The Transformation of Violent Intercommunal Conflict 075464264X, 9780754642640, 9780754686309

Table of contents :
Contents......Page 6
Acknowledgements......Page 7
Introduction......Page 8
1 The Development of the Transformation Approach......Page 14
2 Traditions of Transformation......Page 40
3 Negative Transformations......Page 66
4 Transforming Individuals......Page 88
5 Structural Transformation......Page 110
6 Don’t Think, Feel? Sentimental Education and Conflict Transformation......Page 138
Conclusions: Conflict Transformation – Reasons to Be Modest......Page 160
Bibliography......Page 168
C......Page 196
F......Page 197
I......Page 198
N......Page 199
S......Page 200
U......Page 201
Z......Page 202

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THE TRANSFORMATION OF VIOLENT INTERCOMMUNAL CONFLICT

This book is dedicated to Clionagh and Lara

The Transformation of Violent Intercommunal Conflict

STEPHEN RYAN University of Ulster, Northern Ireland

© Stephen Ryan 2007 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, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher. Stephen Ryan has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work. Published by Ashgate Publishing Limited Gower House Croft Road Aldershot Hampshire GU11 3HR England

Ashgate Publishing Company Suite 420 101 Cherry Street Burlington, VT 05401-4405 USA

Ashgate website: http://www.ashgate.com British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Ryan, Stephen, 1956The transformation of violent intercommunal conflict 1. Social conflict - Prevention 2. Ethnic conflict Prevention 3. Violence - Prevention 4. Conflict management 5. International relations I. Title 303.6'9 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Ryan, Stephen, 1956The transformation of violent intercommunal conflict / by Stephen Ryan. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN: 978-0-7546-4264-0 1. Conflict management. 2. Peace-building. 3. Ethnic conflict--Prevention. I. Title. HM1126.R93 2006 305.8009'0511--dc22 2006031451 ISBN: 978-0-7546-4264-0

Printed and bound in Great Britain by MPG Books Ltd, Bodmin, Cornwall.

Contents Acknowledgements

vi

Introduction

1

1 The Development of the Transformation Approach

7

2 Traditions of Transformation

33

3 Negative Transformations

59

4 Transforming Individuals

81

5 Structural Transformation

103

6 Don’t Think, Feel? Sentimental Education and Conflict Transformation

131

Conclusions: Conflict Transformation – Reasons to Be Modest

153

Bibliography Index

161 189

Acknowledgements In particular I would like to thank: Professor Adrian Guelke for inviting me to the IPSA Colloquium on ‘Reconciliation and reconstruction in ethnically divided societies’ in Johannesburg in 1995; IPRA’s Conflict Resolution and Peacebuilding Commission for the opportunity to present at the Brisbane Conference in 1996; and HumanitarianNet for allowing me to participate in a meeting on the media and conflict at the Transnational Institute, Amsterdam in 2001. My thanks, also, to the Faculty of Arts at the University of Ulster for providing me with study leave in the first half of 2006. This gave me the precious time needed to at last organize ideas I have been developing for the past 10 years into this single study.

Introduction For my part, I shall always be more fond of promoting moderation than zeal. (David Hume)

The idea of transformation seems to be intruding more and more into our lives. From personal makeover shows on television to debates about the impact of globalization the concept appears to be all around us. Transformation is what the ‘international community’ is attempting in Iraq, Afghanistan, Kosovo and Bosnia, but in each of these cases this has become a slow and painful process. Indeed, it reminds us of an observation by Wurmser (2000) that we are surrounded by stories of ‘magic transformation’ (fairy tales, dreams, myths and fantasies) and ‘tragic transformation’ (profound change caused by suffering). A Google search for the term ‘transformation’ in March 2006 yielded 258 million hits, whilst ‘conflict transformation’ offered 420,000 sites. Yet change remains one of the most under-researched topics in politics and broadly related fields such as international relations and peace and conflict research. Mitchell (2006, p.2), for example, notes that the ‘literature dealing systematically with the connections between change and conflict is hardly extensive, and that dealing with precise relationships between change and conflict resolution is even more sparse’. What work has been done tends to identify change as a source of conflict rather than conflict resolution. Transformation is an attractive word, in part because it can be associated with a number of traits that have an intrinsic appeal. One of these is its optimism, for there can be very few, if any, pessimists or cynics that can accept its validity. This upbeat ethos troubles some critics, who might label such an approach ‘utopian’. This is not the place to rehash the so called realist vs. utopian debate, which has been wellcovered elsewhere (see, for example, Banks, 1985; Smith, 1995; Dougherty and Pfaltzgraft, 1997). It should be pointed out, however, that a significant number of political scientists would be uneasy with the idea of transformation, and would feel more comfortable with a ‘pragmatic’ approach that takes for granted the inevitability of violent conflict and does not believe that greed and exploitation can easily be replaced with justice and truth. One of the aims of this study will be to demonstrate that transformation and pragmatism are not necessarily opposed to each other. It is, of course, important to distinguish between a commitment to transformation and a facile optimism. It is quite right that we should be constantly reminded about the difficulties of inducing positive change in situations of intercommunal conflict. Indeed, one major recent study has called for a ‘new realism’ in the study of ethnic conflicts (Wimmer et al., 2004). As the concluding chapter of this volume of essays

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points out, when analysing such conflict formations we need to be aware that they are complex, deep-rooted, intractable and each case is unique, thus making generalizations problematic (Wimmer, 2004). All of this can be accepted, but it does not necessarily rule out a transformative approach. Indeed, it might be argued that it is precisely because these conflicts are so deep-rooted and intractable that we need something more than a pragmatic ‘problem solving’ perspective on them. However, we do need to be cautious. For there is a danger, given that there is no agreement about the norms of transformation and not enough empirical data to be certain about our theories, that we turn into alchemists of transformation (with apologies to Marx). How can we have blueprints for transformation when we do not fully understand the origins of inter-group violence and the impact it has on societies and individuals? Transformation also implies a process of getting to the root of things, and people who use the term can appear to have thought more deeply about issues and problems. Key figures who want to promote a transformative approach often link it to social justice, reconciliation and truth – all of them very big and complex ideas. It is a response to conflict that looks radical, dynamic and exciting and seems to be egalitarian in that, as we shall see, an important aspect of the transformation approach is the empowerment of ‘ordinary’ people. However, the growth in the use of the term has not always been matched by greater precision and clarity. As this study will show, there are a number of questions associated with the concept of transformation that need to be answered. Some of these are addressed in the first half of this study. One problem is the matter of definition. What does transformation really mean? A lot of the advocates of the term are vague on this issue. Chapter 1 will therefore examine some of the factors that have contributed to the emergence of the idea and will also identify key arguments of writers who have been most closely identified with this approach. Even a quick review of the history of the development of the concept reveals that there is no single model of transformation. Rather there are multiple approaches, though many do share certain similarities. These include an emphasis on deep change and a longterm perspective. Chapter 1 will also identify some of the key criticisms that have been made of the transformation approach. Another problem, explored in Chapter 2, is whether there is just a single ‘transformative’ ideology, or are there a number of alternative, even conflicting, strategies? The revival of ‘normative thinking’ over the past 15 years has made us more aware of how different traditions of thought have contributed to thinking about conflict in general. Therefore, we shall explore some of the most significant peace traditions to point out how each of these ‘paradigms’ has a different core set of ideas about how to transform violent conflicts. The four ‘paradigms’ to be evaluated are: religious perspectives, liberalism, Marxism and feminism. Furthermore, each of these traditions contains a number of diverse and competing approaches. As soon as we move from simple technical peace building tasks to ideas of fundamental change we hit serious normative questions. Whose ideas or visions of transformation should we follow? It can be argued that the idea of transformation is embedded in many peace traditions from Christian ideas about the healing power of

Introduction

3

forgiveness and reconciliation to Marxist ideas of class revolution. It is found in the liberal faith in ‘peace through democracy’ and feminist visions of post-patriarchal societies. This does not exhaust the list of peace traditions, but it covers many key peace thinkers, and it allows us to make our point that these writers do not agree on what needs to be transformed. Is it a lack of spirituality, undemocratic regimes, capitalism or patriarchy? Chapter 3 looks at what it is that happens during a violent intercommunal conflict that needs to be transformed. In many ways conflict is both the target of transformation work, and its means. As we shall see in the first chapter, one of the key factors that distinguishes the transformation approach from the conflict resolution approach is that the later sees conflict as something that has to be ended, whereas the former views conflict as an agent of positive change. But conflict, especially violent conflict, produces what Galtung (1996) has called ‘negative energy’, that manifests itself in a number of destructive processes. Thus, we have what might be called negative transformation as parties in violent conflict polarize. Transformation of a damaging kind happens whenever families lose their breadwinners, people become refugees, women are raped, or children learn that their parents cannot protect them from evil. Such consequences have been referred to as ‘residues of violence’, but this hardly does justice to the devastation and heartbreak caused. Yet understanding the processes that lie behind the destructive momentum of violent conflict gives us some clues about what sort of areas the transformative approach to violent conflict needs to address. These will include militarization, residential segregation, the ‘enemy image’, economic and political underdevelopment, demonization, entrapment, trauma and alienation. Addressing these issues properly might mean that after conflict we do not return just to the status quo ante, but move to a better type of intercommunal relations. Maybe, as Kant once famously pointed out, the experiences of suffering can itself become a major catalyst for positive transformation. The German philosopher believed that: Nature should thus be thanked for fostering social incompatibility, envious competitive vanity, and insatiable desires for possession or even power. Without these desires, all man’s excellent natural capacities would never be roused to develop …. The natural impulses which make this possible, the sources of the very unsociableness and continual resistance which cause so many evils, at the same time encourage man towards new exertions of his powers and thus towards further development of his natural capacities. (Kant, 1970, p.45)

The second half of the book (Chapters 4−6) deals with transformation strategies. In particular it will look at three levels of analysis that have been identified as significant in the literature. The first of these is the level of the individual. Actorcentred strategies, including reconciliation and forgiveness, concentrate on improving personal qualities such as acceptance of wrong done, moving beyond hate and respect for different cultures. These will be examined in Chapter 4. On the other hand, the structural strategies explored in Chapter 5, tend to emphasize economic and political transformation. The third level, examined in Chapter 6, is inter-subjective dialogue. This could be viewed as a sub-category of individual change, but it deserves special

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attention. It can draw on the insights of a number of people, but the one that has stimulated this study is Richard Rorty and his idea of ‘sentimental education’. This emphasizes sensitizing parties to the effects of their cruel behaviour on others. We shall also attempt to broaden the idea of sentimental education by suggesting that it could be incorporated more effectively into a number of institutions in society that are responsible for the reproduction of inter-communal hostility. These would include the schools, the media, the arts and the family. Throughout this study we shall resist any attempt to give transformation a single definition. In part, this is because what counts as transformation will vary depending on the context. Free and fair elections are things that we in the developed west take for granted, but when they occur in a society emerging from period of authoritarian or totalitarian rule the word transformation seems fitting. Also, transformation can take place at a number of levels, from the complete restructuring of society to a simple, but profound act of forgiveness between two individuals. Given this, and all the complexities discussed above, it seems unlikely that a ‘one-size-fits-all’ definition is either possible or desirable. Although we shall spend some time looking at definitions of transformation, this book is also about intercommunal conflict. However, no real space is devoted to defining this concept because there is now an extensive literature on this complex problem. Here it is used interchangeably with ethnic conflict, and both terms refer to situations where the conflict takes the form of violence between different cultural groups. This is not the same as saying that the conflict is caused by the presence of different cultural groups, anymore than we would claim that inter-state conflict is caused by the presence of sovereign states. The constant linking of the terms ‘ethnic’ and ‘conflict’ should not lead us to assume that the label tells us very much about causes and to argue that ethnic conflict exists because there are competing ethnic groups is, at best, tautological. Each intercommunal conflict will arise from a complex mix of factors that may vary from case to case. Those interested in a more detailed discussion of the causes of intercommunal conflicts and explanations for the persistence of ethnicity should refer to some of the excellent studies on these topics (see, for instance: Horowitz, 1985; Hutchinson and Smith, 1996; Eriksen, 2002; Fenton, 2003). For this study it was felt that a degree of self-limitation had to be imposed on questions of definitions, otherwise too much space and time would have been devoted to discussing contested terms and we would be in danger of following an essentialist dead end. The fact that ethnic identity remains a powerful force in the contemporary world does, however, raise important questions about transformation. So, Walzer (1994, p.63) asks, ‘how should we stand vis-à-vis the tribes?’ Should we seek to transcend ethnic identity into something less divisive, or should we accept ethnic identity as the basic building block of any transformed society? Transformation is too big a topic for one book, even if we restrict ourselves to intercommunal conflict. Inevitably, therefore, this study cannot cover the whole field in a satisfactory way, and makes no claims to comprehensiveness. Nor is it a practical guide to transformation, which takes for granted the usefulness of the concept and tries to find realistic ways to implement it. For this readers will have

Introduction

5

to go elsewhere (see, for instance: Reychler and Paffenholz, 2001; Lederach and Jenner, 2002; Galtung, 2004). In this sense this study is more about concepts than practice. It will attempt to interrogate aspects of the transformation idea that interest this author and it is the product of someone who has been sitting and thinking rather than doing. It therefore contains all of the pitfalls that are a consequence of this way of approaching the concept of transformation. But we should not believe that what is discussed here are just abstract, academic debates. In many conflicts around the world there are vital political discussions taking place about whether to try to transform conflicts or to adopt a more modest agenda, and there are profound disagreements about what needs to be transformed and how this is to be done. Finally, a note on examples used. A lot of these are from the Northern Ireland case because it seems appropriate for someone living in Northern Ireland to do this. However, other examples are used where appropriate to illustrate general issues. Nonetheless, the author remains a prisoner of his own background and experiences and he cannot draw on every appropriate example from all, or even most, case studies of intercommunal conflict. Even so, the hope is that the illustrated general arguments used herein will echo in other settings.

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Chapter 1

The Development of the Transformation Approach Reshaping life! People who can say that have never understood a thing about life – they have never felt its breath, its heart – however much they have seen or done. They look upon it as a lump of raw material which needs to be processed by them, to be ennobled by their touch. But life is never a material, a substance to be moulded. If you want to know, life is the principle of self-renewal, it is constantly renewing and remaking and changing and transfiguring itself, it is infinitely beyond your or my theories about it. (Boris Pasternak: Dr Zhivago)

Transformation is all around us. Societies are constantly undergoing radical changes caused by scientific advances, political revolutions and economic pressures. Understanding the causes of intercommunal conflicts cannot escape the idea of transformation. Think, for example, of Gellner’s influential argument that the emergence of nationalism is rooted in the transition from agrarian to industrial societies He has argued that ‘the age of transition to industrialism was bound, according to our model, also to be an age of nationalism, a period of turbulent readjustment, in which either political boundaries, or cultural ones, or both, were being modified, so as to satisfy the new nationalist imperative’ (Gellner, 1983, p.40). Think also about the impact of the end of the cold war and the collapse of communist regimes on the re-emergence of ethnic conflict in Eastern Europe and the former Soviet Union or of current debates about the impact of globalization on culture and identity. So, given the link between transformation and the causes of intercommunal conflict, maybe looking at the idea of transformation in the context of ending such conflict should not strike us as strange or misplaced. However, it is not an idea that is easily accepted by some. For those who think of politics as the art of the possible, the idea of transformation appears too utopian, at odds with the essentially pragmatic nature of the subject area. Politics, for many, remains the art of the possible, though who defines what is impossible is indefinite. However, the study of politics should also alert us to the fact, as we shall see in Chapter 2, that many of the great political ideologies have within them transformative impulses. Anyway, whatever the objections of some critics there is no doubt that Lederach (2003a, p.5) is correct to point out that over ‘the past decade or so, the terminology of transformation has become increasingly common in both practitioner and academic circles’. In this chapter we shall examine how the emergence of the concept of conflict transformation can be explained by reference to changes in the real world of international politics and new trends within the academic study of world affairs. The

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transformative elements in normative theories of politics have been there for a long time; what were needed were changes both in world society and in how we study destructive violence to re-direct our gaze at them. This chapter will then describe the development of the literature on conflict transformation by focusing on several key texts that have emerged since the late 1980s. This is followed by an attempt to analysis the meaning of the term ‘conflict transformation’ by searching out elements that many of these key texts have in common. Finally, it will identify some criticisms that can be made of the concept. The Changing Nature of World Politics Inevitably, important contributing factors to the increase of interest in the concept of conflict transformation were the changes induced by the end of the Cold War. On the one hand this resulted in the (re)emergence of a number of destructive conflicts, especially in the former communist states of Yugoslavia and the Soviet Union. This ensured that ‘ethnic conflict’ would remain a major threat to international peace and security and an important item of the agenda of those who study violent conflict in world society. On the other hand, the collapse the Cold War system also unfroze a number of previously protracted and violent conflicts. This opened up new opportunities for extensive international involvement and led to the emergence of the ‘new’ idea of post-conflict peacebuilding, first introduced into a major international document in the 1992 UN Secretary-General’s An Agenda for Peace (Boutros-Ghali, 1992). However, it was not just the consequences of the end of the Cold War that might have stimulated interest in transformation. The very processes of change and the momentous events of the late 1980s and early 1990s, which saw political revolutions in many societies in Central and Eastern Europe, stimulated an interest in the idea of transformation. During this time the term transformation was applied to a number of peace processes, including South Africa, Northern Ireland and Israel/Palestine. Indeed, the dominant realist paradigm, wedded as it was to ideas of power, states and the impossibility of progress, seemed to struggle in response to the momentous events of the late 1980s and early 1990s. Suddenly the idealist approach did not seem so utopian after all, as dramatic examples of ‘people power’ swept away old and repressive regimes. This encouraged a more progressive view that positive, revolutionary change was feasible. From the velvet revolution in Czechoslovakia to the most recent large scale non-violent movements in Georgia and the Ukraine, nonviolent transformations were tried and appear to have succeeded. After 1989 the times they were a’ changing, but at bewildering speed and not always in the directions that mirrored the hopes and aspirations of those caught up in them. In Mogadishu, Srebrenica, Kigali and Grozny terrible events on the ground undermined the easy optimism of the first half of the 1990s, but this just increased the need for new signposts and strategies. The return of genocide in Bosnia and Rwanda and major political/humanitarian/complex emergencies elsewhere, eroded

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9

the idea of state sovereignty and encouraged support for humanitarian intervention and post-violence peacebuilding by the ‘international community’ (see, for instance: Hoffmann, 1996; Ramsbotham and Woodhouse, 1996; Wheeler, 2000). Before 1989, peace in international politics was usually viewed as a return to the status quo ante. In inter-state conflicts respect for territorial integrity was paramount and the ‘international community’ was reluctant to engage in matters that were within the domestic jurisdiction of states. After 1989, however, conceptualizations of peace had to change, in part because enemies in intercommunal conflicts were usually condemned to live together after the violence stopped. Much more emphasis had to be placed on rebuilding failed states, on post-conflict peacebuilding, on human rights and democratization. In terms of international practice, the first major example of this was the UN peacekeeping force sent to Namibia in 1988−1989. This was the debut of so-called ‘second generation peacekeeping’ that expanded the tasks undertaken by international interventions in conflicts. This was followed by missions inter alia to Cambodia, El Salvador, Mozambique and East Timor. It also led to two major on-going interventions in Bosnia and Kosovo. Diehl (2006, p.107) notes that such peacebuilding is not ‘entirely new’, but ‘represents a significant break from past collective security and peacekeeping practices’. The move to include peacebuilding duties as a part of UN deployments increased the tasks performed by UN personnel. Mission tasks could now include the administration of elections and referendums, human rights education and monitoring, police training, the temporary administration of failed states, the demilitarization of armed groups, monitoring the repatriation of refugees and the provision of humanitarian assistance on a large scale (Ryan, 2000). It has already been pointed out that the first major policy statement by the UN that expressed an interest in peacebuilding came in 1992 in An Agenda for Peace (UN Doc. A/47/277). Bearing the name of UN Secretary-General Boutros-Ghali, this report set out the key roles for the UN in the area of peace and security following the end of the Cold War and the positive role played by the UN in of the first Gulf War in 1991. Chapter VI of the report identifies ‘post-conflict peacebuilding’ as an important area for the UN because ‘peacemaking and peace-keeping operations, to be truly successful, must come to include comprehensive efforts to identify and support structures which will tend to consolidate peace and advance a sense of confidence and well-being among people’ (Boutros-Ghali, 1992, p.32). The chapter on peacebuilding only includes five paragraphs in total, and is therefore weak on detailed analysis of what peacebuilding means. Nonetheless, it was a significant addition to the work of the UN, and is one area where the UN has developed an important role in the post-cold war world. There are some weaknesses with the UN’s approach as set out in this document. To talk of ‘post-conflict’ peacebuilding seems inaccurate, because conflicts do not disappear after a peace agreement, even if the violence ends. There is no mention in the document of the positive work that could be undertaken by NGOs, and in general the tone of An Agenda for Peace is very state-centric. Although there are some bold ideas (educational reform, improving political participation, dealing with underlying

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social and cultural problems) many of the examples of what constitutes peacebuilding also appear to be rather limited and specialized (de-mining, restoring infrastructure, repatriating refugees), and so has little to add to the idea of transformation. However, An Agenda for Peace was a start, and over the next decade the organization has attempted to develop and articulate its peacebuilding role. In 1995, the 50th anniversary of the creation of the UN, the Secretary-General issued another report titled Supplement to an Agenda for Peace (UN Doc. A/50/60). This emerged following several major failures of the UN in Bosnia, Rwanda and Somalia (see, for example, Polman, 2004). It noted that the concept of peacebuilding had received wide recognition and identified the main strategies as demilitarization, improving police and judicial systems, institutional reform, human rights monitoring, electoral reform and social and economic development. This time the positive work of NGOs was recognized (paragraph 98). The Supplement also noted that the multifunctional nature of peacebuilding requires increased coordination within the UN Secretariat and it identified a need to coordinate with international financial institutions at an early stage to ensure that proper funding for this sort of work would be forthcoming. The Brahimi Report (UN Doc. A/55/305) was the next significant attempt to develop the idea of peacebuilding and it was a direct response to the failures of complex UN peacekeeping in the mid-1990s. It is a wide-ranging analysis, but one aspect is the attention given to UN peacebuilding. This is identified as having a key role in UN work, but the Report views it as being fundamentally deficient in the way it has been conceived and implemented. To remedy some of these deficiencies the Report recommended: the creation of quick impact projects to establish the credibility of new UN missions; a doctrinal shift in the use of civilian police (CIVPOL) and human rights experts to emphasize the strengthening of rule of law institutions; improved funding for demobilization and reintegration programmes by bringing them into the assessed budgets of missions; and work by the Secretary-General to improve the permanent capacity of the UN to develop and implement peacebuilding strategies. The next significant document issued by the UN was the report of the HighLevel Panel on Threats, Challenges and Change. This was a response to the deep divisions in the Security Council in early 2003 over the Iraq question. The aim was for the Panel to present practical measures for UN reform to improve the way it could fulfil its purposes as set out in its Charter. It reported to Kofi Annan in December 2004, and based on this report the Secretary-General then submitted his proposals for reforms to a UN ‘World Summit’ in New York in September 2005. The response of key states to the proposals was less than enthusiastic, but one positive outcome was the agreement to establish a Peacebuilding Commission, to be composed of 31 states. The main aims of this new UN advisory body will be to: propose integrated strategies for post-conflict peacebuilding and recovery; help to ensure predictable financing for early recovery activities and sustained financial investment over the medium − to longer-term; extend the period of attention by the international community to post-conflict recovery; and develop best practices on issues that require extensive collaboration among political, military, humanitarian and

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development actors. Ironically, given its intention to ensure predictable financing, the Commission has already run into problems with its own funding. There have also been conflicts about who should be the seven ECOSOC representatives, and there are concerns that a body made up of a large group of states will lack an urgency and purpose required to make the work of the UN in this area more effective. There have also been some initiatives to develop peacebuilding capacity at the regional level. The New Partnership for Africa’s Development (NEPAD), for example, has devised an African Post-Conflict Reconstruction Policy Framework which aims to promote a broad approach to policy in this area by emphasizing security, development, good governance and reconciliation (Murithi, 2006). The strategy was formally endorsed by the Organization of African Unity in 2001 and it is answerable to what is now called the Assembly of the African Union. In recent years, we have also witnessed the growth of peacebuilding missions that are not formally attached to peacekeeping deployments. These would include operations in the Central African Republic (BONUCA), Guinea-Bissau (UNOGBIS) and Tajikistan (UNTOP). In Tajikistan UNTOP has organized a political discussion club and has offered training in conflict prevention for government employees. It has also trained school teachers in an effort to build a culture of respect for human rights, tolerance and skills in conflict prevention. The small mission in the Central African Republic, created in 2000, was meant to consolidate national reconciliation, promote and monitor respect for human rights and help train the local police force. The mandate of UNGOBIS includes the development of initiatives to: help create an enabling environment for the consolidation of peace, democracy and the rule of law and for the organization of free and transparent elections; support national efforts, including those of civil society, towards national reconciliation; and encourage initiatives aimed at building confidence and maintaining friendly relations between Guinea-Bissau, its neighbours and its international partners. Whatever form particular peacebuilding missions take, experience suggests that it is never an easy task, and it is especially difficult after ethnic or religious wars (Doyle and Sambanis, 2000). So although the emphasis on peacebuilding has been welcomed the deficiencies noted by Brahimi have been all too apparent in Cambodia, Bosnia, Kosovo, East Timor, Afghanistan and Iraq. The difficulties faced in the last two cases, in particular, are likely to ensure continuing interest in peacebuilding at the international level for the immediate future. In a broader context, a number of features of contemporary international politics will reinforce this interest. These include the changing nature of warfare (Kaldor, 1999), globalization (including the so called CNN-factor), and a growing acceptance that states cannot use the sovereignty defence in all circumstances to keep well-meaning outsiders at bay in situations where there are gross violations of human rights. We are living in an era witnessing a growing acceptance of ‘transnational justice’ (Falk, 2002). Even though he is concerned that international responses to terrorism are likely to try to sideline this positive move Falk (2002, p.47) believes that the ‘transnational social forces operating within global civil society’ should keep up the momentum to establish a new normative architecture and institutional innovations.

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Alongside the development of interventions by international and regional intergovernmental organizations, we have also witnessed an enormous growth of international NGO activity as well as the blossoming of indigenous groups who want to try to improve inter-communal relations. Indeed, the work of these groups covers an impressive spectrum of activity (Fitzduff, 1991). Governments have also started to address the issue of support for peacebuilding. The US government, for example, has established the Office of Transition Initiatives within USAID to help local partners in a number of states advance peace and democracy initiatives. In the UK government responsibility for peacebuilding rests with the Department for International Development, which has stopped viewing peacebuilding as a postconflict problem and now regards it more as an issue of conflict prevention. It has identified a number of key strategies under the heading of peacebuilding that are mainly ‘structural’, but also refers to grass roots reconciliation (Department for International Development, undated). There are dangers here, however. For whilst it is reasonable to regard peacebuilding as contributing to the prevention of future conflict it is not clear that peacebuilding and prevention are always the same thing. In particular, a post-violence situation is not the same as a pre-violence one because the very experience of violence will have induced changes in societies and structures in ways that will be explored in Chapter 3. Intellectual Influences on Transformation Although the idea of transformation seems to be a natural development of the idea of peacebuilding, it is important to note that not all peacebuilding should count as transformation. This is because some peacebuilding work does not result in fundamental change but involves the re-establishment of the status quo (e.g. return of refugees, de-mining) or what might be termed technical work (rebuilding infrastructure). When moving beyond this rather narrow view of peacebuilding to a more radical view of transformation there seem to be a number of important academic influences. They are discussed in no particular order of importance. First would be the literature on non-violent change (Miall, 2006, p.4). This is clearly focused on social transformation, and there is now an extensive literature that seeks to prove its effectiveness in pursuit of this goal (see, for instance: Sharp, 1973; Randle, 1994; Ackerman and Duvall, 2000; Schell, 2003). The writings of key figures such as Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr have a strong religious character, though in recent cases of successful non-violent transformation the religious element seemed more muted. But whatever the inspiration for non-violent action, we have already noted that the successful ‘revolutions’ in Central and Eastern Europe in 1989 and the more recent cases in Serbia, Lebanon, the Ukraine and Georgia have provided an enormous boost for the transformation idea. It should be pointed out, though, that it does not always fulfil all the hopes of its supporters, and there have been disillusionments recently in Serbia and Ukraine. Even in cases usually considered to be clear successes, such as the US Civil Rights movement, non-violent struggles are

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not without their frustrations and disappointments. Gandhi was unable to transform India to the point where serious Hindu-Muslim violence became unthinkable, and King was unable to repeat the successes of the civil rights movement in the deep South of the US when he took his campaigns to the northern states in the mid-1960s (Fairclough, 1990). Francis (2002, p.26) claims that the key theoretical base of transformation is a combination of active non-violence (justice) and conflict resolution (need fulfilment). Non-violence provides a mechanism for fighting for justice without incurring all the negative costs associated with violence. It has a long history in a variety of cultures (see, for instance: Sharp, 1973; Randle, 1994). It is also a versatile and multifaceted instrument that can provide variety of strategies to fit the particular circumstances of a local struggle (see especially Sharp, 1973). The second influence comes from the extensive literature on peacebuilding that has emerged since 1992 to complement the growth of peacebuilding by international agencies (see, for instance: Kumar, 1997; Chopra, 1998; Maynard, 1999; Pugh, 2000; Cousens et al., 2001; Jeong, 2005). These major studies include a number of suggestions that might be identified as ‘transformative’ as well as a number of criticisms of the way the ‘international community’ has undertaken peacebuilding work. A third influence on the development of conflict transformation are the debates about the impact of globalization on politics, economics and society. Whilst there is considerable disagreement about the extent of the impact of globalization in these areas there are important studies that argue that it has transformed our world. Giddens (1995, p.9), for example, writes that ‘we are living in a world undergoing very, very profound transformations’. Globalization, he argues, is ‘the prime agenda of our lives today’ (ibid.). Others would agree. One major study has divided the globalization debate into three groups: the hyperglobalists, the sceptics and the transformationalists (Held et al., 1999). The last of these, as their name suggests, argue that ‘at the dawn of a new millennium, globalization is a central driving force behind the rapid social, political and economic changes that are reshaping modern societies and world order’ (Held et al., 1999, p.7). There are, clearly, some undesirable aspects of globalization (see, for instance: Pilisuk, 2001; Stiglitz, 2002). However, this may in itself be a catalyst for positive change. Falk (2004), for example, has pointed to the impact of globalization, with special emphasis on the need to resist ‘globalization from above’ with a ‘globalization from below’, inspired by what the author has called ‘normative democracy’. This is based on a number of principles including the need for consent from citizenry, the rule of law, a broad definition of human rights, accountability, transparency and non-violence as a conditional commitment. Rupert (2005) has also pointed to the transformative potential of the resistance to globalization in its current forms. Furthermore, as several commentators have noted, the anti-globalization movement is itself a good example of grass-roots globalization (Klein, 2002). There have also been influential studies that have linked globalization to the emergence of ‘new wars’ and which call for a more cosmopolitan response to this sort

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The Transformation of Violent Intercommunal Conflict

of violence (Kaldor, 1999). This, according to Kaldor, should include ‘cosmopolitan law enforcement’ and the creation, with international assistance, of ‘zones of civility’ in conflict areas. It also involves a move towards cosmopolitan governance with a stronger role for accountable and transparent transnational institutions and a broader focus on security to include economic and political approaches. Strong support for her analysis of the link between global networks and intercommunal conflicts comes from Nordstrom (1999, p.3), who has written about ‘shadow sovereigns’ and the way that ethnic groups fighting against states are sustained by ‘vast international extrastate politico-economic networks … these systems are critical to the way political violence and peace are expressed in the world today’. Some of these networks, she argues, are more powerful than some states and operate according to their own normative principles and codes. Others have noted the erosion of state sovereignty through the emergence of new norms related to human rights and humanitarian intervention. These are driven, in part, by a growing global awareness and a reluctance to accept as inviolable the sovereignty of states that abuse their own citizens. They have created ‘new opportunities for innovation in peace process design to promote sustainable settlements in civil wars’ (Sisk, 2001, p.2). Taylor (1999) has referred to the burst of activity at the UN during the 1990s as ‘proactive cosmopolitanism’, where sovereignty is viewed as conferring obligations on states that makes them accountable to the ‘international community’. The strongest statement of this idea is the report known as The Responsibility to Protect (ICISS, 2001), endorsed by the UN towards the end of 2005. It states as one of its basic principles that ‘where a population is suffering serious harm, as a result of internal war, insurgency, repression or state failure, and the state is unwilling or unable to halt or avert it, the principle of non-intervention yields to the international responsibility to protect’ (ICISS, 2001, xi). A fourth influence is the move away from positivist/empirical approaches to conflict and international politics and the introduction of normative and critical traditions of thought. It is certainly true that concepts such as transformation and transcendence did not sit easily with the quasi-scientific/positivist aspirations of many working in this field. However, according to some commentators, we have now moved from the positivist to the post-positivist era, with the later characterized by the emergence of innovative approaches to political analysis such as feminism and critical theory, along with post-modernism and historical sociology (Booth, 1995). It is the first two that have had the most impact on transformation discourses, and as we shall look at feminism in more detail in the next chapter, here we shall concentrate on critical theory. Critical theory has a strong distrust of ‘scientism’, and with its aim of emancipation and its interest in exclusion has an obvious affinity with the transformation idea. Furthermore, the importance attached by the best known critical theorist to domination-free discourse (Habermas, 1984, 1987) seems to resonate with ideas such as the role of storytelling and empathy as a transformative strategy. Habermas (1992, p.201) has stated that he is ‘defending an outrageously strong claim in the present context of philosophical discussion: namely that there is a universal core

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of moral intuition in all times and in all societies’. These stem from ‘the conditions of symmetry and reciprocal recognition which are unavoidable presuppositions of communicative action’ (ibid.). Here we should note Rorty’s sceptical response that it is not at all clear why an ideal speech situation should actually lead to ‘convergence of views’. So: The residual difference I have with Habermas is that his universalism makes him substitute such convergence for ahistorical grounding, whereas my insistence on the contingency of language makes me suspicious of the very idea of the ‘universal validity’ which such a convergence is supposed to underwrite. (Rorty, 1989, p.67)

Elsewhere, Rorty (1998, p.324) has suggested that his is a ‘chauvinist’ position which ‘would emphasize the Anglo-Saxon utilitarian-reformist brand of social thought and deemphasize the German Ideologiekritik brand’. It must be said that many of the early critical theorists showed little interest in world politics and conflict research, concentrating instead on philosophy, sociology, psychoanalysis, psychology, literary criticism and even musicology. More recently, however, critical theory has been used to analyse international politics and war and peace issues (see, for instance: Brown, 1994; Devetak, 2001; Jones, 2001). Jones (2001, p.10) has noted two major strands. The first is inspired by Gramsci, and focuses on political economy. The second, inspired by the Frankfurt School, concentrates on political and normative theory. The two are linked, and Habermas has referred to the contemporary crisis of capitalism at the levels of both system efficiency and sociocultural legitimacy, as well as individual motivation. He writes that the system of mass democracy and the welfare state that has helped pacify class conflicts and preserve the structure of private wealth ‘is not running so well at the moment, either economically or socio-psychologically’ (Habermas, 1992, p.106, emphasis in original). The pioneer of the Gramscian approach in international politics is Cox (1981), who has criticized a problem-solving approach to global affairs and has analysed hegemonic and counter-hegemonic (transformative) forces in the contemporary world. Linklater (2001, p.143) has noted that the neo-Gramscian approach in the study of international politics ‘has been particularly interested in understanding the origins, development and possible transformation of the modern instruments of global hegemony’. There are echoes of this approach in the field of peace and conflict research in the work of Fetherston and Parkin (1997), who criticize problem solving approaches to conflict resolution because they sustain structures of dominance and injustice and endorse the status quo. Fetherston (2000) has developed this line of argument as a result of her work in Croatia, and concludes that conflict research ‘needs to undergo reappraisal in the light of critical social theory, and in the context of peacebuilding practices that have emerged out of warzones’. In particular, she argues, we need to follow Cox’s advice and develop a self-reflexivity that allows us to ‘step outside the bounds of established discourses’ (Fetherston, 2000, p.8). The emancipatory and counter-hegemonic power of critical thinking is a theme developed by Walker (1988), who examines the role played by critical social

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The Transformation of Violent Intercommunal Conflict

movements in world politics. These include exploring new approaches to political spaces, political practices, forms of political community, acting across borders and ways of knowing and being. Walker (1990, p.182) argues that if ‘claims about the rapidity and scope of the transformation of the contemporary era are to be taken seriously, then so must the rearticulation of spatiotemporal relations’. One of the main advocates of the normative critical theory approach in the contemporary study of international politics is Linklater (1998), who has endorsed the idea of transformation in an analysis of ‘post-Westphalian’ international society. Here, he believes, we may be moving to a type of politics that is both more universalist and more pluralist and where boundaries of inclusion and exclusion are starting to shift. Hoffman (1987) has applied critical theory more directly to conflict research, endorsing a cautious cosmopolitanism and envisaging a form of third party facilitation that can put into practice Habermas’s idea of undistorted communication (Devetak, 2001, p.174). Hoffman’s work is inspired by Habermas, but it also uses the German theorist to endorse ex post facto an approach to conflict resolution known as problem solving workshops, that are well established in the alternative dispute resolution field. The fact that Hoffman can marry the ‘new’ approach of critical theory to a well-established ‘problem-solving’ technique adds to the critique discussed below that there is a danger that some supporters of the transformation approach might exaggerate the differences between itself and other approaches to conflict resolution. Habermas is also evoked by Jabri (1995, pp.159−167), who explores how his ideas can lead us to substitute an instrumental discourse of war with an emancipatory discourse of transformation through the medium of an ideal speech community and discourse ethics. The critical theory perspective has certainly invigorated the study of peace and conflict research. However it has also been asked if critical theory might just expect too much of people working actively for peace. Thus, in the conclusion of a study of critical theory and conflict resolution, Quille (2000, p.30) recognizes the positive contributions of the approach, but wonders if ‘the standard required of CR [conflict resolution] practices by critical theory might be so high as to appear unrealistic and risk inactivity’. Developing the Transformation Approach It might be argued that transformation has always been the goal of peace and conflict research. Until the Second World War, it was also the aim of what was then mainstream international politics. However, the emergence of realism in the mid to late 1940s removed a commitment to ‘progress’ and change in the study of interstate relations, and this was an important stimulus for some to move away from this discipline towards the newly emerging fields of peace and conflict research. Yet despite the commitment to positive change one rarely finds sustained use of the idea of transformation in large sections of the peace and conflict research literature during the Cold War. This may be due, in part, to the apparent solidity of the Cold

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War conflict formations: even those working towards nuclear disarmament during this time probably didn’t envisage the total collapse of the Soviet Union. However, as the cold war waned the idea of transformation started to gather momentum. Up until the end of the 1980s the idea of transformation was often limited to cases of ‘asymmetric conflict’, where mediation seemed unattractive until the power imbalances had been removed through positive social change (Miall, Ramsbotham and Woodhouse, 1999, pp.12−13). However, there is no inherent reason why the transformation approach has to limit itself to this type of violent conflict, and more recently it has moved on from the ‘oppressed-oppressor’ discourse to embrace many other forms of deep-rooted conflicts. In 1987, in a volume of essays on peace and conflict research, leading researchers such as Senghaas and Vayrynen discussed the idea of transcending collective violence – though they did not use the term transformation (Vayrynen, 1986). Two years later Kriesberg, Northrup and Thorson (1989) did use the term in the title of their edited collection looking at intractable conflicts. It should be pointed out, however, that the key focus of this study was ‘intractability’ rather than ‘transformation’. The third part of this book was entitled ‘Transformation of Conflicts’, but is composed of four case study chapters with little detailed analysis of what ‘transformation’ really means. In the 1990s the term started to be used more widely. Adam Curle (1990) was an early advocate of the idea, identifying peacemaking, development and education as the three key ‘tools for transformation’. Vayrynen (1991, p.4) added to the development of the idea, arguing that ‘as a matter of fact, many intractable conflicts of interests or values may find their solution only through the process of transformation’. He identified four areas in particular. The first was transformation of actors, either through the internal change of existing parties or the introduction of new ones. The second was issue transformation, manifest in changes to the relative importance of issues, especially where there is a significant departure from existing political agendas (Vayrynen, 1991, p.5). Thirdly came the transformation of rules and norms. Finally Vayrynen mentions structural change involving the most profound themes of integration and isolation. He then explores these dimensions through an analysis of a number of violent conflicts that were active in the early 1990s – most notably South Africa, Afghanistan, Haiti, Columbia, and the (first) intifada in Palestine. Also of importance in this ground-breaking analysis was Vayrynen’s vital warning, not really picked up in many subsequent studies of the concept, that transformation can be indeterminate and the consequences can be hard to predict. In a later article, Vayrynen (1999) restates that in situations of complex conflict transformation rather than resolution can be a better option. He claims that one advantage of the transformation approach is that it can be more easily linked to a broader range of social and political theories, unlike resolution, which tends to draw on a much narrower range of ideas. But he also warns about the transformation approach becoming a movement for the ‘general improvement of society’ where the focus on the mitigation of violence is lost. This is especially a danger with what he terms the ‘normative’ approach, and in order to counter this he wants to develop a third position between resolution and normative transformation, that he terms

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The Transformation of Violent Intercommunal Conflict

‘social’ transformation of violent conflicts. Here we should focus on the root causes of conflict that are ‘malleable’. Drawing on Vayrynen’s categories we can note that the transformation approach to intercommunal conflict will involve changes at most or all of these levels. For example, the introduction of a regime to protect minorities in Europe would involve transformations that alter structures (a move away from state-centric approach), norms (the introduction of new Treaties and Conventions), actors (for example, the creation of the OSCE High Commissioner on National Minorities), and issues (to what extent should states who want to join the EU be expected to improve the way they treat minority groups?). In the area of mediation, 1994 saw the publication of the influential Bush and Folger book entitled The Promise of Mediation. This introduced the idea of ‘transformative mediation’, which is viewed by the authors as part of a paradigm shift in the social sciences in general away from the dominant problem-solving approach based on satisfaction of individual need towards a ‘relational’ approach. The book claims that: problem-solving mediation does not – and cannot – reach the same destination as the transformative approach, because … problem solving remains within a framework that sees conflict as concerned with winning or losing rather than something entirely different – growing. (p. 111, italics in original)

They propose a form of mediation whose ‘greatest value lies in its potential not only to find solutions to people’s problems but to change people for the better, in the very midst of conflict’ (Bush and Folger, 1994, xv). Conflict, they suggest, ‘can be viewed not as problems at all but as opportunities for moral growth and transformation’ (p.81). From this perspective, mediation can be a success even if no agreement is reached. For the authors argue that ‘in transformative mediation, success is achieved when the parties as persons are changed for the better, to some degree, by what has occurred in the mediation process’ (p.84). However, they also claim that when mediation is successful it will be a superior form of settlement than that offered by other approaches. To engage in transformative mediation, mediators should emphasize empowerment and giving recognition. The later idea is characterized as ‘invoking acknowledgement and empathy for the situation and problems of others’ (p.2). Indeed, the emphasis on individual transformation gives the book a perceptible moralistic tone, and in the analysis we find terms such as ‘a higher vision’, ‘deep commitment’, ‘compassionate strength’, and ‘priceless opportunities for moral growth’. Thus: While empowerment and recognition have been given only partial attention in the mediation movement thus far, a consistent and wider emphasis on these dimensions would contribute powerfully … to the transformation of individuals from fearful, defensive, and self-centered beings into confident, empathetic, and considerate beings, and to the transformation of society from a shaky truce between enemies into a strong network of allies. (Bush and Folger, 1994, pp.20−21)

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The book raises some interesting claims about the limitations of problem-solving methods, which, the authors believe, does not realize the full potential of mediation (p.4) and has ‘oppressive biases’ (p.72). It claims that the problem solving approach is too directive, neglects issues it cannot handle, and is too dogmatic in defining what the conflict is about. However, as we shall see when we examine criticisms of the transformation approach below, defenders of the problem solving approach argue that this is a caricature of their ideas, and there are individuals and groups involved in problem solving approaches that do not match the description offered by supporters of transformative mediation. There is no doubt that the ideas contained in The Promise of Mediation struck a chord with many mediators, and their initial study has led to a significant bibliography on transformative mediation (Noce, 2002). Ironically, however, Bush and Folger might be accused of failing to practice what they advocate, in refusing to grant proper recognition to alternative approaches. Another issue is that their approach to transformation seems rather limited, focusing on what Vayrynen would have termed actors. They do this because they believe the way to change societies is by changing people and they are sceptical of what they have termed the ‘oppression story’. This, however, appears too reductionist and limits the transformation idea to a rather restricted range of strategies. In order to help turn transformative mediation theory into practice, an Institute for the Study of Conflict Transformation has been created and a set of guidelines and principles for practitioners and trainers has been developed to help them move from theory to practice (Folger and Bush, 2001a). This is based around 10 ‘hallmarks’ of transformative mediation (Folger and Bush, 1996, 2001b). The approach is also being refined and developed by others who have taken up the recognition and empowerment focus identified by Folger and Bush (see, for example, Kraybill, undated). Despite the success of Bush and Folger, most of the literature on the transformation of conflicts has been more interested in peacebuilding than mediation/peacemaking. In 1995, Rupesinghe published a collection of papers, most of which had been presented at an International Peace Research Association conference in Kyoto in 1992, under the title Conflict Transformation. This covered an eclectic range of topics, but in the introduction the editor claimed that they all represented ‘evidence that a sea change has occurred in the way in which conflict is perceived, at least among peace researchers and conflictologists’ (Rupesinghe, 1995b, p.viii). In a study published 3 years later, the same author explains that transformation is the preferred concept when analysing the end of violent conflict because it is neither possible nor desirable to think in terms of eliminating conflict and because it best describes the aim of eliminating expressions of violent conflict through addressing ‘underlying social relationships’ (Rupesinghe, 1998, p.3). In the same year Lederach, who also contributed an article to Rupesinghe’s volume, published a book entitled Preparing for Peace: Conflict Transformation Across Cultures, which focused on issues related to training in multi-cultural settings. In fact Lederach had been using the concept of transformation since the late 1980s

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The Transformation of Violent Intercommunal Conflict

inspired by his work in Central America and his Anabaptist-Mennonite background (Lederach, 2003b). The influential 1995 book compared what the author termed the ‘elicitive’ model with the ‘prescriptive’ approach to conflict transformation. The former emphasizes building on the cultural context to work for empowerment and facilitation, whereas the prescriptive approach assumes ‘cultural universality’ (Lederach, 1995, p.68) and is based on a training and transfer approach. The elicitive method, which is the one preferred by Lederach, views the trainer as a catalyst for discovery and creative responses. He does not reject the prescriptive approach out of hand, but is more interested in developing the elicitive method and in placing conflict work in situ. This means that ‘training for conflict transformation and mediation must envision cultural knowledge as a key resource in both the creation and development of models appropriate to a given setting’ (Lederach, 1995, p.10). The term transformation is to be preferred because it ‘provides a language that more adequately approximates the nature of conflict and how it works to underscore the goals and purpose of the field …. Transformation suggests a dynamic understanding that conflict can move in destructive or constructive directions, but proposes an effort to maximise the achievement of constructive, mutually beneficial processes and outcomes’ (pp.18–19). However, it would be wrong to suggest that Lederach is only interested in the cultural aspects of transformation. In a more recent study he identifies four dimensions: personal, relational, structural and cultural (Lederach, 2003a). In this study he describes conflict transformation as follows: Conflict transformation is to envision and respond to the ebb and flow of social conflict as life-giving opportunities for creating constructive change processes that reduce violence, increase justice in direct interaction and social structures, and respond to real-life problems in human relationships. (Lederach, 2003a, p.14)

The person who has probably done most to develop the transformation approach to destructive conflict is Johan Galtung, the most influential peace researcher of the past two generations. He is best known for his groundbreaking categorization of violence as direct, structural and cultural. Indeed, he used to define peace as the absence of all three types of violence. In his more recent work, however, he has made transformation one of the central concepts of peace and conflict research by defining peace as ‘non-violent and creative conflict transformation’ (Galtung, 1996, p.9). By so doing he hopes to preserve an understanding of the dynamism inherent in all conflict that arises out of the contradictions that lie at their heart. His commitment to the concept of transformation is revealed not just through his academic writings, but also the work of the NGO he leads (appropriately called TRANSCEND). This has established a network of academics and practitioners who are attracted to the TRANSCEND method. It also offers a range of courses on conflict transformation at its academic base in Romania and has also published a series of training manuals about how to implement the TRANSCEND ideas in real world conflicts. Galtung, himself, claims to have been actively involved as a consultant/trainer in over 40 real conflicts, and so his methods can be said to have been developed through action research in the field. One of the most attractive ideas within his general approach to

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transformation is to equate conflict with energy, flux and dynamism and to see conflict transformation as linked to the release of ‘positive conflict energy’ (Galtung, 1995b). This he has also characterized as ‘conflict the creator’ (Galtung, 1996, p.70). At the start of the twenty-first century interest in conflict transformation continues to grow. One of the most significant manifestations of this is found in Germany. In 1999, the Berghof Institute demonstrated a major commitment to the idea when it began work on its Handbook for Conflict Transformation. This is an evolving Internet resource of articles and discussions about the transformation approach which aims to strengthen the relationship between theory and practice and facilitate debate and joint learning. The Institute offers a broad definition and claims that transformation: is a generic, comprehensive concept referring to actions that seek to alter the various characteristics and manifestations of conflict by addressing the its (sic) root causes over the long-term, with the aim to transform negative ways of dealing with conflict into positive, constructive ways. The concept of conflict transformation stresses structural, behavioural and attitudinal aspects of conflict. It refers both to the process and the structure of moving towards ‘just peace’. (www.bergof-handbook.net/definition.htm)

In the Berghof Handbook Miall (2006, p.10) identifies five types of transformation: context, structure, actor, issue and personal/elite transformations. This is close to Vayrynen’s classification, but differentiates structure from context and, usefully, adds the idea of the transformation of individuals. Interestingly, neither Miall nor Vayrynen have a category called ‘culture’, though this is found in the work of Lederach. The concept of transformation is now widely used in the realms of practice and academic analysis and there is every indication that the transformative approach to violent conflict will continue to grow. We now find a number of University courses using this term, especially at postgraduate level in the US. The Eastern Mennonite University, for example, has a Conflict Transformation Programme. The Institute for the Study of Conflict Transformation, at the Hafstra School of Law, offers to train individuals to become a ‘transformative mediator’. The School for International Training, based in Vermont, has courses on Conflict Transformation, as does the Citizen Peacebuilding Program at the University of California, Irvine. In the UK, Peace Research centres at the Universities of Bradford and Lancaster are offering online courses on conflict transformation and conflict resolution. In Tromso, Norway, there is also an MA programme in Peace and Conflict Transformation. In Thailand we find a School of Peace Studies and Conflict Transformation organized by the progressive Muslim organization, AMAN. There have also been important developments in other linked areas, including post-war reconstruction and transitional justice, both of which are growing as specialist areas of study in universities and research centres (see, for example, the bibliographic review in Barahona et al., 2004). We have already noted the TRANSCEND courses in conflict transformation in Romania. The term is also spreading in the world of NGO activity. Conciliation Resources, for example, has a Committee for Conflict Transformation Support. International Alert has organized workshops on transformation in many parts of the world

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The Transformation of Violent Intercommunal Conflict

and produced a code of conduct for transformation work (international-alert.org/ publications/114.php). The US based Alliance for Conflict Transformation, created in 1999, has engaged in a number of transformation/peacebuilding projects in several states whilst the Coalition for Peace in Africa offers a course in advanced conflict transformation. Responding to Conflict offers a Masters course in Conflict Transformation at various regional centres around the world. Relief Web is advertising a specialization course on conflict transformation at the Austrian Study Centre for Peace and Conflict Resolution at Stadtschlaining. In Northern Ireland a number of groups have adopted the term, including the Partners in Transformation Project, the North Belfast Conflict Transformation Forum, and those who are proposing an International Centre for Conflict Transformation on the site of the Maze prison, the location of the old H-blocks. Features of the Transformative Approach All approaches to conflict transformation begin with an optimistic assumption that a sustainable peace can be created out of violent and destructive conflict. Beyond this there may be differences in emphasis and phraseology, but several common features start to emerge that should allow us to construct a composite identikit picture. The most significant features appear to be: innovative thinking, an emphasis on deep and wide-ranging change, an understanding that conflict is dynamic and can be an agent of positive conversion, a focus on empowerment and sensitivity to indigenous culture, an awareness that this is a long term process where quick fixes are not going to work, and an emphasis on working at all levels of society. The persistence of what Azar (1990) termed protracted social conflicts made analysts aware of the limitations of conventional approaches to conflict settlement. Some bitter conflicts appear to be so immune to existing tried and tested approaches to peace that only a radical change seems likely to jolt the parties out of their destructive interactions. From a traditionalist perspective protracted conflicts often appear to be irresolvable. This may breed fatalism and cynicism, but for some it is also a stimulus to explore more radical approaches. So Galtung (1996, p.96) links transformation to transcendence, which he thinks of as something ‘new, sui generis, usually unexpected’ and which is the result of creative thinking. Leatherman et al. (1999, p.73) has noted: the limitations of diplomacy to achieve durable peaceful outcomes to contemporary conflicts and to prevent others from turning violent, means there needs to be innovation in traditional ideas and practice. We need to go beyond the containment of violence and negotiation, to transform social injustices, perceptions, cultural tensions, deep rooted hatred and issues of institutional legitimacy.

Francis (2002, p.40) claims that if the conflict transformation approach is to work it must address the limitations of the resolution approach and ‘must have something radical to offer in conflicts where power asymmetry is not incidental but of the

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essence’. In similar vein, Vayrynen (1991) believes that a weakness of the traditional problem solving approach is that it does not challenge the basic power structures that lie behind conflict and is therefore consistent with strategies of control and manipulation. Galtung (1997a, p.34) argues that the objective ‘is not only to avoid violence but to move humanity forward, creating new, cohesive realities’. Of course, the claim that because less ambitious approaches to ending violent conflict have failed, we must try more ambitious ones is not the only logical conclusion that can be reached. It might rather be that what is needed for effective action are even less ambitious strategies. Nonetheless, the idea that deep-rooted violent conflict needs deep-rooted changes is a plausible position to take. One study has even referred to the emphasis on the ‘deepest level of change’ that is found in the transformation idea (Miall et al., p.21). Lederach (2003a, p.31) seems to agree when he talks about this approach getting to the ‘epicentre’. Or as another study puts it puts it, ‘conflict transformation depends on containing escalatory processes over the short term, while altering the underlying structural conditions over the long term’ (Leatherman et al., p.50). The Berghof Center claims that ‘all constructive work needs to address the root causes that fuel conflict’ (www.berghof-handbook. net/definition.htm). Linked to this commitment to deep change is the idea that we must move beyond the immediate conflict issues to explore the wider structural and cultural background to the conflict. So Dukes (1999, n. pag.) argues that although ‘the many conceptions of conflict transformation vary considerably by author, they do share one critical element in common’. This is ‘the impact of the conflict resolution process on parties, relationships, and institutions beyond the immediate issue under dispute’. A similar view is found in Lederach (2003a, pp.48−49), who states that the transformation approach will encourage us to view the ‘presenting issue as a window’ onto a whole web of relations at a number of levels. Galtung (1997b, p.10) states that to ‘transform you may have to expand the conflict away from immediate issues to underlying problems’. The dynamic nature of conflict is mentioned in a number of the writings on transformation. This perspective is also found in some of the writings on nonviolent change, most notably Martin Luther King’s idea of ‘creative tension’. Vayrynen (1991, p.4) argues that a ‘dynamic analysis of conflict is indispensable: the study of their resolution in a static framework belies social reality …. Conflicts are continually transformed even if efforts to resolve them have not made any visible progress’. Tidwell (1998, pp.72−74) points out that a ‘growing number of theorists are rejecting the notion of conflict resolution as such, and instead writing about conflict transformation …. A major contribution to date is the recognition that conflicts are dynamic and that they cannot be spoken about as if they were immobile. But there is more work to be done.’ Or consider the following comment by Lederach (2003a, p.15) that a ‘transformational approach recognizes that conflict is a normal and continuous dynamic within human relationships … conflict brings with it the potential for constructive change’.

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Another common characteristic of the transformative approach is grassroots empowerment. This is because ‘imposed solutions to problems of social transformations have a poor track record’ (Richards, 2005, p.19). This ideal is pushed strongly in the work of Francis (2002, p.8). She writes: To work for conflict transformation at any level, therefore, involves ensuring that those who have been the subjects of structures of domination discover and develop the power to participate in what effects them. It means enacting democracy at all levels … in ways that increase participation/and help people in all sections of society to find a voice. It means supporting ‘people power’.

In the Berghof Handbook, she once again stresses the importance of empowerment as a way of combating asymmetries in conflict when she argues that ‘one aspect of conflict transformation is the conscientization or awakening of those who currently take no power’ (Francis, 2006, p.9). Empowerment also involves sensitivity to local, indigenous cultures. Thus, Miall (2006, p.15) claims that practitioners of conflict transformation ‘must pursue their aims with sensitivity to both the culture of the conflict area and the goals and constraints of other actors’. It also seems to follow from all that has been said above, that transformation will take time. Volkan (1997, p.226) points out that ‘stubborn large-group conflict cannot be resolved by an instant-coffee approach’. Similarly, Galtung (1997b, p.16) believes that ‘for a deep transformation to emerge some creativity has to be forthcoming, and the more creative a new idea, the more time will be needed for people to get used to the idea …. The price paid for creativity is that people need time to get used to new ideas, and even more time to implement them.’ Some take the long-term perspective very seriously indeed. The Sarvodoya Society has published a 500 year peace action plan for the transformation of Sri Lanka. This organization claims: When most people first hear about a peace plan that spans five hundred years, their first reaction is to laugh. No country on Earth does planning that long term. It’s hard enough to get a society to think one or two years ahead − 500 years seems impossible …. The seeds of the present conflict in Sri Lanka were planted 500 years ago; it will take at least that long to correct the damage. Around the world, from Bosnia and Chechnya in Europe to Vietnam and the Philippines in Asia, we can see countries trying to deal with the longterm legacy of war. The Sarvodoya 500 Year Peace Plan acknowledges the long, hard path to true peace and takes concrete steps to bring about true peace. (http://www.commonway.org/SriLankapeaceplan01.htm#Why%20500, Accessed on 30 January, 2006)

Galtung goes even further and, in an echo of Trotskyist and Maoist ideas of permanent revolution, refers to transformation as a never-ending process. In one sense, of course, this is absolutely correct since solutions will create new problems that then require new solutions and so on. The question, however, is whether individuals and groups can sustain the energy and commitment needed for a permanent transformation outlook, or is it not more likely that routinization will creep in at some point? Yet, in the absence of a long term commitment we could end up with what Doyle (1994),

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in the Cambodian context, has called ‘incomplete reconciliation’, which manifests itself in backsliding from the noble aims of a peace agreement. A final feature of the transformation approach is that it operates at multiple levels. Galtung (1996) has called for transformative leaders (Nelson Mandela is the obvious example) as well as transformation work directed at the grass-roots. Clements (1997, n. pag.) agrees, arguing that: Conflict transformation should incorporate a wide cross-section of political decisionmakers, citizens, aid and development agencies, religious organizations, and social movements. Too often, in the past, conflict transformation has been conceptualized largely as a political problem. It has to be cast as a social and economic problem as well if sustainable structural change is to occur.

Criticisms of the Transformation Approach Not everyone, of course, is willing to accept the attractive vision offered by the transformation approach to conflict. Criticisms tend to group around one or more of the following arguments. Provoking a Backlash It seems inevitable that the transformation approach will be seen as a threat to supporters of the status quo. Transformation is unsettling. As Bigdon and Korf (undated, p.22) point out, ‘empowerment of some can lead to disempowerment of others (gender, class, ethnicity, caste)’. Who, they ask, ‘is then the loser and who is the winner of donor interventions?’ Obviously, those who value things as they are will resist the idea of transformation, since it implies not just the creation of something new, but also the destruction of something old. One might find such a backlash emerging especially from within the ranks of organizations such as the police or the armed forces that might have fought hard and sacrificed much to sustain the status quo. In such circumstances resistance to change might be strong, as was the case with the armed forces in South Africa (Nathan, 2004). But the problem might not be limited just to the instruments of state security. In Northern Ireland, for example, there has been a significant Protestant backlash against the 1998 Belfast Agreement, leading to the growth in support for the rejectionist Democratic Unionist Party (DUP). This seems to represent a growing alienation of the Protestant community following the Agreement (Evans and O’Leary, 2000). As a result the community has become more receptive to the DUP message that the peace process is really a surrender process. It has now replaced the pro-Agreement Unionist party, the UUP, as the largest party in Northern Ireland. Nor is this a new development in the province. English (2001, p.16) has pointed out that Loyalist paramilitarism was a ‘beast stirred into life by the philosophy of the peace process itself’, most notably the 1985 Anglo-Irish Agreement. In East Timor the independence referendum that seemed to open the door on independence provoked

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a violent backlash from Indonesian settlers (see, for example, Cristalis, 2002). There is ample evidence, therefore, that transformation may be viewed as threat by vested interests. Thus: a social reconstruction which is radical and, because radical, prolonged, is bound to uproot and disorient very large numbers of people, thereby creating widespread psychological as well as material adversity; and one must expect at least some people to oppose measures that threaten them with these effect. (Magee, 1985, p.104)

So, one of the difficulties in obtaining comprehensive and wholehearted support for a project of conflict transformation is that there will be winners and losers. This was a point made forcefully by E.H. Carr in his famous critique of the ‘utopian’ approach to international politics in the inter-war era. In it Carr (1962) challenged the liberal ideas which assumed a ‘harmony of interests’ by pointing out that in any situation there will be groups who support the status quo and those who do not. This made a universal commitment to peace impossible except in the sense that the status quo powers want to retain the status quo peacefully and the states that oppose it want to change it peacefully wherever possible. However: The utopian assumption that there is a world interest in peace which is identifiable with the interest of each individual nation helped politicians and political writers everywhere to evade the unpalatable fact of a fundamental divergence of interest between nations desirous of maintaining the status quo and nations desirous of changing it. A peculiar combination of platitude and falseness thus became endemic in the pronouncements of statesmen about international affairs. (Carr, 1962, p.53)

In the study of racial and ethnic conflict a similar point appears in the work of Stone (1986, p.158) who points out that the ‘acid test of most policies is provided by the old maxim sui bono?: who stands to gain, and therefore who will lose, from such measures?’ Transformation as ‘Utopian Engineering’ This criticism draws on the work of Karl Popper, who has warned us to beware of individuals and groups who approach social problems with a messianic and moralistic commitment to radical change inspired by an ideology − Stalin, Pol Pot, Mao and Hitler were all social transformers. It appears in two studies by Popper written against the background of the rise of Nazism in Germany and the consolidation of Stalin’s regime in the USSR. They began as one book that was intended to be a critique of the idea of historicism − a belief in the laws of history. But a single volume quickly became two separate, but linked studies that Popper described as part of his ‘war effort’ in defence of freedom against totalitarianism (Popper, 1976, p.115). Although Popper was mainly concerned with historicism, in the course of his thesis he engages in a more general attack on what he terms ‘utopian engineering’, which he regards as inherently dangerous and irrational, because the knowledge that

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informs the utopian impulse is not properly tested. It cannot learn from its mistakes because the possibilities of errors are not written into the Plan, and as a result it is uncompromising and takes a dim attitude towards criticisms. To counter it Popper commends the virtues of ‘piecemeal engineering’, which, when faced with a problem in society, ‘does not believe in the method of re-designing it as a whole’ (Popper, 1961, p.66). Such a person ‘knows we can only learn from our mistakes’ (p.67) and therefore makes ‘his way, step by step, carefully comparing the results expected with the results achieved, and always on the look-out for the unavoidable unwanted consequences of any reform’ (ibid.). Although Popper concedes that a series of piecemeal reforms ‘might be inspired by one general tendency’ (p.68) he insists that there are clear differences between the two approaches. For ‘while the piecemeal engineer can attack his problem with an open mind as to the scope of reform, the holist [i.e. utopian engineer] cannot do this; for he has decided beforehand that a complete reconstruction is possible and necessary’ (p.75). These grand aims are not open to debate because they are based on scientific principles that include claims that the utopian engineer has diagnosed the needs of his time (p.75). One of the dire consequences of this way of thinking is that utopian engineers must try to simplify the problems faced in transforming society by eliminating difference (p.90). He must ‘destroy the last possibility of finding out what people really think’ because utopian engineering is ‘incompatible with the free expression of thought, especially of critical thought’ (ibid.). For Popper this amounts to an abandonment of rational thought and it is a fundamental threat to an open society, which depends for its vitality on the clash of values and principles. There are three problems with Popper’s approach. The first is that he offers a rather exaggerated and unattractive depiction of utopian engineers. Maybe this fits someone like Hitler or Stalin, but does it apply to Gandhi? He wanted to transform India in order to meet the spiritual needs of Indians, but this peace-loving leader does not match the template offered by Popper. In an analysis of his political philosophy Parekh (1989, p.223) notes that Gandhi ‘kept insisting that he wanted “fellow scientists” and “co-experimenters” inspired by his ideals and stimulated by his example into making their own discoveries, not disciples and followers lazily looking for a crisp message or a neat blueprint’. Second, what should we do if the unfeeling status quo is repulsive? If there is a regime that is not just evil, but has the capacity to resist and eliminate reformers and their piecemeal engineering, what is left to be done? Popper was acutely aware of the dangers of totalitarianism, which is why he wrote these works in the first place. However, his work can be seen as a warning about how to resist totalitarian tendencies in established democracies, not how to resists tyranny from within. Thus, it could be argued, he does not adequately address the problem that piecemeal reform may not work in the face of efficient oppression, where general systemic change may be the only road forward. A third problem is that it is unclear if Popper is correct to judge social research according to the scientific method. Thus, Habermas (1992, pp.57−58) notes that:

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The Transformation of Violent Intercommunal Conflict In his reconstructive analysis Popper does away with both the context of discovery and the context of application, from which the theories of the social sciences emerge and in which they become effective. Hence in his view only those sociological approaches have a legitimate status which yield information usable in social technologies, and which find their point of application in piecemeal social engineering. As opposed to this, I would defend the traditions of research in social theory and psychoanalysis, as well as in cognitive developmental psychology, which have a different practical point of reference; they aim to enlighten people and groups who are in need of orientation about themselves and about their social situation ….

On closer inspection it is also clear that Popper is in favour of a systematic fight against definite wrongs’, which can include the ‘the most urgent evils of society’ (Popper, 1961, p.91), but the target must always be ‘concrete forms of injustice or exploitation, and avoidable suffering such as poverty and unemployment’ (ibid.). It is, of course, ridiculous to argue that all transformers have the potential for genocide or harbour strong totalitarian tendencies. Nonetheless, in its unsympathetic attitude to the status quo and its emphasis on sweeping away of the old order maybe from a certain perspective there is something unsettling about the idea of transformation. Popper warns us to avoid the tyrannical elements that exist in ideologies that support deep change (including the peace traditions discussed in the next chapter), and is right to advise us not to undervalue incremental change. However, we should not regard all calls for fundamental change as ‘utopian engineering’ and therefore, dangerous. The Illusion of Progress There are those who would argue that the significant advances offered by the transformation idea are illusory, because human nature will never really change. The commentator who is probably most associated with this attitude is John Gray, who has written that although in science ‘progress is a fact, in ethics and politics it is a superstition’ (Gray, 2004, p.3). Knowledge, he claims, may change, but human needs remain unaltered (ibid.). An approach to social issues that rests on a superficial optimism may be attractive, but is also dangerous because it denies the reality of evil. So, Gray (2004, p.127) contends, ‘the danger of American foreign policy is not that is obsessed with evil but that it is based on the belief that evil can be abolished’. Two counter-argument against Gray might be offered by the philosopher Rorty (1989). The first is whether there is anything that can be called ‘human nature’ that is unchangeable. From Rorty’s perspective all identities and truths are the result of contingent factors. Second, he would claim that reason is not the real engine of progress anyway. Rorty’s belief is that moral progress has indeed occurred and that we are moving towards greater human solidarity, but we are doing so by acts of self-creation and new language rather than by abstract rationalism. We shall discuss Rorty in more detail in Chapter 6.

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An Underdeveloped Concept For some the idea of transformation is just too vague. Mitchell, for example, believes that it lacks clarity and confuses process and outcome in addressing mediation. He writes that it ‘seems to me that there is a major need for those advocating major changes in relationships as a means of transforming conflicts to specify which qualities of existing, adversarial relationships need to be changed for a genuine “transformation” to occur, and how such changes might be indicated’ (Mitchell, 2002, n. pag.). Interestingly, instead of rejecting the transformation approach he then goes on to propose the specifics that he thinks are lacking in the transformation literature. Four key areas are identified. These are clearer explanations for how we move: from unbalanced to balanced exchanges; from dependent to interdependent exchanges; from dissonant to consonant evaluations of the exchange; and from nonlegitimized to legitimized evaluations of the exchange. A similar point is made by Albin (2005, p.352), who writes that the transformation approach at present ‘focuses heavily on different aspects of change rather than the driving forces behind them’. It should be noted, however, that this criticism is only directed at the way the idea of transformation is formulated and presented and critics from this perspective seem happy to accept that the term is a useful one, they just want to see it developed further. So the end of his article Mitchell admits that his initial scepticism towards the concept of transformation has been dented by his analysis of the literature, and that there are important differences between the ‘resolution’ and ‘transformation’ views. Some of these could just be differences of emphasis, but there is also a significant difference in terms of the weight placed on structural and relational change. The resolution approach, he concedes, is compatible with no structural change and with a lack of interest in the ‘relational aftermath’. Albin is also attracted to the concept, and thinks that its distinctiveness is related to its emphasis on structural change and relational change. We should note, however, that this is not the perspective adopted by Folger and Bush. Their idea of transformative mediation has very little to say about structural change, and, as we shall see in Chapter 4, there are others who view transformation as an interpersonal process rather than a structural one. Exaggerated Claims Another criticism of the transformation literature is that it exaggerates the differences between its approach and the approach of other traditions in the field of conflict management/resolution. Mitchell (2002, 2006), for example, believes that some interpretations of ‘resolution’ did recognize the need for significant changes in structures and relationships. He challenges the exaggerated claims about novelty and profundity coming from the ‘transformative mediation’ writers and he questions the utility of regarding all ‘resolution’ approaches as no more than pragmatic settlements of disputes. This, he claims, ignores the work of influential conflict theorists who do envisage significant changes to social structures and relationships (see especially Burton, 1979, 1990). Indeed, one of the leading figures in the Burtonian ‘problem

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solving workshop’ tradition has explicitly used the term transformation to describe the impact of his work (Kelman, 1999) This is a theme developed by Kanisin (2003) who claims that some important texts promoting the transformation idea have polarized the debate in an untenable manner. Indeed, the charge seems to be that, against the spirit of conflict transformation, certain writers in his tradition have stereotyped and oversimplified their depiction of the ‘conflict resolution’ field. In response, the author proposes ‘consilience’ of knowledge Cultural Arrogance As we have seen, many of the supporters of the transformation approach have been quick to warn about the need to respect local cultures. Lederach (1995, p.79), for example, notes that ‘any practitioner entering a conflict situation in some other culture with an eye toward transformation or peacebuilding must have a formidable amount of substantive knowledge about the other culture’. Yet does not the very claim that we need to transform the parties to a conflict imply a certain lack of tolerance of cultural difference and an insensitivity to other ways of life? This is often a criticism made of US liberal crusaders with their absolute believe in the power of democracy and the free market to induce positive change. Yet to use an argument from Kant, might it be that when we start applying visions of transformation we treat people as means to our ends rather than as ends in themselves? One issue here that arises specifically in situations of ethnic conflict is how far can you push the transcending of ethnic identities? Should you even attempt this, or should outsiders seek to work with predefined identities, even if these confine locals within a narrow us-them viewpoint. Esman (1997, p.10) believes that ‘donors should accept as legitimate existing expressions of ethnic solidarity, instead of attempting to transcend them, as there is little evidence that strategies intended to break down ethnic solidarities (especially when these strategies are promoted by outsiders) can be effective except over very long periods of time’. In the area of political transformation Lijphart (1977) has developed the idea of consociationalism that involves building new structures around the recognition of distinct ethnic identities. Critics of such strategies, however, warn that they may even deepen ethnic cleavages and make positive change harder to achieve. We shall revisit this debate in Chapter 5. There is another issue related to the balance to be struck between respect for local cultures and the introduction of new, transformative ideas. What if the communities that are empowered demonstrate a stubborn commitment to narrow nationalist and exclusivist ideas? How can the ‘international community’ challenge this without violating the norm of local recognition? This, of course, is what has happened in Bosnia, where a UN presence, committed to what we might call the liberal transformation of this country has been frustrated by the willingness of public opinion to vote into office politicians that reject the transformation that the ‘international community’ wishes. This has led to a paradoxical situation whereby:

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In order to get out, the country’s foreign guardians will have to get in more deeply. In order to abjure use of the Bonn powers, Ashdown [the then High Representative] will need in the short run to use them more intensively. In order to realise the promise of Dayton, the High Representative will have to lift the ceiling of what is meant to be permissible under the Dayton constitution. (International Crisis Group 2003, n. pag.)

The forceful line taken by the High Representative might not be in accordance with best practice when it comes to empowerment and respect for local culture, but after several years during which time the work of international bodies has been thwarted by the willingness of the electorates to support hard-liners, the frustration is understandable. Could it be that the means used to transform divided societies do not always have to be consistent with the ends envisaged? Or is a more forceful approach to transformation going to be counterproductive in the long term? Although there have been signs of improvement in Bosnia, the jury is still out on this question. This is also an issue that is emerging in Israel/Palestine, where the recent election success of Hamas has troubled many international donors. Although it represents the honest expression of preference by the Palestinian people, because the profile of Hamas does not fit that deemed desirable by the ‘international community’ it seems that Palestinians might now be punished for choosing to support the ‘wrong’ party. Surely this is an indication of the arrogance that underlies some western interventions in conflict areas: we support grass-roots empowerment, but only if you pick the side that we believe is best for you. Furthermore, what happens when an indigenous approach to transformation clashes with the values of the wider international community and of donors? It may be that local responses to conflict, such as the gagaca courts and Ingando in Rwanda, the Shuras and the Loya Jirga in Afghanistan, the shir in Somalia, moots in Liberia, or the Barza (Council of the Wise) in the Kivu area of the Democratic Republic of Congo do not meet rigorous standards expected by western states. They may, for example, exclude women or other groups and their use may endorse the status quo. So how tolerant can we be of such practices? Nor can we assume that indigenous groups agree about how to move forward. If there are different and competing perspectives within cultures (for example, over the role of Sharia law) how is the outsider to adjudicate without violating the principle of respect that is owed to one or other group? Conclusion In this chapter we have examined the development of the concept of conflict transformation, which we linked to a number of developments in the post-Cold War world and to new approaches to the academic understanding of peace and conflict. In the real world key factors included the rise of globalization, the use of peacebuilding strategies in a number of conflicts and the success of non-violent action in overthrowing undemocratic regimes in a number of states. In the academic

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world the transformation idea has been encouraged by the rise of normative and critical theory. We have also suggested in this chapter that it might be best to distinguish transformation not in terms of a single characteristic, but as a cluster of objectives (Reimann, undated, p.13). These would include a dynamic view of conflict, an emphasis on long-term change and grass-roots empowerment, and a desire to focus on the wider and deeper contexts from which conflicts emerge. We have also identified several criticism that could be made of the conflict transformation idea from the fact that it might actually increase insecurity to a worry about the dangers of ‘utopian engineering’. It was also noted that a strong commitment to transformation could lead not to respect for indigenous cultures, but to an arrogance characterized by a ‘we know best’ attitude. Some critics have also noted that the transformation literature might exaggerate its unique perspective and thus could undervalue other valid, but less ambitious, approaches to peace. It should also be noted that although there must be a strong normative element to transformation work, it is not clear that there can be consensus on what this should be. This is because there are a number of distinct peace traditions that have different answers to the question: how should conflicts be transformed? It is to this issue that we must now turn.

Chapter 2

Traditions of Transformation Salvation means deliverance from all saviours. (Nikos Kazantzakis quoted in Gray, 2002, p.121)

Peace and conflict research began as part of the behavioural revolution of the 1950s. The hope was that the scientific method would provide vital information about the causes of war and the conditions for peace. Within this broad approach there developed a number of sub-fields, including game theory, the statistical study of armed conflict and experimental psychology. This strong belief in the scientific method is reflected in the statements of some of the pioneers of this area of study. In a remarkable passage Singer (1991, p.41) argued that if the ‘scientific study of world politics had taken root earlier in the century along with the “behavioural revolution” in psychology, sociology and economics, it is not totally inconceivable that the First and Second World Wars might have been averted’. Boulding (1982, p.238), reflects this strong belief in the utility of the scientific method when he writes about the soothing ‘hum of the calculator’ and claims that: The removal of conflict from the arena of folk knowledge to the area of scientific knowledge has a stabilizing, one is tempted to say a soothing, affect …. If ideological struggles can be transformed even partially into conflicts of scientific theory, we have a much better chance for their resolution.

The scientific approach did result in advances in knowledge (see, for example, Vasquez, 1993, 2000). However, it did not win over everyone and more recently we have seen a revival of normative thinking, mirroring developments in the social sciences in general. Transformation ideas seem deeply rooted in some, if not all, of these normative approaches to violence, and both Lederach and Galtung have noted the prescriptive elements in the transformation ideal. The former has written that it needs a vision for the future (Lederach, 2003a, Chapter 7), whilst the latter has argued that although conflict work is ‘not the same as working politically for peace values’ (Galtung, 1997b, p.12), he also believes that transformations ‘have to be subjectively forced’ (Galtung, 1996, p.101). Kraybill (undated, p.2) points out that the ‘idea of “transformation” implies that facilitators bring an agenda to situations of conflict’. However, this is problematic because there is no consensus about what value system/peace tradition is to be preferred. As Young (1985, p.312) has noted, ‘it is arguable that there is no such thing as a single peace movement, but a variety of peace traditions’. His work reveals how many of these traditions are linked to political ideologies (‘socialist war

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resistance’, ‘liberalism and internationalism’ and ‘feminist anti-militarism’) and he has charted the rise and fall of the influence of these groups (Young, 1986). Kodama (1989), in one of the very few extensive surveys of peace movements (in Sweden) has shown that participants in NGO peace work share many common characteristics in terms of membership (well educated, middle class professionals, especially women, working in the public sector) and values (‘post-materialist’), but still their adherence to different political ideas gives them something to disagree about. In Sweden, for example, the peace movement was divided into a number of different groups, including Christian, Marxist and feminist organizations. Some proponents of the idea of conflict transformation want to see it as an analytical framework or a set of lenses (Lederach, 2003a). This is a metaphor that implies clearer sight and therefore a more accurate view of the world as it is. However, for many individuals and groups working for conflict transformation their agendas, concepts and actions will be based on one or more of a number of diverse normative peace traditions that do not allow them to view the world as it is, but which prejudge this world on the basis of pre-existing prejudices. In subsequent chapters we shall explore more closely some of the strategies linked to specific peace traditions, here we shall simply attempt an analysis of the main features of each of these different ways of viewing transformation. All of these are progressive, in that they believe in advancement, though in some strands of the religious tradition the transformation comes with death as a reward for good behaviour in a wicked world. Indeed, a consistent theme in religious criticisms of the liberal tradition is that it is based on a superficial optimism about the goodness of human nature. Within each tradition, of course, there are a variety of views and positions on war and peace, and it has to be admitted that many of these are not addressed here. The charge of overgeneralization may therefore be a valid one, but it should be pointed out that the main purpose of the analysis in this chapter is not to present a detailed breakdown of peace thinking, merely to show how ideas about transformation vary from tradition to tradition and that these different normative positions complicate our understanding about how to promote conflict transformation. These peace traditions serve a number of functions. They have a descriptive function in that they claim to present to us an accurate picture of the world and its problems – Galtung would call this the diagnosis of the problem. Therefore, each tradition wants to help us to order data by providing criteria for selecting what is important and what is insignificant. For example, how important is class or gender? Or what is human nature really like? Are we rational and peaceful or irrational and aggressive? They validate our beliefs by telling us what is and is not ‘true’. In other words, traditions of though help to assure us that proposals for transformation are neither capricious nor precarious. One of the attractions of a tradition is therefore that it makes the world more coherent and understandable. But, in addition, these traditions perform the vital role of offering us moral guidance about how we should act to make the world a better place (for Galtung this would be termed therapy). In this way they give us a strong foundation for challenging the status quo, or even for endorsing it. Each of the traditions examined in this chapter contain within them

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transformative elements, though they disagree fundamentally about the diagnosis of violent conflict and the directions that transformation work should take. Each will have, in a phrase used by Isaiah Berlin, a ‘different angle’ on what is happening. We should also note that an awareness of these different traditions might complicate transformation work (‘option paralysis’?), but they also play a positive function in alerting us to the fact that we are living in a world where individuals and societies have competing ends (Doyle, 1997). We might have one vision of a transformed society, but others will have a different image. Each tradition can also alert us to the silences of the others. For as Galtung (1995a, p.120) has noted, ‘liberalism is reticent on exploitation and Marxism on freedom. One is silent on areas on which the other is eloquent, and both are very reticent on the inner human being’. This is a perspective shared by Van Rooy (1998a, p.29), who writes that ‘those normative lenses may not allow us to see all relevant events, actors and processes because we are not looking for them’. Religious Traditions There is a large diversity of views that could be included under this very general category heading. Most religious approaches, however, share certain assumptions. The two most important ones are a belief in a higher moral authority than human law and a strong emphasis on actor-centred approaches. Indeed, for most transformers with a religious motivation the spiritual well-being of individual souls takes precedence over all other aspects, even if this might then lead them to the conclusion that this requires major structural changes as well. The life and writings of Martin Luther King, Jr demonstrate how belief in a higher moral code can inspire action to transform unjust societies (see, for instance: Walton, 1971; Garrow, 1988; Branch, 1990). This is expressed most clearly in his famous Letter from a Birmingham City jail (King, 1963; Bass, 2002). In 1963, eight clergymen from Alabama published a letter criticizing King’s involvement in the civil rights movement and his willingness to break the law. He responded: One has not only a legal but a moral responsibility to obey just laws. Conversely, one has a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws. I would agree with St. Augustine that ‘an unjust law is no law at all’. Now, what is the difference between the two? … A just law is a man-made code that squares with the moral law of God. An unjust law is a code that is out of harmony with the moral law. (King, 1963, n. pag.)

In this letter King points out that one of the limitations of both conservative and liberal clergy is that although they have a low tolerance for physical violence committed by individuals, they are much less critical of structures that sustain unjust and oppressive societies. In Galtung’s terminology they are sensitive to direct violence, but not to structural violence. Bass (2002, p.15) offers an illuminating example in his study of segregation in Birmingham, when the Birmingham Baptist

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Ministers’ Conference organized an interracial ‘Festival of Faith Rally’ in 1947 but expected the black pastors to accept segregation at this event! In the life and work of Gandhi we see how a concern for the spiritual life of Indians led to a political stance that called for the political transformation of India. This included, of course, the removal of the British imperial presence from the subcontinent, but this was part of wider project that included the re-invigoration of moral and cultural life. As Terchek (1998, p.6) has noted, ‘Gandhi must be primarily understood within the Hindu tradition’. Indeed, he drew on Hindu sources to develop a powerful critique of modern materialist societies, believing them to be greedy, exploitative, violent, and racists and full of ‘mindless activism’ (Parekh, 1989, p.23). The cure for these ills was Indian spiritual regeneration, drawing on traditional Hindu concepts such as satyagraha, ahimsa and swadeshi. His vision was of an India returning to its true spiritual way of life, and so respecting the unity of life, and organized into self-sufficient and self-governing village communities. Parekh (1989), however, notes how although Gandhi drew on traditional Hindu ideas, he reinterpreted many of them in light of his political goals and his exposure to other religions, most notably Christianity. Tolstoy, for example, had a powerful impact on his thinking. Thus, not only was Gandhi interested in transforming India, he also ‘profoundly redefined Hinduism and gave it a radically novel orientation’ (Parekh, 1989, p.108). As Parekh (1989, p.100) has also noted, Gandhi believed ‘that if political life could be spiritualised, it would have a profoundly transformative effect on the rest of society’. The spiritual, actor-centred emphasis in Christianity emerges strongly in the idea of forgiveness and reconciliation. Indeed, it could be argued that reconciliation is the key concept for Christian approaches to transformation. As the founder of the best known reconciliation centre in Northern Ireland (Corrymeela) put it, to ‘claim to be a Christian and not to be a reconciler is a contradiction in terms, like a sailor who has never been to sea’ (Davey, 1985, p.112). The idea that inter-group reconciliation is a sort of logical consequence of spiritual reconciliation is found clearly in the work of Assefa (1993, p.18), who wants to argue that ‘the spiritual dimension is at the center of the whole process’. This dimension, he believes, should introduce a more affective, self-critical and deeper approach to peacemaking. The positive effects of Christian belief on inter-group relations have also been noted by Butterfield (1951, p.56), who argues that the ‘Christians are not the righteous – they are the ones who confess themselves to be sinners’. As a result, Butterfield goes on to note, ‘they have a safety-valve against certain kinds of hardness of heart’. It is unclear if reconciliation has such a strong resonance in other religious traditions. It appears to be strongest in the other monotheistic religions of Judaism and Islam. However, in Hindu thought reconciliation ‘is not a leading concept’ (Kennerley, 1994, p.172), while in Buddhism reconciliation does have a place but ‘in a mental framework so different from what Christians are used to’ (May, 1994, p.177). The link between reconciliation and Christianity is demonstrated by the fact that the majority of Truth and Reconciliation Commissions have been established

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in states with Christian cultures (Avruch and Vejarano, 2002). In South Africa much was made of the idea that the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) was drawing its inspiration from indigenous mechanisms for conflict transformation, most notably the concept of ubuntu. Yet it could also be argued that it drew heavily on Christian ideas of reconciliation, most notably in the role played by the chair of the TRC, Archbishop Desmond Tutu. So Barahona et al. (2004, p.26) note that the use of the term ‘reconciliation’ in South Africa and Chile was due to ‘the influence that religious figures have had in the transitions in both these countries’. The same authors express concerns that the use of the idea of reconciliation in these cases raised expectations about what could be achieved and may have led to disappointment with the final outcomes. We shall return to the reconciliation approach in Chapter 4. So for the rest of this discussion of transformation inspired by religious belief we shall turn to someone writing in the Jewish faith. Martin Buber was born in Poland in 1878, moved to Berlin in 1906 and then to the University of Frankfurt in 1916. Although initially a supporter of the Zionism of Herzl he ultimately rejected the primacy attached to political issues in this movement, embracing instead a belief in the need for Jewish spiritual and cultural renewal. He believed that a nation is ‘not a haven, but a passage to the open sea’, adding that people such as he ‘are led to transformation’ (Hodes, 1972, p.61). At the start of the First World War he was a leading advocate of a Jewish cultural renaissance. He was especially interested in Hasidism, a mystical version of Judaism emphasizing joyful service that was popular in Poland. In 1921 and 1929, he addressed Zionist congresses in order to warn about the impact that Jewish immigration to Palestine could have on the existing Arab inhabitants. But this stance on the Arab question led to a decline of his influence and had no noticeable impact on Zionist policies (Avnon, 1998, p.27). Nonetheless, he continued to work throughout his life for good Jewish-Palestinian relations and to espouse unpopular causes. He opposed the trial of Eichmann in Jerusalem, for example, believing this should be conducted by an international tribunal. When Eichmann was convicted, Buber opposed the death penalty because his death would relieve individual living Germans of their own sense of guilt and because of ethical objections to capital punishment. Buber was aware, of course, of the nature of the regime Eichmann represented. The rise of Nazism had forced him to flee to Palestine in 1938, his base until his death in 1965. There, in his writings on transforming human relations, he rejected both individualism and collectivism. Both were unsatisfactory responses to the isolationism of modern life, and he argued that ‘if individualism understands only a part of man, collectivism understands man only as a part: neither advances to the wholeness of man’ (Eisenstadt, 1992, p.36). Instead he championed as a ‘genuine’ alternative the idea of transcendence through dialogue and self-reflection. Hence his interest in the ‘between’ where I and Thou meet in a real dialogue that can inspire creativity and transformation. What humanity is, he claimed, ‘can be properly grasped only in vital reciprocity’ (Eisenstadt, 1992, p.77). This involved a willingness to reach out to one another,

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a capacity for becoming aware and a willingness to ‘turn on our receivers’. This genuine dialogue is characterized by free giving, ‘making present’ the other and divine inspiration. It contrasts with false interactions that were more concerned with ‘seeming and “speechifying”’. These I-Thou interactions did not necessarily involve extended contact, and could be present even in a glance between strangers. Throughout Buber’s numerous works there is frequent reference to transformation and renewal that comes from spirituality and dialogue. Avnon (1998, p.149) points out that his attitude towards politics ‘stemmed from his understanding of the need to radically transform the nature of the interpersonal’. Furthermore, he presents these ideas in an attractive, poetic style characterized by a lack of dogmatism. Thus: The Word of God crosses my vision like a falling star to whose fire the meteorites will bear witness without making it light up for me, and I myself can only bear witness to the light but not produce the stone and say ‘this is it’. (quoted in Eisenstadt, 1992, p.47)

The Liberal Tradition The term liberal is a nineteenth century invention, coming from the Spanish liberales. The label, of course, emerges after several key liberal texts had already been written by, among others, Locke, Milton, Voltaire, and Smith. However, when it comes to issues of peace, maybe the most important early contribution came from Kant in his work Towards Perpetual Peace (1795). In another work, An Idea for a Universal History (1784), the great Enlightenment philosopher argued that the ‘greatest problem for the human species … is that of attaining a civil society which can administer justice universally’ (Reiss, 1991, p.45). But you could not have such civil constitutions until states had solved the problem of law-governed external relations. In Perpetual Peace Kant offers his ideas about how to achieve this, identifying three ‘definitive articles’ for peace: republican constitutions; a federation of free states; and the idea of cosmopolitan hospitality where all strangers are treated in a peaceful manner. This may not be easy to achieve, and sometimes, Kant argued, when wars could not be stopped it would be the very experiences of these wars that would force the parties to think about more peaceful relations. In fact he posits the idea of ‘a hidden plan of nature’ that would move the human race to perfect political constitutions (Reiss, 1991, p.50). So, as Kant put it, sheer exhaustion will force people to do what moral principles ought to have done and selfishness will eventually be forced to discipline itself. He also believed he could identify the early stirrings of this plan of nature in the Europe of his day. For: it nonetheless seems as if a feeling is beginning to stir in all its members, each of which has an interest in maintaining the whole. And this encourages the hope that, after many revolutions, with all their transforming effects, the highest purpose of nature, a universal cosmopolitan existence, will at last be realised as the matrix within which all the original capacities of the human race may develop. (Reiss, 1991, p.51)

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In the nineteenth century we get the development and consolidation of many of the key ideas of liberal peace theory anticipated by Kant. These would include ‘world peace through world trade’, faith in a well educated public opinion, the rule of law, and a global harmony of interests. The idea of world peace through world trade is found in a number of nineteenth century writers such as Mill, but is most associated with Richard Cobden, who is the best known advocate of the idea that the more states trade with each other, the less danger there will be of wars (see, for example, Hammarlund, 2005). This is a theme picked up in the early twentieth century in the work of Norman Angell (see, for instance: Angell, 1933; Miller, 1986). He argued that bonds of mutual interest were making wars irrational; or as the title of his most famous work put it, the idea that war was profitable had become The Great Illusion. This book sold over two million copies and led to the creation of a peace movement called ‘Angellism’. The author was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1933. The contemporary version of these arguments can be found in ideas about the way interdependence is reducing the utility of war (Keohane and Nye, 2001) or in the claims that globalization is a positive force in the contemporary world (Bhagwati, 2004). Such arguments, of course, represent one of the strongest points of disagreements between the liberal and Marxist traditions. Because Marxists view the growth of trade as a vehicle for capitalist exploitation they are inherently suspicious of claims that this is a force for good or even a force for peace. We shall look at this in more detail below. The liberal belief in human reason tends to encourage a belief in the positive role of public opinion, though there were some nineteenth century qualms about the dangers of the ‘tyranny of the majority’ if the franchise was extended too quickly to the masses. In order for public opinion to play a positive role, however, it was important to advance proper education to develop rational faculties and a free press to keep the people informed of events. It was also vital that governments did not keep secrets from their own citizens, which is why many liberals opposed secret treaties, an issue taken up by both the League of Nations and the United Nations. Today only treaties that have been registered with the UN are legally binding. Liberal writers also stress the importance of the rule of law as the manifestation of the common interests of states. This leads on to the idea that conflicts should be resolved by legal means rather than force and that international institutions may be needed ensure this. Bentham, for example, proposed a Common Court of Judicature to resolve disputes between states who would then have no need to resort to war. Even the least wise men, he believed, were wise enough to recognize that wars were one of the most important reasons for their sufferings and that no one could object to his ideas on grounds of utility, only on grounds of practicality (Bentham, 1927). In the late nineteenth and early twentieth century there starts to emerge a different strand of liberalism, sometimes described as welfare liberalism. This is less sympathetic to laissez-faire capitalism and sees a strong role for a benevolent state in promoting the well-being of its citizens. It marks the shift from what Howard (1981) termed ‘passive liberalism’ to a more ‘crusading variety’. One manifestation of this was a growing rejection of non-intervention. Mill and Cobden, for example, were

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both strongly in favour of a policy of non-intervention, and Cobden opposed British intervention in both the Crimean War and the US Civil War. This position, however, is inconsistent with a strong transformation approach, which requires a willingness to engage in an extensive way in the affairs of other societies, as has been the case with the ‘humanitarian interventions’ in Bosnia and Kosovo. The spirit of welfare liberalism can be discovered in the work of the UN specialized agencies such as UNICEF, UNDP and UNHCR. Indeed, during the post1945 era welfare liberalism, in the form of Keynesianism, was dominant in European liberal democracies, but from the 1970s this way of looking at the role of the state came under devastating attack from monetarists, who have been influential enough to impose elements of laissez-faire thinking on important international bodies such as the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund. However, there are signs that welfare liberalism is starting to make a comeback in the form of recent ideas about broader definitions of security, including the idea of ‘human security’ (see, for instance: Thomas, 2000; Commission on Human Security, 2003; Sheehan, 2005). At the start of the twenty-first century there seems little doubt that liberal internationalism has emerged as the most significant peace tradition. In particular, the idea of ‘democratic peace’ is widely debated in academic circles and asserted by western leaders to justify foreign adventures. President Bush, for example, has referred to the ‘transformative power of liberty’ (Appiah, 2004, p.6). Russett (1993, p.10) has pointed out that the evidence in favour of this idea is robust in the face of different war criteria and different measures of democracy. Writing at the dawn of the ‘New World Order’ he argued that if the chances that were being presented for the spread of democracies could be ‘grasped and consolidated, international politics might be transformed’ (Russett, 1993, p.138). In its present form the popularity of the democratic peace hypothesis owes much to Doyle (1983), who published an analysis of Kant’s ideas about international relations and reached the significant conclusion that in all the wars since 1816 democracies have never fought against each other. Doyle attributed this to three factors: the ability of public opinion to restrain wars between democracies, the existence of shared values and trust between such states, and the fact of commercial interdependence based on free trade. The democratic peace hypothesis remains one of the most intriguing ideas in contemporary conflict research, and it has spawned a huge literature that seeks to prove or disprove its central argument, often refining the idea in the process (see, for instance: Brown et al., 1992; Ray, 1995; Macmillan, 1998; Ward, 1998; Rasler and Thompson, 2005). Based on these analyses and others there are a number of criticisms that can be made of the hypothesis. First, there is the problem of defining democracy. Should it necessarily include the enfranchisement of women? If, as seems clear it should, then the period when there were states that could be considered fully democratic is restricted to the twentieth century, and the supporting data before this might therefore be invalid. Also, should the definition of democracy include civil rights? Or what about economic freedom?

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Some analyses of the democratic peace hypothesis include these factors, others do not (Russett, 1993, p.15). Where the actions of a state seem to contradict the hypothesis, supporters might want to challenge its democratic credentials. But if they do so they narrow the definition of democracy even further and, in the process, limit the ‘validity of the generalization to the North Atlantic/West European area after 1945’ (Cohen, 1994, p.222). However, if this is to be the case, then Doyle’s attempt to trace the power of the democratic peace hypothesis back to 1815 will be invalid and the period used to test it then appears to be more flimsy. Russett (1993) has taken up this challenge and has tried to broaden the search for evidence to confirm the hypothesis to other types of societies in ways that Doyle did not envisage. In analyses of the ancient Greek city states period and the non-industrial societies he claims that there is also confirmation of the claim that there is a positive link between democracy and peace. Second, as Cohen (1994) has noted, there may not be a necessary or sufficient link between democracy and peace. He uses the example of South America, where there has not been a strong tradition of democratic government, but where there has been a history of ‘peaceful’ inter-state relations. Even in cases where democracies have not fought each other, it is unclear if the democratic nature of the regime is either a necessary or sufficient factor when compared to the possible absence of issues that will provoke violent conflict or just the isolation of the states from each other. Russett has responded to the last of these doubts, and has argued that when the qualitative analysis is restricted to what he has called ‘politically relevant dyads’ the findings still endorse the democratic peace hypothesis. Third, there exist cases that might contradict the hypothesis, though in all of these there are doubts about either the quality of the democracy in question or whether the armed conflict under scrutiny deserves to be called a war. In 1974, Turkey, emerging from a period of military rule, invaded Cyprus. This was a divided island with an internationally recognized democratic government, albeit one in which the Turkish Cypriots did not participate. However, at the point of the Turkish invasion the government of the Republic of Cyprus had been overthrown in a military coup sponsored by the undemocratic regime in Athens. Although there was a quick return of the overthrown government it was the coup that triggered the Turkish invasion of the island. Also, Turkey had just emerged from a period of military rule, and therefore did not meet the criteria of democracy used by some analysts of an extended period of representative government. Also in the Eastern Mediterranean, Lebanon was attacked by Israel in 1948 and 1967, and Israel invaded the country in 1978 and 1982. The invasions, it could be argued, did not violate the democratic peace hypothesis because in 1978 and 1982 Lebanon had no effective government at all. Yet in 1948 Lebanon was not just a democratic state, but was proclaimed by some as an excellent example of how a multi-ethnic state could be democratic and stable. However, Russett (1993) has argued that in 1948 Israel could not be considered an established democracy (it had still to hold a democratic election) and in 1967 there were no fatalities in the limited number of Israeli−Lebanese clashes.

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Then there are unfriendly actions by one democratic state against another short of war. The US policy of undermining the Allende government in Chile between 1970 and 1973 might not be war, but it was hardly a peaceful act. Other cases from Latin America would include US sponsored interventions against the government of Guatemala in 1954 or the support provided to the contras in Nicaragua after 1981 (and especially after the 1984 elections in Nicaragua). Russett has examined these cases and notes that in all the examples where a democratic government was overthrown by US actions a less democratic government was installed in its place. However, he also argues that in all cases the US military did not engage directly in the fighting and that in Nicaragua, the US Congress had actually cut off funding for actions designed to overthrow the Sandinista regime, forcing government operations underground. When evidence emerged that the US government had continued to engage in secret funding, the so called Iran-Contra affair, it became a national scandal in the US that tarnished the record of the Reagan presidency. There are also debates about how too interpret the democratic peace data. One major disagreement is whether it can be explained by some inherent quality of democracies or whether it has more to do with relationships between them. Doyle seemed to believe the latter, whereas Rummel is often identified as an analyst who promotes the former explanation (see, for example, Rummel, 1994, 1997). Whereas Doyle emphasizes three factors as helping to explain the democratic peace phenomenon (public opinion, shared values and economic interdependence), Russett only identifies two as important: the nature of democratic norms and cultures and the presence of structural and institutional constraints. He is sceptical that interdependence and trade are crucial variables (Russett, 1993, Chapter 2). Another qualification of the hypothesis relates to its relevance in situations of intercommunal conflict. Although there seems to be a strong correlation between established democratic states and peaceful relations, this is not true of politics within divided societies that are making a difficult transition to democracy. The original formulation of the democratic peace theory was in terms of inter-state relations. However, in the 1990s, there were those, including members of the Bush and Clinton administration, who tried to extend the idea to civil wars (Russett, 1993; Snyder, 2000). This, however, is a much more controversial step, since the empirical evidence that seems strong in the case of inter-state relations is lacking in cases of intercommunal violence. In fact, there is a lot of evidence to suggest that the transition to democracy can trigger violent ethnic conflict, as happened in the former Yugoslavia and parts of the former USSR. The early 1990s was an era which witnessed both greater democratization and more cases of violent intercommunal struggles. As Snyder (2000, p.20) points out, this suggests a paradox because creating established democracies might produce a more peaceful world, but the very act of democratization might create the conditions for more violent ethnic conflict. Russett (1993, p.134) has pointed out that the solution to this problem does not lie in less democracy. Nonetheless, to ignore the real dangers in promoting democratization, ‘would be self-indulgent idealism’ (Snyder, 2000, p.21). We shall explore this further in Chapter 5. Here we should just

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note that one of Snyder’s suggestions is that the international community should tone down its liberal internationalist rhetoric in favour of a more ‘patient and sometimes indirect strategy’ (Snyder, 2000, p.43). One of the most interesting recent arguments related to the transformative impact of globalization on democracy is the one that claims that to conceptualize democracy just as something that happens within sovereign states is no longer adequate. Habermas (1997), for example, has called for a reformulation of Kant’s cosmopolitan ideas to move them away from its rather statist assumptions towards an order where the rights of ‘world citizens’ are institutionalized and where individuals can hold governments accountable for inappropriate behaviour at the global level. What Habermas (1997, p.149) wants is not a society of states, but a community of humankind, because human rights can only be guaranteed ‘through the cosmopolitan transformation of the state of nature among states into a legal order’. Perhaps the most influential writer to adopt this type of thinking is Held, who with a number of colleagues has explored this topic in depth and has concluded that we now need to invent and reform global and regional institutions in order to promote ‘cosmopolitan democracy’. This would extend democratic accountability to the global level through the reconstruction of global governance (see, for instance: Archibugi and Held, 1995; Held, 1995; Held et al., 1999; Held and McGrew, 2000). In all of this the European Union (EU) stands out as the best example of the liberal peace. Unlike the UN and other international organizations, only democracies can become members of the EU. The EU has now agreed a detailed set of norms to judge commitment to democracy in the so called Copenhagen criteria that are applied to all applicant states. It is also based on free trade principles. Indeed, a key early inspiration was the idea of a ‘common market’ with its vision of the free movement of goods, labour and capital within the EU area. Furthermore, as has been frequently noted, although inter-state rivalries in Europe caused two world wars in the last century, as well as numerous other conflicts before this, the idea of armed conflict between EU members today seems to be almost unimaginable. The organization has also helped to strengthen democratic regimes in countries such as Greece, Portugal, Spain and the new member states from Central and Eastern Europe. Apart from encouraging the development of democratic (peaceful?) governments within, the EU has also adopted a pro-human rights/democracy approach in its external relations (Vinas, 2004). Habermas, however, also notes that Kant’s claim about the peaceful nature of democracies is less convincing today because he was writing in an age that pre-dated nationalism, and this ideology has the capacity to make all types of regime bellicose. Western European democracies only became peaceful, he notes, after the ‘depletion of integrating nationalist energies’ caused by the Second World War. Many of the liberal internationalist writers of the nineteenth century believed that liberal principles of free trade and democracy were ushering in a new era of peace in Europe. Howard (1981) notes how at the start of the twentieth century it seemed to these liberals that the abolition of war was within reach. There had been very few

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major wars in Europe for nearly a hundred years after the defeat of Napoleon (with some notable exceptions in mid-century). Two significant peace conferences were held at The Hague in 1899 and 1907. An Inter-parliamentary Union was established. Peace organizations had proliferated at a noteworthy rate, and arbitration was emerging as an effective tool of international dispute settlement. But war did return, and although there are obvious differences between the Europe of 1914 and the Europe of the early twenty-first century (the extent of integration, the experiences of two world wars, the end of formal colonialism), it would be foolish to believe that war has been abolished for ever. Although the democratic peace hypothesis has been the dominant peace tradition of the past 15 years, its perceived failures to reconcile bitter enemies in Bosnia and Kosovo, and the disastrous US and British invasion of Iraq have given former advocates of the more interventionist version of this tradition cause for reflection. Rieff, for example, was a strong advocate of western interventions in the 1990s. Yet in his most recent book he now questions the effectiveness of ‘hard power’ in transforming situations of violent conflict. After returning from an Iraq under US occupation he concludes his own reassessment of failed ‘democratic dreams’ as follows. And I have carried home my doubts about the entire project of humanitarian intervention. Does this mean I am prepared to consistently oppose them? It does not. I still believe we should have sided with the Bosnians and moved heaven and earth to save the Rwandan Tutsis. But it does mean that I am no longer an interventionist, and, in an age where interventionism is the order of the day on the human rights left (Darfur) and the neoconservative right (Iraq), and now, perhaps, Iran, that means the future seems very bleak indeed … and growing bleaker by the day. (Rieff, 2005, p.254)

Or, as one anthropologist puts it, ‘if “new war” is the problem it is as yet far from clear that imposition of “liberal peace” is the answer’ (Richards, 2005, p.19). A more consistently sceptical approach to liberal internationalism can be found in the work of Chandler, who has moved on from a critical perspective on international intervention in Bosnia (Chandler, 2000a) to develop a more broad-ranging critique of human rights and intervention in contemporary world politics. He argues that the emphasis on human rights issues by western governments to justify interventions in on-going conflicts has less to do with a real concern for the victims of oppression and has more to do with opportunistic domestic considerations by policy makers within the intervening states. As a result humanitarian interventions are unlikely to be undertaken in a consistent and principled manner, do not empower local groups and lack a human-centred ethos (despite the rhetoric used by supporters of his strategy) because it is based on too negative a view of humanity. It is, he states, ‘a direct critique of traditional justifications for state-based political and civil rights, which assume that human beings are capable of transforming society and of governing themselves’ (Chandler, 2002, p.234). In what is probably an exaggerated argument, he states that the moral community constituted by the contemporary human rights discourse is ‘a fearful and restrictive one’, because it lacks a real belief in human

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nature and has failed to develop a positive vision of the future (Chandler, 2002, p.232). It often seems to be more like the old ‘white man’s burden’, where the aim is to ‘civilize’ indigenous societies rather than release the positive energy of the local actors. A potential weakness for the liberal approach when faced with intercommunal conflict is that liberal political philosophy has been reluctant to address the issue of nationalism and multi-culturalism, preferring to endorse the idea of the equal application of universal human rights rather than the development of ‘minority rights’. This is especially true of post-1945 liberal theory. In the nineteenth century and the early twentieth century, when nationalism could still be viewed as a progressive force, liberals such as Mill, Bentham and Woodrow Wilson were happy to endorse the idea of national self-determination for oppressed nations. After the Second World War there was a clear trend away from the idea of minority rights towards the protection of individual human rights, and this was especially visible at the UN (Ryan, 1990). Yet, as Kymlicka (1995, p.4) has pointed out, ‘it has become increasingly clear that minority rights cannot be subsumed under the category of human rights. Therefore, we need to supplement traditional human rights principles with a theory of minority rights’ (ibid., p.5). This issue has resulted in a reawakening of interest in ‘liberal nationalist’ thinking (Vincent, 1997). There are now attempts to address this liberal blindness to cultural difference. Kymlicka himself has developed a persuasive liberal theory approach to minority rights believing that in a world where political life has an ‘inescapably nationalist dimension’ respect for cultural difference can enhance individual freedom (Kymlicka, 1995, p.194). Many demands for such rights are consistent with liberal principles, but only if minority rights do not allow one group to dominate others or a group to oppress its own members. Walzer (1994) has also called for an approach to morality that is a mixture of thin universalism with thick communalism. The Marxist Tradition In trying to assess the impact of Marxist ideas on conflict transformation we shall concentrate on four key areas: the international solidarity of the working class; imperialism; militarism; and structural analysis of the global economy. In addition we shall examine the ambiguous attitude Marxists have towards violence, identify a hostility to ‘subjective’ approaches to conflict transformation and discuss the limitations of Marxist approaches to nationalism. For about 100 years class identity was one of the major alternative forms of identification to national identity. Within Marxism, there is a strong proclivity towards fraternity between workers, whatever their ethnic or national identity. There is a corresponding downplaying of the significance of national or ethnic identity as a form of ‘false consciousness’. This provides the basis for not just transnationalism in the arena of world politics, but also for creating cross-cutting cleavages in divided societies. Here class identity offers a way of transcending ethnic antagonisms by

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creating a sense of common identity across the communal divide. Just as the working class should have no interest or stake in wars between capitalist powers, they should not be fighting for an ‘ethnic identity’ in a state that exploits workers whatever their culture. The best known practical manifestations of this idea of proletarian internationalism were the First International, the Second International (most notably its ‘war on war’ stance before 1914), and the International Brigade that fought in the Spanish Civil War against Franco (see, for instance: Anderson, 2002; Nimitz, 2002). This idea has suffered many hammer blows in the twentieth century, from the failure to stop the First World War to the fracturing of the international communist movement with the Sino-Soviet conflict in the 1960s. Even in the battle against Franco Marxists could not maintain a united front and turned on each other, a battle described by George Orwell (1966) in his Homage to Catalonia, first published in 1938. There is little in Marx and Engels about international politics and war and peace. As already noted, the mid to late nineteenth century was an era of relative peace in Europe. Liberals took this as an endorsement of their ideas that capitalism was a peaceful system. It was also, however, an era of European colonialism, which offended many progressive writers in Europe. One of these, the liberal writer Hobson (1988a, 1988b), condemned the practices of colonialism in a book entitled Imperialism: A Study, published at the start of the twentieth century. In it he called on rich western states to abandon their overseas adventures and to redirect surplus capital to social reform at home. The book had a strong impact on Lenin, who reworked the concept to make it an inevitable outcome of capitalist competition. According to the analysis of Lenin (later supplemented by work by Bukharin) advanced capitalism was not going to usher in an era of peace and prosperity. Rather, ‘national accumulations of surplus capital were regarded as the chief cause of the demise of a relatively peaceful international system’ (Linklater, 2001, p.138). Since then Marxist efforts to describe the foreign policies of western capitalist states as ‘imperialist’ has become something like a reflex action. This is not just true for the traditional European colonizers, and there have also been some significant studies that have attempted to explain US foreign policy in this light as well (see, for instance: Burbach and Tarbell, 2004, Chapter 2; Kiernan, 2005). In Marxist analysis of war and peace ‘militarist’ tends to come a close second to ‘imperialist’ as a descriptor of capitalist societies. The concept of militarism emerged in the middle of the nineteenth century, when it was picked up by Catholic Central Europe as a way of attacking Protestant Prussia (Berghahn, 1981). One of the first Marxist writers to subject the idea to systematic analysis was Liebknecht in his 1907 work Militarism and Anti-Militarism. The author regarded militarism as a childish world view and pointed out how it could develop a momentum of its own. This was a slightly different emphasis from the one found in Engels, who had believed that militarism would sow the seeds of its own destruction, since training the working class in war fighting would make them more effective revolutionaries when the revolution came. This is exactly what happened in Russia in 1917, as many soldiers,

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returning from the front hungry and disillusioned, participated in the February and October revolutions that overthrew the tsarist regime. After 1945 militarism, like imperialism, became a concept that has been applied most frequently to US foreign policy by a number of analysts of the left. It was also, of course, used by President Eisenhower in his 1961 farewell address to the American people. Here he took the opportunity to warn of the power of the military industrial complex in words that still carry authority today. The outgoing President said that in ‘the councils of government we must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the military industrial complex’. He went on to state that the ‘potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists and will persist’ (the full text of the speech is available at coursesa. matrix.msu.edu/hst306/documents/indust.html). In studies by writers such as Mills (1958/1984, 1959) and Chomsky (see, for example, 1991, 1994, 2001) the concept has been extended beyond the Pentagon and big business to also include Congress and the mainstream media in the US. One criticism of militarist theories of foreign policy is that they are too internalist. Giddens, for example, has argued that there are also external threats to the state that can partly explain why states develop large military forces. He wants to argue that ‘industrial capital provided the means for the industrialization of war, but the activities and involvements of nation-states are at the origin of the phenomenon’ (Giddens, 1985, p.226). Structural analysis, most notably world systems theory, is a view of international politics that dates back to 1974, when Wallerstein published his influential ‘The rise and future demise of the world capitalist system’ in Comparative Studies in Society and History. Of course, Wallerstein can be viewed as part of a larger group of academics who proposed a world systems approach was needed to understand global politics. These would include Andre Gunder Frank, Samir Amin and Giovanni Arrighi, all of whom had worked in either Africa or Latin America. Although agreeing on some general principles there were significant disagreements within this approach (Frank, 2000). The reason for choosing Wallerstein is that he is the one usually credited with creating a new paradigm for the study of international politics (Banks, 1985). Wallerstein had been a student at Columbia, where he was influenced by C. Wright Mills, and also studied in Paris, where he was exposed to structuralist thought and to the Annals group of historians and social scientists (Goldfrank, 2000, p.155). Indeed, the research centre that Wallerstein founded at Binghamton is called the Fernand Braudel Center, named after the French historian famous for his insistence that academic analysis be based on la longue durée. For a decade he became an African scholar researching and teaching colonialism, but by the early 1970s his work had developed into an analysis of the capitalist world economy. Here he put forward a major new paradigm for the study of international politics based on a structuralist analysis of centre/periphery/semi-periphery relations. Wallerstein still uses traditional Marxist ideas such as class struggle, capital accumulation, commodification, unequal exchange and the division of labour, but he applies them on a global level. Wallerstein rejected the idea that any state could decouple itself

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effectively from this global system − there could be no islands of socialism in the sea of capitalism. The implication of this for transformation was clear enough – it had to occur at the level of the system. There are today no socialist systems in the world-economy any more than there are feudal systems because there is only one world system. It is a world-economy and it is by definition capitalist in form. Socialism involves the creation of a new kind of world-system, neither a redistributive world empire nor a capitalist world-economy but a socialist world government …. It will be the outcome of a long struggle in forms that may be familiar and perhaps in very new forms, that will take place in all the areas of he world economy. (Wallerstein, 1974, p.317, italics in original)

For Wallerstein there is no doubt this systemic transformation will occur, and the method would be the dialectic. Through the resolution of contradictions in the present system we can move to a new type of global totality named a socialist world government, and Wallerstein believes we are now in a transition to socialism. Though he is vague on when this is likely to be completed (Goldfrank, 2000, p.168), he does regard the US as a hegemonic power in decline (Wallerstein, 2002). The hope is that the anti-systemic movements created by capitalism will eventually become too powerful and will overthrow capitalism (Arrighi, Hopkins and Wallerstein, 1989). Marxists have also exhibited an ambiguous attitude to violence. On the one hand, the vast majority are willing to endorse violent revolution as the only mechanism of positive social transformation. On the other hand, there is no glorification of violence per se, and it remains a necessary mechanism to lead us to a communist society. Indeed, maybe one of the attractions of Marxism is its apparent hard-headed realism about the need to confront the capitalists with armed force to eject them from power. Was it Trotsky who once said we shall not enter the kingdom of socialism wearing white gloves and walking on a polished floor? However, once capitalism is forced out there is the promise of a happy ending, where large scale inter-group violence will disappear as class conflicts come to an end. The whole point of endorsing certain types of violence is that it is the only way to bring about the structural changes required to end violence. Because of the emphasis on structural factors, Marxists tend to be very suspicious of subjective approaches to conflict. An attack on subjectivism comes from the socialist activist in Northern Ireland, Eamonn McCann. In response to the holding of a conference called ‘Beyond Hate’ in Derry in 1992 he objected to the implication of the title for the people of his home town. He writes: The title Beyond Hate implies that the conflict in the north – and, by extension, presumably all communal or ethnic conflicts – is caused by hate; that those involved are morally or spiritually or psychologically damaged …. The priority in the search for a solution, it follows, lies in finding a way of transcending or extirpating or somehow otherwise getting beyond this hatred … rather than trying to change the social and political circumstances surrounding and underlying it. (McCann, 1999, p.92)

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Marxists do share one characteristic with liberals, which is their tendency to underestimate the force of nationalism. Whenever they did try to address the issue of nationalism it often led to unsatisfactory ‘solutions’ such as Lenin’s famous idea that nations did have the inalienable right to self-determination but that Marxists attitudes to this right would be decided on a case-by-case basis. In practice this meant that the ‘inalienable right’ actually became an ‘inexpressible’ right (Nairn, 1997, p.39). The irony, of course, was that Gorbachev, a good Marxist who sometimes gave the impression of never fully understanding the power of nationalist resentments in the Soviet Union, was brought down by a resurgence of nationalism after the introduction of his political and economic reforms of the late 1980s. The comprehensive failures of ‘Marxist’ regimes in a wide range of geographic and cultural settings must be a serious blow to the credibility of this tradition. The combination of moral collapse and economic failure was so devastating that it is difficult to imagine any major renaissance in Marxist thinking in the immediate future. Yet it is not a tradition that can be dismissed completely. Elements of Marxist thinking – solidarity of the poorer classes, imperialism, militarism, structuralism − continue to inspire researchers and activists. Doyle (1997, pp.320−321) identifies several strengths of this approach to war and peace thinking: the emphasis on socioeconomic factors and the inequality of world society; the dynamic character of Marxist analysis; and a ‘fascinating and original’ conception of world politics. For Doyle, despite all the failures and drawbacks, it still helps to inform us about how the world works and raises our awareness about the gross inequalities of wealth and power in the contemporary world. In particular it reminds us that free trade does not always result in mutual benefit, and that capitalism has also been associated with exploitation and marginalization. The Feminist Tradition Feminism has presented many challenges to what can be viewed as male-dominated peace and conflict research. Boulding (1995) points out that women’s movements have ‘transformative potential’ in several areas: from war to peace; from inequality to equality; from poverty to development; and from environmental destruction to protection of the earth. The need to develop a distinct feminist approach to these sorts of peace issues reflects a dissatisfaction with other traditions in addressing the concerns of women and a recognition that women have something distinctive and valuable to bring to debates about these issues. So Boulding argues that in all of the four areas just discussed there are not just women’s groups working towards general social transformation. Nonetheless, ‘the impact from all-women’s organizations remains unique’ (Boulding, 1995, p.188). In similar vein, Jahan (2000, p.1) has developed a feminist vision of transformative politics, arguing that ‘the disillusionment of the women’s movements with the three great ideologies of our time to live up to their promises has led the movement to articulate its own vision of the politics of transformation’. For Jahan this vision

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is based on values (power as liberation, peace and coexistence, diversity, etc.), processes (participation, empowerment, inclusive, etc.) and institutions (egalitarian, accountable and responsive). As in other academic areas, researchers in this tradition have challenged both the invisibilization of women in historical and social analysis and have called for a gendered analysis of social problems, including the causes and consequences of violence. Such gendered analysis has resulted in significant studies of violent conflict that have pointed out, inter alia, the link between masculinity and violence and the impact of contemporary armed conflicts on women. Works that make women visible have shown how they are exploited and marginalized in contemporary politics (see, for example, Enloe, 1990, 1993a, 2000, 2004). Such studies have also challenged accepted ideas of successful resolution and transformation by showing how, even after violent conflicts are ended, the status of women might remain the same or might even get worse. Of course, one should avoid generalizations about women and war. As Reimann points out, war assisted the development of women’s rights. She states: Most women are likely to experience intra-state conflict in a rather ambiguous way …. Hence, while discussing the management of the process of women’s agency in violent conflict. one must perpetually keep in mind the uneasy tension between vulnerability and victimhood on the one hand, and empowerment and emancipation on the other, always resisting the impulse to prioritise the one over the other. (Reimann, undated, p.18)

There is some truth here, and it has been pointed out that the first Intifada helped to empower women as they joined demonstrations and participated in community efforts. On the other hand, the Oslo ‘peace’, it is claimed, has contributed to a loss of momentum in the Israeli feminist movement and to the ‘rejuvenation of a patriarchal social order’ in Palestine (Plonski, 2005, p.404). However, this author would remain rather sceptical about the empowering effects of many violent conflicts on women, especially if after the wars, patriarchal structures remain in place. Indeed, it might be that the militarization that accompanies war strengthens patriarchy. Francis (2006, p.11) points out that although women play a leading role in many conflict transformation activities, in ‘post-war situations, those who have played an important role in the search for a peaceful solution to conflict or who have stepped into new roles during a war are returned to the margins once an apparent peace has been secured’. So for Francis, a significant aspect of sustainable transformation work is the participation of women from all levels of society, and she notes with approval a letter sent to the UN Secretary-General from International Alert’s ‘Women Building Peace’ campaign (now renamed the Gender and Peacebuilding Programme) asking that the international community lives up to its commitments to: involve more women in peace negotiations as decision-makers; make the needs of women central to reconstruction and reconciliation work; strengthen the protection and representation of refugees and other displaced women; end the impunity for war crimes against women; and give women’s organizations resources and support in order that they can carry out their work. Francis (2006, p.16) also calls on organizations involved

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in conflict transformation work to follow a set of principles that require them to: respect gender identities; implement equal opportunities policies; and embody the ‘power with and for approach’. Fischer (undated, p.16) makes the same point in the same volume, when she writes that a ‘fundamental problem is that normally women are only involved peripherally in decisions concerning reconstruction at the end of hostilities and in general aid programmes do not address their specific needs’. Furthermore, she claims, ‘often, women also have no opportunity to express their views’. Another point made by Fischer is that the end of violent conflict may lead to greater domestic abuse of women as ex-combatants return home. This is surely something that the transformation approach needs to address. As already noted, involving more women in key decision making might not have a major transformative effect if patriarchal structures are left intact. Mazurana and Mckay (2001, p.137) are surely correct to argue that ‘equal representation in legislature or parliament without considerable transformation in social relations is impossible’. Galtung (1996, p.30) has defined patriarchy as an ‘institutionalization of male dominance in vertical structures, with very high correlations between position and gender, legitimized by the culture (e.g., in religion and language), often coming out as direct violence with males as subjects and females as objects’. It ‘combines direct, structural and cultural violence in a vicious triangle’ (ibid.). Boulding (1995, pp.190−191) describes the effects of patriarchy in the following way: … the institutions of society are stacked against women. There are strong expectations of subservient behavior on the part of women. These are reinforced by the way girls are brought up in the household of their children, by the teachings of church and school, by continuing inequality under the law and a lack of representation in government, by media portrayal of women as consumer queens, and by the lack of economic opportunities and appropriate tools in the labor force.

Patriarchal societies, then, restrict women’s access to resources and exclude them from full public participation through a sexual division of labour and by restricting economic independence. In such a system the women most likely to succeed are the ones who reflect the patriarchal values – hence the joke about Margaret Thatcher being the only man in the Cabinet. So ‘bringing women in’ is an important aspect of peacebuilding and transformation (Marshall, 2000). However, we also need to be careful about what sort of society they are being brought in to. Many feminist writers are now rejecting the idea of an inherent link between ‘women’s nature’ and peace, believing that this simply reinforces male stereotypes of women. The aim has to be to break the structures in society that allocate gender roles and ensure the continuation of direct, structural and cultural violence against women. So, Strange (1989, p.123) claims: Women are not inherently non-violent: they are traditionally oppressed, and as an oppressed group, have often turned their anger and violence upon themselves …. Women are not ‘Earth Mothers’ who will save the planet from the deadly games of the boys – this

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Frequently, this patriarchal structure, it has been argued, also ensures a male dominance in the study of politics. Writing about the study of International Relations, for example, Youngs (2004, p.76) has claimed that such a dominance has helped ‘perpetuate a distorted and partial world view that reflects the disproportionate power of control and influence that men hold, rather than the full social reality of the lives of women, children and men’. In response, Youngs calls for feminist researchers to be both deconstructive and reconstructive. As she acknowledges, this is something that has already started, and a number of interesting studies of world affairs have been produced that challenge masculine theories and propose new approaches (see, for instance: Grant and Newland, 1991; Peterson, 1992; Tickner, 1992; Enloe, 1993a; Steans, 1997; Jabri and O’Gorman, 1999; Sylvester, 2001). In peace and conflict research there have also been contributions from a feminist perspective (see, for instance: Brock-Utne, 1985; Perrigo, 1991; O’Connell, 1993; Reardon, 1993; Bunch and Carillo, 1998). Yuval-Davis (1997) has also produced an analysis of gender and nation, where in, a sophisticated study of this topic, she supports the idea of ‘transversal politics’ as an alternative to ‘identity politics’. In the former a ‘perceived unity and homogeneity are replaced by dialogues which give recognition to the specific positionings of those who participate in them’ (YuvalDavis, 1997, p.131). Subjecting globalization to gendered analysis, for example, raises questions about inequalities between men and women in the global capitalist economy, the feminization of poverty, and human trafficking (Youngs, 2004). Also of interest is the exploration of the link between masculinity and destructive violence. During the cold war, a lot of the work here was on nuclear weapons and their relationship to masculinity. Some have even tried to locate the issue of nuclear weapons in a more general debate about the relationship between masculinity and destructive science. One of the most entertaining studies in this genre is the work of Easley (1983) on the ‘fathering of nuclear weapons’. Why was the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima called ‘Little Boy’? Why did the first nuclear weapon exploded at Bikini Atoll have a picture of Rita Hayworth on it? In fact, the link between masculine science and destruction was made nearly two centuries ago by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley in Frankenstein, Or, the Modern Prometheus (1818). She was, of course, the daughter of one of the first ever feminist writers, Mary Wollstonecraft. The American novelist Kurt Vonnegut (1991, p.119) once stated that he would hang a picture of Boris Karloff all over MIT to remind the scientists there that ‘humanity now cowers in muted dread, expecting to be killed sooner or later by Monsters of Frankenstein’. Also note the following from Martin Amis (1987, p.10): In fact there is a resilient theme of infantilism throughout the history of nuclear management. Trinity, the first bomb (nicknamed ‘the Gadget’) was winched up into position on a contraption known as the ‘cradle’; during the countdown the Los Alamos radio station

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broadcast a lullaby, Tchaikovsky’s ‘Serenade for Strings’; scientists speculated whether the Gadget was going to be a ‘girl’ (i.e. a dud) or a ‘boy’ (i.e. a device that might obliterate New Mexico) …. ‘It’s a boy!’ pronounced Edward Teller, the ‘father’ of the H-bomb, when ‘Mike’ (‘my baby’) was detonated over Bikini Atoll in 1952.

Dixon (1987, p.290) has wondered if ‘one can imagine a Mrs Teller being described as Mother of the H-Bomb’? Surely not, he answers. Of particular concern to feminists when it comes to transformation is to ensure that the new society does not replicate the patriarchal structures of the old one. For some this is what has happened in cases such as Namibia and South Africa. Sometimes, indeed, the new society appears even more patriarchal than the one it replaces. Enloe has noted that in Central and Eastern Europe the percentage of women in senior political positions dropped quite dramatically after the collapse of communism. In Poland women in parliament fell from 20.2 per cent to 13.5 per cent; in the Hungarian parliament the percentage dropped from 26.6 to 7.2. In the Romanian Parliament it fell from 34.4 per cent to 5.5 per cent (Enloe, 1993b, p.23). In Bosnia and Herzegovina the participation of women in politics fell after the collapse of communism, and Walsh (2000) has noted that although the representation of women has started to improve in some of the legislatures in Bosnia’s complex political structure, this is not the case for executive positions. In 2000, there were no women in executive positions in the BiH Council of Ministers nor were there any women ministers in the Federation or Republika Srpska. So understanding the gendered aspects of peacebuilding strategies is important. Demobilization, for example, can compromise the needs of women if after the end of a conflict they are expected to resume previous subjugated roles. There is also the issue of the needs of women combatants or women who played ancillary roles in armed groups and are not included in internationally financed disarmament and rehabilitation programmes (Farr, 2002). Or truth and reconciliation processes may not address the needs of all women. Hayner (2003, p.77) has argued that many truth and reconciliation commissions do not adequately address the issue of sexual abuse and other forms of maltreatment of women. Sometimes rape seems to be regarded as a secondary or ‘added’ issue (Hayner, 2003, p.78). In the South African case this is confirmed by Graybill (2002). She points out although some attention was paid to the specific concerns of women, the way the Commission interpreted its mandate ‘resulted in a blindness to the types of abuses predominantly experienced by women, who were clearly apartheid’s major economic victims’ (Graybill, 2002, p.108). Another neglected area of gender-based violence is the issue of reparations. Palmary (2006, p.54) points out that: reparations programmes have seldom accounted for the consequences of violence against women that are not directly linked to the specific harm such as the stigma of rape or the inability to remarry − a significant source of economic security for women in many contexts.

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There is, however, some evidence that feminist perspectives calling for gendered analysis of violence and action to challenge the invisibilization of women is having an impact. The United Nations Mission in the Democratic Republic of Congo (MONUC), for example, has a Gender Office which is working to: increase gender awareness in MONUC; ‘mainstream’ women into the political and legislative process; subject data collection and analysis to ‘gender disaggregation’; capacity building; and monitoring and evaluation (www.monuc.org/Gender). However, it is also vital that activities by the UN do nothing to add to the misery of women, and there have been too many reports in recent years of sexual abuse of women (and girls) by UN personnel in deployments as diverse as Cambodia, Bosnia and the Democratic Republic of Congo. Despite these high profile setbacks there has been a general trend at the UN to gender political discourse, and this would include the UN Convention on the Rights of Women and the Beijing Declaration and Platform for Action (see, for example, Chen, 1996; Mckay and Mazurana, 2001). It also manifests itself, from 2000 onwards, in the work of the UN on Women, Peace and Security, which has resulted in reports by the Secretary-General on women and security (see, for example, UN Document A/S-23/10/Rev.1) and calls for more action to promote greater women’s participation in peacebuilding and decision making levels in the area of peace and conflict issues (see, for example, Security Council Resolution 1325). In its concluding paragraph (Par. 68) it states that ‘we can no longer afford to minimize or ignore the contributions of women and girls to all stages of conflict resolution, peacemaking, peacebuilding, peacekeeping and the reconstruction process’. Elsewhere advances have been made in international law, most notably with the identification of rape as a war crime in its own right. In fact, as Enloe (2001) has noted, the study of gender issues has become an important part of political research and ‘almost no Political Science department worth its salt doesn’t have somebody doing gender research and/or gender teaching’. However, Enloe also warns about the dangers of tokenism passing for real academic commitment. Conclusion In this chapter we have attempted to show the richness of the concept of transformation by locating the idea within four distinct peace traditions. Each has a very different perspective on how to create a more peaceful world, though creative dialogue between these traditions should not be ruled out. Yet even where the traditions agree on a problem, they may differ fundamentally about the solution. All traditions have addressed the problem of militarization, for example. Apart from playing a central role in Marxist analysis, it is also discussed in the preliminary articles of Kant’s Perpetual Peace and in feminist analyses of masculinity and violence. But they have different approaches to demilitarization. Many liberals tend to believe that militaristic values are incompatible with free trade capitalism, while Marxists claim it is inherent in such a system and will only disappear when capitalism is

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overthrown. On the other hand, Enloe (1993b, p.25) warns that ‘like militarization, demilitarization is sexualized’. Or to take another example, liberals and Marxists will have very different attitudes to the roles played by civil society in terms of supporting or subverting a liberal-democratic status quo (Van Rooy, 1998b). As this is meant to be an analysis of intercommunal conflict, it is also worth noting that all of the traditions discussed here have an ambiguous relationship to the ideology of nationalism. Hobsbawm (1990), for example, has explored the evolution of nationalism as an idea that at different times has been viewed as liberal, conservative and socialist. Nationalism, in some instances, has had a close relationship with religion – Anderson (1983), in his influential study of nationalism, has even viewed it as a secular substitute for religious feelings. Nationalist struggle has also been viewed by different writers at different times as an agent for promoting freedom, class struggle (through anti-imperial wars of national liberation) and the empowerment of women (who can gain a new status through their involvement in fighting for the nationalist cause). On the other hand, all of these three traditions also challenge the attempt by nationalists to place the ‘nation’ at the centre of political analysis instead of the individual, class or gender. Peace traditions also act as sources of inspiration for critical social movements. These can break down ethnic conflict formations by emphasizing contacts and action across the communal divide inspired by ideologies that might de-emphasize cultural difference. Practical examples might include human rights work, workers rights, the status and role of women, and inter-faith work. In Northern Ireland, for example, it has been possible to create cross-community groups of women to address concerns of mutual interest. These include: the Women’s Coalition, which was able to get two women elected to the devolved Assembly in 1998; Women Together; Women’s Aid; the Women’s Education Project; and the Northern Ireland Women’s Rights Association (McWilliams, 1991). In the case of Israel/Palestine, Sharoni (1994) has explored the history of the relationship between women from both communities under three headings: dialogue groups, peace conferences and collaborative projects and solidarity initiatives. However, she also notes how fragile these links can be and expresses concern that one of the common themes for discussion is motherhood, which some feminists object to because it could reflect patriarchal values and reinforces male stereotypes of women. Marshall (2000, p.29 n.15) identifies a number of women’s groups working across the intercommunal divide in Israel/Palestine, including Bat Shalom, the Jerusalem Link and The Bridge: Jewish and Arab Women for Peace in the Middle East. In the Sri Lankan case Saravanamuttu (1998, pp.115−116) has noted how with the advent of intercommunal violence ‘the role of women in society was transformed accordingly’ to focus on issues such as internal displacement, involuntary disappearances and extra-judicial killings and the treatment of women detainees. To conclude we can summarize the distinctive voice within each peace tradition. Religious approaches tend to identify the problem of unpeaceful relations as a consequence of a lack of spirituality and promote actor centred approaches as the solution. In Christianity this results in a special emphasis on forgiveness and

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transformation, but other concepts may be more important in non-Christian cultures. For liberals, the key issues are related to the nature of the political and economic systems, and the route to transformation is via democratization and the free market; though some varieties of liberalism would emphasize a more interventionist, welfare liberalism. Marxism is in many ways has the clearest set of prescriptions for transformation that involves attacking capitalism and promoting socialist revolution. This, does not mean, however, that Marxists are at one on how to do this. In fact they are a notoriously querulous bunch. Finally, feminism might want to damn all the other traditions for their patriarchal assumptions and works towards the empowerment of women in a non-patriarchal setting. As already noted, liberalism is probably the dominant peace tradition in the contemporary world, at least at the policy level. Yet the weaknesses of liberalism become apparent when we introduce some perspectives from the other traditions discussed in this chapter. Marxists can point to the exploitative nature of the free market and the shallow impact of human and political rights if they are not matched by an end to economic exploitation. Feminists can challenge the masculine nature of much of the liberal cannon, can show how liberal revolutions do not always bring unambiguous progress for women, and can worry if equality within a patriarchal structure is a satisfactory goal to aim for. A major concern in the ‘new’ Iraq is that ‘democratization’ is bringing to power a regime that will try to repress and marginalize women. Like Marxists they can also point to the limitations of the free market and the way it can lead to the impoverishment of women. This has happened in Developing World countries through IMF structural adjustment policies and in the Developed World by the adoption of laissez-faire policies that result in the ‘feminisation of poverty’. Religious approaches can challenge the superficial optimism found in liberal thought about human reason and progress (see, for example: Niebuhr, 1986). Even many liberals have doubted if this creed is capable of inspiring people to struggle to transform societies. In an interesting analysis of the US Civil Rights Movement, for example, Chappell has argued that its growing power in post-war America was due not to the successes of liberalism, but its failures to respond in a satisfactory way to the evils of segregation in the Southern states. The activists in the deep South were not inspired by liberal politics, which had been characterized by caution, selfdoubt and political expediency, ‘but from their prophetic tradition which led to a deep faith that God was on their side’. Indeed, Chappell (2004, p.18), goes as far as to talk about the liberal’s ‘pulpit envy’ of the way that religious leaders could mobilize their congregations for action. So, one of the great paradoxes of the civil rights movement in the US is that activists ‘drew from illiberal sources to supply the determination that liberals lacked, but needed, to achieve the greatest post-Wold War II victory of American liberalism’ (Chappell, 2004, p.179). It could also be pointed out that the main split in the movement was not between believers in God and liberal rationalist, but between the Christian (Martin Luther King, Jr) and Muslim (Malcolm X) prophetic traditions.

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In the second half of the book we shall subject some of these transformation strategies to critical analysis in the context of intercommunal violence. The existence of such diverse traditions does threaten to disrupt transformation work because in any society where there are such divergent perspectives it will be hard to agree on common goals and methods. Conflicts are likely to result from this clash of values. On the other hand, if open dialogue between these groups is possible, it might result in interesting combinations of transformative ideas. We have just noted how liberal and Christian traditions combined in the US civil rights movement. In parts of Latin America the unlikely dialogue between Marxists and Christians gave rise to Liberation Theology, though this was unable to retain the support of the Catholic Church’s hierarchy. Habermas’s critical theory approach can be viewed as a synthesis of liberal and Marxists approaches to social theory (Pusey, 1987, pp.114−115). Indeed, it might be the case that all of the most interesting transformative ideas arise from attempts to transcend the narrow perspectives of any single tradition of thought.

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Chapter 3

Negative Transformations I don’t know if anyone really knows war until it lives inside of them. A person can come in and see the war, fear the war, be scared of the violence – but their life, their very being, is not determined by the war … I know everyone has suffered a loss in this war: a family member killed, a loved one captured and never heard from again. But it goes much deeper than this, to the very heart of the country, to my very heart. (Mozambican women quoted in Nordstrom 1997, 7) The war is a seed, then a seedling and then a plant growing in each of us. (Drakulic, 1993, p.44)

It is, of course, a truism that violent intercommunal conflict results in polarization. However, it is not just that ‘violence breeds more violence’, though this is almost without exception the case. Here one must understand the profound impact of violence, which, unlike other forms of conflict, will always be felt as a violation. Once violence is used an important boundary will have been crossed, and this will promote strong reactions. Indeed, the experience of violent conflict triggers a spectrum of changes, some obvious others more subtle, in both individuals and communities. Some of these are distortions of perception and attitudes in the minds of the actors, others are structural changes related to the broader economic, social and political environment. They constitute, for want of a better term, negative transformations because they tend to fuel destructive behaviour. Frykman (1997), for example, has noted how ‘the lived experience of fear, loss and destruction in war may be seen as an unintended, yet extremely efficient kind of “transformation experience”’. A better understanding of these negative transformations should provide some guidance as to what needs to be changed in the post-violence stage of conflict. We are becoming more aware from experiences in societies coming out of violent intercommunal conflict that signing cease-fire agreements or peace treaties can have only a small impact on what is happening on the ground. Indeed, Nordstrom (2004, p.144) has noted that ‘when a war ends, it makes less difference than one might think’. This is because ‘the habits of war die hard’ (141). This is one reason why there has been a growth in demand for peacebuilding work, as discussed in Chapter 1. However, in order to understand where to focus effective peacebuilding work we also need to understand what happens to communities and individuals caught up in violent conflict. The negative transformations provide clues about the potential for positive transformations. This is what we will attempt in this chapter. First we shall examine the literature on the dynamics of violent conflict. Then we shall draw on this literature to produce a list of negative transformations at different

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levels: structural, inter-cultural and personal. Finally, the implications of negative transformation for positive conflict transformation will be discussed. It will be claimed that measures taken to respond to these negative transformations should provide signposts to positive conflict transformation and the creation of peaceful relations in the future that go beyond a return to the status quo ante. Analysing the Impact of Violence on Inter-Communal Relations As already noted, in order to create stable and self-sustaining peace processes it is necessary to understand what happens to individuals and societies during violent conflict. Galtung (1996) has claimed that conflict can produce both positive and negative ‘conflict energy’. During violent conflict the negative energy can become overwhelming and we shall argue here that it is channelled through a number of destructive processes that then need to be addressed during the post-violent peacebuilding stage. We are fortunate in that there have been a number of important studies of the impact of violent conflict on divided societies. These include works by journalists, anthropologists, sociologists and peace and conflict researchers. Some of the best of these are from people who have been ‘stepping up close to the fighting rather than observing from afar’ (Richards, 2005, p.11). These studies from war zones allow us to develop and deepen insights from conflict theorists who have started the difficult task of organizing case study material into theories of conflict dynamics. Pruitt and Fry (1990) have identified five transformations associated with conflict escalation: from light to heavy, from doing well to hurting the other, from small to large issues, from specific to general issues and from few to many actors. Mitchell (1981) has contributed to a better understanding of the psychological dimensions of conflict and perceptions during conflict, identifying a number of significant processes. These include: selective perception, group identification, dehumanization, stereotyping, tunnel vision and polarization. He writes that: While the actual content of many of the images varies from conflict to conflict as details of issues, parties and circumstances alter, nevertheless the structure of many of the images remains sufficiently similar to justify our original decision to refer to such phenomena as conflict attitudes. This point is reinforced by the frequency with which such images and perceptions occur in conflicts. Common patterns of self- and enemy − images recur time and again … (Mitchell, 1981, p.119 emphasis in original)

Deutsch (1973) has also explored the destructive processes associated with the escalation phase of conflict. In this study we shall draw on this literature to identify eight distinct but interrelated destructive processes. These will be organized to show how these processes can permeate an inter-communal conflict at different levels: structural, inter-cultural and individual. Of course, these divisions are somewhat arbitrary and the effects of each process might be felt at all levels. Militarization, for example,

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is clearly rooted in changes to structures, cultures and individuals. In this chapter it is hesitantly classified as a ‘structural’ issue because in intercommunal conflict it is often based on a demand for specialists in violence that arises out of a strong sense of fear and insecurity. This, in turn, is related to political and economic structures that cannot meet the safety needs of certain groups. But this should not be taken to mean that it does not have effects on, and draw its strength from, other levels as well. Similarly, ‘the enemy image’ also has an impact at all levels, but it is considered as an inter-cultural phenomenon because recent research would tend to regard it as a factor related to inter-group behaviour rather than to some personality deficiency (see Pickering, 2001). As Tajfel (1986b, p.443) has noted, many types of social behaviour can only be understood in the context of inter-group behaviour for a ‘group and its membership can be positively or negatively evaluated only through inter-group comparisons’. This point is reinforced in Horowitz’s influential study of ethnic conflict. He writes: Without question, there are certain distinctively cultural elements at work in intergroup psychology. Striking parallels in the idiom and behaviour of groups far apart in geography, social structure, and emotional life, and sharing only commonality of interethnic situation, indicate some considerable degree of independence of group processes from individual processes. (Horowitz, 1985, p.184)

Structural Changes Militarization When violent conflict erupts it will stimulate a greater demand for specialists in violence. For if communities feel themselves under attack, and especially when the feel they cannot rely on state agencies to protect them, they will turn to groups who can offer them security and can exact revenge on the other side for the harm inflicted. As at least 80 per cent of the casualties in modern violent intercommunal conflicts are civilians, this sense of insecurity is probably very well-founded. An important contributor to the literature on this topic is Laswell, who, against the background of US militarization in the middle of the last century, introduced the idea of the garrison state or even the garrison-prison state, which emerged because of the perpetual preparation for war. ‘Given the near universal expectation of violence,’ he claimed, ‘there is no effective opposition to “defense”’ (Laswell, 1997, pp.117−118). In 1950, in words that still echo today, he warned: The internal consequences of militarization are gradual and far-reaching …. In the name of security the soldier is permitted to impose restrictions upon the free flow of information and comment. The policeman is authorized to look into the loyalty of government employees, and of ever enlarging circles of persons who might under any conceivable set of circumstances prove dangerous to the state. Legal sanctions designed to protect the individual against official interference come to be more honoured in the breach than in the observance. Public opinion becomes less well informed and less respected. Political

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The Transformation of Violent Intercommunal Conflict parties decline as instruments of public control. Legislatures and courts decline in relation to the executive arm of government, elections degenerate into plebiscites, local initiative subsides, and civilian agencies give way in effective power to the organs of the military and the police. (Laswell, 1997, p.118)

Laswell was interested in inter-state sources of insecurity, but it seems reasonable to adapt his insights to the study of ethnic conflict and to invoke the idea of the ‘garrison community’ (Ryan, 1995, p.79). For many who live in situations of extreme insecurity where inter-communal violence has already broken out, the militarization of the state and/or communities might appear to be both sensible and comforting. Security is, after all, one of the most compelling of human needs. Often the demand for protection – for militarization – will come from within a community under threat and so it would be quite wrong to see militarists as people who impose themselves on a community against its wishes. This community demand happened in Northern Ireland, where in response to attacks from the security forces of a hostile state and mobs who were burning families out of homes, some nationalists called on the IRA to protect them. This created a feeling that the interests of the paramilitaries and the community were the same, but this may have been an illusion. For as O’Doherty (1998, p.156) has pointed out, the ‘trouble with guns is that there is such a limited number of things you can do with them’. Although one might be able to understand why communities tolerate or support militarization, O’Doherty’s analysis contributes to an argument that it is not clear that this is the best option in the long term because it brings with it more unwelcome consequences. One of these is the rise of warlords. This was noted shortly after the end of the cold war by Ignatieff (1993, p.28), who pointed out that: They appear wherever nation states disintegrate: in the Lebanon, Somalia, northern India, Armenia, Georgia, Ossetia, Cambodia, the former Yugoslavia. With their carphones, faxes and exquisite personal weaponry, they look post-modern, but the reality is pure early medieval.

He is right to point out that it is their capacity for violence that distinguishes these warlords. The warlords are nationalists, but their convictions are uninteresting. They are technicians of violence, rather than ideologues …. In the state of nature, the man with the Zastava machine pistol and a Cherokee Chief is king. For he can provide the two commodities everyone here craves: security and vengeance. (Ignatieff, 1993, p.30)

Many of these warlords are unsavoury individuals who would have no positive role in a ‘normal’ society. Arkan, one of the most feared warlords in Bosnia, moved from juvenile delinquency and bank robbery to become a leading figure in the Yugoslavian criminal underground. Radovan Karadzic, the leader of the Bosnian Serbs, had been imprisoned for just under a year for fraud. Another Serbian warlord, ‘Captain Dragan’ is reported to have been a pimp in Australia. Celo, a Bosnian warlord, was a convicted rapist (Mueller, 2001).

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Militarization may also lock the communities into a cycle of escalating arms races and increased insecurity as the means of committing violence becomes easier and more widespread. Inevitability the militarization of one actor (the state or the community) will increase suspicion and fear in the minds of other actors. This seems a very good example of what Pruitt and Rubin (1986, Chapter 6) termed the ‘aggressor-defender’ dynamic of conflict, though in reality, of course, it is unlikely that the warring groups will agree on who is the aggressor and who is the defender. Several commentators have pointed out how warlords might have a vested interest in the continuation of violent conflict and will therefore attempt to bring down peace agreements if they do not meet their own selfish interests. When they behave this way they have been labelled as ‘spoilers’ (see especially Stedman, 1997). Peace threatens to make warlords redundant and vulnerable to prosecution for war crimes. It also, as in Liberia, Sierra Leone and the Democratic Republic of Congo, threatens to deprive them of access to resources and wealth. Groups committed to violent struggle are also more than willing to turn their guns against individuals in their own community who challenge their violent approach to intercommunal relations. In Kosovo, for example, there appeared to be a campaign to target Kosovar leaders who sought a peaceful road to change. Some believed these murders were carried out by the Kosovo Liberation Army, who were opposed to such ‘pacifist’ ideas (Observer, 27 September 1998, p.26). In the Punjab, Harchand Singh Longowal, the leader of the Akali Dal party, was murdered at a rally where he called for Sikhs to work in harmony with Hindus, because he signed an accord with Rajiv Gandhi in July 1985. Warlords can continue to have an impact after peace deals are agreed. Sometimes, when they lose their political raison d’être, they drift towards outright criminality. In Northern Ireland it is estimated by police sources that out of 78 criminal gangs operating in the region in 2001, 43 had current or historical links to either Loyalist or Republican paramilitaries (Guardian, 23 March 2001: 3) Militarization, therefore, is likely to create problems that will linger. Successful demilitarization is therefore vital for a peace process, as history demonstrates. Remember, for example, the impact that demobilized soldiers had in inter-war Germany, where they formed the backbone of many of the right wing groups that helped destabilize the Weimar Republic. Or just look at the way that the badly thought through planning for post-Saddam Iraq, which involved dismissing huge numbers of soldiers from the Iraqi military without proper consideration for the consequences, has come back to haunt the US. The growing recognition of the importance of militarization/demilitarization is apparent from the significance now accorded to disarmament, demobilization and reintegration (DDR) programmes in post-violence situations. Such programmes have become a recurrent feature of UN missions in the post-Cold war era from Namibia to Kosovo. Although there is this growing awareness, some basic dilemmas remain. Should the international community co-opt or confront warlords? Dialogue with warlords might result in positive interaction and meaningful change. This seems to be what Ambassador Robert Oakley meant when he said that if you ‘treat

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a warlord like a statesman and he will behave like a statesman. Treat a warlord like a warlord and he will behave like a warlord’ (quoted in Halberstam, 2002, p.252). This might be too optimistic in some situations, but recent history shows that leaders of groups that were previously committed to violent struggle can make the transition to democratic politics. If this is attainable then surely such individuals should be encouraged to make this move. In many situations of intercommunal conflict apparently implacable enemies have been willing to cooperate if personal enrichment or the fulfilment of ambition can result. On the other hand, spoilers who will not or cannot be accommodated in new structures could also be offered a ‘golden parachute’ to an easy life somewhere else (Snyder, 2000, p.41). However, this approach causes understandable concern. For if warlords are coopted or allowed to exit to a good life elsewhere then they will have been rewarded for their past atrocities. In addition the fact that warlords have been co-opted does not mean that they have reformed, and their entry into ‘democratic politics’ might bring with it unfortunate consequences. Gberie (2005) notes, for example, that when Charles Taylor, probably the most infamous of the African warlords, contested elections in Liberia in 1997 he used his considerable wealth to bribe voters and his thugs to intimidate the opposition. As a result it has been claimed that the ‘elections were a largely farcical affair and the results [a Taylor victory] were never really in doubt’ (Gberie, 2005, p.187). Yet if warlords are confronted there is a danger that peace processes will break down and violence will resume. Calculations based on realpolitik often win out, and we frequently witness support for pragmatic accommodation with warlords who have demonstrated only a cosmetic change of heart or even none at all. This seems to have been the case when examining western policies towards various warlords in Afghanistan and the KLM in Kosovo. It is unclear, however, if this is the best strategy for ensuring long-term peace and justice, and has already had a damaging impact on human rights. Laswell’s answer was to encourage ‘civilianism’ to counter ‘militarism’. This involves ‘the absorption of the military by the multivalued orientation of a society in which violent coercion is deglamorized as an end it itself’ (Laswell, 1997, p.107). Galtung (undated, p.18) has also noted that there is more to demilitarization than physical destruction of weapons. It is also about changing mind-sets. So: If we assume military culture to be to culture what military music is to music, does this not mean a belligerent Weltanschauung, filled with friend-foe ideas? If so, society never demobilizes but remains militarized, war-prone, in the sense of easily accepting war as an alternative.

Increased Residential Segregation A universal feature of destructive intercommunal conflict is that it is accompanied by movements of peoples away from mixed to homogeneous areas. In an authoritative study of ethnic riots it has been noted that ‘everywhere group members seek safer

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neighborhoods’ (Horowitz, 2000, p.441). For in ‘peaceful times, people migrate and mingle’ whereas ‘in violent times, they migrate and separate’ (p.442). Ethnic cleansing appears to be as old as ethnic conflict. Bell-Fialkoff (1996, p.7) notes that it was practised by the Assyrians nearly 3000 years ago. Ethnic cleansing also tends to occur in a cyclical pattern (Bell-Fialkoff, 1996, p.213). Walling (2001) has written a brief history of ‘ethnic cleansing’ and notes how between the two world wars it was even viewed as a positive tool of conflict management. It was also used in a more punitive way by Stalin, who engaged in mass deportations of nations during the Second World War. Walling believes that the idea of homogenizing populations is ‘intricately linked’ to the idea of the unitary sovereign state and the principle of national self-determination, though she also notes how it was widely practiced by the European colonizers in the Americas and Australasia. The figures for this era are quite staggering. According to Walling (2001, p.52) between 1919 and 1938 21,260,000 people were forced to flee their homes. Immediately after the war there were also massive movements of peoples in Central Europe, including 14 million Germans expelled from states where they were a long-established presence. This has been described as the ‘largest and most sweeping cleansing in history’ (Bell-Fialkoff, 1996, p.37). In the second half of the twentieth century a number of intercommunal conflicts around the world triggered other significant dislocations. These would include the break up of the Indian subcontinent into India and Pakistan, the Arab-Israeli wars in the Middle East (where the process of separation continues to this day through the building of the security wall to ‘protect’ Israel), the wars in the former Yugoslavia, and Cyprus. In Bosnia alone over 2 million people (nearly half the population) fled their homes to become refugees or internally displaced persons. In Kosovo, after the NATO victory in 1999 large numbers of Serbs were driven from their homes as a result of Muslim retaliation, and many have fled Kosovo entirely. Others have become internally displaced and are living in enclaves, and the only sizeable urban Serbian population in Kosovo is in the north of the city of Mitrovica, which is divided by the river Ibar (see, for example, Judah, 2004). Often the residential segregation that follows violent intercommunal conflict, is recognized and maybe even legitimized by an approach to peace that believes the best thing to do is keep the parties apart. This is a view often shared by the parties themselves. Thus, we have seen the zone of separation in Bosnia, the ‘Peace Line’ in Belfast, the ‘Green Lines’ in Cyprus and Lebanon and buffer zones created by numerous UN and other peacekeeping operations. We have already pointed to the border between Israel and Palestine where we are also witnessing the construction of a ‘security wall’, though in this case only the Israeli side views this as a legitimate act. On each side of these buffer zones communities often develop in isolation, which is likely to make reintegration harder in the long term. This was a point noticed by the Croatian government in 1995 when it entered the UN Protected Areas and brutally expelled the Serbs living there. One justification of this was a desire to avoid the ‘Cypriotization’ of Croatia, where the UN presence facilitated the development of two distinct communities separated by a UN peacekeeping force.

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It might appear to the peoples who are separating that this will add to their security. Yet this may not be the case. Horowitz, in his comprehensive analysis of the ethnic riot, points out that the areas most vulnerable to major episodes of violence were not the places where the attackers were in the overwhelming majority (because these were ‘safe’ areas); nor areas where the target was in the overwhelming majority (too dangerous). Rather violence tended to be concentrated in heterogeneous, contested areas or a majority area with a strong minority presence. These contested areas are often at the boundaries between more homogenous areas. Often a relatively homogeneous residential area will be the base for attacks on ‘heterogeneous market areas, boundary areas, and mixed residential areas’ (Horowitz, 2001, pp.388−389). These base areas give attackers a sense of safety and invulnerability, since they can quickly retreat to friendly neighbourhoods. The strong sense of territoriality generated by residential segregation can also lead to fears of being overwhelmed by the enemy. According to Horowitz (2001, p.393): desperation is a theme that runs through a great deal of ethnic violence. A good many groups are convinced that they are or soon will be swamped, dominated, and dispossessed by their neighbors …. The more numerous the neighbors, the more immediate the danger.

In Northern Ireland we have seen that the main flashpoints for violence since the 1998 Belfast Agreement have been so-called ‘interface areas’ where Protestant and Catholic communities live on separated housing developments which, nonetheless, border each other (see, for example, Heatley, 2004). The danger that polarization might actually increase violence in the long term should, therefore, make us suspicious of ‘solutions’ to intercommunal conflict that are based on the idea of physical separation. Bell-Fialkoff (1996), for example, argues that compulsory population transfers should be considered a solution of last resort when faced with the problem of ‘recalcitrant minorities’, where these minorities can be moved to a neighbouring state that they profess a desire to belong to. He writes that ‘when every solution, every compromise has been tried and failed’ then ‘the only workable solution is population transfer and resettlement’ (Bell-Fialkoff, 1996, p.220). He wants this compulsory movement to be implemented in a ‘humane, well organised manner’, but seems blind to the fact that it is inherently an inhumane policy (Bell-Fialkoff, 1996, p.220). Far from being a way of avoiding violence, it is difficult not to see ‘preventive resettlement’ as a violent act in its own right. Such a seemingly neat answer to the question of inter-ethnic coexistence could well produce many unforeseen problems and could, in itself give rise to massive human rights violations and the victimization of minority groups. It is unclear to this author why compulsory population movements conducted with international supervision is any more desirable that forced expulsions undertaken by the parties to the conflict themselves. This is quite apart from the enduring problem of how to deal with the issue of a strong attachment to lost territory and the desire to return home. Such social engineering on a grand scale reminds us of Popper’s warnings discussed in Chapter 1 about ‘utopian engineering’.

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When the separation of populations also involves the creation of large numbers of refugees and internally displaced persons, the problems are likely to multiply, as the refugee camps become recruiting grounds for the warring factions (Khmer Rouge in Thailand, Taliban in Pakistan, Hutu Power in Goma, PLO in a number of Arab states). The refugee issue can also become a thorn in the side of peace processes as the issue of the right of return can complicate discussions about peace settlements, as has been the case in Cyprus, Israel/Palestine and parts of the former Yugoslavia. In Bosnia, where there is a right to return guaranteed by the Dayton Agreement, minority returnees have been subjected to intimidation and discrimination and have faced problems with schooling and employment (International Crisis Group, 2002a). Economic Underdevelopment Destructive, violent conflict produces situations that are not conducive to balanced economic development. Capital investment will be put at risk, as will the well-being of workers. Violence breeds uncertainty, making planning difficult. Resources are invested not in the production of goods, but in the security sector. Skilled personnel may emigrate to states that offer more security to themselves and their families, resulting in a significant ‘brain drain’ of talented people. We have witnessed this in Northern Ireland, where there has been a trend for well educated young people to attend Universities elsewhere in the UK and then to never return to live in the province. While in the former Yugoslavia there has been a noticeable exodus of Serbs from Serbia, Montenegro, Croatia and Bosnia to countries such as Canada. Collier (2000, p.101) has estimated that: On average during civil wars the economy as a whole declines by around 2.2 percent per annum relative to its underlying growth path. This may seem a small number, but it implies that after a decade of war a society will have an income 20 percent lower that it would otherwise have been.

It is, however, notoriously difficult to calculate the economic costs of intercommunal violence, especially as there may be some groups and individuals who do well out of violent conflict and officially figures may not be an accurate picture of societies where there is a considerable ‘shadow economy’ based on black markets and informal networks (Nordstrom, 1999, 2004). She writes: The realm of the unregulated is a realm of possibility and danger, where great fortunes and great cruelty are possible. But it is also where the average person turns for survival in an unsure world. The arena of the shadow is a place where power regimes are contested, where new forms of capital, access, and authority rise – some crumbling before they master any real influence in global affairs, others supplanting old regimes with new. (Nordstrom, 2004, p.211).

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Yet, Nordstrom insists, in a world where 95–99 per cent of all containers and ships entering any given port are not searched, this shadow world is one we know very little about. Political Underdevelopment It seems likely that wars of all kinds will affect the quality of democracy. As Walter Lippmann (1993, p.180) once noted in his 1925 work The Phantom Public, war can be fought for democracy, but it cannot be fought democratically. Violence erodes ‘normal’ democratic politics in a number of ways. One manifestation of political underdevelopment is the emergence of ‘hard-line’ leaders who place greater reliance on coercive means and adopt an intransigent style (Kriesberg, 1998, p.154). This removes the capacity for political leaders to communicate with each other and to reach agreements that are in their mutual interest. So Shriver (1999, p.213) argues that ‘vengeance kills politics, if by “politics” we mean those negotiations between groups that permit them to realize their mutual vital interests’. Another concern is that protracted violent conflict can result in what Azar (1990) has called ‘the deformation of institutions’. Civil society can also be adversely affected by violent intercommunal violence. For although the presence of violence will act as a spur to peace groups to counter the war structures, it will also populate civil society with more belligerent groups who will seek to support and justify the use of armed force or state oppression. Grass roots organizations might be ‘taken over’ by hardliners and the actions and statements of these more belligerent groups might increase inter-ethnic tension and distrust. Furthermore, spaces for intercommunal contact and dialogue will be closed down as suitable venues disappear and the possibilities of intimidation increase. In war zones it might also be easier for non-governmental groups to engage in corrupt activities such as the diversion of funds to sustain a war effort. Inter-cultural Changes Increased Ethnocentrism Ethnocentrism is a concept invented by the anthropologist Sumner and developed by the critical theorist Adorno (Fisher, 1990, p.22). Subsequent work on the role of the concept in intergroup conflict has confirmed that there is a link between insecurity and the biases and distortions associated with ethnocentrism. Thus, Fisher (1990, p.100) points out that: Based on real conflict and perceived threat, ethnocentrism assumes a pivotal role in the eclectic model of intergroup conflict. It is seen as the primary orientation, assessed jointly at the group level, which largely determines the course and intensity of the conflict.

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Fisher (1990, p.100) has also identified some of the ways that ethnocentrism reduces the capacity for positive peace work. These include a decline in trust, an increase in perceptual and cognitive biases and a reduction of problem-solving competence. There are, of course, good reasons why increased insecurity results in a lower tolerance for dissenting opinions. Galtung and Tschundi (2001, pp.216−217) have pointed out that ‘having the “enemy” three feet away does not serve to open up cognitive spaces or to let dissonances in, let alone permit them to start dismantling their entrenched configurations’. Although the term ‘ethnocentrism’ was invented in the twentieth century, it refers to a phenomenon that existed long before this. The nineteenth century word for what we now call ethnocentrism was ‘jingoism’, described by the British liberal philosopher Hobson as an ‘introverted patriotism whereby the love of one’s own nation is transformed into the hatred of another nation, and the fierce craving to destroy the individual members of that other nation’ (quoted in Pick, 1993, p.112). He tended to blame this phenomenon on urbanization and modern newspapers, regarding it as based on a ‘Yahoo passion’ for brutality and a neurotic temperament. It was ‘the passion of the spectator, the inciter, the backer, not of the fighter; it is a collective or mob passion which, in as far as it prevails, makes the individual mind subject to a control that joins him irresistibly to his fellows’ (Hobson, 1988b, p.192). Hobson also noted how ‘war fever’ affected all levels of society, where the ‘pulsation of the primitive lust … exults in the downfall and suffering of the enemy’ (p.113). But whether we use the term jingoism or ethnocentrism, it seems clear that it is ‘conducive to the occurrence of conflict but not conducive to its constructive resolution’ (Deutsch, 1991, p.33). A violent intercommunal conflict produces strong pressures to conform to the ethnocentric view and also creates a reduced tolerance for questioning the violent road taken. Walzer (1994, p.82) points out that when ‘my parochialism is threatened, then I am wholly, radically parochial … and nothing else’. As a result ethnocentrism serves as a perfect compliment to militarism – maybe it can even be seen as its civilian partner. The ethnocentric consensus can be enforced in a number of ways, including official persecution of dissenters (sacked from jobs, etc.), intimidation through vigilantism, murder or just strong peer pressure. One of the best studies of the impact of ethnocentrism is still the account by Drakulic (1993) of the impact on Croatian society of the war that resulted in the break-up of Yugoslavia. Her book, Balkan Express, consists of a series of stories written in Croatia in 1991−92. According to the author, they start off where the war reporting stops and they explore the ‘less visible side of war, the way it changes us slowly from within’ (Drakulic, 1993, p.4). Her account of the impact of war examines the pressures to conform to Croatian ethno-nationalism, the costs individuals paid for opposing this ethno-nationalism and the prejudices felt towards refugees from Bosnia, Another well documented example of ethnocentric pressures to conform would be the way that progressive whites in the deep South of the US were ostracized and intimidated because of their opposition to segregation (see, for example, Bass, 2002,

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Chapter 1). Sometimes this opposition to positive contact with the enemy can even be made illegal by a state – as was the case with laws in South Africa and Israel banning contact with representatives of the ANC and the PLO respectively. The Enemy Image There is a clear link between ethnocentrism and the way the other groups in a violent conflict are perceived. As the view of the in-group becomes more and more rosy, so the view of the out-group becomes more and more uncompromising. Negative feelings, which may predate the violence, deepen to the point where we can talk about the emergence of an ‘enemy image’. This is a distorted perception of the other side that is composed of a number of distinct, but linked, processes; including scapegoating, stereotyping and dehumanization (Ryan, 1995, p.19). It is sustained by the human capacity to reattribute actions to fit in with a prior world view. Spillmann and Spillmann (1991) point out how the ‘enemy image’ can become ‘pathological’ and will dictate orientations to a conflict. It can comprise a cluster of processes, including: negative anticipation, zero-sum thinking, a refusal of empathy, de-individualization, projection of guilt and the identification of the enemy with evil. The development of such a simplistic, yet powerful, image signifies a return to ‘primitive, early, pre-individualistic stages’ (Spillmann and Spillmann, 1991, p.71), which is why it can appear to be such an elemental force. As Boulding (1961, p.6) has noted, ‘behavior depends on the image’, and there may be no more powerful representation than the ‘enemy image’, which is an intense brew of half truths, prejudices, resentments and projections of repressed feelings. As well as helping to form inter-group attitudes and expectations the ‘enemy image’ can also spill over into intra-group relations, notably in the area of scapegoating. This can happen when an individual or group, which may be part of the in-group, is targeted as blameworthy when anxieties and insecurities in the group increase. So Wallach (2004, p.85) points out that in projecting ‘an intolerable feeling or point of view … [such as racism] … in one person, the rest of the group members may divest themselves of responsibility, and thus can continue to deny their own contribution to the problem’. Thus, scapegoating a group member or members, both ‘allows a group to manage its anxiety about conflict’, but also ‘interferes with a group’s ability to effectively face that challenge or conflict’ (ibid.). Scapegoating is also found in attitudes to the other group as well. It usually manifests itself as the tendency to blame the ‘enemy’ for everything bad that is happening. In its extreme manifestation this reaches a point where our side seems to takes no responsibility at all for the suffering inflicted on others. Thus, a settler in Hebron, quoted in the Observer newspaper after the death of a Palestinian baby girl could state that ‘when it comes to the Arabs, everything that happens to them today is their own fault’ (Observer, 22 July 2001, p.17). Stereotyping is a term invented by French printers and was first applied to political analysis by Walter Lippmann in the early 1920s (Pickering, 2001, p.16). It seems to be a ubiquitous feature of inter-group relations, but stereotypes ‘become

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much more pronounced and hostile when social tensions between the groups arise’ (Tajfel, 1986b, p.427). Stereotyping produces a ‘blinding effect’ (Sherif, 1967, p.110) that has been labelled as de-individualization by some social psychologists. The consequence is that members of the ‘other side’ are no longer viewed as single persons with their own unique perceptions and values. Instead all members of an enemy group are viewed as part of a whole and all are assumed to share the negative attributes that are projected on to that group. So, the classical view of stereotypes is that: They are seen as deficient either because they encourage an indiscriminate lumping together of people under over-arching groups signifiers, often of a derogatory character, or because they reduce specific groups and categories to a limited set of conceptions which in themselves often contradict each other. Stereotypes are also discriminatory because the stunted features or attributes of others which characterise them are considered to form the basis for negative and hostile judgements, the rationale for exploitative, unjust treatment, or just the justification for aggressive behaviour. In a word, stereotypes are bad. (Pickering, 2001, p.10)

Pickering (2001, p.48) goes on to note that the creation of a stereotypical ‘other’ is an obstacle to the positive transformation of inter-group relations. As a result of de-individualization it becomes acceptable to target any member of the enemy group, though there may still remain some qualms about attacking certain sub-groups such as children, women or old people. In the Rwandan genocide if people stopped at roadblocks could not prove they were Hutus by showing their identity cards, they were judged on appearance (Humphrey, 2002, p.79). So they could be killed because of their height, or the size of their noses or the length of their fingers. In Sri Lanka Tamils who could not pronounce certain Sinhalese words might be murdered if they were stopped by homicidal crowds. Drakulic (2004, p.170) has pointed out that: When a person is reduced to an abstraction in such a way, one is free to hate him because the moral obstacle has already been abolished. If it has been ‘proved’ that our enemies are no longer human beings, we are no longer obliged to treat them as such. It doesn’t count at all that by so doing we are reducing ourselves to an abstract category as well, that we are no longer individuals because in the eyes of ‘the enemy’ we are the ‘Others’, too.

Dehumanization is usually accompanied by the use of animal worlds to describe the enemy. Alternatively, the terms used imply sickness or disease, such as ‘cancer’, ‘lepers’, or ‘plague’. It should not be surprising then that dehumanization is often accompanied by the language of cleansing. Sometimes the dehumanization is explicit and open, as in the way Radio Television Libre des Mille Collines depicted the Tutsi victims of the Rwandan genocide as cockroaches and rats. Sometimes it is more subtle and subconscious, as in the statement by the Northern Ireland Unionist politician David Trimble that Republicans needed to be ‘house trained’. If the enemy is considered dirty or vermin or a disease then the idea that the society needs to be

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decontaminated is likely to find a wider audience and mass killing then comes to be regarded as ‘cleansing’. Terrorism is also a powerful dehumanizing word that can facilitate stereotyping. The image is of a ruthless and irrational individual with no compassion. In fact, as Fitzduff (1996, p.61) has noted, there is little evidence that terrorists are psychologically different from other people. Sometimes, though, whole groups of people might be dehumanized by use of the label terrorist. Said, for example, has criticized the way that Palestinians have been stereotyped in this way. He complains: It’s as if Palestinians have no existence except when someone performs a terrorist act, and then the entire world media apparatus leaps up and smothers their actual existence as breathing and sentient people with a real history and a real society by holding over them an enormous blanket saying ‘terrorist’. (Said, 2004, p.192)

Psychologists have long know that we will select information that confirms existing images of ourselves and others. If we believe the other side are ‘bad’ we will always be able to find evidence to confirm this. As Fisher (1990, p.42) has pointed out that ‘people usually remember stereotype-consistent information better than stereotypeirrelevant or stereotype-inconsistent information’. However, what happens when we are confronted by an event that challenges our preconceptions? Because the enemy image is important and serves a psychological function, attempts to undermine it are often resisted. Mitchell (1981), for example, notes the role played by the need for cognitive consistency, which results in selective perception and recall in order to avoid reassessing negative images of the enemy and positive images of our own side. Sometimes the need to sustain cognitive consistence can reach absurd proportions. It has been said that after the defeat of the Seventh Cavalry at Little Big Horn, it was so hard for white Americans to accept that they could be defeated by natives that a rumour started that Chief Sitting Bull was not a Lakota Sioux at all, but a European. This is a good demonstration of what has been called cognitive dissonance. Indians are primitive savages, yet Indians defeat a modern military force. How to deal with this contradiction? Simple: Custer was not really defeated by an Indian at all. As a consequence, no one has to revise their prejudices about Native Americans. Attribution theory ‘is the name given to the set of theoretical principles proposed to account for how people draw causal inferences about one another’s behaviour’ (Eiser, 1986, p.238). It helps us to understand how individuals resist correcting faulty negative images (Hewstone, 1988). It allows us to show how people explain away actions by the other side and by our side that do not confirm expectations: that is ‘good’ actions by the other side and ‘bad’ actions by our side. Actions that confirm our expectations are usually attributed to ‘internal’ attributes whereas actions that challenge our expectations are usually dismissed as the result of situational pressures: this is not what they are really like, something is making them behave in this way.

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Demonization and Sanctification The ‘enemy image’ illustrates how some individuals in a violent conflict situation are incapable of seeing the ‘enemy’ in any positive light. This could be especially true where the enemy are viewed as the agents of evil. Indeed, we see the growth of sanctification and demonization wherever a strong religious element is introduced into intercommunal (and other) conflicts. In the Middle East, one of the best examples of sanctification is the rise of Islamic fundamentalist resistance movements to Israeli occupation of both Lebanon (Islamic Jihad and Hezbollah) and Palestine (HAMAS). In Palestine HAMAS has portrayed the land as Holy because the al-Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem was the site of the Prophet Mohammad’s ascension to heaven and because HAMAS claims that Palestine was designated as a waqf, a religious endowment that means it belongs to the entire Muslim nation (Van Cott, 1996). Of course, the rise of HAMAS can be seen as linked to the rise of Jewish fundamentalism, which believes that Palestine was given to Jews by God, and therefore Jews have the right to build settlements wherever they want on this territory. This version of sanctification leads people to believe that: The land of Israel belongs to the Jewish people. God gave it to the children of Israel …. Non-Jews can live here peacefully as long as they don’t question Jewish sovereignty in our land. (Jewish settler quoted in Observer Magazine, 8 December 2002, p.28)

In Northern Ireland we find a strong example of the demonization that results from sanctification in the comments of the Rev. Ian Paisley, the leader of the largest political party in Northern Ireland (DUP) and head of the Free Presbyterian Church. The ideology of this Church has been analysed by Bruce (1986), who sees it as a ‘subspecies’ of conservative evangelicalism. Paisley and his Church view the Catholic Church as an evil force that is seeking to destroy true Christianity. Bruce (1986, p.224) argues: Free Presbyterians differ from most other conservative Protestants in the strength of their anti-Catholicism, which leads them to attribute more power and influence to Rome than would other Protestants …. There are no mistakes, nor errors, only subtle attempts to lull the rest of the world into complacency.

From such a perspective we can see how the Northern Ireland conflict can be depicted as a holy war to save Protestantism from the forces of evil. Indeed, the Roman Catholic Church is viewed not as a Christian body at all, but as a manifestation of the work of the Antichrist. So Paisley has claimed that there can be ‘no agreement between Protestantism and Popery, no agreement between the gospel of Jesus Christ and the trash of the Antichrist’ (quoted in Cooke, 1996, p.136) The Belfast Agreement, because it involved a deal with the representatives of the anti-Christ, must also be immoral. Thus, a Free Presbyterian minister could declare a month after the signing of the agreement that it was a ‘blueprint for the strangulation of Biblical Protestantism’ and it ‘bears all the hallmarks of devilish craft’. Therefore,

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not only was the peace deal non-Christian, but it was ‘thoroughly and clearly antiChristian’ (Derry Journal, Tuesday, 12 May 1998, p.4). What is interesting about the Northern Ireland case is that it involves two branches of the same religion – Christianity. Elsewhere the cultural differences may be even deeper. In the course of developing his controversial thesis on the clash of civilizations, Huntington has identified a number of ‘fault-line’ wars where communal divisions overlap with major boundaries between civilizations. Examples of such conflicts include Kashmir (Hindu–Muslim), Sudan (Christian–Muslim), Chechnya (Russian Orthodox–Muslim), Palestine (Jewish–Muslim), and Sri Lanka (Buddhist–Hindu). In all of these cases religion seems to have added an extra level of intractability. Butterfield (1951, p.61) notes, one of the hardest things to do is convince people with a strong religious perspective on their conflict of the errors of their ways because the find it ‘so comfortable to believe that they are the good people arrayed against the evil ones in history’. Evidence of the hardening effect of demonization and sanctification appears in the founding statement of al-Qa’ida, issues in February 1998. It declared a fatwa against the US and proclaimed: The ruling to kill the Americans and their allies – civilians and military – is an individual duty for every Muslim who can do it in any country in which it is possible to do it, in order to liberate the al-Aqsa Mosque and the Holy Mosque [Mecca] from their grip, and in order for their armies to move out of all the lands of Islam, defeated and unable to threaten any Muslim. This is in accordance with the words of Almighty God … (quoted in Halliday, 2002, p.219)

Changes to Individuals Entrapment Entrapment happens when individuals and communities over-commit to a particular course of action. In so doing they put their credibility on the line and develop emotional attachments that can be hard to shake. In the words of a major study on this topic, people can then have ‘too much invested to quit’ (Teger, 1980). Indeed, Teger notes how the words ‘quit’ and ‘give up’ are words of disapproval in our culture. The ‘costs of reversal’ are not just related to past losses, they are also based on anticipations of future reactions to a change of policy (Mitchell, 2000, p.202). Entrapment can occur for a number of reasons: to minimize losses, to save face, to hurt the other side, to protect an investment. Yet, whatever the cause, the effect can be irrational behaviour. This is not to say that entrapment has to begin with one major action, it could creep up on actors through escalating stages. For as Aronson (1995, p.192) points out, ‘escalation is self-perpetuating, and once a small commitment is made, it sets the stage for ever-increasing commitments’. In support, Kriesberg (1982, p.153) argues that ‘sinking more and more resources seems justified in order

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to attain the goal of the struggle and so justify what has already been expended in money, honor, or blood’, but the value of the extra resources ‘may go beyond the original value of the goal’. The sacrifice trap is an especially powerful form of entrapment, and it is something we are all prone to fall victim to. It is a concept introduced by Boulding, who argued that ‘sacrifice creates value’ (quoted in Stedman, 1991, p.19). As a result, violent conflict is often justified not according to original conflicts of interest that caused it, but in terms of the sacrifices already made in pursuit of a particular war aim. There is no doubting the inspirational aspects of sacrifice, best illustrated by Abraham Lincoln’s 1863 Gettysburg Address. In this short, virtuoso speech the US President invokes the sacrifice made by the fallen Union soldiers and draws on this to give their cause added strength. It is worth repeating his words: The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but it can never forget that they died here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us – that from these honoured dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last measure of devotion – that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain …

The problem is that sacrifice can inspire and sustain all causes, bad as well as good. It can be reinforced by ceremonies meant to commemorate the dead, the use of memorials and by the willingness of a broader society to view these perpetrators/ victims as martyrs and heroes. This might be linked to cultural factors. In Ireland, for example, several commentators have noted the congruence of Republican and Catholic ideas of martyrdom (see, for instance: O’Malley, 1990; Moran, 1994). Easter is a time to celebrate both the resurrection of Jesus and the heroes of the 1916 uprising against British rule who gave their lives for the cause of a free Ireland. The 1981 Hunger Strikes, in which 10 Republican prisoners starved themselves to death to obtain political status within the prisons, also demonstrates the power of sacrifice on politics in Ireland. It led to a huge upsurge of support for Sinn Fein and may have been the biggest influence on Republican strategists to start embracing the ballot box. Shortly before he died one of the hunger strikers, Bobby Sands, was elected as a member of the UK Parliament for Fermanagh/South Tyrone. This move by Sinn Fein into electoral politics was criticized by some hard-line Republicans as a policy that involved selling-out those who had given their lives for a united Ireland. Thus, Bobby Sands’s sister, Bernadette Sands-McKevitt, a leading member of one of the Republican groups that rejects the 1998 Belfast Agreement is reported to have stated that her brother did not die just for cross-border bodies. The Unionists in Northern Ireland also have their sacrificial martyrs. Within this culture the Ulster Protestants who fell during the battles of the First World War are viewed as making a down payment on the Union (McIntosh, 1999, p.9). How could the British state hand Ulster Unionists over to a united Ireland when so many of them had sacrificed their lives for the British cause? She goes on to note that the Battle of the Somme, which took place in the same year as the Easter uprising in Dublin,

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‘came to be seen by unionists as the stage for their ultimate sacrifice for the empire and their subsequent betrayal by the British administration, and was ultimately incorporated into unionist myth and history’ (ibid.). Elsewhere, we can see the sacrifice trap operating in Kosovo/Serbia. One of the reasons why Serbs found it hard to consider greater autonomy for Kosovo, which is 90 per cent ethnic Albanian, is that the territory of Kosovo contains many of the most important religious and historical sites for the Serbian Orthodox Church. The most significant of these is the battlefield of Kosovo Polje, the sight of an epic battle between Serbs and the forces of the Ottoman empire in 1389. Simons (2001, p.232) recounts that the site of the battle is so sacred to Serbs that when their army was retreating in 1915 the soldiers removed their boots in order to cross the field. Volkan (1997, p.66) also makes the interesting suggestion that because Archduke Ferdinand of Austria was assassinated on the anniversary of the Battle of Kosovo (28 June 1914), the Serb assassin, Gavrilo Princip, must have identified with the images of his heroes who died in this famous battle, but managed to take the life of the Ottoman Sultan. Certainly, many Serbs viewed the timing of the visit by the Archduke as a deliberate provocation. However, the best known use of the sacrifice trap created by the Battle of Kosovo are the actions of President Milosevic in the late 1980s. As part of his project of consolidating his power and of creating a ‘Greater Serbia’ Milosevic arranged for the remains of Lazar (the Serb leader defeated in the battle) to be taken around all parts of Serbia. In addition, on the 600th anniversary of the glorious defeat Milosevic led a huge rally on the site of the battle and sealed his status as the Serb leader by proclaiming that Serbs would never again be subjugated by Islam (see, for example, Volkan, 1997, pp.66−69). Psychological Damage: Victims and Victimizers Because violence is a violation its use often triggers emotional problems for its targets and for those who suffer personal loss. A cluster of symptoms develops that might include fear, distrust, low self esteem, guilt, self-destructive behaviour, cynicism and depression. In certain circumstances the negativity that these symptoms produce can hold back a peace process. Oz (1992, p.124), for example, has talked about a certain type of ‘ultra-Zionist’ who want to: Lock themselves, once and for all, in the museum of our calamities, among the ghosts of our martyrs, in the cellar of the humiliation and insult we have suffered. Only in that cellar, in the suffocating ritual incense for the dead, in a brackish cloud of grudges, selfrighteousness, and self-pity, only there do they feel truly safe and warm.

Can we not, he asks, ‘sometimes send out a dove to see whether the waters have receded?’ (Oz, 1992, p.125). In Chapter 1 we noted a tension between the desire to transform through outside intervention and respect for local culture. One area that illustrates this dilemma is the debate over victimhood. For the victimization approach to conflict can

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also be controversial, especially in non-western settings. Here some would claim that labelling someone a ‘victim’ may itself be part of a process of victimization. This is an issue addressed by Prendergast (1996, p.174) who is critical of some of the interventions in post-genocide Rwanda for using western diagnostic systems ‘despite having little relevance to the realities of Rwandan life’, that, apart from demonstrating a lack of cultural sensitivity, reinforces the passivity of the ‘victim’ and the knowledge of the ‘expert’. Nonetheless, the potential for trauma and victimization exists wherever individuals are treated in a way that leaves them feeling humiliated, shamed, helpless, and worthless. The consequences for specific lives can be profound as trauma and victimhood affect the way people relate to others and make it impossible for them to find any inner peace. Wurmser (2000, p.389) has pointed out that ‘trauma and inner conflict are complementary concepts’. Frequently, the psychological defences used to cope with trauma can involve the turning of rage and contempt on oneself which merely adds to feelings of hurt. From Negative to Positive Transformation? In this chapter we have shown that during a violent intercommunal conflict a number of negative transformations take place at the structural, inter-cultural and individual level. As a result, around the conflict there develops excrescences that cocoon the parties and trap them in a set of destructive behaviours and mind sets. These will not go away just because elites sign a piece of paper at the conference table, though the ending of the violence may help to reduce the impact of these ‘residues of violence’. However, this will only happen if the peace process is able to meet the perceived needs of all groups. It is not unusual to find that this is not the case. Far from promoting security, a peace process might promote insecurity, in which case some of these processes might become stronger. As noted in Chapter 1, in Rwanda the genocide was triggered not by a war but by the Arusha Peace Accord, that threatened the interests of the Hutu elite who were then able to pray on the insecurities of the Hutu population as a whole. In Northern Ireland the alienation of some loyalist communities has increased since the Belfast Agreement and some interface areas have become more tense. In parts of Belfast the so-called ‘peace line’ has got bigger, not smaller during the ‘peace process’. On the other hand, understanding the destructive processes at work might provide vital clues about how to promote conflict transformation. One fruitful approach might be to see this in terms of creative responses to these negative transformations. Needless to say these responses will have to go beyond technical reactions and should try to bring about changes according to the criteria for transformation identified in Chapter 1. Because the effects of the negative transformations should be clear to all sections of divided societies there may be an acceptance of transformation work directed at these real and pressing issues that would not be forthcoming if

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transformation ideas are restricted to more abstract notions. In this way the awful effects of violence might actually provide opportunities for transformation work. Take for example the issue of militarization. A transformative approach to dealing with this phenomenon would stress not just the more technical aspects of disarmament and demobilization, though it has to be admitted that even this can be a controversial and difficult area. In Somalia, for example, there was a major disagreement in 1993 about whether the international forces deployed there should try to disarm the local militia. The UN Secretary-General, Boutros-Ghali, believed that the US force called UNITAF should take stronger action, arguing that this was implied in the mandate of the force, which was supposed, inter alia, to create a ‘secure environment’. Washington, however, disagreed and adopted a much narrower interpretation of the force’s mandate, mainly because it did not want to do anything that would prolong or complicate the US role. The transformation approach to DDR, however, goes far beyond disarmament. It will involve the reintegration of members of armed groups into ‘normal society’ after providing them with opportunities for training in new skills. It is clear, however, that disarmament and reintegration on their own might be inadequate. Thus, as Otunnu has pointed out (in Cousens et al., 1996, p.49) ‘healing the wounds of conflict must not mean a return to the status quo ante. Rather, healing must entail a transformation of the distorted relationships that give rise to the conflict in the first place.’ In the Sierra Leone case, Fithen and Richards (2005, p.117), argue that if ‘social exclusion was a cause of war then peace requires society to be reformed along more inclusive lines … reintegration of ex-combatants into unreformed communities risks reproducing conditions causing war’. This is because, without positive change, reintegration might just mean re-marginalization, as seems to have happened in Liberia (Utas, 2005). Effective reintegration also has to address the capacity of local economies to absorb former combatants. All of this, of course, is an enormous task. Jeong (2005, p.144) notes, for example, that in Mozambique 75 per cent of all combatants were functionally illiterate. Effective DDR projects also require proper funding, which, as is the case with Liberia, is not always forthcoming (Sany, 2006). Poor reintegration caused by lack of resources may mean that former combatants become disillusioned with their new life and return to life with a gun – either as soldiers or as criminals. Several examples of this can be provided. It has been suggested that the absence of a sustained and comprehensive DDR strategy in South Africa is one explanation for that country’s high crime rate. It has also created a situation where ex-combatants have been left isolated with some needs unmet (Cook, 2006). Unsatisfactory demilitarization also seems to have occurred in Kosovo, where many members of the Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA) became members of the Kosovo Protection Corps after the KLA was disbanded in September 1999. As a result the KLA, an organization once described as ‘terrorist’ and involved in heroin smuggling by the US government, continued to operate under a different name, and in their new guise continued to abuse the rights of Serbs and Roma in Kosovo after the authority of the Serbian government was removed by the allied

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victory in the 1999 ‘humanitarian intervention’ (see, for instance: Seper, 1999; Herring, 2001). Some of the failures of peacebuilding in Cambodia have also been explained by reference to the inability of the United Nations Transitional Authority in Cambodia (UNTAC), to demobilize the armed factions (see Doyle, 2001). Yet, elsewhere, as in Sierra Leone there has been a recognition of the importance of this work. Worthy of note here also is the ‘Seeds of Hope’ ex-prisoner’s project in Northern Ireland, where former Republican and Loyalist paramilitaries have united to create and sustain employment opportunities (Hall, 2000). However, positive action also has its dangers. One potential problem is that it might be necessary to manage the resentment caused when non-combatants believe that ex-combatants have received favourable treatment (Fithen and Richards, 2005, p.132). Another is to ensure that it is not just the male combatants who receive appropriate help. Women who were part of the armed factions as ‘bush wives’ or voluntary helpers must also be provided with assistance and offered new opportunities (Fithen and Richards, 2005, p.133). We can also envisage transformative work in the other areas discussed above, and many of these are discussed in the chapters that follow. The enemy image might be countered through sentimental education and empathic imagination (see Chapter 6). Positive actions could be performed by political leaders to rehumanize the enemy. These might include inviting members of the ‘other side’ to events, implementing confidence building measures, or expressing a willingness to talk and debate. In addition leaders could moderate the language used in public to include positive references the enemy. Name calling and dehumanization should be avoided. Eckhardt (1991) has called this ‘peace talk’ rather than ‘war talk’. Of course, there are dangers of being snubbed by the other side, which might make bad feelings even worse, but sometimes this is worth the risk, and careful preparations and behind the scenes discussions should minimize this risk. Of course, work in this area is notoriously difficult because prejudices may be deeply buried in the psyche and resist challenges. Nonetheless, they are based on faulty thinking and can create only an ‘illusion of precision’ (Pickering, 2001, p.4). One leading study of prejudice concludes with a number of suggestions as to how it can be reduced through a ‘manypronged attack’ (Allport, 1954, p.514). These include attacks on segregation, formal education, contact programmes, media work, exhortation by leaders, and individual therapy. Or relations could be improved through the development of superordinate goals, where opponents have to work together to achieve mutually (see Chapter 4). Economic and political underdevelopment can be addressed by new structures that are better equipped to meet the needs of all groups in a society (see Chapter 5). International actors could help promote employment opportunities in non-warrelated areas, especially for the young men who are likely to drift towards violence (Anderson and Spelten, 2000, p.9). In response to the global refugee crisis, Ogata (former head of UNHCR) has introduced the idea of a ‘comprehensive security partnership for refugees’ (Ogata, 2003, Chapter 15). Elsewhere there have been initiatives to try to ease reintegration of returning refugees into a multicultural environment. In the North Kivi area of the Congo, for example, local groups are

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building houses for returning Tutsi refugees and there are initiatives to sensitize local communities about the refugee issue (United States Institute of Peace, 1999, p.11) Victims might be helped to deal with the past through therapy or through truth and reconciliation work that provide opportunities for forgiveness and closure. This is discussed further in the next chapter. The problem of entrapment might have to wait for resource exhaustion, but it might also be neutralized through encouraging goal relinquishment or the standing down of the existing leadership in favour of new leaders who are less trapped in the past (Mitchell, 1991). It might also suggest that in order to avoid the development of intra-party conflict and ethnic outbidding, whereby a leader who makes a gesture of peace will be accused as having sold out by his main rivals, a sustained dialogue take place within a group to try to develop a consensus about the way forward. Conclusion Violent intercommunal conflict reinforces or creates many destructive processes that further polarizes and distorts relations between ethnic groups. In this sense violence can be seen as not just a dependent variable, but as an important causal factor in its own right. In this chapter we have reviewed some key texts that have helped us to identify some destructive processes that are triggered or reinforced by violence as especially significant. They operate at a number of levels in society and impact on structures (militarization, residential segregation, economic and political underdevelopment), inter-group attitudes (increased ethno-centrism, the reinforcement of the ‘enemy image’ and demonization/sanctification) and individuals (entrapment and trauma/ victimhood). However, the news is not all bad. To begin with alongside processes that reinforce the violent intercommunal conflict there will also develop processes to hold the conflict in check (see, for example, Darby, 1986). Also, we have pointed out that the very experiences of the consequences of these destructive processes might act eventually as an incentive to reduce or end the violence. Understanding the dynamics of violent conflict and the nature of the ‘residues’ it leaves behind also gives us some clues about what issues transformation work should concentrate in the immediate aftermath of violence. Finally, if violence is, to some degree, an independent variable, then the ending of violence should also help to undermine these destructive processes. This could result in a stronger sense of security which might encourage individuals and groups to become more tolerant of diversity and ambiguity. Walzer (1994, p.82), for example, believes that under ‘conditions of security, I will acquire a more complex identity than the idea of tribalism suggests’ for ‘the experience of difference, when it is peaceful, increases the power of the individual subject, who manoeuvres among a range of alternatives without ever being locked into a single one’.

Chapter 4

Transforming Individuals Tarawalie spoke in anger about the anguish of suddenly finding himself disabled and lacking support. ‘There are things that are very difficult to talk about,’ he said. ‘It is a life of constant terror and frustration …. But there is this talk of reconciliation, this talk of forgiveness. I am all for reconciliation, but how can I forget this,’ he said, pointing at the stump under his trousers. ‘I will live with this for the rest of my life.’ (Gberie, 2005, p.199)

From the ‘tolerant personality’ of Allport (1954) to ‘the pacific value orientation’ of David Davies (1954), many writers who have turned their minds to the question of how to solve the problem of violence and cruelty have spoken of the need to change the hearts and minds of individuals. Higgins has explored six major crises facing humankind and has identified the seventh enemy as the inertia and moral blindness of individuals. He claims: Yet, all this said, we cannot make our political leaders (or diplomats) the scapegoats for the world’s ills. We as citizens share their short-sightedness and it is we as individuals who collectively define the consensus from which they cannot stray far. (Higgins, 1980, p.166)

Or take the view of Dixon (1987) that mankind (he uses the word deliberately for it is men rather than women who are most to blame) is its ‘own worst enemy’ because of behavioural traits that are ill-matched to the complexities of modern life. This leads to the catastrophic and irrational misuse of modern technology and the coming to power of political leaders who have an ‘above average chance of being more ambitious, ruthless, exhibitionist, insincere, Machiavellian and more easily bored than their fellow men’ (Dixon, 1987, p.264). They will also have a ‘penchant for shedding any feelings of responsibility behind the dubious machinery of what purports to be group decision-making’ and are ‘only too ready to trade survival (particularly other people’s) for peace of mind (particularly their own)’ (Dixon, 1987, p.266). What are the long term chances for the human race, he asks: If the world contains people who are driven by unconscious motives to achieve positions in which they can command an immense potential for the destruction of their fellow men, and, because unaware of the dark forces which propel hem, cannot resist these motives or appreciate the infantile origins and irrationality of their behaviour, and are not only able through the defence of rationalisation to avoid the restraining influences of guilt or shame, but are actually encouraged by society to fulfil its destructive fantasies, and are ultimately bent upon their own self-destruction … (Dixon, 1987, pp.102–3)

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In response to these dangers we should be more careful about the leaders we choose, ensure more women get into positions of power (because they are less aggressive and sadistic, less competitive and less easily bored), and, more ambitiously, promote the ‘therapeutic transformation of public attitudes’ (Dixon, 1987, p.278). In this chapter we shall examine two different strategies of what Dixon might term ‘therapeutic transformation’ but which we shall term personal transformation. The first of these is reconciliation, which draws its inspiration mainly from religious peace traditions and which seems to require the capacity to seek and to grant forgiveness in the pursuit of a higher synthesis in interpersonal relations. It also seems to expect that individuals will transcend their own selfish and non-spiritual needs to reach this new level. The second approach, however, uses selfishness as the key motive for change to interpersonal relations. This involves the idea that the joint fulfilment of what have been called superordinate goals can result in improved relations between individuals. Another feature of superordinate goals when compared to reconciliation goals is that they were conceptualized in the context of inter-group conflicts, and therefore have a particular aptness for the study of inter-communal conflict transformation. In this chapter we shall also address some issues around victimization, which we have already identified as an important consequence of violent conflict. There is a tendency for the parties and outside observers to construct an account of a conflict in terms of victims and victimizers as if they are two completely different classes of being. One group, the victims, deserve our sympathy and support. The others, the victimizers, are the targets of our disdain and hostility. In reality, as always, any situation of intercommunal conflict is going to be more complex than this. All the parties will feel themselves to be victims of someone else, and very often the victimizers will also be the victims of previous actions against them. Reconciliation Reconciliation is a term that is now used in such broad manner that it is in danger of losing a precise meaning. It is also a process that contains a strong emotive element and resists proper rational understanding. Galtung (undated, p.64) has pointed out that it has ‘deep psychological, sociological, theological, philosophical and profoundly human roots – and nobody knows how to do it’. For this reason it is unclear if we can talk about any model of reconciliation. Furthermore, Galtung points out that war ‘is like an epidemic, even a pandemic. Before it comes: maximum prevention. When it happens: maximum therapy. After it has happened: maximum healing. In general this is more than humans are able to do’ (Galtung, 1997b, Section 22). Nonetheless, the main elements are well known. Galtung identifies them as investigation, recognition of victims, closure, restitution, forgiveness and amnesty. But this raises some important questions. For example, what is the appropriate balance of these elements in any particular case? Is amnesty always compatible with closure or will it leave victims with a lingering sense of injustice and dissatisfaction with the

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direction of a peace process? Does an emphasis of forgiveness mean that the need for restitution is undervalued? Do forgiveness and amnesty allow the perpetrators to get off too lightly? These are matters that each divided society will have to answer for itself, and in each case the answers may be different. It is not clear, for example, that justice and reconciliation always relate to each other in a mutually supportive way. In some cases support for reconciliation may occur because there is a feeling that there is no realistic hope that the legal system will be able to prosecute those guilty of serious human rights abuses. Or, as was the case in South Africa, the desire of individual families for retributive justice may be placed behind the need for ‘national reconciliation’. This, however, might be extremely hard on the victims and their families who may feel that they will only be satisfied when the perpetrators of abuse have been punished for their deeds. The relationship between the legal justice model and the reconciliation model is therefore ambiguous and complex. One should certainly resist the attempt to regard truth and reconciliation work on the one hand and the demand for retributive justice on the other as inherently antagonistic. Hayner (2003) points out how many truth commissions have gathered information that could be used as the basis for future criminal prosecution, though the past record here is not encouraging. It should also be noted that the legal process is also a mechanism to get at the truth in a more forensic, but also more limited, manner. The Nuremberg and Tokyo War Crimes trials, for example, although imperfect in many ways, did establish beyond doubt the criminal behaviour of the key defendants and helped to establish the principle of international accountability for such acts. Perhaps one way to reconcile the tension between reconciliation and justice is through the idea of restorative rather than retributive justice (Huyse, 2003). This is the principle that, it is claimed, is central to indigenous African approaches to conflict such as ubuntu or gagaca and it is also found in western states in initiatives such as victim-offender reparation schemes. Huyse (2003, pp.104−105), points out the weaknesses of the legal retribution approach, such as the Nuremburg and Tokyo war crimes trials or the work of the ad hoc Tribunals for Rwanda and the Former Yugoslavia. Criminal trials tend to marginalize victims (even promoting revictimization when they have to give evidence and be cross-examined), only offer a partial version of events, and may not be feasible because of lack of evidence or because the judicial system has been severely weakened by war. The restorative justice approach is much more victim-centred and is concerned to introduce a community dimension to the process. For the purposes of this analysis we shall try to counter the eclectic definitions of reconciliation by restricting its meaning to actor-centred initiatives that seek not a pragmatic accommodation between enemies, but a higher synthesis through truth and forgiveness. From this perspective, as we noted in Chapter 2, it has a close affinity with religious approaches to peace. Indeed, in religious inspired approaches to transformation one cannot overestimate the influence of the idea of reconciliation and its emphasis on inner change. Thus, an Inter-Church Group in evidence to Northern Ireland’s Citizens’ Inquiry, could state that for ‘the politics of reconciliation

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to be possible, there needs to be a social and spiritual breakthrough which will change people’s views of one another’ (Pollak, 1993, p.348). Of course, broader definitions are plentiful and often seek to detach the concept of reconciliation from a religious ethos. For example, a recent handbook on reconciliation defines it as: an over-arching process which includes the search for truth, justice, forgiveness, healing and so on. At its simplest, it means finding a way to live alongside former enemies – not necessarily to love them, or forgive them, or forget the past in any way, but to coexist with them, to develop the degree of cooperation necessary to share our society with them, so that we all have better lives together than we have had separately. (Bloomfield, 2003, p.12)

Here we get no sense of the spiritual breakthrough mentioned by Pollak, that is such a central feature of many religious approaches to reconciliation. Hamber and Kelly (2005), in a survey of the Northern Ireland case, also offer a broader definition of reconciliation. They point out how the concept has ‘moved from the seminary and the academy into public policy’, but also argue that it has ‘struggled to shake off its religious connotations’ (Hamber and Kelly, 2005, p.19). They also discovered that there is little sign that a consensus about how to use the term is emerging and believe that more work needs to be done to help clarify what exactly reconciliation means. Their own contribution to this work is to offer a working definition that views the reconciliation process in terms of five strands. These are: developing a shared vision of an interdependent and fair society; acknowledging and dealing with the past; building positive relations; significant cultural and attitudinal change; and substantial social, economic and political change. One of the most systematic secular perspectives that explores the link between reconciliation and conflict resolution/transformation appears in the work of Long and Brecke (2003). They have proposed what they term the ‘forgiveness model’. This is an emotive and problem solving approach which they want to identify as part of a signalling process that can lead to sustained peace. To be effective it must involve an exchange of costly, novel, voluntary, and irrevocable concessions and requires truth telling, the redefinition of conflictual identities, limited justice (not full prosecution of perpetrators), and dedication to a new relationship. Another version of secular reconciliation appears in a study by Kriesberg (2002). This emphasizes four key dimensions: sharing truths, justice, mutual regard and mutual security. However, it could be argued that such definitions may be too broad, and this writer would prefer to redefine many of these dimensions as important elements of peacebuilding and transformation linked to reconciliation rather as than essential elements of it. Maybe one way of responding to these different concepts of reconciliation is to adopt the point made by Borer (2001) who has noticed that there are at least two models of reconciliation. The one favoured here is based on the view that reconciliation is something that happens between individuals. There is a strong religious element in this model and the key terms associated with it are ‘healing, apology, forgiveness, confession, and remorse’ (Borer, 2001, p.13). The other model, favoured by what might be called the broad school, is based on the importance of ‘national unity and

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reconciliation’ and is more concerned with a society where the constitutional and legal structures support diversity and promote respect for human rights. In defence of the narrow approach it can be stated that although these are obviously important goals, it unclear why they should be called reconciliation. Other terms might do as well, such as legitimacy, democratization and a culture of rights. Nonetheless, this is a contested area where it is difficult to make any definitive conclusions about ultimate meanings and where it is best to avoid being too essentialist about concepts. So, the search for a more precise meaning for the term reconciliation may be unrewarding – it may be impossible to reconcile different definitions of reconciliation! In the narrow sense used in this study we shall continue to argue for a close affinity between religion and reconciliation and so we are in agreement with Hurley (1994, p.4), who has regretted the ‘secularization of reconciliation’. He has written about the ‘spirituality of reconciliation’, which he believes emphasizes forgiveness (Hurley, 1994). From a Christian perspective, reconciliation is not just something to practice with our enemy, it is a way of obtaining forgiveness from God. It is this idea of forgiveness that makes reconciliation more than just a strategy based on compromise. Niebuhr (in Brown, 1986, p.153) has claimed it is something we owe God, and if we do not forgive others their trespasses, God will not forgive ours. Reconciliation for Niebuhr is therefore both a way of practicing God’s love and a way of halting His wrath. As McCullough (1994, p.28) has noted: At the heart of the concept of reconciliation in the Bible is the notion that all is not well in the relationship between God and humankind … in the Bible the restoration of the vertical relationship always was accompanied by a restoration of the horizontal relationships. When people were reconciled to God they were reconciled to each other.

A core component of the narrower approach to reconciliation adopted in this study is the idea of transcendence through common suffering, for it is the realization that others share the pain of loss that impels us to forgive. This is not an exclusively Christian ideal. Think, for example, of Homer’s description in book 24 of the Iliad of Achilles and Priam weeping simultaneously because of the loss of a loved-one. When Priam goes to the tent of Achilles to reclaim his son Hector’s body he finds Achilles still in mourning for his slain companion Patroclous. Homer describes the scene as follows: Thus spoke Priam, and the heart of Achilles yearned as he bethought him of his father. He took the old man’s hand and moved him gently away. The two wept bitterly − Priam, as he lay at Achilles’ feet, weeping for Hector, and Achilles now for his father and now for Patroclous, till the house was filled with their lamentation. But when Achilles was now sated with grief and had unburdened the bitterness of his sorrow, he left his seat and raised the old man by the hand, in pity for his white hair and beard; then he said, ‘… sit now upon this seat, and for all our grief we will hide our sorrows in our hearts, for weeping will not avail us …. Bear up against it, and let there be some intervals in your sorrow.’ (Text available at classics.mit.edu/Homer/iliad.24.xxiv.html, translation by Samuel Butler, Accessed on 10 April 2006)

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The close affinity between religious belief and reconciliation can be seen in the range of NGOs working in this area that come from a religious milieu. These would include the Community of the Cross of Nails in Coventry, the International Fellowship of Reconciliation, the Corrymeela community in Northern Ireland, Taize in Italy, and Agape in France. Nor should we forget the work of the Society of Friends in a number or conflict settings (see, for instance: Mendle, 1974; Yarrow, 1978; Curle, 1981; Williams and Williams, 1994). Is the reconciliation approach too soft on perpetrators of major crimes? Interestingly, Archbishop Desmond Tutu was reported as saying on the 10th anniversary of the creation of the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission, which he chaired, that he felt that more people who had refused to testify before the Commission should have been prosecuted (The Guardian, 17 December 2005). He feels that the failure to put these people on trial might have created a culture of impunity, though could it not be argued that those who refused to testify were, perhaps, more honest than some of those who appeared before the commission in order to obtain an amnesty on the basis of insincere testimony? This leads us on to another important feature of reconciliation, which is truth. One cannot reconcile effectively on the basis of lies. The attraction of focusing on truth is that it offers a middle path between amnesia (undesirable) and prosecution (often unfeasible), and it may, or may not, be accompanied by amnesties (Goldstone, 2004, p.199). Most Truth Commissions are established by the state, usually transitional regimes with a Christian ethos. However, they also vary considerably in terms of longevity, perceived success, and participation. All told they have generated a vast literature (Avruch and Vejarano, 2002). Given this diversity, it is hard to agree a single definition of Truth Commissions. However, Hayner (2003, p.14) produces a list of four key characteristics based on her analysis of 21 cases from 1974 to 2000: focus on the past; investigation of a pattern of abuses rather than a single event; temporary status, usually six to 24 months; and official sanction or empowerment by the state. The aim of such commissions, she claims, is not to close historical issues, but to ‘transform this history from a source of silent pain and conflict to a point of public understanding and acknowledgement, so that the future is not continually hampered by an unresolved past’ (Hayner, 2003, p.254). She also identifies other ‘essential elements in common’ which include a focus on wide-spread and politically motivated violence in the recent past as part of a process of transition from one government to another or from war to peace (Hayner, 2003, p.17). One point that needs to be noted is that in the first major round of truth commissions in the 1980s and early 1990s, very few were in the context of intercommunal violence. Most were established to investigate human rights abuses by authoritarian regimes in Central and South America (for example, Bolivia, Argentina, Chile, Guatemala, El Salvador, Haiti). The exceptions were a commission of enquiry in Zimbabwe to investigate atrocities in Matabeleland, an investigation of involuntary removals and disappearances in three areas of Sri Lanka and a UN sponsored investigation in Burundi into the 1993 assassination of President Ndadaye and the violence that

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followed this event (see, especially: Hayner, 2003). None of these were a great success or had any significant impact on the violence. In Zimbabwe the government refused to publish the final report. In Sri Lanka the effectiveness of the investigation in Tamil areas was hampered by an escalation of inter-communal violence. In Burundi the publication of the report was delayed by a military coup, but even after publication it appeared to have little impact on Hutu-Tutsi relations. More recently, there has been an upsurge in truth and reconciliation commissions in the context of ethnic conflict/ genocide. These include Nigeria, East Timor, Sierra Leone, Serbia and Montenegro, Ghana (for further information see www.usip.org/library/truth.html). The most famous of these initiatives is the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC), which was created by the 1995 Promotion of National Unity and Reconciliation Act. It had four main functions: investigate gross violations of human rights between 1 March 1960 and 10 May 1994; facilitate the granting of amnesty to persons who made full disclosure of relevant facts; establish and make known the fate of victims and provide them with an opportunity to give their own accounts of violations and to make recommendations on reparations; and compile a report that as comprehensively as possible sets out the findings and recommendations of the Commission (de la Rey, 2001; Graybill, 2002). To this end three committees were created to deal with the issues of human rights, amnesty and the reparation and rehabilitation of victims. According to its chair, Desmond Tutu, it was influenced by the African concept of ubuntu, which was an indigenous model of justice that stressed restoration rather than retribution. However, it also came to embody a strong Christian ethos, due in part to the influence of Archbishop Tutu himself. So Graybill (2002, p.26) states ‘that theology would so thoroughly inform the working of the TRC mainly has to do with the personal role of Desmond Tutu as its chair’. It is important to state, however, that the TRC in South Africa is not typical of such initiatives. Few other examples put such an emphasis on reconciliation, which was also a source of criticism within South Africa from those who would have preferred a more secular ethos that focused on ‘justice’ (Graybill, 2002, p.27). Nor could the TRC produce a clear definition of what reconciliation meant (Borer, 2001). To date, only the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission has had the ability to grant amnesty to perpetrators who admitted their past abuses. So Hayner (2003, p.23), in her authoritative study, argues that the desire to think of truth Commissions as reconciliation commissions as well should be avoided because ‘many of these commissions on the truth have not held reconciliation as a primary goal of their work, nor assumed that reconciliation would result’. A huge amount of time and money was put into the South African TRC, which undertook hearings in all parts of the country and received enormous media attention. Yet a recent major analysis of the success of the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission has found that its impact has varied from community to community. Whereas 64 per cent of English-speaking whites feel reconciled (according to the definition in the Promotion of National Unity and Reconciliation Act), only 32.8 per cent of black South Africans feel the same (Gibson, 2006, p.181). Overall, just under half of all South Africans scored as at least somewhat reconciled.

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Yet the goal of ‘neutralizing history’ is surely a positive one, and it can be argued that this was achieved, in large part, in the South African case. So Wilson (2004, p.211) has pointed out that the massive final report of the TRC contained such a mass of evidence of the abuses associated with the past that ‘South Africans and others could no longer deny the veracity of the crimes of the apartheid regime’. He goes on to state that: According to NP [National Party] revisionists, apartheid was a well-meaning policy … that just went wrong. The report confirms instead that apartheid was a crime against humanity. It incorporates into national history the view that the system was based on a vicious ideology justifying economic and social privilege, which had enormous and unjustifiable human costs. (Wilson, 2004, pp.211–12)

It is unlikely that South Africa would have advanced so far if the new ANC government had determined to use coercive means to collectively punish the white minority. Cases such as those of the Southern US after the Civil War, Germany after 1919 or Yugoslavia after the end of World War II show that a tough approach to what we now call post-violence peacebuilding can be counterproductive and breeds resentments. In the last of these cases the psychological wounds inflicted by the atrocities committed during and after the Second World War were never properly addressed by the Tito government (Agger, 2001, p.245). The post-war communist government was anxious to push the idea of ‘Yugoslavism’ and therefore saw no purpose in raising matters that might contradict the official view of ethnic concord, but this was just a superficial form of harmony (Volkan, 1997, p.53). For underneath the official ideology of Titoism there remained a well of resentment that was then effectively drawn on by ethnic leaders on all sides when Yugoslavia started to implode in the early 1990s. All these cases suggest that bad feelings can fester if calls to move forward appear to the losers as the imposition of a ‘victors peace’, and this can result in a ‘culture of defeat’ (Schivelbusch, 2003). Schivelbusch points out that in defeat societies can develop according to a recognizable set of archetypes that starts with a sense of euphoria about the new regime that has replaced the one just defeated. This can contribute to a spirit of renewal (war as a purification). This is followed by awakening, when a society stirs from the dreamlike euphoric state to face up to some of the realities of defeat. This is normally accompanied by accusations of betrayal of the ‘stab-in-the-back’ kind. Other aspects of the changing perceptions in the defeated society are a feeling that the winning side was an unworthy victor (deceitful, immoral actions), and that although the defeated side lost in battle it had actually won ‘in spirit’. Defeat will also give rise to feelings of revenge, and this will be especially strong where a group has been defeated by a single enemy rather than by a coalition. When defeat is at the hands of a coalition, it is not uncommon for the defeated state to identify with the strongest power and degrade ‘the other winners as mere hangers-on and scroungers for scraps’ (Schivelbusch, 2003, pp.26−27). The apparent advantages of the truth and reconciliation approach should not blind us to its difficulties. Reconciliation may be ambivalent and incomplete. Victims

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may develop exaggerated expectations followed by disillusionment and bitterness (Hayner, 2003, p.8). Recommendations may be ignored and perpetrators might escape punishment (Theissen, undated). Reparations might be slow to materialize. Is there really a genuine sense of regret for harm done? What are the changes that will come out of a reconciliation process? Will the state’s commitment to reconciliation continue once it is no longer politically expedient? (see, for example: Lerche, 2000). A sober assessment of the South African TRC has been offered by Hamber and Wilson (2003, p.165), who write: Truth commissions do not heal the nation, restore the collective psyche or categorically deal with the past. Their value is much more limited and constrained, and lies in creating a public space in which publicly telling subjective truths, which are but one form of closure among many, may occur. They may also cause further psychological trauma when individuals (such as widows) are treated as the social embodiment of the nation, and are expected to advance at the same pace as the state institutions which are created in their name, but which are primarily pursuing a national political agenda.

The last sentence raises an important issue about the costs of social transformation, and the extent to which we should sacrifice the well-being of individuals who have been deeply hurt by the violence that society is trying to leave behind. As Hayner (2003, p.139) notes, ‘the central aim of a truth commission is not therapy’, and there are some psychologists who have expressed concern that in pushing individuals who have deep hurts towards public testimony (for the best of motives) such commissions may be causing greater psychological harm. On difficulty, noted by Humphrey (2002, p.112) is that the ‘memory of violence can be inaccessible and inexpressible because it refers to traumatic experience which is encoded not in verbal narrative and context but in sensations and images’. In such situations it may not be possible to tell the ‘truth’ in public through oral testimony. Private counselling might be better, but this does not contribute to public national reconciliation. Yet this might not be true of everyone, because, on the other hand, it also seems that some individuals did benefit from the opportunity to hear evidence about what had happened to their loved ones, and this might have been especially true of cases where families learnt for the first time about how they had died or where their remains were buried (Hayner, 2003, p.140). Despite these issues, in some ways the South African TRC set a gold standard for work of this kind, but there are other ways of dealing with the past. In Northern Ireland one cannot rule out all together the creation of a South African style initiative, though at present this seems unlikely. Instead the approach has been more ad hoc and piecemeal (Bell, Campbell and Aolain, 2004). We have seen a number of different investigations, most notably the Saville Inquiry into the British Army’s killings on Bloody Sunday in Derry in January 1972. This is a legal investigation, and there have been criticisms of the costs involved for the tax payer. Many Unionists have not been supportive of the enquiry because it has been focused on just British army violence against nationalists and there have been comments to the effect that the money

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involved could have been better spent on economic regeneration. In other words, it is not a process that has contributed to ‘healing’ between the two communities. There has also been an investigation into collusion between the British Army and police and loyalist paramilitaries in some controversial killings. One important feature of reconciliation is that ‘only local actors themselves can reconcile with one another’ (Theissen, undated, p.13). Indeed, it is an intensely personal process, which is why we are discussing it a chapter devoted to transforming individuals. Not only does the willingness to forgive have to come from individuals, it also has to be directed at individuals. As Hayner (2003, p.30) points out, victims cannot forgive without knowing whom to forgive and for what. No one can force this on others. Minow (1999, p.20) is surely correct to argue that ‘fundamentally, forgiveness cannot be commanded’. One reason for scepticism about ‘official apologies’ by governments, of which there have been many in recent years, is that they appear to lack this sense of personal internal authenticity. Commenting on an eruption of public apologies by the Clinton and Blair governments, Cunningham (1999, p.292) states suspiciously that ‘whether this is informed by a desire for social inclusion and a manifestation of a Christian ethic, or is driven by gestural politics which avoids material and resource commitments, is another question’. Eva Hoffman (2004, p.230) has pointed out that an authentic apology never comes easy, and this may be why the staged, rather slick public acts of contrition by leaders for actions in which they had no direct involvement seem less than convincing. The personal nature of forgiveness is both a major strength and a significant weakness for the reconciliation approach to transformation. The strength is that if granted it will always be ‘genuine’ and ‘authentic’, and will carry internal legitimacy for the actors who are prepared to take this path. The weakness is, that as a voluntary choice of individuals, it is rather unpredictable as a mechanism for inter-group conflict transformation. In any situation of destructive conflict there will be some who want to forgive and others who do not, and even those who want to forgive may disagree on what needs to be forgiven and who is entitled to receive it. The rather unpredictable development of a willingness to forgive and to seek reconciliation, means that it will have an uneven impact in situations of violent conflict. This makes it hard to employ as a consistent and effective transformation tool. Another criticism is that by concentrating on the inter-personal, me-you aspects of the conflict reconciliation might downplay the inter-group, us-them, aspects and is thus not powerful enough to resist the negative impact of violence. Esman (2004), for example, in a defence of the ‘institutional’ approach over the social psychology perspective, claims that the latter ‘approaches to conflict management make the fatal mistake of extending the logic of interpersonal dynamics to large collectivities’. In reality such initiatives are likely to be ‘overwhelmed by collective violence’. In a similar vein, Cairns (1996, p.149) points out that a problem for a lot of peace education work in divided societies is that the children are taught interpersonal conflict resolution skills rather than the problems of building peace between communities engaged in serious inter-group conflict.

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In the Northern Ireland context Ruane and Todd (1991, 1996) agree that to focus on interpersonal strategies is to misdiagnose the causes of, and therefore the cures for, intercommunal violence. So it is wrong to view the Northern Ireland conflict as ‘cultural’ (their term for what we have called interpersonal) because the main causes of the intercommunal conflict there are structural, i.e. economic and political. The problem with the cultural approach is that it ‘mistakes the cultural expressions and manifestations of the conflict for its deep causes’ and therefore ‘subjectivises the conflict and supposes that a change of ideas and perceptions will resolve it’ (Ruane and Todd, 1991, p.39). To the extent that reconciliation work focuses on a me-you relationship without any reference to broader social and economic issues these criticisms might be justified. But it is important not to overstate them. There are many who would want to incorporate the issue of economic justice within the reconciliation ideal (see, for example, Lowery, 2005). Yet there is always the danger of what Galtung and Tschundi (2001, p.211) have called the ‘liberal fallacy, focusing on attitudes only, making people more loving (religious), aware of their own mental baggage (psychological)’. The result, they clam is that no one gets to the root conflict and ‘no contradiction is unravelled’. Another problem with the forgiveness element of reconciliation is that it may violate a party’s conviction that it is the real victim. Often, after a protracted violent conflict all sides may feel victimized, and there may be a conflict within the conflict to establish who has been victimized the most. If this is the case, then being the first to seek forgiveness may be unwelcome by many in the group because it seems to imply that the other side has suffered the most. Some cases also seem to ask questions about the general appropriateness of a ‘truth and reconciliation’ approach to transformation. Here Hayner (2003) raises the interesting case of Mozambique, where the parties seemed to move rapidly to improved relations after the violence stopped without the help of international actors. It appears that there seems to have been almost a spontaneous reconciliation at the grass-roots level, but that one aspect of this was an agreement not to try to get at the truth about the recent past. Here an important factor seems to have been belief in the power of traditional healers called Curandeiros who are able to rehumanize people guilty of killing by exorcizing the spirit of the person killed from the shoulders of the killer. It is a form of spiritual reconciliation between the living and the dead and eases the reintegration of soldiers back into the community. In her ground-breaking study of the war in Mozambique Nordstrom (1997) confirms the significance of the role played by healers. She writes: The success was in part due the fact that traditional healing combines individual and collective resources – cultural wisdom applied by individuals to meet specific circumstances, flexible, fluid, enduring – a tradition dedicated to healing, protection, and re-creation at all levels of socio-cultural life …. The healing conceptualized in Mozambican/African medicine viewed violence as a pathology that needed to be cured like any other illness or misfortune. (Nordstrom, 1997, p.208)

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A similar set of beliefs also seems to be in place in Angola, where great emphasis is also placed on the spiritual dimension of reconciliation brought about with the help of rituals and traditional healers. Wessells and Monteiro (2001) warn us that the process is poorly documented and should be treated with caution, but also point out that western trained healers might have no understanding or belief in such systems and might instead try to promote their own models that will not be accepted by indigenous cultures. In the Spanish case, following the death of Franco and the return to democracy, there was also no real attempt to search for the truth or to investigate the abuses of the past. As in Mozambique, forgetting rather than remembering seemed to be the basis of the way forward, yet there are many who would regard the post-Franco developments there as positive. So Aguilar (2004, p.93) notes how ‘Spaniards have observed with a mixture of pride and surprise how their transition has become a paradigm of a peaceful transition from an authoritarian to a democratic regime’. However, she also notes that this approach may have encouraged some Basques to question even more the legitimacy of the government in Madrid. The failure to purge the military and the security services may also have contributed to subsequent human rights abuses, most notably the GAL scandal of the 1990s. She also believes that some of the worst aspects of contemporary Spanish democracy may be due to the late start in dealing appropriately with its authoritarian past. The decision by Spain not to confront its Francoist past is also discussed by Rigby (2001), in his analysis of justice and reconciliation. He writes that during the transition to democracy there existed a ‘generally accepted exercise in collective amnesia’ as ‘everything was subordinated to the need to ensure the peaceful transition toward parliamentary democracy’ (Rigby, 2001, p.39). In particular there were no attempts to seek justice for the victims of the atrocities committed during the Spanish Civil War and its aftermath, including mass executions. One consequence of the absence of any truth recovery process is that there are still major disagreements about basic facts such as how many were actually killed, with figures ranging from 40,000 to 200,000 (Rigby, 2001, p.41). Despite these doubts about the reconciliation approach, there still remain many supporters of its transformative capacity. Assefa, for example, has offered a strong defence of the reconciliation idea, arguing that changes at the structural level do not necessarily result in better relations between people. He points out that there is no generally accepted definition of the term and that there is a gap between articulation and implementation. Nonetheless, he believes that ‘there is no question about the tremendous need for it … the need in today’s world is much greater than at any other time’ (Assefa, 2001, p.339). Assefa identifies several key elements of reconciliation: honesty about the harm done to each party; sincere remorse for harm done; readiness to apologize; readiness of the parties to let go of anger and bitterness caused by the conflict; commitment not to repeat the injury; sincere efforts to redress the grievances that caused the conflict and compensate for damage done; and entering a new ‘morally enriching’ relationship. The uniqueness of this way of dealing with conflict, Assefa argues, is its self-reflective element. So instead of

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defending a position and accusing the ‘other side’ of wrongs, reconciliation involves voluntarily and sincerely acknowledging your own wrongs and recognizing the hurt this has caused in others. Such a method of dealing with destructive conflict has to be ‘internal and voluntary’ (Assefa, 2001, p.341), or as the slightly overworked phrase puts it, it has to come from the heart. In our terminology, it is actor-centred. As already noted, because it is internal and voluntary, genuine reconciliation is based on a strong personal legitimacy and allows the former enemies to move to a better type of relationship. It will also be a robust base on which to construct a new society. As Assefa (2001, p.342) puts it, ‘more enduring transformation is likely to emerge when motivated by an internal need to change, especially when it emanates from self-reflection and criticism’. For this reason there is more to reconciliation than pragmatic accommodation based on war weariness and/or external coercion. This is summed up well in a comment from Gobodo-Madikizela, who states that: Daring, on the other hand, to look the enemy in the eye and allow oneself to read signs of pain and cues of contrition or regret where one might almost have preferred to continue seeing only hatred is the one possibility we have for steering individuals and societies toward replacing long-standing stalemates out of a nation’s past with genuine engagement. Hope is where transformation begins; without it, a society cannot take its first steps towards reconstructing its self-identity as a society of tolerance and coexistence. (quoted in Gibson, 2006, p.182)

Superordinate Goals The main idea behind superordinate goals is to transform situations of conflict by introducing strategies that make the parties cooperate to obtain mutually desirable outcomes. The term was invented by Sherif in the course of experiments conducted with boys aged from 11 to 12 at summer camps in the US in the late 1940s and early 1950s. The key question Sherif and his co-experimenters was trying to answer was: How can two groups in conflict, each with hostile attitudes and negative images of the other and each desiring to keep the members of the detested out-group at a safe distance, be brought into cooperative interaction and friendly intercourse? (Sherif, 1967, pp.85−86)

Several strategies were ruled out in the course of their experiments. Positive information about the out-group or appeals to moral values did not seem to improve inter-group relations, nor did using an external enemy or conferences of group leaders. Contact strategies were applied, but did not work. Sherif (1967, p.88) found that far ‘from reducing conflict, these situations served as occasions for the rival groups to berate and attack each other …. They threw paper, food, and vile names at each other’. What did work, however, were the pursuit of what Sherif (1967, p.88) called superordinate goals. These are goals that ‘are compelling for the groups involved,

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but cannot be achieved by a single group through its own efforts and resources’. In Sherif’s own experiments these goals included repairing a ‘broken’ water supply, giving money to hire a film that was wanted by both groups, and pulling to start a ‘broken down’ bus that was to take them on a field trip. No single event caused an immediate change in hostile attitudes, but the cumulative effect of working together was to reduce conflict and promote friendship. So Sherif’s conclusion was that a ‘series of cooperative activities towards superordinate goals has a cumulative effect in reducing inter-group hostility’ (Sherif, 1967, p.93). Despite the rather narrow cultural milieu within which Sherif worked, this hypothesis has led some to view superordinate goals as a vital strategy for transforming all sorts of inter-group conflict. Subsequent work on the impact of superordinate goals has suggested that the approach works best if the joint work allows the groups to retain their distinct identities (e.g. through each group being assigned a different task). This, it is claimed, is an approach where the participants are more likely to develop mutual respect for each other (see, for example, Fisher, 1990, p.56). Galtung has also written about the benefits of joint work. He offers a rosy, rather maudlin vision of working together, but in some ways it bears a close similarity to Sherif’s views. He writes: Rebuilding is concrete, reconciliation is mainly spiritual. What matters is the togetherness at work, reflecting on the mad destruction, shoulder to shoulder and mind to mind …. Joint sorrow would seep in even if rebuilding can also be fun. Reflection on futility would enter. For this to happen those who did the destruction should also do the construction, facilitating reliving on the spot. In so doing, two or more parties will together find a deeper, more dynamic truth. (Galtung, undated, n. pag.)

In this context, Muller (2003, p.14) points to the Kamenge Reconciliation and Reconstruction Project in Burundi that was formed to allow members of both communities to rebuild a church destroyed in intercommunal fighting. In Cyprus the United Nations Development Programme has engaged the Greek and Turkish Cypriot authorities in joint projects of mutual interest across the Green Line, and in Cambodia and Tajikistan the involvement of outside agencies has led to the creation of some projects across territories controlled by different parties (Jeong, 2005, p.149). The explicit or implicit use of the superordinate goal strategy is also found in a number of other practical examples. One would be conflict intervention methods employed by the War Torn Societies Project (Johannsen, 2001), which undertakes preliminary research work in conflict areas to identify group projects around which to build teams that can work together on a theme of mutual interest. It is interesting to note that the UN Mission in the Democratic Republic of Congo (MONUC) has introduced a Quick Impact Projects Programme (QUIPS) in areas such as education, health, agriculture. These according to the UN’s website, takes the form of ‘concrete community projects, mainly implemented by NGOs, which bridge different ethnic groups in mutually beneficial undertakings that not only contribute to economic

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and social development, but also enhance confidence with one another’. Recently completed projects include a new primary school in Kalidina and the repair of the Kasenga road (www.monuc.org/News.aspx?newsID=378, Accessed on 9 June 2006). As already noted in Chapter 1, the UN’s Brahimi Report (UN Doc. A/55/305) has called for more intensive use of such methods during UN deployments to war zones. In some intercommunal conflicts sport has been used to provide children with superordinate goals through their participation in mixed teams. It is well documented that some sporting fixtures where the teams represent opposing factions can trigger violence. Notorious examples include the so called ‘Soccer War’ between Honduras and El Salvador in July 1969 after a series of world cup qualifying matches resulted in violence between fans and rioting back home. In June 2003, a water polo match between Serbia and Croatia in Slovenia triggered rioting between fans and attacks on the Croatian embassy in Belgrade. Soccer matches in Northern Ireland have led to serious intercommunal rioting when teams are identified as being either Protestant or Catholic. As a spectacle, then, sport can sometimes appeal to narrow ethno-centric emotions. This may not always be the case. As this chapter is being written the 2006 soccer world cup has just begun, and it is interesting to note how many commentators are praising it as something that will bring the peoples of the planet closer together through the ‘imagined community’ of soccer fans. Yet sport is probably more significant as a transformation strategy when it becomes something individuals participate in as players. In Northern Ireland it has been a useful mechanism for cross-community contact (Sugden, 1995). Indeed, some analysts of peacebuilding have now started to use the term ‘sport diplomacy’ which has been applied, for example, to basketball in Lebanon by a program entitled ‘Unity Through Sports’ (kroc.nd.edu/colloquy/ issue7/lebanesecoaches.shtml, Accessed on 5 April 2006 and 5 June 2006). If sport is too competitive for some, then there are other superordinate strategies that could be used. In Bosnia and Herzegovina the Pontanima Choir is an interfaith initiative that involves Catholics, Muslims, Orthodox and Jews and sings a mixed repertoire from all these religious traditions (US Institute of Peace, 2003). In Northern Ireland a project entitled Different Drums has brought together musicians from the Protestant and Catholic traditions. In both these traditions the drum (either the lambeg or the bodhran) has a special significance and by combining them in a single musical group Different Drums is making a powerful statement about intercommunal cooperation (see www.differentdrums.info). Maybe the best known of the intercommunal musical projects is the West Eastern Divan Orchestra, made up of young Arab and Israeli musicians. It is named after a poem by Goethe, which was in turn inspired by the Persian poet Hafiz. The orchestra was created by the vision of Daniel Barenboim (an Argentinian born Jew who moved to Israel when 10 years old) and the late Edward Said (Palestinian professor at Columbia University), and now has a permanent home in Seville, Spain. In the 2006 BBC Reith lectures Barenboim explained the power of ‘meeting in music’. To play music well in an orchestra, he notes, you have to be able to both express yourself and

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listen to what others are playing. The orchestral setting is also a great leveller, for when Jews and Arabs meet through music ‘the primary quality that is missing in the political life, namely the equality, is already a given’ (www0.bbc.co.uk/radio/radio4/ reith2006/lecture4.shtml). The hope is that having experienced this equality in the music hall and practice room, they will look to find ways to replicate this experience in the political world. Barenboim claims: Of course the West eastern Divan orchestra is not going to bring about peace. What it can do however is to bring understanding. It can awaken the curiosity, and then perhaps the courage, to listen to the narrative of the other, and at the very least accept its legitimacy. (ibid.)

In any situation of violent intercommunal conflict it ought to be possible to identify areas of mutual interest around which superordinate projects could be implemented. Obvious ones include health care (even in the most bitter of conflicts the combatants have been willing to declare ceasefires to allow the immunization of children to take place), protection of the environment, rebuilding infrastructure and economic development (such as tourism). If the mutual benefit to be derived from joint action in these areas is not incentive enough, then the nature of financial interventions by outside bodies might just add the extra inducement to cooperate. The EU has adopted such an approach though one of its initiatives called INTERREG (for Inter-regional), which was created to accelerate the integration of internal border areas into a single internal market. Where these borders overlay ethnic and nationalist divisions there may be opportunities for the EU to promote joint development projects that encourage cross-communal or international cooperation. In the first phase of this initiative a number of EU internal border areas were designated, including those between Northern Ireland and the Irish Republic and the Basque Country in both France and Spain. In order to obtain funding from this scheme applications for cross-border projects had to be in the form of a joint submission, a stipulation that was meant to encourage cross-border cooperation. In Ireland, outside of the INTERREG framework, we have also seen the EU funding greater integration between the two capital cities on the island, Dublin and Belfast, in the area of transportation, most notably an upgraded rail link. However, there is a major limitation with all projects that seek to bind together groups into common projects in the hope that this will alter political conflicts. This is usually referred to as the problem of ‘spill-over’, though Lederach (1997) has called it the ‘interdependence gap’. In raising this issue he is asking the specific question about how to spread the benefits from positive interactions at one level to other levels in society. More generally the problem of spill-over asks why should it be that cooperation in one area will lead on to improvements in others, especially when this calls for a change to fundamental political, religious or ideological beliefs. Here the us-them dynamic can return with a vengeance. Knox and Hughes (1995, p.210) point out, ‘even where attitudinal change during cross-community projects is apparent, it may be short lived or context specific’. The context specific nature of improved relations is brought out in an interesting analysis of joint Jewish and

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Palestinian medical teams in Israel. Here Desivilya (1998) has found that although working together did lead to improvements in inter-personal relations between members of the two communities, there is little evidence that this has led to any fundamental change on either side in the way they think about the politics of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Thus, the positive benefits of working together seem to be confined to ‘local boundaries’ of the workplace and there is a ‘lack of transfer’ to other areas (Desivilya, 1998, p.448). Responding to Victimhood In the previous chapter it was noted that an important consequence of the experience of violence was a sense of victimhood that perpetuates conflict through the victimperpetrator-victim dynamic. Sometimes the victims then become the victimizers. How many ‘terrorists’, for example, are responding to violence directed against themselves, their family or their community? Often personal traumas as children comes together with real or perceived victimization by the enemy (Volkan, 1997, p.160). This is why the debate on victims of intercommunal violence is such a difficult one, because to some degree all the parties might be able to make justifiable claims to victimhood. Robert Fisk, for example, brings this home very well in his article on a single Palestinian suicide bomber in Iraq. He recounts how his family had to flee Acre to a refugee camp in Lebanon during the 1948−49 war. Two of his uncles were killed during the Israeli invasion of Lebanon in 1982 and other relatives were killed in Palestine by Israelis after 1989. In 2003, this 17 year old youth left Lebanon for Iraq and at the end of 2004 blew himself up in a car-bomb attack on a US military convoy (The Independent, Tuesday, 6 June 2006). When there has been a protracted, violent intercommunal conflict it is important to recognize that people on all sides will have been affected by the violence around them and all parties will feel themselves to be victims. Even when perpetrators do not deserve the status of victim, they may still carry with them some of the symptoms of victims such as guilt and trauma. Therefore, drawing a clear boundary between victims and perpetrators is never easy. As Rubin (2003, p.580) points out from his experiences in Afghanistan, the ‘discourse of transitional justice often sorts people into categories such as abusers and victims, but many in Afghanistan are both’. In Northern Ireland 447 prisoners were released from jail early under the terms of the Belfast Agreement. This caused a lot of anger from some quarters because of a feeling that these perpetrators were ‘let off too easy’. However many of these exprisoners have also been affected by their experiences and according to one study 75 per cent of them have showed symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and 60 per cent of ex-prisoners or their relatives considered themselves to be in ‘poor’ or ‘very poor’ state of emotional well-being (McEvoy, Shirlow and McElrath, 2004, p.656). However, as we have said a number of times in this book, we should be careful to avoid over-generalizing about such an issue. For a number of psychologists have

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made clear that trauma is not always the result of exposure to violence. Indeed, the ‘unambiguous conclusion’ of a literature review of violent conflict and trauma is that ‘suffering is not inevitable’ and ‘if two children are exposed to exactly the same incident and one is severely traumatized, it is not certain that the other will suffer at all’ (Cairns, 1996, p.168). This is because children will have developed different coping mechanisms and will have different types of family and other types of social support available to them. There is a real danger, Cairns fears, that ignoring coping mechanisms and labelling all children caught up in violence as traumatized might actually create a stronger sense of victimhood and might undervalue the way that local cultures have their own mechanisms to deal with these issues. The Machel Report, sponsored by the UN, appeals to the international community not to treat young people as ‘problems or victims, but as key contributors in the planning and implementation of long-term solutions’ (UN Doc. A/51/306, par. 242). In a similar vein Prendergast (1996, p.174) has been critical of what he believes are over-estimations of trauma in places such as Rwanda and Nicaragua because of an unbalanced focus on post-traumatic stress disorder while ignoring more positive indications of resilience and coping. He argues that ‘such an approach reinforces the passivity of the “victim” and the knowledge of the “expert”’ (ibid.). In the west, where society has fragmented and a sense of community has eroded, therapy has offered an outlet for individuals who feel themselves to be damaged. But in parts of the world where communities remain strong we should not ignore indigenous rituals and practices, which very often draw on religious beliefs (Irani and Funk, 2000). We have already noted the significance of traditional healers in Mozambique. Nonetheless, victimization is real for many individuals, and with it come ‘feelings of anger, resentment, depression, and sense of helplessness’ (Deutsch, 2000, p.45). This means that although we need to be sensitive to cultural issues and to the danger of labelling, there may also be serious consequences that arise from not addressing the problem of victimhood. There may be, for example, millions of traumatized children worldwide following their exposure to armed conflict. Sometimes the ‘trauma’ gets embedded in the common memory of a culture. This is brought home by the analysis of Serbia by Volkan (1997, p.78) in which he discuses the role played by the ‘chosen trauma’ of the Battle of Kosovo. He writes that: Adapting a chosen trauma can enhance ethnic pride, reinforce a sense of victimization, and even spur a group to avenge its ancestors’ hurts. The memory of the chosen trauma is used to justify ethnic aggression …. It emerged and continues to appear in icons, folk songs, poems, paintings, sculptures, plays, movies, monuments, and scholarly discussions, like a religious symbol that supports the Serbs’ sense of being a chosen people.

So trauma and victimhood remain important issues for conflict transformation. It was George Orwell who pointed out that the history of wars are always written by not just the victors but the survivors, implying of course, that if the dead could have their say stories about violent conflict might be told with a different emphasis. It

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is also important, when writing the history of peace that the positive stories do not exclude the victims of the conflict and that those who feel disillusioned and alienated by the direction that their society is taking have their say and that adequate action is taken to deal with the added bitterness that can arise when victims feel a peace process has left them behind. Staub (2001, p.79) has noted how unhealed group trauma can lead to new violence as victims will tend to focus on their own vulnerability and will be unable to consider the needs of other groups. This is a dynamic often applied to the IsraeliPalestinian conflict, where even though ‘Israelis take on the role of oppressor, with the balance of power in their favour, a collective victimhood has evolved into a discourse of self-righteousness among Israelis in respect to their actions’ (Plonski, 2005, p.398). Through their actions the Israelis are creating another set of victims and this competing sense of victimhood may be one impediment to peace in the region. Mack, through his work on the psychodynamics of conflict, has introduced the concept of the ‘egoism of victimization’, which he uses to describe this inability of one group to empathize with the suffering of another. He argues that such groups ‘that have been traumatised by repeated suffering at the hands of other groups seem to have little capacity to grieve for the hurts of other peoples, or to take responsibility for the new victims created by their own warlike actions’ (Mack, 1990, p.125). How many Americans, believing themselves to be victims of 9/11, grieved for the innocent victims of aerial bombardment in Afghanistan in 2001 and Iraq in 2003? In her analysis of victimhood in Northern Ireland, Smyth (2000, p.132) argues that a society ‘based on competing claims to victimhood is likely to support and legitimise violence, and is unlikely to foster an atmosphere of political responsibility and maturity’. The problem can also permeate families, where tensions develop between those ‘trapped’ in the past and those who want to look to the future. The gulf between the two groups can even lead to greater alienation for the trapped group. For these reasons it is hard to envisage how violence directed at another group can be viewed as an effective way to deal with the consequences of violence. For it is more than likely that the target groups of the aggression of others will be more inclined to exhibit ‘defensive aggression’. This will then just add to the victimrevenge dynamic Therefore, Staub (2001, p.83) claims that ‘helping previously victimized groups heal is essential to preventing later violence by them’. This is a view also shared by Mack (1990, p.126), who agrees that victimization can contribute to violence because of the way it is employed to justify vengeful behaviour and because it can lock communities into a cycle of ‘collective mutual victimisation’. However, the difficult question is how much weight to give to the victims when it comes to making decisions about transformation? Victims do appear to have a moral claim over us, both because they are the ones who seem to have suffered the most and because they can remind us of our own indifference to the suffering of others. Making people face up to the consequences of this indifference might be an important learning process for divided societies coming out of conflict. However,

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although we can accept that a peace process has to respond to the needs of victims, I doubt that many of us would agree that a feeling of victimhood should give someone a privileged place in the debates about how to transform society. Even fewer would grant victims a veto over ‘progress’ because they would find it objectionable that the people we are talking to are guilty of major crimes or because they want perpetrators who killed loved ones to remain in jail rather than enjoy the sort of amnesty that can be an important precondition for peace agreements. Most initiatives that try to respond to needs of victims will be located somewhere along a continuum between neglect and the granting of vetoes over moves forward. Usually, the aim seems to be to try to ‘neutralize’ the victim issue without giving it too much political saliency. The danger is that this becomes a form of ‘conflict management’ within the broader context of conflict transformation. There are a number of ways that this can be attempted. We have already discussed the role of Truth and Reconciliation Commissions, but have also noted that it is unclear if this device always serves the interests of all victims. The Northern Ireland case, where there has not been a Truth and Reconciliation Commission to date, offers some other ways of responding to the victims issue. One of these is monetary compensation. Since the start of the ‘Troubles’ in 1969 over £1 billion has been paid to the victims of intercommunal violence. However, although this might help the victims cope with some pressing problems, it is unclear how this can help their nonmaterial needs for justice and closure. Nonetheless, a degree of economic security is clearly a vital need for victims, as witnessed by the claims of individuals and groups in other intercommunal conflicts that they have not received enough help from the state or the international community (see, for example, ‘The Unavenged’, Guardian Weekend, 21 March 1998, p.38). Another initiative recently announced in Northern Ireland is the creation of a ‘Victim’s Commissioner’ to press for acknowledgement from perpetrators of wrongs committed. However, one cannot help asking why this is now being tabled over seven years after the signing of the Belfast Agreement. Conclusion In this chapter we have identified three areas that are significant for individual transformation: reconciliation, the pursuit of superordinate goals and dealing with victimhood. In all areas we identified debates and questions about specific strategies. Yet this is just one level of conflict transformation work, and in the next chapter we shall move on to examine structural change. Before we do this, however, we should note something crucial about the actor-centred approaches to transformation. This is that it reminds us that working for a peaceful world is a personal responsibility. Even where structural change is vital, the agents of this change are individuals, and therefore the success of ‘systemic transformation turns on the capacity of the individual to act’ (Plonski, 2005, p.394). Thus, Howard (1981, p.135) concluded his study of liberal thinking about war with the following words:

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Kant was right when he said that a state of peace has to be ‘established’. What perhaps even he did not discern was that this is a task which has to be tackled afresh every day of our lives; and that no formula, no organization and political or social revolution can ever free mankind from this inexorable duty.

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Chapter 5

Structural Transformation The transformation approach, however, begins by assuming that there is nothing sacred about the status quo. (Mitchell, 2002, n. pag.) The idea that the real is the rational is one of the greatest imbecilities ever asserted in philosophy …. The weaker idea, that the real may have some merit, may be less bad than some alternatives, and not ought to be discarded without some due and deliberate process – that idea should be taken seriously. (Gellner, 1997, p.106)

Most of the transformation traditions examined in Chapter 2 seemed to give priority to changing political and economic structures. This might be the liberal belief in democracy and the free market, or the Marxist emphasis on the evils of capitalism, or the feminist desire to move beyond patriarchy. Yet structural change is hard. The evidence for this is clear from the recent experiences of the ‘international community’ in Bosnia, Kosovo, Iraq, and Afghanistan. In all four cases extensive involvement directed at transforming these societies has produced a long-drawn-out presence with no evidence that the peace process is close to becoming self-sustaining. We can also note the failures of democratization that occurred in Cambodia, Tajikistan and Liberia (Jeong, 2005, p.36). From a brief review of some of the critical literature on these, and other, cases of protracted involvement a number of issues have been identified and need to be addressed. These include: the need for clear and realistic mandates; better civilianmilitary cooperation; less of an elite focus; a better capacity to deal effectively with a climate of fear and a culture of intimidation; and improved monitoring of elections. In several cases of election monitoring it has been claimed (mainly by the losers) that fraudulent practices were not picked up by understaffed or badly trained election monitoring groups. Remember the ‘indelible’ ink in Afghanistan that could be washed off or the 1996 national elections in Bosnia where the turnout was 105 per cent of the eligible electorate, but where the US and German governments had their own reasons for wanting a quick success. Other accusations about Bosnia include the manipulation of electoral registration the bussing of students from Serbia into some districts to boost the Serbian nationalist vote, poor registration of refugees and the decision by the OSCE to destroy all ballot papers just a week after the election (see, for instance: Cousens et al., 2001; Pugh and Cobble, 2001; Sokolovic and Bieber, 2001). All of these issues might be termed ‘technical’ problems, and there now exist a number of studies that offer advice on how to improve election management. Sisk (1998), for example, makes a number of interesting suggestions for interventions

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to promote fair elections including: specialized assessments of the impact of democratization on cleavages in a society; acknowledge the limits of international influence; promoting pre-election pacts; more careful thought about the sequencing of elections; building conflict management mechanisms into all stages of the election process; and stronger and more systematic monitoring and observation. Yet there are also deeper, normative questions that have to be answered. Maybe the most important of these relates to real disagreements about the future political destiny of conflict areas. Should Bosnia be partitioned? Should the Kosovo Albanians or the Kurds in Iraq be allowed a right of national self-determination? Is it better for Northern Ireland to be British or Irish? Should the Basques be content with local autonomy or should their right to self-determination be recognized by Madrid? These are the sort of questions that will not disappear because a state has introduced democracy and has given people the right to vote. In fact this might just make it easier for them to express their fundamental disagreements about such issues. Yet, in some ways, structural change may not be as hard as individual or cultural transformation. This is because structures can change without any fundamental reassessment of individual attitudes or of cultural identity. It is quite possible that structures will change whilst leaving ethnic identities and ethnic antagonisms intact. Therefore, Congressman (and former civil rights activist) John Lewis (2005, p.173) may be right to claim: The bridge of reconciliation will not be built overnight. It is not an easy task. In fact, it is the most difficult human endeavour I can imagine. It is harder than going to the moon, or exploring the depths of the sea. The bridge of reconciliation requires us to reorder our way of thinking, being, and behaving.

Free elections and economic development do not require us to engage in this reordering, which is why, on their own, they may not be adequate transformation strategies, even though structural change is often identified as the key feature of the transformation approach (Mitchell, 2002). However, political and economic transformations are clearly important and we shall now examine each in turn. Political Transformation and Democratization In Chapter 2 we noted that the democratic peace hypothesis has become a central concern for liberal internationalist approaches to war and peace issues. We also noted at that time that although policy makers had broadened the hypothesis beyond its original emphasis on inter-state violence to inter-ethnic violence, it is unclear that the statistical evidence warrants such a move. Furthermore, it seems clear in some cases of intercommunal violence after 1989 that rapid democratization facilitated the release of suppressed nationalist feelings that actually triggered an upsurge in ethnic violence. So in reality, the process of democratization raises a number of difficult questions that we can now examine in more detail. We can classify them as

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the sovereignty problem, the transition problem, the constitution problem and the political culture problem. The Sovereignty Issue In order to build a new future in divided societies there probably has to some agreement on what territorial unit we are working for. One of the advantages in South Africa, for example, is that the majority could agree on what this state was as a constitutional entity (based on the 1910 Act of Union) and could therefore agree to join together to create a better society. However, in societies where there are still fundamental disagreements about the sovereignty of disputed areas, such a common project seems to be unrealizable. So, for example, whether Northern Ireland in the long-term is going to be British or Irish is a question set to one side by the 1998 Belfast Agreement because there is no possibility of agreement here. Yet if it is unclear if a future Northern Ireland is going to be British or Irish how can the communities there agree to work together towards such an indeterminate goal? In similar vein, O’Neill (2002, p.30) has argued that in Kosovo the ambiguity over the future as set out in UN Security Council Resolution 1244 has complicated the work of the international community and has ‘reinforced extremist views in both Albanian and Serb camps, undermining security and respect for human rights …. This uncertainty over Kosovo’s future stymied efforts to start dialogue and interaction between the two communities’. Likewise, although Bosnia and Herzegovina remains a single sovereign entity, its division into two distinct entities means that there remains little hope for a sense of common cause. In Africa, of course, because of colonialism there are many states that are rootless and artificial and have struggled to deal with intercommunal tensions (see, for example, Mazrui, 1995). In these situations, of contested sovereignty, one strategy that might be thought of as transformative is self-determination. There is some truth here. The acceptance by states of a right of self-determination for oppressed peoples would represent a significant change to the accepted norms of the international political system. However, it can also be a strategy that merely reproduces the state-nation conflict because the newly independent nation-states will often continue to treat badly repressed groups within their new frontiers or frustrate the self-determination claims of their own national minorities. So Angola obtains its independence from Portugal, but refuses to grant it to Cabinda, an oil rich area. The Bosnians vote for independence from Serbia, but refuse to consider it as a legitimate option for Bosnian Serbs. If the Albanian Muslims in Kosovo are entitled to separate from Serbia, are the Kosovo Serbs entitled to separate from the Albanian Muslims? There are innumerable examples of what has been termed the A-B-C problem of selfdetermination. If group B is oppressed by state A let them become independent. But then what about group C that now claims to be oppressed by the new state? So ‘one nation’s independence may be the beginning of another nation’s oppression’ (Walzer, 1994, p.78).

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The other difficulties that arise when trying to use self-determination as a conflict transformation strategy are also well known. First, there is the inability to make a clean break which results in the stranded minority problem, often leading to irredentist feeling. Horowitz (1985, p.590) notes that rarely, if ever, will secession result in regions that are ethnically pure. In such circumstances irredentism is likely to arise as was the case in Greece, Somalia and, in a milder form, Ireland. Today there is a strong potential for irredentist feeling in parts of the former USSR and in Macedonia, whose land has been coveted by its neighbours (Albania, Greece, Serbia and Bulgaria). Even if the populations are happy with the result of secession, there may remain disputes over territory. The Ethiopia/Eritrea case illustrates this. Here the independence of Eritrea in 1993 did not prevent the onset of a war between this state and the state it seceded from (Ethiopia) in 1998 over a poorly demarcated frontier. Another issue is who is to decide on self-determination? If it is through an election or a referendum, who is entitled to vote? In fact, many claims for popular referendums to ‘let the people decide’ about independence runs into the age-old question of which people should decide? Moore (1997) has called this the ‘indeterminacy problem’. In Spain, for example, to take a topical example, should a referendum on a new autonomy statute be held just in Catalonia, or should it, as the opposition People’s Party claim, allow all Spaniards to vote on an issue that has a direct impact on them as well. In Northern Ireland is the referendum unit the people of Northern Ireland, or the people of the island of Ireland or the people of the United Kingdom as a whole? The question whether to accept the Belfast Agreement of 1998 included two separate referendums in Northern Ireland and the Irish Republic. In both cases the people voted in favour of acceptance, thus sidestepping the issue of whether both were of equal validity. What would have happened, for example, if the two separate votes had produced opposing decisions? How could we decide on which was more valid than the other? Given all of these problems it is not surprising that some commentators have sought more innovative and less binary solutions to the nation vs. state problem. They explore what Walzer (1994, p.66) has identified as the ‘room for maneuver’ between the unpalatable poles of contested secession and oppressive unitary government. Because of difficulties that can arise from an uncritical acceptance of either the principle of territorial integrity or the principle of national self-determination there are some who believe that the best transformative approach is neither statist nor nationalist, but rather to work for new ideas around concepts such as autonomy. This has been characterized as a flexible strategy that does not threaten the break-up of states and instability in a region as a whole, but which can meet claims for self-rule advocated by groups unhappy with direct rule from the centre (see, for example: Hannum, 1990, 2004; Dent, 2004). However, some analysts warn that that this is a dangerous strategy because it encourages calls for even greater devolution and it will never satisfy nationalists who believe in the principle of ‘one nation, one state’. Thus, Hechter (2004) claims that the use of federal institutions in multiethnic states is a ‘gamble’, because the evidence suggests that although it will decrease ethno-

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nationalist violence, it will also increase ethnic mobilization. Horowitz (1985) is more supportive of the idea, but acknowledges that it will not work in very situation and requires a prudent judgement on a case-by-case basis. Yet although there are understandable worries about federalism there are also several cases that suggest that in the right context autonomy packages do produce stability in disputed areas. In Western Europe the two best examples are the South Tyrol and the Aland Islands. In both cases minorities (who are actually majorities in the disputed area in question) have been given extensive local powers to run their affairs in return for accepting the jurisdiction of their host state. In both cases a crucial factor seems to have been the quality of the relationship between the host state (Italy and Finland) and the ‘motherland’ (Austria and Sweden). This reminds us that we cannot view intercommunal conflicts in isolation, and have to locate them within the broader regional and global context (Ryan, 1995). We can also observe that there are about 3500 ‘nations’ in the world (Gurr, 1993). Yet there are only just under 200 states. So even if we factor in on-going violent conflicts for national self-determination we have to reach the conclusion that most states have managed to reach some sort of accommodation with their minority national groups through the use of arrangements short of full independence. This seems to be particularly true of the rich, democratic states of the west, where today there remains only one significant on-going violent conflict in the Basque Country, and even this appears to be moving towards a precarious cease-fire. This does not mean that relations between minority nations and the state are always positive and trustful, but it does suggest that in many cases working arrangements short of secession can be devised. Several commentators have also noted that after a sharp rise in the incidence of intercommunal conflict after 1989 good progress has been made in bringing many such conflicts to a (relatively) peaceful state of state-nation relations (see, for instance: Ayres, 2000; Gurr, 2000), which again suggests that appropriate constitutional arrangements can be invented. Transition Issues In most recent attempts at democratic transformation where there has been a strong international role the societies in question have been expected to pass through a transitional stage before the adoption of a new constitution and the holding of free and fair elections to choose a new, more legitimate government. The aim of the transition phase is to allow the parties to the conflict to decide on fundamental constitutional questions. It is therefore best practice during this stage to engage as many groups as possible in this debate. The broader the consultation, the more likely it is that the new structures will be acceptable to all sectors of society. In South Africa, for example, the transitional Government of National Unity was based on consociational, power sharing principles even though these features were dropped in the final constitutional agreement, which is much more majoritarian in content. During this transition phase we might see the involvement of constitutional assemblies or conferences that can involve all major groups and sectors in society,

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enabling them to engage in debate and dialogue about their own futures. These would include the Convention for a Democratic South Africa (CODESA), which included 19 organizations and the Loya Jirga (Grand Council) in Afghanistan. The latter was a gathering of tribal elders which met in July 2002 to decide who would participate in the transitional government following the collapse of Taliban rule. In Kosovo the framework for provisional self-government has been designed by the ‘international community’ to include 10 Serb seats in the 120 seats in the Assembly and at least one Serbian in one of the nine ministerial posts. Difficult choices have to be made in this transitional phase, including the question of how long it should be. Moving too quickly to a new political system might not offer enough time for attitudes to adjust or supporting institutions to be safely established. There are several cases where the move to rapid democratization resulted in greater violence rather than to more peace, at least in the short term. For example, the move to democratic elections triggered violence in Burundi (1993) and Sierra Leone (1997). Periods of transition can also lead to an escalation in violence. This may be because the parties jockey for better negotiating positions or because some groups feel that the direction of the transition is against their interests. In the South African case the peace process led to a rapid increase in violence, most notably between supporters of the African National Congress and the Inkatha Freedom Party, which was strongest in Natal. In Rwanda it is important to remember that what triggered the genocide was not war, but the Arusha Peace Process. In the former Yugoslavia rapid democratization following the collapse of Titoism released national passions that proved difficult to control. In Bosnia it was a referendum opposed by Bosnian Serbs that triggered the violence. It could also be claimed that a badly timed move to quick elections in Bosnia after the Dayton Agreement undermined other important features of the transition. Because a decision was made to hold early elections in Bosnia in 1996, in part to satisfy the domestic political concerns of some important members of the international community, some refugees were not allowed to return to their former homes because they might vote for the ‘other side’ (Cousens et al., 1996, p.13). The rapid collapse of the USSR, following the failed coup of 1991, did nothing to resolve a number of simmering nationality conflicts in Chechnya, Ngorno Karabak, Abkhazia, Moldova and elsewhere. The problems that accompanied the collapse of the Soviet Union provoked Gellner (The Independent, April 29 1996) to speculate that: The impact of the dismantling of the Russian Revolution may come to be seen as a disaster comparable only with the revolution itself …. The problem of erecting a liberal, stable and prosperous society on the ruins of a totalitarian industrial society is absolutely new.

As noted in Chapter 2, this is also a point raised by Snyder (2000, p.16). He writes: Spreading the benefits of democracy worldwide is a worthy long-run goal. However, strategies for accomplishing this must be guided by a realistic understanding of the

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politics of transition. Naively pressuring ethnically divided authoritarian states to hold instant elections can lead to disastrous results.

Snyder’s answer to this problem is to weave a ‘thick safety net for democratic transition’ to ‘channel mass political participation into liberal directions’ (Snyder, 2000, pp.316−317). This would include a package of supports at an institutional, ideological, political and grass-roots level that have to be well underway before full elections are held. This is also a point made by Rothchild (2004, p.242) who concludes an analysis of democratization in Africa with a call for flexibility in the way the international community approaches the issue, based on a realization that rapid democratization is not always the best policy to pursue. However, wait too long and the quality of democracy might also be under threat. In Rwanda, for example, the 1993 Arusha Accords decided the transition period would last until 2000. However, in 1999 the Rwandan Parliament extended this for another 4 years. It is fair to say that the international community was sympathetic in this case, given the extent of the problems faced by this post-genocidal society and the scale of the peacebuilding task. However, it now seems that this extra time was used to consolidate the power of the RPF government rather than the democratic process itself. In 2002, for example, The International Crisis Group (2002b) noted that the RPF has used the transition period to clamp down on opposition parties and the free press and arrest political figures who had criticized the regime. In such a situation the development of a vigorous civil society is impossible. The most notable example of this hard-line approach was the arrest of the former president of the first RPF government after the genocide, the Hutu Pasteur Bizimungu, who had tried to create a new Party for Democracy and Regeneration. A Constitutional Referendum was eventually held in May 2003, followed by a Presidential election in August the same year. Amnesty International reported that the run-up to this election was marred by the harassment of opposition politicians (web.amnesty.org/library/Index/ ENGAFR470102003). In the end, a huge majority voted in favour of the RPF candidate and interim president, Paul Kigame, who received 95 per cent of the votes cast. The Parliamentary Elections were complicated and involved a number of separate ballots for the Chamber of Deputies and the Senate and for reserved seats for women, young people, and the disabled. Direct elections were only allowed for 53 seats in the Chamber of Deputies not allocated to special interests. This in itself was less than satisfactory. However, in addition one should note that the parties who contested the election were not allowed to organize at local level and that the rules for the elections were published late, giving opposition groups little time to prepare. It is not difficult to understand, therefore, why some observers have noted that the quality of democracy in Rwanda leaves a lot to be desired and serious doubts remain about the conduct of the Kagame government before election day. A report by the Norwegian Resource Bank for Democracy and Human Rights (NORDEM) and the Norwegian Centre for Human Rights warned that:

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The Transformation of Violent Intercommunal Conflict If the peace is to last, the NORDEM team doubts that the most viable route ahead is the one followed during the elections. For if opposition remains repressed and dissent keeps being criminalised, Rwandans who would normally express their views peacefully may start to consider other means as a last resort. (Samset and Dalby, 2003, p.45)

Another issue is the amnesty vs. punishment debate, already mentioned in the previous chapter. In order to make the transition run smoothly an easy option might be not to pursue human rights abusers too rigorously. The arguments made against robust action are that it might undermine delicate political negotiations or could inhibit programmes to demobilize, disarm and reintegrate armed groups. For if members of such groups feel they might be imprisoned for past actions then they might be more reluctant to surrender their arms or join a peace process. On the other hand, failure to provide evidence that a new regime wants to punish those guilty of war crimes and other serious offences might affect the way it is perceived domestically and internationally and might have a major impact on the peace process because it raises questions about the commitment of governments to protect human rights and adds to an atmosphere of insecurity and intimidation. In Sierra Leone, for example, the 1999 Lomé Accord granted blanket amnesty to all combatants and collaborators, but this did not form the basis of a stable regime (Gberie, 2005). In Bosnia the failure of IFOR/SFOR to apprehend indicted war criminals has been a major issue. In Afghanistan an attempt was made to keep those with a suspect past from actively participating in the peace process, but this was done in a half-hearted manner. The Independent Commission for Convening the Emergency Loya Jirga required candidates to swear that they did not kill innocent people and were not involved in terrorism or drug trafficking, but in reality many participants violated these standards (Rubin, 2003, p.574). If new regimes do decide to take the issue of past crimes seriously there is still the question of whether this should be done through reconciliation or through the courts. The two are not always mutually exclusive of course, but problems can arise when trying to deal with both issues at the same time. In Sierra Leone there were tensions between the Truth and Reconciliation Commission and the Special Court established to put on trial those indicted of war crimes. Certain defendants were reluctant to talk openly about the past for fear that they would implicate themselves in crimes and when one individual did express a willingness to tell his story in public he was prevented by the Court from so doing (Gberie, 2005, p.214). It may be a sign of the priorities in Sierra Leone that although $80 million has been pledged for the Special Court, only $6.5 million was pledged to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. It is also important to be aware that there are certain dangers in applying the retributive model of justice in a period of transition. These have been identified by Huyse (2003) as: hasty trials that can be described as ‘emergency justice’; violations of legal norms through, for insistence, a lack of judicial impartiality or the ex post facto application of law; a lack of consistence in applying law (a violation of the tu quoque principle) and a rather arbitrary set of prosecutions in a legal system not able

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to deal with a large number of cases. Another issue is that what we get is ‘victor’s justice’ where the winning side decides who will be prosecuted and what breaches of the law are considered to be significant. In such circumstances one can expect a backlash against the legal approach. Nonetheless, there are also important benefits to be derived from this approach. To begin with it helps erode the culture of impunity. By demonstrating that individuals guilty of gross violations of human rights, even former heads of state such as President Milosevic, might not get away with it, war crimes trials could help to build an effective prevention regime. Trial judgements also help to develop and clarify international law in these areas. For example, as a result of the cases heard before the ad hoc Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia, the definition of genocide has now been extended to include cases such as the Srebrenica massacre of 1995. The defendants in this case argued that as ‘only’ 7000 people were killed the numbers were too insignificant to count as genocide. But this was not accepted by the Court, which expanded the definition of this crime in a significant way. Constitutional Issues One vital need in political transformation is for a new constitution that matches the needs of all sectors of a divided society. Poorly designed democratic structures could just move the communities from a zero-sum conflict to a zero-sum peace. It is important to ensure that a ‘winner takes all’ mentality is rejected in favour of a situation where the loser gets something. There is a strong argument to be made that certain conceptions of democracy do not work well in situations of bitter intercommunal conflict. In particular, it is felt that the first-past-the-post Westminster model will not be able to guarantee peaceful and stable multi-ethnic democratic government. Horowitz (2004, p.250) is surely correct to argue that this sort of ‘ordinary democracy’ is ‘inadequate to produce inter-ethnic conciliation’. One of the most significant contributions to this debate has come from Lijphart, who has developed the well known concept of consociational democracy. According to Lijphart (1977), the consociational model rests on four key features. The most important is government by a Grand Coalition of political leaders. Second there is the mutual veto or ‘concurrent majority, which can take the form of a delaying veto, an indirect veto or a direct veto’ (Schneckener, 2004, p.28). Third there is proportionality for political representation, civil service appointments and the allocation of funds. Finally there is segmental autonomy which can take the form of territorial devolution (Bosnia, Belgium) or in areas with an intermingled population it can be implemented through communal chambers, as was the case in Cyprus after 1960. It cannot be denied that consociational democracy appears to have worked in some situations of intercommunal conflict. The state of Belgium and regions such as the South Tyrol are often held up as successes. In the South Tyrol case, Wolff (2004, p.72) has noted that the ‘institutional arrangements of the conflict settlement are a classic example of the consociational settlement of an ethnic conflict’. Northern Ireland

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since the 1998 Belfast Agreement has also embarked on an interesting consociational experiment that goes beyond the classical approach because it includes an external dimension (O’Leary, 2001). The Agreement includes the creation of cross-border bodies and a British-Irish Council, which is intended to promote mutually beneficial development between the British and Irish governments and representatives of the devolved bodies in Northern Ireland, Scotland and Wales, as well as representatives from the Isle of Man and the Channel Islands (Walker, 2001). Criticisms of consociationalism are well known. The three most significant of these are that it entrenches difference, produces paralysis and, because it focuses on elite behaviour, it is unsympathetic to grass-roots democracy. The most influential critic under the first point has been Horowitz (1985). He believes that structural approaches that provide incentives for inter-ethnic cooperation need to be explored more thoroughly, and in this context he has focused on the way electoral systems can either encourage or block ethnic conflict. Changes to an electoral system could reduce ethnic competition in five main ways: by fragmenting a majority group; by encouraging the majority to behave more moderately toward a minority; by encouraging multiethnic coalitions; by preserving fluidity or balance in a way that prevents bifurcation; and by reducing the disparity between votes won and seats won so as to inhibit the development of a minority government (Horowitz, 1985, p.632). They also have the advantage that they might be able to provide a significant impact in a short period of time (Horowitz, 1985, p.653). However, it is not clear if Horowitz’s ideas will work in all contexts. This is something he acknowledges by noting that the electoral system is just one component of a larger framework that includes the strength of the conflict, the nature of the territorial divisions and the timing of transitions (Horowitz, 1985, p.651). For example, Bose (2002, p.236) claims that in post-Dayton Bosnia ‘political geography’ is ‘not conducive to the effective application of multiple/preferential voting mechanisms that would encourage large-scale cross-ethnic voting’, largely because the electoral constituencies are not heterogeneous enough. In the Northern Ireland case MacGinty (2003) has demonstrated that in post-peace accord elections, despite the use of a PR system and a wide choice of parties, there has been no reduction of votes for the parties viewed as hard-line. In fact quite the opposite has happened, with a rise in support for parties such as the DUP and Sinn Fein and a reduction in support for parties who were seen as strongly in favour of the peace process, including the Woman’s Coalition that lost both its seats in the Northern Ireland Assembly in the most recent election. He concludes that ‘there are limits to electoral engineering if the bases of the conflict remain intact’ (MacGinty, 2003, p.59). It is important not to exaggerate the differences between Horowitz and Lijphart. Horowitz has recognized that consociational theory was an important step forward in thinking about ethnic conflict because it believes that democracy can be established in societies prone to ethnic conflict while offering a ‘refreshingly realistic counterpoint to the earlier theories’ (Horowitz, 1985, p.569). Both he and Lijphart believe that decentralizing power is an important strategy. He does, though, doubt

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its applicability in cases of severe intercommunal conflict, believes it is a fragile arrangement and is worried that it will encourage inter-ethnic competition. He also challenges some of the detailed points made by Lijphart about, for example, the need to avoid a presidential system of government. Overall, as some commentators have noted, Horowitz is more ‘integrationist’ in his thinking and wants to provide positive inducements to encourage inter-ethnic cooperation (see, for example, Sisk, 1996). By building new democratic structures around ethnic divisions there is a real danger that, far from transforming intercommunal conflict, consociationalism reinforces it. This is because such ‘engineering’ could be based on a voting system that gives the leaders of rival communal groups no direct incentive to appeal for votes from the other community (as is the case in Northern Ireland where elections are essentially two intra-party contests). Or it can create what Horowitz (1985, p.586) has called the ‘frozen quota’ problem, where the system breaks down under pressure from changing population ratios that lead to demands for constitutional reform that are resisted by those who do well out of the status quo (as happened in Lebanon). Furthermore, consociationalism is compatible with differential rates of development, which can undermine the feeling of reciprocity that is needed to ensure support for it (Horowitz, 1985, p.584). This is an on-going debate in situations such as Northern Ireland and Bosnia, where critics of the peace processes claim that the consociational elements will harden ethnic divisions. One problem in assessing this debate is the lack of strong empirical evidence. Supporters of each position can easily find examples that seem to support their own preference and contradict the arguments made by the other school of thought (see, for example, Snyder, 2000, pp.328−334). Indeed, often there is uncertainty about how to interpret a single case. Does the fact that the national pact in Lebanon kept intercommunal peace for about 30 years before breaking down in the 1970s mean it is a success or a failure? Was the failure of the Cyprus Republic’s attempt at power sharing from 1960 to 1963 due to its complicated constitution or did it collapse because the Greek Cypriots tried to remove some of its power-sharing features in Makarios’s infamous ‘thirteen points’ of November 1963? Consociational engineering also tends to result in complicated governance, involving duplication of functions at higher cost, that has the potential to produce paralysis in decision making. A good example of a complicated government is Belgium, which is a small state but has seven parliaments. Cyprus, on the other hand, provides a good example of the paralysis that consociationalism can produce. The complex arrangements as set out in the 1960 Constitution for Cyprus contained strong consociational elements, including the grand coalition, proportionality, cultural autonomy and mutual vetoes. Unfortunately, disagreements over the implementation of these elements led to paralysis in the parliament as the Turkish Cypriots used their right of veto to stop the passage of important bills. Because the main emphasis in consociational democracy, as developed by Lijphart, is elite cooperation, it has been argued that a consociational system is compatible with widespread social inequality. So in a consociational regime ‘even if power is shared it is shared unequally’ (Luckham, Goetz and Kaldor, 2003, p.49).

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One response to this weakness is to propose a stronger integration of consociational and civil-society approaches by creating an ‘interactive, interdependent web of activities and relationships among elites and the grass roots’ (Byrne, 2001, p.328). Yet whatever the potential drawbacks of consociational democracy Lijphart would argue that they are less than those that would arise from adopting other democratic models. Certainly, there are still many strong supporters of consociational engineering, and many new constitutions continue to adopt some or all of this model’s most important elements. For some it remains the least worst option when trying to build a stable and democratic multi-ethnic state. McGarry and O’Leary (1990, p.300), after a considered analysis of all options, conclude that ‘only the joint pursuit of consociationalism within Northern Ireland is likely to pay dividends’. Although some have argued that the problems with the Northern Ireland peace process demonstrate the inherent weaknesses of this strategy, McGarry and O’Leary (2004), in a memorandum sent to the Northern Ireland Secretary of State, claim that the recent ‘instability’ has not been due to the consociational institutions themselves, but on the sequencing of issues such as decommissioning and reform of the police. The flaws in the institutions themselves, the authors argue, can be remedied by applying some changes to decision making rules and removing the right of the British Government to suspend them to protect one or other political group. In Bosnia the constitution also includes several consociational elements, including proportionality in the two houses of the federal legislature, an institutionalized veto as well as power-sharing in the federal executive (see Sokolovic and Bieber, 2001; Bose, 2002). There is also segmental autonomy. There are similar consociational arrangements for the two main territorial units that make up Bosnia, the BosniacCroat Federation and Republika Srpska. Bose (2002, p.247), after analysing Bosnia’s complex constitutional structures, tends to believe that, whatever the flaws with consociational engineering, it remains the best and most viable option when all else fails. Of course, consociationalism and first-past-the-post majoritarianism do not exhaust the possibilities for constitutional frameworks. Some analysts point to the strategy of ‘qualified majoritarianism’, which is an approach that encompasses a number of practices that can be introduced to try to meet the needs of minorities. These would include: strong human rights guarantees, affirmative action, proportional representation, decentralization of power, and institutional restraints on populism (Luckham, Goetz and Kaldor, 2003, pp.47−48). Political Culture One of the most important gauges of a successful democratic transition are free and fair elections. Yet it has become commonplace to note that elections in themselves cannot be a satisfactory indicator of democracy. Of course, the way they are organized and run can have a significant impact on the success or failure of a democratic transition. Here a number of important factors have to be taken into account, including the competence of voter registration practice, the fairness of the

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voting system, the quality of voter education, the coherence of parties, the willingness of the state to refrain from intimidating opposition candidates, and the behaviour of international observers. When things do go wrong during election management and the legitimacy of the result is called into question Deegan (2003, p.3) claims it can be ‘tremendously difficult to remedy the impact of a flawed election in countries riven by violence and religious/ethnic division’. Yet it is probably best to regard a free and fair election as an important mile stone on the transformation road, but not to regard it as the definitive indicator that transformation has occurred. What we should avoid is focusing too tightly on what some commentators would refer to as ‘formal democracy’, that is a situation where the apparatus of a democratic society has been constructed, but where there is no solid foundation in terms of local cultures. We should not be surprised if formal democracy comes to societies that are still deeply divided and where distrust and insecurities are high, that politics is mobilized around well-established ethno-nationalist divisions. We have already noted on several occasions that one consequence of this is that free and fair elections will return to power ethno-nationalists, which is what has happened in Bosnia. Clearly elections are probably the single most important source of legitimacy for any new government, but what is to be done if they legitimize parties and individuals who have been called ‘extremist’? Bosnia has seen extensive international involvement to support democracy. Pugh and Cobble (2001, p.28) note that between 1996 and 1998 the elections cost about £150 million and involved 2500 international volunteers and 200 expatriate staff in election supervision, voted education and media campaigns. Yet: A fundamental distrust of political institutions, fear of ethnicities who were represented as the ‘other’, the complexities of postwar conditions and an externally imposed system … meant that the elections had no secure foundations in local society. (Pugh and Cobble, 2001, p.28)

The failure of the electoral process to bring to power moderate liberal democrats has prompted the High Representative in Bosnia to take a more interventionist stance against the more extreme manifestations of intolerance. However, this presents a real dilemma. On the one hand moving forward to a viable multi-ethnic democracy in Bosnia requires that a firm hand be taken against those who want to thwart this goal. On the other hand, strong international involvement of the kind just discussed involves an undermining of the local democratic process and sets back the empowerment of local actors (see, for example: Chandler, 2000a; Hanson, 2001). In Kosovo, for example, Chandler has noted how the ‘international community’ has fallen into the same difficulties it has encountered in Bosnia. In both cases it has held up to the locals a model of democratic government, but has then been seen to frustrate the democratic will of ‘the people’. In Bosnia, as noted, this is because of the unpalatable policies of the ethno-nationalist leaders. In Kosovo it is because the vast majority of people want an independent Kosovo, which is something that outside actors have been unwilling to endorse. So, in a scathing analysis that is worth repeating at length, Chandler (2001, n. pag.) claims:

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The Transformation of Violent Intercommunal Conflict The November 17 elections in Kosovo were phoney in every major respect. They were phoney in that under the fiction of multi-ethnic government they helped legitimise a society that provides no normal existence for ethnic minorities, merely imprisonment in ethnic enclaves and military escorts to visit family cemeteries or former homes and villages. They were phoney in that through the fiction of ‘staring’ Serbs the responsibility for the low turn-out in some regions was seen to be the fault of minorities themselves, rather than the ethnic segregation overseen by the international community. They were phoney because under the guise of promoting media freedom and independence, freedom of expression and political debate were further restricted. They were phoney because under the guise of promoting political pluralism, majority rule was replaced by a consensus imposed by the UN’s Special Representative. They were phoney because under the fiction of a vibrant civil society the OSCE and its partners corrupted the process of encouraging civic engagement. Most importantly, they were phoney because under the fiction of democratic autonomy for the people of Kosovo, they legitimised a constitution that openly replaced the ‘popular will’ with the unaccountable power of an international protectorate.

In Kosovo the international agencies have imposed restrictions on the democratic process that would be unthinkable in western democratic states, including fining newspapers that support one or other of the political parties, holding parties responsible for the actions of their supporters and displaying a lack of transparency in the way the region is administered by UNMIK (Chandler, 2001). A number of studies of African states after the end of the cold war have also noted that although there was a ‘third wave’ of democratization throughout the continent, initial hopes of significant progress have not always been fulfilled. An indication of the frustration and disillusionment felt are the terms now applied to the quality of democracy in states that have slipped back into more undemocratic governance. These include ‘virtual democracy’, ‘pseudodemocracy’, ‘no-party democracy’ and ‘democratic illiberalism’ (see, for example, Diamond and Plattner, 1999). Analysts have expressed concerns including manipulation of the electoral process by rulers determined to hold on to power, intimidating or bribing voters, the closing down of spaces where individuals can debate politics, and the use of the media for personal advantage. Garcia (1994, p.82), therefore, is surely justified to argue that: The advent of parliamentary democracy does not automatically create a democratic society …. What makes democracy real is the participation of the people, their critical ability to articulate their aspirations, their capacity to organize their ranks into independent nongovernmental organizations, their willingness to educate people for critical democratic citizenship, and their strength to mobilize around their most vital demands. If a democracy is to be real and representative then it must be shaped by the hands and hearts of the people that the system claims to represent.

Many analysts would agree that we need to look deeper than the electoral process and formal structures of government to judge the quality of the democratic transition and two aspects of political culture are often singled out for particular emphasis here. The first is the quality of the civil society in any state. The second, especially

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important in situations where there has been destructive intercommunal conflict, is the acceptance of multiculturalism. A key issue here is to prevent ‘democratic slippage and reversal’ (Rothchild, 2004, pp.231−232). This has been a major problem in Africa and some of the new states of the former USSR. In many cases, there has been a trend of declining democracy after the adoption of a new constitution and the first free and fair elections. Rothchild (2004) attributes this to a number of factors: an insecure environment; the fragility of democratic norms; state weakness; and declining GDP levels and unfair distribution of wealth. The final factor identified by Rothchild is a weak civil society, and it is to this we can now turn. The idea of civil society is closely linked to classical liberal writers such as Locke, Paine and Ferguson. However, the term is also found in the work of historicists such as Hegel and Marxists such as Gramsci. One commentator has noted that the term has such a widespread appeal and can be used in such a large number of different contexts that it is in danger of losing any utility as an agent of positive change (Van Rooy, 1998b). It is true that the importance of a strong civil society seems to be a feature that unites all peace traditions. Indeed, in the absence of a strong civil society the transition to democracy will be fraught with dangers. On the other hand, a strong civil society may be a way of undermining the hold of ethno-nationalists on power (Pugh and Cobble, 2001). Think, for example, how Milosevic in Serbia was eventually overthrown by a non-violent protest movement arising from civil society? A strong civil society can also advance a peace process in other ways. Hayner (2003, p.234) has pointed out that it was an ‘essential ingredient’ in the success of a truth commission because of its ability to push for a strong body and because of the expertise that NGOs can bring to the process. At a more theoretical level Cox (2005, p.119), drawing on critical theory and the influence of Gramsci, has explored the transformative potential of a strong civil society and concludes that ‘civil society has become the crucial battleground for recovering citizen control of public life’. He notes how the concept itself has evolved over time, and argues that today it is based on the idea of ‘autonomous group action’ which can improve the quality of democracy and reduce opportunities for exclusivist state policies. A vigorous civil society built around diverse local communities operating in an ethos of equal rights could be a strong bulwark against the emergence of ethnocratic states. However, we need to be careful not to idealize civil society. It can contain groups and individuals that want to promote greater intercommunal tolerance and understanding, but it can also contain elements that are racist, anti-democratic and pro-violence. In Rwanda, for example, although some members of some NGOs refused to cooperate with the genocidal Hutu Power movement, other leaders of civil society, including the Church and human rights NGOs, willingly participated in the genocide (Uvin, 1998, p.172). Also, at a less troubling, but more pervasive level, NGOs can become another route to selfish personal enrichment. This has been noted by Nasong’o (undated, n. pag.) who writes:

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The Transformation of Violent Intercommunal Conflict A corollary to the above is the fact that most of the civil society organizations, especially as manifested in NGOs, share the alignment and project of the state-based elite in the form of self-advancement and personal accumulation. The emergence of what have come to be termed ‘MONGOs’ (my own NGO) that are run as personal or family outfits points to this eventuality.

In a divided society civil society, if it is to aid transformation, must contain groups that take seriously and respect cultural differences. These must have strong roots into local society and be more than just the artificial creations of donors (Uvin, 1998, Chapter 8). In seeking inspiration for such a vibrant pluralist civil society traditional liberal democratic theory is not of much help because it tends to ignore cultural difference, preferring to concentrate on the individual-state relationship. Being sensitive to cultural difference also means recognizing that trying to impose a ‘onesize-fits-all’ model of civil society on disparate cultures runs the risk of provoking a backlash against neo-imperialist policies (Azarya, 1994, pp.87−88). In Northern Ireland the most visible initiative to develop a stronger crosscommunity aspect to civil society was the ‘Civic Forum’. This was created by the 1998 Belfast Agreement, but many view it as not having fulfilled its potential. This may be due, in part, to a lack of clarity as to its roles. It has not helped that it has been linked to a peace process that has been characterized by a dispiriting stop-start quality where power has, in turn, been devolved to local politicians but then taken away again by the British government when these local politicians have found it impossible to work together in a cooperative spirit. When the local institutions of government are not working, the Civic Forum does not meet and in such a situation it has been difficult for it to sustain any real momentum. When it is in session it is composed of 60 representatives (and a chairperson) from different sectors of society, including the unions, business, and the voluntary sectors. It has no formal powers and is only a consultative body. Shortly before the current suspension its work was the subject of a review process. Nonetheless, despite these limitations the hope remains that a reinvigorated Civic Forum might make an important contribution to the development of a multicultural civil society in Northern Ireland. Other practical examples of attempts to boost civil society would include the work of the Opsahl Commission in Northern Ireland in 1992, a forum where individuals and groups could make submissions about the conflict (Pollak, 1993). The aim of the Commission was to assist the democratic debate in Northern Ireland and it attempted to engage with as wide a cross-section of the population as possible through public hearings, focus groups and even school assemblies (Gallagher, 1993). Its final report rejected both the option of national self-determination for nationalists and majority rule for Unionists, and instead called for the establishment through the law of ‘parity of esteem’. In essence this meant ‘recognising the legitimacy of Irish Nationalism in Northern Ireland’ (Gallagher, 1993). In the Philippines, there have been initiatives to establish a Peace Caucus and a National Peace Conference to promote dialogue aimed as resolving deep divisions in society (Garcia, 1991).

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One difficult issue for a pluralist civil society is what special rights to grant to specific groups over and above common standards that are applied to everyone. Traditional liberalism has always been suspicious of such claims for special rights because it seems to contradict the principle of equal treatment for everyone. However, Taylor has critically analysed this ‘politics of equal respect’ and has judged it inhospitable to difference. He contrasts it with a ‘politics of recognition’, which is more accepting of cultural differences and peculiarity. The reproach the first makes to the second is just that it violates the principle of nondiscrimination. The reproach the second makes to the first is that it negates true identity by forcing people into a homogeneous mould that is untrue to them …. But the complaint generally goes further. The claim is that the supposedly neutral set of difference-blind principles of the politics of equal dignity is in fact a reflection of one hegemonic culture. (Taylor, 1992, p.43)

We can see an attempt to apply this idea of recognition in the work of Porter on Northern Ireland. Challenging traditional Unionist thinking, he wants Protestants to adopt a ‘Civic Unionism’ which includes an acceptance that within Northern Ireland there exists both British and Irish traditions that have to be ‘accommodated and reconciled’ (Porter, 1996, p.183). This will allow both communities to express the religious, linguistic and historical aspects of their cultural identities with a broadly liberal democratic setting. It is what the author identifies as a ‘difference through openness’ thesis that also celebrates the ‘centrality of dialogue’ in political affairs (Porter, 1996, p.217). Inspired by this idea, Porter would view the complexities of Northern Ireland not as a threat but as an opportunity to build for the future. This hope is mirrored in the work of another writer from the island of Ireland, this time from south of the border. In a provocative study that, like Porter’s work tries to to reconceptualize identities in Ireland (this time Irish nationalist identity), Kearney has supported the idea that the European Union has created another layer of identity, and one that may be leading the Irish towards a ‘post-nationalist’ status. The peoples of the island of Ireland, he argues should think of themselves as ‘mongrel islanders’ rather than as ‘dwellers in two pure, god-given and rival nation states’ (Kearney, 1997, p.188). Like Porter, he wants all traditions to embrace and celebrate diversity and believes this can best occur in a ‘Europe of the Regions’. Multiculturalism is an idea that has taken root in a number of western liberal democracies, though only in Canada and Australia is it a clearly formulated official state-sponsored policy (Kivisto, 2002; Rex and Singh, 2004). It is also a policy that requires stronger institutionalization at the international level. It is quite remarkable, for example, that after a decade of trying to develop a ‘regime’ to protect minorities in Europe that Security Council Resolution 1244, setting out the basic terms of the international presence in Kosovo, made no mention at all of minority protection or promoting a multiethnic society (O’Neill, 2002, p.31). In fact Chandler (2001) would claim that in Kosovo UNMIK has presided over an ‘ethnic-apartheid’. Recently, there have been signs that the UN is aware that it has to take minority issues seriously. It has adopted a ‘standards before status’ policy that means that principles appropriate

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for a multi-ethnic society have to be in place before it will discuss final status issues (Judah, 2004). These include effective democratic institutions, enforcement of the rule of law, freedom of movement, sustainable return of refugees and displaced persons, respect for the rights of communities, and reform of the Kosovo Protection Force (see, for example: www.fas.org/sgp/crs/row/RS21721.pdf, Accessed on 19 May 2006). Multiculturalism is another concept that is hard to define, given the wide variety of practices it embraces. However, Tiryakian (2004, p.9) proposes we regard it as a ‘normative critique of the institutional arrangements of the public sphere that are seen as injuring or depriving a cultural minority of its rights’. This critique, the author notes, can be accompanied by calls for redress that could range from recognition of the minorities in the way the nation is imagined to call for significant changes to the economic and social policies of the state. Multiculturalism remains a controversial topic, and there are at least three issues that need to be identified. The first is a disagreement about the relative respect to be given to group and individual identity. Many will say we need to do both, but do we want to emphasize a ‘community of communities’ or a community of individuals? One problem here is that whichever of these two we pick, some are going to feel that they are not being treated fairly by society. This has been an important feature of the debate in the US about quotas for ethnic minorities. The second disagreement is about the consequences of multiculturalism. Will it lead to greater social cohesion by creating contented minorities, or will it undermine the stability of the state by weakening the common cultural bonds that some believe are essential for a durable society? Here it should be noted that many theorists of multiculturalism insist that there is a need for a common culture to be promoted and respected and they are not saying, for example, that different standards of human rights protection should apply in different communities (see the concise and informative discussion by Tyler, 2004). Ascherson has pointed out the third criticism of the idea, which is that although one can condemn multiculturalism because it tries to go too far in challenging a sense of cultural unity, it can also be damned because it is not radical enough. This is because it does not ‘embody a decisive move away from the politics of ethnicity’ and instead promotes a sort of politics of co-existence, which may not address the fears, resentments and the sense of ‘otherness’ that the groups have historically felt towards each other (Ascherson, 2004, p.101). The answer to this type of criticism is to argue for a form of multiculturalism that does not just endorse cultural identities but attempts to make each of them more tolerant and open while avoiding the ‘befuddling influence of a singular classification’ (Sen, 2002, p.113). In the Northern Ireland context the strategy of multiculturalism has also raised suspicions. Here, Roulston points out the need for a strong structural perspective on the Northern Ireland conflict, which he finds lacking in liberal multiculturalism. He complains that the state sponsored multiculturalism found in the province in initiatives such as Education or Mutual Understanding and cultural traditions work suffers from several drawbacks, including psychologism, depoliticization,

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relativism and reductionism. He complains that ‘everything is cultural, and culture is everything’ and that there ‘is no structural level’ (Roulston, 2000, p.268). This distorts our understanding of the conflict because it leaves out factors such as British colonialism, state power, and widespread discrimination against Catholics. The precarious position of multiculturalism is demonstrated by the fact that it is under threat in many established democratic regimes, and no longer just from the far right. For example, many Muslims in the US and the UK have been shocked by the popular response of many in these states to the terrorist attacks in New York and Washington on 9/11 and in London in July 2005. Especially troublesome for the British was the fact that the London attack was carried out by British Muslims, which provoked some to turn on multiculturalism in favour of a new integrationist drive through the promotion of Britishness. This was to be expected, as there is a correlation between insecurity and intolerance of minority groups who are believed to be linked to an outside threat (Ryan, 1988). One final point is to reinforce the claim made in Chapter 1 that transformation work takes time. Whereas nationalist feeling can be mobilized fairly easily under many circumstances in the contemporary world, it is not clear that the same is true of civil society or multiculturalism. Gellner (1996, pp.126−127) put it this way: The Sleeping Beauty of ethnicity can, alas, often be awakened with the gentlest and most tender of kisses. She now sleeps ever so lightly. The Sleeping Beauty of Civil Society may be much more deeply and genuinely desirable … but to wake her effectively is the devil’s own job.

Economic Development Economic development, like democratization, has the potential to feed group egotism and trigger conflicts as well as transform them. The idea that economic development will transcend communal differences is highly simplistic and seems to be the contemporary manifestation of the discredited modernization theory of the 1950s and 1960s. Walker Connor (1972), in a devastating attack, pointed out several key weaknesses in the nation-building component of modernization theory. These included: a tendency to underestimate the emotional power of nationalism; an exaggerated claim about the impact of materialism on human affairs; improper analogizing from the US experience (the ‘melting pot’ idea); and an unwarranted assumption that greater contact will lead to a reduction in ethnic conflict. Nonetheless, there has been a growth of interest in recent years in a number of areas related to the economics of conflict zones and the role of economic development in peacebuilding (see, for example, Fischer and Schmelzle, 2005). However, the empirical evidence seems to be mixed. There are cases where it appears as if economic development has been a catalyst for more conflict. Thus, the revival of Quebec nationalism was encouraged, in part, by the economic boom of the 1960s. In the Northern Ireland case McAllister and Rose (1982) have pointed out that the

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period leading up to the start of the most recent phase of intercommunal violence in 1969 was a time of rising living standards for all the communities. Another interesting case, according to an analysis by Uvin (1998), occurs in Rwanda. He argues that a disturbing feature here is that right to the start of the genocide in 1994, Rwanda was regarded as ‘a model of development in Africa, with good performance on most of the indicators of development, including the usual indicators, such as growth in gross national product (GNP), manufacturing, or services; the more social indicators, such as food availability or vaccination rates; and the new bottom-up indicators, such as the number of nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) and cooperatives in the country’ (Uvin, 1998, pp.1−2). There is nothing to suggest that the quality of development assistance in Rwanda was anything other than ‘aid at its best’ (Uvin, 1998, p.5), and Rwanda was even held up as a model to be followed by other states in Africa. It was ‘one of the most aided countries in the world’, and yet everything went wrong in the most catastrophic manner imaginable (Uvin, 1998, p.40). Uvin wants to use this troubling fact to suggest that there must be something fundamentally wrong with the way development projects are envisaged and he proposes some suggestions that could avoid similar failures in the future. These we shall discuss below, along with other ideas about how to make development a more effective tool of intercommunal conflict transformation. Economic interventions in violent intercommunal conflicts begin long before the ‘post-conflict peacebuilding stage’. Economic factors can play a crucial role in triggering violence. There are analysts who would argue that the actions of international financial agencies such as the IMF and the World Bank have made intercommunal conflicts worse because of their policies. Cases would include Rwanda and the former Yugoslavia (Killick, Srikantha and Gunduz, 2005, p.20). During a violent conflict aid policies can also impact in a number of unintended ways. Anderson and Spelten (2000), for example, note some of the most important areas where this can happen. They are: theft or diversion by armed groups to help them sustain their violent campaigns; distribution strategies that exclude groups and so increase conflict; market effects on wages, prices, profits and incentives which can also reinforce divisions; substitution effects where foreign aid can free up local resources to be used to pursue the conflict; and legitimization effects whereby aidgiving legitimizes some people and activities and de-legitimizes others. The authors also suggest more positive strategies during active conflict situations, including support for zones of peace. There is, of course a strong link between political and economic development. Poor economic performance might undermine new democratic regimes struggling for legitimacy. The fair and impartial bureaucracy needed for proper democratic administration depends on adequate pay, which in turn depends on the economic health of the country in question and the state of the global economy (Jeong, 2005, pp.127−128). Foreign agencies might be able to offer financial support, but this might increase dependency, undermine legitimacy and work against the empowerment of local actors. In Bosnia, it has been argued, there has been substantial international investment in the peace process, yet this has strengthened nationalist elites and

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their hardline policies, encouraged the growth of local criminal activity and worked against the development of local responsibility. It has not had much impact on crosscommunity reconciliation and, although it has attempted to develop a civil society, the top-down manner in which this has been implemented, albeit one ‘embellished by the rhetoric of bottom-up empowerment’, has hindered local participation (Belloni, 2001, p.174). Far from being viewed as a means of challenging political structures and a state characterized by ‘ethnic division, internal political stalemate, insufficient refugee and minority return, corruption and cronyism, and a general feeling of political, economic and social insecurity’, international efforts seem to see the creation of a civil society as an alternative to serious action (Belloni, 2001, p.177). As a result it appears to be sidestepping key political issues and has become detached from the main concerns of most Bosnians. Nor will economic development always be able to buy of secessionist demands in multi-national societies. Often these claims arise not in the poorest parts of a state, but in the richest parts of the country where resentment may grow about how the state expropriates ‘their wealth’ and shares it with poorer communities. Examples would include the Ibo region of Nigeria, Slovenia and Croatia in Yugoslavia, and Bougainville in Papua New Guinea. It may also have been a factor in the drive for independence from Soviet/Russian rule in the Baltic Republics. Outside agencies who offer financial assistance also need to beware of two pitfalls. The first is the creation of a dependency culture. Some have suggested this has happened in post-Dayton Bosnia (Fischer, undated, p.15) and it is also a concern in Mozambique (Johannsen, 2001, p.2). Because of this, agencies involved in the delivery of economic assistance must somehow work towards their own redundancy. This may not be easy, for there may be a reverse dependency where the donors do not want to let go. As Johannsen (2001, p.13) points out, a ‘serious commitment to building local capacity requires, of course, the political will to leave leadership to local actors’. But, as she points out, ‘many international actors find this hard to put into practice’. The trick, according to Johannsen, is to withdraw gracefully while leaving behind self-sustaining structures that will continue to work in the way intended. However the process of aid giving is fraught with dangers associated with ‘donor fads’, ‘donor bias’, ‘donor capture’ and, finally, ‘donor abandonment’. The other pitfall is the prevalence of corruption and the misappropriation of assistance. Here aid meant for victims can be diverted to sustain warlords and the structures of violence they operate within. Or money is just misappropriated by greedy individuals. According to Bolongaita (2005, p.5), corruption impacts on a ‘post-conflict’ area in four main ways: it diminishes enthusiasm for donor support; it reduces the amount of assistance reaching those in need; it fuels a cycle of public debt and mass poverty; and it contributes to more conflict as it can become the ‘axis of grievance and greed’ (Bolongaita, 2005, p.5). He goes on to point out that there is a strong correlation between indicators of corruption and situations that could be called ‘post-conflict’, and he argues that ‘corruption is one of the biggest challenges to the success of post-conflict agendas’ (Bolongaita, 2005, p.2). The scale of the problem is indeed daunting, and often the state agencies responsible for

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anti-corruption work are themselves corrupt. Bolongaita (2005, p.10) notes a report from Azerbaijan which claimed that bribes were being paid by people wanting to be elected to the anti-corruption commission in this country. In the Hutu refugee camps in Zaire, it is claimed that former Hutu military commanders imposed a ‘food tax’ on refugees that was used to feed and sustain their military forces. They also overestimated the number of refugees and resisted any attempts by international agencies to conduct a census (Shearer, 2000, p.193). In Bosnia alone, Fischer (undated) estimates that over $1 billion of international aid has been embezzled, leading to the creation in 1999 of an anti-corruption unit within the Office of the High Representative. The Office of the High Representative has developed a strategy for dealing with corruption that involves education and public awareness (what Bolongaita has labelled ‘horizontal accountability’); transparency; the elimination of opportunities; and stronger controls and penalties (see www.ohr.int/ohr-dept/afd/ac-cor-strat). However, many countries experiencing chronic corruption have no strong international presence to push for reform or to mobilize effective countermeasures and anti-corruption coalitions, and too often the international community has been content not to give this issue high priority. Yet maybe there is need for caution. It cannot be denied that certain types of corruption need to be reduced or eliminated. However, we should remember the observation by Nordstrom that some aspects of what the western donors might regard as corruption, most notably in the shadow or grey economy, might aid post-violence rebuilding. She writes, using Angola as a case study, that in a state emerging from protracted violence where the formal economy has collapsed, nonformal markets (often linked to illegal networks) ‘are fundamental, and possibly necessary, to development in devastated communities’ (Nordstrom, 1999, p.13). Of course, a blanket condemnation of the peace through development approach would not be wise. Generalized affluence may be a feature of society that reduces violent conflict, even if there will always be differences in wealth between communities. But as Gellner (1996, p.123) has pointed out, ‘in advanced industrialism, inter-communal jealousy is no longer fed so powerfully by economic jealousy: the distance between the very affluent and the very, very affluent is not so provocative as the distance which once obtained between the indigence of early entrants to industrialism and its first beneficiaries’. Or elsewhere the same writer argues that people ‘who are affluent and, above all, who believe themselves to be in a situation which will fairly soon improve and continue to do so are much less likely to be tempted into violent conduct’ (Gellner, 1997, p.106) One aim for the economic transformation of intercommunal conflicts should be the promotion of appropriate development that is sensitive to its impact on different cultures and can influence the dynamics of conflict in a positive direction. There are a number of examples where this has not happened and where development has had a negative impact on society. Examples usually given include Brazil’s deforestation of the Amazon rain forest and the Sardar Sarovar Dam project in India. This is despite the fact that those engaged in development assistance can ‘no longer be excused for blundering into ethnic quagmires as innocents abroad’ (Esman, 1997, p.3).

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So where can we turn to for more useful ideas about how to improve the potential for economic transformation in situations of intercommunal conflict? In fact, as Esman points out, the academic literature introduces a number of interesting views about how to use development in a transformative manner. Curle, for example, who identifies greedy institutions as a cause of the world’s problems, also views development as one of his tools of transformation. However, he insists that this has to be defined more broadly than economic materialism and wants it to include building a web of relations that involves the whole global community. For Curle, the four key goals of development are: sufficiency, safety, satisfaction and stimulus. The last of these is defined as ‘the possibility and encouragement to move on’ (Curle, 1995, p.96). The global perspective does not stop him identifying local action as a key strategy, especially the idea of redistribution of wealth through tax and wage structures and through community development. The later is viewed as a ‘powerful tool of liberation’ (Curle, 1990, p.143) which can empower individuals releasing self-confidence and energy. As already noted above, Uvin agrees that there has to be a fundamental redefinition of the development aid approach, though he has a slightly different emphasis in his analysis of Rwanda. He believes that the ‘game’ of development, as played by donors and recipients from international organizations to NGOs, can contribute to what Galtung has termed structural violence, including ‘inequality, frustration, cynicism, and a potential for conflict’ (Uvin, 1998, p.5). There are several reasons why conventional development aid can have such a deadly impact: a technocratic perspective on development that refuses to address political aspects; a lack of in-depth understanding of the target country by donors (e.g. inability to speak the indigenous languages); a focus on aggregate outcomes rather than an awareness of how projects impact on individuals; and an attitude to development that views the target country as ‘underdeveloped’ and in need of saving by western experts. Thus, a failure to grasp realities on the ground is not the result of ignorance, but ‘is profoundly linked to the ideology and functioning of the development system’ (Uvin, 1998, p.158). In retrospect it is remarkable that the whole development aid apparatus in Rwanda was blind to the institutionalized racism directed at the Tutsi minority, but Uvin does offer some convincing arguments as to why this was the case. He also argues that faced with a whole host of problems in Rwanda in the early 1990s related to human rights abuse, violence and the disintegration of society, the donors should have redefined their goals and created new projects to address these issues. Yet ‘no agency fundamentally rethought its mission or goals or practices’ (Uvin, 1998, p.92). Sadly, to the extent that development projects contributed to exclusion, humiliation and inequality it helped to create insecurity and frustration and the genocide that these feelings produced. Uvin’s proposals for redefining development includes an emphasis on recognizing that all development aid is a form of political intervention. This said, there should be more spending on ‘political development’ (human rights, conflict resolution, democracy awareness, strengthen voices of moderation and tolerance, etc.) and foreign policy should better serve development goals. Greater use could be made

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of political conditionality to entice elites away from bad practices and to send clear signals about what is acceptable and unacceptable behaviour. In addition, the concept of development should be widened to enable it to address more effectively problems of structural violence (Uvin, 1998, p.231). It is also not difficult to envisage how development could be redefined to incorporate superordinate goals, which were discussed in the previous chapter. Here the emphasis would be on the pursuit of interests that could only be met if groups cooperate. The most significant EU financial intervention in Northern Ireland has been the Special Support Programme for Peace and Reconciliation, usually referred to as Peace I and Peace II. This has delivered financial support to projects in the whole of Northern Ireland and the border counties of the Irish republic. The Peace I stage identified a series of sub-programmes for special attention. These were: employment, urban regeneration, rural regeneration, cross-border development, social inclusion, productive investment and industrial development, partnership and technical assistance. In Peace II these were redefined as: economic renewal, social integration, inclusion and reconciliation, locally based regeneration and development strategies, outward and forward looking region, cross-border cooperation. Maybe as important as the aid itself, which has been very welcome in a relatively poor region of Western Europe, has been the delivery mechanism for this assistance. There are some differences here between the Peace I and Peace II stages, but part of the process for the allocation of funding has involved the participation of local actors through what are now termed Local Strategic Partnerships. These have to include representatives from key groups and are meant to be ‘gender proofed’ and ‘religion proofed’. In other conflicts possibilities for joint action to fulfil superordinate goals have also been identified. In the Democratic Republic of Congo it has been suggested that one project that could bring mutual benefit to a volatile region would be a BeniKisangani highway to link the Indian and Atlantic Oceans (United States Institute of Peace, 1999). In Tajikistan, Anderson and Spelten (2000, p.10) have noted with approval a project that tried to address the problem of self-reliant development in mono-ethnic villages by re-linking different groups through the creation of interdependence. In the Tajikistan case this involved one village producing wool and another village making carpets (Esman, 1997, p.12). Another useful contribution to the literature on economic transformation in intercommunal conflicts is Azar’s concept of ‘development diplomacy’. This is defined by Azar (1990, p.132) as ‘a pattern of assistance designed to reduce the structural victimization prevalent in developing countries’ which ‘demands a careful analysis of a given society in terms of its specific social relations and victimization syndromes in order to properly locate the linkages between current economic growth policies and their negative products (i.e. communal fragmentation and more idiosyncratic features of a particular protracted social conflict)’. It must act as a catalyst for participation and be designed to promote redistribution and balanced growth – it must, in other words, fulfil the basic human needs of all people as individuals and community members. Indeed, basic needs theory should remind us

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that development, on its own, is an inadequate transformation tool because there are a variety of human needs that have to be met, and not all of these are material ones (see, for instance: Azar, 1990; Burton, 1990). Closely linked to Azar’s ideas about development diplomacy is Stavenhagen’s concept of ethno-development. Like the other writers discussed here, he is calling for a much greater sensitivity to cultural difference when designing and implementing development programmes in order to enrich, rather than undermine, the ‘multicultural fabric of modern states’ (Stavenhagen, 1990, p.90). A final idea worthy of note is found in a study by Esman (1997). Here he calls for the application of what he terms ‘ethnic impact statements’ to development projects. These would assess the impact of any major development on each culture and their relations with each other, as well as relations between communities and governments. Esman believes these statements should be prepared by a team of people that would include international experts and indigenous scholars and consultants. The implication here, of course, is that each ethnic conflict has to be viewed in its context and that there are ‘no standard formulas’ (Esman, 1997, p.v). Opposition to the idea of such assessments may come from critics who warn about delays and extra costs or who worry that such ideas might actually encourage ethnic resistance to state policies. Yet Esman believes that reliable information linked to conditionality is vital if we are to make international assistance an effective tool for peace. One problem with these interesting ideas is that it is unclear if the major international financial agencies are really that interested in rethinking development strategies. If Stiglitz (2002) is to be believed the International Monetary Fund (IMF), for example, has frequently shown a lack of interest in both the long term sustainability of projects and grass-roots empowerment. Thus, he claims, that there is an arrogance in the way the IMF related to countries that assumes that it is the font of all wisdom, which is that rapid privatization has to take priority over everything else, and that apart from a few members of the elite in each state ‘there was little point in even trying to talk’ (Stiglitz, 2002, p.41). Even when interest in such ideas can be turned into practice, such progressive approaches to development often cannot compete with the free-market ideologues. In South Africa, for example, the post-apartheid government in 1994 adopted a Reconstruction and Development Programme that had strong roots into the grassroots and which wanted to ensure that economic development was both empowering and met the basic needs of all South Africans (see Saul, 2004). Its six basic principles were: integration and sustainability; a people-driven process; peace and security for all; nation-building; linking reconstruction and development; and democratization (Cameron, 1996, pp.231−232). However, as South Africa drifted more and more towards free-market thinking that gave priority to economic growth, support for the RDP in the government started to decline, and after just 2 years it was effectively shut down, when the work of the programme was transferred to a number of different government ministries. During the 2 years there were accusations of corruption, under-spending and too much red-tape (Cameron, 1996, p.236).

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Conclusion In this chapter we have identified two major areas for structural transformation work. Each has the potential to produce positive change in conflict areas, but if applied in an inappropriate manner they could also produce more conflict (including violent conflict) and might derail peace processes already underway. One difficulty in studying these two areas of work is that it is hard to generalize since, as we have just noted, the needs of individuals and communities will vary from case to case. Yet some general issues can be identified as having broad application. Democracy is rightly viewed as an important part of conflict transformation, but it is not a panacea. Introducing democratic institutions and practices is not the same as converting leaders and voters to democratic values. For, as Assefa (1993, p.24) notes: From limited observation in Africa, most of the multi-party elections have been more about throwing out or bringing into office political personalities than about having meaningful input from the ordinary citizen into government decision making. As a result of such elections, representatives of one or more ethnic groups may have simply replaced other ethnic groups which have been in power …. However, ordinary citizens still remain alienated and marginalized from their governments; what transpires in government often remains very remote from their lives, concerns, and priorities.

For democracy is based on inter-party competition for high stakes and it has the potential, not just in Africa, to escalate conflict and buttress a win-lose mentality. This is especially problematic in societies where there has been a history of deep cleavages. Here, according to Assefa, ‘multi-party competition tends to exacerbate rifts rather than provide resolution to outstanding social and political issues’ (ibid., p.25). He goes on to argue that ‘instead of resolving contentious social issues, elections may create a new cycle of uncertainty, fear, resentment, tension, and even open hostility’ (ibid., p.26). So Assefa (1993, p.30) wants to endorse an actor-centred approach where a ‘politics of reconciliation’ takes precedence over elections. Yet even many critics of the exaggerated role allocated to democratization in conflict transformation do not want to oppose democracy per se. Rather critics will point out that more violence might have erupted not because of democracy itself, but because the transition to democracy occurred too quickly or too slowly. To criticize the timing and the speed of introduction of democratic institutions (such as free and fair elections) is not the same as saying that democracy should not be adopted at all. Another possible argument is that problems arose not because democracy is an unsuitable idea, but because an inappropriate form of democracy was chosen in this particular case (see, for example: Bastian and Luckham, 2003). It is hard to envisage how real transformation can be achieved without the creation of more democratic societies, but this does not mean that intercommunal conflicts will disappear altogether. Democracy may be a necessary condition for proper transformation, but it is probably not a sufficient one, as critics such as Assefa have pointed out. Democracy can result in the ‘tyranny of the majority’, or it can

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destabilize states by allowing the free expression of separatist arguments. Public opinion can be manipulated by unscrupulous leaders and a compliant media to the point where communities will willingly go to war. Attempts to move too quickly with economic transformation can also backfire, especially when this takes the form of an aggressive free market economy. Here competition and the priority given to freedom over equality can rapidly create winners and losers in a manner that reinforces communal divisions. Also, the speed of change can become a threat to the basic values of society and increase a feeling of insecurity. A final issue takes us back to the external imposition versus internal empowerment debate. Recent experience in Iraq and Afghanistan, suggests that political and economic transformation can mean one-sided support for a favoured western candidate who represents just one ethnic faction and has a questionable record when it comes to active support for human rights. Mishra (2005, p.45) quotes Dr Massouda Jalal, the only woman candidate in the October 2004 elections in Afghanistan, who complains bitterly, and with good cause, that western funding has gone to support Hamid Karzai, whose government is composed of brutal warlords and has done nothing to promote the empowerment of women in his country. Is this the sort of transformation we should be supporting? We have also noted that we should not assume that structural changes of a political or economic kind can guarantee a lowering of intercommunal hostility and there are problems in focusing too much just on the structural level of transformation. Kaufman (2000, p.1) drives this point home by when he argues that ‘a focus on structure alone overlooks the main obstacle to the resolution of ethnic war: not structure but preferences’. He has called for a stronger emphasis on a sociopsychological paradigm as the best way to change people’s preferences in situations of violent intercommunal conflict. This, inevitably, means working with ‘irrational’ factors such as hostility and fear and spirituality, something that academics in the field of politics have been very wary of engaging with. Kaufman is not arguing that structural changes are unimportant, but he believes that it is emotional change that will lead to structural change. This leads us on neatly to the next chapter.

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Chapter 6

Don’t Think, Feel? Sentimental Education and Conflict Transformation Here and now, a twenty-four-hour period in which the people of the Middle East and the people of the United States simply watched a television record of that day in the other place – call it unmediated documentary – could be the most radical jolt to malice and political idiocy that we possess. (Thompson, 2004, p.401) Tovah Lazaroff: Can you think of a specific example where music in this area has actually changed the political process? Daniel Barenboim: No, because neither the political leadership of Israel or from I know the Palestinian is musical enough. (2006 BBC Reith Lecture number 4, at www.bbc.co.uk/ radio/radio4/reith 2006/lecture4.shtml?print).

It should be clear from what has already been said in the earlier chapters that protracted and violent intercommunal conflict inhibits intercultural dialogue. Militarization and ethnocentrism make it harder for individuals to step outside the group consensus about the ‘enemy’ and to engage in more positive debate and negotiation. Physical separation reduces opportunities for meaningful cross-community interaction. Contact will also be distorted through a number of psychological barriers. Even where positive contact is feasible individuals from different groups may embrace a policy of not discussing ‘controversial’ issues in intercommunal settings for fear of upsetting others. Many will wrap themselves in what appears to be a comforting cultural cocoon and will surround themselves with mental (sometimes even physical) walls that will block intersubjective understanding. The problem then becomes how to unblock these obstacles. One innovative and influential answer to this question is offered by the American pragmatist philosopher Richard Rorty, who has identified an approach he has termed ‘sentimental education’, which would give a much larger role for artists in attempts to raise inter-cultural awareness and reduce cruel behaviour. Pragmatism is a philosophical tradition that originated with Charles Sanders Peirce in 1878 (though he preferred the term pragmaticism). Pragmatism is usually thought of as being a distinctly American way of thinking because of its practical down-to-earth and optimistic approach to social and political issues. So Crabb (1985, p.11) notes that:

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The Transformation of Violent Intercommunal Conflict A leading student of American culture has pointed out that in the nineteenth century, England ruled the seas, while (because of the eminence of its philosophy) Germany ruled the clouds. Preserving the analogy, it could also be said that ‘America ruled the ground’. Taking pride in the fact that their feet were always ‘on the ground’, and in the practicality of their thought, Americans have traditionally venerated ‘applied’ science and other useful forms of knowledge.

This should not be overstated, however, since pragmatism appears to have had a strong influence on European philosophers such as Popper and Habermas. Peirce introduced pragmatism as an alternative to Hegelian idealism and Kantian dualism based on a division between ‘reality’ and the subject. Hegel had offered a way of overcoming this dualism, but for Peirce it was too metaphysical. Instead he insisted that thought was a product of man in nature that could only be developed by practice rather than abstract reflection. Peirce’s ideas were then taken up by William James. He viewed himself as a ‘radical empiricist’, who looked forward rather than back to the past. Like Peirce he believed that there were no abstract truths. Ideas, he argued, are made true by events. Gellner (1979) has pointed out the cheerfulness behind this trial-and-error approach to social issues, but also claims it is one of pragmatisms greatest weaknesses. This is because it lacks a sense of crisis, which occur in periods, Gellner argues, when reliance on an existing tool-box is not a workable strategy. Pragmatism’s lack of crisis awareness is attributed by Gellner to its ‘temporal and geographical narrowness’. It is a philosophy that emerged against the background of the huge advances in knowledge of the nineteenth century, but then tries to give itself an unwarranted universal validity. The practical outcome of this way of thinking was ‘meliorism’, based, as noted, on a pluralist, tolerant, optimistic and dynamic world view. How did this work when applied to the problem of violent conflict? For early pragmatists the key issue was inter-state war and the most famous answer is provided by James in his 1910 work The Moral Equivalent of War (see, for example, www.constitution.org/wj/ meow.htm). In the war against war it had to be recognized that martial values were attractive, for they promoted change, heroism and inventiveness. Militarism ‘is the great preserver of our ideals of hardihood, and human life with no use for hardihood would be contemptible’. Pacifists would never be able to counter militarism by abstract argument, instead they had to provide an alternative that would offer a practical outlet for manly values. One option could be ‘human warfare against nature’, an unfortunate phrase that is unlikely to appeal today. By this James meant public works. Doctors and priests already displayed this ‘martial’ sort of character, and what was needed to counter militarism were actions to ‘inflame the civic temper’ − what we today might call creating a strong civil society. The third, and most important, of the founding fathers of pragmatism was John Dewey. Rejecting atomic individualism, which was based on nineteenth century liberal thought, and the idea of an ‘organic society’ found in much socialist literature, Dewey instead emphasized the importance of individual growth through participation in a ‘great community’. How an individual grew in this community context is open,

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since there can be no firm moral signposts. James referred to this as the philosophy of ‘open doors’. Or as Dewey put it in Philosophy and Civilization (1931), ‘if all existences are in transition, then the knowledge which treats them as if they were something of which knowledge is a Kodak fixation is just the kind of knowledge which refracts and perverts them’ (available at www.american-philosophy.org/ Summer_Institutes/2005_Institute/readings/Dewey_reality_practical.htm, Accessed on 18 May 2006). When it came to war, Dewey shared many of the attitudes of James, including his distrust of both militarism and pacifism – Dewey was in favour of US involvement in the First World War (though he later changed his mind about this) and did not support either the League of Nations in its present form or the Kellogg-Briand Pact. He thought it important not to glorify either war or peace (see, for example, Ratner, 1939). Also like James he wanted to emphasize the importance of ‘practical idealism’ to outlaw war. He thought that this could not be done through moral argument, which would be a waste of potential energy for good. Instead he put his trust in the legal approach and asked that war be made a public crime. Rorty wants to continue this tradition of pragmatic thinking, but, as he points out, today this has to take account of what has been called the ‘linguistic turn’ in philosophy. This means that the emphasis now is less on experience and more on language. For someone interested in the idea of transformation one of the most interesting aspects of Rorty’s work is his desire to overturn Kant’s belief that reason was the only pure motive for moral action and to place greater emphasis on ‘feelings of pity and benevolence’ (Rorty, 1989, p.193). He writes: For one can be humane without being universalist, without believing either that it is ‘rational’ to be concerned with the suffering of others or that there is a ‘common humanity’ which binds you to those others. One can want to relieve suffering without having an interesting answer when Socrates asks you why you desire this, and also without believing that this desire is the deepest and most important thing in your life. (Rorty, 1991, p.198)

From this perspective solidarity has to be built, it cannot be based on the recognition of ‘universal truths’. Pragmatists want to ‘diminish human suffering and increase human equality, increasing the ability of all human children to start life with an equal chance of happiness’, but this goal is not ‘written in the stars’ (Rorty, 1999, p.xxix). The best way to create a sense of solidarity that will allow us to achieve these goals, Rorty believes, is to turn to the poets and the novelists. W.H. Auden, criticizing W.B. Yeats’s belief that the arts could influence the course of Irish history, is reported to have said that ‘poetry makes nothing happen’ (Ford, 2004, p.43). However, there is a growing body of work and practice that would question this rather pessimistic and self-limiting viewpoint and which believes that there are many branches of the arts that can have an important role in conflict transformation. Before we discuss Rorty we should note that there are others who have embraced the transformative promise of intersubjective understanding in the hope that it will lead to a stronger sense of solidarity and a more compassionate way of acting in

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the world. They make up quite a diverse group and some of them we have already discussed in previous chapters. In the eighteenth century the Rev. Joseph Butler wrote the following in a piece entitled ‘On Compassion’. It was a response to Hobbes’s bleak view about the natural isolation of all human beings, which was one of the foundations of his deductive rationalist approach to politics that has come to be called ‘realism’. Pointing to the human capacity to rejoice in the prosperity of others and to feel compassion for their distress Butler stated: Of these two, delight in the prosperity of others and compassion for their distress, the last is felt much more generally than the former. Though men do not universally rejoice with all whom they see rejoice, yet, accidental obstacles removed, they naturally compassionate all in some degree whom they see in distress: so far as they have any real perception or sense of their distress; insomuch that words expressing the latter, pity, compassion, frequently occur … (http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/3150, n. pag. Accessed on 18 May 2006)

Habermas, as already noted, has called for the creation of ‘intermeshing discourses’ (Aolain and Campbell, 2005, p.198). He is also well known for his advocacy of the expansion of the public sphere and opportunities for communicative action. Here we can create an ‘ideal speech situation’ in which disagreements and conflicts are rationally resolved through communication that is uncontaminated by compulsion. This has to break free of constraints imposed by systems such as advanced capitalism where communication is manipulated to serve the narrow interests of the few often under the heading of ‘rationalization’ which is based on a technocratic consciousness (Pusey, 1987, p.100). In fact, this ‘colonization of the lifeworld’ is more likely to result in more irrationality as it frustrates and manipulates open and free dialogue. Buber has argued that we ‘also need imagination’ and ‘another thing we need is the ability to put ourselves in the place of the other man, the stranger’ (in Hodes, 1972, p.107). Rothman (1996) has made an explicit link between what he calls ‘reflexive dialogue’ and conflict transformation. Reflexive dialogue is a form of interactive introspection where through narratives adversaries talk to each other about their needs and values and develop ‘analytic empathy’. In this way ‘disputants can begin to hear overlapping stories of joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, needs and motivations, and begin to discover places in the other side’s tale that powerfully merge and mesh with their own’ (Rothman, 1997, p.44). We also noted in Chapter 1 that empathy was an important component of the transformative mediation approach of Bush and Folger (1994). Elsewhere, Kearney has called for the development of empathic imagination (which is a term that probably sounds more impressive than sentimental education). This is described as the ability: to feel, to put yourself in the other’s shoes, to imagine what it must be like or might be like for the other to go through his or her suffering … we want not only to tell, to relive and to recreate your own story but also to share it, even celebrate it. Yes we’ve suffered from it in many respects, but we want to try to understand what it is like for you to tell that story. (Kearney, 1992, pp.38–9).

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Kearney (1992, p.39) argues that this way is ‘central’ to challenging hatred. Storytelling, for some, is therefore an essential feature of transformative intersubjective dialogue. Informed by his work with survivors of genocide, Staub (1999, p.251) has a strong belief in the importance of ‘creating connections between groups’ and believes one way to do this are ‘dialogue groups’. He writes about such encounters that as the ‘members of each group describe the pain and suffering of their group at the hands of the other, they can then begin to to open up to the pain of the other’ (Staub, 1999, p.255). Elsewhere, the same author has contributed to the idea of overcoming trauma through empathic listening (Pearlman and Staub, undated). Bar-On (1996, p.185) has noted from his work with the descendents of Holocaust victims and victimizers that telling stories ‘helped release tension, elicit warm support from other members, and reconstruct a more genuine discourse’. Several studies of the work of the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission have also noted the beneficial role played by storytelling (de la Rey, 2001, p.260; Graybill, Chapter 6). Practical examples of storytelling as a peacebuilding strategy are not hard to find. In Northern Ireland an organization known as An Crann/The Tree has been gathering personal accounts about the Troubles in order to build-up a story telling museum that might be able to elicit better intercommunal understanding. A UNESCO project entitled ‘Legends of Peace’ is trying to encourage young people to create new peace heroes and heroines through workshops and storytelling. Senehi (2002) also advocates constructive storytelling because it can result in empowerment and the development of shared meaning. She points to its obvious advantages. It is a process available to everybody at little or no cost, is highly accessible to all groups even in societies with a high degree of illiteracy, and as stories are crucial for the socialization of children, they can help with the transmission of positive values between generations. Another benefit of storytelling is that by allowing individuals to describe their own lived experiences we not only develop more empathy with them, we also come to realize that within any conflict there are a variety of voices and opinions not covered by the lazy depiction of intercommunal violence as being between homogenized ethnic groups. Understanding this diversity may be the first step in breaking down enemy images. Rorty and Sentimental Education The concept of sentimental education is taken from Rorty’s most influential book, Contingency, Irony and Solidarity. In it he argues that there is no such thing as a ‘paradigmatic human being’ whose ‘real’ nature can be discovered by philosophers or scientists. Who we are is contingent on personal upbringing and cultural settings. Rorty also rejects the idea of universal truths that can allow us to determine which culture is better than any other. He notes with approval, a ‘growing willingness to neglect the question “what is our nature?” and to substitute the question “what can we make of ourselves?”’. This is indicative of a trend to think of a human individual

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as ‘a flexible, protean, self-shaping, animal rather than as the rational animal’ (Rorty, 1993, p.115). We can see, therefore, that Rorty’s approach to human problems is characterized by a scepticism about using truth to resolve conflicts. Here the emphasis is not on objectivity but on inter-subjective dialogue, which, as we have already suggested, can draw on a long history in the social sciences (Crossley, 1996). As a pragmatist, Rorty is anti-essentialist and rejects the mirror theory of language. He argues that the work of certain nineteenth- and twentieth-century philosophers such as Nietzsche, Heidegger and Wittgenstein have ‘transformed’ thought so as to ‘decisively undermine philosophical essentialism’ (Rorty, 1998, p.229). This anti-representationalist stance means that language is viewed as a set of tools rather than as a set of representations of the ‘real world’. Pragmatism, he claims, allows us to stop seeing language and the relationship between humans and their world as ‘a game of representations’. Instead, we should regard language as a tool that ‘enables us to perform actions’ (quoted in The Guardian, 13 March 1992, p.25). From this perspective, transformation should not be based on ‘convergence toward an already existing Truth’ (Rorty, 1989, p.xvi). For such truths are just language constructs, and language is made rather than found and it allows for descriptions and redescriptions. So philosophy should work to replace knowledge with hope and ‘one should stop worrying about whether what one believes is well grounded and start worrying about whether one has been imaginative enough to think up interesting alternatives to one’s present beliefs’ (Rorty, 1999, p.34). For human solidarity has to be achieved ‘not by inquiry but by imagination, the imaginative ability to see strange people as fellow sufferers’ (Rorty, 1989, p.xvi). Therefore, the true heroes of liberal society are ‘the strong poet and the utopian revolutionary’ (Rorty, 1989, p.60). A true liberal society needs to abandon the idea of ‘universal validity’ against a ‘background of an increasing sense of the radical diversity of private purpose, of the radically poetic character of individual lives, and of the merely poetic foundations of the “we-consciousness” which lies behind our social institutions’ (Rorty, 1989, pp.67−68). Like many other pragmatists Rorty is a progressive thinker who wants to ‘preserve Enlightenment liberalism while dropping Enlightenment rationalism’ (Rorty, 1989, p.57). Any reader of his work must be struck by his commitment to the goal of reducing cruelty. He believes that this requires us to abandon ‘rigorous rationality’ and to adopt an approach that allows us to build up human solidarity through ‘flexible sentimentality’, which works with our capacity for tolerance and friendship. The goal should therefore be that of ‘getting more and more human beings into our community – of taking the needs and interests and views of more and more diverse human being into account’ (Rorty, 1999, p.82). For moral progress ‘is a matter of wider and wider sympathy’ rather than of ‘raising above the sentimental to the rational’ (ibid.). There is no need, he claims, ‘to worry about whether we will also be rewarded with a sort of immaterial medal labelled “Truth” or “Moral Goodness”’ (ibid.).

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Solidarity has to be built through expanding the moral imagination. This cannot be done by general and abstract appeals to ‘humanity’. For, he believes: To get whites to be nicer to blacks, males to females, Serbs to Moslems … it is of no use whatsoever to say, with Kant: notice that what you have in common, your humanity, is more important than these trivial differences. For the people we are trying to convince will rejoin that they notice nothing of the sort …. Most people – especially people relatively untouched by the European Enlightenment – simply do not see themselves as, first and foremost, a human being. Instead they think of themselves as being a certain good sort of human being – a sort defined by explicit opposition to a particularly bad sort. (Rorty, 1993, p.115)

Elsewhere, Rorty (1989, p.177) reinforces this point by claiming that ‘simply by being humans we do not have a common bond’. All we really share ‘with all other humans is the same thing we share with all other animals – the ability to feel pain’ (ibid.). So if appeals to our ‘inherent nature’ are unlikely to bring about changes, what can? Those who have been touched by the European Enlightenment would tend to belive that unsympathetic attitudes are evidence of irrationality, manifested by people who are deprived of truth and knowledge. Rorty, however, prefers to believe that it would be more useful to regard them as having been denied not sanity, but security and the capacity for sympathy. In other words people who are capable of compassion and tolerance are not ‘better’ people, nor do they have a firmer grasp of ‘the truth’, they are just luckier in terms of where they were born and how they were raised. A feeling of security will allow people to interact in a risk-free environment, where strangeness and difference are not seen as a threat. Sympathy allows us to see similarities between ourselves and others, not in terms of our ‘true natures’ but in terms of human emotions such as the respect and love we feel for our families and the grief we feel when we lose someone close to us. Here one is reminded of the observation by Amos Oz (2005) that although it is hard to define the truth ‘evil has its unmistakable odour’ and ‘every child knows what pain is’. To put it another way, sympathy is the capacity to feel what others are feeling in specific concrete situations. Rorty’s belief is that narrative rather than abstract philosophy is a more effective tool to develop sympathetic links, and great novelists in particular, have the ability to put us into the minds of others so that we can identify with their suffering and needs. In this way we become more sensitive to the pain of others and this should reduce our capacity for cruel actions. One concrete example he gives is that if we can make the move from ‘she is a Jewess’ to ‘she, like me, is a mother of small children’ we have already developed a ‘fellowship-inspiring’ description (Rorty, 1989, p.191). For: The view I am offering says that there is such a thing as moral progress, and that this progress is indeed in the direction of greater human solidarity. But that solidarity is not thought of as recognition of a core self, the human essence in all human beings, rather, it is thought of as the ability to see more and more traditional differences (of tribe, religion,

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The Transformation of Violent Intercommunal Conflict race, customs, and the like) as unimportant when compared with similarities with respect to pain and humiliation – the ability to think of people wildly different from ourselves as included in the range of ‘us’. (Rorty, 1989, p.192)

Another example of what Rorty might mean can be found in reflections on the genocide in Rwanda written by the BBC journalist Fergal Keane (1995). During his reporting of this tragedy Keane came across a prefect in Butare called Sylvan Nsabimana, who, at a time when other local leaders were encouraging mass killings was protecting Tutsi families from the death squads. Indeed, accompanied by Keane he was even willing to escort Tutsi children to safety across the border in Burundi. After the children had reached safety Keane wanted to know why he was willing to do this. When he comes back I ask him why he was willing to help the children. ‘They should not be blamed for the problems of the adult world. I have my own children. I would not want to see this happening to them.’ (Keane, 1995, p.181)

What is interesting about this exchange is that this Hutu does not try to defend his protection of Tutsi children on the basis of some grand appeal to human nature, rather he employs an explanation that is based on his capacity to feel the pain that Tutsis were feeling in this situation. Being able to identify with the pain of the parents of a demonized group seems to be in line with Rorty’s view that the way to reduce cruel behaviour between groups is to ‘invoke a thousand little commonalities between their members, rather than specify one great big one, their common humanity’ (Rorty, 1999, p.87). Moral progress then involves finding ways to fill in the blind spots in our current attitudes and prejudices such as sexism, racism, homophobia, ageism and so on (Rorty, 1999, p.236). Another example would be Amos Oz’s attitude to Germans. In the 1940s he vowed to have nothing to do with Germany ever again apart from reading German books, and even here he limited himself to pre-war or anti-Nazi works. However: … in the 1960s, I began to read, in Hebrew translations, the works of the post-war generation of German writers. In particular, the works of of the Group 47 writers led by Hans Werner Richter. They made me imagine myself in their place. I’ll put it more sharply: they seduced me to imagine myself in their stead, back in the dark years, and just before the dark years, and just after. Reading these authors, and others, I could no longer go on simply hating everything German, past, present and future. (Oz, 2005, p.4)

In words that bear striking similarities to those found in Rorty’s work, Oz concludes that ‘imagining the other is a powerful antidote to fanaticism and hatred’ (Oz, 2005, p.5). Therefore, he wants to praise books that help us imagine the other because they ‘may make us more immune to the ploys of the devil, including the inner devil’ (ibid.). Rorty places a great emphasis on the impact of novels, and Contingency, Irony and Solidarity mentions, in particular, the work of Nabokov and Orwell as

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sensitizing us to issues of cruelty. Elsewhere he argues that one of the best ways to mediate encounters between cultures would be to read novels and memoirs of individuals whose own lives reveal a ‘tension between cultures’ (Rorty, 1998, p.200). In particular, Rorty mentions Salman Rushdie, V.S. Naipaul, Kwame Anthony Appiah, Kazuo Ishiguro and Gayatari Chakravorty Spivak. Maybe the emphasis on this literary form is due to Rorty’s belief that the ‘vocabulary of self-creation is necessarily private, unshared, unsuited to argument’ (Rorty, 1989, p.xiv). Reading novels is by its very nature a solitary act. It is unclear, however, that the influences on this process have to be so private. For novel reading is just one medium for sentimental education, and may be best suited to highly literate individuals such as professors of philosophy. In fact, Rorty accepts that there are a number of genres that can be employed to assist our sensitization to suffering, including ethnography, journalism, the docudrama, the TV programme, the movie and the comic book, though he still wants to reserve a special place for the novel. Elsewhere he writes that in contemporary liberal societies, descriptions of cruelty that form the bedrock of sentimental education can be undertaken by a ‘vast range of people: journalist, anthropologists, sociologists, novelists, dramatists, moviemakers, painters’ (Rorty, 1998, pp.322−323). Though once again the concrete examples he provides are all novels. Yet all forms of art and media seem to provide opportunities for helping with the development of sympathy, and in societies with high rates of illiteracy and a poorly developed media infrastructures and library systems then alternative methods may even be preferred. In Mozambique, for example, UNICEF developed a ‘Circus of Peace’ that used traditional music, art and drama to teach peacebuilding and to try to change attitudes (Senehi, 2002). We also need to be aware of the opportunities presented by new technologies such as e-consultation, on-line discussions, digital debates (used extensively in The Netherlands on issues such as planning) and digital storytelling. Even in the richer world, other forms of media might be as effective as reading novels, which is an especially solitary type of activity. There are many different art forms that could provide pathways to positive changes of perceptions and feelings. Even mainstream television and cinema has this potential. As Thompson (2004, p.24) notes, ‘when we go to the movies, for good or ill, we are playing with prospects of reinvention or transformation’. Indeed, as he points out in his study of the history of Hollywood, the transformation of individuals is one of the dominant themes in contemporary movies. As we have suggested at the start of the chapter, inter-subjective sentimentality might not even require engagement with high art at all. It might be that story telling could be just as effective in achieving these goals.

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Intercommunal Learning Sites for Sentimental Education We are now moving beyond Rorty, who is mainly interested in increasing an individual’s sensitivity to cruelty, into the realm of cultural transformation, and it is unclear if Rorty would want to follow us along this road. However, if, as this author believes, Rorty has some interesting ideas about ‘transformation’ then maybe we should think more broadly about how to implement them. There is also a certain voluntarism about the process proposed by Rorty and one obvious challenge to his emphasis on novels is why should enemies want to read moving works written by the other side? The fact is that from a voluntarist perspective it is hard to explain why combatants would want to do this, and individuals that are open-minded enough to subject themselves to this emotional influence may be the ones who least need exposure to it – just as children who attend integrated schools in divided societies are the ones who least need it because they will be coming from families already tolerant enough to take this option. It is one thing to have an important message to deliver, but quite another to be able to deliver it effectively because the intended targets do not turn on their receivers. There are a number of psychological studies that demonstrate how if people are subjected to information that challenges a deeply help prejudice this will be rejected or ignored. So prejudiced people are unlikely to voluntarily seek out such information and will probably react badly if they are compelled to hear it. As Aronson (1995, p.337) notes, for ‘most people, prejudice is too deeply rooted in their own belief systems, is too consistent with their day-to-day behavior, and receives too much support and encouragement from the people around them to be reduced by a book, a film, or a radio broadcast’. There is also the problem of how to engage enough people in dialogue to make it an effective strategy. Pearson (2001, p.280) points out that a ‘further complication is the difficulty of addressing mass-based emotive concerns through such means as dialogue: the logistics of creating enough mutual discussion could be daunting’. Kaufman (2000) has also mentioned problems of magnitude, and believes that peacebuilding often operates on too small a scale and with few resources and limited coordination. The answer, he believes, is coordinated peacebuilding work on a much larger scale. What we may need, therefore, is a strategy of sentimental education that is both broader and can catch those who would normally not be inclined to participate. Is such a strategy possible? Maybe not, and the difficulties must not be underestimated. However, if we are to move the concept of sentimental education into the area of inter-cultural understanding, then maybe we should be focusing on what social scientists would term agents of cultural reproduction and political socialization in individual communities and in society as a whole. Here we may be able to construct what the peace researcher Elise Boulding has called ‘learning sites’. If these could be focused on major agents of cultural reproduction then maybe we could make much more effective interventions in support of transformation. In most societies this would involve concentrating on the schools, the media, the arts and the family.

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Education It is not uncommon in divided societies for groups to champion segregated education, especially on religious and linguistic grounds. Sometimes, as in Northern Ireland, this can result in a school system that is almost completely segregated, with the vast majority of children who attend school for up to 14 years never having an opportunity for sustained direct contact with peers from the other community during classroom hours. Under government sponsored curriculum changes, most notably the 1989 Education Reform Order for Northern Ireland, there is now more emphasis in the schools on respecting cultural heritages and education for mutual understanding. The traditional reluctance of schools to cooperate with each other across the communal divide has been weakening for some time (Darby et al., 1984; Smith and Dunn, 1990; Smith and Robinson, 1992). There has also been a notable growth from the grass roots of integrated education, though this still reaches only about 4 per cent of the school population. Yet there remains concerns that segregated education helps sustain prejudices about members of the other community. Educationalists have argued that when looking at school practice we should examine not just the formal curriculum, but the hidden curriculum; not just what is taught, but the way it is taught. Although the curriculum might be similar, the values of the teachers and the ethos of the schools might influence the way classes are conducted. Here, it can also be pointed out that there may be something odd in trying to enlighten students about mutual respect and understanding while telling them that they will do this in segregated schools. What lessons are the children really learning from their school experiences? The hidden curriculum is not just a problem for schools in Northern Ireland. In many societies children are educated in a competitive environment where the emphasis is on grades and entry into the best universities (Coleman and Deutsch, 2001). In fact, the two authors point out that education for ‘cooperation and conflict resolution’ needs to address at least five different levels within schools. They are: the student discipline system, the curriculum, pedagogy, the school culture and the broader community. So Coleman and Deutsch (2001, p.239) argue that it takes much more than a single course to produce real change. Students need to have continuing experiences of constructive conflict resolution as they learn different subject matters and an immersion in a school environment which provides these experiences. The school should also act for the students as a model of cooperative relations and constructive resolution of conflicts.

Each level presents its own challenges and opportunities. So at the level of student discipline the school could introduce peer mediation programmes to train student mediators to deal with conflicts between their classmates (see, for example, Tyrrell, 1995). At the curriculum level, schools could devise conflict resolution courses and at the pedagogy level this could be done in a cooperative manner. Schooling can also contribute to a strong civil society through education in citizenship and civics. This can develop an appreciation of rights and duties and a capacity for critical reflection

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on social and political issues. The ethos in favour of positive conflict resolution and cooperation has to permeate the whole school, which will probably entail a change in the school culture. Finally, the collaborative training should spread outside the school boundaries to the home, the police and local community organizations. Here there should be important roles for NGOs. Indeed, in Israel and Palestine much of the peace education has been undertaken not by schools, but by a range of organizations either within the region or abroad (Plonski, 2005). In order to be true to the ideal of sentimental education it is also important that there is more to schooling than learning facts and discovering truths. Pragmatists have offered some guidance as to how to do this. Dewey, for example, wanted to make significant changes to the school curriculum (Howlett, 1978). All pragmatists value individual imagination and creativity and so it is not surprising that this is reflected in their attitudes towards education. Dewey certainly believed this. Geography, he stated, had to stop worrying about the height of mountains and the length of rivers and should focus on the study of different peoples and cultures. History should be about narratives of social development rather than stories about national heroes and all elements of national chauvinism should be rooted out from textbooks (Howlett, 1978). In Democracy and Education (1916) Dewey stated that the way we should judge the value of schooling ‘is the extent to which it creates a desire for continued growth and supplies means for making the desire effective in fact’. Furthermore, ‘growth is not something done to them; it is something they do’ (see xroads.virginia. edu/~HYPER2/dewey/header.html, Accessed on 17 May 2006). For Rorty this element of self-formation, to use a term he takes from Gadamer, is also important (Rorty, 1980, p.359). He believes the emphasis should be on developing a capacity to say new and interesting things about ourselves and on developing an openness to alternative descriptions. Rorty calls this ‘abnormal inquiry’, which draws on philosophers such as Dewey and Wittgenstein, that he terms ‘edifying’ (Rorty, 1980, pp.366−368). This is because they ‘present themselves as doing something different from, and more important than, offering accurate representations of how things are’ (Rorty, 1980, pp.370−371). He appreciates that this approach to education is likely to attract criticism from those who believe that the main function of education is the transmission of ‘objective truths’, but he insists that schooling must create opportunities for self-exploration. He goes on: The danger which edifying discourse tries to avert is that some given vocabulary, some way in which people might come to think of themselves, will deceive them into thinking that from now on all discourse could be, or should be, normal discourse. The resulting freezing-over of culture would be, in the eyes of the edifying philosophers, the dehumanization of human beings. (Rorty, 1980, p.377)

However, it is also important to achieve a correct balance between individuality and socialization. So: Even ardent radicals, for all their talk of ‘education for freedom’, secretly hope that the elementary schools will teach the kids to wait their turn in line, not to shoot up in the

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johns, to obey the cop on the corner, and to spell, punctuate, multiply and divide. They do not really want the high schools to produce, every year, a graduating class of amateur Zarathustras. Conversely, only the most resentful and blinkered conservatives want to ensure that colleges hire only teachers who will endorse the status quo. Things get difficult when one tries to figure out where socialization should stop and criticism start. (Rorty, 1999, p.117)

Rorty’s answer is that the socialization and the literary skills should best be left to the elementary and high schools, whereas the colleges should focus on self-creation. This, however, begs the obvious question about what happens to the large percentage of individuals who do not attend third level education? The Media At the start of the murderous twentieth century, the Viennese writer Karl Kraus warned the world about the dangers of irresponsible journalists who hide the reality of war from their readers behind jingoistic clichés. The ‘black magic’ of the newspapers was contributing to a fatal failure of the imagination (Pick, 1993, pp.328−329). More recently, we have witnessed the harmful impact of the media in many situations of violent intercommunal conflict, most notoriously in Rwanda, where Radio Milles Collines broadcast dehumanizing propaganda against the Tutsis and directed the killers to their places of sanctuary. Just as notorious was the use of the media by the Nazis to fuel anti-Semitism in Germany. A growing awareness of the need to stop this sort of hate propaganda has led the High Representative in Bosnia and UNMIK in Kosovo to shut down radio stations that were inciting violence or intimidating minorities (see, for example, O’Neill, 2002, p.134) The point that has struck some observers is if the media can play a role in promoting destructive violence, could it not also be an important actor for positive conflict transformation? Thus, Galtung (1998) has developed the idea of ‘peace journalism’, which he wants to compare with the normal practice of ‘war journalism’. The latter is characterized by a number of features, including: failure to explain the origins of a destructive conflict and thus depicting the use of violence as irrational and unjustified; a tendency to view the conflict in too simplistic a way as a battle between just two sides with one being good and the other bad; ignoring grass-roots peace initiatives thus reinforcing fatalism; no interest in post-violence peacebuilding; and a focus the direct violence while ignoring the structural violence in a conflict area. Many others have noticed the issue of media bias, especially in the context of the 2003 war against Iraq, which offered examples of reporting that struck Hoffmann (2004, p.78) as ‘nauseating triumphalism’. The shallowness of media coverage of far-away wars has also been noted by Shaw (1996, p.181), who points out that such coverage is ‘often brief, sporadic, narrowly victim-orientated and far too dependent on the availability of visual images’. Ignatieff, in a discussion of the ethics of television and its coverage of violent conflict, accepts that the sort of criticism made by Shaw is a powerful one. Summarizing this perspective he writes:

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The Transformation of Violent Intercommunal Conflict The shame of televised images of horror would lie not in what they show, but in what they suppress. The culture of the visual image … moralised the relation between viewer and sufferer as an eternal moment of empathy outside history. Television presents economic and political relations as human relations … [but] the charity unleashed by empathy is a form of forgetting, the reproduction of amnesia about the responsibility of the West for the causes of famine and war. (Ignatieff, 1998, p.16)

Nonetheless, although he accepts the power of this argument, he is not prepared to endorse it. This is because he believes that media coverage of famine and war, even of the sort criticized by Shaw and others, has acted as a catalyst for the asking of questions about the causes of such humanitarian disasters. There may be some truth here, but Ignatieff might also be over-estimating the long-term interest that is generated by modern media coverage. One problem with the CNN factor is that it moves us rapidly from case to case and there is a danger that all the victims simply blur into one. Who today cares about the Somalis, or the Tutsis or the Bosniacs? To what extent can we attribute the recent break-down in civil order in East Timor in May 2006 to an increasing international disinterest in that new country’s attempts to build a new society after its brief moment in the international spotlight at the very start of the twenty-first century? Bell (1996, p.291), a former professional journalist for the BBC, sums up well the sense of dissatisfaction with modern western media coverage of crises when he comments on the US media’s response to the arrival of the first US troops in Bosnia: Everything that I most dislike about the business I am in was camped in one shouting, seething, self-regarding compost at the entrance to the air base – the hype and hysteria, the tyranny of rolling news, the deference to a distant newsroom, the live-shot lunacy, the inane exchange with an anchorman called Mort …. The electronic circus that came to town was reputed to have cost six million dollars. It left me thinking, what else might Tuzla … have done with that six million dollars?

Another type of criticism focuses on an alleged self-censorship by the media, that may arise out of a fear of retaliation by the state or other actors, or because the selfimage of a professional journalist is of someone who impartially presents the facts as they are. This detached commentator role, however, can be criticized for being too safe and too narrow. It may also be an illusion, because there are commentators who point out that the self-proclaimed impartiality of the mainstream media is just a myth and in situations of violent conflict it is often guilty of state-bias, jingoism, partisanship, and a willingness to become an agent of state propaganda. Chomsky, for example, has produced a number of studies, on his own or in collaboration with others, where he explores the way that the US media has been used to ‘manufacture consent’ for US government policies (see, for example, Herman and Chomsky, 1988; Chomsky, 1994). In Northern Ireland the mainstream media’s own self-image of independence and neutrality was severely compromised in the 1980s when it was forced to adopt, by UK legislation, a policy of not broadcasting interviews with representatives of

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11 organizations, except to allow those who were political parties to make election broadcasts (see, for example, Miller, 1996). One of these organizations was Sinn Fein, which although it embraced a policy of armed struggle against the British state, also represented between 10 and 15 per cent of the population of Northern Ireland and had elected representatives on many local councils. Broadcasters were also not allowed to transmit anything that might support, solicit or invite support for a listed organization. This led to farcical situations where, for example, a Pogues song about the injustices faced by the Birmingham Six (individuals wrongly imprisoned for a terrorist bomb attack in Birmingham) could not be aired. Even before this legally forced censorship broadcasters in Northern Ireland had a reputation for timidity. Curtis (1996), for example, has compiled a list of cases of censorship between 1959 and 1993. The most well-known of these incidents was the decision in 1985 by the BBC to ban a television programme called ‘Real Lives: At the Edge of the Union’ because it involved interviews with two political activists in Derry/Londonderry who were thought of as ‘extremists’. These were Martin McGuiness of Sinn Fein and Gregory Campbell of the Democratic Unionist Party (DUP). The programme was banned by the BBC’s Board of Governors, after strong pressure from the Conservative Government in London, even though this decision was opposed by BBC executives and journalists, who called a 24 hour strike in protest. It was eventually shown a few months later after some minor changes were made to the programme. Subsequently both Campbell and McGuiness went on to become elected MPs in the British parliament and both served as ministers in the devolved administration set up by the 1998 Belfast Agreement. The parties they represent have now become the two largest in Northern Ireland, all of which makes you wonder how effective broadcasting bans really are. There are a number of approaches that the media could adopt to become more effective as peace actors (Melone, Terzis and Ozsel, 2002). These include actions directed at journalists and media owners (facilitation of dialogues, defusing inflammatory coverage, joint media projects and meetings between journalists and between owners) and actions directed at the production of programmes (documentaries about the ‘other side’, soap operas for children that can deliver a peace message, inter-ethnic reporting, etc.). They also mention practical examples of work carried out by ‘The Common Ground’, an NGO devoted to using the media as an instrument of conflict transformation. These include radio broadcasts in Burundi, joint reporting in Macedonia, and joint seminars for Greek and Turkish journalists. In Liberia a project called the Talking Drum Studio hosts a radio programme to discuss peacebuilding (Muller, 2003, p.14). In Burundi a radio soap opera entitled Our Neighbours, Ourselves is credited with helping improve Hutu-Tutsi relations. Since 1996 it has attempted to show the stupidity of ethnic hatred and it was estimated in 2003 (about the time of the new peace agreement) that about 85 per cent of the population listened regularly to the twice weekly broadcasts that effectively blends messages of tolerance with humour (The Observer, 4 May 2003, p.4). In a different part of Africa we find another interesting experiment in using the media as a peace actor. In the east and horn of Africa the early stages of a project is

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exploring the idea of harnessing ‘the media for the purpose of transforming conflicts’ (Mutere, 2006, p.4). This included a training workshop in Nairobi for journalists from the region and the ‘pre-testing’ of a training manual in Uganda and Ethiopia. One early conclusion is that to be effective the manual has to be supported by a network of supporting institutions. Yet a lot of the literature on peace journalism is still focused on the role of the professional media in reporting events. Maybe we should take an even more radical step and propose that the media should provide opportunities for ‘ordinary people’ to explain themselves to others, and especially to the enemy. One thing seems clear, however. If we are to visualize the media as a tool for conflict transformation then we have to adopt a very broad definition of what the media are. We need to include a range of non-traditional and non-mainstream media such as Internet sites, peace museums, comic books, drama groups, video diaries, photography and intercommunal festivals. If successful, such means of communication could give the unheard a voice and the rest of us a conscience. The Arts As Gellner (1983) and others have noticed, nationalists tend to rewrite their own history to ensure that it presents both the existence and the legitimacy of the national as permanent historical truth. Often these sorts of studies of the past do not produce enlightenment, but a ‘denial of plurality, variousness, and ambiguity’ (Foster, 1993, p.32). On the other hand, artists may also be well placed to challenge and disrupt standard narratives of identity and meaning in a manner that allows us to look at things from a different perspective. However, despite the extensive involvement of artists in a number of diverse projects in a wide range of intercommunal conflicts, ‘there has only been minimal research on arts and peacebuilding’ (Zelizer, 2003, p.63). Artists score high on indices of empathy and creativity, two values identified by both Galtung and Rorty as important for promoting peace between groups. However, they may lack a certain street credibility as observers of, rather than participants in, real-world conflicts. One is reminded here of Camus’s dismissal of a critique of his work (in a letter that provoked his final break with Sartre) because he was ‘beginning to get tired of seeing myself – and even more, of seeing former militants who have never refused the struggles of their time – endlessly receive lessons in efficacy from critics who have never done anything more than turn their theatre seat in the direction of history’ (quoted in Aronson, 2005, p.145). A noteworthy example of artists engaging with a violent intercommunal conflict occurred in Northern Ireland in the 1980s. Here a group of celebrated and talented individuals from the world of poetry, drama, literature and film making organized themselves into a loose association called Field Day. It was located in Londonderry/Derry, because it ‘was an easy choice for us …. No city better reflects the Protestant-Catholic composition of the entire Ireland, its location – right on the border – belonging to neither side …. In many ways Derry represented the reasons

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why the troubles happened’ (Stephen Rae in Derry News, 11 May 2006, 3). One interesting aspect of Field Day’s work was its construction of what it termed the ‘Fifth Province’ of Ireland. The island of Ireland was, historically, divided into four provinces, but the Irish word for province is coiced, meaning fifth – indicating that there might have been five provinces once, though those who believe in this idea do not agree on where this missing province was. When Field Day used the term, however, they meant something other than a geographical region. It is not meant to be a physical place but an area of the imagination. As Kearney (1992, p.42) put it: The present unhappy state of our country would seem to indicate the need for this second centre of gravity. The obvious importance of the various political attempts to unite the four geographic provinces would seem to warrant another kind of solution, a different kind of unity, one which would incorporate the fifth province. This province, this place, this centre is not a political or geographical position. It is more like a disposition. It is a form of imagination.

The same year as these words were written, the then President of Ireland, and future Human Rights Commissioner at the UN, Mary Robinson, endorsed the idea of the ‘fifth province’ as a way of developing a climate of tolerance and justice in places such as South Africa and Yugoslavia, as well as Ireland (Irish News, 7 September 1992). This fifth province of the imagination was a place where people could come together to explore through the arts the myths, prejudices and beliefs that are both a cause and a consequence of the violent conflict on the island of Ireland. The hope was that in this way new perspectives on history and culture could be developed that would help transform relations between Catholics and Protestants (Field Day Theatre Company, 1985). One target of Field Day was the exclusive, ethnonationalist definition of Irishness adopted by the Irish Republic after independence. This was illustrated by the special role given to the Catholic Church in the Irish Constitution and the promotion of the Irish language. As a result Irishness came to be viewed as having an inherent link with Gaelic culture and Catholic observance, thus alienating those who did not want to belong to this ‘imagined community’. Indeed, there were some important literary figures who found this ethno-nationalist approach too stifling. One of the most important, who had a significant influence on some of the Field Day participants, was the novelist James Joyce, who is once reported to have said that no self-respecting Irishman could live in Ireland anymore. He, of course, did some of his best writing about Ireland from the European mainland. In his most famous work, Ulysses, Joyce explores the complexities of Irish identity by telling the story of a range of characters on one day in the Irish capital city of Dublin. One of these was a Jew called Leopold Bloom, whose character was based on a real Jew expelled from Limerick in 1903. Joyce, according to Cheng (1995), opposed essentialist binary oppositions in terms of Irish and English, and was especially sceptical about Irish nationalism based on a narrow Celtic identity. This was too provincial for Joyce. It would result, in the words of Cheng (1995, p.62), in a ‘romantic sentimentalization of all things

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Celtic and a consequent chauvinistic blindness to the specific permutations of actual conditions and social realties’. Joyce wanted a more cosmopolitan Ireland. All of this is reflected in Ulysses, which draws, of course, on Greek rather than Celtic myths. In this celebrated novel we also find a wicked parody of narrow Irish nationalism as personified by ‘the Citizen’. Joyce’s ideal society might be closer to the fictional Bloom’s vision of a Nova Hibernia, a tolerant society of ‘mixed races and mixed marriages’ (Cheng, 1995, p.222). One expert has described the book as an affirmation of life ‘by discovery of kinship among disparate things’ (Ellmann, 1969, p.719). Because of his attempts to ‘deconstruct’ accepted notions about Irish nationalism Joyce, who is usually taken to be the epitome of a modernist writer, has also been viewed as an early postmodernist (Bell, 1991). This distrust of mythologizing the Irish is also found in the work of Samuel Beckett who attacked writers who endorsed Irish nationalism as ‘antiquarian’ authors who were fleeing from self-awareness and self-reflection. As Kearney (1997, p.115) points out, in the work of these two major writers the ‘very idea of a National Mythology was itself denounced as myth’. Criticisms of the work of Field Day came from two main directions, one predictable and one surprising. Predictably, many Unionists in Northern Ireland were inherently sceptical about the whole Field Day initiative because it was still a discourse about ‘Irishness’. Also, many of its commissioned works on politics and culture tended to draw on post-colonial themes. For Unionists this seemed to point to an unwelcome post-British era for Northern Ireland. Less predictably, many feminists in Ireland were also understandably dismayed when one of the most important of the Field Day projects, a three volume Field Day Anthology of Irish Writing, failed to include enough women writers. The Anthology was an attempt to explore identity issues in Ireland by demonstrating that there was traditionally a plurality of voices on the island, North and South (Deane, 1991). However, in response to the failure to include enough women’s writings the general editor of the first three volumes met with women scholars to explore the idea of a supplementary volume devoted entirely to the work of women writers. After 10 years this resulted in two new volumes covering a range of texts from AD 600 to the present. Subdivided into a number of themes (Bourke et al., 2002), one of the aims of the two final volumes was to ‘demonstrate that women’s lives and imaginations in Ireland have been infinitely more rich and diverse than stereotypes suggest’ (Bourke et al., 2002, p.xxxiv). The fifth volume, in particular, contains a diverse set of readings on politics and society. Drama, of all the artistic forms, is an especially interesting tool because of its capacity to explore the counter-factual and because of its overt dialogic nature. So, ‘the players can relive history up to the point where it went wrong and then together, invent an alternative continuation’ (Galtung, undated, pp.74−75). They can then ‘go on inventing alternative futures, with theatre as future workshops’. This may allow communities to learn from the past in an imaginative way because a ‘play can be rerun at any point; history, unfortunately, not’ (ibid.). One of the most inspirational figures to use drama as a form of political engagement is Augusto Boal, who has developed a number of innovative dramatic styles including indivisible theatre and legislative theatre. Boal (2001, p.314) declares in his memoirs that theatre ‘if it tells

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the Truth, proffers a quest for oneself, oneself in others and others in oneself. It proffers the humanisation of humankind. This cannot be done without a struggle. Today theatre is martial art!’. As Galtung suggests, the artistic approach need not be restricted to ‘high culture’, and many grass roots groups working in the field of peace and conflict transformation find the arts provide a useful opening for intercommunal dialogue. Some of these have been discussed by Zelizer (2003), and include peace concerts held on intercommunal boundaries (Cyprus and Angola), community theatre groups (Bosnia, Africa and the Middle East), mural projects (Northern Ireland), and the use of art as therapy in a number of post-violent situations. We have already mentioned the Circus of Peace, which began as a UNICEF funded project in Mozambique. This used drama, music and other arts to engage with young people to stimulate innovative thinking about conflict. It is an idea that has also been tried by the Italian NGO Association for Peace with Serb and Albanian children in Mitrovica in Kosovo. The Family The family gets at the child first. Unsurprisingly, therefore, many studies point to the significant role played by the family in terms of political socialization and the acquisition of deeply held political beliefs (see, for example, Cairns, 1996). Volkan (1997), for example, argues that the ‘core identity’ of a child is developed at the age of three, and this will include unintegrated ‘bad’ and therefore suppressed elements which, in situations where there is a history of intercommunal conflict, will be projected onto the ‘enemy’ group. It also seems that strong family support is one of the main factors that produces resilience in the face of violence by offering material and emotional support systems (Reynolds, 2000). In many of the social science disciplines such as political science (especially political socialization and voting behaviour), sociology, psychology, anthropology and psychoanalysis much work has been done on the role of the family. This makes the lack of studies in the peace and conflict studies field even more remarkable. Cairns (1996, p.174) also points out that the ‘impact of political violence on family life has seldom come under scrutiny despite the obvious fact that as a result of political violence the whole family structure may come under pressure’. If this is true of the impact of inter-communal violence on families, it is even more the case when it comes to assessing the role of the family as a peace actor in divided societies. This is despite the fact that children’s ideas about peace and war may be the ‘product of what they learn from their parents rather than from their schools’ (Cairns, 1996, p.184). Of course, there are exceptions. The family may be the most under-researched peace actor, but there are some studies that do address this topic. Boulding (1998), for example, claims that the ‘family household is an important source of peace culture in any society’. In the home children first learn how to deal with conflict and attitudes to violent behaviour are formed, maybe indelibly. Structures of patriarchy are often reinforced or challenged and gender roles are learned. Furthermore, parents not only transmit some values they also can block the reception of others because they act

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as gatekeepers and have an enormous influence on who their children interact with, what they view on the media and what they read. Also families can be the primary agents for the transmission of intergenerational hostility and trauma. This can inhibit the possibility of what Bar-On (1996) has called ‘secondary reconciliation’, which occurs when the descendents of victims and victimizers are able to engage in a more positive interaction. Sometimes, as was the case with the Holocaust, the desire to return to ‘normality’ can result in the ‘deferring of working through to the following generations’ (Bar-On, 1996, p.169). In a multidisciplinary analysis of Northern Ireland, Lovell and Cummings (2001) have studied the impact of conflict and conflict resolution on children and families and end by endorsing a transformation approach. There are some interesting observations on the issue of families by Eva Hoffman (2004, p.85), who has examined the intergenerational conflict within the families of Holocaust survivors. The children of these survivors, who want to look forward, often become exasperated with the inability of their parents to let go of their past. Of course, we must avoid the danger of dealing with families in the abstract, and we must understand how structural and cultural factors in specific cases can affect the ability of individual families to be agents of positive conflict transformation. In situations that engender insecurity and stress, such as cases of deprivation and poverty, or where serious human rights abuses lead to the killing of one or more family members it is unclear how families will be able to produce children with a peaceful orientation. That they do may be a testament to the resilience of children and the devotion of their parents. The same may be true of families driven into exile as refugees. If direct violence disrupts and erodes family life, we also need to be aware that ‘structural violence jeopardizes both mediated learning and parenting styles’ (Schwebel and Christie, 2001, p.123). One interesting way that the family is brought into conflict transformation is found in some Middle Eastern societies. In Arab-Islamic societies such as Jordan, Palestine and Lebanon, there are the rituals of musalaha (reconciliation) and sulh (settlement). The later involves compensating a victim’s family whereas musalaha involves a ritual of public atonement and forgiveness involving the families of the victim and the perpetrator. This includes the victim’s offering bitter coffee to the family of the perpetrator followed by the family of the offender serving a meal to the family of the victim. According to Irani and Funk (2000, p.26), such rituals are ‘deeply laden with religious meanings and references to sacred texts and traditions’. Despite such an example, interesting work the family as a peace actor is hard to come by. Indeed, it might be one of the strongest indictments of male dominated peace research that millions of words have been written about weapons, but very little is in print about how the individuals who use them have been raised. We are not suggesting that there is something ‘wrong’ with everyone who takes up violence but there are reasons to believe that a predisposition to engage in destructive violence might be linked to insecurities and other experiences during childhood. It is also the case that if we believe that working with children is an important way of transforming conflict situations, then we cannot avoid bringing families into the analysis as well.

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One of the main challenges for adult researchers, however, is to develop an approach to understanding in this area that allows them to see families from the child’s point of view as well (Reynolds, 2000). Conclusion When people behave destructively in situations of conflict it is vital to include the social and cultural dimension. This means exploring subjective beliefs and meanings as well as the strong emotions that violence is bound to elicit. Of course, this is only part of the problem, and inter-subjective dialogue, on its own, is not likely to result in a satisfactory transformation of violent intercommunal conflicts. We must also be aware of the structural factors. So if we return to Gellner, once again, we can note his warning about stopping at an inter-subjective resting place. He writes: Hermeneutic prohibition must be avoided at all costs. But voluntary restraint is quite another matter …. Hermeneutics, like patriotism, is not enough. It won’t do simply to present oneself as a semiotic bridge-builder between various systems of meaning …. Societies are endowed with coercive and economic constraints that are not generally reducible to semantic ones …. The relative weight of conceptual and other factors is something to be explored in each case, rather than prejudged. (Gellner, 1995, p.21)

What inter-subjective dialogue can do well is to translate the consequences of usthem destructive conflict into a more immediate me-you relationship through the development of links that Rorty has called sentimental. This might make relations between individuals and groups better because it then becomes harder to take the view when your own side is hurting the other side that this is ‘nothing personal’ (Galtung, undated, p.66).

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Conclusions: Conflict Transformation – Reasons to Be Modest Humans cannot save the world, but this is no reason for despair. It does not need saving. (John Gray, 2002, p.xv)

In this study we have attempted to demonstrate that the concept of transformation, despite its increase in popularity, is a complex and problematic idea. In this brief concluding chapter we can try to draw together some important themes about how to define transformation and how to implement it. We can also offer some closing comments and observations. In the first half of the book we explored different approaches to understanding what needs to be transformed. So in Chapter 1 we looked at some of the key texts in the academic literature on transformation to identify core components of the concept. In Chapter 2 we approached the concept through an analysis of the transformative elements found in four historic traditions of thought: religious, liberal, Marxist and feminist. These different approaches to normative questions about transformation help illustrate the complexity of the idea. One argument set out in this chapter was that we need to understand all of these traditions since none of them can claim to have a comprehensive understanding of violent conflict and how to transform it. A hope was expressed that dialogues between them might produce interesting synergies, and it was pointed out by Doyle (1997) that the more we understand the diversity of value systems the more tolerant we are likely to be because it helps us to appreciate that we are living in a world where individuals and communities have competing ends. Then in Chapter 3 we viewed transformation as a response to specific distortions introduced into intercommunal relations by the experience of violence and suggested that the way we responded to certain destructive legacies of violence opened specific doorways into a broader transformative approach. This was a much more grounded approach to transformation that appears to be what Vayrynen was proposing when he called for an emphasis on social transformation rather than on normative transformation (see Chapter 1). However, defining the term transformation is not the same as understanding how we move from a situation of violent intercommunal conflict to one that can be described as peaceful. Knowing where we want to get to is not the same as knowing how to get there. So in the second half of the book we explored some of the strategies for transformation that the literature believes to be the most significant agents of change. Before we address these, however, it is worth stating that whatever

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the problems may be with specific transformation strategies, the concept itself has played a positive role in re-describing the field of peace and conflict research and directing our attention at previously under-emphasized issues. In particular, we noted in Chapter 1 the way that this approach views conflict not as something to be resolved but as a catalyst for transformation and the emphasis put in many key texts on looking at the broader political, economic and social context within which conflicts are articulated. Galtung’s view of conflict as a form of energy is a useful metaphor, as is the idea that transformation means finding ways of turning negative into positive energy. Indeed, one might suggest that the term evokes attitudes to conflict that help to address William James’s concerns about the unexciting nature of peace work (see Chapter 6). In Chapter 4 we explored some approaches to transformation that focused on individual actors. Here we adopted a rather restricted definition of reconciliation and examined it as an idea that is based on religiously inspired ideas such as forgiveness. The approach is a powerful one for some people, but its general applicability in situations of intercommunal conflicts is hard to predict because its success will depend on the willingness of individuals to seek forgiveness and to grant it to others. We also noted that it was a me-you approach to transformation in situations of usthem conflict, and therefore lacked a crucial inter-group dimension. This dimension was present, however, in the superordinate goal approach, and this also differs from reconciliation because instead of arguing for a transcending of selfishness, it uses selfishness as the key motivation for change. Opportunities for the development of superordinate goals exist at all levels from the integration of whole continents in organizations such as the EU, to the creation of mixed sporting teams or music groups. However, one problem with this approach is that it is unclear if improvements in interpersonal relations in one area will spill-over into improvements in attitudes over other more complex and difficult issues. Finally we looked at the issue of victimhood, which is a complex area, but needs to be addressed in order to break the victim-victimizer cycle. One difficulty with all interpersonal approaches is that they might over-subjectivize the conflict (Ruane and Todd, 1991), and this encouraged a shift of focus to more objective and structural factors. These were explored in Chapter 5, and in particular we examined ideas about political and economic transformation. Under the heading of political transformation we explored a number of issues and pointed out that the free and fair election test of democracy was too limited. Four specific areas were identified as having particular importance and these were the sovereignty question, managing the transition phase, devising an appropriate constitutional/institutional framework and the development of a political culture sensitive and tolerant of cultural difference. When discussing economic transformation we challenged a simplistic peace through development idea, and explored some suggestions about how to use economic development as a conflict transformation strategy in situations of violent intercommunal conflict. Another reason for caution and modesty was identified in this chapter. This is that in certain contexts both democratization and economic development can result in more violent conflict rather than less.

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In Chapter 6 we explored the idea of inter-subjective dialogue as a tool of transformation and examined the contribution that the philosophy of pragmatism has made to transformation thinking. This may be rather surprising, because pragmatists are often thought of as hard-headed realists unlikely to be attracted to fuzzy ideas about changing society in radical ways. Yet in the work of Rorty we have discovered some interesting ideas that provide clues about how to reduce cruel behaviour. Although Rorty is mainly interested in the development of sensitivity to hurt as a private act, it is unclear why this could not also be promoted through intergroup discourses in what Elise Boulding has termed ‘learning sites’. These could be established in the main agents of cultural reproduction in society. Much more could be said about each of these institutions of society as agents of transformation, but problems of space and the limitations in the background knowledge of the author have inhibited a detailed analysis of the role that each of these institutions could play as a peace actor. However, further work on each of these institutions is likely to be fruitful in developing a deeper understanding of the strengths and weaknesses of transformation approaches. Our analysis of the transformation approach to intercommunal conflict also alerted us to some potential problems. One of the most important of these was that an attempt at transformation can result in greater insecurity, and in the course of this analysis we identified two groups who might need special attention. The first of these are the victims of intercommunal violence, who often feel unable to ‘let the past go’ and who may feel even more alienated as their society begins to change rapidly and where former enemies are now working together at all levels of society. The second group are those who feel that the status quo best protects their interests (political, economic, identity needs) and who view the prospect of change with trepidation. Here we have to be aware of the ‘peace and insecurity’ problem, and it can be suggested that more needs to be done to manage the apprehension that the transformation approach can produce. In this sense the Northern Ireland case is a good example of poor ‘transformation management’, and the result is that many loyalists have become more fearful. This has contributed to more tension in certain interface areas since the 1998 Belfast Agreement. Rwanda offers an even more catastrophic example of how badly things can go wrong if a privileged group distrusts a peace process. In this case, a major cause of the genocide was the Hutu Power’s strong reaction against the 1993 Arusha Peace Accord. The long-term nature of transformation work also causes problems for decision makers in the real world. The basic principles of good transformation work should be well-known by now, and the international community should have built up a solid reservoir of knowledge from its experiences in the 1990s. However, it is remarkable how it seems incapable of using this knowledge in practice because of political expediency resulting in short term thinking and not a little arrogance. Hoffmann (2004, p.103) points out that democracy ‘does not come fast, nor does it come from the outside’. Yet, how often are key post-conflict decisions made by governments because they have one eye on looming elections and what real effort do they make to understand the societies they have decided to intervene in? The quagmire in

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Iraq is, in many ways, the inevitable outcome of this sort of blinkered approach to peacebuilding and transformation. It is also important not to adopt a one-size-fits-all approach to transformation, nor to embrace a short-sighted application of certain abstract principles to a diverse range of situations. This is something the major international financial agencies such as the IMF and the World Bank have been accused of, and as we noted in Chapter 5 there have been some unpleasant and fatal consequences as a result. It is important, to use an advertising slogan from the 1980s, that transformers do not become robots in disguise and that all transformation work does not become routinized and bureaucratized. In this field of work there may be some important standards to be maintained, but there are no universal solutions. Reading the transformation literature one also becomes aware of certain underdiscussed issues. Maybe the most significant of these is the question of the use of force to enhance transformation initiatives. As explained in Chapter 1, because the interest in conflict transformation has emerged most strongly in the fields of peace and conflict research there is an understandable reluctance to endorse violence. Yet the Marxist question to the other traditions would be whether this self-limitation on the use of violence is sometimes too restrictive? When faced with an unjust status quo and an unyielding regime why not use violence? Was Nelson Mandela wrong to refuse to condemn the violence carried out by the ANC against the apartheid government? How far do we go to protect life? Do we accept Oz’s claim that evil ‘cannot always be repelled by incantations, by demonstrations, by social analysis or by psychoanalysis. Sometimes, in the last resort, it has to be confronted by force’ (Oz, 2005, p.5). The debate about what attitude to take towards violence is, of course, something that is ubiquitous in all situations of violent conflict (Martin Luther King vs. the Black Panthers, Camus vs. Sartre, Sinn Fein vs. the SDLP). In the mid to late 1960s there was a lively debate in peace and conflict research about this issue, and there were some peace researchers who were willing to endorse the use of ‘direct violence’ to overthrow ‘structural violence’ – they were, what Kenneth Boulding (1977) termed the ‘radical school’. However, I think it would be true to say that in contemporary peace and conflict research most researchers would accept the view of Galtung that peace has to be achieved by peaceful means (see, for example, Galtung, 1996). Also, of the four peace traditions discussed in Chapter 2, only Marxism puts violence at the centre of its transformation strategy, and even here it offers a happy ending in the form of a new society where violence will disappear. For many, therefore, violence will be viewed as a failure of transformation, and yet there remains a number of difficult cases where it seems that violence should not be ruled out completely – to stop genocide, to maintain the rule of law, to block attempts by warlords to disrupt a peace process. So even if one’s sympathies are with Galtung there may be a need for a more systematic debate about the desirability of using violence in certain exceptional cases. Another under-researched topic is the problem of when to stop. The literature on transformation can tell us what processes and goals we should associate with

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the concept, but it is less clear on more concrete indicators that can tell us when positive transformation is taking place. When dealing with intercommunal conflict, for example, is the conflict transformed when we move from a situation of ethnonationalism to a situation of civic nationalism? Or is it when we transcend nationalist thinking altogether? The answer is that both could be viewed as transformation, but in any particular case how do we know we have gone far enough? As we saw in Chapter 5, a criticism made of the consociational model, which is based on coexistence between two or more ethnic groups, is that it stops us moving forward to try to transcend the idea of two camps altogether (McCann, 1999, p.245). So can consociationalism be regarded as transformative strategy or is it just a ‘tattered compromise with the status quo’ that leaves capitalist or sexist structures intact? (McCann, 1999, p.109). Horowitz approaches this debate between the transcenders and the supporters of coexistence in his usual insightful way. He writes: Between the naïveté of those who would abolish ethnic differences in short order through ‘nation-building’, the cynicism of those who would simply suppress those differences, and the pessimism of those who would counsel costly and disruptive partition as the only way out – between these shoals, there lurk passages that are at once less dramatic, less visionary, and more realistic … there is much more scope for constructive policy innovation in the area of ethnic conflict than policymaker in divided societies have generally acknowledged. (Horowitz, 1985, p.599)

Once again we are brought back to a more modest approach to transformation. When faced with a more aggressive and arrogant transformation mentality one inevitably responds to such insensitivity with a call for more modesty and humility – though it is unclear how to transmit this to level of decision making. Yet it is important to accept a cautious and humble attitude when trying to change in a fundamental way attitudes and structures. We find this in Lederach’s endorsement of the ‘elicitive’ approach over the prescriptive approach (see p.32). This would help to immunize us against utopian engineering and would promote moderate rather than zealous transformation. Maybe another way to characterize this is to evoke Camus’s famous distinction between the rebel and the revolutionary. The Rebel was a book written to challenge the intellectuals’ fascination with revolutionary transformation and their willingness to justify violence committed in its name. It took a central place in the growing estrangement between Camus and Sartre, who in the 1950s supported communism and the work of Fanon that regarded anti-colonial violence as both necessary and uplifting (see, for example: Fanon, 1967). In the preface to Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth Sartre argues that when human beings have been turned into beasts of burden by colonizers, violence is an act of affirmation. In words that have become famous Sartre argues that ‘no gentleness can efface the marks of violence; only violence itself can destroy them … to shoot down a European is to kill two birds with one stone, to destroy an oppressor and the man he oppresses at the same time: there remains a dead man, and a free man’ (Fanon, 1967, pp.18−19). Camus may even have written The Rebel in a doomed attempt to persuade Sartre to change his own views on the legitimacy of violence.

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Aronson (2005, p.116) has noted that the best way of translating l’homme révolté would not be as ‘the rebel’ but as ‘man in revolt’ because it is closer to the ambiguity intended by Camus and preserves the sense of someone revolted by the type of society created by revolutionary violence. Instead of revolution Camus wanted to propose rebellion, which he believed was self-limiting and which was always based on respect and involved an affirmation of something and an awakening of conscience. Revolution begins with a misconceived impulse to overcome absurdity by remaking the world. It is a metaphysical act, whereas revolt starts with lived human experience and a willingness to accept absurdity (see Aronson, 2005, p.119). Camus claimed that in trying to remake the world criminals ‘have a perfect alibi: philosophy, which can be used for anything, even for transforming murderers into judges’ and for creating slave camps in the name of freedom. A revolutionary will eventually turn into a bureaucrat or a policeman and will then become the enemy of those who want to improve society. The book, as Aronson (2005, p.123) points out, has an ‘arbitrary, eccentric quality’, and is too obsessed with Marxism to offer a balanced discussion of revolutionary change. Yet because of its emphasis on restraint, its suspicion of utopian change, and its refusal to set aside moral concerns about revolutionary violence it remains an essential warning for those who want to embrace utopian projects. Because the transformation field is so broad and diverse and is composed of so many different approaches it is impossible simply to be for or against transformation. What we find when we survey the topic is a repertoire of responses rather than a single grand plan. A more discriminatory approach is therefore called for. An uncritical, blanket endorsement of transformation is an unattractive option because there are contradictory approaches that have to be analysed and critiqued, as well as questionable practices to be challenged. Nor is it the case that transformation is always the most appropriate response to violent conflict. On the other hand, a wholesale rejection would seem to be foolish, because contained within the transformation idea are a number of interesting and plausible strategies. We also need to be cautious about over-generalized reaction because all individual conflicts contain contingent elements that need to be factored in. Galtung and the TRANSCEND approach have a useful strategy to take this into account, which is based on the medical technique of diagnosis, prognosis and therapy. This allows the application of a general set of ideas but also takes account of the local conditions in each case (see, for example: Galtung et al., 2002, Part two). Another issue that would seem to induce a cautious approach to transformation is that it requires a quite complex balancing of competing pressures. Some of these have been identified in this study, and although they may not be ultimately mutually exclusive or contradictory, they would tend to pull transformers in different directions. The first of these is the question of the need for external intervention versus the need for local empowerment. The most frequently discussed case used to illustrate this point is Bosnia. Here the ‘international community’ is trying to move forward with an agenda that would appeal to many who want to see this intercommunal conflict transformed. However, to keep this agenda on the road it has

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been deemed to be necessary to impose certain measures against local representatives who can claim legitimacy through an election process devised and implemented by the ‘international community’. Yet this seems to violate the principle of respect for the wishes of the indigenous grass-roots communities, which we identified in Chapter 1 as a core component of the transformation idea. We therefore need more help to answer the question how can we empower the grass roots while resisting illiberal demands? The vast majority of the literature on transformation strongly emphasizes the importance of respect for local perspectives, yet almost by its very nature, the transformation approach also points to the need for outside agents. This raises potentially difficult questions about the friction between the moral relativism implied in respect for all indigenous cultures and the highly normative content of some transformative visions. A second balancing act is between looking back to ‘neutralize history’ and looking forward to build a new society. The accepted wisdom seems to be that you need to do both, and without an intensive interrogation of past atrocities there can be no real hope of a new, transformed society. History has to be neutralized and truth has to be ‘recovered’. The South African case, and especially the work of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, is usually held up as the model here, though as we noted in Chapter 4 there are some untypical features not found in other broadly similar commissions. Cases such as Yugoslavia and Rwanda/Burundi also seem to show that a failure to address past crimes will lead to more problems in the future. Yet if we look next door to South Africa, in Mozambique, we find a very different way of dealing with a legacy of bitter conflict. As we saw in Chapter 4, in this case there has been an approach that has not attempted to discover the truth about the past, and this also seems to have worked. What is especially interesting about the South Africa and Mozambique experiments is that both claim to be rooted in indigenous African practices – ubuntu in South Africa and the involvement of curandeiros in Mozambique. One therefore suspects that generalizations here are therefore problematic and the form that dealing with the past takes must be matched to local demand and local culture. Where used it should aim for as much closure as possible on the horrors of the past. The way Hoffman (2004, p.279) has put it is that this is not the same as forgetting the past, rather it is the ‘ability to separate the past from the present – to see the past as the past’. Does this necessarily require an extensive interrogation of recent history? A third tension is between pushing for fundamental change while not undermining the sense of security of parties who value the status quo. As well as ‘peace and security’ we need to think about ‘peace and insecurity’, and Hamber (2006) is surely correct to argue that we need to pay much more attention to the issue of fear during political transitions. If we want to develop the strategy of conflict transformation then we will also have to develop methods to manage the insecurities that this is going to produce. Here, one suspects, the quality of leadership is very important. A fourth tension is related to whether transformation work should concentrate on objective or subjective factors. Many of the key writers identified in this study have emphasized the importance of intersubjective dialogue (Buber, Habermas, Rorty).

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Yet, as noted above, can this not result in an undue emphasis on interpersonal factors at the expense of structural and objective ones? In this book we have drawn a lot on the work of Gellner. One of his most important arguments is the need to understand the objective processes and constraints that lie behind social phenomena and, as a confirmed sceptic about hermeneutic approaches, he has been critical of what he once called a ‘roll-your-own-reality’ approach to understanding societies. The obvious response to this tension is to argue that work needs to done at both levels. Individual transformation (e.g. through healing or reconciliation) is not likely to have a long term impact on inter-group conflict if it does not produce changes in unjust structures. On the other hand, as writers such as Assefa have noted, structural change may not bring transformative change if it cannot modify the hearts and minds of individuals caught up in the violence and address the subjective elements of violent intercommunal conflict. As we have seen in Chapter 5, Bosnia is often invoked as a classic example of how democratization does not always lead to a more moderate politics or a speedy change of attitude. Yet without individual growth or development can we really say that transformation has worked? Finally, transformation work has to start where we are, not where we would like to be. This is another way to ensure that such work is grounded in the needs of specific people in real-life communities and not in the vague utopian ideas of ideologues. What we want is transformation from below not transformation from above. If we start where we are this also means that individuals who want to transform other societies also need to take a long hard look at their own. It is too easy for the transformation discourse to become a set of prescriptions for how the developed west will transform everyone else. A more modest approach would require the transformers to transform themselves and their own flawed societies first. Thus, western democracies such as Canada, Australia and New Zealand have played significant roles in international interventions in a number of intercommunal conflicts, but how well have they responded to problems in their relations with their own indigenous populations? In approaching the concept of transformation we need to beware of overconfidence. In Chapter 1 we identified several possible criticism of the idea. In Chapter 2 we noted that there is no consensus about normative approaches. In subsequent chapters we saw that many key transformation strategies from individual reconciliation to structural change could cause more problems in divided societies. None, on its own, is likely to be an adequate peace strategy. So we need to think about how to combine a number of different stratagems in a balanced approach, though the best mix will depend on the constraints and opportunities that exist in each case. Democracy and development might be two important components of transformation but they should not divert us from the need to promote open and honest dialogue between cultural groups. This means not just the different parties to the conflict, but also between the parties and the transformers. It is here we might find ways to overcome some of the contradictions addressed above and where the best hope for imaginative ideas of transformation will be found.

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Index

actor(s) -centred approaches 92–93, 100–101 as ‘tools for transformation’ 17 see also individuals Afghanistan 31, 97, 108, 110, 129 Africa colonialism 105 democratization 109, 116, 117, 128 peacebuilding projects 11, 22, 145–146 see also specific countries Alliance for Conflict Transformation, US 22 Amis, Martin 52–53 amnesty vs. punishment debate 110 see also reconciliation Angell, N. 39 Angola 92 Annan, K. 10 apologies and reconciliation 90 arts 95–96, 139, 146–149 Assefa, H. 36, 92–93, 128 attribution theory 72 Austrian Study Centre for Peace and Conflict Resolution 22 Avnon, D. 37, 38 Azar, E. 22, 68, 126–127 backlash provocation, criticism of transformative approach 25–26 Barenboim, Daniel 95–96, 131 Bell, D. 144 Bell-Fialkoff, A. 65, 66 Berhof Institute/Berghof Handbook 21, 23, 24 Bloomfield, D. 84 Bolongaita, E. 123–124 Bosnia constitutional issues 112, 113, 114 elections 103, 108, 115, 158–159 financial aid, negative effects of 122–123, 124 and Herzegovina 95, 105 and Kosovo 44

media issues 143, 144 negative transformations 62, 65, 67 Boulding, E. 49, 51, 140, 149, 155 Boulding, K. 33, 70, 75, 156 Boutros-Ghali, B. 8, 9, 10, 78 Bruce, S. 73 Buber, Martin 37–38 Burundi 86–87, 94, 108, 145 Bush, R.A.B. and Folger, J.P. 18–19, 29, 134 Butler, Rev. Joseph 134 Butterfield, H. 36, 74 Cairns, E. 90, 98, 149 Cambodia 24–25, 79, 94 capitalism liberal and Marxist views of 46 see also economic development; globalization Carr, E.H. 26 censorship of media 144–145 Central and Eastern Europe 8, 53 Chandler, D. 44–5, 115–116, 119 Christianity 36–37, 57, 73–74 Citizen Peacebuilding Program, US 21 civil rights movement, US 35, 56 civil society 68, 117–118, 121, 132 see also non-governmental organizations (NGOs) class identity 45–46 ‘cleansing’ 71–72 ethnic cleansing 65 Clements, K. 25 Coalition for Peace in Africa 22 cognitive dissonance 72 Cold War/Soviet Union 8, 16–17, 108 Coleman, P. and Deutsch, M. 141 collective superordinate goals 93–97 Collier, P. 67 communication see dialogue Conciliation Resources 21 conflict resolution as need fulfilment 13

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Conflict Transformation Programme, Eastern Mennonite University, US 21 consociationalism 30, 111–114 constitutional issues 111–114 coping mechanisms, trauma and 97–98 corruption 123–124 Corrymeela, Northern Ireland 36, 86 Crabb, C.V., Jr 131–132 ‘creative tension’ 23 critical approaches 14–16, 57, 103 criticisms of transformative approach 25–31 Croatia 69, 95 cultural issues arrogance of transformative approach 30–31 interpersonal vs. institutional approaches to reconciliation 90–91 local 30–31, 76–77 memory of trauma 98–99 multiculturalism 45, 119–121 negative inter-cultural changes 68–74 rules and norms 17–18 structural and 23 Cyprus 41, 65, 67, 94, 111, 113 dehumanization 71–72 demilitarization 63–64, 78–79 democracy 43, 64, 68 restoration in Spain 92 democratic peace hypothesis 40–44, 104 Democratic Republic of Congo 31, 54, 79–80, 94–95, 126 democratization 104–121, 128–129 demonization and sanctification 73–74 dependency culture 123 descriptive function of traditions of transformation 34–35 Deutsch, M. 60, 69, 98 development economic 121–127, 129, 154 as ‘tool of transformation’ 17 ‘development diplomacy’ 126–127 Dewey, John 132–133, 142 dialogue ‘dialogue groups’ 135 I-Thou interactions 37–38 intersubjective 133–136, 151, 155 problem of scale 140 disarmament and retraining 78

disempowerment, criticism of transformative approach 25 Dixon, N. 81–82 Doyle, M.W. 24–25, 35, 40, 41, 42, 49, 153 and Sambanis, N. 11 Drakulic, S. 59, 69, 71 drama 148–149 dynamic nature of conflict 23 East Timor 25–26, 144 economic development 121–127, 129, 154 economic underdevelopment 67–68 education 141–143 mediation training 19–20, 21–22 as ‘tool of transformation’ 17 ‘egoism of victimization’ 99 Eisenstadt, S.N. 37, 38 elections ‘technical’ problems 103–104 and voting systems 112, 113, 114–115 vs. referendums 106 see also democracy; democratic peace hypothesis; democratization ‘elicitive’ model 20 empathic artists 146 empathic imagination 134–135 empowerment 18, 24 and disempowerment, criticism of transformative approach 25 enemy image 70–74 Enlightenment 136, 137 Enloe, C. 53, 54, 55 entrapment 74–76, 80 Esman, M.J. 30, 90, 124–125, 126, 127 Ethiopia and Eritrea 106 ethnic cleansing 65 ethnic identities 30 ‘ethnic impact statements’, development projects 127 ethnic residential segregation 64–67 ethno-development 127 ethnocentrism 68–70 European Union (EU) 96, 126 exaggerated claims of transformative approach 29–30 family, role in sentimental education 149–151 features of transformative approach 22–25 federalism 106–107

Index feminist tradition 49–54, 55, 56 ‘fifth province’ of the imagination 147 financial aid/agencies 122–124, 125, 126, 127, 129, 156 Fisher, R.J. 68–69, 72 Folger, J.P. and Bush, R.A.B. 18–19, 29, 134 forgiveness and reconciliation 84, 85, 90, 91, 154 Francis, D. 13, 22–23, 24, 50–51 Frankfurt School 15 Galtung, J. 3, 20–21, 22, 23, 27, 33, 34, 35, 51, 60, 64, 82, 94, 143, 146, 148, 149 and Tschundi, F. 69, 91 Gandhi, Mahatma 12, 13, 27, 36 Garcia, E. 116, 118 Gberbie, L. 81, 110 Gellner, E. 7, 103, 108, 121, 124, 132, 146, 151, 160 gendered analysis see feminist tradition Germany Berhof Institute/Berghof Handbook 21, 23, 24 see also Holocaust survivors Gibson, J.L. 87, 93 Giddens, A. 13, 47 globalization 13–14, 39, 43, 47–48, 52 Gododo-Madikizela, 93 grassroots participation see civil society; non-governmental organizations (NGOs) Gray, J. 28, 33, 153 Graybill, L.S. 53, 87, 135 Habermas, J. 14–15, 16, 27–28, 43, 57, 132, 134 Halliday, F. 74 Hamber, B. and Wilson, R. 89 Hayner, P.B. 53, 83, 87–88, 90, 91, 117 Higgins, R. 81 Hinduism 36 Hoffman, E. 16, 90, 143, 150, 155, 159 Holocaust survivors 138, 150 Homer 85 Horowitz, D. 64–65, 66, 106, 107, 111, 112–113, 157 Howard, M. 39, 43, 100–101 human rights 14, 43, 44–45, 84–85 humanitarian interventions 14, 40, 44–45

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I-Thou interactions 37–38 ICISS report 14 Ignatieff, M. 62, 143–144 illusion of progress 28 imagination 134–135, 137, 147 imperialism, Marxist and liberal views of 46 India and Pakistan 65 Punjab 63 individuals inertia and moral blindness of 81 political leaders 81–82 reconcilitation 82–93, 154 superordinate goals 93–97 victimhood 76–77, 97–100, 155 see also actor(s) Institute for the Study of Conflict Transformation, Hafstra School of Law 19, 21 intellectual influences sentimental education 131–139 transformation approach 12–16 intercommunal relations, negative transformations 60–61 inter-cultural changes, negative 68–74 International Alert 21–22, 50 International Brigades 46 ‘international community’ failures 103 liberal rhetoric 42–43 and local culture 30–31 post-conflict peacebuilding 8–10 International Crisis Group 31 international financial aid/agencies 122–124, 125, 126, 127, 129, 156 Internet training resources 22 interpersonal vs. institutional approaches to reconciliation 90–91 INTERREG initiatives 96 intersubjective dialogue 133–136, 151, 155 see also sentimental education Iraq 44, 56, 63, 97, 129 Ireland 96, 147–148 see also Northern Ireland Israel and Palestine 31, 37, 50, 55, 99 cross-community projects 95–96, 96–97 negative transformations 65, 67, 70, 72, 73 Israeli invasion of Lebanon 97 issue transformation 17

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James, William 132, 133, 154 Jeong, H.-W. 78, 94, 103, 122 Jewish faith 37 journalism see media justice non-violent action as 13 restorative 83 retributive 110–111 Kaldor, M. 11, 13–14 Kant, I. 3, 30, 38, 39, 40, 43, 54, 101, 132, 133, 137 Keane, F. 138 Kearney, R. 119, 134–135, 147, 148 King, Martin Luther, Jr 12, 13, 23, 35, 56 Kosovo Battle of 76, 98 and Bosnia 44 media 143 negative transformations 63, 65, 76, 78–79 structural transformations 105, 108, 115–116, 119–120 language see dialogue Laswell, H. 61–62, 64 Latin America 41, 42, 57 learning sites for sentimental education 140–151 Leatherman, J.D., et al. 22, 23 Lebanon, Israeli invasion of 97 Lederach, J.P. 7, 19–20, 23, 30, 33, 34, 96, 157 Lewis, J. 104 liberal tradition 38–45, 46, 49, 56, 57 Liberia 31, 64, 78, 145 Lijphart, A. 30, 111, 112–113, 114 Linklater, A. 15, 16, 46 long-term transformation 24–25, 155–156 McCann, E. 48, 157 McCullogh, C. 85 Magee, B. 26 Marxist tradition 45–49, 56, 57 media 139, 143–146 mediation 18–19 training 19–20, 21–22 ‘meliorism’ 132 Miall, H. 12, 21, 24 et al. 17, 23

Middle East rituals of reconciliation and settlement 150 see also specific countries militarism 46–47, 54–55 and pacificism 132, 133 militarization 61–64, 78 and demilitarization 63–64, 78–79 military industrial complex 47 Milosevic, President of Serbia 76, 111 minority nations vs. states 106–107 minority rights 45 Mitchell, C.R. 1, 29, 60, 72, 74, 80, 103 moral blindness 81 moral imagination 137 moral progress 136, 137–138 Mozambique 78, 91, 92, 123, 139 multiculturalism 45, 119–121 multiple levels of transformation 25 musical projects 95–96 Nasong’o, S.W. 117–118 nation vs. state problem 106–107 ‘national reconciliation’ 83 nationalism 7, 43, 45, 49, 55 Irish 147–148 need fulfilment, conflict resolutions as 13 ‘negative energy’ 3, 60 negative transformations 59–60 impact of violence on intercommunal relations 60–61 individuals 74–77 inter-cultural 68–74 to positive transformations 77–80 structural 81–88 ‘new realism’ 1–2 ‘new wars’ 13–14 non-governmental organizations (NGOs) 9, 10, 12, 20, 21–22, 34 religious 86 sentimental education roles 142, 145 see also civil society non-violent action 12–13 Nordstrom, C. 14, 59, 67–68, 91, 124 normative approach 17–18 Northern Ireland arts (Field Day) 146–148 Belfast Agreement 25, 66, 77, 97, 106, 111–112, 118, 155

Index Beyond Hate conference 48 civil society 118, 119 conflict transformation training 22 consociation 111–112, 113, 114 criminal gangs 63 criticism of transformation approach 25 dehumanization 71 economic development 121–122, 126 education 141 ‘interface areas’ 66, 77, 155 media 144–145 militarization 62 multiculturalism 120–121 musical project 95 peacebuilding groups 22, 55 reconciliation issue 89–90, 91 religious elements 36, 73–74, 75, 83–84, 86 sacrifice 75–76 ‘Seed of Hope’ project 79 sovereignty issue 105, 106 sports 95 storytelling 135 victimhood 97, 99, 100 women’s groups 55 Norway NORDEM and Norwegian Centre for Human Rights 109–110 Peace and Conflict Transformation 21 novels 138–139 Orwell, George 46, 98, 138–139 Oz, A. 76, 137, 138, 156 pacificism and militarism 132, 133 Palestine see Israel and Palestine Palmary, I. 53 Peace and Conflict Transformation, Norway 21 Peace Research centres, UK 21 peacebuilding, post-conflict 8–12 peacemaking, as ‘tool of transformation’ 17 personal transformation see actor(s); individuals Plonski, S. 50, 99, 100, 142 political culture 114–121 political transformation 104–121, 128–129, 154 political underdevelopment 68

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politics, world, changing nature of 8–12 Popper, K. 26–28, 66, 132 ‘positive conflict energy’ 20–21, 60 positive transformations, negative to 77–80 post-conflict peacebuilding 8–12 power asymmetry 17, 22–23 of political leaders 81–82 see also empowerment pragmatism 131–133, 136, 142 ‘prescriptive’ approach 20 progress, illusion of 28 psychological dimensions 60 and truth commissions 89 victimhood 76–77, 97–100, 155 public opinion 39 Pugh, M. and Cobble, M. 115, 117 radio see media reconciliation 82–93, 104, 110, 154 and Christianity 36–37 ‘secondary reconciliation’ within family 150 refugees and returnees 67, 79–80 regional level peacebuilding initiatives 11 Reimann, C. 50 Reiss, H. 38 religion interfaith projects 95 and reconcilitation 83–84, 85, 86, 91–92 therapeutic 98 religious element in conflict 73–74 religious traditions 35–38, 55–56 resolution and transformation views 29 restorative justice 83 retributive justice 110–111 Richards, P. 24, 44, 60 Rieff, D. 44 Rorty, R. 15, 28, 131, 133, 135–139, 140, 142–143, 146, 155 rule of law 39 rules and norms transformation 17–18 Rwanda 31, 71, 77, 138, 143, 155 structural transformation 108, 109–110, 117, 122, 125 Ryan, S. 9, 45, 62, 70, 107, 121 sacrifice trap 75–76 Said, Eward 72, 95–96

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Samset, I. and Dalby, O. 109–110 sanctification, demonization and 73–74 Sanders Peirce, C. 131, 132 Sarvodoya Society, Sri Lanka 24 scapegoating 70 School for International Training, US 21 School of Peace Studies and Conflict Transformation, Thailand 21 science/scientific approach 27–28, 33, 52–53 segregation, residential 64–67 self-censorship of media 144–145 self-determination see sovereignty self-formation/creation 142–143 self-reflective reconciliation 92–93, 100–101 sentimental education 135–139 intellectual influences 131–139 intercommunal learning sites 140–151 Serbia/Serbs 67, 76, 95, 98, 103, 108 ‘shadow economy’ 67–68 Sherif, M. 93–94 Sierra Leone 78, 108, 110 Snyder, J. 42–43, 64, 108–109 social inequality and civil society 119 and consociationism 113–114 social sciences and scientific method 27–28, 33 solidarity 132–138 passim Somalia 31, 78 South Africa 25, 70, 78, 83 economic development 127 structural transformation 105, 107–108 Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) 36–37, 53, 86, 87–88, 89, 135, 159 South America 41, 42, 57 sovereignty issues 14, 105–107 Soviet Union/Cold War 8, 16–17, 108 Spain 46, 92, 106 spiritual aspects see religion; entries beginning religious sports 95 Sri Lanka 24, 55, 71 truth commission 86, 87 stereotyping 70–71, 72 storytelling 135, 138–139 Strange, P. 51–52 structural analysis of global capitalist economy 47–48

structural transformation 17, 103–104 economic development 121–127, 129, 154 negative 81–88 political transformation and democratization 104–121, 128–129, 154 and relational change 29 superordinate goals 93–97, 126 sympathy 137, 139 Tajikistan 11, 94, 126 television see media terrorism 72, 74, 121 ‘therapeutic transformation’ 82 Thompson, D. 131, 139 ‘tools of transformation’ 17 totalitarianism 27, 28 traditional healers 91–92, 98 traditions of transformation 33–57 training disarmament and retraining 78 mediation 19–20, 21–22 see also education TRANSCEND 20, 21, 158 transformation concept of 1–2, 153–160 development of approach 16–22 intellectual influences 12–16 transition issues 107–111 trauma and coping mechanisms 97–98 cultural memory of 98–99 truth and intersubjective dialogue 135–136 and reconciliation 86–89, 91 and sympathy 137 truth commissions 86–88, 100, 110, 159 TRC, South Africa 36–37, 53, 86, 87–88, 89, 135, 159 Tutu, Archbishop Desmond 37, 86, 87 underdeveloped concept of transformation 29 underdevelopment, economic and political 67–68 United Kingdom (UK) 12, 44, 121 United Nations (UN) 14, 39, 119–120, 147 An Agenda for Peace 8, 9–10 Brahimi Report 10, 95

Index in Democratic Republic of Congo 54, 94–95 High-Level Panel on Threats, Challenges and Change 10–11 as League of Nations 133 Machel Report 98 welfare liberalism 40 United States (US) 12, 21, 22 civil rights movement 35, 56 historic perspectives 69–70, 72, 75 and Iraq 44, 63 and Latin America 42 media 144 militarism 47 pragmatism 131–132 summer camps experiments 93–94 terrorism 74, 121 ‘utopian engineering’ 26–28, 66 Uvin, P. 117, 118, 122, 125–126 Van Rooy, A. 35, 55, 117 Vayrynen, R. 17–18, 21, 23, 153 vested interests 26, 155 victimhood 76–77, 97–100, 155

violence, categorization of 20 Volkan, V. 24, 88, 97, 98, 149 Wallerstein, I. 47–48 Walzer, M. 45, 69, 80, 105, 106 war crimes see retributive justice; truth commissions War Torn Societies Project 94 warlords 62, 63–64 welfare liberalism 39–40 West Eastern Divan Orchestra 95–96 Wilson, R.A. 88 women feminist tradition 49–54, 55, 56 violence against 53, 54 women’s groups 55 women’s rights 50, 54 world politics, changing nature of 8–12 Yugoslavia 88 Former 111, 122 see also specific countries Zimbabwe 86–87 zones of separation 65

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