Research in Social Movements 23

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POLITICAL OPPORTUNITIES, SOCIAL MOVEMENTS, AND

DEMOCRATIZATION

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RESEARCH IN SOCIAL MOVEMENTS,CONFLICTS AND CHANGE

Series Editors: Patrick G. Coy and Isidor Wallimann

Most recently published volumes:

Volumes 19–21: Edited by Michael Dobkowski and Isidor Wallimann

Volume 22: Edited by Patrick G. Coy

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ii PATRICK G. COY

RESEARCH IN SOCIAL MOVEMENTS, CONFLICTS AND CHANGE VOLUME 23

POLITICAL

OPPORTUNITIES,

SOCIAL MOVEMENTS,

AND DEMOCRATIZATION

EDITED BY

PATRICK G. COYCenter for Applied Conflict Management,

Kent State University, Ohio, USA

2001

JAIAn Imprint of Elsevier Science

Amsterdam – London – New York – Oxford – Paris – Shannon – Tokyo

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Introduction iii

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Political opportunities, social movements and democratization/edited by Patrick G. Coy.p. cm. – (Research in social movements, conflicts and change. Supplement; v. 23)

ISBN 0-7623-0786-21. Social movements. 2. Democratization. I. Coy, Patrick G. II. Series.

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iv PATRICK G. COY

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTIONPatrick G. Coy vii

PART I: POLITICAL OPPORTUNITY STRUCTURES,

IDENTITY, AND SOCIAL MOVEMENTS

CULTURE AND POLITICAL OPPORTUNITY:RASTAFARIAN LINKS TO THE JAMAICAN POOR

A. E. Gordon Buffonge 3

COMPROMISE IN SOUTH AFRICA: CLASS RELATIONS, POLITICAL OPPORTUNITIES, AND THE CONTEXTUALIZED“RIPE MOMENT” FOR RESOLUTION

Kristin Marsh 37

EXPANDING POLITICAL OPPORTUNITIES ANDCHANGING COLLECTIVE IDENTITIES IN THECOMPLEMENTARY AND ALTERNATIVE MEDICINE MOVEMENT

Melinda Goldner 69

RIVAL TRANSNATIONAL NETWORKS AND INDIGENOUSRIGHTS: THE SAN BLAS KUNA IN PANAMA AND THE YANOMAMI IN BRAZIL

Gregory M. Maney 103

THE ORIGINS OF THE PROTEST MOVEMENT AGAINST NUCLEAR POWER

Stephen Adair 145

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Introduction v

v

INACTION, INDIVIDUAL ACTION AND COLLECTIVEACTION AS RESPONSES TO HOUSING DISSATISFACTION:A COMPARATIVE STUDY OF BUDAPEST AND MOSCOW

Chris Pickvance 179

PROTESTER/TARGET INTERACTIONS: AMICROSOCIOLOGICAL APPROACH TO STUDYINGMOVEMENT OUTCOMES

Rachel L. Einwohner 207

PART II: DEMOCRATIZATION AND DISORDERS AS

POLITICAL CHANGE MECHANISMS

WELSH NATIONALISM AND THE CHALLENGE OF‘INCLUSIVE’ POLITICS

Paul Chaney and Ralph Fevre 227

A DIFFICULT BIRTH: DISSENT, OPPOSITION, ANDMURDER IN THE RISE OF MEXICO’S PARTIDO DE LAREVOLUCION DEMOCRATICA

Sara Schatz 255

CAMPUS RACIAL DISORDERS AND COMMUNITYTIES, 1967–1969

Daniel J. Myers and Alexander J. Buoye 297

ABOUTH THE EDITOR/AUTHORS 329

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vi RUNNING HEAD

INTRODUCTION: POLITICALOPPORTUNITIES, SOCIALMOVEMENTS, ANDDEMOCRATIZATION

Patrick G. Coy

For well over a decade now many research projects on social movements havebeen organized around a trinity of issues: political opportunities, mobilizingstructures and various kinds of framing processes. Some of the more interestingresearch projects have focused not on simply one or the other of these aspects,but on all three and on their relationships to each other. Not surprisingly,research focused on all three has also tended to contribute the most to the devel-opment of social movement theory. However, disentangling how these threefactors interact with each other and thereby influence not only the emergence,but also the growth and eventual decline of social movements has been far fromeasy. This is the task that A. E. Buffonge ably takes on in his analysis of theRastafari movement’s ideological challenge to the Jamaican government.

Buffonge’s research demonstrates the critical role that Rastafari culturalframing processes had in developing a credible challenging movement and maintaining it over time. He also shows, through a detailed analysis ofRastafarian reggae music, how mobilizing structures helped build the movement for change. Research on political opportunity structures has oftenfocused simply on the effects that changing political opportunity structures haveon movements. Although it has been much too infrequently studied, we alsoknow that there is, in fact, another side to this cause and effect coin: socialmovements themselves contribute to changing political opportunity structures.The two-way interaction in this case – between the Rastafari movement andthe political structures of Jamaica – receives careful analytical attention inBuffonge’s paper, including through his treatment of the interrelationshipbetween culture and structure.

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Kristen Marsh’s paper on political compromise in South Africa continues ourfocus in section one of this volume on social movements and political oppor-tunity structures. But Marsh also effectively bridges the multiple foci of thisseries by expanding her theoretical treatment of the struggle against apartheidto include an analysis of it as an example of compromised revolution. In SouthAfrica, the compromise was partly the result of shifting class relations, finan-cial and political instability, effective non-violent action, and a military andpolitical “hurting stalemate.” Marsh usefully combines stalemate theory fromconflict resolution literature with the political opportunities research in socialmovement theory to understand the broader lessons embedded in the SouthAfrican situation. She also identifies three necessary factors that converge to shape state recognition of a hurting stalemate and of negotiations as a preferable and viable alternative to continued conflict.

Social movements are often engaged in conflict with power-holders and otherstatus quo representatives. As such, movements develop collective identities aspart of their origin activities, as part of their complex self-definition processesas challenging groups, and even through their waging of conflict to bring aboutsocial change. In her paper on the complementary and alternative medicinemovement, Melinda Goldner moves both social movement theory and identitytheory forward with a detailed, careful analysis of the intersections betweenexpanding political opportunities and changing collective identities. Based onsocial observation and interviews with complementary and alternative medicineactivists in the San Francisco Bay area of California, Goldner’s interesting casestudy addresses the important question of what happens to a movement’s collec-tive identity when the political climate shifts and becomes more favorable tothe challenging movement and its goals.

In his comparative analysis of the San Blas Kuna of Panama and theYanomami of Brazil, Gregory Maney rejects the social movements interpretiveframework in favor of a more specific “issue networks” perspective. LikeGoldner’s work on the alternative medicine movement, Maney’s research alsoexamines the multiple roles that collective identity constructions play in socialmovements and issue networks. He argues that collective identity concernscombine with ideology and strategic considerations to influence the selectionof collective action frames.

His research shows that the status of indigenous rights in the two cases studiedis the product of contention between rival networks of organizations. This ambitious paper successfully argues that the degree of pressure generated byeach network depended upon variables that are now familiar to social movement theorists: resources and organizational capacities, inter-organizationaldynamics, political opportunities, collective identities and collective action

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viii PATRICK G. COY

frames, and the forms of contention chosen. While familiar in one sense, whatis distinctive about Maney’s work is his consideration of all these factors andhis creative use of them in a comparative way across transnational networks.In so doing, he makes a number of important contributions to theory-building.

Careful readers of this volume will quickly discern that all is not quiet onthe fronts of political process theory and political opportunities theory. This isas it should be, and is nowhere more apparent than in Stephen Adair’s studyof the origins of the anti-nuclear power movement in the United States.

Relying on diverse and rich data sources, Adair argues convincingly thatpolitical opportunity theory is inadequate to explain the emergence in the 1970sof the movement against nuclear power in the United States. Although that initself is a useful theoretical contribution, Adair goes on to advance a counterargument that features a critical theory of power, and a concept that he terms“political condensation.” When paired together, this allows him to account forthe fact that some of the strongest mobilizations against the nuclear powerindustry did not occur where the industry was the weakest (as political oppor-tunity theory would suggest). Using Seabrook and the Clamshell Alliance as aparadigmatic case, Adair argues that significant citizen mobilizations occurredat those nuclear power sites where the alliance between the state and the nuclearindustry was the strongest, the most visible, and where both entities committedsubstantial political and economic resources to save the nuclear plant. This jointmobilization and “power condensation” by the state and industry created a simultaneous collective perception of injustice among potential activists, leadingto movement emergence and sustained activism.

Scholarship on social movements is, by definition, concerned primarily withcollective action. But when confronted with injustices, and before the choiceto engage in collective action is made, individual citizens consider multipleoptions. As Christopher Pickvance demonstrates in his article comparingresponses to housing dissatisfaction in Budapest and Moscow, the arena ofchoice includes inaction, individual action and collective action. Pickvanceadvances a model in which the choice between these three modes depends uponthe political opportunity structure, the ease of resource mobilization, the degreeof structured inequality, the nature of the issue domain, and the results of theindividual calculus regarding collective action. His model attempts to theorizeinaction, individual action and collective action together rather than separately,as is more often done.

Over the last few years many social movement scholars have increasinglyturned their attention to the thorny problems associated with conducting researchthat attempts to measure the outcomes of social movement activity. Even whileacknowledging how difficult it is to measure movement outcomes with

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accuracy, it still seems fair to argue that this turn in the research road is overdue,that social movement scholars have long taken too much for granted in ascribingdiscrete, or even general, effects to social movement actions. Given the relative newness of this development, it is not overly surprising that one broadpattern in the movement outcomes research focuses on the theoretical andmethodological difficulties associated with studying outcomes in meaningfulways, as opposed to carrying out detailed case studies that attempt to measureactual outcomes. The paper by Rachel L. Einwohner is part of this tradition.

She argues for a micro-sociological approach to outcomes research, onefocused on face-to-face interactions between movement activists and theirtargets. Illustrating her theoretical claims with examples drawn from her ownresearch of animal rights demonstrations and from earlier published studies ofprotester/target interactions, Einwohner suggests that such an approachcontributes positively to being able to make causal claims about the immediateoutcomes of protest activity.

A shorter, but no less important section on democratization closes thisvolume, and takes up another historic focus of this research series in the process:social and political change. Paul Chaney and Ralph Fevre contribute an empirically rich paper on democratization developments in Wales in the late1990s. They focus on the challenges that the “inclusive politics” approach ofthe period created for the nationalist, and exclusivist political party, PlaidCymru, the Party of Wales. Based on 280 interviews conducted in 1999 and2000, Fevre and Chaney document and explain Plaid Cymru’s “civic nation-alism” and their dramatic electoral breakthrough into the political mainstreamas the party gradually moved from espousing an exclusive nationalist ideologyto a more inclusive one. This fascinating paper is not only important for itsuseful explanations of the growing nationalist social movement in Wales, butfor the insights and lessons it contains for scholars and policy makers attemptingto understand other nationalist movements in Quebec, Basque Country,Scotland, and elsewhere. The authors test Plaid Cymru’s claims to inclusive-ness against the party’s record of engagement with traditionally marginalizedsectors of the Welsh polity.

The paper on democratization in Wales provides a stark contrast with, whilealso complementing an equally strong case study of the use of political violencein Mexico during the 1990s as the dominant PRI party faced effective electoralchallenges from the left. Sara Schatz demonstrates that political violence, particularly in the form of what she calls “political homicide” has increasedsubstantially over the past decade, and has played a key role in the difficultrelations between the formerly dominant political party and the left wing PRD.Considering but eventually rejecting other hypothesis for explaining the reasons

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x PATRICK G. COY

behind the use of political homicide, Schatz’s careful analysis concludes thatthis tactic was adopted as a control mechanism with a dual purpose: to protectexisting political and economic structural arrangements, and to marginalize andminimize any threats to the same. Given the broad institutionalization of political violence by states and para-state organizations in Sri Lanka, Colombia,the Great Lakes region of Africa, and elsewhere, Schatz’s empirical study andstructural analysis of its use in Mexico takes on added theoretical significance.

We close this section and the volume itself with a paper by Daniel J. Myersand Alexander J. Buoye on the 1960s campus racial disorders in the UnitedStates and their social and economic ties to the local community in which theyoccurred. The authors set out to correct a glaring problem with previous researchinto the racial disorders that rocked the United States during this period, namely,the elimination of campus-based disorders from the data sets used to understand the racial riots and disturbances of the period. The campus eventswere often set aside on the assumption that urban collective violence was relatedto local economic and social conditions while the campus-based disorders werenot. Buoye and Myers demonstrate the falsity of that assumption; in fact, theresearch they present here shows a strong connection between campus racialdisorders and their local economic and political conditions.

This is the second volume under my editorship, and like the previous one,the contents of this volume reflect the multiple themes around which this serieshas been historically oriented. The papers included here contribute to theory-building in a number of theoretical literatures which, while they are in factinterrelated, are too often developed in isolation. The case studies in this volumecontribute to theories of conflict resolution, collective identity, social movements, issue networks, democratization, collective action, and especiallyto the robust literature on political process and opportunities. This kind of cross-fertilization was the vision of Louis Kriesberg when he founded this seriesover twenty years ago; I am pleased that we are able to maintain that vision,thereby advancing multi-disciplinary scholarship across multiple literatures. Iextend my gratitude to Jennifer Barress, my research assistant, whose able andgracious work on this volume contributed to its completion.

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PART I:

POLITICAL OPPORTUNITY

STRUCTURES, IDENTITY, AND

SOCIAL MOVEMENTS

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Culture and Political Opportunity 1

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3

CULTURE AND POLITICALOPPORTUNITY: RASTAFARIAN LINKS TO THE JAMAICAN POOR

A. E. Gordon Buffonge

ABSTRACT

This paper asserts that the Rastafarian movement’s ideological challenge

to the Jamaican democracy became meaningful to the Afro-Jamaican poor

and political elites for three reasons. First, given their origins among the

Afro-Jamaican poor, the Rastafarians were able to construct resonant chal-

lenging frames out of a shared history and experience. The Rastafari were

able to construct frames that were built upon the experiences and narra-

tives of their target group. These frames tapped pre-existing pan-African

visions such as Marcus Garvey’s, the grinding poverty faced by many

urban and rural Jamaicans, and benefited from the presence of actual

African retentions such as the Revival religion. These emphases made the

frames empirically credible and therefore particularly resonant to the

Jamaican poor. Second, changing political opportunities, including

changes in the political structure and the elevated prestige of the

Rastafarian movement led some political elites to use Rastafarian frames

to mobilize support among the poor, and helped shift Rastafarian frames

from the periphery to the political mainstage. Third, certain mobilizing

structures, including the popularity of Rastafarian reggae, augmented the

dissemination of Rastafarian precepts. The paper highlights the

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Political Opportunities, Social Movements, and Democratization, Volume 23, pages 3–35.

2001 by Elsevier Science Ltd.

ISBN: 0-7623-0786-2

interrelationship between culture and structure in a movement’s emergence

and success. Structure constrains movement possibilities, but the framing

capablilities of movement actors help create maneuverability for the move-

ment.

INTRODUCTION

This paper focuses on how the Rastafarian movement, which emerged incommunities of desperately poor and uneducated Afro-Jamaicans, managed tohave important political consequences for the Jamaican capitalist democracy.The Rastafarians based their ideological challenge of Jamaican political elitepreferences upon perceived abuses of the Afro-Jamaican poor by the widersociety, and became important articulators of the needs of the poor. A cursoryglance at the Jamaican economy and politics from the time of the movement’semergence in 1930 through the 1960s and 1970s very clearly places the Afro-Jamaican poor at the bottom of both arenas (Bell, 1964; Stephens &Stephens, 1986). This structural location suggests that the Afro-Jamaican poorshould have been peripheral to Jamaican politics and unable to influence nationalpolitical discourse around issues such as state legitimacy and national identityor have a broader impact upon political culture. Indeed a number of Jamaicanpolitical scientists have argued quite convincingly that inasmuch as the Jamaicanpoor have participated in politics, that participation was mainly in the form ofpolitical clientelism (Buchanan, 1992; Edie, 1991; Stone, 1980). Nonetheless,the Rastafarians were able to make the concerns of the poor more central toJamaican politics of the 1960s and 1970s.1

Other inquiries which are focused on the Rastafari address the movement’sorigins, development, worldview, and some of its consequences. The now classicstudies by M. G. Smith, Roy Augier, and Rex Nettleford (1960), Leonard E.Barrett, Sr. (1977, 1988), Joseph Owens (1976) and George Eaton Simpson(1955) all seek to explain these aspects of the Rastafarian movement. Morerecent scholarship, by Barry Chevannes (1994, 1995a, b, c) has sought to situatethe cultural origins of, and explain the Rastafarian worldview. However, thesestudies did not examine the Rastafari, their ideology, and their encounter andconfrontation with the Jamaican state and political representation system.2

Consequently, the question of how the Rastafarian ideological challenge waspolitically meaningful has only been answered in part.

I have argued elsewhere that the Rastafarians launched their ideological andframing challenge against political elites who argued for the legitimacy of thestate and for a particular definition of the Jamaican national identity (Buffonge,1998). Jamaican political elites based their notions of the state’s legitimacy

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4 A. E. GORDON BUFFONGE

upon full political independence and the Westminster model of parliamentarydemocracy. They argued that the national identity should be multi-racial andrace neutral in its projections, exemplified by the national motto, “Out of many,one.” The Rastafari built their challenge to these positions in part around thestate’s origins in colonialism and slavery and upon the persistent devaluationof most African products within Jamaican society. Certainly the Rastafarianshad their successes. They accomplished what Sydney Tarrow (1994, 182) callschanges in signification, as some politicians began referring to the poor as“sufferers” and increasing numbers of Jamaicans called their capitalist democ-racy the “Babylon system.” In fact, the Rasta frame of “Babylon system” becamea master frame through which a number of subsequent actors and the BlackPower movement examined the Jamaican condition.

The purpose of the current paper is not to argue that Rastafarian frames andideology were effective in completely generating the kinds of change soughtby the Rastafari in political life, but to demonstrate how the overall challengewas meaningful to Jamaican citizens. With that in mind, I will examine howthe Rastafarians managed to negotiate the Jamaican cultural and structural landscape. How did the Rastafarians move from peripheral afterthoughts to anideologically important force? How and why were the Rastafarian frames resonant?

THE RASTAFARIANS

The Rastafarians have been the longest-lasting and most consistent challengersto the Jamaican state. Their political/ideological challenge, with its religiousand cultural roots, was first marshaled against the British colonial incarnationof the state and then adapted after full independence to an attack on the parlia-mentary democratic state. Throughout its duration, the Rastafarian challengeexhibited shifting degrees of effectiveness, due in part to variations in both thecultural and structural environments in which it unfolded. Quite naturally, theRastafarian challenge was least effective at the beginning of the movementbecause this was the moment when its adherents were most peripheral and itsclaims seemed most preposterous.

The Rastafarian movement began in Jamaica shortly after the coronation ofthe Emperor Haile Selassie I of Ethiopia in November of 1930. The event wasfeatured on the front page of the main Jamaican daily newspaper, The Daily

Gleaner, in the November 11th, 1930 issue (Smith et al., 1960). The Emperor’sofficial titles, some of which were listed in the Bible as those of the Messiah,were “King of Kings, Lord of Lords, Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah,Elect of God and Light of the World” (Chevannes, 1994, p. 42). Subsequent

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5

to the newspaper’s publication, a number of individuals in Jamaica began topreach that the Emperor was the Living God. Five men are credited withpreaching the new religion. They were Leonard Howell, Joseph Hibbert,Archibald Dunkley, Robert Hinds, and Altamont Reid (Chevannes, 1994).Howell is generally considered the first to preach the doctrine (Smith et al.,1960). These men built up their congregations in the poor black communitiesof Kingston and in Port Morant of the Parish of St. Thomas. From this begin-ning the movement has grown in size and reach so that there are Rastafariansas far away as Africa, Europe, Japan, Australia and North America. Rastafariansand other individuals sporting dreadlocks abound in Jamaica and throughoutthe world today.

Membership in the movement is for the most part informal and hinges onthe adoption of certain core beliefs and practices. The movement is thereforecomprised of a variety of formal, semi-formal, and informal organizations, aswell as unaffiliated individuals. Since the 1950s three sects are noteworthywithin the overall movement in that, although they do not constitute the majorityof the Rastafari, they offer the only examples of centralized and hierarchicalorganizations among the Rastafari. These are the Bobo led by Prince EmmanuelEdwards;3 Claudius Henry and the African Reform Church; and the TwelveTribes of Israel led by Vernon Carrington also known as the Prophet Gad(Chevannes, 1995b). In addition, the majority of the Rastafari are members ofan overarching quasi-organization called the House of Nyabinghi. Membershipand participation in terms of time and money is left to the individual Rasta todecide (Chevannes, 1995b).

The actual population numbers of the Rastafarian movement are difficult topin down. The House of Nyabinghi was not so formal as to have these numbersavailable; it did not during the period of study (1930–1981) seek to record itsnumbers. One researcher however puts the movement and its sympathizers ataround 300,000 in 1977 out of a population of around 2 million (Barrett, Sr.1988, 2). An optimistic and influential Rasta leader in the same period felt that60% of Jamaicans were Rastas or Rasta sympathizers.4

More important to our study than the actual population numbers of the move-ment is where they were influential. Carl Stone in a 1971 poll of the Kingston-St.Andrew Corporate Area found less than 10% support for the Rastafari amongthe business and professional classes, but as much as 30% of the lower class(marginals)5 supported the movement (Stephens & Stephens, 1986, 37). Theinfluence of the movement is not restricted to its number of adherents, for asargued by Stone (1973, 156), “[w]hile the proportion of the marginal popula-tion which practices Rastafari in its orthodox form . . . is certainly smaller,acceptance of the general interpretation of history and social reality offered by

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the Rastafarians . . . is even greater.” The decision of both the People’s NationalParty (PNP) and the Jamaica Labor Party (JLP) to employ Rastafarian representations and language in their political campaigns particularly in the1970s underlines how widespread and influential the Rastafarian framings hadbecome (Waters, 1985).

The reach of the movement is greatest among Jamaica’s poor. Given the move-ment’s ideology, this is not surprising. The majority of blacks in Jamaica are poor,and the majority of the Jamaican poor are black (Bell, 1964, 10). Additionally,although Jamaica experienced rapid economic growth in the 1950s and 1960s,most of the growth was in the capital-intensive sectors and only served to exacer-bate the unequal distribution of income (Stephens & Stephens, 1986, 25). Thus themovement existed in communities whose relative wealth was declining.

The structural location of the descendants of slaves at the bottom of theeconomic, social, and political ladders makes sense given the history of slavery.The movement sought to counter that sense of inadequacy by offering anennobling explanation of the poverty of Afro-Jamaicans. They emphasize thehistory of enslavement, and placed the modern Afro-Jamaicans, the descendantsof slaves, within the biblical context of the “chosen people” oppressed by theirenemies.

THE ROLE OF POLITICAL OPPORTUNITY ANDCULTURAL CONTEXT IN THE RASTAFARIAN

IDEOLOGICAL CHALLENGE

To examine how the Rastafari managed to mount a meaningful ideological challenge to the Jamaican democracy, we must uncover what made the challenge possible and the ideology compelling. We must address not only howthe movement emerged, but also how its political significance increased.Additionally, we must investigate why Rastafarian frames resonated withJamaican citizens.

Students of social movements argue that it is political opportunities, coupledwith sufficient mobilizing structures, and successful framing processes, whichmake movement emergence possible (McAdam, McCarthy & Zald, 1996, 3–6).As noted above, the Rastafarian movement began rather peripherally in 1930.However, by examining the role each of the preceding factors has played inthe movement’s emergence and development, we will discover “how” theRastafarians challenged the Jamaican democracy. A couple of points are worthmentioning. First, given the rather unusual length of time between the emergence of this social movement in 1930 and its period of highest influencein the 1960s and 1970s, the kinds of political opportunities and mobilizing

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7

structures which became available to the Rastafari varied. Second, the successof the Rastafari framing processes, as with all successful framings, dependedupon a mastery of their cultural environment.

Political Opportunities

In investigating the political opportunities which facilitated the Rastafarianmovement’s emergence, this project utilizes Sidney Tarrow’s recent formula-tion of the term. Tarrow refers to political opportunities, or rather to the politicalopportunity structure as “consistent – but not necessarily formal, permanent, ornational – signals to social or political actors which either encourage ordiscourage them to use their internal resources to form social movements”(Tarrow, 1996, 54). Four broad dimensions of political opportunity structureshave recently been delineated in the literature and each helps explain why theRastafarians emerged when they did. They are:

(1) The relative openness or closure of the institutionalized political system;(2) The stability of that broad set of elite alignments that typically undergird

a polity;(3) The presence of elite allies;(4) The state’s capacity and propensity for repression (McAdam et al.,

1996, 10).

The author uses these dimensions of political opportunity structure primarily toexamine social movement formation. Examining these dimensions in theJamaican context however will not only reveal conditions that allowed theRastafarian movement to form, but also the conditions which allowed theRastafarian ideological challenge to grow.

At the time of the Rastafarian movement’s emergence in the early 1930s,Jamaica was still under Crown Colony rule by the British. Therefore the political system was closed and did not offer the Afro-Jamaican poor an avenuefor representation. The worker rebellions in 1938 ultimately led to limited self-government and universal suffrage for Jamaica in 1944 and then to full independence in 1962. Therefore as a result of this transition from Crown Colonygovernment to internal self-rule, elective political representation was open to theAfro-Jamaican poor. However, the underlying poverty that was a part of thesecommunities remained in place throughout this period, with the income disparitybetween rich and poor increasing across the years (Stephens & Stephens, 1986,25). Because of this increasing income discrepancy, and despite the change in thevoting status of citizens, Afro-Jamaicans might still argue that the difficult economic circumstances that led to the 1930s rebellions remained in place.

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The Rastafarian movement emerged in these difficult economic circum-stances, survived, and eventually began to flourish. Initially, the Colonial statedid repress the movement by arresting a number of its leaders. Many of themovement’s early leaders including Leonard Howell, Robert Hinds, ArchibaldDunkley, and Joseph Hibbert were arrested and convicted of sedition in the1930s (Barrett, Sr., 1988, 86). However, the repression brought against themovement by the state was insufficient to eradicate it.

The movement, perhaps because it possessed the fervor/devotion of religion,continued to survive on the periphery. Upon his release from prison, in an effortto avoid harassment from police, Leonard Howell established a Rastafariancommune in the rural hills near Sligoville called Pinnacle. Pinnacle was raidedby the police; the Rastafarians were arrested in 1941 and again in 1954 (Barrett,Sr., 1988, 86–88). In the 1954 arrests the Rastafarians were acquitted asnuisances, but the Pinnacle commune was destroyed by the police; theseRastafarians then settled in the slums of Kingston.6 The eradication of thePinnacle settlement forced the Rastas into close proximity with the urban poor.Since the central Rastafarian method of ideological dissemination and religiousconversion involves face to face sessions with others, the government unwit-tingly increased the Rastafarian likelihood of success. The Afro-Jamaican poorwere, after all, the group most susceptible to Rasta philosophy.

Although by 1944 the political process was open to the Afro-Jamaican poor,the political system remained completely closed to the Rastafari until theUniversity Report of 1960. Up through the 1950s, Jamaican society had its owndefinite opinions about Rastas, considering them to be “psychopaths, criminals,and undesirables” (Chevannes, 1977, 242). Ironically, a series of actions in the1950s involving some Rastafarians in part confirmed some of society’s opinions of the brethren, but at the same time created an opportunity for societyto get a more accurate reading of the movement as a whole. In 1958 PrinceEmmanuel Edwards called a Rastafarian convention, at the end of which therewas to be repatriation to Africa. A year later, Claudius Henry made a similarclaim. Both bids at repatriation failed, but they did constitute the beginning ofboth Claudius Henry’s and Prince Emmanuel’s respective organizations.

On the heels of this failure with repatriation, the Jamaican security forcesuncovered weapons at Henry’s headquarters in Kingston, and Henry’s son wascaptured with a small band of guerrillas in the Red Hills above Kingston. Thecapture of the young Henry and the other guerrillas in training took severaldays; it cost the lives of two British soldiers of the West India Regiment andRoyal Hampshires (Lacey, 1977, 83). This action startled Jamaican society;Jamaican citizens had not taken up arms against the state since Paul Bogle’suprising in 1865. With the popular mood increasingly concerned with the

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“dangers” presented by the Rastafarians, a number of elder brethren approachedthe University Chancellor and asked him to commission a study on the move-ment in order to correct the misperceptions about the Rastafari.

The Rastafarian movement had no significant elite allies until 1960. TheUniversity report changed this. The Rastafari were interested in giving the publican accurate view of the movement, with a special interest in the public’s aware-ness of the movement’s non-violence. Three university scholars conducted thestudy, which looked into the doctrines and social conditions of the movement.The Report on the Rastafari Movement in Kingston, Jamaica was submitted to,and accepted by, Premier Norman Manley. The Report urged the police to“leave the innocent Ras Tafari brethren alone, stop cutting off their hair, stopmoving them on, stop arresting them on minor pretexts, and stop beating themup.” (Smith et al., 1960, 36) The Report also made a series of recommenda-tions designed to address the living conditions and goals of the Rastafarianmovement. The Report legitimated the Rastafarians as members of Jamaicansociety. Despite opposition from other elites, Premier Manley took a numberof these recommendations seriously.

Premier Manley’s acceptance of the University Report and implementationof some of its recommendations improved the movement’s image in Jamaica.By carrying out the Report’s recommendation of a mission to Africa, whichincluded some Rastafari in the mission, Manley had given the movement somenational credibility.

The visit of Ethiopian Emperor Haile Selassie in 1966, and his wild recep-tion among the Afro-Jamaican poor also served to highlight and justify themovement’s African focus. The Rastafari and the Afro-Jamaican poor overranthe airport and welcoming ceremony with cries of “This is our day! This is ourGod! It is him we come to see! It is we who welcome him (Barrett, Sr. 1988,159)!” Other cries included, “The day has come. God is with us. Let me touchthe hem of his garment” (Owens, 1976, 250–252). The reception for the Emperorat King’s House included Rastafarians, wealthy Jamaicans, and poor Jamaicansas well (Owens, 1976). While this social mix did not play at future functionsthroughout the island, a barrier had been breached. The Rastafarians were beingincluded in Jamaican society in a way they had not been before. The visitincreased the movement’s social prestige and at the same time served to under-line the Rastafarian movement as the premier indigenous Afro-centrists. Whathad begun as a fringe group of imagined lunatics and criminals now began togain a greater measure of support in the wider society.

The international reputation of the Rastafarians was helped, or rather to alarge extent cultivated, by the success of a number of Rastafarian reggae musicians. Men like Bob Marley and Peter Tosh were able to take the

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Rastafarian worldview to the world community. Their music was well receivedand respected in international circles. This reception in turn, served to elevateperceptions of the music and the Rastas at home, many Jamaicans long havinglooked to the West for political and cultural guidance.

The Rodney Riot of October 1968 was also important in outlining new oppor-tunities and allies for the Rastafari. Walter Rodney, a Lecturer in History atthe University of West Indies, and also the instigator of the Black PowerMovement in Jamaica (Chevannes, 1977, 249), was not allowed to re-enter thecountry after a conference in Canada. The JLP government of Prime MinisterHugh Shearer considered Rodney a sufficient threat, accusing him of being acommunist who had visited three communist countries in 1962 alone and ofbeing “actively engaged in organizing groups of semi-illiterates and unemployedfor avowed revolutionary purposes” (Keith & Keith, 1992, 192).

The Prime Minister clearly overstated the Rodney threat. However, Rodneydid lecture on African History and Black Power among the students at theUniversity of the West Indies campus, among the urban poor, among the middleclass clubs, and among the Rastafari. He argued that intellectuals and theseother groups of individuals should be allied in the struggle for Black Power.The Rodney exclusion from Jamaica resulted in a student march into the capital,which escalated into a riot of some elements of the urban poor in Kingston(Girvan, 1967, 59–61).

Rodney’s argument about how to develop Black Power and deal with theracial problems in Jamaica was built in part upon Rastafarian analyses. However,his philosophy also constituted an opportunity for the movement to expand itsinfluence. Rodney posed the question, “How do we break out of this BabylonianCaptivity?” (Girvan, 1967, 62). He suggested that “the black academic mustattach himself to the activity of the black masses” (Girvan, 1967, 63). Rodneyhimself demonstrated this approach in his discussions with the Rastafari brethrenin impoverished sections of Kingston. Rodney states that “I have sat on a littleoil drum, rusty and in the midst of garbage, and some Black Brothers7 and Ihave grounded8 together” (Girvan, 1967, 64).

Despite his exclusion from Jamaica, Rodney’s desire and example that theRastafarians be included in a movement with the intelligentsia came to fruitionwith the Abeng9 group. Building on Rodney’s suggestion of creating links withthe poor as a way to advance the cause of Black Power, the weekly Abeng wasfirst published in February of 1969. It promoted themes of black nationalismand linked Rastafari doctrine and reggae music with issues of racial and classconflict (Waters, 1985, p. 96). Abeng ended publication in October of 1969when the printery was destroyed in a suspicious fire (Waters, 1985, 97). It hada total national circulation of 20,000 (Waters, 1985, 97–98).

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The impact of the Abeng group on other groups in Jamaican society isrevealed by its members joining a variety of organizations. Some membersformed Marxist-Leninist groups, such as the Workers Liberation League, theCommunist Party of Jamaica, and the Independent Trade Unions AdvisoryCouncil (Gray, 1991, 188). Another group of members formed the PNP YouthOrganization and the Youth Forces for National Liberation. Rastafarians in theAbeng group joined the Rastafarian group Twelve Tribes. D. K. Duncan andArnold Bertram, prominent members of the Abeng group joined the People’sNational Party (PNP) (Gray, 1991, 218). Thus the Rasta-influenced politics ofthe Abeng group spilled over into a number of political organizations, includingthe PNP.

The Rastafarian movement also became important in the PNP campaign foroffice against the JLP government. The PNP and Jamaica Labor Party (JLP)attempts during electoral contests to cash in on the Rastafarian links to theAfro-Jamaican poor presented an opportunity for movement growth. As earlyas the 1967 election two JLP candidates, one of them the future Prime MinisterEdward Seaga, were employing Rastafarian symbols as part of their politicalcampaigns (Waters, 1985, 83). By the 1972 election, Rastafarian symbolismand reggae music were in heavy use by the opposition PNP. Opposition leaderMichael Manley had visited the Emperor Haile Selassie and returned with awalking stick which he called the “Rod of Correction”10 and at the same time,had assumed the biblical appellation, Joshua. Prime Minister Hugh Shearer ofthe JLP would on occasion speak in the adjusted terms of the Rastafari (Waters,1985, 123). Both parties used the language and symbols of the Rastafarianmovement and reggae music as part of their campaigns from the 1972 elections through to 1980 (Waters, 1985, 291–296). The PNP, which had bythis time cast itself as the party of the poor, was the more vigorous in its useof Rastafarian tools.

The use of Rastafarian symbols and language by political elites in the 1970sserved to legitimate some aspects of the Rastafarian ideology in mainstreamJamaican society. Because of the movement’s solid identification with theJamaican poor, the PNP, particularly in its 1972 electoral challenge, success-fully employed Rastafarian frames to win a larger section of the popular vote.11

However, to achieve this, the PNP had to project Rastafarian languagethroughout a national campaign. The party therefore became, in part, a trans-mitter of some aspect of the Rastafarian message.

The movement began in obscurity without allies. However, over the decades,allies became available. While the Rastafari were not uniformly supported byelites, particular elites began to see either the merits of the Rastafarian positions or the usefulness of the Rasta presence. Partly because of these new

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perceptions of the Rastafarians, the state reduced its repressive actions againstthe Rastafari.

Thus, a variety of political opportunities allowed for the emergence andsurvival of the Rastafarian movement. Additionally, political opportunitiesprovided the ideological space for the Rastafarian challenge. What began in the1930s as a minor poor people’s movement also found a number of internationalaids for a rise in its prestige (Haile Selassie’s visit, and Bob Marley’s interna-tional success) and local actors within the political mainstream who addedcredibility to some of the Rastafarian positions. Together, these factors servedto elevate the Rastafarian ideological challenge.

Mobilizing Structures

The Rastafarian movement and its mobilizing structures were never particularlysuited to a classical political challenge. This was in part due to the movement’sreligious origins, and their perception of the political structure as derived fromBabylonian evil. The perceived origins of the Jamaican state left mostRastafarians unwilling to participate in its activities in any formal sense. Therewas never any canvassing of homes for votes on candidates or issues or anyaction of that nature. Despite the non-traditional and religious nature of thechallenge, the Rastas still managed to impact the political system.

Ironically the Rastafarian challenge was political because of the nature oftheir religion. Their notion of a black God and chosen people was the startingpoint of a race-based critique and challenge to the socio-political orthodoxy.Their mobilizing structures were therefore built upon the exposition of thisworldview. These “collective vehicles, informal as well as formal, throughwhich [the Rastafarians] mobilize[d] and engage[d] in collective action”(McAdam et al., 1996, 3) included face to face proselytization in communitiesof the urban and rural poor, the performance of reggae music and public drummings, and the wearing of dreadlocks and other African-derived forms ofstyle. While information from the 1930s through the 1950s was transmittedprimarily in face to face “reasoning” sessions, and in conversations with neigh-bors and acquaintances throughout communities of the poor, Rastafarianmusicians have more recently been able to transmit their message through manykinds of media.

Consequently, the Rastafarian message which in earlier times was not onlyhampered by the seeming ridiculousness of their claims in the pre-1960s culturalclimate, but also by the limited availability of their worldview to a wide audience, gained greater acceptance after 1960. Subsequent to the Universityreport, the Rastafari were able to piggyback their message on the work of some

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academics. Additionally, the work of the Black Power movement, the Abenggroup, and the political parties, served to help disseminate the Rastafarian“truths.” Thus an improvement in the availability of more varied and far-reaching mobilizing structures also contributed to the success of the movement’schallenge.

Culture, Framing, and the Rastafarian Movement

The mobilizational capacity and resonance of the Rastafarian ideological chal-lenge is to a great extent dependent on the meanings Rastafarian frames havefor Jamaican citizens, particularly the Afro-Jamaican poor. To understand themovement it must be placed in its particular cultural context, for it is the culturalenvironment which determines each frame’s meanings. Frames constitute amanipulation of the broader elements of culture by a social movement in orderto project to the wider populace a particular ideology or worldview. Whetherthese frames will be effective depends upon how adept social movement actorsare at frame construction.

Frames

Building on the work of Erving Goffman (1974), David Snow and his colleaguesdeveloped the use of the term “frame” for social movement scholars who soughtto analyze movement ideologies. Elaborating on their earlier work with theircollaborators (Snow, Rochford, Jr., Worden & Benford, 1986, 464), Snow andBenford (1992, 133–155) outline three characteristic features of collective actionframes. The first listed is punctuation where the frame “underscore[s] orembellish[es] the seriousness and injustice of a social condition” or “redefine[s]as unjust and immoral what was previously seen as unfortunate but perhapstolerable.” The second characteristic feature is attribution. It is either diag-nostic in that the frame identifies a problem, or prognostic in that it providesa solution to a problem. The final feature listed is articulation through whichthe frame can align seemingly unrelated “events and experiences so that theyhang together in a relatively unified and meaningful fashion.”

Snow and Benford also offer methods for examining the resonance of masterframes. Their approach is similarly useful for examining the resonance of non-master frames as well. The following questions, if answered in the affir-mative, point to the resonance of a particular frame. Is the frame, or rather theframe’s diagnosis, empirically credible to the targets of its mobilization efforts?(Snow & Benford, 1992, 140). Are the problems framed commensurable withthe experiences of those targeted for mobilization? (Snow & Benford, 1992,141). And finally does the frame possess an ideational centrality or a narrative

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fidelity with the “extant beliefs, myths, folktales, and the like” that exist in thetargeted group’s lives? (Snow & Benford, 1992, 141).

While the Rastafari engage in a variety of framings about life in Jamaica, thereare a few central frames which remain at the heart of their ideology. There are twoframes in particular, both emerging out of Old Testament roots, which emerge aspotential master frames12 and are useful for our discussion. First is the Rastafariobservation that modern Jamaica and the West, with its history of slavery, colo-nialism, the impoverishment of people of African origin, is Babylon or theBabylon system. Second is their argument that people of African origin are thetrue Israelites, the actual chosen people of God, and are victims of an overallWestern project which obfuscates and devalues Africans and their true history.

Both the Babylon system and the chosenness frames are interrelated andemerge out of the Rastafarian reading of the Bible (King James Version). Havingread the Emperor Haile Selassie I, a black African, as the Messiah of theRevelation of St. John the Divine (and as such God), the Rastafarians deducethat if God is black then the chosen people must be black. In the Rastafarianreading, Africans replace modern Jews and Israelis as the true descendants ofthe Israelites of the Old Testament. These children of Ras Tafari become theprogeny of David and Solomon. If, as the Rastafarians argue, people of Africanorigin are the chosen, then they have been imprisoned during their past by theEgyptians and Babylonians. Consequently, through the process of articulation

this biblical history of exploitation is married to the history of modern Afro-Jamaicans in order to construct the Babylon system frame.

From this kernel of interpretation springs a whole network of meanings. Themodern exile of Africans in the New World parallels the Old Testament enslave-ment of the Israelites in Babylon and Egypt. The colonial state, the Jamaicandemocratic state, England, the United States, the West in general are all incarnations of Babylon. Roman Catholicism is damned many times over havingbeen related to the Roman dispersal of the Jews from the Promised Land in 73A.D., the crucifixion of Christ, and to the denial of the African heritage of thechosen people.

The Babylon system frame becomes the lens through which the Rastafariexamine their experiences. They view the modern world as a series of interlocking practices which oppress people of African origin and deny the truthof their origins. In the Rastafarian view, the religious, educational, and political systems as they exist in the contemporary period are implicated in theenslavement and oppression of black people. Christian religions for example,either ignore the blackness of God, or project an image of God as white. Theeducational and political systems reinforce and perpetuate the disadvantagesborne by Afro-Jamaicans.

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Thus the Babylon system frame punctuates the persistent poverty of Afro-Jamaicans and demonstrates that of all Jamaicans, it is the people of Africanorigin who are disproportionately impoverished. Bearing in mind that theRastafari emerged in a climate where domestic and international political elitesargued that hard work and equal opportunity would garner benefits for the poor,there was an ongoing perception that the failure of individuals to succeed wasrelated to their own limited intellects and low levels of motivation. The process of punctuation therefore, highlighted both the material and ideologicaldisadvantages borne by Afro-Jamaicans.

Working within their Babylon system frame, the Rastafari were able toemploy its attributional elements to offer an opposing explanation whichblamed the failures of the impoverished on a history of exploitation that wasbroad-based and ongoing. In the Rastafarian view, the suffering of Afro-Jamaicans in the economic arena could not be divorced from a wider networkof oppressive practices which included religion, politics, and education. In addition, the contemporary difficulties of Jamaicans of African origin could notbe disconnected from the suffering of any African/Israelite people in any epoch. Additionally, the Rastafarian diagnosis of the problems facing the Afro-Jamaicans included the process of articulation.

The Babylon system frame clearly revealed myriad difficulties in contempo-rary Jamaican society. The Rastafarians chose to address the problem of livingin Jamaica in a number of ways. The Rastafari expected adherents, much inthe style of the Old Testament prophets, to vocalize their displeasure with theJamaican society and expose its shortcomings for all to see and hear. Certainlythe work of reggae musicians such as Bob Marley and Peter Tosh was one wayin which the message was disseminated. In fact Bob Marley in his song“Babylon System” calls upon Afro-Jamaicans to rebel.13

The development and use of the chosenness frame was one way the Rastafariansattacked the Babylon system’s devaluation of Africans. The suffering of the Afro-Jamaican poor was already punctuated by the Babylon system frame, but througharticulation the chosenness frame linked that suffering with the burdens borne bythe ancient Israelites and New World slaves. In fact, building upon that linkage,the Rastafarians used the attributional elements of the frame to diagnose con-temporary oppression as the expected hardship of the chosen, with eventual deliv-erance from that oppression possible and even inevitable, provided the chosenfollowed the precepts of Jah, Ras Tafari. In the Rastafarian view, Jah had deliveredthem before as a people and as individuals. While Moses leading the children ofIsrael out of Egypt remains the preeminent example, the lesser examples of Danielsurviving the lion’s den and Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego unharmed by fireare similarly instructive of Jah’s relationship with his people.

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The evaluation of the resonance of Rastafarian framing in part involves thesubsequent discussion of the Rastafarian relationship to their cultural environ-ment. However, in a more immediate sense, the Babylon system frame certainlypossessed both empirical credibility and experiential commensurability. Thetargets of the frame did indeed live in great poverty and comparative disadvantage in Jamaica. The Rastafarian description of the Babylon systemand its Eurocentric components was quite simply an explanation of life inJamaica as it existed for the Afro-Jamaican poor. Both the Babylon system andchosenness frames resonate with Jamaicans because of the role that Christianityand the Bible play in Jamaican society. There are however a greater numberof cultural elements which impact frame construction and frame resonance.

Culture and Frames

Explaining how the Rastafarian framing challenge was meaningful must involvethe examination of the tools employed by Jamaicans in making sense of thoseframes. This necessarily entails an investigation of the broader Jamaican culturalpractices upon which the Rastafarians may have intentionally and unintention-ally built their frames. In examining the wider culture, the Rastafarianproficiency or good fortune as manipulators and interpreters of the culture ofthe Jamaican poor will be evaluated.

For the purposes of this investigation, I am interested in two levels of culturalanalysis. First, I wish to examine the ways in which the larger cultural contextwithin Jamaica constrained or facilitated the effectiveness of Rastafarian framesand attempts at mobilization. The larger culture produces the conditions andcircumstances in which the meanings of particular frames take hold. Thus, byexamining aspects of Jamaica’s cultural past, we can uncover the culturalclimate in which certain meanings develop and resonate. Through this approach,I seek to uncover what culture means to the individuals who live it, and toreveal what practices are acceptable or possible within a given cultural environment.

Second, I am interested in how the Rastafarian movement employs the largerculture to create their own meanings. Culture is the “tool kit” from which theRastafarian movement and other social actors may construct “strategies ofaction” (Swidler, 1986, 276) and their own movement subculture. It is fromthis tool kit that the Rastafarian movement must construct the frames andideology to mobilize opposition to the Jamaican democratic state. In constructingframes, movements adapt, change, reconstruct, and reinterpret the cultural artifacts to their purposes. To investigate culture on this level, the project examines the development of the frames of the Rastafarian movement, and how

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they are constructed in opposition to the Jamaican state and political represen-tation system. It also examines how these frames mobilize citizens by tappingculturally seductive issues, employing culturally enticing objects, and promotingculturally resonant actions.

Culture as the Larger Context

I turn now to examine some of the ways that the larger culture facilitated orconstrained the effectiveness of Rastafarian frames. There are certain keyfeatures of the larger cultural context that this project considers. I examine theAfrican religious tradition of the Jamaican peasantry, the role of Marcus Garveyamong the Jamaican poor, the King James Bible, the memory of slavery, andthe role of popular music in Jamaica and the anglophone Caribbean.

Among the factors of greatest importance to the explanation of the largercultural context are the traditions and practices of Jamaican slave/peasant religions which preceded the Rastafarian movement’s emergence and some ofwhich continue to exist today. Barry Chevannes argues convincingly that theRastafarian movement is in part a new departure from, but also a continuitywith, what he terms the “Revival14 worldview” (Chevannes, 1995b, 38–39).This worldview, and the Revival religion itself, grew out of the merging ofAfrican-derived and Christianity-derived religious practices15 and religionsamong Jamaican slaves, and subsequently, the Jamaican peasantry. While certainfeatures of the Revival religion remain tangential to the project at hand, anexplicitly political discussion of the process which led to the development ofRevival and Rastafarianism is important for our reading of the Rastafarian movement.

Revival, with its African retentions and its leaders who made political claimsagainst the Colonial state, primed the Jamaican peasantry and urban poor forthe Rastafarian message. Revival grew out of Myal and adapted Christianity.Myal was a Pan-African religion which developed in Jamaica some time before1760. Monica Schuler (1979) claims that it was instrumental in the planningand execution of the 1760 slave rebellion, also known as the Taki rebellion,which was the first to include multiple tribal groups.16 On the other hand, theinfluence of Christianity on the Jamaican slave population was negligible untilthe arrival in the late 18th century of Baptist preachers who were Americanslaves, and had been brought to Jamaica by Loyalists fleeing the AmericanRevolution (Chevannes, 1995a, 7). By incorporating Christianity into the Myalframework, the Africans created the Native Baptist Movement.

Chevannes delineates three reasons for the success of the Native Baptistmovement. First, it allowed for “the relative autonomy and charismatic authorityof the catechists or class leaders on the fringe of the orthodox Protestantism”

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(Chevannes, 1995a, 8). Sam Sharpe, one of these types of religious figures, ledthe Great Rebellion of 1831–1832 which is considered by some to be theimpetus in 1834 for the abolition of slavery in the British Caribbean. Second,it allowed for the emergence of dual membership. Some Jamaicans were ableto maintain membership in the orthodox Baptist church and an independentlyfunctioning “post-Myal” group (Chevannes, 1995a). The third reason was theGreat Revival of 1860, which had begun in Ireland and ultimately spread toJamaica. The Revival greatly increased all Christian congregations, but with therising numbers, came African religious practices such as convulsions and otherelements of spirit possession. These elements were denounced as the work ofthe devil, and these practices found a home outside of the formal churchesgiving rise to Zion Revival in 1860 and Pukumina in 1861, two variants ofmodern day Revival (Chevannes, 1995a).

Modern day Revival enjoyed its heyday from its inception up until 1920. Itsdecline coincided with the arrest and institutionalization of one of its leadersAlexander Bedward17 in 1921. Bedward, a successful and popular Revivalprophet, had been arrested in 1895 for preaching that blacks should overthrowtheir white Oppressors, referring to Afro-Jamaicans as the “black wall” whomust rise up and destroy the “white wall” that surrounded them (Chevannes,1994, 39), and who prophesied the end of the world in 1920. Thus we see inBedward a Revival leader who offers a call to action that is similar to the challenge brought by the Rastafari in more recent times.

The preceding discussion of Revival is important in a number of ways. First,we see an unwillingness of the Jamaican peasantry to completely divorce itselffrom African practices. Like the Rastafari, they have been willing to incorpo-rate elements from Christianity into their religious practices, but it is Christianityor partly Christianity on their terms.

A second important feature of our discussion is that religion in these commu-nities seemed to provide an important starting point for rebellion. In Taki’srebellion of 1760, which lasted from April to September of that year (Patterson,1967), according to Schuler, Myal provided an opportunity for separate tribalgroups to unite in a common cause. The Sam Sharpe Rebellion which lastedtwo weeks from 1831–1832, was led by the Baptist catechist, and plannedwithin the framework of the Native Baptist Movement. Paul Bogle, leader ofthe 1865 Morant Bay peasant rebellion, was himself a Baptist preacher. Thus,while religion may be the “opiate of the masses” for Marx, it has a long tradition of providing a structure for resistance and rebellion in Jamaica.18

A third element, which may be taken from the review of Revival, is the tradition of leaders speaking in prophetic and racial terms. The example thathas been raised so far is that of Alexander Bedward, but Marcus Garvey was

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to have an even more direct effect on the emergence of the Rastafarian move-ment. Garvey is reported to have prepared the way for the subsequentinterpretations of the Emperor Haile Selassie as the Messiah by saying to hisfollowers that they should “Look to Africa, when a black king shall be crowned,for the day of deliverance is near” (Smith et al., 1960, 5). Still the popularityof Bedward portends the arrival and resonance of the Rastafari, with the bibli-cally-based pronouncements of the divinity of Haile Selassie, the righteousnessof black people, and the need to fight White domination.

A final feature of consequence concerns the traditions of the Jamaican peas-antry and their migration to Kingston. The presence of Revival amongcommunities of the Afro-Jamaican poor suggests that the Jamaican peasantrywas accustomed to an ongoing religious and ideological conversation whichwas outside of middle and upper class discussions. The examples of religiousleaders such as Sam Sharpe and Paul Bogle who led rebellions against thesocio-political order suggests that this peasant religious and ideologicaldiscourse had a logic and life of its own, which ran parallel to a counterpartelite discourse which was much more European derived.

These conversations and traditions came to the urban areas, particularlyKingston, with the migration of the most destitute elements of the peasantry tothe cities. The size of Kingston doubled from 1921 to 1943, and grew by 86per cent from 1943 to 1960.19 Early adherents of the Rastafarian movementcame from this segment of the Jamaican population. In fact, a Rastafarian sectfounded in 1949 called Youth Black Faith broke from early Rastafarian leaderslike Joseph Hibbert because they employed Revival practices such as attemptsto “burn candles”20 for individuals (Chevannes, 1995c, 79–81).

It is important to note that the Rastafarians as a whole have come to rejectpractices such as Revival and Pukumina in much the same way that they rejectbroader elements of Christianity. It is ironic that a movement so rooted in itsaffection for Africa, dismisses actual African retentions. This is in part possiblebecause the Rastafarian movement is not African. It is instead a Jamaican

construction and product with an African focus. Despite the Rastafarian disapproval of these religious practices, their underlying commitment to Africain general does in the end elevate all things and practices that are African.

The Afro-Jamaican experience with Revival and Pukumina, indeed the largercommitment to religions that are at least in part African, not only paves theway for the Rastafarian movement, but also for the resonance of the move-ment’s frames. Rastafarian frames in reaching toward both Christianity andAfrica are able to build their narrative fidelity upon beliefs, myths and folktales developed by the forbears of modern day Jamaicans. Additionally, theexample of Youth Black Faith does suggests that the emphasis of Rastafarian

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frames upon an African focal point was commensurate with the pre-existingexperiences and practices of a number of Jamaicans.

I have shown some of the ways in which the general Jamaican peasantry andthe urban poor had been prepared for the Rastafarian message through the presence of Revivalism in Jamaican society. They were certainly accustomedto an African focus and particular African-derived practices. However, outsideof the existence and memory of slavery itself, no single force more properlypaved the path of the Rastafari than Marcus Mosiah Garvey.

Garvey, who had been born in Jamaica in 1887, founded the Universal NegroImprovement Association (UNIA) and the African Communities League (ACL)in 1914. Having traveled through Europe and been inspired by the nationalismsthat eventually led to World War One, Garvey formed these organizations inJamaica. He had not attracted much notice until the end of the war when hehad already migrated to the United States. At the vanguard of the “New Negro”Movement in the Interwar Period, Garvey pursued the racial emancipation ofblacks and the political redemption of Africa.21 Garvey promoted racial prideby presenting the historical accomplishments of Africans, promoting entrepre-neurship, and building an impressive organization for the dissemination andimplementation of his programs. Garvey was imprisoned for fraud in the UnitedStates in 1925, and later was granted clemency by President Calvin Coolidgeand deported to Jamaica in 1927 (Hill, 1992, xix–xx).

On his return to Jamaica, however, Garvey continued his activities. He helda UNIA convention in Jamaica for the first time in March of 1929. Chevannesargues that Garvey planted four broad themes in Jamaican society (Chevannes,1995, 95–98). The first was “Africa for Africans at home and abroad.” Withinthis claim, Garvey argued for the return of self-rule to Africa and the end ofthe European colonial presence there. The racial dignity and worth of Africanseverywhere was tied to the notion that they had a land to call their own. Garvey’ssecond theme was racial unity and his third was self-reliance, but not so muchpersonal self-reliance as racial group self-reliance. Educated blacks, for example,should educate other blacks. The fourth and final theme concerns individualdeportment before whites. In this instance, he tried to encourage blacks not tolower their heads and eyes in the presence of whites and mulattos, his argu-ment being that it was appropriate to respect these individuals but that respectshould be reciprocal. The Rastafarian worldview mirrors these maxims ofGarvey.

A final point from Chevannes is useful here. In this community of Jamaicans,historical knowledge is transmitted more often orally than in written form. Insuch a society, Chevannes argues that myth plays a significant role in the devel-opment of a national consciousness (Chevannes, 1995b, 99) and the national

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memory. He discovers that a number of myths (Chevannes, 1995b, 100–110)have developed around the memory of Garvey, these in particular among theRastafari, but no doubt circulating in the wider communities that the Rastafariinhabit. The first of these is that Garvey is divine. Another myth is that Garveyis John the Baptist, having foretold that Haile Selassie is the messiah. TheRastafarians claim that Garvey prophesied “look to Africa for the crowning ofa king to know that your redemption is nigh” (Chevannes, 1995a, 10). Twoother myths speak of Garvey’s gifts of prophecy and his ability to administercurses.

Garvey’s role in Jamaican history then, is also crucial to the resonance ofRastafarian framings. The myths of Garvey, as John the Baptist and as divine,are very much bound within the chosenness frame and the “Haile Selassie asthe Christ returned” frame. Marcus Garvey is an essential portion of theideational elements of Rastafarian frames.

Clearly then, both Marcus Garvey and Revival were important in preparinga cultural landscape that made the emergence and development of theRastafarian movement possible. Both also contributed to an arena in which theRastafarian afrocentric focus could flourish. The Rastafari themselves acknowl-edge these broader cultural links. In “So Much Things to Say” Marley (1977)states:

. . . I’ll never forget no way

they crucified Jesus Christ

I’ll never forget no way

they sold Marcus Garvey for rice

I’ll never forget no way

they turned their backs on Paul Bogle

So don’t you forget no youths

who you are and where you stand in the struggle.

There are however other factors which make the Rastafarian frames compelling.The Bible has long held a central role in the lives of the Jamaican poor. It isimportant to the Christians, the Revivalists, and the Garveyites in Jamaica. Itis also essential to the Rastafari. It is, after all, from this source22 that theydivined that the race of God is black, and that the chosen people are likewiseblack. In “Redemption Song” Marley (1979) asks “[h]ow long shall they killour prophets while we stand aside and look” and answers that “some say it’sjust a part of it, we’ve got to fulfill the book.” The Bible inspires such Marleytitles as “Exodus,” “Chant Down Babylon,” “The Heathen,” and “Give Thanksand Praises.”23

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The memory of slavery in Jamaica is also important to the wider culturalcontext of Rastafarian frames. As such, it shows up repeatedly in Rastafarianframings. It is, of course, in part the parallel of their modern enslavement thatlinks Africans in the New World to the plight of the biblical Israelites.“Redemption Song” offers a harrowing description and memory of capture andthe middle passage in its opening lines:

Old Pirates, yes, they rob I

Sold I to the merchant ships

Minutes after they took I

From the bottomless pit . . .

“Buffalo Soldier (Marley, 1983) speaks of “being stolen from Africa” and“brought to America.”

Finally, in examining the larger cultural context it is useful to note the signif-icant role of popular music in Caribbean societies. Since the end of slavery inthe Caribbean, and perhaps before, popular music has been a means to commenton social and political life. Thus there is a tradition of listening to popularmusic for serious political commentary. Whether it is the calypsonians, theMighty Sparrow of Trinidad, in “Ah Diggin’ Horrors”24 singing that “cost ofliving strangling everybody, no food in we house to feed we family” or Arrowof Montserrat in “Wind of Change” asking “Which change coming? Is itcommunism? Which change coming, is it socialism? It’s difficult to say butchange is on its way!” Bob Marley and other Rastafarian performers continuedthis tradition in such songs as “Johnny Was” (Marley, 1976) which commentson a senseless act of violence in Kingston with the words “Woman hold herhead and cry, cause her son has been shot down in the street and died from astray bullet.” Thus Caribbean popular musicians have demonstrated an abilityto critique their societies over time.

Bob Marley is aware that his music fulfills this role. He demonstrates thisawareness in his song “Chant Down Babylon” (Marley, 1983). Marley arguesin the song that “reggae music [will help he and his listeners to] chant downBabylon.” He takes the position that “music you’re the key . . . Bring the voiceof the Rastaman/Communicating to everyone.” Reggae music then for Marleyis a key tool for bringing the ideological challenge to “Babylon.”

I have covered a number of aspects of the larger culture which were impor-tant in shaping the environment in which the Rastafarian challenge emerged.The presence of Revival among communities of the Afro-Jamaican poor showsa continuing link to African-derived practices in their lives. It therefore suggeststhat the Afro-centric emphasis of the Rastafari would have a particular resonance among these individuals. Additionally, the examples of Sam Sharpe

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and Paul Bogle reveal that there was a tradition of resistance emerging out oflower-class religious groupings in Jamaica. Therefore, in that sense, the idea ofa Rastafarian challenge from below was not particularly novel, religion longbeing a source of criticism of the society.

The presence of Marcus Garvey as a precursor to the Rastafari also preparedthe way for Rastafarian criticisms of the Jamaican state and society. Garvey,of course, promoted the worth of Africa and the self-worth of people of Africanorigin, trying to instill in Afro-Jamaicans a sense of pride. Garvey also pointedto those who enslaved Africans and colonized Africa as a main source of thedifficulties Afro-Jamaicans faced in his time. Thus, the ideological landscapeamong communities of the Afro-Jamaican poor had already been prepared forthe types of criticisms the Rastafarian movement was to bring against theJamaican state.

The Rastafarian use of the Bible as the source of their arguments was alsohelpful for conveying their message. The stories of the Bible were transmittedto Jamaicans in churches and schools through anecdotes and expressions.Therefore, the biblically-rooted language of Rastafarian arguments had a certainfamiliarity for Afro-Jamaicans.

Finally, the fact that music was a familiar way of conveying information andarguments throughout the Caribbean proved helpful to the movement’s trans-mission of its ideology. Rastafarian musicians such as Bob Marley, Peter Tosh,and Bunny Wailer were able to disseminate Rastafarian positions in the localdancehalls, over the local airwaves, as well as internationally. Stephens andStephens observe that “[r]eggae . . . did . . . become the dominant form of musicon the air (in Jamaica) and Marley became a national cultural hero revered byJamaicans of all parties and classes (Stephens & Stephens, 1986, 55).”Therefore, all of these features of the larger culture served to make theRastafarian challenge possible and their frames resonant.

In fact the wider resonance of Rastafarian frames, and in particular of theBabylon system and chosenness frames, becomes apparent in light of thepreceding discussion on the larger culture. By employing these frames theRastafari tap into a long tradition of religiously rooted opposition and a longhistory of the oppression of Africans. The chosenness frame articulates the samesense of the special-ness that is apparent in Garvey’s work. Additionally, muchof the narrative of Rastafarian framing was based on their readings of the Bible.This linked Rasta frames to broader ongoing narratives within the communi-ties of the Jamaican poor. Similarly, the Rastafarian use of music as an avenueof frame promotion was consistent with the manner in which music was experienced in wider Caribbean society. Consequently, Rastafarian framingswere particularly resonant for the Jamaican poor.

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Culture as a “Tool Kit”

Just as culture plays the role described above, it also serves as a “tool kit” fromwhich the Rastafari assemble their own meanings. Among the tools that theRastafari employ are the King James Bible, local metaphors, manipulations ofthe English language, the wearing of dreadlocks, and lessons from everydaylife. As we will see from the analysis of Bob Marley’s songs, many of thesetools are used together. This Rastafarian approach to frame construction whichemploys indigenous narratives and experiences serves to cement the resonanceof their frames. Much of the framing is in fact empirically rooted in the livesof the Afro-Jamaican poor.

Our discussion of the Bible thus far certainly denotes it as a likely tool ofthe Rastafari. Bits and pieces of biblical passages and phrasings are employedto convey the weight of a particular point. This is apparent in Marley’s (1977)“Guiltiness”:

Guiltiness, rest on their conscience, oh yeah

And they lead a life of false pretense,

each and every day.

These are the big fish,

who always try to eat down the small fish

the small fish

They would do anything

to materialize their every wish

But wait! Woe to the downpressor,

they’ll eat the bread of sorrow

Woe to the downpressor,

they’ll eat the bread of sad tomorrow . . .

Marley’s language here feels very much like the admonitions of Old Testamentprophets, such as Jeremiah. In his words we see hope given to the oppressedtoday of an ultimate retribution for the powerful in the future.

The preceding lyrics of “Guiltiness” also point to additional tools manipu-lated by Marley and the Rastafari. The use of the words “these are the big fish,who always try to eat down the small fish” builds upon metaphors in play inlocal conversations. Other metaphors in “Small Axe” (Marley, 1973) warn the“evil men” that “if you are the big tree, we are the small axe sharpened to cutyou down” or “whosoever diggeth a pit, shall fall in it.”

Another feature which appears in “Guiltiness” is the manipulation of theEnglish language to subvert the deceit and confusion of the colonizer’s tongue.25

The Rastafari use of language also becomes important because they assign a

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divine power to words. One Rastafarian claims that “the Word is God, becausethe greatest weapon is the creation of words (Owens, 1976, 179).” Because theword is “God” the use of words is vitally important to the Rastafari. Thus theword “oppressor” becomes “downpressor” in the song. “Understanding”becomes “overstanding” in Rastafarian discourse. Perhaps most importantly, theRastafari do not believe in the divinity of Haile Selassie, they know that Selassieis God. “Belief,” to the Rastas, implies doubt.

Another aspect of the manipulation of language which appears in Marley’slyrics is the particular use of the word “I”. The Rastafari emphasize the I as alink to their God, Haile Selassie I. It is also a way for the brethren to avoidthe use of the servile “me” (Owens, 1976, 65) and to establish each individualRastafarian as a separate individual who has discovered through his own studywho God is. This special individualism is reflected in the term “I and I” whichthe Rastafarians use in place of “we” or as a reference to the movement as awhole. This emphasis on I is also reflected in other words. In “So Jah Seh,”Marley (1974) pleads “Inite oneself and love Imanity” which means “unite your-selves and love humanity.” Thus from English and Jamaican creole the Rastafaritry to carve a separate language niche for themselves.

Marley also employed the lessons of real life to convey the power of hismessage. The situation and words of “Johnny Was” is a case in point:

Woman hold her head and cry

Cause her son had been shot down in the street and died

From a stray bullet.

Woman hold her head and cry

Explaining to her was a passerby

Who saw the woman cry

How can she work it out?

Now she knows that the wages of sin is death

Gift of Jah is life

. . . Johnny was a good man

. . . never did a thing wrong

The image of a woman holding her kerchiefed head seems archetypal in ourobservations of suffering around the world. Thus, immediately there is a famil-iarity with her story. Marley uses this compelling personal story to convey thedifficulty of life in Kingston in the 1960s and 1970s. Another song, “Talkin’Blues,” underlines once again the hardships of ghetto life to the Jamaican poor.Marley sings that “Cold ground was [his] my bed last night and rock was mypillow too/I’m saying talking blues, talking blues/They say your feet is just too

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big for your shoes.” In “Ambush in the Night,” Marley comments on the diffi-culties brought on by patron-clientelism in the ghetto. Marley argues that thepoliticians “through political strategy/They keep us hungry, and when you gonnaget some food/Your brother got to be your enemy.” “Johnny Was,” “Ambushin the Night,” and “Talkin’ Blues” emphasize the difficulties of life in theKingston ghetto. Marley’s ability and willingness to speak about the specificconditions of the lives of the poor places him in an effective position to recom-mend solutions for their difficulties.

The Rastafari also demonstrate a willingness to be creative with language toconvey their own particular meanings, and demonstrate their own linguisticseparation from the language of the oppressor. Naturally, since a form of Englishis the primary language they speak, they are incapable of a complete linguisticseparation. However, the gesture remains important. Given their linguistic limitations (that is, their reliance on the English language), they use this bit ofculture or language as a part of their methods of resistance.

Their creativity with the tools that life presents them is again reflected intheir wearing of dreadlocks. It demonstrates a separation of these locksmenfrom the modes of dress and behavior of other Jamaicans. Their self-presenta-tion becomes a representation of their link with Africa and their ongoing struggleagainst the Babylon system. The Rastafari initially wore their dreadlocks as away to distinguish themselves as Rastafarians and present themselves for derision from the wider society (Chevannes, 1995c). The first Rastafarians wereknown as Beardsmen because some of the brethren wore beards like the EmperorHaile Selassie. The Youth Black Faith of young Rastafarians began wearinglocks as a way of throwing off the compromising attitude of older members ofthe movement (Chevannes, 1995c, 87). According to Chevannes, matted hairhad been worn before traditionally by derelicts. Thus, the members of YouthBlack Faith borrowed this aspect of the derelicts’ appearance to present animage of themselves as shocking, uncompromising, and outside traditionalJamaican society. From this beginning, the Rastafari have managed to imbuethemselves and their mission with an heroic component and a sense of noblepurpose. In “Ride Natty Ride,” Marley (1979) sings “[d]ready got a job to doand he’s got to fulfill his mission . . . no matter what they do, Natty keep oncoming through . . . Natty Dread rides again.”

The Rastafarian frames are compelling because they use elements of theimmediate cultural environment to construct their arguments against the Babylonsystem and the methods of action they take against it. They employ passagesfrom the Bible, or local anecdotes and metaphors to convey a particular point.These cultural products are bits of language or styles of presentation with whichthe Afro-Jamaican poor would already be familiar. In fact the appropriation of

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another Babylon frame and sense of chosenness was already in operation asPsalms 137 had long been adapted and performed in slave communities as thesong, “By the Rivers of Babylon.” The resonance of their frames is also reflectedin their readiness to link the experiences suffered by the Afro-Jamaican poorin their everyday lives within the overall framework of their critique of theJamaican democratic state. The tools of the Rastafarian challenge to theJamaican democracy are crafted from materials familiar to the Afro-Jamaicanpoor.

Social movements exist in the context of a specific society and must beanalyzed contextually. It is within the context of the culture of that society thatcitizens come to assign and understand the interpretation of the world they livein. The Rastafarian movement, particularly in its targeting of the Afro-Jamaicanpoor to rise up and challenge the Jamaican democratic state, drew upon pre-existing cultural symbols and traditions to mobilize this group into action.

CONCLUSION: CULTURE, STRUCTURE, AND THERASTAFARIAN MOVEMENT

In discussing how the Rastafarians have moved from peripheral actors on theJamaican political stage to more influential roles, we have been forced toexamine the interrelationship between culture and structure. Whether we areevaluating the political opportunities, mobilizing structures, or framing processeswhich contributed to the rise of the movement, both cultural and structuralcomponents are apparent. At first glance, one may be tempted to define themovement’s success as a feature of the resonance of their frames, but clearlycertain structural conditions made it possible for the Rastafarian voices to beheard. The explosion of the Jamaican music industry on the international stagecertainly provided a venue for the articulation of the Rasta worldview; howeverit was the talent of the individual artists, the seductiveness of the music, andthe compelling elements of the Rastafarian argument which made reggae suchan effective vehicle of proselytization. Moreover, the Jamaican state’s unwill-ingness and inability to repress or eradicate the Rastafarians was both structuraland cultural. It was structural in that the constitutional forms of the Jamaicandemocracy did not allow the physical elimination of citizens, neither did theJamaican state possess the institutional apparatus (e.g. a pre-existing secretpolice) necessary for the execution of such a task. It was cultural because theRastafarian challenge, seen through the lens of the prevailing elite worldview(Liberalism and Christianity), seemed far-fetched and unthreatening.

Certain cultural features of Jamaican society made the emergence of theRastafarian movement possible. Among those elements was the emergence of

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a challenge to the prevailing order by non-elites and the beginnings of an articulation of a counterclaim based on religious beliefs and practices. Theearliest example of this kind of challenge was Taki’s rebellion. Additionally,the slave rebellion led by Native Baptist Sam Sharpe, and the peasant rebel-lion led by Paul Bogle both fall within this category. Alexander Bedward andof course Marcus Garvey led two of the most significant recent examples ofattacks against sitting Jamaican governments. The Rastafarians retained someof the characteristics from these earlier challenges, building their critique uponreligion and race.

In fact, the duration of the Rastafarian challenge was in large part due to itsreligious underpinning. While the Rastafari attempt to articulate their positionsas a logical form of argumentation, their attachment to its precepts go beyondan intellectual commitment. Their logical deductions may be the beginning oftheir religious knowledge, but the knowledge is deeply linked to religious faith.The individual Rastafarian’s affection for the precepts of his faith is beyondthe reach of argumentation, making it difficult for the Jamaican state to eradicate either the movement or their beliefs. Thus the Rastafarian critique laydormant in Jamaican society until that time when the broader culture and political structure became more receptive to it. This religious foundation doessuggest that the Rastafarian challenge will endure.

The Rastafarians also moved beyond the models that history had given them.While maintaining the unifying qualities of religion, the Rastafarians forexample, attempted to shift away from individual leadership of the movementto more individuated responsibilities for the articulation of the overall move-ment vision. All individual Rastafarians were expected to project their versionsof the Rastafarian worldview.

The acephalous nature of the Rastafarian movement both hindered and aidedthe movement’s success and longevity. On one hand, there was never a tightlyarticulated and systematic strategy by which the movement outlined and pursuedits goals. Therefore the primary ambitions of Rastafarian individuals and sub-groups often varied and progress on particular projects was often frag-mented and limited. Consequently, it was not always apparent that the movementwas achieving its objectives.

On the other hand, each group of Rastafarians maintained their commitmentto Rastafarianism beyond the ebb and flow of the movement’s broader appeal.The absence of a central leadership meant the state was never able to target aset of movement elites in order to eradicate the movement. The broad-basednature of Rastafarian goals allowed for some successes, such as a moreAfricanist orientation in Jamaican public life, and setbacks such as a no fullscale Rastafarian repatriation to Africa, without the collapse of the movement’s

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challenge. The numerous and varied cells of Rastafari suggest that the move-ments critique will persist.

In structural terms, people of African origin have remained at the bottom ofJamaican society. Certainly, between the time of the movement’s emergence inthe early 1930s and the 1960s and 1970s, the lot of Afro-Jamaicans hadimproved. However, as a group they remained largely poor and disadvantagedrelative to other social groups. Thus the Rastafarian articulation of the burdensof the Afro-Jamaican poor remained accurate and resonated with manyJamaicans.

From within the cultural arena, Rastafarian frames punctuated the structuraldisadvantages faced by the Afro-Jamaican poor. This was possible because Rastaframes emerged out of the experiences and day to day lives of the Jamaicanpoor. Certainly there were metaphorical components based in biblical historyand part of ongoing and pre-existing frames in communities of the poor.However, Rasta frames were largely about people and situations known to thisset of Jamaicans. In many instances, the Rastafarian audience knew the wholeor real story that gave rise to the frame. This link was at the heart of the resonance of Rasta frames in urban and rural Jamaica.

Some political elite articulations of what was transpiring and would transpirein Jamaica differed from the Rastafarian vision. Indigenous democratic polit-ical elites argued that the difficulties of the poor would be addressed onceJamaica was rid of the Colonial government and pursued some version of liberalism and capitalism. By the mid-1960s, however, some political elites andother social movements began to seek alternative approaches to the problemswhich confronted Jamaica. They did not have far to look as the Rastafariancritique represented the longest lasting, most far-reaching indigenous ideologyavailable. The resonance of the Rasta ideology among the poor led politicalelites and other social movements to employ elements of the Rastafarian critiqueas they sought Jamaican answers and support for ongoing Jamaican social andeconomic problems. Additionally, due to among other things, the UniversityReport, the visit of the Emperor Haile Selassie and the teachings of WalterRodney, the public perception of the movement improved dramatically from1930s to the 1970s. Thus the persistence of structural hardships for the pooralong with changes in the movement’s prestige eventually helped create theelite allies who would aid the Rastafarian challenge.

In the study of a movement’s emergence and success, it is difficult if notimpossible to separate the role of the cultural and structural components. Infact, political opportunities for challenge emerge in both the cultural and struc-tural arenas. The success of mobilizing structures depends a great deal on boththeir cultural resonance and their exploitation of structural realities. Successful

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frames are often based on their ability to highlight structural unfairness in waysthat are culturally meaningful. However, if movement actors continue to seekparticular outcomes, they will need to master their cultural universe if they areto become attractive to potential allies, build an effective organization, andnegotiate the structural labyrinth in which they are embedded.

NOTES

1. I have spoken about the nature and effectiveness of the Rastafarian ideologicalchallenge elsewhere, see Buffonge (1998).

2. I borrow the term from Jenkins and Klandermans (1995, 5, 15). The authors definethe political representation system as “the institutionalized set of organizations that claimto represent and aggregate the interests of various social interests. This places politicalparties, interest associations, and various social institutions claiming to represent broadconstituencies at the center of the interface between the state and civil society.”

3. The Prince has been called Prince Edward C. Edwards and Edward Emmanuel indifferent sources.

4. Ras Sam Brown in Barrett (1988, 2).5. This collection of marginally employed and unemployed account for 34–37% of

the population. In Stephens and Stephens (1986, 37).6. There were already Rastafarians living in Kingston, however the inhabitants of

Pinnacle certainly represented a new influx of Rastafarians who were used to engagingthe state, see Barrett, Sr. (1988, 86–88).

7. “Black brothers” is one of Rodney’s terms for the Rastafari, see Girvan (1976,67).

8. “Grounding” is a Rastafarian term meaning to discuss.9. The Abeng group, a collection of Black Power advocates, Marxist-Leninists, and

Rastafarians produced a weekly paper, also called Abeng, which addressed the issuesof the Afro-Jamaican poor.

10. During the campaign, after burglars broke into Manley’s house, there was someconcern for the “Rod’s” whereabouts. The next day Seaga claimed to have found the“Rod,” arguing that without it Manley had lost his power. A few days later, Manleyheld a meeting to produce, before the cheering crowd, the true “Rod,” see Waters (1985,111–112).

11. Carl Stone finds that the vote of the Rastafari-influenced youth proved decisivein Michael Manley’s victory in the 1972 election, see Chevannes (1995a, 14).

12. “. . . [M]aster frames perform the same function in collective action as move-ment-specific collective action frames, but they do so on a larger scale,” in Snow andBenford (1992, 138).

13. The majority of the Rastafari profess non-violence and Marley’s call to rebellionmust be read with that precept in mind.

14. “Revival” takes its name from the “Great Revival.” This was a Christian move-ment which began in Ireland and spread to Jamaica in 1860, see Chevannes (1995a, 8).

15. Chevannes makes these arguments in Chevannes (1994) and (1995a).16. Most of the subsequent discussion of the development of Revival is taken from

Chevannes (1995a, 6).

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17. In 1921 Bedward was arrested and placed in a mental institution where he died.18. The fact that religion is used in this way, is not exceptional for Africans in the

New World. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, and the Reverend Jesse Jackson,all provide American examples of the same. The work of Diane Austin-Broos (1997)on Pentecostalism in Jamaica bears out this observation.

19. Chevannes (1994, 16) is citing Clarke (1975).20. To “burn candles” for someone means to be willing to employ the services of an

obeahman who uses a variety of fetishes to adversely impact the life of that individual.This is part of the Revival tradition, see Chevannes (1995c, 80).

21. The preceding discussion of Garvey’s life is based on Hill (1992).22. Song of Solomon 1:5–6 (King James Version.). “I am black, but comely, O ye

daughters of Jerusalem, as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon. Look notupon me because I am black . . .” The Rastafari use passages such as this to determinethat King Solomon, and consequently, the children of Israel, were black.

23. Bob Marley, “Exodus” and “The Heathen” from the Exodus album in 1977, and“Give Thanks and Praises” and “Chant Down Babylon” from the posthumousConfrontation in 1983.

24. In the Caribbean of the late 1970s “ah diggin’ horrors” was a way to say I amenduring hard times.

25. For a more in depth discussion of Rastafarian language see the work of Pollard(1985), Alleyne (1988), and Homiak (1995).

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am grateful to Nancy Bermeo and Kathryn Oleson for their comments andsuggestions on the various drafts of the manuscript. An earlier version of thispaper was presented at the sixth annual conference of Socialism, Capitalism,and Democracy of the International Political Science Association. I would alsolike to thank the anonymous reviewers who commented upon the paper. I thankResearch in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change editor Patrick Coy forhis assistance.

REFERENCES

Alleyne, M. (1988). Roots of Jamaican culture. London: Pluto.Austin-Broos, D. J. (1997). Jamaica genesis: Religion and the politics of moral orders. Chicago

and London: The University of Chicago Press.Barrett, Sr., L. E. (1977, 1988). The Rastafarians. Boston: Beacon Press.The Holy Bible, King James version.Bell, W. (1964). Jamaican leaders: Political attitudes in a new nation. Berkeley: University of

California Press.Benford, R. D. (1997). An insider’s critique of the social movement framing perspective.

Sociological Inquiry, 67, 409–430.Buchanan, P. L. (1992). Community development in the ‘ranking’ economy: A socio-economic study

of the Jamaican ghetto. Kingston, Jamaica: College of Arts, Science and Technology.

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Buffonge, A. E. G. (1998). Babylon besieged: the rastafarian challenge to Jamaican democracy.Unpublished doctoral. dissertation. Princeton University.

Campbell, H. (1987). Rasta and resistance: From Marcus Garvey to Walter Rodney. Trenton, NewJersey: Africa World Press.

Chevannes, B. (1977). The literature of rastafari. Social and Economic Studies, 26(1), 239–262.Chevannes, B. (1994). Rastafari: Roots and ideology. Syracuse, New York: Syracuse University

Press.Chevannes, B. (1995a). Introducing the native religions of Jamaica. In: B. Chevannes (Ed.), Rastafari

and Other African-Caribbean Worldviews (pp. 1–19). London: Macmillan Press, Ltd.Chevannes, B. (1995b). New approach to the rastafari. In: B. Chevannes (Ed.), Rastafari and Other

African-Caribbean Worldviews (pp. 20–42). London: Macmillan Press, Ltd.Chevannes, B. (1995c). The origin of the dreadlocks. In: B. Chevannes (Ed.), Rastafari and Other

African-Caribbean Worldviews (pp. 77–96). London: Macmillan Press, Ltd.Clarke, C. (1975). Kingston, Jamaica: Urban development and social change, 1692–1962. Berkeley:

University of California Press.Edie, C. J. (1991). Democracy by default: Dependency and clientelism in Jamaica. Boulder, CO:

Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc.Goffman, E. (1974). Frame analysis. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.Girvan, N. (1967). After Rodney – the politics of student protest in Jamaica. New World Quarterly,

4, 3, 59–68.Gray, O. (1991). Radicalism and social change in Jamaica, 1960–1972. Knoxville: University of

Tennessee Press.Hill, R. A. (1992). Introduction. In: A. Jacques-Garvey (Ed.), Philosophy and Opinions of Marcus

Garvey. New York: Atheneum.Homiak, J. (1995). Dub history: Soundings on rastafari livity and language. In: B. Chevannes (Ed.),

Rastafari and Other African-Caribbean Worldviews (pp. 127–181). London: MacmillanPress, Ltd.

Jenkins, J. C. (1995). Social movements, political representation, and the state: An agenda andcomparative framework. In: J. C. Jenkins & B. Klandermans (Eds), The Politics of Social

Protest: Comparative Perspectives on States and Social Movements (pp. 14–35).Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Jenkins, J. C., & Klandermans, B. (Eds) (1995). The Politics of Social Protest: Comparative

Perspectives on States and Social Movements. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.Jenkins, J. C., & Klandermans, B. (1995). The politics of social protest. In: J. C. Jenkins &

B. Klandermans (Eds), The Politics of Social Protest: Comparative Perspectives on States

and Social Movements (pp. 3–13). Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.Keith, N. W., & Keith, N. Z. (1992). The social origins of democratic socialism in Jamaica.

Philadelphia: Temple University Press.Klandermans, B. (1988). The formation and mobilization of consensus. In: B. Klandermans,

H. Kriesi & S. Tarrow (Eds), From Structure to Action: Comparing Movement Participation

across Cultures, 1 (pp. 173–196). Greenwich, Conn.: International Social MovementResearch, JAI Press.

Lacey, T. (1977). Violence and politics in Jamaica, 1960–1970: Internal security in a developing

country. Totowa, NJ.: Frank Cass and Company.McAdam, D., McCarthy, J. D., & Zald, M. N. (1996). Introduction. In: D. McAdam, J. D. McCarthy

& M. N. Zald (Eds), Comparative Perspectives on Social Movements: Political

Opportunities, Mobilizing Structures, and Cultural Framings (pp. 1–20). Cambridge:Cambridge University Press.

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Owens, J. (1976). Dread: The rastafarians of Jamaica. Kingston: Sangster.Patterson, O. (1967). The sociology of slavery: An analysis of the origins, development and

structure of negro slave society in Jamaica. Rutherford, NJ: Farleigh Dickinson UniversityPress.

Pollard, V. (1985). Dread talk – The speech of the rastafarian in Jamaica. Caribbean Quarterly

Monograph, 32–41.Schuler, M. (1979). Myalism and the african religious tradition in Jamaica. In: M. Crahan &

F. W. Knight (Eds), Africa and the Caribbean: The Legacies of Link. Baltimore: JohnsHopkins University Press.

Simpson, G. E. (1955). Political cultism in West Kingston, Jamaica. Social and Economic Studies,4(2), 321–442.

Small, R. (1971). Introduction. In: W. Rodney. (Ed.), The Groundings with my Brothers. London:The Bogle-L’Ouverture Publications.

Smith, M. G., Augier, R., & Nettleford, R. (1960). Report on the rastafari movement in Kingston,

Jamaica. Kingston, Jamaica: Institute of Social and Economic Research.Snow, D. A., & Benford, R. D. (1992) Master frames and cycles of protest. In: A. D. Morris &

C. M. Mueller (Eds), Frontiers in Social Movement Theory. New Haven: Yale UniversityPress.

Snow, D. A., Rochford, Jr., E. B., Worden, S. K., & Benford, R. D. (1986). Frame alignmentprocesses, micromobilization, and movement participation. American Sociological Review,51, 464–481.

Stephens, E. H., & Stephens, J. D. (1986). Democratic socialism in Jamaica: The political

movement and social transformation in dependent capitalism. Princeton: PrincetonUniversity Press.

Stone, C. (1973). Class, race and political behavior in urban Jamaica. Mona, Jamaica: Instituteof Social and Economic Research, University of the West Indies.

Stone, C. (1980). Democracy and clientelism in Jamaica. New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction, Inc. Swidler, A. (1986). Culture in action: Symbols and strategies. American Sociological Review, 51,

273–286.Tarrow, S. (1994). Power in movement: Social movements, collective action and politics. Cambridge:

Cambridge University Press.Tarrow, S. (1996). States and opportunities: The political structuring of social movements. In:

D. McAdam, J. D. McCarthy & M. N. Zald (Eds), Comparative Perspectives on Social

Movements: Political Opportunities, Mobilizing Structures, and Cultural Framings (pp.41–61). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Waters, A. M. (1985). Race, class, and political symbols: Rastafari and reggae in Jamaican

politics. New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Books.White, T. (1991). Catch a fire: The life of Bob Marley. London: Omnibus Press.Zald, M. N. (1996). Culture, ideology, and strategic framing. In: D. McAdam, J. D. McCarthy &

M. N. Zald (Eds), Comparative Perspectives on Social Movements: Political Opportunities,

Mobilizing Structures, and Cultural Framings (pp. 261–274) Cambridge: CambridgeUniversity Press.

Musical Recordings of Bob MarleyMarley, B. (1973). Burnin’. United Kingdom: Island.Marley, B. (1983). Confrontation. United Kingdom: Island.Marley, B. (1977). Exodus. United Kingdom: Island.Marley, B. (1974). Natty Dread. United Kingdom: Island.

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Marley, B. (1976). Rastaman Vibration. United Kingdom: Island.Marley, B. (1992). Songs of Freedom. Jamaica: Tuff Gong.Marley, B. (1979). Survival. United Kingdom: Island.

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37

COMPROMISE IN SOUTH AFRICA:CLASS RELATIONS, POLITICALOPPORTUNITIES, AND THECONTEXTUALIZED “RIPE MOMENT”FOR RESOLUTION

Kristin Marsh

ABSTRACT

South Africa’s struggle against apartheid illustrates a theory of compro-

mised revolution. Compromise is associated with three levels of analysis:

the immediate level of bargaining conditions; the structural level of

political opportunities; and the societal level of class relations. By the

late 1980s in South Africa, all parties were increasingly aware of an

emergent military stalemate, and both sides saw negotiation as the only way

out of indefinite war. Beyond this proximate level of analysis, shifting class

interests and political instability during heightened financial crisis shaped

cost assessments and political realignments within the National Party

government. Movement and government efficacy fluctuated in response

to one another during the 1980s, effecting a shift in the balance of

power that increasingly favored the opposition and opened the possibility

of negotiations. Attention to the interplay between class relations and

political alignments in shaping the “ripe moment” for resolution highlights

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2001 by Elsevier Science Ltd.

ISBN: 0-7623-0786-2

the usefulness of a multi-dimensional explanation of negotiation, thereby

contributing to a more comprehensive understanding of the structures and

dynamics of conflict and compromise.

INTRODUCTION

To study the development of capitalism is thus the best way to study race inequality, for todo so places socio-economic relationships at the heart of the problem, and shows how under-development and racial inequalities developed together . . . The seemingly “autonomous”existence of racism today does not lessen the fact that it was initiated by the needs of capitalist development or that these needs remain the dominant factor in racist societies.

Mugabane, 1990, p. 3.

South Africa’s transition to majority rule is both one of the most familiarcontemporary examples of the black struggle against white domination and oneof the most paradoxical cases of compromise. The South African governmentfaced mounting internal and external pressure, including various forms of sanctions, against its racist apartheid policies. Well before the conflict escalatedsharply in the 1980s, the South African black majority was strengthened by agrowing transnational struggle against racism. The South African struggle, likeother internal struggles during the late twentieth century, was simultaneouslyabout socio-economic relations and political democratization. Costly to both thegovernment and insurgents, the protracted struggle culminated in military stale-mate. The government sought to alleviate pressure through partial political andeconomic liberalization, but the crisis escalated sharply in the 1980s, a periodof both reform and unprecedented repression.

Although the issues appeared intractable and both sides were initiallyunwilling to negotiate with one another, the conflict did end in compromise,thereby averting full-scale revolution. Further, the settlement clearly representeda process of compromise on both sides. Nelson Mandela and the AfricanNational Congress (ANC) held fast to their demand for majority rule, but thiswas reconciled with National Party (NP) concern that the white minority notbe subjected to complete domination by the newly enfranchised black majority.The two sides structured a stable power sharing arrangement into the peaceagreement and the constitution.

Although an important and fascinating story in itself, can the South Africanexperience help us explain negotiation toward a compromised settlement to civilwar? The historical evidence from one successful case of compromised revolution is useful for social scientists and policy makers alike in building abetter understanding of the circumstances shaping compromise as a viablechoice for the leadership of all parties. The South African conflict can help us

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38 KRISTIN MARSH

identify the convergence of factors that allows committed adversaries, embroiledin conflict, to finally agree to sit down at the bargaining table and attempt toresolve their differences.

In this paper, I analyze South Africa’s struggle over apartheid using an integrated theory of compromised revolution. In the first section, I introducethe case of negotiated settlement in South Africa and explain the moment ofnegotiation in terms of proximate level factors, or bargaining conditions, suchas the ripe moment for negotiation and the availability of a third-party mediator. While the proximate level understanding “makes sense” in the SouthAfrican case, and usefully describes the conditions prevailing at the point ofnegotiations, this level of analysis is inadequate toward a complete under-standing of conflict and compromise. In the second section, I specify and applythe second and third theoretical dimensions – political opportunities and classrelations – to the historical case of South Africa, assessing the fit between theo-retical expectations and historical evidence. At the level of politicalopportunities, state and society resources shape the balance of power betweenthe regime and the opposition. A strong regime and successful state policy workin favor of the state. On the other hand, any success on the part of the oppo-sition toward standing up to state repression and/or resisting co-optation canupset the power balance, further motivating and mobilizing the populace andopposition. At the level of class relations and economic development, focusshifts to the broader structures and processes of conflict and compromise, andthe ways that potential outcomes are subject to changing interests and relationsof economic and political actors. Both political opportunities and class relationsprovide the broader political context within which the “ripe moment” for resolution emerges. In the final section of the paper, I conclude by reiteratingimportant findings from the South African case, and I assess the fit betweentheoretical expectations and the experience of conflict and compromise in SouthAfrica. The South African struggle for majority rule illustrates the usefulnessof a multi-dimensional view of political conflict that incorporates both structurally shaped possibilities and dynamic historical trajectories in the searchfor peaceful resolution.

NEGOTIATED SETTLEMENT IN SOUTH AFRICA:BARGAINING CONDITIONS AND THE PROXIMATE

LEVEL OF ANALYSIS

In the mid-1980s, the contradictions of the apartheid system were increasinglyvisible in the violence-ridden, economically strained, and internationally isolatedcountry. South Africa badly needed a resolution to the conflict, but neither

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Compromise in South Africa 39

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Nelson Mandela, leader of the ANC, nor State President P. W. Botha appearedwilling to bargain. While Mandela had recognized the need for reconciliationby this point, he rejected Botha’s offer of freedom in exchange for his renun-ciation of violent resistance. At the same time, Botha refused to entertain anydiscussion of majority rule (Thompson, 1995). Compromise seemed a distantpossibility at best; revolution seemed near at hand. In reality, however, the nextdecade would bring all-party negotiations, eventual settlement, and an amaz-ingly successful, inclusive election. While violence was by no means averted(16,000 deaths were attributed to the conflict between 1983 and 1994), the esca-lation of rebellion, retaliation, and factional strife seen in the 1980s representedonly a portion of the destruction that could have materialized.1 Furthermore,the South African settlement clearly resulted from bargaining, rather than frommilitary victory and defeat. From prison in 1989, Mandela foresaw the needfor real compromise on the terms of settlement:

. . . I now consider it necessary in the national interest for the African National Congressand the government to meet urgently to negotiate an effective political settlement.

Two central issues will have to be addressed at such a meeting: firstly, the demand formajority rule in a unitary state; secondly, the concern of white South Africa over thisdemand, as well as the insistence of whites on structural guarantees that majority rule willnot mean domination of the white minority by blacks. The most crucial task which willface the government and the ANC will be to reconcile these two positions (Mandela, 1989,as quoted in Welsh, 1999).

It was at the point of President de Klerk’s 1990 announcement that we beganto see that the government, as well, had determined to compromise. Inaddressing Parliament in 1990, de Klerk announced the lifting of bans on theANC and South African Communist Party; the release of Nelson Mandela; andthe lifting of the state of emergency. These pivotal measures took even deKlerk’s most extreme opponents by surprise.

How do we explain the willingness to compromise demonstrated by the threemajor parties and their representatives: Nelson Mandela (ANC), President deKlerk (NP), and Chief Buthelesi (Inkatha Freedom Party)? From the perspec-tive of political scientists and bargaining theorists who have become increasinglyconcerned with the process of bringing about peaceful resolution of protractedinternal conflict, negotiation is predicted when the cost-benefit analysis favorssettlement, or when the issues at stake are divisible, such as territory in secessionist conflicts (Ayres, 1997; Boasson, 1991; Burton, 1990; Hampson,1996; Kressel et al., 1989; Kriesberg, 1992; Licklider, 1993; Rabie, 1994;Stedman, 1988; Walter, 1997; Zartman, 1995a). Bargaining conditions refer tothe immediate, or proximate, factors corresponding with the potential forcompromise at each point in the conflict. These factors include the “ripe

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moment” for negotiation and a mediator who can navigate communicationbetween adversaries, thereby facilitating the peace process (Zartman, 1995a,1985; Hampson, 1996; Princen, 1992).

Zartman’s ripe moment for negotiation depends on the convergence of threefactors: (1) the conflict must reach mutually hurting stalemate, conceptualized asa perceived no-win situation of depleting resources for both sides; (2) each partyto the conflict must have an identifiable legitimate authority or spokesperson; and(3) a potential alternative to the conflict must exist – a viable exit that “savesface” for both sides (Zartman, 1995a). At any point in the conflict, the potentialgain to each party through negotiation can be contrasted with the cost of conflict, as indicated by the hurting stalemate. Ripe moments occur when thepotential gain appears great enough and the risks are few enough, relative to continued conflict, to warrant negotiation. A stalemate in the conflict presupposesboth sides’ perception that winning is unlikely or impossible (Zartman, 1995a).A protracted civil war is a possible indicator that a stalemate has been reached.First, the absence of early decisive military victory prolongs conflict and indicates relatively symmetrical power relations between the government andinsurgents – the longer the conflict continues, the less likely either party willtriumph. Second, the stalemate and conflict are costly. A high loss of lives over a lengthy conflict period depletes human resources and morale, so that,empirically, both longer and more deadly civil wars are more likely to end insuccessful compromise than are shorter or less deadly wars (Walter, 1997).

In addition, the diplomacy of an external mediator can help the parties iden-tify, take advantage of, and shape the ripe moment (Hampson, 1996). Differenttypes of mediators are likely to facilitate the peace process in different waysand at different points in the conflict (Boasson, 1991; Kressel et al., 1989;Kriesberg, 1998, 1996; Wehr & Lederach, 1996). As an added party, media-tors add complexity to the relationship between adversaries. The level of“interest” a mediator has in a conflict affects its acceptability to both sides. Onthe one hand, the more neutral a third party, the more readily it can be viewedas objective in facilitating negotiations. On the other hand, Wehr and Lederach(1996) point out that “neutral” mediators who are called in from outside theconflict (“external-neutrals”) lack the trust that is rooted in connectedness tothe adversaries and to the conflict situation. In contrast, “insider-partials” aredomestic parties who have a vested interest in long-term conflict management.Further, “external neutrals” are less able to influence intransigent parties, particularly if they do not carry the authority of state power. Nor are they likely to influence parties that may be tempted to break a settlement once it has been brokered and implementation is under way. Rather than applying indiscriminately one model of mediation in all cases, Lederach (1995)

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encourages a contextualized understanding of conflict and strategies for recon-ciliation, and suggests that both “external-neutrals” and “insider-partials” havecomplementary roles to play at different stages of the resolution process (Wehr& Lederach, 1996). Kriesberg (1996, 1998) similarly suggests that the varietiesof mediating activities and stages of the conflict correspond with the comple-mentary functions of both mediators (whether individuals, non-governmentalorganizations, or inter-governmental organizations) and quasi-mediators (asso-ciated with one side of the conflict, who may mediate between their superiorsand the opposition).

Mutually Hurting Stalemate

All three elements to Zartman’s “ripe moment” were present in South Africaby the late 1980s, and Zartman (1995b) locates the potential for negotiation inSouth Africa in the mutual recognition of stalemate: “After the mid-1980s theperception of asymmetry was slowly replaced by the realization of symmetryand the understanding that the white minority government could not control theblack majority at acceptable cost just as the black majority could not overthrowthe white government at acceptable cost” (p. 148). Hyslop (1992) characterizesthe situation as one of “deadlock,” in which the mass popularity of the insurgency denied the government legitimate control, while the powerful security apparatus of the state curtailed organizational effectiveness of the oppo-sition. Over the long term, both sides realized that military victory was out ofreach, and that the situation would have to be resolved by means other thancontinued violence (Murray, 1994; Thompson, 1995). The Afrikaner-based NPwas increasingly aware that the institutional structure of apartheid, as an endand a means to a white dominated system of governance, could not be upheldwithout undue costs. The white death toll was on the rise and the military optionwas becoming both more costly and less effective (Landsberg, 1994). In 1990,de Klerk expressed the ascendant view that continuation on the present courseposed greater risk than would negotiation:

[W]e must also create a South Africa that enjoys the loyalty of the majority of its people.Unless we achieve this, the future will not be safe. Unless we achieve this there is no hopefor our children and grandchildren . . . Do we want them to inherit a stagnant situation thathas made no progress toward solution, where revolution continues to brew and bubble underthe surface? Do we want them to inherit new sanctions and boycotts? (de Klerk, as quotedin Price, 1991, 278).

For the ANC’s part, Zunes (1999) argues that by the early 1980s the ANC fully recognized the odds against successful armed struggle, determining that non-violent strategies provided the only means of weakening state capacitywithout deligitimizing the movement. Armed struggle was never abandoned

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completely, retaining a supportive role to a general strategy of popular non-cooperation. In addition, the Soviet Union recognized the need for peacefulresolution, and regional non-interference agreements served to further weakenthe ANC’s external support base (Price, 1991). The ANC was not strong enoughto seize power by force, and to attempt military victory would result either inprolonged deadlock or in extensive destruction and an escalated death toll. Inthe immediate aftermath of Mandela’s release from prison, the ANC executiveagreed to end “the ‘armed struggle’ – which by then was so feeble as to behardly detectable” (Welsh, 1999, 505). The mutual recognition of a hurtingstalemate was more than a concession of failed armed struggle, however. Inthe context of South Africa, it represented a stalemate between the regime’smilitary strength and the opposition’s combined strategy of non-violent resis-tance and selective guerrilla attacks.

Legitimate Spokespersons

In spite of the complexity of social relations in South Africa, and in spite of theresulting factional divisions on both sides of the conflict, by the end of the decadethree clear leaders had emerged as identifiable and legitimate spokespersons forthe conflicting parties. Welsh (1999) argues that by imprisoning Nelson Mandelaand removing him from the conflict and from ANC activity, the NP governmentinadvertently safeguarded him from any possible criticism that might be attachedto the ANC leadership. Although the ANC had met with some scandal, and nosmall degree of uncontrolled violence and brutality had been attributed to ANCfollowers, Mandela could not be faulted. In addition, Mandela had been strength-ened personally by his 26-year imprisonment (Welsh, 1999). The white govern-ment would probably have preferred to negotiate with Chief Buthelezi, leader ofthe Inkatha Freedom Party. Buthelezi had considerable support in KwaZulu, andhe consistently demonstrated his willingness to accommodate government policy.Buthelezi resisted Mandela and the ANC as representatives of the opposition,and so remained involved in the reconciliation process. However, he did not havebroad support, whereas Mandela could step back into the leadership as a world-acclaimed spokesperson of black South Africans.

On the government side, P.W. Botha (NP leader and State President from1979–1989) had the legitimacy of his position behind him. His support waswaning by the end of his tenure, but this was partly due to the increasing pressure for action that he faced from both the Right and Left camps of the whiteelectorate. Although Botha had initiated extensive “reform” throughout his tenurein South Africa, it is unlikely that he would have ever been able to bring himselfto negotiate with the ANC (Welsh, 1999). As it turned out, failing health forcedhis resignation as NP leader early in 1989, but support for the NP and the

hardline position was clearly waning. By the time of the elections, the NP wasable to garner only a slim parliamentary majority and Botha’s successor, F. W.de Klerk, only had the clear support of a minority of the electorate. Yet hiselection was seen as a turning point. He had the determination to negotiate whatturned out to be the end of his own presidency, and could do so even withoutthe clear electoral support of white South Africans because he had the legitimacyof position behind him and because, as we’ll see later, a large enough segmentof the white electorate had been pushing for more extensive change than the moderate NP had come to represent.

Potential Alternative to Existing Conflict

In 1988, the ANC took the first step toward compromise by softening its vision.With the Constitutional Guidelines for a Democratic Society, the ANC adoptedthe principles of multi-party democracy and a mixed economy (Welsh, 1999).This demonstrated the ANC’s willingness to compromise, but as long as itrested on straight majority rule, “multi-party democracy” would provide inad-equate protection to the white minority and the government, and thus wouldnot suffice as a model for political settlement. The Zimbabwean settlement oftwo decades before, however, did provide such a model. What was needed wasa multi-racial constitution based on universal suffrage, but through whichminority rights could be guaranteed via reserved representation in parliamentand in the cabinet (Welsh, 1999). The Zimbabwean-style political model,coupled with the ANC’s softening of its socialist stance on the economy,provided enough of a conceptual blueprint for both sides to envision their rolein the post-civil war society and to accept negotiations toward that society. Thetwo sides had accomplished much in the course of the informal, semi-secretdiscussions leading up to the Convention for a Democratic South Africa. Thereremained the question of the degree of state centralization, but disagreementwas most pronounced at the margins.2 By the time formal negotiations beganin 1991, the ANC and NP shared a broad image of the new constitution asrequiring a Bill of Rights, a unitary state, reincorporation of the homelands, adegree of decentralization of power, and a mixed economy (Murray, 1994).

Mediation

No high profile, mutually acceptable, external party filled the mediator role inthe period leading to negotiations and the signing of the National Peace Accordin 1991.3 Instead, there was considerable dialogue involving innumerable inter-ested third parties going on continuously. From the inception in 1985 of theprogressive “trek to Lusaka” by various political, professional, and businessrepresentatives to discuss the conflict with the ANC elite (Price, 1991; Welsh,

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1999; Zartman, 1995b), it was clear that powerful elements on both sides werealready talking. Added to these informal talks were the eventually pivotal rolesof: (1) South African churches, particularly through the South African Councilof Churches;4 and (2) South African business interests, represented in theConsultative Business Movement (Gastrow, 1995; Thompson, 1995). Formalnegotiation was still a long way off, but these domestic “insider-partial” chan-nels accomplished preliminary mediation.

The central importance of an acceptable mediator is illustrated in Presidentde Klerk’s attempt to convene the peace process in May 1991. After he assertedthat it was the government’s role to keep talks going, and that he was in touchwith all relevant parties, the ANC and other opposition parties declined to attend,forcing de Klerk to downplay the conference as the beginning of the peaceprocess, rather than an end in itself (Gastrow, 1995).

Facilitation by business and church interests also carried problems of legiti-macy (Gastrow, 1995). Taken separately, these two interests were consideredtoo partisan by one or the other side of the conflict. Together, however, theycarried the legitimacy of relative balance. It was due to the active involvementof civil groups in South Africa that domestic mediators were successful in facil-itating the National Peace Accord (NPA), and it was the NPA that brought theadversarial leaders together – first to sign the peace agreement, but also toinitiate negotiations for constitutional reform (Gastrow, 1995).

The central role of domestic civil groups in the period leading up to negotia-tions does not mean that external parties did not play an influential role, or thatchanging international relations did not have a role in shaping the hurting stalemate. By 1986, bi-polar Cold War tensions were on the decline, and U.S.-Soviet relations regarding southern Africa, particularly Namibia, wereincreasingly cooperative. Waning Soviet interest in South Africa meant a severeloss of military support for the ANC. At the same time, U.S. pressure on the gov-ernment to resolve the conflict increased. Simultaneously, the collapse of theSoviet Union “deprived the ANC of its main sources of support, and . . . madenonsense of the NP’s claim to be protecting South Africa from a communistonslaught” (Thompson, 1995, 243).

Landsberg (1994) warns against attributing too much causal influence to eitherexternal actors or the end of the Cold War. International influence was supple-mentary, but once the parties decided to compromise, international players wereable to facilitate the negotiations through increasing positive influence (in placeof the previous isolationist pressure). Once the state agreed to negotiate, itsrelationship with the rest of the world was immediately improved, and externalinfluence became as important as domestic opinion in shaping the pace andcontent of the settlement. U.N. presence in South Africa followed the break-

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down of the Convention, but the U.N. role was limited to that of observer. Inaddition, the U.S., Britain, and Germany contributed important security guarantees, insisting that all parties adhere to the agreement, and thus allevi-ating concerns that the ANC would disregard agreements once in power. Finally,in the final days leading up to the election, former U.S. Secretary of State HenryKissinger and former British foreign secretary Lord Peter Carrington werebrought in as leaders of a mediating team whose role was more of arbitratorrather than mediator (Landsberg, 1994). This effort failed, leaving a vacuumthat was quickly filled with the Kenyan, Washington Okumu; Colin Colemanof the CMB; and Michael Spicer of Anglo American. Their success in bringingButhelezi and the Inkatha Freedom Party back into the election process illustrated that the decision to compromise had to be made by the partiesinvolved (Landsberg, 1994).

Usefulness of Bargaining Conditions

Clearly, the “ripe moment” and mediator are useful conceptual tools, highlighting the factors that, when present, contribute to an overall politicalclimate conducive to bringing the parties together at the bargaining table. Eachfactor in the ripe moment – the hurting stalemate, legitimate spokesperson, andviable alternative – represents a necessary condition at the proximate point of

negotiations. In the South African case, we can understand why the adversaries,particularly the ANC and NP government, agreed to talk when they did. Bothsides had come to recognize the weighty costs of the stalemated situation, andthe potential for the stalemate to persist indefinitely. Both sides by 1990 had aleading representative who could not only legitimately speak for hisconstituency, but who was willing to lead that constituency into a settlementthat would include difficult compromises. Further, both sides had alreadyworked significantly toward recognition that there was, indeed, a viable constitutional solution offering greater benefits to both sides than the contin-uing conflict.

These bargaining conditions, and the proximate level of analysis at whichthey occur, explain why the negotiations in South Africa happened when theydid, rather than one, five, or ten years earlier. However, knowledge that theripe moment must be present in order for negotiations to take place begs alarger question. How do we know – ahead of time – which conflict situationsare headed toward a ripe moment, and which are destined for military escala-tion? We are still left without a theoretical understanding of why the SouthAfrican conflict resulted in negotiations rather than escalating into revolution.In the next section, I argue that we must step back from the proximate levelof analysis to understand the broader social context within which the bargaining

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conditions emerge. The second and third theoretical dimensions – politicalopportunities and class relations, respectively – include, first, background structural factors that shape the reason for the conflict in the first place; and,second, changes to those factors that contribute to a more complete under-standing of the historical trajectory shaping the ripe moment and leading tocompromised revolution.

POLITICAL OPPORTUNITIES, CLASS RELATIONS,AND THE CONTEXT OF CONFLICT AND

COMPROMISE IN SOUTH AFRICA

Theoretical Contributions of Political Opportunities and Class Relations

Political opportunities and class relations direct analysis toward the state struc-ture and larger socio-economic context of conflict. At the level of politicalopportunities, relative strength, or the balance of power between the state andopposition, affects the strategic options open to both sides. As long as a balanceof power is maintained, neither side is able to bring the conflict to decisiveconclusion militarily and a stalemate results. However, the stalemated conflictmay be maintained at a low enough level of intensity that the costs are notgreat enough to warrant the risks of negotiation for either side, and it takes amoderate shift in the balance of power to give the opposition sufficientbargaining strength to lure them (and force the government) to the bargainingtable. This shift in the balance of power, coupled with the heightened costs ofcontinued engagement, allows both sides to recognize the hurting stalemate.

In explaining rebellion, the likelihood of movement mobilization is relatedto regime repressiveness, the potential for non-violent expression of grievances,and the perceived efficacy of movement participants and leaders (Muller, 1985;Tilly, 1978; Tarrow, 1994; McAdam, 1982; Colburn, 1994). On the side of theopposition, popular support can expand and be further mobilized in responseto several factors affecting perceived efficacy. Partial successes – such asconcessions to labor strike demands or the relaxation of certain political restric-tions, or even the experience of mass mobilization or community-levelorganizing – can demonstrate to the population that the state’s power is notlimitless and there is, indeed, strength in numbers. On the side of the state, thepotential for successful revolutionary overthrow depends on regime structureand regime strength (Skocpol, 1979; Wickham-Crowley, 1992). If the rulingparty is unable to govern effectively – as evidenced by a prolonged securitystate, extensive human rights violations, or a loss of internal order – externalsupporters and the business elite begin to question continued support for theregime. Coupled with partial liberalization of the political system, breakdown

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of the ruling elite coalition presents the crucial political opportunity shapingpolitical party realignments, leadership transitions, shifts in official policy, and– finally – official commitment to real reform, reconciliation, and even legiti-mation of the opposition through negotiations.

Changes in political opportunities, and shifts in political relations among elitesegments, also correspond to changes in the economic structure and class relations. The complex relationships between class, ethnicity, and economicgrievances shape revolutionary potential, and help explain the emergence ofoppositional movements from below (Boswell & Dixon, 1993; Gurr, 1993;Muller & Seligson, 1987; Paige, 1975; Schock, 1996). In addition, class analysescan be extended to predict the potential for compromise of conflict situations.For example, while Paige (1997) focuses on shifting ideologies among the elitein Central America, his analysis also demonstrates the process by which insur-gency from below forces a split between segments of the elite classes. Capitalistdevelopment loosens the historical interdependence between elites, therebyallowing moderate segments to ally with the rebels in favor of political reform,at the expense of the traditional elite and intransigent members of the govern-ment. Class compromise between moderate elites and the rebels is forged onthe promise of stability and potential for future growth.

The extent to which splits among the elite sectors effectively shape the ripemoment and the potential for compromise depends on the make-up of the govern-ment’s constituency. Further, the correspondence between class interests and eth-nicity fluctuates over time, so ethnicity may or may not correspond with classposition, and it thereby plays a meaningful role in refining and shaping the rela-tionship between economy and polity. Finally, elite class interests are variouslysensitive to international pressures, depending on the extent of the state’s relianceon external military support, sensitivity to fluctuations in global economic rela-tions, and therefore vulnerability to private and state-sponsored sanctions.

This third set of factors – the societal-level factors of economic grievances,domestic and international class relations, and correspondence between class andethnic relations – do not directly impact the decision to negotiate. Rather, theyshape the potential for compromise indirectly, through the political structure andopportunities provided by shifting governmental alliances and constraints toevolving policies. Finally, both societal level factors and changing politicalopportunities form the context for the first level of proximate causes, providingavailable “insider-partial” mediators from the moderate elite segments, andallowing both sides to recognize a mutually hurting stalemate and take advan-tage of the ripe moment for resolution.

How well do the second and third theoretical dimensions explain the ripemoment and the potential for compromise in the South African struggle for

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majority rule? In the remainder of this section, I consider the fit between thetrajectory of events leading to the dismantling of apartheid and the second andthird theoretical dimensions – political opportunities and class relations.Throughout the discussion, I highlight the link between the broader socio-polit-ical context, the hurting stalemate, and the ripe moment. I argue that threecritical factors developed during the course of conflict that eventually led bothsides to acknowledge the shift in the balance of power, and to therefore acceptthe situation as ripe for compromise. First, the South African state facedincreasing pressure from within. Initially, the state was successful in repressingand demobilizing the opposition. Over the course of the 1980s, however, themobilizing potential and salience of the mass-based opposition was increasinglyeffective against state legitimacy. Second, a consequential split developedamong the political elite regarding state policy. Initial ethnic divisions betweenAfrikaner and British elite segments had softened over the course of develop-ment as greater numbers of Afrikaners joined the ranks of business. As a result,moderate segments of the elite became available to open dialogue with theANC, and party and electoral splits on both the left and right eventually under-mined NP cohesion regarding apartheid policy. Third, the South African state,already highly vulnerable to world economic fluctuations, came under height-ened economic strain due to growing international commitment to sanctions anddivestment. Taken separately, these factors (internal opposition from below;split elite; and economic strain) provided insufficient pressure on the state,causing no more than partial reforms and tightened repression – changes withinthe system. When they converged in the mid-1980s, however, these factors rein-forced one another. Repression and partial reforms were clearly providing onlytemporary fixes to a long term and increasingly costly problem.

Structuring Class Relations Along Ethnic Lines

The early history of South Africa highlights the correspondence of race andclass in structuring social power. White racial domination emerged with colonial settlement, continued through the establishment of the Union in 1910,and was fully institutionalized in the aftermath of the 1948 electoral victory ofthe Afrikaner-based National Party (NP).5 The governing elite enjoyed a highdegree of consensus and group cohesion, and Afrikaner ideology and apartheidstate policy developed hand in hand during the fifteen-year period followingthe 1948 elections. Apartheid policies included strict residential and social segregation of the races, as well as political and economic exclusion of Black,Coloured, and Indian South Africans. Through state policy, whites limited thesupply of black labor, the level of black residency in the townships, and theorganizational capacity of blacks, thereby coercively excluding blacks from both

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the labor and consumer markets (Seidman, 1994; Price, 1991; Gelb, 1991).Theoretically, this sharp racial division, and the strong correspondence betweenrace and class, forewarns of revolutionary potential.

In addition, while the conflict in South Africa was principally between anexcluded black majority and dominant white minority, ethnic cleavages betweenAfrikaner and British whites further delineated the relationship between classand politics. Among whites, NP policy privileged Afrikaner over British inter-ests.6 While the British owned 94% of the manufacturing sector, British capitalwas relatively powerless in Parliament. Favoring white agriculture (predomi-nantly Afrikaner) and white labor (also Afrikaner), the NP government promisedto strengthen the “color bar” in labor. This policy of restricting blacks tounskilled labor benefited both agriculture and white labor, to the detriment ofbusiness interests and black workers. The state also facilitated Afrikaner accessto business, awarding government contracts to Afrikaner firms, creating parastatal firms, and hiring only Afrikaans speakers in nationalized industries.British business complained, but business was not yet strong enough or unifiedenough to attempt to force a reversal of these policies. Although they did notalways agree with government policy, and were generally opposed to what theysaw as a dangerously inefficient system of labor segmentation, white businessleaders usually opted to work for change within the system rather than alignwith relatively radical political parties (Kobach, 1990).

Class and race in general, and class and ethnicity within the white popula-tion, reflected one another during the early years of apartheid, so that thestructuring of conflict in South Africa initially flowed from racial and ethnicdivisions, as well as from class relations. As we will see below, however, thecorrespondence between class interests and ethnic cleavages fluctuated overtime, complicating predicted political alignments and the likely outcome ofconflict.

Capitalist Development: Blurring Ethnic Alignments within

the White Electorate

During the 1960s, the state increasingly centered domestic policy on the principle of “separate development” through “decolonization.” However, qualityof life in the homelands worsened (including a shortage of housing, generalovercrowding, declining health care, and a decline in education), so while thepolicy was popular among the Afrikaner electorate, it garnered little support inother circles (Southall, 1983). In the economy, this period was marked by severaltrends, including a decade of unprecedented growth, shifting relations amongthe economic elite, and dramatic changes in the organization of production.First, as is indicated in Table 1, growth in GDP averaged 7.07% between 1961

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and 1965 and 5.48% between 1966 and 1970. Second, both mining and manufacturing were characterized by increasing capital concentration and tech-nological development. For capital, this meant a greater need for skilled laborat a time when the color bar was strictly enforced and skilled white labor wasincreasingly scarce (due to upward mobility into civil service jobs).

Third, Afrikaners began to own a larger share of the non-agricultural privatesector, and manufacturing was accounting for an increasing share of GDP whilethe importance of agriculture continued to decline. From this period forward,white interests would no longer be segmented along strict ethnic lines; rather,a divergence emerged between liberal Afrikaner (big business) interests whichgenerally corresponded with British capital, and conservative Afrikaner (smallbusiness, worker, and white collar) interests (Kobach, 1990). Although business was generally opposed to the government’s policy of separate devel-opment (as well as the accompanying mandate for geographical decentralizationof industry), the stability and remarkable economic growth of the period kept business leaders from voicing strong opposition.

Nevertheless, these various changes to the economy and class/ethnic relations foreshadowed important future shifts in political alliances. It wasduring this period of growth and stability that changes to the organization ofproduction caused shifts within economic elite that had consequential, long-term political effects. In particular, the Afrikaner elite – increasinglyindependent of state patronage and control – was free to express its neweconomic interests (now aligned with British capital) in the political sphere.Throughout society, the rewards of a strong economy continued to accrue tothe minority white population. Two pivotal causal elements of conflict andcompromise are therefore present in South Africa even before the outbreak ofviolent political protest and insurrection. Widening black/white racial cleavages

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Table 1. Growth of GDP, Constant Prices, 1961–1990.

Years % change, GDP

1961–1965 7.071966–1970 5.481971–1975 4.161976–1980 2.751981–1985 1.171986–1990 1.81

Source: 1999 World Development Indicators CD-ROM. Washington, D.C.: The International Bankfor Reconstruction and Development/The World Bank.

ensured the eventual outbreak of insurrection; at the same time, interest realign-ments within the Afrikaner elite allowed for this segment’s eventual supportfor compromise.

From Protest to Rebellion: Sustaining Mass Resistance

The state did not implement its restrictive policies free of resistance. The AfricanNational Congress (ANC), established in 1912 to represent black and Colouredmiddle class interests, initially worked to reform the South African legal order(fighting, for example, to extend the Cape franchise to other provinces). TheAfrican Political Organization, the South African Indian Congress, and theIndustrial and Commercial Workers Union (ICU) provided alternative representation for non-white South Africans. By the 1940s, the ANC had broad-ened its constituency and radicalized both its strategies and goals. Cooperationbetween segments of the ANC and the South African Communist Party corresponded with the increasing frequency of various forms of non-violentmass action, including worker strikes, consumer boycotts, and acts of resistanceagainst restrictive legal policies.

In 1952 the Congress of the People, a mass convention of opposition groups,adopted the Freedom Charter denying government authority over unrepresentedpeoples.7 Seven years later, after the formation of the Pan-Africanist Congress,thousands of activists boycotted the pass laws by showing up at police stationswithout them. At Sharpeville, in 1960, one such gathering was violentlyrepressed, with the police killing at least 67 and wounding 180 when they firedon the crowd. In protest, thousands of workers went on strike, leading thegovernment to mobilize the army, outlaw all opposition, and arrest thousands.The effect of the government’s relentless repression on the non-white popula-tion was devastating. The ANC and Pan-Africanist Congress were banned,effectively driven into exile, and the South African Council of Trade Unionsdisintegrated. The state’s brutal response, successful muting of the opposition,and swiftness in returning the country to stability was impressive. At this point,the ANC turned (temporarily) to more violent means of resistance, includingsabotage and guerrilla warfare, organized from exile. Meanwhile, the effect onthe mobilizing potential of the workers and the population was fatal, bringinga defeatist outlook to the majority of black South Africans that could only bealtered through time and the dedication of a new generation.

As Zunes (1999) argues, the organized opposition recognized by the early1980s that conditions were not conducive to a successful violent revolutionarycampaign. The ANC had access to only limited resources, while the SouthAfrican state had considerable capacity to sustain a prolonged campaign.Coupled with selective violent attacks, the opposition shifted to a largely non-

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violent strategy of non-cooperation. Initially, community organizations and tradeunions mobilized in response to localized, specific grievances (e.g. wage andworking conditions, educational reforms, rent hikes, and community councils).When grievances went unresolved the links between generalized reformist policies and local issues became undeniable. Community groups increasinglypursued political issues, culminating in the founding of the United DemocraticFront (UDF) in 1983. By this time, workers and students were mobilizing inconcert: “When the Lekoa Town Council refused to scrap the rent increases,the Vaal Civic Association called for a general strike of workers and studentsin the townships of the East Rand. An estimated 60% of the area’s workersand 93,000 students heeded the call” (Price, 1991, 184). The ensuing battlelasted a month locally, but spread throughout South African townships over thenext two years. In response to the insurgency, business politicization reacheda new peak (Kobach, 1990). More and more business leaders were calling foran end to apartheid, although a smaller conservative, increasingly reactionary,segment demanded decisive control of the insurgency and a retraction ofreforms. Positions were hardening, and crisis was imminent.

South Africa and the International Economy: External Influence

through Sanctions and Divestment

Increasingly over the latter years of apartheid and in the period leading up tonegotiations, external players attempted to shape the political situation in SouthAfrica through various forms of sanctions. The threat of sanctions (military andeconomic; governmental and private) was a concern for the state as early as1960, when the U.N. General Assembly passed its resolution against apartheid.

The U.N., British Commonwealth, and Organization of African Unity (OAU)were the international governmental organizations most concerned with SouthAfrica (Klotz, 1995). In 1962 the U.N. General Assembly asked for an armsembargo, economic sanctions, and diplomatic sanctions, and the U.N. SecurityCouncil adopted an arms embargo in 1976 but never passed economic sanctions. The Commonwealth passed the Declaration of CommonwealthPrinciples in 1971, committing to intolerance of racist policies, but it was notuntil the mid-1980s that the Commonwealth implemented restrictions on loansand military assistance. In contrast, the Organization of African Unity (OAU)presented a unified front against apartheid, particularly through efforts of theFront-line States (FLS) (Klotz, 1995; Legum, 1982).

Private divestment led federal economic sanctions in the U.S. and interna-tionally. When the U.N. Security Council and the U.S. government provedreluctant to impose economic sanctions against the South African state, student,consumer, and community groups targeted private investment and protested

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against private banks, individual corporations, and institutional investors,including universities and local and state governments (Davis, 1996). U.S.-basedmulti-national corporations, financial institutions, and even local and stategovernments were increasingly proactive and attuned to public sentiment(Hufbauer et al., 1990).

Initially, the U.S. tacitly supported the NP government, but by the mid-1980s,official U.S. policy changed to reflect public opinion and international norms.The visibility and broad-based appeal of the U.S. anti-apartheid movementhelped change the political mood in Washington (Davis, 1996; Price, 1982;Thompson, 1995; Culverson, 1999). In 1986, the U.S. Congress passed theComprehensive Anti-Apartheid Act over President Reagan’s veto. Between1985 and 1989, financial outflows from South Africa approached $10.8 billion,including debt repayments and capital flight. In addition, between January 1984and mid-1987, 99 U.S. companies had completely withdrawn from South Africa,accepting drastically discounted prices. Driven by risk assessment, only 136 ofbetween 300 and 400 U.S. companies remained in South Africa in mid-1988(Hufbauer et al., 1990).

International sanctions played a critical role in conjunction with other factorsshaping prolonged economic crisis in South Africa. Sanctions coincided withnon-violent methods of domestic resistance, including labor militancy andconsumer boycotts, in accumulating economic and political strain. Moreover,the unique character of the South African economy and its particular role inthe international division of labor shaped the emergent financial crisis from theearly 1970s as a convergence of contradictory needs: the need to sustain capitalinflows, the need to offset capital account deficits with current account surpluses,and the growth needed to generate employment (Kahn, 1991).

South Africa’s position in the international economy was shaped by thepredominance of the primary export sector (particularly gold), the increasingcapital intensity of manufacturing (coupled with a stagnating capital goodssector), and a growing dependence on loan capital as compared with direct andindirect investment (Freund, 1991; Kaplan, 1991; Padayachee, 1991). Table 2reports the contributions of mining, agriculture, and manufacturing to totalexports between 1968 and 1987. Overall, mining constituted the largest sectorof the economy throughout this period, accounting for between 44.3% and 62%of exports. Gold’s dominance within mining, coupled with the particularlyvolatile nature of the gold price, created volatility in the current account as awhole. The inverse relationship between the strength of the U.S. economy andthe gold price has generally put South Africa’s business cycles out of phasewith the core, generating problems for export expansion during domesticupswings (Kahn, 1991). Further, while mining was the predominant export

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sector, manufacturing accounted for the vast majority of imports and growth inimport value between 1968 and 1987 (Kahn, 1991).

Since 1970, foreign capital investment and the emergence of a private international credit market worked to finance current account deficits and thegradual accumulation of debt in South Africa. Whereas political uncertainty inSouth Africa during the late 1970s led to a temporary slow-down in directinvestment, both the International Monetary Fund (IMF) and private banksgenerally showed considerable flexibility in granting requested loans and debtrescheduling in South Africa. During the 1970s, IMF borrowing was used tobuffer the net effect on the current account of a falling gold price (exports) andrising capital goods prices (imports). In 1979, the gold price experienced a briefboom, but this boom had reversed by 1982.

Dependence on the international credit market rendered South Africa partic-ularly vulnerable to financial sanctions. A 1982 loan request to the IMF for$1.1 billion proved highly controversial. International outcry did not stop thisloan from passing, but in its immediate aftermath the U.S. and the IMF reversedtheir standing on future South African requests. After this point, South Africawas forced to rely on short-term private financing.

On the surface, the state initially claimed resistance to real change, respondingto external pressures and internal solidarity with defensive policies meant tosustain the country’s economy and polity until international pressures waned(Klotz, 1995). The government mixed modest domestic reforms with regionaldétente to partially appease labor and community groups, minimize the costsof sanctions, and strengthen the case that South Africa was serious about reform.

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Table 2. Export Contributions by Major Sector, 1968–1987.

Year Gold Total Mining Agriculture Manufacturing% % % %

1968 33.7 46.7 19.3 37.31972 34.3 44.3 11.8 37.21976 32.4 46.4 8.4 35.21980 50.9 63.3 5.2 28.41981 45.8 59.6 6.4 29.71982 45.0 60.6 6.0 29.01983 48.2 62.0 4.0 31.11984 44.6 60.1 2.9 33.81985 42.3 60.5 2.9 33.11986 39.8 57.1 3.2 37.41987 41.2 57.0 3.6 37.2

Source: Adapted from Kahn, B. (1991). The Crisis and South Africa’s Balance of Payments. In: S Gelb (Ed.)

South Africa’s Economic Crisis (pp. 175–197). Cape Town: David Philip (Table 5, p. 73).

However, non-violent resistance grew in visibility and effectiveness during the1980s, coupling increasing frequency and duration of labor action with commu-nity support via consumer boycotts (Zunes, 1999).

Price (1991) identifies 1988 as a transition year in business’ perception ofthe costs of sanctions. The expansion of “inward industrialization” had coin-cided with a small economic boom in 1986 and 1987, which temporarilybolstered domestic business’s confidence in the economy’s ability to survive inisolation. Growth was modest (see Table 2), and there were opportunity costs,but it appeared that the government would regain internal stability and hold outeconomically (Gelb, 1991). However, the mini-boom collapsed in 1987:“Economic expansion in the sanctions environment meant a short period ofgrowth, followed by a balance-of-payments crisis, followed by decline” (Price,1991, 275). Between 1986 and the end of 1988, imports had increased 60%,and foreign borrowing (with which import substitution is usually financed) wasunavailable under sanctions. To business in 1988, the prognosis was clear:economic survival depended on reintegration into the international economy,which meant much more than partial reforms at home. The specific politicalsteps that would have to be taken for sanctions to be lifted included both polit-ical liberalization and the release of political prisoners, in addition to all-partyconstitutional negotiations. From this vantage point, the escalated economiccrisis of 1988, in combination with continued domestic instability, caused business elites to call for the normalization of relations both regionally and athome, thereby leading to an emergent debate among the governing party elite.

The Convergence of Mass Mobilization, Economic Strain,

and Elite Dissensus

The state’s immediate response to the Vaal Triangle strike and the spread of urbaninsurrection was not one of heightened repression, but of stepped up reform.Whereas reform had previously been gradual and modest, reforms implementedafter 1984 included the abolition of pass laws and influx controls, as well as essen-tial business, residential, employment, and segregation reforms. All points of con-tention at the turn of the decade, these reforms were not actually implementeduntil the height of insurgency. The government inadvertently acknowledged thelegitimacy of the grievances, transforming them into real points of contention.Instead of quelling black anger, they only fuelled mobilization.

When reform failed, Botha declared the 1985 state of emergency, intendingto destroy the opposition. Police and army troops, sent into the townships torestore order, arrested and killed thousands of Africans, with media coveragebanned in order to minimize publicity of the attacks. However, the statecontinued to perceive its hands to be tied regarding the use of repression, so

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that efforts were defensive and limited to “ad hoc police attempts to preventlarge public manifestations of mass mobilization” (Price, 1991, 252).

At first, the state of emergency appeared to bring the situation under control,and the initial return to stability aligned liberal business behind the NP onceagain. Although the extension of the state of emergency in 1986 did not receiveunanimous business support, the NP again won an overwhelming victory in the1987 parliamentary elections. While temporarily demobilizing domestic opposition, however, it contradicted both Botha’s reformist rhetoric and his co-optive strategy, which had the effect of heightening international criticism,bringing the call for sanctions to a new consensus, and further radicalizing theblack opposition. South Africans seemed to be headed for large-scale, violent revolutionary insurrection.

By the time of the second state of emergency, the state had begun to re-evaluate strategy. Sanctions seemed a foregone conclusion, and the survival ofthe regime increasingly depended on a successful counter-revolutionary effort.However, the regime in the post-1986 period was no better equipped to improvesocio-economic conditions than it had been initially. Under conditions of inwardindustrialization and a stagnating economy, the government had little room tomaneuver infrastructure reforms or create employment. Finally, the govern-ment’s efforts to co-opt political linkages at the community level seem to havefailed miserably. Price (1991) reports continued overwhelming (90%) supportfor local UDF organizations, in contrast with meager (3%) support for localcounter-organizations.

The NP government’s response to increasing strike activity and politicalprotest beginning in the mid-1980s differed from management’s response. Withinthe context of the second state of emergency, the Minister of Manpower reversedearlier reforms by outlawing all industrial strike activity in 1987. In contrast, bythis time labor and management seemed headed toward cooperation (Bennett,1990). With the inclusion of black African workers in collective bargaining in1979 and growth of the black African labor force, the organizational strength ofthe Congress of South African Trade Unions expanded rapidly, and strike activity escalated over the 1980s. Large scale strike activity resulted in substan-tial losses in both wages and production, leading to tactical conciliation betweenlabor and management. By 1988, the number of strikes remained high, but individual strikes were more limited and less costly to both labor and manage-ment. Many unions and employers were beginning to channel their industrialconflict through the collective bargaining process (Bennett, 1990).

As a whole, events of the mid-1980s had a powerful and liberating effect onblack South Africans. First, community groups began to provide services wherethe government failed to do so. Communities set up alternative school systems,

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providing education to students who had long refused to attend the increasinglyunder-funded, overcrowded, and ineffective system of Bantustan education run bythe state. An emergent dual sovereignty clearly indicated to black South Africansthat where the state was failing, the community could succeed. Further, the sheermagnitude of the Vaal strikes, the ensuing insurrection, and the failure of the stateof emergency to completely control the situation, symbolized to many that the balance of power between the state and the opponents of apartheid had perma-nently shifted. This recognition of the increased power within the opposition hadthe effect of sustaining a continued level of mobilization at the community level,where local residents retaliated against local government representatives, per-ceived state supporters, white businesses, and state/paramilitary troops. Finally,paramilitary bands at the community level were ensuring that a state of emergencywould fail to fully re-establish peace and security for white South Africans.

Split Elite and the Electoral Politicization of Capital

While apartheid had successfully structured a formal system within whichAfrikaner whites established their upwardly mobile economic status, the contra-dictions inherent in that system were increasingly apparent, and they eventuallycame to threaten the transcendent principle of white supremacy. As PrimeMinister Vorster had recognized, considerable reform within the system ofapartheid was necessary if it was to remain viable. Prime Minister Botha,appointed after Vorster’s resignation in 1978, took the idea of reform one stepfurther. He argued that apartheid would have to be dismantled if whites wereto continue to enjoy their expected economic privilege, political power, andphysical security. It was this strategy shift that allowed the first split within theruling elite (Welsh, 1999; Price, 1991). Within the NP, a significant segmentadamantly opposed change, and this “rightist” element eventually split from theNP to form the Conservative Party in 1982. By 1987, the Conservative Partyposed enough of a threat to NP hegemony to garner 45% of the Afrikaner vote,thus limiting NP leverage in reforming apartheid.

Nevertheless, as consequential as the Conservative split was to NP leverage indictating policy, it never posed a threat to the overarching commitment to contin-ued white political dominance. In contrast to the split among conservatives, thenecessary split for the potential for compromise would have to come from withinthe moderate elements of the party. The first indication of an emergent moderatesplit came in September 1985, with the first “trek to Lusaka,” when several of themost prominent South African manufacturing executives met in Zambia withmembers of the ANC’s National Executive Committee (Price, 1991, p. 238). Thiswas the first of several amicable meetings between elite members of business,clerical, academic, political, and other South African communities. The central

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government opposed these visits but was unable to stop them. The emerging “split to the left” became gradually more consequential for the NP aspreviously vocal supporters of the NP one by one denounced official policy andpublicly questioned Party reformist intentions in 1987. In 1989 the split was for-malized with the formation of the Democratic Party, a coalition formed from theProgressive Federal Party and other small dissident-NP parties. The DemocraticParty favored majority rule and proportional representation, which would ensurecontinued political voice for the white minority population.

As Price points out, however, these splits within the NP represented a newpluralism within the white polity, not a new consensus.8 This significant difference was reflected in the 1989 general election results, whereby both theDemocratic Party and the Conservative Party siphoned votes from the NationalParty center. In effect, the “left split” contributed to the weakening of central partycohesion, not a consensus for compromise, and certainly not acceptance of one-person, one-vote elections. Nevertheless, this split introduced a new potentialfor dialogue, particularly as the manufacturing elite was heavily represented in theDemocratic Party. It was this segment that had its interests most heavilyrepresented in negotiation.

This new pluralism found its final manifestation in the debate at the center ofthe NP, between previously dominant “securocrats” and the newly emergent“internationalist reformers.” While the securocrats maintained that any moveaway from the state of emergency would pose too great a risk to the securityregime, the internationalist reformers had come to recognize the status quo mix ofinternational isolation and domestic conflict as much too costly. In addition,internationalist reformers saw that: (1) regional détente would be useless towardthe international relaxation of sanctions without considerable domesticimprovements, and (2) the domestic situation could not be resolved without inclu-sion of the ANC and UDF in negotiations.

The final political opportunity that resulted from this split in the party wasrepresented in F. W. de Klerk’s successful bid for the NP leadership and thePresidency. De Klerk, a leading adherent of the “internationalist reformer” perspective, represented a major turn in governmental policy (Price, 1991;Murray, 1994; Thompson, 1995). Whereas significant segments of the businesselite had long given priority to ameliorating the economic deterioration andspiraling socio-economic manifestations (and had thus been increasingly open tonegotiations with the opposition), de Klerk’s presidency represented the first timethat government and business were aligned in support of real political change.And de Klerk wasted no time. In addressing the parliament in 1990, de Klerkannounced: (1) the lifting of bans on the ANC and Communist Party; (2) therelease of Nelson Mandela; and (3) the lifting of the state of emergency. Through

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these pivotal measures, which took even his most extreme opponents by surprise,de Klerk had simultaneously taken the necessary steps that would open the wayfor real negotiations to take place and the majority of international sanctions to belifted.

This “left split” within the NP reflects the theoretical point that the symbioticinterdependence between the state and business elite holding under normal con-ditions becomes increasingly tenuous during periods of political conflict. Whilethe state and particular sectors of business may or may not hold similar positionson policy issues, the two do share a division of labor regarding the societal goalsof economic prosperity and social stability. In general, the state’s role is to main-tain social stability, while capital drives economic prosperity. Although the NPplayed an unusually significant role in shaping economic policy in South Africa,business leaders generally attempted to stay out of policy questions even whenthey disagreed with them. During the escalation of civil war, however, businessbecame increasingly willing to speak out on political issues, to participate incertain low-intensity acts of protest and non-compliance, and to organize politi-cally in opposition to state policy (Kobach, 1990).

In sum, the situation by the late 1980s had reached the point of prolongedinability of the government to suppress the opposition. The political opportunitystructure looked much different during the late 1980s than it had twenty, fifteen,and even ten years earlier. The balance of power had shifted, and it was not within the government’s reach to reverse that shift. If repression couldnot stop the insurgency, and partial reforms were not enough to co-opt the oppo-sition, then how would the economic and political contradictions, and the resulting civil war, be resolved? This would be the topic of debate withinthe NP for the remainder of the 1980s. Whereas capital had recognized the needto negotiate an end to apartheid as early as 1985, viable resolution through com-promise depended on dramatic shifts in official state policy and political ideology. The opposition had successfully maintained a sufficientlevel of social unrest to alarm business and the white population, and the state continued to lose external legitimacy and economic viability, as well. The shift in the balance of power was visible to all, and its effect was to heighten theperceived long-term costs of conflict. It is at this point that the consequences ofchanging class alignments and political opportunities begin to converge to shape the hurting stalemate and “ripe” socio-political context for negotiations.

The NPA as Compromise

The National Peace Accord represented the culmination of the coordinated effortsof key persons within South African civil society. As Gastrow’s (1995) analysismakes clear, however, in many ways it also signified a pivotal set of political

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60 KRISTIN MARSH

opportunities. First, the signing of the NPA was a symbolically significant moment,as it was the first time the opposing leaders had appeared together in public. Second, during the design process, the architects of the NPA established their own workingrelationships, building networks and trust among negotiators. These same leaderswould be involved in the constitutional negotiations, so much of the necessary basesof trust were in place. Finally, the NPA provided a preliminary set of agreementsregarding fundamental rights and freedoms that structurally opened the way formulti-party constitutional negotiations, begun in December, 1991. The NPA repre-sented major agreement on preliminary issues of peacekeeping and provided forinstitutional structures that would function, independent of the NP and the ANC,during negotiations as well as during the transition period. Institutional structuresincluded national codes of conduct for political organizations and security forces,established to ensure principles of political tolerance and civil rights. The NPA alsoestablished the National Peace Committee (including representatives who had brokered the NPA to begin with), the National Peace Secretariat (NPS), Regionaland Local Dispute Resolution Committees, the Commission of Inquiry Regardingthe Prevention of Public Violence and Intimidation, and the Police Board. In addition, the Accord attempted to address needs for socio-economic development.9

CONCLUSION

The political-economic model described above is useful in understandingcompromise in South Africa. The conflict clearly reached a ripe moment fornegotiations by 1989: mutually hurting stalemate, acceptable mediators, andlegitimate spokespersons characterized the conflict at the point when negotia-tions became a rational decision for both sides. These bargaining conditions areuseful in understanding why negotiations in South Africa occurred when theydid. The second and third levels of analysis, however, help explain whichconflict situations hold the potential for the ripe moment and negotiations.Stepping back from the moment of resolution allows us to make sense of therelationships between political and social conflict, economic development, andthe complex historical trajectory that South Africa followed to finally arrive atthe point of the ripe moment and negotiations. Both the structural level of political opportunities and the background level of social structure and economicgrowth highlight the interplay in South Africa between domestic policy, socialunrest, international pressures, and compromise.

In effect the ripe moment represents more than the combination of a hurtingstalemate, legitimate spokespersons, effective mediator, and viable alternative –these factors more accurately describe the ripe moment than explain its emergence. In addition, explanation requires identifying the necessary and

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sufficient causes that converge to allow the “ripe moment” to emerge and fullydevelop. Just as rebellion and political conflict is best viewed within the contextof political opportunities and economic relations, so too can a political economicperspective enhance our understanding of the potential for compromise experi-enced in the “ripe moment.” In South Africa, the ripe moment represented a con-vergence of three pivotal political and economic factors: (1) increasingly effectivemobilization from below corresponded with (2) shifts in elite alignments, and (3)heightened economic pressure and international isolation. The result of this con-vergence was a crucial undermining of consensus within the state regardingapartheid policy, an opening of dialogue regarding the appropriate course ofaction, and long-awaited consideration of the alternatives to apartheid, the relativebenefits of compromise, and the growing costs of continued conflict.

Class Relations

South Africa represents a striking case of ethnic conflict between, principally,an excluded black majority and dominant white minority, yet the two partieswere able to work out a viable alternative to the conflict. This was possiblebecause, while South Africa exemplifies ethnic divisiveness on many levels,much of the conflict eventually manifested in the economic and political realms.The conflict was not solely about ethnic identity, but also about the essentialcontradictions inherent in a capitalist economy structured to exclude the vastmajority of its population.

South Africa is a highly unequal society: the Gini coefficient in 1975 was0.68, with 5% of the population owning 88% of personal wealth (Bethlehem,1992). In addition, the rigidly exclusionary system of apartheid structured widespread economic deprivation among black South Africans. By the mid-1980s, for example, the correspondence between racial status and quality of lifemeant that black per capita income equaled less than 10% of white income,black infant mortality was seven times that of white infant mortality, literacyrates for blacks were one-third the literacy rates of whites, and state spendingper black pupil was one-fifth that for white pupils (Segal, 1991). In turn, polit-ical exclusion and economic deprivation fuelled long-term majority opposition.The insurgents’ goals centered upon de-racialization of the political andeconomic systems, as well as in education, housing, and health care.

When considering the role of class relations in shaping political alignmentsand state policy, two lessons emerge from South Africa. First, the relationshipbetween ethnicity, class, and political constituency is changeable, so that theinterests and alignments of class actors remain contingent on historicalcircumstance. In South Africa, the NP government remained in control of thestate thanks, predominantly, to a relatively cohesive Afrikaner constituency that

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blurred class divisions. Afrikaner farmers, civil servants, workers, and smallbusiness owners supported a government whose policies ensured Afrikanerdominance and privilege. However, these same state policies also inadvertentlyundermined Afrikaner ethnic cohesion among the business class. By privilegingAfrikaner-owned enterprise, the state facilitated that group’s inclusion amongthe growing class of large business conglomerates. Over time, Afrikaner bigbusiness tended to share the views of British business on political matters, andethnic divisions were blurred within common class position. Loss of this smallbut significant segment of Afrikaner conservatism did not directly translate intoloss of NP support. Rather, it represented the beginning of a liberal shift withinthe party and within the growing debate over apartheid.

Second, the politicization of capital is never directly determined by class alignments, but depends on the particular convergence of extreme social instabil-ity and economic stagnation (Kobach, 1990). As Kobach (1990) illustrates, business leaders in South Africa generally refrained from making strong politicalstatements – even when the apartheid strictures clearly contradicted their interests,and even during periods of economic downturn. Rather, capital intervention hasdepended on extreme political instability, which causes an immediate loss of busi-ness confidence. In South Africa, the Sharpeville massacre, Durban strikes,Soweto uprising, and continuation of unrest after the Vaal Triangle strikes all cor-responded with economic downturn and the call for specific state policy changesby the business elite. However, it was not until the fall-out from the last of thesepolitical crises (the continuation of unrest following the Vaal Triangle strikes) thatthe state recognized the situation as a hurting stalemate.

Political Opportunities

What happened between the Sharpeville massacre of 1960 and the Vaal Trianglestrikes of 1984 that caused such different outcomes to the public expression ofgrievances? In the case of Sharpeville, the government responded with swiftand decisive repression, effectively muting the opposition for a full decade. By1984, however, options open to the state had diminished as a result of increasinginternational pressure, the expense of regional interference, increasing domesticeconomic instability, and general failure to co-opt important moderate segmentsof the business elite and non-white population. Stepped-up reforms in 1984served as a barometer: The state was visibly weakened, and the oppositionresponded to the opportunity with insurrection. The balance of power betweenthe state and opposition, and thus the political opportunities open to each, hadundergone a dramatic shift.

At this point of heightened state vulnerability, domestic and international mobi-lization against apartheid was most effective. Community based insurgency

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within South Africa maintained instability through all but the most severe repres-sion – coupled with international opposition, the unfavorable business climateenhanced international commitment to sanctions against the apartheid state.Reforms had failed to quell the opposition, and the new level of repression reachedafter 1984 could only be seen as a temporary measure. Many segments of businessand the state recognized that long-term solution depended on apartheid’s demise.

In sum, the trajectory of events in South Africa supports the usefulness ofthe political economic model of compromise introduced in this paper. In SouthAfrica, insurgency from below created and eventually sustained a prolongedperiod of instability that undermined the daily security and quality of life ofwhite South Africans. That instability, in turn, undermined business confidence,which caused the politicization of domestic capital, the flight of internationalcapital, and an eventual realignment within the political system and the NationalParty. By the mid-1980s, the balance of power had shifted in South Africa tothe extent that the government could no longer control the insurgency and thepopular opposition recognized its own strength and ability to force change. Yetneither side had both the military power and political leverage to win the conflictoutright, and compromise presented the only available option. It was this shiftin the balance of power, therefore, that allowed for the emergent “ripe moment.”The socio-political context of the latter 1980s was conducive to negotiations,and it was at this point that the various bargaining conditions began to converge.Domestic mediators, hurting stalemate, legitimate spokespersons, and a viablealternative to the conflict finally allowed all parties to see their way to thebargaining table, forced them to make difficult compromises, and – importantly– averted final escalation from insurrection to revolution.

What can the case of South Africa tell us about conflict and compromisemore generally? In the end, any emergent theoretical model is strengthened notonly by elegance and simplicity, but also by explanatory power, scope, andcomprehensiveness. South Africa illustrates the theory of compromised revolution as a whole, but one case cannot decisively identify the combinationof necessary and sufficient factors explaining compromise more generally. Thisstudy, and its case-specific conclusions, point to the need for further study: individual analyses and carefully chosen comparisons, as well as cross-nationalstatistical analyses of the population of cases of post-World War II civil war.

NOTES

1. Consider, for example, the scale of death elsewhere in southern Africa in this period:Mozambique (1,050,000 between 1981 and 1994, attributed to civil war and famine);Angola (750,000 between 1975 and 1995).

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2. Conservative political organizations, on the one hand, and Black Consciousness andsocialist factions, on the other, contended that their constituents were being sold out bythe conciliatory stance of the NP and ANC leadership, respectively (Murray, 1994).

3. In 1986, Commonwealth members attempted to mediate, but the delegation actedmore to pressure the state into a particular course of action. Two months later, the gov-ernment attacked ANC bases in neighboring Commonwealth countries, demonstratingunwillingness to compromise. The mediation ended immediately, but a general model forcompromise had been introduced. Later, Britain and the U.S. attempted mediation betweenthe ANC and NP, but their efforts were seen as disingenuous (Landsberg, 1994;Thompson, 1995).

4. Not all South African churches supported reforms or the negotiation process. By1986, however, even the Dutch Reformed Church (NGK), had publicly rejected apartheid,a major shift in policy that led to the establishment of new, splinter churches still willingto uphold the system (Welsh, 1999). See Kuperus (1999) for analysis of the largely sym-biotic, if complex, relationship between the NGK and the NP government.

5. The system of apartheid in South Africa was based on race and class relations rootedin European colonization and competition (Mugabane, 1990). See Thompson (1995),Welsh (1999), and Wilson and Thompson (Eds) (1968–1971) for comprehensive histori-cal analyses of South Africa. For a broader treatment of the southern Africa region, as awhole, see Omer-Cooper (1994).

6. Afrikaner and British rivalry was rooted in early competition over the Cape Colony,culminating in Britain’s victory over the Boer Army in the South African War(1899–1902). During the post-war period of reconstruction, emergent patterns of social,political, and economic relations included Afrikaner dominance in politics (to the exclu-sion of black Africans), English economic dominance (in the newly rationalized gold anddiamond mining industries), and heightened levels of social conflict and white (Afrikaner)worker resistance.

7. Marx (1992) presents a refined analysis of the development and interrelations ofmajor opposition movements and movement organizations in South Africa throughout theapartheid period. Jukes (1995) highlights the opposition leadership roles of Mandela,Biko, and Matthews. See also Holland (1989) for a history of the ANC, Ellis and Sechaba(1992) for the ANC’s relationship with the Communist Party.

8. Debate within the white electorate, of course, had been ongoing and included whiteopposition to apartheid as represented in the South African Communist Party and theLiberal Party. See Vigne (1997) for a history of the Liberal Party. Krüger (1960) andKotzé and Greyling (1991) provide details on party politics and political organizationsthroughout South Africa’s history.

9. See Gastrow (1995) for a reprint of the content of the NPA, as well as a concisediscussion of its implementation, including successes and weaknesses.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

An earlier version of this paper was presented at the Southern SociologicalSociety Meetings, New Orleans, April 2000. Bill Winders, John Boli, RichardRubinson, Terry Boswell, Mamadi Matlhako, Richard A. Garnett, E. C. Ejiogu,

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Edwin H. Rhyne and Donald N. Rallis were especially generous with their timeand ideas. In addition, graduate student and faculty participants in the SociologyDepartment Seminar at Emory University provided helpful comments on an earlyversion of this research. Finally, the editor and two anonymous reviewers forResearch in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change provided insightful sug-gestions, helping shape its current form. I am grateful to all of these individuals.

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69

EXPANDING POLITICALOPPORTUNITIES AND CHANGINGCOLLECTIVE IDENTITIES IN THECOMPLEMENTARY ANDALTERNATIVE MEDICINEMOVEMENT

Melinda Goldner

ABSTRACT

This study examines how collective identities change when the political

opportunity structure becomes more favorable to a social movement.

Activists within the complementary and alternative medicine (CAM)

movement in the San Francisco, California Bay area have traditionally

competed with physicians by criticizing Western medicine and providing

an alternative medical model for consumers. Physicians are increasingly

interested in CAM given financial changes within Western medicine, and

increased consumer interest and governmental recognition of CAM.

Activists in the Bay area are beginning to form networks with physicians

to develop an integrative model of medicine, which combines Western and

alternative approaches. Consequently, some activists are changing their

collective identity now that they are advocating an integrative, rather than

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Copyright © 2001 by Elsevier Science Ltd.

All rights of reproduction in any form reserved.

ISBN: 0-7623-0786-2

alternative, model of medicine. Activists within any social movement do

not always agree on goals and strategies, however. The aim of this research

is to contrast the collective identity of “alternative” and “integrative”

activists, and to show that the latter identity is gaining prominence as

political opportunities become available to the movement. This research

contributes to the work of contemporary social movement theorists who

are examining the relationship between the political opportunity structure

and collective identities.

INTRODUCTION

This study examines how collective identities change when the politicalopportunity structure becomes more favorable to a social movement. I arguethat San Francisco, California Bay area activists within the complementary andalternative medicine (CAM) movement have traditionally competed withphysicians by criticizing Western medicine and providing an alternative medicalmodel for consumers. The collective identity of many activists within themovement, both as practitioners and clients, has in the past reflected their statusas “outsiders” to Western medicine. They have achieved success with thisstrategy, especially since physicians and consumers are increasingly frustratedby their lack of choices and control under managed care. As an increasingnumber of consumers have tried CAM, the federal government has begun tosupport research on these techniques. Financial changes, increased consumerinterest and governmental recognition have led to political opportunities for themovement.

Activists in the Bay Area are beginning to form networks with physiciansand develop an integrative model of medicine. Integrative medicine combinesWestern and alternative approaches. Consequently, some activists are changingtheir collective identity now that they are advocating an integrative, rather thanalternative, model of medicine. I use the word “changing,” rather than“changed,” for two reasons. First, integrative medicine is an emerging trend somost activists are just beginning to change their collective identity. Second, Iattempt to answer Melucci’s (1995) call to examine collective identity as a“processual,” rather than “reified” part of movements. Activists within any socialmovement do not always agree on goals and strategies. Some activists willalways advocate an alternative medical model despite increasing opportunities,while others have always desired integration with Western medicine despitelong-existing barriers. The aim of this research is to describe two identities thatexist within the CAM movement in the Bay area, a collective identity for “alter-native” activists and one for “integrative” activists. More importantly, I argue

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70 MELINDA GOLDNER

that the collective identity of integrative activists is gaining prominence as polit-ical opportunities become available. This research contributes to the work ofcontemporary social movement theorists who are examining the relationshipbetween the political opportunity structure and collective identities.

THE LINK BETWEEN THE POLITICAL OPPORTUNITYSTRUCTURE AND COLLECTIVE IDENTITIES WITHIN

THE CAM MOVEMENT

Social movement theorists have increasingly understood that we mustsimultaneously study cultural elements such as collective identities andstructural elements such as political opportunities (Taylor & Whittier, 1995).Tarrow (1994) defines the political opportunity structure as “consistent – butnot necessarily formal, permanent or national – dimensions of the politicalenvironment which either encourage or discourage people from using collectiveaction” (18). Factors external to social movements, such as support from thegovernment and political elites, comprise the political opportunity structure.Activists develop collective identities within this broader “system ofopportunities and constraints” (Melucci, 1995, 47). Social movement theoristshave examined how activists change their collective identity when the politicalopportunity structure is more hostile to a movement (Gamson, 1995; Taylor,1989; Whittier, 1995). This study adds to this literature by describing howactivists alter their collective identity as the political opportunity structurebecomes more favorable to the CAM movement.

Collective identities transform individuals into political actors and uniteactivists within a movement. Taylor and Whittier (1992) define collective identityas the “shared definition of a group that derives from members’ common inter-ests, experiences and solidarity” (105). Collective identities enable participantsto turn their sense of who they are into a sense of “we” tied into a movementaimed at social change (Billig, 1995; Gamson, 1992; Klandermans, 1992; Taylor& Whittier, 1992). This transformation from individual to political actor takesplace within “social movement communities,” which are “informal networks ofpoliticized participants who are active in promoting the goals of a social move-ment outside the boundaries of formal movement organizations” (Buechler,1990, 61). Activists construct collective identities within these communities bydefining boundaries to differentiate challengers from groups in power, develop-ing political consciousness to define their shared discontent and interests, andcreating strategies to politicize everyday life (Taylor & Whittier, 1992, 111).

Researchers linking the political opportunity structure with collectiveidentities examine whether activists open or close their boundaries during hostile

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political climates. Joshua Gamson (1995) argues that theorists need to questionunder what political conditions social movements need a stable collectiveidentity. He suggests that closing group boundaries, one element of collectiveidentities, is a necessary survival strategy. Taylor (1989) argues that socialmovement organizations can act as “abeyance structures” sustaining a movementduring a “non-receptive political environment” (761). Though the movementoperates on a smaller scale, activists sustain a collective identity that gives thema sense of purpose. Activists focus on maintaining their commitment, ratherthan recruiting new participants. Taylor’s research illustrates how feminists inthe National Woman’s Party survived the hostile period between the 1920s andthe 1960s by closing the boundaries of their collective identity. Whittier (1995),on the other hand, shows that feminist boundaries became more permeableduring the abeyance period in the 1980s and 1990s. On the contrary, this studyexamines what happens to activists’ collective identity when the political oppor-tunity structure becomes more favorable.

Political opportunities arise when influential allies, such as physicians, makethemselves available to activists or when cleavages are created among elites(Tarrow, 1994).1 Physicians are making themselves available to activists withinthe CAM movement. This is due to the growing dissatisfaction that physicianshave with structural changes within medicine, the increasing interest their patientshave in CAM, and the escalating attention paid to CAM by the federal govern-ment. First, financial and organizational changes in Western medicine, such as thedevelopment of managed care, frustrate consumers and physicians alike. As med-icine becomes a for-profit enterprise, financial managers assume power at theexpense of physicians (Gray, 1986, 172). Some physicians become frustrated bytheir loss of authority; whereas, some consumers become frustrated by their lackof choices in this type of business arrangement. I have argued elsewhere that thishas led to a small, but increasing number of physicians who are beginning tosearch for alternative ways to practice medicine, as well as alternative means toretain frustrated consumers. Second, there are a variety of reasons, extending wellbeyond frustration with managed care, as to why consumers try CAM. For exam-ple, some consumers believe that CAM is more effective than Western medicinefor chronic conditions such as back pain or arthritis (Eisenberg et al., 1993;Mattson, 1982). Two important points are that the number of consumers tryingCAM is substantial and growing (Eisenberg et al., 1998), and that physicians areincreasingly exploring these techniques due to consumer interest and demand forCAM. Finally, government sponsored research on CAM has made physicianinterest more acceptable. The federal government established the National Centerfor Complementary and Alternative Medicine as part of the National Institutes ofHealth in 1992 (formerly the Office of Alternative Medicine). More physicians are

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willing to discuss CAM as scientific research on the efficacy and safety of specifictechniques becomes available (Greene, 2000).

Changes in the political opportunity structure help us explain why activistshave been able to change their strategy from providing an alternative model ofmedicine to creating an integrative model that combines Western and alternativemedicine. Physicians are increasingly interested in CAM given the changes justdescribed. Yet, most physicians do not abandon their Western training ortechniques to practice CAM. Rather, they find ways to incorporate CAM intotheir Western practice. These physicians are assisting activists with an“integrative” model of medicine, rather than an “alternative” system. This isthe explicit aim of organizations such as the American Holistic MedicalAssociation (Goldstein et al., 1987; Wolpe, 1990). As physicians advocateCAM, the hospitals where they work have begun to incorporate some of thesetechniques, as well. For example, patients can learn yoga and meditation at theUniversity of Massachusetts Medical Center in Worcester or the DeaconessHospital in Boston (Barasch, 1992, 8–9). As activists begin to see opportunitiesto influence Western medicine, some shift their boundaries and politicalconsciousness to reflect their new goal.

METHODOLOGY

I studied the CAM movement in the San Francisco, California Bay area.Researchers and participants identified this location as an early and continuedarena of activism within this movement (Baer et al., 1998; Berliner & Salmon,1979). From 1996 to 1998 I conducted interviews, observed variousorganizations and analyzed secondary materials (Van Maanen, 1982).

First, I interviewed forty individuals. Of the forty respondents, thirty (75%)were practitioners who used a variety of alternative techniques, such asacupuncture, massage, Traditional Chinese Medicine, homeopathy, chiropractic,Reiki, Qigong and Rolfing. Though at the time of the study the remaining tenrespondents were clients of alternative techniques only (25%), two of theseindividuals were training to become alternative practitioners, but had notfinished. Overall,2 respondents were overwhelmingly female (73%) andCaucasian (97%), and ranged in age from 35 to 63 (mean age = 47). Allrespondents had taken some college courses, and 71% finished some graduatework or earned graduate degrees. Religious or spiritual affiliation varied greatly,though 26% said they had no affiliation whatsoever. Forty percent ofrespondents are currently married, though an additional 33% were previouslymarried. Finally, respondents did not report their incomes accurately enough toascertain a reliable range or mean.

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After I completed the majority of the interviews, the second part of myresearch entailed clinical observations of a women’s clinic, a solo practitionersharing office space with other alternative practitioners, and an integrative clinicthat combines Western and alternative medicine. First, the women’s clinic offersa variety of gynecological services, both Western and alternative. Second, thesolo practitioner is an acupuncturist who rents office space to other bodyworkerswho each have an independent business. Third, the integrative clinic bringstogether a variety of practitioners, such as an acupuncturist, massage therapist,chiropractor, physician and nurse. Staff members work together as a team tointegrate Western and alternative medicine on a case by case basis, rather thanjust refer clients back and forth as is the case with the solo practitioners. Patientsmay use Western or alternative medicine exclusively or integrate both types oftreatment modalities. Observations in the three clinics varied depending on thetype of access I was allowed and the number of interviews I was able to conduct.In one clinic I interviewed staff members and informally observed the settingand interactions while waiting for these appointments. In the other two clinicsI interviewed practitioners, observed in the waiting room and interviewed clientsbefore or after their appointments.

In addition to the three clinics, I observed a professional association, withnearly 200 members, that is exploring integrative medicine. One newsletter saidthe group consisted of over 60 physicians, various alternative practitioners suchas chiropractors, acupuncturists, naturopaths, bodyworkers, and a small numberof lay people. Members educate each other about complementary and alternativetechniques and discuss ways to integrate Western and alternative medicine. Inaddition to observing and interviewing members, I analyzed videotapes of eightmonthly meetings and a professional symposium members had organized(Jorgensen, 1989, 22; Van Maanen, 1982, 103).

Finally, I analyzed secondary materials such as newspaper and magazinearticles, activist newsletters, event announcements, position papers and clinichandouts (Jorgensen, 1989, 22). I did not limit these sources to publishedmaterial, because I was also interested in literature that activists would give toclients of alternative clinics or members of alternative organizations. This wasnot a random sample, nor were these documents representative of the movementas a whole. Rather, they helped me understand what was occurring within themovement in the San Francisco, California Bay area.

Schneirov and Geczik (1996) argue that the larger CAM movement operates ontwo levels simultaneously. First, it acts as an interest group through lobbyinggroups such as the Nutrition Health Alliance and professional associations such asthe American Holistic Medical Association, an organization comprised of approx-imately 350 physicians and osteopaths (Goldstein et al., 1987; Wolpe, 1990).

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Interest groups try to mobilize support through advocating legislative reform, edu-cating the general public, acquiring resources, and developing coalitions(Schneirov & Geczik, 1996, 630–631). Second, the movement operates in sub-merged networks of social movement communities (Buechler, 1990). Activistsattempt to create and sustain an alternative way of life through sharing informa-tion (Schneirov & Geczik, 1996, 631). Submerged networks have played a largerrole within the CAM movement than formal organizations such as lobbyinggroups. Building on their work, my data provide further information on both inter-est groups and submerged networks. I first describe the collective identity ofactivists advocating alternative medicine within submerged networks so that thetransition to the newer collective identity of integrative medicine is clear.

COLLECTIVE IDENTITY OF ALTERNATIVE ACTIVISTS

Alternative activists began by creating an alternative model of medicineintending to challenge Western medicine and influence individuals. Theseactivists created boundaries that positioned themselves as an alternative toWestern medicine. Alternative practitioners and their patients developed apolitical consciousness as they learned that others had the same frustrations andexperiences with Western medicine. Their personal troubles became publicissues that required collective, structural solutions (Mills, 1959). Activists turnedtheir practice and use of CAM into a form of activism that politicized everyday

life in order to improve upon Western medicine and support alternative beliefs.This collective identity, though retained by some activists today, was moreprevalent at the beginning of the movement. Activists were trying to justifytheir place, however narrow, within the health care system. English-Lueck(1990) points out that this strategy was also advantageous because “anyalternative system must define itself as narrowly as possible outside orthodoxmedicine. In the beginning, this [was] a wise strategy – orthodox medicine wasunmoved by the intrusion of an upstart fad” (150).

Boundaries

Activists create collective identities that clarify their opposition to dominantrepresentations, beliefs and discourse. Developing this collective or oppositionalidentity requires that activists establish boundaries that define who is inside oroutside the movement (Taylor & Whittier, 1992). First, Schneirov and Geczik(1996) argue that activists construct “a moral boundary between alternativehealth and the outside world” by differentiating themselves from larger society,

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which they describe as overly consumerist, undisciplined and passive (638).Second, activists define their interests in opposition to dominant groups sincethey draw a boundary between themselves and Western medicine. English-Lueck (1990) positions CAM as “part of a larger social movement, introducingcountercultural values and rejecting the dominant views of orthodox medicineand traditional authority” (2).

In the beginning of a movement, activists need to assert their differenceswith existing models in order to convince the public that they provide a betteralternative. An activist in my study explains that “in the early phase of socialmovements you have to justify yourself, and you put someone down to do that.”This means that alternative activists were competing with physicians (Rosch &Kearney, 1985). As English-Lueck (1990) explains:

holistic health, despite individual allies within the orthodox medical world, is not part ofthe elite. In fact, for its own initial survival, it needed to compete with that elite . . . Eachneeded to define itself more clearly to exclude the other . . . (150).

Activists identified as alternative both out of desire and necessity. On the onehand, they “desire to stay outside ‘the system’ ” (English-Lueck, 1990, 155). Forexample, Kleinman (1996) examines a holistic health center where thepractitioners and staff identified as alternative actors within an alternativeorganization. One member asked, if “we aren’t on the edge, who will be” (48)? Onthe other hand, activists are excluded by Western medicine given the competitivestance they had taken towards physicians. Gevitz (1988) says that “unorthodoxpractitioners” only share “alienation from the dominant medical profession” (2).Or as one activist in this study put it, “both sides are weary of the other.”

In my research, the women’s clinic best exemplifies the boundaries drawnby an alternative identity. The director clearly states their position in relationto Western medicine in the following quotation:

I think we were a decade ahead of what everyone else was doing. That was part of ourproblem. We were so sophisticated and so simple in what we were doing that it [was]difficult to be recognized by insurance, back-up doctors, hospitals [and] traditional medicine.So you [had] to work within that battle. It [was a battle], because in that model we [were]being an anarchist to the system [emphasis added].

Political Consciousness

Just as boundaries are oppositional, activists develop a political consciousnessthat is based on opposition to existing frameworks and understandings (Coy &Woehrle, 1996). Political consciousness involves “interpretive frameworks thatemerge out of a challenging group’s struggle to define and realize its interests”

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(Taylor & Whittier, 1992, 114). Individuals begin to evaluate and critiqueWestern medicine as they interact with activists in social movementcommunities. Activists do more than introduce participants to specific ways ofbelieving and acting. Social movements need to enable individuals to blametheir grievances on a structural rather than personal cause in order to developan oppositional or political consciousness (Feree & Miller, 1985). So activistsenable participants to blame the structure of Western medicine for theirdiscontent, not their individual relationships with Western providers.3 Theircritique revolves around Western techniques such as drugs and the wayphysicians practice Western medicine. I limit the discussion here to activists’critique of Western techniques, because this is what differentiates alternativeand integrative activists. I discuss activists’ critique of physicians’ practicesunder integrative medicine, because the newer identity shares this critique.

Alternative activists believe that Western medicine is ineffective given its limited set of techniques. An acupuncturist notes that, “Western medicine hasnothing to offer or what they have to offer is dangerous.” One chiropractor addsthat Western medicine is “black and white. Take these drugs or have this surgeryor that’s it. There’s nothing in between. [There are] not enough options.” Similarto Lowenberg’s (1989) findings, alternative activists in my research were particu-larly frustrated that physicians rely upon drugs that are ineffective at treating theunderlying condition. A nurse says physicians overuse prescription drugs becausethey “have lost touch with any other way to cure people. I don’t think they knowhow to do anything but write prescriptions. I think it’s pretty sad.” A homeopathsays that parents have “seen their child [receive a] fifth course of antibiotics, and[their child] still [has] an earache.” One holistic nurse explained that the largestgrowth in her practice was from parents seeking alternatives to Western drugs fortheir children. In particular, activists believe that drugs simply mask symptoms. Incontrast, activists believe that alternative medicine “treats the source of the illnessrather than the symptoms.” One activist adds that in alternative medicine the:

healing process [is] different. They actually feel better from the inside and it’s a uniqueexperience – not what you get from a drug – they are restored to a state of health you aresupposed to have which is different from a drug that’s masking symptoms.

Specifically, many clients of alternative medicine have chronic or terminaldiseases, as opposed to acute conditions. Respondents believe alternativemedicine is better for chronic ailments such as arthritis, because it can improvetheir quality of life; whereas, Western medicine does not have much to offer.A respondent says:

My own doctor says the hardest thing as a doctor is to have this revolving door [for] anumber of patients [where all she] can do is give painkillers or some kind of maintenance

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drug. For example, people with backaches are constantly with doctors and very often theycan do very little about it, or they can help the patient get over this bout of back pain andit’s back in six months again. Many of the alternatives help people to deal with that andget rid of that on a permanent basis.

Likewise, a woman studying Qigong suggests that “most of the ones who haveconditions like cancer are the ones [where the] Western medicine professionsays we can’t do anything else.” Unwilling to give up, they turn to alternativepractitioners. A clinic director explains that “there are the truly desperate people.They’ve done everything. They are very sick. They don’t have options so theyfigure I don’t care if it’s the voodoo man, I’m going to try something.” As achiropractor puts it, “some are fearful. They don’t know quite what to expect.They could be [thinking] I don’t think it’s going to work, but I’ll try it becausewhat have I got to lose.”

Activists see that Western medicine as a whole, not just their individual physi-cian, has problems curing many illnesses and overusing drugs. Some activists gainthis perspective as practitioners. To illustrate, a physician’s assistant said he grewfrustrated with the lack of results in Western medicine since he “worked in hospi-tals and labs specifically, and he didn’t see people getting better. I kept seeing thesame people coming back over and over again.” Others developed a critique ofWestern medicine when they learned that others shared their experiences aspatients. Members share information and stories within social movement commu-nities. One woman who organizes support groups says:

There are people who come to the [support] groups who are very cynical about the whole medical profession. They’ve been put through the ringer some of them. It’s just a ghastlyexperience. Sometimes it’s been a year and finally the diagnosis is made and if they’d gotten ita year ago they would have been so much better off. So they come bruised, beaten down, verydiscouraged and very angry. They come here for healing. That’s what we are all looking for.

Members develop a political consciousness through exchanging stories andfinding that they are not the only ones with this type of negative experience.This organizer goes on to say that people learn through these groups that “weare all in the same boat.” To illustrate, each week group members tell the othershow they are feeling, and what is going on with their medical condition. Othermembers then get to:

respond to one another because most of the people understand what the person’s talkingabout. [They] have experienced something very similar or exactly the same thing. We donot give advice. [Instead] they are sharing [to] affirm one another.

These stories also provide members with an alternative approach to health care.They help individuals who are sick “find someone who has lived another way”(Dr. Rachel Naomi Remen, book promotion, Mill Valley, California, 10/8/96).

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Activists must also begin to identify with alternative beliefs and practices inorder to acquire a political consciousness. Core beliefs include defining healthas well-being, not the absence of disease, stressing individual responsibility forhealth, advocating health education, controlling social and environmentaldeterminants of health, and using “natural” therapeutic techniques (Kopelman& Moskop, 1981). Activists in my study advocate all of these beliefs. Inparticular, many individuals begin to realize that they are personally responsiblefor their health. Alternative practitioners offer clients more involvement in theirhealth care. One client says, “I think part of it is just observing, and thenbecoming curious enough or taking some responsibility and realizing thatthoughts are creating our picture of health, our attitudes [and] our reality.”Another client says she “self-monitored [my Grave’s disease]. I guess mostpeople think it’s risky, but I think I can monitor my body.” An acupuncturistadds that when they see results they know “they have a part in that.”

The women’s clinic provides an ideal illustration, because clients refer to itas “an oasis for self healing.” The practitioner’s role is to educate and “guide”clients in developing their “self-healing life-force energies” (flyer). The directorremembers coming to this clinic as a client when it first opened. She had a chronic condition that physicians kept telling her was a “medical problem.”When she told the Nurse Practitioner that she thought it was not a problem but her normal physical condition, the Nurse Practitioner agreed. She recallshow powerful it was to have a nurse tell her she was correct about her own body. After that, she never had a physical problem with the conditionagain. She does not believe that her body changed. Rather, this experience with the Nurse Practitioner changed her knowledge and confidence. One clientagrees with the director that this clinic is different because the practitionerslisten and believe clients know their own bodies. She says that there is more communication with the practitioners at this clinic. She feels they reallylisten to her, and “respect me for being an intelligent person who knows mybody.”

Activists may have tried alternative medicine in response to their frustrationswith Western medicine, but they stay with alternative practices because theybelieve that the techniques work and the beliefs resonate. “If people weren’tgetting results, they wouldn’t continue,” explains one respondent. Ahypnotherapist said that one of the other practitioners she works with had backpain that Western medicine could not help. Within a week of various alternativetherapies “he was up and about. When that happens it does make a reallyprofound difference in your life. You see that there’s something else out there.”Most importantly, these experiences have a transformative effect becauseparticipants turn their use or practice of alternative medicine into identification

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with the CAM movement. A client says she is active in the movement, becausealternative medicine has “changed my life.”

Polizticizing Everyday Life

Some of the first studies of the CAM movement noted that alternative activistswere more focused on changing individuals than existing institutions (Alster,1989; Berliner & Salmon, 1979; Mattson, 1982). They epitomized what Gusfield(1994) describes in the following quotation:

Many health movements, such as holistic health care . . . [are] not directed at changing thestate or an institution. Holistic health movements will have little impact on the state, nordo they seek it. They are dissenting movements within medicine, but do little to changeprofessional medicine, develop new state laws, or protest current medical or hospitalpractices. They become arenas of action with little direct conflict with institutions. They arealternatives to professional medicine; they are not movements to change the medicalinstitutions. In a sense, then [sic] bypass rather than change institutions (65–66).

Similar to other social movements, alternative activists have employed whatLichterman (1995) calls personalized political strategies (Echols, 1989; Taylor,1996; Taylor & Rupp, 1993; Taylor & Whittier, 1992; Whittier, 1995). Activistsengage in personalized political strategies in their everyday life, not throughtheir participation in social movement organizations (Lichterman, 1995).Following the work of Gusfield (1994), as well as Schneirov and Geczik (1996),my study finds that the CAM movement is embedded in everyday actions andinteractions in addition to organized and directed action. Some participantsdefine their lifestyle changes as a form of activism, because they put theirideology into practice. These are “action[s] taken with the recognition that itis not isolated and individualistic” (Gusfield, 1994, 66). Membership is fluid inthis type of social movement, meaning that “movements can have consequencesand influence behavior without the kind of commitment or ideological agreementthat is often posited for them” (Gusfield, 1994, 70). Many participants perceivetheir actions as activism that is connected to something much larger. In mystudy, activists engage in personalized political strategies when they choose

alternative medicine as consumers. In contrast, practitioners deliver services,empower people and transform the workplace as Hoffman (1989) found withactivists in other health movements.

Clients believe that using alternative medicine is a form of activism, becausetheir choices have political consequences. One respondent says she is active inthe movement “in so far as I boycott Western medicine as much as I can.”Another client says that part of his activism is “letting people know what hasworked for me. I’d be happy to give them my acupuncturist’s phone number.

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[I try to] get people to move on things.” He adds that “everybody who knowsme is much more open about acupuncture because of my experiences. A numberof people have tried it because of that.” Using alternative medicine and sharingone’s experiences are both personalized political strategies. Activists empowerthemselves and others in order to make social changes. A volunteer at analternative clinic says:

I think change starts from within yourself, so that’s what I’m focusing on right now. Then[I will] empower individuals. I think working with individuals, the word will spread, notjust words, but feelings and thoughts. So they’re more empowered because of their health.Whether it be political change or social change, they’ll be able to be more focused andmore sensitive . . . That’s really powerful, I think, to let other people realize they have thisunlimited power that’s inside.

He goes on to say that “protesting and boycotting [are] all good, but I justknow there’s other ways of having your voice heard, and other ways of makingchange than [the] traditional marching in. Those [methods] are good. There arejust other ways.” A homeopath adds, “I think the world will change more whenpeople change rather than holding a sign. That’s holistic too – to have the wholeperson involved, not just what they say or do.”

The relationships practitioners develop with their clients are deliberatestrategies that address patient’s concerns with Western medicine and providean alternative model of medicine. These relationships are the critical variabledifferentiating alternative and Western medicine (Lowenberg, 1989), and formthe basis of the personalized political strategies that practitioners use. Forexample, practitioners transform the workplace into an arena for empoweringindividuals. Practitioners include clients in medical decisions based on the corebelief that individuals must take responsibility for their health (Kopelman &Moskop, 1981). The director of the women’s clinic says that:

instead of this person [physician] having all the information and know[ing] what’s best foryou at all times . . . there is an exchange of information, communication and education thatenables the person to heal [him or herself].

Practitioners and clients both see these personalized political strategies asactivism since empowered individuals can eventually influence others andsociety. Similar to clients, a homeopath sees “activism as healing and teachingwork – activating people from the inside out by practicing and teachinghomeopathy. Joining a [professional homeopathic] organization is more outerpreparation.” Individuals create oppositional identities through these interactions(Schneirov & Geczik, 1996; Taylor & Whittier, 1992). Social movementcommunities allow individuals to experiment with “new authority patterns, newforms of organization, and new ideas” (Schneirov & Geczik, 1996, 638).

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Participants are also able to share stories and provide alternatives to dominantcultural codes about professional medicine within these social movementcommunities (Fine, 1995; Lichterman, 1996; Melucci, 1985).

As the political opportunity structure becomes more favorable to themovement some activists will retain the collective identity just described;however, others will change their collective identity given their increasedinvolvement with Western medicine and a desire to gain even more access.English-Lueck (1990) argues that movements organize on four levels; theindividual, the group, the network and the community at large. Describing theCAM movement, she adds:

The individual level is more important at one phase of the movement, the group in another,and so forth. As critical crossroads are reached within the movement, some practitionerswill opt to stay with the stage emphasizing the individual, for that is why they joined (110).

In my research I find that some activists are beginning to identify differently,though, given that their position in relation to Western medicine has changed. Thisformerly narrow collective identity becomes less necessary and advantageous.

COLLECTIVE IDENTITY OF INTEGRATIVE ACTIVISTS

The newer collective identity behind integrative medicine broadens activists’boundaries, political consciousness and strategies. Examining transformationsin collective identities can help us understand how social movements changeover time since identities are not static (Coy & Woehrle, 1996; Melucci, 1995;Whittier, 1995). Whittier (1995) argues that even a few years can make asignificant difference in an identity since attitudes, information and theopposition’s position change rapidly. Whittier explores how the collectiveidentity of feminist changed as new cohorts entered the women’s movement.Following Whittier’s framework, I outline how some Bay area activists arebeginning to change their collective identity from “alternative” to “integrative.”Activists change their boundaries, political consciousness and strategies aspolitical opportunities arise. In terms of boundaries, some activists in this studyhave expanded their definition of “we” to include physicians. Physicians bringlegitimacy and resources to the movement so this group of Bay area activistsembrace their increasing involvement, even though they must make adjustments.For example, activists are very concerned with appearing professional sincephysicians are garnering more media exposure for the movement and activistsare wanting to emulate physicians. Integrative activists are still critical of theway physicians practice Western medicine, especially their objectification of

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patients and over-reliance on technology and physical processes; however,activists are less openly critical of Western techniques such as drugs and surgery.This reflects a significant change in their political consciousness. Finally,activists have developed a range of strategies to gain access to mainstream insti-tutions such as hospitals. Attempting to influence existing institutions is allowingactivists to extend beyond the personalized political strategies they wereemploying to change individuals. Activists are now seeking support from busi-nesses and insurance companies.

Opening Boundaries

Boundaries identify individuals as members of a group, because they establishdifferences between themselves and those outside the group (Taylor & Whittier,1992). In this way collective identities regulate membership and distinguishactivists (Melucci, 1995). These boundaries make participants aware of theirsimilarities with other activists, as well as differences from outsiders. Givenchanges in physicians’ attitudes toward CAM and the resources they can garner,some activists in the Bay area now welcome physicians into the movement.Activists alter their definition of “outsider” as physicians move from adversaryto possible ally. Rather than staying on the fringe of Western medicine, theseactivists are trying to “bridge the gap” between Western and alternative medicineas one respondent said. Physician involvement has changed interactions withinthe movement. Activists try to mimic physicians’ professional norms, especiallysince physicians bring a heightened level of exposure to the movement.“Imitating the professional trappings of orthodox health practices can be seenas one practical solution” for gaining legitimacy (English-Lueck, 1990, 154).

Activists begin to change their collective identity as more physicians join theirorganizations and practices. A practitioner involved with an integrative practicesays, “I just see that there’s interest in alternative medicine. For a while it didn’tinclude many physicians, and now that seems to be one of the groups leading theway.” A physician is on staff at the integrative clinic. Physicians established theprofessional association, and one acts as the director. The latest figures for thisorganization’s membership show that more than 60 of the 200 current membersare physicians. This study cannot determine the extent to which physicians sim-ply advocate CAM or actually identify with the CAM movement. Yet, as morephysicians explore CAM, whether they identify or not, activists begin to changetheir collective identity. Activists now call their work “complementary” or “inte-grative,” rather than “alternative.” A dance therapist says she views her work “ascomplementary. Clients would agree with that. A few people wouldn’t want to seea physician, but the majority combine modalities.”

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Activists are willing to open the movement to physicians because they arenoticing changes in physicians’ attitudes toward CAM. A Rolfer says she“noticed a change in physician’s reactions. [Physicians] have heard of Dr. BernieSiegel.4 There is more popular awareness [among physicians] that alternativemedicine can work in some cases, and that nothing works universally.” Anotherpractitioner says she sees “a lot of AMA types reaching out for holistic healing.”A client even says she has been “moving back into including Western medicine,because it seems a little more open than it was.”

In particular, activists recognize vast changes in the medical training thatphysicians receive. A practitioner says that:

medical schools are starting to offer strong options for nutrition, acupuncture andhomeopathy. It’s not enough yet, and it’s still offered on an elective basis as far as myunderstanding goes, but I think that’s where the changes are going to occur. [Medicalschools] already are shifting so radically.

Seventy-five medical schools are now offering courses on CAM, including Yale,Johns Hopkins, Stanford, Mount Sinai, Harvard and Columbia (Conan, 2000;Phalen, 1998). Activists hope that this education will lead to acceptance. Aclient explains:

I have seen much greater acceptance within the Western medical community. There will besome level of openness as more doctors in training hit the streets. They were weaned onthe idea that the Western scientific method gives us good medicine, but has its own biasesand limitations. I know someone going to medical school and he’ll be open. He may beconcerned with the amount of money being spent by the client, but not since he wants it.He won’t be inherently threatened. He won’t be trained in the “I am God” series.

Activists are also embracing physician support because of the resources thatthey bring to the movement, such as increased media exposure and publicsupport. The media have certainly covered CAM more in the past several years.Due to their credentials and respectability, physician interest in CAM is respon-sible for much of this media attention. Dr. Andrew Weil and Dr. Deepak Chopraare particularly visible.5 In part, activists open their boundaries to physiciansfor the resources, such as media attention, they provide. Activists want to appearcredible to these physicians and to be worthy of their participation. However,these activists also recognize that the movement receives more public exposureand support given physician involvement. As Lowenberg (1989) argues, “oncea group of physicians started advocating these themes [of holistic health], thepublic listened. When less powerful groups such as nursing and public healthhad represented the same themes, they did not have the equivalent impact onpublic perceptions” (91). Activists are even willing to make significant changesto their collective identity given the power physicians continue to hold in oursociety.

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Allowing physicians into the movement changes interactions between activistsand physicians. One respondent calls herself “an evolutionist not an activist,”because of her desire to work with physicians. She rarely attends conferencessolely for alternative practitioners, nor does she join alternative organizations,because she wants to maintain her legitimacy with people in the system.Activists who are working directly with physicians are also concerned withappearing professional. To illustrate, the professional association organized asymposium to educate practitioners about alternative techniques and exploreways to integrate Western and alternative medicine. Speakers explained a rangeof techniques, such as homeopathy and acupuncture, and audience membersasked questions as to how to incorporate these techniques into their work.Members discussed professionalism throughout the organizing stages, especiallysince they wanted favorable media coverage. They had a strict dress code forspeakers that included specific information on how to look best on camera. Aprofessional meeting planner asked each speaker to prepare a one minute soundbite on their presentations in order to increase the chances that the local newsstations would cover their symposium. One member said:

they were concerned that [the symposium] came off looking professional, and I think theyachieved that. It was not a scientific conference. It was more of a program that wasorchestrated. I knew that going in. As long as you don’t masquerade as one thing and doanother, [it is okay to do this].

This group had been interested in their public image long before the symposium.They have a public relations committee focused “on maintaining our publicimage.” These examples illustrate how members are aware of how they needto portray themselves professionally if they want favorable media coverage.Yet, members’ concern for professionalism is also tied to the fact that physicianswere involved. One member said:

[Physicians] are taking a risk [by exploring integrative medicine], and with good justification.It’s not just paranoia.6 They know the power of the state board and what it can do to you. . . And they see security in numbers. If they get a movement going that’s large, and therefore has political strength, they will be less susceptible to divide and conquer tactics.So they want [the symposium] to look good (emphasis added).

Activists use professionalism as a way to appear legitimate before the largerpublic and physicians within their movement.

Activists believe it is advantageous to bring physicians into the CAMmovement despite any changes they may need to make. Social movementtheorists argue that collective identities can be “disembedded from the contextof their creation so they are recognizable by outsiders and widely available foradoption” (Taylor & Whittier, 1995). Friedman and McAdam (1992) warn

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against this. They argue that social movements should restrict access to theircollective identity, because activists can then control it as a “selective incentive”or enticement to participate (165). If activists do not restrict access, individualsmay continue adopting the collective identity without participating in the socialmovement. “Their very success in disseminating the collective identity undercutstheir basis of existence, and the movement will die for lack of participation”(Friedman & McAdam, 1992, 169). For example, women may still identify asfeminist, but not participate in the women’s movement. Feminism may fadebecause the movement loses activists. On the contrary, I believe that openingaccess to the collective identity to new participants, even physicians, duringmore favorable political climates, gives the movement access to a variety ofresources and level of success previously unimagined.

Changing Political Consciousness

As activists open their boundaries to physicians they begin to modify theirpolitical consciousness. I already explained that alternative activists are criticalof how physicians practice Western medicine. For example, activists believethat physicians are too rushed and impersonal so patients end up feelingalienated and disempowered. Integrative activists retain this critique ofphysicians’ practices, even though activists now work more closely withphysicians. What is different is that whereas alternative activists also critiqueWestern techniques such as drugs and surgery, integrative activists are morevocal about the need to retain these techniques in some circumstances. Forexample, a YOGA teacher says “that’s not to say there is not a time for thescalpel, antibiotics or an anti-inflammatory. There certainly is, of course.Everything has a time and place.” An acupuncturist adds that he “would neveromit all of the Western technological help that’s available.” Participants arewilling to discuss the value of Western techniques now that they believe it isno longer a question of alternative or Western medicine, but how to use both.

Even though integrative activists find value in Western techniques, integrativeactivists blame medical training for the weaknesses in the way physicianspractice these techniques. They criticize physicians for being emotionallydistant, impersonal and rushed (Langone, 1996, 43). Western medical schoolsoften stress detachment, or the impression that the medical doctor is personallydisinterested. Hafferty (1991) argues that when faculty and students ridiculephysicians who display emotion and question their abilities as physicians theyreinforce this message of detachment (48–49, 76). Jaffe et al. (1986) suggestthat medical trainers assume that detachment helps a physician survive in astressful job. One client said, “Western medical doctors are trained to not get

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involved, not be too warm or connected . . . There is no time, and they’d burnout if they tried to connect to that many people.” One female client adds that:

a lot of physicians don’t receive training in what is traditionally called bedside manner.They’re not trained to empathize with the person. [Rather] they’re trained to look at thisperson to figure out what’s wrong with them, and give them something to make them better.

The result, activists argue, is that patients feel alienated and objectified. Oneclient finds she has “very little personal interaction” with physicians.

Activists suggest that CAM provides a better model. As stated before,proponents of holistic ideology believe that individuals are responsible for theirhealth (Alster, 1989, 184). Consequently, alternative practitioners say they offerclients more involvement and control in their health care. An acupuncturist saysshe “thinks holistic health care is more personal. Rather than presenting yourselfto the doctor and saying fix me, I’m broken, they can do something about it.”Activists also argue that CAM allows for an emotional connection betweenpractitioners and their patients. “It is more of an emotional involvement inholistic health care than regular medicine,” because alternative practitionerstypically ask about the client’s emotional and mental well-being, as well asphysical health. Another respondent argues that “it’s more empowering to goto holistic practitioners . . . It tends to be more personal. You can feel theircaring more. It’s not so distant, and you are not objectified.”

Activists criticize physicians for more than being rushed and impersonal. Whenasked to define CAM, respondents were most likely to say that health entails well-being, rather than simply the absence of disease. To be well or healthy, one musthave physical, emotional, mental and spiritual balance. To help individuals attainwell-being, alternative practitioners address all of these aspects of a client’s life.They do not just focus on the diseased part of the client or the client’s physicalhealth. As a practitioner says, CAM “look[s] at people’s health as not so muchwhat’s wrong, but really how to make the most of life.” Activists argue that thisbelief, and subsequent clinical practice, runs counter to Western medicine’s focuson eliminating illness and physical symptoms. One acupuncturist says that CAM“looks at the true complexity that’s going on with each individual . . . Let’s notpretend it’s just about a lesion or a bug. That’s naive. People are more than that.”

Activists continue to critique the way that physicians practice Westernmedicine and believe they offer a better alternative; however, activists are more

vocal about the need to retain Western medicine, especially for diagnosis and cri-sis care. Several respondents said they would see a physician if they were in “a caraccident,” or “hit by a truck.” One client says, “don’t get me wrong – there’s aplace for crisis care, like with broken bones.” A hypnotherapist says that whenclients come in:

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we always recommend that they see a physician, because there are things, like setting a brokenbone, that doctors do and we don’t . . . I have nothing against conventional medicine. I knowthat in some cases it hasn’t worked well for me, and some it has. So when I get something,which I don’t very often, I go see the doctor. I go for check-ups and all those things you aresupposed to do. It’s just that I would like to see a little bit more choice for a client.

Activists also believe Western drugs are useful for certain infections. “Westernmedicine has its strengths. As my acupuncturist has reminded me, don’t cometo me if you have pneumonia. There is nothing I can do for you.” A male clientsays that “sometimes a physician is important to give a shot or pills to fightinfection.” A female client said she saw a physician “to make sure I wasn’tbeing foolish and ignoring a symptom that should be treated by Westernmedicine. There are times when I feel like attack is the best solution and gofor the drugs.” Many of these activists do not discount Western medicine,because “we take our miracles where we can get them,” as one woman put it.

Activists believe physicians should use Western and alternative techniqueswithin the framework of holistic ideology. Chow (with McGee, 1995), anacupuncturist and Qigong teacher, says she:

considered the positives and negatives of both Western medicine and Traditional ChineseMedicine. I decided to take the best of both approaches and blend them together to forma better system in terms of both cost and effectiveness . . . [She has] a very high regardfor Western medicine, but strongly believes that if the impersonal high technology of modernWestern medicine were combined with ancient Eastern concepts and practices, mankindwould be better served (31–32).

A massage therapist adds that “doctors should be more tuned in to the holisticway of thinking.” Activists believe that integrating Western and alternativetechniques without adhering to these beliefs “won’t get results.” Many feel thatthe worst case scenario is that physicians would co-opt alternative techniquessuch as acupuncture and homeopathy. Physicians would take over thesetechniques, and not use them in accordance with holistic principles.

As activists develop integrative medicine, the extent to which activists willretain a commitment to holistic ideology remains to be seen. This study alreadyfound variation in how much alternative practitioners discuss the ideologybehind their practices.7 Co-optation becomes a concern as activists expand theirstrategies to include engaging existing institutions more directly.

Expanding Strategies

Activists frequently base their strategies on the political environment, whichconsists of both resources and constraints (Freeman, 1979; Gamson, 1990, 1975;McAdam, 1983; Morris, 1984).8 For example, integrative activists retain the

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same personalized political strategies integral to the collective identity ofalternative activists. Activists continue to deliver services and transform theworkplace into an arena that challenges the practice of Western medicine andempowers clients. One activist says the movement is “very grassroots . . . butat the same time I think you do need someone looking nationally, or at leaststatewide, to work with the insurance companies, to work with [medical]education.” Consequently, activists have expanded their strategies to includeseeking support from hospitals, businesses and insurance companies. Jenson(1995) argues that social movements seek recognition of their collective identityby institutions, even if this means making some concessions to gain entree.

Activists now desire integration into mainstream organizations in addition tothe personal changes in individuals they have always advocated. Activists stillencourage consumers to use CAM, because these individual actions havepolitical consequences. In part, physicians are interested in CAM because ofincreased consumer interest in these techniques (Eisenberg et al., 1998; Goldner,1999). Activists are now extending beyond personalized political strategies,because they are hoping to influence existing institutions, as well. Some activistsare hoping to influence Western medicine by working inside hospitals (Barasch,1992). For example, yoga instructors work at some Kaiser Permanente hospitalsin California, the Stress Reduction Clinic at the University of MassachusettsMedical Center in Worcester and Columbia-Presbyterian Medical Center in NewYork City (Wolf, 1997).

Activists also expand their strategies to influence insurance companies sincethey have a great deal of power. One rolfer said, “we are aware of the political side . . . We need to influence the powers that be. For example, we need to showthe insurance companies that they will better their bottom line with integrativemedicine.” He continues, “right now some [potential patients] call me up and askif Rolfing will be covered, and when I say no, they don’t come in. So we need topush to get this changed.” Activists use several tactics to achieve this recognitionby insurance companies. First, the professional association is providing care to afew individuals “in order to develop a database” on the cost effectiveness ofintegrative medicine. They hope that insurance companies will be convinced ofthe financial savings from these data. Second, several practitioners in my studyencouraged their patients to “write their insurance company and legislators” whentheir services were not covered. Finally, the integrative clinic was devising astrategy for obtaining clients through businesses and insurance companies. Someindividuals were unable to pay for CAM. The director realized that insurancecompanies and businesses often have more power in making these decisions thanindividual consumers. For example, employers often pay for an employee’sinsurance, thus determine the range of options available.

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Practitioners within the integrative clinic have emphasized cost-savings, andde-emphasized holistic ideology in order to obtain clients through insurancecompanies and businesses. Most of their fliers say they provide “effective,efficient and affordable” care. By emphasizing results and cost-savings, thisclinic is trying to work within the existing cultural framework and speak thelanguage of businesses. They do not discuss their ideology, because they donot want employers or clients to think that they need to believe in holisticprinciples to get results. Therefore, the director said he would approachcompanies by saying “forget all of the philosophy. We can help your employeesstay healthier . . . ” He continues on to say, “I’m very careful about talkingabout this in general. When I speak in public it’s more about building bridgeswith the mainstream, [and] trying to be very, very inoffensive without compro-mising [the] basic principles.” Hunt et al. (1994) explain that when movementsinteract with mainstream institutions, activists try to “talk their language.”Activists may examine “audience” identities to determine how to obtain theirsupport. For example, a member of Nebraskans for Peace says that their orga-nization realizes that elected officials face financial constraints so activistsemphasize the financial “bottom line” when they discuss movement issues withthese politicians (200). Hunt et al. (1994) argue that we have to examine thecollective identity of the “antagonist” and “audience,” not just the “protago-nists,” since identities are social constructions (192). Similarly, Coy andWoehrle (1996) argue that activists “shaped their oppositional voices so theycould be heard and accepted by specific audiences” (287).

Integrative activists want to change more than individuals. They want theirideas and techniques to transform Western medicine and financial organizations.Activists open their boundaries to physicians because they bring increasedexposure, legitimacy and allies to the movement. This means they mustmoderate their political consciousness so as not to exclude physicians or theirtechniques. As activists open their boundaries and modify their politicalconsciousness, physicians and their patients become potential recruits. Theextent to which physicians have actually joined the CAM movement, ratherthan simply supporting its goals, cannot be answered from this study. Yet,activists have new opportunities to influence Western medicine, insurancecompanies and the society at large through their associations with physicians,whether they are activists within the movement or not. Activists are willing toforge new relationships with their former opposition, since physicians can helpthe movement achieve even greater success.

Not every activist will change his or her collective identity as the politicalopportunity structure becomes more favorable, so multiple identities now existwithin the CAM movement. Some activists will resist integration with Western

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medicine, because they fear co-optation. Other activists have always advocatedintegration, but have been unsuccessful with this goal until recently. Yet, I haveshown that many activists in the Bay area acquire this newer collective identityof integrative medicine as opportunities have expanded for the movement.Considerably more activists advocated integrative medicine as opposed toalternative medicine. Integrative activists included those respondents affiliatedwith the integrative clinic and professional association.

This variation in identities best reflects an activist’s degree of contact withWestern medicine, as English-Lueck (1990) found. For example, practitionerswithin the integrative clinic were more aligned with the collective identity ofintegrative medicine than the women’s clinic. This was due to the fact that theyworked with Western medical providers and institutions more directly, as I justdescribed. Physicians’ attitudes toward specific forms of CAM will influencethe amount and type of contact that activists can have with Western medicine.One activist explains that marginalized alternative practitioners will be morelikely to advocate alternative medicine; whereas, alternative practitioners, whosetechniques are more accepted by physicians, will be more likely to pursueintegrative medicine. I discuss later how physicians feel about specificalternative techniques. What is important here is that variation in identitiescannot be explained by which form of CAM activists used or practiced. Forexample, two respondents, both involved with Qigong, nonetheless identifieddifferently. The same was true for two respondents both affiliated withhomeopathy. There are limitations with these data since I conducted a small,non-representative study of activists in one area, and not every respondent spoketo this issue directly since this research was exploratory. We need more datato clarify how significant this change is, and what factors can explain whyactivists choose one identity over the other.

The question becomes how will this newer collective identity affect the largerCAM movement and the level of success activists can achieve? To what extentwill the movement begin to advocate integrative, rather than alternative,medicine? Other researchers have suggested that more activists prefer the goalof integrative medicine (Goldstein, 1999; Sharma, 1992). For example,Goldstein (1999) argues that “most alternative practitioners and advocates seethis process of assimilation as a good thing” (226) (emphasis added). However,the debate over whether to institutionalize may lead to divisions within themovement (Reinelt, 1995; Spalter-Roth & Schreiber, 1995), possiblydiminishing the level of success or leading to the demise of one faction.Differing perceptions of appropriate identities and strategies could also divideactivists into two separate, but co-existing social movements: an alternative andan integrative medicine movement. Integrative medicine could remain as a new

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collective identity or emerge into a new social movement. Another possibleoutcome is that integrative medicine becomes co-opted. I explore this next.

CONCLUSION

New political opportunities are allowing activists in the Bay area to work moreclosely with physicians, thereby changing their collective identity. The increasedcomplexity and scale of the medical field have led to new financial arrangementswithin Western medicine. Medicine has been transformed into a health careindustry where profit, efficiency, financial managers and consumers take centerstage. One physician suggested that people in his profession are now “outsiders”due to changes in medical reimbursement. Given the resulting dissatisfaction,some physicians are turning to complementary and alternative medicine for asolution. Other physicians are examining these techniques given increasedconsumer interest and governmental research. Activists see this opening in thepolitical opportunity structure as an opportunity to work with physicians tointegrate Western and alternative medicine. This study shows how some activistschange their collective identity as a result. However, the outcome of this newstrategy is far from clear.

Following the work of recent social movement theorists, my study examineshow activists transform their collective identity when they take advantage ofexpanding political opportunities. Physicians bring significant resources to themovement. For example, their power and legitimacy can influence insurancecompanies and businesses to support alternative techniques. Consequently, someactivists willingly open their boundaries to physicians and change their politicalconsciousness for both ideological and practical reasons. Holistic ideologystates that practitioners need to use multiple therapies since they address morethan physical symptoms; rather, practitioners need to examine how illness canresult from emotional, spiritual and social problems, as well (Alster, 1989, 61).Activists have an “expanded selection of tools for helping patients” when theywork with physicians (newsletter of the professional association). Practically,activists realize that the movement gains potential patients if they moderatetheir stance to advocate alternative techniques as a complement to, rather thanreplacement for, Western medicine. Fewer individuals are willing to use CAMif it means abandoning Western practices. Some activists alter their collectiveidentity to bring increased resources to the movement. On a strategic level,alternative practitioners know they will gain legitimacy and possibly insurancereimbursement if they work with recognized medical professionals with morepower and authority in our society. Activists within the CAM movement havestarted to advocate integrative medicine as a practical strategy to ensure their

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survival in a political climate that is more favorable, but still volatile andunpredictable.

This strategy of integration is not without drawbacks. Most importantly, co-optation is always possible once activists achieve some success and interactmore closely with established actors. The social movement literature hasincreasingly examined how institutional actors co-opt activists leading themovement to de-radicalize over time. Gamson (1975/1990) was one of the firstsocial movement theorists to define co-optation, and others have built upon hiswork (Amenta et al., 1992; Cress & Snow 2000). He identifies four possibleoutcomes based upon whether activists receive new advantages and gainacceptance as a spokesperson with legitimate interests; co-optation, fullresponse, preemption and collapse. Co-optation means that activists win fullacceptance, but no new advantages for the movement. The CAM movementcould be co-opted in several ways. One possible scenario is where physiciansincreasingly accept CAM. Yet, physicians practice these techniques themselves,without proper training and without the corresponding holistic ideology. Thismeans the CAM movement gains acceptance, but no new advantages.

Physicians have already begun to co-opt alternative techniques. In their reviewof the literature, Astin et al. (1998) found that, on average, 19% of physicianspracticed massage and chiropractic, 17% offered acupuncture, and 16% usedherbal therapy in their medical practices (2305). One respondent in my researchnoted that, “some [physicians] want to collaborate in group practices with anutritionist, chiropractor, body worker, and use their knowledge. Some are doingthat, but others may say I need to learn more about nutrition so I can prescribeit.” Given the diversity of techniques and practices included under CAM,physicians are more likely to co-opt some techniques than others. To illustrate,Mattson (1982) argues that techniques for stress management, such asmeditation, would be the easiest to integrate into Western medicine; whereas,any form of CAM that includes a spiritual principle or practice would be muchharder to incorporate. Baer et al. (1997), also examining the CAM movementin the Bay area, discuss the possibility of physicians co-opting acupuncture “notso much for philosophical reasons as fiscal ones” (536). Wardwell (1994), aswell as Goldstein et al. (1985) and Wolpe (1985), go further to suggest thatacupuncture has already been co-opted to the point where it is rarely consideredalternative. Much like what happened to the “medical accommodation” ofalternative birth centers, physicians could co-opt these practices based upon theneed for “medical supervision” (DeVries, 1984, 89, 97). Activists try to achievelegitimacy by asserting their credentials, as Coy and Woehrle (1996) explain.Yet, physicians have more prestige in our society given the credentials theyestablish through extended medical education (Starr, 1982). This type of

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co-optation, where physicians usurp alternative practitioners’ techniques, isparticularly difficult. As my respondents noted, it confines many activists to a“bitter role” since they “aren’t part of it” when Western medicine and CAMmerge. Physicians and insurance companies “get all the glory and control” (andfinancial compensation) even though activists have done all the work. In short,the opposition receives credit for the movement’s ideas at the same time thatthey exclude activists from the process of change.

Activists are especially concerned that physicians are not adequately trainedin these techniques, and that physicians will use these alternative techniqueswithout the corresponding holistic principles. I will use acupuncture and herbsto illustrate these forms of co-optation. First, an acupuncturist without a medicaldegree needs 2,400 hours of clinical training and experience for a license topractice acupuncture; whereas, a physician needs only 200 hours for certification(Phalen, 1998, 38). One acupuncturist said that you simply cannot learn thetheory behind these practices in such a short time period. He adds that “theywouldn’t let me do needle biopsy” after simply reading a book on the subject.Thus, he says that “MD’s can practice acupuncture legally, but not well.” Theresulting patient dissatisfaction, which acupuncturists in this study feel isinevitable, may reflect negatively on acupuncturists as a whole, however.Second, a physician may practice acupuncture, but not stress the connectionsbetween the mind and the body. By doing this, the physician is separating thetechnique of acupuncture from the alternative beliefs underlying this practice.This is especially likely among physicians who are motivated by financial gain,because it is time consuming (thus costly) for them to practice these techniqueswithin the context of alternative beliefs. For example, it takes more time foran acupuncturist to ask a patient about his or her well-being and teach thispatient about lifestyle changes, than it is simply to insert acupuncture needles.One respondent knew of an acupuncturist who stopped training someone forthis reason. This student was “abbreviating his training to incorporate it intoan HMO, which accepts anything as reasonable as long as you can see sixclients in an hour. That’s where it goes awry.” Another example he providedis that physicians may simply “use herbs like prescription drugs.” They will be“ineffective” if they are used in this way, though, because he believes that herbsare only effective if used in accordance with alternative principles such aslifestyle changes.

Activists are hopeful that physicians learn that integrative medicine requiresthe expertise of alternative practitioners given the time and effort involved inlearning new techniques and altering their practices. One respondent says,“there’s a certain amount of fear by alternative practitioners that MDs will co-opt what they have, since MD’s already have the credibility and following.

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I think it’s very possible. But they don’t have time to learn all these things.”An acupuncturist adds that when “physicians see the amount of training neededfor alternative techniques . . . they will know they can’t retrain in these tech-niques given their full workload.” Another practitioner adds that he does notthink co-optation will occur, because:

no one can become an expert in everything. No one can know everything there is to know.No doctor is going to have the skill I have [as a Rolfer] . . . none of us can be experts inall these things. MD’s realize it’s better to have skilled people that can give a total approachto each individual. It is important to look at the outcome of other social movements to seeif activists’ optimism is warranted.

Two studies on co-optation of the hospice movement provide parallels to whatcould happen to the CAM movement. Osterweis and Champagne (1979)examined the hospice movement in the United States. In the late 1970s, themovement focused on grassroots activism to provide an “alternative form ofcare” (496). The authors argued that activists needed to maintain “programmaticintegrity” as they began to integrate hospice into the health care system (494).I believe this is akin to the need for CAM movement activists to avoid separatingCAM techniques from holistic ideology as I have discussed. Osterweis andChampagne thought it would be better for the movement if hospice remainedas freestanding facilities, and assumed a cooperative rather than competitivestance. They also discussed the need for standards, licensure and stablereimbursement mechanisms. For the latter, the authors thought it was advisableto emphasize the cost-savings hospice could deliver to insurance companies andthe government. Yet, they suggested that activists needed to emphasize otherbenefits the movement could bring beyond financial savings. Abel (1986),writing seven years later, shows how the hospice movement became more fullyincorporated into the health care system. Activists initially remained separatefrom Western medicine both due to desire and necessity, as was the case withthe CAM movement.

Although [activists in the hospice movement] originally sought to provide alternatives tothe established order, they were forced to rely on mainstream institutions for resources,political acceptance, and personnel. Integration, in turn, compelled them to modify theirpractices and goals (Abel, 1986, 71).

For example, activists within the hospice movement had to soften their critiqueof Western medicine since they now relied upon physicians for referrals. Stateaccreditation and licensing forced them to restrict the experimental aspects ofhospice that made them innovative. Most telling, Abel (1986) argues that “asthe ideas of the hospice movement have been diffused, they have also beendiluted and defused” (82). These are all issues the CAM movement needs to

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consider as they advocate integration with Western medicine. Most importantly,activists cannot underestimate how difficult it will be to advocate holisticideology, not simply alternative techniques. Complementing Western medicineby expanding your selection of medical techniques is one thing. TransformingWestern medicine in the way activists envision is quite another.

Several players influence the eventual outcome of integrative medicine tovarying degrees. I limit the discussion here to three influential groups. First,physicians retain a great deal of power to determine whether, and how, CAMmerges with Western medicine. Burstein et al. (1995) use a bargainingperspective to argue that “the more dependent the target is on the SMO (SocialMovement Organisation), the more power the SMO has over the target, andthe more likely it is to succeed” (293). As of now, Western medicine retainsthe upper hand. As one acupuncturist in my study says, “this could easily besquashed. The AMA is very powerful, and they may just decide [they] don’tlike this.” Second, insurance companies play a large role. One alternativepractitioner said that:

there is a push now with doctors trying to keep control. It’s economic. Those doctors aren’ta part of this group [the professional association]. So we need to go outside of that to theinsurance companies and government. In California people have a choice. It’s the law. Ifthey get in a car accident they can come see me without an MD’s referral. So I don’t thinkit’s something MDs will have complete control over. Insurance will play a role.

Third, activists also have some degree of control depending upon which strategythey emphasize. I have shown that alternative and integrative medicine are verydifferent. Speaking of the CAM movement, Schneirov and Geczik (1996) arguethat “the extent to which it has solid roots in the lifeworld (submergednetworks)” affects activists ability to resist co-optation. Alternative medicinekeeps activists further away from mainstream institutions and possible co-optation, because they remain primarily within submerged networks. On theother hand, integrative medicine requires a more fundamental change in Westernmedicine. Integrative medicine requires the use of Western and alternativetechniques within the framework of holistic ideology. As I have discussed,physicians would have to do more than simply provide more personal care.They would have to radically restructure their practices.

It will probably take years to determine the level of success that the CAMmovement achieves with integrative medicine, because this medical model isso new. Not every activist will embrace the newer collective identity or strategyof integrative medicine; rather, some activists will hold on to the older collectiveidentity of alternative medicine. Whether multiple identities lead to divisionsor separate movements, as well as what level of success this newer strategybrings, remains to be seen. What is clear is that physicians remain powerful

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despite their loss of autonomy and authority. Moreover, not withstanding therecent successes of the movement, most physicians are not open to integrativemedicine as activists conceive of it. Whether physicians begin to identify withthe CAM movement is an empirical question unanswered in this study. Yet,changing collective identities among Bay area activists within the CAMmovement may simply be the precursor to significant changes in medicine. AsPhalen (1998) notes:

The birth of integrative medicine will force the medical establishment to form previouslyunheard of alliances with practitioners once shunned by Western medicine. Transformingthe course of our nation’s curative path, our sick care system will become obsolete. Newstrategies, blending the spiritual, emotional, and natural with high-tech procedures, willevolve. Although it may seem overwhelming, this change is close at hand (13).

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I wish to thank Craig Jenkins, Bob Kaufman and especially Verta Taylor fortheir insight and patience throughout my graduate career. I am grateful to thepeople who allowed me to interview and observe them. They were alwaysgenerous with their time, and their perspective forced me to rethink many ofmy ideas. I want to thank Jeff who was a patient editor and sounding boardfor my research. Finally, Patrick Coy and three anonymous reviewers reallyenabled me to tighten my argument through their comments and questions. Anearlier version of this paper was presented at the American SociologicalAssociation Meetings in 1999.

NOTES

1. Some resource mobilization theorists explain that social movements arise anddecline depending on the political opportunity structure (Jenkins & Perrow, 1977;McAdam, 1982; Tarrow, 1994; Tilly, 1978). For example, the civil rights movementemerged after African Americans migrated north and registered to vote in large numbers(McAdam, 1982). These changes made the political system more vulnerable. At thesame time, the Democratic party’s rise to power made the political system more receptiveto the movement’s goals and claims. The second wave of the women’s movementemerged, in part, from former President Kennedy’s creation of the Commission on theStatus of Women (Rupp & Taylor, 1987). The women involved in this commissiondeveloped leadership skills and communication networks, and their grievances gainedlegitimacy. Likewise, coalition support from liberal organizations, along with divisionswithin the government, aided the farm worker’s movement (Jenkins & Perrow, 1977).

2. These percentages do not always represent all 40 respondents, because some didnot respond to every question.

3. Even consumers who are satisfied with their relationship with a physician candevelop a structural critique. Dr. Anderson (1993) sees many patients who “may like

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97

their individual doctors, but don’t like organized medicine” (33). Likewise, Starr (1982)points out that individual consumers may be satisfied with their physicians, but we arenot confident about physicians as a group. For example, consumers are questioningwhether Western medicine has made any difference in their overall health (Starr, 1982,408). Many turn to alternative medicine and develop a structural critique of Westernmedicine since they are dissatisfied with Western medicine.

4. Dr. Siegel advocates CAM through books such as Love, Medicine & Miracles.5. Of course, it is unrealistic to conclude that all media coverage on alternative medi-

cine is now favorable given the voices of a few select physicians. Many articles continueto warn readers about unscientific practices. For example, one article in the San FranciscoChronicle says “take care not to get burned by alternative treatments” (December 9,1996, C1, 2, 8). Hall, the author, goes on to warn that individuals or companies withcommercial interests provide much of our information on alternative medicine. Yet, moremedia sources are covering alternative medicine, especially those praising its benefits.

6. Some physicians are concerned about the legal implications of discussing or prac-ticing CAM. Referring to the latter, Michael Weintraub (1999) concludes that“professional liability law regarding complementary and alternative medicine is still anemerging field that presents medical and legal challenges. A great deal of uncertaintystill exists” (1698).

7. On one extreme there is an acupuncturist who says it is not vital to share holisticideology with patients, because “non-believers are healed.” At the other extreme are thepractitioners who believe it is their responsibility to share the ideology even when clientsare not receptive. Practitioners in the middle of these extremes assess the openness oftheir clients before discussing the ideology behind their work. A chiropractor asks “keyquestions,” such as whether they have tried other alternative techniques, before hediscusses these beliefs.

8. Freeman (1979) adds that the structure of social movement organizations, values,ideologies and expectations about potential targets also influence strategies.

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103

RIVAL TRANSNATIONAL NETWORKSAND INDIGENOUS RIGHTS: THE SAN BLAS KUNA IN PANAMAAND THE YANOMAMI IN BRAZIL

Gregory M. Maney

ABSTRACT

Why do some indigenous rights campaigns succeed while others fail? I

explain the contrasting outcomes of two campaigns in terms of contention

between rival transnational issue networks. Because of its considerable

resources, organizational strength, positive member dynamics, salient

indigenous identity, persuasive framing and effective tactics, the network

supporting the San Blas Kuna in Panama readily took advantage of

emerging political opportunities to secure the creation of a national park.

The park has protected Kunan lands from further encroachments. With

limited resources, weak organizational capacities, paternalistic dynamics,

multiple indigenous identities, a narrow frame and ill-advised tactics, the

network supporting the Yanomami in the Brazilian Amazon struggled in

the face of both a strong, savvy, well-coordinated opposition and a more

slowly opening, often fluctuating structure of political opportunity. The

network tentatively secured an Indian reserve only after a considerable

loss of indigenous lives, environmental destruction and cultural disruption.

The findings underscore the need to account for organized opposition as

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ISBN: 0-7623-0786-2

well as for transnational and local processes when explaining the policy

consequences of indigenous rights movements.

Please do not let this happen. Please do not let our land be reduced. Speak to your authoritiesso that they can speak to the Brazilian government. The situation is very dangerous. Thegovernment and other people know that they can earn a lot of money from the riches butall they want to do is kill. Kill the land, kill the fish, kill the Indians. -– Davi Kopenawa,Yanomami spokesperson quoted in Rafferty (1999, 8).

There is too much land for the Indians, and the devastated economy of the state will makeit inevitable that hungry colonisers will want to move in on the indigenous reserves. – NeldoCampos, Governor of Roraima quoted in Gamini (1998, 1).

INTRODUCTION

With the colonization, cultivation and mineral extraction of rain forests over thelast four decades, an increasing number of indigenous peoples have mobilized todefend their ways of life if not their very lives. The outcomes of their struggleshave varied as exemplified by the two cases presented here. One case, involvingthe San Blas Kuna on the eastern coast of Panama (see Appendix A), entailed afairly swift and effective defense of indigenous land rights, political sovereigntyand cultural identity. In the other case, involving the Yanomami1 in the BrazilianAmazon (see Appendix B), indigenous land rights have received only tenuouslegal recognition. Over the course of three decades of struggle, over a quarter ofthe Yanomami have died. Outsiders have committed massacres and spread dis-eases that have wiped out entire villages. Mercury has polluted once pristinewaters. Noise from mining, roads and airstrips has chased away game dependedupon by the Yanomami for sustenance. Yanomami women have been forced intoprostitution. State agencies, corporations, prospectors and settlers continue toappropriate ever-larger tracts of lands for roads, airstrips, military bases, mining,logging, ranching and farming.

What explains the different fates of the Kuna and the Yanomami? This articleconceptualizes the status of indigenous rights as the product of contentionbetween rival networks of organizations. One network promotes policiessupportive of indigenous rights while its rival seeks to open up indigenous landsfor non-indigenous use. In the two cases examined, the issue network placinghigher levels of pressure upon state actors secured policy changes more in linewith its objectives. The degree of pressure generated by each network dependedupon factors widely recognized as important bases for mobilization: (1) itsresources and organizational capacities; (2) its inter-organizational dynamics;(3) its structure of political opportunity; (4) its collective identities and collectiveaction frames; and (5) its forms of contention.

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104 GREGORY M. MANEY

In both cases, international non-governmental organizations (INGOs) andinternational governmental organizations (IGOs) played key roles in contention.In particular, by manipulating transnational dependencies, external organizationsplaced considerable pressure upon both the Panamanian and Braziliangovernments to alter their policies regarding indigenous land use. The presenceof external allies alone, however, did not guarantee the timely attainment ofindigenous rights objectives. Because the San Blas Kuna possessed considerablymore resources, stronger organizational capacities, a more highly developedcollective identity and more strategic savvy than the Yanomami, their supportnetwork more readily and fully took advantage of emerging politicalopportunities.

The findings suggest that conventional social movements concepts, withrefinements emphasizing oppositional mobilization, can be fruitfully applied toexplain the outcomes of issue contention in cases beyond Europe and NorthAmerica. Moreover, just as increased international trade, finance and invest-ment threaten indigenous sovereignty, they also present opportunities forsuccessful resistance against assimilation and destruction. And while the longtentacles of globalization mandate attention to transnational dimensions ofprotest, the policy outcomes of social movements cannot be fully understoodwithout reference to local factors.

THEORY

Rival Transnational Issue Networks

The distribution of rights and resources within and across societies is theunfolding product of contention between rival transnational issue networks. Idefine rival transnational issue networks as coalitions of non-governmentalorganizations (NGOs) and governmental organizations (GOs) that are based inmore than one society and engage in activities, through some degree of cross-societal communication and exchange, that promote a common explicitobjective on an issue of mutual concern.2 While certainly existing prior to WorldWar II, transnational issue networks have flourished in the post-war era.Networks have formed around a variety of issues, including the status ofindigenous peoples. Research has emphasized the positive contributions ofinternational involvement to campaigns demanding the redistribution of socialrewards and the promotion of human rights within a given society (Keohane& Nye, 1977; Sikkink, 1993; Pagnucco & Atwood, 1994; Risse-Kappen, 1995;Smith, 1995; Brysk, 1996; Coy, 1997; Schulz, 1998). Nonetheless, networks ofinsurgents and their allies do not always achieve their objectives.

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Rival Transnational Networks and Indigenous Rights 105

105

Defining Outcomes

The potential consequences of issue network contention are as numerous anddiffuse as they are difficult to demonstrate. Social movement researchers havenoted the impacts of mobilization upon the identities of participants (McAdam,1989, 1999; Melucci, 1989), political discourses (Coy & Woehrle, 1996), accessto the polity (Gamson, 1975) and government policy (Meyer & Marullo, 1992).For the purposes of this article, I limit my focus to the impact of issue networkcontention upon the issue-specific policies of targeted actors. Issue networksare most successful when they rapidly achieve, at minimal cost to theirparticipants and constituencies, major, lasting and desired changes in the policiesof their targets. Given that this definition contains several dimensions of success(the rapidity of change, the cost of change, the scope of change, the permanenceof change and the direction of change), success should be viewed as contin-uous rather than discrete. For example, an issue network achieving minor policychanges after years of contestation during which its members incur significantcosts is better regarded as moderately successful than as a complete failure.3

Factors in the Outcome of Issue Contention

Traditionally, researchers have focused upon social movements – theircharacteristics and the structures of political opportunity facing them – whenexplaining the political outcomes of mobilization (e.g. Gamson, 1975; Tarrow,1994). However, demands for state policies to protect or augment the rightsand resources of a specific social grouping generally encounter substantialresistance from a range of state agencies and private organizations favoringeither the status quo or policies with opposite distributive effects (Meyer &Staggenborg, 1996). Policy formation, therefore, entails a process of contentionbetween two networks of organizations with competing agendas. As a result,the characteristics, structures of opportunity and activities of both issue networksfigure significantly in the ability of either to achieve its policy objectives.

More specifically, the degree to which rival transnational issue networks attaintheir contrasting objectives depends primarily upon the relative levels ofpressure they place upon a target (e.g. a state agency or multinationalcorporation) as well as upon each other.4 I define pressure as the extent towhich an action promotes or jeopardizes a goal highly valued by the target.For instance, state officials often value a positive institutional public image (i.e.legitimacy) and public order (i.e. stability). When the actions of an issue networkthreaten to diminish or actually diminish the level of attainment of these values,they generate significant pressure for change.

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Figure 1 provides a hypothetical scenario of contention between rival trans-national networks mobilized around the use of lands inhabited by indigenouspeoples. As is often the case, the rival networks target a complex institutionalactor such as a state. In Fig. 1, one agency in the targeted state supports thepolicy demand of the indigenous rights network (e.g. advocates outlawinglogging on lands inhabited by indigenous peoples). Because of conflictingorganizational imperatives or contrasting ideologies, another agency, however,opposes the demand. Still another agency partly responsible for formulating orimplementing related policies has yet to take a position on the issue.

In cases where a target is divided, neutral, or receptive, the issue networkthat places greater pressure upon the target as a whole will be more likely toobtain an outcome in line with its objectives. Thus when an indigenous rightsnetwork either jeopardizes or promotes, to a greater extent than its rival, goalsvalued more highly than those advanced by blocking the policy changes sought(e.g. legitimacy and stability), the target will make concessions to indigenous

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Fig. 1. The Status of Indigenous Rights as the Product of Rival Network Contention.

demands. On the other hand, if the developmental network endangers orfacilitates, to a greater extent than its rival, the attainment of goals more highlyvalued by the target than goals advanced by granting indigenous demands, thenconcessions to developmental demands will be forthcoming. Lastly, in caseswhere neither network can jeopardize or promote goals more highly valued bythe target than their issue-specific agendas, a stalemate ensues.

Drawing upon the insights of resource mobilization, political process andnew social movement theories, the framework identifies five sets of factors thatcontribute to the ability of issue networks to generate pressure: (1) resourcesand organizational capacities; (2) inter-organizational dynamics; (3) structuresof political opportunity; (4) collective identities and collective action frames;and (5) forms of contention. I now review the theoretical and empirical basisfor the selection of these factors as sources of pressure, highlighting the needto account for the dyadic and dynamic nature of issue contention.

Resources and Organizational Capacities

Resource mobilization theorists have long asserted the importance of resourcesto the origins of social movements (Oberschall, 1973; McCarthy & Zald, 1977;Jenkins, 1983). Recruitment and logistics for collective action require substantialamounts of time, money and skilled effort. Several different types of resourcesare utilized such as financial, technological, information and human resources.The logic of resource mobilization also helps to explain the outcomes of issuecontention. The levels and types of resources possessed not only by a network,but also by its rival are significant. By mobilizing more widely and intensivelyfor longer periods of time, the rival transnational issue network that moreeffectively allocates higher levels of resources to pursuing an objective willgenerate greater pressure on behalf of its demands.5 Given the tendency ofindigenous peoples to comprise “the poorest of the poor” (Brysk & Wise, 199,77), non-indigenous organizations can serve as important sources of resourcesin the pursuit of indigenous rights (see also Yashar, 1997).

In addition, resource mobilization studies emphasize how organizationalfactors shape the scope, intensity, duration and form of mobilization. High levelsof pre-existing organization allow for effective planning and the marshaling ofresources (Jenkins & Perrow, 1977; Morris, 1984; Rupp & Taylor, 1987). Anissue network with strong organizational capacities, therefore, can readily engagein activities that jeopardize or promote a target’s highly valued goals. Conversely,a sparse organizational field characterized by groups lacking establishedoperating procedures, membership communication and committed staffs withclearly defined roles limits the ability of a network to conduct widespread, inten-sive mobilization. Recent indigenous rights campaigns have experienced greater

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success in countries with historically strong indigenous organizational fields suchas Bolivia and Columbia than in countries with weak fields such as Peru (Brysk& Wise, 1997; Van Cott, 2000). As with resources, the organizational capacitiesof the rival issue network also need to be considered. In Bolivia, for instance,the weakness of the national judiciary has minimized external interference in thelocal administration of justice in indigenous areas (Van Cott, 2000).

Inter-Organizational Dynamics

The combined resources and capacities of organizations comprising rivaltransnational networks tell only part of the story. Organizations within an issuenetwork can greatly enhance their individual and collective capacities byexchanging resources, coordinating collective action and creating politicalopportunities for one another. Conversely, a network can languish or even self-destruct when its members refuse to share resources, link efforts, or exerciseinfluence on one another’s behalf (McCarthy & Zald, 1977). Often organizationsin divided issue networks devote more time to competing with one another thanto pressuring a common target. A transnational issue network with positivedynamics will engage in higher levels of cooperation to jeopardize or promotea target’s highly valued goals than a rival beset with internal differences.

What promotes positive dynamics in issue networks? Most research on thetopic has emphasized network density. Dense networks have frequent andbalanced interaction between participating organizations. Such interactiongenerates the trust, common collective identity and commitment necessary forsustained cooperation (Powell, 1990; Carley, 1991; Smith, 1995; Keck &Sikkink, 1998). It follows that organizations with weak, unbalanced ties operateless effectively than organizations with strong, balanced ties (Maney, 2000).

In addition, relationships of dependency and power within an issue networkgreatly affect the level and utilization of its capacities. Dependency is defined hereas a characteristic of a social relationship where the attainment of a highly desiredgoal requires, or is perceived to require, the help or consent of a specific and limited set of others.6 The possession of considerable resources, capacities andinstitutional access by external, non-indigenous organizations make their pres-ence indispensable to the achievement of indigenous goals. Brysk (1996, 56) notesthe potentially problematic consequences of these asymmetrical relationships:

As governments, funders, and international organizations increasingly turn to indigenistorganizations and other international allies instead of Indians themselves, the international-ization of Indian rights becomes fraught with the potential for a new, postmodern form ofdependency.

The power of resulting from dependency encourages unilateral decision making,since weaker participants are seen as having little to contribute and fear risking

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the departure of their more influential allies by advocating alternative coursesof action. As a result, issue networks with skewed distributions of dependencyoften fail to fully utilize their collective resources. Vital information and creativeideas possessed by marginalized organizations often go unnoticed or unheeded.Opportunities to strengthen other members and the network as a whole aremissed. Conversely, networks characterized by interdependence – where thepresence of each member is perceived as being indispensable to the attainmentof a common objective – are more likely to exhibit higher levels of cooperation(Powell, 1990). Brysk (1996), for instance, finds that transnational networksmaking concerted efforts to draw upon indigenous groups’ local knowledgehave more successfully opposed multilateral development bank policies.

Structures of Political Opportunity

More resources, higher levels of organization and positive inter-organizationaldynamics do not guarantee that an issue network will achieve its policy objectives.The broader political context must also be considered. Tarrow (1994,171) writes:

Success is the outcome of a parallelogram of forces from which even a weak challengermay emerge in a better position than a strong one when the former is well placed to takeadvantage of political opportunities. The political process is not quite a lottery, but it activelyintervenes between the resources and goals of a movement and its success or failure.

Political process theory examines structures of political opportunity – thevulnerability or receptivity of elites to challenges from those excluded from thepolity (Eisinger, 1973; Tilly, 1978). Political opportunities spark mobilizationby reducing the anticipated costs of participation while increasing its expectedbenefits.

While political process theorists have used precipitous shifts in structures ofpolitical opportunity to explain the origins of social movements, the conceptcan also be logically extended to explain their outcomes (Kriesi et al., 1995).Political opportunities serve as pressure points for issue networks. Openings inan exclusive political system, unstable political alignments, factionalism anddiminished repressive capacities make it difficult for elites to ignore or suppressthreats to economic growth, social stability and retaining political power. Atthe same time, these conditions encourage some elites to forge alliances withissue networks in the hopes of achieving objectives similar to those being threat-ened. In Columbia, threats posed by guerillas and drug-traffickers in peripheralareas along with a decline in regime legitimacy made the state more receptiveto indigenous rights demands (Van Cott, 1996).

Two adjustments to the concept of political opportunity structures increaseits usefulness in explaining the outcome of contention between rivaltransnational issue networks. First, rival issue networks face distinct structures

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of political opportunity. Networks challenging the status quo benefit frominstitutional openings, splits and shifting coalitions among elites and thepresence of influential allies and support groups (Tarrow, 1994). Similarly, fora network opposing such a challenge, factionalism within the challengernetwork, the emergence of influential allies and support groups and a declinein public sympathy for the insurgents constitute important political opportuni-ties. With this adjustment in hand, it is claimed that the transnational issuenetwork with the more advantageous constellation of political opportunities overthe course of contention will be more likely to secure its policy objectives.

Second, structures of political opportunity must be situated within a trans-national context. Outcomes of movements have been seen as the product of“the structural political setting of a given country” (Kriesi et al., 1995, 213).Yet national-level political opportunities partly depend upon transnationalpatterns of political and economic interaction (Maney, 2001). Shifts in thesepatterns can create or expose the vulnerabilities of targets. For instance, insta-bility in political alignments resulting from the international debt crisis of the1980s encouraged the Bolivian government to forge alliances with indigenous peoples (Brysk & Wise, 1997).7 Moreover, as shall be seen below, by increasing transnational dependencies, globalization processes have created importantopportunities to bring external pressure to bear upon targeted states (Van Cott,1996; Smith et al., 1997; Keck & Sikkink, 1998).

Intersecting Dependencies

Intersecting dependencies occur among three or more actors. In the scenariodepicted by Fig. 2, Actor Z’s dependency upon Actor Y intersects with Actor Y’sdependency upon Actor X. By manipulating this intersection of dependencies,Actor X can indirectly exert power over Actor Z. Unless Actor X demands thatActor Z provide something more valuable than what Actor Y provides to Actor Z,Actor Z will, if acting rationally, concede to Actor X’s demands.

There exist numerous forms of economic and political dependency of ThirdWorld states on multinational corporations, international private banks, the statesof advanced industrialized countries and multilateral lending agencies (e.g.Boswell & Dixon, 1990; Jenkins & Schock, 1992). Economic dependenciesinclude heavy, concentrated reliance upon externally provided markets, loans,investment, advanced technologies, marketing and distribution and intermediatecapital inputs. Political dependencies include reliance upon other states formilitary capacities, food and other forms of ‘humanitarian’ aid. When externalactors upon whom Third World states depend are vulnerable to pressure byNGOs, a condition of intersecting dependencies exists. The utilization of thesepressure points improves the chances that an indigenous rights network will

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win concessions if not its primary demands in their entirety. Considerableevidence points towards the importance of intersecting dependencies to theoutcome of issue contention.8 For instance, networks supporting indigenousrights, rubber tappers and peoples threatened by hydro-electric dam projectshave successfully pressured the World Bank to suspend loans to the Braziliangovernment (Conklin & Graham, 1995; Rothman & Oliver, 1999).

Collective Identities and Collective Action Frames

While largely overlooked by scholars until the 1980s, cultural factors such ascollective identities and collective action frames significantly affect participationin social movements.9 These factors also affect the ability of issue networks toplace pressure upon their targets. A strong sense of shared fate promoteswillingness among organizations to cooperate and make sacrifices on behalf ofcommon objectives (Melucci, 1989; Gamson, 1992). Moreover, widely anddeeply revered collective identities can elicit greater public sympathy for thenetwork’s members and their cause (e.g. Navarro, 1989; Escobar & Alvarez,1992). An issue network characterized by highly developed and integratedcollective identities with broad public appeal will be more successful atachieving its policy demands than a comparably positioned issue network withmultiple and fragmented identities formed in direct opposition to the target.10

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Fig. 2. Intersecting Dependencies: Conceptual Diagram.

Like collective identities, collective action frames that resonate with widelyand deeply held beliefs increase participation in an issue network and, therefore,levels of resources and organizational capacities at its disposal (Snow &Benford, 1992).11 Moreover, resonant frames generate considerable symbolicpressure upon targeted actors. Failure to grant the “reasonable demands” of thenetwork framing the issue raises concerns about hypocrisy and immorality inthe minds of the general public and the target. By jeopardizing personalidentities and by challenging social norms, opposition to demands linked towidely and deeply resonating frames carries significant costs. The issue networkdeploying collective action frames that more deeply resonate with the targetand the general public will be more likely to experience success than will itsrival. For example, by linking indigenous rights to tolerance, reconciliation andparticipatory democracy, indigenous delegates elected to Columbia’s NationalConstitutional Assembly garnered sympathetic media coverage and a positiveresponse from President Gaviria (Van Cott, 1996). Both developments greatlyassisted the delegates in pursuing their proposals.

The adoption of collective action frames by issue networks generally requiresextensive discussions among its members; discussions underpinned by strategic,identity and ideological considerations (Coy & Woehrle, 1996; Van Cott, 2000).Over time, networks often change frames, adjusting to shifting politicalcircumstances (Rothman & Oliver, 1999). In recent years, frames linkingindigenous and ecological concerns have garnered international sympathy andconcerted action on behalf of the goals of indigenous rights networks (Conklin& Graham, 1995).12 Although ‘indigenous ecology’ frames appeal to a Westernaudience, indigenous organizations generally play active roles in theirconstruction (Brosius, 1997).

Developmental networks opposing indigenous rights demands also deploy avariety of collective action frames in the pursuit of their agendas. These networksuse different types of frames depending upon whether the goal is to mobilizedomestic support or to diffuse international support for their rivals. Frameslinking nationalist and modernization discourses appeal to large segments ofpublic opinion in peripheral and semiperipheral countries.13 To the extent that anindigenous ecology frame secures international intervention, it heightens thesalience of accusations that foreign states wish to block the development of thecountry in question or to exploit its resources for their own benefit (Conklin &Graham, 1995). In this way, indigenous ecology frames generate sources of pres-sure not only for the indigenous rights network, but also for its rival. Nationaldevelopment frames, on the other hand, produce domestic support while increas-ing international opposition. Recognizing this, strategically savvy developmen-tal networks have altered their rhetoric in international forums. By adopting the

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terminology of the indigenous-ecology frame, developmental networks steal thethunder of their rivals by appearing to share their concerns. Frame co-optationcan create confusion among the general public while lessening a sense of urgencyamong members of indigenous rights networks.

Forms of Contention

Tactical interplay between rival networks and their targets over time cancritically affect the relative ability of the rival networks to mount pressure. AsFig. 1 suggests, tactics can increase participation in one issue network whiletriggering exits and defections from another. These changes, in turn, significantlyaffect other sources of pressure and, therefore, the extent and direction of policychanges. By deploying forms of contention that augment sources of pressure,an issue network increases the likelihood of achieving its goals. In a comparativestudy of three indigenous rights campaigns in Taiwan, Chi (1998) found thatmajor differences in the media and organizational strategies of the campaignsas well as government responses to these strategies resulted in contrasting levelsof success. Once again, the tactical efficacy of not only the indigenous rightsnetwork, but also its organized opponents and targets must be considered.

While violence or threats of violence by indigenous peoples may produceconcessions, such acts may also provide excuses for an escalation of violence byopponents who often possess greater coercive capacities. The stereotype of thefierce savage is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, the stereotype can lendcredibility to threats of violence by indigenous groups. An emphasis upon conflictand sensation by the media also ensures coverage of protests staged by indigenousparticipants wearing body paint and carrying weapons (Turner, 1992). On theother hand, the stereotype can encourage violence against indigenous peoples bydehumanizing them and raising fears among the non-indigenous population.

Targeted states (particularly those dominated by agencies opposingindigenous rights demands) frequently engage in repression against indigenousrights network members in efforts to reduce the pressure placed upon them.For instance, after international media coverage waned, Mexican federal troopsintensified their activities against the Zapatistas (Nash, 1997). Targeted stateshave also engaged in Trojan horse tactics where apparent concessions toindigenous rights demands actually serve to undermine indigenous rights. Inthe early 1990s, the Colombian government responded to pressure by creatingIndigenous Territorial Entities (ETIs) out of the Vaupes resguardo – a vastexpanse of land inhabited by indigenous peoples. The government controlledthe form, function and personnel of the new political administrative units. Ratherthan providing autonomy, the ITEs undermined indigenous politicalindependence (Jackson, 1996).

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METHOD

Case Selection and Overview

I selected the cases of the San Blas Kuna and the Yanomami on the basis of bothkey similarities and differences. In terms of commonalities, both indigenousrights campaigns explicitly sought the creation of national parks that would rec-ognize and protect territories traditionally inhabited by indigenous peoples. Thesecommon policy demands make it easier to compare the outcomes of the cases.14

Both cases also involved organized contention. Opposition came from groupsadvocating the use of indigenous lands for resource extraction and settlementsof non-indigenous peoples. As the institutional actor with authority over indige-nous lands, national states were targeted for pressure by the indigenous rightsand developmental networks. Both the Panamanian and Brazilian states had mil-itary agencies with modernizing or developmental ideologies. The readily iden-tifiable presence in both cases of organized opponents and targets facilitates theapplication of the rival transnational issue network framework.

The cases also have important differences that make their comparison useful.The San Blas Kuna and their allies secured the establishment of a National Parkmore readily, more decisively and at a lesser cost to the indigenous populationthan their Yanomami counterparts. Variations in all the hypothesized determi-nants of pressure (resources and organizational capacities, inter-organizationaldynamics, etc.) enable a full assessment of the ability of the rival transnationalissue network framework to explain these contrasting policy outcomes. Otherpotentially significant differences include geographic location, natural resourcesand state capacities. Comparative historical studies have identified these factorsas relevant to macro-level economic and political transformations (e.g. Stepan,1985; O’Donnell & Schmitter, 1986). The article explores whether these factorsare also helpful in understanding the status of indigenous peoples. The cases alsodiffer in terms of the levels of indigenous contact with the outside world. TheKuna have interacted with outsiders more extensively than the Yanomami. Thisdifference allows me to address whether external interaction invariably facilitatesthe assimilation or annihilation of indigenous peoples or, under certain circum-stances, impedes either process.

Data: Sources and Uses

Drawing from anthropological, activist and newspaper sources, I created twofiles on organizations involved in issue contention as well as detailed historicalchronologies. The organizational files provide details on the specific groups

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involved, their resources, their organizational capacities and the inter-organizational dynamics prevailing within the respective issue networks. Thehistorical chronologies served two purposes. Lists of events during the periodsof contention assisted in the identification of the temporal relationship between the emergence of political opportunities and issue-specific policies in the two cases. In addition, longer historical overviews of the Kuna andYanomami enabled an assessment of their prior interactions with external actors.

Insufficient data existed to always make intra-case comparisons between therival transnational issue networks. In certain instances, therefore, I have reliedupon comparisons across cases to examine hypothesized sources of pressure.For example, evidence that the less successful indigenous rights network (i.e.the Yanomami network) had fewer resources and organizational capacities thanits more successful counterpart (i.e. the Kuna network) provides a degree ofsupport for the importance of resources and organizational capacities as sourcesof pressure. Nonetheless, the Kuna rights network could have faced adevelopmental network with greater resources than its own. Additional evidencethat the Brazilian developmental network possessed greater resources andorganizational capacities than its Panamanian counterpart, therefore, providesgreater assurance that these factors are, in fact, relevant to the policy outcomesof contention over indigenous lands.

Difficulty in defending causal claims and non-spuriousness has impededresearch on the outcomes of social movements (Earl, 2000). That neither thePanamanian or Brazilian states had plans to create Kuna or Yanomami reservesprior to the formation of issue networks demanding and obtaining their creation(albeit belatedly and precariously in the Yanomami case) provides prima facie

evidence of the efficacy of indigenous rights mobilization. Nonetheless, I addressthe challenge of establishing causality in three ways. First, where possible, Idescribe how hypothesized sources of pressure directly or indirectly affectedissue-specific policy-making. Second, for each hypothesized source of pressure,I show that variations between the two cases coincided in expected ways withcontrasting policy outcomes. Third, I document how changes in certain hypoth-esized sources of pressure such as shifts in structures of political opportunityimmediately preceded or coincided with policy changes.

RESULTS

Factors in the Outcome of Issue Contention

A comparative historical analysis of the contrasting outcomes of contention over San Blas Kuna and Yanomami lands supports the significance of each

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expected source of pressure identified above. I now consider each source in turn.

Resources and Organizational Capacities

There existed a far greater gap between the resources and organizationalcapacities of the rival issue networks contending Yanomami lands than in theKuna case. This wider disparity contributed to the longer period of time it took theYanomami rights network to effectively secure its demands for a National Park.

Comparing the strengths of the issue networks across cases makes the sourcesof these disparities clearer. For three reasons, the developmental network in thePanamanian case possessed fewer resources and organizational capacities thanits Brazilian counterpart. First, the non-arability of land on the frontier of theKuna’s territory combined with a lack of valuable mineral deposits minimizedcorporate, prospector and settler involvement in the Panamanian developmentalnetwork. External support came primarily from the U.S. Armed Forces and, fora time, from two U.S. bilateral lending agencies (see Appendix C). Theseorganizations assisted the Panamanian government in building highways thatencroached upon indigenous lands.

In contrast, U.S. government-aided mineral exploration in the mid-1970s ledto the discovery of uranium, gold, titanium and other valuable minerals onYanomami lands. Along with state incentives for inward foreign directinvestment, these discoveries contributed to multinational corporationsparticipating in the developmental network. News of gold also led to thousandsof landless peasants and urban poor rushing on to Yanomami lands. Despitetheir occasional expulsion by federal police, by the late 1980s, gold seekers,known as garimpeiros, outnumbered the Brazilian Yanomami by four to one.Along with timber merchants they became the dominant political force in theState of Roraima where the Yanomami’s territory is mainly located.

Second, whereas no nation states bordered the San Blas rainforest, six straddlethe Brazilian Amazon. The vastly larger size of the Amazon has resulted in thearea serving as a safe-haven for guerillas and drug traffickers. Yanomami terri-tory, therefore, presents greater strategic concerns for Brazilian military agenciesthan Kuna territory does for their Panamanian counterparts.

Third, not only did the Panamanian state have less at stake, it could do less toachieve its agenda. Whereas the military coup in Panama in 1968 only began toestablish modern bureaucratic administrative capacities, the Brazilian state hadalready established a highly developed administration. Stronger state capacitiesmade the attainment of legal recognition of Yanomami land rights more difficult.

While the Brazilian developmental network was stronger than its Panamaniancounterpart, the opposite situation prevailed with the indigenous rights networks.

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While both networks received considerable support from external NGOs,significant disparities existed in the resources and levels of organizationpossessed by the two indigenous peoples. The finding underscores that, evenin an era of globalization, local factors still critically affect the status ofindigenous peoples. The San Blas Kuna rank among the wealthiest and best-organized indigenous peoples in the Americas (Helms, 1988; Langebaek,1991). Revenues from molas (traditional women’s dress), tourism and savingsfrom migrant Kunans working in the Canal Zone provide the Kuna with steadyand sizable sources of income. By largely retaining control over ownership,marketing and distribution, a significant percentage of the wealth accruing fromthe production and exchange of goods and services remains in Kunan hands(Stephen, 1991). Moreover, a large part of these revenues goes towards fundingcommunity institutions. The Kuna’s self-managed production and affluencerelative to other indigenous peoples reflects centuries of prosperous interna-tional and regional trade and successful resistance to colonization. As a resultof their substantial financial resources, the Kuna put up $150,000 of their ownmoney in 1983 to help finance the Udirbi National Park (Chapin, 1985).

In addition, due to a longstanding tradition of educating tribal elites in PanamaCity and abroad, the Kuna have a large professional class providing information,technical and legal assistance for dealings with outsiders (Breslin & Chapin,1988). For example, in the course of airplane rides to and from Panama Cityduring the early 1970s, Kuna passengers noticed the advancement ofdeforestation towards their territory as a result of the slash and burn agricultureof land-starved peasants and cattle ranchers. Also aware of government plansto build a road from El Lano to San Blas, the Kuna developed a strategy tobuild a buffer at the point on the perimeter of their territory where the impendingland invasion would most likely begin.

The Kuna also possess strong organizational capacities. There existlongstanding, sophisticated and representative forms of political organization aswell as extensive and enduring informal social networks between villages. Onthe village level, regular night-time gatherings of village leaders, elders andactivists allow for community-wide discussions on matters of common concernas well as for the planning of village-wide events. Through rituals, chants andstorytelling, the gatherings also provide shared cultural experiences that solidifycollective identity (Howe, 1986). In times of crisis, the gathering unifies thecommunity in the face of external threats (Chapin, 1985). Secretaries keepattendance lists to ensure participation.

On a territory-wide basis, the General Congress serves a function similar tothe gathering – communication, coordination and solidarity. The Congress islegally recognized by the Panamanian state as the government for the Kuna

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reservation. The Congress consists of the three caciques or leaders from everyvillage across the reserve. The caciques – who most often serve as the Kuna’srepresentatives in negotiations with the Panamanian government – are heldstrictly accountable to the Congress and its wishes. The Congress invitesrepresentatives from Panamanian state agencies and allied organizations toreceive and offer information regarding Kunan needs and concerns. Bygenerating consensus among village leaders on goals and strategies, the Congressensures that the Kuna are united and prepared for challenges that arise.15

In contrast, the Yanomami lack the resources and organizational capacitiespossessed by the Kuna. Even in recent years, the Yanomami have yet tocollectively hold moneys for financing their activities. No professional classexperienced with the Brazilian political and legal system exists. With limitedinformation regarding events outside their own territory, the Yanomami wereunprepared to take advantage of political opportunities initially presentingthemselves. Since 1984, however, participation in the Union of IndigenousNation’s (UNI) regional conference in Roraima has encouraged a strategicdisposition through examples offered by more experienced delegates (Fuerst,1985).

In terms of organizational capacities, despite decades of attempts to create arepresentative political body, the Yanomami have little comparable to thegathering or the Kuna General Congress. No formal governmental structureexists either at or beyond the village level (Salamone, 1997). At the villagelevel, decisions are mostly made by consensus, with the village leader informallyconsulting the rest of the adult villagers. Stable political authority is theexception rather than the norm. Political power derives principally, though byno means exclusively, from paternal lineage – with large, long-standing familiesholding considerable influence (Ramos, 1995). Because of the tendency forYanomami kin to dissipate, the size and influence of different families withina community fluctuates rapidly. Without a formal process of succession, thedeath of a village leader can precipitate a power struggle that leads to largenumbers of residents departing, either to start their own villages or to join othervillages already in existence (Ramos, 1995).

At the inter-village level, feasts involving villages with trade and marital tiesprovide opportunities for collective decision making. Frequent shifts in thealliances and conflicts between villages as well as uncoordinated patterns ofmigration, however, have prevented the formation of stable, durable inter-villagenetworks that could serve as a solid foundation for a pan-Yanomamirepresentative body.16 Commercial activities on Yanomami lands haveintroduced further obstacles to political unity. Before the development onslaughtin the 1960s and 1970s, trails and streams served as “conveyor belts carrying

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the social impulses that keep alive the great chain of relationships betweencommunities and render isolation and atomization of the local groups virtuallyimpossible” (Ramos, 1991, 15). Mining quarries, airstrips and clearings havethrown several wrenches into these conveyor belts, impeding cross-villagecommunication and mobilization. Moreover, non-indigenous individuals andorganizations have waged massacres, armed one village against another andintroduced diseases. By wiping out entire communities, these activities havefurther destabilized the inter-village political system (Ferguson, 1995a). Withminimal resources or organizational capacities, the Yanomami have respondedto threats to their well being mainly on the village level and in an ad hocmanner. Interaction with external political elites has required extensivefacilitation by non-indigenous organizations. As will be seen in the next section,this reliance upon outsiders has limited the ability of the network to defend therights of the Yanomami.

Inter-Organizational Dynamics

High levels of cooperation among its members helped the Kuna rights networkto place significant pressure upon the Panamanian government to create anational park. In the case of the Yanomami, however, an internally dividedindigenous rights network along with a well-coordinated opposition meant that,in many instances, the developmental network generated greater pressure uponBrazilian state agencies. Comparisons of the two indigenous rights networks aswell as of the rival networks in the Brazilian case reveal the reasons for thesecontrasting dynamics. Indigenous and non-indigenous members of the Kunarights network regularly interacted with one another. The very idea of the UdirbiNational Park resulted from consultations between members of the Kuna agri-cultural colony at Udirbi, representatives from the Kuna General Congress anda NGO based in Costa Rica, the Center for the Teaching and Investigation ofTropical Agriculture (Chapin, 1985). CATIE worked intensively with the Kunato create a grant proposal for the park. The Kuna’s insistence upon technicaltraining translated into daily contact among network members. Along withCATIE, the Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute and the Human EcologyCenter trained the Kuna to manage the wildlife reserve. The groups maintaina permanent presence in the park.

In contrast, external allies had less frequent and balanced contact with theYanomami, leading to lower levels of cooperation. Both in 1976 and 1987, theBrazilian government forbade foreign researchers, missionaries and medicalpersonnel from entering Yanomami territory. Imposed by a military-dominatedNational Indian Foundation (FUNAI), the 1987 ban lasted until late 1990 whenpressure from the United Nations and Organization of American States resulted

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in its lifting (Ramos, 1995). While aimed at preventing INGOs from generatingnegative international publicity, the ban also largely severed communicationbetween the Yanomami and their allies. In so doing, the development factionwithin the Brazilian state alleviated pressure placed upon it by the Yanomamirights network.

Unlike the Yanomami network, high levels of contact and cooperation havecharacterized the Brazilian developmental network. State owned miningcompanies, foreign capital and local capital all participate in joint miningventures (Davis, 1977). Allied Amazonian governors and members of FederalCongress frequently meet with the garimpeiros union that they depend uponfor political support. The common pursuit of wealth may also facilitatecooperation. Allegedly, the military police and FUNAI staff regularly receivebribes from garimpeiros (Ramos, 1995).

Through high levels of cooperation, the developmental network has postponeda resolution of the land dispute favorable to the Yanomami. In late 1989, decid-ing upon a case brought before it by international and national NGOs, a BrazilianFederal Court Judge ordered the removal of 42,000 garimpeiros from Yanomamiterritory. In an effort to shift blame for the plight of the Yanomami, the minersalong with airplane owners and merchants brought sick Indians to hospitals anda FUNAI hostel in Boa Vista, Roraima. At the same time, 10,000 protested thecourt’s decision and called upon the President to reverse it. The Governor ofRoraima, Members of Congress and military officials expressed support for thedemonstrators. The Minister of Justice responded to these activities by agreeingnot to enforce the court order if the garimpeiros voluntarily refrained from usingmercury in the river and possessing firearms (Allen, 1992). Before steppingdown, the military-backed President issued three decrees allowing garimpeiros

to occupy 9.5 million hectares of indigenous lands (Ramos, 1995). Frequent andbalanced interaction within the developmental network enabled a rapid, coordi-nated and effective series of responses to a judicial setback.

In addition to the frequency of inter-organizational contact, another importantnetwork characteristic proved to be the direction of influence within theindigenous rights networks. In the Kuna case, external allies only provided helpspecifically requested by the Kuna General Congress. The Congress sought exter-nal help with an eye towards making it unnecessary in the future. With referenceto the creation of Udirbi Park, Chapin (1985, 48) states of the Kuna: “while theyfully realize that much of the technological assistance must be imported, they have no intention of allowing outsiders to dominate theproject.” In fact, every phase of design and implementation involved Kunanrepresentatives. Unwanted “development aid” was firmly rejected. Plans by thePanamanian Tourist Institute to build a luxury tourist hotel on the reserve met

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with the threat of violence against anyone conducting a feasibility study. MostKuna bristle at even the thought of paternalism.17 As a result of the partnershipthat emerged between the Kuna and their allies, the network not only made effi-cient use of the resources and expertise of all actors involved, but also strength-ened itself by increasing the technical and administrative skills of the Kuna.

The same, however, cannot be said for the Yanomami rights network. Withminimal indigenous resources or organizational capacities available to mobilizeresistance to grave threats to the Yanomami starting in the mid-1960s, both inter-national and Brazilian organizations felt compelled to act as guardians. Whilethe impetus is understandable, such stewardship has reinforced relationships ofdependency within the network. In 1992, a founding member of the Commissionfor the Creation of the Yanomami Park, Claudia Andujar, noted:

. . . the Yanomami will have to understand their constitutional rights and learn to negotiatewith the outside world, but for this they need time” (quoted in Aparicio, 1992, 29). TheYanomami have yet to meaningfully participate in the implementation, let alone the design,of campaigns on their behalf.18

This lopsided dynamic has negatively affected the defense of Yanomami landsin three ways. First, allies have committed tactical errors that could have beenavoided with greater indigenous involvement. Upon issuing its call for thecreation of a National Park, the CCPY underestimated the size of the territorytraditionally utilized by the Yanomami (Aparicio, 1992). It took until 1985before a joint study with FUNAI corrected the error. Indigenous participationin demarcation probably would have prevented under-estimation while providingan opportunity to link the Yanomami together on a territory-wide basis.

Second, the absence of representative political bodies among the Yamomamihas called into question the credibility of Yanomami spokespersons and,therefore, the indigenous rights network as a whole. Even some allies havesuggested that non-indigenous NGOs have scripted the statements of high profileindigenous leaders such as Davi Kopenawa (Salamone, 1997). Furthermore,while Davi Kopenawa links protection of Yanomami land rights and culturewith environmental protection and sustainable development, a VenezuelanYanomami spokesperson has advocated mining concessions on tribal lands.Whether these individuals are pawns of NGOs or garimpeiros unions remainsin dispute. Some Yanomami have forcibly resisted gold miners while othershave begun to engage in mining themselves (Ramos, 1995). What is certain isthat, in the absence of formal indigenous political institutions, the appearanceof manipulation has undermined the legitimacy of the Yanomami rights networkboth within Brazil and beyond its borders.

Third, whereas INGOs working with the Kuna generally cooperated with oneanother, an absence of a comparably organized Yanomami political leadership

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has resulted in external allies spending considerable time, money and effortattempting to discredit one another. Differences of opinion have emergedregarding who speaks on behalf of the Yanomami and what is in their bestinterest. Salamone (1997, 7) writes:

Clashes with outsiders have led to noisy arguments within anthropology in particular andin development circles in general regarding the best ways in which to safeguard theYanomami. At times, it appeared that the interests or desires of the Yanomami themselveswere being overlooked as one faction or another attacked the position of their opponents.Each faction purported to speak for the Yanomami.

Feuding between anthropologists and missionaries has prevented the networkfrom taking full advantage of important opportunities to strengthen Yanomamirights. For instance, the massacre of over a dozen Yanomami villagers byBrazilian garimpeiros received extensive international media coverage. The mas-sacre occurred in 1993 – the United Nations Year of Indigenous Rights. As such,it presented an excellent chance to pressure the Brazilian government to expel theminers from Yanomami lands by appealing to international public opinon. Twopresidential commissions were appointed to investigate the incident. AnAmerican anthropologist, Napolean Chagnon, headed one commission while aBishop affiliated with Salesian missionaries headed the other. While bothChagnon and the Salesians had actively worked to promote the rights of theYanomami, a turf-war ensued. The Bishop’s commission allegedly secured anorder to expel Chagnon from the area under their investigation. Chagnonresponded by writing an editorial in the New York Times accusing the Salesians ofcontributing to Yanomami starvation, disease, warfare and cultural assimilation.Soon, the war of words escalated. The Salesians mailed and distributed materialscritical of Chagnon’s research to members of the American AnthropologicalAssociation. Without the Yanomami possessing the resources, organization andexperience necessary to designate specific roles for external allies, disputesbetween their allies have depleted the network’s resources, reduced levels of inter-organizational cooperation and resulted in missed opportunities for advancing acommon cause.19 As a result, a coordinated, united rival has been able to block andeven reverse policy changes favoring the Yanomami.

Structures of Political Opportunity

In both cases, indigenous rights victories followed shifts in political opportunitiesfavoring the indigenous rights network. In the early stages of mobilization duringthe mid-1970s, the Kuna rights network faced a largely closed structure ofpolitical opportunities. With the coup d’etat in 1968, the Panamanian politicalsystem became even more exclusive. Other events favored the developmentalnetwork. A new constitution enacted in 1972 eliminated legal protection of the

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Kuna’s political and economic autonomy. Whereas previous laws prohibited theownership of Kunan lands by non-Kunans, the new constitution guaranteed onlyto reserve for indigenous peoples land that the Panamanian government felt wasnecessary for their well being (Wali, 1984). The state had closed off previouslyavailable legal avenues for defending Kuna tenure.

By the early 1980s, however, things shifted decisively in favor of the Kunarights network. In the late 1970s, the Kuna gained seats in the PanamanianNational Assembly. The representation offered a high profile public forum forairing grievances as well as a chance to forge alliances with Panamanian politicalelites. In 1981 General Omar Torrijos stepped down as President, leading tosquabbles among officers competing for higher positions in the new regime. Bymaking it more difficult to ignore or suppress the activities of the Kuna rightsnetwork, these developments increased the pressure upon the state to grant thenational park demanded.

A similar reversal of fortunes took place in the struggle over Yanomamilands, only over a far longer period of time. Initially, political conditions favoredthe developmental network. Upon overthrowing a democratically elected leftistgovernment in 1964, the Brazilian military under the leadership of President(General) Castello Branco immediately launched a campaign to exploit the vastnatural resources of the Amazon. Both internal and external elites united aroundthe goal of ‘developing’ the Amazon.

By the mid-1980s, however, things shifted dramatically in favor of theYanomami rights networks. The democracy movement in Brazil took advantageof deep splits among elites produced by the debt crisis and structural adjustment(O’Donnell & Schmitter, 1986). By opening up the political system, themovement created new allies and opportunities for indigenous rights networks.20

In large part because of lobbying by these networks, the new constitution enactedin 1988 contained clauses such as Article 231, providing indigenous peoples withexclusive control over traditionally inhabited lands. Yanomami supporters usedthis provision to secure a Federal Court order to evacuate garimpeiros fromYanomami territory. The first direct elections since the coup scheduled for 1990stimulated competition among elites for the votes of those supporting environ-mental and indigenous protection. With the election to President of a candidatewho had courted the environmentalist vote (Fernando Collor), the network gainedpowerful allies in the state. Shortly after Collor’s inauguration, police removedover forty thousand garimpeiros from Yanomami lands (Ramos, 1995).21 Thuselectoral competition enabled indigenous rights networks to use their potentialsupport at the polls to secure pledges to recognize and protect indigenous lands.

In addition to creating more powerful allies in the state such as the Secretariatfor the Environment and the Attorney General’s Office, the opening of the

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political system also stimulated considerable growth in the numbers andactivities of indigenous rights NGOs in Brazil (Conklin & Graham, 1995). Inthis way, one source of pressure (political opportunities) augmented anothersource of pressure (resources and organizational capacities).

Nonetheless, further political changes have jeopardized the fate of theYanomami. The 1993 impeachment of President Collor, his replacement byItamar Franco and the subsequent election of Fernando Henrique Cardoso haveshifted political opportunities back towards the developmental network. In theface of deepening economic crisis and mobilization by the developmentalnetwork, Cardoso and his ministers have increasingly made statementssupportive of mining, logging and agribusiness. In 1996 Cardoso signed decree1775, permitting legal challenge to FUNAI demarcations of indigenous territories(Turner, 1996). The next year, Cardoso announced a seven-million acresettlement program in Roraima (Bellos, 1998). Not surprisingly, garimpeiros andsettlers have returned to Yanomami lands en masse. In 1999, bowing to pressurefrom the developmental network, Cardoso substantially reduced the area of theMakuxi reserve that borders the Yanomami Reserve (Rocha, 1999). In this way,shifts in the structure of political opportunity favorable to the developmentalnetwork have contributed to significant changes in the status of indigenous rights.In addition to these national-level political opportunities, transnationaldependencies have had important policy consequences in both cases.

Intersecting Dependencies

The manipulation of intersecting dependencies by both indigenous rightsnetworks resulted in the targeted states granting their primary demands (albeitmore precariously and at a far later stage of contention in the case of theYanomami). While their contributions have varied, without the help of externalNGOs, it is unlikely that either the Brazilian or Panamanian state would haverecognized and protected indigenous lands.

In the early 1980s, the United States Agency for International Development(USAID) provided the majority of funding for the building of the El Lano-Carti road. The road threatened to bring a wave of peasants and smallmerchants to Kuna territory. The Kuna had failed in acting alone to try andthwart land encroachments.22 The identification of the Panamanian state’sdependence on USAID funding, however, enabled the Kuna rights network toapply pressure on the military regime to not only recognize a Udirbi NationalPark, but to financially support its creation (see Fig. 3). Through intense scrutinyand negative publicity generated mainly by North American and WesternEuropean environmental and indigenous rights activists, the agency began inthe late 1970s to take steps to reduce the devastation wrought by its projects.

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A study on the effects of the El Lano-Carti road brought the Kuna’s concernsto the agency’s attention. After being told of the Kuna’s attempt to create anagricultural colony, the agency introduced Kuna representatives to CATIE. Soonafterwards, USAID as well as the Inter-American Foundation endorsed andagreed to help fund the Park. In this way, pressure by the Kuna’s external alliesresulted in USAID’s defection from the developmental network.

From its inception, the Panamanian state had a high degree of economic andpolitical dependence upon the U.S. government. With a specific dependencyexposed, the developmental forces within the state faced a hard choice. On theone hand, legal recognition of an Udirbi National Park would forfeit a large tractof virgin rainforest that could generate export revenue for the state and economy.On the other hand, refusal to support the park would result in the suspension ofboth USAID loans and road construction, undermining development projectsthroughout the eastern region. High levels of international debt precludedalternative sources of funding. With a highly valued road project jeopardized, themilitary regime agreed to the main demand of the Kuna rights network.

Similarly, intersecting dependencies enabled the Yanomami rights networkto score an important policy victory (see Fig. 4). Seizing upon internationalpress build-up to the United Nations Conference on the Environment andDevelopment in 1992, NGOs both within and outside of Brazil highlighted theplight of the Yanomami. The resulting negative international publicity increasedthe pressure upon foreign states to withhold assistance from the Brazilian state.

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Fig. 3. Intersecting Dependencies: The Kuna Case.

With high levels of foreign debt and an export-oriented economy, thewithholding of trade, investment, or loans would stall the military’s developmentinitiatives, jeopardize loan payment schedules and undermine political stability.Faced with these potential costs, developmental forces within the statetemporarily lost the policy battle. In May of 1992, President Collor decreed theYanomami Territorial Reserve that NGOs had demanded for well over a decade.

Collective Identities and Collective Action Frames

The Kuna possess a more salient collective identity than the Yanomami. In theface of centuries of attempted enslavement, forced labor and assimilation, rigididentity boundaries have formed, generating an acute sense of distinctiveness.Wali (1984, 258) states that “from Ministry officials on down, they constantlyremarked on the Kunas’ refusal to assimilate into the larger society and theirdetermination to stick to the old way of life . . .” The salience of the Kuna’scollective identity convinced the Panamanian state that efforts to incorporatethe Kuna and their lands into Panamanian society would encounter substantialresistance.

In contrast, a pan-Yanomami identity has only recently begun to surface. Inter-village warfare among the Yanomami is not unknown. According to Henley(1995, 14), among the Yanomam in Brazil, “more than one in four men may diein inter-community raids.”23 Deaths due to illness are attributed to spells cast byshamans from other villages. The souls of the departed cannot leave this world

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Fig. 4. Intersecting dependencies: the Yanomami Case.

until their deaths are revenged either by casting an evil spell on the alleged cul-prits or by an inter-village raid. Such activities have not promoted a sense of one-ness. On the brink of extinction, however, the Yanomami have started to uniteagainst outsiders bringing disease, pollution and famine.24

On the whole, the collective action frames used by the Kuna rights networkresonated more widely and deeply with both their targets and public opinionthan the frames used by the Yanomami rights network. From the beginning oftheir campaign for a National Park, the Kuna framed their policy demands interms appealing to the military regime in Panama. During a meeting withGeneral Torrijos, Kuna leader Rafael Harris explained why the Kuna neededrainforest areas protected from mining or clearing:

If I go to Panama City and stand in front of a pharmacy and because I need medicine, pickup a rock and break a window, you would take me away and put me in jail. For me, theforest is my pharmacy . . . (Breslin & Chapin, 1988, 77).

Torrijos responded to this comment by embracing Harris. The military regimefrequently spoke of respect for property, lawfulness and national healing. By aligning ecological conservation and indigenous rights with these concerns,Harris made a strong impression on those who most threatened Kunasovereignty.

Because of their relative isolation from the outside world, most Yanomamihave lacked the ability to argue persuasively using the terminology of theiropponents.25 Moreover, until the mid-1980s, allies of the Yanomami spokemostly about indigenous rights exclusive of environmental concerns. Byswitching to an indigenous ecology frame, the network increased theparticipation of environmental organizations. As such, the network put itself ina better position to manipulate intersecting dependencies during the EarthSummit in Rio in 1992.

In addition, the Yanomami faced a more cunning rival than did the Kuna. Byappropriating the indigenous ecology frame, pro-developmental Brazilian stateagencies have managed to deflect challenges to their legitimacy without substan-tively changing their policies. Albert (1992, 46) notes a switch in the late 1980s:

Indeed it was with the intention of ‘greening’ the expropriation of most Yanomami landsthat Directive 250 dressed its rhetoric with such environmental concerns as the need topreserve the head-water ecosystems of west Roraima and the need for ecological bufferzones (‘green belts’) to protect the habitat of the Indians.

While appeasing international opinion, the Secretariat for National Defense(SADEN) proceeded with the Calha Norte (North Channels) Project – a secretplan to establish infrastructure, mining, military bases and settlements in areasof the Amazon bordering neighbor states (Allen, 1992).

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Forms of Contention

The tactics deployed by the Kuna rights network helped ensure fairly rapidpolicy success while the savvy of the Brazilian developmental network continuesto place the rights of the Yanomami in jeopardy. Differences in the historicalexperiences of the Kuna and the Yanomami enabled the Kuna to more readilytake advantage of the opportunities that presented themselves.

Although facing an authoritarian military government determined to conquertheir lands, the Kuna managed to avoid repression. The General Congress keptlines of communication open with the military regime. Furthermore, while thejunta had increased the state’s repressive capacity, the historically credible threatof violent reprisals gave the Kuna the space to openly protest government policies.

Kuna history offers lessons on recognizing and seizing political opportunities.From the seventeenth through the eighteenth century, the Kuna formed allianceswith weaker colonial powers (Scotland, France and England successively) tosuccessfully prevent full Spanish conquest of their territory (Langebaek, 1991).With the help of an American by the name of Richard Marsh, in 1925, theKuna tried to play the U.S. government off the Panamanian regime byconducting an armed rebellion, issuing a declaration of independence andrequesting U.S. protectorate status (Chardkoff, 1970). A U.S. governmentbrokered agreement between the Panamanian state and the Kuna resulted insubstantial political autonomy, the legal prohibition against the owning of Kunanland by non-Kunans and the legal recognition of the Kunas’ unique culture andinstitutions. Such experiences have taught the Kuna that foreign actors can beused as a counterbalance against the most threatening foreign actor whether itbe Spanish conquistadors or the Panamanian government. Not surprisingly,when their land was threatened by approaching peasants, cattle ranchers andgovernment development schemes, the Kuna General Congress readily workedwith foreign scientists, recognizing a mutual interest in forest conservation andthe protection of Kuna territory.

On the other hand, with limited contact with outsiders prior to the 1950s,the Yanomami were initially ill-prepared to take advantage of politicalopportunities presenting themselves. Consequently, allied NGOs were primarilyrelied upon to identify and mobilize to exploit emerging advantages.Participation in the Union of Indigenous Nation’s (UNI) regional conference inRoraima since 1984 has encouraged more of a strategic disposition through theexample of other more experienced delegates (Fuerst, 1985).

For the time being, what could become tactical assets remains liabilities forthe Yanomami. For instance, with the assistance of a U.S. anthropologist, theKayapo in Brazil have cultivated and appropriated their reputation of fiercenessto win concessions – often dressing up in war paint and regalia to pressure

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government officials through well organized, highly publicized largely symbolicconfrontations (Posey, 1989). With the Yanomami lacking the savvy andorganizational capacities of the Kayapo, the warrior stereotype has been usedprimarily by the opposing network to diminish public sympathy (Henley, 1995).Brazilian media accounts of the conflict frequently portray the Yanomami as abloodthirsty people (Salamone, 1997). As a result, massacres of villagers havefailed to produce a groundswell of domestic support for the Yanomami. Whilegarimpeiros violence has provoked an international outcry, military agenciesand the media have often interpreted and dismissed this criticism as themalevolent interloping of foreigners (Albert, 1992; Ramos, 1995). With sporadicand half-hearted government efforts to remove garimpeiros from indigenouslands, mining, massacres and diseases continue to significantly drain the alreadyweak resources and organizational capacities of the Yanomami.

When pressure generated by the Yanomami rights network has forced the stateto make policy changes, state agencies belonging to the developmental networkhave ensured that the “concessions” actually further erode indigenous sovereignty.For instance, in 1988 the Inter-American Development Bank (IDB) planned tosupply the Brazilian government with a $146.7 million loan to build a highwayfrom Vieho to Rio Branco. The road would cut through a substantial portion ofYanomami territory (see Appendix B). Similar efforts in the past had resulted inrapid Yanomami depopulation, with construction workers spreading diseases anddisrupting traditional modes of sustenance (Ramos, 1995). Under pressure fromNGOs, the IDB suspended the loan until the Brazilian government took concretesteps to protect the environment and the rights of indigenous peoples. The stateresponded in the Fall of 1988 with two SADEN-inspired directives disguisingcommercial expropriation of Yanomami lands as reform.26 The directives createdtwo national forests, a wildlife refuge and ‘indigenous’ areas. The nineteenindigenous areas were to be small, discontinuous parcels of land sandwiched bynon-indigenous settlements (Ramos, 1995). Moreover, the national forests were tobe open to mining, logging and ranching while “mining reserves” were to be cre-ated within indigenous areas (Albert, 1992; Allen, 1992). While CCPY and otheractivists tried to point out the negative ramifications, the IDB renewed the loan. Inthis way, the sophisticated tactics of Brazilian state agencies advanced the agendaof the developmental network in the face of considerable opposition.

CONCLUSION

The two cases examined here suggest that the process of political change canbe fruitfully conceptualized as the unfolding product of contention between rival

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transnational issue networks. The San Blas Kuna swiftly and effectivelydefended their lands because the transnational network supporting their causepossessed attributes conducive to placing high levels of pressure upon thePanamanian state. Both indigenous and non-indigenous members had ampleresources and organizational capacities to facilitate mobilization. As a result,the strength of the network compared favorably to that of a developmentalnetwork lacking significant corporate or prospector involvement. Frequent inter-organizational contact and an equitable distribution of power betweenindigenous and non-indigenous organizations resulted in a well-coordinatedcampaign to protect Kunan lands from further encroachment. The campaignreceived a boost by splits emerging within the military regime as well as theidentification of the regime’s financial dependence upon USAID. With a strongcollective identity and a history of strategically using foreign states as counter-balances against impending aggression, the Kuna readily seized the opportunityand, together with supportive INGOs, manipulated this dependency to ensurePanamanian state capitulation. By using a collective action frame that resonatedwith military ideology as well as deploying historically credible threats of force,the Kuna placed further pressure upon the state to abandon its plans to “conquer”the rainforests of the Atlantic coast.

In contrast, the resources and organizational capacities available to theYanomami paled in comparison to those possessed by its developmental rival.The discovery of sizeable mineral deposits led to substantial corporate andprospector presence in the developmental network. Security concerns also ledto more strident intervention by military agencies. Frequent interaction andcommon interests promoted high levels of cooperation within the developmentalnetwork. Limited resources, weak organizational capacities, paternalisticdynamics, the absence of a pan-ethnic identity, a narrowly constructed andhighly contentious collective action frame and retaliatory violence by theYanomami hampered the efforts of the indigenous rights network. The balanceof political opportunities did not shift in favor of the Yanomami until nearlytwo decades into the contention process. The Earth Summit in Rio in 1992enabled the network to take advantage of the Brazilian state’s internationalpolitical and economic dependency. Prior attempts to manipulate intersectingdependencies largely failed because of the deflective tactics of state agencieswith developmentalist agendas. Shifts in the structure of political opportunitiessince the Rio Summit have jeopardized the substantive policy gains made bythe Yanomami rights network.

The findings suggest that the rival transnational network framework holdsthree advantages over existing approaches in social movements research. First,

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the concept of contention between rival transnational issue networksacknowledges the importance of organizations opposing demands for policychanges. Focusing solely upon a challenger movement – its attributes andstructure of political opportunity – is a bit like predicting an outcome of a fightbetween two boxers when only the capabilities and circumstances surroundingone fighter are known. Subsequent efforts to explain policy changes shouldanalytically decenter social movements by giving equal attention to other actorsparticipating in issue contention.

Second, by examining both transnational and national processes, the analysisrecognizes the relevance of factors that studies confined to either level wouldignore. While external organizations played critical roles in taking advantageof transnational dependencies, the strength of indigenous organization alsofactored considerably into the contrasting outcomes of the two cases. Coincidingshifts in structures of political opportunity at the national and transnationallevels were crucial to the policy successes achieved by both indigenous rightsnetworks. Any account omitting either internal or external factors would fail tounearth such linkages.

Third, by emphasizing that networks of organizations consciously promoteexplicit political objectives, the approach injects agency back into explanationsof social change. Undoubtedly, patterns of economic and political relationssignificantly shaped structures of political opportunity. But to these structuraleffects must be added the role of deliberate action not mandated by structure.The different responses of the Panamanian and Brazilian states to themanipulation of their international dependencies by indigenous rights networkshelp to explain the contrasting statuses of the Kuna and the Yanomami today.

The findings also offer insights for indigenous rights campaigns. First,transnational dependencies provide opportunities to pressure those threateningindigenous rights. Second, indigenous populations with long histories ofconstructively interacting with outsiders are better able to take advantage ofthese dependencies than their more isolated counterparts. Proactive, non-destruc-tive exposure to other societies facilitates the defense of indigenous lands,identities and traditions. Third, non-indigenous allies serve a more useful roleby building indigenous capacities rather than acting as their guardians. Fourth,by appropriating indigenous ecology frames as well as by making concessionsthat, in reality, concede little, state agencies targeted by activists can diffuseinternational pressure to end ‘development’ projects that threaten indigenouspeoples. To counteract such tactics, indigenous rights activists must educatereference publics about gaps between rhetoric and reality.

Since this article constitutes an initial foray into the macro-socialconsequences of political mobilization, further exploration and refinements are

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needed. But if the struggles over Yanomami and Kuna lands are any indication,the explanatory power of the concepts developed here hold significant promise.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

An earlier draft was presented at the 2000 American Sociological AssociationAnnual Meeting in Washington D.C. Thanks to Jody Cardinal, Gerald Marwell,Russell Middleton, Pamela Oliver, Frank Rothman and the reviewers at RSMCCfor their helpful comments.

NOTES

1. The Yanomami consist of the Sanuma, the Yanomam, the Yanomamo and theYanam. The four sub-groups reside in a contiguous area of the Amazon in Brazil andVenezuela. While differing in language and custom, enough similarities exist foranthropologists to generally categorize them as one ethnic group (Ramos, 1995). Becauseof the complex interaction between local, national and international structures ofopportunity, I have chosen to focus upon the Yanomami located in the Brazilian partof the Amazon.

2. I use the concept of issue networks instead of social movements. As generallydefined, social movements are limited to NGOs. Yet often contention over issues involvesalliances of public and private organizations (Fisher, 1993; Sikkink, 1993; Smith, 1995).Moreover, social movements often include organizations active on related but differentissues. Consequently, the term is too broad for an analysis of relationships amongorganizations pursuing policy objectives on a single issue.

3. Some might argue that a resource-deprived issue network surmounting a hostilepolitical environment to affect small policy changes is more successful than a well-endowed issue network that in fortuitous circumstances scores major policyvictories. Such an argument, however, defines success in terms of factors affectingefficacy (e.g. resource levels and structures of political opportunity). In the process,independent and dependent variables are conflated, making concise analysis of thesources of success difficult.

4. As used here, a target or a targeted actor refers to an individual, organization, orset of organizations perceived by a network as having the ability to meet its demands.A targeted actor may or may not be opposed to the objectives of the network pressuringit and, therefore, may or may not be a member of the rival issue network.

5. As the phrase “effectively allocates” indicates, the composition of resourcespossessed by organizations comprising the network facilitates the ability to conductcertain kinds of actions while constraining others (Oliver & Marwell, 1992). If the tacticschosen by organizations do not fit with their resource bases, success is unlikely.

6. Given the limitations of definitions of dependency offered by dependency theorists(e.g. Dos Santos, 1971; Cardoso quoted in Palma, 1978), I chose to draw upon Blau’s(1964) conception of the term. The definition is consistent with but more exacting thanthose offered by dependency theorists.

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7. Other states, such as in Peru, however, responded to the debt crisis by closing thepolity and increasing repression. The effects of shifts in transnational processes uponstructures of political opportunity depend upon the articulation of these processes withnational-level factors that vary across countries.

8. Keck and Sikkink (1998, 12–13) use the term “the boomerang pattern” to describethis process. By specifying relationships of dependency and power, the concept ofmanipulating intersecting dependencies describes more precisely how issue networkssecure external interventions and why these interventions sometimes produce sought-after policy changes.

9. Taylor and Whittier (1992, 105) define collective identity as “the shared definitionof a group that derives from members’ common interests, experiences and solidarity.”

10. Collective identities that promote broad public support of policy demands may alsodecrease participation in collective action on behalf of these demands (Friedman &McAdam, 1992). To increase resources and organizational capacities while mountingsymbolic pressure upon targets, issue networks, therefore, may need to hold internal col-lective identities that differ from their cultivated public personas (Coy & Woehrle, 1996).

11. Snow, Rochford, Jr., Worden and Benford (1986, 464) define frames as “schemataof interpretation that enable individuals to locate, perceive, identify and label occurrenceswithin their life space and the world at large.”

12. Indigenous ecology frames assert that indigenous peoples co-exist harmoniouslywith fragile ecosystems. Non-indigenous states and multinational corporations, on theother hand, destroy these ecosystems. Rainforests must be preserved because of theirability to absorb air pollutants while generating oxygen, the intrinsic worth of their bio-logical and cultural diversity and the medicinal benefits of their bio-diversity. The preser-vation of rainforests, therefore, depends upon the protection of indigenous peoples andtheir ways of life. See Conklin and Graham (1995).

13. National development frames assert that rainforests constitute parts of the territoriesof larger nation-states. Given that these areas are often geographically remote, establish-ing a military presence is critical to protecting a state’s sovereignty. Establishing a non-indigenous civilian presence strengthens the nation by promoting a common culture andcivilization among all of its inhabitants. Extracting resources from rainforests promotesindustrialization and prosperity. Limiting non-indigenous access to and use of rainforests,therefore, constitutes a threat to national security and an impediment to progress. SeeAllen (1992).

14. To avoid difficulties in defining and operationalizing “successful outcomes” ofsocial movements (see Earl, 2000), I have confined my examination of political changeto the explicit policy objectives of indigenous rights campaigns.

15. Because of their high population density relative to other indigenous peoples, theKuna also have strong personal networks across villages. As of 1988, 30,000 Kuna livedin 60 villages within an area of 4,000 sq. km (Breslin & Chapin, 1988). In contrast, duringroughly the same period, 9,000 Yanomami in Brazil resided in 150 villages covering anarea of about 96,000 square miles (Albert, 1992).

16. Rapidly declining fertility of the fragile Amazonian topsoil leads to the resettlementof Yanomami communities every seven to ten years. While this frequency of migrationprevents ecological damage, high levels of transience create problems for networking notexperienced with more stable agricultural systems.

17. Beauclerk, Narby and Townsend (1988, 39) relate the following reaction to thesuggestion that Peace Corps volunteers introduced sewing machines and taught Kunas

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how to make molas – a traditional women’s dress and a powerful symbol of ethnic dis-tinction and independence: “At first they thought it amusing, because they had sewingmachines long before they had Peace Corps volunteers; later, they became angry at theidea that they would do as they were told in such a field and wrote to the New York Times,one source of the original rumor.”

18. Anthropologist Napoleon Chagnon stated his belief that it would be “a very longtime . . . before the Yanomami can, in fact, democratically speak for themselves” (quotedin Salamone, 1996, 35).

19. The Brazilian state responded to the massacre by creating the Ministry ofAmazonia and the Environment and by firing the President of FUNAI for overestimatingthe number of Yanomami murdered. The former decision continues a strategy of cosmeticreform to appease international opinion while the latter decision indicates ongoing splitsamong state agencies over questions of indigenous rights. Over the years, FUNAI hasvascillated between supporting and opposing commercial activities, military bases andsettlements on indigenous lands.

20. By encouraging political liberalization, pro-democracy movements alsocontributed, in multiple and contradictory ways, to indigenous mobilization in severalother Latin American countries during the 1980s (Yashar, 1997). The Yanomami caseand similar findings regarding Columbia (Van Cott, 1996) suggest that indigenous rightsmovements mobilizing during a cycle of protest are more likely to secure their objectivesthan during “the doldrums” (Rupp & Taylor, 1987). Nonetheless, the Kuna achievedtheir goals in the absence of heightened levels of protest in Panama as a whole.

21. The civilian administration still had to contend with SADEN’s ongoing oppositionto giving the Yanomami full control over their land in its entirety.

22. In 1975 the Kuna attempted to establish an agricultural colony at Udirbi wherea new extension of the Pan-American Highway entered their territory. The buffer colonycollapsed in 1981 because of its inability to grow crops or raise livestock in the area.

23. Considerable debate has taken place over the extent of warfare among theYanomamo. For a fairly blood-thirsty portrait see Chagnon (1988). For an opposingview, see Ferguson (1995a).

24. As the following quote makes clear, the violence and degradation experienced atthe hands of garimpeiros have generated the us/them distinction that serves as thefoundation for a strong collective identity: “We don’t have poor people. Every one ofus can use the land, can clear a garden, can hunt, fish. An Indian, when he needs toeat, kills just one or two tapirs. He only cuts down a few trees to make his garden. Hedoesn’t annihilate the animals and the forest. The whites do this . . .” Davi Kopenawa,Yanomami spokesperson quoted in Henley (1995, 56).

25. Ferguson (1995b) asserts that the Yanomami have interacted with outsiders sincethe 17th century. Nonetheless, historically, levels of contact with outsiders have beenlow when compared with the Kuna. Most of the interaction that has occurred has takenplace within rather than outside of Yanomami territory. Rather than expanding or evenpreserving indigenous resources and organizational capacities, external contact has weak-ened the Yanomami.

26. In addition, to comply with IDB requirements, SADEN set forth a broader set ofpolicies known as the Project to Protect the Environment and Indigenous Communities(PMACI). Like Directives 160 and 250, the policies advanced the commercialexpropriation of indigenous lands under the guise of protecting the environment andindigenous rights. See Albert (1992).

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APPENDIX A

Organizations Contending Issue of San Blas Kuna Land Rights

International NGOsCATIE Center for the Investigation & Teaching of Tropical Agriculture (Costa Rica)CHE Center for Human Ecology (U.S.)TSC Tropical Science Center (Costa Rica)WWF World Wildlife Federation (U.S.)

Panamanian NGOsSTRI Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute (Panama City)

Indigenous NGOsAIP Association of Panamanian IndiansKGC San Blas Kunan General CongressUTK Union of Kunan Workers (Panama City)

International GOsUNWGIP United Nations Working Group for Indigenous Peoples

Foreign State AgenciesIAF Inter-American Foundation (U.S.)U.S.AF United States Armed ForcesU.S.AID United States Agency for International Development

Panamanian State AgenciesMP Panamanian Armed ForcesPAT Panamanian Tourist InstituteOIA Office of Indian AffairsRENARE Panamanian Agency of Renewable Natural Resources

Panamanian National Assembly

National CapitalAgribusiness (cattle ranches and plantations near Kuna reserve) and timber companies.

SettlersColonos Migrating peasants

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APPENDIX B

Organizations Contending Issue of Yanomami Land Rights

International NGOsAPS Aborigines Protection Society – London, EnglandARC Anthropology Resource Center – Boston, MA, USACAPTE Coalition for Amazonian Peoples and Their Environment – Washington

D.C. USACS Cultural Survival – Cambridge MA, USADICIAAR Documentation & Information Center for Indigenous Affairs in the Amazon

Region – Geneva, SwitzerlandEDF Environmental Defense Fund – Washington D.C. USAIFRSDC French Scientific Research Institute for Cooperative Development – Paris,

FranceILRC Indian Law Resource Center – Washington D.C. USAIWGIA International Working Group for Indigenous Affairs – Copenhagen, DenmarkMDM World Doctors – Paris, FranceOXFAM-U.K. Oxfam – Oxford, EnglandSI Survival International – London, England

Brazilian NGOsAAB Brazilian Anthropological AssociationANAI National Association of Indian SupportersCCPY Commission for the Creation of the Yanomami ParkCEDI Ecumenical Center for Documentation and InformationCIR Roraima Indigenous CouncilCIMI Indigenous Missionary Council (Catholic Church)CPI Pro-Indigenous CommitteeMEVA Evangelical Mission Society of Amazonia

Indigenous NGOsAPIR Association of Indigenous Peoples of RoraimaCOAIB Coordination of Indigenous Organizations of the Brazilian AmazonUNI Union of Indigenous Nations

International GOsEU European UnionOAS Organization of American StatesUNCHR United Nations Commission for Human RightsUNEP United Nations Environment ProgramUNWGIP United Nations Working Group on Indigenous Peoples

Foreign State AgenciesIDB Inter-American Development Bank (U.S.)ODB Overseas Development Agency (U.K.)U.S.AID United States Agency for International Development

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U.S.GS United States Geological Survey

Brazilian State AgenciesCDN National Defense Council (formerly CSN)CMA High Command of the Military Area of AmazoniaCOMARA Airport Commission for the Amazon RegionCONAMA National Council of the EnvironmentCPRM Mineral Resources Research CompanyCSN National Security CouncilDNPM National Department of Mineral ProductionESG High War CollegeFNS National Health FoundationFUNAI National Indian FoundationIBAMA Brazilian Institute for Environmental Affairs (formerly IBDF)IBDF Brazilian Institute of Forestry DevelopmentINCRA National Institute for Colonization and Agrarian ReformITAMARTY Ministry of Foreign AffairsMEAF Ministry of Land Affairs (formerly INCRA)MEC Ministry of Education and CultureMINTER Ministry of Home AffairsMIRAD Ministry of Agrarian Reform and Development (formerly MEAF)MJ Ministry of JusticeMSP Ministry of Public HealthNuclebrás State-owned company promoting nuclear researchPF Federal PolicePGR Attorney General’s OfficeSADEN Secretariat for National Defense (formerly Secretariat0-General of CSN)SAE Secretariat for Strategic Affairs (formerly SADEN)SEPLAN Secretariat for the Planning of the Presidency of the RepublicSMA Secretariat for the EnvironmentSOEs State owned mining companies such as Companahia Vale do Rio Doce and

Mineraçao Rio do NorteSUDAM Secretariat for Amazonian Development and PlanningTF Federal CourtsState Governors, Members of Federal Congress and political parties

Foreign CapitalMNCs Multinational Corporations with investments in or near Yanomami territory.

National CapitalNational privately owned mining companies such as the Brazilian Paranapanema, agribusiness(cattle ranches, plantations) and timber companies with investments in or near Yanomamiterritory

GarimpeirosUSAGAL Prospector’s Union of Legal Amazonia

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Map of Panama and San Blas Kuna Territory.

Source: Chapin (1985).

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Map of Brazil and Yanomami Territory.

Source: Ramos (1995).

145

THE ORIGINS OF THE PROTESTMOVEMENT AGAINST NUCLEARPOWER

Stephen Adair

ABSTRACT

The protest movement against nuclear power in the U.S. emerged as a

consequence of the initial decline of the nuclear-power industry. Changes

in financial and energy markets in the early 1970s threatened the industry,

and in response, nuclear proponents and political elites initiated a political

defense of the nuclear industry that exposed institutionalized relations of

power, defined a visible target, and generated a simultaneous, collective

perception of injustice, which led to the protest movement against nuclear

power. The opposition to the Seabrook plant and the formation of the

Clamshell Alliance represent a paradigmatic case, because at Seabrook

the defense of the industry took its most visible form and because the

Clamshell initiated the protest movement. This analysis presents a modified

version of political-process theory by advancing a critical theory of power

and developing the concept of a political condensation in contrast to

political opportunity to explain the origins of the protest movement against

nuclear power.

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ISBN: 0-7623-0786-2

INTRODUCTION

In the immediate aftermath of World War II in the United States, the militaryand the state promoted the “peaceful uses of the atom” in an ideological effortto prepare the citizenry for the atomic age (Boyer, 1985; Clarke, 1985). For atime, the nexus of nuclear weapons and nuclear energy constituted thefoundation of state power, while embodying both the hopes and dangers of thenew technocratic world. The atom provided the “big stick” in international relations and served as a primary medium through which the state monitoredthe relations between capital, the military, and the scientific community. At thesame time, carefully crafted images of nuclear-powered automobiles andpromises of “electricity too cheap to meter” offered a “bright hope” and an“emotional counterweight to . . . nuclear destruction” (Wohlstetter, 1968).

This has now changed. The nuclear-power industry has completely collapsedand the end to the Cold War has diminished our preoccupation with the bomb.The decline in the American nuclear state had to be realized and publiclyidentified, but the enormous institutional resources employed to control the atommade it unlikely that the “announcement” would develop from inside the state.In the late 1970s, the protest movement against nuclear energy emerged togenerate the necessary critique and to document the problems that becamevisible over the course of the decline.

The argument that the decline in the nuclear industry led to the protestmovement seemingly reverses the conventional wisdom that the antinuclear movement brought down the industry. Both nuclear supporters and opponents have fostered this “wisdom” – supporters to blame an irrational, meddling public for their problems (cf. Barrett, 1980; Cohen, 1983;Inglehart, 1984), and opponents to claim the effectiveness of collective action. Wasserman (1996, 3), a leading activist and long-standing critic ofnuclear power, has even claimed that the “no nukes movement” was the “mostsuccessful social movement in modern times”. Measuring this success, however,is difficult because the industry was significantly troubled before the protest movement emerged and because we are unable to determine if theindustry’s problems would have resulted in a total collapse without the protestmovement. Others have certainly argued that the collapse of the nuclear industrywas not primarily a consequence of the movement (Nichols, 1987; Campbell,1988; Jasper, 1990; Joppke, 1993), but this paper reverses the causal argument and describes how the initial difficulties within the industry led, in acomplex and mediated way, to the practical, local emergence of the protest movement. It links an institutional decline with the formation of socialprotest.

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146 STEPHEN ADAIR

The explanation for the rise of the antinuclear movement that is mostconsistent with current social movement theory is that the emergent weaknesseswithin the industry opened new political opportunities that were then exploitedby movement activists. Indeed, legal challenges to the nuclear industry at boththe local and the national level intensified in the early 1970s when the structuralweaknesses were becoming evident. Antinuclear protests, civil disobedience andextra-legal challenges, however, did not occur around the nuclear plant siteswhere the industry was most vulnerable or where opponents had the greatestopportunities for success. Rather protests originated at those sites were thealliance between the state and the nuclear industry became most visible, andwhere the greatest volume of institutionalized forces were deployed to savenuclear projects.1 At these locations, the joint mobilization by the state andindustry exposed institutionalized relations of power, which created a simulta-neous, collective perception of injustice among potential activists. Theseconditions, which I describe as a political condensation, established a socialcontext where the protest movement formed and mobilized. In short, the polit-ical defense of the declining industry produced its own gravediggers. Thisargument challenges the utilitarian assumptions embedded in the concept ofpolitical opportunity, and which lie at the core of resource mobilization andpolitical-process theories. In place of these assumptions, I modify political-process theory by grounding it in a critical theory of power.

Following a theoretical discussion, the analysis proceeds in two parts. In thefirst, the structural conditions that weakened the nuclear industry are outlinedto demonstrate that the initial decline of the industry preceded the rise of theprotest movement. The second describes how this structural weakness and thecorresponding elite intransigence led to the practical and local emergence ofthe protest movement by considering, as a paradigmatic case, the rise of theClamshell Alliance and the opposition to the Seabrook nuclear plant in NewHampshire. The emergence of the Clamshell is important because, by allaccounts, it initiated the wave of civil disobedience and direct action againstnuclear power plants in the U.S. (Gyorgy, 1979; Barkan, 1979; Wasserman,1979; Mitchell, 1981; Downey, 1986; Price, 1990; Epstein, 1991; Joppke, 1993;Adair, 1996). It has also served as a type of “touchstone” both within socialmovement literature and among social activists. The group’s emphasis on directaction and its technique of consensus decision making established a new radicaland egalitarian vision that inspired subsequent social movements (Epstein, 1991;Sturgeon, 1995; Wasserman, 1996; Wolff, 1996). In rethinking the origins ofthe protest movement against nuclear power, my intention is not to rob activistsof their agency, but to identify the structural contributions to the localized socialenergy and vigor that made the protest movement possible.

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Antinuclear Movement 147

147

SOCIAL MOVEMENT THEORY

Recent research from the resource mobilization and political processperspectives has emphasized the importance of the political opportunitystructure, and argued that movements are more likely to emerge whendiscontented groups gain political resources or have improved chances forsuccess. In defining the perspective, McCarthy and Zald (1997, 151) assumed“that there is always enough discontent in any society to supply the grass-rootssupport for a movement if the movement is effectively organized and has at itsdisposal the power and resources of some established elite group”. This utili-tarian assumption results in a tendency within resource mobilization and politicalprocess theories to gloss issues associated with injustice, structural inequities,and activist’s efforts to develop and articulate an oppositional consciousness.Indeed, these theories have been more or less nettled by such criticisms, and,at least in part, the development of new social movement theory and work onthe framing practices of movements have emerged through efforts to addressthese shortcomings (see Snow, Rochford, Worden & Benford, 1986; Melucci,1989; Gamson, 1992; Laraña, Johnston & Gusfield, 1994). Here, I take adifferent track, and modify political-process theory by shifting the theoreticalgrounds from rational-choice theory to a critical theory of power.

Political Opportunity Structures

According to McAdam (1995, 221) “expanding political opportunities” are“clearly the analytic key to understanding movement formation” (see also Tilly,1978; McAdam, 1982; Tarrow, 1994; McAdam, McCarthy & Zald, 1996). Newpolitical opportunities have been associated with a number of differing factorsincluding electoral realignments, divisions among elites, new openings into thepolity for a disaffected group, and the emergence of influential allies (Tarrow,1994, 85–89). The fluidity in the concept is both its strength and its weaknessbecause after a movement has emerged researchers can take a retrospectiveview, identify a conducive social condition, and label it a new opportunity.2

Moreover, identifying new political opportunities likely depends on movementactivity itself because without mobilizing activity, the “new opportunities” couldnot be identified (Goodwin & Jasper, 1999). Researchers may therefore riskmistaking the consequence of a movement for its cause, because a movementmay generate what appear to be its own opportunities by trying new tactics,establishing new alliances, or altering political and cultural sensibilities. AsGamson and Meyer (1996, 275) argue, the concept of political opportunity

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148 STEPHEN ADAIR

structure “threatens to become an all-encompassing fudge factory for all theconditions and circumstances that form the context for collective action. Usedto explain so much, it may ultimately explain nothing at all”.

Despite this shortcoming, the concept of political opportunity remainscompelling because it builds on the strengths of resource mobilization (RM)theory. RM theorists view social movements as the rational and strategicoutcomes of pre-existing social networks that become organized when adiscontented group gains resources (McCarthy & Zald, 1977; Jenkins, 1983).The perspective is informed by rational-choice theory, and analyzes why actorsparticipate in collective action and how networks promote involvement (Olson,1965; Tilly, 1985; Klandermans, 1988; Friedman & McAdam, 1992). Zald(1992, 334) claims that it is in understanding micromobilization that RM theoryhas “made the most progress”, and this has been accomplished by “detailingfree-rider effects and arguing about the role of solidarity and selective incentivesoffered by entrepreneurs in overcoming any free-rider problems”.

Political-process theory was explicitly intended to counter this micro-tendencyin RM theory by situating social movements in the interaction between societyand the state (Tilly, 1978; McAdam, 1982). It views the scale of mobilization,movement tactics, and organizational structures as contingent on broad shiftsin state power structures. Much of the work done from this perspective, however,continues to draw from the assumptions of RM theory, and associates political opportunities with a decrease in the cost of mobilizing, an increase inthe likelihood of success, and a greater volume of selective incentives foractivists.

These utilitarian assumptions, however, lead to an analytic problem: ifmovements develop in conjunction with new opportunities, then socialmovements should develop as state repression declines, and conversely, statesshould be able to increase repressive forces with impunity. Although supportcan arguably be found for the former, the latter is clearly not so. State repressionat least risks a radicalization of an opposition and the delegitimation ofinstitutional structures. Skocpol (1979) demonstrates that in the face of statecrises, elite intransigence precipitated political revolutions by radicalizingpeasant revolts. One might argue that repression provides “opportunities” formobilization, but this requires abandoning utilitarian assumptions and seriouslystretches the meaning of “opportunity”. Some have argued that closing politicalopportunity structures increases the use of confrontational and illegal tactics bymovement activists (Kitschelt, 1986; della Porta, 1995), but in this usage, theconcept of political opportunity explains the tactical expression of a movementwhile leaving unexamined the process of movement formation.

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Political Opportunities And The Antinuclear Movement

Due to the inconsistent use of the concept of political opportunity, researchershave had difficulty explaining the origins of the antinuclear protest movement inthe United States. In an influential article that compared the antinuclearmovements in France, West Germany, Sweden and the United States, Kitschelt(1986) argued that the form of the political opportunity structure shapedmovements’ strategies. Since the U.S. represented a relatively weak state withopen “political input structures”, Kitschelt maintained that the antinuclearmovement adopted “assimilative strategies”, that relied on legal means to thwartthe implementation of a state nuclear policy. In contrast, the movements in Franceand Germany used “confrontational strategies” because the political input structures were closed (cf. Rucht, 1990). Whether or not the U.S. antinuclearmovement was less confrontational than the French or German case is actually farfrom clear. The U.S. antinuclear movement included the use of civil disobedience,protest and violent confrontations between activists and state police. To accountfor these, Kitschelt (1986, 72) maintained that “the American antinuclear move-ment staged its first large-scale demonstration only in 1978”, and that suchdemonstrations “must be viewed as temporary aberrations”, which were “. . .‘imported’ from Western Europe”. In this dismissal of contrary evidence,Kitschelt ignored perhaps as many as 120 demonstrations, rallies and other formsof protest activity that had occurred by the fall of 1977 (Mitchell, 1981, 82).

Recognizing Kitschelt’s oversights, Joppke (1993, 78) wrote “according toan overly state-centered political process theory, direct action should not haveappeared at all in the relatively ‘open’ American polity”. Joppke (1993, 78)developed a “multifactorial” approach that combined the emphasis on politicalopportunities with a more “actor-centered” explanation, based on the “particulartraits of the underlying activist subculture”. He (1993, 77–82) argued that forgroups associated with the New Left, nuclear power became a substitute rallyingpoint after the withdrawal of troops from Vietnam. The activist subculture wasimportant, but Joppke (1993, 78) privileged the concept of political opportunitystructure and resorted to the actor-centered explanation only because the direct-action movement “defies any rationalistic explanation in terms of interestsand opportunities [and] . . . does not fit the economic model of means-endrationality as postulated by resource mobilization theory”. Like Kitschelt,Joppke (1993, 93) contrasted the American case with West Germany, where“[b]y lightly dismissing the legitimacy of opposing the nuclear project, eventhrough legal means, the state ensured that the resort to direct action was theonly possible response left”. In West Germany, he argued, the “intransigentstate produced its own opposition”. Joppke specifically discounted this as an

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explanation for the American antinuclear movement because he retained theopen characterization of the U.S. political structure. Joppke, thus, adopts his“action-centered” approach because he presumes a rational-actor explanationfor movement formation in the context of an open political structure, eventhough he provides no explanation for how movements form within a closedpolitical opportunity structure.

A Critical Theory Of Power

To develop a political-process theory of social movements that adequatelyconceptualizes the interaction between the society and the state, the complexpolitical issues of legitimacy, power and social control cannot be simply reducedto the utilitarian assumptions implied by the concept of political opportunity.Much of this work has already been done and simply needs to be viewed inconjunction with movement mobilization. For more than a century, critical socialtheorists have maintained that dissent is constrained or precluded by the capacityof dominant groups to exercise control over consciousness and public discourse.This fundamental assumption, however, has only been occasionally addressedin sociological analysis of protest movements (e.g. Piven & Cloward, 1977;Gaventa, 1980; Morris, 1992).

Block (1987, 23) once argued that both the form and effectiveness of poweris determined by people’s relative awareness of it, such that due to the strengthof justifying ideologies prevailing “institutionalized relations of power tend tobecome visible only when they weaken”. This argument implies a hierarchy inthe effectiveness of power that is reminiscent of the three-dimensional view ofpower offered by Lukes (1974) and Gaventa (1980). Briefly, the first dimensioninvolves an open and observable struggle between competing parties whomobilize resources to realize their interests. The second dimension is associatedwith a mobilization of bias, where a dominant party controls access to publicarenas to mute the challenge of contending groups. The third dimension involvescontrol over consciousness such that subordinates either accept the status quoor cannot recognize any realistic possibility for change. In the third dimension,power is fully hegemonic and reproduced through the maintenance of routine.

This typology in the form of power can be made more dynamic by consideringthe three dimensions as points on a continuum that are contingent on a political

process, in which struggles over legitimacy are privileged. The third dimensionof power can only be fully identified in retrospect (by researchers and thepublic); after people have effectively named, challenged, and exposed apreviously concealed condition.3 For example, in the Civil Rights Movement,the explicit intent of the freedom rides and the sit-ins was to expose the injustices

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of segregation, and thereby challenge the legitimacy of the Southern castesystem. In recent years, the women’s movement, the gay rights movement, andthe environmental movement have had at least moderate success in identifyingpreviously concealed institutionalized relations. Much of the effectiveness ofcontemporary social movements depends on the relative ability of activists toopen for public review those interests that lay behind institutionalized practices(cf. Melucci, 1989, 76). Regardless of whether this new uncovering is consideredto be delusional or the foundation for a vanguard (this might only depend onwho gets to write the history), a movement’s justification depends on identifyingthe particular institutionalized injustices that generate a “mobilization of bias”.

When challenged, either by an externally induced crisis or by some initialmovement activity, those who occupy institutionalized positions of power canbe expected to try to reassert their control. Some movement success is likelyto disrupt elite complacency, such that they summon political and economicresources and engage in more self-conscious political acts to make theirparticular interest appear as a general interest. These efforts may convince some,whereas for others, it may lend greater credence to a movement’s claims. Thatis, in the face of a countermovement, movement participants may gain a greaterstrength and urgency by being able to identify specific targets and practices thatare intended to thwart its aims. Such tactics constitute the political process.

A dynamic shift in the form of power occurs when there is a joint mobilizationbetween a movement and a countermovement such that competing politicalactors and organizations become more conscious of institutionalized relations.This shift can be described as a political condensation. The term condensationis used because it refers not simply to a concentration of activity, but aquantitative accumulation of latent elements that produces a qualitative changethat renders the elements manifest.4 The opposing process, in which a movementis demobilized and institutionalized practices (either the same ones or in analtered form) are secured, can be described as a process of political dissipation.Movement along the continuum is represented by the two key political skills:making a particular interest appear as a general interest so as to reduce conflictand mobilizations (dissipation); and building coalitions to challengeinstitutionalized forms of power (condensation).

In a large number of cases, the items usually associated with the opening ofnew political opportunities – electoral realignments, divisions among elites, theemergence of influential allies – will also be associated with the greater visibilityof previously hegemonic conditions, and a movement along the continuumtoward the first dimension. Nevertheless, the conceptual change from politicalopportunity to political condensation involves more than just a new label forthe same class of phenomena because it alters the underlying theoretical logic.

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By privileging issues associated with power, legitimacy, and perceptions ofinjustice, the term condensation avoids the utilitarian assumption that socialmovements are opportunistic expressions of discontent. It provides a logicalbasis for understanding why increases in state or elite repression may intensifya movement's mobilization. It opens for reconsideration issues of spontaneityin social movements and the linkage between social movements and other lessstrategic and organized forms of collective action, such as riots (a linkage whichRM theory sought to sever), because a particular incident or an emergent crisismight rapidly expose previously concealed relations. This does not imply thatsocial activists are irrational, nor does it mean that activists ought not to try toorganize, but it does mean that social movements cannot be created simply byharnessing resources or getting the marketing right.

Following a brief history of the protest movement, this paper outlines thedecline of the nuclear industry and the “early” antinuclear opposition. I thenpresent the Seabrook case to show how this institutional decline wasaccompanied by a vigorous political defense by the utility industry and thestate, which exposed power relations and created the conditions in which aradical protest movement could form.

A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE ANTINUCLEAR PROTEST MOVEMENT

Beginning in 1976 with the formation of the Clamshell Alliance, a widespread,radical movement used protest and civil disobedience to stop the constructionof nuclear power plants. By early 1978, more than 30 groups had emerged,many of which adopted the Clamshell's tactics and organizational structure. Apartial list of the most well known Alliances include the Abalone (California),Crabshell (Washington), Cactus (Southwest), Lone Star (Texas), Bailly(Illinois), Paddlewheel (Kentucky), Palmetto (Carolinas), Catfish (Florida), andthe SHAD (New York). By 1978, more than half of the nation’s nuclear plantshad been subjected to protests.

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political condensation---------->----------->----------->----------->----------->----------->----------->

Third Dimension Second Dimension First DimensionHegemonic Control Mobilization of Bias Open conflictNo Mobilization Social Movements present The revolutionary

movement<-----------<-----------<-----------<-----------<-----------<-----------<-----------

political dissipation

This direct-action movement qualitatively transformed the meaning of thestruggle and promised a resurgence of the radical politics of the New Left.Many of the alliances were organized as collectives, without an internalhierarchy or a division of labor. They engaged in what Breines (1989, 6) referredto as a prefigurative politics, which consisted of the task of creating andsustaining within “the practice of the movement, relationships and politicalforms that ‘prefigured’ and embodied the desired society”. The allianceschallenged the nuclear industry not only on environmental grounds, but also asan ugly manifestation of an undue concentration of political and economicpower. They drove the “limits to growth” debate by raising the ominouspossibility that nuclear power would prove to be the means through which“Nature” would exact its revenge. In the call for “No Nukes” the antinuclearmovement was part of the effort, often associated with new social movementsgenerally, to reclaim local autonomy from an increasingly intrusive link betweenprivate capital and the state.

In addition to the number of protests, there were several other ancillaryindicators of the movement’s growth. The first national, antinuclear publicinterest group formed in 1974, with a group led by Ralph Nader, Critical Mass.Public opinion polls offer an oblique measure of movement activity at best, butthey reveal a modest but consistent growth in antinuclear sentiments after 1975(Nealy, Melber & Rankin, 1983). Media coverage also increased through thelate 1970s. The Media Institute (1979) found that there was three times as muchcoverage of nuclear power in 1975 as the year before. Coverage doubled againin 1976, and with exception of a small decline in 1978, increased steadily upto the Three-Mile Island (TMI) accident in March of 1979. The increase inmedia coverage was also tied to a change in the presentation of nuclear power.Gamson and Modigliani (1989) demonstrated that the association of nuclearpower with technological progress completely dominated media discourse intothe early 1970s. This image was initially challenged in the mid-1970s by a“soft paths” argument – “split wood, not atoms” – and shortly thereafter wassupplemented by depictions of nuclear power as a “runaway” technology thathad been unduly promoted by greedy, unaccountable utilities. Between 1975and 1979, then, direct action groups initiated widespread acts of civildisobedience, national antinuclear public-interest groups formed, public opinionturned against the industry, media coverage increased, and major media outletsno longer presented nuclear power as an unqualified demonstration oftechnological progress.

The period of contentious politics was short-lived as many of the alliancescollapsed by 1981 (at several nuclear sites, local resistance continued, and publicopinion continued to grow more opposed to nuclear power through the early

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1980s).5 Importantly, this period of protest directly followed a contraction infinancial and energy markets and the maturation of festering problems withinthe nuclear power industry.

THE DECLINE OF THE NUCLEAR POWER INDUSTRY

The U.S. nuclear power industry entered the 1970s with plans of having 1000operating reactors by the end of the century. Ten years later, this dream hadvanished and the industry had collapsed. Nearly half (122 of 249) of all nuclearreactors ordered by the U.S. were canceled (DOE, 1991). All 41 plants orderedsince 1974 and 100 of the 120 nuclear plants ordered since 1972 were canceled.No reactors have been ordered since 1978 (see Fig. 1).

The cancellations provide a dramatic contrast to the bullish market evidentat the start of the decade. The eight-year period between 1966 and 1974accounted for 87% of all nuclear plants ordered in the United States, whichrepresented a majority of the new generating capacity ordered by utilities(Nichols, 1987). Philip Sporn, former president of the American Electric PowerCompany, referred to this buying spree as the Great Bandwagon Years.Throughout this period, few plants were operating relative to the number beingproposed. In 1972, for example, fewer than 20 plants were operating, more than100 were under construction, and 35 of the 38 plants ordered in that year werelarger than any that were currently operating (DOE, 1991).

Despite abundant claims to the contrary, nuclear power proved not to beeconomically competitive with other energy options (Ford, 1982; DOE, 1983).With only a handful of exceptions, actual construction costs of nuclear powerplants exceeded initial estimates, often by hundreds of millions of dollars. Therise in costs (and the corresponding collapse of the industry) is partly explainedby the long delays between construction and power generation. Utilities usuallyestimated four to seven years between the initial proposal and operation of aplant, yet it took roughly twice that to get most plants on line (DOE, 1988,1991). The delays were indicative of both managerial and engineering problemsin the nuclear sector that were exacerbated by the relative lack of experiencein reactor construction and the extraordinary financial commitment that nuclearplants required (Komanoff, 1981; Hertsgaard, 1983; Campbell, 1988; Jasper,1990). The long lead times imposed a heavy financial burden on utilities thatwere paying interest on construction loans. Importantly, the end to the buyingspree in 1974 occurred when the bulk of the plants proposed between 1966 to1968 were coming on-line with total construction costs that were oftenexceeding $1 billion per reactor. This increasingly evident financial problemcoincided with a dramatic drop in energy consumption in the mid-1970s.

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156S

TE

PH

EN

AD

AIR

Fig. 1. U.S. Nuclear Reactor Units Ordered and Number of Antinuclear Protests Reported in the New York Times, 1960–1990.

* 1960 includes all plants to that date

Source: DOE, 1991, 105–110, The New York Times Index.

The OPEC oil embargo nearly quadrupled oil prices between 1973 and 1974,which, perhaps counter-intuitively, adversely affected the nuclear powerindustry. Over the previous decade, growth in the consumption of electricityaveraged 7% annually, which required doubling capacity every 10 years. In thebandwagon years, nuclear power had been the energy of choice to meet theanticipated demand. After the embargo, growth fell to 2.5%, which wouldrequire a doubling of capacity in 30 years (DOE, 1983). Some proposed coal-fired plants were abandoned, but all of the nuclear projects still in theplanning stage would eventually be either canceled or indefinitely deferred. Thelarge capital requirements for nuclear projects made them the most susceptibleto the budgetary axe (DOE, 1983).

Financial markets compounded the problem because as utilities pulled backfrom their commitments, and as debt grew in relation to assets, bond ratings andstock prices fell. From 1970 to 1982, utilities with bond ratings of BBB or worsegrew from 8% to 37%, and those with ratings of AA or better shrank from 61% to24% (OTA, 1984). For utilities that attempted to hang on to nuclear projects underconstruction, the economic consequences were staggering. The recession in theearly 1980s pushed the prime rate over 13% and by then, additional safety, envi-ronmental and engineering standards (arguably due to the political challenges)lengthened lead times and greatly increased the cost of construction. A new waveof cancellations followed with total abandonment costs in the tens of billions ofdollars. For the 102 plants operating in the late 1980s, the total cost overrun was$112 billion. Although a fraction was due to inflation, this figure does not includethe tens of billions lost from the 122 canceled nuclear projects, those shutdowndue to accidents or other problems, those not operating by 1988, nor losses stem-ming from inadequate performance. Cook (1985, cover) referred to the U.S.nuclear power industry “as the largest managerial disaster in business history, adisaster on a monumental scale”.

Readily apparent in retrospect, the economic disaster was not so obvious adecade earlier, but there were visible signs. Saunders Miller (1976, 36), aninvestment analyst for utilities, declared that “from an economic standpointalone, to rely upon nuclear fission as the primary source of our stationary energysupplies will constitute economic lunacy on a scale unparalleled in recordedhistory”. Yet the tremendous political and economic momentum necessary toachieve those 1000 operating reactors by the end of the century blinded manyto the visible signs. In the critical historical period between 1974 and 1976, theindustry’s prospects were inversely proportional to the political, economic andsocial efforts of its advocates. Beginning in 1974 and then increasing several-fold through the rest of the decade, the nuclear industry tried to bolsterits prospects by increasing its investment in public relations (Campbell, 1989).

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The move itself represented a self-conscious response by the industry to protectits dwindling hold over public acceptance (Balogh, 1991). The defense of theindustry would grow more rigorous and more visible in the face of itsinsurmountable structural weakness and the emerging antinuclear opposition.

THE “EARLY” OPPOSITION TO NUCLEAR POWER

Into the late 1960s, the effort to promote nuclear power as a “peaceful use ofthe atom” was largely successful. The media almost exclusively presentednuclear power as an example of technological progress (Gamson & Modigliani,1989). Nevertheless, when electrical utilities and reactor manufacturers beganin earnest to build nuclear power plants in the late 1960s and early 1970s, asmall opposition, initially cultivated by a pool of physical scientists and localenvironmental and conservation groups, grew along with it (Nelkin, 1971; Lewis1972). The early coordination between scientists and local citizens is welldocumented by Nelkin (1971), who observed the controversy that surroundedplans for a plant at Cayuga Lake, New York, where differences among scientistsbecame amplified by the political contentions within the local communities.Lewis (1972) also chronicled several early efforts of local citizens to stopconstruction at several proposed sites and to force industry-wide design changesto lessen the effects of thermal pollution.

With increasing frequency, local citizen groups adopted an “intervenor” role,by using legal or regulatory challenges to prevent construction.6 Between 1962and 1966, local citizens or regulatory intervenors contested 12% of nuclear powerplant construction permits; between 1967 and 1972, 32% of proposed plants werecontested and after 1972, it was 100% (Rolph, 1979). Despite its relativeinfrequency, the earlier opposition was more often successful. Plans for plants inseveral locations, including Cayuga Lake and Queens, New York and Malibu andBodega Head, California, were stopped by local opposition. Importantly, the dataindicate that as the frequency of the local opposition increased, the ability to stopconstruction declined. Rolph argued that this was because utilities were willing toabandon sites to avoid controversy when alternative locations were readilyavailable, but as the frequency of opposition increased, utilities could no longerexpect to diffuse the controversy by changing sites (cf. Jasper, 1990, 109; Jasper& Poulson, 1993, 644). This hypothesis implies that local opposition groups grewless effective because nuclear proponents grew more intransigent and that thedegree of opposition was inversely proportional to the likelihood of success.

The intransigence of the nuclear industry and the state played a similar role inthe emergence of the scientific discord over nuclear energy. Many of the mostforthright of the early critics of the nuclear industry came from inside the Atomic

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Energy Commission (AEC) itself (see, e.g. Lilienthal, 1963). Perhaps the mostimportant case in the scientific controversy involved Ernest Sternglass, anengineering physicist at Westinghouse, who reacted publicly against ProjectPlowshare – “beating swords into plowshares” – an initiative by the AEC to useatomic bombs for nuclear excavation to create underground cavities for naturalgas and to dig a new and deeper Panama Canal. Sternglass (1969a, b) publiclychallenged the wisdom of Project Plowshare by publishing his estimate that400,000 children had died as a result of fallout from nuclear testing. In response,the AEC commissioned research by Arthur Tamplin and John Gofman, whoestimated that 4,000 not 400,000 children had died from exposure to fallout. TheAEC wanted the number deleted in an apparent effort to avoid quantifying theeffects, but Tamplin and Gofman interpreted this as an abridgement of theirscientific responsibility and subsequently published conclusions that greatlyaltered the scientific perception about the biological hazards of radiation exposure(Gofman & Tamplin, 1971). Their findings led to a Congressional investigationand a hundred-fold reduction for allowable radiation exposure around nuclearpower plants. Gofman and Tamplin were deeply politicized by this process andtheir efforts contributed to the scientific discord over nuclear power. Gofman hasremained one of the most well known and outspoken critics of nuclear power.

The Union of Concerned Scientists (UCS) formed in 1969 in a similarprocess. Scientists working for the AEC came to perceive that their technicalcriticisms of reactor design were not being addressed by the agency (Ford,1982). The UCS documented several safety problems in reactor design that hadbeen intentionally concealed by the agency and contributed to the claims ofcensorship by the AEC. Their efforts were augmented by the Federation ofAmerican Scientists and the Committee for Nuclear Responsibility –organizations whose membership also consisted of scientists who had beenpreviously employed by the AEC, but had grown disillusioned with its practices(see Ford, 1982; Price, 1990).

The scientific critiques all but ended the ideological appeal to nuclear poweras an “emotional counterweight” to nuclear weapons. In addition, it seriouslychallenged the AEC’s credibility by revealing the conflict of interest within theagency. The AEC was formed by Congress to both promote and regulate nuclearenergy (Clarke, 1985). In 1974, the Nuclear Regulatory Commission replacedthe AEC and the reorganization separated these functions by formally limitingthe NRC’s role to regulation (The reorganization was intended to dissipate thecharges of the nuclear critics, but the claims of an undue bias by regulators infavor of nuclear power persisted).

From a RM perspective, this scientific discord – a division among elites – wasa new political opportunity that could be exploited by movement activists. This

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conceptualization, however, glosses over the political process that led to thediscord. The scientific criticism of the AEC did not arise from movementorganizations, but developed from nearly simultaneous perceptions of injusticeamong scientists. The AEC’s efforts to retain a monopoly over nuclear knowledgeand to contain criticism of its practices required that it exercise its authority tosuch an extent that its political intentions became visible. In other words, powercondensed such that many insiders perceived a mobilization of bias andinstitutionalized injustices. The formation of oppositional scientific groups fol-lowed as insiders spoke out and came to identify their mutual distrust of the AEC.

The scientific criticisms, the local interventions, the declining appeal ofnuclear power and the AEC’s legitimation problems arguably disturbed the greatpolitical and economic investment in nuclear energy, but it barely dampenedthe enthusiasm within the nuclear sector. Orders for new reactors temporallydeclined in 1969,7 yet reached record levels in 1972 and 1973 as the bandwagonmarket continued (see Fig. 1). In retrospect, the “early” opposition onlyanticipated the much larger, more visible and more public opposition thatemerged just a few years later. The deep structural crisis that followed theOPEC oil embargo and the coming of age of the technological and managerialproblems within the nuclear sector would lead to a much more widespread andprofound condensation of power.

SEABROOK AS A PARADIGMATIC CASE

Between 1976 and 1979, more than 50 nuclear sites were subject to some formof protest (Mitchell, 1981). Although large demonstrations in New York in 1979and Washington in 1980 were aimed at a national audience, the protestmovement primarily consisted of a series of local struggles to stop theconstruction or licensing of particular nuclear projects. The serial quality to themovement suggests either a diffusion of tactics and objectives across locationsor the independent emergence of similar political action at different sites.

As a practical matter, the degree of diffusion within a social movement likelydepends on the presence of similar conditions. When local conditions aredissimilar, movement organizations will have to expend considerable resourcesand offer attractive incentives to cajole even modest levels of support. Underother conditions, insurgencies develop so rapidly that the volume of activityexceeds the organizational capacity of movement groups (cf. Piven & Cloward,1977). Social movement activity often consists of the efforts to promotediffusion as similar forms of collective action emerge nearly simultaneously indifferent locations. If so, structural determinations of a movement and “free”acts of agency are deeply intertwined and analytically inseparable.

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When the Clamshell Alliance formed in the summer of 1976, the initialorganizers sought to gain supporters for civil disobedience and other politicalactivities to protest and to stop the construction of Seabrook. Its activities wereconfined to the local scene and the Clamshell faced considerable difficulty tryingto organize and contain the Seabrook opposition as its numbers rapidly grew(Barkan, 1979, Downey, 1986, Epstein, 1991). The Clamshell may have inspiredthe dozens of alliances that emerged across the country by 1978, but the groupswere neither a product of its organizational efforts, nor a local extension of anational organization. Ethnographic research on the Abalone and SHADAlliances describe the local activities that led to direct action in New York andCalifornia (Epstein, 1991; Joppke, 1993; Eckstein, 1997). Even if some of thealliances would not have been as rigorous without the Clamshell’s example (ormore rigorous without the Clamshell’s precedent), it seems likely that if theSeabrook plant had never been proposed, the protest movement would havebeen initiated elsewhere.8 The importance of the Seabrook opposition as aparadigmatic case is not that others followed its lead, but that it represents themost visible and exaggerated form of serially produced conditions.

If variations in the political opportunity structure determined the amount ofmovement activity, then at Seabrook activists should have had a greater numberof opportunities, an increased likelihood of success, or more access into thepolity. If so, Seabrook should have been among the large majority of plantsproposed in the early ’70s that were canceled, but in the face of the generalcollapse of the industry, Seabrook became the recipient of substantial resourcesby the nuclear industry and the state. This political and economic investmentresulted in a political condensation that exposed institutionalized relations ofpower, defined a visible target and generated a simultaneous, collectiveperception of injustice. At the risk of overstating the argument, Seabrook wascontested because activists perceived they had lost access to the polity, had thegreatest array of forces allied against them and had less of a chance of achievingsuccess. At the same time, Seabrook became the object of the industry’s defensepartly to insure that the antinuclear movement would not achieve a tangiblevictory. In a complex and mediated political process, both sides became manifestby responding to the other. This political condensation can be partially illustratedthrough a brief review of the legal efforts to stop Seabrook.

LEGAL OPPOSITION TO SEABROOK

In the early 1970s, local groups opposed many of the proposed nuclear plants inthe U.S. At Seabrook, several groups used legal means to challenge construction,including the local branch of the national Audubon Society; The Society for the

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Protection of New Hampshire Forests (SPNHF), a century-old conservation groupand one of the largest landholders in the state; The Seacoast Anti-PollutionLeague (SAPL), a group of local housewives and middle-class professionals,many of whom had worked a few years earlier to prevent an oil refinery on the sea-coast; and The New England Coalition on Nuclear Pollution (NECNP), aVermont-based group that had developed a network of scientific experts and legalcounsel. These groups challenged the owning utilities on their financial qualifica-tion, the proximity of the plant to high population areas and on ecological issues.9

Their intervention points to a legal and regulatory labyrinth that I can only brieflysketch here, yet the details are important because they constitute the moments inwhich systemic forms of power were made visible. The intervenors exposed insti-tutionalized relations of power such that their efforts came to appear to many asinsufficient to counter the force arrayed against them.

Finances

Public Service Company of New Hampshire (PSNH), lead owner of theSeabrook plant, was a small utility that embarked on a large nuclear project.When PSNH announced plans to build two 1150-megawatt generators in 1972,it anticipated both reactors to be on-line by 1981 at a total cost of $973 million.By 1974, two years before construction began, PSNH’s bond rating was reducedand it was selling stock at 50% of book value (Bedford, 1990, 96). Meanwhile,projected costs escalated; by 1976 it was $2 billion. In 1975, David Lessels, amember of New Hampshire’s Public Utility Commission (PUC), reported thatPSNH’s then projected cost of $1.6 billion was about a billion short and thatPSNH had overestimated the need for new generation. Utility rates, Lesselsconcluded, would need to rise substantially to pay for this “unneeded facility”.Governor Meldrim Thomson of New Hampshire, an unequivocal Seabrookadvocate, had the PUC scuttle the report and proposed a “gag order” to preventstate employees from speaking out against the project. Thomson eventuallyremoved Lessels from the commission (Stever, 1980, 118–119).

Efforts by the intervenors were no more effective. NRC safety regulationsrequired utilities to be “financially qualified” before receiving a construction per-mit on the grounds that a utility short on funds might forego quality assurances oruse shoddy materials. After a series of rulings from 1975 through 1978, the NRCfinally decided not to “undertake any further examination of the extent of the rela-tionship between financial qualification and safety”. “Recent experience . . .does not suggest that a utility short of funds will cut corners on safety” (NRC,1978). This precedent eliminated financial qualification as a safety issue.

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Population Density

The site posed additional problems for the utilities. The Seabrook plant waslocated two miles from one of the most densely populated beach front resortcommunities in New England: Hampton Beach. Effective evacuation from thearea was a dubious prospect because of the geography of the region, thepopulation density and the road network. The population density in the vicinity of a nuclear plant has an obvious impact on the relative risk to thepublic and, since its inception, the AEC encouraged utilities to site plants inremote areas. The regulation is complicated and ambiguous, but establishedthree zones: an exclusion area, a low population zone and a population center distance. PSNH originally designated its population center as Portsmouth,New Hampshire, a small city 12 miles to the north. The New England Coalitionon Nuclear Pollution (NECNP, 1976, 28) and other intervenors argued thatSeabrook “is located within two miles of the single largest concentration ofpopulation in New Hampshire – Hampton/Seabrook Beach” and sought toidentify Hampton Beach as the population center. They also argued populationgrowth through 1980 meant that Seabrook was sited in the middle of a population center.

After a series of hearings between 1973 and 1977, the Atomic Safety andLicensing Board (ASLB) came to the following conclusions: First, they assumedno population growth after 1980. Second, to address the size of the populationin the communities directly around the plant, the ASLB, in a novelinterpretation, argued that if an accident occurred, a radioactive plume wouldrise, travel with the prevailing wind at the time, disperse as it moved awayfrom the plant and thereby mark-out a pie-shaped region. The vectorsdetermining the plume’s path were assumed to be at 22.5 degrees (ASLB, 1975,11). With the exception of the beach area, the population that fell inside anytwo vectors did not exceed 25,000 people, thus Seabrook was not located insidea population center (Stever, 1980, 62–69). The ASLB all but ignored the beach,arguing that beach-goers were transients and suggested they be counted as atwelfth of a person (ASLB, 1976, 45). The Atomic Licensing Appeal Board(ALAB) ruled a few months later, in a decision that made the vector argumentsuperfluous, that the beach areas should be considered “as though they didconstitute a population center”, without actually designating it as one (ALAB,1977a, 33). Whether or not these rulings remained within the criteria definedby the regulation is debatable, but the rulings did establish new precedents thatfor most intents and purposes eliminated population density in determining thesuitability of a site.

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Environmental Issues

The challenge on environmental grounds was by far the most complicated. Itinvolved all of the intervening groups, several governmental agencies andresulted in the suspension of Seabrook’s construction permit on three occasions.The site was located on a salt marsh in a fertile clamming and fishing regionand the original design of the plant required the dumping of some 600,000gallons per minute of thermal effluent into a tidal estuary. The ensuingcontroversy resulted in a re-evaluation by PSNH, which then proposed buildingunderground tunnels two miles offshore. The director of New Hampshire’s Fishand Game Department, Bernard “Buck” Corson still believed this plan wouldnot adequately protect the local sea life. The department had authority toestablish water pollution standards and could prevent PSNH from obtaining anecessary water permit. Corson’s conclusions caught the ire of GovernorThomson, who vowed to cripple its fishery programs and get rid of Corson.Attorney General Warren Rudman apparently convinced Corson to soften hisobjections, with the expectations that PSNH would provide a morecomprehensive assessment of the biological impact (Stever, 1980, 16–21).

The ensuing approval by the state siting committee only prefigured the battlethat followed in the federal regulatory agencies. The evaluation of the cooling-system fell to the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), which from1975 to 1978, would change its decision regarding the cooling system threetimes (first denied, then approved, then challenged in court and approved again).By the time of this final ruling, substantial political pressure had been leveraged.Long-time congressman, James Cleveland (R-NH), for example, urged theGeneral Accounting Office to look into the delays at the EPA. During this on-again off-again battle over the construction permit, the utilities poured capitalinto the project. The EPA’s and the NRC’s evaluations of the site were basedon cost-benefit calculations that included “sunk costs”, so that substantial sunkcosts would determine the conclusions. Repeated efforts by intervenors to staythe construction permit while alternative sites were evaluated were denied.

Aside from engineering and technical reviews of reactor design, which arelegally exempt from public intervention, the environmental impact, thepopulation density and the financial stability of the owning utilities were centralcriteria in the NRC’s licensing of nuclear power plants. In each area, newprecedents were promulgated to meet the challenges brought by the intervenors.The legal, political and regulatory decisions were justified through the requiredbureaucratic channels and based on the codified regulations; but, for manyinterested observers, the decisions revealed a mobilization of bias leveraged bypowerful political and economic interests arrayed to rescue the plant.

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The political risks for the nuclear industry and the regulatory agencies inprotecting Seabrook must be considered in the context of the nuclear industry’sdecline. If in the mid-1970s the industry had still been growing, then the costof rejecting a single applicant would have been comparatively minor and thusthe industry’s legitimacy would not likely have been jeopardized by issuing somany new precedents in the defense of a single plant. The growing number ofcancellations and the end of new orders, however, concentrated resources andraised the political value of each plant. At Seabrook, the enormity of theinstitutional force that built the nuclear state became exposed.

THE ORIGINS OF THE CLAMSHELL ALLIANCE10

The concept of political condensation and the critical theory of power (in contrastto the concept of political opportunity and rational-choice theory) imply thatpower relations often operate invisibly and that the revealing of power relationscan contribute to the formation of a movement. The presence of a powerful, struc-tural reality behind appearances challenges empirical demonstration not onlybecause of the continuing efforts to conceal the underlying power relations, butalso because movement mobilization occurs in a rapidly changing context.Nevertheless, activists’ accounts of the building of the Clamshell Alliance and therapid building of solidarity despite the differences among the group’s membersare indicative of a political condensation.

Although the sine qua non in the study of social movements is to explainmovement formation, most of the considerable scholarly work on the ClamshellAlliance has not addressed its origins, but instead examined the practical andstrategic limits of its method of consensus decision making (cf. Barkan, 1979;Downey, 1979; Gyorgy, 1979; Wasserman, 1979; Epstein, 1991). Summaryaccounts of the Clamshell’s formation within this literature typically identifysome of the activist roots among the initial organizers. Those with previousmovement experience include veterans of the antiwar movement who wereliving in an organic farm collective in Montague, Massachusetts, where in 1974Sam Lovejoy toppled a weather-monitoring tower at a proposed nuclear plantsite and turned himself over to the police. In the subsequent trial, he wasacquitted on a technicality, while successfully turning the proceedings into adebate on the merits of nuclear power (which included testimony from HowardZinn on civil disobedience and John Gofman on radiation poisoning). He andother members of the group, Harvey Wasserman and Anna Gyorgy in particular,played important roles in the Clamshell. Members of the Greenleaf Harvester’sGuild, a Ware, New Hampshire farming collective devoted to Gandhianprinciples, also participated in its formation. And Elizabeth Boardman, who was

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a member of the Boston branch of the American Friends Service Committee,a Quaker organization that had organized protests in the ’60s, provided trainingin non-violence and consensus decision making. These connections made theClamshell Alliance and antinuclear activism generally appear as an extensionof the New Left, nested in the whole wave of protest initiated in the 1960s.The connections lend credence to Joppke’s (1993) subculture hypothesis.

Accounts of earlier movement experience, however, neither explain why thedirect action movement began at Seabrook in 1976, nor how the different groupsthat made up the Clamshell were able to form an alliance. If direct action hademerged elsewhere, then researchers would likely be able to consider its historyand identify sources of earlier movement experience. Throughout theClamshell’s history, an important source of tension developed between thenative, seacoast activists, who tended to favor less confrontational tactics andactivists who came distances because they saw the struggle as a vehicle forradical action (see Barkan, 1979; Epstein, 1991; Adair, 1996) The communitiesnear the New Hampshire seacoast were not centers for political radicals.Montague is about 120 miles west of Seabrook and other nuclear plants inConnecticut, New York, Massachusetts and Vermont were closer and offeredother potential sites of resistance. The activist subculture, then, contributed inimportant ways to the protest moment, but the contributions alone do not explainwhy it began at this particular place and time.

Even among some of the initial activists in the Clamshell, accounts of thegroup’s origins recede into different groups and activities. Guy Chichesterinitiated some of the connections between the seacoast intervenors and othermovement networks.11 Chichester was elected president of the Seacoast Anti-Pollution League in 1975 and tried to develop lines of communication andcoordination with other antinuclear groups for political action. Some of themembers of SAPL thought his actions did not represent their interests and fearedthat his political efforts would endanger their no-tax status, weaken theircredibility and diminish their ability to gather legal resources for intervention.Within a year, Chichester resigned and/or was forced out of SAPL, yet hecontinued to work with others to build an alliance for direct action.

Another group, calling themselves the Concerned Citizens of Seabrook hadorganized a (non-binding) local, referendum vote on whether the plant shouldbe built. The utilities took the vote seriously as they lobbied to persuade thetown citizens with promises of jobs, tax dollars and new businesses. In March1976, the town voted 768 to 632 against the construction of the plant. Withina few days, it became clear that the utilities would ignore the local vote. Severalmembers of Concerned Citizens assisted in the founding of the Clamshell, asthe participants struggled to identify the tactical choices that remained.

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Rennie Cushing had been a member of SAPL since the early 1970s whenhe was a student at the University of New Hampshire (about 15 miles north ofSeabrook), because “it was down by the place in Seabrook where I used to goclamming . . . Although I didn’t know anything about the technology then, Iheard about the plans to dig trenches across the marsh for the circulating systemand I was concerned about what would happen to that little harbor” (Cushinginterview, April 1990). Cushing grew frustrated with intervention, because “itdid not seem to matter what we said”. When Seabrook received its constructionpermit from the NRC on July 7 1976, Cushing recalled his reaction, “I justknew that was one of those things that was going to change your life”. He wasinstrumental in bringing together several recent UNH graduates into theformation of the Clamshell.

Although legal intervention and the scientific controversy over nuclear powerhad identified significant problems in the nuclear sector, in 1976, there was arealization among many differently situated groups that the powerful politicaland economic interests that had built the industry had not yet been sufficientlyidentified, exposed and challenged. The rapidity of the nuclear industry’s demisesurpassed the making of a popular critique and the mobilization by the stateand the industry to protect its investment made the articulation of that critiqueseem necessary and important. Through the legal intervention, commonexpectations of legitimate practice were exceeded and as a consequence, thepolitical consciousness of many was changed, a different network of activistsbecame mobilized and vestiges of the New Left were rekindled. Scott Schmidt,a Clamshell member, argued that people came into the group for a “variety ofreasons”, but always because they were “disenfranchised from their ownpolitical options” (interview, June, 1990). While built from the hard work ofactivists, the Clamshell Alliance represented the rush to articulate a critique ofthe nuclear state as many came to the simultaneous realization of a deep injus-tice.

The legal intervenors presumed the legitimacy of rational decision-makingprocedures, but the Clamshell strove to challenge the political economy of thenuclear state. An original member explained,

The early objective was about the environmental threat that Seabrook posed and it stillpresents itself that way. But I think more than that it has come to refer to how we arerepresented by our government and the right to personal liberty. It reveals how governmentexercises decisions on our behalf by elected and appointed officials. That to me means morethan the other issues (Barry Connell interview, May, 1990).

Many were drawn to direct action because they came to the conclusion thatlegal and regulatory decisions were rigged. Cathy Wolff (1979, 292), whobecame a Clamshell organizer, for example, thanked the intervenors for

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documenting “the pronuclear bias of regulatory agencies“, but then noted that“legal intervention is time consuming, complex . . . and an exasperatingprocess, usually undertaken before a stacked jury of nuclear advocates”. AnotherClamshell participant explained that the utilities and the NRC

should tell the truth about the plant, what it is capable of doing to the public and what theyare capable of doing to protect the public . . . [But] the more you scratched the surface, themore you realized there were no truthful answers to be had . . . because the truth is theydid not want the public to know about a whole gamut of things. So we realized that thewhole thing was just a sham (confidential interview, August, 1989).

The perception that systemic efforts at concealment contributed to thedevelopment of a political consciousness was widespread:

I’ve always said that you go through stages of involvement with Seabrook and I’ve seen ithappen with others. You first become aware that there is something wrong here and thenyou become informed and then you come to another level, when you really realize thatthere is something wrong with this whole thing (confidential interview, August, 1989).

People felt that some illusionary facade had fallen away and left behind a deeperinsight into a concealed reality.

Within a month of Seabrook receiving its construction permit, the newlyformed Clamshell Alliance staged its first action. On August 1, 1976, a fewhundred rallied, while 18 New Hampshire residents marched on the site to bearrested. Over the next two years, the Clamshell grew a hundred-fold andmobilized thousands in an organization based on consensus decision makingwith little division of labor. While efforts were made to recruit new members,the Clamshell grew so rapidly that it strained coordinating efforts. At the firstaction, Cushing proposed that each collective action be ten times larger thanthe one preceded it, which proved remarkably close to the reality (Cushinginterview, 1990). In late August, 180 were arrested in the second occupation.And on the first weekend in May of 1977, 2,000 “Clams” set up camp onSeabrook property and stayed for more than 24 hours. Most of the 1,414 whowere arrested that weekend were held for two weeks in makeshift jails in fivenational-guard armories. Governor Thomson pressured the courts so thatprotesters would not be released on their own recognizance and most opted notto post bail. Thomson’s intransigence proved to be a political blunder. Thepolitical standoff drew national media attention and enhanced the Clamshell’sreputation and membership (Gamson & Modigliani, 1989).

As the organization grew, efforts to maintain its participatory style of decisionmaking grew frustrating.12 Plans for a fourth major occupation were made andscuttled and made and scuttled again. A legal rally and alternative energy fairbrought nearly 20,000 people in June 1978, which was the largest antinuclear

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gathering in the U.S., but the group was deeply divided. A more militant faction,Coalition for Direct Action at Seabrook staged two efforts in 1979 and 1980to occupy the Seabrook site that resulted in violent clashes with the state police,who used water cannons, dogs and five-foot wooden staves to prevent occu-pation of the plant’s grounds.

Divisiveness is a common feature of social movements. Given the differencesbetween some of the local organizers and those with a longer history of radicalactivism, several tactical questions were especially difficult to resolve.13

Nevertheless, in the initial months of the Clamshell, participants often describean intense, transformative experience. One described the process of consensusdecision making as “magic” and said, “I listened to other people speak and itwas like they were speaking my own thoughts” (confidential interview,December, 1990). Another said, “I don’t know what it was, but somethinghappened and I grew closer to those people than I think I ever will with anybodyagain” (confidential interview, May, 1990).

The solidarity was not grounded in common beliefs, or an ideology in theordinary sense of the term. The group was a loose confederation of differinggroups and interests. One member suggested that it represented a “nexus of thepeace and environmental movements and for a lack of a better term, themovement for community control, which was about challenging powerfulpolitical and economic interests” (confidential interview, April, 1990). To besure, a number of rationales justified direct action. The group’s foundingstatement maintained that nuclear power “poses a mortal threat to people andthe environment” and argued that “energy should not be abused for privateprofit and people should not be exploited for private profit” (CA, 1976). Thermalpollution meant that the “fishing industries of Maine, New Hampshire and Mass.are thus threatened” (CA, 1977a). “The plant would also destroy salt marsheswhich are invaluable breeding and nesting grounds for fish and birds” (CA,1997a). In the group’s “Declaration of Nuclear Resistance”, it was argued that“nuclear power is dangerous to all living creatures and their natural environ-ment” and that “an unholy alliance has existed between development of theso-called peaceful atom and the proliferation of nuclear weaponry” (CA, 1977b).

These rationales no doubt operated as points of agreement for manyparticipants and helped lay a foundation for a new critique of nuclear powerand a new environmental ethic. Nevertheless, they were fluid arguments thatemerged over the course of the mobilization. Indeed, the basis for the solidarityand the identity of the Clamshell – that is how people came to link their actionsto the collective cause – can not be easily represented because it is does notappear to be based in a specific content. Instead, the “magic” and the intensesolidarity, especially in the initial days of the movement, followed from the

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collective realization of injustice and a deeper structure of power. Themobilization of so many with such modest incentives and recruitment effortsis suggestive of the critical gap the protest movement filled in the critique ofnuclear power. Many simultaneously had come to the same conclusion regardingthe necessity of direct action before a radical critique of nuclear power hadbeen popularized. The mutual recognitions and discoveries contributed to thegroup’s solidarity.

AFTERWORD

After the split with Coalition for Direct Action in 1979, the Clamshell Alliancewas temporarily reduced to a mailing address and a skeleton staff. In theaftermath of the Three-Mile Island accident in 1979, Congress mandated thatevacuation plans for citizens within a 10-mile radius of a plant must be in placeprior to licensing. The political contentions that surrounded evacuation planningcontributed to a new wave of protest and civil disobedience in the mid-1980s,which reanimated the Clamshell.

For the owning utilities, more political and economic resources were alsoforthcoming. In 1984, Reagan administration officials organized a financial planto use a federally supported electrical co-operative to guarantee junk bonds forPSNH. Four years later, PSNH became the first public utility since theDepression to declare bankruptcy and three of the other owning utilitiessubsequently followed suit. Just after the November 1988 elections, Reaganissued an executive order to allow federal agencies to assist in evacuationplanning and circumvent uncooperative state and local governments. Theexecutive order looked like a delayed gift to New Hampshire Governor Sununu(who became Bush’s chief of staff) and a slap at Massachusetts GovernorDukakis, Bush’s Presidential opponent, whose refusal to approve evacuationplans stymied Seabrook’s licensing. Despite its vulnerabilities, Seabrook becamea Pyrrhic victory for the utilities when it received an operating license in 1990.At a cost of $6.5 billion for unit I (unit II was canceled in 1984), the owningutilities have continued to endure considerable distress and New Hampshireresidents suffer some of the highest electricity rates in the country.

A plausible explanation for this volume of political and economic resourcesis that Seabrook had become the site that the nuclear industry refused to losebecause it did not want to provide a tangible victory to the antinuclearmovement. Although the political and economic resources used to save Seabrookthrough the 1980s can not explain the origins of the protest movement in 1976,the resources are indicative of the general political condensation that mademanifest the power of the industry and elements of a radical culture.

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DISCUSSION

In presenting the struggle over Seabrook as a paradigmatic case, I have likelyexaggerated its importance. Protracted and significant confrontations took placeat dozens of other sites, especially at Diablo Canyon, California; at Shoreham,New York; and at Three-Mile Island. The particular qualities associated witheach site undoubtedly have their own idiosyncrasies, yet the simple fact thatthe protest movement spread so quickly that a national antinuclear oppositionhad clearly emerged by 1977 suggests that if the protest movement had notfirst developed at the Seabrook site, then it would have developed elsewhere.Consequently, the features of the Seabrook case and the radical egalitarianismof the Clamshell represent a particular manifestation of a more general set ofconditions. These conditions developed in response to the initial decline of theindustry – a decline that may have been amplified by the OPEC oil embargo,but was likely inevitable given the technological enthusiasm and the massivecommitment to nuclear power evident at the beginning of the decade. I focusedon the Seabrook case to identify the social forces that linked the decline withthe generation of the protest movement because it represents this linkage in itsmost exaggerated and manifest form.

It bears emphasizing that in locating the emergence of the antinuclearmovement in the wake of the industry’s initial decline, I have not implied thatthe movement was politically unimportant. In 1976 and 1977, no one couldhave known that the nuclear industry was to collapse completely and the industrymay have been able to overcome its difficulties if the movement had notintensified political and regulatory pressure and turned public opinion againstit. Indeed, I have argued that the nuclear industry’s own institutional momentumand its accompanying political defense led, in a complicated and mediated way,to the production of its own gravediggers. In addition, the antinuclear movementplayed a key role in articulating and popularizing an environmental ethic andinitiated an on-going cultural re-evaluation of the relations between capital,technology and the environment.

In contemporary social movement theory, the origins of social movements areoften associated with the opening of new political opportunities and the resultingincreases in the likelihood of success that such opportunities offer. The origin ofthe protest movement against nuclear power is not consistent with this logic.Although the industry’s decline certainly led to vulnerabilities that an oppositionattempted to exploit, such weaknesses were hardly foremost in the minds of theactivists who built the Clamshell or the protest movement more generally. Instead,the foundation for the Clamshell’s critique was a response to the social force exercised by the industry, regulatory agencies and political elites in defense of

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Seabrook and the dying industry. Elite intransigence is hardly a political opportu-nity, even though it too represents a shift in political structures, which in this caseand likely in others, facilitated movement formation.

I have tried to link the local emergence of the movement with the industry’sdecline by using a critical theory of power. Since Marx, critical theorists haveoften argued that meaning and culture are heavily influenced by structural andclass conditions that preclude activism and prevent insight into the realconditions of existence. Remarkably, social movement research rarely considersthis argument. Yet if political quiescence is taken as an expression of ideologicalcontrol, then political activism necessarily represents an absence of such control.I have described the transformation associated with these points of contrast asa political condensation. Such a transformation occurs when power relationsintensify to the point where underlying and previously concealed arrangementsmore clearly emerge. Under such conditions, a social movement represents apublic effort to identify and challenge previously concealed conditions. Socialmovements, therefore, may develop after the institutional conditions that arebeing challenged have already started to erode, not necessarily because theerosion creates new opportunities, but because elite mobilization to summonresources to secure its crumbling base reveals a previously hegemonic condition.

Recently, social movement research has returned to issues of political cultureand consciousness after a prolonged focus on political opportunities andorganizational structures (Goodwin & Jasper, 1999). Much of this recent effort isgrounded in a social constructionist perspective that assumes that meaning andculture are contingent and determined through purposive action. Althoughactivists unquestionably struggle to define themselves and develop effectivestrategies, the critical features associated with their identity and purpose can notalways be simply regarded as deliberate accomplishments or cultural construc-tions. Instead, social movements may arise through a structural transformation ofpower relations that create the possibility for a collective “to name the system”.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many people have offered comments on drafts of this paper to whom I am grate-ful. I especially wish to thank Wini Breines, Cliff Brown, Michael Blim, MichaelBrown, Lynn Stephen, Victor DeMunck, Bill Gamson and anonymous reviewers.

NOTES

1. All but 15 of the 249 nuclear reactors ordered in the U.S. were either operatingor had been canceled by the end of 1985 and only a handful of these would eventually

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come on-line. This latter group includes the Seabrook plant (Unit 1), the two reactorsat Diablo Canyon and the plant at Comanche Peak, Texas, which were among the mostcontested sites in the U.S. The exception that confirms the rule is the Shoreham planton Long Island. Shoreham was among those plants that survived through 1985, washeavily contested, but became the clearest victory for the antinuclear movement whenthe $5.5 billion plant was sold to the state of New York for $1 in 1990 (see Eckstein(1997) for a discussion of how this victory ought to be qualified). If protest movementsemerge at the times and places where activists have the most opportunities or the greatestchance for success, then why did the most contested plants survive through the collapseof the industry?

2. Eisinger (1973, 28) argued that “protest is a sign that the opportunity structureis flexible and vulnerable to the political assaults of excluded groups”. If this is so, thenit is tautological to hypothesize that new political opportunities explain the origins ofprotests.

3. This argument is consistent with Eyerman and Jamison’s (1991) claim thatmovements generate a “new cognitive praxis” by providing new ways of thinking, newissues for the historical agenda and new definitions of problems. Eyerman and Jamison’semphasis implies a political process centered on struggles over legitimacy and whichdoes not conceptualize movement activists as opportunists.

4 Merton’s (1957) famous essay concluded with a (largely unheeded) call forresearch on the processes and consequences of making latent functions manifest. Froma different perspective, the whole complex historical process of transforming a class-in-itself into a class-for-itself could be described as a process of political condensation –an accumulation of latent elements that is qualitatively changed due to a collectiverealization.

5. The TMI accident in 1979 certainly invigorated the movement in the short-term,but the long-term effect is difficult to assess. Although the movement may have fadedeven more quickly without the accident, the accident legitimated an antinuclear discourse,which may have resulted in the protest movement losing “ownership“ of the issue.

6. Intervenor is a legal term for parties that gain recognition in the legal andregulatory proceedings between utilities and state and federal agencies.

7. Legal challenges to the Calvert Cliffs plant in Maryland resulted in a court decisionthat required that an environmental impact assessment (largely to address problems ofthermal pollution) be completed prior to the granting of a construction permit by theAEC. This decision resulted in a temporary moratorium of new permits, which accountsfor the dip in orders in 1969 and 1970 (Cook, 1981).

8. The movement was causally over-determined in that it would still have occurredeven if some of the contributing conditions were not present. Conceptually, over-determination and condensation bear a family resemblance (cf. Freud, 1902/1965). Sincea condensation occurs with an accumulation of latent elements, it is possible that achange in form could take place without some elements present.

9. Obtaining a construction permit is a complicated, multi-stage bureaucratic process.To submit an application for a construction permit to the NRC, a utility must receiveapproval by a state siting committee and the state public utility commission (PUC). Theformer, at least as designated in New Hampshire, reviews all matters deemed to be inthe public interest in determining the suitability of a site. The latter reviews mattersassociated with financial and energy markets to determine if the new generation is neededand if the cost will be competitive. The application then goes to the NRC. Initial reviews

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move through a number of bureaucratic steps before a decision is reached by the AtomicSafety Licensing Board (ASLB). This decision is then reviewed by the Commissioners(there are five) of the NRC before a permit (or later an operating license) is issued. AnAtomic Licensing Appeals Board (ALAB) may also review and challenge the decisionof the ASLB or lesser boards.

Official documents on the legal and regulatory history of Seabrook Station are locatedin the Exeter Public Library, Exeter, New Hampshire (where they were reviewed) andthe public documents room of the Nuclear Regulatory Commission in Washington D.C.

10. The data presented on the Seabrook case and the Clamshell were collected aspart of a larger research project. Movement literature on the Clamshell Alliance is locatedin a special collection in the university library at the University of New Hampshire. Thequotes from movement activists are drawn from 28 extensive, unstructured interviews Iconducted between 1989 and 1991. For activists who played prominent, public roles inthe Clamshell, real names are used; for others, I protect anonymity.

11. The discussion here is taken from Chichester interview, November 1990.12. Several years later, a court suit brought against the Clamshell for the law

enforcement costs incurred by the state of New Hampshire resulted in a dismissal becauseof revelations that the Clamshell had been infiltrated by undercover state police, one ofwhom was named as a defendant in the suit. Among other activities, the undercoveragents had intentionally worked to prevent consensus and to frustrate the decision-makingprocess.

13. The reasons for the split and the difficulties of consensus decision making raiseinteresting and important questions, which have already been well explored elsewhere(Barkan, 1979; Downey, 1986; Epstein, 1991; Adair, 1996).

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& M. Zald (Eds), Comparative Perspectives on Social Movements: Political Opportunities,

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of Sociology, 9, 527–553.Joppke, C. (1993). Mobilizing against nuclear energy: A comparison of Germany and the United

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(pp. 19–84). London: The Free Press of Glencoe.Miller, S. (1976). The economics of nuclear and coal power. New York: Praeger.Mitchell, R. (1981). From elite quarrel to mass movement. Society, 18, 76–84.Morris, A. (1992). Political consciousness and collective action. In: A. Morris & C. Mueller (Eds),

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Nichols, E. (1987). U.S. nuclear power and the success of the American antinuclear movement.Berkeley Journal of Sociology, 32, 167–192.

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Price, J. (1990). The anti-nuclear movement. (Rev. ed.) Boston: Twayne Publishers.Rolph, E. (1979). Nuclear power and public safety: A study in regulation. Lexington, MA: Lexington

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179

INACTION, INDIVIDUAL ACTION ANDCOLLECTIVE ACTION AS RESPONSESTO HOUSING DISSATISFACTION: ACOMPARATIVE STUDY OF BUDAPESTAND MOSCOW

Chris Pickvance

ABSTRACT

Responses to dissatisfaction can take the form of inaction, individual action

or collective action (e.g. protest). The aim of the present article is threefold:

to put forward a model which treats these responses as a linked set of

objects of analysis (rather than marginalizing the former two as in the

literature on social movements), to emphasize the importance of social

structure and the institutional context for all three responses (contrary to

Hirschman’s ‘exit, voice and loyalty’ model) and to throw light on

responses to housing dissatisfaction in two former state socialist capital

cities, Budapest and Moscow. It is shown that: (a) inaction in the housing

sphere is concentrated among those in the weakest social structural

position and that attempts to represent this as due to their ‘loyalty’ are

quite mistaken; (b) that individual action is the dominant response to

housing dissatisfaction (an effect of issue domain) and is most common

among those in middling or strong social positions; and (c) that although

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ISBN: 0-7623-0786-2

respondents did not consider collective action as a way of dealing with

their housing dissatisfaction, such action does exist especially in Moscow

where it was due to strong motivation in the face of an unfavourable

political and resource context.

INTRODUCTION

Writers on social movements have developed sophisticated analyses ofcollective action as a response to dissatisfaction. However, inaction andindividual action, the majority responses to dissatisfaction, have received lessattention and analytical models remain poorly developed. The aim of the presentarticle is threefold: to develop a model which treats inaction, individual andcollective action together, to show the importance of contextual influences inunderstanding the first two as well as the third response to dissatisfaction andto throw light on responses to housing dissatisfaction in two former statesocialist capital cities, Budapest and Moscow.

The article is divided into three parts. We start by considering the existingliterature on responses to dissatisfaction; we then sketch in the economic,political and housing context in the two cities; and finally we present an analysisbased on research in Budapest and Moscow carried out in 1993.

I. RESPONSES TO DISSATISFACTION: ANALYTICAL MODELS

The main types of response to dissatisfaction are inaction, individual action andcollective action. The relative frequency of these responses is likely to vary byissue area. For example in the case of dissatisfaction with the environment ornuclear policy the scope for individual action is less than in the case ofdissatisfaction with housing and the incentives for collective action are greater.Research in any one issue area will therefore reflect an issue-based influence.

In the case of housing which is the focus of this article examples of theseresponses are:

(1) Inaction. The household makes no response. It stays in the same dwellingand does not attempt to improve its satisfaction.

(2) Individual action. This refers to actions taken within the dwelling and thosetaken outside. The former include ‘do-it-yourself ’ repairs, or taking inlodgers. The latter includes actions involving the use of administrativechannels (in the case of obtaining state housing, or exchanging or privatizingan existing state flat) and market processes (when buying).

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180 CHRIS PICKVANCE

(3) Collective action. This refers to the formation of protest groups over rents,tenants’ or owners’ rights, etc.

While the literature on social movements has focused on collective action, indi-vidual action when analysed has been treated separately. Inaction has also beenexamined in occasional studies of ‘non-participation’ (which assume that collec-tive action is the ‘normal’ response to dissatisfaction). In this section we reviewsome of the relevant literature. It will be shown that the dominant models ofindividual action are individualist, while both individualist and meso and macrostructural models occur in studies of collective action. It will be argued thatstructural factors need to be extended to individual action too.

The most influential individualist model is that of public choice. It starts fromthe idea that human action can be understood in terms of cost-benefit calculationand goes on to explain the choice between responses to dissatisfaction in termsof the relative costs and benefits of each. This is a powerful model and wasused by Olson (1965) to argue that the rational individual would not participatein collective action if he or she could obtain the benefits by inaction. As anexample he argued that if trade union action leads to a wage rise which goesto all workers irrespective of whether they belong to the union or not it wasrational for the individual to be a ‘free-rider’, obtaining the benefit without thecosts of union membership or industrial action. As a corollary he suggestedthat groups would offer selective benefits (i.e. benefits available to membersonly) in order to encourage their participation.

Clearly this model depends on certain assumptions:

• that human action is indeed rational in the sense defined; and • that it is possible for costs and benefits to be measured so that the validity

of the explanation can be tested.

The counter-arguments to these assumptions are that:

• human action is morally motivated as when participation is inspired by theexpression of solidarity or identity;

• the measurement of costs and benefits is impossible. Public choice theoristsacknowledge the different types of benefit, e.g. material and non-material (orsocial and economic), but cannot define what range of objects will be regardedas costs and benefits or explain how certain processes or objects areconstructed as benefits and others as costs. For example costs of participationsuch as spending a lot of time in collective action may be redefined as benefits(i.e. as a source of gratification) even if the movement fails to secure itsgoals;

• that group-level logic or processes exist which can change individual behaviour.

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181

Hence the danger is that human action becomes defined as rational byassumption, costs and benefits are imputed and the model is preserved fromtest. My own view is that moral and symbolic motivation is as important asthe maximization of the benefit-cost gap, that group-level processes exist whichmay over-ride individual decision making and that structural forces affect thedefinition of costs and benefits. Hence the search for costs and benefits to justifythe public choice model in all cases is chimerical.

Individualist models are taken further in the influential work of Hirschman(1970, 1974) who combines them with strong claims about the functionality ofresponses to dissatisfaction in terms of general economic and social welfare.

Hirschman’s focus is on the three responses to dissatisfaction with privateor public goods and services – ‘exit’, ‘voice’ and ‘loyalty’ – and he adopts acost-benefit approach to the choices made. The best example of exit on its ownis the behaviour of a consumer dissatisfied with a private good or service whoswitches to an alternative product. This switching process is an intrinsic partof the conventional picture of the market economy in which consumers ‘signal’their preferences to producers by their choices of product and producers adjustthe range and price of products they offer to meet consumer demand. Accordingto this picture the consumer has what is almost a duty (if efficiency is to beachieved in resource allocation) to register his or her dissatisfaction actively.This model has no space for the consumer who is dissatisfied but fails to switchto a more satisfactory affordable product: a failure to exit would be evidencethat the consumer was not really dissatisfied. However Hirschman notes that ifconsumers are too responsive to a decline in quality a drastic fall in demandcould jeopardise the existence of the firm and so a combination of ‘alert’ and‘inert’ consumers is optimal if exit is to be an effective feedback mechanism.

For his example of ‘voice’ Hirschman turns to political science which treatsvoting or demand-making as the quintessential way of expressing dissatisfactionwith government policy and services. His proposition is that voice can act likeexit, providing feedback between citizens and governments and enabling thelatter to meet the preferences of the former. Again he notes the paradox thatthe existence of apathetic citizens may lead voice to be a more stable feedbackmechanism.

Finally Hirschman considers ‘loyalty’ as a deterrent to exit or to voice, sinceit makes it less likely that either of them will be chosen by the dissatisfiedperson. (Strictly speaking it is not a mutually exclusive choice with exit andvoice.) Hirschman models the choice between exit, voice and loyalty in termsof individual costs and benefits. Hence where exit is possible, voice will beless likely but may still occur depending on the relative costs and benefits (e.g.perceived efficacy) of each response. Conversely, in the extreme case where

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exit is impossible, conditions will favour voice. In this way the existence ofeach option affects the possibility and effectiveness of the others.

How useful is this approach? Firstly it has the advantage of taking an integratedapproach to inaction, individual action and collective action. Secondly,Hirschman takes a step beyond earlier writers by recognizing the existence ofthose who are dissatisfied but silent, whom he refers to as showing ‘loyalty’.

However it has two weaknesses. Firstly it is part of a functionalist generalmodel which assumes: (a) that dissatisfaction leads to an active response; (b)that the voter, citizen, or consumer is sovereign; and hence that (c) economicand political institutions respond to but do not seek to shape the citizenpreferences. There seems no reason to accept this: models of society withconflict and inequality do not assume this matching of institutional performanceand individual preference and even Hirschman acknowledges that economic andpolitical institutions do not always behave according to his model. Secondlyhis analysis of inaction is unconvincing. His choice of the positive term loyaltyfor those who take no action in response to dissatisfaction follows from hisattachment to the functionalist model. To have used the labels ‘fatalistic’,‘resigned’ or ‘trapped’ instead would have hinted at a stratum of people whose‘negative feedback’ was not being heeded. (See also Bajoit, 1988 who proposes‘apathy’ as a fourth response category).

My own view is that these weaknesses can be overcome by using a model:(a) which allows for structured inequality; (b) in which macro and mesoinstitutional structures can be unresponsive to `feedback’ as well as activelyshaping preferences; and (c) where responses to dissatisfaction are not purelyindividually decided.1

In particular, attention is necessary to the way contexts and institutions affectindividual or collective action. Their influence is concealed in the notion ofcosts and benefits to the individual: for example a hostile authority would beseen a source of increased costs and decreased potential benefits to the individualcontemplating joining collective action. The model proposed below makes goodthis gap while retaining the combined focus on inaction, individual action andcollective action.

It is worth mentioning one study which explicitly addresses the question ofnon-participation. Klandermans and Oegema (1987) show that non-participantsin a peace demonstration either: (a) lacked sympathy with the aims, or (b) ifthey supported it had not been targets of mobilization efforts, occupied aperipheral position in the movement, or faced practical obstacles to participation.This study stresses the primarily ideological motivation of participants and itsstepped approach towards identifying characteristics of non-participants andparticipants is a sensible one.

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When individualist models are applied to collective action, they focus on thequestion of why people participate, as though this was the fundamental questionsince without participants there could be no movement. However the literatureon social movements addresses many other questions beyond that of individualparticipation. They include the structural origins of the issues around whichsocial movements mobilize, their construction of grievances, their modes ofaction, the interaction between movements and other actors (media, politicalparties, governmental units – and especially the strategies of the latter towardsprotest action) and their short and long-term effects on ideas and policies. Thesequestions are largely beyond the scope of individualist models since they gobeyond individual action. They thus open the way to meso- and macro-structural models. Here we pay special attention to political opportunity structureand resource mobilization theories which address these issues.

The majority of social movement research has taken place in North Americanand Western European societies where a democratic political framework couldbe taken for granted. A major theme in this work has been the way that the‘political opportunity structure’ of a society affects how people respond todissatisfaction. This term draws attention to the political context in which peopleact. It has three main components, which are stressed to different extents bydifferent writers: state structure, party structure and state policy – see Kitschelt(1986), Kriesi et al. (1995). State structure concerns the openness of (centraland local) state institutions to citizen pressure, the degree of centralization ofthe state and the capacity of state institutions to develop policy in response tocitizen pressure. The underlying assumption is that the state can act to obstructor encourage protest by how it handles ‘inputs’, by its institutional structureand by its ability to deliver new policy ‘outputs’. However these are separatedimensions and a state which is receptive to pressure, may be ineffective inresponding to it due to its fragmented structure and weak policy capacity. Thesecond component concerns the existence of political parties and theireffectiveness in expressing citizen preferences. The hypothesis here is that whenparties are effective channels of participation and are willing to take new issueson board it is more difficult for social movements to develop – this can explainwhy issues such as peace, the environment and animal rights which cut acrossconventional party agendas are most likely to be expressed in movement form.The final component is state policy towards social movements, which can varyfrom encouraging to co-optive and repressive (Schumaker, 1975).

Another aspect of the socio-political context which has received attention instudies of social movements in capitalist democracies is the process of resourcemobilization (Jenkins, 1983; Lipsky; 1968, Morris & Mueller, 1995; Zald &McCarthy, 1979). This starts from the observation that there are many more

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grievances than movements and hypothesises that the mobilization of resourcesis the key to the taking up of grievances by movement organizations, theirsurvival and success. Resource availability depends both on initial distributionand on the ability to mobilize additional resources from the state, from privateand charitable sources and from the public, through interpersonal networks,professional fund-raising, etc. This suggests that those with more resources aremore likely to mobilize than those with less. The role of the media has alsobeen shown to have a considerable impact on mobilization.

In addition to the importance of meso-level contextual factors studied mostlyby sociologists, macro political structures are also significant. Political scientistshave shown that different political regimes accord citizens different rights, suchas freedom of speech, the right of association, or the right of political partiesto compete in elections and that these structures affect how people respond todissatisfaction. It follows that a change in regime can create significant changesin the channels open to people to express their views. Authoritarian regimesare by definition the most restrictive type but they do not necessarily repressall expressions of dissatisfaction (Linz & Stepan, 1996). Gradual change withinauthoritarian regimes is often observed. For example the cases of Spain, Braziland Hong Kong all show urban protest being tolerated before the right to formopposition political parties was granted – see Pickvance, C. G., 1999). Thus itis not so much the content of the law which indicates the scope for expressingdissatisfaction, but the willingness to enforce it – which declines as authoritarianregimes lose strength. The implications of these theories for state socialist andpost-socialist societies will be discussed in the next section.

Having discussed the macro, meso and micro levels of influence on responsesto dissatisfaction, we need finally to discuss the influence of the fact that weare concerned here with housing as an issue, rather than say environment.Compared with environmental threats such as noise, or air pollution which areessentially collective, housing issues at first sight seem entirely individualized:each household lives in a particular dwelling and is concerned about its cost,state of repair, etc. and about its chances of improving its own situation bymoving or by in-situ changes. However the difference is better seen as one ofdegree. Just as most environmental issues have an individual aspect since theyaffect particular households, so most aspects of housing have a collectiveelement since costs may depend on rents set by local governments, repairs maybe carried out by a public agency, flat dwellers are dependent on lifts, refusecollection, security and other collective facilities, etc. Thus housingdissatisfaction provides grounds for collective interests as well as individualinterests. Hence it is suggested that housing will generate a mix of individualand collective responses to dissatisfaction because of its nature, other things

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being equal, but that the mix will be closer to the individual end of the spectrumthan in the case of the environment.

From the above discussion a model can be advanced in which the choicebetween inaction, individual action and collective action will depend on: (a)the societal context and especially political opportunity structure, ease ofresource mobilization and structured inequality; (b) the issue domain and inparticular the operation of institutions in that domain and hence the scope forindividual action; and (c) (to the extent that individual action is chosen) theresults of the individual calculus regarding action. This model aims to: (a) tryand theorise inaction, individual action and collective responses todissatisfaction together, rather than separately; and (b) show the relevance ofcontextual influences, both societal and issue specific, in the choice of all threetypes of response.

Before outlining the hypotheses to be examined we need to present somedata on the context of the study. As the study was conducted in the early 1990sthe focus is on the situation at that time.

II. CONTEXT AND HYPOTHESES

In this section we sketch a picture of the socio-political context and ‘housingsystem’ in Hungary and Russia in order to put some flesh on the skeletal modeljust outlined and set out some hypotheses about responses to housing dissatis-faction.

Although both Hungary and Russia can be said to be experiencing a ‘transitionfrom state socialism’ – a concept which is deliberately vague about thedestination – this simple phrase hides the fact that each started from a differentpoint and that this has conditioned their subsequent development.

The Soviet Union was a purer example of state socialism than Hungary. TheHungarian economy was never as socialized as the Soviet economy. From thelate 1960s central planning was loosened and the private sector was encouragedso that by the mid-1980s this ‘second’ (i.e. non-state) economy contributed onethird of all wage-type incomes on the basis of one quarter of working hours –far higher than in the Soviet Union. This toleration of the second economy waspartly due to the Hungarian leadership’s desire to avoid a repetition of the 1956uprising. Hence the argument that in Hungary the transition from a centrallyplanned economy goes back two decades.

In terms of political participation, state socialism in both countries encouragedpublic involvement in official mass organisations (peace, youth, women’s, etc.).However letters to newspapers and contacting officials and politicians were alsoaccepted since they implied that grievances were due to defective individual

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decisions rather than to systemic causes. They were not regarded as threateningand had the effect of keeping opposition fragmented. Organized publicopposition was repressed, but dissident activity, restricted to intellectuals, wasto varying extents tolerated.

The Hungarian regime was less rigid than the Soviet one and by the 1970swas relatively tolerant of small localized protests or of dissident intellectuals.By the mid-1980s local protests occurred outside official channels withoutrepression in both countries. The ‘protest repertoire’ widened and Solidarityprovided a model for widely-based social movement activity under statesocialism. The Danube Circle which started in Hungary in 1984 and grew intoa major social movement had nothing like the scale of Solidarity. But as wellas attracting environmentalists opposed to the Danube dam plan, it acted as achannel for anti-regime protest (Fleischer, 1993; Szirmai, 1997). At the sametime in both countries there was a mushrooming of small protest groups as theregimes weakened and became divided (Pickvance, C. G., 1995, 1996). TheHungarian Law on Association was not passed until 1989 and ratified what wasalready tolerated. In the Soviet Union collective action was more localized andsmall scale but as in Hungary it grew sharply in the period before the changeof regime (Pickvance, C. G., 1996). Environmental protest was tolerated by theauthorities but collective housing protest was almost non-existent. Gorbachev’sreform attempts led to the communist party hesitating between its traditionalrole as manager of public participation and recognition that this role was nolonger successful and that social forces had escaped its control. The changesin the tolerance of protest under state socialism show that too much should notbe read off from the name of the regime.

Turning to the post-socialist period, the creation of political parties inHungary in the late 1980s provided a stable framework for the 1990 generalelections that brought in a conservative-nationalist government and the sameparties have continued to compete at elections since then. The dismantling ofthe Soviet Union and the failure of parties to crystallise there meant that thepolitical framework for the Russian transition has been very unfavourable.Election candidates stand under party labels but these refer to ephemeral cliquesrather than stable parties. The political context in Moscow today is lessdemocratic and more authoritarian than in Budapest (Fish, 1995; Pickvance, K.,1998).

Economically too, the Hungarian economy has had a smoother passage thanthe Russian. By 1995 Hungarian GDP was 86% of its 1989 level whereasRussia’s was 55%. Hungary’s stable institutional framework and past experienceof private enterprise has made it attractive to foreign investment. Between 1989and 1995 it received $1113 per capita, compared with $21 per capita in Russia.

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Both countries have experienced inflation and unemployment but in Russia therate of inflation was over 2000% in 1992 which effectively wiped out all savingsheld in roubles. In Hungary it has never exceeded 35%. Lastly, incomedistribution has remained relatively stable in Hungary whereas it has becomemore unequal in Russia. (All data are from EBRD, 1996).

The implications of this for the collective expression of dissatisfaction are asfollows. In Moscow the political context has been very unfavourable to socialmovement formation. Power has remained highly centralized, elected politicianshave little influence over officials, authorities are not responsive to citizenorganizations which they treat as troublemakers, the media are strictly controlledand are unsympathetic to protest groups, resource availability is low and eco-nomic survival is the top priority for much of the population. It is true that politi-cal parties do not offer a stable alternative channel of participation, but this is anisolated feature which does not relieve the bleak landscape. In Budapest, there hasbeen a decentralization of power to local governments, elected politicians havereal influence, authorities are mostly responsive to pressure, the media are largelyfree and sympathetic to citizen group stories, resource availability is greater andeconomic constraints are not so pressing as in Russia. Political parties are a stablechannel for political activity but constitute the only discouraging factor in what isa very favourable political context for citizen groups.

Finally, since as indicated earlier the scope for individual and collective actionis not determined by the political context but also depends on the issueconcerned, a brief outline of the housing sphere is presented. This will showhow housing institutions work, what issues give rise to dissatisfaction and whatscope there is for individual action.

Under state socialism both Hungary and the Soviet Union always had extensiveprivate housing in rural areas, but in urban areas it was in a minority and statehousing was the norm. In Moscow this was under the control of councils andenterprises with the latter refusing to transfer their housing stock to councils. InBudapest administrations and enterprises also had a role but councils played thelargest role. State housing was allocated administratively but in Moscow it hasbeen suggested that 49% went to officials who by-passed the waiting list(Kalinina, 1992). In Budapest there is evidence that in the 1960s state housing wasallocated to those with the highest status positions and of a positive associationbetween quality of flat and social status (Szelenyi, 1983; Bodnar, 1996). InBudapest private housing was encouraged by subsidies from the 1970s and thissector has been attractive to some state flat tenants; meanwhile from the 1970spoorer families were given greater priority in state flat allocation (Hegedus &Tosics, 1983). Nevertheless in both Moscow and Budapest state flats were syn-onymous with a long waiting period and young couples would typically share a

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flat with their parents. In Moscow this was particularly true. In both countries itshould be pointed out that state tenants had strong de facto rights since they couldand did exchange flats with each other often with side payments and in Budapestcould sell the tenancy itself thereby providing ‘back door’ access to state flats (seeFrench, 1995, 140; Douglas, 1997, 61).

Traditionally state housing was seen as a ‘gift’ and rent levels were verylow. This is still true in Moscow (our survey showed people paying under 1%of their income on rents), but in Budapest since the late 1980s there has beena sharp increase in rent levels (e.g. from 3 to 15% of incomes). Housingmaintenance has been neglected in both cities and the agencies charged withthis function are widely criticised as slow and inefficient.

The main change in the housing field in the early 1990s was housingprivatization. In Hungary this policy had been introduced in 1969 but only tookoff when the conditions were eased with the regime change in 1990. Tenantswere offered ownership of their flats at a large discount and further discountswere given to those who could pay cash. Tenants’ responses depended on thequality, location, price and state of repair of the flat and their own income orwealth (Hegedus et al., 1996; Bodnar, 1996). The effect was that that the betterflats were privatised by those with higher incomes, while the worse quality flatsremained in the state rented sector occupied by poorer households – a‘residualization’ process not unlike that experienced in the sale of U.K. publichousing (Forrest & Murie, 1988). The proportion of the January 1990 stock ofstate flats in Budapest which were sold rose from 20% (January, 1992) to 35%in June 1993. In 1993, in advance of the general election, an easing of financialconditions facing tenants was announced, together with a promise to transformthe council’s right to sell into a tenant’s right to buy (Douglas, 1997, 75). ByJanuary 1995, 56% of the stock had been sold (Hegedus et al., 1996, 118).2

In the Soviet Union, housing privatization was allowed from mid-1990. InMoscow a policy of free privatization was adopted: tenants could becomeowners of their flat without charge. As in Budapest, councils could keep propertyout of the privatization process. This could occur if a building was in poorcondition, was suitable for renewal, or was a historic building. Shops and othercommercial spaces were also excluded. Initially there was little interest inhousing privatization in Moscow. But there was a dramatic change in 1992 andby mid-1993 35% of state flats there had been transferred to their tenants. Theslow initial response seems to have been due to the unstable economic, politicaland legal context, fears of a reversal of the policy and to uncertainty over therights of owners (e.g. their right to sell, or to pass on the flat to their children)and about their liabilities (e.g. to pay property taxes) – these last were linkedpartly with the relative unfamiliarity of the notion of private housing. What

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appears to have made housing privatization attractive is: (a) the emergence ofa private housing market which revealed that state flats could be valuable assets;(b) the December 1992 law which reduced public uncertainty about governmentcommitment to the policy; (c) political reassurances about the rights andobligations of owners; and (d) the experience of hyper-inflation in 1992–1993which meant the rouble ceased to be a credible store of value.

Finally whereas environmental protest started in both Hungary and the SovietUnion in the 1970s, housing protest developed only in the late 1980s over issuessuch as flat allocation, housing repairs, homelessness and housing privatization.While the former two issues were ‘old’, the latter two issues were related tothe wider economic and social changes occurring.

The two main housing movements in Budapest in the period concerned werea lobby for the homeless mainly concentrated among intellectuals and a tenantsassociation with a branch structure which advised tenants on privatization. Itwas a service-providing organization which made service recipients ‘members’for a nominal payment. It therefore seems debatable whether this counts ascollective action. Beyond housing however there was a higher level of citizengroup activity, e.g. there were some 300 environmental groups nationally.

In Moscow by contrast there were 500 ‘housing partnerships’ and 250neighbourhood self-management committees (Pickvance, C. G., 1996; Shomina,1997). The former were based in buildings reserved by local governments forrenewal and hence excluded from privatization. The tenants sought to benefitfrom renewal by receiving a share of the commercial rents charged for officeor retail space but the local governments refused these demands. Neverthelessthe high potential economic gains motivated the movements. The neighbourhoodself-management committees had neighbourhood as well as housing objectives:they ranged from making weak demands for better facilities to strong demandsagainst eviction and for a share in the profits of renewal. The combination ofrepressive local authorities and unsympathetic media meant that these groupsthough existing were not widely known about.

What are the implications of these contexts for responses to housing dissat-isfaction? We would put forward the following hypotheses:

1. Hypotheses Regarding Individual ActionThe scope for individual action depends on: • the scope for movement into and within the state housing sector, which depends

on its scale relative to need and the scope it allows for exchanges within it.(Privatization reduces the scale of the sector and takes out the best housing.)

• the scope for moving within the private sector which depends on its scaleand the affordability of units within it, and

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• the scope for privatization. (This has a dual effect, reducing the size of thestate sector and increasing the size of the private sector, but for the tenant itis an opportunity for improvement).

Unfortunately the complexity of these arguments makes it difficult to formulateclear hypotheses about the relative extent of individual moves in the two cities.

2. Hypotheses Regarding Collective ActionIt has been argued that collective action depends on political opportunitystructure, resource mobilization and motivation.

The scope for collective action is greater

• the more open the political opportunity structure (media sympathy, responsiveofficials)

• the greater the availability of resources to movement actors

In both respects Budapest shows the more favourable context and on this basisonly we would predict greater collective action.

On the other hand there are counter-tendencies:

• the more developed are political parties as a form of political participationthe less the ‘monopolistic’ situation of social movements and hence the lessthe expected collective action

• the greater the individual motivation to form protest groups the more likelycollective action is to occur.

In both respects the Moscow situation favours collective action more. Hencethe hypotheses regarding collective action point in conflicting directions, i.e.there are counteracting tendencies. Given the evidence cited above on theincidence of housing groups in the two cities we would suggest that the positiveinfluence on housing movement organizations exerted by the politicalopportunity structure and resource availability in Budapest is outweighed bythe stronger motivation to protest in Moscow.

3. Hypotheses Regarding Interaction Between Individual and Collective ActionIt might be deduced from Hirschman that if macro and meso political structuresmake collective action more difficult (i.e. raise its costs), they make individualaction relatively more likely. However this is not so. The scope for individualaction is not simply a consequence of the scope for collective action, but isequally influenced by the barriers or lack of barriers to individual action createdby housing provision, management and finance institutions. There is nothing toexclude the possibility that there are obstacles to both individual and collectiveaction at least for some social groups, something we shall return to below.

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4. Hypotheses Regarding Inactions The theoretical arguments regarding inaction are less developed than forindividual and collective action. However it is hypothesized that inaction isgreater

• the less the volume of individual and collective action (by definition)• the greater the proportion of households in poverty.

Income data suggest inaction for the second reason should be greater in Moscowthan Budapest.

III. HOUSING SATISFACTION AND RESPONSES TO IT IN BUDAPEST AND MOSCOW

In this section we examine the extent of satisfaction with housing in Budapestand Moscow in the early 1990s and people’s responses to it.

Before describing the levels of housing satisfaction of the samples ofhouseholds in Moscow and Budapest, it is necessary to recognise the limitationsof satisfaction studies. Three can be distinguished. Firstly as a subjective concept,satisfaction is judged by people according to their expectations. If these are higherin one country than another, levels of satisfaction there will be lower, other thingsbeing equal.3 Secondly it can only be an assumption that measures of satisfactionwith an object (say size of flat) refer to that object and are unaffected by more gen-eralized dissatisfaction. This can seriously affect measures of general satisfaction,but specific satisfaction (i.e. satisfaction with different objects) is less likely to beaffected. Thirdly it is often objected that measures of satisfaction tell us about atti-tudes rather than action. This is quite correct, but is only an objection if it isassumed that action can be read off from attitudes.

With these reservations in mind, we now examine housing satisfaction inBudapest and Moscow. The data consist of interviews with 200 adults inBudapest and 750 in Moscow in early 1993 drawn by two-stage randomsampling as part of the Economic and Social Research Council project‘Environmental and housing movements in Hungary, Estonia and Russia’. Thedifferent sample sizes mean that the figures for Moscow are more accurate thanfor Budapest and that correlations in the Moscow data are more likely to bestatistically significant. Ideally much larger samples would have been used andmore reliable conclusions drawn. However given the limited amount of researchin this field, let alone research which is both large scale and comparative, theresults below are presented without any claim to high precision but as a usefulbaseline for subsequent studies.

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i. General and Specific Housing Satisfaction

We gathered data on housing satisfaction in two ways: firstly by asking aquestion about respondents’ general satisfaction with their housing and secondlyby asking about their satisfaction with specific aspects of housing. For bothtypes of question we recorded responses on a five-point scale from ‘leastsatisfied’ to ‘most satisfied’.

In terms of the general satisfaction question, households in Budapest weremore satisfied with their housing than households in Moscow. In Budapest 53%placed themselves in the top two categories compared with 43% in Moscow;conversely 18% placed themselves in the lowest two categories compared with31% in Moscow. This difference was real but not huge. (Bater et al., 1995,678 report similar levels of housing satisfaction in their 1993 Moscow study.)

We now examine the aspects of housing which gave rise to mostdissatisfaction, which were very different in the two cases, as Table 1 shows.

Firstly the most basic aspects of housing, such as not being able to form anindependent household (sharing with parents), size and number of rooms, werethe most frequently chosen sources of dissatisfaction in Moscow. This relatesto objective differences between housing in the two cities: there is a greatershortage of housing in Moscow, e.g. housing space in Moscow (median 44 sq.m., mode 40 sq. m. in our survey and in Budapest, median 56 sq. m., mode 57sq. m). Secondly, levels of rents and bills were far less unpopular in Moscow

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Table 1. Aspects of Housing Placed in the Two Lowest Categories of Dissatisfaction on a Five Point Scale.

Budapest Moscow

Bills 42 Sharing with parents* 38Maintenance 40 Size 36Location 35 Number of rooms 36Size 30 Layout 34Rent 29 Maintenance 33Number of rooms 24 Amenities 22Layout 20 Floor 19Floor 19 Bills 16Sharing with parents* 19 Rents 15Amenities 6 Location 10

N.B. On all items, don't knows, no information, etc. are excluded from the base. *In this case the base is those who were sharing.

than Budapest. This can be related to the actual level of housing costs in thetwo cities. In Moscow the median and modal ratios of housing cost/income inour survey were both 1%; while in Budapest the median ratio was 17% andthere were two modal ratios (10% and 20%).

Finally there was a sharp difference in the level of dissatisfaction with locationwhich was considered unsatisfactory by only 10% of Muscovites compared with35% of Budapest dwellers. Location is an ambiguous concept. Assuming that itwas understood as position in the whole city there are two complementaryexplanations. The first is that to the extent that having one’s own accommodation,or accommodation of a reasonable size is the priority in Moscow, it is notsurprising that location has low priority. The second is to do with the degree ofresidential social segregation. In Budapest there is greater residential socialsegregation because of: (a) the encouragement of private housebuilding; and (b)the extensiveness of quasi-market processes in the state sector (i.e. exchanges andsales of tenancies) in the last two decades (Ladanyi, 1989). Hence location is agreater source of differentiation and has greater significance as a housing priority.In Moscow these processes and the consequent residential segregation have beenmuch weaker though French (1995, 50) suggests that in recent decades residentialsocial segregation by area has increased, whereas previously it was by building.

To explore people’s perceptions of housing further, we asked respondentswhether they wanted to improve their housing conditions and if so in what way.In Budapest 50% said yes, compared with 71% in Moscow, a difference whichis consistent with the contrast in general dissatisfaction. When we asked thosewho said yes what changes they sought, in Budapest a better location (77%)and a larger flat (65%) came first. In Moscow all amenities (89%), self-containedaccommodation (87%), a bigger flat (80%) and a better layout (73%) were morepopular – and a different location was least popular. These preferences werebroadly in line with the specific dissatisfactions reported in Table 1.

There was also a group who when asked whether they expected to realise

the improvements in housing conditions they wanted, said they had ‘no hope’.This group amounted to 22% of the total Budapest sample but 32% of theMoscow sample. We shall return to it below.

In sum it can be seen that Budapest households are better housed in termsof space than Muscovite households and are more generally satisfied with theirhousing. However there are similar ranges of dissatisfaction about specific itemsin both cities (from 10–40%), though the objects of dissatisfaction are verydifferent. Sharing and space cause more dissatisfaction in Moscow while costand location cause more dissatisfaction in Budapest. In both cities there was asizeable minority who felt they had no hope of change.

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ii. Satisfaction and Social Structure

So far we have explored housing satisfaction for the whole samples in eachcity. We now explore the extent to which general housing satisfaction is sociallystructured.

The widely accepted picture of housing distribution under state socialism isthat, contrary to the prevailing ideology, it enabled the highest status groups toobtain the best housing and that processes since 1989–1990 such as housingprivatization and the expansion of the private sector have enabled these groupsto reinforce their housing position (Szelenyi, 1983; Bodnar, 1996). Howeverthis does not lead to a set of specific hypotheses about general housingsatisfaction since the latter may be poorly correlated with housing situation. Itwould therefore be surprising to find strong correlations between generalhousing satisfaction and social structural variables and in fact such correlationswere all weak and even in unexpected directions:

Income. In Moscow there was a slight tendency for the lowest income groupsto be more satisfied (Cramer’s V = 0.13).4 In Budapest there was no statisticallysignificant correlation between general housing satisfaction and income.

Education. Likewise in Moscow there was a slight tendency for the less educatedto be more satisfied (V = 0.11) but no correlation between education and generalhousing satisfaction in Budapest.

Age. In both cities the young were more dissatisfied than the old (B(udapest)V = 0.24; M(oscow) V = 0.17).

Gender. Women were slightly more likely to be generally satisfied with theirhousing but this was not statistically significant.

Tenure. In Moscow there was a weak relationship (V = 0.16) between tenureand general satisfaction showing those living in state flats to be less satisfiedand those who had privatized their flat or were in co-op flats to be more satisfied.In Budapest those who had privatized their flat were most satisfied and thosewho were in a state flat or a co-op flat were least satisfied but V was notstatistically significant. (Both findings suggest that general housing satisfactiondepends partly on objective features of housing and that a residualization processis occurring in state housing).5

Overall then, the relationships between social structural variables and generalhousing satisfaction were weak: age was most strongly related to generalhousing satisfaction (in both cities) (the old being more satisfied), while lowincome and low education groups were slightly more satisfied in Moscow. There

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was a suggestion in both cities that those who had privatized their flat weremore satisfied than those still living in state flats.

iii. Responses to Dissatisfaction

In Section I we identified three types of response to dissatisfaction and arguedthat inaction could not be equated with loyalty. We now explore these responses.

a. Individual Action

Firstly, we examine responses to the questions ‘would you like to improve yourhousing conditions?’ and (for those who said yes) ‘how do you expect toimprove your housing conditions?’

In both Moscow and Budapest, we found extremely strong correlationsbetween being dissatisfied with housing conditions and wanting to improve them(V = 0.60 B; V = 0.61 M). Although this suggests that general dissatisfactionwith housing strongly conditions desire for improvement, the correlation is notperfect since even some of those in the highest categories of housing satisfaction(4 and 5) want to improve their housing, (see Table 2).

Secondly we go on to explore whether, in response to dissatisfaction, house-holds actually expected to improve their housing situation. By asking whetherrespondents expected to improve their situation we wanted to introduce theconstraints of ‘reality’ on aspirations. Respondents were offered a range ofoptions and asked to choose one. They are listed in Table 3. Referring back tothe earlier classification, the first response refers to ‘inaction’ and all theremainder refer to various forms of individual action (all external to thehousehold with the exception of ‘repair’).

We consider in turn those who expected improvement and those who did not. Table 3 shows that over half of the respondents who wanted to improve theirsituation expected to do so by the individual modes of action listed (57% inBudapest; 54% in Moscow – see final column, adding all rows after the first):the most popular channel was exchange, but purchasing, building and using the

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Table 2. Proportion at Each Level of General Housing Satisfaction Wanting to Improve their Housing in Each City.

Level of general satisfaction with housing

Lowest Highest Overall

1 2 3 4 5Budapest 100 90 76 29 13 52Moscow 98 96 88 57 22 71

council or enterprise were also mentioned. No respondents mentioned collectiveaction in the ‘Other’ category. The lack of differences in the totals reflects thefact that individual action is possible in various tenure categories. Thedifferences between the two cities in the role of exchanges, purchases, building,council and enterprise housing reflect the different housing situation in the twocities. A subsequent question revealed that these respondents had mostly takensteps to improve their housing situation: in Budapest this was true of all thosewho said they expected to buy and 60% of those who said they would buildor exchange; in Moscow it was true of all those who said they would exchange,80% of those who said they expected to obtain council or co-op housing orbuy a house, but among under 10% of those who expected to do repairs. It istherefore reasonable to categorize those who expected to improve their housingas mostly active in pursuit of their desire to improve.

This table also shows the association between four current tenure categoriesand expected methods of individual action to improve their housing. Theresulting correlation coefficients are statistically significant (V = 0.36 B;

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Table 3. Proportions Expecting to Improve their Housing Situation in Specificways (or none) by Current Housing Situation, in Budapest (B) and Moscow

(M), early 1993 (vertical percentages).

B M B M M B B M

None/no hope 42 45 54 46 57 56 43 46Enterprise 9 1 0 8Council 9 4 2 8Inherit 3 5 0 10 10 0 2 6Exchange 36 14 21 17 12 19 24 14Co-op 5 2 6 4Buy 12 6 25 11 10 6 17 7Build 3 0 0 2 2 13 8 1Repair 0 1 0 1 2 6 1 1Other 3 5 0 6 0 0 6 5N 33 379 24 74 47 16 101 518

N.B. The base consists of those who said they wanted to improve their housing conditions; it there-fore excludes those who did not want to improve their housing situation, don't knows, etc. Tenurecategories where n was less than 10 are included in the ‘All’ column only – this explains theabsence of separate columns for ‘co-op flat’ and ‘old private’ in Budapest and Moscow respectively.

Ways ofimproving State Flat Bought from Co-op Old Allsituation council flat private

Current housing situation

V = 0.17 M). In Budapest state tenants are more likely to expect to use exchangeand ex-state tenants are more likely to expect to buy; in Moscow ex-state tenantsand co-op flat dwellers resemble each other in their rejection of council andenterprise housing and preferences for private housing, while state tenants showthe opposite pattern.

b. Inaction

We now turn to those who wanted to improve their housing situation but didnot expect to do so (Table 3, first row). What is striking is that these groupsamount to nearly half (43% in Budapest, 46% in Moscow) of those wantingimprovement. (As proportions of the whole sample in the two cities theyrepresent 22% and 32%.) This means that there is a sizeable minority in bothcities who appear trapped in their housing situation. Hirschman would describethem as showing ‘loyalty’ but this label seems quite inappropriate.

Cross-tabulation showed that this ‘no hope’ group was made up of relativelydeprived households. Compared with the other households who wanted toimprove their housing, this group were more likely to have the following features:

• low income (B); low and medium income (M*) (N.B.* = statisticallysignificant correlation. See footnote 4.)

• primary education (B, M*)• older age (B, M*)• women (B, M*)• housing tenure type (B*, M*): being in old private housing (B), in housing

bought from the council (B), or in a co-op flat (M).

The first four characteristics suggest that we are dealing with a groupexperiencing across-the-board underprivilege: having no hope of better housingis additional to scoring low on income and education, being older and female.(The tenure correlations are complex to interpret. One possibility is thatprivatizing one’s flat leaves size and location unchanged and for olderhouseholds it may be a matter of achieving limited control over living conditionsbut without further prospect of improvement.)

This leads to the further question of whether this group’s belief that noimprovement in their housing is likely is linked to a lack of action in pursuitof better housing.

Unfortunately we assumed that the ‘no hope’ group had not taken any stepstowards improving their housing, rather than asking them. However we did askthem whether in the past they had made contact with politicians or officialsabout their housing problems. This revealed that the ‘no hope’ group was lesslikely to have used such contacts and that the correlations were substantively

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(as well as statistically) significant in both cities but particularly in Budapest(see Table 4). It also revealed that Budapest officials were perceived as beingmore approachable than those in Moscow – confirming our earlier commentson contrasts in meso institutional structure.

There is a limit to the extent to which we can interpret this evidence in theabsence of over-time data. However it is compatible with either of the followinghypotheses which are familiar to students of ghettos: (a) the ‘culture of poverty’hypothesis that a belief that improved housing is unlikely leads to low activityin pursuit of improved housing and failure to escape from a weak structuralsituation, or (b) the ‘structuralist’ hypothesis that low activity and expressing‘no hope’ are part of a syndrome of features which have developed due to theweak structural situation of the group.

It is possible that having used contacts in dealing with housing problems makespeople more hopeful of achieving an improvement. Against this, the proportionswith contacts were minorities in each city (see Table 4). It is more likely thatusing contacts in resolving housing problems is part of a syndrome in whichthose with greater material and cultural resources (income, education) havegreater knowledge about how to ‘work the system’ and greater coping ability.

To sum up, it has been argued firstly that among those seeking improvementin their housing the vast majority use individual action rather than collectiveaction and secondly that there is a sharp difference between those who do notexpect any improvement (the ‘no hope’ group who can be treated as showing‘inaction’) and those who do and this is reflected both in the contrastingstructural positions of the two categories and in their (past) levels of individualactivity in pursuit of better housing. This difference was all the more strikingbecause general (dis)satisfaction with housing itself was weakly correlated withany social structural variable. This implies that social structural influences affect

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Table 4. Proportion of Each Group using Contacts with Politicians andOfficials in Connection with past Housing Problems, According to

Expectation of Improvement, by City.

Budapest Moscowpoliticians officials politicians officials

No hope group 5% 9% 9% 14%Those expecting 19% 37% 15% 20%ImprovementV 0.36* 0.51* 0.20* 0.19*

N.B. The base is all households wanting improvement.

how people respond to housing dissatisfaction more than they affect their levelof satisfaction or desire for improvement.

However the reason why those with ‘no hope’ of housing improvement arestructurally disadvantaged is not due to their characteristics as such but to theway housing institutions respond to those characteristics.

c. Collective Action

Finally we turn to collective action as a response to housing dissatisfaction. Weasked a specific question to establish what proportion of the total sample ineach city were or had been members or occasional participants in housingmovement organizations. The answer was 2% in Moscow and 4% in Budapest.(The comparable figures for environmental movement organizations were 4%and 10%). This makes sense in terms of the relative recency of housing protestand shows that collective action in the housing sphere is a rare phenomenon.However if these proportions are translated into numbers, they imply 110,000individuals have been participants in Moscow and 50,000 in Budapest.

Since, as mentioned earlier, none of the respondents who wanted to improvetheir housing situation expected to do so by collective action, the discussionhere concerns stated reasons for not participating in housing movementorganizations based on the whole sample. These are presented in Table 5. Theheadings A to E in Table 5 are an attempt to group the reasons into meaningfulcategories. However they are somewhat arbitrary and other groupings can beimagined. Obviously, stated reasons may be inaccurate but until further studiesare available it is not possible to explore this. In interpreting this table, for thereasons mentioned earlier, no attention is paid to small differences.

We start by examining those reasons given for not taking collective actionwhich are roughly common across the two cities (A, C, D) and then examinethe responses which show considerable differences (namely opportunity andbenefit-related responses, B and E).

Responses A which indicated housing was not a problem (‘not interested inhousing issues’ and ‘no housing problem’) are not of interest since by definitionthose without a housing problem would not be expected to take part in collectiveaction. Responses C (time constraint) and D (perceptions of alternativeresponses) have in common that they imply that people do have a housingdissatisfaction to which they wish to respond and that they do not take part incollective action for a specific reason. ‘No time to participate’ (C) is a verycommon response and corresponds to households facing economic pressure andtrying to make ends meet. The type D responses seem to be made up of threefrequent responses. ‘Prefer individual solutions’, the most frequent response(54–65%), is a striking result. It supports the hypothesis that collective action

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is less likely when individual action is viable, as is clearly the case in thehousing field as seen in Table 3.6 The other responses in the C and D categoriesseem to fall into two groups: a general antipathy to collective action shared byabout half the respondents (the Olson-inspired ‘no need to participate as longas others do’ and ‘dislike political involvement’) and a negative judgementabout housing movement organizations (disbelief in their success, disapprovalof their methods, distrust of their organisers) held by 20–40%.

Thus the dominant common themes in the two cities in people’s stated reasonsfor non-involvement in collective action over housing problems (ignoring those who do not have such problems) are that they lack time or prefer individual solutions (around half), or that they do not like collective action (aminority to half).

Turning now to the responses where there were very sharp differences betweenthe two cities; these occurred in four cases, all in the opportunities and benefitscategories, B and E. Firstly, Moscow respondents were 2–3 times more likely thanBudapest respondents to mention unawareness of opportunities to join housingmovement organizations or having no chance to join them as reasons for non-par-ticipation in them. This is probably because although, as shown earlier, housing-related groups are more numerous in Moscow these groups receive less attention

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Table 5. Reasons Given for Non-Participation in Housing Movements.

Budapest Moscow

A. Relevance

Not interested in housing issues 14 22No housing problem 24 29

B. Opportunity

No chance to join 25 68Not aware of any such groups 35 65

C. Constraint

No time to participate 54 47D. Perception of alternative responses

Prefer individual solutions 54 65No need to participate as long as others do 48 61Dislike political involvement 52 47Do not believe they can be successful 39 34Don’t trust organisers 31 25Disapprove of methods used 21 19

E. Benefits

No personal material benefits 31 5No personal political benefits 19 3

N.B. More than one reason could be given.

in the media and in the case of housing partnerships are concentrated in blocksexcluded from housing privatization and so are not real alternatives for the largemajority who do not live in such blocks. The second finding, that Muscovites were5–6 times less likely than Budapest residents to give the lack of personal benefitsfrom housing movement organization participation as a reason for non-participa-tion, is probably also due to Muscovites’ limited knowledge of them (and theirconsequent over-estimation of their potential success). The higher responses byBudapest respondents imply greater knowledge or awareness of collective actionwhich has not brought them personal benefits. This is a surprising response sincehousing movement organizations have not been repressed or hindered inBudapest. However they have often been co-opted and this may explain the morenegative view of the benefits likely to be obtained through them in Budapest(Gyori, 1997; Pickvance, C. G., 1994).

Taken together, these findings confirm: (a) the viability of individual actionas a response to dissatisfaction in the housing sphere in both cities; and (b) theirrelevance (and among some, distrust) of collective action in overcominghousing dissatisfaction. As we saw earlier although Budapest offered the morefavourable context for collective action, there were actually more housingmovements in Moscow due to the motivational factor operating on those fighting(in vain) to have their blocks privatized. However it was the lack of publicitygiven to this action due to an unsympathetic media and its irrelevance to thevast majority of households who did not live in buildings excluded fromprivatization which explain people’s low awareness and unrealistic expectationsof it. Thus an adequate explanation needs to take into account the issue domain,the viability of individual action and the contextual influences on the possibilityof individual and collective action.

IV. CONCLUSION

One reason for writing this article was in response to the literature on socialmovements which essentially studies the tip of the iceberg of responses todissatisfaction. Moreover it is a tip which has the advantage of being interestingto study. The social movements studied by most scholars are socially progressivefrom a left point of view and scholars are likely to sympathise with the goalsbeing pursued. (This is not because ‘non-progressive’ social movements do notexist: anti-abortion, anti-tax and racist movements exist and are studied but farless often than ‘new social movements’. Some writers even exclude ‘non-progressive’ movements from the definition of social movements – seeEder, 1993.) The danger with such writing is that it creates a division betweenthe study of those issues whose pursuit takes place mainly in the political arena

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202 CHRIS PICKVANCE

and those which are pursued mainly through individual action. This leads tothe marginalization of non-public responses and to a failure to theorise thechoice between or mix of individual and collective action used in particularcases. This in turn leads to the inadequate development of theory regardingthem, as illustrated by Hirschman’s work with its individualism and function-alist assumptions about how institutions operate.

The aim of this article has been to put forward a model which treats inaction,individual action and collective action as a linked set of objects of analysis,which emphasizes the importance of social structure and the institutional contextand which recognizes the impact of the issue domain.

Firstly it has been argued that inaction in the housing sphere is concentratedamong those in the weakest social structural position and that attempts to represent this as due to their ‘loyalty’ are quite mistaken. To disentangle the causalrelations behind the correlation between inaction and weak social structural posi-tion is difficult. We showed that general housing dissatisfaction was only weaklycorrelated with social structural characteristics. In other words those in the weak-est positions were scarcely more likely to be dissatisfied with their housing thanthose in stronger positions but they were more likely to be inactive. Inaction partlyreflects the policies and practices of state and private housing market institutions,but may also be more directly due to social structure, e.g. a poor educational back-ground making people less persistent in dealing with such institutions.

Secondly it has been argued that individual action is the dominant responseto housing dissatisfaction and that it is more common among those in middlingor strong social positions. This is partly because state and private institutionsprovide opportunities for individual action by such groups to be effective. Thehigh preference for individual solutions is an effect of issue domain.

Thirdly we have shown that although the respondents in our survey did notconsider collective action as a way of dealing with their housing dissatisfactionsuch action did exist especially in Moscow. Since Moscow was the city wherethe political opportunity structure and resource situation was less favourable tocollective action, we interpreted this finding as showing that motivation couldovercome an unfavourable context and lead to collective action in the housingsphere. What it could not do however, given the hostility of local governmentsin Moscow, was to lead to successful collective action.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Earlier versions of this article were presented at the European Science Foundationconference on the Future of European Cities at Acquafredda di Maratea, Italy, a

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203

seminar at the University of Kent at Canterbury and the European SociologicalAssociation in Amsterdam, September 1999. I would like to thank the participantson all these occasions for their suggestions and especially Dieter Rucht for hishelpful written comments which led to a major revision. The project on which thearticle is based was carried out by Nick Manning, Katy Pickvance, Sveta Klimovaand the author at the University of Kent from 1991–1994. Details of availableproject publications can be found on the webpage www.ukc.ac.uk/DSPP/URSU.I would also like to thank ESRC for funding the research and my colleagues fortheir stimulation and Katy Pickvance for computing help.

NOTES

1. For elaborations of Hirschman’s model which broadly accept his approach butmultiply the number of possible responses, see Barry (1974), Birch (1975), Cox (1978)and Bajoit (1988).

2. This is because the housing problem defined by policy-makers was the fact of stateownership. Other housing problems such as falling levels of new building, decreasingaffordability and the inequitable distribution of subsidies have not been defined asproblems – see Hegedus et al. (1996) on the Hungarian case.

3. Ideally one could explore what these expectations are. But this is unlikely to besatisfactory since expectations themselves are another ‘soft’ category with peoplereferring variously to realistic and ideal states. It probably has to be accepted thatsatisfaction and expectations are part of a bundle which cannot be broken down.

4. Cramer’s V is a chi squared based measure ranging between 0 and 1 which isindependent of the number of rows and columns in the tables being compared. Giventhe larger sample in Moscow and hence increased chance of correlations beingstatistically significant, too much weight should not be given to contrasts in statisticalsignificance between the two cities.

5. Our study showed no statistically significant correlations between householdlocation (when measured on a four-point scale of distance from the centre) and householdage, income, education or tenure. We take this to indicate that residential socialsegregation in the two cities operates at smaller scales than these four categories, e.g.there will be ‘better’ and ‘worse’ areas within each concentric ring.

6. We also asked a question about reasons for non-participation in environmentalmovement organizations and the figures were much lower: 39% said ‘prefer individualsolutions’ in Budapest and 42% in Moscow. This is consistent with our view thatindividual action is less feasible (but not impossible) in the case of environmental issuesthan on housing issues.

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Bater, J. H., Degytarev, A. A., & Amelin, V. N. (1995). Politics in Moscow: local issues, areasand governance. Political Geography, 14, 665–687.

Birch, A. H. (1975). Economic models in political science: the case of ‘Exit, voice and loyalty’.British Journal of Political Science, 15, 69–82.

Bodnar, J. (1996). ‘He that hath, to him shall be given’: the logic of housing privatization afterstate socialism. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, 20, 616–636.

Cox, K. R. (1978). Local interests and urban political processes in market societies. In: K. Cox(Ed.), Urbanization and Conflict in Market Societies. Chicago: Maaroufa.

Douglas, M. J. (1997). A Change of System: Housing System Transformation and Neighbourhood

Change in Budapest. Utrecht: Urban Research Centre, Utrecht University. EBRD (1996). Transition Report 1996. London: European Bank for Reconstruction and

Development.Eder, K. (1993). The New Politics of Class. London: Sage. Fish, M. S. (1995). Democracy from Scratch: opposition and regime in the new Russian revolution.

Princeton, NJ.: Princeton University Press.Fleischer, T. (1993). Jaws on the Danube: water management, regime change and the movement

against the Middle Danube hydro-electric dam. International Journal of Urban and Regional

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Pickvance (Eds), Environmental and Housing Movements: Grassroots Experience in

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housing market. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, 7, 467–493.Hegedus, J., Mark, K., & Tosics, I. (1996). Uncharted territory: Hungarian housing in transition.

In: R. J.Struyk (Ed.), Economic Restructuring of the Former Soviet Bloc: the Case of

Housing. Aldershot: Avebury.Hirschman, A. O. (1970). Exit, Voice and Loyalty. Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press.Hirschman, A. O. (1974). ‘Exit, voice and loyalty’: further reflections. Social Science Information,

13, 7–26.Jenkins, J. C. (1983). Resource mobilization theory and the study of social movements. Annual

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I. Tosics (Eds), The Reform of Housing in Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union. London:Routledge.

Kitschelt, H. (1986). Political opportunity structures and political protest: anti-nuclear movementsin four democracies. British Journal of Political Science, 16, 57–85.

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Hungary, Estonia and Russia. Aldershot: Avebury. Szelenyi, I. (1983). Urban Inequalities under State Socialism. Oxford: Oxford University Press.Szirmai, V. (1997). Protection of the environment and the position of green movements in Hungary.

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PROTESTER/TARGET INTERACTIONS:A MICROSOCIOLOGICAL APPROACHTO STUDYING MOVEMENTOUTCOMES

Rachel L. Einwohner

ABSTRACT

Despite the recent increase in scholarly work on movement outcomes,

researchers have identified a number of areas that still deserve attention.

Many of these criticisms have focused on the conceptual and

methodological challenges that movement outcomes research presents. This

paper contributes to these on-going discussions by arguing for a

microsociological approach to the study of movement outcomes, one that

makes face-to-face interactions between protesters and their targets the

focus of inquiry. Taking this approach helps address two methodological

challenges in the study of movement outcomes: identifying intended as well

as unintended consequences of movement activity and establishing

causality. Paying attention to what transpires during these interactions can

shed light as well on the broader, more macro impacts in which most

scholars are interested. Although useful for illuminating the immediate

outcomes of protest activity, this approach is still intended to complement

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ISBN: 0-7623-0786-2

rather than refute existing strategies. I illustrate my argument with

examples from extant studies as well as my own fieldwork with animal

rights activists and their targets.

INTRODUCTION

Between October 1992 and August 1995 I was engaged in the study of fourprotest campaigns waged by the members of a non-violent animal rights groupin Seattle (Einwohner, 1997). During that period I attended monthly activistmeetings as well as a variety of protest events, including two demonstrationsoutside circus performances. These demonstrations, both held in the summer of1994, were part of the activists’ campaign against local performances of circusesfeaturing animals, one of the four campaigns that were the focus of my study.Activists opposed these circuses on several grounds. First, they alleged crueltraining practices (e.g. the use of whips, hooks and electric prods) andinadequate housing facilities for the performing animals. In addition, manyactivists felt that the animals were being exploited for entertainment purposes.By holding demonstrations like these, along with other activities such as writingletters to the editors of local newspapers, activists hoped to convince circuspatrons not to attend the performances.

The first demonstration, held on the morning of July 3 at the Seattle CenterArena, was one of four demonstrations scheduled to coincide with circusperformances throughout the Fourth of July weekend. Participation was lightat all four, but only two activists showed up for the morning demonstration onJuly 3. Despite the small showing, the two activists who did attend that protestattempted to follow their organization’s standard procedure for a circusdemonstration. Standing outside the main entrance to the arena, activists heldsigns with messages such as “The Circus: The Cruelest Show on Earth” and“End Circus Cruelty,” and occasionally made remarks like “Circuses are cruel,folks” and “Your ticket promotes cruelty” to the patrons. In addition, activistsdistributed leaflets that explained their position against the circus. Thesematerials decried the manner in which circus animals are housed and trained,claiming these treatments to be both inappropriate and cruel. One such leaflet,titled “The Greatest Creatures on Earth,” alleged that circus elephants arechained in place at all times except when they are performing; another featuredtext from a letter written by a Florida policeman who had to shoot and kill anelephant that had “gone beserk” during a performance.

With only two participants, the demonstration was a fairly quiet affair. Theactivists, one man and one woman, apparently did not expect to be the onlyparticipants; they brought a number of protest signs with them, many more than

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208 RACHEL L. EINWOHNER

they could hold and display by themselves. They therefore propped a few signsagainst a post (in the clear view of patrons entering the arena) and, holdingone sign each, distributed their literature to those patrons who would accept it.These activities proceeded without much incident; while some patrons refusedthe literature and others threw it away soon after receiving it, there were noaltercations with the activists. In addition, although one police officer was onhand, no law enforcement officials or circus representatives questioned theactivists or attempted to curtail their activities in any manner. Once all thepatrons had entered the building (after about an hour), the two activists left andthe demonstration was over.

A very different scenario unfolded at another circus demonstration later thatsummer. This second demonstration, held on September 17, took place outsidea circus performance at the Tacoma Dome in Tacoma, Washington, a city thirtymiles south of Seattle. Like the demonstration on July 3, this seconddemonstration also lasted around an hour, ending soon after all the patronsentered the venue and the performance began. Unlike that earlier demonstration,however, there were many more protesters on hand, with forty-five individualsparticipating. While this second demonstration featured some of the same sortsof activities as the July 3 protest and even used the same signs and flyers, thelarger number of participants made it louder and more visible. Perhaps becauseof their greater numbers, activists were also a little more creative in theirpresentation. For example, one donned a bear suit and a pair of rollerbladesand skated around while holding a protest sign. Participants in this seconddemonstration also used a newly constructed protest accessory that was notavailable for the July protests: “Janet,” a nearly life-sized paper-maché elephantbrandishing a chain, was transported from Seattle in the back of an activist’struck and displayed at the site.

Unlike the earlier demonstration, the September protest received attentionfrom the local media, with two television stations sending reporters and cameracrews to the scene. The protest attracted attention from circus officials as well.Security guards approached the activists several times during the demonstrationand asked them to stay on the public sidewalk and away from the walkwaysinto the venue. As another example of the attention that the activists attracted,circus officials made an announcement about the activists before theperformance began. Danielle,1 a circus patron in attendance that day, describedthat announcement:

They said . . . , “There may be somebody in here who’s an activist wanting to say some-thing or do something.” . . . [Then] they said, “So, if [you] want to say something, if [you]want to do something, we need to have you do it now, before anybody gets on stage. Wewill give you time to say what you want to say.”

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Protestor/Target Interactions and Movement Outcomes 209

209

Since this announcement was read over the public address system to the seatedaudience, however, activists protesting outside the building did not hear it andtherefore were not able to take advantage of the opportunity they were given.Without knowing about this opportunity for more contact with their targetedaudience, the activists ended their demonstration soon after all the patronsentered the building.

The two demonstrations differed in both the number of participants and thetypes of reactions they elicited from their targets. As an observer, I noticedvery little negativity from the patrons at the first demonstration. While somepatrons accepted the activists’ literature, others simply walked past them;however, most did so without visibly displaying anger, fear, or contempt. Infact, I only saw one patron react in a way that could be described as negative;when an activist approached him with a leaflet, he said, “Get a life!” beforewalking away. In contrast, a much different dynamic was apparent at the largerdemonstration, where patrons seemed more threatened and outraged by theprotest activity. Many patrons either challenged the activists or went out oftheir way to avoid them. One patron, a woman accompanied by two little girls,passed by a protester who called something out to her. Although I could nothear exactly what he said, it was obviously distressing in some manner; thewoman said aloud, “That guy was obnoxious!” and took the girls by the handsquickly, pulling them closer to her before they all hurried away. In anotherinstance, a patron yelled at an activist, “You care about animals, but what areyou doing about abortion?” A third man passing by an activist screamed angrily,“Thousands of people are dying in Rwanda and you care about f---ingBEARS?!!!”

I was able to conduct interviews with a handful of circus patrons whowitnessed the demonstrations (five from the first demonstration and two fromthe second) and these individuals also suggested that the patrons at the largerdemonstration felt more threatened by the protesters than did those at the first.None of the five interviewees who witnessed the smaller demonstration indicatedthat they were afraid of or felt intimidated by the protesters. As one of thosepatrons, Lisa, said, “The only thing I noticed going to the circus was that they[the protesters] were very low-key. Very low-key.” In contrast, both of thepatrons I interviewed from the larger demonstration had some reservations aboutthe activists. One, a woman named Penny, said,

My gut reaction I guess was that I grew a little nervous. And I really did not make eyecontact with anybody in that group . . . Walking into that [demonstration], it is intimidatingand like I said I felt my guard go up. And you just always hear those stories about theextremists. And I’m thinking, “Well, I’ve got my two little kids here,” you know, two threeyear olds.

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The other patron, Danielle, made a similar comment:

We noticed them setting up an elephant. We noticed that they were there. And so becauseof that we chose to stay away from them, because we have our children. We didn’t knowwhat avenue they would use to get our attention and so we just stayed away. If our childrenhad been in junior high maybe we would have welcomed a chance to talk to them, just tofind out what their point was . . . But at this age, seven and five, you don’t needconfrontation of any sort.

What transpired at these two demonstrations is perhaps not surprising; patronsappeared unfazed by what was essentially a leafleting session by two activists,but reacted much more strongly against larger, more dramatic protest activities.Given the limited data that I was able to collect from circus patrons in follow-up interviews,2 it is not clear exactly what it was about these twodemonstrations that provoked the different reactions; for instance, it is possible,but not certain, that the larger demonstration was more threatening becauseparents feared what the activists might do to their children, as Penny andDanielle suggested. Moreover, it is not clear which demonstration brought theactivists closer to their goals of reducing attendance at circus performances.3

These important questions aside, what is useful about these two demonstrationsis that they illustrate some of what can transpire when protesters meet theirtargets face to face. Such interactions are the point of departure for this paper.In what follows, I argue for greater attention to the dynamics of protester/target interaction because of what these dynamics can reveal about protest outcomes.My intent is to promote the study of protester/target interactions as amethodological and conceptual approach to the study of movement outcomes,one that can complement and enhance existing approaches.

I begin with a brief review of the methodological problems that plaguemovement outcomes research. As other scholars have noted, these challengesinclude identifying a broad range of outcomes and establishing a causal linkbetween protest activity and some outcome of interest. I then argue that detailedexaminations of the dynamics of face-to-face interactions between protesters andtheir targets are well equipped to both uncover a wide range of possible outcomesand make causal claims about the immediate impact of protest activity. In doingso, I limit my discussion to the immediate effects of protest on those who witnessit. However, I conclude by addressing the relevance of this approach to the studyof the broader political and cultural changes that are the focus of much movementoutcomes research; there, I suggest that paying more attention to the dynamicsof protester/target interaction can shed light not only on interactional dynamicsin a local setting, but can also help explain more enduring impacts at the macrolevel. Throughout, I draw on the two animal rights demonstrations describedabove, as well as other case studies, to illustrate my argument.

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211

STUDYING MOVEMENT OUTCOMES:METHODOLOGICAL CHALLENGES

One challenge that movement outcomes research faces is the problem ofidentifying all the outcomes that can occur as a result of protest activity,including unintended as well as intended outcomes (Earl, 2000; Giugni, 1998,1999; Rucht, 1999). Protest can have myriad results, including broad legal,social, economic and cultural changes as well as changes in the lives ofindividuals (see Giugni et al., 1998, 1999). Recognizing the enormity of thischallenge, many researchers make their analyses more manageable by limitingthe range of outcomes that they study. Gamson’s (1990) well-known study ofthe results of 53 different “challenging groups” considered only two generaltypes of outcomes: “acceptance” from antagonists and “new advantages” formovement participants or beneficiaries. Other researchers focus on specificoutcomes, such as public policy (Amenta et al., 1992; Burstein, 1979, 1985,1999; Costain & Majstorovic, 1994; Huberts, 1989; Jenkins & Brents, 1989;Kriesi & Wisler, 1999; Meyer, 1999; Tarrow, 1998), institutional change(Moore, 1999) or biographical consequences for participants (Fendrich, 1977,1993; McAdam, 1989, 1999; Sherkat & Blocker, 1997). Additional studies allowfor a wider range of outcomes, but limit their inquiries to the attainment ofactivists’ stated goals (Barkan, 1984; Burstein et al., 1995; Morris, 1993). Whileunderstandable, however, these strategies are problematic in that they requireresearchers to specify beforehand what outcomes are likely to result from protestand can therefore preclude the examination of a wider variety of unanticipatedeffects.

A related problem has to do with determinations of “success” and “failure.”Since it is difficult to determine the entire set of outcomes that result fromprotest, it is usually unclear whether activists have been “successful” overall.Moreover, determining which of the identified outcomes are advantageous tomovements is also problematic, as different actors (including activists as wellas opponents and third parties) may have different views regarding theoutcomes’ benefit (Gamson, 1990; Giugni, 1999). Finally, even when protestactivities fail to achieve their desired results, the outcomes of those activitiesmay end up being beneficial to movements in unanticipated ways (Amenta &Young, 1999; Rucht, 1999). Problems such as these have encouraged someresearchers to dispense with the concept of “success” altogether, focusinginstead on “target responsiveness” (Burstein et al., 1995; Schumaker, 1975) ormovement “impacts” (Amenta & Young, 1999) as a way of clarifying outcomes.

Establishing causality is a second task that is particularly challenging formovement outcomes research. Demonstrating that a given outcome resulted

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from protest activity requires that all other possible causes be ruled out (Amenta& Young, 1999; Earl, 2000; Giugni, 1999; Tilly, 1999). Typically, however,researchers are not able to collect data on – or even identify – all the potentialcauses of a given outcome. Complicating matters even further are situationswhere social movements have their effects by accelerating social changes thatwere taking place anyway (Burstein, 1979). One strategy for making strongercausal claims is to identify situations where an outcome happened in thepresence of a movement as well as situations where the outcome did not happenin the absence of a movement (Amenta & Young, 1999; Earl, 2000; Giugni,1999; Meyer, 1999). However, due to the limitations of the case-based researchpredominant in social movement research, it is not always possible to find andanalyze such cases.

In the next section, I argue that focusing on face-to-face interactions betweenprotesters and their targets helps address the challenges outlined above. Myemphasis on the micro outcomes of protest (i.e. targets’ immediate reactions toprotest activity in the context of face-to-face interactions) is quite different fromother scholars’ methodological recommendations for conducting movementoutcomes research. For example, Amenta and Young (1999) suggest using the“collective good criterion,” or operationalizing movement outcomes (they preferthe term “impacts”) in terms of whether protesters achieve some collective goodfor their constituency. As such, they concern themselves primarily with definingoutcomes, but also suggest the use of standard statistical and comparativemethods for establishing causality. Similarly, both Earl (2000) and Tilly (1999)argue for the use of social movement theory in both operationalizing movementoutcomes and assessing causal claims; like Amenta and Young (1999), Earlalso points to the utility of standard social science techniques for examiningcausal claims empirically. As I explain more below, the approach that I outlinehere is intended to complement rather than refute these scholars’ suggestions.

STUDYING PROTESTER/TARGET INTERACTIONS:METHODOLOGICAL ADVANTAGES

Identifying a Broad Range of Outcomes

Studying movement outcomes by examining face-to-face interactions helpsaddress the problem of underspecified outcomes and unintended consequences.In the two animal rights demonstrations described at the beginning of this paper,the patrons at the second demonstration were visibly angry and defensive, whilethose at the first were relatively calm. These two sets of reactions – patronresponses that resulted from witnessing the activists’ protest activity – were

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213

immediate outcomes of the demonstrations. Other responses could haveoccurred; for example, patrons at one or both demonstrations could have cheeredand joined the activists, or grabbed the protest signs and torn them in half, oracted in other ways. Moreover, the activists may or may not have intended toprovoke the responses that they got from their targets. The advantage ofobserving interactions like these is that such observations can be used to recordwhatever visible outcomes result from the contact between protesters and theirtargets; follow-up interviews can also identify additional micro outcomes thatmight escape the observer’s attention. This strategy can therefore uncover theintended as well as unintended micro outcomes of protest; further, observersneed not distinguish between intended and unintended outcomes in order torecord and analyze them.

A number of other studies of interactions between protesters and their targetsprovide additional illustrations of the utility of this approach for identifying abroad range of outcomes that result from protest activity. For example,examining face-to-face interactions can uncover outcomes in the form ofemotions, a relatively neglected aspect of protest dynamics (Jasper, 1998).Groves’ (1997) examination of animal rights activists and animal experimentersin a university town emphasizes the emotional outcomes of the interchangesbetween the two groups; he shows that these interactions resulted in feelingsof pride, anger and shame which perpetuated the conflict by locking both sidesinto “feeling traps” that precluded a compromise or resolution. For example,he quotes one researcher whose suggestion for a compromise in a conflict overpound seizure (i.e. the practice of using pound animals for laboratory research)was rejected by the activists:

It made me EXTREMELY mad. Because I’m willing to talk to people. If they want toprotest us doing something, I’m willing to discuss how we do it. And if they’ve got aconstructive suggestion for another way to do it, we’ll listen. But they’re totally abolitionist,without admitting it (1997, 194; emphasis in original).

In this case, although emotional outcomes were not necessarily sought by theactivists, a close examination of interactions between the two sides brings theseoutcomes to light. Ginsburg’s (1989) study of activists on both sides of theabortion conflict in Fargo, North Dakota during the 1980s also illustrates anunintended consequence of protest activity that could only be uncovered throughexaminations of interactions between both sides. Ironically, repeated interactionbetween pro-life activists staging activity outside an abortion clinic and pro-choice activists accompanying clients into the clinic resulted in a recognitionof the commonalities across both groups of activists. In fact, some individualseven participated in a brief-lived discussion group called “Pro-Dialogue” thatwas intended to bring both sides together “to direct our energies toward reducing

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as much as possible the need for abortion” (1989, 224). Repeated interactionand a recognition of common viewpoints across both sides also resulted in anidentity shift for some activists; the minutes from one meeting read, “We’restill Radicals, but now we are Pro-Dialogue Radicals.” (1989, 225). Again,while studies that focus only on activists’ intended goals (e.g. the closing ofan abortion clinic or passing ordinances to protect the rights of clinic workersand/or protesters) can obscure a broader variety of outcomes, a range ofoutcomes – especially outcomes in the form of emotion and identity – can beidentified through an examination of protester/target interaction.

Establishing Causality

Making face-to-face interactions between activists and their targets the focusof data collection and analysis also helps researchers make causal claims aboutspecific protest outcomes. Face-to-face interactions are “ground zero” formovement outcomes; they represent the point of direct contact between activistsand their targets. Target reactions – which may include verbal responses as wellas non-verbal responses ranging from cheering and giving activists the “thumbsup” sign to engaging in fisticuffs – provide information on the direct effects ofprotest. Thus, whereas it can be difficult to trace broader outcomes such aspolicy or public opinion changes directly to protest activity, examiningprotester/target interactions provides a much clearer view of the immediateimpacts of protest activity.

In the case of the two animal rights demonstrations that I observed, thepatrons’ responses were causally linked to the protest activity; clearly, no onewould have yelled at or avoided activists if there had been no activists present.Similarly, the emotional reactions and identity shifts identified by Groves (1997)and Ginsburg (1989) are unmistakably a direct result of protest activity (seealso Arluke, 1990; and Luker, 1984 for additional examples). Other studies thatexamine the interchanges between protesters and targets are also well suitedfor making causal claims about the effects of protest activity. In a study of thetactical innovations that resulted from the “chess match” between civil rightsprotesters and agents of social control in the South, McAdam (1983) showshow protesters had to create new tactical forms in order to maintain theiractivism against authorities who eventually adapted to the protesters’ tactics(see also Barkan, 1984; and Morris, 1984, for additional discussions ofauthorities’ responses to civil rights protest activity). Similarly, Jasper andPoulsen’s (1993) examination of three anti-experimentation campaigns byanimal rights activists in New York identified target “blunders,” or tacticalmistakes made in response to protest activity that came after face-to-face

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interaction with activists. Finally, in some situations a lack of response to aconfrontation by protesters can indicate the causal impact of protest activity aswell. For example, Neuhouser’s (1995) study of gendered mobilization in anurban squatter settlement in Recife, Brazil describes a confrontation between awoman who had illegally built a home along a public canal and officials whowere sent to tear the house down. In an attempt to save her house, the womanplaced her young children inside; as a result, the officials reluctantly let thehouse stand. Each of these studies illustrates some of the direct and immediateeffects of protest, in the form of tactical and behavioral responses by the targets.

BROADER CONCERNS: FROM MICRO TO MACRO OUTCOMES

Although focusing on the micro, interactional outcomes of protest activity helpsavoid some of the pitfalls of movement outcomes research, the immediateoutcomes of face-to-face interactions can be quite different from political andinstitutional changes that unfold over a longer period of time. A micro-sociological approach might therefore seem at odds with research on socialmovement outcomes – and even with movement research as a whole – whichis often motivated by some assumption or interest in the large-scale social andpolitical effects of protest (Burstein et al., 1995; McAdam et al., 1988).However, I suggest that paying attention to the interactional dynamics betweenprotesters and their targets can shed light on these broader changes as well. Inthis section I discuss the potential of a microsociological approach for under-standing the more macro outcomes of protest activity.

Advocating a version of the “Think Globally, Act Locally” approach, manyof the animal rights activists with whom I did my fieldwork felt that theiractions could transform society as a whole, one individual target at a time. Forinstance, one of the two activists who participated in the July 3 circusdemonstration told me, “Even if we only convince one person [not to go to thecircus], that’s one more person that might be out with us here next year.” Suchoptimism may actually be more indicative of a strategy for maintaining activists’commitment than it is an accurate depiction of the societally transformativepowers of local protest efforts (Einwohner, 2000). Still, whether or not microinteractions such as those between animal rights activists and circus patronshave cumulative effects on societal views and behaviors, some theory andresearch suggests that the micro outcomes of protester/target interaction canhelp explain broader outcomes as well.

Although the field lacks a specific theory of movement outcomes, two recentdevelopments suggest that the dynamics of protester/target interaction can help

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explain a host of movement outcomes, including political and institutionalchanges. In a review of research on the outcomes of political movements (i.e.those attempting to influence government institutions in some way), Bursteinet al. (1995) suggest that a “bargaining perspective” helps explain movementsuccess (see also Lipsky, 1968; Wilson, 1961). Conceptualizing movementactivity as a bargaining session between protesters and their targets, they viewmovement outcomes

not simply as the product of movement characteristics and activities, but as the result ofinteractions among movement organizations, the organizations whose behavior they aretrying to change and relevant actors in the broader environment, all struggling to acquireresources and use them to their best advantage vis-à-vis others (1995, 227).

Similarly, Tilly (1999) argues that the development of a theory of movementimpacts rests on the dynamics of interaction between protesters and their targets.He suggests that when interacting with their targets, protesters attempt to displaytheir WUNC (worthiness, unity, numbers and commitment) as a way ofestablishing their strength and ability to be disruptive if their concessions arenot granted. These authors therefore imply that the most important aspects ofmovement activity are found in protester/target interaction and that the dynamicsof these interactions are crucial to understanding broader movement impacts.

Other research also suggests that what transpires during protester/target con-frontation can lead to broader outcomes. Violence is a micro outcome that hasparticular relevance for broader impacts and a number of studies have examinedthe consequences of violent encounters between protesters and their targets(Colby, 1985; Gamson, 1990; Mirowsky & Ross, 1981; Mueller, 1978; Piven &Cloward, 1977; Steedly & Foley, 1979). Since violent interchanges betweenprotesters and their targets are more likely to receive media attention than non-violent interactions (Snyder & Kelly, 1981), this particular micro outcomecan have far-reaching effects beyond the immediate exchange. For example,Barkan’s (1984) analysis of civil rights protest activity in five Southern citiesshows that, with the exception of the Montgomery bus boycott, campaigns incities where protesters received “legal” responses from agents of social control(in the form of arrests, fines and so on) did not achieve their policy goals, whereascampaigns in cities where protesters were beaten by police were more successful.Barkan argues that violent responses to non-violent civil rights protesters wereseen by the rest of the nation as illegitimate, provoking a national outcry thateventually led to the intervention of the federal government and policy successesfor the protesters (although see Morris, 1993 for an alternative explanation forthe success of the campaign in Birmingham, one of Barkan’s cases).

Given the importance of media attention and its potential to fuel broadercultural and political changes (Gamson, 1998), understanding the conditions

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under which protest receives media coverage would seem to be crucial for thestudy of movement outcomes. Again, the dynamics of protester/target interactionare relevant here, as particularly dramatic outcomes – or an expectation of such– can create a “newsworthy” situation. Certain non-violent micro outcomes mayattract media coverage as well. For example, Oberschall (1989) argues that astalemate between protesters and their targets can produce a tense situation thatcan attract the attention of the media; he suggests that stalemates betweencollege students and owners of lunch counters generated the media attentionthat helped spread the sit-in movement throughout the South in the early 1960s.Similarly, although they do not identify it as a “blunder,” Jasper & Poulsen(1993) suggest that the refusal by officials with the New York AmericanMuseum of Natural History to meet with activists protesting the animalexperiments that were being conducted at the museum helped draw the attentionof New York media and politicians, which eventually led to the cancellationof the experiments. Finally, gaining media attention is an important outcomein itself, one that has the potential to create further cultural change by changingthe public discourse on certain topics (Gamson, 1998). Taken together, thesestudies suggest that the dynamics of protester/target interaction – and theimmediate outcomes that ensue, such as violence or stalemates – have thepotential to attract attention to the activists’ cause, which can, in turn, producebroader political and social outcomes.

CONCLUSIONS

Within the field of social movements, arguably the most problematic area ofinquiry is social movement outcomes. Researchers studying movementoutcomes, especially “extra-movement” outcomes (Earl, 2000), face a numberof methodological and conceptual challenges, including assessing unintendedas well as intended consequences, defining “success” and “failure,” andestablishing causality (Amenta & Young, 1999; Burstein et al., 1995; Earl, 2000;Giugni, 1998, 1999; Tilly, 1999). It is perhaps because of these difficulties thatmovement outcomes are relatively understudied (McAdam et al., 1988; Tarrow,1998), although recent scholarship (e.g. Giugni et al., 1998, 1999) suggests thatscholars are approaching the subject matter fruitfully.4

My goal in this paper has been to contribute to the growing literature onsocial movement outcomes. Specifically, I have sought to complement recentmethodological discussions on movement outcomes by suggesting that studiesof movement outcomes begin by examining face-to-face interactions betweenprotesters and their targets. In some situations – those featuring violence, forexample – the immediate outcomes of these exchanges are readily apparent,

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whereas more subtle changes in emotion or identity might need to be examinedthrough follow-up interviews with those who witnessed the protest. Theadvantage of taking this approach is that by doing so, researchers are betterable to uncover a variety of effects that result directly from protest activity.Studying micro interactions therefore helps address two methodologicalproblems – identifying intended as well as unintended consequences andestablishing causality – that are common to movement outcomes research.Analyzing targets’ reactions to protest activity without having to make a prioriassumptions about what those reactions might entail allows for the examinationof intended as well as unintended consequences; furthermore, the targets’responses to protesters, while in their presence, can be causally linked to theprotest activity rather easily. Finally, the particular dynamics of theseinterchanges can have implications for broader effects, including targetconcessions (e.g. in the form of policy change) and media coverage of theprotest issue.

While there are methodological advantages to focusing on protester/targetinteractions, however, this approach does have limitations. Certainly, targets’immediate responses are not the only possible outcomes of protest activity.Moreover, protest activity is not limited to face-to-face interactions; protestersattempt to achieve social change through a variety of means and media andneed not interact with their targets personally in order to achieve some result.Finally, movement outcomes are not driven solely by protester/target interac-tion; as Burstein et al. (1995) note, outcomes are also shaped by the featuresof the environment in which protest takes place. A microsociological approachto studying movement outcomes should therefore be used in conjunction withthe recommendations made by other scholars (e.g. Amenta & Young, 1999;Earl, 2000; Tilly, 1999). Thus, once the immediate outcomes of protest activityare determined by focusing on face-to-face interactions, standard social scien-tific methods of analysis (e.g. the use of comparison and hypothesis testing)should be used to examine whether or not these interactional outcomes (e.g.violence, emotions, or changes in strategy) can explain further outcomes suchas media attention and cultural change.

In sum, by presenting this microsociological approach, I advocate detailedexaminations of protest activity at the local level, or looking at narrow “slices”of protest activity in order to study their outcomes. While this approach takesan admittedly narrow view, limiting outcomes to what transpires duringprotester/target interaction, it is intended as a first step toward studying morecomplex, indirect outcomes as well. As Oliver (1989, 5) notes, protest can bethought of as a stone thrown in a pond, creating sets of concentric circles. Thecircle that is closest to the stone itself appears first and is created directly by

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the stone’s hitting the water; those further away are also created by the impactof the stone, but take longer to appear and are harder to see clearly. Thus,examining protester/target interactions can give us a relatively clear picture ofthe immediate impacts of protest activity, but other strategies may be neededto examine the “ripple effect” by which other outcomes ensue. Together, adiverse set of strategies will help researchers continue to examine thecomplexities of social movement outcomes.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A much earlier version of this paper was presented at the 1999 AmericanSociological Association Meetings in Chicago, IL. Various drafts of this papersince then have been strengthened by helpful comments from Jennifer Earl,Doug McAdam, Kelly Moore, John Noakes, Toska Olson, Felicia Roberts,Debra Street, Jeff Ulmer, the RSMCC editor and several anonymous reviewers.

NOTES

1. I use psuedonyms when referring to individuals in the text of this paper.2. I had a particularly difficult time finding patrons from the second demonstration

who were willing to be interviewed. I attribute this difficulty to the general fear andmistrust that the patrons displayed toward the activists. When I approached this secondset of patrons many tried to avoid me and some asked if I was one of the activists. Itis worth noting that no patrons asked me this same question at the first demonstration.

3. According to the activists, the goal of the demonstrations was to convince circuspatrons either to avoid the circus on that day or to refrain from attending shows in thefuture. Activists realized that the latter objective was more realistic, however. As oneof the group’s leaders explained, “We don’t do this with the hopes that people turnaround and leave, because they’re already there and with their kids. That would be toomuch to expect. What we hope is that they read our literature, or take it home and readit later and think about things differently and decide not to go again.”

4. Research on social movement outcomes is not necessarily new; for instance,Gamson’s The Strategy of Social Protest, one of the most influential pieces of researchin the area, was first published in 1975. However, Giugni et al.’s edited volumes markthe first collections devoted to the challenges of studying social movement outcomes.

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xii PATRICK G. COY


225

PART II:

DEMOCRATIZATION AND

DISORDERS AS POLITICAL

CHANGE MECHANISMS

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xii PATRICK G. COY


WELSH NATIONALISM AND THECHALLENGE OF ‘INCLUSIVE’POLITICS

Paul Chaney and Ralph Fevre

ABSTRACT

Here we examine some of the contemporary challenges facing Plaid Cymru

– the Party of Wales, the principal nationalist political party and one of

the mainstays of the nationalist movement in Wales. Against the backdrop

of the establishment of the first directly-elected national government forum

in Wales for 600 years, we present new research and explore how the

party’s response to the ‘inclusive’ politics of the mid-1990s was central

to Plaid Cymru’s recent dramatic electoral breakthrough into the political

mainstream and how it will be crucial to hopes for its future advance-

ment. We contextualise this as part of this nationalist party’s overall

transformation during the last 75 years. This has been a journey from

espousing an exclusive to purportedly inclusive nationalist ideology. Such

development has been shaped along a number of non-discrete axes that

include: the geographical spread of the party’s organisational structures

and electoral support, its readiness to embark upon co-working with other

parties and groups, its evolving policy agenda, its stance on the Welsh

language and, latterly, its response to ‘inclusive’ politics and constitu-

tional reform. We test what Plaid’s former leader has described as, the

‘inclusive philosophy’ underpinning Plaid Cymru’s ‘civic nationalism’

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Chapter Title 227

227




ISBN: 0-7623-0786-2

against the party’s record of engagement with some of the most margin-

alised groups in Welsh society: women, disabled people and people from

an ethnic minority. These groups must be engaged if Plaid’s claims of

inclusiveness are to be meaningful and it’s growing influence in Welsh,

U.K. and European politics consolidated. We base our discussion and find-

ings on the analysis of published interviews and documents together with

transcriptions of 280 semi-structured interviews undertaken between May

1999 and September 2000. We have interviewed over a third of the

Assembly Members of the National Assembly for Wales, key officials,

members of Plaid Cymru, managers of ninety membership organisations

and over 150 key individuals and practitioners associated with the margin-

alised groups under study.

INTRODUCTION

Welsh nationalism has been described as a trichotomous concept comprising,‘an ideology that maintains that a nation has an inalienable right to selfgovernment; a social movement that aims to promote solidarity amongst theWelsh people and support for national demands; and a group consciousnessthat extends far beyond the political horizon into the general social and culturalattitudes of the population’ (Butt Philip, 1975, 316). Elsewhere, others haveused the term ‘movement’ to describe the various elements in this (re-)assertionof national identity (cf. Comb, 1977, 36; McAllister, 1995, 18; McAdam, 1996,35) such as the campaign for wider access to Welsh-medium education (e.g.Mudiad Ysgolion Meithrin), the League of Welsh Youth (Yr Urdd GobaithCymru) and the Welsh Language Society (Cymdeithas yr Iaith Gymraeg). Herewe examine the contemporary challenges facing Plaid Cymru – the Party ofWales, the principal nationalist political party. This organisation has been centralto the nationalist movement in Wales since the founding of the party in 1925.Its response to the political opportunities presented by the ‘inclusive politics’that accompanied the establishment of the first directly elected nationalgovernment forum in Wales for 600 years will be explored in this paper. Ourresearch findings show how this response was a crucial factor in Plaid Cymru’srecent dramatic breakthrough into the political mainstream and one that willshape the extent of future progress made by the party and impact upon thetrajectory of the nationalist movement as a whole.

Plaid Cymru is one example of ‘the uncompromising nationalism of Europeanmovements’ (G. A. Williams, 1992, 14) that emerged in the first half of thetwentieth century in response to the ebb and flow of imperial and centralisinginfluences. Plaid still assert their place within the wider European tradition,

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228 PAUL CHANEY AND RALPH FEVRE

although, as the following discussion reveals, their ideology had moved on: ‘. . . the increased power of the European Community has been balancedeverywhere by the devolution of power to small nations and historic regions –everywhere except in the U.K. Local parliaments have been established inEuzkadi and Catalunya, in Sardegna and Corsica, in Vlaanderen and Wallonie,to join the long-established Lander parliaments of Bayern and Baden-Wurttemberg . . . Plaid Cymru have a clear policy for Europe, a confederalEurope with Wales taking full part’ (P. Williams, 1992, 3). As McAllister (1995,ibid.) observes these movements are virtually defined by their heterogeneity,‘nationalist parties in Europe have varied both in ideological stance and inorganisational set-up. If one extends this analysis to include the plethora ofregionalist movements in Europe, it will become evident that there is no singlestyle or philosophy that can consistently be applied to nationalist parties andmovements’ (McAllister, 1995, 20). In the Welsh case, vectors of activism haveincluded language, religion, agrarian discontent and cultural expression, – eachof which has commanded varying levels of popular support. Our findings chartthe latest stage in the transformation of Plaid Cymru from its earlier positionas a fringe party espousing an exclusive ‘utterly intransigent nationalism’ (G. A. Williams, 1985, 279) – one that embraced the non-Welsh speakingmajority of the country ‘with extreme reluctance’ (G. A. Williams, ibid, 1992,15) – to a party advancing an ‘inclusive philosophy’ (Wigley, 1997). This shifthas culminated in the party gaining mass popular support in the Welsh NationalAssembly elections of 1999. It has also seen the creation of new radical nation-alist parties intent on occupying some of the political ground previously heldby the Plaid Cymru of old.1 Plaid now has government within its grasp as itprepares for the elections of 2003. Ill health has forced the party president thatoversaw recent successes to step down; as a consequence Plaid has a new leader,one described as ‘gifted, thoughtful, [and] a person of substance’, a figure thatmay have already been instrumental ‘in dragging the Party machinery into thetwenty-first century’, someone with ‘a great deal to offer Plaid Cymru andWelsh politics in general’ (R. Wyn Jones, 2000a, 9).

METHOD

In the following four sections we: outline the political and social context of recentconstitutional change and the development of ‘inclusive’ politics in Wales;explore the steady transformation of Plaid Cymru’s policies, structures andsupport; present our findings on the way in which participants perceive Plaid’sresponse to ‘inclusive’ politics and test Plaid’s stated aim of inclusive gover-nance against their record of engagement with some of the most marginalised

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Welsh Nationalism and the Challenge of ‘Inclusive’ Politics 229

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groups in society – women, disabled people2 and people from an ethnic minor-ity.3 We conclude by highlighting salient issues that Plaid, as one of the princi-pal elements in the nationalist movement, must address if they are to capitaliseon the political opportunities afforded by limited self government for Wales andconsolidate their burgeoning support and new status in the devolved polity. Ourdiscussion is based on analysis of published interviews and documents togetherwith transcriptions of 280 semi-structured interviews undertaken between May1999 and September 2000. We have interviewed over a third of the AssemblyMembers of the National Assembly, key officials, members of Plaid Cymru, or‘y Blaid’4 as its members and supporters have traditionally referred to the Welshnationalist party, managers of thirty membership organisations in each minority‘sector’ and key individuals and practitioners working within these groupings.The organisations that have co-operated with our research range from umbrellabodies representing sectoral interests such as a disability organisation with amembership of approximately 370 constituent organisations, to larger individualmembership organisations such as one representing 41,000 women in Wales,through to small locally based organisations with less than fifty members. In thisway we have developed a theoretical sample covering the full range of organi-sations as defined by size, resources, influence and geographical location. Theseare key groups in civil society that Plaid Cymru must engage if its claims ofinclusiveness are to be meaningful and its growing influence in Welsh, U.K. andEuropean politics consolidated.

THE ARRIVAL OF DEVOLVED GOVERNANCE IN WALES: 1997–2000

In 1997 the British Labour Party was elected on a ticket of a ‘long-termprogramme of reform’ (Blair, 1998, 4). It embarked on a process that sought‘to increase the democratic legitimacy of the state’ (Jacobs, 1999, 5) bymodernising the form and functioning of government (Cabinet Office, 1999,1999a). In 1999 this included the creation of government bodies for Wales andScotland in what had hitherto been described as a ‘highly centralised [British]state with few checks on the executive’ (Hirst & Barnett, 1993, 6). In the sameelection Plaid Cymru secured 9.9% of the Welsh vote, a gain of 1.0% on 1992.As ever, Plaid’s core support was located in the more sparsely populated andless urbanised north and west of Wales where typically two-thirds to three-quarters of the population speak Welsh.5 It is here that they won three oftheir four parliamentary seats.

Plaid’s subsequent success in the first Welsh Assembly elections in May 1999astounded many and could accurately be called ‘a revolution in Welsh politics’

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(Jones & Trystan, 1999). The party leader called it a ‘daeargryn tawel’ (‘aquiet earthquake’). Plaid polled just 4.9% less than the winning party, won atotal of 30.6% of the vote and formed the official opposition to the WalesLabour Party (WLP) in the National Assembly. Increased support from votersoutside the party’s traditional north-west heartland was central to this success.6

This sea change in Welsh and indeed British, politics would not appear to bean aberrant electoral result but part of a trend, for similar results were recordedin both the local government and European elections of the same year. AsTrystan and Wyn Jones (1999, 27) noted, ‘patterns of political allegiance . . .appear to be shifting in response to the new context of post-devolution politics’. Some of the greatest gains were made in the predominantly English-speaking valleys in the south-east of the country. Here Plaid had registeredsome notable electoral results in the 1960s and 1970s. However, the party hadfailed to consolidate and build upon this progress for, despite having the highestpercentage of Welsh-born inhabitants,7 the local population remained suspiciousof Plaid Cymru’s close associations with the Welsh language. Things weredifferent in May 1999 when swings of over 30% from the Wales Labour Partyto the nationalist party were typical. The Party’s success was not restricted tothese areas, however and similar huge gains were evident in other, hithertounlikely, constituencies (notably the Vale of Glamorgan and Preseli-Pembroke,both over 30%).

Recent opinion polls suggest that this level of support was maintainedthroughout the first year of the new Assembly (Balsom, 2000). Plaid now hasconsiderable influence over politics in Wales. It is true that it benefited fromthe introduction of an element of proportional representation into the newelectoral arrangements for the Assembly but the current high level of popularsupport remains unprecedented. Plaid thus gained seventeen (out of sixty) seatsin the Assembly and, exercising its new influence, was able to precipitate theresignation of the First Secretary. It is not inconceivable that it may wellparticipate in some form of coalition government before the Assembly’s firstterm is over. This situation may well serve as a springboard for Plaid to over-take the Wales Labour Party as the majority party after the next election in2003. Party officials certainly believe so: ‘Wales needs a Plaid Cymru govern-ment in our National Assembly. We can achieve that in three years time . . .’8

The National Assembly for Wales was founded upon ‘inclusiveness’ or ‘inclu-sive politics’, a concept promoted by the Secretary of State for Wales in the mid-1990s as a way of overcoming the traditional fissiparousness of Welshsociety by encouraging cross-party working and the development of consensus(Chaney & Fevre, 2001). It is predicated on both participation in the politicalprocess and policy outcomes. Ron Davies the leading architect of Welsh

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devolution, described this new approach as ‘an essential foundation stone’ of thewhole project to devolve government in Wales and defined it as a willingness to‘share ideas, talk to others, to include those with common objectives in thepursuit and exercise of power’, where ‘others’ may be defined by ‘ethnicity, lan-guage, politics, religion or whatever’ (R. Davies, 1999, 7). Indeed the aim of cre-ating ‘a new, more inclusive and participative democracy in Britain’ was givenlegal force, written into the preliminary legislation (Great Britain, 1998, 15) andenshrined in the Parliamentary Act which brought the Assembly into being.Clauses 48 and 120 of the Government of Wales Act state, inter alia, that theAssembly functions should conform to the principle of equality of opportunityfor all (Great Britain, 1998a, 32, v, 120, i). This is a legal duty binding on theentire 60-member government body and one that is the specific remit of the pio-neering 11-strong standing Committee on Equality of Opportunity that ensuresthe mainstreaming of equality into all the executives’ policies.9

At first glance the attempt to create a new inclusive form of governance andpolitics in Wales (cf. Chaney et al., 2001) would seem to pose a significantand very specific, challenge to a party born of a social movement which hashad the reputation for being exclusive (Hobsbawm, 1990, 136). Indeed the raisond’être of that social movement often appeared to be the vehement defence ofa language group and its culture and it might be difficult to imagine how sucha movement could respond positively to the idea of inclusiveness. However asone commentator observed, ‘Plaid have shifted their ground away from thestaunchly nationalistic, home-rule advocating, radical grouping who operatedon the periphery . . . and have metamorphosed into . . . the all-inclusive andsocially conscious Party of Wales’ (Sandry, 1999, 15). We now consider howthis change has occurred.

FROM Y BLAID TO THE PARTY OF WALES

A full account of Plaid Cymru’s development is to found elsewhere (see Butt-Philip, 1975; Hywel-Davies, 1983; McAllister, 1995, 2001, forthcoming;J. Davies, 1997, 2002, forthcoming; R. Wyn Jones, 2001b, forthcoming).However, the basis of Plaid’s transformation over the last 75 years has beenshaped along a number of non-discrete axes that have underpinned its recentsuccess. These include: the geographical spread of its organisational structuresand support, its readiness to embark upon co-working with other parties andgroups, its evolving policy agenda and its stance on the Welsh language. Thesesteps are the necessary precursors to their electoral successes in 1999 and notonly explain how the Party was so well-placed to respond to the inclusive politicsof constitutional reform but how it was instrumental in creating the social and

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political context that gave rise to this historic change. Thus Plaid has both shaped(Evans & Trystan, 1999, 113) and exploited political opportunity structures asso-ciated with devolution; something acknowledged by the WLP architect ofconstitutional reform in Wales who alluded to the ‘intellectual and organisationalsupport’ that Plaid Cymru lent to this process (R. Davies, 1999, 12).

The party was founded by the poet and playwright Saunders Lewis in 1925and during its early years it was primarily a social movement concerned withthe defence of the Welsh language (Fisher, 1996, 125). However, amidst thebilingual reality of a rapidly changing Welsh society in the post-war period,Plaid broadened its aims in pursuit of national self determination and saw itsfirst MP elected in 1966 when it received 4.3% of the popular vote. Griffiths(1996) illustrates the way that this rise in minority nationalism in Britain the1960s has been analysed in three ways: as a manifestation of contemporaneousprocesses (e.g. Bogdanor, 1979), the result of historical trends (e.g. Rokkan &Urwin, 1984) and within the ‘context of the actions and interests of the statein mediating territorial and ethnic tensions within a polity’ (e.g. Rhodes &Wright, 1987). Electoral support had grown steadily over the intervening periodand had almost doubled to 8.1% by 1979. Over recent years a variety oftheoretical positions (cf. Combs, 1978; Corrado, 1975) have been used toanalyse the type of nationalism advocated by Plaid. These include Gramsciannotions suggesting that the party’s aim of national liberation is both a classand a cultural struggle (McAllister, ibid, 1995), Weberian theory relating to thenexus of class, status and party (Fevre et al., 1997) and theories of class andpartisan dealignment (Adamson, 1991). In their respective ways these analyseshighlight the change from what the party’s leader once called the earlier ‘clichésof ultra-cultural nationalism’ (Wigley, cited in J. Davies, 1997, 5) to the non-specific ideology of civic nationalism (cf. Greenfeld, 1992). In what Daviesrefers to as ‘the considerable abandonment of the ideological purity of thefounding fathers’ (J. Davies, ibid, 1997, 2) outmoded stances on agrarianism,restoration of links with the church in Rome,10 independence within Europe (cf.Glyn-Jones, 1983, 33), agitation for the English language to ‘be deleted fromthe land called Wales’ and the preaching of the European fascism of GeneralFranco in 1930s (G. A.Williams, ibid., 1992, 16) were replaced by socialistpolicies to secure social and economic development. In stark contrast to theParty’s early position, leading figures now assert, ‘I hope we will never see asituation where the language is a political matter’ (Elis Thomas quoted in Clark,1998). Further evidence of the ideological distance that the party has travelledwas provided by recent denials, in contrast to evidence to the contrary11 thatPlaid had ever sought political independence from the U.K.12 – an area wherethe party’s policies on the constitutional position of Wales remain ambiguous

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(R. Wyn Jones, 2000b). Over the decades Plaid has been highly skilled in theuse of ambiguity to achieve its apparent transformation. Indeed some of theshifts in the position of leading figures have been memorably described as an‘extraordinary intellectual odyssey’ (R. Wyn Jones, 1996, 59). Christiansen(1995, 56) notes the Party’s ‘ability . . . to give up key parts of its programmeand strategy in order to reform while appearing not to have given anything up’,elsewhere McAllister (ibid, 1995, 312) refers to the party’s ‘essential fluidity’.These shifts in the party’s ideological position cannot be divorced from itschanging organisational structure.

The steady geographical spread in Plaid’s support over the years extendedits influence beyond its north-west heartland and is in part a result of thedevelopment of its local branch structure. Between 1938 and 1969 the proportionof senior Plaid branches located in NW Wales decreased from 41 to 22% whilstthat in south Wales more than doubled from 17 to 35% (Butt Philip, ibid, 1975,162). This development of the Party’s organisational infrastructure is central toits recent electoral breakthrough. A string of unsustained strong electoralperformances in constituencies located in the south Wales valleys between 1960and 1979 enabled Plaid to wrest important concessions from the socialistgovernments of the period in what has been described by a leading participantas ‘difficult and frustrating period which saw the transition from marginal groupto a political force’ (P. Williams, 1981, 133). This area of industrialised Walesis one that has been largely unaffected by the major cross-border migratoryflows (Carter, 1999) that have resulted in an influx of non-Welsh identifyinginmigrants. Accordingly it is a region that has long been a target for the party’scampaigning and the development of its local networks (cf. Wigley, 1992).

In recent years Plaid Cymru has sought to work with other political parties andgroups. It has issued several joint publications and one of its MPs was elected ona joint ticket with the Green Party. Recent work (R. Davies, 1999; Morgan &Mungham, 2000) shows how, following its earlier rejection by a referendum in1979, devolution resurfaced as a serious political issue in 1987, a time thatintersected with the period 1984–1991, when the Plaid leadership ‘sought tocreate bridges between Welsh nationalism and a wide range of movements,including those of trade unionists, feminists, anti-nuclear campaigners, liberationtheologists, ecologists, anti-racists and the advocates of the validity of an English-language Welsh culture’ (J. Davies, ibid., 1997, 11–12). This approach built uponthe practice developed over the past 25 years when Plaid has consistently workedwith individuals and groups to advance the rights of disabled people (cf. Wigley,1990; 1995). Such co-working has paved the way for the close co-operationbetween Plaid and the Wales Labour Party governing administration in the establishment of the new government forum in Wales (R. Morgan, 2000).

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Despite these moves to engage with a wider section of the Welsh electoratethe decision as to whether Plaid Cymru should join the inclusive politics of across-party campaign to persuade the electorate to back the government’sdevolution proposals was not a foregone conclusion and exposed generationaltensions within the party. Many older members had bitter memories of the cross-party campaigning in the failed 1979 referendum and the party’s leadershipfeared that a further rejection of devolution by the electorate ‘could be seriouslydamaging, even terminal, to Plaid’ (Andrews, 1999, 115). Following an intensedebate within the Party, Plaid eventually joined the campaign in July 1997, justthree months ahead of the devolution referendum vote. Initial fears were allayedwhen voters backed the devolution proposals (albeit by a narrow margin) but thefact that most Welsh-speakers voted for devolution, while most English-speak-ers did not (Wyn-Jones & Trystan, 1999, 79), starkly underlined the futureelectoral challenge for Plaid Cymru. English monoglots and particularly English-born residents of Wales who make up nearly one in five of thepopulation, were unenthused by, or indeed hostile to, the idea of devolution(Evans & Trystan, 1999; Fevre, et al, 1999). For Plaid the advent of ‘inclusive’politics was timely in that it allowed the leadership to back a much weaker formof devolution than the Party had previously advocated and it provided an oppor-tunity to restate its pre-existing strategy of embracing all citizens of Wales. TheParty’s leader outlined this position in the following terms: ‘when I say “as apeople”, I mean all the people of Wales. We regard all the people who live inWales as citizens of Wales and all are equal irrespective of race, creed, colouror language. Plaid Cymru is a national party, but our nationalism is a civicnationalism. It is an inclusive philosophy and we welcome the inclusive natureof the [Parliamentary Devolution] Bill’ (Wigley, 1997).

Plaid’s commitment to an inclusive approach was formalised by their co-operation with the National Assembly Advisory Group (NAAG), a diversebody convened to ‘advise the Secretary of State’ and ‘to producerecommendations on which consensus has been established and which contributeto the establishment of an Assembly’ (NAAG, 1998, 4). Working in co-operation with other groups, Plaid’s input to these consultations resulted inthe unique legal duty placed on the Assembly to promote equality of opportunityin all its work. Plaid’s Spokesperson on Social Inclusion and Equality ofOpportunity (Helen Mary Jones13) noted ‘our National Assembly is the firstelected body in Europe that has a statutory duty to promote equality ofopportunity and I have to say as an individual it is very odd to see one’s wordsappearing in a . . . statute, but I did draft that clause’.14

In a further attempt to reach out to non-Welsh speaking voters and following anintense debate at its annual conference in September 1998, Plaid Cymru voted to

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append an English translation to its name, becoming ‘Plaid Cymru – The Party ofWales’. As Jenson (1995) has highlighted, although a detail, such symbolicchange can significantly shape the prevailing political opportunity structures opento nationalist movements. Building on this change and the cross party co-opera-tion of the previous year, Plaid’s election manifesto expressed the Party’s aim ofachieving a ‘new style of politics’ and envisioned a ‘new’ Wales founded oninclusive policies based on notions of citizenship and equality of opportunity. Itemphasised ‘the rights of all citizens in Wales . . . [to foster] a people who arealive to their democratic responsibilities and to their rights as individuals andcommunities’ (Plaid Cymru, 1999). During the campaign leading figures in theparty spoke of ‘making sure that the Assembly is totally inclusive . . . that nobodyfeels a second class citizen, whether you speak Welsh, whether you speak English,that we should be working together in a spirit of inclusiveness’.15

Plaid’s subscription to the cause of ‘inclusiveness’ is the latest stage in its trans-formation from exclusive to inclusive nationalism. It is distinct from the earlierstrands in this process of change in that it helped underpin an electoral break-through. This was acknowledged by a prominent Party member who noted, ‘forsure . . . we are willing to co-operate to ensure the success of the Assembly. Andthat is why so many people supported us in this campaign’.16 Indeed, the fact thatPlaid Cymru’s electoral success meant that the Wales Labour Party did not holdan overall majority in the National Assembly was presented as an ideal platformfor a ‘new’ inclusive politics in Wales: ‘these are the sorts of results we wouldhave wished for . . . we must work together from the outset’.17 We now turn to ourresearch findings that explore whether the party’s inclusive rhetoric has beentranslated into active engagement with marginalised social groupings.

PLAID CYMRU AND INCLUSIVE POLITICS

Women, people from an ethnic minority and disabled people have beentraditionally amongst the most marginalised groups in Welsh society and theyhave been under-represented or absent from political decision making. Despitethe fact that women comprise a majority of the population, voters in Waleshave returned just seven women MPs throughout the history of the BritishParliament (Rees, 1999). People from a Black or ethnic minority backgroundcomprise just over 1%18 of the three million people resident in Wales and 6.3%of those residing in the capital city (Nyoni, 2000, 17). They and disabled people– who are members of 57% of families (John, 1998) and comprise one in sixWelsh voters (John, 1999, 11) – do not have proportional descriptive repre-sentation in national politics. Accordingly, these groups present test cases forPlaid Cymru’s self-stated ‘inclusive philosophy’ (Wigley, ibid, 1997) and aim

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of building an ‘inclusive, outward-looking, confident Wales’ (I. Wyn-Jones,2000). If this strategy is to be meaningful the party must engage with thesegroups. This is important because the extent to which Plaid operationalises itsinclusive rhetoric will influence its success in winning over voters drawn fromall sections of Welsh society, people that have hitherto been unwilling to supportthe party because of their antipathy to the earlier, exclusive nationalism theparty extolled. These findings on Plaid’s attempts to realise an inclusive agendatherefore contribute both to an understanding of the party’s recent success andits prospects of consolidating and developing its support. First we turn to theevidence from within the Party before moving to the view of the marginalisedgroups themselves.

Plaid’s Membership and Policies

The needs of these marginalised groups were high on Plaid’s list of politicalpriorities in the party’s election manifesto (Plaid Cymru, 2000). It spoke of theAssembly’s ‘crucial statutory responsibility to promote . . . equal opportunities’leading to ‘action in all policy areas.’ It stated ‘[w]e . . . will prioritise supportfor . . . equal opportunities’ and spoke of ‘a multi-pronged approach to jobcreation, . . . appraised by . . . equal opportunities criteria’. Economic develop-ment was to be planned by ‘promoting equal opportunities and participation bywomen, the disabled and ethnic initiatives’ with ‘specific support to womenand ethnic minority entrepreneurs’.19 Plaid’s comprehensive commitment to theneeds of disabled people was presaged in a detailed outline of their policies forpeople with learning difficulties20 and fully developed in their Manifesto. At itsfirst annual conference after the establishment of the National Assembly, theparty ‘reaffirmed’ its ‘commitment to social justice and to the promotion ofequality of opportunity for every citizen of Wales’.

However, there is less certainty about the level of acceptance that the ‘inclu-sive’ agenda is receiving amongst Plaid’s rank and file membership. One keywoman informant within Plaid Cymru thought that the

constructive drive in policy-making is coming from outside the Plaid heartlands at themoment . . . I do think that as Plaid gains power that people need to . . . be thinking who

do they actually represent, what values do they represent? . . . as a Party we are still on ahuge learning curve . . . people like Cynog [Dafis, the Party’s Policy Development Officer]are taking things like the policy development on board. Now that needs to filter-down tomake sure that everybody . . . understands . . . You are bound to have conflicts really.

In fact inclusiveness is a contested concept within the party. A number ofcommitted leading figures on the party’s National Executive Committee arecarrying forward elements of an inclusive agenda based on equality of

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opportunity and citizen’s rights but, according to the respondent just quoted, ‘itis the constituency party that is the main decision-making body and that sendsrepresentatives to the National Council . . . now I think that equal opportunitiesis very patchy in terms of where it is targeted at the moment’. Such issues areseen as central to the future direction of Plaid and their importance is reflectedin the current review of the party’s constitution which follows on from a driveintended to, ‘increase our membership on a very considerable scale . . . [for]we must attract people from all corners of our country and of all kinds ofbackgrounds, so that we . . . reflect fully through our membership the diversenature of contemporary Wales. We must do that’ (Dafis, 1999).

The role of women in the party has led to bitter internal debates, threatenedresignations and boycotts (McAllister, 1999). The failure of Plaid’s membershipto reflect the wider population was acknowledged by the party’s leader after itattracted criticism in the Assembly election campaign:

No sadly that’s true . . . we regard everybody living in Wales as full and equal citizenswhatever their language, creed, colour or place of origin is . . . I think there is a challengehere for us as a party, perhaps, to be more proactive to get more members in from all theethnic groups, who will then be in a position to put their names forward as candidates.Enough of that hasn’t been done in the past. But there is another consideration, that is tomake sure that the institution itself does develop in a way that encourages people to wantto be there. With regard to women, the hours which the Assembly sits is one that’s conducivefor women to be there (sic), the facilities such as crèches and that sort of thing are avail-able there. The Assembly has a lot of work to do to earn the respect of people in all sortsof minorities and hopefully in four years time we’ll have a very much better balance betweenall the groups in those standings . . .21

When interviewed, Plaid’s new Assembly Members pointed to the leadership’sinitiative in creating a specific shadow cabinet brief for social inclusion and equal-ity of opportunity as evidence of its commitment to inclusiveness. Women AMsspoke of their ‘responsibility [as women] to act as role models’ and one said ‘Iwould like women to think, well look, if she can do it – and she’s ordinary, I cando it’. Early in the life of the new governing body there was a feeling that theincreased number of elected women in the Party was indeed creating a new styleof politics within Plaid and beyond; one based on mutual support and respect. Thesame AM noted ‘yes, I feel there is a sort of . . . sisterhood thing, definitely’.

Six of the party’s seventeen AMs are women but, in contrast to the formalmechanisms adopted by the Wales Labour Party, this was achieved by apragmatic approach of placing women in winnable regional ‘list’ seats selectedby proportional representation. Plaid’s front bench described the situation withinthe context of past failings:

Plaid Cymru is the only political party in Westminster . . . that does not have a woman MPand it was something that we weren’t proud of, so we are quite determined when the

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Assembly election came that we wouldn’t have an equal number of men and womencandidates as such, but we would certainly have an equal number of men and women inwinnable seats, so we made it perfectly clear that if there weren’t sufficient women selectedin the first-past-the-post seats, that we’d select women then on the top of the regional listsand what will happen when the elections are held on 6th May, it’ll be roughly proportional– half men – half women, not exactly, but probably far more . . . there is certainly a glassceiling. There are many talented women out there who are not really getting into publiclife as they should – and Plaid Cymru has made a significant contribution to that in itsselections.22

This positive action highlighted the difficulties and challenges facing the Party,for the traditionalist patriarchy in rural branches consistently fails to select womencandidates.23 As former Plaid candidate McAllister (1999, 15) noted, feminism is,‘construed as an alien, foreign influence within many local branches and heresome of the more mainstream feminist ideas such as equal representation makelittle progress’ (see also C. A. Davies, 1994, 1996, 1999). One woman who was aPlaid AM explained, ‘we’ve got a membership that’s sort of 50 : 50, but it’s themen that make it . . . oh anyone can apply, but I mean it just does not result inwomen winning the seats.’ The key informant already quoted added,

the actual membership is fairly representative of society . . . the actual active membershipis a different thing, you know the people that make decisions . . . [they’re] . . . usuallycouncillors and they’re generally men . . . I wouldn’t say that its 50 : 50 when it comes tothe decision making and the people that participate . . . 75% of those that attend the rhanbarth [regional] meetings, which are the decision-making bodies, are men.

Such problems underpin the recent failure of Plaid, despite strong contenders24

to select women candidates to fight for its four Westminster seats in the BritishParliament when dual mandate representatives are obliged to relinquish theirLondon seats. The key informant, a leading woman in the party, noted

one of the things that was used against me was the fact “oh she’s a feminist” and thatseemed to have actually scared people, now considering that Plaid, some of the philosophyand principles of Plaid is social justice, I found that incredible that people [within the Party]were threatened by feminism . . . that actually brought home to me the work that needs tobe done in terms of political education and thinking of the role of women.

This modest progress compares with the Party’s failure to field any Black orethnic minority candidates and just two disabled candidates. The absence of adisabled AM in the Assembly was acknowledged as an acute problem and inorder to address this failure a Plaid AM felt ‘we really need to listen to disabledpeople’. One of the Party’s disabled candidates stated that attention needs tobe paid to why so few disabled people join the Party and to understand ‘whatthe barriers are’ and fight ‘the institutionalised discrimination that exists withinthat sort of party political structure’. The feeling was that amongst the minority

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groups in Plaid (and the other parties), women had fared rather better thandisabled people or the black and ethnic minorities. As the disabled candidateexplained, there were ‘traditionalists’ inside the party who feel that disabledpeople ‘aren’t able to take up those sort of places’ and ‘if they really want totalk about inclusion they will have to look at positive action around race anddisability as they have done around gender’. One Plaid AM noted the problemsin respect of encouraging Black members:

Plaid finds it quite difficult . . . particularly for the people from ethnic communities, Plaid Cymru is not a party they would obviously sort of think of associating themselveswith . . . because we are so much a Welsh party . . . [however] in some communities thereis the beginning of a response.

Such a view seems to substantiate some of the fears of the black and ethnicminorities about the nature of prevalent constructions of Welshness (C.Williams, 1999). As one interviewee from a minority organisation emphasised,I am ‘a Welsh Black woman’.

The evidence from Plaid’s membership might suggest that the party has failedto prioritise an inclusive approach to managing itself. Although gender haswidely been regarded as the ‘winner’ in the equality debate within the party,it has ignored the recommendations of its own Commission on Gender Balance(1993–1995) and recent calls by senior party figures to have women representPlaid in Westminster. Charlotte Davies (1999) considered that the failure tosustain progress on gender equality was due to key feminist activists leavingthe Party while the ‘women who remained . . . placed their nationalism on apar with, or ahead of, their feminism’ (C. A. Davies, 1999, 101). It is evidentPlaid Cymru is experiencing a period of internal debate in which the relevanceand meaning of the concept of ‘inclusiveness’ is being contested within theParty. For a fuller understanding it is necessary to examine how Plaid’s effortsin this regard are perceived by the three key minorities groups outside the Party.In the next section it might be useful to bear in mind that these groups areespecially interesting in this context because they have such different prioritiesto those we usually associate with Plaid Cymru. In this section we will beginto gauge the extent to which these groups think Plaid has made progress inadopting these priorities.

The Views of ‘Minority’ Groups

Devolution of government to Wales has generally raised expectations amongstdisabled people. As one campaigner noted, ‘in the long term they have anincredible opportunity to do some good and create an inclusive society’. Such anopportunity is based on ‘the Assembly, hopefully, interpreting disability

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legislation in a more user-friendly way than has been done on a U.K.-wide basis’.Disabled people’s groups have responded positively to Plaid’s approach to

disability issues. One manager singled out the comprehensive nature of itspolicies: ‘Plaid Cymru were the only ones that had a detailed sense of whatwas needed, which is interesting, because I didn’t necessarily see myself as aPlaid Cymru supporter’. The party was seen as both proactive and outspokenon disability by one of the leading campaigners for disabled people:

Plaid were the most vociferous in their verbal support and in fact ran a number of days intheir [election] campaign on disability issues, [and] concentrated specifically on that in theirmedia campaign for whole days,25 which is something the other parties didn’t do . . . Plaidis the only party that has invited us back in to work with the Assembly Members they’vegot, to develop their own party policies in terms of their activities in the Assembly itselfand the subject committees . . . they actually came to us.

Another respondent spoke of the Party being, ‘very interested and keen to pursuework with us’ and one director told us ‘it’s very clear that Plaid [of all theParties] are very tuned in – community responsive, very, very clear . . . [they]are different’.

Disabled people’s groups pointed to the key role of individuals in advancingPlaid’s disability agenda: ‘it’s undoubtedly down to personal commitment butwhat the hell, you know, someone’s got to open the door and we’ll go in’.Local disability groups in both the north and south of Wales highlighted therole of the party’s former President, Dafydd Wigley:

disability is one of his major areas of interest so I suppose we’ve got an open door therereally . . . he, we, went through . . . issues . . . like the Assembly adopting a social modelof disability . . . and he was very supportive and obviously from his point of view he putus in touch with who, in terms of his own party, who were the relevant people on whichcommittees that we needed to be in contact with and some things that he’s offered to take-up, like for example, will there be an appointment of a disability equality officer to workalongside the race equality officer in the equal opportunities office. So things like that hesaid he would take action on, so we were pleased about that.

Another described Plaid’s response as

very positive. I was at a meeting regarding an individual the other day and Dafydd [Wigley]was totally spot-on really . . . I certainly know that they’re interested in what we’re doing. . . I can say that it is positive as far as Dafydd Wigley is concerned.

Another manager listed a number of their recent events that leading figures inPlaid had attended and concluded, ‘we’ve got very good relationships . . . theyalways turn up to our functions . . . it really is quite a good relationship . . .they do actually pay attention to us . . .’ Elsewhere the Party’s support for organ-isations supporting those with learning difficulties is evident:

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Mr. Dafis, Plaid Cymru – our local AM, he’s very involved with everything that we do, Imean for example he gets a copy of my annual report and we keep him abreast of all theinformation, I mean like for example, about six months ago the local authority threatenedto cut Social Services who were funding a lot of the voluntary sector projects . . . Mr. Dafiswas very supportive and we fought a campaign and we didn’t have any trouble at the endof the day, which we were very pleased about.

The role of committed individuals within the Party is seen as the key to disabledpeople’s rights being advanced and one campaigner pointed out that people are‘very lucky’ because of prominent equality campaigners in the Party becomingAMs ‘so that equality won’t be allowed to be sidelined at all’.

Plaid, like the other political parties, face a tough challenge to rebuild theconfidence of the Black and ethnic minority communities in Wales. Onecampaigner had concluded that ‘as far as I am concerned the National Assemblyfor Wales isn’t going to be meaningful to Black people at all’. Others reflectedwider anger: ‘it’s been disillusioning and disappointing, “Welsh” appears tomean simply middle class white Welsh and if you look at most of the candidatesthat have come through they seem to fit that bill’; another added, ‘Its a disgrace,a total disgrace’. Another respondent felt that the new political structure gaveher no representation, ‘I do not feel that there is anyone within the Assemblyat this moment in time, that can represent my views and opinions and understandwhere I am coming from as a . . . Black person’.

Plaid’s failure to field a single black candidate was extremely damaging to thestanding of the party amongst some of the electorate. As one activist noted, ‘fromthe black and Asian point of view they were not in the frame’. The early indica-tions suggest that Plaid failed both before and during the election campaign. Theirlack of basic record keeping and recruitment programmes was highlighted:‘they’re not even aware if they have [Black people] in the membership’ and thatthere was ‘no programme to encourage members from the Black and Asian com-munity to come forward’. One activist noted the centrality of identity to the prob-lems of perception and communication Plaid face in this respect:

a lot of people from Plaid – I can’t remember his name – but he was insulting. He wasand people said at the meeting, “I’ve never been so insulted by a politician or anyone inmy life”. He was saying yes, in the future. I mean he showed his lack, his ignorance ofdifferent communities, of other people and he didn’t say anything positive. He didn’t giveany indication that they were going to do anything at all, he was saying obviously we wantto be inclusive, if you, er, you know, they defined it that if you live in Wales you know,you’re a member of the constituency and of the nation and so you know we’ll be happy tohave you but, we’re not going out to do anything.

Such perceptions of Plaid are of course extremely germane to the currentdiscussion since they suggest the party has not always been able to carry throughto the point at which it can even begin to discover that the groups it is now

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courting have very different priorities to those we usually associate with PlaidCymru.

After this disastrous start so far as the National Assembly is concerned, thereis evidence that Plaid is gradually being considered as a party worthy of futuresupport by some members of the Black and ethnic communities. As therepresentative of one ethnic minority community organisation explained, ‘I feelthat Plaid Cymru is the party that actually gets left out because of the percep-

tion of being nationalist, but I personally feel that because they are a party ofWales and they . . . should make a greater inroad into the community’ [italicsadded]. There is a suggestion from some of the black and ethnic minorityrespondents that the term ‘nationalist’ is a barrier to engagement and that intheir view, it is no longer wholly appropriate:

but I know, when I’ve spoken to a lot of Black and ethnic minority individuals they arevery wary of Plaid Cymru, because Plaid Cymru to a lot of people are seen as being anationalist party – which it is, isn’t it? But it’s, how can I say . . . It was very much anationalist party perhaps prior to these last elections, that’s how it was perceived by a lotof people, I should say . . . and a lot of people from black and ethnic minority communitiesfeel that Plaid, if Plaid was elected to the government – so they run Wales, they’ll bring alot of legislation to promote the Welsh language [italics added].

There is an irony here in that the attitude of senior Plaid figures is that languageis itself an equal opportunities issue26 yet it is hindering the Party’s programmeof equality towards ethnic groups. The issue of the Welsh language amongstethnic communities where English is often the second language, would appearmore problematic than amongst other sectors of the Welsh population (see alsoGorard, 1997) as the respondent just quoted explained:

but what they feel, is that, maybe, they’ll be penalised as a result of not speaking Welsh –one. Two, looking, being different by their ethnicity and whether this would have ramifi-cations for them in the sense that their marginalisation, might be made greater.

Once again, the personal expertise and commitment of certain Plaid AMs washighlighted as a positive factor by leading campaigners for example, ‘ I amhopeful . . . people like Helen [Mary Jones] from Llanelli . . . you know, [who]have worked in the equality field before and will bring their equality experi-ence to the Welsh Assembly’. Other respondents from the Black and ethniccommunities pointed to Plaid as a potential platform for those that are disillu-sioned with the Wales Labour Party:

he invited me to come and meet him in the House of Commons to devise means by whichPlaid Cymru could get Black and Asian people to come and join them. But our people arestill reluctant you see. We’ve got to have support to go . . . that was the only thing that Ihave been drumming to our people for the last two years, we cannot change anything unlesswe’re part of the process. The law allows you to contest elections as an Independent, you

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don’t go in the Labour Party, there are other parties representing a very wide share ofopinion in Wales. We must encourage our young people to start joining in.

In fact Plaid have initiated a number of meetings with key individuals and racialequality organisations in Wales. A leading figure spoke of ‘ being reassured by. . . Dafydd Wigley that they are anxious to ensure that this, er, these issuesare addressed’. One director noted, ‘we’ve had reasonable discussions withPlaid Cymru . . . and in all fairness I think that Plaid Cymru have taken up thechallenge very seriously’. And in this respect the Party of Wales’s work isongoing according to one of the key informants best placed to give an overviewof a fast-changing situation:

immediately after the elections he wrote to say look, okay this is where we’re at at themoment. I would like you to meet with Karl Davies [Plaid’s Chief Executive] to see howwe take things forward. So it was on that basis that we pick up the work with Plaid . . .Plaid Cymru – that work has already begun, erm, a series of meetings have already beenscheduled between ourselves and Plaid. I had a meeting with their Chief Exec. Karl Davies. . . from that meeting we agreed a set of actions and a subsequent meeting has taken place.Now what’s going to happen is that there’s going to be a planning group pulled togetherwho’ll then be able to thrash out the practicalities . . . so it’s not a question of saying it’sa good idea – let’s see what happens, – it’s already started to happen.

The political geography of Wales is against Plaid fielding Black candidates, forthe majority of the ethnic communities lie in the urban areas where Plaid thusfar has had little electoral success. The key informant continued:

this is my, er, disappointment in Wales is that because Black and minority ethnic people aredensely populated in the areas of settlement which runs from the south east – Newport to thesouth west – Swansea, that’s it, that the greatest span of population, that reaches its maximumpoint in Cardiff, it’s disappointing because there’s not much scope out of that geographical areaand I really think that we have to honest with ourselves – there isn’t . . . So basically, whenyou’re talking about political inclusivity and equality of opportunity, I think that we have to behonest with ourselves and realise that yes there is the opportunity to participate, but within thatopportunity to participate, in order to be effective there has to be a zoning of targets to areas.

Plaid currently lacks the local branch infrastructure to support such a targetedapproach in ethnic communities.

Interestingly, the widespread feelings of betrayal and disillusionment aimedat political parties in the ethnic communities have improved Plaid’s standingamongst some of our respondents from black and ethnic minority organisations.The key informant explained why this might be the case:

I think that people will tend to see them as a bit more credible – and what they’ve done tome, by their commitment, is actually they’ve been very positive . . . with Plaid, see, their assetis that they’ve never engaged with Black and minority ethnic communities or individuals, sothat we can take them on board and we can foster and develop good practices, whereas otherpolitical parties have had dealings with Black and minority ethnic communities and they have

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had their own ways with dealing and interacting with Black and minority ethnic communi-ties and to me, to a certain extent that is a liability, or a shortfall with them. For the waythey’ve acted in the past hasn’t been successful at all, but with Plaid, there’s greater scope because they’re new to the process and hopefully as a result of that we can developinnovative and positive ways forward.

Such views are not expressed amongst respondents in women organisationsbecause in this area Plaid, in common with all the other political parties, hasa well-known and sometimes documented, history of neglect.

Generally, the view of the women’s organisations studied has been positivetowards devolution and its potential to address women’s issues. Such optimismcentred on the opportunity for ‘giving women a sense of empowerment andmaking them feel that they can be empowered because of the Assembly’ andanother respondent added ‘I have a high expectation that it could drive the agendain a very positive way . . .’ The prevailing view was typified by one manager: ‘myown attitude is one of high hopes, that we have a chance to make a difference tosome of the things that need to be addressed in Wales, I think that so many groupshave high hopes . . .’ Indeed, there is a widespread feeling that, of the three‘minority’ groups, women were least convinced that Plaid have fully addressedtheir marginalization. Once again, Plaid’s commitment to the Welsh languageemerges as a barrier. The prioritisation of the language and the struggle for greaterlevels of self-government was seen as limiting progress:

I dunno . . . they’re diverted by the language issues aren’t they? And the “power in Wales”sort of issues and so on and the broader issue I suppose they can’t, I dunno, it’s er, . . .I’m a little uneasy about that, I feel that, um, you know, it’s difficult for them to try tomaintain their profile of being a leading party in Wales and to try to increase theirrepresentation, but, er, these other issues I think for some of them are secondary.

The recent failure of the Party to select a particular women candidate forWestminster elections also worried another: ‘. . . that was a big disappointment. . . I think they would have done themselves no harm whatsoever by er, youknow, supporting her candidacy, because you know it’s forward thinking,progressive, it’s a new fresh image’. This respondent went on to describe howthe lack of progress is believed to be a consequence of the traditionalist cultureof the Plaid heartland:

. . . they’re rather more, you know, they take a rather more stereotypical type view of um,life in Wales, society and the economy et cetera . . . I mean I think with Plaid, um, you knowyou’ve got to look at the man at the top really. Dafydd Wigley is a traditionalist . . . that’shis background, his generation, partly the area he comes from, you know, it’s um, it’s a different ball game up here in north west Wales.

Such a view was also expressed in south east Wales where a female Plaidactivist ascribed the party’s recent electoral success to, amongst other things,

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its image as a male dominated organisation in the largely patriarchal society ofthe Valleys, ‘and Plaid is [male dominated]. Maybe it’s why it won over somany votes at the moment because it still is, I think, very male dominated’.

This failing was the cause of worries about the potential of Plaid to undoprogress made towards greater equality that it is felt has come with devolution:

I mean my – I suppose, y’know my only concern really is that in the long term is that ifthis Party [Wales Labour Party] doesn’t get in next time and I think that it is by no meanscertain that they will, um, if Plaid [Cymru] get in I’m not sure that we are going to see,y’know, the same level of support for these sorts of issues.

These views may be seen within the context of a male-dominated party machine.As Davies concludes, ‘men who belong to ethnic nationalist movements may seefeminist demands as an undesirable complication in their movements for nationalautonomy’ (C. A. Davies, 1999, 107), but others see evidence of change. Anothermanager with a women’s organisation highlighted language and gender issues asthe principal challenges for Plaid and felt that women tended to vote on the basisof levels of female representation in parties and policy issues rather thanlongstanding ties of party loyalty exhibited by men. Here, she felt, was anopportunity for Plaid, ‘I think that it’s a really serious issue for Plaid Cymru this,you know, of getting women on board and winning some support from women’.

The women members of the Party interviewed referred to the convening ofbranch meetings at times that excluded people with childcare responsibilities.One recalled the experience of attending a branch meeting:

the first meeting I went to was quite – I wasn’t intimidated as such because I was readyfor it. But you know it’s not nice sitting there on your own. Um and they are discussingsomething and you think, hang on! You need to talk about this and they kind of, withouteven thinking and I don’t think that it’s a malicious thing, I just think that, you know, theyhave been conditioned into ignoring you, ignoring that single voice. And I think that themore women that come on board. I mean the more – the maximum number of women thathave been in a meeting with me is, like, two other women which is quite pathetic.

One manager of a Women’s organisation referred to the Party’s expedient useof the ‘list’ seats to secure the election of women AMs: ‘I think that wasextremely helpful and I think that that definitely signals something’. Speakingfrom the perspective of women in business, another was encouraged, ‘particu-larly with Plaid Cymru . . . having more women actually being [Assembly]members now . . . who are more likely to pursue women’s issues’. Anothermanager in one of Wales’s major employers spoke of her very positive reac-tion to ‘Plaid Cymru talking around childcare arrangements and things like that,suddenly . . . [these] become more important [in the political agenda]’. Referringto the expertise of a leading Plaid AM on equality issues she added ‘I knowsome individuals who have been successful [in becoming AMs] extremely well,

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I know where their values lie and I know that it’s not just glibly said, it issomething that they work hard to promote and [they] do actively provide thatrole model’.

A policy officer of a women’s organisation explained that

‘we are starting to develop very good relationships, kind of mutual relations, very supportiveof [name of a leading women’s organisation] and that’s, y’know, really good . . . PlaidCymru, I’d say Plaid Cymru we have far more support [from them] not being, kind ofswayed in any way, but Plaid Cymru – Dafydd Wigley has always supported us – I meanthey were just brilliant about that and they did come back and say “this is really interesting,this is really good . . .”

Another respondent from a woman’s organisation said that Plaid AMs were her‘initial point of contact’ with the Assembly. Elsewhere the Party’s role in theAssembly was seen as a model by new women’s groups, ‘. . . for example PlaidCymru I thought were very heartening and if we could do something similarfor women and you know have the odd chair of the odd committee that wouldbe a very good start’. Others have faith in Plaid and other AMs based on closeco-operation during both the NAAG and referendum collaborations:

a lot of those women [AMs] are women that I have worked with in different capacities overmany years and I know that they are the type of people that will influence, will make change,will give us transparency. I feel confident that that’s going to happen. I think, you know, thatit can’t do anything but happen, you know, because you can only look at what they are.

Another added, ‘I’m sure they’re going to be very good champions for . . .equality in general within the Assembly’.

CONCLUSION

Our findings revealed that those in the marginalised groups generallyacknowledge the bona fide attempt by the principal nationalist party in Wales toachieve a constructive form of engagement. However, despite encouraging signs,our analysis shows that Plaid Cymru has a long way to go in its attempts to fullyreconcile itself to the concept of inclusiveness. As many AMs, party strategistsand the party leadership are concerned, Plaid is now strongly committed to aconcern for the rights of all the citizens of Wales underpinned by notions ofequality. Examination of its membership, particularly its elected representatives,shows that variable progress has been made on the ground. Positive action incandidate selection for seats elected by proportional representation has resultedin greater numbers of women candidates. In the case of ethnic minorities anddisabled people there is evidence of a concerted attempt to address the earlierfailings of the party. Ironically, however, whilst women have made the most

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progress amongst elected representatives, many in the party feel that much workis still to be done to overcome prejudice against women holding office in theparty. When interviewed one candidate felt that her gender ‘did not make a difference one way or the other’ to her prospects of securing the leadership (H. M. Jones quoted in Powys, 2000, 18). Yet the combined total of just 11% ofthe vote polled by the two women leadership candidates suggests otherwise.

Our findings also suggest that the genuine commitment to inclusiveness withinPlaid is uneven, even amongst the élite. Several respondents from the minorityorganisations dealing with Plaid thought that the evidence of such atransformation was the work of a handful of individuals and often just of twoor three politicians at the very top of the party. Beneath the overlay of positivecomment and encouragement it is easy to detect anxieties about the reaction ofthe traditional core support of Plaid Cymru to this mooted transformation. Someof our respondents appeared to suggest that the grass roots of the party had notyet become fully aware of it, while others were aware of the new criteria ofinclusiveness and were dragging their heels, even engaging in a rear-guardaction. As other of our respondents said, such conflicts were perhaps ‘inevitable’but the most interesting may yet be to come.

Thus far, resistance to change within Plaid Cymru has been motivated by awish to conserve the party’s traditional aims. There has not yet been a majorset piece conflict between the modernisers and the traditionalists yet fracturelines are detectable. The Presiding Officer of the new Assembly, Dafydd Elis-Thomas, himself a Plaid AM, has recently questioned the need to publisha bilingual version of the Assembly’s proceedings. As Rhys (2000, 8) observes,‘if Dafydd Elis-Thomas makes an attempt to get rid of Welsh in the OfficialRecord, he will face opposition from Plaid Cymru, the party he was originallyelected to represent’. Having already placed on record her disappointment atthe inadequate amount of Welsh spoken by colleagues in the course of Assemblybusiness,27 Elin Jones the Party’s culture spokesperson asserted that ‘a bilingualversion of the Official Record is totally essential’ (Rhys, ibid., 2000, 8).

Devolution poses new problems for Plaid as well as constituting their greatestever opportunity to become the party of government in Wales. It does thisbecause if they are to grasp the opportunity, Plaid must also forge ahead withits long-established process of radical self-transformation. The idea ofinclusiveness was promoted for various reasons by the architects of devolutionand indeed one of these reasons might well have been to challenge Plaid inthis way. If so, the transformation of Plaid Cymru might be counted as one ofthe success stories of devolution, but Plaid Cymru have reached a pivotal pointin the party’s history. Growing electoral support and the challenges that thisbrings see the Party pursuing programmes to make its membership more

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representative and its constitution more suited to the further challenges ahead.The key test for the Party in a complex and rapidly evolving system ofgovernance is whether the implementation of a new inclusive agenda cancontinue to underpin a dramatic rise in electoral support in a country wherecontested notions of national identity have undermined attempts at securing ‘self-government’ for centuries.

There is no obvious reason why Cymdeithas Yr Iaith Gymraeg or the smallerorganisations in the nationalist movement should need to dilute their message(cf. CyIG, 1998, 1999, 2000) to appeal in the South and East. They do notdepend on votes and, although they now have the Assembly to focus on, thereis no clear reason why devolution should change their style of single-issuelobbying, activism and direct action. If Plaid’s new leader carries out what hesees as his ‘clear mandate to start the job of modernising the party from topto bottom’ (I. Wyn-Jones, 2000, 1) by focusing on ‘policies and structure’ PlaidCymru may find that, like many a political force before it, it will become atleast semi-detached from the social movement that formed it.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

The authors acknowledge the support of the University of Wales Board of CelticStudies in funding this research.

NOTES

1. BBC ‘Mae plaid wleidyddol newydd – Cymru Unedig – wedi cael ei lansio mewntafarn yng Nghaernarfon’ [New political party launched in Caernarfon pub’] BBCArlein/BBC Online: NEWYDDION | 11/01/00 19: 22:11 GMT. BBC BBC News Online| NEWYDDION | Sefydlu plaid newydd arall Ffurfiwyd Cymru Annibynnol gan tua 30o gefnogwyr yn Senedd-dy Glyndwr ym Machynlleth ddydd Sadwrn. 30/01/00 18:34:51GMT. See also – Speed, N., ‘Plaid Dismisses Rival Nationalists’, Western Mail,07.01.2000.

2. The word disability encompasses a great variety of conditions, relating to restrictedmobility, sensory impairment and learning difficulties. In some cases these problemswill be openly acknowledged, in some cases hidden. A more formal definition ispresented in the Disability Discrimination Act (1995) ‘Disability’: when ‘a person hasa disability for the purposes of this Act if he (sic) has a physical or mental impairmentwhich has a substantial and long-term adverse effect on his (sic) ability to carry outnormal day to day activities’ – see also O’Dempsey, D. and Short, A. (1996).

3. Here we follow the definition of ‘ethnic minority’ used by the Office for NationalStatistics – cf. ONS (1996).

4. ‘y Blaid’ is simply Welsh for ‘the party’

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5. The 1991 Census records the following percentage of persons aged 3 years and overspeaking Welsh in Plaid's NW heartlands: Afron 76.6%, Dwyfor 71.5%, Meirionydd75,4%, Ynys Môn 67.7%. (OPCS, 1993 – ‘1991 County Report – Gwynedd – Part One’.table M, p.26.).

6. See the Centre for Research in to Elections and Social Trends (CREST) WelshElection Study Data held at Oxford University, http://www.crest.ox.ac.uk

7. Percentage of residents born in Wales: Cynon Valley 91%, Merthyr Tydfil 92%,Ogwr 84.8, Rhondda 93.8%, Rhymney Valley 90%and Taff-Ely 87.7%. (OPCS, 1993 –‘1991 County Report – Mid Glamorgan – Part One’. Table M, p.26.). By way of contrastthe figures for NW Wales were: Dwyfor 71.5%, Meirionydd 64.3% and Ynys Môn 67.7%(OPCS, 1993 – ‘1991 County Report – Gwynedd – Part One’. Table M, p. 26).

8. Plaid Cymru (2000) Saint David’s Day Appeal Letter to Members.9. For further details on inclusive governance and politics see Chaney and Fevre (forth-

coming, 2001) which also discusses the relationship of this new political concept to exist-ing ideas like the Third Way, Associative and Deliberative Democracy and Neo-Corporatism.

10. G. A. Williams (1985, 279–281) describes how Saunders Lewis, the Party’sfounder, ‘recast the whole shape of Welsh history in Idealist terms around a concept ofChristendom, Latin culture, an aristocratic tradition and an organic community . . . theTen Points that Lewis got the party to adopt as its social policy in 1934 reflected Catholicthinking and anticipated the practices of European Christian Democracy’.

11. cf. “Plaid Cymru asserts that an independent Welsh state would shoulder its respon-sibilities. . . Plaid Cymru supports the right of every nation to enjoy independence”. PlaidCymru (1983, 12).

12. Dafydd Wigley, ‘Waterfront’, Harlech Television Wales, 2.05.99. See also, Wigley,D. ‘Talk of Independence is Misleading’, The Western Mail, 22.04.1999, p. 9.

13. Herself the former deputy director of the Equal Opportunities Commision, Wales.Together with the party leader, Dafydd Wigley, Helen Mary Jones has been a key figure inthe Plaid responses to inclusiveness.

14. Helen Mary Jones, Plaid Cymru Annual Conference, 24th September 1999. 15. Dafydd Wigley, ‘Election Call’, BBC Wales. 30.04.1999.16. Ieuan Wyn Jones, ‘Vote ’99 – The Debate’, BBC Wales, 20.04.1999. 17. Dafydd Iwan, Etholiad ’99, Sianel Pedwar Cymru [S4C], 7.05.99. 18. 0.16% Chinese Welsh; Indian and Pakistani Welsh 0.4% (Betts, 1994, 25), the Irish

comprise 0.73% of the south Wales valleys (Rees, 1999, 23). 19. cf. Plaid Cymru, 2000, section 6.7, unpaginated.. 20. See SCOVO (1999) ‘The Assembly, The Strategy, The Future’, Llais, 52, 3–8. 21. Dafydd Wigley, Vote ’99, BBC Wales, 05.05.1999.22. Ieuan Wyn Jones, ‘Vote ’99 – The Debate’, BBC Wales, 20.04.99. 23. See for example, Etholiadau’r Ganrif: Welsh Elections 1885–1997, Beti Jones, Y

Lolfa.24. See for example, BBC Online, Tuesday, 7 December, 1999, 14, 23 GMT ‘Plaid

picks Wigley’s successor’. Also; Speed, N., ‘Westminster beckons New Women’, WesternMail, 6th November 1999, p. 9.

25. For example 27th April 1999.26. Dafydd Elis Thomas, “a dw’n gobeithio fyddwn ni’n gweld y pwynt yn glyn a

rhwyng Cymraeg a Saesneg fel cwestiwn cyfle cyfartal” [“and I’m hopeful that we will seethe situation with regard to speaking English and Welsh like an equal opportunities issue”]– Etholiad ’99, S4C, 19.04.99.

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27. Elin Jones AM, Plaid Cymru Ceredigion, Cwmni Hon, Siannel Pedwar Cymru,S4C, 28th February 2000.

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A DIFFICULT BIRTH: DISSENT,OPPOSITION, AND MURDER IN THERISE OF MEXICO’S PARTIDO DE LAREVOLUCION DEMOCRATICA (PRD)

Sara Schatz

ABSTRACT

This essay studies the social causes of political and electoral homicide in

Mexico’s democratization in the 1988–2000 period. Three main plausible

hypotheses are tested with a qualitative and quantitative data set as poten-

tial explanations for these political-electoral homicides: (1) the

“peasant-landlord conflict” thesis which explains this violence against

peasants as a manifestation of underlying agrarian struggles over land

and wages; (2) the “violence as a political strategy” thesis which assumes

political-electoral homicide is the unfortunate response of the authorities

to the violent party tactics of an opposition political party; and (3) the

“rise of a leftist opposition” thesis which explains political-electoral

homicide as the result of social disruption caused by the PRI-regime’s loss

of its traditional populist social base. The results suggest that the rise of

an organized leftist opposition was perceived as a threat to certain

agrarian interests, and to local PRI political, police and electoral control

over the municipalities in question. The relatively high incidence of “paid”

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ISBN: 0-7623-0786-2

political contract killings, and/or killings by anonymous assailants against

individuals engaged in everyday social activities at the time of their death

points toward the use of homicide as a control mechanism to protect,

maintain and to minimize threats and resistance to existing political and

economic group interests.

1. THE PARTICULAR PROBLEM OF POLITICAL-ELECTORAL VIOLENCE IN

MEXICO’S DEMOCRATIZATION

My aim in this article is to study the causes of political homicide in Mexico’sdemocratization in the 1988–2000 period. Mexico’s democratization has entaileda little known, but highly significant cost of human lives in pre- and post-election violence: Over 600 opposition political party members have fallen asvictims of homicides in the 1988–2000 period (PRD Commission on HumanRights 1994 – [herewith CHR, 1994]; Global Exchange, 2000). Many of thesepolitically-related homicides occurred while a party member was engaged in alegal activity – organizing a political meeting, attending an electoral fraudprotest, guarding the security offices of a political party, or conducting “get outthe vote” pre-election campaign propaganda (CHR, 1994). Other homicides tookplace when a party militant was engaged in extra-legal activities. These couldinclude peasant-based land invasions, the possession of municipal offices andthe destruction of municipal property that occurred in the context of disputedelection outcomes (Schatz, 1998; Aguas Blancas, 1997).

The striking aspect of Mexico’s high level of political homicides is preciselythat it is a type of violence that is generally associated with a non-violent, legalprocess; that is to say, with voting, the exercise of political rights of peacefulassociation and with alternation in power. This raises the interesting researchquestion of why the act of voting and the transfer of power have caused sucha high fatality rate in Mexico where semi-competitive turned competitive elections have been permitted since 1939? It also raises a counterfactual theoretical proposition – Why did one of the world’s most successful co-optiveauthoritarian regimes in the 1960s, 1970s and early 1980s (Cornelius, Gentleman& Smith, 1989, 1) need to resort to the homicide of many members of itsweakest political opponent?

Some comparative figures drawn from the literature on recent democratiza-tion illustrate the depth of the Mexican problem of political-electoral violence.In the Portuguese “revolution of the carnations” (1975), the Czechoslovakian“velvet revolution” (1989–1990), and in the Hungarian, and Polish transitionsto democracy, no major state-led episodes of violence occurred (Maxwell, 1986;

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256 SARA SCHATZ

Rosenfeld, 1994). In the height of violence in Spain’s democratization(1975–1977), only two students, five communist lawyers and five policemenwere murdered (Maravall & Santamaría, 1986, 84). Even in Uruguay duringthe phase of the harshest military repression (1973–1984), the total number ofdeaths from state-led violence was estimated at 36 (King, 1989). Therefore, thenumber of political-electoral homicides in Mexico democratization in the post-1988 period is surpassed only in Latin America in the late twentieth centuryby the death tolls resulting from the civil wars in Central America (Nicaragua,Guatemala, El Salvador) and by the deaths from state-terrorism in Argentinaand Chile during the period of the “dirty wars” (10,000 deaths estimated in the1976–1983 period for Argentina and 4,000 deaths for Chile in the 1973–1977period) (King, 1989; Loveman, 1999).

2. PRD HOMICIDES AS A PROBLEM OF STATE VIOLENCE

The investigation of the causes of political-electoral violence links the study ofviolence with the study of the evolution of the rule of law and democratiza-tion. Quite recently, after 71 years of political rule by one dominant politicalparty – the PRI – (Party of the Institutionalized Revolution), one of the two ofMexico’s major political opposition parties won the presidency. On July 2,2000, the “PAN” – or the rightist Partido de Acción Nacional – became thefirst political party to control the presidency, thereby breaking the PRI’s lock-hold on political power. Mexico’s other major opposition political party – thePRD – Partido de la Revolución Democrática – remains the third most powerfulpolitical force, trailing the PRI in terms of municipal electoral position, andfederal house and senate seats.

Ultimately, the problem of political-electoral violence and its amelioration inMexico is linked to the broader project of democratization, the separation ofpowers, and a thorough going respect for law (Warner, 1994, 26). The rise ofthe rule of law, and the greater accountability of politicians to the public andthe importance of respect for legality to ensuring the consolidation of democ-racy and democratic institutions is an emergent field of study (O’Donnell, 1996;Stokes, Manin & Przeworksi, 1998). Previous research on Mexico’s transitionto democracy has begun to link the literature on the rise of the rule of law withthe literature on democratization (Schatz, 1998, 1999, 2000a; Eisenstadt, 1999,2001; Aguilar & Trejo, 1999).

Yet, the study of the causes of political violence in Mexico’s democratiza-tion raises the following paradox: On the one hand, the best way to ameliorate political-electoral violence is through the creation of a democratic state because

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Dissent, Opposition, and Murder in the Rise of Mexico’s PRD 257

257

democratic states are much less likely than authoritarian states to commit violence against their populations. In 1990, for example, authoritarian states committed approximately 35–50% more summary executions, disappearances, massacres and torture than democratic states (Sorenson, 1993, 88). On the otherhand, the act of creating a multi-party democratic party system can also triggergreater short-term political violence as the dominant party resists electoral challenges to its previously hegemonic authority.

This essay treats homicides related to electoral-political conflict that emergedwhen the PRD arose onto the national electoral arena in 1988–1989. Stateviolence in Mexico has a long history that reaches back well before the formalbirth of the PRD.1 Yet in the late 1980s, analysts typically focused on thevertical structures of the PRI and its capacity to co-opt (not repress) actual, andpotential, dissenters as one key reason for the success, longevity and modera-tion of a formerly dominant party. For example, in 1989, Cornelius, Gentlemanand Smith argued that “since 1940 Mexico has had a pragmatic and moderate

authoritarian regime, not the zealously repressive kind that emerged in thesouthern cone in the 1960s and 70s; an inclusionary system, given to co-opta-tion and incorporation rather than exclusion or annihilation; an institutional

system, not a personalistic instrument; and a civilian-dominated government,not a military government (1989, 8).” Yet, as Faucher and Fitzgibbons (1989,142) note, with co-optation comes “the iron rule of conformity. For the excluded,marginality is associated with social annihilation (the rights associated with citi-zenship are negated), resulting in dissent and, all too often, violence.”

The process of democratization can increase the likelihood of state sanctionedviolence. Democratization often entails the emergence of new actors, enlargedparticipation and new associations that are perceived as a threat to the systemof domination (Rouquié, 1987, 123). Associative horizontal groupings modifythe power structure and can pose a direct threat to the existing balance of polit-ical power. Indeed, numerous analysts have noted that the rise of the PRD ontothe national stage resulted in bitter conflicts between PRD militants and PRIcaciques (local power-brokers). By 1996, Cornelius (1996, 75) argued that “thebehavior of the PRI-government apparatus in several key elections held duringthe Salinas sexenio [1988–1994] signaled that it would never allow a PRDgovernment to come to power at the state level anywhere in the country.”Gómez-Tagle (1994, 8–9) wrote of the “barbarity” of priista repression towardthe PRD, which was “justified by oblique references to the PRD’s primitive,populist and personalistic tendencies.” Astorga argued that when the PRD firstformed, president Carlos Salinas and the Mexican government “overtly perse-cuted its members. It was a very hostile time (quoted in Mauleón, 2000, 2).”

Clearly, the birth of the PRD during a time of the intensification of Mexico’s

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258 SARA SCHATZ

democratization2 unleashed a wave of political and electoral violence againstPRD members, a majority of whom were engaged in a legal, electoral strugglefor power. Biographical accounts of the initial wave of 250 homicides in the1988–1994 period place the majority of the blame on the murders on Mexico’sformerly dominant party – on members of the old PRI, on members of the statepublic security service or on “hired guns” of local PRI power-brokers (CHR,1994, Appendix). The high incidence of state officials, or individuals contractedby members of the formerly dominant party killing individuals engaged inlegally sanctioned behavior justifies conceiving of the PRD homicides as aproblem of state violence.

The lack of legal attention to resolving these homicides is also a strikingaspect of the Mexican case. In 1994, a full 73% of these homicides remainedunresolved (CHR, 1994, Appendix). In other words, no person had been chargedwith the crime and/or no investigation of it had occurred. Furthermore, thenumber of deaths by 2000 was an estimated 700 persons (both PRD and PRImembers) killed in political-electoral violence.3

Two examples well illustrate the complex causes of political-electoralviolence in Mexico’s democratization. A first example reveals the centering ofviolence around electoral competition. In Mexico City in 1988, four days beforethe most contested presidential election in Mexico’s history, two high-rankingmembers of PRD president Cuauhtémoc Cárdenas’ opposition front were assas-sinated in a blind alley in Mexico City (CHR, 1994, 57). The assassinsapparently called the police immediately afterward to report the crime. SinceCárdenas was widely rumored to be able to win the 1988 presidential electionand because the two men murdered were precisely those in charge of the elec-toral system of information, analysts from Cárdenas’ political organizationargued that the crime was “clearly a political assassination (CHR, 1994, 58).”An official report of the Federal Justice Ministry appointed to investigate thehomicides implicated the state attorney general and state Supreme Court pres-ident of Michoacán where the PRD had the first and strongest electoral victoriesin the early 1990s (CHR, 1994, 58). The state Attorney General was serving ajail sentence in 1994.

Another example, the homicide of opposition party leader – Sebastián PérezNúñez – reveals the intertwined nature of political violence with agrarian-based,rural conflicts. Pérez Núñez had previously been a peasant leader of Mexico’sex-dominant party-state the PRI (CHR, 1994, 35). After switching politicalparties and becoming a member of the opposition left political party (the PRD)and becoming a leader of an independent peasant organization, he was jailedfor participating in agrarian struggles. Although he was offered liberty if herejoined the PRI, Mr. Núñez refused to do so and began to receive death threats

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on his life. He was gunned down in cold-blooded murder in front of his wifeand two eyewitnesses at a gas station by a regional power broker (a cacique)in 1988. Although this regional power-broker (an in-law of the governor) eventually turned himself in and was condemned to a thirty year prison sentence,he was in jail for only 11 months and was allowed liberty on the grounds of“insufficient proof” (CHR, 1994, 35).

A final example gives a more typical portrait of a political homicide victim.Carlos Ávila Luna died as the result of a beating he received from members of thelocal PRI in a post-electoral fight over election results on July 21, 1989 in a smallmunicipality in the Northern state of Durango. The fight broke out when ÁvilaLuna and other PRD members contested the PRI vote count at the municipal gov-ernment office. Although some eyewitnesses did identify the men who beat ÁvilaLuna, no arrests, investigation or prosecution of the crime was conducted (CHR,1994, 71). Clearly, Mexico’s political and electoral homicides have been stronglyassociated with a more general problem of state violence and with violence thatoccurs because of the lack of legal certainty associated with election outcomes.

Research on political resisters has dealt with the extent and nature of differ-ences between resisters and non-resisters, and much less, among various kindsof resisters including revolutionaries, Jacobins, Bolsheviks and Puritans (Brinton,1965; Strauss, 1973; Mueller, 1973). Some attention has been given to connect-ing kinds of people to kinds of resistance but very little to relating either kindsof people or kinds of resistance to forms or degrees of political criminalization(Turk, 1982, 82). This essay makes a contribution to the literature on politicalcriminality by focusing on empirical case accounts of individual victims andgunmen in different types of political action, dissent and resistance.

3. THREE PLAUSIBLE HYPOTHESES OF THE CAUSESOF MEXICAN POLITICAL-ELECTORAL HOMICIDE

Three main plausible hypotheses are tested with the data set as potential expla-nations for these political-electoral homicides: (1) the “peasant-landlord conflict”thesis which explains this type of violence against peasants as a manifestationof underlying agrarian struggles over land and wages; (2) the “violence as apolitical strategy” thesis which assumes political-electoral homicide is the unfortunate response of the authorities to the violent party tactics of an opposition political party; and (3) the “rise of a leftist opposition” thesis whichexplains political-electoral homicide as the result of social disruption caused bythe PRI-regime’s loss of its traditional populist social base. Each of thesecompeting accounts of the causes of political-electoral homicide in Mexico willbe examined in this article.

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3.1 The “Peasant-Landlord Conflict” Thesis

A very high number of PRD homicides happen to individuals who presentlyare, or have been, leaders of independent peasant organizations, especially inthe rural states of Chiapas, Guerrero, Oaxaca, Michoacán, Puebla and Morelos.Indeed, one estimate suggests that about 13% of all the PRD homicides can bedirectly attributed to the question of agrarian struggles over land rights, accessto disputed land, and land-takeovers (CHR, 1994, 19). Furthermore, the CHRbiographies show homicide rates that are clearly much higher in rural areasthan in urban areas in Mexico.

Since landlords in Mexico tend to be highly over-represented politically bythe formerly dominant party PRI (Fox & Gordillo, 1989, 136), one plausibleexplanation of the causes of political-electoral homicide in Mexico is that it isa manifestation of peasant-landlord conflict. The “peasant-landlord conflicthypothesis” is the thesis that organized peasants will struggle to retain as muchaccess as possible to the product of their holdings and to gain as much accessas possible to common woods, pastures and fisheries especially under condi-tions of scarcity. Furthermore, peasants may resort to extra-legal, violentpolitical tactics if necessary to achieve their goals.

The Marxist thesis that peasant violence occurs when solidaristic, organizedpeasants resist landowners’ influence and exploitation for rent, duties, fines, andexcessive taxation is an old one. It has been applied to seigniorial-peasant struggles in medieval Europe (Brenner, 1976; Wunder, 1990; Hilton, 1990, 128),and to more modern 19th and 20th century peasant-landlord struggles overaccess to land and wages in Central America (Paige, 1975; 1987). Mexicanagrarian conflict occurs in a variety of states including importantly Veracruz,Guerrero, Oaxaca and Chiapas. Agrarian conflicts in Mexico over access toland, i.e. cattle ranchers seeking to expand their access to communal ejidal

peasant lands,4 peasants seeking to expand onto private or state-owned forestlands, and/or peasant occupations of private lands have been common inMexican history (1750–1940) (Tutino, 1986).

Yet, Otero (1989) describes a recent process of “depeasantization” that hasoccurred in Mexico since at least the mid-1970s as ejidal peasants were givenpoorer land, as government investment in agriculture favored the private-sectorand production for export over the provision of ample foodstuffs for the domes-tic market (Sanderson, 1981, 145). The process of “depeasantization” amongejidal peasants, according to Otero (1989, 282), occurs when producers becomeseparated from their means of production regardless of the land-tenure and haveto rely on other economic activities such as wage labor to supplement theirincomes. According to Paige (1975, 26), it is precisely when wages in cash or

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in kind increase in importance over land as a source of income for cultivators,that there emerges a greater receptivity by peasants to revolutionary appeals.

The example of Chiapas in the mid-1990s demonstrates the interconnectionbetween agrarian conflict and political violence. The Chiapas uprising of January1994 and its attendant violence brought agrarian conflict into the national andinternational spotlight (Nash 1995). After the January 1, 1994 uprising, peasantgroups in Chiapas became more active and denounced PRI local governmentofficials for corruption in municipalities in Chiapas (Deniability, 1997, 33). Forexample, by May 1994 newly mobilized peasants had occupied or blockadedthe municipal presidents’ building in at least 19 municipalities in Chiapas (La

Jornada, May 30, 1995). Land occupations also accelerated during this time:by mid-1994, more than 300–400 farms had been invaded (Harvey 1998, 76),but by mid-1996, ranchers in Chiapas claimed that this figure had jumped to800 farms (Deniability, 1997, 33). In turn, rancher defense organizations – the“White Guards” resurged during this period.5 Numerous violent episodes andstand-offs between peasants and these pro-rancher vigilante groups occurred inthe mid-to-late 1990s (Knight, 1999, 114–115; Deniability, 1997, 34). The PRDreported 100 victims of politically related assassination in Chiapas in the March1994 to March 8, 1996 period alone (CIACH, 1997, 108).

The first hypothesis is thus one which explains homicide against PRD peasants as a manifestation of underlying agrarian struggles over land and wages.I will examine the data in light of the “peasant-landlord conflict” thesis. Positivesupport for the peasant-landlord thesis would be a high incidence of politicalhomicide in rural (versus urban) areas and a high percentage of the victims whoare peasants and particularly leaders of peasant organizations. Further, I hypothe-size that a higher concentration of communal (ejidal) peasants on the land can beplausibly linked to the higher likelihood of political homicide. Ejido farmers areamong the poorest in the nation (Otero, 1989, 290; Cornelius & Myhre, 1998, 8).6

Thus, I also examine whether the concentration of ejido property is positively associated with high rates of political homicide. Although I expect tofind substantial support for the peasant-landlord conflict thesis, Warner (1994)contends that at least 45% of the cases of political-electoral homicide are causedby the exercise of political rights of association not all of which involve peasants (CHR, 1994, Appendix). Therefore, a complete explanation of the causesof political homicide in Mexico must also examine additional hypotheses.

3.2 “Violence as a Political Strategy” Thesis

Members of the formerly dominant party, particularly in the pre-1997 period,often indirectly alluded to the opinion that PRD militants have a higher homicide

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rate because they are more sympathetic to violence as a political strategy. Forexample, in the 1994 presidential election, the PRD was more likely to beportrayed on the government-controlled television as dangerous and violent thanwas the governing party (PRI) or the rightist opposition party (PAN) (Acosta& Rosales, 1995). Images of PRD activists burning municipal offices in post-electoral fraud protest demonstrations were not infrequent in PRI campaigntelevision commercials in 1994. Indeed, the PRD was not really able to presenta positive image of itself in the mass media until the party received federalmoney for campaign advertising in 1997 (Lawson, 1998, 14).

The thesis that a higher rate of PRD homicide results from PRD militantsadopting violence as a political strategy to combat electoral fraud has someface-value plausibility. Opposition militants of the rightist opposition “PAN”rarely occupied municipal buildings in protests over electoral fraud in the1988–2000 period. Furthermore, sometimes PRD militants do engage in violenttactics – on July 3, 2000 a group of over 100 PRD activists took over theoffices of the local district 18 City Council in Hopelchín, Campeche, beat upthe office personnel there, destroyed equipment pertaining to the federal govern-ment’s “rapid count” electoral program and destroyed electoral documents (La

Jornada, July 7, 2000).7

The immediate problem with the “violence as political strategy” thesis is thatit may confound cause and effect. It may be that all party militants (includingPRD militants) are quite similar to the general population in their rejection ofpolitical violence as a political strategy. However, PRD militants may facegreater state resistance when their candidates try to take office after an election. Hence, their higher homicide rates may not be due to their attitudesbut to their weaker political position. As Eisenstadt (1999, 272) notes of the1988–1994 period, the formerly dominant party PRI was willing to “horse-trade” electoral victories to the PAN in exchange for the party’s support of PRIinitiatives, such as constitutional amendments on land reform and Church-staterelations and for PAN certification of President Zedillo’s victory in 1994. ThePRD, on the other hand, is a weaker, very loosely organized political partywhich lacks the discipline to “deliver” on quid-pro-quo promises to the federalPRI-government in exchange for local post-electoral concessions and had lessto offer the PRI federal government (Eisenstadt, 1999, 272–273).

Furthermore, when PAN activists have engaged in post-election protestrallies, their militants have also been killed (U.S. Department of State, 2000,4). Therefore, the greater rate of political violence and homicide of PRD militants than of PAN militants may be caused by greater state resistance toPRD victories rather than by a greater sympathy toward violence in the beliefsof its party militants. By testing my biographical homicide sample against my

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larger survey sample, I can investigate whether or not PRD party militants are,in general, more favorably disposed toward the use of violence as a politicalstrategy than the general population.

3.3 The “Rise of a Leftist Opposition” Thesis

A third hypothesis explains higher PRD homicide rates in terms of politicalresistance associated with the rise of a leftist opposition in non-Leninist single-party systems. Non-Leninist single-party regimes like the Mexican,Tunisian, Malaysian and others8 are regimes which avoid communist or military dictatorship but also embrace leftist ideologies and some left-wing goalsas part of their legitimating formula (Lipset, 1959, 101; Gilly, 1994). In Mexico,the PRI-regime’s original ideological commitment (1939–1982) to “revolu-tionary nationalism” well expresses this left-leaning orientation through the ideaof nationalism and state-ownership as a tool for limiting ownership of land,control of national resources and capital concentration (Bartra, 1989). Early onin the consolidation of the Mexican revolution this left-leaning ideology of revo-lutionary nationalism was translated into such social policies as the expropriationof the U.S.-owned oil industry in 1938, and the expropriation of private landsfollowed by their redistribution to peasants (the ejido system). State-control ofthe oil industry and legal restrictions on foreign investment initiated underMexican President Lázaro Cárdenas (1934–1940) also further reflected the left-oriented revolutionary nationalism of early regime elites. Finally, the consol-idation of the state in a corporate apparatus that would link the state and theparty to both peasants and the working classes such that the state would represent their interests also reflects, to some extent, the adaptation of socialcorporatist ideas borrowed from French and Italian socialism, SovietCommunism and Latin American populism to the Mexican dynamic of the late1920s–1930s.9

Yet, despite their left-leaning ideologies and some social policies, rulers innon-Leninist regimes (unlike those in the Leninist regimes) did not abolish theprivate capitalist ownership of property in the consolidation of their regimes(Hamilton, 1982). Instead, as in the Mexican case, those on the ideological rightwho objected to the statist, populist economic policies of Lázaro Cárdenas optedto peacefully challenge the corporate consolidation of the Mexican Revolutionby the formation, in 1939, of the Party of National Action (PAN). By tolerating this right-wing opposition party throughout the twentieth-century,Mexican rulers regimes allowed for some limited electoral competition withina limited range of the political spectrum as a desirable alternative to strict hege-monic rule (Linz, 1978, 61). Also, the introduction of semicompetitiveness in

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elections with minor opposition parties helps such regimes gain internationallegitimacy. Because the rightist political party PAN in Mexico (until the mid-1990s) never captured more than 10–20% of the national vote with its narrow,urban platform, it was not perceived as a strong electoral or ideological threat.Despite this, when rulers introduce semicompetitiveness into elections, it isalways possible that uncertainty and opportunities for losses to opposition partiesbecome possible. In other words, semicompetitive elections can become a routeto electoral democracy (Linz, 1978, 61).

And indeed, the consolidation of the Mexican left into a single electoral frontin the 1988 Presidential elections was perceived by PRI-regime elites as a signif-icant ideological and electoral threat to the regime. The rise of an electoralopposition left began in 1977 with a political pact with the PRI-regime in whichthe non-violent left agreed to pursue the electoral route to power as an alternative to armed struggle (Middlebrook, 1986). In the late 1960s and 1970s,a number of left-wing guerrilla movements had emerged to challenge the legitimacy of the Mexican state and to demand greater equity for peasants,social-justice and the redistribution of social resources to the rural and urbanpoor (Casteñada, 1994). Numerous persons either actually tied to armed guerrilla groups, or alleged by regime elites to be tied to armed guerrilla groups,were “disappeared” (approximately 500 persons) in counter-insurgency opera-tions (Committee, 1987).

By the late 1970s, the incorporation into the party system of semi-competi-tive elections was perceived by Mexican PRI-regime elites as way of pacifying,and channeling (co-opting) many on the left ideological end of the politicalspectrum (Horcasitas, 1989, 274). However, the unification of the seven splin-tered leftist parties resulting from the 1977 pact into a single, united leftist frontable to field a single populist candidate represented a strong challenge to theelectoral hegemony of the PRI-regime in the highly contested 1988 Presidentialelections. Because two of the central founding leaders of the 1988 Leftist Frontwere both high ranking, left-wing PRI politicians (Cuauhtémoc Cárdenas andPorfirio Munoz-Ledo) who had left the official party (PRI), a dissident factionof the PRI had the option of separating from the PRI and competing in elec-tions for the first time since 1953 (Horcasitas, 1989, 285). The 1988 emergenceof the united, populist Leftist Front (Frente Democrático Nacional – FDN) thusthreatened the party’s monopoly claim to a revolutionary heritage and broughtit into direct conflict with the PRI. Indeed, so threatening was the electoralchallenge posed by the 1988 FDN that the first political homicide victims assas-sinated on July 2, 1998 (as discussed above) were Cárdenas’ top campaignmanager and his assistant in charge of the flow of electoral information thatwas to operate on election day, July 6, 1988 (CHR, 1994, 57–58). The FDN

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won an official 31.06% of the national vote in the 1988 presidential election,although Cárdenas charged that the presidency had been stolen and claimedvictory with a plurality of 41–42% of the vote (Barberán et al., 1988, 128–147).10

Thus, the third thesis postulated in this essay to explain the high PRD homi-cide rates begins with the 1988–1989 emergence of the PRD – the new leftistparty onto the national political scene and the disruptions and political dislo-cations its birth implied.

The violent, homicidal wave of social action that would follow was fore-shadowed as early as February 1988, five months before the July 1988presidential elections. PRI presidential candidate Salinas warned that those whomight resort to civil disobedience over electoral results would face unpleasantconsequences (Horcasitas, 1989, 286). High-ranking PRI officials noted that “itis better to commit an injustice than to tolerate disorder” (Horcasitas, 1989,286). Salinas also warned that “in politics, alliances are valid. Those that allythemselves with my party will earn a tangible political response. Those thatform alliances against my party will have to suffer the consequences. That isthe way politics works (La Jornada, February 20, 1988).”

Warner (1994, 24) contends that a large part of the anti-PRD homicide inthe 1988–1994 period derives from the threat posed by the political party tothe previously near absolute political control and impunity that local PRI-caciques have exercised over their populations. Social disruption stemming frompolitical competition was also found to be a major variable explaining post-election violence in Mexican indigenous communities in the 1990s. Trejo andRivera (2000, 15) found that where traditional PRI-held communities weresubject to the influence of multiple ethnic groups and new political parties(including the PRD), post-election violence, including homicides, were morelikely to occur.

Gledhill’s (1995) case study of Michoacán (the state with the highest numberof PRD homicides in the 1988–1994 period) explains this social disruptionstemming from political competition in structural terms. In the rural municipaleconomies of Michoacán, the key economic prize has always been control overthe municipal committees because it gave access to resource acquisition andpossibilities for mobilizing clienteles. Connections with the PRI or direct PRIgovernance brought direct economic advantage. For example, previous to thePRD election to municipal government in Los Reyes, Michoacán, the wealth-iest citizens of the town had been absolved from their liabilities to local businesstaxation under PRI rule (Gledhill, 1995, 66). In the mill town of Santa Clara,Michoacán, the general secretary of the PRI-affiliated CTM union was able to“exploit the restructuring process associated with privatization to his personaladvantage, by conspiring with management to lay off younger employees in

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place of the more experienced workers formally included in the redundancypackage, pocketing the surplus from the redundancy payments paid by thecompany” (Gledhill, 1995, 66–67). In the PRI-controlled town of Villamar,Michoacán in 1991, administrators of a rural credit program (PRONASOL)misappropriated funds with the full cooperation of the municipal authorities;wealthier farmers used front-men (landless workers) to get credit, then used themoney for purposes other than cultivating maize and failed to repay the loans(Gledhill, 1991, 375). In contrast, in the PAN-controlled municipality ofSahuayo, Michoacán, the mayor denounced abuse of the rural credit programand suspended further disbursement of the funds and forced PRONASOL officials to conduct an official audit, although there was no action taken to castigate those responsible (Gledhill, 1995, 51). Thus, opposition victories candisrupt previous clientelistic economic networks and cut off local elites fromstate controlled resources.

Political competition can also be understood as socially disruptive when opposition leaders try and by-pass local PRI elites or even try and claim political credit for successful economic development projects in municipalities.In the very small town of Cerrito Cotijarán, Michoacán which had voted solidlyfor the PRD in 1988 and 1989, PRD leaders had successfully negotiated withPRONASOL to drill a new well for drinking water, paid for largely by localresidents, in time for the August 1991 elections (Gledhill, 1995, 51). Yet, PRIaffiliated municipal authorities and state-level officials ordered the engineers toseal the well with concrete until the community had recorded a unanimous votefor the PRI. Many people in Cotijarán expressed anger at their treatment andthe exploitation of a basic resources they had paid for.

The national PRD leadership’s position in the 1988–1994 period was thatthere would be no “negotiation” with “illegitimate” authorities (Gledhill, 1995,76). In a case such as Cerrito Cotijarán, Michoacán where PRD leaders hadindependent success in gaining popular support, the capacity of PRI leaders touse “carrot-and-stick” tactics such as exchange of election victories for oppo-sition silence, and/or the bribery of individual leaders in exchange for desistingin oppositional political activism was significantly reduced. In contrast, the post-1988 formerly dominant party’s ability to convince many in the PAN to adopta policy of silence by concessions in exchange for selective PAN victories andthus access to patronage networks was successful in tampering those panista

activists who were willing to engage in anti-election fraud mobilizations andcivil disobedience (Eisenstadt, 2001, 4–5).

The comparative examples from different municipalities in Michoacánsuggest that it is not the pure number of potential opposition votes per se thatis the only factor turning political competition into social disruption for the

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PRI. The small town of Cerrito Cotijarán, Michoacán was significantly lessimportant electorally in terms of pure numbers for the PRI than its electorallosses to the PAN controlled municipality of Sahuayo, Michoacán,11 Yet, thedrinking well was sealed in Cotijarán, but Gledhill (1995, 51) reports no puni-tive reprisals against the larger PAN Sahuayo mayor who stopped abuse of therural credit program and suspended further disbursement of the PRONASOLfunds. In the case of Cerrito Cotijarán, Michoacán, political competition becamesocially disruptive because it involved a loss of control by state and federalformerly dominant party elites of their traditional strategies employed to controlthe opposition.12

It is this loss of its traditional strategies of social control by local, state andfederal PRI elites over the PRD, particularly in the face of successful, anti-regime PRD leadership, that turned political competition into social disruption.The “rise of a leftist opposition” thesis predicts that PRD leaders, especiallythose immune to bribery attempts, those who refuse to desist in their politicalactivism after receiving death threats, those individuals perceived of assuccessful and/or central to the functioning of the party have a higher likeli-hood of becoming victims of political assassination than either rank-and-filemembers or those engaged in anti-fraud protests. Such individuals include PRDpresidents, urban movement leaders, widely known party activists, urban move-ment leaders, election information managers, human rights activists, generalsecretaries, regents, treasurers, among others.

4. DATA, VARIABLES AND METHODS

Both qualitative and quantitative data are employed in this article and includeindividual-level biographical accounts of homicide victims, mass survey dataon general attitudes toward political violence and municipal level data on socialconditions in all municipalities where PRD homicides occurred. The biograph-ical, survey and municipal data are used to examine the three theses about thecauses of political homicide in Mexico’s democratization in the 1988–2000period. My use of both qualitative case study methods combined with quanti-tative statistical analysis follows a recent trend advocating the utilization ofboth approaches in comparative historical research (Rueschmeyer & Stephens,1997; Goldthorpe, 1997; Hanson, 2000; Halfpenny, 1997; Ragin, 1998).

(a) The individual-level biographical accounts. The biographical data includesinformation about the circumstances of the only publicly available records onPRD (or PRI) political-electoral homicides. These are the 250 PRD political–electoral homicides published in the PRD’s Human Rights Commission

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1994 book (Comisión de Derechos Humanos [CHR], 1994). Although theincluded information varies per account, it generally includes the following data:Was the alleged PRD victim a member or leader of an independent peasant,union, neighborhood or other type of movement? Was the alleged perpetratorof the crime a “cacique” (regional PRI power broker), a hired gun of a “cacique”or landlord, and/or were the police involved? Did the homicide occur as theresult of a fight over an uncertain election outcome, or was the victim engagedin a normal everyday social activity such as campaigning for office, workingin the fields or driving on the highway? Such data are relevant for assessingwhether most electoral homicides are, in fact, the result of peasant-landlordconflict, post-election violence and/or whether the homicide victims wereengaged in non-conflictual activities and were targeted for assassination.13

(b) Mass survey data on political attitudes. The survey data on political attitudes is taken from a large-scale data set of 6,900 individuals conducted ona probability sample in Mexico City in 1991 (CIDE, 1991). First, my data setcontains a relevant question for measuring how respondents view politicalviolence as a tactic for conflict resolution. I compare the general citizen preferences of PRD political party activists versus non-activists toward thesedifferent strategies of political action. Second, I also examine whether differ-ences in concerns over fraud, poverty or political violence explain differencesin political party support for the PRI or PRD. This set of questions will measurewhether any real differences exist between political party militants and non-militants in terms of their preferences for or against the use of political violenceas a political strategy.

(c) Municipal-level data. Data was collected on the social and political conditions of residents in all of the municipalities where PRD homicidesoccurred. These data were assembled to test whether social marginality weresignificantly associated with PRD homicides. The municipal level data used forthe independent variables was drawn from the 1991 Mexican Census (INEGI,1991). I operationalized the concept of social marginality with the followingvariables. First, I measured agrarian conflict by the concentration of communal(ejido) peasant property in each of the municipalities studied by an index ofland concentration (% rural arable land under ejidal ownership in the municipality in 1991) (INEGI, 1991). Second, I operationalized social margin-ality through the standard sociological indices: literacy (% literate in themunicipality), wealth (average rates of municipal economic growth in %); andurban status (% of localities with 2,500 or more inhabitants) (INEGI, 1991).Since indigenous Mexican have traditionally not enjoyed the same social rightsas other Mexicans (National Indigenous Institute, 1995), I added an index of

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indigenous ethnicity (% of those over 5 years old who speak an Indian language)(INEGI, 1991).

The dependent variable used in the OLS equation was all municipalities wherekillings of PRD activists occurred, or 120 municipalities in the 1988–1994period. OLS regression models were employed to estimate the change in thedependent variable by using the fixed value of the independent variables. Thiswas done to find out how the average dependent variable changes as causedby the change of one unit of the independent variable when controlling for allother independent variables. Because the number of homicides was a contin-uous variable (it varied from municipality to municipality), I used theexplanatory variable of ratio level to estimate the effect of change in one unitof the independent variable, given the mean value of the other independent variables. Unlike the INEGI’s marginalisation index which covers all Mexicanmunicipalities and gives a geographic distribution of marginality throughoutMexico (Trejo & Rivera, 2000), I sought to isolate those social characteristicsspecific to municipalities where political homicides occurred. The complex setof social relations, social actors and social forces characteristic of municipali-ties where PRD homicides occurred (indigenous citizens, ejidatarios, variouslevels of wealth, and both rural and urban status) required a model that examined the factors that were associated with homicides in the municipalitieswhere they occurred.

5. RESULTS

Political-electoral homicide was found to be the result of social disruptioncaused by the PRI-regime’s loss of its traditional populist social base and hence,its source of local power and control. The PRD has made significant inroadsin its electoral competition with the PRI for the vote among the non-privilegedsectors which include both the rural and the urban poor and the lesser educatedin the 1990–2000 period (Lawson, 1998; Magaloni, 1998; Poiré, 1998; Schatz,2000a, b). This popular mobilization of the rural-urban poor by the PRD hasthus involved the direct encroachment onto the social bases of the PRI’s elec-torate.

The OLS regression results from the municipal level data reflect the underlying conditions of social marginality associated with the rural and urbannon-privileged PRD base. PRD homicides were found to occur in municipali-ties in which lower rates of literacy prevailed (Appendix I). Yet, the officialaverage illiteracy rate in Mexico (1993–1999) was only 9% (World Bank, 2000).Despite this, illiteracy was the only single positive ecological predictor of political homicides to the exclusion of status-based variables (ethnicity),

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occupational-based variables (ejidatarios) and other measures of socio-economicstatus (urban status, municipal levels of wealth).

The OLS data highlight the fact that it is municipalities which are marginalto, and excluded from, the national trend toward increasing levels of literacywhere homicides occurred. Lower levels of literacy are characteristic of Mexicanrural and urban poor municipalities excluded from a major mechanisms of socialascension (formal education). These data also accurately reflect the PRD’s coresupport which has consistency come from the “subaltern” classes, a categorythat can include a complex mix of indigenous Mexicans, peasants, and the urbanpoor.14 That PRD homicides occurred in municipalities characterized by rela-tively high levels of social marginality (but not necessarily purely ruralmunicipalities, those with the greatest ejido concentration, or those with purelyindigenous communities)15 points to the intimate relationship between politicalviolence and the socio-economic exclusion of many PRD voters.

Faucher and Fitzgibbons (1989, 141) argue that an exclusionist politicalsystem is “a breeding ground of dissent” because traditionally vertical meansof political domination (repression, paternalism and political monopoly) by thedominant party disarticulates social agents. “Classes are not in a position tofunction directly as political actors where there is no link between the modeof production and social development (Faucher & Fitzgibbons, 1989, 141–142).”The rise of the PRD began to close this gap by giving an alternative politicalvoice to some rural and urban poor; the PRI’s traditional electoral constituency(Gibson, 1997). Because the level of political violence is directly related to thechallenge experienced or anticipated to the traditional (vertical) relations ofsocial domination (Faucher & Fitzgibbons, 1989, 140), the rise of the PRD withits roots in the subaltern classes constituted a direct challenge to the PRI’spopulist base.

Secondly, and as predicted, the survey data do not show support for the ideathat PRD activists have a more favorable attitude toward political violence asan acceptable method for resolving political conflicts. The results from thesurvey data show an equal number of PRD party militants (97.0%) rejectedviolence as an appropriate method for resolving political differences as membersof the general survey population (96.82%) (N = 6,900) (CIDE, 1991).16 I alsoexamined the further possibility that PRD voters might somehow differ fromPRI voters in their attitude toward political violence. The logit regression resultson PRI and PRD voter attitudes (Appendix II) do show some distinctionsbetween the two groups: PRD voters were more concerned about the socialproblem of fraud and poverty (0.0000***) while PRI supporters were moreconcerned about the problem of political violence and poverty (0.0002***).17

Taken together, however, the results from the survey data do not give strong

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support to the proposition that a higher rate of PRD homicides issues from amore sympathetic attitude toward violence as a strategy for resolving politicalconflict either by PRD militants or by PRD voters.

The survey data do, however, highlight important differences between thePAN and the PRD voters in terms of their relative prioritization of politicalconcerns. Higher levels of education and concern with corruption (0.0000***)positively predict a vote for the PAN. In contrast, poverty and concern aboutfraud (0.0000***) predict PRD voter support. Although corruption and fraudare a closely related phenomenon, the survey results reflect the distinctiveconcerns of PAN versus PRD voters and further explain the PRD rank-and-file’s willingness to participate in anti-fraud protest tactics. Corruptiongenerally refers to the trading of economic for political rewards in that a publicofficial provides some political favor in return for a money payment (Smelser,1971, 17). Anti-corruption measures have long been a central component ofpanista ideology, municipal governance and recently, national PAN governanceand are often associated with the concerns of the middle-classes (La Jornada,2001; Steffens, 1968). Fraud tends to more involve deliberate deceptionpracticed with the view of gaining an unlawful or unfair advantage (Thatcher& McQueen, 1980). The numerous anti-fraud post-election protest rallies bythe PRD rank-and-file, and at least one instance where armed PRD militantsappeared willing to violently confront PRI members over the fraudulentimposition of a PRI candidate on their town (Gledhill, 1993) reflect their will-ingness to protest and resist those political practices seen as deliberatelydeceptive, unlawful and/or giving the PRI an unfair advantage.

The results from the biographical case studies are also important tounderstanding political violence. The case vignettes on PRD homicide victimsreveal multiple levels of socio-political conflict that were unleashed with therise of the PRD in the 1988–1994 period. These include conflicts between PRDpeasant leaders and local economic elites, between rural and urban PRD partymembers and local PRI caciques, between policemen associated with the PRImunicipal government against those municipal police associated with the PRDlocal government, between in-coming and out-going municipal PRI versus PRDmayoral candidates, between PRD and PRI members over election results, andbetween PRD members and the police in skirmishes taking place at anti-fraudprotest rallies (CHR, 1994).

My analysis of the 250 case studies also reveals a general pattern of threemain types of PRD homicides: (a) the homicide of PRD leaders engaged in everyday social activities (62%), (b) homicides resulting from anti-fraudprotest rallies (27%), and (c) homicides against peasant leaders engaged incollective peasant defense (11%). The case accounts identify four basic

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categories of assassins: (1) local, state and judicial police (26.8%), (2) hiredguns generally linked to a local PRI leader (28.4%), (3) actual known PRImembers (33.2%), and (4) unknown assailants (11.2%). In very few cases(6.8%) was the perpetrator found, tried and/or imprisoned for the crime by stateauthorities (CHR 1994, Appendix). I will discuss each of the sub-types of homicides in turn and I will include National Human Rights Commission recom-mendations in the discussion of the case accounts when they exist. The “NationalHuman Rights Commission” (Comisión de Derechos Humanos [CNDH])founded under President Carlos Salinas de Gortari in 1991, is a federal commis-sion set up to investigate complaints of abuse and to make recommendationsto the Mexican Government. However, the CNDH does not have the legalauthority and/or control over police and administrative offices to prosecute orsanction abusers (U.S. Department of State, 1999, 2).

5.1 The Homicide of PRD Leaders Engaged in Everyday Social Activities

The majority of PRD homicide victims were political leaders who were shotto death while engaging in everyday social activities. The types of PRD leaders targeted for homicide largely included PRD candidates running formayor and regent local government posts, already elected PRD presidents,mayors, regents, treasurers, human rights secretaries, general secretaries, andex-PRD mayors and ex-PRD federal deputy candidates. A lesser number ofhomicide victims included PRD local presidents, urban movement leaders, unionleaders, widely known party activists, sympathetic reporters, and PRD-affiliatedpersonnel in charge of the municipal security of PRD offices (policemen andsecurity guards).

The most striking dimension of the accounts of the homicides of PRD leaders(unlike the homicide that occurred in post-electoral violence discussed below)is that the victim was generally shot outright while engaged in a normal,everyday social activity. Among the general categories of everyday social activities that the victim was engaged in at the time of the homicide include:driving home on the highway, attending a daughter’s wedding, walking downthe street, walking to work, driving to work, boarding a bus, drinking a Cokeon the street, laboring in the fields, using the bathroom, sleeping at home, sittingin the patio of one’s home, sitting in an automobile, getting into an automo-bile, attending a party, having an argument while leaving a dance, driving ataxi, sitting in a park, finishing a shift as a night watch guard at the PRD municipal offices, conducting a post-campaign celebration party, sitting in aPRD municipal office, leaving the PRD municipal offices, working at one’sshop, stepping off a fertilizer truck on the way to work, eating at a restaurant,

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collecting wood, entering a store, playing basketball, playing pool, walking inthe public plaza, and going to Church (CHR, 1994).

The everyday social activities in which individuals were engaged at the timeof their death foreshadows the “contract” or (quasi-) professional, often anony-mous, status of the assailant to his victim typical of this group of PRD homicidevictims.

Thus, the first pattern of the homicide of PRD leaders that emerges is onein which the victim is generally unaware or does not anticipate that the socialactivity or social engagement in which they are participating is about to termi-nate their lives. This may be because, in some cases, especially when theassailant is alleged to be a hired gun (pistolero), the intent of the stranger isnot known to them. In addition, in cases when the aggressor is the police, thevictim does not anticipate being shot or beaten.18 In the case of PRD munic-ipal president Adrián Soria Lara, who was talking with friends at a park, thegunman approached him and asked “What party are you from?” to which SoriaLara responded that he was from the PRD. When the gunman said “Well, I amfrom the PRI,” Soria Lara responded that he was free to vote as he wanted andthat had already happened. The gunman then shot and killed him before fleeing,and although found guilty of the crime of homicide, his apprehension order wasnot carried out (CHR, 1994, 164–165).19 In the case of Manuel VázquezSaavedra, an active party member, he was pulled out of the bathroom alongwith his son while attending a pre-election meeting in Lázaro Cárdenas,Michoacán on March 27, 1989. Severely pistol-whipped and beaten by twolocal policeman, Saavedra died of his wounds. The National Human RightsCommission issued a statement on March 3, 1993 stating that those responsiblewere evading justice, and recommended apprehension and investigation of whythe apprehension orders had not been carried out.

In the illustrative case of the second-in-command of the municipal police andnoted PRD member Aniceto García, he was shot to death while milking hiscows at his ranch on December 8, 1990 in Turicato, Michoacán. Despite eyewit-nesses to the crime, including his wife, who alleged that the assassins were twohired guns belonging to the “Cuamacuaro” group, the homicide remainsunresolved. The National Human Rights Commission on May 10, 1994 statedthat it could not locate any record of the assassination after searching theTuricato Public Defender’s Office Records (CHR, 1994, 162).

Another category of victims are PRD leaders who had previously receiveddeath threats warning them that if they did not discontinue their political activities, they would be killed. In one sense then the crime was less unexpected, but the victims were nevertheless still engaged in normal, everydaysocial activities at the time of their murder. One example is Gustavo Loya Loya

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who had received repeated death threats for his activities as Secretary ofAgrarian Affairs of the State Executive Committee of the PRD, the PressSecretary of the Democratic Peasant’s Union, Honorary Inspector of the munic-ipal police and principal PRD promotor in the region. The tension had increasedaround his April 13, 1991 death as the PRD won the local elections. He wasmurdered in his fields in front of his family who identified the assassins asmembers of the local PRI cacique family. The National Human RightsCommission declared the case resolved locally on January 31, 1992 (CHR,1994, 163) despite any legal action against the assassins.

In other cases, the level of perceived lack of threat and the security exer-cised on the part of the assassins is revealed in alleged statements that occurredat the time of the homicide. PRD activist Emiliano Gálvez Regino was shotfour times but escaped 500 meters to ask for help before dying (CHR 1994,100–101). He was the second PRD victim in the area allegedly killed by PRIcaciques. Before dying, he identified the aggressors as pistoleros and family ofthe local cacique. Four days after his death, his family received a note appar-ently signed by the local cacique which read, “Now there are two (dead) ofthose who participated in the (anti-fraud) march and we will go on eliminatingyou one by one so that you realize we have power and that there are thosehere who support us (CHR, 1994, 100–101).” The alleged note also made itclear that those killed were shot because they had been PRD members, saying“Leave that political party and come with us or we will keep “f--king” you.We want you all to apologize.”20

Often the bodies of those PRD victims engaged in everyday social activitieswere found with signs of torture and/or dumped in a common grave (CHR1994, 73–74; 96–97). In the cases of unknown assailants, especially victimsstopped on the highway, PRD leaders would often be found tortured and shotbut not robbed of their possessions. One PRD municipal presidential candidatein Veracruz was dragged from his house in the middle of the night by unknownyoung armed assailants whose faces were masked with bandanas, tied to a treeand shot (CHR, 1994, 303).21

5.2 Homicides at Anti-Fraud Protest Rallies, Marches and

Parallel Municipal Administrations

A PRD strategy of participation in anti-fraud protest rallies, and protest ralliesagainst PRI governors, mayors and municipal presidents proved costly in termsof human lives in the municipalities under study. A majority of deaths in thissub-category occurred as the result of beatings from police, being shot by pistoleros, and/or being sprayed by police gunfire (sometimes stray gunfire)

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while engaged in anti-fraud protest rallies and marches after elections (CHR,1994, 53, 81, 86, 137).22 At a post-election, anti-fraud rally in Tejuplico, Mexico(1990), PRD activist Ramón Aguilar lost his life when state and municipal policebegan to fire on the crowd from inside the municipal palace (CHR, 1994, 138).The rally then became so chaotic that two policemen also lost their lives – onefrom stray police bullets and the other caused by the misfiring of his gun.

At times, the anti-fraud rallies led to violent stand-offs between PRD and PRIsupporters. The death of Martín Aceves González (Iguala, Guerrero, 1993) aftera confrontation at the municipal palace illustrates the complex dynamic. PRDactivists planned a rally to call for the removal of PRI governor Rubén FigueroaAlcocer when many PRI supporters of the governor staged a rally there at themunicipal palace instead at the same time (CHR, 1994, 104–105). 100 PRDactivists were kept at bay from the municipal plaza by the police but after anolder PRD activist was hit with a stone, the confrontation generalized with bothsides throwing stones, mangos, oranges, etc. Both PRI23 and PRD members werewounded and treated by the Red Cross. The police retreated to buses with thePRI activists (CHR, 1994, 105). Aceves González, a PRD urban leader whoattended and was wounded at the rally, was shot three hours later by pistoleros

upon leaving the hospital. The State Attorney General was investigating threesuspects of the homicide (CHR, 1994, 107). In another incident, a PRD activistwas also shot in a stand-off in a remote field in which police would not enterbecause of darkness and its remote location (CHR, 1997, 107).

Some PRD homicides also occurred when police attempted to remove parallel,popular municipal administrations set up by PRD members because they refusedto grant credibility to PRI municipal electoral victories. In the popular munic-ipality of Cruz Grande, Guerrero (1990), a PRD vendor was killed while asleepin his kiosk and two policemen died from stray bullets when a police contin-gent opened fire in their attempt to remove PRD members from the municipalgovernment building (CHR, 1994, 88). The situation of terror that ensued inthe population was so severe that a group of women from the town asked thepolice commander to stop the gunfire, which he did. The CNDH recommendedfurther investigation and the sanctioning of those authorities responsible. OtherPRD homicides occurred in apparent retaliation for the PRD revenge-kidnapingof PRI leaders in Jungapeo, Michoacán (1990), after PRD activists took overa tourist site in Juquila, Oaxaca (1993) in retaliation for PRD killings in previousmunicipal elections; and after the PRD takeover of the San Andrés Cholula,Puebla municipal palace (CHR, 1994, 115, 250, 272). Finally, in a few cases,legally elected PRD officials were not permitted to take office and died fromgunshot wounds in conflicts with priistas and pistoleros in incidents occurringon the day they were to take office.

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5.3 Homicides against Peasant Leaders Engaged in

Collective Peasant Defense

Independent peasant leaders were found to be over-represented among PRDhomicide victims, giving some support to the thesis that violence against peas-ants is also a manifestation of underlying agrarian struggles over land and wages.A full 11% of the 250 PRD homicide victims were peasant leaders, a largeover-representation given that most organized peasants and their leaders remainmembers of official federations (Fox & Gordillo, 1989, 158). The December25, 1993 assassination of peasant leader Limberth Hernández Torres by thenephew of the ex-President of the Rural Association of Collective FineHardwoods represents one prototypical example.

Hernández Torres had been the organizational secretary of the municipal PRDin the village of Escarcega, Campeche as well as the leader of a peasant organization representing some 300 families who had invaded various forest landsin the region (CHR, 1994, 30–31). He had also accused Ruiz Gómez (the ex-President of the Rural Association of Collective Fine Hardwoods) of corruptionand of skimming off the association’s public monies. According to the account,Ruiz Gómez tried to bribe PRD leader Torres to abandon his support for the peas-ant movement by offering him a truck and a house. After his refusal to accept theoffer, Hernández Torres received various death threats and was eventually assas-sinated by Ruiz Gómez’ nephew (Francisco Javier Díaz Hernández), who con-fessed to the crime and used his uncle’s gun to commit the murder but suggestedit occurred after a verbal dispute (CHR, 1994, 30–31). Various types of direct andindirect evidence linked Francisco Javier Díaz Hernández to the crime includingthe nephew’s confession of the murder, the use of the relative’s gun, a politicalhistory of interaction between peasant leader victim and the uncle of the assailantinvolving allegations of bribes and death threats, and eyewitness testimony that noverbal exchange occurred between Torres and Díaz-Hernández but rather that thelatter found Torres, identified him and shot him. Despite this evidence, stateauthorities argued in Díaz-Hernández’ favor that the crime was of a personalnature. No legal action against Díaz-Hernández was reported.

The remaining case accounts document the homicide of PRD peasant leadersengaged in various collective peasant defense activities around or at the actualtime of their murder. These include the organization of a protest against thesale of peasant lands for an airport expansion (Mexico State, 1992), an occa-sion of organized resistance to the sale of collective peasant (ejido) lands bythe government (Mexico State, 1990), the organization of a protest against theexclusion of an independent peasant’s association from postulating candidatesfor local governing bodies (Chiapas, 1991), a peasant leader about to success-

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fully receive a judgement of restitution of communal peasants lands (Mexico,1992), the murder of a peasant leader who had been active in the movementagainst the imposition of the PRI municipal mayoral candidate and who hadpromoted elections to remove the then current President of the Rancher’s Union(Guerrero, 1990). Other murdered peasant leaders included one who hadchanged political affiliation from being the head of a PRI peasant associationto being a leader of the PRD peasant association and who received variousdeath threats unless he renounced his PRD new leadership post (Chiapas, 1988).Yet another peasant leader was assassinated after making allegations of corrup-tion against state officials (Durango, 1990).24

6. DISCUSSION

Mexican political-electoral homicides fall into two main patterns. First, thehomicide of PRD activists (and sometimes of the police) are associated withthe chaotic legal, and political environments that develop in the course of thesesocio-political activities. These included homicides at election PRI-PRD stand-offs, at PRD anti-fraud protest rallies, marches and during the dismantlementof parallel PRD municipal administrations and occurred mainly as the result ofpolice gunfire. Revenge killings by pistoleros, beating and deaths during thefights of PRD members with PRI members were also causes of PRD death.The often chaotic legal environment characteristic of the organized struggle forpower and the deadly conflicts that ensued in these municipalities was severeand prolonged. Nevertheless, many are not unlike that pattern found in extremeinstances of protest situations in the U.S. (i.e. the Kent State incident), in whichprotest rallies end in violence when a severe, even extralegal reaction is adoptedby the authorities (Turk, 1982, 108).

Second, and more numerically important, however, were the majority of PRDhomicides directed at the political (and peasant/political) leadership. A relatively high incidence of “paid” political contract killings, and/or killings byanonymous assailants against individuals engaged in everyday social activitiesat the time of their death was found. This finding points toward the use ofhomicide as a control mechanism to try and protect and maintain existing political and economic group interests and to minimize threats and resistance(Howard, 1977). The killing of PRD leaders is a response to their real andperceived political power by those with a stake in the previous existing distribution of political, economic and property arrangements.

The results largely support the thesis that it is the rise of a new leftist opposition, especially in rural areas, perceived to disrupt traditional social and political control of PRI caciques (local leaders), that is the major cause of

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political-electoral homicide of PRD members. Political homicide occurs becausethe rise of a left opposition party, with its party leaders and party activists areperceived to disrupt the existing balance of PRI power in the states and munic-ipalities under study in this paper. PRD members and leaders threaten certainagrarian interests, and are a threat to local PRI political, police and electoralcontrol over the municipalities in question. The very low levels of account-ability associated with these crimes (6.8% resolved) is not only a shockingstatistic but one that begs the question of why there are such low levels ofprosecution.

In fact, the semi-anonymous and semi-clandestine nature of many of thesekillings in the Mexican case is not unlike the appearance of death squads inthe Latin American military regimes. As Faucher and Fitzgibbons (1989, 166)note, clandestine repressive killings are products of situations in which groupswithin a society feel they are authorized to take justice into their own hands,and are a manifestation of the fundamental cleavage between legal ideologyand the social reality. The hiring of pistoleros to assassinate one’s politicalenemies is instrumental in so far as the hired gun serves as a buffer betweenrepression and government responsibility. They perform illegal acts withoutdirectly engaging the official responsibility of the state, thus contributing to theconviction that repressive acts are covered by total impunity (Faucher &Fitzgibbons, 1989, 166).

Democracy is often perceived as a threat in situations where power struc-tures are traditionally maintained and reproduced through clientelism. This isbecause the recognition of the right to vote and to participate equally and toform associations modifies the power structure and poses a direct threat to thesystem of domination (Faucher & Fitzgibbons, 1989, 142). The extent to whichpolitical opposition will be tolerated when the regime is authoritarian willdepend on what the authorities perceive to be the magnitude of the potentialthreat to their rule (Blondel, 1997, 483).

On the national stage, in fact, the rise of the PRD in 1988–1989 has threat-ened the electoral base of the populist coalition upon which the stability of thePRI has traditionally rested. For example, in the 1990s in Mexico, the PRDslowly eroded the traditional populist social and electoral base of the PRI bytaking away votes from rural peasants and the urban poor (Michoacán, 1991,Mexico, 1993), and from the urban poor (Tabasco, 1994; Schatz, 2000a). Theelectoral hegemony of the PRI was clearly challenged by the PRD. This is notto say that the PRI did not maintain sectors of its traditional populist socialcoalition over the 1990s. It did so in Michoacán (1991) among the less highlyeducated (Magaloni, 1998, 228), among the less highly educated poor in Mexico(1993) (Poiré, 1998, 38), and among the rural voters in Tabasco (1994).

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My point is rather that its traditional populist social base was eroded by the PRDover the same period of time. Indeed, preliminary analysis of the social base of thenational electorate in the July 2, 2000 Presidential elections continues to show asignificant shift in rural support away from the PRI and toward the PRD (Schatz,2000b). Peasants continue to be split in their votes for the PRI and for the PRD,thereby further eroding the weakening social base of the PRI’s previous populistcoalition. Peasants and other non-privileged sector PRD voters are those who alsonegatively assessed the effects of neoliberal economic policies – inauguratedunder President Miguel de la Madrid (1982–1988) and continued under CarlosSalinas de Gortari (1988–1994) – on the Mexican economy. Over the 1990s,whenever peasants and other non-privileged voters were divided, the PRI votewas explained by a positive perception of the effects of neoliberal economic poli-cies on the Mexican economy (Mexico, 1993; Tabasco, 1994; Campeche, 1997),whereas the PRD vote was explained by a negative assessment of neoliberalism(Mexico, 1993; Tabasco, 1994; Campeche, 1997; Schatz, 2000a).

The Mexican results strongly suggest that the threat was perceived by PRIparty members and leaders as coming from a leftist political party challengingits traditional political, electoral and policing powers over its traditional coalition of peasants, and the uneducated poor. This is, of course, a compara-tive point. One could plausibly argue counter-factually from the vantage pointof the year 2000, that the PRI should have been more threatened over the 1990sby the loss of its electorate to the rightist PAN than to the leftist PRD giventhe PAN’s ultimately strong win in 2000 (38.4% of the national electorate tothe PRI’s 36.3% and to the PRD’s 18.8%) (Reforma, September 7, 2000).25

Yet, before the mid-1990s, the PAN’s electorate has consistency been a narrowone located principally in the cities and among the urban, educated, well-to-dowith the PAN never gaining more than 10–20% of the electorate (Klesner, 1994;Gibson, 1997; Schatz, 2000a, b).

Turk (1982, 109) argues that irrespective of the form and degree of resis-tance, lower-class resisters are likely to receive more severe treatment than arehigher-class resisters. In the Mexican dynamic, the PAN’s willingness to engagein the negotiation of election outcomes on a case-by-case basis after the elec-tion of PRI President Carlos Salinas (1988–1994) was an important componentof the very low rates of political-electoral homicides against the PAN in theearly 1990s.26 Yet, the strategy of the PAN leadership to support Salinas’economic privatization program in exchange for official recognition of its victo-ries at the state and municipal levels (Crespo, 1996; Pardinas & Amezcua,1997), also had its own price. It led to the exit of a faction of panistas whoperceived this pact as a betrayal of the PAN’s political autonomy and to theirformation into a new party (the neopanistas).

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7. 1994–2000: A MOVE TOWARD GREATER LEGALITY?

In the Mexican states and municipalities where PRD homicides occurred, therise of a leftist party in a regime that historically relied on the electoral supportfor a populist coalition of the urban and rural poor and peasants can be perceivedof as a socially, ideologically and electorally disruptive event. This is particu-larly so when the top political leadership of the reigning dominant party doesnot set a tone in which the rise of political dissent is seen as favorable to thelong-term interests of society. One top PRD official argued that [then President]Salinas de Gortari, “saw us [in 1988] not as political rivals, but rather as enemiesto be exterminated (La Jornada, October 11, 2000).”

Nevertheless, there are some recent, early signs that the rise of juridicalcertainty in recent Mexican elections may result in the conditions that coulddiminish political homicide and violence. Moreover, the rise of an autonomousfederal electoral agency in Mexico, especially since 1997, has also raised theissue of more effective legal strategies of control over political and electoralviolence. And, as the result of the 1996 political-legal reforms (Eisenstadt, 1999,293), the category of “electoral crimes” was created in 1997 along with a seriesof new “public official crimes.”27 A new office of the Special Prosecutor forElectoral Crimes (FEPADE) was also created within the Mexican AttorneyGeneral’s Office (Eisenstadt, 1999, 290). Such legal changes are slowlyimproving the relative historical lack of attention given to these political-elec-toral homicides.

Other signs of improvement include the fact that the number of accusationsof electoral fraud in the 2000 presidential election was down by approximately90% when compared to the 1994 presidential election (La Jornada, July 18,2000). The “formal” juridical path for contesting power decreases the appealof extra-legal, violent protests over election results. Non-governmental pollwatcher organizations note the significant improvement in the competitiveness,fairness and overall quality of the 2000 elections in comparison with the 1988and 1994 presidential elections; although they continue to report that respectfor the secret ballot was violated in 6.3% of the rural areas (La Jornada, July7, 2000). Furthermore, rulings by the Federal Electoral Tribunal (TEPJF)regarding incidents that challenge the legitimacy of an election at a particularvoting booth or within an electoral district have become increasingly favorableto the PRD. Since 1996, the PRD received more favorable rulings (44%) thanany other party (WOLA, 2000, 4). 35% of the PAN’s challenges and 29% ofthe PRI’s were supported by TEPJF. Nevertheless, one must be cautious andrealistic in one’s expectations for the efficacy of these new institutions. In the1997–1999 period of its initial existence, the Special Prosecutor for Electoral

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Crimes Office (FEPADE) registered only one case of vote-buying and coerciondespite numerous complaints brought forth by the opposition parties (WOLA,2000, 2).28

Perhaps the most important change that must come about is a change of atti-tude by the top PRI leadership toward the legitimacy of the PRD. The 1994political pact between in-coming President Zedillo and opposition leaders ledto the official recognition of the PRD and promised to diminish politicalviolence. Yet, the diminution of political homicide and violence has been aslow process: an estimated 253 more PRD members are listed as killed in polit-ical-electoral violence in the 1994–1996 period (U.S. State Department HumanRights Report, 1997, 5), with a diminution to an estimated 100 PRD victimslisted in the 1997 – January 1, 2000 period (Global Exchange, 2000, 6). Thus,while the 1990s has seen a slowdown in the homicide rate, it has not seen itsfinal end.29

8. CONCLUSION

The findings in this essay contribute to our understanding of how repressionand state-sanctioned violence against dissenters results from the rise of a democ-ratizing opposition party in a clientelistic political system (Fitzgibbons &Faucher, 1989; Rouquié, 1987, 123). The rise of the PRD was a threat to clien-telism because it disrupted existing political, power, economic and propertyarrangements (Howard, 1977). PRD leaders were particularly targeted for elimination because many resisted bribes, refused to give up their politicalactivism even in the face of intimidation, organized campaign meetings, andorganized peasants in agrarian struggles over land and wages. In the face oforganized dissenters not willing to negotiate with regime elites, homicide wasused to simultaneously maximize groups interests while minimizing threats orresistance to existing political, power, economic and property arrangements.

The Mexican findings suggests that political homicide represents an overlookedbut important formal general control mechanism used to protect, perpetuate orexpand existing power arrangements in democratization processes. Although violence and intimidation has been present in contested Latin American electionselsewhere,30 outright homicide has been much rarer. The simultaneous severity ofpolitical crime in Mexico, combined with its low rate of prosecution and punish-ment, points toward a collaboration of police, the local and state judicial systemand local political officials and a sense of impunity from law violations.Homicide, as a political crime that occurs in the context of electoral competitionwith a rising opposition utilizing legal means, is then an attempt to “turn back theclock” that relies on law and the state to maintain the government in power.

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The murder of PRD members largely engaged in legal, electorally-relatedprocesses versus the very low level of PAN homicides also substantiatesprevious observations that irrespective of the form and degree of resistance,lower-class resisters are likely to receive more severe treatment than are higher-class resisters (Turk, 1982, 109). The direct murder of PRD leaders, often inpublic view and without subsequent criminal punishment, strongly suggests thatdispriviledged resisters are more likely to be directly repressed with little or nolegalistic ceremony than higher-status resisters. The willingness of the PANleadership to negotiate post-election victories with the Salinas regime gave riseto a less repressive and negotiated outcome. In contrast, the PRD’s organiza-tion of civil disobedience, anti-fraud marches and other forms of organizeddissent represented open challenges to a regime that perceived widespread socialdiscontent in those states where its repression was most severe.

These findings have theoretical implications for future research on the rela-tionship between dissent, democratization and homicide. Democratizationimplies change, and, as Simmel (1971, 205) argues, change is marked by socialconflict. Conflict never takes a singular form but varies in intensity, durationand context. Simmel (1971, 95) also suggests that conflict and the desire forvengeance is always worse in parties that have previously been similar becausethe “respect for the enemy” is absent where the hostility has arisen on the basisof previous solidarity.

The historical and ideological specifics of the emergence of PRD dissentallow us to predict that ideological similarities between contending parties canlead to severe repression. The PRD developed from “an uncomfortable coali-tion of socialists, social democrats and PRI dissidents” (Gledhill, 1995, 75) inthe context of a regime originally committed to a left-leaning revolutionarynationalist ideology.31 The decision of many on the Left to adopt the electoralpath to democratizing change has had the unintended consequence of leadingto a large number of homicides of a specific character.32 For example, thedemand by some Mexican caciques and policemen that the PRD victim “apol-ogize” for participating in anti-fraud marches but, at the same time, thewillingness of many to let bribed, and non-bribed, repentant PRD militants backinto the folds of the PRI reflects a desire for vengeance tinged with ambiva-lence (CHR, 1994, 30–31; 100–101, 270). Similarly, it was reported that dyingvictims were reminded that their killer was actually the one with the power,and dead bodies were tortured, mutilated and left in full public view (CHR,1994, 73–74, 96–97, 270). If the purpose was simply to eliminate the PRDmilitant in question, such practices would be pointless and redundant.

Murder associated with the rise of the PRD suggests that this chilling formof political violence is meant to treat the victim as if he/she were somehow

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guilty of defection; a defector whose dead body must be made a public exampleto dissuade others. Foucault (1995, 3) explains this type of enactment of statepower, the atrocity of torture, and the public display of mutilated bodies as actsof revenge meant to send the political message that an attack on the regimehas to be attacked in turn. Echoes of this message and the generalized, perva-sive, climate of fear associated with PRD membership can be still heard in thevoice of one widow of a murdered PRD leader who said in 2000: “It’s so mucheasier to be a part of the PRD in Mexico City.33 But once you step outside,you’re just marked (Mauleón, 2000, 2).”34 Future studies of conflict in democ-ratization processes would do well to take into account original ideologicalsimilarities between the parties because they can transform a difference inconvictions into hatred and homicide.

NOTES

* Robert Dahl’s (1989, 221) well accepted definition of “polyarchy” with its sevenattributes is often used as an ideal-type definition of democracy. Dahl’s (1989) defini-tion includes the following criterion: (1) elected officials, (2) free and fair elections, (3)inclusive suffrage, (4) the right to run for office, (5) freedom of expression, (6) alter-native information, and (7) associational autonomy. “Democratization” implies a processwhose direction is toward greater adherence of the political system to these criterion(Potter et al., 1995). Scholarly studies typically assess the relative degree to which anation’s political system conforms to an “ideal-typic” definition of democracy using theFreedom House rating system (Bollen, 1980). Freedom House assesses the extent towhich political rights are upheld in a nation in actual practice by measuring a degreeto which its political system adheres to the following criterion: freedom of expressionand belief (free and independent media, freedom of religion), association and organiza-tional rights (freedom to organize political parties, civic organizations, ad hoc issuegroups, free trade unions, peasant organizations, etc., effective collective bargaining),rule of law and human rights (an independent judiciary, equal treatment under the law,protection from political terror, unjustified imprisonment, exile or torture, freedom fromextreme government indifference and corruption), personal autonomy and economicrights (freedom of private discussion, personal autonomy, property rights, personal socialfreedoms, equality of opportunity). In part, the torture, arbitrary and false arrest, beat-ings, kidnappings, death threats, high-speed chases and staged “accidents” (Reding, 1995,36–37) of the PRD opposition party over the 1990s is one key reason why FreedomHouse did not define the Mexican regime as democratic during the 1990–1997 period.Instead, Freedom House rated Mexico a 4–5 out of a scale of 6; with the U.S. andWestern Europe scoring a 1. In 1997–2000, the rating improved to a 3.4 after electoralreforms greatly strengthened the autonomy of the electoral administration in Mexico,opposition gains advanced significantly, and judicial autonomy was enhanced (FreedomHouse, 2000, 2). Mexico’s attainment of more competitive, non-fraudulent elections, thegrowth in the number of autonomous non-state organizations, and its increasingly inde-pendent legislature and judiciary over the 1990s justify its classification as undergoinga process of “democratization.”

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1. To name only a few examples, over 300 demonstrating students were massacredin 1968 as the result of the army’s excessive use of force in a crowd situation(Middlebrook, 1986, 126–127). In the 1970s, many associated with guerrilla movementslost their lives. Armed parties battle with the local police and the army for state powerafter the 1994 Chiapas uprising resulted in violence and loss of life (Stephen, 1995).Although each of these incidents relates to violence emerging from conflicts betweendissidents and armed forces of the state and is interesting in its own right, their overalltreatment is beyond the scope of this paper. For a discussion of other types of homi-cides and torture by local, state, federal police and/or other citizens that are associatedwith drug-related crimes, with freedom of the press issues and with labor unions disputes;see: Impunity (1990); for violence associated with intra-PRI political assassinations, seePansters (1999, 253–259).

2. The years of 1988–1994 form an important moment in Mexico’s democratization.Before the 1988 elections, the PRI claimed election victories virtually without fail, neveraccepted defeat for a Senate seat or a governorship (Gómez-Tagle, 1994, 240–242). The1988 contested presidential election, the 1989 first opposition governorship and Senateseats, and the dramatic growth in civil society movements in the early 1990s mark thebeginning of the intensification of democratization; a process that accelerated even furtherafter the 1994 presidential election (Dresser, 1998, 57).

3. The literature notes that the PRI also suffers from violence in and after electionsand estimates of upwards of 100 PRI victims of electoral violence in the 1988–2000period have been made (Global Exchange, 2000, 6). Nevertheless, the lack of publicrecords available to researchers of these incidents makes a systematic count difficult. InChiapas after the January 1994 EZLN uprising, supporters of the PRI were ambushed,killed and expelled from various communities (Deniability, 1997, 71–72, 80). In inter-views with Human Rights Watch, PRI supporters blamed the PRD, priests and aPRD-affiliated group called “Night Ant” for armed confrontations in Venustiano Carranzaand Chilón municipalities. Most recently, in the wake of the July 2, 2000 election whichthe PRI lost, confrontation within the PRI over a municipal government post in Cuatitlán,Mexico caused the death of 15 PRI members, the wounding of 98 with 5 criticallywounded (La Jornada, August 19, 2000, 1).

4. Communal peasants or ejidatarios were peasants who received land from the post-revolutionary Mexican government (beginning with the Lázaro Cárdenas administration(1934–1940) and continuing until the 1970s). The maximum total land redistribution asejido grant in Mexico was 17.9% by 1934–1940 (Roett, 1995, 42). The ejidatario, orholder of such a land title was not, until the 1992 New Agrarian Law, legally enabledto transfer his/her land title rights to non-heirs (Gutleman, 1974, 501). The de factorenting out of ejidal land was permitted by the 1970s (Otero, 1989, 282).

5. The “White Guards” are generally recognized to be armed ranch hands employedby ranchers and landowners to maintain order on their estates and in towns. In general,the Mexican government has historically preserved the right of owners to police theirown territory. For example, the Chiapas state governor (1952–1958), introduced a RanchAuxiliary Police Force to combat cattle rustling and land invasions (Deniability, 1997,39). In the 1960s, the Livestock Law recognized an Honorary Livestock Police withmembers appointed by the rancher’s associations (Impunity, 1999, 59–62). One rancherin Chiapas denied association with the “White Guards” but did acknowledge that“Landowners have had to organize to defend what belongs to them” (Deniability, 1997,34). He argued their armed employees were a response to the fact that because the

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EZLN had been focused only toward the indigenous of the region, ranchers had a legit-imate need to protect their property. He noted that in the past, it was lack of governmentalsupport for ranchers that forced them to resort to armed conflict.

6. Most agricultural experts have concluded that ejidos are as productive as privatefarms when differences in land quality and access to water, credit and other inputs aretaken into account. Yet, very few Mexican ejidos have access to sufficient capital toadopt new technologies or to make major infrastructural investments (Cornelius &Myhre, 1998, 8).

7. Even this account is potentially confounded with the “peasant-landlord conflict”explanation. Federal PRD party members explained that the violent protest movementincluded collective peasants demanding the immediate government payment for theexpropriation of 5,000 acres of communal forest land (La Jornada, July 4, 2000, 2).

8. There exist an array of non-Leninist single-party systems outside of the Sovietorbit including Botswana (regime founded 1966), Ivory Coast (1960), Kenya (1963),Malaysia (1957), Mexico (1929–2000), Senegal (1960), Singapore (1965), Taiwan(1949–2000), Tanzania (1964), Tunisia (1957), Zambia (1964–1991), and Zimbabwe(1979), (Geddes, 1999). See Jowitt (1974) for an analysis of the characteristics thatdefine the Leninist regimes.

9. I do not want to overdraw this point about the left-leaning orientation of earlyrevolutionary nationalism of PRI regime elites because, in fact, the story is complex.Garrrido (1982, 72–73) argues that the corporatist consolidation of the Mexican polit-ical system drew from a complex amalgam of European leftist ideas of the time – Frenchradicalism, German social democracy, Soviet Communism and Italian fascism – (thelatter models for their idea of a single-party) along with a strong element of politicalexpediency. Of particular import as a comparative model, was Perú’s APRA single-partyof the 1920s and the idea of a non-communist mass party. Nevertheless, Garrido (1982,73) notes that the communist, fascist and populist models were often confused betweenthemselves by Mexican leaders. It is noteworthy that Mexican communists in the 1928were the first to openly and strongly reject the ideology of new Mexican single-partyas “reactionary” , and “an enormous trap to make the masses fall into” (Garrido, 1982,84). Leaders of the more moderate bureaucratic syndicalists, however, resisted muchless and came to form a pillar of the Mexican single-party regime.

10. The PAN also accused the PRI and the government of massive fraud. For a reviewof the disputes surrounding the 1988 Presidential election, see: Cornelius, Gentlemanand Smith (1989, 19–22). In the subsequent 1994 Presidential election, the PRD won16.60% of the average national vote share and 18.6% in the 2000 Presidential election(Dresser 1999; La Jornada, September 7, 2000).

11. In Sahuayo, by the 1994 presidential elections, the political competition betweenthe PAN and the PRI was close with the PAN winning by 10,688 votes (51.1%) to thePRI’s 10,229 votes (48.9%) (IFE, 1994). The total electorate in Cerrito Cotijarán isapproximately less than 2,000.

12. Eisenstadt (2000, 8) touches on one aspect of the PRD-PAN difference. He definesthe PRD as largely (although not exclusively) an anti-regime party; that is to say, a“hard-line opposition which refuses to even participate in authoritarian institutions andseeks instead to undermine them, usually via protest mobilizations.” In “ideal-typic”terms, the PAN was largely a “patronage seeking party” or “an opposition willing toplay by authoritarian rules, with the eventual but distant objective of liberalizing theelectoral system, but obtaining office, public financing, and other resources in the

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meantime, in exchange for loyally “fronting” opposition candidates to make the regimelook competitive (Eisenstadt, 2000, 8).” Indeed, it was when PRD local leaders tried toobtain access to patronage resources by negotiating with state and federal PRI leadersthat factional splits were sometimes triggered within the PRD with accusations that PRDleaders were favoring their own electoral clienteles at the expense of the national unityof the party. Gledhill (1995, 76) notes instances of authoritarian tactics used by the PRDin Michoacán such as “fingering” candidates to be imposed leaders on local communi-ties and “dragging” supporters to rallies. He argues such tactics were caused bycontradictions faced by the local PRD leadership between trying to get things done andmaintaining leverage in the face of a national “no negotiation” policy with the PRI andthe latter’s exclusionary tactics adopted toward the Left.

13. One aspect of the PRD case study biographical accounts is that their slow rateof processing through the Mexican legal system delays their potential secondary confir-mation by official legal sources. To some extent, however, this issue is a circular onesince PRD activists point to the local and state police and/or to local PRI leaders ortheir hired guns as the major perpetrators of the homicides in the 1990–1994 period.Thus, they claim that the legal system does not adequately function as a neutral arbi-trar but rather fails to adequately investigate the circumstances surrounding the homicidesin order to protect local or state PRI affiliated officials. Ultimately, the question of thesecondary confirmation of all the complete circumstances of the PRD biographical homi-cide accounts is part of the legal ambiguity associated with the Mexican democratizationprocess. The National Commission on Human Rights has, however, confirmed officialresponsibility in 79 out of 90 cases of homicide that the PRD had reported in the July1988 – January 1995 period (Comisión Nacional de Derechos Humanos, 1994). Thismeans almost a 88% confirmation rate by official legal institutions of the PRD homi-cides processed as of early 1995. As Turk (1982, 147) notes, “for official repressioneven to be subjected to legal review is an accomplishment; and for a regime to punishits own agents for using harsh tactics against its political enemies is unthinkable in manycountries.” Thus, by the most conservative estimates, more than two thirds of the PRDhomicides have been officially confirmed as the result of state actions. Ideally, of course,were biographical accounts of the PRI homicides publicly available, one could alsoexamine potential PRD culpability in PRI assassinations. Future studies may be able toinvestigate the social causes of PRI homicides.

14. Indeed, Glendill (1995, 78) argues that because it was a Center-Left party builton an alliance of segments of different social classes, it has been difficult for the PRDto articulate a traditional class-based perspective.

15. This finding is also consistent with the Trejo and Rivera (2000, 15) finding thatit was the presence of multiple ethnic groups in indigenous regions in traditional PRI-held communities that explained post-election violence.

16. The survey question asked was: “Of the following options, how should politicaldifferences be resolved?” – (a) by negotiation between political parties, (b) by governingauthorities, (c) by violence – each asked separately. It is noteworthy that some differ-ences between PRD activists and the general survey population are evident. The PRDactivists preferred by 7.8% over the general survey population that political differencesbe resolved by negotiation between political parties rather than by politicians (CIDE,1991). The CIDE (1991) survey data were collected by CIDE but the author is solelyresponsible for their statistical analysis and interpretation.

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17. The OLS and survey findings of the association of illiteracy and poverty withmunicipalities where PRD homicides occurred and with PRD voters is reflected in thepoverty of the PRD victims’ surviving families. A PRD Foundation (Fundación Ovandoy Gil) has been set up to support the many poor widows and the children of the slainactivists. They receive about $40 a month to help finance their children’s education andhealth care (Mauleón, 2000).

18. Sometimes, the alleged hired guns made an attempt to correctly identify the victimbefore shooting him (CHR, 1994, 275), although they were not always successful. Threevictims were reported to have been misidentified and shot inadvertently – one of thebrother of a PRD leader – and another the wife of the PRD treasurer caught in thegunfire and a 10 year old boy playing basketball (CHR, 1994, 103, 161–162, 248).

19. In the case of Inocencio Romero Juárez, the killer feigned being a friendly agentsent from the State Electoral Commission to Juárez’ house who had some papers thatJuarez needed to sign. When Juárez told him to “come inside friend,” the assassin tookout his pistol and shot him pointblank four times in front of his family. Romero Juárezhad previous received warnings from the local cacique that he “stop his political activity”(CHR, 1994, 302). The pistolero remains unapprehended and the crime not clarified.The CNDH recommended investigation of the causes why apprehension orders and sanc-tions against those responsible had not been carried out.

20. When Lorenzo Santiago Torres, PRD presidential candidate in the November 1989municipal elections was riddled with bullets in front of the municipal palace by fivelocal policemen, one yelled “Here is your father, m--f--ker” before beginning to fire(CHR, 1994, 270). The National Human Rights Commission recommended further inves-tigation of the crime on March 31, 1993 given that no one had investigated or interviewedthe participants involved in the four years since the crime.

21. All of these homicide victims were men with few exceptions of a woman victim,raped, tortured and shot whose father had previously received death threats (CHR, 1994,98); a woman activist killed along with a group of PRD members in Oaxaca (CHR,1994, 234) and a woman caught in the cross-fire in Michoacán (CHR, 1994, 161).

22. Other homicides occurred during other types of anti-fraud protest rallies includedmarches in front of the Municipal Electoral Commission (Guerrero, 1989); an anti-fraudmarch to the airport (Guerrero, 1990); a protest rally against the PRI state governor(Guerrero, 1993); and various rallies at the local municipal palaces (CHR, 1994, 81,108, 137, 172, 219, 233, 237, 240, 244). The PRD source claims that these were allpacific rallies in which the participants were unarmed. PRD case accounts also notevarious revenge killings of members a few days after their participation in anti-fraudrallies (CHR, 1994, 249, 292, 303, 313).

23. One can hypothesize that the 100-odd PRI deaths from electoral violence esti-mated for the 1988–2000 period probably occurred in the context of electoral stand-offssuch as the one described here where fights with the PRD led to death by beatings orgunfire.

24. One PRD leader who represented a fisherman’s cooperative was shot in a restau-rant while meeting with a biologist in preparation of a legal case against a local chemicalcompany allegedly polluting local fisheries with toxic runoff (CHR, 1994, 63).

25. The Mexican results that political homicide stems from the perceived encroach-ment of the PRD onto the traditional social-populist electoral and political base of thePRI parallels previous findings that a higher incidence of political violence is more likelyto occur among parties that have a more relative parity. Booth (1972) found in Columbia

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(1948–1963) that political violence occurred where there was a relative parity ofelectoral forces between the main political parties – the Liberals and the Conservatives.Columbian peasants became engaged in a political conflict between the two traditionalparties that extended along the geographic distribution of party loyalties between thetwo hostile camps (Booth, 1972, 68).

26. One PAN militant was killed in Naucalpán, Mexico in June 1999. In this case,a police officer was tried and convicted for murder (U.S. State Department, 1999, 4).

27. These included “crimes committed by electoral functionaries, crimes committedby public servants in electoral material, crimes involving the attempt to alter the votingsystem, crimes against the system of popular election, crimes against freedom of meetingand of expression and crimes against the law to prevent and punish torture” (SINBAD,1997). New types of punishments and fines for violations of the secrecy and integrityof the vote (vote buying, intimidation of voters, coercion, stuffing ballot boxes, votingmore than once) were also significantly strengthened as the result of new legislation.

28. In December 1999, there was also a back-log of 332 complaints, 272 of whichwere filed in 1999. FEPADE did, however, register 160 cases involving the alterationof the voter registry in the 1997–1999 period. A limited budget, and thus the inabilityto establish state-level offices, and the long travel distances to remote communities byits 170 person staff are also some of the difficulties facing the new agency (WOLA,2000, 2).

29. One Mexican human rights organization said that in 1999, political violence (polit-ically-motivated murders, arbitrary detentions and cases of torture) had soared in thestates of Oaxaca and Guerrero (Reuters, 1999). Perhaps in-coming PAN PresidentVicente Fox, who has called for a truce on all violence in Mexico, might succeed inhalting the violence altogether. Other social forces have also strongly influenced themovement toward lesser impunity including the introduction of the National HumanRights Commission (1991), the rise of the political rights movement out of the humanrights movement (1994), and the rise of an independent federal electoral authority (1997).

30. Examples include violence by and against ETA in Spain’s democratization(1975–1980) (Clark, 1984, 133); and intimidation and violence of voters by Columbianrebels in local elections, to name a few.

31. Indeed, the party’s founders Cuauhtémoc Cárdenas and Porfirio Muñoz-Ledo wereleft-leaning former PRI políticos: governor of the state of Michoacán (1980–1986) andparty leader of the PRI (1975–1976), respectively. Muñoz-Ledo called the 1987 selec-tion of Carlos Salinas de Gortari for president “nothing but a disguised re-election whichwill perpetuate the rule by a counter-revolutionary clique . . . controlled by internationalfinancial interests” (quoted in Centeno, 1994, 12–13).

32. Historically, many individuals who were victims of state repression in the 1970swent on to form the ranks of the PRD in 1988 although others adopted a revolutionarypath to social change (Proceso, 2001). Jesús Zambrano, the 2001 PRD secretary general,had been a leader of the September 23 Communist League in the 1970s and had beenjailed for four years for his activism. Yet, other activists from the 1970s movementswent on to form the ranks of the EZLN and other more direct action movements. AsZambrano notes, many in the September 23 Communist League rejected taking the elec-toral path in the late 1970s as a route of protest and dissent because they considered it“petty-bourgeoisie” (Proceso, 2001, 1). By March 2001, however, members of the EZLNand the PRD at the level of the rank and file are often solidaristic and many PRDactivists participated in the “Zapatour” or the EZLN’s march to Mexico City even though

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the PRD national leadership requested that its members participate only with a “minorprofile as a party member” (Proceso, 2001, 2).

33. The PRD won the 1997 Mexico City regent race and a supermajoriy in the MexicoCity legislature following important electoral reforms that enhanced the competitivenessof Mexico’s elections.

34. Indirect evidence also suggests that many of these PRD leaders were likely tohave been successful and possibly charismatic leaders. As one widow of a professor andPRD political activist murdered in 1994 noted, “I feel like I don’t have the power he had to organize people and to protest the atrocities of this government (Mauleón,2000, 1).

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to acknowledge the support of Javier Gutiérrez-Rexach, JoelSolomon, the anonymous reviewers of Research in Social Movements, Conflict

and Change, Paul Wahlbeck, and the National Science Foundation (Law andSocial Change Program NSF grant, SES-0004402) for their suggestions, assis-tance and valuable contributions.

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APPENDIX

I. OLS Regression Analysis of Municipal Characteristics on PRD Homicide Victims, 1991.

Variable Standardized Coefficients p-value

Literacy �0.370 �0.038***Indigenous �0.236 �0.104Urban 0.010 0.534Wealth 0.023 0.864Concentration of Ejitarios 0.094 0.416Constant 0.006

R2 = 0.075; Adjusted R2 = 0.009; N = 120.

II. Logit Regression Results of Major Social Problems on PRI, PRD and PAN Voters, 1997.

PRI voters PRD voters PAN voters

Fraud �0.544*** 0.548*** 0.027(0.105) (0.091) (0.104)

Corruption �0.017** �0.155*** 0.352***(0.040) (0.046) (0.014)

Political Violence 0.480*** �0.335*** �0.180**(0.070) (0.090) (0.091)

Education �0.280*** �0.005** 0.347***(0.096) (0.010) (0.010)

Poverty 0.685*** 0.335*** �0.459***(0.048) (0.062) (0.066)

Constant 0.0392 �1.2795 �2.3545�2 log likelihood 40706.771 34425.649 33908.118X2 327.186 89.052 1207.948df 5 5 5Number of Cases 3,018 1,984 986

Note: Logistic regression coefficient with standard errors in parentheses. * p < 0.01; ** p < 0.05;*** p < 0.001. (one-tailed tests for all variables). Bold indicates positive p-value at 0.000 level.

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297

CAMPUS RACIAL DISORDERS ANDCOMMUNITY TIES, 1967–1969

Daniel J. Myers and Alexander J. Buoye

ABSTRACT

A common tactic in the analysis of the racial civil disorders of the 1960s

has been to eliminate from data sets those events that occurred on

university and college campuses. This procedure assumed a disjuncture

between urban and campus collective violence, specifically in that the

former would be related to local economic and social conditions and the

latter would not. As a result, campus racial riots have not been well

represented in the research on the rioting of the 1960s and their place in,

and contribution to, the riot wave are not well understood. Contrary to

earlier assumptions, our analysis shows a strong connection between

campuses and their local context. First, campuses having stronger ties to

local communities had higher rates of racial disorder during 1967–1969.

Second, economic competition indicators for the local community

influenced campus rioting, just as they influenced inner-city rioting. We

conclude by discussing the implications of omitting campus events from

past riot research.

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ISBN: 0-7623-0786-2

INTRODUCTION

Racial collective violence has occupied an important place in the sociologicalliterature not only because of its importance to the testing and development oftheory in the area of collective behavior and social movements, but also becausewaves (such as the late 1960s) and even individual incidents of racial rioting (suchas the aftermath of the Rodney King incident) bring race relations dramatically tothe forefront of public consciousness, re-energizing race as an element of thepolitical agenda. As such, the academic literature surrounding race and rioting isvoluminous. Even the subset of studies we are concerned with in the present paper– those examining the U.S. civil disorders of the 1960s – is extremely large andcontinues to grow even though the wave of violence ended nearly 30 years ago(some recent examples of work in this area include Myers, 2000; 1997; Olzak &Shanahan, 1996; Olzak, Shanahan & McEneaney, 1996; Piven & Cloward, 1992;Carter, 1992, 1997; DiPasquale & Glaeser, 1998).

The earliest studies of the local determinants of these civil disorders wereconducted using a matched pair design in which “riot” cities were comparedto “non-riot” cities (Lieberson & Silverman, 1965; Lemberg Center, 1968;McElroy & Singell, 1973). As the rioting accelerated, the possibility of findingmatched pairs of riot and non-riot cities evaporated and analyses of eventfrequency and event severity became the standard approaches (Spilerman, 1970;1971, 1972, 1976; Jiobu, 1971; Lieske, 1978a; Morgan & Clark, 1973; Carter,1983, 1986, 1990). These studies were important in challenging a whole hostof theories regarding the propensity for collective violence (see McPhail, 1994;Useem, 1998 for reviews). In particular, Spilerman’s studies concluded thatonly two factors were important in determining which cities were most likelyto experience civil disorders: the size of the Black population in the city andwhether or not it was located in the South. While many scholars had a difficulttime accepting these conclusions, later studies that attempted to challengeSpilerman’s findings did little more than reinforce them. Studies incorporatingadditional structural indicators produced only minor gains over Spilerman’sformulation – gains so marginal that they were usually dismissed as statisticalartifacts rather than meaningful processes.

In the 1990s, the application of new theories and statistical techniques to thedisturbance data began to produce a challenge to Spilerman’s conclusions. Thethree most important advances were the use of competition theory (Olzak &Shanahan, 1996; Myers, 1997; Olzak, Shanahan & McEneaney, 1996),incorporation of diffusion notions (Myers, 1997, 1998, 2000), and the use of

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298 DANIEL J. MYERS AND ALEXANDER J. BUOYE

survival time or event history modeling techniques. Re-casting rioting as anoutcome of racial competition and desegregation revealed some social andeconomic effects that had been missed in prior research. Diffusion modelingshowed that civil disorders were far from independent from one another andthat distance and timing played important roles in determining when and whereviolent events would break out.

Despite these advances, recent and earlier studies share a number of limita-tions. Beginning with Spilerman’s (1970) landmark study, analysts homogenizedtheir data by focusing almost wholly on one type of event – the spontaneous,extra-institutional civil disorder. While these kinds of events dominated the 1960s wave of disturbances, they were not the only kind that occurred anda consequential number of other kinds of disorders were ignored. AfterSpilerman made the decision to analyze only spontaneous, extra-institutionalevents, other analysts followed suit, in part to provide comparability withSpilerman’s important studies, but also for substantive reasons. For example,Spilerman (1970) eliminated disorders that occurred in institutions (therebyexcluding all events that occurred at schools and colleges) reasoning that thestructural processes thought to underlie “ghetto” disorders would not be rele-vant to campus disorders. Instead, it seemed that campus disturbances wouldbe more likely to arise over an intra-institutional conflict, and therefore wouldbe subject to a completely different set of influences than outbreaks on urbanstreets. While this view of the campus drove the omission of campus disordersfrom most studies of the period, some scholars at least asserted a different view.For example, Long and Foster (1970) concluded that while much campus protestdealt with intra-institutional issues, protest involving militant tactics (includingrace-related rioting) seem more often to be a function of radical ideology amongthe students rather than any particular pattern of institutional conflicts.

Despite these different assertions about campus disturbances, no systematicempirical evidence has been brought to bear on this question. At this point in time, we know very little about what role campus collective violence played in the wave of racial civil disorders in the 1960s. What were their causes? Did they reflect conditions in the local community? How were theyrelated to the street violence? Our results provide some initial answers to thesequestions. First, we show that campus disorder is not independent of localeconomic and social conditions. Second, we find that there are differences in college disturbance rates that stem from the colleges’ ties to the local community. These results combined suggest that there is greater continuitybetween campus and street disorders than previously thought and call for areconsideration of the role of the campus in the riot wave.

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299

Campus Populations and Racial Disorders

The Higher Education Act of 1965, other federal legislation, and a growingeffort by many colleges to recruit disadvantaged Black students led to atransformation of the “typical” Black collegian in the late 1960s (Long, 1970).Prior to these developments, African-American college students were nottypically from the “ghetto” community. Instead, they were more likely to comefrom middle-class backgrounds and, as such, were unlikely to be consumed bythe conditions of the urban ghetto. The entering disadvantaged students,however, were more in touch with the plight of the urban Blacks. Long (1970)argues that the influx of these disadvantaged students brought a new “Blackconsciousness” to American campuses in the late 1960s, helping to drive aprotest movement concerned with issues of racial inequality and discrimination.Thus, the Black student presence on American campuses in the late 60s broughta new point of view, one that was considerably more connected to the nationalconsciousness of racial strife and to the race-related conditions of localcommunities in which college campuses existed.

As much as local conditions may have found their way onto campuses andfound expression in campus protest, it is not our view that all campuses wereequally susceptible to this influence. In fact, we expect considerableheterogeneity among schools in terms of their responsiveness to local conditions.We expect this responsiveness to directly reflect the strength of ties betweenthe student body and the local community. If the university is national in scopeand few of its students come from the local community or even from the samestate, it is highly unlikely that they will know much about local conditions orbe responsive to them. It is this situation that motivated analysts to drop campusevents from their studies in the first place. Consider the likelihood that campusracial disorders at Yale would be reflective of unemployment among Blacks inNew Haven. The link between these two populations is so weak that it is verydifficult to imagine a scenario in which one group would take to the streets ina violent protest of the conditions experienced by the other.

On the other hand, if the student body is drawn primarily from the localcommunity or is at least demographically representative of city dwellers whowere taking to the streets in their own riotous protests, then we should expectthe campus to be considerably more responsive. In essence, the student bodythat does have strong community ties is partially made up of the same peoplewho riot in the streets. There is no reason we should expect these students tolay down their ideology or grievances at the doorstep to the university. Evenif they were not the same people who were rioting in the streets, demographicand socio-economic similarity might increase empathic collective action.

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Consider the case of San Francisco State, the campus that had the most disordersduring the period we studied. The student body at San Francisco State was 95%in-state students, 80% commuters, and 30% minority (compared to 9% instate,0% commuter and 12% minority at Yale). If Blacks in San Francisco wereprotesting their collective condition via rioting, it seems quite likely that thisactivity would be brought onto campus as well.

A second reason that community ties may increase disorder on campus isthe possibility of a diffusion effect. It is now reasonably well established thatcollective violence and other types of protest behavior are in some sense“contagious” (Strang & Soule, 1998; Myers, 1997, 2000; Olzak, 1992, 1987;McAdam, 1983; Oberschall, 1980, 1989; Hedstrom, 1994)1 and since manyhave observed that campus disorder followed urban disorder in sequence (e.g.Baskin et al., 1971; Lieske, 1978b), it seems likely that campus disorder may,in some cases, be responding not only to conditions in the community, but alsoto events in the community. This possibility of diffusion further implies theimportance of community ties since there must be some conduit through which“contagious” influence must flow. In other words, socially isolated campusesshould experience considerably less civil disorder than campuses with directcommunity ties, due to their weaker links with urban disorder.

Our first general hypothesis, then, is that campuses with stronger communityties will experience more racial disorders. First, we operationalize the notion ofcommunity ties through the percentage of the student body that commutes to thecollege or university for classes. Although being a commuter student does not nec-essarily guarantee that the student is highly involved in the local community oreven that he or she lives in the local community, commuter student campuses, onthe average, should reflect local conditions more than residential campuses, andshould therefore be more likely to engage in violent protest. Second, we examinethe percentage of in-state students as a measure of how “national” a university orcollege is. We predict that universities with national draws will have considerablyfewer local ties and therefore experience fewer collective violence events.

College-Level Control Variables

Before reasonable conclusions can be drawn using these indicators ofcommunity ties, controls must be entered for the size of the campus minoritypopulation and for university prestige. As in Spilerman’s studies and those thatfollowed, disorder rates during this period are inextricably connected to thepopulation available. Parallel to any phenomenon, the more Black students oncampus, the more likely it is that there will be Black-initiated collective violence.Therefore we include the percentage of the student body that is non-White,

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301

expecting that as it increases, so should disorder. The percent minority not onlyprovides a necessary control for examining the relationship of commuter andin-state population to disorder (given that these may be confounded with highminority populations), but it also provides another operationalization ofcommunity ties in that the “community ties” we are concerned with for theBlack civil disorders of the 1960s are ties to the Black community.2 More Blackstudents on campus means not only more people drawn from the aggrievedpopulation, but also more identification among the students with the communityand more representation of this community’s concerns on campus.

With respect to university prestige, previous research on campus riots hasconsistently found that student activism, in general, is more prevalent at “elite”institutions (Bloom, 1987; Feuer, 1969; Lipset, 1971; Orbell, 1971; Soule, 1997;Van Dyke, 1994). Flacks (1970) argues that one source of this effect may bethat student activists/protesters tend to be more “academic” than non-activistsand that student activists are disproportionately recruited from high-income,high-education families – a student profile more likely to be found at prestigiousinstitutions. Similarly, Lipset (1971) found that the “best” colleges, asdetermined by faculty prominence and research, attract a disproportionatenumber of students who think of themselves as activists. Whether themechanism driving this pattern is simply a process of self-selection or resultsfrom these institutions encouraging student protest activity, the prestige controlis necessary since it is likely to be collinear with disorder and community ties.

Likewise, we expect that some of the community tie variables are collinearwith the status of the college as private or public, and whether or not it has areligious affiliation (see Appendix A). We expect private and religious schoolsto have lower event rates not just because the compositions of their studentbodies are, on the average, quite different than public colleges but also becausethe level of control exerted over the students and their daily lives is muchgreater in private and religious colleges than in public colleges.3

Structural and Economic Conditions in the Cities

If ties between the campus and community are strong, and if communitydisorders are related to local structural and economic conditions, then we shouldalso expect that campus disturbance rates should also be related to local andstructural and economic conditions. We should not be too optimistic aboutfinding such effects, however, because it has been notoriously difficult to locatecity structural conditions that have an impact on urban disorder (e.g. Spilerman,1970, 1971, 1976; Jiobu, 1971; Lieske, 1978a; Carter, 1983, 1986; review byMcPhail, 1994). Nevertheless, recent analyses using competition theory (see

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especially Olzak & Shanahan, 1996; Olzak, Shanahan & McEneaney, 1996;Myers, 1997) have provided promising evidence that population characteristicsand economic conditions do predict civil disorder, so the covariates used inthose studies provide the most reasonable place to begin examining the effectsof local condition on campus disorders. But because there is heterogeneity inthe strength of the ties between campuses and cities, the link between structuralconditions and campus disturbances will almost necessarily be weaker than thelink between structural conditions and city disturbances.

Competition theory is driven by the notion that when two or more groupscompete for a pool of scarce resources, the result is conflict. This conflict isexacerbated when either the demand for the resources goes up or the supplygoes down (Park, 1950; Lieberson, 1980; Olzak, 1992). Olzak’s (1992) variantties this process of competition to ethnic and racial collective violence via threemechanisms. First, labor market segregation breaks down and introduces newcompetition in labor market segments that were once separate. Second,immigration increases competition directly by introducing new competitors forjobs. Third, any economic downturn reduces the supply of jobs and increasesall competition for employment.

When extending Olzak’s arguments to racial violence, Myers (1997)suggested that it was not merely increased competition per se that causeddisorder, but losing the competition that led people to express their grievanceson the street. In other words, analysts needed to employ outcome measures forBlacks in order to link labor market competition losses to rioting. FollowingMyers’ lead, we use non-White unemployment as an indicator of increasedcompetition in labor markets that hurt Blacks. Reflecting Olzak’s immigrationargument, we used the percent foreign-born in each city to capture the effectsof recent immigration on the labor market. Finally, to represent the generaleconomic conditions in each city, we use the median income for all residentsand the overall unemployment rate.

City-Level Control Variables

If there are any consistent findings in the literature on the racial collective violenceof the 1960s, they are that: (1) the number of Blacks who live in a city stronglypredicts the amount of disorder in that city, and (2) the rate of disorder was rela-tively depressed in the south. These findings have been robust in study after study(Spilerman, 1970, 1971, 1976; Carter, 1983, 1986; Jiobu, 1971; Olzak &Shanahan, 1996; Myers, 1997, 1998, 2000;) and therefore they must be incorpo-rated as controls in tests concerned with the disorders of the 1960s. The logicbehind the population variable is simply that Black initiated disorders require the

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participation of Black people, and therefore as any population increases, so doesthe opportunity for it to produce a collective violence event. The source of the neg-ative south effect is somewhat more contentious, but it is usually attributed toeither repressive race relations in the south that would dissuade Blacks from tak-ing to the streets (Spilerman, 1970) or the high levels of civil rights protest in thesouth that would drain protest energy away from the violent events (Oberschall,1980). Because of the importance of these two variables in past studies of urbancollective violence, we examined them in the college context as well.

DATA AND METHODS

Dependent Variable: Campus Racial Disorders

Although a number of data sets tabulating racial disorders in the 1960s havebeen collected (e.g. Spilerman, 1970; Olzak & Shanahan, 1996; Jiobu, 1971;Carter, 1983, 1986) none of these is adequate for the present purposes becausethese data sets and others like them purposely eliminated events that occurredin school settings.4 As discussed above, analysts were primarily interested inthe effects of community, economic, and structural conditions on the likelihoodof disorder, and reasoned that community conditions would not be likely tohave much impact on campus disorder. Because they did not collect informationon campus disorders, it was necessary to compile new data for the presentstudy.

Our tabulation of campus racial disorders is derived from tabulations of race-related civil disorders compiled by The Lemberg Center for the Study ofViolence. The Lemberg Center operated at Brandeis University from 1966–1974and conducted a number of different studies of racial violence and race relationsin the United States. Among its many efforts, the center systematically collectednews clippings that reported racial disorders in the United States. Although thenews clippings were collected for the entire period of 1967–1972, only thedisorders from 1967–1969 were systematically compiled.5 These compilationswere published in the center’s Riot Data Review (for part of 1968) and as U.S.

Race-Related Civil Disorders (for the remainder of 1968 through 1969). Thecompilations for 1967 were never published, but a microfilm record wasmaintained in the center’s archives. Using these compilations, we extracted allthose events that occurred on college or university campuses. In total, weidentified 149 race-related disorder events on 100 different college campuses.These institutions represent a surprisingly diverse cross-section of schools,ranging widely in size, minority student population, location, and pubic/privatestatus. Appendix B lists the institutions included in the sample.

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In compiling these data, the Lemberg Center defined a civil disorder as anevent involving crowd behavior that resulted in either property damage orpersonal injury, defiance of civil authority, or “aggressive disruptions whichviolate civil law”, the latter primarily intended to capture building seizures.Race-related civil disorders were further qualified to include “aggressive orviolent behavior by members of one racial or ethnic group6 against membersof another or their symbolic equivalents” (Baskin et al., 1971). Studies ofcollective violence have used differing numbers of participants as criterion fordetermining that the action was collective. Although it is difficult tounequivocally justify any particular number, the Lemberg Center chose a rela-tively small number of participants (four) as the criterion for attributing crowdbehavior to an incident. This level of participation has been common in priorresearch on these civil disorders (see for example Lieske, 1978a, 1978b).

Examining only the 100 schools that experienced disorders could producesample selection bias because there would be no comparison with schools thatdid not experience events. To address this problem, we generated a sample ofnon-disorder schools and added them to our sample. These schools compriseda simple random sample of all colleges that were operating during the 1967–68academic year (Gourman, 1967). Of the 50 selected, 6 had experienced disordersand therefore a total of 44 non-disorder schools were added resulting in a totalsample of 144 schools.7 Information regarding college and universitycharacteristics was gathered from The College Handbook (1972), American

Universities and Colleges (1968), and The Gourman Report (1967).

Independent Variables

College-Level Covariates

The college characteristics relevant to our hypotheses include the percentage ofthe student body that comes from within the state, the percentage of the studentsthat are commuters (rather than living in campus housing), and the percentageof the student body that is non-White (minority). The percent minority is anobvious variable for inclusion in the study given that prior studies of civil disor-ders have found occurrence rates tightly tied to the composition of populations at-risk. The in-state and commuter variables are used to indicate how tightlytied the campus student population is to the local community. The justificationfor these variables is discussed in more detail above. (Table 1 providesdescriptive statistics for each independent variable in the study).8

To indicate the prestige of each college or university, we use the Gourmanrank detailed in the Gourman Report. This rating incorporates a large number offactors ranging from faculty qualifications, to student services, to administration

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305

and individual department ratings. The schools in our study range from a highGourman Ranking of 772 (Princeton University) to a low of 297 (shared byseveral schools including University of Texas at Arlington and Chicago CityCollege). The Gourman ranking has been used in a number of studies as aprestige indicator (e.g. Soule, 1997; Eckberg, 1988). A second prestige-relatedindicator is the endowment of the university ranging from a low of zero to a highof $101,777,600 (Harvard University). Both of these variables have been foundto be related to activism and protest on university campuses.

We also categorized each college as either public or private and also whetheror not it had a religious affiliation. For our analysis, we divided these into threegroups: Private religious colleges, private non-religious colleges, and publiccolleges. Approximately one-half of the colleges in the study were private andabout one-half of the private colleges were religious.

City-Level Covariates

City-level covariates were chosen from prior studies of civil disorder and city-level economic and structural conditions. Although many variables have beenexamined by prior analysts, few have been found to be significant predictors ofcity-level differences in collective violence rates (see Spilerman, 1970, 1976;Myers, 1997; Olzak & Shanahan, 1996; Jiobu, 1971; Lieske, 1978a). The six variables we selected specifically reflect variables that have successfully predicted disorder in prior studies of competition processes and rioting (esp.

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Table 1. City and College Level Descriptive Statistics.

Variable Mean St Dev Minimum Maximum

City Level (N = 122)

Non-White Population 64132.9 212914.7 6 1803348Unemployment Rate 4.4 1.7 1.2 11.7Total Blacks Unemployed 1466.7 4480.4 0 32162Percent Foreign-Born 4.6 4.5 0 21.6Median Income 9881.3 3090.8 3025 35630

College Level (N = 144)

Percent In-state 71.5 27.4 5 100Percent Commuter 40.9 34.3 0 100Percent Minority 26.8 30.5 1 100Gourman Rank 416.9 114.3 297 772Private (Dummy) 0.51 0.50 0 1Religious (Dummy) 0.25 0.43 0 1Private, Non-religious (Dummy) 0.26 0.44 0 1Endowment (100s of Dollars) 40464.2 124189.4 0 1017776

Myers, 1997; Olzak & Shanahan, 1996). Five of these were drawn from censusdata (non-White population, number of Blacks unemployed, percent foreign born,median income and the overall unemployment rate in the city). The final variablewas a dummy variable indicating whether or not the city was located in the south. We defined the south following Spilerman (1970; see Table 3 for the list ofsouthern states).

Estimation Method

Cox partial likelihood models were used to obtain estimates in the present study(Cox, 1972) and therefore the dependent variable is formally the hazard rate ofevent occurrence. Cox regression does not require the analyst to specify theform of the baseline hazard, thereby making the maximization proceduredependent only on the estimated values of the hypothesized covariates.9 Thecoefficients generated can be interpreted by taking eb, where b is the estimatedcoefficient. This produces the amount by which the hazard is multiplied foreach unit increase in the related independent variable. Time is treated ascontinuous since events can begin at any point in time and are not necessarilybounded by discrete time intervals.10

The time until the event is measured in days, starting from 1/1/67 with aright-censoring time of 12/31/69. Although event history model estimationtechniques effectively address the difficulties associated with right censoring,left censoring also exists in this and many other studies that use survival timeanalysis. The left censoring problem arises whenever we are not certain wheneach unit first became at risk for experiencing an event. This is clearly the casein the present study, but as of yet, viable techniques for defeating the left-censoring problem have not been fully developed. The best we can do isto note that few campus events appeared prior to the beginning of 1967, meaningthat in large part, campuses were not at risk prior to this time. This pattern isnot surprising when one considers campus racial disorder in the context of theHigher Education Act of 1965. Combined with other legislation of the sameperiod, this act began changing the composition of the college student body,but the influx of these presumably more aggrieved Black students did not havemuch impact on predominantly White institutions until the spring of 1967. Priorto this time, most reforms were aimed exclusively at improving historicallyBlack colleges rather than recruiting disadvantaged Black students foruniversities in general (Long, 1970).11 Furthermore, many scholars have madethe point that disorders in schools (secondary and post-secondary) seemed tohave followed in the wake of urban street violence (Lieske, 1978b; Ritterband& Silberstein, 1973; Baskin et al., 1971). Generally speaking, this means that

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campuses became at risk for collective violence relatively late in the event cycleand therefore left-censoring is a somewhat diminished concern.

Of the 100 colleges that experienced disorders during the study period, 28experienced more than one event. The highest number occurred at San FranciscoState University where 8 disorders were recorded. To handle these multipleobservations on a single unit, we first created a record for each risk spell. Thismeans that each school contributes risk spells equal to the number of eventsplus one: Schools experiencing no events have one censored record; schoolsexperiencing one event have two records, one ending when the event occursand a subsequent right-censored case; schools with two events have twouncensored spells followed by a censored spell, and so forth. Using these dataarrangements, time is reset after each event and the entire set of observationsis pooled prior to model estimation (Allison, 1984). Because this procedureviolates assumptions regarding the independence of observations,12 we correctedstandard error estimates by using the robust variance estimation procedure forCox regression developed by Lin and Wei (1989) to correct for clustering ofobservations from single units.13

RESULTS

Our results demonstrate a number of relationships between campuscharacteristics and campus disorders as well as between city characteristics andcampus disorders. The results also make it clear that college characteristics arenot independent of city characteristics and therefore city characteristics alsohave indirect effects on campus disorder through college characteristics. Theseresults, in sum, support our view that local conditions had relevance for campuscollective violence, just as they did for street disorder, and that ties betweenthe community and the college help to usher collective violence onto collegecampuses.

Campus Characteristics

Control Variables

Before discussing the results related to the indicators of college-community ties,we will briefly discuss the control variables included in the model. In additionto providing important controls for the study, these variables have substantivemeaning of their own in terms of their effect on disorder rates. To begin with,it would not be reasonable to conduct any analysis of racial disorder withoutcontrolling for the composition of the population at risk for an event. As hasbeen found in many studies, disorders increase as the population of potential

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participants grows (Spilerman, 1970, 1971; Myers, 1997; Olzak & Shanahan,1996; Jiobu, 1971; Lieske, 1978). Therefore, we include the percentage of thestudent body that is identified as minority and not surprisingly, find a strongpositive relationship with disorder (see Table 2).14

The second set of control variables indicates the college or university’s statusas religious, private, or public. Our results indicate that colleges with religiousaffiliations had less than one-half the hazard of disorder than public collegesand universities.15 Private, non-religious schools also appear to have a somewhatlower tendency to experience disorder than public ones (15 to 37% lowerhazards across the three models). The difference between privates (religiousand non-religious) and publics is diminished by collinearity with the percent-instate when it is added to the models. This is not entirely surprisinggiven that private colleges and universities, by and large, have a greaterpercentage of out-of-state students than do public schools, but the negativerelationship between private status and commuting is not anywhere near asstrong (see Appendix A). Thus, one may conclude that the negative effect ofprivate status on the event hazard in Model 1 may be due in part to the higher

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Table 2. Estimates of the Effects of School Characteristics on the Event Hazard.

Model 1 Model 2 Model 3 Model 4

Percent Instate 0.0139*** 0.00910*(0.0042) (0.0040)

Percent Commuter 0.00841*** 0.00641** 0.00849***(0.0023) (0.0023) (0.0023)

Percent Minority 0.00972*** 0.0102*** 0.0104*** 0.00968***(0.0025) (0.0025) (0.0026) (0.0025)

Gourman Rank 0.00414*** 0.00428*** 0.00461*** 0.00403***(0.00093) (0.00087) (0.00095) (0.00080)

Religious (Dummy) �0.998*** �0.729*** �0.754*** �1.00***(0.21) (0.22) (0.33) (0.21)

Private, Non-religious (Dummy) �0.444** �0.159 �0.239 �0.462**(0.17) (0.19) (0.17) (0.16)

Public (omitted)Endowment (� 10-5) �0.0186 �0.00286 �0.00365

(0.042) (0.044) (0.040)Model � 2 (df)a 65.1(6)*** 61.1(6)*** 65.6(7)*** 61.1(5)***

* p < 0.05, ** p < 0.01, *** p < 0.001 (two-tailed tests). Robust SEs in parentheses. a Model � 2 represents the results of a Wald test comparing the model with the null model.

percentage of out-of-state students. This finding also supports our hypothesisregarding community ties and collective violence rates.

Using our two indicators of institutional prestige, endowment and Gourmanranking, we find a positive relationship with disorder. The endowment leveldoes not appear to be a significant contributor to disorder, although the lack ofeffect is due mainly to collinearity with the Gourman ranking. If entered intomodels excluding the Gourman rank, endowment has a small positive effect onthe hazard. Because the Gourman rank appears to completely supersede theendowment as a prestige-related predictor, endowment is dropped from furtheranalysis.16 Institutional prestige, therefore, actually increases the event hazard.For each point on the Gourman scale, the hazard increases about 0.4 to 0.5 ofa percentage point (over the 4 models presented in Table 2). This amounts toabout a 60% increase in the disorder rate over a one standard deviation unitincrease in the Gourman rank.17 This finding is consistent with other elementsof social movement theory and prior research on the characteristics of rioters(discussed further below).

Campus Characteristics Indicating Ties to Local Communities

In Models 1, 2, and 3 of Table 2, we see that the percent commuter and thepercent in-state both had significant and positive relationships with the disorderhazard after controlling for the minority population at the school, prestige, andthe public/private/religious nature of the school. Although both models supportour hypotheses, the percentage of in-state students is necessarily tied to thepercent commuter and therefore we expected strong collinearity between thetwo indicators (see Appendix A). To make their joint and individualcontributions to the event hazard clearer, we present models including eachvariable separately as well as simultaneously.

Model 1 presents the results for the commuter variable. The coefficientindicates that for every increase of 1% in the commuter student base, the hazardis multiplied by 0.8%. Over the range of the commuter variable, this amountsto a more than doubling of the disorder rate and more than a 33% increase inthe rate from a one standard deviation unit increase in the percent commuter.This finding suggests strongly that community ties did, in fact, play a substan-tial role in producing campus disorder.

Further evidence is provided in Model 2, which substitutes the in-statepercentage variable for the commuter student variable. Again, the coefficient issignificant and positive indicating that an increase of one percent in the in-statepopulation increases the hazard by 1.4%. Again, this amounts to a massiveincrease in disorder over the entire range of the in-state variable (a 375%increase in risk) and a substantial increase over a single standard deviation unit

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increase (a 46% increase). Net of other variables, this means that nationaluniversities that draw their students from all over the U.S. (and beyond)experienced less disorder – net of the effects of prestige and minority population.This finding is strongly supportive of the notion that a lack of local ties amongthe student body reduces collective violence.

A full model with all college-level covariates is presented as Model 3 ofTable 2. The results are generally consistent with prior models with respect tothe indicators of community ties. The effects of both the in-state and commutervariables are degraded through their strong collinearity, however, and in factthe percent in-state variable is now only marginally significant. Given that theimprovement in model fit of Model 3 over Model 1 is so small (by comparingthe model chi-square statistics)18 and because the commuter indicator seems tobe a better indicator of local connection, the percent-in-state was dropped from further analyses. Likewise, we drop the endowment variable from the remainder of the analyses given its statistical and conceptual overlap with theGourman rank.

Community Conditions

Having established that college campuses that have greater ties to localcommunities are more likely to experience collective violence, we now turn tothe question of conditions in the local community and how they are reflectedin campus disorder rates. Contrary to the assumptions of prior studies, we findthat the structural and economic conditions of cities do influence campusdisorder, although not in exactly the same ways as for street disorder.

We begin in Table 3 by presenting single independent variable Cox modelsdemonstrating the bivariate relationships between the structural and economicindicators and the event hazard. The two baseline indicators that have been sopowerful in prior studies, the size of the Black population (proxied by the naturallogarithm of the number of non-Whites in each city)19 and a dummy indicator forthe South (see Table 3 for the definition of the South), are not particularly strongpredictors of campus disorder. The non-White population has a marginally significant, positive effect on disorder, while the South indicator has no significanteffect. The small effect of the Black population size is not a big surprise becauseit is the population composition on campus, rather than in the city, that would bestreflect the demographic opportunity logic that has been tied to this variable. Someeffect, however, is expected because the demographics of cities should bereflected to some degree on nearby campuses. In fact, we expect that when the citypopulation and the campus population are examined together, we should observean indirect effect of city non-White population on campus disorder via the

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campus minority population size (below). The lack of a South effect comes as agreater surprise and its ramifications are taken up more fully in the discussion.

The remaining variables examined in Table 2 reflect the competitionarguments of Olzak and others and are directly parallel to those that foundsupport in Myers (1997). First, the logged number of unemployed Blacks isincluded as a measure of labor market competition that affects Blacks. Ourresults demonstrate that Black unemployment in the city increases the rate ofdisorder on college campuses in those cities. Apparently, it is possible forcollege students to react to conditions in the local environment in some of thesame ways that urban dwellers do. The second competition-related variablereflects minority group migration that may increase competition in labor marketsegments traditionally occupied by Blacks. This variable, the percent foreign-born, also has a strong positive effect on disorder, increasing the hazard by6.6% for every one percentage point increase. Again, competition in the cityappears to have ramifications for campus disorder just as it does for streetevents.

A final element of competition theory predicts that general economiccontraction will spur competition and lead to increased collective violence. Our

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Table 3. Bivariate Estimates of the Effects of City Characteristics on the Event Hazard.

Model 1 Model 2 Model 3 Model 4 Model 5 Model 6

Ln Non-White Population 0.161*(0.064)

South (dummy)a �0.108(0.180)

Ln No. of Blacks Unemployed 0.103***(0.031)

Percent Foreign Born 0.064***(0.018)

Median Income 0.00001(0.00001)

Unemployment Rate 0.0533(0.048)

Model � 2 (df) 6.3(1)* 0.36(1) 11.1(1)*** 13.3(1)*** 0.63(6) 1.2(1)

* p < 0.05, ** p < 0.01, *** p < 0.001 (two-tailed tests). Robust SEs in parentheses. a South = Alabama, Arkansas, Florida, Georgia, Kentucky, Louisiana, Mississippi, N. Carolina,Oklahoma, S. Carolina, Tennessee, Texas, Virginia, and W. Virginia.

two indicators of the general economic condition in cities, the median overallincome and the overall unemployment rate, do not have significant relationshipswith campus event hazards. While it appears that college racial disorder wasresponsive to city conditions that are related specifically to the Black population,more general economic conditions did not play much of a role in campusdisorder.

The final analyses, given in Table 4, combine the results of the tests of collegecovariates with a step-wise combination of significant variables from the city-level covariates. These models serve to illuminate collinearities betweenthe two sets of variables, thereby allowing us to posit a model of indirect effectsamong the variables (see Fig. 1). Model 1 includes the size of the Black popu-lation in the city, which is strongly collinear with the percent minority at therelated college. In fact, neither variable produces a significant effect when bothare entered into the model. We interpret this to mean that the percent minorityat many colleges is a direct outcome of the number of minorities in the localcommunity and therefore, that the size of the minority population in thecommunity has an indirect effect on the disorder rate via the campus minoritypopulation. Again, this supports our notion that links to the community, and inthis case the minority community, are important in determining what happenson campus.

Model 2 shows that Black unemployment has a surprisingly strongrelationship with the percent commuter. This simply means that colleges withhigh commuter ratios are likely to be located in areas where there is high Blackunemployment. One source of this relationship may be that commuter collegesare located near large Black populations and therefore, by default, are near highnumbers of unemployed Blacks. The results of Model 4 do not substantiatesuch logic, however. When the non-White population is added to the Model 2,there is virtually no change in the effect of either percent commuter or of Blackunemployment. These results do imply, however, that Black unemployment hasan indirect effect on campus disorder via the percent commuter (see Fig. 1) inaddition to its direct effects.

Finally, the percent foreign-born is examined in Models 3 and 5 and has asignificant positive effect on disorder. This indicator is also strongly collinearwith Black unemployment, which further emphasizes the importance ofcompetition in labor markets for producing collective violence. As Myers (1997)argued, recent immigration provides substantial added competition for Blacksbecause immigrants disproportionately target labor market niches dominated byBlacks. The additional pressure on these labor market segments increases Blackunemployment and builds antipathy between Blacks and recent immigrants,which in turn generates higher rates of collective violence. In other words,

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Table 4. Estimates of the Effects of School and City Characteristics.

Model 1 Model 2 Model 3 Model 4 Model 5

College Covariates

Percent Commuter 0.00807*** 0.00458 0.00383 0.00414 0.00234(0.0023) (0.0028) (0.0023) (0.0029) (0.0028)

Percent Minority 0.00738 0.00868*** 0.0105*** 0.00644 0.0109(0.0052) (0.0026) (0.0025) (0.0056) (0.0059)

Gourman Rank 0.00395*** 0.00361*** 0.00292*** 0.00353*** 0.00284***(0.00080) (0.00077) (0.00074) (0.00077) (0.00075)

Religious (Dummy) �0.994*** �1.08*** �1.05*** �1.08*** �1.09***(0.21) (0.20) (0.21) (0.20) (0.21)

Private, Non-religious �0.462** �0.508** �0.554*** �0.509** �0.573***(Dummy) (0.16) (0.17) (0.17) (0.17) (0.17)Public (omitted)

City Covariates

Ln Non-White Population 0.0712 �0.0699 �0.0270(0.15) (0.16) (0.16)

Ln No. of Blacks Unemployed 0.0707* 0.0706* 0.0369(0.32) (0.32) (0.34)

Percent Foreign Born 0.046** 0.0413*(0.18) (0.20)

Model � 2 (df) 61.6(6)*** 73.9(6)*** 81.9(6)*** 74.8(7)*** 93.4(8)***

* p < 0.05, ** p < 0.01, *** p < 0.001 (two-tailed tests). Robust SEs in parentheses.

recent immigration has not only a direct effect on violence rates, but also anindirect effect via Black unemployment (see Fig. 1).

DISCUSSION

Contrary to the assumptions made by earlier analyses of civil disorder, ouranalysis suggests that campus racial disorder was not a completely distinctphenomenon from urban racial disorders during the 1960s. Earlier analystsstudying structural and economic contributions to civil disorder believed theycould ignore campus events because it seemed unlikely that students on campuswould be responding to conditions in the community around them. Campusdisorder was seen as a completely different kind of phenomenon – one thatwas focused on institutional problems as opposed to community conditions. Ourresults, however, call this conjecture into question. In fact, there are severalpieces of evidence that conditions in the local environment did contribute tocampus disorders.

First of all, we found that the covariates predicting campus disorders haveimportant similarities to those that predicted street disorders. For example, there

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Fig. 1. Model of the Determinants of Campus Racial Disorder.

is the indefatigable finding that the availability of potential participants is oneof the most important predictors of rioting. In prior studies of urban disorder,the demographic presence of Blacks was the single most important predictorof the frequency and severity of collective violence events. This pattern (notsurprisingly) holds up strongly in our data as well.

Second, there are direct effects of city characteristics on the rate of campusdisorder. It is, of course, unlikely that extremely strong ties would exist betweenlocal economic and structural conditions and campus violence because theselinks were not particularly strong even for street violence. But if earlier analystswere correct, we should see weaker ties between local conditions and campusdisorder than has been detected between local conditions and street disorder.In opposition to this perspective, we find substantial links between campuscollective violence and local conditions. When we re-examined competitiontheory arguments, we find that both Black unemployment and the percentforeign-born predict campus events in much the same way that they predictedurban disorders in Myers’ (1997) study. On the other hand, campus disorderdid not behave exactly like urban disorder because it was not as responsive tolocal wages or the overall unemployment rate. These results combined meanthat campus disorders were most responsive to local conditions that were salientto Blacks and less responsive to the general economic conditions that affectedboth Blacks and Whites.

Given the kinds of relationships that exist between campus collective violenceand local conditions, it seems obvious that not all campuses would be equallyresponsive to these conditions. In fact, if on-campus behavior at all reflectslocal conditions and further reflects those conditions that specifically affectBlacks, we would expect that campuses with stronger ties to the localcommunity and to the local Black community should experience the mostdisorder. This is exactly what we demonstrate in the campus portion of ourresults. Campuses with higher minority populations, higher numbers ofcommuters, and higher numbers of in-state students all had higher rates ofdisorder. In essence, there should be a greater reflection of community valuesand actions on these campuses because part of the community has beentransplanted onto the campus. In addition, the collinearity that exists betweencampus and community indicators points out the importance of the indirecteffects of city conditions on campus civil disorder and therefore serves toreinforce our view that continuity in political orientation and action existsbetween local communities and some kinds of college campuses.

At this point, it is difficult to maintain the argument that local conditions forBlacks were irrelevant to campus rioters. Our results, of course, do not refutethe scenario we described earlier in which it was assumed that if Yale students

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rioted, it would not be in response to conditions in the New Haven area; butan across-the-board application of this kind of reasoning to all college anduniversity racial disorder is not valid. We conclude, therefore, that withoutunderstanding the place of the college campus in the 1960s wave of racial civildisorder, the research record is at best incomplete and may even be distorted.

Implications for Past Studies

Our results present new dilemmas for interpreting disorder research of the past.One possibility is that the kind of disorder observed on campuses was not funda-mentally different or distinct from urban civil disorder. If so, the eliminationof these events from prior studies may have produced biased results. Forexample, the effects of variables found to be significant in the present studyand prior studies may have been underestimated in prior studies. For example,Black unemployment was tied to disorder in this study and in Myers (1997),and since campus events were not included in the data Myers used (seeSpilerman, 1970 for a description of the data), the effect of Black unemploymentmay have been underestimated. Other variables that may have achievedsignificance with the increased power of a pooled sample (including bothcampus and urban disorders) may have been discarded along with the theoreticalconstructs they represented.

Concerns are also raised by our failure to find significant effects whereprevious studies have. Consider, for example, our failure to find a regionaleffect. Prior studies have consistently noted that racial disturbances during the1960s occurred at a lower rate and with less intensity in the south than elsewherein the country (e.g. Spilerman, 1970, 1971, 1976; Carter, 1983, 1986; Myers,1998, 2000). Because we failed to find this effect among campus events, it maybe that this effect has been over-stated in past studies. Even if the south effectis robust after incorporating campus events into the general analysis of racialrioting, the difference between southern campuses and southern urban areas hassubstantive implications about the source of regional differences in disturbancerates and implications for theory about protest.

One traditional explanation for lower rates of collective violence in the southhas been that the culture of race relations in the south repressed rioting throughthreat of ruthless reprisal (Spilerman, 1970). If this repressive dynamic were oper-ating, it does not appear from our results that it had any affect on college students.Some might argue that because college students are insulated from the local com-munity that these repressive threats had less impact. Our study contradicts thisview because if campus insulation were operating, those campuses that were most

insulated would be the most likely to experience disorders. We found just the

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opposite: Campuses with the strongest ties to the community – and to the Blackcommunity – were the most likely to experience disorders.

A second popular explanation for lower disorder rates in the south has beenthat non-violent civil rights protest exhausted protest energy that otherwisewould have been spent on rioting. Again, the differences between campusesand urban environments in terms of the south effect contradict this notion. Ifcivil rights activism depressed violent protest, it certainly would depress disordermore on campuses than in urban environments – the extremely high levels ofcivil rights activism on campuses and among college students are welldocumented – but, just the opposite pattern is observed in our data. Thefunctioning of regional repression in the violence wave and the relationshipbetween non-violent and violent protest must be re-thought in light of thepatterns documented here.

As important as all these concerns are for racial disorders that occurred oncampuses, they are even more critical when we consider disorder that occurredin secondary schools. In prior studies of civil disorder, “school” events thatwere eliminated were not only those that occurred on college campuses, butalso those on high school and junior high school grounds. In virtually all cases,local communities are much more tightly tied to secondary schools than theyare to colleges. As a result, we would expect to find even greater connectionsbetween secondary school racial disruption and the conditions in the localcommunity. All of our previous concerns about underestimating predictor effectsapply doubly so in the case of school events.20

Future Analyses

While these findings shed more light on events during the riot era, they also identify a number of unresolved issues where additional investigation isnecessary. First, there is the effect of the size of the commuter student population.While the effect of a larger commuting population is substantial, the mechanismdriving this effect is not completely clear. Having more commuter students indicates a stronger link between campus and the local community, but commuterstudents also tend to be on campus mainly during the day and when classes arein session. As a result, they may often not be present in evening and night-timehours when most riotous violence occurs. Therefore, we do not know at this pointif commuter students directly increase disorder by participating in disorders oncampus or if the effect comes indirectly, perhaps from commuter studentsincreasing other students’ consciousness about local race relations, economicconditions, rioting, and rhetoric surrounding local collective violence – therebyproducing empathic, rather than grievance-driven, protest.

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Second, the effect of institutional prestige (as measured by the Gourmanrank), which strongly increases the rate of disorder, is not completelystraightforward. According to the community ties argument, we would expectstudents at highly prestigious universities to have low levels of ties with thelocal population and therefore to have low levels of disorder. The reasons wewould expect this, though, have to do with students being from out-of-state,being non-minority students, or having other differences derived from theschool’s status as private, religion-affiliated, or wealthy. Because all thesevariables are controlled in the analysis we must decide exactly what theGourman ranking indicates beyond these factors.

If rating systems like Gourman’s have any validity, they should in some waytap the quality of education received by students at the school. Obviously, ratingsystems conflate many other issues such as the social and economic backgroundsof students, the relative wealth of the schools and so forth, but when thesevariables are controlled, the effect of the Gourman ranking should come closerto reflecting differences in education or at least the prestige the education carries.Perhaps then, the effects of Gourman ranking in this study reflect the dynamicreported in many studies of riot participants; that they, on average, tend to bebetter educated than those who did not participate (Tomlinson, 1968; Feagin &Hahn, 1973; National Advisory Commission, 1968).

Aside from collective violence, other analysts have documented that institu-tional prestige in colleges and universities predicts levels of protest (e.g. Soule,1997; Lipset, 1971; Orbell, 1971). Perhaps because highly prestigious schoolstend to attract students both with high levels of intellectual orientation, sensesof self as activist, and high senses of political self-efficacy (Rotter, 1954; Gore& Rotter, 1963; Mirels, 1970; Paulson, 1991), they are more likely to be activistsnot only in non-violent protest, but also in rioting and other types of civildisorder. The question remains open at present and is a target for future study.

Finally, beyond the relationship of campus disorders and community structuralconditions, it is quite likely that campus disorders are related to disorders innearby communities via a diffusion process. In other words, campus and urbandisorders may each have spread violence to the other – as information abouturban disorders spread to a college campus, that campus disorders may have beenexacerbated. Likewise, well-publicized campus disturbance (that were racial incharacter) likely added further fuel to the fire that was burning in the Blackghettos. Recent advances in diffusion analysis would allow examination ofcampus-to-campus contagion, campus-to-city contagion, and city-to-campuscontagion. Such analyses would considerably bolster our understanding of intra-wave dynamics in the riot cycle and may help us to understand the trajectoryof other student protest movements in the 1960s and 1970s. Clearly there is more

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work to do before we can understand more completely how campus racial dis-orders fit into the larger puzzle of racial civil disorder during the 1960s.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This research was supported by grant SBR 96-01409 from the National ScienceFoundation, and by the Institute for Scholarship in the Liberal Arts and theFrancis M. Kobayashi Research Travel Program, both at the University of NotreDame. We thank Michael Davern and Victoria Myers for assistance with datacollection, Gregg Carter for providing his riot data, Robin Gratz, A. FerneBaldwin, Charles Lamb, and Peter Lysy for assistance accessing the archivesof the Lemberg Center, and Alexandra Corning for comments on earlier drafts.

NOTES

1. We are not, of course, referring to earlier notions of contagion within crowdssuch as that forwarded by LeBon (1895). These older notions have been thoroughlydebunked and have not occupied a place in serious theorizing about diffusion of collectiveaction for many years (see McPhail, 1991 for a thorough review).

2. Of course, we would prefer to have a more direct indicator such as the numberof commuting Black students at each college, but this level of detail is simply notavailable for most colleges.

3. But also because the level of control exerted over the students and their daily livesis much greater in private and religious colleges than in public colleges. Direct data of thesocio-economic backgrounds of students at each college is not available. However, the institutional characteristics we include (private vs. public, institutional prestige, and minor-ity composition) also serve to provide substantial control for socioeconomic background.

4. Secondary schools have received slightly more attention than colleges, but this literature is also underdeveloped. See Lieske (1978b) and Ritterband and Silberstein (1973)for key exemplars.

5. Because our analysis focuses on the peak years of the disorders, our results are notnecessarily representative of periods in which action was relatively sparse.

6. Although civil disorders are often characterized by a substantial amount ofheterogeneity among participants and their activities, the overwhelming majority of eventsduring this period consisted of African American confrontations with White authorities.This character of the disorders did not, of course, prevent participation in riots by Whitesor other racial groups, or in repression attempts by Black police officers or universityadministrators.

7. This procedure creates a disproportionate sample in which riot cities are relativelyover-represented compared to non-riot cites. Introducing sample weights into the analysisto correct for the sampling imbalance produces results substantively equivalent to thosepresented herein.

8. Several cities were home to more than one college which is why the total N differsfor college and city characteristics in Table 1.

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9. It is also possible to apply parametric survival time models to this data although thenecessary assumption regarding the shape of the baseline hazard seem highly questionablefor the present case. Nevertheless, we computed several parametric models and did not findsubstantial differences from the Cox models reported herein.

10. It is also possible to construct the analytic task as event count models underPoisson regression (or perhaps more appropriately for the present case, negative binomialregression). We analyzed our data in both of these ways and there were no substantialdifferences in the results except a loss of statistical power resulting from the inabilityto use procedures that produce robust standard errors.

11. This focus on historically Black colleges suggests another hypothesis in whichthese colleges would experience disorders earlier and more frequently. We tested thispossibility by including a dummy indicator in our analyses, but the coefficients neverapproached significance unless controls for percent minority were removed from themodels.

12. Another problem related to unobserved heterogeneity that often causes difficultiesin survival analysis comes in the form of false duration dependence. This problem resultsfrom a change in the set of actors at risk due to some unobserved factor. In other words,the more frail actors are experiencing failures earlier and are no longer at risk. If wehave not included the factor that produces this frailty in our model, spurious timedependence will be introduced. In the present case, however, our treatment of repeatedevents eliminates this problem. The appearance this problem requires that actors exitthe population at risk. In our arrangement of risk spells, units (schools) become at riskfor another event immediately after the first one breaks out. This means that the sampleof schools at risk cannot differ over time because of some unobserved stratum andbecause the sample of schools at risk does not differ over time in any respect.

13. We also tested for dependence among repeat cases by taking all schools thatexperienced at least one event and regressing the duration from the first to the secondevent on the duration to the first event. The results revealed that the duration variablewas insignificant in all cases indicating little dependence between subsequent waitingtimes.

14. The percent minority might also be considered an indicator of community ties.In this case, it is not necessarily the local community that is at issue, but rather theBlack community – whether it be local or national. If there are strong ties to the Blackcommunity via a strong minority student presence, then race-related social issues willbe more present in student politics. It is not possible in this analysis, however, todisentangle this kind of community ties effect from the simple demographic dynamic(the more Black students there are at a college, the more likely is Black student disorder).Therefore, we choose to view the minority presence as mainly a control variable andnote this alternative interpretation as an agenda item for future research.

15. The decrease in the hazard rate is calculated by taking exp[b] where b is the coef-ficient calculated by the partial-likelihood estimation. For example, if the religiousdummy produced a coefficient of �0.729, raising e to this power yields 0.482, meaningthe hazard is multiplied by 0.482 or decreased by about 52%.

16. We also operationalized the prestige variable by creating a dummy code for theIvy League schools and a dummy code for “elite schools” (the Ivy League plus Stanford).Neither produced significant effects when entered with the Gourman Rank.

17. The Gourman rank is also important in the findings regarding the percent minority.At very high Gourman ranks, there is no effect of the percent minority on the disorder

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rates. We attribute this result to the relatively low numbers of Black students at schoolswith high prestige rankings and the relatively low variability of percent minority at theseschools. In the lowest quartile of Gourman rank, the mean percent minority was 41.7and the standard deviation was 36.5. In the highest Gourman quartile, the mean percentminority was 12.8 with a standard deviation of 7.9.

18. Under the robust estimation procedure we use (Lin & Wei, 1989), a traditionallikelihood ratio test is inappropriate because observations are not independent. Instead,for the Model chi-square we compute a Wald statistic comparing the current model withthe null model where are coefficients are constrained to be zero (Judge et al., 1985).

19. Although the actual Black population size is available for the time period of thisstudy, we use the non-White population simply to maintain comparability with priorstudies. The correlation between Black population and Non-white population is 0.998for the set of cities used herein. The logged variant is used to reduce skew and becausethe logged version has been shown to produce much better fit in prior research.

20. Preliminary data collection efforts indicate that secondary school racial disordersoccurred at approximately twice the rate of the college disorders meaning that theomission of the secondary schools may be even greater cause for concern.

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APPENDIX A. Correlations of College and City Level Covariates.

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10)College Level Covariates

(1) Percent In-state ---(2) Percent Commuter 0.566 ---(3) Percent Minority 0.037 0.108 ---(4) Gourman Rank �0.451 �0.360 �0.338 ---(5) Private College �0.610 �0.217 0.054 0.109 ---(6) Religious College �0.329 �0.167 0.080 �0.242 0.537 ---(7) Private, non-Religious �0.364 �0.097 �0.026 0.352 0.590 �0.346 ---(8) Endowment �0.448 �0.314 �0.154 0.659 0.281 �0.138 0.449 ---

City Level Covariates

(9) Ln Non-White Poplation 0.100 0.505 0.187 0.017 �0.004 �0.037 0.023 �0.028 ---(10) Ln Black Unemployed 0.102 0.500 0.149 �0.022 0.021 �0.030 0.032 �0.067 0.944 ---(11) Percent Foreign Born �0.047 0.292 �0.238 0.352 0.083 �0.161 0.256 0.285 0.463 0.430

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APPENDIX B. Colleges and Universities in Sample that Experienced Events.

Alcorn A & M Ferris State ReedAllen Fisk RochesterAmerican Fordham RooseveltArizona Harrisburg Area State Rutgers, CamdenAtlanta Harvard Rutgers, New BrunswickBeloit Highland Park Rutgers, NewarkBluefield State Hofstra Saint Louis Boston State Houston San Fernando StateBradley Howard San Francisco State Brandeis Illinois, Chicago San Jose StateBrooklyn llinois, UC South Carolina California State Indiana South GeorgiaCentral Connecticut State Jackson State SouthernCentral Missouri State Kentucky State Southern IllinoisCentral State, OH Knoxville Southwest Missouri StateCentral State, OK Lamar State StanfordCheyney State Lane StillmanChicago City Lincoln SwarthmoreChicago State Long Island Texas SouthernCincinnati Los Angeles City Texas Woman's City College Of New York Michigan State Texas, ArlingtonClaflin Minnesota TrinityClaremont Mississippi Valley State Tuskegee Institute Clark Moorehead State Union TheologicalColgate Mt. San Antonio SeminaryColorado North Carolina WesleyanColumbia North Carolina A & T West VirginiaCornell Northeastern Illinois State WileyCW Post Northern Illinois WilliamsDelaware Oshkosh State Wisconsin, MadisonDepaul Pittsburgh Wisconsin, Whitewater Duke Prairie State XavierEast Carolina State Princeton YaleEastern Michigan Queens

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Colleges and Universities in Sample that did not Experience Events.

Albertus Magnus AlvernoAnnhurstBlackburnBloomfieldBrigham Young CarletonCatawbaCentralCentral Methodist CokerColorado State Columbia Union ConcordiaDrewEastern Kentucky

GordonGramblingHopeJudsonKent State LakelandLe Moyne Mankato State Massachusetts Inst. of

TechnologyMisericordiaMississippiMorehouseNew Mexico NorthwesternPaterson State

Saint Norbert Seattle Pacific Southern California Southern Colorado State Stephen F. Austin State Texas A & M Towson State TrinityUpper Iowa UticaWhittierWilberforceWinthrop

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329

ABOUT THE EDITOR

Patrick G. Coy is an Assistant Professor at the Center for Applied ConflictManagement and the Department of Political Science at Kent State University.He is co-editor of and a contributor to Social Conflicts and Collective Identities,Rowman and Littlefield, 2000, and editor of and contributor to A Revolution of

the Heart: Essays on the Catholic Worker, Temple University Press, 1988,1992. His research on peace movements during the Gulf War has appearedrecently in Sociological Spectrum, on the Catholic Worker movement in Peace

and Change, and on Peace Brigades International in the Journal of

Contemporary Ethnography. He has also recently published two co-authoredarticles in Mediation Quarterly, one on the community mediation movementand the court system, and another on people with disabilities and mediation.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Stephen Adair is an Associate Professor of Sociology at Central ConnecticutState University, where he teaches courses in social movements, social theoryand inequality. He has published several articles on collective actions andprotests, and is currently working on a study of emerging groups and tacticsto challenge information ownership and the new means of capital accumula-tion.

A. E. Gordon Buffonge is Assistant Professor of Political Science in theHatfield School of Government at Portland State University. He received hisPh.D. in 1998 from Princeton University. His research examines social move-ments and democracy.

Alexander J. Buoye is a Ph.D. candidate in the Department of Sociology atthe University of Notre Dame. His research interests include collective violence,social psychology, and the sociology of education. He is currently working asa marketing research project coordinator for Talk City Research Services inWestfield, NJ.

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Paul Chaney a researcher in the Cardiff University School of Social Sciences.He is currently working on an ESRC-funded project entitled ‘Social Capital andthe Participation of Minority Groups in Government’. His research interestsinclude public participation and the policy process, and innovations inGovernance. He has recently co-edited (with Andrew Pithouse and Tom Hall) avolume entitled New Governance: New Democracy? Studies of Post-Devolution

Wales. (University of Wales Press, September 2001, ISBN 0-7083-1678-6).

Rachel L. Einwohner is an assistant professor of sociology at PurdueUniversity. Her research interests center on the study of social movements,particularly movement outcomes. She has published recent articles on this topicin Social Problems and Gender & Society. She is currently collecting data foran analysis of the role of perceptions of efficacy in Jewish resistance duringthe Holocaust.

Ralph Fevre is Professor of Social Research in the Cardiff School of SocialSciences. He has published several articles on questions of nation, nationalismand national identity and is co-editor (with Andrew Thompson) of Nation,

Identity and Social Theory (University of Wales Press, 1999). Between 1999and 2001 he directed research into the ‘inclusive’ politics of the new NationalAssembly for Wales. He has also published extensively in economic sociologyand is the author of The Sociology of Labour Markets (Harvester-Wheatsheaf,1992). His latest book is The Demoralization of Western Culture: Social Theory

and the Dilemmas of Modern Living (Continuum, 2000).

Melinda Goldner is an Assistant Professor of Sociology at Union College inSchenectady, New York. She wrote her dissertation on the complementary andalternative medicine (CAM) movement in the San Francisco, California Bayarea. She has completed other research projects on the CAM movement,including one on whether hospitals in New York and Massachusetts have incor-porated alternative techniques such as acupuncture.

Gregory M. Maney is an Assistant Professor in the Sociology Department atHofstra University. The author’s research focuses primarily upon transnationaldimensions of protest, ethnic conflict and social change. An analysis of theeffects of external intervention upon civil rights contention in Northern Irelandappeared last year in Social Problems. In an article in a recent issue ofMobilization, the author theorizes about transnational structural sources of polit-ical opportunity and protest.

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330 About the Authors

Kristin Marsh is Assistant Professor of Sociology at Mary Washington Collegeand a recent graduate from Emory University. Her dissertation, Compromised

Revolution: A Political Economic Explanation of Negotiation, provides a cross-national comparison of civil war outcomes in the Post-World War II period.

Daniel J. Myers is Assistant Professor of Sociology at the University of NotreDame and Faculty Fellow of the Joan B. Kroc Institute for International PeaceStudies. His recent research includes studies of collective violence, formalmodels of collective action, game theory, the diffusion of social phenomena,and media coverage of protest and violence. He also recently completed a book,The Governance of Metropolitan America, (with Ralph W. Conant) re-assessingurban development and planning in the U.S. over the past 50 years.

Chris Pickvance is Professor of Urban Studies in the School of Social Policy,Sociology and Social Research at the University of Kent, Canterbury. He helped found the International Journal of Urban and Regional Research andco-edits the Blackwell book series Studies in Urban and Social Change. Hisinterests include comparative analysis, urban theory, urban policy and socialmovements. His books include (with M. Harloe and J. Urry) Place, Policy and

Politics: do localities matter? (Unwin Hyman, 1990) and (with E. Preteceille)State restructuring and local power: a comparative perspective (Frances Pinter,1990). He is currently researching into environmental policy implementation inHungary.

Sara Schatz is currently an assistant professor at the University of Florida’sSociology Department and Latin American Center. She received her MA inLatin American Studies from UC Berkerley and her Ph.D in Sociology fromUCLA in 1999. She has published a series of papers on Mexico’s long-termsocial struggle around legal issues, electoral law and citizenship rights in Elites,

Masses and the struggle for Democracy in Mexico: A Culturalist Account

(Westport: CT, Praeger 2000) and in such journals as the International Journal

of Sociology of Law and Studies in Law, Politics and Society.

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About the Authors 331

331

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180 E. BURKE. ROCHFORD, JR.xii PATRICK G. COY


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