Countering Development: Indigenous Modernity and the Moral Imagination

Countering Development I n d i g e n o u s M o d e r n i t y a n d the AA.oral I m a g i n a t i o n

DAVID D. G O W

Duke University Press • Durham and London 2008

© 2008 Duke University Press All rights reserved, 'Printed, in the United States of America 00

on acid-free paper

Designed by Katy Clove Typeset in Carter & Cone Galliard by Keystone Typesetting, Inc. Library of Congress Cataloging-inPublication Data appear on the last printed page of this book.

To the memory of my mother, the incorrigible Betty Gow

Contents

Acknowledgments Abbreviations Introduction: B e y o n d t h e D e v e l o p m e n t a l Gaze 1

96

134

The Nasa o f t h e N o r t h a n d t h e Tensions o f Modernity

6

59

Local K n o w l e d g e , D i f f e r e n t D r e a m s Planning for the Next Generation

5

21

Development Planning Slaves of Modernity or Agents of Change?

4

i

Disaster a n d Diaspora Discourses of Development a n d Opportunity

3

xiii

More Than an Engaged Fieldnote Collaboration, Dialogue, and Difference

2

ix

171

Beyond Development The Continuing Struggle for Peace, Justice, and Inclusion

202

Conclusion: C o u n t e r i n g D e v e l o p m e n t Indigenous Modernity and the M o r a l Imagination

24,0

Notes

261

Bibliography

273

Index

295

Acknowledgments

Many years ago, I decided t o write a b o o k about anthropology and development. I diligently plodded away and sent the first three chapters in draft form t o a potential publisher, w h o responded with t h e rhetori­ cal p u t d o w n , "So w h a t else is new?" Enraged and somewhat insulted, I gave u p o n the b o o k b u t revised the chapters, and each one was finally published elsewhere. Although mollified, I still t h o u g h t I had it in m e t o write a book, so some fifteen years ago, before I became an academic, I decided t o try again. This second attempt was m o r e serious: I spent one year writing, a second year revising, and a third year sending the manu­ script t o potential publishers. T h e reviewers for the first publisher did not, in m y view, understand what I was trying t o do. T h e second set of reviewers was, in m y opinion, t o o conservative and failed t o appreciate the subdeties of my argument. But the third set was devastating and, I had t o agree, right o n the mark. T h e principal lesson I drew from this painful experience was that if I wanted t o write a credible b o o k about anthropology and development, I had better g o and d o some serious, long-term research in the field. This b o o k is the result of that realization. T h e research was conducted primarily during the summers from 1995 t o 2002 in several rural communities in Cauca, Colombia, as well as the city of Popayan, the provincial capital, and included a six-month stint in the field in 2000. I n the initial years, the research was supported by grants from the Instituto Colombiano de Antropologia e Historia ( I C A N H )

and Colciencias, the Colombian scientific research agency,

first for an assessment of the Nasa of Tierradentro displaced and reset­ tled after a devastating earthquake in 1994, and then for a team project o n new social movements. For their support and the opportunity t o participate, I thank Maria Victoria Uribe, then director of Claudia Steiner, then director of social anthropology at

I C A N H ;

I C A N H ;

and

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Maria Lucia Sotomayor, coordinator of the research team for the latter project. In 1999, together with Myriam A m p a r o Espinosa, Adom'as Perdomo, Susana Pinacue, and Joanne Rappaport, I was awarded an International Collaborative Grant from the Wenner-Gren Foundation for Anthropological Research. O u r regular meetings and discussions of each other's work provided a stimulating opportunity for addressing many of the issues discussed here. T h e grant was renewed in 2001 with the participation of Tulio Rojas Curieux in place of Myriam A m p a r o Espinosa, w h o was involved in other projects. I n summer 2002 I re­ ceived a University Facilitating F u n d Award from George Washington University, for which I am grateful. Over the years, many people in Cauca have shared with m e their views and perspectives o n the processes under way there. They often shared their food with m e as well. First and foremost are the m e m ­ bers of the communities that form the foundation of this study: in San Jose and Cxayu'ce, D o n Lisando C a m p o and his family, particularly his son, Jose Manuel; D o n Mario Musse and his family, particularly his daughter and comadre Lucia and his son Rogelio, O m a r Pacho, Luis Abelmar M u m u c u e , and Juan Abel M u m u c u e ; in Toez Caloto, compadres Felipe Morales and his wife, Mercedes Belalcazar, D o n Jorge Inseca, D o n Victoriano Cruz, Abelardo Huetia, Severo Atila, and Vi­ cente Pinzon; and in Juan Tama, D o n Angel Yoino, D o n Julio Niquinas, Luz Mery Niquinas, Fernando Huetia, and Celio Vivas. I n Juan Tama, Susana Pinacue opened my eyes t o the role of indigenous education as a political project. Equally important have been the members of the Sun and Land Foun­ dation (Fundacion Sol y Tierra; F S T ) established by the Quintines, the demobilized members of the Quintin Lame Armed Movement. I par­ ticularly thank Alfonso Pena Chepe, D u m a r Ortega, Elber Dagua, Luis Carlos Chala, William " M o n c h o " M o n r o y (tragically assassinated in fall 2 0 0 5 ) , Walter Quinones, Gerardo Delgado, Clara Ines Erazo, and Albeiro Dagua. T h e Quintines were the first t o take m e to Tierradentro and the first t o introduce me t o the challenges and complexities of development planning at the community level. They were also active in the creation of La Maria, a place of peace, which opened m y eyes t o the importance of social mobilization and the need t o challenge the state. I also w o u l d like t o thank t h e t w o reviewers w h o read the original manuscript. Les Fields's comments, criticisms, and recommendations

Acknowledgments

helped m e clarify t h e argument and reduce t h e excess verbiage. T h e librarians of t h e Bender Library of American University, just a few blocks from m y house, were always very helpful and supportive. There are, however, four individuals I w o u l d like t o single o u t with­ o u t whose friendship a n d s u p p o r t this study w o u l d have been impos­ sible. T h e first is m y wife, Joanne Rappaport, w h o first introduced m e to Cauca, g o t m e involved in doing research there, and encouraged m e t o write this book. She has been m y staunchest supporter and m o s t demanding critic during t h e whole process. She m a d e this b o o k pos­ sible. T h e second is H e n r y Caballero, w h o m I first m e t while he was still imprisoned. I n t h e various positions h e has held over t h e past decade, as director of F S T , as secretary in t h e provincial government, and most recently as t h e coordinator of a peace-building program in t h e region, he has always taken t h e time t o talk with m e and share his wide-ranging knowledge and insights a b o u t development and politics in Cauca. T h e third is Lucho Escobar, t h e first director of F S T , and someone w h o for many years worked closely with t h e Regional Indigenous Council of Cauca and t h e indigenous m o v e m e n t in various capacities. A m a n of independent m i n d , he has always taken great pleasure, leavened with a healthy dose of h u m o r , in deflating some of m y m o r e outrageous ideas and setting m e straight regarding t h e realities of t h e personalities and organizations that make Popayan w h a t it is. T h e final person I thank is Vince Peloso, a historian and fellow researcher, whose friendship goes back some thirty years. H i s support over t h e years in this endeavor was m u c h appreciated and his tenacity, determination, and persistence in publishing his o w n w o r k served as a stirring example.

Abbreviations

ACiN

Association of Indigenous Cabildos of N o r t h e r n Cauca

A I C O

Indigenous Authorities of Colombia

Also

Indigenous Authorities of the Southwest

ASi

Indigenous Social Alliance

CCF

Christian Children's F u n d

C E C I D I C

Center for Education, Training, and Research for the Integrated Development of Communities

CET

Ethnoeducational Center of Toez Caloto

C I M A

Committee for the Integration of the Colombian

CNK

Nasa Kiwe Corporation

C R I C

Regional Indigenous Council of Cauca

C R I H

Regional Indigenous Council of Huila

ELN

National Liberation Army

F A R C

Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia

Massif

JF S T

Sun and Land Foundation

M A Q L

Q u i n t i n Lame Armed M o v e m e n t

M-19

April 19th M o v e m e n t

NGO

nongovernmental organization

NPA

N e w People's Army

O N I C

National Indigenous Organization of Colombia

PAR

participatory action research

P E B

Bilingual Education Program (part of

RLS

Reverse Language Shift

C R I C

)

As is well known, Kant posed three questions as being central to our human condition in general and to the Enlightenment pro] ect in particular: what can we know, what can we do and what can we hope for?-vmuv A N D DAVID M O S S E ,

QUARLES V A N U F F O R D , A N A N T A K U M A R GIRI,

"Interventions in Development: Towards a New

Moral Understanding of Our Experiences and an Agenda for the Future"

This desire for things modern does not, however, necessarily make them [Third World people] docile, detribalized and depoliticized consumers of everything manufactured in the West. Neither does this imply the inevitability of processes of cultural homogenization driven by Western discourses of development, consumer capi­ talism and cultural imperialism.-STEVEN

ROBINS,

"Whose Moder­

nity? Indigenous Modernities and Land Claims after Apartheid''

Introduction: B e y o n d t h e D e v e l o p m e n t a l Gaze

Other W a y s of Doing Development

In this book, 1 refocus the ethnography of development t h r o u g h a critical assessment of the development practices of local people in C o ­ lombia. I examine h o w three indigenous communities, established after a devastating earthquake in 1994, wrestled with conflicting visions of de­ velopment. These communities are located in the southwestern prov­ ince of Cauca, famous for its history of indigenous mobilization as well as its resistance t o t h e violence spearheaded by state security forces, paramilitary organizations, and the guerrilla movement. Relocated from the more isolated, m o u n t a i n o u s part of the province, the communities were founded in lower lying lands, closer t o highways, t o w n s , markets, and schools. These n e w communities offered t h e possibility of research-

INTRODUCTION

ing over time changing indigenous attitudes toward the future and their place in the Colombian nation. W h a t I examine is h o w development was redefined in indigenous Cauca, moving beyond a myopic obsession with alleviating poverty t o p r o m o t i n g a process that w o u l d produce culturally different citizens — protagonists in a multicultural nation. Such a refocusing of development, really a form of counterdevelopment, has involved a redeployment of planning for education and the creation of an arena for thinking t h r o u g h h o w cultural difference can provide an indispensable hinge for constructing a new indigenous but critical modernity. This means forging a culturally informed

mundus

imaginalis moralis—a. moral imaginary—that reinforces and strength­ ens an indigenous presence in the region b u t also engages the moral promises of the Enlightenment, complementing the discourse of hu­ m a n rights with that of economic, social, and cultural rights. Contemporary rural Colombia offers unique possibilities for the study of processes of local development. T h e previous t w o decades have witnessed an effervescence of indigenous activism and identity con­ struction, culminating in the 1991 Constitution, in whose writing three indigenous delegates participated. This enabling legislation recognized the multiethnic character of the Colombian nation and codified the administrative forms by which native peoples would henceforth par­ ticipate in civil society as ethnic citizens. As a result, being indigenous in Colombia has certain distinct benefits, including the right t o com­ munal land tenure t h r o u g h the reservation system, self-government t h r o u g h locally elected councils, and official recognition of indigenous languages. T h e 1 9 9 1 Constitution granted indigenous people exemp­ tion from taxation and military service as well as the possibility of o b ­ taining scholarships for university education. I t also granted indigenous authorities control over development and education. T h o u g h many of these rights came o u t of earlier legislation, they were unified in the new constitution. This process has opened n e w possibilities for indigenous agency in Colombia. I n this project, I study indigenous counterdevelopment b y compar­ ing the three communities in terms of their planning discourses and practices. There is n o single indigenous approach t o development and modernity, n o t even in the relatively small province of Cauca. H o w does each community define and employ the concept of culture? H o w d o they engage a concern with culture in the economic and political recon-

Beyond the Developmental Gaze

sanction of their communities? To what extent can they refocus t h e existing development discourses at their disposal, so that they enhance, rather than constrain, their priorities? H o w can they engage cultural difference w i t h o u t being separatists? This resistance t o t h e state is n o t in opposition t o it; rather it is the demand t o b e recognized as indigenous a n d t o b e treated as citizens, to become a vital part of t h e nation. I t is m o r e than just a d e m a n d tor redistribution, for a greater share of t h e country's resources that are rightfully theirs, as poor, marginalized, disadvantaged citizens— although clearly, as displaced people, they have a right t o make such demands. Their quest for justice is a d e m a n d that t h e state b e m o r e inclusive, m o r e democratic, encouraging a m o r e active participation of indigenous people as citizens w h o can transform Colombia, echoing the demands of other marginal sectors (Ramirez 2 0 0 1 a ) .

The Anthropological Critique of Development

Not for n o t h i n g has t h e academic writing o n development, particularly that produced b y anthropologists, been called a literature of despon­ dency. T h e rich get richer, t h e p o o r get poorer, and t h e resulting fail­ ures continue t o b e blamed o n t h e usual culprits: benign neglect o n t h e part of those in power, inappropriate policies a n d weak institutions, lack of resources, widespread corruption, and g r o w i n g cynicism and rank opportunism o n t h e part of those supposed t o benefit. While t h e rhetoric of civil society with its mantra of empowerment, participation, and democracy has been presented as a means of providing ordinary citizens the wherewithal t o make their voices and opinions heard, t h e literature of despondency has responded by saying that this is just an­ other way of controlling, of co-opting, of integrating t h e p o o r and t h e marginal into t h e project of modernity, of mass consumption a n d mar­ ket forces (Cooke and Korhari 2 0 0 1 ) . Only rarely, however, d o experts in development listen carefully t o w h a t those o n t h e g r o u n d actually say about t h e processes they are experiencing, whether initiated by them­ selves, external forces, or, m o r e often, some combination of t h e two. What they d o say m a y confound, confuse, and question t h e insights of the experts. There has been t o o little critical attention paid t o t h e nature of development at t h e grass roots, beyond celebrating its alternative nature.

INTRODUCTION

While anthropological critiques of development, such as those by Arturo Escobar (1995a) and James Ferguson ( 1 9 9 4 ) , may argue that development as we currently know it is imposed and does n o t work, at least for the p o o r and the marginal, this does n o t mean that people d o n o t want development. Quite the contrary, as Jonathan Crush ( 1 9 9 5 ) and others have cogendy argued, development has lost neither its ap­ peal n o r its popularity; development is happening, whether w e like it or not. While those w h o purvey development—be they international in­ stitutions, state agencies, or nongovernmental organizations

( N G O S )

—

may be viewed with increasing skepticism and suspicion, there are other ways of "doing development." These "other ways" are w h a t I wish t o explore here. There are several reasons w h y I think this approach is b o t h important and relevant. First, critiques and discussions of development often leave o u t or choose t o ignore its relationship t o modernity and the broader political, social, and cultural context in which development occurs. M o ­ dernity is n o t t o be confused with modernization, a rather simplistic, mechanical process of shedding the old and embracing the new, stan­ dardized according t o terms, conditions, and criteria mandated by those in power. Modernity fosters b o t h convergence and divergence, the in­ tellectual inheritance of Max Weber o n the one hand and Baudelaire o n the other. F r o m the former comes the belief in societal modernization and from the latter the belief in cultural modernity (Gaonkar 1 9 9 9 ) . For Weber, the price paid for significant improvements in the material con­ ditions of life must be weighed against the feelings of b o r e d o m , despair, and alienation associated with order, rationality, and routine. In con­ trast, Baudelaire focused o n the aestheticization of m o d e r n culture and the cultivation and care of the self. For him, "imagination was an ally, and reason was an obstacle" ( 3 ) . From this perspective, modernity is perhaps best understood as a m e t h o d of questioning the present. But it can also be viewed as a way of creating the present. Just as there are various models of development, so are there various models of modernity—in other words, alternative modernities which have increasingly become m o r e indigenized and more critical (Sahlins 1 9 9 9 ) . By studying these processes and listening carefully t o the indige­ nous voices involved, one can better understand the hopes, fears, and dreams of those affected. "To be m o d e r n is t o find ourselves in an envi­ r o n m e n t that promises us adventure, power, joy, growth, transforma-

Beyond the Developmental Gaze

riun of ourselves and the w o r l d — a n d , at t h e same time, t h a t threatens tn destroy everything w e know, everything w e are" (Berman 1 9 8 3 , 1 5 ) . My second reason for exploring alternative development strategies is ro draw attention t o processes u n d e r way that may run counter t o accepted definitions of development. While they may appear counter­ intuitive to conventional thinking, they m a y signify a radically differ­ ent way of thinking a b o u t development that embodies concepts and practices that reinforce and strengthen o u r c o m m o n , shared humanity (Heyman 2 0 0 3 ) . By countering development and proposing and prac­ ticing viable alternatives, a form of critical modernity, these processes may hold o u t h o p e for something better for those presendy margin­ alized, ignored, o r excluded (Peet with Hartwick 1 9 9 9 ) . Third, missing from m u c h of t h e discussion and critique of develop­ ment is any acknowledgment of o r interest in t h e ethical o r moral dimen­ sion of development: W h a t is right and w h a t is wrong? W h a t is g o o d and what is bad? Yet underlying development, o r at least t h e discourses of development, are some implicit assumptions and principles a b o u t w h a t constitutes a g o o d society, however w e may care t o define it. By care­ fully avoiding such definitional and philosophical challenges, w e conveniendy legitimize and, t o a certain extent, standardize a m o r e technical, more managerial, apolitical approach t o development. Nevertheless, the evidence w o u l d indicate that t h e " g o o d society" p r o p o u n d e d by the "developers" may differ radically from that desired by those " t o be developed," w h o , if left t o their o w n devices with t h e opportunity and capability t o sift a n d w i n n o w and carefully select, may propose some tbrm of society in which t h e moral imagination is accorded its due. A fourth reason t o justify this approach is t h e opportunity t o study development discourse. Until recently, this has entailed close attention to and analysis of t h e documentation, presentation, and representation of the mainstream international development organizations. But vari­ eties of development discourse are produced by all organizations work­ ing in development, be they public o r private, multilateral o r bilateral, international, national, regional, local, indigenous, or whatever. H e n c e , it would be m o r e accurate t o talk about development discourses (Grillo (997) and seriously diink a b o u t "studying d o w n " and analyzing m o r e localized discourses w h e r e t h e potential may be greater for m o r e cre­ ative, innovative, and moral approaches t o t h e future. T h e study of local-level plans, a recent innovation o n t h e development landscape of

INTRODUCTION

Colombia, offers a promising focus of research, since planning is often regarded as the primal act in development—perhaps m o r e important than development itself. These discourses should be considered within t h e broader context of contemporary critiques of development itself, specifically t h e enduring persistence of poverty and the postdevelopmental premise that attain­ ing a middle-class lifestyle for t h e majority of the world's population may be impossible ( N u s t a d 2 0 0 1 ) . This premise, of course, assumes that this is w h a t the majority w o u l d like, if n o t for themselves, at least for their children. To deal with these critiques, Nustad cites t h e critical need t o study manifestations of development o n t h e g r o u n d in concrete encounters, just as I propose t o d o here. I n a similarly critical, b u t m o r e creative vein, Arjun Appadurai ( 1 9 9 6 ) has argued that the flow of infor­ mation generated by globalization has vastly increased people's poten­ tial t o dream and imagine other worlds and other ways of living. C o m ­ plementing Nustad, he proposes a serious c o m m i t m e n t t o t h e study of globalization from below and a recognition that the

wordjjlobalization,

as well as words like freedom, choice, and justice, are n o t inevitably the property of those in positions of political and economic power (Appa­ durai 2000). Both authors, b u t particularly Appadurai, accept that de­ velopment can b e indigenous in the sense that m u c h of the motivation and creativity m a y originate locally. A final reason for studying other ways of doing development is that t h e researcher cannot ignore ( o r deny) the political and moral implica­ tions of his o r her work, a process that should make for a m o r e engaged and provocative anthropology. I n Colombia in particular, and, I sus­ pect, in Latin America in general, anthropological researchers, national o r international, are regarded with increasing suspicion and distrust. They are viewed by those studied as avaricious extractors of information w h o will fully exploit w h a t they have gathered for their o w n benefit, offering little or n o t h i n g in return. Some ethnic groups in Colombia, for example, t h e G u a m b i a n o of Cauca, routinely refuse t o cooperate with outside researchers, partly because they d o n o t trust t h e m b u t also because they prefer t o d o t h e research o n their o w n . With other groups, such as the Nasa ( w h o are t h e focus of this s t u d y ) , research requires reciprocity: external researchers are expected and required t o contribute t h r o u g h some mutually acceptable form of collaboration. M y case was n o exception, a situation I describe in some detail in chapter 1 .

Beyond the Developmental Gaze

Such collaboration with t h e poor, minorities, or the marginalized also has a political dimension that is ambivalent, rather than straightforward, shades of gray rather than black and white. D o w e collaborate only with those w h o m w e like, respect, and admire professionally and personally? What about those of w h o m w e strongly disapprove b u t w h o may be important and active participants in t h e processes being studied, such as certain politicians, bureaucrats, businesspeople, soldiers, police officers, guerrillas, paramilitaries, and c o m m o n criminals? W h a t are the implica­ tions of "taking sides," consciously o r unconsciously, for t h e types of research we choose t o undertake and t h e substance of the books and articles w e publish? A l t h o u g h there is a certain degree of overlap here between the political and t h e moral, there is also a personal element. Those of us from t h e N o r t h w h o choose t o study t h e issues of develop­ ment in the S o u t h are part of t h e problem. Some will argue that the problems of development, like t h e p o o r themselves, will b e with us always, and others will argue that t h e nature and intensity of these problems will only change w h e n w e ourselves, individually, collectively, and institutionally, take t h e initiative t o become m o r e accountable and more responsible. For the past decade I have been listening t o w h a t the Nasa have t o say about development, about t h e changes that have occurred in their lives as a result of political violence, government repression, a d r u g economy, and forced relocation. But t h e Nasa would be interesting even if all these calamitous events had n o t befallen t h e m . T h e y are t h e largest ethnic group in o n e of t h e m o s t ethnic provinces of Colombia. Historically famous as warriors, they have m o r e recently been engaged in t h e strug­ gle for indigenous rights and resistance against the violence of the state and the various armed groups operating in Cauca. Active participants in the indigenous movement, they have spearheaded various initiatives designed to persuade t h e national government t o change its policies and practices towards t h e poor, t h e disadvantaged, and the marginalized. The 1994 earthquake ruined their lands, and communities were resetded o n new lands. T h e lives of t h e leaders and elders, at least, show few traces of despondency. I n o n e n e w community, Toez Caloto, D o n Jorge has been responsible for building a Nasa school, where the children, as well as those from neighboring communities, can receive an education. Much respected for his efforts, D o n Jorge, an evangelical Protestant, lives in one of t h e better houses, employs several of his neighbors to

INTRODUCTION

work his lands, and sends his daughter t o university. Together with some other m o r e entrepreneurial families, h e has taken full advantage of the opportunities offered by resettlement. But many families have chosen n o t t o d o so. Their communal identity as Nasa is also in flux. I n another n e w community, Cxayu'ce, three of the elders (the older, m o r e respected members) moved with their people. D o n Lisandro, the leader in charge at the time of the relocation and the most political of the three elders, has only one regret about his n e w life: he can n o longer g r o w o p i u m poppies. Although h e used community funds t o establish a disastrous bus service, his reputation has n o t suffered. H e has four children, one of w h o m became a nurse and three of w h o m are teachers, a pattern that his grandchildren are following. T h e second, D o n Ruben, a farmer well respected for agricultural skills, is married t o a school­ teacher and has a large family in which the older children, n o w adult w o m e n , while p r o u d of being indigenous, d o n o t identify with an in­ digenous way of life and have chosen t o marry mestizos. T h e third elder, D o n Mario, a small farmer w h o is also r u m o r e d t o be a shaman with malevolent powers, has four children, three living in the community; one daughter is a schoolteacher, a second daughter is married t o a mestizo and helps h i m in the fields, and the third, a son, is a small farmer; the fourth, also a son, a teacher in another province, is an aspiring shaman and a strong p r o p o n e n t of indigenous culture. All three families have flourished in economic terms while mamtaining a strong indigenous identity. I n the final n e w community examined, Juan Tama, t w o of the local leaders w h o have been very active over the years have few material goods t o show for their efforts. For D o n Julio, life is a burden that grows n o lighter; life before the relocation was better than what h e and his family are presendy living. While he does n o t regret the move, he finds life increasingly demanding as h e strives t o feed his large y o u n g family. I n contrast, D o n Angel, a well-respected shaman and supporter of indigenous culture, views the present as m u c h better than the past: " H e r e we are in glory!" For him, the move t o Juan Tama has opened u p cultural and political opportunities that simply did n o t exist before in the field of indigenous education and cultural creativity. I n mate­ rial terms, however, he is just as poorly off as D o n Julio. Yet b o t h in their o w n ways have helped establish Juan Tama as the m o s t dy­ namically Nasa of the three resettled communities. I offer these t h u m b -

Beyond the Developmental Gaze

nail sketches of local leaders and elders t o make an important point: while development is happening at t h e local level, it takes various eco­ nomic, cultural, and political forms which can only be u n d e r s t o o d in the broader historical context of w h a t it means t o be indigenous in Cauca.

Being Indigenous in Cauca

The province of Cauca is famed for its geographical diversity, ranging from the tropics of t h e Pacific coast t o the temperate climes of t h e Andes to the lowlands of the A m a z o n Basin. This diversity has facilitated nei­ ther development n o r social change. Contemporary intellectuals be­ moan Cauca's notoriety as a place of backwardness and poverty, ignored by contemporary discourses of development a n d controlled by regional elites w h o , on t h e whole, are t o o aristocratic and t o o feudal t o allow the emergence of a dynamic middle class (Barona and Gnecco 2 0 0 1 ) . Large landowners are faulted for their lack of interest in producing for the market, and likewise t h e small producers, be they peasant, indigenous, or Afro-Colombian, for their lack of productivity. But this superficial gaze at contemporary Cauca tends t o ignore various processes under way. particularly a g r o w i n g interest and awareness of its cultural rich­ ness and diversity, increasing mobilization of large numbers of t h e p o p ­ ulation, and g r o w i n g dissatisfaction with the conventional politics of neoliberalism. T h e mainstay of Cauca's economy is agriculture: capital-intensive plantation agriculture and cattle ranching in t h e warmer, lower-lying north, small-scale coffee and tropical fruit cultivation in t h e valleys, and labor-intensive cereal and potato cultivation in t h e higher altitudes. Land tenure and the process of land consolidation have been major problems since colonial times. F r o m 1 9 7 3 t o 1 9 9 7 , the n u m b e r of farm families with 5 hectares of land o r less increased by 82.6 percent, from 84,331 t o 1 5 4 , 0 1 1 , b u t t h e a m o u n t of land they controlled increased by onlv 26.5 percent, accounting for only 8.7 percent of total farmlands. Over the same period, the n u m b e r of families o w n i n g m o r e than 100 hectares increased by 2 7 percent, from 2 , 1 1 0 t o 2,678, and the a m o u n t of land they controlled g r e w by 7 8 . 5 percent, accounting for 5 4 . 2 per­ cent of the total. Within this g r o u p , 1 5 7 families, less than one hun­ dredth of total farm households, o w n 3 6 . 7 percent of farmlands (Paz 2001,207-8).

ij.il j v v / J L J U U I l U N

Cauca is famous for its ethnic diversity. I t has t h e largest indige­ n o u s population of any province in the country, t h o u g h precise figures are hard t o come by, ranging from a low of 1 3 percent of its over­ all population (Paz 2 0 0 1 ) t o a high of 30 percent (Departamento del Cauca 2 0 0 1 ) . Indigenous people are organized in resjjuardos, a commu­ nal landholding entity that dates from the mid-colonial period and is administered by a cabildo, a council elected o n an annual basis. These t w o institutions, t h e resguardo and the cabildo, together with language — t h o u g h t o a m u c h lesser extent since t h e majority of t h e indigenous population in Cauca is monolingual in Spanish—are often regarded as the defining characteristics of indigenous culture and ethnic identity in Colombia (Field 1 9 9 6 ) . Demographic g r o w t h in the resguardos has resulted in increasing pressure o n t h e available resource base, particu­ larly arable land and pasture, and, in some cases, encroachment into the paramo, high-altitude h u m i d plains that are usually jealously protected as watersheds. I n addition, Cauca is famous for its political activism,

C R I C

(Re­

gional Indigenous Council of Cauca), the oldest indigenous rights or­ ganization in Colombia, was established in Cauca under t h e banner of Land, Autonomy, and Culture (Gros 1 9 9 1 ) . A t its founding meeting in Toribio in 1 9 7 1 , the

C R I C

leadership agreed o n a seven-point program

that focused o n several key themes that have remained constant over the years: t h e recovery and extension of resguardo lands; t h e strengthening of t h e cabildos; t h e defense of indigenous history, language, and cus­ t o m s ; and the training of bilingual indigenous schoolteachers (Espi­ nosa 1 9 9 8 , 1 1 6 ) . I n the past decade,

C R I C

has become increasingly

involved in h u m a n rights, rural development, and t h e quest for peace and an e n d t o the continuing political violence. While recovery (recuperation) theme,

C R I C

of stolen lands has been an enduring

was also created t o defend the lives of indigenous leaders

w h o have been selectively and systematically targeted for assassination over t h e years by armed groups of the left and right, as well as by the organs of the state, specifically the army and t h e police. T h e organiza­ tion maintains a list of over four h u n d r e d members w h o have been killed over t h e past thirty years, a reflection of the o n g o i n g state of political violence that prevails in the province, dating from t h e time of La Violencia in t h e 1950s and earlier. D u r i n g La Violencia, an in­ dependent republic was established by peasant self-defense units in Rio-

Beyond the Developmental Gaze

.hiqito. one of the m o r e isolated areas of Tierradentro in northeastern ( mca. which, as a m e m b e r of t h e Southern Block in 1 9 6 5 , was t o participate in the founding meeting of the

F A R C ,

the Revolutionary

Armed Forces of Colombia (Gonzalez 1 9 9 2 , 1 0 3 ) . This Southern Block N -till active o n the border between t h e provinces of Cauca and Huila. The other major active guerrilla g r o u p in Colombia, t h e E L N (National Liberation Army) has long been present in Cauca; o n e of its major -rr< mgholds lies t o the west of Popayan, t h e provincial capital. I n t h e ivSos. the guerrillas m a d e it clear that they w o u l d n o t tolerate alter­ native voices in t h e countryside by assassinating indigenous leaders, including shamans, w h o were regarded as particularly dangerous. I n re>ponse, the Nasa, t h e largest indigenous g r o u p in t h e province, estab­ lished their o w n guerrilla force, t h e

M A Q L ,

t h e Quintin Lame Armed

Movement, primarily as a self-defense unit. I n this, they were assisted b} the April 19th M o v e m e n t ( M - 1 9 ) , also very active in Cauca until their demobilization in 1990. I n addition, there is a long history of hired killers (pdjaros) in Cauca, contracted by large landowners and political conservatives t o eliminate voices of protest and opposition. Over time, these have become institutionalized as paramilitary units which began appearing in the province a r o u n d 1990.

Development a n d M o d e r n i t y Development, like modernity, has an ambiguous relationship w i t h cul­ ture. Some commentators have argued that capitalism, as t h e "highest" form of development, can only emerge o u t of certain cultures, thereby implving that other cultures may actually hinder development (Platteau (994). As several critics have pointed out, this argument can rapidly degenerate into a racist discourse o n t h e cultural failings of certain peo­ ples (Rapley 2 0 0 2 ) . W h e n used in the context of development, culture has often been qualified with t h e adjective traditional, a pejorative con­ notation implying that it is a constraint t o change of any sort. M o r e recendv the concept has been viewed as m o r e dynamic, flexible, and creative (Rao and Walton 2 0 0 4 ) . In indigenous Cauca, culture can include fluency in indigenous languages, respect for shamanistic author­ ity, cosmological knowledge, knowledge of t h e past and present, educa­ tional innovation, skills in communication and mobilization, and p o ­ litical representation, t o n a m e a few of t h e m o r e salient characteristics

INTRODUCTION

of

C R I C

leaders (Warren 1 9 9 8 ) . Incorporation of some o r all these

elements into the development process n o t only helps humanize the changes under way b u t also maintains and strengthens t h e indigenous political and cultural project. I t is in this sense that culture will be used here—as a key element in understanding h o w people view and critique the world in which they live, as well as h o w they choose t o act in an evolving cultural politics of development. For Escobar ( 1 9 9 7 ) , cultural politics is t h e process whereby social actors, embodying different cultural meanings and prac­ tices, c o m e into conflict. I n Cauca, this means that different ethnic groups have different ideas about w h a t constitutes development, as d o communities within a single ethnic group. I n t h e context of modernity, cultural politics refers n o t only t o attempts t o redefine social and politi­ cal power b u t also t o the m o r e profound process of contesting, nego­ tiating, and formulating t h e very meaning of modernity itself. I n Cauca, t h e indigenous movement a n d its supporters argue that if Colombia is t o b e regarded as a m o d e r n nation, then t h e state m u s t n o t only embrace difference b u t also be m o r e inclusive and treat all of its people as citizens with t h e same rights and responsibilities. Furthermore, it m u s t also live u p t o the promises and ideals of modernity. H o w , then, are we t o characterize those w h o criticize the project of modernity and its m o s t vaunted offshoot, development? T h e concept of t h e Other within the project of modernity remains problematic. An­ thropology has been charged with the task of defining t h e relationship between the anthropological Self and t h e ethnographic Other, but there are various kinds of Others, of which being indigenous is one, AfroColombian another, and peasant yet a third (Kearney 1 9 9 6 ) . Sahlins's proposed indigenization of development, and by association moder­ nity, implies at least some recognition and acceptance of this Other. In his research o n the role of agriculture in t h e making of m o d e r n India, Akhil G u p t a ( 1 9 9 8 ) defines t h e condition of t h e small farmers he stud­ ied as "postcolonial" since they demonstrate a distinct lack of fit with t h e dichotomy of " m o d e r n " and "traditional." This is demonstrated by their ability and facility t o use and adapt key elements of both, a process of imbrication, of shared knowledges. H e borrows the phrase "inappro­ priate O t h e r " from t h e filmmaker Trinh T. Minh-ha t o refer t o t h e m since they straddle b o t h worlds, in a sense belonging t o neither yet 12

managing t o survive in b o t h (Trinh 1 9 9 1 ) -

1

Beyond the Developmental Gaze

The indigenous inappropriate others in Cauca bring m o r e than one perspective t o the understanding and resolution of critical social and political issues,

C R I C

has survived as an institution t h r o u g h its willing-

nv** and ability t o defy convention and confront t h e authority of the state directly, but only t o a certain point. For example, it was active in establishing armed self-defense units t o protect its leaders in t h e late -

i Q os and early 1980s. But w h e n these units coalesced in 1 9 8 4 t o form the

M A Q L .

C R I C

was obliged t o retreat t o a m o r e clandestine support

r< le that they were later forced t o terminate o n account of political pres- are from m o r e conservative elements in t h e indigenous movement. In the (990s.

C R I C

mobilized its supporters in Cauca t o protest t h e na­

si- -nal government's unwillingness t o deliver o n its promises, including Hipport

for indigenous education. F r o m 1999 t o t h e present,

C R I C

has

regularly appeared o n t h e national stage in support of peace negotia­ tions, an end t o political violence by t h e left and the right, and, m o s t recently, t o protest the lack of any public participation in the negotiari' >ns over the free trade agreement with the United States. As represen­ tatives of the inappropriate other,

C R I C

has been able t o d o w h a t other

groups cannot o r will n o t d o — m a k e their voices heard regionally, natii mally. and even internationally. This tension between t h e "inside" and t h e "outside," between the "old" and the "new," between t h e "proven" and t h e "unproven" is re­ flected in the contentious debate over "local knowledge" and its poten­ tial "contribution" t o development and modernity. Maia Green (2000) suggests that w h a t people " k n o w " generally includes large amounts of so-called Western knowledge, as well as m o r e context-specific local knowledge (see Agrawal 1 9 9 6 ) . I n a similar vein, Anja Nygren ( 1 9 9 9 ) talks about "knowledge encounters" in which t h e local and t h e global, the traditional and t h e m o d e r n are intricately mtermingled. She also raises the crucial question a b o u t t h e relative importance of these diverse forms of knowledge, w h e t h e r they can symmetrically coexist or whether alternative knowledges will b e inevitably marginalized ( 2 8 2 ) . If argu­ ments in favor of cultural politics and countermodernity are t o b e taken 'eriously, then such knowledge encounters in the field of development, in planning and implementation, offer potentially fruitful areas of investigation. For some, however, t h e postcolonial farmers of India and, by implica­ tion, other parts of t h e developing world, should be considered failed

INTRODUCTION

subjects of the project of modernity. Their feeling of being "left behind" forms t h e basis of their mobilization against t h e dominant vision of national development. Although G u p t a ( 1 9 9 8 , 2 3 2 ) persuasively ar­ gues that it w o u l d be m o r e productive t o think of t h e m "as a disturbing presence that continuously interrupts t h e redemptive narratives of the West," in the process he downplays t h e ambiguities suggested by Trinh, particularly the creative and positive potential they offer t o t h e process of countermodernity.

Resistance and the M o r a l Imagination

For those living at t h e margin and for those already marginalized, sur­ vival often depends o n some form of resistance, whether t h r o u g h the carefully calculated practice of the weapons of the weak (Scott 1 9 8 5 ) or the m o r e radical and potentially more dangerous avenues of mass mobi­ lization and armed resistance. I n widespread areas of rural Colombia, continuing conflict ( o r at least t h e perceived threat of it) has become part and parcel of everyday existence, where survival has come t o de­ pend o n continuing resistance; where local communities have seen no other alternative, violence is selectively used as a form of self-defense. M u c h of t h e conflict has its origin in struggles over land, specifically land expropriated from its legal owners, often with t h e explicit support of t h e state and its surrogates—the private armies of t h e powerful— w h o were the forerunners of today's paramilitary forces. W h e n communities have organized t o legally and peacefully pro­ test t h e abuses and depredations perpetrated against t h e m , t h e state has often responded with indifference. T h e landowners and their hired killers have responded with t h e assassination of selected local leaders, crimes that often g o unpunished. A similar strategy has been followed by t h e guerrillas. To this day, they continue t o assassinate indigenous leaders and occupy indigenous lands. I n t h e period covered by this study, those m o s t affected b y this persecution responded by creating their o w n organization,

C R I C ,

t o protect the land, rights, and culture

of t h e indigenous people of Cauca. I n turn, this organization and its leaders have been heavily persecuted. O n account of their suspected collaboration with the guerrillas for a period in the late 1970s and 1980s, some of the leaders were obliged t o g o underground, and others were imprisoned. D u r i n g the 1990s and into the n e w millennium, t h e move-

Beyond the Developmental Gaze

nu:nt has been able t o operate m o r e freely and m o r e openly, b u t always under threat from the armed groups operating in the region. How d o we talk a b o u t development in a context of continuing violence, physical and structural, and where the c o m m o n l y accepted, conventional measures of development—or, better said, lack of developinenr—such as nutritional levels, infant mortality, life expectancy, 2

and rates of schooling, are abysmal? T h e very fact that people continue t< resisr demonstrates their refusal t o accept the status q u o , t o fight g a i n s t their unequal chances, which, real as they may be, are n o t i m m u t.u >le. Their resistance is m o r e t h a n a protest against injustice, b o t h past and present. It is also a claim for social justice, as well as a d e m a n d for recognition, inclusion, and respect. But it is also, as I already argued, a demand for redistribution, for a greater share of the country's resources rh.it are rightfully theirs as poor, marginalized, disadvantaged citizens. Acknowledgment of this fact can help us understand w h y the indigeii' us movement and its supporters continue t o struggle, in spite of all t l \ -.etbacks. I n other words, there is a certain moral imagination that guides their actions, a desire and a willingness t o care a b o u t and em­ pathize with the fate of others, an imagination that n o t only has some d..ar ideas about w h a t is right and w r o n g b u t also some creative ideas a < 'Ut how these ideals may be realized. I n t h e case of the Zapatistas of ( >iapas. Neil Harvey ( 1 9 9 8 , 3 5 ) argues that the creation of n e w politi­ cal vp ces has been essential in establishing "the right t o have rights," t o a

hi recognized as a legitimate m e m b e r of the political community: "It in ight be argued, therefore, that t h e struggles of popular movements for di;jmity. voice, and a u t o n o m y are precisely attempts t o constitute 'the people' as a political actor; t h a t is, as a people with t h e right t o partici­ pate freely in public debate and u p h o l d their right t o have rights." To participate in the larger society, the indigenous people of Cauca have been forced t o confront t h e continuing threat of violence, together w»th the svstematic brutality against their political and intellectual lead­ er-. Their resistance has been forged by violence, b u t at t h e same time 11 icy have learned t o understand ( b u t n o t accept) that the bloodshed w d! continue until profound changes occur in the social and political structure of Colombia (which was t h e long-term objective of many of clit guerrilla movements in t h e country, at least in their earlier years). I n 1

n i way does this mean that people accept t h e inevitability of political violence and t h e possibility of death. Q u i t e t h e contrary. M a n y people

INTRODUCTION

see it as their responsibility t o think beyond violence, t o the future of their children, and strive t o improve the situation as a form of moral stewardship and responsibility. While the threat and presence of vio­ lence are a given, they are n o t viewed as immutable. Resistance t o violence creates new spaces and n e w opportunities, in the same way a natural disaster can. T h e brief biographies of elders sketched earlier capture the ways some families have adapted after being forced t o relocate by a devastating earthquake. As a result of the disaster, many other families were forced t o leave their communities of origin and move t o n e w lands with state provision of land and housing. In a m o r e general sense, they were offered the opportunity t o wipe the slate clean, and start again, t o build a n e w life elsewhere, b u t one heavily influenced by the past, n o t just the recent past b u t also the historical and cultural past. As a type of social laboratory, this process of resettlement offers a unique opportunity t o study and understand firsthand the ways in which these n e w communities deal with the broader range of possi­ bilities that the disaster, somewhat paradoxically, offered them. The communities t o be described and analyzed all wished t o be relocated closer t o urban centers, b u t n o t all were, and those that were did not necessarily fully embrace all that development and modernity had to offer. I n fact, while there was a certain acceptance of the bricks and mortar aspect of development with its focus o n the tangible, be it a feeder road, a health clinic, or a dairy cow, there was an implicit realiza­ tion and criticism that this was n o t enough, particularly w h e n consider­ ing the future of their children. T h o u g h there was an acknowledgment of the obvious importance of some degree of economic and financial security, it did n o t become an obsession. Equally important (if not m o r e so) was the future of their children and subsequent generations. In their o w n way, they were confronting a fundamental question that haunts many other similar groups: what is the future for indigenous groups, b u t particularly their children, in a putative multicultural so­ ciety such as Colombia in the twenty-first century? They countered the dominant discourse with one of their own. Like many other displaced, migratory, or diasporic communities in other parts of the world, they opted for education, partly as a means of "enter­ ing" and being "accepted" by the larger, d o m i n a n t society b u t also as a means of preserving, adapting, and changing their o w n culture, b u t on their terms, since they w o u l d control the form and substance of the

Beyond the Developmental Gaze

c d i K j r i t in

their children w o u l d receive, at least at t h e primary level.

M a b n g this possible called for a combination of political will and cul­ tural pride, both of which had been strengthened by the o n g o i n g politi­ cal in' 'bilization, the struggle for social justice, and their recognition as indigenous people, legitimate citizens of Colombia. In practice, this form < >1' education is only possible t h o u g h a kind of local a u t o n o m y where the community has considerable control over b o t h t h e teachers and the oirriculum. I t also requires a certain degree of courage, as well as die freedom and initiative t o be b o t h imaginary and creative, charac­ teristic* not usually associated with development, even w h e n broadly defined. L'.oibar ( 1 9 9 5 b ) suggests that there are three major discourses for articulating forms of struggle. T h e first is t h e democratic imaginary with its tocus on economic and social justice, h u m a n rights, class, gender, and crhnic equality. Second is t h e discourse of difference, which empha­ sizes oilturaJ distinctiveness, alterity, autonomy, and the right of selfdrtcrmination. Finally, there is t h e discourse of antidevelopment, which otters the potential for m o r e radical transformations of capitalism and die search for alternative ways of organizing society "of satisfying needs, of healing and living." These discourses are n o t mutually exclusive, and the indigenous discourses of Cauca in the following chapters embrace elements of all three. T h e democratic imaginary with its focus o n justice, equality, and inclusion occupies a p r o m i n e n t place, and t h e discourse of difference with its emphasis o n culture, h u m a n rights, and a u t o n o m y is becoming more important. But t h e discourse of antidevelopment is perhaps misnamed. While t h e practice of conventional development is questioned and criticized, t h e proposed alternatives d o n o t call for un­ realistic radical transformations. Rather, they offer proposals for coun­ tering development, for thinking a b o u t it in a different, m o r e h u m a n , rn ire constructive, and m o r e sustainable way.

structure of t h e Book I he indigenous people of Cauca are well organized and demonstrate a i icalrhy skepticism (if n o t outright suspicion) of all outside researchers, particularly anthropologists. Therefore, as I argue in chapter 1 , coli ihi ration with local people and organizations, whether in the form of • faring knowledge o r contributing t o o n g o i n g social processes, is im-

I N T R O D U C T I O N

perative. Perhaps m o r e important, however, is the creation of an on­ going dialogue about the meaning of these processes with those most actively involved; the people of Cauca were as keen t o learn from me as I was t o learn from them. Such collaborative analysis shifts the terms of ethnographic fieldwork from an extractive enterprise t o a creative one. I n chapter 2 , 1 explain the ethnographic context for my comparative study of the three new communities established after the 1994 earth­ quake. D u r i n g such traumatic events, communities have the oppor­ tunity t o remake themselves and their culture in innovative ways. But such opportunities may be constrained by those in power, in this case, b y b o t h the state and the indigenous movement, with their precon­ ceived notions of the place of local indigenous communities in the province and the nation and, correspondingly, the kind of development that is appropriate for them. Chapter 3 focuses o n local planning, comparing the development plans, b o t h process and "text," produced by the three n e w communities. I n its final essence, a plan is produced t o convince an audience, some­ times internal b u t more often external, that the community's version of reality and its vision of the future are the correct ones. T h e plan­ ning processes, as well as the contents of the plans, differed significantly from community t o community, ranging from passive acceptance of conventional development t o active embrace of a m o r e equitable form of change. T h e differences reflect the communities' changing relation­ ships with the indigenous m o v e m e n t and its influence o n their evolving concept of culture, a concept rarely treated seriously in development discourse. Educational planning, in contrast t o development planning, draws much of its power and originality from local knowledge. Although this knowledge is dynamic, it can stimulate a critical and m o r e profound understanding of enduring problems and ways t o address them. In chapter 4, by comparing the educational plans prepared by two of the new communities, I argue that indigenous education in its conventional form is instrumental in embracing modernity, exploiting the past, and sliifting the terms of identity. I n its m o r e politicized form, however, indigenous education questions modernity and proposes a m o r e cre­ ative alternative that strengthens cultural identity while downplaying the primacy accorded the economic. I n the long run, the test will be

Beyond the Developmental Gaze

how well politicized indigenous education prepares t h e entire c o m m u ­ nity to be active citizens in a multicultural society. [n chapter 5, as a basis for comparison and contrast, I present t h e experience of Toribio, a p r e d o m i n a n d y Nasa municipality in northern Cauca. which in 1998 was awarded a national prize for producing t h e best development plan in Colombia. T h e people w h o live there are regarded by their fellow N a s a as being t h e m o s t radical and best orga­ nized jjroup in Cauca. But development planning in Toribio l o n g pre­ ceded the 199 J Constitution. I n 1980, a local parish priest organized t h e first development planning workshop in t h e region. A comparison of the twn plans, supplemented by additional information generated at a 19V« seminar o n development for y o u n g indigenous leaders, shows that the prize-winning plan flattens, homogenizes, and dilutes t h e everyday world»>f the N a s a — t h e price paid for a d o p t i n g t h e d o m i n a n t developmcm discourse. Yet the y o u n g leaders continue t o raise uncomfortable issue*, such as political violence, cUscrimination against w o m e n , and cultivation of illegal crops, which development experts rarely address. Toribio. the successful indigenous vanguard and a model of modernity, has ti • a certain extent assimilated t h e d o m i n a n t development discourse, showing that it is n o t only at t h e grass roots b u t also within t h e leader­ ship 1 »f the movement t h a t counterdevelopment encounters roadblocks. An ambivalent attitude t o w a r d development, an increasing interest in culture, and continuing demands t o b e taken seriously o n t h e national stage are part of a larger and m o r e ambitious process u n d e r way in Cauca. which I discuss in chapter 6. I n 1999, t h e indigenous m o v e m e n t established La Maria (La Maria: Territory for Living Together, Dia­ logue, and Negotiation) as an alternative political space, a subaltern Lounterpublic sphere w h e r e civil society could make its voice heard in the peace process t h e n u n d e r way and contribute t o decision making about Colombia's future development, specifically the restructuring of the state and necessary social, political, and economic reforms (Fraser iv9~>. The Sun and L a n d F o u n d a t i o n (Fundacion Sol y Tierra), cre­ ated by the demobilized m e m b e r s of the

M A Q L

and actively involved in

! T< iducing development plans with indigenous communities, was in­ strumental in the creation of La Maria. Furthermore, it was in La Maria that Taita Flora Tunubala, t h e first indigenous provincial governor t o be elected in the history of Colombia, first articulated w h a t was t o become

INTRODUCTION

the Alternate Plan for Cauca and the surrounding region, the basis for which w o u l d be a m o r e just form of development. This was a direct consequence of the 1 9 9 1 Constitution and the promises it extended. As I argue in the conclusion, the moral imaginary created by the indigenous movement, w h e n combined with the growing importance attached t o the discourse and practice of h u m a n rights, offers a different and m o r e fruitful way of thinking about development. F r o m this per­ spective, development is less integration into the project of modernity and m o r e a creative form of resistance, a form of critical modernity that embraces a radical politics of inclusive citizenship. This b o o k is a b o u t a diaspora of h o p e , about t h e possibility of build­ ing n e w lives o n the roots and memories of the old, memories that are sometimes pleasant b u t often are n o t . I t is about t h e structural fac­ tors that constrain people from achieving what Aristode called "human flourishing," b u t it is also about h u m a n agency, the ways in which peo­ ple n o t only resist b u t also selectively engage with their past and their future as they creatively seek t o establish a present that is different and hopefully better. I n addition, it is also about the ways people, par­ ticularly those living at the historical margins of society, make their voices heard and demand t o be recognized and treated with respect and dignity. Above all, it is about questioning modernity, creatively counter­ ing development, and working toward viable alternatives t o the prevail­ ing assumptions about h o w life should be lived at the beginning of the twenty-first century.

20

1 Anthropology as a disciplinary enterprise does not so much harm Indian peocle (although there are enough individual cases of direct or indirect harm) as conduct studies on issues completely and utterlv irrelevant to Indian welfare.-THOM.AS ;

ZIUVMERMAN,

BIOLSI A N D LARRY

introduction to Indians and Anthropologists: Vine

Dtloria. }r.. and the Critique ofAnthropology

If anthropologists are not interested in the fate of their subjects, then what use can their knowledge have, either to the community Itself or to any genuine "science of

man"?—PETER WHITELEY,

"The

End of Anthropology Cat Hopi?)"

More Than a n E n g a g e d F i e l d n o t e : Collaboration, D i a l o g u e , a n d Difference

Anthropology as a discipline prides itself o n "being t h e r e " in t h e sense thai tbr anthropologist goes t o t h e "field" and observes and talks with people. This is anything b u t simple a n d straightforward since t h e anthritpi •logist, whether h e o r she likes it o r not, becomes an active partici­ pant in the process h e or she is studying. T h e researcher becomes t h e ma)< *r research instrument in t h e creation a n d collection of information. If the ethnography produced is t o have any acceptance o r credibility, it is incumbent u p o n t h e researcher t o tell t h e reader h o w h e o r she w e n t ab< >ut collecting t h e information and also t o disclose any personal idio­ syncrasies that may have helped o r hindered t h e process. This first chapter addresses t h e issue b y discussing key elements of m y research process in Colombia. T h e first element is t h e justification for doing research at all in Colombia, particularly in rural areas, where per­ sonal security becomes a major issue. A second a n d m o r e important ele­ ment deals with t h e problems and pitfalls of trying t o be a moral and en­ gaged researcher while maintaining a certain objectivity. T h e third and final clement, really an experiment, is an example of h o w t o be actively

UHAPTER ONE

engaged, moving beyond collaboration in the running of workshops and the production of texts t o a m o r e full-blooded b u t nuanced dia­ logue about meaning, difference, and responsibilities t o those studied.

W h o Does Fieldwork in Colombia? I am periodically asked w h y I choose t o d o research in Colombia, the implication being that m y choice is somewhat strange, even potentially dangerous. I have n o smart, foolproof answer t o this question. Nev­ ertheless, it is a question that has concerned m e for a decade now, one with which I continue t o wrestle. Colombia is a nation at war, par­ ticularly in the countryside. This has profound methodological, politi­ cal, and ethical implications for any serious researcher, b u t particularly for an anthropologist whose bread-and-butter, if y o u will, is people. Myriam Jimeno ( 2 0 0 1 ) has argued that the pervasive environment of violence that characterizes contemporary Colombia has produced a cli­ mate of personal insecurity and social fragmentation. Daily life becomes less predictable and more circumscribed, thereby underscoring why an­ thropological fieldwork in inherently dangerous. T h e researcher may be defined as a spy. People may find it very difficult t o understand or appre­ ciate the research topic. Neutrality and objectivity are difficult, if not impossible. T h e researcher must learn t o walk and talk softly, in terms of where t o g o and what questions t o ask, and must continually define and redefine the risks a n d dangers, n o t only t o himself, b u t perhaps more important, for those with w h o m h e is working (Sluka 1 9 9 5 ) . I n the case of Colombia, as elsewhere in Latin America, there is a long, well-documented, and fully justified history of viewing foreign researchers in rural areas with skepticism and suspicion. W h y are they there? W h o are they working for? W h a t will they d o with t h e informa­ tion they collect? Given that the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency has a well-established and notorious track record in the region, the assump­ tion is that researchers are working for the "agency," o r some similar, potentially threatening entity. N o t only are researchers' motives sus­ pect, so are t h e topics of their research. I n such a politically sensitive situation as that found in Cauca, no 1

"neutrals are allowed." As a result, fieldwork demands a certain degree of engagement o n the part of the investigator, whether as scholar, critic, interlocutor, collaborator, advocate, or activist, but such engagement

More Than an Engaged Fieldnote

also exacts a price, politically and ethically, because often t h e anthropol­ ogist must choose t o take sides, casting his lot w i t h t h e powerless in their struggles with the powerful, and thus r u n n i n g the risk that t h e ethnography produced, as part of t h e public domain, can be used either to benefit or t o harm the people described (Greene 1 9 9 5 ) . In a review of indigenous rights movements in Africa and Latin America. Dorothy H o d g s o n characterizes "interlocutors" such as her­ self: "As scholars w h o share o u r ideas and w o r k with indigenous groups in ongoing, constructive, and, perhaps, even occasionally contentious dialogues and debates in an effort t o inform and shape their policies and practices, without directly aligning ourselves w i t h o n e g r o u p o r faction of the movement" (2002, 1 0 4 5 ) . She is making an important point here. While quite prepared t o share her information, knowledge, and expertise with those she is studying, H o d g s o n is careful t o avoid commirti:^ herself t o any o n e particular g r o u p . T h o u g h this is understand­ able methodologically, in practical terms it m a y be impossible, since the willingness to share with indigenous g r o u p s is a political statement in and 1 >i itself. This is certainly t h e case in Colombia, and I w o u l d ques­ tion the extent t o which o n e can make these fine distinctions in arenas char.iaerized by long histories of discrimination, oppression, and polit­ ical \ -lence. Interlocution and collaboration may be t h e sine qua n o n for undertaking any type of ethnographic research in this context. Such engagement. ° f course, is two-sided: while it may strengthen t h e re­ searcher's credibility in t h e eyes of some, it is guaranteed t o make h i m enemies with others. Such a decision also requires that t h e researcher be prepared t o take a stand when the occasion demands it. I n 2 0 0 0 , 1 participated in a work­ shop involving several h u n d r e d people t o discuss t h e recently initiated peace process involving t h e government and the Revolutionary A r m e d Forces of Colombia

(FARC).

Also o n the agenda was the impending

implementation of Plan Colombia, the provision of U.S. military and technical assistance provided t o t h e government for t h e eradication of coca rields and p o p p y plots. F o r t h e Nasa, m a n y of w h o m were cultivat­ ing these crops, Plan Colombia was seen as being directed primarily at them, the very small producers at the b o t t o m of a long and lucrative production and marketing chain. A t t h e same time, Plan Colombia was view ed in many circles, correctly as it later turned out, as a means for t h e .S. government t o rationalize a military presence in the country di-

CHAPTER ONE

rected at defeating the guerrillas. D u r i n g the workshop I was inter­ viewed by a major regional TV channel in which I was highly critical of' the U.S. government and its potential role in further militarizing the conflict, an act that provided m e with face (if n o t name) recognition in many places. At the request of the indigenous movement, I tried, unsuc­ cessfully, t o obtain funds, in b o t h the U n i t e d States and Europe, to support additional activities in support of peace. Although these effort?: did n o t necessarily create rapport, I am convinced they did help foster some mutual confidence and respect. Even if such efforts did n o t neces­ sarily open any m o r e doors, minds, or hearts, they did contribute to a higher level of tolerance for m y presence at various types of activities. Both examples clearly demonstrate, however, the ambiguities in­ curred by the individual researcher w h o chooses t o w o r k in a highlv politicized context. By publicly criticizing U.S. foreign policy for Co­ lombia, I was consciously taking a stand against what t h e United States stood for, while at the same time clearly distancing myself from that policy. By seeking funding t o support peace initiatives at the regional level, I was trying t o accompany m y political stance with something m o r e tangible than mere moral support. I n the process, of course, I shed all pretense of neutrality, in the sense that I had chosen t o take sides. Bur had I also jeopardized m y objectivity, willingness, and ability t o presenr the facts as I saw t h e m in a reasonably balanced and unbiased manner? H a d I perhaps, consciously or otherwise, decided t o write about some incidents rather than others t o make m y argument m o r e convincing? While this is a potential temptation for all researchers, I think it is par­ ticularly tempting, if n o t outright seductive, w h e n studying processes that one sympathizes w i t h if n o t approves of. T h o u g h taking sides mav facilitate the research, it also entails certain responsibilities t o those one chooses t o study and w o r k with. All information is grist for the researcher's mill, b u t w h a t if some is confidential, controversial, criti­ cal, or potentially damaging? T h e engaged researcher walks an ethical tightrope trying t o balance these various concerns t o maintain some integrity. H e r e I wish t o describe and analyze h o w I w e n t about doing the research o n which this b o o k is based, fully aware of t h e problems in­ volved in foregrounding t h e author at the expense of the ethnography, while accepting that b o t h are directly and symbiotically related. At the same time, I bear in mind the caveats clearly articulated by Peter White-

More Than an Engaged Fieldnote

Icy, addressing similar concerns a b o u t his life-long research w i t h the Hopi: "What d o reflexive ethnographers not tell us a b o u t their motiva­ tions, feelings, personal histories, fieldwork experiences, inchoate im­ mediate or long-term d o u b t s , and structured positionalities? W h a t d o they not know about themselves? T h e apparent ease of introducing t h e ethnographer as self into t h e text is, beyond style, m o r e problematic than has been openly imagined" ( 1 9 9 8 , 1 8 ) . While t h e ethnographer may ch< >ose to be selective a b o u t the subjects of his research, the t e m p ­ tation is to be even m o r e selective a b o u t t h e presentation of self, since he nms the risk of jeopardizing (if n o t losing) his authority and credibility in the process. Yet this presentation is i m p o r t a n t because t h e ethnogra­ pher IN the major research instrument, responsible for creating and ana­ lyzing the information h e chooses t o present ( O r t n e r 1 9 9 5 ) . This in­ strument of the self is, however, also problematic, since it involves n o t only perceptions b u t also memories and creativity: "Are memories fieldnotes? 1 use them that way, even t h o u g h they aren't the same kind of evidence. It took a while for m e t o be able t o rely o n m y memory. But I had to, since the idea of w h a t I was d o i n g had changed, and I had memories but n o notes. I had t o say, W e l l , I saw that happen.' I a m a lieldnote" (Jackson 1 9 9 0 , 2 1 ) . Since this is the case, it is i m p o r t a n t that t h e reader have some appreciatii >n and understanding of w h o precisely t h e ethnographer is w i t h o u t his necessarily revealing all and producing autobiography rather than crhn> 'graphy. Of t h e several points that Whiteley mentions, t w o are particularly relevant t o m y o w n case: motivations and doubts. O n e can al\v,» - put u p convincing intellectual and political arguments for doing ahm >graphic research, b u t there are always other m o r e intangible, less laudable reasons for "going t o the field" year after year. There are elemcni uf romanticism, t h e desire t o r u b shoulders with people w h o appear to be doing s o m e t h i n g socially worthwhile with their lives, a fonn of vicarious self-righteousness whereby one's personal feelings of guilt are replaced by another's example of virtue. There are also elemcnt- of escapism, t h e desire t o b e somewhere else where life is simpler because one is less involved and hence has less responsibility, as well as the desire to be someone else. T h e anthropologist in the field is different from his commonsensical, everyday person at "home." H i s marginal status provides the o p p o r t u n i t y t o be m o r e adventurous and shed cer­ tain inhibitions. I found these feelings of romanticism and escapism

CHAPTER ONE

were often accompanied by profound feelings of long-term self-doubt. Given the mixed reception I would often get from people I knew, I used t o w o n d e r w h a t went t h r o u g h their heads as they saw m e approaching: " I w o n d e r what he wants this time? Does he ever run o u t of questions? W h a t o n earth does h e d o w i t h all the information h e gathers? H o w can w e avoid his questions w i t h o u t being rude, by just ignoring him?" To be totally ignored is perhaps the ultimate insult for an anthropologist in the field. A n d this did happen t o me, if n o t o n a regular basis at least often e n o u g h t o make m e reluctandy accept t h a t it was n o t coincidental. I found the research in the communities t o be psychologically daunting and physically demanding: daunting because the Nasa are expert at giving outsiders the cold shoulder and demanding because of the dis­ comfort resulting from t h e diet, the beds, the weather, and the long nights. T h o u g h I had survived a similar experience as a doctoral student in the Andes of southern Peru some thirty years earlier, the situation in Colombia was different for t w o reasons. This was a comparative study which involved four distinct research sites, three new communities as well as one of the communities of origin. As a result, w h e n I was in the field, I was constantly o n the move, never staying in any one community for m o r e than a few days at a time. These short-term visits virtually precluded the establishment of the type of long-term friendships thar could foster trust, credibihty, and reciprocity. Another factor justifying this approach was the very nature of my research. I was trying t o produce an ethnography of development rather t h a n an ethnography of displaced communities. H e n c e m y research concentrated primarily o n t h e process of development, specifically the production of texts, a focus that emerged in the anthropology of de­ velopment literature of the 1990s (Escobar 1995a; Grillo 1 9 9 7 ) , as well as in the m o r e applied development anthropology literature (Gardner 2

and Lewis 1996; N o l a n 2 0 0 2 ) . As it t u r n e d put, however, my focus o n development process turned o u t t o be rather short-sighted, since J could n o t fully understand it w i t h o u t giving m o r e attention t o history and politics, a reality reflected in later chapters. Writing about oneself, like writing ethnography, can b e a creative and selective process that may obfuscate rather than illuminate. It may serve t o privilege the author and justify what others could find highly ques­ tionable. A case in point is Michael Taussig's (2004) published diary

More Than an Engaged Fieldnote

detailing j two-week trip t o a small t o w n outside Cali, t h e capital of the ncighni >ring province, which h e has been visiting and studying for thirty \ cars. A t the time, t h e t o w n was occupied b y t h e paramilitaries who. 1< illowing their chosen vocation, h a d been killing those local citi­ zens whom they deemed "undesirable," s o m e of w h o m were k n o w n t o the author. Taussig justifies t h e diary's publication b y playing o n t h e varioih meanings of t h e w o r d limpieza, which normally means "clean­ ing." i«ui has more recently c o m e t o m e a n "cleansing," in t h e sense of wiping o u t and killing defenseless people deemed undesirable. B u t iimpic/a also has a n older meaning, t h a t of healing a person or h o m e , and T.ui-sig examines this double meaning: "Perhaps m y diary plays o n this ambiguity: that in t h e process of recoding and detailing this n e w kind < yt limpieza, t h e diary m i g h t conserve this older sense as well, dis­ placing the malignity of t h e events it describes. I certainly h o p e so, and now. b . iking back . . . believe this t o b e t h e reason for having written this dian in the first place" (Taussig 2004, xiii). This is m o r e journal­ ism and autobiography than ethnography, reflecting t h e author's appar­ ent fasdnation with violence a n d his unwillingness t o directly confront his

;i motivation for writing a b o u t it. I t is difficult t o justify writ­

ing al* >ur the systematic killing of people o n e has k n o w n a n d liked in the field, without expressing s o m e feelings of guilt, remorse, anger, o r regret. Nevertheless, introducing oneself in t h e text may help demystify fieldw»*rk and demonstrate just h o w agonistic a process it can be. H o w many anthropologists can say that they enjoy fieldwork? Bronislaw M a lino w ski spoke for m a n y anthropologists in t h e p o s t h u m o u s publica­ tion of his infamous field journal, t h e frankness of which shocked many of his -tudents and contemporaries at t h e time, particularly his expres­ sion of feelings of self-doubt: Went to the village hoping to photograph a few stages of the barn. I handed i. .gv" is Sol Tax's F o x Project, inspired by t h e w o r k of John

CHAPTER ONE

Dewey (Baba 1 9 9 9 ) , which embodied an ethical imperative similar t that of praxis theory. D u r i n g t h e period 1 9 4 8 t o 1 9 5 9 , Tax and a group of his graduate students from the University of Chicago undertook to collaborate with t h e Mesquaki Indians in Iowa in studying issues thai 1

mattered t o d i e tribe, t h e solution of which could improve their live * (Foley 1 9 9 9 ) . T h e first phase was characterized by discussions over values, fieldwork, and diagnosis of t h e major social problems, and the second was m o r e operational and emphasized the need t o be collabora­ tive and create activities that the local people valued and managed. These included a media project t o change white attitudes about Native Americans, a recreation project with t h e youth, a cooperative projea w i t h t h e m e n , and a scholarship program t o send students t o college. T h e action anthropologists were t o play t h e role of catalysts and tempo­ rary leaders. Tax ( 1 9 5 8 , 1 9 7 5 ) asserted that anthropologists ought t« learn a n d help in equal measure, and that first, t h e activities undertaken by anthropologists should be "imminently useful" t o the people with w h o m they worked and, second, that t h e anthropologist should nor make decisions o n their behalf (Rubinstein 1 9 8 6 ) . I n theory, this meanthat t h e anthropologist should provide the g r o u p with alternatives from which t o choose and allow t h e m t h e freedom t o make their own mis­ takes. I n practice, however, critics have pointedly suggested that this i< often nonsense, if n o t downright irresponsible, a n d that anthropolo­ gists d o , in fact, often exert considerable influence (Stull, Schultz, and Cadue 1 9 8 7 ) . This is so partly because of the power differential, but also because t h e anthropologist may well have a better understanding of the potential consequences of the proposed alternatives (Kirsch 2002). For Dewey, all inquiry was c o m m u n a l and should return something of value t o t h e community, something g o o d in a fundamental sense, where the g o o d as defined as "that which enables t h e actualization of' h u m a n potential, especially personal g r o w t h and development" (Baba 1999, 3 3 ) - T h o u g h some commentators, particularly Bennett (1996. S 3 4 - 3 9 ) , strongly question the influence of Dewey, as well as some o) t h e claims m a d e by Tax, others such as Douglas Foley ( 1 9 9 9 ) are more sympathetic, allowing that Tax may well have t h o u g h t of himself as a philosophical pragmatist. While those m o s t directly involved in the Fo> Project claimed that Tax followed a "very democratic, dialogic pragma­ tist theory of science," Foley, based o n interviews and fieldwork some forty years later, states that the action anthropology they practiced was

More Than an Engaged Fieldnote

marked by a certain a m o u n t of social engineering. T h e research under­ taken was neither very original n o r very organized, and there was little symbiosis between theory and practice; project leaders found it very difficult, it not impossible, t o be b o t h academic mentors and action anthropologists. Tribal m e m b e r s did acknowledge that t h e project h a d helped hi >th the tribe and individual m e m b e r s in various ways, b u t they also expressed well-founded skepticism a b o u t anthropological efforts t o "save" or "m< tdernize" indigenous people: "Mesquakis believe that it is their sat red pact with t h e creator, n o t t h e white man's science and reli­ gion, that ensures their cultural survival. T h e y chide us t o temper such conceits tf'we are t o be g o o d allies" (Foley 1 9 9 9 , 1 8 3 ) . A nn rc relevant and m o r e provocative model is provided by the work ot the Colombian anthropologist Guillermo Vasco (2002a), w h o , among > 'ther activities, has worked closely with t h e G u a m b i a n o ethnic group a nd the indigenous m o v e m e n t in Cauca over t h e past thirty years. Reviewing the relationship between fieldwork and ethnographic writ­ ing, he discusses h o w Colombian anthropology has addressed these question- 1 Vasco 2002b). A t t h e end of t h e 1960s, the g r o u p that was t o become known as La Rosea, which included O r l a n d o Fals Borda, Victor Daniel JVmilla. Gonzalo Castillo, and A u g u s t o Libreros, was wrestling with IK >••• to support the interests of those w h o had traditionally been anthropi •logy's object of study, specifically indigenous people. T h e first problem was the nature of t h e relationship between t h e anthropologist and thi >-e he studies. O n e approach was t o develop and practice m o r e radical \ ariations of action anthropology, such as participatory action research

IPAR)

and "militant research" (la investigation

militante).

With it:, emphasis o n the generation of popular power, P A R combined techniques of adult education, social science research, and political ac­ tivism. Methods included collective research, t h e critical reconstruction of local t >r regional histories, t h e restoration and use of popular cultures, and the use of novel means of diffusing knowledge (Escobar 1 9 9 1 ; FalsBorda i*«8i >. Another approach was t o privilege practice over theory, aband< >n the academy, and w o r k directly w i t h t h e groups u n d e r study. A set' >nd problem that L a Rosea confronted was h o w t o return t h e knowledge produced t h r o u g h fieldwork t o those w h o h a d helped gen­ erate it. While the new research m e t h o d s greatly improved relations between the researchers and their subjects, the results remained in the hands of the investigators, just as they always had. Vasco faults his

C H A P T E R

ONE

colleagues for closing their eyes t o the political and ideological realitieof their work: "These techniques h a d been developed by social scientistin the service of the enemies of the people in order t o reinforce their domination and control over t h e m " (Vasco 2002b, 4 5 8 ) . W h e n Vasco started working with the indigenous movement, one thing that caught his attention was the ways in which meetings of the Guambiano were organized and the importance attached t o working in commissions. Although the movement had lifted this term from an­ other context, the way in which they practiced it was radically different. While almost everyone talked and participated in the discussions, they did n o t prepare explicit conclusions for the final plenary session. Rather, each commission and its members reported o n the contents of its dis­ cussions, and the plenary session as a whole then t o o k u p the discussion. Vasco found this repetition of the discussion perplexing because it pro­ ceeded as if there had been n o earlier discussion, until it dawned on him that this was h o w the m o v e m e n t avoided a situation in which the leaders could make all the important decisions, picking and choosing from the conclusions reached by each individual commission. N o t only was this more democratic, it also provided an excellent opportunity for doing research: " I understood, then, that the work in groups organized by indigenous people in their meetings were really research meetings, to advance the [state of] knowledge about a problem t h r o u g h discussion, by means of which the knowledge of each m e m b e r was compared with that of the others in order, finally, t o have a global knowledge" (Vasco 2002b, 4 6 1 ) .

As a result, each participant in such meetings, which Vasco chose t o call research mingas (mingas de investigation)

1

or knowledge minga ;

(mingas de conocimiento) — minga being the name given t o collective w o r k groups in the Andes—became better informed, while at the same time contributing t o the transformation of individual knowledge into collective knowledge. This insight was t o form the basis of much of the collaborative research that Vasco later undertook with the Guambiano ( H u r t a d o , Aranda, and Vasco 1 9 9 8 ) . As m u c h of the material presented in later chapters was gathered t h r o u g h observation and participation in workshops of various sorts, Vasco's conclusion is important, since a convincing argument can be made that the proliferation of such work­ shops has affected t h e level of knowledge generated as well as the level of participation. To temper the power and authority of the external re-

More Than an Engaged Fieldnote

searcher working with indigenous people, Vasco proposes several key principle - which call for a radical change in conventional research meth­ odology

Vasco 2002b, 4 6 2 ) .

First, indigenous people are t h e key intellectual authority. This calls for respecting indigenous t h o u g h t and explanation, as well as acknowl­ 6

edging ir.N primary role and relevance in indigenous society. In practice, tins mc.ina above all respecting older people, particularly t h e shamans, who arc usually the bearers of this authority. Second, the opinion of the researcher is only one a m o n g many. While this reflects a certain postmodem turn, particularly James Clifford's ( 1 9 8 6 ) call for partial truths, it imposes a certain humility o n t h e researcher, while at t h e same time arguing for broadmindedness and inclusion. In Clifford's case, how­ ever, it is the anthropologist w h o has t h e final control over w h a t is produced since he o r she ultimately controls w h a t is written. This was not the case for Vasco. In practice, as I learned, this means t h a t t h e researcher's opinions, suggcsrjt »ns. or recommendations can be ridiculed o r simply ignored. At the same time, however, t h e researcher m u s t b e prepared t o argue his case, since otherwise his authority and credibility will begin t o erode. Indigcm >us people may have their o w n proposals for research, which they may view as m o r e i m p o r t a n t and m o r e relevant than those of t h e researcher. In other w o r d s , t h e local people should set the research agenda. While this principle strikes at t h e heart of academic freedom and the researcher's a u t o n o m y in choosing a research topic, it is also the logical conclusion t o be derived from a strategy of engagement. T h e local population, rather t h a n t h e researcher, decides w h a t the research priorities arc. Although t h e researcher's opinion will be taken into con­ sideration, it is the local population w h o makes t h e final decision, and the researcher is expected t o comply. These radical principles strike at t h e heart of conventional academic research and raise profound and provoking questions a b o u t t h e nature of engagement and collaboration. In contemporary Colombia, a foreign academic or foreign researcher is valued for his knowledge and ex­ pertise, which he is expected t o share with the local population. This knowledge, in turn, may help identify certain research priorities that are very tiirferent from those of t h e local population, partly because they may never have t h o u g h t of t h e m , partly because they may n o t interest them. And w h o , precisely, is t h e "local population?" T h e local shamans,

CHAPTER ONE

the political leaders, the youth, ex-guerrillas, the wealthy, a local organi zation, or some combination of these? Just h o w challenging and proh lematic this approach can be is demonstrated by m y o w n experience. I n the course of m y fieldwork, I participated directly in the prepare tion of community development plans in t w o of t h e new communitk San Jose and Toez Caloto, processes described and analyzed in a lau chapter. H e r e I am m o r e concerned with describing and analyzing th. complexities, ambiguities, and frustrations of such participation in T6s Caloto. In 1999, the governor decided it was time that the communir made a serious effort t o prepare a development plan. Although t* earlier efforts had failed (for reasons that remained unclear), he felt th. time h a d come t o make a serious, concerted effort involving the whol> community. Announcing this at a general assembly of the community h e appealed for widespread support and participation. Tempted by the offer t o "make myself useful," I volunteered t o help o n the spot, basa: o n the assumption that I had something t o contribute. I had beerstudying the planning process in Cauca for the previous three year ( G o w 1 9 9 7 , 1 9 9 8 ) and had also spent a considerable part of my profes­ sional career working as a planner in various development context( G o w 1 9 9 4 ) . Hence, for better or for worse, I felt I had some credi­ bility, some "authority" as a planner. While the governor accepted nr offer, all indications w e r e that this w o u l d b e a community-driven rathei than a consultant-driven process, and plans were m a d e t o hold a series of workshops over the next few weeks. I participated in several of these workshops, asking pointed questions making suggestions, and trying t o bring in experiences from similaj planning exercises in other parts of the province that I was acquainteC with. Nevertheless, I had t w o particular problems with the process one m o r e theoretical, the other m o r e methodological—which I raised o n several occasions. First, h o w can o n e talk about a long-term plan w i t h o u t trying t o articulate some coherent vision of the future by an­ swering the following questions: W h o are we? Where d o we come from

;

W h e r e are w e going? At my suggestion, these general questions were incorporated into the workshop discussions, and t h e responses varied greatly, from those groups working o n education ("our own univer sity") a n d culture ("our o w n education that incorporates indigenous culture") w h o had a clear idea of where they wanted t o be, to those concentrating o n agriculture and the environment w h o tended to focw

More Than an Engaged Fieldnote

on specifics. In the case of agriculture participants argued for a certain number of ti\ cstock, large and small, for each family, and, in t h e case of the environment, m o r e water and m o r e trees. T h e community orga­ nizer {prv)imcora) from t h e Association of Indigenous Cabildos of Northern Cauca ( A C I N ) , w h o was facilitating the process, was par­

ticularly hard i »n the latter: "But m o r e trees for what? M o r e training for what? What's behind all these?" F r o m her perspective, these were means rather than ends, and she encouraged t h e various groups t o think m o r e deeply and mt »re creatively a b o u t their respective priorities. My second concern questioned t h e underlying logic of t h e model proposed in which the participants, w i t h o u t discussing o r analyzing t h e causal aspects of the present situation, were expected t o make a concep­ tual leap of faith and think a b o u t w h a t they w o u l d like t o d o in the future and h o w they could "measure" w h a t they had d o n e . M a n y of the participarits were confused a n d unable ( o r unwilling) t o leap. W i t h o u t this type f discussion and an understanding of w h y t h e present situa­ tion was the way it was, there was a strong tendency t o slide into a cookic-ci i rcer approach t o t h e problem at hand. In the g r o u p discussing the ccoiv my. for example, o n e older participant, w h o complained a great dc.ii about h o w hard it was for him t o make a living, provided a long list of "-reasons" for his present situation, ranging from his age, which prevented him from seeking physically exhausting off-farm em­ ployment on the local sugar plantations, t o his lack of technical knowl­ edge, economic resources, machinery, and equipment! While t h e rea­ sons for this state of affairs are complex, they are n o t necessarily resolved by simplv "tilling in the holes" and providing that which is lacking. Philip Garter 1 1 9 9 3 ) labels this a reductionist model of economics and agronomy, whereby the "explanation" for a particular problem is inde­ pendent of any specified social, cultural, or political context. I raised this concern several times, in public and in private, and, while it was duly noted, the planning process continued as programmed. Since the ques­ tions I raised and the points I m a d e did n o t fit neatly into this pre­ conceived tramework, m y contributions were listened t o politely, b u t largely ipiored. A month into the process, I told the governor that I w o u l d be willing to prov idc some comments o n w h a t t h e c o m m u n i t y had produced t o date, but I received n o response. Shortly afterward, during t h e regular monthh general assembly of t h e whole community, I attempted t o offer

CHAPTER ONE

some observations and was p r o m p t l y — a n d publicly—put in m y place by the governor: "People are asking m e what you are doing here, always taking notes. Aren't you supposed t o b e advising us?" I explained that I was only t o o willing t o offer m y comments, and let the matter rest. T h a t evening, I learned from a friend, an indigenous schoolteacher in the community, that people had been talking about m e behind m y back. H e wanted t o k n o w what the nature of m y collaboration was with the community, specifically the cabildo, and w h a t sort of arrangement I had made with them. Once I had related t o h i m m y version of events, he w e n t o n t o tell m e what he had heard. Someone h e knew, an individual "with his o w n interests" as h e p u t it, had asked him w h a t I was doing there: I had n o t been invited by the community, and I did n o t appear t o k n o w anything! This latter c o m m e n t stung, t h o u g h perhaps I had only myself t o blame, since I had consciously chosen n o t t o behave like a typical adviser, by flaunting m y "expertise" and telling people what t o do. T h e following m o r n i n g I w e n t t o say goodbye t o the governor in his house, as I was shortly t o return t o the U n i t e d States. H e was friendly, hopeful that I could help the community find financial support for their projects, and sad t o hear that I was leaving. I also gave him some money t o defray the costs of the continuing workshops. This was n o t an easy decision, as I t h o u g h t it might be viewed as m y attempt t o "buy m y place" and hence legitimate t h e extraction of information. Before leav­ ing t h e country, I composed a four-page m e m o with m y comments and recommendations o n the planning process, which was delivered t o the governor, other community leaders, and the promotora. I n the m e m o , I concentrated o n the problems associated with the economy, education, and long-term objectives, suggesting that t h e community prioritize its problems, concentrate o n the most important, identify their causes and consequences, discuss some solutions, and prepare a development strat­ egy. Three years later, in 2002, the final plan had still n o t appeared. At the time, I failed t o acknowledge that the governor was n o t operat­ ing as an independent agent since he was ultimately accountable t o the community, although that did n o t necessarily constrain him. T h e pro­ duction of the plan would provide the community with m o r e legitimacy in its attempts t o find financial support for its proposed programs, while the involvement of A

C I N

w o u l d provide m o r e political and institutional

legitimacy within the region. C o m m u n i t y leaders fully supported the

More Than an Engaged. Fieldnote

production of t h e plan, and several were active participants in t h e work­ shops. But t h e support of t h e "community" was less enthusiastic. There had been earlier efforts that had produced nothing. There was a long­ standing suspicion of m o s t forms of external assistance, just as there were certain deep-seated problems which were n o t really addressed during t h e planning process, several of which I raised in m y m e m o t o the leadership. Scheper-Hughes and Marietta Baba provide a moral justification for such anthropological engagement, b u t neither provides m u c h basis for better understanding t h e social complexities and political realities that such engagement is likely t o encounter. I n their approach, they assume a level of theoretical, ethical, political, and practical sophistication o n t h e part of t h e researcher that is rarely encountered. N o r d o they provide any guidelines o r suggestions as t o h o w t h e researcher can w o r k toward this. I n contrast, Vasco lays o u t quite clearly w h a t is required. Essen­ tially, h e is talking about a radical rethinking, theoretically and m e t h o d ­ ologically, o n the part of b o t h the researcher and t h e academy, calling for t h e researcher t o relinquish control and for t h e academy t o recognize different ways of d o i n g research. But researchers with doctorates think, they k n o w best, and universities are n o t a b o u t t o grant equal voice t o the undoctored, particularly those from t h e developing world. Vasco is also calling for the traditional "objects" of research t o become m u c h m o r e active participants in the process. While this did partly happen in Toez Caloto, t h e questions asked and t h e information collected were dictated by an outsider. To a certain extent this was inevitable, given t h a t the research was undertaken t o satisfy the bureaucratic requirement t o produce a development plan. T h e kind of research advocated by Vasco is only possible in places like Guambia and Juan Tama. Toez Caloto was used t o a m o r e paternalistic approach, consistent with their moderniz­ ing discourse.

A Different Type of Engagement

Anthropologists are viewed as a threat—as selfish extractors of knowl­ edge w h o contribute little o r n o t h i n g t o those w h o are the objects or sub­ jects of their research. But w h a t if, following t h e example of Vasco, the research agenda is mutually established and those w h o are normally studied become researchersin their o w n right? I n the introduction t o

C H A P T E R

O N E

a history of the Guambiano in which h e collaborated, Vasco explains h o w they formed a history committee in the resguardo, taped interviews with the older members of the community, and analyzed their narra­ tives. O n the basis of this analysis, they selected key concepts, specific t o G u a m b i a n o thought, which they proceeded t o discuss with a m u c h broader Guambiano audience, including authorities, traditional wise m e n , adults, leaders, teachers, men, w o m e n , and children. T h e resulting b o o k was written together by t h e researchers, based o n their conversa­ tions with m a n y others, and the d o c u m e n t speaks with m a n y voices, powerfully, poetically, and prophetically. By recovering their history, they also recover their authority and their autonomy: "That's w h y we have to recover everything in order t o be able t o have everything com­ plete. Otherwise, we will never be able t o recover o u r authority and autonomy, b u t will continue being dependent. We will n o t be able t o walk again the road taken by our forefathers" ( H u r t a d o , Aranda, and Vasco 1 9 9 8 , 2 6 9 ) .

7

B u t there are also other questions t o be addressed about this m o r e collaborative type of research. W h a t sort of relationships evolve a m o n g external researchers, national or international, and indigenous research­ ers? There is the issue of control, referred t o earlier, as well as that of epistemology. While I can accept the importance of M o t h e r Earth for the Nasa and respect their views regarding her role in indigenous cul­ ture, I w o n d e r w h a t effects such collaboration has o n the thoughts and perceptions of those involved. A t a m i n i m u m , one w o u l d look for increasing mutual respect, which could evolve into differing ways of thinking about and understanding reality. This becomes particularly important w h e n dealing with religious and cosmological issues. W h a t sort of dialogue can result from this sort of engagement? To be fruitful, such dialogue needs t o move beyond mutual respect t o mutual under­ standing, where there is open acknowledgment of the relevance and validity of various types of knowledge. To what extent can this p r o ­ cess alleviate the implicit feelings of guilt experienced by an external researcher? I t can help, t o the extent that the guilty researcher is willing t o relinquish control, listen, and think seriously about h o w t o p r o ­ duce something collaboratively. Finally, w h o wins and w h o loses, or is there reciprocity and mutual benefit? T h e assumption is that such collaboration will n o t only contribute t o the quality and relevance

More Than an Engaged Fieldnote

of t h e research undertaken b u t that all involved will become better researchers. F r o m 1999 t o 2 0 0 1 , 1 participated in a collaborative research project with five other investigators, t w o indigenous, t w o national, and o n e international. T h e t w o indigenous researchers, b o t h Nasa, were Susana Pinacue, a linguist involved in

C R I C ' S

bilingual education program, and

Adonias P e r d o m o , founder of the School of Nasa T h o u g h t (an indige­ nous think tank) and a former member of the cabildo of Pitayo, b o t h of w h o m were completing a bachelor's degree in ethnoeducation at t h e University of Cauca. T h e t w o nationals were Myriam A m p a r o Espi­ nosa, an anthropologist at t h e University of Cauca, w h o has worked with t h e indigenous movement, and Tulio Rojas, a linguist at t h e U n i ­ versity of Cauca, w h o has worked extensively o n t h e study of Nasa Yuwe, t h e language spoken by t h e Nasa. T h e international researcher was Joanne Rappaport, a N o r t h American anthropologist w h o has p u b ­ lished widely o n t h e Nasa and w h o also happens t o be m y wife.

8

T h e objective was t o examine the fluid state of ethnic politics in Colombia t h r o u g h an ethnographic approach emphasizing mterethnic and international collaboration. While each m e m b e r had his o r her specific research project, t h e team met o n a regular basis t o discuss w o r k in progress and c o m m e n t o n the drafts of each other's writings. These team meetings were tape-recorded and transcribed and became part of the research process since they provided insights into h o w t h e various team members viewed this collaborative experiment. Although a lot w e n t o n d u r i n g these meetings, I have chosen, for reasons of space and simplicity, t o concentrate o n those elements that m o s t direcdy relate t o issues of methodology, specifically, t h e roles of the t w o indigenous members of t h e team and m y interactions with them. For Pinacue and P e r d o m o , there were two major issues with which they wresded continuously. T h e first was their relationship t o their fellow Nasa, and the second was t h e ways the results of their research w o u l d b e used. To a certain extent, b o t h regarded themselves as out­ siders, while still remaining insiders—liminal b u t involved. This was so for several reasons. Both were educated, had spent time outside of their h o m e regions, and, in their different ways, were critical of certain as­ pects of indigenous society. I n her early thirties, Pinacue came from a well-known Nasa family, had studied in Popayan, and had traveled in

CHAPTER ONE

Europe. While she identified closely with the indigenous movement, she was highly critical of the politics of the leadership, particularly their lack of recognition of the role of w o m e n in the process. She worked intensively and passionately with

C R I C ' S

bilingual education program,

b u t she was highly critical of the intellectual elitism she found within the organization. F r o m her perspective, the leadership h a d become de­ tached from its rural roots and n o longer fully understood or cared t o understand what she regarded as the harsh realities of everyday indige­ nous life, tending t o romanticize elements of indigenous culture that were, in her opinion, irrelevant. H e r research focus was o n Nasa w o m e n and their role in the indige­ nous movement. M o r e specifically, she was deeply concerned about the ways in which w o m e n leaders were treated and the double standards that were applied t o them, a reflection of the broader male discrimina­ tion against w o m e n in indigenous society. A leader herself, she sym­ pathized and often identified with all those discriminated against. A natural critic, her feelings about the future of Nasa culture were very mixed, reflecting her betwixt-and-between liminal status. T h o u g h pas­ sionate about indigenous culture and t h e importance of studying it, understanding it, and passing it o n t o future generations, she was fully aware that this was an uphill battle against the forces of modernity, institutionalized in education, music, television and movies, clothes, and development. While indigenous culture was b o u n d t o change in the process, she was n o t convinced that it w o u l d necessarily survive in a viable form. A natural skeptic, she tended t o question everything. Perdomo was a natural philosopher. I n his late forties, he came from a nonaligned resguardo, one that was n o t directly affiliated with any re­ gional indigenous organization. Like Pinacue, he had traveled outside the region, t o Bogota and other parts of t h e country, b u t h e continued t o live close t o his h o m e community, where he was actively involved in 1

b o t h resguardo and municipal politics. Like Pinacue , h e was active in bilingual education and had helped establish such a program in his o w n community with assistance from C C F (the Christian Children's F u n d ) , a U.S.-based N G O that provides assistance for children. Although an evangelical, h e was in n o sense a proselytizer and tended t o be very critical of organized religion in general. T h e think tank that h e estab­ lished b r o u g h t together thoughtful Nasa from various parts of the prov-

More Than an Engaged Fieldnote

ince t o discuss issues of c o m m o n concern, such as authority, autonomy, and t h e proper role of t h e cabildo. H i s research focus was o n authority and h o w it was exercised within the communities. Like Pinacue, he was concerned a b o u t t h e future of the Nasa and their culture, t h o u g h his perspective tended t o be m o r e conservative, since h e wished t o preserve the traditional form rather than accept t h e inevitability of its change and evolution. H i s concern was with t h e loss of culture and t h e implications for Nasa y o u t h and t h e future of t h e Nasa as a g r o u p . H e once confided t o m e that he w o u l d like t o use community funds t o send high school students t o study at the university in Popayan, where they w o u l d stay together in a rented house. T h e y w o u l d be guarded by a shaman w h o would be responsible for protecting t h e m from u n d u e u r b a n influences and ensuring that they did n o t "lose their culture." While P e r d o m o also did fieldwork like the rest of us, m u c h of t h e material for his writing came from careful reflection o n his everyday experiences. Although perhaps m o r e "em­ bedded" in Nasa society and culture than Pinacue, w h o worked and lived in Popayan, P e r d o m o felt himself t o be equally liminal, a reflec­ tion of his original mind, his deep concern about t h e future of t h e Nasa, his nonaligned status, and his openness and willingness t o w o r k w i t h outsiders. Since they b o t h occupied liminal positions vis-a-vis their fellow Nasa, Pinacue a n d Perdomo were extremely sensitive t o t h e potential risks they were running by writing a b o u t their o w n ethnic g r o u p . This was a recurring t h e m e in many of t h e team's meetings. W h a t could they say t o make people think seriously about their present everyday realities? H o w m u c h could they say w i t h o u t ranning t h e risk of being accused of being traitors t o their o w n ethnic group? H o w could they reach their respec­ tive audiences w i t h o u t appearing t o o threatening? To a certain extent, b o t h identified with t h e person w h o leaves t h e community, spends time elsewhere, and then returns t o be viewed as a potential troublemaker until proven otherwise. For example, Pinacue implicitly compared her position t o that of a returning female migrant, w h o , it should be noted, is treated very differently from a returning male migrant, implying that w o m e n , if n o t m o r e powerful, are certainly m o r e threatening. " W h e n they [female migrants] return, they become, t h r o u g h experience, a problem. They arrive w i t h other customs that

CHAPTER O N E

shock the community, so this means that they also become like a threat at t h e level of t h e cultural guidelines being generated at t h e level of community, in t h e communities 'inside'" (Team meeting in January 2000). T h e "disorder" has several dimensions, ranging from the more obvious b u t less threatening, such as changes in dress and diet, t o t h e less obvious b u t potentially m o r e threatening, such as gender relations, female sexuality, and economic independence. F o r Pinacue, this "re­ turned migrant" status meant that some viewed her as a threat, while others tried t o dismiss her and criticized her for being single and unmar­ ried. But this status also meant that in spite of all her criticisms, she cared passionately about Nasa culture and Nasa society. For Perdomo, there was an acknowledgment that writing "from t h e edge" provided t h e opportunity t o open t h e community's eyes while running t h e risk of being severely criticized in the process. We're simply saying there's a risk. All of us who reach this edge of the boundary come with a series of risks. M y idea is that this investigation can serve to awaken our community so that we start to construct some processes, to establish some strategies, to prepare from inside how to relate them to the outside. I would say that what the community has is like a form of envy of the person who goes so far and, when he returns, perhaps they think he is going to change the whole way of being. So the community becomes frightened. On one hand, they are frightened of the people who go very close to the boundary. And, when they return, what proposals do they have? The idea then is to limit this, to control it, so you make a series of criticisms, some of which are pejorative. But "inside" is also like the blood [a question of kin­ ship] . . . " [ H ] e doesn't know anything about the community," says the community. But also to what extent is it correct when they say to someone that he knows nothing about the community or is it simply a way of control­ ling, of filtering what he brings? (Team meeting in August 1999)

F o r him, as with Pinacue, t h e indigenous researcher is analogous t o t h e returning migrant. O n t h e o n e hand, t h e community views h i m as a potential threat since h e may try t o change things. Because h e is indige­ nous, his ideas should b e taken seriously. O n t h e other hand, however, because t h e researcher has chosen t o situate himself "at t h e edge," legiti­ mate questions can b e raised about h o w well h e understands everyday realities, a criticism that can b e used t o downplay a n d denigrate t h e researcher's findings.

More Than an Engaged fieldnote

But for b o t h researchers, being at t h e edge provided t h e m with t h e necessary physical distance and social space t o better understand their o w n people and t o better prepare themselves for addressing conten­ tious, contemporary issues. T h e research that they undertook, by neces­ sity, had t o be b o t h practical and applied: t h e results n o t only had t o contribute t o a better understanding of t h e issues studied b u t also had t o help generate s o m e practical solutions. To a certain extent, Pinacue and Perdomo were obsessed with this need, responsibility, and obligation t o return something t o t h e broader Nasa community, as if this were implic­ itly d e m a n d e d from t h e m in return for being "allowed" t o d o research on their o w n people. This feeling of obligation distinguished t h e m from many other nonindigenous researchers, b u t n o t from other indigenous researchers in t h e area. T h e G u a m b i a n o working with Vasco, for exam­ ple, have produced a volume based o n their collaborative historical research ( H u r t a d o , Aranda, and Vasco 1 9 9 8 ) . But whereas t h e G u a m ­ biano research was m o r e concerned with d o c u m e n t i n g t h e past, a topic of great interest t o m a n y indigenous groups, t h e research of the t w o Nasa investigators was primarily concerned w i t h contemporary issues, by definition m o r e provocative, contentious, and critical. As a result, there was a continuing t h e m e t h r o u g h o u t t h e team meet­ ings: H o w w o u l d t h e results b e disseminated? I n practice, t h e team presented t h e preliminary results of their research at a special work­ shop organized at La Maria a n d attended by bilingual teachers, univer­ sity students,

C R I C

employees, and academics. This was repeated dur­

ing a special panel organized at the Eleventh Congress of Colombian Anthropology held in Popayan, and the revised papers were accepted for publication in the edited volume, Returning

the Gaze: Collaborative

Interethnic Research in Cauca at the Turn of the Millennium

(Rappaport

2 0 0 5 b ) . For each of these events, the indigenous researchers received "equal t i m e " with the other participants. They were there as fellow researchers. T h o u g h it proved t o be a grueling experience for both, it helped reinforced their credibility in the eyes of mestizo outsiders and indigenous insiders. While I shared their concerns regarding t h e researcher's responsibili­ ties, I did n o t have t o take t h e same risks that they did nor, try as I did, could I live u p t o the lofty principles articulated b y Vasco. Yet I was still gnawed by a strong feeling of "anthropological guilt," inspired perhaps by t h e fact that I did n o t live in Colombia, n o r did I have a collaborative

47

CHAPTER ONE

relationship with an organization in the same way that Vasco did. W h a t was I contributing t o the Nasa communities that I was studying? At this point I decided, perhaps unconsciously, that m y two Nasa colleagues would become representatives of the people I was studying. While I could "help" t h e m with their research, they could c o m m e n t o n mine as Nasa, providing a form of reality check, while at the same time learning something about h o w I viewed the Nasa and in the process hopefully learning something about m y perspectives o n the Nasa. W h a t I was looking for, perhaps craved, were their opinions and their perceptions. A t the beginning of the project I had envisioned o u r holding long discussions about methodology and epistemology, b u t these did n o t occur. Instead, w e spent a great deal of time listening t o each other explain w h a t w e were doing and trying t o make sense of what w e had found out. As t h e level of mutual respect and confidence grew, these dialogues gradually evolved into a form of sounding board, where ideas were tested for their logic, coherence, and relevance, and where t h e objective was n o t so m u c h t o convince as it was t o explain. M y o w n research benefited from their comments in several ways. T h e relationship was b o t h collegial and cordial, b u t it was also based o n mutual respect, respect for each other's w o r k and autonomy, b u t also the right t o differ. This became clear w h e n discussing each other's writ­ ten work, in my case the draft of a chapter in our collaborative volume, a revised version of which appears here as chapter 5. I n the paper I was attempting t o perform a comparative description and analysis of t w o very different, b u t very distinct experiences with development in Cauca. Well, in this paper I am trying to, I am asking three questions and, as always, they are somewhat large because I am interested in better understanding what the relationship is or what the relationships are between modernity and indigenousness, you can say indigenousness. The second point deals with the role of culture and politics, the role that culture and politics play in this whole process, and third is Susana's favorite question: "What will be the future for indigenous groups, sometimes to a certain extent marginalized?" (Team meeting in January 2000) I had completed several m o n t h s of research at the time I made this statement, b u t I still had problems clearly articulating w h a t I was trying t o do, as demonstrated by the vagueness of m y first question, trying t o relate two already very vague and very contested concepts, "modernity"

More Than an Engaged Fieldnote

and "indigeneity." A t t h e time I m a d e this statement, however, I was steadily becoming convinced that t h e principal question I was inter­ ested in answering dealt with t h e relationship between culture and de­ velopment. T h e major problem was that I was unclear a b o u t h o w t o realistically research this relationship, given people's propensity t o dis­ cuss this issue in rather vague and, in m y view, unrealistic terms. I n some cases, people w o u l d provide carefully t h o u g h t - o u t answers, b u t in others they w o u l d voice t h e standard indigenous perspective. Some of t h e evidence t o bolster m y concern came from a workshop for y o u n g Nasa leaders in which I h a d participated t h e previous year and where I h a d posed this question directly: W h a t is t h e relationship between culture and development? I q u o t e d t h e response of one leader, according t o w h o m culture could always contribute t o development as long as t h e balance w i t h nature was maintained, something which, he argued, indigenous people, o n account of their cosmovision, were well placed t o d o . Pinacue t o o k exception t o this generalization o n t h e grounds that people use it m o r e for strategic reasons, that they ig­ nore t h e cultural diversity that can be found a m o n g t h e various groups of Nasa, a n d that indigenous leaders were exploiting it for their o w n reasons. I'm a little pessimistic about this type of discourse.... These talks are like a Utopia in the face of this range of diversity of things they are confronting at the level of all the communities. And, for example, I don't know how they will be carrying out this context in the North [northern Cauca], given that in the North there is also a diversity of cultural dynamics... . There are many indigenous communities that have another concept of development and neither is there one, there is not this use of harmony, harmony, we are using it more as a question, more from a more capitalistic scope. (Team meeting in January 2000)

She w e n t o n t o compare m y interest in t h e Nasa living in northern Cauca, whose experience she did n o t view as particularly relevant for t h e Nasa as a g r o u p , with t h e behavior and utterances of some of t h e Nasa intellectuals associated with

C R I C ,

w h o , in her opinion, t o o k a totally

unrealistic view of w h a t was happening with Nasa Yuwe and its losing battle with Spanish. A linguist herself by training, very m u c h committed t o bilingual edu­ cation, Pinacue often felt frustrated by t h e lack of interest o n t h e part of

CHAPTER ONE

the parents of indigenous schoolchildren, as well as the lack of relevant materials t o keep t h e students' interest in Nasa Yuwe alive over time. While she preferred indigenous music, h e r students preferred hip-hop and rap. H e n c e , her feelings about t h e relevance a n d sustainability of indigenous education were often ambivalent. H e r view of development was equally critical: I don't know how to work this thing and the other is you cannot generalize this discourse of development for all the communities, because for some development is capital, pesos. You have to do projects because you have to sell these projects for so many pesos, because if you don't, then how do we live? But who within the communities are these monies destined for when they arrive and what is the concept of development within the communities, of the women, the shaman, the midwife? One sees a diversity of things here, that I do not understand how to categorize those levels of development dynamics. (Team meeting in January 2000)

She is making several points here. Within Cauca, there are pronounced differences a m o n g the various groups of Nasa depending o n geography, history, a n d politics. While t h e Nasa living in t h e northern part of the province are often regarded as the m o s t political, they are also viewed as the "least Nasa" in terms of culture because they show l o w interest in speaking Nasa Yuwe or learning about indigenous cosmovision. H e r comments about the Nasa intellectuals within

C R I C

(of which she, of

course, is one) reflect her strong feelings about the unrealities and privi­ leges of a n u r b a n indigenous elite telling t h e rural indigenous masses h o w they should lead their lives. I n her comments she made reference t o an earlier meeting in members of

C R I C ' S

C R I C

attended b y some of these intellectuals,

bilingual education program, and some rural indig­

enous teachers. While there was a very interesting discussion about planning and development and what these concepts mean in Nasa Yuwe a m o n g the urban intellectuals, t h e three schoolteachers sat there m u t e . N o r were they really invited t o participate. H e r skepticism about d e ­ velopment was based o n h e i personal experience of what she h a d seen happening at t h e community level: t h e cult of what was often termed proyertitis, t h e mandate t o design projects t o get funds, with litde clear understanding o r transparency about w h a t actually happened t o t h e funds once disbursed. Similar attitudes are found in Nepal, where de­ velopment is viewed as a provider of employment, rather than a means

More Than an Engaged Fieldnote

of improving local well-being (Pigg 1 9 9 7 ) . I n other words, develop­ ment as practiced in rural Cauca was yet another way for those in power to practice patronage. For Pinacue, this w o r d development was complicated and w e n t against the grain of Nasa t h o u g h t , as if outsiders were trying t o force t h e m t o think and t o behave in a certain way. So, that term [development] appears very complicated to me. That term is like a more schematic vision from outside. It's like we measure precisely the period of the Nasa, what's going to happen in the future, from now until these years the indigenous people will achieve such-and-such, within three, four, orfiveyears. It's like measuring precisely from the outside by means of a schematic question the life project (proyecto de vida) of the indigenous peo­ ple. But from inside, the indigenous people, we would have another way of knowing our future, which is ahead, our future which is behind, and our future which is ahead, it looks a little like the reason for existing on this planet Earth. (Team meeting in March 2000)

For her, t h e imposition of "development" from outside w e n t very m u c h against t h e grain of indigenous temporality by mandating a linear ap­ proach t o change, while at t h e same time severely restricting ways in which t o think a b o u t t h e process. T h e Nasa have their o w n way of dunking a b o u t t h e past, t h e present, t h e future, and t h e continuities a m o n g all three. Pinacue argued that for t h e m t o think a b o u t t h e future in terms of projects lasting three, four, o r five years directly contradicted their life project, a way of thinking holistically a b o u t their long-term future. This discussion, and several others that w e had, were very m u c h conversations a m o n g intellectual equals. T h e topic in question was o n e we had all t h o u g h t seriously a b o u t from various perspectives and a b o u t which w e all had strong opinions. Thinking about t h e future also raised larger questions a b o u t meaning a n d existence, w h a t she later referred t o as la mirada nasa (the Nasa gaze) a different way of looking at t h e world, with different responsibilities t o those w h o came before a n d those w h o will come after, writing in t h e present about t h e past and t h e future. She linked this t o her o w n intellectual project. I am diinking about who I am going to write for. When you sit down to write you are thinking about that grandfather who left us, about that grand-

CHAPTER O N E

mother who left us. We are always yielding to the past, but always thinking about the youth as well, drinking about those two parallels. In that sense it would be like looking a little as if we understand what is planning, develop­ ment projects, life plan. (Team meeting in January 2000)

Perdomo shared many of Pinacue's opinions regarding development, and elaborated o n t h e idea of a Nasa gaze, pointing o u t h o w it had been severely affected by changing political and environmental conditions, as well as by encroaching development organizations: That forces us a little to look at how we are going to reorganize that gaze. This is like the crossword puzzle for me, in which perhaps David is [too] entangled to observe. So, what to do? It's true what Susana outlines, that we have a gaze, very special, our own way of measuring time. And our own way of advancing in space. Nevertheless, perhaps in what I wanted to work I have a part, just as those diverse and intercultural relations also allow us to con­ struct authority. (Team meeting in January 2000)

H e is acknowledging that t h e Nasa way of viewing t h e world has t o change in response t o various external factors, which in turn have af­ fected t h e internal workings of Nasa society. H e a n d Pinacue, since neither is overly schematic, can contribute t o this process of reorganiza­ tion and reinterpretation. For him, his contribution lay in better under­ standing t h e workings of t h e cabildos and using this knowledge t o strengthen them. But h e was also very aware of h o w easily the state and its surrogates could corrupt t h e cabildos with offers of easy money, which, reiterating Pinacue's earlier points, were directed at creating jobs for their friends. This had started w i t h t h e 1 9 9 4 disaster, w h e n , Per­ d o m o claimed, n o less that fifteen h u n d r e d

N G O S

h a d been formed and

had continued thereafter. T h o u g h n o t denying the importance that help from outside could provide, he strongly disagreed w i t h t h e heavy con­ sumer, materialist approach of most contemporary development. Although I always think that the way of measuring development is the other great problem. That we were told that development is to have this chair in this style, these walls in this style, or television sets, or computers, or cars, or all that. So that is another of our errors, the indigenous communities, where we are trying to understand, with a completely false reference, from a view of development as a necessity, as a right, excuse me, as a right but with distinct needs. (Team meeting in January 2000)

More Than an Engaged Fieldnote

Perdomo is criticizing t h e communities for having so easily b o u g h t into the project of modernity with its heavy emphasis o n material acquisi­ tion, w i t h o u t thinking t h r o u g h t h e implications of their short-sighted actions. While the communities may have accepted that development is a right, h e argues that they have chosen t o misinterpret or t o mis­ understand w h a t this development can entail. H e attacks the m o r e o b ­ vious elements of modernity, while countering with w h a t h e regards as deeper, longer term needs. These and other comments obliged m e t o rethink w h a t I meant by development in t h e context of indigenous Cauca and realize that m y approach was t o o n a r r o w and t o o conventional. Their approach t o social change incorporated other elements, such as health, justice, and education, which they could control t o a greater extent. While all three incorporate key aspects of Nasa culture and, hence, Nasa identity, they can also be viewed as part of the project of modernity, as elements of integration, incorporation, and acceptance o n terms established by t h e larger society. But with local control, they can also be used as sites of resistance t o d o m i n a n t discourses and practices. According t o Perdomo, the pursuit of bilingual education offered this potential: And now, thanks to Susana, I have become aware of this process of working on [our] own education, above all with

CRIC.

But it hasn't been done only

with C R I C . But also in other places, for example in Toez [Caloto], they are trying to do the same with the high school. And certainly it's a very different curriculum, but it also has the same type of justification. And this for me has various ramifications . . . [but] the most interesting is the part dealing with education, because perhaps it appears there are possibilities of controlling it to a certain extent. (Team meeting in April 2000)

But this was n o t education in the conventional sense of preparing stu­ dents t o take their place, t o t h e extent possible, in the larger society. It was a m o r e ambitious, radical project designed t o provide students with a better understanding and appreciation of their indigenous roots, while at the same time preparing t h e m t o be productive citizens. As a result, t h e indigenous school, as a locally controlled institution, as­ sumed increasing cultural and political importance within the c o m m u ­ nities. As b o t h Perdomo and Pinacue were b o t h actively involved in bilingual education, it was perhaps inevitable that I became m u c h m o r e

C H A P T E R

O N E

interested in studying education, b o t h the planning and the practice, partly because it appeared t o be m u c h m o r e of a grassroots, participa­ tory activity b u t also because people, specifically parents, felt m u c h m o r e strongly about it than they ever demonstrated about develop­ ment, conventionally understood. O u r differences, however, were n o t limited solely t o the meaning and practice of development. A t the time of o u r collaboration, and for some considerable time afterward, I was wrestling with the meaning and significance of a n e w "actor" w h o had appeared o n the regional scene. La Maria: Territory for Living Together, Dialogue, and Negotiation, was established o n the five h u n d r e d t h anniversary of the Spanish inva­ sion of the Americas. Strategically located o n a bluff overlooking the Pan-American Highway, some thirty kilometers n o r t h of Popayan, its objective was t o create a political space where civil society could make its voice heard in the peace process and the decisions t o b e taken about C o ­ lombia's future development. Since its inception, La Maria has played host t o a series of workshops and meetings: workshops for w o m e n and other specific groups; the quadrennial congress of

C R I C ;

meetings of

A S I (Indigenous Social Alliance), the political party established by the Quintines, the demobilized members of the

M A Q L ,

and

C R I C

in 1 9 9 1 ;

and, m o r e recently, as a staging g r o u n d for organized, peaceful marches t o protest the assassination of indigenous leaders, the pervasive political violence, and the free trade agreement with the U n i t e d States. I t was t o become a major focus of m y research and, in various meet­ ings with the team, I tried t o argue that La Maria was a form of moral community that drew its inspiration from the past, recent and m o r e distant, and used this as a basis for b o t h imagining and practicing a different way of thinking about society. M y argument was based o n close observation of the events organized there as well as the people w h o chose t o participate. T h e participants were often critical of the government and proposed alternatives t o prevailing government poli­ cies and practices. They represented a wide cross-section of regional society, including indigenous people, peasants, urban migrants, politi­ cal activists, social organizers, teachers, high school students, university students, and h u m a n rights activists. W o m e n and y o u n g people were usually well represented. Pervading the events was a strong element of social solidarity, of people coming together t o struggle against injustices

More Than an Engaged Fieldnote of various sorts, while at the same time proposing solutions, some m o r e radical than others. I proposed t o m y colleagues that t h e process under way was also helping strengthen and thicken civil society, a crucial element that has been severely debilitated b y Colombia's o n g o i n g armed conflict. La Maria, and what La Maria has achieved, for me symbolize the best of the indigenous movement, because they worked together, they struggled to­ gether, and they carried themselves very well in a relatively anonymous way and they showed the world that when they want to they can do some­ thing . . . [In spite of all the setbacks], I am wondering how you can define La Maria. Is it a place, a territory, a space? But it's much more than that. What is it? (Team meeting in July 2001)

While La Maria is an alternative political space, it is also part of a larger social m o v e m e n t and appeals t o multiple publics, what Nancy Fraser ( 1 9 9 7 ) has called subaltern counterpublics, where subaltern groups in­ vent and circulate counterdiscourses. Such arenas are n o t enclaves, since they seek t o disseminate their discourse t o other, broader publics. M y indigenous colleagues t o o k a different perspective which, while not totally debunking m y argument, added a m u c h m o r e grounded, more political interpretation. For Pinacue, La Maria served primarily as a political base a n d platform for those indigenous leaders, all male, running for political office at provincial and national levels. I n practice, this sometimes proved t o be the case, b u t w i t h o u t necessarily invalidat­ ing La Maria's larger role. Although this made her question the leaders' sincerity and c o m m i t m e n t t o what La Maria stood for, what particularly irked her was the continuing marginalization of w o m e n and their lead­ ers. Workshops there h a d highlighted t h e importance of h u m a n rights in general and women's rights in particular, b u t she saw little evidence that w o m e n had gained any m o r e political space. T h e leadership did n o t encourage t h e participation of w o m e n , particularly if they were strong and assertive, and had, in fact, terminated

C R I C ' S

program for w o m e n .

But Pinacue also blamed t h e w o m e n themselves—and b y implication herself—for allowing this t o happen. She explained, "Why? Because there is an internal weakness a m o n g us as w o m e n in t h e face of that avalanche that w e have. S o t h e w o m a n simply exists in that space and our task is t o analyze those spaces a n d h o w t o enter a n d empower

CHAPTER ONE

ourselves with those public spaces, while these m e n present concrete proposals which reflect their interests" (Team meeting in July 2 0 0 1 ) . For Pinacue, t h e creation of La Maria had changed little, except t o provide yet another political platform for male leaders, and from which leaders w h o happened t o be w o m e n were effectively excluded. While Perdomo agreed with Pinacue's analysis, h e chose t o place La Maria in t h e broader context of t h e political and cultural tensions that have historically divided the two major ethnic groups in Cauca, the Nasa and the Guambiano. Chronically short of land and surrounded by the Nasa, the G u a m b i a n o have been steadily and legally "colonizing" available adjacent lands. According t o Perdomo, t h e cabildo of G u a m bia does n o t allow a Guambiano family t o purchase land elsewhere unless there is land available in t h e n e w community for at least an additional five G u a m b i a n o families, thus ensuring a continuing b u t growing Guambiano presence. T h e resguardo of La Maria is such a creation, which Perdomo viewed as n o t h i n g less than an expropriation of lands that traditionally had belonged t o t h e Nasa, b u t which t h e Nasa had s o m e h o w lost. For him, t h e key question was: W h y was La Maria established o n land provided b y a Guambiano resguardo, rather than a Nasa resguardo? But h e was equally concerned about this process of w h a t h e regarded as G u a m b i a n o expansion in terms of the cultural costs for those in­ volved. F r o m his perspective, this process could only lead t o an in­ creasing de-Indianization of t h e Guambiano. For him, t h e cultural iden­ tity of t h e Nasa depended in part o n their staying and strengthening their h o m e communities. If they chose t o leave, this identity w o u l d be diluted. T h e Guambiano of La Maria, by leaving their h o m e c o m m u ­ nity of Guambia and estabhshing a n e w community alongside t h e PanAmerican Highway, had chosen this route. P e r d o m o worried about t h e implications for t h e Nasa. " O n e question begets another about La Maria: Is it a space for diluting the ideological and political content, rather than a space for strengthening it? Because if t h e Guambiano become peasants, w h a t will happen t o us, t h e Paez [ N a s a ] , w h e n we arrive there and join forces, will we come o u t stronger o r m o r e confused?" (Team meeting in July 2 0 0 1 ) . F r o m his reading of t h e situation, Perdomo felt apprehensive about t h e outcome of continu­ ing collaboration with t h e Guambiano, fearing that t h e Nasa could well be t h e losers. N o t only w o u l d their cultural identity be threatened, so

More Than an Engaged. Fieldnote w o u l d their lands. T h e G u a m b i a n o of La Maria w o u l d steadily and inevitably encroach o n the lands of the neighboring Nasa. H i s appre­ hension, I felt, was an overexaggeration, a reflection of the long-term rivalry that has existed between the t w o groups, which was particularly urgent for him, as h e lives in a resguardo adjacent t o Guambia. T h e appeal of La Maria t o the indigenous m o v e m e n t was its strategic loca­ tion, and the G u a m b i a n o there h a d willingly offered the land as well as logistical support. While Pinacue remained skeptical, she actively par­ ticipated in many of the events there. Perdomo, for his part, chose t o maintain his distance, at least in the early years. While I respected m y colleagues' opinions, I did n o t share them, partly because I interpreted the processes under way differently, b u t also because t o accept their argument w o u l d have meant rejecting m y o w n , 9

something I was unwilling t o d o at the t i m e . Their skepticism helped temper m y waning romanticism, m y quest for the anthropological grail of t h e "moral community." Moral community there was, b u t neither as powerful n o r as pervasive n o r as promising as I had initially wanted t o believe. W h a t maintained the mutual engagement was the continuing dialogue, n o t only about m y research and their research b u t also a b o u t other contemporary political events, a r o u n d which w e often h a d strong and sometimes differing opinions. For Pinacue and Perdomo, m y engagement with t h e m t o o k several forms. First, there was m y willingness t o read and c o m m e n t o n drafts of their work, comments which they sometimes chose t o accept and other times ignored. Second, there was m y continuing support for their re­ search t o help overcome their initial reservations a b o u t the quality and relevance of their work. T h i r d — a n d this is the least tangible b u t perhaps most important element—there was the realization and acceptance o n their part that n o t only did I take t h e m and their w o r k seriously, b u t that I also t o o k their history and their culture equally seriously. A n d in the process, of course, w e became friends. In this chapter I have provided the methodological context for the ethnography that follows. I n so doing, I have demonstrated the p r o b ­ lematics of conducting research in a country such as Colombia, which has been experiencing a low-intensity form of civil war for the past three decades. But m o r e important, I have discussed the problematics facing anthropologists w h o choose t o conduct research in politically volatile

CHAPTER ONE

environments where they are viewed with suspicion, if n o t outright hostility. Accepting these as a given, as well as the fact that the anthro­ pologist is a free agent w h o can choose t o come and g o as h e wishes, I propose that o n e way t o reach a m o d u s vivendi is t h r o u g h a form of moral, engaged, b u t critical research that is b o t h collaborative and p r o ­ ductive. T h e extent t o which such an approach may unduly affect the ensuing research and the final analysis will be for the reader t o decide.

58

2 We don't want compassion, nor do we understand charity. We seek solidarity. We want to share a little tenderness and brotherhood. —Unidentified victim in the Fundacion Sol y Tierra documentary, yu 'Up'h'ku (TheWatersHave

GivenBirtW

D i s a s t e r and. D i a s p o r a : Discourses of Development a n d Opportunity

Various explanations have been offered for the causes of t h e 1 9 9 4 earth­ quake in Cauca. T h e m o s t relevant have been cultural (that indigenous society was in a state of crisis) and environmental (that t h e region of Tierradentro was ecologically fragile and increasingly incapable of sup­ porting a steadily growing population). Information gathered shortly after t h e earthquake indicates that t h e people living there were vulner­ able o n several counts, including a limited resource base, l o w levels of nutrition, high levels of infant mortality, and low levels of education. To address t h e m o s t immediate problems caused by t h e earthquake, t h e national government created a n e w agency, the Nasa Kiwe Corporation (CNK).

While m u c h criticized by those supposed t o benefit from its

formation, C N K did fulfill its mandate and provide unheard-of oppor­ tunities t o t h e indigenous communities m o s t affected, primarily in t h e provision of land a n d housing. The resulting three n e w Nasa communities are the major focus of this ethnography. T h e first, Toez Caloto, is t h e m o s t modernized a n d best organized of the three, which uses education and selective reinvention of Nasa culture as t h e principal means of advancing its agenda. T h e second is Juan Tama, named after t h e most important cultural hero of the Nasa. Self-conscious, ethnically p r o u d , a n d socially fragmented, Juan Tama is t h e m o s t radical of t h e three and uses indigenous education as the basis of w h a t is essentially a cultural a n d political project. T h e third new community is Cxayu'ce, unselfconsciously Nasa, with n o par-

C H A P T E R TWO

ticular ax t o grind, except t o make the m o s t of the opportunities offered. They have achieved this quiedy and unobtrusively.

Discourses of Displacement a n d Development Anthropology has staked o u t a specific niche in the field of h u m a n displacement in particular, and refugee studies in general, and this in­ terest stems from several factors peculiar t o anthropology and its en­ gagement with development. There is the historical factor, the tradi­ tional humanistic concern of the discipline and its identification with the underdog, ranging from the conventional brokering role t o that of actively campaigning o n behalf of the h u m a n rights of ethnic minori­ ties (MacClancy 2 0 0 2 ) . While historically resettlement has often been viewed as a logistical and engineering problem, it is n o w increasingly perceived as involving social, cultural, and economic issues ( H o r o w i t z et al. 1 9 9 3 ) . I n the early twenty-first century, where there is an increas­ i n g prevalence of war, violence, and mass displacement there are also anthropologists, eager t o study b u t also t o help (Malkki 1 9 9 5 ) . T h e n there is the research factor: the possibility of studying rapid and often traumatic change at close hand, an opportunity that occurs rarely in the m o r e sedate world of academic investigation (Ohver-Smith 1 9 9 6 ) . Fi­ nally, there is t h e developmental factor: the possibility t o exert direct control over the process of change, a type of "anthropological labora­ tory" (Cernea 1 9 9 3 ) . I n discussing the ways in which anthropology can m o r e effectively influence change, Michael Cernea ( 1 9 9 1 ) distinguishes between the enlightenment model, in which knowledge is disseminated t h r o u g h education, and the social engineering model, which is m u c h m o r e pur­ 1

posive and directed. H e criticizes the enlightenment model for being "a tortuous, uncertain, and slow way t o return the benefit of social knowledge t o society and influence its progress" ( 2 9 ) . I n contrast, he praises the social engineering model for its ability t o transform this knowledge into "new k n o w h o w and change tools" t o be p u t t o practical use for the benefit of society. Social engineering, as a contemporary variation o n Auguste Comte's belief that there are natural laws that social science can "discover" and "understand," provides b o t h a ratio­ nale and a justification for a conventional, conservative, t o p - d o w n ap­ proach t o development and social change, particularly in emergency

Disaster and Diaspora situations ( C o w e n and Shenton 1 9 9 5 ) . But this discourse of displace­ m e n t is also a discourse o n governmentality, the belief in the central, determining role of the national government in solving a country's de­ velopment problems t h r o u g h mechanisms of control and domination (Foucault 1 9 9 1 ) . T h e careful analysis of this discourse can provide a basis for understanding and analyzing the mechanisms t h r o u g h which authorities seek t o aclrninister the lives of individuals and collectivities, such as resettled people, and ways in which they respond. This discourse accepts the process of displacement as a given, whether instigated by h u m a n actors or the natural elements, while at the same time proposing a solution based o n a "risk and reconstruction" model of the society and culture affected (Cernea 1 9 9 7 ) . Although calling for "social justice and planning with an equity compass," the model itself is largely inductive, based o n accumulated empirical evidence from various parts of the world. I t is also mechanistic: if there is a lack of A, then the way t o resolve t h e problem is t o provide m o r e of A — e n o u g h , at least, t o replace what is lacking. I n short, the system is n o t the problem for Cernea. But what if the landlessness and the presumed poverty accompanying it have m o r e deep-seated structural causes than those highlighted by a disaster? W h a t if there are important, perhaps insurmountable political and social constraints affecting w h y people's livelihoods were and con­ tinue t o be so vulnerable? W h a t if those displaced are victims of struc­ tural violence that "manifests itself in a deep and widening inequality of life chances; corruption, arbitrariness, and impunity; the permanence of social and economic exclusion; lack of access t o information, educa­ tion, health, and minimal basic needs; and an authoritarian and conde­ scending state and aid system" (Uvin 1998, 1 0 7 ) ? Replacing what was lost may be a m o r e complex and m o r e politically challenging task than Cernea and his model are prepared t o admit, particularly if those t o b e most directly affected are regarded as already "disposable" o n behalf of the "greater good." A n internal World Bank report o n forced resettle­ ment makes precisely this point. All governments care for the poor, but the question in the end is, where will the tradeoff be, who will get the priority? This varies from government to government. In India, there is tremendous concern for the poor—there is a democratic environment and the poor have a vote. But if there is a tradeoff

C H A P T E R TWO

between resettlement of two million people and a dam, and the government does not have the resources, what do you d o ? . . . In the end the government for the benefit of all will perhaps vote for the dam and make the two million people worse off. (Billson 1993,29, cited in Fox 1998, 323)

T h e social engineering model is most problematic in t h e ways t h e so­ cial and cultural components of displacement are categorized, analyzed, and diagnosed. These components are identified as a cluster of inter­ related losses, a direct consequence of the process of displacement. T h e first is marginalization, w h e n families experience a process of down­ ward social a n d economic mobility. T h e second is t h e loss of access t o c o m m o n property, w h e n t h e poor, particularly t h e landless and t h e assedess, experience a deterioration in their income and Uvelihood. T h e final c o m p o n e n t is social disarticulation, which "tears apart the existing social f a b r i c . . . [and] generate[s] a typical state of anomie, crisis-laden insecurity, and loss of sense of cultural identity" (Cernea 1997, 1 5 7 5 ) . C e m e a admits that these three components and ways in which t o ad­ dress t h e m are often ignored o r overlooked by planners ( 1 5 8 1 - 8 2 ) . O n e explanation for this myopia can b e found in t h e development discourse of planners and developers, with its self-serving rationaliza­ tions for external intervention, which tends t o simplify culture, depict­ ing it as something fixed and static that is waiting t o b e acted o n by development (Pigg 1 9 9 7 ) , and using it t o reinforce and naturalize so­ cially produced conditions of difference, based o n class, ethnicity, o r ge­ ography, t o name only the most c o m m o n ( G u p t a and Ferguson 1 9 9 7 ) . But this discourse m a y also choose t o totally ignore culture, o n t h e grounds that treating it seriously, positively, and perhaps constructively may raise profound questions about t h e need o r justification for "de­ velopment" in the first place (Crush 1 9 9 5 ) . I n mainstream development discourse, culture has usually been prefixed with t h e adjective tradi­ tional, itself a pejorative term, and often "blamed," t o a lesser o r greater extent, for t h e continuing problems of "underdevelopment." Viewed from this perspective, culture then becomes just another element of the developmental mix that can b e acted o n and manipulated by external forces (Harrison and H u n t i n g t o n 2000). Yet as several authors have pointed o u t , it is precisely during trau­ matic events of displacement, m o m e n t s of total crisis, w h e n "all hell breaks loose" (Warner 1 9 4 7 ) , that anthropology can move from being

Disaster and Diaspora the study of "the ordinary, the everyday, the routine" (Malkki 1 9 9 5 ) t o the study of the extraordinary, w h e n people have the opportunity t o remake themselves and their culture (Ohver-Smith 1 9 9 6 ) . T h e o d o r e Downing, concerned a b o u t the lack in Cernea's model of any theoreti­ cal explanation of h o w and w h y social disarticulation occurs, suggests that culture provides the answers t o w h a t he calls "primary questions," such as " W h o are we? W h e r e are we? W h y d o people live and die? W h a t are o u r responsibilities t o others and ourselves?" ( 1 9 9 6 , 3 6 ) . I n the process of displacement and resettlement, refugees are forced t o reex­ amine these primary cultural and philosophical questions, while draw­ ing o n their culture t o help t h e m adapt t o changing conditions. This framework provides a context for beginning t o understand h o w the state, in this case the national government, responded t o the 1 9 9 4 disaster, b u t it does n o t explain the different discourses offered by t h e state and other involved agencies and h o w these changed over time. N o r does it explain the different ways in which the three resettled com­ munities chose t o respond t o the opportunities offered or the differing discourses they articulated t o justify their priorities. These discourses of development can only be understood and explained within the broader political, social, and cultural context within which the disaster occurred.

Disaster as a n Act of God, Nature, or M a n ? O n June 4 , 1 9 9 4 , the region of Tierradentro, located in the northeastern part of the province of Cauca, was partially destroyed by an earthquake measuring 6.3 o n the Richter scale. T h e earthquake was followed by a series of avalanches and n u m e r o u s landslides, which flattened houses, buried livestock, blocked roads and trails, killed m o r e than a thousand people, displaced 20 percent of the population, and ruined some forty thousand hectares of land. T h e municipalities affected were inhabited predominantly by the Nasa, the largest indigenous g r o u p in the prov­ ince. T h e earthquake struck at four in the afternoon o n a national holi­ day. Already geographically isolated, access by road was almost impos­ sible, and t h e organizations that wished t o help had t o rely initially o n helicopters t o rescue people from the devastated communities. T h e res­ cued were housed in temporary camps, prior t o their resettlement o n new lands, often located at some distance from Tierradentro. As a result of the disaster, the Nasa, whose identity as a community has always been

C H A P T E R TWO

closely interwoven with their links t o territory, were forced t o deal with several interrelated issues simultaneously: the search for new lands; the development of n e w community structures and institutions; linkages w i t h their communities of origin; and their visions of the future, of development and modernity. I n short, they were obliged t o redefine w h a t it is t o be Nasa, t o be indigenous, in contemporary Colombia, b u t with t h e concrete possibility of being able t o act o n their resulting redefinitions (Rappaport and G o w 1 9 9 7 ) . Paradoxically, the tragedy offered t h e m the opportunity t o break with the past and start fresh. I n m o r e general terms, displacement is usually caused by natural di­ saster, political strife, government intervention, or government neglect, operating individually o r in combination. Government neglect may also be o n e of the major factors responsible for natural disasters, as in the case of Tierradentro. G r o u p s that are economically and politically margin­ alized are m o r e likely t o have t o live in areas that are more vulnerable t o catastrophic events (Lubkemann 2 0 0 2 ) . This was n o t always the case. Historically, floods, earthquakes, and tornadoes were viewed as signs of God's displeasure, a natural evil resulting from a moral evil (Neiman 2 0 0 2 ) . A n examination of the sermons written after the N e w England earthquakes of 1 7 2 7 and 1 7 5 5 , t h e latter felt over some three h u n d r e d thousand square miles, found that the ministers blamed a "moral im­ balance in h u m a n behavior" for their occurrence, and the author con­ cludes that "earthquakes, especially tragic ones, were n o t merely luckless occasions for the chance sufferer; they were deeply meaningful punish­ ments and conspicuous warnings" (Van de Wetering 1 9 8 2 , 4 2 2 , 4 3 6 ; in Steinberg 2000, xxi). T h e Lisbon earthquake of 1 7 7 5 was said t o shock Western civilization m o r e than any event since the fall of R o m e (Neiman 2 0 0 2 , 2 4 0 - 5 0 ) ? It was o n e of the world's wealthier cities, strategically located o n the edge of E u r o p e , a natural point of departure for exploration and coloniza­ tion. T h e wealth lost was vast, mcluding gold and silver, works of art, and thousands of books and manuscripts. M o r e than fifteen thousand people died. Theologians at t h e time regarded this particular earth­ quake as a double gift from heaven: o n the o n e hand, a punishment for particular transgressions, and o n the other, a manifestation of God's continuing role in the world. But if earthquakes were regarded as para­ digms of natural evil, what kind of moral evil had Lisbon committed t o

Disaster and Diaspora produce this one? Traditional sins like ordinary greed and licentiousness provided sufficient explanation, and survivors were given the oppor­ tunity t o repent before t h e general apocalypse visited everyone. But this interpretation did n o t g o unchallenged. W h e n the unhappy king of Portugal asked his controversial prime rninister w h a t should b e d o n e after the earthquake, he is said t o have replied, "Bury the dead and feed the living" ( N e i m a n 2002, 2 4 8 ) . This pragmatic thinking has also pre­ vailed in the U n i t e d States. By the end of the twentieth century, only religious fundamentalists continued t o draw moral lessons from such disasters, and the trend t o w a r d secularization has been strengthened by the state's increasing role in rationalizing disaster. If this is the case, then w h y bother t o distinguish between natural di­ sasters and man-made ones ? Ted Steinberg ( 2 0 0 0 , 1 8 4 ) argues that this is a way for the state t o subsidize pro-development interests and uphold the prevailing economic order. T h u s the federal government can ratio­ nalize its assistance t o the victims of hurricanes, earthquakes, floods, and tornadoes, "events beyond h u m a n control—unpredictable and un­ foreseen acts of nature or God," while conveniently ignoring the social, political, h u m a n , and cultural factors underlying such calamities, as hap­ pened in Tierradentro. Nevertheless, there is a growing movement t o deemphasize the importance of the "natural" in the study of disasters, and a growing emphasis o n understanding the historical and socio­ political context in which such disasters occur ( H e w i t t 1 9 8 3 ) . I n the case of Tierradentro, some have argued that until twenty-five years ago there was a balance between population and available resources. Over the ensuing years, however, a growing population exerted increasing pressure o n an already fragile environment, resulting in increasing deg­ radation and decreasing productivity. But Tierradentro was and still is t o a certain extent a region of refuge. Isolated, inhospitable, and diffi­ cult t o access, it has been a place where indigenous people could feel relatively safe from the economic and social discrimination exercised against t h e m elsewhere by mestizo society. While there are often major differences in the reasons that people become displaced, there are significant similarities in the immediate effects of their displacement. T h e y lose their households and their p r o ­ ductive assets; their domestic economies are disrupted, if n o t destroyed, together w i t h their social networks and sense of community; they are

C H A P T E R TWO

forced t o move t o other areas where they may n o t be welcome; they are often severely traumatized by the experience of becoming a refugee; and, in the case of ethnic minorities, their identity may be threatened. I n recent years, those displaced within their o w n country, internally displaced people, have increasingly become a "problem for develop­ m e n t " because the agencies involved in ameliorating their situation, rather t h a n just providing immediate emergency relief, are also increas­ ingly expected t o provide long-term development assistance. Consequendy, there is a risk that the discourses of development, as perpetrated by development institutions, may colonize the discourse(s) of displace­ ment, as practiced by relief agencies, and downplay (if n o t outright ignore) the role of politics and history. I n this way, the process that gave rise t o the displacement in the first place is never acknowledged and never addressed, and the situation never really improves (Malkki 1 9 9 5 ) • I n t h e case presented here, t h e majority of relief a n d development efforts were directed at the n e w communities elsewhere, and few activities were focused o n Tierradentro itself. Those displaced from their communities of origin were given priority because their needs were greatest. Also, at that time in Cauca's history, camps of displaced people were a political embarrassment. Those w h o remained in Tierradentro suffered t h e same fate as they did before the disaster. F r o m the perspective of b o t h p r o ­ vincial and national governments, they were effectively o u t of sight and o u t of mind. Gustavo Wilches, the person initially in charge of resettlement ac­ tivities, a native of Popayan and a widely respected authority o n disaster relief, regarded the Nasa as being in a state of crisis at the time of the disaster, b u t so did Chucho Pinacue, president of the Regional Indige­ n o u s Council of Cauca

(CRIC)

, and himself a Nasa from Tierradentro.

But this crisis—if indeed it was a crisis—must be viewed in the broader context, particularly economic a n d cultural, in which the tragedy oc­ curred. A

C R I C

documentary produced shortly after the disaster argued

that the cultivation of illegal crops, such as coca, marijuana, and o p i u m poppies, had been b r o u g h t o n by the widespread impoverishment expe­ rienced by indigenous people—in other words by their vulnerability ( C R I C

1 9 9 4 ) . U s i n g the Guambiano, another local indigenous group,

as an example, t h e documentary shows that in a community where arable land is scarce and productivity low, illegal crops can complement the existing household economy, providing cash for the purchase of

Disaster and Diaspora family necessities, including t h e costs involved in sending children t o school. While such crops can be g r o w n in all sorts of soil, the highaltitude pdramo, with its very sensitive ecosystem, is favored because of its isolation and abundant water. People are well aware that activities of this sort have potentially dire environmental consequences, b u t they continue t o exploit these fragile resources. Although the occurrence of earthquakes may demonstrate punish­ m e n t for h u m a n errors, they may also symbolize h o p e for the future. T h e earthquake of 1 9 9 4 was n o t the first of its kind. There had been earthquakes at regular thirty-year intervals t h r o u g h o u t the twentieth century, in 1 9 0 7 , 1 9 3 7 , and 1968 ( G o m e z and Ruiz 1 9 9 7 , 1 0 9 ) . Earth­ quakes have also played an important role in the cultural history of the Nasa. All of Tierradentro's culture heroes were b o r n in highland streams, the progeny of the stars. Juan Tama, for example, was born in Vitonco in the Stream of t h e ' M o r n i n g Star. Rescued b y the shamans, h e was entrusted t o virgin nursemaids, w h o m h e killed b y sucking their blood. A m o n g other achievements, he laid d o w n a set of laws for the Nasa t o follow, laws they still quote today. At the end of his life h e disappeared into Juan Tama Lake, the m o s t sacred Nasa site and o n e which continues t o figure in the m o s t important contemporary rituals. According t o contemporary Nasa, h e still lives there, waiting t o be called o n should the need arise. M o s t recently h e returned t o aid his people after the La Violencia (Rappaport 1998 [ 1 9 9 0 ] , 1 5 4 - 5 5 ) . Earthquakes, then, are associated with the possible birth of a n e w cacique or leader ( G o m e z and Ruiz 1997, 1 5 6 ) . Such was also the h o p e in 1994, except for the fact that the shamans gave n o warning of this possibility. While the shamans were roundly criticized for this failure o n their part, specifically for providing n o warning of the impending disas­ ter, Pinacue, in his dual role as a Nasa and president of

C R I C ,

an­

nounced t h a t "the avalanche did n o t bring w i t h it the birth of a cacique b u t the announcement and warning that the Paez [i.e., N a s a ] should prepare themselves for his coming, that's the reason w h y they have t o support the shamans and be very unified t o assume the reconstruction autonomously" ( G o m e z and Ruiz 1 9 9 7 , 1 5 7 ) . B u t the shamans themselves were aware of their failings. D o n Angel Maria Yoino, a well-respected shaman from Juan Tama introduced briefly in the introduction, dreamed about the earthquake a year before it happened. T h e falling rocks and words of t h e ancestors convinced

CHAPTER TWO

him that he was going t o die. Filled with a great sadness, he was unable t o understand what was happening. The problem was that I couldn't understand what the rocks meant. The dream did mean something bad, because then I realized that the signs [semis, literally bodily vibrations] indicated that I would just die. Then I asked myself what these signs were, but there was no one to discuss it with, because 3

nobody at the time believed in such things."

But D o n Angel was n o t the only one t o experience visions of forebod­ ing. Herinaldy G o m e z and Carlos Ariel Ruiz ( 1 9 9 7 , chap. 5 ) collected a series of stories and dreams associated with the disaster, b u t with rather m o r e ambiguous implications. I n " T h e Cross and the Serpent," a story recorded in Vitonco, t h e narrator sees a Christian cross, the symbol of domination, and a serpent, a symbol of the Nasa, being swept d o w n the River Paez. But t h e cross passes o n t h e right-hand side of the river, an ominous sign, whereas the serpent passes o n the left-hand side, a favor­ able sign. A year after the tragedy, after a ritual of purification (refrescamiento) in t h e neighboring community of Wila, also hard hit by t h e earthquake, t h e officiating shaman was asked w h a t this story meant and w h a t its implications were for t h e future of t h e Nasa. H e responded with a guarded optimism, reflecting the historical and cultural roots of the Nasa a n d their capacity t o take t h e long-term view ( G o m e z and Ruiz 1 9 9 7 , 2 0 0 ) . T h e attitudes of those displaced toward their communities of origin in Tierradentro have varied considerably. I n a documentary m a d e by F S T just after t h e tragedy, in which various Nasa leaders (specifically cultural activists and shamans) express their opinions about what hap­ pened, the narrator states that the ultimate aim of Nasa culture, its ideal, is t o achieve a state of harmony, a balanced relationship a m o n g peo­ ple and their environment, M o t h e r Earth ( F S T 1 9 9 4 ) . T h e concept of pta'nz, that which works against this state of harmony, is key t o under­ standing Nasa culture and t h e role of the shaman, since he is t h e only person with t h e necessary power a n d knowledge t o recognize its pres­ ence and deal with it t h r o u g h the observance of certain well-established 4

rituals. This state of discord has its roots in h u m a n failings. Pta'nz "is t h e n everything that generates disharmony or disequilibrium as a result of the actions or behavior of the individual or the ethnic collectivity or the actions undertaken witxiin t h e territory by non-indigenous people

Disaster and Diaspora w h o live there o r by strangers passing t h r o u g h " ( G o m e z 2 0 0 1 , 3 4 2 ) . W h a t is being emphasized here is t h e importance of balance and har­ mony, n o t just between people and their natural environment b u t also a m o n g t h e indigenous people themselves, as well as between t h e m and nonindigenous people. H e n c e , such potentially disrupting activities as the cultivation of illegal crops, such as coca and o p i u m , o r t h e creation of armed self-defense units are all viewed with suspicion until such t i m e as t h e shaman, t h e recognized mediator, resolves the potential discord. For this reason a m o n g others, shamans have often been t h e targets of those w h o w o u l d d o harm t o t h e communities. Those interviewed during the documentary, all Nasa, agree that some­ thing h a d g o n e very w r o n g . T h e most eloquent, Manuel Sisco, an intel­ lectual w i t h close links t o shamans, concludes that t h e Earth n o longer regards t h e Nasa as her children, because they have chosen t o disregard her advice a n d g o their o w n way. H e tells t h e story of a shaman w h o fell asleep after t h e earthquake and was visited by M o t h e r Earth in the form of a very old grandmother. She tells h i m that she is very upset and tired o u t by the transgressions of her children w h o n o longer love each other or respect either her o r t h e natural environment. I n fact, they are n o longer Nasa. She concludes by issuing an ultimatum: " I ' m tired of you. I am g o i n g t o turn the other way. I ' m going t o t u r n m y back o n you n o w so that you'll realize what it's like t o live w i t h o u t a mother."

The Ethnographic Context

Formerly called the Paez, t h e Nasa live in t h e northern and eastern regions of Cauca and t h e western part of t h e neighboring province of Huila, b u t they have also migrated as colonists t o western Cauca and the provinces of Caqueta and Putumayo. Traditionally, anthropologists have described t h e Nasa as a community of indigenous cultivators w h o live in dispersed settlements across t h e hillsides of the Cordillera Central and cultivate coffee, sugarcane, corn, and beans o r potatoes and other 5

Andean tubers, depending o n t h e altitude (Rappaport 1998) . T h e cen­ ter of Nasa country is Tierradentro, an isolated and mountainous zone o n the eastern slopes of t h e Cordillera Central. Since t h e time of the Spanish invasion in 1 5 3 6 , t h e Nasa have been stereotyped as warriors w h o fiercely resisted the Europeans and w h o , when defeated o n the field of battle, continued t o fight those in p o w e r in t h e courts.

C H A P T E R TWO

I n the twentieth century, the struggle for land was led by Manuel Quintin Lame, a Nasa sharecropper. F r o m 1 9 1 0 onward, there were in­ creasing confrontations between the elites of Cauca and the growing landless indigenous population, fighting t o maintain or reestablish the resguardos (Rappaport 1998, 1 1 3 ) . It was n o t only the loss of land and the increasing impoverishment of the people that motivated Q u i n t i n Lame. H e was also incensed by the conditions of semi-slavery in which they were forced t o live and work, and the loss of h u m a n dignity that this entailed. Lame's demands covered five points, which reverberated t h r o u g h o u t the indigenous m o v e m e n t for the rest of the century: when C R I C

was established in 1 9 7 1 , its proposed program covered essentially

the same points (Castillo 1 9 7 1 , xviii): While primarily nonviolent, the contemporary struggle first emphasized grassroots organization and, under

C R I C ,

the occupation and recovery of stolen lands and the imple­

mentation of development projects. T h e Nasa have been and continue t o be respected for b o t h their persistence and their resistance (Findji andBonilla 1 9 9 5 ) . I n spite of existing ethnographic stereotypes, there is great diversity a m o n g the Nasa. Significant numbers of people have been living o n the western slopes of the Cordillera Central since colonial times, an area characterized by sugar plantations, cattle ranching, agroindustry, land disputes, wage labor, and a long history of political violence. H e r e , the struggle for land has been m u c h more intense than in Tierradentro, involving n o t just the Nasa b u t also other groups, such as AfroColombian and mestizo peasants (Espinosa 1 9 9 6 ) . Because history and politics and the experience of modernity have been so different there, chapter 5 presents some comparative material from the Nasa munici­ pality of Toribio. There is also a considerable degree of difference and diversity within Tierradentro itself. I n the communities lying in t h e Moras Basin, one of the major watersheds in Tierradentro, the levels of Nasa monolingualism or Nasa-Spanish bilingualism are higher than those found in the Paez Basin, the other major watershed, where the levels of formal education are higher (Rojas 1994) • Furthermore, t h e levels of historical awareness, closely linked t o par­ ticipation in the indigenous movement, also vary between t h e t w o wa­ tersheds. While some communities deploy their knowledge of the past within the framework of the ethnic movement, others have, until re­ cently, refused t o have anything t o d o with the politics of the regional

Disaster and Diaspora indigenous organizations. T h e Nasa displaced by the most recent earth­ quake come from b o t h regions of Tierradentro. Diversity between Tierradentro and t h e other Nasa zones, as well as a m o n g the communities within Tierradentro itself, has played an important role in determining h o w the Nasa have responded t o the disaster and the solutions they have proposed. T h e resettled communities, which are the focus of this study, c o m e from b o t h regions of Tierradentro, and their continuing differences stem partly from their divergent histories. W h a t the stereotypes o m i t is any reference t o the vulnerability of the Nasa. Vulnerability can be defined in general terms as a group's level of preparedness, resilience, and health for dealing w i t h a disaster ( C a n n o n 1 9 9 4 ) . People w h o are vulnerable are m o r e exposed t o risks, shocks, and stresses, and hence are less capable of coping w i t h sudden changes (Chambers 1 9 9 7 ) . Those most affected by the disaster in 1 9 9 4 were highly vulnerable in material terms, as are many of those w h o continue t o live in Tierradentro. While the level of preparedness in Tierradentro at the time of the disaster was nonexistent, the levels of resilience, as indicated by livelihood security and health, were and con­ tinue t o be extremely low. Underlying theories of vulnerability is the concept of powerlessness, that people at risk, with few rights and little protection, often lacking in adaptive capacities, are found t o be politi­