See http://​asiafoundation.org/​ where-​we-​work/​afghanistan/​survey/​data/​

 

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2. Böhnke et al. (2015, 2017). 3. From the Survey of the Afghan People, North Booster. All this data is free and accessible at the Asia Foundation website. See http://​asiafoundation.org/​where-​we-​work/​afghanistan/​ survey/​data/​ For more information about the survey, see section 8.2, “Data and Methods.” 4. From the Survey of the Afghan People, North Booster. All this data is free and accessible at the Asia Foundation website. See http://​asiafoundation.org/​where-​we-​work/​afghanistan/​ survey/​data/​, and section 8.2, “Data Methods.” 5. From the Survey of the Afghan People, North Booster. All this data is free and accessible at the Asia Foundation website. See http://​asiafoundation.org/​where-​we-​work/​afghanistan/​ survey/​data/​

References Aikins, Matthieu. 2010. “Last Stand in Kandahar: Can the Military’s Massive Counterinsurgency Gamble Salvage the Afghan War?” The Walrus December. Anderson, Mary B. 1999. Do No Harm. Boulder, CO: Lynne Reinner. Böhnke, Jan R., Jan Koehler, and Christoph Zürcher. 2015. “Assessing the Impact of Development Cooperation in North East Afghanistan 2007–​2013. Final Report.” Federal Ministry for Economic Cooperation and Development. Bonn, Germany. https://​www.bmz.de/​de/​ zentrales_​downloadarchiv/​erfolg_​und_​kontrolle/​Afghanistan_​Impact_​A ssessment_​II_​ en.pdf. Böhnke, Jan Rasmus, Jan Koehler, and Christoph Zürcher. 2017. “State Formation as it Happens:  Insights from a Repeated Cross-​Sectional Study in Afghanistan, 2007–​2015.” Conflict, Security & Development 17 (2): 91–​116. Bradbury, Mark, and Michael Kleinmann. 2010. “Winning Hearts and Minds? Examining the Relationship between Aid and Security in Kenya.” Report of the Feinstein International Center, Boston, MA. De Waal, Alexander. 1997. Famine Crimes:  Politics and the Disaster Relief Industry in Africa. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. De Waal, Alex. 2015. The Real Politics of the Horn of Africa: Money, War and the Business of Power. New York: John Wiley & Sons (ebook). Easterly, William. 2001. The Elusive Quest for Growth: Economists’ Adventures and Misadventures in the Tropics. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Goodhand, Jonathan. 2002. “Aiding Violence or Building Peace? The Role of International Aid in Afghanistan.” Third World Quarterly 23 (5): 837–​859. Goodhand, Jonathan. 2005. Aid, Conflict, and Peacebuilding in Sri Lanka, 2000–​2005. Colombo, Sri Lanka: Asia Foundation. Goodhand, Jonathan. 2006. Aiding Peace? The Role of NGOs in Armed Conflict. Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner. Karell, Daniel. 2015. “Aid, Power, and Grievances:  Lessons for War and Peace from Rural Afghanistan.” Economics of Peace and Security Journal 10 (2): 28–​42. Morris, Benny. 2009. 1948:  A History of the First Arab-​Israeli War. New Haven, CT:  Yale University Press. Nunn, Nathan, and Nancy Qian. 2014. “US Food Aid and Civil Conflict.” American Economic Review 104 (6): 1630–​1666. Polman, Linda. 2010. The Crisis Caravan: What’s Wrong with Humanitarian Aid? Translated by Liz Waters. New York: Metropolitan Books. Uvin, Peter. 1998. Aiding Violence:  The Development Enterprise in Rwanda. West Hartford, CT: Kumarian Press.

 



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Weinstein, Jeremy M. 2007. Inside Rebellion: The Politics of Insurgent Violence. Cambridge Studies in Comparative Politics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wilder, Andrew, and Stuart Gordon. 2009. “Money Can’t Buy America Love.” Foreign Policy (online), December 1. Accessed November 28, 2010. https://​foreignpolicy.com/​2009/​12/​01/​ money-​cant-​buy-​america-​love/​. Wood, Reed M. 2010. “Rebel Capability and Strategic Violence against Civilians.” Journal of Peace Research 47 (5): 601–​614. Wood, Reed M. 2012. “Armed Intervention and Civilian Victimization in Intrastate conflicts.” Journal of Peace Research 49 (5): 647–​660. Wood, Reed M. 2014. “From Loss to Looting? Battlefield Costs and Rebel Incentives for Violence.” International Organization 68 (4): 979–​999. Zürcher, Christoph. 2017. “What Do We (Not) Know about Development Aid and Violence? A Systematic Review.” World Development. First online publication, June. https://​doi.org/​ 10.1016/​j.worlddev.2017.05.013. UNAMA. 2016. Afghanistan. Protection of Civilians in Armed Conflict. Annual Report of the Human Rights Unit of United Nations Assistance Mission in Afghanistan Kabul, Afghanistan, February 2017

 

 

PA RT   I I I

CIVIL ACTION AND THE RESOLUTION OF VIOLENT CONFLICT

 

 

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Civil Action against ETA Terrorism in Basque Country Javier Argomaniz

9.1.  Introduction The Basque Country in Northern Spain has experienced political violence justified by ethno-​nationalism, right wing ideals, and state security in the last forty years. Yet the vast majority has been at the hands of the armed separatist organization Euskadi Ta Askatasuna (ETA).1 In their pursuit of an independent Basque state,2 ETA and associated groups killed 836 people, injured 2,365 and carried out 3,600 terrorist attacks (Carmena et al. 2013). About 40,000 people received threats, more than 1,600 had bodyguard protection and tens of thousands (estimations vary from 60,000 to more than 200,000) were forced to leave the region and live “exiled” in other parts of Spain (de la Cuesta et al., 2011, 40). ETA’s bloody campaign against the military and the Spanish and Basque police forces caused a large number of civilian deaths but also gave the ETA considerable degree of social control, especially in some small towns and rural areas (Elorza 2000; Domínguez 2003; Uriarte 2003). Even in the 1990s when the number of attacks was declining, the ETA remained an ominous presence in regional and national politics. Yet on October 20, 2011, after a long and protracted campaign, an exhausted ETA, desperately out of touch with public opinion and suffering from a dramatically reduced capacity for action, declared a cessation of armed activity. The announcement represented the end of ETA’s activities. The broader sociopolitical movement that traditionally sustained them, the Movimiento de Liberación Nacional Vasco (MLNV) has explicitly renounced the use of violence to achieve its aims.3 A consensus exist now within Sortu,4 MLNV’s political party, and among the dense network of institutions that form the movement, that the use of violence was a strategic mistake. Even if there are doubts about whether 229

 

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self-​criticism about their past support for terrorism has gone far enough,5 the Basque Country is now a postconflict society. The public political debate has slowly but surely shifted from how to end terrorism to notions of memory, truth, reconciliation, and the prevention of future violence (Elzo 2014). This chapter will look at how civil action affected the trajectory of the conflict in the Basque Country setting. It will argue that civil action against ETA in the Basque case, carried out by community groups, political parties, local authorities, the regional government, and other actors, was consequential for this outcome. Data have been collected from semistructured interviews with activists, material produced by community groups available online or in archives, media reports, regional government documents, academic works and surveys, and other forms of quantitative data (such as numbers of terrorist attacks and casualties in different periods). Triangulation of this variety of data sources has served to mitigate possible methodological weaknesses such as interviewees misremembering or omitting details or the potential for representatives of the groups to overestimate the impact of their work. The chapter is divided in four main sections. The first three address the different stages in the Basque civil response and describe the network of actors that became the vanguard of citizens’ contestation of ETA while charting the history and evolution of this opposition movement. The relationships between these groups are elaborated on and so is the key facilitating role adopted by local political structures. Their repertoire of contention and strategies are examined in these sections, whereas the impact of their action is discussed immediately after. The chapter concludes with a summary of findings and the ramifications that this case has for the incipient literature on civil action in conflict settings.

9.2. Context Though a silent and passive majority of Basques have unreservedly rejected ETA’s actions for a long time;6 before the rise of the peace movement, any social responses to violence in Basque Country were isolated events that lacked continuity. This was especially the case in the late 1970s during the worst period of violence, when ETA attempted to destabilize the Spanish transition to a democratic regime: 30 percent of their total death toll comes from this 1977–​1980 phase (1980 was ETA’s bloodiest year ever, with 92 deaths) and 70 percent of their killings were committed from 1977 to 1989 (López Romo et al. 2014). During this late 1970s transition period and the early 1980s, mass shows of rejection of the terrorist group were scarce (Marrodán 2015; Moreno 2015). As Lopez Romo et al. reported (2014, 120), 76 percent of ETA’s murders in 1979 received no social response of any kind, whereas the figure in 1984 was even

 



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higher (82  percent). The few exceptions were mainly one-​off demonstrations in reaction to high-​profile murders that were organized by the new legal parties emerging in the fledgling democracy. The first of these demonstrations did in fact occur early in the ETA’s onslaught against the new democratic regime: on June 28, 1978, the Communist Party Partido Comunista de España (PCE) held a small rally in the Basque town of Portugalete in response to the ETA killing the same day of the journalist José María Portell.7 Also in 1978, the nationalist Partido Nacionalista Vasco (PNV), the communist PCE and Partido del Trabajo de Euskadi, and the socialists Partido Socialista de Euskadi-​Partido Socialista Obrero Español (PSE-​PSOE), together with the leftist trade unions Comisiones Obreras (CCOO) and Unión General de Trabajadores (UGT), organized the first major popular protest against all forms of political violence in Basque Country. There were also in this period some symbolic initiatives from the Basque intelligentsia, the most prominent being on May 26, 1980, when thirty-​three intellectuals and artists presented a manifesto denouncing the violence.8 These examples demonstrate that political parties (especially the Communist PCE) and socialist trade unions had an important role in the first few spontaneous antiviolence protests. It should be noted, however, that a majority of these gatherings were rather small in size and had limited reach. The larger demonstrations tended to avoid naming ETA specifically or mentioning the word “terrorism,” preferring instead to use euphemisms such as “armed violence” (Castells 2015). Not until October 1983 is ETA mentioned explicitly, when its name appeared on the main banner of a major demonstration (“With the People, Against ETA”), organized by the Basque government to protest against the murder of captain Alberto Martín Barrios (López Romo et al. 2014). This ambiguity was prevalent at a time when the MLNV mobilization was becoming dominant in the streets of Basque Country. While their victims were often ignored, the killings of ETA members prompted labor strikes and mass demonstrations, in which glorifying terrorism and inciting violence were common features. Public funerals would be organized in their places of origin, and served as rituals to praise and honor the militants and ETA itself (Casquete 2003) These gatherings had larger turnouts than most of the rallies organized to protest their actions, and in a turbulent period of rapid change, they served not only as a show of strength to intimidate political opponents but also as a mechanism to provide supporters with a sense of belonging, security, and pride. The reasons behind these public attitudes are varied and complex:  fear of reprisals from ETA and its sympathizers is arguably the most significant. The agreement with ETA’s political goals of part of the population—​even if they rejected its methods—​was another obstacle. A key issue is the fact that blame for the violence was widely distributed (Llera 1992). In other words, this was a period

 

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when political violence was far from being monopolized by ETA: right-​wing violent groups with links to the state were also committing atrocities in Basque Country,9 and the police and security forces had still not been purged of Francoist elements, so they often acted in a heavy-​handed manner and committed frequent and serious human rights abuses (Reinares and Jaime-​Jiménez 2000; Domínguez 1998, 2003). Moreover, memories of the repression by the Franco dictatorship were fresh and, thanks to ETA’s activities during the last years of the regime, the group was still benefiting from its anti-​Francoist public image. In a 1978 public survey, 48 percent of Basques described ETA militants as “patriots or idealists” (Linz 1986). As importantly, in a 1981 poll, when asked to give their opinion about ETA, as many as 48 percent of respondents refused to answer the question. This illustrates the pervasive climate of intimidation that existed in the period, to the point that many Basques kept their opinions to themselves for fear of ETA or for the belief that the majority of Basques supported the militants, a process that came to be described as a “spiral of silence” (Funes 1998b, 496).

9.3.  The Emergence of Civil Action in the Peace Movement This is the context in which the Basque peace movement rose to the fore. The movement encompassed various entities, but two organizations were especially significant because of their influence, visibility, and trajectory: Gesto por la Paz and Elkarri.10 Gesto por la Paz was born out of an initiative by a religious school (Colegio Calasancio de los Escolapios de Bilbao) and a Christian foundation (Colectivo Itaca) that were funded and supported by the Catholic Church.11 On November 26, 1985, the first gesto, or “gesture,” took place: 200 people gathered silently in Bilbao to protest the killings in Donostia-​San Sebastián of navy officers Rafael Melchor García and José Manuel Ibarzabal.12 Soon similar groups from local parishes doing the same appeared in other parts of Bilbao and the broader region. Members of this emerging network began coordinating their efforts in 1986, and eventually the Coordinadora Gesto por la Paz was formed, in April 1987.13 Gesto por la Paz opposed all forms of political violence. The group is best known for its anti-​ETA activism (since they were by far the main perpetrators), but in the mid-​1980s, they also actively denounced the Spanish state’s use of paralegal and terroristic violence14 and police abuses and torture. The group attracted a moderate Basque nationalist and nonnationalist audience, was loosely organized and coordinated, and engaged in classical mobilization through marches and symbolic acts.

 



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As a grass-​roots movement Gesto was made up of a large number of small, local independent groups across Basque Country, and by the 1990s, as many as 175 groups were simultaneously active at one point.15 In its twenty-​eight years of existence, Gesto staged tens of thousands of protests (in 1996 alone, it held 8,150). The group conducted two main types of noninstitutional collective action: (a) annual peace marches in January and (b) the so-​called Gestos, fifteen-​ minute public gatherings that were held after every politically motivated killing (either by ETA or the state security forces). At times when ETA was holding kidnapped individuals, Gestos would also meet weekly (every Monday) to demand their release. It is precisely those gatherings to protest a series of high-​ profile abductions during the mid-​1990s16 that catapulted Gesto into the public consciousness: “Our high point is in the 93–​97 four-​year period . . . when we have a visibility and a public relevance in the printed press. Our messages begin to be well-​known. We have an important presence in the mass media. We have an important relationship with the political class.”17 At their peak, these public gatherings occurred in more than 160 different geographic locations in the Basque Country. Attendance would range from 15 people to 40,000, though the numbers were much higher following especially dramatic incidents. For example, on July 12, 1997, Gesto helped to organize the largest mass demonstration in the Basque Country’s history, in Bilbao, the region’s largest city, which brought together hundreds of thousands of people18 to demonstrate against ETA kidnapping of the Basque local councilor, Miguel Ángel Blanco. Gesto’s activities systematized the social response to terrorism, improving on the intermittent and ad-​hoc public reactions that had characterized the period before their arrival (Gómez Moral 2013; Urkijo 2013; Etxaniz 2014; Castells 2015). The impact of this activism is clear when we look at the figures: whereas in 1979 only 21 percent of ETA’s killings were accompanied by social mobilization (18 percent in 1984), starting in 1986, there was social mobilization after every single occasion (Lopez Romo et  al. 2014, 120). Furthermore, whereas in the 1976–​1979 phase, only 4 percent of ETA kidnappings generated any form of social response (15 percent in 1980–​1985), there was a complete turnaround after the emergence of the peace movement, and in the period from 1986 to 1997, as many as 82 percent of kidnappings were followed by a significant public reaction (Llera and Leonisio 2015, 153). An interesting feature of Gesto’s processes of contention was its use of symbolic communication and political rituals. Gesto has been especially active in promoting emotional communication through the use of symbols. It introduced the wearing of el lazo azul (a blue ribbon) pinned on the chest to demonstrate a connection with the principles of the movement. Another essential feature of Gesto’s demonstrations is that they were silent. This was meant to symbolize

 

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participants’ opposition to political violence of any kind and their refusal to be associated with any particular political party. Their gestos would always take place at the same time and in the same place; they were rituals that dramatized the response but also routinized it, as they were designed to mirror the repetitive breakout of violence. With the recurrent manifestations of silence, they sought affective identification and to influence an audience of passive observers. So the practice was not only about naming and shaming; it also acted as a mechanism to increase public awareness of the group. Political rituals were thus not only a form of expressive contestation but did in fact fulfill a number of instrumental goals: they raised the collective awareness of the movement, strengthened the participants’ commitment, garnered widespread media attention, and attracted more recruits (Gómez Moral 2013; Urkijo 2013; Etxaniz 2014). So the sympathy of the Basque print media toward these pacifist groups was crucial. A key insight in this case study is that NGOs affect the conflict trajectory because they can act as a firewall against terrorist recruitment by formulating new frames that damage the violent actor’s aura and prestige in the broader community. The part played by the media is fundamental in this, because they act as a resonance chamber that amplifies their messages. Gesto’s persistent, committed campaigning had to overcome severe obstacles, especially at the beginning. Finding access to public space in which to contest ETA’s violence was a challenge in the late 1970s and early 1980s. As previously described, this was because the MLNV has traditionally maintained tight control of the “street” as a political space, and keeps its sympathizers constantly mobilized through demonstrations and public acts (Aulestia 1998; Tejerina 2001; Casquete 2003). This was done to amplify the group’s social and political influence but also to compensate for its comparatively disappointing electoral support. The MLNV developed an activist culture with high political socialization, and the public arena was saturated with its repertoire of contentious action. Part of what makes this civil resistance so important is that it was articulated by occupying public spaces, spaces that in the past had been controlled by the MLNV for their own political expression. Thus these civilian groups undermine the MLNV’s efforts to achieve complete domination of the public arena: they challenge the MLNV’s use of the street as a mechanism for social control and contestation. This demonstrates how the performative dimension of nonviolent action can have strong instrumental underpinnings, whether they are intentional or not. In the mid-​1990s, Gesto’s and other civic groups’ hard-​won space was challenged when they started facing aggressive counterprotests by the MLNV. These counterprotests were part of a broader strategy by ETA, introduced in the mid-​ 1990s19 to compensate for the deterioration of its military strength and the cracks that were appearing in its attempt to control society. This new strategy relied

 



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on broadening its target selection to encompass increasingly larger swathes of Basque civil society, including local politicians, judges, civil servants, journalists, and academics (Sánchez-​Cuenca 2009). ETA assassinations and its policy of organized harassment and persecution (Kale Borroka), which was carried out by hardline ETA supporters, produced an asphyxiating atmosphere of intimidation, especially for those who publicly opposed ETA violence and its political project (Intxaurbe, Ruiz Vieytez, and Urrutia 2016). Peace campaigners would then have to face the rival protesters who were lining up in front of them, holding up their own banners, separated by the police. Often, the situation was tense. Participants in demonstrations against ETA would be repeatedly threatened, intimidated, insulted, and physically assaulted (Funes 1998a; Calleja 2006; Rodríguez Fouz 2010; Gómez Moral 2013; Etxaniz 2014). Under unbearable pressure, Gestos had to be called off in a number of sites. The following quote from a Gesto member (Cuesta 2000, 198) is very illustrative: Those were tough times. We had to suffer the counter-​demonstrations. They would stay just two meters away from us. In a small town like Zarautz this means you would have opposite you a cousin, a neighbour. There were parents at the Gesto who had children on the other side, shouting. They would threaten and insult us . . . Other Gesto members had their shop windows smashed. In that period we suffered death threats and chases through the streets. When the event was over, they would follow us with their Euskal Herria Askatu [Freedom for Basque Country] banner to our home or the pub where we had a drink after the gathering. People were scared because fifteen minutes in front of them is tough. They had the nerve to take pictures and then they would make signs with them. People were intimidated, they were afraid. They would identify you in your day-​to-​day life and that’s hard to bear, you need to be prepared. Some would say that they were sorry that they support us and defended the same principles but that they could not go. Some people would start trembling the day before the event, those who would be at the front. In parallel to Gesto (but protected from MLNV reprisals), a new actor was quickly becoming the other leading Basque pacifist organization of the period—​ even if it actually self-​defined as a “mediation movement.” Elkarri, born in 1992, had its roots in the MLNV, and its original members were activists who shared ETA’s objectives but had become disenchanted with its violence for different reasons: moral (it was wrong) or instrumental (it was ineffective). Soon membership expanded to include other political options and eventually the organization gravitated toward the moderate nationalist parties20.

 

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Elkarri’s approach was based on propagating the notion that in Basque Country terrorist violence was a reflection of a preexisting political conflict caused by long-​standing historic grievances the Basques felt regarding the fulfillment of their national rights (Ruíz Soroa 2008). As a result, they regarded the reaching of a settlement between ETA and the Spanish governments as the only path toward peace in Basque country. Such discourse was further developed with the progressive introduction of new frames:  the idea of empate infinito, or “permament tie,” the notion that ETA would never be defeated by Spanish counterterror policies and therefore a political solution was the only possible path to peace, and tercer espacio (third space), the idea that a majority of the Basques rejected terrorism but desired to end it through negotiations. In contrast to Gesto, Elkarri was a highly professionalized, technocratic, and hierarchical organization. 21 Both Gesto and Elkarri embraced collective action, but Elkarri focused on promoting its political agenda by lobbying political parties and the MLNV. It did so mainly by organizing citizen forums, publishing press releases, and meeting with political representatives. Unlike Elkarri, Gesto did not formally support any particular political solution to the conflict but reaffirmed the principle that any political project could be developed in a democratic Basque Country without resorting to violence (Alonso 2007). Gesto also disagreed with Elkarri’s original stance that collective rights are as valuable as individual human rights. In practical terms, these differences led to an unintended division of labor:  Gesto was more social, Elkarri more institutional (Funes 1998a; Gago Anton 2012). Gesto rallied and organized those who already opposed ETA’s violence; Elkarri fostered contacts between Basque political parties and helped to set the foundations for the MLNV’s eventual shift to renouncing violence. It should be noted that these organizations were operating in a more favorable political context than the immediate past. During those years there was a strong political unity among all the main Basque parties on the question of terrorism. This consensus was based on the Pact of Ajuria Enea. Signed in 1988, it brought together all the major Basque political forces (with the exception of MLNV’s main party Herri Batasuna). In a show of unity, the signatories agreed to pursue the common goal of eradicating terrorism from Basque Country and rejected any form of collaboration with any political party that endorsed and supported violent action. In practice this led to a political and institutional cordon sanitaire around the MLNV. Furthermore, this crucial agreement contributed to the solidification of democratic practices in the region and gave a strong impetus to social mobilization (Llera and Leonisio 2015). In addition to the wave of rallies and demonstrations jointly organized by Basque political parties themselves, the Basque government would assist in the funding of some of the work by peace groups. It soon became a pattern that major demonstrations would be backed

 



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by both peace organizations and the Ajuria Enea parties. This shows how institutional support—​or at least implicit approval—​can be very beneficial for community groups in contexts in which the local authorities enjoy broad legitimacy.

9.4.  The Constitutionalist Turn In the late 1990s, a new stage opened and we witnessed the rise of a civic movement that did not stop at simply protesting against violence; it also promoted a new political narrative. These organizations were run by a group of Basque intellectuals and political figures to campaign against not only ETA but also what they saw as an ambivalent and indecisive attitude in the moderate nationalist parties in power. It was widely felt that the regional government could do much more to suppress the MLNV’s violence, which was routinely and disproportionally suffered by politicians, businessmen, journalists, academics, artists, and other public figures from the nonnationalist camp. They clamored for the authorities to defend the legal democratic order by using the tools of the criminal justice system to protect citizens’ human and political rights, which were routinely being abused by ETA and its sympathizers. The roots of the movement are found in the massive public mobilization that came as a reaction to the murder of Miguel Ángel Blanco. Blanco was a young town councilor from the government party (the center-​right Partido Popular) who lived in the small Basque town of Ermua. ETA abducted him on July 10, 1997, and threatened to kill him within forty-​eight hours unless the government reallocated all ETA prisoners to jails closer to the Basque Country.22 The Spanish government rejected the ultimatum, and despite huge popular protests against the kidnapping Blanco was murdered on July 12. The murder became a tipping point in the social contestation of ETA (Sabucedo, Rodríguez, and López 2000; Sáez de la Fuente 2011). Public revulsion led to massive demonstrations as more than six million people across the country took to the streets.23 This cathartic public reaction came to be described as the Espíritu de Ermua, Blanco’s hometown becoming the epicenter of the response with daily gatherings and vigils to demand Blanco’s release during the ultimatum. The Espíritu de Ermua crystalized in a new wave of civic groups: soon after the events, the Foro Ermua was born. Founded by a small group of activists and college professors, the Foro’s objective was to keep citizens mobilization alive and to promote a political alternative to the dominant Basque nationalism. The group’s main contribution is the elaboration of a political narrative for change that was adopted and developed by the other organizations that would soon join them in the civic and victims’ movements (Martínez Gorriarán 2008, 110). This narrative was based on the principle of “constitutionalism,” understood as

 

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the defense of liberal democracy and its institutions from the excesses of radical nationalism (Savater 2001; ¡Basta ya! Iniciativa Ciudadana 2004; Martínez Gorriarán 2003). Arguably, this incipient civic movement would have never developed in full had it not been for the growing division between the Basque nationalist and nonnationalist political parties that followed the signing, in September 1998, of the Pact of Lizarra. Supported by Elkarri, the pact formalized an agreement between the main nationalist parties and ETA to establish a political bloc and advance toward independence in return for ending the armed struggle. The development was interpreted as a reaction by moderate nationalist parties to the huge wave of popular mobilization against ETA that had been sparked by Blanco’s murder, which they saw as a threat not only to ETA but Basque nationalism as a whole. The pact was met with shock and dismay by the nonnationalists (or “constitutionalists”—​advocates of the state’s Constitution) because it came at a time when social support for ETA was at an all-​time low, with criticisms of Blanco’s murder surfacing even within the monolithic world of the MLNV (Martínez Gorriarán 2003; ¡Basta ya! Iniciativa Ciudadana 2004). Furthermore, the pact formalized, for the first time, a strategic alliance between democratic nationalism and an active terrorist organization. And even if ETA declared a ceasefire as the pact was announced, ETA’s youth support groups24 in charge of the Kale borroka maintained their levels of activity; in 1998 and 1999 there were 879 acts of harassment, aggression, severe beatings, and sabotage (de la Calle 2007, 436). These circumstances brought about increased political tension and the formation of a nationalist-​constitutionalist cleavage that was unheard of in Basque politics, which resulted in fears about the “Irelandization” of Basque Country: the creation of two distinct and opposed groups within society à la the divided community found in Northern Ireland. The fears of a spillover from existing political factionalism into broader social polarization did not, however, fully come to pass, mainly because of ETA’s frustration with the “slow” speed of political change, which led them to break the truce on November 1999. The collaboration between democratic and radical nationalism came to a halt a year later. This process did, however, have a deleterious effect in the former political unity against ETA, which took a long time to return to something resembling the halcyon days of the Pact of Ajuria Enea. In this period a very small group of Catholic priests founded Foro El Salvador25 to protest against the terrorist violence, the dominance of the nationalism ideology in the hierarchy of the Basque Catholic Church and the church’s neglect of nonnationalist victims (Vitoria Cormenzana 2009). Also in 1999, the most prominent entity of the civic movement, Basta Ya (Enough is enough) was

 



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formed to put the discourse of the Foro Ermua in practice through mobilization and public campaigns: “[Foro Ermua] is passive, very passive. And Basta Ya is much more dynamic, more activist. . . . It became a mean of expressing the anguish and the necessity to sustain a resistance.”26 Rather than wait for an attack to happen to protest, Basta Ya would take the initiative by organizing massive demonstrations. Formed around a small and tight leadership (veterans from the Foro Ermua and the pacifist movement), and relying on the work of large number of—​often anonymous—​volunteers operating informally under a very loose structure, Basta Ya was behind some of the most spectacular acts of the period. Basta Ya’s activism was also controversial because of their partisanship (in contrast to Gesto’s apolitical approach), which attracted censure by the nationalist press. Starting from their first major demonstrations, on February 19, 2000, Basta Ya brought together local politicians, intellectuals, and thousands of citizens to protest against ETA several times. During 2001 and 2002, Basta Ya celebrated demonstrations in Bilbao and Donostia-​San Sebastián. They also organized periodic press conferences, workshops, and contacts with international human rights organizations, the United Nations, and the European Parliament. Unlike Gesto, civic groups would choose on occasion to demonstrate in areas where there was a strong MLNV presence, including Batasuna’s local offices, signaling their complicity with ETA and symbolically pointing the blame at them for the violence. They therefore introduced a more confrontational approach to civil action. In fact, Basta Ya’s approach fits Bejan’s concept of “mere civility” (see the introduction to this volume). Unlike Gesto’s more traditional maximalist view of civility in which political disagreements are papered over with the practice of silent demonstrations, Basta Ya is locked in a political contest with the MLNV and the nationalist political establishment. In this case, the opposition to violence does not entail avoiding political disagreements and partisan debates. Indeed, some of the Basta Ya’s actions to signal the existence of an unjust and intolerable situation had a strong performative dimension. Martínez Gorriarán (2008, 139, 144) describes one protest at the official residence of the president of the Basque government at which fifty protesters covered their heads with orange hoods reminiscent of the color of the uniforms worn by death row inmates in the United States. They walked slowly and silently in a circle for thirty minutes, holding signs with the names of the collectives (local councilors, journalists, judges, etc.) threatened by ETA. Here, we must remember that public opposition to ETA has had serious personal costs for many. Public activism could result in being ostracized by the individual’s former social network and, in more serious cases, suffering persistent harassment and becoming a victim of violence. High-​profile members of

 

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some civic groups were murdered; many others received death threats, found their names on ETA lists of targets, and were forced to leave the region. In fact, two supporters of this movement: José Luis López de la Calle (journalist and founder of Foro Ermua) and Joseba Pagazaurtundúa (Basque policeman and Basta Ya member) were assassinated by ETA (Alonso, Domínguez, and García Rey 2010). The leader of Foro Salvador, the priest Jaime Larrínaga, was forced into exile following harassment and death threats. This in a context where more than a thousand of ETA opponents (including representatives of these civic groups) have required 24/​7 bodyguard service for years.27 The situation had been described by some as “ideological cleansing” (Calleja 2006), and whether or not one agrees with the description, there is no doubt that, to varying degrees, it certainly has been “high risk collective action.” Civic groups’ traditional allies and collaborators were victims’ organizations created to protect the rights of victims of terrorism and address their needs. The largest victims’ association in Spain is the Asociación Víctimas del Terrorismo (AVT) founded in 1981 in Madrid, but Basque victims have preferred to be part of the local Colectivo de Víctimas del Terrorismo en el País Vasco (COVITE), which was established in 1998. COVITE has made memorialization a key principle in their campaigns by bringing to light victims’ experiences as a painful remainder of the costs of political violence. They have also taken upon themselves the duty to challenge the narratives that traditionally legitimized ETA’s terrorism.28 In this effort they have often collaborated with the political foundations that started appearing in the late nineties, such as the Fundación para la Libertad.29 Most of these were established in the memory of well-​known ETA victims, including the Fundación Miguel Ángel Blanco,30 Fundación Gregorio Ordoñez,31 Fundación José Luis López de la Calle,32 and Fundación Fernando Buesa.33 It is clear from the above that civic and victims’ groups share similar narratives of the conflict. Both groups articulate their political vision around the defense of the Constitution, the rule of law, and the protection of political freedoms for all Basques (Martínez Gorriarán 2008). What differentiates them from the peace movement is that they mobilize not only against ETA but also the ideology of Basque nationalism, which they regard as the root of the problem. So there is an evolution from the pacifism of the eighties to the “constitutionalism” of the nineties. Of course, this does not mean that peace groups cease to exist when these other grass-​roots organizations emerge in the 1990s. They continue with their work, so that what we see in this period is a richer and more complex constellation of activists. It must be noted, however, that the sharp political divisions between nationalist and nonnationalist parties in the late 1990s that had dissolved the strong commitment against ETA that had been forged in the 1980s did result in the slow but constant decline of Gesto’s activity and

 



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relevance: “Once the Ajuria Enea pact collapses the political conditions are not the same and this is reflected in the difficulties that Gesto has to do its job.”34 The democratic unity that invigorated Gesto’s activism dissipated and was replaced with the political polarization that encouraged some of Gesto’s membership to leave and join the constitutionalist groups (others stayed and collaborated with both).35 Besides formulating a strong alternative narrative and strengthening social opposition to terrorism in a difficult moment for nonnationalists, the civic movement made another main contribution that is relatively prosaic but critical nonetheless. Because of the presence in their midst (and connections with) politicians from both parties, the constitutionalist movement acted as a bridge between the Socialists and the center-​right Partido Popular to encourage a common front against the late 1990s alliance between democratic nationalists and ETA. Rapprochement in Basque Country encouraged a compromise at the national level by both parties to reject any hypothetical peace for independence agreement with the nationalist bloc. The strong consensus resulted in the 2000 Acuerdo por las libertades y contra el Terrorismo, an accord between these two parties that strengthened the political response to ETA in a period when it had regained the initiative. As one of the interviewees noted: “The pacto por las libertades y contra el Terrorismo would have been very difficult without the existence of the civic movement. And that is the pact that terminates terrorism. It is what leads to the legal measures that from the rule of law attack ETA’s milieu that is connected to terrorism.”36 The pact resulted in the introduction of legislation, in 2002, that eventually led to the illegalization of MLNV’s political wing, which short-​circuited the flow of public funds to ETA units and pushed the movement into the political wilderness. As we will see next, this legislation had an important impact on ETA’s future decision to lay down arms. Despite its prominence, the constitutionalist surge was short-​lived. After strengthening the social opposition to any form of political collaboration with ETA and encouraging an effective institutional response to MLNV’s material support for terrorism; Basta Ya was torn apart by the rapprochement between the Basque socialists and nationalists, in 2003, that followed the failure of Lizarra and, more importantly, by the intensifying division in Madrid between the two main constitutionalist parties (PP and PSOE). The rift grew into a chasm after the election of the socialist leader José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero, in 2004, and his decision to initiate negotiations with ETA a year later, a move the PP radically opposed. The discord between the country’s two main parties spilled over into Basta Ya, which entered into a severe crisis and, in 2007, disappeared. A few of Basta Ya’s leaders decided then to launch a new political party, Unión Progreso y Democracia (UPyD), as an alternative to the traditional PP and PSOE.

 

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9.5.  MLNV’s Renunciation of Violence and the Role of Lokarri The last stage opened when formal talks between the government and ETA collapsed. The trigger was ETA’s exploding a car bomb in Madrid’s Barajas airport, on December 30, 2006, that killed two people. Soon after, in June 2007, ETA announced the end of its permanent ceasefire. Meanwhile, the remnants of the constitutionalist movement had been absorbed by UPyD, and Gesto’s presence and activism were in decline.37 Yet the weakening of civil action was also a logical consequence of the ebb of ETA. The group’s operational capacity had been greatly diminished to the point that it became impossible for the organization to launch an offensive following the breakdown of the negotiations. Despite its best efforts, between 2003 and 2011, ETA’s full death toll was twelve people, in a period when it was suffering wave after wave of arrests.38 Furthermore, its domestic standing was now gone. In a harsh post-​9/​11 and Good Friday Agreement context, when jihadism had replaced ETA as the main terrorist threat in Spain, the organization was becoming an anachronism. The separatist group was on life support, incapable of shaping Basque politics and increasingly being seen by many within the MLNV as an obstacle rather than an asset for reaching their political goals. The time was ripe for activists to make one last contribution to ending terrorism. The collapse of the ceasefire was the catalyst within the MLNV for a process of contestation of ETA’s hegemony. Since the MLNV’s political wing was banned for collaborating with ETA, its political space was being encroached by other leftist pro-​independence parties who rejected violence and attracted Batasuna’s traditional electorate.39 Desperate to return to institutional politics, frustrated with the failure of the negotiations, and aware of the impossibility of achieving independence through violence, high-​profile figures from the MLNV (headed by Batasuna’s leader Arnaldo Otegi) launched a process of consultation involving the base to shift the movement away from the armed struggle and convince ETA to abandon violence. And at certain points of the process they turned to Lokarri for assistance. In 2006, Elkarri had decided to split into two new organizations: Lokarri and Baketik. The latter’s impact was minimal, but Lokarri became a key actor on its own. Although it was not directly involved, Lokarri had backed the dialogue between the socialist government and ETA (Gago Anton 2007). Its failure led to a change of approach as it tried to build public support for a political solution, but far more significant was the opportunity that arose to assist the work by MLNV critics of ETA’s lack of results and their counterproductive effect on the Basque independentist movement (Aizpeolea 2013). Thus Lokarri aided the long

 



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process of internal deliberations which led to the MLNV’s eventual renunciation to violence in two ways.40 First, they staged the presentation of the statutes for Sortu, the MLNV’s new political party, which adopted “a clear and unequivocal position of acting exclusively via democratic and political channels.”41 The party’s renunciation of violence led to the MLNV’s return to legal, institutional politics. Second, Lokarri also contributed to ETA’s end by collaborating closely with international mediators (Grupo de Contacto Internacional) and, especially, the South African lawyer Brian Currin,42 who was advising the group of Sortu politicians behind the so-​called peace process. This continued the pattern set by Elkarri, which had in the past reached out to US-​based conflict-​resolution experts and to prominent figures in the Northern Ireland peace process (Whitfield 2015, 6). Eventually, the announcement of ETA’s definitive cessation of armed activity came on the back of a Lokarri-​run international conference in October 17, 2011, attended by international figures (including former UN secretary general Kofi Annan) and held in the Aiete palace (Donostia-​San Sebastián). In reality, the organization had adopted the decision long before that date, pressured by a large majority of the MLNV base: an ineffective ETA had finally decided to throw in the towel. Lokarri (together with other high-​profile foreign personalities) had succeeded in creating a platform that allowed ETA to announce a permanent cessation of activities without losing face. Otegi himself acknowledged Lokarri’s contribution in 2012: “It is well-​known that our relationship with Elkarri and Lokarri has been stormy and complicated but, being honest, we need to recognize that their work in this scenario has been positive and constructive” (Munarriz 2012, 190). In May 2013, two years after ETA’s declaration, Gesto voluntarily dissolved, celebrating the achievement of its original goal the very instant ETA announced that it was laying down arms. In March 2015, Lokarri made the same decision.43 Of the original social resistance movement against ETA, only COVITE and a few political foundations remain (albeit under-​resourced and undersized)44 to work toward the delegitimization of terrorism and to ensure that the victims’ sacrifice is recognized by the political class in the post-​ETA scenario.45

9.6. Assessing Impact Scholars tend to attribute ETA’s defeat to a variety of factors, such as the provision of more autonomy to the Basque region, police and judicial action, and French cooperation with Spanish authorities (Argomaniz and Vidal-​Diez 2015). Collective action by community groups and political parties is also regarded as a factor. It is not possible, however, to quantitatively assess its individual

 

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impact on the violence or its relative importance vis-​à-​vis the other causes because they all overlap in time over a long thirty-​year period. Clearly, the central government’s delegation of power to a Basque regional administration and the creation of a new network of autonomous political institutions in the early and mid-​1980s (a Basque parliament, president, public broadcasting corporation, police force, and so on) served to legitimize the new democratic system in the eyes of many Basques and contributed to ETA’s revolutionary project losing its luster. Satisfaction with the status quo undermined the social justifications for violence and strengthened public opposition to it. At the same time, increasingly effective work by police forces weakened ETA, and judicial actions against its support network was also essential in this regard. So was France’s cooperation, which closed the safe haven ETA had enjoyed until the mid-​1980s. Improved counterterror response by the authorities debilitated the armed group and helped to open up public spaces of social contestation. This was also a factor at the grass-​roots level since the Basque Ertzaintza police force moved to protect Gesto’s or constitutionalist’s demonstrations from MLNV harassment in a number of occasions. These factors should not necessarily be seen as alternative explanations but as complementary ones: they do in fact work together to impact the violence. It is a virtuous circle, insofar civil action originally benefits from comparatively lower levels of violence; by the time the peace movement emerged and political unity solidified, ETA had experienced a downward trend in its levels of activity from the peak in the 1977–​1980 period, even if they were still very high. Civil action then strengthened the trend by delegitimizing terrorism. And once the violence in the region reached a nadir, public activism declined because the ETA ceased to be the citizens’ overriding concern. As discussed in the introduction to this volume, these community groups, despite their differences, aimed to tamp down violence and to do so locally, but the particular strategies they devised to achieve this objective did vary. Some groups (Elkarri and Foro Ermua especially, but also the victims’ foundations) often resorted to a more “intellectual” approach. They directly engaged with Basque political parties and institutional actors, used online tools, produced publications, organized conferences, and so on. All the rest sought increased citizen mobilization to varying degrees. These organizations were not mass movements: despite their visibility, active members constituted a small minority of Basques.46 Yet their actions, sometimes supported by the Basque government and mostly channeled through “methods of concentration” (marches, public performances, protests, mass demonstrations, sit-​ins, etc.) served as a leverage to mobilize and energize a silent majority of Basques that, before their appearance, did not have a permanent public outlet for expressing their rejection of ETA. It is no surprise that such methods of concentration were prioritized, given

 



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that, as Burrows (1996) argued, these practices are particularly effective to mobilize support, highlight grievances, and build solidarity. In terms of their capacities, the resources they used to generate effects were material, and the groups’ level of activity was obviously affected by variations in individual donations and subsidies from public bodies, but far more essential were the social networks they created and their connections with local political elites. This led to frequent instances of coordination between civic groups and political parties for most of the period, which generally benefited from favorable media coverage. The importance of actors’ coordination for the Basque case confirms the argument made in the introduction that building connections between actors is a key principle in collective action. As argued there, coordination can bring together actors from different constituencies and “helps to pull those taking civil action into a wave, allowing the potential for even more connections and encouraging solidarity.” It is also interesting to note here Gesto’s origins within the Catholic Church, which confirms the findings from other cases in which the organizational capacities existing within religious institutions were put in service of civil resistance. Community organizations’ claims to authority were based on their commitment to nonviolence and the democratic principles and human rights values they represented. For the local government, it was that they were democratically elected representatives of the citizens, which is made more significant by the fact that Basque Country had transformed into a parliamentary democracy with a high level of self-​government after forty years under a centralist dictatorship. In the short term, continued civil action helped to preserve the social fabric, in the long term, it resulted in the delegitimization of ETA’s terrorism in Basque’s society. Through their collective efforts, peace campaigners, intellectuals, and Basque political forces helped to forge a new social consensus in which violence lost the prestige it had in the 1970s, when ETA was fighting the Francoist regime. These civilian actors helped to inculcate a “culture of peace” and respect for human rights in Basque society. They developed alternative narratives based on values such as tolerance, human rights, and defense of representative democracy. These coalesced into an opposing worldview to the one propagated by the MLNV.47 In other words, they behaved as norm entrepreneurs engaged in a process of norm diffusion (Kaplan 2013). Such incessant discursive work through public activism was key to delegitimizing the use of violence as a political tool, but it was a long-​term process. It required decades of constant, persistent, low-​ key, and committed work by activists and leaders, public figures, journalists, and academics. The importance of their contribution is widely recognized by the Basques. In 1987, only 49 percent of the population believed that mobilization against violence was important. In 1997, however, as many as 85 percent supported such

 

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mobilization (Llera 1994). In 2006 (during the negotiations between the socialist government and ETA) when respondents were asked about twelve different factors that had contributed to the end of terrorism, “mobilization of civil society” was ranked as the most important; “civic resistance movements” ranked third; and “victims’ organizations” activities’ ranked sixth (Llera 2012, 329). More recently, in a 2014 poll the peace movement was the highest rated on a list of seven types of actors involved in the termination of the violence.48 Civil action by political parties and NGOs also served to ameliorate the climate of fear that was so central to the MLNV’s political action. The persistent public presence of peace groups became part of the day-​to-​day life of the Basques, their actions made clear the fact that a majority of Basques rejected ETA. The routinization of protest became, in the words of Funes (1998b, 497), “a departure from the spiral of silence.” This is evident in that whereas in 1981, 48 percent refused to give their opinion about ETA, the percentage decreased progressively over the years to only 5 percent in 1995. By reclaiming the public space and delivering an alternative frame in which the blame for the violence fell squarely on ETA’s shoulders, the anti-​ETA movement paved the way to changes in how political collective identities were negotiated. As Schock (2005, 162) contends, the dynamics of collective action can “recast the political context to one that is more favorable to challengers.” The fact that this opposition was intra-​communitarian, carried out not from Madrid but by fellow Basques, destroyed the notion that ETA represented all Basque citizens in their struggle against the “oppression” of the French and Spanish states. As one interviewee argued: “Essentially, a movement of national liberation cannot sustain an armed struggle when 95 percent of the [Basque] population is against it . . . Gesto and Lokarri helped a lot to build that social space [of opposition.]”49 Indeed, opposition to ETA grew and intensified with the appearance of the peace movement. In 1978, 12 percent of Basques justified terrorism, twenty years later (2002), only 2 percent of them did. And, whereas in 1986, 36 percent of the Basque youth (15–​29 years) condoned terrorism in “certain circumstances,” in 1990, the number was down to 17 percent, and in 2000 was only 9 percent (Aviles 2003, 116, 119). In 1979, 48 percent of Basques described ETA members as “patriots” or “idealists”; in 2007, only 23 percent did, and 60 percent viewed them instead as “fanatics,” “terrorists” or “criminals.”50 Crucially, this discursive work also shaped conflict resolution because it influenced the set of choices accepted by society about the most effective paths to dampening the violence. By challenging the MLNV’s frame of the “Basque conflict,” Gesto and civic groups undermined the MLNV message that the only acceptable solution to terrorism was to force the Spanish government to the negotiating table. Civic and victims’ groups, in fact, argued that ETA-​ Madrid bilateral negotiations could be counterproductive if they sent the wrong

 



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message: that violence can be rewarded with political concessions. In this they opposed Elkarri’s own conflict-​resolution approach. The broader point in any case is that the Basque example shows that challenging discursive practices can have political implications, including what solutions for a conflict are seen as legitimate within society. Indeed, such practical ramifications could be facilitated by connections with political elites in some particular periods that acted as windows of opportunity. The new political scenario opened up by the Ajuria Enea pact was the umbrella under which the peace movement formed. Furthermore, the political narrative and the network of cross-​party relationships built by Basque civic organizations in the 1990s facilitated a joint political response at the national level that served to contain ETA challenge and to debilitate the MLNV. Elkarri’s main contribution occurred at a different level. Only Elkarri has been able to have a limited direct influence on former ETA sympathizers, especially those who found themselves in the outer ring of the MLNV political movement.51 By attracting those who agreed with the MLNV political narrative but were uneasy with ETA’s violence, they helped to erode ETA’s “pillars of support” (Funes 1998a; Gago Anton 2012; Gómez Moral 2013): “Elkarri’s virtue is that it had a message that could be understood by the people from the Izquierda Abertzale [ETA’s political movement] and by the political culture of the Izquierda Abertzale.”52 Their assistance to leaders within the MLNV’s political branch who wished to pressure ETA into renouncing violence and Lokarri’s attempt to cement a peace process that would impede ETA’s return to terrorism are certainly significant developments. In other words, Elkarri played a role by bringing dissidents together and draining away support for violence from within the MLNV. Here lies the main limitation of this social action:  it could not reach the hardliners, those at the core of MLNV and ETA who were devoted to the “armed struggle.” For example, Gesto por la Paz was embraced by many moderate nationalists but despised by MLNV followers, who originally saw the group as naive and deluded (Romero 1995; Duplá 2009; Alonso and Casquete 2014). ETA’s leaders and rank-​and-​file were unmoved by the peace movement. Likewise, the true believers among their sympathizers failed to be swayed by large-​scale mobilization and out-​group claims because these factors were offset by in-​group socialization and the use of ideology and radical rhetoric as “defense mechanisms.” At the same time, some of Elkarri’s work has attracted criticism by others within the civil-​resistance movement, who considered it counterproductive (Uriarte 2003). Leaders of civic movements criticized Elkarri’s support of the Pact of Lizarra, which had a corrosive effect in the preexisting common front against ETA. Some victims’ representatives also rejected Lokarri’s “peace

 

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process” because they saw it as a last-​ditch effort to extract political concessions from the Spanish government for the nationalist camp. On the other hand, the campaigning of civic organizations has been censured by some of the interviewees from peace groups because of the partisanship they displayed in a heated political climate and for generating division, even if unintendedly, within the anti-​ETA movement.53 On another note, one must not forget to consider other contextual factors, such as ETA’s own strategic errors, the gradual “bunkerization” and social isolation of the MLNV ( “a society within society,” in the words of Kepa Aulestia [1998]) and Basque citizens’ growing weariness of terrorism after forty years of atrocities. All these elements, which are expected—​almost intrinsic—​processes in protracted conflicts, compounded the erosion of ETA’s support base. By the time the international environment turned hostile to militant organizations, of any ideology, following the emergence of global jihadism and the 9/​11 attacks, support for ETA was already at minimal levels.54 Finally, an interesting claim has been made by personalities from the anti-​ ETA movement, who have argued that their actions helped to prevent the “Irelandization” of Basque Country by preventing escalation. The argument is that by refusing to take justice into their own hands and by placing their trust in the existing democratic institutions, victims did not retaliate against ETA with their own terrorist organizations, and, as a result, the kind of conflict escalation that was experienced in Northern Ireland with the formation of loyalist paramilitary groups was avoided. Victims associations have developed a discourse based on the principles that violent retaliation is wrong and that victims should seek not revenge but justice, through their support of the rule of law, democratic institutions, and the work of the criminal justice system (Cuesta 2000; Arteta 2007; Etxeberria 2007; Reyes Mate 2008). Although victims’ associations and other civic groups played a part by continuously calling for restraint and nonviolence, it is arguable whether the absence of grass-​roots organized oppositional violence55 can be exclusively explained by their efforts alone. Among other factors, the absence of preexisting cleavages in Basque society along religious or ethnic lines and the social rejection of ETA by a majority of Basque nationalists are equally, or probably more, salient in explaining the outcome.

9.7. Conclusion A number of insights emerge from the preliminary analysis of the Basque case. For a start, it shows that, even in the face of a formidable, established opposing

 



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sociopolitical movement, change through grass-​roots nonviolent action can occur as a long-​term process. In this context, civil action’s legacy has been the progressive transformation of social norms. Nonviolent activists have helped to inculcate a “culture of peace” and human rights. Basque culture is now sustained by education schemes, funded by the local government, that try to prevent youths from engaging with violence, initiatives in which the victims of terrorism play a vital role.56 The development of this culture of peace and democratic values was not immediate and required decades of constant, low-​key, persistent, and committed work by activists and leaders and, crucially, the contributions of other social actors, such as political parties, public figures, journalists, and intellectuals. To achieve this goal, methods of concentration became especially useful, as signifiers to a broad audience that certain ideas were held by many within the community and were therefore worth following. As we established earlier, the ETA case illustrates the importance of challenges from inside to nudge political movements away from violence. In the MLNV’s radical worldview, conformity to certain ideological principles was essential (Alonso 2011). And though Elkarri was certainly not trusted by everyone in the movement (Duplá 2009), it was regarded as, at the very least, a nationalist-​ friendly organization and tolerated. Elkarri’s insider status—​something that Gesto, civic groups, and victims’ associations lacked—​was precisely what enabled them to influence ETA’s “pillars of support.” In sum, at their peak, collective actions against ETA did possess some of the attributes that we can expect to find in successful resistance campaigns: the ability to attract large numbers of participants, to bring together different segments of the community, and to provoke “defections.” Even if it was not the sole cause of ETA’s decline, it seems clear that nonviolent resistance became an engine for political transformation and helped to precipitate the end of the violence. To conclude: in the Basque context, the impact of collective action on terrorism occurred at the discursive and normative levels but also in the sphere of public attitudes. If the analysis were to be summarized into three key findings, these would be, first, that in some conflicts, the impact of nonviolent activism may lie in its capacity to shape the political context; but this transformation may be subtle and slow and may happen over a long period of time. Second, to make a difference, these actors do not need to directly influence the strategies of the armed groups. And third, the reason this is the case is that they can contribute in their own ways to mitigating the violence by undermining the social supports of the militants. In other words, by eroding their pillars of support in a community.

 

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Notes 1. Of the total number of terrorist deaths in the 1964–​2010 period, 92% were caused by ETA, and 7% by right-​wing groups or the GAL state-​sponsored death squads (López Romo et al. 2014). 2. Such a state would encompass the Spanish autonomous regions of Basque Country and Navarre and the western part of the French department of the Pyrénées-​Atlantiques. 3. The MLNV comprises of a number of heterogeneous political organizations, political parties, a trade union, youth groups, and a network of organizations that are superficially devoted to social issues (i.e., feminism, the environment, social justice, and more) but that in essence have been subservient to ETA control of the movement (Mata 1993; Leonisio 2015). 4. Sortu is part of Bildu, a large coalition of pro-​independence parties that won 25% of the vote in the 2012 elections for the Basque parliament. Sortu represents former voters of Batasuna, ETA’s outlawed political wing, which has operated under different names in the past (Herri Batasuna, Euskal Herritarrok, and so on). 5. Interview with staff of the Fundación Fernando Buesa, June 1, 2015. 6. For the 2009 to 2013 period, on average, only 5% of Basques said they either “totally support” or “justify” ETA, whereas 60% said they “totally reject” it. Source:  Euskobarometer, Universidad del País Vasco. For a summary, see http://​www.arovite.com/​es/​portfolio-​items/​ actitud-​ante-​eta/​. The historical evolution of this support is described in section 9.6 of the chapter, “Assessing Impact.” 7. Raúl López Romo, “La primera manifestación contra ETA,” eldiarionorte.es, March 14, 2015, http://​www.eldiario.es/​norte/​vientodelnorte/​primera-​manifestacion-​ETA_​6_​365423495.html. 8. Antonio González, “Treinta y tres personalidades vascas vinculadas a la cultura, contra la violencia de ETA,” El País, May 28, 1980, http://​elpais.com/​diario/​1980/​05/​28/​espana/​ 328312806_​850215.html. 9. Violent far-​right groups with links to the police, such as Batallón Vasco Español (BVE), Grupos Armados Españoles (GAE) or Triple A  murdered twenty-​four people in 1980 alone. See Enrique Santarén, “Días de Plomo y Sangre,” Noticias de Gipuzkoa, February 1, 2015, http://​w ww.noticiasdegipuzkoa.com/​2015/​02/​01/​politica/​dias-​de-​ plomo-​y-​sangre. 10. Other relevant groups include Artesanos por la Paz, Asociación Pro Derechos Humanos, Bakea Orain or Denon Artean. Bakea Orain and Denon Artean are splinter groups from Gesto. Associations such as Bakeaz or Gernika Gogoratuz had a more intellectual approach, which differentiates them from the activism of the other organizations. 11. Gesto por la Paz, “El primer ‘gesto’,” http://​www.gesto.org/​es/​que-​fue-​gesto-​por-​la-​paz/​ historia/​nace-​gesto/​primer-​gesto.html. 12. Ibid. 13. Gesto por la Paz, “Primeras asociaciones,” http://​www.gesto.org/​es/​que-​fue-​gesto-​por-​la-​ paz/​historia/​nace-​gesto/​primeras-​asociaciones.html. 14. By the GAL (Grupos Antiterroristas de Liberación), a state-​sponsored terrorist group that murdered twenty-​ seven people during the 1983–​ 1987 period (Argomaniz and Vidal-​Diez,  2015). 15. Gesto por la Paz, “Los grupos,” http://​w ww.gesto.org/​es/​que-​f ue-​gesto-​por-​la-​paz/​ organ­izacion/​funcionamiento-​interno/​grupos.html. 16. These include the abduction of businessmen Julio Iglesias Zamora (1993), José María Aldaia (1995–​96), and Cosme Delclaux (1996–​97) and the prison officer José Ortega Lara (1996–​97). 17. Interview with former Gesto por la Paz member, July 23, 2016. 18. Gesto por la Paz, “Miguel Angel Blanco,” http://​www.gesto.org/​es/​movilizacion-​social/​ campanas-​contra-​secuestros/​miguel-​angel-​blanco.html. 19. This new oldartzen (to charge) strategy was designed to “extend the suffering” to those within Basque society who disagreed with their project so that they would be forced to demand from their political representatives a negotiation with ETA.

 



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20. Mainly the popular and dominant Partido Nacionalista Vasco (PNV) or Eusko Alkartasuna (EA). That said, some Elkarri members were also leftist Izquierda Unida and Socialist party voters (interview with former Elkarri member, May 25, 2017). 21. Although both organizations are better known for their stance against all forms of political violence, they also campaigned for the social rehabilitation of ETA prisoners and their transfer to prisons closer to Basque Country. 22. In the late 1980s, the Spanish government implemented a prison policy of dispersion for ETA prisoners according to which they would be divided and transferred to high-​security prisons across the Spanish geography. The measure was introduced to facilitate dissension within the group and individual disengagement but has attracted criticism for infringing prisoners” right to serve their sentences near their home place. See La Información, “La política de dispersión, un arma del Estado contra ETA que sigue cuestionándose,” January 5, 2014, https://​ www.lainformacion.com/​espana/​la-​politica-​de-​dispersion-​un-​arma-​del-​estado-​contra-​eta-​ que-​sigue-​cuestionandose_​F8w9ULGUrxZCYIWIxeL872/​. 23. BBC, “What is Eta?” April 8, 2017, http://​www.bbc.co.uk/​news/​world-​europe-​11183574. 24. Operating then under the name of Jarrai, a youth organization within the MLNV network (Elzo and Arrieta 2005). 25. Foro El Salvador, “Manifiesto por la verdad, la justicia y el perdón en Euskadi,” March 29, 2006, http://​foroelsalvador.blogia.com/​temas/​manifiesto-​fundacional/​. 26. Interview with former Basta Ya member, July 21, 2016. 27. Between 1990 and 2011, there were 1,619 ETA targets under bodyguard protection (Intxaurbe, Ruiz Vieytez, and Urrutia 2016, 10). 28. Interview with the staff of COVITE, May 28, 2016. 29. http://​paralalibertad.org/​. 30. http://​www.fmiguelangelblanco.es/​. 31. http://​www.fgregorioordonez.org/​. 32. ABC, “Nace la Fundación López de la Calle en memoria del columnista asesinado por ETA,” April 5, 2001, http://​www.abc.es/​hemeroteca/​historico-​05-​04-​2001/​abc/​Nacional/​nace-​ la-​fundacion-​lopez-​de-​la-​calle-​en-​memoria-​del-​columnista-​asesinado-​por-​eta_​22311.html. 33. http://​www.fundacionfernandobuesa.com/​. 34. Interview with former Gesto por la Paz member, July 23, 2016. 35. Interview with former Gesto por la Paz and Basta Ya member, May 24, 2017. 36. Interview with former Foro Ermua member, July 27, 2016. 37. The number of Gesto’s local groups in 2008 had been reduced by about two-​thirds from their peak in the 1990s: Gesto por la Paz, “Los grupos,” http://​www.gesto.org/​es/​que-​fue-​gesto-​ por-​la-​paz/​organizacion/​funcionamiento-​interno/​grupos.html. 38. From 2004 to 2011, 739 presumed ETA militants were arrested: Ministerio del Interior (Gobierno de España), “Lucha antiterrorista contra ETA—​IX Legislatura (2008–​2011),” December 13, 2011, http://​www.interior.gob.es/​lucha-​antiterrorista-​contra-​eta-​ix-​legislatura-​2008-​2011-​. 39. Such as Eusko Alkartasuna or Batasuna’s splinter party Aralar. 40. Eneko Ruiz Jiménez, “Lokarri se disolverá en marzo de 2015 para crear una nueva entidad,” El País, October 9, 2014, http://​ccaa.elpais.com/​ccaa/​2014/​10/​08/​paisvasco/​1412786123_​174749.html. 41. See Sortu’s estatutes, AELPA—​Asociación Española de Letrados de Parlamentos, “Estatutos de funcionamiento del partido político Sortu,” http://​www.aelpa.org/​actualidad/​ febrero2011/​EstatutosSORTU.pdf. 42. Currin had worked on the formation of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission and was a chair on the Sentence Review Commission in Northern Ireland in 2004 and 2005. 43. Juan Mari Gastaca, “La paz por la vía del pragmatismo,” El País, October 13, 2014, http://​ ccaa.elpais.com/​ccaa/​2014/​10/​11/​paisvasco/​1413040935_​476291.html. Lokarri’s role has been taken over by Foro Social, a network of small groups dedicated to preserving and strengthening the peace process: http://​www.forosocialpaz.org/​presentacion/​. 44. Interview with the staff of the Fundación Gregorio Ordoñez, June 3, 2015. 45. Interview with the staff of the Fundación Miguel Ángel Blanco, June 2, 2015. 46. In a poll carried out in 2004, 68% of the respondents were aware of the activities by Gesto por la Paz; 64%, of Basta Ya; Foro de Ermua (58%); and Elkarri (51%). The participation

 

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in Gesto’s gatherings was 22%; 13% in Basta Ya’s; and 10% in Elkarri’s (Llera and Retortillo 2005, 150). 47. Interview with the staff Fundación Fernando Buesa, July 18, 2016. 48. See Gobierno Vasco, “Sociómetro Vasco 54:  Paz y Convivencia,” March 2014, http://​ www.euskadi.eus/​contenidos/​documentacion/​sociometro_​vasco_​54/​es_​soc53/​adjuntos/​ 14sv54.pdf. 49. Interview with former Elkarri/​Lokarri member, July 19, 2016. 50. See Euskobarometro series temporales, October 2016:  http://​www.ehu.eus/​documents/​ 1457190/​1513140/​Series+Euskobar%C3%B3metro+%282016-​10%29.pdf. 51. When presented in 2004 with a list of thirteen community groups, Elkarri obtained the highest grade of all the organizations from those respondents who self-​identified as “only Basque” (6.3). With the exception of Gesto (5.4) the rest of the groups not only failed, but they were graded lower than 4 (Basta Ya and Foro Ermua both got a 2.7). On the other hand, Elkarri received the lowest mark of them all (4.7) by those in the “only Spanish” category, whereas the average grade for the rest was higher than 7. Gesto obtained the highest average (6.8) across the five identity categories (Llera and Retortillo 2005, 145). 52. Interview with former Elkarri/​Lokarri member, July 19, 2016. 53. For example, interview with former Gesto por la Paz member, May 16, 2017. 54. See evolution of public perceptions for the 1995–​2013 period in note 6. 55. Far right and state-​sponsored violence was organized within the state apparatus and enjoyed no social support within Basque Country at any time. 56. Departamento de Educación (Gobierno Vasco), “Documentos y publicaciones-​Convivencia y coeducación,” http://​www.euskadi.eus/​inn-​educativa-​documentos-​convivencia/​web01-​ a2hberri/​es/​

References Aizpeolea, Luis R. 2013. Los entresijos del final de ETA:  Un intento de recuperar una historia manipulada. Madrid: Los libros de la catarata. Alonso, Martín. 2007. ¿Sifones o vasos comunicantes? La problemática empresa de negar credibilidad a la violencia desde la aserción del ‘conflicto’ vasco. Bilbao: Bakeaz. Alonso, Martín. 2011. “Collective Identity as a Rhetorical Device.” Synthesis Philosophica 51: 7–​24. Alonso, Martín, and Jesús Casquete. 2014. “ETA, el miedo domesticado y el desafío de los gestos.” Claves de razón práctica 236: 66–​77. Alonso, Rogelio, Florencio Domínguez, and Marcos García Rey. 2010. Vidas rotas: Historia de los hombres, mujeres y niños víctimas de ETA. Madrid: Espasa. Avilés, Juan. 2003. El declive de ETA. Madrid: Grupo de Estudios Estratégicos (GEES). Argomaniz, Javier, and Alberto Vidal-​Diez. 2015. “Examining Deterrence and Backlash Effects in Counter-​Terrorism: The Case of ETA.” Terrorism and Political Violence 27 (1): 160–​181. Arteta, Aurelio. 2007. “¿Qué víctimas? ¿Qué Justicia?” In Las víctimas del terrorismo en el discurso político, edited by Cristina Cuesta and Rogelio Alonso, 75–​100. Madrid: Dilex. Aulestia, Kepa. 1998. HB: Crónica de un delirio. Madrid: Temas de hoy. ¡Basta ya! Iniciativa Ciudadana. 2004. Euskadi, Del Sueño A La Vergüenza: Guía Útil Del Drama Vasco. Barcelona: Ediciones B. Burrowes, Robert J. 1996. The Strategy of Nonviolent Defense: A Gandhian Approach. Albany: State University of New York Press. Carmena, Manuela, et al. 2013. Informe-​base de vulneraciones de derechos humanos en el caso vasco (1960–​2013). Vitoria-​Gasteiz: Secretaría General de Paz y Convivencia del Gobierno Vasco. Calleja, José María. 2006. Algo habrá hecho: Odio, miedo y muerte en Euskadi. Madrid: Espasa Calpe. Casquete, Jesús. 2003. From Imagination to Visualization:  Protest Rituals in the Basque Country. Berlin: Wissenschaftszentrum Berlin für Sozialforschung (WZB). Castells, Luis. 2015. “La visión desde la historia: Las ventanas cerradas.” In La sociedad vasca ante el terrorismo: Pasado, presente y futuro, edited by Eduardo Mateo Santamaría and Antonio Rivera

 



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Blanco, 80–​109. Vitoria-​Gasteiz:  Fundación Fernando Buesa and Instituto Universitario Valentín de Foronda. Cuesta, Cristina. 2000. Contra el olvido:  Testimonios de victimas del terrorismo. Madrid:  Temas de Hoy. de la Calle Robles, Luis. 2007. “Fighting for Local Control: Street Violence in the Basque Country.” International Studies Quarterly 51: 431–​455. de la Cuesta, José Luis, et al. 2011. Proyecto Retorno: Informe final. Donostia‐San Sebastián: Instituto Vasco de Criminología. Domínguez, Florencio. 1998. ETA:  Estrategia organizativa y actuaciones 1978–​ 1992. Bilbao: Universidad del País Vasco. Domínguez, Florencio. 2003. Las raíces del miedo:  Euskadi, una sociedad atemorizada. Madrid: Aguilar. Duplá, Antonio. 2009. “Reconocer a todas las víctimas y a todos los sufrimientos. Un déficit histórico de la izquierda radical.” In Con las víctimas del terrorismo, edited by Antonio Duplá and Javier Villanueva, 87–​102. Donostia-​San Sebastián: Tercera Prensa. Elorza, Antonio, ed. 2000. La historia de ETA. Madrid: Temas de Hoy. Elzo, Javier. 2014. Tras la losa de ETA: Por una sociedad vasca justa y reconciliada. Madrid: PPC. Elzo, Javier, and Arrieta, Félix. 2005. “Historia y sociología de los movimientos juveniles encuadrados en el MLNV.” Ayer 59 (3): 173–​197. Etxaniz Ortuñez, Jose Angel. 2014. Rompiendo el silencio:  25 urte bakegintzan (1988–​2013). Bilbao: Gesto por la Paz (Gernika-​Lumo)—​Bakearen Arbola. Etxeberria, Xabier. 2007. La participación social y política de las víctimas del terrorismo. Bilbao: Bakeaz. Funes, María Jesús. 1998a. La salida del silencio: Movilizaciones por la paz en Euskadi, 1986–​1998. Madrid: Akal. Funes, María Jesús. 1998b. “Social Responses to Political Violence in the Basque Country: Peace Movements and Their Audience.” Journal of Conflict Resolution 42 (4): 493–​510. Gago Anton, Egoitz. 2007. “Acción social en el proceso de paz: Lokarri y gesto por la paz como alternativa en un momento de crisis.” In La Red En El Conflicto. Anuario De Movimientos Sociales, edited by Pedro Ibarra and Elena Grau, 54–​69. Barcelona: Icaria. Gago Anton, Egoitz. 2012. “The Analysis of the Framing Processes of the Basque Peace Movement: The Way Lokarri and Gesto por la Paz Changed Society.” ICIP Working paper 2012/​1. Barcelona: L’Institut Català Internacional per la Pau. Gómez Moral, Ana Rosa. 2013. Un gesto que hizo sonar el silencio. Bilbao: Coordinadora Gesto por la Paz de Euskal Herria. Intxaurbe, José Ramón, Eduardo J.  Ruiz Vieytez, and Gorka Urrutia. 2016. Informe sobre la injusticia padecida por las personas amenazadas por ETA (1990–​2011). Bilbao: Instituto de Derechos Humanos Pedro Arrupe. Kaplan, Oliver. 2013. “Nudging Armed Groups: How Civilians Transmit Norms of Protection.” Stability: International Journal of Security and Development 2 (3): 1–​18. Leonisio, Rafael. 2015. “Basque Patriotic Left:  50  years of Political and Terrorist Acronyms.” RIPS: Revista de Investigaciones Políticas y Sociológicas 14 (1): 83–​104. Linz, Juan José. 1986. Conflicto en Euskadi. Madrid: Espasa-​Calpe. Llera, Francisco José. 1992. “Violencia y opinión pública en el País Vasco, 1978–​1992.” Revista Internacional de Sociología 3: 83–​111. Llera, Francisco José. 1994. Los vascos y la política. Bilbao: Universidad del País Vasco. Llera, Francisco José, and Retortillo, Alfredo. 2005. Los españoles y las víctimas del terrorismo: 1ª Encuesta nacional “percepción ciudadana sobre las víctimas del terrorismo en España.” Madrid: Centro de Investigaciones Sociológicas. Llera, Francisco José. 2012. “Terrorismo y Opinión Pública en España.” In Comunicación y terrorismo, edited by Ubaldo Cuesta, María José Canel, and Mario G. Gurrionero, 302–​348. Madrid: Tecnos. Llera, Francisco José, and Rafael Leonisio. 2015. “Los secuestros de ETA y sus organizaciones afines, 1970–​1997: Una base de datos.” Revista Española de Ciencia Política 37: 141–​160.

 

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López Romo, Raúl, et al. 2014. Informe Foronda: Los contextos históricos del terrorismo en el País Vasco y la consideración social de sus víctimas. 1968–​2010. Vitoria-​Gasteiz: Universidad del País Vasco. Marrodán, Javier et al. 2015. Relatos de plomo Historia del Terrorismo en Navarra: La sociedad contra ETA. Pamplona: Fondo de Publicaciones del Gobierno de Navarra. Mata, José Manuel. 1993. El nacionalismo vasco radical:  Discurso organización y expresiones. Bilbao: Universidad del País Vasco. Martínez Gorriarán, Carlos, ed. 2003. Basta Ya:  Contra el nacionalismo obligatorio. Madrid:  El País-​Aguilar. Martínez Gorriarán, Carlos. 2008. Movimientos Cívicos: De la calle al Parlamento. Madrid: Turpial. Moreno Bibiloni, Irene. 2015. “Movilizaciones pacifistas en el País Vasco: Los inicios de Gesto por la Paz.” Revista de Paz y Conflictos 8 (2): 227–​242. Munarriz, Fermín. 2012. El tiempo de las luces. Donostia-​San Sebastián: Gara. Reinares, Fernando, and Oscar Jaime-​ Jiménez. 2000. “Countering Terrorism in a New Democracy: The Case of Spain.” In European Democracies against Terrorism. Governmental Policies and Intergovernmental Cooperation, edited by Fernando Reinares, 119–​146. Aldershot, UK: Ashgate. Reyes Mate, Manuel. 2008. Justicia de las víctimas:  Terrorismo, memoria, reconciliación. Barcelona: Anthropos. Rodríguez Fouz, Marta. 2010. “Batallas simbólicas: La lucha por el espacio público en Euskadi.” Papeles del CEIC 2010 (2): 1–​49. Romero, Alberto. 1995. “La movilización Gesto por la Paz: Entre el silencio testimonial y la acción política.” V Congreso Español de Sociologia. Granada, September 28–​30. Ruíz Soroa, José María. 2008. “El canon nacionalista: La argumentación del ‘conflicto’ vasco.” In Breve guía para orientarse en el laberinto vasco, 13–​20. Bilbao: Fundación para la Libertad. Sabucedo, José Manuel, Mauro Rodríguez, and Wilson López. 2000. “Movilización social contra la violencia política:  Sus determinantes.” Revista Latinoamericana de Psicología 32 (2): 345–​359. Sáez de la Fuente, Izaskun. 2011. La opinión pública vasca ante la violencia de ETA. Una mirada retrospectiva. Bilbao: Bakeaz. Savater, Fernando. 2001. Perdonen las molestias: Crónica de una batalla sin armas contra las armas. Madrid: Ediciones El País. Sánchez-​Cuenca, Ignacio. 2009. “The Persistence of Nationalist Terrorism:  The Case of ETA.” In Violent Non-​State Actors in Contemporary World Politics, edited by Kledja Mulaj, 69–​92. New York: Columbia University Press. Schock, Kurt. 2005. Unarmed Insurrections:  People Power Movements in Nondemocracies. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Tejerina, Benjamín. 2001. “Protest Cycle, Political Violence and Social Movements in the Basque Country.” Nations and Nationalism 7 (1): 39–​57. Uriarte, Edurne. 2003. Cobardes y rebeldes: Por qué pervive el terrorismo. Madrid: Temas de Hoy. Urkijo, Isabel, ed. 2013. Enhorabuena Gesto por la Paz. Bilbao: Coordinadora Gesto por la Paz de Euskal Herria. Vitoria Cormenzana, Francisco Javier. 2009. “Iglesia vasca, ETA y víctimas del terrorismo. Una aproximación empática desde el interior de la Iglesia.” In Con las víctimas del terrorismo, edited by Antonio Duplá and Javier Villanueva, 73–​86. Donostia-​San Sebastián: Tercera Prensa. Whitfield, Teresa. 2015. The Basque Conflict and ETA: The Difficulties of an Ending. Washington, DC: United States Institute of Peace Press.

 

10

The Colombian Private Sector in Colombia’s Transition to Peace Angelika Rettberg

10.1.  Introduction Colombia is facing an uneasy peace. An agreement between the national government and the largest remaining guerrilla organization (Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia—​FARC) put an end to over fifty years of conflict in November 2016; the process of demobilizing former fighters is well under way; and homicides have reached historic lows. The Colombian private sector stands at the center of many of the country’s recent transformations, and the civil action of a “pro-​peace coalition” was among many factors moving the conflict toward its (uneasy) settlement. But the private sector is not a monolith. Uncivil action by businesses has also hampered the country´s progress toward peace, democracy, and development. Elsewhere, I  have argued that three motivations animate the business response to conflict: First, business needs peace in order to solve specific problems related to their operations. Second, some business leaders genuinely believe in, and are willing to promote, a particular socially desirable innovations (creed). Third, business participation in peacebuilding may be motivated by the anticipation of renewed investment, profit, and growth (greed; Rettberg 2016). In other words, the need motive responds to a preference for stability, the creed motive captures what is commonly known as philanthropy, and the greed motive refers to the classic profit motive (Miklian and Rettberg 2019). In this chapter, I apply this need-​creed-​greed framework to the Colombian private sector’s role in peacebuilding. As the framework suggests, no single factor alone can explain how and when business pursues civil action or uncivil action. Business actors pursue multilayered strategies in complex contexts that are marked by armed conflict and other 255

 

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forms of political instability. A particular business strategy is informed by the perception of economic and political variables as well as by differences derived from organizational factors (such as sector of the economy, corporate structure, and company size), contextual factors (such as macroeconomic variables, region of operations, costs of conflict, and economic performance, both domestic and international), and last but not least, political factors, most importantly the extent of access and participation by business in conflict-​and-​peacebuilding-​ related policy, resulting from institutional and variable patterns of state-​business relations developed in the course of history. All these factors are useful to understand how need-​, creed-​, and greed-​based business strategies are formed and how they interact in the emergence of business coalitions. I trace the logic of business strategies as they evolved over two periods. At the end of the 1990s, Colombia was torn apart by multiple crises, leading president Andrés Pastrana (1998–​2002) to launch peace talks in a demilitarized region, called Caguán, in Southern Colombia. Most of Colombian society supported these talks, particularly the private sector, until they failed in 2001. Frustration with the Caguán talks gave Pastrana’s successor, Álvaro Uribe (2002–​2006, 2006–​2010) a wide mandate to seek a military solution to the Colombian conflict. Like a pendulum going in the opposite direction, many in Colombian society and in the private sector turned to support Uribe’s strong-​hand approach. Using this approach, the government was able to put the guerrillas on the defensive. Although government policy did not result in a guerilla military defeat, security indicators improved considerably, as did economic performance. Table 10.1 presents some stylized facts to underscore this contrast. Figure 10.1 further situates the two moments on a GDP annual rate timeline. Thus, when Uribe’s successor, president Juan Manuel Santos (2010–​2014, 2014–​2018) proposed holding peace talks in Havana (Cuba) to end the conflict, he did so in an entirely different context. Santos soon learned that it was harder to “sell” peace to a society and private sector that had been led to believe and hope that conflict could be ended via military means and who were less exposed to the effects of conflict on operations and staff. The hardcore pro-​ peace business support endured, but some business fractions—​linked mainly to landed interests—​voiced disagreement with the negotiations and were among those supporting the no vote in the October 2016 referendum (which was victorious by a razor-​thin margin). Thereafter, the agreement was adjusted and approved by Congress shortly before President Santos went on to receive the Nobel Peace Prize in Oslo, and implementation is under way. Many questions remain as to the scale and depth of the reforms resulting from the agreement and the ability to curb other forms of ongoing crime. The business community, in particular, harbors concerns over the source and magnitude of the funds required for implementation and fears these will

 

Table 10.1 Stylized Facts on Violence and Economic Performance in Colombia, 1997 and 2010. Indicators

Two years before Caguán (1997)

Two years before Havanna (2010)

Homicides (per 100,000 inhabitants)

62.89

38.36

Kidnappings

1,623

220

GDP Growth

3.4%

4.0%

Unemployment Rate

12.1%

11.1%

Growth in Selected Sectors of the Economy    Agriculture and Cattle Ranching

0.7%

10.6%

   Mining

3.7%

0.2%

   Utilities

1.0%

1.8%

   Industry

0.5%

3.9%

   Construction

2.2%

-​0.1%

   Trade and Tourism

1.7%

5.2%

   Transport and Communications

5.8%

6.2%

   Finance, Insurance, Real Estate, and Other Services

4.9%

3.6%

   Social, Community, and Personal Services

7.2%

3.6%

Source:  Banco de la República. Series Estadísticas Publicadas:  Índice de producción Industrial. http://​www.banrep.gov.co/​es/​produccion. Instituto Nacional de Medicina Legal y Ciencias Forenses 2011. World Bank 2018. 8.0

6.0

6.7

6.6

6.0

5.8

5.3

5.2

5.0

4.4

4.0

2.0

6.9

3.9

3.4 2.2

4.9

4.7 4.0

3.5

1.7

2.1

4.0

4.4 3.1

2.5

2.4

Havana: Preceded by economic boom, and reduction in homicides.

1.7

2.4 1.8

0.6 –

–2.0

1990 1991 1992 1993 1994 1995 1996 1997 1998 1999 2000 2001 2002 2003 2004 2005 2006 2007 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014 2015 2016 2017

Caguán: Preceded by economic recession, conflict escalation, and crisis of governance.

–2.2

–4.0

Figure 10.1  Annual GDP Growth Rate in Colombia (1962–​2014) and Caguán (1998–​ 2001) and Havana (2012–​2016) Processes Source: https://data.worldbank.org/indicator/NY.GDP.MKTP.KD.ZG?locations=CO, World Bank, 2018.

 

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draw from other national priorities. The future truth commission is likely to conduct inquiries into the responsibility of third parties in human rights violations, a clear message to companies that have engaged in or benefited from these of the costs of behaving in an “uncivil” manner. At the same time, more than 650 companies are supporting state-​promoted demobilization and economic reintegration programs for demobilized fighters, and many others are facilitating regional dialogue, funding reconciliation and peace-​education projects, and developing infrastructure projects for remote and war-​torn regions. Regardless of how events play out, the contrast between business efforts leading up to Caguán and Havana illustrate the complexity of corporate decision-​making processes in political and economic contexts marked by imperfect information and high uncertainty (Brühl and Hofferberth 2013; Rettberg, Medina, and Miklian 2019). In brief, need” resulting from the centrality of instability and crisis, dominated business concerns in the 1990s and early 2000s but played a minor role in the more recent peace process. Instead, a sense of opportunity and the prospect of consolidating economic and security gains (greed) prevailed to explain the business support surrounding the Havana negotiations. In addition, business support went from widespread in the 1990s to much more focused in the recent process and was concentrated among a progressive business elite that has developed civil action favorable to peace since the 1990s (creed). To explain the variation between particular businesses as well as between these two periods, I focus on three factors drawn from institutionalist arguments on the role of business in politics: the organization (make-​up, size, and sector of companies), the social and economic context, and the relationship with the political system. In terms of organization, big business in industry, finance, and trade, mostly urban, export-​led, and internationally dependent, was more supportive of civil action. Rural-​based, land-​intensive sectors were both hit hardest by conflict and most skeptical about a negotiated solution, especially after Uribe raised expectations for a military solution. In context, the business response was more vehement and widespread in the Caguán process, which followed a profound economic and political crisis and thus fit the classical peace-​dividend argument. The experience during the Havana talks showed that there is less business support for civil action when economic performance is less affected by conflict. The political factor has been stable along both periods: access to the decision-​making process by leading business figures, instills trust and confidence in leading business figures despite the uncertainties implied by any peace process. I develop these arguments based on extensive interviews with business leaders, scholars and public officials that I  have conducted since 2001.

 



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Although this qualitative approach has weaknesses, such as the bias involved in placing too much emphasis on people’s views and interpretations of their own actions, I  have consistently complemented and triangulated this information with data from business surveys (some of which I  have conducted myself), and a thorough review of the academic and think-​tank literature, the press, official documents from state authorities and international agencies, and private-​sector publications. I first provide a brief overview of the relevant literature on the factors shaping business preferences, generally speaking, as well as in contexts of armed conflict. Next, I describe the context of armed conflict, peacebuilding, and the private sector in Colombia. I then describe and discuss the paths and mechanisms leading to divergent business strategies in Colombia. The conclusion summarizes the findings and identifies remaining research gaps.

10.2.  Business in Conflict Contexts Given that business plays a fundamental role in providing tangible and intangible resources for sustainable peace, such as taxes, managerial know-​how, jobs, and legitimacy, scholars from the peace and conflict resolution field and the field of political economy should take a closer look at what shapes business political preferences and what explains different types of business political action in contexts of war-​related instability. In doing so, a fundamental bias in studies of the relationship between private sector, armed conflict, and peacebuilding should be addressed, which refers to the focus of the literature on multi-​or transnational companies. The emphasis here is on unpacking and understanding the workings and composition of the domestic private sector. For over twenty years, the private sector has been the focus of attention of international and domestic organizations involved in peacebuilding (Rettberg 2007; Rettberg and Rivas 2012). Whereas the need for private sector involvement has been widely documented and undergirds multiple state, civil society, and multistakeholder peace initiatives, less is known about what shapes business participation in peace processes and peacebuilding. This section draws from a neo-​institutionalist framework of preference formation to describe some of the factors shaping business participation in peacebuilding or civil action, more generally. It has long been clear that business enjoys a privileged position in capitalist systems, derived from the system´s dependence on business well-​being (Lindblom 1977). However, faced with crucial policy questions on such issues as taxation, salaries, growth strategies, or extending social benefits, scholars have

 

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identified differences not only among countries, but also within countries. Based on these differences, a rich institutionalist literature on the formation of business preferences suggests that economic actors are embedded in institutional contexts that shape their preferences and explain variation in terms of what they want, when they get it, and what they need to be effective. As a result, the literature has underscored that the character and organization of capital are linked and mutually determined (Evans 1997; North 1990; Steinmo, Thelen, and Longstreth 1992). The literature on business and politics in Latin America exposes some of these insights well, underscoring historically grounded and institutionally articulated variation in the make-​up of domestic business communities as political actors and in their ability to influence policymaking (Maxfield and Schneider 1996; Durand and Silva 1998; Kingstone 1999; Schneider 2004; Bull and Aguilar-​Støen 2019). Thus, organizational, contextual, and political factors play important roles in defining business interest and strategy.

10.2.1. Organization Organizational factors include, first and foremost, the existence of diverse sectors of the economy (Gourevitch 2007; Shafer 1996), which explains business political preferences based on, for example, labor or capital intensity.1 Factors such as company size and the nationality of capital have been taken into account as well. The larger a company or group of companies, the stronger its economic veto power and greater its access to politics (Rettberg 2001). In contrast, the smaller a company, the more it will rely on the strength of numbers and be vulnerable to the dilemmas of collective action (Olson 1965). Finally, the nationality of capital has organizational implications, too. The literature on multinational companies has been keen on highlighting the negative impact of foreign investment on the political and economic development of the host countries (Bucheli 2005). However, the nationality of capital also has implications for business strategy in terms of corporate set-​ups, recruitment strategies, and investment decisions, and even in terms of whether and how companies engage in corporate social responsibility (CSR) activities (Banfield, Haufler, and Lilly 2005). In the field of armed conflict and peacebuilding, for example, it is clear that, while scandals associated with the destructive behavior of large multinational companies attracted global attention to the role of corporations in unstable contexts,2 it was also these companies that, until today, pioneered and lead different activities related to conflict awareness and do-​no-​harm practices, often in much more ambitious terms than have domestic companies in conflict countries. Moreover, multinational companies are not lone and top-​down actors; they often engage in alliances with both government and domestic business, thereby shaping their preferences.3

 



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10.2.2. Context Contextual factors include cultural and historic backgrounds (see, for example, Khanna and Fisman’s [2004] discussion of emerging markets’ business groups as opposed to Western corporate milestones) and factors related to the dominant resources in specific regions and how those resources and the related extraction practices imprint the corporate culture. Koubi, Spilker, Böhmelt, and Bernauer (2014), and Rettberg, Leiteritz, and Nasi (2011), for example, have discussed how subnational differences in corporate culture can be associated with the existence of different natural resources and extraction practices. Shorter-​term conditions are also context-​related factors, such as economic and political crises (see, for example, Kingstone’s (1999) and Özel’s (2015) work on why neoliberal reform—​despite the costs it imposed on large social sectors—​was smoother and more diverse than was expected at the time of its implementation). In addition, context often explains subnational differences in conflict intensity and of related costs. Armed conflicts hardly ever affect the whole country and tend to concentrate in specific regions of strategic value (Rettberg et al. 2019). Costs to the private sector therefore differ and include those associated with kidnappings of company staff, extortion and payments of protection money, infrastructure and goods destruction, and a general sense of (in)security. As a result, decisions to stay or to relocate, to invest or to divest, to seek private protection, and to support (or not) state strategies to overcome conflict will clearly differ across contexts. Similarly, the likelihood that a peace-​dividend argument will hold may depend on context. In brief, discussions about a peace dividend pose the question of whether and how the benefits of decreasing military investments and costs associated with a context of war and armed conflict will and can be transferred to alternative civilian uses, such as education, healthcare, science, and technology, and thus increased productivity (Barker, Dunne, and Smith 1991; Bergstrand 1992; Ettlinger 1993; Lee and Vedder 1996; Mintz and Huang 1990; Ward and Davis 1992). Business support of peacebuilding or even the active pursuit of peace negotiations is presumed to be more likely when peace is associated with improved economic performance and investments. The higher the costs of conflict, the literature would suggest, the higher the likelihood that business will seek and support peace. Northern Ireland has served as prime example for analyzing the peace dividend, as illustrated by Besley and Mueller’s (2012) study on the price of real estate and O’Hearn’s (2000) contribution on the behavior of foreign investment in a postconflict context.4 The literature also explains why some fractions of the private sector benefiting from war (such as insurance or military companies) may be less keen on embracing the cause of peace, which represents diminished income opportunities. Finally, the literature may explain why the absence of economic crisis associated with war may weaken the case for business involvement in peace-​seeking.

 

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10.2.3. Politics Finally, political factors refer both to the type and strength of state-​ business relations and of business organizations. One Colombian business leader once eloquently said: “All over the world, business people are pro-​ government (gobiernistas). It’s insane not to be pro-​government when you are a businessman” (Nicanor Restrepo, interview with author, Bogotá, June 22, 2012).5 Despite the pro-​systemic proclivity of private sectors, business-​ politics relations range from collaboration, even collusion, to different forms of contestation, suggesting variation in access and leverage over policymaking at different points in time. The experience of some Southeast Asian countries revealed that close collaboration between business and government can be the underpinning, in fact, a critical condition, of economic development (Maxfield and Schneider 1996). The experience of many African and Latin American countries, in contrast, underscores the risks of corruption and lack of accountability when business and government are too close. In part, the difference between a virtuous and a vicious model of business and government relations can be attributed to the existence of formal or informal routes of access to government, to the existence and strength of business organizations, and to mechanisms of domestic and external accountability. Regarding the contexts of armed conflict and transitions to peace, the ability of different private-​sector factions to access the peace process, either directly through participation in the policymaking process or indirectly by means of vetoes by recalcitrant private-​sector factions is an important factor to consider. Both access to peace policymaking and the capacity to effectively veto peace policy result from institutional patterns of business-​politics relations coined prior to the initiation of peace talks. Governments engaged in peace negotiations have capitalized on the importance of access by means of the power of appointment, which can be more or less institutionalized and, when it is informal, depends on the political and economic affinity between government and business leaders. Colombia’s private sector has historically had a close relationship of mutual benefit with the state (Rettberg 2001; Thorp and Durand 1997). At times collusive, this relationship has nevertheless been credited for Colombia’s superior macroeconomic performance in an otherwise more erratic Latin American context. Peace policy has been no exception, and the private sector has supported the funding of mediators, advice on design, and actual participation in negotiations and corporate stakeholder engagement as a form of local corporate peacemaking (Miklian and Rettberg 2019). Figure 10.2 summarizes the organizational, context, and political factors shaping business preference formation.

 



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Organization

Dominating production

Sector Corporate structure/culture Nationality Company size

263

Political & economic crisis Conflict intensity

Politics Access, participation, and consultation in policymaking process

Figure 10.2  Organization, context, and politics: A summary of factors shaping business preference formation in armed conflict and peacebuilding

10.3.  Armed Conflict and the Private Sector in Colombia Previously considered the Andean problem case in the 1980s and 1990s, in recent years, Colombia has been described as a booming economy, part of the CIVETS group,6 an outstanding partner to the United States in the war on drugs, and a model case for controlling violence, homicides, and kidnappings. In 2018, the country joined the Organization for Economic Co-​operation and Development (OECD), an acknowledgment of its economic performance and potential among middle-​income economies. In the past ten years, the country’s economy has undergone steady growth; sectoral production has diversified; tourism has gained momentum; and foreign investment has tripled in volume since 2002 and doubled its contribution to GDP from 2.2 percent in the period from 1993 to 2005 to 4.2 percent in the period from 2005 to 2011 (Garavito, Iregui, and Ramírez 2012, 25–​26). Colombia’s economy is more diverse than many others in the Latin American region, and an important financial, commercial, telecommunications, and service sector has developed over the years. According to the World Bank’s Doing Business ranking in 2016, Colombia is increasingly attractive to domestic and foreign investors (World Bank 2016). In addition, the multifaceted scene of corporate social responsibility is rich, innovative, and highly dynamic in comparison with many other Latin American countries (Gutiérrez, Avella, and Villar 2006; Vargas 2014).

 

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The situation today stands in sharp contrast with the 1980s and 1990s, when the country was considered an international problem case because of violence related to the drug trade, the armed conflict, economic recession, political turmoil, and widespread corruption. With over eight million registered victims (Unidad de Víctimas 2019) of crimes such as homicides, forced displacements, forced disappearances, kidnappings, and sexual violence, the Colombian armed conflict stands among the deadliest in the world (Rettberg 2015). The conflict affected economic activity through various channels, including the output of manufacturing firms through their market exit, a decrease in investment and agricultural production, and an increase in country risk (Arias et al. 2014). The state has incurred significant military expenditure, amounting to 3.4 percent of GDP in 2015, second in Latin America only to Brazil (Stockholm International Peace Research Institute 2019). As a result of the effects of conflict and the persistent weakness of the Colombian state, a vibrant war economy has developed in the country—​associated mainly with the drug trade (Mejía and Gaviria 2012), but also with the extractive industry and other legal resources, which have been permeated by illegal actors or have served to fund illegal activities (Leiteritz, Nasi, and Rettberg 2009; Rettberg et al. 2011; Rettberg 2019). The Colombian private sector has faced a significant cost as a result of armed conflict, both in terms of foregone investment and opportunities for innovation; difficulties associated with merchandise distribution; and pressure by armed actors in the form of attacks, kidnappings, and protection payments (Camacho and Rodríguez 2013; Rettberg 2008; Rettberg and Rivas 2012). Ever since 1992, the national government has collected taxes to support its war (or peace) efforts, depending on the circumstances, and overall, the private sector has conceded to these payments.7 Conflict-​related costs have not been evenly spread. War-​related devastation has been geographically and sectorally focused. A  2008 survey of business owners and executives documented the impact the conflict has had on economic activity in the country (Rettberg 2008). Depending on company size, sector of the economy (and the degree to which the sector is labor intensive and/​or oriented toward international markets), company nationality, and region of the country, the costs have been different. The agricultural and extractive sectors have been the hardest hit by kidnappings, homicides, theft, extortions, and attacks on pipelines and other infrastructure, exposed as they are to illegal actors in remote regions where state institutions continue to be weak and there are abundant opportunities for illegal and criminal actors.

 



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10.4.  Uncivil and Civil Business Responses to Conflict and Peace Against this background, the Colombian private sector has been at the forefront of both the preservation of the status quo and of civil action for progress and change. Some Colombian companies have historically been linked to violence and uncivil action in the country. Many of the private sector’s privileges have been considered to be root causes of the high levels of inequality that haunt Colombian society and rigidify Colombia’s economy. The highly concentrated system of land tenure, which is also extremely informal and underdeveloped, favors large land owners and the production of land-​intensive crops, impedes rural competitiveness, and has fed the Leftist guerrillas’ historic demands for agrarian reform. Agricultural and other rural businesses and fractions of the extractive industry, intimidated for years by guerrilla groups and largely unprotected by the Colombian government, organized a variety of security responses. Some hired private security companies, not necessarily uncivil but aimed at protecting their particular interests, often in alliance with members of the Armed Forces (Romero 2003; Torres 2004; Rangel 2005; Rettberg and Rivas 2012). A  recently established truth commission is likely to look into these accusations and address the links between some companies and a wide range of Human Rights violations. On the other hand, in several conflict-​affected regions, companies engaged in rich civil activity aimed at peacebuilding and development (Rettberg and Rivas 2012). They dedicated time and resources to developing a diverse portfolio of efforts and initiatives aimed at preventing forced displacement, hiring former combatants, integrating victims into revenue-​generating activities, and promoting local development (Rettberg 2009). Many of these efforts transcend the need to “do good” in surrounding communities and are led by the belief that the development of conflict-​ridden areas will likely bring peace and stability for operations sooner than, or as a complement to, a peace agreement with illegal armed actors. Other companies sought to support a negotiated solution to the conflict. Most recently, fractions of the Colombian private sector facilitated and paid for costs associated with contacts between the government and the guerrillas leading up to negotiations in Havana and were part of the negotiating team. Thus, in the face of conflict, the Colombian private sector has produced two opposed, but not mutually exclusive, responses. One confirms the potential for uncivil action in these contexts, but the other demonstrates the often

 

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understudied propensity to take civil action. Out of this civil action, a critical mass—​or pro-​peace business coalition—​developed in the Colombian private sector, composed of individuals and organizations embedded in a larger social and institutional network that are committed to overcoming conflict by peaceful means. We now examine two milestones in the evolution of the Colombian private sector’s actions in response to armed conflict.

10.5.  From Caguán to Havana, or from Peace as a Necessity to Peace as an Opportunity The broad repertoire of the Colombian private sector’s uncivil and civil responses to conflict and peace opportunities is useful for understanding the range of business choices. Also important, however, is the dimension of time. In fact, the frequency and intensity of these business responses has varied over the past two decades, illustrating the impact of organizational, contextual, and political factors. A pro-​peace faction developed over time, though overall private-​ sector support has been more vulnerable to such factors as conflict impact and peace perspectives. At the end of the 1990s, Colombia was confronting a severe crisis. After several years of stagnation, the economy was hit by a tough recession. The government of president Ernesto Samper had been accused of being funded by drug traffickers, causing pressure by the US government and spurring civil-​society demands for his resignation. The guerrillas were scoring unprecedented blows against the Colombian state and society. Homicides, kidnappings, and the forced displacement of civilians were at historically high levels. FARC leaders harbored hopes of taking the capital by storm. For many business people, the long-​standing Colombian conflict had turned into a liability that was affecting the country’s competitiveness in the region and worldwide.8 In brief, at the end of the 1990s, Colombia epitomized a country engulfed by crisis, and most of society began converging on the need to negotiate peace at (almost) any cost. The arrival of Andrés Pastrana in the presidential palace in August 1998 thus marked a new beginning in state policy regarding armed conflict. Pastrana’s boldness enjoyed full support of the business community, which had high hopes that he would be able to reach a negotiated solution. “If you want peace, you need to sit down with those barbarians,” one business leader said, reflecting the pragmatic mood at the time or, perhaps, the widespread resignation.9 Another Colombian executive put it simply:  “Peace is better business.”10

 



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Pastrana’s electoral victory was accompanied by a surge in business leaders’ perception that the sociopolitical conditions were favorable for investment, as measured by Fedesarrollo’s tri-​monthly business survey (Fedesarrollo 1998). Pastrana promoted the active involvement of prominent business executives on his negotiation team and provided full access to peace policymaking by the Colombian private sector. In return, he obtained extensive support, as expressed in public statements and numerous sectoral association meetings. Private-​sector think tank Fundación Ideas para la Paz, for example, was founded by companies sympathetic to and affiliated with some of these leading private-​sector figures.11 Some of these business leaders even met with FARC commanders in Caguán in 2000. These actions explain some of the manifestations of business enthusiasm in the months leading up to and following Pastrana’s launch of peace talks. For example, the cattle ranchers’ association proposed to donate land.12 More specific was the main business association’s commitment to support “peace bonds,” a forced investment to collect revenues for social investment as part of the private sector’s contribution to Plan Colombia (El Tiempo 2002), which contributed to Colombia’s tradition of domestically funding its war and peace efforts. In addition, a rich business-​led peacebuilding activity was developed by individual and groups of companies in several regions of the country. Companies promoted growing alternative crops, introduced preferential hiring for conflict-​ affected groups (such as ex-​combatants and victims), invested in local institution building to prevent displacement, and geared their overall corporate social-​responsibility agenda toward projects explicitly related to building peace. In doing so, many invested managerial know-​how and time and fewer of their own resources, and served as intermediaries in international and public funding efforts in municipalities with low institutional capacity. The effects of this business activism and civil action were widespread and notorious. The business buy-​in gave the government domestic and international legitimacy and the political space to push the negotiation forward and include additional sectors in civil society. Public support grew and international cooperation soared (Rettberg 2012, 32). In addition, business-​led projects produced opportunities for local communities to engage in and benefit from peace-​ related work and to spread general enthusiasm with the prospect of finalizing negotiations (Bouvier 2009). Even FARC guerrillas opened up to business influence:  On March 17, 2000, big-​business leaders met with the FARC leader Manuel Marulanda under a tent in the Caguán region. The widely publicized meeting was planned as an opportunity to build channels of communication between groups, in preparation for talks over structural reform. The meeting was considered a success by both sides. “If we felt like we were talking to saints before [when other prominent national and international figures visited FARC in

 

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the Caguán13], now it feels like talking to God” said one of FARC’s negotiators (Castrillón 2000). “If they could, they would have rolled out a red carpet” to receive these representatives of capital, remembers one participant at the meeting.14 However, business support of peace talks became strained when the talks failed to yield results. Frustration grew over revelations that FARC was using the demilitarized zone as a safe haven to hide captives and to grow and harvest coca plants. Rightist paramilitary groups closed in on the region and threatened local communities. The national government engaged in talks with the US government over the design of one of the most ambitious foreign-​aid packages the country has had, which tied antinarcotic strategies to the disbursement of funds for local development (Plan Colombia). In this context of mutual spoiling, the talks became unsustainable. In February 2002, President Pastrana canceled the talks and ordered the Colombian Armed Forces to recover control of the Caguán region. As at the beginning of his government, when peace talks had stood at the top of the agenda, Pastrana enjoyed the full support of business when he decided to end the talks. Four years of an increasing cost in material and human terms had taken their toll on business enthusiasm for a negotiated solution and, most importantly, on expectations that such a solution could be arrived at promptly. So, in early 2003, when a FARC bomb blast rocked the exclusive Club El Nogal in Bogotá, few doubted the attack was targeted at Colombia’s business elite. The damaged clubhouse in an upscale residential area symbolized a frontal attack against the country’s urban economic establishment and represented a renewed escalation of the Colombian conflict. As a result, President Álvaro Uribe (2002–​2006, 2006–​2010) was elected on the promise that a strong-​handed approach would bring an end to the Colombian armed conflict. After a significant military build-​up, his government was able to provide severe blows to the guerrillas. High-​level commanders were killed, historical strongholds were attacked, attrition peaked, and the overall number of FARC combatants declined by half. Improved security was rewarded with increased foreign and domestic investment. GDP growth resumed and reached historic heights (see Figure  10.1). As a result of methodical persecution of guerrilla fighters, the country reached a negative military stalemate. Most business actors were able to thrive, as documented, for example, in the World Bank’s Doing Business rankings, where Colombia has not only risen progressively but significantly outperforms the Latin American average. The Uribe presidency achieved an agreement with the far-​right paramilitary groups that led to the disarmament of over 30,000 combatants and the establishment of an incipient transitional justice institutional framework. Since then,

 



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companies have become actively involved in state-​run reintegration programs in order to provide managerial know-​how. However, Uribe’s predominantly military solution against the guerillas proved insufficient. As of 2008, diminishing returns on a purely military strategy became evident (Observatorio de Derechos Humanos y DIH 2008; Rosen 2014) and suggesting a need to pursue complementary strategies. So even before the end of Uribe’s second term, the government resumed contacts with FARC to explore holding new peace talks. But it would be Uribe’s political heir, President Juan Manuel Santos, who would be able to launch negotiations in Havana, in 2012. The effects on business of the differences between the conditions that had preceding the Caguán and, ten years later, the Havana processes were significant. Most notably, as a consequence of security gains, armed conflict had lost prominence among urban Colombia’s concerns. The regions still affected by conflict were few and remote, and overall, investors felt confident about Colombia’s performance and future. The Financial Times wrote about the “new” Colombia (Financial Times 2013). Spanish newspaper El País even referred to the Colombian “lion” (Martínez 2015), suggesting that the national economy was strong and resilient. The triumphalism induced by Colombia’s success in economic and security terms proved problematical for Santos’s effort to raise domestic support and legitimacy for negotiations with the guerrillas. This “paradox of plenty—​ Colombian style,” the fact that Colombia’s very success in economic and security terms ironically closed the political space for taking the last, necessary step toward ending conflict, took a toll on social and private sector support. Unlike his predecessor, Santos was unable to capitalize on a well-​performing middle-​ income economy. In addition, the small but widely publicized decline in security conditions affected public trust in the government’s ability to build lasting peace. In brief, the absence of profound crisis—​as there had been at the end of the 1990s—​made it much harder to sell peace to society overall, and to the skeptics in particular. As a social leader remarked in 2001, “When you are not touched by conflict, you’re sensitized to war, not peace.”15 In this changed context, the participation of the private sector was less reactive than it had been during the Caguán negotiations, smaller in numbers and less visible. In contrast with the 1990s, when companies’ support of peacebuilding was considered favorable for generating good-​will, during the Havana process, even companies that were engaged in the economic reintegration of demobilized fighters kept low profiles. Outright business opposition was stronger and strong-​ hand nostalgia prevailed among landed interests. The same cattle rancher association that had offered land in exchange for demobilization in the 1990s was now actively questioning what it perceived as lenient punishments and clear giveaways of economic freedom and private property rights (El Tiempo 2014,

 

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2016). Although the larger, more encompassing agricultural association was more moderate in its criticisms of the peace process, it, too, sought repeated reassurance from the government negotiators that Colombia would not turn into a Venezuela-​style socialist country after a truce was signed with FARC. Fears still run high that the Colombian truth commission will serve Leftist leaders as a form of retaliation against the country’s traditional elites. Those engaged in and supportive of negotiations adhered to the “peace as an opportunity” argument (Cámara de Comercio de Bogotá 2015; Dinero 2012; Consejo Gremial Nacional 2015; Semana 2015). This fraction of the private sector had learned that an ongoing confrontation between the Colombian state and guerrilla forces was not only a nuisance but the source of a lasting and strategic disadvantage as it tried to operate in the international markets. Ongoing access to the peace policymaking process further consolidated this pro-​peace business coalition. Representatives of big business in industry, trade, and finance visited the negotiating delegations in Havana, in November 2015, while the leaders of Colombian main business associations held periodic meetings with President Santos (El Tiempo 2015; Portafolio 2015; La Silla Vacía 2016). All these groups made a point of maintaining low-​profile channels of communication with other business elites and civil-​society actors, providing legitimacy and resources to support the process and acting as a counterbalance to the recalcitrant and skeptical business factions. The schism within the business community—​and within society—​became clear after the no vote won in the October 2016 referendum on the FARC peace deal. Although some of the opposition came from conservative evangelical churches, an important group of companies admitted to funding the no campaign on the grounds of fears for the free-​market model and because of a generalized preference that former FARC fighters (most of whom benefited from amnesty) serve jail time. Even those business people and groups in favor of the deal only occasionally and very cautiously voiced their support openly. At the beginning of 2017, the President Santos and his government were politically isolated, despite his having ended the Western Hemisphere’s longest conflict, adjusted the agreement, and earned the 2016 Peace Nobel Prize (Miklian and Rettberg 2019).

10.6.  The Importance of Organization, Context, and Politics in the Colombian Business-​Peace Relationship You can´t generalize about the private sector. There are different entrepreneurial cultures, cattle ranchers, landowners and farmers, industry,

 



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bananas . . . Some are owners, some sectors have been more exposed to conflict. They, too, have been victims and they also have stimulated the counterpart [the paramilitary]. You need to distinguish between those who are active and those who have done so passively. I have no doubt there have been promoters. But many became involved because they had been victims of extortion. They have been forced by a state that has not offered them any protection.16 This statement by one of the most prominent Colombian business leaders captures some of the complexities companies found themselves in during the Colombian conflict. More importantly, it points at the need to underscore the heterogeneity of the private sector in order to understand specific actions. Organization, context, and politics are important sorting tools to explain different responses by different businesses at different times. Big business in industry, finance, and trade, which was mostly urban, export led, and internationally dependent, often chose civil action and became critical players in moving the peace agenda forward. Rural-​based, land-​intensive sectors were hit hardest by the conflict and the most skeptical about a negotiated solution, especially after the Uribe years. Businesses reacted most similarly following the profound economic and political crises that led to the Caguán process. Reflecting a classical peace-​dividend argument, they supported civil action in an effort to calm the violence and restart the economy. “Need” fueled their concerns in the 1990s and early 2000s. Without such a crisis, business interests bifurcated during the Havana talks and settlement. More business actors voiced their concerns over the content and economic and judicial implications of the agreement and the cost of implementation. This had an important effect on the legitimacy of the talks and closed the political space for civil action by business actors. A smaller, less visible (but still critical) pro-​peace coalition, nonetheless, saw opportunities for consolidating economic and security gains by participating in civil action to support the efforts of the Santos government. During both periods, the access key business figures had to the government’s decision-​making processes was critical in instilling trust and confidence in the effectiveness of civil action despite the uncertainties implied by any peace process. At least since the 1990s, these well-​connected leaders and companies have developed a conviction (a creed) that ending the conflict via negotiations and implementing the agreement is the preferable course of action. This has led them to invest time and money in civil action to achieve that goal. These business elites have been socialized to peacebuilding over the past twenty-​five years, in part because of the consistently close relationship they have had with parts of the Colombian government vested in the peace process. This provided space for these businesses to take part in peace-​policy design, behind-​the-​scenes facilitation, and negotiations.

 

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10.7. Conclusion The literature on armed conflicts and war privileges the study of violence and violent actors in order to identify the causes of war and prospects for peace. This focus, however, limits its understanding of conflict dynamics. As shown here, civil action in violent settings is often critical to generating movement toward political and social stability, as business groups use their agency to de-​escalate or reduce violence. By drawing attention to the Colombian private sector, demonstrating its different commitment to civil action in two contrasting periods and the varying inclinations of different private-​sector factions, the chapter has sought to unpack the logic behind why different businesses at different times chose more civil action or less. It has shown that motivations to support peace—​or to oppose specific peace deals—​differ across time, context, and organizational features, and that the profit motive alone is insufficient to capture the multiple and sometimes diverging trends in the sector. It has also hinted at the existence of grey areas between civil and “pro-​government” actions, derived from the private sector’s closeness to the public decision-​making process. In the Colombian case, these grey areas have been instrumental in preserving the connection between government action and civil action across periods. In the coming years, the Colombian private sector will continue to have an impact on the depth and course of the transformation, as well as benefit from its consequences (Rettberg, Medina, and Miklian 2019). Over two decades, a pro-​peace coalition has emerged in the private sector, which firmly supports negotiations and invests time and resources in peacebuilding activities. Continued civil action by this coalition, as well as action that draws in more of the private sector to meet the profound postconflict challenges, could be a significant asset to the country. But growing private-​sector buy-​in can by no means taken for granted. As implementation costs have become clear, and the transitional justice mechanism dedicated to clarifying the role of third parties—​ including some companies—​in human rights violations and other forms of uncivil action is put in place, the criticism and resistance have resumed in what has become a highly contested postconflict period.

Acknowledgments This paper was commissioned by the Josef Korbel School of International Studies at the University of Denver as part of a project on Non-​Violent Action in Violent Settings. I thank the research team for inviting me to join the project. I also thank Brenda Ardila and María Paula Rojas for valuable research assistance.

 



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Notes 1. Thacker (1999) describes economic and political coalition building in the context of the negotiation of the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA), and finds that labor-​intensive US-​based enterprises favoring lower wages entered into alliances with the Mexican government seeking opportunities for Mexican workers, in opposition to some Mexican firms, which developed common political strategies with US-​based labor unions, who feared losing jobs. 2. See, for example, the case of Shell in Nigeria. 3. For a discussion of transnational companies’ contributions to international governance see, for example, Haufler (2016) and Avant and Westerwinter (2016). 4. Although there is an overall consensus in the literature that ending wars and armed confrontation is better in economic and social terms (except for a few economic activities that thrive in so-​called war economies; see Keen 1998), some evidence raises concerns about the possibility that the peace dividend will materialize in certain contexts and under certain conditions. Chan (1995), for example, questions the positive impact of a reduction in military spending on economic productivity. Similarly, Ferreira (2005) studies the promise of a peace dividend in Angola and warns about the presence of natural resources in transitional countries as a possible source of turmoil and as an explanation of why what he terms the “disillusion effect” may surpass the “expectation effect.” Rockoff (1998) posits that a “ratchet effect” may inhibit reductions in military spending and a restructuring of security forces in the short run. In brief, while there seems to be a clear positive trade-​off between the costs of war and the costs of peace, factors such as the impact of institutions and certain market inefficiencies may hamper the sheer existence, or at least the magnitude of, the peace dividend (Chan 1995). 5. The exact wording in Spanish was “Los empresarios de todo el mundo son gobiernistas. Es una locura no ser gobiernista si se es empresario.” 6. CIVETS is an acronym for the group of countries (Colombia, Indonesia, Vietnam, Egypt, Turkey, and South Africa) expected by the Economist Intelligence Unit in 2010 to be the most promising emergent markets in coming years (Reuters 2010). 7. Rettberg (2012) contains a full list of conflict-​and peace-​related taxes and bonds that the Colombian private sector has paid since 1990. According to Flores-​Macías (2014), three factors may explain Colombian elites’ tax proclivity: fiscal and security crises such as those that have been described here, cohesion among business and government elites, and, after 2002, improving perceptions of the government’s provision of public safety. 8. Before the 1990s, conflict “took place somewhere out there, in remote mountains and valleys, where neither society nor the state were present, which is why its impact on urban life was of little significance,” recalled one private-​sector leader. “They lived in a glass tower; they had not been touched by kidnappings,” one social activist said about the Colombian business class. Clara Inés Restrepo, interview with the author, Medellín, October 18, 2001). The economic situation fed into private-​sector fears: “(FARC founder and commander) Marulanda once said: what they don´t know is that all those little servants in their clubs are mine. In Spanish: “Marulanda dijo: “lo que ellos no saben es que todos esos meseritos que desprecian en los clubes son míos” (Nicanor Restrepo, interview with author, Bogotá, June 22, 2012). 9. Ramón de la Torre, interview with the author, Bogotá, November 7, 2002. 10. Sabas Pretelt de la Vega, interview with the author, Bogotá, December 7, 2002. 11. The make-​up of FIP’s founders among Colombian big business is significant. “The companies represent a very high proportion of the Colombian GDP. They have the capacity to finance. They have impact, it is a very select group,” one of his founders explained. Rodrigo Gutiérrez, interview with the author, Bogotá, September 13, 2000. 12. A part of the National Crusade against Poverty, the proposal “recognizes the need to redistribute wealth by those sectors which generate it, in a demonstration not of generosity but of unilateral and unselfish justice, by giving up part of their wealth for compatriots who do not possess anything” (quoted in El Tiempo, November 8, 1997). Several years later FEDEGAN retracted what he said: “[The thing about us donating land] was something made up by the press.” Jorge Visbal, interview with the author, Bogotá, January 30, 2002). 13. Even the president of the New York Stock Exchange (NYSE) visited FARC in those days. 14. Truly, the group’s composition was remarkable. Among the participants in the meeting were Julio Manuel Ayerbe (Corona Organization), Hernán Echavarría (Corona Foundation and

 

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Corona Organization), Rodrigo Gutiérrez (president of FIP’s executive board), Manuel José Carvajal (Carvajal y Cía.), José Alejandro Cortés (Seguros Bolívar), Henry Eder Zambrano (Ingenio Manuelita), Edmundo Esquenazi (Sanford), Jairo Gómez (Postobón), Eduardo Pacheco (Colpatria), Andrés Obregón (Grupo Empresarial Bavaria), Juan Sebastián Betancur (Sindicato Antioqueño), Nicanor Restrepo (Sindicato Antioqueño), Luis Carlos Sarmiento Angulo (Grupo Aval), and Ramón de la Torre (Exxon). 15. Clara Inés Restrepo interview. 16. In Spanish:  “No se puede generalizar sobre el sector empresarial. Hay culturas empresariales distintas, ganaderos, agricultores, industriales, agropecuario, bananeros. Son propietarias, son sectores que han estado más expuestos a acciones del conflicto. Han sido víctimas y han sido estimuladoras de la contraparte. Hay que distinguir activos y pasivos. No tengo duda de que ha habido promotores. Pero muchos que han terminado involucrado han sido víctimas por extorsión y forzados por una realidad donde el Estado no tiene recursos de protección” (Nicanor Restrepo, interview with author, Bogotá, June 22, 2012).

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11   

 Conclusion Deborah Avant, Erica Chenoweth, Rachel Epstein, and Cullen Hendrix

11.1.  Introduction We began this project with questions about how nonviolent actions by nonstate authorities affect violence during conflicts. A  reluctance to define our project by what it was not propelled us to search for a positive term to describe these activities. Our concept of civil action takes inspiration from civil resistance but broadens the ends to which it can be used, further develops the notion of civility on which it is based, and opens paths for understanding civil action on the part of a wide range of authorities working in and outside of governments. The nine case studies in this book have illustrated a range of different civil actions and how they matter for the resolution of conflict, the degrees of violence in different areas, and the capacity for relationships in the midst of conflict. Our conclusion synthesizes what we have learned about civil action from our case studies and how it intersects with various ongoing concerns in the field. We offer a series of propositions and questions that we hope will prompt further research on civil action, its causes, and its effects. As the project unfolded, we could not help but notice the irony of writing about civil action even as politics in the United States, Europe, and beyond, grew increasingly polarized. Our final section thus ponders the relevance of civil action in less violent situations, how the growing importance of connections through social media might shape its likelihood and effect, and whether civil action can be a tool for advancing exclusionary goals.

11.2.  What Have We Learned? The case studies in this volume have demonstrated a broad range of civil action. Nonviolent strategies that promote deeper engagement among stakeholders in a 279

 

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context of at least minimal respect for the opposing parties take multiple forms. Civil action highlighted in the preceding chapters includes the provision of medical assistance and food, the collection and dissemination of information about conflict conditions and human welfare, civil disobedience and protest, corporate coordination with public authorities to improve police efficacy, and artistic expression that questions and challenges the legitimacy of violence. These strategies change conflict trajectories in ways that often dampen violence. They also, however, can have unintended consequences that can cause the violence to increase or result in forms of social exclusion that augur poorly for postconflict peacebuilding. Here we draw out some of the major findings, including those that are contradictory, in an effort also to point to potential avenues for ongoing research.

11.2.1.  Propositions from the Case Studies The actors involved in civil action are diverse, and their different authority claims condition both their motivations for engaging in civil action and their repertoires of civil action. This finding may seem self-​evident, but it is important to recognize nonetheless. In the case studies, civil actions were undertaken by a remarkably diverse set of actors, ranging from tribal leaders (Afghanistan, Kenya) to religious leaders and institutions (Basque Country, Northern Ireland, and Bosnia), entertainers and performers (Peru), commercial firms (Mexico, Colombia), formal and informal community groups and social movements (omnipresent). Although they were not an explicit focus on our case-​study chapters, we could add to this list the media, transnational activist networks, international organizations such as the Red Cross, United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees and the World Food Programme, and trade unions. Indeed, producing an exhaustive list of real and potential nonviolent actors in violent contexts would be virtually impossible. These diverse actors gain authority in different ways that give them different motivations for engaging in civil action. Tribal leaders were motivated both to protect their communities and to sustain and reinforce their claims to authority over those communities. Religious leaders and institutions were motivated to preserve the social role of their organizations, as well as by a desire to extend their influence and provide moral and spiritual support to both affected communities and combatants (even if at cross purposes). Entertainers and performers were motivated to comment on and critique their violent surroundings, mining their context for deeper social meaning and beauty. Commercial firms were motivated to create more opportune circumstances for commerce, the pursuit of lasting peace potentially being a step on the way to reaping profits.

 

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Formal and informal community groups and social movements, however, were characterized by an even more varied set of motivations, ranging from community protection (in many cases) to advocacy for women’s rights (Peru) and nonviolent regime change (Syria). Moreover, in some cases, the lines between actor types were blurred, as in the case of Peru, where the theater group was an extension of a community organization. Any attempt to develop a general theory of civil action must confront the reality that the actors involved are remarkably diverse, which makes inferring predictable patterns of behavior among them quite complicated. Similarly, these diverse actors have distinct repertoires of civil action. In ­chapter 1, we highlighted the diversity of both the actors and the mechanisms and actions by which they would seek to tamp down violence (see Table 1.1). Our case studies suggest that most of these actors engage in different repertoires of actions in attempting to affect violence. Tribal leaders used their informal authority to offer engagement with opponents, monitor the violence and maintain restraint, and exchange information. Religious leaders asserted collective frames for action (both civil and uncivil), maintained restraint but in other instances promoted incivility, and offered aid and rescue. Entertainers and performers used theater, dance, and other means to assert collective frames, denounce the violence, and provide positive cultural experiences in otherwise very difficult and trying contexts. Commercial firms used their market power, economic leverage, and connections to encourage the reform of security practices and to name and shame bad behavior. Finally, community groups and social movements engaged in all these actions and more, including mass mobilization to make claims against both state and nonstate armed actors. 11.2.1.1.  In Conflict Settings, Civil Action Can Carve Out Space for Alternative Narratives That Contest Violent Action

This was among the most common findings of our authors. In nearly every case, civil action provided an alternative narrative to those that championed violence. In Peru, Zech showed the degree to which theater groups secured a separate space for those unpersuaded by or disillusioned with Shining Path’s objectives and use of violence, but also frustrated with the government’s response. The Vichama theater group of Villa El Salvador drew diverse communities into efforts to promote education, women’s empowerment and honest confrontations with trauma. It thus offered a very distinct set of priorities from combatants on either side of the civil war. Similarly, Argomaniz documented the succession of protest organizations that critiqued Basque nationalism and registered horror at ETA

 

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violence without giving up the pursuit of Basque identity. Their protest activities demonstrated alternative pathways to dignity and freedom. Over decades, the space these peace movements created generated a path that accumulated overwhelming public support. The pacifying role of nonviolent narratives spawned by civil action is also central to Berry’s chapter on the microdynamics of war in Bosnia. In Tuzla and Sarajevo, civil action sustained narratives of inclusion, nonviolence and the value of the diversity rooted in these cities’ histories, even as Serb and Croat nationalists and Jihadists peddled an opposing violent narrative. Rettberg’s chapter on the Colombian private sector’s engagement in the peace process also shows civil action creating additional space. In that case, business-​led projects allowed local communities to profit from peace-​related work, which had the broader effect of cultivating support for finalizing the peace negotiations. In each instance, civil action created space for organizing a constituency around peace and allowed constituents to both engage with one another and draw in others. 11.2.1.2.  Civil Action Can Create Platforms from Which Leaders Committed to Nonviolent Management of Collective Concerns Can Emerge and Assume Authority in Domestic and International Circles

Drawing directly from the previous proposition, civil action can propel the kind of leadership necessary for organizing nonviolent alternatives. Zech, in Peru, gave us the example of María Elena Moyano, a peace and women’s rights activist, who was elected deputy mayor of Villa El Salvador before she was murdered in 1992. Although our case studies do not detail postconflict developments, the cultivation of leaders steeped in civil action, peaceful opposition, and democratic sensibility are invaluable to postconflict transitions. The experience and public recognition they gain in the midst of conflict can position them for more successful leadership after it ends. Ley and Guzmán depicted similar leadership development in Mexico among a group of powerful business leaders in the state of Monterrey. The authors credit the state’s business elites with breaking the critical link between criminal violence and government officials that had long made corruption possible. Zürcher, examining Afghanistan, also obverses the extent to which dealing with conflict and violence requires leadership and tends to reinforce those that emerge to provide this function. In that case, the elders serving on village councils who negotiated with armed groups, devised strategies for self-​defense and navigated the tricky dilemmas posed by foreign aid developed important skills and followings. In sum, civil action in conflict settings provides an opportunity for new kinds of leaders to emerge, or for existing leaders to acquire new skills.

 

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11.2.1.3.  Civil Action Can Improve the Availability and Accuracy of Information

Cox’s chapter on the Turkana-​ Samburu range war in northern Kenya demonstrated three ways in which civil action improved information flows, reducing the frequency (if not the severity) of violent outbreaks. Community-​ based organizations in collaboration with elders and even militias on both sides of the conflict developed, through their extensive networks, thorough-​going monitoring capacities to anticipate violence and, in some cases, forestall conflict. At the same time, the elders in these communities used their privileged access to information to dispel rumors of pending attacks, which also served to abate conflict. Turkana and Samburu elders also shared information with one another to dampen violence—​demonstrating the constructive effect of minimal respect among opposing parties for encouraging restraint. Pearlman’s chapter on Syria also showed the intrepid efforts of “citizen journalists,” which had already begun in the early phase of the conflict between the regime and protestors, before the violence erupted. In that instance, emerging citizen journalists confronted a hostile environment in which the government-​controlled media repressed news about the protests and misrepresented the intentions of those who mobilized (claiming they were criminally motivated or directed by foreigners). As the conflict progressed and became more brutal, citizen journalists continued to inform the world about the deteriorating human rights conditions, severe privation, torture, and civilian deaths—​and they maintained this effort even after prominent organizations, including the UN, had given up. Whereas the Syrian case demonstrates that improved information does not necessarily catalyze an international response, Berry’s chapter on Bosnia clearly shows that it can fuel public outrage beyond a war’s borders. Indisputable evidence of atrocities compelled the international community to take action that undermined and ultimately ended the siege of Sarajevo, and ushered in the Dayton Peace Accords. 11.2.1.4.  In Many Instances, Civil Action Saves Lives

By dampening local violence or charting paths to the resolution of conflict, civil action can save lives. In her comparative case study of Omagh and Dungannon in Northern Ireland, Grubb clearly demonstrates how civil action by the police can have life-​saving effects. In Omagh, the impartiality of the police vis-​à-​ vis competing factions represented civil action by virtue of its respect for the rule of law and the rights of citizens even if they were contesting the prevailing system. Police impartiality muted polarization, reprisals, and mistrust, making other forms of civil action aimed at violence reduction in Omagh both possible and comparatively effective. In Dungannon, by contrast, the collusion of the

 

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police and loyalist counterprotestors left Catholics feeling alienated, suspicious, and susceptible to the more radical narratives that advocated violence. The consequences of civil action by the police—​or its absence—​led the death toll and frequency of violence in Dungannon to be more than twice that in Omagh over a similar time period. Pearlman’s chapter on Syria also documents the degree to which civil action saves lives. The White Helmets, for instance (otherwise known as the Syrian Civil Defense) were reported to have saved 41,000 lives as of 2016. Pearlman argues in essence that if war conditions are so intense that the international aid agencies cannot access an area, action by locals is the first (and only) line of defense. Civilians, both organized, as the White Helmets were, and not, dug their compatriots out from under bombed buildings and provided medical assistance, food aid, and other humanitarian services. Many of the chapters point to civil action that was directed toward this existential end. Village elders in Afghanistan and Kenya saw saving lives as their first responsibility; businesses in both Mexico and Colombia could not tolerate continued escalating violence out of concern for humanity, and not just narrow worries about profitability; and victims’ associations in Basque Country were intent on limiting the loss of loved ones for others (see the chapters by Zürcher, Cox, Ley and Guzmán, Rettberg, and Argomaniz respectively). 11.2.1.5.  In Other Instances, Civil Action Improves the Quality of Life, Even Under Dehumanizing Conditions

Saving lives is critically important, but so is making life worth living amid the extremities and indignities of war. Civil action can also work to improve the quality of life. Several of the chapters address this issue head-​on, showing the inventive and courageous ways in which people connect with one another, using humor, irony, and artistic expression—​both to undermine the legitimacy of violence, but also, one suspects, to claim membership in a social order that actively affirms peaceful engagement with others. Zech’s chapter on Peru provides the purest example of this kind of community building, when theater became a refuge and its own, nonmilitaristic form of self-​defense. Berry also chronicles how in Sarajevo, certain small acts of defiance, as well as satire, built solidarity and unexpected endurance among the population. By exposing and ridiculing the hypocrisy of those perpetrating violence, Sarajevans created a context in which to consolidate their shared sense of truth and justice. This made individuals less vulnerable to fatigue and hopelessness than would have otherwise been the case. Argomaniz, too, points to the ways in which the use of dramatic effect—​ especially through silent protests—​attracted broader public attention. But the theatrical approach was also particularly resonant. Continued reference to

 

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anticonflict narratives and images, cleverly delivered, enhanced the appeal of the peace movement and thus its capacity to build solidarity in a sustained way over time. Preserving civil activity against violence in Basque Country was no small feat given the extent to which people can be accommodated to a status quo, even a violent one. Even more practically, in the case of Colombia Rettberg showed that many (though not all) businesses improved the quality of people’s lives by preventing forced displacements, employing former combatants, and helping erstwhile combatants and victims of violence alike to reintegrate into civilian life. 11.2.1.6.  Civil Action Can Also Backfire—​or Boomerang

Civil action can generate more violence. It can also undermine existing structures that are in place to manage collective concerns without using violence. Zürcher’s study on Afghanistan describes how civil action by aid agencies led to both. External aid agencies, informed by developmental goals, have pursued educational projects, including setting up schools for girls or for coeducational institutions that are, by our definition, civil. But these projects both incited attacks from the Taliban and led rivals to challenge established village elders. This has often destabilized village governance structures—​reducing their capacity to manage violence. In Syria too, Pearlman reported on the multiple ways in which civil action has incited more violence, first from Bashar al-​Assad’s brutal regime and then from extremist responses to it. Zech’s analysis of Peru similarly points to a violent response. The murder of the Peruvian peace activist and prominent feminist María Elena Moyano was undoubtedly an effort to intimidate those contemplating or planning to take civil action into remaining silent and inactive. Cox’s chapter on northern Kenya argues that civil and uncivil action there between the Samburu and Turkana are “deeply interrelated.” Indeed, he documented the extent to which civil action can bleed into something much more dangerous. The same information shared among tribal leaders that can undermine pernicious rumors and, in some circumstances, build confidence and trust was also used as military intelligence to pummel the opponent once violence does erupt. As with Zürcher, Cox also finds that humanitarian assistance can have a downside. Although it helps civilian populations, it also supplies would-​be and actual combatants. Finally, the reverse is also true. When uncivil action is seen as effective, it can be detrimental to civil action advocates. Rettberg notes that the Colombian government’s edge over the FARC, its consequent ability to push the guerrilla forces to the periphery, and the parallel success in promoting Colombian prosperity also dampened the support for negotiating a settlement with FARC. In Colombia, “effective” violence appeared

 

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to undermine support for civil action. Many of our cases also reveal the contradictory effects of civil action—​it can fuel violent backlash but also reignite additional civil action. We thus see many types of boomerang effects. And civil action can sometimes become a feature of the conflict itself (see especially Cox, but also Pearlman, Zürcher, and Zech). 11.2.1.7.  Governing Institutions and Individuals Working in Them Affect the Likelihood That Civil Action Will Occur—​and Can, at Times, Make It Nearly Impossible

Civil action is more likely in the context of impartial and effective governing institutions, even if the impartiality and effectiveness are informal or uneven across different parts of the government. Although the quality of governing institutions may not seem an obvious place to look for the sources of conflict trajectories (since we expect institutional breakdown under conflict), some our authors highlighted this as an important variable that either creates or diminishes opportunity for civil action. The clearest example is from Grubb on Northern Ireland. The chief source of relatively less violence in Omagh compared to Dungannon was precisely the commitment to impartiality among the police, consistent with the minimal respect principle. Where impartiality reigned (in Omagh), there was much more evident space for civil action. Argomaniz points to the quality of government intervention in the Basque conflict (on the part of Spain) that over time had a virtuously compounding effect with the peace movement. As Spain conferred more power and independence to a Basque regional administration (including a police force that ultimately protected peace protectors from harassment), this augmented arguments that the ETA was not the only Basque entity fighting for and securing the region’s interests. Governance that enhanced representativeness there chipped away at the ETA and related-​party support. Likewise, even though corruption was rife among Monterrey’s local institutions, the ability of business leaders to find national-​ level governmental support was critical to their efforts. In the absence of governmental support, civil action can offer community and opportunities to retain or forge personal relationships and purpose. This is true even under conditions of very severe violence, intimidation, and coercion, as was the case in Peru, Syria, and Afghanistan. In contrast, Berry’s analysis of the Bosnian city of Prijedor demonstrates how uncivil behavior by governing authorities can undermine the space for civil action. Serb nationalists in Prijedor worked with the Serbian government to covertly develop their own, exclusionary administrative structure, which ultimately frustrated any resistance effort. Shortly thereafter, the purges of non-​Serbs began, to be followed by full-​scale military assaults. Civil action may

 

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also be less likely when there is unambiguous military superiority on one side. Not only are there fewer incentives to mount peaceful protests, but the dangers under such circumstances may be more acute. As noted, Rettberg showed that the perceived effectiveness of the government’s military efforts in Colombia diminished the support for a negotiated settlement. In sum, even though they work through diverse actors and repertoires, these propositions reveal some common mechanisms through which civil action’s creation of connections, solidarity, and openness can have an effect—​by generating alternative narratives, developing new leaders, and improving the quality and quantity of information. They also hint at the interactive conditions under which civil action is likely to have its greatest impact on conflict reduction—​ when it is locally resonant, interacts synergistically with others, and is imbued with capacity. Civil action is least likely to arise, and can backfire, when exclusion and violence are at their most extreme and backed by the governing institutions. 11.2.1.8.  Civil Action in These Case Studies Also Reveal Important Questions for Further Research

First, what causes civil action? This clearly important question has not been our focus, but we do offer some insights into it. One is that authority claims affect the type of civil actions actors can take. Our hunch going in was that civil action was not restricted to specific authority types and that there were logics by which authority types could be drawn to both civil and uncivil actions. Our case studies supported this. For instance, two of our chapters focused on businesses. We know that businesses do sometimes take civil action. But Ley and Guzmán on Mexico and Rettberg on Colombia, point to different kinds of actions firms took vis-​à-​vis these countries’ respective conflicts. Rettberg finds that the private sector’s propensity for civil action that was focused on conflict reduction is greater among urban and exporting firms than firms located in rural areas that produced less tradable goods and services. Ley and Guzmán’s analysis of firms’ responses to drug violence in Mexico, though, shows a somewhat different dynamic based on the levels of cooperation in different locales. Strong corporate cooperation in Monterrey led to violence reduction, while anarchic self-​regard in Acapulco did not. In Monterrey, business worked closely with public authorities to create a new state police force and improved crime-​reporting opportunities for citizens and stronger accountability of government officials—​activities that all clearly fall under the rubric of civil action. Religious institutions also frequently take civil action. This was evident in the Basque Country, Northern Ireland, and Bosnia, among other places. But in Bosnia, religious leaders urged restraint, tolerance, and inclusivity in some

 

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instances, and incited violence of unimaginable brutality in others. Berry’s analysis of religious leaders blessing troops before they headed off to rape, pillage, and kill in the service of ethnic and religious domination tells us that religious institutions have relationships that make them very effective at cultivating community, loyalty, and solidarity—​but sometimes for murderous ends. It is unclear what would help us understand ahead of time whether the religious leaders in question (and their followers) would wind up on the civil or the uncivil sides of the war. The Bosnian example appears to point to inclusive and exclusive ideologies, as well as to violent versus nonviolent discourses. However, Braun (2016), in his analysis of Protestant and Catholic Church behavior during the Holocaust, suggests that contextual dynamics can generate more civil action or less among otherwise similar religious institutions. There are still important and unanswered questions about what leads religious, commercial, and other institutional actors to civil versus uncivil actions. Second, how should we characterize ambiguous actions and effects? For instance, though Ley and Guzmán document the reduction of violence and crime associated with the newly recruited and trained police force that business leaders supported in Monterrey, they also note the increase in the number of human rights accusations against that new police force. It could be that the improved conditions created space for more claims, even as actual violations decreased, but we cannot rule out the opposite. One can also question whether collaboration between businesses and public authorities to eschew support for public protests of intolerable crime to enhance the government’s legitimacy, was in fact civil. On the one hand, it was crucial to securing the deal that decisively reduced crime; on the other, it suppressed an arguably vital additional form of civil action. Zürcher described a similar self-​policing in Afghanistan that elders undertake to maintain their communities’ neutrality vis-​à-​vis combatants, not by contesting the Taliban’s narrative but by using it—​and thus sometimes reinforcing exclusion. Is such action civil or not? The conceptualization we draw on would be satisfied with enough civility to keep the conversation going. By its nature, it depends on both its nonviolence and its reception by others as respect worthy of continued engagement but both are subject to interpretation. As Bejan notes, a call for civility raises three questions related to toleration: “1) how much difference can we bear, 2) how much must we share to make that difference bearable, and 3) where should we draw the line” (Bejan 2016, 152). In articulating a more encompassing line, Roger Williams introduced not only a more minimal standard, but one that pleaded for finding distinction between values and daily life while recognizing that they will also be mutually dependent and referential. “The mereness of Williams’ civility was thus relative and relational. Any positive account of its requirements would be open to the objection that they were partial, exclusionary, and unjust, in the same way

 

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that any proposed list of fundamenta, no matter its latitude, could and would be met with conscientious dissent.” (Bejan 2016, 163)  Though some will no doubt attempt to move beyond the ambiguity to greater clarity and specificity—​ they should be aware of the potential injustice to the nuance critical to many interactions they may interject. We admit, though, that embracing the nuance and contextual specificity inherent in many interactions makes the concept harder to measure and assess. Finally, what is the relationship between civil action and values? Zürcher’s chapter on Afghanistan added some cautionary doubt to even the ostensibly universal values of inclusivity and tolerance as a bulwark against violence. As he suggests, the modernization discourse these values are a part of is seen as threatening to some in Afghanistan. For instance, as we have already recounted, actions to advance the interests of women and girls, including improving access to education—​a goal to which the editors of this volume wholeheartedly subscribe—​can serve to provoke violence and erode the existing social fabric. But Zürcher also suggests that self-​policing is easier in villages that see themselves as ethnically homogeneous. Though there are many reasons to question the obvious identification of people with particular ethnicities, when ethnic narratives are prominent markers of social identity, it can create a pressure for closure that leads to trade-​offs between civility, even as we have defined it, and violence. So, while diversity, inclusivity, and tolerance clearly contribute to dampening violence in some (perhaps most) cases when tolerance itself becomes disputed, protecting civility can accelerate violence. Indeed, as Bejan points out in her analysis of Roger Williams’s practices, inclusiveness and tolerance can work at cross purposes. “Mere” civility requires only tolerance, and even that will always be subject to judgment. Scholars and practitioners often approach their subjects with liberal biases (as the editors of this volume do). It is essential to be aware, though, of the value conflicts that are often at play. In many parts of today’s Afghanistan, promoting peace may be at odds with preventing some kinds of harm. Only by using that awareness can we begin to manage these conflicts more productively.

11.3.  Civil Action and the Broader Literature on Conflict and War The concept of civil action and the propositions that emerge from these case studies speak to the larger literature on peace and conflict in several important ways. First, these findings highlight and reinforce recent trends in the field that focus on the occurrence of nonviolent action amid armed conflict. For instance, Christian Davenport, Erik Melander, and Patrick Regan (2018) emphasize the

 

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need to “unpack” peace and nonviolent action from the mere absence of violent conflict. Chenoweth, Hendrix, and Hunter (2019) show a wide range of nonviolent actions that were underway even during major civil wars in Africa, including activism that crosses borders and even continents. And recent work by Huang (2016), Kaplan (2017), Krause (2018), and Dorff (2015) suggest that collecting data on civil action during a armed action can help to produce more systematic and generalizable analysis of the onset, dynamics, and outcomes of the conflict. The concept of civil action broadens the types of events and the range of potential actors whose behavior affects conflict. Second, some scholars have previously noted a disconnect between the literatures on conflict resolution and armed conflict (Howard and Stark 2017). While Howard and Stark (2017) analyze macro attempts at conflict resolution and their success, the observations drawn from our cases speak to the potential that focusing on micro processes brings. The brokerage function played by various actors in the context of Afghanistan, Colombia, and Syria also suggests bridges between these literatures and demonstrates the promise of integrating knowledge about arbitration, dispute resolution, and conflict management into the conventional study of war. Third, although we do not focus specifically on the question of how civil action contributes to whether war breaks out or not, our cases do suggest ways in which civil action can matter for how wars end. For instance, some studies suggest that civil wars are particularly difficult to end when parties cannot credibly commit to maintain peace in the aftermath of mass violence (Walter 1997). Complex civil war with a high number of veto players can be especially difficult to end (Cunningham 2006). But the chapters in this book—​and the concept of civil action more generally—​guide the focus on civil war scholarship away from armed actors alone and suggest that unarmed actors can use nonviolent methods to negotiate with and pressure armed actors into ending their hostilities. The Basque case is particularly instructive in this regard. Moreover, our logic and cases caution against assuming that collective actors are either monolithic or unchanging. As Berry’s analysis of Sarajevo showed, civil action can make it harder for armed groups to recruit, affecting the capacity of different groups. Finally, our findings support and amplify recent arguments that have emphasized the importance of local resonance for building peace. Severine Autesserre (2010, 2014) has shown the difficulties international peacebuilders have when they ignore local dynamics, and Susanna Campbell (2018) has shown the importance of local accountability for successful peace efforts. Cox’s analysis of Kenya and Zürcher’s investigation of Afghanistan demonstrate very similar dynamics. Civil action that is not sensitive to local dynamics can amplify rather than reduce violence and undermine institutions necessary for peace.

 

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11.4.  Navigating Slippery Conceptual Terrain: Inclusion and Exclusion Inclusion and exclusion are central to our conception of civil action, but also to civil resistance, sustainable development, and peacebuilding. The inclusion of previously underrepresented or excluded groups—​such as women, historically marginalized communities, indigenous groups, or youth—​can be civil but also is a core concept in the Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs), and features prominently in the 2016 revised UN peacebuilding architecture (United Nations 2016). In this volume, inclusivity yields both instrumental (protection of people and communities) and broader normative (dampening violence and resolving conflict) benefits; and exclusivity poses risks. As some of our propositions demonstrate, though, civil action by one party is only one part of an interaction and is not preordained to bring about greater inclusion. Furthermore, defining inclusivity and exclusivity—​both generally, and specifically with respect to civil action in violent contexts—​is incredibly difficult, and requires wrangling with basic conceptual issues (Hendrix 2019). For one, what is being included or excluded? Is it social group based on ascriptive or quasi-​ascriptive identities, such as nationality or extra-​national status, ethnicity and geographic region, religion, or gender identity? Or is exclusion or inclusion understood as being primarily experienced by individuals? For another, what does it mean to be included or excluded? Does it mean having representation in processes—​either formal or informal—​that structure social interactions, like formal political institutions, communities, and religious organizations? Or does it mean being included in outcomes, like whether a group is socially integrated or marginalized? These are thorny questions, and more sustained engagement with them will benefit future analyses of civil action.

11.5.  Civil Action and Polarized Politics We have found that during conflict, civil action can create space for maintaining or building productive relationships, dampening levels of local violence, and even contributing to war’s end. Some of our case studies have also demonstrated a fine line between managing political discord and slipping into civil war. We thus suspect that attention to civil action can have much broader implications for thinking about useful ways to engage in the fraught, polarized, and uncivil political circumstances that characterize many parts of the world today. We thus end with a few thoughts on its potential—​even in the social media age and in the face of those who seem to be pursuing exclusionary aims.

 

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The civil resistance literature has already given us a deep reservoir of evidence of the usefulness of nonviolent strategies for promoting social change that is both successful and democratic. Our concept of civil action suggests that some actions in civil resistance are more “civil” than others. Insults, disrespect, and social ostracizing can narrow the options for engagement in ways that move toward incivility and conflictual outcomes. Civil resistance that calls out social problems but still leaves room for the individuals engaged in it to show respect to those they are resisting at some level will be more likely to make connections with broader swaths of society and maintain openness—​to new members and new information. Size and openness are important to movement success. Our logic suggests that they should also be important in maintaining the commitment to nonviolence and in short-​circuiting some types of violent responses. If we are right, civil resistance that accords with our conception of civil action and leaves space to keep conversations going, no matter how tense, will be less likely to either provoke violent responses or turn to violence itself. The civil action concept also broadens our aperture, allowing us to focus on more-​or-​less civil action by police or government administrators as well as movements themselves. As our case studies suggest, civil action on the part of people in these roles can be especially consequential for both accelerating and dampening violence. We have seen similar dynamics in recent events in the United States. Heavy-​handed police tactics in the wake of the initial protests of Michael Brown’s shooting in Fergusson, Missouri, for instance, hastened violence on all sides, while the greater respect shown to the protestors by the National Guard troops (as well as the decision to send US attorney general Eric Holder to meet with the protestors) calmed the situation (Zagier 2014). This accords with the expectations we set out in this volume. As Wendy Pearlman noted, civil action can be enhanced by social media, as it was in the initial nonviolent protests in Syria. The Arab Spring, more generally, demonstrates social media’s importance for sharing details about protests and generating support for movements (Chadwick 2013). Others have suggested, though, that social media is a platform that might inhibit civility. Consider a recent interaction between Bari Weiss (a conservative opinion writer at the New York Times) and Eve Peyser (staff writer at Vice), about which they wrote in a recent article (Weiss and Payser 2018). The two had sparred on Twitter and admitted to thinking of one another as enemies. Then they met at a conference, and in a series of more informal conversations, discovered many things they shared outside politics. Intrigued by these commonalities, the two decided to collaborate—​first on an article on sourdough bread and then on one about the perils of Twitter and other social media. According to Eve, “Social media has a tendency to flatten people.” And, as Bari puts it, “Outrage and negativity are the most ‘engaging,’ and so that’s what we’re fed.” Their newfound friendship has

 

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caused both to reconsider their interactions on social media. Rather than turn away from it, though, they changed their approach to it. On the one hand, the article reinforces the idea that civil action might be harder in the era of social media. On the other, it demonstrates that even on social media, civil action can generate new connections, greater openness, and change. So even if we accept that civil action may be more difficult on social media, when it is undertaken, it could generate similar productive social interactions. Scholarly work has also questioned the productivity of looking at social media as a separate social space and suggested that we think of it, instead, as an additional layer on top of existing spaces (Chadwick 2013). Seen this way, Twitter and other sites can offer additional avenues for action—​civil or uncivil. Connie Duncombe (2017), for instance, argues that postings on Twitter can frame representations of state identity in new, easily accessible ways that can be quickly disseminated to diplomatic counterparts. She traces how in the lead up to the nuclear agreement, Iranian tweets can be understood as civil action as we have defined it. They redefined the terms of the negotiations (as a win-​win opportunity for both Iran and the United States) and communicated the importance of mutual respect in reaching a deal. Finally, some worry that civil action could be hijacked and used for exclusive ends. For a variety of reasons, nonviolent actions tend to be associated with normatively desirable social outcomes: increasing space for diverse groups to act and be recognized, facilitating beneficent social change (democratization, respect for human rights, women’s rights, etc.), and creating the social context in which longer-​term peacebuilding can take place. However, there is no a priori reason why these same repertoires of action cannot not be marshaled toward closing social space, curtailing democracy and respect for human rights, and sowing the seeds of the type of exclusionary politics that so often result in a return to armed conflict (Østby 2008; Cederman, Weidmann, and Gleditsch 2011). The Civic Circles Movement in Hungary, for instance, was launched in the wake of the Fidesz loss in 2002. As Greskovits (2017) describes it, the movement took actions we would largely describe as civil: protests, petitions, open letters, and public statements. It did take some explicitly exclusionary actions, such as denying participation by members of the LGBTQ community, but its activities were mostly nonviolent. The group’s goal, though, was to extend the grass-​roots networks, associations, and media of the civic Right. “The circles acted in collaboration with hundreds of other, officially registered patriotic, church-​bound, professional, cultural, and local-​level political organizations, as well as many small and medium-​size private businesses, which, whether on grounds of material interest or ideological sympathy or both, aligned with the Right” (Greskovits 2017, 9). The close relationship between the movement and a political party, along with its centralized orchestration, led Greskovits, and

 

294

Ava n t   e t   a l .

others, to argue that it was “civic activism harnessed for political ends” (4). And we did see a move toward a more exclusionary politics in Hungary that was associated with the movement’s activities. Still, even though Greskovits (2017) credits the movement with organizing its base, he also notes its limits, even in its heyday (28). These limits may have been associated with its more exclusionary focus. Also important was the reaction of the Left and liberals, which according to Greskovits, was often exclusionary, as elites demonized the movement as fascist (6). Some might see such reaction as warranted given the movement’s association with Orbán. Greater engagement and efforts to keep a conversation going, though, could have been more productive than demonization that closed off the potential for argument. Finally, among the most intriguing elements of this case is the lack of a mobilization strategy by purportedly more liberal-​leaning and tolerant politicians and the struggle among parties in the left-​leaning coalition (Greskovits 2017, 29). More-​exclusionary strategies, even in the pursuit of liberal goals, appear to have yielded little fruit.

11.6  In Sum Building on the logic of micro analyses of conflict, arguments from contentious politics and the roles of nonstate actors, and conceptions of civility, we have elaborated a logic of civil action. By developing the concept, the range of actors that might engage in it, and its potential impact on relationships, levels of local violence, and overall conflicts, we have opened a conversation about how the full range of agency by citizens and groups can affect conflict dynamics. Our case studies have demonstrated civil action’s plausibility and impact in a variety of settings. The cases also illustrate the mechanisms through which civil action works and the conditions under which it is likely to dampen or escalate violence. Our exploration provides new insights into conflict dynamics. We hope these insights will inspire more research, better theory, and more useful policy options for managing conflict.

References Autesserre, Severine. 2010. The Trouble with the Congo: Local Violence and the Failure of International Peacebuilding. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Autesserre, Severine. 2014. Peaceland: Conflict Resolution and the Everyday Politics of International Intervention. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bejan, Teresa. 2016. Mere Civility:  Disagreement and the Limits of Toleration. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

 

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Braun, Robert. 2016. “Religious Minorities and Resistance to Genocide: The Collective Rescue of Jews in the Netherlands during the Holocaust.” American Political Science Review 110 (1): 127–​147. Campbell, Susanna. 2018. Global Governance and Local Peace: Accountability and Performance in International Peacebuilding. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Cederman, Lars-​Erik, Nils B. Weidmann, and Kristian Skrede Gleditsch. 2011. “Horizontal Inequalities and Ethnonationalist Civil War:  A Global Comparison.” American Political Science Review 105 (3): 478–​495. Chadwick, Andrew. 2013. The Hybrid Media System:  Politics and Power. Oxford:  Oxford University Press. Chenoweth, Erica, Cullen Hendrix, and Kyleanne Hunter. 2019. “Introducing the Nonviolent Action in Violent Contexts (NVAVC) Dataset.” Journal of Peace Research 56 (2): 295–​305. Cunningham, David E. 2006. “Veto Players and Civil War Duration.” American Journal of Political Science 50 (4) (October): 875–​892. Davenport, Christian, Erik Melander, and Patrick Regan. 2018. The Peace Continuum: What It Is and How to Study It. New York: Oxford University Press. Duncombe, Constance. 2017. “Twitter and Transformative Diplomacy: Social Media and Iran–​ US Relations.” International Affairs 93 (3): 545–​562. Dorff, Cassy L. 2015. “Civilian Autonomy and Resistance in the Midst of Armed Conflict”. PhD diss., Duke University. Greskovits, Béla. 2017. “Rebuilding the Hungarian Right through Civil Organization and Contention: The Civic Circles Movement.” EUI Working Paper RSCAS 2017/​37. Hendrix, Cullen S. 2019. “The Ins and Outs of Conceptualizing Inclusion:  Theoretical and Empirical Implications for the Study of Inclusive Approaches to Governance and Peacebuilding.” Journal of Global Security Studies (forthcoming). Howard, Lise Morjé, and Alexandra Stark. 2017. “How Civil Wars End: The International System, Norms, and the Role of External Actors.” International Security 42 (3): 127–​171. Huang, Reyko. 2016. The Wartime Origins of Democratization: Civil War, Rebel Governance, and Political Regimes. New York: Cambridge University Press. Kaplan, Oliver. 2017. Resisting War: How Communities Protect Themselves. New York: Cambridge University Press. Krause, Jana. 2018. Resilient Communities:  Non-​violence and Civilian Agency in Communal War. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Østby, Gudrun. 2008. “Inequalities, the Political Environment, and Civil Conflict: Evidence from 55 Developing Countries.” In Horizontal Inequalities and Conflict, edited by Francis Stewart, 136–​159. London: Palgrave Macmillan. United Nations General Assembly. 2016. “Review of the United Nations Peacebuilding Architecture, A/​RES/​70/​262.” New York: United Nations. Walter, Barbara F. 1997. “The Critical Barrier to Civil War Settlement.” International Organization 51 (3) (Summer): 335–​364. Weiss, Bari, and Eve Peyser. 2018. “Can You Like the Person You Love to Hate?” New York Times, December 3. https://​www.nytimes.com/​2018/​12/​03/​opinion/​bari-​weiss-​eve-​peyser-​ friendship.html. Zagier, Alan Scher. 2014. “Governor Nixon Taking National Guard Out of Fergusson.” Associated Press, August 21.

 

 

INDEX

Figures and tables are indicated by an italic f and t, respectively, following the page number. For the benefit of digital users, indexed terms that span two pages (e.g., 52–​53) may, on occasion, appear on only one of those pages. 3.5 percent rule, 19   Abertzale, Izquierda, 247 Acapulco, Mexico, 147–​48, 167, 169 actors. See also specific types breadth, 22 in civil action, diverse, 280–​81 development, Afghanistan, 204, 205, 207, 216, 223 (see also development actors, Afghanistan) mechanisms, conditioning factors, 22, 23t nonstate, on violence in Peru, 64 Acuerdo por las libertades y contra el Terrorismo, 241 Adiós Ayacucho, 72 advocacy groups, 13–​14 Afghanistan,  203–​23 aid attracting violence, 216–​21 civil action, 203–​4 civil action, in insurgencies, 222 civilian casualties and collateral damage, 203,  210–​11 community defense units, 213 community development council, 208–​9, 223 context, rural, 207 data and methods, 205 external involvement and space for civil action, 216 insurgency, 204 International Security Assistance Force, 207, 217 militias, community, 213 militias, outside, 213 Resolute Support, 207

shuras, 208–​9, 212–​14, 219–​20, 221, 223 strategies, war zone communities: additional insights, 214, 215t strategies, war zone communities: being neutral, 212 strategies, war zone communities: negotiate and plea, 210 strategies, war zone communities: self-​dense and seeking protection, 213 strategies, war zone communities: villagers offering protection, 209–​10 taxes, paid to Afghan Local Police, 212–​13 taxes, paid to Taliban, 210–​11 warring parties and warlords, 203 aid attracting violence, 216–​21 avoiding shrinking space for civil action, 221 damaging authority needed for civil action, 219 damaging neutrality, 220 insights from expert interview, 217 insights from survey data, 218 literature review, 216–​17 al-​Assad, Bashar, 35, 36, 39 al-​Assad, Hafez,  38–​39 Alcalde ¿cómo vamos?, 156–​57, 163 Al-​Shami, Leila, 49, 54–​55 alternative narratives, in conflict settings, 281 ambiguous actions and effects, 288 Arab-​Israeli War, Arab villages–​Israeli military forces nonaggression pacts, 212 “arc of crisis,” Kenya, 91, 92f Argomaniz, Javier, 6, 281–​82, 284–​85 Arguedas, José María, El Zorro de Arriba y el Zorro de Abajo, 72 arid-​and semi-​arid lands (ASALs), 89

297

 

298 I n d e

Armakolas, I., 183–​84, 185–​86 art, 65 artists, 12, 65 Ashby, N., 154 Asociación de Trabajadores Campesinos del Carere, 9 Asociación de Victimas del Terrorismo en el País Vasco (COVITE), 240, 243 Attalah, Khaled, 53 Aulestia, Kepa, 248 Autesserre, Séverine, 90–​91, 290 authority(ies). See also participants, civil action; specific types in civil action, 6 definition, 7 transnational, 7   Bakassi Boys, Nigeria, 90 Baketik,  242–​43 Ballantine, Albert, 137–​38 banditry, Nyrio Valley Conflict Corridor, 97, 101, 112 Baragoi massacre, 106–​7 Barrios, Alberto Martín, 231–​32 Basmeh, 48 Basque Country, Spain, 229–​49. See also specific actors Acuerdo por las libertades y contra el Terrorismo, 241 Asociación de Victimas del Terrorismo en el País Vasco, 240, 243 Basta Ya, 238–​40, 241 Blanco kidnapping and murder, 233, 237, 238, 240 civil action emergence, in peace movement, 232 civil action on conflict trajectory, 230 Communist Party, 231 constitutionalist turn, 237 context, 230 Elkarri, 232, 235–​36, 238, 242–​43, 244–​45, 246–​48,  249 Espíritu de Ermua,  237–​38 Foro El Salvador, 238–​39 Foro Ermua, 237–​40, 244–​45 García and Ibarzabal killings, 232 impact of civil action, assessing, 243 Movimiento de Liberación Nacional Vasco, 229–​30, 231, 234–​35, 236–​37, 238, 239, 242 Pact of Ajuria Enea, 236–​37, 238, 240–​41 Partido Popular, 241 PSOE, 231, 241 Sortu,  229–​30 Unión Progreso y Democracia, 242 violence, 40 years, 229 violence, Euskadi Ta Askatasuna, 229–​32, 233, 234–​35, 237, 242

x

violence renunciation, MLNV, and Lokarri’s role, 242 Basta Ya, 238–​40, 241 Baytna Syria, 48 behavior shifting, mechanisms, 27n.9 Bejan, Teresa, 3–​4, 288–​89 Bernauer, T., 261 Berry, Marie, 9 Bešlagić, Selim, 183–​85 Besley, Timothy, 261 Blanco, Miguel Ángel, 233, 237, 238, 240 Böhmelt, T., 261 boomerang effect, 64, 285–​86 Kenya, northern, 114 Peru, staging peace, 64, 285–​86 Bosnian Army, 190 Bosnian war, 1–​2, 178–​99 casualties, 178 civil action on violence, 179 Croatian Defense Council, 180–​81, 185 Croatia origins and Bosnian response, 178 dynamics differences, in different cities, 178–​79 Izetbegović, Alija, 179–​80, 187 Jugoslavenska Narodna Armija, 179–​81, 184, 190–​91,  197 map, 182f methodology, 181 Party for Democratic Action, 179, 180, 185, 186, 187, 195–​96 Patriot League, 180, 190 Prijedor and surrounding areas, 22, 25–​26, 178–​79,  195 Sarajevo, 16, 25–​26, 178–​79, 189–​92 Sarajevo, civilians, 190 Sarajevo, interethnic harmony and setting, 189–​90 Sarajevo, religious institutions, 192 Sarajevo, siege, causalities, and damage, 189–​90 scope and historical context, 179 Serb Democratic Party, 179, 185, 195–​96 territorial defense units, 179, 180 Tuzla, 9, 21, 25–​26, 178–​79, 182–​87 Tuzla, civilians and local NGOs, 185 Tuzla, local political elites, 183 Tuzla, religious institutions, 187 UNPROFOR forces, 180, 190, 195 Brass, Paul R., 93 Braun, Robert, 20–​21 Bruce, Steve, 134–​35 B Specials, 124–​25, 126–​28 Burrowes, Robert J., 244–​45 business. See also private sector; specific types civil action, 11, 287 conflict contexts, 259 peace-​dividend argument, 258, 261, 271 privileged position, in capitalism, 259–​60 pro-​government,  262 staging peace, in Peru, 70–​71

 



Index

business, action against crime, Mexico Alcalde ¿cómo vamos?, 156–​57, 163 collective, 155–​65, 156f, 160f collective, Center for Citizen Integration, 156f, 156–​57,  161 collective, Fuerza Civil, 156f,  156–​57 Pulsómetro de Seguridad, 156–​57, 163, 164 business, with criminal violence in Mexico,  151–​53 private sector, challenges and victimization, 151 private sector, crime security measures, 153 business elites, Mexico Acapulco, atomized, 167, 169 Ciudad Juárez, coordinated, 167, 168   Calderón, Felipe, “war on drugs,” 149–​50 Campbell, Susanna, 290 capacities civil action, 6, 7–​8 definition, 7 Carnaval por la Vida, 76–​77, 78, 81, 82 case studies. See also specific countires or regions propositions from, 280 casualties Bosnian war, 178 Bosnian war, Sarajevo, 189–​90 Kenya, northern, 89 casualties, civilian Afghanistan,  203–​4 in war, 203 Catholic Justice and Peace Commission (CJPC), 106, 107 Cemex, Mexico, 162 Center for Citizen Integration (Centro de Integración Ciudadana, CIC), 156f, 156–​57, 161 Centro de Investigación y Educación Popular, 10 Chenoweth, Erica, 2–​3, 289–​90 Chihuahua, Mexico, Fechac, 168–​69 CIJAC theater group, 84 Citizens Supporting Human Rights, 167 Ciudadanos en Apoyo a los Derechos Humanos, 167 Ciudad Juárez, Mexico, 147–​48, 167, 168 Civic Circles Movement, Hungary, 8–​9, 293–​94 civil, 2 civil action. See also specific topics actors, diverse, 280–​81 Afghanistan,  203–​4 aid damaging authority, 219 alternative narratives in conflicts, 281 (see also specific conflicts) ambiguous, 288 authority,  6–​7 capacities, 6, 7 civil in, 2 vs. civil resistance, 3 companies, in Mexico, 147–​72 (see also Mexico)

299

conflict and war literature, 289 definition, 2, 204 examples,  1–​2 on information availability and accuracy, 283 institutions and individuals on, 286 in insurgencies, 222 intergroup and intragroup coordination and collaboration,  114–​15 intergroup interaction, 95–​96, 114–​15 leader emergence, nonviolent management, 282 lives saved, 40 polarized politics, 291 on quality of life, 287 research, further, 287 space for, development actors avoiding shrinking, 221 space for, external involvement, 216 state forces, Northern Ireland Troubles, 124 stateness,  43–​44 uncivil action, co-​evolution with, 94–​96, 113 (see also Kenya, northern) values, 289 violent reaction opportunities, 114 civil action, dynamics of violence and, 1–​27 actors, mechanisms, and conditioning factors, 22, 23t authority of actor on, 27n.11 Bosnian War (1992–​1995), 1–​2 cases and outcomes, 23 civil in, 2 vs. civil resistance, 3 Colombia, Voluntary Principles on Business and Human Rights, 1 definition and examples, 1 effects to attend to, 15 Liberian Civil War, Second and Women in Peace Network, 1, 17 mere civility, 3–​4, 18, 239, 289 microdynamics and contentious politics, 4 openness, benefits, 27n.10 participants, authority and capacities, 6–​15 (see also participants, civil action) processes and relationships, 17 successes, 20 Ukraine, nonviolent activism, 1–​2 civility Hobbesian, 27n.8 toleration and, 288–​89 civility, mere, 289 Basta Ya, 239 concept, 3–​4, 18 Civilizing Process, The (Elias), 2–​3 civil resistance, 2–​3 3.5 percent rule, 19 vs. civil action, 3, 4 effectiveness, 19 exhortations for civility precluding, 3

 

300 I n d e

civil-​society organizations (CSOs). See also specific types educational programming, 95–​96 external, access, 105 legitimacy and authority, 96 strong, 90 closure, social, 5 CNN effect, 12 collateral damage, 203, 210–​11 Colombia Centro de Investigación y Educación Popular, 10 civil action, “pro-​peace coalition,” 255 Voluntary Principles on Business and Human Rights, 1 Colombia, private sector peace transition, 255–​72 1990s-​2000s, 256, 257t armed conflict, 263 business, 259 contextual factors, 255–​56, 258, 261, 263f Fuerza Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia (FARC), 255, 266, 267–​70 motivations, need-​creed-​greed framework, 255–​56, 258, 271 organization, context, and politics in business-​ peace relationship, 270 organizational factors, 255–​56, 258, 260, 263f Pastrana, Andrés, 256, 266–​67, 268 from peace as necessity to peace as opportunity, 266 Plan Colombia, 267, 268 political factors, 255–​56, 258, 262, 263f reforms, scale and depth, 256–​58 Santos, Juan Manuel, 256, 269, 270, 271 truth commission, 256–​58 uncivil and civil responses, to conflict and peace, 265 Uribe, Álvaro, 256, 258, 268–​69, 271 Communist Party (PCE), Basque Country, 231 community-​based organizations (CBOs), 9. See also local NGOs building, case studies, 91 (see also Kenya, northern) Kenya, northern, 93, 95, 96, 114–​15 community defense units, 213 community development council (CDD, CDC), Afghanistan, 208–​9, 223 conflicts. See also specific conflicts alternative narratives, 281 microlevel variation, 89–​92 connections in collective action, 19, 20 in openness, 18 constitutionalism, Basque Country, 237 contentious politics, 5 contextual factors, private sector in transition to peace, 255–​56, 258, 261, 263f, 270

x

Contraelviento, 72 coordination, 21 committees (tanseeqiyat), Syria, 40, 42 coordination among agents, Syrian war, 54–​55 local-​international,  55 local-​local,  54 Cordero, Isabel Coral, 75 corporate social responsibility, 260, 263, 267 corporations, transnational. See transnational corporations (TNCs); specific types creed, 255–​56, 258, 271 criminal violence, Mexico, 149 Croatia, Bosnian war origins, 178 Croatian Defense Council (HVO), 180–​81, 185 Currie, Austin, 128 Currin, Brian, 243 Cusack, Jim, 135   Davenport, Christian, 289–​90 Dayton Peace Accords, 42 del la Calle, José Luis López, 239–​40 della Porta, Donatella, 124, 140 demonstrations against crime, Mexico, 165–​66 development actors, Afghanistan, 204, 205, 207, 216, 223 attracting violence inadvertently, 219 authority for civil action, damaging, 219 neutrality, damaging, 220 space for civil action, 216 space for civil action, avoiding shrinking, 221 Devlin, James and Gertrude, 137 dialog “staging peace” for, 77 from Vichama Theater Group, Villa El Salvador, 66 Dialogo entre Zorros, 76–​77, 79 diaspora, Syrian conflict, 42 Díaz, Graciela, 74, 78, 81–​82 displaced, action for and by, Syrian conflict, 47 Dorff, Cassy L., 289–​90 Duncombe, Connie, 293 Dungannon District, 126–​32. See also Northern Ireland Troubles demographic, economic, and political characteristics,  125–​26 vs. Omagh, violence variation, 123, 126 polarization and radicalization, 126 saving lives, 40 uncivil action and violence, 123–​24 violence, escalation, 129   education, Freire on, 85–​86 Elias, Norbert, The Civilizing Process,  2–​3 Elkarri, 232 activist origins, 235 approach and organization, 236 collective action, 236

 



Index

contributions, main, 247–​48 insider status, 249 intellectual approach, 244–​45 Lokarri and Baketik from, 242–​43 organization, 236 Pact of Lizarra, 238, 247–​48 trust vs. regard for, 249 El Zorro de Arriba y el Zorro de Abajo (María), 72 Encuentro de Zorros, 72 Encuesta Nacional de Victimización a Empresas (ENVE), 151, 157–​58 Eng, Brent, 43–​44 Escuza, César, 72–​73, 74, 77, 79, 80 Espíritu de Ermua,  237–​38 Euskadi Ta Askatasuna (ETA) Basta Ya protests against, 239–​40 civil action, defeat of, 243 civil action, on conflict trajectory, 229–​49 (see also Basque Country, Spain) counterprotests,  234–​35 COVITE on, 240 demonstrations against, civil action and peace movement, 232 Elkarri, 235–​36,  242–​43 MLNV challenge, 242 Pact of Lizarra, 238 rights abuses by, 237 violence, kidnappings, and killings, 229–​32, 233, 234–​35, 237, 242 exclusion, 291 exit option, 154 extortion, Monterrey, Mexico 2006–​2011, 155–​56,  156f 2012+ changes, 156f, 156 Eye that Cries, 85   faith-​based organizations (FBOs) civil action, 287–​88 in civil action, 7, 10 Nyrio Valley Conflict Corridor, 95, 102, 103, 104,  114–​15 Peru civil and violent action, 69 Faul, Fr. Denis, 137 Fechac (Fundación del Empresariado Chihuahuense),  168–​69 Finci, Jakob, 194 foreign direct investment (FDI), Mexico, organized crime on, 154 Foro El Salvador, 238–​39 Foro Ermua, 237–​40, 244–​45 Foruma Građana Tuzle, 185–​87 free expression forum, Syrian conflict, 41 Freire, Paulo, 85–​86 Fuerza Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia (FARC), 255, 266, 267–​70 Fuerza Civil, 155–​65, 160f Funes, María Jesús, 246

301

Gallagher, J., 167 Gallegos, José, 169–​70 García, Melchor, 232 Gbowee, Leymah, 1 Gesto por la Paz, 232–​36 Catholic Church origins, 245 dissolution, voluntary, 242, 243 insider status, 249 members, protests, and public gatherings,  233–​34 MLNV message, undermining, 246–​47 modern nationalists vs. MLNV followers on, 247 obstacles,  234–​35 origins and anti-​violence stance, 232 police protection, 244 political polarization and decline, 240–​41 social space of opposition, 246 Glass of Milk organization, 75, 83 Goddard, Stacie E., 22 Gorriarán, Martínez, 239 government. See also specific countries and issues in civil action, 7, 8 legitimacy, 8 greed, 255–​56, 258 Greskovits, Béla, 293–​94 Grup de Contacto Internacional, 243 Guerrero, 150 Guzmán, Abimael, 68, 282, 288 Guzmán, M., 165   Hamisch, 48 Hendrix, Cullen, 289–​90 Herzegovina war. See Bosnian war Hobbesian civility, 27n.8 Howard, Lise Morjé, 290 How Enemies Become Friends (Kupchan), 6 Huang, Reyko, 289–​90 humanitarian crisis, war and, Syrian conflict,  43–​47 human rights organizations. See also specific types Citizens Supporting Human Rights, 167 Mexico,  166–​67 Syrian Observatory for Human Rights, 36 human rights violation, Mexico, 150 Hungary, Viktor Orbán, Civic Circles Movement,  8–​9 Hunter, Kyleanne, 289–​90   Ibarzabal, José Manuel, 232 Idjwi, 17 inclusion, 291 information availability and accuracy, 283 insurgencies Afghanistan’s ongoing, 204 civil action in, 222 (see also Afghanistan) paying “taxes” to, 210–​11

 

302 I n d e

international nongovernmental organizations (INGOs). See also specific types Syrian conflict, 55 international organizations (IOs). See also specific types authority, 7 civil action, 15 Irish Republican Army (IRA), 123–​24, 128, 129–​32,  134 Izetbegović, Alija, 179–​80, 187   journalism, citizen, Syrian conflict, 40, 283 journalists, in civil action, 12 Jugoslavenska Narodna Armija ( JNA), 179–​81, 184, 190–​91, 197   Kačavenda, Vasilije, 187 Kalyvas, Stathis, 4–​5, 137–​38 Kaplan, Oliver, 9, 289–​90 Karell, Daniel, 219 Kelly, Patrick, 136, 137–​38 Kenya, northern, 89–​119, 283 “arc of crisis,” 91, 92f banditry risk and security access, 97, 101, 112 boomerang effect, 114, 285–​86 civil and uncivil actions, co-​evolution and coexistence, 94–​96, 113 civil-​society organizations, 90, 95–​96, 105 community-​based organizations, 91, 93, 95, 96,  114–​15 elders’ roles, 94, 96–​97, 98–​102, 115 elders’ roles, violence interruption, 109–​10, 111,  113–​15 faith-​based organizations, 95, 102, 103, 104,  114–​15 field research, timing, 93 fragility, state and substate, 89–​90 historical context, Samburu-​Turkana Range War,  97–​102 Kenya Defense Forces, as threat, 96–​97 methodology,  91–​94 microlevel variation in violence, 89–​92 peace islands, 90 rapid-​deployment units, 96–​97,  102–​3 repertoires of civil action, 23t, 94 Samburu-​Turkana grievances, strategies, and relationships,  94–​95 Samburu-​Turkana Range War, proximate context of violence escalation, 105–​12 (see also Samburu-​Turkana Range War, proximate context of violence escalation) stability vs. neighbors, 89 violence, armed conflict and fatalities, 89 violence, election-​related, 2007–​2008, 89 kidnappings, Monterrey, Mexico 2006–​2011, 155–​56,  156f 2012+ change, 156f, 156

x

Kingstone, Peter, 261 Koubi, V., 261 Krause, Jana, 289–​90 Kupchan, Charles, How Enemies Become Friends, 6   La Familia Michoacada, 149 leadership, political. See also specific leaders Syrian conflict, 43 legitimacy, government, 8 Leiteritz, R., 261 Lepulelei, Dominic, 105 lessons learned, 279 case studies, propositions from, 280 Ley, S., 149, 166, 282, 288 Liberian Civil War, Second (1999–​2003), WIPNET, 1, 17 Lirio de Esperanza, 78 listening, 6 local civilian groups. See also specific groups in civil action, 7, 8 local councils, Syrian conflict, 45 local governance, Syrian conflict, 45 local NGOs. See also community-​based organizations (CBOs); specific types in civil action, 7, 9 Peru, civilian victimization, 70 Lokarri, 242 collaboration and success, 243 Elkarri origins, 242–​43 intellectual approach, 244–​45 social space of opposition, 246 López Romo, Raáúl, 230–​31 Lugavić, Mohammed, 187–​88 Lysistrata, sex strike inspired by, 1, 27n.1   Maček, Ivana, 191–​92, 193 Malek, Alia, 35–​36 Malek, Kesh, 47 Maralal riots, 107–​8 Martí, Alejandro, 153 Martínez, José Ciro, 43–​44 Marulanda, Manuel, 267–​68 mass movements, overthrowing governments, 27n.2. See also specific countries and movements Ukraine,  1–​2 Matanović, Petar, 188 Mati, Masasit, 41 McAdams, Doug, 22 McDonald, Henry, 135 Meagher, K., 90 medical relief, Syrian conflict, 42 Melander, Erik, 289–​90 Memoria para los Ausentes, 83 mere civility, 289 Basta Ya, 239 concept, 3–​4, 18 Metropolitan Security Pulse, 156–​57, 163, 164

 



Index

Mexican National Business Victimization Survey, 147, 151. See also Mexico Mexico,  147–​72 Acapulco,  147–​48 Acapulco, atomized business elites, 167, 169 Chihuahua, Fechac, 168–​69 Ciudad Juárez, 147–​48 Ciudad Juárez, coordinated business elites, 167, 168 doing business amid criminal violence, 151–​53 doing business amid criminal violence, private sector challenges and victimization, 151 doing business amid criminal violence, private sector crime security measures, 153 Encuesta Nacional de Victimización a Empresas, 151, 157–​58 extortion and kidnappings, private sector,  151–​55 Group of 10, 158 human rights organizations, 166–​67 local companies’ collective action compared,  167–​68 local companies’ collective action compared, private security forces, 153, 167 Mexican National Business Victimization Survey, 147, 151 mining company attacks, 152 Monterrey (see Monterrey, Mexico) organized crime and criminal violence, 148 (see also organized crime and criminal violence, Mexico) police corruption and human rights violation, 150 protest marches and demonstrations, 165–​66 Sabritas attack, 152 security task force, 168 violence and criminal activity, incidence, 147 microdynamics conflict microanalyses, 294 contentious politics, 4 violence,  4–​5 microlevel variation, in violence, 89–​90 conflicts,  90–​92 Nyrio Mountain–​Sugata Valley conflict corridor, 91, 92f, 93 Mladić, Ratko, 187 Monterrey, Mexico, 147–​48 Alcalde ¿cómo vamos?, 156–​57, 163 businesses and economy, 155 collective business action against crime, 155–​ 65, 156f, 160f collective business action against crime, Center for Citizen Integration, 156f, 156–​57, 161 collective business action against crime, Fuerza Civil, 156f,  156–​57 extortion and kidnappings, 2006–​2011, 155–​56,  156f

303

extortion and kidnappings, 2012+, 156f, 156 Fuerza Civil, police force confronting organized crime, 155–​65, 160f homicides and kidnappings, 2006–​2011, 155–​56,  156f homicides and kidnappings, 2012+ change, 156f, 156 local companies’ civil actions, conditioning factors, 164 Pulsómetro de Seguridad, 156–​57, 163, 164 research methods, 156–​57 Morales, Sister Consuelo, 167 Morris, Benny, 212 Movimiento de Liberación Nacional Vasco (MLNV) Basta Ya and, 239 on Blanco’s murder, 238 control of street vs. Gesto’s challenge, 234–​35 Elkarri lobbying and cordon sanitaire/​ protection, 235, 236–​37 mobilization, street, 231 violence renunciation, 229–​30, 242 Moyano, María Elena, 75, 76, 77–​78, 282, 285–​86 Mueller, Hannes, 261 Murray, Fr. Raymond, 137 Muslim Brotherhood, Syria, 38–​39   “naming and shaming,” Syrian conflict, 50 Nasi, C., 261 National Business Victimization Survey, Mexican, 147, 151 need-​creed-​greed framework, 255–​56, 258, 271 negotiate and plea, 210 neutrality, 212 Nigeria, Bakassi Boys, 90 nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) implementing,  13–​14 international, Syrian conflict, 55 local, 7, 9 (see also specific types) Peru,  69–​70 transnational, 7, 13 (see also specific types) nonviolent social change, 83 communal strategies in insurgencies, Afghanistan, 203–​23 (see also Afghanistan) Northern Ireland, brokers, 22 Northern Ireland Troubles case selection and methodology, 125 Dungannon, 126–​29 (see also Dungannon District) Dungannon, uncivil action and violence,  123–​24 Dungannon vs. Omagh, violence variation, 123, 126 government role, 8 Irish Republican Army, 123–​24, 128, 129–​32,  134 Omagh District, 132 (see also Omagh District)

 

304 I n d e

Northern Ireland Troubles (cont.) Omagh District, civil action with little violence,  123–​24 outbreak phase, 124 prelude phase, 3 reaction phase, 124–​25 Royal Ulster Constabulary, 124–​25, 126–​27, 128, 129–​31, 133, 136 state forces, civil action, 124 Ulster Defense Regiment, 124–​25, 128, 129–​ 31, 135, 136 Ulster Freedom Fighters, 130 Ulster Special Constabulary and B Specials, 124–​25,  126–​28 Ulster Volunteer Force, Mid-​Ulster Brigade, 130, 135, 136 uncivil action, civilian denunciations, 137 Northern Kenya. See Kenya, northern Northern Spain, Basque, 229–​49. See also Basque Country, Spain Nuevo León, Mexico, 147–​48. See also Monterrey, Mexico Center for Citizen Integration, 161 civil actions, protest marches and demonstrations against crime, 165–​66 crime, unreported and Cemex actions, 161–​62 fiscal concessions for foreign direct investment, 154 human rights organizations, 166–​67 police forces, distrust, 157–​58 police forces, new state, 158 victimization, 2012+ reduction, 156f, 156 Nyandoro, Henry, 99 Nyrio Mountain–​Sugata Valley conflict corridor, 91, 92f, 93 Samburu-​Turkana Range War, historical context, 97–​102 (see also Samburu-​Turkana Range War, historical context, 1996) Nyrio Valley Conflict Corridor. See also Kenya, northern; Samburu-​Turkana Range War, historical context, 1996 banditry, 97, 101, 112   Ochoa, Jorge, 169–​70 O’Connor, R. H., 133–​34 O’Hearn, Denis, 261 Omagh District, 132. See also Northern Ireland Troubles civil action with little violence, 123–​24 demographic, economic, and political characteristics,  125–​26 vs. Dungannon, violence variation, 123, 126 polarization and radicalization, limited, 132 saving lives from civil action, 40 violence, containment, 134 openness,  19–​20 benefits, 27n.10

x

to/​among connections, 18 understanding from, 6 Orbán, Viktor, Civic Circles Movement, 8–​9 organizational factors, private sector in transition to peace, 255–​56, 258, 260, 263f, 270 organized crime and criminal violence, Mexico,  148–​49 Calderón’s response, 149–​50 cartels, 1980s vs. 1990s+, 149 characterizing, 148 characterizing organized crime, 148 criminal violence, general overview, 149 government/​police protection, 150 intercartel wars and criminal violence increase,  149–​50 Partido Revolucionario Institucional, 150 organized crime groups (OCG), defined, 148 Otegi, Arnaldo, 242 outbreak phase, 124 Özel, Işik, 261   Pact of Ajuria Enea, 236–​37, 238, 240–​41 Pact of Lizarra, 238, 247–​48 Pagazaurtundúa, Joseba, 239 Pantuliano, Sara, 47–​48 participants, civil action, 6–​15. See also specific participants authority and capacities, 6 businesses, 11 governments, 7, 8 international organizations, 15 journalists and artists, 12 local NGOs, 7, 9 movements and local civilian groups, 7, 8 religious authorities, 7, 10 traditional authorities, 13 transnational corporations, 7, 14 transnational NGOs, 7, 13 Partido Popular (PP), 241 Partido Revolucionario Institucional (PRI), 150 Party for Democratic Action (SDA), 179, 180, 185, 186, 187, 195–​96 Pastrana, Andrés, 256, 266–​67, 268 Patriot League, 180, 190 peace business staging, in Peru, 70–​71 as necessity, to peace as opportunity, 266 northern Kenya, Catholic Church, 104–​5 private sector in transition to, Colombia, 255–​ 72 (see also Colombia, private sector peace transition) staging, generating dialog by, 77 staging, in Peru, 64–​86 (see also Peru, staging peace) peace-​dividend argument, 258, 261, 271 peace islands, 90 Pearlman, Wendy, 12, 292–​93

 



Index

Peru, internal armed conflict, 67 Peru, staging peace, 64–​86 art, 65 boomerang effect, 64, 285–​86 CIJAC theater group, 84 Eye that Cries, 85 internal armed conflict, 67 labor unions and business, 70–​71 nongovernmental organizations, 69–​70 nonstate actor on violence in armed conflict, 64 nonviolent social change, 83 Place of Memory, 85 research design and methods, 66 student protest, mass, 71 theater, civil action, and violence, 71–​83 (see also theater, civil action, and violence) Yuyachkani theater group, 71 Peyser, Bari, 292–​93 Place of Memory, 85 polarization Dungannon, Northern Ireland Troubles, 126 extreme, on civil action, 22 political, civil action and, 291 police, Mexico confronting organized crime, 155–​65, 160f protecting organized crime, 150 police corruption Afghanistan,  212–​13 Mexico, 150 Mexico, Nuevo León, 150, 157–​58 politics. See also specific countries and topics polarization, 291 private sector in transition to peace, 255–​56, 258, 262, 263f Popular Communication Center, 73–​75 Popular Women’s Federation of Villa El Salvador (FEPOMUVES), 75 Portell, José María, 231 prelude phase, 3 Prijedor, Bosnia, 22 Prijedor and surrounding areas, Bosnian war, 22, 25–​26, 178–​79,  195 private sector. See also business in peace building, 259 in transition to peace, Colombia, 255–​72 (see also Colombia, private sector peace transition) private sector response to violence, Mexico challenges and victimization, 151 crime security measures, 153 extortion, 151–​52,  153–​55 kidnappings,  152–​53 private security forces, 153, 167 private security forces, Mexico, 153, 167 protection. See also specific types microlevel communal, Samburu-​Turkana Range War,  108–​12

305

police, of Mexican organized crime groups, 150 private security forces, Mexico, 153, 167 seeking, war zone communities, 213 protest marches against crime, Mexico, 165–​66 protest-​repression nexus,  36–​37 PSE-​PSOE,  231 PSOE, 231, 241 Pulsómetro de Seguridad, 156–​57, 163, 164   quality of life, civil action on, 287   radicalization, Dungannon, Northern Ireland Troubles, 126 Ramos, M., 154 rapid-​deployment units, northern Kenya, 96–​97,  102–​3 reaction phase, 124–​25 Regan, Patrick, 289–​90 religious groups. See faith-​based organizations (FBOs); specific types repertoires of civil action, 23t, 94 rescue services, Syrian conflict, 16–​17, 46 resistance movement, 8–​9 Resolute Support, 207 respectful behavior, 18 Rettberg, Angelika, 261, 285–​86 Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC), 124–​25, 126–​27, 128, 129–​31, 133, 136 Rubio, Miguel, 71   Samburu-​Turkana Range War, historical context, 1996,  97–​102 automatic weapons and state fragility, 98 banditry, Nyrio Valley Conflict Corridor, 97, 101, 112 governance, 97 grievances, strategies, and relationships, 94–​95 (see also Kenya, northern) seminomadic groups and anthropologies, 97–​98 violence escalation and civil action, local network evolution, 102 violence escalation and uncivil action, local arms race, 98 Samburu-​Turkana Range War, proximate context of violence escalation, 105–​12 Baragoi massacre and Maralal riots, 106 Catholic Justice and Peace Commission, 106, 107 District Peace Committee, local, 107 environment, dangerous subsistence, 105 violence interruption, civic networks and microlevel communal protection, 108–​12 violence interruption, Parikati-​Tuum, 110 violence interruption, Sarima-​Loonjerin, 112 violence interruption, Waso Rongai, Tuum, and Kawap, 109 Samper, Ernesto, 266

 

306 I n d e

Santos, Juan Manuel, 256, 269, 270, 271 Sarajevo, Bosnia architecture and religious, 189 Bosnian Army, 190 Patriot League, 190 setting, interethnic harmony, and collaboration, 189 siege (1992–​1996),  189–​90 Sarajevo, Bosnian war, 16, 25–​26, 178–​79,  189–​92 civilians, 190 Finci, Jakob, 194 interethnic harmony and setting, 189–​90 long siege, casualties, and structural damage,  189–​90 religious institutions, 192 UNPROFOR forces, 190, 195 Schock, Kurt, 246 sectarianism, countering, Syrian conflict, 50 self-​defense,  213 Self-​Managed Urban Community of Villa El Salvador (CUAVES), 73 Serb Democratic Party (SDS), 179, 185, 195–​96 sex strike, by Women in Peace Network, Second Liberian Civil War, 1, 17 Shining Path, 67, 281–​82. See also Peru, staging peace groups targeted by, 68–​69 militant tactics, 68 Moyano killing, 77–​78 theater use, 66 in Villa El Salvador (1980s), 75–​76 shuras, Afghanistan, 208–​9, 212–​14, 219–​20, 221, 223 Sirleaf, Ellen Johnson, 1 social change, nonviolent, 83 social closure, 5 solidarity, 19, 20 Solingen, Etel, 6 Sortu,  229–​30 Spain, civil war, 22 Spilker, G., 261 Stark, Alexandra, 290 state, Weber’s definition, 7 stateness, civil actions, 43–​44 Stephan, Maria J., 2–​3 Sustainable Development Goals, 291 Svoboda, Eva, 47–​48 Syria Baath Party and Hafez al-​Assad, 4 Bashar al-​Assad, 35, 36, 39 Muslim Brotherhood, 38–​39 White Helmets, 16–​17, 38, 46, 283–​84 Syrian Civil Coalition, 48 Syrian conflict, 35–​58 2011 civil unrest and Bashar al-​Assad response, 35

x

historical context, 38 methods, 38 protest-​repression nexus,  36–​37 Russia pro-​Assad military intervention, 36 Syrian civil society groups, 35–​36 tactical adaptation, 37 violence,  35–​36 Syrian conflict, impacts, 48–​53 alleviating devastating effects of violence, 49 carving out space & provoking backlash, 49 commonalities and, 37 countering sectarianism, 50 documenting, monitoring, and “naming and shaming,” 50 mediation via coordination among agents,  54–​55 mediation via coordination among agents, local-​ international coordination, 55 mediation via coordination among agents, local-​ local coordination, 54 Syrian conflict, phase one: unarmed uprising,  39–​43 citizen journalism, 40, 283 diaspora-​based support and solidarity, 42 free expression forums, 41 political leadership, 43 protest and dissent, 39 unarmed uprising, medical relief, 42 Syrian conflict, phase two: war and humanitarian crisis,  43–​47 background,  43–​44 displaced, 47 forms, shifts in, 44 local governance, 45 rescue services (White Helmets), 16–​17, 38, 46,  283–​84 Syrian Observatory for Human Rights, 36   tactical adaptation, 37 Taliban, Afghanistan. See also Afghanistan boomerang,  285–​86 civil-​action strategies with, 26 civil action strategies with: being neutral, 212 civil action strategies with: negotiate and plea, 210 civil action strategies with: self-​defense and seeking protection, 213 elders’ self-​policing, 288 expert interview insights, 217–​18 paying “taxes” to, 210–​11 rural communities in war, 207–​9 survey data insights, 218–​19 Western values, widespread mistrust of, 220 teachers union, northern Kenya, 102, 104 Teritorijalna Odbrana (TOs), 179, 180 territorial defense units (Teritorijalna Odbrana, TOs), 179, 180

 



Index

theater nonviolent social change, 83 transformative role, 65 on violence, 64 theater, civil action, and violence, 71–​83 dialog by “staging peace,” 77 in Highlands, outside Villa El Salvador, 80 nonviolent social change, 83 Vichama Theater Group, Villa El Salvador, 72 3.5 percent rule, 19 Todos Somos J., 167, 168 transnational civil action, 20–​21 transnational corporations (TNCs), 7, 14. See also specific types transnational NGOs, 7, 13. See also specific types Trejo, G., 149 Troubles. See Northern Ireland Troubles Turkana-​Samburu grievances, strategies, and relationships, 94–​95. See also Kenya, northern; Samburu-​Turkana Range War Tuzla, Bosnia, 9, 21 geography, setting, and demographics, 182–​83 religious identities, 182–​83 Tuzla, Bosnian war, 9, 21, 25–​26, 178–​79,  182–​87 Bešlagić, Selim, 183–​85 civilians and local NGOs, 185 Kačavenda, Vasilije, 187 local political elites, 183 Lugavić, Mohammed and radical Islamic movement,  187–​88 Matanović, Petar, 188 Mladić, Ratko, 187 religious institutions, 187 siege yet harmony, 183 Tuzla Citizen’s Forum, 185–​87   Ukraine, nonviolent activism, 1–​2 Ulster Defense Regiment (UDR), 124–​25, 128, 129–​31, 135, 136 Ulster Freedom Fighters (UFF), 130 Ulster Special Constabulary (USC) and B Specials, 124–​25,  126–​28 Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF), Mid-​Ulster Brigade, 130, 135, 136 uncivil action civil action co-​evolution with, 94–​96 (see also Kenya, northern) Colombia, private sector peace transition, 265 Northern Ireland, civilian denunciations, 137 Northern Ireland, Dungannon violence, 123–​24 Samburu-​Turkana Range War, violence escalation, 98 twin effect, 115 Unión Progreso y Democracia (UPyD), 242 UNPROFOR forces, Bosnian war, 180, 190, 195

307

Uribe, Álvaro, 256, 258, 268–​69, 271 Urióstegui, Julián, 169–​70 Valentino, Benjamin, 124–​25, 129, 131–​32, 136 values, 289 Varshney, Ashutosh, 132–​33 Vichama Theater Group current performances, 85–​86 highlands outside Villa El Salvador, 80 Memoria para los Ausentes, 83 participants on, César Escuza, 72–​73, 74, 77, 79, 80 participants on, Graciela Díaz, 74, 78, 81–​82 Vichama Theater Group, Villa El Salvador, 64–​65 Adiós Ayacucho, 72 artists and civil action, 65, 72 Carnaval por la Vida, 76–​77, 78, 81, 82 Contraelviento, 72 dialog from, 66 dialog from, by “staging peace,” 77 Dialogo entre Zorros, 76–​77, 79 El Zorro de Arriba y el Zorro de Abajo, 72 Encentro de Zorros, 72 Lirio de Esperanza, 78 origins, Popular Communication Center, 73–​75 purpose,  73–​74 research design and methods, 66 Shining Path on, 78 transformative role, 65 Villa El Salvador dialog by “staging peace,” 77 Glass of Milk organization, 75, 83 Popular Women’s Federation of Villa El Salvador, 75 Self-​Managed Urban Community of Villa El Salvador, 73 Shina Path inroads, 1980s, 75–​76 Vichama Theater Group (see Vichama Theater Group) Violations Documentation Center, 36 violence. See also specific countries and conflicts causes,  17–​18 in conflict, civil action and dynamics of, 1–​27 (see also civil action, dynamics of violence and) effects, 18 extreme, on civil action, 22 microdynamics,  4–​5 refraining from, 2–​3, 18 (see also civil action; civil resistance) Virhuez, Rafael, 77, 79, 81, 82, 83–​84 Voluntary Principles on Business and Human Rights, Colombia, 1   warlords, 13 Afghanistan, warring parties and, 203

 

308 I n d e

war zone community strategies, 209–​14 additional insights from survey data, 214, 215t negotiate and plea, 210 neutral, being, 212 self-​defense and seeking protection, 213 villagers offering protection, 209–​10 Weber, Max, 7 Weiss, Bari, 292–​93 White Helmets, Syrian conflict, 16–​17, 38, 46,  283–​84 Williams, Roger, 3–​4, 10–​11, 27n.6, 288–​89

x

Women in Peace Network (WIPNET), Liberian Civil War, Second, 1, 17 Wood, Elisabeth Jean, 11–​12 Yassin-​Kassab, Robin, 49, 54–​55 Yugoslav National Army ( JNA), 179–​81, 184, 190–​91,  197 Yuyachkani theater group, 71   Zapatero, José Luis Rodríguez, 241 Zech, Steven, 12, 281–​82 Zeitooneh, 48 Zeitouneh, Razan, 40