Political Violence and the Construction of National Identity in Latin America

Political Violence and the Construction of National Identity in Latin America Edited by

Will Fowler and Peter Lambert

POLITICAL VIOLENCE AND THE CONSTRUCTION OF NATIONAL IDENTITY IN LATIN AMERICA

© Will Fowler and Peter Lambert, 2006. 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 2006 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: 978–1–4039–7388–7 ISBN-10: 1–4039–7388–1 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available from the Library of Congress. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Design by Newgen Imaging Systems (P) Ltd., Chennai, India. First edition: December 2006 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Printed in the United States of America.

In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed—they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love, five hundred years of democracy and peace and what did that produce . . . ? The cuckoo clock —The Third Man (1949; directed by Carol Reed); words added by Orson Welles to Graham Greene’s script

This page intentionally left blank

Contents

Preface

vii

Acknowledgments

ix

Notes on the Contributors

xi

Chapter 1

1

The Children of the Chingada Will Fowler

Chapter 2 Myth, Manipulation, and Violence: Relationships between National Identity and Political Violence Peter Lambert

19

Chapter 3 Languages of Nationalist Violence: Notes on Mexican Hispanophobia Marco Antonio Landavazo

37

Chapter 4 Lucha and Cubanía: The (Re)Construction of a Cuban Historical Identity Through the Idea of (Revolutionary) Struggle Antoni Kapcia

55

Chapter 5 Contesting Imagined Communities: Gender, Nation, and Violence in El Salvador Mo Hume

73

Chapter 6

91

National Identity and Violence: The Case of Colombia Marisol Dennis

Chapter 7 National Identity and Political Violence: The Case of Venezuela Julia Buxton

111

vi

●

Contents

Chapter 8 Political Violence, Cinematic Representation, and Peruvian National Identity: La Boca del Lobo (Francisco Lombardi, 1988) and La Vida es una Sola (Marianne Eyde, 1993) Sarah Barrow Chapter 9

131

Violence, the Left, and the Creation of Un Nuevo Chile Francisco Domínguez

149

Chapter 10 The Effects of State Violence on National Identity: The Fate of Chilean Historical Narratives Post 1973 Martin Mullins

167

!

Chapter 11 “iMuero con mi patria! ” Myth, Political Violence, and the Construction of National Identity in Paraguay Peter Lambert Chapter 12 Some Historical Observations on the Relationship between Nationalism and Political Violence in Argentina Michael Goebel

187

207

Selected Bibliography

227

Index

239

Preface

L

atin American history since independence has been marked by conflict and the violent struggle for political power. The construction of national identity in Latin America has been an essential ingredient in this struggle, with the clash between conflicting interpretations acting as both cause and moral justification of often high levels of violence. While international wars have been the exception rather than the rule in Latin America, the construction of national identity has been intimately related to and nourished by political violence. A number of books that address issues of national identity in Latin America exist. However, we felt there was a need for a book that analyzed the construction of national identity as a political tool or mechanism of control and its intimate relationship with political violence. We were interested in providing a collaborative study that focused both on dissident and dominant constructions of national identity in terms of both its demobilizing and mobilizing potential. And we wanted to do so focusing on specific and tightly structured case studies on a range of Latin American countries spanning the continent from Mexico to Argentina. This book is the result of this journey of inquiry, one in which we have sought to draw a comparative analysis from these case studies offering new theoretical considerations on political violence and national identity. This is a project that builds on two conference panels that were specifically put together with the intention of producing this new work. The conference on Violence, Culture and Identity at the University of St. Andrews (June 2003) with our symposium on Political Violence and National Identity provided the framework for an expanded panel of the same title at the Society of Latin American Studies Annual Conference in Leiden, Holland (April 2004). Both panels attracted some outstanding papers that were subsequently selected for this present volume, along with other papers that were commissioned especially

viii

●

Preface

for this project. By following this path, we were able to attract international contributions, target leading academics, and create a coherent and cohesive coverage of area and theme. The chapters examine the relationship between the political construction of national identity and political violence in terms of the role of violence in the creation of national identity and, conversely, the use of national identity to justify and legitimize violence. They study national identity in the public, political sphere and its use for political purposes, whether these be reactionary, revolutionary, populist, demagogic, or democratic. Within this framework, authors consider the political construction of national identity in terms of historical myths, codes, symbols, icons, and landscapes, as well as political discourse and national(ist) narratives. What comes across in the contributions is that national identity is not fixed or permanent, positive or negative. Instead, it can be inclusive or exclusive, democratic or authoritarian, liberating or confining. It is always contested, often manipulated, and both resilent and flexible enough to change between dissident and dominant discourse, to change in its own meaning and interpretation and to be transformed for very different political projects. In this sense, it is also a major explanatory tool in analyzing political conflict, mechanisms of control, and violence in Latin America. We hope and believe this volume will be of interest to scholars, students, and general readers because of the quality of the chapters and its breadth of coverage. It includes detailed and perceptive case studies from across the continent, the application of theoretical frameworks, and an internal coherence that authors have worked hard to obtain. There is no other publication we know of that adopts this specific approach, and yet putting this book together has shown it to be a fascinating, underdeveloped, and rich field of study. We hope that this collaborative work will represent an important contribution to the field of both Latin American studies and studies on national identity.

Acknowledgments

W

e could not have edited this book without the help of a number of individuals and institutions. We are extremely grateful to our editor Gabriella Pearce for having faith in this book and for her first class editorial work, and to our editorial assistant, Joanna Mericle, for her enthusiasm, patience and sense of humor. Our colleagues in our respective departments in St. Andrews and Bath, as ever, deserve a mention for their unwavering support and for their collegiality. The same goes to our students who, over the years, have got a kick out of studying violent Latin American texts and politics, challenged our preconceptions, and pushed us to ever broaden our horizons. We must also thank the many scholars who very generously shared their thoughts with us during the period in which we edited this book, not least the contributors to this volume, who we would also like to thank for their enthusiasm, as well as their patience when dealing with our endless demands and requests. We are grateful to the following for their contribution to the project: Cath Andrews, Andrew Nickson, Ricardo Medina, José Rivarola, Anne Staples and Susana de Amigo. We are also deeply indebted to the Institute of European Cultural Identity Studies (IECIS) at the University of St. Andrews and the Society for Latin American Studies (SLAS). Both of these institutions allowed us to host the conferences and panels that ultimately resulted in this volume. We would like to thank the director of IECIS Prof. Paul Gifford and the members of the SLAS Committee who were involved in the 2004 Conference, in particular its organizer Patricio Silva. Peter Lambert would also like to thank the British Academy for its generous support for his fieldwork in Paraguay in August 2004. We are also grateful to Licenciados José Luis Pérez Arrendondo, Fabián Ortega Aranda and Joaquín Alejandro Ruiz Cárdenas at the Banco de México for assisting us in obtaining the rights to reproduce the Diego Rivera image that appears on the front cover, with the kind permission of the Banco de México Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo Museumo Trust and the Instituto Nacional de Bellas Artes y Literatura.

x

●

Acknowledgments

Last but by no means least, we must thank our families for their support, and, in particular, Khalil who patiently waited until the final manuscript was edited before being born. Will Fowler and Peter Lambert, St. Andrews and Bath 2005

Notes on the Contributors

Sarah Barrow is a senior lecturer in communication and film studies at Anglia Ruskin University in Cambridge. She is completing her PhD project on representations of violence in recent Peruvian cinema. She has published on this and other aspects of Peruvian film, and also on postcolonial issues in contemporary British cinema. Julia Buxton is a senior research fellow at the Centre for International CoOperation and Security in the Department of Peace Studies, University of Bradford. In addition to various journal articles and chapters in edited collections on Venezuela she published The Failure of Political Reform in Venezuela (Ashgate, 2001). Marisol Dennis is a senior lecturer in Spanish and Latin American studies at University of the West of England (UWF) Bristol. She was one of the founders of the Latin American program at the university, and has given a number of papers and seminars on the contemporary history of Colombia, her country of birth. Francisco Domínguez is a program leader for Latin American studies and Spanish, and head of the Centre for Brazilian and Latin American studies at Middlesex University. He has written extensively on the political economy of Latin America as a whole, Chile’s democratic transition and Cuba’s economic reform. He is also the editor of Mercosur: Between Integration and Democracy (Peter Lang, 2003). Will Fowler is professor of Latin American studies at the University of St. Andrews, where he is head of the Department of Spanish. He has edited nine volumes on Latin American political history, and is the author of Mexico in the Age of Proposals, 1821–1853 (Greenwood, 1998), Tornel and Santa Anna (Greenwood, 2000), and Latin America 1800–2000 (Arnold, 2002). He has recently completed a new biography of General Antonio López de Santa Anna.

xii

●

Notes on the Contributors

Michael Goebel is a PhD candidate at University College London and a Marie Curie Fellow of the European Doctorate for the Social History of Europe and the Mediterranean in conjunction with the Universidad Pablo de Olavide, Seville. He studied history and Latin American studies at Freie Universität Berlin and University College London. Mo Hume is a lecturer in politics at the University of Glasgow. Her research focuses on the community and the household as sites of conflict and violence as well as social meaning and visibility of violence and crime. Prior to this, she worked for several years with the women’s movement in El Salvador on gendered processes of local development and women’s political participation. Antoni Kapcia, with a BA and PhD from University College London, has taught at Wolverhampton Polytechnic (later the University of Wolverhampton) from 1974, before being awarded a chair in Latin American history at the University of Nottingham in 2003. He has researched and published on modern and contemporary Cuban history since 1971. Peter Lambert is a senior lecturer in Spanish and Latin American studies at the University of Bath. He worked in Paraguay for four years as a political researcher, before moving to University of the West of England (UWE) Bristol, where he jointly launched the program in Latin American studies. In 2000 he moved to the University of Bath to set up the Spanish and Latin American studies program. He has researched and published extensively on contemporary Paraguayan politics. Marco Antonio Landavazo is a researcher and lecturer at the Universidad Michoacana de San Nicolás de Hidalgo, where he is academic secretary of the Institute of Historical Research. He completed his PhD at El Colegio de México. He has published numerous articles on Mexico and is the editor of Territorio, frontera y región en la historia de América. Siglos XVI al XX, Mexico City: Porrúa, 2003. Martin Mullins is a lecturer in risk management in the Kemmy School of Business at the University of Limerick. He specializes in political risk and public policy in the Southern Cone of Latin America.

CHAPTER 1

The Children of the Chingada Will Fowler

I

n Juan Rulfo’s groundbreaking novel Pedro Páramo (1955), the character of Juan Preciado sets out on a doomed quest to find his father.1 His journey into the ghost town of Comala, where he discovers a world in which the dead live alongside the living, as the unresolved traumas of the past continue to haunt the present, is one full of transcendence. On one level it highlights the existential angst of the individual’s quest for meaning—sought invariably in one’s origins. Preciado hopes to find out who he is by discovering who his mythical and enigmatic father, Pedro Páramo, was. On another level it is a novel about Mexico and, by default, Latin America, unable to move on, gripped in a vicious circle of unresolved tragedies.2 The Aztec purgatorial world of Mictlan (Place of the Dead) is all pervading, expressing the inability of Juan Preciado, the Mexican people, and the population of Spanish America to come to terms with their past. The people of Comala are unable to “move on” when they die. Their souls remain trapped, condemned to relive their tragic lives, time and again, with no hope of attaining any form of resolution or closure. They cannot come to terms with their past because of its violent nature, and yet they desperately seek salvation by trying to understand how it came to pass that their lives ended the way they did. Preciado’s quest, his people’s determination to overcome their painful and incomprehensible present by deciphering their sanguinary past, was tragically doomed. Rulfo did not believe they were capable of reaching a meaningful answer in their desperate quest for identity. The orphan that Rulfo was in real life, he saw in Mexico, an orphaned country unable to break with its brutal

2

●

Will Fowler

and violent past. This idea was not new. The Mexican poet and essayist Octavio Paz had already insinuated as much in his seminal The Labyrinth of Solitude (1985): “All men are born disinherited and their true condition is orphanhood, but this is particularly true among the Indians and the poor of Mexico.”3 It was for this same reason that Paz, like Rulfo’s Juan Preciado, believed that “The question of origins . . . is the central secret of our anxiety and anguish.”4 Evidently, neither in the case of Preciado nor of the Mexican people was this quest for origins going to provide rewarding or definitive answers, since the ongoing trauma of the past was too great to be overcome. The open wounds of the nation’s violent origins would never be healed. There was no therapy that could save Mexico. The questions Rulfo’s angst give rise to are at the heart of the problems we are concerned with in this volume: the dialectic that emerges between a deterministic, primordialist, and essentialist understanding of identity and one that, in being modernist or constructivist, sees in identity the possibility of reinvention and regeneration. In other words, the issue was and remains as follows: do we exist as a nation and if so, why are we the way we are? Or is the “nation” an artificial construct and we can make of our national identity what we will? Using Benedict Anderson’s key text on Imagined Communities (1983)5 as a starting point, Peter Lambert provides in chapter two a number of key definitions of national identity exploring its relationship with violence. One fundamental point he raises is that a belief in a collective identity, “represents a way of thinking about the world, a framework from which others both within and outside the nation are viewed, providing people with an explanation both of what unites us, culturally, socially and politically, and what divides us from others outside the nation.” National identity thus embodies “a symbolic, imagined community” created around existing historical paradigms. The question remains, nonetheless, where does fiction begin, where does it end? Lambert is right to stress that a national identity cannot be forged in “a historical and cultural void,”6 and yet, as becomes evident in a number of chapters in this book, one of the main causes of political violence would appear to be the lack of consensus in the population’s understanding of the historical fabric of their mother country. For Rulfo it was obvious that Mexican national identity did not provide an explanation for its people’s cultural, social, or political unity because he did not believe there was such a unity in the first place. To echo Serge Gruzinski’s questioning of the nature of hybridity, syncretism, and mestizaje in Latin America, is the process whereby we develop a sense of ethnic and/or national identity a deliberate and voluntary one? Is our appropriation and acceptance of a particular national identity active or passive, conscious or unconscious, objective or subjective, permanent or temporary?7

The Children of the Chingada

●

3

It is bearing in mind these questions that the problem of political violence becomes particularly striking. In a nutshell, is political violence an inherent Latin American trait? Does the past make Latin America “naturally” prone to violent behavior? Or is political violence the consequence and product of a specific context in which a whole range of factors are determinant, including political manipulation and legitimation? These are not idle questions. As can be seen in Lambert’s theoretical essay, when so many people have been prepared to fight and die for the nation, and when, time and again, issues of autonomy, legitimacy, unity, and identity have been invoked to mobilize people to suffer and exert violence, it is pertinent to ask whether there is a certain fatalistic inevitability about it all. In other words, if to be Mexican, for example, means to be violent “by nature,” then there is nothing a Mexican can do to change this, even if he wants to choose a different way of life. He will be violent, whatever he does, because he is a Mexican. Thus, if Juan Preciado’s identity is inextricably tied to his father’s and he is unable to forge an identity of his own, he is condemned. If he could move on, regardless of his father’s cruelty, he would be himself. His (our) choice is one that Kath Woodward has defined as one between roots and routes, with the essentialist rootedness satisfying “our desires to belong, to be able to lay claim to an identity which marks us out as sharing culture and experience with those with whom we identify,” while the non-essentialist notion of route “permits the inclusion of situated knowledge about identity; one that belongs in place and time and has material meanings.”8 As Jorge Larrain reminds us, “The question about identity is therefore not just ‘who are we?’ but also ‘who do we want to be?’ “9 This in turn allows Larrain to formulate his own synthetic interpretation of collective identities, what he terms “the historical–structural conception,” whereby there is a recognition that cultural–national identities change and evolve rather than ceasing to exist.10 The problem then lies in whether the members of a particular society–nation believe they are capable of regeneration, moving on, and breaking with the past. As has been forcefully argued by Claudio Lomnitz, focusing on Mexico, as a peripheral postcolonial nation, national self-obsession is such a pronounced cultural trait precisely because all national projects have failed to deliver the promise “to free Mexico from subservience and to make the nation an equal of every great nation.”11 If Mexicans and, by default, Latin Americans, believe that “on a theoretical plane the continent would . . . appear to be destined to play Sancho Panza to the North Atlantic’s Don Quixote: not a radical other, but rather a common, backward, and yet pragmatic and resourceful companion. An inferior with a point of view,”12 their tendency to look to the past to excuse or account for their hopeless present (condition?) is evidently understandable. The same can be said about their need to define their very particular national

4

●

Will Fowler

identities. Given that, to quote Kobena Mercer, “identity only becomes an issue when it is in crisis, when something assumed to be fixed, coherent and stable is displaced by the experience of doubt and uncertainty,”13 it becomes emphatically obvious that, since independence, most Latin American countries have never quite ceased to be in crisis. Or to put it differently, crisis has been the norm rather than the exception. As a result the quest for identity has been an ongoing painful process. It is following on from this that we can appreciate how Rulfo’s quandary stemmed from a burning awareness of the existence of a culture that was, at the time, perceived by many as doomed. History was perceived to represent a fundamental part of the sense of national identity. In the same way that an individual’s memories of his or her childhood experiences enabled him or her to have a sense of identity, a nation’s history and its historiography gave its people a parallel collective sense of national identity. In Rulfo’s universe, his national–cultural identity was one characterized by its heightened violence (his father was killed during the guerra de los cristeros) and hence there was simply no way in which Juan Preciado, Rulfo, or his compatriots could ever aspire to become anything different or other than the condemned people that they were. If the Jews were a “chosen” race, the Mexicans were a “condemned” one. In Pedro Páramo, Preciado fails to attain enlightenment. This firstperson narrator dies halfway through the novel and is condemned to listen to the voices of the dead of Comala relive the fragmented moments of their tragic and violent past, again and again, forever. Gabriel García Márquez’s best-selling masterpiece Cien an-os de soledad (One Hundred Years of Solitude) (1967). applies Rulfo’s tragic interpretation to the Colombian setting of Macondo and the Buendía family. The Buendías and, by default, the people of Colombia (and Latin America) feature in his novel as a group who are unable to break away from the cruel fate Destiny has set out for them. Everything that happens in the novel, we discover, has been written beforehand in Melquíades’ parchments. The people of Colombia–Latin America are thus condemned, in this case, to one hundred years of solitude, without a second opportunity on earth. The story of Latin America is, in this sense, a chronicle of a tragedy foretold, a story in which the tragic denouement is known from the beginning. The original sin represented in the incestuous consummation of José Arcadio and Úrsula’s marriage results in the Buendía family (and the people of Latin America) being damned from the outset. With the mythical foundational stories of most Latin American nations dripping in blood, this dark understanding of the meaningfulness and identity (or lack thereof ) of their respective peoples is perhaps not so surprising. Violence was an essential and intrinsic part of everyday life in the ancient indigenous cultures of preconquest America. It was also equally acute in the

The Children of the Chingada

●

5

Conquistadors’ Spain. While young men were sacrificed on the top of pyramids on one side of the Atlantic, on the other the Holy Inquisition tortured them using a whole array of highly imaginative, perverse, and profoundly sadistic contraptions. The so-called meeting (encuentro) of these two cultures in 1492, with the subsequent genocide of the Amerindian population (in Mexico alone, the indigenous population went from 20–25 million in 1519 to 750,000 in 1630)14 was not one that was characterized by its peaceful nature. But does this mean that a Mexican is condemned from birth because he or she is the descendant of a tlatoani who committed the original sin of making a living cutting the sacrificial victims’ hearts out with an obsidian knife? If we believe that they are, we are saying that our national–cultural identity is a constant, unchangeable, predetermined, inherent, and ultimately essential element of our self. “We” are not individuals from a particular place or time. We, whether we like it or not, are part of a collective and historic we. We are saying that we are inherently brave, cruel, or hopeless, because of what some great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather may or may not have done as he woke up one summer morning. What is obvious is that the very notion that we can explain the way we are through an understanding of “our” collective past (one that we cannot remember in empirical terms) highlights the importance of history. In other words, national identity depends on historiography—and historiography is a constructed interpretation of the past, heavily influenced by the needs and concerns of the present. In this sense national identity is “constructed.” We elaborate a collective narrative, constructed to give meaning to our development (or lack thereof ) that explains and justifies our past and our present and that gives “us” a sense of identity. As is explored in most of the chapters in this book, there are definitely active forgers of identity engaged in defining and explaining the characteristics of their compatriots. Sometimes they are government officials, sometimes they belong to the elite, sometimes they are influential writers or filmmakers. Marco Landavazo’s chapter (three) on the language of nationalist violence in Mexico presents us with a constellation of individuals and institutions that have assisted each other in constructing a sense of identity relying on a violent rejection of all things Spanish. Intellectuals such as Carlos María de Bustamante, revolutionaries such as Miguel Hidalgo, José María Morelos, or Pancho Villa, and government bodies such as the Department of Public Education have all played an active role in forging a national identity that relies on Hispanophobia. Likewise, Antoni Kapcia, in discussing the (re)construction of Cuban historical identity (chapter four), in particular after 1959, highlights the role played by the revolutionary vanguard, which consciously constructed a new revolutionary nation by reconstructing “old

6

●

Will Fowler

ideals” such as nineteenth-century notions of cubanía, cubanidad, and Cuba Libre. Julia Buxton’s study on political violence and national identity in Hugo Chávez’s Venezuela (chapter seven), similarly, gives great importance to Chávez and his supporters’ elaboration of a “new” understanding of what it means to be Venezuelan following the triumph of the so-called Bolivarian Revolution. There are members of a political class, including Chávez, actively involved in building a collective sense of identity based, in this case, on an eclectic mix of ideas including socialism, Christianity, and the veneration of nineteenth-century “patriotic” heroes. Peter Lambert’s chapter (eleven) on Paraguay is equally eloquent in demonstrating that a particular political class, in this case represented by the officers and the Colorado Party that supported and benefited from General Alfredo Stroessner’s dictatorship (1954–1989), was able to develop a dominant hegemonic political discourse that threaded together a narrative of shared histories, images, myths, symbols, and traditions to legitimate the Colorado Party’s rule and justify its use of political violence and repression. Needless to say, the fabrications of these “identity builders” have not gone uncontested. The absence of consensus is perceived, in a number of chapters, as being at the heart of much of the violence that has plagued Latin American politics since independence. In Buxton’s chapter on Venezuela, the violence of recent years has originated from attempts by Chávez and the opposition to forcefully impose their visions of what it means to be Venezuelan: “The political violence of the Chávez period can be understood as a clash between two contrasting visions of the role of the Venezuelan state, the goals of the country and the nature and meaning of Venezuelan citizenship in the context of profound institutional decay.”15 In chapter six, Marisol Dennis interprets Colombia’s culture of violence along similar lines, blaming the failure of the warring factions to elaborate an inclusive sense of national identity for the repeated cycles of war and killings that have come to characterize the country’s past. In Michael Goebel’s chapter (twelve) on Argentina, we can see echoes of these issues in the discussion of the violence of the 1960s–1980s. In this case, two opposed nationalist interpretations of what it meant to be Argentine and what “anti-Argentine” activities entailed are seen to have legitimated much of the political violence of the period. Whether it was the right-wing paramilitaries or the Junta that came to power in 1976, determined to “save the nation” from subversive Marxist antiArgentine terrorists, or the montoneros who took it upon themselves to fight the anti-Argentine capitalist traitors of the pueblo-nación who they condemned for being prepared to sell off the national patrimony to multinational companies, both sides used a nationalist discourse to justify their actions. The fact that these visions of national identity are contested highlights moreover the existence of “alternative identity builders” (i.e., forgers of a collective

The Children of the Chingada

●

7

identity who are not in a position of power). José Carlos Mariátegui’s idealized interpretation of the Incas as an agrarian communist society in the late 1920s16 and Pablo Neruda’s epic poem Canto General (1950) are two well-known canonical examples of Marxist authors, persecuted by the authorities, who attempted to forge their own visions of Peruvian and Latin American identity, respectively. Sarah Barrow’s chapter (eight) on the representation of Peruvian national identity and political violence in two films (Francisco Lombardi’s La Boca del Lobo [1988] and Marianne Eyde’s La Vida es una Sola [1993]) is an important contribution to this debate. Her study exemplifies the complexities attached to any interpretation of national identity, in this case with reference to Peruvian-ness and the Dirty War of the 1980s. In one sense, her chapter demonstrates the more nuanced and sophisticated interpretations of national identity that can be seen to be constructed, in this case through cinema. In another, her analysis is suggestive in the manner in which we can see how in the case of these two filmmakers’ work, they do not limit themselves to reflecting a “preexisting national identity, consciousness, or culture”, but rather actively construct it “in and through representation.” Francisco Domínguez’s tribute (chapter nine) to a long line of Chilean left-wing writers, journalists, and singers, whose work dates from the beginning of the twentieth century up until 1973, provides us with a clear indication of how countercurrents can develop and thrive on the margins of the official discourse. In this sense, Salvador Allende’s electoral victory in 1970 was not an aberration, but the culmination of a seventy-year trajectory in which a particularly resilient Chilean labor movement developed, forging its very own interpretation of Chilean national identity, which (like post-1959 Cuban identity) was intrinsically socialist. However, although all of these identity builders are active, and they manipulate history to suit their present needs, they benefit from the existence of passive identity builders, those who willingly, consciously or unconsciously, accept and appropriate the identity that has been defined for them. It is worth remembering Roland Barthes’ take on how myths are forged. A key point Barthes makes is that myths cannot be arbitrary. A myth such as that there is something known as a “national identity” may well be a construct, a fabricated fiction, designed and devised by a group of cynical individuals in a particular context of time. However, if it does not ring true to a significant proportion of the population, it will never gain credibility. To paraphrase Barthes, for us to associate an empty signifier with a signified sign, there must be a cultural correlation that results in us naturally accepting that roses equal passion; or, in our case, Mexican equals Aztec–Spanish bloodthirsty roots equals violent culture. The power of myths lies, according to

8

●

Will Fowler

Barthes, in their ability to “transform history into nature,” to abolish “the complexity of human acts, [giving] . . . them the simplicity of essences, [doing] away with all dialectics, with any going back beyond what is immediately visible, [organizing] a world which is without contradictions because it is without depth.”17 But for the myth to spread or become hegemonic, there must be a predisposition on our part to believe in it. Here, of course, lies the paradox—that the fictional construct that is national identity, despite it being a fictional construct, may well reflect a real and essential national identity if a large proportion of people are prepared to believe in it. Larrain rightly reminds us that there are two different poles of culture in which concepts of national identity are played out. In the public sphere national identity is “highly selective and constructed from above by a variety of cultural agents and institutions.”18 In the social base it takes “the form of personal and group subjectivity.” When the two converge the sense of a shared community identity becomes hegemonic. State-sponsored “traditions, ceremonies, celebrations, national days, remembrance days, military parades, etc.”19 evidently play a critical role in bringing together the public and the social or private. Pierre Nora’s monumental seven volume work Les Lieux de Mémoire, which gave birth to the concept of “sites of memory” (“any signifying unit of a material or ideal order, which has become, by human decision or through the work of time, a symbolic component of the memorystock of a given community”),20 provides ample evidence of the manner in which history, memory, and identity can bring together the public and private spheres of a given society (in this case France).21 Landavazo, Kapcia, Buxton, Domínguez, and Lambert provide, in chapters three, four, seven, nine, and eleven, respectively, compelling analyses of how parallel “building blocks,” “codes,” or sites of memory have been used, recycled, and accepted in Mexico, Cuba, Venezuela, Chile, and Paraguay to develop (re)constructed senses of these nations’ respective identities. As mythologists we may very well be capable of deciphering the myth, understanding the nature of the distortion, but if a majority believes in the myth, who are we to question its existence? If the majority of a population believes it has a national identity, whatever the means by which this mass deception may have been reached, this identity exists quite simply because there are people prepared to believe in it. God may not exist, it does not matter. For the millions of people who attend Holy Mass every Sunday, He is real, live, and kicking. As David Brading aptly concluded in his study on the intellectual origins and Mexican tradition of Our Lady of Guadalupe: “That human minds intervened, as much in the painting of the image as in the framing of the apparition narrative, does not alter the conclusion that, in the eyes of the Catholic Church, the Guadalupe is an inspired work of the Holy

The Children of the Chingada

●

9

Spirit and the Nican mopohua a revelation which depicts the spiritual foundation of the Mexican Church.”22 In other words, as Peter Lambert stresses in the conclusion to chapter eleven on Paraguay, the construction of national identities is “not simply an exercise in social engineering.” The use of myths, memories, traditions, and symbols of popular memory help forge a sense of nationhood that is popular and, as a result, hegemonic. It is with regard to the importance of memory in the elaboration of these national narratives that the issue of continuity needs to be stressed. All concepts of national identity rely on a sequence of events, a story, in which there are causes and effects, that have come to make us the way we are. As can be seen in chapter four on Revolutionary Cuba, chapter seven on Chávez’s Venezuela, and twelve chapter on the Argentina of the Junta (1976–1983), the links that are established between a number of perceived paradigmatic events or defining moments in the nation’s past may well be contrived and arbitrary, this does not matter. What is important is that the guiding story makes sense. An essential point that is noted by Barrow regarding the Peruvian “amnesia” of the 1990s is developed fully in Martin Mullins’ analysis of the effects state violence had on Chilean national identity post 1973 (chapter ten). In the chapter, Mullins explores how the need to forget the atrocities of the Pinochet era in order to move on has resulted in a truncated national narrative and a consequent sense of loss of identity. In contrast to the other chapters in this book, which tend to interpret the abuse of concepts of national identity as one of the main causes of political violence in Latin America, Mullins’ study highlights how political violence has had the effect of crippling a nation’s sense of identity. This view evidently ties in with the argument proposed in this introductory chapter—that a history of appalling violence has made any attempt to construct a proud sense of collective identity extremely difficult in Latin America. Nevertheless, the process of national soul-searching and “identity building” or “rebuilding” has not been extinguished by this phenomenon. The opposite is probably the case, given that in times of peace and expansion we are not too concerned about why we are the way we are. Octavio Paz’s theory that Mexicans are the children of the Chingada, the product of a rape, which their Spanish father committed on their Mexican mother, is representative of this.23 Mirroring the foundational original sin of Adam and Eve in the case of the Old Testament and of José Arcadio’s rape of Úrsula in the case of One Hundred Years of Solitude, Paz attempted to explain Mexican national identity by focusing on Hernan Cortés’ symbolic violation of La Malinche (doña Marina). He gave great importance to the “innumerable meanings” of the word “chingar,” in particular when used as an adjective and as a noun: “chingada.” The woman who has been and is chingada is a “violated

10

●

Will Fowler

Mother.” In becoming la chingada she loses her identity, “she loses her name; she is no one; she disappears into nothingness; she is Nothingness.”24 For Paz, the fact that Mexicans considered themselves to be the children of the chingada, as denoted in the celebratory battle cry “¡Viva México, hijos de la chingada!” was not gratuitous. To quote Paz: If the Chingada is a representation of the violated Mother, it is appropriate to associate her with the Conquest, which was also a violation, not only in the historical sense but also in the very flesh of the Indian women. The symbol of this violation is doña Malinche, the mistress of Cortés. It is true that she gave herself voluntarily to the conquistador, but he forgot her as soon as her usefulness was over. Doña Marina becomes a figure representing the Indian women who were fascinated, violated or seduced by the Spaniards. And as a small boy will not forgive his mother if she abandons him to search for his father, the Mexican people have not forgiven La Malinche for her betrayal.25 Therefore, for Paz, when Mexicans on the anniversary of independence shout “¡Viva México, hijos de la chingada!,” they “condemn [their] origins and deny [their] hybridism.” What is more: The strange permanence of Cortés and La Malinche in the Mexican’s imagination and sensibilities reveals that they are something more than historical figures: they are the symbols of a secret conflict that we have still not resolved. When he repudiates La Malinche—the Mexican Eve, as she was represented by José Clemente Orozco in his mural in the National Preparatory School—the Mexican breaks his ties with the past, renounces his origins, and lives in isolation and solitude. The Mexican condemns all his traditions at once. . . . The Mexican does not want to be either an Indian or a Spaniard. Nor does he want to be descended from them. He denies them. . . . He becomes the son of Nothingness.26 This is the Mexican’s quandary, represented by Juan Preciado. In terms of foundational stories and perceptions of national origins, the children of the Chingada are the children of Latin America. Like García Márquez’s Buendías, who are also the children of rape, the people of Latin America are the descendants of violence. In those countries where the Amerindian population remains significant and where mestizaje accounts for the ethnic composition of the majority of the population (Mexico: 70 percent; Central America: 62 percent; Colombia: 50 percent; Venezuela: 70 percent; and Chile: 70 percent),27 the story of the Conquistador and the raped Indian mother is equally emblematic.

The Children of the Chingada

●

11

Other conquistadors such as Francisco Pizarro may not have enjoyed such notorious sexual relationships with the locals as Cortés did, but they still raped the women of the conquered territories, both physically and figuratively. In those countries where African slaves were imported in vast numbers (Brazil and the Caribbean), the populations are, in a parallel sense, the descendants of violated black and/or Indian women. Whether it is in the Dominican Republic or in Peru, the people of these countries are, in a figurative sense, orphans, or to use Paz’s definition, the children of Nothingness. Their mythical origins are deeply immersed in a cosmos of appalling violence. There are no symbolic figures that they may be proud to descend from. Their father is an arrogant, tyrannical, and uncaring European—Spanish or Portuguese. Their mother is a slut, a traitor, a weak Indian woman, or an oppressed African slave. One way or another, she is la chingada. If the Latin American follows in the steps of Juan Preciado, he or she will discover a void. The origins cannot in their case provide any answers, except that they are doomed. After such a beginning, what other fate could conceivably await them? Like the narrator in Alejo Carpentier’s Los Pasos Perdidos (The Lost Steps) (1953) torn in between belonging to the jungle or the city, nature or culture, civilization or barbarism, the Latin American, according to this equation, is ultimately neither here nor there. And even in those Southern Cone countries, such as Argentina and Uruguay where “the Indian question” was dealt with through extermination rather than through miscegenation, their ancestors may be predominantly European and the figure of the Chingada may well be absent, but the founding father figure remains the same: a murderer and a rapist. Faced with such a compelling mythological interpretation of the violent origins of Mexican national identity, which, in true Barthesian fashion, are “read as a factual system, [rather than as] a semiological system,”28 Paz went on to construct a very persuasive, albeit ultimately flawed, interpretation of his countrymen’s characteristics.29 Just to note one example, Paz saw in the recurrent violent and authoritarian tendencies of the Mexican people, traits that could be traced back to Spain and Tenochtitlan. Since “Mexico was born in the sixteenth-century . . . it was the child of a double violence, imperial and unifying: that of the Aztecs and that of the Spaniards.”30 Therefore, if the Mexicans of the twentieth century were essentially violent and authoritarian, this was because the Spanish conquistadors and the Aztecs were violent and authoritarian.31 Needless to say, there are examples of a parallel understanding of national identity throughout Latin America. The explanation may differ, that is, the roots of authoritarian practices may have other origins that are not ascribed to a Spanish or an Indian temperament. However, the depiction of authoritarianism and its most obvious expression—political violence—as

12

●

Will Fowler

being somehow an intrinsic essence of all Latin American national identities is one that we find throughout the region. In García Márquez’s El oton- o del patriarca (The Autumn of the Patriarch) (1975) the character of the dictator is at least two hundred years old, conjuring up the idea that every Latin American country has been ruled by the same atrocious and eternal individual tyrant since independence. In a similar fashion, the character of Paraguayan dictator Dr. Gaspar Rodríguez de Francia in Augusto Roa Bastos’ novel Yo el supremo (1974) is at times alive and at others dead, yet always capable of interfering in Paraguayan politics in the past, present, and future, anachronistically, without time having the ability to restrict his actions to one particular period. It is as if authoritarianism was endemic, as if it was perceived as being an unchangeable constant, past, present, and future, in the character of all Latin American nations. The truth is, evidently, more complex than that. When we think of national identity in any Latin American country the mosaic of ethnic identities we are faced with is extensive, multilayered, and extremely diverse. Néstor García Canclini tried to summarize the essence of today’s Latin American countries as being a “result of sedimentation, juxtaposition, and interweaving of indigenous traditions (above all in the Mesoamerican and Andean areas), of Catholic colonial hispanism, and of modern political, educational, and communicational actions.”32 The breathtaking cultural melting pot, mélange, cocktail, or fruit salad of identities that is any Latin American country is suggestively captured in Gruzinski’s description of Bélem. Albeit long, his depiction of the capital of the western Amazon is worth quoting at length, for the issues he raises can be found (with variations) in any town or city in Latin America: [Belém] is itself a mélange of eighteenth-century colonial town planning (designed by an Italian architect), of Belle-Époque Paris, and of chaotic modernity ringed by shantytown favellas. Neoclassical palaces by Bolognese architect Antonio Landi, decrepit early-twentieth century dwellings, middle-class high rises, and neighborhoods of shanties with open sewers all compose an ensemble as heterogeneous as it is unclassifiable. In the middle of Republic Plaza, the Teatro da Paz—an opera house as fine as the one in Manaus—rises like some strange vestige of a turn-ofthe-century civilization, a lavish wreck that washed up on Amazonian shores. How should we deal with these mixed societies? First, perhaps, by accepting them as they appear to us, instead of hastily reordering and sorting them into the various elements allegedly making up the whole.33 After all, as García Canclini noted in his study on hybridity: “To have an identity would be above all to have a country, a city, or a neighborhood, an

The Children of the Chingada

●

13

entity in which everything shared by those who inhabit that place becomes identical and interchangeable.”34 Such a place or context does not exist anywhere, let alone in hybrid Latin America. As Gruzinski has shown, when discussing Claude Lévi-Strauss’ distinction between “cold societies” (supposedly resistant to historic changes) and “hot societies” (that thrive on change), even the most remote tribes of Amazonia are not impervious to acculturation and miscegenation.35 In brief, national identity is constructed, yet it is also assimilated. If it is a construct we respond to because we recognize, or want to recognize, ourselves in it, then it becomes hegemonic. Having said this, more often than not, the construct fails because of its selectivity, which marginalizes and ostracizes those members of a given society who do not recognize themselves in the construct (or do not want to recognize themselves in it). A superficial glance at the ethnic mosaic that makes up Latin America should suffice for us to appreciate the impossibility of anyone succeeding in imposing a singular homogeneous narrative vision of their country’s national identity. Faced with such pluralistic and heterogeneous communities, in which even language is not always a unifying factor,36 the whole idea that there is such a thing as “one” Mexican nation or one “true” Chilean historical identity becomes blatantly absurd. In what way are the Maya of Yucatán, for instance, included in the current hegemonic notion of Mexican national identity? In what sense are footballer Ronaldinho, singer Caetano Veloso, and Chief Raoni of the Megkronoti tribe of the Amazon basin Brazilian? What shared history could a black slum dweller in Rio share with a member of the white elite of the same city? Marisol Dennis’ chapter (six) on Colombia vividly demonstrates how no single concept of national identity has ever become hegemonic in that country, at least for long, accounting for the endless cycles of violence. Gruzinski would like to believe that there is hope, that a national identity can be multifaceted, pluralistic, and fluid. As he reminds us with his upbeat reappraisal of the mestizo mind: “It is possible to be a Tupi—an indigenous inhabitant of Brazil—and still play a European instrument as ancient and refined as the lute. Nothing is irreconcilable, nothing is incompatible, even if the mélange can sometimes be painful.”37 Yet the political violence of two hundred years is difficult to ignore. If we are to be honest, there are contextual factors that have led to the history of most Latin American countries being characterized by political instability, authoritarianism, and violence (there are also exceptions such as Costa Rica). Factors such as weak constitutional systems, the absence of a democratic tradition, wealth disparities, ruined economies, geographical diversities, poor communications, regional identities, racial and social tensions, foreign interventions, and high levels of illiteracy (with the provision of

14

●

Will Fowler

education failing to reach significant sectors of the population) cannot be downplayed when studying modern Latin America. Of course, there has been violence, and surely it is by studying the specific political, economic, and social problems that have plagued Latin America’s past that the origins of instability, authoritarianism, and political violence will be found. The absence of a national identity in Colombia or the intransigence of a particular national identity project such as that developed during the stronato in Paraguay may contribute to and enhance the violence, but the real origins lie elsewhere. Attributing political violence to the psychology of a particular national identity is ultimately false. Notwithstanding this, human nature and conditioning have evidently played a key role in making some societies more violent than others. In the same way that Juan Preciado cannot break away from his origins and his family’s violent past, the ongoing cycles of political violence that have afflicted most Latin American nations have resulted in it being very difficult for the younger generations to break away from patterns of behavior that have been played out by one generation after another. What I am referring to may be termed conditioning factors—the weight of the past. René Girard’s concept of mimeticism and its link to violence are worth noting here. Girard argued somewhat persuasively that human nature is mimetic. We copy our parents and those around us as we grow up. This is how we learn to walk, talk, and integrate in society. The downside to our mimeticism is what Girard defined as mimetic desire and its outcome: mimetic violence. We desire what others desire, not because we want it, but because we cannot help ourselves from imitating those around us. To quote Girard: “What makes the object valuable is not its price but the desires that are already focussed on it.”38 In a parallel fashion, we resolve our mimetic rivalry through a violence that is also (tragically) mimetic. We are obsessively imitative. Mo Hume’s chapter (five) on gender, nation, and violence in El Salvador arrives at the same conclusion by focusing on the different ways discourses of national identity paired with a history of atrocious violence express themselves in the private space. Girard’s mimetic repetition of an original mimetic crisis would appear to be played out, time and again, in the ritual of domestic violence that haunts between 60 and 80 percent of the population. Hume’s chapter is profoundly disturbing since private and public violence in El Salvador have clearly become a way of life. Violence has become the norm, it has come to be accepted as a national characteristic, it has become hegemonic and everyday. Perhaps national identity does exist after all, in the way that we cannot help ourselves mimicking our parents, who mimicked theirs, in a macabre dance that may well date from the foundational moment in which Úrsula and José Arcadio consummated their marriage. If hope is to be found, it inevitably will entail breaking with this past.

The Children of the Chingada

●

15

Isabel Allende reached this very same conclusion at the end of her Chilean family saga The House of the Spirits (1982). The cycles of mimetic violence that are suffered by the different generations in the novel, from the beginning of the twentieth century up until 1973, will never end unless we adopt Alba’s resolution to forgive. As the character writes, uncertain as to whether her unborn child’s father is the torturer who raped her, Esteban García, “It would be very difficult for me to avenge all those who should be avenged, because my revenge would be just another part of the same inexorable rite. I have to break that terrible chain.”39 If political violence is not to be endemic in Latin America, perhaps Allende’s proposal is the only way forward. To quote René Girard: In future, all violence will reveal what Christ’s Passion revealed, the foolish genesis of bloodstained idols and the false gods of religion, politics, and ideologies. The murderers remain convinced of the worthiness of their sacrifices. They, too, know not what they do and we must forgive them. The time has come for us to forgive one another. If we wait any longer there will not be time enough.40 Globalization and the massive migration of Latin Americans to the cities, to the United States, and to Spain and Italy have been transforming the make up of most Latin American countries since the 1960s. This does not mean that expressions of Latin American identity have in any way been watered down. They remain as strong as ever, in particular, as noted by Larrain, in the popular domain, in terms of the mass enjoyment of Latin American music, novels, dance, and soap operas, with football having become “the popular consciousness of national identity.”41 However, the Mexicans of today are not and cannot be the same as the Mexicans of the 1910s, or the Mexicans of the 1860s, or these of the 1810s. This does not mean that they have ceased to be Mexican, or that Mexican identity has ceased to be (re)constructed by identity builders in an ongoing process. Within such a process the fate of Mexico, and indeed Latin America, may be like that of Juan Preciado, or the character of Octavio in Alejandro González Iñárrritu’s film Amores Perros (2001), who gets as far as the bus station but cannot bring himself to get on the bus and start a new life. But Mexico might also be like the character of El Chivo, in the same film, who ultimately renounces violence as a way of life and embarks on a new journey into the unknown. What is evident is that national identity remains a contested and emotional subject. In the case of most Latin American countries, political violence has undoubtedly shared a tight relationship with it, whether as a means of imposing this identity, as an excuse to legitimize it, or, more arguably, as a result of its very nature. One way or another, it is still difficult to reach any

16

●

Will Fowler

categorical conclusions. The issues raised in this volume highlight the need for further research into the construction of national identities in Latin America and their troubling relationship with the phenomenon of political violence. Notes 1. While I would not go so far as to claim, like Fernando Ainsa, that the most meaningful and representative expression of Latin American national–cultural identities is to be found in literature, it nonetheless strikes me as helpful to initiate this discussion with reference to a number of canonical literary texts, in particular Juan Rulfo’s Pedro Páramo (Mexico DF: Fondo de Cultura Economica, 1955) and Gabriel García Márquez’s Cien años de soledad. For Ainsa’s argument that “Iberoamerican cultural identity has been defined by its narrative,” see his Identidad cultural de Iberoamérica en su narrativa (Madrid: Gredos, 1986), pp. 23–24. 2. It is not fortuitous, in this sense, that Edmundo O’Gorman entitled his seminal interpretation of Mexico since independence as México. El trauma de su historia (Mexico City: UNAM, 1977). 3. Octavio Paz, The Labyrinth of Solitude (trans. by Lysander Kemp) (New York: Grove Press, 1985), p. 85. 4. Ibid., p. 80. 5. See Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso, 1983, 1991, and 1994). 6. See chapter two in this volume. 7. Serge Gruzinski, The Mestizo Mind. The Intellectual Dynamics of Colonization and Globalization (trans. by Deke Dusinberre) (New York & London: Routledge, 2002; first edition: 1999), pp. 19–22. 8. Kath Woodward, Understanding Identity (London: Arnold, 2002), pp. 156–157. 9. Jorge Larrain, Identity and Modernity in Latin America (Cambridge: Polity, 2000), p. 39. 10. Ibid., pp. 37–39. 11. Claudio Lomnitz, Deep Mexico. Silent Mexico. An Anthropology of Nationalism (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2001), p. 81. 12. Ibid., p. 127. 13. Kobena Mercer, “Welcome to the Jungle: Identity and Diversity in Post-Modern Politics,” in J. Rutherford (ed.), Identity, Community, Culture, Difference (London: Lawrence and Wishart, 1990), p. 43. 14. Alan Knight, Mexico. The Colonial Era (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), p. 20. 15. See conclusion of chapter seven. 16. José Carlos Mariátegui, Seven Interpretative Essays on Peruvian Reality (trans. by Marjory Urquidi) (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1971; first edition: 1928), pp. 34–36.

The Children of the Chingada

●

17

17. Roland Barthes, Mythologies (London: Vintage, 2000; first edition: 1957), pp. 126–127, 143. 18. Larrain, Identity and Modernity, p. 34. 19. Ibid., p. 36. 20. Definition taken from Paul Robert, Dictionnaire alphabétique et analogique de la langue française (trans. by Paul Gifford) (Paris: Societé du Nouveau Littré, 1992). 21. Pierre Nora, Realms of Memory, 2 vols. (English-language [abbreviated] edition; ed.by Lawrence D. Kritzman; trans. by Arthur Goldhammer) (New York: Columbia University Press, 1997). First edition: Lieux de Mémoire, 7 vols (Paris: Editions Gallimard, 1992). I thank Prof. Paul Gifford for taking the time to discuss Nora’s theories with me. 22. David A. Brading, Mexican Phoenix. Our Lady of Guadalupe: Image and Tradition Across Five Centuries (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), p. 368. 23. Paz, The Labyrinth of Solitude, pp. 74–88; and Octavio Paz, El laberinto de la soledad (Madrid: Cátedra, 2003; first edition: 1950), pp. 212–227. 24. Paz, The Labyrinth of Solitude, p. 86. 25. Ibid. 26. Ibid., pp. 86–87. 27. Will Fowler, Latin America 1800–2000 (London: Arnold, 2002), p. 3. 28. Barthes, Mythologies, p. 131. 29. For a historian’s deconstruction of Paz’s myths, see David A. Brading, Octavio Paz y la poética de la historia mexicana (Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2002). 30. Paz, The Labyrinth of Solitude, p. 100. 31. It is striking to see this interpretation applied to modern Mexican history, as recently as the mid-1990s. In best-selling popular(ist) historian Enrique Krauze’s award-winning Siglo de caudillos (Barcelona: Tusquets Editores, 1994), the phenomenon of the caudillo is accounted for in terms of a national psychology that can be traced back to Hispano-Mexican authoritarianism (see pp. 17–18). For a critical assessment of Krauze’s interpretation, see Will Fowler, “Fiestas santanistas: La celebración de Santa Anna en la villa de Xalapa, 1821–1855,” Historia Mexicana LII:2 (2002), pp. 395– 402. 32. Néstor García Canclini, Hybrid Cultures. Strategies for Entering and Leaving Modernity (trans. by Christopher L. Chiappari and Silvia L. López) (Minneapolis: University of Minneapolis Press, 1997; first edition: 1990), p. 46. 33. Gruzinski, The Mestizo Mind, p. 8. 34. García Canclini, Hybrid Cultures, p. 132. 35. Gruzinski, The Mestizo Mind, p. 12. 36. The relationship between language and national identity is not covered in the present volume, but it remains a fundamental component in any interpretation of identity. In Latin America, eighteen countries use Spanish as the official language, but this does not mean that there is such a thing as a standard “Latin American” Spanish. Accents and usage differ. Moreover, there are other languages as well (Maya, Quechua, Aymará, and Guaraní are four worthy of mention). Are

18

37. 38. 39. 40. 41.

●

Will Fowler

Aymará speakers in the Andes, for instance, excluded from a Bolivian or Peruvian national identity that projects the Spanish language as the language of the collective? Ibid., p. 10. René Girard, The Scapegoat (trans. by Yvonne Freccero) (London: Athlone Press, 1986; first edition: 1982), p. 142. Isabel Allende, The House of the Spirits (London: Black Swan Books, 1989; first edition: 1982), p. 490. Girard, The Scapegoat, p. 212. Larrain, Identity and Modernity, p. 2.

CHAPTER 2

Myth, Manipulation, and Violence: Relationships between National Identity and Political Violence Peter Lambert

Introduction The fact that so many people have been prepared to fight and die in defense of the nation is testimony to the immense power of appeal behind national identity and nationalism.1 While national identity of course runs parallel to other multiple and overlapping identities such as those based on class, gender, race, and religion, what is striking is the depth of commitment to a perceived national cause that leads people to submit themselves to untold suffering and often make the ultimate sacrifice, for what may be seen as an abstract, intangible entity. As with other identities, national identity represents a way of thinking about the world, a framework from which others both within and outside the nation are viewed, providing people with an explanation both of what unites us, culturally, socially, and politically, and what divides us from others outside the nation. It is not only a form of political expression, but also a system of cultural representation, with citizens participating both in the lived reality and the abstract idea of the nation. As Benedict Anderson argued, and as has been quoted almost to the point of cliché, it is the idea of the nation as “an imagined political community—and imagined as both inherently limited

20

●

Peter Lambert

and sovereign” that enables us to share a common identity with people we have never met, are never likely to see, meet, or talk to, and “yet in the mind of each lives the image of their communion.”2 The concept of this “imagined community” is extraordinary in its ability to generate extremes of allegiance, loyalty, sacrifice, and violence. This chapter seeks to offer explanations for this phenomenon, examining how constructions of national identity and nationalism interrelate with expressions of political violence; what role national identity plays in conflict and vice versa; how and when national identity is used to legitimize violence; and from another perspective, why people are willing to kill and, perhaps more interestingly, die for the national cause. Concretely, it analyses contending approaches to the study of national identity, before examining the politics of the construction of national identity. This leads to the final part of the chapter, which explores the theoretical relationships between constructions of national identity and political violence, both from the perspective of the public sphere of discourse, analyzing issues of autonomy, legitimacy, and unity, and from the private sphere of the individual. Approaches The debate over approaches to national identity is central in the study of its relationship with political violence because different approaches offer differing interpretations of and grant different levels of importance to the role of the modern nation state, the nature of human society, and the extent to which group identities are generated by ethnic or biological factors or, in contrast, political or sociohistorical constructs. In a basic framework of difference, primordialism (or essentialism) is generally positioned in opposition to modernism (or constructivism) as two extremes, with other related approaches falling in between. Much of the most contemporary and significant (in terms of this chapter) writing on national identity emerges from the latter approach, which rejects as ahistorical the so-called primordialist emphasis on national identity as having a deeply rooted, fixed, even determined, identity based on organic, social, and ethnic organization, shared culture, language, and collective memory.3 Instead, modernists argue, national identity is essentially a recent development, springing from the development of nation states and the advances of the industrial revolution (literacy, education, mass communication, improved transport, and communications), which facilitated the development of “imagined communities.” National identity, as we know it, simply did not exist in agrarian societies, which instead were held together by what Ernest Gellner terms fragmented, uncodified, majority folk culture.4 As Anderson argues, it

Myth, Manipulation, and Violence

●

21

took the rise of capitalism and the revolution in communications (especially print capitalism) to enable the physical dissemination of new ways of seeing, constructing and internalizing the imagined political community.5 More importantly in terms of this volume, modernist writing stands out for its focus on the link between national identity and relations of political power. Elites, it is argued, select, construct, and fashion national identity through ideology, culture, and history to create and impose from above a common hegemonic order of signs, images, symbols, and values. National identity is therefore a political tool used to capture and maintain power, serving as a vital unifying discourse to mobilize (or demobilize, as the case may be) different classes and sociopolitical groups. It is a modern political instrument, which provides a way of coordinating and uniting diverse interests, values, and aims, thus offering the possibility of mobilization across lines of other identities (e.g., class). Equally importantly, it provides a high degree of legitimacy to a particular political program or action (including violence).6 Indeed, national identities may be seen as “creations of elites who draw upon, distort and sometimes fabricate materials from the cultures of groups they wish to represent in order to protect their well-being or existence or to gain political and economic advantage for their groups as well as themselves,”7 or, in a more extreme form, as Eric Hobsbawm has argued, as a conscious and deliberate exercise in ideological manipulation and social engineering for political gain.8 Were it not for such political use of national identity and the significance of its impact, it would, it is argued, be of little political impact or interest.9 However, while differences between primordialist and modernist approaches may seem theoretically irreconcilable, the opposition between them is perhaps misleading.10 Few would defend extreme primordialism in its most ahistorical form today, and most would agree that national identity undergoes a continuous process of reconstruction and transformation within new historical contexts and situations, and is hence never finally resolved. However, on the other hand, modernism has been increasingly subject to challenges for its assumption that national identity is simply a contemporary political construct, since this ignores the interplay between the public sphere of politics and discourse on the one hand, and the private sphere of the individual on the other. Or to put it more simply, to argue that conniving, scheming elites simply impose new politically convenient forms of national identity on naïve and receptive masses would seem to oversimplify a complex issue. Rather than purely a top-down mechanism of social control, if it is to be effective, national identity must be based on the interaction of the private and public spheres, in order that public discourse and identity resonates amongst people. This, it is argued, is provided by “a historically shaped collective

22

●

Peter Lambert

identity incorporating myths of shared origins and cultural sharing,”11 many of the roots of which are set in a common history and in some form of shared consciousness. Such collective identity, shared meanings, and historical memories provide the emotional glue for the elements of kinship and community involved in the concept of national identity; without them, however welldeveloped any political discourse may be, it would fail to appeal to or resonate among the population. “Historical ethnosymbolism,” as developed by Anthony Smith, presents itself as a middle path between primordialism and modernism, absorbing and building on the arguments of both. While rejecting the inflexibility and predetermination of the former, it criticizes modernism for its failure “to grasp the continuing relevance and power of pre-modern ethnic ties and sentiments in providing a firm base for the nation-to-be.”12 Nations, it is argued, are predicated on some element of prior existence of ethnic cores, based on a myth of common ancestry, elements of common culture, shared historical memory, and a shared homeland.13 Between the ethnic core and the modern nation, there is an evident continuity, since under conditions of modernity it has been possible for communities with shared ethnic roots to be transformed into modern nations. Modernity thus plays a central role in transforming multiple identities into a national identity, but it does not simply create national identity from a historical and cultural void, as modernists might argue. The actual development of a modern national identity may well involve a significant amount of construction by elites, states, and intellectuals as they attempt to mold, select, and fashion their own readings of the communal past in order to serve their own political interests. However, this does not equate to the idea of constructed ideological myths, invented to manipulate the masses. Myths and shared histories may be embroidered or rediscovered and refashioned, but they cannot be simply arbitrary inventions or politically convenient mythical constructions, nor do political elites simply have a free hand to create tradition as they please in order to further their own political interests. The political creations and rediscoveries of the past must have some root in national conscientiousness, shared historical memory, and popular culture, while “tradition, myths, history, and symbols must all grow out of the existing, living memories and beliefs of the people”14 and “must resonate with large numbers of the designated ‘co-nationals’ otherwise the project will fail.”15 Even from a modernist perspective, there is an acknowledgment of the limits of selectivity and social engineering. Political elites may have wide room for maneuver to select, fashion, distort, and simplify their own readings of the past, but these elites “are constrained by the beliefs and values which

Myth, Manipulation, and Violence

●

23

exist within the [ethnic] group and which limit the kinds of appeals which can be made.”16 In short, there has to be an element of continuity from the past, some kind of reference to shared values and understanding of time and place of the community. However, this does not mean that national identity is static, monolithic, fixed, or determined. Instead, it is clearly dynamic, inherently flexible, and able to change according to historical requirements (which of course also makes it open to manipulation and constant reconstruction in struggles for power). Indeed, to a great extent, the specifics of any national identity respond to and in part represent the particularities of the historical moment in which they are forged.17 The reselection, reinterpretation, and recodification of previously existing values, symbols, memories, and myths are ongoing processes, developed by different generations and by different political interests. Not only are the combinations of myths and histories highly flexible in the combinations chosen to be exalted (and there may exist parallel sets of competing myths), but they are also flexible in terms of their meaning and emphasis, both of which may change over time in response to the social and political realities of the moment. All elements of national identity are therefore subject to the continuous play of history, culture, and power in terms of development, emphasis, use, and interpretation. The Selection of National Identity National identity, it has been argued, is based on the concept of a shared homeland, historical memory, and common myths, and draws on elements of ethnic community, such as a myth of common ancestry and descent, elements of a distinctive shared culture (language, religion, etc.) and a shared sense of solidarity.18 The discourse of the origins and past of the nation are central, joining individuals together so that they identify with the nation though the retelling of the narrative of history, images, symbols, landscapes, and rituals. The retrospective discovery of an often nostalgic and glorified version of the past, real or imagined, has as its aim the strengthening of national identity by providing a sense of tradition, heritage, and continuity to the present. Central to this interpretation of national identity are the narratives of the nation that form a discourse or “a way of constructing meanings which influences and organizes both our actions and our conceptions of ourselves.”19 These narratives are developed—told and retold—through myths, codes, icons, symbols, landscapes, sentiments, and ideas which come together to create a cohesive set of values that express the core social, political, and even moral or spiritual values of the nation. They do not need to be entirely factual (since

24

●

Peter Lambert

their aim is not necessarily historical accuracy) but they must be sufficiently coherent and acceptable to be seen as a collective worldview. Such a worldview acts as a cement, an emotional glue, to bind a dominant proportion of the nation together and provides and expresses a widely comprehensible and resonant collective interpretation of the past, present, and future of the nation.20 This worldview of the national narrative is also based on the concepts of timelessness and continuity. The rediscovery and the selection of myths provide an explanation of “a popular living past,”21 binding the community in a shared history, while relating it to the present and future. While failure and loss of greatness are often explained with reference to external forces (responsible for conquest, cultural domination, or military defeat), equally important are the unifying myths of the golden age, a period of high cultural, military, economic, or political achievement, “when the creative genius of the nation flowered,”22 which serves to inspire the current generation (especially when set against present crisis) and vindicates the essence of national identity. Given the central roles of timelessness and continuity, this golden age may also be linked to the future—to an imagined community of destiny providing hope of future redemption through a return to greatness. National identity thus straddles and unites the past, present, and future of the nation, giving a sense of continuity, tradition, and place in a community, as “collective memory becomes the creative imagining of the past in service of the present and an imagined future.”23 The process of selection of myths, common history, and symbols is highly selective, and what events, people, and places from history are recalled, rediscovered, or transformed into national myths, symbols, and landscapes (and also what is forgotten since collective amnesia may often be as important as shared memory) are highly contingent on present needs and circumstances. Within this process, intellectuals and historians are responsible for reexamining the past to obtain the materials necessary to reconstruct and rediscover shared history, acting as “political archaeologists rediscovering and reinterpreting the communal past in order to regenerate the community.”24 Such figures play a central role in the rediscovery, transmission, and analysis of identities, histories, myths, and landscapes of the past, with the purpose of providing the basic tools to give a coherent identity to the nation. However, although such “archaeologists” are key in the construction of national identity, they do not work in isolation, nor is their work necessarily political. Their task is to provide narratives and imagery to be taken up by others who will give their concepts and images concrete shape.25 It is rather political actors who decide which histories will be promoted and which forgotten, and who select and promote certain myths, symbols, and values to

Myth, Manipulation, and Violence

●

25

mobilize political forces, with the aim of defending, defining, and maintaining a political project or ideology. Political ideology, as Elie Kedourie has argued, thus plays a key role in the reinterpretation of the past and the use made of such rediscoveries.26 Hegemonic versions of national identity are the result of political choice of elites who decide how the past is refashioned, what it consists of, what elements and meaning are attached, and how it is used. As Jorge Larrain has observed, although “a nation cannot freely choose its traditions . . . at least it can politically decide whether or not to continue with some of them,”27 whether to incorporate others, what use to make of them, and whether to transform or attach different meanings to them. While retaining a base in a collective historical memory, the hegemonic interpretation of national identity (which presents itself as the only version) will therefore reflect the worldview, needs, and interests of certain dominant classes or groups within society, excluding, at the same time, the different values and interests of others. To ensure such a position of power, it is necessary for the state or elite groups to present the hegemonic version as the only authentic, and hence uncontested, expression of national identity. However, as we have seen, the specifics of national identity are often contested, with different versions competing for dominance. Thus, facades of uniformity and consensus may well conceal the existence of diversity, of other versions, expressions, and interpretations of national identity. Such conflict may in turn lead to the use of the repressive apparatus to ensure that contesting or dissident forms of national identity as put forward by political opposition do not pose a serious challenge. However, far more effective than repression is for the hegemonic version to become internalized by the majority as the sole and hence authentic interpretation, and also, importantly, as a significant part of their own individual identity. For this to occur, for the past to have meaning to the individual and for the public sphere of national identity to be internalized into the private sphere, it needs to be actively remembered, reproduced, and present at a daily, mundane level. This explains the need for and the importance of what has been termed “spectacle nationalism,” or the ritualization of and passive participation in the reproduction of nationalist myths.28 Most typically, such ritualization of national identity takes the form of ceremonies, monuments, holidays, parades and processions, anthems, traditions, festivals, demonstrations, and all other forms of collective celebration involved in the strengthening of national identity. This ritualized, mundane promotion of myth may, in the words of Ernest Gellner, simply “invert reality” and give rise to false consciousness,29 and its aim may amount to little more than a set of practices aimed at social engineering, “which seek to inculcate certain values and norms by repetition.”30 However, in political terms this is not simply the

26

●

Peter Lambert

trivialization of national identity or politics. As many an authoritarian regime has shown, it plays a key role in the state’s efforts to enhance the sense of common identity by reinforcing the popular appeal and resonance of nationalism, reducing perceptions of national divisions, tensions, and differences (in class, wealth, and opportunity, e.g.,) and hence uniting the national community. The promotion and ritualization of myth is a political strategy and reflects issues of power. The function of myth is designed to be positive, strengthening social cohesion, highlighting positive national traits and traditions, and fostering a greater sense of shared community past and present. However, myths can also be negative, producing internalized concepts of fatalism (myths of suffering, failure, and inferiority), of hierarchy and submission (through the eulogizing of an authoritarian past, icons, or heroes), and of cultural superiority (through myths of destiny and election). Most importantly in the context of this chapter, myths are often based on past conflict, from the eulogization of military heroes and conflicts (notably both victories and defeats) to the sentiments of betrayal, resentment, revenge, and injustice, often, but not always, as consequence of foreign aggression. Since archaeologists in search of shared myth are usually most active in times of crisis and polarization, when interests, existence, or integrity are felt to be under threat, the myths selected are frequently contextualized and framed by past conflict and violence to reflect past glory.31 Nationalism and Violence Tom Nairn has argued that national identity in itself leads neither to violence nor to peaceful coexistence, but may be viewed as “janus-faced.”32 On the one hand, it has been linked to emancipatory struggles against tyranny and foreign occupation, economic modernization, the strengthening of national unity, pride, moral ideals, and community, and to democratic liberation. In addition, concepts of community inherent within it may provide a sense of mutual support, social inclusion, kinship, and integration, binding together other potentially conflictive identities. Indeed, its role as a progressive force uniting previously divided societies has led Benedict Anderson to argue, perhaps overoptimistically, that it is “truly rare . . . to find analogous nationalist products expressing fear and loathing.”33 On the other hand, however, it has also been associated with less laudable aims and outcomes, such as xenophobic nationalism, authoritarianism, domestic repression, subordination of separatist regions, and militarized confrontation with other sovereign states. Indeed, in such situations, heightened levels of violence and destruction may be accompanied by a heightened sense of national identity.34

Myth, Manipulation, and Violence

●

27

This final section looks at the relationship between violence and national identity—how, why, and under what conditions national identity is used to promote violence, and why appeals to national identity may be so effective in mobilizing people to suffer and exert violence. In terms of the public sphere, the relationship is broken down into three areas—the relationship among warfare, the nation state, and national identity (issues of autonomy); between violence and the weak state (issues of legitimacy); and among violence, national identity, and concepts of alterity (issues of unity). Since analysis solely of the public sphere would be incomplete, this is followed by an examination of the relationship in the light of the private sphere, or what makes people internalize and follow national identity, analyzing concepts of community, kinship, and surrogate religion (issues of identity). First, central to the idea of national identity is the concept of political autonomy.35 Since the nation and the state are related to the struggle for national self-government, territory, political power, and autonomy, there is a fundamental risk of violence due to the possibility of loss of control of the state and the monopoly of coercion and regulation over the territory. As Anthony Giddens argues, the rise of the nation state was intrinsically linked to external competition and the struggle for economic and political survival.36 This in turn led to a prolonged process of internal pacification and often external conflict in order that the state could gain a political and coercive monopoly over a designated territory. Competition, conflict, and violence between and within countries have therefore been central to the historical emergence of nation states. War may have (often high) costs, but it also fosters vital economic, political organizational, administrative, and technological advancement, or to paraphrase Charles Tilly, “war created nations, nations created states and states created further wars.”37 National identity and nationalism are in themselves rarely a cause of war. Instead, the more important causal relationship lies in the effects of war on national identity. Indeed, the experience of war is generally central to the creation of national identity, providing it with its most passionate forms of expression, as well as providing raw material for the future in the form of symbols, myths, heroes, and landscapes. As David Held has argued, the more people become involved in domestic or international wars, “the more they became aware of their membership in a political community and of the rights and the obligations such membership might confer.”38 Once people have been called upon to fight wars (civil or international) under the rallying cry of the nation, national identity in terms of rights and responsibilities becomes more deeply rooted, and a more internalized and well-established part of the common culture. It also transforms citizens from “a passive object into an active subject of political participation.”39 War gives a national idea not only

28

●

Peter Lambert

of what we are not (the enemy), but also of what we are defending, who we are, and what we collectively represent. If war has been central in the creation of nation states and the development of national identity, then so have the armed forces. Not only are they commonly portrayed as the physical guardians of the nation, with the right and duty to intervene in politics in the national interest, but also as the moral and spiritual guardians of the “essence of the nation,” closely related to common perceptions of national identity. Myths, heroes, and symbols are frequently of a military nature, underlining successful defense of the nation in moments of crisis, prowess in battle, selflessness, and heroism both in victory and in defeat. Indeed, while the military origins of many symbols is indicative of the violence of the nation’s past, its repetition and internalization justifies and legitimates such violence and gives the armed forces a special place in the national identity. However, this of course does not mean that they are somehow above politics, or that they represent the nation any more than any other political group. The fact that the armed forces have often been dominant in internal politics as political arbiters reflects that they are not necessarily either politically neutral or tied to the real interests of the nation, despite claims to the contrary. Instead, they may more often represent key political actors in their own right, with their own political ambitions, aims, and objectives. Self-reference by the military to any kind of ownership of national identity both indicates past relations between violence and nationalism and underlines the potential for political manipulation of the nationalist discourse by elite groups. Second, violence and national identity are connected by issues of legitimacy, of how a government is perceived by its citizens. If a state or a government is weak in terms of popular perceptions of “vertical legitimacy”40 or in terms of sovereignty, it remains vulnerable to instability, internal conflict, and violence. As a result it is more likely to respond with repression and rely more on fear, obedience, and coercion rather than on political authority, consent, loyalty, and support. This is exacerbated if it lacks a single “idea” of the state around which to build affections and loyalties. In response, to use Barry Buzan’s terminology, it will seek to draw on an “organizing ideology,” such as national identity, in order to gain coherence, purpose, definition, and most of all legitimacy, in terms of popular perception.41 It may even emphasize or exaggerate issues of domestic order and threat from domestic subversion or external forces to justify the use of force and coercion, in order to be able to claim to act (and justify otherwise unacceptable actions) in the interests of the nation. The effectiveness of national identity as a legitimating source and even more so as an “organizing ideology” is that it ties the regime to interests, aims,

Myth, Manipulation, and Violence

●

29

and purposes that are higher than the individuals or party in office. To the weak state confronted by powerful opposition, the appeal of arguments of national identity is that it both offers a degree of political legitimacy and is seen (at least by those in power) to legitimate and justify the use of coercion, repression, and violence beyond normally acceptable levels. Of course, identification of the national interest with the regime also allows the regime to classify opposition groups not simply as political opponents but also as acting in opposition to the national interest, as essentially antinationalist, thus conferring on itself sole legitimate use of violence (to defend the national interest). This may explain why undemocratic or military governments (with little if any legitimacy in terms of political system) may especially look to national identity for legitimacy in terms of both existence and action (including violent repression). It also explains the frequency with which weak regimes seek to reduce political debate and issues to the dichotomy of citizens being “either with us (‘us’ inevitably being equated with the nation rather than the administration) or against us.” However, the vulnerability of national identity to distortion, corruption, and cooption underlines why it is an essentially contested concept and hence a weak organizing ideology on which to base a regime. Flexibility and contestation mean that it is always vulnerable to challenges from alternative or dissident expressions and interpretations of national identity, which may have a greater resonance among the population. Others may lay claim to represent the “authentic” national identity, thus making it part of the (ideological) struggle for power and legitimacy between competing dissident and hegemonic versions. The use of national identity as an organizing ideology raises the stakes in the game, closes avenues of debate and peaceful competition, raises emotional involvement, and increases the likelihood of violent domestic conflict. Third, inherent in the idea of the nation is the concept of unity and community. Within this lies a contradiction in the nature of both of the nation (which in reality contains elements of difference and diversity located within different cultures and identities) and the community, as opposed to alterity or otherness. While the concept of community is generally associated with social, cultural, and political unification and inclusion, it is also premised on the concept of exclusion and of intrinsic difference from the other. Indeed, the very notion of national identity not only overlooks and subsumes coexisting (and competing) identities based on class, religion, gender, and region, for example, but also presumes and necessitates the existence and identification of a “significant other” from whom one is different. Identity is therefore as much about difference as it is about sameness, and herein lies an inherent susceptibility to violence. The nation defines itself in relation to what is

30

●

Peter Lambert

outside its borders, erecting boundaries (cultural, psychological, political, or physical) between us and “them.” Such differences are not only symbolic (to strengthen national identity) but are also material, since upon them depend issues of national sovereignty and political power, and they are therefore vital to the survival of the nation. History provides numerous examples of difference being exaggerated and transformed into opposition, hostility, and vilification of the other to the point of exclusion, distrust, aggression, and violence. Domestically, of course, a similar process is equally important, as those in power seek to distinguish between those who are included in the hegemonic concept of the nation and those who are excluded, between insiders and outsiders, between the nation and a negatively defined, often denigrated “other.” The special virtues, as well as particular values and qualities, of the nation are established alongside the rejection and denial of those who do not share these attributes—who are seen as outsiders, excluded from the national community of values. While such “others” may well be foreigners, they may also be conationals and as much a physical part of the nation as anyone else. The process of construction of national identity is therefore inherently divisive, a process based as much on inclusion as on exclusion. Such divisions are reflected in the construction of myth, the selection of which is open to contestation and hence represents fertile ground for conflict. Political elites seek to generate a dominant interpretation of national identity (often in conflict with competing interpretations) through the rediscovery and invocation of shared national memory, myth, and discourse “designed to bind together some against others.”42 Myths of shared national history, unity, and community are complemented by myths of alterity, both domestic and foreign, binding us together in opposition to a potentially hostile and dangerous “other,” raising threat perception in order to strengthen internal solidarity. The logical conclusion of this is the quest for the permanent threat, or failing that the constant creation of new wars (real, ideological, or merely rhetorical) to maintain a collective fear of the external threat and hence greater domestic, national solidarity. The risk of violence in such a project is clear. The raising of national identity to the position of foremost identity (shared, profound, and unchangeable) not only produces a higher risk of external conflict, but also involves the subjugation if necessary of other competing identities, facilitating and justifying the use of violence against internal political enemies that may be categorized as unpatriotic traitors who stand against the national interest. The promotion of national identity as a political instrument therefore “conceals a struggle to mobilize the people, to purify their ranks, to expel the ‘others’ ” who threaten their identity and power.43

Myth, Manipulation, and Violence

●

31

Analyses of issues of autonomy, legitimacy, and unity help explain the links between national identity and political violence at the national, political level or public sphere, and underline how national identity can become a tool for seizing and retaining control of the state. However, while national identity may be an effective political tool providing political elites with a platform for mobilization, coordination, and legitimation of interests, strategies, and goals, such an emphasis fails to address the effect of national identity within the private sphere. It does not explain, for example, why people are often willing to subsume other forms of identity, such as race, class, and gender (which may well be more significant on a daily level), before that of national identity; why national identity can be used with such effectiveness to mobilize in times of violence; and why people are apparently more willing to kill, die, and commit atrocities for their country than for other collective identities. Central to the emotional appeal of national identity to the individual is the importance of discourse, the story of the nation as told in books, symbols, and popular culture—as the idea of the nation gradually “emerges through language.”44 The emphasis on origin, tradition, and continuity gives the individual a sense of connection to the past, present, and future of national destiny, a role and position in a communal and ongoing project. This is sustained, affirmed, and then internalized through language and the repetition of national discourse on a daily level, such as in classrooms, in the media, in popular culture, and through state-sponsored reminders such as public holidays, monuments, ceremonies, traditions, and public events. As citizens, we are surrounded by reminders of national identity and of a shared communal past on a daily basis. Familiarity leads to internalization to the point that we hardly notice the actual meaning of the content of the discourse or image, and simply accept it as normal, as part of our identity. It is precisely through the constant repetition of such discourse and imagery that the nation becomes more than an abstract concept, and a feeling of community and even metaphoric kin group or extended family becomes embedded.45 Indeed, if a strong sense of national identity appeals to elites in search of authority, then it also appeals to the masses in search of community. This extended family of the nation has its own (imagined or real) past, and future, members and enemies. In times of conflict, it is the nation as family that goes to war, defending the “motherland,” the “land of our fathers,” fighting alongside “brothers in arms.” In war, kinship ties are exaggerated, as the nation becomes blood, and the nation-as-family becomes a rallying cry to which people attach their primary social loyalties. It is this sense of family, fraternity, and community, regardless of any realities of social inequality, injustice, and exploitation, that ultimately “makes it possible . . . for so many millions of people, not so much to kill, as willing to die for such limited imaginings.”46

32

●

Peter Lambert

However, the promotion of national identity depends not only on the emotional appeal of deep-rooted ties of family, ancestry, and community, but also on something even deeper—upon the interpretation of national identity as an almost sacred concept. National identity may be secular as Elie Kedourie has argued,47 but in its emotional appeal it is much more than simply one secular identity among others. Not only are many people born into nations as they were into religions, with the same expectations of obedience and loyalty and with similar responsibilities and duties,48 but national identity has “a strong affinity with religious imaginings” in terms of the myths, traditions, sense of community, and destiny.49 It is in the romanticized sacrality of the nation that the concept of the national identity becomes almost a surrogate civil or political religion, complete with its own high priests, ceremonies, scriptures, and legends, able to harness “those sacred qualities and liturgies previously reserved for the deity and the church.”50 Perhaps the most striking link between national identity as surrogate religion and political violence lies in the demand for (and offering of ) unquestioning loyalty to the cause and the willingness to fight and die for an abstract, intangible concept. The idea of self-sacrifice, the giving of one’s life for the cause, the defense and the future of the nation, is surrounded by quasi-religious ceremonies, rituals, and symbols, serving to consolidate the unity and the myth of the nation. The killing of others is not only justified, but may also be celebrated (as victory in battle), while death is exalted as the ultimate sacrifice for the common good of the nation, something for others to admire and aspire to. In this sense, national identity, more than any other secular identity in times of war, has “the ability to resonate among the people in ways that only religions had previously been able to encompass.”51 Of course, for such potential emotion to be channeled and released, there has to be a trigger. To build on the arguments of Immanuel Wallerstein, “ethnic consciousness is eternally latent everywhere,” but it is only channeled into political action and mobilization when groups feel either threatened with the possible loss of livelihood or privileges or see the potential to address and overcome long-standing oppression and denial of privilege.52 It is such political factors as threat perception and the redressing of injustice that provide political leaders with the opportunity to exploit national identity and unleash such intense and potentially violent emotions that lie beneath the surface. Conclusion While national identity may itself be rooted in shared memory, history, and myth, its use is invariably political, responding to the exercise of power within societies. As with any form of social categorization or identity, it is

Myth, Manipulation, and Violence

●

33

“bound up with power relations and relates to the capacity of one group successfully to impose its categories upon another set of people.”53 This does not mean that national identity is simply invented and then imposed, an instrument of elite manipulation of the credulous masses, since if it is not based on a shared identity it will find no popular response or appeal, and simply not be taken up. Rather, in the quest for political power, preexisting myths, symbols, and sentiments will be used and manipulated to provide legitimacy and moral advantage for a political cause. The elements of national identity chosen, the selection of what myths to include or exclude, and the meaning attached to them will reflect the political identity of the particular political cause. National identity is inherently flexible and malleable, open to constant challenge and reinterpretation. As such, it is an essentially contested concept, and invariably a “terrain of conflict” involving struggle and contestation.54 Only with political victory does the opportunity to convert contested interpretations of national identity into hegemonic versions become possible. Despite their apparent uniformity and the political efforts to ingrain them into national consciousness, such hegemonic forms will always conceal difference, diversity, and conflicting “dissident” versions, underlining that there is nothing static or fixed about national identity, and as with all identities, it is in a constant form of development and transformation. Hegemony is thus never assured or permanent, but rather constantly open to challenge from counter-hegemonic or dissident versions, which may one day replace them.55 It is as a contested political tool of legitimation in the struggle for political power that national identity and violence may become fused. This may be in the form of defense of autonomy (from national state building to defense against external aggression) or strengthening of legitimacy (in times of crisis), providing an irreplaceable source of unity. Indeed, national identity is remarkable in its ability to override division, out-compete considerations of self-interest and loyalty to other identities, and produce (temporary) unity of purpose by pitting an imagined us against an inevitably hostile “other.”56 In the context of conflict (either domestic or foreign), appeals to the national interest, like appeals to religion, may reflect a need for a higher legitimacy, often to justify acts of violence that would not normally be acceptable. In all of these areas, what is clear is that although intimately related to past and present conflict, national identity does not in itself produce violence. What it does produce is a powerful political tool in times of political crisis and conflict. More than other identities, national identity has immense emotional power to mobilize, enthuse, foster loyalty, commitment, and passion, and persuade people to commit acts that are beyond their normal scope of activity or

34

●

Peter Lambert

imagination. Central to this is discourse; it is the discourse of the hegemonic form of national identity, reconstructed and manipulated by national leaders, which strengthens perceptions of shared interest, unity, and purpose, as well as the need for collective action, especially under conditions of threat and crisis. When successfully employed, the romantic and poetic discourse of national identity can persuade people to overlook other competing identities, commitments, and loyalties, through the manipulation of the myths, images, and concepts of community, family, and kinship, as well as of moral and even spiritual obligation. It is in this way that national identity is so effective as a political tool to arouse the extremes of emotions—passions, loyalty and faith— which have often led to legitimized and justified the greatest acts of political violence. Notes 1. Nationalism may be viewed as the political and ideological expression of national identity. John Breuilly offers a helpful separation of expressions of nationalism: as politics (in the sense of political movements); as doctrine (in terms of ideology); and as sentiment (in terms of national identity). See John Breuilly, “Approaches to Nationalism,” in Balakrishnan, G. (ed.), Mapping the Nation (London: Verso, 1996), pp. 146–174. 2. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origins and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso, 1983), p. 6. 3. See E. Spencer and H. Wollman, Nationalism: A Critical Approach (London: Sage Press, 2002), p. 27. 4. Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalism (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1983). 5. Anderson, Imagined Communities. 6. See John Breuilly, Nationalism and the State (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1993). 7. P. Brass, Ethnicity and Nationalism: Theory and Comparison (London: Sage Press, 1991), p. 8. 8. Eric J. Hobsbawm, “Invented Traditions,” in Hobsbawm, E.J. and Ranger, T. (eds.), The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), pp. 1–24. 9. Breuilly, Nationalism and the State. 10. T.H. Ericksen, “Place, Kinship and the Case for Non-Ethnic Nations,” in Nations and Nationalism 10:1 (2004), pp. 49–62. 11. Ibid., p. 50. 12. Anthony D. Smith, Nations and Nationalism in a Global Era (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1995), p. 40. 13. Anthony D. Smith, National Identity (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1991), p. 21. 14. Anthony D. Smith, “The Nation: Invented, Imagined, Reconstructed?” in Ringrose, M. and Lerner, A.J. (eds.), Reimagining the Nation (Buckingham: Oxford University Press, 1993), p. 16.

Myth, Manipulation, and Violence

●

35

15. Anthony D. Smith, Nationalism and Modernism (London: Routledge, 1998), p. 198. 16. Brass, Ethnicity and Nationalism, p. 16. 17. J.L. Comaroff, “Ethnicity, Nationalism and the Politics of Difference in an Age of Revolution,” in Comaroff, J.L and Stern, P.C. (eds.), Perspectives on Nationalism and War (Amsterdam: Gordon and Breach Science Publishers, 1995), pp. 243–276. 18. Smith, National Identity, p. 21. 19. S. Hall, “The Question of Cultural Identity,” in Hall, S., Held, D., and McGrew, T. (eds.), Modernity and Its Futures (Cambridge: Polity, 1992), p. 292. 20. Antoni Kapcia, “Ideology and the Cuban Revolution: Myth, Icon and Identity,” in Fowler, W. (ed.), Ideologues and Ideologies in Latin America (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1997), pp. 84–103. 21. Anthony D. Smith, “Ethno-Symbolism and the Study of Nationalism,” in Smith, A.D. (ed.), Myths and Memories of the Nation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), p. 9. 22. J. Hutchinson, “Myth against Myth: The Nation as Ethnic Overlay,” in Nations and Nationalism 10:1/2 (2004), p. 112. 23. D. Ben Amos, “Afterword,” in Ben Amos, D. and Weissberg, L. (eds.), Cultural Memory and Construction of Identity (Detroit: Wayne State University, 1999), p. 299. 24. Smith, “Ethno-Symbolism,” p. 181. 25. Smith, “The Nation,” p. 22. 26. Elie Kedourie, Nationalism (London: Hutchinson Press, 1960). 27. Jorge Larrain, Identity and Modernity in Latin America (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2000), p. 39. 28. M. Billig, Banal Nationalism (London: Sage Press, 1995). 29. Gellner, Nations and Nationalism, p. 124. 30. Hobsbawm, “Invented Traditions,” p. 1. 31. Hutchinson, “Myth against Myth,” p. 116. 32. Tom Nairn, Faces of Nationalism: Janus Revisited (London: Verso, 1997). 33. Anderson, Imagined Communities, p. 142. 34. Eric J. Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism since 1870: Programme, Myth, Reality (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990). 35. Anthony D. Smith, “Nations and History,” in Guibernau, M. and Hutchinson, J. (eds.), Understanding Nationalism (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2001), pp. 9–31. 36. Anthony Giddens, The Nation State and Violence (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1985). 37. C. Dandeker, “Nationalism, Nation-States and Violence at the End of the Twentieth Century: A Sociological View,” in Dandeker, C. (ed.), Nationalism and Violence (New Jersey: Transaction Press, 1998), p. 27. 38. David Held, Democracy and the Global Order (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1995), p. 57. 39. K.J. Holsti, The State, War and the State of War (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1996), p. 119.

36 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50.

51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56.

●

Peter Lambert

Ibid., p. 87. Barry Buzan, People, States and Fear (Brighton: Wheatsheaf Books, 1983), p. 50. Spencer and Wollman, Nationalism, p. 86. Hall, “The Question of Cultural Identity,” p. 295. A.J. Lerner “Introduction,” in Ringrose, M. and Lerner, A.J. (eds.), Reimagining the Nation (Buckingham: Oxford University Press, 1983), p. 1. See Ericksen, “Place, Kinship.” Anderson, Imagined Communities, p. 7. Kedourie, Nationalism. C. Hayes, Nationalism: A Religion (New York: MacMillan Press, 1960). Anderson, Imagined Communities, p. 10. Anthony D. Smith “Understanding Nationalism,” in Guibernau, M. and Hutchinson, J. (ed.), Understanding Nationalism (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2001), p. 22. Anthony D. Smith, Nationalism (Cambridge, Polity Press, 2001), p. 2. Immanuel Wallerstein, The Capitalist World Economy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979), p. 184. R. Jenkins, Rethinking Ethnicity: Arguments and Explorations (London: Sage Press, 1997), p. 23. Larrain, Identity and Modernity, p. 35. Antoni Kapcia, Cuba: Island of Dreams (Oxford: Berg Publishers, 2000). P.C. Stern, “Why do People Sacrifice for their Nations?” in Comaroff, J.L. and Stern, P.C. (eds.), Perspectives on Nationalism and War (Amsterdam: Gordon and Breach Science Publishers, 1995), pp. 99–122.

CHAPTER 3

Languages of Nationalist Violence: Notes on Mexican Hispanophobia Marco Antonio Landavazo

Introduction Mexican nationalism, as David Brading has demonstrated so brilliantly, inherited the themes and symbols of Creole patriotism that had begun to emerge in the late sixteenth century—the cult of the Virgin of Guadalupe, hatred of the Spanish, and an identification with the pre-Hispanic past.1 These themes became, in effect, the basic components of the process of identity construction of that which is Mexican. In contrast to Guadalupanismo and indigenism, however, hispanophobia has seldom been studied and when it has, the predominant perspective has emphasized the exclusion and violence that on some occasions attained truly dramatic dimensions. For this reason, and because it concerns one of the languages of nationalist violence in Mexico, the aim of this chapter is to present a historical evaluation of these sentiments of aversion and hostility toward the Spanish. Throughout its history, Mexican hispanophobia has been nourished by a series of collective images based on the ideas of the Spanish conquest as savage and as a bloody period, the colonial epoch as a period of injustice and suffering, Spaniards as intrinsically perverse beings, and a view of the extermination and expulsion of all gachupines (Spanish) as a historical necessity. However, behind this hispanophobia we can discern three dimensions that explain its origins, its concrete expressions, and its development through history.

38

●

Marco Antonio Landavazo

First, there is a social dimension that refers to the feelings of grievance generated by the real or imagined unjust and authoritarian acts perpetrated by the Spanish. Second, there is a political dimension that can be observed in the rhetorical use of hispanophobia in the context of factional disputes in Mexican politics. The third and last dimension, this one of an ideological nature, emerges from the fact that in order to reaffirm its own existence, the Mexican identity sought to distinguish itself radically from everything Spanish by denying its legacy and taking refuge in the recovery of a mythical pre-Hispanic past. Of course, Mexican nationalism also had expressions that were distinct from the hispanophobia that characterized the attitudes of many groups and individuals. One such expression could be called “Creole,” as it identified the nation with its Spanish heritage. The leading nineteenth-century exponents of this were perhaps Lucas Alamán and José María Luis Mora, the latter of whom wrote, in his book México y sus revoluciones (1836), that the “Mexican character” must be sought among the white population, because it was only this sector that would “establish throughout the world the concept that is to be formed of the Republic.” In the twentieth century, José Vasconcelos, bitter and resentful because he had just lost the fraudulent presidential election of 1929, accentuated his Hispanic leanings. In fact, he went so far as to write, in 1937, that without the Spanish element, Mexico would be “a collection of tribes incapable of self-government.” More important, however, was the “Mestizo” vision adopted by Vicente Riva Palacio, Justo Sierra, Andrés Molina Enríquez, Manuel Gamio, among others. Sierra, for example, pointed out that the mestizo family was the Mexican family par excellence, while Molina argued that mestizos had been called to form the very nucleus of Mexican national identity due to the “anthropological nature and selective strength” they owed to their “resistant” indigenous blood that had been further improved in the mix with Spanish blood.2 Nonetheless, the anti-Spanish aspect of nationalism enjoyed better luck due to several political, social, and cultural factors, the most important of which was the fact that the Spanish had long constituted the most conspicuous symbol of economic exploitation, social mistreatment, and political oppression, since during the three centuries of colonial rule only they had occupied the apex of the social pyramid. Later, in the nineteenth century, many of them had become prosperous merchants and hacendados, while others supported conservative, monarchist political movements that held out the promise of a return to the colonial order. Second, once hispanophobia had demonstrated its echo among the populace, it was transformed into an instrumental element imbued with a certain political and social rhetoric, a kind of cloak that legitimized collective discourses and actions that would otherwise have been difficult to justify. Thus, the emergence of a vision

Notes on Mexican Hispanophobia

●

39

holding that the building of an independent Mexico needed to pass through a “de-Hispanicization” of the country faced no great obstacles and was soon given space in civic discourses, political proclamations, historical narratives, and iconography. By the same token, the violent manifestations of this process of national construction, many based on deep social resentment or political conflict, found a justification in this negative vision of all Spaniards and of the Spanish heritage. Hence, anti-gachupin slogans endured as an omnipresent component of revolutionary pronouncements (bandos), proclamations, and plans, from the Wars of Independence through to the Mexican Revolution, and from Hidalgo to Zapata. Indeed, they did not disappear even after 1910, and continue to be used socially or politically even today. In Mexico, hispanophobia is the element that has linked the phenomenon of violence with the process of the construction of the national identity. A Long-lasting Phenomenon The origins of this hispanophobic imaginary can be traced back to the late seventeenth century, though perhaps the first occasion on which it was formulated in a more-or-less coherent fashion coincided with the so-called War of Independence that broke out in September 1810. In one of the insurgency’s first proclamations, the main rebel leader Father Miguel Hidalgo affirmed that the Americans had endured Spanish “arrogance and despotism” with patience for “almost three hundred years.” During this prolonged wait, they were “the playthings of their cruel ambition . . . the hapless victims of their greed,” who had been “degraded to a miserable species of insect.”3 In another manifesto, Spaniards were referred to as “[those] de-naturalized men” who came to America moved by “sordid avarice” to “divest us of our properties,” “take away our lands,” and “keep us forever enslaved under their feet.” According to Hidalgo, the gachupines were Catholics “by politics only,” because their true God was money.4 The logical consequence of this was that it was necessary to eliminate the peninsulares either by expelling them or by killing them outright. Hidalgo argued, for example, that the objective of the war was “to send the gachupines back to the motherland” because their greed and tyranny led them to oppose the temporal and spiritual happiness of the Americans.5 Another priest, José María Morelos—Hidalgo’s successor as leader of the insurgency—demanded that the gachupines “return to their land or to their friends the French who are attempting to corrupt our religion.”6 Such was the legitimacy of this act of social extirpation that Morelos stated: “We have already killed more than half of the gachupines in the kingdom. Only a few are left for us to murder, but

40

●

Marco Antonio Landavazo

this is a just war so we do not murder innocent creatures . . . only gachupines of unimaginable evil.”7 We continue to find this historical vision, practically without change, throughout the nineteenth century in textbooks, in works of historiography, in newspapers, and in civic discourses.8 A speech given in Mexico City in 1893 as part of the celebration of Mexico’s independence that had been held in September of every year since 1825 made reference to the “long, silent tragedy” of the colonial period, and denounced the Spanish government as a “gigantic machine of iron” that “decimated the Indians.”9 In the nineteenth century, this same historical vision was projected upon Spaniards living in Mexico, who were considered every bit as cruel and evil as their colonial ancestors. Certain newspapers of the period portrayed the Spanish as a corrupt, stupid, and immoral people who despised Mexicans, meddled in the nation’s internal politics, and continued to plunder its wealth. One popular daily entitled El Hijo del Ahuizote (The Son of Nuisance), which began publication in Mexico City in the late nineteenth century, openly announced that one of its objectives was to “de-Hispanicize the country.”10 Surprisingly, such images continued to be current even well into the twentieth century and, to a certain degree, right up to the present. A case in point comes from the Mexican Revolution when, in 1913–1914, one of its principal leaders, Pancho Villa, decided to expel all Spaniards from Chihuahua and Torreón and to confiscate their properties, arguing that they had interfered in Mexican politics and, more importantly, because they had supported Victoriano Huerta’s overthrow of President Francisco Madero. According to the testimony of the North American journalist John Reed, when the British vice consul and the American consul protested against this decision, Villa responded with the following diatribe: We Mexicans have suffered the Spanish for three hundred years. They have not changed their character from [that of ] the conquerors. They destroyed the Indian empire and enslaved the people. We did not ask them to mix their blood with ours. Twice we threw them out of Mexico and allowed them to return with the same rights as Mexicans, and they used those rights to rob us of our lands, enslave the people and take up arms against the cause of freedom. . . . They introduced among us the greatest superstition the world has ever known: the Catholic religion. This alone is more than enough reason to kill them. I consider we are being quite generous.11 Though circumstances and actors changed, the ideological references continued to be essentially the same. A decade later, and far removed from the

Notes on Mexican Hispanophobia

●

41

most violent phase of the Revolution, we find that hispanophobic imaginary gained currency once again as witnessed in two examples. The first comes from the state of Guerrero in the context of a conflict between Spanish businessmen and local political groups. In 1926, the so-called Plan del Veladero was promulgated, a document that, in its first three clauses, called for the expulsion of the Spanish and for the nationalization of their properties.12 Three years later, and quite independently of the earlier mentioned Plan, an officially sanctioned book appeared sponsored by the Department of Public Education entitled Los gobernantes de México desde D. Agustín Iturbide hasta el Gral. D. Plutarco Elias Calles (Mexico’s Rulers from Agustín Iturbide to General Plutarco Elias Calles). After holding forth on the evils caused by colonial domination and the perverse Spanish presence in the nineteenth century and demonstrating that those same people continued to dominate Mexico economically, the author proposed that all of their properties, movable and fixed, be confiscated and that they be expelled in a peremptory fashion with no possibility of returning until the year 1950.13 Social Tension and Political Discourse During the turbulent years of the Revolution, as occurred frequently in the nineteenth century,14 anti-Hispanic violence exploded with great force throughout Mexico. The stores of Spanish bakers, merchants, and grocers in Mexico City and in many other provincial cities and towns were destroyed or plundered under the justification that their owners were simple “hoarders” who trafficked with the “hunger of the people,” as one newspaper in the capital put it. Similarly, there were attacks on factories and haciendas and Spaniards in Puebla and Morelos were assaulted and murdered. These acts were accompanied by a climate of tension and confrontation as workers denounced abuses and oppressive working conditions imposed by Spanish bosses, while some towns complained that their lands and water had been usurped by Spanish haciendas. In the 1920s, workers in Tampico, labor unions in the capital, and textile workers in Puebla once again perpetrated acts of violence and hostility against Spanish businessmen, landowners, and their representatives.15 One especially revealing case of the social dimension of anti-Spanish violence occurred in the state of Guerrero in the 1920s in the context of disputes between businessmen of Basque and Asturian origin and local political groups. The Spaniards involved owned lands and textile factories and had succeeded in monopolizing commercial traffic because there was no highway to connect the port of Acapulco and Mexico City. In an attempt to confront Spanish economic power in 1919, three brothers, Juan, Felipe, and Francisco

42

●

Marco Antonio Landavazo

Escudero, formed the “Workers’ Party of Acapulco.” Among other things, the Party proposed fair wages, an eight-hour working day, the return of land to the peasants, and the construction of a highway that would communicate the port to the capital city.16 Facing a movement that threatened their interests, Spanish businessmen responded with violence, hiring assassins who murdered the Escudero brothers in 1923. Despite this serious setback, the movement continued and in 1926, the earlier mentioned Plan del Veladero was announced. Just as similar documents had proposed some one hundred years before, the Plan del Veladero called for the expulsion of all Spaniards from Mexico and the confiscation of all their properties. The local roots of this conflict found clear expression in clauses nine and ten of the Plan, which established the principle of respect for the lives and properties of all foreigners except Spaniards. This movement took advantage of long-standing anti-Spanish sentiments and provoked expressions of hispanophobia by the people, especially the Indians, which were given extensive coverage and were discussed with alarm in the newspapers of the time.17 With the arrival of Republicans exiled from Spain in 1939, the conflict between Spaniards and Mexicans left behind its agrarian character and situated itself firmly in the terrain of disputes over employment and wages. Challenging the predominant image of a Mexican society that greeted the arrival of Spanish Republicans with open arms, recent studies have pointed to the fact that many Mexicans expressed their resentment and opposition to this Spanish presence, citing both economic and political reasons. This rejection arose not only among opposition conservative groups opposed to Lázaro Cárdenas’ government, but also among a number of political, labor, and peasant organizations with close ties to the regime.18 Three sectors openly manifested an uneasiness that led to occasional acts of violence against the arrival of Spanish refugees: workers, doctors, and university professors. In July 1939, for example, newspapers in Mexico City reported on the first disputes that broke out between Spanish and Mexican laborers when Mexican construction workers expressed their opposition to the hiring of Spaniards for a reconstruction project in a public market. They were followed by members of the stevedores’ union in Veracruz, followed shortly thereafter by the employees of the electricity company. Meanwhile, workers at a paper mill called Papel de San Rafael y Anexas had “created a hostile atmosphere” for fear they would be displaced by Spaniards. Moreover, in November of that year, the Mexico City Union of Medical Surgeons complained that Spanish physicians had been sent to large cities where they entered into direct competition with Mexican-born doctors, rather than to zones that lacked medical care as the government had initially promised.19

Notes on Mexican Hispanophobia

●

43

In the capital, the press also produced examples of university professors and scholars who were upset about the salaries offered to Spaniards registered in the Casa de España an academic institution created in September 1938 as a refuge for exiled intellectuals. One philosopher, Jesús Guiza y Acevedo, referred to the Casa de España as “a luxury hotel for ambushed ‘intellectualoids’ whose salaries constitute a plundering of Mexico’s poor” whereas a professor in the Law Faculty of the National University, Eduardo Pallares, complained of the four-hundred-peso monthly salary received by the Spanish as compared with Mexican university professors who earned only seventyfive. Decent conditions and wages, Pallares added, that “has been systematically denied to Mexicans since Mexico became an independent nation” were offered to Spanish exiles not because they were geniuses, “but because they were defeated communists.”20 The opposition of some Mexican intellectuals took the form of more hostile gestures. The writer and poet Salvador Novo wrote of the Casa de España as a place “endowed with dens, air conditioning and a storeroom [full of ] champagne that allowed an unknown number of leftist conspirators to live the high-life.” At the same time, the painter Gerardo Murillo, better known as Dr. Atl, called the Casa an “overcoat for the walking gachupinería.” In late 1939, the newspaper El Universal informed its readers of the creation of a “League of Mexican Intellectuals,” whose aims were to vindicate the country’s intellectual production in the face of the “powerful activity of Spanish scholars in Mexico and the official support they enjoy,” and to lobby Congress to legislate and provide “preferential protection to the Mexican intellectual.” Though flawed, the idea of creating the League reflected the rampant anti-Hispanic nationalism among some groups of intellectuals.21 A Political Weapon The rhetorical use of hispanophobia in the context of factional disputes in Mexican politics allows us a glimpse of the political dimension of this phenomenon. It was the War of Independence that propitiated this, at times explosive, but always an irresponsible mixture of social unease and political rhetoric with its cries of “Kill the gachupines!” which incited people to murder at least seven hundred Spaniards between 1810 and 1821. Other notable examples of this use occurred in 1827, 1829, and 1833 when the Mexican government decided to expel more than six thousand Spaniards, perhaps half of those who were living in the country at the time; this, against the backdrop of the liberal– conservative conflicts between the so-called yorkino and escocés parties.22 The use of anti-Spanish sentiments for political purposes persisted throughout the nineteenth century and became notably more visible during

44

●

Marco Antonio Landavazo

the Revolution. The sympathies of many Spaniards rested with Porfirio Díaz, because of the privileged situation they had enjoyed during his long dictatorship, as the “Diplomatic Mission” recognized in its 1935 report. Shortly afterward, a large part of the Spaniards colony in Mexico favored the candidacy of General Bernardo Reyes, causing Madero’s followers to accuse some of its prominent members of meddling in the country’s domestic affairs. As if that were not enough, the Spaniards also supported Victoriano Huerta’s coup against President Madero. As a result, groups of Villistas, Zapatistas, and Carrancistas frequently attacked Spaniards, justifying their acts on the basis of the latter’s improper intervention in favor of opposing factions.23 In February 1915, for example, Venustiano Carranza ordered the Spanish minister José Caro y Szécheny to abandon the country because he had opposed a search of the Spanish Embassy that General Álvaro Obregón had ordered as part of his efforts to find Ángel de Caso. Originally, this Spaniard had been named Madrid’s confidential agent to Villa, but he soon became one of the caudillo’s close advisers, an act that persuaded Carranza of the need to hunt him down. Carranza alleged, once again, that this represented an illegal intervention in the internal politics of the country. Thus, as Lorenzo Meyer has pointed out, General Obregón placed three groups—Porfirian “scientists,” priests, and gachupines—on the same plane, considering them all to be “enemies of the Revolution.”24 The political dimension of hispanophobia revealed an unusually complex facet in 1939 during the process of incorporation of Spanish exiles, some of whose leftist, Republican leanings provoked political rifts in both the Mexican right and left. These two groups welcomed with open arms those Spanish exiles whose sympathies lay in their particular sector of the ideological spectrum while accusing those who did not of being gachupines. In effect, as Tomás Pérez Vejo has astutely commented, the arrival of the Republicans caught Mexican society “out of step,” as “the traditional hispanophobia of the popular classes suddenly confronted an emigration of ‘their own kind,’ while the hispanophobia of the high, conservative class was faced with the challenge of an influx of Spaniards who were ‘red,’ atheists and masons.”25 Hence, in 1939 in Mexico, two versions of a dual Spain faced off against one another. One of these was leftist and argued that there existed a progressive Spain represented by the Spanish Republicans and a second Spain made up of gachupin shopkeepers, usurers, and fascists. The second version had a rightist orientation and was taken up as well by conservative Spaniards in Mexico. It postulated that earlier Spanish immigrations—of honorable, hardworking Spanish Catholics—were the antithesis of these exiled enemies of Franco, who were communist militiamen first and Spaniards second. In opposition to them, and in its eagerness to paint them in a negative light,

Notes on Mexican Hispanophobia

●

45

the conservative press did not hesitate to resort to the arguments of traditional anti-Spanish sentiment, using such adjectives as “authoritarian” and “despotic.”26 It may be that since the Republican exile there have been no more such dramatic episodes of Mexican anti-Spanish feelings, but the rhetorical use of such sentiments has by no means disappeared. One such expression occurred in the context of a brief but well-publicized diplomatic conflict between Mexico and Spain in September 1975, during the presidencies of Luis Echeverría and General Francisco Franco, which caused a de facto crisis in the relations between the two nations. This dispute began on September 27 when the Franco regime decreed the death penalty for two Basque separatists and three leftist extremists, taking advantage of a law concerned with “preventing terrorism.”27 In Mexico, as in many other parts of the world, protests were held against this decision by the Spanish government.28 The reaction of the Mexican government, however, was especially strong; the day he learned of the executions, Echeverría sent a message to the secretary general of the United Nations Kurt Waldheim, in which he urged that Spain be suspended from exercising all rights and privileges inherent in its membership, and that the Security Council insist all its members suspend “completely” all economic and diplomatic relations with the country, as well as all railway, maritime, aerial, postal, telegraphic, radioelectrical links, and “other means of communications.”29 Analysis of the diplomatic dispute between the two countries that followed30 is beyond the scope of this chapter, but it is noteworthy that the conflict spread to several sectors of the population in both Mexico and Spain and gave rise to expressions of xenophobia on both sides of the Atlantic. To mention but one case, at a demonstration held in Madrid in support of Franco’s government, Mexicans were referred to, in a clearly pejorative fashion, as those “poor Indians.”31 In Mexico, an editorialist at the Excélsior newspaper responded to this offense by writing that Mexicans had indeed been poor Indians during the colonial period, but that this condition had ceased to exist in 1810, when they began to murder Spaniards in Valladolid, Guanajuato, Guadalajara, and Acapulco, and again from 1828 to 1833, when the government of Mexico had expelled more than two thousand others.32 According to this journalist, the preservation of Mexican dignity and honor was directly associated with the murder and expulsion of and violence against the Spaniards. Indigenism and Hispanophobia The ideological dimension of this hispanophobic imaginary reflects the fundamental needs of Mexican identity to distinguish itself radically from everything

46

●

Marco Antonio Landavazo

Spanish, to transform itself into the antithesis of all things Spanish, and to exalt its pre-Hispanic past. Although it may well contain large doses of ignorance, political rhetoric, and ideological oversimplification, this negative vision of the Spanish heritage is deeply rooted in the public consciousness of at least some social sectors and appears in many forms, from the sophisticated arguments found in the writings of Servando Teresa de Mier and Carlos María de Bustamante, to the slogans of indigenous and other social movements in 1992 during the commemorations of the 500th anniversary of the arrival of Colombus (known officially as the “Encounter of Two Worlds”). The bases of this particular dimension had been established in the early nineteenth century, precisely by Mier and Bustamante; the former in his book Historia de la Revolución de Nueva España antiguamente Anáhuac, a treatise that lauded the War of Independence in which the Spanish Royal Army’s repression of the insurgents is portrayed as a repetition of the cruelties of the Spanish Conquest in the sixteenth century, and the latter in his Cuadro Histórico de la Revolución Mexicana, which identified the fate of Cuauhtémoc and Moctezuma with that of Hidalgo and Morelos. As Brading has argued, during the Independence era, Hidalgo’s rebel followers were actually seen as the heirs of Cuauhtémoc, combatants who were fighting to liberate the Mexican nation from the chains imposed by the conquest. It was in this way that the newborn country’s indigenous heritage became identified with the past history of the nation itself.33 This ideological operation, which converted the independence movement into nothing less than a war of national liberation at the same time as it portrayed New Spain’s past as a kind of “Dark Ages,” thus came to be seen as a canonical truth in both political discourse and historiography. The reasons behind this transformation were entirely political. In a clear attempt at self-justification, liberal groups in nineteenth-century Mexico associated their struggle with the Hidalgo insurrection and identified their enemies in the conservative camp with the Realistas he had fought against. At the time of the Ayutla revolution, for example, Ignacio Vallarta pronounced a speech (September 1858) in which he stated that the rebellion “afoot today in our motherland” was nothing less than a “complement to what Hidalgo had begun in Dolores,” because the Realista party he confronted had been transformed into the “conservative party” in name only, and was made up of the privileged classes, the clergy, and the military; that is, groups that favored retrogression.34 With the triumph of the liberal party over the failed empire of Maximilian of Habsburg in 1867, this vision became “official.” It is clear that during the long-standing government of Porfirio Díaz, with its zeal for peace, order, and national unity, attempts were made to construct

Notes on Mexican Hispanophobia

●

47

a unifying historical narrative. As Enrique Florescano has observed, this venture reached fruition with the monumental opus México a través de los siglos, which he argued brought together distinct pasts once considered enemies in one sole discourse that united pre-Hispanic antiquity with the Viceroyalty, and also included the War of Independence, the early years of the Republic and the Reform Movement. However, when the Mexican Revolution broke out in 1910—with, as I have shown, its own features of hispanophobia—it claimed to be the rightful heir of the Independence and Reform Wars as, for example, both Madero and Álvaro Obregón proclaimed, while the regime that emerged from the victory of the revolution soon made the Indigenist discourse its own.35 In this way, the pre-Hispanic past once again emerged strongly as a source of pride and exaltation, while the Spanish legacy became an object of disdain or simple scorn. A statement made by a Spanish diplomat in February 1916 to the effect that the hatred most Mexicans felt for the Spanish was due, among other things, to “the false history of Spanish domination taught in schools and classrooms,” is but one example of this.36 During the acts that commemorated the 500th anniversary of the arrival of Columbus in October 1992, the exaltation of Mexico’s indigenous past reemerged strongly, together with an image of the conquest and three centuries of colonial domination as bloody, almost malignant, processes, worthy only of repudiation. Although no one present at these ceremonies went so far as to propose a new “purge” of gachupines or the expropriation of their property, incidents of symbolic violence against the Spanish did occur. The proposal to carry out the so-called March for Indigenous Dignity, comprising several different marches that departed from different sites around the country and came together in Mexico City on October 12, set the tone for acts organized by various indigenous peoples, as well as political and social organizations in the country. When the participants in the March that originated in the state of Guerrero arrived at Puente de Ixtla on October 6, they were met by the Consejo Mexicano 500 Años de Resistencia Indígena, Negra y Popular (Mexican Council: 500 Years of Indigenous, Black and Popular Resistance), and heard a speech that said in part: “The Indians of Morelos welcome you. Together we have been oppressed for 500 years, we have been victims of injustice, [at the hands of those who] have exploited and humiliated us.” In another moment, a leader of the Partido de la Revolución Democrática (Party of the Democratic Revolution, or PRD) declared that the indigenous peoples of more than forty communities in the municipality of Ayutla, in the region of the Costa Chica, rejected the festivities of the 500th Anniversary because they considered “that the genocide perpetrated by the Spanish on millions of [Indians] can in no way constitute [a cause for] celebration.”37

48

●

Marco Antonio Landavazo

This posture was voiced on many occasions as it came to represent the main argument of these groups in the many acts in which they participated. As the Marcha de dignidad indígena from the state of Guerrero proceeded, Heberto Castillo, a long-standing leader of the Mexican left (now deceased), declared that “commemorating the discovery of America is shameful; instead of being celebrated it is to be lamented,” adding that Spain “should beg forgiveness for what it did in America and, moreover, indemnify the indians for having robbed and exploited them in such a way.” In Michoacán, meanwhile, the leader of the Unión de Comuneros Emiliano Zapata announced that on the thirteenth anniversary of its founding, his organization would hold the Encuentro 500 años de resistencia, lucha y dignidad del indio (Encounter of 500 Years of Indian Resistance, Struggle, and Dignity) by organizing demonstrations, artistic activities, and roundtable discussions “to repudiate the celebration of the fivehundredth anniversary of Columbus’ arrival in America.”38 Anti-Spanish sentiments also materialized in the form of attacks on objects that represented colonial domination and declarations that repudiated the arrival of the Spanish in America. At the main event on October 12 in Mexico City, Christopher Columbus—represented by his statue on the Paseo de la Reforma—was subjected to a kind of popular trial the verdict of which was a foregone conclusion. Amid shouts of slogans such as “Christopher Columbus, pirate thief!” and “Christopher Columbus, to the firing squad!,” a crowd peppered the statue with eggs, tomatoes, and balloons filled with paint. In a somewhat more civilized vein, a member of the “National Council of Indian Peoples” proposed that all statues of Columbus be removed from public thoroughfares and placed in museums, an approach that contrasted starkly with the shouts of someone in the crowd to the effect that all Spaniards should simply “go f---themselves!” Earlier, someone had spray painted the message “Gachupines culeros” (Assholes) on the Monument to the Revolution, the starting point of one contingent of demonstrators. During the march itself, an annoyed motorist caught in one of the many traffic tie-ups caused by these demonstrations attempted to protest, but his objections were met with the comment: “¡Serás español, carbon!” (“You must be a Spanish bastard”).39 By Way of Conclusion Hispanophobia has ceased to be what it once was—practically a defining element of Mexican consciousness—and has become a residual product, a historical anomaly. Its gradual loss of strength appears to be related to two factors: first, the “yanquiphobia” that emerged in Mexico after 1847 and second, the declining economic and social importance of people of Spanish descent in the country that can be observed clearly after 1910. Nevertheless,

Notes on Mexican Hispanophobia

●

49

the imaginary surrounding Spain and the Spanish, which has always nourished hispanophobia, seems to resist the passing of time. As examples of this, I would like to mention two cases that occurred recently and that provide instances of the ideological atavisms of a misplaced nationalism, which has, however, maintained its energies. The first reveals, once again, how hispanophobia can conceal itself and legitimize resentments directly related to work. The second demonstrates the force of an image or idea that we have inherited from the time of the War of Independence, and which holds that the barbarities committed by the Spanish justify those committed against them. In the first case, in October 2003, some musicians from the Symphony Orchestra of the University of Guanajuato complained to that institution’s authorities and to the state governor about the performance of the conductor, a Spaniard named José Luis Castillo. Accusing him of proposing an “illogical” program that disdained not only Mexican music but also the state of Guanajuato and the nation itself, of forming a clique of foreign musicians who participated in intrigues against Mexican artists, and of arbitrary and overbearing attitudes, the complainants demanded his immediate dismissal. According to them, these difficulties arose from “the activities of a gachupín, who we thought had been eliminated after the dawn of September 16, 1810.” They took advantage of the occasion to complain also about their working conditions, which they compared to “those experienced during the Spanish oppression of our ancestors who launched, together with the priest don Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla, the Wars of Independence of 1810.”40 The second case is more recent still. It took place on June 17, 2004, when Spain’s ambassador to Mexico complained publicly about the kidnappings of eight Spanish citizens in Mexico City—five of whom had been murdered— in the prior three months. This declaration came at a time when the lack of public security in the country and, particularly, in the capital city was being discussed heatedly and the performance of the Mexico City police was coming under particularly harsh criticism. Complicating this situation was the fact that authorities in Mexico City were busy attributing some of these criticisms to a campaign of slander directed against Andrés Manuel López Obrador, the head of the government of the Federal District, who was seeking his party’s candidacy to succeed President Vicente Fox when his term ended in 2006. Through Bernardo Bátiz (attorney general of the Federal District), the city government quickly rebuked the information in a letter addressed to the ambassador, which stated that the files of the Ministry of Justice for the previous six months contained no record of even one case in which a person of Spanish nationality had been murdered there as a result of being kidnapped.41 The interesting point here, however, concerns neither the city government nor

50

●

Marco Antonio Landavazo

the ambassador but rather Bulmaro Castellanos, better known as “Magú,” a leading political cartoonist at the La Jornada newspaper. In response to the ambassador’s statement, Magú published a cartoon on June 24 in which the attorney general of Mexico City was drawn face to face with the Spanish ambassador holding a book on Mexican history in one hand. In a tone clearly ringing with reproach, he said: “A Spaniard named Cortés kidnapped us and murdered Cuauhtémoc, but we never made such a fuss about it!”42 What did this cartoonist really mean to say, though perhaps unconsciously? A first reading might be that the Spanish ambassador (and, by extension, any Spaniard) had no right to complain about his murdered countrymen because Spanish conquerors in the sixteenth century had murdered many Indians, among them Cuauhtémoc. A second more serious reading is that Mexicans can legitimately murder Spaniards because they killed a great many Indians in the sixteenth century, including Cuauhtémoc. Here we find once again the persistence of the hispanophobic imaginary: in Magú’s cartoon we perceive the same argument with which almost two centuries earlier Carlos María de Bustamante confronted a Spaniard, Hernán Cortés, who was deeply scandalized by the bloody events perpetrated by Hidalgo’s troops in Guanajuato after the fall of the Alhóndiga de Granaditas. Bustamante wrote: What is it that horrifies you as you gaze upon these victims? Had you forgotten the cruel slaughters you carried out three centuries ago in Tabasco, in Cholula, at the Great Temple in Mexico, in Cuernavaca [or] the arrest of Moctezuma [or] the torture you inflicted upon Cuauhtémoc, the last ruler of this empire, as you attempted to force him to divulge the location of his predecessor’s treasure trove?43 Although it is true that Mexican hispanophobia is not what it once was, there is a persistence of certain stereotypical images of the Spanish, which reflect that anti-Spanish sentiment has not disappeared completely but rather has degenerated into something like an incorrigible bad habit, a spurious expression of Mexicans’ mental baggage, a mentality. It no longer has the strength it once enjoyed as a violent expression of the process of the construction of national identity, although it still preserves, latently, a charge of aggressiveness that expresses itself from time to time at the symbolic and discursive levels, such as in Magú’s cartoon or in the attacks directed against Columbus’ statue. The persistence of this imaginary is fascinating from the point of view of the history of political culture, but shameful in terms of Mexican civic culture. Recognizing its double nature, however, may help us discover more rational and legitimate bases for our national identity.

Notes on Mexican Hispanophobia

●

51

Notes 1. David A. Brading, Los orígenes del nacionalismo mexicano (Mexico: Editorial Era, 1980), pp. 15–42. 2. On these topics, see Charles Hale, El liberalismo mexicano en la época de Mora, 1821—1853, 7th ed. (Mexico: Siglo XXI Editores, 1985), chapters 1, 3, and 7; Lourdes Quintanilla, El nacionalismo de Lucas Alamán, 2nd ed. (Guanajuato: Ediciones La Rana, 2003); José María Luis Mora, México y sus revoluciones (México: Instituto de Investigaciones Dr. José María Luis Mora, Consejo Nacional para la Cultura y las Artes, 1986), vol. 4 of Obras Completas, p. 66; and Agustín Basave Benítez, México mestizo. Análisis del nacionalismo mexicano en torno a la mestizofilia de Andrés Molina Enríquez (México: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1992). 3. Juan E. Hernández y Dávalos (ed.), Colección de documentos para la historia de la guerra de independencia de México de 1808 a 1821 (Mexico: Instituto Nacional de Estudios Históricos de la Revolución Mexicana, 1985), vol. I, document 51, pp. 119–120; Miguel Hidalgo, “Manifiesto” (no place of publication, n.d.). 4. “Manifiesto que el señor don Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla, generalísimo de las armas americanas y electo por la mayor parte de los pueblos del Reino para defender sus derechos y los de sus conciudadanos, hace al pueblo” (no place of publication, n.d.), in Ernesto Lemoine Villicaña, La Revolución de Independencia. 1808–1821. Testimonios. Bandos, proclamas, manifiestos, discursos, decretos y otros escritos (Mexico: Departamento del Distrito Federal, 1974), pp. 61–63. 5. Miguel Hidalgo, “Amados compatriotas religiosos, hijos de esta América” (no place of publication, n.d.), in ibid., pp. 42–44. 6. Archivo General de la Nación, Mexico, Operaciones de Guerra, vol. 198, fs. 135–136; José María Morelos, “A los criollos que andan con las tropas de los gachupines.” 7. Ibid. 8. On this issue, see Enrique Plascencia de la Parra, Independencia y nacionalismo a la luz del discurso conmemorativo (1825–1867) (Mexico: Consejo Nacional para la Cultura y las Artes, 1991); and Aimer Granados García, Los debates sobre España. El hispanoamericanismo en México a finales del siglo XIX (Mexico: El Colegio de México, 2002), PhD dissertation in history. 9. Cited in Granados García, Los debates sobre España, pp. 151–152. 10. See Tomás Pérez Vejo, “La conspiración gachupina en El Hijo del Ahuizote,” Historia mexicana LIV:3 (2005), en prensas. 11. John Reed, México insurgente (Mexico: Ediciones Quinto Sol, 1988), pp. 139–140. See also Friedrich Katz, Pancho Villa (Mexico: Ediciones Era, 2000), vol. I, pp. 281–283. 12. Mario Gil, “Los Escudero de Acapulco,” Historia Mexicana III: 4 (1953), pp. 291–308. 13. See Ricardo Pérez Montfort, Hispanismo y falange. Los sueños imperiales de la derecha española (Mexico: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1992), pp. 61–63. 14. See Romana Falcón, Las rasgaduras de la descolonización. Españoles y mexicanos a mediados del siglo XIX (Mexico: El Colegio de México, 1996), chapter IV; and

52

15.

16. 17. 18.

19. 20.

21. 22.

23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28.

29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

●

Marco Antonio Landavazo

Leticia Gamboa, “De ‘indios’ y ‘gachupines.’ Las fobias en las fábricas textiles de Puebla,” Tiempos de América 3–4 (1999), pp. 85–98. See Carlos Illades, Presencia española en la Revolución Mexicana (1910–1915) (Mexico: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México/Instituto Mora, 1991), pp. 55–92; and Lorenzo Meyer, El cactus y el olivo. Las relaciones de México y España en el slglo XX (Mexico: Editorial Océano, 2001), pp. 162–168 and 232–233. Gil, “Los Escudero de Acapulco,” pp. 291–308. Ibid. Tomás Pérez Vejo, “España en el imaginario mexicano. El choque del exilio,” in Andrés, A.S. and Zamudio, S.F. (eds.), De Madrid a México. El exilio español y su impacto sobre el pensamiento, la ciencia y el sistema educativo mexicano (Morelia: Universidad Michoacana de San Nicolás de Hidalgo and Comunidad de Madrid, 2001), pp. 23–93; José Antonio Matesanz, Las raíces del exilio: México ante la guerra civil española, 1936–1939 (Mexico: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México/El Colegio de México, 1999). Pérez Vejo, “España en el imaginario mexicano,” pp. 61–66. Guillermo Sheridan, “Refugachos. Escenas del exilio español en México,” Letras Libres V:56 (2003), pp. 19–20; Pérez Vejo, “España en el imaginario mexicano,” pp. 63–65. Sheridan, “Refugachos,” pp. 19–20 and 23. Marco Antonio Landavazo, “Guerra y violencia durante la revolución de independencia de México,” unpublished manuscript; Harold D. Sims, La expulsión de los españoles de México (1821–1828) (Mexico: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1974). Meyer, El cactus y el olivo, pp. 89–95; Illades, Presencia española, pp. 61–64. Meyer, El cactus y el olivo, pp. 160–161 and 196–197. Pérez Vejo, “España en el imaginario mexicano,” pp. 49–61. Ibid. El Nacional, Mexico, September 12–31, 1975. This decision provoked protests around the world: the governments of Portugal, France, Italy, Great Britain, East and West Germany, Belgium, Sweden, Norway, Ireland, Switzerland, Denmark, and Holland all temporarily withdrew their ambassadors from Spain, and demonstrations were held in several cities around Europe, with Spanish offices and embassies being attacked. Different figures made declarations, some of which were highly critical, such as that of Olof Palme. Excélsior, September 29, 1975. El Nacional, Mexico, September 29, 1975. See Marco Antonio Landavazo, “La crisis entre México y España en el ocaso del franquismo,” Secuencia. Revista de historia y Ciencias sociales 38 (1997), pp. 95–120. El Nacional, Mexico, October 2, 1975, p. 10. Excélsior, October 11, 1975, p. 6, article by Abraham López. Brading, Los orígenes, pp. 74–78.

Notes on Mexican Hispanophobia

●

53

34. Discurso pronunciado en la ciudad de Sayula por el C. Licenciado Ignacio L. Vallarta, el día 16 de septiembre de 1858, en solemnidad de la gloriosa revolución de la independencia mexicana, Sayula, Imprenta del Ejército Federal, 1858, pp. 12 and 13. 35. Enrique Florescano, Historia de las historias de la nación mexicana (Mexico: Taurus, 2002), pp. 346–418. 36. Meyer, El cactus y el olivo, p. 196. 37. “Llegó ayer a Puenta de Ixtla la Marcha de la dignidad indígena,” La Jornada, October 7, 1992, p. 18. 38. “Repudio a los festejos del quinto centenario. En Michoacán, el Encuentro 500 Años de Resistencia del Indio,” La Jornada, October 8, 1992, pp. 14 and 56. 39. “Danzas y loas en honor de Cuauhtémoc; mentadas y jitomatazos a Colón al pie de su monumento,” La Jornada, October 13, 1992, p. 6. 40. La Jornada, October 6, 2003, p. 2; Francisco Rodríguez, “Índice político,” www.indicepolitico.com. 41. La Jornada, June 18 and 19, 2004. 42. Magú, “Registro histórico,” La Jornada, June 24, 2004, p. 1. 43. Carlos María de Bustamante, Cuadro histórico de la Revolución Mexicana de 1810 (Mexico: Instituto Nacional de Estudios Históricos de la Revolución Mexicana, 1985), vol. 1, pp. 41–42.

This page intentionally left blank

CHAPTER 4

Lucha and Cubanía: The (Re)Construction of a Cuban Historical Identity Through the Idea of (Revolutionary) Struggle Antoni Kapcia

W

hile all political systems, especially at moments of crisis, trauma or threat, need to create and have recourse to historical—political myths, it is during any process of nation building that this need is clearest, since this is precisely when a consensus is needed on what constitutes the “nation” (to be defended or created), relying on a collective “imagining” of the community from which that nation is emerging and which, in turn, the nation is creating.1 Inevitably, therefore, what underlies any national community’s creation and imagining must be a consensual nationalist ideology, the national community’s explanation of its world as it has been, is, and should be, and also its guide to collective action. Equally, such an ideology must also be constructed, in an organic and deliberate process, from elements that combine uniquely to express that embryonic nation’s perceived self-image in terms that are meaningful to citizens and usable for political leaders. These “building blocks” are the ideology’s “codes,” discrete networks of beliefs around a value generally seen as essential to the collective experience and together constituting the raw material of the collective self-image. They are codes, first, because they codify otherwise inchoate or incoherent values, ideas, and beliefs that are perceived

56

●

Antoni Kapcia

(by leaders and led) to belong especially, and even uniquely, to the new community, and, second, because they provide a discourse for the community’s “initiates,” allowing them to identify doubly with the collective self-image and with each other as co-participants in the nation building. In both usages, these codes necessarily include historical–political myths that encapsulate and express in immediately comprehensible and essentially unchanging forms, within a specific narrative, the “essence” of the code in question.2 Modern Cuba offers a particularly illustrative example of a nation-building process whose historical–political myths and codes became fundamental to the nation’s construction, self-image, and defense, for that experience was unique, shaping not just a twentieth-century process of nation building (unlike most of Latin America where independence arrived by 1828) but also a mid-century process of revolutionary nation building. On both occasions, moreover, the circumstances were hardly propitious for such a project. In 1902, unlike the earlier Latin American rebellions where independence was generally (apart from Mexico) able to evolve without fear of reconquest or new domination, Cuba gained its independence precisely when the world’s political center of gravity was beginning to shift from Europe to a United States which, flexing its muscles regionally and already instrumental in decolonizing Cuba, viewed the island proprietarily.3 Fifty-seven years later, in 1959, Cuba moved toward socialist revolution in the shadow of a United States unprepared to tolerate either revolutionary deviation from the hemispheric norm or any weakening of the Cold War front. On both occasions, therefore, nation building was fraught, tense, and conflictive, contested by the external forces most likely to shape its survival and thus demanding all the mythic resources at the new state’s disposal, meaning a constant redefining of nation and a constant reimagining of the national community. This was all the more conflictive precisely because this process followed a century when Cuba’s right to exist as a nation was denied actively both by Spain and by powerful elements of the criollo elite, the resulting collective self-doubt being enhanced both by the fact that the first significant stirrings of Cuban separatism were focused not on the creation of nationhood but rather on statehood within the United States (the annexationist movement of the 1840s–1860s) and by the three successive failures to wrest independence from Spain.4 Thus, by the 1920s, as the new Cuban state faced traumatic economic crisis, U.S. political and military control, and a morass of endemic corruption, that self-doubt emerged as the notion of decadencia, explaining Cuba’s repeated failures by inherent biological, social, or racial flaws, but also as the double image of Cuban history as a constant dichotomy of struggles and betrayals that subsequently provided the national narrative.5

Cuban Historical Identity

●

57

If the first process of nation building was fraught with self-doubt, the second was less obviously afflicted by this problem but no less affected by its legacy. Nonetheless, the revolutionary vanguard after January 1959 predictably embarked on a drive to construct a new, revolutionary nation that would both redress the ills of the old and achieve what the original idealistic nation builders and próceres had hoped to do in their various struggles. Hence, this new process necessarily aimed to construct (a new entity) and to reconstruct (an old ideal), a combination of aims that was essential to the revolutionary project for several reasons. First, the leaders recognized the importance of establishing a historical continuity to legitimize their project as completing a long and noble lineage of national struggle.6 Second, such continuity was important to help build a national consensus, since the radicalization process created political and social cleavages, and the post-1960 “siege” generated a need for a constant alert against external attempts to undermine, sabotage, or overthrow the revolution.7 Third, a perception of continuity would usefully build on the pre1959 narrative of struggle–betrayal, establishing the post-1959 process as continuing the struggles but ending the betrayal. Such betrayal was instead viewed as continuing in Miami with those who sided with the very power that was obstructing the realization of Cuba Libre. Once the process had established these ideological signatures, it was of course incumbent on the interpreters of the Revolution’s ideology to ensure that they remained valid and meaningful. Hence, the following decades of revolutionary change meant a constant need to update them without losing their essential characteristics and messages and, since a revolutionary process necessarily relies on a shared perception that the needed new structure is using the best and most valued elements of the old, to continue striking a careful balance between old and new, traditional and revolutionary. This, then, is the context in which the code of “activism,”8 or lucha, developed and was used in Cuba, having, since 1902, been a fundamental building block of the consensual and evolving notions of cubanía, cubanidad, and Cuba Libre.9 Lucha related directly to the ideology’s other basic codes and associated values, such as self-sacrifice, martyrdom, the siege mentality, and the notion of guerrillerismo, all of which played their part in unifying support. To understand the role of this code within the Cuban political culture, both preand post-1959, we therefore need not only to trace its historical evolution and identify the myths sustained by and sustaining it, but, more importantly, the ways in which both the code and political action have affected each other, how far adherence to lucha has arisen from events, and how far it has itself shaped those same events.

58

●

Antoni Kapcia

This task necessarily begins with Independence, for before then the code was at best implicit and inchoate; indeed, it did not really emerge as a consensual code until some way into the Republic. The explanation probably lies in the absence of any significant separatist movement in the early nineteenth century and the unusual consensus among leading criollos that loyalty to Spain was preferable to the risks of independence. As elsewhere, there were those (often freemasons and occasionally black) who sought separation, but, lacking the necessary criollo support, they were easily isolated and defeated, allowing later historiography to relegate them to the status of “conspiracies,” thereby both belittling them and giving them a hint of the sinister. Indeed, the 1844 black “Escalera conspiracy” was mostly an invention of the authorities (enhanced by that same historiography) to play on latent race fears then aggravated by the awareness of Cuba’s black majority and to justify an exemplary repression on those free blacks whose cultural and political development was threatening. Thus, even in the late nineteenth century, to talk of “struggles” rather than conspiracies was dangerous, threatening to unleash uncontrollable forces but, more immediately, to legitimize black aspirations to self-determination. At a time when, all over independent Latin America, politicians and cultural leaders were extolling the glories of their own “pure” struggles for independence, the Cuban elites (peninsular and criollo alike) simply could not risk the message implicit in lucha. Indeed, simultaneously, many Cuban intellectuals recreated a romanticized historical memory not through black Cubans but in the vanished indigenous past, in the cultural movement of siboneyismo. The same pattern was repeated in the Guerra Chiquita. In 1878, the rebels’ surrender at Zanjón had largely reflected white leaders’ fears about the implications of a struggle that, having begun as a white-led battle for political separation, had become an embryonic social revolution, fought largely by black guerrillas (mambises) under popular and effective black generals such as Antonio Maceo; hence, that surrender was contested by Maceo at Baraguá until he too was defeated. The 1879–1880 rebellion, almost exclusively fought by eastern blacks, was therefore seen by the rebels as continuing the struggle, but whites ignored it as irrelevant to independence and dangerous to stability. Hence, it almost immediately acquired the epithet chiquita, in implicit comparison with the preceding Guerra Grande, and, in much of the later historiography, was rarely considered as what it actually was, namely Cuba’s second war of independence. Interestingly, that same fear resurfaced after Independence, with the Partido Independiente de Color’s protest of 1912 expressing widespread black anger and frustration at being denied the political, social, and economic fruits of an independence for which they had repeatedly fought. The year

Cuban Historical Identity

●

59

1912 echoed 1844, the rebellion and threat being exaggerated then and after to justify a bloody repression, decapitate a nascent black consciousness, and rally whites around a white Cuba Libre, with black culture being denigrated and black stereotypes being popularized.10 Meantime, even the “glorious” 1868–1878 struggle was already less clear, its genesis being somewhat contingent (on Spanish domestic politics) and arising from the desperation of planters with nothing to lose by either rebelling or freeing their slaves to fight under their command.11 The war itself saw little rebel consensus about either slavery or even the desired outcome, since the rebel constitution of 1869 at Guáimaro remained ambivalent about U.S. annexation, divisions that led to Zanjón (subsequently seen as humiliating) and that shaped the thinking not only of the increasingly important separatist leader José Martí (who advocated unity behind his new 1892 Partido Revolucionario Cubano) but also of many whites, who preferred to prevent blacks from disturbing the unity under their leadership both after 1878 and after 1902.12 The leadership of the new Republic in 1902 thus faced a dilemma. On the one hand, as in any postcolonial state but especially an inherently weak one, they needed to legitimize their right to rule not on the basis of power alone (since, first, they were replacing an undemocratic colonialism and second, the legal mechanisms of Independence put real power in U.S. hands) but rather through their role in the war that, they argued, had created a Cuba Libre and given them authority.13 To help this legitimation, these new, largely white leaders (eventually termed caudillos) preferred to be known collectively as the mambisado, enabling them to appropriate some of the historic legitimacy of the (mostly black) mambises, associating them publicly with heroes but also privileging both the mambises and the concept of lucha. However, the fact that the Republic had been born of a long history of struggle and of one particular war also implicitly created a space for the legitimate use of political violence for just political ends; indeed, the 1906 and 1917 Liberal rebellions were presented as a justified recourse to arms in the tradition and spirit of the mambises, given the government’s perceived antinational usurpation of power and of the Constitution.14 Martí’s death in 1895 seemed to bear this out as the archetypal homo poeta who, having until then used his pen and oratory to unite and lead the independence movement, rode into battle conspicuously, possibly to demonstrate his equal claim to being homo faber; it was his selfimmolation in action that enshrined him in the pantheon of Cuban heroes as much as his pre-1892 efforts and writings. Events then began the more widespread use of lucha for other reasons. First, the Liberals generally claimed the nationalist heritage more convincingly than the Conservatives, who were more rooted in both pro-Spanish

60

●

Antoni Kapcia

autonomism and in the new accommodationism with the United States. Second, the 1906–1909 U.S. occupation shook Cuban politics, persuading the newly installed Liberal elite of the need to create a national consciousness to legitimize their rule, cement unity, and prevent further interventions. Hence, the Liberal-dominated state after 1910 began to establish the requisite national institutions that might have been expected after 1902, especially the new army and those institutions geared to creating a cultural identity (such as historiographical institutions and museums), and other allied forces began to articulate their nationalism, most notably the new Asociación de Veteranos of 1911. Ten years later, after the economic crash of 1920, dislocation and radicalization saw Havana students and organized labor lead a growing challenge to the Republic’s fragile consensus and pact with the United States.15 Part of this radicalization came in discourse as the students of the new Federación Estudiantil Universitaria (FEU) adapted new formulations of anti-imperialism (ranging from nationalist and martiano through the “continentalist” perspectives of Aprismo to Leninist Marxism) while labor unions began to move from a previously hegemonic anarcho-syndicalism toward the fledgling Communist Party and the Soviet revolution.16 To both groups, lucha was fundamental: the former extolled a newly rediscovered tradition of heroic anticolonialist struggle (exemplified by Martí) to which their challenge belonged, while the latter’s discourse of class struggle fused the anarchosyndicalists’ faith in the general strike and opposition to all government with Marxism’s historic and “scientific” determinism. The new radicalism thus resurrected lucha and used it openly to rally and legitimize. The overthrow of Machado by the army in August 1933 followed three years of political unrest, which further legitimized lucha and merged three phenomena: traditional elite-led rebellion (in the Unión-Nacionalista-led 1931 revolts at Gibara and Río Verde) that justified recourse to arms by association with 1895–1898; the armed actions of the post-1927 student-based “action groups” especially the openly terrorist organization “ABC”, which had all created an atmosphere of unrest and nationalistically justified rebellion; and the labor insurrection from 1930, with its general strikes, occupations, and collective faith in class struggle. Then, on September 4, 1933, Machado’s Army-appointed successor, the oligarchic Céspedes, was removed by a mutiny by Non-Commissioned Officers in alliance with the Directorio Estudiantil Universitario (DEU), resulting in Ramón Grau San Martín’s revolutionary “100 days government,” the removal of the “generation of 95,” and the birth of the “Second Republic.”17 This now meant that the new Republic needed a new consensus for its legitimacy, especially as the cleavages bloodily evident during the revolution

Cuban Historical Identity

●

61

(especially the two officer rebellions of October and November 1933) threatened to continue. In January 1934, Batista, one of the NCOs’ leaders and, from October, the perceived protector of the “revolution” through his suppression of the officer rebellions, seized power and ended the revolutionary chaos, supported by the ABC, which had backed those same rebellions. The year 1934 also saw the founding, in exile, of the Partido Revolucionario Cubano-Auténtico by DEU activists and Grau. With Washington abrogating the Platt Amendment (1934), a new consensus was less easily identified with the old nationalism, and the leading actors’ youth meant a less easy identification with 1895–1898. Therefore, the new source of legitimacy became the 1933 revolution, the generation of 95 being replaced by the “generation of 33,” seeking legitimacy through participation in those “heroic” days. For the Auténticos (in power during 1944–1952), this was facilitated by their appropriation of the name of Martí’s party, linking their involvement in 1933 with the Apóstol of independence, now extolled as “national hero.” For Batista, legitimation was more complex, but was ultimately achieved by enacting the unfulfilled 1933 platform in the reforms and laws of 1934–1940 (when he ruled through “puppet” presidents) and the 1940 Constitution, which, by replacing the neocolonial 1901 Constitution closed a shameful chapter in the collective psyche and saw Batista elected in 1940. The fact that the 1933 revolution was, first, questionably revolutionary in intentions, form, and outcomes, and second, often an orgy of violence between armed groups who, although always appropriating the mantle of revolutionaries, often settled internecine quarrels through shoot-outs, was eventually lost in a new historiography that presented 1933 as heroic. In this, there was a necessary narrative that warned about divisions (and played up the counterrevolutionary “threat of military rebellions” while playing down the brutality of their suppression), but identified two distinct lineages of heroes and events linking 1933 backward (to earlier struggles) and forward (with whomever was “narrating”). Thus, the Auténticos stressed their “revolutionary” credentials and extolled the heroism of fallen activists such as Rafael Trejo or Antonio Guiteras and the protagonism of people such as Grau and former DEU leaders Carlos Prío Socarrás (who succeeded Grau as president in 1948) and Eduardo (Eddy) Chibás.18 Equally, Batista stressed his own revolutionary past as one of the working-class military rebels of 1933, and even the Communist Party, repressed by Batista (1934–1935) and the Auténticos (after 1947), had their history of labor struggle and their own heroes, most notably Mella, supposedly killed by Machado’s thugs in Mexico in 1929.19 However, the reality of the Cuba of 1934–1952 was that it was neither revolutionary nor nationalist, Cuba being unusual in Latin America in not

62

●

Antoni Kapcia

responding to the 1929–1933 economic crisis with economic nationalism but rather in seeking security in a less lucrative 1934 version of the humiliating 1903 Treaty. It was, however, plagued by a corruption affecting political life (Batista leaving office in 1944 richer by some $40 million and a process of impeachment being initiated against Grau in 1952) and also by the reality of political violence. The 1930–1935 action groups degenerated after 1938 into simple gangster activity in the curious phenomenon of bonchismo (named after the original Bonche Universitario), which combined avowedly revolutionary commitment with behavior echoing 1920s Chicago rather than guerrilla fighting. The bonches’ revolutionary credentials came from their 1930–1935 roots in the idiosyncratic nationalist groups (such as Ley y Justicia, the Organización Celular Revolucionaria, or Joven Cuba), although they took their cue more from ABC in organization, commitment to violence, and willingness to collaborate with authority. This lineage—cemented by the participation by some leaders on the Republican side in Spain in 1936–1939 (an experience that, e.g., converted the MSR’s (Morimiento Socialiota Revolucionario) Rolando Masferrer to anti-communism)—was enshrined in their names, such as the Unión Insurreccional Revolucionaria, the Movimiento Socialista Revolucionario, and the Acción Revolucionaria Guiteras. If they extolled any one value, it was not revolution but lucha, developing a code of violence in which vengeance was exacted easily and publicly, intimidation was a matter of course, and force was used against policemen or rival gangs, or, after 1947, on behalf of the Auténticos, against the PSP in the University and the unions. They certainly destabilized Havana life and undermined the legitimacy of politics (especially when Prío bought them off with senior police posts and hundreds of government jobs), but they also, curiously, conferred a sort of prestige on the idea of “action.” Although the Movimiento 26 de Julio, which emerged under Castro after 1955, in opposition to Batista’s 1952 coup, was not part of this phenomenon (despite Castro’s previous peripheral involvement in the UIR Unión Insurreccional Revolucionaria and his participation in an abortive bonchistaled 1947 expedition to overthrow Trujillo), it was rooted in the atmosphere of violence in and around the University and in the exaltation of action as a value among younger radical Cubans. Indeed, to some, the action that spawned the Movimiento and gave it its name, the July 26, 1953 attack on the Moncada barracks in Santiago de Cuba, was simply an exaggerated manifestation of the violence of the 1940s, carried out by young students, many of whom were killed in the bloody outcome. Yet, it was not the bonches who gave Castro his model but a similar attack by Guiteras in Oriente in 1933; in both cases, the intention was to galvanize opposition rather than overthrow

Cuban Historical Identity

●

63

the dictator and to signal rebellion by an attack that, through its audacity, would inspire adherence and, through its violence, indicate total opposition. Certainly, Moncada achieved its purpose, bringing the loose “Movimiento” prestige and an identity, linking it directly with the cubanía tradition of rebellion and heroism. By acting alone, they set themselves apart from other possible oppositions (and thus from the bonches)—enhancing this by Castro’s significant decision on his release in 1955 to go not to Miami (where other potential plotters were gathered) but to revolutionary Mexico. The link with cubanía was, of course, made explicit by Castro in his famous defense speech and its intentionally prophetic final words “La historia me absolverá,” a document that then became the Movimiento’s first manifesto.20 By tapping into “history,” Castro gained immediate legitimacy from the history of lucha. Indeed, 1953–1956 was really the moment when that same history became a consensual weapon in Cuban oppositionism, going beyond its traditional association with radicalism or nationalism to an attempt to galvanize all Cubans rather than limit action to a small cabal. It was certainly when any identification with bonchismo ended, being once again seen as revolutionary rather than as simply violent. The following years reinforced that. In 1956, the Granma invasion that began the rebellion was every bit as bloodily heroic and self-sacrificing as Moncada, resulting in defeat and deaths, but also in Castro’s remarkable survival. Once again, lucha had failed, but had not been evidently “betrayed,” and had, indeed, survived in the guerrilla that sprang up in the Sierra and that provided the next stage in the value’s evolution, generating a mythology from the outset and linking the rebels with the mambises and with the Oriente traditions of rebellion. From that moment, indeed, Sierra tended to become synonymous with lucha, a defining experience for those identified with that particular pole of the rebellion, endowing a mythic authority that, thanks to Carlos Franqui’s Los Doce, stayed with them for decades.21 This was especially so when, much later, the idea became current that the urban Resistencia Cívica (the clandestinidad or the Llano) had perhaps not been as revolutionary as the Sierra. Yet, the Llano had waged its own campaign of revolutionary violence, a lucha sustained to provoke, undermine, and distract attention from the Sierra; despite subsequent revisionism, their contribution to the collective lucha was considerable, generating both a popular and sophisticated narrative that extolled heroic acts of violence as part of the broader revolutionary struggle. Indeed, the most praised act came not from the Movimiento but from the allied group that would later fuse with it, namely José Antonio Echevarría’s Directorio Revolucionario, which, on March 13, 1957, attacked Batista’s Presidential Palace in an assault that, while possibly designed to seize the initiative from Castro, was immediately popular and admired but also

64

●

Antoni Kapcia

brought about Echevarría’s death and the decapitation of his group. Yet, the episode and Echevarría were soon incorporated into the Revolution’s mythology, explaining the vehemence with which Castro condemned Escalante in 1962 for his failure, in a tribute to Echevarría on March 13, to acknowledge the dead leader’s Catholicism; while Castro may have had other motivations, Echevarría’s self-sacrifice was part of a Cuban tradition of heroic lucha in the pursuit of Cuba Libre, and Escalante—from a Party that many saw as not sharing in that struggle until the end—had offended that tradition. After 1959, of course, the mythic universe to which lucha belonged was enshrined in the Revolution’s new and evolving ideology, in which lucha, like all its component values and myths, not only reflected and expressed political action but also influenced it significantly. As the Revolution radicalized, the importance of a mobilizing ideology, composed of consensual and meaningful values, myths, and symbols, meant a need to construct an edifice of meaning within which the political processes would operate and from which they could take sustenance. Within this context, the power of the traditional elements became even greater, acquiring new meaning, linking the new Cuba with the old aspirations for Cuba Libre and subtly turning the ideological tools and weapons of a formerly oppositional belief-system into equally usable and powerful ones for a revolution in power, albeit one seen to be assailed from all sides by forces that sought to destroy it. Lucha now had four very specific purposes. First, it was recruited to galvanize collective resistance to the United States, starting with the milicias, which appeared within weeks, bringing a new empowerment to a generation of young Cubans enlisted in the defense of their recent gains. To be a miliciano meant to be revolutionary, identifying the new activists with the 1950s guerrillas and with historic struggles such as the Spanish Republic.22 In September 1960, the Comités de Defensa de la Revolución (CDR) were created to counter the impending invasion, enrolling even more Cubans in the collective defense tasks; when the invasion came both organizations played such a vital role in mobilization, on both the front line and in neighborhoods (rounding up potential collaborators), that their future and prestige were ensured. Lucha was now a collective task, and not the preserve of vanguards, and was, moreover, geared toward defending the Revolution rather than achieving it. Henceforth, a whole apparatus and discourse of militancy and guerrillerismo were created, with talk of alerts, vigilance, and brigades being matched by new organizations to enhance the mass mobilization. The simultaneous Literacy Campaign (its nomenclature alone indicating its guerrilla-style approach to the batalla for cultural liberation) confirmed this with its uniformed brigadistas spreading the Revolution into the countryside as educational guerrillas; when one Conrado Benítez was killed by

Cuban Historical Identity

●

65

counterrevolutionaries in the Sierra Escambray, this confirmed the heroic nature of their lucha and the essential truth about the Revolution: that it meant, by definition, a lucha to both achieve goals and to defend them. The second purpose of the idea was to legitimize the process’s essential vanguardismo, leadership by a dedicated group of committed revolutionaries acting on behalf of the mass. Rooted in previous Cuban patterns of political action and in the reality that the Movimiento had acted when others did not and when the majority could not, this tendency was legitimized in two ways. First, it was presented as inheriting a long and impressive tradition of cubanía, linked to the contribution of individuals (Martí, Maceo, Mella, and Guiteras) and groups (such as FEU and Joven Cuba) whose actions had sought to galvanize and point the way. Second, it was increasingly linked to Marxist traditions and Leninist theories of the vanguard’s role in leading the class struggle in circumstances where proletarian self-liberation was difficult. One way in which these two were inculcated in Cubans’ minds was the regular viñetas on historical figures (prominent in either the Cuban lucha or the global struggle for socialism) presented by both the daily newspapers, the Movimiento’s Revolución and the PSP’s Noticias de Hoy.23 These two heritages were eventually legitimized by two characteristic developments: foquismo and the “New Man.” The former was associated mostly with Che Guevara’s theories in his Guerra de Guerrillas (1959) and Régis Debray’s Revolution in the Revolution?, (1966) but it was clearly rooted in the specifics of the Sierra experience, Guevara theorizing from the concrete Cuban success, where a dedicated guerrilla had created an unlikely revolution. From this, Guevara developed the foco theory, arguing for guerrilla groups to “revolutionize” Latin America through “subjective” action, thus heretically asserting the primacy of subjective over “objective” conditions. It was essentially a justification of vanguardism on behalf of the mass, legitimizing lucha when circumstances did not theoretically allow, specifically challenging orthodox Marxist theory. It was also the theory that underpinned the whole 1961–1970 Cuban strategy in Latin America, when Havana supported guerrilla groups to spread revolution and challenge both U.S. imperialism and Soviet policy, a strategy that, while it made some practical sense, also legitimized Cuba as the Latin American foco, the continental vanguard waging a historically necessary lucha on behalf of its fellow Latin Americans.24 The New Man was also associated with Guevara, both because he articulated it in writing and because, after his death in 1967, he embodied it in the popular Cuban mind.25 However, it also had clear Cuban roots (in vanguardism, cubanía values, and the actions of historic individuals) as well as roots in the Soviet Union of the 1920s. If foquismo took mass struggle to the

66

●

Antoni Kapcia

group level, then the New Man took that even further to the individual, whereby collective struggle was led by innumerable individuals whose consciousness and commitment created revolution through subjective action. Once again, therefore, it legitimized individual lucha on behalf of the mass (until the mass was eventually composed entirely of such individuals). In Cuba, it became the theoretical underpinning of the characteristically voluntaristic and ideologically unorthodox policies of the 1960s, such as the “moral economy” or the Escuelas al Campo program, justifying them as part of the lucha of the whole Cuban people, and making even the trabajadores voluntarios into luchadores for the Revolution, as exemplified by articles or photographs in the popular weekly Bohemia, extolling the cane cutter as national hero.26 The third purpose of lucha was to build a domestic consensus in the siege, which was generally perceived after 1960 and which created a collective selfimage of Cuba as an embattled enclave, a redoubt of revolutionary commitment being assailed by imperialism (and, eventually, abandoned by its allies). The resulting “siege mentality” was thus both real (Cuba was indeed isolated from its traditional trading partners and traditional intellectual channels) and imagined, politicians, media, and art all repeating images of David and Goliath and Martí’s much-quoted “mi honda es de David,”27 and references to historical sieges such as Thebes, Troy, Masada, or Paris, or historic refusals to surrender (such as Baraguá). Together with the constant ethos of vigilance and defense, Cubans were encouraged to believe that they were a chosen few fighting alone but, ultimately, in the right and on behalf of all the world’s downtrodden. Indeed, in 1968, a consistent line was repeated in much of the media that, in commemoration of the outbreak of the 1868 war, this was the culmination of “Cien años de lucha,” and, from then on, the FAR (Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias) began to offer among its annual cultural prizes a prize for historical research on previous luchas. Finally, lucha was enlisted to legitimize policies that increasingly argued for revolutionary unity and against divisive deviation. While never the monolithic intolerance that commentators have tended to see, this drive for conformity did close the parameters of toleration in several areas. Hence, the 1961 Lunes de Revolución affair and Castro’s subsequent Palabras a los Intelectuales immediately followed Playa Girón, a defining moment of struggle that demarcated a “before” (allowing a cultural por la libre revolution) from an “after” (when debate had to be internal and cultural revolution defined).28 Equally, the brief episode of the UMAP camps (Unidades Militares para Ayudar la Producción), used to “reeducate” those deviating from accepted behavioral norms and coming at the peak of the siege, were identified in nomenclature and ethos with the needs of defense.29

Cuban Historical Identity

●

67

As the 1960s progressed, this guerrillerismo increased, successive domestic campaigns being launched, culminating in the March 1968 Revolutionary Offensive which, coming in the Año del Guerrillero Heroico, was associated with Che’s self-sacrifice. After 1970, however, with the sustained institutionalization changing the atmosphere, this recourse to lucha tended to lessen, but after ten years of such discourse, the theme could not disappear totally. Hence, lucha was still used as an ideological tool in at least four aspects. The first was in the survival of many of the organizations, patterns and ideas of the 1960s, such as the CDRs (which lost their representative function to the new Poder Popular structures but remained as grass-roots mechanisms of socialization and still practiced the nightly volunteer guardia) or the construction microbrigadas (which brought 1960s voluntarist principles to a 1970s housing problem).30 The second was in the constant celebration of anniversaries, the media references to historical struggles, and the official exaltation of the image, if not the ideas, of Che. Third, the theme remained evident in the FAR’s growing prestige, enhanced by the Angolan successes from 1975, an episode presented as the “return of the slaves” and also as the continuation of the mambises’ revolutionary struggle. This leads on to the fourth aspect, the subsequent strategy of “internationalism,” which, boosted by Angola, sent abroad thousands of teachers, doctors, and technicians, encouraged, as with the Literacy Campaign, to see themselves and be seen as continuing the liberation struggle and as the first line of defense against imperialism and underdevelopment. When Cuban construction workers were killed in Grenada by the invading American troops in 1983, demonstrating their ability and willingness to defend the Grenadian revolution, this enhanced that image. Of course, one thing was clear by now: while the 1960s had sought to make the contribution to the collective lucha something shared, in the 1970s this commitment to struggle tended to be vicarious or ritualized in the guardia and in formal adherence to statutory patterns, such as the May Day rallies. Hence, the recourse to lucha at critical moments was important to restore something of the idea’s dynamism and relevance, such as in response to President Reagan’s sabre-rattling threats about “solving the Cuba problem” both before and after taking power in 1981, which were used to justify the expulsion of the escoria at Mariel and also the revival of the milicias as the Milicias de Tropas Territoriales.31 However, if lucha risked becoming less relevant in the 1980s, the 1990s brought it back with a vengeance. As Cuba’s network of allies disintegrated in 1989–1991, and as a triumphalist Washington reimposed the siege in 1992 (the Cuba Democracy Law) and 1996 (the Helms–Burton Law), the sense of isolation, crisis, and impending doom led to an inevitable resurrection of the

68

●

Antoni Kapcia

traditional values of the cubanía revolucionaria of the 1960s. The population was now put on a more constant alert, especially when, in 1994, the balsero crisis and unprecedented street disturbances threatened a breakdown in social order, and again in 1996 with the Hermanos al Rescate avionetas incident,32 and the dormant organizations of defense and mobilization, such as the Ejército Juvenil de Trabajo and the Brigadas Estudiantiles de Trabajo, were dusted off and used again. Suddenly the official discourse was one of militancy, alert, defense, and lucha, this time not on behalf of the Third World but in defense of the gains since 1959. Posters appeared all over Cuba declaring “Un eterno Baraguá,” comparing the Revolution’s resistance and survival (beyond the “surrender” of Gorbachev’s USSR) to Maceo’s 1878 defiance—which had, of course, been justified in the eventual successes of 1898 and 1959. In fact, the whole period’s name confirmed that, namely the “Período Especial en Tiempo de Paz” (i.e., not “en Tiempo de Guerra,” but implicitly so). As Cubans saw the collapse of employment and welfare in Eastern Europe and feared the threat posed by the Miami émigrés awaiting the opportunity to reclaim their property, this mood of defense and defiance found popular resonance, although many Cubans characteristically now appropriated the discourse of lucha by coining a new euphemism for individual economic survival, namely luchando. Indeed, lucha has now acquired a popular meaning as daily “survival,” which, though formally adhering to the official meaning, actually indicated a degree of dissent and space. The émigrés had, of course, played a vital role since 1961 in making lucha seem relevant and real, their association with subsequent campaigns of sabotage and with subsequent U.S. campaigns all contributing to a real sense of threat. Now, in the 1990s, that threat seemed real again as witnessed in the Hermanos al Rescate incident of February 1996 and the Havana hotel bombings in 1997. It was now that the figure of Che was revived on a grand scale. Having been rescued as part of the Rectification rethink after 1986, his ideas were again being published and discussed as relevant to the new period of austerity and isolation, as Cuba sought to discover and preserve the essence of its Revolution and a definition of socialism that would be Cuban rather than imported. However, in the 1990s, it was as much Che’s image as a luchador, a New Man, which was broadcast and taken up by many Cubans, as a symbol of an age of lost innocence and of collective suffering and heroism from which the present might learn. When his bones were discovered in Bolivia in 1997 and brought back with pomp and solemnity to be housed in a Santa Clara mausoleum in 1998, this only served to enhance that pattern and the association of the Cuba of the late 1990s with the idea of the lucha of the 1960s. By the late 1990s, some of this panic and sense of siege had gone, as Cuba’s economy recovered visibly, as the Pope visited in 1998, and, above all, as a sense

Cuban Historical Identity

●

69

of unity and defiance became more positive rather than defensive with the whole campaign around the return of Elián González in 1999–2000. Indeed, if anything served to shift the public ethos away from the need for lucha, it was that campaign, so seminal in so many ways in creating a new Cuban politics. Then an interesting thing happened. As the Cuban leaders took lessons from the campaign, and took advice from the leaders of the youth organizations that had so successfully mobilized the young, the results of the U.S. election in 2000 brought a renewed threat of a return to the siege and support for the émigrés. Therefore, in summer 2001, Castro decided to embark on a new campaign of educational reform aimed at Cuban youth and using the structures and commitment of the Unión de Jóvenes Comunistas in particular (and also aimed at addressing social problems and shortages identified in the previous few years). This was, however, linked explicitly first to the need to preserve the Revolution’s essence against the corrosive effects of the market and against the new threats, and second to the Elián episode. It resulted in the retrospective identification of January 2000, when the Elián campaign fully began, as the start of the characteristically named Batalla de Ideas, of which the educational reforms were a substantial part. In a stroke, therefore, the Cuban leadership restored the concept of lucha but in a new context, with a new purpose, and for a new generation, investing the new young volunteers with the mantle of the brigadistas of the 1960s, of Che, and, thus, of the whole tradition of lucha with which the Revolution again began to identify itself. While many outside Cuba argued that this showed the moral and ideological bankruptcy of an anachronistic and repressive regime, it was possible to argue as well that it showed the remarkable capacity not only of the revolutionary leadership to reinvent itself imaginatively and even successfully, but also of the traditional values and myths to be revitalized and reused to great effect. Thus, while the new trabajadores sociales of the Havana of 2005 are not by any means endorsing political violence, they are seeking and gaining legitimacy for their contribution and for their stake in the system from a tradition that, ultimately, sees them as the latest in a long and heroic heritage of lucha, which has been so fundamental to Cuban nationalism, to the project of Cuba Libre, and to the Revolution. Notes 1. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origins and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso, 1991). 2. Antoni Kapcia, Cuba: Island of Dreams (Oxford: Berg Publishers, 2000), pp. 13–15. 3. After decades of an openly expressed U.S. desire to acquire Cuba, the unilateral U.S. intervention in the Cuban War of Independence in 1898 (converting it into

70

4.

5. 6.

7.

8. 9.

10. 11. 12. 13.

14.

15.

16.

●

Antoni Kapcia

the Spanish–American War and ending Spanish control) led to a military occupation. In 1901, Cuban leaders were obliged to incorporate into their new Constitution the wording of the Platt Amendment, which included the United States’ right to intervene militarily in Cuba in times of unrest. The first war was the Ten Years War (1868–1878), started by the criollo planter Carlos Manuel de Céspedes and ended at Zanjón; the second was the Guerra Chiquita (1879–1880) in eastern Cuba; the third was the War of Independence (1895–1898), which, initiated by José Martí (until his death after a few weeks) and led by Maceo and others, fought the Spanish to a stalemate. In the 1920s, these intellectual debates were especially shaped by Fernando Ortiz’s seminal essay La Decadencia Cubana in 1924. This was especially so after 1961–1963: in March 1962, Aníbal Escalante, one of the leaders of the pre-1959 Communist Party (the PSP), was accused of trying to control the embryonic single party, ORI (Organizaciones Revolucionarias Integradas), but, generally, at that time the PSP’s and Moscow’s influence and the imperatives of economic survival and defense combined to push the Revolution briefly in a less nationalist direction. In 1960, the first U.S. trade sanctions were imposed on Cuba, these being supported by most of Latin America from 1962; after the Bay of Pigs (April 1961), the Kennedy administration launched Operation Mongoose, designed to sabotage the Revolution through counterrevolutionary activity. Kapcia, Cuba, pp. 88–89. Cubanidad is understood as a distinct “Cuban” identity (usually associated with José Antonio Saco’s eighteenth-century notion of a largely white identity), while the more inclusive cubanía refers to the ideology arising from that; Cuba Libre was the rallying cry of the rebels of 1868 and 1895. Aline Helg, Our Rightful Share. The Afro-Cuban Struggle for Equality, 1886–1912 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1995). In 1868, following rebellion in Spain, the Madrid government suddenly retracted the offer of limited autonomy for Cuba within the empire. Ada Ferrer, Insurgent Cuba. Race, Nation and Revolution, 1868–1898 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1999). Besides the Platt Amendment, Cuba’s neocolonial status was also fixed by the Reciprocity Treaty of 1903, which guaranteed privileged access to the U.S. market for Cuban sugar in exchange for privileged access to Cuba for U.S. manufactures. Both rebellions were also pragmatic, knowingly provoking U.S. military intervention under the Constitution; indeed, in 1906, the U.S. authorities removed the government and installed liberals in power. In 1919–1921, the Cuban economy went from the vertiginous boom of the Danza de los Millones (fed by spiraling sugar prices) to calamitous collapse (as prices fell rapidly); the effect was deep economic crisis and social dislocation. The FEU was founded in 1923 (and led by Julio Antonio Mella) as part of a general intellectual ferment, while the Communist Party was founded in 1925, also by Mella among others.

Cuban Historical Identity

●

71

17. After the FEU was repressed by Machado in 1927, increasing protests led to the broader Directorio Estudiantil Universitario (DEU), with several associated small but violent action groups; ABC was a corporatist, professionally based cellular group created in 1930 to engage in terrorism against Machado. 18. Trejo was a student killed in street protests in 1930; Guiteras was the popular minister of the interior in 1933 who, after Batista seized power, formed the opposition Joven Cuba group but was killed in 1935; Eddy Chibás founded the Partido del Pueblo Cubano (Ortodoxo) in 1947 after being denied the Auténtico succession for the 1948 elections. 19. In 1944, as part of the communists’ remarkable pact with Batista, the Party renamed itself the Partido Popular Socialista (PSP), a name it retained until 1961. 20. Fidel Castro, La Historia me Absolverá (Havana: Ediciones Populares, 1961), p. 129. 21. Carlos Franqui’s 1959 El Libro de los Doce (Havana: Instituto del Libro, 1967) extolled the “heroes” of the rebellion, and, although not all were guerrillas, enhanced the guerrillas’ mystique. 22. Cuba had been the Latin American country most supportive of the Spanish Republic, hundreds joining the Lincoln Brigade and all the press (apart from the conservative Diario de la Marina) vocal in its defense. 23. Between 1962 and 1965, these two organs coexisted as Cuba’s two national dailies, fusing in 1965 as Granma. 24. The strategy was practical because, with Cuba’s post-1962 regional isolation but with security from U.S. invasion guaranteed by the U.S.–Soviet understandings, Havana had nothing to lose and much to gain by challenging governments directly. 25. Ernesto Che Guevara, “Man and Socialism in Cuba,” in Gerassi, J. (ed.), Venceremos. The Speeches and Writings of Ernesto Che Guevara (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1968), pp. 387–400. 26. “La gratitud de la patria,” Bohemia, Año 58, no. 12, March 25, 1966, p. 3; and Bohemia, Año 63, no. 11, March 12, 1971, pp. 58–59. 27. José Martí, “A Manuel Mercado,” in Sorel, A. (ed.), José Martí. Antología (Madrid: Editora Nacional, 1975), p. 31. 28. In June 1961, a controversy over the screening of Sabá Cabrera Infante’s idiosyncratic film PM (which became an argument between the heterodox group around Revolución’s Monday cultural supplement and the more militant film institute, ICAIC) led to a series of meetings in the Biblioteca Nacional between Havana’s intellectuals and the Revolution’s cultural and political leaders, ended by Castro’s speech that included the key (and often mistranscribed and misunderstood) definition of artistic freedom, “Dentro de la Revolución, todo; contra la Revolución, nada.” 29. The UMAPs existed from 1965 to 1967, being closed after protests from the artists’ own organisation, UNEAC. 30. Poder Popular was the Soviet-style pyramid electoral system created in 1976 as “institutionalization” set in after the 1970 crisis and reassessment; the guardia is

72

●

Antoni Kapcia

the regular volunteer night-watchman duty that the CDRs organize in each street. 31. In 1980, after unsettling domestic disquiet and street disturbances near the Peruvian embassy, the government allowed disaffected Cubans to leave Cuba via the western port of Mariel, and, by swelling their numbers with released prisoners, was able to condemn them all rhetorically as escoria (scum); in all about 128,000 left. 32. In February 1996, Cuban–American activists in Miami (Hermanos al Rescate) ignored Cuban and U.S. warnings and flew two small planes (theoretically designed to rescue Cuban boat-people from the Florida straits) into Cuban airspace, leading the Cuban defenses to shoot them down and kill several. The Helms–Burton Law was signed into force shortly afterward, clearly for the Hermanos’ purpose.

CHAPTER 5

Contesting Imagined Communities: Gender, Nation, and Violence in El Salvador Mo Hume

Introduction There is a long history of violence in El Salvador. Since independence, violence has become embedded in many aspects of social and interpersonal relations. One of the most powerful expressions of this brutal history was the country’s civil war that lasted from 1980 to 1992, in which an estimated eighty thousand were killed and more than one million displaced.1 In January 1992, the Chapultepec Peace Accord was signed between the government and the left-wing Farabundo Martí National Liberation Front (FMLN) to formally end the armed conflict. Nevertheless, instead of diminishing after the war, the question of security remains paramount for citizens during the transition process, due to high levels of violence, criminality, and the perceived randomness of victimization patterns.2 The public face of violence has become synonymous with the threat of crime, while fear continues to be a pervasive and paralyzing force in the lives of the region’s citizens. Over a decade since the formal cessation of its political conflict, El Salvador remains one of the most unequal societies in the world, ranking 0.54 on the Gini index and over 40 percent of its population live in poverty.3 Politically, society remains extremely polarized with both the left and right being regarded as the most extreme in the region.4 It is this context, characterized by exclusion,

74

●

Mo Hume

poverty, and violence, that constitutes the backdrop to social and political interaction in El Salvador. Both wider social and more intimate familial relations have been shaped by violence. To qualify this statement, it is important to reiterate that fear and threats of violence are forces that can be equally as debilitating as violence itself. In this chapter, I explore the process by which violence has been an integral element in the formation of national identity in El Salvador. I argue that violence has forged a hegemonic national identity based on exclusion and polarization, which continue to be enduring forces in contemporary social and political relations. In order to do this, I uncover not just the public expressions of violence that have been highly visible throughout Salvadoran history, but also those activities that are part of people’s private and intimate lives: so much so that they are not always recognized as violence. The chapter begins by introducing some of the key debates surrounding issues of gender, nation, and violence. Specifically, I look at how notions of nation are constructed using a patriarchal logic, raising questions on whose narratives inform this process. The home is then introduced as a key site where violence is learned as part of the gendered socialization process. For men, violence is understood as central to their identity. This reflects wider social and political discourses on the functionality of violence. This takes us to a discussion of the pervasiveness of violence throughout Salvadoran history, where key events have led to a normalization of state terror and the polarization of society. The legacy of this context on everyday social interaction and emerging generations is then addressed. The discussion draws upon testimonies of Salvadoran men and women who have lived with violence from an early age.5 Their narratives reflect the many and often contradictory realities that inform notions of national identity. They point to lives of brutality and exclusion, indicating the negative implications of living with violence. A key objective of this chapter is to highlight how violence works through local worlds to reconfigure identities and practices shaping exclusionary and fragmented narratives of national identity. Gender, Nation, and Violence Accounts of nation and violence are overwhelmingly constructed upon dominant assumptions about the world and often fail to reflect the influence of everyday social interactions in molding a fragmented and often contested sense of national identity.6 Therefore, questions must be asked as to whose voice is considered in such narratives. Autonomy, identity, and unity have been identified as three key tenets of the national project.7 Since the formation of the national state in El Salvador in 1821, these three issues have not only been areas of conflict, but full citizenship has been actively denied

Gender, Nation, and Violence in El Salvador

●

75

to the vast majority of the Salvadoran population.8 The national project in El Salvador has been constructed upon elitist and hegemonic principles, with the use of violence being central to its implementation. Individuals and groups within Salvadoran society, who have been historically denied a voice, have been confronted with high levels of violence throughout their lives. These same groups—peasants, workers, women, and youth, to name but a few—are also those who are least likely to have recourse to formal justice. Moreover, as feminist research has highlighted, popular myths surrounding violence may even contribute to a minimization, or, indeed, to a negation of the validity of their experiences.9 Meanings and myths become enmeshed with the everyday realities of living with violence to shape the identities of the men and women of El Salvador. Their narratives are based upon a range of social, cultural, and political discourses that affect how individuals interpret and give meaning to the world around them. Gendered norms are of particular consequence in shaping how individuals and groups interpret and live in society. Benedict Anderson constitutes the nation as an “imagined community” drawn together by a “deep, horizontal comradeship.”10 In the context of postcolonial societies such as El Salvador, which are structured by deep set inequalities, Chatterjee’s question “whose imagined community?” becomes particularly relevant to the discussion in this chapter.11 Despite the important recursive relationship between gender and national identity, gender is rarely addressed in mainstream/malestream academic debates.12 When it is done so, it is generally to highlight the important contribution of women, which has been ignored from accounts of the nation.13 Feminists have been vociferous in their criticism of male bias in social enquiry and processes of knowledge construction and, in particular, the absence of women from these debates. Although the feminist project has been successful in challenging how we regard the gendered social order, this chapter argues that popular epistemologies of violence are still reliant on and nourished by a masculinist view of the nation. The patriarchal ordering of society and, specifically, the promotion of a patriarchal national identity in El Salvador have huge implications for how citizens fear, survive, and understand the world around them. Dominant ways of being a man are privileged and validated within this setting, thus reproducing power differentials and gender inequalities. The process is both ontological and epistemological. It affects how citizens coexist within a social group, but it also shapes the ways in which notions of the nation are constructed, internalized, and reproduced. This is neither linear nor unidirectional, rather violence, gender, and the nation form parts of a mutually constituting process. Connell has extended the concept of hegemony to refer to dominant notions of masculinity, where violence becomes a key expression of masculine behavior and a mechanism to ensure continued male privilege.14

76

●

Mo Hume

Hegemony, as originally developed by Gramsci, refers to the dynamic process by which groups create and sustain power, how “normal” definitions and taken-for-granted expressions come to define situations—in this case, the hegemonic national identity in El Salvador.15 Hegemony goes beyond the material holding of power and refers to the process by which normal and ideal definitions emerge.16 Such discourses become not only normalized but accepted as common sense and, therefore, it becomes difficult to challenge them. Key to this process is the exercise of power based on domination. In El Salvador, Alvarenga argues that state terror(ism) became “part of the everyday and also became fully integrated into a national culture, based on the resolution of social conflict in all realms of power relations.”17 Although I recognize that the relationship between power and violence is far from straightforward, violence has been a key resource for individuals and groups wishing to secure domination and authority in both public and private realms.18 For example, rape and torture have been commonly used as instruments with which to exercise authority, demonstrate ownership, and demand respect.19 Nevertheless, these particularly gendered crimes are rarely considered noteworthy or, indeed, recognized as violent.20 The glaring omission of such acts of violence from the narratives of nation demonstrates the hegemonic tone of gender relations in El Salvador.21 Therefore, it is urgent to address the multiple forms of violence that inform the process of constructing a national identity. Dominant discourse and hegemonic myths concerning the centrality of violence to the national project have a direct effect on how individuals and groups interact within a social context, creating the unspoken rules under which social relations are enacted. The normalization of violence in the El Salvador context affects individuals ability to recognize this harmful force, particularly its gendered expressions, which have become embedded in the construction of both men’s and women’s gendered identity.22 Furthermore, historic patterns of gendered discourse not only render such violence “private,” but also minimize its significance in national accounts of violence. By placing value on analyzing the family and community as a site where identity is formed, but also as a site of violence, accepted categories of history are challenged and elements of a national (gendered) culture are drawn out. It is to the family as a site of violence based on gendered domination that I now turn. Learning Violence Accounts of violence are affected not only by individual subjectivity, but also by dominant cultural and social mores that shape normative behavior. Violence, throughout Salvadoran history, has been linked to dominant notions

Gender, Nation, and Violence in El Salvador

●

77

of masculinity. Alvarenga highlights how corporal punishment was used by landowners to “make men” out of their employees and rape was a widespread practice whereby men took advantage of their legal and symbolic “property.”23 The raping of women cut across class boundaries and was rarely deemed as violence.24 Women were not regarded as full citizens and to this day, violence remains an important obstacle to women’s citizenship.25 Although women have been key protagonists in social and political processes, their histories are often ignored and awarded little significance.26 This highly gendered violence cuts across class and ethnic boundaries to underpin a “hegemonic” form of masculinity that requires the domination of women, children, and other men. Failure to conform to this model means that manliness might be questioned, often leading to allegations of homosexuality. This does not mean that all men use violence, rather that this model prescribes the accepted boundaries of male behavior.27 Violence, drinking, and womanizing have become so bound up with dominant constructs of maleness that they are seen as natural and, therefore, individual men cannot be held responsible for conforming to socially prescribed roles.28 It is to be expected. This model of hegemonic masculinity denies men agency, choice, and the possibility to be different. Domination and its associated use of violence has assured and reproduced male privilege and this model has been consistently reinforced by wider social and cultural practices. A recent survey demonstrates that 61.3 percent of interviewees agree that “women represent love and weakness while men, intelligence and strength.”29 This is indicative of both the endurance and pervasiveness of hegemonic gendered myths. Empirical evidence from testimonies demonstrates that women and men alike talked of the cinchazos (a beating with a belt) and leñazos (a beating with a piece of wood) that were commonly used to corregir and castigar (correct and punish). Interview narratives indicate that violence has been and continues to be used as a normal and effective tool for discipline. Strict boundaries between perpetrators and victims are blurred and the use of violence continues across generations and time. The use of violence was identified as key to learning how to be a man in this context: I remember when I was a child, well I worked really hard. My father, well, he treated me like a man, with that machismo that most fathers in the country treat you. Like, when I did something bad, he whipped me until my back was in shreds.30 To be treated as a macho, this man had to undergo intense violence. He learned from a young age that central to his identity as a man was both exposure to and use of violence. Men are taught at an early age that they should

78

●

Mo Hume

not express emotion. They should “be firm.” The old adage of “boys don’t cry” is central to what Salvadoran society expects from men. Both men and women actively participate in this highly gendered socialization process in which the use of violence is central and accepted. Expressing emotion is regarded as expressing weakness, which “real” men are actively discouraged from doing. One participant, Alfonso, concluded that his experiences of violence as a child (including repeated physical and psychological abuse) were “neither good nor bad, just normal.”31 Central to the sustained use of violence in this context is that it is functional. Its value is in that it gets results. Another interviewee talked about how his father castigated him in a very “brutal manner” but that such a punishment worked: it kept him on the straight and narrow. My father, he got me on my knees and once he left me marked with the belt for being naughty . . . If he had given me a light punishment, do you think that I wouldn’t be robbing, or been killed already or in prison, condemned to death?32 There is an accepted logic to the violence exercised against the son by the father. The son himself perceives that it was for his own good, which appears common in interview narratives. A good parent, and especially a good father, is respected for using the mano dura (heavy hand). This rationalizing logic that violence is functional and used for the “common good” is reflected not only in familial relationships, but is a key element of the dominant political discourse. This is borne out in the high levels of violence in Salvadoran society. It is to the national context of violence that the discussion now turns. The National Context of Violence Historical data are scarce for rates of violence and criminality though it is widely agreed that state-sponsored violence was instrumental from independence onward.33 Extreme terror was used by the Salvadoran state in order to ensure continued social and economic hegemony of the small agro-export elite, “one of the smallest, most omnipotent, pugnacious and reactionary in the world.”34 This group of people, popularly referred to as the “fourteen families,” created the conditions in El Salvador to assure maximum control over the resources of the nation at the expense of the masses. Indeed, many retain this dominant position even today.35 Lands owned by indigenous groups were confiscated with the removal of communal land tenure systems and signed over to those who would use it for coffee and other export crops.36 The new nation of El Salvador was therefore founded on an exclusionary and

Gender, Nation, and Violence in El Salvador

●

79

hierarchical logic. Key to maintaining this privileged position for decades was the use of violence. Pan American Health Organization (PAHO) figures from the 1960s and 1970s indicate that El Salvador had a murder rate of around or greater than thirty per one hundred thousand inhabitants, compared to Colombia’s and Nicaragua’s twenty-two and twenty-five per one hundred thousand inhabitants, respectively.37 Such figures demonstrate the historical problem of endemic violence in the country, since they are not only over and above contemporary world averages, but well over what is judged as extremely violent, that is, more than ten murders per one hundred thousand inhabitants. Much of this violence has been attributed to social rather than political conflicts, such as family massacres, revenge, drunken brawls, and so on. This is demonstrative of the pervasiveness of violent conflict in all realms of social relations in El Salvador.38 In the immediate postwar period, there was a minimum of eighty murders per one hundred thousand during 1994–1997 with a slow but consistent decline from 1998 onward.39 Much of this violence has been blamed on youth gangs, a phenomenon that has largely emerged since the end of the war. Ramos has suggested that the 1990s witnessed more violent deaths than during the political conflict, although the veracity of such a statement is dependent on the source used.40 No matter how violence is quantified, everyday reality for most citizens remains regulated by fear and citizen perceptions of insecurity are now more acute than they were in the war years.41 In part this has to do with the perceived randomness of victimization patterns and the high visibility of certain types of violence, such as youth gangs, which have emerged as a key issue in the postwar era. The backdrop of terror against which the everyday is constituted is certainly changing, but some historic continuities are discernible. The political conflict may have overshadowed much of day-to-day existence, but it coexisted alongside other expressions of violence that were sidelined and effectively rendered invisible.42 Figures for gendered violence are hard to come by and often only represent the tip of the iceberg due to gross underreporting and misclassification. Indeed, one survey demonstrates that 80 percent of adult respondents were subject to physical violence as children, highlighting that the problem of violence permeated both the public and private realms.43 An estimated 57 percent of Salvadoran women have undergone physical violence at the hands of their partners.44 Life history testimonies gathered in El Salvador demonstrate that violence has been used throughout the lifetimes of research participants both as a form of discipline and as a way of demanding respect and expressing identity. In the dominant discourse of national identity in El Salvador, the endurance of authoritarianism has been both functional and formative.

80

●

Mo Hume

This has been particularly true for men for whom violence plays a central role in the expression of their masculinity, an issue that was introduced earlier. I will now turn to the processes by which political violence became normalized as an element of national reality. The Normalization of State Terror The collective memory of military repression has proved important for the development of national identity based on polarization and violence in El Salvador. One of the most brutal examples of the massification of violence in this context was the killing of some thirty thousand indigenous people by military forces after a tentative uprising in January 1932. This episode, which has become widely known as la Matanza, has been judged as “perhaps the single most important event in Salvadoran history; it is indelibly etched into the nation’s collective memory both as a momentous occurrence in itself and as the matrix through which all succeeding developments have been understood.”45 Following La Matanza, the Salvadoran military took control of the apparatus of the state, while the elite maintained control of capital. Continued repression and an indiscriminate use of violence became an element of everyday life for citizens during the decades of military rule. Far from being reactionary, the excesses of violence perpetrated by the military were strategic and calculated in order to demonstrate the existence of a threat to the privileged position of the economic elite. In this way, violence became functional allowing the military to justify its usefulness to the oligarchy and at the same time maintain its control of the state.46 The elite appeared happy to ignore the excesses of military brutality in order to maintain its hegemonic position. For citizens, La Matanza not only demonstrated that the state was willing to employ genocidal tactics, but also provided a reminder of the cost of dissent that was “unique” to Central America.47 In this way, violence was constructed as necessary for the national interest. The national in this context was restricted exclusively to the oligarchy and the military. To a certain extent, violence in this context became normalized.48 The “official” state discourse of patriotism and anti-communism provided the enduring rationale for extreme terror and such myths became effective means of normalization and social control. Notions of los malos (the bad) and los buenos (the good) became a legitimizing discourse for violence.49 The intensity of the violence and the impossibility of democratic protest ultimately proved decisive in the left’s resort to guerrilla warfare in 1980. The war, which would last for twelve years, was fought between the leftist coalition Frente Farabundo Martí para la Liberación Nacional (FMLN) and the right-wing government of El Salvador, which defended the interests of the elite. These

Gender, Nation, and Violence in El Salvador

●

81

competing national projects resulted in violent conflict with highly negative implications for the country. It is not my intention to discuss the war in detail here, for it has been done comprehensively and eloquently elsewhere.50 Rather, I am interested in how this history of intense violence affected individuals and communities on an everyday basis and, particularly, how sustained violence nourishes constructs of hegemonic masculine identity. Civil War, Polarization, and Violence Allan Feldman stresses that violence is formative—it affects not only the development of individual and collective identities, but also how individuals interact with their social and physical environments.51 In Central America, the presence and persistence of state-sponsored violence has had a “pivotal role” in shaping society.52 Violence has worked through local networks, co-opting individuals and communities to blur the “distinction between violence carried out by public officials and that by civilians.”53 State-sponsored escoltas militares, the National Guard and Democratic Nationalist Organization (ORDEN), became the omnipresent face of violence for decades. At the local level, ORDEN served as a unit for intelligence gathering and repression,54 with as many as three hundred thousand members, highlighting its widespread appeal.55 Government-controlled death squads, operating in the 1970s and 1980s, were notorious not only for their brutality, but also for the very symbolic and public “disposal” of their victims. Exposure to decades of political brutality has shaped deep polarization in society’s capabilities to understand violence.56 In this way, the use of violent repression was sanctioned by national political actors. Deepening exclusion, the growing impossibility of the democratic project and continued state brutality all proved decisive factors for the left to adopt violence as a political strategy in the late 1970s. The civil war was arguably the most brutal expression of society’s polarization. Writing in 1983, in one of the bloodiest moments of the conflict, Martín-Baró said, “The war is the most consuming reality of life in contemporary El Salvador.”57 Nobody escaped its effects although they may not have participated directly in the fighting. Many young army officers, in particular, were forcibly recruited.58 According to one ex-soldier, he was not aware of why he was fighting, just that he had to kill in order to survive. His use of violence was not informed by any ideological affiliation, rather it became a survival strategy: What I thought was that they were just fighting. I didn’t know why they were fighting. I didn’t know where it all came from. What I did know was that I had to defend myself to survive. I had to kill in order to live. That’s

82

●

Mo Hume

all I knew, because they don’t explain anything. It’s a dog’s life and, as I say to many people, the war was terrible because we were killing each other and for some reason that I don’t even know.59 In this context, where fear and terror regulate everyday life, ex-soldiers spoke at length about the brutal and brutalizing systems of discipline they underwent. The militarization of men’s lives is particularly gendered, reinforcing practices of hegemonic masculinity and domination. The use of rape and violence against women as a war crime is understood as “inevitable” to this process.60 Indeed, these war crimes were systematically ignored from the report of the Truth Commission.61 This glaring omission from this internationally recognized document not only denies the victims a voice and recognition of their suffering, but also highlights the very masculinist logic that constructs official histories of violence. This man’s narrative continues to reflect how he was actively taught to embrace violence as part of his military training: They taught us that where we found him [the enemy], we had to eliminate him completely. We had to kill him. They made us develop a temper. I don’t know how to say it, a terrible, steely resolve. If I was looking at you I was cursing you. You couldn’t keep looking at me in the eye because I would easily dominate you. Those are the instructions that they give you. The training is really hard. You cry there. Men cry during the training because to make men fighters, they need a heavy hand, right, someone that won’t feel pity because if you have a soft heart you are not a good soldier. That’s what they teach you in the first months. Then when you get out and you meet civilians, they see you differently: your face, your character. Everything has changed. They completely transform you from the man before.62 Nevertheless, it is important to bear in mind that the reproduction of aggressive maleness and armed violence are not confined to the military, nor is it merely a strategy employed during war. Hegemonic forms of masculinities, associated with military structures (known as militarized masculinities), can be seen as common to social relations in times of both war and peace. As discussed previously, the process by which men (and women) are socialized inculcates a series of values that recognize traditional notions of manliness. These are exacerbated at times of conflict when male gender identities become entrenched and exaggerated. It is impossible to effectively assess the effects of the war, which are immense, but this does not deny the necessity of looking at how terror

Gender, Nation, and Violence in El Salvador

●

83

became embedded in everyday life, both by those people who were actively involved in combat and those who were exposed to it continually. The community as a site of violence is particularly pertinent to this discussion. Continuity, Fragmentation, and Silencing in Everyday Life For violence to succeed, it had to work within local worlds. The perpetrators of violence were not only invisible death squads and uniformed combatants, but they had to rely on networks of neighbors, family members, and friends who became active agents in its reproduction of violence. Citizens speak about finding dead bodies strategically left in public spaces in order to warn communities about the consequences of getting involved in politics. For the residents of El Boulevar, this was particularly acute during the war years when government-sponsored death squads used the area around the community as a dumping ground for mutilated corpses. Throughout this time, the military ransacked and looted the community on several occasions. The community was invaded by soldiers and when they felt like it, they carried out raids, without warrants or anything. They came in and examined everything down to the last rag. They made us stand aside and they took what they liked.63 The repercussions of living and learning to survive in such an environment cannot be underestimated, blurring the distinction between overtly political and criminal violence. Not only does the constant insecurity transform social relations but widespread impunity serves to further the sense of mistrust with agents of the state. Veena Das and Arthur Kleinman argue that in situations of extreme violence, individuals lose a sense of the ordinary, as they have to learn how to react or, rather, not react to violent events.64 Empirical data indicates that rather than losing a sense of the ordinary, the context shapes and transforms what is considered ordinary, increasing people’s threshold for tolerating violence and dictating their response. Indeed, one of the most sustaining characteristics of survival in these communities has been silence and non-reaction. State terror was a premeditated strategy, calculated to inculcate silence and depoliticize communities in times of political turmoil. Silence and isolation, therefore, became the only ways of coping with the everyday life of political strife for many. In La Vía, which saw an influx of inhabitants during the war years, residents ignored their new neighbors for fear of where their political allegiances lay. In El Boulevar, neighbors denounced each other and mistrust and fear replaced traditional social support networks. As one man stated,

84

●

Mo Hume

“with the violence, charity ended.”65 Interviewees narrated stories of terrible violence during this period, both linked to the political conflict and of a more social and criminal nature. Inhabitants were divided in their allegiance, supporting either government or left-wing forces, and were often accused of informing on and even killing their neighbors. Here there were people belonging to the death squads. My neighbor behind was a real butcher. He belonged to [. . .] a sniper squad, which was one of the cruelest structures of the armed forces. Then we had that neighbor there . . . a relation of his was the one who investigated the director of the UPT (Organization of Marginal Communities) and the one that butchered him. They killed him up here.66 This strategy of “total war” as a means of social control at the grassroots level was as much about instilling fear and terror into the population at large as wiping out specific targets. Individuals began, therefore, to adopt a code of silence and minding his or her own business in order to avoid problems. A common theme that ran through many of the narratives from both communities was noninvolvement in community dynamics, both past and present. Individuals and communities learned that silence was the only option in a climate where no one could be trusted and violence was an ever-present possibility. They testified to feeling afraid of the orejas (informers) who were often neighbors or family members: “In those days, anyone who said anything, who heard anything and spoke about it, was in trouble ( fracasó). You would find him with his ear cut off.”67 One woman from El Boulevar remembered that none of her neighbors would use the communal toilets at the same time as her, since they all suspected her of being in the guerrilla. “Gossip” is understood here as a form of violence. It is the source of much salacious information about people. Yet gossip also acts as a detonator for many physically and verbally violent reactions. Individuals have been accused of stoning their neighbors’ houses, shouting insults, spreading rumors, and even casting spells when disagreement occurs. Breaking the codes of silence in this context risked anything from social ostracism to physical mutilation and even death. The threat of violence can be just as powerful and debilitating as actual lived violence and its effects are long lasting. In addition, formal community structures in El Boulevar, such as the junta directiva (community residents’ board), became monopolized by dominant political interests throughout the war years. In El Boulevar, members of ORDEN chose and changed the members of the directive at will and informed on their neighbors to the authorities: “Here they were supposedly protecting the people, the community, but more than anything else, they were

Gender, Nation, and Violence in El Salvador

●

85

informers . . . people didn’t have a voice nor a vote.”68 This co-opted structure not only failed to represent the community, but also actively worked to instill fear and mistrust among its inhabitants by silencing them. Continued high levels of violence and crime in the postwar era demonstrate that many communities have not been able to recover trust in their neighbors, and silences learned in the war have become part of the “ordinary.” There have been few possibilities to (re)build social trust since the signing of the peace accords and prevailing violence has further exacerbated this pattern. While instances of political violence have disappeared dramatically, silence remains a defining characteristic of social relations. I say to my kids that living is not just about living; you have to learn how to live. Learning how to live means only talking about good things, nothing dangerous. It is better not to talk about dangerous things because, in the first instance, you don’t know who you are talking to and another thing is that you can’t do anything. If you just speak for the sake of it, you might offend the other person and when they look for revenge, how do you defend yourself ? That’s how you have to know how to learn to live.69 For many, this code of silence still exists and similar practices are employed when addressing issues of contemporary violence. Postwar El Salvador continues to be polarized by high levels of crime and violence. For many citizens, continued fear dictates that survival practices learned during the war are still useful today. Enduring silences and the fragmentation of everyday life are indicative not only of the indelible mark left by exposure to long-term political violence on social attitudes and behavior, but also of continued exposure to terror. The immediacy of violence to resolve conflict and a respect for authoritarian practices, which privilege order over civil liberties and human rights, undermine the very possibility of a national democratic project.70 Conclusions The discussion has outlined how threat and violence have had extreme repercussions on how society functions, destroying not only material structures and weakening institutional capacities, but marking social attitudes, behaviors, and norms to construct a hegemonic national identity based on exclusion and polarization. It has concentrated principally on the transformative and highly negative effects of political violence on everyday life and its interrelation with male gender identity and the violence of the so-called private realm. Within this context, many types of violence not only coexisted but were mutually constitutive, and force has been used to an enormous variety of ends.

86

●

Mo Hume

The implication of this history of violence—or violent history—is far reaching and its legacy can be seen in contemporary Salvadoran relations, where violence remains a powerful and debilitating force in everyday life for many. The 1992 peace accords in El Salvador are widely recognized as having put an end to the twelve-year war, but have been accused of failing in their mission to build a new and more equal society. Indeed, Pearce argues “the idea that the region’s conflicts have been ‘resolved’ may be true at the formal level of peace accords between armies and insurgents, but is less so at the real level of people’s everyday lives.”71 Efforts to achieve a peaceful and more democratic society in El Salvador have been undermined by existing (and, in many cases, deepening) social cleavages, and in this way, high levels of violence, with the associated fear and mistrust, create a vicious circle for the reproduction of violence. The disintegration of social networks further reinforces existing fragmentation and public spaces for collective action become reduced.72 Society becomes increasingly atomized, the collective capacity for containing violence is reduced, and thus violence continues to be regarded as “a normal option with which to pursue interests, attain power or resolve conflicts.”73 The normalization of violence has been facilitated by a hegemonic national project that has actively engaged violence to pursue its ends. Acknowledgments This research was made possible with the generous support of the Economic and Social Research Council (ESRC), which funded both my doctoral and post-doctoral research. I would like to thank Nikki Craske, my doctoral supervisor, for her guidance. Thanks also to Dave Featherstone for insightful comments and sustained support. Notes 1. See, e.g., Patricia Ardón, Los Conflictos y el Proceso de Paz en Centroamérica (Oxford: Oxfam UK, and Ireland, 1998); James Dunkerley, The Pacification of Central America (University of London: ILAS Research Papers, 1993); Jenny Pearce, “From Civil War to ‘Civil Society’: Has the End of the Cold War Brought Peace to Central America?” International Affairs 74:3 (1998), pp. 587–615. 2. José Miguel Cruz and M.A Beltrán, Las Armas de Fuego en El Salvador: Situación e Impacto sobre la Violencia (San Salvador: UCA, 2000). 3. UNDP/PNUD, Informe de Desarrollo Humano (San Salvador: UNDP, 2001). 4. José Miguel Cruz, “Violence, Insecurity and Legitimacy in Post-War Central American Countries” (Oxford: St Antony’s College, 2003), unpublished MSc dissertation.

Gender, Nation, and Violence in El Salvador

●

87

5. The data were gathered from two marginal communities in Greater San Salvador, El Boulevar, and La Vía, as well as from men in a self-help group who have been convicted of domestic violence. Pseudonyms are used throughout. 6. Tim Edensor, National Identity, Popular Culture and Everyday Life (Oxford: Berg Publishers, 2002). 7. John Hutchison and Anthony D. Smith (eds.), Nationalism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994). 8. For example, women were not granted (limited) suffrage until 1939. 9. Mo Hume, “ ‘It’s as if you don’t know because you don’t do anything about it’: gender and violence in El Salvador,” Environment and Urbanisation 16:2 (2004), pp. 63–72. 10. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso, 1983), p. 7. 11. See Partha Chatterjee, “Whose Imagined Community?” in Balakrishnan, G. (ed.), Mapping the Nation (London: Verso, 1996), pp. 214–226. The argument centers on a critique of reductive and exclusively “western” constructions of national identity. 12. Silvia Walby, “Woman and Nation,” in Balakrishnan, G. (ed.), Mapping the Nation, pp. 235–255. 13. See, e.g., Floya Anthias and Nira Yuval-Davies “Women and the Nation State” in Hutchison and Smith (eds.), Nationalism, pp. 312–316. 14. Robert W. Connell, Gender and Power (Oxford: Polity Press, 1987). 15. Antonio Gramsci, Selections from the Prison Notebooks (London: Lawrence and Wishart, 1971). 16. Frank Barrett, “The Organizational Construction of Hegemonic Masculinity: The Case of the U.S. Navy,” in Whitehead, S. and Barrett, F.J. (eds.), The Masculinities Reader (Cambridge: Polity), p. 79. 17. Patricia Alvarenga, Cultura y Etica de la Violencia: El Salvador 1880–1932 (San José, Costa Rica: EDUCA, 1996), p. 62. This historiography of violence in El Salvador between 1880 and 1932 differentiates between state terror and state terrorism, the former being institutionalized, while the latter being widespread although outside the realms of the law. 18. See, e.g., Miguel Huezo Mixco, “Cultura y Violencia en El Salvador,” in PNUD (ed.), Violencia en una Sociedad en Transición: Ensayo (San Salvador: PNUD, 2000), pp. 115–138. 19. Alvarenga, Cultura y Etica de la Violencia. 20. Hume, “It’s As If You Don’t Know.” 21. See David Tombs, “Unspeakable Violence: The Truth Commissions in El Salvador and Guatemala,” paper presented at a panel on “Remembering and Forgetting the Period of the Military in Latin America” at the Society for Latin American Studies Annual Conference, Leiden, April 2, 2004. Tombs indicates that gendered violence such as rape was systematically excluded from the Truth Commission Report. 22. Hume, “It’s As If You Don’t Know.” 23. Alvarenga, Cultura y Etica de la Violencia, p. 124.

88

●

Mo Hume

24. Patricia M. Hume, “Meanings, Myths and Realities: Gender and Violence in El Salvador” (Liverpool:University of Liverpool, 2003), unpublished PhD thesis. 25. For a discussion of women’s citizenship in Latin America, see Elizabeth Dore (ed.), Gender Politics in Latin America: Debates in Theory and Practice (New York: Monthly Review Press, 1997). 26. See, e.g., Vasquez, Norma, Ibanez, Cristina and Murguialday, Clasa. MujeresMontana;Vivencias de Guerrilleras y Colaboradoras dei FMLN. Madris; Horas y Horas. 1996, for an account of the gender culture in El Salvador and, specifically, history of women’s involvement in the FMLN. 27. Hume, “It’s As If You Don’t Know.” 28. Alan Greig, “The Spectacle of Men Fighting,” IDS Bulletin 31:2 (2000), pp. 28–32. 29. Víctor Antonio Orellana and Rubí Esmeralda Arana, El Salvador: Masculinidad y Factores Socioculturales Asociados a la Paternidad (San Salvador: UNFPA, 2003), p. 89. 30. Interview, participant self-help group, November 2002. 31. He narrated episodes of extreme violence by his grandmother that included, on one occasion, her electrocuting him with a light cable; he also suffered bullying from the local gang and his elder brothers. 32. Interview with Esteban, El Boulevar, May 2002. 33. Alvarenga, Cultura y Etica de la Violencia. 34. James Dunkerley, The Long War: Dictatorship and Revolution in El Salvador (London: Junction Books, 1982), p. 7. 35. ECA Editorial, “Valoración del Siglo XX desde los Mártires,” ECA November/ December (1999), pp. 957–974. See also Dunkerley, The Long War. 36. Kevin Murray, El Salvador: A Peace on Trial? (Oxford: Oxfam UK/Ireland, 1997), p. 9. 37. Cruz and Beltrán, Las Armas de Fuego, p. 9. 38. Ibid. 39. Cruz, “Violence, Insecurity and Legitimacy,” p. 8. Although there have been notable improvements in the quality of information generated and recorded by state bodies in recent years, there is still a dearth of unified and accurate data for certain types of violence. Although both the media and popular opinion attribute many murders to the high crime levels that plague the country, the PNC suggests that 65 percent of murders fall under the category of “violencia social,” such as family disputes, conflicts with neighbours, and so on. Cruz and Beltrán, Las Armas de Fuego, p.15, citing La Prensa Gráfica, April 13, 2000, p. 18. 40. Carlos Guillermo Ramos, “Marginación, Exclusión Social y Violencia,” in PNUD (ed.), Violencia en una Sociedad en Transición, pp. 7–48. 41. Cruz, “Violence, Insecurity and Legitimacy.” 42. Ramos, “Marginación, Exclusion Social y Violencia.” 43. IUDOP Normas Culturales y Actitudes sobre la Violencia: Estudio ACTIVA (San Salvador: UCA, 1999). 44. Francisco González and Crisóstomo Pizarro, Cambios Recientes en la Situación de la Niñez y la Mujer en El Salvador (San Salvador: UNICEF, 1998).

Gender, Nation, and Violence in El Salvador

●

89

45. Dunkerley, The Long War, p. 19. Estimates for those murdered oscillate between ten thousand and forty thousand although most people put the figure at around thirty thousand. see Yvon Grenier, The Emergence of Insurgency in El Salvador: Ideology and Political Will (London: Macmillan, 1999); William Stanley, The Protection Racket State: Elite Politics, Military Extortion and Civil War in El Salvador (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1996). 46. See T. David Mason, “The Civil War in El Salvador: A Retrospective Analysis,” Latin American Research Review 34:3 (1999), pp. 179–196; P.J. Williams and Knut Walter, Militarization and Demilitarization in El Salvador’s Transition to Democracy (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1997); Stanley, The Protection Racket State; and Stanley, William. The Protection Racket State: Elite Politics, Military Extortion and Civil War in El Salvador. (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1996). 47. James Dunkerley Power in the Isthmus (London: Verso, 1988), p. 340. Stanley, The Protection Racket State, p. 42, claims that people in Western areas of El Salvador were still afraid to talk about events of 1932 forty years on and also mentions that the population of the western area has proven reluctant to participate in opposition politics to the present day. 48. See Kees Kooning and Dirk Kruijt (eds.), Societies of Fear: The Legacy of Civil War, Violence and Terror in Latin America (London: Zed Books, 1999) for further discussion of the normalization of violence in Latin America. 49. Ignacio Martín-Baró, Acción e Ideología: Psicología Social desde Centroamérica (San Salvador: UCA, 1983). 50. See, e.g., Murray, Peace on Trial; Jenny Pearce, Promised Land Peasant Rebellion in Chalatenango El Salvador (London: LAB, 1986); Margaret Popkin, Peace without Justice: Obstacles to Building the Rule of Law in El Salvador (Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1999); Norma Vásquez, Cristina Ibañez, and Clara Murguialday, Mujeres-Montaña: Vivencias de Guerrilleras y Colaboradoras del FMLN (Madrid: Horas y Horas, 1996); Carlos M. Vilas, Between Earthquakes and Volcanoes: Market, State and the Revolutions in Central America (New York: Monthly Review Press, 1995). 51. See Allen Feldman, Formations of Violence: The Narrative of the Body and Political Terror in Northern Ireland (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1991); “The Prosthetics and Aesthetics of Terror,” in Veena Das, Arthur Kleinman, Mamphela Ramphele, and Pamela Reynolds (eds.), Violence and Subjectivity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), pp. 46–78. 52. Robert H. Holden, “Constructing the Limits of State Violence in Central America: Towards a New Research Agenda,” Journal of Latin American Studies 28:2 (1996), pp. 435–459, 437. 53. Ibid., p. 444. 54. Williams and Walter, Militarization and Demilitarization. 55. Holden, “Constructing the Limits of State Violence.” 56. Edelberto Torres-Rivas, “Epilogue: Notes on Terror, Violence, Fear and Democracy,” in Kooning and Kruijt (eds.), Societies of Fear, pp. 285–300. 57. Martín-Baró, Acción e Ideología, p. 360.

90

●

Mo Hume

58. Both the FMLN and the FAS (Salvadoran Armed Forces) practised forced recruitment, although the FMLN offered an education program and ceased the practice of forcible recruitment in the early 1980s. 59. Interview with Teofilio, self-help group, November 2001. 60. Liz Kelly, “Wars Against Women: Sexual Violence, Sexual Politics and the Militarized State,” Susie Jacobs, Ruth Jacobson, and Jen Marchbank (eds.), States of Conflict: Gender, Violence and Resistance (London: Zed Books, 2000), pp. 45–65. 61. See Tombs, “Unspeakable Violence.” 62. Interview with Teofilio, self-help group, November 2001. 63. Interview with Enrique, El Boulevar, March 2002. 64. Veena Das and Arthur Kleinman, “Introduction,” in Das, Kleinman, Ramphele, and Reynolds (eds.), Violence and Subjectivity, pp. 1–18. 65. Participant in focus group, El Boulevar, June 2002. 66. Interview with Enrique, El Boulevar, March 2002. 67. Interview with Meche, El Boulevar, April 2002. 68. Interview with Enrique, El Boulevar, March 2002. 69. Interview with Meche, El Boulevar, April 2002. 70. The popular notion that the promotion of human rights only serves to defend criminals translates into 75 percent of citizens agreeing that “Human rights favour criminals and therefore you cannot deal with them [criminals].” Over 50 percent of Salvadorans affirm that they would be in favor of a coup d’état in order to combat criminality. IUDOP, Normas Culturales y Actitudes sobre la Violencia: Estudio. 71. Pearce, “From Civil War to ‘Civil Society,’ ” p. 589. 72. José Miguel Cruz, “Violencia, Democracia y Cultura Política en América Latina,” ECA, San Salvador: UCA (May–June 2000), pp. 619–620. 73. Kooning and Kruijt, Societies of Fear, p. 11.

CHAPTER 6

National Identity and Violence: The Case of Colombia Marisol Dennis

T

here is a considerable body of research covering diverse aspects of the persistent violence afflicting Colombia; however, the connections between the construction of a Colombian national identity and violence in the second half of the twentieth century has been less studied. Considering the political dimensions of national identity and some of the strategies pursued by the nation state to construct it, such as the use of myths and symbols, it will be argued that the historical weak legitimacy of the Colombian nation state has prevented the creation of a hegemonic national identity. This has led to a self-perpetuating system of violence that has precluded a resolution to the increasing violence and to the crisis of national identity. Outbreaks of political violence have been intermittent over the past two centuries of Colombian history, but since the outbreak of La Violencia (1948–1954), a period of undeclared civil war and communal violence, political violence has reached unprecedented levels.1 It has also given violence the features of a myth, as if it were part of the country’s natural landscape or an unavoidable natural disaster,2 a legacy that continues to inform contemporary Colombia. With reference to this period, this chapter sets out to investigate the paradoxical and unresolved relationship between high levels of political violence and the construction of a Colombian national identity.

92

●

Marisol Dennis

Introduction To significant sectors of Colombian society the democratic traditions of the nation are self-evident and long-standing. There is pride that in the twentieth century the country did not suffer from military dictatorships like most of her Latin American neighbors, elections were regular and on the whole transparent, political parties were, until recently, strong and legitimate, no racial conflict was apparent, and the values of democracy and individual freedom professed in the constitution considered all citizens equal under the law. The system might suffer from elements of political corruption and malpractice, but by and large, the institutional legitimacy of the Colombian nation is accepted. Those endorsing this view explain the regular outbreaks of violence in the nineteenth and mid-twentieth centuries primarily in terms of intense bipartisan conflict, which in 1949, with the outbreak of La Violencia, aberrantly, went out of control and became generalized and confused. Violence occurring after La Violencia has been seen in the context of the Cold War (communist insurgents committed to the overthrow of the state), the war on drugs, and more recently in the context of the War on Terror. The legitimacy of the state and its institutions might have suffered some setbacks in recent years, but the state has continued to fully represent the nation and its citizens. Those who might disagree with this view, so the argument goes, only represent a minority of violent groups intent on destroying the state or enriching themselves, and are identified periodically as either bandits, Marxist guerrillas, narco-terrorists, or simply terrorists. Whatever the reasons for the violence might be, what becomes evident today, from just glancing at news releases is its continuing escalation to depressingly high levels. After some two hundred years of history, Colombia appears unable to resolve conflict without resorting to violence. Her neighboring countries to the south, although themselves not free from violent conflict, seem to resort to it less frequently and certainly with less savagery.3 The aim of this chapter is to explore the relationship between national identity and the persistence of political violence in Colombia. The state’s failure to forge a more inclusive national identity, it will be argued here, has contributed to its own weakness and has played a significant role in fuelling the escalation of violence witnessed in Colombia since the outbreak of La Violencia to the present day. The chapter will focus on the political dimensions of national identity. It will pursue a concept of national identity limited to the state’s identity as promoted by its political elites and institutions. While acknowledging that failures of economic development and poverty have played a key role in constraining the articulation of a more legitimate Colombian national identity, it considers it equally important to recognize the key role of the traditional “national

The Case of Colombia

●

93

myths” and their modern interpretations in frustrating efforts to create a loyal and cohesive community. The conception of national identity in the eyes of Colombia’s political elite, it will be argued, has been a major obstacle to the successful resolution of the country’s violent conflict, while there also exists a paradox in the state’s quest to articulate a common national identity given that in order to achieve this, the state employs strategies that undermine its cohesion and fosters violence. The official proclamation of the Enlightenment republican ideals of liberty and guarantees of individual rights, as sought by the elites since the foundation of the constitutional republic up to today and outlined in the different constitutions, has, in practice, diverged substantially from the ideals upon which it was founded. Modern rereadings of the myths underpinning the country’s official national identity have been used by political leaders, much in the same way as early nationalist versions were, to negatively stereotype and exclude subordinate groups. The effect of this action has been to constrain the direction of social change and as a result, the more repressive stages of nation building have become extremely difficult to overcome. The contested nature of Colombia’s national identity has periodically undermined the nationalist project and contributed to the persistent weakness of the Colombian state and its concomitant violence. Throughout its republican history, the political elite has, on the whole, been unwilling or unable to truly accommodate the expression of competing identities, making challenge and occasional violent contestation inevitable. The nineteenthcentury history of civil wars, in some respects similar to other Latin American countries,4 brought about in Colombia a stronger and lasting identification between the subordinate groups and the elite political parties—Liberals and Conservatives—than in other countries in the region, where multiparty systems came into existence much earlier.5 What set Colombia’s parties apart from similar oligarchical parties in Latin America, as argued by Alexander Wilde, was their ability to dominate, define, and shape nearly all conflict, thanks to the high level of their control of power capabilities—including symbols, violence, electoral mobilization, and economic resources—making them more significant than class, strata, region, or institutions such as the army, the church, or the state itself.6 Hence, they succeeded in attracting people from all classes, regions, and racial and ethnic origins.7 Significantly, this conflict was never resolved in favor of either political party.8 The fact that the country lacked a common external enemy against whom to define the historic idea of “Colombia,” as, for example, was the case for Peru, Bolivia, Paraguay, Chile, and Argentina,9 could also to some degree help explain the lack of social cohesion and contestation within Colombia. It is so easy to start a war and so hard to end it10

94

●

Marisol Dennis

The Power of Myths As with most postcolonial states, the construction of Colombian national identity has been a violent affair. The creation of the nation by a nationalist white minority imposing their cultural and racial heritage over large colonized ethnic groups was in essence a repressive and violent process against preexisting identities. Overcoming this colonial legacy has proved intensely difficult in Colombia, more so than in many of her neighboring countries. Notwithstanding periods of relative peace, nation building continues to be contested by competing social and ethnic groups and generates persistent social and political violence. Given that “national identity can either powerfully reinforce or deeply undermine the state,”11 the inability of the Colombian state to create a legitimate national identity has left it lacking one of its key components. Without a unifying national vision the state is condemned to weakness and violent conflict. National identity, as defined by the scholar Anthony Smith, is a “continuous reproduction and reinterpretation of the patterns of values, symbols, memories, myths and traditions that compose the distinctive heritage of nations, and the identification of individuals with that pattern and heritage and with its cultural elements.”12 Smith argues that the origins of nations and national identity can be traced back to premodern forms of collective identity, making ethnic myths and symbols key components of nationalism. Attempting to go beyond the primordialist, perennialist, and modernist explanations of nationalism, Smith defines ethnic myths as potent visions that bring together “elements of historical fact and legendary elaboration to create an overriding commitment and bond for the community,” and encapsulate the meanings and visions underlying national identity.13 In each generation, modern national intelligentsias rework, construct new meanings, and adapt the myths to modern, more inclusive discourses of national identity. Modern nationalism, Smith argues, is representative of a present day secular equivalent of the premodern sacred myth of ethnic election.14 If nationalism, as defined by Smith, represents “an ideological movement for attaining and maintaining identity, unity and autonomy of a social group, some of whose members deem it to constitute an actual or potential nation,”15 the key political role of ethnic myths of election to the nationalist project becomes evident. The state’s strategies to build the nation—such as those used by the founding fathers in nineteenth-century Colombia— present a clear example of the central paradox of nationalism that attempts to present a homogenous nation while at the same time maintains a hierarchy of class, culture, and race, which excludes those who do not conform. To recreate an image of the ideal nation capable of uniting the community, the nation’s

The Case of Colombia

●

95

dominant ethnic group highlights the differences between those included in the nation and others. This is usually done by the dominant group reinterpreting myths of origin, and creating the image of the “outsider” or “enemy” by means of reducing it to negative stereotypes.16 This need for an outsider, against whom to define the nation, is what makes the logic of nationalism potentially violent and repressive, particularly in states where the outsider or enemy in the “historic territory” is a colonized, large indigenous majority that might represent a threat to the status quo. As Benedict Anderson stresses, “official nationalism was typically a response on the part of threatened dynastic and aristocratic groups . . . to popular vernacular nationalisms.”17 At independence, Colombia’s national identity was inevitably forged by the dominant nationalist white elite that, in the light of demographics,18 feared the indigenous majority threatened their privileged position. Indeed, “it was the fear of ‘lower class’ political mobilization: to wit Indian or Negroslave uprisings” that drove the push for independence from Spain.19 This explains why in Colombia, as in the rest of Latin America, one of the main contradictions of national independence was that the struggle against the Spanish oppression was not in any way aimed at the equality of subordinate groups such as indigenous peoples, blacks, or mestizos. Once the Spanish left, the nonwhite groups within the historic territory, continued to be the main outsider to be feared, and therefore their cultural and racial difference was purposefully highlighted by the dominant white minority, to such an extent that these beliefs became firmly imbedded and their (invented) roots, over time, gained ever more credibility. The political significance of these constructed divisions has progressively increased, largely through the actions of a political elite who in spite of the advance of mestizos since 1810, seek to use the “Indian,” blacks, and darker mestizo groups as a common enemy around which to build a national identity. As Marco Palacios highlights, the founding fathers’ ideal to construct a culturally white Colombia permeated all cultural, geographical, and institutional aspects of nineteenth-century Colombia.20 This “official nationalism,” in Anderson’s words, represents a modern strategy, a reaction to popular national movements “to permit the empire to appear attractive in national drag.”21 Naturally, by excluding the subordinate groups’ vision of history from the new dominant national identity, the minority group established the grounds for conflict as such exclusion hindered the emergence of a more unifying and legitimate national identity. Lacking legitimacy, Colombian national identity was to be contested at one level by subordinate groups, and at another by different elite groups contesting the organizing principles of the new nation. Self-representations perpetuating powerful myths of ethnic election,22 which create a greater sense of collective distinctiveness, were used to recreate

96

●

Marisol Dennis

the racial and cultural superiority of the white minority, and became an instrument to assure the survival of their values, traditions, and the nationalist project. Ethnic myths underpinned a national identity that interpreted the nation’s past in ways reflecting the nationalist project. Nationalists, argues Ernest Gellner, since the industrial age, have very selectively used old myths as the raw material from which to construct “a high, standardized culture which will engender nations.”23 In Colombia, official nationalist rhetoric sought its legitimacy in the eighteenth-century Enlightenment and Liberal ideals of equality and national liberation promoting a national identity supposedly above internal divisions of culture or race. The founding fathers, considering themselves the rightful heirs to the Spanish civilizing project and the colonial patriarchal system, presented themselves as the “chosen people”24 with the duty to bring Christian values and European civilization to the subordinate groups. Their perceived cultural and racial superiority informed their image of the unity of the nation. To become true citizens, indios, blacks, and mestizos were expected to abandon their practices and beliefs and adopt Christian civil values. Blanqueamiento (whitening of the race) has been another requirement since the lighter the color of their skin, the greater the chances of inclusion. Although nationalist rhetoric has presented mestizaje as proof of the inclusiveness of Western values of democracy and modernity, on the other hand, as Peter Wade has noted, there is a hierarchy in mestizaje that classifies individuals according to the degree of mixture and places them on a scale of whiteness, which is based on the idea of the inferiority of black and indigenous peoples and, in practice, of discrimination against them.25 This myth was to be recreated by Colombia’s political elite throughout the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in the shape of their two political parties—the Liberals and the Conservatives—both with their internal factions. The inability of the elites groups to develop more inclusive interpretations of myths and beliefs severely impeded the attempt to create a legitimate national identity. The impact of negative and divisive reinterpretations of ethnic myths in the popular consciousness and the manner in which they continue to affect attitudes and behavior go a long way in explaining the persistence of violence amongst groups with different ideals of national identity in Colombia. Tracing their pedigree to the Creole founding fathers, the Conservative’s mythology particularly emphasized their Hispanic and Christian values, duly imprinting them in the Constitution of 1886, which together with the Concordat of 1887 placed Catholicism as the basis of nationality and of all social order and education.26 This constitution set up a highly centralist, hierarchical, exclusionary, and authoritarian system of government that was to set the tone of Colombia’s way of doing politics for years to come.27 The

The Case of Colombia

●

97

Liberal mythology, while also claiming its European ancestry and Western values of civilization, gave rather less emphasis to Christianity and more importance to individual freedom and democratic values within a modern federal state, in which there was no place for the centralism represented by the Church. The parties were highly successful in portraying their differences, in particular, the apparent difference regarding the role of the Church in matters of the state. This created a strong conviction that the Liberal and Conservative ideologies represented opposing sides in every respect, and more than in most countries of Latin America, it was to fuel violent conflict and sectarianism between their supporters throughout the nineteenth century and beyond.28 Support for either party was portrayed as a path to inclusion in the nationalist project, and it held the promise of some favor or reward, giving the landowning elites the means to draw a great number of peasants and urban poor behind partisan banners to fight partisan battles. The patria myth running deep in both “official” and “vernacular” nationalism helped the two political parties, each claiming to represent the true “nation” and the “national interest,” to draw on what Anderson refers to as the “political love” for the patria. According to Anderson, these myths have persuaded many through history to give their lives, as “for most ordinary people of whatever class the whole point of the nation is that it is interestless. Just for that reason can we ask for sacrifices.”29 The penetration by the two political parties into popular consciousness made people believe that the ideological differences between them were more profound than they really were, as Jenny Pearce argues. This distortion of political reality persuaded people to engage in violent conflict, while the sight of relatives killed or wounded by the enemy generated loyalties and perpetuated personal hatreds down the generations.30 The lack of resolution of this prolonged, and in many ways self-sustaining conflict in which neither party is in a position to achieve hegemony explains, to a certain degree, the violent legacy of internal conflict. Indeed, it is the opinion of some scholars that whereas other Latin American countries have been able to draw on an external enemy in order to strengthen the ideals of national identity, in the case of Colombia, there has been no major external conflict and hence no external enemy around whom to bind a collective identity. Instead, the national identity project has been contested amongst competing ideals and factions from within Colombia itself.31 In spite of such a depressing reality in which two or more ideals compete in a perpetual cycle of violent civil war, there have been times of relative prosperity in Colombia when a slightly more inclusive national identity could be shared with some nonelite groups, at least in some regions, demonstrating

98

●

Marisol Dennis

that a new identity that eased social tensions could be molded and also foster periods of political stability. The export economy gave the party elites the economic means to develop and dominate the state, and under the so-called Conservative Republic (1885–1930), coffee’s prosperity allowed the elites more space for partisan compromise and a degree of inclusion for sections of the subordinate groups working in the new industry. To boost economic development, coffee growers encouraged the state to invest in the infrastructure and education in the coffee-producing regions in particular (at the expense of other regions). The coffee bonanza fostered some of the most peaceful years of the country’s history up to the 1930s. To a greater or lesser extent, a slightly more inclusive identity of the nation developed, favoring particular regions and communities. Inhabitants of the coffee-growing region of Antioquia, for example, benefited from positive stereotypes as antioqueñadeidad became a symbol for the values of tradition, productivity, order, prosperity, and hard work, associated with the values of the conservative state project—although the inverse was also true with the (mainly black and indigenous) inhabitants of coastal and other frontier regions stereotyped as lazy and poor. However paternalistic and exclusionary it may have been, the conservative project offered some protection and opportunity for a degree of inclusion to those subordinates key to the prosperity of their industries.32 Nevertheless, the reduced levels of violence of the early twentieth century were short-lived, and negative stereotyping revealed that under economic pressure, rereadings of the old myths were forcefully reinforced by the dominant political groups to the exclusion of unwanted communities. To the traditional negative stereotyping of banana workers in Urabá as “black,” “lazy,” and therefore “undeserving,” the label of “communist sympathizers” was added when they went into strike in 1928, which ultimately was seen as justification for their subsequent massacre. It could also be seen as evidence that the development of the coffee industry had brought with it not just the possibilities, but also all the limitations of dependent capitalism.33 The problems associated with an economy dependent on the export of one single product, coffee, to one importer, the United States,34 made the country not the master of its economic destiny but left it vulnerable to fluctuations in global markets. Colombia’s restricted economic autonomy, of course, undermined its development and also constrained the space for peaceful resolution of conflict. When the state was confronted by renewed peasant struggles for land or early labor struggles in the 1920s, their response was, given Colombia’s history and place in the international economy, to be expected. It is no surprise either that by the 1930s, many subordinate groups still did not see themselves represented in the official version of national identity, as regardless of party allegiance, they were excluded, invariably negatively

The Case of Colombia

●

99

stereotyped as dark-skinned, uneducated, unproductive, undeserving, and poor. By implication, their need to be led by the white (or light mestizo), educated, productive, and prosperous upper class clearly contravened the democratic principles of equality claimed by the state. Crisis of Identity The catastrophic effects of the political elite’s negative reconstructions of old myths became acutely evident during the years of La Violencia, which highlighted the failure of the elite parties to create a nation state capable of resolving political and sectarian conflict without recourse to violence. The partisan fear and distrust that had partially subsided during the early part of the twentieth century was reinvigorated by extreme political scare-mongering in order to pursue a clear political agenda. Initially a concerted effort by the Conservative party elite, it took advantage of internal Liberal divisions to rekindle the old mythical hatred between the two parties. Led by the Conservative Laureano Gómez, an open sympathizer of the Spanish Falangists and the Axis powers, the Conservatives sought to dehumanize the Liberals as chusma (rabble), enemies of the nationalist project. By implication, the Conservatives considered themselves as the true chosen people, heirs to the white founding fathers, whose role was to lead the nation and to defend civilization against the inepto vulgo. Jorge Eliecer Gaitán, the leader of the left reformist tradition within the Liberal party, was stigmatized as el negro (the dark-skinned one) and as a representative of fuerzas obscuras (dark forces), a threat to Western Christian values, while his supporters became the “enemies of Christ and soldiers of Marxism.” Laureano Gómez knew how to inflame passions in certain key rural areas “where a mentality of submission cultivated over centuries” offered fertile ground to his partisan appeals.35 Exploiting the support of the Church and memories of past abuses committed by Liberals, the local police who had shown some sympathies for Gaitán’s supporters was disbanded. A carefully organized campaign recruited poor peasants from Chulavita with the promise of guaranteed jobs and status as police to begin a genocidal campaign to cleanse the area of Liberals. They were encouraged by political and religious leaders to fully displace or destroy all Liberals. These newly armed chulavita police, encouraged by political and religious leaders, were central to the spread of violence,36 as the party leadership, with the support of the church, in effect told its supporters to kill or be killed. By amassing a police force of vulnerable people, feeding them fear and hatred of the present, and promising a better future, the Conservatives laid the basis for the ensuing atrocities. This was no accident.

100

●

Marisol Dennis

In a process referred to as “blowback” by J. Snyder, aggressive leaders can start to believe their own propaganda.37 Furthermore, in times of conflict when emotions and tensions are high, people are more likely to look to leadership for directives. In a snowballing effect where leaders begin to convince themselves that the hatreds are primordial, and their followers continue to pay more attention to what they say, a constructed old hatred can (re)emerge and become established in the minds of those engaged in the fighting. These hatreds, however, are neither inherent nor permanent; they are time-specific consequences of fear, emotion, and a lack of access to impartial information. Creation of negative images of the enemy is a powerful catalyst for overt political violence and one of the most potent weapons when used to establish a common identity. “In the beginning we create the enemy. Before the weapon comes the image. We think others to death and then invent the battle-axe or the ballistic missiles with which to actually kill them.”38 Partisan hatred was only one factor fuelling political violence. Class conflict, which until then had been disguised and managed under regional and partisan tensions,39 became progressively more evident. Facing the threat of the popular revolution implied in Gaitán’s discourse of social justice, official Liberalism sought to isolate him, reaffirm their position as elite members of the nationalist project, and, through their newspaper El Tiempo, to stereotype his followers as extremists, socialists, or Communists who should leave the party.40 Hatred of Liberals was transferred to hatred of gaitanistas, the majority of whom were urban poor or displaced peasants,41 who became the faceless chusma, the enemy to be destroyed. The assassination of Gaitán in 1948 unleashed a more deadly wave of violence. To overcome the eruption of popular uprising that took hold of Bogotá and other towns and rural districts, the two party elites came gradually together, demonizing the urban poor and the peasantry, regardless of party association, as “a mob” or “ignorant yobs.” The traditional Liberal oligarchy proceeded to neutralize gaitanismo within the party and left the Conservatives to spearhead the repression against the threatening “rabble.”42 As had previously occurred in the nineteenth century,43 by 1958 the two party elites had formalized their coalition in a political pact, the National Front,44 securing the political exclusion of chusmeros. In the years that followed, the state and the party elites acquitted themselves from all responsibility in the acts of violence, which were implicitly passed to the urban and rural poor. The stigma of sectarian and partisan hatreds was readily used as the only explanation for apparent indiscriminate use of violence. Hatreds, like friendships, are socially constructed. They are founded on fear or distrust over something that is of common interest. The fear and distrust evident in Colombia during that conflict were created by political

The Case of Colombia

●

101

scare-mongering, religious sectarianism, and a nationalist media. The fact that many of the Colombians killing each other in the name of a political party were mainly in regions where local party bosses and religious leaders had more influence, or that violence was often more intense in poorer areas within the regions45 illustrates to what extent hatred and fear generated by political actors can incite people to carry out atrocities. This hatred, however, is fuelled by knowledge, and those who control knowledge (education system, media, political and religious machineries) are able to create and direct hatred for political purposes. Until they articulate less divisive representations of ethnic myths, the intense fear that has informed Colombia’s national identity will continue to be reproduced and feed violence as the main method of resolving political conflict. The saddest part of the war is getting used to it 46

Identity and the State Barry Buzan has argued that the state is composed of not only institutions and territory, but also organizing ideologies around which it may construct authority, identity, and legitimacy.47 Within these organizing ideologies, an inclusive and accepted sense of national identity is an important element in achieving sociopolitical cohesion and legitimacy, producing a strong state and reducing the risks of political violence. Weak states, those whose internal legitimacy is contested (and conflict over national identity may form part of this), are more susceptible to internal conflict and political violence, and hence often require a strong and interventionist military to contain domestic political challenge.48 The case of Colombia would appear to bear out this idea.49 State building, including the construction of national identity, has been highly contested and a major cause of conflict in Colombia. As discussed previously, at a time of political uncertainty, early nationalists sought to take advantage of the opportunity brought about by independence and create the nation, reflecting their own ethnic and political values, in an attempt to secure power in a weak state. The idea of nation and national identity building was a tool used not for the construction of a strong (inclusive), legitimate state, but for recruiting fighters and retaining political power. The fear and hatred this produced did not deliver a united nation, but one in which political, economic, class, ethnic, and regional divisions became more extreme. In the absence of legitimacy, violence is used as a tool to maintain the status quo.50 The failure to create a legitimate, strong state and national identity has clearly been the outcome of a myriad of complex reasons, well beyond the

102

●

Marisol Dennis

scope of this chapter. It is proposed here, however, that one of them is the fact that organizing ideas claimed by the Colombian state, such as democracy, equality, and citizenship for all, on the whole have not been reflected in the everyday experiences of large sectors outside the dominant group. The serious gap between rhetoric and practice has undermined the legitimacy of the state.51 In the words of the Colombian novelist García Márquez, “The Constitution, the laws . . . everything in Colombia is magnificent, everything on paper. It has no connection with reality.”52 Although the state gained some strength during periods of economic expansion, it remained fragile and under-resourced. As Jenny Pearce has noted,53 no sector of the oligarchy organized itself through the state, and its main concern reflected the elite’s bipartisan commitment to economic liberalism and to the private sector in the economy. The subordinate groups as in previous decades, on the whole, experienced the state as an expression of the values of the governing elite and its partisan conflicts. Furthermore, they considered the machinery of the state and its institutions as mechanisms of the elite to retain political dominance and perpetuate the status quo. Regardless of having been conferred full citizenship rights, subordinate groups in various degrees felt excluded from access to resources and justice on the grounds of class, color of the skin, region, wealth, or party allegiances. In the case of Colombia, it is the inability of the institutions to deal with new challenges and their readiness to repress change that make evident the particular weakness of the state (in Buzan’s sense). In contrast to other Latin American countries until a few years ago, the stability of the state was maintained not through a strong military machinery,54 but through a system of politics that has combined sophisticated and corrupting clientelistic practices with the manipulation of the rule of law. This combination unsurprisingly has undermined the democratic identity and the legitimacy of the state, as well as what Kalevi Holsti has identified as “horizontal legitimacy” or a true community, one that precludes various forms of unofficial exclusion, discrimination, and exploitation.55 Land reform provides an example. Land distribution and property rights favoring the interests of large landowners had been one of the main sources of popular mobilization since the nineteenth century and violence had been the usual means used by landlords to settle disputes.56 The fall in prices precipitated by the 1929 crash and the closing of the coffee frontier brought the renewal of struggles for land in certain regions, migration to the cities, and intensified labor conflict. Land laws were regularly contested by peasants who usually tried to work within the legal system, assuming that the state would be on their side. However, in reality the system usually failed them, and disputes led invariably to violence. In 1935, Land Law 200, a limited

The Case of Colombia

●

103

attempt to mediate in land disputes to provide titles to those who had improved the land or lived on it was introduced by the reformist government of López Pumarejo. Different interpretations by district judges according to the local balance of power between landowners and claimants meant that in most cases the law favored landowners. By 1944, under pressure from the landowners, who had the power and resources to control the votes of most of the rural population and were in alliance with the coffee agro-industrial elite, Land Law 100 was introduced to reverse the minor achievements of the peasants’ struggle represented by the previous law. As Richani argues, frustration with legal avenues to contest landlords’ illegal claims led to violence as a method of resistance and counter-resistance between the contending social forces.57 The lack of leadership and moral authority to introduce effective land reform, to a large extent, explains the increased violence of the period. Francisco Gutierrez has highlighted as an important Colombian peculiarity the paradoxical relationship between law and violence, where a solid institutional stability combines with an almost permanent state of internal war, and where: the forces that want to block genuinely democratic change are precisely the best-trained in juridical techniques . . . able to carry out their actions from within the “rule of law”. . . the protagonists (of abuses) have systematically appeared as “dark-forces” totally apart from the system; violations by state agents are, it is insistently said, mere “isolated cases.”58 Strict adherence to the letter of the law is not just window dressing. It has helped abusers of human rights from all parties to distance themselves from acts of violence and hide behind the demands of “due process.”59 The disintegrative legacies of La Violencia, emphasizing the incoherence of a national identity that claims equal citizenship rights for all and yet excludes many as mythic “dark forces,”60 further weakened the Colombian state. Although the intensity of the violence was considerably reduced during the period of the National Front government, the political causes of the conflict were not resolved. Traditional clientelism based on land ownership as a system of political participation became broker clientelism based more on the depravation, unemployment, and powerlessness of the urban poor. By the 1970s, pragmatic loyalties had become more important than the personal and partisan ones of the past. Political newcomers joined the rich landowners and merchants in a new political class specialized in manipulating state resources in exchange for votes.61 In spite of partial, regional victories of nonelite groups such as the redistribution of some land among the peasant population, the constitutional reforms of 1991 have not curbed the power of

104

●

Marisol Dennis

political elites to sustain a patron–client relationship.62 It still allows the political class to exclude the peasant and urban poor not so much as the “subjugated clients” of earlier times, argues Cristina Escobar, but as “political outsiders.”63 Institutional reform is not enough as long as the socioeconomic inequality that facilitates clientelist relations persists, together with the manipulation of the legal system that helps to sustain these corrupting relations. Predictably, by the end of the 1970s constructed fears and hatred facilitated the entry of multiple armed actors and the violence escalated out of control. To the state’s armed forces and the contesting ideologically divided guerrilla groups, urban militias connected to drug trafficking, paramilitary forces, and the so-called private justice groups were added.64 The conflict, argues Nazih Richani, has developed a momentum of its own, and with the passing of time, all actors—the military, the guerrilla, paramilitaries, and organized crime—have come to find benefits in perpetuating it. Having more to lose than to gain from resolving the conflict, it becomes a self-perpetuating “system of violence.”65 Although constitutional reform in 1991 represented a significant step in the right direction, as mentioned earlier, economic inequality and clientelism considerably limit its potential. The high rates of poverty, displacement, discrimination, and corruption, for instance,66 provide some indication of the lack of sociopolitical cohesion of the state in recent years. Moreover, Colombia’s protracted internal conflict and its current violent trajectory both in terms of the guerrilla war and the drug trade cannot be isolated from the international dimension, in particular from the intervention of the United States. Conclusion The levels of violence recorded in Colombia are so disturbing and morally unacceptable that many people seek an immediate explanation. In terms of La Violencia, partisan sectarianism between Liberals and Conservatives was the traditional explanation, while since the 1980s drug mafias, paramilitary organizations, Marxist guerrillas, terrorism, or just old hatreds inherent to some groups of the population are provided as explanations as to why violence persists. These answers are only partially accurate and cannot be considered an adequate explanation of the Colombian conflict in its own right. Old myths of ethnic election give the political class the conviction of having a mission to lead the country and therefore impose their value system and worldview on the majority subordinate groups, by violent means if necessary. The myths reconstructed and reproduced by them, particularly in times of

The Case of Colombia

●

105

political instability and insecurity such as La Violencia, helped justify and ensure the persistence of political violence. The thoughts expressed here, obviously, do not pretend to offer a comprehensive explanation of the links between national identity and violence in Colombia’s long-standing conflict. They only attempt to highlight that violence is not inevitable in Colombia. A more powerful military, however necessary and comforting in the short term,67 is not the main requirement to bring a lasting peace unless it represents consensual power. Democratic reform of state institutions to break traditional clientelistic links is also required. The depth, history, and levels of violence as well as the increasing involvement of international actors make the challenge daunting. However, it is the responsibility of the political class to use the media and the education system to offer more inclusive reinterpretations of myths to underpin more positive and inclusive concepts of national identity. Although only a first step, a strong state will remain unattainable until its institutions and its version of national identity express genuine solidarity with all social groups not only “on paper,” as García Márquez put it, but also in everyday social interaction. Notes 1. Estimates suggest some two hundred thousand dead and over two million rural citizens displaced between 1946 and 1966. Mary Roldan, Blood and Fire: La Violencia in Antioquia, Colombia, 1946–1953 (Durham: Duke University Press, 2002), p. 5. 2. Daniel Pécaut, “From the Banality of Violence to Real Terror: The Case of Colombia,” in Kees Kooning and Dirk Kruijt (eds.), Societies of Fear: The Legacy of Civil War, Violence and Terror In Latin America (London: Zed Books, 1999), p. 162. 3. According to official data there has been a reduction of 12 percent in homicides and kidnapping in 2004. However, there are still 20.012 homicides and 1,441 kidnappings a year. These figures reveal Colombia as one of the most violent countries worldwide. Fundación Seguridad y Democracia “Boletin Trimestral de Seguridad 6,” www.seguridadydemocracia.org. 4. Numerically there were more civil wars in nineteenth-century Colombia than in Venezuela, Bolivia, Argentina, Uruguay, Mexico, and most of Central America. Malcom Deas, Intercambios Violentos: Reflexiones sobre la Violencia Política en Colombia (Bogotá: Aguilar, 1999), p. 26. 5. Ibid., p. 42. 6. Alexander Wilde also highlights the fact that the army, in contrast to Brazil or Venezuela, was ineffectual militarily and marginal politically. Alexander W. Wilde, “Conversations among Gentlemen: Oligarchical Democracy in Colombia,” in Juan J. Linz and Alfred Stepan (eds.), The Breakdown of Democratic Regimes. Latin America (Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 1978), pp. 28–81.

106 7. 8. 9. 10.

11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

17. 18.

19. 20.

21. 22.

23. 24. 25. 26. 27.

●

Marisol Dennis

Roldan, Blood and Fire, p. 13. Deas, Intercambios Violentos, p. 29. Ibid., p. 33. Socorro, a victim of violence and displacement in Colombia, in Constanza Ardila Galvis, The Heart of the War in Colombia (London: Latin American Bureau, 2000), p. 219. Barry Buzan, People, States and Fear: An Agenda for International Security Studies in the Post–Cold War Era (London: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1991), p. 72. Anthony D. Smith, “History and National Identity: Responses and Clarifications,” Nations and Nationalism 10:1/2 (2004), pp. 195–209. Anthony D. Smith, Myths and Memories of the Nation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), p. 57. Anthony D. Smith, Nationalism: Theory, Ideology, History (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1991), p. 84. Smith, Myths and Memories, p. 18. Stuart Hall explains how stereotyping “tends to occur where there are gross inequalities of power” and “power is usually directed against the subordinate or excluded group.” Stuart Hall (ed.), Representation: Cultural Representation and Signifying Practices (London: Sage and the Open University, 1997), p. 258. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso, 1991), p. 150. Nueva Granada at independence was 33 percent white, 43 percent mestizo, 17 percent Indian, and 6.5 percent slave. Miguel Angel Centeno, “The Center Did Not Hold,” in James Dunkerley (ed.), Studies in the Formation of the Nation State in Latin America (London: ILAS, 2002), p. 67. Anderson, Imagined Communities, p. 48. A Frank Safford argument mentioned in Marco Palacios, “Colombian Experience with Liberalism: On the Historical Weakness of the State,” in PosadaCarbo, E. (ed.), Colombia: The Politics of Reforming the State (London: Macmillan Press, 1998), p. 32. Anderson, Imagined Communities, p. 87. Smith, Myths and Memories, p. 130. Bruce Cauthen also highlights the stimulus for ethno-political mobilization that myths of divine election provide in, e.g., the United States today. Bruce Cauthen, “Covenant and Continuity: EthnoSymbolism and the Myth of Divine Election,” Nations and Nationalism 10: 1/2 (2004), pp. 19–33. Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalism (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1983), p. 55. Smith, Myths and Memories, pp. 125–143. Peter Wade, “Racial Identity and Nationalism: A Theoretical View from Latin America,” Ethnic and Racial Studies 24:5 (2001), pp. 845–865. Jenny Pearce, Colombia: Inside the Labyrinth (London: Latin American Bureau, 1990), p. 24. David Bushnell, The Making of Modern Colombia: A Nation In Spite of Itself (Oxford: University of California Press, 1993), p. 143.

The Case of Colombia

●

107

28. Mary Roldan has noted that the nineteenth-century wars before the War of the Thousand Days rarely involved a large percentage of Colombians in actual battle, and casualties were relatively few. Colombia appears to have been no more violent than other Latin American countries at the time. Roldan, Blood and Fire, p. 14. 29. Anderson, Imagined Communities, pp. 143–144. 30. Pearce, Colombia: Inside the Labyrinth, p. 20. 31. Deas, Intercambios Violentos, pp. 29 and 33. 32. This perspective on early twentieth-century history of Colombia heavily draws from Mary Roldan’s introduction to her book on La Violencia. Roldan, Blood and Fire, pp. 13–41. 33. Marco Palacios, El Café en Colombia 1850–1970 (México: El Colegio de México y El Ancora Editores, 1983), p. 484. 34. Marco Palacios, Entre la Legitimidad y la Violencia Colombia 1875–1994 (Bogotá: Editoria Norma, 1995), p. 75. 35. Gonzalo Sánchez, “The Violence: An Interpretative Synthesis,” in Charles Bergquist (ed.), Violencia in Colombia Contemporary Crisis in Historical Perspective (Wilmington: Scholarly Resources Inc., 1992), p. 79. 36. Ibid. 37. Jack Snyder, cited in Stuart Kaufman, “An International Theory of Inter-Ethnic War,” Review of International Studies 22:2 (1996), pp. 149–171. 38. Sam Keen 1986, cited in Kathleen Braden and Fred Shelley (eds.), Engaging Geopolitics (London: Pearson Education, 2000), p. 63. 39. Bushnell, The Making of Modern Colombia, p. 7. 40. John Green provides many examples of statements in liberal and the conservative newspapers reflecting their usefulness in fostering partisan sectarianism. John W. Green, Gaitanismo, Left Liberalism and Popular Mobilization in Colombia (Gainsville: University Press of Florida, 2003). 41. Green argues that Gaitanismo was far more than the ideas handed down by the intellectual strata of the movement and reflected popular held notions that Gaitán came to identify and symbolize. Ibid., p. 204. 42. Ibid., pp. 263–264. 43. The war of 1854 and the final stages of the War of the Thousand Days (1899–1902) are two examples of partisan elite coalitions to suppress more popular elements of their parties. 44. In 1958, under the National Front agreement, the two parties formalized their long-term pact to share power. The presidency was to alternate every four years between them, to the formal exclusion of any other political forces. 45. The intensity and savagery of the violence varied according to regions, and within regions, with peripheral areas, where the state was less legitimate, the worst affected. Mary Roldan shows how in Antioquia, in areas where the regional government was strong and legitimate, partisan violence never threaten the status quo, in contrast to the violence in the peripheral areas where the regional government was at its weakest, or present only as a repressive force. Roldan, Blood and Fire, p. 34.

108

●

Marisol Dennis

46. Alejandra, a victim of violence and displacement, quoted in Ardila Galvis. The Heart of the War in Colombia, p. 175. 47. Buzan, People, States and Fear. 48. Buzan explains that strength or weakness as categories of a state neither depend on, nor correlate with power. Weak military powers can be strong states such as Austria, the Netherlands, or Singapore. Conversely, strong military powers can be weak as states, and require extensive internal security apparatus, e.g., China or Indonesia. Ibid., p. 98. 49. The Freedom House, 2004, report offers an estimate of forty thousand deaths to political violence over the last decade (most of them civilian and unsolved), representing the highest level in the western hemisphere, www.freedomhouse.org/ research/freeworld/2004/countries.htm. 50. See footnote in Deas, Intercambios Violentos, p. 38. 51. Political rights and civil liberties are gravely restricted by politically motivated violence and public corruption. For data on electoral intimidation, attacks on journalists, unsolved crimes, and other indicators of the state of Colombia’s democracy, see the 2004 Freedom House report, www.freedomhouse.org/ research/freeworld/2004/countries.htm. 52. Gabriel García Márquez, Semana, March 20, cited in Pearce, Colombia: Inside the Labyrinth, p. 11. 53. Pearce, Colombia: Inside the Labyrinth, p. 32. 54. Until the late twentieth-century, by Latin American standards, Colombia’s military was considered weak and underresourced, and it did not have a presence in many regions of the country. However, it enjoyed significant autonomy in managing its own affairs, which might explain its reluctance to seize political power (except between 1953 and 1958). According to Valdivieso, former attorney general by applying the strategy of the sabre rattling, the military was able to extract concessions from the president and thus avoided losing its privileges. Nazih Richani, Systems of Violence: The Political Economy of War and Peace in Colombia (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2002), p. 38. 55. Kalevi Holsti distinguishes between vertical and horizontal legitimacy. The first covers authority, consent, and loyalty to the idea of the state and institutions, the second the attitudes and practices of individuals and groups within the state toward each other and to the state. The two perspectives reinforce each other, and both are essential to state strength. Kalevi J. Holsti, The State, War, and the State of War (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 82–98. 56. According to Catherine LeGrand, cited in Richani, Systems of Violence, p. 13, between 1875 and 1930 there were more than 450 major violent conflicts between peasants or colonos and landlords. Richani. 57. Richani, Systems of Violence, pp. 13–22. 58. Francisco Gutierrez Sanín, “The Courtroom and the Bivouac—Reflections on Law and Violence in Colombia,” Latin American Perspectives 116: 28,1 (2001), pp. 59–60. 59. Ibid., p. 61.

The Case of Colombia

●

109

60. The term dark forces has become part of the hard core of Colombian official discourse, explains Gutierrez Saninin ibid., p. 58. 61. Cristina Escobar, “Clientelism and Citizenship—The Limits of Democratic Reform in Sucre, Colombia,” Latin American Perspectives 126: 29,5 (2002), pp. 20–47. 62. See the implementation of these reforms in Donna Lee Van Cott, The Friendly Liquidation of the Past. The Politics of Diversity in Latin America (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2000), pp. 90–122. 63. Escobar, “Clientelism and Citizenship,” p. 42. 64. Gutierrez Sanín “The Courtroom and the Bivouac,” p. 64. 65. Richani, Systems of Violence, pp. 152–153. 66. Although by 2002 poverty had been reduced by 5 percent, it remained far from the 40 percent goal set by the United Nations, with urban poverty reaching 50.6 percent and extreme poverty at 23.7 percent and rising (ECLAC, http:// www.eclac.cl). Particular ethnic groups such as Afro-Caribbean have been severely affected with 74 percent of their population earning less than the minimum wage, according to figures from the U.S. Department of State, http:// www.state.gov/g/drl/rls/hrrpt/2004/41754.htm. In 2004, there were between 2,730,000 and 3,100,000 victims to violent displacement. The CIA World Fact Book, www.cia.gov. The Corruption Perception Index, 2004, gave Colombia a low 3.8 out of 10 in government and public administration corruption, www.transparency.org. 67. Defense expenditure increased from 2.1 percent of GDP in 1990 to an unprecedented 4.5 percent in 2004, and the number of military recruits by 36 percent between 2000 and 2004. According to several analysts, an increase of this size will be difficult to sustain. Also in 2004, the United States increased its assistance program to Colombia to $699 million, of which 79 percent was for military assistance. It is seeking to increase it to $734 million in 2005. The Center for International Policy, www.ciponline.org; and Mauricio Cárdenas, “Análisis del Incremento en el Gasto en Defensa y Seguridad: Resultados y Sostenibilidad,” in www.seguridadydemocracia.org.

This page intentionally left blank

CHAPTER 7

National Identity and Political Violence: The Case of Venezuela Julia Buxton

Theoretical Overview: Venezuelan Exceptionalism Venezuela is not a country that is typically associated with political violence. The upheavals encountered during the development process in other Latin American countries largely bypassed Venezuela. The violence associated with the emergence of mass party politics in the 1920s and 1930s in countries such as Mexico and Argentina had only a muted echo in Venezuela, which was also spared the bloodshed of the authoritarian military government experience in the 1960s and 1970s. The most striking factor in accounting for the comparatively violence-free nature of Venezuela’s political evolution was the enduring nature of oligarchic government in the country. Venezuela was late in democratizing and it was not until 1958 that a functioning democratic system was established. The persistence of caudillismo, a legacy of the profound instability of the post-Independence period, and its capacity for repression served to delimit demands for political and economic reform. Consequently, Venezuela did not experience the same system pressures stemming from mass-based populist mobilization in the first half of the twentieth century. When regime change did come in 1958, the newly democratic system was supported by the armed forces and it enjoyed wide popular legitimacy. As a result, civilian administration prevailed during the regional political turbulence of the 1960s and 1970s and potential anti-system actors were absorbed into the political mainstream.

112

●

Julia Buxton

Somewhat ironically, Venezuela has now been brought into the political spotlight as a result of the political violence experienced during the government of President Hugo Chávez Frías. Following his election in 1998, Chávez faced entrenched opposition to his democratically elected administration and this has resulted in conflict between pro- and antigovernment actors. Nation building and the attempt to forge a national identity have underpinned developments since 1998 and they also account for Venezuela’s pattern of political evolution, which is somewhat “out of synch” with the rest of the region. In this respect, Venezuela is a young nation and national identity is in a constant process of flux, adaptation, and change. Political violence has been an integral element of the nation-building process, specifically during the “early phase” of nation building at the beginning of the twentieth century. It has and it continues to be used as an instrument to impose a hegemonic nationalist vision and by rivals to articulate competing notions of the national interest, identity, national rights, and entitlements. Political violence in Venezuela should not therefore be understated. Crucially however, Venezuela’s status as an oil producer has profoundly affected the way in which nation building has occurred and the nature and extent of political violence in the country. The Role of Oil After the beginnings of its exploitation in the first decade of the twentieth century, oil shaped a peculiar class construct that delimited the emergence of powerful class or racially based challenges to the status quo. The petro-dollars gained and distributed by the state enabled anti-system challengers to be contained and absorbed. Oil has additionally played a crucial role in the shaping of Venezuelan national identity. Political debate throughout the twentieth century pivoted around contrasting visions of the optimal model for maximizing and distributing the oil export revenues. Through these debates, different actors have articulated their view of the Venezuelan nation, its position in the world economy, the role of its citizens, and its future potential. This “oil nationalism,” conceived as the pursuit of a second independence from imperial powers, has been wedded to and reinforced by the language and promotion of democracy, fusing in a vision of a prosperous and modern society. Political violence in the country has subsequently occurred when the system of oil rent distribution has narrowed, thereby excluding certain interests or sectors. This in turn has led to regime challenge, predicated on a competing model of oil policy and a rival vision of the nation and national interest. Two potent examples of this development are the “democratic revolution” of 1958 and the “Bolivarian Revolution” of President Hugo Chávez Frías in 1998. Both revolutions were a product of oil rent exclusion and they both mobilized and

The Case of Venezuela

●

113

developed a vision of the Venezuelan nation around an alternative oil policy. It is the incompatibility of these two models of the nation and the role of oil—of 1958 and of 1998—that lies at the heart of the country’s contemporary conflict. Nation Building and Political Violence: A Historical Perspective After discovery and conquest by the Spanish in the sixteenth century, the provinces of Nueva Andalucía, Mérida, Maraca Ibo, and Guyana were unified as the Captaincy-General of Venezuela in 1777. Administered from Caracas, the territory was politically and economically underdeveloped and of peripheral interest to the Spanish throughout three hundred years of colonial rule. Largely because of this neglect and the relative autonomy that this afforded to the domestic elite, Venezuela was one of the first countries in the region to declare independence. Simón Bolívar led Venezuela and neighboring territories, which included modern day Colombia, Panama, and Ecuador, to full independence after a decade-long War of Independence in which nearly a third of Venezuela’s residents were killed. Of acute relevance to the contemporary vision of national identity articulated by the government of President Hugo Chávez, Bolívar promoted regional unification as a bulwark against future external aggressors. This was initially realized with the formation of Gran Colombia, a federation that combined those countries liberated by Bolívar’s forces. The federation disintegrated after a decade amid conflict between different provincial interests, disputes over the political structure of the federation, and conflict between civilian politicians in Colombia and Venezuelan generals under the command of Bolívar.1 With the collapse of Bolívar’s vision of a united Andean region, Venezuela assumed full independence in 1830 under the presidency of José Antonio Páez. This first step in the nation-building process, the identification of a distinct cultural and territorial “otherness” that separated Venezuela from Colombia, contradicted Bolívar’s ambitions and he was exiled by Páez. Full independence did not bring political stability and limited progress was made in constructing a nation and unique national identity out of the unwieldy, topographically diverse, and fragmented territory. The country was plagued by protracted, violent conflict between provincial caudillos who resisted central control from Caracas. Conflict between these groups, who loosely identified with the profederalist Liberal or pro-central Conservative parties, reached its height during the devastating Federal War (1859–1863). Underscoring the limited progress that was made in nation building during this phase, Venezuela lost swathes of territory to Colombia and Guyana as infighting distracted the country’s elites from defense of the national territory.

114

●

Julia Buxton

The Constitution of 1864 that was introduced at the end of the Federal War did not provide a foundation for political stability or national integration. Powerful regionalist sentiments persisted, undermining efforts by executive authorities in Caracas to centralize administrative responsibilities. This was most cogently revealed during the administration of Antonio Guzmán Blanco, during the so-called Septenio (1870–1877), when attempts to unify taxation collection for the financing of national development projects were seen as implicitly threatening to regional interests and fiercely resisted. The president of the Congress, Antonio Leocadio Guzmán, wrote to his son, the dictator Guzmán Blanco: “I do not know, Sir, why you call yourself the Restorer. One restores something that previously had existed, but when has there truly existed the Republic of Venezuela?” In impeding the consolidation of a national state structure and the introduction of national projects, conflict between competing caudillos hampered the creation and dissemination of a Venezuelan national identity. Regional cultures, traditions, and practices prevailed over a national culture and loyalty to the nation, a historic legacy of separatism and regionalism that persists to this day in states such as Zulia. External aggression, such as the 1902 blockade of Venezuela by foreign creditors and the suspension of ties between the United States and Venezuela in 1907, did create a nascent sense of national identity and nationalist sentiment, but this was weakly articulated and did not provide for cultural or political integration.2 Juan Vicente Gómez and the Emergence of the Modern Nation The presidency of the caudillo Juan Vicente Gómez (1908–1935) is recognized as one of the most brutal periods in Venezuela’s political history. The dictatorship ruthlessly suppressed all opposition and as many as twenty-five conspiratorial movements.3 Of the view that “liberty is the most foolish of all hopes,” Gómez eliminated rival and provincial challenges to his administration in Caracas, with his administration consequently acknowledged as a crucial turning point in terms of the political unification of the country.4 The repression contained emerging demands for political and economic freedoms and as a result, Venezuela did not experience the political violence associated with anti-oligarchic revolutions as in other Latin American countries. The relative ethnic homogeneity of the country, a product of the extensive intermingling between the European, black, and indigenous populations during the colonial period, limited the potential for race-based revolts.5 An agricultural society with low population levels, limited immigration, and minimal industrialization, Venezuela was largely isolated from ideological currents

The Case of Venezuela

●

115

such as syndicalism, communism, and liberalism that swept through other Latin American countries. This situation was dramatically altered by the discovery and exploitation of the country’s oil resources. The birth of the “modern” Venezuelan nation is linked to the discovery of oil. The revenues earned by the Gómez administration through concessions signed with foreign oil companies financed the emergence of a powerful, centralized state administration, the creation of a national army, and the integration of the country through the development of transport and communication links. This attenuated regional distinctions but there was no shared cultural vision of the Venezuelan nation at this time. Rather than seeking to construct an “imagined community” based on a shared value and belief system, the priority for Gómez was imposing fiscal and political order and central authority. The oil economy triggered dramatic changes to the class and demographic structure of the country. A rentier elite dependent on state patronage displaced or emerged out of the caudillos, while agriculture and the rural economy went into irreversible decline. In the long term, this limited the emergence of a powerful right wing in the country. There was an accelerated process of rural to urban migration—presaging the emergence of a small working class—while a nascent middle class developed from the growing service and education sectors. Urbanization also served to reduce the pull of regional identities while fracturing traditional loyalties, the latter making a mass of newly urbanized individuals available for political mobilization to the party organizations that emerged in the 1930s. This modernization of Venezuelan society and the increased complexity of social relations triggered by the oil economy served to stimulate, for the first time, “national” debate. This centered on the question of how the oil economy should be managed and the benefits accruing to Venezuela maximized. The question was fundamental to the development of the “national consciousness” precisely because it addressed notions of citizenship and entitlement. This in turn led new and emerging social actors to question oligarchic government through the lens of oil policy. Adeco Nationalism The economic changes wrought by the advent of the “hydrocarbon society” transformed Venezuelan politics. Sectoral and political organizations began to emerge and press for democracy, a development epitomized by the student protest movements of 1928 and 1936. The student movement produced important political figures, including Rómulo Betancourt, who formed what was to become the country’s leading political party, Acción Democrática (AD), in 1941. The student demonstrations were also significant as they entered into a national discourse that placed AD heroically at the forefront of

116

●

Julia Buxton

the painful and violent struggle for democracy. Repression of nascent political party organizations by the oligarchic regime profoundly influenced the organizational evolution of AD. Forced to operate under covert or controlled circumstances, the party developed a tight, vertically integrated structure, rejected class-based mobilization and sought to construct a national, multiracial, multiclass, or policlasista appeal, building support by presenting the party as the embodiment of a national rather than sectarian interest. It was through a critique of the oligarchy’s oil policy that AD defined its identity as being integrally linked to the interests of the nation. Betancourt and his acolytes Arturo Uslar Pietri and Juan Pablo Pérez Alfonso argued that the Venezuelan nation was not benefiting from its oil wealth and they mobilized fears that the petro-dollars would run out before they could be more widely distributed.6 The Gómez government’s policy of issuing concessions to foreign oil companies was rebuked for failing to capitalize on the country’s potential wealth and AD used the concept of “petrol imperialism,” the idea that the country was again subjugated to foreign interests and its resources squandered, to build support. Through the petro-imperialist concept, AD sought to forge national unity that was also defined through reference to perceptions of external aggression. Owing to the presence of American oil companies, this rhetorical device was directed against the United States, allowing AD to tap into a latent sentiment of anti-Americanism that had emerged from the American government’s support for Gómez and the visible segregation from Venezuelan society of U.S. employees in the oil sector.7 The party called for a radical overhaul of hydrocarbons policy, specifically an increase in the “rent” available to the state as the owner of the subsoil resources, and for concessions to be terminated.8 The increase in financial resources that this would provide would then be invested in other areas of the national economy with the idea of “sowing the oil” for the benefit of all Venezuelans, a concept that was popularized after its publication in Ahora magazine by Uslar Pietri in 1936. In this schema, all Venezuelans were to benefit from the oil and the political opportunities afforded by democratic reform. As such, oil and democracy became intertwined in the nationalist model the AD was seeking to build and the vision of the nation that it aspired to create. The Venezuelan armed forces have played a pivotal role in forging, defining, and protecting the national interest, guiding regime change when this was perceived to be in the nation’s best interest. Following a period of debilitating partisan conflict stemming from conservative resistance to progressive reforms, AD first came to power through a coup against the government of General Isaias Medina Angarita (1941–1945) by sections of the military in 1945, although they were subsequently removed by the military three years later. It was during this brief democratic interlude, known as the Trienio

The Case of Venezuela

●

117

(1945–1948), that the founding myths subsequently used to legitimize the post-1958 democratic system were crystallized. Owing to its role in the coup, AD became popularly associated with the creation of democracy, a view that was consolidated when the provisional junta headed by Betancourt introduced the right to secret, direct, universal suffrage in 1947. The right to vote was extended to women, and attendant rights of freedom of speech and association were introduced. The Trienio was an attempt to conduct a program of modernization financed through reform of the hydrocarbon laws. The basis for the “sowing” of Venezuela’s oil was laid with the introduction of a fiftyfifty profit sharing policy and a rejection of further concessions, a policy that “quickly became enshrined in the literature on the political economy of oil as a tremendous nationalist breakthrough.”9 As power swung back to the military, with the termination of the brief democratic experiment presaging a decade of authoritarian control under Colonel Pérez Jiménez, fresh attempts were made to forge a nation from the politically fractious country. Pérez Jiménez and the New National Idea The role of Pérez Jiménez in Venezuelan nation building is an understudied area, despite the enormous contribution that the dictator made to the integration and modernization of the country. The Pérez dictatorship enjoyed extraordinary oil revenue windfalls as the value of petroleum exports doubled and the state reaped the benefits of the fifty-fifty oil policy and earlier changes to the oil fiscal regime made in 1943.10 Between 1948 and 1957—the year of Pérez Jiménez’s demise—the state received $7 billion from the oil sector, a sum larger than the total amount earned from oil in the country’s previous history. The finances were ploughed into road-building schemes, housing development, and infrastructure, which reduced the distance and distinctions between regions. The journey time between Maracaibo, the capital of Zulia state, and Caracas, for example, was cut from three days to eight-and-a-half hours.11 A core distinction between Pérez Jiménez and previous military oligarchs was that Pérez Jiménez, like the AD party he removed and banned, had a cultural vision of the nation. His government promoted national music and dance festivals and through La Semana de la Patria sought to instill national pride through a week of marching and cultural displays in schools. The arrival of television and the expansion of radio and print media in the 1950s were crucial instruments for the dissemination of Pérez Jiménez’s “Nuevo Ideal Nacional” and were used to promote commonalities between people in areas such as sport, music, literature, and food. Like Gómez, Pérez Jiménez subscribed to the view that political freedom was an impediment to stability,

118

●

Julia Buxton

modernity, and unity and his administration was characterized by brutality and repression. This was fully supported by the United States, which saw Pérez Jiménez as a bulwark against the spread of communism into Venezuela. Popular hostility toward this uncritical stance of the American administration fuelled Adeco nationalism and led to violent protests during a visit by Vice President Richard Nixon in 1958. Pérez Jiménez’s ventures in nation building were intimately tied to and reliant on political violence by the state. The model was unsustainable, particularly as the Trienio had created a rival and democratic vision of the nation and national interest. Moreover, unlike Gómez, Pérez Jiménez presided over a more complex society, one that his administration was incapable of “buying into” through his state-sponsored national development project. At the end of the 1950s, with oil rent distribution restricted to an elite, corruption flourishing, and economic pressures building, the military once again intervened, working with party political organizations to restore democracy. By acting in a manner that had been popularized in the AD discourse as contrary to the national interest (and particularly in offering new oil concessions in an attempt to shore up expenditures), Pérez Jiménez was isolated and lost the support of nationalist factions within the military. As with events in 1928, 1936, and 1945, AD claimed leadership of these antigovernment protests, cementing the idea that the organization, democracy, and the national interest were symbiotic. The Rise and Crisis of Punto Fijismo After 1958, Venezuela enjoyed unbroken civilian political control. The Pact of Punto Fijo, signed by leading political and economic interests of the period, is credited with laying the basis for the successful transition to democracy and its apparent consolidation.12 The Pact and the series of subsidiary agreements negotiated by the business and labor sectors built a vested interest in the maintenance of the new democratic regime. Fiscal benefits and privileges were extended to the military, the Roman Catholic Church, business, and labor. As a result, politics did not become a destabilizing zero sum game in which the interests of one class or group could only be met through the exclusion of another. In the words of Coronil, the Venezuelan state was “magical,” having the fiscal ability to serve the national interest in meeting the needs of all of its citizens.13 In political terms, the Pact guaranteed the leading political forces, AD and its Christian Democrat counterpart, the Comité de Organización Político Electoral Independiente (COPEI), access to power and a share in the distribution of state positions, ranging from the judiciary and senior military to the state administration. The result was a

The Case of Venezuela

●

119

“petroleum financed system of reconciliation”14 under which the interests of all social classes were recognized and met by the state through the dispersion of the oil rent via clientelistic and corporatist networks controlled by the dominant political parties AD and COPEI.15 The new democratic regime benefited from an economic boom in the 1970s, with fiscal income from oil increasing from $1.4 billion in 1970 to $9 billion in 1974, and economic growth sustained following the nationalization of the oil industry in 1976. The fiscal benefits stemming from nationalization were interpreted in the prevailing democratic discourse as a product of AD’s oil nationalism, a mantle that was reinforced by the role AD politicians played in “defeating” petrol imperialism through the creation of the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries. The democratic nationbuilding project reached its apogee during this period. The AD president Carlos Andrés Pérez (1973–1978) sought to “reclaim” the country’s natural resources and national capabilities through an interventionist state (in line with the model of import substitute industrialization), the creation of an expansive nationally owned industrial base, pursuit of regional leadership, and a foreign policy line independent from the United States.16 Underscoring the malleability of Venezuelan nationalism, popular perceptions of the United States were not antagonistic. Vast amounts of money from Venezuela’s oil-flushed “dame dos” society were spent on luxury goods imported from America, property purchases, and education in the United States. This in turn consolidated identification with American commercial and cultural values, particularly among the middle and upper classes.17 Despite its apparent “inclusivist” qualities, the Pact was highly exclusionary. The radical left was excluded despite the Partido Comunista de Venezuela (PCV) having played an important role in the struggle for democracy. In the Adeco version of Venezuelan history, the role of the PCV is negated, which underscores the profound division between pro- and anti-Chávez groups in the current period maintaining incompatible interpretations of Venezuela’s past. Furthermore, within Chavismo, there is an important lineage of ideas and people from this excluded left.18 These contradictory historical narratives are today expressed in debates over public holidays and disputes over national celebrations. As an example of this, the Chávez administration downplayed the traditional January celebrations marking the end of the Pérez Jiménez dictatorship, a move that caused consternation among critics. February 4, the date of the failed 1992 coup attempt led by Chávez was however celebrated by government supporters, a move condemned by opponents as a celebration of authoritarian behavior. From the instauration of “democracy” there was then a significant sector of opinion that found itself incapable of articulating its interests within the

120

●

Julia Buxton

established institutional framework. The end result was political violence as the radical left opted in 1962 to adopt a military struggle to overthrow the new political regime. The threat to Punto Fijismo was acute, particularly given that there were two military coup attempts in 1962 that were supportive of the communist agenda. The ability of the system to stabilize the country was determined by two factors; its capacity for the distribution of material benefits and the dissemination by AD of a message that glorified democracy and Adeco nationalism, identifying itself as “the Venezuelan people.” Its slogans and symbols interposed party and nation, people and democracy. “With AD you live better” was a common election slogan. It identified AD with the interests of all Venezuelans—not a specific class or racial group, but every Venezuelan citizen. It was a striking and simplistic message that was rapidly assimilated by a society that had experienced rapid and profound dislocation and modernization. Ultimately, not to be an Adeco was to be antinationalist, a treacherous position that was identified with dictatorship and foreign ideologies. The Failure of Adeco Nationalism and its Meaning Under Chávez In the early 1980s, critical flaws in the Punto Fijista model were revealed.19 The parties never addressed these and the system was in profound crisis by the end of that decade. Ultimately, Punto Fijismo relied on the political violence of the state to maintain itself. The crisis was twofold. It manifested itself first as a fiscal crisis determined by inadequate macroeconomic policy making, particularly during and after the oil boom of the 1970s, as successive Venezuelan administrations failed to develop the nonpetroleum sector or insulate the country from the vagaries of the international oil economy. Corruption was endemic and exacerbated by the politicization of state appointments. The blanket system of distribution and protection of all economic groups was maintained, initially through recourse to borrowing. As this became increasingly untenable, less-privileged groups fell out of the clientelist system of state distribution. Despite mounting poverty and marginalization, the dominant parties maintained the rhetoric of tributionary state capacity and of the modern, inclusivist Venezuelan nation; however, the dire economic performance had critical implications for the legitimacy of the regime and its founding myths. Precisely because AD had married the notion of party, people, electoral politics, and oil-led development, the parties and the political system lost legitimacy as the economy deteriorated and prospects for national development dwindled. Incapable of maintaining the myth of policlasista representation, the leading parties found themselves no longer

The Case of Venezuela

●

121

able to “buy” support and as a result found their authority challenged by a range of civil-society and military-based movements such as Chávez’s own Movimiento Bolivariano Revolucionario 2000 and La Causa Radical, which articulated anti-system arguments through a nationalist language. The prevailing popular sentiment in the 1980s and 1990s was one of apathy, alienation, and frustration. This could not be channeled through the country’s decaying institutions or reconciled through the parties. Attempts to re-equilibrate Punto Fijismo “from within” met with violent responses. This was particularly the case during the second administration of President Carlos Andrés Pérez (1989–1992), whose attempt to impose structural adjustment measures led to violent protests, most notably the Caracazo, a spontaneous national revolt against petroleum price increases that was only put down following military intervention and the death of at least five hundred people. The violence of the state was however met with political violence to exact regime change. Chávez himself first came to public attention when he attempted to impose his project through means of a military coup against the democratically elected president Carlos Andrés Pérez in 1992. The definition of political violence used here is “acts of disruption, destruction or injury whose purpose, choice of targets or victims, surrounding circumstances, implementation, and/or effects have political significance, that is, tend to modify the behavior of others in a bargaining situation that has consequence for the social system.”20 For von der Mehden, an act qualifies as political violence “if and only if it is an incident or part of a series of incidents intended by its perpetrators to influence local or national political decisions.”21 Political violence then emerges as a result of two factors: the denial of recognition and the lack of rectifying access, both of which were apparent in the 1990s. Pérez’s project of political and electoral reform, which controversially extended to the opening of the nationalized oil industry to private participation, was also undermined by the defensive reactions of AD and COPEI. Fearing the impact that political reform and neoliberalism would have on their capacity for patronage, the parties impeded the policy agenda of the government and ultimately impeached Andrés Pérez in 1992. Political Violence During the Chávez Government The electoral victory of Hugo Chávez in 1998 was predicated on the popular rejection of Punto Fijismo and drew particular support from the economically marginalized. Following his assumption of power, Venezuela entered a protracted political crisis. The conflict between pro- and antigovernment actors was acute after December 2001 and it was characterized by a high level of political violence, which took a variety of forms, including a coup attempt

122

●

Julia Buxton

against Chávez in April 2002, a fiscally devastating series of general strikes, the bombing of diplomatic facilities, the deaths of numerous pro- and antigovernment protestors, intimidation by armed groups and human rights abuses. Culpability for offences was disputed, with pro- and antigovernment actors maintaining differing accounts of events. The political crisis that engendered this violence was multifaceted. It was primarily expressed as a conflict between a democratically elected government, which believed it had a mandate for a radical series of changes under the Bolivarian Revolution and which sought to enforce compliance with its authority, and opponents who refused to accept the project or the legitimacy of the administration. This was despite the fact that Chávez had received the support of 56 percent of voters in the 1998 elections, increasing to 59 percent in a second set of elections convened in July 2000, and his victory in four referenda, including a recall referendum on his mandate held in August 2004. In the view of the opposition, having obtained power democratically, the government pursued its ends through authoritarian means. Traditional avenues and mechanisms for interest articulation and aggregation were blocked. The ruling party Movimiento Quinta República (Fifth Republic Movement, MVR) and its allies in the Polo Patriótico (Patriotic Pole—PP) dominated the legislative assembly, and the administration placed political supporters in key institutions of state as a “transitionary measure” but also as a means of pursuing and defending its contested program of revolutionary change. As a consequence of this politicization of state appointments and the electoral dominance of MVR, the opposition took its protests outside the institutional framework and onto the streets. Unity of purpose among diverse opposition sectors after December 2001 led them to escalate their demands,22 which shifted from pressure for government recognition of distinct lobby interests to the attempts to remove the administration by force. Political violence was also an integral part of this strategy. Through its overhaul of the country’s institutions and policy framework, the Chávez government had broken up traditional networks of distribution and privilege, with the consequence that interests from the “old” system were left without influence or benefit. But because the clientelism of the Punto Fijo system was given a degree of legitimacy through the myth of democracy attached to that period, the opposition attacked Chávez for breaking with democracy. Thus, the opposition did not refer to its attempts to enhance its bargaining power as political violence, but rather as “civil disobedience” in “defense of democracy.” Bolivarian Nationalism Rather than seeking to reform the most unrepresentative aspects of the old political framework, Chávez promised a ruptura from the status quo. This

The Case of Venezuela

●

123

implied not only a radical revision of the country’s political, economic, and institutional foundations, but also the legitimizing myths and symbols of the state. The Bolivarian revolution was initially evident in the new “Bolivarian” constitution, which was approved in a popular referendum in December 1999, and laid the basis for a restructuring of state policy and institutions. The traditional bicameral arrangements were abolished, the presidential term was extended, the military acquired the right to vote, sovereign powers were redefined and expanded from the executive, legislature, and judiciary to include the Electoral Power and Moral Council, the Supreme Court was replaced, and the possibility of popular referenda was introduced for a range of issues.23 In December 2001, the government introduced a package of forty-nine pieces of legislation under enabling laws, which, intended as the legal framework for new rights and provisions set out in the 1999 Constitution, introduced major changes in education, social policy, land ownership, and the role of the state in the oil sector and economy. Oil policy focused on reversing the apertura initiated by Andrés Pérez, with the aim of ensuring that the oil sector remained at the service of the nation rather than foreign interests. Underscoring Chávez’s view that the state oil company’s strategy of internationalizing its operations and opening up to foreign investors was damaging to the national interest were figures that showed a decline in the company’s rents, royalties, and taxes to the state, falling from seventy-one cents per dollar in 1981 to thirty-nine cents per dollar by 2000.24 Foreign policy was dramatically revised and the traditional pro-American orientation of Punto Fijismo was replaced by an emphasis on regional integration and the development of relations with other oil-producing states. Not only did the government seek to diversify its foreign affairs and commercial relations away from the United States, it also assumed an uncompromisingly critical stance toward American foreign policy internationally, in the Americas, and particularly in neighboring Colombia and Cuba. These radical changes were accompanied by and legitimized through reference to a different form of national identity in Venezuela. In contrast to the modern, liberal nationalism of Punto Fijismo, Bolivarian nationalism drew on a long historical legacy that predated the struggle for democracy in the twentieth century. The ideology of Bolivarianism was an eclectic mix of ideas, best summed up by Chávez as “the fight for justice, the fight for equality and the fight for liberty, some call socialism, others, Christianity; we call it Bolivarianism.”25 It represented and was legitimized through a return to historical traditions and identification with earlier nationalist currents, known as the “trinity.” This referred to three figures of national importance: Bolívar, who represented the “chief general”; Ezequiel Zamora (1817–1860), a military leader during Venezuela’s federal wars, who represented the “warrior”;

124

●

Julia Buxton

and the liberal philosopher, pedagogue, and Bolívar’s tutor Simón Rodríguez, seen as “the teacher.” From the ideas and actions of these individuals, Chávez developed a Venezuelan nationalism that looked to the fulfillment of the historic “potentialities” of the nineteenth century, which, according to this discourse, were frustrated by Punto Fijismo. As has been discussed, Bolívar had sought to unify the Americas as a counterweight to the growing dominance of the United States. Modern Bolivarianism aimed to fulfill this quest through ventures such as Telesur, Petrosur, and the Bolivarian Alternative for the Americas, a model of social integration developed as a rejection of the U.S.-backed Free Trade Area of the Americas.26 The use of the “cult of Bolívar” is not unprecedented in Venezuela. It was mobilized by López Contreras, Medina Angarita, and Pérez Jiménez. The distinction lies in the extent to which Chávez claimed an authoritative monopoly on the interpretation of Bolívar’s ideas and the way in which his movement manipulated this well-recognized national symbol to legitimize a stance that was anti-neoliberal, antiglobalization, and that challenged U.S. influence. The potency of identification with Bolívar is that he symbolizes valor, ethics, and patriotism, all of which contrast with the worst features of Punto Fijismo—corruption, elite irresponsibility, and selfish individualism. Critics argue that Chávez has picked up a great and easily identifiable national figure and used it to fill an ideological void or disguise a confused mixture of leftist and fascist ideas.27 The utility of “Bolivarianism” is that it denies pluralism and identifies dissent as antinational, in effect playing the same role in limiting debate as Adeco nationalism. It also places foreign ideas and ideologies that appeal to the Chavista movement—such as Marxism and socialism—into a national narrative, thereby avoiding the traditional Venezuelan antipathy to imported ideas. Through its reference to Bolívar and Zamora, Bolivarianism taps into the idea of valiant military leadership and of the soldier at the service of the nation. This has been used to reinforce the appeal of Chávez, himself a former military officer, and has legitimized a role for the armed forces in the national development of the country, as exemplified by Plan Bolívar, a program of infrastructural renewal introduced in 1999. The political integration of the military marked a clear departure with the AD discourse of modernity and democracy achieved through civilian control and of the institutional practices of Punto Fijo. Opponents of Chávez argued that it was in the field of civil–military relations that the leftist and even “fascist” intentions of the Bolivarian project were deliberately obscured through manipulation of historical, national figures. In this interpretation, Chávez is seen to represent continuity with a tradition of collusion between communist elements in the civilian

The Case of Venezuela

●

125

and military spheres, exemplified by the conspiracies against Betancourt in the 1960s.28 Alternatively, he represents a return of the dictatorial caudillo tradition that has dominated much of Venezuela’s historical experience since independence. The extent to which historical figures are used to disguise a left-wing extremist project is also debated with respect to the use of Zamora and Rodríguez. Zamora is widely recognized as a champion of the peasant classes against the landed oligarchy. His reputation and ideals were mobilized by Chávez to legitimize the government’s controversial Land and Agricultural Development Law, which was introduced in December 2001 and which sought to roll out the rights and obligations of workers, land owners, and the state established in the 1999 Constitution. Drawing on the rhetoric of Zamora, Chávez condemned opponents of this and other government initiatives as “oligarchs,” “saboteurs,” and “defenders of privilege and exploitation.” These “squalid” opponents included the Roman Catholic Church, which Chávez urged to seek an “exorcism” after it critiqued his policies in 1999. The problem of poverty and marginalization was consequently conceptualized as political rather than economic and the country neatly delineated between villains and heroes, the chaos of the past and the harmony promised by the Bolivarian revolution. Echoing Zamora, Chávez promised to drive through the changes “demanded by the people,” by force if necessary, and he regularly conjured the image of the “trembling” privileged classes. The language was interpreted as implicitly threatening by opponents who valorized the ideals but rarely the practice of consensus, democracy, and policlasismo. Moreover, because of the administration’s emphasis on and commitment to the poor, critics argued that Chávez had transformed politics and economic policy from a zero to negative sum game. The historical figure of Simón Rodríguez was used to legitimize major changes in the education system, rolled out in the Bolivarian school and university initiatives and literacy missions, which have been conjoined with an emphasis on the teaching of “Bolivarian” history. There was also a notion of a frustrated “general will” articulated by Chávez, which is drawn from Rodríguez and which contrasts with the democracy of Punto Fijismo. Illustrative of the ideas at play here is Chávez’s address to the Andean community in 2000, in which he articulates his vision of a “deeper” form of democracy, intended to counter allegations that his project is implicitly authoritarian. In Venezuela, we have been reviewing the concept and the practice of democracy. Most of you for years were probably told a monstrous lie that many believed for a long time was the truth: Venezuela, it was said, was

126

●

Julia Buxton

one of Latin America’s model democracies. That’s not the kind of democracy we want: a democracy that leads most of the people into a state of misery; a democracy in whose sacred name some bodies are allowed to get rich and top leaders to act with impunity; and at the same time a system that in the name of democracy expropriates from the masses, that takes away their most essential right, not only their right to life, but their right to life-giving health, to education, to housing, to the land, to a job, to dignity itself. That cannot be democracy, those are tyrannies disguised as democracies and tyrants dressed up to look like democrats. Underscoring the contrast between Punto Fijo and Bolivarian democracy, Hellinger claims that Chávez draws upon Simón Rodríguez for a vision of democracy in more radical, Roussian terms, one that envisions a strong democratic state working actively to transform society to lay the basis for republican rule. The opposition offers a more Lockean vision of polyarchy, characterized by checks and balances and consistent with the liberal, Washington consensus.29 For Chávez and his supporters, the Bolivarian revolution constitutes an important progression for Venezuela. This is conceptualized as a shift from the Fourth to the Fifth Republic, a political rebirth that marks a complete break with all that has gone before.30 As such, this period is a “frontier” in Venezuela’s history. The idea of Punto Fijismo as democratic, just, or modern is fundamentally rejected in Chavismo. In the Bolivarian schema, progress and development can only be achieved through fulfillment of historical possibilities as elaborated in the nineteenth century, and this is articulated by Chávez in the current period in the language of “ordinary” Venezuelans. Conclusion Through seeking to radically redefine and restructure state institutions, the Chávez administration accelerated rather than ameliorated an existing legitimacy and institutional crisis. While the Bolivarian project delivered some important gains for marginalized groups, it did so to the neglect of building consensual or “appropriate” institutions that were essential to ensure the survival of the benefits delivered. In the contemporary period, Venezuela has failed to develop appropriate national institutions that are recognized as legitimate by its whole population. In this respect, it has not found an institutional “consensus” among significant groups, defined by race, socioeconomic class, gender, religion, and

The Case of Venezuela

●

127

ideology. This underscores a far deeper problem that emerged forcefully during the Chávez period. Venezuelan national “identity” is contested and as a consequence of this, the country will struggle to develop institutions and policies that reflect the “national interest.” There is no set idea of what it means to be a Venezuelan citizen, or of the rights and responsibilities of members of the national “community.” More problematic in constructing a consensual state project, it is clear that those “included” and “excluded” from the current Fifth and previous Fourth Republics have sought to craft separate and distinct national projects, identities, and visions that are mutually exclusive in nature. One draws upon symbols and myths associated with the modern, liberal, and “democratic” period of puntofijismo and is strongly influenced by and drawn to American cultural values. In contrast, the other “Venezuelan identity” articulated by Chávez draws on national historical myths and symbols that predate Punto Fijo. It has sought to redefine the national community of citizens through the social and political incorporation of those previously marginalized and alienated, and has been perceived as anti-American in outlook. The fact that both these competing concepts of nationalism are informed by notions of violence and struggle bodes ill for the construction of a unifying national identity. This in turn weakens the possibility of constructing consensual institutions and breaking with Venezuela’s history of political violence. Notes 1. See, e.g., Richard Gott, In the Shadow of the Liberator: Hugo Chávez and the Transformation of Venezuela (New York: Verso, 2000). 2. J. Ewell, Venezuela and the United States: From Monroe’s Hemisphere to Petroleum’s Empire (Athens, Ga., and London: University of Georgia Press, 1996); B. McBeth, Gunboats, Corruption, and Claims: Foreign Intervention in Venezuela, 1899–1908 (London:Greenwood Publishing Group, 2001). 3. B. McBeth, Dictatorship and Politics: Intrigue, Betrayal and Survival in Venezuela, 1908–1935 (Notre Dame, IN:University of Notre Dame Press, 2006). 4. On the Gómez period, see R. Alexander, Rómulo Betancourt and the Transformation of Venezuela (New Brunswick: Transaction, 1982); McBeth, Gunboats, Corruption and Claims. 5. On (the myth of ) racial democracy in Venezuela, see W. Wright, Café con leche: Race, Class, and National Image in Venezuela (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1990). 6. The 1909 decree, the Exposición de Motivos de la Ley de Minas, and the hydrocarbons legislation of 1922 formed the legislative framework for exploitation of the sector. The 1922 legislation established a liberal concession regime under which concessions were granted in perpetuity, and with a royalty that fluctuated between 7 and 10 percent. 7. Ewell, Venezuela and the United States.

128

●

Julia Buxton

8. R. Betancourt, Venezuela’s Oil (London: Allen and Unwin, 1978). 9. D. Hellinger, “Nationalism, Oil Policy and the Party System,” paper presented at the Latin American Studies Association Conference, 2000. 10. The 1943 legislation, introduced by President Isaías Medina Angarita, enshrined the right of the state to raise taxes on oil company profits. 11. See G. Kolb, Democracy and Dictatorship in Venezuela, 1945–1958 (Hamden, CT: The Shoestring Press, 1975). 12. For a discussion on the Pact and the academic debates around it, see J. Buxton, The Failure of Political Reform in Venezuela (Basingstoke: Ashgate, 2000); S. Ellner, “Introduction: The Search for Explanations,” in Ellner, S. and Hellinger, D. (eds.), Venezuelan Politics in the Chávez Era: Class, Polarization and Conflict (Boulder: Lynne Rienner, 2003), pp. 7–27; T. Karl, “Petroleum and Political Pacts: The Transition to Democracy in Venezuela,” Latin American Research Review 22:1 (1987), pp. 63–94; J. McCoy and D. Myers (eds.), The Unraveling of Representative Democracy in Venezuela (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004). 13. F. Coronil, El Estado Mágico (Caracas: Nueva Sociedad, 2002). 14. Hellinger, “Nationalism, Oil Policy and the Party System.” 15. See, e.g., C. Bergquist, Labor in Latin America: Comparative Essays on Chile, Argentina, Venezuela, and Colombia (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1986); J. McCoy, “Labor and State in a Party mediated Democracy,” Latin American Research Review 24:2 (1989), pp. 35–67. 16. See, e.g., J. Lombardi, Venezuela; The Search for Order, the Dream of Progress (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1982). 17. For analysis of this period, see J. Martz and D. Myers (eds.), Venezuela: The Democratic Experience (New York: Praeger, 1977). 18. Many went on to assume office in Chávez’s government, including Luis Miquelena, José Vicente Rangel, and Ali Rodríguez. 19. See, e.g., A. Alvarez (ed.), El sistema politico venezolano: crisis y transformaciones (Caracas: Universidad Central de Venezuela, 1996); D. Hellinger, Venezuela: Tarnished Democracy (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1991); R. Hillman, Democracy for the Privileged: Crisis and Transition in Venezuela (Boulder, CO: L. Rienner Publishers, 1994); T. Karl, The Paradox of Plenty: Oil Booms and Petro-States (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997); J. McCoy (ed.), Venezuelan Democracy under Sstress (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers, 1994); M. Naim and R. Pinango (eds.), El caso Venezuela: Una ilusión de armonía (Caracas: Ediciones IESA, 1989). 20. H.L. Nieburg, Political Violence: The Behavioural Process (New York: St Martins, 1970), p. 13. 21. F.R. Von der Mehden, Comparative Political Violence (New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 1973), p. 6. 22. The government decreed a package of forty-nine pieces of legislation intended to fulfill key aims of the revolution. A referendum was also announced on changes to the structure of the country’s trade union organizations, an infringement of their autonomy.

The Case of Venezuela

●

129

23. For a discussion of the constitution, see J. Kelly, “Orígenes y Consecuencias de la Constitución Bolivariana,” in A. Francés and C. Machado Allison (eds.), Venezuela: La crisis de Abril (Caracas: Ediciones IESA, 2002). 24. B. Mommer, “Subversive Oil,” in Ellner and Hellinger (eds.), Venezuelan Politics in the Chávez Era, chapter 7. 25. I. Ramonet, “The Conspiracy against Chávez,” http://www.zmag.org/content/ LatinAmerica/ramonet_chavez-conspiracy.cfm. 26. Telesur and Petrosur are joint ventures in telecommunications and oil policy with other Latin American countries including Brazil, Argentina, and Cuba. 27. See, e.g., C. Blanco, Revolución y desilusión la Venezuela de Hugo Chávez (Madrid: Catarata, 2002). 28. See, e.g., M. Sierra, “La Fractura Militar,” and A. Garrido, “De La Revolución Bolivariana A la Revolución de Chávez,” both in Francés and Machado Allison (eds.), Venezuela: la crisis de Abril. 29. Hellinger, “Nationalism, Globalization and Chavismo,.” unpublished paper presented at the Latin American Studies Conference, Washinton, DC, 2001. 30. The First Republic dates from 1810 to 1812 (Declaration of Independence to the fall of Puerto Cabello); the Second Republic (1813–1814) covers Bolívar’s “Admirable Campaign” to the rebellion against the Republic. The Third Republic (1821–1830) covers the unifying Cucuta Convention to the disintegration of the Republic of Colombia. The Fourth Republic begins with the exile of Bolívar (1830) and runs through to the instauration of the Fifth Republic in 1999.

This page intentionally left blank

CHAPTER 8

Political Violence, Cinematic Representation, and Peruvian National Identity: La Boca del Lobo (Francisco Lombardi, 1988) and La Vida es una Sola (Marianne Eyde, 1993) Sarah Barrow

I

n May 1980, as Peru was returning to democracy after twelve years of military rule, a fundamentalist splinter group of the pro-Maoist Peruvian Communist Party, Sendero Luminoso, broke into a polling station in the Andean town of Chuschi, Ayacucho, and destroyed the ballot boxes. This act of aggression is usually taken as marking the onset of twelve years of armed struggle, which evolved into a “dirty” political war between the military and Sendero that persisted through three presidencies (Belaúnde 1980–1985, García 1985–1990, and Fujimori 1990–2000), until the capture of the insurgent group’s leader, Abimael Guzmán, in 1992. This chapter will look at how some aspects of this bloody conflict have been dealt with by two of Peru’s most important filmmakers. However, before doing so it is important to outline some of the key factors underpinning the development of Sendero; in particular, its inextricable links to the complexities of Peru’s national identity, and the importance of its response to the growing alienation of the Andean communities as compared to the relative prosperity of city-based mestizos and coastal criollos.

132

●

Sarah Barrow

As van den Berghe has observed, “Peruvian social structure is conceived as a multitude of binary relations of dependence and domination,” and “Indianness, in this scheme, is defined as the low end of a dependency chain on nearly all dimensions of unequal relations.”1 Decades of economic disparity, racial prejudice, and deepening distress took their toll, culminating in peasant riots in the 1950s and 1960s. Ill-conceived land reforms on the part of General Velasco in the 1970s caused further pain for rural communities by eliminating the land-owning elite who had at least acted as intermediaries between state and society. Charismatic university professor Guzmán exploited the sense of intense disillusionment and the political vacuum these state policies provoked. He also took advantage of the effects of the expansion of university education of the 1960s throughout the provinces, which had raised expectations amongst the poor for a better future while also engendering a heightened awareness of the persistent ethnic and cultural divisions that characterize Peru. Mauceri even suggests that “a radicalized base sympathetic to Maoist discourse and practice already existed by the time Sendero launched its armed activity,” as a result of rapid social, political, and economic change in the preceding two decades.2 Once the armed activity had begun, the group’s expansion throughout the country was swift as first Belaúnde’s government neglected to take the group seriously, then García’s failed to allocate sufficient resources to address the problem. In addition, by the late 1980s, the country’s economic recession had spiraled out of control, and Sendero declared its intent to shift its focus from the countryside to the cities, especially Lima. Once there, the group began to infiltrate unions and community groups and targeted government officials in a wave of assassinations that took the administration by surprise. By the time Alberto Fujimori was elected president in 1990, “the general perception was that the Shining Path was steadily advancing toward its goal of bringing down the state” while in an effort to win the war, “the military had become one of the world’s worst human rights abusers.”3 Although recent reports reveal that the level of abuse on the part of the military remained high, Fujimori was successful in bringing Sendero under control by implementing a number of complementary measures. He improved military salaries and centralized decision making so as to reduce internal conflict and boost morale. He ensured greater emphasis and resources were given to intelligence agencies, leading to the capture of many of the senderista leaders and their computer records. Perhaps most importantly for the longer term, he reintroduced civil defense patrols (rondas) comprising of local people who worked alongside the military to reduce Sendero attacks, while also fulfilling

Political Violence, Cinematic Representation

●

133

an intermediary role between state and rural communities. As Mauceri observes, “this mobilizing capacity . . . ultimately proved the most successful element in the Fujimori effort to defeat Sendero.”4 This politically motivated conflict between Sendero and state left nearly seventy thousand victims—dead or disappeared—at a time when the country was also in the throes of sociopolitical and economic collapse.5 Peru’s national filmmakers largely avoided the topic of political violence during most of the 1980s, but since 1988 it has become a focus of attention for a number of directors. Nevertheless, only two national feature films have explicitly portrayed the violence of Sendero and its consequences for rural communities. La Boca del Lobo (Francisco Lombardi, 1988) explores the motives and actions of young soldiers from Lima and their relationship with the Andean inhabitants they have come to defend, while La Vida es una Sola (Marianne Eyde, 1993) focuses more specifically on the experiences of an Andean community caught between Sendero and the armed forces. This chapter sets out to unravel the key elements of representation and reception pertaining to these films, and the ways in which they link political violence to national identity. Both were greeted with caution by the state and the domestic audience who were suspicious about the perceived antiestablishment positions proposed by them. Eyde’s work in particular suffered from being released shortly after the capture of Guzmán, a significant event that gave just cause for national celebration but it also triggered a period of widespread national amnesia and denial. There prevailed a sense that the nation should move forward and quickly try to forget its painful recent past. This entailed downplaying the extent of the violence suffered by the most marginalized communities in rural Peru, and turning a blind eye to the nature of the military’s brutal antisubversive strategies, for the sake of national unity. Eyde’s film, which served in part as a reminder of the increasingly harsh nature of the government’s counterinsurgency strategy, was therefore viewed as an ideological threat to Fujimori’s regime, and provided uncomfortable viewing for the cinema-viewing majority based in the cities. This chapter seeks to investigate the representation of Peru’s political violence in both films, while also exploring the context of their release dates and the different degrees of controversy sparked by each. It further asks why this important national theme has remained on the margins of Peruvian cinema production, despite the possibilities for testimony, debate, and construction of a sense or image of nation via its national cinema. Regarding this latter point, Andrew Higson has suggested that a national cinema might be defined partly in terms of its potential to represent “national identity.” He points out that while this could imply “that cinema simply reflects or expresses a pre-existing

134

●

Sarah Barrow

national identity, consciousness, or culture,” there is also the possibility that “national identity is constructed in and through representation.”6 He quickly resolves this tension by clarifying that “films will draw on identities and representations already in circulation—and often they will naturalize those identities. But films will also produce new representations of the nation.”7 La Boca del Lobo and La Vida es una Sola both draw upon ideas, events, people, and images that many already associate with Peru and that are “already in circulation,” both nationally and internationally, to echo Higson. But to what extent do the films also question and challenge some of the assumptions and prejudices surrounding such events and the people involved, thereby contributing to the construction of more complex notions of national identity? This chapter aims to reveal how these national films offer ways of understanding an important period of Peru’s national history and the development of its national identity, and how they challenged the dominant hegemonic discourse of the time. On the relationship between national cinema and national identity, Emma Wilson, in her sensitive discussion of French cinema, makes a general observation that: “[C]inema may provide us with identity images, yet it can also remind us that identities are unstable, change through time, location and encounters, have many facets and are inherently unknowable.”8 Susan Hayward goes further in arguing that national cinema “should function as a mise-en-scène of scattered and dissembling identities.”9 However, this potential for national cinema to draw attention to those deep-rooted ethnic and class-based divisions that were part of the source of the social tension in Peru would perhaps help explain why direct cinematic representations of the conflict in rural areas were avoided for most of the 1980s and 1990s. Uncomfortable questions would inevitably be raised about the historical domination of Peruvian “national” identity by Lima (the center) and its problematic relationship with Andean communities (marginalized on the periphery), with its origins in the Spanish conquest of Peru in the sixteenth century, and perpetuated by a Lima-based ruling elite (whether military or civilian) since the country gained independence in 1821. Such considerations might also have sparked a concern on the part of individual filmmakers not to be seen to challenge the political status quo, nor to be labeled as a threat to national security. A situation of self-imposed censorship is likely to have sprung from a desire not to risk losing financial, political, and popular support for future national film projects. This fear of restrictions to freedom of expression seems to gain new credence in the light of the details that have emerged since Fujimori’s demise of both his and his head of intelligence Vladimir Montesinos’ manipulation of the mass media through substantial payments. The analyses that follow should demonstrate

Political Violence, Cinematic Representation

●

135

the extent to which individual feature films are able to provoke controversy and concern amongst politicians, the film industry, and audiences alike, and the ways in which national developments of a socioeconomic and political nature might affect the reception of such films.

La Boca del Lobo (The Lion’s Den; Francisco Lombardi, 1988) Synopsis Vitín Luna (Toño Vega) is a police officer who is keen to advance his military career. He requests a transfer to Chuspi, an Andean community that has been badly affected by the violence perpetrated by Sendero Luminoso. The barracks at Chuspi have recently been attacked by the Maoist rebels, resulting in the massacre of the entire regiment. Luna is clearly arriving at a dangerous place, where he can expect a sudden attack at any moment from an omnipresent yet invisible enemy. The regiment at Chuspi is under the command of Lieutenant Basulto (José Tejada) who believes that the enemy must be confronted with force but also with honor and on the right side of the law. But Basulto is murdered by Sendero rebels, and replaced by Lieutenant Roca (Gustavo Bueno). Authoritarian by nature and accustomed to making unchallenged orders, Roca establishes a new relationship with the local community as well as with the members of the garrison. The rape of a local woman by one of the younger soldiers provokes an intensely frustrated Roca to order a massacre of civilians in an attempt to reassert his authority and to restore some sense of order. Luna and Roca then face each other in a game of Russian roulette. No one dies, but the experience changes their relationship irrevocably, and the sense of intense disillusionment causes Luna to abandon his post and disappear into the mountains. By the time La Boca del Lobo was released in 1988, Sendero’s attacks and the military’s reprisals had spread throughout the whole of Peru. Lombardi’s sixth feature tells the story of a military detachment’s period of service in a remote Andean community that had been officially declared an emergency zone and was under military command. It has been widely acknowledged that in such areas “the lack of direct civilian control or formal oversight mechanisms also produced massive human rights violations.”10 Indeed, a large part of the controversy surrounding this film stems from the fact that the screenplay was inspired by a real attack by the military on the Andean village of Socos in 1983, during which around forty people—mostly innocent civilians, including women and children—were executed on trumped-up charges of collaboration with the enemy. The film suggests that the murders were carried out in an effort

136

●

Sarah Barrow

to cover up for military brutality toward the villagers, and as an act of violent frustration against a callous, invisible opponent. At the end of the scrolling text with which the film begins, Lombardi states that “this film is based on true facts that occurred during 1980 and 1983,” and Peruvian film historian Ricardo Bedoya has acknowledged that “the film can be seen as a denunciation of the policies adopted by the government and an indictment of the ‘inhumanity’ that resulted from the ‘dirty war’ between the Sendero Luminoso and the Peruvian Army.”11 Nevertheless, further study suggests that the film’s politico-ethical position is far from straightforward, and it is the ambiguity in this regard that allowed for its eventual acceptance by the state and by the domestic audiences as a “palatable” national film. Despite that scrolling text, Lombardi’s declared intention, as articulated during several interviews after successful international festival screenings and during the run up to its much-awaited national release, was not to spark political protest, but to use his chosen medium to explore the theme of collective violence in Peru, and “to invite debate on how the system might defend itself in future without recreating the unfortunate consequences that emerged from Peru’s own war against terror.”12 In response to some of the criticism leveled at his film by conservative, patriotic audiences for the way the military was portrayed, Lombardi simply reminded viewers that during November 1988 alone there had been more than six hundred deaths in the Andes as a result of the struggle between Sendero and the military, and that people living in Lima needed to be aware of and take responsibility for what was happening in the more remote parts of their own country.13 He neither wished to pass judgment nor to apportion blame in any particular direction; nevertheless, his nuanced portrayal of the military, which includes several ruthless, authoritarian, and morally questionable characters, antagonized the state and flew in the face of official rhetoric about the conflict. Lombardi additionally claimed that although he and the scriptwriters (Giovanna Pollarollo and Augusto Cabada) interviewed witnesses of the event from all sides, and consulted national Sendero experts such as Carlos Iván Degregori and Gustavo Gorriti for advice and information regarding authenticity, he felt he needed to create a piece of fiction that was valid on its own merits as a dramatic piece. He acknowledged that the film might have a testimonial value for those affected by the particular events, but he primarily wanted his reflection on violence to be enduring, not limited to one specific place at one moment in time. Nevertheless, the tension between the topical and the perennial, the thematic and the dramatic aspects of the film confused and disappointed some audiences, including critics, many of whom expected the film to

Political Violence, Cinematic Representation

●

137

deal even more directly with contemporary events. This view was taken by, for example, commentator José Carlos Huayhuaca, who observed that: On one hand (the “thematic”), everything seems to be centered around the historical focus made up by the slaughter of the civil population of Socos, and, on the other hand (the “dramatic”), the centre gradually moves towards the relationship between the two main characters whose end is the sequence of the duel playing the Russian roulette game— through which the importance of such an event (the slaughter of some innocent people as part of the dynamic of the “dirty war”) becomes relative and the real topic of the film is finally the old motive pursued by Lombardi since his first films: the turn from a friendship based on admiration (of masculine values) to a breakdown when these are revealed as false and deceptive.14 Within such a context, the slaughter acts simply as the “triggering sequence of the major conflicts within the film and the beginning of the end of their resolution”15 and is not meant therefore to provide the dramatic focus to the film. Nevertheless, it should be pointed out that while the director was forced to cut the opening title, “Slaughter of Socos,” at the request of the armed forces, he begins it more suggestively and perhaps more effectively with a long tracking shot following a young shepherdess leading her flock through the empty village culminating with a poignant and intriguing close-up on her face. On seeing the corpses in the village square, she directs a gaze of passive resignation at the audience, and looks at Luna in a similar way in the closing scene. The young soldier from the city seems in turn to want to speak to her, to explain, to justify his actions, to apologize perhaps for what has happened to her community, but leaves without uttering a word. While the character of the shepherdess is perhaps symbolic of the few Andean observer/survivors of the dirty war who would eventually offer their testimonies after decades of being ignored, Luna’s silence in the final scene seems suggestive of the silence on the part of the state surrounding the complicated reality of the violence. Both could be taken as vehicles for comment on contemporary events of national concern, while their inability to communicate draws attention to the divisions and differences within Peruvian national identity. Nevertheless, national critics such as Bedoya insist that Lombardi’s approach focuses more on character development than on narrative events, and that the audience is encouraged here to become more interested in the conflicts within and between his set of male characters than on the verisimilitude of the sociopolitical context. Indeed, much of the film is taken up with intense scenes

138

●

Sarah Barrow

that set out to demonstrate the fragile emotional and psychological state of his protagonists, locked in a situation “exacerbated by fear, loneliness, cultural difference and the irrational threat of an invisible enemy.”16 It is certainly clear that much of the controversy regarding the portrayal of the military stems from the development of the two main characters: Lieutenant Roca, the “bad” father figure, a charismatic but increasingly desperate and fanatical leader of men; and Luna, the naïve young recruit who invokes most sympathy through his sense of integrity. Furthermore, the “good” father figure in the shape of principled lieutenant Basulto is killed off in the first part of the film, suggesting that his methods, while honorable, were ineffective. This portrayal of internal disarray pointed to the actual lack of political and military agreement on how to respond to the insurgency, which in turn “reflected deep conflicts among differing state elites over the role of the state in society and even the nature of Peruvian society itself.”17 Luna’s character is suggestive of a whole generation of young men who were ready to commit to the counterinsurgency conflict and to sacrifice themselves for the salvation of their nation. But Luna’s naïve enthusiasm “soon transforms into apprehension, fear and . . . a sense of outrage at the injustices meted out” by his superiors and comrades toward the peasant communities.18 Roca, on the other hand, represents an oppressive authoritarian regime, extreme forms of military discipline, overzealous antisubversive measures, and patriarchal power. Conflict arises out of their differing perceptions of law enforcement, with Luna preferring the law-abiding methods favored by the assassinated Lieutenant Basulto, whereas for Roca the goal of wiping out Sendero justifies any means, however barbaric, ruthless, and seemingly futile, such as the massacre of innocent villagers. The Russian roulette game acts as a dramatic device that draws the two men to a similar level by making them both face possible death. Luna proves to himself and to others that he can withstand such pressure, while Roca, through closeups, is seen to tremble and shake, revealing a vulnerability that threatens to undermine the hard image that is fundamental to his sense of self. Indeed, Roca’s reaction could further be interpreted as controversially suggestive of the vulnerability of the state itself, overwhelmed by the spiraling insurgent attacks. The closing deep-focus images show Luna running away from the village, deserting from the army, and disappearing into the ominous, menacing mountains that have been presented throughout as another of the film’s antagonists, “sheltering the most primitive forces of aggression and irrationality.”19 These mountains are considered by their inhabitants to be home to apu, pre-Hispanic Andean deities, and Sendero’s revolutionary ideals were considered by some intellectuals to be partly reliant on Andean recuperation of Peruvian national

Political Violence, Cinematic Representation

●

139

identity and power. Indeed, Mauceri explains how for Sendero the main protagonist and source of revolutionary identity was the peasantry, and primarily the poor Andean peasant . . . The peasant represented the new revolutionary man, freed from western and bourgeois values. In the Peruvian context, where traditional Andean culture with strong pre-Hispanic elements still existed among the peasantry, a close identification of peasant identity with revolutionary identity necessarily implied that Andean culture took on an important role in Sendero’s conceptualization of class.20 Hence, Luna’s final disappearance into the mountains could be understood as provocatively suggestive of a return to pre-Hispanic origins, a rejection of Western-style modernity, and a switching of allegiance to join forces with the Sendero rebels. Certainly, the quiet departure of the “hero” is imbued with ambiguity, offering no sense of resolution to the ongoing political conflict. Despite having previewed and given approval to Lombardi’s film, military chiefs resented its existence and its success. They would have preferred more praise for their efforts to quell Sendero violence, and were concerned that the timing of the film’s release coincided with a collapse of counterinsurgency strategy, as well as a deepening economic crisis. Ironically, audiences in Cuba and Spain, perhaps less sensitive to the nuanced portrayals, considered the film to be overly supportive of the military. However, Peruvian authorities complained that it offered criticism of the armed forces at a time when national unity and belief in the power of the state to defeat the enemy was crucial; in 1988, the rebels seemed stronger than ever and attacks on Limabased targets including government officials were increasing.21 However, military chiefs were unable to prevent Lombardi’s film from being screened, and apart from the aforementioned modification to the text at the beginning, there were no direct attempts at cutting or banning the film altogether. Indeed, the armed forces are thanked for their cooperation in the credits. Nevertheless, COPROCI (La Comisión Promotora de Cine [Commission for Promotion of Film]) the government body for national cinema at that time, took the unprecedented step of showing the film to various groups before its release, and only approved it on condition that it was restricted to those over eighteen. This angered the director who was keen for his film to be seen by the widest possible audience, especially young people who he felt ought to be at the center of any debate on national violence, identity, and collective responsibility. Partly as a result of all the media attention, this first national film to deal directly with the bloody conflict between Sendero, rural communities, and the

140

●

Sarah Barrow

armed forces was a critical and public success in Peru, as well as the recipient of many awards at international festivals. Lombardi’s feature provoked an important if uncomfortable debate on collective responsibility toward the ongoing political violence between insurgents and military, and drew attention to the deep divisions between Andean and coastal, city-based Peruvians, between the state and rural society. Nevertheless, ideologically, it was of little real threat to the ruling elite, which was struggling to contain the violence. The insurgent enemy in Lombardi’s film remains invisible and apparently irrational throughout the film. By contrast, even the most brutal actions of the soldiers are given some kind of logical motivation, and several of the military characters are shown to act with reassuring dignity and integrity. It is an ambitious film that functions on a number of different but interrelated levels: as a political indictment of contemporary events in Peru; as an observation of the tense relations between members of the armed forces and the inhabitants of remote Andean communities, revealing deep-rooted racism and intolerance toward people who supposedly share the same national identity but whose position as part of the Peruvian nation is here called into question; and as a psychological drama that explores the reactions of a group of men “confronted with themselves, at the edge of death.”22 By interweaving these layers, Lombardi creates a compelling tale of rural adventure and macho conflict, while also offering a bold portrayal of political events and social issues of national importance. La Vida es una Sola (You Only Have One Life; Marianne Eyde, 1993) Synopsis During annual carnival celebrations, three young members of Sendero arrive in Rayopampa ostensibly to learn about Andean culture. One of them, Aurelio (Jiliat Zambrano), seduces local girl Florinda (Milagros del Carpio) as a strategy to infiltrate the community with the aim of threatening the traditional order of life there. Executions take place of those community members whom the Sendero rebels believe to have betrayed them to the military based nearby. They then declare the area a “liberated zone.” The army moves in to try and retake the community. The rebels leave but take some of the young people, including Florinda, with them. She is at first repulsed but then resigns herself to accepting their methods, assuming her own “Comrade” name. However, when she is called upon to execute a deserter, someone she has known since childhood, she feels she has no choice but to run away herself. On her return to the village, she finds her home devastated and her presence is clearly a cause for concern for the few survivors of military reprisals. Florinda’s father persuades

Political Violence, Cinematic Representation

●

141

her to leave and she is last seen disappearing, like Luna, off into the mountains to an uncertain future. The only other Peruvian film to deal directly with Sendero violence perpetrated in the Andes, Marianne Eyde’s feature was released in 1993, five years after Lombardi’s portrayal. This later film shares with La Boca a similar concern for rural location and a focus on a younger generation. But the fundamental difference in terms of cinematic representation lies in the way that Eyde makes her enemy clearly and uncomfortably visible, giving the Sendero insurgents a face (often framed by compelling close-ups), as well as complex motivations and justifications that audiences are encouraged to try to engage with and understand, if not to view sympathetically. This aspect was clearly articulated in a review by critic Federico de Cárdenas in 1993, who stated that: In this film we see the most detailed representation of the behavior and attitudes of Sendero members that has yet been produced by Peruvian cinema. Until this time, they have been portrayed as absent threats in a small number of films.23 In particular, the character of comrade Meche (Rosa María Olortegui) offers a complex portrayal of a woman whose political beliefs lie on the ultra-left. She has an aura of contentment with and devotion to her chosen path in life and is representative of the large number of young women who became involved at all levels with Sendero, even within the brutal assassination squads. In his analysis of terrorism in Peru, David Whittaker speculates that “women overcame the subordinate role and status historically ascribed to them in Peruvian society when they participated as equals in the Sendero Luminoso apparatus and led many of its initiatives.”24 Meche is shown to have given herself entirely to her cause and embodies the spirit of personal sacrifice that was fundamental to the Sendero philosophy, with its concept of “ ‘the quota’: the willingness, indeed the expectation, of offering one’s life when the party asked for it.”25 In addition, she demands the same level of commitment to the party from those around her, and throughout the film issues orders that constantly test that devotion. Eyde stirred up additional controversy by encouraging the audience to sympathize most strongly with the Andean community around which the drama and conflict revolves. The campesinos are presented as the absolute victims of forces that are beyond their control. This approach resonates with the director’s earlier documentary work of the 1970s and 1980s, which threw the spotlight upon the daily lives of indigenous Peruvians. Through a careful and sensitive use of cinematography, sound, and silence, Eyde offers an impressionistic sense of a rural community, which is in many ways the protagonist

142

●

Sarah Barrow

of the film, trapped between Sendero terror and military abuse. The idea of the collective is accentuated through the use, for example, of high and wide angles. César Pérez, director of photography and a key collaborator on Eyde’s documentary work in the Andes, allows his camera to glide over the top of the action and takes in the whole community in a single frame, or groups the villagers tightly together, as in the scene of mourning for the assassinated community leader. In early scenes, the viewer is introduced—alongside the young Sendero rebels—to daily life in the remote Andes with colorful, idealized images of animals, rural customs and festivities, and hard agricultural work. These scenes help to place the rural community at the heart of the drama, and to establish a sense of equilibrium that is abruptly disrupted a short while later. Like Lombardi’s film, Eyde’s alternates between scenes of calm and scenes of brutality, the latter eventually overwhelming the former as the narrative progresses, and the penetration of Sendero members into rural life becomes deeper. What begins as manipulative ingratiation with and feigned respect for local customs and way of life turns into sadistic domination and intrusion into each of the community’s rituals. School lessons are interrupted as comrade Meche insists on indoctrinating the village children with Sendero philosophy, reflecting the Sendero strategy of imposing its own teaching methods on rural schools, “even kidnapping campesino children for ideological indoctrination.”26 Perhaps most controversial of all, Eyde’s film condemns not only the violence of the insurgents, but also that committed by the military. Of course, Lombardi’s film was also critical in this regard, but Eyde upset the state further by neglecting to offer much in the way of explanation for the actions of the armed forces. She concentrates instead on showing the campesinos as terrified victims of violence on all sides, accused by Sendero of collaborating with the army, and blamed by the army for collusion with the rebels. This is achieved mainly by focusing our attention and sympathies on the protagonist Florinda, the young woman who is seduced by one of the rebel leaders as part of a general strategy to infiltrate the community. As the motives of the new arrivals become clear, Florinda is forced to turn her back on her community and family, and is in turn betrayed by the man she thought loved her. Like Luna in La Boca, she undergoes a sort of coming-of-age apprenticeship, learning harsh lessons about love, death, and her own place in the world, and slides into a hellish nightmare from which there appears to be no escape. Commenting on her inexorable descent, critic Fernando Vivas observes in his review that for Florinda, “ideological doubt is turned to bloody dilemma when she is forced to execute a dog and then a friend.”27 Also in common with the young protagonist of Lombardi’s film, we last see Florinda fleeing into the Andean countryside; both have an uncertain future ahead of them,

Political Violence, Cinematic Representation

●

143

and while the suggestion is that Luna might be leaving the military to join the Sendero cause, the miserable implication for Florinda is that, if she is lucky, she will join the masses of campesinos migrating from country to shantytown on the outskirts of Lima. Her dream of romance is shattered along with her youthful innocence, her family rejects her, and the military has failed to protect her. This projection of sympathy onto the Andean community was a direct challenge to the deep-rooted racism and intense antagonisms between coastal and serrano dwellers in Peru, drawing further attention to the country’s profound lack of national unity and solidarity. Left-wing Peruvian intellectual and historian Alberto Flores Galindo, in his seminal essay on violence and democracy in Peru, highlighted the rupture between state and society, the lack of solidarity, common national image, and shared collective projects, and linked these key issues to the problem of developing tensions and structural violence in his country: The rupture between State and society is, in reality, the political expression of a nation in which solidarity is rare, there is no common image, nor are collective projects shared. To be Peruvian is an abstract concept, that is further diluted in any street by faces that look away and people who walk with their eyes set forward, opening the way.28 To a certain extent, Eyde’s film brings such issues uncomfortably to the fore by reminding the largely Lima-based spectators of the devastating havoc the violence was wreaking on communities in rural parts of their own country. Like Lombardi’s film, it served as a further reminder that Peru’s national identity may be dominated by a certain aspect of Lima society, but that there are many citizens both within and outside the capital, especially in more remote geographical regions, who ought to be included in any serious consideration of Peruvian identity, rather than simply having their image appropriated by the state and used to promote the nation as an exotic and desirable destination for international tourists. However, in the years that had passed between the release of Lombardi’s film and that of Eyde there had been important sociopolitical changes in Peru that made it far more difficult for Eyde to have her film accepted. Between 1988 and 1993, the political and economic climate had hardened as terrorist attacks persisted and hit Lima harder, and neither the state nor its largely urban population proved willing to accept a film that portrayed the rebels who had terrorized them for over twelve years in more detail than any previous depiction. Moreover, the leader of the movement had been captured by the military, and Fujimori’s relatively new political regime was anxious to avoid criticism of its

144

●

Sarah Barrow

own aggressive antisubversion methods. Whereas the violence in Lombardi’s film could be interpreted as a portrayal of unplanned, individualized brutality ordered by one renegade officer, rather than of state-sponsored, institutional, and systematic violence, Eyde’s was a more openly antagonistic cinematic statement on the effects of the political violence that placed itself in direct conflict with the ideological position of the government. The capture of Guzmán brought with it a new approach to press reporting of Sendero activities, and public opinion was shaped in such a way as to assure support for Fujimori, however unorthodox the methods used by the armed forces to suppress the rebels. Attempts to offer a different picture were kept to a minimum, especially with new legislation preceding the 1992 autogolpe (autocoup). As David Wood points out, “in November 1991 . . .[as part of ] a package of 126 presidential decrees prepared under [Fujimori’s] extraordinary legislative powers . . . any Peruvian citizen publishing articles critical of the counter-insurgency campaign in the foreign press would be charged with treason.”29 El Comercio in particular drew constant attention to the fact that Fujimori, the police, and the intelligence services deserved the highest praise for the capture of the Sendero leader. Nevertheless, the violent capabilities of the government’s armed forces were occasionally revealed: just one year after Guzmán’s capture, a discovery was made of a mass grave containing the bodily remains of a professor and eight students from the University of La Cantuta in Lima. These victims were already suspected of having been kidnapped in 1992 by a military commando group, and confirmation of this in the press reopened a thorny public debate about “the institutionalization of the ‘dirty war’ in Peru.”30 Even those who were most supportive of Fujimori’s tactics were aware of the need not to lapse into triumphalist discourse, given the fact that some of the revolutionary group remained at large, attacks might continue, and acts of antisubversion might have to be repeated, ideally with a degree of national consensus. In addition, great pains were being taken by El Comercio and Expreso to imply that Sendero motives were not in fact linked to revolutionary ideals, but to self-serving economic interests reliant on drug-trafficking that enabled the group’s leaders to live a life of debauched luxury.31 Hence, Eyde’s cinematic portrayal of a group of idealistic young revolutionaries was entirely at odds with the way public opinion was being shaped by state-sponsored discourse regarding the Sendero movement at that time. Fujimori’s clear aim was to destroy psychologically the collective imaginary of Sendero as self-sacrificing opposition to the state that the Maoist organization had come to represent for the most marginalized rural sectors of the Peruvian population, and at the same time to develop the image of the armed forces as defenders of national unity.

Political Violence, Cinematic Representation

●

145

One consequence of this approach was that the release of Eyde’s film was delayed as it underwent close scrutiny by a nervous COPROCI, which took the unprecedented step of sending the film to the Ministerio del Interior before voting on its suitability for release. Furthermore, the co-screenwriter, respected Peruvian playwright Alonso Alegría, removed his name from the credits for fear of persecution from the state and hostility from audiences, and the director was accused by many (critics, politicians, and spectators) of revealing and pursuing a pro-senderista agenda. None of these events concerned her particularly, according to an extensive interview conducted in November 1992, but she was angry that the very institution set up that year to oversee and promote national cinema did not feel able to approve of her film for ideological reasons. As she explained at the time: The responsibility of COPROCI is to vote according to the technical and artistic quality, and they can vote on this. However, they should not assume other responsibilities that pertain to other state bodies. Otherwise, they would be assuming the role of censor, which by law, does not correspond to them.32 When accused of sympathizing with terrorists, Eyde responded by criticizing the lack of collective responsibility for a national problem, and calling for the need for COPROCI to enter publicly into an important debate. She considered her treatment by the state as insulting and degrading, as an oppressive attack on freedom of expression and artistic creation in general. Her film was eventually released after four years in production, but its reception nationally was moderate despite acclaim at a number of international festivals. Furthermore, whereas La Boca del Lobo had been released at a time when a protective cinema law guaranteed exhibition on the national circuit, by the time of the release of Eyde’s film, that law had been abolished and national films were forced to compete on the open market, in a battle weighted heavily on the side of popular and noncontroversial Hollywood products. And while Lombardi’s film had been able to rely upon state subsidy and coproduction support from Spain, Eyde was forced to draw on more meager funding from Norway (her country of birth), Holland, and Venezuela. When her film was finally approved for release, it opened at only four cinemas in Lima with very little media attention, while national TV channels rejected it for screening. While both films undoubtedly sparked debate on an issue of enormous national concern, Eyde was more politically assertive in stating explicitly that hers should be regarded as primarily a call for peace, a rejection of violence, an expression of a passion for life, and a statement on human rights, drawing

146

●

Sarah Barrow

attention to an unevenness in the application of this latter within Peruvian society. Furthermore, in terms of style, there are stark contrasts to be made. Lombardi sticks to his favored classical narrative style with nationally wellknown actors and a fully developed script, encouraging an emotional spectatorial engagement with individual characters. Eyde, by comparison, opted for many of the strategies most commonly associated with the documentary form, such as nonprofessional actors, some improvised dialogue, and handheld camera, adding a further level of uncomfortable “truth” to her depiction, and privileging political and social issues over narrative and character. As outlined in the introduction to this chapter, one of the generally agreed aims of any national cinema is to express and explore some aspect or aspects of national identity, an identity built in large part “on shared memories of some past or pasts.”33 Both Lombardi’s and Eyde’s films achieve this through their investigation of the motives and consequences of Peru’s recent political violence. However, Hayward also states that while memory as treated by much national cinema “stands for collective memory, a shared culture, shared memories of a collective past . . . memory also means amnesia.”34 Citing Anthony Smith’s work on nationalism, she further notes that “the importance of national amnesia and getting one’s own history wrong (is essential) for the maintenance of national solidarity.”35 Indeed, the Fujimori-led campaign of counterinsurgency and post-conflict regeneration aimed to wipe from the nation’s minds all memory of the increasingly “dirty” aspects of the political violence in Peru, in particular the military’s antisubversive tactics, which exposed a frequent disregard for basic human rights and democratic freedoms. Smith’s assertion is helpful when trying to understand the differing reception to the two films under discussion. By 1988, the year of the release of La Boca del Lobo, the political violence had spread, unchecked, to the streets of Lima and affected the daily lives of all its inhabitants, regardless of class or ethnic background. A film that debated such violence may not have been warmly welcomed by all, but the topic it portrayed was at the heart of public opinion, and freedom of expression was in any case largely guaranteed by García’s relatively liberal Aprista government. By 1993, however, there had been a change of regime and of political structures following the 1992 autogolpe, and with that a move to an increasingly centralized and repressive mindset that brought the benefit of capturing a terrorist leader, but the disadvantage of restraints on civil liberties. “National amnesia” regarding the chaotic and brutal role of the military in much of the violence since 1980 was strongly encouraged, for the sake of national solidarity. In such a political context, which also involved a change to the country’s economic systems and an abolition of a law to promote national cinema, it is hardly surprising therefore that a film such as Eyde’s, which sought to expose the “masquerade of unity”

Political Violence, Cinematic Representation

●

147

and to reveal rather than to “conceal structures of power and knowledge,”36 would suffer such a rough ride from politicians and audiences, and provoke anxiety amongst fellow filmmakers who rely on both for their professional survival. How ironic then that ten years later, the state-commissioned Truth and Reconciliation Committee would bring such issues and events right back to the heart of political and social debate, discrediting Fujimori and the very political institutions that sought to block Eyde’s film. In a spirit of recuperation of national memory, president of the Commission Salomón Lerner said on presenting the report to Peru’s first president of Andean descent, Alejandro Toledo, that “Peru must now confront a time of national shame.” Regarding the identity of the majority of the victims of the conflict, he pointed to the unmistakable fact that “three of every four victims of the violence were peasants whose mother tongue was Quechua, a broad sector of the population historically ignored, even ridiculed, by the state and urban society.”37 The hope now must be that the breakdown in state–society relations so astutely exploited by Sendero leaders in their campaign to establish a new political order is restored instead by a democratic system that recognizes the diversity of Peru’s citizens and goes some way toward drawing together the multiplicity of elements that make up the Peruvian nation. Notes 1. Cited in Peter Wade, Race and Ethnicity in Latin America (London & Virginia: Pluto, 1997), pp. 73–74. 2. Philip Mauceri, State under Siege: Development and Policy Making in Peru (Colorado: Westview Press, 1996), pp. 119–120. 3. Peter Flindell Klarén, Peru: Society and Nationhood in the Andes (New York & Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), p. 407. 4. Mauceri, State under Siege, p. 145. 5. Peru’s Comisión de la Verdad y Reconciliación, a government-appointed body established to investigate two decades of political violence, presented its final report on August 28, 2003, and in it identified by name some thirty-two thousand people who died during the violence. However, the report, based on nearly seventeen thousand testimonies, estimates that around sixty-nine thousand people in total died or disappeared, double the previous estimates. Of these, the study attributes 48 percent of the deaths to Sendero, 33 percent to the security forces, 17 percent to government-backed peasant militias (rondas), and 2 percent to a small Cubaninspired guerrilla group. www.cverdad.org.pe, September 2, 2003. 6. Andrew Higson, Waving the Flag: Constructing a National Cinema in Britain (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), pp. 5–6. 7. Ibid.

148

●

Sarah Barrow

8. Emma Wilson, Personal Histories: French Cinema since 1950 (London: Duckworth, 1999), p. 20. 9. Susan Hayward, “Framing National Cinemas,” in Hjort, M. and Mackenzie, S. (eds.), Cinema and Nation (London & New York: Routledge, 2000), p. 101. 10. Mauceri, State under Siege, p. 137. 11. Ricardo Bedoya, “La Boca del Lobo/The Lion’s Den,” in Elena, A. and López, M.D. (eds.), The Cinema of Latin America (London: Wallflower Press, 2003), p. 185. 12. Filmoteca de Lima: Interview with Francisco Lombardi in La República, December 19, 1988 (my translation). 13. Filmoteca de Lima: Interview with Francisco Lombardi in El Comercio, December 8, 1988 (my translation). 14. Cited by Bedoya, “La Boca del Lobo,” p. 189. 15. Ibid. 16. Ibid., p. 186. 17. Mauceri, State under Siege, p. 136. 18. Ibid. 19. Ricardo Bedoya, Un Cine Reencontrado: diccionario ilustrado de las películas peruanas (Lima: Universidad de Lima, 1997), p. 280. 20. Mauceri, State under Siege, p. 128. 21. Ibid., pp. 116–117. 22. Bedoya, “La Boca del Lobo,” p. 186. 23. Filmoteca de Lima: Film review in La República, November 15, 1993 (my translation). 24. David J. Whittaker, “A Case Study on Peru,” in The Terrorism Reader (London: Routledge, 2001), p. 159. 25. Gustavo Gorriti, “The Quota,” in Stark, O., Degregori, C.I., and Kirk, R. (eds.), The Peru Reader: History, Culture, Politics (Durham & London: Duke University Press, 1995), p. 324. 26. Mauceri, State under Siege, p. 127. 27. Fernando Vivas, La Gran Ilusión, 2:1 (1994), pp. 57–59 (author’s translation). 28. Galindo Alberto Flores, Los rostros de la plebe (Barcelona: Crítica, 2001), p. 189. 29. David Wood, “The Peruvian Press under Recent Authoritarian Regimes, with Special Reference to the autogolpe of President Fujimori,” Bulletin of Latin American Research 19 (2000), pp. 17–32. 30. Victor Peralta Ruiz, Sendero Luminoso y la Prensa, 1980–1994 (Lima: Centro de Estudios Regionales Andinos/Casa de Estudios del Socialismo, 2000), p. 229. 31. Ibid., pp. 231–233. 32. Filmoteca de Lima: Interview with Marianne Eyde, La República, November 9, 1992. 33. Hayward, “Framing National Cinemas,” p. 90. 34. Ibid. 35. Ibid. 36. Ibid., p. 101. 37. Report of the Comisión de la Verdad y Reconciliación, www.cverdad.org.pe, September 2, 2003.

CHAPTER 9

Violence, the Left, and the Creation of Un Nuevo Chile Francisco Domínguez

W

ithin the Latin American context, Chile, up to September 11, 1973, had a unique political evolution. Its political democracy had laid deeper roots than in the other Latin American republics because it had mass communist and socialist parties, which, more legitimately than its counterparts in the rest of the continent, were not only integral to the workings of the political system, but had also formed part of coalition governments, had large party apparatuses, newspapers, strong and long-term presence in parliament, and led powerful social movements for radical change. The strength of the left’s appeal lay in its message of social justice and social redemption based on a history of struggle against upper-class violence. Opposition and denunciation of institutionalized violence in the Chilean left’s interpretation of the country’s history played a central role in its discourse to build an alternative national identity. Although this discourse was not systematically organized it did focus, critically, on some key political events. Thus, for example, the massacre of nitrate miners at the Escuela Santa María in 1907 contributed centrally both to the left’s imagery and to its appeal to build a better, socially more just patria and to its own identity as the bearer of the promise of a better world. Instances of class violence such as these were central themes of history books, poetry, popular music, plays, novels, and short stories written from a left perspective.

150

●

Francisco Domínguez

Within this framework, this chapter intends to examine and discuss the component parts of the discourse of the Chilean left contained in disparate form in a selection of these works in order to assess its significance in broadening and legitimating its worldview of Un Nuevo Chile, which would begin to materialize in September 1970 with the election of Allende. The Chile of 1970 was the result of a long period of colossal social struggles generated by a socioeconomic system that could not and did not wish to address the crucial social, economic, political, moral, and cultural aspirations of the majority. The elite that had presided over such a system had resorted to brutal force with frightening regularity but had preserved the basic liberal–democratic edifice until 1973 when it deemed the challenge from below too serious and proceeded, through systematic violence, to uproot any organizational, political, or cultural space that the lower classes had built through painful and protracted battles for nearly a century. Chile’s political history up to 1973 was heavily determined by the struggles of the labor movement and of the poor, which had traditionally been referred to euphemistically in political circles as “the social question”. In fact, it could be argued that the social question has dogged Chile’s elite since 1844 when radical activist Francisco Bilbao, founder of the Sociedad de la Igualdad, wrote his seminal Sociabilidad Chilena, thus initiating a long-lasting intellectual trend of cultura contestaria.1 This counterculture focused both on exposing and denouncing the existing power structures because they bred injustice, misery, and violence against the many, as well as on challenging the tacit and overt moral and intellectual bases on which the elite felt its rule and its actions legitimized and justified. The Elite’s View of Society Due to its peculiar historical development, the Chilean upper classes enjoyed a large degree of internal unity, thus reducing significantly the likelihood of intra-elite conflicts, which plagued most other Latin American nations in the nineteenth century. The matrix within which this unity developed ensured that the state and government were seen as superior and above the interest of individual factions, while it also guaranteed the exclusion—forcibly when necessary and by consensus when convenient—of the subordinated classes in a political system that otherwise had all the appearances of democracy. The “natural” bourgeois order in Chile had a racist substratum. To the upper echelons of society, the poor tended to be flojos and borrachines because of their indigenous ancestry from which they inherited “the stupidity and proneness towards uncleanliness and drunkenness bequeathed by their Indian blood.”2 In Gramscian-like fashion, Diego Portales, scion of the aristocratic Chilean

Violence, the Left, and the Creation of Un Nuevo Chile

●

151

elite and creator of the country’s modern state, understood the connection between consensus and coercion to guarantee the existing political order: “The stick and the cake, justly and opportunely administered, are the remedies with which any nation can be cured, however inveterate its bad habits may be,” since for him the social order was maintained by the “weight of the night . . . the masses’ near universal tendency to repose was the guarantee of public tranquility.”3 Should the masses’ state of repose end, thus threatening the established order, Portales and his successors never hesitated to use “the stick” to secure that tranquility.4 Institutions such as the Church shared this view. In 1891, the archbishop of Santiago, Mariano Casanova, stated that the source of the “social question” was socialism because it was a creed that intended to establish equality of wealth and of social condition, which he saw as contrary to the nature of human society and to the prescriptions of (divine) Providence. Socialism encouraged the greed of the poor with the prospect of wealth without work, convinced the poor that the divine fact that men who were equal in nature were unequal in social status was unjust and it was this (false) view that fueled antagonisms between poor and rich and between proletarians and bosses.5 Despite appearances to the contrary, the Portalean system of governance was to prove much more resilient during the twentieth century when Chile went through a slow, piecemeal process of democratization. In this regard, one historian commented in 1963 that “what we have praised as democracy in Chile since 1920 has amounted to little more than a system in which a small privileged class has been gentlemanly in determining through very limited electoral processes, which of its members would rule the country.”6 Nevertheless, despite the huge progress with regards to political participation and democratic expansion made since Portales’ conservative counterrevolution in 1830, the traditional foundations of Chile’s elite rule, namely autocracy, social stratification, and repression of popular activism, remained solidly in place but in tense contradiction to constitutional and legislative developments. That is to say, removing the “weight of the night” from the Chilean working classes could not be reconciled with maintenance of the existing socioeconomic order.7 Thus, attempts to seriously democratize the Constitution by the left in 1969 led one member of the elite to express their fundamental opposition in the following terms: “such a proposal contains two key ideas which are only one, firstly that the people are sovereign; secondly that the elected representative embodies it. This is the view of Tito, Nasser, Castro and twenty other dictators, who have been inspired by Lenin, Mao and Ho Chi Minh.”8 Despite the references, this view smacks more of Sarmiento than McCarthy. Nothing good could come out of the unimpeded participation of the lower classes. The elite despised the lower classes including those who

152

●

Francisco Domínguez

originated from them but did not belong to them any longer. Thus, during the 1938 electoral campaign, they referred to the left’s candidate Pedro Aguirre Cerda as “El Negro” to scorn him for his dark complexion.9 In the book-homage to Victor Jara, Joan Jara gives us a hint that upperclass attitudes toward the roto and the huaso10 had not, as late as the 1960s, changed substantially: I was invited to spend a holiday with a friend on her large estate in the south; they had extensive vineyards and wine-making plant. Her husband remarked casually at lunch one day that he would shoot outright any peasant who went on strike or made any gesture of rebellion—all communists should be killed.11 Such a view is little different from the view expressed by sections of the Chilean elite with regards to emerging social movements at the end of the nineteenth century, when it either refused to accept the existence of a “social problem” or demanded “mano dura” against “revoltosos” or “viciosos” from the lower classes and their allies when they cried out for justice.12 No wonder that the Popular Unity manifesto of December 1969 included the following as central to their raison d’etre: The development of monopoly capitalism prevents the spread of democracy and encourages the use of violence against the people. The fighting spirit of the people rises as reforms collapse, and in turn hardens the attitudes of the more reactionary sector of the ruling class, which, in the last resort, have no other recourse but violence . . . The brutal forms of violence applied by the present state, such as the activities of the militarized Riot Police, the attacks upon peasants and students, and the slaughter of squatters and miners, are inseparable from the other, no less brutal forms of violence experienced by the Chilean people.13 Although Chile was not beset by the coups, rebellions, and revolutions that characterized many of the other Latin American nations and was perceived and acclaimed as a democracy where the military did not overtly intervene in politics, elections took place as scheduled, votes were fairly counted, there was freedom of the press, freedom of association with communists and socialists—avowedly Marxist parties—legally participating not only in politics but even in government, regular state violence against lower-class social movements dotted the country’s political evolution. According to one account, between 1901 and September 10, 1973, there were fifty-five events deemed massacres by historians, which involved confrontations with the repressive

Violence, the Left, and the Creation of Un Nuevo Chile

●

153

forces of the state resulting in injury and death.14 Thus, even on the eve of Popular Unity’s election in 1970, the lower classes confronted what was essentially an elite still deeply molded in a Portalean worldview. From Class in Itself to Class for Itself The defeat of a bourgeois democratic revolution led by enlightened Chilean president José Manuela Balmaceda, in 1891 turned Chile into a British semi-colony around the extraction of nitrate, which would lead to the rise of a highly concentrated and highly militant working class.15 The concentration was not only industrial but it was also geographical, with most nitrate miners (numbering just 13,600, when the total population was about 3 million16) in the north of the country where the big natural deposits of this mineral were actually located. While nitrate workers suffered constant repression, the situation of the majority of the peasants was worse, a condition shared by the urban and rural poor. Such is the assessment of Luis Emilio Recabarren, founder of the organized labor movement in Chile, in 1910 in his Ricos y pobres a través de un siglo de vida republicana.17 Inevitably, the miserable existence of the bajo pueblo was to find its way into literature. The Generation of 1900, a motley collection of writers, in their literary production unwittingly discovered and revealed Chile’s rural and urban poor.18 The writers of the Generation of 1900, however, with few exceptions, did not go deep into the causes of the social condition of those who motivated their writings.19 An exceptional member of this group was Baldomero Lillo, the first writer of social fiction in Chile, who wrote a collection of short stories compiled in publications such as Sub Terra (1904) and Sub Sole (1907), which, as their titles convey, are an exposure of the wretched social and human universe of coal miners in the south of Chile, as well as of rural laborers and peasants.20 Lillo’s stories are written in a way that prods the reader to condemn and to take sides, and gives literary and symbolic depths to the social condition of the coal miners. The political context is furnished by the crushing defeat in a civil war of Balmaceda’s nationalist project which, had it been successful, would have meant the demise of the complacent but exclusionary and socially unfair “Parliamentary Republic” ruled by a short-sighted, arrogant, and highly repressive landed oligarchy.21 Having crushed an elite-led reform, for the following 34 years oligarchic politicians grossly abused the parliamentary system by bringing about regular political crises that forced changes of governments or ministers. Between 1886 and 1918, parliamentary factions forced resignations of 425 ministers none of whom remained in their post for longer than 2

154

●

Francisco Domínguez

years.22 Thus, the period was dominated by instability, patronage, corruption, and decadence while society below seethed with discontent. For the period 1890–1925, there were 24 general strikes and 75 inter-sectorial strikes with an additional staggering 764 individual strikes involving just about every trade union in the land; besides, there were 13 mass demonstrations, 58 large rallies, and 18 incidents.23 The period saw appalling levels of repression with well over 3,000 workers dying at the hands of the repressive forces of the state. These sharp antagonisms gave rise to a sturdy counterculture from a wellarticulated workers’ press through newspapers such as La Igualdad, La Democracia, El Defensor de la Clase Proletaria, La Voz del Obrero, El Proletario, La Reforma, El Pueblo Obrero (essentially trade union newspapers) El Socialista, Acción Obrera, La Aurora Roja, La Aurora, La Bandera Roja, La Verdad (socialist); El Siglo, La Agitación, La Luz, El Faro, El Alba, El Oprimido, El Primero de Mayo, El Productor, La Batalla, Luz y Defensa, Acción Obrera, La Defensa, La Voz del Marino, Unión Gremial, Acción Directa, El Productor, El Proletario, El Obrero Metalúrgico, El Trabajo, La Voz del Pueblo, Unión Sindical, El Rebelde, El Acrata, La Antorcha, La Revuelta (anarchist).24 It is through these newspapers that an alternative worldview is postulated, which largely remains at the level of abstract propaganda for a socialist society. At that time, the working class was structured into three types of organizations: the sociedades mutuales, the mancomunales, and the sociedades de resistencia. This is the foundational period of the Chilean labor movement, of the Federación Obrera de Chile, and of Luis Emilio Recabarren and the Partido Obrero Socialista, a period when one the most-remembered events of the class struggle in Chile’s historiography, namely, La Matanza de la Escuela Santa María de Iquique in 1907, occurred. No other epic captures the drama, frustration, spirit of struggle, sense of injustice, and wanton repression than Francisco Pezoa Véliz’s Canto a la Pampa, which tells the dramatic events leading to the Santa María de Iquique School Massacre.25 Canto a la Pampa recounts the gory events of the Santa María de Iquique School, where on December 21, 1907, three thousand striking nitrate miners and their families, who had been forced into it as a temporary lodging while they petitioned the authorities to intervene and arbitrate in a trade union dispute against nitrate mining companies in the province of Tarapacá, were massacred in cold blood by army troops under the orders of General Roberto Silva Renard. In the sharp strokes of the pen of Francisco Pezoa Véliz, the inhospitable desert landscape becomes an ominous background to the unfolding social and political drama. The heavy weight of lifeless silence of the pampa (the desert in the north of Chile) is broken by the cries of rebellion emanating from nitrate miners in the struggle demanding their rights, but only to be restored by the sound of machine guns. The call for redress for the

Violence, the Left, and the Creation of Un Nuevo Chile

●

155

many victims amounts to little more than a scream of impotent anger, but it heralds a future for justice and a desperate desire for hope. The power of the piece is astonishing considering that it has barely 176 words. Its resonance among Chileans was, up to 1973, enormous. The Santa Mariá de Iquique School Massacre has been one of the most-studied, commented, and remembered political events of the country’s labor movement history. This period was indeed highly prolific in all kinds of countercultural discursive practices with poetas comprometidos such as Víctor Domingo Silva who besides poetry wrote plays, essays, novels, short stories, and journalistic articles and who summarized his literary endeavors as “the actions of the oppressed in search of a fruitful spring in this earth which is full of horror and indecency.”26 In the novel Pampa Trágica (1921), Silva depicts a world of men dominated by greed and exploitation, writing as ever with his pen at the service of the oppressed. However, it is the young poet José Domingo Gómez Rojas who best symbolizes the poeta comprometido. A member of the “Generación del 20,” he was the author of a single book of poems, Rebeldías Líricas (1913). Gómez Rojas was the poet of the conventillos (squalid tenements, typical working-class housing), and a great deal of his poetry was about “honorable and hard working carpenters, painters, shoe-makers, bricklayers and saddlers who did not have either time or the desire to think about anything else than the social revolution.”27 Anarchist and bohemian, arrested during a wave of repression launched in 1920 by the Conservative administration of Ladislao Errázuriz, he was driven to insanity by torture and interned in a mental asylum where he died. He was barely twenty-four years old.28 From Subordinate Class to Sharing Government With the world recession of 1919, the Chilean economy, heavily dependent on nitrate export revenues, sharply nosedived bringing with it the customary sequel of misery, hunger, destitution, and mass unemployment. Nitrate sales fell from 2,500,000 tons to 915,239 in 1919 giving rise to mass social unrest but also plunging the parliamentary republic into terminal crisis.29 The wave of mass social unrest that swept the country found political expression in the Asamblea Obrera de la Alimentación Nacional (AOAN), a mass movement animated by Recabarren’s Federación de Obreros de Chile, the anarchists and politicized university students of the Federación de Estudiantes de Chile. AOAN’s central activity was to organize “mitines del hambre” to protest against the high cost of food. At one point, the AOAN staged a mass demonstration with one hundred thousand participants, gigantic when set against the fact that in 1918 Santiago, the capital city, had four hundred thousand inhabitants.30 Another unequivocal manifestation of the crisis of

156

●

Francisco Domínguez

the parliamentary republic was a military coup attempt in 1919, led by reformist military officers whose plans included state-led industrial development aimed at securing the nation’s economic independence, and the promulgation of laws favorable to the working class.31 The stage was set for a qualitative transformation of Chile’s polity. The multitudinous electoral campaign and election of Arturo Alessandri in 1920 against archconservative Luis Barros Borgoño expressed the death throes of oligarchic Chile and the birth of bourgeois democratic Chile, thus inaugurating a rather prolonged period of instability that began with the constitution of 1920. The novel Casa Grande by Luis Orrego Luco captures aptly—in the phrase of Domingo Melfi 32—the process of “aristocratic decomposition.” Reformist army officers stepped into the fray and took control through several Juntas and between September and November 1924 got Congress to pass a backlog of more than eight hundred laws, approved the new constitution, which, crucially, granted workers the right to organize stage strikes, and a myriad of other measures expanding the political system to include organized labor as a legitimate political actor. The demise of aristocratic Chile gave rise to “criollismo,” a literary current led by Mariano Latorre, which attempts to Chileanicize national literature, that is, to make it plebeian.33 Latorre develops in particular “criollismo rural” which he defines as “telluric,” that is, a form of tragic geographic determinism34; that further develops into a literature of the sea, the village, the desert, the coast, and the city. Criollismo writes about real people as defined by their ancestral customs; thus, for example, Luis Durand, another criollista, characterized it as “the literary creation that concerns itself with the life of (Chilean) people in the rural areas.”35 Most of the “criollistas” do not have a subversive intent but by depicting plebeian Chile they challenge the acceptance of the dominant values and role models of the oligarchic social order. However, there were exceptions such as Ricardo Latcham, who denounced yankee exploitation, Carlos Pezoa Véliz, poet of rebellion and denunciation, and the indigenista Lautaro Yankas, who focused on the inexorable extinction of the Mapuche race as a result of the brutal advance of modernity and civilization.36 However, in the final analysis, the crisis of Chile’s oligarchic democracy leads most criollista writers to focus on its victims and not on the victimizers, the consequences and not the causes of social evils. Their literature expresses pity rather than outrage, yet it reveals, underneath the official nation, the existence of another Chile whose cultural universe is the nation. The inability of the elite and its political parties to resolve the crisis, which continued to beset the nation well into the second half of the 1920s, and the persistent militancy of the lower classes led the former to rally behind military strong man Colonel Carlos Ibáñez del Campo. Although the communists

Violence, the Left, and the Creation of Un Nuevo Chile

●

157

fielded Elías Laferte, at that moment confined to internal exile on the island of Más Afuera, Ibáñez got nearly 100 percent of the vote, a position from which he proceeded to replace the traditional politicians from the state and government with military officers. Ibáñez’s was a Bonapartist military dictatorship that both reduced further the power and influence of the oligarchy and also repressed the communist-led labor movement.37 Ibáñez’s ruthless and cavalier style as well as his sympathies for Italian fascism earned him nicknames such as “The Horse” and “The Chilean Mussolini.” Under his government, the violent repression of trades unions, and communists and anarchists in particular, coupled with the setting up of the Confederación Republicana de Acción Cívica (CRAC), an ibañista trade union organization, nearly wiped out the militant labor movement established in the 1895–1920 period. By 1931, the communist-led Federación Obrera de Chile had nearly been eliminated, the communists had been forced underground, and many of its leaders were in prison. Had it not been for the effects of the Wall Street crash of 1929, which led to Ibáñez downfall in 1931 through mass civil disobedience—including a mutiny in the Navy—his authoritarian project would have succeeded.38 The protracted political crisis of oligarchic rule would again find expression through the military. Sailors of the Chilean fleet mutinied in 1931, thus inaugurating another brief period of military intervention in politics. The civil administration of Juan Esteban Montero that replaced Ibáñez was in turn replaced by a Junta led by Air Force commodore Marmaduque Grove who, on June 4, 1932, was to proclaim Chile’s ephemeral “socialist republic,” which was to last barely twelve days but which was to be the catalyst for the rise of a second working-class party, the Partido Socialista. Chile’s elite reacted by creating the Milicias Republicanas, an upper-class paramilitary organization aimed at preventing further socialist attacks on the existing political system, especially those coming from the military themselves. Openly encouraged by Arturo Alessandri in his second presidency (1932–1938) and by Liberals and Conservatives (the parties of the oligarchy), the Milicias managed to organize fifty thousand heavily armed men throughout the country and played a central role in repressing social movements in the period 1933–1936 when they were finally disbanded.39 It is in this period that one of the first massacres against the Chilean peasantry took place. The Ranquil Massacre of July 1934 led to the death of over four hundred peasants40, and was an event that was to reverberate in the working-class memory for a long time to come (the name of the most militant peasant trade union to emerge during the agrarian reform initiated by Christian Democracy in 1967 was Confederación Campesina e Indígena Ranquil).41 Chile’s turbulent transition out of the oligarchic republic was to lead to the election of a Popular Front coalition in 1938, modeled roughly on its

158

●

Francisco Domínguez

French and Spanish counterparts, which brought to government communists and socialists in alliance with the center-left Radical Party. The auspicious beginnings of the Popular Front and the process of industrialization and democratization it unleashed were significantly tainted by the deliberate exclusion of the peasantry from the benefits of modernization and by the expulsion of the communists from the Radical-led government of Gabriel González Videla in 1947 and its outlawing through the promulgation of the Law of Defense of Democracy (the “Ley Maldita”), which led to the persecution of the communists and, in a move that preannounced the concentration camps of Pinochet’s dictatorship, the setting up of special camps in the Atacama desert to imprison many of its leaders. The persecution had the support of the bulk of the socialist party, except for a small dissident faction led by Salvador Allende. As though prefiguring their future roles in the country’s history, while Allende was endeavoring to establish a united front of the left, an obscure army officer Augusto Pinochet was put in charge of a detention camp. Paradoxically, the crisis was to come to an end with the election of Carlos Ibáñez del Campo who would be the president of the republic between another transition period, 1952–1958, when Chile moved from class collaboration to class confrontation. Allende, the left’s presidential candidate, in his first attempt, came last with the paltry figure of 51,984 votes. Ibáñez’s second administration tried to mimic Peron’s populism but combined repression and economic austerity with a final phase that included some overtures to the left including the abolition of the Ley Maldita and reform of the electoral system. It is the Generación del 38 that best gives expression to the Nuevo Chile both because its rise and formal founding coincides with the victory of the Popular Front coalition in that year and because it also represented a generation of writers who lived through and had sided with the Republic during the Spanish Civil War (indeed, the defeat of the Republic in Spain in 1939 led to the arrival of thousands of refugees to Chile whose cultural politics had a long-lasting impact on the Chilean Left42), became antifascist during World War II, and turned against the United States with the onset of the Cold War. Both Pablo Neruda’s España en el Corazón (1938) and Francisco Coloane’s Cabo de Hornos (1941) are radical critiques of the existing state of social and political affairs not only domestically but also internationally, while Reinaldo Lomboy’s Ranquil (1941) fictionalizes the massacre of over four hundred peasants in Lonquimay in 1934 and Volodia Teitelboim’s Hijo del salitre (1952) seeks to connect working-class struggles in the nitrate period with the issues of the 1950s. It was, however, Manuel Rojas43 who with Hijo de Ladrón (1951) revolutionized not only the Generación del 38, but Chilean literature itself, with a body of work that Iván Quesada has aptly referred to as “the epic of the dispossessed.”44 Perhaps the most representative novel in terms of

Violence, the Left, and the Creation of Un Nuevo Chile

●

159

political commitment was Nicomedes Guzman’s La Sangre y la Esperanza (1943), which focuses on the destitute and violent universe of the Chilean urban slum, exposing its socioeconomic reality as well its struggles to build a better, more just society. With the demise of the Popular Front, this counterculture became increasingly more radical and intensely latinoamericanista, epitomized in Neruda’s Canto General (1950). Thus, through a social realist fiction that carries an explicit critique of society, these authors contributed significantly to develop an alternative cultural universe. Through their writings, the utopian vision of a Nuevo Chile found its way into the nation’s consciousness. El pueblo al poder The 1950s and particularly the 1960s represented a catalyst in synthesizing the long journey of the search for a utopia that addressed Chile’s social and economic ills. However, unlike the previous decades, it was mainly through the medium of music and songs rather than literature that this was to be formulated. Poets such as Neruda and Violeta Parra become national icons, and their poetry an obligatory point of cultural and political reference. Popular singers such as Víctor Jara and musical groups such as Quilapayún and Inti Illimani emerged as the bearers of utopia with such compositions as “Gracias a la vida,” “Plegaria de un Labrador,” and “La Cantata Santa María de Iquique.” In the time span of just twelve years Chile went through extraordinary events moving swiftly from a government of the right in 1958–1964, to the “Revolution in Liberty” between 1964 and 1970, a bold reformist experiment with Christian Democracy, to “the peaceful road to socialism” in 1970–1973 with Allende’s Popular Unity. The left went from strength to strength. In 1958, Allende, leading the Frente de Acción Popular (FRAP), received 28.8 percent of the vote; in 1964, leading the FRAP, his vote went up to a staggering 38.9 percent; and, finally in 1970, heading the Unidad Popular coalition, he triumphed with a plurality of the vote: 39.6 percent. The mass celebrations of September 4, 1970 heralded the fact that the left, on its own, had culminated the long, hazardous journey that had started at the beginning of the century, in 1906, when Luis Emilio Recabarren established the Partido Obrero Socialista. It would be reductionist at best and false at worst to attribute the emergence of the nueva canción chilena to one single factor, but there is no doubt that a significant part of it lies with Violeta Parra, who with her tireless artistic activities, her compositions and songs about the plight and rights of the underdog, unleashed a cultural, process that gave new impetus to the Chileanicization of national culture, which would transform how people

160

●

Francisco Domínguez

understood Chile. Violeta Parra does not only sing about the horrors of poverty, repression, and discrimination against “los de abajo,” she also advocates rebellion as in “Guillatún” (1966), a lament against the injustices of centuries inflicted on the Mapuche nation, while other songs contain antiracist messages (Casamiento de Negros) or encourage the poor to rise up or castigate the rich and powerful (Décimas). In this regard, Ignacio Valente (“21 son los Dolores”) has said: The folklore to which Violeta Parra subscribes is different, more underground and deep, more closely tied to the true roots of the people, more authentic and of course more rooted to that wonderful cultural phenomenon that is authentic popular poetry; simple, ingenious, magical.45 The path Violeta Parra blazed with her plebeian poetry and musicality established high moral and artistic standards, and would prove to be both an incentive as well as a demanding yardstick with which to measure future cantores populares. A precursor not only of the Chilean and Latin American Nueva Canción, Violeta Parra, with her uncompromising but disarming simplicity, was the decisive link between the previous radical discourse and the Chile Nuevo. Her legacy would lead to the establishment of the Peña de los Parra in 1964, which would attract a host of cantores populares such as Patricio Manns, Rolando Alarcón, Víctor Jara, Inti Illimani, Quilapayún, and many others.46 The Chile Nuevo had found its troubadours. Their artistic endeavors more than any other intellectual activity excited the imagination, raised the hopes, and galvanized the will of the poor to struggle for a new Chile. The singers of the Nueva Canción Chilena filled the airwaves, the political rallies, demonstrations, and the popular imagination with their songs of hope and rebellion, inspired by the example of the Cuban Revolution. Thus, Patricio Manns sings to Chile and to America in an impressive repertoire that extends over three decades, among which there are poems of rebellion and songs that reinterpret the past, giving it a revolutionary slant. Their message links up the struggles of the past with those of the present and makes them part of a single epic being carried out at a continental level. After Violeta Parra, no other Chilean contributed so much as Victor Jara to the Nueva Canción and to the building of a Nuevo Chile. His songs such as “Te recuerdo Amanda,” “El Arado,” “El Pimiento,” and “Preguntas por Puerto Montt” had a deep effect nationally and internationally for their strong messages of rebellion, justice, solidarity, and outrage, while songs such as “El Aparecido” capture the self-sacrifice of Che in Bolivia in a sentiment that still reverberates around the world. However, perhaps his most emblematic song is Plegaria

Violence, the Left, and the Creation of Un Nuevo Chile

●

161

del Labrador. Using the structure of “Our Father”, Plegaria del Labrador clamors for the Lord’s will to become reality on this earth (Hágase por fin tu voluntad aquí en la tierra) by furnishing the people with strength in their struggles. The subversive twist in the poem is in the song’s chorus, which asks God “to clean like fire the barrel of my gun” so that the people can free themselves from the oppressors who keep them in a state of misery. Plegaria is more than a rebel song; it is a song of revolution with the legitimacy of a religious commandment.47 Arguably, La Cantata Santa María de Iquique (Quilapayún, 1969) is the greatest work of the Nueva Canción Chilena.48 The Cantata, as though completing a full historic cycle, is about the massacre of the nitrate miners on December 21, 1907 in the arid pampa salitre and offers a stern and perceptive warning that “since Chile is such a long country,” if we are not prepared, “anything is possible.” Narrated as a chronicle of a death foretold, the Cantata tells in detail the story leading to the terrible events in the Escuela Santa Maria de Iquique back in 1907. The structure is innovative in that it includes songs and music as well as a narrative with the voice of Héctor Duvauchelle, a well-known theater actor. Quilapayún sings the story as a collective worker who from the past addresses an audience seventy years later, “Señoras y señores / venimos a contar / aquello que la historia no quiere recordar” (Ladies and gentlemen / we are here to sing / about what history does not wish to record), with the aim of preserving the historic memory of the working class: “por más que el tiempo pase / no hay nunca que olvidar” (however much time passes / we must never forget). The themes include vivid descriptions of the socioeconomic conditions of the nitrate miners, the repression they suffer, and the hope for justice in Iquique. Once in the city, and confined to the Escuela Santa Maria, an arrogant general leading heavily armed troops addresses them in deadly crescendo, moments before the massacre: This is nothing more than a joke. Stop inventing such misery. You don’t understand work and are ignorant, you disturb the peace and are criminals. You are against the country and are traitors. You steal and are thieves, you have raped women and are shameful. You have killed soldiers and are murderers. It would be better if you went now, without protest, because however much you beg, you will get nothing. Better leave this place or you will suffer the consequences. The fury of the general in charge of dislodging the revoltosos from the school reminds us of both of Portales’ and Sarmiento’s views of the lower orders and

162

●

Francisco Domínguez

of the ferocity with which Pinochet and the military, on behalf of the elite, crushed the government of Salvador Allende. If the class insolence of the pampino miner in 1907 was paid for dearly, then that of the Chilean people in 1970–1973 was paid for even more so, prompting a punishment of seventeen years of dictatorship. Conclusion The resilent and prolonged resistance to institutionalized political violence by working people in Chile throughout the twentieth century gave rise to a counterculture that was expressed and formulated through poems, songs, short stories, and novels aimed at both morally condemning the ruling elite as well as legitimizing the demands and objectives of the lower classes. Artistic and literary productions in Chile for the three-quarters of the twentieth century examined in this chapter gave rise to a strong, rounded, comprehensive, and powerful counterculture that in cumulative fashion, led to the construction of an alternative idea of a national identity to be accomplished with a Nuevo Chile. Central to this long gestation was the persistent and systematic violence utilized by Chile’s elite, which led many an intellectual to question the legitimacy of the nation’s socioeconomic structures and the culture that justified them. Thus, the Nuevo Chile would be economically sovereign from imperialism and foreign capital, eradicate institutionalized violence against working people, lift the cultural and educational levels of its population, get rid of the infamous latifundia, raise the moral caliber of its people, eliminate racial and sexual discrimination, strive for equality, ally itself with the struggles of poor nations, primarily Latin American ones, respect the religious beliefs of the people, and so forth. In short, a Nuevo Chile necessitated the creation of a Nuevo Chileno. Editorial Quimantú, the state publishing company set up by the Popular Unity government, was publishing titles of well-known national and world writers at the rate of thirty thousand–fifty thousand copies per week, leading, according to some accounts, to one million actual books in just three years. Never did so many read so much as a result of the imagination and creativity of so few. The above shows that there is nothing wrong with dreaming. In fact, for as long as there is injustice and class-driven violence, there will be dreamers who will think up utopias. In this regard, Pablo Milanés is absolutely right when he says, “Pobre del cantor de nuestros días que no arriesgue su cuerda para no arriesgar su vida.”49 It is because of this that Víctor Jara and so many others like him are remembered with such intensity.

Violence, the Left, and the Creation of Un Nuevo Chile

●

163

Notes 1. The antecedents of this are indeed abundant; see Sergio Grez Toso (ed.), La “Cuestión Social” en Chile Ideas y Debates Precursores (1804–1902) (Santiago: Dirección de Bibliotecas, Archivos y Museos, Centro de Investigaciones Diego Barros Arana, 1995), pp. 63–91. 2. Cited in Edward Boorstein, An Inside View . . . Allende’s Chile (New York: International Publishers, 1977), p. 11. 3. Cited in Brian Loveman, Chile. The Legacy of Hispanic Capitalism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979), p. 5. 4. Ibid. 5. Grez, La “Cuestión Social” en Chile, p. 379. 6. Cited in Boorstein, An Inside View, p. 46. 7. Loveman, The Legacy of Hispanic Capitalism, p. 7. 8. Cited in Bernardino Bravo Lira, Régimen de Gobierno y Partidos Políticos en Chile, 1924–1973 (Santiago: Editorial Jurídica de Chile, 1978), p. 29. 9. Leslie Bethell (ed.), Chile Since Independence (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), p. 105. 10. The roto and the huaso are at best condescending and at worst pejorative terms to refer to the urban and rural poor, respectively. 11. Joan Jara, Víctor, An Unfinished Song (London: Jonathan Cape, 1983), p. 13. 12. Grez, La “Cuestión Social” en Chile, p. 43. 13. “The Programme of Unidad Popular”, in Richard Gott (ed.), Chile’s Road to Socialism (Harmondsworth, Penguin Books, 1973), pp. 24–25. 14. http://personales.com/chile/santiago/partidocomunista/historia.html (Anexo III). 15. A great portion of Chile’s historiography of the labor movement deals in detail with the condition of the nitrate proletariat. See Hernán Ramírez Necochea, Historia del movimiento obrero en Chile (Santiago: Editorial Austral, 1956); and Julio César Jobet, Ensayo crítico del desarrollo económico-social de Chile (Santiago: Editorial Universitaria, 1955). 16. Luis Vitale, Interpretación Marxista de la Historia de Chile (Santiago: Editorial Fontamara, 1980), p. 36. 17. Luis Emilio Recabarren, “Ricos y pobres a través de un siglo de vida republicana,” in Recabarren, L.E. (ed.), Obras escogidas (Santiago: Editorial Recabarren, 1965), pp. 84–126. 18. From 1900 to 1915 there appeared a host of literary works (novels most of them) whose focus and inspiration are the “real” people of the country. Among them we find Baldomero Lillo’s Sub Terra, Cuadros Mineros (Santiago: Nascimiento, 1904); Federico Gana’s Obras Completas. Días de Campo, Santiago: Nascimiento, 1965); Jaoquín Díaz Garcés’s Páginas chilenas; Augusto Thompson’s Juana Lucero; Mariano Latorre’s Cuentos del Maule; Guillermo Labarca’s Al amor a la tierra; Januario Espinoza’s Cecilia; Fernando Santiván’s Palpitaciones de vida and La hechizada; Rafael Maluenda’s Escenas de la vida campesina. Domingo Melfi, Estudios de Literatura Chilena (Santiago: Editorial Nascimento, 1938), pp. 78–79. 19. Melfi, Estudios de Literatura Chilena, p. 80.

164

●

Francisco Domínguez

20. Ibid, p. 68. 21. The nature of Balmaceda’s regime has been a matter of some concern in historiography on Chile. This interpretation is drawn from Maurice Zeitlin’s compelling account in The Civil Wars in Chile (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984). 22. Cited in Vitale, Interpretación Marxista, p. 71. 23. Crisóstomo Pizarro, La Huelga Obrera en Chile, 1890–1970 (Santiago: Ediciones Sur, Colección Estudios Históricos, 1986), pp. 21–22 and 61–62; the category “incidents” usually took the form of bloody clashes with the police or the army leading to deaths. 24. Osvaldo Arias Escobedo, La Prensa Obrera en Chile, 1900–1930 (Chillan: CUTUniversidad de Chile, 1970), p. 15. 25. In fact, this event has so marked the evolution of a left-wing contracultura that as late as 1999, monographs about it were still being well-received in Chile. See Eduardo Devés, Los que van a morir te saludan. Historia de una masacre. Escuela Santa María e Iquique, 1907 (Santiago: Ediciones Documentales Nuestra América, 1989). 26. La Nación, May 12, 1991, p. 6 (Segundo Cuerpo). 27. Manuel Rojas, “Recuerdos de José Domingo Gómez Rojas,” Babel Revista de Arte y Crítica, N28, July–August 1945, p. 27. 28. Jorge Arrate and Eduardo Rojas, Memoria de la Izquierda Chilena, Tomo I, 1850–1970 (Santiago: Javier Vergara Editor, 2003), p. 114. 29. Vitale, Interpretación Marxista, pp. 81–82. 30. Arrate and Rojas, Memoria de la Izquierda, p. 103. 31. Vitale, Interpretación Marxista, p. 75. 32. Melfi, Estudios de Literatura Chilena, p. 32. 33. Among his best-known works are “Cuentos del Maule” (1912), “Cuna de cóndores” (1918), “Zurzulita” (1920), “Chilenos del mar” (1929), and much later, “Chile país de rincones’ “ (1947). 34. Héctor Eduardo Espinoza Viveros, “Mariano Latorre y el criollismo rural,” El Sur, Concepción, December 17, 1993, p. 6. 35. “Luis Durand: su opción literaria fue el criollismo,” El Chañarcillo, July 17, 1995, p. 2. 36. Latcham was the author of “Chuquicamata, estado yankee” (Santiago: Nascimento, 1926). Pezoa Véliz’s best-known work is “Alma Chilena” (Santiago: Nascimiento, 1912); and Lautaro Yankas wrote sui generic indigenista literature such as Flor Lumao (1931), El Último Toqui (1951), and El Vado de la Noche (1956). 37. Vitale, Interpretación Marxista, pp. 99–100. 38. A detailed account of the Draconian repressive measures taken by the dictatorship can be found in Jorge Rojas Flores, La dictadura de Ibáñez y los sindicatos. 1927–1931 (Santiago: Dirección de Bibliotecas, Archivos y Museos, 1993), pp. 25–45; see also Francisco Domínguez, “Carlos Ibáñez del Campo: Failed Dictator and Unwitting Architect of Political Democracy in Chile, 1927–1931,”

Violence, the Left, and the Creation of Un Nuevo Chile

39.

40.

41. 42.

43.

44. 45. 46. 47.

●

165

in Will Fowler (ed.), Authoritarianism in Latin America Since Independence (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1996), pp. 45–72. See, among others, Sebastián Leiva, “El partido comunista de Chile y el levantamiento de Ranquil,” Cyber Humanitatis N28, Primavera (2003); and Carlos Maldonado, “La Milicia Republicana: Historia de un Ejército Civil en Chile, 1932–1936,” http://www.geocities.com/CapitolHill/7109/indice2.html. At the time, the left made a strong association between the Milicias and Nazism; its membership had a largish citizenship of German origin or ancestry, its Supremo was Julio Schwarzenberg, and its rise coincided with the founding of the Movimiento Nacional Socialista, an openly Nazi organization led by another Chilean–German, Jorge González Von Marees. See Vitale, Interpretación Marxista, p. 116. Eduardo Téllez Lúgaro et al., “El levantamiento del Alto Biobío y el soviet y la República Araucana de 1934,” Anales de la Universidad de Chile, Sexta Serie N13, August 2001, http://www2.anales.uchile.cl/CDA/an_index/0,1277, ISID%253D9,00.html. Amino Affonso, “Trayectoria del movimiento campesino chileno,” Cuadernos de la Realidad Nacional, N1 (1969), CEREN, Universidad Católica, pp. 15–31. Additionally, there were Vicente Huidobro, Gabriela Mistral, Pablo De Rokha, and Nicomedes Guzman, just to mention some of the most representative members of the group. Their work has a marked social content where the injustices of the capitalist system are exposed through the lives and struggles of ordinary working class protagonists. They were committed to the struggles of working people for their social, political, and economic emancipation. According to Luis Alberto Mansilla, half of Santiago’s inhabitants in 1938 lived in insalubrious tenements, their life expectancy was about forty years and infant mortality was chiliastic. Luis Alberto Mansilla, “La generación del 38,” in Memoria Chilena, www.memoriachilena.cl/archivos2/pdfs/MC0017976.pdf. They wrote novelas sociales and broke with the deceptive neutrality of criollismo. In them, the worker, the peasant, the urban poor, the nitrate miner, the sailor, even the bandit, are given roles as protagonists in the country’s history. Andrés Gómez, “La novela social chilena cumple 60 años,”, in Memoria Chilena, www.memoriachilena.cl/ archivos2/pdfs/MC0017976.pdf. Among his works there are Hombres del Sur (1929), Lanchas en la Bahía (1932), Mejor que el vino (1958), Punta de rieles (1960), and among his more overtly political essays can be found “De la poesía a la revolución” (1938), “De que se nutre la esperanza” (1948), “Dos centenarios” (1948; on the Communist Manifesto), and “El socialismo y la libertad” (1945). Iván Quesada, “Manuel Rojas, La epopeya de un desheredado,” http://www. letras.s5.com/rojas060202.htm Ignacio Valente, El Mercurio, July 10, 1977. An excellent documentary, Víctor Jara. El Derecho de vivir en paz, by Carmen Luz Parot charts the rise of the Nueva Canción Chilena. Jara’s tragic and violent death at the hands of his military torturers in 1973 has added enormous power and poignancy to his songs. Joan Jara, his wife, in

166

●

Francisco Domínguez

September 1998, twenty-five years after his brutal assassination, said in an interview to the BBC: “They could kill him, but they couldn’t kill his songs,” http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/165363.stm. 48. José Manuel García, La Nueva Canción Chilena (Primera Edición, 2001), Copyright (c) José Manuel García, por la edición Copyright (c) LiteraMúsica. 49. This may be translated as “pity the poor singer who takes no risks in his songs, so as not to risk his life.”

CHAPTER 10

The Effects of State Violence on National Identity: The Fate of Chilean Historical Narratives Post 1973 Martin Mullins

A man is affected by the image of a past or future thing with the same emotion of joy or sorrow as that with which he is affected by the image of the present thing. —Proposition XVIII. The Ethics, Spinoza El problema es que, como no tenemos historia, no tenemos . . . no somos . . . no tenemos identificación propia. —Mujer, grupo de edad mixto, urbana, GSE alto1 Introduction Chilean identity has gone through some profound changes since 1973, which have been driven by the changing relationship between the Chilean people and their own history. For many, the disruption of national narratives has had a profoundly unsettling effect. The sixteen years of military rule in Chile and its aftermath has had a deep impact on the country’s identity and this in turn has affected the conduct of both the country’s domestic and foreign policies. This chapter will argue that the Pinochet administration had a destabilizing effect on Chilean national narratives. Furthermore, it is argued that the policy adopted by the Concertación governments compounded the problem by attempting to

168

●

Martin Mullins

move the country away from the past in order to achieve an elusive reconciliation. Theoretically, this chapter draws on philosophical insights on the nature of identity from post-Freudian psychology, primarily from the work of Jacques Lacan, who stresses both the centrality and the fragility of the process of identity formation. The role of history and historical narratives are also given prominence and in particular there is an acceptance of Walter Benjamin’s ideas on the intimate relationship between the past and the present. From being a potential source of strength, Chilean historical narratives came to represent a threat to the status quo. In considering the case of post1973 Chile, we are looking at the dissolution and fragmentation of national narratives driven by the events of the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s, and hence the relationship between the past and the present is key to understanding these processes. The extent of the threat from the past lies in the nature of the experience of the sixteen years of military rule. The fact that the experience of military rule was so different for distinct social groups in Chile lies at the heart of the country’s difficulties. For some, these years were a welcome respite from the increasing radicalization of the Chilean working class and represented a period during which the specter of communism finally disappeared. For others, however, these were the years during which the nation sunk to the depths of depravity, the time during which the once respected institution of the armed forces turned with such ferocity on its own people. Rival interpretations of the significance of September 11, 1973, are testament to the sharp differences that exist in Chilean society. The specific problem faced by Chile during the 1990s was the coexistence of very distinct and at times competing interpretations of the past. This has haunted the political process over the past fifteen years, and even after the 1990s, there has been no resolution to this problem.2 The setting up of the Rettig Commission in 1990 fell far short of the needs of those who had suffered under military rule. At the same time the armed forces greeted the report with undisguised contempt.3 The lack of consensus on the rationale behind the coup, the extent of human rights abuses, and the legacy of the Pinochet administration all create major schisms in the country. With their determination to move public debate into the future tense, the dominant political class of the 1990s hoped to avoid open conflict.4 However, debates over the past retained the potential to destabilize the country. A shared sense of identity and history are key components of a healthy body politic. However, in Chile this was shattered in the years that followed the coup. The legacy of human rights abuses touched the very identity of Chilean society. Moulian has suggested that in denying the Chileans access to the past, the Concertación has sparked a profound crisis in identity with major repercussions across society.5

The Fate of Chilean Historical Narratives Post 1973

●

169

History and Identity The relationship between the past and the creation of an identity is wellestablished. The philosophies of Spinoza, Heidegger, and Benjamin all stress the impact of the past on the human subject and society.6 In anthropology, Geertz has explored the notion of a “thick present” that includes elements of the past.7 In the field of psychology there is also a widespread acceptance of the potential dangers of attempting to exclude the past from the present.8 Coming from the Freudian tradition of thought, Lacan stresses the intimate relationship between the past and the present.9 Lacan’s position on the past and the formation of identity is that we are not discussing a phenomenon we can usefully deconstruct with a view to showing the fallacious nature of this identity. Instead, there is an acceptance of the fantastic nature of the “I.” For Lacan, “the imaginary is the scene of a desperate delusional attempt to be and to remain ‘what one is’ by gathering to oneself even more instances of sameness, resemblance, and self-replication.”10 The discussion on the relationship between historical narratives and identity is not confined to how much myth informs such narratives or the veracity of certain elements of that narrative. Instead, the focus of attention is on the relationship between the subject and his or her past and the manner in which the past is expressed in the available narratives. Indeed, as Slavoj Zizek points out, it is the problematic nature of the construction of an identity that gives rise to both its vulnerability and its strength. He argues that a shared lie is a more effective bond than the truth and that “something more” is required to share the identity.11 This something more is a willingness to engage with half-truths and untruths. In Lacanian terms we are discussing méconnaissance, which is translated as the failure to recognize or misconstruction.12 The need for the subject to willingly engage in national methodologies is the key to understanding their fragility. If they cease to be attractive, they no longer have any power over the subject. This is precisely what occurred in Chile post-Pinochet. Identification demands we go the extra mile; we are driven on by that je ne sais quoi. It is an essential part of the equation. This perspective throws a different light on elements of the discourse that surrounds Chilean identity. Here, for example, Orrego Vicuña, writes on the nature of the Pacific as an object of desire: From the point of view of national culture the Pacific constitutes an important symbol of expansion and an opportunity, able to orientate the psychological attitude of the country towards a positive of sign of hope and, as a consequence of this, overcome the negative signs that have governed our said attitude in the past.13

170

●

Martin Mullins

Under the title “Chile in the Pacific: History Re-encounters Destiny,” Vicuña writes, “having been in the past a power in the Pacific, she [Chile] ceased to be due to a lack of vision of her historical destiny.”14 The earlier statements are opaque and lacking in definition and yet they possess a certain power. They can be captured by the collective imagination of the Chilean people and yet the object they posit, the Pacific Ocean, is sufficiently malleable so as not to challenge its capture. This is the paradox that lies at the heart of nationalism. The great passion it generates and the enormous fabula that constitutes its destination. In the case of the individual it is the I that constitutes this fabula and in the case of Chile it is the idea of lo chileno or Chileaness. This relationship between the key elements of the national discourse and Chilean people is complex and relies to some extent on the willing participation of the populace. The position of the individual Chilean with regard to these narratives is one of a willing participant. In his work on nationalism Zizek goes further and writes of enjoyment of being a participant in nationalist narrative.15 The main canon of work on national identity appears to explicitly accept the imaginary status of the nation,16 which is not to say that Marxists or Constructivist insights into the function of nationalist rhetoric are not without value. Elite groups have had an interest in the promotion of nationalist histories. Instead, what is being suggested is that the manner in which the engagement takes place is more knowing. The gain for the human subject is a layer of identity. The fact is that in engaging with their nationalist discourse many are relating to components of both individual and collective identities.17 The engagement then is not one of a dispassionate observer. For the individual subject this relationship is to be characterized by its fecundity and its fragility, hence the passion that surrounds this type of discourse. This is the key to understanding the impact of state violence on national identity. The element of volition makes the construct vulnerable in that what is identified with must remain attractive. The violence of the military and the subsequent failure to deal with this episode rendered lo chileno less attractive. The Years of Military Rule The period from 1973 is one of great cleavage in Chilean society. The aim of the military was in part to depoliticize Chilean society, which in terms of the public realm was largely achieved. The savagery of this period is striking; mutilation, rape, and electric shock were all widely practiced.18 These events in themselves profoundly damaged Chilean society, and reflect what Arrendt has written of the social atomization born of state terror.19

The Fate of Chilean Historical Narratives Post 1973

●

171

Throughout this period we also see the treasures of the nation, in particular national narratives become marked or stained. In first instance, the use of the armed forces in the repression of the left was damaging to their reputation. In September 1973 the bearers of a proud military tradition marched out the gates of their barracks to seize control of the streets; the army that fought so proudly on the Moro at Arica had now acted with such ferocity in the national stadium.20 Past military glories would now come to be associated with the mutilation of Victor Jara.21 The fact that the Pinochet regime associated itself with the past and made use of the iconography of Chilean history was to destabilize the country’s historical narratives. History spiritually fed the military, providing them with succor in their arduous task. Their “just cause” was the defense of salvation of the nation and in name of its permanent values.22 According to Gonzalo Rojas Sánchez love of country and its history are necessary characteristics of the military and each member of the armed forces should be proud of the role the armed forces played in the history of the country. September 11, 1973, is just one such episode, another decisive affirmation of nationhood.23 For Orrego Vicuña in his contribution to the publication Seguridad Nacional in 1976, three years into the dictatorship, the importance both of national destiny and history is clear.24 The historian Verónica Valdivia Ortiz de Zárate emphasizes the important role of history in terms of justifying the actions of the military junta. History was used to differentiate the military rulers from the Allende government, with the former represented as the guardians of continuity and Chilean values and the latter as those who had violated the traditional norms of the country.25 Hence a relationship developed between that glorious past of the military and of the Chile of the 1970s and 1980s. In this way the past came to both underwrite Chilean identity under Pinochet, and be inextricably linked to a terrifying present. For the general population a certain type of Chilean historical narrative was to become associated with the authors of the coup of 1973. This was the version of history that stressed the victories of the second half of the nineteenth century, emphasized the superiority of Chile over its neighbors, tended to decry any notion of regional solidarity, and was often influenced by the geopolitical thinking so prevalent in the military academies.26 In this version differences from one’s neighbors is key and the history of the nineteenth century provides the best evidence of such difference. By producing their own songs, poetry, and literature Chileans began to forge a clear concept of themselves, and like an infant in front of the mirror they mapped out the extent of their body in all its natural beauty. In its adoption of this narrative the military effectively denied this notion of Chile to a large segment of the population. These narratives that clearly distinguished the Chileans from

172

●

Martin Mullins

their neighbors no longer had the allure of previous epochs. Marked by the bloodstains and drowned by the screams of the sixteen years of military rule these national stories could no longer be enjoyed uncritically. The years of dictatorship made it more difficult to use the formulation of “I am this and not that,” a difficulty that is reflected in fieldwork carried out for the United Nations during the 1990s and in 2001.27 We may conceive of this use of history as a “folding back” on the past. In order to establish a stable identity, continuity and tradition are essential features. However, in folding back, the stain of the excesses in the present is left in the past.28 The glories of the past came to be associated with the excesses of the present. For Deleuze, the present in its engagement with history will inevitably mark the past. Now the former present cannot be represented in the present one without the present one itself being represented in that representation. It is of the essence of representation not only to represent something but to represent its own representatively . . . Active synthesis, therefore, has two correlative—albeit non-symmetrical—aspects: reproduction and reflection, remembrance and recognition, memory and understanding.29 We are products of a history; a Chilean is Chilean by virtue of his or her history. In looking back on our own history we are in effect “folding” history back in on itself. This phenomenon, described by Deleuze and Guattari, is a striking image. In the case of the national looking back on his or her history, it is useful to conceive of this folding as taking place immanent to the desire to identify oneself. Because the dictatorship over sixteen years engaged in folding back on communal history, this shared past ceased to be available. Therefore, the citizen is effectively denied part of their history and is robbed of their tradition. For Wittgenstein, “tradition is not something a man can learn; not a thread he can pick up when he feels like it; any more than a man can choose his own ancestors. Someone lacking a tradition who would like to have one is like a man unhappily in love.”30 For a people to fall out of love with an important component of their identity has far-reaching consequences and is unlikely to be willfully accepted. This is central to understanding the impact of violence on Chilean identity. The human rights abuses perpetrated between 1973 and 1989 simply rendered “Chileaness” less attractive and so undermined the willingness. Chileaness as a concept has been destabilized to the point that it has become difficult to speak of lo chileno as something shared by all.31 There is no implicit argument here for a unitary history of Chile consisting of one dominant narrative, but rather that the aforementioned violence has impacted

The Fate of Chilean Historical Narratives Post 1973

●

173

upon the manner in which the subject comes to approach history. Not only has lo chileno become more difficult to locate, but when it is found, the material is less likely to be shared by fellow citizens. This in turn makes it more difficult to share and undermines identity in a profound fashion. Not only does this particular psychoanalytic perspective stress the importance of the past for the development of the individual, but prominent voices from other fields also stress the role played by the past. Lowental argues “I was” is a necessary component of “I am.”32 This could be extended to include “we were” as a component of “we are.” Lowental goes on to argue that we need a vision of the past in order to make sense of the present. The denial of a past has far-reaching consequences in the present; in particular, it has important ramifications for collective action. The collective itself is constituted by the past. Any weakening of the history denies society an important resource.33 The End of Exceptionalism Not only did the phenomenon of folding damage the national narrative but even the existence of the dictatorship itself tended to preclude certain forms of identification in Chile. For generations the country had prided itself on its relative institutional stability. While the overt involvement of the military was common in neighboring countries this was less the case in Chile. This vision of history fed into local sayings such as no pasa nada en Chile (nothing happens in Chile) and the notion that the Chileans were the English of Latin America. The coup of 1973 put an end to this aspect of national self-identity. The sheer brutality of the coup and its aftermath meant that Chileans were suddenly much more like their neighbors. The paradox is that the military, the great proponent of Chilean exceptionalism, through their actions in September 1973, did a great deal to damage those same ideas of Chilean exceptionalism. This view is reflected by Wilhelmy and Fuentes who maintain that the dictatorship put an end to exceptionalism in Chile’s foreign policy. Chile was no longer the democratic star in the region.34 The response of the international community to the coup of 1973 and to the subsequent dictatorship also merits attention. Again we are addressing the identity of the Chilean people, but in this instance we are examining the affording of identity by the Other. Thus it could be argued that alienation fulfils a vital function. Hegel in his “Phenomenology of Spirit” writes: “Each by its alienation from the other gives it an existence and equally receives an existence of its own.”35 Alienation plays a role in the achievement of an existence, since this estrangement from the Other, this stepping back and regarding the Other, affords an existence. The return of the gaze from the Other, in turn,

174

●

Martin Mullins

grants an existence to the initial subject. The Other has a key role is affording the subject his or her identity. Identity then is not only an intrapersonal matter but depends upon recognition from the outside. For Lacan, “the first object of desire is to be recognized by the other.”36 The issue post 1973 is that many of the characteristics that set Chile apart from its neighbors, as has been discussed, were no longer present in the gaze of the other. The years between 1973 and 1990 were characterized by relative isolation from the international community. The reentry of Chile into the world community came about with Aylwin’s assumption of the presidency in 1990. In June of the same year Enrique Correa, the secretary general of the government, spoke of Chile’s wish to return to respectability and normality: We are not looking for a boastful, nor forced return, nor do we want world, continental or regional leadership; we simply want to be a normal country and to be respected in the international community; to be visited by the presidents of the world and to be welcomed wherever we go.37 Correa’s words demonstrate a reticence on the part of the new administration to embark on any new initiative. Instead, Correa identifies the need for acceptance of Chile on the part of others. Heine in 1990 is able to pose the question as to whether the foreign policy adopted by the Concertación was characterized by “timidity.” Even in the immediate aftermath of the dictatorship the damage to Chilean identity is tangible. This policy of inserción has drawn criticism from some quarters in Chile for a lack of substance. Heine, writing on the first year of the Aylwin administration, accuses the government of lacking direction. There was, “a lack of initiative on international material and in terms of concepts, a fundamental vacuum exists with the absence of a substantial proposal that transcends reinsertion in the international.”38 Fermandios also accepts that in adopting a low profile the government of Aylwin did run the risk of emptiness at the heart of policy, arguing that “its [Chile’s] correct decision not to look for nor to feign the search for leadership does however run the risk of resulting in a lack of a foreign policy, and of impoverishing the space a country like Chile should occupy.”39 These debates indicate that the new government then did have some initial difficulties projecting an identity on the world stage after the departure of Pinochet. Some of these difficulties may have been of a practical nature. Domestic politics were still extremely fraught and the Chilean right were irritated by some of the more euphoric reactions overseas to the departure of Pinochet. There is also the issue of personnel to be considered. It should be noted that as an institution, the Foreign Ministry was in these years, at least in term of numbers, still dominated by those appointed during the military

The Fate of Chilean Historical Narratives Post 1973

●

175

government, with some two-thirds of the staff having entered service between 1973 and 1989.40 In such circumstances, in terms of developing new policies, a degree of inertia could be expected. However, the damage inflicted on the country’s national identity during the years of the dictatorship must have been profoundly debilitating in first few years of the transición. Former Chilean foreign minister Insulsa argues that a nation needs principles to act by and in terms of a permanent guide to international relations one has always to rely on history.41 In the case of Chile this reliance became problematic, since the politicization and instrumentalization of the country’s history made it less available as a source of policy. Such narratives and the policies they suggested became increasingly codified as right/left or Pinochet/anti-Pinochet. The Dictatorship in the Past By 1989 the country’s relationship with its past had been altered. The status of the national historical narrative had fallen and this “nation of enemies” was ill at ease with itself.42 It was not just that the military had tarnished the foundational histories of the Chilean nation but the living history of the Pinochet years themselves constituted a reason not to visit the past. The nature of military rule in Chile is well-documented,43 and there, as elsewhere in Latin America, the years of military rule were marked by widespread human-rights abuses, with extrajudicial killing and torture being commonplace. Those directing events at the time had set themselves the arduous task of preserving the country’s values and simultaneously securing stability. As expressed in the “Declaration of the Principles of the Government of Chile” of 1974, “it is imperative to change the mentality of the Chileans . . . The Government of Chile does not intend to be a mere caretaker . . . The Government of the Armed forces aspires to initiate a new era in the national destiny.”44 The stakes were perceived to be high and the levels of institutional violence are best understood with this in mind. While this might explain some of the motivations of state actors it does not diminish in any way the intensity of the violence as it was experienced by thousands of Chilean citizens. For many this was a time of fear, hatred, confusion, and helplessness. For some these years came to signify broken dreams, for others broken bodies. Moulian points to the difficulties of describing this period when he asks “how do you describe this hell, transmitting emotions that permit ‘understanding,’ with the circumspect, frozen, serious, falsely objective language of the ‘social sciences?’ ”45 Two questions arise here: how could the present do justice to the past and what kind of language was appropriate in discussing that past? The difficulty of providing an adequate answer is indicative of the fracture of relations between the past and the present.

176

●

Martin Mullins

For a collective entity, this is particularly pertinent as there are those who supported the military in their self-appointed task and there are those who suffered the most grievous harm imaginable at the hands of these “guardians” of the Chilean way of life.46 There are many reasons for not revisiting the past. Victims of the regimes may not wish to recall the abuse they suffered, and many in the armed forces may be uncomfortable with the role they performed during these years. There is also the case of the tens of thousands of exiles who spent the years of military rule far from home and consequently had markedly different experiences. Since the past has been lived in very different ways, there are many obstacles to any meaningful engagement with the past. Furthermore, meanings have been attached to those pasts that tend to sharply divide people. After the departure of Pinochet, this past haunted the country; in social gatherings up and down the country, it was the unsaid. Transition and a Dangerous Past On taking power in 1990 the Concertación government under Aylwin was acutely aware of the potential of the past to disrupt the transition from military to civilian rule. While there was in the opening month of the Aylwin administration an attempt to commemorate what had occurred in the recent past, there was also an attempt to move the country on and away from it as soon as possible. As early as 1991 Aylwin was suggesting that the period of transition was over, although he was to revise this view in the aftermath of the boinazo incident in 1993.47 Wilde maintains that there were repeated problems with the management of the past and the containment of potentially destabilizing historical narratives during Aylwin and later Frei’s presidency, arguing that “their pattern also suggests that Aylwin’s admirable early use of his public moral authority has been insufficient to construct a shared understanding that would reconcile Chileans to their recent past and lend fuller legitimacy to their political institutions.”48 Loveman and Lira suggest that although Frei wanted to leave the past behind he was unable to do so and that his government could not extinguish the “hot ashes” of history and orchestrate reconciliation.49 The past came to be seen as a threat to the status quo. As before, the stakes were perceived to be high and the new civilian administration was determined to keep the political discourse under control. However, in this situation such a position was difficult to sustain, since “memory in Chile is a Pandora’s Box which we are afraid to open in order not to affect the cohabitation which was so difficult to achieve; it is impossible to control, it will explode one time or another.”50 Much of the political energy of the Concertación governments of the 1990s was dedicated to the management of the past and

The Fate of Chilean Historical Narratives Post 1973

●

177

the politics of memory. The use of a slogans such as la alegría ya viene (“happiness is coming”) is instructive, since it reflects an attempt to focus attention on the future. However, given the vagueness of this future and the stark reality of past abuses, such an approach was unlikely to succeed.51 From the center and the rightist sections of political spectrum came forward a proposal for a Punto Final or Full Stop, large enough to blot out all that had taken place before. However, the scale of suffering made it unlikely that a full stop could simply be inserted at the end of such events. In particular the fate of the disappeared made any such initiative unlikely to succeed, since for their relatives there is no finality, or scarcely even comprehension. Disappearance cannot simply be blotted out. The very nature of a disappearance means it finds its way into the future, which is precisely what makes it such an effective instrument of terror. However, this is what also ensures that the disappeared become an unpredictable force with the potential to disrupt the agreed narratives in the present. With regard to the relationship between the past and present Benjamin argues, “even the dead will not be safe from the enemy if he wins;” in Chile it was the winners who were not safe from the dead.52 The “disappeared” cast a long shadow over the political process during the 1990s. At one level it was impossible to draw a line under the events that led to the disappearance of political prisoners simply because during this period a number of mass graves were uncovered. The most dramatic of these finds took place in August 1991 when 126 bodies were found in General Cemetery in Santiago. If this was an insufficient reminder of the callous violence of the period, on being asked if he knew why two bodies were buried in the same grave, Pinochet replied “que economía más grande.”53 Wilde characterized such instances as “irruptions” from the past.54 The past suddenly finds itself in the present, with each new disclosure representing a greater threat to a delicate transition process, while at the same time damaging the past from whence it came. In response, the stress of the government was increasingly on the future and moving the country away from the past. Memory became a managed phenomena and was subordinated to the needs of the future: The politics of memory is more than the administration of the past, and its effects go further than our relationship with the conflict we have lived through. It is part of the social construction of time and the manner of relating the past with a view to the possibilities and the feelings of the future.55 For Wilde, the politicians of the Concertación followed Weber in the distinction between the ethics of principled convictions and the “ethics of

178

●

Martin Mullins

responsibility,” opting for the latter. In doing so they radically altered the direction of Chilean politics. This decision meant they lacked the language with which to confront Chile’s difficult past. The constant emphasis on future benefits resulted in the past becoming somehow off-limits. Wilde further argues that, however morally compelling or otherwise the decision of the Concertación, there were considerable dangers inherent in this approach.56 The fate of historical narratives after 1973 is determined to a great extent by this desire for a flight from history. For the most part this desire relates to events of 1973, but this period cannot be isolated from the more distant past. In the first instance, the military ruler had utilized the past and the related narrative in the course of their administration. Second, the excesses of the 1970s and 1980s had now become part of the past. The lack of consensus about this more recent episode prevented the use of the past by policy-makers. For the Chilean population in general the period of military sharply divided them and again made problematic the use of history in the construction of identity. Historical narrative post 1973 had become tarnished. Third, in the case of Chile the centrality of the state apparatus is significant. According to the United Nation’s report Desarrollo Humano en Chile 2002 no other country in Latin America is as state-centered as Chile.57 The capture of the state by the military in 1973 and the subsequent actions of the state also damaged Chile’s national narratives in that the state itself had become tarnished. The damage to the national narrative has had profound consequences for Chilean society. If we follow Lacan’s line on identity as an “imaginary capture,” the destabilization of historical narratives has meant that this capture is itself difficult to achieve. In the first instance the material itself is less alluring and in the second it is less coherent. The fact that a society is less drawn to its history does not mean that the history disappears. Rather it is that historical narratives are no longer available to underwrite identity. In such a situation history ceases to be a source of strength and instead becomes a phenomenon that threatens the present. In one sense, the Chileans of the 1990s are a people detached from history, and successive governments have encouraged this feeling of separation. However, the paradox is that the past has become more immanent to the present. The dominant narratives of previous generations rendered difficult histories harmless in as much as it became integrated into the larger whole. The period of military rule saw those narratives become unattached. They were no longer the building blocks of a national consciousness but instead the past now demanded attention. On the profound connection between the past and the present, Benjamin writes: There is a secret agreement between the past generations and the present one. Our coming was expected on earth like every generation that preceded

The Fate of Chilean Historical Narratives Post 1973

●

179

us, we have been endowed with a weak messianic power, power to which the past has a claim. That claim cannot be settled cheaply.58 The problem facing Chile in the post-Pinochet era is that agreement between the past and the present is broken. The position of the Concertación indicated there was a clear understanding that the claim the past had over the present was an extremely costly one—so costly that it threatened the institutional stability of the country. Politics in the Chile of the 1990s became hyperrealist, de-historicized, and reliant on economism. In effect the country was denied a past through the exclusion of history from public discourse. However, the past would not be destroyed. The dominant narrative remained but it had lost much of its instrumental value. What emerged was an unstable mix of a painful and dangerous recent past and of historical narratives that no longer held together in the same fashion, since they lacked the agreement of the present, to use Benjamin’s concept. Describing the impact of such crises in society, Bauman argues: Bouts of such insecurity are in no sense novel; neither are the typical responses to them. Both are known to appear throughout history in the aftermath of wars, violent revolutions, collapse of empire, as concomitants of social departures too vast or too fast to be assimilated by the existent policing agencies.59 In post-Pinochet Chile just such an episode of insecurity occurred60. The underlying reasons are, as has been argued, related in no small part to the disruption of history and time. As Bauman argues, in times of crisis “the overall result is the fragmentation of time into episodes, each one cut from its past and its future, each one self-enclosed and self contained. Time is no longer a river, but a collection of ponds and pools.”61 This idea of the present becoming disconnected from the past is key to understanding the Chilean predicament. With the disconnection comes a lack of control and the past begins to constitute a threat to the present. Conclusions A sense of continuity is the centerpiece of identity. In the case of Chile after 1973 we see a loss of continuity and this has weakened the very identity of the Chilean people. Through the closing off of certain historical events and the damage done to long-standing narratives, the question of “who are we?” has arisen again. In terms of the potential answers available, the Lacanian insight is crucial. The building of this identity does not entirely depend upon the

180

●

Martin Mullins

veracity of the histories expressed. Indeed, the building of the identity is an event that takes place in the field of the “imaginary.” Instead, what is crucial is the relationship between the Chilean people and their past and in particular what occurs if that past ceases to be comprehensible or attractive. In discussing national identities we are in the realm of collective identity. The issue that arises in the Chilean context is the disruptive consequences of the weakening of the basis of that nationality. In terms of the nation state, the centerpiece of social organization is the feeling of belonging. In the aftermath of the military government, it is possible that the citizens were not longer as clear as to what it was they belonged to. In other words the basis of national identity was weakened. This in turn impacted upon their attitude toward their fellow citizens. Chile, after the military government, is an atomized society.62 The impact of the politics of forgetfulness has been felt deeply across Chilean society and the muffled quality of public life has added to the unreality of the Chilean experience: Between its periodic irruptions, the country’s public life since the transition has had a certain muffled quality reflective of what might be called a conspiracy of consensus originating among the political elites but permeating the whole society. Within the citizenry there appears to be a widespread aversion to open conflict, related to low levels of social trust.63 This breakdown in trust has been a theme developed in a United Nations report on the state of Chilean society in the 1990s. The findings of the report are quite stark and point to a breakdown in social trust in Chile. Social trust relies on a dense set of social relations to survive and prosper, and hence the glue that holds Chilean society together has been weakened in part due to the difficulties relating to Chilean identity.64 Cleavages in the society can no longer be bridged by reference to national mythologies. In fact, this situation is more serious still, since elements of the national history have themselves become coded in such a way as to be associated with different factions within that society. Any discussion on the fate of Chilean historical narratives does not center just on issues of historiography or epistemology. The damage done to those Chilean historical narratives after 1973 has had profound implications for Chilean society as a whole. The “foldings,” “full stops,” and “irruptions” have all had an impact. The foldings have made the past less attractive, and as a result any imaginary capture of that past by a present anxious to underwrite its identity becomes extremely difficult. The full stops have denied access to that past and at the same time ensured that past has become more immanent and threatening to the human subject in the present. Finally, the irruptions are themselves evidence of the dangers represented by the past and so have

The Fate of Chilean Historical Narratives Post 1973

●

181

propelled both politicians and people away from that past. For the Chilean citizen of the 1990s the present became thinner. For Nietzsche this is a condition of modernity and in this sense Chile is an example of hypermodernity, especially in the urban environment. The city of Santiago is a disjointed, fragmentary, and unsettling world in which fear and paranoia are commonplace. As Nietzsche wrote: Disintegration characterizes this time, and thus uncertainty: nothing stands firmly on its feet or on hard faith in itself; one lives for tomorrow, as the day after tomorrow is dubious. Everything on our way is slippery and dangerous, and the ice that supports us has become too thin: all of us feel the warm, uncanny breath of the thawing wind: where we still walk soon no one will be able to walk.65 The sensation of skating on thin ice is a tangible one for a large part of the population. As for the thawing wind, the warm breeze of the past is omnipresent and unsettling. It is this intrusion from the past that has the potential to disrupt what Moulian terms the “petrified future.”66 Wilde’s notion of irruptions remains useful in describing many of the occurrences over the past decade but the past does not necessarily have to irrupt into present to have an effect. Its immanence to the present ensures that its impact is constant. The more grandiose narratives on the past may have been occluded but other shorter, less refined, more dangerous narratives remain out there. In the case of Chile it is not the attribution of negative characteristics to an individual or collective identity that represents the crisis in a Lacanian sense but rather the absence of any available identity. This has spawned a terrible uncertainty across Chilean society. The connection between doubt and fear needs to be part of our understanding of Chile since 1973. Dammert and Malone amongst others have identified fearfulness as an important component of contemporary life.67 Strong and sustainable historical narratives dispel doubt while their dissolution engenders fear. The two periods under discussion here (the dictatorship and the transition governments that followed) both had this corrosive effect. It is the damage they caused to the continuity of the Chilean persona that is the key to understanding the crisis in Chilean identity. In the case of the Pinochet administration it was the use of the past, the folding back, that damaged long-held narratives. At the same time the excesses of those years meant that the past in general became a dangerous place, a location to be cordoned off. In the 1990s it was precisely this de-historicization of Chilean society that compounded the problem. After 1973, the past no longer flowed into attractive narratives. Instead, its specter haunted the present. If we accept the importance of continuity

182

●

Martin Mullins

in the constitution of the being and the necessity of a suitable history available to be captured, the profundity of the crisis in Chilean identity is clear. In 1990, the Chilean writer Jorge Heine asked the significant question on the Chilean nation: “what prevents us from dreaming?” The problem lies in the “us.” Notes 1. The second epigraph is from the United Nations Development Program (UNDP), Desarrollo Humano. Nosotros los Chilenos Un Desafió Cultural (New York: United Nations, 2002), p. 68. Chapter three of this report is entitled Nosotros Los Chilenos: El Vaciamiento de una Identidad Colectiva, and it looks at the sense of emptiness that is affecting Chilean national identity. Within this section there are a number of excerpts from interviews with various sections of the population. In this example, a woman with an urban background and of a high socioeconomic grouping identifies the problem for the Chilean people as a lack of a history and not having an identity of their own. In the same report, polling evidence produced by the UNDP suggests a widespread inability among the population to relate to the idea of lo chileno. 2. Gregory Weeks, “The ‘Lessons’ of Dictatorship: Political Learning and the Dictatorship in Chile,” Bulletin of Latin American Research 21:3 (2002), p. 411. 3. Elizabeth Lira and Brian Loveman, Las ardientes cenizas de olvido (Santiago: Lom Ediciones, 2000), p. 520. 4. Jeffrey Puryear, Thinking Politics: Intellectuals in Democracy in Chile (Baltimore, MA; London: John Hopkins University Press, 1994). 5. Tomas Moulian concludes his Chile Actual (Santiago: Lom Arcis, 1997), with the words, “We have given up our hope of a new world,” p. 320. 6. Walter Benjamin, Illuminations, Essays and Reflections (London: Jonathan Cape, 1970); Martin Heidegger, Being and Time (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1962); Benedict de Spinoza, Ethics (New York: Hafner, 1949). 7. Clifford Geertz, Towards an Interpretative Theory of Culture (New York: Basic Books, 1973). 8. See Erik H. Erikson, Childhood and Society (New York: W.W. Norton and Company, 1963); Melanie Klein, The Psycho-Analysis of Children (London: The Hogarth Press and the Institute of Psychoanalysis, 1973); and Hernan Vidal, Política Cultural de la Memoria Histórica, Derechos Humanos y Discursos Cultural en Chile (Santiago: Mosquito Editores, 1997). 9. Jacques Lacan, The Language of the Self. The Function of Language in Psychoanalysis (Baltimore, London: The John Hopkins University Press, 1968), p. 18. 10. Jacques Lacan quoted in Malcolm Bowie, Lacan (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991), p. 92. 11. Slavoj Zizek, “Fantasy as a Political Category,” in Wright, E. and Wright, E. (eds.), The Zizek Reader (Oxford, UK; Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishers, 1999), p. 99.

The Fate of Chilean Historical Narratives Post 1973

●

183

12. Jacques Lacan, The Seminar of Jacques Lacan. Book 1, Freud’s Papers on Technique 1953–1954 (trans. by J. Forrester; ed. by J.-A. Miller) (New York: Norton, 1975), p. 167. 13. Francisco Orrego Vicuña, La Participación de Chile en el Sistema Internacional (Santiago: Editorial Nacional Gabriela Mistral, 1974), p. 85. 14. Ibid., p. 81. 15. Slavoj Zizek, Tarrying with the Negative. Kant Hegel and the Critique of Ideology (Durham: Duke University Press, 1993), p. 43. 16. E.J. Hobsbawn, Nations and Nationalism Since 1870 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990); Anthony D. Smith, The Nation Invented, Imagined, and Reconstructed (Reno: University of Nevada, 1991); and Wilbur Zelinsky, The Shifting Symbolic Foundations of American Nationalism (Chapel Hill: North Carolina Press, 1988). 17. See Anika Lemair, Jacques Lacan (London: Routledge and Kegan, 1977). 18. See Peter Kornbluh, The Pinochet File. A Declassified Dossier on Atrocity and Accountability (New York: The New Press, 2003). 19. Hannah Arrendt, On Violence (New York: Harcourt, Brace and World 1969), p. 55. 20. On the damage done to image of the military and change in civilian–military relations, see UNDP, Desarrollo Humano. Nosotros los Chilenos, pp. 67–68. 21. Victor Jara was a famous Chilean musician. According to witnesses, his wrists were broken before he was killed. Mark Ensalaco, Chile Bajo Pinochet (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 2002), p. 74. 22. See Lira and Loveman and their discussion as to how the actions of the military were actually represented as an act of national reconciliation. Lira and Loveman, Las ardientes cenizas de olvido, pp. 441–442. 23. Rojas Sánchez in Gonzalo Rojas Sánchez and Arturo Fontaine Talavera, “Debate Sobre La Posición de las FF.AA Frente al Gobierno Militar,” Estudios Públicos 91 (2003), pp. 301–310. It is worth noting that Rojas Sánchez is an historian whose views are perceived as close to many in the Chilean military. 24. Francisco Orrego Vicuña, “Trayectoria y orientaciones de la política exterior de Chile,” Seguridad Nacional (Santiago) 2 (September–October 1976), pp. 73–82. 25. Verónica Valdivia Ortiz de Zárate, “Estatismo y Neoliberalismo: Un Contrapunto Militar, Chile 1973–1979,” Historia (Santiago) 34 (2001), pp. 167–226. 26. See Leslie W. Hepple, “Metaphor, Geopolitical Discourse and the Military in South America,” in Barnes, T.J. and Duncan, J.S. (eds.), Writing Worlds: Discourse, Text and Metaphor in the Representation of Landscape (London: Routledge, 1992), pp. 136–154. 27. See UNDP, Desarrollo Humano. Las Paradojas de la Modernización (New York: United Nations,1998) and Desarrollo Humano. Nosotros los Chilenos. 28. This idea of “folding” is developed by Deleuze and Guattari. See Giles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, Anti-Oedipus Capitalism and Schizophrenia (London: Athlone Press, 1983), p. 19. 29. Giles Deleuze, Difference and Repetition (trans. by Paul Patton) (London: Athlone Press, 1994), p. 80.

184

●

Martin Mullins

30. Ludwig Wittgenstein, Culture and Value (trans. by Peter Winch) (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1980), p. 76. 31. UNDP, Desarrollo Humano. Nosotros los Chilenos, p. 64. 32. David Lowental, The Past is A Foreign Country (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1985), p. 41. 33. Anthony Giddens writes of the “Prevalence of Historicity as a Mobilizing Force of Social Organization.” Anthony Giddens, The Constitution of Society (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1984), p. 245. 34. Manfred Wilhelmy and Cristián Fuentes, “De la reinserción a la diplomacia para el desarrollo: Política exterior de Chile 1992–1994,” in Van Klaveren, A. (ed.), América Latina en el mundo (Santiago: Propel Editorial los Andes, 1997), p. 233. 35. Cited in James Derian, On Diplomacy (Oxford: Blackwell, 1987), p. 38. 36. Jacques Lacan, Ecrits: A Selection (London: Tavistock Publications, 1977), p. 58. 37. Enrique Correa, Secretario General of the Government, June 1990, quoted in Jorge Heine, Timidez o pragmatismo? La política exterior de Chile en 1990 (Santiago: Prospel, 1990), p. 2. 38. Ibid., p. 1. 39. Joaquín Fermandios, “De una Inserción a Otra: Política Exterior de Chile, 1966–1990,” in Estudios Internacionales 24:96 (October–December 1991), p. 454. 40. Heine, Timidez o pragmatismo, p. 9. 41. José Miguel Insulza, Ensayos sobre política exterior de Chile (Santiago: Editorial Los Andes, 1998), p. 53. 42. A reference to Pamela Constable and Arturo Valenzuela, A Nation of Enemies (New York: W.W. Norton, 1991). 43. See Lira and Loveman, Las ardientes cenizas de olvido; Ascanio Cavallo, Manuel Salazar, and Oscar Sepulveda, La Historia Oculta del Régimen Militar (Santiago: Editorial Grijalbo, 1997); and Patricia Verdugo, Chile, Pinochet and the Caravan of Death (Miami: North–South Centre Press, 2001). 44. Brian Loveman, The Legacy of Hispanic Capitalism (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988), p. 316. 45. Moulian, Chile Actual, p. 17. 46. The first edict of the military on September 11, 1973, referred to historic mission of the armed forces and the police in the liberation of the mother country. Ensalaco, Chile Bajo Pinochet, p. 35. 47. On May 28, 1993, Pinochet mobilized elite troops in response to a pending investigation into corrupt practices within his family. 48. Alexander Wilde, “Irruptions of Memory: Expressive Politics in Chile’s Transition to Democracy,” Journal of Latin American Studies 31:2 (1999), p. 486. 49. Lira & Loveman, Las ardientes cenizas de olvido, p. 539. 50. Norbert Lechner and Pedro Güell, “Chile: La política de la memoria,” in Menéndez, A. (ed.), La Caja de Pandora (Santiago: Planeta, 1999), p. 193. 51. Spinoza, Ethics, p. 199. 52. Benjamin, Illuminations, Essays and Reflections, p. 257.

The Fate of Chilean Historical Narratives Post 1973

●

185

53. Mark Ensalaco, Chile Bajo Pinochet. La Recuperación de la Verdad. (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2000). The phrase may be translated as “how economical.” 54. Wilde, “Irruptions of Memory.” 55. Lechner and Güell, “Chile: La política de la memoria,” p. 200. 56. Wilde, “Irruptions of Memory,” p. 499. 57. UNDP, Desarrollo Humano. Las Paradojas de la Modernización, p. 60. 58. Benjamin, Illuminations, Essays and Reflections, p. 256. 59. Zymunt Bauman, Life in Fragments. Essays in Post Modern Morality (Oxford: Blackwell, 1995), p. 185. 60. UNDP, Desarrollo Humano. Las Paradojas de la Modernizacion, argues that from the 1970s and 1980s Chilean society has been dominated by a culture of fear and distrust; see pages 128–129. 61. Bauman, Life in Fragments, p. 92. 62. UNDP, Desarrollo Humano. Las Paradojas de la Modernización, pp.132 and 216. 63. Wilde, “Irruptions of Memory,” p. 476. 64. UNDP, Desarrollo Humano. Las Paradojas de la Modernización, p. 16. 65. Friedrich Nietzsche, The Will to Power (New York: Vintage Books, 1968), p. 40. 66. Moulian, Chile Actual, p. 41. 67. Lucia Dammert and Mary Fran T. Malone, “Fear of Crime or Fear of Life? Public Insecurities in Chile,” Bulletin of Latin American Research 22:1 (2003), pp. 79–101.

This page intentionally left blank

CHAPTER 11

“¡Muero con mi patria!” Myth, Political Violence, and the Construction of National Identity in Paraguay Peter Lambert

H

elio Vera, a prominent Paraguayan sociologist, once remarked that “the past does not exist as history but as legend . . . we do not have historians but emotional troubadours, singers of tearful guitaraccompanied epic poems of the past.”1 The rewriting of history by such “troubadours” and the confusion between myth and reality has over the twentieth century led to the emergence of a passionate version of national identity, firmly rooted in past injustice and violence. This in turn has been developed and manipulated for political advantage and power. Without doubt, the threat and reality of international warfare (and especially foreign invasion) are central in explaining the context, passion, and power of national identity. Paraguay has been involved in three (essentially defensive) international wars since 1810, two of which readily lend themselves to superlatives in terms of devastation and death. In the course of these wars, the country has been invaded by four of its neighbors, including twice by Argentina, often fighting under the perception that independence and indeed existence were under threat, and incurring levels of casualties that almost defy belief. Consequently, it may be argued that “the most

188

●

Peter Lambert

important collective historical experience of all Paraguayans is the experience of international wars.”2 However, this chapter argues that while the experience of international conflict should not be underestimated, the hegemonic version of national identity was developed in the context of domestic political violence, most strikingly in the brutal Civil War of 1947, but also through the institutionalized, systemic violence of the dictatorship of General Alfredo Stroessner (1954–1989). Colorado Party dominance was won on the battlefields in 1947 and in the ensuing repression. Henceforth, violence in its different forms was key in its maintenance of political power. This included not only the violence of poverty, inequality, and exclusion, but also coercion, repression, enforced exile and fear, as well as the constant threat of violence, as integral components of the stronato. Such violence was accompanied and justified by assertions of national values, mythology, and identity, resulting in a hegemonic form of nationalism that has represented an integral component of Colorado Party vision, identity, and power. Indeed, the struggle for national identity has essentially been a national struggle for ideological and political power. In such a context of foreign and domestic violence, the narrative of the Paraguayan nation was retold and reshaped over the course of the twentieth century, complete with historical events, images, symbols, and landscapes. Retaining its roots in a romanticized discursive consciousness of the nation, and hence resonating with the majority population, it gradually evolved from a minority concern, a dissident and dissonant discourse in the early twentieth century, into an articulate and coherent narrative, complete with myths or storylines, national values or codes, icons, imagery, and landscapes. Constantly refined, adapted, and manipulated in accord with political aims and imperatives, by mid-century it had become the dominant, hegemonic political discourse, providing the ideological foundations of Colorado supremacy and the rule of Stroessner in the second half of the century. This chapter analyses the creation, evolution, and the trajectory of national identity, from a minority concern as a dissident set of values based on the memory of violence, to its place as hegemonic discourse and pillar of Colorado Party political dominance. It focuses on its development and the rediscovery of shared histories, images, myths, symbols, and traditions, and its evolution through international warfare, national conflict, and domestic repression into a hegemonic discourse, borne from violence and that, in turn, justified violence. Whilst the memory, reality, and threat of political violence were fundamental to its development, it argues that these were manipulated, exploited, and reinvented for political reasons to strengthen and legitimate Colorado Party rule.

Construction of National Identity in Paraguay

●

189

Political Violence in Post-Independence Paraguay Paraguayan political history, and indeed national consciousness since independence, has been shaped by particularly brutal political violence. That is not to say, as has often been implied, that Paraguayan history is characterized by continuous political violence. Indeed, despite a history oscillating between centralized authoritarian rule and political instability, Paraguay avoided the violent intra-elite civil wars that plagued much of the continent during the nineteenth century, and much of the brutal violence against subversion associated with the Cold War in the twentieth century. Rather, it has suffered sporadic political violence, outstanding for its destructiveness and ferocity, which has been central to the creation of Paraguay as a nation and of Paraguayan national identity. The war of 1811, resulting in the defeat of the invading Argentinians, was a “typical unifying war,”3 which combined with the subsequent threat of invasion posed by both Brazil and Argentina forced both elites and masses to support or at least accept the creation of Latin America’s first independent, centralized, pacified, and efficient (highly authoritarian) government under José Gaspar Rodríguez de Francia (1814–1840). Indeed, Francia’s iron rule and in particular his destruction of the European elite allowed Paraguay to achieve a rare degree of national unity and avoid the political, racial, and social violence that plagued so much of the region. This model was continued and developed under the dictatorships of Carlos Antonio López (1840–1862) and Francisco Solano López (1862–1870), who to differing degrees, emphasized economic self-sufficiency, state control of industry, trade, and land, and technological development in terms of communications, industry, and the military. By 1865, toward the very end of the “Nationalist Era” (1814–1870), Paraguay stood out for the nature and success of its developmental model, which was in contrast to the laissez faire liberalism practiced in the rest of Latin America. The Triple Alliance War (1864–1870), against the combined forces of Argentina, Brazil and Uruguay, put a dramatic end to the Paraguayan developmental model, and was the bloodiest and most destructive of South America’s internecine wars, a rare case in Latin American history of “total warfare” or the militarization of all economic, political, and social life. The result was disastrous for Paraguay, which lost over 25 percent of its territory. More importantly, the scale of the casualties was catastrophic; Paraguay is estimated to have lost over three hundred thousand people, equating to 60 percent of its prewar population, including almost 90 percent of its male population.4 The nature of the defeat and the decimation of the population not only had important social, economic, and political consequences, but also left a deep scar on the national psyche.

190

●

Peter Lambert

The economic legacy of the Triple Alliance War was the reconstruction of the economy under laissez faire government, with privatization of state lands and industries leading to a rapid growth in foreign control of the economy. The political legacy was the emergence of opposing groups of caudillo elites founding the Liberal and Colorado parties in 1887, with differences based more on factionalism than any ideological stance. Especially during the period from 1904 to 1936, Paraguay was characterized by political instability, with twenty-one presidents in just thirty-two years, and political violence, including coups, countercoups, and a brief civil war in 1922–1923. The domestic instability of the period was interrupted by the outbreak of the Chaco War against Bolivia (1932–1935), the bloodiest and most prolonged international war in twentieth-century Latin American history. The scale of casualties (Paraguay is estimated to have lost approximately thirty thousand people) and the brutal nature of the conflict and the terrain again left a deep impression on Paraguayan consciousness. The renewed instability that followed the end of the war came to a climax in 1947 when Paraguay was again plunged into conflict in a brief, but brutal civil war between the Colorado Party government and an alliance of liberal, communist, and febrerista opposition parties. Again, the scale of violence was extraordinary. In six months, approximately fifty thousand people were killed,5 while in the aftermath of the war, known as the “Colorado terror,” thousands more were executed, imprisoned, or exiled. Victory and its aftermath gave the Colorado Party political hegemony, which was further consolidated under the dictatorship of General Alfredo Stroessner. The threat, use, and fear of institutionalized violence that characterized his regime, lasted until the overthrow of the dictatorship in 1989. The Emergence of National Identity The roots of Paraguayan national identity lie in the colonial period in terms of an idea of both difference from other Spanish colonies and some sense of communal sameness within the colonial province itself. This was based on a number of factors, including a high level of intercultural mix (mestizaje), the predominant use of Guaraní, and the geographical isolation of the Mediterranean province, as well as a sense of unity derived from the constant threat of violence and external invasion.6 This consciousness of difference and unity played a major role in the comuneros revolt (1717–1735)7 and later in the refusal to join an Argentinian confederation and the resulting defeat of a porteño invasion force in 1811. It was then further developed in the postindependence period, both due to domestic policies (the self-imposed isolation, the destruction of the Spanish elite class, and the radically different

Construction of National Identity in Paraguay

●

191

developmental model of the Nationalist Era) and to the continual threat of invasion from Brazil and, more importantly, Buenos Aires. However, such consciousness regarding Paraguayan distinctiveness was based more on a fragmented, uncodified majority folk culture over which Francia and the López presided, than a coherent, written interpretation of history and identity. Paraguay could thus claim to be a “near nation,”8 but had not developed a clear sense of national identity. However, as Thomas Whigham has argued, the magnitude, sacrifice, and devastation of the Triple Alliance War helped develop and solidify a strong identity with the nation, based on national pride, independence, and culture, as well as the vilification of the Argentinian and Brazilian enemy.9 The very real fear of imminent destruction and the threat of possible elimination of Paraguay as a nation explains why Paraguayans fought to the bitter end in defense of their community. The aftermath of the catastrophic defeat of the Triple Alliance War included the humiliation of foreign occupation and loss of national territory, and the destruction of the political and economic model—and indeed all vestiges—of the Nationalist Era. Yet, despite efforts by the new political elites to relegate ideas of Paraguayan “difference” and to draw a line under the war, vigorous debate over the causes of the war and, most importantly, the role and legacy of Francisco Solano López continued, as lopista, and anti-lopista arguments raged. It was in the context of this “time of near anarchy,”10 at the beginning of the twentieth century characterized by political instability, factionalism, uncertainty, and a lack of political direction, that the conscious ideological struggle to define the past, present, and future of Paraguay in terms of national identity took place. The hegemonic (liberal positivist) version of national identity at the time, as expounded by Cecilio Báez,11 viewed history as a struggle between despotism and liberty, isolation and openness, backwardness and modernity, stagnation and economic and political progress. Historically, Paraguay had been isolated and backward with a submissive indigenous Guaraní population under despotic colonial (and until 1768, Jesuit) rule. Since the race was backward and underdeveloped, European influence was to be encouraged “to improve the race.” According to this view, colonial rule had in turn been replaced by republican despotism under Francia and the López, with the growth of a centralized authoritarian state that frustrated the liberal ideas of liberty, free trade, and international integration. Paraguay became the “China of the Americas,” closed, authoritarian, and characterized by a lack of scientific, cultural, and political advancement. Furthermore, defeat in the Triple Alliance War was seen as signaling a welcome end to autocracy and dictatorship and the beginning of a period

192

●

Peter Lambert

characterized by a process of gradual progress and enlightenment. The 1870 Constitution had been the most progressive in Paraguayan history, the first to recognize the political rights of citizens, including the indigenous peoples, and to abolish slavery, torture, exile, and the death penalty for political reasons. It was the first time Paraguay had experienced an organized state, based on an elected congress, alternation of power, higher education, and a free press. The period may have been marked by power struggles, corruption, and fraud, but Paraguay was no longer a dictatorship. The “authoritarian tradition”12 of Francia and the López, based on centralized and militarized authoritarian government, had been defeated. Paraguay was now in a new era of economic liberalization, political liberalism and enlightenment, international cooperation and openness to foreign (European) technological, scientific, and cultural influences, embarking on a slow process of development.13 In reaction to this positivist interpretation of history and incensed by the relegation of the Nationalist Era, a group of young writers among the so-called Generation of 900,14 began to challenge the dominant liberal discourse of Báez. These writers sought to elaborate an authentic Paraguayan interpretation of events to reassess and redefine a sense of national values and identity following the catastrophe of the Triple Alliance War. Centered primarily around nationalist writers such as Juan, E. O’Leary (1879–1968), J. Natalicio González (1896–1966), and Manuel Domínguez (1869–1935), and through literature, which was “more akin to poetry than historical investigation,”15 they sought to create a new historical narrative, complete with myths, heroes, landscapes, and future trajectory—un nacionalismo integral. Central to this dissident version was the aim of rescuing Paraguayan history, reclaiming a version of the past that would engender pride rather than the shame of the memory of catastrophe, loss, dispossession, and betrayal. Paraguayan history would henceforth be portrayed as one of nostalgia and heroism, based on national greatness and resistance to external aggression. Accordingly, the Nationalist Era was presented not as an era of authoritarian despotism, but of independent national development, which had brought progress, culture, and industrial growth to the country, placing Paraguay at the forefront of development in Latin America. Enforced isolation was developed into the nostalgic myth of Paraguay as a great autonomous, independent rural paradise, a lost harmonious, agrarian community when “the nation attained a level of prosperity unprecedented in its history and an intellectual blossoming unrepeated to the present.”16 If the past was one of lost glory and the present of oppression, then the new nationalist discourse sought to create the myth of future regeneration, of rebirth, and a return to the golden age of peace, development, and greatness. In writings and popular song, Paraguay, it was promised, “will once again be the great and strong nation that founded

Construction of National Identity in Paraguay

●

193

civilization in Río de la Plata.”17 The rediscovery of national greatness had begun. In the context of the development of the myth of kinship and nationas-family, the founding figures of the nation were duly eulogized. Francia, the father of the nation, was portrayed as having saved Paraguay from enforced incorporation into greater Argentina, the anarchy of the federalist wars, and foreign exploitation, as well as for having laid the basis for independent development based on “a true state socialism.”18 State intervention in trade and economy, the reduction of Spanish and elite power, and agrarian reforms were interpreted as proof of popular sovereignty, of a state in service of the people, “a revolutionary dictatorship whose primordial aim was the creation of a world in which the American man was sovereign, with effective control over his destiny.”19 Likewise, Carlos Antonio López was celebrated as “the true builder of the nation,”20 having consolidated independence and developed Paraguay into a foremost Latin American power through technological and industrial progress. However, primary amongst the heroic subjects of nationalist writing was the figure of Francisco Solano López. Led by Juan E. O’Leary, in a new cult of the national hero, López was rescued from almost universal vilification and raised from cruel, evil (and perhaps mad) tyrant who had led Paraguay to disaster, to a politico-historical myth, a figure to whom was attributed the essence of the codes, beliefs, and core values of Paraguayan society. According to O’Leary, “He is a man and a people. He is a cause. He is, in a word, the personification of Paraguay.”21 In this myth López, like his country, was portrayed as the victim of a foreign conspiracy to destroy Paraguayan independence. He entered the Triple Alliance War not through selfish illusions of grandeur, egotism, or madness, but in defense of Paraguayan sovereignty. While his barbarity and apparent lack of concern for his fellow countrymen during the war was overlooked, his alleged final words—“¡muero con mi patria!” (I die with my country!)—as he was killed in battle were used to confirm that in death, he mirrored the values of self-sacrifice, strength, struggle, and suffering of the nation itself. In his death, “a whole race, young, artistic and courageous, was embodied in him.”22 López, who many saw as responsible for the magnitude of the destruction in the Triple Alliance War, had become the human representation of the nation, the essence of paraguayidad. Similarly, the Triple Alliance War was rescued from catastrophe to heroic defense and inevitable but glorious defeat, complete with landscapes (Humaitá, Riachuelo, Piribebuyy), symbols (Acosta Ñu, Cerro Corá), and heroes (General Díaz, Coronel Oviedo, Teniente Fariña, Natalicio Talavera, Mariscal López himself ).23 If final defeat was seen as the end of the Golden

194

●

Peter Lambert

Age, then it was also the birth of an unacceptable present, which remained in the shadow of surrender, humiliation, and betrayal. Significantly, the enemy was not portrayed by nationalist writers as the foreign powers who invaded Paraguay, but rather as the Paraguayans who supported the Triple Alliance (pejoratively referred to as legionarios) and who benefited from defeat; the traitors to the patria. Fundamental to this discourse was the rediscovery of the Paraguayan ethnic community. With no shared common ethnic descent (Paraguay is renowned as a cultural mixing pot), the idea of the raza guaraní was appropriated to give a myth of common ancestry, a common ethnic community with shared historical memories, traditions, and culture. The Paraguayan was the mix of Spanish and Guaraní, the enlightened European and the noble savage, “the valiant and beautiful Indian, like a forest god.”24 The construction of paraguayidad, the search for the soul of the race, led to a growing popular belief in an innate Paraguayan ethnic superiority, which was reflected (and disseminated) in the songs, poetry, and literature of the period.25 The essence of the nation was firmly rooted in the concept of the “warrior–peasant” as the bearer of national identity both culturally (through Guaraní language) and politically as the historical defender of Paraguayan sovereignty.26 The cult of the nation, the myth of Guaraní descent, shared and distinctive culture and language, territory and solidarity all stressed the uniqueness of Paraguayans and the otherness of their foreign neighbors. For political reasons, such concepts needed to be developed to exclude not just foreigners, but domestic opposition as well. What united nationalist discourse was effectively identified by González in El Paraguay Eterno (1935) as the timeless conflict in Paraguay between the autóctono and the exótico. The autóctono referred to the national, the essence of paraguayidad, encapsulating the myths of the past and celebrating the values of “homeland, race and shared history.”27 On the other hand, the exótico was presented as the foreign, the externally imposed, the opposite of Paraguayan values. Rather than relating foreignness with development and progress, as positivism had done, external influence was presented as the antithesis of paraguayidad, and indeed, as the cause and consequence of defeat. Such reinterpretation was not unduly concerned with historical accuracy, but instead its aim was to give faith, ideals, and a path to a people decimated by war, to construct a new historical memory through literature that codified the events, people, and places of the past into a collective memory and a collective narrative, and to give a new and coherent perspective on the past. It sought to erase the memory of pointless war and catastrophic defeat, transforming them into a coherent and meaningful past, which would give meaning and direction to the present. Such nationalist writers were a classic

Construction of National Identity in Paraguay

●

195

example of “political archaeologists rediscovering and reinterpreting the communal past in order to regenerate the community,”28 “the high priests of the myth,”29 who sought to create a new historical consciousness and a system of values, to create the basis of a national identity that would give sense to the past, present, and future. This dissident discourse sought to make sense of and give meaning and relevance to a history of violence and defeat, providing a nostalgic assertion of Paraguayan identity, and a valiant struggle for independence and sovereignty. Significantly, it was also a rallying cry against the prevailing political order, which sought to undermine the liberal hegemony and challenge its exótico ideological discourse. Many nationalist writers of the Generation of 900 were closely identified with the Colorado Party (in opposition), reflecting that from the outset, the development of a coherent national identity was highly politicized. The Colorado Party was quick to adopt the new dissident discourse, assuming the role of the bearer of national identity, and portraying itself as the party of the peasantry, the party of the Guaraní race, the party of Paraguay. Nationalist Discourse as Official Discourse: The Chaco War and Its Legacy The growth of national identity and nationalism was immeasurably strengthened by the outbreak of the Chaco War in 1932, not only through the national unity resulting from such violence, but also through resultant political change. The failure of the government policy of appeasement with Bolivia and the lack of military preparation and efficiency in meeting the Bolivian threat irrevocably undermined political domination by the Liberal Party, leading to its overthrow in 1936. It also marked the beginning of a modern Paraguay dominated by nationalist governments. In effect, it marked the turning point when a dissident form of national identity became the official, hegemonic version, reflecting and reinforcing political domination. In a period characterized by “the transformation of history into myth,”30 the liberal interpretation of Paraguayan history, official since 1870, was relegated to dissident discourse, where it remained for the next sixty years. What was most remarkable were the power, breadth, and flexibility of national identity. Politically, a new narrative exalting militarism, el autóctono, and the authoritarian past became a prerequisite for power, a key tool of popular legitimacy for every government, and an obligatory political discourse. Despite its narrow interpretation of history, it was broad enough to serve the aims of every government (and ideology) in power over the following sixty years. President Rafael Franco (1936–1937) sought to unite fascist, socialist,

196

●

Peter Lambert

and liberal tendencies in his government through the promotion of a virulently nationalist discourse and the official iconization of Francisco Solano López.31 President Higínio Morínigo (1940–1947) initially used nationalism to justify a stance dangerously close to pro-Axis fascism, declaring his dictatorship to be a Revolutionary Nationalist State that would deliver Paraguay to her former greatness, while Natalicio González (1948) justified the use of the Guión Rojo, Colorado stormtroopers, under the banner of nationalism. It also gave each government a powerful weapon to sideline any opposition. Since the ambiguity and “the lack of definition allows the party in government to express an opinion on each case, to decide who is Paraguayan and who is not,”32 those who opposed a nationalist government, by definition became anti-Paraguayan. If it was international violence that led to the transformation of national identity from dissident to hegemonic culture, then it was national violence that began the process of the “coloradization” of national identity and of nationalism. The Civil War was ostensibly a rebellion by an alliance of opposition parties ( febreristas, liberals, and communists) supported by the majority of the armed forces against Colorado hegemony in government and attempts to politicize the armed forces. Although lasting only six months, between March and August of 1947, it was striking in its brutality (approximately fifty thousand deaths), the terror wreaked by the victorious Colorados against all opposition in the aftermath of the war, and the subsequent exile of between two hundred thousand and four hundred thousand people, or up to a third of the population.33 The Civil War also marked a further watershed in the development of national identity. Despite the fact that the majority of political parties and armed forces supported the rebellion, the Colorado government successfully and skillfully portrayed the conflict as an internationally backed conspiracy against the national government, and by extension the patria. It thus successfully transformed (at least in popular mythology) a civil war into a war of national defense. In effect, patriotism (the defense of the homeland against external enemies) was replaced by nationalism (the defense of the essence of the nation against internal and external enemies). This assumption of the mantle of nationalism allowed the Colorado Party to not only win the war (in great part due to the decisive role of the pynandí, or Colorado peasant militias) but also justify the subsequent purge of society and the armed forces in terms of the national interest. The Civil War showed that the Colorado Party had correctly identified the peasantry as the essence of paraguayidad (and key to political power). The subsequent purging of the armed forces in favor of recruitment of Colorado peasant pynandí served to underline the historical link between the peasantry and defense of the nation—or in political terms, between peasant support and political power.

Construction of National Identity in Paraguay

●

197

The Civil War cemented both the hegemonic form of national identity and the Colorado Party’s hold on it. In ideological terms, the claim of the Colorado Party to be the (exclusive) party of the nation allowed it to gain and wield unrivalled political power. However, while the adoption of nationalism into official Colorado discourse may have led to political hegemony, the lack of internal coherence and elite unity meant that the period (from 1947 to 1954) was characterized by infighting and political instability. Dictatorship and National Identity: The Stroessner Regime The final phase of the transformation of national identity from dissident discourse to institutionalization as the hegemonic discourse, came with the dictatorship of Alfredo Stroessner (1954–1989). Stroessner brought an end to half a century of political instability, and constructed a regime based on the unification of the state, the armed forces and the Colorado Party, under his own rule. As an alleged hero of the Chaco War and the Civil War of 1947, Stroessner was able to take up the banner of national identity, and mould and adapt it into an ideological pillar (nationalism) of the regime. The success of Stroessner was based to a great extent on an appropriate and culturally correct reading of historical and cultural traditions, discourse, and national identity. Under his dictatorship, the revisionist interpretation of history not only continued to be embedded as the official interpretation, (with the works of authors such as Juan O’Leary praised and republished) but was developed to new heights to strengthen the personal claim of Stroessner to power. Significantly, Stroessner appointed himself as “interpreter of the heart of the soul of the nation,”34 allowing himself to select and promote history, myth, and identity according to political necessity. As with other previous governments, Stroessner used the discourse of national identity to give legitimacy to his regime, employing discursive strategies designed to highlight and inculcate continuity, tradition, unity, and national identity. However, far more than any previous regime, he adapted and manipulated the narrative of the nation, from foundational myth to historical trajectory covering the present and future, building on the counter-narrative constructed by the nationalist element of the Generation of 900. This was told and retold through a highly centralized public education system (in subjects such as history, geography, and civic instruction), literature, the media (Patria and La Voz del Coloradismo), and popular culture, through stories, images, landscapes, symbols, and rituals. Significantly, he inserted the Colorado Party, the armed forces, and, most importantly, himself into the narrative, as a continuation of the historical line of nationalist heroes and institutions.

198

●

Peter Lambert

Stroessner developed a selective and exclusive national identity on all levels. Textbooks were rewritten and subjected to official approval, with history mystified in favor of authoritarian rule, the armed forces, the Colorado Party, and the peasantry, while qualities such as courage, heroism, and honor were strongly promoted. Conspicuous glorification of the past became widespread with statues, parks, streets, and plazas named after nationalist heroes in a flurry of activity, while new nationalist icons (such as Madame Lynch whose remains were ceremoniously returned to Paraguay in 1961 and whose status was raised from harlot to national heroine) were promoted. In a similar way to that in which politics was ritualized,35 so too were history and national identity, in an endless series of processions, parades, anniversaries, monuments, ceremonies, and public holidays. Stroessner’s reading of history elevated his own position to one that was both natural and unchallengeable. The image of the heroes of the past was strengthened and developed in order that Stroessner could receive the adulation as the inheritor, reflected in the titles showered upon him. He was the great rebuilder of the nation, “the continuation of the work of the three great leaders who forged the nation,”36 “the unyielding heir of the founding fathers,”37 the continuum of the most legitimate and autóctono Paraguayan governments of the past. It was under Stroessner that the cult of heroism, (principally his own) obtained the strongest official support. Although the Colorado Party had successfully identified itself with national identity during the traumatic first half of the twentieth century, it was under Stroessner that it underwent its most significant transformation. Stroessner converted the party into a highly organized state instrument of, mobilization, repression, control, and welfare, the principal state mechanism of contact with the populace. This was further enforced with membership of the Colorado Party made compulsory for all public sector workers (including the armed forces), as a means for promotion, patronage, and security. Stroessner thus made the Colorado Party not only a fundamental part of daily Paraguayan life, but also, most importantly, the party of the state. If the Colorado Party was the true Paraguayan party, then patriotic support for it became “the only legitimate way to be Paraguayan.”38 Stroessner was able to use the internal disorder, political violence, instability, civil war, and near anarchy of the years (between 1900 and 1954) in the construction of the myths of peace, tranquility, order, progress, and development that he attributed to his dictatorship. The myth of the regime’s motto of “peace and progress” under a strong, stable government not only served to remind citizens of its alleged links to the “golden age” of the Nationalist Era, but also strengthened the myth of Stroessner as a leader who had restored peace and stability to Paraguay, as “the irreplaceable national leader who had ended civil

Construction of National Identity in Paraguay

●

199

war and restored social harmony to conflictual Paraguay.”39 Of course, if the regime was characterized by peace and progress, then opposition, by its very nature, threatened such achievements. Repression of dissidence was therefore legitimized in terms of maintaining “the peace in which the country lives”40 and a harmonious social order. Stroessner extolled the concept of the recreation of the mythical homogenous society of the Nationalist Era though the myth of organic, “granite-like” unity (unidad granítica). However, as with other myths, the unifying discourse, the one-world view, was principally an exclusionary device to legitimate violence against opposition. The concept of unity, of the nation as family, was used as a mechanism to conceal and illegitimate diversity, undermine the political opposition, and portray dissidence as a threat to the nation. The adoption, adaptation, and manipulation of nationalist discourse left no space for diversity, as difference and pluralism became deviation, a threat to the myth of national unity. Ideological debate in this atmosphere was replaced by enforced ideological consensus as it had been in the Nationalist Era. The myth of harmony and national unity was exclusive, led to divisive categorization and concealed conflict: “what or who is the nation is what is left unexplained in this ideology: the lack of definition allows the government . . . to decide who are Paraguayans and who are not.”41 Within this framework of unity and otherness in national identity, fear was an important element of control. Defense of the national interest allowed Stroessner to unleash at times brutal repression against opposition, but he did not have recourse to carry out the same levels of murder as other Southern Cone dictatorships. Instead, his regime relied far more on fear of reprisal, with reminders of past violence against opposition being an integral part of the discourse of national identity. For example, the continued reference to the pynandí, the Colorado peasant militias of the Civil War, as the essence of the nation, represented not merely a folkloric gesture. Rather, it was intended as a form of intimidation against the enemies of the Colorado Party, a constant reminder of the brutality of Civil War and its aftermath in “an atmosphere of distrust, fear and suspicion.”42 Fear, as “the institutional, cultural and psychological repercussion of violence,”43 became the subtext of the hegemonic version of national identity. Concepts of unity and otherness were mirrored on a wider ideological level in Stroessner’s enthusiastic adoption of the war against communism, in the form of participation in Operation Condor, the application of the National Security Doctrine, and membership of international anticommunist organizations. This went further than simply a political strategy to open the gates to U.S. military and economic aid.44 The war which pitted Paraguay against national and international subversion, of “good against evil,” allowed Stroessner

200

●

Peter Lambert

to justify and legitimate domestic repression. It also fitted perfectly into nationalist discourse. Not only did class and even political conflict violate the principles of unidad granítica (as well as the letter of the Constitution),45 but it also allowed Stroessner to claim defense of the nation and the autóctono against the (mythical) threat of the foreign, the traitor, and the exótico, in an ongoing repeat of Paraguay’s past conflicts. National identity was thus transformed from a dynamic, dissident discourse directed toward change, to a fundamentally conservative tool designed to fortify and preserve the authoritarian status quo. Unlike other cases in Latin America, national identity was not used to promote modernization, industrialization, or any form of economic, political, or social progress. Instead, it was used as an efficient mechanism of control serving to mobilize and unite elites and masses behind the regime, while smoothing out inherent tensions of class, gender, region, and other competing identities. Moreover, the emphasis within the discourse on tradition and isolation led to a defensive syndrome, a siege mentality, and a hostility to both change and new ideas, as the ideological shutters went up to exclude external points of reference that might undermine paraguayidad. Reference to national identity was thus not only a demobilizing social construct, encouraging adherence to the political status quo and loyalty to the regime, but also “used as a mechanism to avoid the adoption or consideration of new ideas and practices”46 and to undermine pressures for change. Democracy and National Identity When Stroessner was overthrown in February 1989, some analysts argued that nationalism had become so closely identified with the discredited stronato that it was inevitable popular concepts of national identity as well as official discourse would be challenged and change.47 The new reality of democratic transition, greater tolerance and respect, and the recognition of civil freedoms and rights would, it was felt, give rise to a reexamination of national identity and the emergence of new forms and discourses in tune with new democratic times. Furthermore, the 1990s was not only a period of democratic transition, but also of rapid social, economic, and cultural change, as Paraguay began to open up to regional and global influences. Democratization included among other advances, educational reform, the gradual professionalization of the armed forces, and freedom of press and expression, all of which potentially undermined official nationalist discourse. Globalization, especially in terms of culture, media, communications, accompanied trends such as urbanization and modernization, which brought Paraguay a decade of tumultuous,

Construction of National Identity in Paraguay

●

201

often uneasy social changes including increasing poverty, informality, and social exclusion. All of these influences undermined shared forms of community, and made aspects of Paraguayan national identity, based on tradition, defensive isolationism, and an organic link with the nineteenth century, difficult to maintain. This has led to the perception of “a gradual decline in the relevance of traditional forms of national identity, especially among the young, who may live among its symbols, but no longer show interest or understanding of its political content.”48 Despite this, what is perhaps striking after sixteen years of democratization is that the expected reexamination of national identity has simply not taken place. Moreover, although many aspects of the stronista interpretation of national identity have been dropped as unwelcome reminders of past authoritarianism, many elements of the “authoritarian tradition” in national identity remain strong. Both of these factors require some explanation. By 1989, the mythification of history had become so ingrained that there were few critical voices. Fifty years of blanket coverage and educational indoctrination in the dominant worldview made any immediate reanalysis unlikely. During this time criticism of the hegemonic model had been presented as anti-Paraguayan, with events and heroes of the past carefully removed from historical analysis and placed into the realm of mythification. This in turn created an apprehensive cultural academic tradition, which undermined critical thinking among students and indeed scholars.49 Such was the power of official nationalism that few dared to criticize or challenge the popularized, hegemonic version of national identity. Since 1989, the political opposition has broadly failed to challenge the dominant version or offer an alternative, more progressive form of national identity. With the exception of many liberals (who broadly retain the positivist, anti-López interpretation of Paraguayan history), opposition parties and movements (including on the left) have been unable to offer a distinct, democratic, and nonauthoritarian alternative to the hegemonic discourse, showing themselves unwilling to criticize Francia, López, Caballero, or other heroes of the past, or challenge the Colorado Party’s appropriation of such identity. In the words of Guido Rodríguez Alcalá, who offers a stinging criticism of such lack of opposition, liberals, Christian democrats, socialists, and conservatives in general “all sing together in the chorus that eulogizes authoritarianism.”50 Furthermore, despite political manipulation, national identity was not simply invented or created from a void, nor was it merely an exercise in social engineering. Instead, the traditions, myths, history, and symbols reinterpreted by nationalist intellectuals grew out of shared memories and beliefs of the people and enjoyed a high level of popular resonance. National identity

202

●

Peter Lambert

both sprung from and penetrated the Paraguayan subconscious, collective memory. On a mundane, daily level this is reflected in the plethora of plazas, street names, songs, sports teams, public holidays, barrios, statues, ceremonies, and verse that celebrate and integrate the (often violent) past and its heroes with the daily experience of the present. The successful transformation of aspects of the public and official national identity to the private sphere helps to explain the durability of the national myth and narrative. A final possible explanation lies in the fact that despite being characterized by inefficiency, factionalism, and corruption, the Colorado Party has held onto political power throughout the political transition. This achievement is in part due to its success in maintaining the mantle of national identity as its own, successfully identifying itself as “the guardian of the spirit of the Marshall.”51 The Colorado Party still sees itself as the party of the nation as reflected, for example, in its 1996 electoral slogan “we are all Colorados.” Equally importantly, it is still seen as such, as an authentic representation of paraguayidad, by a sizeable part of the population. It may have adapted its discourse to omit reference to Stroessner and include instead values of democracy, modernization, liberty, human rights, and social justice, but it still associates itself with a strong sense of nationalism. Perhaps more ominously, the almost constant state of crisis in the transition has led to the growth of nationalist populism as witnessed in the rise of exgeneral Lino Oviedo between 1993 and 1999. Speaking principally in Guaraní, Oviedo presented himself as an almost mythical figure, as the champion of the peasantry, a continuation of the line of past heroes who would defend the essence of Paraguay in a present characterized by corruption, foreign domination, and sociopolitical and economic crises. Moreover, the current president Nicanor Duarte Frutos, apparently inspired by the success of Oviedo, has returned to a discourse and style that draws heavily on images and myths of national identity, stressing his role as tendotá (strong leader), his peasant (and Guaraní-speaking) background, his aversion to elites who have lost contact with the true spirit of Paraguay, and the inherent relationship between the Colorado Party and the nation. In such an atmosphere of crisis, the hegemonic version of national identity lives on, perhaps in more moderate form, but with the latent threat of authoritarianism and violence always present. Conclusions Over the twentieth century, the narrative of the Paraguayan nation was retold and reshaped, complete with historical events, images, myths, symbols, and landscapes. Such myths may “invert reality”52 but, nevertheless, they gradually evolved into a coherent narrative, complete with national values or codes,

Construction of National Identity in Paraguay

●

203

icons, imagery, and landscapes that allowed a people, decimated by war and political violence, to make sense of their history. This interpretation of Paraguayan national identity went from minority concern, a dissident and dissonant discourse in the early twentieth century, to the dominant, hegemonic discourse that provided the ideological foundations of Colorado supremacy. As the official discourse under the rule of Stroessner, it was then refined, adapted, and manipulated to accord with his political aims and imperatives. Throughout this period the hegemonic version of national identity maintained an integral relationship with political violence. Defensive wars against Argentina (1811), the countries of the Triple Alliance (1864–1870), and Bolivia (1932–1935) provided ample material for a narrative of heroic national defense against foreign aggression, fostering Paraguayan sentiments of difference. However, while this narrative may have sprung from external violence, it was also effectively employed and developed in the context of the domestic violence of the Civil War of 1947 and later the Stroessner regime as the discourse of defense of the nation against ‘subversion’ came to justify violence against political opponents. Thus, national identity not only emerged from the violence of the past, but also nourished itself on the violence of the present, whether in the context of the Chaco War, the Civil War, or the rule of Stroessner. The hegemonic version of national identity may have been developed by intellectuals and fashioned by political elites, but it was not simply an exercise in social engineering. Instead, existing myths, memories, traditions, and symbols of popular memory were successfully redefined and rewoven to create a popular narrative that gave Paraguay’s past, present, and future meaning and direction. The popular resonance of this narrative explains its power as a highly effective and durable ideological and political tool for the Colorado Party that legitimized and justified its use of political violence in moments of crisis, and was a crucial, if often overlooked, factor in its unbroken domination of Paraguayan politics for over half a century.

Notes 1. H. Vera, En Busca del Hueso Perdido (Asunción: RP Ediciones, 1990), p. 131. 2. B. Arditi and J.C. Rodríguez, La Sociedad a Pesar del Estado (Asunción: El Lector, 1987), p. 59. 3. M.A. Centeno, “The Centre Did Not Hold,” in Dunkerley, J. (ed.), Studies in the Formation of the Nation State in Latin America (London: ILAS, 2002), p. 58. 4. R.A. Nickson, Historical Dictionary of Paraguay (London: Scarecrow Press, 1993), p. 598. 5. Ibid., p. 50.

204

●

Peter Lambert

6. R. Medina, Apuntes sobre la Historia del Paraguay Colonial (Buenos Aires: Editorial Adelante, 1996). 7. The comuneros revolt was an economic and political conflict between Paraguayan encomenderos on the one side and pro-Jesuit royalist forces from Buenos Aires. It was finally put down by an invasion from Buenos Aires in 1735. 8. T.L. Whigham, “The Paraguayan War: A Catalyst for Nationalism in South America,” in Kraay, H. and Whigham, T.L (eds.), I Die with my Country: Perspectives on the Paraguayan War, 1964–1970 (London: University of Nebraska Press, 2005), p. 180. 9. Ibid., p. 183. 10. P.H. Lewis, Paraguay Under Stroessner (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1980), p. 5. 11. Cecilio Báez (1862–1941) was the foremost ideologue of the Liberal Party, president (1905–1906) and founding member and mentor of the Generation of 900. 12. G. Rodríguez Alcalá, Ideología Autoritaria (Asunción: RP Ediciones, 1987). 13. See, e.g., J. Prieto, Paraguay, La Provincia Gigante de Las Indias (Asunción: Archivo del Liberalismo, 1988). 14. The Generation of 900 was a small group of prolific writers and intellectuals that emerged in the early twentieth century. Although united in the aim of rediscovery of the past, they were divided between liberals, associated with Cecilio Báez and nationalists. 15. Vera, En Busca del Hueso Perdido, p. 143. 16. J.N. González, El Paraguay Eterno, 4th ed. (Asunción: Cuadernos Republicanos, 1987; first edition: Guaranda, 1935), p. 11. 17. Ibid., p. 113. 18. J.N. González, El Paraguay y la Lucha por su Expresión (Asunción: Ediciones Guarania, 1946), p. 27. 19. Ibid., p. 28. 20. J.N. González, Solano López y Otros Ensayos (Paris: Editorial de Indias, 1926), p. 148. 21. J.E. O’Leary, Prosa Polémica (Asunción: Napa, 1982), p. 152. 22. González, Solano López y Otros Ensayos, p. 3. 23. Manuel Dominguez emphasized the heroism of Paraguay in the Triple Alliance War, aiming to restore faith in Paraguay and the Paraguayan race in titles such as “Las Causas del Heroismo Paraguayo” (1903), “Heroismo y Tiranía” (1907), and “El Patriota y el Traidor” (1920). 24. Ibid., p. 121. 25. The concept of raza guaraní was pure literary construction. As Meliá has pointed out, in Paraguay, given the vast range of immigrant and indigenous influences, “the concept of race lacks any meaning at all. The so-called raza guaraní is not in any way a defining element of the national being.” See B. Meliá, Una Nación, Dos Culturas (Asunción: RP Ediciones, 1986), p. 59. 26. The liberal era saw the systematic relegation of the Guaraní language, spoken by the majority of the (peasant) population, in favor of Spanish. In response, nationalists writers urged a revival of Guaraní.

Construction of National Identity in Paraguay

●

205

27. González, El Paraguay Eterno, p. 60. 28. A.D. Smith, “Ethno-Symbolism and the Study of Nationalism,” in Smith, A.D. (ed.), Myths and Memories of the Nation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), p. 181. 29. A. Kapcia, “Ideology and the Cuban Revolution: Myth Icon and Identity,” in Fowler, W. (ed.), Ideologues and Ideologies in Latin America (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1997), p. 89. 30. Rodríguez Alcalá, Ideología Autoritaria, p. 121. 31. In 1936, a decree annulled all legal criticisms made against López since 1870. In what was an effort to create a lopista cult, his birthday was declared a national holiday, his remains were transferred from Cerro Corá to the Panteón de los Héroes, and he was raised to the status of héroe máximo de la patria. 32. Ibid., p. 97. 33. Lewis, Paraguay Under Stroessner, p. 38. 34. R.A. Meza, El Triángulo de la Opresión (Asunción: Imprenta Salesiana, 1990), p. 137. 35. B. Arditi, Adiós a Stroessner (Asunción: CDE/RP Ediciones, 1992). 36. J.E. O’Leary, “Una Carta al Presidente,” El País, May 21, 1959, quoted in Rodríguez Alcalá, Ideología Autoritaria, p. 71. 37. Quoted in Meza, El Triángulo de la Opresión, p. 165. 38. A. Irala Burgos, “La Epistemología de la Historia en el Paraguay,” Estudios Paraguayos 3:2 (1975), p. 141. 39. R. Roett, “Paraguay After Stroessner,” Foreign Affairs 68:2 (1989), p. 129. 40. The phrase “la paz que vive el país” was frequently used by the Stroessner regime. 41. Rodríguez Alcalá, Ideología Autoritaria, p. 123. 42. C.R. Miranda, Paraguay y la Era de Stroessner (Asunción: RP Ediciones, 1990), p. 166. 43. K. Koonings and D. Kruijt (eds.), Societies of Fear: The Legacy of Civil War, Violence and Terror in Latin America (London: Zed Press, 1999), p. 15. 44. For an in-depth analysis of the material benefits of U.S. aid to the Stroessner regime, see D. Laíno, Paraguay: Represión, Estafa y Anti-comuni$mo (Asunción: Ediciones Cerro Corá, 1979). 45. Article 71 of the 1967 Constitution stated that “hatred between Paraguayans or class struggle between classes will not be permitted.” 46. D. Rivarola, Una Sociedad Conservadora ante los Desafíos de la Modernidad (Asunción: Ediciones y Arte Editores, Centro Paraguayo de Estudios Sociológicos, 1994), p. 61. 47. Rodríguez Alcalá, Ideología Autoritaria, p. 78. 48. Author’s interview with Milda Rivarola, Areguá, Paraguay, August 8, 2004. 49. M. Rivarola, Filosofías, Pedagogías y Percepción Colectiva de la Historia en el Paraguay, unpublished, 1996. 50. Rodríguez Alcalá, Ideología Autoritaria, p. 123. 51. Roett, “Paraguay After Stroessner,” p. 126. 52. E. Gellner, Nations and Nationalism (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1983), p. 124.

This page intentionally left blank

CHAPTER 12

Some Historical Observations on the Relationship between Nationalism and Political Violence in Argentina Michael Goebel

Introduction The military dictatorship of 1976–1983—self-styled as a “Process of National Reorganization” or in short Proceso—has made Argentina internationally notorious for human rights violations. Likewise, Argentina is often thought of when it comes to “political violence.”1 Not surprisingly, this has cast its shadow on the historiography of nationalism and, more generally, on debates about national identity in Argentina. Particularly, some Englishlanguage studies have scanned their sources for explanations of what Argentina seems to encapsulate: military coups, repression, or violent episodes in general. David Rock, for example, has drawn a picture of continuity of the “nationalist movement,” which expressed an inherently authoritarian political culture that easily escalated into violence, especially in its repressive or vigilantist dimension.2 Nicolas Shumway, condensing debates about national identity in what he has called “guiding fictions,” has identified a precedent for the 1976–1983 dictatorship’s beliefs in the authoritarian elements of Mariano Moreno’s writings of the early nineteenth century.3 The conclusions that a (favorable) reviewer has drawn from Shumway’s book read as follows: “Moreno’s idea that a progressive state could be realized

208

●

Michael Goebel

only by eliminating its enemies was clearly the guiding fiction behind the military’s policy of extermination 1976–83, and Rosas’ mazorca obviously prefigured Perón’s death squads.” According to the reviewer, the Proceso had even remoter antecedents: it was “a national crime rooted not only in nineteenth century differing ideologies, but pre-Independence phenomena like the Inquisition and sixteenth century witch hunts.”4 With the help of Rock’s and Shumway’s analyses, another author found that “many of the myths and evils we associate with the Dirty War can already be identified in the nineteenth century,” such as “Catholic values exemplified in the Crusades, the Inquisition, and the Counter-Reformation; . . . the distrust of foreigners; . . . the tendency to resort to violence to ‘save’ the national ‘body,’ ” all of which are cast as somehow inherent to Argentine culture.5 Although neither Rock nor Shumway go quite as far as these, the quotes show that their argument is easily compatible with a widely held belief that Argentina was imbued with an essentially violent political culture and that the reasons for this could be found in an unchanging nationalist ideology or certain “guiding fictions”— typical for Argentina and practically unaffected by the course of history. All too often, such arguments run the risk of reproducing a historical genealogy that nationalist thinkers constructed in order to legitimize their goals, thereby taking at face value a narrative that could be more fruitfully conceptualized as the “invention of tradition,” as Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger have famously put it.6 I do not want to suggest that this invention was absent from the political language of the Argentine junta. Undeniably, the generals justified the forced “disappearance” of thousands in the name of rescuing their version of a Catholic and hierarchical nation from alien “subversion,” almost interchangeable with the idea of “infiltration” arranged from Moscow. When they seemed to express an ideology (which did not occur often), many of its elements simulated ideas that had been held long before by the most reactionary of nationalistic thinkers, some of whom, in turn, lent their support to the regime. Nationalistic tenets also appeared on the other side of the violent divisions of the 1970s, especially among the Peronist Montoneros However, does that mean that nationalism as such led to political violence? We should bear in mind phenomena that belong to the realm of ideas—like nationalism—are manifold and complex and, most importantly, that they acquire their changing meanings only in relation to their context. The literal resemblance between the statement of a torturer in the 1970s and a phrase by Mariano Moreno that was made more than 150 years earlier, therefore, does not mean that they express the same thing (quite apart from the theoretical, but no less important, question of how ideas directly translate into practices).

Nationalism and Political Violence in Argentina

●

209

Against such ahistorical arguments, this chapter seeks to demonstrate the complexities of the relationship between nationalism and political violence in Argentina. As will be argued, our conceptualization of this relationship depends largely on our understanding of nationalism. Throughout this chapter, political violence, in turn, will be defined as that kind of violence that consciously aims to affect the structure or distribution of political power in a society. While the operations exerted by insurgent armed groups are the most clear-cut examples of this kind of violence, vigilantist and paramilitary groups and the violent repression exercised by specialized state agencies also fall into that rubric, as long as they try to “affect” the political power structure, for example, by eliminating the opposition (real or imagined). According to the same definition, military coups can be classified as political violence, too, and in a sense, even the Malvinas or Falklands War of 1982 would meet these requirements.7 Contrary to conventional wisdom—even if we apply so broad a definition of political violence—Argentina was a relatively peaceful country by international standards during the first two-thirds of the twentieth century. Of course, there were violent incidents throughout the century, for example, the so-called tragic week of 1919 or the bombardment of Buenos Aires’ central Plaza de Mayo by the air force in 1955 in an attempt to bring down Juan Perón’s government. Moreover, Argentina has a deserved reputation for military coups. The armed forces toppled six civilian governments throughout the twentieth century (all between 1930 and 1976), but this usually happened with a limited degree of violence. Although many of the ensuing military regimes—besides the last two, all of them rather short-lived—were repressive and authoritarian, only the Proceso recurred to killings, “disappearances,” and torture on a massive scale. In fact, the decade in which political violence seriously affected Argentine society and politics can be determined quite precisely: the 1970s. In a survey in 1969, the majority of those questioned still expressed doubts that political violence could ever become a serious problem in Argentina. Only five years later, there were four hundred bomb explosions in one month and five hundred people assassinated in one year, all attributable to political violence.8 Under the brutal dictatorship of 1976, figures reached a scale never before conceived of in Argentina, when the military killed (or “made disappear”) between nine and thirty thousand people. There is no convincing reason for an a priori acceptance of the argument that this violence was fostered by nationalism as such. In stark contrast to such a thesis, one could start from a Weberian viewpoint and argue that nationalism is associated with nation building, which led to the emergence of a cohesive “political community” and to the concomitant societal acceptance

210

●

Michael Goebel

of the “monopolization of legitimate violence by the political–territorial association.”9 The more convincing the state’s promise to interpret the interests of the “nation,” the less plausible and consequently the less frequent it became for political actors to recur to violent means in order to achieve their goals. This scheme is admittedly simplified and in order to serve as a useful starting point it would first require a more serious theoretical discussion. One predicament arises from the fact that the state’s assertion of its monopoly of violence is simultaneously a “process of ‘visualization’ of violence.” Only under the condition that society recognizes the state’s monopoly in principle does political violence become identifiable as such, because only then is it seen as abnormal (if not as illegitimate under all circumstances).10 A second problem is that during this process, the distinction between legitimate and illegitimate forms of violence is especially blurred.11 Most importantly for our purpose, however, this scheme would have to rely on a concept of nationalism that focuses on its long-term functions rather than understanding it merely as an aggressive ideology. Before coming back to the relationship with violence, it might therefore be useful to look more closely at the history of Argentine nationalism as a first step. Nationalism and the Lack of Pluralism Although no less debated than other themes in Argentine history, a number of points about nationalism can be made confidently.12 At least from 1910 onward, the nineteenth-century ideal of cosmopolitan nation building was gradually superseded by a form of cultural nationalism that was concerned with preserving the essence of argentinidad. Increasingly, the elite emphasized its Hispanic roots as an affirmation against mass immigration. On the other hand, concomitantly to the initiation of universal male suffrage in 1912, the nation became a central point of reference for claiming legitimacy in Argentine political discourse. It became common to brand the political adversary as antinational. A well-known example of this nationalist and anti-pluralist rhetoric was President Hipólito Yrigoyen’s (1916–1922 and 1928–1930) equation of his Unión Cívica Radical (UCR) with the entire nation, but the drawing on an organic concept of the nation was by no means specific to a certain period or political position. It was perhaps most accentuated in the discourse of the principal examples of populism, Yrigoyen’s and Perón’s, but the most important oppositional groupings in the final stages of the presidencies of both equally argued from a nationalist perspective, when they held that the head of state was betraying the essential values of the fatherland.13 Since so many different and sometimes opposed political actors claimed to defend the authentic interests of the nation against corrupting foreign

Nationalism and Political Violence in Argentina

●

211

influences, it is very difficult to establish who or what qualifies as nationalist. The matter is further complicated by the fact that “nationalists” never formed a stable political organization, let alone a party. This makes it equally hard to define the boundaries of a putative nationalist movement that Rock or Marysa Navarro Gerassi have identified.14 Ideologically, this was at best an extremely eclectic conglomerate. Organizationally, its protagonists oscillated between intellectual and political activities without an institutional framework and with no leader. Commonly associated with the nationalist movement are a number of intellectuals, some members of the armed forces and politicians manqués who, in the context of opposition to Yrigoyen’s second presidency and especially in the subsequent decade, launched vociferous attempts to reformulate Argentine national identity. Called nacionalistas in Spanish,15 many came from upper middle-class backgrounds and had good relations with sectors of the military. Never mind their fervent attacks against “the Europeanized classes with their backs turned on the nation,” some of them also frequented the circles of high culture, which were commonly associated with cosmopolitan liberalism.16 On most accounts, their ideas differed from what Jorge Castañeda has seen as the principally left-wing nationalism in most Latin American countries.17 Although anti-imperialism—the classical touchstone between Marxism and nationalism—was a central theme in their writings, this developed around a set of conspiracy theories that rather resembled the political beliefs and tactics of the extreme right, as Rock has remarked.18 Politically, the proponents of this kind of nationalism believed in an authoritarian and hierarchic society; culturally, they exalted Argentina’s Hispanic and Catholic heritage and economically, they refuted the country’s export-led integration into the world market. Its political and cultural concerns, however, tended to prevail over economic questions. The nacionalistas were never granted the political recognition to which they aspired. When the government appropriated some of their tenets, for example, under Perón (1946–1955), most nacionalistas quickly saw their farreaching political ambitions frustrated.19 After some of them had turned against Perón and found themselves among the promoters of the putsch of 1955, they believed once more that their time had come, but within two months they were displaced in a palace coup. The only exception to their general lack of access to political power was during Juan Carlos Onganía’s dictatorship of “bureaucratic authoritarianism” after 1966, especially with regard to the members of the nacionalista club Ateneo de la República.20 But even under Onganía they had little influence on economic or social policy and those who acquired posts in the interior ministry or in the cultural apparatus of the state were rather secondary figures from the perspective of mainstream and widely known nacionalistas. Furthermore, even if Onganía’s tenets were

212

●

Michael Goebel

informed by authoritarian nacionalismo, there was also nacionalista opposition to his regime, for example, through the periodical Azul y Blanco. The lack of organization and political power does not weaken the argument that nacionalistas had a predilection for violent action. If we follow Hannah Arendt, the lack of power can even indicate an increased likelihood to recur to violence.21 Nacionalistas, indeed, had a tendency to form violent paramilitary groups, such as the Legión Cívica Argentina in the early 1930s, which supported the corporatist military regime of Uriburu. Nor should we infer from their deficit of institutionalization, common to so much of Argentine politics, that nationalism as a broader discourse was condemned to insignificance on the level of the collective imaginary and political culture. In fact, it exerted a considerable influence here, easily conjugated with the antipluralist bias of many Argentine governments as well as nongovernmental political actors, who tried to derive their political legitimacy from an organic notion of the nation rather than seeing themselves as the representatives of group interests. Yet, this nationalist discourse needs to be analytically separated from the more narrow nationalist movement or nacionalismo. It is hard to base the definition of Argentine nationalism per se on the right-wing ideology of groups such as the Legión Cívica. Although the variant of populist nationalism that emerged in the mid-1930s in the form of an Yrigoyenist breakaway group from the Radical Party (FORJA), partly inspired by APRA, did have points in common with authoritarian nacionalismo, it is impossible to identify an organizational structure or an unequivocal ideological essence common to all forms of nationalism. The question becomes even more complex in the 1960s, when the eclecticism of nationalism increased, intermingling readings of domestic predicaments with the repercussions of the Cold War, especially after the Cuban Revolution. Before returning to this question, however, some comments on political violence are necessary. The Ideological Eclecticism of Political Violence The political violence of the 1970s had many faces. There was a whole array of armed insurgent groups, which contained at least five thousand combatants in 1974.22 At this point the Trotskyist-inspired Ejército Revolucionario del Pueblo (ERP) and the Peronist Montoneros had imposed themselves as the two principal forces. While the military organization of the ERP appeared more alarming, the political power of the Montoneros was unmatched by 1973, when they dominated not only the country’s universities, but also the Peronist Youth (JP), a veritable mass organization that could mobilize militants in their hundreds of thousands. The Montoneros had recruited mostly from Catholic youth groups and middle-class student sectors.

Nationalism and Political Violence in Argentina

●

213

The strong presence of the latter meant that there was always a tension between their largely non-Peronist background and their declaration of faith in the exiled Perón as undisputed leader. It was not too surprising, therefore, that the Montoneros’ first public appearance was designed to raise their credentials as a legitimate part of Peronism. In May 1970, they first kidnapped and later killed Pedro Eugenio Aramburu, the general who had presided over the anti-Peronist military regime of 1955–1958. Increasingly, however, their operations were directed against their enemies within the Peronist movement, especially against union bosses whom they branded as traitors to the working class and, by extension, to the nation. Besides the guerrillas, there was vigilantist right-wing violence. This appeared in the early 1970s, continued under Perón’s presidency from 1973, but especially gained momentum after his death in July 1974, under the presidency of his widow, Isabel. Most terrifying was the Alianza Anticomunista Argentina (Triple A), a paramilitary group that was linked to the minister of social welfare José López Rega. Many of its recruits were suspended police officers and some had a trajectory close to ultra-right nacionalistas or the right wing of Peronism. In the three years before the coup of 1976 the Triple A and other similar extralegal but officially supported death squads killed more than one thousand people, targeting not only the Montoneros and the JP, but anybody whom they identified as left-wing or “subversive.”23 Many of its killers later worked for the repressive apparatus of the Proceso. For our question, it is not necessary to go down the treacherous path of comparing the distinct forms of violence in this process.24 What matters is that both sides of this divide reiterated nationalist motifs to justify their violence. The very name Montoneros, for example, drew on the imagery of historical revisionism, the nationalist interpretation of Argentine history. In a statement in the leading organ of revolutionary liberation theology, the Montoneros publicized their understanding of “the course of history,” during which two great political currents developed in the country: on one side, the liberal Oligarchy, clearly anti-national and selling out the Fatherland, on the other side, the People, identified with the defense of its interests which are the interests of the Nation, against the imperialist attacks in all historical circumstances. This national and popular current expressed itself in 1810 as much as in 1945, in the struggles of San Martín’s army as much as in the gaucho montoneros of the past century . . .25 The Montoneros did not abandon this rhetorical commitment to the nation when they discovered that their nemesis equally claimed to rescue the

214

●

Michael Goebel

community from foreign influences. In 1977, Rodolfo Walsh, a journalist with a nacionalista background and a Montonero, published an open letter in opposition to the dictatorship. Walsh affirmed that the Peronist government of 1973 had been the “objective expression of the people’s will, the only possible meaning of the ‘national being’ that you evoke so often.” With this, he implicitly acknowledged that the junta employed an equally nationalist strategy of legitimation. Yet, in his view this strategy was deceptive, because in reality the junta had “restored the ideas and interests of defeated minorities, which thwart the development of the forces of production, exploit the people and disunite the nation.”26 The best case for a nexus between nacionalismo and political violence is perhaps Tacuara, a youth group of predominantly upper-class secondary students from the city of Buenos Aires.27 Founded in the second half of the 1950s by members of the ultra-right Unión Nacionalista de Estudiantes Secundarios (UNES), the group gained some influence in the law student union of the University of Buenos Aires. Its ideas were inspired by the Spanish falange and historical revisionism and they emphasized the values of violence, courage, and direct political action, which were cultivated in formalized and highly symbolically charged ceremonies and expressed in violent attacks on Jewish schoolchildren. In October 1963, a statement explained the character of the revolution that the group envisaged: A revolution is when the Community restores the State in its function as synthesizer of “social antagonisms.”. . . Through the act of Revolution, society finds itself. In our Fatherland the State responds to anything but its function to serve the Community. It is a historical need that the National Forces take power and return it to the service of the Common Good. Nothing and nobody prevents those who have knowledge of this situation from taking up arms to remedy it. Those who shun this struggle can only be called COWARDS or TRAITORS.28 Tacuara’s leader at this time was the young seminarian (and later priest) Alberto Ezcurra Uriburu (1937–1993), but the group successively split up into various cliques, disagreeing over the most recommendable stance vis-àvis Peronism. Ezcurra Uriburu always stayed faithful to his fascist-inspired ideology and later, just as the bulk of those who had remained within the UNES, became a supporter of the Triple A and of the Proceso. Other erstwhile members of Tacuara, in turn, became influenced by the Cuban Revolution and formed the Movimiento Nacionalista Revolucionario Tacuara (MNRT). Its leaders José Luis Nell and Joe Baxter embarked on truly bizarre careers of armed struggle. Nell fought for the Uruguayan guerrilla Tupamaros, was

Nationalism and Political Violence in Argentina

●

215

imprisoned in Montevideo, but fled and became a member of the Montoneros. During the attacks by right-wing Peronists on Montoneros at Ezeiza airport on June 20, 1973, he was wounded and left paralyzed. In 1974, he killed himself on a rail track outside Buenos Aires. Baxter, after sojourns in Nasser’s Egypt and Qaddafi’s Libya, fought for the Viet Cong and traveled to China before participating in the foundation of the ERP. In 1973, he died in a plane crash at Paris’ Orly airport, allegedly with several million dollars in his baggage, designed for the then little-known Sandinistas. If the transition from a radical nationalist ideology to political violence seems particularly clear-cut in the case of Tacuara, one should not overestimate the numerical importance of this group.29 The astonishing ideological mobility of its one-time members, who ended up in violently opposed camps, also raises doubts about how decisive ideology was as a motivating factor in these circles. Nationalist essayists were certainly overrepresented among the reading matter of Tacuara, the JP, or the Montoneros, but the extreme eclecticism is more striking with hindsight: the reading habits of the JP in the first half of the sixties, for example, ranged from revisionist historians on the domestic horizon to Lenin and Haya de la Torre, but also included José Antonio Primo de Rivera and, oddly enough, Corneliu Codreanu, the founder of the Romanian Iron Guard.30 In turn, the intellectual New Left, parts of which later flirted with the guerrillas, intensively received the latest products of French Marxism—Althusser, Sartre, or Merleau-Ponty. An almost obligatory reading was Frantz Fanon, whose The Wretched of the Earth was interpreted in a way that helped the acceptance of violence as a means of achieving political goals.31 Due to such ideological cross-fertilizations, it is virtually impossible to define the nationalism of the 1960s and 1970s as a single body of doctrine. Nationalist Discourse in the 1960s One can identify three principal stimuli that contributed to the reconfigurations of nationalism after 1955. The first and perhaps most visible was the left’s reinterpretation of Peronism under the impression of the antipopular rollback of 1955.32 Against the traditional left’s characterization of Peronism as a local variant of fascism, Marxist–populist essayists, such as Juan José Hernández Arregui, Rodolfo Puiggrós, or Jorge Abelardo Ramos, appropriated central motifs of the nationalist reading of Argentine reality, especially history. These writers presented the masses’ defection to Peronism as the ultimate proof that the traditional left was incapable of understanding Argentine reality, that it had betrayed the interests of both people and nation, and that it was an ally of foreign imperialism, particularly British. They thus

216

●

Michael Goebel

affirmed that, in contrast to the supposedly alienated and Europeanized intelligentsia, the masses “do not think of the there of the world. They think of the here. Of the fatherland.” Therefore, the masses had “remained Hispanic, affiliated to the past” and “the proletariat is, by definition, a national and revolutionary class.”33 Already in 1957, in the first issue of a fortnightly journal that bore the telling title Columnas del Nacionalismo Marxista de Liberación Nacional, the Catholic, nacionalista and Peronist Fermín Chávez could confirm that, over the two previous years, Marxists had opened themselves to “national reality.”34 This development was reinforced by two more factors. One was the disillusionment with the initial promise of the radical president Arturo Frondizi (1958–1962) to integrate the still largely Peronist working class as well as nationalist and left-wing intellectuals under the signs of a developmentalist project. Its failure resulted in bitterness among intellectuals and in the more general certainty that there was no viable political alternative to Peronism. Last but certainly not least, the Cuban Revolution promised the possibility to overcome this stalemate in a revolutionary way. As early as September 1959, a group of twenty people known as the Uturuncos thus attempted to establish a foco in the province of Tucumán, with the aim of paving the way for Perón’s return.35 During the 1960s there thus arose a form of nationalism that bore more ideological similarities with the Latin American environment. The “nationalrevolutionary myth,” according to which, in Alain Touraine’s words, “class and nation . . . appeared as nothing but the two faces of the same protagonist of the struggles for national liberation,”36 now gathered pace in Argentina too (in surprising disregard of the question of whether a colonial situation could be diagnosed as easily in Argentina as in Cuba or Algeria). Although the proponents of this tercermundista nationalism retrospectively construed a narrative that emphasized their eternal presence (especially FORJA was portrayed as an antecedent), it became widespread only after the downfalls of Perón and Batista. The hegemony of the liberal imaginary, already shaken by the ideological crisis of the 1930s and the advent of Peronism, was replaced by an antiliberal consensus among left-wing intellectuals. As it became something of an unwritten law of the New Left not to write for the literary supplement of La Nación—considered as a bastion of the parasitic oligarchy—to even identify oneself as a liberal was almost tantamount to political suicide. On the positive side of the dichotomies that structured the political language of the 1960s were anti-imperialism, tercermundismo, and the permanent call for direct political action as opposed to supposedly useless intellectual pondering. This anti-intellectualism—palpable in the diatribes against the “intelligentsia” by the populist essayist Arturo Jauretche, the most prolific of all

Nationalism and Political Violence in Argentina

●

217

nationalist intellectuals—was perhaps the most outstanding characteristic of the debates of the decade.37 Since the criticism of a Europeanized intellectual elite had already been a leitmotiv of some nacionalista writings three decades earlier, anti-intellectualism provided a bridge between the gaps that elsewhere divided the Catholic and authoritarian versions of national identity from its later populist or Marxist variants. For although many Marxist–nationalist writers did not subscribe to Catholicism as an indispensable ingredient of the national character, the spheres of sociability of authoritarian nacionalistas and the no less nationalist izquierda nacional were remarkably fluid in this decade. It is hard to establish whether the near ubiquity of anti-imperialist, antiliberal, and nationalist discourse among intellectuals fostered political violence or whether anti-pluralist discourse and political violence were merely different expressions of similar underlying social and political problems. Revolutionary intellectuals in the 1960s, be they Catholics, Marxists, nationalists, or a combination of all these, reiterated the necessity for violence in order to overcome the crisis of legitimacy, while the extreme right reached the conclusion that “the Argentine people has committed sins that can only be redeemed with blood,” as one traditionalist clergyman said in 1976.38 However, not all nationalists approved of violence, nor were all violent groups particularly nationalist. Jauretche, for example, felt no sympathy with the students who declared their faith in Perón in the early 1970s, even though his books had contributed to these students’ reading of the country’s situation. In an interview in 1971, he stated: I see them right now, all these students who have styled themselves as Peronists, but this is a Peronism which they have invented and that has very little connection to the real country. All these groups of terrorists will be surprised when they see that the country does not follow them.39 If nationalist and particularly post-conciliar Catholic circles were the most fruitful recruitment grounds of the Montoneros, this was not the case with the no less violent ERP.40 The fact that the ERP justified its acts with the alleged needs of the nation in opposition to the evil of imperialism does not alone make them more nationalist than many other political groups of their time. For the armed forces of the dictatorship of 1976, the case is different, but complicated too. Catholic nacionalismo, authoritarianism, chauvinism, and a bias against pluralist politics had had a presence among the military for a long time, but one should not mistake a vague set of prejudices for a consistent ideology. The dubious coherence of statements by the military concerning national identity is reflected in the contradictory reasoning of the secondary

218

●

Michael Goebel

literature. It has been thus suggested that, on the one hand, “one can draw a direct line from the Spanish traditionalists of the nineteenth century to the [Argentine] champions of an authoritarian traditionalist-Catholic state” (meaning the junta), while, on the other hand, the aim of the dictatorship “was to bring the nation, the state and society back to the traditional ideals and values, which had helped the founders of the republic to gain independence.”41 If anything, the quotes show that the Proceso’s concept of the essence of argentinidad was rather flexible. There were certainly keywords that were employed more often than others to justify torture and disappearances. The preservation of Catholicism, the restoration of order, and the eradication of Marxist infiltration ranged among the favorites in public speeches. This assured the support of the most authoritarian nacionalistas, for example, through the anti-Semitic and quasi-fascist periodical Cabildo, which even Isabel Perón’s government had considered as a dangerous source of right-wing perturbation.42 Invariably, such motifs were combined with the military’s assertions to be the saviors of the nation, while the increasing international concerns over the regime’s human rights violations were dismissed as “anti-Argentine.” Yet other components of nationalism were largely absent from the generals’ rhetoric. For example, although the military succeeded in its intent to mobilize chauvinism and anti-British feelings when it invaded the Falklands or Malvinas in 1982, one will not find too many examples of anti-imperialist speeches, even before the regime’s flirtation with the Reagan administration made anti-imperialism appear unwise. In fact, the self-legitimation to rescue the nation from subversion acquired its meaning only in the context of the Cold War. Rather than being the patient disciples of nacionalista essayists, indoctrinated with the specific meanings of nación or pueblo, the Argentine armed forces of the 1960s and 1970s were trained by French and U.S. counterinsurgency specialists and thus their central reference points were derived from a rather supranational logic. As they ardently took up their role as a bulwark against the advance of communism, they portrayed the fight against subversion as part of the defense of “Western Christian civilization,” as the chief of police of the province of Buenos Aires, general Ramón Camps, put it.43 In virtually all of the justifying statements for the “Dirty War” gathered by the National Commission on the Disappearance of Persons (CONADEP), the background of the Cold War is highly prominent. Camps held that “one has to start from a global strategic conception, because Argentina is only one more operational field in a global confrontation, a confrontation between Moscow and the United States,” while the army commander and president Leopoldo Galtieri stated in 1981 that “the United States and Argentina must march together” in their struggle against communism.44 The vernacular

Nationalism and Political Violence in Argentina

●

219

variants of nationalistic authoritarianism thus made sense only through their complementation with the Doctrine of National Security. Furthermore, the junta did not usually appoint nacionalistas to politically relevant (or even only prestigious) posts. Although they did gain some influence in the cultural sphere under the new education minister Juan José Catalán (again a secondary figure from the viewpoint of nacionalismo), the appointments of economic technocrats worked to the disadvantage of nacionalistas and ensured that in its policies, the Proceso stayed clear of economic nationalism. To be sure, once political violence had gripped Argentine society, its practices easily dovetailed with the symbolically violent discourse of many of the various forms of nationalism, which divided the political field into irreconcilable dichotomies. Insurgent guerrillas stigmatized their “enemies” as traitors to the pueblo-nación, who sold off the national patrimony to multinational companies, while the forces of repression demonized their opponents as foreigninfiltrated “subversive elements” that infected the healthy body of the nation with foreign ideas (usually insinuating “Marxist”). Returning to the link between nationalism and violence, however, we should be highly cautious with establishing a causal relationship. For, as this chapter has argued, the discursive strategy to legitimize a political position through the claim to express the demands of the nation was common throughout most of the twentieth century. So was this strategy’s implicit or explicit threat of “excommunicating” from the national community anyone who disagreed with the enunciator’s position. The frequency of this kind of nationalist rhetoric was both a symptom as well as a cause of the widespread lack of respect vis-à-vis the procedural regulations of parliamentary democracy.45 But this anti-pluralist political culture had been strongly present long before the spiral of political violence emerged in the wake of the cordobazo. Conclusion However one conceptualizes these observations, it is problematic to maintain a straightforward and unchanging connection between political violence and nationalism. Bearing in mind such reservations, it remains undeniable that Argentine nationalism throughout the twentieth century showed a strong antiliberalism and an anti-pluralist bias against procedural democracy. Arguably, this contributed to a political culture that promoted or at least accepted authoritarian regimes in moments of crisis. With regard to the 1960s and 1970s, Albert Hirschman has drawn attention to a more indirect link between the realm of ideas and authoritarian political practices. According to him, the proclivity to resort to authoritarian solutions did not directly stem from the severity of economic or political crises. Rather, the

220

●

Michael Goebel

countries that turned to such solutions (especially Argentina, Brazil, and Chile) stood out from the rest of Latin American in that their intellectuals “produced in the ideological realm an inflation in the generation of “fundamental remedies” in a well-developed and vigorous intellectual field.46 In a similar vein, Tulio Halperín Donghi has pointed out that for Argentina in the thirteen years before the coup of 1943, the ideological propositions of intellectuals to solve the economic and political crisis were disproportionately radical when measured against the real dimensions of this crisis.47 In this way, one could indeed see a connection between the history of nationalist ideas and authoritarian military coups. However, this does not answer the question of why political violence was widely used only after 1969. Any explanation of this escalation needs to take into account more contingent factors. A general economic crisis as the crucial trigger has been convincingly ruled out.48 Since there was a high percentage of urban middle-class university students among the guerrillas, explanations have been sought in the erosion of traditional family values or in the incapacity of the labor market to absorb the expanding number of university graduates.49 But the political circumstances perhaps played a more decisive role. Whilst Perón, from exile, encouraged the violence of his followers already in the immediate aftermath of 1955,50 this became effective on a wider scale only from the cordobazo onward. One acute reason for this was that Onganía’s regime contributed to a reduction of the previous multiplicity of axes along which politics were negotiated. Towards the late 1960s, most channels for the expression of political and social demands had become closed. The degree to which the government antagonized large parts of society certainly favored the initial sympathy or indifference toward guerrilla activity. Yet, the emergence of violence is not necessarily explained by such positive causes alone. It might be just as promising to ask for the disappearance of factors that had previously hindered its outbreak. Looking for such factors, national–populist politics appear as a plausible candidate. Arguably, the “national–popular system” of many Latin American countries was an effective mechanism for the containment of violence (Colombia being the principal case where populism was largely absent). The populist state assumed the role of an arbiter, to which particularistic goals were subordinated in the name of the nation. As long as the national–populist state and its discourse managed to sustain the perception of participation—even if illusory— violence was subdued. One could thus argue that, borrowing Touraine’s words again, “the triumph of the national–popular discourse and system has endowed Latin American politics with an extraordinarily peaceful frame for decades . . . Whenever the unity of the national–popular discourse and

Nationalism and Political Violence in Argentina

●

221

practice collapses, violence breaks out again.”51 With more specific attention to Peronist discourse, it has been even argued that the suppression of violence constituted its very raison d’être.52 If we do not limit our definition of nationalism to an aggressive and reactionary set of ideas, then nationalism can also be seen as part and parcel of a discourse that functioned as an obstacle to the eruption of violence. This does not contradict the thesis that both the armed Peronist guerrillas as well as the reactionary death squads of the 1970s appropriated many elements of a previously formulated authoritarian ideology that exalted the authentic nation as an utmost value. It is also undeniable that right-wing nationalist tenets had an influence among the military. Yet, Argentine nationalism tout court cannot be reduced to a consistent set of ideas that incited politically violent practices. Notes 1. For example, in an exact phrase search in the digital Encyclopedia Britannica of 2004, among the articles that refer to a specific country or region, Argentina ranges second after Northern Ireland. Encyclopedia Britannica Library 2004 (DVD). 2. David Rock, Authoritarian Argentina: The Nationalist Movement—Its History and Its Impact (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993). 3. Nicolas Shumway, The Invention of Argentina (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), pp. 24–46. 4. John Walker, review of the mentioned book by Shumway and of Donald C. Hodges, Argentina’s “Dirty War”: An Intellectual Biography (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1991), in Hispania no. 75 (1992), p. 1190. Juan Manuel de Rosas was governor of the province of Buenos Aires during much of the second quarter of the nineteenth century, while the mazorca refers to his secret police. “Perón’s death squads” presumably refers to the Triple A (see later). 5. Diane Taylor, Disappearing Acts: Spectacles of Gender and Nationalism in Argentina’s “Dirty War” (Durham, NC, & London: Duke University Press, 1997), p. 37. 6. Eric J. Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger (eds.), The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983). The earlier quoted analogy between Rosas and Perón, which was itself a central feature of Peronist–nationalist mythology in the 1960s, is a good example of this involuntary reproduction of a nationalist invention. 7. The junta chose to embark on this war mostly because it promised to stir nationalist support for the regime. In this sense, it was intended to keep the power structure intact, although it was hardly entangled with violent conflicts between different political, ethnic, or national groups within Argentina. 8. Peter Waldmann, “Anomia social y violencia,” in Rouquié, A. (ed.), Argentina, Hoy (Mexico City: Siglo XXI, 1982), p. 207 (on the survey of 1969) and p. 212 (bomb explosions in September 1974; deaths between July 1974 and June 1975).

222

9. 10.

11.

12.

13.

14. 15.

16.

17. 18.

19.

●

Michael Goebel

The generally recognized watershed is the cordobazo, the student–worker riots of May 1969. See Juan Carlos Torre, “A partir del cordobazo,” Estudios 4:2 (1994), pp. 15–24. Max Weber, Economy and Society: An Outline of Interpretive Sociology (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978), vol. 2, p. 904. Julio Aróstegui, “La violencia política en perspectiva histórica,” Sistema 132–133 (1996), p. 14. One might add that those who carry out political violence also depict it as abnormal. In their justifying statements, the need for violence appears as circumstantial, indicated by formulations such as “Under the current conditions of . . .” (The Argentine dictatorship, for example, justified its violence with the argument that it was embroiled in a “Dirty War,” implying that after the “war” everything would return to normality.) See Charles Tilly, “War Making and State Making as Organized Crime,” in Evans, P. and Skocpol, T. (eds.), Bringing the State Back In (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), pp. 169–191. For a concise overview, see Oscar Terán, “Acerca de la idea nacional,” in Altamirano, C. (ed.), La Argentina en el siglo xx (Buenos Aires: Ariel/Universidad Nacional de Quilmes, 1999), pp. 279–287. For nationalism in the period between 1880 and 1930, see Fernando J. Devoto, Nacionalismo, fascismo y tradicionalismo en la Argentina moderna: una historia (Buenos Aires: Siglo XXI, 2002). See the compilation of articles from the nationalist periodical La Nueva República between 1928 and 1930 in Julio Irazusta (ed.), El pensamiento político nacionalista: antología, 3 vols. (Buenos Aires: Obligado, 1975) and the collection of flyers against Perón between 1953 and 1955 in Félix Lafiandra (ed.), Los panfletos: su aporte a la Revolución Libertadora (Buenos Aires: Itinerarium, 1955). Rock, Authoritarian Argentina, and Marysa Navarro Gerassi, Los nacionalistas (Buenos Aires: Jorge Alvarez, 1968). The English-language literature has sometimes called them by that Spanish term in order to avoid confusion with the more general concept of nationalism, e.g., Sandra McGee Deutsch, Las Derechas: The Extreme Right in Argentina, Brazil, and Chile, 1890–1939 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999). The quote is from an article by the nacionalista writer Ramón Doll, which was published in Sur (no. 22 [July 1936], p. 96), the organ of this Europeanized liberal elite, if ever there was one. Jorge Castañeda, Utopia Unarmed: The Latin American Left after the Cold War (New York: Vintage Books, 1994), chapter 9. David Rock, “Argentina, 1930—46,” in Bethell, L. (ed.), Argentina since Independence (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), pp. 173–241, p. 205. A good example would be the essay by Julio and Rodolfo Irazusta, La Argentina y el imperialismo británico: los eslabones de una cadena, 1806–1933, 2nd ed. (Buenos Aires: Independencia, 1982). The classical study on this topic is Cristián Buchrucker, Nacionalismo y peronismo: la Argentina en la crisis ideológica mundial (1927–1955) (Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 1987).

Nationalism and Political Violence in Argentina

●

223

20. Guillermo O’Donnell, Modernization and Bureaucratic Authoritarianism (Berkeley & Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1979), has made this expression widely known with regard to the military regime of the late 1960s. For an overview in English of its connections with the nacionalista right, see Paul Lewis, “The Right and Military Rule, 1955—1983,” in Deutsch, S.M. and Dolkart, R. (eds.), The Argentine Right: Its History and Intellectual Origins, 1910 to the Present (Wilmington: SR Books, 1993), pp. 163–166. 21. Hannah Arrendt, On Violence (London: Allen Lane, 1970). 22. María José Moyano, Argentina’s Lost Patrol: Armed Struggle, 1969–1979 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995), p. 2. Waldmann, “Anomia social,” p. 212, states that there might have been up to eight thousand. Especially for the Montoneros, the boundary between combatants and sympathizers is hard to establish. 23. Moyano, Argentina’s Lost Patrol, pp. 81–82. 24. Richard Gillespie, Soldiers of Perón: Argentina’s Montoneros (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982), esp. pp. 89–90 and 155, has suggested that, under the pressure of the reactionary death squads, the Montoneros became caught up in a logic of militarization, through which their initial political aims became increasingly secondary, while their violence had initially been more discriminate than that of the Triple A. For a rebuttal of Gillespie’s theses, see Celia Szusterman’s review in the Journal of Latin American Studies 16:1 (1984), pp. 157–170. 25. Cristianismo y Revolución, no. 26 (November/December 1970), p. 11. On the Montoneros’ “imaginary recuperation of history,” see Silvia Sigal and Eliseo Verón, Perón o muerte: los fundamentos discursivos del fenómeno peronista, 2nd ed. (Buenos Aires: Eudeba, 2003), pp. 195–202. 26. “Carta abierta de un escritor a la junta militar,” in Rodolfo Walsh, Operación Masacre (Buenos Aires: Ediciones de la Flor, 2002), p. 226. 27. On Tacuara, see Roberto Bardini, Tacuara: la pólvora y la sangre (Mexico City: Oceano, 2002); and Daniel Gutman, Tacuara: historia de la primera guerrilla urbana argentina (Buenos Aires: Vergara, 2003). 28. Huella, no. 5 (October 8, 1963). 29. Rock, Authoritarian Argentina, p. 207, estimates that it had sixty members by 1964, fifteen of whom could handle firearms (at this stage, counting the members is already complicated because of the offsprings of the original group). 30. Eduardo Anguita and Martín Caparrós, La voluntad: una historia de la militancia revolucionaria en Argentina, 1966–1973 (Buenos Aires: Norma, 1997), vol. 1, p. 64. 31. See generally, Oscar Terán, Nuestros años sesentas: la formación de la nueva izquierda intelectual en la Argentina 1956–1966, 3rd ed. (Buenos Aires: El Cielo por Asalto, 1993). The Spanish translation of The Wretched of the Earth appeared on the Argentine best-seller lists of Primera Plana (no. 78 [May 5, 1964], p. 38). 32. See generally, Carlos Altamirano, Peronismo y cultura de izquierda (Buenos Aires: Temas Grupo Editorial, 2001). 33. The first and third quotes are from Juan José Hernández Arregui, Peronismo y socialismo (Buenos Aires: Hachea, 1972), pp. 16 and 67. The second is from Juan

224

●

Michael Goebel ?

34. 35.

36. 37.

38.

39. 40.

41.

42. 43. 44.

José Hernández Arregui, &Qué es el ser nacional? La conciencia histórica hispanoamericana (Buenos Aires: Hachea, 1963), p. 29. Columnas del Nacionalismo Marxista de Liberación Nacional, no. 1 (July 14, 1957), p. 3. See Ernesto Salas, Uturuncos: el origen de la guerrilla peronista (Buenos Aires: Biblos, 2003). This group gained significance with hindsight, but did not have an important resonance at the time. Alain Touraine, La Parole et le Sang: Politique et Société en Amérique Latine (Paris: Odile Jacob, 1988), p. 141. Argentina was not alone in this anti-intellectualism, in the dissemination of which the Cuban model again exerted a decisive influence, as Claudia Gilman has recently reminded us in Entre la pluma y el fusil: debates y dilemas del escritor revolucionario en América Latina (Buenos Aires: Siglo XXI, 2003), pp. 143–231. Monseñor Bonamín, quoted in Oscar Terán, “Ideas e intelectuales en la Argentina, 1880—1980,” in Terán, O. (ed.), Ideas en el siglo: intelectuales y cultura en el siglo XX latinoamericano (Buenos Aires: Siglo XXI, 2004), p. 85. Interview by Luis Alberto Romero with Arturo Jauretche, April 22, 1971, Archivo de Historia Oral, Instituto Torcuato di Tella, p. 162. Pablo A. Pozzi, “Por las sendas argentinas”: el PRT-ERP, la guerrilla marxista (Buenos Aires: Eudeba, 2001). For stimulating interpretative remarks about Catholicism and the Montoneros, see Altamirano, Peronismo y cultura de izquierda, pp. 121–140. Regarding the link between nacionalistas and the Montoneros, the differences in the class, age, and gender compositions of various “groups,” although approximate, are notable. Taking the Instituto de Investigaciones Históricas Juan Manuel de Rosas as an institutional nucleus of nacionalistas, I drew a sample of 170 members between 1938 and 1973. Although I could not trace back all individual biographies, it is clear that a large percentage came from upper or upper middle class backgrounds (especially in the beginning, but still in the 1960s). Few were younger than thirty at any given point and, most strikingly, only two were women. Tacuara was also predominantly male and upper middle class, but many of its members were under twenty. The Montoneros largely came from (at times lower) middle-class backgrounds, were on average between twenty and thirty years old and 50 percent of them were women. See Waldmann, “Anomia social,” p. 211. Arnold Spitta, “ ‘Partisanen kann man nur auf Partisanenart bekämpfen’: über die ideologischen Wurzeln und Rechtfertigungen der ‘guerra sucia’ in Lateinamerika (insbesondere in Argentinien),” in Tobler, H.W. and Waldmann, P. (eds.), Staatliche und parastaatliche Gewalt in Lateinamerika (Frankfurt am Main: Vervuert, 1991), pp. 144 and 148. Rock, Authoritarian Argentina, pp. 225–227. Quoted ibid., p. xiii. Both quoted in CONADEP, Nunca más: informe de la Comisión Nacional sobre la Desaparición de Personas, 13th ed. (Buenos Aires: Eudeba, 1986), p. 474. For an account in English, see Paul H. Lewis, Guerrillas and Generals: The “Dirty War” in Argentina (Westport and London: Praeger, 2002), pp. 131–145.

Nationalism and Political Violence in Argentina

●

225

45. A noble exception was the Radical President Arturo Illia (1963–1966). 46. Albert O. Hirschman, “The Turn to Authoritarianism in Latin America and the Search for its Economic Determinants,” in Collier, D. (ed.), The New Authoritarianism in Latin America (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1979), p. 83. 47. Tulio Halperín Donghi, La Argentina en la tormenta del mundo: ideas e ideologías entre 1930 y 1945 (Buenos Aires: Siglo XXI, 2003), especially the introduction. 48. Moyano, Argentina’s Lost Patrol, p. 17. 49. Besides other factors, these are mentioned by Waldmann, “Anomia social,” pp. 213–219 and 227–228. 50. See Samuel Amaral, “El avión negro: retórica y práctica de la violencia,” in Amaral, S. and Plotkin, M.B. (eds.), Perón: del exilio al poder, 2nd ed. (Buenos Aires: EDUNTREF, 2004), pp. 67–88. 51. Touraine, La parole et le sang, p. 206; see also pages 331–366. 52. Sigal and Verón, Perón o muerte.

This page intentionally left blank

Selected Bibliography

Affonso, A. “Trayectoria del movimiento campesino chileno,” Cuadernos de la Realidad Nacional, N1 (1969), CEREN, Universidad Católica, pp. 15–31. Ainsa, F. Identidad cultural de Iberoamérica en su narrativa. Madrid: Gredos, 1986. Allende, I. The House of the Spirits. London: Black Swan Books, 1989; first edition: 1982. Altamirano, C. (ed.), La Argentina en el siglo xx. Buenos Aires: Ariel/Universidad Nacional de Quilmes, 1999. ———. Peronismo y cultura de izquierda. Buenos Aires: Temas Grupo Editorial, 2001. Alvarenga, P. Cultura y Etica de la Violencia: El Salvador 1880–1932. San José, Costa Rica: EDUCA, 1996. Amaral, S. and Plotkin, M.B. (eds.), Perón: del exilio al poder, 2nd ed. Buenos Aires: EDUNTREF, 2004. Anderson, B. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London: Verso, 1983, 1991, and 1994. Anguita, E. and Caparrós, M. La voluntad: una historia de la militancia revolucionaria en Argentina, 1966–1973. Buenos Aires: Norma, 1997. Appelbaum, N.P. Muddied Waters: Race, Region, and Local History in Colombia, 1846– 1948. Durham: Duke University Press, 2003. ———. Race and Nation in Modern Latin America. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2003. Ardila Galvis, C. The Heart of the War in Colombia. London: Latin American Bureau, 2000. Arditi, B. Adiós a Stroessner. Asunción: CDE/RP Ediciones, 1992. Arditi, B. and Rodríguez, J.C. La Sociedad a Pesar del Estado. Asunción: El Lector, 1987. Ardón, P. Los Conflictos y el Proceso de Paz en Centroamérica. Oxford: Oxfam UK, and Ireland, 1998. Arias Escobedo, O. La Prensa Obrera en Chile, 1900–1930. Chillan: CUT-Universidad de Chile, 1970.

228

●

Selected Bibliography

Aróstegui, J. “La violencia política en perspectiva histórica,” Sistema 132–133 (1996), pp. 9–39. Arrate, J. and Rojas, E. Memoria de la Izquierda Chilena, Tomo I, 1850–1970. Santiago: Javier Vergara Editor, 2003. Arrendt, H. On Violence. New York: Harcourt, Brace and World. 1969; London: Allen Lane, 1970. Báez, C. El Paraguay Moderno. Asunción: Graus, 1915. Bardini, R. Tacuara: la pólvora y la sangre. Mexico City: Oceano, 2002. Barrett, F. “The Organizational Construction of Hegemonic Masculinity: The Case of the U.S. Navy,” in Stephen Whitehead and Frank J. Barrett (eds.), The Masculinities Reader. Cambridge: Polity, pp. 77–99. Barthes, R. Mythologies. London: Vintage, 2000; first edition: 1957. Bauman, Z. Life in Fragments. Essays in Post Modern Morality. Oxford: Blackwell, 1995. Bedoya, R. Entre Fauces y Colmillos: Las películas de Francisco Lombardi. Huesca: Festival de cine de Huesca, 1997. ———. Un Cine Reencontrado: diccionario ilustrado de las películas peruanas. Lima: Universidad de Lima, 1997. ———. “La Boca del Lobo/The Lion’s Den” in A. Elena and M. Díaz López (eds.), The Cinema of Latin America. London: Wallflower Press, 2003. Ben Amos, D. and Weissberg, L. (eds.), Cultural Memory and Construction of Identity. Detroit: Wayne State University, 1999. Benjamin, W. Illuminations, Essays and Reflections. London: Jonathan Cape, 1970. Billig, M. Banal Nationalism. London: Sage, 1995. Boothby, R. Death and Desire, Psychoanalytic Theory in Lacan’s return to Freud. New York: Routledge, 1991. Bowie, M. Lacan. Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1991. Brading, D.A. Mexican Phoenix. Our Lady of Guadalupe: Image and Tradition Across Five Centuries. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001. ———. Octavio Paz y la poética de la historia mexicana. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2002. Branden, K. and Shelley, F. (eds.), Engaging Geopolitics. London: Pearson Education, 2000. Brass, P. Ethnicity and Nationalism: Theory and Comparison. London: Sage Press, 1991. Breuilly, J. Nationalism and the State. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1993. ———. “Approaches to Nationalism,” in G. Balakrishnan (ed.), Mapping the Nation. London: Verso, 1996, pp. 146–174. Buchrucker, C. Nacionalismo y peronismo: la Argentina en la crisis ideológica mundial (1927–1955). Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 1987. Bushnell, D. The Making of Modern Colombia: A Nation In Spite of Itself. Oxford: University of California Press, 1993. Bustamente, Carlos Maria de. Cuadro Histórico de la Revolución Mexicana. Mexico DF: Instituto Nacional de Estudios Históricos de la Revolución Mexicana, 1985.

Selected Bibliography

●

229

Buzan, B. People, States and Fear. Brighton: Wheatsheaf Books, 1983. Carpentier, Al. Los Pasos Perdidos. México DF: EDIAPSA. Castañeda, J. Utopia Unarmed: The Latin American Left after the Cold War. New York: Vintage Books, 1994. Castro, F. La Historia me Absolverá. Havana: Ediciones Populares, 1961. Cauthen, B. “Covenant and Continuity: Ethno-Symbolism and the Myth of Divine Election,” Nations and Nationalism 10:1/2 (2004), pp. 19–33. Cavallo, A., Salazar, M., and Sepulveda, O. La Historia Oculta del Régimen Militar. Santiago: Editorial Grijalbo, 1997. Centeno, M.A. “The Centre Did Not Hold,” in J. Dunkerley (ed.), Studies in the Formation of the Nation State in Latin America. London: ILAS, 2002, pp. 54–76. Clausewitz, C. Von. On War. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984. Collier, D. (ed.), The New Authoritarianism in Latin America. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1979. Coloane, F. Cabo de Hornos. Santiago: Editorial Orbe, 1938. ———. Cabo de Hornos. Santiago: Editorial Orbe, 1941. Comaroff, J.L. “Ethnicity, Nationalism and the Politics of Difference in an Age of Revolution,” in Comaroff and Stern (eds.), Perspectives on Nationalism and War, pp. 243–276. Comaroff, J.L. and Stern, P.C. (eds.), Perspectives on Nationalism and War. Amsterdam: Gordon and Breach Science Publishers, 1995. CONADEP, Nunca más: Informe de la Comisión Nacional sobre la Desaparición de Personas, 13th ed. Buenos Aires: Eudeba, 1986. Originally published in 1984. Connell, R.W. Gender and Power. Oxford: Polity Press, 1987. Cruz, J.M. “Violencia, Democracia y Cultura Política en América Latina,” ECA, San Salvador: UCA (May–June, 2000), pp. 619–620. ———. “Violence, Insecurity and Legitimacy in Post-War Central American Countries,” unpublished MSc dissertation. Oxford: St. Anthony’s College, 2003. Cruz, J.M. and Beltrán, M.A. Las Armas de Fuego en El Salvador: Situación e Impacto sobre la Violencia. San Salvador: UCA, 2000. Dammert, L. and Malone, M.F.T. “Fear of Crime or Fear of Life? Public Insecurities in Chile,” Bulletin of Latin American Research 22:1 (2003), pp. 79–101. Dandeker, C. (ed.), Nationalism and Violence. New Jersey: Transaction Press, 1998. Das, V., Kleinman, A., Ramphele, M., and Reynolds, P. (eds.), Violence and Subjectivity. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000. De Spinoza, B. Ethics. New York: Hafner, 1949. Deas, M. Intercambios Violentos: Reflexiones sobre la Violencia Política en Colombia. Bogotá: Aguilar, 1999. Deleuze, G. Difference and Repetition (translated by Paul Patton). London: Athlone Press, 1994. Deleuze, G. and Guattari, F. Anti-Oedipus Capitalism and Schizophenia. London: Athlone Press, 1983. Derian, J. On Diplomacy. Oxford: Blackwell, 1987. Devoto, F.J. Nacionalismo, fascismo y tradicionalismo en la Argentina moderna: una historia. Buenos Aires: Siglo XXI, 2002.

230

●

Selected Bibliography

Domínguez, M. El Alma de la Raza. Asunción: Zamphirópolos, 1915. Dore, E. (ed.), Gender Politics in Latin America: Debates in Theory and Practice. New York: Monthly Review Press, 1997. Dunkerley, J. The Long War: Dictatorship and Revolution in El Salvador. London: Junction Books, 1982. ———. Power in the Isthmus. London: Verso, 1988. ———. The Pacification of Central America. University of London: ILAS Research Papers, 1993. Edensor, T. National Identity, Popular Culture and Everyday Life. Oxford: Berg Publishers, 2002. Ensalaco, M. Chile Bajo Pinochet. Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 2002. Erikson, E.H. Childhood and Society. New York: W.W. Norton and Company, 1963. Escobar, C. “Clientelism and Citizenship—The Limits of Democratic Reform in Sucre, Colombia,” Latin American Perspectives 126:29,5 (2002), pp. 20–47. Evans, P. and Skocpol, T. (eds.), Bringing the State Back In. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985. Feldman, A. Formations of Violence: The Narrative of the Body and Political Terror in Northern Ireland. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1991. Fermandios, J. “De una Inserción a Otra: Política Exterior de Chile, 1966–1991,” Estudios Internacionales 24:96 (October–December 1991), p. 454. Fernández, R.D. Los Gobernantes de México desde D. Augustin de Iturbide hasta el Gral. D. Plutarco Elias Calles, México DF: Editorial Cuauhtémoc, 1929. Ferrer, A. Insurgent Cuba. Race, Nation and Revolution, 1868–1898. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1999. Flores, G.A. Los rostros de la plebe. Barcelona: Crítica, 2001. Fowler, W. “Fiestas santanistas: La celebración de Santa Anna en la villa de Xalapa, 1821–1855,” Historia Mexicana LII:2 (2002), pp. 391–447. ———. Latin America 1800–2000. London: Arnold, 2002. Franqui, C. El Libro de los Doce. Havana: Instituto del Libro, 1967. Frosh, S. The Politics of Psychoanalysis. London: MacMillan, 1987. García Canclini, N. Hybrid Cultures. Strategies for Entering and Leaving Modernity (translated by Christopher L. Chiappari and Silvia L. López). Minneapolis: University of Minneapolis Press, 1997; first edition: 1990. García Márquez, G. Cien años de Soledad. Buenos Aires: Sudamencan, 1967. ———. El Otoño del Patriarca. Barcelona: Plaza & Janes, 1975. Geertz, C. Interpretations of Cultures: Selected Essays. New York: Basic Books, 1973. ———. Towards an Interpretative Theory of Culture. New York: Basic Books, 1973. Gellner, E. Nations and Nationalism. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1983. Giddens, A. The Constitution of Society. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1984. ———. The Nation State and Violence. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1985. Gillespie, R. Soldiers of Perón: Argentina’s Montoneros. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982. Girard, R. The Scapegoat (translated by Yvonne Freccero). London: Athlone Press, 1986; first edition: 1982. Gómez Rojas, J.D. Rebeldías Líricas. Santiago: Ediciones Ercilla. 1940.

Selected Bibliography

●

231

González, F. and Pizarro, C. Cambios Recientes en la Situación de la Niñez y la Mujer en El Salvador. San Salvador: UNICEF, 1998. González, J.N. Solano López y Otros Ensayos. Paris: Editorial de Indias, 1926. ———. El Paraguay y la Lucha por su Expresión. Asunción: Ediciones Guarania, 1946. ———. El Paraguay Eterno, 4th ed. Asunción: Cuadernos Republicanos, 1987; first edition: Guaranda, 1935. Gramsci, A. Selections from the Prison Notebooks. London: Lawrence and Wishart, 1971. Green, J.W. Gaitanismo, Left Liberalism and Popular Mobilization in Colombia. Gainsville: University Press of Florida, 2003. Grenier, Y. The Emergence of Insurgency in El Salvador: Ideology and Political Will. London: Macmillan, 1999. Grez Toso, S. La “Cuestión Social” en Chile Ideas y Debates Precursores (1804–1902). Santiago: Dirección de Bibliotecas, Archivos y Museos, Centro de Investigaciones Diego Barros Arana, 1995. Grez, S. and Salazar, G. (eds.), Manifiesto de Historiadores. Santiago: LOM Ediciones, 1999. Gruzinski, S. The Mestizo Mind. The Intellectual Dynamics of Colonization and Globalization (translated by Deke Dusinberre). New York and London: Routledge, 2002; first edition: 1999. Guevara, E. “Man and Socialism in Cuba,” in John Gerassi (ed.), Venceremos. The Speeches and Writings of Ernesto Che Guevara. London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1968, pp. 387–400. Guibernau, M. and Hutchinson, J. (eds.), Understanding Nationalism. Cambridge: Polity Press, 2001. Gutierrez Sanín, F. “The Courtroom and the Bivouac—Reflections on Law and Violence in Colombia,” Latin American Perspectives 116:28,1(2001), pp. 59–60. Gutman, D. Tacuara: historia de la primera guerrilla urbana argentina. Buenos Aires: Vergara, 2003. Guzman, Nicomedes, La Sangre y la Euperanza. Santiago: Orbe, 1943. Hall, S. “The Question of Cultural Identity,” in S. Hall, D. Held, and T. McGrew (eds.), Modernity and Its Futures. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1992, pp. 273–326. ———. (ed.), Representation: Cultural Representation and Signifying Practices. London: Sage and the Open University, 1997. Hastings, A. The Construction of Nationhood—Ethnicity, Religion and Nationalism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997. Hayes, C. Nationalism: A Religion. New York: MacMillan Press, 1960. Hayward, S. “Framing National Cinemas,” in M. Hjort and S. Mackenzie (eds.), Cinema and Nation. London and New York: Routledge, 2000, pp. 88–102. Heidegger, M. Being and Time. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1962. Heine, J. Timidez o pragmatismo? La política exterior de Chile en 1990. Santiago: Prospel, 1990. Held, D. Democracy and the Global Order. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1995.

232

●

Selected Bibliography

Helg, A. Our Rightful Share. The Afro-Cuban Struggle for Equality, 1886–1912. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1995. Hernández Arregui, J.J. Peronismo y socialismo. Buenos Aires: Hachea, 1972. Higson, A. Waving the Flag: Constructing a National Cinema in Britain. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995. Hjort, M. and Mackenzie, S. Cinema and Nation. London and New York: Routledge, 2000. Hobsbawm, E.J. Nations and Nationalism since 1870: Programme, Myth, Reality. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990. Hobsbawm, E.J. and Ranger, T. (eds.), The Invention of Tradition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983. Holden, R.H. “Constructing the Limits of State Violence in Central America: Towards a New Research Agenda,” Journal of Latin American Studies 28:2 (1996), pp. 435–459. Holsti, K. The State, War and the State of War. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1996. Hume, P.M. “Meanings, Myths and Realities: Gender and Violence in El Salvador,” unpublished PhD Thesis. University of Liverpool, 2003. Hutchinson, J. “Myth against Myth: The Nation as Ethnic Overlay,” Nations and Nationalism 10:1/2 (2004), pp. 109–123. Hutchinson, J. and Smith, A.D. (eds.), Nationalism. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994. Insulza, J.M. Ensayos sobre política exterior de Chile. Santiago: Editorial Los Andes, 1998. Irala Burgos, A. “La Epistemología de la Historia en el Paraguay,” Estudios Paraguayos 3:2 (1975), pp. 139–145. Irazusta, J. (ed.), El pensamiento político nacionalista: antología, 3 vols. Buenos Aires: Obligado, 1975. IUDOP Normas Culturales y Actitudes sobre la Violencia: Estudio ACTIVA. San Salvador: UCA, 1999. Jacobs, S., Jacobson, R., and Marchbank, J. (eds.), States of Conflict: Gender, Violence and Resistance. London: Zed Books, 2000, pp. 45–65. Jenkins, R. Rethinking Ethnicity: Arguments and Explorations. London: Sage Press, 1997. Kaldor, M. “Nationalism and Globalisation,” Nations and Nationalism 10:1/2 (2004), pp. 161–173. Kapcia, A. “Ideology and the Cuban Revolution: Myth Icon and Identity,” in W. Fowler (ed.), Ideologues and Ideologies in Latin America. (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1997, pp. 84–103. ———. Cuba: Island of Dreams. Oxford: Berg Publishers, 2000. Kaufman, S. “An International Theory of Inter-Ethnic War,” Review of International Studies 22:2 (1996), pp. 149–171. Kedourie, E. Nationalism. London: Hutchinson Press, 1960. Kelly, L. “Wars Against Women: Sexual Violence, Sexual Politics and the Militarized State,” in Jacobs, Jacobson, and Marchbank (eds.), States of Conflict, pp. 45–65.

Selected Bibliography

●

233

Klein, M. The Psycho-Analysis of Children. London: The Hogarth Press and the Institutute of Psychoanalysis, 1973. Knight, A. Mexico. The Colonial Era. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. Kooning, K. and Kruijt, D. (eds.), Societies of Fear: The Legacy of Civil War, Violence and Terror in Latin America. London: Zed Books, 1999. Kornbluh, P. The Pinochet File. A Declassified Dossier on Atrocity and Accountability. New York: The New Press, 2003. Krauze, E. Siglo de caudillos. Barcelona: Tusquets Editores, 1994. Lacan, J. The Language of the Self. The Function of Language in Psychoanalysis. Baltimore, London: The John Hopkins University Press, 1968. ———. The Seminar of Jacques Lacan. Book 1, Freud’s Papers on Technique 1953–1954 (translated by J. Forrester; edited by J.-A. Miller). New York: Norton, 1975. ———. Ecrits: A Selection. London: Tavistock Publications, 1977. ———. The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psycho-Analysis. London: Vintage, 1998. Lafiandra, F. (ed.), Los panfletos: su aporte a la Revolución Libertadora. Buenos Aires: Itinerarium, 1955. Lambert, P. “Ideology and Opportunism in the Regime of Alfredo Stroessner 1954–89,” in W. Fowler (ed.), Ideologues and Ideologies in Latin America. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1997, pp. 125–138. Lambert, P. “Nationalism and Political Hegemony in Paraguay,” Bicentenario (Chile) 5.1 (2006), pp. 45–62. Larrain, J. Identity and Modernity in Latin America. Cambridge: Polity, 2000. Latcham, R. La Organización Social y las Creencias Religiosas de los Antiguos Araucanos. Santiago: Impresora Cervantes,1924. Lechner, N. Nuestros Miedos in Chile Entre la II Cumbre y la detención de Pinochet. Santiago: FLACSO Chile, 1998. Lechner, N. and Güell, P. “Chile: La política de la memoria,” in Amparo Menéndez (ed.), La Caja de Pandora. Santiago: Planeta, 1999, p. 193. Lemair, A. Jacques Lacan. London: Routledge and Kegan, 1977. Leoussi, A.S. “The Ethno-Cultural Roots of National Art,” Nations and Nationalism 10:1/2 (2004), pp. 143–159. Lewis, P.H. Paraguay Under Stroessner. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1980. ———. Guerrillas and Generals: The “Dirty War” in Argentina. Westport and London: Praeger, 2002. Lira, E. and Loveman, B. Las ardientes cenizas de olvido. Santiago: Lom Ediciones, 2000. Lomboy, Reinaido. Ranquil. Santiago: Editorial Orbe, 1941. Lomnitz, C. Deep Mexico. Silent Mexico. An Anthropology of Nationalism. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2001. Loveman, B. The Legacy of Hispanic Capitalism. New York: Oxford University Press, 1988. Lowental, D. The Past is A Foreign Country. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1985. Mariátegui, J.C. Seven Interpretative Essays on Peruvian Reality (translated by Marjory Urquidi). Austin: University of Texas Press, 1971.

234

●

Selected Bibliography

Martí, J. “A Manuel Mercado,” in Andrés Sorel (ed.), José Martí. Antología. Madrid: Editora Nacional, 1975. Martin, G. Journeys Through the Labyrinth. London:Verso Books, 1989. Martín-Baró, I. Acción e Ideología: Psicología Social desde Centroamérica. San Salvador: UCA, 1983. Mason, T. D. “The Civil War in El Salvador: A Retrospective Analysis,” Latin American Research Review 34:3 (1999), pp. 179–196. McGee Deutsch, S. Las Derechas: The Extreme Right in Argentina, Brazil, and Chile, 1890–1939. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999. Medina, R. Apuntes sobre la Historia del Paraguay Colonial. Buenos Aires: Editorial Adelante, 1996. ———. “The Left,” in P. Lambert and R.A. Nickson (eds.), The Transition to Democracy in Paraguay. London: Macmillan, 1997, pp. 72–86. Meliá, B. Una Nación, Dos Culturas. Asunción: RP Ediciones, 1986. ———. “La cultura paraguaya entre ecos y silencios,” in L. Bareiro, T. Escobar, and S. Sosnowski (eds.), Hacia una Cultura para la Democracia. Asunción: CDE, 1994, pp. 82–98. Meza, R.A. El Triángulo de la Opresión. Asunción: Imprenta Salesiana, 1990. Mier Noriega y Guerra, José Servando Teresa de. Historia de la Revolución de Nuera España antiguamente Anáhuac, Mexico DF: Instituto Cultural Helénico, 1986. Miranda, C.R. Paraguay y la Era de Stroessner. Asunción: RP Ediciones, 1990. Mora, José María Luis Mexico y sus Revolociones, Mexico DF: Instituto de Investigaciones Dr José María Luís Mola, Consejo Nacional para la cultura y las Artes, 1986. Moulian, T. Chile Actual. Santiago: Lom Arcis, 1997. Moyano, M.J. Argentina’s Lost Patrol: Armed Struggle, 1969–1979. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995. Nairn, T. Faces of Nationalism: Janus Revisited. London, Verso, 1997. Navarro Gerassi, M. Los nacionalistas. Buenos Aires: Jorge Alvarez, 1968. Neruda, Pablo. España en el Corazón. Himno a las glorias del pueblo en la Guerra. Santiago: Ediciones Ercilla. 1937. ———. España en el Corazón. Santiago: Editorial Ercilla. 1938. ———. Canto General. Mexico DF: América, 1950. Nickson, R.A. “The Overthrow of the Stroessner Regime; Reestablishing the Status Quo,” Bulletin of Latin American Research 8:2 (1989), pp. 185–209. ———. Historical Dictionary of Paraguay. London: Scarecrow Press, 1993. Nietzsche, F. The Will to Power. New York: Vintage Books, 1968. Nora, P. (ed.), Lieux de Mémoire, 7 vols. Paris: Editions Gallimard, 1992. O’Gorman, E. México. El trauma de su historia. Mexico City: UNAM, 1977. O’Leary, J.E. Prosa Polémica. Asunción: Napa, 1982. Orrego Vicuña, F. La Participación de Chile en el Sistema Internacional. Santiago: Editorial Nacional Gabriela Mistral, 1974. ———. “Trayectoria y orientaciones de la política exterior de Chile,” Seguridad Nacional (Santiago) 2 (September–October 1976), pp. 73–82. Palacios, M. El Café en Colombia 1850–1970. México: El Colegio de México y El Ancora, 1983.

Selected Bibliography

●

235

———. “Colombian Experience with Liberalism: On the Historical Weakness of the State,” in E. Posada-Carbo (ed.), Colombia: The Politics of Reforming the State. London: Macmillan Press, 1988. ———. Entre la Legitimidad y la Violencia Colombia 1875–1994. Bogotá: Editoria Norma, 1995. Paz, O. The Labyrinth of Solitude (translated by Lysander Kemp). New York: Grove Press, 1985. ———. El laberinto de la soledad. Madrid: Cátedra, 2003; first edition: 1950. Pearce, J. Promised Land Peasant Rebellion in Chalatenango El Salvador. London: LAB, 1986. ———. Colombia: Inside the Labyrinth. London: Latin American Bureau, 1990. ———. “From Civil War to ‘Civil Society’: Has the End of the Cold War Brought Peace to Central America?” International Affairs 74:3 (1998), pp. 587–615. Peralta Ruiz, V. Sendero Luminoso y la Prensa, 1980–1994. Lima: Centro de Estudios Regionales Andinos/Casa de Estudios del Socialismo, 2000. Pérez Vila, M. (ed.), Simón Bolívar, Doctrina del libertador. Los Ruices: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1976. Pizarro, C. La Huelga Obrera en Chile, 1890–1970. Santiago: Ediciones Sur, Colección Estudios Históricos, 1986. Poole, D. and Rénique, C. Peru: Time of Fear. London: Latin American Bureau, 1992. Popkin, M. Peace without Justice: Obstacles to Building the Rule of Law in El Salvador. Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1999. Posada-Carbo, E. Colombia: The Politics of Reforming the State. London: Macmillan Press, 1998. Pozzi, P.A. “Por las sendas argentinas”: el PRT-ERP, la guerrilla marxista. Buenos Aires: Eudeba, 2001. Puryear, J. Thinking Politics: Intellectuals in Democracy in Chile. Baltimore, MA; London: John Hopkins University Press, 1994. Richani, N. Systems of Violence: The Political Economy of War and Peace in Colombia. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2002. Ringrose, M. and Lerner, A.J. (eds.), Reimagining the Nation Buckingham: Oxford University Press, 1993. Riquelme, M.A. Stronismo, Golpe Militar y Apertura Tutelada. Asunción: RP Ediciones/CDE, 1992. Riva Palacio, Vicente. México a través de los Siglos. México DF: Ballescá, 1887. Rivarola, D. “Conservadurismo y Cultura Política en la Transición,” in L. Bareiro, T. Escobar, and S. Sosnowski (eds.), Hacia una Cultura para la Democracia. Asunción: CDE, 1994, pp. 49–67. ———. Una Sociedad Conservadura ante los Desafíos de la Modernidad. Asunción, Ediciones y Arte Editores, Centro Paraguayo de Estudios Sociológicos, 1994. Rivarola, M. Filosofías, Pedagogías y Percepción Colectiva de la Historia en el Paraguay, unpublished, 1996. Roa Bastos, Augosto. Yo, El Supremo. Buenos Aires: Siglo Veintiuno. 1974. Robertson, R. Globalization: Social Theory and Global Culture. London: Sage Press, 1992. Rodríguez Alcalá, G. Ideología Autoritaria. Asunción: RP Ediciones, 1987.

236

●

Selected Bibliography

Rodríguez Alcalá, G. “Temas de autoritarismo,” in Bareiro, Escobar, and Sosnowski (eds.), Hacia una Cultura para la Democracia, pp. 68–82. Rojas, M. Hıjo de Ladrón. Santiago: Zig Zag, 1951. Roldan, M. Blood and Fire: La Violencia in Antioquia, Colombia, 1946–1953. Durham: Duke University Press, 2002. Rulfo, J. Pedro Páramo. Mexico DF: Fondo de Cultura Economica, 1955. Salas, E. Uturuncos: El origen de la guerrilla peronista. Buenos Aires: Biblos, 2003. Shumway, N. The Invention of Argentina. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991. Silva, V.D. La Pampa Trágica. Santiago: Empresa Editorial Selecta, 1921. Smith, A.D. The Ethnic Origins of Nations. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1986. ———. The Nation Invented, Imagined, Reconstructed. Reno: University of Nevada, 1991. ———. National Identity. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1991. ———. Nations and Nationalism in a Global Era. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1995. ———. (ed.), Myths and Memories of the Nation. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999. ———. Nationalism. Cambridge: Polity Press, 2001. ———. “History and National Identity: Responses and Clarifications,” Nations and Nationalism 10:1/2 (2004), pp. 195–209. Spencer, E. and Wollman, H. Nationalism: A Critical Approach. London: Sage Press, 2002. Stanley, W. The Protection Racket State: Elite Politics, Military Extortion and Civil War in El Salvador. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1996. Stark, O., Degregori, C.I., and Kirk, R. (eds.), The Peru Reader: History, Culture, Politics. Durham and London: Duke University Press, 1995. Teitelbolm, V. Hıjo del Salıtre. La Habana: Instıtuto Cubano del Libro, 1972. Terán, O. Nuestros años sesentas: la formación de la nueva izquierda intelectual en la Argentina 1956-the present. Wilmington: SR Books, 1993. Tobler, H.W. and Waldmann, P. (eds.), Staatliche und parastaatliche Gewalt in Lateinamerika. Frankfurt am Main: Vervuert, 1991. Torre, J.C. “A partir del cordobazo,” Estudios 4:2 (1994), pp. 15–24. Torres-Rivas, E. “Epilogue: Notes on Terror, Violence, Fear and Democracy,” in Kooning and Kruijit (eds.), Societies of Fear, pp. 285–300. Touraine, A. La Parole et le Sang: Politique et Société en Amérique Latine. Paris: Odile Jacob, 1988. Turtle, S. Psychoanalytic Politics. Jacques Lacan and Freud’s French Revolution. New York: The Guildford Press, 1992. UNDP/PNUD Informe de Desarrollo Humano. San Salvador: UNDP, 2001. United Nations. Desarrollo Humano. Las Paradojas de la Modernización. New York: United Nations, 1998. ———. Desarrollo Humano. Nosotros los Chilenos Un Desafio Cultural. New York: United Nations, 2002.

Selected Bibliography

●

237

Valdivia Ortiz de Zárate, V. “Estatismo y Neoliberalismo: Un Contrapunto Militar, Chile 1973—1979,” Historia (Santiago) 34 (2001), pp. 167–226. Van Cott, D.L. The Friendly Liquidation of the Past. The Politics of Diversity in Latin America. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2000. Vásquez, N., Ibañez, C., and Murguialday, C. MujeresMontaña: Vivencias de Guerrilleras y Colaboradoras del FMLN. Madrid: Horas y Horas, 1996. Vera, H. En Busca del Hueso Perdido. Asunción: RP Ediciones, 1990. Verdugo, P. Chile, Pinochet and the Caravan of Death. Miami: North–South Centre Press, 2001. Vidal, H. Política Cultural de la Memoria Histórica, Derechos Humanos y Discursos Cultural en Chile. Santiago: Mosquito Editores, 1997. Vilas, C.M. Between Earthquakes and Volcanoes: Market, State and the Revolutions in Central America. New York: Monthly Review Press, 1995. Vivas, F. Review of La Vida es una sola in La Gran Ilusión No. 2, (1994). Wade, P. “Racial Identity and Nationalism: A Theoretical View from Latin America,” Ethnic and Racial Studies 24:5 (2001), pp. 845–865. Wallerstein, I. The Capitalist World Economy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979. Walsh, R. Operación Masacre. Buenos Aires: Ediciones de la Flor, 2002. Originally published 1957. Weber, M. Economy and Society: An Outline of Interpretive Sociology (translated by Ephraim Fischoff et al.). Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978. Weeks, G. “The ‘Lessons’ of Dictatorship: Political Learning and the Dictatorship in Chile,” Bulletin of Latin American Research 21:3 (2002), pp. 396–412. Wendt, A. “Anarchy is What States Make of It: The Social Construction of Power Politics,” International Organization 46:2 (1992), pp. 391–425 Whigham, T.L. “The Paraguayan War: A Catalyst for Nationalism in South America,” in H. Kraay and T.L. Whigham (eds.), I Die with my Country: Perspectives on the Paraguayan War, 1864–1870. London: University of Nebraska Press, 2005, pp. 179—198. Whittaker, A.P. and Jordan, D.C. (eds.), Nationalism in Contemporary Latin America. New York: Free Press, 1966. Whittaker, D.J. “A Case Study on Peru,” in The Terrorism Reader. London: Routledge, 2001, pp.163–176. Wilde, A.W. “Converstions among Gentlemen: Oligarchical Democracy in Colombia,” in H. Linz and A. Stepan (eds.), The Breakdown of Democratic Regimes. Latin America. John Hopkins University Press, 1978, pp. 28–81. ———. “Irruptions of Memory: Expressive Politics in Chile’s Transition to Democracy,”Journal of Latin American Studies 31:2 (1999), pp. 473–500. Williams, P.J. and Knut, W. Militarization and Demilitarization in El Salvador’s Transition to Democracy. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1997. Wilson, E. Personal Histories: French Cinema since 1950. London: Duckworth, 1999. Wittgenstein, L. Culture and Value (translated by Peter Winch). Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1980.

238

●

Selected Bibliography

Wood, D. “The Peruvian Press under Recent Authoritarian Regimes, with Special Reference to the autogolpe of President Fujimori,” Bulletin of Latin American Research 19 (2000), pp. 17–32. Woodward, K. Understanding Identity. London: Arnold, 2002. Zeitlin, M. The Civil Wars in Chile. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984. Zelinsky, W. The Shifting Symbolic Foundations of American Nationalism. Chapel Hill: North Carolina Press, 1988. Zizek, S. For They Know Not What They Do: Enjoyment as a Political Factor. London: Verso, 1991. ———. Tarrying with the Negative. Kant Hegel and the Critique of Ideology. Durham: Duke University Press, 1993.

Index Entries in this index are arranged in letter-by-letter order

ABC (Cuba), 60–62 Acapulco, 41, 42, 45 Acción Democrática (AD, Venezuela), 115, 116, 117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 124 Acción Revolucionaria Guiteras (Cuba), 62 Alamán, Lucas, 38 Alegría, Alonso, 145 Alessandri, Arturo, 156, 157 Alianza Anti-Comunista Argentina (Triple A), 213, 214 Allende, Isabel, 15 Allende, Salvador, 7, 150, 158, 159, 162, 171 Amazonia, 13 Amores perros (2001), 15 Andean Community, 125 Angola, 67 Antioquia, 98 Aramburu, General Pedro Eugenio, 213 Argentina, 6, 9, 11, 93, 189, 190, 191, 192, 203, 207–225 Asamblea Obrera de la Alimentación Nacional (AOAN – Chile), 155 Asociación de Veteranos (Cuba), 60 Auténticos (Cuba), 61, 62 Aylwin, Patricio, 176 Aztecs, 1, 7, 11 Báez, Cecilio, 191, 192 Balmaceda, Manuel, 153

Balsero Crisis (1994), 68 Baraguá, 58, 66, 68 Barthes, Roland, 7, 8, 11 Batista, Fulgencio, 61–63 Bátiz, Bernardo, 49 Belaúnde, Fernando, 131, 132 Bélem, 12 Benítez, Conrado, 64 Benjamin, Walter, 168, 169, 177, 178, 179 Betancourt, Rómulo, 115, 116, 117, 125 Boca del Lobo, La, (1988), 7, 133, 134, 135–140, 146 Bogotá, 100 Bolívar, Simón, 112, 123, 124 Bolivia, 68, 93, 195, 203 Bolivarian Revolution, 6, 112, 122, 123, 124, 125, 126 Bonches, 62, 63 Brazil, 11, 13, 189, 191, 220 Brigadas Estudiantiles de Trabajo (Cuba), 68 Buenos Aires, 191, 209, 214, 215, 218 Bustamante, Carlos María, 5, 46, 50 Cabada, Augusto, 136 Canto a la Pampa, 154 Canto general (1950), 7 Caracas, 113, 114, 117 Caracazo, 121 Cárdenas, Lázaro, 42

240

●

Index

Caribbean, 11 Caro y Szécheny, José, 44 Carpentier, Alejo, 11 Carrancistas, 44 Carranza, Venustiano, 44 Casa de España, 43 Caso, Ángel de, 44 Castellanos, Bulmaro, 50 Castillo, Heberto, 48 Castillo, José Luis, 49 Castro, Fidel, 62–64, 66, 69 Catholic Church, 96, 97, 99, 118, 125, 151 Central America, 10, 80, 81 Céspedes, Carlos Manuel de, 60 Chaco War, 190, 195, 197, 203 Chapultepec Peace Accord (1992), 73, 86 Chávez, Hugo Frías, 6, 9, 112, 113, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124, 125, 126, 127 Chavismo, 119, 126 Chibás, Eduardo, 61 Chief Raoni, 13 Chihuahua, 40 Chile, 7–10, 13, 15, 93, 149–166, 167–185, 220 Cholula, 50 Chuladita, 99 Civil War of 1947 (Paraguay), 188, 190, 196, 197, 199, 203 Cold War, 56, 92, 158, 189, 212, 218 Colombia, 4, 6, 10, 13, 14, 79, 91–109, 113, 123, 220 Colorado Party (Paraguay), 6, 188, 190, 195, 196, 197, 198, 199, 201, 202, 203 Columbus, Christopher, 46–48, 50 Comités de Defensa de la Revolución – CDRs (Cuba), 64, 67 Communist Party (Cuba), 61 Communist Party of Peru, see Sendero Luminoso Communist Party of Venezuela (PCV), 119

CONADEP (National Commission on the Disappearance of Persons – Argentina), 218 Concertación (Chile), 167, 168, 174, 176, 177, 178, 179 Conservative Republic (Colombia, 1885–1930), 98 Constitution of 1864 (Venezuela), 114 Constitution of 1869 (Cuba), Rebel, 59 Constitution of 1870 (Paraguay), 192 Constitution of 1886 (Colombia), 96 Constitution of 1901 (Cuba), 61 Constitution of 1940 (Cuba), 61 Constitution of 1967 (Paraguay), 200 Constitution of 1999, Bolivarian (Venezuela), 123, 125 COPEI (Comité de Organización Político Electoral Independiente (Venezuela), 118, 119, 121 COPROCI (Comisión Promotora de Cine – Peru), 139, 145 Cordobazo, 219, 220 Cortés, Hernán, 9–11, 50 Costa Rica, 13 Cuauhtémoc, 46, 50 Cuba, 5–9, 55–72, 123, 160, 212, 214, 216 Cuban Democracy Law (1992), 67 Cuernavaca, 50 Debray, Régis, 65 Democratic Nationalist Organization – ORDEN (El Salvador), 81, 84 Department of Public Education (Mexico), 5, 41 Díaz, Porfirio, 44, 46 Directorio Estudiatil Universitario – DEU (Cuba), 60, 61 Directorio Revolucionario (Cuba), 63 Dolores, 46 Domingo Silva, Víctor, 155 Dominican Republic, 11 Dr Atl, see Murillo, Gerardo Duarte Frutos, Nicanor, 202

Index Echevarría, José Antonio, 63, 64 Echeverría, Luis, 45 Ecuador, 113 Ejército Revolucionario del Pueblo (ERP), 212, 215, 217 El Salvador, 14, 73–90 Escalante, Aníbal, 64 Escudero, Felipe, 41, 42 Escudero, Francisco, 41, 42 Escudero, Juan, 41, 42 Escuela Santa María de Iquique, see Santa María de Iquique Escuelas al Campo Program (Cuba), 66, 67 Europe, 56, 96, 97 Europe, Eastern, 68 Eyde, Marianne, 7, 133, 140–7 Falklands War, 209, 218 Farabundo Martí National Liberation Front – FMLN (El Salvador), 73, 80 Federación Estudiantil Universitaria – FEU (Cuba), 60, 65 Federal War (Venezuela), 113, 114, 123 France, 9 Franco, Francisco, 45 Franco, Rafael, 195 Franqui, Carlos, 63 Free Trade Area of the Americas, 124 Frei, Alessandro, 176 Frondizi, Arturo, 216 Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias – FAR (Cuba), 66, 67 Fujimori, Alberto, 131, 132, 133, 134, 143, 144, 146, 147 Gaitán, Jorge Eliécer, 99, 100 Gaitanistas, 100 Galtieri, Leopoldo, 218 Gamio, Manuel, 38 García, Alan, 131, 132, 146 García Márquez, Gabriel, 4, 10, 12, 102, 105 Generation of 33 (Cuba), 61

●

241

Generation of 38 (Chile), 158 Generation of 95 (Cuba), 60, 61 Generation of 1900 (Paraguay), 192, 195, 197 Generation of 1900 (Chile), 153 Gibara, 60 Girard, René, 14, 15 Gómez, Juan Vicente, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118 Gómez, Laureano, 99 Gómez Rojas, José Domingo, 155 González, Elián, 69 González, Natalicio, 192, 194, 196 González Iñárritu, Alejandro, 15 Gorbachev, Mikhail, 68 Gramsci, Antonio, 76 Gran Colombia, 113 Grau San Martín, Ramón, 60–62 Grenada, 67 Guadalajara, 45 Guáimaro, 59 Guanajuato, 45, 49 Guerra de Guerrillas (1959), 65 Guerrero, State of, 41, 47, 48 Guevara, Ernesto “Che”, 65, 67–69 Guiteras, Antonio, 61, 62, 65 Guiza y Acevedo, Jesús, 43 Guzmán, Abimael, 131, 133, 144 Guzmán Blanco, Antonio, 114, Havana, 60, 62, 65, 68, 69 Helms-Burton Law (1996), 67 Hermanos al Rescate Incident (1996), 68 Hidalgo y Costilla, Miguel, 5, 39, 46, 49 Huerta, Victoriano, 40, 44 Ibáñez del Campo, Colonel Carlos, 156, 157, 158 Incas, 7 Italy, 15 Jara, Víctor, 152, 159, 160–1, 162, 171 Jauretche, Arturo, 216, 217

242

●

Index

Joven Cuba, 62, 65 Junta (Argentine, 1976–83), 6, 9 Juventud Peronista (JP), see Peronist Youth La Matanza (El Salvador, 1932), 80 La Violencia (Colombia, 1948–1954), 91, 92, 99, 103–105 Lacan, Jaques, 168, 169, 174, 178, 179, 181 Landi, Antonio, 12 Legión Cívica Argentina, 212 Ley y Justicia (Cuba), 62 Lillo, Baldomero, 153 Lima, 132, 133, 134, 136, 139, 143, 144, 145, 146 Lombardi, Francisco, 7, 133, 135–40, 141, 142, 143, 145, 146 López, Carlos Antonio, 189, 191, 192, 193, 201 López Contreras, Eleazar, 124 López, Francisco Solano, 189, 191, 192, 193, 196, 201 López Obrador, Andrés Manuel, 49 López Pumarejo, Alfonso, 103 Maceo, Antonio, 58, 65, 68 Machado, Gerardo, 60, 61 Madero, Francisco, 40, 44, 47 Malinche, 9, 10 Malvinas War, 209, 218 Manaus, 12 Maracaibo, 117 Mariátegui, José Carlos, 7 Mariel, 67 Martí, José, 59–61, 65, 66 Martín-Baró, Ignacio, 81 Masferrer, Rolando, 62 Maximilian, Emperor, 46 Maya, 13 Medina Angarita, General Isaias, 116, 124 Mella, Julio Antonio, 61, 65 Mexico, 1–5, 7–11, 13, 37–53, 56, 61, 63

Mexico City, 41, 42, 47–50 Miami, 57, 63, 68 Michoacán, 48 Mier, Servando Teresa de, 46 Milicias de Tropas Territoriales (Cuba), 67 Moctezuma, 46, 50 Molina Enríquez, Andrés, 38 Montesino, Vladimir, 134 Montoneros, 6, 208, 212, 213, 214, 215, 217 Mora, José María Luis, 38 Morelos, José María, 5, 39, 46 Morelos, State of, 41 Morimiento Socialota Revolucionario – MSR, 62 Morínigo, Higínio, 196 Movimiento de 26 de Julio (Cuba), 62, 63 Movimiento Quinta República (Fifth Republic Movement – MVR), 122 Movimiento Socialista Revolucionario (Cuba), 62 Murillo, Gerardo, 43 National Security Doctrine, 199, 210 Nationalist Era (Paraguay), 189, 191, 192, 198, 199 Neruda, Pablo, 7, 158, 159 Nicaragua, 79 Nixon, Richard, 118 Nora, Pierre, 9 Novo, Salvador, 43 Obregón, Álvaro, 44, 47 O’Leary, Juan E., 192, 193, 197 One Hundred Years of Solitude (1967), 4, 9, 10 Onganía, Juan Carlos, 211, 220 OPEC (Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries), 119 Organización Celular Revolucionaria (Cuba), 62 Orozco, José Clemente, 10 Oviedo, General Lino, 202

Index Páez, José Antonio, 113 Pallares, Eduardo, 43 Pan American Health Organization (PAHO), 79 Panama, 113 Paraguay, 6, 8, 9, 12, 14, 93, 187–205 Parra, Violeta, 159, 160 Partido de la Revolución Democrática – PRD (Mexico), 47 Partido Independiente de Color (Cuba), 58 Partido Revolucionario Cubano, 59 Partido Revolucionario CubanoAuténtico, see Auténticos Paz, Octavio, 2, 9–11 Pedro Páramo (1955), 1, 3, 4, 10, 11, 14, 15 Pérez Alfonso, Juan Pablo, 116 Pérez Jiménez, Colonel Marcos, 117, 118, 119, 144 Pérez, Carlos Andrés, 118, 121, 123 Pérez, César, 142 Perón, Isabel, 213, 218 Perón, Juan, 158, 208, 209, 210, 211, 213, 214, 215, 216, 220 Peronist Youth (JP), 212, 213, 215 Peru, 7, 9, 11, 93, 131–148 Pinochet, Augusto, 9, 158, 162, 167, 171, 174, 175, 176, 177, 181 Pizarro, Francisco, 11 Plan Bolívar, 124 Plan del Veladero (1926), 41, 42 Platt Amendment, 61 Playa Girón, 66 Pollarollo, Giovanna, 136 Polo Patriótico, 122 Popular Front (Chile), 157–8, 159 Popular Unity (Chile), 152, 153, 159, 162 Portales, Diego, 150, 151, 153, 161 Prío Socarrás, Carlos, 61, 62 Process of National Reorganization (Argentina), 207, 208, 209, 213, 214, 218, 219 Puebla, 41

●

243

Punto Fijo Pact (Venezuela), 118, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124, 125, 126, 127 Quilapayún, 159, 160, 161 Ranqil, Chile, 157, 158 Reagan, Ronald, 67 Recabarren, Luis Emilio, 153, 154, 155, 159 Reed, John, 40 Rettig Commission (Chile), 168 Revolution in the Revolution? (1966), 65 Reyes, Bernardo, 44 Rio de Janeiro, 13 Rio Verde, 60 Riva Palacio, Vicente, 38 Roa Bastos, Augusto, 12 Rodríguez, Simón, 124, 125, 126 Rodríguez de Francia, José Gaspar, 12, 189, 191, 192, 193, 201 Ronaldinho, 13 Rosas, Juan Manuel de, 208 Rulfo, Juan, 1, 2, 4 Santa María de Iquique, 149, 154, 155, 159, 161 Santiago de Chile, 151, 155, 177, 181 Santiago de Cuba, 62 Sarmiento, Domingo Faustino, 151, 161 Sendero Luminoso, 131, 132, 133, 135, 136, 138, 139, 140, 141, 142, 143, 144, 145, 147 Sierra Escambray, 65 Socos, Peru, 135, 137 Soviet Union, 65, 68 Spain, 5, 7, 9, 11, 15, 37–53, 56, 58, 59, 62, 64, 95, 96 Stroessner, General Alfredo, 6, 188, 190, 197–200, 202, 203 Tabasco, 50 Tacuara, 214, 215 Tampico, 41

244

●

Index

Tenochtitlan, 11 The Autumn of the Patriarch (1975), 12 The House of the Spirits (1982), 15 The Labyrinth of Solitude (1950), 2 The Lost Steps (1953), 11 Toledo, Alejandro, 147 Torreón, 40 Trejo, Rafael, 61 Triple A, see Alianza Anti-Comunista Argentina Triple Alliance War, 189, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194, 203 Trujillo Molina, Rafael Leonidas, 62 Truth and Reconciliation Committee, Peru, 147 Truth Commission, El Salvador, 82 Tupis, 13 Unidades Militares para Ayudar la Producción – UMAP (Cuba), 66 Unión Cívica Radical (Argentina), 210 Unión de Jóvenes Comunistas (Cuba), 69 Unión Insurreccional Revolucionaria – UIR (Cuba), 62 United Nations, 45 United States, 15, 56, 59, 60, 64, 67–69, 98, 104, 114, 116, 118, 119, 123, 124, 127, 199, 218 University of La Cantuta, Peru, 144 Urabá, 98

Uriburu, Alberto Ezcurra, 214 Uruguay, 11 Uslar Pietri, Arturo, 116 Valladolid, 45 Vallarta, Ignacio, 46 Vasconcelos, José, 38 Velasco, General Juan, 132 Veloso, Caetano, 13 Venezuela, 6, 8–10, 111–129 Veracruz, 42 Vida es una Sola, La, (1993), 7, 133, 134, 140–7 Villa, Pancho, 5, 40, 44 Villistas, 44 Virgin of Guadalupe, 37 Waldheim, Kart, 45 Walsh, Rodolfo, 214 Washington, 61, 67 Yo el Supremo (1974), 12 Yrigoyen, Hipólito, 210, 211 Yucatán, 13 Zamora, Ezequiel, 123, 124, 125 Zanjón, 59 Zapata, Emiliano, 39 Zapatistas, 44 Zulia (Venezuela), 114, 117