Fragile States and Insecure People?: Violence, Security, and Statehood in the Twenty-First Century (Governance, Security and Development)

Fragile States and Insecure People?

PALGRAVE STUDIES IN GOVERNANCE, SECURITY, AND DEVELOPMENT Series Editor: Dietrich Jung of the Danish Institute for International Studies This series contributes to the critical analysis of international affairs, linking the theoretical and the empirical, especially through comparative works. The focus is on three processes in international relations: governance involving both formal and informal institutions; security, meaning that of key actors in international society, with a focus on the distinctions and differences among security of and for individuals, groups, and states; and development, meaning the improvement of both political and economic conditions for individuals and groups. The links among the three will be a focus, which is pertinent given the interactions among them and among the levels of influence (from individual to global society). Also in the series: Aid Impact and Poverty Reduction Edited by Steen Folke and Henrik Nielson Democratization and Development: New Political Strategies for the Middle East Edited by Dietrich Jung Fragile States and Insecure People?: Violence, Security, and Statehood in the Twenty-First Century Edited by Louise Andersen, Bjørn Møller, and Finn Stepputat State Recognition and Democratization in Sub-Saharan Africa: A New Dawn for Traditional Authorities? Edited by Lars Buur and Helene Maria Kyed

Fragile States and Insecure People? Violence, Security, and Statehood in the Twenty-First Century

Edited by Louise Andersen, Bjørn Møller, and Finn Stepputat

Danish Institute for International Studies

FRAGILE STATES AND INSECURE PEOPLE? © Louise Andersen, Bjørn Møller, and Finn Stepputat, 2007.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. First published in 2007 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN™ 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010 and Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire, England RG21 6XS Companies and representatives throughout the world. PALGRAVE MACMILLAN is the global academic imprint of the Palgrave Macmillan division of St. Martin’s Press, LLC and of Palgrave Macmillan Ltd. Macmillan® is a registered trademark in the United States, United Kingdom and other countries. Palgrave is a registered trademark in the European Union and other countries. ISBN 13: 978–1–4039–8382–4 ISBN 10: 1–4039–8382–8 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Fragile states and insecure people? : violence, security, and statehood in the twenty-first century / edited by Louise Andersen, Bjørn Møller, Finn Stepputat. p. cm.—(Governance, security, and development) ISBN 1–4039–8382–8 (alk. paper) 1. National security—Developing countries—Congresses. 2. Political violence—Developing countries—Congresses. 3. Developing countries—Politics and government—21st century—Congresses. 4. Developing countries—Foreign relations—Congresses. I. Andersen, Louise. II. Møller, Bjørn. III. Stepputat, Finn. IV. Dansk institut for internationale studier. UA10.5.F73 2007 355⬘.03301724—dc22

2006052729

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Design by Newgen Imaging Systems (P) Ltd., Chennai, India. First edition: August 2007 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Printed in the United States of America.

Contents

List of Tables

vii

Preface

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Part I: State Fragility and Security 1. Introduction: Security Arrangements in Fragile States Finn Stepputat, Louise Andersen, and Bjørn Møller 2. What to Do? The Dilemmas of International Engagement in Fragile States Louise Andersen

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Part II: Security Beyond the State 3. The Organization of Violence: A Historical Overview Martin van Creveld

47

4. Local Security Systems in Somali East Africa Ken Menkhaus

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5. Protectors and Predators: Why Is There a Difference among West African Militias? William Reno 6. Nonstate Providers of Everyday Security in Fragile African States Bruce Baker

99 123

Part III: Reforming Security Forces 7. Security Sector Reform in Afghanistan: An Instrument of the State-Building Project Mark Sedra

151

8. Integration of Former Enemies into National Armies in Fragile African States Bjørn Møller and Gavin Cawthra

177

vi

CONTENTS

9. Insecurity, State, and Impunity in Latin America Finn Stepputat

201

Part IV: Policy Implications 10. Conclusion: Toward a Multilayered Approach to Security Eric Scheye and Louise Andersen

227

About the Contributors

247

Index

251

List of Tables

2.1 6.1 8.1 9.1

Approaches to international engagement in failed states African policing groups other than the state police War endings Homicide rates in low- and middle-income countries ca. 2000

27 127 178 203

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Preface

his volume grew out of a research project on security structures in weak and fragile states, which materialized thanks to funding from the Danish Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The project intended to explore the policy challenges of addressing security needs in areas where the formal state has no or very little presence. As the project progressed, its scope expanded into the equally tricky question of how to analyze and grasp security in areas where common normative models of state order are clearly inadequate. The project thus went beyond a technical discussion of how to formulate appropriate responses to security needs in fragile states and ventured into the theoretically—and politically—profound questions of how order and security are pursued under the particular circumstances which characterizes so-called fragile states. To explore these questions—while keeping the initial focus on policy in mind—the conference “Fragile States and Insecure People?” brought together the contributors at the Danish Institute for International Studies in June 2006. The conference allowed us to share thoughts and ideas on the theoretical, political, and practical challenges, and we quickly realized that the group of people, whom we had been fortunate enough to engage in the project, embodied a unique combination of theoretical and empirical perspectives on these issues. The conference papers deserved a larger audience and fortunately Palgrave agreed. We want to thank the contributors for responding enthusiastically to our invitation and for being willing to submit their articles at short notice. Thanks also to Ane Toubro and Kasper Hoffmann from the Danish Institute for International Studies for meticulously proofreading the manuscript.

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LOUISE ANDERSEN, BJØRN MØLLER, AND FINN STEPPUTAT

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Part I

State Fragility and Security

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Introduction: Security Arrangements in Fragile States Finn Stepputat, Louise Andersen, and Bjørn Møller

State Fragility as a Policy Concern Since the end of the cold war, security and development have been reinterpreted and the boundaries between them increasingly blurred. Development agencies—who used to shun violent conflicts—are now actively engaged in conflict prevention and conflict transformation, while their colleagues from defense and foreign policy have taken a much broader interest in parts of the world that previously rarely appeared on their radars. This merger between security and development remains contested and incomplete. Yet, an unusual consensus has evolved on a common agenda of promoting democracy, good governance, and human rights in pursuit of “their” development and “our” security (Duffield 2001; Beall et al. 2006). To some extent this departs with the state-centric perceptions of both security and development that dominated during the cold war. The introduction of “human security,” “human development,” and sovereignty as the “responsibility to protect” has shifted focus toward a more people-centered approach. In the current policy framework, neither of these concepts is, however, presented as adverse to state security and state interests. On the contrary, they are seen to be mutually reinforcing in the long run: A stable and effective state is a precondition for human development and human security; and a state which fails to provide development and security to its citizens is neither strong nor stable. It is fragile. Throughout the 1990s, the nexus between development and security was primarily developed in terms of peacebuilding. In recent years, the term “state- building” has been gaining ground. To a large extent the

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objective remains the same: to assist war-torn countries escape the scourge of violent conflict and achieve lasting peace and sustainable development. The shift toward state-building discourse, however, highlights that the establishment of efficient and legitimate national institutions are increasingly seen as pivotal. To overcome problems of violent conflict and poverty, societies need to build a state that is capable and responsive as well as effective and just. The same emphasis on institutional capacity is found in the so-called aid effectiveness school which has inspired a drastic reorientation of aid toward the “good performers.” The obvious flip side of this policy is the tendency to ignore those performing poorly—that is, countries that lacked the institutional capacity and/or political will to pursue pro-poor policies. Since the 1990s, donor funds have increasingly been diverted toward strong and stable states, where most development was achieved per aid-dollar (Levin and Dollar 2005). Inadvertently, this practice has run counter to the peacebuilding objectives of preventing violent conflict and restoring war-torn societies. Indicators of weak capacity and repressive policies could have served as early warnings and signaled the initiation of large-scale preventive measures. In most cases, however, they have done the exact opposite and signaled the retraction of foreign aid. The current policy focus on fragile states is formulated as an explicit attempt to remedy this practice (USAID 2005; DFID 2005). Perhaps, the most innovative element in the attempt to approach fragile states differently is to emphasize the need for a highly focused reform agenda. This contrasts sharply with the comprehensive, holistic, and multidimensional development strategies of the 1990s. Instead of addressing all areas in need of change, donors now claim that emphasis should be on “improving governance and capacity in the most basic security, justice, economic and social service delivery functions” (OECD 2005a: 1). This brings the security institutions of the state to the fore of international involvement in fragile states. Since the 1990s, a standard formula for peacebuilding and state building has emerged from the growing number of international interventions in war-torn countries (Chesterman 2004; Paris 2004). The formula includes the deployment of an international peace mission (often consisting of many soldiers and few police officers) alongside the launching of massive political and economic reforms, aimed at promoting democracy, market economy, and good governance. Within this overall agenda, the policy template for transforming the security institutions in a conflict-ridden country remains sketchy. The numerous guidelines and policies on security sector reform (SSR) aim primarily at reforming a security apparatus that is too strong, too effective—not at transforming one that is fragile and fragmented

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as is the case in most war-torn states (see, e.g., OECD 2005b). In the absence of specific guidelines, most SSR efforts in fragile states have thus focused broadly on the dual task of (re)establishing a Weberian monopoly on violence and installing good governance safeguards to prevent the state from abusing this monopoly. Whether this is the only possible—or indeed the most appropriate approach—is explored throughout this book. Aim and Structure of the Book This volume aims at taking a fresh analytical look at the problems, forms, and dynamics of security provision in areas where formal state institutions have no or limited presence. Whether such areas are referred to as failed, weak or fragile states, or as difficult partnerships or low-income countries under stress—as Western donors tend to do—or whether one prefers to use more fashionable analytical metaphors as those currently emerging from certain quarters of the social sciences—global borderlands, frontiers, and zones of exception—we are essentially dealing with the contested limits of state control over territory and population. Geographically, this phenomenon is found in large parts of Sub-Saharan Africa, including Somali East Africa, most of western Africa and the Great Lakes region. It is, however, also at work in the Middle East, Central Asia, and Latin America as well as in many metropolitan areas—not least megacities such as Sao Paolo, Mumbai, or Johannesburg. By default as it were, these zones constitute laboratories for the political strategizing and analysis of state building. And by virtue of the real life alternatives to state authority and state legitimacy they present, they force us to rethink and explore the limits of the normative state model that is underpinning most of the current discussion about order and disorder in the global system. This volume on security—and insecurity—in fragile states thus seeks to ●

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identify different kinds of institutions and arrangements for the provision of security analyze relationships (of cooperation, conflict, or indifference) between different sets of security institutions and arrangements, including current attempts at reforming the security sector in so-called fragile states scrutinize underlying assumptions and blind spots of these attempts, and outline possible scenarios, political choices and the implications these choices may have.

Looking at state-building projects in the colonial and postcolonial world they may be located somewhere between direct and indirect rule in regard

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to the ways in which relations are organized between state institutions and nonstate entities that dispense justice or command some measure of control over means of force in fragile states.1 The distinguishing feature between the two forms is whether the aim is to create uniform conditions and standards within a territory and population under direct state responsibility or whether some kind of accommodation is foreseen between state institutions and nonstate authority under the sovereignty of the state. Whereas direct rule requires that nonstate providers of justice and security are eliminated or brought under state control, indirect rule is based on some kind of screening, control, and recognition of de facto authorities with the acceptance of different standards and conditions for different segments of the population. In other words, recognizing the limitations of state institutions and “making do” with some of the existing, plural systems. Indirect rule has rarely been formally institutionalized in postcolonial states, and particularly not in the security sector, but if we look upon how different security arrangements develop in practice it may be appropriate to talk about forms of “indirect government.” Or, as Ken Menkhaus suggests in his contribution to this volume, we may use the notion of “mediated state” to conceptualize an arrangement in which the state desires to promote—if only indirectly—order, stability, and rule of law, without being able to project its authority into peripheral areas. In the remainder of this introduction we will take a look at the idealtype state and security sector which runs through security sector reforms, present a brief view of actually existing states and security sectors, sketch out current attempts at reforming security sectors, and discuss the possibilities of “making do” with existing systems and providers of security in zones of limited state control. Finally we will discuss the analytical and political challenges lying ahead of us. Along the way we will briefly introduce the chapters of the book. Fragile Statehood To make sense of the discussion of state fragility, weakness, or outright failure and collapse, one must begin with the normative ontology of the sovereign, territorial state which dominate theories of international politics and which have developed alongside the actual formation of modern states. In particular in the West, populations have come to regard states as something natural—as indispensable companions of society. If approached as a set of institutions, the state is, however, a relatively new phenomenon. The modern state model only dates back to sixteenth century Europe and it was not until the twentieth century that this idea of Western imagination became the globalized idea of how political order was supposed to look. Colonialism was

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only delegitimized as a form of government in the decades following World War II and—as van Creveld shows in his contribution—the ideas and mechanisms of state sovereignty took centuries to develop in Europe. When viewed against this, it is less surprising that much younger states are still struggling to define and identify their statehood vis-à-vis other social institutions and actors. In keeping with Hobbes’ description of the state as the great Leviathan, domestic peace and defense against external aggression are regarded as the quintessence of what modern states do (1968). A Hobbesian Leviathan is essentially charged with protecting the state and citizens against other states and with ensuring that its citizens can escape the raw anarchy where all are fighting all and where human life is “solitary, poor, brutish, nasty, and short.” Both functions demand a force superior to what others may have at their disposal, and indeed historical sociology demonstrates how the modern state evolved through a dual-sided process of internal “pacification” and external “warfare” (Giddens 1985; Tilly 1985, 1990; Mann 1988). It was through this lengthy and bloody period of state formation, that the European states increasingly monopolized the means of violence and established themselves as legitimate providers of protection and security. And it is this capacity for brute force that still represents the dark and essential underside of state sovereignty. The rise of the modern state and its monopoly of the means of violence gave rise to what van Creveld has termed “trinitarian warfare” (1991, this volume). It is based on the trinity of government-people-army and maintains (in theory) clear divisions between the armed forces whose task is to fight and die, the government whose task is to direct, and the civilian population whose task is to pay and suffer. Under this system, a sharp distinction is upheld between internal and external war and thus between the state’s inward-looking security apparatus—the police—and its outwardlooking armed forces—the military. Whether acting as enforcers of the law or as defenders of the nation, the means of violence are supposed to be controlled by the government, which in turn is supposed to be representing or acting on behalf of the population. This is—in essence—the modern state model, which is so deeply engrained in the social sciences that it often remains implicit, unspoken, and thus unquestioned. According to most political scientists, the central distinguishing feature of the modern state is its sovereignty. This implies that the state is recognized— by other states—as the supreme authority within its geographically defined domain. Within the confines of its territorial borders, the state is supposed to be in charge of “the authoritative allocation of values for a society”—as the classical definition of politics holds (Easton 1953: 129). Central dimensions of this value allocation include its administrative capacity, its legitimacy, and

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the extent to which it enjoys the legendary “monopoly on the legitimate means of violence” as formulated by Weber (1958: 78). These three dimensions are closely intertwined. One cannot operate separately of the other and a crisis in one dimension is thus bound to impact the other two dimensions. The state’s administrative capacity as well as its ability to uphold a monopoly of violence are thus closely linked to its capacity to raise revenues from society, which in turn is linked to its legitimacy in the eyes of the population, which in turn is linked to the state’s capacity to provide services for which it needs both administrative capacity and a monopoly of violence. This is the basic circular triangulation that modern states are supposed to square. And it is against this benchmark that postcolonial states are currently being measured to determine how fragile they are. In many countries, some elements of state sovereignty have, however, always been more of a myth than a reality. In the wake of independence, sovereignty has primarily sustained the state’s international recognition and protected regimes against foreign intervention. It has not been an expression of effective authority over population and territory, as Jackson (1990), Clapham (1996), Krasner (1999), and others have argued. Most of these states are built on the structures of colonial regimes that being appendages to European complexes of power, neither focused on building effective internal sovereignty nor on embedding the state in society (Young 1994; Ayoob 1995). Colonial masters never aimed at governing their colonial subjects with the same intensity and uniformity as they applied toward their own populations, nor did they—in general—cultivate the creation or consent of national identities. In vast areas, colonial governments relied heavily on indirect rule through appointed chiefs and co-opted community leaders, as well as on spectacles and demonstrative, arbitrary, and excessive violence. Often this tied into efforts at asserting ideas of racial and civilizational superiority. It was thus a widespread convention that more resolute and violent policing was necessary to keep colonial subjects in place than otherwise would be the case (Chandavarkar 1998). In particular in Africa, the brutality, scale, and systematic nature of colonial violence surpassed that which was dispensed in earlier forms of power. Postcolonial forms of authority were from the outset partial, fragmented, and unsettled. New, political leaders and movements sought to create nation-peoples that would legitimize the regimes, but the kind of citizenship promoted put more emphasis on displays of patriotic loyalty and civility than on substantial rights. The state was, as Mamdani (1996) has argued, deeply bifurcated between rural and urban forms of governance. In particular in Africa, the vastness of territories and the scarcity of population represented barriers to state building and to the projection of power beyond the urban areas (Herbst 2000). The monopoly of violence

INTRODUCTION

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was incomplete at best and often, for practical purposes, left in the hands of chiefs, community leaders, and others. The new states inherited colonial governmental practices that were characterized by summary governance at a distance, heavy-handed and militarized forms of population control, and a profound lack of independent judiciaries, in short several of the markers of weakness and fragility in today’s discourses on statehood. As Menkhaus (this volume) emphasizes in his analysis of Somali East Africa—an area that spans several international borders—Somali people have mostly experienced states as arbitrary predators rather than as legitimate centers of authority. In addition, many states’ legitimacy have suffered from the arbitrariness of the (colonial) borders that entrapped ethnic groups in marginal positions within multicultural states, divided them between different states, or indeed both (Holsti 1996). State sovereignty was thus fragmented and incomplete in many areas even in the early days of independence when hopes were high of the nation-state as a driver of development and security. As it turned out, many postcolonial leaders gradually became more interested in redistributing wealth to themselves and their cronies than in creating growth and wealth for the nation at large, and they used the state apparatus primarily as a mechanism to stay in power. It was never allowed to develop into an effective bureaucracy and an independent societal power base (Chabal and Daloz 1999). The introduction of neoliberal reforms and the end of the cold war further undermined the capacity of these regimes to effectively control the territories, gain legitimacy through service delivery, and uphold patronage networks and alliances through strategic redistribution of state resources. Decentralization, liberalization, and privatization— although aimed at freeing resources and social dynamic for development—often led to further fragmentation and the undermining of the state as a prime locus for resource allocation. And with this the last hope vested in the state as a guarantee of social order often dwindled. Some states, in particular in Africa, were effectively parceled out to military and political elites (Bayart et al. 1999) or dissolved in fiefdoms of local bureaucrats or police officers. In extreme cases, the state ceased to be a factor in everyday life and raw might—often linked to ideas of ethnic identity— emerged as the ultimate basis of legitimacy (Zartman 1994). The security sector is no exception to the pattern of change. No longer propped up by the superpowers, regimes of the central state in Afghanistan, Somalia, Liberia, Zaïre, and elsewhere were unable to defend themselves against contending armed groups that could take advantage of the increasingly accessible market for cheap weapons following the end of the cold war. National armies crumbled and were in some cases taken over by ethnic, religious, and regional interests as it happened in Afghanistan and Zaïre,

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while the new warlords funded armies through control of valuable resources, trade routes, or other privatized sources. Religious, ethnic, and local communities have developed militia or vigilante structures and so have businessmen, market organizations, and private firms, including multinationals with mining concessions that manage private security forces and govern large areas and populations in a form of “private indirect government” (Mbembe 2001). The privatized control with resources and security—combined with the deterioration and active downsizing of central state institutions—has increased the possibilities of forging alternative, nonstate loci of authority. For the international community, such areas have emerged as “fragile” or “failed states” that represent serious problems for the fulfillment of both security and development objectives. As a side remark it is curious to note that, some analyses of the EU point to a similar diffusion of sovereignty within the EU and refer to the EU in terms of “multi-level governance”— albeit without the alarming connotations of state failure (Marks et al. 1996). Louise Andersen (chapter 2) identifies and discusses four different approaches to the question of failed and fragile states. Three of these— “peacebuilding,” “liberal imperialism,” and “realism”—differ substantially in their recommendations, yet share the analytical point of departure in the normative, ideal-type based distinctions between the state, the market, the nongovernmental, and the illegal. However, the fourth approach, “critical analysis,” argues that these domains are interdependent, and that the actual functions and forms of institutions in the different domains tend to overlap, interlink, and morph in ways that defy categorization and analysis according to ideal types. This implies, we would argue, that for analytical purposes we have to look at the dynamics of specific institutions, practices, and processes of security provision. What kind of systems and arrangements are being constructed? And in which ways—if at all—is the provision of security bound into social relations of accountability to clients, users, communities, politicians, state institutions, religious groups and authorities, NGOs, or private firms? Such questions are dealt with in parts II and III of this volume. Part II explores the various forms of security provision that are found where state institutions have a limited role, whereas part III deals with the recent attempts at reforming security sectors in such areas, in particular in the wake of armed conflicts. Fragile Security The chapters that form the main, empirical body of this volume share three points of departure, which set them apart from many other analyses of security and security sector reform.

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First, the distinction between state and nonstate, so fundamental to political and social science, does not necessarily correspond to the concrete empirical relations that are revealed through closer scrutiny. Rather, the boundary is blurred, state/nonstate relations are messy, and—as Baker demonstrates in his contribution—a whole range of “security providers” that defy simple classifications as either state or nonstate entities can be identified. Second, international state builders are often either blind to or prejudiced against the actually existing but informal systems of governance and security. Even though they may be critical to states in their current form, policy makers, analysts, and practitioners in the international community tend to regard state institutions as inherent providers of order and security, while nonstate entities are perceived as sources of instability, disorder, and insecurity. However, this normative distinction can distort the entire analysis, not least in the context of fragile states. Third, it is emphasized that protection and security are essentially double-edged swords. Regardless of where they might be placed on a state/nonstate continuum, security providers always have the capacity to threaten those they allegedly should be protecting. Similarly, actors who started out as repressive predators may eventually end up providing security and protection on a grand scale to communities they initially preyed on. This, according to Tilly, was how states were formed, implying that states are basically very large and legitimized protection racket schemes (1985). This duality of force is clearly illustrated in Reno’s analysis of West African militias, Menkhaus’ exploration of local security systems in Somali East Africa, Baker’s overview of nonstate security providers, and Stepputat’s account of twentieth century military establishments in Latin America. From different angles these studies show that whether or not a particular institution or actor is (primarily) a source of security or insecurity to a given community depends on the concrete context and circumstances—not on whether it is a state or a nonstate entity. Those who control the means of violence are always Janus-faced. Considering this fundamental ambiguity, the commonly used notion of “security providers” can be slightly misleading. Whereas this concept cuts across the state/nonstate divide, it might be more appropriate to use a concept such as “dispensers of force” which takes into account that we are dealing with institutions and actors that have the potential to be—often are—sources of sources of security as well as insecurity. Security beyond the State The current policy emphasis on state fragility and failure has the merit of forcing us to analyze the actually existing security structures. In fragile states

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it is painstakingly clear that the Weberian state does not apply as a descriptive model. It is—at best and if anything at all—a normative model for how one might prefer things to look. It is, however, a model that it appears to be extremely difficult to construct and sustain. In fragile states, the range of different dispensers of force is vast. It comprises everything from vigilante groups, community defenses, local strongmen, and youth gangs, through militias and paramilitaries, to private security firms, and military companies, to use some of the common labels. The whole field is in much need of empirical, conceptual, and theoretical studies that can improve our understanding of the current dynamics of security, state fragility, and international intervention. The four chapters in part II, each in their own way, offer valuable contributions in this regard. Van Creveld’s sweeping account of the organization of violence provides interesting historical parallels to several of the forms (re-)surfacing today—in particular the sodalities and the mercenaries that never entirely disappeared from the arenas of violence. In his historical perspective, the conscripted army and the Trinitarian system seems an exception from a long history of other forms of organization and van Creveld offers suggestions as to how different dispensers of force may be analyzed in terms of funding, discipline, technology, relations to society, and the kind of war and conflict that the different organizations have been able to engage in. His chapter does, however, also raise the somewhat overlooked two points; first, that the privatization of security is not a phenomenon isolated to poorer parts of the world and second, that western states themselves are being transformed in the meeting with alternative forms of organized violence. Jumping from the grand sweep of history to present-day Somali East Africa, Menkhaus provides an overview of the sources of insecurity and the informal and hybrid security arrangements that have developed there in the wake of the disastrous years in the early 1990s. He characterizes these complexes as patchy, illiberal, unstable, and short-lived—because they depend on shifting alliances—but nevertheless underlines that they have improved the security situation for the Somalis. The question is whether these forms of security can serve as building blocks for more durable and comprehensive forms of security, or whether they will block attempts at forging a state. The same question is raised, as Reno takes us into the analysis of the political economies that forge the context of violence and policing in the state/nonstate borderland of West Africa. In his analysis of the different contexts and dynamics of predatory and protective militias, he identifies patronage as overridingly important in shaping the social contexts of violence. Furthermore he describes how the specific form of patronage (in terms of distance, dependence, and function) has been decisive for whether militias have become protective or predatory

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vis-à-vis subject populations. Militias are likely to become protective when they depend on the subject population for resources, but they may simultaneously be predatory vis-à-vis other, neighboring populations. In this regard Reno provides a historical backdrop to Baker’s analysis of nonstate policing, as he gives examples of how authoritarian postcolonial governments in West Africa contributed to the generation of militias that kept opposition at bay by violent means, but also turned against governments at other occasions. In his chapter, Baker analyzes the rich diversity of institutionalized forms of operation and cooperation in the state/nonstate borderland. He shows us the limits of state policing as customarily conceived; the vibrancy of varying nonstate forms of force—their legitimacy, effectiveness, and so on—and not least the actual ways in which these two forms of force merge and form partnerships. And in doing so, he drives home the point that the state/nonstate distinction must give way to a more fine-grained analysis of the field of everyday security. Reform and Insecurity As noted above, the paradigmatic distinctions between state and society, civil and military and police and military are breaking down—especially but not only in fragile states. Yet, or perhaps for this very reason, they are at the heart of ongoing international attempts at reforming security arrangements in these territories of limited state control—the fragile states in the global borderlands. The three chapters in this part of the book provide diverse accounts of how such attempts have fared at improving the security of both citizens and states in Africa, Latin America, and Afghanistan. A central message emerging from these studies is that the current policy concepts and guidelines for Security Sector Reform (SSR) fail to take into account the diversity and plurality found in different contexts. Security Sector Reform is a relatively new field of intervention, and the policies, instruments, and concepts for it are evolving and are still contested, partly because of the inherent difficulty in defining what the security sector is. Initially SSR policies focused narrowly on what was considered the core security institutions of the state, most notably the army and the police. Gradually, however, the definition was broadened to include the judiciary and other institutions that contribute to law enforcement and oversight, including parliaments and civil society. Currently, the security sector is being described as encompassing basically all the institutions and actors that affect the security and insecurity of both people and state, including informal and nonstate structures (OECD 2005b). SSR is thus not just a matter of professionalizing and rightsizing army and police forces. The ambitions are much higher. The overall aim according to donor guidelines

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is to increase “the ability of partner countries to meet the range of security needs within their societies in a manner consistent with democratic norms and sound principles of governance and the rule of law” (OECD 2005b: 11). The objective is thus twofold: to generate effective state-controlled mechanisms for the provision of state and human security, and to ensure that these mechanisms are controlled and held accountable through civilian oversight mechanisms. In the context of fragile war-torn states, this tends to be translated into attempts at (re)establishing state monopoly on the legitimate use of force while simultaneously installing governance safeguards to curb the state’s ability to abuse this monopoly. Despite the policy emphasis placed on ensuring civilian oversight and democratic governance, donor programs have tended to focus on the shortterm measures that are perceived to be necessary to stabilize the security environment. Longer-term structural objectives of building more accountable security institutions have tended to be somewhat neglected (Hendrickson 2005). This is what Sedra in his chapter has called “the securitization of security reform.” SSR programs in postconflict peacebuilding operations typically focus on (1) dismantling irregular militias that compete with the state and (2) reforming the state’s security forces, most notably the army and the police. This is fully in accordance with the recently formulated principles for how to work in fragile states (OECD 2005a) and the advocacy for a highly focused reform agenda. It is, however, not consistent with the growing policy awareness that, first, the security sector consists of a plurality of actors and, second, that each situation is unique and there are no one-size-fits-all solutions. Reforms of the security sector are, nevertheless, often seen as the sine qua non for the achievement of wider peace- and state-building objectives in fragile states. This is also the case in Afghanistan today. In his contribution, Sedra portrays how the Afghan security sector has been thrust to the forefront of the state-building project and is now seen as “the indispensable foundation upon which all other facets of the reconstruction efforts depend.” His projection—which is echoed in similar exercises around the globe—is that the Afghan SSR program will not meet the high expectations with which it was conceived, because it relies too much on “off-theshelf ” solutions that reflect neither Afghan history and context, nor the dynamic linkages between formal and informal security structures. While Sedra explores how army and police reforms do (not) contribute to state building in Afghanistan, Cawthra and Møller analyze how some states have tried to dismantle rival armed groups by integrating them into the national army following the end of a civil war. It appears that the manner in which the civil war ended and the type of military transformation that followed significantly affect a war-torn state’s prospects for overcoming its fragility. Comparing six very different attempts at combining

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DDR programs (demobilization, disarmament, and reintegration) with power-sharing arrangements that allow for the integration of former enemies into unified national armies, it seems—perhaps ironically—that the most successful integration was achieved, where the international community was least involved: in South Africa. Undoubtedly South African exceptionalism provides part of the explanation to this. More generally, a lesson to be learnt—again and again apparently—is that reforms are unlikely to produce the expected results and to be sustained, if they are not supported by significant groups in society. The Democratic Republic of Congo case illustrates this as Cawthra and Møller report how—despite an ambitious international plan for creating one integrated military formation—many armed groupings have either not participated in the process or are still responding to orders from their factional political leadership. Parallel structures are upheld as a fallback position for leaders despite the formal appearance of an increasingly (albeit slowly) unified national army. While emphasis so far has been on some of the poorest countries in the world, it is increasingly clear that many middle-income countries are also experiencing severe crises of public security, not least in larger cities, as the 2006 revolt in Sao Paolo evidenced. As Stepputat shows in his contribution, the states in Latin America may not be failing in the common sense of the word, but they are definitely failing in the sense of providing public security for all their citizens. In the new model of security in Latin America (Kincaid 2001) three alternatives to the increasingly fragmented public security sector are emerging: militarization of the police, privatization of security in wealthier areas, and informalization of security in poorer neighborhoods where citizens organize themselves against common crime. Security has become a top political priority and the increasing securitization of everyday life reinforces the spatial and social segregation between well-policed wealthy areas and poor areas where informal or illicit security providers impose their own rules with little formal interference from state authorities—which is not to say that state representatives do not have influence. While not threatening the state as an institution in the medium term, this dynamic of “hidden state failure” with its hybrid coexistence of legitimate institutions and extralegal violence (Koonings and Kruijt 2004) has the potential to disrupt the democratic development in the continent.

Analytical and Political Challenges Millions and millions of people around the world live in areas where states are unable or unwilling to provide everyday security for their

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citizens. The perception of such areas as representing threats to the Global West has contributed to the elevation of fragile states to a prominent place on the international policy agenda. Following 9/11 it has become common wisdom to broadly equate failed states with “breeding grounds” or “safe havens” for international terrorism despite the limited empirical evidence to underpin such sweeping assertions (Patrick 2006). The focus of this volume, however, is not on the transnational threats that may or may not arise from failed and fragile states, but rather on the everyday security conditions for the people living in these states. The challenge and ambition of the volume are to develop the analysis further; to expand our understanding of the actually existing security arrangements found in these areas, and to contribute to the policy debates on the issue. The challenge of understanding has methodological, conceptual, and theoretical dimensions. First of all, given the difficult conditions of data collection, there is a dearth of studies in this field. Logistics, security conditions, as well as lack of infrastructure and trained researchers militate against comprehensive research projects. Consequently we know too little about the dynamics and forms of security, authority, and governance, which emerge and evolve in the absence of strong state structures. Poorly sustained ideas about how things might work risk being recycled in reports and papers to the point of becoming established truths on the subject. Conceptually we are also moving on relatively thin ice. As mentioned above, one of the ambitions of our group of authors has been to avoid preconceived notions of absolute state/nonstate distinctions. We have furthermore tried to avoid the risk of reproducing normative images of states as benign providers of security and nonstate entities as eternal sources of insecurity and disorder. But what if the usual categories of state/nonstate, private/public, formal/informal, order/anarchy are of limited use? As one strategy we have suggested is to be specific in the analysis and focus on particular institutions and related practices, such as mechanisms of accountability and constraint, sources of authorization and sponsoring, and so on. A different strategy is to identify concepts that capture the processes at work between (representatives of) formal state institutions and other entities constituting “hybrid security complexes” (Menkhaus this volume). “Indirect government” and the “mediated state” are relevant concepts to describe the negotiated relationship in areas where state institutions cannot project their power among the population. Theoretically the issue of failed and fragile states more generally challenges our understanding of politics, political community, and sovereignty

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in what may be a postnational era coming of age. As the chapters in this volume show, the alternative (“nonstate”) regulators and dispensers of force are often associated with the defense or consolidation of political or moral communities at different scales. Village or town communities, clans and lineages, sharia courts and other religious associations, ethnic groups, citystates, and business communities are examples of such entities in whose name violence or threats of violence are dispensed or regulated. Even though they are linked to far away patrons or commercial interests in capitals and metropolises through networks of funding, supply, and authorization, dispensers of force often operate on the basis of claims to a certain legitimacy and representation of shared identities. In order to imagine political means of engagement in these zones of overlapping sovereignties we need to generate theoretical thinking on the linkages between the use of violence and the constitution of political communities.2 The concluding chapter of this volume points to a number of issues and dilemmas of relevance for the development of policies for security reforms in failed and fragile states. The authors argue that a new and more realistic paradigm for security sector reform is needed for areas where the state is a “minority provider” of security. Due to the problems of human, financial, and institutional capacity, the current reforms do not stand much chance of succeeding without substantial, continued funding from elsewhere, and even then they suffer from problems of legitimacy among the population and thus long-term sustainability. A new paradigm would comprise a “multilayered approach” that incorporates measures to negotiate and regulate the practices of nonstate dispensers of force and justice in the short and medium term without discarding the strengthening of state capacities in the longer term. This multilayered approach would seem to be consistent with the current emphasis on “local ownership” of internationally supported and induced reforms, but its development in practice will be fraught with very difficult dilemmas. For one thing, the “local ownership” may not apply to national governments since they tend to insist on their sovereignty and formal monopoly of force; a certain legal plurality has proven to be something that can be negotiated with national governments, but the use of armed force is a different ball game. And second, as Menkhaus emphasizes, many nonstate security providers are inherently illiberal and unstable, which may constitute the major dilemma to solve. In this field there may be a need for technical and operational development, but first and last we are dealing with very difficult political choices, which, as Andersen reminds us, always come at a price for somebody.

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Notes 1. The concept and governmental design of indirect rule grew out of the discussions of statehood in the colonies which circulated in the first half of the twentieth century (Lugard 1922), but its legacy has influenced the ways in which systems of governance have developed in practical terms in the postcolonial states, even without indirect rule being installed in any formal way (for Africa see, Mamdani 1996). 2. The historical relationship between violence and the formation of political communities in the form of European nation-states has been thoroughly demonstrated by scholars such as Giddens (1985), Tilly (1985, 1990), and Mann (1988, 1993). However, how the relationship is working in the current era of globalization as well as in societies with historical backgrounds that differ sharply from the European is yet to be explored. The philosophy of Agamben (1998) provides one avenue for such explorations (see, eg., Hansen and Stepputat 2005).

Bibliography Agamben, Giorgio (1998). Homo Sacer: Sovereign Power and Bare Life. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Ayoob, Mohammed (1995). The Third World Security Predicament: State Making, Regional Conflict, and the International System. Boulder: Lynne Rienner. Bayart, Jean-François, Stephen Ellis, and Béatrice Hibou (1999). The Criminalization of the State in Africa. Oxford: James Currey. Beall, Jo, Thomas Goodfellow, and James Putzel (2006). Introductory Article: On the Discourse of Terrorism, Security and Development. Journal of International Development, 18 (1): 51–67. Chabal, Patrick and Jean-Pascal Daloz (1999). Africa Works: The Political Instrumentalization of Disorder. Indiana: Indiana University Press. Chandavarkar, Rajnaryan (1998). Imperial Power and Popular Politics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Chesterman, Simon (2004). You, the People: The United Nations, Transitional Administration and State-Building. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Clapham, Christopher (1996). Africa and the International System: The Politics of State Survival. New York: Cambridge University Press. DFID (2005). Why We Need to Work More Efficiently in Fragile States. London: Department for International Development. Duffield, Mark (2001). Global Governance and the New Wars. London: Zed Books Easton, David (1953). The Political System: An Inquiry into the State of Political Science. New York: Knopf. Giddens, Anthony (1985). The Nation-State and Violence. Oxford: Polity Press. Hansen, Thomas B and Finn Stepputat (2005). Sovereign Bodies: Citizens, Migrants and States in the Postcolonial World, Princeton: Princeton University Press.

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Hendrickson, Dylan (2005). Overview of Regional Survey Findings and Policy Implications for Donors, in OECD: Security System Reform and Governance. Paris: Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development. Herbst, Jeffrey (2000). States and Power in Africa: Comparative Lessons in Authority and Control. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Hobbes, Thomas (1968 [1660]). Leviathan. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Holsti, Kalevi J (1996). The State, War, and the State of War. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jackson, Robert (1990). Quasi-States: Sovereignty, International Relations and the Third World. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kincaid, Douglas A (2001). Demilitarization and Security in El Salvador and Guatemala: Convergences of Success and Crisis in Christopher Chase-Dunn, Susanne Jonas, and Nelson Amaro (eds.). Globalization on the Ground: Postbellum Guatemalan Democracy and Development. Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers Inc, 101–18. Koonings, Kees and Dirk Kuijt (2004). Armed Actors: Organised Violence and State Failure in Latin America. London: Zed Books. Krasner, Stephen D (1999). Sovereignty: Organized Hypocrisy. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Levin, Victoria and David Dollar (2005). The Forgotten States: Aid Volumes and Volatility in Difficult Partnership Countries (1992–2002. Washington: World Bank. Lugard, Frederick D (1922). The Dual Mandate in British Tropical Africa. Edinburgh and London: William Blackwood and Sons. Mamdani, Mahmood (1996). Citizen and Subject: Contemporary Africa and the Legacy of Late Colonialism. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Mann, Michael (1988). States, War and Capitalism: Studies in Political Sociology. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. ——— (1993). The Sources of Social Power, vol. II: The Rise of Classes and NationStates, 1760–1914. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Marks, Gary, Liesbet Hooghe, and Kermit Blank (1996). European Integration from the 1980s: State-Centric v. Multi-Level Governance. Journal of Common Market Studies, 34 (3): 341–73. Mbembe, Achille (2001). On the Postcolony. Berkeley: University of California Press. OECD (2005a). Principles for Good Donorship in Fragile States. Document no. DCD(2005)8/REV2. Paris: Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development. ——— (2005b). Security Sector Reform and Governance. Paris: Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development. Paris, Roland (2004). At War’s End: Building Peace after Civil Conflict. New York: Cambridge University Press. Patrick, Stewart (2006). Weak States and Global Threats: Assessing Evidence of “Spillovers.” CGD Working Paper no. 73. Washington: Center for Global Development.

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Tilly, Charles (1985). War Making and State Making as Organized Crime, in Peter B Evans, Dietrich Rueschemeyer and Theda Skockpol (eds.). Bringing the State Back In. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press: 169–91. ——— (1990). Coercion, Capital and European States, AD 990–1990. Cambridge: Basil Blackwell. USAID (2005). Fragile States Strategy. Washington: U.S. Agency for International Development. van Creveld, Martin (1991). The Transformation of War. New York: The Free Press. Weber, Max (1958). Politics As Vocation, in Hans H Gerth and C. Wright Mills (eds.). From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology, New York: Galaxy Books: 77–128. Young, Crawford (1994). The African Colonial State in Comparative Perspective. New Haven: Yale University Press. Zartman, William (1994). Collapsed States: The Disintegration and Restoration of Legitimate Authority. Boulder: Lynne Rienner.

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What to Do? The Dilemmas of International Engagement in Fragile States Louise Andersen

Introduction What are the options for international engagement in war-torn states where the government has no effective authority and control over the territory? What can—and should—outsiders do in Sierra Leone, Liberia, Afghanistan, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Côte d’Ivoire, and Somalia? In recent years, this issue has made it to the top of the international agenda and organizations such as DFID, Pentagon, UNDP, and the World Bank are increasingly mulling over “what to do” with the allegedly ungoverned territories in the Global South. The combination of widespread violence and collapsed state structures presents the international community with two conundrums. First, most of the instruments available to the international community depend on the existence of an effective state. But exerting pressure on the formal state has little effect, if and when the state has either lost control or is indistinguishable from other power-holding men with guns. Second, the security situation makes it difficult—if not outright impossible—for the international community to engage without some kind of military protection. Even the distribution of food to starving civilians can be a deadly undertaking. The use of military force is, however, by no means a panacea and may in itself complicate and aggravate matters. Regardless of what outsiders decide to do—or not to do—they will find themselves confronted with genuine dilemmas where difficult choices have

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to be made between conflicting objectives, values, and principles. There is no magical solution, only tough choices and real trade-offs. This chapter suggests an analytical framework that may help map some of the paradoxes, contradictions, and complexities at stake, and by doing so, perhaps will clarify the difficult choices policy makers have to make as they try to address the challenges of fragile states. Focus here is on the toughest cases, that is, on situations, where it is too late to speak of early warnings and suggest preventive measures. The concern is not how to prevent a fragile state from collapsing, but what to do when a state has already imploded. The first part of the chapter suggests an explanation of how and why some states have collapsed or failed as states. The second part of the chapter presents four different suggestions of “what to do” and discusses the dilemmas, trade-offs, paradoxes, and contradictions contained in each.

Failed States in the Twenty-First Century In a sense state failure is a constant and recurring phenomenon of world politics. The apparent outbreak of state failures following the end of the cold war is neither new nor surprising. Rather, it was the near absence of state failures during the cold war that was unusual, but explainable, since both the two super powers propped up “friendly” regimes and thus kept them from failing (Jackson 2000; Cooper, R. 2002; Clapham 2002; Herbst 2003; Rotberg 2003). What the world is witnessing today is—seen from this perspective—a return to normal—back to the future, where states fail if they are unable to muster domestic strength and/or external support to remain standing. Yet, contemporary state failure takes place in a global setting and an international climate that are quite different from previous era. First of all, following decolonization, the newly independent states have been guaranteed survival. Regardless of their internal strength and capacity to uphold their sovereignty, the postcolonial states are assured continued existence as independent entities with fixed (or frozen) borders. This is a drastic departure from earlier practices where weak states could be annexed entirely or in part by stronger states or divided into smaller sovereign states (Jackson 1990; Herbst 2003). Second, state performance is increasingly measured against a new set of criteria. Concerns for the wellbeing of the population and their rights to life and freedom have entered the equation. Today, democracy and human rights mark the standard of civilization and they severely hamper the options available to contemporary state builders compared with the processes that produced the European states. Third, the contradictory forces of globalization have

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transformed the role of the state, blurred the distinction between domestic and international, and changed the manner in which international relations or world politics are conducted. Nonstate actors and transnational flows of commodities, capital, information, ideas, and people provide both political and theoretical challenges—and opportunities—to the territorially defined states and to traditional perceptions of international politics. Last but not least, following 9/11, failed states have come to be seen as a direct—not merely indirect or soft—threat to the national security of Western states. This has drastically increased donor attention to previously forgotten states, yet the attention is being framed by a global war on terror agenda which may not necessarily reflect the local conflict dynamics (Beall et al. 2006; Isacson and Ball 2006). When trying to understand state failure, one needs to look beyond the normative Weberian model of what a state is supposed to look like. One needs to start with the actual institutions and practices of the state and explore the way in which they have evolved in the specific historical settings. To facilitate such an analysis, the Weberian ideal type of the modern state can fruitfully be replaced with another ideal type: the neopatrimonial state, which is portrayed in numerous studies of postcolonial states— especially in Africa (Clapham 1996; Reno 1998; Bayart et al. 1999; Chabal and Daloz 1999). A neopatrimonial state functions according to entirely different logics than a Weberian state and this insight can help shed light on why and how some states have failed.

The Neopatrimonial State The neopatrimonial state is highly dependent on personal leadership. The ruler treats all matters of state as his personal affair; officials are his personal servants and subject to his arbitrary power. He practically owns the state—and this state is both illusory and substantial. It is illusory, because it works in informal and ineffectual ways and has limited capacity to implement public policy. It is, however, substantial because control of the state is the “ultimate prize for all political elites” (Chabal and Daloz 1999: 9). The neopatrimonial state is thus “both strong and powerless, overdeveloped in size and underdeveloped in functional terms” (Chabal and Daloz 1999: 9). In managing his regime, the leader depends on his ability to control the major sources of power within the country. Only a very small range of people can influence the political process and gain access to the political benefits. As everything else, politics is a patronage operation, governed by the need for control on the part of the ruler, and the need for access to state

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benefits on the part of the subordinates and those whom they may be claiming or seeking to represent (Clapham 1996). This personalized and privatized character of the state has been explained as the result of a lack of emancipation of the state from wider society (Chabal and Daloz 1999). The state has never been properly institutionalized; it has not become structurally differentiated from society. Politicians, bureaucrats, and military officers are first and foremost obliged to “their kith and kin, their clients, their communities, their regions or even to their religion” (Chabal and Daloz 1999: 15). No single person is responsible for—or expected to worry about—the “general will” or the greater good of society. Distinctions between state and civil society, formal and informal, politics and economics, legal and illegal make little sense under such conditions. These modern dualities are largely absent in states, where intricate patron-client networks (modeled on the idea of family and kin) provide the basis for social order and political competition. Vertical and personalized links to those in power—Big Men—are imperative for ordinary people. The legitimacy of the Big Men, whether local or national, rests on their capacity to redistribute resources to their clienteles. If they fail to deliver, they lose legitimacy and hence their power base. These informal, yet very real networks are linked to the state only to the extent that the state is the main locus of resources. If substantial resources can be generated outside the state—for example, through shadow economic activities—the networks may operate with few or no linkages to the formal state as evidenced by the case of Sierra Leone (Keen 2005). Seen from this perspective, the collapse of formal state institutions is related to the state’s loss of relevance and usefulness as a centre for the allocation of resources and wealth. A neopatrimonial state weakens when it is no longer able to secure its leader privileged access to and control over resources; or rather when the competing elite or strongmen are able to uphold and maintain their own patron-client networks outside the realm of the state. According to Clapham this was exactly what happened during the late 1980s and throughout the 1990s, when economic and later political conditionalities were imposed on states as the Western donors lost patience with (and strategic interest in) repressive regimes (2002). Demands for economic and political reform severely restricted the regimes and challenged their power. In some cases this led to a change in government and/or a revival of the legitimacy of the states. In other cases, it has led to further weakening of the state institutions and in extreme cases, even to their collapse. Little is known about why some neopatrimonial states collapsed (Zaïre, Somalia) while others embarked on a fragile process of democratization (Uganda, Kenya). The extent to which the transition was

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associated with violent conflict and civil war, does however, seem to play a major role. The Political Economy of Civil War As the neopatrimonial state got weaker, other actors got stronger. In some states opposition groups, who had previously been successfully repressed, were increasingly able to fight back and thus challenge the state, including its monopoly of the use of force. In failed states, the state has no monopoly on organized violence. A variety of armed nonstate groups operate across the territory as both security providers and security threats. This privatization of security ties in with both the transformation of organized violence, which van Creveld analyzes in this volume and elsewhere (1991), and with the phenomenon of nonstate security provision which Reno, Menkhaus, and Baker describe in their contributions. For now, emphasis is on the economic effects of violent conflict in a fragile state. Waging war is expensive—for private and public armies alike. The warring parties are faced with what the World Bank calls an “acute financing problem” (Collier et al. 2003: 72). Money comes from neighboring states and diaspora groups; it comes from “taxation” of local people, foreign investors, humanitarian assistance, as well as from extraction of natural resources, drug production, kidnapping, trafficking, prostitution, smuggling, and from loot and plunder. A clear distinction between armed groups and organized crime is thus very difficult to uphold. The same goes, however, for the distinction between rebel groups and government forces. Often the regime utilizes the same sources of funding to sustain its violent activities—and uses the same violent activities to sustain its sources of funding. A war logic is built into the economy with powerful interests opposed to reconciliation and peace (Kaldor 1999; Keen 2002). This does not mean that civil wars are motivated by only greed. Genuine political grievances and objectives may have initiated fighting, to begin with, and may continue to play a role for both leaders and followers. It does, however, imply that the violent conflicts in failed states may have mutated as warring factions that increasingly use violence as a mean of fulfilling economic purposes (Keen 2002; Collier et al. 2003). Warlord Politics Almost a decade ago, William Reno coined the term “warlord politics” to cover the phenomena described above (1998). In warlord politics, power is pursued almost exclusively through control of markets. State institutions

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play little, if any, role in regulating political competition. Violence is needed to control both the distribution of wealth and the building of political alliances. When faced with internal rivals—nonstate warlords— neopatrimonial leaders have sometimes responded by basically mimicking the warlords. They have transformed their own political authority into an effective means of controlling markets without the prior reliance on formal state institutions. Under such conditions, the difference between warlords and state leaders may be negligible. This process highlights the gradual transformation from a neopatrimonial state where control of the state was the ultimate prize for all political elite to a collapsed state where “control over commerce rather than territory has become the key demarcator of political power” (Reno 1998: 71). Allegedly Sierra Leonean rebel leader Foday Sankoh initially refused the 1999 Lomé Accord and its offer to make him vice president of Sierra Leone. He wanted political control of the diamond trade instead and only when this was included in the deal (making him head of a new mineral resources commission), did he accept the peace settlement (Collier et al. 2003: 62–63; Keen 2005). That the transformation furthermore can be slow and extended is illustrated by Somalia, where the formal state for years had been a relatively empty shell prior to the collapse of the Barre regime in 1991. The final transition to statelessness was thus less momentous than one might expect (Little 2003). Processes of state failure and collapse are often described as a vicious circle that catches societies in a conflict trap filled with negative feedback mechanisms (see, e.g., Collier et al. 2003). Menkhaus’ chapter on Somalia illustrates, however, that protracted conflicts are dynamic and change over time as local communities and actors adapt to the situation. As highlighted by Menkhaus also, this need not translate into support for the establishment of a new central government. It does, however, suggest that crises that appear self-perpetuating may have the potential to generate new social orders. It may well be that “the absence of the state does not simply produce chaos. It also reveals the outlines of alternatives to the state itself ” (Anderson 2004). The explanation offered above of how and why some states collapse highlights two points: First, that the states in question have never functioned as modern states in the Weberian sense. Second, that informal patron-client networks and shadow economies continue to operate and may in fact flourish after the state institutions have become irrelevant. Both before and after the state collapse, some of the core functions associated with a modern state may be undertaken by different types of nonstate actors. Basic human questions of how to ensure physical and economic security of oneself and one’s dependants do not disappear because the state

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does. The search for answers to these questions—and thus the mechanisms for exercising political power—may be difficult to detect from a Western outlook, but that does not make them any less real. The remaining part of the chapter discusses four different suggestions of how the international community can and should engage itself in this bewildering complexity. Addressing State Failure The current international interest in fragile states and state failure reflects a mix of humanitarian, development, and security concerns. The need to “do something” is thus overdetermined. But what is that “something?” How can outsiders improve the lives of the people and counter perceived threats related to state failure? Below are presented four different answers to this question. They do not add up to an exhaustive list of available options. Taken together they do, however, capture some of the most pertinent questions and fault lines in the ongoing debate on what to do. To facilitate comparison, the discussion is structured along two dimensions: adherence to the principle of state sovereignty and promotion of liberal values. In this context, liberal values refer to ideas such as multiparty democracy, free and fair elections, human rights, rule of law, capitalism, and market economy. “Sovereignty” is a more controversial term and holds different meanings to each of the approaches discussed below. To some it signifies a Westphalian right to nonintervention, and to others, a responsibility to protect. Still others separate sovereignty from the territorial state and relate it to the exercise of authority and power. What matters to the discussion here is whether alternatives to an international system of formally equal units—sovereign states—are envisioned or not. The two questions used, captured in table 2.1 to distinguish between the four approaches, are these: Should sovereignty be reinforced or challenged to address state failure? And is the promotion of liberal values part of the solution or not? Both dimensions are best understood as continua along which different points of view or suggestions may be placed. A number of arguments and Table 2.1 Approaches to international engagement in failed states

Liberal Nonliberal

Sovereignty reinforced

Sovereignty challenged

Peacebuilding Realism

Liberal imperialism Critical analysis

Source : Andersen, Louise (2006). International Engagement in Failed States: Choices and Trade-offs, DIIS Working Paper no. 2005/20. Copenhagen: Danish Institute for International Studies.

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analyses lie in the grey zones between the four cells of the table. To facilitate comparison and discussion the emphasis is, however, placed on the key characteristics that set each of the four approaches apart from the other three.

Peacebuilding The first approach, referred to here as peacebuilding1 comes close to being the official approach of the international community. It is enshrined in UN documents (starting with the landmark 1992 “Agenda for Peace”) and policy papers and guidelines from leading donors and multilateral organizations, including the OECD, the World Bank, and various UN agencies. Two basic arguments run through all of these: First, that local ownership is decisive for success. External actors can help, but the transition from war to peace needs to be homegrown and owned by the inhabitants. Otherwise it will not succeed. Second, that the root causes must be addressed to achieve lasting results. Peacebuilding efforts must deal with the underlying factors that have undermined the state’s capacity to uphold law, order, and security. This includes countering poverty, repression, corruption, inequality, and discrimination and thus provides a highly ambitious and intrusive agenda of societal transformation. Nevertheless, peacebuilding is often presented in technical terms—as a matter of assisting communities and nations in making the transition from war to peace. It is, however, far from technical, if by that, it is meant politically or ideologically neutral. On the contrary, peacebuilding actively promotes liberal democracy and market economy (Paris 2004). The operational principles of peacebuilding are based largely on lessons learned and best practices from earlier interventions. Throughout the 1990s a standard peacebuilding formula evolved. The formula included “early post-conflict election and launching a full range of market-oriented economic reforms, followed by a declaration of peacebuilding “success” and the termination of the operation usually within two or three years of its creation.” (Paris 2004). Also included in the political package were constitution making, funding for civil society, and extensive state institution building (Ottaway 2003). The results of this formula are, at best, mixed. About half of the peace agreements to end civil wars collapsed within five years of their signing. Of eighteen countries to which a UN peace mission was sent between 1988 and 2002, thirteen were classified as authoritarian regimes in 2002 (Call and Cook 2003). The local situation may have improved—compare, for example, present-day Cambodia with the Khmer Rouge period—but most interventions have failed to meet the high peacebuilding expectations.

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Why is that? Is it simply due to a lack of resources and political will? Or is the problem more fundamental and related to flaws in the peacebuilding approach as such? Is it at all possible to transplant Western liberal models of democracy to war-torn societies as a remedy to their problems? According to a review of all major comparative academic studies and operational evaluations, it seems that “one of the persistent obstacles to more effective peacebuilding outcomes is the chronic inability of international actors to adapt their assistance to the political dynamics of the wartorn societies they seek to support” (Tschirgi 2004: i). For instance, support for democratization and rule of law efforts are perceived as “largely apolitical, technical exercises involving transfer of know-how, when in reality they are profoundly political” (International Peace Academy 2003: 10); and little attention is given to the contradictions that are likely to emerge from any reforms of state and society, including possible tensions between elite interests and marginalized populations, and the potential destabilizing effects of “transitional problems” that follow economic liberalization, such as growth in inequality and unemployment (Call and Cook 2003). In different ways, these shortcomings reflect problems of ownership. They indicate that the peacebuilding efforts are being driven by the international community—not by the population or their representatives. This is a major breach with the principle of national ownership and it thus signals a deviation from peacebuilding theory. It may, however, also point to an inherent contradiction in peacebuilding itself: On the one hand, the notion that the transition process needs to be locally owned; on the other, a fixed agenda of liberal democracy and market economy. This raises a number of questions. International organizations and donor agencies operate on the assumption that the government speaks on behalf of the entire population and territory of the state. In a failed state, this assumption is particularly troublesome. The formal government has little authority and control and often its legitimacy is severely damaged. Who speaks on behalf of the people in such a situation? With whom should international peacebuilders engage? Where should national ownership rest? At least part of the answer is found in negotiated peace settlements and the power-sharing arrangements they usually provide for, as described in this volume by Cawthra and Møller. The nature and quality of such peace agreements are important for the peacebuilding results (Stedman 2001). Yet often such agreements are inconsistent—in part because the international actors, who negotiated them, were unclear on whether their primary aim was to achieve peace or to create legitimate democratic institutions (International Peace Academy 2003). Peace agreements very often involve giving the leaders of warring factions a central role in the future state—for

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example, as ministers in transitional governments—thereby ideally providing them with incentives to mutate “from warlords into peacelords” (Peake et al. 2004). Obviously such a strategy holds a clear risk that these people, and the groups they represent, regard the state primarily as a source of personal income and power base and not as a vehicle for national reconciliation and reconstruction. This is a continuation of the neopatrimonial state—albeit run by a complex alliance of former enemies instead of a monopoly leader. Under such conditions, a façade of national ownership may be upheld while the international community in reality formulates the peacebuilding strategies—more or less coordinated, and with more or less input from “local voices.” Ownership does not mean actual responsibility or control but it is often reduced to rather vague intentions of “inclusion, participation, and dialogue.” This may be the only realistic option available. Nevertheless, it implies that far-reaching decisions are made at international conferences and donor coordination meetings to which local representatives have little or no access. And it means that the population is left with few, if any, mechanisms for holding the representatives of the international community responsible for the decisions allegedly made on their behalf. The ownership/accountability predicament illustrates how peacebuilding efforts get caught between the short-term necessity of getting the job done and the long-term requirement of building local capacity to do the job. This is sometimes referred to as the transition gap between humanitarian and developmental assistance, but it extends beyond that. Building effective state institutions is a long-term process and in the meantime (as both Menkhaus and Baker demonstrate in their respective chapters) state functions and services remain in short supply and/or fulfilled by someone else. The dilemma is real. On the one hand, the internationals wish to reach out to as many people as possible—and in the short term only nonstate actors can do that—and on the other, they wish to boost the popularity of the state, which is seen as pivotal for long-term peace and stability. This tension between short- and long-term desires also applies to security. On the one hand, the presence of international military troops should be as short as possible and stable national structures capable of providing security and upholding law and order should take over. On the other hand, this effectively means extensive security sector reform—that is, strengthening the police, the army, the judiciary—all the branches of the state, which often have been involved in repression and violence against the population. Building genuine trust in these institutions takes time—time which is not always available to Western politicians and UN Security Council members who wish to either “bring home the boys” or deploy the resources elsewhere.

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The predicaments described above may be addressed by working with nonstate forms of governance or authority. This option could, however, demand the sacrifice of liberal values. Nonstate authorities may be repressive of women’s rights, individual rights, minority rights, property rights, and other rights (Call and Cook 2003). At the same time they compete with the state for the loyalty of the population, and while they may confer fewer rights than established states (are supposed to do), they often protect those rights they do extend far more effectively (Anderson 2004). Field studies suggest that international efforts often misunderstand the nature of local coping mechanisms and either miss opportunities to strengthen them or, at the extreme, undermine them. This happens for instance when emergency food assistance weakens local agricultural markets, and when international peace initiatives displace local moderates. It thus seems clear that if peacebuilding efforts are to become more successful, they need to become more attuned to local reality, and less attached to tools “that have become virtually standardized through application in other international rescue attempts” (International Crisis Group 2004). Numerous guidelines and papers on lessons learned and best practices emphasize that there are no blueprints or a one-size-fits-all strategy for peacebuilding. Each case is unique and different. Yet, in its core, peacebuilding reflects a unilinear model for the development of societies. It draws on a Universalist and normative theory on the relationship between economic, social, and political development and holds that the combination of liberal democracy and market economy is not only suitable for all societies, but it also will eventually bring about lasting peace. This implicit assumption that “all good things go together” is rejected in different ways, by the remaining three approaches. Each one holds different answers to the dilemmas of peacebuilding. The Liberal Imperialists replace the illusion of national ownership with firm international control. The Realists focus on stability and disregard liberal values. And Critical Analysis advocates for looking beyond the territorial state toward genuine humanism. In varying degrees, each one challenges the universalism of peacebuilding. The three approaches starting with Liberal Imperialism are presented in turn below. Liberal Imperialism A growing body of literature finds peacebuilding inadequate and unsuitable to meet the challenges and threats posed by failed states (see, e.g., Krasner 2002, 2004; Fearon and Laitin 2004; Mallaby 2002; Paris 2004). Relying on “home-grown processes” and “national ownership” will not do the trick. A measure of force and imposition is required, as “continued international

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surveillance will be the local political price paid for failure to provide security to a country’s civilian population” (Fearon and Laitin 2004: 41). Only gradually—over a span of decades—can authority be relinquished to a new indigenous replacement (Rotberg 2003: 31). In extreme cases, external authority structures may need to be in place indefinitely (Krasner 2002). This approach is referred to here as Liberal Imperialism.2 Liberal imperialism departs from some, but not all the principles and assumptions of peacebuilding. Liberal values—human rights, democracy and market economy—remain core concerns; and as the peace builders, liberal imperialists are led by a “strategic and moral responsibility to intervene on behalf of beleaguered citizens” (Rotberg 2003: 31). They wish to bring about “a world in which the efficient and well-governed export stability and liberty” (Cooper R. 2002). Liberal imperialists are thus to some extent frustrated peacebuilders, who have learnt the “uncomfortable but necessary lesson” that “left to their own devices, collapsed and badly governed states will not fix themselves” (Krasner 2004: 86; Rotberg 2003: 31). Liberal imperialism is not as operational as peacebuilding. It consists mainly of calls for stronger and longer international engagement, coupled with a variety of policy suggestions on how this may be realized. These are summarized in the following three paragraphs: 1. The Commitment of the Western States Is Pivotal for Success: Wealthy democracies have a special responsibility for “bringing peace and prosperity to the populations of badly governed states and reduce the threat that such polities present to the wider international community” (Krasner 2004: 120). Fixing failed states is in the self-interest of Western states as the perceived threats and dangers from ungoverned territories grow stronger. Liberal imperialism thus sees a convergence of interests: “The weak still need the strong and the strong still need an orderly world” (Cooper, R. 2002). 2. New International Institutional Arrangements Are Needed to Combine Legitimacy and Efficiency: Liberal imperialism is concerned with questions of both legitimacy and efficiency. Suspending a state’s sovereignty (de facto or de jure) by assuming executive authority backed by military force needs some form of international legitimacy. Otherwise it is mere occupation. The United Nations Security Council is the preferred source of international legitimacy, but if the members of the Security Council cannot agree, Liberal imperialism holds that legitimacy may also be found on moral grounds. Legality need not be the only source of legitimacy. This echoes the debate on humanitarian intervention and the responsibility to protect (ICISS 2001). 3. A Robust Military Presence Is Needed to Provide a Secure Arena for Reform: The security situation demands an international military presence capable of protecting civilians, combating spoilers, and establishing

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security (Fearon and Laitin 2004). When multiple irregular armed groups apply guerrilla and insurgency techniques, the international military presence must engage in counterinsurgency to establish security and impose peace. Traditional peacekeeping notions of consent, impartiality, and use of force only in self-defense are inappropriate for interventions in failed states. Such situations call for much more robust rules of engagement. A rapid and effective deployment of credible armed forces is necessary, if humiliating and morally indefensible failures like Democratic Republic of Congo and Angola are not to be repeated. To some this further underlines the need to for strong Western engagement, as NATO countries are seen as the only ones capable of projecting the kind of power needed sufficiently fast and efficient (Rieff 1999). As peacebuilding did, liberal imperialism entails a number of dilemmas and paradoxes. Many of these are linked to an inherent contradiction between the values liberal imperialism aims to protect and promote and the means it wishes to apply in doing so. The moral legitimacy of international trusteeship thus rests on serving the interests of the governed—the people of the failed state—yet the governed are held to lack the capacity to determine their own interests and have no mechanism for holding the external bodies accountable (Bain 2001; Chandler 2004). Such paternalism resonates poorly with human rights. The special role and responsibility of Western states, which liberal imperialism claims also carries tensions with it. It essentially introduces a three-tier international system consisting of democratic states, nondemocratic states, and entities under international trusteeship. Such a hierarchical order is fundamentally at odds with the idea of sovereign equality and it begs the question of why this right/responsibility only applies to Western states. What about the neighboring states whose interests and security are directly affected by the mayhem? And how does one avoid wars of aggression being disguised as humanitarian intervention? Liberal imperialists acknowledge these tensions. Their concern is, however, the undersupply of international intervention. According to them, the world is paying too little attention to the problems in Sierra Leone, Liberia, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Somalia, Haiti, and so on. They do not fear that foreign states—democratic or not—will suddenly scramble to take control of these places. The dilemmas discussed above question the implicit alliance between rich states and poor people, which to different degrees underpin both liberal imperialism and peacebuilding. Both hold that the security concerns of the West overlap and coincide with the interests of the local population of failed states. The remaining two approaches are somewhat more skeptical

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of the degree of mutual interests between ordinary people in the global periphery and powerful states in the core of the international system.

Realism While liberal imperialists want the “internationals” to do more, realists are arguing in favor of doing less. They worry that the post—cold war promotion of liberal values jeopardizes international order and stability and leads to interventions that are overly comprehensive, ambitious, and unfocused. The argument ranges from conservative defenses of state sovereignty as nonintervention (Jackson 2000) to pragmatic calls for “putting security first” in state-building efforts (Ottaway and Mair 2004). They share the belief that order and stability matter more than human rights and democracy, both in international politics and for the inner workings of states. Taking a realist approach to failed states implies that the international community (i.e., in effect, the United States and its allies) should refrain from humanitarian interventions; only if the situation constitutes a threat to stability or national interests should forceful action be taken. Unites States and its allies should stay clear of “an open-ended commitment to human freedom [and] learn to say ‘no’” (Krauthammer 2004). Intervention should be made only where it counts. And when it does, focus should be on establishing order and stability; not on promoting a particular model of governance. Rather than trying to address underlying chronic problems as liberal approaches advocate, interventions in failed states should address the immediate origins of state failure and concentrate on restoring the state’s capacity to maintain security (Ottaway and Mair 2004). State failure demands urgent action and fast results, not long-term comprehensive socioeconomic and political reforms. If and when intervention is necessary, it should be brief and the state’s sovereignty should be restored as soon as possible. Open-ended foreign control of the territory as suggested by liberal imperialism is both dangerous and utopian; dangerous because it may spur disagreement among great powers and thus prompt greater risks (Jackson 2000) and utopian because the resources for establishing long-term trusteeships are not available: “Kosovo might serve at best as a template for interventions in small countries to which wealthy members of the international community attach a great deal of importance. As a general model it is simply unsustainable” (Ottaway and Mair 2004). Putting security first and focusing on what is realistically attainable is thus partly a matter of cost efficiency—of making the most of what is available. On another—and more fundamental—level, calls for “putting security first” imply a critique of liberal approaches for having lost track of what the

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core function of a state is and for projecting values and norms, which may be laudable but not necessarily relevant to the local situation. The Hobbesian problem of establishing effective institutions to provide security and stability is what matters. Democratization is not a solution to dysfunctional states. Democracy may be a good thing in itself, but it can only work where there is a functioning state. To a Realist, state building must come first. It is wrong to assume that democracy building and state building are “mutually reinforcing endeavors or even two sides of the same coin” (Carothers 2002: 9). They are not. State building is first and foremost a matter of bolstering the capacity of the executive branch of government—of (re)building the state’s monopoly of violence and as a consequence (re)establishing law, order, and stability. Liberal preoccupation with parliaments and judiciaries, as well as decentralization and civil society, have more to do with redistribution of state power than with state-building (Carothers 2002: 17). It is not a solution if there are no effective state structures to begin with. As was the case with peacebuilding and liberal imperialism, realism encounters contradictions and tensions when confronted with reality. Because realism is a highly pragmatic approach it is less plagued by the type of intrinsic ethical paradoxes the liberal approaches encounter. The main concern for realism is whether it can succeed in delivering order and stability and whether this “really” is what matters. How realistic is realism at the end of the day? The essential claim of liberal approaches—and thus its main objection to realism—is that unless the underlying root causes of state failure are addressed, the “conflict trap” cannot be escaped. Opting for short-term stability will not produce long-term order. As long as people’s basic human rights—civil/political and socioeconomic—are violated, there can be no stable peace, and thus no stability. Realists sometimes claim that public opinion is a major obstruction to prudent—and realistic—foreign policy today. Western leaders are afraid to tell their voters that what is happening in country X is terrible, but they do not really care enough to do something about it. The argument falsely assumes that failed states (or foreign policy in general) play a central role in the way Western voters cast their vote. It typically does not. A kernel of validity may, however, be hidden in the argument if one broadens it to the larger issue of globalization. In a globalized world, defining what constitutes core national security and strategic interests is somewhat more complex than realism holds. This is not because of public opinion, but because the world is more interconnected, integrated, and interdependent than realism acknowledges. Instability and insecurity cannot be contained in the periphery. It has a tendency to spill over into the core of the global system.

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The fact that Afghanistan fell entirely off the Washington radar after the Soviet withdrawal and that this neglect came back to haunt the United States on September 11, 2001, is a somber critique of the realist idea of only engaging “where it counts.” Realism tends to look at the world as it is now and to concern itself with the immediate strategic concerns rather than the prevention of future threats and hence the Afghanistan blunder. A realist rebuttal of this critique would, however, argue that it merely underlines the need for sound and focused analysis, not the need for comprehensive engagement around the world (Logan and Preble 2006).

Critical Analysis The fourth and final school of thought criticizes the Western-biased, statecentric reasoning applied in the three previous approaches. It argues that they all build on the same simplistic notion, that if some states do not “work,” it is because they have failed to adopt the formula that has worked elsewhere (Clapham 2002: 789). The emphasis placed on either “national ownership,” “international control,” or “security first” are mere nuances within the same mainstream paradigm; it does in no way denote real choices between genuine alternatives. In direct opposition to this, critical analysis rejects the idea that the state is “the natural, default organizational structure of human community” (Anderson 2004: 1). The state is merely “a distinct and particular institution with a number of historical and contemporary competitors” (Anderson 2004: 1). Similarly, it argues that liberal democracy and market economy are not the End of History as argued by Francis Fukuyama (1996). Alternatives do exist and will continue to develop as history continues to unfold around the world. Critical suggestions on “what to do” are few and far between. Problem solving is not an explicit part of the critical research agenda; it is actually just the contrary (Bellamy and Williams 2004; Pugh 2004). What critical analysis does offer is a framework for looking above, beyond, and below the state and for analyzing the production and reproduction of differing forms of order, authority, and control. The policy implications of such analysis are difficult to distill, yet a few broad recommendations can be drawn up. They do not add up to a coherent alternative strategy for rectifying state failure but merely point to areas and aspects for policy makers to explore. First, there is a need to acknowledge the problematic universality of statehood. Rather than focusing on discrete instances of state failure and collapse, attention should be on the “failed universalisation” of the “imported state” within the postcolonial world (Bilgin and Morton 2002: 75). It is the

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globalization of the territorial state model that lies at the core of the problem. Both diplomats and intellectuals must therefore refrain from trying to reassert the primacy of statehood. What they need to do instead is figure out how to deal with “degrees of statehood” and “zones of statelessness”—not insisting on “helping” by (re)constructing states that were never truly states in the modern sense of the word anyhow (Clapham 1998). Second, there is a need to acknowledge the inherent inequalities of the current world order and the way in which people in the periphery are adapting to the conditions they live in. Mainstream approaches project a falsely harmonious image of global governance as a collective pursuit of global security and welfare (Duffield 2004). In fact, the current neoliberal world order is marked by systemic inequalities, which helps create the climate for conflict and state collapse (Cooper, N. 2002). The third world is systematically disfavored and excluded from the world market. In many regions, the only economic opportunities for states and people lie in the extralegal sector—be they unauthorized sale and smuggling of legal goods, drugs production, or illegal mining and trade in diamonds, timber, coltan, and so on. The growth of black markets, shadow economies, and illicit networks are thus not as much symptoms of state failure as they are flexible adaptations to a neoliberal world order of inequality, exploitation, and exclusion (Duffield 2001). Third, critical analysis warns against the “securitization of development” which has shaped Western policies since the end of the cold war and which has been radicalized following 9/11 (Duffield 2001; Beall et al. 2006). The “tying of aid to an interventionary agenda of pacification and liberaldemocratic reform” has politicized both development and humanitarian aid and led to a crisis of humanitarianism (Duffield 2004: 18). Longer-term peace objectives are privileged over shorter-term life-saving measures (Stockton 2005: 12) with the possibility of a better tomorrow held out as a price worth paying for suffering today (Duffield 2001: 107). To achieve real progress, there is need to escape the wider security mentality that divides the world into leading “homeland” states and a global “borderland” of failed states, shadow networks, and so on (Duffield 2004, 2005). It follows then that critical analysis provides very few concrete suggestions on what to do—how to alter the structures that are causing humans to suffer and die in the “borderlands.” Some would argue that this is not a shortcoming but a strength of critical analysis. Western politicians—the international community—are not supposed to do anything; except allow the inhabitants to develop alternatives to the nation-state model that has failed.“Let them fail”—and provide, eventually—“international recognition to the governmental units that are actually providing order to their citizens as opposed to relying on the fictions of the past” (Herbst 2003: 315).

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From an ethical point of view it is difficult to see this hands-off policy as morally superior to the criticized mainstream policies of intervention. Not least if one accepts the critical claim that the neoliberal world order is “producing” state failure. The problems are unlikely to be solved by letting “them” fail and leaving “them” to sort out the mess for themselves. How should the inhabitants of failed states escape the global structural conditions on their own? Something apparently needs to be done by “outsiders.” Critical analysis just does not offer very many clues to as what that may be.

Concluding Remarks The donor community is currently engaged in a lively debate on how to deal with states that fail to fulfill the functions associated with a modern state, most notably upholding of law and order and provision of security to its citizens. Arguments from all four approaches appear in this debate, although not entirely surprisingly, few traces of critical analysis can be found in official papers. Liberal imperialism, on the contrary, and the call for stronger and more long-termed international engagement are repeatedly emphasized by leading countries, including the United Kingdom and the United States (DFID 2005; USAID 2005). They do, however, not go so far as to suggest the establishment of trusteeships or protectorates. Neither the UN nor Western nations seem eager to take full executive responsibility of a collapsed state. The importance of exit strategies and national ownership is still emphasized and donors thus seem to remain faithful to the peacebuilding hope that international interventions can be brief and that national sovereignty can be maintained throughout or quickly restored. Perhaps for this reason, realism may turn out to be the main source of inspiration to donors in years to come. In 2005, the OECD launched a set of “principles for good international engagement in fragile states” (OECD/DAC 2005a). These principles focus almost exclusively on the need to rebuild the central institutions of the state. They thus appear very alert to the realist arguments of getting back to basics and putting security first. The chair’s summary from an OECD/DAC senior level forum confirms this, as he argues that “it is often important that international actors focus initially on supporting the authorities to assume the key functions of the state, including security, law and order” (OECD/ DAC 2005b). The presentation and discussion of the four different approaches demonstrate that built-in contradictions and tensions exist in all of them. None escapes difficult choices and tough trade-offs. This reflects the complexity of reality as much as it reveals flaws in the theories. Addressing

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failed states is not a technical task, which can be delegated to experts. It is a highly political undertaking that requires genuine political choices. This does not imply that the search for better ways of dealing with the challenges should be called off. Surely more knowledge is needed to guide the political choices and to help make them as informed as possible. A major challenge in this regard is to improve the knowledge and understanding of the realities on the ground and the real life impact of different types of international engagement in failed states. Too often, ordinary citizens are seen as passive victims of state failure when in fact they are experts at the art of survival and adaptation (Menkhaus 2004; Sawyer 2006). This normative blinder may be preventing international actors from understanding and supporting the informal systems that provide the people living in failed states with a modicum of security and predictability. Clearly a better and more thorough understanding of the local context is needed, if the international community is to succeed in its efforts to address state failure. More work is needed—both conceptually and empirically—to bridge the aspirations of external actors with the realities on the ground. This is an extensive research agenda. It covers explorations of local alternatives to the state model as well as studies of the international community, its institutions, and the dynamics that move them. Perhaps most interestingly, it also covers innovative combinations of the two: analysis that takes into consideration the “realities on the ground” as they play out both in global power centers and in the outskirts of Mogadishu or in the Ituri region. Meanwhile, back on planet Earth—where people are living, dying, and making decisions every day—interventions are likely to remain problematic both when they happen and when they do not. Yet, the political choices, tough as they are, will have to be made anyway, one way or the other. Notes 1. “Nation building” and “state building” are other terms used to describe international support for postconflict reconstruction. Peacebuilding could be seen to cover a slightly broader agenda than state- or nation building, which are mainly concerned with the institutions of governance, while peacebuilding holds a wider societal—and perhaps more civilian—approach. Often, however, the difference in both the literature and with regard to the actual interventions is negligible (compare, e.g., Ignatieff 2002; Dobbins et al. 2003, 2005; Chesterman 2004; Paris 2004). 2. The term is controversial and not all authors referred to in this paragraph would consider themselves “liberal imperialists.” It should also be noted that similarities exist between the current strand of neoconservatism in the United States and the Liberal Imperialism discussed here. Broadly speaking, Liberal Imperialism seems

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more concerned with international legitimacy and long-termed international engagement, while neoconservatism focuses more narrowly on national U.S. interests and short-termed U.S.-led missions.

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Krasner, Stephen D (2004). Sharing Sovereignty. New Institutions for Collapsed and Failed States. International Security, 29 (2): 85–120. Krauthammer, Charles (2004). Democratic Realism, 2004 Irving Kristol Lecture. Washington: American Enterprise Institute. Little, Peter D (2003). Somalia: Economy without State. Oxford: James Currey. Logan, Justin and Christopher Preble (2006). Failed States and Flawed Logic. The Case against a Standing Nation-Building Office. Policy Analysis, no. 560. Washington: CATO Institute. Mallaby, Sebastian (2002). The Reluctant Imperialist: Terrorism, Failed States, and the Case for American Empire. Foreign Affairs, March/April 2002. Menkhaus (2004). Vicious Circles and the Security Development Nexus in Somalia. Conflict, Security and Development, 4 (2): 149–65. OECD/DAC (2005a). Principles for Good Donorship in Fragile States. Document no. DCD(2005)8/REV2. Paris: Organisation for Economic Cooperation and Development. ——— (2005b). Chairs Summary: Senior Level Forum on Development Effectiveness in Fragile States. Document no. DAC/CHAIR(2005)3. Paris: Organisation for Economic Cooperation and Development. Ottaway, Marina (2003). Promoting Democracy after Conflict: The Difficult Choices. International Studies Perspectives, 4 (4): 314–22. Ottaway, Marina and Stefan Mair (2004). States at Risk and Failed States. Putting Security First. Policy Outlook. Washington: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace and German Institute for International and Security Affairs. Paris, Roland (2004). At War’s End. Building Peace after Civil Conflict. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Peake, Gordon, Cathy Gormley-Heenan, and Mari Fitzduff (2004). From Warlords to Peacelords: Local Leadership Capacity in Peace Processes. INCORE Report. Londonderry: University of Ulster. Pugh, Michael (2004). Peacekeeping and Critical Theory. International Peacekeeping, 11 (1): 39–85. Rieff, David (1999). A New Age of Liberal Imperialism. World Policy Journal, 16 (2): 1–10. Reno, William (1998). Warlord Politics and African States. Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publishers. Rotberg, Robert (2003). The Failure and Collapse of Nation-States. Breakdown, Prevention, and Repair in Robert Rotberg (ed.). When States Fail: Causes and Consequences. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Sawyer, Amos (2006). Social Capital, Survival Strategies, and their Potential for Post-Conflict Governance in Liberia in Basudeb Guha-Khasnobis, Ravi Kanbur, and Elinor Ostrom (eds). Linking the Formal and Informal Economy. Concepts and Policies. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Stedman, Stephen J. (2001). Implementing Peace Agreements in Civil Wars: Lessons and Recommendations for Policy Makers. IPA Policy Paper Series on Peace Implementation. New York: International Peace Academy. Stockton, Nicholas (2005). Accountability in Peace-building. The Case of the Democratic Republic of Congo. Unpublished paper presented at the FAU Conference 2005, Denmark.

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Tschirgi, Neclâ (2004). Post-Conflict Peacebuilding Revisited. Achievements, Limitations, Challenges. New York: International Peace Academy. USAID (2005). Fragile States Strategy. Washington: U.S. Agency for International Development. van Creveld, Martin (1991). The Transformation of War. New York: The Free Press.

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Part II

Security Beyond the State

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3

The Organization of Violence: A Historical Overview Martin van Creveld

t all times and places, the organization of war, meaning the use of violence for the attainment of collective ends, was not arbitrary. At all times and places that organization necessarily reflected the nature of the societies that waged war, their culture, their economy, and the way they were governed (Andreski 1968; Keegan 1993). In this chapter I propose to provide a short overview of the way it was done, starting with the simplest, and presumably oldest, societies and ending in the present with some speculation about the future thrown in. Building upon the way the various societies it discusses are structured, the chapter is divided as follows: Part 1 deals with the military organization of tribes without rulers and city-states, given that in some ways they were remarkably similar. Part 2 examines the way chiefdoms, feudal, entities, and empires organized for war. Part 3 describes how, out of the mercenaries sometimes used by feudal rulers, there grew the standing armies of the modern state. Part 4 takes a look at the way states organized for war from the French Revolution to the end of World War II. Part 5 discusses the decades from 1945 on. Finally, part 6 comprises the conclusions.

A

From Tribes without Rulers to City-States The simplest known of all human societies, such as the Plains Indians of North America, the Australian aborigines, and the Nuer of the Sudan, are tribes without rulers (Evans-Pritchard 1940; Eid 1985; Ferguson and Whitehead 1992). Living as they did by gathering, hunting, and sometimes by cattle raising, the essential characteristic of these societies was far-reaching

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social and economic equality. In them, power—it will scarcely do to use the word “political” in this context—was limited almost entirely to that which existed inside the extended family or clan. It is true that, even in such societies, some families might be considered more important than others. It is also true that all the families might be united under a sort of priest, or shaman, whose supposed magical powers and access to the gods that be might give him (sometimes, her) (Evans-Pritchard 1948; Mair 1962) considerable influence over the affairs of the tribe as a whole. Still, in neither peace nor war can there be any question of a supreme ruler, or commander in chief, as more sophisticated and more hierarchical societies understand those terms. In societies of this kind, every adult male was by definition a warrior (and every warrior by definition an adult male, but that is beside the point). In the absence of permanent settlements, the normal causes leading to war were access to water, hunting fields and forests, pasturage, and the like. Other reasons included the desire to avenge injuries such as trespassing, cattle rustling, or kidnapping of women. Unaccustomed to writing as most of them are, tribal people nevertheless have remarkably long memories. As a result, such injuries will often be remembered for generations on end, giving rise to, or at any rate, serving as the excuse for, repeated acts of violence. Yet another reason was plain fun and the need to give young warriors just entering adulthood something exciting to do to prove themselves in their elders’ eyes (Fadiman 1982). The decision to go to war was made by all the adult male members of society in common. A commander was elected, and bands of warriors, based on family ties and sometimes known as sodalities, formed. As the time for the expedition approached, each warrior brought his own weapons as well as his own provisions. Before they could set out, all would probably have to undergo all kinds of ceremonies designed to purify them and prepare them for the death-defying enterprise to come. As long as the war lasted discipline inside the sodalities could be quite strict, with severe penalties inflicted on those who, by breaking it, endangered their comrades in arms. Once it was over, though, the ties of discipline disappeared. The ceremonies were gone through in reverse order, and the sodalities returned to a dormant state, so to speak. These arrangements permitted various forms of war such as ambushes, raids (even long-distance ones, since the warriors could live off the land), skirmishes, and even pitched battles between bodies of warriors on both sides. What they did not permit was permanent conquest and the subjugation of one people by another, given that the necessary military mechanism was lacking. They seem to be very old indeed, preceding the invention of writing and thus of history by thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of

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years. For all their simplicity, they proved remarkably long lasting. Even in Europe, forces not very different from the ones just described continued to be fielded by some peoples, such as the Irish, the Scots, and the Swiss, until well into the Middle Ages. In large parts of other continents they were even more widespread. In some regions, notably Africa, Central Asia, Southeast Asia, and much of the Americas it was only the advent of modern imperial rule that finally overcame them. Either it broke them up, or else, by depriving them of their leaders, it drove them underground. Furthermore, the arrangements just described were quite similar to those that existed in ancient city-states. Athens, Sparta, and Rome resembled tribes without rulers in that every adult male was a soldier (the day on which youths were formally taken into the citizen-body was also the one in which they became subject to conscription) and that every soldier (except, on rare occasions, emancipated slaves) was a citizen. In them, too, armies did not exist in peacetime. Instead, each time war approached the magistrates held a levy. First they would take volunteers, then those with the smallest number of campaigns behind them, and then as many others as were needed to fill the ranks. In Rome, the place where this was done earned lasting fame as the Field of Mars. Greek and Roman soldiers also resembled those of tribes without rulers in other ways. Originally at any rate, they too brought their own weapons (the only Greek city-state to distribute weapons centrally was Sparta) and provisions with them. Armed and supplied in such a way, they either had to stay close at home or else they were forced to sustain themselves by means of plunder and the like. As in tribes without rulers, military discipline, and indeed the army itself, lasted only as long as the war did; not accidentally, the true translation of the Greek stratos, like the Roman exercitus, is not army but “host.” Precautions stricter than those taken in tribes without rulers were taken here to make sure that the commanders appointed to lead in war would not be able to abuse their authority once it was over. In Rome, persons elected to act as dictators automatically lost their position six months later. In addition, Roman armies were prohibited from entering the city and, later, even from crossing the River Rubicon into Italy. Spreading from Italy, where towns never entirely disappeared, European city-states during the Middle Ages and Renaissance also had their militias. As had already been the case in Greece and Rome, the armies only came into being in time of war. As had already been the case in Greece and Rome, in theory at any rate, every able-bodied man was liable to serve. As had already been the case in Greece and Rome, originally each man brought along his own weapons although the spread of firearms gradually created a situation where the burghers were disarmed and procurement and distribution of arms became the function of the town. Generally the militias

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in question seem to have been less trained than their classical ancestors, meeting only a few times a year and spending as much time feasting and drinking as they did exercising. Still on occasion they could be a match for whatever other forces could be thrown at them, as happened, for example, at Legnano in 1176 and Courtrai in 1302. Though simple in nature, the military arrangements of hunter-gatherers were by no means without historical significance. First, during as much as 90 percent of human history they were probably the only ones in existence; at least some scholars believe that this fact has helped shape the way society operates and continues to do so to the present day (DeVore and Lee 1968; Stanford 1999). Second, in many ways they resembled those of citystates, especially ancient ones. Of those, some later emerged as the most civilized, most sophisticated, most warlike, and (in part) militarily most successful political entities of all times.

Chiefdoms, Feudal Societies, and Empires Just how ancient tribes without rulers were transformed into chiefdoms—in other words, how political life, properly speaking and with it the domination of man by man got under way—remains a mystery. Possibly it was a question of agriculture and the settled life taking over, which, as Friedrich Engels (1884) saw it, encouraged the emergence of private property, differences in wealth, and with them, political power as a way of asserting and maintaining them. Possibly it was a growing population which, by encouraging war against other tribes, pushed toward military and, in its wake, political centralization (Seaton and Claessen (eds.) 1979). On the one hand, there is no reason to believe that these things happened in exactly the same way in various places around the world. On the other, clearly the various factors interacted with each other, pushing development along. Thus looking for the “original” or “decisive” factor may very well be like trying to answer the famous question of the chicken or the egg. Nor, for our purpose, does it matter. Let us assume, then, that a chiefdom already exists. By definition, one man (very rarely, one woman, and then almost only because she is descended from, or related to, a deceased man) is supposed to be much closer to the deities that be, from whom he claims to have received his power. He is also much richer and more powerful than the rest. Owning property in the form of land, cattle, or both, he may be able to take on retainers and use them to make war both on other chiefs and, if necessary on his own people. Such retainers will live with him in, or around, his own house. Some of them may well be related to him or marry into his own family, thus adding blood ties to those that are based on interest. He may also be able to provide them with

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arms made by the craftsmen whom he employs. This ability in turn may enable him to fight other chiefs, killing and deposing them and extending his authority over people who originally formed part of other chiefdoms and permanently subduing them. Tribes without rulers seldom number more than a few thousand people and can hardly ever raise more than a few hundred warriors, but not so chiefdoms, especially those in Southeast Asia and West Africa. These at the time they met their eventual European conquerors often lorded it over tens of thousands of people and were capable of raising armies numbered in the low ten thousands. At any one time, only a small proportion of the forces would be armed. Forming a sort of bodyguard at the chief ’s beck and call, they served mainly to enforce his orders, defend him against internal enemies, and secure his access to his subjects’ resources—mineral, vegetable, animal, and human. The remainder, living in other places far from the “capital,” would have to be called to arms by using visual signs (standards), auditory ones (drums), or messages in the form of certain objects, known to carry a certain meaning, brought to their destination by specially appointed personnel. Once an army had been mobilized, inevitably it would come either under the chief himself or under one of his close blood relatives. Though not homogeneous—the chief ’s immediate retainers were likely to be better armed than the rest—and possessing little formal training, it should be capable of obeying orders and consistently carrying out its commanders’ plans. Given that the chief ’s economic resources did not suffice to keep all those over whom he ruled permanently armed, only a relatively small number of retainers was available, at any one moment, for rendering military service to him. Therefore, if he and the tribe over which he ruled were to expand their territory, the way to go was to take land whose original inhabitants had been exterminated or subdued in war and distribute it among his retainers and his relatives. In return for promising military assistance in time of war and perhaps for paying taxes as well, each of them would be permitted to set up court as a subchief or petty chief. Each of them would gather a body of retainers similar to that of the chief, only smaller. The original subchiefs would probably have won their positions by merit, having fought with the chief and helped him conquer. Inevitably, though, they would soon try to make them hereditary by leaving the positions to their sons, having those sons marry the daughters of other subchiefs (so as to prevent landholdings from being divided), and the like. Once the process had taken hold and a dominant class had come into being, it became possible to speak of feudalism. In Western Europe as well as in Japan, feudal armies have had extraordinarily long lives (Contamine 1986: 16–41; Friday 2004). As was also the

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case with chiefdoms, except for a relative handful of men surrounding the king, the army existed only in wartime. Unlike the armies of chiefdoms, the feudal army was based not merely on blood ties but also on the kind of arrangement known as fealty. Essentially it consisted of retainers. Each of them brought along his own retainers, and he in turn brought his own and so on, in a chain that reached from great lords to individual knights who presented themselves with no more than a few footmen or pages in tow. Most of these men would probably bring along their own arms, thus making uniformity hard to achieve. Their contracts, either written or anchored in custom, might very well limit them to fighting for a particular number of days, in specific places, for specific purposes, and against specific enemies. Once the conditions stipulated in their contracts were exceeded they might, or might not, choose to go on serving. Certainly they would not do so unless, at a bare minimum, they were given subsistence money, wages, and a promise of a share in any booty gained. As the above suggests, feudal armies differed from those of chiefdoms more in degree than in kind. It is true that fealty, as opposed to blood ties, might play a more important part in the former than in the latter; which explains why feudal political entities and armies were often more capable than chiefdoms of transcending ethnical divisions and growing. Still, the basic principles, meaning the establishment of personal ties and the systematic decentralization of political authority and economic resources in return for military service, were the same in both cases. In principle at any rate there was no limit to the number of retainers each chief, or subchief, or feudal lord, might acquire and also to the number of echelons in which those retainers were divided. The decentralized nature of the political entities just described meant that conflicts between retainers and their chiefs or lords, and also among the retainers themselves, were endemic and the entities themselves notoriously prone to engage in civil war, disintegrate, and fuse into new ones which disintegrated in their turn. Assuming they could retain their integrity over time, however, chiefdoms and feudal organizations, the former perhaps more than the latter, were sometimes able to pull themselves up by their bootstraps and transform themselves into empires. Historically speaking, almost all the empires that ever existed were created when one tribe, headed by a chief more able and more ruthless than his colleagues, succeeded in defeating the rest. Having done so, instead of utterly destroying them he went on to build a larger political structure in which the people of his own clan or tribe occupied the top ranks of government and which was based on ties of a feudal kind. The Middle East in particular proved a fertile ground for such empires: the Acadians, Sumerians, Elamites, Assyrians (old and new), Babylonians, Persians, Parthians, Sassanids, Arabs (first the Omayads, then the Abassids), and Ottomans (the sons of Ottman),

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all corresponded to this kind. So, on the other side of the world, did the Maya, Toltec, Aztec, and Inca empires. Militarily speaking such empires still relied on armies made up of armed retainers, although their number sometimes rose to the tens of thousands. Permanently available for waging war on behalf of the emperor, they were centrally armed, paid from a central imperial treasury, well trained, and commanded by professional officers who, however, were selected as much for their loyalty to the emperor as for their professional competence. In theory, these standing forces were often supplemented by a militia in which every male member of the empire was liable to serve. In practice, those militias were likely to consist of underequipped, undisciplined men with little training and less aptitude for war. They were perhaps best used for engineering projects, such as fortification, or else as beasts of burden in carrying out logistic tasks; the ancient Egyptians, the Chinese, the Ottomans, to adduce but a few examples, all had such forces. As soldiers, however, their usefulness was marginal. Here and there some empires constructed variations on the theme. Of them, the most important one was Rome. The Roman Empire differed from others in that it originated in an overgrown city-state rather than in a chiefdom or feudal polity. As a result it never knew feudalism (when the first signs of feudalism started appearing, this was both cause and consequence of the empire falling apart), nor did its army consist of retainers linked to one another by blood ties or by fealty. Alone among historical empires, Rome maintained a strong, fairly homogeneous, all professional, army made up of volunteers for centuries on end. That said, it is necessary to add that Rome was not above using auxiliaries. Either they served permanently, having been recruited among neighboring peoples close to the empire’s frontiers, or they were raised temporarily in order to help the legionaries prepare for a specific campaign in a specific place. In the later case, once the campaign ended, they were disbanded. Before leaving empires, it is necessary to say a word about a unique form of armed force that some of them developed, that is, such as those consisting of slaves. In Imperial Rome, though the army was made up of free men, those who staffed the navy were slaves; only those in command were free men (Starr 1941). Slave armies, consisting of troops who originated in foreign countries and religions and were purchased while they were still very young, also served the Egyptian Sultans (the Mameluks) and the Ottoman ones (the Janissaries) (Ayalon 1979; Goodwin 1997). In reality, what we have here is a variation on the age-old system whereby chiefs surrounded themselves by armed retainers, but on a much larger scale. In any case, the differences between these and other empires should not be exaggerated. In addition to the armies of slaves immediately available to

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the Egyptian and Ottoman rulers, both also had very large numbers of auxiliaries organized on feudal principles. Both also had the right to conscript able-bodied men among the general population, and used them from time to time for carrying out logistic and for engineering tasks.

From Mercenaries to Standing Armies One type of troops that has not yet been discussed, but that has almost always been present to one extent or another, is mercenaries. Mercenaries differ from other kinds of troops in that the only tie binding them to their employers is cash; they are neither blood relatives, nor retainers who form part of the household, nor bound by ties of fealty, nor long-serving professionals. Instead they consist of men who are hired, whether as individuals or in groups, when war breaks out and discharged when it is over. Given that they must only be paid when, and as long as, they are needed, the advantages of hiring mercenaries are obvious. Just when they came into being is not known; suffice it to say that probably the only kind of political organization that did not make use of them at one time or another was tribes without rulers. Greek city-states started using them from the end of the fifth century onwards. Carthage, which politically speaking was also a city-state, probably did so right from the beginning, whereas many medieval city-states started using them as soon as their financial means permitted. Many tribal chiefs and feudal lords used mercenaries as well; the latter took them either as substitutes for their vassals (who, to obtain release from their military obligations, had to pay shield money or scutagium) or, if they could afford to do so, in addition to them. Finally, many empires also used mercenaries, and indeed they may probably be found in almost every one of them from ancient Egypt through the Arabs to the Ottomans. In many cases, perhaps in most, mercenaries were not members of the political entities they served. Instead they were foreigners, often enlisted unit by unit and serving under their own commanders; receiving pay, the latter were responsible for arming and training their men as well as keeping them fed and clothed. From the point of view of their employers, the greatest advantage of mercenaries was that they had no ties to the rest of the polity and could be sent home after the war, for which they had been hired, had ended. That advantage, however, was also a disadvantage. As long as conflicts lasted mercenary forces were notoriously unreliable. Sometimes they refused to fight and sometimes they even changed sides if it suited them; their motto was, pas d’argent, pas des suisses. Once the war was over and they were dismissed, but some who were armed, trained, and experienced for war and who might not automatically agree to disband the

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units in which they had served were left. At best, such men might turn to organized crime to support themselves at the expense of the population, as happened during the Hundred Years War and again during the Thirty Years War. At worst, led by their condotieri, they might actually take on, defeat, and subjugate their former masters, as happened to many an Italian city-state during the Renaissance period. Starting in the middle of the fifteenth century, these problems made the most important European monarchs start building permanent armed forces with which to surround themselves; as, so often, economic and military power fed each other. The earliest standing forces were probably the companies d’ordnance, some seven thousand men organized by France’s Charles VII in 1456. Others did not take long to follow: first in Spain, then in the Habsburg Dominions, and in parts of Germany as well. By this time feudal armies based on fealty had more or less gone out of fashion. Even so, lack of the necessary financial means—which, since the troops had to be looked after not merely in wartime but for years, often decades on end, were very considerable—caused the process to be a prolonged one. As late as the Thirty Years War, the majority of the troops serving under Gustavus Adolphus, for example, were locally recruited Germans; to these was added a sprinkling of volunteers from many other countries. The situation of his various allies and opponents was not very different. The first real standing army came into being in France under Louis XIV. Centrally commanded and provided for, disciplined as neither mercenaries nor feudal hosts could be, from the outset it proved a formidable force. Its very power compelled other monarchs to follow suit, a process that ultimately led to the disappearance of those, such as the king of Poland, who for one reason or another did not want or was unable to do so. As the informed reader will readily see, this form of military organization was not entirely unprecedented; after all, Imperial Rome had also relied on a standing army for centuries. Contemporaries, too, were well aware of this fact. Using the term militum perpetuum to describe the new armies, they never tired of pointing out how much they owed to their glorious Roman predecessors. Be this as it may, in three ways the new standing armies brought about a sea change. First, for millennia on end rulers of every kind—tribal chiefs, urban magistrates, feudal lords, emperors, kings, whatever—had very often led their forces from the front. Many of them fought in person, as, for example, Alexander the Great, King Francis I of France, and Emperor Charles V had done as a matter of course and as Gustavus Adolphus had done as late as 1632, the year in which he was killed. Now, following a long process of evolution whose beginnings can be seen around 1560, they ceased doing so. With rare exceptions, henceforward command was left to soldiers and government to rulers, even though the latter were sometimes

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present to meddle and to claim credit, and even though many of them still liked to wear uniform, and continued to do so until World War I more or less cured most of them of the habit. The second critical change was occasioned by the spread of firearms. It was only the great monarchs who could afford to buy and employ cannons. Furthermore, the fact that the last remaining pikes were discarded soon after 1714 meant that muskets that had been newly provided with bayonets, reigned supreme. As we saw, during the Middle Ages urban and even tribal militias had often been able to give a good account of themselves, fighting and occasionally defeating the opposing feudal armies and mercenaries. As was proved, among other things, by the Scot’s defeat at Culloden in 1746, by then they no longer stood a chance. As the War of the American Revolution and Napoleon’s occupation of Spain were to show, the one remaining way in which irregulars could face regulars was guerrilla, a form of war that was to have a great future ahead. That apart, though, the only kind of force that could withstand the new kind of militum perpetuum was another militum perpetuum like itself. Third, whereas earlier armed forces of every kind had worn either war paint or armor, now the age of uniforms had arrived. Uniforms made it much easier to distinguish between those who fought and those who did not. Along with the two other factors just mentioned, this led to the rise of what, in my book The Transformation of War, I have called “trinitarian” warfare (van Creveld 1991: 34–42). Studying history, it is always possible to find forerunners and forerunners of forerunners. Still, in many ways trinitarian warfare is a modern invention; one which, initially at least, was limited to Europe alone. Under its terms, a very sharp line now divides the armed forces, whose task is to fight and die, from the government, whose task is to direct, on the one hand, and from the civilian population, whose task is to pay and suffer, on the other (Lipsius 1594; Best 2002: 26–33, 44–46). This was a revolution indeed. Traditionally, many rulers had commanded and fought, killing and being killed. Traditionally, too, armies that conquered a province, or stormed a town, did not draw many fine distinctions between the enemy’s combatants and the civilian population. Civilians, combatants, and rulers were all treated according to the laws of war, which in many cases entailed enslavement, massacre, and execution. Now, certainly in theory and very often in practice as well, war came to be defined as something waged by the members of one uniformed army against another, and consequently, to use wanton armed force against enemy persons, who were not soldiers and did not wear uniform, was increasingly defined as a war crime. Finally, the fact that armies had now grown so strong that, to stop them, it was necessary to have another army of the same kind, also led to the rise

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of specialized police forces to engage in violence short of war. Throughout history, tribal chiefs and feudal lords had relied on their own retainers for that kind of work. Emperors usually relied on their armies. Only in their capitals did they sometimes set up separate units for the purpose, the bestknown example being the companies of vigilantes which owed their establishment to Augustus. A sharp distinction between internal and external war was only drawn for the first time by Justus Lipsius toward the end of the sixteenth century (1594). By the eighteenth century, all this was changing. On the one hand, the demise of feudalism and the rise of sovereign states that admitted no superior led to the wide acceptance of Lipsius’ distinction between internal and external war. On the other, regular armies became so powerful that they were no longer, neither suited to, nor needed for, the maintenance of internal law and order. In giving birth to the police—first organizations such as the French Marechausee, then a variety of other types—the eighteenth century made a crucial contribution to the organization of violence. In the centuries that followed, it was to be reinforced still further.

From the Levée en Masse to Total War Compared with the demographic resources at the state’s disposal, eighteenthcentury standing armies tended to be relatively small. Except for Prussia, which received massive British subsidies, states of the time seldom put more than 2 percent of their populations into uniform. Even that happened only in wartime, and even then some of their forces (and those of Prussia as well) were made up of foreigners rather than of their own nationals. What changed all this was the French Revolution. With approximately 28 million people, late eighteenth France was the most populous European State. In 1792 it went to war with most of the rest; this, at a time when the old royal army had largely disintegrated, its officers dead or in exile, and its rank and file deserting in droves for lack of pay. The response of the Assemblée Nationale was the famous declaration of that year by which all Frenchmen were “permanently requisitioned” for military service until further notice. Initially the system led to much confusion. Once that had been overcome, this system, however, enabled first the Carnot (“the Organizer of Victory”) and later on Napoleon to set up the Grande Armée. Operationally speaking, so large was the number of troops it incorporated that it could only wage war by being divided into corps and moving along fronts that could be as much as 30–60 miles long (Chandler 1972: 13378). This, too, was a revolution. Limiting ourselves to Europe as militarily speaking the most advanced continent of all, not since Roman times during

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the republic had any state mobilized its population in such a way; nor was it an accident that, as their symbol, the new Napoleonic armies carried eagles. The vast numbers of troops made available by the levée en masse and the system of conscription that followed it, coupled with Napoleon’s own strategic genius in deploying them and moving them, enabled France to overrun practically the whole of Europe within a period of approximately fifteen years (van Creveld 1985: 58–102). If, from 1809 on, the wheel began to turn, this was, to a very large extent, because his opponents learnt from him. All of them introduced conscription in one form or another, and all of them were able to vastly augment their forces as a result. When the “Battle of the Nations” took place at Leipzig in 1813, it was the largest fought in history until then. Nevertheless, there was less to the French Revolution than met the eye. Though the new armies were much larger than their eighteenth-century predecessors, they were still run very much on trinitarian principles. Though rulers like to don uniform and take the field, the only one to exercise effective command was Napoleon; otherwise, the strict separation between government and armed forces was maintained. Except for Spain and a few other places, the same applied to the one between armed forces and people. War remained what it had been in the past for over a century, that is, a question of uniformed bodies of men maneuvering against each other, concentrating against each other, and seeking to defeat each other in grand, often rather theatrical, encounters known as battles. Once enough number of battles had been won by one side and lost by the other, the representatives of the two sides would meet, negotiate, and sign a peace. Throughout the nineteenth century, the trinitarian system persisted. Indeed the system was strengthened as arrangements that had originated in bilateral agreements between rulers, such as the decision to limit war to uniformed men, were extended and took on the form of formal international law; among other things, this resulted in the prohibition of mercenaries. That does not mean that no fresh developments took place. First, during the period between 1815 and 1848, there was a fairly general return to the eighteenth century-system of professional armies, a trend that had its origin in the fact that most crowned heads feared their own people more than they did each other. Then, from the 1860s on, there was another sea change as the introduction of telegraphs and railways made possible vastly accelerated mobilization and, with Prussia in the lead, resulted in the creation of the reserve system. The reserve system in turn made possible another vast increase in the size of armies until, by 1914, instead of amounting to hundreds of thousands as had been the case a century earlier they numbered in the millions. Yet when everything is said and done, the trinitarian system of organizing war, having emerged for the first time in the days of Louis XIV,

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held. As it did so, the various international conventions that began to be signed from the middle of the nineteenth century on also made it more and more articulated and formalized. In the end, it was only during the twentieth century that the system began to show serious cracks. The advent of airpower created a situation whereby not only the uniformed military but the civilian population could be, and were, subjected to attack. At the same time, cases in which the people of occupied territories, who by this time had been thoroughly nationalized by the state and its school system (Schleunes 1989: 43–44; Zuber 1988), no longer acquiesced in their lot but rose against the occupier, multiplied. By doing so, the occupied invited reprisals, if, indeed things did not proceed the other way around. The need to fight insurgents and guerrillas also compelled armed forces to take leave from their ordinary task in order to engage in police work, thus undermining the accepted way of doing things in yet another way. Though circumstances varied considerably from one occupied country to another, all these developments were much more in evidence during World War II than they had been even as late as World War I. By the time the conflict ended, much of the world that Louis XIV and his eighteenth-century successors had built lay in ruins.

From Total War to Counterinsurgency Operations For a decade and a half after 1945, most experts still expected the next war to be even larger and more total than the last one had been (Blackett 1948; Fuller 1961). They had, indeed, good reason for their belief; for, had not war been growing decade by decade for at least a hundred years, and had not various technological and cultural developments made the trinitarian division of labor less and less relevant? The last conflict, waged by seven great powers with the aid of armies which, at their peak, numbered over forty million, had resulted in sixty million dead and had devastated an entire continent. The next one, waged by the even larger armies of the two superpowers and their respective allies, would surely lead to even greater casualties and result in even greater material losses. In the event, it did not happen. As is by now sufficiently clear, the main, perhaps even the only, reason why it did not happen was the introduction, and subsequent spread, of nuclear weapons. Having been employed against Japan, and having brought about that country’s surrender in a matter of days, at first, nuclear weapons seemed to provide states with a war-making power much greater than anything in history until then. Soon, however, it turned out that, far from doing so, they were about to abolish large-scale war between, and against, the states that owned them. The reason why they

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did so was because they cut the link between victory on the one hand and survival on the other (Schelling 1966). Thus they turned war from an instrument of policy into suicide. As might be expected, the impact of these developments on the way war was organized was far reaching. With its basic security now guaranteed by their nuclear arsenals, one country after another started cutting the size of its forces. Most de-emphasized the roles of the reserves, reducing the order of battle and failing to properly retrain the personnel even if, in theory, the system remained in operation as it had been before World War II. Others, such as the United States and the USSR, switched (de facto if not de jure) from general conscription to a system of selective service. Starting with Britain in 1963, others still switched back from conscription to professional armies, thus in effect returning to a system that had seemed to be superseded by 1792 or, at the latest, 1866. The fact that, starting in the 1980s, many armies started contracting out their rear services such as catering, maintenance, and so on contributed to the fall in numbers. Until, by 2000, worldwide the number of uniformed personnel had fallen to one half of what it had been at the peak of total war in 1944–45; relative to the globe’s population, the decline amounted to 85 percent. Obviously this process did not affect all parts of the world and all countries at once. In many places, decolonization led to new armies being constructed almost ex nihilo. Some, especially in Africa, never really got off the ground, but took the form of more or less ill-armed, ill-organized ill-equipped bands of ruffians more suitable for butchering their own populations than for waging war against neighboring countries. Others grew very powerful indeed, both absolutely and, even more so, in relation to their countries’ overall resources. Yet sooner or later those that did experience such growth built nuclear weapons, as Israel, China, India, Pakistan, and North Korea did. Many others reached the point where they could do so easily and quickly; South Korea, Turkey, Egypt, Malaysia, and Indonesia are all cases in point. Though other factors also played a role in this development, inevitably the way these countries organized for war followed the path already taken by the older, longer established, nuclear powers. The War Criminals’ Trials that followed World War II, with their emphasis on war crimes and crimes against humanity, together with the Geneva Conventions of 1949 could be construed as an attempt to reassert the trinitarian system of war making in the face of developments—guerrilla warfare in particular—that were threatening to destroy it (Best 2002: 115–206). That attempt, however, only succeeded within very narrow limits. With the most important states were now prevented from going to war against each other by nuclear weapons, almost all wars—well over 90 percent, by some

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calculations—took place not between regular, uniformed armies, but between a uniformed army on the one side and other kinds of organizations on the other. Depending on the country and also on the conflict in question, the members of those organizations could be characterized as freedom fighters, revolutionaries, insurgents, guerrillas, or terrorists. In any case they did not wear uniforms, were subject to no government, and were not organized along trinitarian lines. Initially at least, most of them were weak in terms of personnel, money, weapons, equipment, training, experience, and so on. Hence most of what strength they were able to bring to bear was due precisely to the fact that they did not observe the distinctions between government, armed forces, and noncombatants either in choosing their targets or in their own organization. For a long time, the above developments were limited almost entirely to what was known as the third or developing world, and indeed in 1976 one famous historian gave it as his considered opinion that, with the last colonial countries about to become free, guerrilla warfare would soon come more or less to an end (Laqueur 1976: 404–9). In the event, this did not happen. Instead the ability of colonial countries to free themselves convinced at least some people that, provided only the right methods were used, even the world’s most powerful governments, with all the coercive instruments at their disposal, could be confronted and overcome. Some of the terrorist strikes that started taking place over much of Europe in the 1970s were foreign-instigated (particularly those that had to do with the IsraeliPalestinian conflict). Others, such as the poison gas attack on the Tokyo Underground, were purely homebred. In any case, the events of 9–11 and their sequel—attacks in Madrid, in London, and other places—proved beyond doubt that every country, no matter how ethnically homogeneous, how rich, and how wallowing in its contentment, was now in danger of becoming involved in these forms of war. The flip side of the coin was that, even as the armed forces designed for fighting each other within the trinitarian framework were being threatened by guerrillas and terrorists, the distinction between those forces and the police was also beginning to be eroded, to say nothing of the many countries—developing ones in particular—where it had never been able to crystallize in the first place. On the one hand, armed forces were increasingly called upon to engage in police-like tasks, thus engaging their own citizens rather than those of other countries. On the other, many police forces began to organize, acquire equipment, and use methods that made them almost indistinguishable from the army of the state. In this way the entire modern system of organizing violence, including specifically the distinction between internal and external warfare, as it had formed itself for several centuries past, began crumbling.

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As it crumbled, older forms of organization that had long been all but defunct resurfaced. In some countries, such as Israel, militias, known as civil guards, were set up to assist the police in their task of guarding residential areas and the like. In others nongovernmental bodies such as municipalities, corporations, as well as neighborhoods, and individuals seized the initiative, taking on security personnel who can only be described as mercenaries. In the United States, there are now more private security “officers” than there are soldiers or police; in India, anyone who can distinguish between such officers on the one hand and the army and the police on the other deserves a medal. Governments too started supplementing their regular forces by hiring mercenaries. Either they are used as a cheap alternative to the police, or else they are sent to do particularly nasty jobs in foreign parts of the world in which those governments are interested. Meanwhile what about the forces’ opponents, that is, the terrorists? Certainly, generalizations are difficult and dangerous to make; still, only in few, if any, cases were terrorists able to conscript people, separate them from their social environment, and train and equip them as governments have done for the last few centuries. Instead, relying on volunteers, they set up much less hierarchical, much less centralized, much more diffuse organizations. Instead of being pyramid-shaped with a clear chain of command, they are perhaps best described as a series of interlocking segments, or rings. Preferring not to confront their opponents in open battle, they specialize in operations such as ambushes, hit-and-run raids, and acts of sabotage. In so far as they operate covertly rather than overtly, the analogy between them and the earliest tribal militias should not be overdrawn. Contrast them with their regular, uniformed, opponents, though, and it becomes clear that the two are even further apart.

Conclusions and Outlook A short survey of the way violence has been organized throughout history cannot do justice to its subject—all the more so because, far from standing on its own, that organization is affected by, and affects, an extraordinary number of political, economic, social, cultural, military, and technological factors. Even considering, Clausewitz’s dictum, written at a time when trinitarian warfare was reigning supreme, that the armed forces of the most important countries were becoming more alike every day, we find that, in reality, the differences between them were very considerable. A fortiori, an attempt to sum up the entire subject must meet with almost insuperable difficulties. That said, the simplest known forms of organizing violence are undoubtedly the sodalities, based on blood ties and only existing in times of

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war, which constituted the “armed forces” of tribes without rulers. From them, it is possible to see development proceeding along two separate lines. The first led toward the relatively egalitarian, but well-organized and disciplined militias of city-states such as Athens, Sparta, Republican Rome, and much later, those of the Middle Ages. The second led toward the more hierarchical, but less well-organized and disciplined armies of chiefdoms and feudal polities. In principle and often in practice, as well, city-states mobilized every one of their citizens in times of need. By contrast, chiefdoms and feudal polities had this in common that their armed forces consisted of a small core of retainers who surrounded the chief or lord and a considerably number of other warriors who were tied to him by blood or by fealty. These, in turn, could be supported by much larger numbers of subjects who, lacking training or organization, were used mainly on logistic and engineering projects. Here and there chiefdoms and feudal polities were even able to grow and increase their power until they turned into empires, in which case the number of retainers would increase to the point where it became possible to speak of real standing forces. By way of an interesting variation on those standing forces, some empires developed armies made up of slaves. A kind of force that did not fit into any of these different forms of organization, but was used by all of them except for tribes without rulers, was mercenaries. Hired when war threatened and dismissed as soon as it was over, mercenaries often posed danger to their employers by either turning into brigands or refusing to disband and taking over the government. It was to deal with these problems that the first standing armies started to be built in the second half of the fifteenth century. With standing armies came some of the most basic elements of the modern world, indeed so basic that, until recently, they were taken almost for granted. The most important ones were, first, the distinction between internal and external war; second, the “trinitarian” system of war with its distinction between government, armed forces, and civilian population. And third, the distinction between the military and the police. Gradually emerging from the end of the sixteenth century on, by the middle of the eighteenth, these elements were firmly in place. They withstood the French Revolution, albeit it brought a shift from professional armies to the levée en masse and conscription. At least on paper, they also withstood the age of total war, more or less, even though the latter threatened to destroy them by the rise of airpower on the one hand and of insurgency (and counterinsurgency) on the other. By the end of the twentieth century, though, their survival was very much in doubt. While the spread of nuclear weapons had made serious war between serious states all but impossible, almost all wars were now being waged between, or at any rate, against, organizations, which were not states and which, far from accepting

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the trinitarian division of labor, owed their existence to their ability to circumvent it and disrupt it. In many cases, these developments also led to the blurring or even loss of the distinction between armed forces and police. At the same time, in places as far apart as Sierra Leone to the Congo to Iraq, they led directly to the reintroduction of mercenaries (Venter 2006). But what about the future? One thing appears abundantly clear. The system developed for waging the wars of state against state and army against army will not do when it comes to dealing with the new world now undergoing its birth pangs. As a result, some forms of organization that until recently were considered either defunct or suitable only for the most backward countries are making a comeback. This chapter has provided a brief description of those forms as well as the politicosocial factors in which they are rooted and the way they interact. A historian cannot, perhaps should not, do more. Bibliography Andreski, Stanislaw (1968). Military Organization and Society. London: Routledge. Ayalon, David (1979). The Mamluk Military Society. London: Variorum. Best, Geoffrey (2002). War and Law since 1945. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Blackett, Patrick M S (1948). The Military and Political Consequences of Atomic Energy. London: Turnstile Press. Chandler, David (1972). The Campaigns of Napoleon. London: Macmillan. Contamine, Phillipe (1986). La Guerre au Moyen Age. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. DeVore, Irven and Richard Lee (eds.) (1968). Man the Hunter, Chicago: Aldine. Eid, Leroy V (1985). National War among the Indians of Northeastern North America. Canadian Review of American Studies, 16: 124–54. Engels, Friedrich (1989 [1884]). The Origin of Private Property, the Family, and the State. London: Penguin. Evans-Prichard, Edward E (1940). The Nuer. Oxford: Oxford University Press. ——— (1948). The Divine Kingdom of the Shilluk of the Nilotic Sudan. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Fadiman, Jeffrey A (1982). An Oral History of Tribal Warfare: The Meru of Mount Kenya. Athens, OH: Ohio University Press. Ferguson, Brian R and Neil L Whitehead (eds.) (1992). War in the Tribal Zon., Santa Fe, NM: School of American Research Press. Friday, Karl F (2004). Samurai, Warfare and the State in Early Medieval Japan. London: Routledge. Fuller, John F C (1961). The Conduct of War. London: Eyre & Spottiswode. Goodwin, Godfrey (1997). The Janissaries. London: Saqi, 1997. Keegan, John (1993). A History of Warfare. New York: Vintage. Laqueur, Walter (1976). Guerrilla Warfare. Boston: Little, Brown.

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Lipsius, Justus (2004 [1594]). Six Books of Politics or Political Instruction. Assen, Netherlands: van Gorcum. Mair, Lucy (1962). Primitive Government. Harmondsworth, UK: Penguin Books. Seaton, Lee S and Henry J M Claessen (eds.) (1979). Political Anthropology: The State of the Art.The Hague: Mouton. Schelling, Thomas C (1966). Arms and Influence, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Schleunes, Karl A (1989). Schooling and Society: The Politics of Education in Prussia and Bavaria, 1750–1900. Oxford: Berg. Stanford, Craig B (1999). The Hunting Apes: Meat Eating and the Origins of Human Behavior. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Starr, Chester G (1941). The Roman Imperial Navy. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. van Creveld, Martin (1985). Command in War. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. ——— (1991). The Transformation of War. New York: Free Press. Venter, Al J (2006). War Dog: Fighting Other Peoples’ Wars: The Modern Mercenary in Combat. Havertown, PA: Casemate. Zuber, G (1988). L’École Primaire en Prussie à la Vieille de la Fondation du Reich. Revue d’Allemagne, 20 (3): 311–21.

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4

Local Security Systems in Somali East Africa Ken Menkhaus

Introduction The Somali case offers a unique opportunity to analyze the evolution of local security arrangements and political orders in environments which are chronically insecure and in which the state is either weak or absent. Over the past several decades, Somalis living in Somalia, Somaliland, eastern Ethiopia, and northern Kenya have had to cope with a wide array of failed, weak, emerging, and predatory state structures, each of which has posed special challenges to communities seeking to create a safe environment. The Somali case has become even more compelling since 2005. A series of dramatic developments has propelled the country into an entirely new political context fraught with both opportunity and peril. These seismic changes began with the declaration of a Transitional Federal Government (TFG) in January 2005, followed by an extraordinary string of events— crises within the TFG, which rendered it a divided and stillborn administration; a war in Mogadishu in the first half of 2006 between a coalition of U.S.-backed militia leaders against an ascendant Council of Islamic Courts (CIC); the decisive victory of the courts in June 2006, the CIC’s rapid expansion and consolidation of power throughout much of Somalia; the ascent of hardliners in the CIC, prompting fears of a Talibanization of the movement; an Ethiopian offensive against the Islamists in December 2006, leading to the dissolution of the CIC Ethiopia and the temporary occupation of Mogadishu by Ethiopian forces; and the rise of an armed insurgency in Mogadishu against Ethiopian troops and the TFG. Collectively, these events have at least partially transformed the broader political and

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security environment within which local security systems have evolved since 1991. It is impossible at this time to predict where these changes are headed and exactly how they will affect the constellation of local polities and security arrangements that have sprouted in Somalia. Both hardliners in the CIC and TFG authorities have embarked on policies designed to undercut and eliminate rather than partner with local security arrangements that are not under their direct control, fearing they could serve as a potential source of opposition. However the current political drama in Somalia turns out, it is likely that current systems of local security will endure in some form, possibly in hybrid arrangements with new sources of authority. Analysis of Somalia’s so-called governance without government is vitally important both for a proper understanding of Somalia and for deriving potentially useful observations about local security systems in other zones of state collapse. Somalia—the most protracted instance of total state collapse in the postcolonial era—has, with good justification, received the bulk of attention from scholars and policy makers seeking to understand how local communities adapt to and cope with state failure.1 But the pursuit of public and private security by Somali communities in the rest of the eastern Horn of Africa, where a central state does function and plays variable roles in public security, is also highly instructive, though less researched.2 Collectively, these different political settings provide researchers with an unusual opportunity to engage in comparative analysis of how Somali communities, equipped with similar social and cultural tools for conflict management and governance, have developed systems, structures, understandings, and “regimes” amongst themselves and with the state to provide at least a modicum of security in a chronically insecure environment. Accordingly, this analysis will consider not only the local security systems which have evolved in south-central Somalia since the collapse of the state in 1991, but also those in the breakaway Republic of Somaliland (Northwest Somalia), the autonomous (nonsecessionist) state of Puntland in the northeast of Somalia, the Somali region of Ethiopia, and northeast Kenya. The main findings of this analysis are as follows: ●

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Faced with state collapse, Somali communities have vigorously pursued alternative systems to provide themselves with essential services normally associated with the state—first and foremost security and public order; Local systems of security and order are varied, fragile, and prone to sudden setbacks, but the general trend throughout the Somali-inhabited zones of East Africa has been incremental improvement in security since the early 1990s;

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Improved security is not directly linked to the existence or presence of formal government. Throughout the region the state has at times been a major source of insecurity rather than a provider of public order; The core elements of so-called traditional sources of governance in Somali society—customary law (xeer), blood payment groups (diya), and lineage or clan affiliation (and the collective action taken by lineages to defend group interests)—have been honed over centuries to manage “pastoral anarchy.” Somali society is thus relatively well suited to cope with current crises of state failure; Informal systems of security in Somali settings are generally hybrid arrangements, involving complex and constantly renegotiated alliances between a combination of traditional clan elders, local political elites, business leaders, civic (NGO) leaders, and religious figures. They draw on traditional sources of conflict management but blend them with contemporary political tools in innovative and pragmatic ways; These hybrid security arrangements have increasingly constrained and in some cases co-opted armed youth, militia leaders (“warlords”), and others with a political and economic interest in perpetuating conditions of lawlessness and insecurity. They nonetheless remain vulnerable to spoilers; The single greatest source of protection and security in Somalia is deterrence—the threat of retaliation by entire subclans in response to an attack on a member of the lineage. But that mechanism is also the source of cycles of revenge killings and communal violence, and is inherently unstable; Virtually all of the local security systems in Somali East Africa3 are at least to some degree “illiberal”—that is, the justice they dispense and security they provide do not conform to international human rights standards, and provide very unequal and “patchy” levels of security to different community members (especially women, members of weak or low-caste lineages, internally displaced persons, and the poor). Where these sources of law coexist with a formal state structure (in Kenya, Ethiopia, and Somaliland), they collide with constitutional rights as well; Throughout Somali East Africa, security has become increasingly a private commodity that can be purchased by those with means; Most informal sources of security in Somali communities are very much coping mechanisms. Whether they might constitute viable building blocks for a more durable and comprehensive solution to insecurity and state failure remains an unanswered question; In Northern Kenya, Somaliland, and arguably even eastern Ethiopia, weak state authorities have had to negotiate with these hybrid Somali

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polities to exercise indirect political control over local populations, in arrangements which can be described as a “mediated state.” The evolution of a mediated state arrangement is an intriguing as well as a problematic form of coexistence between a weak state and informal security complexes in its periphery; The evolution of informal systems of governance and security, as well as the rise of mediated state arrangements, have largely been invisible to external aid agencies engaged in promotion of rule of law and state building, most of whose energies are devoted strictly to formal state structures. External state-building initiatives have at times undermined rather than promoted public security and order, by undercutting existing informal security systems. A strategy for state building which allows an emerging state structure to coexist with and complement informal security arrangements—some variation of a “mediated state” model—may be unavoidable at least as a short-to-medium-term approach to state revival in Somalia, though current efforts by the Islamist authorities in Mogadishu appear to be designed to suppress and supersede any local structures that might pose a challenge to the courts.

To understand the local security systems that have evolved in Somaliinhabited regions of East Africa, an inventory and analysis of the sources of insecurity and conflict is an essential first step. The first items to consider in the inventory are conflict drivers that have a long and enduring history, and have as a result shaped to some extent the way Somali communities and culture cope with insecurity and violence.

Conflict and Insecurity Trends, Pre-1988 Statelessness or Weak State Context Even in the decades prior to the outbreak of civil war and state collapse in Somalia in 1988–92, most Somalis (especially rural dwellers, who constitute the majority of the Somali population) relied little on state structures as sources of security. Historically, Somali communities were (with a few exceptions) stateless, a pastoral and agropastoral society organized by lineage in a context sometimes termed, a bit misleadingly, “pastoral anarchy.” Though stateless, precolonial Somali society was in fact not anarchic. A robust set of traditional mechanisms, customary laws, and well-honed deterrence systems centered on collective lineage action served to prevent, manage, and resolve conflict and provide a modicum of local security.

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With the gradual encroachment of the Ethiopian empire and state into Somali-inhabited low country, and the subsequent arrival of European colonial rule, all Somali communities found themselves and their territory claimed by a sovereign state. Somali “statelessness” technically came to an end by 1900. But both the colonial and postcolonial state has been experienced by Somalis either as a marginal authority with only sporadic and weak presence or as a predatory and oppressive force and a source of insecurity (to be evaded or placated with offerings of taxes, goods, labor, and false loyalty). Often, the state has manifested itself in the eastern Horn as both a predatory and marginal force at the same time—the typical “garrison state” presence. In either case, Somali communities have had long experience in adapting customary sources of law, security, and conflict management in turbulent political settings created by some combination of a weak or predatory state. The ebb and flow of state projection of power, and state strategies of co-optation and manipulation of traditional structures of authority, have impacted local security arrangements in the Somali zones of the Horn in important ways. But states in East Africa have never been able to replace, ignore, or completely control traditional authorities and customary laws in their Somali peripheries. The current situation of state failure or weakness throughout most of the Somali-inhabited zones of the eastern Horn of Africa is not, as is sometimes claimed, an historical aberration, but is in some ways a continuation of a long-running pattern with which Somali communities are well acquainted and relatively well equipped.

Resource Conflicts Most of Somali society has historically engaged in nomadic pastoralism in the semi-arid plains of the eastern Horn of Africa; today, pastoral or (increasingly) semipastoral activities remain the main mode of production for well over half the total Somali population in the Horn. The principle source of day-to-day, household-level insecurity remains the struggle for livelihoods in an environment of seasonal scarcity. Clans compete over access to wells and pasture, and armed clashes over these vital resources are not uncommon. Livestock raiding contributes further to insecurity and cycles of violence. The constant search for pasture and water, combined with the exceptionally high vulnerability of the eastern Horn to drought, and environmental degradation and reduced carrying capacity, have also produced major migrations of Somali pastoralists into new territories. These periodic waves of migration and conquest have at times produced severe insecurity and armed clashes both between Somali lineages and between Somali and non-Somali inhabitants of the eastern Horn. Not

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surprisingly, some of the most insecure and conflict-prone areas of the eastern Horn today—from the Lower Shabelle to Kismayo to parts of the Kenya-Somali border—are precisely those territories that have come to be recently occupied by more powerful clans. Struggles over access to pastoral resources are, in sum, historical, endemic, usually local, and generally driven by a combination of livelihood, resource, and environmental factors, not political manipulation, though the latter can and does occur. Importantly, communal struggles over scarce resources have taken on new dimensions in recent years, as the types of material resources over which Somalis fight have changed. Today, lineages and other political groupings are in conflict not only over pasture and wells, but also over control of highvalue, riverine, agricultural land, key cities and towns, seaports and airports, and key commercial arteries and roadblocks. In eastern Ethiopia and northern Kenya, where political devolution policies have increased both the number of and resources associated with local administrative units, clan clashes over control of “locations” (Kenya) and kabeles and woredas (Ethiopia) have risen sharply, and are producing worrisome instances of localized ethnic cleansing (Menkhaus 2005; 2006a). These new resources are especially valuable to the political and economic elite, who can and do instigate violence, armed conflict, and ethnic or clan tensions to advance their claims on these resources. Somalia’s “resource wars” are today more urban, commercial, and politically driven than the traditional disputes over wells and pasture which still occur. Worse still, today’s resource conflicts are far more deadly than in the past, thanks to small arms proliferation in Somalia.

State as Source of Insecurity In the two decades prior to 1990, the principal sources of insecurity for residents in the region were repressive and often brutal state structures—the Barre regime in Somalia (1969–90), a police state with one of the worst human rights records in Africa; President Mengistu’s Marxist regime in Ethiopia (1973–91), which was arguably even more brutal toward its own people than was the Barre regime; and the government of Kenya, which under Presidents Jomo Kenyatta and then Daniel Arap Moi maintained a harsh state of emergency in Somali-inhabited North East Province from 1963 to 1992. The observation that the state has more often than not been a source of insecurity than security in the eastern Horn of Africa is self-evident to Somalis and yet frequently overlooked by external “state-building” projects which presume that state building and increased security are synonymous, and which are frustrated when confronted by Somali responses driven by a different, more cautious set of assumptions about the central state.

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In addition, some Somali communities had to cope with insecurity produced by two wars involving regional states—first, the so-called shifta wars in Northern Kenya, waged by bands of Somali insurgents against the Kenyan government in mid-1960s; and second, the devastating Ogaden war of 1977–78 between Ethiopia and Somalia, which produced several hundred thousand Somali refugees from eastern Ethiopia.

The 1988–92 Watershed It is impossible to make sense of current conflict trends in Somali-inhabited regions without acknowledging the lasting impact of events that took place during the 5-year period from 1988 through 1992. The 1988–92 period introduced horrific levels of armed conflict and insecurity across most of the region, and left legacies of violence, lawlessness, and state failure which have taken years to contain. Several broad changes catalyzed the unprecedented insecurity of that period. All were to some degree triggered by the end of the cold war, which, by leading to major reductions in the flow of foreign aid and the introduction of political conditionality on aid, inadvertently weakened states throughout the region. The civil war in Somalia began in the northern part of the country in 1988–90, pitting the Somali military against the Somali National Movement. The Barre regime systematically attacked northern (mainly Isaaq clan) civilians, producing an estimated 50,000 deaths and 500,000 refugees (Africa Watch 1990). That war contributed to the rise of multiple clan-based liberations movements, the shift of warfare into central and southern Somalia, and the weakening and ultimate collapse of the central government. The most important catalyst of insecurity in 1990–92 was unquestionably the complete and protracted collapse of the Somali state, a political crisis which was accompanied by endemic civil war, massive population displacement and refugee flows, unprecedented levels of criminal violence, the rise of uncontrolled armed youth gangs unconstrained by clan elders, the temporary collapse of customary law, dramatic increases in availability of cheap small arms, and a massive famine in most of rural southern Somalia. The war and famine together claimed an estimated 250,000 lives, and eventually prompted the ill-fated UN Operation in Somalia in 1993–95. Even in the worst zones of factional war and militia predation on civilians in 1991–92, evidence existed of local efforts to manage and reduce insecurity. These mainly consisted of deals struck with local militias (protection in return for provision of food, labor, and information), and clan-based deterrence strategies (in the form of threats of reprisal attacks). These initial efforts were very weak, very patchy in their coverage, and easily overwhelmed by events, but

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they did establish an obvious if often overlooked fact—namely, that Somali communities even in the worst moments of the “Mad Max anarchy” of 1991–92 were not passive victims of state collapse and failure, but instead vigorously sought arrangements to provide themselves with security. The collapse of the state and the years of warfare that accompanied it had profound spillover effects on neighboring zones. Small arms, armed militia, and occasionally even factional fighting crossed freely over the Kenyan border. The results were disastrous: Insecurity in Kenya’s North East Province rapidly worsened; clannism, previously a minor source of tension in northern Kenya, was mobilized and inflamed by Somalia’s spillover effect; the Kenyan government lost control over a large swath of territory; and the influx of refugees created conflict over local resources and became deeply involved in illicit trade. Armed convoys were required for commercial traffic and buses to reach northern towns, and government police and military units were often outgunned—and occasionally looted—by armed militias. Where the Kenyan security sector was present and active, it was often one of the predators, especially at Dadaab refugee camp (Menkhaus 2003). By the mid-1990s, portions of northeast Kenya were considered by most international aid agencies to be more insecure than the Somali side of the border. In Ethiopia, the fall of the Mengistu regime in 1991 further increased temporary instability and violence in Somali-inhabited areas of the Horn. Thousands of soldiers in the defeated army left for home and sold their weapons en route, contributing to the flood of cheap small arms in the region. In Kenya, too, domestic political changes helped to trigger worsening insecurity. In 1992, under pressure to improve civil liberties, the Moi government lifted the state of emergency on the country’s North East Province; at the same time, its weakened armed forces and police began to withdraw from much of the province and preferred to remain in garrisons rather than expose themselves to the worsening insecurity. The vacuum created by the withdrawing security sector could not have come at a more inopportune moment, when armed gunmen and militiamen from Somalia were swarming across the border raiding livestock and attacking commercial traffic. In sum, the period from the late 1980s through the early 1990s generally constituted the most anarchic and insecure time that the region has known. But while that period has had a lasting impact on security and conflict dynamics in the region, the initial conditions of armed anarchy that prevailed in the early 1990s have changed in important ways.

Conflict and Security Trends since the Mid-1990s The political and security context in which local security systems have evolved varies regionally and has changed significantly since 1990. Some

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Somali locations, such as Puntland, have been almost entirely free of war and have suffered relatively low levels of armed criminality over the past fifteen years. Others, such as Kismayo and Mogadishu, the site of repeated and often heavy armed conflict as well as dangerous levels of violent crime, have been chronically contested,4 Still others, such as Somaliland (and to a lesser extent northern Kenya), have experienced both periods of severe insecurity and impressive public order and rule of law. The spatial and temporal variations in public security throughout Somali-inhabited areas of the Horn of Africa thus make it difficult to generalize. Still, several regionwide trends are evident.

Trends in Armed Conflict First, armed conflict in Somalia has generally subsided since the early 1990s. Armed clashes continue to break out, but are nowhere near the scale and intensity of the fighting that destroyed Hargeisa in 1988–89 or Mogadishu in 1991–92. With a few notable exceptions, the trend in armed conflict is devolution, with clashes mainly occurring within, not between, clans, and conflicts remaining essentially local. The result is the rise of a condition of general, chronic, and low level of insecurity in much of the country. Whereas in 1991 the war in Somalia pitted entire clan-families against one another in fighting that swept across all of southern Somalia, since the mid-1990s most of the worst armed clashes in Somalia have been within subclans. This devolution of conflict to lower lineage levels has many implications. It means that with some exceptions warfare has become much more localized; clashes are generally contained within a subclan’s territory or neighborhood. Conflicts are shorter in duration and less deadly, in part because of limited support from lineage members for internal squabbles, in part because elders are in a better position to intervene. Conflicts are somewhat less predictable, often precipitated by a series of incidents involving theft and other misdemeanors. Atrocities against civilians are now almost unheard of, as combatants are much more likely to be held accountable in subsequent clan reconciliation procedures. Pillaging and looting are no longer common, because little territory is gained or lost in localized clashes, and because commodities worth stealing are generally in the hands of businesspeople with hired guards to protect them.“Warlords” have become less of a factor, as only a few have funds to pay a militia. Since 1999, businesspeople in Mogadishu, who previously had funded warlords of their clan, have refused to pay, and have hired their own militias instead. Salaries are generally quite low; a dollar or two per day per militiaman. With some exceptions, gunmen fight for whoever will pay them, though when the clan is attacked, the elders will mobilize gunmen temporarily without compensation. The paucity of opportunities to loot and the low salaries

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offered to militiamen mean that the status and earning power of a gunman are not what they used to be. This has prompted a gradual and spontaneous demobilization of militiamen, and reduced the incentives for the younger generation to take up arms as an occupation (Menkhaus 2003). The victory of the CIC in Mogadishu temporarily accelerated this trend further, as the courts demobilized large numbers of young men and brought others into the control of the sharia militia. This trend of reduced intensity of armed conflict generally holds true in other Somali-inhabited areas of the eastern Horn as well. In Somaliland, the early 1990s witnessed two brief but heavy episodes of civil war in Hargeisa within the Isaaq clan, but since 1996 a peace has been reached and consolidated. The only danger of warfare in Somaliland has been the remote possibility of renewed conflict between Somaliland and Puntland militias over disputed areas of Sool and Sanaag regions (a brief clash occurred in 2004). The trend toward reduced armed conflict has been at least temporarily halted since 2005, however. Somalia has seen much more sustained and destructive armed conflict in the 2005-07 period. It is at present too soon to say whether renewed levels of armed conflict in 2005-07 are merely a shortterm spike or whether they signal the beginning of a worrisome reverse trend in Somalia. What is clear is that recent insecurity is driven by struggles for power over control of the state, as well as a broader clash between neighboring Ethiopia and Somali Islamists. In September 2005, deep divisions within the newly established Transitional Federal Government (TFG) nearly propelled rival factions into war. In February 2006, heavy armed conflict erupted in Mogadishu between a collection of U.S.-backed militia leaders calling themselves the Alliance for Restoration of Peace and Counter-Terrorism and the Council of Islamic Courts. Those clashes produced over 200 deaths, widespread property damage, and internal displacement. The decisive victory by the CIC, and its subsequent consolidation of control over Mogadishu as well as the territory stretching from Lower Shabelle region to Galgaguud region in central Somalia, created a new conflict dynamic. Over the course of the latter half of 2006, war between the ascendant Islamists and neighboring Ethiopia grew increasingly inevitable, propelled by provocative steps taken by both sides. Ethiopia’s positioning of troops inside Somali territory inflamed relations with the Islamists, while the CIC leadership’s repeated call for jihad against Ethiopia, and its embracing of irredentist claims on Somali-inhabited territory in Ethiopia, virtually guaranteed a war. Hardliners in the Islamist movement used jihadist rhetoric and mobilization for war as an expedient political tool to conflate their Islamist ideology with pan-Somali nationalism and anti-Ethiopian sentiments, earning them considerable public support. But that political tactic came at a cost—war with one of sub-Saharan Africa’s largest and most seasoned armies. The Ethiopian offensive against the

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Islamist forces resulted in a short but lethal rout in which an estimated one thousand Somalis died before the CIC dissolved itself. In the first months of 2007, a combination of armed insurgency against Ethiopian forces and the TFG and renewed criminal violence has rendered Mogadishu as insecure as at any time in a decade.

Trends in Violent Crime Since the mid-1990s, violent crime has consistently been a greater threat to household security than has armed conflict. At times in the past, the distinction between criminal violence and acts of war was difficult to make, especially in south-central Somalia, where the wars of 1991–92 morphed into a classic example of “greed-based” warfare, militiamen mainly fought in order to loot civilians.5 But few opportunities to loot exist in contemporary Somalia, now that businessmen possess robust private security forces. Meanwhile, the time when armed young men could commit violent crimes with impunity has long since passed. Instances of assault, murder, and rape have gradually been reduced throughout most of Somalia. When they do occur, they are increasingly the subject of one of a number of sources of quasi-police action, including sharia courts, customary law, payment of blood compensation, vigilante reprisals, and occasionally involvement of formal police and court systems. Other crimes producing insecurity have actually worsened in parts of Somalia, however. Kidnapping for ransom tops the list, and is especially endemic in Mogadishu. Kidnappers prefer to target individuals whose wealth, family connections, or employer promise to yield a large ransom, but often, poorer Somalis are abducted simply because they are easy marks, even though the ransom paid will be very modest. The establishment of the new Islamist administration in Mogadishu may put an end to the kidnapping epidemic. Trends in violent crime vary considerably by location. Since the mid1990s, the safest location in all of the eastern Horn has unquestionably been Somaliland—or, more precisely, the western half of Somaliland. There, armed crime is quite low, streets are safe, and murders uncommon. To the east, Puntland has enjoyed periods of comparable public safety, though punctuated with outbreaks of banditry and, more recently, armed gang activities. In south-central Somalia, variations in public safety by location and over time have been considerable. Towns and neighborhoods which for years enjoyed good public security and low crime can quickly deteriorate into danger zones; areas previously viewed as no-go lairs of armed criminals are sometimes resurrected and returned to a modicum of order.

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Further south, North East Province in Kenya has surprisingly become one of the least crime-ridden regions of Kenya, an enormous achievement after years of uncontrolled criminality in the early 1990s. A recent national survey in Kenya found that North East Province residents reported fewer incidents of crime, and less fear of crime, than any other part of Kenya (Wolf et al. 2004: 50).

Sources of Local Security: Key Themes The fragile, local, patchy, but nonetheless impressive level of security and public order that Somali communities have provided for themselves in contexts where the state is unable or unwilling to provide public order is the product of a number of very different sources of order, rules, deterrence, and authority. In almost every location in Somali East Africa, local security arrangements are hybrid systems, involving complex and constantly renegotiated alliances between a combination of traditional clan elders, local political elites, business leaders, civic (NGO) leaders, religious figures, municipalities, and others. Likewise, the codes, laws, precedents, and procedures on which local security systems are based are also often a combination of customary, modern, and sharia laws. Traditional law and practices are blended with contemporary political tools often in innovative and pragmatic ways. Not surprisingly, these arrangements are also often brimming with tensions, power struggles, and unresolved contradictions. Most of the local security arrangements that have emerged in Somali East Africa are a response to the security threats posed by militias and armed criminals, all products of the 1988–92 collapse. As such, these local security systems are generally seeking to evade, challenge, or contain a very dangerous collection of armed gunmen and their leaders, many of whom make a livelihood off the lawlessness and insecurity they generate and have no interest in allowing that to change. The stakes are very high, and cases of overreach by local polities can result in threats and killings. The maneuvering is made even more complex because actors seeking to improve local security often rely on the very gunmen and militia leaders they seek to marginalize for their protection in the face of threats from other clans. “Warlords” in Somalia have successfully exploited this fear, and intentionally provoke security threats whenever their own constituencies appear to be mobilizing to displace them. The most dramatic and significant instance of a successful strategy of marginalization of warlords occurred in Mogadishu in 1999, when increasingly powerful businessmen, dissatisfied with the poor security conditions created by their own clan militias, refused to pay protection money to some

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clan militia leaders. Instead, they bought gunmen away from them, forming their own security forces which they gave to local sharia courts to manage. Militia leaders who had had the foresight to develop their own independent sources of revenue survived this challenge; militia leaders who were dependent on business contributions found themselves much weaker. In other Somali settings, the careful maneuvering by local coalitions of elders, businesspeople, religious leaders, and civil society leaders to box in and weaken warlords and gangs of armed criminals have had mixed success. Too often, impressive local systems of public order have been sabotaged, usually through manipulation of clan tensions. Alternatively, however, some local security arrangements in Somali East Africa have succeeded not by outmaneuvering, marginalizing, or confronting armed sources of insecurity, but by co-opting and even partnering with them. The interests of warlords, criminals, militiamen, spoilers, and war profiteers are not immutable; they can and do change, and throughout the Somali region of the Horn of Africa examples abound of groups and individuals shifting from spoilers to sources of rule of law as their interests evolve. More often than not, their interests change because they come into possession of valuable property or wealth and begin to develop a new sense of the virtues of law and order. This transformation “from warlord to landlord” is most pronounced within Mogadishu’s business elite, many of whom made their fortunes by profiteering from war and famine but who have since shifted into varying degrees of “legitimate” commerce, requiring secure roads and safe markets. But it is also a factor among the young militiamen, most of whom prefer a more “respectable” job as a private security guard and who will gladly leave a militia for such gainful employment. Virtually all the local security systems in Somali regions are at least to some degree “illiberal”—that is, the justice they dispense and security they provide do not conform to international human rights standards, and provide very unequal and “patchy” levels of security to different community members (especially women, members of weak or low-caste lineages, internally displaced persons, and the poor). This is the case with both sharia law (inadequate due process, institutionalized gender inequality, and potentially abusive sentences) and customary clan law (collective rather than individual guilt, weak protection for women, and emphasis on compensation over justice). Where sharia and clan law coexist with a formal state structure (in Kenya, Ethiopia, and Somaliland), they collide with constitutional rights as well. The illiberal nature of local structures of security creates a dilemma for international actors seeking to work with or through them. Can local security structures constitute viable building blocks for a more durable and comprehensive solution to insecurity and state failure, and if so, under what conditions? Or are they inherently temporary and unsustainable? Second,

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could the very success of these coping mechanisms actually impede state building? Could Somalis be “coping too well,” so that they have reduced the costs associated with the absence of a central government to a point where it is no longer worth the effort to revive a central state? One of the enduring problems of coping mechanisms is that, by providing a suboptimal but “good enough” outcome, they can and do create disincentives for pursuit of more comprehensive, but costly or risky solutions. In the case of Somalia, the revival of a central government does entail real risks—the risk that a revived state will be captured by one set of protagonists and its coercive and extractive power used to repress rivals, restrict civil liberties and civil society groups, or expropriate some private sector investments. Somali actors who would undoubtedly agree that the best-case scenario for improved security is a revived, functional, and accountable may nonetheless be unwilling to risk seeing a fully functional and revived Somali state. This points to a self-evident but often overlooked dimension to the Somali impasse—namely that the genuine desire on the part of Somali communities for improved public security, rule of law, and basic services cannot be conflated with a desire to see a revived central government. It is possible to actively pursue the former and actively hinder the latter. Somali communities draw from a rich and growing set of conflict management and crime-deterrent security tools; these sources of security are mixed and matched in a wide variety of ways in each of the different Somali locations. Importantly, many of these can be sources of either security or insecurity, depending on circumstances and the intent of the users. Clan-Based Deterrence The single greatest source of personal protection and security in Somalia is deterrence—the threat of retaliation by entire subclans in response to an attack on a member of the lineage. Deterrence is patchy in coverage, however; individuals from weak clans and low-caste groups are often preyed upon with impunity. The best that a weak or low-caste group can hope for in these circumstances is to ally itself with, or even get adopted into, a stronger clan in hopes of earning its protection. The threat of corporate retaliatory action, however, is also the source of cycles of revenge killings and communal violence, and is inherently unstable. “Traditional” Security Structures What is often called Somali traditional or customary mechanisms for managing conflict and provision of security consists of three key components: (1) clan elders, who negotiate and manage these mechanisms; (2) customary

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law (xeer), which serves as the unwritten code governing relations between neighboring clans; and (3) blood payment (diya) groups, collections of between 600 and 6000 kinsmen who shoulder corporate responsibility for crimes committed by their members, paying out compensation in the form of livestock to other diya groups. Together with clan deterrence, these mechanisms formed the basis for the social order which Somali society developed to reduce insecurity in the centuries preceding the colonial and postcolonial state. Xeer is perhaps best understood as a Somali version of what international theorists refer to as “international regimes”—“sets of implicit or explicit principles, norms, rules, and decision making procedures around which actors’ expectations converge in a given area” (Krasner 1983: 2). This partially explains why Somali clan relations in the absence of a state were and are not simply a reflection of brute power politics. More powerful lineages are constrained from simply overrunning and overriding weaker clans because of an interest in maintaining a basic set of “rules of the game,” which promotes long-term interests and predictable security environment. Because of the notoriously fissurable nature of Somali lineage politics, and the seemingly constant renegotiation of clan alliances, powerful clans are even more inclined to respect xeer because they could easily find themselves in a position of weakness. None of these elements of “traditional” Somali conflict management is in any pure sense traditional; all have been adapted to, manipulated by, and reshaped by contemporary politics. Diya groups, for instance, had grown less and less significant in the lives of urban Somalis in the 1970s and 1980s, but enjoyed a powerful resurgence since the late 1980s. Xeer was overwhelmed by events in the late 1980s and has only gradually been revived and renegotiated (the massive migration of new occupying clans in southern Somalia has required new xeer to be developed between clans that previously had no contact). The status and role of clan elders is especially marked by major changes. Who constitutes an “elder” is now more complex than ever, with some individuals simultaneously holding the title of elder, businessmen, “intellectual” (i.e., an educated professional), politician, and civil society leader (if his portfolio includes control of a local nonprofit organization). Elders were salaried by the Barre regime; in northern Kenya “chiefs” are also paid by the state, and since 2000 Somali elders have been on the payroll of the Ethiopian government. These efforts to co-opt elders have at times eroded their legitimacy and independence. With political and economic benefits accruing to the position of elder, the number of senior “titled” elders (sultan, ugaas, garad, imam) has proliferated, as each subclan seeks to improve its standing by having its “own” sultan. Elders today have had to assume a wide range of new roles, including conducting de facto diplomatic relations with neighboring state authorities in border areas; negotiating slates of candidates with ruling parties (Somali

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region, Ethiopia); selecting delegates to peace talks (Somalia); selecting members of parliament to represent the clan in government (Somalia, Puntland, Somaliland); ratifying national-level peace accords (Somaliland, Puntland); and serving as formal, paid members of the upper house of parliament (Somaliland). In addition to taking on a much wider and more national range of tasks, clan elders have also had to execute these tasks with tools that are anything but traditional. While they may still convene under an acacia tree to negotiate, clan elders are as likely as not to be on a cell phone. Not surprisingly, clan elders have been at their most effective when operating in partnership with civic leaders and professionals who are more familiar with the complexities of the outside world. Neighborhood Watch Groups In Somalia’s major cities and towns, especially conflict-ridden Mogadishu and Kismayo, neighborhood watch systems developed almost immediately after the collapse of the state in 1991. Over time, these neighborhood watch groups have spread across much of Mogadishu, and today are a standard feature of most residential areas. In its most rudimentary form, neighborhood watches involve residents raising the alarm (often with whistles) when unknown armed groups enter the neighborhood or attempt to commit a crime; armed neighbors respond with a de facto vigilante or posse force to ward off the threat. That system, which was more prevalent in the early 1990s, has since been replaced with a more standardized, permanent arrangement, in which neighbors pay for uniformed private guards to patrol the streets. Today, the social status of freelance and militia gunmen in Mogadishu is very low, while a position as paid security guard—whether for a private company, household, neighborhood, or sharia court—is respectable and highly sought after. In Kenya, the government has sought to promote community policing to rationalize neighborhood watch systems and bring them into direct cooperation with the formal police force. That has not to date been effective in Somali-inhabited areas, mainly due to sharp distrust of the police. Private (Household) Security Personal and household security in most of Somali East Africa today is, like most other services, normally associated with a functional state, a private commodity to be purchased by those with means, and a commodity that the poor must do without. In Somalia and Puntland, and to a lesser extent in other Somali areas of the Horn, the wealthy and the middle class hire

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one or more private security guards to protect against armed robbery and, increasingly, kidnapping. More prominent figures in business, politics, and civil society must employ a whole team of private security guards.

Business Interests and Private Security Forces The single most important new actor in Somali politics since 1990 is the ascendant business class, based mainly in Mogadishu, Hargeisa, Nairobi, and Dubai. The top business figures in Mogadishu—numbering several dozen or more, depending on the criteria used—have made their fortunes in a context of either state collapse or a very weak state with minimal capacity to regulate and tax. Their portfolios include a wide range of activities and investments, including import-export commerce; telecommunications, money transfer (hawala), construction, transport, private seaports and airports, hotels, commercial agriculture, light manufacturing and food processing (including a new Coca-Cola factory), and contracts with international aid agencies (mainly for food relief delivery). A number of sectors now yielding profits are often considered the domain of the public sector; piped water systems and local electric grids, for instance, are now being expanded by local businesses there. With the exception of a handful of illicit and predatory business dealings (export of charcoal, trade in drugs and small arms), most of these businesses require open, safe corridors of overland trade, secure market and warehouse areas, protection of expensive fixed investments from war or looting, and working relations across clan lines. This has been a major factor in the development of direct business financial support of local systems of public order. In fact, the single most common coalition of local governance in Somalia (prior to the takeover by the CIC) consisted of a triad of traditional elders, leading businesspeople, and Islamic clerics, producing arrangements in which sharia courts operate a judicial system and a sharia police force funded by business contributions and overseen by clan elders. In addition to financing local security and public order systems, businesses have also acquired their own private security forces to protect their investments. The need for a strong private security force varies by sector, but overall constitutes a significant portion of the costs of doing business in Somalia. In recent years, private security forces controlled by businesspeople (or, in a few cases, militias of warlords who have successfully transitioned into businesspeople) have become some of the largest militias in southern Somalia. Though intended to protect private business assets, the private security forces employed by businesspeople have generally been a

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source of improved public security. For one thing, the businesspeople pay their militiamen regularly, which reduce instances of militia engaging in extortion, robbery, or roadblocks to raise an income. Second, some of the security which business militias provide is unavoidably a “public good”— especially patrols of main commercial arteries and markets. By their very presence—even behind enclosed compounds—they also tend to create a security shadow in adjacent areas.

Sharia Courts The role of sharia courts in the provision of public security in Somalia— especially Mogadishu and southern Somalia—has received more recent attention than any other local security system. The role of sharia courts is varied and has changed in some important ways over the past five years. Originally, in the mid-1990s, sharia courts were part of the troika of eldersbusinessmen-clerics which sought to improve basic law and order in local towns and neighborhoods. The sharia courts were in this configuration an instrument, not an actor, always under the control of clan elders and the businesspeople who were their paymasters, and administered by local sheikhs committed to moderate sufi Islam. They almost always allowed the relatives of a victim to choose between the customary blood compensation and sharia punishment, thereby coexisting with rather than supplanting customary Somali practices. They also were closely tied to specific subclans, and could generally not try a member of another subclan. They were, and remain, essentially urban structures handling urban crime; pastoral and farming communities continue to rely almost exclusively on traditional mechanisms for resolving disputes and handling crime. The courts on occasion rendered verdicts that included punishments that violated international norms, and enshrined legal proceedings with dubious levels of due process, and were criticized for these shortcomings. But what they were not, originally, was the pointy edge of a radical Islamist spear. In instances where radical clerics tried to use the courts as a political base, they initially found themselves constrained by more pragmatic business patrons. Meanwhile, most average Somalis expressed strong support for the functioning of the sharia courts and the sharia militia, claiming that they were very effective in improving public security in the neighborhoods and towns where they operated. In 2000–01, some sharia courts in Mogadishu fell into the control of politically ambitious salafist clerics such as Hassan Dahir Aweys, and began to serve not only as a source of local law and order but also a political and military base for Islamists and a mouthpiece for strict interpretations of Islam. Using independent sources of funding, the hard-line Islamists expanded their

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network of sharia courts into many of the larger towns in southern and central Somalia, and eventually formed the Council of Islamic Courts, which emerged as the most organized, militarily powerful, and well-funded movement in south-central Somalia. Had the hardliners in the CIC not driven the movement into a disastrous war with Ethiopia and had more moderate leadership prevailed, the CIC could well have developed into a national government, in the process absorbing the local sharia courts into its judicial and police system.

Local and Regional Administrations A variety of “formal” sources of governance (i.e., those claiming to be “governmental,” replicating to some degree the structures and functions of conventional state-based administrative units—municipalities, district councils, regional and transregional states) have developed over the past fifteen years. They vary tremendously in size, capacity, legitimacy, and durability. Their origin may be linked to the UNOSOM (United Nations Operations in Somalia) experiment in creation of district councils throughout Somalia in 1993–95. Much of post–UNOSOM Somalia continued to retain district councils, municipalities, and occasionally a self-declared regional government, most of which were dormant until the arrival of a UN specialized agency or international NGO, at which point they assumed their principal if not sole role, as interlocutor between the local population and the international community. Most local administrations never really amounted to anything more than fronts, in the same category of the many “pocket NGOs” in the country. Still, some local administrations have developed into modest but impressive forms of government, providing public security, regulatory functions, lawmaking bodies, and some basic services. These municipalities have sometimes played a direct role in security by fielding a police force and operating prisons and courts. But their most important contribution to local security is indirect. They serve as a fixed venue for political and clan representatives to routinize communication and problem solving. Municipalities sometimes enshrine systems for allocation (usually by clan) of whatever new resources come into the community, including and especially international aid agencies’ rental contracts, procurement, and employment. Formal administrations with claims of authority beyond the municipal level are numerous, but have not fared as well, with the major exception of Puntland in northeast Somalia. Established as a nonsecessionist, autonomous state in 1999, Puntland is unique in Somalia as the only transregional government that can accurately be described as an ethnostate.

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With the exception of the growing number of migrant laborers flocking to Puntland from southern Somalia, Puntland is comprised almost entirely of members of the Harti clan, and its self-declared borders are drawn on the basis of Harti clan territorial claims. The impetus to create a regional state was the result of civic efforts to improve security and rule of law in the northeast. Over the course of the 1990s, the Northeast had generally remained free of armed clashes but was the site of endless efforts by elders and civic leaders to defuse crises, manage interclan disputes, and rein in militias and their leaders. It was felt that that ad hoc, reactive approach was increasingly insufficient to cope with the growing challenges of governance in the region, including property disputes and the need to regulate commerce amidst rapid economic expansion in the main cities (WSP 2001). Puntland state has since developed a full range of security forces— an army, police forces, and a rapid response darawishta force—as well as a court and prison system to deal with crime. Its parliament is operational and passes laws; its executive branch is weak but has at least a modest capacity to regulate key aspects of governance. Generally good public security and low taxes have helped to catalyze a booming import-export trade out of the previously sleepy seaport of Bosaso, now one of the hottest commercial hubs in all of the Horn of Africa. The Puntland government’s ability to generate customs revenues at the seaport was a major advantage, giving it the funds to pay (at least, periodically) security forces and engage in patronage politics to maintain a coalition of political elites. Despite all this, it is not entirely clear that the establishment of the state of Puntland actually increased security for the population of the Northeast. Many of the security achievements noted above occurred prior to the arrival of the state; Puntland was already enjoying strong investment and commercial traffic in the late 1990s. A contrarian would argue that the Puntland security forces regularly go unpaid (especially since President Yusuf assumed power in the TFG in 2004, diverting Puntland funds in the process) and have taken to extortion at roadblocks and armed gang behavior. Far from improving security, they are currently the greatest source of insecurity in Puntland. Also, power struggles over control of the Puntland state have actually produced the only armed conflict within the Harti clan in the past fifteen years. In recent years, south-central Somalia has seen as a considerable increase explosion of self-declared municipal and regional administrations. Only a few of them are even minimally functional. The popularity of local or regional administrations is tied directly to their increasing utility as power bases for ambitious political and militia leaders. President Yusuf himself used his presidency of Puntland as a springboard to obtain control of the TFG. Many others have increased their bargaining position in national politics by controlling a formal town or regional administration.

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The federal nature of the TFG has encouraged this trend still further. In more than one case, rival factions have set up parallel administrations in towns they seek to claim. Protection Rackets The final types of local security structures identified in this inventory are the least legitimate and ethically the most objectionable. They can, however, provide some degree of security to households and in at least a few instances appear to be capable of transitioning from predatory expropriation of resources to routinized appropriation (taxation) of resources in return for services to a local community. The first such instance is protection rackets, which are ubiquitous in southern Somalia today. Militiamen who in earlier years had terrorized and raided villagers have in a growing number of cases worked out relations with the villagers, offering to protect them against external threats in return for a portion of their harvest. In other cases, internally displaced persons (IDPs) in Mogadishu, Kismayo, and elsewhere have come under the control of predatory “camp managers” (nicknamed “black cats”) who appropriate a portion of the aid IDPs receive or wages they earn; in return the black cats sometimes provide a modicum of security within the camp, to “guard their investment.” These kinds of arrangements are inherently and openly predatory. Yet villagers living under one such arrangement opined that, while very undesirable, it was far better than the previous relationship of unrestricted plunder, and under current circumstances, as good a security situation as they could expect to get. Historians such as Charles Tilly (1990) have effectively argued that many instances of state formation arose out of changing interests (in self-preservation, in protecting accumulated investments, and in protecting productive vassals) of pirates and bandits. While too early to tell, there are at least a few indications in Somalia that the relationship between bandits and villagers is slowly moving into a blurry space between predation and taxation. Warlord Fiefdoms A number of local and regional administrations in southern Somalia are the product either of outright military occupation of territory by a clan militia, or the product of a local strongman imposing his control over a neighborhood, town, or region through force. What is significant about these fiefdoms is not the obvious—they have been recast as “administrations” and militia leaders have reappointed themselves “governors” to disguise the fact that they are occupying someone else’s land—but that the so-called

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governors feel obligated to provide at least some level of public security and other services in order to keep potentially restive local populations happy. As with the “black cats,” warlord governors are unacceptable on a whole range of issues and in the long term their status as occupiers is not mitigated by the fact that they keep the streets safe. But in the short term, in a context where local populations are seeking coping mechanisms and not optimal solutions, some of these warlord fiefdoms do provide local security that was absent prior to their occupation. Somali Local Governance and the Mediated State The evolution of local security arrangements and systems in the absence of a state in Somalia is intriguing. But an even more significant set of political experiments is occurring in areas of Somali East Africa where Somalis are coupling informal systems of governance and security with formal state structures and authorities. This is currently the case in northern Kenya, Somaliland, Puntland, and arguably Somali region, Ethiopia. In all four cases, the state is unable to exercise full control over its peripheral areas. In all four areas, the state has had to broker deals with local nonstate authorities in order to project authority and maintain some level of order. And, in varying degrees, all four states have been willing but not able to promote security and rule of law in their Somali-inhabited territory. Two different types of relationships between weak states and local security systems are currently evident in Somali East Africa. One is the hybrid state of Somaliland, in which traditional authorities have been formally grafted into the state structure itself. The second is the mediated state, most in evidence in northern Kenya. Current evidence from eastern Ethiopia suggests that Somali relations with the state are a mix of the two, with the state both grafting elders into its administrative arm salaried elders) and having to periodically negotiate access to the Somali polity via the elders (Hagmann 2006). Hybrid States Somaliland’s novel fusion of traditional and modern authority is all the more intriguing because Somaliland has been the most secure, peaceful, and lawful zone of Somali East Africa over the past ten years. In early 1991, with the final collapse of the Barre regime, northern Somalia could easily have fallen into the same state of armed anarchy and clan-based civil war that beset southern Somalia. Tensions between some clans were fierce, grievances deep, the economy collapsed, and clan militias unpaid and restive. What saved northern Somalia from the fate of the

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South was the sustained, effective intervention by clan elders, who, engaged in lengthy peace negotiations, reasserted their control over clan militias. Elders worked in collaboration with political and militia leaders to produce an accord which solidified peace in the region, declared the independence of Somaliland, unified clan militias into a single army, and paved the way for the establishment of a Somaliland government. The process of sustaining peace, maintaining public order, and building a state structure faced serious initial setbacks, but by the late 1990s, peace was consolidated, the central government was minimally functional, public safety was high (except for eastern regions), and commercial activity and investment booming. In a deeply troubled region, and with very little external help, Somaliland succeeded in turning itself into a safe economic recovery area in the eastern Horn. Observers have offered a number of explanations for Somaliland’s success. Some emphasize the fact that traditional culture and structures of authority in northern Somalia were left intact by British colonialism, in contrast to the more intrusive Italian colonial policies in the South; this, the argument goes, allowed the northerners to more quickly reassert customary law and the role of elders to negotiate a peace and contain insecurity. Somaliland’s reliance on indigenous methods of peace negotiations, enshrined in the Boroma peace conference of 1993, has been contrasted with the faction-based, modern peace processes initiated by UNOSOM and subsequently by other external mediators with little success in the South. Another school of thought focuses on the role played by powerful commercial interests in Hargeisa and Djibouti, businesspeople with a large stake in uninterrupted flow of livestock exports and consumer good imports through the Somaliland port of Berbera. The commercial elite operating in Hargeisa needed safe corridors of commerce and a secure investment environment from the outset, and so opted to bankroll Somaliland President Egal to help insure the success of the Somaliland experiment. Whatever the explanation for its initial success, Somaliland’s subsequent achievements in building and expanding a safe and secure environment largely free of crime and a political system which is at present one of the more democratic and constitutional in Africa are due in no small measure to the country’s innovative integration of traditional and modern sources of law and authority. In terms of public order, policing, and prosecution of criminals, the Somaliland state does possess a relatively well-trained and responsible police force, and a moderately effective prison system. While the government’s police force and domestic intelligence operations (out of the Ministry of Interior) have played a role in deterring crime and apprehending criminals, the more significant force behind Somaliland’s high level of security remains the robust application of customary law and blood compensation, administered by clan elders. When a crime is committed, elders

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routinely do the preliminary investigate work (rumors quickly make their way to the elders) and negotiate with the kin of the accused for his or her handover; the police are requested to intervene to arrest suspects who refuse to hand themselves over. Thereafter, the crime is the subject of interclan negotiations, and with the rare exception of a crime of great political consequence, the state acquiesces to requests that the matter be handled through blood compensation. Customary law thus exists as a complement to, not a contradiction with, formal police and judicial systems. The effectiveness of this hybrid system of justice is evident in the low crime rates in the country; membership in a diya-paying group creates peer pressure not to commit crimes the costs of which will be borne by one’s diya group members. Though the allocation of power, patronage, and resources within the Somaliland state is the subject of endless grievances, the Somaliland state has not been the source of violent clan or factional competition for control since 1996, a major achievement given the stakes involved. One of the reasons for this is the direct, formal role accorded to clan elders in the government; they comprise the upper house or guurti of parliament. This system insured that all clans in Somaliland felt represented (seats in the guurti are proportionally allocated by clan), increased the legitimacy of the state by incorporating the most respected source of authority in the society, and routinized and facilitated the peacekeeping and conflict management role of the elders.

Mediated States In northern Kenya, Puntland, and to a lesser extent eastern Ethiopia, weakened state authorities have had to negotiate with these hybrid Somali polities to exercise indirect political control over local populations, in arrangements that can be described as a “mediated state.” The key feature of a mediated state—whether medieval or modern—is that it lacks the capacity to project authority into peripheral areas of its realm, but possesses the desire to at least indirectly promote stability and rule of law (and, eventually, taxation) there. In the early to mid-1990s, northern Kenya was one of the most dangerous and anarchic zones of the entire Horn of Africa. The region was awash in small arms; roving bandits both from Somalia and Somali-inhabited Kenya raided towns, livestock, and tourists; and the Kenyan security forces had essentially abandoned the territory, staying encamped in garrisons for their own safety. The Kenyan government voiced only weak objections when Ethiopian military forces crossed into Kenyan territory and engaged in battles and arrests with Somalis linked to the Islamist group al Ittihad. A turning point came in 1995, when a deadly shoot-out in the market at Wajir

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prompted a group of local women to organize themselves. This Wajir “Peace Committee” managed to establish a coalition of local actors—clan elders, local NGOs, businesspeople, clerics, and others—and thereby to gradually reassert a more effective and timely conflict management in Wajir (Menkhaus 2005). This arrangement was quickly emulated by other Somali committees and today it forms the basis for a network of civic coalitions across northern Kenya. Somali groups on the Somali side of the border are now organizing their own peace committees as well, in order to help routinize cross-border security dialogue and cooperation. What is especially significant about the northern Kenya case is that the Kenyan government noticed, gave it official sanction, and actively sought to work through the “mediation” of the peace committees to improve security in the Northeast. As part of the arrangement, the Kenyan state essentially cedes control to the coalition of civic groups mainly of the core functions associated with a sovereign state. This includes policing and detention of suspects, the judiciary (via customary law), conflict intervention and mediation, market regulations, and cross-border diplomatic relations. The fact that government-civic partnership in northern Kenya includes implicit government acceptance of the application of extrajudicial legal codes by nonstate actors and the use of local home guards to employ lethal force in defense of public security is no mere “subcontracting” exercise. It is a fundamental revision of basic precepts of sovereign state authority; a forfeiting of a state’s claim to “omnicompetence” within its borders; a new, flexible way to deal with the current “messiness” that conventional inherited political structures have had great difficulty managing. An even deeper instance of a mediated state occurs in Puntland, where the autonomous state is very weak not only in the region’s peripheral areas but even in the major towns. Traditional clan elders and customary law remain the foundation for local security and rule of law, and elders play a role of gatekeeper between the state and society. Puntland authorities rarely pursue and arrest a suspect directly; clan elders are contacted and they negotiate terms of surrender. The clan elders also represent their constituencies in selection of leadership in Puntland. When Puntland President Yusuf’s term expired in 2002, it was an assembly of clan elders who selected Jama Ali Jama as his successor (a move that Yusuf blocked). In the case of Somali region, Ethiopia, the Ethiopian state has long relied on clan elders to help quell and negotiate local armed conflicts; indeed, state-sponsored peace conferences are known as “the big project” in Somali region, as a regular source of funds for elders, whose salaries since 2000 have been paid by the state (Hagmann 2005a, 2005b, 2005c). Ethiopia’s experiment with ethnofederalism since 1992 has led to the creation of a distinct Somali region, within which Somalis are in theory supposed to enjoy

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autonomous rule. The federal state has never moved Ethiopia toward a mediated state, however, because the Tigrayan leadership of the ruling EPRDF (Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Democratic Front) party has shown no interest to date in loosening its control over any regions of the country. The regional government is instead a shell state, a very weak administration based in Jigjiga with almost no meaningful presence in the rest of the region. The central government’s behavior during the controversial 2005 parliamentary elections in Somali region did, however, take on the appearances of a possible mediated state approach, in which a weak central government seeks direct negotiations with local nonstate authorities to secure a political outcome. The government, which badly needed a sweeping victory in Somali region to bolster its legitimacy, bargained with elders over the nomination of MPs in return for a guarantee from the elders that they would deliver a victory by instructing their people how to vote. Given current political realities in Somalia—an extremely weak transitional government with a need to project its authority quickly across much of the country in order to demonstrate its effectiveness to international donors, combined with the existence of a number of functioning local administrations, the mediated state model may well be the only feasible model for extension of the state’s authority in Somalia in the near term to mid-term. Engaging Local Security Systems: Challenges, Opportunities, and Dilemmas Local security systems and governance, including the rise of mediated state arrangements, present both opportunities and problems for international aid agencies, donors, and diplomats. The core question is this: Can and should these local security systems be supported and encouraged in some manner by external donors? On the one hand, these local security systems are the main if not sole source of security and protection for households and communities in their areas. If aid agencies are committed to objectives like promotion of human security, strengthening these mechanisms appears justified if not imperative. Moreover, if a case can be made that the local security structures in question are forging relations with a willing central government along the lines of a mediated state model, assistance to these structures could be seen as an extension of state-building projects. On the other hand, direct support to local governance and security structures in zones of state failure face a range of potential criticisms. They include the following: ●

Allowing customary law to be applied above the laws of the state by nonstate actors, in which collective responsibility is privileged over

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individual rights and responsibilities and in which not all are equal before the law is a serious erosion of civil liberties, human rights, and rule of law. It is also illegal and extraconstitutional and cannot be sanctioned by a functioning sovereign government; Customary law also has a limited reach and is often overwhelmed by the scale of current armed conflicts; The peace committees serving as umbrella groups for local actors are very uneven in capacity, lack an independent, sustained flow of resources, and are plagued by high turnover; Some peace committees are politically compromised and not neutral; No local authorities are in a position to cope with conflicts instigated by powerful outsiders; Some regions lack the key prerequisite of legitimate, capable local authorities and are instead either zones of leadership vacuum or are dominated by predatory politicians and warlords; Even the more legitimate and responsive local security systems are almost always “illiberal” in the justice they dispense; The entire enterprise of constructing mediated governance is little more than a short-term coping mechanism; designed to manage conflict, it lacks any real capacity to address underlying causes of armed conflict, which require effective and sustained central state engagement (Goldsmith 1997; Nyunya 2001; Walker et al. 2003; Haro et al. 2005).

The fact that mediated governance is problematic and limited and yet the sole source of security in weak state frontier areas makes it the “best of bad options.” How then to view the long-term prospects of mediated governance? If its shortcomings are intrinsic, and if better options are on the horizon, then the only justification for support to mediated governance is as a stopgap measure, designed to provide short-term improvements in security and conflict prevention. If, on the other hand, the prognosis for state expansion and consolidation in the border areas of weak states is poor, then a different set of policy considerations emerge. Realistically, the focus then becomes improving the mediated state as a governance and peacebuilding strategy in frontier zones—taking the rough edges off of a governance structure that is and will remain flawed and messy. This can be done in a number of ways. First, support to peace committees is vital if they are to be sustainable. Training and financial support for appropriate operational expenses are two of the most important types of support. Recognition is also important as these are mainly voluntary efforts by civic figures willing to put themselves in harm’s way in very difficult circumstances. Provision of resources to allow local communities to reflect on and capture lessons learned is yet another form of support.

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Second, external efforts can help to harmonize, at least partially, the inconsistencies between customary, sharia, and national legal codes (PDRC 2002; Le Sage 2005). Clarification of the jurisdiction of customary law is also essential; is, for instance, a Kenyan Somali living in Nairobi subject to xeer, the Kenyan legal code, or both? What is the legal status of and protection for nonindigenes in states such as Somaliland and Puntland? Importantly, the mediated state as peacebuilding and governance-building strategies offer opportunities to international aid agencies, not merely Faustian choices. Whether mediated governance is in fact an interim strategy or part of long-term alternative form of governance in parts of Africa and the developing work is a decision that citizens of these states must make for themselves.

Notes 1. See, for instance, Luling (1997); Menkhaus 1998; Bryden (1999); UNDP (2001); WSP (2001); PDRC (2002); Little (2003); Menkhaus (2004); Le Sage (2005). 2. This is less true for Somaliland, where considerable attention has been paid in recent years to sources of that polity’s impressive level of security and rule of law. 3. For the purposes of this study, the phrase “Somali East Africa” is used to describe all the territories in the eastern Horn of Africa where Somalis are the principal if not sole inhabitants. This includes Somalia, “Somaliland,” northern Kenya, eastern Ethiopia, and Djibouti. 4. The ascent of the Union of Islamic Courts in June 2006 and its authority over the city of Mogadishu dramatically reduced insecurity there, and may end Mogadishu’s long period as a “chronically contested” and dangerous city, though it is too early to tell at the time of this writing. 5. For examples of the rich debate on the economic motives in armed conflicts, see Berdal and Malone (2000); Keen (2000); Collier et al. (2003). In the Somali context, the thesis has been explored in Menkhaus (2004).

Bibliography Academy for Peace and Development (2005), Rebuilding Somaliland: Issues and Possibilities. Lawrenceville, NJ: Red Sea Press. Africa Watch. (1990). Somalia: A Government at War with Its Own People. New York: Africa Watch. Berdal, Mats, and David Malone (eds.). Greed and Grievance: Economic Agendas in Civil Wars. Boulder; Lynne Riennner Publishers, 2000. Bradbury, Mark (2003). Living with Statelessness: The Somali Road to Development. Conflict, Security, and Development, 3 (1): 7–25.

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Bradbury, Mark, Adan Yusuf Abokor, and Haroon Ahmed Yusuf (2003). Somaliland: Choosing Politics over Violence. Review of African Political Economy, 30 (97): 455–78. Bradbury, Mark, Ken Menkhaus, and Roland Marchal (2001). Somalia Human Development Report 2001. Nairobi: UNDP. Bryden, Matt (1999). New Hope for Somalia? The Building Block Approach. Review of African Political Economy, 26 (79): 134–40. ——— (2003). No Quick Fixes: Coming to Terms with Terrorism, Islam and Statelessness in Somalia. The Journal of Conflict Studies, 13 (2): 24–56. Clapham, Christopher (1996). Africa and the International System: The Politics of State Survival. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Collier, Paul, et al. (2003). Breaking the Conflict Trap; Civil War and Development Policy. Washington DC: World Bank Policy Research Report 26121. Goldsmith, Paul (1997). Cattle, Khat, and Guns: Trade, Conflict, and Security on Northern Kenya’s Highland-Lowland Interface. Isiolo, Kenya: APPEAL-KENYA, Conflict and Conflict Management in the Horn of Africa Case Study. http://payson. tulane.edu/conflict/Cs%20St/GOLDSFIN2.html (accessed March 6, 2007). Hagmann, Tobias (2005a). Review Article: From State Collapse to Duty-Free Shop: Somalia’s Path to Modernity. African Affairs, 104 (416): 525–35. ——— (2005b). Beyond Clannishness and Colonialism: Understanding Political Disorder in Ethiopia’s Somali Region, 1991–2004. Journal of Modern African Studies, 43 (3): 509–36. ——— (2005c). Challenges of Decentralisation in Ethiopia’s Somali Region, Review of African Political Economy, 32 (104-05): 449–55. ——— (forthcoming). Bringing the Sultan Back in: Elders as Peacemakers in Ethiopia’s Somali Region, in Lars Buur and Helene Maria Kyed (eds.). Recognition and Democratisation: “New Roles” for Traditional Leaders in Sub-Saharan Africa. Haro, Guyo, et al. (2005). Linkages between Community, Environmental, and Conflict Management: Experiences from Northern Kenya. World Development, 33(2): 285–99. Herbst, Jeffrey (2000). States and Power in Africa. Princeton; Princeton University Press. Hohne, Marcus (2006). Traditional Authorities in Northern Somalia: Transformation of Positions and Power. Working Paper no. 82. Halle, Germany: Max Plancke Institute for Social Anthropology. International Crisis Group (2003a). Negotiating a Blueprint for Peace in Somalia. Africa Report no. 59. Mogadishu/Brussels, International Crisis Group. ——— (2003b). Somaliland: Democratisation and Its Discontents. Africa Report no. 66. Brussels/Washington DC: International Crisis Group. ——— (2005). Counter-Terrorism in Somalia: Losing Hearts and Minds? Africa Report no. 95. Brussels/Washington, DC: International Crisis Group. ——— (2006). Can the Somali Crisis Be Contained? Africa Report no. 116. Brussels/ Washington, DC: International Crisis Group. Keen, David. (2000). Incentives and Disincentives for Violence, Mats Berdal and David Malone (eds.). Greed and Grievance: Economic Agendas in Civil Wars. Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 2000.

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Krasner, Stephen D (ed.) (1983). International Regimes. New York: Cornell University, Ithaca. Le Sage, Andre (2002). Somalia: Sovereign Disguise for a Mogadishu Mafia. Review of African Political Economy, 29 (91): 132–34. ——— (2004). Somalia and the War on Terrorism: Political Islamic Movements and US Counter-Terrorism Efforts. Cambridge University Ph.D. dissertation. ——— (2005). Stateless Justice in Somalia: Formal and Informal Rule of Law Initiatives. Nairobi: UNDP-Somalia. Le Sage, Andre and Nisar Majid (2002). The Livelihoods Gap: Responding to the Economic Dynamics of Vulnerability in Somalia. Disasters, 26 (1): 10–27. Little, Peter (2003). Somalia: Economy without State. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Luling, Virginia (1997). Come Back Somalia? Questioning a Collapsed State. Third World Quarterly, 18 (2): 287–302. Marchal, Roland (1996). The Post-Civil War Somali Business Class. Nairobi: EC-Somalia Unit. Markakis, John (1996). The Somali in Ethiopia. Review of African Political Economy, 23 (70): 567–70. Menkhaus, Ken (1998). Somalia: Political Order in a Stateless Society. Current History, 97 (619): 220–24. ——— (2003). Somalia: A Situation Analysis and Trend Assessment. Written Report for the UN High Commission for Refugees, Protection Information Section Geneva, August 9, 2003, accessed at http://www.somali-civilsociety.org/ downloads/Menkhaus%20unhcrsomstudyrevised.03.pdf (accessed March 6, 2007). ——— (2004). Somalia: State Collapse and the Threat of Terrorism. Adelphi Paper 364. Oxford: Oxford University Press for the International Institute for Strategic Studies. ——— (2005). Kenya-Somalia Border Conflict Analysis. Nairobi: Development Alternatives Inc., for REDSO/USAID. ——— (2007a). Beyond the Conflict Trap: Somalia, in Necla Tshirgi and Francesco Mancini (eds.). Security and Development: Critical Connections. Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publications, forthcoming. ——— (2007b). State-Building in a Zone of Protracted Collapse: Informal Governance and Prospects for a “Mediated State” in Somalia, in Chuck Call (ed.). The Challenges of State-Building and Peacebuilding. Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publications, forthcoming. Nyunya, Joshua (2001). Reports by National Experts: Kenya Conflict Prevention, Management, and Resolution: Capacity Assessment Study for the IGAD Sub-Region. Leeds: University of Leeds, Centre for Development Studies. Puntland Development Research Centre (2002). Pastoral Justice: A Participatory Action Research Project on Harmonization of Somali Legal traditions: Customary Law, Sharia, and Secular Law. Garowe Somalia: PDRC. Reno, William (2003). Somalia and Survival in the Shadow of the Global Economy. Oxford: QEH Working Paper Series, no. 100. http://www.qeh.ox.ac.uk/RePEc/ qeh/qehwps/qehwps100.pdf (accessed March 6, 2007).

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Rotberg, Robert (ed.) (2003). State Failure and State Weakness in a Time of Terror. Washington, DC: Brookings Press. Samatar, Abdi I (2004).. Ethiopian Federalism: Autonomy versus Control in Somali Region. Third World Quarterly, 25 (6): 1131–54. Terlinden, Ulf and Tobias Debiel (2003). Somaliland: Building Governance BottomUp. ZEF News, 14: 1–2. Tilly, Charles (1990). Coercion, Capital and European States, AD 990–1990. Cambridge: Basil Blackwell. UN Development Programme (2001). Somalia Human Development Report 2001. Nairobi: UNDP. UN Security Council (2002). Report of the Team of Experts Appointed Pursuant to Security Council Resolution 1407 (2002), Paragraph 1, Concerning Somalia. New York: United Nations, July 3. Walker, Robert et al. (2003). Oxfam GB Funded Peacebuilding Initiatives in Arid Districts of Kenya: Lessons and Challenges. Nairobi: Oxfam GB. War Torn Societies Project (WSP) (2001). Rebuilding Somalia: Issues and Possibilities for Puntland. London: Haan. Wolf, Thomas, Carolyn Logan, and Jeremiah Owiti (2004). A New Dawn? Popular Optimism in Kenya after the Transition. Afrobarometer Working Paper no. 33, accessed at http://www.afrobarometer.org (accessed March 6, 2007).

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Protectors and Predators: Why Is There a Difference among West African Militias? William Reno

est African militias and other nonstate armed groups often appear as agents of disorder. “Bolstered by cane spirit, marijuana and cheap amphetamines, youths and boy soldiers evolved into psychopathic killers, adorning themselves with women’s wigs, dresses, fright masks and enemy bones,” wrote an observer of Liberia’s 1989–2003 war (Meredith 2005: 558). This predatory violence also tends to spread across borders. A UN panel of experts documented how armed groups use illicit trades in diamonds and timber to buy weapons, and how these practices promote the spread of violence against local communities (UN 2000). The investigations of the Special Court for Sierra Leone and Liberia’s Truth Commission label militia members as perpetrators of serious crimes and as sources of insecurity in people’s everyday lives. Most militias in Nigeria support corrupt politicians and are hard to distinguish from criminal groups (Oko 2005: 8–15). Youth militias in Côte d’Ivoire include some veterans of Liberia’s war and play the role of spoilers to undermine UN-mediated peace negotiations in that country’s war. This image of militias as predators on local communities reflects facts on the ground in a great number of conflicts in West Africa. Yet even amidst Sierra Leone’s terrible war, some militias protected local communities from predation and tried to promote order. Those militias mobilized youth from the same social backgrounds as those who joined predatory militias. Moreover, the communities that they protected had easily looted resources. Fighters in both kinds of militias shared grievances about

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corrupt politicians and a dearth of state services. The majority of these fighters were very poor. People in both kinds of militias often joined to increase their status and gain a measure of greater personal security. Why do these and other militias behave so differently in similar circumstances? Put in terms of social relationships and violence, why do West African young men with guns obey people without guns in some instances, but not in others? Framing variations in behavior in this way focuses analysis on the local social context in which violence is used either to promote order or to disrupt it. Students of historical state-building processes regard this social context of violence as central to explaining how largescale organizations that provide public goods appeared in the midst of widespread disorder and predation that otherwise undermined efforts to organize this kind of collective action (Bates 2001). This approach to studying the uses of violence fits Max Weber’s core definition of states as the “legitimate monopoly over the exercise of coercion” (Weber 1978: 901–2). Weber’s state resembles a protecting militia insofar as both provide the most basic public good—security—that defines both. Contrast this with predatory militias that cause insecurity for communities and limit the benefits of their violence to members of the organization. Could something similar to state-building projects occur among some militias in contemporary West Africa? This chapter argues that they do, but that they confront obstacles that are particular to West Africa’s position in global politics and in the world economy. First, many of these militias do not survive for very long. They compete for power with predators who use modern weapons and connections with foreign business partners to loot local economies and fight with local rivals more efficiently, compared with predators of the past. Moreover, both kinds of militias operate in states that already exist. Even if the capabilities of these states’ bureaucracies are extremely poor or even absent, the mere recognition of these states by officials elsewhere in the world prevent protecting militias from simply making their own new states. Persistent de jure recognition of existing states shapes how both types of militias conduct their relations with the outside world. It raises the premium on capturing the capital of an existing state, which often undermines the maintenance of local order, as I explain below. Finally, many protector militias control their fighters through shared membership in a particular ethnic or religious community. While this was a typical state-building path in historic times, this exclusionary vision of citizenship clashes with contemporary norms of human rights. Indeed, the rejection of such notions of citizenship has been a core requirement for global recognition of new states since at least the end of the nineteenth century (Krasner 1999: 73–104). Even if the protecting militias face slim odds of survival, a closer examination of differences in the organization of violence in West Africa’s militias

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offers insights for policy makers who try to mitigate conflict. It shows that the mere presence of resources and commercial opportunities does not necessarily pull militias into predatory activities. This varied behavior contradicts notions that individual fighters uniformly respond to material incentives in ways that maximize their personal wealth and autonomy, or even desire to do so, although predatory militias provide numerous examples of that outcome. It sheds light on how the actions of outsiders can produce unanticipated outcomes. For example, cutting the flow of illicit incomes can mitigate violence where those resources fueled predatory militias, while provoking greater violence where resources sustained protecting militias. These observations point to a larger dilemma facing outsiders who intervene in West Africa’s conflicts: Do they prefer the order that often militantly exclusionary militias can provide in local communities, or are they willing to push for greater observance of liberal values, even at the expense of the security and protection for local communities in the short and medium term? The next section explains why these two kinds of militias appear in West Africa. These variations appear elsewhere also in Africa and in parts of the periphery of the former Soviet Union. The common thread in all of these cases concerns the nature of patronage-based politics and illicit commercial networks, and the impact that this type of political economy has on internal conflicts. However, a close examination of specific militias in West Africa shows how different social organizations of violence within these militias reflect their relations to local leaders and to people and resources outside of these communities. This chapter does not provide definitive accounts of the formation and fortunes of these militias. Instead, it offers a practical framework to understand how the varied organization and behavior of these militias are related to the underlying political economies of West African communities.

The Argument West African militias develop in the context of pervasive patronage-based politics. These armed groups reflect this political dimension of state authority. Militias tied to patronage have been a part of West Africa’s political scene since the late colonial era (Dudley 1965; Agbaje 2003). They developed because national-level politicians allowed local strongmen to organize groups of armed youth. This was part of a broader strategy to build new regimes’ nationwide authority where state institutions were very weak and nationalist elite groups faced internal splits. In socially diverse states, communities often had contending views about how they should be

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governed. The differences made these states very difficult places to build stronger national administrations. It was cheaper and politically less risky in the short run for national leaders to allow compliant local strongmen to use the militias to intimidate critics. The militias also offered higher status to young men who joined these armed groups and helped to solve the problem of rural radicalism and urban rioting that affected many major West African states after World War II. Not only were the militias useful for repressing active opposition; they also connected people who otherwise might organize violent protests to regime-friendly politicians through these durable social ties. To the extent that the resources to run these patronage networks were connected to a ruler’s willingness to let local strongmen exploit illicit commercial opportunities, these militias scared off competition from those who lacked strong political connections. Rulers would allow their political allies to break the law to smuggle goods, illicitly mine valuable minerals, and so forth. This crowded out illicit operators who lacked the political protection of the rulers in the capital. In a sense, the connection between conflict and resources has been a durable feature of conflict in West Africa. But in this analysis, it is not resources, per se, that cause conflict through the incentives that they offer to individuals. Instead, violence organized around commerce has been an integral part of patronage-based politics. This political strategy to control subordinates helped to energize and then link the dense networks of illicit commerce to the ruler’s personal favor. Thus social spaces and resources found in what were ostensibly illicit economies beyond the control of formal state bureaucracies, and that otherwise might have supported mass protest movements came under the domination of patronage politics too. One finds fewer politician-run militias and less nongovernment violence in the states that historically were administratively more centralized. Prior to the 1990s this situation was more commonly found in the former French colonies, though there were serious limits to the extent of this difference.1 French financial and technical assistance to states helped to maintain a minimum standard of bureaucratic efficiency and autonomy. Military assistance and direct intervention in the event of a threat to a regime left rulers with more freedom to concentrate on running a patronage system organized around state institutions. These rulers faced less pressure to experiment with balancing the power of private militias among politicians and could exercise more discretion over whom they allowed to exploit illicit commercial opportunities. French patronage did not insulate rulers in Benin and Burkina Faso from coups and coup attempts. But the dominant leaders in the French sub-Saharan political networks such as Leopold Senghor in Senegal and Félix Houphoët-Boigny in Côte d’Ivoire benefited from their

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privileged connections to Paris, part of what Bayart called a “post-colonial historic bloc” that was more diffuse in former British colonies (Bayart 1989: 245–50). These differences were less a consequence of legacies of colonial administrative techniques than of the different degrees of engagement of the former colonial power in postcolonial patronage politics. Places that had significant historical experiences with centralized bureaucratic administrations in precolonial times such as Guinea and Mali may accommodate more easily to uniform administration in the contemporary period. Sekou Touré, the first president of Guinea, for example, was the grandson of a precolonial leader who built a bureaucratic administration that fought off French armies for twenty years into the late 1890s. The great grandson ruled Guinea with a centralized single-party bureaucracy that subordinated local officials to its dictates until his death in 1984. That is not to say that Guinea was free of patronage. It was, however, largely free of politician-run militias. Lansana Conté, Touré’s successor, partially maintained this control on the exercise of coercion, though generally factions within the army pose the principal security threats to the regime. But patronage politics among state bureaucrats remains remarkably centralized around formal administrative institutions. In the view of this framework of analysis, this explains why Guinea has not succumbed to the intense factional fighting that consumed neighboring Sierra Leone in its 1991–2002 war or Liberia’s 1989–2003 war. The fact that Sierra Leone’s president signed a security pact with Guinea in 1970 and called upon Guinea to send soldiers on several occasions to protect his regime before the war highlights the extent to which Guinea’s neighbor recognized this superior degree of regime control over coercion. Militias have been more prevalent in former British colonies. As noted above, this may reflect the lack of the depth of British support for regimes after independence, compared to the French. The British policy of permitting multiparty competition after World War II also entrenched a greater diversity of separate elite political networks. In these places, rulers have had to resort to more heterogeneous methods to impose their authority, adapting their rule to acknowledge the often considerable social authority of local politician strongmen and to try to co-opt them into a single patronage system. In these circumstances, politicians with their own militias are both more useful as a short-term expedient and more difficult to eliminate in the long term. It is also worth noting that contemporary militias are most numerous and active in regions such as the Niger Delta and the Sierra Leone and Liberia coasts; these communities historically were organized into very small-scale political units. A decisive juncture appears in patronage-based politics when rulers can no longer assert their dominance over local strongmen in their patronage

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network. This happens in part when strongmen recognize that they can use militias to exploit commercial benefits without the ruler’s permission, as when a severe external shock cuts the ruler off from an external source of financial and political backing. Thus Liberia’s war began in 1989, soon after the United States concluded that President Samuel Doe (1980–89) was too corrupt and too uninterested in reform to warrant further U.S. financial assistance or active political support. He became the target of several militias, the National Patriotic Front of Liberia (NPFL) under the leadership of his former chief procurement officer, the United Liberation Movement for Democracy in Africa (ULIMO), under the direction of his former advisor and minister of information, and the Liberian peace Council (LPC), led by his former secretary for presidential affairs and minister of education. All of his new rivals were previously valuable to the president for their influence in their local communities. All benefited from patronage that came with Doe’s favor, which they used to build their own connections to illicit international markets to gain their own access to weapons from overseas suppliers. Likewise, the decision of French politicians to disengage from the regime in Côte d’Ivoire after the December 1993 death of President HouphoëtBoigny left subsequent presidents more reliant on local politicians to rule just as they became less secure as heads of a shrinking patronage network. In Sierra Leone, the Revolutionary United Front (RUF) did not have a prominent local politician patron. Instead it made its greatest inroads in communities where local politicians and customary authorities had enjoyed the closest ties to the capital and drew instead on support from Charles Taylor, the head of Liberia’s NPFL militia. RUF was thus able to incorporate elements of existing local militias into their organization against these patrons and mobilize these militias to mine diamonds. This contrasted with the behavior of young men in some other parts of the country, including places that also had diamonds and other valuable resources. Nigerian militias also tend to be closely connected to local politicians who enjoy support from the capital. In Anambra, Bayelsa, and Delta states, all the major militias have significant connections to politicians who either received support from the Abacha regime (1993–98) and have used their control over local resources and armed youth to survive in politics, or to politicians who still enjoy the support of an Abuja-based faction. In this regard, the politics of militias in Nigeria resemble that in Côte d’Ivoire, Liberia, and Sierra Leone. A crucial difference, however, is that the decentralized nature of Nigeria’s formal administration—the last surviving colonial federation— and its compartmentalized patronage politics help to preserve Nigeria as a whole from the effects of isolated state collapse and leave intact a powerful arbiter that is still able to intervene in local conflicts. But if these states were

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separate countries, they probably would produce situations similar to those in Sierra Leone in the 1990s and parts of Côte d’Ivoire today. These comparisons highlight a general principle; that in the context of nonadministratively organized patronage, the closer the connection of local political authorities to capital-based patronage politics, the more likely are local militias to behave in a predatory fashion vis-à-vis the interests of their home communities. This is because politicians develop their own sources of revenue through their privileged connections to the capital. Independent as they are of the constraints of the formal bureaucratic apparatus of the state, once they begin to oppose their former patron in the capital, they simply “privatize” their connections to illicit markets, their hold on other business operations, and their local armed youth. This principle applies also to rival militias that replace incumbent politicians. In Sierra Leone, for example, RUF kicked out allies of the crumbling regime and used the support of the NPFL leader in neighboring Liberia to graft their militia onto the cross-border trafficking in diamonds, which formerly was the preserve of capital-based politicians. This variation in the behavior of militias highlights a second principle; that militias in communities where the local political elite were relatively marginal to preconflict patronage networks tend to behave in a much more protective fashion vis-à-vis the interests of their home communities. For example, Kamajor militias in Sierra Leone appeared in communities that had supported a political party that had lost power in 1968. While responsible for human rights abuses in that country’s war after their formation in 1994, a postwar investigation indicated that Kamajor militias committed 6 percent of alleged violations, while RUF fighters committed more than 60 percent, with elements of the national army responsible for most of the rest (Truth Commission 2004: 13). These figures reflect degrees of discipline of fighters. The more protective among them were more likely to commit atrocities in combat against armed foes than against local communities. A decisive factor shaping protective behavior lies in the preconflict relation of local strongmen to patronage networks based in the capital. Since these local patrons did not enjoy the favor of their presidents, they and their militia leader associates had to find ways to protect themselves. This often extended to their exploitation of the same clandestine commercial opportunities that regime favorites targeted. For example, some of the communities in Sierra Leone that produced Kamajors had significant illicit diamondmining operations which local strongmen organized before the war. But they had to find ways to protect their commercial activities from the predation of more favored politicians and ward off politically motivated legal prosecution. Typically these strongmen turned to local people and had to talk to religious authorities or other respected leaders who had the means to

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help these strongmen politicians conceal their activities from rivals and from the state. Heads of local ethnic associations, for example, could mobilize the networks of kinship to protect politicians from interference from the capital, and even chase off armed interlopers when outsider politicians attempted to control local illicit commercial opportunities. This strategy differed from that of a politically well-connected operator who could call upon presidential favor to direct the police or the security forces to his benefit in these places. Marginal political players often lost out, but not always. In any event, those players faced pressures to find local protection. This alliance came at a price for politicians. They were forced to consider the interests of the local authorities and their communities if they were to continue getting access to resources. This did not reflect altruism. These operators might be as personally corrupt as their predatory counterparts; it is simply that failure to appease their local partners could result in the loss of their access to the resources that they need to buy guns and field fighters. This limited the scope of their ambitions. It also meant that when they moved outside of their home areas, they were freed from these constraints and often behaved in a predatory fashion toward alien communities. The comparison of the behavior of West African insurgencies in the next section illustrates the connections between behavior and local politicians’ positions in old capital-based patronage networks. They show the overriding importance of patronage for shaping the social context in which violence is used. Individuals’ motivations for fighting are important, but can serve as a poor guide to the behavior of armed groups as a whole in the West African context. Do fighters seek loot, responding to the world around them, or do they seek justice, as actors who want to change their world? One finds both kinds of people in every armed group. In contrast to explanations for fighters’ behavior in conflicts that focus on personal motivations (Collier and Hoeffler 2001), this analysis centers on the wider political economy in which armed groups appear, and how that political economy shapes the power of different social actors who control how violence is used. James Scott helps us to understand the relation between individual motivations and group behavior in armed groups (Scott 1979). He observed that all groups have leaders and followers. Writing about Southeast Asia, he concluded that most insurgency leaders came from society’s elite. Most had different motives from their followers, who fought to protect their families, or for loot, or to avenge personal slights from local bosses, or for obscure ideological agendas. In the places that Scott studied, elite networks such as university study groups, family businesses, foreign patronage, and personal access to state bureaucrats bestowed advantages on those who advocated nationalist agendas, regardless of what motivated their followers. In the

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context of West Africa’s patronage politics, militia leaders arise among those who can convince their political patrons that they are reliably and loyally committed to defending the interests of their patrons. To the extent that there are parts of these societies that do not come under the sway of this patronage politics, or are at the margins of it, successful militia leaders are likely to have different skills and will end up empowering different agendas. These different relationships of militias to the state and its political networks are compatible with recruiting followers with diverse interests. This framework assumes that all West African militias are potentially predatory organizations that at the same time are capable of protecting communities. Leadership and its connections to the political economy of patronage are at the core of the explanation for diverse behaviors among militias. This explanation also provides a guide for evaluating the likely impact of conflict management efforts. It considers their effect on the social structure of violence, not just the interests of individual leaders or followers. Evidence from the cases below illustrates these relationships through the comparisons of the different behaviors of the region’s militias and the sometimes surprising changes in the behavior of individual militias over time.

Predatory Militias Some scholars point to the attractions of income from the illicit commerce in natural resources as a cause of predatory behavior among militias (le Billon 2001). Others find causes of predatory behavior among militias in proportion to the portability and ease of sale of specific resources (Ross 2004). The argument here accepts that the prospect of profits from the sale of violently obtained resources can be an incentive to predation among militias. But this is not always the case. As the next section will show, there are important examples of protector militias in West Africa that rely upon the exploitation of natural resources and other illicit commerce to get money to buy weapons. But first, this section provides evidence that shows that predatory militias are less the products of the presence of available natural resources and illicit rackets than they are the products of the extensive patronage politics that had developed prior to the appearance of widespread conflict in many West African states. The predatory nature of these militias reflects the organization of patronage in these states. It is an outgrowth of patronage that released leaders of armed young men from having to rely upon local communities to obtain resources or to organize fighters. Thus when heavily patronage-based regimes fragment, they lead to the extensive appearance of predatory militias. Even in places that are

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bereft of significant natural resources or other predatory opportunities, such as the southern part of Somalia, predatory militias appear where there would seem to be little to fight over. The rise of dozens of violent and predatory militias since 1999 in Côte d’Ivoire illustrates the relationship between patronage politics and predation. Until President Houphoët-Boigny died in December 1993, he had used cocoa and coffee marketing board revenues and French-subsidized contracts to support a sprawling patronage network organized through filière (front) companies that distributed the proceeds to the main political players in the country. This tied politicians to the favor of the president at the expense of mostly peasant farmers who received less than half of what their produce was worth in world markets. This worked well so long as French fiscal and political support maintained an artificially inflated exchange rate for the CFA, the country’s currency that it shared with other former French colonies in West Africa. But three months after HouphoëtBoigny’s death, French officials forced the regional currency board to devalue the CFA by 50 percent. This sudden shrinkage in patronage resources, along with the gradual decline of Côte d’Ivoire’s inefficient agricultural export economy intensified competition among the dead president’s successors to control state power and the informal channels of patronage-backed politics that came with it. This evolved into the political ideology of Ivoirité, an effort on the part of Houphoët-Boigny’s successor President Henri Konan Bedié to disqualify his most viable challengers as foreign-born noncitizens. Dozon points out that the 1990 political liberalization also pushed politics in this ethnonationalist direction as it raised the cost of assembling political coalitions and gave new platforms for otherwise marginal contenders who now had to be co-opted (1997: 779–98). Bedié was overthrown in December 1999 in the country’s first successful coup. His immediate successor Robert Gueï and then a year later, Laurent Gbagbo used the exclusionary Ivoirité to try to eliminate their main political rivals too. This meant that significant elements of the country’s political elite were forced out of what had been one of West Africa’s most wealthy and politically stable patronage systems. Some, such as the Forces nouvelles, who later tried to stage their own coup in 2002 and then set up their own rebel regime in the northern half of the country, sought aid from Burkina Faso’s President Blaise Compraore. Some from among this group were members of the presidential guard during the 1990s and others were purged from the army when Ivoirité began to take hold. Nearly all the leaders of this rebel organization had held significant positions in the country’s presidentcentered patronage politics and then lost them. But during the times that they enjoyed political favor, they took care to develop their contacts with

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other potential patrons and commercial opportunities that they could convert to their more exclusive personal use later. Laurent Gbagbo, the president of the country and from 1982, leader of the Front Populaire Ivoirien (FPI), ran against Houphoët-Boigny in the country’s first multiparty election in 1990, then joined Houphoët-Boigny’s cabinet in spite of his meager 11 percent showing in the poll. Gbagbo later used the connections that he made with student critics of Houphoët-Boigny while he was a history professor and then dean at the University of CocodyAbidjan to build multiple militias under his loose control after 2002. As it turned out, Guillaume Soro, the leader of the Forces Nouvelles rebels, prior to his 1999 split was a close Gbagbo associate. He also led the Fédération estudiantine et scolaire de la Côte d’Ivoire (FESCI). This student group which became the core of Gbagbo’s militias that made a strong appearance in the 1995 elections, served as an informal core of militias for politicians as it engaged in violent racketeering on the side (Konate 2003). Charles Blé Gouldé, the target of February 2006 United Nations sanctions for his role in leading the violent Congrès Panafricain des jeunes patriots in support of Gbagbo succeeded Soro as head of FESCI. Other militia leaders such as Eugène Djué, head of the Union pour la Libération Totale de la Côte d’Ivoire, also began their political careers in FESCI under Gbagbo’s patronage. Militias on all sides of the conflict in Côte d’Ivoire tend to rely upon outsiders for access to resources and for commercial channels to sell illgotten resources and to buy weapons. Until his exile from Liberia in 2003, this extended to Liberian President Charles Taylor’s sponsorship of the Mouvement populaire iviorien du Grand Ouest, based upon its connection to Taylor’s personal timber rackets that he distributed to his political associates in eastern Liberia along the Ivoirian border. These externally supplied resources released local commanders from having to rely upon elders, religious leaders, or others who customarily regulated the uses of violence in local communities through their control over young men and the resources needed to buy weapons. The added factor of large-scale migration of outsiders to rural areas throughout Côte d’Ivoire weakened these local sources of control. In the western part of the country, the region with the largest numbers of competing militias, indigenes accounted for less than a quarter of the rural inhabitants. The influx of outsiders, most of whom were not subject to customary local authorities, coupled with the extensive externalization of local economies in the context of the country’s patronage-dominated politics, made for especially violent competition among militias after 2000 (Chauveau and Bobo 2003). The most efficient short-term strategies to end violence do not involve empowering local people to assert control over fighters. Instead, recent moves focus on integrating militia heads into privileged positions in the filière networks of

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front companies involved in foreign-funded reconstruction and international trade (Lettre du Continent 2006). Unlike as in the case of Côte d’Ivoire, the end of Sierra Leone’s 1991–2002 war offers a context in which the systematic collection of data concerning militia behavior has been possible. The several thousand Sierra Leoneans surveyed collectively attributed 60.5 percent of looting incidents to RUF fighters. The Armed Forces Revolutionary Council (AFRC), a renegade faction of the national army was responsible for 12 percent of incidents. The Sierra Leone Army (SLA) committed 8.3 percent of the total and the Kamajor home guard units, formally organized as the Civil Defense Forces (CDF) in 1996, accounted for 5.7 percent of the total. The late entry of the AFRC and CDF in the war may conceal higher rates of abuses. The ratio of children to adult victims of violence is a more accurate reflection of the targets of militia group activities. The survey indicated that RUF had attacked 3.89 adults for every child that they attacked and the AFRC attacked 4.65 adults per child, while the CDF attacked 11.83 adults per child. The CDF figure exceeded the national army’s rate of 9.14 adults per child, suggesting that they were more disciplined amidst individuals that one would suppose were likely to be noncombatants (Truth Commission 2004: 22–3). These patterns of militia behavior reflect the underlying structures of prewar patronage in Sierra Leone, just as in Côte d’Ivoire. Krijn Peters found in his interviews of ex-combatants that RUF had recruited many of its fighters among the outcast rural youth who had been abused by local chiefs, the main administrative authorities in rural Sierra Leone (Peters 2004: 26–27). He contrasted these recruits with CDF recruits: “Although coming from rural communities, similar in many ways to RUF conscripts, and army irregulars, most of the Kamajor youth fighters were not alienated from their villages and differed greatly from the footloose RUF . . . recruits. They were to a large extent under the control of the village or town chiefs, who were playing a key role in recruitment.” (2004: 10) This contrast points again to the key role of the standing of local politicians in their communities and in the wider national system of political patronage. In Sierra Leone, the chiefs who had the greatest tendency to exploit their own communities in prewar years were those who were most closely aligned with the prewar government’s patronage networks. They were found across the country, but most intensely in the Kono diamond-mining district. This area supported a strong populist political movement in the 1950s as the departing British colonial administration began to allow competitive party politics. It drew up to 50,000 young men to work in the illicit alluvial diamond-mining industry, the main source of economic opportunity in a poor colony of less than two million people. British officials worried that

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this movement was susceptible to communist influence and the local nationalist elite were concerned that it would challenge their privilege. At independence in 1961, the new government dealt with this threat by allowing local chiefs to engage in an “official” version of the illicit diamondmining economy so long as they organized migrant workers into progovernment gangs and would use them at election time on behalf of approved candidates. Local chiefs could become rich with government patronage and some shared the benefits with local mining gangs. But unlike customary chiefly power, their authority now rested more upon their connection to the president and less on their standing in the local community. Their personal gangs also were used to dispose of local critics and to promote other politicians whose fortunes the president favored. When a rival political party came to power in 1968 after an election and two military coups, the new president, Siaka Stevens, had to find his own way to ensure the loyalty of local chiefs if he was to survive further challenges to his rule. He thus helped rival claimants to chief positions come to office with his support. Instead of allowing these chiefs to organize diamond mining on their own account, he included his favorites on boards of directors of joint ventures with foreign investors. Some chiefs and members of parliament still engaged youth gangs for illicit mining operations, but now the bulk of their wealth derived from their privileged positions in these enterprises. Their capacity to mobilize youth militias became closely connected to their favor in the capital and the resources that came with it, and relied less on their customary status and positions in local community institutions. The fact that the mining area attracted so many youth from outside the region also gave chiefs and politicians access to militia members who were removed from the social constraints that their home communities might have placed on them. In the rough-and-tumble world of Sierra Leone patronage politics, these youth “were prepared to support any ‘big men’ who offered them relief from exploitation” wrote a scholar well before the war (Tangri 1976: 314). Patronage and violence in this instance were fairly centrally organized. Youth were incorporated directly into the capital-based political system on which local patrons were reliant too. Thus when the war began in 1991, young men in these areas had little reason to support their local patrons once the central government began to lose control over diamond-mining operations. RUF operatives entered towns before attacking them to survey local youth about their grievances. RUF appeared to be most successful in recruiting people who saw themselves as outsiders in these communities, and the targets of unrestrained exactions from chiefs whose political connections released them from customary obligations of hospitality and protection (Peters 2004: 26–27). Moreover, RUF

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did not need to negotiate with leaders of local institutions or other community notables to get access to the region’s diamonds because they already received considerable backing from the NPFL of Charles Taylor in exchange for diamonds that they had mined (UN 2000). This RUF core consisted of “urban disenchanted youth . . . significantly removed from the civilian population. Their aberrant recreational pursuit of smoking marijuana and their disregard for traditional authority structures made them appear as ‘social deviants’ to others in the community” (Muana 1997: 79). Most members of the country’s army came from similar backgrounds. As the RUF invasion gathered strength, the army quintupled in size between 1991 and 1993, drawing from among unemployed urban youth and politicians’ militias. These militias had served as foot soldiers in defense of the president and his allies, often against popular protest groups. University students commemorated “All Thugs Day” right up to the war in memory of youth gang attacks at the behest of the vice president against students who were protesting poor living conditions and official corruption. This violence extended to every election within the single-party framework in which claimants to the president’s favor battled each other. This led to “urban terrorism; day and night gun-point robberies of banks, pubs and nightclubs, houses and supermarkets. These are just some of the immediate spill-overs of the Elections ‘82’” (Cole 1982: 32), a behavior foreshadowing that of RUF and rogue elements of the national army during the war. Predatory militias with close ties to prewar patronage networks appear in Nigeria too. For example, Mujahid Dokubo Asari, head of the Niger Delta Peoples’ Volunteer Force (NDPVF) was a close associate of Diepreye Alamieyeseigha, Governor of Bayelsa State. Alamieyeseigha was arrested in London’s Heathrow Airport on October 15, 2005 in possession of one million pounds sterling and was implicated in a scheme to launder two million Euros through a German bank. Alamieyeseigha backed Vice President Atiku Abubakar, a main contender in the 2007 presidential elections. The Governor’s surprise effort to return to Nigeria (disguised in women’s clothes) resulted in his arrest. But the NDPVF continued to operate in the name of their patron and the prospect of a favorable outcome in the 2007 election (Adekeye 2005: 12–16). Some believe that this group was responsible for the robbery of a bank and killing of eight police officers in Port Harcourt in January 2006 (Africa Confidential Feb 3, 2006: 5–6). Another gubernatorial associate, Oronto Douglas, serves as spokesman for the Movement for the Emancipation of the Niger Delta (MEND), which was responsible for the kidnapping of foreign oil workers in 2005–06 and demanding the release of Asari and Alamieyeseigha in return for their hostages (Adekeye 2006: 16).

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Asari was arrested in November 2005 and the Bayelsa governor was charged with corruption. Local suspicions are that they were targeted because they opposed the president’s bid to change the constitution and stand for a third term. Opposition continued through groups such as the Martyrs Brigade, which is associated with the NDPVF. These groups, along with those associated with the governor of Delta state—a former associate of the dictator Sani Abacha (1993–98)—are suspected of involvement in the theft of oil from pipelines. Foreign firms estimate losses of 100,000 barrels per day, more than $200 million per month (Africa Confidential, March 17, 2006: 1). Their close involvement with politicians also exposes these militias to political faction strains. Governor Alamieyeseigha’s palace guard, the Bayelsa Volunteers, “provided employment for youths who had hitherto been engaged in piracy and kidnap of oil workers.” Once the governor was arrested, the group’s commander (who also was the deputy superintendent of police) started to use the militia to support the new capital-imposed governor in battles that included exchanges of gunfire and dynamiting of the commander’s home (Ekong 2005: 12). The Bakassi Boys militia also maintained close ties with politicians. “In all three states where they currently operate—Abia, Anambra, and Imo— the Bakassi Boys have enjoyed the support of their state government, who have provided them with offices, uniforms, and vehicles” (Human Rights Watch 2002). While ostensibly supplementing the anticrime efforts of the police, the Bakassi Boys really served as political muscle for local governors who were opposed to the civilian government that took power in 1999. Anambra state’s governor, previously a supporter of the old dictator Abacha, used Bakassi Boys gangs to attack his political opponents, including state legislators and political party leaders. The Abia governor deputized them as an “official vigilante service” and used them for the same purpose. The common thread in all these cases of politician-influenced militias is that their access to resources depends on their connection to a remote patron. Neither patron nor militia has to rely on the support of local communities to gain access to those resources. Some may switch patrons, as, for example, Sierra Leone diamond miners who desert exploitative politician and chief patrons for a Liberia-backed insurgency, or southern Nigerian militias that switch from clients of the vice president to those enjoying presidential favor. These militias are recruited for providing protection for their patron’s illicit commercial activities—alluvial diamond mining, kidnapping foreign oil workers, and so forth—in exchange for a cut in the proceeds. Situating the exercise of violence in this social context favors commanders who calculate on the basis of short-term political alignments and who maximize predatory opportunities. The skills that are required to

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behave in a predatory fashion are the same s that serve politicians who need an armed force to intimidate critics, fight rivals, and excel in illicit commerce such as smuggling and kidnapping. Commanders who perform these tasks rise in status. These leaders can still serve the interests of militia members who join for myriad reasons such as the belief among Niger Delta militia members that their communities are marginalized from the distribution of public goods, that the corrupt political system loots their communities of resources and fails to provide adequate educational facilities, or simply the desire to provide for their families (Oyefusi 2006: 25–7). All these motivations were prominent among members of liberation insurgencies in Africa in the 1960s and 1970s too (Geffray 1990). But the leaders of anticolonial insurgencies almost always came from rarified university student networks, rather than from politician militia leaders who emerge from the entourages of their patrons. The University of Lisbon in the 1950s and the University of Dar es Salaam in the 1960s, for example, provided young ideologues with social space to develop their political ideas and to knit together a coalition of grassroots rebellions. Fighters pursue many motivations. Disciplining them and filtering their personal motivations through a grand design are the tasks of the commander. If patronage politics penetrates even to the illicit markets and the personal insecurity that many people experience, it becomes extremely difficult for ideologues to find the social space to translate their political critiques into armed action. Patronage politics also drives away able people who historically have led ideological rebellions. Among the 109,000 adult Nigerians who immigrated to the United States between 1990 and 2000, 83 percent had university educations (Kapur and McHale 2005: 15). Thus the explanation for predation in many West African militias is related to another important issue: Why do these militias appear to be so devoid of a consistent ideological focus, even though members harbor political ideas and motivations that typified their anticolonial counterparts in the not too distant past? Why do Islamic Internationalists appear to fail to mobilize coreligionists to join them in their wider struggle against Western liberalism and their corrupt governments? There is ample evidence, for example, for the attractions of rigid populist interpretations of sharia law, critiques of the West, and after the attacks on New York and Washington, admiration for Osama bin Laden, among militia members in northern Nigeria. The answer is found in the totalizing influence of patronage politics in most countries in West Africa. While governments here notably ineffective at providing public services, they are adept at controlling the political alignments of communities and in influencing social spaces such as illicit markets, NGO organizing, and student politics that are conventionally thought to be arenas of autonomous political action.

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This infrastructure of politics stifles active dissent and channels individual militia members’ strategies into seeking redress. Variations in this infrastructure of patronage thus weigh heavily in shaping where protector militias develop, and how their leaders define their protective mission.

Protector Militias From 1992, some communities in Sierra Leone began organizing militias to protect their homes, with most merging together in 1996 to become the CDF. Other scholars note the significant role of family ties and community networks in CDF members’ recruitment, compared to that in RUF (Humphreys and Weinstein 2004: 28–9). A major factor in this close tie between local social institutions and youth violence lay in the shape of prewar patronage politics. Areas that had supported the old ruling party prior to the 1967 and 1968 coups received the brunt of the new regime’s violence, especially in the Kono and Kenema District diamond-mining areas. To carry out this repression, the regime abolished local government institutions in 1971. A one party state was established in 1978, and patronage was used to co-opt local politicians. Local resistance was most effective in Kenema as some politicians and local leaders there refused to join the new regime. The historian Alpha Lavalie observed that they organized antiregime militias based in Poro, a male secret society among the Mende, the region’s dominant ethnic group (Lavalie 1983). Lavalie was especially sensitive to the social context in which violence was used as he became a leader of the Eastern Regional Defense Committee (ERECOM) militia in Kenema for about a year before he was blown up by a land mine in 1993. ERECOM’s members included local chiefs who had been the targets of regime violence before the war. Together they mobilized religious authorities to initiate young men into the militia (Special Court for Sierra Leone, 2005). This organization of CDF and the militias that later joined it incorporated means to manage youth who had migrated to these areas. Since local chiefs were on the margins of prewar capital-based patronage networks, they had to shield their involvement in illicit diamond-mining operations. Since they also employed gangs of youth including some who migrated from other parts of the country and even abroad to mine diamonds, they found that the youth could also be mobilized to protect their mining operations. But in doing so, these operators had to rely upon their customary powers as “landlords” to grant to newcomers the status of a protected client (Dorjahn and Fyfe, 1962). This relationship entailed reciprocities of protection; each guaranteed the safety of the other from the predations of

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the higher authorities. Once the RUF attacks and wayward soldiers plagued the region, these social institutions were shifted to community defense without great difficulty. The authority of these institutions also extended to people who were not originally from those areas, owing to the fact that they had to seek local patrons who were themselves vulnerable, rather than ones who could rely upon a distant patron. Prewar political marginality led to similar militia behavior in other instances in Sierra Leone. Captain Prince Ben Hirsch used his standing as a strong supporter of the pre-1968 political party and his family’s prestige to “deploy displaced Poro (secret society) initiates to act as guardians of their settlements, enforce traditional Mende warfare curfews, and act as a local defense force” (Muana 1997: 83). Chief Hinga Norman, the eventual head of the CDF, played a role in the 1967 coup against the ruling party. When it was restored in 1968, Norman fled to Liberia, only returning to Sierra Leone as the war began. But as regent chief of Jaiama Bongor chiefdom, he mobilized youth in this alluvial diamond-mining community to oppose elements of the army under the patronage of Captain Idrissa Kamara. While both armed groups committed acts of violence, those under Norman’s command tended to protect communities and their local alluvial diamond-mining operations. As figures cited above show, RUF and elements of the army operating in the same area, and recruiting from among the same social class of youths, committed many more abuses against civilian communities, even in their everyday occupation of these areas (Gbere 2005: 86). The situations in Nigeria and Côte d’Ivoire have not generated protector militias on the scale and durability as in Sierra Leone. This may reflect the higher degree of the penetration of patronage politics in those countries. Few local political establishments in both countries have exhibited the simultaneous capacity to exploit illicit commercial opportunities that they need to buy weapons and attract supporters, yet were marginal enough from capital-based politics to be able to call upon local leaders and use local social institutions to protect themselves from predations of more favored clients. In Côte d’Ivoire, state patronage was integrally connected to migrants and their employers, much as in RUF-dominant areas in Sierra Leone before the war, though in the latter, mining provided patronage resources whereas agricultural exports did in the former. In Nigeria, oil revenues have given governments, especially those under military rule, a greater capacity to intervene in local community disputes. This draws different sides of disputes into competition for influence in the capital. These local conflicts thus reflect factional competition in the capital, leading all parties to local conflicts to pursue their goals on the basis of their political support from the center (Oyediran 1997). The eastern part of the country, the site of a 1967–70 secessionist struggle, also features this kind of intensive

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intervention from the capital into local politics. The defeat of the region’s core political elite gave capital-based politicians a new capacity to manipulate local political competition. Elements of the old elite were swept away in the defeat and others remained only with the protection that their patrons in the capital could provide. The concrete result in both regions has been the rise of politician militias in the predatory mold. A recent example of a protector militia in Nigeria is found among the O’odua People’s Congress (OPC) in the country’s southwest region. The OPC’s emergence in 1994 under the protection of Yoruba notables played a significant role in the militia’s subsequent organization. They included the human rights activist Beko Ransome-Kuti and Chief Adekunke Ajasin, the head of the ethnic association Afenifere. Their support stemmed from the failure of the northern-dominated military government to hand over power to a Yoruba candidate after the June 12, 1993 elections. That event created a conviction among many Yoruba elite that they were being systematically excluded from the benefits of national politics. The increasingly authoritarian rule of General Sani Abacha also concentrated patronage in the hands of a tight-knit group. Those who opposed Abacha faced restricted choices. Progressively excluded from Nigeria’s patronage politics, many Yoruba politicians were forced to turn to local cultural figures to preserve their authority. This meant that when the OPC was organized as the core of a guerrilla force to fight the Abacha regime, its backers had to rely more heavily on their memberships in ethnic associations and dual roles as religious authorities. Local community authorities who otherwise were likely be excluded from the direct benefits of patronage now were included in this more regionalized network that the president had targeted as politically unreliable. Abacha’s nocturnal demise in 1998, supposedly the result of an overindulgence in Viagra and sex-induced stress, saved OPC from having to battle the regime. But its roots in local communities already ensured it a role as a vigilante force, protecting communities from robbers and the police who were widely suspected of colluding with criminals. Like CDF fighters, OPC members take oaths that are supposed to bind them to the discipline of the group and protect them from bullets. This grants them some credibility in the communities where they operate and promotes cohesiveness among members. This practice also ensures that OPC members have a local patron who has authority in local religious and ethnic associations (Nolte 2004). This prevents politicians from dominating their relationship with local fighters. The addition of these intermediaries, necessary for mobilizing youths and disciplining them, also inserts the interests of local communities and creates a status system within the organization that values service toward the public good. This does not mean that OPC members are free of predatory behavior. First, the often

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narrow nature of the informal social institutions that provide the militia with its cohesiveness can be used to mobilize militia members against other ethnic groups. Community defense in Lagos, for example, includes agendas such as expelling ethnic Hausa long-distance truckers and attacking newcomers in neighborhood markets (Human Rights Watch 2003). In sum, the behavior of protector militias is contingent upon the presence of social space that is insulated from interference from capital-based patronage networks. Within these interstices, less hierarchical relationships develop that include local intermediaries. Heads of these patronage networks need these intermediaries who control local social institutions to help protect their positions (and on occasion, their illicit commercial activities) and to mobilize youth. The result is that these militias have dual patrons, a relationship of reciprocity that combines the personal interests of politician backers and the community norms embodied in these social institutions. The members of militias and their politician patrons have the potential to be predatory and self-serving. But his social context would not allow them to survive long if they pursued these motives. Predatory and protector militias often exist in close proximity, and some prospective members can chose which type to join. The attraction of the latter is that it has the organizational capability to serve a public good. Given the suspicions of Scott cited above (1979), members of protector militias will say that they join to gain the group’s protection. Protection can be had from predator militias too, in terms of access to resources and means to fight. But social context makes all the difference, turning personal protection in one into an opportunity to loot and in the other, service of a public good.

Policy Implications The different behaviors of West African militias pose significant challenges for policy makers. For example, measures to cut off resources from all armed groups will produce different effects across these cases. Ending illicit diamond-mining opportunities for groups that resemble RUF in Sierra Leone would result in a decrease of human rights violations that would come with a mitigation of violence. Cutting off these same resources to groups such as the CDF might lead to greater turmoil in their home communities. The scramble for illicit resources might become more competitive (barring a totally effective elimination of external commercial ties), drawing in predatory militias and bringing a sudden influx of armed youth who were not under the control of local social institutions. The contextual view of violence in this analysis poses challenges to postconflict proposals to prosecute human rights violations of all groups

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with equal vigor. Is it politically acceptable to consider the circumstantial aspects of violence committed in the defense of communities, versus offenses committed in predatory pursuits? Moreover, many of the social instruments that regulate violence in West Africa involve the mobilization of juveniles for warfare, which is a clear violation of contemporary protocols concerning the use of child soldiers. Yet imposing these norms on West African communities caught in wider conflicts would risk exposing other members of those communities to more dire abuses of human rights. Short of large-scale foreign military intervention to end local wars, this kind of utilitarian calculation will preoccupy many of the participants and local community leaders in these conflicts. Partial intervention brings its own considerations with respect to protector militias. British forces in Sierra Leone, for example, recruited CDF units to help protect the elected government of Sierra Leone and as proxies to help the ill-trained Sierra Leone army beat the RUF insurgents. As late as 2002, when the Special Court for Sierra Leone was set up, the CDF leader Hinga Norman served as deputy defense minister and cooperated with a British military training program. Outside of West Africa, protector militias such as the Kurdish pesh merga feature in U.S. efforts to train the Iraqi security forces. Afghanistan’s Northern Alliance proved to be valuable partners in the NATO effort to overthrow the Taliban regime and to pacify the country. These interests of individual countries that value particular kinds of militia organization and behavior when they intervene in conflicts are likely to clash with other international policies that take all militias to be equally liable for the consequences of their uses of violence. Finally, if outsiders value the organizational capabilities and interests of protector militias, are they willing to accept the exclusionary politics of most of them? Since most of these groups draw members from among those who are subject to the control of particular social institutions, this often limits them to narrow ethnic constituencies. They may protect those who they define as community members, while behaving more like predators toward other people. The CDF, for example, behaved in more wantonly violent ways once fighters were away from their home communities. They may adopt separatist agendas, as some factions of the OPC appear to do. Others may engage in ethnic cleansing, as militia leaders identify outsiders as threats to local social order and disruptive of their control over fighters. Overall, the differences between predatory and protector militias persist, regardless of the interests of outsiders. The emergence of the latter, while overshadowed by recent attention to the violence of internal wars generally, should not surprise. In many respects, protectors are heirs of state builders everywhere. Europe’s history, for example, is replete with instances of state collapse, widespread turmoil, and roving predatory militias. Most

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of those were transitory and are lost to most general histories of the continent. It is the few protector militias that emerged and that eventually became states that grab most of the historian’s attention. Contemporary conflicts in West Africa, while fought with more readily available and dangerous weapons, in a context of a globalized political economy, still resemble conflicts as we have seen them in the past. Note 1. Catherine Boone points out (2003) that rulers in former French colonies still faced considerable challenges in imposing their authority on local communities, leading to diverse strategies of informal and formal administration.

Bibliography Adekeye, Fola (2005). Marked for Slaughter. TheWeek, October 3: 12–16. ——— (2006). Autonomy by Whatever Means. TheWeek, February 13: 12–18. Agbaje, Adigun (2003). The Historical Antecedent of Ethnic Militias in Nigeria, in Tunde Babawale (ed.). Urban Violence, Ethnic Militias and the Challenge of Democratic Consolidation in Nigeria. Lagos: Malthouse Press: 20–39. Bates, Robert (2001). Prosperity and Violence. New York: W.W. Norton & Company. Bayart, Jean-François (1989). L’État en Afrique. Paris: Fayard. Boone, Catherine (2003). Political Topographies of the African State: Territorial Authority and Institutional Choice. New York: Cambridge University Press. Chauveau, Jean-Pierre and Kofi S Bobo (2003). La situation de guerre dans l’arène villageoise: un exemple dans le Centre-Ouest ivoirien. Politique Africaine, 89: 12–33. Cole, Thomas (1982). Sierra Leone’s Election ‘82 Post Mortem. Awareness, (October): 5–32. Collier, Paul and Anke Hoeffler (2001). Greed and Grievance in Civil Wars. Washington, DC: The World Bank. Dorjahn, Vernon and Christopher Fyfe (1962). Landlord and Stranger: Change in Tenancy Relations in Sierra Leone. Journal of African History, 3 (3): 391–97. Dozon, Jean-Pierre (1997). L’étranger et l’allochtone en Côte d’Ivoire, in Contamin, Benjamin and Harris Memel-Fotê (eds.). Le modèle ivoirien en question: crise, réajustements, récompositions. Paris: Éditions Karthala: 779–98. Dudley, Billy (1965). Violence in Nigerian Politics. Transition, 21: 21–23. Ekong, Anietie (2005). Under Siege, TheWeek, December 12: 10–15. Gbere, Lansana (2005). A Dirty War in West Africa: The RUF and the Destruction of Sierra Leone., Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Geffray, Christian (1990). La Cause des Armes au Mozambique: Anthropologie d’une Guerre Civile. Paris: Karthala. Human Rights Watch (2002). The Bakassi Boys: The Legitimation of Murder and Torture. New York: Human Rights Watch.

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——— (2003). The Oodua People’s Congress: Fighting Violence with Violence. New York: Human Rights Watch. Humphreys, Macarten and Jeremy Weinstein (2004). What the Fighters Say: A Survey of Ex-Combatants in Sierra Leone, June–August 2003. Freetown: PostConflict Reintegration Initiative for Development and Empowerment. Kapur, Devish and John McHale (2005). Give Us Your Best and Brightest. Washington, DC: Center for Global Development. Konate, Yakouba (2003). Les enfants de la balle: de la FESCI aux mouvements des patriotes. Politique Africaine 89: 49–70. Krasner, Stephen (1999). Sovereignty: Organized Hypocrisy. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Lavalie, Alpha (1983). SLPP: A Study of the Political History of the Sierra Leone People’s Party, with Particular Reference to the Period 1968–78. MA Thesis, Department of History, University of Sierra Leone. le Billon, Philippe (2001). Angola’s Political Economy of War: The Role of Oil and Diamonds, 1975–2000. African Affairs, 100 (398): 55–80. Lettre du Continent (2006). Qui contrôlera les caisses du cacao et du pétrole?. January 5. Meredith, Martin (2005). The Fate of Africa: From the Hopes of Freedom to the Heart of Despair. New York: Public Affairs. Muana, Patrick (1997). The Kamajoi Militia: Civil War, Internal Displacement and the Politics of Counter-Insurgency. Africa Development, 22 (3): 77–100. Nolte, Insa (2004). Identity and Violence: The Politics of Youth in Ijebu-Remo, Nigeria. Journal of Modern African Studies, 42 (1): 61–89. Oko, Mathias (2005). War for War’s Sake. TheWeek. November 21, 8–15. Oyediran, Oyeleye. (1997) The Reorganization of Local Government, in Transition Without End: Nigerian Politics and Civil Society under Babangida. Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publishers: 193–212. Oyefusi, Aderoju (2006). Propensity to Civil Disobedience and the Probability of an Armed Struggle in the Niger Delta Region of Nigeria, Benin. Nigeria: University of Benin. Peters, Krijn (2004). Ex-Examining Voluntarism: Youth Combatants in Sierra Leone. Pretoria: Institute for Strategic Studies. Ross, Michael (2004). How Does Natural Resource Wealth Influence Civil Wars? Evidence from Thirteen Cases. International Organization, 58 (1): 35–67. Scott, James C (1979). Revolution in the Revolution: Peasants and Commissars. Theory and Society, 7 (1–2): 97–134. Tangri, Roger (1976). Conflict and Violence in Contemporary Sierra Leone Chiefdoms. Journal of Modern African Studies, 14 (2): 311–21. Truth Commission [of Sierra Leone] (2004). Truth and Reconciliation Report. Freetown: Truth Commission. United Nations (2000). Report of the Panel of Experts Appointed Pursuant to UN Security Council Resolution 1306 (2000), Paragraph 19 in Relation to Sierra Leone. New York: UN S/2000/1195. Weber, Max (1978). Economy and Society, vol. 2. Berkeley: University of California Press.

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6

Nonstate Providers of Everyday Security in Fragile African States Bruce Baker

Introduction Those involved in security sector reform readily acknowledge the problems of changing the culture of the state police. The state police in Africa are widely perceived by citizens as indifferent, inept, inefficient, and corrupt (Shaw 2002; Amnesty International 2002). Worse, there are many occasions when the police, pursuing their own or regime interests, extrajudicial killings, beat detainees, use excessive force, arrest and detain persons arbitrarily, and act in collusion with criminals. Against this background it has proved extremely difficult to reform the police. Even if they were given long term-attention and financial investment, there is a real fear that they may prove resistant to change, given the few success stories that can be found so far from Africa’s “fragile” states. But even supposing that radical and lasting transformation were possible, what would it achieve? Following the war in Uganda, there were just 8,000 police for a population of 27 million (a ratio of 1:3375); in Sierra Leone, there were only 6,600 for a population of 4.9 million (a ratio of 1:757); in Rwanda almost all police officers had fled. Though things have improved a little in these countries, they highlight the practical issues that fragile states face in terms of state policing resources. In terms of both quality and quantity, the human resources available to these agencies do not suffice to meet even basic requirements. Even when these countries move out of “fragile” status, they still fall far short of the provision available in more

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developed countries (e.g., the ratios of state police officer to population in England in 2002 was 1:402; in Denmark in 2004, 1:500; in South Africa in 2003, 1:350). These are police forces that are rarely found beyond the tarmac road. Policing is focused on the commercial centers of the main towns and disproportionately on crimes that affect the wealthy and that disrupt a male-defined order. Even if we assume that, as a result of the reforms, state police officers become “angelic” in their conduct and faultless in their skills and are serviced by sustainable equipment, do we really suppose that such small forces can provide crime protection and crime investigation for all the citizens of their country? The question therefore arises: Are we reforming the right internal security organization? Most of the policing in Africa is not done by the state police, but by nonstate policing organizations. In the great majority of circumstances, people look to nonstate actors first for protection from crime and investigation of crime. Should we perhaps be seeking to reform those who actually do most of the policing? Should we reconsider the scope of security sector reform or at least investigate, before policy decisions are made, as to why most people do not rely on the state police for their everyday policing? Could it be that the current prejudice against including nonstate actors in the security sector program is unfounded? If just part of the nonstate policing sector was transformable, a real difference might be made in terms of security for the poor. Understanding exactly who the nonstate policing agencies are, seems a useful place to begin, which is what this chapter does by providing an overview of different nonstate security organizations. It then examines whether these organizations are in any sense (or can be made in any sense) accountable and explores how they actually relate to the state police and how they might relate to the state police. Only then can we assess what the scope and nature of security sector reform should be. Everyday security, as we have suggested, is not just an activity of the state police. Policing, if understood as any organized activity that seeks to ensure the maintenance of communal order, security, and peace through elements of prevention, deterrence, investigation of breaches, and punishment, has always been plural. Some see the failure of the state police as the cause of the rapid emergence of nonstate policing in Africa. Nonstate policing, however, is not a new phenomenon. Years of either autocratic predation that had little concern for legality, or socialist leadership that sought a legal system that served the interests of the state, provoked alienation from the official law and the development of informal legal orders that bypassed it. Going back even further, alternative security arrangements predate state (and colonial) policing and were never totally displaced by it. State and nonstate forms of policing are not necessarily policing the same order (Buur 2003). The state police have always been agents of an

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authority that for many is following alien values concerning how crime is defined and punished; thus even if the state police were effective in their role, policing of alternative orders would still continue. But if state policing failure has not caused nonstate policing, it has certainly reinvigorated it and has prompted nonstate policing to take new forms. Before considering in detail providers of everyday security other than the state police, a word needs to be said about the concept of “nonstate.” Clear-cut distinctions are complicated by the fact that nonstate policing is often undertaken officially or unofficially by state functionaries (Schärf 2003) and that the police at times “farm out” dirty work, which they are not entitled to perform to less accountable policing groups (Buur 2003). But even beyond that, policing other than that provided by the state police are not necessarily policing that is totally autonomous. Police fragmentation does not always represent the form of diversification that creates policing “away from” and “beyond” the state as many have assumed (e.g., Bayley and Shearing 2001). For those policing agencies operating in Africa other than the state police, there are degrees of escape from the state’s gravitational pull. For this reason the chapter does not follow a straightforward state/nonstate divide. Rather it recognizes that there are different levels at which the state may shape and influence policing agencies other than the state police. Sponsorship, regulation/criminalization, networking/exclusion, collaboration, incorporation and training, are all techniques by which the state may maintain a level of control over ostensibly “nonstate” policing, and seek to uphold its own sovereignty.

An Overview of Nonstate Policing Organizations A large range of nonstate policing groups have emerged across Africa (Baker 2005a; 2005b; 2006). Yet this is by no means a homogenous group that can be readily demonized or romanticized. There is such an enormous diversity within the sector that it defies generalizations. Some adhere to the law and have police support; some are lawless and violent in their assault on crime; some are spontaneous and short-lived, some are more permanent structures; some are based on voluntarism, others are commercial enterprises. What they have in common is that they are authorized by an array of groups besides governments. These include economic interests (legal and illegal), residential communities, cultural communities, and individuals. Similarly, there is considerable variety amongst those who provide policing. Commercial companies, nonstate authorizers of policing, individuals, as well as governments are involved. The extent and nature of this nonstate policing depends on the specific context, including the history of state formation. Of special importance are

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the penetration and capacity of the state, the variety of value systems present in the country and introduced from outside, poverty levels, commercial development, regime type, the manner in which the state configured itself postcolonization and postconflict, the activity of political entrepreneurs, and crime patterns. This chapter will concentrate on more organized forms. Table 6.1 demonstrates the degree of variation in terms of a policing group’s role(s) (authorizer/provider), operational range, legality of actions, degree of cooperation with state police, commercial status (for profit/non-profit), and mentality (surveillance/punishment). Each category is presented in turn below. Informal Anticrime Groups Informal, organized security groups whose emphasis is on punishment security by the community are commonly known as vigilantes. These security groups not only act independently of the state police, but often do not cooperate with it and may be prepared to break the law to achieve their goals of protection and investigation (or sometimes trials and sentencing) (Nina 2001; von Schnitzler et al. 2001; Anderson 2002; Buur 2003). On the other hand, they often have the approval of local elders. As groups of private citizens organized on a voluntary, as needed, basis, they use or threaten the use of force in order to control crime or other social disorder. Whether or not vigilante acts are extra-legal and involve censure and/or punishment, varies from group to group. In Sierra Leone, youth groups patrol villages and townships, at night, break up fights and reprimand the disorderly (Baker 2005b). In South Africa, community committees investigate complaints, conduct anticrime raids, summon the accused to give an account at quasi-courts and hand out sentences of corporal punishment (Baker 2002a; Buur 2003). Among the cattle herders of East Africa, informal security groups have a long tradition. Cattle raiding is dealt with by pursuit and recapture by posses, together with the summary killing of those deemed responsible (Heald 2003). The informal anticrime groups flourish where crime is widespread, the state police are absent and/or corrupt, and local people and/or elders lend them their support. Religious Police Religious police are community-based and use censure and beating to enforce their order with little regard for the state law and, despite their rhetoric, with minimal cooperation with the state police. Typically they are organized by community religious or sometimes political leaders as

Community

Local

Operational Range

Local/regional Mainly Mainly Mainly

Local/district Local/district

Trained guards

Community/ elected reps Tribal elders

Community

Community

Local

Mainly

Mainly

Citizen group or work association Community/ elected reps Ethnic group

Local to global

Trained guards

No

Business

Local/ regional

Armed groups

Business and political leaders

No

Often

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Rarely

No

Yes

Yes

Yes

No

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

No

Surveillance Security

No/token No

Minimal

No

No

Yes

Yes

No unless No ruling party No No

No

No

No

No

For Profit

No

No

Rarely

Cooperation with Police

No

No

No

Constrained by Law

Financial or service

Fines/censure

Fines/censure

Exclusion

Exclusion

Beating/death

Beating/death

Censure beating Beating

Censure beating/ death Censure beating

Punishment Security

Note: The listing of the categories follows no particular order. “Authorizer” is used as a group (or individual) that explicitly assumes responsibility for organising their own protection. “Provider” is used as a group that supplies the required protection (Bayley and Shearing 2001). Surveillance security seeks to deter crime by preventive measures of observation; punishment security seeks to deter crime by threatened or actual punishment.

Ethnic/clan militia Political party militia Civil defense forces Informal commercial security group Formal commercial security group State approved civil guarding Local government security structures Customary policing & courts Restorative justice committees

Community

Informal anticrime group Religious police

Provider

Religious Usually unarmed Local organizations or groups subnational units Tribe/clan or local Armed groups Tribal/clan strongmen area Political party Armed groups Regional/ national Community Armed groups regional

Authorizer

Category

Table 6.1 African policing groups other than the state police

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part-time or full-time groups who exercise surveillance as well as responsive roles. The reticence of the Nigeria Police to enforce Sharia Penal Codes led to the emergence in northern Nigeria of security groups called hisba. They attack places where prostitutes work and places where alcohol is sold. Some state governments (e.g., Kano) have established their own hisba groups to “guide” Muslims who are negligent in their religious and moral duties (Peters 2001). The predominantly Islamic suburbs of Accra and Ghana have seen the emergence of volunteer “Sharia police” known as Isakaba. They authorize corporal punishment for those found guilty of “sins” such as premarital sex. Religious police seem to emerge where locally held religious values are under threat and are not being supported and enforced by the state police. Ethnic/Clan Militias Ethnic or clan militias involve the formation of a part-time or full-time group that exercises both surveillance and punishment security with little regard for the state law or state police. The order they are concerned to preserve concerns the whole cultural web that makes the clan/ethnic group distinct. Though ethnic-based, they may be led by local strongmen rather than by customary leaders. They favor violence to negotiation and restoration. In Nigeria, ethnic groups founded to protect and promote the interests of their peoples have been turned against crime. An example is the O’odua People’s Congress (OPC), which has used patrols, imprisonment, and violence as a tool of both its ethnic militancy and its vigilantism (Human Rights Watch 2003; Nolte 2004). Armed mobile groups operating under the leadership of factional or clan heads are also a feature of the Niger delta and Somalia. In addition to enforcing social order within the area claimed by their lineage, they function as personal militias (Farah and Lewis 1993). Ethnic militias favor a context of a weak state and national identity together with local strongmen who are anxious to assert their control and garner support. Political Party Militia Groups Operating in the interests of modern political parties are the party militias. These groups are convenient bodies for national or local strongmen to enforce their will without the encumbrances of the law. Typically young unemployed men are recruited and their dependency on the patron instills a fierce loyalty and willingness to use violence (Phiri 2000). President Mugabe in Zimbabwe has put them to effective use to prevent his political

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rivals from seizing power through elections. An orchestrated campaign of political violence saw opposition supporters beaten and tortured and their property destroyed by a youth militia trained in violence at special camps. Elsewhere, parties use their militias as security guards for large political events, and to maintain order during rallies. These militias are highly dependent on political patrons and a competitive political arena. Civil Defense Forces (CDFs) CDFs (or as Reno calls them elsewhere in this volume, “protector” militias) typically emerge during a general breakdown of civil authority and of law in a civil war, when neither a depleted state army nor an ineffective police can offer state protection to citizens. They arise as substitutes for conventional defense forces and thus have a military as well as an anticrime role. They provide general security for all within their area of operation, though not necessarily for altruistic reasons (see Reno, this volume). The hunting associations in Sierra Leone formed the CDF to protect citizens from the RUF (Revolutionary United Front) rebels, though it too was guilty of atrocities. And during the war in Angola, villagers in Huambo established CDFs to check that people were not carrying weapons and to protect abandoned houses and crops in villages (Birkeland and Gomes 2001). These groups are found today where civil war prevails, for example the Democratic Republic of Congo and Sudan. Informal Commercial Security Groups Anticrime groups, occasionally, under the patronage of local political or economic agents, grow into large commercial operations with full-time operatives. The political agents may see them the solution to local crime waves. In such a situation these security groups may assume a community role, rather than (or as well as) one intended for the benefit of a limited group. Illustrating the ambiguity around “nonstate” policing, State Governors in Southeast Nigeria have employed and/or created informal security groups, for example, the Bakassi Boys, to be, in effect, regional police forces under their command (Human Rights Watch/CLEEN 2002; Baker 2002b) tackling armed robbery, piracy and “bunkering”. Their methods included extra judicial killings and the torture of detainees. Hunter associations in Côte d’Ivoire during the 1990s were so successful in reducing crime in northern rural areas that they were used as private security guards in the cities and the government and political parties employed them to complement the police during the 1995 elections (Bassett 2003).

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Elsewhere it is business interests that have funded commercial informal security groups. In the Niger city of Zinder, transport operators called on vigilantes from a neighboring city to establish a group to protect their businesses. They were given torchlights for night patrol by the mayor and handcuffs by the police commissioner (Lund 2001: 860). Armed with sabres and spiked mace, they would beat suspected thieves, parade them dressed in women’s clothes and demand compensation from their families for their release. Such groups thrive in an insecure environment where state police are ineffective and commercial interests are thwarted. Formal Commercial Security Groups Formal commercial security essentially operates within the law and in cooperation with the police, using trained full-time guards. Though their emphasis is on surveillance, they do use punishment security as well, usually in the form of exclusion and/or handing people over to the state police. Though some are local and operate in a single town (Carstens 2001), many commercial security groups operating in Africa are now part of global companies (Abrahamsen and Williams 2005a; 2005b). The 1990s saw the commercial security sector expand rapidly, especially where the state is weakest, with governments, commercial corporations, aid agencies, and private citizens using it for their protection. The most common services provided are protection of the elite from crime, site protection, risk analysis, security training for staff, and the transport and protection of resources and emergency aid (Vaux 2003). The development of these services is proof of an expanding economy and/or significant international presence. State Approved Civil Guarding Also working within the law and with the approval and cooperation of the state police, but not for profit, are a range of security groups authorized by citizen groups and provided by small groups of trained guards. Johnston calls them “responsible citizen responses” (1992). In South Africa, they are based on residents groups in wealthier areas; they operate vehicle patrols with the cooperation of the police and private security firms. Elsewhere city residents have formed nonprofit companies and hire police reservists for armed foot patrols. Others are based on city businesses such as a block in a city center, protected and patrolled by security guards. Still others are based on farms, which cooperate with each other to engage security firms to patrol their land. Trade associations (e.g., taxis) and markets associations are commonly run by an elected committee that is recognized by the city council. They act

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to control the conduct of vendors and customers. They arbitrate in conflicts and fine antisocial behavior. More serious matters may lead to the suspension of the driver or trader. State approval does not mean police community good will. There may be so much suspicion or contempt of the state police that the neighborhood watch prefers to patrol alone, for example, as in Kangemi, Nairobi (Ruteere and Pommerolle 2003: 603) or the market traders prefer to be left alone (Baker 2005a; 2005b).

Local Government Security Structures During or immediately after the war when Uganda and Rwanda were at their most fragile, they set up local government security structures. The lowest levels of the hierarchical local government structure are largely autonomous. Though, not strictly speaking, nonstate, these security structures act for the most part independently of the state police and courts. Only when cases are serious or cannot be resolved, is the link with state agencies utilized. No single institution in either country has been as influential on law and order as local administration. They have responsibility for the mobilization of the local community in law and order matters such as the provision of local patrols, the gathering of criminal data, the establishment of bylaws that reflect local needs, resolution and reconciliation mechanisms (individually or in a local court), and punishment for misbehavior (Ugandan local militias were disbanded). It is to the lowest levels of local administration that Ugandans and Rwandans invariably turn first for protection from disorder and crime (often in terms of night patrols) and investigation and resolution of crime (usually in terms of personal or court mediation) (Baker 2005a; 2006). The attraction is that the patrols cover their own area and are free or only cost minimal amounts of money or time; whilst the “courts” provide accessible, speedy resolutions.

Customary Police and Courts The chiefs’ courts, for all their recent demise, are still probably the predominant administrators of justice in rural Africa. Though they operate on the basis of customary law, they typically work within national constitutions and therefore with state police approval. Their traditional functions include preventing the commission of offences, making and enforcing bylaws, holding land in trust for the people of the chiefdom and, using customary law, as well as handling family law, debt repayment, inheritance, and land tenure. The

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courts have a conciliatory character in that they aim to restore peace between members and social order following such matters as petty theft, fights, out-ofwedlock pregnancies, adultery, and civil disputes (Stack 1997;). The chiefs are assisted by what are commonly called Native Authority police, who can make arrests, though more often litigants press the case themselves. Punishment may include compensation to the other party in the dispute, a small fine to the chief, and the payment of costs by the guilty party. Some sentences include corporal punishment. Users of the customary courts and police frequently complain of bias due to local clan relationships and of the victimization of youths by imposing heavy and unjust fines, through intimidation tactics and through arbitrary exactions (Richards 2005: 577–87). There are also concerns of bias on the grounds of gender (Tripp 2004). Chiefs, therefore, cannot be said to uphold everyone’s rights equally. Nevertheless very few countries have abolished chieftaincy (exceptions include Tanzania, Uganda and Sudan).

Justice CBOs Justice Community-Based Organizations (CBOs), sometimes known as restorative justice committees and peace committees, seek to restore and maintain social order. Though they mark a new approach, they reflect the customary justice values of the traditional courts, particularly their emphasis on restoring relationships. They can be the product of CBOs with state backing, international support, or spontaneous phenomena in the community. The former has been the case in southern villages in Sierra Leone (Baker 2005b) and in townships in South Africa. In the latter, peace committees bring together the victim and offender, with their respective supporters, to attempt to negotiate on a consensual basis the resolution of the injustice. Typically they deal with disputes over debt repayment and shack inheritance, but they also cover a whole range, from strictly nonillegal matters, such as noise complaints, infidelity, and insulting language, to serious crimes of domestic violence and rape. Negotiated settlements might include a promise to return stolen goods, to help repair material damage, to repay money owed, or to desist from offending behavior. To give an example, the Bo Peace and Reconciliation Movement (BPRM) in Sierra Leone has twenty local peace monitors who have resolved many conflicts such as family matters, fighting, land cases, and leadership issues, including some long-standing disputes. Their work has reduced community conflict and litigation in the local courts (Baker 2005b). Restorative justice committees are popular where customary values prevail, but customary structures are absent or have been discredited.

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Accountability Mechanisms One of the most frequently used arguments against even considering nonstate policing as part of the security sector reform is the accusation that they are unaccountable or that at best, in the case of commercial security, are only accountable to their paying clients. Along with this criticism goes the undeclared assumption that the state police are more widely accountable in principle as well as practice. I would argue that the evidence concerning both state and nonstate policing is a little more complicated. Indeed, in terms of the current emphasis on “local ownership,” the closest approximation of that undefined concept may actually be found amongst local nonstate community-policing structures. When “the right and the capacity to make decisions, to adjudicate, to govern, and even to kill and punish” is “distributed between a range of authorities and institutions” (Hansen, referring to India, 2005: 191), accountability is a priority. Different mechanisms and practices have developed in different contexts to curtail excessive use of force and to ensure some level of accountability of security providers to their users. Accountability broadly involves being open as regards policies, decisions and operations; providing information willingly; explaining and justifying actions; responding to public concerns and complaints; investigating (or allowing others to investigate) alleged abuses and publishing the findings; accepting imposed sanctions for illegal conduct; allowing a right to redress for abuses committed; and showing responsibility for the impact of actions on individuals’ safety, security, privacy and livelihoods. Accountability is, primarily, about holding values concerning how the relationship is to be conducted between policing agencies and those policed (Goetz and Jenkins 2005). Only secondarily does accountability mean the institution of structures and processes to facilitate this. Such structures and processes normally operate as a network of institutions, with each node working in different ways with different foci. Prominent are the political, administrative and judicial institutions of the state, such as government and parliament (i.e., political accountability—holding policing accountable to the will of the people through their elected representatives); the constitution, legislation and the courts (i.e., legal accountability—protecting human rights and controlling the powers of state and commercial police agencies); and state appointed external oversight mechanisms (Ombudsmen, Complaints Bodies, Human Rights Commissions). All these state institutions focus on ensuring conformity to state law and policy (Berg 2005). Beyond the state, local community institutions demand accountability. These include community groups, local customary/religious leaders, users of the agencies, nongovernment organizations (NGOs) and the media. This

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direct public accountability is as much concerned with effectiveness and transparency as legality. There are also internal mechanisms within the police agencies themselves, such as internal disciplinary measures and security sector professional bodies. These are looking at conformity to codes of conduct. Finally there are the market mechanisms that act to ensure that agencies perform according to the desires of their clients, supporters, and patrons. All these institutions will, in different permutations and to different degrees, hold police authorizers and providers accountable for their actions. Below, the accountability considerations of four different types of policing groups are presented.

Commercial Security Formal commercial security is a broad sector, from multinational companies to local businesses of a few static guards (Abrahamsen and Williams 2005a; 2005b). Yet they all, to varying degrees, are accountable both in a legal and in a direct manner, although not in the same way as the state police. Commercial policing (except informal groups), like its state counterpart, is answerable to state law and the judicial system. In most of Africa, legal control primarily relates to company law, such as civil liability, labor and employment law, and contractual liability. Apart from South Africa, few African states have specific legislation concerning commercial security, beyond very elementary licensing. Legal accountability is strengthened to a degree through licensing systems supervised by the police. In practice this means inspecting the firm’s armory and the suitability of its guards. Though the law usually requires criminal vetting of guards and their appropriate training in the use of firearms, the regulations are broad enough to allow wide discretion (and therefore corruption). Self-regulating mechanisms through professional associations setting identifiable standards are rare, whilst internal mechanisms within the firms are usually basic, despite the frequent reports of collusion between security guards and criminal elements. Direct accountability to clients is the prime issue for commercial security. Rapid growth and competition has made quality of service a key issue. Yet it also means that the industry’s primary commitment is to customers rather than to citizens. By the measure of direct accountability, however, most international organizations, larger commercial businesses, NGOs, and the wealthier residential customers are satisfied with the commercial provision. Overall, the commercial security companies, which have personnel approximating state police numbers, are largely unregulated and unsupervised and only weakly accountable.

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State-Approved Civil Guarding Work-based associations are an important element of state-approved civil guarding. Many of the economic activities in Africa, such as taxi driving and market trading, have a work association that, inter alia, acts to control and regulate the conduct of members, customers, and those in the vicinity of their trading. The associations are usually recognized by city councils and are therefore, loosely, accountable to them. But on a day-to-day basis the elected committees of these associations are primarily accountable to members and the whole organization is, in a nonspecific sense, directly accountable to the public who use the services. Given the elected nature of the market committees and their approximate gender balance, it could be said that this form of policing is sensitive to the needs and ideals of those policed by it. Committees are certainly subject to removal for failure to fulfill members’ expectations. Further, if they were not effective in providing a measure of security and dispute resolution, their markets might well be avoided by the general public. But questions remain concerning whether their “courts” function in an open way and listen to evidence and what redress there is for mistakes. Public vehicle drivers form another well-organized employment group. Commercial vehicle and minibus parking areas in the main towns require policing, and taxi/bus associations commonly undertake this, using marshals. This semi-official role means that their policing role is also accountable to the city council, as the contractors and the state police are work-partners. From the legal perspective these work-based policing agencies are, for the most part, unregulated, unsupervised and, at least in the area of punishment lashings, illegal. Yet these elected local policing agencies are not without accountability: The elections of their officials are free; their activities including their courts are mainly conducted in the open and are subject to public approval (or disapproval); and it would be hard for the associations to protect members from prosecution if there was a complaint. Citizen crime prevention groups are another element of state-approved civil guarding. Given the limitations of size and skills of state police forces, governments are seeking to mobilize citizens to play a role in keeping law and order and in implementing anticrime strategies. Citizen-led crime prevention groups have been introduced, despite an initial resistance from the state police to the idea of empowering the people in the field of their own expertise and of exposing police corruption. The police tend to assume that the crime-prevention groups are accountable to them, although the groups’ autonomy and elected local leadership purports to make them first and foremost accountable to the members and to the local community in whose name they act (though “community” is interpreted in South Africa as

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“ANC-affiliated” local organization, [Buur 2005]). Too often just how these groups are accountable to the community is unclear. Further, the methods by which they discover local needs or report back to them are uncertain. Customary Structures Customary courts and their police have been abolished in some countries for the very reason that they were unaccountable and politicized, for example, in Uganda 1986. Elsewhere they are struggling as their authority is crumbling. Many chiefs in Sierra Leone had their authority undermined by their failure to protect the people during the civil war (Baker 2005b). Customary courts are open, so in one sense the public are aware of how decisions are reached. Yet rarely there is transparency in decision making by the council of elders and chiefs. It could be said that the chiefs and their policing systems are accountable to those who live in the chiefdom, when they are elected, not appointed, as in Sierra Leone. However, the lines of accountability to the public are tenuous. Those eligible to stand in Sierra Leone must be from the “ruling houses” and they are elected for life by chiefdom councilors who are in turn elected by the people. Despite complaints of bias against women and youths and in favor of relatives, it is nearly impossible for aggrieved persons to seek redress. Chiefs are hardly ever prosecuted for miscarriage of justice or illegal activity, because of their allegiance to the ruling party. In effect chiefs are beyond accountability. Informal Anticrime Groups It is normally assumed that informal anticrime groups are completely unaccountable, hence the pejorative term “vigilante” that is commonly applied to them. In fact not all of them are ruthless, lawless, and autonomous. In Sierra Leone, for instance, the more violent young men certainly perpetuate mob justice, but many see themselves as “guardians of security” and are determined to serve the community. In terms of accountability, however, local communities as a whole have little control over the youth and some fear that they do not (or will not) stay within community-approved values and might try to “make a living out of it” (Baker 2005b). The Necessary Context The pressure that citizens can apply to policing authorizers and providers is related to the strength of the institutions available to them. Yet these

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institutions are very often weak due to underfinancing, inexperienced personnel, or threats of repression. Further, the policing agencies themselves— state and nonstate, formal and informal—are reluctant to conduct their business in the open. Like all power-wielding bodies (whether commercial or political or “state security”), they have much to conceal, whether it is inappropriate influence on political decisions, or illegal conduct, or sensitive information. Further, regular disclosure of information to the public requires expensive systems of data gathering and publication. When conscious of their lack of knowledge and advocacy skills or simply intimidated by agency leaders, the public may be disinclined to press for greater accountability. The desirable complex web of constitutional and social practices through which one section of power holders examines the other and the public examine the whole and one another, presumes in fact, a quite specific political and social context. First, it necessitates a public demand that everyone, but particularly power holders, be held to account; second, a willingness by everyone, including power holders, to be held to account; third, constitutional powers to affect that accountability; fourth, freedom to use those powers effectively; and fifth, the necessary abilities to make use of those powers. Bringing African policing within the field of those called to account will make little difference without extending the means to uphold that accountability. Hybrid and Alternative Policing Models Given the current preoccupation with building state institutions, it may seem an unlikely scenario to broaden the scope of security sector reform beyond reform of the state police, but there are already examples where nonstate policing has been successfully utilized by the state in circumstances where state policing is not being provided. Such hybrid and alternative policing models of everyday security provision may not be widespread, but it demonstrates that the very idea is not unworkable. Five models are considered that, at the community level, utilize activists: work associations; justice CBOs; local administrative structures; and those in the human security sector. All demonstrate the important role of nonstate policing agencies in facilitating the resolution of a range of disputes outside the formal justice system of the state police and courts. Local Activists/Concerned Citizens Many policy makers argue for a policy of cooperation between state and nonstate policing. This often takes the form of “community policing” and “sector policing” that will “bring the police closer to the people.” It is part

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of a responsibilization agenda, by which governments seek to harness civil and private activities so as to meet public interest objectives. Police forces are increasingly encouraging the formation of local associations of citizens to be active partners with them in crime prevention and detection. Such citizen structures have four objectives: First, mobilization: to enroll the public as the unpaid informers and surveillance personnel of the state police. Second, improved trust: to remove the legacy of suspicion of the police. Third, consultation: to bring together the police and communities to agree on the security needs and solutions. Fourth, monitoring: to engage communities in the monitoring of police effectiveness, efficiency, and human rights conduct. Promoted by donors in the last ten years, this model has been popular throughout Africa (Wood 2000). In Uganda, the Crime Prevention Panels have focused on education in the law and on crime prevention. They consist of local residents trained in crime prevention. Being empowered in terms of knowing what the law required, the local panels have reported cases of unlawful activity and have made recommendations for curbing crime (Baker 2005a). In one district in Kampala, a panel singled out distinct employment groups and brought them together in associations. They included milk sellers, timber merchants, motorcycle taxis, disco and video halls, teachers, probation officers, special hire companies, bars and brothels, and religious leaders. In the process of meeting with these groups, patterns of crime that particularly affected each one were identified. Complaints by the public about any member’s activities were directed to these associations, whilst members attended the crime preventers course. Because establishing community-policing panels is seen by governments as a policy measure to enhance the state police, the panels remain “police property” (Reiner 2000), that is, a police-led and state-centered initiative against crime and disorder. The police, as the security experts and bearers of public interest concerns, prefer to retain control of operational decisions. This has led to frustrations on both sides. Citizens expect to be included in community policing and to have some control over the setting of local security priorities. For their part, the police forces have found the panels too time-consuming and too threatening to their management and operational independence (Shaw 2002). In the Western Cape of South Africa “60 per cent of the Crime Prevention Panels . . . were not engaged in problem identification or prioritisation; and 65 per cent were not engaged in problemsolving” (Altbeker 2001: 3). More fundamentally, the very concept of “community” implies shared beliefs and values; direct, many-sided relationships between members; and reciprocity. In practice, however, they are frequently divided and fragmented societies. The assumption, therefore, that shared values can be used

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to regulate individual activities for the common good, may be unrealistic. In addition, there are issues as to whether all communities have the social capital to effectively undertake informal control in the way anticipated by policing panels. Yet despite these weaknesses, it seems clear that where communities have been given knowledge, skills, and responsibility, there has been a genuine community support and effective policing (Baker 2005a). Customary Security Structures Poor countries are not in a strong position to expand the reach of the state legal system and therefore the use of customary structures, which are so widely used in much of rural Africa, can be an alternative. Some argue for reforming rather than abolishing or marginalizing them. Problems of bias and discrimination can be tackled by training chiefs in due process and human rights, as has been done in Malawi. “One entry point is where there is already recognition of the need for change by the very people who are the ‘caretakers’ of the institutions. Experience has shown, however, that some changes (for example, to permit gender equity) are less likely to be approved from within the system” (Nyamu-Musembi 2003). An alternative to education is to make customary policing part of the lowest level of the formal state courts with very limited jurisdictions. However, harmonization between customary justice and state justice is complicated by the diversity of practice within customary law. If they are incorporated into the justice hierarchy, it has to be decided whether appeals from customary courts go to the state courts. Lesotho, for example, has a separate hierarchy of courts for customary law and another for “Western law.” Work Associations Some countries choose to allow work associations to be the de facto managing and policing authority of their workplaces. Thus the Motor Drivers and General Transport Workers Association of Sierra Leone check owner particulars, including driving license and insurance; use car park attendants to oversee loading; mediate between conflict between drivers and customers; punish dangerous driving by members (“we give them lashes”) and take traffic offenders to the police. In Uganda, however, they have developed the relationship between the state and the drivers union on a more regularized basis. The taxi drivers operate a contract with the Kampala City Council to run the taxi parks. Their traffic warden department is 100-“officer” strong and, working with the Uganda Police, has responsibility for enforcing traffic

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regulations by taxi drivers and in directing traffic in rush-hour congestion. The department also provides help for children’s crossings. Further, a Law Enforcement Department, trained by the police, arrests thieves and other criminals operating in the taxi park (Baker 2005a). Though elsewhere taxi drivers are noted for lawlessness and competitive violence (on taxi wars in Nairobi and South Africa, see Bruce and Kommane 1999; Dugard 2001), Uganda has shown that the state can tap into the self-interest of a well-organized work association and can supplement its own capabilities with minimum loss of standards. The partnership apparently works in the interests of both and has removed a previous long-standing feud. Justice CBOs Another potential area to promote is those NGOs and CBOs involved in the justice sector. They are found adopting community-policing initiatives that promote public discourse on security threats such as organizing civic education programs, raising knowledge of security issues by distributing materials, and obtaining financial support from business for crime prevention work with youth. They are also noted for their access to justice and restorative justice programs. This is a policing system that is effective, accessible, and cheap. Yet because of the popular preference for peace monitors over formal courts in Sierra Leone, one of their negative impacts is that the district administration has been unable to generate revenue, and so there is a growing official resentment. In countries which maintain customary courts and policing, there is therefore a potential for conflict through competition. Local Government Security Structures The local government structures introduced in Uganda and Rwanda during or immediately after the wars when they were fragile states have provided ever since a very effective policing agency, namely surveillance, patrols and, “courts.” This activity greatly relieves the public police and criminal justice system as a whole of a large number of cases and is not financially burdensome to the state. It is accessible to all urban and rural inhabitants and for a large proportion of cases is effective in resolving the disputes, investigating cases, and even implementing appropriate punishment. It also, of course, provides a rich source of intelligence for the police and other security agencies. With a popular and accessible law and order provision, there is little space left for illegal policing or mobs to emerge.

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The central strengths of the lower levels of the local government security structures are that they are driven by civic responsibility and a desire to rebuild a shattered nation. The voluntary commitment of those involved in terms of time and effort is commendable. But it is also a potential weakness. For how long can the spirit of voluntarism be sustained? The problem is already apparent in the struggle some local leaders have in getting men out on night patrol when there appear to be no obvious security problems in the area. There are also problems with local leaders acting illegally or corruptly, though the illegality is often due to ignorance of the law, for example, that “marriage” to and sex with an under-eighteen is “defilement.” The problems could also be handing out sentences that are beyond their powers, such as corporal punishment and banishment from the village; or exceeding their authority by hearing criminal cases. It is suggested that the courts are also vulnerable to bribery and male chauvinism. Utilizing local knowledge, skills, and motivation through a local administration structure, Uganda and Rwanda have provided, at little cost, a popular, legal, and effective policing structure that reaches to every African village and urban zone, where so often policing is absent.

Security Development Forums Development is clearly hindered if poor households lack a context of safety and have to use their limited disposable income for crime prevention and investigation. Hence the growing case for addressing law and order holistically and not merely as a policing issue. Recognition of the need to integrate policing with development programs and of the fact that policing is usually plural has led to programs designed to harness the resources of all those engaged in policing in its widest sense. Forums have brought together every local community organization, international NGO and government agency concerned with improving the quality of life in the community. Together they have developed a community safety plan, shared resources, and created channels for referral to one another’s services. Once a need is identified, options can be sought that are both state and nonstate, or joint projects. Brogden and Shearing speak of it as “dual policing” (1993). The dual model envisages that the state police would bear primary responsibility for enforcement, while the problemorientated (community) policing would be provided by the state police in conjunction with commercial, municipal, and voluntary elements. Overall responsibility for coordination and integration of policing networks would lie with the local government. Since 2002, for instance, in South Africa, all

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justice system structures, all relevant local government structures, education representatives, and community-based organizations meet monthly as so-called Community Safety Forums to identify problems and generate solutions (Schärf 2003). Another initiative seeking community security integration is The Safer Cities Programme, launched in 1996. It has been implemented in Abidjan, Antananarivo, Dakar, Dar es Salaam, Durban, Johannesburg, Nairobi, and Yaoundé. It seeks to create awareness, sensitize communities, and build local capacity in urban safety in partnership with other stakeholders. NGOs and CBOs at community levels have drawn up proposals with neighborhood leaders for job creation as a means of tackling the root causes of crime, as well as for organizing communities to promote urban safety. As Kisia observes, the Safer Cities approach and other security forums require “radical institutional reform, partnership, a major shift in attitude among civic leadership and genuine and broad-based participation in decision-making, which enhances citizenship and inclusion” (2004: 13). Yet when he examined Johannesburg and Nairobi, it was this that he found to be missing. Though holistic programs offer enormous potential, the logistics of joined-up-governance are difficult to initiate and to sustain against a background of individual fiefdoms, rivalry, suspicion, and overstretched resources.

Policy Issues The examination of nonstate policing and its various roles in standing in for the state police or working with them, challenges us to review security sector policy. At the very least they raise the question of whether a policy of partnership between state police and certain nonstate police can be used to extend national order and security. Such a policy would utilize local energies, knowledge, skills, and legitimacy. Of course, partnership necessitates answering the question, “With whom?” One would expect that the state would require potential partners to meet state-defined minimum standards or at least have the potential to achieve them. Partners chosen could be required to undergo training, and cooperation protocols with the police could be written on the basis of whether the desired relationship was one of cooperation, incorporation, or co-optation. Different programs will have different preferences, but each would have to ensure that the relationship was not so tight as to stifle the local initiative that it is trying to harness. A second area for security sector reform to review, in the light of the evidence about nonstate policing, is regulation. Currently, few African countries

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have specific legislation to control nonstate policing outside the commercial security sector and even that is very minimal. This leaves nonstate policing mainly illegal by definition. Certainly those nonstate policing systems not prepared to work within the law should be proscribed and their continued activity prosecuted. Those who are willing to work within the law need improved accountability mechanisms and choices of regulatory devices must be made by sector associations between statutory legislation, licensing, ombudsmen, local oversight mechanisms, state-initiated codes of conduct, and self-regulation. Yet new regulatory frameworks bring new practical problems. If they entail additional responsibilities, the police may well be reluctant to undertake the bureaucratic processes. And there may be problems of law enforcement when there is lack of political will on the part of those who have a personal interest in weak law enforcement or when a public hold an instrumental attitude to lawless law enforcement. The alternative to more regulation is, of course, deregulation, giving the major role of policing communities to communities. Within the overarching principles of the constitution, the local community could determine what acceptable conduct is. Or less radically, policing could be opened up to autonomous nonstate providers whose services would be coordinated with—but not subordinated to—those provided by state police. Most states are likely to shy away from any loss of control from the center beyond decentralized policing to the provincial state or lowest levels of local government. Experience suggests that where there is a serious commitment to using local and untrained people, decentralization can be effective. But where such programs look for local professional staff or the relocation of existing staff, they may well fail for lack of suitable personnel. All policy makers will be aware that new regulatory and restructuring programs cannot by themselves achieve significant results, while underlying dissatisfaction with crime prevention and crime investigation goes unaddressed. Controlling nonstate policing necessitates tackling some of the underlying issues that precipitate the need for alternatives to the state police. An obvious starting point is state police corruption. The problem has long been identified, but establishing effective mechanisms for investigating and punishing state police abuse, such as independent police complaints boards or ombudsmen, has proved very difficult. Then there is a moribund justice system. Formal legal institutions are perceived to fail for reasons of inefficiency, inaction, lack of resources, inadequate training, corruption, and complicity with criminals. Finally there is the overlooked issue of insurance cover. The lack of insurance means there is no compensation for loss and therefore makes the police procedures seem irrelevant and the nonstate policing attractive with its promise of the return of goods. This situation demands some creative policy making.

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One positive development within security policy has been the growing recognition that policing is intimately connected with poverty eradication. Security is now being seen as an aspect of human dignity and human rights, and programs are being designed to harness the resources of a wider group than just that of the police. Nevertheless it will be important to monitor the extent to which nonstate actors are involved in this integration. Running through all these particular security policy issues is the overriding need for an overarching and coherent national strategy of law and order that integrates, regulates, mobilizes, and empowers all those willing to preserve law and order in a nationwide acceptable manner. One thing is certain, whether African governments take account of plural policing and seize the initiative to maximize its advantages and minimize its hazards, or whether they ignore it, it will continue to play a significant part in the social, economic, and political development of their countries. Whether there is government action or inaction, it will also have wide-scale repercussions on the lives of ordinary Africans. Security of person may be a basic human right, but for millions it is something they must attempt to secure against all odds and with or without the assistance of their governments. Their degree of success in negotiating a measure of security for person and property from the array of security providers on offer, will determine in large measure their quality of life. Bibliography Abrahamsen, Rita and Michael C Williams (2005a). The Globalisation of Private Security: Country Reports on Kenya. Aberystwyth: The University of Wales. ——— (2005b). The Globalisation of Private Security: Country reports on Nigeria. Aberystwyth: The University of Wales. Altbeker, Anthony (2001). Who Are We Burying? The Death of a Soweto Gangster, in Johnny Steinberg (ed.). Crime Wave: The South African Underworld and Its Foes. Johannesburg: Witwatersrand University Press. Amnesty International (2002). Southern Africa: Policing to Protect Human Rights: A Survey of Police Practices in Countries of the Southern African Development Community, 1997–2002, available at web.amnesty.org/library/index/ ENGAFR030042002 (accessed September 2006). Anderson, David M (2002). Vigilantes, Violence and the Politics of Public Order in Kenya. African Affairs, 101: 531–55. Baker, Bruce (2002a). Living with Nonstate Policing in South Africa: The Issues and Dilemmas. Journal of Modern African Studies, 40 (1): 29–53. ——— (2002b). When the Bakassi Boys Came: Eastern Nigeria Confronts Vigilantism. Journal of Contemporary African Studies, 20 (2): 1–22. ——— (2003). Policing and the Rule of Law in Mozambique. Policing and Society, 13 (2): 139–58.

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——— (2004). Protection from Crime: What Is on Offer for Africans? Journal of Contemporary African Studies, 22 (2): 165–88. ——— (2005a). Multi-choice Policing in Uganda. Policing and Society, 15 (1): 19–41. ——— (2005b). Who Do People Turn to for Policing in Sierra Leone? Journal of Contemporary African Studies, 23 (3): 371–90. ——— (2006). Beyond the State Police in Urban Uganda and Sierra Leone. Afrikaspectrum, 41 (1): 55–76. Bassett, Thomas J (2003). Dangerous Pursuits: Hunter Associations (donzo ton) and National Politics in Côte d’Ivoire. Africa, 73 (1): 1–30. Bayley, David H and Clifford D Shearing (2001). The New Structure of Policing: Description, Conceptualization and Research Agenda. Washington, DC: U.S. Department of Justice, Office of Justice Programs, National Institute of Justice. Berg, Julie (2005). Police Accountability in Southern African Commonwealth Countries. Cape Town: Institute of Criminology, University of Cape Town. Birkeland, Nina M and Alberta Uimbo Gomes (2001). Angola: Displaced in the Province of Huambo, in Marc Vincent and Birgitte R Soerensen (eds.). Caught Between Borders: Response Strategies of the Internally Displaced. London: Pluto Press: 33–41. Brogden, Mike (2004). Commentary: Community Policing: A Panacea from the West. African Affairs, 103 (413): 635–49. Brogden, Mike and Clifford Shearing (1993). Policing for a New South Africa. London: Routledge. Bruce, David. and Joe Komane (1999). Taxis, Cops and Vigilantes: Police Attitudes Towards Street Justice. Crime and Conflict, 17: 39–44. Buur, Lars (2003). Crime and Punishment on the Margins of the Post-Apartheid State. Anthropology and Humanism, 28 (1): 23–42. ——— (2005). Sovereignty and Democratic Exclusion in the New South Africa. Review of African Political Economy, 104 (5): 253–68. Carstens, Peter (2001). In the Company of Diamonds: De Beers, Kleinzee, and the Control of a Town. Athens, Ohio: Ohio University Press. Dugard, Jackie (2001). From Low Intensity War to Mafia War: Taxi Violence in South Africa (1987–2000). Violence and Transition Series, vol. 4. Johannesburg: Centre for the Study of Violence and Reconciliation. Farah, Ahmed Y and Joan M Lewis (1993). Roots of Reconciliation—Local Level Peace Process in Somaliland. London: ACTIONAID. Goetz, Anne-Marie and Rob Jenkins (2005). Reinventing Accountability: Making Democracy Work for Human Development. Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan. Goldsmith, Andrew (2003). Policing Weak States: Citizen Safety and State Responsibility. Policing and Society, 13: 1, 3–21. Hansen, Thomas B (2005). Sovereigns beyond the State: On Legality and Authority in Urban India, in Thomas B Hansen and Finn Stepputat (eds.). Sovereign Bodies: Citizens, Migrants and States in the Postcolonial World. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Heald, Suzette (2003). Domesticating Leviathan: Sungusungu Groups in Tanzania. Research article, Crisis States Programme, available at www.dfid.gov.uk (accessed September 2006).

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Human Rights Committee (2001). Popular Justice. HRC Quarterly Review, January. Human Rights Watch/CLEEN (2002). The Bakassi Boys: The Legitimization of Murder and Torture, 14 (5): (A). Human Rights Watch (2003). Nigeria: The O’odua People’s Congress: Fighting Violence With Violence, 15 (4): (A). Johnston, Les (1992). The Rebirth of Private Policing. London: Routledge. Johnston, L and C Shearing (2003). Governing Security: Explorations in Policing and Justice. London: Routledge. Kisia, Philip A (2004). Promoting Peace, Safety and Security: The Role of Communities And Local Governments. Article prepared for Africa Local Government Action Forum, available at www.worldbank.org/wbi/publicfinance/documents/ALGAF/ KISIA.pdf (accessed September 2006). Lund, Christian (2001). Precarious Democratization and Local Dynamics in Niger. Development and Change, 32 (5): 845–69. Nina, Daniel (2001). Dirty Harry is Back: Vigilantism in South Africa—The (Re)emergence of “Good” and “Bad” Community, available at www.iss.co.za (accessed September 2006). Nolte, Insa (2004). Identity and Violence: The Politics of Youth in Ijebu-Remo, Nigeria. Journal of Modern African Affairs, 42 (1): 61–89. Nyamu-Musembi, Celestine (2003). Review of Experience in Engaging with “NonState” Justice Systems in East Africa. Commissioned by Governance Division, DfID (UK), Institute of Development Studies, Sussex University, available at http://www.ids.ac.uk/ids/law/pdfs/eanyamu.pdf Peters, Rudolph (2001). The Reintroduction of Islamic Criminal Law in Northern Nigeria: A Study Conducted on Behalf of the European Commission, available at http://europa.eu.int/comm/europeaid/projects/eidhr/pdf/islamic-criminallaw-nigeria_en.pdf (accessed September 2006). Phiri, Kings M (2000). A Case of Revolutionary Change in Contemporary Malawi: The Malawi Army and the Disarming of the Malawi Young Pioneers. Journal of Peace, Conflict and Military Studies, 1 (1): 41–50. Reiner, Robert (2000). The Politics of the Police. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Richards, Paul (2005). To Fight or to Farm? Agrarian Dimensions of the Mano River Conflicts (Liberia and Sierra Leone). African Affairs, 104 (417): 571–90. Roche, D. (2002). Restorative Justice and the Regulatory State in South African Townships. British Journal of Criminology, 42: 514–33. Ruteere, Mutuma and Marie-Emmanuelle Pommerolle (2003). Democratizing Security or Decentralizing Repression? The Ambiguities of Community Policing in Kenya. African Affairs, 102: 587–604. Salamone, Frank (1998). The Waziri and the Thief. Hausa Islamic Law in a Yoruba City: A Case Study from Ibadan, Nigeria. Journal of Legal Pluralism, 42: 139–156. Schärf, Wilfried (2000). Community Justice and Community Policing in Post-Apartheid South Africa: How Appropriate are the Justice Systems of Africa? Article presented at the International Workshop on the Rule of Law and Development: Citizen Security, Rights and Life Choices in Law and Middle Income Countries Institute for Development Studies, University of Sussex, June 1–3 2000, available at www.ids.ac. uk/ids/govern/accjust/pdfs/scharf%20article.pdf (accessed September 2006).

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——— (2003). Nonstate Justice Systems in Southern Africa: How Should Governments Respond? Available at www.ids.ac.uk/ids/law/pdfs/scharf.pdf (accessed September 2006). Shaw, M. (2002). Crime and Policing in Post-Apartheid South Africa: Transforming under Fire. London: Hurst. Shearing, Clifford and Jennifer Wood (2003). Governing Security for Common Goods. International Journal of the Sociology of Law, 31: 3, 205–25. Stack, Louise (1997). Courting Disaster? Justice and South Africa’s New Democracy. Johannesburg: Centre for Policy Studies. Tripp, Ali M (2004). Women’s Movements, Customary Law and Land Rights in Africa: The Case of Uganda. African Studies Quarterly, www.africa.ufl.edu/asq/v7/ (accessed September 2006). Vaux, Tony (2003). European Aid Agencies and Their Use of Private Security Companies. Available at www.international-alert.org (accessed September 2006). von Schnitzler, Antina, Goodwil Ditlhage, Lazarus Kgalema, Traggy Maepa, Tlhoki Mofokeng, and Piers Pigou (2001). Guardian or Gangster? Mapogo a Mathamaga: A Case Study. Violence and Transition Series, 3, available at http://www.csvr.org.za/ articles/papvtp3.htm (accessed September 2006). Wood, Brian (2000). Malawi Security Sector Reform Pilot Project Report: September 1999–August 2000, available at www.nisat.org/security%20sector/ August_Project_report.htm (accessed September 2006).

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Part III

Reforming Security Forces

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7

Security Sector Reform in Afghanistan: An Instrument of the State-Building Project Mark Sedra

Introduction The process to create a viable and effective security sector conforming to international standards is at the forefront of Afghanistan’s state-building project. Known as security sector reform (SSR), the process is viewed as the foundation on which progress in all other facets of the reconstruction effort is dependent. The SSR concept has been well developed in the policy think tanks and donor agencies of the West, but inadequate consideration has been given to reform contexts, none as complex as Afghanistan. The SSR model tends to eschew traditional security structures and mechanisms as anachronistic and uncongenial to international norms and best practices for security sector operation. However, in the Afghan context it has been those traditional security mechanisms in the form of customary law and militia systems that have remained intact, while modern formal structures nurtured through external assistance have struggled to take form and acquire legitimacy. It is this problematic relationship between the informal and the formal or the modern and the traditional that has undercut efforts to transform the Afghan security sector. This challenge is hardly novel in Afghanistan, historically a highly decentralized polity where the state has labored to assert control over the tribal periphery. The creation of a robust centralized army has perennially served as the primary instrument of Afghanistan’s state builders to construct sovereignty and advance their modernization agenda. A causal relationship can

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be drawn between the failure of this endeavor to consolidate a viable army, which can be conceptualized as the forerunner of the SSR process, and the intermittent breakdown of state order over the past 150 years. The current SSR process represents the fourth attempt during that span to re-create the Afghan security architecture, with the failure of the previous three opening the door for state collapse and a resumption of internecine conflict (Jalali 2002: 72). The outcome of the SSR process in Afghanistan will be contingent on its ability to reconcile existing informal mechanisms and centrifugal sociopolitical dynamics with the formal structures and centripetal orientation of the SSR model. Consistent with previous watersheds in Afghanistan’s state-building experience, the current SSR process has failed to achieve this level of hybridization, tending to view the traditionalism-modernity duality in rigid absolutist terms. The resultant stunting of the process can also be attributed to innate flaws in the SSR model as it is applied in postconflict settings, exemplified by its difficulties in advancing institutional reforms amidst high levels of residual insecurity, in achieving the requisite consensus on the process among disparate and fractured internal and external stakeholders, and in ensuring the necessary timing and sequencing of reforms. This chapter is divided into three sections. The first surveys the history of the Afghan state-building project, with a focus on the position of the armed forces at its various stages. Section two maps the contemporary security sector in Afghanistan, charting progress made by internationally supported reforms. It will also study the relationship between formal and informal security structures and explore avenues in which the two can be amalgamated. The final section provides a critical analysis of the state of the SSR process, identifying lessons for the application of the SSR model, and indeed the wider state-building project, in post-conflict environments.

The Afghan State in Historical Context The Afghan state can be traced back to 1747 when Ahmad Shah Durrani, an Afghan tribal chief, exploited a power vacuum created by the weakening of the dynastic empires in Iran and India to unify the fractious Pashtun tribes and form an empire (Rubin 1988; Cramer and Goodhand 2002). However, it was not until the advent of Amir Abdur Rahman Khan in the late nineteenth century that the modern Afghan state began to take form. Abdur Rahman took power after the Second Anglo-Afghan War (1878–80), which ended in a partial victory for the Afghans. In an agreement with the British in 1879, the Treaty of Gandamak, signed one year before Abdur Rahman was

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recognized as the Amir, Afghanistan ceded control of its foreign policy to Britain and relinquished territory on its frontier with India in exchange for an annual British subsidy and a pledge of assistance in the event of external aggression. This treaty, along with the demarcation in 1893 of the Durand line, marked the emergence of the Afghan buffer state separating Britishcontrolled India and Tsarist Russia. As Rubin states, “[T]he incorporation of Afghanistan into the world system as an isolated buffer state accounted for the persistent traditionalism of its society, which was transformed by neither the capitalist market nor a colonial state” (Rubin 1998: 1193). Abdur Rahman used the subsidies granted by the British to subdue domestic opposition and assure his autonomy within the borders of the country. Whereas the Durrani rulers primarily relied on tribal levies (lashkars) to enforce their authority, Abdur Rahman endeavored to create a modern centralized army (Maley 1987). Although Amir Sher Ali Khan (1863–78) is widely credited for founding the modern Afghan army, it was only under Abdur Rahman that it would become a viable and effective institution (Jalali 2002: 76). Among the steps that he took to mould the force into a pillar of the state was the introduction of a partial system of conscription. The hasht nafari or “eight person” system required one of every eight Afghan men of a particular district or tribal area to serve in the military (Jalali 2002: 74). However, the state remained reliant on traditional leaders to make the system work, giving village and tribal leaders, authority over selecting those who would fill state quotas (Rubin 1988: 1194). Just as Abdur Rahman sought to assert his independence from the tribes through the formation of a standing army, he became dependent on them for its maintenance. As Harpviken (1997: 275) states,“Abdur Rahman was able to exploit existing, or ‘traditional,’ organization in the service of the modernizing state.” Following Abdur Rahman’s death in 1901, his immediate successors worked assiduously to build upon his legacy, further expanding the state’s power and authority. By the 1920s, however, the state-building process would falter, due in part, to Amir Amanullah’s neglect of the army. Relying on Turkish advisors, Amanullah zealously endeavored to end the state’s dependence on tribal leaders in conscription, replacing them with a lottery system that drew upon all citizens that were issued identity cards under a separate government reform program. This measure stimulated a chain reaction of riots and rebellions among tribal groups. A demoralized, underpaid, and inadequately equipped central army performed poorly in every encounter, forcing the state to rely predominantly on the tribal levies to put them down. The army had been in disarray due to three factors: First, salaries and benefits were cut substantially due to government shortfalls in funds generated by the withdrawal of British subsidies. Second, the size of the army was

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reduced significantly in an effort to create a leaner and more efficient force. Force levels were cut to 11,000 troops from a high watermark of 90,000 at the time of Abdur Rahman’s death (Jalali 2002: 77, 86). Finally, resistance emerged from the officer corps, which was divided along tribal lines and heavily influenced by religious leaders (Rubin 1988). By 1928, Amanullah’s regime, galvanized by local and religious elite, collapsed under the weight of increasing public opposition to his modernization agenda. The Musahiban family dynasty, inaugurated in 1929, shared the modernizing mission of Abdur Rahman. They used foreign grants to reestablish the army while also reinstating the hasht nafari, restoring the tribe’s indispensable position in recruiting, and sustaining the force. They recognized the limitations of a state-imposed societal transformation and sought to enact a compromise with traditional forces in Afghan society. The state effectively retreated into the center—Kabul and other urban hubs—confining the modernization and state-building project to a small enclave of the country. Although this enclave state or “mini-state” exercised nominal authority over the periphery, it was insulated from rural tribal society (Rubin 1988: 1200–8). Traditional notables served as intermediaries or nodal points connecting the center with the periphery. In light of the enclave state’s limited sovereignty over its national territory, it became increasingly dependent on external subsidies to function, thus reinforcing a “rentier mentality” (Beblawi 1990: 88). From 1957 until the fall of the Najibullah regime in 1992, more than 40 percent of state revenue emanated from external sources (Rubin 1992: 78). The equilibrium and concomitant social peace established through the compromise between modernizing and traditional forces under the Musahiban monarchy began to unravel in 1973 when President Daoud seized power in a coup, declared a republic, and forced sitting king, Zahir Shah, into exile. Daoud sought to reorder state-society relations in Afghanistan, tipping the balance of power away from the tribes and in favor of the state. With Soviet assistance Daoud modernized the security apparatus, providing the army with new equipment and opening military training facilities and boarding schools to create a new generation of officers. Perhaps most importantly, Daoud, like Amanullah, dispensed with the hasht nafari system and introduced universal conscription, this time with reasonable success. Whilst this was a period of increasing assertiveness of the state in which the tribe’s historical position as an arbiter of power in Afghan society showed signs of weakening, it was also a time of growing political instability. A new cadre of externally supported elite emerged and began to challenge the authority of the state, and in April 1978 pro-Soviet Army officers belonging to the communist People’s Democratic Party of Afghanistan (PDPA) overthrew the Daoud government. The PDPA regime

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subsequently embarked on a massive campaign to transform and modernize rural society, marking the collapse of the compromise between the central state and the rural periphery and the social order it assured. The Five Phases of the Afghan Conflict Atmar and Goodhand (2002) break down the Afghan conflict into five phases: 1979–88: The Anti-Soviet Jihad The Soviet Union intervened in Afghanistan on December 25, 1979, by assassinating Afghan President Hafizullah Amin, who had begun to resist Soviet influence and had showed signs that he might gravitate toward the United States. The intervention, aimed only at removing Amin and installing the pro-Moscow government of Babrak Karmal, was originally limited. However, an antigovernment resistance rapidly materialized with the support of the United States, Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, and other states, which led to the gradual expansion of the Red Army presence in the country. The perennial effort of the Afghan state to pacify rural tribal society and centralize power and authority reached its apex during this period. The size of army was tripled through an extension of the terms of service, with universal conscription for citizens above the age of eighteen introduced in 1981. As with earlier regimes the strengthening of the national army and wider security apparatus became a centerpiece of the state-building project. However, the resilience of the mujahidin factions, coupled with some battlefield failures of the army, prompted the government to revert to previous patterns, mobilizing tribal militias. By the mid-1980s the government had begun to use monetary incentives to secure the support of regional tribal and factional formations. Tribal battalions were organized and armed by the state intelligence organization and the Ministry of Tribes and Nationalities to extend government control over remote areas (Giustozzi 2003). The human and physical costs of the war were enormous, symbolized by massive population displacements and the destruction of the intricate irrigation systems that sustained the rural economy (Suhrke 1990). Traditional power dynamics underwent significant change, with local governance structures and social networks mutating or breaking down in many areas. Commanders associated to the mujahidin parties exploited their wealth, influence, and control of the means of violence accrued through the war to fill the emergent power vacuum, creating a new leadership stratum in the rural social hierarchy (Barakat 2002: 805). The modern phenomenon of warlordism in Afghanistan was born.

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1989–92: Jihad among Afghans Drained and demoralized by the Afghan conflict, the Soviet Union signed the Geneva Accords in 1988 and soon after began to pull out its troops, leaving behind Muhammad Najibullah’s client regime.1 With his army under increased pressure due to the withdrawal of Soviet forces, Najibullah enhanced the regime’s dependence on qawm2 and tribal militias. He brokered new arrangements with militia groups, primarily in the north, to protect key roads, security installations, and economic assets. In parallel to these efforts, Najibullah sought to consolidate the regular army, increasing pay, adjusting the conscription system, improving the training regime, and procuring new equipment. Despite steps to bolster the formal security sector, the heightened status accorded to the militias engendered resentment in the ministries of Defence and Interior, exacerbating latent divisions within the government (Rubin 1995: 155). As in previous periods in the history of the Afghan state, the inability to effectively balance informal and formal mechanisms, juxtaposing state structures with traditional elements, had a corrosive effect on the state. It would be the defection of the largest and most important government-allied militia that would stimulate the Najibullah regime’s fall. When Rashid Dostum and his Uzbek militia switched allegiances from the government to the alliance of mujahidin factions in 1992, the government fell shortly afterwards. 1993–96: Intra-Mujahidin Civil War Not long after entering Kabul in April 1992, the fractious mujahidin alliance would disintegrate, inaugurating a period that has been referred to as the “Lebanisation” of Afghanistan (Roy 1989). The country fragmented along ethnic and political lines with individual commanders carving out minifiefdoms of various sizes across the country. Kabul became the main battleground of an intra-mujahidin civil war, whose frontlines and alliances shifted constantly. The warlords instrumentalized growing ethnic tensions to consolidate their powerbases, making ethnicity the principal determinant of militia mobilization. With superpower interest in the conflict waning, regional powers reasserted themselves, giving the conflict a dual identity, that of a regional proxy war and a civil war. The war increasingly became enmeshed into a broader “regional conflict formation” or “zone of instability” stretching from Moscow to Dubai and encompassing conflicts in Kashmir, Tajikistan, and the Ferghana Valley (Cramer and Goodhand 2002; Rubin and Armstrong 2003). As Cramer and Goodhand (2002: 895) affirm, Afghanistan was transformed from a buffer state into a “‘transmission zone’ with open borders crossed by trade routes.” Just as internal factional

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politics and conflicts assumed an ethnic character, so did regional proxy competition, with regional powers channeling their support to groups with common ethnic or sectarian ties. This phenomenon of “cross-border ethnic clientelism” would become one of the main drivers of the Afghan conflict over the subsequent decade (Saikal 1998: 114). Nowhere were the feudalization of Afghan society and the retardation of the state-building process more apparent than in the Afghan army. The army disintegrated and dissolved into the mujahidin factions with the bulk of the force being absorbed by the Junbesh-i Milli militia led by Rashid Dostum. Jamiat-i Islami, the mujahidin group led by Ahmad Shah Massoud, which integrated numerous units, also became a major beneficiary of the army’s collapse, (Giustozzi 2003). Despite being composed of a large number of professional officers and soldiers, Dostum’s “Army of the North,” numbering up to 120,000 men in 1992, quickly began to assume the characteristics of an irregular militia force (Giustozzi 2004). The discipline and professionalism of the troops faded as former officers of the regular army were gradually relegated to secondary positions. The Afghan security apparatus that had been developed by successive regimes since Abdur Rahman, albeit with intermittent disruptions, had effectively been “re-tribalized” and “de-modernized” (Suhrke 1990; Giustozzi 2004). 1996–2001: The Taliban Regime The Taliban, a movement of religious students educated in the network of madrassas (Islamic seminaries) that straddle the Afghanistan-Pakistan border, emerged on the scene in 1994. Fueled by public discontent with the arbitrary heavy-handedness and impunity of warlord rule, the Taliban achieved a string of military victories culminating in the capture of Kabul in 1996. Pakistani material support was crucial in their rise to power. The success of the Taliban in imposing order during an anarchic period, coupled with its crackdown on, and eventual emasculation of, the country’s warlords, led a significant proportion of the population to initially welcome the movement (Harpviken 1997: 281). Taliban rule seemingly reversed the historical pattern of the state-building project in Afghanistan. Instead of asserting the dominance of the urban center over the rural tribal periphery, it facilitated the capture of the state by the countryside (Cramer and Goodhand 2002: 897). Although the Taliban dispensed with many of the fundamental responsibilities of the state, such as the provision of welfare and social services, it did create a highly centralized security apparatus. The effectiveness of the Taliban in imbuing the state with a monopoly over the use of force was exemplified by its successful implementation of a poppy ban in 2001 and its stringent application of its particularistic interpretation of sharia law. While the

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ideology underpinning the Taliban state-building project diverged substantively from that advanced by previous regimes, there was continuity in its overarching goal, the centralization of power, and authority. In fact, the effectiveness with which the Taliban mobilized tribal solidarity networks enabled it to centralize power to a degree not achieved by its predecessors. 2001–Present: U.S.-Led “Postconflict” Transition The September 11 terrorist attacks paved the way for the U.S. intervention in Afghanistan. The United States, allied with the Northern Alliance to whom they provided vast amounts of cash, succeeded in unseating the Taliban regime by November 2001. An international conference held in Bonn, Germany, in December 2001, selected an interim government led by the moderate Pashtun Hamid Karzai and laid a roadmap for Afghanistan’s political transition. Rather than a classical peace accord, the Bonn Agreement represented an interim power-sharing arrangement among ethnoregional groupings on the “right side” of the war on terror. It delineated a series of milestones or benchmarks, including the Emergency Loya Jirga in 2002, the Constitutional Loya Jirga in 2003, the 2004 presidential elections, and finally, the parliamentary elections in 2005, which would shape the Afghan political system. Although the Bonn process could be characterized as a success in that it met its benchmarks largely on schedule, it failed to fundamentally reshape the political environment or alter the power relations. Warlord manipulation of the political process was consistently tolerated to maintain an intangible balance of power. This accommodationist logic, defining President Karzai’s leadership style, became a dominant theme in post-Taliban Afghanistan. The Bonn Agreement containing only vague provisions on the security sector also failed to meaningfully engage the security sphere. Although the SSR process would become a central plank of the state-building project, it was largely divorced from the political process. Considering the intrinsically political nature of the security sector in Afghanistan or any other postconflict environment, this represented a significant obstacle to reform.

Charting Common Themes in the Evolution of the Afghan Army Jalali (2002) states that since the emergence of the modern state, the military apparatus in Afghanistan could be broken down into three components: the regular army, the tribal levies, and the community militias. At the apex of this hierarchy was the regular army, which was directed and sustained by the central state and served as the centerpiece of its modernization agenda. In the next tier were the tribal levies, which comprised part-time soldiers,

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provided by tribal leaders in exchange for various incentives such as cash, land, or tax breaks. Finally, at the grassroots level was the community militias, who were the local self-defense forces mobilized on an ad hoc basis in response to threats to the tribe or community. Although the state sought to position the regular army as the guarantor of the stability of the government and country, it was the tribal levies that consistently preserved the central state from internal disorder and the community militias that provided security and stability at the local level. Jalali (2002: 73) recognizes that “few of Afghanistan’s armies have successfully monopolized the legitimate use of force. As a result, the country has typically relied on irregular forces to subdue internal threats and popular uprisings to resist external invasions. This can be attributed to a number of common problems that can be detected across the various iterations of the Afghan army. First, the state was never able to effectively foster an esprit de corps or professional ethos in the military to assure its cohesiveness and commitment to the state. Tribal and local loyalties typically took precedence over that of the state, leaving the military fragmented and prone to further fracture. Whilst the military prowess of the Afghans in guerrilla combat is well documented, fostering what Jalali has referred to as a “guerrilla culture,” the Afghans have not been able to operate effectively in large standing formations (Jalali 2002: 74). Second, recruitment posed a persistent problem for the state. The tenuous legitimacy of the central government in the periphery, coupled with its lack of resources to entice Afghans into service, hindered voluntary recruitment. Experiments with conscription were similarly ineffective due to the fierce opposition of tribal groups to any encroachments on their autonomy. Only a partial system of recruitment, the hasht nafari, which relied on the consent and cooperation of tribal leaders, provided a sustainable mechanism to maintain force levels. However, the withdrawal of that consent prompted by any provocation compromised the system. Third, the limited revenue-generating capacity of the state and its resultant reliance on external rents placed severe pressures on the army that accounted for a significant proportion of the government budget. Disruptions in external rent undercut the state’s ability to remunerate, equip, and sustain its army, leading to the deterioration of the discipline and integrity of the force. Last, the army’s role was never clearly defined, creating “a great deal of operational confusion” (Jalali 2002: 82). Was it intended to wage a domestic guerrilla war or a conventional war against an external enemy? The result of this ambiguity was a force that was ill prepared to do either effectively. The themes that emerge from this historical survey of the Afghan statebuilding project and particularly the development of the modern army

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over the past 150 years remain acutely relevant, providing a reference point from which the contemporary process to transform the Afghan security sector can be analyzed and assessed. In many respects the SSR process appears to have been dehistoricized and decontextualized, relying on abstract state-building formulas rather than an understanding of the local sociocultural milieu and historical state-building experience. Anatomy and Reform of the Afghan Security Sector The SSR model, a program of institutional reform intended to modernize the security forces and judicial apparatus while instilling democratic norms and principles, was launched in Afghanistan under the auspices of the Group of Eight (G8) in spring 2002. From its outset, the process faced conditions, including high levels of insecurity and a lack of political will for change at all levels of government, which militated against reform. Nonetheless, the process came to be viewed as a panacea, both as a means for the government to assert a monopoly over the use of force and to extend its sovereignty over the whole national territory, and for the international community to nurture conditions conducive for their eventual withdrawal from the country. This section will deconstruct the security sector, describing its statutory and nonstatutory elements, and will provide an overview of the reforms undertaken from 2001 to 2006. Even a cursory examination of Afghanistan’s security sector shows that it does not conform to the conventional definition underpinning the SSR model. Following the collapse of the Taliban, the country featured a tangled, and at times inchoate, web of security actors, institutions, and practices, with varying degrees of legitimacy, capacity, and sustainability.While the aim of SSR is to rationalize this disordered situation, the Afghan process has, in many respects, exacerbated the problem by transplanting a number of new, formal security structures without adequately addressing the role and position of existing, informal security actors and practices. Formal Structures In the spring of 2002, the G8 convened two meetings in Geneva to devise a donor framework for SSR in Afghanistan. What resulted from those deliberations was a multilateral support scheme that divided the process into five pillars, each to be overseen by a lead-donor nation: military reform (United States); police reform (Germany); a counter-narcotics campaign (United Kingdom); judicial reform (Italy); and demilitarization (Japan) (See Sedra 2006).

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Military Reform The core of the military reform pillar is the creation of a “nationally respected, professional, and ethnically balanced Afghan National Army (ANA) that is democratically accountable, organized, trained and equipped to meet the security needs of the country,” a process overseen by the United States (Islamic Republic of Afghanistan 2006a: 12). The training of the first class of Afghan recruits began in May 2002 at the country’s former military academy on the outskirts of Kabul, renamed the Kabul Military Training Center (KMTC). By June 2006, approximately 28,000 soldiers had completed training and five regional corps commands had been established. It is envisaged that the ANA will reach full operational capability, meeting its designated force ceiling of 70,000 troops, by 2010.3 One of the primary short-term goals of the military reform process was to rapidly endow the ANA with a regional presence, thereby giving the government a means to extend its writ into the periphery. The ANA training process encountered significant difficulties in meeting its force targets, primarily due to problems with troop retention. In the summer of 2003, the desertion rate reached a high watermark of 10 percent per month, meaning that the force was contracting on a yearly basis (Giustozzi and Sedra 2004). Recruits left the force in such high numbers due to low pay, poor living conditions, and growing displeasure over the length of service away from their home regions. Such grievances are consistent with factors that led to the weakening of national military structures in previous regimes, stretching back to Amir Amanullah. The United States implemented a series of measures to stem desertions, including the renovation of barracks, the introduction of an elevated pay scale, and the institution of strict ethnic quotas to ensure that the force adequately reflects Afghanistan’s ethnic mosaic (Kucera 2004). These measures contributed to the reduction of the desertion rate to 1.8 percent per month by May 2004; however, by mid-2006 the overall rate of attrition continued to be the paramount problem facing the military reform process (Giustozzi and Sedra 2004). Although fewer troops were leaving the force on a permanent basis, the number of temporary absentees without official leave was alarmingly high. For instance, the typical rate of AWOL for an ANA battalion in June 2006 was 40 percent. This can be attributed to a number of factors including poor leadership, inadequate management and personnel systems, troop indiscipline, the lack of a reliable countrywide salary payment system, and the stipulation that ANA troops serve outside of their home regions. The last two points are particularly salient as troops, who are characteristically

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the primary breadwinners for large families, need to regularly travel long distances to visit their families and deliver their wages to them. ANA personnel systems have proven ill equipped to cope with this problem. Police Reform The process to create an effective, democratically accountable, and rightsrespecting Afghan National Police (ANP) has faced similar hurdles as the ANA. Germany, as the lead donor for police reform, launched the German Police Project in March 2002 to support the Interior Ministry to reform and restructure the ANP. The flagship initiative of the project was the rehabilitation of the National Police Academy, which offers training for senior police personnel. Complementing the work of the academy, the United States established a program to train rank-and-file patrol officers, undertaken at a Central Training Center (CTC) in Kabul and seven Regional Training Centers (RTC) spread across the country. Cumulatively, the German and U.S. programs aim to train 50,000 regular police and 12,000 border guards by the end of 2008. Although 30,000 officers had been trained and equipped by June 2006, the ANP could be described as a dysfunctional and corrupt organization, regarded by many Afghans as a source of insecurity rather than a solution to it. According to a Spring 2006 essay by former Interior Minister Ali Jalali (2006: 10), who served in the post from January 2003 to September 2005, “the ANP continues to be ill-trained, poorly paid, underequipped, and inadequately armed.” In light of these conditions it is unsurprising that factionalism and criminal patterns of behavior have become a prominent feature of the police service. In November 2004, a spokesperson of the Afghan Independent Human Rights Commission (AIHRC) claimed in an interview with a state-run newspaper, that 15 percent of all human rights violations reported over the previous six months were perpetrated by the police. The most common offences reported were torture, forcible theft of property, and the failure to prosecute murder cases (IWPR 2004). Counternarcotics The opium industry in Afghanistan has been a major driver of insecurity. Equivalent to 52 percent of the country’s GDP in 2005, the income from the trade has sustained spoiler groups, facilitated the rise of a new narco-mafia, and exacerbated corruption and clientelism within the state (UNODC 2005). Perhaps one of the most dangerous aspects of the trade is its infiltration of the state. Government officials at all levels, up to the position of minister, have links to it. The threat posed by the drug trade to the post-Taliban political order prompted the establishment, with support from the United Kingdom and

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United States, of a range of security instruments intended to combat it, including the Central Planning and Eradication Force (CPEF), responsible for the physical eradication of poppies in selected areas, and the CounterNarcotics Police of Afghanistan (CNPA), the counternarcotics law enforcement branch of the Ministry of Interior. Of course, the efficacy of these nascent institutions depends on the existence of a functioning judicial system, conspicuously absent in Afghanistan. Judicial Reform Although judicial reform was allotted an individual pillar of the SSR process to be overseen by Italy, in practice it has been treated as a secondary objective, a process to be advanced in earnest once the security situation has stabilized. This attitude was reflected in the resource levels allocated to the SSR agenda, with only 3 percent of funds being channeled to reforms in the justice arena as of November 2005 (World Bank 2005: 50). The massive disparity in aid and attention between the security forces and the justice institutions is one of the principal factors accounting for the inertia of the judicial reform process. The insufficiency of the resource levels allocated to the justice sector appears most stark when juxtaposed with the dire conditions that prevail in it. It lacks physical infrastructure such as courthouses, law libraries, correctional facilities, and office buildings; trained jurists are in short supply; salary levels are dangerously low, and corruption is rife (Thier 2004). In light of these conditions, public trust in the legal system has become exceedingly low. In a national poll conducted by the AIHRC in 2005, 65 percent of respondents had little or no faith in the formal judicial system, which was viewed as corrupt and under the thumb of regional warlords (Samar and Nadery 2005). As a result it is estimated that less than 10 percent of all cases adjudicated in Afghanistan are done so in the formal legal system (Islamic Republic of Afghanistan 2006a: 32). Demilitarization In July 2004, President Karzai declared that private militias represented a greater threat to the security and stability of Afghanistan than the Talibanled insurgency (Gall and Rohde 2004). The Afghan New Beginnings Programme (ANBP), established under the auspices of the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP), was launched to assist the Afghan government to mitigate that threat through the demilitarization of Afghan society. The first phase of the demilitarization process, the disarmament, demobilization, and reintegration (DDR) program, targeted only the Afghan Military Force (AMF), the assemblage of militias that previously formed the Northern Alliance. The process formally came to an end in June

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2006, resulting in the demobilization of 63,380 ex-combatants and the collection of 57,629 light and medium weapons (ANBP 2006: 2). These impressive figures prompted many observers to refer to the program as an unqualified success. This was premature as commanders were able to preserve the integrity of their militia networks in two ways—through the transfer of their forces into statutory security bodies, such as the highway police, or by employing them in the growing private security industry (ICG 2005). Moreover, the impact of the most important element of the program, the reintegration of ex-combatants into civilian life, is yet to be adequately assessed. With the economy still struggling, particularly in rural areas, and the unemployment rate hovering in the range of 25–30 percent, it is not clear whether ex-combatants will find the space in the legitimate economy to break previous patterns of mobilization (UNDP 2004: 57). As the DDR process approached its conclusion, it became clear that militia groups outside the AMF represented perhaps an even greater threat to security than the AMF. According to Afghan government estimates, illegally armed groups in the country number more than 1,800, comprising approximately 129,000 militiamen. The threat these groups pose to the state is multifaceted: they collect illegal taxes, obstructing government revenue collection; they are involved in the illegal exploitation of natural resources; they subvert reform processes and intimidate local government officials and security forces; and they drive the illicit economy, most notably the drug trade (Islamic Republic of Afghanistan 2006b: 11). To address this problem the ANBP assisted the government to design the second phase of the demilitarization process, the disbandment of illegal armed groups (DIAG). Launched in the summer of 2005, the DIAG program eschewed the individualized incentives of the DDR program, utilizing instead community development projects to entice groups to voluntarily disarm, and armed force to compel recalcitrant groups to cooperate. As of June 2006, the DIAG process had engaged 1,275 illegally armed groups, resulting in the collection of 24,182 weapons. As with the results of the DDR program these numbers are deceiving. The majority of the weapons submitted—only 40 percent of which was categorized as serviceable—came prior to the main phase of the program during ad hoc disarmament initiatives. The main phase witnessed a wholesale lack of compliance from commanders, with only seven weapons collected in the first province targeted, Kapeesa, by the beginning of June 2006. The program failed to meet its initial targets due in large part to the lack of political will of the government. High-profile government ministries, including those directly involved in the DIAG process, obstructed and even subverted the program. The unwillingness of the government and international community to attach credible incentives to the program also

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contributed to its inertia. Given that many of the high-threat groups targeted by the DIAG process are alienated from the communities in which they reside and are deeply immersed in the profitable illicit economy, it is unsurprising that the promise of community development projects has been insufficient to secure their cooperation. Furthermore, the government has not demonstrated the capacity and political will to forcibly disarm uncooperative groups. Despite rampant noncompliance by targeted groups during the main stage of the process, the government, as of June 2006, was yet to employ force as dictated by the program.

Informal Security Structures The modern state-building project is innately a process of centralization, institutionalization, and formalization. Its application in the Afghan context has brought the state into conflict with the periphery, where informal practices and solidarity networks remain the norm. Whilst the image popularized in the Western media of a central government whose presence does not extend beyond the boundaries of Kabul and a few major urban centers was by 2006 outdated, the government presence was nonetheless negligible or lacked popular legitimacy in many parts of the country. The state’s failure to extend its sovereignty over the periphery, the perennial dilemma of Afghan state-builders, can partially be attributed to its inability to effectively engage informal structures and actors. Perhaps the most visible informal structure in the Afghan context is the militia. There are different types of militia forces in Afghanistan with varying levels of strength, cohesion, and local legitimacy. These groups, many of which overlap, include tribal and qawm militias, warlord militias, and community defense forces. Although the SSR process was designed to dismantle the country’s militias, deficiencies in the process coupled with rising levels of insecurity compelled the government to gravitate toward them. In late May 2006, the Afghan government announced a plan to mobilize militia forces in the south and east of the country to meet the widening security gap created by an upsurge of insurgent activity. Euphemistically dubbed Community Police, the militia scheme was reported to consist of 2,000 militia fighters across the south alone, approximately 500 in each province. At the time of the announcement, commanders had already been appointed for the Helmand and Uruzgan Community Police units, Sher Mohammad Akhonzada and Jan Mohammad, respectively. These appointments were significant as they were former governors of the two provinces, removed only months earlier due to international pressure. The UK and Dutch governments conditioned

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their deployment of troops to the two provinces in 2006 on the removal of the governors, who allegedly possessed links to the drug trade and other illicit activities. As of June 2006, the government had not released a succinct plan for the force, leaving open issues such as reporting lines, vetting procedures, and basic guidelines for operation. However, fragments of information on the scheme have been gleaned from public statements and interviews given by government officials. According to one high-ranking government advisor interviewed in June 2006, the Community Police units would fall under the command and control of the provincial governor and police chief (Interview, Kabul, June 13, 2006). They will only be utilized when the police require reinforcements, at which time they will be employed under temporary prenegotiated contracts. Militiamen would be responsible to bring their own firearms, which would subsequently be registered by the government. The advisor asserted that the majority of the groups to be employed by the scheme would be community self-defense forces or arbacki, the implication being that predatory criminal militias would not be used. In effect, the government plan formalized a trend that had been ongoing for several months, as militia forces had been operating under the auspices of the government in several provinces, including Paktia, Khost, and Kunar, and provincial officials had begun discussing the prospect in Farah and Ghazni (Pajhwok Afghan News 2006). The Karzai government’s turn to the militias mirrors efforts of past regimes to compensate for the failings of the formal security sector and confront rising internal discord. Where past regimes have failed and where the Karzai regime risks exacerbating instability and insecurity is in how it manages the interface between the formal and informal security spheres. It does not appear that much consideration was given to this issue in the development of the community policing initiative, as evinced by the high levels of domestic and international opposition to the plan. The concerns expressed have revolved around three factors: First, the mobilization of militias in the southeast has sent a powerful signal that the government is not committed to the ongoing demilitarization process, thereby undermining its credibility. Second, the provision of special dispensation to southern Pashtun groups to rearm and remobilize their militias has been treated with resentment by the northern ethnic factions, including the Tajiks, Uzbeks and Hazara, the majority of which disarmed, at least partially, under the DDR program. It has revived fears of resurgent Pashtun nationalism and could spark a domino effect of remilitarization in the north. Finally, the legitimization of the militias without clearly subordinating them to the ANP merely creates a rival security organ, undercutting its efforts to establish a monopoly over the use of force and regain public trust.

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It is the ambiguity of the community-policing plan that is most problematic and that reflects the failure of the government to consider how it will interact with the formal security sector. Whilst the loose accountability framework detailed above has been discussed informally, it has not been incorporated into a clear plan or disseminated widely. The selection of warlords to lead the initial Community Police units—commanders with ties to the illicit economy, links to illegally armed groups, and a questionable loyalty to the state—contradicts the notion that only benign selfdefense forces will be employed under the plan. The scheme risks creating parallel power structures in the south that could undermine rather than expand the legitimacy and authority of the central government. The justice sector provides an even more vivid illustration of the informal-formal dichotomy in the Afghan security sector and the seeming inability of the state to reconcile the two spheres. The majority of the Afghan population looks to traditional institutions of informal justice, such as the jirga, maraca, and shura to resolve disputes (Wardak 2004). These local structures rely on a fusion of customary law and indigenous cultural norms with sharia law. The formal justice system is perceived across much of Afghanistan as expensive, corrupt, elitist, inefficient, and detached from local realities. Wardak states that although, “traditional institutions of popular justice sometimes conflicted with Afghan legal norms and with international standards of human rights, they nevertheless resolved tribal disputes and local conflicts expeditiously and in a costeffective way” (Wardak 2004: 320). In most rural communities, tribal elders will resort to the formal legal system only in the event of serious crimes such as murder; all other civil and criminal matters are adjudicated locally. Since the beginning of the modern state-building project in Afghanistan the presence of the formal legal system in rural areas, particularly the south and east of the country, has been limited or completely absent, yet a high degree of social order has existed (Wardak 2004: 326). This can be attributed to “informal social controls with retributive elements” common to tribal societies (Mohammad and Conway 2003: 162). Many of these structures were co-opted by regional warlords during the civil war, as traditional village and tribal hierarchies broke down in some areas, but nevertheless retained their local legitimacy. In the first three years of the judicial reform process, there was little consideration of how to integrate traditional dispute resolution mechanisms into the formal codified system, or at least to ensure that they conformed to international human rights standards. This revealed the discordance between donor programming and the exigencies of the local context. It was not until 2005 that Italy spearheaded a program that began to explore avenues to reconcile formal and informal justice norms and structures.4

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However, the six million euro program was limited in scope, only scratching the surface of the issue. The Afghan Ministry of Justice has identified the need “to further study, dialogue and develop policy on the relationship between customary and ‘formal’ law,” but no concrete steps had been taken by June 2006 (Afghan Ministry of Justice 2005: 7). Critical Assessment and Lessons Learned A critical assessment of the SSR process in Afghanistan elicits a number of important lessons that can inform its application in other postconflict settings. In fact, many of the following lessons can be expanded to encompass the entire state-building project. Contextualizing the Process It is vital that the SSR process is shaped by the subject country’s history, cultural norms, political dynamics, and socioeconomic realities. In Afghanistan, donors recognized the need to tailor the process to meet local conditions; however, in practice, reform programs represented formulaic “off-the-shelf” solutions transposed from other postconflict settings, such as Kosovo, Sierra Leone, and East Timor. Where donors did endeavor to contextualize their policy and practice, the efforts tended to be based on a flawed understanding of the country’s history, shackling them to a narrow set of policy options. Exemplifying this was the donor position toward demilitarization in the initial phase of the Bonn process. Donors were reluctant to pressure major warlords to disarm out of fear that it would provoke a backlash among the general population and spark renewed conflict. Donors did not grasp the artificiality of warlord power and the depth of frustration of the Afghan populace with the prevailing culture of impunity, fostered by the proliferation of weapons and armed groups. A glance at Afghanistan’s recent history would have been instructive for donors, as the Taliban’s most popular policy early in its rule was its disarmament of the myriad warlords and bandits in the territory under its control. Failing to recognize this precedent, donor timidity on the demilitarization issue early in the post-Taliban period permitted commanders to reestablish their regional fiefdoms and entrench themselves in the state. It represented a missed opportunity that set back the demilitarization process at least by two years, obstructed the wider SSR process, and complicated the country’s political transition. SSR programs should not be conceptualized as a form of societal engineering but a means to nurture synergies and a relationship of complementarity between local, informal norms and practices, and the formal

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security apparatus. This hybridization of the security sphere must be negotiated between the state and the periphery, a process of acculturation intended to mould structures that are both appropriate to the local cultural milieu and consistent with the state’s legal norms as set out in the constitution. It is intended to create a new social contract in which the state recognizes the legitimacy of traditional structures in exchange for their acceptance of its sovereignty. This can be conceptualized as a sovereignty bargain between the center and periphery.

Timing and Sequencing The timing of an SSR process in postconflict contexts is crucial for its success. The immediate postconflict period represents a vital formative stage or window of opportunity in which a strategy must be clearly articulated, a consensus among the main stakeholders achieved, and the vital foundational steps in the process taken with a degree of urgency. This will prevent spoilers and reactionary actors from obstructing or even hijacking the process to advance their parochial interests. The Afghan case failed to meet these prerequisites. The process labored to build momentum after its launch in the spring of 2002, causing many to refer to its vital first year as a lost year. This can be attributed to three factors. First, the Bonn Agreement failed to institutionalize the process, referring to it only in a superficial and piecemeal manner. Second, the agreement facilitated the capturing of much of the security apparatus by factional interests largely resistant to reform. Finally, the legacy of the civil war, in the form of shattered infrastructure and weak human and institutional capacity, impeded the process. The lead donors in the sector encountered difficulty finding capable partners in the main security institutions. Some donors responded to this adverse situation by bypassing Afghan actors and implementing reforms unilaterally. This approach of working around rather than through the state undercut the vital task of capacity building. Inadequate consideration has been dedicated to sequencing in the Afghan context, primarily due to the lack of coordination among donors and the absence of an overarching strategic plan for the sector. The most conspicuous example of this relates to judicial reform. The SSR agenda has placed a disproportionate degree of emphasis on developing the security forces to the detriment of its judicial reform pillar. The resultant imbalance in the security sector has obstructed efforts of the Afghan security forces to enforce the rule of law. Although the ANP has developed the capacity to fulfill its designated role in pockets of the country, it lacks a coherent legal framework to guide its work. Even if the police are successful in apprehending criminals in a rural district, it is unlikely that there will be either courts to try them or jails to hold

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them. This has had the effect of encouraging either apathy or corruption among the police. Donors have begun to recognize the corrosive impact of the reform inertia in the justice sector on the wider SSR agenda, but have yet to provide the infusion of resources needed to accelerate judicial reforms to a level in line with the other pillars of the process. Stakeholder Coordination The Afghan process has suffered from coordination deficits at various levels: donor-donor, donor-government, intragovernment, and interagency. This can be attributed to a number of factors. First, there is no overarching SSR strategy that clearly delineates the roles of individual actors and ties them to a set of common benchmarks and objectives. One of the first steps that should be taken by any SSR process is to map the security environment and assess the threats that exist. The threat assessment informs the design of a comprehensive blueprint or strategy for the sector. In Afghanistan, the Office of the National Security Council (ONSC) was mandated shortly after its creation in 2002 to undertake a threat assessment and to develop a SSR strategy. The threat assessment was not finalized until 2005 and the strategy was only unveiled in early 2006. Second, no effective standing bodies have been created to coordinate the various actors involved in the SSR process. The ONSC was earmarked to provide policy advice and effective coordination and oversight of the national security architecture. It established several consultative bodies to advance coordination across the SSR process; however, they have had only a marginal impact. While the ONSC has been fiercely protective of its role as the coordinator and government focal point for SSR, it has proven singularly ineffectual in fulfilling it. This can largely be attributed to the unwillingness of line security ministries and lead donors to accept its authority. Finally, the “lead-donor” support framework fostered the compartmentalization of the process, encouraging donors to prioritize the protection of their turf over the advancement of sectorwide objectives. Regional Solutions Regional interference and cross-border clientelism in Afghanistan have been two of the principal drivers of conflict and instability over the past 150 years. In the aftermath of the Taliban’s fall, it appeared that a confluence of interests had materialized among Afghanistan’s immediate neighbors. Eager to expand their economic ties with the country and curtail the export of Afghan instability, they officially endorsed the postwar political dispensation and tacitly assented to the U.S. military presence. The signing of the “Kabul

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Declaration on Good-Neighborly Relations” in December 2002, a pledge of noninterference by Afghanistan’s immediate neighbors—Pakistan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Tajikistan, China, and Iran—appeared to mark a new era in regional cooperation. But, on the contrary, it would become clear in the years that followed that Afghanistan would continue to serve as a stage for regional proxy competition. The persistence of external interference in Afghanistan, although more restrained and less overt than during the civil war period, can be understood as an attempt by neighboring states to “hedge their bets.” Uncertainty over the durability of the U.S. commitment to the country and the sustainability of the post-Taliban political order has prompted regional actors to maintain links with subnational proxies in Afghanistan. If the government falters or if the country slips again into civil war, these links can be activated to advance their interests. Recognizing the regional dimension of the conflict cycle in Afghanistan highlights the need to adopt a regional orientation for the state-building process. The 2006 Afghan National Development Strategy aptly asserts that “without the confidence and cooperation of its neighbors Afghanistan cannot enjoy the stability it needs to reconstruct the country and to reduce the threat posed by drug trafficking” (Islamic Republic of Afghanistan 2006a: 24). This notion must be extended to the security sector, where regional actors should be engaged in the reform and reconstruction process, particularly in areas of direct interest, such as border management, counternarcotics, and counterterrorism.

Fiscal Sustainability Since its emergence in the late nineteenth century, the modern Afghan state has been gripped by a “rentier mentality.” Although the state has traditionally sought to use the security forces to extend its taxable base and lessened its reliance on external actors, such efforts made little headway due to resistance from rural and tribal communities. The civil war further degraded the revenue-generating capacity of the state, as the locus for taxation devolved from the central state to individual warlords and factional groups in the periphery. One of the principal objectives of the post-Taliban political order has been to increase internal revenue levels, but the process to do so has been slow. Domestic revenue was projected to be 5.4 percent of GDP in fiscal year 2005–06, a sharp drop from the 11.4 percent figure of 1975 (Sedra and Middlebrook 2005: 6; Islamic Republic of Afghanistan 2006a: 8). The fiscal dilemma that faces Afghanistan becomes clear when these figures are juxtaposed with the costs associated with constructing and sustaining a modern security sector.

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In fiscal year 2004/2005, security expenditures equaled 494 percent of domestic revenues and 23 percent of GDP (World Bank 2005: 42).5 The bulk of these expenditures represent direct investment of the international community outside the Afghan government budget. To put such figures in perspective, the global average for defense expenditures hovers in the range of 4 percent of GDP (Rubin 2006: 181). Even if the government meets its target of raising domestic revenue to 8 percent of GDP by fiscal year 2010–11, it will still not be able to sustain such expenditures (Islamic Republic of Afghanistan 2006a: 56). When international support to the security sector diminishes, as it will inevitably happen in the coming years, the government will be left with a security apparatus that it cannot afford. At its current fiscal trajectory, there is a high probability that the Afghan security forces will collapse due to resource pressures, which would, in continuity with the modern history of the Afghan state, lead to the demodernization and retribalization of the security forces and a resumption of civil conflict. The failure to pay salaries has been one of the main determinants of indiscipline, corruption, factionalization, and eventual collapse of the Afghan security forces over the past 150 years. To avoid the repetition of this historical pattern, immediate measures must be taken both to enhance the revenue generating-capacity of the state and to recalibrate the reform process to reflect fiscal realities.

International Military Engagement Taken together, the NATO and Coalition military engagements in Afghanistan have deterred major internal challenges to the authority of the state and dissuaded regional actors from intensifying proxy competition. However, with the coalition mandate limited to counterinsurgency and counterterrorism operations under the auspices of the global war on terror and the NATO-led International Security Assistance Force (ISAF) mission limited in scope and capability, international military forces have not been able to adequately contain rising levels of insecurity in the country, nor provide the baseline of security that the state-building process requires to move forward. As a result, the onus for addressing the adverse security environment fell on the fledgling Afghan security sector at an early stage in the SSR process, a burden it was ill equipped to carry. To meet this challenge the SSR process was gradually contorted to emphasize security force operational effectiveness. It progressively assumed the guise of a cold war train-and equip program, emphasizing the buildup of state coercive power with little consideration to the role of the sector within a democratic polity and its obligations to uphold and protect citizen rights. Quantitative indicators, such as the number of security

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forces trained and the volume of equipment procured, superseded qualitative indicators, such as public perceptions toward the security forces. The failure to provide a security buffer for the SSR process effectively stripped it of its holistic character, leaving a “hard security” shell (Sedra 2006). This is hardly conducive for the long-term development of a stable pluralistic democratic society, as it has permitted the institutionalization of inimical practices and patterns of behavior reminiscent of previous authoritarian or predatory regimes in the country.

Conclusion The development and modernization of the Afghan security sector has been at the core of the Afghan state-building project since its emergence in the late nineteenth century. It was the principal mechanism by which the state sought to project its power into the rural tribal periphery. As a rentier state, in which the social contract between state and society was ill defined, the security forces were oriented inward, to pacify and extend control over the rural population. It ensured that the center-periphery axis would become the main fault line of conflict in Afghan society. When the equilibrium between the center and the periphery has been disturbed, conflict has been the inexorable result. The periodic outbursts of violence that marked the trajectory of the state-building project can be attributed to reactions of the periphery to the encroachments of the central state. The post-Taliban state-building project, embracing the lessons learnt in the process, should be understood as part of this historical tradition. It has been the failure to do so that accounts for the recurrence of patterns similar to previous abortive state-building ventures. Nowhere is this more apparent then in the security sphere where the SSR process has predominantly focused on the creation of modern formal structures to the detriment of informal mechanisms and practices, where the state has relied almost exclusively on external rents to create structures that are fiscally unsustainable, and where the coercive elements of the state have been prioritized above the provision of basic services and good governance. The manner in which the government and international stakeholders have sought to engage the periphery is through an accommodationist approach to regional commanders or warlords. Such a strategy is counterproductive both for the state-building project and the security needs of the population. The SSR process must seek to engage legitimate local actors, structures, and traditions that are conducive to the advancement of stability and that do not contravene basic human rights principles; it should it support actors whose power and influence are largely rooted in their control of both the means of violence and the entry points to the illicit economy. SSR in Afghanistan

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should be conceptualized as a process of institutional acculturation or hybridization, intended to adapt the formal security institutions of the state to the local context as a means to assert its sovereignty over it. It must involve the nurturance of government capacity to manage the complex interface between the center and periphery in the security sphere. The security sector still lies at the core of the state-building project, but should not, as in the past, be perceived as an instrument of forceful subjection of the tribal periphery to state control. Rather, it should serve as a mechanism to bridge the gap between center and periphery and should build a new social contract through the provision of the most basic and elusive public good, security. The current international intervention in Afghanistan offers a unique opportunity to break from the existing pattern of state building in the country and broker a new sovereignty bargain between the state and periphery. While imposing challenges to this goal remain, what is most encouraging is that the majority of Afghans continue to support the process and international engagement in it. However, history has shown that such sentiments can easily shift to frustration and resistance, and therefore it is imperative that the process seize this historic window of opportunity. Notes 1. The Soviet Union compensated for the withdrawal of its military forces with a massive increase in military aid. According to some Western estimates, Soviet military aid reached a value of $3 billion per year following 1989 (Oxfam 2006: 13). 2. Qawm is often translated as tribe, but in actuality, it refers to any form of solidarity, based on whether kinship, residence, or occupation (Rubin 1995: 25). 3. In 2006, the United States lowered its force target for the ANA to 50,000 out of concern that a force any larger would be fiscally unsustainable. However, the Afghan Ministry of Defence continued to insist on meeting or even exceeding the original target of 70,000 troops. In light of these contradictory positions, it remained unclear what would be the ultimate size of the force in mid-2006. 4. The “Access to Justice at the District Level” project is supported by Italy, the European Commission, and the UNDP. 5. Please note that these figures do not take counternarcotics expenditures into full account.

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Integration of Former Enemies into National Armies in Fragile African States Bjørn Møller and Gavin Cawthra

his chapter focuses on some African experiences of integrating former adversaries or enemy military formations into national armies, in the context of war-to-peace transitions, often accompanied by transitions to democracy. This integration of formerly opposing armed forces is usually intended to strengthen state institutions in one important respect, namely with regard to legitimacy, but it risks exacerbating other forms of state weakness. The chapter does not attempt to be comprehensive, but aims to develop a conceptual framework in which this issue can be understood, based on six brief country studies drawn from southern, central, and East Africa. While Africa may have more experience than any other continent on this issue— simply because more wars have been fought and ended in Africa than anywhere else in recent times—the African experiences do not necessarily constitute best practice, nor are they emblematic of experiences elsewhere. They have all, however, taken place in states that could be regarded as fragile at the time of transition, although some may no longer fall into this category. Indeed, we will argue that the degree to which they are no longer fragile is closely correlated to the degree of success of military integration.

T

Civil War Endings and Military Transformations Even though civil wars have an unfortunate tendency to become protracted, eventually they come to an end. Whether they do so with a clear

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victory of one side over the other(s) or via a negotiated settlement determines, to a large extent, what happens to the combatants belonging to the various armed factions (see table 8.1). We thus have three ideal types of war endings—government victory, rebel victory, and negotiated settlement—plus a number of variations and combinations of these. This does not even exhaust the spectrum. As the example of Somalia demonstrates, wars (in the sense of large-scale fighting between organized adversaries) may also end with a decisive defeat for an incumbent government, yet without any victors in a position to take over, leaving the country without a functioning state and its population at the mercy of warlords and armed bands for a protracted period. Nonstate elements of order may, however, develop, as argued by Ken Menkhaus in his contribution to this work. However, as such cases are quite rare and dealt with in other chapters we shall disregard this eventuality in the following analysis. We shall also ignore the cases where the integration of formerly opposing armed forces takes place during war. This was, for instance, what happened in Sierra Leone when in 1997 (parts of) the government army overthrew the elected government, transferred power to a so-called Armed Forces Revolutionary Council (AFRC) and proceeded to co-opt the rebel movement RUF (Revolutionary United Front) into the government. When the AFRC junta was overthrown, it joined forces with the RUF to continue the war against the reinstated legal government, the international peacekeepers and, above all, the civilian population (Keen 2005: 193–18). As we shall see below, the Sudanese government has on several occasions done something similar, by enticing splinter groups from the rebel forces to joint forces with the government against their previous comrades-in-arms. Table 8.1 War endings Victors Troops

Government

Rebels

Government

Shrink to size (Co-opt some former rebels)

Disarm and demobilize (Integrate in new army)

Rebels

Disarm and demobilize

Transform into statutory army (Co-opt some former government troops)

None

Negotiated settlement Power sharing Integration into national army

Warlordism Training of former rebels DDR of both government and rebel personnel

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Victories In the case of a decisive victory of the incumbent government over a rebel group, the members of the latter are usually disarmed and demobilized and the leaders may even be brought to trial, whereas the rank and file are usually just granted an amnesty. In cases of less clear victories, such as that of the Angolan government over UNITA1 attempts are usually made to ensure an orderly DDR (disarmament, demobilization, and reintegration) process for the ordinary members of the rebel group, perhaps accompanied by a token integration of a few rebel commanders into the armed forces (Porto and Parsons 2003; ICG 2003). The victorious national army, however, largely remains the same, even though it may have to be “shrunk to size” as a consequence of the end to civil war—sometimes also entailing a DDR process for some of its troops. In the case of a really clear and decisive victory, however, the government army will also have to undergo quite a profound transformation, reorienting itself from counterinsurgency warfare (now redundant) to national defense, which may call for both a relocation of barracks, redeployment, and retraining of personnel, and so on. In the opposite case of a rebel group inflicting a decisive defeat on the incumbent government, the victorious rebels usually seek a clean break with the past, for example by transforming their guerrilla army into the new national army. For a guerrilla army to become a statutory force is, however, tantamount to quite a profound metamorphosis, both with regard to structure, activities, and required skills. Sometimes, elements of the former government forces are retained in the ranks, either as a conciliatory gesture or for the sake of continuity—depending, among other things, on how politicized the armed forces have been. An example was the offer by the victorious NRA (National Resistance Army) of Yoweri Museveni to members of both the former national army and various other rebel armies to join the ranks of the NRA, now transforming itself into the new national defense force (Ngoga 1998; Babikir and Özerdem 2003: 218–19). Victorious secessionist armies such as the EPLF/A (Eritrean People’s Liberation Front/Army) tend to face less challenging transformation tasks after the end of the war, as they have been in more or less complete de facto control of the territory now claimed as their sovereign domain (Pool 2001). Hence, they have often established more regular command structures and interacted with society rather like a state’s armed forces would have done— sometimes even better. Moreover, as far as the opposing forces of the mother country are concerned, they are simply expected to withdraw, thus no longer being the responsibility of the victors, who will, however, need to shrink their forces—now the statutory forces of an independent state—to

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size and disarm, demobilize, and reintegrate those fighters who are now redundant. Even though the Eritrean example is so far the only instance of successful formal secession, the same considerations may also apply to “de facto secessions,” such as those of western Sahara, Namibia, and Somaliland.

Negotiated Settlements A negotiated settlement is by far the most common way for a civil war to come to an end. It almost logically involves a degree of power sharing, which does not necessarily have to apply to the armed forces, but often does (Hoddie and Hartzell 2003). From 1989 to 2005, 38 percent of peace agreements thus included provisions for military integration (Harbom et al. 2006: 623–24). One reason for this is that it is a risky venture for a rebel force to disarm without some security precautions (Snyder and Jervis 1999). Even though external players may, and often do, provide some security for the transition period in the form of peacekeepers, the rebels contemplating the laying down of their arms usually want the kind of additional insurance that follows from either retaining their own armed forces or becoming an integral part of the new armed forces, rather than being unarmed and at their mercy. In principle, military power sharing does not necessarily require military integration. Especially in the case of federalist arrangements, one could also conceive of former rebel forces being transformed into territorial defense forces within their respective autonomous domains, thus simultaneously forming part of a national army to defend the whole country against external aggression and providing some protection against the national government itself—as is arguably the gist of the Sudanese peace agreement to which we shall return below. In most cases, however, governments prefer to retain at least a semblance of a Weberian “monopoly on the legitimate use of force” (Weber 1958: 78). Hence the preference for military integration into a national army. As we shall see below, such integration of former opponent forces has been undertaken in the aftermath of several African armed conflicts and the inclusion of provisions for this may well be a sine qua non of achieving a settlement in the first place. In general little has been written on this topic, in relation to Africa or elsewhere. This is perhaps surprising, given the centrality of this issue to the success of peace processes and to democratic transitions taking place in the context of war endings. Military integration usually takes place as part of a peace agreement, often with international involvement, and thus forms part of a wider DDR

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process, about which a considerable amount has been written (e.g., Ball 1997; Kingma 2000). In recent years, more “Rs” have been added to the DDR concept—variously, repatriation, reinsertion, resettlement, and rehabilitation—but the basic idea remains the same, that of a comprehensive program of demilitarization in the context of war ending, whilst usually retaining some of the former combatants to form a new national armed force. Integration has also played an important role in another “R”—reconciliation—and in the related processes of “peacebuilding” and “state building,” that are now recognized as an integral part of international peacekeeping practice, usually in the postconflict phase of a war-to-peace transition. Case Studies I: The Recent Past With these introductory remarks, we will now turn to the brief national studies, focusing first on those in southern Africa. South Africa Our cases start with South Africa, since it is one of the best documented and most successful example of military integration, involving no fewer than seven different armed formations, and has clearly helped to underpin the construction of a centralized state security apparatus that has been a source of stability in what was under apartheid a fragile state, gripped by a complex low-intensity civil war, facing potential breakup, and deprived of both internal and external legitimacy, but can hardly be considered to be so now. South Africa is a fairly unusual example of integration in that it did not take place in the context of DDR—indeed integration was seen as a necessary precursor to demobilization, and all military personnel from the parties to the settlement were eligible for integration. As significant numbers of basically civilians were also integrated, in a sense it was closer to mobilization than demobilization. It is also unusual in that it was domestically conceived, managed, and resourced. With the exception of a tiny British Military Advisory and Training Team there was little direct international involvement, although South Africans drew extensively on international experience, including in the drafting of a new constitution. The principle of integration of the five “statutory” armed forces—the South African Defence Force (SADF), and the forces of the “independent” Bantustans: Transkei, Bophuthatswana, Venda and Ciskei (TBVC)—with the “nonstatutory” forces of the African National Congress (ANC) and PanAfrican Congress (PAC) into one national armed force, was established

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even before the process of negotiations began, at a meeting between ANC and South African government figures in Lusaka in 1989. The principle of “one national army” was seen by all parties as an essential component of the transition to democracy and peace during the years of negotiations that followed (1990–94) but the approach to this varied, with the SADF leadership initially arguing that the nonstatutory forces should simply apply to join it as individuals before the principle of institutional integration was conceded and accepted by all parties (Shaw 1995: 9–34; Cawthra 1997: 148). A similar process of integration and centralization took place in the police service, where eleven separate forces (one national, the rest attached to the Bantustans or “homelands,” some “independent,” others “self-governing”) were amalgamated. In the case of the police, however, there were no nonstatutory forces attached to the liberation movements to be integrated, although some individuals joined. There was also some discussion about the option of retaining separate decentralized structures, but fears of local patronage or warlordism gave rise to an insistence on one central service (Rauch 2004). Integration was, of course, part of a broader political process involving a “pacted” agreement between the apartheid regime, the ANC, and a host of other political actors, who met over a period of years—interrupted by crises, communal and state violence, and mass political mobilizations—and agreed on a framework for a transition to democracy. In practice, despite general agreement about the need for integration, nothing happened until late 1993, when a multiparty Transitional Executive Council was established with executive authority. It established a Joint Military Coordinating Council (JMCC) which took all the key decisions about military integration. Although military officers from all seven formations participated in the JMCC, in practice it was dominated by the ANC’s armed wing, uMkonto we Sizwe (MK) and the SADF (Shaw 1995; Williams 2002). As in all cases of this nature, numbers were seen as key, and in this regard the SADF totally overwhelmed the other formations, with 90,000 out of the total of 129,000 personnel presenting for integration. This was compounded by the fact that SADF bases, uniforms, ranks, and logistics were used for the integration process, leading many observers to remark that the process was more akin to absorption than integration (Williams 2002), although the fact that the ANC gained overwhelming political power must be significantly offset against this. A framework for the new military was provided in the Interim Constitution of 1993, which stressed that only one national defense force was allowed, that it should be governed by international law, have limited functions and be placed firmly under parliamentary and civilian executive control (Republic of South Africa 1993). As if to underpin the emphasis

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placed on the importance of a single national defense force for the transition process, it was inaugurated the day before the first democratic elections, April 27, 1994 (Le Roux 2005: 241). At a stroke, the seven formations formally ceased to exist and all personnel in them (except for around 2,000 who chose not to, or were deemed unfit for service after compulsory medical tests were carried out) became, at least in theory, members of the South African National Defence Force (SANDF), which went on to play an important role in the next few days by providing logistics in support of a chaotic but peaceful polling process. The integration process was not easy. At times mass mutinies threatened to derail the 3-year process, requiring political interventions from President Mandela and others. Ranking became a troublesome issue, and conditions for attesting “nonstatutory force” members were grim. Much of the difficulties were caused by differences in political orientation, ethos, and culture. The former SADF members were proud of their military professionalism, but this disguised deeply entrenched right-wing racial and political prejudices, while cadres of MK and the Azanian People’s Liberation Army (APLA, the armed wing of the PAC), were schooled in irregular revolutionary warfare and ideologically aligned with the socialist or communist cause (Cawthra 1997: 154). They were of course enemies, but they did not actually fight each other very much. Most of the MK and APLA cadres were in exile; and within South Africa it was the police, rather than the military, that had engaged activists and saboteurs. Perhaps this explains why they were able to get on relatively well together, especially at officer level, and in a short period develop a joint corporate identity in promoting the interests of the SANDF against that of “antimilitarists” and “pacifists” associated with other elements of the antiapartheid struggle. Given the asymmetries of integration, a key concern was the “transformation” of the SANDF from a predominately white, former SADF organization into a structure representative of the population; in terms of politics, race, and (to a much more limited extent) gender. In part, this was hastened by a process of demobilization (sometimes termed rationalization), in which whites were persuaded by generous financial packages to retire, with many going on to join South African security companies or international private military companies. A process of affirmative action and equal opportunities was also instituted and became a mainstream concern of military managers (Motumi 2000). To change institutional culture, a civic education program was introduced by ministerial and parliamentary intervention, stressing principles of civil control, democratic norms, cultural tolerance, and international humanitarian law, and designed to create a new soldier for a new South Africa.

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So, in 2006, is there now a single national defense force, fully integrated, representative of the people and contributing to state building and nation building? Does the SANDF help to make South Africa less fragile and a stronger state, in the sense of social integrity? On the whole, yes. Integration is officially over; affirmative action is decidedly not, and this continues to create tensions. The defense force is generally representative both in terms of race and former affiliation, except at the level of colonel, lieutenant colonel and major (arguably the most important levels), but there are strategies in place to address this (Cawthra 2005). A significant proportion of the force has no former affiliation as a result of new recruitment and lateral entry of professionals. Generally, although there have been problems—including a few much-publicized racial killings of noncommissioned officers by disaffected soldiers—the SANDF as a whole remains stable and relatively efficient, is under effective civil control, and is able to project national interests through participation in African peacekeeping operations, notably in Burundi and the Democratic Republic of the Congo, discussed later in the chapter.

Zimbabwe As in South Africa, the Zimbabwe case was largely self-managed, although the former colonial power, Britain, and the Commonwealth, played an important role initially, and tensions were heightened by the fact that the Zimbabwe struggle was seen in part as a cold war struggle, with the Soviet Union and China backing different wings of the liberation forces and the West tending to support the Rhodesian forces. The process involved the integration of three main forces, those of the Zimbabwe African National Union-Patriotic Front (ZANU-PF), the Patriotic Front-Zimbabwe African People’s Union (PF-ZAPU) (hereafter given as ZANU and ZAPU) and the Rhodesia Security Force (RSF) answerable to the then government of Zimbabwe-Rhodesia, as well as a number of auxiliary forces (Krieger 2003). Importantly, unlike in South Africa, ZANU and ZAPU were significantly differentiated along ethnic and territorial lines—in South Africa, the PAC, and ANC had no significant ethnic differences, although their ideological orientation was somewhat different. Moreover, whereas in South Africa the process of integration had been agreed beforehand by the parties, in Zimbabwe it was unclear what would happen after the independence election of 1980, as the Lancaster House agreement was virtually silent on the issue. This was a situation compounded by uncertainty around the outcome of the election, in which an unexpectedly large majority was attained by ZANU. Opponents argued that this was, partly because ZANU had failed

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to canton its forces in designated assembly areas, as required by Lancaster House (Chitiyo and Rupiya 2005: 336). The balance of forces and the nature of the conflict were different too. With some 30,000 casualties, the war had been bitterly fought, mostly in rural areas, and the liberation forces significantly outnumbered those of the RSF. A further important factor was that Zimbabwe had a powerful enemy on its borders—apartheid South Africa— which was ever ready to destabilize the transition. Adopting a policy of national reconciliation, the new president, Robert Mugabe, declared that “the most difficult and pressing” issue and “key to state stability” was the integration of armed forces. Mugabe appointed the former operational head of the RSF, Lt. Gen. Peter Walls, to lead the integration process, which also involved a process of demobilization. Most of the guerrillas were at assembly areas, where integration was primarily supposed to take place. The process soon began to fall apart, mostly as a result of clashes between ZANU and ZAPU forces within the “integrated” battalions, of which at least six of nine had collapsed into ethnopolitical conflict by February 1981 (Rupiya 1995: 36). The situation was compounded by the fact that both ZANU and ZAPU had cached weapons, and many combatants remained outside the assembly areas. At the same time, thousands of RSF personnel defected to South Africa, some going as virtually entire units for integration into South African Special Forces. Armed dissident activity—some of it covertly backed by South Africa— soon began, especially in Matabeleland, a ZAPU stronghold and a predominately Ndebele area. Partly abandoning the effort to set up a national armed force, Mugabe and ZANU turned to North Korea, which supplied over a thousand instructors, large quantities of arms, and set up two ZANU- (and Shona-) dominated formations, the paramilitary Zimbabwe People’s Militia and the Korean-trained 5th Brigade. The latter was deployed along with regular forces to Matabeleland, where the resistance was brutally crushed, resulting in the deaths of thousands of civilians. President Mugabe later called this “a moment of madness,” but in fact it was a concerted counterinsurgency “pacification” campaign waged over several years, which came to an end only with a unity accord between ZAPU and ZANU in December 1987, which was in practice tantamount to an absorption of ZAPU into ZANU (Ndlovu-Gatsheni 2002). Alongside the virtual civil war in Matabeleland, the development of an integrated Zimbabwe Defence Force (ZDF) continued, and a relatively high degree of professionalism was attained. In what could partly be considered “state-building” operations (or at least certainly operations in the “national interest”), the integrated forces were deployed in Mozambique 1982–91 against South African-backed destabilization forces; in Angola in the early 1990s as part of the UN mission there; and then from August 1998 in the

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DRC (Democratic Republic of the Congo) in support of the Kabila regime and against Rwandan- and Ugandan-supported rebels (Rupiya 2002). Nonintegrated elements of the former liberation forces caused the next major crisis in the Zimbabwean polity. During the integration process tens of thousand former combatants (the exact number is disputed) had been demobilized rather than integrated and although efforts were made to train them, find them jobs, and set up agricultural cooperatives, most of these initiatives failed and by the mid-1980s they were becoming a disgruntled, marginalized, and self-identifying group (and after the Unity Accord, no longer identifying themselves on ethnic grounds). They established a war veterans’ organization that became increasingly militant in demanding pensions and other benefits. Such was their political power that in 1996, the government caved in, releasing hundreds of millions of Zimbabwe dollars and causing a massive currency collapse (Dzinesa 2006). This triggered the beginning of Zimbabwe’s economic “plunge” (Bond and Manyanya 2002). By the early 2000s, the Zimbabwean government was in deep economic and political trouble, increasingly internationally isolated as a result of its participation in the DRC war, a land reform program that affected former British and other settlers, and growing human rights abuses as government attempted to crush a powerful emerging opposition movement based on the trade unions, the Movement for Democratic Change (MDC). While the ZDF and other security agencies had hitherto purported to remain neutral, all pretence was dropped in the lead-up to the make-or-break 2002 presidential elections, when the military declared in effect that they would not accept an MDC victory. At the same time, the military and other security agencies were mobilized for what the government called a liberation war (the “Third Chimurgena”) against the opposition and against perceived foreign instigators of regime change and opponents of land reform, especially the United Kingdom. Rupiya has compared this mobilization to that of South Africa during the final years of the apartheid regime, involving as it did rapid increases in military expenditure, military takeovers of key government institutions at leadership level, deployment of troops and police against the opposition, mobilization of vigilante-type militias, a general militarization of politics, and corruption associated with increasingly authoritarian rule and economic collapse (Chitiyo and Rupiya 2005: 358–60). Nevertheless, ZANU continues to win national elections (even though it is disputed how free and fair they have been) and remains the principal political force, while the main opposition has fragmented a reflection of the continued cachet of liberation politics. While the armed forces are increasingly politicized, a return to the ethnonational conflicts or the destabilization of former Rhodesian elements of the 1980s seems unlikely. To that extent, military integration has been relatively successful, and while

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some of Zimbabwe’s external deployments have been divisive in the region (notably the DRC), the military was until recently seen by the majority of Zimbabweans as a professional national institution. This has been sorely put to the test in recent years by its deployment in party-political interests.

Mozambique Mozambique went through a triple transition in the early 1990s: from war to peace, from a one-party system to multiparty democracy, and to some degree, from a planned economy to a free market one. This was made possible by the ending of the cold war, the ending of apartheid, and the General Peace Agreement (GPA) signed in Rome in October 1992 between the ruling party, the Front for the Liberation of Mozambique (Frelimo), and the Mozambique National Resistance (Renamo) rebels. Despite the complexity of the transition, there were three positive factors when it came to integration: [T]here were only two parties, they agreed to contribute an equal number of troops each to the new national army, and the transition process was relatively well resourced and under UN supervision. Close attention was paid to military issues in the GPA, which required a cease-fire, separation of forces, cantonment and demobilization, and the establishment of a new single, integrated military force, that is, the Armed Forces for the Defence of Mozambique (FADM) numbering about 30,000 (requiring the demobilization of more than half the Renamo and Frelimo combatants). As in South Africa, a framework for integration, including principles governing the composition and role of the armed forces, was set out before the first multinational elections in 1994, and the process began for the elections as well. Integration was to be voluntary: Those from either side, who chose not to, would be demobilized (Malache et al. 2005). Cantonment was slow, characterized unsurprisingly by mutual mistrust, and fraught with difficulties, especially from the Renamo side. But perhaps surprisingly, the biggest problem for both political parties (but especially for Renamo) proved to be persuading sufficient numbers to integrate, despite the tripling of salaries from former levels. By the time of the election, only 11,579 troops had been integrated into the FADM, and it remained at around half its planned strength for many years afterwards: It seems the combatants were tired of military life, despite the relatively few opportunities open to them in civilian society (Lundin et al. 2000: 201). Despite, or perhaps because of, the long years of war, the peace process went relatively smoothly, with Frelimo winning the elections and Renamo eventually, and under strong international pressure, accepting the result. As in South Africa, the new government was at pains to ensure that the

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military was under civil control, and it went about developing a defense policy covering roles, posture, regional cooperation, and normative issues (Macaringue 2005). Perhaps (as to some extent in South Africa) the military was largely discredited in the public mind as an institution, and had to be relegitimized through a public policy process. However, there was little public or donor interest. Whatever the case, its institutional weaknesses were exposed for all to see when it was unable to respond to serious floods during 2000, and foreign armed forces—notably from South Africa—had to be airlifted in for humanitarian relief operations. This brought about a debate within the Mozambican elite as to whether demilitarization had been carried out to such an extent that the country’s sovereignty was at threat. Aside from the problem of operational capacity, however, the general assessment must be upbeat. Malache et al., in one of the few studies of the Mozambique military, conclude that “the armed forces . . . became one of the privileged fields for national reconciliation, and the measure of their stability is undoubtedly a good indicator of what is being achieved and consolidated in terms of peace-building” (2005: 195). Case Studies II: The Present and Near Future Whereas the above integration processes have been completed, thus allowing them to be evaluated as failures or success stories, a number of (in some respects) similar processes were, by mid-2006, still underway, thus defying any conclusive assessment. Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) It is difficult to make any prognosis about the DRC in general and on the impact of military integration on state building in particular, as this remains “work in progress.” It could be classed as a failed state but in fact it has never been, since it was brought into being by King Leopold II of the Belgians and it managed to become a functioning state, being “governed” by fragmented networks of patronage based on resource extraction. Part of the weakness of the state resulted from the deliberate fragmentation of the various Congolese security forces under the dictatorship of Mobutu Sese Seko (1965–97) to prevent them from becoming a threat to his power (Nzongola-Ntalaja 2002). By the time Mobutu fell in 1997, the Congolese security forces had virtually collapsed and most of the 60–70,000 uniformed personnel were grouped into (sometimes self-funded) militias under the personal but

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fragmented power of Mobutu, with their main task being his personal protection (Howe 2001: 8–13; Nzongola-Ntalaja 2002: 153–57). The weakness of the security forces eventually contributed to Mobutu’s undoing, as the DRC was unable to protect its borders, allowing Rwandan and Ugandan forces to invade in support of anti-Mobutu rebels and install Laurent Kabila in power, in a process closely linked to conflicts in neighboring states such as Rwanda, Uganda, and Angola. A subsequent civil war saw the involvement of nine African states, including Zimbabwe, Angola, and Namibia, who sprang to the defense of Kabila and the proliferation of militias, often ethnically based and supported by neighboring states (Clark 2002). While the brutal war continued, taking the lives of around four million people (Coghlan et al. 2006), complex peace processes took place, leading to partial cease-fires and the withdrawal of most external forces. In June 2003, a Government of National Unity and Transition was ushered in, but the agreement failed to address issues of integration of military forces, even of the main six parties to the conflict—the Kinshasa government, Rally for Congolese Democracy-Goma (RCD-Goma), RCD-Kisangani Liberation Movement (RCD-KL), RCD-National (RCD-N), Movement for the Liberation of Congo (MLC), and the tribal militia known as MayiMayi—let alone the myriad other, constantly metamorphosing, armed factions, mostly active in the east of the country. This lack of commitment to national unity was underpinned by the fact that four vice presidents (three of them heading up rebel movements) were appointed under President Joseph Kabila (who has succeeded his father upon the latter’s assassination) as well as 36 ministers and 25 deputy ministers, and a 500seat nonelected parliament and 120-member senate: The major armed factions each wanted a piece of the pie in the transitional government. Nevertheless, agreement was later made between the three main forces, Kinshasa, the MLC, and RCD-Goma, on the sharing of military responsibilities—although this was very far from integration (Rogier 2004). To support the transition process, the UN Mission in the DRC (MONUC) was established by the Security Council in 1999 under a Chapter VI mandate, but given authority in July 2003 to use “all necessary means” to fulfill its mandate, which is to take the country through national elections in order to establish a legitimate government. In 2006, elections did indeed take place, in two rounds, eventually giving the presidential mandate to the incumbent, Joseph Kabila. MONUC is tasked with ending violent conflict, particularly in the eastern provinces of Ituri and Kivu, and ensuring the integration into the national army or the disarmament, demobilization, and reintegration of all the rebel factions (in approximate ratio of 1:2). It is further tasked with the repatriation of foreign, armed groups, especially the thousands of Rwandan combatants who occupied the east of

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the country, but including Ugandans and Barundi. To do this, 18,000 bluehelmeted troops and police officers have been deployed, and an elaborate administrative structure has been set up to run the elections, supported by a 1,500-strong EU force, most of which has prudently been deployed to neighboring Gabon in order to be able to respond to emergencies.2 The processes of integration and DDR have been linked. The creation of one integrated military formation, the Forces Armées de la République Démocratique du Congo (FARDC), and its establishment before the elections, has been seen by all players as essential to the success of the transition. A strategic plan was drawn up in a consultative process in May 2005, involving a 5-step program for all armed personnel; First a census of all existing FARDC personnel, which showed that around 40 percent were “ghost soldiers,” invented by military officers in order to appropriate their salaries; second, disarmament at assembly points; third, transfer to orientation centers for selection either for integration into the FARDC or demobilization; fourth, the actual integration and retraining at Centres de Brassage established at six locations around the country; and, finally, the formation and deployment around the country of eighteen brigades each 4,000 to 6,000 troops (Boshoff 2005). Various oversight bodies were set up seeking to coordinate the transitional government, MONUC, donors such as the European Union and the Netherlands, and the countries assisting with the training—South Africa, Angola, and the former colonial power, Belgium. A parallel process to build a national police force around 70,000 men was also to take place. This complex and ambitious program, fallen consistently behind schedule, has been fraught with difficulties and been punctuated by mutinies and defections. By May 9, 2006, only seven of the planned eighteen brigades had been trained, and it was unclear how well the associated program of DDR, involving up to 200,000 personnel, was going, partly because there is no accurate information on numbers or armaments of the various forces. The integrated brigades were deployed mainly in the east, to deal with militias still operating there. While the army chief of staff claimed that he was confident that the eighteen brigades would be fully integrated by July 30, it was unclear where the resources for this were going to come from (IRIN News, May 9, 2006). Shortages of funds, transport, equipment, shelter, and even food were not sufficiently forthcoming from the international actors involved, and coupled with low wages (US$10 per month) this led to the desertion of many soldiers (Boshoff 2005: 10). Even when battalions were integrated, in many cases they appeared to contribute to insecurity. MONUC reported in May 2006 that “FARDC military operations against armed groups have sadly taken their toll on the civilian population as human rights violations have escalated in those areas where operations are under way,” and cited torture, intimidation, extortion of

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money, goods, livestock and mined products, as well as extensive rape of women and girls (UN News Service, May 11, 2006). Mortality rates from the conflict were running at around 30,000 a month in the lead-up to the elections, according to the International Crisis Group (ICG 2006: 1). Many armed personnel have not participated in the process and militias continue to roam the country, especially in the east. Moreover, those who have been integrated appear to still be responding, when they deem fit, to orders from their factional political leadership rather than from the transitional government. In other words, parallel chains of commands, according to political affiliation, continue to be retained—in part for the appropriation of resources but also as a possible fallback for political leaders who might not like the outcome of the elections. In particular, President Kabila retains the best-trained and equipped force, the presidential guard, under this personal control. After the elections there will therefore remain ongoing challenges to integrate, resource, and retrain the new national armed forces, and also to complete the processes of DDR (Kibasomba 2005: 13; Lilly 2005). However, it is unlikely that the DRC will break up. None of the Congolese political or militia groups are in favor of secession, and a strong sense of Congolese nationalism prevails. It is most likely therefore, that the process of building a single national security apparatus will continue, although this will be a challenging task and a reversion to personalized rule or parallel commands is always possible.

Burundi A protracted civil war, interacting in a particularly malign manner with the genocide in neighboring Rwanda, had been ravaging Burundi since at least 1993. It was formally concluded in 2000 with the Arusha Peace and Reconciliation Agreement, which had been brokered by South Africa, personified by former president Mandela, who had taken over as mediator after the death of former Tanzanian president Julius Nyerere (Bentley and Southall 2005). The general formula of this Arusha Agreement might be labeled “ethnic power sharing” or, in the terminology of Arend Lijphart (1977), “consociationalism.” With the exception of a brief democratic interlude in 1993 (Reyntjens 1993), power had ever since independence been monopolized by the around 15 percent Tutsi (Lemarchand 1997), but the new general formula entailed a fifty-fifty sharing of power between the two ethnic groups (Sullivan 2005). During the first eighteen months of the transition period until the adoption of a new constitution and the holding of democratic elections, the incumbent (Tutsi) president Buyoya was further

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obliged to share power with a Hutu vice president, who was then supposed to succeed him as interim president. An important and controversial element in this peace agreement was the armed forces, which had been deeply involved in the civil war, but which were themselves divided. Hence, the Arusha agreement was followed up with negotiations in South Africa on the “details,” producing in October 2003 a “Pretoria Protocol on Political Defence and Security Power Sharing,” accompanied by a detailed “Forces Technical Agreement,” both signed by the transitional government and the main (Hutu) rebel movement, the CNDD-FDD (Conseil National pour la défense de la démocratie—Force pour la défense de la démocratie).3 These documents envisaged the creation of a new army, the Burundi National Defense Force (BNDF), which should, likewise, be ethnically mixed according to the fifty-fifty formula and comprise members of the (mainly Tutsi) former Burundi Armed Forces (FAB) as well as those of the FDD. However, the BNDF should also be open to “the combatants of other armed political parties,” a clause that was presumably added in order to be able to entice the remaining “spoilers” to sign up and lay down their arms—mainly the only remaining armed rebel force, Agathon Rwasa’s faction of the Palipehutu-FNL. The CNDD-FDD was guaranteed 40 percent of the senior officer positions (Alusa 2005). Perhaps equally significant, a similar formula was applied to the new police force to be created, also incorporating the former gendarmerie, in which the FDD was likewise guaranteed 35 percent of the force. As an interim measure, it was decided to establish joint military units comprising members of the FDD and the FAB. It was further decided to reorient the new BNDF toward national defense as well as “in exceptional circumstances,” toward the upholding of public order, and even to participate in peace support operations. The goal being a professionalization in the sense of Huntington (1957) of the armed forces, it was stipulated that personnel of the BNDF be not allowed to belong to political parties or take part in political activities, except for their right to vote in elections. Provisions were also made for ensuring civilian supremacy and control over the military. While these agreements would seem to provide the competing parties with some security, there was also an acknowledged need for an international presence. The initial mission was simply to protect the transitional government, for which purpose South Africa made available a “South African Protection Support Detachment” of more than 800 troops, with UN endorsement (in Security Council resolution 1375 of October 29, 2001), albeit without any formal mandate and officially operating under the auspices of the African Union (AU). Subsequently, the AU mandated a proper peacekeeping operation, AMIB, to oversee the cantonment and

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disarmament of the combatants and staffed by South Africa, Ethiopia, and Mozambique (Bentley and Southall 2005: 85–90). As far as implementation is concerned, the Pretoria Protocol stipulated an internationally supervised DDR process for the troops supposed to leave the ranks, commencing with the cantonment of forces, followed by a training program for the new armed forces (Frey and Boshoff 2005). According to most observers this comprehensive peace deal has been satisfactorily implemented, as a referendum on the new constitution has been conducted, democratic elections held, and so on (Peterson 2006), allowing for some cautious optimism about the future of this war-ravaged country. In September 2006, a cease-fire was even signed, at long last, with the FNL, thereby bringing the last remnants of the war to an end (IRIN News, September 7, 2006).

Sudan By 2005–06, it seemed that the Sudanese civil war between the North and the South was coming to an end, at long last, even though the fate of the previous peace agreement, the Addis Ababa agreement of 1972 might caution against any optimism. Both contained provisions for power sharing, pertaining to the security sector also. The 1972 agreement between the government of Sudan (GOS), in casu the leftist military regime of Jafar Nimeiri, brought to an end the (first round of) the civil war, which had lasted since the eve of independence in 1956. Not only did it grant the South extensive autonomy, thereby excluding it from Islamic law, it also stipulated the integration of some of the former Anya-Nya rebels into the armed forces, mainly via cooptation. Rebel commander Joseph Lagu was given the post of major-general in the Sudan Armed Forces (SAF), a Joint Military Commission was established, and around 7,000 Anya-Nya troops were co-opted (Babikir and Özerdem 2003), but it seems that their loyalties remained with the South. Hence, when sharia was reintroduced by President Nimeiri with the September laws of 1983, the renewed armed insurgency actually commenced with the mutiny of former Anya-Nya troops. In the subsequent phases of the war almost all the southerners deserted from the government army to join the “Anya-Nya II” and then the SPLM/A, Sudan People’s Liberation Movement/Army (Johnson 2003: 59–62). The resulting (second round of the) civil war, lasting from 1983 to 2005, mainly pitted the GOS against the SPLM/A, but it also saw some instances of the partial co-optation of various rebel formations into the total GOS military posture, albeit not within the regular/statutory forces but as auxiliaries, that is, pro-government militias. Splinter groups from the SPLA were thus

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enticed to join the GOS side in return for various favors, including political concessions. The SPLA thus split in 1989 with the defection of Riek Machar; he was joined by many of his fellow Nuer, who formed what has been called both “SPLA-United,” “SPLA-Nasir,” the Sudan People’s Defence Forces (SPDF), and since 1994, the Southern Sudan Independence Movement. The regime in Khartoum skillfully pursued a divide-and-rule strategy by periodically supporting Machar’s SPLA and other rival movements, effectively transforming them into auxiliaries in its struggle against the late John Garang’s SPLA (Hutchinson 2001; Johnson 2003: 111–26; Young 2003). These splinter groups played more or less the same roles as were played by the Bagerra Arab militias in the Baar-al-Gazaal province and as presently played by the Janjaweed in Darfur (Flint and de Waal 2005: 40–46; Prunier 2005: 97–102). Most of them were (at least formally) subsumed under the auspices of the so-called CDF (Civil Defense Forces). In most cases, however, the divide-and-rule tactics on the part of GOS yielded merely temporary advantages, as the strange bedfellows soon fell out with each other and the former splinter groups returned to the SPLA fold. Some have, however, remained in a “swing position” and may represent problems for the final settlement between GOS and the SPLA (ASAP 2004). The Comprehensive Peace Agreement (CPA) that was signed between the two sides in January 2005,4 represented the outcome of a long series of negotiations following the signing of the so-called Machakos Protocol of 2002 (Adar et al. 2004). It stipulated a provisional political and military dispensation for the Sudan, combining partial self-rule for the South with a share of political power in the whole country for a 6-year interim period. At the end of this period, a referendum is to be held in the South on whether to remain within the Sudan or to secede and form an independent state (Branch and Mampilly 2005). This general agreement was followed by detailed agreements on power sharing, on the sharing of wealth (mainly the revenues from the oil fields, most of which happen to be located almost on the border between North and South), and on security matters, all of which were wrapped up and finalized in the CPA. The provisional nature of the peace agreement entails the need for planning for two very different contingencies, under conditions of an almost complete absence of mutual trust. The GOS suspects the SPLA of really wanting to secede and only pretending, for tactical reasons, to favor unity with the North; and the SPLA, likewise, suspects the GOS of not being willing to allow the South to secede, should it want to do so—either by not allowing the promised referendum to take place, by rigging it, or by simply refusing to take no (to unity) for an answer and renege on its commitment to accept the result. The stipulations of the CPA with regard to the armed forces are therefore rather equivocal, as the two (main) sides to the conflict

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are supposed to both merge their armies and keep them separate. In the “Agreement on Security Arrangements during the Interim Period”5 the rather convoluted formulation is as follows: “As part of a peace agreement and in order to end the war, the Parties agree that the two forces, the SAF and the SPLA shall remain separate during the Interim Period, and further agree that both forces shall be considered and treated equally as Sudan’s National Armed Forces during the Interim Period.” The parties further agreed to a comprehensive cease-fire, followed by a redeployment of forces (those of GOS to be withdrawn from the South and vice versa) and to undertake, at an indeterminate point in the future, a proportional downsizing of their forces. Bearing in mind the “post-interim period,” the so-called joint/integrated units are to be formed, comprising equal numbers of SAF and SPLA. If the future referendum confirms unity, these units are supposed to constitute “a nucleus of a post-referendum army of Sudan,” but if not, they are to be dissolved and their component parts absorbed by their respective force (art. 4). These forces are not envisioned as merely symbolic, as indicated by their stipulated size of 24,000 in Southern Sudan, 6,000 in both the Nuba Mountains and southern Blue Nile provinces and 3,000 in Khartoum, that is, a total of 39,000 troops. In the course of the interim period, the chiefs of staff of the two armies, forming a Joint Defense Board (JDB), shall further develop a common military doctrine, the guideline for which shall be national defense (art. 5–6). By implication, the SPLA has now become part of the SAF (Sudan Armed Forces) whilst at the same time retaining its separate identity—and with a possible future role, five years hence, as the armed forces of an independent South Sudan. Arguably, they are thus being transformed into a kind of pro-state militia. At least as challenging may be the stipulation that the two sides agree that “No armed group allied to either party shall be allowed to operate outside the two forces,” (art. 7). This would seem to pertain to not only the various elements in the CDF mentioned above as well as the Janjaweed, but also to the allies of the SPLA such as the SLA (Sudan Liberation Army) operating in Darfur. It is envisaged that members of their irregular forces “who have the desire and qualify” are to be incorporated into the organized forces of their respective side, either in the armed forces or in the police, prisons, or wildlife forces (art. 7b). It was, by the time of writing, too early to assess the implementation of these various agreements, but a draft interim constitution for Southern Sudan had been written,6 which, tellingly, refers to “the defense of Southern Sudan” as “an honor and a duty of every citizen in Southern Sudan” (art. 45.1). In the chapter on the armed forces (articles 151–59) however, the wording and spirit of the CPA are more appropriately reflected, and the

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SPLA is described as “a regular, professional, patriotic, productive, disciplined, non-partisan military force subordinate to civilian authority” (art. 155.1). It has been charged with, among other tasks, defending “the territorial integrity of Southern Sudan” against both external and internal threats (art. 155.2). It was further stipulated that no other armed forces be allowed in the South (art. 155.4). Similar formulations had been included in the draft of the amended constitution of all of Sudan, dated March 2005.7 The implied metamorphosis of the SPLA from a rebel army to a regional territorial defense (“home guard”) with the option of becoming a national army thus seems underway as far as planning is concerned. However, it remains to be seen whether it will be implemented, and whether both sides (but especially the GOS) will be able to “reign in the dogs of war,” that is, the various militias and other nonstatutory forces, that they have unleashed, to establish a (shared) Weberian monopoly on the legitimate use of force, which still seems to be the ultimate goal.

Conclusion In all the cases considered, integration of former adversarial armed formations has been seen by the parties to the peace processes, international actors, and transitional governments alike as a critical tool for the success of war-to-peace and democratic transitions, aiming to create a national defense force, preferably to be put in place before the transitional elections. Moreover, the construction of a centralized system of state security, based on a national defense force and national police service incorporating former adversaries, seems to have been seen as essential for stability and national reconciliation in postconflict situations. There thus appears to be a contingent relationship between successful military integration, and state building. If historically, in Europe, “war made the state and the state made war,” a case could be made for Africa that ending civil wars through, in part, military integration, has been essential to making the postconflict state. This however does not logically invalidate the alternative view that the state as an institution is ill suited for Africa, which might have been better off with other forms of governance (Davidson 1992). Furthermore, the character of the state and the polity that emerges from the process appears to be affected by the degree of success and the character of military integration. Even though the representativity and legitimacy of the new national armed forces are presumably improved by the integration of former adversaries, this does not automatically make

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them better at their tasks. If they fail with regard to capacity, professionalism, or responsiveness to the needs of local communities, the various experiences from Africa seem to indicate that the citizens will take matters into their own hands, creating nonstate security forces, as described in other chapters in this book. Notes 1. Even though this was actually a government victory, the war formally ended with the Luena Accords of April 2002, providing also for the integration of UNITA officers into the armed forces and the police, and the establishment of a Joint Military Commission (ICG 2003). 2. See the web pages of the two missions at www.monuc.org/ and www.consilium. europa.eu/cms3_fo/ (accessed November 1, 2006). 3. www.issafrica.org/AF/profiles/Burundi/ptaprot.pdf and www.issafrica.org/AF/ profiles/Burundi/fta.pdf (accessed November 1, 2006). 4. www.issafrica.org/AF/profiles/sudan/darfur/compax/index.htm (accessed November 1, 2006). 5. www.issafrica.org/AF/profiles/sudan/darfur/compax/securityagmt.pdf (accessed November 1, 2006). 6. www.issafrica.org/AF/profiles/sudan/southinterimsep05.pdf (accessed November 1, 2006). 7. www.issafrica.org/AF/profiles/sudan/constdr (accessed November 1, 2006).

Bibliography Adar, Korwa, John G. Nyuot Yoh and Eddy Maloka (eds.) (2004). Sudan Peace Process. Challenges and Future Prospects. Pretoria: Africa Institute of South Africa. Alusa, Nelson (2005). Disarmament and the Transition in Burundi: How Soon? ISS Paper, no. 97. Pretoria: Institute for Security Studies. ASAP (2004). The South Sudan Defence Forces (SSDF): A Challenge to the Sudan Peace Process. Pretoria: Institute for Security Studies. Babikir, Mohammed Hassan and Alpaslan Özerdem (2003). A Future Disarmament, Demobilisation and Reintegration Process in Sudan: Lessons Learned from Ethiopia, Mozambique and Uganda. Conflict, Security and Development, 3 (2): 211–32. Ball, Nicole (1997). Demobilizing and Reintegrating Soldiers: Lessons from Africa, in Krishna Kumar (ed.). Rebuilding Societies after Civil War: Critical Roles for International Assistance. Boulder: Lynne Rienner. 85–106. Bentley, Kristina A and Roger Southall (2005). An African Peace Process. Mandela, South Africa and Burundi. Pretoria: HSRC Press. Bond, Patrick and Manyanya (2002). Zimbabwe’s Plunge. Exhausted Nationalism, Neoliberalism and the Search for Social Justice. Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press.

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Boshoff, Henri (2005). Update on the Status of Army Integration in the DRC, Situation Report 2. Pretoria: Institute for Security Studies. Branch, Adam and Zachariah Cherian Mampilly (2005). Winning the War, but Losing the Peace? The Dilemma of SPLM/A Civil Administration and the Way Ahead. Journal of Modern African Studies, 43 (1): 1–20. Cawthra, Gavin (1997). Securing South Africa’s Democracy: Defence, Development and Security in Transition. London: Macmillan. ——— (2005). Governance of Security in South Africa. African Security Review, 14 (3): 95–105. Chitiyo, Knox and Martin Rupiya (2005). Tracking Zimbabwe’s Political History: The Zimbabwe Defence Force from 1980–2005, in Martin Rupiya (ed.). Evolutions and Revolutions: A Contemporary History of Militaries in Southern Africa. Pretoria: Institute for Security Studies. 331–64. Clark, John F (ed.) (2002). The African Stakes of the Congo War. Houndmills, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Coghlan B., R.J. Brennan, P. Ngoy, D. Dofara, B. Otto, M. Clements, and T. Stewart (2006). Mortality in the Democratic Republic of Congo. The Lancet, 367 (9504): 44–51. Davidson, Basil (1992). The Black Man’s Burden. Africa and the Curse of the NationState. London: James Currey. Dzinesa, Gwinyayi (2006). Disarmament, Demobilisation, Reintegration and Resettlement (DDRRR) in Zimbabwe, Namibia and South Africa. Johannesburg: University of the Witwatersrand (unpublished PhD thesis). Flint, Julie and Alex de Waal (2005). Darfur: A Short History of a Long War. London: Zed Books. Frey, Waldemar and Henri Boshoff (2005). Burundi’s DDR and the Consolidation of the Peace. African Security Review, 14 (4): 43–46. Harbom, Lotta, Stina Högbladh, and Peter Wallensteen (2006). Armed Conflicts and Peace Agreements. Journal of Peace Research, 43 (5): 617–31. Hoddie, Matthew and Caroline Hartzell (2003). Civil War Settlements and the Implementation of Military Power-Sharing Arrangements. Journal of Peace Research, 40 (3): 303–20. Howe, Herbert M (2001). Ambiguous Order: Military Forces in African State, Boulder: Lynne Rienner. Huntington, Samuel P (1957). The Soldier and the State: The Theory and Politics of Civil-Military Relations. Cambridge, Ma: The Belknap Press. Hutchinson, Sharon E (2001). A Curse from God? Religious and Political Dimensions of the post-1991 Rise of Ethnic Violence in South Sudan. Journal of Modern African Studies, 29 (2): 307–31. International Crisis Group (ICG) (2003). Dealing with Savimbi’s Ghost: The Security and Humanitarian Challenges in Angola. Africa Report 58. Brussels: International Crisis Group. ——— (2006). Security Sector Reform in the Congo. Africa Report 104. Brussels: International Crisis Group. IRIN News (2006). “DRC: 18 Army Brigades to Provide Security During Polls,” May 9.

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——— (2006). “Burundi: Last Rebel Group Signs Cease-fire with Government,” September 7. Johnson, Douglas H (2003). The Root Causes of Sudan’s Civil War. Oxford: James Currey. Keen, David (2005). Conflict and Collusion in Sierra Leone. Oxford: James Currey. Kibasomba, Roger (2005). Post-War Defence Integration in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. ISS Paper no. 119. Pretoria: Institute for Security Studies. Kingma, Kees (ed.) (2000). Demobilization in Sub-Saharan Africa: The Development and Security Impacts. Basingstoke, UK: Macmillan. Krieger, Norma (2003). Guerilla Veterans in Post-War Zimbabwe: Symbolic and Violent Politics, 1980–1987. Cambridge. UK: Cambridge University Press. Le Roux, Len (2005). The Post-apartheid South African Military: Transforming the Nation,” in Martin Rupiya (ed.). Evolutions and Revolutions: A Contemporary History of Militaries in Southern Africa. Pretoria: Institute for Security Studies. 235–68. Lemarchand, René (1997). Burundi. Ethnic Conflict and Genocide. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Lijphart, Arend (1977). Democracy in Plural Societies. New Haven, NJ: Yale University Press. Lilly, Damian (2005). Faltering Reform of the Security Sector Impedes the DRC Peace Process. Conflict Security and Development, 5 (3): 371–79. Lundin, Irae B, Martinho Chachiua, Anthonio Gaspar, Habiba Guebuzua, and Guilherme Mbilana (2000). Reducing Costs through an Expensive Exercise: The Impact of Demobilisation in Mozambique, in Kees Kingma (ed.). Demobilisation in Sub-Saharan Africa: The Development and Security Impacts. Basingstoke, UK: Macmillan. 173–212. Macaringue, Paulino (2005). Civil-Military Relations in Post–cold war Mozambique, in Rocky Williams, Gavin Cawthra and Diane Abrahams (eds.). Ourselves to Know: Defence Transformation in Southern Africa., Pretoria: Institute for Security Studies. 137–51. Malache, Adriano, Paulino Macaringue, and Joao-Paulo Borges Coelho (2005). Profound Transformations and Regional Conflagrations: The History of Mozambique’s Armed Forces from 1975–2005, in Martin Rupiya (ed.). Evolutions and Revolutions: A Contemporary History of Militaries in Southern Africa. Pretoria: Institute for Security Studies. 155–97. MONUC Release (2006). “MONUC Calls for Zero Tolerance for Violation by the Military,” May 10. Motumi, Tsepe (2000). Defence Demobilisation and Rationalisation in Southern Africa. Johannesburg: University of the Witswatersrand (unpublished MA thesis). Ndlovu-Gatsheni, Sabelo J, (2002). The Post-Colonial State and Matabeleland: Regional Perceptions of Civil-Military Relations, 1980–2002, in Rocky Williams, Gavin Cawthra and Diane Abrahams (eds.). Ourselves to Know: Defence Transformation in Southern Africa. Pretoria: Institute for Security Studies. 17–38. Ngoga, Pascal (1998). Uganda: The National Resistance Army, in Christopher Clapham (ed.). African Guerillas. Oxford: James Currey. 91–106.

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Nzongola-Ntalaja, Georges (2002). The Congo: From Leopold to Kabila. London: Zed Books. Peterson, Dave (2006). Burundi’s Transition. A Beacon for Central Africa. Journal of Democracy, 17 (1): 125–31. Pool, David (2001). From Guerillas to Government: The Eritrean People’s Liberation Front. Oxford: James Currey. Porto, João Gomes and Imogen Parsons (2003). Sustaining the Peace in Angola: An Overview of Current Demobilisation, Disarmament and Reintegration. ISS Monograph, no. 83. Pretoria: Institute for Security Studies. Prunier, Gérard (2005) Darfur. The Ambiguous Genocide. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Rauch, Janine (2004). Police Reform and South Africa’s Transition. Johannesburg: Centre for the Study of Violence and Reconciliation. www.kas.org.za/ Publications/SeminarReports/crimeandpolicingintransitionalsocieties/rauch. pdf (accessed November 1, 2006). Republic of South Africa (1993). Interim Constitution of the Republic of South Africa. Cape Town: Republic of South Africa (Act 200 of 1993). Reyntjens, Filip (1993). The Proof of the Pudding Is in the Eating: The June 1993 Elections in Burundi. The Journal of Modern African Studies, 31 (4): 563–83. Rogier, Emeric (2004). The Inter-Congolese Dialogue: A Critical Overview, in Mark Malan and João Gomes Porto (eds.). Challenges of Peace Implementation: The UN Mission in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Pretoria: Institute for Security Studies. 25–42. Rupiya, Martin (1995). Demobilisation and Integration: “OperationMerger” and the Zimbabwe National Defence Forces, 1980–1987, in Jakkie Cilliers (ed.). Dismissed: Demobilisation and Reintegration of Former Combatants in Africa. Pretoria: Institute for Defence Policy. 27–44. ——— (2002). A Political and Military Review of Zimbabwe’s Involvement in the Second Congo War, in John F. Clark (ed.). The African Stakes of the Congo War. Houndmills, Basingstoke, UK: Palgrave Macmillan. 93–105. Shaw, Mark (1995). Negotiating Defence for a New South Africa, in Jakkie Cilliers and Markus Reichardt (eds.). About Turn: The Transformation of the South African Military and Intelligence. Pretoria: Institute for Defence Policy. 9–34. Snyder, Jack and Robert Jervis (1999). Civil War and the Security Dilemma, in Barbara F. Walter and Jack Snyder (eds.). Civil Wars, Insecurity, and Intervention. New York: Columbia University Press. 15–37. Sullivan, Daniel P (2005). The Missing Pillars: A Look at the Failures of Peace in Burundi through the Lens of Arend Lijphart’s Theory of Consociational Democracy. The Journal of Modern African Studies, 43 (1): 75–95. Weber, Max (1958). Politics as Vocation, in Hans Heinrich Gerth and C Wright Mills (eds.). From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology. New York: Galaxy Books. 77–128. Williams, Rocklyn (2002). Integration or Absorption? The Creation of the SA National Defence Force 1993–1999. African Security Review 11 (2): 17–25. Young, John (2003). Sudan: Liberation Movements, Regional Armies, Ethnic Militias and Peace. Review of African Political Economy, 30 (97): 423–34.

9

Insecurity, State, and Impunity in Latin America Finn Stepputat

State Failure in Latin America? To most people it would amount to a gross exaggeration to consider the label of failed or fragile states when analyzing Latin American and Caribbean states. With some exceptions, such as Haiti, the state in this region is far better endowed in terms of resources, capacities, and institutional infrastructure than most states in Africa, not to speak of Afghanistan and other states in Central Asia. In fact some would argue that the state has been “too strong” in Latin America, where security forces have heavyhandedly repressed protesting citizens, subjected entire populations to systems of surveillance, and controlled large sectors of the economy. And yet, many states in the region seem unable to exercise effective legal authority or monopoly of force. From murder to tax evasion, lawbreaking goes unpunished. Swaths of urban areas in the region are no-go areas for ordinary police patrols. Criminal networks are able to put megacities such as Rio de Janeiro or São Paolo to a standstill, as it happened in 2003 and 2006. Citizens in urban as well as rural areas experience pervasive everyday insecurity. Justified or not by the statistical evidence of crime,1 they loathe the daily encounters in public space, fear being trapped in cross fire when armed gangs attack buses and “taxi” drivers and passengers, fear having their kids kidnapped on the way back from school, or fear coming home to find their doors broken in by thieves, to mention but a few of the public scares so widespread in the region. The aim of this chapter is partly polemical, since an analysis of state failure in the lower- and middle-income countries of Latin America challenges some preconceived ideas about states and state failure. The notion

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of state failure, we argue in the introduction, is based on normative assumptions about ideal states, which may mislead analytical engagement with concrete problems and strategies of state making. As Hurrell puts it, “Latin American states, even relatively effective and efficient ones, have never been particularly striking examples of Weberian rationality” (Hurrell 1998: 542). Historically, as the chapter shows, state institutions have been embedded in informal and private networks of power upon which regimes have relied for their survival and their management of territory and population. This condition has not changed, but the forms and effects of network influence on security governance have undergone considerable transformation during the past twenty years. Thus, states may be strong in terms of securing regimes’ survival but weak in terms of providing everyday security for the population. In the case of Latin America, crime, violence, and impunity create insecurity for the population. In the context of newly established democratic regimes, the inefficiency, or inappropriateness of the justice or security sectors may endanger the legitimacy of the political system as a whole and the authority of the state as the final arbiter in questions of life and death. Latin America is characterized by having gone through a striking transformation of political and economic systems during the 1980s and 90s. Military dictatorships have been dismantled and democratized, and closed, state-centered economies have been opened up to privatization and global competition. But whereas citizens have gained political rights across Latin America, everyday insecurity has invariably become an immense preoccupation of the population. At the turn of the millennium, crime and insecurity had become the second most important public concern across the region, next only to the issue of economy (The Economist 2004). Huge regional disparities in crime rates belie the relative uniformity of the public debate on insecurity, but the average for Latin America—if we take homicide as a proxy for crime—has grown and was 2–3 times the global average at the turn of the century (see table 9.1).2 Confronted with the incapacity of the state to solve the problems of insecurity, people have taken to the streets, engaging in mass protests against the governments in for example Mexico and Argentina. This chapter gives a historical perspective on sources and patterns of insecurity in Latin America and how they relate to the states’ development. Recognizing the huge differences within the region, the chapter discusses the current transformation in the patterns of insecurity and security governance by focusing on gangs and drug trade in Central America, in particular on the problems of corruption and impunity, in the case of Guatemala. The Central American countries are increasingly seen by the United States in terms of the threats they represent to national security

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Table 9.1 Homicide rates in low- and middle-income countries ca. 2000 Low- and middle-income countries in (WHO regions)

Homicides per 100,000 male inhabitants

The Americas Africa Europe Eastern Mediterranean Southeast Asia Western Pacific Total rates for low- and middle-income countries Total rates for high-income countries Total rates for all countries

27.5 22.2 14.8 7.2 5.8 3.8 10.1 2.9 8.8

Source: WHO (2002). World report on violence and health. Geneva WHO.

rather than the economic opportunities they represent to the business community. As a recent U.S. Congress hearing on Gangs and Crime in Latin America noted, “States in the region that do not overcome their ‘cultures of lawlessness’ pose a serious risk to our national security. We must fully understand this and recognize that the region’s crime problems are OUR problems as well; and that we have a responsibility to help.”3 According to this hearing, the major transmission belts of security threats are the increasing drug trafficking, the migration-related Hispanic gangs that have spread from the United States to Central America and have engaged in human as well as drug trafficking, and the speculative links that may ensue between these gangs and Al Qaeda-like terrorist networks which would exploit the gangs’ expertise in human smuggling (U.S. Government 2006). But how have these “cultures of lawlessness” come into being and why have some states not overcome such problems? Sources of Insecurity: A Historical View When compared with other continents, interstate war has been relatively rare in Latin America.4 Regional cooperation has been on the agenda since the conception of the states and was institutionalized, as the first of its kind, in 1890 with the creation of the Pan-American Union. With the exception perhaps of the Colombian-Venezuelan relations, the notion of cooperative security is a mantra in the region, and the agreement to end nuclear competition between Argentina and Brazil, as well as the regional efforts to end the cold war fueled conflicts in Central America are recent examples of effective regional cooperation in the field of security (Narich 2003).

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In a historical perspective, the major sources of violence have been struggles over the control of the state, and different forms of social violence related to the patrimonial and exclusive form of governance in combination with the state’s lack of effective monopoly of force. Ideas of state, nation, and modern governance developed and circulated at more or less the same time in Europe and Latin America, but despite embracing modern ideas and techniques of state making, Latin American state incumbents never succeeded in establishing anything resembling fully sovereign states with centralized control over the entire territory and population. During the nineteenth and well into the twentieth century, we may characterize most of the Latin American states as mediated states (see Menkhaus, chapter 4), a form of de facto indirect rule. State control to a large degree depended on negotiated alliances with regional and rural elites, local strongmen, and collective actors such as indigenous communities, or social movements that have been granted, positively or by default, authority within specific territories or networks. Even after national armies and police forces were established in the late nineteenth century, security and everyday law enforcement—including land, labor and vagrancy laws that provided forced or debt-bonded labor for agriculture, road building and other public works—was taken care of by hacienda or plantation owners’ private police, voluntary police forces, local or regional militiamen, and so on. Likewise, the access to justice for subaltern classes often depended on the very same men who meted out violence in struggles over land and labor, the two major contested resources in most regions. Overlapping claims and incomplete registers still constitute a major source of the endemic conflicts over land. Since the nineteenth century, justice systems in Latin America have been characterized by a gap between a fairly progressive criminal law on one side and on the other, an “inquisitorial” set of laws and practices regulating the criminal procedure, which in many aspects have continued the practices of colonial authorities (Duce and Perdomo 2003). In this system, judge and prosecutor is basically one, there are no juries, no oral hearings, and only minimal contact between the accused and the judge. Accusations may be kept as a secret from the accused and the whole process is highly formalistic with an emphasis on written evidence and declarations. Furthermore, the higher courts are not only instances of appeal, but also function rather as instances of control of lower courts. This system evolved in the context of ideas of scientific racism which, within nineteenth century-criminology, characterized illiterate and nonwhite people as “savages” or “semi-civilized.” They could not be held responsible for their acts and were regarded as objects of the law rather than subjects with rights. The highly centralized and conservative nature of the system ensured that the oligarchies would not have their interests threatened through the

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legal system. It has been a mainstay of the oligarchic control of state institutions with a legacy that has endured throughout the twentieth century in terms of excessively long and inefficient procedures, a very high number of prisoners with no sentence, and pervasive impunity with only a few percentages of reported cases leading to conviction. As suggested by the status of “savage” and “semi-civilized” people in the justice system, state makers in general did not manage to create nations in which the different ethnic groups were integrated on an equal footing. Despite modern constitutions that recognize all inhabitants as equal citizens, states have been characterized by a deep split between citizens and subjects as in colonial and postcolonial Africa.5 The postcolonial states abolished the racial colonial categories and removed special taxes, delimitations, and privileges of Indian communities. However, liberal land and labor laws enabled the alienation of land of former Indian communities, and since there was a dominating perception that citizenship should be conditional upon education, property and gender, former Indians were effectively denied political and civil rights and subject to exclusion and marginalization. This has constituted other sources of violence during the twentieth century in terms of everyday social violence, occasional outbursts of collective violence, and by feeding into national popular organizations and—when violently repressed—revolutionary movements. Thus, a qualified hypothesis would suggest that the discrimination encountered by poor (and darkerskinned) people when moving from the rural areas to the cities or entering secondary and higher education, has constituted a consistent source of tension, political mobilization, and violence, be it criminal or political.

From National Security to the “Democratization of Violence” The autocratic, militaristic, and populist regimes that characterized the Latin American states in the middle of the twentieth century brought an unprecedented degree of centralization and monopolization of the capacity for violence. The armed forces remained primarily oriented toward the maintenance of internal order, as oligarchic power in many countries was challenged by the growing political influence of the middle class, the unions, and popular organizations. In the context of the national security doctrine of the cold war, and assisted by the United States, armed forces were strengthened and new forms of repression developed to keep contestations at bay. Strong military establishments developed alongside relatively weak civil institutions. Repression and the lack of alternative avenues for political influence contributed to the development of armed resistances, but the state remained overall the most encompassing source of everyday insecurity.

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Within the security forces, the different branches of the police were accorded the part as the militarized but poor cousins of the military. The role of the police was primarily to identify and control threats to the regime. Rather than preventing or investigating crime, police forces reacted to crime through detentions and interrogations used to produce confessions. Popular confidence in the police was very limited, and the restrained relation between the police and the populations is one of the legacies of the authoritarian regimes after these regimes were overturned during the latter part of the twentieth century. Lack of confidence in the police is one of the main reasons for the low level of crime-reporting that has characterized Latin American countries. This, together with the limited capacity for investigation and an extremely slow and bureaucratic justice system explains the critically high level of impunity on the continent. As an illustrative example 96 percent of crimes in Mexico went unpunished between 1996 and 2003, while in Brazil only 8 percent of an estimated 50,000 annual homicides were successfully prosecuted (The Economist 2004). Parallel to the wave of democratization, most Latin American countries went through a period of structural adjustment and opening of comparatively weak, national economies to international competition. The 1980s, commonly known as the “lost decade,” produced an economic downturn from which the region was barely recuperating by the mid1990s. Unemployment, poverty, and crime rates increased, state-run social services and infrastructure soared, and the economy was increasingly informalized. Between 1980 and 2000, the number of urban workers employed in the formal sector fell from 60 to 41 percent, and in the period 1990–97, seven out of ten jobs were created in the informal sector (Briceño-Leon and Zubillaga 2002). Unemployment, poverty, and the insecure conditions of informal employment and hustling seem to have hit the youth harder than average, and dropout rates from schools are high in the poorer neighborhoods (Briceño-Leon and Zubillaga 2002; Sanchez 2006). The pervasive informalization (as well as privatization) has had effects in terms of the reach of state institutions as well as labor unions and formal civil society organizations. Even though the authority of Latin American states historically has been challenged, and even controlled, by nonstate actors, analysts tend to characterize the current phase by the existence of a “plurality of social authorities” (Moser and McIlwaine 2005). This applies to the use of force as well. Thus Kruijt and Koonings (1999) suggest that violence has been “democratized” in the sense that many social actors apart from the elite and the state institutions command some measure of control over means of violence with have a wide range of different agendas for the use of violence.

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Before we continue to describe the resulting model of public security that seems to be emerging in Latin America, we will have a closer look at the linkages between insecurity and the state in some of the Central American states, more specifically focusing on the phenomenon of youth gangs and the reproduction of impunity.

The Crisis of Public Security in Central America As in many other cases of armed conflict, peace accords in Central America did not result in eradication or even mitigation of violence. Rather, peace was marked by the transformation of violence from political to mainly criminal violence (Kurtenbach 2002). Homicide rates in El Salvador, Honduras, and Guatemala are now among the highest in the world, sometimes even surpassing Colombian rates.6 The legacy of armed conflict has often been offered as an explanation of the high levels of violence in the region; however, Nicaragua, which according to homicide statistics is comparatively safer, and Honduras, which did not go through an open armed conflict but has very high rates, challenge simplistic explanations. The situation has generally been characterized as a “crisis of public security” and as elsewhere in Latin America, concerns have grown in the population over the security situation. Violence is mainly social, including crime-related violence, fights, and domestic violence (in particular femicide, which in Guatemala, for example, has caused alarm recently because of the executionlike murders of hundreds of women every year), and a few but politically significant murders of political representatives, human rights activists, journalists, and legal operators. The reasons for the upsurge in crime and violence subsequent to the armed conflicts are many. Abundance of weapon, demobilization of armed forces, and a persistent “culture of violence” are often mentioned as causing violence, and so is the economic and social crisis which the Central American countries are going through. GNPs may be growing (in El Salvador and Guatemala), but the industrial and agricultural production is going down, partly as a result of the dwindling protection from global competition. Inequality, which is a far better determinant of crime and violence than poverty as such (Fajnzylber et al. 1998), has grown, and unemployment is endemic. Thus, while expectations from peace dividends and democratization ran high in the mid-1990s, a general feeling of deception and disappointment characterizes the former conflict areas in the new millennium. In general terms, economic growth has been generated through migration to Mexico, the United States, and Costa Rica, through the recirculation of

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profits from the booming drug trade, and through aid (in the case of Nicaragua in particular). As a result of the intensified and coordinated control of drug trafficking in the Caribbean, in the 1990s, Central America, in particular Nicaragua, Honduras, and Guatemala, became the main route for cocaine and heroin traffic from Colombia to the Unites States. Drug trafficking has facilitated the incorporation of Central Americans in transnational networks of organized crime, dealing in weapons, stolen cars, kidnappings, human smuggling, and money laundering with huge consequences for the levels of corruption and structures of impunity. As a Guatemalan diplomat expressed the situation, the networks of organized crime have been much better and faster than the governments in adjusting to the current conditions of intensified globalization (Stein 2002). The drug trade has had consequences in terms of violence. Since illegal trade cannot be regulated by law, violence is the main means of regulation (Rodgers 2004a). Turf wars between different groups over routes and territories have contributed to the violence, together with increased access to weapon and higher domestic consumption of hard drugs, which leads to more crime and violent behavior (Dudley 1998; Rodgers 2003). While people in drug-trafficking areas are affected by these problems, many are profiting sufficiently to accept the status quo. But in the population at large, the increased levels of insecurity have been associated with the increasing visibility of youth gangs.

The Mara Scare As mentioned in the introduction, street gangs have recently become an issue for much preoccupation in Central America as well as the United States. Yet, it seems that the United States itself has had a share in the growth of the problem, in particular after 1996, when Immigration Laws were changed so as to allow U.S. authorities to send back immigrants who had served a sentence of one year or more. In 2004, for example, some 72,000 criminals were repatriated to Central America and Mexico. Guatemala (population of about 12 million) received 2,200, while El Salvador (6–7 million) received 2,600 criminals (USAid 2006). The street gang as a concept—the mara or pandilla—seems to appear in the region when urban migration took off in the 1960s and developed in the form of politically engaged youth groups in the 1970s and 80s.7 In the mid-1990s, maras were still mainly a matter of gaining social identity and engaging in petty crime as well as protecting neighborhoods from outside interference. But since the late 1990s, the gangs have grown more violent and less protective of local communities, as they have increasingly become

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engaged in drug abuse, drug distribution and drug trafficking (Rodgers 2003; USAid 2006). The numbers have also increased drastically, and guesstimates suggest that El Salvador has some 10,000 gang members, Honduras may have 7,000, and Guatemala 14,000 by conservative and very insecure estimates and depending on how members are defined and counted (PINR 2005; USAid 2006). Authorities were ill prepared to handle U.S. deportations, and had little information on the background of the deportees, who, on their part, often had closer relations to U.S.-based gangs than they had to their countries of origin. In the United States, two gangs in particular, the Mara Salvatrucha (MS-13) and Mara 18 (emerging from the Los Angeles 18th Street gang) have grown influential among Spanish-speaking youth. With the deportations, they became increasingly transnational in their operations. They brought their U.S. networks to El Salvador and Honduras and extended their influence back toward the north, including the southern and northern borders of Mexico and the extensive drug- and human-trafficking business. It is widely assumed that the gangs are related to transnational organized crime, but it is unclear to which extent. Probably only a very limited number of people in the loosely organized networks of gangs maintain relations with transnational criminal organizations, while people in a second and larger circle take care of the control of transport routes. However, most gang members in Central America operate in limited geographical areas, engaging in the policing of their neighborhood where they control drug retailing, imposing “war taxes” on buses and lorries passing through their territories, and cultivating contacts for their protection in police and justice institutions. In El Salvador, gangs are said to control fifteen municipalities, and in Guatemala, their influence in the antinarcotic operation department was revealed in 2003, when 320 officers were dismissed because they were on gangs’ payrolls. Apart from the gang members proper, a large group of nonmember hangers-on and very young potential members surround the maras (USAid 2006). There have been two different kinds of institutional responses to the increasing problems of public security and the gang-related crime in particular. One has been Giulliano-style “zero tolerance” law enforcement policies which in the Central American versions, such as the Salvadoran and Honduran policies of mano dura (“hard hand”) and even mano superdura, have depended on exceptional measures authorized in harsh antigang laws. These have permitted police forces to operate under conditions of states of emergency, making massive detentions with few restrictions and with civil rights severely curtailed. Instead of reducing crime rates, the policies have lead to overcrowded prisons with suspected gang members who have been

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arrested on the basis of attire, attitudes, and visible tattoos. The alternative approach, emphasizing preventive and restorative measures, has characterized governmental policies in Panama (mano amiga—the “friendly hand” policy) and to some degree Nicaragua, where the problems of gang-related crime are less acute than in Honduras and El Salvador. The extreme media attention and the political focus on youth gangs as the prime cause of violence and fear have been challenged and commented from different perspectives. From a sociological perspective, the widespread talking about gangs is a common way of synthesizing the experience of things going the wrong way, of lack of control, and protection. The blaming of youth for the experience of insecurity seems to be a general characteristic of liberal “millennium capitalism” (Comaroff and Comaroff 2001). In Central America people, rightly or not, often link the phenomenon of gangs to the damaging and corrupting influence of migration on the youth and the threats this represents to the social coherence of families, communities, and nations (see e.g., Gutierrez and Kobrak 2001). From a different perspective, some analysts show via interviews and mind-maps that “institutional violence”—exercised by police, death squads, and military, taking the form of abuse by employees in the health and education sector, or of informal linkages between gangs and agents in the security and justice sector—is emphasized by people living in poorer neighborhoods as an important source of insecurity (Moser and McIlwaine 2005). Others point to the political convenience of having scapegoats to blame for the deteriorating security situation in Central America, a situation which is easier to confront by applying tough and supertough policies than by attending to the critical situation of social and economic marginalization and the costs of globalization and the economic policies that have come in its wake (CEG 2005). In the same vein, commentators have pointed to the geopolitical interests of the United States in emphasizing the problem of gangs in the Isthmus (PINR 2005). Apart from the linkages the gangs constitute between crime in Central America, Mexico and the United States, and the unlikely risk of Al Qaeda making use of the transnational maras for entering the United States, Washington may be in need of an issue of common interest, where the United States can pull the Central American states closer into their sphere of interest by helping controlling the problem. The HavanaCaracas axis of anti-Americanism is making inroads in Central America (and many other regions as evidenced by the applause President Chavez received in the UN for his anti-Bush speech in September 2006), and the previous project of further integration of the region through the Central American Free Trade Agreement (CAFTA) did not exactly further the popularity of the United States among the electorate in the region.

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Most importantly, however, criticism of the focus on gangs points to the lack of attention to the rampant “white collar crime” in Central America, and its negative effects in terms of impunity, corruption, organized crime, and violence (CEG 2005; USAid 2006). The following section gives a brief insight into the extent and dynamics of this problem.

The Case of Guatemala: Who Governs? Guatemala provides an illustrative, if extreme case of one of the key problems of everyday insecurity in Central America, the problem of impunity. Despite pervasive programs of reform and investment in the security and justice sectors (see, e.g., Call 2000; Glebbeek 2001; Pérez 2004), impunity continues to be rampant in Guatemala. State institutions are systematically unable to investigate, prosecute, sentence, and punish serious transgressions of the law, including drug trafficking, massive tax evasions, extrajudicial executions, death threats, and corruption. While the human rights situation in some ways seemed to be improving in the 1990s, it soon became increasingly dangerous to be associated with human rights advocacy and popular movements. Likewise, the operators of justice—judges, prosecutors and lawyers— have been hit hard by violence. In 2005, 6 judges and other personnel of the court were killed and of the 129 cases denounced, only 1 led to sentence (UN 2006). This situation has brought concerned observers to ask the question of who governs Guatemala? (Sieder et al. 2002). During the government of Portillo 2000–03, the influence of so-called hidden powers (Robles Montoya 2002; Peacock and Beltrán 2004) on key state institutions, including the very presidency, became a primary preoccupation in and not least outside Guatemala. Amnesty International (2002) dubbed the country a “corporate mafia state,” a Central American version of the “criminalization” of the states in African (see Bayart et al. 1999). This phenomenon was not novel in the country since, as we have described, historically, the lines between the state and networks of particular interests have always been blurred. But the armed conflict, the booming drug trade, the transnational criminal gangs, the international investment in peace and reconstruction, and the high expectations of change in Guatemala gave the problem a hitherto unseen urgency. Perhaps even more important, the revelations and preoccupations owe to the fact that the two major power-brokering institutions, the traditional elite8 and the military, have lost some of their influence and coherence. The traditional elite has been weakened by the globalization and removal of protective measures, but it has also found itself marginalized from power by the military and by groups associated with international crime, as became evident during the

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Portillo government. Moreover, the military as an institution seems to have lost power and cohesion after consecutive rounds of reductions in budgets and high-ranking officers, in addition to the disruptive effects it has had when presidents have appointed lower-ranking officers for top-level posts, thus breaking the hierarchical sequence of succession in the military. Today’s “hidden powers” consist of relatively small and occasionally competing groups of former officers who have served in the different national intelligence services as well as in leading positions in the army. One of the most influential groups,“The Brotherhood” (La Cofradía ), emerged from a small intelligence office that tracked arms trafficking by controlling the telephone network, that the guerrilla had built up in the capital around 1980. A closely related group has been put in place around the officer in charge of counterinsurgency controls in the customs from the late 1970s (Peacock and Beltrán 2004). In general, the intensified, military control of movement within and across boundaries gave high-ranking officers information and control over the multitude of small smuggling networks. This included in particular the drug trade that has grown steadily since the mid-1980s, when Guatemala became a main corridor for Colombian cocaine, in addition to being a drug producer. Curiously, the key person in the Cofradía network was the main contact of DEA in Guatemala when he was head of the military intelligence, which gave him unique insight in the counternarcotic techniques and strategies (Peacock and Beltrán 2004). While the networks are somewhat loosely organized, they are extremely coherent because of the military loyalty—in particular within promotions from the officers’ academy—and the widespread complicity in violence and human rights abuses during and after the armed conflict. The networks included armed civilians who served as commanders of civil patrols during the conflict in rural Guatemala. Many of these became implicated in human rights abuses and criminal undertakings. Secrecy is everything to these networks. Nevertheless fractures have appeared whenever the two main groups have competed for power.9 This, for example led to the ousting from public posts and to the opening of cases against the Cofradía, but even ten years later, no major case has led to conviction. Threats, murders, intimidation, and bribing have been used to avoid the conclusion of cases, in addition to the traditional means of foot-dragging, postponements, appeals, and so on. Some of the accused have enjoyed immunity due to their posts as congressmen. The international preoccupation over the close relations between the Portillo government and the Cofradía network led to the invitation in 2003 of UN to set up the Commission to Investigate Illegal Groups and Secret Security Organizations (CICIACS).10 This proposal was based on many years of experience from Guatemala showing that reform of the justice

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sector could not be carried out entirely from within, but needed the intervention of international investigators, courts, and human rights institutions. An accord was signed in 2003, but after advice from the Guatemala Constitutional Court regarding the constitutional amendments for giving up certain elements of national sovereignty, the congress disapproved the accord. Two years later, a modified version was finally agreed upon.11

Toward a New Latin American Model of Public Security Although alarming and exceptionally serious, the security crisis in Guatemala, El Salvador, and Honduras is not in its form much different from the crises elsewhere in Latin America. Nor are the emerging responses that have been summarized as “a new Latin American model of public security” (Kincaid and Gamarra 1996; Kincaid 2001). The model is characterized by the increased fragmentation of an incapable public security system and the rise of three alternative forms of action: (1) privatization, (2) militarization, and (3) informalization, the last of which takes a range of forms that corresponds to nonstate policing in Africa, as described in Bruce Baker’s contribution to this volume. 1. Privatization: As happens elsewhere in these years (and corresponding with historical trends, see van Creveld’s contribution), the number of private security guards in Latin America is growing day by day, now is far surpassing the number of police officers. They are occupied in protecting private and public enterprises, malls, gated communities, transportation of goods, and so on—a market which also has drawn the attention of public police forces who, officially or unofficially, provide paid services to particular neighborhoods or businesses (Frühling 2003; Sanchez 2006). The activities of private security companies are concentrated in affluent areas where the market is favorable. One researcher estimates that the expenses for security for a middle-class family in Brazil can add up to 20 percent of the income.12 Also in the countryside, large landowners have their private police forces, while armed, but unregistered guards accompany mayors, deputies, and others. The sector is growing rapidly, but the training is generally poor, and due laws, mechanisms, and capacities of control on the part of the state are developing very slowly. 2. Militarization: Latin America has a long tradition of subordination of the police to the military forces that have taken the main responsibility for public order. The progressive democratization of Latin American states did not have an immediate impact on the influence of the military on public security (Koonings 2001). Because of the logistical elements of

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drug trafficking, the military easily recognize drug and crime networks as an enemy in military terms, and large forces of heavily armed police, military police, and sections of the army are regularly deployed in raids in slum cities (Dudley 1998; LeoGrande 2006). There have been many attempts at reforming the police, its institutional frameworks, management, recruitment, education and training procedures, and the general attitude toward human rights, and civilian oversight and influence. Also extensive programs have aimed at improving the investigative, planning, and operational capacities, including the production of statistics and other forms of knowledge necessary for improving their operation and crime prevention work (Frühling 2003). However, these attempts have met with resistance from within and outside the police and the military. Even in the former areas of conflict in Central America where the international community has supported such reforms, there has been a tendency—a few years after the partial retreat of the military from public security—to recall the military to assist the police in combating crime in the form of joint operations and the use of military intelligence (Schirmer 1998; Chinchilla 2003; Pérez 2004). In many countries, the military and military intelligence continue to exert decisive influence on the civilian police and in the Ministry of the Interior.13 3. Informalization: The lack of law enforcement by public institutions and the general negative perception of police forces as being corrupt and incapable of preventing and handling crime lies behind the trend toward informalization of public security. Informal security provision comprises a range of forms which taken together resemble the continuum of state/nonstate or formal/informal policing that Baker suggests in his contribution (see chapter 6, this volume; Kincaid 2001). In one end, neighborhood or community watch groups have been organized in many areas where the population does not have the means to employ private security. These groups may be formed on the basis of preexisting community organizations, or organizations promoted by the state, such as counterinsurgency community defense groups (e.g., Peru, Guatemala, and Colombia) or the security committees that are generated as part of community policing programs (El Salvador, Costa Rica, Argentina, and Brazil).14 It is common for the latter to attempt to establish regular contacts of cooperation between police, citizens, civil and private organizations, as well as relevant public institutions in areas where mistrust and hostility against the police have hampered reporting and investigation of crime. In some cases, in particular when private businesspersons have been involved, the security committees tend to become vehicles for the establishment of private security forces (Tulchin and Golding 2003). In the other end of the spectrum, we may find local gangs also taking on security functions, as mentioned above, in their

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attempt to control territories and keep the population on their side (Dudley 1998). Even in this case, contacts with members of the police forces take place regularly, though unofficially (Rodgers 2003). Informalization can take very violent forms, both with and without relation to security forces. The operation of the ubiquitous death squads with participation by current or former members of security forces is often mentioned in the literature on Latin America as a legacy of the authoritarian regimes. Today, such groups, instead of targeting subversives, engage in campaigns of social cleansing of assumed criminals and gang members (Koonings 2001; Sanchez 2006). Lynching is a somewhat parallel phenomenon, an instance of popular justice that became widespread in rural as well as urban Latin America during the 1990s. Closer analysis of these seemingly spontaneous, communal outbursts of anger against assumed criminals reveals that the incidents depend on some measure of planning (provision of rope, gasoline etc.), and that they are meant for public (media) consumption (Godoy 2006). The act signals to potential criminals that they will be punished immediately if they commit crime. But furthermore, lynching may be interpreted as a political act in a situation where crime has turned into a crisis, a crisis which is provoked not so much by crime itself, as by the lack of institutional response and the feeling of not being protected. Through the actions of lynch mobs, a line is drawn between a passive, impotent, and occasionally hostile state, and the community that acts upon the situation and forges a form of coherence, perverse though it may be, in otherwise increasingly fragmented communities with large numbers of inhabitants going to the north. This emerging model has potentially far-reaching consequences for the ways in which society is organized and governed in Latin America.

Concluding Reflections on Violence and Governance in Latin America The new model of public security tends to reinforce a spatial pattern with increasingly differentiated and segregated neighborhoods where different kinds of security problems and solutions are developing (see Moser and Rodgers 2005; Sanchez 2006): Affluent areas are relatively well policed by private and official police; violence in public spaces is typically related to “express kidnapping”15 and car robbery, which has substituted car theft because of all the security gadgets. In poor neighborhoods, violence is more often related to turf wars and drug abuse, while everyday policing is increasingly left to the informal devices of the inhabitants themselves. Instead of controlling poor neighborhoods through permanent or regular

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presence, security forces undertake random raids to make detentions and set examples by showing off their power (Moser and Rodgers 2005). Segregation has always existed, even though the unequal economic development and rising prices of real estate and housing have tended to widen the differences between neighborhoods. But the patterns of security provision push toward more segregated and homogenous neighborhoods by setting very different standards and reinforcing stereotypical distinctions between members and nonmembers on the basis of certain (visual) markers, such as racial, ethnic, social, or physical attributes. As security becomes an overarching principle of organization, the socially discriminating discourses of public security underpin the creation of insular “fortified enclaves” with particular lifestyles, everyday cultures, and political affiliations (Moser and Rodgers 2005). In this sense rich and poor neighborhoods display similarities, since both tend to turn their back on the surrounding community, even though for different reasons. The informalization of public security in poorer neighborhoods is consistent with the pervasive informalization of the economy and society in these areas, which accelerated as a consequence of structural adjustment and globalization. From the outset, most of these neighborhoods were based on land invasions and are hence suffering from irregular or illegal tenancy arrangements with consequences for proper documentation, the capacity to obtain loans in the formal money markets, and so on. Reportedly many people, and in particular children, lack birth certificates and other necessary documents (Sanchez 2006). The neighborhoods are also characterized by the low quality or absence of public housing, transportation, water supply, drainage, and social infrastructure. Economically the inhabitants tend to be stuck with few opportunities for formal and legally protected employment, and as we have seen, livelihoods develop in the informal and not least in the illicit economy where violence is an important means of regulation. The presence of state representatives in these areas is scarce, but neighborhood associations and other popular organizations are gradually disappearing too as a consequence of the increased violence (Dudley 1998; Moser and McIlwaine 2005). This reduces the avenues for states (and formally represented civil society organizations) to achieve social, political, and economic control of, and participation by, the population in poor neighborhoods, a problem which was reflected in the 1980s debate on ungovernability. However, this does not mean that we are dealing with completely unrelated “parallel societies.” Formal, informal and illicit sectors are linked in numerous ways in economic as well as political life through subcontracting, farming-out systems, protection rackets, money laundering, corruption, patronage, and violence, as the case of Guatemala above served to exemplify in some detail.

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For the newly (re)established democracies the consequences may be very serious. With the current degree of informality in Latin America, the individuals and groups that manage connections and flows between formal, informal, and illicit sectors have huge possibilities for accumulating capital and exerting political influence, in particular if they control means of violence through their connections. They may be placed in governments, bureaucracies, garrisons, business offices, union headquarters, or even in prisons, but they have the capacity to bridge cultural, social, economic, and political divides, which has always been a decisive asset in Latin American politics and economies. The influence of private and secret networks is not new, as we have seen, but the connections to transnational organized crime and drug economies, the easy access to weapons, the current importance of violence as a social and economic phenomenon, and the increasing inequality and fragmentation in the societies, all make the potential effects particularly grave. The political effects manifest themselves in different ways. Democratic elections are susceptible to being used for money laundering and gaining access to decision making in the administration of funds and justice. Political influence by marginalized groups tend to take the form of sometimes violent disturbances of public order with the purpose of gaining access to direct negotiations with local and national governments rather than using formal political avenues.16 And finally, the combination of crime and violence, pervasive impunity and corruption, and inefficient justice and security sectors are the ideal background for the mobilization of public support for an authoritarian “antipolitics.” While democratic politics are associated with an emphasis on due process and the rights of suspected persons, many people perceive these approaches as being soft on crime. From the political right and left, politicians of a populist bend have emerged with the message that they can provide public security by taking immediate, resolute, and heavy-handed action while discarding some of the democratic checks and balances. Historically, the military has embodied this tradition of antipolitics (Loveman and Davies 1997). Analysts should not underestimate the respect that the military enjoys in some regions and some segments of the population who consider the military to be a truly nationalist actor that identifies with the people and is elevated above the intrigues and corruption of the politicians as well as the incapable and corrupt police. General support for democratic regimes has fallen in public opinion polls between 1996 and 2004, while the number of people who trust the judiciary and the police hovers around one-third of the population (Latinobarometro 2004). Despite memories of repressive regimes in many countries, polls have shown that in 2004 in countries such as El Salvador, Honduras, Guatemala, Brazil, Colombia, Peru, Paraguay, and Mexico, only between 40 and 60 percent

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would say that they “under no circumstances would support an authoritarian government.” Authoritarianism is still (and increasingly?) an important force to be reckoned with in Latin America. In this context, some observers are preoccupied with current trends in U.S. interest and support for their southern neighbors (e.g., LeoGrande 2006). Following the identity crisis at the end of the cold war, (North, Central and South) American military establishments, have recently reconceptualized security and identified crime, drug trafficking, terrorism, poverty and social exclusion as major threats.17 This does not immediately translate into increased militarization of North American support. USAid has worked consistently on development and in particular justice/police reform across the continent during the past decade. But since 2001, military assistance to Latin America has doubled, while economic and development aid has remained at the same level (LeoGrande 2006). The wars on drugs and crime are predominantly understood in military terms and are even perceived as continuations of cold war insurgencies. A recent study from the U.S. Army War College concludes that “gangs are a mutated form of urban insurgency,” and recommends revitalizing the counterinsurgency doctrine, and points to the need to “broaden the role of the military to a controversial internal protection mission” (Manwaring 2005: 2, 22). From the preceding discussion, it seems clear that militarization does not represent the answer to the problems of crime and insecurity in Latin America. After almost two decades of war on drugs, more regions than ever are affected by the drug economy and the related violence, while the drug volumes reaching the United States and Europe have increased rather than the opposite. Militarization risks deepening the fragmentation of societies, furthering the exclusion of certain groups of marginalized and poor youth, and repeating the failure of boosting public and private military institutions while letting down the development of civil democratic institutions. This chapter will not pretend to present solutions to the problems of insecurity in Latin America, where slow economic growth, lack of jobs for the growing generations of youth, and deepening inequalities in conditions of life represent considerable threats to future stability and to prospects for change within a democratic framework. Rather I want to emphasize that the state is as much part of the problem as it is part of the solution. In the context of the present volume, this chapter presents an antidote to the traditional image of state failure or fragility as a problem of comprehensive institutional failure and lack of resources. Thereby it challenges common perceptions of what constitutes strong and weak states and urges us to ask the question, “[F]or whom is the state failing, and why?” rather than just asking whether the state is failing or not (Bøås and Jennings 2005).

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The case of Latin America illustrates that problems of management and institutional practices—rather than the institutional infrastructure as such—threaten public security, in particular in the poorer sections of the population. In the medium term, the continued influence and impunity of unaccountable, private networks that control relations between formal, informal, and illicit sectors may threaten the survival of democratic political regimes, if not the very survival of states. That impunity represents continuity in the history of the state in Latin America does not make the problem easier to solve. In fact, It makes it just the opposite. Notes 1. Peru is one example where the political panic over crime was largely unfounded in regard to the development in crime rates (U.S. Government 2006: 62). 2. Homicide statistics are not very reliable and time series and cross-country comparisons suffer from huge inconsistencies when different sources are compared. Some sources show that if disaggregated, homicide rates for Sub-Saharan Africa may be higher than the Latin American and Caribbean rates (Buvinic et al. 2005). 3. Congressman Dan Burton, Chairman of the Subcommittee on the Western Hemisphere, April 20, 2005. (U.S. Government 2006: 4). 4. Apart from three major and terrible wars (the War of the Triple Alliance 1864–70 involving Argentina, Uruguay, Brazil, and Paraguay, the 1879–83 Pacific War involving Chile, Peru and, Bolivia, and the Chaco War between Bolivia and Paraguay in 1932), a number of clashes and disputes have occurred in particular after the 1960s, but they have been of limited reach and consequences when judged in a global perspective (Narich 2003). 5. See Mamdani 1996; for a discussion of Mamdani’s analysis in a Latin American context, see Stepputat 2005). 6. Ca. 2000, the rates were Honduras 154, Colombia 70, El Salvador 34, Guatemala 33, Venezuela 33, Bolivia 33, Ecuador 26, Nicaragua 24, Brazil 23, . . . Mexico 14, . . . . Costa Rica 6, . . . Panama 2 (U.S. Government 2006: 60). 7. Note the parallel to the development of politically engaged ANC youth in South Africa, where the violence of gangs has taken a similarly important place on the political agenda. 8. Organized around the private sector coordination committee CACIF. 9. A network called “The union” (el Sindicato) consisting of officers of the 1969 promotion around Gen. Otto Perez Molino have identified themselves as “institutionalists” with a less radical and ruthless line against the left wing during the armed conflict. 10. CICIACS, Comisión de Investigación sobre Cuerpos Illegales y Aparatos Clandestinos de Seguridad. 11. A similar, exceptional accord was made in the case of Lebanon for the investigation of the murder of a former prime minister.

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12. Martha Huggins, quoted in Sanchez 2006: 190. 13. In Guatemala, the police are often still required routinely to send their daily reports the nearest military base from where the apparatus of “social intelligence” of the civil affairs department is still operated (MINUGUA 2002a). 14. See, for example, Chinchilla 2003 or de Mesquita Neto and Loche 2003. 15. Express kidnapping targets supposed credit card holders who are kidnapped and brought to cash dispensers in order to make forced withdrawals before being abandoned elsewhere in the city. 16. My thanks to Carlos Orantes Troccoli for this observation. 17. Declaration on Security in the Americas, October 28, 2003, 34th Regular Session OEA/Ser.L/XIV.2.34, quoted in LeoGrande 2006.

Bibliography Amnesty International (2002). Guatemala’s Lethal Legacy: Past Impunity and Renewed Human Rights Violations. September 28. London: AI International Secretariat. Ayres, Robert L (1998). Crime and Violence as Development Issues in Latin America and the Caribbean. Washington DC: World Bank. Bayart, Jean-François, Steven Ellis, and Beatriz Hibou (1999). The Criminalization of the State in Africa. Oxford: James Currey. Briceño-León, Roberto and Veronica Zubillaga (2002). Violence and Globalization in Latin America. Current Sociology, 50:19–37. Buvinic, Mayra, Andrew Morrison, and Maria Beatriz Orlando (2005). Violencia, Crimen y Desarollo Social en America Latina y el Caribe. Papeles de Poblacion No.043, Toluca, Mexico: Universidad Autonoma del Estado de Mexico. Bøås, Morten and Kathleen M Jennings (2005). Insecurity and Development: the Rhetoric of the “Failed State,” Journal of Development Research, 17 (3): 385–95. Call, Charles T (2000). Sustainable Development in Central America: The Challenges of Violence, Injustice and Insecurity, CA 2020: Working Paper no. 8. Hamburg: Institut für Iberoamerika-Kunde. Centro de Estudios de Guatemala (CEG) (2005). Las Maras . . . ¿Amenazas a la Seguridad? October 25, 2005. Guatemala: CEG. Chinchilla, Laura (2003). Experiences with Citizen Participation in Crime Prevention in Central America, in Frühling, Hugo and Joseph S Tulchin with Heather A Golding (eds.) (2003). Crime and Violence in Latin America. Citizen Security, Democracy and the State. Washington DC, Baltimore and London: Woodrow Wilson Center Press and Johns Hopkins University Press. 205–32. Comaroff, Jean and John Comaroff (2001). Introduction, in Jean Comaroff and John Comaroff (eds.). Millennial Capitalism and the Culture of Neoliberalism. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. 1–33. Duce, Mauricio and Rogelio Pérez Perdomo (2003). Citizen Security and Reform of the Criminal Justice System in Latin America, in Frühling, Hugo and Joseph S Tulchin with Heather A Golding (eds.) (2003). Crime and Violence in Latin America. Citizen Security, Democracy and the State. Washington DC, Baltimore

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and London: Woodrow Wilson Center Press and Johns Hopkins University Press. 93–122. Dudley, Steven (1998). Deadly Force: Security and Insecurity. Rio. NACLA Report on the Americas, 32 (3): 31–36. Fajnzylber, Pablo, Daniel Lederman, and Norman Loayza (1998). Determinants of Crime Rates in Latin America and the World: An Empirical Assessment. Washington, DC: World Bank. Frühling, Hugo (2003). Police Reform and the Process of Democratization, in Frühling, Hugo and Joseph S Tulchin with Heather A Golding (eds.) (2003). Crime and Violence in Latin America. Citizen Security, Democracy and the State. Washington DC, Baltimore and London: Woodrow Wilson Center Press and Johns Hopkins University Press. 15–44. Frühling, Hugo and Joseph S Tulchin with Heather A Golding (eds.) (2003). Crime and Violence in Latin America. Citizen Security, Democracy and the State. Washington DC, Baltimore and London: Woodrow Wilson Center Press and Johns Hopkins University Press. Glebbeek, Marie-Louise (2001). Police Reform and the Peace Process in Guatemala: The Fifth Promotion of the National Civilian Police. Bulletin of Latin American Research, 20 (4): 431–53. Godoy, Angelina Snodgrass (2006). Popular Injustice: Violence, Community, and Law in Latin America. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Gutierrez, Maria Estela and Paul Hans Kobrak (2001). Los Linchamientos. Pos conflicto y Violência Colective en Huehuetenango, Guatemala. Huehuetenango: CEDFOG. Hurrell, Andrew 1998). Security in Latin America. International Affairs, 74 (3): 529–49. Kincaid, A Douglas (2001). Demilitarization and Security in El Salvador and Guatemala: Convergences of Success and Crisis, in Christoffer Chase-Dunn, Susanne Jonas, and Nelson Amaro (eds.). Globalization on the Ground. Postbellum Guatemalan Democracy and Development. Lanham, Boulder, New York, Oxford: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers Inc. 101–18. Kincaid, A Douglas and Eduardo Gamarra (1996). Disorderly Democracy: Redefining Public Security in Latin America, in Roberto Patricio Korniziewicz and William C Smith (eds.). Latin America in the World Economy, Westport, CT: Greenwood. 211–28. Koonings, Kees (2001). Armed Actors, Violence and Democracy in Latin America in the 1990s: Introductory Notes. Bulletin of Latin American Research, 20 (4): 401–8. Kruijt, Dirk and Kees Koonings (1999). Introduction: Violence and Fear in Latin America, in Dirk Koonings and Kees Kruijt (eds.). Societies of Fear: The Legacy of Civil War, Violence and Terror in Latin America. London: Zed Press. 1–33. Kurtenbach, Sabine (2002). The Central American Conflict System: External Players and Changing Violence, in Tobias Debiel and Axel Klein (eds.). Fragile Peace. State Failure, Violence and Development in Crisis Region. London, New York: Zed Books. Latinobarometro (2004). Informe: Resumen Latinobarometro 2004. Una decada de Mediciones. Posted 08/13/04 on http://www.latinobarometro.org/uploads/ media/2004_02.pdf (accessed December 9, 2006).

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LeoGrande, William M (2006). From the Red Menace to Radical Populism: U.S. Insecurity in Latin America. World Policy Journal, 22 (4): 25–35. Loveman, Brian and Thomas M Davies (eds.) (1997). The Politics of Antipolitics: The Military in Latin America. Wilmington, DE: SR Books. Mamdani, Mahmoud (1996). Citizens and Subjects. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Manwaring, Max G (2005). Street Gangs: The New Urban Insurgency. Carlisle, PA: U.S. Army War College Strategic Studies Institute. Mesquita Neto, Paulo de and Adriana Loche (2003). Police-Community Partnerships in Brazil, in Frühling, Hugo and Joseph S Tulchin with Heather A Golding (eds.) (2003). Crime and Violence in Latin America. Citizen Security, Democracy and the State. Washington DC, Baltimore and London: Woodrow Wilson Center Press and Johns Hopkins University Press. 179–204. Moser, Caroline and Cathy McIlwaine (2005). Latin American Urban Violence as a Development Concern: Towards a Framework for Violence Reduction. World Development, 34 (1): 89–112. Moser, Caroline and Dennis Rodgers (2005). Change, Violence and Insecurity in Non-Conflict Situations. Working Paper 245. London: Overseas Development Institute. Narich, Richard (2003). Traditional and Non-Traditional Security Issues in Latin America: Evolution and Recent Development. Occasional Paper Series no. 42. Geneva: Geneva Centre for Security Policy. Peacock, Susan C and Adriana Beltrán (2004). Hidden Powers in Post-Conflict Guatemala. Washington, DC: WOLA. Pérez, Orlando J (2004). Democratic Legitimacy and Public Insecurity: Crime and Democracy in El Salvador and Guatemala. Political Science Quarterly, 118 (4): 627–44. Power and Interest News Report (PINR) 2005. Central America’s Street Gangs are Drawn into the World of Geopolitics. August 25. Robles Montoya, Jaime (2002). El Poder Oculto. Cd. De Guatemala: Fundación Myrna Mack. Rodgers, Dennis (2003). Dying for It: Gangs, Violence and Social Change in Urban Nicaragua. Crisis States Program Working Paper 35. London: Development Studies Institute. ——— (2004a). Old Wine in New Bottles or New Wine in Old? Conceptualizing Violence and Governmentality in Latin America. Crisis States Program Discussion Papers 6. London: Development Studies Institute. ——— (2004b). Disembedding the City: Crime, Insecurity, and Spatial Organization in Managua, Nicaragua. Environment and Urbanization, 16 (2): 113–24. Sanchez, Magaly R (2006). Insecurity and Violence As a New Power Relation in Latin America. Annals of the American Academy APPSS, no.606, July 2006: 178–95. Schirmer, Jennifer 1999). The Guatemalan Politico-Military Project: Legacies for a Violent Peace? Latin American Studies, 26 (2): 92–107. Sieder, Rachel, Megan Thomas, George Vickers, and Jack Spence (2002). Who Governs? Guatemala Five Years after the Peace Accords. Cambridge, MA: Hemisphere Initiatives.

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Stein, Ricardo (2002). Comentarios. La Dimensión Poítica de la Seguridad en Latinoamerica y el Caribe. OAS/IDB Seminar on Security and Development, Washington, DC. September 20, 2002. Stepputat, Finn (2005). Violence, Sovereignty and Citizenship in Postcolonial Peru, in Thomas Blom Hansen and Finn Stepputat (eds.). Sovereign Bodies: Citizens, Migrants, and States in the Postcolonial World. Princeton: Princeton University Press. 61–81. The Battle for Safer Streets; Crime and Policing in Latin America (2004). The Economist, 373 (8395): 53. Tulchin, Joseph S and Heather A Golding (2003). Introduction: Citizen Security in Regional Perspective, in Frühling, Hugo and Joseph S Tulchin with Heather A Golding (eds.) (2003). Crime and Violence in Latin America. Citizen Security, Democracy and the State. Washington DC, Baltimore and London: Woodrow Wilson Center Press and Johns Hopkins University Press. 1–12. UN Human Rights Commission (2006). Informe del Alto Comissionado de las Naciones Unidos para los Derechos Humanos sobre la Situación de los Derechos Humanos en Guatemala. E/CN.4/2006/10/Add.1. February 1 2006. USAid (2006). Central America and Mexico Gang Assessment http://www.usaid. gov/locations/latin_america_caribbean/democracy/guatemala_profile. pdf#search=%22Centre%20de%20estudios%20de%20guatemala%20maras%22 (accessed September 9, 2007). U.S. Government (2006). Gangs and Crime in Latin America: Hearing before the Subcommittee on the Western Hemisphere of the Committee on International Relations, House of Representatives, One Hundred Ninth Congress, First Session, April 20, 2005. Serial no.109–96. Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office. World Health Organization (WHO) (2002). World Report on Violence and Health. Geneva: WHO.

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Part IV

Policy Implications

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10

Conclusion:Toward a Multilayered Approach to Security Eric Scheye and Louise Andersen

Introduction One of the objectives of this volume has been to take a new, open-minded look at the relationship between the provision of justice and security in fragile states and the ways in which the international community promotes reform in these areas. By assembling a series of studies on state fragility, violent conflict, and insecurity, it was hoped to ●

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identify the different actors at work in the provision of (in)security (state and nonstate) analyze the dynamics between and among these actors in their delivery of security, including current attempts at reforming the security sector under conditions of state fragility examine the effectiveness of the international community’s attempts at developing the security sector systems in fragile states possibly, propose alternative approaches for international engagement.

Taken individually and collectively, the chapters suggest that it is time for a new paradigm for international support to justice and security development in fragile states. Recognizing that in these environments the overwhelming majority of justice and security services is provided by nonstate actors, a profound shift seems imperative, if the objective of strengthening security and

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justice for all, including marginalized and vulnerable groups, is to be fulfilled (Chirayath et al. 2005). This concluding chapter will advocate a multilayered model for justice and security assistance in fragile states,1 and will argue that such an approach may be more helpful than the current model, which prioritizes the state in the delivery of justice and security services. This does not imply that the long-term objective of strengthening state capacities must be modified. Rather, a multilayered approach proposes an alternative—and arguably more realistic—method of achieving that long-term goal, because it starts from and accepts the specific circumstances found in fragile states, namely that ●

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the state is a minority provider of services, including public safety, security and justice; the state is characterized by massive capacity deficits, shortfalls that cannot be expected to vanish in the short to medium term; state and nonstate justice and security providers, in relatively equal measures, can be perpetuators of insecurity and injustice; and a more constructive role for the state may be to establish an accountability framework—formulating policy, setting minimum standards, and monitoring, regulating, licensing, and participating in partnerships and networks of state and nonstate service providers.

This conclusion is divided into three sections. The first section discusses the specific analytical characteristics that define a fragile state. The second part outlines the contours of a multilayered approach. In doing so, it proposes remedies to some of the shortcomings of the current state-centered model favored by most donors. Applying a multilayered approach will, however, not magically remove all obstacles, difficulties, and dilemmas of trying to promote security and justice in fragile states. Therefore, the third and final section outlines a number of challenges that donors are likely to be confronted with, if they were to adapt the new multilayered approach.

The Fragile State: What It Is and Is Not The empirical evidence found in this volume suggests a wide divergence between the reality of the fragile state and the idea of the state, which is underlying most international justice and security programming. As Sedra argues from the Afghanistan experience,“In many respects the SSR process appears to have been de-historicized and de-contextualized, relying on abstract state-building formulas rather than an understanding of the local socio-cultural milieu and historical state-building experience.”

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One of the underlying issues seems to be that donor assistance is based upon a particular kind of state that does not exist. Andersen spells out the conceptual discrepancy when she argues that, in postcolonial, neopatrimonial states, Western “distinctions between state/civil society, formal/informal, politics/economics, legal/illegal [make] little sense . . . These modern dualities are largely absent in states, where intricate patron-client networks (modeled on the idea of family and kin) provide the basis for social order and political competition.” This does not imply that the state and civil society are conflated, but rather that the Western conceptual understanding of the terms—and therefore the development programs based upon those understandings—may not apply particularly well to postcolonial circumstances. Instead of making clear analytical distinctions between “state” and “nonstate,” “formal” and “informal,” “modern” and “traditional,” it makes more sense in fragile states to speak in terms of continua. At each extreme are the pure forms of either state or nonstate; the vast majority of actors, institutions, and practices is, however, found in between these extremes and represents hybrid forms of state/nonstate or modern/traditional. In these environments, instead of applying a Westernized understanding of a modern state and its structure and functions, what may be needed is to figure out how to deal with “degrees of statehood” and “zones of statelessness”— not insisting on “helping” by (re)constructing states that were anyhow never truly states in the modern sense of the word (Clapham, 1998). Partially, to meet this challenge, the international donor community has invented the policy term “fragile states” to describe states that lack either the capacity and/or the willingness to deliver on their core functions (OECD 2005a).2 DFID has specified those core functions as being “territorial control, safety and security, capacity to manage public resources, delivery of basic services and the ability to protect and support the ways in which the poorest people sustain themselves” (2005: 7). This means that states that cannot provide adequate levels of safety, security, and justice to its citizenry are, by donor definition, labeled “fragile.”

Service Delivery and State Capacity By boiling down the definition of state fragility to a matter of service delivery, emphasis is placed on the capacity deficits that prohibit some states from providing the desired level of services. Knowing the deficits, it is hoped that development assistance packages, if appropriately attuned to the politics of the fragile state, could be suitably designed to address the shortfalls. There are, at least, three important capacities that appear to be in severe scarcity in fragile states: human, institutional, and financial capital.

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The human capital deficit is staggering and cannot be underestimated as Baker argues in his chapter on policing fragile African states. Lack of qualified personnel is, however, not only an African phenomenon. For example, in the immediate postconflict situation in Timor-Leste, there were only nine lawyers in the territory after the independence referendum.3 Of the 50,000 men estimated to be working as police in Afghanistan, it has been estimated that as many as 90 percent are illiterate (Stone et al. 2005). Comparable numbers exist in fragile state after fragile state—from the Solomon Islands to Haiti to Yemen. Even in Nigeria, where the state is not usually considered fragile, a study has found up to sixteen different types of informal policing structures established by communities to deal with crime “in order to protect their neighborhoods from criminal attacks; to provide speedy safety and security services which the formal police were unable to offer” (Alemika and Chukwuma 2004: 6). These numerical deficits merely give a rough idea of the scope of the challenge, as they are accompanied by an equally staggering dearth of training, absence of physical infrastructure, and the often lack of legal and institutional structures, systems, regulations, and procedures. Equally importantly, as Baker stresses in his chapter, the human capital shortfall is fundamentally about the quality of the public service provided and the equal access of the citizenry to this service. If, as Stepputat suggests in his chapter, such public services do not exist in many areas of Latin American middle-income countries after years of democratic reforms and attempts at establishing accountability and oversight mechanisms (budgetary transparency, civil society participation, codes of conduct/professional standards, Ombudsmen’s offices, etc.), it seems unlikely that impoverished war-torn countries such as Liberia and Afghanistan should be able to institute and maintain comprehensive state systems in the short to medium term. Once the relationship between human capital, institutional quality, and equal access to services is analyzed, it becomes clear that the financial deficit of fragile states is as daunting. In the short to medium term, the coffers of fragile states will not be able to bear the costs required to fund the state delivery of the desired levels of safety, security, and justice. The example provided by Sedra illustrates this vividly: In 2004/2005, the security expenditures in Afghanistan equaled a staggering 494 percent of domestic revenues and 23 percent of GDP. If nothing else does, these numbers indicate that the current security model in Afghanistan is unsustainable. Given their weak economies, porous borders, underinstitutionalized tax and custom regimes, and corrupt public administrations, fragile states will not have enough money to develop extensive state provision of services. Donor funds and foreign soldiers and police officers may attempt to fill the gap in

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the short term but, if anything, Iraq has demonstrated that external provision of security and justice holds its own dangers and threats.4 The pertinent question thus is, whether an alternative model of security and justice provision can be envisioned. In light of van Creveld’s recital of the history of organized violence and his reminder that “in the U.S, there are now more private security ‘officers’ than there are soldiers or police,” it is an open question whether fragile states should be expected to become monopoly providers of security, when even Western states are increasingly outsourcing their provision of safety and security services.

Nonstate Provision of Security and Justice These stark realities underline the conclusion that the formal state institutions provide only a minority of the justice and security service in fragile states. The reasons for this are many and are above and beyond the enormous capacity deficits outlined above. Nonstate justice and security service providers are, often, perceived to be more effective, legitimate, participatory, transparent, timely, and cost efficient than their state service counterparts. A UNDP-sponsored study in Nepal, for instance, has found that the state system is considered illegitimate, and is perceived, in comparison to nonstate systems, to be less effective, too expensive, unaccountable, and nonresponsive to local needs (UNDP 2005). Similarly, in Burundi, researchers found that “the formal justice system is malfunctioning to the extent that the informal system has become the de facto court of first instance for the vast majority of the population” (Thorne 2005). And in Afghanistan, even the Ministry of Justice estimates that “90% of Afghans rely on customary law due to a lack of ‘trust and confidence’ in the nation’s formal justice institutions as well as the justice institutions’ ‘physical absence and low capacity’” (Senier 2006). The absence of state services may be one reason why people rely on nonstate providers. There may, however, be another reason also. Sometimes nonstate providers are the choice of first resort, because the values embedded in the nonstate justice and security systems correspond more closely to those held by the citizenry, whereas state systems are considered to house foreign principles and standards and are, therefore, to be shunned (Schärf and Nina 2001). A World Bank study of justice in Indonesia thus learned that nonstate resolution of conflict coincided more consistently with village value systems than the punitive state justice system (World Bank 2004). The same picture is found in Lesotho, where many allegedly “feel that their need for justice is hardly addressed by the conventional justice system. Restorative Justice is the

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preferred approach . . . [which] would revive the spirit of humanity which the western model is blamed for destroying” (Qhubu 2005: 10–11). This is by no means to suggest that local or “traditional” values and belief systems are immutable. To the contrary, local value systems can be very dynamic, malleable, and adaptive. Furthermore, local value systems emphasize different aspects and sometimes endorse collective identities more than Western systems would do. This value distinction is of utmost importance for international donor assistance to justice and security development for two reasons: local ownership and sustainability. One of the hallmark principles of development is “local ownership,” which should be not only be factored into the design and in implementation of donor support programs, but should also be one of the primary outcomes of any assistance. It can, however, be argued that one of the ways in which citizens of fragile states exhibit their ownership is by relying on nonstate justice and security systems. They choose the justice and security delivery systems that coincide with their needs and values more readily and, as has been suggested, those systems are very often nonstate ones. International assistance that primarily targets support to state providers may thus, in fact, contravene good development practice. When donor support initiatives fail to incorporate the local value system, it is highly unlikely that those SSR programs will be sustainable. A recent case in point was found in Timor-Leste, where the development programs initiated by the United Nations’ intervention were circumvented and, thereby, undermined because the Timorese “revert[ed] to their ‘traditional’ means of solving conflict . . . , which [are] based on local structures” and a value system that believes in a different form of justice (Hohe and Nixon 2003: 2). Sedra’s examination of the Afghan security sector reform provides a similar illustration of what a donor assistance program should not do. The Afghan donor-supported justice and security reform is likely to prove fundamentally unsustainable precisely because it has not taken into account the history of Afghan state and society: In the Afghan context it has been those traditional security mechanisms in the form of customary law and militia systems that have remained intact while modern formal structures nurtured through external assistance have struggled to take form and acquire legitimacy. It is this problematic relationship between the informal and the formal or the modern and the traditional that has undercut efforts to transform the Afghan security sector. (Sedra this volume)

The linkages between ownership, values, and sustainability do not imply that donors should blindly support any nonstate system. As Menkhaus rightly points out, most of the nonstate systems are at least to some degree “illiberal”

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and do not conform to international human rights standards. This, however, does not set them apart from the state systems. In fragile states, the security and justice provided by both state and nonstate systems is unequal and “patchy” and provides varying levels of service (if any) to different community members (especially women, members of weak or low-caste lineages, internally displaced persons, and the poor are discriminated against). The donor’s choice is not between supporting a human-rights-respecting state system and an illiberal nonstate system. If only that were the case, the choice would be simple. The complexity and the predicament arise when faced with a state system that provides very few, if any, services and a nonstate system that does provide some—albeit in a less than perfect manner.

A New Paradigm: The Multilayered Approach In his contribution to this volume, Sedra lays out the fundamental issue when he suggests that the achievements of SSR assistance are “contingent on its ability to reconcile existing informal mechanisms and centrifugal socio-political dynamics with the formal structures and centripetal orientation of the SSR model” [emphasis added]. The challenge is to bring together state and nonstate justice and security systems, recognizing the particular context and circumstances which are found in fragile states, namely that ●

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the state’s capacity deficits preclude it from being the majority provider of justice and security for the short to medium term and, thus, rendering it unable to exercise a monopoly of sovereign authority; good development practice regarding “local ownership” implies that the nonstate systems could be supported, because they are more consistent with local values, cultural patterns, and beliefs; and are, often, considered more effective, legitimate, timely, participatory, and cost efficient; and the state continues to have a vital role to play establishing policy parameters, participating in partnerships and networks of state and nonstate service providers, and, above all, in setting minimum standards, regulating, licensing, and monitoring the performance of all service providers to ensure that they are accountable for the service they deliver.

Menkhaus’ chapter presents examples of how the relationship between state and nonstate justice and security systems is being modified in eastern Africa. In northern Kenya, Somaliland, Puntland, and the Somali region of Ethiopia, informal systems of governance and security have been coupled

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with formal state structures and authorities. In order to project authority and maintain some level of order in its peripheral areas, the formal states have had to broker deals with local nonstate authorities. The multitude of ways in which a fragile state may negotiate its partnership with nonstate justice and security systems is at the heart of the multilayered approach. Menkhaus suggests two models for negotiating the state/nonstate relationship: hybrid and mediated. In the mediated variant, the state has ceded control to a coalition of civic groups over some of the core functions associated with a sovereign state, including policing and conflict resolution. In the hybrid variation, traditional leaders (clan, village, etc.) are incorporated into the formal state structure—for example, the legislature—to ensure the legitimacy of the state. In both models—and most importantly for a multilayered approach—customary law exists as a complement to, not a contradiction with, formal police and judicial systems, which permits traditional elders to continue to exercise their conflict management functions. Comparable to what happens in Mozambique (Kyed forthcoming), for instance, as Menkhaus notes, in Somaliland, when a crime is committed, elders routinely do the preliminary investigate work (rumors quickly make their way to the elders) and negotiate with the kin of the accused for his or her handover; the police are requested to intervene to arrest suspects who refuse to hand themselves over. Thereafter, the crime is the subject of inter-clan negotiations, and with the rare exception of a crime of great political consequence, the state acquiesces to requests that the matter be handled through blood compensation. (This volume)

What is important to recognize, is that “traditional law and practices are blended with contemporary political tools often in innovative and pragmatic ways” (Menkhaus, this volume). The analytic distinctions between state and nonstate and modern and traditional are not fixed and fast, but rather a porous, malleable, and negotiated continuum. It is an inherently political partnership, based upon intricate balances of power and existent capacities to enforce decisions. This permeable relationship is precisely what Baker refers to, in his chapter, when he claims, with respect to policing, that “sponsorship, regulation/criminalization, networking/exclusion, collaboration, incorporation and training, are all techniques by which the state may maintain a level of control over ostensibly ‘nonstate’ policing, and seek to uphold its own sovereignty.” As integral parts of civil society, nonstate justice and security service providers are not wholly distinct from the state, but in many different and intricate ways woven into the overall pattern of governance. Based upon these findings, one of the hallmarks of the multilayered approach is that it assumes the existence of this continuum of partnerships

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between the state and nonstate actors in the provision of the vast majority of fragile state justice and security. Furthermore, the approach seeks to strengthen the actual delivery of services. A survey covering 110 non-OECD countries indicates that the most pressing local demand in many places is for an immediate improvement in physical safety and security (Hendrickson 2005: 61). To achieve this urgent objective, rather than prioritize support to state-delivered justice and security, the multilayered approach adopts a much more contextually driven strategy, focusing on and respecting the choices of people living in fragile states make as they pursue their daily lives.

Accountability and State Capacity This attention paid to an immediate improvement of service delivery at the points and moments at which it is needed, does not preclude a comparable concentration on issues of accountability. In fragile states, however, it is more efficacious to address what the World Bank calls the “short route” to accountability (the relationship between the local recipients of service delivery and their service providers) than the “long route” (large-scale interactions between national citizens and their policymakers) (World Bank 2003: 1–30). Given the large proportion of all service delivery, including security and justice provided by nonstate systems, what is required, at the outset, is to build upon the relationships between those systems and their customers, attempting to make those microinteractions more participatory and accountable. This is democratization on the microlevel, where people live, work, and travel. The reasoning is simple. First, the immediate need, as indicated above, is for increased physical safety and security; second, the institutions of governance in a fragile state may not be considered legitimate by significant percentages of the population; and, third, the massive capacity deficits under which fragile states labor, hinder effective short-term donor assistance programming to strengthen the interaction between citizens and their national policy makers. This recognition does not imply that such “long route” donor support should not be initiated. Rather it suggests that international assistance should be appropriately balanced between, on the one hand, adhering to the local context and meeting immediate local needs, and, on the other, supporting long-term sustainable institutional development objectives. Supporting such long-term development objectives necessitates a careful and accurate appreciation of what a particular fragile state can sustain based upon its financial, human capital, cultural, and institutional resources and capacities. It is evident that in the medium term, sustainability implies rather circumscribed governance systems. Building governance capacity only to see

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it collapse once donor assistance is withdrawn or exhausted, is not only a recipe for squandering aid money; it is also an effective way of exacerbating conflict and perpetuating a winner-takes-all ethic for capturing control of the state. Recognizing the long-term objective of building state capacity, the challenge is to identify which specific state capacities to strengthen first. It goes without saying that whatever the level of state service one aims for, the actual provision needs to be effective, efficient, and rights respecting, particularly if the long-term objective is gradually to expand the public provision of justice and security services. This may require significant assistance in developing the managerial systems and operational policies with which new or newly reconstructed judiciary, police services, or armed forces will operate. At this stage, it is important to keep in mind that “train and equip” donor support has repeatedly proved to be ineffective and cost inefficient, unless embedded in enduring management development programs. This is not to minimize the potential importance of training army and police officers, judges, prosecutors, or defense counsel, but it is to caution that having “trained” someone to abide by the law and respect human rights does not imply that he/she will do so. The issue is not training per se, but to change everyday practice and this is primarily an issue of management, management change, and organizational behavior, and incentive structures. Simultaneously, given that the state is likely to continue to deliver only a small percentage of justice and security service provision, these public services will need to establish varying operational partnerships with nonstate service providers. How the aforementioned continuum of state/nonstate service delivery is to be managed is first and foremost a political issue, and donor assistance may be appropriate to support the bringing together of the various actors in differing types of fora. As in Somaliland, such fora may be located in the legislative branch. They may, however, as in northern Kenya be extralegislative, requiring multistakeholder discussions among state service, nonstate actors, and the local communities, who are the ultimate beneficiaries of improved service delivery. At times, these discussions may be highly localized, as might be the case when designing crime reduction strategies. Whatever forms such multistakeholder negotiations take, supporting them may be a suitable means for donors to strengthen service delivery and enhancing the accountability of that service delivery by bringing together the users/recipients and the justice and security providers. To solidify these operational partnerships, the executive branch of government may be an area in need of donor support. If the state is to establish

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an overall legislative and regulatory framework for the delivery of justice and security, executive branch ministries and presidential/prime ministerial offices must be capable of developing policy, planning strategic initiatives, and setting standards by which service providers must conduct their activities. For instance, the competencies and mandates of the varying judicial systems (state and nonstate) may be in need of correlation.5 A village court, for example, may be authorized to hear and adjudicate cases whose sanctions fall below certain legislated limits. Appeals from those decisions may be heard in a higher-level nonstate court and/or a provincial or regional state court. All of this needs to be established, appropriately legislated, and eventually regulated. In order to regulate service delivery, one of the principal areas that may be suitable for donor support is the establishment of systems and managerial mechanisms by which to ensure that service providers (state and nonstate) are held accountable for their policies, operations, and daily activities. In addition to the usual assortment of support, programs that help develop codes of conduct and professional standards, internal affairs departments, auditor and inspector general offices, parliamentary oversight capacity, and budgeting capability, there is significant work required in the regulation, licensing, and monitoring of nonstate service providers. Once again, this is an element of the partnership between state and nonstate systems, but in this case it pertains, in particular, to the ability of the government to know what the nonstate justice and security systems are doing so that it can monitor and hold them accountable. This is a challenge of information management writ large and may be one of the more important arenas of assistance for development donors. Without the ability to collect, collate, and analyze valid information, the state—no matter how strong or fragile—cannot perform its functions effectively with regard to service delivery or oversight. Without accurate and reliable information on the activities of nonstate justice and security systems, the government will be unable to monitor their activities, thereby holding them accountable.6 It must be recognized that the state’s efforts to strengthen its capacities and exercise its authority to oversee nonstate justice and security systems is not a politically neutral endeavor. In many situations, nonstate actors may resist the state’s initiatives, believing them to be encroachments on their political prerogatives and indeed regard them as threats to their independence and security.7 Consequently, it may be important for donors to support the convening of varying types of multistakeholder fora as part of the process of developing accountability regimes for nonstate justice and security providers.

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The following box summarizes the multilayered approach: Supporting the multilayered approach to justice and security delivery Depending upon the local context, the multilayered approach to justice and security divides international donor support between and among the following levels: ● ●

● ●

The state as a minority provider of justice and security service delivery The state as a regulator to establish the parameters for justice and security service delivery and ensure accountability of providers Nonstate justice and security service providers The users and recipients of justice and security services to increase their voice and help them hold providers accountable

Note: This is a modified version of what was presented in OECD (forthcoming). Source: OECD (forthcoming). Enhancing the Delivery of Justice and Security in Fragile States. Paris: Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development.

The Challenges Ahead Although nonstate justice systems have received some attention from donors and researchers, we still know very little about the dynamics between state fragility and the nonstate provision of order—especially physical protection, safety, and security. Detailed inquires into localized security arrangements, such as the ones provided by Reno and Menkhaus in this volume, are still rare and far between. The knowledge we do have on nonstate systems, however, unambiguously indicates that donors need to take them seriously and include them in their analysis, if they wish to make a lasting and positive contribution. There is a comparable lack of knowledge of how to correlate support programs across nonstate justice and security. It is unknown whether donor programs can address these two systems simultaneously or if they must continue to be treated as separate spheres. It is also unknown how donor support programming in one arena (security) would affect the other (justice). Furthermore, many nonstate justice and security actors may also provide other social services, such as health, education, housing, etc. For instance, one nonstate institution may offer a range of services, including courts, security services, schools, and health clinics. How multilayered donor assistance programs in justice and security may affect the provision of such other public goods also remains unknown. It thus seems clear that there are many areas where additional investigation and research is needed to further develop the multilayered model. In addition, a number of principal questions may arise, which donors will

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have to confront one way or the other, it they wish to move toward a more multilayered and less state-centric approach to security and justice. This section outlines three such challenges.

Partner Government versus Nonstate Actors Even as it is clear to donors that a given fragile state does not possess the capacities to provide the desired levels of safety, security, and justice to their citizenry, it is not equally apparent how the ruling elite of that state will perceive the situation. There are countries that more or less officially recognize the necessity for linking or incorporating nonstate systems into existing state structures and are attempting to design mechanisms to do so. Baker’s chapter is replete with examples of active cooperation between state and nonstate systems, even if not all are legally and appropriately legislated. At the same time, there are many other countries where donor involvement with nonstate actors would be actively resisted.8 This refusal to allow donor support for nonstate systems may coexist with state leaders acknowledging the effectiveness and legitimacy of the nonstate arena and, perhaps, actively participating and using it as means by which to mediate conflict, instigate conflict, or control political adversaries. That some state elite avail themselves of nonstate systems as vehicles by which to remain in power, may be one of the reasons why they would not accept foreign assistance. It may also be that in such circumstances control over the state is perceived to be a winner-takes-all game and any diminution of power, which donor support to nonstate systems would imply, is an imminent political threat. In some countries it is also likely that the ruling elite is pursuing a governance strategy of centralizing power, even as it is evident that the state cannot provide adequate safety, security, and justice to all its citizens. This underlines that justice and security development is an inherently political activity and that changes and reforms almost always challenge the power of vested interests and are thus likely to be resisted—a truism that cannot be underestimated or slighted. Resistance from partner governments does not necessarily mean that donors should not pursue a multilayered approach. On the contrary, it may imply that they should even more strongly advocate the necessity and wisdom of strengthening the nonstate systems as a means of distributing public goods more equitably, effectively, and efficiently. Consequently, special attention may have to be paid to the users and recipients of justice and security services to enable them to gain voice and help them hold providers (state and nonstate) accountable. It should also be noted that government resistance many pose a severe challenge to the international multilateral banks and the United Nations

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agencies, because these are required to have very close relationships with host governments. In effect, the international multilateral banks as well as the United Nations and its sister organizations may be precluded from engaging in a multilayered approach. If this were to be the case, SSR would become the preserve of bilateral donor agencies.

Local Ownership, Cultural Values, and International Human Rights Standards As suggested earlier, citizens’ use of and belief in the effectiveness and legitimacy of nonstate justice and security systems may imply that these are more “locally owned” than their state counterparts. Since local ownership is a fundamental principle of good development practice, this is all to the good. The predicament for donors, however, arises when the values embedded in these nonstate systems, not to mention their day-to-day operations, do not coincide with international human rights standards. For instance, many nonstate justice systems do not accord women equal rights, and numerous nonstate security systems engage in human rights abuses and varying forms of corporal punishment. The question then is how to reconcile the good development practices of sustainability and local ownership with human rights standards. The challenge is a forbidding one— albeit not restricted to the multilayered approach. It is always complicated for donors to work knowingly with systems that consistently flout accepted human rights conventions, regardless of whether these are state or nonstate. Donors do, however, tend to feel more at ease when dealing with formal state institutions—the judiciary, the police, and the army—than when dealing with nonstate actors and institutions. In fragile states, where informal systems tend to be much stronger than formal systems, donor attempts at strengthening access to security and justice ignores the nonstate institutions at not only their own peril, but possibly also to the detriment of the people they allegedly wish to help. The consequence is that if donors want to support SSR in fragile states, while maintaining good development practices, they may need to recognize and accept the risks of working with nonstate actors who may not respect, adhere to, or believe in international human rights standards. Donors, of course, can choose not to engage in SSR under such circumstances, but, if they do wish to engage, the pertinent question may not be whether a nonstate justice and security provider accepts Western standards or not, but rather how donor assistance can improve the lives of citizens subjected to such service providers.9

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Here the multilayered approach may offer some guidance in strengthening various types of accountability mechanisms and directing support to the users and recipients of nonstate justice and security services, so that they can participate more actively with their providers. Of special importance would be finding ways to support vulnerable and marginal groups and work with the service providers, which these groups consider legitimate and representative, although they do not fulfill international human rights standards. There is yet one more argument hidden within the challenge of promoting international human rights standards, while simultaneously insisting on local ownership and sustainability: The question of the cross-cultural applicability of human rights (Wilson 1997). As suggested, the values embedded in nonstate justice and security systems are those of their local constituents and, therefore, those systems and their associated beliefs are “locally owned” in ways that the values of the state system may not be. This begs the question of whether human rights are indeed universal or whether they are essentially “Western” and whether this implies that they are inherently alien and irreconcilable with some cultures. While this discussion clearly goes beyond the reach of this volume, it seems clear that a multilayered approach will have to confront this issue as well. A first step in doing so might be to acknowledge that the international human rights standards are intimately linked to the state. “Human rights are both a product of and a response to the rise of the modern nation-state”(Wilson 1997: 17). To attempt to improve human rights in areas where there is no state to speak of, is almost bound to require significantly different methods than when working in areas where the problem is that the state is too strong. A second step may be to acknowledge that rights are not only entitlements that result from principles of justice, but are involved in the construction of identities and claims for self-determination. In such contexts, the individualism common in liberal conceptions of rights confronts more collectivist visions and narratives (Wilson 1997: 23). The key challenge for external actors who wish to strengthen human rights and improve access to security and justice may thus be to contextualize—without necessarily relativizing—human rights. This may imply choosing between different values—or at least in the short to medium term, refraining from attempting to promote them all at once. It may also imply accepting that sometimes the local demand for human rights is less pronounced than donors would prefer and/or takes forms that do not easily fit into existing donor categories. The fragile states agenda is new and little has been written so far on the linkages between rights and state fragility and on how to protect or promote human rights in fragile states. In this regard, legal anthropology may

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provide interesting studies on how the transnational discourse of human rights is appropriated, resisted, and transformed in different contexts, including that of fragile states. Based on such studies—and the contextspecific knowledge they produce—donors may be better equipped to maneuver in the minefield of rights and wrongs and all the in-betweens.

Donor Coordination One of the consistent challenges in donor support to SSR programs has been the oft-cited lack of donor coordination. It is a truism of donor assistance efforts that coordination can and should be improved. Recipient governments increasingly complain that the multitude of different reporting requirements, and the time consumed in negotiating with individual donor agencies, effectively prevent them from focusing on the real issues at hand. It is, however, also an accurate adage that coordination is largely an unattainable goal. Given that support programs are not altruistic initiatives and that international actors may have decidedly different national interests and agendas— particularly when they pertain to antidrug and antiterrorism initiatives—a more realistic objective may be to reduce duplication and antagonism among donors. This may be particularly true with regard to donor support to nonstate justice and security systems. Furthermore, donors and multilateral international organizations operate according to widely varying corporate cultures with differing sets of incentives and disincentives, and it is unrealistic to expect that these can be reconciled any time soon. Introducing a new paradigm such as the multilayered approach is likely to make donor coordination even more difficult, as institutional change and the speed of adoption of new approaches will inevitably vary among donors. Consequently, it may be prudent to admit and accept that the adoption of a multilayered model, rather than minimizing donor duplication and discord, may, on the contrary, increase donor disagreement and dissension. Donor adoption of the multilayered model may challenge donor coordination, for it may directly affect the role of the international multilateral banks and the United Nations and its sister organizations, such as UNDP, given their special relationships with host governments and organizational cultures. With their acknowledged need to prioritize their relationships with the host governments, these organizations may, as already suggested, have difficulties working with nonstate justice and security actors. The tensions between local ownership, cultural sustainability, and human rights may only exacerbate the situation. While this will have to be dealt with on a case by

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case basis, one of the implications of adopting the new model may be the necessity of introducing new and unique institutional arrangements, divisions of labor, and partnerships between and among donors. For instance, bilateral donors may be more suited for addressing substantive issues of justice and security development in fragile states than the UN agencies.

Concluding Thoughts For the past few years, a lively debate has been ongoing in the donor community on how to work in fragile states.10 Among other motivating causes, this debate was spurred by 9/11 and the belief that “ungoverned territories” constitute a threat to Western security. The newfound interest in fragile states has led donors to acknowledge that in many countries traditional development approaches have failed to reduce poverty and foster development. For most agencies, the recognition of the need for new models has translated into a strong emphasis on state building, that is, on building efficient, legitimate, and accountable democratic state institutions capable of fulfilling the functions customarily associated with a modern state. Among these functions is, first and foremost, the upholding of law and order within and across the state’s sovereign territorial borders. The multilayered approach suggested in this conclusion presents a less ambitious, yet more realistic route for donors to support improvements in security and justice. It outlines how donors may respond to the fact that the Weberian state has always been and is likely to remain little more than an abstract ideal in the territories currently referred to as fragile states. Relying on actual practices found in these places, the multilayered model of state building is a flexible and less state-centered approach than past strategies. It emphasizes context, culture, and history, accepting that reality is messy and that “solutions” are rarely clear-cut and simple. The need for such pragmatism is underlined by the ongoing transformation of states taking place across the world. The role of the state is being challenged everywhere and privatization of security is a global phenomenon. Hybrid governance structures and various forms of state/nonstate partnerships are emerging in many places, not only in the global borderlands. This does not imply that the state is withering away. Rather it suggests that the global system is changing and that the traditional model of the sovereign state is undergoing revision—in normative and descriptive terms. The introduction of the multilayered model is one way of bringing this lofty academic discussion down to earth and providing a way for donors to support programming that enhances the safety, security, and justice of peoples living under the most averse conditions.

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Notes 1. The multilayered approach was first introduced in OECD (forthcoming). This conclusion adopts and amplifies many of the arguments made in that report. 2. The USAID applies a slightly different definition as it distinguishes between effectiveness and legitimacy and argues that the degree of state fragility is affected not only by the actual performance of the state, but also by the perceptions of important segments of society that the government is legitimate (USAID 2005). Distinguishing between capacity and willingness suggests that in some countries the lack of public services may primarily reflect a lack of political will. Possible examples may be Rwanda during the genocide and North Korea. While exploring this argument in detail clearly goes beyond this concluding chapter, it should be noted that regardless of how willing or not state leaders in fragile states are to deliver services to the citizens, they are all faced with problems of capacity/effectiveness. Emphasis is thus placed on this characteristic here. 3. Personal interview with development personnel working in Timor-Leste, 2006. 4. It should be remembered that, under the best of circumstances, donor assistance cannot meet the demands of local communities for safety, security, and justice. Given the scope of the challenge to believe that donor support for justice and security development plays or can play more than a minor role in the provision of safety and security in fragile states, is to overstate its importance. That said, donor assistance may be a vital element in an overall justice and security development program. 5. It should be noted that the term used is correlated rather than integrated. The underlying assumptions are twofold. First, it is assumed that there will be a degree of judicial pluralism that permits “judicial choice” and “court shopping” in any multilayered judicial system. In other words, an aggrieved party may be able to bring a case to any number of different venues. Second, lessons learned in judicial development suggest that “integration” undermines the legitimacy and effectiveness of nonstate justice systems and, thus, should be avoided (see DFID 2004). 6. For instance with respect to monitoring the operations of private security companies, the police could ideally license and register not only the companies themselves, but also vet and license each company’s employees, including determining and verifying the training each employee undergoes. In addition, the police should establish and record which weapons, if any, those employees possess, they are allowed to carry, and discharge. Finally, it would be prudent for the police to be kept abreast of any incidents that occur. 7. Potential resistance toward information-gathering exercises should also be seen in light of the importance and track record of intelligence services and associated surveillance systems. 8. In the case of Yemen, the government forbade an American NGO, National Democratic Initiative, to conduct a survey of conflict in tribal areas or to provide training to tribal leaders in conflict resolution and mediation techniques, even

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though those leaders already adjudicate disputes and command local security forces. 9. Reno’s chapter provides an interesting methodology for donors to analyze whether nonstate security providers are benefactors or predators. 10. Led by the World Bank and the U.S. and U.K. development agencies, the debate primarily unfolded within an OECD framework in the Fragile States Group.

Bibliography Alemika, Etannibi E O, and Innocent C Chukwuma (2004). A Report on Poor Peoples’ Perceptions and Priorities on Safety, Security and Informal Policing in A2J Focal States in Nigeria. Lagos: Center for Law Enforcement Education. Baker, Bruce (2004). Post-conflict Policing: Lessons from Uganda 18 years On. Journal of Humanitarian Assistance. www.jha.ac/articles/a138.htm (accessed October 2006). Berry, Chris, Ali Forder, Sonya Sultan, and Magüi Moreno-Torres (2004). Approaches to Improving the Delivery of Social Services in Difficult Environments. London: Department for International Development. Chirayath, Leila, Caroline Sage, and Michael Woolcock (2005). Customary Law and Policy Reform: Engaging with the Plurality of Justice Systems. Background paper prepared for the World Development Report 2006: Equity and Development. Washington: World Bank. Clapham, Christopher (1998). “Degrees of Statehood,” Review of International Studies, 24: 143–57. DFID (2004). Non-State Justice and Security Systems. London: Department for International Development. ——— (2005). Why We Need to Work More Effectively in Fragile States. London: Department for International Development. Hendrickson, Dylan (2005). Overview of Regional Survey Findings and Policy Implications for Donors, in OECD Security System Reform and Governance. Paris: Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development. Hohe, Tanja and Rod Nixon (2003). Reconciling Justice: “Traditional” Law and State Judiciary in East Timor. Washington: United States Institute for Peace. Kyed, Helene (forthcoming). The Intricacy of Boundary Making: Traditional Leaders’ Role in Policing and Justice Enforcement, in Lars Buur, Theresa Silva, and Helene Kyed (eds.). An Assessment of Decentralisation Policy Decree 15/2000: Experiences, Obstacles and Possibilities. Maputo: Kapicua. OECD (2005a). Principles for Good International Engagement in Fragile States. Paris: Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development. ——— (2005b). Service Delivery in Fragile States: Advancing Donor Practice. Paris: Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development. ——— (forthcoming). Enhancing the Delivery of Justice and Security in Fragile States. Paris: Organisation of Economic Co-operation and Development.

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Qhubu, Nts’ikeng Theresa (2005). The Development of Restorative Justice in Lesotho. Gaborone: Association of Law Reform Agencies of Eastern and Southern Africa. Schärf, Wilfried and Daniel Nina (2001) (eds.). The Other Law: Non-state Ordering in South Africa. Cape Town: Juta. Senier, Amy (2006). Rebuilding the Judicial Sector in Afghanistan: The Role of Customary Law, in Al Nakhalh, fletcher.tufts.edu/al_nakhlah/archives/spring2006/ senier.pdf (accessed October 2006). Stone, Christopher and Joel Miller, Monica Thornton, and Jennifer Trone (2005). Supporting Security, Justice, and Development: Lessons for a New Era. New York: Vera Institute of Justice. Thorne, Kristina (2005). Rule of Law through Imperfect Bodies? The Informal Justice Systems of Burundi and Somalia. Geneva: Centre for Humanitarian Dialogue. UNDP (2004). Capacity-Building for Rule of Law Institutions in South Sudan. Project document. Khartoum and New York: United Nations Development Programme. ——— (2005). Access to Justice during Armed Conflict in Nepal: Obstacles to Access Justice and Responses to Them in a Context of Conflict. Unpublished study. Kathmandu and New York: United Nations Development Programme. USAID (2005). Fragile States Strategy. Washington, DC: United States Agency for International Development. Wilson, Richard A (1997). Human Rights, Culture and Context. Anthropological Perspectives. London: Pluto Press. World Bank (2003). World Development Report 2004, Making Services Work for Poor People. Washington, DC: World Bank and Oxford University Press. ——— (2004). Village Justice in Indonesia: Case Studies on Access to Justice, Village Democracy, and Governance. Washington, DC: World Bank.

About the Contributors

Louise Andersen is a PhD candidate at the Institute for Political Science, Copenhagen University, and the Danish Institute for International Studies. At the time of editing this volume she was a visiting scholar at the Danish Institute for International Studies on secondment from the Danish Ministry of Foreign Affairs, where she has served since completing her Master in Political Science in 1996. Her research focuses on international policies toward fragile states. Bruce Baker is Senior Research Fellow at the Applied Research Centre for Human Security, Coventry University. He is currently engaged in an Economic and Social Research Council project examining informal and formal policing in postconflict African states. His published articles and books cover African democratization, governance, policing, security sector reform, popular justice, and informal justice. He has conducted fieldwork in Zimbabwe, Mozambique, South Africa, Rwanda, Uganda, The Gambia, Sierra Leone, and Cape Verde. Gavin Cawthra is Professor at the Graduate School of Public and Development Management, University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg, and manager at its Centre for Defence and Security Management. Professor Cawthra has written extensively on security and related issues in Southern Africa for over twenty years, including authorship and coeditorship of books such as Defensive Restructuring of the Armed Forces in Southern Africa (1997), Governing Insecurity: Democratic Control of Military and Security Establishments in Transitional Democracies (2003),Ourselves to Know: Civil-Military Relations and Defence Transformation in Southern Africa (2003). Ken Menkhaus is Professor of Political Science at Davidson College, and specializes in conflict and development in the Horn of Africa. In 1993–94, he served as special political advisor in the UN Operation in Somalia, and in 1994–95 was visiting civilian professor at the U.S. Army Peacekeeping Institute. He is a frequent consultant to the UN, the U.S. government, and nongovernmental organizations. In 2002, he was recipient of a U.S.

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Institute of Peace grant to study protracted conflict in the Horn of Africa. He is author of Somalia: State Collapse and the Threat of Terrorism (2004). Bjørn Møller is Senior Researcher at the Danish Institute for International Studies. He holds an MA in History and a PhD in Political Science from the University of Copenhagen, and he teaches conflict theory, international relations, and development studies at the universities of Copenhagen and Aalborg. He is the author of three books and editor or coeditor of seven anthologies. William Reno is Associate Professor of Political Science at Northwestern University, Illinois. He is a specialist in African politics and the politics of “collapsing states.” His current work examines violent commercial organizations and their relationships to state power and global economic actors. His books include Corruption and State Politics in Sierra Leone (Cambridge University Press, 1995) and Warlord Politics and African States (Lynne Rienner, 1998). He is completing the forthcoming volume, The Evolution of Warfare in Independent Africa. Eric Scheye is an independent consultant in justice and security sector development. He holds a PhD in political science and an MBA and has taught at John Jay College of Criminal Justice in New York and Potsdam Universität, Potsdam, Germany. Over the past few years Eric Scheye has worked in Yemen, Guatemala, Brazil, Argentina, and Belize. He has worked with USAID, UNDP, OECD, and the British government. His most recent work include cowriting an OECD report on justice and security service delivery in fragile states and chapters of the forthcoming OECD security sector reform implementation framework. Prior to his consulting career, Eric Scheye worked for almost ten years with the United Nations in Albania, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Brazil, East Timor, Guatemala, Honduras, Kosovo, and Serbia. Mark Sedra is Research Associate at the Bonn International Center for Conversion (BICC), a German-based independent think tank specializing in peace and security issues. His research focuses on the topic of postconflict state building with an emphasis on the security sector. Since 2001 the bulk of his work has centered on Afghanistan and the Middle East. During that time he has published numerous articles, policy reports, and book chapters focusing on the reconstruction process in Afghanistan. Finn Stepputat is Senior Researcher at the Danish Institute for International Studies. He holds an MSc in Economic Geography and a PhD in Cultural Sociology from Copenhagen University and has

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published extensively on issues of violent conflict, forced migration, and the aftermath of war, mainly in Latin America. He has also worked on more theoretical and methodological issues of state formation and sovereignty, and has coedited the books, States of Imagination: Ethnographic Explorations of the Post-colonial State (2001), and Sovereign Bodies: Citizens, Migrants and States in the Post-colonial World (2005). Martin van Creveld is Professor of History at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. He holds degrees from the London School of Economics and The Hebrew University in Jerusalem, where he has been on the faculty since 1971. Professor van Creveld has lectured or taught at virtually every strategic institute, military or civilian, in the Western world. His books include Supplying War (1978), Fighting Power (1982), Command in War (1985), Technology and War (1988), The Transformation of War (1991), The Rise and Decline of the State (1999), The Art of War (2000), Men, Women and War (2001).

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Index

Abacha, Sani, see Nigeria Abidjan, 142 Abubakar, Atiku, see Nigeria Accountability, 10, 16, 30, 133–7, 143, 167, 228, 230, 235–7, 241 Accra, 128 Afghanistan, 9, 13–14, 21, 36, 119, 151–74, 201, 228, 230–231 Afghan Army, 153–9 Afghan Independent Human Rights Commission (AIHRC), 162, 163 Afghan Ministry of Justice, 168, 231 Afghan National Army (ANA), 161–2 Afghan National Police (ANP), 162, 166, 169 Afghan New Beginnings Programme (ANBP), 163–4 Akhonzada, Mohammad Sher, 165 Amin, Hafizullah, 155 Amanullah, Amir, 153–4, 161 Anglo-Afghan War, 152 Bonn Agreement, 158, 169 Community Police, 165–7 Counter-narcotics, 162–3 Daoud, Mohammed, 154 Disbandment of illegal armed groups (DIAG), 164–5 Dostum, Rashid, 156–7 Durrani, Ahmad Shah, 152–3 Geneva Accords, 156 Hasht nafari, 153–4, 159 Helmand, 165 Informal justice, 167

International Security Assistance Force (ISAF), 172 Intra-Mujahidin Civil War, 156–7 Jalali, Ali, 158–9, 162 Jamiat-i Islami, 157 Junbesh-i Milli militia, 157 Karmal, Babrak, 155 Karzai, Hamid, 158, 163, 166 Khan, Amir Abdur Rahman, 152–3, 159 Lashkars, 153 Loya Jirga, 158 Massoud, Ahmad Shah, 152, 157 Ministry of Tribes and Nationalities, 155 Mohammad, Jan, 165 Mujahidin, 155–7 Najibullah, Muhammad, 154, 156 Northern Alliance, 119, 158, 163 Pashtuns, 152, 158, 166 Shah, Zahir, 154 Taliban, 119, 157–8, 160, 162–3, 168, 170–1, 173 Ajasin, Adekunke, see Nigeria Al Ittihad, see Somalia Akhonzada, Mohammad Sher, see Afghanistan Alamieyeseigha, Diepreye, see Nigeria Amin, Hafizullah, see Afghanistan Amanullah, Amir, see Afghanistan ANC, see South Africa (African National Congress) Angola, 33, 129, 185, 189, 190 Civil defense force, 129 Anya-Nya, see Sudan

252

INDEX

Argentina, 202, 203, 214 Arusha Agreement, see Burundi Asari, Mujahid Dokubo, see Nigeria AU, see African Union Authoritarianism, 13, 28, 117, 173, 186, 206, 215, 217–18 Aweys, Hassan Dahir, see Somalia Azanian People’s Liberation Army, see South Africa Bakassi Boys, see Nigeria Barre, Sias Mohammad, see Somalia Bayelsa, see Nigeria Bedié, Henri Konan, see Côte d’Ivoire Belgium, 190 Leopold II, King, 188 Benin, 102 Big Men, 24, 111 Bin Laden, Osama, see Terrorism Brazil, 203, 206, 213, 214, 217 São Paolo, 5, 15, 201 Britain, see United Kingdom Burkina Faso, 102, 108 Burundi, 184, 191, 192, 231 African Mission in Burundi (AMIB), 192 Arusha Agreement, 191–2 Barundi, 190 Burundi Armed Forces (FAB), 192 Burundi National Defense Force (BNDF), 192 Buyoya, Pierre, 191 Conseil National pour la défense de la démocratie—Force pour la défense de la démocratie (CNDD-FDD), 192 Hutu, 192 Palipehutu-FNL, 192–3 Tutsi, 191–2 CAFTA, see Central American Free Trade Agreement Cambodia, 28 Capitalism, 27, 210 Central America, 202, 207–11, 214 Central American Free Trade Agreement (CAFTA), 210

Central Asia, 5, 49, 201 Chavez, Hugo, 210 Chiefs, 8–9, 51–7, 63, 81, 104, 111, 113, 116, 132, 136, 139, 152, 166, 190 Local chiefs, 110, 111, 115 China, 60, 171, 184 Citizenship, 8, 49, 100, 130, 138, 142, 172, 195, 205, 229–31 Civil Defense Forces (CDF), 110, 115–19, 129, 194–5 Civil society, 13, 24, 28, 35, 79, 80, 81, 83, 206, 216, 229–30, 234 NGOs, 10, 69, 78, 85, 91, 114, 133–4, 140–2. Clans, 48, 52, 69, 71–3, 75–91, 128, 132, 234, see also Somalia Clausewitz, Carl von, 62 Cold War, 3, 9, 22, 34, 37, 73, 172, 184, 187, 203, 205, 218 Colonialism, 6–9, 61, 71, 81, 89, 101, 103–4, 110, 124, 153, 184, 190, 204–5 Anticolonial insurgency, 114 Decolonization, 22, 60 Precolonial setting, 70, 103 Commercial activities, 17, 72, 74, 83–4, 86, 89, 101–6, 109, 113, 116, 118, 124–6, 129, 130, 133–4, 137, 141, 143, see also Private security companies Black market, 37 Business, 10, 17, 69, 75, 77–9, 83–4, 89, 91, 100, 105, 130, 137, 140, 203, 209, 217 Commercial security, 129–30, 133–4, 143 Illicit economy, 37, 74, 83, 99, 101–2, 104–7, 110–11, 113, 115–18, 164–7, 173, 216 Shadow economy, 24, 26, 37 Community defense, 12, 116, 118, 141–2, 165, 214, see also Civil Defense Forces (CDF) and Militias Community policing, see Police Compraore, Blaise, 108

INDEX

Congo, Democratic Republic of, 15, 21, 33, 64, 129, 186–9, 191 Forces Armées de la République Démocratique du Congo (FARDC), 190 Ituri, 39, 189 Kabila, Joseph, 189 Kabila, Laurent, 189 Kinshasa, 189 Leopold II, 188 Mayi-Mayi, 189 Mobutu Sese Seko, 188–9 Movement for the Liberation of Congo (MLC), 189 Rally for Congolese DemocracyGoma (RCD-Goma), 189 RCD-Kisangani Liberation Movement (RCD-KL), 189 RCD-National (RCD-N), 189 United Nations Organization Mission in the Democratic Republic of the Congo (MONUC), 189–90 Zaïre, 9, 24 Conscription, 49, 58, 60, 63, 153–6, 159 Consociationalism, 191 Conté, Lansana, 103 Coping mechanisms, 31, 69, 80, 88, 93 Corruption, 28, 112–13, 134–5, 143, 162–3, 170, 172, 186, 202, 208, 211, 216–17 Costa Rica, 207, 214 Côte d’Ivoire, 21, 99, 102, 104–5, 108–10, 116, 129 Bedié, Henri Konan, 108 Congrès Panafricain des jeunes patriots, 109 Djué, Eugène, 109 Fédération estudiantine et scolaire de la Côte d’Ivoire (FESCI), 109 Forces Nouvelles, 109 Front Populaire Ivoirien (FPI), 109 Gbagbo, Laurent, 108, 109 Gouldé, Charles Blé, 109 Gueï, Robert, 108 Houphoët-Boigny, Félix, 102, 104, 108, 109

253

Hunter associations, 129 Ivoirité, 108 Mouvement populaire iviorien du Grand Ouest, 109 Soro, Guillaume, 109 Union pour la Libération Totale de la Côte d’Ivoire, 109 Counterinsurgency, 33, 59, 63, 172, 179, 185, 212, 214, 218 Counterterrorism, see Terrorism Coups, 102, 108, 111, 115–16, 154 Courts, 51, 77, 82–6, 131–41, 204, 211–13, 231, 237–8. Customary courts, 132, 136, 139, 140 Formal courts, 140 Local courts, 131, 132 Quasi-courts, 126 Sharia courts, 17, 77–85 State courts, 139, 237 Traditional courts, 132 Crime, 15, 77–8, 80–90, 99, 124–43, 167, 201–18, 230, 234, 236 Anticrime, 113, 126, 129, 135–6 Crime prevention, 135, 138, 140, 141, 143, 214 Criminal group, 99 Criminal violence, 73, 77, 207 International crime, 209, 211, 217 Investigation of crime, 124, 214 Organized crime, 25, 55, 208, 209, 211, 217 Violent crime, 75, 77 War crime, 56, 60 Customary law, see Justice Darawishta force, see Somalia Daoud, Mohammed, see Afghanistan DDR, see Demobilization, disarmament, and reintegration Decolonization, see Colonialism Demilitarization, 160, 163–4, 166, 168, 181, 188 Demobilization, disarmament, and reintegration, 15, 163–4, 166, 179–81, 190–3

254

INDEX

Democratization, 24, 29, 35, 205–7, 213, 235 Department for International Development (DFID), see United Kingdom Deterrence, 69, 70, 73, 78, 80–1, 124 Development assistance, 229 Donors, 4–5, 13–14, 23–4, 28–30, 38, 151, 160, 162, 167–8, 170, 188, 228–43 International aid agencies, 74, 83, 85, 92, 94 DFID, see United Kingdom (Department for International Development) Diamonds, 26, 105, 110–18 Djué, Eugène, see Côte d’Ivoire Doe, Samuel, see Liberia Dostum, Rashid, see Afghanistan Douglas, Oronto, see Nigeria Dozon, Jean-Pierre, 108 DRC, see Congo, Democratic Republic of Drug economy, 162–6, 171, 177, 202, 203, 208–18 Dubai, 83, 156 Durrani, Ahmad Shah, see Afghanistan East Africa, 5, 9, 11–12, 67–97, 126, 177 East Timor, 168, 230, 232 Egal, Ibrahim Mohammed, see Somalia El Salvador, 207–210, 213–14, 217 Elites, 9, 23–6, 29, 69, 72, 78–9, 86–9, 101, 103, 105–6, 108, 111, 117, 130, 154, 176, 188, 204–6, 211, 239 Ethiopia, 67–76, 77, 79, 82, 85, 88, 90–2, 179, 193, 233 Mengistu, Haile Mariam, 72, 74 Ethnic cleansing, 72, 119 Europe, 6–8, 22, 49, 51, 55–8, 61, 71, 119, 190, 196, 204, 218 European Union (EU), 10, 190 Failed states, 10, 16, 23, 25, 27, 29, 31–9, 188, 201

Fragile states, 4–6, 10–17, 22, 25, 27, 38, 123, 140, 181, 201, 227–43 France, 55, 57, 58 French colonies, 102, 108 French patronage, 102 French Revolution, 47, 57, 58, 63 French sub-Saharan political network, 102 Napoleon, 56–8 Gabon, 190 Garang, John, see Sudan Gbagbo, Laurent, see Côte d’Ivoire Geneva Accords, see Afghanistan Geneva Convention, 60 Germany, 55, 158, 160, 162 Prussia, 57, 58 Ghana, 128 Globalization, 22, 35, 37, 208, 210–11, 216 Global governance, 37 World order, 37–8 World politics, 22–3 Gouldé, Charles Blé, see Côte d’Ivoire Great Lakes region, 5 Greece, 49, 54 Athens and Sparta, 49, 63 Guatemala, 202, 207–9, 211–17 Commission to Investigate Illegal Groups and Secret Security Organizations (CICIACS), 212–13 Constitutional Court, 213 La Cofradí, 212 Gueï, Robert, see Côte d’Ivoire Guinea, 103 Haiti, 33, 201, 230 Hawala, see Somalia Hobbes, Thomas, 7 Honduras, 207–10, 213, 217 Horn of Africa, 68, 71–2, 75, 79, 86, 90 Houphoët-Boigny, Félix, see Cote d’Ivoire Human rights, 3, 93, 133, 138–9, 144, 211–14, 236, 241

INDEX

Civil liberties, 74, 80, 93 Human rights abuse, 72, 93, 105, 118–19, 162, 186, 190, 212, 240 International standards of human rights, 22, 27, 31–5, 69, 79, 100, 167, 173, 233, 240–2 Humanitarian intervention, 32–4 Huntington, Samuel, 192 IDP, see Internally displaced persons Indirect rule, 6 India, 60, 62, 152–3 Indonesia, 60, 231 Informal security, 14, 70, 126, 129–30, 152, 160, 165–6, 214 Internally displaced persons (IDP), 69, 76, 79, 87, 233 Insurgency, 33, 59, 61, 63, 73, 77, 97, 106, 113–14, 119, 163, 165, 193, 218, see also Militias and Rebels Iran, 152, 171 Iraq, 64, 119, 231 Islam, 83–4 Islamists, 67, 70, 76, 77, 84, 90 Hisba, see Nigeria Jihad, 76, 155–6 Sharia, 17, 76–9, 82–5, 94, 193 Sharia courts, see courts Sharia law, see Law Sharia militia, see Somalia Sharia penal codes, see Nigeria Sharia police, 83, 128 Sharia punishment, see Somalia Israel, 60–2 Ivory Coast, see Côte d’Ivoire Jalali, Ali, see Afghanistan Jama, Ali Jama, see Somalia Jamiat-i Islami, see Afghanistan Janjaweed, see Sudan Japan, 51, 59, 160 Jigjiga, see Somalia Justice, 4, 6, 17, 62, 69, 79, 90, 93, 106, 131–2, 136–7, 139–40, 142–3, 163, 167, 170, 202, 204–6, 209–12, 215, 217–18, 227–43

255

Customary justice, 132, 139 Judicial reform, 160, 163, 167, 169, 170 Justice and security, 6, 217, 227–8, 231–43 Justice sector, 140, 163, 167, 170, 210–11 Restorative justice, 132, 140 State justice, 139, 231 Kabeles, see Ethiopia Kabila, Joseph, see Congo, Democratic Republic of Kabila, Laurent, see Congo, Democratic Republic of Kamajores, see Sierra Leone Kamara, Idrissa, see Sierra Leone Karmal, Babrak, see Afghanistan Karzai, Hamid, see Afghanistan Kenya, 24, 67–9, 72–5, 78–9, 81–2, 88, 90–1, 94, 233, 236 Kenyatta, Jomo, 72 Moi, Daniel Arap, 72, 74 Nairobi, 83, 94, 131, 140, 142 Kenyatta, Jomo, see Kenya Khan, Amir Abdur Rahman, see Afghanistan Latin America, 5, 11, 13, 15, 201–6, 207, 213, 215, 217–19, 230 Law, 78, 86, 93, 102, 124–6, 129–30, 134, 138, 141, 143, 168, 208, 211, 213 Corporal punishment, 126, 128, 132, 141, 240 Counternarcotics law, 163 Criminal law, 204 Customary law, 69–71, 73, 77–80, 89–94, 131, 139, 151, 167, 231, 232–4 Everyday law, 204 Family law, 131 Immigration laws, 208 International law, 58, 182–3 Laws of war, 56 Legal system, 124, 163, 167, 205

256

INDEX

Law—continued Local law, 84 Sharia law, 78, 79, 114, 157, 167, 193 Rule of law, 6, 14, 27, 29, 70, 75, 79, 80, 86, 88, 90, 91, 93, 169 Sources of law, 69, 71, 89 State law, 126, 128, 133, 134 State legal system, 139 Western law, 139 Law and order, 28, 30, 35, 38, 57, 79, 84, 131, 135, 140–1, 144, 243 Law enforcement, 13, 143, 163, 204, 209, 214 Leopold II, King, see Belgium and Congo, Democratic Republic of Lesotho, 139, 231 Liberia, 9, 21, 33, 99, 103–5, 109, 113, 116, 230 Doe, Samuel, 104 Liberian Peace Council, (LPC), 104 National Patriotic Front of Liberia, (NPFL), 104–5, 112 Taylor, Charles, 104, 109, 112 United Liberation Movement for Democracy in Africa (ULIMO), 104 Lower Shabelle region, see Somalia Machar, Riek, see Sudan Malawi, 139 Mali, 103 Mandela, Nelson, see South Africa Mara, see Street gangs Martyrs Brigade, see Nigeria Massoud, Ahmad Shah, see Afghanistan Mayi-Mayi, see Congo, Democratic Republic Mende, see Sierra Leone Mengistu, Haile Mariam, see Ethiopia Mexico, 202, 206–10, 217 Migration, 71, 81, 109, 203, 207–8, 210 Militias, 10–14, 49, 53, 56, 62–3, 74–129, 151–66, 185–96, 204, 232, see also Insurgency and Rebel

Clan/Ethnic militias, 78–9, 87–9, 128 Community militia, 158–9 Local militias, 73, 104–5, 131 Members, 99, 111, 114–15, 118 Militia Leaders, 67, 69, 76, 78–9, 86–7, 89, 105, 107, 109, 114, 119 Party militias/Personal militias, 128 Private militias, 102, 163 Predatory militias, 73, 99, 101, 107, 118–19 Protecting militias, 100–1, 107, 115–16, 118–20, 129 Tribal militia, 56, 62, 155–6, 189 Middle East, 5, 52 Mobutu, Sese Seko, see Congo, Democratic Republic of Moi, Daniel Arap, see Kenya Monopoly on organized force/violence, see Weber Mozambique, 185, 187–8, 193, 234 Armed Forces for the Defence of Mozambique (FADM), 187 Front for the Liberation of Mozambique (Frelimo), 187 Mozambique National Resistance (Renamo), 187 Mugabe, Robert, see Zimbabwe Mujahidin, see Afghanistan 155–7 Museveni, Yoweri, see Uganda Najibullah, Muhammad, see Afghanistan Namibia, 180, 189 NATO, see North Atlantic Treaty Organization Neopatrimonialism, 23–6, 30, 229 Nepal, 231 Netherlands, 165, 190 Nicaragua, 207–8, 210 Nimeiri, Jafar, see Sudan Nigeria, 99, 104, 112–17, 128–9, 230 Abacha, Sani, 104, 113, 117 Abubakar, Atiku, 112 Ajasin, Adekunke, 117

INDEX

Alamieyeseigha, Diepreye, 112–13 Asari, Mujahid Dokubo, 112–13 Bakassi Boys, 113, 129 Bayelsa, 104, 112–13 Bayelsa Volunteers, 113 Delta State, 104, 113 Douglas, Oronto, 112 Hisba, 128 Isakaba, 128 Lagos, 118 Martyrs Brigade, 113 Movement for the Emancipation of the Niger Delta (MEND), 112 Niger Delta Peoples’ Volunteer Force (NPVF), 112–13 Niger Delta, 103, 112, 114 Nigeria Police, 128 Nigerian militia, 104, 113 Northern Nigeria, 114, 128 O’odua People’s Congress (OPC), 117, 119, 128 Sharia penal codes, 128 Yoruba, 117 Norman, Hinga, see Sierra Leone North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO), 33, 119, 172 North Korea, 60, 185 Nyerere, Julius, see Tanzania Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD), 28, 38, 235 Pakistan, 60, 155, 157, 171 Kashmir, 156 Panama, 210 Pan-American Union, 203 Pandilla, see Street gangs Paraguay, 217 Pastoralism, 69–72, 84 Patronage, 9, 12, 17, 23–4, 26, 84, 86, 90, 101–18, 128–9, 134, 182, 188, 216, 229 Peacebuilding, 3–4, 10, 14, 28–33, 35, 38, 93–4, 181, 188 Peacekeeping, 33, 90, 181, 184, 192

257

Peru, 214, 217 Pesh Merga, 119 Police, 57, 59, 74, 85–6, 89–90, 106, 112–13, 117, 123–47, 163–4, 169–70, 183, 186, 195, 215–18, 230–1, 234, 236, 240 Commercial policing, 133–4 Community policing, 82, 133, 137–41, 165–7, 214 Everyday policing, 124, 215 Hybrid policing, 137–42 International police, 4, 190, 230 Militarization of police, 15, 61–4, 206, 209–10, 213–14 Native Authority police, 132 Nonstate policing, 13, 124–5, 129, 133, 137, 142–3, 213, 234 Plural policing, 144 Police reform, 14, 30, 160, 162, 182, 190, 192, 214, 218 Police services, 162, 182, 196, 236 Policing agencies, 124–5, 133–5, 137, 140 Private police force, 204, 213 Religious police, 83, 126, 128 State police, 7, 9, 13–14, 74, 77, 123–8, 130–1, 133–5, 137–8, 141–3, 182, 196, 201, 204 Portillo, Alfonso, 211, 212 Postcolonialism 5, 6, 8–9, 13, 22–3, 36, 68, 71, 81, 103, 205, 229 Poverty, 4, 28, 126, 144, 206, 207, 218, 243 Precolonial setting, see Colonialism Predation, 73, 87, 99, 100, 105, 107, 108, 114 Prisons, 86, 89, 128, 195, 209, 217 Private security, 10, 12, 62, 68, 77, 79, 83, 129–30, 164, 213–14, 231 Rebel, 25, 28, 108–9, 114, 129, 153, 178–80, 186–7, 189, 192–3, 196 Religious leaders/authorities, 79, 105, 109, 115, 117, 133, 138, 154 Rome, 49, 53, 55, 63 Rwanda, 123, 131, 140–1, 186, 189, 191

258

INDEX

Safer Cities Programme, 142 Sankoh, Foday, see Sierra Leone Saudi Arabia, 155 Security sector reform (SSR), 4–6, 10, 13–14, 17, 30, 123, 124, 133, 137, 142, 151–76, 228, 232–3, 240, 242 Senegal, 102 Senghor, Leopold, 102 Shah, Zahir, see Afghanistan Sharia, see Islam Sierra Leone, 21, 24, 26, 33, 64, 99, 103–5, 110–11, 113, 115–16, 118–19, 123, 126, 129, 132, 136, 139–40, 168, 178 Armed Forces Revolutionary Council (AFRC), 110, 178 Bongor, 116 Civil Defence Forces (CDF), 110, 115–19, 129 Kamajor, 105, 110 Kamara, Idrissa, 116 Mende, 115–16 Norman, Hinga, 116, 119 Revolutionary United Front (RUF), 104–5, 110–12, 115–16, 118–19, 129, 178 Sankoh, Foday, 26 Sierra Leone Army (SLA), 110, 119, 195 Special Court for Sierra Leone, 99, 115, 119 Stevens, Siaka, 111 Small arms, 72–4, 83, 90 Solomon Islands, 230 Somalia, 9, 21, 24, 26, 33, 67–97, 108, 128, 178 Al Ittihad, 90 Alliance for Restoration of Peace and Counter-Terrorism, 76 Aweys, Hassan Dahir, 84 Barre, Sias Mohammad, 26, 72–3, 81, 88 Blood compensation/payment (diya), 69, 77, 81, 84, 89, 90, 234 Clan elders, 69, 73, 78, 80–4, 89, 90, 91

Clan militia, 78–9, 87, 88, 89, 128 Council of Islamic Courts (CIC), 67, 68, 76, 77, 83, 85 Customary law (xeer), 69, 81, 94 Darawishta force, 86 Egal, Ibrahim Mohammed, 89 Famine, 73, 79 Hargeisa, 75–6, 83, 89 Harti clan, 86 Hawala, 83 Isaaq, 73, 76 Jama, Ali Jama, 91 Kismayo, 72, 75, 82, 87 Lower Shabelle region, 76 Mogadishu, 39, 67, 70, 75–9, 82–4, 87 Ogaden war, 73 Puntland, 68, 75–7, 82, 85–6, 88, 90–1, 94, 233 Somali East Africa, 5, 9, 11–12, 67, 69, 78–9, 82, 88 Somali National Movement, 73 Somaliland, 67–9, 75–7, 79, 82, 88–90, 94, 180, 233–4, 236 Transitional Federal Government (TFG), 67–8, 76–7, 86–7 United Nations Operations in Somalia (UNOSOM), 85, 89 Yusuf, Abdullahi, 86, 91 Soro, Guillaume, see Côte d’Ivoire South Africa, 15, 124, 126, 130, 132, 134–5, 138, 140–1, 181–8, 190–3 African National Congress (ANC), 136, 181–2, 184 Azanian People’s Liberation Army (APLA), 183 Durban, 142 Johannesburg, 5, 142 Mandela, Nelson, 183, 191 Pan-African Congress (PAC), 181, 183–4 South African Defence Force (SADF), 181–3 South African National Defence Force (SANDF), 183–4

INDEX

uMkonto we Sizwe (MK), 182–3 Western Cape of South Africa, 138 Southeast Asia, 49, 51, 106 Sovereignty, 3, 6–10, 16–17, 22, 27, 32, 34, 38, 57, 71, 91, 93, 125, 151, 154, 160, 165, 169, 174, 179, 188, 204, 213, 233–4, 243 as Responsibility to protect, 3, 27, 32 Soviet Union/USSR, 36, 60, 101, 184 In Afghanistan, 154–6 Spoilers, 32, 69, 79, 99, 162, 169, 192 SSR, see Security sector reform State building, 3, 4, 5, 8, 11, 14, 22, 34–5, 70, 72, 80, 92, 100, 119, 151–8, 160, 165, 167–8, 171–4, 181, 184–5, 188, 196, 228, 243 Stevens, Siaka, see Sierra Leone Street gangs, 208–11 Sudan, 47, 129, 132, 180, 193–6 Addis Ababa agreement, 193 Anya-Nya, 193 Civil Defense Forces (CDF), 194–5 Comprehensive Peace Agreement (CPA), 194–5 Darfur, 194–5 Garang, John, 194 Sudanese Government, 193–6 Janjaweed, 194, 195 Machakos Protocol, 194 Machar, Riek, 94 Nimeiri, Jafar, 193 Southern Sudan Independence Movement, 194 Sudan Armed Forces (SAF), 193, 195 Sudan Liberation Army (SLA), 195 Sudan People’s Defence Forces (SPDF), 194 Sudan People’s Liberation Movement/Army (SPLA), 193, 195, 196 Tajikistan, 156, 171 Taliban, see Afghanistan

259

Tanzania, 132 Dar es Salaam, 142 Nyerere, Julius, 191 University of Dar es Salaam, 114 Taxation, 25, 51, 71, 83, 86–7, 90, 159, 164, 171, 201, 209, 211, 230 Taylor, Charles, see Liberia Terrorism, 87, 218 9/11/September 11, 16, 23, 36–7, 158, 243 International terrorism, 16 Counterterrorism, 171–2 Osama bin Laden, 114 Terrorist, 61–2 Terrorist network, 203 Urban terrorism, 112 War on terror, 23, 158, 172 Tilly, Charles, 11, 87 Touré, Sekou, 103 Timor-Leste, see East Timor Transitional government, 30, 92, 189, 190–2, 196 Turkmenistan, 171 Uganda, 24, 123, 131–2, 136, 138–41, 186, 189–90 Crime Prevention Panel, 138 Kampala, 138–9 Museveni, Yoweri, 179 National Resistance Army (NRA), 179 Uganda Police, 139 United Kingdom, 38, 60, 153, 160, 162, 165, 184, 186 Anglo-Afghan War, 152 British colonialism, 89, 103, 110 British-controlled India, 153 Department for International Development (DfID), 21, 229 United Nations (UN), 28, 30, 32, 38, 73, 85, 99, 109, 163, 185, 187, 189, 192, 210, 212, 232, 239–40, 242–3 United Nations Operations in Somalia (UNOSOM), 85, 89

260

INDEX

United Nations (UN)—continued United Nations Organization Mission in the Democratic Republic of the Congo (MONUC), 189–90 United Nations Development Programme (UNDP), 21, 163–4, 231, 242 United Nations Security Council, 30, 32, 189, 192 United States of America, 34, 36, 38, 40, 60, 62, 104, 114, 119, 155, 158, 160–3, 170–1, 202–3, 205, 207–10, 218 Anti-Americanism, 210 Pentagon, 21 Washington, 36, 114, 210 U.S. Congress, 203 Uzbekistan, 171 Vigilantism, 10, 12, 57, 77, 82, 113, 117, 126, 128, 130, 136, 186 Warlords, 10, 25–6, 30, 69, 75, 78–9, 83, 87–8, 93, 155–8, 165, 167–8, 171, 173–8, 182 War on terror, see Terrorism Weak states, 22, 69, 70, 83, 88, 93, 128, 218 Weber, Max, 8, 100, 180 Monopoly on organised force/violence, 5, 8, 14, 17, 25, 35, 100, 157, 160, 166, 180, 196, 201, 204 Weberian state, 12, 23, 26, 100, 202, 243 West Africa, 11–13, 51, 99–121

World Bank, 21, 25, 28, 231, 235 World order, see Globalisation World politics, see Globalisation World War I and II, 7, 47, 56, 59–60, 102–3 Yemen, 230 Youth, 49, 99, 111–18, 126, 132, 136, 140, 206, 209, 218 Armed youth, 69, 73, 101, 104–5, 110, 115, 118 Rural youth, 110 Urban youth, 112 Youth gangs, 12, 73, 111–12, 115, 207, 208, 210 Youth groups, 126, 208 Youth militias, 111, 129 Yoruba, see Nigeria Yusuf, Abdullahi, see Somalia Zaïre, see Congo, Democratic Republic of Zimbabwe, 128, 184–7, 189 Lancaster House agreement, 184 Matabeleland, 185 Movement for Democratic Change (MDC), 186 Mugabe, Robert 128, 185 Patriotic Front-Zimbabwe African People’s Union (PF-ZAPU), 184 Rhodesia Security Force (RSF), 184–5 Zimbabwe African National UnionPatriotic Front (ZANU-PF), 184 Zimbabwe Defence Force (ZDF), 185