LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS Lorenzo Bosi
School of Social Policy, Sociology and Social Research, University of Kent at Canterbury, Canterbury, UK
Sean Chabot
Department of Sociology, Eastern Washington University, Cheney, WA, USA
Paul Chaney
School of Social Sciences, Cardiff University, Cardiff, Wales, UK
Patrick G. Coy
Center for Applied Conflict Management, Kent State University, Kent, OH, USA
David Cunningham
Department of Sociology, Brandeis University, Waltham, MA, USA
Gianluca De Fazio
Department of Sociology, Emory University, Atlanta, GA, USA
Jan Willem Duyvendak
Department of Sociology and Anthropology, University of Amsterdam, The Netherlands
Gregory M. Maney
Department of Sociology, Hofstra University, Hempstead, NY, USA
Edward J. McCaughan
Sociology Department, San Francisco State University, San Francisco, CA, USA
Trudi Nederland
Verwey-Jonker Instituut, The Netherlands
Maryjane Osa
Department of Sociology, Northwestern University, Evanston, IL, USA
Kurt Schock
Department of Sociology and Anthropology, Rutgers University, Newark, NJ, USA vii
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Stephen Valocchi
Department of Sociology, Trinity College, Hartford, CT, USA
Stellan Vinthagen
Department of Peace and Development, Go¨teburg University, Gothenburg, Sweden
INTRODUCTION The title of this series, Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, reflects the triple foci of its volumes. These three issues that are so central to the identity of this series – social movements, conflicts, and change – are also prominent features with regard to the civil rights movement in Northern Ireland. Thus we open this 27th volume of the series with three papers analyzing various aspects of Northern Ireland’s civil rights movement, a social movement working for political and social change in a society marked by protracted conflict. The first paper, by Gregory Maney, innovatively analyzes the interrelationships between the Irish Republican Army’s campaigns of armed violence and the nonviolent civil rights movement. The literature on armed rebellions – while robust and quite well developed – has nonetheless suffered from the fact that there has been far too little cross-fertilization with other studies that have focused primarily on nonviolent movements for political change. It is as if the two approaches to social and political change seldom interact in the field or intersect on the ground. This of course is seldom true. In fact, nonviolent movements for political change and armed rebellions frequently coexist, overlap, feed off of each other, vie for prominence, give rise to each other, etc. For examples one need only think of the political unrest across much of Latin America from the 1970s to 1990s, the oscillating violent and nonviolent resistance to Israel’s occupation of Palestine, the long multi-dimensional struggle against apartheid in South Africa, and the troubles in Northern Ireland. Maney utilizes a rich array of methodologies to chart the sequences of violent vs. nonviolent contention vis-a-vis state responses of inclusion or exclusion during a critical 16 year period in Northern Ireland from 1955 to 1972. The author gathered an original set of data from 6 archives, 7 newspapers, and interviews with 19 key informants. Significantly, those interviewed were prominent participants in the nonviolent civil rights movement in Northern Ireland precisely during those stages of the movement when the armed rebellion was also most relevant. Maney employs political process theory to interpret the shifting sequences of contention in the divided society of Northern Ireland. He convincingly shows that armed rebellion contributed to the emergence of a policy oriented protest movement, and that that ix
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movement also contributed to the emergence of an armed rebellion. He constructs an original and dynamic model of contention sequences that is based on the ways that the political opportunity structure gives rise to one or another kind of oppositional movement. His model also helps explain how the respective forms of contention influence the rise and decline of each other, as well as how their respective trajectories and outcomes affect the structures of political opportunity for future movements. In this way, Maney also manages to highlight the complicated connections between agency and structure in the politics of contention. Consequently, students of both armed rebellion and of nonviolent political movements will find much of theoretical significance in this ambitious paper. Micro-mobilization has long interested social movements scholars. Quite a lot of good solid research has explored a series of questions associated with trying to understand why individuals participate in movements. Drawing on decades of earlier work, Bert Klandermans has recently hypothesized that ideology, identity, and instrumentality are especially salient factors in influencing individual participation choices. Lorenzo Bosi analyzes micromobilization in Northern Ireland’s civil rights movement, paying particular attention to how these three factors interacted to influence individual participation at the various stages of movement development in a deeply divided society. Timing is key to Bosi’s analysis. Why do individuals decide to participate when they do? How do we account for variation over time in an individual’s participation? Based on interviews with 27 prominent activists in the civil rights movement, supplemented by archival research, Bosi finds that in the early stages of the movement instrumentality concerns were particularly salient. However, as the movement developed and as the political context changed to include increased repression, identity and ideology came more to the fore in influencing micro-mobilization. I have paired the Maney and Bosi papers together as they are each based on solid empirical research that addresses the various stages of Northern Ireland’s civil rights movement. While these two papers complement each other in many ways, in other ways they offer alternative arguments and explanations for understanding how and why the civil rights movement shifted over time. There are, of course, still other ways to tackle the issues associated with the emergence and the waxing and waning of Northern Ireland’s civil rights movement. In our third paper on Northern Ireland, Gianluca De Fazio argues that the Royal Ulster Constabulary’s (RUC) confrontational approach to the civil rights movement contributed to the rise of violence and the armed rebellion. De Fazio creatively utilizes a previously untapped yet
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rich data source to understand the civil rights movement in Northern Ireland and its interaction with the police force: the minutes of evidence from police witnesses who gave testimony to the Scarman Tribunal of Inquiry (1969–1971). By offering a thick description of the complexities of police attitudes toward protesters in Derry/Londonderry, De Fazio establishes that while many RUC officers were antagonistic toward much of the movement, they nonetheless engaged in negotiations with protesters on a number of occasions, and apparently in good faith. Yet, these frequent contacts and interactions did not result in appreciably softer or less violent interactions with protesters. De Fazio argues that the lack of routinized and institutionalized interactions and channels of communication between police and protesters is largely responsible for this outcome. In section two of this volume, we continue our exploration of political opportunity theory and social movement mobilization with three more papers that address various aspects of that theoretical approach, but the focus is expanded beyond the Northern Ireland context. One of the most thoroughgoing critiques of political opportunity theory is that it has focused too much on structure while discounting, and in some cases even ignoring, cultural factors and agency. Empirical work like that of Gregory Maney’s on Northern Ireland is part of a growing body of research which attempts to correct this historic blind spot in theories of political opportunity and contentious politics. This historic tendency to highlight structural and political factors at the expense of cultural forces is also present in the scholarship of Gene Sharp and others who study the dynamics of nonviolent action. Our first paper in section two, by Sean Chabot and Stellan Vinthagen, is an impressive attempt to overcome these similar tendencies by forging a synthesis that attends to the cultural aspects of nonviolent politics even while also analyzing the politics of nonviolent cultures. An alternative view of power facilitates Chabot and Vinthagen’s focus on the normative as well as pragmatic dimensions of nonviolent opposition movements and on the dynamic interplay between cultural and political processes. More specifically, they highlight four aspects of what they call the ‘‘political cultures of nonviolent opposition,’’ namely cultural idioms, ideologies, emotional experiences, and organizational structures. They effectively apply this synthetic framework to analyze two social movements: the Indian independence movement led by Mohandas Gandhi, and today’s landless workers movement in Brazil. The structure/culture problem facing political opportunity theory is far from the only weakness in this approach to understanding mobilization issues. Maryjane Osa and Kurt Schock contribute a theoretical paper that
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suggests that an equally serious problem with political opportunity theory is inadequate attention to how different state forms influence mass mobilization. This problem is due at least in part to the fact that political opportunity theory arose within and has been applied primarily to liberal democratic contexts, especially the United States and Western Europe. These origins have tended to obscure important questions regarding context. For example, in what ways does the form of a state, i.e. its relative placement on a continuum from democratic to non-democratic, structure the political opportunities facing oppositional movements? While political opportunity theory has been increasingly applied of late to sites of contention in non-democratic states, the specific differences in these mobilization contexts have been under specified and under theorized. Osa and Schock attempt to correct this through a careful exposition of what they convincingly argue are the relevant institutional differences between democratic and non-democratic mobilization contexts. They highlight elite divisions, changing repression levels, influential allies, media access, and information flows as the most critical factors that impact contention against the state differentially, depending on the form of the state. They also argue for the importance of social networks to oppositional movements in non-democracies. The authors contribute significantly to theory building by articulating a series of ‘‘sensitizing propositions’’ that would profitably inform future research. In addition, they identify eight issues arising from their re-conceptualization of the political opportunities model to which future research ought to attend. Constitutional reforms and structural changes in many different countries over the past 20 years have increased the political opportunities for women’s movements to work for the inclusion of gender equity in new constitutions and other governing mechanisms. While national or mass mobilizations relying on extra-institutional politics has often been an integral part of the women’s movement’s strategy, insider strategies that rely on a small number of institutionally well-positioned women activists have also been an important strategic choice, particularly when mobilizing structures are absent or diffused. The constitutional reforms undertaken in Wales in the 1990s and the debates they occasioned over devolution provided political and discursive opportunities for the women’s movement to make significant advances in gender equity in the field of Welsh politics. Paul Chaney’s research on constitutional reform and the women’s movement in Wales is based on over 250 interviews with participants in the reform and women’s movements, supplemented by participant observation and archival research. This triangle of rich data is analyzed to show that the Welsh women’s movement opted to utilize elite advocacy and various insider strategies, and that this
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approach resulted in substantive outcomes. These influential insiders recognized the discursive opportunities presented by governmental reforms where inclusiveness, democratization, and devolution were valued. They successfully advocated that gender equality ought also to be included. In fact, Chaney argues that these actions eventually led to the beginnings of ‘‘state feminism,’’ which in turn increased the potential impacts of the women’s movement itself. In so doing, Chaney’s research challenges the assumption that such elite-based insider strategies can be neither democratic nor inclusive. Section three of this volume consists of four papers which address issues associated with particularly robust arenas of social movements research: collective identity, ideology, and participation patterns. The movements examined in this section range from the Ku Klux Klan in Alabama in the 1960s, to the current patient’s health movement in the Netherlands, to the 1960s–1980s Mexican student movement and Chicano civil rights movement in the United States, to today’s progressive movement in Hartford, Connecticut. What these papers have in common is their focus on a series of interrelated issues central to understanding social movements from a culturalist point of view, i.e. the roles of collective identity, ideologies and social networks in mobilization. The section opens with Stephen Valocchi’s thick description of the identity talk of 30 participants in a variety of progressively oriented social movements in the greater Hartford, Connecticut area. Based on open-ended and often lengthy interviews, Valocchi also utilizes life history and narrative analysis to develop a typology of identity talk formed by three general cultural forces: ideologies connected to social movement culture, organizational resources, and biographical experiences with marginalization. He argues that each of these focused discourses about identity are in turn associated with different patterns of organizational affiliation and movement participation for the respective activists. This paper establishes that the identity talk of activists is shaped by a complex of largely cultural factors that go far beyond simply the context of collective action. As scholars have paid more attention to the cultural politics of social movements, the various nooks and cultural crannies of social movements are beginning to be identified, explored and analyzed. One area that has not received anywhere near its due, given its obvious significance, is the role that activist art and movement artists play in helping the movement communicate with and give meaning to participants and to general audiences. Art and artists are often influential in identity formation, in communicating alternative worldviews, and in articulating oppositional knowledge. As
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Edward McCanaugh shows in evocative detail, art and artists associated with the Mexican and Chicano social movements did more than simply reflect the social, cultural, and political changes facing their communities; the art also contributed to those changes, not least by helping participants and bystanders to think in new ways, including outside the grasp of hegemonic forces. Based on analysis of the form and content of 374 pieces of art, McCanaugh demonstrates that contemporaneous Mexican and Chicano social movements with some shared cultural heritages nonetheless portrayed themselves and the meanings of ethnicity, citizenship, nation, and gender in substantively different ways. McCanaugh argues that these differences are largely related to the differences in the national political economies within which each movement was formed. In the process, this paper adds substantially to our knowledge about Mexican vs. Chicano identity politics and their respective cultural productions. Movements associated with health and health care issues have by and large been quite understudied. This is unfortunate not least because of the host of interesting issues associated with identity concerns for health care patients and others with health problems. Dilemmas of identity representation are particularly pronounced for patient’s movements. For example, collective identities associated with being disabled persons may at the same time be a source of political power as well as an ongoing wellspring of oppression. What kind of collective identity projection will best serve the political and policy needs of movements of disabled persons? Among the many options is the embrace of the relatively fixed identity of ‘‘disabled,’’ or the more fluid civic identity of ‘‘full citizenship.’’ Each has potential pitfalls and promising benefits. Based on their inventory of the methods of interest and identity representation used by 300 Dutch organizations for the chronically ill and disabled, Jan Willem Duyvendak and Trudi Nederland argue that, at least in the Dutch context, the least productive approach is an either/or strategy where the patient identity and the civic identity are disconnected. This means that the real challenge is the fashioning of effective combinations of identity projection, combinations that are fluid enough to be responsive to particularized contexts. While we know quite a lot about why individuals join social movements, and while some of the studies in this volume also help refine our answers to these micro-mobilization questions, we know much less about why individuals join social movements which are reacting to threats to the status quo, as opposed to trying to change the status quo. The Ku Klux Klan is a prominent example of a reactive social movement. This volume closes with David Cunningham’s groundbreaking delineation of the salient factors that
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impacted individual choices to join the Ku Klux Klan in north-central Alabama, more specifically in the Birmingham and Tuscaloosa areas, in the early 1960s. For data, Cunningham relies on 94 FBI interviews of Alabama Klan members in 1963 and 1964 conducted during two different bomb investigations. By comparing the demographic characteristics of these interviewees with the local white male population, and also with other previous studies on Klan membership, Cunningham first answers the important question of exactly who participated in the Klan during the era of the civil rights movement. Suffice it to say that there are some surprises here. Second, he also effectively shows that central and peripheral members of the Klan differ considerably and that both populations must be included if future studies of Klan membership are to be inclusive. Finally, Cunningham’s analysis establishes that relational contexts matter in particular ways in micro-mobilization. For example, social ties – especially those among family members – are important indicators of an individual’s receptivity to joining the Klan, as are the presence of institutional sites and social venues where mutually aggrieved parties may interact. Careful readers of this volume are likely to conclude that it is an uncommonly strong collection of theoretically rich and data-driven papers which address a series of interrelated questions that are at the forefront of today’s social movement scholarship. Political opportunity theory receives careful, empirically informed correctives from a number of quarters, and a synthesis is achieved between nonviolent action scholarship and the contentious politics school of research. Moreover, the roles of collective identities, ideologies, identity talk, art, biographies, social networks, police repression, and participation pathways are analyzed within the context of social movements in the United States, Mexico, the Netherlands, India, Brazil Northern Ireland, and in various non-democracies. As such, this is that rare collection which when taken together builds bridges between scholarship on social movements and on social conflicts, and in the process makes theoretical advances in each area in much needed yet creative ways. I thank Mary Anne Skinner, the Secretary of the Center for Applied Conflict Management at Kent State University, for her clerical assistance with this volume. In addition, I am heavily indebted to my research assistant, Douglas McKenzie, who essentially functioned as a managing editor and who excelled at each and every thing he was asked to do. Patrick G. Coy Series Editor
FROM CIVIL WAR TO CIVIL RIGHTS AND BACK AGAIN: THE INTERRELATION OF REBELLION AND PROTEST IN NORTHERN IRELAND, 1955–1972 Gregory M. Maney ABSTRACT Researchers have mostly studied armed rebellions and policy-oriented protest movements separately. This article argues that, by altering the structure of political opportunity facing insurgents, the two types of contention can facilitate one another’s emergence, particularly in divided societies with rigid ethnic states lacking legitimacy. As an illustration, the author examines ethno-nationalist contention in Northern Ireland between 1955 and 1972. Defeat of the IRA’s (Irish Republican Army) border campaign contributed to the liberalization of the policies of the Northern Ireland state. Republicans remaining active became receptive to new strategies. Republican organizations subsequently formed an integral part of a civil rights movement. The movement entailed nonviolent mass civil disobedience in the pursuit of equal citizenship rights for the Nationalist minority. A mixture of state concessions and repression contributed to the resurgence of armed Republicanism. The findings suggest
Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, Volume 27, 3–35 Copyright r 2007 by Elsevier Ltd. All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-786X/doi:10.1016/S0163-786X(06)27001-0
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the need for greater attention to the overlap and interaction between different goals and forms of political contention.
INTRODUCTION For the most part, social scientists have studied armed rebellions and reform-oriented, protest-reliant social movements separately (Goldstone, 1998). This academic division of labor can be defended on the heuristic grounds that contrasting goals and forms of contention produce distinct phenomena that emanate from different sources. Nonetheless, the analytical separation has minimized exploration of the possibility that the two phenomena are interrelated. Charles Tilly (2002, p. 24) notes such a possibility: ‘‘At first glance, violence may seem the antithesis of orderly public politics. At second glance, most public violence connects closely with politics in general.’’ Tilly further concludes that the connection is likely to be strongest in cases of ethno-national contention. This article argues that the consecutive emergence of armed rebellions and policy-oriented protest movements in the same society are not mere coincidences. Different explicitly stated goals and forms of collective action lead to different sequences of contention between insurgents, authorities, and non-state opponents. Because of their consequences for the structure of political opportunity facing insurgents, these sequences of contention encourage oscillation between reliance upon nonviolent forms of collective action in the pursuit of policy reforms, on the one hand, and violent forms of collective action in the pursuit of fundamental social transformation on the other. Such sequences are particularly likely in divided societies where states lack either the ability or the will to fully incorporate ethno-national minority groups into the polity.1 Historical and statistical analyses of ethnonationalist contention in Northern Ireland between 1955 and 1972 establish an instance where two different types of contention are interrelated. The case offers a preliminary illustration of the ability of political process theory to explain how policy-oriented protests contributed to the armed rebellion while, in turn, armed rebellion contributed to policy-oriented protests.
THEORY While at times underspecified and overextended (Meyer, 2003), the concept of political opportunity structure (POS) assists in identifying ways that
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trajectories of contention alter the stated objectives and forms of collective action of insurgents. The POS entails the degree of receptivity or vulnerability of elites to organized extra-institutional challenges by those excluded from the polity (Eisinger, 1973; Tilly, 1978; McAdam, 1982). Commonly identified dimensions of the POS include increased institutional access in previously closed polities, unstable political alignments, divisions among elites, the emergence of support groups and influential allies, and decreasing repression by a highly repressive state (Tarrow, 1994).2 Cross-national quantitative studies mostly report upside-down U curve relationships between both institutional access and regime repressiveness, on the one hand, and protest and political violence on the other (for a detailed review, see Maney, 2001). Consistent with these findings, research on ethno-nationalist mobilizations shows democratization as being positively related to ethnicbased protests and autocratization increasing armed minority rebellion (e.g., Scarritt, McMillan, & Mozaffar, 2001; Tejerina, 2001; Khan, 2003; Laciner & Bal, 2004). Political process theorists assume that changes in the political context prove more critical to the origins of social movements than static features of a political system. Meyer and Staggenborg (1996) suggest that mass mobilization alters the POS by prompting strategic responses from the state as well as organized opponents in civil society. When a state responds exclusively to extra-institutional collective action (e.g., arrests, censorship, assassinations, and bans of political parties), the POS closes. When the state responds inclusively (e.g., inviting movement leaders to participate in state decision-making bodies and making concessions to demands), the POS opens. Combining these insights assists in specifying ways that armed rebellions facilitate protest movements and vice versa. Sequences of contention associated with both protest and armed rebellion can produce movements toward middle-range levels of openness/closure in the polity (see Fig. 1). As escalating protests by social movements encourage political closure, the likelihood and intensity of armed rebellion increase in the face of increasing threat. Conversely, as the de-escalation of armed rebellion encourages openings, the likelihood and intensity of protest increase in the face of increasing opportunity. These dynamics are particularly likely in divided societies with high levels of ethno-nationalist mobilization. Because of their rigidity and lack of legitimacy, the responses of ethnic states to rebellion and protest tend to produce semi-open/closed polities. I now discuss these sequences of contention in greater detail, starting with sequences associated with armed rebellion.
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Level of Mobilization Protest Rebellion
Closed
POS: Open
Fig. 1.
Contention Sequences and Political Opportunity Structures.
How Rebellion Can Lead to Protest The cessation of armed rebellion usually culminates in one of the three outcomes: (1) the outright defeat of insurgents, (2) a negotiated compromise between insurgents and the state, or (3) the deposition of previous elites and rule by the rebels. For different reasons, all three outcomes can contribute to openings in the POS, thereby increasing the likelihood that reform-oriented protest movements will emerge. Having successfully quelled or effectively minimized a rebellion, a victorious state has incentives to reduce both its coercive capacities and repressive activities. With its monopoly over the use of organized, collective violence restored, the state no longer requires a high level of coercion to maintain its rule. The budgetary strain of exorbitant military expenditures and the wrangling with elites over high taxation provide incentives for a reduction in repressive capacities (e.g., Skocpol, 1979; Wickham-Crowley, 1989). Moreover, during rebellions, states (particularly those with ostensibly democratic systems) frequently attempt to persuade the general population of their legitimacy. Upon defeating insurgents, states having pursued this discursive strategy will be apt to maintain it by displaying relative tolerance toward nonviolent forms of dissent. Such liberalization is likely to be accompanied by heightened levels of protest as the anticipated costs of open collective action decrease while its expected benefits increase (e.g., Osa, 2001; Almeida, 2003).
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Political opportunities to affect social change through protest must be perceived by potential participants before social movements emerge. Ironically, the defeat of rebellion facilitates this perception by affecting the composition of those politically active among a subordinated social group. Failing to achieve their goals, those committed to violence as an instrument for pursuing social change will exit to the shadows.3 Other insurgents who are more agnostic regarding explicitly stated goals and forms of contention, however, will search for alternative ways to achieve their objectives. These individuals will be foremost among those recognizing opportunities for protest arising from the ashes of defeat. Like the defeat of an armed uprising, negotiated settlements with armed insurgents also encourage openings in the POS. Compromises frequently entail provisions that include the rebels and their supporters in the polity. By disrupting prior conflict and alliance systems among elites, the expansion of the polity presents new opportunities for protest. Elites previously unified in opposition to the insurgents may divide over the issue of their inclusion. Furthermore, former insurgents searching to expand their constituencies may readily embrace protest movements as a means to their own political advancement (Markoff, 1996; Almeida, 2003). Since negotiated compromises are rarely equitable, abundant grievances remain for political entrepreneurs to exploit as bases of mobilization (Kriesberg, 1998). Ironically, the political instability generated by the institutionalization of dissent creates opportunities for nonviolent, extra-institutional resistance. While states may attempt to restore stability through coercion, the cumulative costs of armed conflict coupled with fears of undermining the settlement encourage restrained responses to protest movements. While both the defeat of rebellion and negotiated settlements of armed conflict frequently result in the opening of the POS, can the same be said for instances of successful rebellion? Upon seizing power, some successful revolutionary movements have restricted institutional access and expanded the repressive arsenal of the state (e.g., the Soviet Union and Communist China). Nonetheless, in others instances, successful rebellions have generated political opportunities for protest. In Mexico, Cuba, Nicaragua, and Iran, successful insurgencies depended upon the formation of cross-class coalitions (e.g., Wickham-Crowley, 1989; Moaddel, 1993). Once the unifying solvent of a common enemy has disappeared, however, ideological differences, unresolved grievances, and conflicting socio-economic interests may unravel the coalition that existed during insurgency (Scarritt et al., 2001). As former rebels split and compete for popular support, the opportunities available to protest movements heighten.
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The lack of legitimacy and rigidity of ethnic states in divided societies further increase the likelihood of protest in a polity opening in the aftermath of a defeated rebellion. Legitimacy entails popular consent to rule as reasonable, just, and in the interest of society (Mann, 1986; Barker, 1990). The defeat of rebellion presents an opportunity for a state to gain legitimacy with an ethno-nationalist minority. In turn, political openings in the aftermath of defeat encourage strategically oriented ethno-nationalist activists to test the limits of inclusion through policy-oriented protests. Potential nationalist insurgents face a win/win situation in that both inclusive and exclusive state responses to protest are likely to advance their objectives. Protests may prove successful in pressuring the state to increase institutional access, economic opportunities, and cultural recognition for the minority group. Newly gained forms of power, including democratic legitimacy, can be utilized on behalf of ethno-nationalist objectives. Yet the negative implications of this power shift for the national sovereignty of the dominant group typically result in ethnic states refusing to substantively concede political, economic, and cultural rights for the minority. Fully sharing power with an ethno-nationalist minority would undermine the logic and integrity of the nation-state. Whereas class-based states can incorporate elites from multiple ethnic groups, ethnic states can only incorporate elites from the ethnic group or nation that controls the state.4 By exposing the undemocratic and exclusive nature of polities dominated by one ethnic group, such refusals in the face of nonviolent protest generate high levels of domestic and international support for fundamental changes in sovereignty. In the process of draining legitimacy away from the state, protests enhance the legitimacy of armed ethno-nationalist insurgents. Nationalism also increases the likelihood of protest movements arising after negotiated settlements have led to the end of armed rebellions. Part of the intractability of ethno-nationalist conflicts can be explained in terms of the zero-sum assumptions frequently held by their participants. Separate ethno-nationalist groups want a State that solely reflects their identities and protects their interests. Seeing compromise as tantamount to national defeat, opponents of negotiated settlements will use provocative protests in efforts to destabilize if not collapse the peace process (Maney, Ibrahim, Higgins, & Herzog, 2006). In addition, many supporters of negotiated settlements also hold zero-sum assumptions. Peace agreements are not viewed as permanent compromises, but rather strategic means toward the eventual complete fulfillment of nationalist objectives (Gurr, 2000). Since renewed political violence would jeopardize the negotiated settlement, protest
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becomes the primary extra-institutional means of generating leverage on behalf of deeply valued and as yet unfulfilled objectives. Victorious nationalist rebellions often leave in place the structural foundations of protest. In several divided societies, previously dominant ethnic groups have become minorities. The inversion of an ethnic stratification system simply reverses which group is included in the polity and which is excluded. Israel presents a case of a victorious armed nationalist rebellion. Within Israel, rising fortunes of the Labor Party have encouraged the formation of protest movements such as the Equality Covenant Movement in 1992 calling for a greater degree of political inclusion and social equality for the Arab/Palestinian minority. Overall, outcomes of armed rebellions that open the POS facilitate the emergence of protest movements. Conversely, by precipitating the closure of the POS, policy-oriented protest movements often create conditions that facilitate the emergence of armed revolutionary insurgencies.
How Protest Can Lead to Rebellion How the state and non-state opponents respond to social movements greatly affect the likelihood of armed insurgency. Kriesi, Koopmans, Dyvendak, and Giugni (1992) assert that states have dominant strategies in their responses to challengers. Past responses to social movements lock authorities into relying primarily upon exclusion, inclusion, or a combination of both to quell protest. I now examine each of these strategies and their likely affects upon subsequent goals and forms of contention. In their study of four Western European societies, Kriesi et al. (1992) found that new social movements were more likely to deploy violent forms of contention in states relying upon exclusion than in states relying upon inclusion. Exclusion can contribute to heavy violence in either one of the two ways. On the one hand, the high risks associated with protests can result in declining participation by less militant elements in the movement. As voices advocating limited reforms and nonviolent tactics disappear in the face of state provocation, forcible retaliation by more radical elements increases (Tarrow, 1994). On the other, by imposing sudden and dramatic grievances that threaten targeted further harm, severe repression of nonviolent protests and rapid institutional closure can both result in widespread support for armed rebellion (Zimmerman, 1980; Lichbach, 1987; Loveman, 1998; McAdam, Tarrow, & Tilly, 2001). When a large segment of society supports a challenger movement and concludes that the state cannot be
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reformed through nonviolent means, intense rebellion is likely to follow (Goodwin, 1997; Goldstone, 1998; Toth, 2003). Extreme ongoing repression is likely to minimize protest (WickhamCrowley, 1989; Muller & Weede, 1990). Most states, however, do not possess either the extent of institutional closure or the extensive coercive capacities necessary to make exclusion a viable long-term strategy (Dix, 1984). In his study of protest waves in West Germany, Koopmans (1993) notes that the state deployed a double strategy for dealing with new social movements, mixing inclusive with exclusive responses. Like the exclusive strategy, a double strategy can sew the seeds of rebellion, albeit for different reasons. When the West German state combined concessions with repression, protest movements became radicalized as moderate elements exited to pursue newly opened institutional channels of recourse. In the process, movements became both more confrontational in their tactics and more vulnerable to intensive, targeted repression. As radicalized movements responded forcefully to coercion, escalating violence resulted in the decline of protest and the formation of paramilitary organizations conducting low-intensity insurgency campaigns.5 Overall, Koopmans’ findings suggest that the double strategy contributes to political violence by collapsing the middle ground of protest previously occupied by moderates and militants alike.6 Kriesi et al. (1992) note, in passing, that ethnic separatist movements engaged in significantly higher levels of violence than their new social movement counterparts. Several other studies have found a significant relationship between ethnic separatism and rebellion (Muller, 1985; Muller & Seligson, 1987; Boswell & Dixon, 1990; Brown & Boswell, 1997). The impact of ethnicity on the interaction between protest and rebellion can best be explained in terms of how nationalism affects insurgents’ responses to state strategies. In terms of exclusion, the state already suffers from low levels of legitimacy in the eyes of those belonging to an ethno-nationalist minority. Coercive responses to nonviolent protests, therefore, more readily elicit support for armed rebellion. And just as coercion is viewed as unjust and unreasonable, members of an ethno-nationalist minority are also more likely to question the sincerity and substance of reforms. The same, however, cannot be said of many in the dominant ethnonationalist group who view inclusive state responses to challenger movements as dangerous if not treasonous. Counter-mobilization against challenger movements contributes to minority rebellion in two ways. First, those viewing reform-oriented protest movements and inclusive state responses to protests as having negative implications for their own authority, recognition, and claims will likely respond in violent opposition (Beissinger, 1998; Tilly, 2002).
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Second, movement opponents attempt to pressurize states to shift their strategies away from inclusion and more fully toward reliance upon exclusion. When the dominant ethnic group segment of civil society is strong relative to the state, reforms are likely to be halted if not reversed while repression aimed at the challenger movement becomes more sweeping and intensive. Vigilantism and the renewed closure of the POS facing challenger movements produce higher levels of support for rebellion by further de-legitimating the state and reinforcing the belief that social justice for the ethnic minority group requires a change in territorial status (e.g., Tejerina, 2001). For these reasons, I expect a double state response to a challenger movement in a divided society to eventually give rise to intensive minority rebellion, dominant group vigilantism, and high levels of state repression. While both exclusive and double state strategies responding to protest movements facilitate rebellion, the same cannot be said for an inclusive state strategy. In a comparative study of Italy and Northern Ireland, Maguire (1993) found that the rapid implementation of reforms by the Italian state coupled with a restrained response to right-wing violence resulted in declining levels of political violence. Nevertheless, for reasons mentioned above, in most societies divided along ethno-nationalist lines, a state relying upon inclusion runs the risk of losing its legitimacy in the eyes of the dominant ethnic group. In this case, a high level of vigilantism becomes a serious possibility. Having developed a framework for interpreting the interaction between rebellion and protest, I now apply the framework to explain alternating forms and goals of ethno-nationalist contention in Northern Ireland between 1956 and 1972.
METHOD As a preliminary exploration of this topic, I have selected the case of contention in Northern Ireland between 1955 and 1972. Northern Ireland is distinct from most other Western European societies both in its neo-colonial status and in that ethno-nationalism constitutes the primary basis of mass mobilization. With recent political violence disproportionately involving ethnically divided societies, the case provides an important opportunity to assess the significance of ethnicity to the interaction between protest and rebellion. By encompassing a civil rights movement historically straddled by two rebellions, the period selected allows for an examination of not only how an armed rebellion might contribute to the origins of a protest movement, but also how a protest movement might sew the seeds of rebellion.
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The analysis combines historical and quantitative methods. I drew upon a wide range of sources to construct both a detailed historical chronology and database of political events related to Northern Ireland. Sources used include six archives,7 seven different newspapers,8 and nineteen key informants9 (see Appendix A for a description of persons interviewed). A concerted effort was made to achieve balance by acquiring information from both state and non-state sources, from Nationalist and Unionist sources, and from sources based in different geographical locations. I supplemented these sources with a detailed examination of over 200 accounts of the period by scholars, activists, and government officials. The results establish an instance where minority protest and rebellion were causally inter-related phenomena (for a glossary of case-specific terminology, please see Appendix B).
RESULTS Ethno-Nationalist Contention, 1955–1972 Fig. 2 presents levels of minority rebellion (as measured by the number of deaths resulting from Republican paramilitary activities) and minority protest (as measured by the number of civil rights protests) between 1955 and 1964.10 Similarly, Fig. 3 presents levels of minority rebellion and protest between 10
# Events
8
6 Civil Rights Protests 4
Deaths by Republicans
2
0 55
Fig. 2.
57
59 Year
61
63
Minority Rebellion and Protest, Northern Ireland 1955–1964.
From Civil War to Civil Rights and Back Again
13
300 250
# Events
200 Civil Rights Protests
150
Deaths by Republicans 100 50 0 65
67
69
71
73
Year
Fig. 3.
Minority Protest and Rebellion, Northern Ireland 1965–1974.
1965 and 1974.11 Together, the figures establish that nationalist rebellion both preceded and followed civil rights mobilization. Informally begun in 1955 and formally declared in 1956, the Irish Republican Army (IRA) launched a Border Campaign, seeking first to capture majority Nationalist border areas in the west of Northern Ireland and then to move eastward. The campaign involved raids on Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC) and British Army barracks; bombings of radio transmitters, railway tracks, and bridges; and ambushes of security patrols. At its height in 1957, the campaign resulted in nine deaths – seven IRA members and two RUC officers. In total, 19 people died either in preparing for or conducting the campaign. In addition, 204 suspected Republicans were prosecuted and 113 imprisoned by the Unionistcontrolled Northern Ireland state (Bell, 1997, p. 303). With the IRA formally ending its campaign in 1962, however, Republican political violence largely subsided for seven years.12 The year also brought the first civil rights protest related to Northern Ireland. The England-based Connolly Association sponsored a march from Liverpool to London to highlight the denial of civil rights to the Nationalist minority in Northern Ireland. The following year marked both the emergence of a relatively moderate Unionist Prime Minister and the first civil rights protests in Northern Ireland. Drawing its support primarily from the Nationalist community, the movement challenged institutionalized sectarian practices that
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disadvantaged the minority. The movement emphasized mass-based, nonviolent disobedience while deliberately avoiding the issue of partition. Nineteen sixty-eight witnessed the first mass civil rights marches. By the end of the year, the Northern Ireland state had announced unprecedented reforms in the electoral system, housing allocation, and policing. The following year witnessed intense rioting and renewed armed activities by Republicans. The last year of the analysis (1972) brought the highest level of politically related fatalities that Northern Ireland has seen. Most observers conclude that 1972 marked the end of the civil rights movement (e.g., NICRA, 1978; Devin-McAliskey, 1988; Farrell, 1988, p. 65). As Fig. 3 indicates, civil rights mobilization sharply declined after 1972. Both quantitative and historical evidence support the explanation for this alternation between rebellion and protest provided by the conceptual framework developed in the last section.
From Border War to Civil Rights Protest Events in Northern Ireland during the 1960s support the idea that the defeat of an armed rebellion can contribute to the emergence of a social movement by opening the structure of political opportunity. The Unionist-controlled Northern Ireland state (also referred to by the name of its parliament – Stormont) reduced both its repressive activities and coercive capacities. Even before the IRA announced the cessation of hostilities in 1962, Stormont released all Republicans interned during the campaign. The size of security forces provides another measure for regime repressiveness. Fig. 4 charts the size of security forces in Northern Ireland at the end of each year from 1959 to 1972.13 Prior to the eruption of widespread rioting in 1969, the strength of the security force reached its peak during the IRA’s Border Campaign. As it became apparent that the campaign would not succeed, Stormont reduced the size of its security force prior to the formal cessation of hostilities. With exception of 1966 – when rumors of a planned IRA invasion from the South during the 50th anniversary of the Easter Rising resulted in a moderate increase in force strength – reductions continued through 1968. As Stormont became less repressive and less capable of being repressive, the potential costs associated with protests decreased. The defeat of the Border Campaign also brought about a greater receptivity among Unionists to creating room for Nationalists in the polity. Low levels of support for the IRA during the later stages of the campaign suggested that improved cross-community relations could bring a permanent
From Civil War to Civil Rights and Back Again
15
30,000
Size
25,000
20,000
15,000
10,000 59
61
63
65
67
69
71
Year
Fig. 4.
Size of Northern Ireland Security Forces 1959–1972.
end to Republican violence. Nineteen sixty-two marked several unprecedented instances of cross-community contact. The all-Protestant fraternal Unionist organization, the Orange Order, accepted an invitation to engage in political dialogue by the all-Catholic fraternal Nationalist group, the Ancient Order of Hibernians. The Young Unionists invited the leader of the Irish Nationalist Party, Eddie McAteer, to speak at Queen’s University of Belfast. Young Unionist delegates also met with branch of Fine Gael, the second largest political party in the Republic of Ireland. The willingness of prominent Unionist organizations to engage in dialogue encouraged elites to pursue political accommodation. With the appointment of Terence O’Neill as Northern Ireland’s Prime Minister in 1963, the tone, if not the substance, of the Unionist government’s community relations policy changed. In keeping with the spirit of the ecumenism sweeping Western Europe, O’Neill held well-publicized visits to Catholic schools and spoke openly of ‘‘building bridges’’ between the two communities. The Prime Minister also issued a public statement expressing the government’s condolences at the passing of Pope John XXIII. The following two years witnessed moves to integrate Nationalists into the polity. In 1964, Stormont officially recognized the Republic of Ireland-based Irish Congress of Trade Unions. In January of 1965, O’Neill invited the Taoiseach (Prime Minister of the Republic of Ireland) to Belfast to discuss matters of mutual economic interest. While intended to promote functional
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cooperation between the two states, the meetings suggested a thawing of the cold war between Unionists and Nationalists. Responding favorably to O’Neill’s policies, the largest Nationalist party in Northern Ireland, the Irish Nationalist Party, declared itself the official opposition in parliament. The declaration signaled the willingness by most Nationalists to tacitly recognize Stormont’s legitimacy and to pursue minority grievances through institutional channels. The state’s inclusive strategy also yielded short-term electoral benefits. Supporters of ‘‘O’Neillism’’ did well at the polls during the general election in 1965. O’Neill himself received a vote of confidence as Prime Minister from the Ulster Unionist Council and the Grand Orange Lodge. Popular support for the government’s policies encouraged O’Neill to continue what Moloney and Pollak (1986, p. 121) term the ‘‘politics of the grand gesture – visiting Catholic schools, visits with nuns and priests, and entertaining Cardinal Conway.’’ The politics of the grand gesture, however, also invited protests by Nationalists (Costain, 1992). Stormont’s failure to engage substantively in reforms demanded by early civil rights organizations such as the Campaign for Social Justice made the regime vulnerable to allegations of hypocrisy. In December of 1966, the liberal Unionist editorial staff of the largest paper in Northern Ireland encouraged the government to make good on its promises: This is whether it is to give a practical demonstration of its capacity for democratic development or to remain an object of suspicion and hostility to those, at home and abroad, who are looking to it to follow the British tradition y The danger is that if his administration is left without initiative, Northern Ireland will be made to appear that it does nothing except when forced to. The many who have placed their hopes in Capt. O’Neill badly need a re-assurance if they are not to give way to disillusionment and possibly retaliation (‘‘Acts of Parliament’’ Belfast Telegraph, 12/07/66).
Some politically active members of the Nationalist minority recognized that the Unionist-controlled Northern Ireland state was not only vulnerable to allegations of hypocrisy, but also to intervention by the British government, which retained ultimate sovereignty over Northern Ireland affairs. By creating negative publicity both within and beyond Northern Ireland’s borders, protests using highly resonant civil rights frames and nonviolent forms of contention could place significant pressure on the British government to redress minority grievances if not revisit the ‘‘Irish question.’’ Key civil rights activists had their sights focused upon producing international publicity. An organizer of the first mass civil rights march from Coalisland to Dungannon, Austin Currie (1998, p. 16), writes: ‘‘A prime objective of the proposed civil rights marches was to publicise internationally injustices to
From Civil War to Civil Rights and Back Again
17
Northern Ireland and to force the British government to intervene to redress them.’’ Regarding the formation of a coalition of civil rights groups known as the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association (NICRA) in early 1967, a member of the Young Republican Association, Fionnbarra O´Dochartaigh (1994, p. 29) states: At long last the various strands of protest would be united under one leadership in an attempt to attract a global focus and bring pressure to bear upon the British government. At least that was the intention. We believed the mere exposure of sectarian malpractices in these six northeastern counties of Ireland would prove to be a major embarrassment for ‘the mother of all parliaments,’ [Westminster] both at home and abroad.
O´Dochartaigh played an important role in organizing the second mass civil rights march, held in Derry/Londonderry on October 5, 1968. Efforts by the Unionist state to bolster its legitimacy in the aftermath of a failed rebellion unwittingly contributed to the emergence of a civil rights movement. O´Dochartaigh was by no means the only Republican to participate in the early civil rights movement. By affecting the composition of those active in the Republican movement, defeat of the IRA’s border campaign heightened receptivity to protest. Defeat brought about a rethink in Republican circles. The process of revising strategy both reflected and contributed to the increasing prominence of leftists.14 In 1962 – the same year that the IRA announced the end of its campaign – the London-based Connolly Association published a pamphlet entitled Our Plan to End Partition. The document argued for mobilizing the British public against repressive, undemocratic Stormont laws. In so doing, the British government would also be forced to address the issue of partition. Led by a Marxist, Republican intellectual, Desmond Greaves, the Association had a major influence on a number of people who become leading figures in the civil rights movement (author’s interview with Anthony Coughlan). In 1964, the Wolfe Tone Society was established. Linking communists and (other) socialist Republicans, the Society operated as a think-tank for the movement. Members of the Society previously involved in the Connolly Association advocated a campaign to dismantle sectarian privilege in Northern Ireland (Feeney, 1974). Roy Johnston envisioned a revolution in stages. Once the sectarian privileges of Unionists were eliminated and democratic reforms set in place, a united and inherently anti-imperialist working class would achieve a united Ireland. More akin to Greaves, other WTS members such as Anthony Coughlan believed that by exposing sectarian injustices, a grass-roots campaign would force the British government to consider Irish reunification (Coughlan, 1966).
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The Wolfe Tone Society put their ideas into action. In August of 1966, all WTS chapters met at a conference held in Maghera. Leading Republicans such as the IRA’s Chief of Staff, Cathal Goulding, attended (Sinn Fe´in, 1966). Those gathered decided to organize a broad-based meeting on civil liberties. Held two months later in War Memorial Building in Belfast, the conference led to the formation of the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association in early 1967 (NICRA, 1978). NICRA became the main umbrella group for the civil rights movement. It would not be entirely accurate to portray the early civil rights movement as simply ‘‘old Irish nationalism in a new bottle’’ (see Smyth & Ellison, 1998). Certainly, non-Republican groups like the Campaign for Social Justice promoted civil rights as ends in and of themselves.15 Nevertheless, it would be equally inaccurate to deny that some key promulgators also saw the civil rights movement as a vehicle for pursuing the end of partition. Based on a combination of archival and secondary sources, I have identified sponsoring organizations for 226 civil rights protests taking place primarily but not solely in Northern Ireland between 1963 and 1972.16 Even with the Republican leadership’s concerted efforts to maintain a low public profile, 9% of civil rights events for which sponsors were identified were organized primarily by Republican organizations. When including coalitions of groups that Republicans participated in such as NICRA and the Derry Citizens Action Committee (DCAC), Republicans helped to organize 78% of civil rights events. By both reducing repression and increasing institutional access, the defeat of an armed nationalist rebellion fostered conditions conducive to the emergence of a civil rights movement. Republicans were among the first to recognize the possibilities for and advantages of nonviolent protest. Civil rights mobilization, however, set in motion a series of Unionist responses that culminated in the resurgence of armed rebellion. From Civil Rights to Civil War17 An analysis of political events in Northern Ireland supports the assertion that, in the context of a society divided along ethno-nationalist lines, a double state response to a minority-based social movement contributes to the emergence of both armed rebellion and vigilantism. Stormont responded to mass civil rights mobilization with a combination of repression and policy concessions. Under orders from the Northern Ireland Minister of Home Affairs, William Craig, not to let the second mass civil rights march proceed
From Civil War to Civil Rights and Back Again
19
along its planned route to a place of major significance in Loyalist political culture, the RUC freely wielded batons and fired water cannons at civil rights demonstrators. Footage filmed by a RTE (state television for the Republic of Ireland) cameraman of peaceful protesters bludgeoned by the police rapidly circulated throughout the world’s television media, generating an outpouring of international criticism. For civil rights activists, the publicity surrounding the event underscored the efficacy of taking to the streets: Prior to the Derry march the civil rights campaign had attracted the support only of the politically conscious y But Bill Craig’s police force stamped the authenticity of NICRA as a broad movement on the heads of the people in Duke Street and on the hearts of the television public. (NICRA, 1978, p. 13)
Under pressure from the British government and a flurry of civil rights protests following October 5th, the O’Neill government responded by announcing a series of reforms on November 22, 1968. The package entailed concessions to civil rights demands regarding the electoral system, public housing allocation, and repressive legislation. While this double state response increased civil rights mobilization in the short-term, it ultimately contributed to the emergence of minority rebellion in two ways. First, reforms and repression hastened the departure of moderate elements from the civil rights movement. As repression intensified against the radicalized rump of the movement, civil rights protests turned increasingly violent. Some of those remaining active in the movement also became involved in rioting and incipient forms of rebellion such as Free Derry in the Bogside. Second, Stormont reforms triggered a violent backlash by Loyalists. Loyalist counter-mobilization, in turn, encouraged Stormont to shift toward a more exclusive response to minority insurgency. In the face of vigilantism, repression, and broken promises of reform, a large segment of the Nationalist population concluded that social justice would only come through armed struggle to end the partition of Ireland. I now review both of these affects of the double state strategy in detail. Institutionalization and Radicalization By promising an opening of the polity, the announcement of reforms created incentives for the institutionalization of Nationalist dissent. Both the DCAC and the NICRA responded to the reform package of late November 1968 by declaring moratoria on mass civil rights marches (Deutsch & Magowan, 1973).18 Two leaders of DCAC, John Hume and Ivan Cooper, outspokenly
20
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opposed the ‘‘Long March’’ organized by the New Left student group, People’s Democracy (PD), from Belfast to Derry/Londonderry in early January of 1969, fearing the violence that did in fact take place (Akenson, 1973, p. 231). As violence against civil rights demonstrators and ensuing riots escalated, moderates felt that there was little to gain and much to lose by continuing street politics. Winning seats in parliament in February of 1969, both Hume and Cooper resigned from the DCAC leadership shortly thereafter. Along with three other members of parliament active in the civil rights movement, Cooper and Hume formed the Social and Democratic Labour Party (SDLP) in August of 1970. The founders believed that the electoral arena provided the best forum for consolidating reforms and further advancing the civil rights agenda (author’s interview with Ivan Cooper). By leading to the exit of moderate elements, the state’s double strategy contributed to the increased prominence of more radical elements within the civil rights movement. While some in NICRA were wary of continuing street politics, New Left groups such as the PD, the Derry Housing Action Committee, and the Derry Labour Party advocated keeping up the pressure on Stormont to meet outstanding civil rights demands such as universal franchise in local government elections. With prominent moderates no longer participating in street politics, civil rights protesters became more vulnerable to intensive repression. In turn, as the use of force by Loyalist organizations such as the Loyal Sons of Ulster and by the Northern Ireland security forces escalated, those participating in civil rights events increasingly deviated from the previous agreement to protest nonviolently. In early January of 1969, Loyalists repeatedly attacked a civil rights march from Belfast to Derry/Londonderry organized by the PD. The attacks triggered intense rioting in Nationalist areas throughout Northern Ireland. Shortly thereafter, the Newry branch of the PD held a march to protest the attacks and the government’s failure to prosecute the offenders. According to Arthur (1974, p. 44), upon provocation by the RUC, the marchers became violent: ‘‘Seven police wagons were destroyed; eighteen people – including ten policemen – were injured; and twenty-four, most of them PD supporters, were arrested.’’ Republicans joined PD members in forcibly retaliating against repression. According to Adams (1988, p. 48) ‘‘republican stewards discarded their armbands, and turned with gusto on the RUC.’’ Consistent with these findings, a time-series regression analysis by Peroff and Hewett (1980) reports that civil rights reforms enacted between January 1968 and May 1971 were positively related to rioting in Northern Ireland.
From Civil War to Civil Rights and Back Again
21
The increased prominence of radical elements of the movement led to the further departures of voices advocating nonviolent tactics and limited goals. On March 14, 1969, four members of the NICRA’s Executive resigned in protest of PD’s growing influence and the NICRA’s decision to hold marches protesting the Public Order (Amendment) Act.19 As student enthusiasm for civil disobedience waned in the face of mounting repression, the PD was reduced primarily to its Young Socialist core. The group and its kindred spirits increasingly advocated the establishment of an all-Ireland Worker’s Republic. During an interview with the New Left Review (1969, p. 17), PD leader Michael Farrell stated: ‘‘[W]e must reject the idea of Westminster intervening to secure reform in Northern Ireland. We do not want reform of Northern Ireland, we want a revolution in Ireland and we will not get that by any Westminster intervention.’’ Events soon presented opportunities to put revolutionary ideology into practice. In August of 1969, a Loyalist commemoration march in Derry/ Londonderry resulted in clashes between the RUC and residents of a Republican area known as the Bogside. With the assistance of prominent civil rights activists such as Bernadette Devlin, residents pelted the police with stones and petrol bombs. Barricades were erected in the Bogside as well as in Republican areas in Belfast. Both Republican and New Left civil rights activists assisted residents in maintaining these ‘‘no-go’’ areas. By forcibly restricting the entry of state security forces into Nationalist areas, ‘‘Free Derry’’ and ‘‘Free Belfast’’ constituted early manifestations of minority rebellion. Koopmans (1993) study of new social movements in West Germany suggests that the combination of institutionalization and radicalization resulting from a double strategy by the state results in a relatively low levels of paramilitary violence. In the context of a society divided along ethnonationalist lines, however, counter-mobilization by the dominant ethnic group further fuelled minority rebellion. Loyalist Counter-Mobilization In his study on political repression in Northern Ireland between 1972 and 1975, White (1999) finds higher levels of repression against Republican paramilitary groups than Loyalist paramilitary groups. My research confirms this finding and additionally suggests that Loyalist mobilization against state concessions to the civil rights movement played an important part in escalating repression aimed at the Nationalist community. To many Unionists, the civil rights movement presented a serious threat to Northern Ireland’s political ties to Great Britain. Republican involvement cast an
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ominous, dark shadow over the movement. In the words of one outspoken Loyalist opponent, ‘‘the civil rights movement was seen as a Trojan horse or stalking horse for Republicanism’’ (author’s interview with Clifford Smyth). A prominent official in the Orange Order at the time and later its leader, the Reverend W. Martin Smyth, stated that: ‘‘discrimination was not the main concern of the civil rights movement. Many in the movement were Republicans’’ (author’s interview). If most Loyalists held similar views, one would expect the civil rights movement along with state concessions to its demands to generate significant counter-mobilization.20 Fig. 4 charts levels of Loyalist violence between 1963 and 1969. Violent Loyalist events include cases of arson, assaults on civil rights demonstrators and state officials, bombings, death threats, shootings, and rioting. Mass civil rights mobilization in 1968 and 1969 sparked more Loyalist violence than rumors of a Republican invasion from the South surrounding celebrations of the 50th anniversary of the Easter Rising in 1966. While civil rights protests declined in 1970, Loyalist violence continued to escalate as a Republican paramilitary offensive and the dissolving of Stormont kindled fears of the British government ending partition (Fig. 5). Loyalist counter-mobilization modified the state’s double strategy, encouraging not only delays and backtracking on promised reforms, but also sweeping repressive measures against the Nationalist minority. By 350 300
# Events
250 200
Violent Loyalist Events
150
Civil Rights Protests
100 50 0 64
66
Fig. 5.
68 Year
70
72
Loyalist Violence, 1964–1972.
From Civil War to Civil Rights and Back Again
Table 1. Year
1967 1968 1969 1970 1971 1972
23
Repression of Civil Rights Protests, 1967–1972.
Police Use Force
Reported Arrests
Reported Injuries
] Events
As % of year’s protests
] Arrests
Mean per protest for year
] Injuries
Mean per protest for year
1 7 15 2 2 10
14.3 11.9 21.4 4.2 8.3 13.2
2 92 131 9 5 47
0.29 1.56 1.87 0.38 0.21 0.87
0 103 401 0 0 103
0.00 1.75 5.73 0.00 0.00 1.94
Note: Riots after civil rights events excluded.
jeopardizing public order while providing opportunities for political gains by elites who supported them, Loyalist protest groups effectively pressured the state into responding repressively to civil rights mobilization. The threat to public order posed by promised Loyalist confrontations with civil rights marchers convinced even moderate Unionist cabinet ministers of the wisdom of first rerouting civil rights marches away from predominantly Unionist areas and then of banning such marches all together. Efforts by the police to enforce these policies resulted in the use of physical force against civil rights protesters. Moreover, Loyalist counter-mobilization against the civil rights movement and ‘‘O’Neillism’’ encouraged some politically ambitious cabinet members to take hard-line stances against the civil rights movement and any further concessions to its demands. As Loyalist counter-mobilization escalated, the state became more forceful in its response to the civil rights movement. Table 1 provides an indication of levels of repression aimed at the civil rights movement between 1967 and 1972. When compared to other years, the peak year of civil rights mobilization (1969) had disproportionate numbers of instances where police used force against demonstrators, arrests of protests, and injuries sustained during civil rights events. A post-Bloody Sunday resurgence in civil rights protests in 1972 was met with a re-intensification of repression. Escalating vigilantism and state repression encouraged a large segment of the minority to support armed rebellion to end partition. Republican Responses to Backlash In the face of both Unionist violence and Stormont’s failure to implement promised reforms, a growing number of Republicans active in the civil
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rights movement became convinced that social justice could only be obtained through an armed struggle to end partition (White, 1989). In the words of the future leader of Sinn Fe´in, Gerry Adams (1986, p. 34): The civil rights movement had been looking for democratisation of the state, but the state had made abundantly clear the fact that it would not and could not implement democratic reforms. The movement had placed its demands on the state; it had not demanded the abolition of the state, nor a United Ireland. Now, however, with the reaction of the state and the intervention of the British army, the constitutional question had come to the fore and the whole existence of the Six County state stood in question.
Escalating violence against civil rights demonstrators and Nationalist residential areas produced a deep split within the Republican movement. While the Republican leadership remained committed to promoting reunification through nonviolent efforts to democratize Stormont, many in the rank and file started to listen to militarist Republicans who had exited to the political shadows after the border campaign. Having focused upon agitating on social issues and supporting the civil rights movement, the IRA found itself unprepared for military action. In riot-torn Nationalist areas, walls bore the slogan: ‘‘IRA – I Ran Away’’ (Arthur, 1984, pp. 123–124). Residents jeered known IRA men for their failure to defend their communities. In the words of one observer, ‘‘the men who brought the guns and were able to use them would have the key to the situation in the Catholic ghettoes, and the initiative elsewhere’’ (O’Brien, 1974, p. 177). As a result of a vote of no confidence in the Army Council, the Belfast unit stayed away from the annual Irish Army Convention (Sinn Fe´in, 1979). Even in their absence, the convention split over the leadership’s proposal for elected Sinn Fe´in candidates to take seats at Stormont and Westminster. For decades, Republicans had abstained from participating in a parliament they considered illegitimate. When the motion carried, those favoring a traditional and more militarist approach promptly formed the Provisional Army Council. Repression and rebellion soon fed off one another, producing an outward spiral of violence. After 1969, Nationalist riots became as commonplace as civil rights protests. Republican paramilitary activities increased exponentially during the early 1970s (see Fig. 2). Sweeping and indiscriminate repressive measures such as a curfew exclusively and forcibly imposed in a Republican area of Belfast in July of 1970, the mass internment of suspected Republicans starting in August of 1971, and Bloody Sunday where British soldiers fatally wounded 14 civil rights protesters in late January of 1972 – all led to widespread Nationalist rioting and heightened Republican
From Civil War to Civil Rights and Back Again
25
paramilitary activity. As many Nationalists concluded that only the end of partition could bring about social justice, civil rights mobilization effectively became a subsidiary component of minority rebellion: Thriving in the atmosphere of sectarian fear and buoyant with the Stormont Government’s failure to act on the civil rights demands, the Provisionals were able to once more identify the question of civil rights with the abolition of the state. Four years after the civil rights campaign had begun the old question of pulling down Stormont once more raised its head. (NICRA, 1978, p. 30)
While inclusive Unionist responses to the defeat of rebellion contributed to the emergence of the civil rights movement, their mixed responses to civil rights mobilization paved the way for renewed minority rebellion.
CONCLUSION Caution should be exercised when making generalizations based upon one case study. Nonetheless, political contention in Northern Ireland between 1955 and 1972 provides an instance where an armed rebellion contributed to the emergence of a policy-oriented protest movement and vice versa. The literature review in the theory section makes clear that similar sequences have occurred in several different divided societies, including societies with more than two ethnic groups. Comparative research combining quantitative and historical analyses will provide a better assessment of the external validity and frequency of identified sequences of contention that link rebellion and protest together. Such research can also point out additional sequences involving political processes noted in the literature but not present in the case examined here. The findings have important theoretical and applied implications. They suggest that armed rebellions and policy-oriented protest movements taking place within the same society cannot be fully understood in isolation of one another. While the emergence of both types of contention depend significantly upon the structure of political opportunity, their trajectories and outcomes can also significantly affect structures of political opportunities facing subsequent challengers. Shifting structures of political opportunities are likely to bring about changes in stated goals and forms of collective action. Armed rebellions in decline often contribute to opportunities for policy-oriented protest movements to arise. Conversely, protest movements in decline often contribute to threats that are conducive to the emergence of armed rebellion.
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Demonstrating the sequential interconnection between rebellion and protest also highlights the interplay between structure and agency in political contention. The interactive unfolding of responses to actions taken by authorities, challengers, and their opponents engender new political conditions that, in turn, encourage the adoption of different goals and forms of contention. Just as the political context partly reflects conscious decisions made by individual political actors, these decisions cannot be fully understood without reference to their anticipated consequences within a given political context. The findings also provide support for the explanation offered for why violent ethno-nationalist mobilization has persisted at high levels over the last decade and a half despite overall declines in the number of open rebellions as well as incidences of paramilitary violence (Gurr, 2000). Ethnic states are caught between the contradictory logics of democratic legitimacy and ethnic nationalism. On the one hand, fully excluding an ethno-nationalist minority would violate the increasingly strong international norm of pluralist democracy.21 On the other, fully including the minority group in the polity could possibly lead to the establishment of a new nation-state exclusive of the identity and interests of the previously dominant ethnic group. Because of this possibility, comprehensive reform initiatives by an ethnic state often precipitate splits among power-holders and popular oppositional mobilization within the dominant group. These contradictions result in state responses to minority mobilization that encourage alternation in the goals and forms of minority contention. Anticipating these responses, strategically oriented minority insurgents alter their stated goals and tactics to maximize their mobilization potential. While the composition of active ethno-nationalist insurgents changes across political contexts, minority protests for political inclusion and social equality, on the one hand, and armed rebellions for national liberation, on the other, are better viewed as interconnected phases of nationalist mobilization rather than as distinct, unrelated types of contention. In terms of applied conflict transformation, the findings suggest that states should avoid responses to insurgents that result in a mixed POS. States committed to reaching political accommodation should rapidly implement promised concessions while avoiding sweeping, indiscriminate repressive measures that either spark rebellion anew or fuel violent countermobilization by suddenly and dramatically imposing grievances. While a mixture of concessions and repression in response to armed rebellion reduces political violence, the same double response to policy-oriented protests encourages political violence, particularly in divided societies where
From Civil War to Civil Rights and Back Again
27
states lack legitimacy. Zero-sum assumptions present formidable obstacles to the nonviolent institutionalization of dissent in divided societies. Both power-holders and insurgents must somehow demonstrate to their respective constituents that enhanced democratic legitimacy can simultaneously advance their respective nationalist agendas.
NOTES 1. Reilly (2001, p. 4) defines a divided society as ‘‘a society which is both ethnically diverse and where ethnicity is a politically salient cleavage around which interests are organized for political purposes.’’ For the purposes of this study, I define ethnicity as both the construction of collective boundaries and the production of meanings using some combination of language, religion, culture, ancestry, class, or locality. Nationalism involves the mass mobilization of a social group in the pursuit of shared political objectives. These shared objectives include either the establishment or the maintenance of a state that, in its symbols, its practices and its territorial dimensions, both reflects and represents the nation (Flynn, 2000, pp. 19–23; O’Leary & McGarry, 1993, p. 3). Combining these two terms yields ethno-nationalism. Ethno-nationalism entails the mass mobilization of an ethnic group in the pursuit of shared political objectives. Ethno-nationalist contention involves ethno-nationalism in a divided society. 2. Although Tarrow (1994, pp. 89–96) considers repression to be a static dimension, I treat it as a feature of the political system that changes over time. 3. Not all revolutionary insurgents exit contention (e.g., Ron, 2001). Insurgents who persist in using political violence in the context of an opening polity may even become targets of mass protest movements (e.g., Tejerina, 2001). 4. Consistent with the assumption of the relative rigidity of the ethnic state, Scarritt et al. (2001) find that African societies with ethnic minorities at risk experienced less democratization than those without minorities at risk. Moreover, they find that while worker-student protests were positively related to democratization, ethno-political protests were not. 5. For a similar movement trajectory in a very different political context (Colombia), see Zamosc (1989). 6. While inclusive responses to social movements may initially contribute to the formation of paramilitary organizations, adherence to a double strategy of inclusion and exclusion eventually reduced levels of support for revolutionary movements in Asia, Central America, and South America (see Bredo, 1986; Wickham-Crowley, 1989). 7. The archives searched include the American Irish Historical Society; the Political Collection at the Linen Hall Library; National Archive of the Republic of Ireland; Public Records Office (Great Britain); Public Records Office Northern Ireland; Hibernica Collection at Main Library of Queen’s University Belfast; and a collection whose curator wishes to remain anonymous. 8. The following newspapers were searched: Belfast Telegraph, Derry Journal, Irish News (Belfast), Irish Times (Dublin), Londonderry Sentinel, Newsletter (Belfast), and Times (London).
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9. Key informants prominently participated in civil rights contention either during its early stages in the immediate aftermath of the IRA Border Campaign (ca. 1962) or during the later stages of the movement with the resurgence of armed Republicanism (ca. 1972). The timing of their participation increases the likelihood that respondents will be aware of connections between civil rights protest and armed Republican insurgency. Informants were also selected because of their variations in ideology, strategy, political organizational affiliation, age, ethnicity, class, geographical location, and institutional access. Capturing and conveying these differences within the civil rights movement as well as within its organized opposition increases confidence that findings are not an artifact of a biased sample. 10. Data for deaths resulting from the IRA’s Border Campaign come from Bell (1997), Hennessey (1997), and National Graves Association (nd). Figures for deaths by Republican since 1969 come from Sutton (1994). 11. Two extra years (1973 and 1974) were added to Fig. 3 to illustrate continuing decline in civil rights mobilization. 12. The death in 1963 involved an explosion in Cork located in the Republic of Ireland (National Graves Association, nd, p. 115). 13. Northern Ireland security forces include the Royal Ulster Constabulary (full time, full-time reservists, and part-time reservists), the Ulster Special Constabulary (through April 1970), the British Army (1969 onwards), and the Ulster Defence Regiment (March 1970 onwards). Data compiled using the Digest of Statistics, Northern Ireland, Irish Information Partnership (1987), and Barzilay (1981). 14. While vocal in their opposition to the new direction, militarist Republicans faded into the background until 1969. 15. Nor can the emergence of the civil rights movement be solely attributed to the failure of rebellion. Significant technological, political, economic, and cultural changes both within Northern Ireland and beyond its borders since World War II provided resources, organizational capacities, political opportunities, collective identities, and collective action frames that encouraged the emergence of a civil rights movement and contributed to its ability to procure unprecedented reforms from a reluctant Unionist regime. 16. Civil rights events are operationalized as events where participants call for nonconstitutional, state policy changes believed to be of benefit to the Nationalist population and/or the working class as a whole. Inherently destructive events such as riots, bombings, and shootings were excluded unless the source(s) explicitly indicated that civil rights issues or specific events related to civil rights events motivated participants. Events sponsored by either Provisional Sinn Fe´in or a postsplit republican organization with undetermined affiliation were excluded. 17. The sub-section title is inspired by O’Dowd, Rolston, and Tomlinson’s (1980) book, Northern Ireland: Between Civil Rights and Civil War. 18. The NICRA subsequently extended the moratorium from April 24, 1969 to June 27, 1969. 19. The resignations reflected not only tactical disagreements but also ideological differences. These differences included whether to accept the government’s reforms and the pace of their implementation, whether Stormont should be democratized or abolished, and whether the movement should focus on justice for Nationalists or on justice for the working class, regardless of religious affiliation or territorial preference.
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20. In his autobiography, Terence O’Neill (1972, p. 111), wrote: ‘‘Any liberalminded person must admit that the Civil Rights movement brought about reforms which would otherwise have taken years to wring from a reluctant government.’’ 21. Nonetheless, as genocide in Rwanda illustrates, there are sequences where armed ethno-nationalist contention results in the complete exclusion of the ethnonationalist minority from the polity. Structurally, such sequences reflect severe imbalances of coercive and mobilization capacities between ethno-nationalist groups. Strategically, the sequences often entail provocation by an armed segment of the minority and/or manipulation by elites among the dominant group. See Maney et al. (2006, p. 192), Kuperman (2004), and Prunier (1995).
REFERENCES Adams, G. (1986). The politics of Irish freedom. Dingle: Brandon Books. Adams, G. (1988). A republican in the civil rights campaign. In: M. Farrell (Ed.), Twenty years on (pp. 39–53). Dingle: Brandon Books. Akenson, D. H. (1973). The United States and Ireland. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Almeida, P. D. (2003). Opportunity organizations and threat-induced contention: Protest waves in authoritarian settings. American Journal of Sociology, 109(2), 345–400. Arthur, P. (1974). The People’s Democracy, 1968–1973. Belfast: Blackstaff Press. Arthur, P. (1984). Government & politics of Northern Ireland (2nd ed.). London: Longman. Barker, R. (1990). Political legitimacy and the state. New York: Oxford University Press. Barzilay, D. (1981). The British army in Ulster (Vol. 4, No.1). Belfast: Century Books. Beissinger, M. R. (1998). Event analysis in transitional societies: Protest mobilization in the former Soviet Union. In: D. Rucht, R. Koopmans & F. Neidhardt (Eds), Acts of Dissent: New developments in the study of protest (pp. 284–316). Berlin: Ed. Sigma. Bell, J. B. (1997). The secret army: The IRA. New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers. Boswell, T., & Dixon, W. J. (1990). Dependency and rebellion: A cross-national analysis. American Sociological Review, 55, 540–559. Bredo, W. (1986). U.S. security: Potential of land reform policy support in the third world. Journal of Political and Military Sociology, 14, 277–290. Brown, C., & Boswell, T. (1997). Ethnic conflict and political violence: A cross-national analysis. Journal of Political and Military Sociology, 25, 111–130. Costain, A. N. (1992). Inviting women’s rebellion: A political process interpretation of the women’s movement. Baltimore, MD: The Johns Hopkins University Press. Coughlan, A. (1966). Our ideas. Tuairisc, August 31, 7–10. Currie, A. (1998). Breaching the walls of injustice. Irish News, Souvenir Supplement, October 5, 16. Deutsch, R., & Magowan, V. (1973, 1974). Northern Ireland, 1968–1973: A chronology of events (Vols. 1–3). Belfast: Blackstaff Press. Devin-McAliskey, B. (1988). A peasant in the halls of the great. In: M. Farrell (Ed.), Twenty years on. Dingle: Brandon Books. Dix, R. H. (1984). Why revolutions succeed and fail. Polity, 26, 423–446. Eisinger, P. K. (1973). The conditions of protest behavior in American cities. American Political Science Review, 67, 11–28.
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Farrell, M. (1988). Long march to freedom. In: M. Farrell (Ed.), Twenty years on (pp. 54–74). Dingle: Brandon Books. Feeney, V. E. (1974). The civil rights movement in Northern Ireland. Eire, 9, 30–40. Flynn, M. K. (2000). Ideology, mobilization and the nation: The rise of Irish, Basque, and Carlist nationalist movements in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. New York: Palgrave-Macmillan. Goldstone, J. (1998). Social movements or revolutions? On the evolution and outcomes of collective action. In: M. G. Giugni, D. McAdam & C. Tilly (Eds), From contention to democracy (pp. 125–145). Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Goodwin, J. (1997). State-centered approaches to social revolution. In: J. Foran (Ed.), Theorizing revolutions (pp. 11–37). New York: Routledge Press. Gurr, T. R. (2000). People versus states: Minorities at risk in the new century. Washington, DC: United States Institute of Peace. Hennessey, T. (1997). A history of Northern Ireland 1920–1996. Dublin: Gill & Macmillan. Irish Information Partnership (1987). Irish information – Agenda: A database of facts and information on the Northern Ireland conflict and Anglo-Irish affairs (5th ed.). London: Irish Information Partnership. Khan, A. (2003). Baloch ethnic nationalism in Pakistan: From Guerrilla War to nowhere?. Asian ethnicity, 4, 281–293. Koopmans, R. (1993). The Dynamics of protest waves: West Germany, 1965 to 1989. American Sociological Review, 58, 637–658. Kriesberg, L. (1998). Constructive conflicts: From escalation to resolution. New York: Rowman & Littlefield. Kriesi, H., Koopmans, R., Dyvendak, J. W., & Giugni, M. G. (1992). New social movements and political opportunities in Western Europe. European Journal of Political Research, 22, 219–244. Kuperman, A. J. (2004). Provoking genocide: A revised history of the Rwandan Patriotic Front. Journal of Genocide Research, 6, 61–84. Laciner, S., & Bal, I. (2004). The ideological and historical roots of the Kurdist movements in Turkey: Ethnicity, demography, and politics. Nationalism and Ethnic Politics, 10, 473–504. Lichbach, M. I. (1987). Deterrence or escalation? The puzzle of aggregate studies of repression and dissent. Journal of Conflict Resolution, 31, 266–297. Loveman, M. (1998). High-risk collective action: Defending human rights in Chile, Uruguay, and Argentina. American Journal of Sociology, 104(2), 477–525. Maguire, D. (1993). Protesters, counterprotesters, and the authorities. Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science, 528, 101–113. Maney, G. M. (2001). Transnational structures and protest: Linking theories and assessing evidence. Mobilization, 6, 83–100. Maney, G., Ibrahim, I., Higgins, G., & Herzog, H. (2006). The past’s promise: Lessons from peace processes in Northern Ireland and the Middle East. Journal of Peace Research, 43, 181–200. Mann, M. (1986). The sources of social power: A history of power from the beginning to AD 1760. New York: Cambridge University Press. Markoff, J. (1996). Waves of democracy: Social movements and political change. Thousand Oaks, CA: Pine Forge Press.
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McAdam, D. (1982). Political process and the development of Black Insurgency, 1930–1970. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. McAdam, D., Tarrow, S., & Tilly, C. (2001). Dynamics of contention. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Meyer, D. S. (2003). Political opportunity and nested institutions. Social Movement Studies, 2(1), 17–35. Meyer, D. S., & Staggenborg, S. (1996). Movements, countermovements, and the structure of political opportunity. American Journal of Sociology, 101, 1628–1660. Moaddel, M. (1993). Class, politics, and ideology in the Iranian revolution. New York: Columbia University Press. Moloney, Ed., & Pollak, A. (1986). Paisley. Swords: Poolbeg. Muller, E. N. (1985). Income inequality, regime repressiveness, and political violence. American Sociological Review, 51, 47–61. Muller, E. N., & Seligson, M. A. (1987). Inequality and insurgency. American Political Science Review, 81, 425–449. Muller, E. N., & Weede, E. (1990). Cross-national variation in political violence: A rational actor approach. Journal of Conflict Resolution, 34, 624–651. National Graves Association. (Undated). The last post: The details and stories of republican dead. Dublin: NGA. New Left Review. (May–June 1969). People’s Democracy: A discussion on strategy. New Left Review, (55). Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association (1978). We shall overcome: The history of the struggle for civil rights in Northern Ireland 1968–1978. Belfast: NICRA. O’Brien, C. C. (1974). States of Ireland (2nd ed.). London: Hutchinson. O´Dochartaigh, F. (1994). Ulster’s white Negroes: From civil rights to insurrection. San Francisco, CA: AK Press. O’Dowd, L., Rolston, B., & Tomlinson, M. (1980). Northern Ireland: Between civil rights and civil war. London: CSE Books. O’Leary, B., & McGarry, J. (1993). The politics of antagonism: Understanding northern Ireland. Atlantic Highlands, NJ: Athlone. O’Neill, T. (1972). The autobiography of Terence O’Neill. London: Rupert Hart-Davis. Osa, M. (2001). Mobilizing structures and cycles of protest: Post-Stalinist contention in Poland. 1954–1959. Mobilization, 8(1), 27–50. Peroff, K., & Hewitt, C. (1980). Rioting in Northern Ireland. Journal of Conflict Resolution, 24, 593–612. Prunier, G. (1995). The Rwanda crisis: History of a genocide. New York: Columbia University Press. Reilly, B. (2001). Democracy in divided societies: Electoral engineering for conflict management. New York: Cambridge University Press. Ron, J. (2001). Ideology in context: Explaining Sendero Luminoso’s tactical escalation. Journal of Peace Research, 38(5), 569–592. Scarritt, J. R., McMillan, S. M., & Mozaffar, S. (2001). The interaction between democracy and ethnopolitical protest and rebellion in Africa. Comparative Political Studies, 34(7), 800–827. Sinn Fe´in. (1979). Forward from 1966 – Presidential address of Tomas MacGiolla to the 61st Annual Ardfheis of Sinn Fe´in, November 27, Dublin: Sinn Fe´in.
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Sinn Fe´in. (1979). The split. Republican Lecture Series ]1. Belfast: Sinn Fe´in Education Department. Skocpol, T. (1979). States and social revolutions. New York: Cambridge University Press. Smyth, J., & Ellison, G. (1998). Social movements, identity and ethnicity: The civil rights movement in Northern Ireland. Paper presented at the World Conference of Sociology in Montreal, Canada. Sutton, M. (1994). Bear in mind these dead: An index of deaths from the conflict in Northern Ireland, 1969–1993. Belfast: Beyond the Pale Publications. Tarrow, S. (1994). Power in movement: Social movements, collective action and politics. New York: Cambridge University Press. Tejerina, B. (2001). Protest cycle, political violence and social movements in the Basque country. Nations and Nationalism, 7(1), 39–57. Tilly, C. (1978). From mobilization to revolution. Reading, MA: Addison-Wesley. Tilly, C. (2002). Violent and nonviolent trajectories in contentious politics. In: K. Worcester, S. A. Bermanzohn & M. Unger (Eds), Violence and politics: Globalization’s paradox (pp. 13–31). New York: Routledge. Toth, J. (2003). Islamism in Southern Egypt: A case study of a radical religious movement. International Journal of Middle East Studies, 35(4), 547–572. White, R. W. (1989). From peaceful protest to Guerilla war: Micromobilization of the provisional Irish Republican Army. American Journal of Sociology, 94, 1277–1302. White, R. W. (1999). Comparing the repression of pro-state vigilantes and anti-state insurgents: Northern Ireland 1972–1975. Mobilization, 4, 189–202. Wickham-Crowley, T. (1989). Winners, losers, and also-rans: Toward a comparative sociology of Latin American Guerilla movements. In: S. Eckstein (Ed.), Power and popular protest (pp. 132–181). Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Zamosc, L. (1989). Peasant struggles of the 1970s in Colombia. In: S. Eckstein (Ed.), Power and popular protest (pp. 102–131). Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Zimmerman, E. (1980). Macro-comparative research on political protest. In: T. Gurr (Ed.), Handbook of political conflict (pp. 167–237). New York: Free Press.
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APPENDIX A Persons Interviewed
Name Ivan Cooper
Anthony Coughlan
James Doherty Roy Garland
Bobby Heatley
Ann Hope
Eamonn McCann
Conn McCluskey
Organizational Affiliation and Position(s) Held, 1955–1972 Chair of the Derry Citizens Action Committee, Stormont MP, and founding member of the Social Democratic and Labour Party Secretary of the Dublin branch of the Wolfe Tone Society and writer for its bulletin Tuarisc and the United Irishman Chair of the Irish Nationalist Party and Treasurer of the Derry Citizens Action Committee Officer in the Ulster Young Unionist Council, member of the Standing Committee of the Ulster Unionist Party, and member of the Belfast County Grand Lodge and the Grand Orange Lodge of Research Executive committee member of the Connolly Association, Chair of the subcommittee of Ireland of the Movement for Colonial Freedom, and member of the Belfast chapter of the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association Member of the Belfast Chapter of the Wolfe Tone Society and Treasurer of the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association Member of numerous organizations including the Irish Workers Group, the Derry Labour Party, Derry Housing Action Committee, and the Derry Unemployed Action Committee; Editor of the Irish Militant; Executive committee member of the Northern Ireland Labour Party, and NILP representative to the Derry Citizens Defence Committee Co-founder and leader of the Campaign for Social Justice, Executive committee member of the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association
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APPENDIX A (Continued ) Name
Patricia McCluskey
Inez McCormack Kevin McCorry
Eamonn Melaugh
Fionnbarra O´Dochartaigh
Clifford Smith Rev. W. Martin Smyth
Edwina Stewart
Henry W. (Harry) West
Organizational Affiliation and Position(s) Held, 1955–1972 Co-founder and leader of the Campaign for Social Justice, Executive committee member of the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association Member of the People’s Democracy and Newtownabbey Labour Party Chair of the Trinity College Dublin Republican Club, member of the Belfast Central Citizens Defence Committee, and paid organizer for the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association Founder of the Derry Unemployed Action Committee, Secretary of the Derry Housing Action Committee, and Executive committee member of the Derry Citizens Action Committee Education Officer and Honorary Secretary of the Derry Unemployed Action Committee and the Derry Citizens Action Committee; Honorary Secretary of the Derry Housing Action Committee, the James Connolly Club, and the Young Republican Volunteer Association; Executive Treasurer of the Republican Clubs; Editor of the newsletters Reality and Spearhead Member of the Queens University Belfast Young Unionist Council Minister of Alexandra Presbyterian Church, Belfast. Deputy General Master of the County Lodge of Belfast and the Grand Orange Lodge of Ireland. Member of the Ulster Unionist Council Secretary of the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association and Executive committee member of the Communist Party of Ireland Elected to Stormont and Westminster as a Unionist MP for Enniskillen, Minister of Agriculture from 1960 to 1967 and again from 1971 to 1972
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APPENDIX B Glossary of Frequently Used Terms Loyalists – Militant Unionists. Loyalists are at the forefront of opposition to efforts among moderate Unionists to politically accommodate Nationalists. Nationalists – Persons who favor severing Northern Ireland’s constitutional link with Great Britain and political reunifying the thirty-two counties of Ireland. Mostly Roman Catholic, Nationalists form a minority of the population within Northern Ireland. Northern Ireland – Six of the thirty-two counties of Ireland constitutionally linked with Great Britain as part of the United Kingdom since the early 1920s. The other 26 counties of Ireland are known as the Republic of Ireland – declared a sovereign, independent republic in the constitution of 1937 and reaffirmed by an act of parliament in 1949. Partition – Political separation of Northern Ireland from the rest of Ireland; established under the Government of Ireland Act of 1920 and the Anglo-Irish (Irish Free State) Treaty of 1921. Provisional Sinn Fe´in/Provisional IRA – After the split of the Republican movement in late 1969, persons opposing the official Dublin-based leadership and its policies formed the political party known as Provisional Sinn Fe´in and the paramilitary organization known as the Provisional IRA. From the early 1970s onwards, the majority of Republicans have supported these organizations known now simply as Sinn Fe´in and the IRA. Republicans – Militant Nationalists. Republicans are willing to achieve a united Ireland by force of arms and without the consent of Unionists. Stormont – The devolved, Unionist-controlled, regional parliament in Northern Ireland, formed in 1921. Dissolved by the British government in March of 1972. Unionists – Persons who favor retaining Northern Ireland’s constitutional links with Great Britain. Mostly of Protestant denominations, Unionists form the majority of the population in Northern Ireland. Westminster – The parliament of the United Kingdom. Under the Government of Ireland Act of 1920, Westminster has ultimate sovereignty in the United Kingdom. As a result, Westminster could override the decisions of Stormont.
SOCIAL MOVEMENT PARTICIPATION AND THE ‘‘TIMING’’ OF INVOLVEMENT: THE CASE OF THE NORTHERN IRELAND CIVIL RIGHTS MOVEMENT Lorenzo Bosi ABSTRACT Drawing on Bert Klandermans (2004) hypothesis that instrumentality, identity, and ideology are interacting motivations, which increase the likelihood of participation in social movements, this article examines why individuals joined the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Movement (CRM) during the 1960s. Analyzing data gathered from semi-structured interviews, newspapers, autobiographies, secondary sources, government and movement organizations documents, the empirical analysis indicates that the individuals’ motivations in the process of involvement in social movement activities differ over time. The accounts of former participants generally suggest that instrumentality provided a stronger initial motivation during the very early stage of the CRM. With the development of the movement and changes of the political context, the choice to participate rested – for the mass of individuals who decided to mobilize later in Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, Volume 27, 37–61 Copyright r 2007 by Elsevier Ltd. All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-786X/doi:10.1016/S0163-786X(06)27002-2
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consequence of a ‘‘transformative event’’ – more on identity and ideology. The research underscores the importance of the ‘‘timing’’ of involvement in order to better grasp the causal justification of movement participation over time. Focusing on a deeply divided society, such as Northern Ireland, this research also broadens the comparative range of case studies in the field of collective action and enhances our understanding of how repressive measures by the establishment in relation to contentious politics in deeply divided societies mobilizes further the individual in social movement activities.
This article seeks to improve our understanding about why individuals join social movement activities. Protest participation is a complex, multifaceted, and continuous phenomenon (Hunt, 2000).1 Individuals’ efforts vary significantly across participants in relation to the intensity and type of involvement, the chosen repertoire of action within the movement, regional contexts, and the stage of development of the movement at the time of their entry. This last variable is the basis for the main argument of this article. Taking the ‘‘timing’’ of involvement firmly back into our accounts of contention can produce better causal justifications of movement participation over time. As such, I believe this article will offer an improved understanding of collective action as a dynamic and interactive process (McAdam, Tarrow, & Tilly, 2001). Bert Klandermans (2004) provides an integrated and multidimensional framework with three equally possible explanations of why people decide to become involved in social movement activities: (a) individuals may desire to change their socio-political system; (b) as socially related actors, individuals feel they belong to a group and may act in accordance when friends, colleagues, parents, and so on mobilize in movement activities; and (c) they may desire to express their own opinions, emotions, and ideological perspectives. In adopting an instrumental and longitudinal approach my intent in this article is to ‘‘assess the relative weight of all three motives in their effect on participation’’ (Klandermans, 2004, p. 362) at different stages of movement development. The qualitative analysis of this article is based on field research into the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Movement (CRM). It represents a fascinating single case study, even to those scholars of collective action who are not specialists in Northern Ireland politics, since most social movement theory
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stems from research into ‘‘stable’’ western democracies (McAdam et al., 2001). By deeply divided societies, I mean regions where regimes lack full legitimacy and are prone to widespread political violence, repressive establishments, and subcultural divisions based on socio-political cleavages that are neither closed nor pacified. The most intense period of civil rights mobilization in Northern Ireland was experienced during the autumn of 1968 (meetings, door-to-door canvassing, squatting, sit-downs, and marches), but a cycle of struggle continued up until the second half of the 1970s. In its early stages, at the beginning of the 1960s, the CRM was a ‘‘reformist’’, proactive movement claiming civil rights for the Nationalist minority by demanding rights for everyone. By October 1968, the ideology of the movement had shifted progressively to an exclusivist Nationalist stance as a result of interaction with the adverse and violent response of the Unionist establishment. This has generated the entry of a new wave of participants, mostly coming from the Nationalist community, who perceived as unjust the coercive repression of the CRM. In ‘‘stable’’ western democracies, repressive violence by the state often produces a polarization of the conflict, which is lethal to the fate of the movement. It drives people from the streets and ultimately draws collective mobilization to a close, because it is too costly and risky for most social movement participants (Olson, 1965; Oberschall, 1973; Tilly, 1978). However, in deeply divided societies and in authoritarian regimes, coercive measures may contribute to an increase in the rate of movement participation (White, 1989; Olivier, 1991; Khawaja, 1993; McAdam et al., 2001; Almeida, 2005; Davenport, Johnston, & Mueller, 2005). In societies where low legitimacy is granted by most of the citizens to authorities, or just by a strongly inter-connected part, repressive measures set free ‘‘moral outrage and suddenly imposed grievances for individual regime opponents’’ (Almeida, 2005, p. 69). In determinate societies, for example Northern Ireland, Palestine, and South Africa under the apartheid regime, where there are dense social networks embedded in anti-systemic subcultures, repression functions as a catalyst for further protest. It raises the community’s political consciousness so as to mobilize further collective action by those individuals who were not previously involved (White, 1989; Olivier, 1991; Khawaja, 1993). State violence against peaceful protesters has the power, in the view of anti-systemic groups, such as ethno-nationalist minorities, to delegitimize the regime as non-democratic (Almeida, 2005), and ultimately, to reveal its hidden malign nature so much so as to justify further protest and even violence (White, 1989).
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SOCIAL MOVEMENTS THEORIES AND MICROMOBILIZATION Until the late 1960s, scholars interested in collective action studies had, for the most, described social movements as dangerous crowds of aggregated individuals, who act spontaneously, outside institutional channels and as a result of frustrated expectations when a wide process of social and cultural breakdowns, strains, or disruptions occur in a social system (Le Bon, 1960; Turner & Killian, 1957; Smelser, 1962). Collective Behavior theorists stress that social isolation, marginalization, relative deprivation, weak personalities, and atomization of participants can facilitate individual recruitment into social movement activity. Since the late 1960s and early 1970s, a new generation of theorists, who were often involved in or just more sympathetic to the movements they saw around them, explained micromobilization as a means to pursue political goals instead of the result of symptoms of strains (Tilly, 1978). Resource mobilization theorists consider that individuals in social movements are often highly organized, relatively well-integrated within society, and mostly act in accordance with their interests (McCarthy & Zald, 1973; Oberschall, 1973; Tilly, 1978). Movement participation, for this approach, is the result of individual cost–benefit calculations, ‘‘homo economicus’’ (Olson, 1965). From the early 1980s yet another approach to social movement studies helped to bring back ideology, symbolism, identity formation, and framing processes as potential causal factors that motivate individuals to movement participation (Snow & Benford, 1988; Melucci, 1989, 1996; Gamson, 1991). Grievances and identity boundaries, as well as resources and opportunities are, for this approach, socially constructed within a collective context. Potential activists are drawn into participation by the force of their ideas and by their identity. Since the 1990s, the collective action literature has also begun to rediscover and to take into serious consideration the importance of emotions (Jasper, 1998; Goodwin, Jasper, & Polletta, 2001).
FACILITATORS OF SOCIAL MOVEMENT PARTICIPATION: INSTRUMENTALITY, IDENTITY, AND IDEOLOGY In borrowing and integrating the contributions of previous collective action research, Bert Klandermans (2004) indicates the factors that may motivate
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individual participation in protest activities: instrumentality, identity, and ideology. Each of them might motivate participation interactively, together or independently, according to the single individual and at the moment of his/her mobilization.2 Such an approach has three advantages. First, it is flexible enough to allow three different motives to influence individual behavior. Second, it helps to discern what kind of motives contribute to successful involvement in social movement activities and why they do so. Third, it has a greater explanatory value than mono-causal explanations given that one motive on its own cannot adequately explain variations in individuals’ decisions to participate both across social contexts and over time. Instrumentality Aggrieved people and those who perceive a situation of injustice and discrimination mobilize only when certain conditions are met, regardless of their level of grievance. In order to participate, people must perceive that social movement protests may improve their situation. They need to expect that the costs and risks they bear in participating are functional to achieving some collective goals (Klandermans, 1984). Individuals may interpret that the conventional channels of political participation are closed to their aims and that an unconventional repertoire of actions could be more appropriate for making their voice heard in furtherance of their cause (Tilly, 1978). In this case, they need to have favorably constructed expectations of the outcome of the movement; otherwise they may decide not to participate. Movement leaders and organizations are primary sources in raising these expectations in potential participants. Leaders need to stress that the desired goal will be reached and that through struggle and mobilization there are realistic chances of success. They need to make effective use of the mass media to recruit non-affiliated individuals; indeed favorable reports convey the image of the movement as an effective political force. Furthermore, potential participants need to be persuaded that many other people will join the movement, that they have powerful allies regionally and transnationally, and that every single participant might increase the possibility of effecting the wanted change. Movement organizations and leaders are entrepreneurs of collective (identity, solidarity, and ideology) and selective incentives (economics, power, and status) (Oberschall, 1973); they enhance individual participation by making the benefits of mobilization outweigh the costs. A participant’s sense of personal efficacy is not only constructed by leaders or organizations, but it is also generated and shaped through a process of interaction between individuals. Embeddedness in loose activist networks
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reduces the practical costs attached to participation, develops a collective self-understanding of what is socio-politically possible, and is instrumental in the circulation of information about ongoing activities. Past experience, primary socialization, and both formal and informal networks of interactions in everyday life encourage ‘‘individuals with an environment that facilitates recruitment to social movements but also because they are envelopes of meanings able to create a structure of meanings about the future commitment of individuals’’ (Passy, 2003, pp. 42–43). It is at this level that mutual solidarity emerges and the process of collective identity dynamically develops over time through a continuous process of interactions (Melucci, 1989, 1996; Hirsch, 1990). Identity Acting contentiously cannot only be explained with a view to the perceived costs and benefits; it necessitates some shared set of beliefs and also a sense of belonging. As different empirical studies have testified (McAdam, 1986; Della Porta, 1988; Laitin, 1995), a strong individual identification with a group and the presence of mutual trust increase the likelihood that she/he may take part in non-institutional tactics on behalf of that group. It is through collective agency and the construction of ‘‘we-ness’’ in submerged networks of everyday practices that movements motivate potential participants ‘‘to sacrifice self-interest in pursuit of a valued collective goal using a non-institutional tactic’’ (Hirsch, 1990, p. 252). Through a process in which people believe they are part of a collective community, socialize to a specific protest issue, and collectively define the situation as unjust, single individuals see their mobilization as reasonable and beneficial. The alignment of individual and collective identity is then necessary for participation. The provisional sense of communal solidarity, which is intertwined with the concept of collective identity, serves not only to define cognitively, morally, and emotionally the specific internal set of beliefs and shared sense of ‘‘we-ness’’, but also for the identification of ‘‘them’’ against which collective action is called. As Alberto Melucci (1996) notes, ‘‘without an identification of the adversary the protest will peter out in the occasional explosion of discontent or become reduced to a kind of marginal deviance’’ (p. 292). Ideology Individuals might also choose to participate in order to state their views and communicate their feelings. They want to express their anger in relation to
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experienced injustice (Gamson, 1991), or want to make known that they are morally outraged and disaffected with the authorities, which are held responsible for an unwanted situation. Mostly, structuralist and rationalist approaches have shown that individuals engage in collective action to enforce political change, but they have forgotten that through resistance and struggle, individuals manifest their own views, gain dignity in their lives, reject the subordination of their identities, and give grounds for pride (Klandermans, 2004; Goodwin et al., 2001). Even if the assessment of risks and rewards might deter engagement, potential participants might feel obliged to try to contribute to change the world, not participating would make them feel culpable in front of their loved ones and also in front of themselves as honorable and moral persons. For some individuals, the resources spent for a movement’s goal are like a religious commitment and a reasonable sacrifice; being aware that for their part they have shown their oppositional behavior toward the institutions and/or tried to change the unjust situation offers fulfillment. In contrast, not participating would lead to a bad conscience. Protesting in this sense becomes a goal in itself, it offers purpose and meaning to participants’ lives (Jasper, 1998). Being loyal or ideologically close to a system of values and beliefs functions as a collective incentive to motivate participation. Social movement actors work as the supply side of ideology, by inspiring the attribution of meaning for potential participants and public opinion. They are carriers of ideas, they help to define what is going on in a situation (‘‘diagnosis’’), to recognize possible strategies (‘‘prognosis’’), and to encourage individuals to mobilize (‘‘motivations for action’’) (Snow & Benford, 1988).
EMPIRICAL CASE AND DATA SOURCES The British royal assent of the Government of Ireland Act (December 1920) partitioned the island of Ireland into two political systems: an independent 26-county Irish Free State, since 1949 the Republic of Ireland; and a six-county Northern Ireland formally dependent on the United Kingdom, but with its own Parliament at Stormont in Belfast. The Northern Ireland socio-political system has been characterized from the early days, as a highly segmented and ‘‘divided regime’’ (Rose, 1971). It had two polarized political communities, which were almost completely socially and physically segregated (Rose, 1971; Feldman, 1991): the minority Nationalist (antipartitionist in political terms, mainly Catholic and roughly one-third of the population); and the majority Unionist (partitionist, mainly Protestant and
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two-third of the population). The high level of decentralization and localization in the region was ‘‘rationally’’ organized to ensure Unionist hegemony even in areas where they constituted numerical minorities (McGarry & O’Leary, 1996).3 This was done predominantly through the ‘‘endemic’’ gerrymandering practice of re-drawing the electoral boundaries and the political control of housing allocation procedures, which once again underpinned gerrymandering. Furthermore, after 1945 the local government franchise in Northern Ireland remained restricted to ratepayers, which was not the case in the rest of the UK (Whyte, 1983). This situation was exacerbated by what was viewed as excessive surveillance by the Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC) in an atmosphere of political dissent (Ellison & Martin, 2000). Most Nationalists had a perception of being treated unfairly in the economic and political structure of the region (Cameron Report, 1969), in 1968 only 13% of this community thought there was no discrimination against them (Rose, 1971).4 By the early 1960s, the highly heterogeneous CRM network started to challenge the discriminatory aspects of the region by embracing a pro-active ‘‘reformist’’ civil rights framework with a potent rhetoric. Its initial aim was not to assimilate the collective agitation with a sort of Nationalist protest, but to legitimize the movement in the political system of the region through a civil rights framework capable of creating new political space by differentiating itself from the ethno-national cleavage.5 What past studies on the CRM have missed, to a large extent, is that the movement was first of all ‘‘politics by others means’’. Activists represented a wide range of political perspectives (the ‘‘revisionist’’ constructive Nationalist reformers, the laborists, the ‘‘new look’’ republicans, and the ‘‘new’’ leftists) (Purdie, 1990), all opposed the Northern Ireland political system and its sectarian dimensions, in particular the hegemonic structure of the Unionist establishment, but initially they also strongly criticized the Nationalist Party’s self-defeating ‘‘abstentionist’’ tactics (Irish Times, May 16, 1964). By 1968, the apathy and inadequate responses of the Northern Ireland establishment to the CRM’s demands on electoral, housing, employment, and policing reforms, together with the favorable international framework of contention of the late 1960s, moved the movement into the streets and to a radical change of its tactics (NICRA, 1978). The CRM’s leaders decided at this point to challenge the sectarianism and the political immobilism of the region in a symbolical way through marching in both Unionist and Nationalist areas (Currie, 2004). In this way they intentionally obliged the authorities to get involved in defending the marches, or openly supporting sectarianism in front of the new mass media and
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consequently undermining Unionist hegemonic control at a local and international level (McCann, 1974). Despite the fact that marches and demonstrations are considered to be conventional forms of action in ‘‘stable’’ western democracies, in Northern Ireland the CRM’s plan to march and demonstrate in both Unionist and Nationalist areas, to symbolize its antisectarian intent and in order to meet the media criteria of ‘‘newsworthiness’’ was perceived as territorial and confrontational and it was this which led to the State acting in the repressive way it did (Cameron Report, 1969).6 Most of the reluctance on the part of the Unionist establishment to integrate the demands for reform of the socio-political system, and its coercive overreaction together with a violent Loyalist countermovement to the CRM mobilization,7 resulted in a new generation of CRM protesters who lacked confidence in the institutions. This led in 1969 to a further radicalization of the repertoire of action and to a strong sense of communal conflict in the political system of the region. Once the Northern Ireland cycle of violence was set free, it reinforced communitarian polarization and segregation in the region, intensifying the grievances of the Nationalist community against the hegemonic and repressive state (O´ Dochartaigh, 1997). The CRM, initially an instrumental type of movement, progressively became more identity-based in the new interactive patterns of the region (Bosi, 2006). My study involves a methodologically pluralist approach: discourse analysis of interview data; content analysis of historical records (newspapers,8 government documents, autobiographies, and documents from movement organizations); and secondary source consultation. This ‘triangulation’ technique complements and remedies the weaknesses of these sources (validity and reliability problems) (Blee & Taylor, 2002), permits a better reconstruction of individual definitions of past participation, and allows to afford longitudinal analysis of social movements development. The 27 interviews were open-ended and semi-structured, lasting from 45 min to 2 h.9 I attempted to locate persons who were prominent in the historical records of the movement. At the end of each interview I asked for further names of former CRM participants who might be willing to answer my questions. The snowball effect was then fundamental to the sampling process. Despite attempts to the contrary, because this is historical research into events that happened more than 35 years ago, there is a generational overrepresentation in my representative sample in favor of the young activists of the time. I have tried to fill this gap through the use of archival, newspaper, and biographical material. Based on the experience of previous interviews and my progress in the research, I reshaped the interview guide, introducing different questions and topics. These consist of discussions
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regarding former activists’ previous experience in political participation, the reasons that persuaded the interviewees to mobilize, the events surrounding their mobilization, the costs and benefits of being involved in social movement, and the personal consequences faced by the interviewees. During the interviewing process, scholars can gain an insight into former activists’ individual and collective visions of the world and of their collective identities, their perception of the costs and benefits of participation, and the symbolic and emotional dimensions of involvement (Della Porta, 1992; Blee & Taylor, 2002). Indeed, the semi-structured interviews that I have collected were a means to reconstruct participants’ micromobilization dynamics, rather than recall a possible objective truth about some particular event. In order to understand further the participants’ subjectivity and to analyze the structure of meaning, I used other sources such as personal memoirs and autobiographies of former CRM activists (Devlin, 1969, 1993; McCann, 1974; Farrell, 1988; McCluskey, 1989; O´ Dochartaigh, 1994; Currie, 2004; Johnston, 2006). They have also been useful as a further check in measuring the validity and reliability of the semi-structured interviews, which can possibly raise the problem of retrospective bias.10 I have also drawn on archival investigation and I have found valuable documentation on the CRM at the Special Political Collection of the Linen Hall Library in Belfast, the Public Records Office of Northern Ireland (PRONI), the Hibernica Collection at Main Library of Queen’s University Belfast, the Conflict Archive on the Internet (CAIN) Web Service (http://cain.ulst.ac.uk/), and the Museum of Free Derry Web Service (http://www.museumoffreederry.org/).
FORMER CRM PARTICIPANTS’ VIEWS AS TO WHY THEY BECAME INVOLVED Since the Second World War, Northern Ireland has undergone a period of broad economic and social change. Like every Western country, it was influenced by Keynes’s theories on state intervention in the economy through British welfare reforms (McGarry & O’Leary, 1996). From the late 1950s and early 1960s, the interaction between regional social changes, the initial crumbling of the ethno-national cleavage and the important rise of conjunctural opportunities opened the possibility for an expansion of access and improvement in the resources available for collective action mobilization in the region.11 Pre-existing and emergent social networks saw in the Northern Ireland and international environment of the mid-1960s, the possibility of resolving grievances at reasonable costs. For these actors, the subjective
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evaluation of risks and benefits seemed favorable to a movement protest and activism was an expression of this willingness to take risks. Edwina Stewart, a militant of the Communist Party of Northern Ireland (CPNI) at the time, recalls: ‘‘actually, in the 1960s as an activist of the CPNI, I began to see the growing of the Civil Rights Movement as the way forward to bring change in our society at affordable costs. For this reason I decided to actively be involved’’ (author’s interview). In the mid-1960s, confidence in a new sociopolitical departure was up both regionally and internationally. CRM leaders drew inspiration from televised accounts of the wider global movement of the 1960s: the Black civil rights campaign in the USA, the Prague Spring in Czechoslovakia, the anti-Vietnam war campaign and the students’ movements all around the world (Farrell, 1988; Currie, 2004). It was in this broader context of radical-alternative ideas and environmental uncertainty that the CRM network saw the opportunity to adjust the regional political system by calling for: one man, one vote in local government elections; an end to gerrymandering; fair allocation of houses and jobs; the repeal of the Special Power Act and the disbandment of the B-Specials (NICRA, 1978).12 Monica McWilliams, at the time a young student from County Londonderry, remembers what facilitated her involvement in these terms: I mobilized for change in the country and to help to bring it about, I wanted a nonviolent movement to be involved in it. And also I had a great and strong identification with the Black Civil Rights Movement in America. And so it seemed to me, from my politics of the time that it was a radical movement that was raising right issues and that would be successful, I had absolutely no expectation that it would be anything other than successful. (Author’s interview)
What the interviewees overwhelmingly recall of those early days is the perception of the righteousness of the social movement and the belief of an inevitable victory. The hope for change in the political system of the region during the 1960s and the trust and confidence in the CRM network influenced many individuals to realize that change would not come through routine political processes, but only from a strong degree of commitment to collective action protest (author’s interview with Fred Heatley). Participating in the CRM’s activities was then interpreted mostly as a means to pursue political goals; it was mainly an instrumental action fulfilled by a sense of personal efficacy (Klandermans, 2004). Former CRM activists have assumed their generation as capable of particular ‘‘history making’’ potency at a regional and international level (McCann, 1974; Farrell, 1988; O´ Dochartaigh, 1994).13 Tony Kennedy, at the time a student at Queen’s University of Belfast, describes in these terms the fervor of his community of friends in the mid-1960s: ‘‘we were influenced by the belief of that time, that
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if you were young enough and enthusiastic enough, you can change the world’’ (author’s interview). Most of the former participants whom I have interviewed consider their full interest in socio-political activities as an explanation of their later mobilization in the 1960s. John Gray and Joe Mulheron respectively recall: ‘‘I have always considered myself as a political animal’’ (author’s interview), ‘‘I would define myself as a political actor’’ (author’s interview). The role of previous political participation is a theme that runs intensely through my interviews. For example, Tony Kennedy recalls his decision to join the CRM in these terms: ‘‘I joined the Northern Ireland Labour Party when I was sixteen and then I joined the Young Socialists. I came from a non-sectarian background and from a left-wing analysis of what was happening in our society, the Civil Rights Movement was an obvious place where I would fit in, in what I believed’’ (author’s interview). For the most part, only previous politically committed activists participated at this stage of the CRM cycle of protest. Almost without exception, former participants stress in their accounts that they perceived the CRM as the most appropriate political actor capable of translating their political identity and ideals about social justice into a strong degree of involvement in social activity. The decision to participate was rarely taken in isolation, but jointly with others. It has developed in pre-existing networks of political affiliations. Feelings of identification to a group and processes of prior political socialization increased the possibilities of individual participation, even for the non-aggrieved, because of the loyalty base and of the communication links. The CRM activists were, in fact, often introduced to the movement by face-to-face interactions such as relatives, close friends, neighbors, patron–client relationships, and fellow members. Previous networks worked as ‘‘recruitment contexts’’.14 So, for example, Slan Fergus O’Hare, a Dublin undergraduate from West Belfast at the time, stresses how his relational connections were influential in him becoming involved in social protest: I got involved in the Civil Rights Movement when I was at college in Dublin. The Civil Rights Movement started in 1968–1969. I attended many of the demonstrations. I would come with some students from University College Dublin. I also knew quite a number of people who were active already in the movement; my younger sisters were actually more involved than I was, and my cousins as well. So that is how I started, through attendance at demonstrations and through the involvement of people that I knew. (Author’s interview)
The keys to the logic of those who decided to become involved at the early stages of the CRM that emerge from the empirical analysis are the assertion of dissatisfaction with the socio-political system of the time, the belief that
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the situation could have been changed at affordable costs through contentious protest and political activism. If for some participants becoming involved in social protest is the result of a process of socialization, which they have experienced in pre-existing sociopolitical networks, for others it might be a matter of conversion related to particular ‘‘transformative events’’ (McAdam & Sewell, 2001; Hess & Martin, 2006). Fundamental and catalytic events can help to set in motion the important processes of deep collective understanding and acknowledgment. The incidents which occurred at the second civil rights march on October 5, 1968 in Londonderry, or Derry as it is known to Nationalists, served as the immediate catalyst for the mass mobilization, a ‘‘decisive turning point’’ in Northern Ireland history (Devlin, 1993, p. 89) as well as a change in the trajectory of the CRM development. On October 3, 1968, William Craig (Minister for Home Affairs) banned the Londonderry CRM march under the Special Power Act, as well as two other marches convened by Loyalist organizations for the same day. Londonderry militants declared their intention to defy the ban (Belfast Telegraph, ‘‘Derry parade ban ‘will be defied’’’, September 4, 1968), as shortly after most part of the CRM did. Conn McCluskey (1989), one of the moderate leaders of the movement, recalls: ‘‘Mr Craig’s ban on the march changed the whole situation because it brought into the civil rights movement, opposition Stormont MPs, Queen’s University students, and a large number of Catholics who up till then had been tepid about civil rights’’ (p. 111). Leading the demonstration that day were Ivan Cooper, Eddie McAteer, Kevin Agnew, Paddy Devlin, Austin Currie, Gerry Fitt, and three Westminster Labour MPs. As with the first march from Coalisland to Dungannon, no Nationalist or Republican banners were displayed; at the head of the parade there was a blue banner on which was written: ‘‘Civil Rights March’’. The participants’ slogans, which revealed the socio-political character of their protest, were, as usual, simple and direct: ‘‘One man, one vote’’, ‘‘Free speech’’, ‘‘Class not Creed’’, ‘‘Class war, not Creed war’’, ‘‘The Proper Place for Politics is in the Streets’’, ‘‘Police State Here’’, ‘‘British rights for British citizens’’, ‘‘One family, One house’’, and ‘‘One man, One job’’. Niall O´ Dochartaigh (1997), in his account on the October 5th march, writes: as the crowd and the RUC [Royal Ulster Constabulary, the Northern Ireland police] came into confrontation in Duke Street, there was a ragged but violent RUC baton charge. Placards and then stones were thrown by some marchers as the RUC ‘punched, batoned and pursued civil rights demonstrators in a brutal and sickening display y of concerted violence’ (Derry Journal, 8/10/1968). Dozens of marchers had to be hospitalized and hundreds more were terrified and horrified by the police action. (p. 20)
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What really happened on October 5th is still today a matter of controversy in the literature on the CRM, but what is in no doubt is that press and television reports showed some very damaging pictures of police ‘brutality’; images which later led to public outrage and the mobilization and radicalization of many regionally (Cameron Report, 1969) and internationally (Maney, 2000).15 As Denis Haughey, a young activist of the CRM at the time, remembers the mass media reports of those events served as an indirect channel of diffusion by giving political attention to the CRM’s agenda: The fact that when agitation started, it could be seen on television, you can actually see the demonstrations and the reactions of the police, and particularly the October 5 march in Derry when an enterprising RTE [Radio Telefı`s Eireann] cameramen captured moments of brutality, when the police batoned and brutalized peaceful unarmed civil rights demonstrators that galvanized public opinion in Northern Ireland on the Nationalist side, but also in Southern Ireland and also created a reaction in Great Britain and because those television pictures were carried in many other parts of the world the British government became concerned and embarrassed by all that. (Author’s interview)
What respondents express today about those unpleasant incidents are the alterations of emotions such as excitement and moral shock, idyllic moments, and shame. Ivan Cooper, at the time a leader of the Derry Citizens Action Committee, remembers: The 5 October is so vivid in my memory, which I will never forget. On the 6 October people were gathering in the centre of Derry, this never happened before, gathering on the streets; and I remember two priests coming up out of the Bogside, and they came to this crowd and they said: (claps his hands repeating the priests’ gesture) ‘‘mass benediction is in the church at six o’clock, get away to the church’’ (claps his hands again repeating the priests’ gesture) these people said ‘‘go away and fuck yourself father!’’, in other words a flame had been lit that was not going to be spent for some time. (Author’s interview)
Former participants consistently claim that anger and feelings of moral indignation were suddenly aroused. It was, in fact, in the course of these events that the CRM network expanded both numerically and visibly. The state repression was not as brutal and diffused as to suppress mobilization (Goldstone & Tilly, 2001) because of international constraints, among other factors; however, it was repressive enough to trigger popular anger and moral outrage. For Michael Farrell (1988), a radical leader of the CRM, October 5th sparked off ‘‘an explosion of energy, enthusiasm and vitality’’ (p. 56). It produced a process of emotional investments which enabled many more individuals to recognize themselves in the causes of the movement by blaming the Northern Ireland police for unjustified repression (Ellison & Martin, 2000). The majority dormant Nationalist community, with its sense of ethnic exclusion and its anti-system identity, recognized itself
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immediately through a process of identification with the CRM activists repressed by the police on the Londonderry march (Cameron Report, 1969). Fionnabarra O´ Dochartaigh, at the time a radical member of the CRM, recalls: If the State had ignored us, the Civil Rights Movement would have died in three or five months. The Unionists over-reacted, I was the happiest man in the world, things would have never been the same again, they killed the apathy inside the Nationalist community. We got a mass movement almost overnight. (Author’s interview)
October 5th and the management of backfire by the Northern Ireland authorities had the power of delegitimizing the political institutions of the region within the broad Nationalist community, as non-democratic (Cameron Report, 1969). The Northern Ireland establishment dealt with the CRM in the same way they had done for more than 40 years with previous opposition movements. For the Unionist establishment nothing had changed: the Nationalist community was perceived as disloyal and interested in overthrowing the State to create a united Ireland and their marches seen as pure acts of provocation. Retrospective reporting of my respondents describe the aftermath of the Londonderry march as the end of innocence for many of them. Slan Fergus O’Hare recounts the plight of most of the individuals who decided to become involved in the aftermath of those events as follows: When the Civil Rights Movement mobilized people at the start, they did it by educating and by propaganda work. This succeeded up to a point, but what really caused a mass mobilization was the reaction of the State to that mobilization. I remember that I was totally astounded when we were batoned by the police. I was amazed to see people batoned on television and then amazed to experience it myself. When we asked for, what we thought were absolutely normal rights, inalienable rights, we were met by force. So we started to ask ourselves why this was happening and we began to realize that we had touched on something that was bigger than what we had thought at the start y Arguably the movement grew as much as a result of the repression against the movement by the State as by what we were doing as activists. (Author’s interview)
As Paul Almeida (2005) writes in relation to social movement activism in authoritarian political environments ‘‘coercive state behavior breaks public convictions about expected state – civil society relations – especially when the repressive acts are way out of proportion to the types of demands and claims protesters pursue’’ (p. 69). The CRM at this stage drew deeply on emotions such as confidence and faith in the community, family ties, and heavy moral injustice against the Unionist establishment. A strong sense of community encouraged potential participants to mobilize in the CRM network (Cameron Report, 1969).
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Paradoxically the regional policy of segregation made available selfcontained Nationalist neighborhoods, where dense interpersonal network structures of everyday social life were fundamental cultural resources in mobilizing new individuals in the activities of the CRM. They enabled potential Nationalist participants to translate their traditional anti-systemic political consciousness into collective action and offered moral support and encouragement in the process of individuals’ choice to participate. Contentious participation and antagonistic activities became peculiar to a community, which, in the main, traditionally did not condemn movement protest and illegal activities.16 In the words of Paul Arthur, a postgraduate at Queen’s University at the time: In Northern Ireland there never has been a tradition of non-violence; it was not natural to go out into the streets and allow yourself to be battered. For the Catholic community there was also a history of resistance against the state, violent resistance against the state. Most Catholics mobilized and turned progressively towards much more militant means as a result of the police and Loyalist violence. (Author’s interview)
Nationalist neighborhoods served as sites for identity construction and consciousness-raising, they became a space particularly favorable for collective action and for testing social relations and mutual trust (Feldman, 1991). Moreover, most of my respondents had personal connections through their relatives with past contentious events in the region. The familiar socio-political background was an important factor in stimulating potential participants to join the CRM protest, providing an environment in which certain ideas and values were able to prosper. Bernadette Devlin, later one of the leaders of the CRM, is an example: I was going about my life and the Civil Rights buses came, and push! I got on. But not as simple as that. My family background was very influential without me consciously knowing it at that time. My father was a trade union activist and he died when I was about nine, but my view on life has been very much shaped by him, my family’s social and economic position was very much reduced by my father’s death. So although I was a university student, my personal background was very strong workingclass Irish Republican. From my father I had personal experience of disadvantage and torture. y I was at the university unconsciously aware of all the inequality and injustices that were verbalized and articulated by NICRA. And so it made sense to me when someone verbalized and articulated these that I said yeah! That’s right, that’s where I need to be. I figured that out afterwards. But at the time, I did so because I was there. (Author’s interview)
The anti-sectarian inclusivist collective identity of the CRM’s first stage was now gradually replaced by an exclusivist Nationalist identity. The unique movement’s adversary became the Unionist establishment, the key issues
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passed progressively from civil rights reforms to the overthrow of the State and the subsequent unification of Ireland. As Gerry Adams (1988), today Sinn Fe´in President, remembers, in one of his recollections of that period: ‘‘the struggle for civil rights was developing into a struggle for national rights’’ (p. 48). The progressive changes in the collective identity of the CRM generated the mobilization of the most parts of the Nationalist community which had a feeling of absolute ‘‘injustice’’ and moral shock regarding the behavior of state security forces (Farrell, 1988; O´ Dochartaigh, 1994). A new wave of militants, who were framing ongoing events as ethnically motivated, joined in the CRM at this stage with the intent to fight back against the regional establishment coercive measures, to reject the perceived subordination of the Nationalist community and to retaliate and grow out of its perceived status of marginalized second-class citizens (McCann, 1974). Joe Mulheron, a young radical militant of the CRM from West Belfast, recalls: ‘‘the Civil Rights Movement helped to bring about the beginning of the end of the old system. Unionists lost their position in losing the control of the situation. We would never come back, never be second-class citizens again’’ (author’s interview). The movement developed a ‘‘defensive’’ response to a repressive state. Through the act of mobilizing and defending their communities, activists were asserting dignity, honor, instilling pride, and fostering an overwhelming sense of empowerment. Moreover, their socially and economically subordinate position increased their predisposition for disruptive protest and use of violence. Defensive resistance progressively became the main preoccupation of the movement, not only as a method to protect Nationalist neighborhoods from violent Loyalist attacks, but also in order to create and reinforce more solid patterns of solidarity and mutual support within these areas (Scarman Report, 1972). The aim was to indirectly increase activists’ commitment to the social movement network at a stage in which the reluctance to risk physical injury and social condemnation were possible reasons for disengagement.17 The CRM escalated its demands at this stage with the elaboration of an antipartitionist rhetoric and adopted a more militant repertoire of action where political violence for defensive reasons was not excluded.
CONCLUSION This analysis suggests that using Klandermans (2004) approach we can make further progress toward understanding the variation that occur over time with regard to individuals’ decision to participate in social movement
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activities. This is a topic that has gone largely unexamined in the study of movement participation and which has tended to be mostly ahistorical in the sense that it did not take into account the development of collective action. Social movements are not stable or fixed phenomena, nor historical personages acting on a stage. They are dynamic sustained social constructions which change interactively over time (McAdam et al., 2001). They are shaped by the dynamic processes of state–movement interaction and also by the entry of new waves of militants which interaction generates. We cannot understand the correct causal justifications of movement participation over time unless we bring back the dimension of time to our studies of collective action. This would also help to a better grasp of the motivational factors that facilitate individual involvement in collective action. What emerges from the results of this empirical analysis on the Northern Ireland CRM during the 1960s is that the individual motivations to join collective action protest are very much related with the stage of the movement development and the political context in which the individuals operate. More specifically, the accounts of former CRM participants generally suggest that instrumentality provided a much more important initial motivation during the very early emergent stage of the collective mobilization. As the movement developed, the choice to participate rested, for the mass of individuals who decided to mobilize later, more on identity and ideology. Most of those participants, who mobilized during the CRM emergence, in the period before autumn 1968, were involved in previous political activities that encouraged identification with social justice in the region and shaped a feeling of collective effectiveness. What reinforced the CRM network at its earliest stage was the belief that changes and reforms were underway; they became convinced that through collective action and participation they could change the world and specifically the regional system. Retrospective reporting of many of my respondents has described the euphoria, the collective effervescence and the hope of those days in their accounts of past participation. Civil rights activists took a risk in demonstrating against the regional establishment in 1968, because they believed the prospect of success, regionally and internationally, was better than what they had so far seen in their lifetimes. A process of polarization and further radicalization followed October 5th, providing a catalyst for public action. CRM activists seized the moment to call for further political reforms in the region. Individual participation progressively became, in the aftermath of October 5th’s events, a way of affirming and developing existing identity loyalties and ideological perspectives; it was a struggle for recognition. The establishment repression generated a ‘‘transformative event’’ that changed the trajectory of
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the CRM and the motivations of why individuals joined its activities. In Northern Ireland between late 1968 and 1969, the majority of those inside the Nationalist community who were initially reluctant to become involved in protest activities massively resorted to contentious participation because establishment repression was felt to be unjust and they closely identified with the victims. The state reaction to the CRM’s first mobilization was deemed unreasonable by the entire Nationalist community. Protest activity turned out to be an expression of anger in response to experienced injustices and perceived long-standing patterns of political and economic exclusion. In becoming involved in social movement protest, new activists were not only fighting for a substantial change in the regional political system, but also to refuse their perceived subordination status and to build honor and assert their dignity. This qualitative research is investigative and does not have general application. However, I would argue that the indications from my case study are significant enough to merit future research, and comparisons, but not exclusively with other ethno-national divided societies.
NOTES 1. Modes of movement participation span a wide spectrum of activities. They may include: taking part in a meeting, petitioning, attending a mass demonstration, canvassing, occupying a building, contributing money, rioting, being a member of an underground organization, to mention only a few. For each kind of activity the perceived costs and benefits may differ significantly. On different individual levels of participation intensity, see Passy and Giugni (2001). 2. Klandermans (2004) sustains that instrumentality, identity, and ideology may also be fundamental in sustaining persistence and the enhancement of existing participation across time as well as in disengagement dynamics from participation. 3. I retain John Whyte’s (1983) judgment on the discrimination’s issue as probably the most accurate argumentation: ‘‘the picture is neither black nor white but a shade of grey y [But in the west of the province] the grayness of the picture y changes to an ominous darkness’’ (p. 31). 4. 1291 Northern Ireland citizens were interviewed between March and August 1968, prior to the outbreak of the civil rights demonstrations, through a multi-stage stratified random sample for a public opinion survey conducted by Professor Richard Rose (1971). 5. See for example the first pamphlet from the Campaign for Social Justice: ‘Northern Ireland – the Plain Truth’, published on February 5, 1964. It highlighted discrimination in employment, housing, and electoral practice in Londonderry, Enniskillen, Lurgan, and Dungannon. 6. Worldwide ‘‘social life is organized in spatial routines’’ (Sewell, 2001, p. 62), in Northern Ireland this is particularly true and important because of the physical segregation of the region (ethnic and class), streets in fact are culturally and
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over-symbolically ‘‘sacralized’’ as particular kinds of places. In marching through Unionist and Nationalist areas the CRM network ‘‘desacralized’’ and ‘‘resacralized’’ public spaces in the region (Feldman, 1991). 7. In Ulster Loyalist political culture any movement supporting reforms for the region is a cover plan for the pursuit of the traditional Nationalist objective, the reunification of Ireland and for this motive has to be opposed with any means. 8. The following newspapers and magazines were searched: Belfast Telegraph, Derry Journal, Irish News, Irish Times, Newsletter, Fortnight, and Sunday Times. 9. With six exceptions (three of them were done by e-mail) all the interviews were tape-recorded and transcribed. I have made just a few ‘grammatical’ corrections to the quotations. Each interviewee has been contacted in order to confirm the accuracy of the quotation and they have explicitly asked that their real names be used in this and future reports. 10. The methodologically pluralist approach that I undertake in this research has sufficiently indicated that I can trust this data. For an extensive discussion of reliability and validity in oral sources, see Della Porta (1992). 11. The conjunctural conditions which facilitated CRM’s mobilization were: the changing nature of Anglo-Irish relations propitiated by the Sean Lemass ‘watershed’ in the Republic of Ireland, the Cold War ‘thaw’ process, the politicization of world political protest through the new mass and international media, the success of the Black Civil Rights Movement in the USA, the election of the Labour government in 1964 and student mobilization in the late 1960s (McGarry & O’Leary, 1996). 12. The Special Power Act (or Civic Authorities Act), of 1922, authorized the Minister of Home Affairs, in states of emergencies, to order indefinite arrests and internment without an imminent charge or trial, to command searching in private properties without a warrant, to issue curfews, to ban organizations, and to prohibit meetings and processions (Whyte, 1983). The B-Specials were part-time police officers without uniform but armed, they were overwhelmingly all coming from the Unionist community (Hunt Committee, 1969; Ellison & Martin, 2000). 13. The ‘‘history making’’ potency and the need to be part of history are factors which have not yet received enough attention from social movement scholars. Instead, I have found in my interviews with former participants that the need to be part of something, the need to say that they were there, no matter the consequences, were fundamental factors in instigating people to participate. Even those who later regretted their past involvement were honored and proud to have been part of those historical events and to have ‘changed’ the course of history. 14. A large part of material sustaining to what degree the CRM participants were involved in prior socio-political activism was discovered at the Linen Hall Library’s archive and at the PRONI. 15. As McAdam and Sewell (2001) remember us ‘‘it is not the event itself, but the importance that comes to be assigned to it in the immediate aftermath of the event that determines its transformative potential y [we should then] systematically study the process by which different communities make sense of them in the wake of the occurrence’’ (p. 112). 16. During the spring of 1968, only the 43% of the Nationalist community was unequivocally against the use of illegal demonstrations versus the regional regime
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(Rose, 1971, pp. 193–195). This percentage plummeted to 26% in the month after the Londonderry march (Sunday Times, October 1968). 17. While I have tried to analyze motives for people participation separately, they often combine in complicated ways. In fact, where some quotations are rightly positioned, others could have been repeated in these paragraphs several times because of the multiplicity of participants’ reasons for involvement.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT This article was originally presented as a paper at the Irish Political Studies Association conference organized by the Queen’s University of Belfast, October 2005. I wish to thank the anonymous reviewers and especially Patrick Coy for their very helpful comments on previous drafts of this article. I want to also express my gratitude to the former participants of the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Movement for consenting to be interviewed, giving their time, energy, and patience. Nobody is in any way responsible for my interpretations. Donna Lucas and Stephan Price have courteously helped with the language.
REFERENCES Adams, G. (1988). A Republican in the Civil Rights Campaign. In: M. Farrell (Ed.), Twenty years on (pp. 39–53). Brandon: Co. Kerry Dingle. Almeida, P. (2005). Multi-sectoral coalitions and popular movement participation. Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, 26, 65–99. Blee, K., & Taylor, V. (2002). Semi-structured interviewing in social movement research. In: B. Klandermans & S. Staggenborg (Eds), Methods of social movement research (pp. 92–117). Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Bosi, L. (2006). The dynamics of social movement development: The Northern Ireland’s Civil Rights Movement in the 1960s. Mobilization, 11(1), 41–60. Cameron Report. (1969). Disturbances in Northern Ireland. Belfast: Cmd 532, HMSO. Currie, A. (2004). All hell will break loose. Dublin: O’Brien Press. Davenport, C., Johnston, H., & Mueller, C. (2005). Repression and mobilization. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Della Porta, D. (1988). Recruitment processes in Clandestine political organizations: Italian Left-Wing Terrorism. In: B. Klandermans, H. Kriesi, & S. Tarrow, (Eds), From structure to action (pp., 155–172). Greenwich, CT: JAI Press. Della Porta, D. (1992). Biographies of social movement activists: State of the art and methodological problems. In: M. Diani & R. Eyerman (Eds), Studying collective action (pp. 168–197). London: Sage. Devlin, B. (1969). The price of my soul. London: Pan Books. Devlin, P. (1993). Straight left: An autobiography. Belfast: Blackstaff.
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Ellison, G., & Martin, G. (2000). Policing, collective action and social movement theory: The case of the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Campaign. British Journal of Sociology, 51, 681–699. Farrell, M. (1988). Twenty years on. Brandon: Co. Kerry Dingle. Feldman, A. (1991). Formations of violence: The narrative of the body and political terror in Northern Ireland. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Gamson, W. (1991). The social psychology of collective action. In: A. Morris & C. Mueller (Eds), Frontiers in social movement theory (pp. 53–76). New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Goldstone, J., & Tilly, C. (2001). Threat (and opportunity): Popular action and state response in the dynamic of contentious action. In: R. Aminzade, J. Goldstone, D. McAdam, E. Perry, W. Sewell, S. Tarrow, & C. Tilly (Eds), Silence and voice in the study of contentious politics (pp. 179–194). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Goodwin, J., Jasper, J., & Polletta, F. (2001). Passionate politics. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Hess, D., & Martin, B. (2006). Repression, backfire, and the theory of transformative events. Mobilization, 11(2), 249–267. Hirsch, E. (1990). Sacrifice for the cause: The impact of group processes on recruitment and commitment in protest movement. American Sociological Review, 55, 243–254. Hunt Committee. (1969). Report of the Advisory Committee on Police in Northern Ireland. Belfast: Cmd 535, HMSO. Hunt, S. (2000). Social psychology and narrative concepts: Explaining individual movement participation. Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, 12, 255–290. Jasper, J. (1998). The emotion of protest: Affective and reactive emotions in and around social movements. Sociological Forum, 13(3), 397–424. Johnston, R. (2006). Century of endeavour. Dublin: The Lilliput Press. Khawaja, M. (1993). Repression and popular collective action: Evidence from the West Bank. Sociological Forum, 8(1), 47–71. Klandermans, B. (1984). Mobilization and participation: Social political expansions of resource mobilization theory. American Sociological Review, 49, 583–600. Klandermans, B. (2004). The demand and supply of participation: Social-psychological correlates of participation in social movements. In: D. Snow, S. Soule, & H. Kriesi (Eds), The Blackwell companion to social movements (pp. 360–379). Oxford: Blackwell Publishing. Laitin, D. D. (1995). National revivals and violence. Archives Europeenes de Sociologie, 36, 3–43. Le Bon, G. (1960). The crowd: A study of popular mind. New York: The Viking Press [first published in 1895]. Maney, G. (2000). Transnational mobilization and civil rights in Northern Ireland. Social Problems, 47(2), 153–179. McAdam, D. (1986). Recruitment to high risk activism: The case of freedom summer. American Journal of Sociology, 92(1), 64–90. McAdam, D., & Sewell, W. (2001). It’s about temporality: In the study of social movements and revolutions. In: R. Aminzade, J. Goldstone, D. McAdam, E. Perry, W. Sewell, S. Tarrow & C. Tilly (Eds), Silence and voice in the study of contentious politics (pp. 89–125). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. McAdam, D., Tarrow, S., & Tilly, C. (2001). Dynamics of contention. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
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McCann, E. (1974). War and an Irish town. Harmondsworth: Penguin Book. McCarthy, J., & Zald, M. (1973). The trend of social movements in America: Professionalization and resource mobilization. Morristown, NJ: General Learning Press. McCluskey, C. (1989). Up off their knees. Galway: Conn McCluskey and Associates. McGarry, J., & O’Leary, B. (1996). The politics of antagonism: Understanding Northern Ireland. London: The Athlone Press. Melucci, A. (1989). Nomads of the present: Social movements and individual needs in contemporary society. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Melucci, A. (1996). Challenging codes. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. NICRA. (1978). We shall overcome: The history of the struggle for civil rights in Northern Ireland, 1968–1978. Belfast: Northern Ireland Civil Right Association. Retrieved September 1, 2006 (http://cain.ulst.ac.uk/events/crights/nicra/nicra78.htm). Oberschall, A. (1973). Social conflict and social movements. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall. O´ Dochartaigh, F. (1994). Ulster’s white Negroes: From civil rights to insurrection. San Francisco: AK Press. O´ Dochartaigh, N. (1997). From civil rights to Armalites, Derry and the birth of the Irish troubles. Cork: Cork University Press. Olivier, J. (1991). State repression and collective action in South Africa, 1970–84. South African Journal of Sociology, 22, 109–117. Olson, M. (1965). The logic of collective action: Public goods and the theory of groups. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Passy, F. (2003). Social networks matter. But how? In: M. Diani & D. McAdam (Eds), Social movements and networks (pp. 21–48). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Passy, F., & Giugni, M. (2001). Social networks and individual perceptions: Explaining differential participation in social movements. Sociological Forum, 16(1), 123–153. Purdie, B. (1990). Politics in the street: The origins of the Civil Rights Movement in Northern Ireland. Belfast: Blackstaff. Rose, R. (1971). Governing without consensus: An Irish perspective. London: Faber and Faber Limited. Scarman Report. (1972). Report of tribunal inquiry into violence and civil disturbance in Northern Ireland in 1969. Belfast: Cmd. 566, HMSO. Sewell, W. (2001). Space in contentious politics. In: R. Aminzade, J. Goldstone, D. McAdam, E. Perry, W. Sewell, S. Tarrow, & C. Tilly (Eds), Silence and voice in the study of contentious politics (pp. 51–88). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Smelser, N. (1962). Theory of collective behaviour. New York: Free Press. Snow, D.A., Benford, R.D. (1988). Ideology, frame resonance, and participant mobilization. In: B. Klandermans, H. Kriesi, & S. Tarrow (Eds), From structure to action (pp. 197–218). Greenwich, CT: JAI Press. Tilly, C. (1978). From mobilization to revolution. Reading, MA: Addison Wesley. Turner, R., & Killian, L. (1957). Collective behaviour. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall. White, R. (1989). From peaceful protest to Guerrilla War: Micromobilization of the provisional Irish Republican Army. American Journal of Sociology, 94, 1277–1302. Whyte, J. (1983). How much discrimination was there under the unionist regime, 1921–1968? In: T. Gallagher & J. O’Connell (Eds), Contemporary Irish studies (pp. 1–35). Manchester: Manchester University Press.
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APPENDIX Quoted interviewees, their organizational affiliation, and positions held during the 1960s and now. Paul Arthur: student and postgraduate at Queen’s University, member of the Northern Ireland Labour Party and active in People’s Democracy, now Professor at Ulster University. Interview October 7, 2003 (Londonderry). Ivan Cooper: employed in the shirt industry, involved in the Young Unionists in the early 1960s, later secretary of the Londonderry branch of the Northern Ireland Labour Party. Chair of the Derry Citizens Action Committee, from 1969 Stormont and Westminster MP for the Social Democratic and Labour Party, now active in social activities. Interview January 24, 2004 (Belfast). Bernadette Devlin: student at Queen’s University, member of People’s Democracy, Westminster MP from 1969 for People’s Democracy, later member of the Irish Republican Socialist Party, now active in social activities. Interview July 29, 2003 (Dungannon). John Gray: journalist, activist in the Liberal Unionist Party, member of People’s Democracy, now librarian of the Linen Hall Library in Belfast and involved in socio-cultural activities. Interview September 30, 2003 (Belfast). Denis Haughey: secondary school teacher in South Tyrone, member of the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association, Stormont MP for the Social Democratic Labour Party, now active in socio-political activities. Interview October 20, 2003 (Stormont). Fred Heatley: engineer, member of the Wolfe Tone Society, treasurer of the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association, now retired. Interview July 30, 2003 (Belfast). Tony Kennedy: student, member of the Northern Ireland Labour Party and active in People’s Democracy, now chief executive of Co-operation Ireland. Interview August 4, 2003 (Belfast). Monica Mc Williams: high school student, member of the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association, later MP for the Women’s Coalition, now president of the Civil Rights commission. Interview September 17, 2003 (Belfast). Joe Mulheron: student at Queen’s University, active in the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament, member of People’s Democracy and later of the Irish Republican Socialist Party, now owner of Sandino’s pub in Londonderry. Interview October 22, 2003 (Londonderry). Fionnbarra O´ Dochartaigh: unemployed, activist in the Republican movement in Londonderry during the 1960s, member of the Derry Housing
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Action Committee and the Derry Citizens Action Committee, founding member of the Irish Republican Socialist Party, now Civil Rights activist. Interview June 8, 2004 (Londonderry). Slan Fergus O’Hare: student at University College Dublin, member of People’s Democracy, now involved in socio-cultural activities. Interview February 19, 2004 (Belfast). Edwina Stewart: high school teacher in Belfast, member of the Communist Party of Northern Ireland and of the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association, now retired. Interview January 26, 2002 (Belfast). Paul Bew, Kevin Boyle, Anthony Coughlan, Jeff Dudgeon, Ann Hope, Roy Johnston, Rory McShane, Eamonn McCann, Paddy Joe McClean, David Morrison, Mike Morrisey, Bob Purdie, Brian Tipping, Claude Wilton, and Fergus Woods have also been interviewed, but not quoted in this article.
POLICE KNOWLEDGE REVISED: INSIGHTS FROM THE POLICING OF THE CIVIL RIGHTS MOVEMENT IN NORTHERN IRELAND Gianluca De Fazio ABSTRACT The confrontational stance of the Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC) against the Civil Rights Movement (CRM) was a central factor in the outbreak of political violence in Northern Ireland in the late 1960s. The analysis of the RUC officers’ testimonies before the Scarman Tribunal of Inquiry discloses both the police knowledge and the pattern of interaction between police and protesters. The closed political opportunity structure (POS) for the CRM filtered in the police knowledge, proving it to be a thorough indicator of the state’s prevailing strategy towards challengers. Yet, even within a state firmly intolerant of mass dissent police can occasionally decide to cooperate with protesters. In Derry, the RUC was often willing to, and in fact did, negotiate with protest leaders, showing at times a remarkably flexible approach. However, the negotiations occurred haphazardly outside institutional channels, with unpredictable outcomes. Consequently, protest-policing styles failed to soften and conflicts to deescalate.
Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, Volume 27, 63–87 Copyright r 2007 by Elsevier Ltd. All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-786X/doi:10.1016/S0163-786X(06)27003-4
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In the second half of the 1960s, the Civil Rights Movement (CRM) started to mobilise the traditionally quiescent Catholic minority around the issue of political and social discrimination in Northern Ireland (Purdie, 1990). On August 24, 1968, the first Civil Rights march occurred from Coalisland to Dungannon, initiating a collision between the protest movement and the state that would eventually escalate into a full-scale brutal conflict. The Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC), due to its material role in the control of the protest and its symbolic value for the Catholics as ‘‘a potent reminder of their exclusion from the state’’ (Ellison & Martin, 2000, p. 692), would become a crucial factor throughout the unfolding of these events. Its confrontational stance against the expression of public dissent had fateful consequences in terms of the radicalisation of the CRM’s repertoire of action, and more generally in terms of the escalation of the conflict (O´ Dochartaigh, 2005). In this paper, I will look into the police management of mass protest – one of the decisive aspects leading to the eruption of the politically motivated violence and eventually to the collapse of the fragile Northern Ireland state.1 I will argue that a social movements conceptualization in general, and a theoretical framework based upon the literature on protest policing in particular, offer new insights into the RUC’s response to the CRM in Northern Ireland. In fact, police action towards Civil Rights protesters has been very often interpreted through the partial lens of one or the other side of the conflict; a social movements research perspective will be able to produce a more disenchanting account of this highly contested issue. In doing so, I would like to query the assumption of the ‘‘Northern Ireland exceptionalism’’, its presumed incomparability and uniqueness (McGarry & O’Leary, 1995). This study is a test case of police agency, the examination of police knowledge and the pattern of interaction between RUC and CRM will reveal that even within a state firmly intolerant of mass dissent police can occasionally decide to cooperate with protest leaders.2 Indeed, the main contribution of this paper relates to the discovery of a mismatch between police attitudes and actions, calling into question the primacy of police knowledge (della Porta, 1998) as an explanatory factor of protest-policing styles. Analysis will rely upon sources previously untapped by social scientists – police officers’ testimonies before the Scarman Tribunal of Inquiry. The exceptionally rich amount of information contained in the Tribunal’s minutes of evidence will allow the disclosure of the sociological mechanisms that link the political system’s features with the police control of mass protests at the local level. The encounters between police and protesters are
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acknowledged to be a crucial variable in the explanation of the protestpolicing styles (Reicher, 1984), and ‘‘in Northern Ireland (y) much of the negotiation and confrontation between opposing forces has taken place at a local level.’’ (O´ Dochartaigh, 2005, p. 2) In addition, referring to the inherently local nature of Northern Ireland conflict, Whyte (1990, pp. 258–259) remarked how ‘‘areas only a few miles from each other can differ enormously – in religious mix, in economic circumstances, in the level of violence, in political attitudes.’’ Thus, following these insights, the paper will focus on the city of Derry/Londonderry as a case study.3 This was the city most heavily marked by discrimination in Northern Ireland, in which a Unionist local council governed a large Catholic majority (Lee, 1989, p. 420). It was also one of the first towns to experience the Civil Rights campaign and witness the reaction of the police. It was in Derry as well that the conflict with the police and militant unionists (Loyalists) led to the formation of Catholic no-go areas, where the British Army first had to intervene to halt Catholic riots in 1969.
SOCIAL MOVEMENTS THEORY AND CIVIL RIGHTS IN NORTHERN IRELAND The Partition of Ireland in 1920 ensured that the majority of the population of Northern Ireland was Protestant and Unionist (i.e. loyal to the union with Great Britain). While two thirds of the polity stood up for the union, the remnant third was Catholic and nationalist (i.e. adverse to British rule). The arrangement of a majority voting system in an ethnically divided society certified the systematic exclusion of the minority from the exercise of political power at the national level, where the Unionist Party ran the government for almost 50 years. A sizeable amount of concrete political decision-making operated quite autonomously at the local level, especially where housing, planning and education were concerned. At this level of administration too the Unionist party was able to govern towns with a Catholic majority, thanks to the ‘‘creative’’ gerrymandering of the constituency wards. During the 1960s, a slight improvement of the Catholic community’s economic conditions, together with a timid opening to political reform by the then Northern Ireland Prime Minister Terence O’Neill (Ellison & Martin, 2000) led on one hand to the formation of the first generation of educated middle-class Catholics, the early risers in the cycle of protest, and, on the other hand, to the establishment of a set of political opportunities to
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protest and mobilise around the issue of discrimination.4 In the early 1960s, groups like ‘‘Campaign for Social Justice in Northern Ireland’’ produced and circulated detailed reports to expose the existence and the extent of housing and political discrimination in the region, and put on moderate protest activities such as writing letters of complaint to the Parliaments of Stormont and Westminster (Purdie, 1990). But this institutional and legalistic approach failed to produce any meaningful change in the Unionist policies. Thus, a loose and ideologically heterogeneous network of disparate groups comprising, among the others, NICRA, People’s Democracy and Derry Citizens’ Action Committee – the CRM network – ‘‘started to challenge these discriminatory and sectarian practices by embracing a proactive, ‘‘reformist’’, civil right message’’, and demanding ‘‘electoral, housing and policing reforms’’5 (Bosi, 2006, p. 42). In 1968, the CRM took to the streets and, clearly inspired by the US Black CRM, borrowed their aggressive tactics of direct political action, staging sit-ins, demonstrations, marches, rallies, and acts of civil disobedience. Notwithstanding the CRM attempts in their messages and repertoires of action to be (or at least to appear as) an anti-sectarian movement, it violently collided with both the reaction of the state authority and Loyalists’ counter-mobilisation. The ensuing political conflict quickly escalated into turmoil and civil disturbances, leading to the deployment in August 1969 of the British Army to prevent the descent into a civil war. With a few exceptions (e.g. Ellison & Martin, 2000; Bosi, 2006), social movements scholars have culpably neglected the study of the CRM in Northern Ireland. As the violent conflict was stretching endlessly out, academics concentrated on the study of terrorism, debating about the intractability of the problem and possible solutions. The CRM and the spirals of counter-mobilisation and radicalisation it had triggered have been scarcely investigated and often regarded as an epiphenomenon of the conflict itself. I believe that the too often ideologically laden academic debate about Northern Ireland will markedly benefit from the application of an approach capable of yielding disenchanting accounts of conflict issues. The aim of this paper is to address a particularly disputed terrain: the RUC’s response to the mass mobilisation of the CRM.
POLICING THE CRM When facing social movements, state authorities in democracies strain to fulfil contradictory obligations. On the one hand, states and governments
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are the targets of demands to redress the grievances of collective actors. By definition, collective movements operate outside institutional channels, employing alternative repertories of action such as marches, demonstrations, sit-ins, civil disobedience, and occasionally violent tactics. Violence can be strategically staged to further protesters’ causes (Gamson, 1975, p. 81); the ability to disrupt public order is in fact understood to strengthen a collective actor’s effectiveness (McAdam, 1983, p. 735). On the other hand, police have to guarantee and maintain public order when handling protest events, eventually sanctioning illegal or violent behaviour. In addition to preserving public order and securing the safety of bystanders and property, police in contemporary democratic states are also required to protect the citizens’ right to protest.6 Thus, the interaction between the police, ‘‘conceived as ‘‘street-level bureaucrats’’ who ‘‘represent’’ government to people’’ (Lipsky, 1970, p. 1, cited in della Porta & Reiter, 1998, p. 1) on one side, and the movements, on the other, is a central point of interest. In certain respects, the management and control of social protest and public order is a delicate test for, and measurement of, the democratic standards displayed by a state.7 Since the psychological reductionism of Gustave Le Bon (1895), publicorder theory has radically moved from the assumption of the irrational ‘‘madding crowd’’ (McPhail, 1991) towards a socio-contextual understanding of crowd behaviour and public disorder (for a review, Waddington & King, 2005). David Waddington and colleagues have developed a flashpoints model which identifies six general determinants of public disorder, involving the following levels of analysis: structural, political/ideological, cultural, contextual, situational and interactional (Waddington, Jones, & Critcher, 1989, p. 156). It is the latter level – the one examining the faceto-face relations between police and protesters – that is decisive, as it is ‘‘where public disorder actually occurs’’ (Waddington et al., 1989, p. 167) and where even a trivial incident can become a flashpoint capable of setting off a ‘‘fire’’. Disorder is in fact conceived as a form of interaction, in particular one where ‘‘all the other forms of communication have been exhausted’’ (Waddington et al., 1989, p. 167). Social movements scholars carried out a broad examination of police management of public order and protest. They departed from the conventional view that emphasises the inevitably repressive role of the police (Earl, Soule, & McCarthy, 2003), and reckoned that the role of the state cannot simply be reduced to that of social movement opponent. Rather, it has to be analytically conceived as ‘‘simultaneously target, sponsor, and antagonist for social movements as well as the organiser of the political system.’’
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(Jenkins & Klandermans, 1995, p. 3) Extensive research revealed that, in the last 40 years, police forces in democratic states have shown an increasingly less repressive stance, less coercive tactics, more toleration of movements’ unconventional repertoires, and a resolute willingness to avoid confrontation with protesters (della Porta & Reiter, 1998, pp. 2–8). McPhail, Schweingrubber and McCarthy (1998) observed that in the USA there occurred a dramatic shift from the ‘‘escalated force’’ doctrine – involving a massive use of force by state police up until the 1960s – to the commitment to a ‘‘negotiated management’’ strategy. Broadly speaking, the enforcement of a protest-permit system has channelled and institutionalised the protest movements’ repertoires of action, allowing the police to intervene in public order situations on only a few occasions, and even then with a minimal use of force.8 Della Porta and Reiter (1998) devised an explanatory model aimed at capturing variation in policing styles in democratic Western countries. To explain why a particular pattern of policing styles has been adopted, they deem as pivotal the Political Opportunity Structure (POS) available in a country’s political system.9 Indeed, according to this model, protest-policing styles are influenced, first, by a stable structure of opportunities determined by institutional characteristics of the police, and the political and police cultures. Second, policing styles vary according to more contingent aspects of POS regarding configurations of power and debate in the public arena on the issue of protest policing. The influence of these opportunity structures on the adoption of protest-policing styles would filter through a basic intervening variable: police knowledge, i.e., police’ attitudes and stereotypes about protesters, and perception of their role in society (della Porta & Reiter, 1998, pp. 22–27). This variable is considered the critical intervening variable between the structure and agency: the institutional characteristics and the political system’s degree of openness find a concrete expression only when they are incorporated in the police knowledge (della Porta & Reiter, 1998, p. 10). Meyer and Minkoff (2004) insist that the theoretical framework of POS needs to be complemented with the examination of the sociological mechanisms, which mediate the influence of the systemic features at the agency level. Most research focused on demonstrating correlations between opportunities and mobilization, so far failing to illustrate how political opportunities concretely translate into collective action, in other words to specify ‘‘how they work’’ (Meyer & Minkoff, 2004, p. 1463). From this point of view, the examination of police knowledge will provide a set of cognitive mechanisms helpful in explaining police responses to mass protest.
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Nevertheless, I claim that at least as important as police-protesters interaction between the police and protesters in situ (Reicher, 1984). This aspect is cardinal because it injects into the analytical model a dynamic factor. To be sure, I believe that the relation between POS and police knowledge is quite static, i.e., the political system sets the conditions for police knowledge to be shaped in a certain direction. However, when police and protesters actually face each other, the protest-policing styles are likely to be affected by these encounters. Indeed, the study of the dynamics of the protesters– police relationship has shed light on the recursive processes that lead to the escalation of political violence (della Porta, 1995, p. 57). Complementary to this, public-order research has shown that when the interaction between police officers and protest organisers is backed up by previous meetings, institutionalised through formal negotiation mechanisms and channelled towards a cooperative relationship, the potential room for violent encounters dramatically shrinks (Waddington, 1994; McPhail et al., 1998; Fillieule & Jobard, 1998). To sum up, I argue that police knowledge is significant in explaining protest-policing styles, functioning as a static indicator of the openness/ closeness of POS; however, it has to be always complemented with the appraisal of the mechanisms operating at the interactional level of analysis (Waddington et al., 1989), namely reviewing the police-protesters patterns of interaction, communication, and negotiation occurring before and during protest events. In fact, it will be shown that police actions may, under certain circumstances, substantially deflect from police knowledge. In 1922, the RUC replaced the Royal Irish Constabulary (RIC) – the Irish police – as the law enforcement agency for Northern Ireland, retaining the key features of their predecessors (Moore & O’Rawe, 1997, p. 268). Since its foundation in the nineteenth century, the fundamental role of the RIC in colonial Ireland was to subdue the rebellious population (Hillyard & Tomlinson, 2000, p. 394). This was reflected in its structural organisation, the main characteristics of which being its massive size, a highly centralised structure of control and command, and a heavily militarised outlook.10 In contrast to the British image of the civilian unarmed ‘bobby’, the RUC was based in barracks and armed with heavy equipment. The RUC epitomised a divided society model of policing (Brewer, 1991; Weitzer, 1995). Alongside the conventional policing duties, police in Northern Ireland bore a counterinsurgency responsibility (Hunt 1969, p.13), that is they were committed ‘‘to maintain public order, combat sectarian, intercommunal violence, and protect the state from subversive and violent opponents’’ (Weitzer, 1995 p. 10).11 RUC officers were overwhelmingly
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recruited from the Protestant community and embodied a politicised police under direct political control from the Unionist Government, especially the Minister of Home Affairs, to which the Inspector General was subordinate.12 This led to ‘‘systematic bias in law enforcement, with members of the subordinate communal group policed more aggressively and punitively than members of the dominant group’’(Weitzer, 1995, p. 5). The response of the RUC to the CRM’s mobilisation was a harsh one. On 5th October 1968, a peaceful march in Londonderry was banned by the Northern Ireland Minister of Home Affairs for public order reasons. Police were determined to enforce the ministerial ban utilising all the means at their disposal, the images of their gratuitous use of violence being televised in the UK, Ireland, and elsewhere in the world. The hostile state reaction to the Civil Rights campaign, the ensuing and increasing lack of confidence in police authority by the Catholic minority, and the counter-mobilisation from the Loyalists, led to an escalation of the conflict in the streets. In the summer of 1969, the RUC ended up employing a full-scale strategy of crowd control, including the use – for the first time ever in the UK – of CS gas in Londonderry (Scarman, 1972, p. 76) and machine guns in Belfast (Scarman, 1972, p. 9). The security situation collapsed to such a point that in August the British government had to deploy the British Army as a peacekeeping force (Scarman, 1972). Furthermore, the British government urged the Northern Ireland Parliament to set up a Tribunal of Inquiry to investigate the civil disturbances that compelled the intervention of the Army.
DATA AND METHODS The minutes of evidence of the Scarman Tribunal of Inquiry form the empirical basis of this article. Soon after the British Army was deployed in August 1969, the Northern Ireland Parliament established a Tribunal of Inquiry to inspect the civil strife that had occurred in the previous months. The Inquiry was judicial in character, chaired by Lord Scarman, with power to enforce the attendance of witnesses and to examine them on oath (Scarman, 1972, p. 2). The Tribunal conducted public hearings from September 1969 until June 1971, examining a large number of witnesses and persons directly involved in the events – most of them security officers from the Army, the Royal Ulster Constabulary, and the Ulster Special Constabulary. The final Report was published in April 1972. The Scarman Report is one of several official Reports,13 which inspected carefully the state of affairs in Northern Ireland, especially the causes of
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political violence and the RUC management of public order. Despite the richness of evidence gathered by the Scarman Tribunal of Inquiry, its hearings (35 volumes of transcripts) have barely been studied systematically for research purposes.14 In the voluminous literature on the ‘‘Troubles’’, this huge amount of material has gone almost entirely unnoticed by historians as well as by social scientists. The transcripts do not specify if the witness under examination was obliged to go to the Tribunal or offered evidence spontaneously. At any rate, every person giving evidence before the Tribunal was ‘‘entitled to the immunities and privileges of a witness before the High Court’’ and authorised to be represented by a counsel or solicitor (Scarman, 1972, p. 2). The Tribunal was particularly ‘‘concerned to ensure that persons, whose conduct was criticised in written statements furnished by those whom the Tribunal proposed to call as witnesses, should be given notice of the allegations against them and have a full opportunity, with the aid of legal representation if necessary, of dealing with them’’ (Scarman, 1972, p. 3). In this paper, I focus on a specific contentious sphere of action and locality, the RUC response to the Civil Rights protests in Londonderry. The minutes of evidence relating to the events that occurred in that city during July and August 1969 form the basis of analysis. In relation to those turbulent months, the tribunal interrogated 104 persons, 40 of which were RUC and USC officers. After reading all these testimonies for inclusion in the analysis, I selected the testimonies which presented at least one of the following items: (1) the officer’s perception and attitude towards the civil rights protesters; (2) reference to police self-image; and (3) accounts of the interaction between police and protesters. These criteria yielded a sample of 16 testimonies – accounting for 40% of all the interrogated officers in Londonderry. In terms of officers’ ranks, the testimonies selected were fairly representative, while the ones excluded did not display any systematic bias.15 The Scarman Report was written on the basis of all the data gathered during the Inquiry (including the testimonies I studied). My intention was not to search for brand new evidence about the civil strife that led to the Troubles. Rather, I aimed to exploit the sizeable amount of original information gathered for the final Report, especially police’ attitudes, judgements, and justifications for their behaviour (in other words, police knowledge). These minutes of evidence are valuable precisely because they allow the investigation of police’ attitudes – as well as the relatively unstudied story of the interactions between the RUC and the CRM. Since the data consist of formal hearings before a Tribunal of Inquiry, a discernible and blatant police bias against the CRM never surfaced. Indeed, statements
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from police officers were the cautious deliberations of professional witnesses. Nevertheless, despite their caution, the statements of officers were revealing. From the analysis of these data, relatively coherent and consistent patterns emerge: shared attitudes, perceptions, and images among police officers, as well as recurring configurations of police-protesters relations.
POLICE KNOWLEDGE Protesters Stereotyping In situations of public disorder, police officers’ perceptions and attitudes toward protesters are the base of police knowledge (della Porta, 1998). The RUC officers on duty in Londonderry predictably claimed a stance of neutrality with regard to the conflicting communities and their respective assemblies of demonstrators: Q. What is your attitude towards the people of the Bogside [i.e. Catholics]? A. (y) Well, I do not know much about the people of the Bogside. Dealing with crowds that were hostile, I am sent them to do a job and I do it irrespective of whether they are from the Bogside or from the other side. (y) Q. Are you saying that you were neutral, that your attitude towards both of these crowds was much the same? A. It would be the same towards any hostile crowd. (Head Constable R. J. Wallace, day 28, p. 83; emphasis added)
Nonetheless, this allegedly neutral position of police was not always evident in the expressed views of police witnesses towards the civil rights protesters. As the Head Constable remarked: Q. Were you feeling as judicial as that when you wrote your report on this matter, Head Constable? A. I would say so. Q. Did you describe the people in Great James Street as thugs? A. That was the impression I got from that crowd. (y) Q. Had you previously in the day been dealing with Bogsiders in the Rossville Street area? A. That is correct. (y) Q. Do you describe them as savages in your report? A. I would think they were behaving like that. That does not mean that all the people in the Bogside are savages. Q. Did that not influence you in your attitude towards the people at the upper side of Great James Street? A. I would adjust my attitude to what I see taking place at a particular time. (Head Constable R. J. Wallace, day 28, p. 84; emphasis added)
The examination of County Inspector Corbett offers another example: THE CHAIRMAN: (y) this is the second time in the log that I have seen recorded a reference to ‘‘natives.’’ Here it is ‘‘Natives still coming down William Street.’’ Earlier on there was also a reference to natives (y). What do you understand is meant by that term?
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A: The local residents, as far as I could put it, I would say. THE CHAIRMAN: An unfortunate way of talking about them? A. It is, I quite agree. (County Inspector D. Corbett, day 9, p. 37)
Reflecting their colonial policing origins, RUC officers referred disparagingly to Catholic protesters as thugs, savages and natives, while the classic differentiation between ‘‘good’’ and ‘‘bad’’ protesters (della Porta, 1998), in Northern Ireland was framed in terms of the ‘‘responsible’’ and the ‘‘hooligan’’ component of the areas policed: I think there is a vast majority of decent responsible people in the Creggan [i.e. Catholic] area who had absolutely no fear of the police and would have assisted them in every way possible, but I think that they themselves were scared of the hooligan element who were present. (Head Constable A. McCabe, day 14, p. 43.)16
One of the effects of the RUC handling of the early civil rights campaign was to vastly mobilise the minority community; ‘‘complaints about discrimination quickly gave way to complaints about the RUC [y]; the response of the state [y] to Catholic mobilization was an issue capable of arousing far more anger and activism than the issues around which mobilization had begun.’’ (O´ Dochartaigh 1997, p. 310, cited in Ellison & Martin, 2000, p. 691) In other words, the initial focus of the protest shifted into the meta-issue of the RUC policing methods and practices (della Porta & Reiter, 1998, p. 28). The RUC, while on one side was apt to minimise the Catholic community’s alienation from the police, on the other side was ready to blame the ‘‘hooligan’’ element for it: Q. I want to turn to a more general question, Mr. Corbett, and that is the question of the relationship over the 12 months up to July [1969] approximately when you were last in Derry between the police and the people of Derry. Did you notice any deterioration? A. With responsible people certainly no deterioration, if anything an improvement. When I say ‘‘responsible’’ I mean responsible on all sides. With what one could only call the hooligan element I would agree that there probably was a deterioration. [y] But the general impression I had was that the responsible people still had the greatest confidence in the local police who had been here for many years. (County Inspector D. Corbett, day 10, pp. 9–10; emphasis added)
Protests and complaints about police conduct, when voiced, were the result of a political operation to mobilise anger against the RUC: Q. Do you not know that the situation in Derry at the moment is that there is an almost universal disapproval of the police on the catholic side? A. I do not frankly accept that it is universal. I think there are a great many who would be only too pleased to accept the police back and have them back on normal duty, and who I suppose are frightened to say so. Q. I appreciate the difficulties of business people, and so on, in relation to lack of
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Denial of Grievances Implied in the attribution of the responsibility for the civil disorders on the ‘‘bad’’ protesters, is the denial of grievances voiced by the protesters. Ellison and Smyth (2000, p. 32) have pointed out the presence of a pervasive belief, especially among Unionists, that Northern Ireland before 1968 was a normal, unproblematic, pacified country, where police enjoyed good relations with both communities and no hints of a potential conflict between them existed. This belief is reflected in the witness testimony too: Q. You remained on in Londonderry until when? A. I remained on in Londonderry and was attached to Victoria Police Station, operating in that area, in the Bogside-Creggan area, until I left in 1963. Q. Were those happy years? A. Very happy years. (District Inspector M. J. Finn, day 17, p. 63) Q. Were you, prior to the 12th August [1969], aware of a very serious state of affairs in relation to the relationship between the people and the police in Derry? A. Well I was aware that, if I may say, they were not as happy as they had been during the time I spent as a District Inspector here. Q. Speaking of those days, I take it you would agree it was a pretty happy relationship between the police and the people? A. Yes, I was very happy during my service in Derry. (Deputy Inspector General R. E. G. Shillington, day 10, pp. 59–60)
If the ‘‘bad’’ protesters were to blame for the widespread strife, the mere onset of the CRM was seen as responsible for the apparently abrupt ending of this idyllic situation: Q. It must have been a grave disappointment to you, as a man who knew the City, to see what relations were like between the police and people in Derry on 12th, 13th and 14th August [1969]? A. It was a great disappointment to me, fair enough, but I had seen this thing working since June, 1968 – it was deteriorating all the time. Q. There was really a period from, some put the magic date at October, you put it earlier than that at June 1968, when things really deteriorated to a pitch where people were throwing petrol bombs at the police on the 12th August 1969? A. Yes, that is right. Why I say June is, in my estimation I reckon the whole thing started with the pulling out of a caravan across Hamilton Street to highlight the unsatisfactory housing conditions of one particular man, and that really is when street demonstrations as such started in Londonderry. (Head Constable E. Campbell, day 29, p. 60; emphasis added)
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Police Self-Image Another key aspect of the police knowledge concerns the images police have of their role within society. The interpretation of their function in a country’s social and political life, affects their response to public dissent (Winter, 1998). In a bid for legitimacy before a tribunal of Inquiry, senior RUC officers had to justify the employment of harsh methods on protesters, in this manner revealing what police felt was an appropriate response to political dissent. County Inspector Corbett outlined which duties police should fulfil in riot situations: Q. What at that time, firstly, was your attitude to police engagement in throwing stones at rioters? A. At that time, which is July, my attitude, regrettably, had been forced to change. A year ago I would have been entirely opposed, absolutely and entirely and unconditionally opposed. Regrettably, that view I have been forced to change, having seen the situation that the police were dealing with here, a situation that I do not suppose any, certainly no police force in the British Isles and possibly no police force in the world has been faced with, and bearing in mind one of the primary functions of the police is the protection of life and property, particularly the protection of the property. (y) Consequently, if the return – very occasionally is all it was ever done – of an occasion missile, if it does result in preventing excessive destruction I, as I say regrettably, am forced to consider it is justified. It is repugnant, it is undesirable, it gives an extremely bad impression, but if it saves life and saves destruction – excessive, perhaps should be added – excessive destruction of property, regrettably I feel it has been justified. (County Inspector D. Corbett, day 9, p. 30; emphasis added)
In another passage, C. I. Corbett revealed the police’s strategy to comply with the primary function of policing: Q. What was your policy in dealing with these riotous mobs on the occasions you have detailed in your evidence? A. Preferably to disperse them and to prevent a big enough regrouping. When I say ‘‘big enough regrouping’’, small groups will not start doing very serious damage. It is only when a very large group has gathered together that the serious damage is done. Therefore, the ideal policy from the point of view of protection of property, the basic fundamental police function, is to keep them dispersed. That prevents any very big gathering up. (County Inspector D. Corbett, day 9, p. 68; emphasis added)
County Inspector Mahon instead emphasised that ‘‘a policeman first of all regards the safety of public and his own safety may be unfortunately secondary but he must protect the public and the public peace.’’ (County Inspector G. S. Mahon, day 11, p. 15; emphasis added) The RUC appealed to an image of themselves as, above all, protectors of the public, its property and the public peace. To prevent the excessive destruction of property, even
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the employment of tactics (such as stone-throwing) deemed as ‘‘repugnant’’ and ‘‘undesirable’’ is justified. Another theme regarding the police self-image involves its relations with the media. This tie is revealing, aiding comprehension of the level of connection of a police organisation with the public and the citizens. The policemen’s testimonies before the Scarman Tribunal display a certain degree of naivete´ in their stance towards the role of the media during violent encounters between police and protesters. They deny any influence from the presence of the media in their conduct and strategic choices: Q. I want to suggest to you that the difference in the police action between those two occasion, the one when they stood and waited where they were, being bombarded with stones, and the other when they made an entry into the Rossville Street area (y) was governed by the presence of television cameras in Waterloo place? A. To answer to this question shortly, I would say it was not governed by the television cameras in anyway. (County Inspector G. S. Mahon, day 11, p. 13) Q. (y) your attitude was dictated by the presence of television cameras at Waterloo Place. Can you tell my Lord and the Tribunal if there is any substance in such a suggestion from your point of view? A. Obviously that crosses your mind; as an officer in charge of men that thought must cross your mind. But that was not the underlying point that influence me. (District Inspector M. Slevin, day 12, p. 54)
The claim that police interventions were not affected at all by the media, albeit rigid and questionable, is not completely surprising. A police agency dedicated to performing its job regardless of external influences could, after all, be an indication of professionalism. But the point here is that RUC officers failed to further elaborate a position that would take into account the elementary ‘‘watchdog’’ role of the media, and therefore of the public: Q. And I want to suggest to you that the police were at least as concerned with their image before the television cameras and before the newspapermen who were assembled there as they were with keeping peace. A. The police interest is always, and I think should always be, the protection of life and property. We are not concerned with our image before a television camera. (County Inspector G. S. Mahon, day 11, p. 13)
Nowadays, in the era when Public Relation departments and spokespersons embody a fundamental component in all police presentational strategy (Mawby, 2002), these declarations sound, at least, unsophisticated. They seem to indicate a lack in the RUC’s professional culture of any reflection on, and strategy for, dealing with the media and, therefore, how to ‘‘win over’’ the public with regards to controversial events such as the policing of mass demonstrations. It is true that in the 1960s police forces throughout the world were not yet endowed of institutionalised PR skills. Yet, in the
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discussion section I will argue that the main explanation for this ‘‘media failure’’ can be found in the lack of accountability of the RUC.
THE INTERACTION BETWEEN POLICE AND PROTESTERS The degree of institutionalisation and formalisation of police authority consultations with protest organisers is an influential aspect for the control of violent behaviours by both ‘‘sides of the barricade’’ (Fillieule & Jobbard, 1998; Waddington, 1996). In the course of their testimonies, RUC officers provided valuable accounts of how this interaction occurred in Londonderry. Notwithstanding the adoption in the public arena of a seemingly confrontational approach towards the CRM, when facing the protesters in the streets the RUC demonstrated itself to be capable of a much more flexible, pragmatic and, at times, sophisticated approach. As a rule, both Civil Rights and Unionist protest organisers informally granted a stewarding scheme, striving to restrain their crowds and guarantee the peaceful unfolding of their marches and manifestations. The negotiation procedures between stewards and police officers often relied upon informal contacts arising on the spot: An example of what we had to do is this. A complaint was made to me that somebody had thrown a bottle and they said it was either from the top of a wall or it was by a policeman or else a policeman had seen a protestant throwing that and had taken no action. With the agreement of the stewards, we put two police, two Roman Catholic stewards, and two Protestant stewards on top of the arch and that prevented any further stone throwing from that area. (District Inspector W. J. Hood, day 13, p. 19; emphasis added)
In contrast with its repressive reputation, RUC had a very trustful attitude and relations with both Protestant and Catholic stewarding organisations. For example, the ministerial decision not to ban the Apprentice Boys’ Parade in Derry on the 12th August 1969 – notwithstanding robust signals for potential disturbances to happen – was basically determined, alongside political considerations, by the police’s belief that the stewarding arrangements made by Protestant demonstrators and civil rights leaders were reliable enough to ensure the avoidance of violent clashes (Scarman, 1972, p. 9). Unfortunately, this did not prove to be the case. At any rate, the police display of trust towards the stewarding organisations prior to a protest event was equally exhibited during problematic public order situations:
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In the negotiation process, the quest for contacts with the protest leaders was a relentless task for police officers, although not always successful: Q. (y) had there been any contact between police and people in the Bogside? Had there been any personal contact or attempts to resolve the situation by talk? A. To my knowledge the Deputy Inspector General had received a certain message (y) and as a result (y) he went to Rossville Street, (y) in the hope (y) that he might be met there by certain people who would be prepared to negotiate (y), but no one turned up. (y) He had press conference during that day and all this was with the intention of getting it made quite clear to the people that the police were prepared to negotiate. All that was requested was that this riotous conduct should cease, and that the police would certainly withdraw. (County Inspector G. S. Mahon, day 11, p. 57; emphasis added)
Nonetheless, there are several episodes when consultations with single wellknown civil rights leaders, like John Hume, succeeded to beget provisional stalemates of the ongoing violent brawling: Q. Did you have a conversation with him [Mr. Hume]? A. He had a conversation with me. First of all I said to him, ‘‘Can you do anything with this element to try and eliminate this type of thing?’’ He said, ‘‘I am doing my best, D. I. Could you, do you think, move that crowd?’’ and he pointed over to the nailings where there was another crowd shouting back, a small crowd shouting back. I said I would, of course, I would certainly move them on, and he undertook, as I say, to try and placate this element. I went over or instructed a Head [Constable] with a number of men to go over and they in fact spoke to those people, some of them moved on and some did not, but in fact they moved them, more or less pushed them on, got them moving on. (District Inspector M. Slevin, day 12, p. 51) Q. Did anything happen at half past nine approximately? A. At half past nine Mr. John Hume and a deputation from the barricade at North Street came down towards us and asked to speak to the person in charge. (y) Q. What did you hear Mr. Hume say? A. He said if the rioters did not attack the police, would the police not attack the barricade. Head Constable McCabe said that he was only interested in the defence of the station and he would not, nor would the police, attack the barricades. Q. What happened when that element was made by Head Constable McCabe to Mr. Hume. What did the delegation do? A. They went back to the barricades and obviously informed the rioters what had taken place. Q. When they did that, did the attacks cease on the station? A. No, there was a further attack on the station from Marlborough Hall and we were attacked there again as vicious as we ever were. Shortly after this attack Mr. Hume came
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back and apologised for this and stated that the message must not have got to all the rioters. (Sergeant R. D. Cardwell, day 14, pp. 27–28)
DISCUSSION Police knowledge is a relevant factor in the explanation of protest-policing styles. From the testimonies transpire three main aspects of police attitudes which are relevant for the discussion: their distinction between ‘‘good’’ and ‘‘bad’’ protesters, their failure to link their behaviours with Catholics’ mistrust, and the denial of media effects on their tactics. First of all, scanning the stereotypes about protesters – a recurrent, cognitive, and operational device across police forces (Waddington, 1994) – sheds light on police outlook and approach. Previous research has revealed how RUC officers regarded the CRM as ‘‘nothing more than IRA’’ (Ellison, 1997, p. 157; Ellison & Smyth, 2000; Ellison & Martin, 2000). This assertion is also supported by the Scarman Report (1972, p. 16): ‘‘the conduct which we have criticised was due largely to the belief held at the time by many of the police, including senior officers, that they were dealing with an armed uprising engineered by the IRA.’’ The Report itself suggested how this judgment seriously affected the RUC: ‘‘in dealing with an armed uprising, the usual restraints on police conduct would not be so strong, while more attention would naturally be given to the suppression of the insurgents than to the protection of people’s lives and property.’’ (ibidem) In the RUC’s testimonies this type of stereotyping did not transpire, but other categorisations emerged. Police routinely classify protesters either as ‘‘good’’ or ‘‘bad’’ (della Porta, 1998); RUC officers framed this distinction in terms of ‘‘responsible’’ vs. ‘‘hooligan’’ element in the community. In the testimonies, policemen openly blame the latter for sparking off public unrest in the streets, as well as for arousing the mounting alienation felt by the Catholic minority towards the police forces. This attribution of threat (McAdam, Tarrow, & Tilly, 2001, p. 46) perfectly blended with another cognitive mechanism, the denial of protesters’ grievances, at least in two ways. On one hand, senior RUC officers, in particular, failed to appreciate the serious resentment displayed by Catholics towards their tactics. Confining this sentiment to a few radical activists, or denying it altogether, the RUC was not able to grasp the complaints expressed against their heavy-handed tactics. This lack of understanding prevented a strategic re-adjustment of the RUC approach towards
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protesters. On the other hand, where the Northern Ireland polity was based on the discrimination and the political exclusion of the Catholics, the officers’ testimonies corroborate the view of a normal and trouble-free country, before 1968. It was the Civil Rights mobilisation and unprecedented repertoire of action that was charged for the disruption of this peaceful status quo. The analysis of the police–media relation, moreover, reveals how an insidious constitutive element of the RUC encouraged the unleashing of violent practices against peaceful demonstrators. Observing the officers disinterest for their public image in front of the media, I suggested earlier to consider the RUC’s lack of accountability. The Special Powers Act (1922) and other security legislation guaranteed police officers a virtual impunity when on duty, in fact, it was not possible to obtain judicial review for any misbehaviour by a constable (Ellison & Smyth, 2000, p. 24). Furthermore, before the implementation – with disappointing outcomes – of the Hunt Report’s recommendations in 1969, there did not exist an independent body for external scrutiny. In addition, there was no institutional mechanism through which to submit formal complaints against officers’ misconduct.17 As the likelihood of in-the-job trouble was minimal and external scrutiny not contemplated, why bother with the ‘‘image before a television camera’’?18 A major incentive for self-restraint when confronting protest was, therefore, severely enfeebled. This aspect is also consistent with the RUC’s self-image. Resembling the model named Staatspolizei by Winter (1998), or Police of the King by della Porta (1998, p. 245), the RUC interpreted its role as the ultimate defender of the state from all challengers. Officers focused on the protection of public welfare and peace, property and human lives; conversely, the safeguard of citizens’ rights (especially those concerning the sphere of freedom of speech and protest) was not even mentioned among the duties to be performed. The scrutiny of police knowledge unveiled some mechanisms instrumental in explaining the police response to the civil rights protest. Yet, the review of the interaction between police and protesters in Derry reveals rather counter-intuitive findings. So far, it has been pointed out that RUC officers had a very antagonistic orientation towards the Civil Rights mobilisation. This would lead one to expect a non-negotiable enforcement of the law using ‘‘escalated force’’. The surprise is that RUC did negotiate and seemed to do so in good faith. The finest example occurred on 16th November 1968, when a massive, 15,000-strong civil rights march threatened to defy a ministerial ban to enter Derry’s city centre. Unable to enforce the ban, the RUC ‘‘had secretly arranged with a member of the committee [the DCAC, the civil
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rights organisation in Derry] that they would permit a token breach of the police line and therefore of the ban. Thus, a few members of the committee climbed over the barriers, formally defying the ban. The crowd was informed of what had happened and then flooded around the cordon and into the city centre by other streets which had been left open.’’ (O´ Dochartaigh, 2005, p. 26) A brutal replication of October’s violent clashes was averted as a result of both the skilful stewarding arrangements and the pragmatic acknowledgement of the situation by the police, which ultimately led to a mutually suitable compromise to avoid violence. O´ Dochartaigh (2005, p. 270) underlines how ‘‘one of the most striking features of the early stages of conflict in Derry was the high level of contact and negotiation between the security forces and a wide range of forces in the Catholic community.’’ A formal and institutionalised scheme of interaction between police agencies and protest organisers is a vital factor to prevent the development of political violence and the escalation of conflict. So, why was this ‘‘well-established pattern of communication and negotiation’’ not able to secure softer policing styles towards the Civil Rights manifestations in Derry? The RUC officers’ testimonies before the Scarman Tribunal indicate that the often-sought contacts with the Civil Rights manifestants in Derry were all but solidly institutionalised or formally conducted. As nicely pointed out by O´ Dochartaigh (2005, p. 270), ‘‘the aims of these communications and negotiations tended to be quite limited, and the line between mutual signalling of intentions and fully fledged negotiations was often blurred. Arrangements to keep the peace were generally short-term and temporary, always subject to disruption if one side or the other decided it no longer suited its long-term aims, and was always limited by the fact that it was difficult for any party talks to provide absolute guarantees about behaviour on their ‘‘side’’.’’ The lack of legal procedures and institutional mechanisms to regulate the relationship between the police authority and the protest leaders in Northern Ireland generated the establishment of a pragmatic yet erratic model of interaction, which could not secure the avoidance of violent encounters during mass demonstrations. These findings suggest a rethinking of the RUC as a distinctively repressive police vis-a`-vis Civil Rights protest. Its approach appears far from being an anomaly in the context of 1960s contentious politics. At that time, US police agencies were facing the black insurgency and a new wave of student movement’s mobilisation, enforcing an ‘‘escalated force’’ strategy. The similarities of the latter with the RUC methods are striking. US police officers resorted to abrasive and confrontational practices that involved a considerable use of force; police agencies justified them because of their duty of
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upholding law and order, and the safeguard of property and lives (McPhail & McCarthy, 2005, p. 4). The protection of the right to protest, guaranteed by the First Amendment, was on the contrary disregarded. Moreover, police exhibited scarce tolerance towards community disruption and the communication between police and protesters was undercover and exploitative (McPhail & McCarthy, 2005, p. 5). A comparison of the RUC’s management of mass demonstrations with other continental European police forces in the 1960s (e.g., della Porta, 1995) would swiftly expose the adoption of similar patterns of action. From this viewpoint, there would seem to be nothing unique in the Catholics’ mobilisation and the germane police reaction. In brief, there was nothing exceptional in the mass contention that occurred at the end of the 1960s: it was the fragile foundation of the Northern Ireland state and the consequent political settlement which let mass mobilisation and sectarian polarisation set off the breakdown of the political system.
CONCLUSION The analysis of the RUC officers’ testimonies has revealed a set of cognitive and relational mechanisms (Tilly, 2003) which are necessary to comprehend protest-policing styles. The closed POS for the Catholic minority clearly filtered into the police knowledge. This showed the typical cognitive mechanisms concerning the stereotyping of protesters, as well as: (1) an orientation towards a staunch defence of the state and the Unionist domination by all means; (2) a rejection of the minority’s claims about their grievances – initially the discrimination and then the repressive policing of Civil Rights protest; and (3) a disregard for both accountability and citizens’ rights to protest. This uncompromising mindset was unexpectedly offset in Derry by a dense model of interaction between police and protesters. RUC was often willing to – and, in fact, did – negotiate with protest leaders, staging at times a remarkably flexible approach. The intense talks between RUC officers and activists, since they were not backed up by institutional procedures, never crystallised into a predictable scheme. Thus, one of the most important relational mechanisms for the diffusion of the situation – the negotiation process between the police and protesters – did occur haphazardly, therefore protest-policing styles failed to soften and the conflicts to deescalate. This evidence calls into question the explanatory power of ‘‘police knowledge’’. RUC mindsets clearly reflected the blocked political opportunities in
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Northern Ireland. Statically typifying the POS, police knowledge operates as a thorough indicator of one state’s prevailing strategy before contentious collective actors (della Porta & Diani, 2005, p. 206), especially in contexts where the police enjoy scant autonomy from the Government. Yet, a comprehensive explanation of protest-policing styles must rely on the methodical examination of the police–protesters relational models. The appraisal of the interaction between RUC and civil rights leaders clearly shows that police behaviours may critically diverge from police perceptions/attitudes/images. Undoubtedly, a confrontational stance facilitates the adoption of harsh police methods, but, under certain circumstances, police might follow a pragmatic logic divorced from police knowledge, for example, opting for defusing the situation instead of pursuing law-enforcement. Constraints about the unfeasibility of enforcing a ban against an overwhelming crowd, for instance, induced senior officers in Derry to achieve an otherwise unthinkable compromise with civil rights campaigners. However, quite apart from contingent reasons of operational pressing, the broad RUC willingness to negotiate claims some explanation. Further research should identify under which political and situational conditions the police might consistently deflect from pursuing their prevailing strategy in public disorder contexts. As a final remark, it is important to stress that the application of a social movement perspective to Northern Ireland has been instrumental to underscore the similarities of its contentious processes in comparison with other contemporary Western countries. This should drive scholars to reconsider the alleged uniqueness of Northern Ireland and focus more carefully on the comparability of its contentious processes.
NOTES 1. In December 1920, the British government separated, through Partition, six counties in the north-eastern part of Ireland from the rest. While the southern part of the island became a free state, and ultimately, in 1949, the Republic of Ireland, Northern Ireland remained under British rule. From a formal constitutional point of view, Northern Ireland was incorporated within the UK, but de facto became a largely semi-autonomous state in relation to the other provinces, endowed with its own parliament (Stormont), government and judicial system. 2. In Western police agencies, negotiations with activists turned into an ordinary public order practice only during the 1980s (della Porta & Reiter, 1998). 3. While unionists call it Londonderry, nationalists prefer the old denomination of Derry. I use both names interchangeably. 4. A review of the different accounts of the CRM appearance is in Dixon, 2001.
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5. The most accurate description of the variegated ideological and social components of CRM is in Purdie, 1990. 6. For instance, this right in the USA is incorporated in the First Amendment Rights (McPhail et al., 1998 McPhail, Schweingrubber & McCarthy, 1998), while in West Germany it was fully acknowledged through a Federal Constitutional Court decision in 1985 (Winter, 1998). 7. This holds especially true in the context of a divided society such as Northern Ireland. The Independent Commission set up to reform the RUC after the Good Friday Agreement (GFA) acknowledges that ‘‘police have been identified by one section of the population not primarily as upholders of the law but as defenders of the state, and the nature of the state itself has remained the central issue of political argument’’ (Patten, 1999, p. 2). The politicised nature of policing in Northern Ireland is conspicuous also (or even especially) in the aftermath of the GFA, as ‘‘(t)he new political settlement is premised upon police reform, and the prospect of political stability depends upon police reform’’ (McGarry & O’Leary, 1999, p. 13). 8. Recent events as the ‘Battle of Seattle’ in 1999, and in general, the policing of antiglobalisation movements at the beginning of the 21st century, seem to contradict this trend (Ericson & Doyle, 1999; Gillham & Marx, 2000; della Porta, Peterson, & Reiter, 2007). Moreover, the move toward less coercive and brutal protest-policing styles in the last 40 years appears to be challenged by an opposite trend that entails a certain degree of militarization within police forces, and hence a more paramilitary-style strategy of public order policing (for a discussion, see Jefferson, 1990; Waddington, 1999). 9. The basic assumption upon which the POS relies is that exogenous factors to social movements significantly affect their levels of mobilisation, repertoires of action, and outcomes. Tarrow (1994, p. 85) defines the POS as ‘‘consistent – but not necessarily formal or permanent – dimensions of the political environment that provide incentives for people to undertake collective action by affecting their expectations for success or failure.’’ For a viewpoint that considers repression as a dimension of POS rather than a reflection of it, see McAdam (1996) and Tarrow (1998). 10. In comparison with England and Wales, where in 1924 there was one police officer for every 699 inhabitants, and Scotland, one for 751, in Northern Ireland the ratio was one constable for 169 people (Weitzer, 1995, p. 34). 11. After the Partition, Nationalist insurgent groups tried to jeopardise the very existence of the newborn state. Until the 1950s the IRA staged sporadic low-level terrorist campaigns. 12. While accounting for about 40% of the whole population, in 1969 Catholics represented only 11% of the constables. 13. Cameron Report (1969) and the Hunt Report (1969). 14. To the best of my knowledge, there are only a couple of academic studies (Drew, 1978; Atkinson & Drew, 1979) that examined small excerpts from this material to conduct conversational analyses within an ethnomethodological approach. 15. In detail, the testimonies – in descending rank order – concerned: one Deputy Inspector General, two County Inspectors, four District Inspectors, six Head Constables, three Sergeants, and no Constables. 16. To be fair, the recurrent distinction between ‘‘responsible’’ and ‘‘hooligan’’ is neither peculiar of the Northern Ireland context, nor monopolised by police officers: the Tribunal itself accepted and was keen to apply that type of labelling with ease.
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17. The issue of accountability is of paramount importance. Unfortunately here I do not have the space to elaborate further, but for systematic discussions see Patten (1999, pp. 22–39); McGarry and O’Leary (1999, pp. 97–114) 18. Police officers risk incurring two types of hassle: ‘‘on-the-job trouble’’, i.e., ‘‘problematic encounters, incidents and tasks that police officers are routinely called on to deal with’’; and ‘‘in-the-job trouble’’, which ‘‘arises from the officer’s relationship with the police and criminal justice bureaucracies and usually entails the need to account for one’s action and avoid the possibility of ‘‘comeback’’.’’ (Waddington, 1998, p. 119)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I would like to thank my supervisors at the University of Reading, Tank Waddington and Roberto Franzosi, for their invaluable encouragement and support with this project. Lorenzo Bosi, Andy Buck and the three anonymous reviewers have provided extremely helpful comments and advices on previous versions of this paper. Finally, thanks to Mel Steptoe for editing the final draft.
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Earl, J., Soule, S. A., & McCarthy, J. D. (2003). Protest under fire? Explaining the policing of protest. American Sociological Review, 68(4), 581–606. Ellison, G. (1997). ‘‘Professionalism in the Royal Ulster Constabulary: An examination of the institutional discourse.’’ Ph.D. dissertation, University of Ulster. Ellison, G., & Martin, G. (2000). Policing, collective action and social movement theory: The case of Northern Ireland civil rights campaign. British Journal of Sociology, 51(4), 681–699. Ellison, G., & Smyth, J. (2000). The crowned harp: Policing Northern Ireland. London: Pluto Press. Ericson, R., & Doyle, A. (1999). Globalization and the policing of protest: The case of APEC 1997. British Journal of Sociology, 50(4), 589–608. Fillieule, O., & Jobard, F. (1998). The policing of protest in France: Toward a model of protest policing. In: D. della Porta & H. Reiter (Eds), Policing protest. The control of mass demonstrations in Western democracies. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Gamson, W. (1975). The strategy of social protest. Homewood: Dorsey Press. Gillham, P., & Marx, G. T. (2000). Complexity and irony in policing and protesting: The World Trade Organization in Seattle. Social Justice, 27(2), 212–236. Hillyard, P., & Tomlinson, M. (2000). Patterns of policing and policing patten. Journal of Law and Society, 27(3), 394–415. Hunt Report. 1969. Report of the Advisory Committee on Police in Northern Ireland. Cmnd. 535, Belfast: HMSO. Jefferson, T. (1990). The case against paramilitary policing. Milton Keynes: Open University Press. Jenkins, J. C., & Klandermans, B. (Eds) (1995). The politics of social protest: Comparative perspectives on states and social movements. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Le Bon, G. (1895). The crowd: A study of the popular mind. London: T. Fisher Unwin. Lee, J. J. (1989). Ireland 1912–1985 politics and society. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mawby, R. C. (2002). Policing images: Policing, communication and legitimacy. Cullompton: Wintan. McAdam, D. (1983). Tactical innovation and the pace of insurgency. American Sociological Review, 48(6), 735–754. McAdam, D. (1996). Conceptual origins, current problems, future directions. In: D. McAdam, J. D. McCarthy & M. N. Zald (Eds), Comparative perspectives on social movements. Political opportunities, mobilizing structures, and cultural framings (pp. 23–40). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. McAdam, D., Tarrow, S., & Tilly, C. (2001). Dynamics of contention. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. McGarry, J., & O’Leary, B. (1995). Explaining Northern Ireland. Broken images. Oxford: Blackwell. McGarry, J., & O’Leary, B. (1999). Policing Northern Ireland. Proposal for a new start. Belfast: Blackstaff Press. McPhail, C. (1991). The myth of the madding crowd. New York: A. de Gruyter. McPhail, C., & McCarthy, J. D. (2005). Protest mobilization, protest repression, and their interaction. In: C. Davenport, H. Johnston & . Mueller (Eds), Repression and mobilization (pp. 3–32). Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press.
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McPhail, C., Schweingrubber, D., & McCarthy, J. D. (1998). Policing protest in the United States: 1960–1995. In: D. della Porta & H. Reiter (Eds), Policing protest. The control of mass demonstrations in western democracies (pp. 49–69). Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Meyer, D. S., & Minkoff, D. C. (2004). Conceptualizing political opportunity. Social Forces, 82(4), 1457–1492. Moore, L., & O’Rawe, M. (1997). Human rights on duty: Principles for better policing – international lessons for Northern Ireland. Belfast: Committee on the Administration of Justice. O´ Dochartaigh, N. (2005). From civil rights to Armalites: Derry and the birth of the Irish Troubles (2nd ed). New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Patten Report. (1999). Report of the independent commission on policing in Northern Ireland. Belfast: HMSO. Purdie, B. (1990). Politics in the streets: The origins of the Civil Rights Movement in Northern Ireland. Belfast: Blackwell. Reicher, S. (1984). The St. Paul’s riot: An explanation of the limits of crowd action in terms of a social identity model. European Journal of Social Psychology, 14(1), 1–21. Scarman Report. (1972). Violence and civil disturbance in Northern Ireland in 1969. Report of the Tribunal of Inquiry. Cmnd. 566, Belfast: HMSO. Tarrow, S. (1994). Power in movement. Social movements, collective action and politics. New York: Cambridge University Press. Tarrow, S. (1998). Power in movement. Social movements and contentious politics (2nd ed). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tilly, C. (2003). The politics of collective violence. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Waddington, D., Jones, K., & Critcher, C. (1989). Flashpoints: Studies in public disorder. London: Routledge. Waddington, D., & King, M. (2005). The disorderly crowd: From classical psychological reductionism to socio-contextual theory – The impact on public order policing strategies. The Howard Journal, 44(5), 490–503. Waddington, P. A. J. (1994). Liberty and order: Policing public order in a capital city. London: UCL Press. Waddington, P. A. J. (1996). The other side of the barricades: Policing protest. In: C. Barker & P. Kennedy (Eds), To make another world: Studies in protest and collective action (pp. 219–236). Aldershot: Avebury. Waddington, P. A. J. (1998). Controlling protest in contemporary historical and comparative perspective. In: D. della Porta & D. Reiter (Eds), Policing protest. The control of mass demonstrations in western democracies (pp. 117–140). Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Waddington, P. A. J. (1999). Policing citizens: Authority and rights. London: Routledge. Weitzer, R. (1995). Policing under fire. Ethnic conflict and police-community relations in Northern Ireland. New York: SUNY Press. Whyte, J. (1990). Interpreting Northern Ireland. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Winter, M. (1998). Police philosophy and protest policing in the federal republic of Germany, 1960–1990. In: D. della Porta & H. Reiter (Eds), Policing protest. The control of mass demonstrations in western democracies (pp. 188–212). Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press.
RETHINKING NONVIOLENT ACTION AND CONTENTIOUS POLITICS: POLITICAL CULTURES OF NONVIOLENT OPPOSITION IN THE INDIAN INDEPENDENCE MOVEMENT AND BRAZIL’S LANDLESS WORKERS MOVEMENT Sean Chabot and Stellan Vinthagen ABSTRACT The emerging synthesis between nonviolent action and contentious politics studies has yielded important insights. Yet it also reproduces the dichotomy between politics and culture that continues to haunt both fields. Extending recent work by Jean-Pierre Reed and John Foran, our contribution introduces the political cultures of nonviolent opposition concept to forge a new synthesis, one that recognizes the politics of nonviolent culture and the culture of nonviolent politics. We apply our theoretical framework to two empirical cases, the Indian independence movement and the Landless Workers Movement in Brazil (known as Movimento Sem Terra or MST), and conclude with ideas for further research on political cultures of nonviolent opposition. Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, Volume 27, 91–121 Copyright r 2007 by Elsevier Ltd. All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-786X/doi:10.1016/S0163-786X(06)27004-6
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INTRODUCTION As peaceful social movements continue to exert powerful influence on governments and societies throughout the world, scholars focusing on nonviolent action and contentious politics increasingly realize that they have much to learn from each other. Informed by previous attempts at synthesis, Kurt Schock’s (2005) Unarmed Insurrections breaks new ground in merging nonviolent action and contentious politics studies. While cross-fertilization started during the 1990s (Sommer, 2000; McAdam & Tarrow, 2000; Zunes, Kurtz, & Beth, 1999; Ackerman & Kruegler, 1994; McCarthy & Kruegler, 1993), Schock is the first to develop a comprehensive theoretical framework based on key statements and debates in both fields. The purpose of our contribution to this volume is to extend – and where necessary revise – Schock’s work, and apply our own approach to the Indian independence movement and the contemporary landless workers movement in Brazil (Movimento Sem Terra or MST). Although we appreciate the analytical clarity and empirical applicability of Unarmed Insurrections, we also feel it reproduces serious blind spots in nonviolent action and contentious politics studies. In our view, both areas of research tend to rely on dichotomies between politics and culture, which constrain explorations of intersections between these domains. Following the perspective of Gene Sharp, the undisputed pioneer in the field, nonviolent action scholars generally base their theories on socialscientific distinctions between rational choice and ethical behavior, objective explanations and subjective interpretations, and especially strategic interests and moral values. Sharp’s The Politics of Nonviolent Action, for instance, states at the outset that he will focus on nonviolent action as a political technique rather than a cultural way of life: ‘‘[R]elationships between this technique and ethical problems, and between the technique and belief systems exhorting to nonviolent behavior, are for the most part not discussed here’’ (Sharp, 1973, p. vi, 1990, p. 2). His successors generally adopt the same theoretical perspective, treating ‘‘pragmatic’’ and ‘‘principled’’ nonviolent action as separate protest techniques, and politics and culture as separate domains (Schock, 2005, pp. 36–37; Burrowes, 1996, p. 100). Such binaries lead scholars to underestimate the culture of nonviolent politics, the politics of nonviolent culture, and connections between them. Although they now pay more attention to cultural processes than in the past, leading contentious politics scholars continue to build their arguments on categorical oppositions, treating culture as a mediator between political institutions and collective action (Williams, 1977, p. 99). Take, for instance,
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the latest dynamics of contention model developed by Doug McAdam, one of the field’s most influential scholars. It assigns more importance to cultural mechanisms like identity formation and meaning-making than McAdam’s (1982) old political process model, but still conceives of them as setting the stage for organized political action and governmental reform – not as politically significant in their own right (Goodwin & Jasper, 2004, p. 211). While we recognize that politics and culture should not be conflated, we suggest that students of contentious politics should pay more attention to the interplay between these spheres of social life. We are not alone in raising this crucial theoretical issue. Particularly within the contentious politics field, scholars are increasingly contesting the structuralist bias of prominent figures like McAdam and his collaborators, Charles Tilly and Sidney Tarrow, challenging them to take the politicsculture nexus more seriously (McAdam, Tarrow, & Tilly, 2001). In Rethinking Social Movements, for example, Jeff Goodwin and James Jasper (2004) initiate a debate about the mediation model of culture and include important statements from both sides of the argument (see also Reed, 2005; Duncombe, 2002; Mansbridge & Morris, 2001; Buechler, 1999; Alvarez, Dagnino, & Escobar, 1998). But while their collected volume confirms that the field is in flux, it does not offer a concrete alternative to the theoretical framework favored by researchers like McAdam, Tarrow, and Tilly. In our opinion, the most promising recent work in this regard comes from JeanPierre Reed and John Foran (2002), who propose the new concept ‘‘political cultures of opposition’’ as a way to explore the fertile ground between politics and culture. As sociology of revolution specialists, Reed and Foran are on the margins of the contentious politics field, but we feel that their concept allows us to rethink linkages with nonviolent action scholarship, particularly in the cases of the Indian independence movement and the MST in Brazil. The following section introduces a new concept for studying nonviolent action and contentious politics, ‘‘political cultures of nonviolent opposition,’’ based on the theoretical efforts of Reed and Foran. This concept allows for a new synthesis that moves beyond current culture-politics dichotomies and relies on an alternative view of power. The third section examines the four elements shaping political cultures of nonviolent opposition – emotional experiences, cultural idioms, ideologies, and organizational structures – in the Indian independence movement led by Gandhi and the ongoing MST in Brazil. It suggests that some nonviolent social movements should be seen as both pragmatic and principled, both political and cultural, rather than either one or the other. To conclude, we show how the elements discussed in the previous section intersect and connect with specific political
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cultures of nonviolent opposition, and suggest several areas for further research.
POLITICAL CULTURES OF NONVIOLENT OPPOSITION IN THEORY The theoretical framework developed by Reed and Foran (2002) is a solid basis for constructing a new synthesis of nonviolent action and contentious politics studies – a synthesis that does not reproduce the politics-culture binary. Reed and Foran’s concept of political cultures of opposition is innovative in several ways. First of all, it avoids the connotations of the conventional political culture concept, popularized by American political scientists during the 1960s, which aimed at categorizing entire societies as ‘‘traditional’’ or ‘‘modern,’’ according to the dominant institutions and values of Western democracies (e.g., Pye & Verba, 1965; Almond & Verba, 1963). In contrast, Reed and Foran (2002, pp. 338–339) seek to capture ‘‘the plurivocal and potentially radical ways of understanding one’s circumstances that various groups within a society sometimes articulate to make sense of the political and economic changes they are living through.’’ They emphasize, moreover, that each society – whether Western or non-Western – may contain multiple oppositional ways of understanding. Secondly, Reed and Foran move beyond the American sociology of culture tradition by incorporating the distinctive insights of scholars like Ann Swidler (1986), William Sewell (1985), Theda Skocpol (1985), and James Scott (1990) into one complex theoretical framework, and by emphasizing the oppositional potential of the amalgam of emotional experiences, cultural idioms, ideologies, and organizational structures. More specifically, Reed and Foran propose that emotional experiences, cultural idioms, ideologies, and organizational structures may come together in the form of political cultures of opposition, which in turn may allow broad coalitions of contentious actors (across class, race, and/or gender identities) to initiate and sustain social movements or revolutions (Reed & Foran, 2002, pp. 339–340). Fig. 1 displays how, in specific situations, political cultures of opposition draw on, and in turn shape, diverse cultural products and processes. The solid lines indicate direct relationships, while the dotted lines refer to more indirect linkages between ideologies and emotional experiences as well as between cultural idioms and organizational structures. All connections with the central element – political cultures of opposition – fluctuate and may be
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Ideologies
Emotional experiences
Political cultures of opposition
Organizational structures
Cultural idioms
Fig. 1.
The Role of Culture in the Making of Social Movements and Revolutions.
reciprocal (Reed & Foran, 2002, p. 340; see also Foran, 2005, p. 21). Reed and Foran apply this framework to the Revolution in Nicaragua that led to the overthrow of the Somoza regime in 1979. They show, among other things, that the political culture of Sandanismo emerged from and affected a complex combination of cultural influences: (1) an ideological mixture of Marxism and Sandino’s writings; (2) folkloric cultural idioms of social justice, nationalism, democracy, and Christian values; (3) subjective experiences of dictatorship and exploitation as well as emotions of patriotic love, anger at the Somoza regime, and popular solidarity; and (4) organizational structures of the Sandanista Front for National Liberation (FLSN) and a broad multi-class alliance (Reed & Foran, 2002, pp. 351–360). This fluid and temporary amalgam of political-cultural forces helped catalyze and propel the Sandanista Revolution during the late 1970s. Building on Reed and Foran’s groundbreaking work, we propose the concept of political cultures of nonviolent opposition and suggest that it allows us to synthesize nonviolent action and contentious politics scholarship without perpetuating unnecessary barriers between political and cultural processes. While we accept the way Reed and Foran perceive politicalcultural dynamics, we focus on one particular form of collective struggle: nonviolent opposition. Before we proceed, therefore, let us clarify what we mean by nonviolence. Like Sharp (1973, p. 64), most contemporary scholars define nonviolence as the absence of intentional physical harm to other people and nonviolent action as a pragmatic technique for challenging authorities through indirect resistance or direct intervention. But such ‘‘negative nonviolence’’ only precludes visible and interpersonal violence; it does not target the
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institutionalized forms of violence that are embedded in a society’s patterns of interaction and cultural practices. In contrast, we use the term nonviolent opposition to refer to ‘‘positive nonviolence’’ against structures of oppression – such as colonialism, economic exclusion, racism, homophobia, and sexism – that are deeply rooted in collective ways of life (Galtung, 1969, p. 183). Positive nonviolence combines love for self, other human beings, and communities, on the one hand, with nonviolent action campaigns against unjust laws, authorities, and institutions, on the other. It requires commitment to moral principles like (1) maintaining courage in the face of repression; (2) seeking reconciliation with, rather than defeat of, opponents; (3) attacking oppressive systems instead of oppressors; (4) accepting self-suffering without causing harm to others; (5) rejecting physical means of violence; and (6) retaining hope that social justice is possible. But it also promotes contentious interaction in public life according to specific strategic guidelines: (1) carefully research and analyze oppressive situations before organizing protest campaigns; (2) educate state actors and the public about the issues at stake; (3) prepare for the spiritual, mental, and practical challenges of nonviolent activism; (4) keep lines of communication with authorities, bystanders, and fellow activists open; (5) when negotiations fail, engage in nonviolent direct action by applying methods like mass marches, boycotts, and sit-ins; and (6) create alternative institutions and ‘‘beloved communities’’ in which social differences no longer produce structural violence and oppression (Bondurant, 1971; King, 1967; Shridharani, 1939; Gregg, 1935). Contrary to Sharp, therefore, we argue that the transformative potential of nonviolent opposition is greatest when moral principles and instrumental strategies, grassroots community building and dramatic protest campaigns, as well as cultural resistance and state-centered politics reinforce each other (see Reed, 2005, pp. 286–315; Duncombe, 2002, pp. 5–9; Buechler, 2000, pp. 163–164). Our approach to nonviolence and nonviolent opposition reflects an alternative understanding of power in the modern world. Social scientists commonly follow Weber in assuming that power derives from the legitimacy to use violence and coercion possessed by those controlling the state, who can ‘‘realize their own will in a communal action even against the resistance of others’’ (Weber, 1946, p. 180). For example, Sharp (1973, p. 7) begins with the ability of individuals or groups to wield power ‘‘for political objectives, especially by governmental institutions or by people in opposition to or in support of such institutions.’’ He then argues that political power primarily relies on the consent of ordinary citizens, who can always decide
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to withdraw their obedience and organize effective nonviolent action against tyrannical governments, if they have the necessary will, courage, and knowledge (Sharp, 1973, pp. 8–16, 25–32, 38, 1990, p. 3). Contentious politics scholars, in contrast, usually avoid the individualism and voluntarism of Sharp’s view and prefer structural theories of power emphasizing the struggle between dominant political institutions and mobilized protest organizations (see also Lukes, 2005; Vinthagen, 2005; Foucault, 2004; Burrowes, 1996; McGuinness, 1993; Martin, 1989). But they generally accept Weber’s notion that power is a zero-sum game in which one group’s gain is another group’s loss. We agree with Seth Kreisberg (1992), however, that power can also be a constructive force for personal growth, dialogue, cooperation, and liberation – a force that benefits individuals, groups, and communities throughout society. While the Weberian perspective highlights how the dominant have power over the dominated, our perspective emphasizes that positive nonviolence may transform oppressive situations into settings promoting power with, where people with different positions in systems of oppression ‘‘can fulfill their needs and develop their capacities not at the expense of others but by acting in concert with others’’ (Kreisberg, 1992, p. 84). Instead of taking for granted that the struggle for power necessarily involves irreconcilable conflicts between winners (oppressors) and losers (oppressed), therefore, we allow for the possibility that power can expand, enabling people and social groups with diverse national, racial, class, or sexual identities to work together toward common goals. Drawing on these alternative conceptualizations of nonviolence and power, we argue that political cultures of nonviolent opposition are meaningful when they transform human relationships defined by domination into human relationships defined by love, dialogue, and cooperation. The purpose of political cultures of nonviolent opposition, moreover, is not merely to take over control of states – and replace one tyranny with another – but to expand the power to promote social justice within states, between states and societies, within societies, and between societies. To illustrate the theoretical and empirical relevance of our concept, we will apply it to two cases that are usually studied separately. While the Indian independence movement is a common reference for students of nonviolent action, scholars generally do not consider the contemporary landless workers movement in Brazil (MST) to be a nonviolent social movement. But although MST activists do not use the same terminology as Gandhian activists, the analysis below demonstrates that their political culture of opposition is no less nonviolent in practice.
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POLITICAL CULTURES OF NONVIOLENT OPPOSITION IN PRACTICE In our comparison of political cultures of nonviolent opposition in the Indian independence movement and Brazil’s MST, we do not claim to offer new evidence or comprehensive analysis. By applying and extending the theoretical framework proposed by Reed and Foran (2002), however, we provide new insights into the practical realities of the politics of nonviolent culture, the culture of nonviolent politics, and intersections between them. For each social movement, we will briefly illustrate how under certain circumstances emotional experiences, cultural idioms, ideologies, and organizational structures came together to produce a political culture of nonviolent opposition (see also Foran, 2005, pp. 18–24). As indicated in Fig. 1, linkages between emotional experiences and cultural idioms, and between ideologies and organizational structures, were more direct and visible than those between emotional experiences and ideologies, and between organizational structures and cultural idioms. Each element’s connection to the political culture of nonviolent opposition, moreover, was immediate and explicit. We emphasize, though, that the evolving relationships between elements – not the nature of each element in itself – and the ever-changing social contexts of these relationships enabled the formation of political cultures of nonviolent opposition. How actors actually constructed such relationships and responded to their social contexts was unpredictable and partly depended on their creativity and effort. We now turn to an empirical examination of these causal dynamics in our two cases. Emotional Experiences During the Indian independence movement, which grew into a nationwide phenomenon after World War I, the Indian population experienced the structural oppression of colonialism on a daily basis. But there was one transformative event – the massacre in Amritsar – that drew widespread public attention to the underlying brutality of British rule, inciting emotions of righteous anger and disgust at the imperial government among men and women from diverse religions, ethnic groups, and castes (Sewell, 1996). On April 13, 1919, British General Dyer, who had recently taken over military command in Amritsar, ordered his soldiers to open fire on a crowd of peaceful demonstrators, who had gathered in the park of Jallianwala Bagh to express support for the Anti-Rowlatt Bill campaign led by Gandhi, which
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opposed restrictions on civil liberties (Fein, 1977, pp. 24–30; Furneaux, 1963, pp. 33–47). Dyer told his troops to aim at the areas where most people had congregated and particularly at the demonstrators who were desperately trying to climb over the walls surrounding the park. The firing lasted for about 6 minutes, killing hundreds of adults and children – mostly from gunshot wounds in the back – and injuring more than 1,200. The general refused to arrange for medical assistance after the massacre and later declared that he wanted to send a moral message to all Indian nationalists and show them that resistance against the British Empire was seditious and futile (Draper, 1985, p. 155). After this horrific event, the British Raj tried to contain the negative publicity in India and abroad by appointing Lord Hunter to lead a committee to investigate the matter. But to prevent a cover-up, Indian nationalists organized their own committee, with Gandhi as a prominent member, and published their own report. The Hunter Committee’s report resulted in Dyer’s early retirement, but it did not accuse him or other Punjab authorities of criminal misconduct (Fein, 1977, p. 184). The report of the Indian National Congress, in contrast, was a harsh indictment of General Dyer, the Punjabi government, and the British Viceroy. Based on verbal evidence provided by authorities, interviews with 1,700 witnesses, and dramatic photographs of the victims, it condemned the general for his ‘‘calculated piece of inhumanity towards utterly innocent and unarmed men, including children’’ and argued that the Viceroy ‘‘clothed the officials [in Punjab] with indemnity in indecent haste’’ (Draper, 1985, pp. 201–202). The emotional impact of the Amritsar massacre, the Hunter Committee’s failure to punish responsible parties, and the independent report by Indian nationalists on the political consciousness of the Indian population was dramatic, widespread, and lasting. In response to their feelings of anger and fear, people who had previously remained on the sidelines now joined the Indian independence movement in the hope of building a less oppressive society. Nationalist leaders who had earlier called for political reforms and dominion status now demanded complete autonomy from the British Empire. Motivated by indignation, Gandhi himself – like other prominent figures in India – publicly renounced his loyalty to the British Empire, returned the medals he had received for his contributions during World War I, and fully committed to the struggle to end British rule in India (Chabot, 2003, p. 50; Andrews, 1930, p. 230). The MST in Brazil fights structural oppression caused by economic marginalization, agrarian modernization, unequal distribution of land, and neoliberal globalization rather than colonialism. As with the Indian
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independence movement, however, there is a transformative event in the MST’s history that has had a powerful influence on activists’ emotional experiences of social injustice and on the expansion of the social movement. On April 17, 1996, 1,500 MST activists were blocking a highway in the state of Para´, near Eldorado dos Caraja´s, to challenge the government’s refusal to settle families occupying land on the Macaxeira plantation. Late in the afternoon, 155 military police troops arrived at the site and surrounded the demonstrators. Then, around 4:30 p.m., they began firing on the unarmed crowd of men, women, and children with machine guns and rifles. The MST activists tried to run away, but by the time the shooting stopped hundreds of bodies lay on the road, with 19 dead and 57 seriously injured. The local media later quoted Mario Collares Pantoja, the military police’s commander on that day, as saying: ‘‘Mission complete. Nobody saw anything’’ (Branford & Rocha, 2002, p. 142). But the commander was not aware that someone had captured most of the violence on video camera. This footage later appeared on television and caused a public outcry in Brazil and abroad. Among other things, it showed that at least 10 of the dead activists had been executed with bullets in the head and neck, while 7 others had been killed with a machete. Several days later, moreover, a witness testified that local landowners had bribed the police to kill prominent MST leaders and end the protest campaign (Branford & Rocha, 2002, pp. 139–147; Wright & Wolford, 2003, p. 208). In response to the massacre of Eldorado de Caraja´s, the outrage of Brazilian citizens, and pressure by international human rights organizations, president Cardoso appeared on Brazilian television, calling for punishment of those involved and allowing the families on the Macaxeira estate to settle and set up the Formosa camp. But the federal government had little influence on state authorities in Para´, who continued to defend the position of the landowners and refused to assist survivors of the massacre. Initially, none of the landowners or military police officers involved faced legal repercussions. An internal investigation in 1996 by the Para´ state police found the 155 troops innocent, while a jury acquitted commander Pantoja and his superiors for lack of evidence in 1999 (Branford & Rocha, 2002, pp. 145–147). This decision was overturned, however, and in 2002 two of the responsible police officers received long jail terms (Wright & Wolford, 2003, p. 209). At first, the moral shock (Jasper & Poulsen, 1995) of the Eldorado de Caraja´s tragedy made MST activists sad and fearful of more brutal repression by military police troops and paramilitary forces hired by landowners. But, buoyed by growing support for landless workers and the MST
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throughout Brazil, they translated their anger and anxiety into greater commitment to their struggle for land occupations, agrarian reform, and social justice than before (Branford & Rocha, 2002, pp. 144–147). Since 1996, MST activists have commemorated the anniversary of the massacre of Eldorado de Caraja´s and constructed several monuments to the memory of those who lost their lives (Wright & Wolford, 2003, p. 209). The emotional resonance of this transformative event remains a powerful force for the MST, as it continues to expand its activities and networks both within and outside of Brazil.
Cultural Idioms To channel and tap into popular emotions, participants in the Indian independence movement invoked folkloric language from India’s past. As the primary symbolic and political leader, Gandhi was particularly important in selecting and reinventing a broad range of Indian traditions with relevance for the struggle against British rule. Here we will just highlight four significant Hindu terms that Gandhi popularized and reinterpreted to draw upon and radicalize existing principles, beliefs, practices, values, and narratives. The first term, swadeshi, refers to a traditional way of life based on economic self-reliance, local production, and fulfillment of basic human needs. According to Gandhi, Western industrialization and modernization were fundamentally flawed, because they encouraged people to focus on selfish interests and widened the gap between rich and poor. With the familiar notion of swadeshi, he suggested that the rural village should once again become central in Indian society, because it would provide the largest proportion of the population – the wealthy as well as the destitute – with moral purpose, self-discipline, and means of survival (Hardiman, 2003, pp. 77–78; Terchek, 1998, pp. 112–114; Fox, 1989, pp. 46–47, 54–59). Without widespread access to employment and necessary material resources, the Indian independence movement would fail to bring liberation for the most oppressed people in the country. The second term, sarvodaya, emphasized commitment to serving the poor and marginalized – not just oneself or one’s family – as a way to promote public welfare. To put this traditional Hindu ideal into practice, Gandhi developed a social reform program that called on activists in the Indian independence movement to work toward stimulating Hindu–Muslim unity; fighting poverty, disease, and illiteracy; ending untouchability and the caste system; and improving the conditions of women. He devoted his life to such
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community-building activities and made clear that ending British rule would be meaningless without the inclusion and autonomy of all Indian citizens (Nojeim, 2004, pp. 110–119; Fox, 1989, pp. 42–44). The third term, aparigraha, reflected the common belief in Hinduism and other religions that the desire to own ever more property and material things was sinful and eventually produced violence. For Gandhi, leading a simple life based on autonomy, self-control, discipline, and hard work was the best way to prepare for the mental, physical, and spiritual challenges faced by participants in the struggle for national independence (Terchek, 1998, pp. 40–42; Fox, 1989, pp. 44–45). This meant that owners of land and capital should use their wealth for the benefit of society and provide for the social welfare of their workers (Hardiman, 2003, pp. 83–84). It also implied that both privileged and poor Indian activists had to learn how to overcome earthly desires – for prosperity, technology, food, sex, or glory – before they could contribute positively to the Indian independence movement (Nojeim, 2004, pp. 107–110). The symbol that synthesized these traditional ideas, and captured their practical significance, was khadi or hand-spinning. Gandhi argued that modern technology only contributes to social welfare when it allows the majority of people to work, meet basic human needs, and participate in decisions concerning labor conditions. Most Indians living under colonial rule, however, did not experience the benefits of the industrial machinery introduced by the British. Especially in the countryside, the number of unemployed and destitute was staggering, which undermined the nation’s sense of hope and community spirit. Gandhi felt that promoting khadi, a typically Indian production process, would allow the poor Indian masses to regain their sense of pride, take control of their material welfare, and help build a new society based on the autonomy of ordinary people (Terchek, 1998, pp. 120–123). He initiated a spinning campaign in 1919 and arranged for the distribution of spinning wheels throughout the country. The spinning wheel later appeared on nationalist flags, while white homespun clothing (including the ‘‘Gandhi cap’’) became the uniform of upper-caste as well as untouchable activists (Hardiman, 2003, pp. 78–79; Tarlo, 1996). Thus, Gandhi and other Indian nationalists adopted and revised cultural idioms like swadeshi, sarvodaya, and aparigraha, as well as traditional production processes like khadi, with the purpose of politicizing the Indian population and making the Indian independence movement as inclusive as possible. The MST does not have a towering figure like Gandhi to identify and reinterpret the folkloric idioms with significance for its social movement. It invokes traditional principles through a more collective process guided by
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numerous leaders. In addition, whereas Gandhi drew on complex philosophical concepts, the MST primarily uses collective rituals called mı´stica to express difficult ideas and tell painful stories with simple yet powerful symbols. Mı´ stica (or mysticism) originates in Liberation Theology, a Christian movement advocating social justice for the poor that emerged throughout Latin America during the 1960s, and helps MST activists build on legacies of past struggles, sustain motivation for current efforts, and anticipate a brighter future (Wright & Wolford, 2003, pp. 310–311; Carter, 2003; Branford & Rocha, 2002; Lo¨wy, 2001; Berryman, 1987). The main forms of mı´ stica are songs, slogans, dances, theatrical reenactments, and waving of the MST flag, which are recurring features of everyday life in MST’s land occupations, camps, and settlements as well as during dramatic MST gatherings, marches, and campaigns. Mı´ stica serves two important symbolic purposes. First, the collective performance of MST rituals confirms age-old values of the peasantry’s way of life: discipline, responsibility, sacrifice, conviction, perseverance, humility, and honesty (Wright & Wolford, 2003, p. 311). And second, mysticism is crucial for the construction and affirmation of MST’s collective identity, encouraging MST activists to continue their social movement against structural oppression of landless workers and for sustainable agriculture (Branford & Rocha, 2002, pp. 245–251). As O Jornal Sem Terra, the MST’s newspaper, indicates: ‘‘the more that the masses attach themselves to their symbols, leaders and organization, the more they fight, the more they mobilize and the more they organize themselves’’ (Wright & Wolford, 2003, p. 311). Thus, mı´ stica practices not only tap into existing cultural idioms that resonate among landless peasants, but also ensure that religious and historical references stimulate MST activists to engage in radical cultural and political action. Although mı´ stica symbols and rituals strongly influence the emotional experiences of participants, they are not spontaneous or impulsive. In 1988, MST activists recognized the need for an oppositional collective identity to sustain the confidence of landless families occupying unused Brazilian farmland and building camps in the face of violent repression. They held a meeting to discuss how to make the MST’s image more militant. At the end, the landless families selected a new repertoire of MST symbols: a red flag, a red baseball cap, and a red T-shirt, all imprinted with a map of Brazil and two peasant activists. And later, they composed new songs and slogans that affirmed their pride as landless workers and MST activists, and emphasized their importance for Brazilian society. Instead of ‘‘Without Land Reform, There Will Be No Democracy,’’ therefore, they started using more confrontational slogans like ‘‘Occupy, Produce, and Resist!’’ and ‘‘Land
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Reform: A Fight for All!’’ The way MST activists use these new symbols during mı´ stica rituals is also becoming more defiant (Branford & Rocha, 2002, pp. 250–251). In short, mı´ stica is an important weapon for politicizing landless peasants, communicating messages, organizing land occupations, and mobilizing large-scale campaigns.
Ideologies Gandhi’s views on Indian autonomy, truthful ends, and nonviolent means formed the ideological foundation of the Indian independence movement. In Hind Swaraj, his most important text on national liberation, Gandhi ([1909]1938) challenged the notion that material prosperity and technological progress were the driving forces of civilization. He argued that, in fact, modern inventions like the railways enabled the British Empire to colonize India and caused famines, diseases, and religious conflicts. Gandhi’s definition of civilization, in contrast, stressed the moral and spiritual values of civilization and suggested that, according to these standards, traditional India was civilized and benevolent while modern Britain was uncivilized and evil. His idea of the good life emphasized restraints on material desires, skepticism toward new technology, and cooperation rather than competition (Hardiman, 2003, p. 69). Contrary to extremist Indian nationalists, who favored violent methods to end British rule and capture control of the state, Gandhi stressed that India could only become truly free if it rid itself of internal oppression and poverty as well as imperial domination. In his eyes, an independent India governed by an authoritarian Indian elite and political system based on self-interest would be just as tyrannical as the current British elite and political system. For Gandhi, meaningful swaraj (national liberation) was only possible if Indians from all castes used nonviolent means to achieve truthful ends, both in everyday life and dramatic protest campaigns (Nojeim, 2004, pp. 101–105; Chabot, 2003, pp. 43–44; Terchek, 1998, pp. 140–142). The concept of satyagraha represented Gandhi’s theory for nonviolent opposition to imperialism and other oppressive structures. To distinguish his approach from Western passive resistance, Gandhi (1928, pp. 105–106) coined satyagraha and translated it as ‘‘the Force which is born of Truth and Love’’ or truth force. The practitioner of satyagraha believed that truth reflects every person’s unique sense of dignity, morality, and autonomy, and that denials of such truth by dominant people or institutions must be resisted actively, nonviolently, and publicly. According to a
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satyagrahi, fundamental injustice to anyone affected everyone, because all human beings were interrelated and therefore partly responsible for oppressive practices in their homes, communities, and societies. Gandhi asserted that satyagraha was a moral weapon that all human beings – young and old, rich and poor, men and women, highly educated and illiterate, powerful and powerless – could apply in all domains of social life, as long as they developed the courage and strength to avoid violence in word and deed (Vinthagen, 2005, pp. 319–384). Nonviolent action, from this perspective, was more than a pragmatic technique for achieving peaceful social change; it was also a way of life for transforming interpersonal relationships – for creating power with interactions based on love, dialogue, and cooperation – with likeminded people as well as opponents (Terchek, 1998, p. 183). The best way to convert the worldview and behavior of opponents, moreover, was through voluntary self-suffering, which not only affirmed the Gandhian activist’s autonomy and self-confidence in taking a stand against structural oppression, but also appealed to an opponent’s mind, heart, and soul (Terchek, 1998, pp. 180–184). In practice, satyagraha involved the same moral principles and strategic guidelines we referred to earlier in our discussion of positive nonviolence. Gandhi adopted and revised ahimsa, a familiar principle in Hindu philosophy, to clarify his understanding of nonviolence and love. For him, ahimsa meant more than just the absence of harm to other (negative nonviolence); it was an active and liberating force that ‘‘is hurt by every evil thought, by undue haste, by lying, by hatred, by wishing ill of anybody’’ (Terchek, 1998, p. 186). Ahimsa, in other words, made virtuous social life possible and relied on a conception of love that stressed basic respect for all human beings – for friends and family as well as for enemies – rather than intimacy, sentimentality, or desire. Although nobody was able to attain such universal love for self and others in reality, Gandhi urged people to devote their time and energy to the search for perfection. His expansive view of love was spiritual and moral as well as political. It did not deny conflicts over distribution of resources or recognition of differences, but sought to create political relationships characterized by constructive dialogue and cooperation with others rather than by self-interest and domination (Vinthagen, 2005, pp. 215–244; Chabot, 2003, pp. 23–28). While Gandhi acknowledged the significance of reason for ahimsa, he emphasized emotional qualities like humility, openness, mutuality, compassion, and love. And while he called on fellow activists to translate their own glimpses of truth into action, he believed that everyone’s truth was partial and deserved equal respect (Terchek, 1998, pp. 185–189). Thus, each of the three major facets of
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Gandhian ideology – swaraj, satyagraha, and ahimsa – stressed that transforming fear and submission into courage and nonviolent opposition involved constant struggles on the part of individuals, families, communities, and societies. The MST’s ideology is founded on praxis: when landless people participate in land occupations, they develop political consciousness and oppositional worldviews, which in turn catalyze further action against oppression. MST activists therefore prefer to synthesize practical insights of diverse thinkers rather than follow entire schools of thought (Branford & Rocha, 2002, pp. 65–67; Ste´dile, 2002). In general, though, they draw on Marxist theories for structural analysis of class struggle, agrarian reform, and global capitalism, and on Brazilian educator Paulo Freire’s critical pedagogy to motivate and teach landless people to take charge of their own liberation struggles. With its pluralist and practice-oriented mixture of ideologies, the MST seeks to encourage oppressed workers in Brazil and other parts of the world to challenge current agricultural production and land distribution processes in countries with neoliberal states and societies. MST’s land occupations in Brazil bring class struggles between capital and labor to the surface and demonstrate the practical relevance of Marxist ideology. Landowners, particularly those belonging to the Rural Democratic Union (UDR), argue that private ownership of the means of agricultural production and capitalist distribution of wealth stimulates modernization, economic growth, and Brazilian competitiveness in the global marketplace. MST activists, in contrast, point to the fact that the extreme land concentration associated with capitalist agriculture has made Brazil the most unequal society on earth, despite its abundance of fertile soil (Wright & Wolford, 2003, p. xvi). They believe that the most oppressed people in Brazil, landless workers, need to join forces and promote an alternative view of agricultural production, based on cooperative relations among workers, equal distribution of land, and sustainable forms of agriculture. The MST’s radical ideas about agrarian reform are clearly against the social and economic interests of capitalist landowners, who have responded with violent repression and anti-MST media campaigns. In addition to Brazilian landowners, however, the MST also takes on neoliberalism in Brazil’s federal government (including in President Lula’s current administration) and the global system as a whole (Martins, 2003). As such, many contemporary Marxists agree that the MST is among the most revolutionary movements in the world today (Wright & Wolford, 2003, pp. 307–315; Veltmeyer & Petras, 2002).
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The other major ideological influence on the MST, Freirean pedagogy, builds on a Marxist view of structural inequalities and class struggle, but focuses on developing political consciousness and agency among the oppressed through education. Freire’s philosophy stresses particular forms of dialogue, cooperation, and love aimed at transforming persons and communities, both in school and wider society (Freire, 1993). Instead of dominating students and treating them as passive receivers of knowledge, Freirean educators create classrooms and learning communities where the relationship between teachers and students is defined by mutual reflection, communication, and participation among active subjects studying their social worlds. By negotiating power and carving out spaces for collaboration, teachers encourage students to share experiences of oppression, develop strategies for liberation, and engage in collective struggles for social justice (Darder, 2002, p. 204; McLaren, 2000, pp. 148–160). For Freire (1993, pp. 70–71), love of humanity is the driving force enabling oppositional dialogue and cooperation between teachers and students, and between revolutionary leaders and the oppressed, because it motivates people to value and learn from differences instead of obliterating them. Unlike sentimental love, which either ignores or romanticizes differences between self and other, Freire’s conception of love involves two-way interaction between unique and interdependent selves, who respect each other’s differences and forge ‘‘unity in diversity’’ to achieve personal and political emancipation (McLaren, 2000, p. 171). Practitioners of this kind of love challenge oppression between (or within) persons and communities without ‘‘objectifying, dehumanizing, or demonizing those who oppose [them]’’ (Freire, 1997, p. 63; see also Darder, 2002, p. 105). Although Freire uses distinct language, his views on love closely resemble Gandhi’s notion of ahimsa. MST’s ideological framework primarily serves as a practical map for action and therefore frequently changes in response to new circumstances (Veltmeyer & Petras, 2002). MST activists refer to Marxist ideas to explain connections between capitalism, landlessness, and agricultural exploitation, and to understand the need for political struggle to achieve structural transformation. Yet they generally believe that violent revolution would be counterproductive in the contemporary Brazilian context (Branford & Rocha, 2002, p. 66). Freire’s understanding of love is more directly relevant in the current situation. As various MST intellectuals emphasize, love of humanity and nature motivates people to participate in mass direct action campaigns and social projects aimed at developing alternative production
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methods, educational institutions, gender relations, communication channels, cultural works, health care facilities, human rights laws, and international relations (Friends of the MST (FMST); Landless Voices). The MST specifies its love ethic on a poster entitled ‘‘Our Commitments to Land and Life,’’ and prominently displayed in offices, settlements, encampments throughout Brazil. The poster highlights that all human beings and forms of life are precious and announces the following principles: (1) To love and preserve land and creatures of nature. (2) To improve our understanding of nature and agriculture. (3) To produce food and wipe out hunger. To avoid monocultures and the use of agricultural poisons. (4) To preserve living plants and to reforest new areas. (5) To care for springs, rivers, ponds, and lakes. To struggle against the privatization of water. (6) To beautify the settlements and communities, planting flowers, medical plants, vegetables, and trees. (7) To adequately handle waste and combat any practice that will contaminate or abuse the environment. (8) To practice solidarity and fight injustices and aggression toward people, communities, or nature. (9) To struggle against land concentration so that all may have land, bread, education, and freedom. (10) To never sell the land that we have attained. Land is an absolute good for future generations (FMST). While landless workers obviously pay more attention to the natural environment than Freire, their principles similarly rely on love as the main source of human liberation. One concrete example of how the MST applies its first principle – ‘‘To love and preserve land and creatures of nature’’ – is BioNatur, an organic seed producer introduced by MST farmers in 1997. BioNatur provides agricultural workers with practical alternatives to the chemical methods of agricultural corporations, allowing them to translate their ideological commitments into practice and support the broader movement for agrarian reform and social justice (FMST; Branford, 2001).
Organizational Structures The organizational structures and oppositional networks of the Indian independence movement shaped activists’ everyday life as well as public
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campaigns. On the one hand, Gandhi founded several ashrams – small, self-sufficient communities – to prepare residents for the spiritual discipline and cooperative habits required to practice satyagraha. He also drafted a Constructive Program for improving social conditions in other urban and rural communities throughout India. On the other hand, for major protest events against British rule, Gandhi and fellow movement leaders forged strategic alliances among diverse associations in various parts of the country, and prepared them for the spiritual and practical challenges of nonviolent direct action. Gandhi preferred to locate ashrams in the countryside, because he believed that leading a simple rural life allowed people to discover their truth force and learn how to implement it in the wider struggle for national liberation. Anyone could join a Gandhian ashram – regardless of gender, age, religion, nationality, or caste – as long as the new member committed to strict guidelines for how to think, speak, and act nonviolently. Ashram residents translated these rules into practice by building their own houses and facilities; including untouchables as equal members of their community; running their own co-ed schools for children from multiple backgrounds; producing their own clothing, sandals, and food; and coming together to eat, work, learn, and meet at regular times each day (Nojeim, 2004, pp. 119–121; Iyer, 2000, pp. 75, 299; Gandhi, 1951, pp. 192–196, 223–225). To confront the large number of social problems in India’s overcrowded cities and poor villages, Gandhi outlined a national Constructive Program, founded on the cultural idioms discussed earlier. The Constructive Program focused on grassroots issues facing the most oppressed individuals and groups and implied ‘‘bottom-up’’ transformation of Indian society. Its main points included: communal unity among Hindus and Muslims, ending untouchability, avoiding intoxicants, improving health and sanitation, developing literacy and adult education programs, decentralizing economic production, promoting women’s rights, preventing absolute poverty and famines, and especially popularizing hand-spinning. For Gandhi, such social and cultural work was crucial for the Indian independence movement, because it allowed the Indian population to build alternative social institutions and cultural ways of life before the end of British rule, infusing nonviolent direct action campaigns against the colonial government with positive content (Bondurant, 1971, pp. 180–181; Gandhi, 1945). ‘‘[The] handling of civil disobedience without the Constructive Programme,’’ as Gandhi once remarked, ‘‘[is] like a paralyzed hand attempting to lift a spoon’’ (Iyer, 2000, p. 307). He also used the Constructive Program to convince leaders of the Indian National Congress and other governmental
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institutions to dedicate themselves to serving – rather than merely representing – their constituency, and to engaging in mutual dialogue and cooperation with the oppressed toward the common goals of autonomy and social justice (Terchek, 1998, p. 164). Thus, the ashrams and Constructive Program represented the community-building dimension and institutional basis of the Indian independence movement, which enabled activists to struggle for liberation during as well as before and after confrontations with the British Raj. The famous Salt March campaign of 1930–1931 illustrated the organizational preparations and alliances involved in nonviolent direct action (Dalton, 1993; Sharp, 1960). After being appointed by the Indian National Congress to lead a mass civil disobedience campaign in 1929, Gandhi drafted specific demands of the British Viceroy and published specific rules for individual and collective satyagraha, emphasizing that participants should either engage in civil disobedience, contribute to constructive work, or be in prison (Weber, 1997, pp. 63–64). Next, he decided that the campaign would focus on the British tax on salt, a basic necessity for the poor in India, as a powerful symbol of unjust rule (Weber, 1997, p. 84). Having selected the target of nonviolent direct action, Gandhi outlined the goals of the Salt March: it was to be a spiritual pilgrimage to dramatize the issue for diverse groups of Indians and invite them to join a nonviolent revolution against the British Raj (Weber, 1997, p. 88). After identifying the target and purpose of the Salt March, Gandhi chose to have his most committed and disciplined ashram residents initiate the event. Shortly before the starting date, he wrote an ultimatum letter to the British Viceroy and picked 81 activists for the first group of marchers, who received special instructions on what to do and how to behave during their journey to the Dandi coast (Weber, 1997, p. 109). In addition, Gandhi appointed local leaders to prepare people and grassroots associations in towns along the route of the march and called on local students to educate residents and build the necessary facilities at rest areas (Weber, 1997, pp. 110–113). The Indian National Congress also got involved: it sent out a bulletin with Gandhi’s letter to the Viceroy and rules for participation, while provincial committees got ready to take over leadership in their districts when Gandhi got arrested. And finally, with various local and regional networks prepared for large-scale mobilization, Gandhi published detailed plans for the people and villages participating in the Salt March and the nationwide civil disobedience campaign that would follow (Weber, 1997, pp. 116–124). In short, Gandhi wanted leaders and other participants in the Salt March campaign to apply the same guidelines and values as in his
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ashrams and the Constructive Program, but now in the form of large-scale and highly visible direct action against the state. Land occupations, camps, and settlements shape the organizational structures, everyday dynamics, and public campaigns of the MST. While each land occupation is unique, it has generally followed a similar pattern since the MST emerged in 1984. First, a group of MST activists (known as militantes) go into a region to talk with poor landless people and try to persuade them to invade unproductive land and build their own agricultural community. The militantes prepare the landless people for the challenges of camp life and teach them MST songs and slogans. After recruiting a sufficient number of landless individuals and families, militantes help them gather the necessary resources – such as plastic for the tents, farming equipment, and food supplies – and select an area with water and potentially fertile soil. Then they hold a meeting to discuss plans for the occupation and finally, in the middle of the night, everyone gets in buses taking them to the site. If the landless people arrive at their destination without being obstructed or repressed by security guards, they bring their supplies to the site, clear an area for black plastic tents, set up camp, hold their first assembly, and celebrate by raising the MST flag and performing mı´stica. By morning, the camp has been established and the public conflict begins: local media cover the occupation, the landowner demands that authorities evict the families, and MST lawyers argue that the occupied land was previously unproductive and therefore unconstitutional. The MST squatters succeed when the National Institution for Colonization and Agrarian Reform (INCRA) inspects the land and decides to expropriate it; their occupation fails when the landowner persuades local authorities to evict them (Branford & Rocha, 2002, pp. 68–88; Ste´dile, 2002, pp. 5–6). If the MST families win the right to the land, they turn their temporary camp into a permanent settlement and focus on agricultural production and community building. To instill discipline among all settlers (who often include alcoholics, drug addicts, people from urban slums, petty criminals, and so forth) and establish a communal routine, the initial rules of camp life are often strict and rigorously enforced. To remain in the camp, residents have to wake up early to go to the morning assembly, participate in numerous mı´ stica activities, join commissions and participate in decision-making, prepare for violent confrontations with landowners or police, perform daily tasks and work the land, abstain from alcohol and drugs, and avoid physical abuse of spouse and children (Branford & Rocha, 2002, p. 87). In settlements, however, rules are less stringent, allowing residents more freedom to organize communities, run meetings, make decisions, and develop
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sustainable methods of collective production (Branford & Rocha, 2002, p. 95). The typical MST settlement consists of agricultural and service cooperatives with community members sharing resources, buying materials in bulk, marketing crops collectively, and contributing 2% of profits to the national MST. Settlers also work together in areas like farming, childcare, cooking, health care, cultural programs, environmental projects, media, and education (Frank, 2002, p. 4; FMST). The division of labor in settlements, moreover, is not based on gender, race, or class: men and women from various social backgrounds work side-by-side in all areas of production and service. Although residents often remain poor in terms of standard economic figures, their overall quality of life and sense of dignity generally improves significantly (Wright & Wolford, 2003, pp. 264–274; Frank, 2002, p. 5). To make collective decisions, settlers develop local governance structures, which in turn form the basis of the MST’s regional and national organization. On the first day after occupying land, they elect a camp coordinator, who brings order to daily camp life by dividing people into cells. Each cell then elects two representatives to the camp’s coordinating committee, which forms commissions that take care of the settlement’s basic needs. In these commissions, people from different areas get to know each other, learn how to cooperate, and participate in decision-making. Some local settlers and activists join regional and provincial meetings, where they discuss collective challenges and elect regional leaders. Every two years, moreover, members from across the country go to national meetings, where they elect a national commission, with representatives from each major region in Brazil. And about every five years, the MST holds a massive nationwide congress, with over 10,000 delegates, to debate the future direction of the movement and decide on a new slogan for the next five years. (The current slogan ‘‘Land Reform: For a Brazil Without Large Plantations!’’ captures the national strategy of the MST since 2000. MST delegates will select a new slogan during the national congress in November 2006.) This organizational framework includes all levels of the MST in the democratic process and allows both leaders and grassroots activists to contribute to decisions affecting people’s everyday lives (Branford & Rocha, 2002, pp. 251–254; Ste´dile, 2002, p. 7). Besides its domestic efforts, the MST has also become an important member of Via Campesina (an international peasant movement), the Global Justice Movement that emerged during the Battle of Seattle in 1999, and the yearly World Social Forum where Global Justice Movement activists meet to discuss their struggles against neoliberalism (FMST). With its Agrarian Reform program, the MST seeks to spread the values and practices of its settlers to other communities, both within and outside of
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Brazil. The neoliberal economic model promoted by Brazilian and foreign capitalist institutions favors large-scale farming, liberalization of agricultural production, and private landownership, even though these policies exacerbate inequalities in land distribution (Carter, 2005, p. 6). In contrast, the MST – together with progressive religious leaders and organizations like the Pastoral Land Commission (CPT), the National Confederation of Agricultural Workers (CONTAG), and the Brazilian Agrarian Reform Association (ABRA) – proposes an Agrarian Reform program that encourages community ownership of property and cooperative relations among rural workers; opposes excessive unproductive property and land speculation; calls for government assistance and price controls to prevent hunger and protect Brazil’s food sovereignty; promotes ecologically sustainable forms of small-scale farming; and emphasizes that meaningful agrarian reform requires social, economic, political, and cultural development that focuses on human welfare and workers’ rights instead of corporate profits and global economic competitiveness (Carter, 2005, pp. 10–11; Martins, 2003, pp. 2–3; Wright & Wolford, 2003, pp. 101–105, 152–179; Domingos, 2002, pp. 6–7; Branford & Rocha, 2002, pp. 225–239). In sum, the MST contends that agricultural practices applied in its settlements can set the stage for broader social transformation, in Brazil and abroad. When strategic opportunities are favorable, the MST uses its organizational structures to support massive and dramatic nonviolent direct action campaigns aimed at transforming the Brazilian government. In 1997, for example, nearly 1,500 landless settlers began a peaceful march to the capital to pressure the Cardoso administration to implement the MST’s program for agrarian reform and land distribution. The so-called National March for Agrarian Reform, Employment, and Justice covered about 1,000 miles and lasted several months. The leading groups of landless marchers, who started from three distant corners of the country, arrived in Brası´ lia on April 17, 1997, the first anniversary of the Massacre of Eldorado de Caraja´s. They found nearly 100,000 Brazilian and foreign supporters waiting for them. This dramatic demonstration of public sympathy for the MST and Brazil’s landless workers was the product of organizational alliances with labor unions, other social movements, progressive churches, left-wing political parties, international cooperation agencies, nongovernmental organizations, and international networks, which had grown particularly strong and extensive after the 1996 massacre. Similar marches and demonstrations have taken place since then, and each time the domestic and international networks of MST supporters expand, while the pressure on the Brazilian state to meet MST’s demands increases (Carter, 2005; Hammond, 2004; Wright
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& Wolford, 2003, pp. 208–209; Branford & Rocha, 2002, pp. 197–200; Veltmeyer & Petras, 2002; Ste´dile, 2002). In some situations, the organizational structures that allow MST activists to meet their daily needs and build alternative communities also allow them to publicly challenge unjust institutions and authorities (Vinthagen, 2005, pp. 369–384).
CONCLUSIONS Now that we have addressed the elements that constitute the political culture of nonviolent opposition framework for both social movements, we are ready to illustrate how they intersect and contribute to a new synthesis of contentious politics and nonviolent action studies. Starting with the Indian independence movement, we can see how the moral shock of the Amritsar massacre in 1919 contributed to the emotional experiences that persuaded a wide cross-section of the Indian population to recognize Gandhi’s reinvention of cultural idioms like swadeshi, sarvodaya, aparigraha, and khadi as relevant in the struggle against British rule and for national autonomy. Indirectly, Gandhian love (in response to colonial oppression) supported the Indian independence movement’s ideologies concerning Hind Swaraj, satyagraha, and ahimsa, which in turn directly shaped Gandhian organizational structures for applying nonviolent methods and principles in everyday life (in the form of ashrams and the Constructive Program) as well as public campaigns like the Salt March (supported by the Indian National Congress and broad alliances). These networks and institutions indirectly drew on and stimulated the traditional symbols highlighted by Gandhi, especially the spinning wheel and homespun clothing. Although our brief description of dynamic linkages is far from comprehensive, Fig. 2 provides an impression of how all these elements – emotional experiences, cultural idioms, ideologies, and organizational structures – were interrelated and came together in the form of a Gandhian political culture of nonviolent opposition. In the case of the MST, the massacre of Eldorado de Caraja´s has shaped the emotional experiences of Brazil’s landless workers, who have gained public sympathy and translated their suffering into cultural idioms through various forms of mı´ stica, which strengthen their resolve and collective identity. Moral righteousness in the face of oppressive landowners and police troops indirectly confirms their pluralist ideologies, blending Marxist views on exploitation with Freire’s pedagogy of the oppressed, which in turn directly reinforce MST’s organizational structures for occupying unproductive land, building self-sufficient settlements, promoting agrarian reform
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Gandhi’s mix of ideologies: swaraj, satyagraha, ahimsa
Experiences of brutality/ emotions of love & anger
Gandhian political culture of nonviolent opposition
Ashrams & constructive program/INC & alliances
Cultural idioms of swadeshi, sarvodaya, aparigraha, khadi
Fig. 2.
The Indian Independence Movement’s Political Culture of Nonviolent Opposition.
based on social justice, and engaging in nonviolent direct action campaigns like the National March for Agrarian Reform, Employment, and Justice. These institutions and alliances, moreover, popularize and rely on folkloristic symbols and rituals like the MST’s anthem and flag. Fig. 3 shows the processes involved in the creation of an MST political culture of nonviolent opposition. We suggest that our theoretical and empirical discussion points toward a new approach for studying contentious politics and nonviolent action. By drawing on Reed and Foran (2002), we incorporate relevant insights of cultural sociologists (e.g., Emirbayer, 1997; Jasper, 1997; Scott, 1990; Sewell, 1985, 1996; Skocpol, 1985; Scott, 1990) as well as cultural studies authors (e.g., Reed, 2005; Leistyna, 2005; Alvarez et al., 1998) without neglecting interactions between protest groups and government authorities. We recognize the importance of social movement studies that focus on political processes and institutions (Tilly, 2004; McAdam et al., 2001; Tarrow, 1998), but at the same time respond to their limitations in accounting for cultural dynamics (e.g., Goodwin & Jasper, 2004; Mansbridge & Morris, 2001; Buechler, 2000; Johnston & Klandermans, 1995; Darnovsky, Epstein, & Flacks, 1995; Morris & Mueller, 1992). In short, the political culture of opposition framework helps us move beyond dichotomies between politics and culture that continue to haunt social movement scholarship.
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Experiences of brutality/ emotions of love & anger
MST political culture of nonviolent opposition
Settlements & Agrarian Reform/MST & alliances
Cultural idioms expressed through mística
Fig. 3.
The MST’s Political Culture of Nonviolent Opposition.
Introducing the concept of political culture of nonviolent opposition, moreover, enables us to merge the contentious politics and nonviolent action fields without reproducing the binary of pragmatic versus principled nonviolence perpetuated by Schock (2005) and others (Ackerman & Kruegler, 1994; McCarthy & Kruegler, 1993; Sharp, 1973, 1990). Instead of assuming that strategic forms of unarmed insurrection are distinct from normative ones, we highlight both the culture of nonviolent politics and the politics of nonviolent culture (Terchek, 1998; Fox, 1989, 1997; Lakey, 1987). In addition, our concept breaks new ground by stressing that meaningful and sustainable nonviolent opposition relies on an alternative view of power. While scholars in the two fields generally accept the Weberian emphasis on domination and ‘‘power over,’’ we suggest that the Indian independence movement and Brazil’s MST were (and continue to be) transformative due to their promotion of ‘‘power with’’ processes like love, dialogue, collaboration, and reconciliation (Kreisberg, 1992). Although flawed and incomplete, both nonviolent social movements have demonstrated that ends do not justify the means, and that substituting one governmental tyranny with another does not produce more peaceful and equitable societies. While opening avenues for research, our theoretical framework and case studies raise a number of questions that need to be addressed. First of all, we only examine one of the political cultures of the Indian independence movement and the MST. As Reed and Foran (2002, p. 38) observe,
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however, social movements and revolutions usually articulate multiple political cultures of opposition, some of which may contradict each other. Second, in reality, the connections between emotions, ideologies, cultural idioms, organizational structures, and political cultures of nonviolent opposition are much more complex and fluid than we could discuss in a few paragraphs. The relationships between these elements are reciprocal, interdependent, ever-changing, and embedded in various fields of interaction. And finally, we only provide a few illustrative examples of how each element applies to two cases, which both deserve more rigorous and extensive analysis. We invite fellow scholars of nonviolent action and contentious politics to join us in exploring additional political cultures of (nonviolent) opposition. Most importantly, though, we urge students of contentious politics and pragmatic nonviolent action to focus on the interplay between cultural and political processes. By moving beyond artificial dichotomies, such work will be directly relevant to the global justice activists of the 21st century, who are currently reinventing and applying political cultures of nonviolent opposition in their own social contexts.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS We thank participants in the Symposium on Nonviolent Research at the University of Tromsø in Norway, Sean Scalmer, John Guidry, Sidney Tarrow, Charles Tilly, and the reviewers for helpful comments.
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A LONG, HARD SLOG: POLITICAL OPPORTUNITIES, SOCIAL NETWORKS AND THE MOBILIZATION OF DISSENT IN NON-DEMOCRACIES Maryjane Osa and Kurt Schock ABSTRACT The inadequate consideration of how forms of the state variously structure politics is identified as a significant flaw in political opportunity theory. This deficiency leads to conceptual ‘‘stretching’’ and frustrating contradictions between research findings in the social movement literature. For political opportunities to be correctly specified, differences in the mobilization contexts across democracies and non-democracies must be explicitly addressed. This article suggests how the institutional differences between democracies and non-democracies influence the prospect, form, and impact of social mobilization against the state. It also suggests the crucial role of social networks for mobilization in non-democracies. A reformulation of the research problem and a set of sensitizing propositions based on the theoretical reconceptualization are offered.
Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, Volume 27, 123–153 Copyright r 2007 by Elsevier Ltd. All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-786X/doi:10.1016/S0163-786X(06)27005-8
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Many social movement analysts of late have come not to praise political opportunity theory but to bury it (Goodwin & Jasper, 1999; McAdam, Tarrow, & Tilly, 2001). Yet reports of its demise are premature. In this paper, we tackle the reasons scholars want it dead, the remedies to be applied, and the method of resuscitation. The main complaint against political opportunity theory is that it is not good theory: scholars charge that political opportunity concepts are not consistently defined, political opportunity theory privileges structure and neglects agency, it tries to explain too much, and – the death blow – it lacks predictive power. Many social movement theorists are looking elsewhere for explanatory schema these days, turning toward rational choice or culture. But as scholars, we should proceed with caution before jettisoning a theoretical orientation with a productive past. Although some critics of the political opportunity approach suggest that the problem is an over-emphasis on structuralism, we argue that the problem is a lack of an explicit theorization of how the form of the state differentially affects the premises for oppositional collective action. We believe that the inadequate consideration of how forms of the state variously structure politics (and therefore, opportunities) leads to conceptual ‘‘stretching’’ and frustrating contradictions between research findings. In fact, many analyses of political violence, revolutions, democratization, and social movements (i.e., political contention) evidence this particular blind spot. Despite the plethora of ‘‘state centric’’ research since the 1980s, little systematic attention has been paid to the question: how are political opportunities – i.e., dimensions of the political environment that provide incentives for people to engage in collective action – influenced by the form of the state? Clearly, there are different parameters for organizing political opposition in a democracy – where civil rights are protected, the press is free, courts and legislatures are independent of the executive, and mechanisms for regular transfers of political power are institutionalized (however imperfectly these ideals are implemented) – versus in non-democracies. In non-democracies, rights to associate and to speak freely are constrained, press and publishing are censored, secret police infiltrate society, economic opportunities and jobs depend on political qualifications, judiciaries are not independent, transfers of power are irregular, and repression or the threat of repression is omnipresent. Further, the ability to articulate an alternative political discourse is not given, the risk of associating with regime opponents and advocating policies not sanctioned by authorities is costly, and resources that may be used to oppose the regime are difficult to acquire. Therefore, political opportunities and other factors affecting mobilization
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probabilities in democracies should diverge from those in non-democracies because of the very different institutions upon which state power rests. The scholarly literature rarely deals with this problem head-on. In the political violence literature, global economic structures and inequalities are most often considered causal. Regimes are frequently categorized in terms of state strength and polity inclusiveness without explicitly noting the different parameters of these terms for democratic and non-democratic states (Jenkins & Schock, 1992; Lichbach, 1989). This research is concerned with a subset of mobilizations, forms that involve violence, rather than the whole range of collective action which would include nonviolent mobilization as well. Moreover, much of the political violence literature does not differentiate between different types of violent mobilization such as anti-state mobilization and inter-group (often, ethnic) conflicts – the latter of which is sometimes encouraged by states. Theories of revolution often focus on class-based conflict or nationalist revolts. Since these are less likely to occur in liberal democracies, the cases covered by revolutionary theories tend to be non-democracies. However, researchers are concerned again with a subset, revolutionary mobilization that typically occurs under conditions of state weakness, fiscal crisis, or military defeat (e.g., Goldstone, 1991; Goodwin, 2001; Skocpol, 1979). A strength of this literature is the attention given to the outcomes of revolutionary violence, explaining why certain revolutions will establish non-democratic versus democratic regimes (e.g., Eckstein, 1986, 1989; Moore, 1966). It may be that a ‘‘fourth generation’’ of revolutionary theory will turn away from proximate causes of revolution to investigate the conditions that maintain regime stability in non-democracies (Goldstone, 2001); in that case, consideration of the institutions of the non-democratic state that are designed to concentrate power and maintain social quiescence is essential. The democratization literature tends to focus on the proximate conditions of transition, considering whether democratization is initiated from above (e.g., di Palma, 1990; Higley & Gunther, 1992; O’Donnell, Schmitter, & Whitehead, 1986), or from below (e.g., Adler & Webster, 1995; Bermeo, 1997; Collier, 2000; Collier & Mahoney, 1997; Giugni, McAdam, & Tilly, 1998; Wood, 2000). The empirical literature on democratization, while examining social mobilization in non-democratic contexts, also represents a subset of cases – it over-samples cases of popular contention at the moment of democratic transition. Similar to the literature on revolutionary mobilization, these studies focus on mobilization within a fatally weakened or degenerating authoritarian regime (Glenn, 2001; Kuran, 1991; Mueller, 1999).
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Nevertheless, the preconditions of a successful transition to democracy are found in courageous, often abortive, attempts by dissidents to challenge authoritarian relations and repressive practices (Noonan, 1995; Sandoval, 1998). Although not producing immediate or tangible results, these attempts send out feelers for possible points of leverage against the regime and provide hard lessons that send dissidents searching for new oppositional strategies. The toppling of an authoritarian regime is often perceived as a sudden unexpected event; however, successful challenges to authoritarian regimes are often the result of a long, hard slog. In addition to identifying the most proximate preconditions for a democratic transition, it is important for scholars to identify the more antecedent preconditions of democratization: those conditions under which opportunities for mobilization arise for challengers in repressive and seemingly unassailable non-democratic regimes. In the social movement literature, the status of political opportunity is in dispute. There is controversy over how to define political opportunity (Gamson & Meyer, 1996, pp. 275–281; Kriesi, 1996, p. 160; McAdam, 1996, pp. 25–27; Tarrow, 1998, pp. 18–20). Scholars also disagree on what political opportunity explains. Political opportunities have been used to explain movement emergence (e.g., Costain, 1992; McAdam, 1999), organizational formation (e.g., Clemens, 1997; Minkoff, 1995), strategies or tactics (e.g., Eisinger, 1973, Jenkins & Eckert, 1986), cycles of protest (Tarrow, 1998), and mobilization outcomes (e.g., Amenta & Zylan, 1991; Kriesi, Koopmans, Duyvendak, & Giugni, 1995). What these cited studies have in common, however, is that all concern collective action in liberal democratic states (also see Dalton & Keuchler, 1990; Jenkins & Klandermans, 1995; Kitschelt, 1986; Klandermans, 1997; Meyer & Minkoff, 2004; Rucht, 1996). While the political process model takes for granted the conditions associated with liberal institutions, they strongly imply that their theoretical arguments are generally applicable across democracies and non-democracies. Yet the theoretical basis for this application is not explicitly drawn. In short, studies of political contention generally fail to account for the way in which differing governance structures in democratic and nondemocratic states variably structure mobilization contexts. The social movement literature in particular theoretically privileges mobilization patterns in democratic states, although there is an increasing application of the political opportunity model to the study of political contention in non-democracies (e.g., Almeida, 2003, 2005; Brockett, 2005; Boudreau, 1996, 2002, 2004; Einwohner, 2003; Goodwin, 2001; Hafez, 2003; Kurzman, 2004; Osa, 2003; Osa & Corduneanu-Huci, 2003, 2005; Schock, 1999, 2005). For political opportunity to be correctly specified, differences in the mobilization contexts
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across democracies and non-democracies must be explicitly addressed. Political opportunity theory should suggest how these differences influence the prospect, form, and impact of social mobilization against the state. We hope to promote such a theoretical discussion here. In the next section, we outline the nature of variation in mobilization contexts between democratic and non-democratic states. We then address the dimensions that we consider the most relevant for explaining mobilization in non-democracies: elite divisions, changing repression levels, influential allies, and media access, along with the existence of social networks. The penultimate section puts forward our reformulation of the research problem and a set of sensitizing propositions that summarize the argument. The conclusion points to areas for further research that would build on a state differentiated notion of political opportunity.
AXIS OF VARIANCE: DEMOCRACIES AND NON-DEMOCRACIES We assume that democracy is a continuum along which different states fall. For conceptual purposes, however, we distinguish between democracies and non-democracies as ideal types lying toward the ends of the continuum. While there is significant variation within non-democracies – which include military and personalistic dictatorships, one-party states, Leninist regimes, monarchies, and theocratic regimes – the variation between democracies and non-democracies is greater. This is due to the fundamental differences between political institutions in democracies and non-democracies. The formula for political rule within all non-democracies utilizes similar forms of organization and authority and is fundamentally different from the formula for political rule in democracies. Whereas dissent is expected and more or less tolerated in democracies, any mobilization in non-democracies outside of tightly regulated channels is construed as illegal and regime threatening and therefore subject to repression. Thus, mobilization in non-democracies almost always involves high-risk activism. A major contrast between the two types of political systems has to do with the source of opportunities for challengers. In democracies, political opportunities often arise from the liberal state’s own institutions when, for example, the changing composition of the courts makes it possible for aggrieved groups to find a sympathetic hearing (McAdam, 1999). In non-democracies, on the other hand, political opportunities arise at those
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junctures where (or when) the regime’s coercive mechanisms malfunction (Osa, 2003). Given these differences, we logically expect that both the necessity of political opportunity for mobilization and the sufficient factors that comprise such opportunity for challengers would vary across democracies and non-democracies as well. Despite the fact that most empirical research on political opportunity examines liberal democracies, there are reasons to suppose that political opportunities are more important for challengers in non-democracies. For one, when occasions for dissent are rare, political opportunities become more salient and more likely to trigger mobilization. Moreover, since oppositional mobilization is riskier in non-democracies, definite political opportunities that lower the costs of collective action may be necessary for it to occur at all (Goldstone, 1998; Goodwin, 2002; Osa & Corduneanu-Huci, 2003; Schock, 1999, 2005). In the social movements literature ‘‘political openness’’ is usually considered as a political opportunity variable. This variable, however, is less relevant in non-democratic contexts, since democracies have a systematic bias toward political openness, while non-democracies have a systematic bias against political openness. In democracies, there are numerous institutional locations, such as legislatures, judiciaries, executives, and bureaucracies, at which challengers may have access to policy-makers. These points are accessible at a number of different levels as well, depending upon the degree to which the polity is decentralized. If denied at one place, challengers may attempt to influence policy-makers at other points of access. In nondemocracies, by contrast, the political openness dimension is less relevant for explaining the mobilization of collective action. Non-democratic regimes are highly centralized; the legislatures, judiciaries, and bureaucracies typically wield no real power independent from the state executive. Moreover, increasing political access is unlikely since it would undermine the power and legitimacy of the regime and the mechanisms of rule. The opening of legal or electoral routes, for example, would involve the creation of new avenues of influence resulting in a change in the form of rule itself. Consequently, non-democracies usually rely on mass mobilizing parties to shape, channel, and limit political demands. When the party fails to meet demands or provide legitimacy, the state must rely on a combination of repression and promises of future reforms. Actual reform, when carried out, has its own serious risks. It often signals the vulnerability of the regime and the possibility that further concessions can be gained through collective action. Such a scenario can lead to the downfall of the old regime, as Tocqueville trenchantly pointed out (Tocqueville, 1998; see also Francisco, 2000; Lichbach, 1995, pp. 114–118).
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It is not surprising that challengers take advantage of opportunities to topple despots whose power has waned. The greater puzzle is how do challengers mobilize protest in stable, consolidated authoritarian regimes? To gain purchase on this research question, it is necessary to start with a conception of political opportunity that acknowledges its differences in non-democratic contexts.
OPPORTUNITIES FOR MOBILIZATION IN DEMOCRACIES AND NON-DEMOCRACIES Opposition forces in non-democratic states often appear weak, unorganized, ineffective, and powerless. This generalized perception of powerlessness in non-democratic regimes acts as a damper on mobilization. Although nondemocracies often appear invulnerable to popular protest, these regimes do have their weaknesses. Even totalitarian states can develop ‘‘cracks in the monolith’’ (Deutsch, 1954). Opportunities for dissent may arise due to gaps between rigid state ideologies and socio-political realities, institutional inefficiencies, factionalism arising from personal and administrative rivalries, succession crises and related power struggles, and shifts in geo-politics or the international political economy that impact the leverage of states. Moreover, when non-democracies attempt to bolster their legitimacy through the implementation of reform or pseudo-reform, the floodgates of dissent may be opened. For non-democratic states, we argue that five variables cover the relevant factors influencing mobilization: divided elites, influential allies, media access/information flows, repression dynamics, and the existence of social networks. While most of these variables have been analyzed in democracies, we assume that their causal impact will be greater in the non-democracies because the variation in opportunities and the scope for collective action are so constrained. In the remainder of this section, we consider social networks and the four dimensions of political opportunity, contrasting their operation in democratic and non-democratic contexts. Elite Divisions Elite divisions signal regime vulnerability and provide opportunities for challengers by increasing the incentives to engage in collective action. In democracies, elite divisions usually occur over political or economic policies
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or cultural issues rather than the institutional basis of political rule. Since elections provide regular and institutional mechanisms for political realignment in democracies, elites must seek popular support. Consequently, the leverage challengers have in democracies may increase when ruling elites are closely divided (Jenkins, 1985; Jenkins & Brents, 1989; McAdam, 1999; Piven & Cloward, 1977). Whereas elite competition is considered normal in functioning democracies, it is considered irregular in non-democracies where regimes are characterized by mechanisms designed to eliminate or sharply reduce the scope of elite divisions. As in democracies, elite divisions may occur over matters of policy, but unlike democracies they may also arise from disputes over the institutional basis of politics, the methods of succession, or the formula for rule. As a result, elite divisions are more sporadic and spasmodic and have more far-reaching consequences for political change in non-democracies. The lack of regular and institutionalized methods of elite competition and succession may result in more intense conflicts and presumably more consequential opportunities for mobilization when divisions arise. A potential consequence of elite divisions in non-democracies is regime defection, whereby significant elements of the previously stable ruling coalition align themselves with the challengers (McAdam et al., 2001). The irregularity and the significance of elite divisions increase the likelihood that any sign of elite division or realignment will produce social mobilization. The unexpected and massive mobilization of the 1989 student movement in China, for example, was largely triggered by a perceived division between reformers and hard-liners in the top echelon of the communist party (Calhoun, 1994; Zhao, 2001). Similarly, the huge and unforeseen antiregime mobilization that occurred in 1988 in Burma mobilized in response to a perceived division within the ruling elite concerning the possibilities of democratic reform (Lintner, 1990).1 While divided elites in democracies may strategically align with and promote the mobilization of selected political groups in an effort to increase their electoral advantage, perceived elite divisions in non-democracies are more likely to promote a more widespread mobilization throughout the society.
Influential Allies Influential allies facilitate social mobilization by providing organizational expertise, economic assistance, or leadership, and by lowering the power discrepancies between challengers and the state. Challengers are often too
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vulnerable to risk engaging in overt oppositional activities without influential allies. In democracies, political parties, professional associations, and labor unions have played crucial roles in facilitating mobilization (Burstein, Einwohner, & Hollander, 1995; Gamson, 1990; Jenkins, 1985; Jenkins & Perrow, 1977; Tarrow, 1998). In non-democracies, by contrast, political parties, professional associations, and labor unions, if they exist, are controlled by the state, thus precluding their role as an influential ally unless they defect to the challengers during an episode of contention. But other actors, such as religious organizations, human rights organizations, international economic development organizations, transnational social movement organizations, and foreign governments may provide crucial support for the mobilization of challenges (Brockett, 1991; Martin, Varney, & Vickers, 2001; Osa, 1997; Schock, 1999; Smith, Chatfield, & Pagnucco, 1997). International support may be particularly important in non-democracies where the availability of resources and the influence of domestic actors on the government may be severely limited. In such cases, the ‘‘boomerang pattern’’ of influence may occur whereby domestic challengers seek out international allies for support. These allies provide access, leverage, resources, and information that challengers could not expect to mobilize on their own (Keck & Sikkink, 1998). International pressures placed on the state may contribute to an alteration in the balance of power within countries, which increases the probabilities of social mobilization. There is variation across non-democracies with regard to the possibilities for mobilizing and utilizing the support of international allies and the extent to which the state is vulnerable to pressure from abroad. States that are more autonomous or more isolated from the international arena are better able to resist international pressure that otherwise might have effected the domestic balance of power. Transnational support mobilized during pro-democracy movements in Burma in 1988 and in China in 1989, for example, was not effectively leveraged against the regime due to the relative isolation of the state in Burma and the relative autonomy of the Chinese state (Schock, 2005). Moreover, the benefits of third-party support must be weighed against the possibilities that it will undermine the challenge. In democracies, potential dilemmas for challengers receiving third-party support include the channeling of mobilization into less disruptive forms, growing dependence on institutional funding, and cooptation of the movement’s leaders (Jenkins & Eckert, 1986; McAdam, 1999; Piven & Cloward, 1977). Although some of these problems may appear in non-democracies when allies are domestic
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groups, cooptation may be less of an issue with regard to transnational support, because the sources of support are not part of the power structure being challenged. On the other hand, new dilemmas arise: since the support is coming from outside the power structure being challenged, there may be fewer constraints on repression of the movement. Moreover, in order to attract international third-party support, challengers may shift their issues or undertake risky mobilizations, which in turn can provoke violent state repression that the third parties are unable to stop (Bob, 2002). Thus, support or encouragement from transnational allies must be carefully weighed against domestic political constraints.
Media Access/Information Flows Press freedoms and information flows have not been typically considered a dimension of political opportunity in democracies. In such countries, the press is relatively free and there are many alternative sources of information. In non-democracies, by contrast, the state maintains relatively strict control over the press and information. Leninist regimes, for example, aim for total control of the mass media through a vast censorship apparatus. Less pervasive but still significant limitations are found in autocratic Middle Eastern states, where broadcast media are run by the government and strict limits are placed on newspapers and writers. Thus, there are various constraints on information flows depending on the type of non-democratic regime, but the contrast with the relatively unfettered mass media of the liberal democratic countries is sharp. State control over mass media entails censorship and post-censorship. Censorship involves the stifling of all viewpoints critical of the regime through closing down alternative publications, restricting access to communication technologies, and centralizing the media under the control of state. Post-censorship involves the imposition of economic sanctions, the revocation of publishing licenses, and the harassment, imprisonment, torture, or assassination of journalists (O’Neal, 1998). However, the strictness or laxity of the censorship regime may vacillate over time within a defined range. Increased information flows or greater media access may result from the relaxation of state censorship, the activities of an underground press, shortwave radio broadcasts, or the use of newer technologies such as cell phones and the Internet. Mainstream broadcast media, such as radio and television, are easily controlled by non-democratic states, because of their technical and capital requirements. The print media are less easily (or less completely)
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controlled by the authorities. Even the most repressive regimes cannot wholly prevent the development of an underground press or samizdat publications. Thus, the development of a substantial alternative press, fluctuations in state censorship, the appropriation of the state-run press, or the use of communication technologies outside the reach of state censorship are all instances of increased media access or information flows that may provide opportunities for mobilization. Repression Repression refers to actions by the state that raise the costs of collective action. These actions generally fall into four categories: negative sanctions, violence, coercion, and violence by proxy. Negative sanctions include actions such as curtailing political and civil liberties, imposing martial law, censoring public or private media, impeding the flow of information or the movement of people, banning political organizations and meetings, engaging in discriminatory legal practices, infiltrating movements, using agents provocateurs, spying, psychological warfare, harassment, imposing fines, and confiscating resources. Force entails the use of physical violence against human beings, such as imprisonment, beatings, rape, torture, disappearances, assassinations, executions, bombings, armed attacks, air strikes, and physical retaliation against colleagues or relatives. Coercion involves intimidation or the threatened use of violence. A fourth form of repression occurs when authorities overlook or encourage third parties who implement violence or coercion against the regime’s political challengers. In this situation, vigilante groups, lynch mobs, death squads, paramilitary forces, and the like carry out the government’s ‘‘dirty work’’ by proxy. From the state’s perspective, repression works by either raising the costs of organization and mobilization or by directly suppressing collective action (Tilly, 1978, pp. 100–102). In democracies repression tends to be relatively limited. It is much more likely to be used against movements that are disruptive or use violence, engage in illegal activities, directly threaten elites, or are perceived to be a direct threat to elite interests. In non-democracies, repression is far more pervasive since any overt challenge can be construed as illegal and regime threatening. What effect does repression have on dissent? Different studies have found support for three different relationships: a negative relationship whereby increasing repression decreases dissent (e.g., Lichbach, 1987, 1995; Olson, 1965; Smelser, 1962), a positive relationship whereby repression increases dissent (e.g., Brockett, 1993; de Nardo, 1985; Khawaja, 1993, 1994; Olivier,
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1991; Snyder & Tilly, 1972), and an inverted ‘‘U’’-shaped relationship whereby dissent is lowest at low and high levels of repression, and highest at mid-levels of repression (e.g., Boswell & Dixon, 1993; Muller, 1985; Schock, 1996).2 Generally, the political opportunity approach assumes that increasing repression is a constraint that inhibits mobilization while declining repression (or the inability of authorities to respond with repression) facilitates mobilization. However, this generalization is based primarily on case studies of social movements in democracies. Recent studies that include non-democracies find that this relationship is not as strong as originally thought (Goodwin, 2002; Osa & Corduneanu-Huci, 2003). Others argue that declining opportunities or threats to group interests, such as through increased repression, serve as catalysts to mobilization (Goldstone & Tilly, 2001; Tilly, 1978). In addition to the degree of repression, the targeting of repression and its relationship to mobilization must be considered. Some analysts found that targeted repression is more likely to suppress dissent than indiscriminate repression, since indiscriminate repression may backfire and incite increased mobilization against the state (Lichbach, 1987; Mason & Krame, 1989; Moore, 1995). Similarly, extreme or indiscriminate repression may suppress mobilization in the short run, but undermine regime legitimacy and produce widespread mobilization over time (Dix, 1984; Kurzman, 1996; Lichbach, 1987; Opp & Roehl, 1990; Rasler, 1996).
The Paradox of Repression The positive relationship, increasing popular mobilization during periods of increasingly violent state repression, is the heart of the paradox. Many scholars have documented this effect and speculated on its possible causes. One explanation identifies a dynamic whereby repression stimulates more widespread mobilization and greater support for the resistance. The dynamic has been variously referred to as ‘‘political jiu-jitsu’’ (Sharp, 1973), the ‘‘critical dynamic’’ (McAdam, 1999), the ‘‘paradox of repression’’ (Smithey & Kurtz, 1999), and ‘‘backfire’’ (Hess & Martin, 2006). In effect, repression applied by the state rebounds and undercuts the state’s power. By stimulating public outrage at the authorities’ unjust or violent actions against its citizens, the state’s position is undermined as increased numbers of bystanders begin to participate in anti-state resistance. The positive, paradoxical relation between repression and protest mobilization has been found in diverse settings. The use of violence by authorities
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against nonviolent Civil Rights protestors in the American South increased mobilization and support for the movement (Barkan, 1984; McAdam, 1999). The same dynamic operates in non-democratic contexts as well (Sharp, 1973). In Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union between 1988 and 1991, efforts to suppress mobilization by force backfired on state authorities and led to increased mobilization in a number of cases. Indeed, some government officials, fearing the negative consequences, refused to counter defiance with repression (Smithey & Kurtz, 1999). In Indonesia, President Suharto fell in 1998 when the killing of university students by military troops triggered widespread mobilization against the regime (Martin et al., 2001). Researchers have taken three broad approaches that imply different causal mechanisms at work. The configurations approach assumes a multiple, conjunctural causality; the strategic approach assumes that attributes of challengers may moderate the impact of repression; and the rational choice approach combines a strategic calculus and a socio-psychological mechanism. We discuss these perspectives in turn. Configurations Approach One approach to resolving the repression–dissent paradox is to consider the broader configuration of opportunities in which mobilization occurs. Most likely, the impact of repression on mobilization is influenced by the political context in which it occurs, so that repression may increase or decrease mobilization depending on the presence or absence of other dimensions of political opportunity (e.g., Brysk, 1994; della Porta, 1995; Gupta, Singh, & Sprague, 1993; Lichbach, 1987; Osa & Corduneanu-Huci, 2003; Schock, 1999, 2005; Tilly, 1978). In an examination of the relationship between repression and mobilization for the pro-democracy movement in Burma in 1988, Schock (1999) found that increasing repression promoted social mobilization when elite divisions and media access were present, but that increasing repression led to demobilization after elites unified and censorship was re-imposed. In a cross-national study of 24 political situations in 15 stable non-democracies, Osa and Corduneanu-Huci (2003) found that the positive relation, that of increasing repression and mobilization, occurred when either media access or social networks were present. Increasing repression did not lead to mobilization when media access and social networks were both absent. In addition, they found that increases in repression were more likely to occur when elites were unified than when elites were divided. Overall, these findings suggest that the impact of repression on mobilization depends on the broader configuration of opportunities in which it occurs.
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Strategic Approach A major problem with the repression–mobilization literature is that civilian challengers are generally assumed to be passive objects and powerless in the face of repression. As a result, scholars neglect to consider how the characteristics and actions of a challenge affect the repression–mobilization relationship.3 Whether repression crushes dissent or propels mobilization depends on a variety of conditions other than the mere level of repression, some of which may be within the control of challenging groups. Attributes of challengers, such as the strategy implemented (violent or nonviolent), the range of tactics employed (limited or diverse, concentrated or dispersed), the targets of protest (security forces versus other agents of the state), and the organization of the challenge (disorganized or organized, centralized or decentralized), are of central importance in determining how repression influences mobilization. Since challengers and authorities adapt to each other’s actions over time (della Porta, Fillieule, & Rieter, 1998; Francisco, 1995, 1996; McAdam, 1983, 1999; Tilly, 1978), challengers must alter their tactics to prevent demobilization. When the state learns to respond to and counter certain methods, challenging groups must innovate to keep authorities off-balance and to prevent demobilization. Tactical innovation – activists’ creativity in devising new non-institutional tactics – facilitates continued mobilization despite increasing repression (McAdam, 1983). Similarly, challenges implementing multiple methods of resistance are more likely to be resilient in face of increasing repression compared to challenges that depend on one particular tactic or class of methods. In an analysis of unarmed insurrections in non-democracies, Schock (2005) found that challengers that diversified their tactics were more likely to weather repression, while those that did not succumbed to increased state sanctions. The 1989 student movement in China, for example, depended almost entirely on methods of concentration in which a large number of people were concentrated in a public place, such as the occupation of Tiananmen Square. The Chinese opposition demobilized when state repression intensified. Challenges in South Africa (1980s), the Philippines (1983–86), and Nepal (1990) also implemented tactics of concentration, but when repression intensified they shifted to tactics of dispersion that involved the withdrawal of cooperation such as boycotts, strikes, stayaways, and lightening protests. These tactics did not provide the state with a tangible target and were less likely to be suppressed by violence. Thus, mobilization continued despite increasing repression.
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Rational Choice Approach A final approach to the paradoxical relationship between repression and mobilization in non-democracies is to consider the perceptions of citizens regarding the relative balance of forces between dissident forces and the state. For example, the mere existence of a challenge in the face repression may indicate regime vulnerability, decreasing the effectiveness of repression as a deterrent and promoting increased mobilization (Sharp, 1973). Rational choice proponents argue that mobilization will occur when the costs of living under repression diminish relative to the emotional need of individuals to voice their opposition. Once a sufficient number of people openly criticize or defy the government, the costs of dissent begin to decrease, as dissidents begin to achieve safety in numbers. When the costs of dissent drop sufficiently, mobilization will intensify (Kuran, 1989, 1991). Others suggest that mobilization in non-democracies will expand when protests provide new information about the malignant quality of the regime. When more moderate elements of the population join the hard-core opponents, bystanders realize that the government is less legitimate than they had thought, and they may begin to protest as well (Lohmann, 1994). In sum, a plethora of studies have explored the ramifications of repression in non-democratic societies and how it affects mobilization. Despite this, a consensus on how to treat the repression/protest paradox has yet to emerge.
Social Networks While social networks have been specified as political opportunities in democracies (e.g., Minkoff, 1997; Meyer & Whittier, 1994), they are usually conceived as ‘‘mobilizing structures’’ for social movements rather than as a dimension of political opportunity. Since networks are considered with respect to the internal process of social movements rather than as a causal precondition for their emergence, studies have focused on network influences on mobilization at the micro and macro levels. For example, there have been numerous studies of how interpersonal networks effect differential recruitment into social movement organizations (SMOs) (Kitts, 2000; McAdam & Fernandez, 1990; McAdam & Paulsen, 1993; Snow, Zurcher, & Ekland-Olson, 1980). At the macro level, researchers have investigated the influence of inter-organizational networks on coalition formation (Ansell, 1997; Diani, 1995; Hathaway & Meyer, 1997; Rucht, 1989). Recent theoretical concerns with systems complexity and dynamics have prompted
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research on the influences of network multiplexity and dynamics on mobilization (Gould, 1991; Mische & White, 1998; Osa, 2003; Osa & Skvoretz, 2002). Other analysts highlight the links between networks and culture, or networks and the cognitive maps that are important for developing movement identities and frames (Ansell, 2001; Mische, 2003; Mische & Pattison, 2000). All of these approaches make sense for considering relations between social networks and movements in democracies. Given constitutional rights to freedom of association and combination, opposition groups organize and operate publicly in liberal states. Consequently, SMOs (and not informal networks) become the locus and motivators of much coordinated collective action. Networks in non-democracies tend to play a different role with regard to mobilization. Social networks may substitute for media and often for formal SMOs in that they are used to circulate uncensored information, to identify and distribute critical resources, to reduce the risk of illicit association and political activities, and to create collective identities (Osa, 2003, pp. 15–16; Rose, 2001). The expanded functions of social networks in non-democracies raises the question that their importance extends beyond the facilitation of mobilization processes. In fact, results from an analysis of political opportunity in 24 non-democracies show that social networks can provide opportunities for mobilization in the most repressive circumstances (Osa & Corduneanu-Huci, 2003). In Romania in 1977, for example, coalminers were able to use their multiplex social, occupational, and residential networks to mobilize mineworkers for an extensive strike during the height of Ceausescu’s power when other political opportunities were lacking and repression was increasing (Deletant, 1998; Vasi, 2004, pp. 139–142). Others have noted the important role of structurally given networks in initiating the mobilization of the student movement in China in 1989, such as Beijing’s social geography that concentrated academic populations in dormitories and neighborhoods (Calhoun, 1994; Zhao, 2001). The authoritarian state has an interest in preventing grassroots networks from mobilizing around political claims or grievances. Moreover, networks in non-democracies are more vulnerable to state penetration. Authorities routinely use spies and secret police to infiltrate and break up challenger groups. In addition, state surveillance and restrictions on communication and travel can prevent activists from maintaining linkages or successfully forming broad-based coalitions. Ironically though, some state policies promote the growth of oppositional networks. For example, in Chile, the government had set up 23,000 Mothers Centers. Although initially intended to reinforce the traditional women’s role through sewing and cooking
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classes, they also helped develop and integrate women’s networks around the country. Noonan (1995) persuasively argues that these centers also provided a locus for critical micro-mobilization processes, resulting in a resonant ‘‘maternal collective action frame.’’ Finally, religious organizations often become influential allies, since even in otherwise repressive contexts, regimes find them difficult to completely control (Osa, 1997). In short, whether or not one classifies social networks as a political opportunity, social networks in non-democracies are critical in providing opportunities for mobilization and not just in facilitating protest recruitment or diffusing strategies and repertoires of contention. Social networks in these contexts are utilized more heavily for critical mobilization functions: communication, resource generation, and coalition formation. Thus any account of social mobilization in non-democracies must consider social networks along with other dimensions of opportunity.
REFORMULATION OF THE THEORETICAL PROBLEM Empirical research on political opportunities and social networks and their relation to mobilization continues to focus on liberal polities. A recent review of the political opportunity literature, for example, identified 11 major empirical studies that tested political opportunity hypotheses against alternatives (Meyer, 2004). Only one of the 11 studies pertained to a nondemocratic context.4 Since the major applications of theory are focused within liberal democracies (primarily the United States), it is not surprising that ‘‘all the tests offer relatively restricted conceptions of the theory, generally locating variables in measurable aspects of formal political institutions’’ (Meyer, 2004, p. 132, italics added). By and large, researchers take for granted the existence of liberal institutional structures, most often locating sources of political opportunity within the avenues of institutionalized access. In the foregoing sections, we sketched out institutional differences between ideal-type democratic and non-democratic states, and suggested some implications of varying state structures for social movements. Table 1 summarizes the dimensions of opportunity and their variation across ideal-type democratic and non-democratic states. With these conceptual and theoretical considerations in mind, we offer a set of sensitizing propositions that bear on the relation between state forms and mobilization.
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Variation in Mobilization Contexts across Democracies and Non-Democracies.
Dimension
Democracies
Elite divisions
Elections provide regular and institutional mechanisms for elite competition and succession
Influential allies
Broader civil society; numerous potential allies, including political parties, labor unions, special interest groups, etc.
Media access/ information flow Repression
More open; indirect censorship
Social networks
Less pervasive; constrained by laws, separation of powers, and open media Facilitative function
Non-Democracies Less regular and institutionalized mechanisms for elite competition and succession (except for monarchical succession) Narrower civil society; fewer areas autonomous from the state, perhaps only religious organizations; more likely to come from abroad More closed; direct censorship More pervasive; minimal constraints Initiative function; essential for communication and resource flows
To reiterate: our fundamental argument is that differing institutional bases of governance in democratic and non-democratic states create different constraints and opportunities for mobilization. Compare the following two studies. Costain (1992) shows that broad socio-economic changes that increased women’s access to resources allowed feminist groups to take advantage of opportunities through institutional political channels in the United States. Thus, ‘‘government openness’’ in the 1970s led to the women’s movement’s successful campaigns to change discriminatory laws and encouraged favorable court decisions that supported greater gender equality. Political defeats in the 1980s brought fewer opportunities to influence the legislative agenda, resulting in demobilization. By contrast, Schock (2005) describes the anti-apartheid mobilization in South Africa in the early 1980s: in the face of growing international condemnation, the apartheid regime in South Africa attempted to shore up its legitimacy by implementing political reform. The reforms called for national assemblies for Indians and mixed races, while blacks remained without representation. The antiapartheid forces rejected the reforms, and organized popular campaigns of non-cooperation that continued until the government agreed to negotiate a transition to democracy in the 1990s. Thus, our orienting proposition:
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Proposition 1. In democracies the institutional structure of the state creates avenues for mobilization, while in non-democracies opportunities for mobilization arise either from the failure of institutions, such as bureaucratic dysfunction or disingenuous government actions to increase legitimacy by reforming institutions, or from outside of formal institutions, e.g., from social networks. Moreover, in democracies the institutional structures that create openings for one constituency may be closed to others. However, this is less likely to be the case in non-democracies, where all potential challenging groups tend to be denied access. So when opportunities do arise in non-democracies, they are more likely to promote mobilization among a variety of different constituencies that are singly united by their opposition to the regime. We agree that openings of political opportunity are not always necessary for mobilization in democracies, and in fact, that diminishing opportunity can also stimulate contention (McAdam, 1995). However, this is not true for non-democracies. Authoritarian, dictatorial, or one-party regimes concentrate power; state institutions are designed to maintain power rather than share it or to risk the loss of political control through free and fair elections. Political opportunities and social networks are necessary for sustained mobilization to occur, as opposed to episodic protest. For example, compare protests that occurred in East Germany shortly after Stalin’s death in 1953 with the sustained mobilizations that took place in Poland and Hungary in 1956. In the latter two cases, de-Stalinization begun in the Soviet Union spilled over to the East bloc, splitting the national communist parties into reform and hard-line factions. Media access and fluctuating repression also contributed to conditions facilitating mobilization, as compared to the period of high Stalinism (Osa, 2001). Thus, two complementary hypotheses: Proposition 2. Since democracies have relatively fewer barriers to mobilizing groups and provide political access at different levels of administration, alterations in political opportunities are less necessary for initiating mobilization in democracies than they are in non-democracies. Proposition 3. Political opportunities are more important for initiating mobilization in non-democracies because of relatively higher barriers and the illegality and higher risk of many core mobilization tasks. Much of the controversy over the utility of political opportunity concerns how it has been defined and operationalized by researchers. One criticism is that political opportunity is defined in an ad hoc way, tailored to the movement or mobilization being studied. Individual case studies of social
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movements have referred to just about anything external to movements as a political opportunity. Here the problem is one of scope. In democratic systems, there are multiple options, including the possibility of institutionalization of the movement or its policies. So, it is very difficult to establish a single political opportunity protocol that researchers can apply consistently to cover the variety of democratic cases. For example, Tilly’s (1995) study of political development in Great Britain shows how political contention shifts from local, direct, and particularistic forms to a national, and increasingly institutionalized, set of collective actions. The bulk of popular politics becomes channeled through mass parties and electoral participation over time, while preserving the possibility for extra-parliamentary collective action when institutional action fails. Hence: Proposition 4. Since democracies constitutionally guarantee civil rights, mobilization can occur in non-institutional arenas without necessarily threatening the legitimacy of the state; therefore political opportunity has a broader scope because it may arise either from without or within institutional political channels. However, the scope of political opportunity is more restricted in nondemocracies. This is born out by the long periods of quiescence in harsh, repressive dictatorships, despite citizens’ manifold grievances, for example in Franco’s Spain (Carr & Aizpurua, 1979; Garcı´ a Escudero, 1987). Hence: Proposition 5. Since non-democracies limit political access and prohibit independent activism, the sources of political opportunity are more limited than in democracies. The fourth and fifth propositions imply that political opportunities will be harder to specify in democracies because there are more varied sources of opportunity and fewer legal constraints facing challengers. Moreover, since organizing, lobbying, and legal challenges can be used as strategies by SMOs, alterations in political opportunities are not always necessary to achieve a successful outcome (e.g., a change in policy). In non-democratic systems, political opportunities may be more effective as a theoretical framework because the sources of political opportunity are fewer and narrower in scope. Challengers are faced with relatively daunting barriers to mobilization during normal times which makes collective action high risk and high cost. Even though grievances can be acute, in a mobilization context with a very high certainty of repression, no legally permitted independent formal organizations, and controlled media or monitored information flows, it is very difficult to motivate people to protest in the absence of political opportunities.
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Since these are narrower in scope, it may be feasible to establish a protocol for the comparative analysis of mobilization in non-democracies. Different institutional bases of state power mean different parameters for political opportunity in these two types of states. The complexity involved in democratic systems does not lend itself to a single protocol for operationalizing political opportunity. By contrast, analysts of mobilization in nondemocracies consistently address the majority of the five variables discussed above (e.g., Calhoun, 1994; Osa, 2001, 2003; Osa & Corduneanu-Huci, 2003; Schock, 1999, 2005; Yun, 1997; Zuo & Benford, 1995). Thus: Proposition 6. In non-democracies, opportunities for mobilization arise from some combination of the following: divided elites, influential allies, increasing/decreasing repression, media access/information flows, and social networks. Together, these factors define the relevant dimensions for explaining mobilization in stable non-democracies.
FUTURE RESEARCH Our discussion points to a number of theoretically relevant issues that future research must address. We raise four general problems for political opportunity theory. First, the dimensions of political opportunity are often treated as if they must all be present at the same time and with the same intensity. One remedy would be to study the interactions among these variables, to see if there is a regular patterning or sequence that affects mobilization. For example, one can envision a scenario in which repression, elite division, and media access interact: if initial harsh repression activates an incipient cleavage within the ruling elite by polarizing it between ‘‘reformers’’ who want to act on protesters’ grievances and ‘‘hard-liners’’ who would rather crack down on dissenters, then a reform faction (the one that controls the media?) can give greater access to journalists to promote the alternative ‘‘reform’’ point of view thus provoking broader mobilization. Second, the literature lacks clarity in specifying causation and mechanisms. This is best illustrated in our discussion of the relation between repression and mobilization, the repression/protest paradox. Often, the political opportunity literature is characterized by the additive enumeration of political opportunities for a single movement (as in studies that posit that decreasing repression creates an opportunity which leads to action, and increasing repression leads to demobilization). Some analysts consider
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multiple, conjunctural causality as an alternative to the linear and additive relations (e.g., research in the ‘‘configurations approach’’). They attempt to specify configurations of opportunities across multiple cases to account for unexpected, inconsistent, or paradoxical relationships between opportunities and mobilization. Still, no one has offered an explanation for how configurations work. Are there simultaneous multiple causes that can be identified? Does a single cause imply a single mechanism, or do we need to look for compound mechanisms? Or are we looking at path dependency? Third, the influence of selection bias on theory development must be recognized. The over-sampling of successful mobilizations in democracies or democratic or revolutionary transitions in non-democracies is understandable, given data problems for researchers studying mobilization in stable authoritarian regimes. Nevertheless, it is poor practice to assert general theoretical arguments, but back them up with empirical studies drawn from a limited distribution of cases. Finally, we have to come to grips with methodological problems related to the above points. Increased utilization of process tracing, event history, and mathematical models can help us to understand movements in dynamic terms. In addition, more studies of stable non-democracies, failed mobilizations in both democracies and non-democracies, and a variety of social control regimes,5 can start to fill in some of the missing points on the mobilization spectrum. The problems to be addressed by research on non-democracies somewhat overlap with the general theoretical issues. First, the dimensions of opportunity that we discussed may be highly interdependent. For example, suppose that a movement has a religious institution like the Catholic Church as its influential ally. Church officials may have political influence with state elites, foreign governments, or may be able to influence international and domestic public opinion through the moral authority of their public pronouncements. A second variable, social networks, may include Catholic social influence organizations that are operationally independent of the religious hierarchy. Analytically, Catholic lay organizations can be considered part of the ‘‘social networks’’ dimension, while ‘‘the Church’’ is separately considered an influential ally. Yet, clearly, there is a strong elective affinity (at minimum) between the formal church organization and independent Catholic groups. Similar interdependencies can be found with repression and media access. This raises some pertinent questions. Do we need to establish clearer boundaries when we define our variables, or do we need to theorize the nature and significance of interdependency among political opportunity dimensions?
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Second, political opportunity theorists have focused exclusive concern with political factors in creating opportunity. However, (and this returns to an older tradition) economic factors may also be involved in creating ‘‘opportunity structures’’ (see Kousis & Tilly, 2005). For example, the literature on political violence has stressed the influence of income inequality or spiraling inflation in stimulating mobilization. Alternatively, we may also want to consider that authoritarian regimes might be ‘‘buying acquiescence’’ in places like Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates where the state provides a high living standard and reasonable income distribution. We could expect that economic comfort decreases the incentive to take advantage of openings in political opportunity. Third, analysts often assume that the state’s major tool for eliminating challenges is repression; hence, the neglect of analyzing persuasive repertoires. What is in the state’s full tool set for diffusing dissent? For example, we know the state can use social prejudice or stereotypes to label and delegitimate dissenters, as happened in the anti-Semitic campaign started against student protesters and intellectuals in Poland in 1968 (Osa, 2003). Or authorities can use the state-controlled media and press to ‘‘re-write history.’’ For example, if you talk to Chinese students and ordinary Chinese citizens today, you will find a high degree of agreement with the idea that the 1989 protests were the work of a limited number of malcontents and that the government was justified in its crackdown to restore stability. This, of course, is not the view of the dissidents or of academic experts outside China. This points to the effectiveness of the state’s propaganda machine in limiting information and shaping perceptions in the aftermath of contention. Finally, the most formidable problem facing researchers who study mobilization in non-democracies is the lack of good data. Here the problems stem both from external considerations, such as access to research sites and dangers from authoritarian governments, and from internal, disciplinary pressures. To obtain high-quality data on non-democratic countries, fieldwork in a hostile environment is often necessary. When official data are unreliable or inaccessible, it is often possible to establish professional relationships with local colleagues who may have better entre´e or who can access unpublished studies sitting in drawers and closets. At the least, a committed field researcher who has invested time in learning local languages and experiencing local conditions is better able to correctly evaluate the data that are (or become) available. However, competitive pressures within academic disciplines often put field researchers at a comparative disadvantage vis-a`-vis their departmental colleagues. In short, there are numerous disincentives for researchers, pressures not to engage in time-consuming
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fieldwork and independent data gathering, and this may account for the dearth of studies. Dissatisfaction with political opportunity theory has provoked criticism, and increasingly, correction. Our critique and proposals are intended to stimulate further questions and provide a framework for comparative investigation of democratic/non-democratic mobilization contexts. The need for such studies is acute, for democracy is perishable and autocracy is ancient.
NOTES 1. For a comparison of the anti-regime protest movements in China and Burma, see Schock (2005). 2. The inverted-U relationship between repression and dissent is indicative of the longitudinal curvilinear relationship between political openness and mobilization, more generally, as specified by Tilly (1978). 3. For exceptions, see Aditjondro, Kowalewski, and Peterson (2000); McAdam (1983, 1999); Osa (2003); and Schock (2005). 4. Moreover, less than one-tenth of the 110 works cited in the review analyzed social protest in non-democracies. 5. Goldstone (2001) observes that an ‘‘advantage of focusing on conditions that maintain stability, rather than the myriad of factors that can lead to its decline, is that such models have a fractal quality that is germane to social structure, which is self-similar on various social scales’’ (p. 175). Also see Goldstone and Useem (1999) and Pfaff (2006).
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Tilly, C. (1995). Popular contention in Great Britain, 1758–1834. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Tocqueville, A. de. (1998). The old regime and the revolution (Ed. and Intro. by F. Furet & F. Me´lonio, Trans. A. S. Kahan). Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Vasi, I. B. (2004). The fist of the working class: The social movements of Jiu valley miners in post-socialist Romania. East European Politics and Societies, 18, 132–157. Wood, E. J. (2000). Forging democracy from below: Insurgent transitions in South Africa and El Salvador. New York: Cambridge University Press. Yun, S. (1997). Democratization in South Korea: Social movements and their political opportunity structures. Asian Perspective, 21, 145–171. Zhao, D. (2001). The power of Tiananmen: State-society relations and the 1989 Beijing student movement. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Zuo, J., & Benford, R. D. (1995). Mobilization processes and the 1989 Chinese democracy movement. Sociological Quarterly, 36.
STRATEGIC WOMEN, ELITE ADVOCACY AND INSIDER STRATEGIES: THE WOMEN’S MOVEMENT AND CONSTITUTIONAL REFORM IN WALES Paul Chaney ABSTRACT Women’s movements played a significant role in the recent campaigns for constitutional reform in the UK. Their aim was to overturn the prevailing male domination in politics. This article explores this process in Wales, a polity where the women’s movement was comparatively weak and fragmented. In contrast to more familiar patterns of mass mobilization, ‘‘strategic women’’ used elite advocacy and ‘‘insider strategies’’ to engender the process of constitutional reform. Thus, this case study tests three widely held theoretical assumptions: that engendering state restructuring must be combined with broader activism; that insider strategies are more effective in influencing state actions; and, that the elite nature of such strategies means they can be neither democratic nor inclusive. The research findings detail the ensuing rise of state feminism and gains in women’s representation and provide evidence of a paradox whereby elite Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, Volume 27, 155–185 Copyright r 2007 by Elsevier Ltd. All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-786X/doi:10.1016/S0163-786X(06)27006-X
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action may translate into greater democratization in contexts where women’s movements are comparatively underdeveloped.
INTRODUCTION In contrast to other social movements, women’s movements often exhibit distinctive characteristics in the way that they engage with the state to advance their claims (Beckwith, 2000). From an international perspective, 1970s onwards marked a phase when women’s movements were deeply suspicious of ‘‘formal’’ politics and the role of the state; both of which were seen as essentially patriarchal. As a result, many feminists avoided engagement with the state, instead privileging collectivist, anti-hierarchical activism within new social movements and away from the formal political arena (Katzenstein & Mueller, 1987). The post-1980s revaluation of the key role of the state in the institutionalization of gender relations reflected the reality that avoiding engagement with the state was no longer a tenable position for, as Banaszak, Beckwith, and Rucht (2003, p. 24) conclude, ‘‘given the central role of the modern interventionist state, women’s movements must engage the state to bring about political and societal change’’. Thus, women’s movements have lobbied governments and state bodies for greater democratization and an end to women’s marginalization in formal decision-making processes (Ferree & Martin, 1995). Such marginalization is evident both in respect of women’s descriptive representation – or the situation whereby women are present as elected representatives (the current global average of women representatives in national parliaments is just 15.9 per cent),1 as well as women’s substantive representation – or the extent to which women’s needs and wants are addressed in the formulation of public policy. Over recent decades, constitutional reform of unitary and federal states associated with the international development of multi-level governance and the trend towards (quasi-) federalism (Bulmer, Martin, Christopher, & Hogwood, 2002; Bache, 2005) has provided major political opportunity structures for developed women’s movements to mobilize and press for the incorporation of gender equality mechanisms in the institutional ‘blueprints’ of new parliaments and assemblies (Beckwith, 2003). In many polities this has underpinned the rise of ‘‘state feminism’’ (McBride, 1995; Rankin & Vickers, 2001; Lovenduski, 2005b) – or the development of ‘‘government structures that are formally charged with furthering women’s status and rights’’ (Stetson & Mazur, 1995, p. 1). Over recent decades the manner in which women’s movements have influenced – and engendered – the formal
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political opportunities presented by constitutional change has been varied. As Dobrowolsky (2003a, p. 139) concludes, they have employed ‘‘a wide, adaptable strategic repertoire’’. Despite such variation, the international experience points to a common uniting factor: ‘‘lobbying, working with state and party insiders must be combined with broader activism’’ (Dobrowolsky, 2003b, p. 240, emphasis added). This point underlines the importance of mobilizing structures – or coordinating mechanisms, practices and procedures that enable strategic collective working and coalitions (McAdam, McCarthy, & Zald, 1996). Thus Rucht (2003, p. 259) concludes that, when compared to other types of new social movements, ‘‘the women’s movement has a surprisingly strong emphasis on national mobilization’’. A burgeoning literature attests to this (Albertyn, 2003; Valiente, 2003; Murphy, 2003; Rankin & Vickers, 2001). However, multi-level political coordination that secures such broad-based activism requires women’s movements to have developed mobilizing structures and strategic leadership. This is particularly problematic in states that are characterized by weak and fragmented women’s movements (Tatur, 1992; Siklova, 1996; Watson, 1997; Goldfarb, 1998; Picukane, 2004). Such under-development of social movements’ infrastructure has a variety of causes including the suppression of civil society movements under totalitarian regimes; and, the political and administrative centralization of nations and regions as a function of the historical development of unitary states. Whilst the literature on state feminism shows that insider strategies may be pursued in contexts where women’s movements are strong and cohesive, such as Canada and Australia (Chappell, 2002b) – and particularly in instances of constitutional mobilization (Dobrowolsky, 2000; Sawer & Vickers, 2001) – it is in states with weak and fragmented women’s movements that feminist activists face significant challenges in advancing their democratization agenda. In such circumstances, in order to advance their demands, they may have little choice but to adopt insider strategies. Instead of mass mobilization, this strategic-agency mode of feminist engagement with the state (Lovenduski, 2005a) relies on a limited number of influential women activists operating within specific institutional contexts to advance feminist claims. This is an issue that has a wider salience in contemporary political science debates; one that centres on the distinction between ‘‘insider’’ groups with privileged access to formal decision-making processes and ‘‘outsider’’ groups that seek influence through indirect strategies of pressure, including mass mobilization (Grant, 2000, 2001). Recent research in Denmark by Binderkrantz (2005, p. 711) suggests that ‘‘indirect strategies are more accurately seen as an active choice by groups who find themselves in
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a competitive situation with regard to attracting members’’. She continues, ‘‘most groups have both direct and indirect strategies as part of their action repertoire, but cause groups and groups experiencing intensive membership competition rely more on media and mobilization strategies than other groups’’. Acknowledging the country-specific nature of her findings she adds, ‘‘similar studies in other countries are an obvious way to shed more light on the use of different strategies of influence’’. The present study responds to this call and explores the implications for women’s movements. In summary, this paper addresses a key question: in contexts where women’s movements are comparatively weak and are effectively denied an active choice of whether to pursue ‘‘outsider’’ strategies based on mass mobilization because of their fragmented and underdeveloped mobilizing structures, how – and to what extent – are feminist activists still able to influence state restructuring? The focus of the following discussion is the role of the women’s movement in shaping constitutional reform in Wales in the 1990s (for a UK-wide discussion on constitutional reform see Bogdanor, 1999). The latest phase of constitutional reform in the UK provided opportunities for women concerned to overturn the male domination of politics that had persisted for centuries. The problem was particularly acute in Wales for, prior to 1997, an historical total of just four women had been elected to the British parliament by Welsh constituencies. Writing in 1990, one feminist activist summed up many women’s dissatisfaction with the status quo and the need for change, ‘‘unless we want to reproduce the same inequalities and discriminations that exist in the present nation-state, we have now to work how to ensure that when we have the first government in Wales, half of those serving on it will be women’’ (Ryan, 1990, p. 14). Wales is the British country that has experienced the greatest levels of political and administrative integration into the structures and practices of England, its larger neighbour. Whereas, women’s movements in Scotland and Northern Ireland were broadly typical2 of the ‘classic’ international model of women’s movements (Brown, Tanya, Mackay, & Meehan, 2002; Dobrowolsky, 2002), – engendering constitutional reform through mass mobilization and effective organizational infrastructures – the comparatively fragmented and weak nature of the women’s movement in Wales necessitated a contrasting approach. Here, in order to shape change processes, a limited number of ‘‘strategic women’’ – or feminist activists in political parties and gender equality organizations – relied upon elite advocacy and ‘‘insider strategies’’ in key organizational settings to further their claims. This was arguably a risky strategy to pursue given the comparatively low levels of initial support
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for devolution, yet as the following analysis reveals, probabilistically the research evidence shows this approach to have had significant outcomes. Accordingly, the Welsh experience presents an example of how key feminist activists may interact with an underdeveloped and fragmented women’s movement in order to engender state restructuring. As such, this case study engages with a number of key issues and academic debates. These include: the relative importance of mass mobilization versus the actions of strategic activists; power relations within movements and the relative importance of network components (Peters, 1998); and, the characteristics of individual activists – in other words, who they are in terms of feminist conviction, skills and ability to effectively prosecute political claims for women (CowellMeyers, 2003; Dovi, 2003). Underpinned by these concerns, the principal aim of this paper is to present a case study that draws upon available social movements perspectives in order to engage with – and test – three widely held theoretical assumptions in the literature: (i) that engendering state restructuring must be combined with broader activism (Dobrowolsky, 2003b); (ii) that insider strategies are more effective in influencing state actions (Jordan & Maloney, 1997); and (iii) that the elite nature of such strategies means that their effect can be neither democratic nor inclusive (Chandler, 2004). This discussion begins with an outline of the research methodology, moves on to consider the literature on strategic women, elite advocacy and state feminism; it then provides an outline of the nature of the women’s movement in Wales, before presenting the research findings and their implications.
METHOD This paper draws on findings from two principal research projects that studied the process of constitutional reform and the establishment of the National Assembly for Wales during the period 1999–2005.3 Semistructured research interviews were undertaken with over 250 members of organizations representing women and other (non-discrete) marginalized social groups (e.g. disabled people, people from different ethnic backgrounds), civil servants, politicians, election candidates, managers with nongovernmental organizations (NGOs), ‘‘strategic women activists’’, other key individuals in the women’s movement and those pressing for constitutional reform more generally. These interviews were then transcribed and analysed using qualitative text analysis software.4 Interviewees were selected as part of a theoretical sample designed to reflect social and geographical diversity
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within the case study area. Research interviews were conducted in both the Welsh and English languages. Further data was gathered through participant observation of the meetings of NGOs in the women’s movement and beyond. In addition, published parliamentary proceedings and, the unpublished minutes of meetings and the ‘‘grey’’ literature of women’s organizations formed part of the data gathering associated with the present study.
STRATEGIC WOMEN, ELITE ADVOCACY AND INSIDER STRATEGIES The origins of the notion of ‘‘insider’’ and ‘‘outsider’’ groups can be traced back to work by Schattschneider (1935, p. 166) who highlighted the differences in their respective action repertoires in dealings with the state. The literature on civic engagement suggests that groups possessing insider status enjoy privileged access to decision-making processes whereas outsider groups are often required to seek influence through more indirect means (Binderkrantz, 2005). In contrast to patterns of broad-based political activism and mass mobilization, insider strategies rely upon elite advocacy that emphasizes an individualized or small group approach whereby ‘‘social contracts or bargains between the individual and centres of political and economic power are negotiated, discussed and mediated’’ (Kaldor, 2003, p. 11; Wood, 2002). Katzenstein’s (1998) work illustrates how women movements may beneficially follow the latter approach and work through institutions, mobilizing from the inside to bring about change in even the most male-dominated institutions like the church and the military. Yet Chandler (2004, p. 335) summarizes the ‘‘costs’’ of the insider/elite approach: ‘‘rather than expand the horizon of democratic politics, this is a form of politics which is neither ‘democratic’ nor ‘inclusive’. It is focused around the ‘freedoms’ of the individual advocate who engages in courtly politics and elite lobbying’’. As the following analysis reveals, in certain contexts such a conclusion may be precipitous. In the absence of fully developed mobilizing structures such ‘‘elite advocacy’’ may be one of the principal routes – if not the sole means – open to women activists aiming to influence and engender the course of constitutional reform; a process that can advance rather than retard democratization. The term ‘‘strategic women’’ may be used to describe these elite advocates. They consist not only of ‘‘femocrats’’ or ‘‘feminist bureaucrats’’ – who enter ‘‘all areas of [government] administration in an effort to
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influence public policy-making’’ (Chappell, 2002a, p. 86) – but also feminists drawn from a range of professional fields and organizational settings who continue to operate in civil (and civic) society associations – as well those who take up elected office. Strategic women are concerned with working through institutions to advance gender equality; they are united by their experience and expertise in such matters and, frequently, their seniority and positions of influence. They may work with nascent women’s movements for a number of motives; a key factor being the need to gain wider legitimacy and maximize their salience in their dealings with the state (see Fig. 1). The latter is a core issue for, as Meyer (2003, p. 277) asserts, ‘‘social movements emerge when a potential constituency can claim sufficient political legitimacy to express its claims’’. The relationship between strategic women and the women’s movement is frequently characterized by overlapping membership of organizations (both civic and civil society) such that strategic women are managers with NGOs and public-sponsored agencies concerned with the service delivery for women and/or the promotion of women’s rights – as well as the emerging structures and networks of the women’s movement. The latter are pivotal, for as Tarrow (1998) reminds us, a collective challenge, common purpose, solidarity and collective identity alone do not constitute a social movement without the sustaining structures and networks that make for collective action. As the following discussion reveals, strategic women may be instrumental in developing the linkages and resources of nascent women’s
• Access to, and in depth knowledge of the workings of, government, bureaucracy and formal decision-making structures of the state • Senior position within an institutional setting (e.g. state agency, political party, civil society organization) that allows – and supports – the advancement of gender equality claims • Able to draw on extensive social and professional networks to advance gender equality claims • Possesses advanced communication skills and skilled in lobbying and campaigning • Able to draw on own public profile and/or that of institutions, and/or civil society organizations in order to lend greater weight/legitimacy to gender equality claims • Possesses ‘political’ influence, standing and credibility – such that their views cannot be summarily dismissed by opponents • Personal history of feminist /social justice oriented activism and/or professional experience in gender equality organizations
Fig. 1.
Key Objective Criteria Defining ‘Strategic Women’
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movements. Importantly, as noted, these activists are generally in positions of power and influence. The latter are often, though not exclusively, derived from individuals’ professional work to advance gender equality. Strategic women are based in a range of organizational settings including: trades unions, local government, political parties, academia, other social movements (e.g. environmentalists, civic nationalism) – as well as the aforementioned public agencies and NGOs. Political affiliation to a particular political party or general political ideology may be a further uniting feature of these women. As class of activist, strategic women are also marked by their general knowledge of, and competence in using, both formal and informal structures and procedures in their dealings with the state and other centres of political power. This knowledge, coupled with organizational position allows strategic women to connect with key individuals and effectively pursue ‘‘insider strategies’’ – in other words, to draw upon intraorganizational networks of sociability and co-working, as well as to exploit their understanding of organizational practices and procedures in order to advance gender equality claims from within organizations (a process that impacts on the internal processes and outputs of given organizations as well as achieving wider political and cultural change). The principal benefit of the latter approach being the access it affords to power brokers and decision makers. Before turning to explore empirical findings of how the elite advocacy of strategic women may shape constitutional reform we first consider the pre-existing context relating to the women’s movement in the present case study.
THE WOMEN’S MOVEMENT AND CONSTITUTIONAL REFORM IN WALES Underdeveloped and Fragmented Brief reference to the nature of the women’s movement prior to constitutional reform illustrates its underdeveloped nature. As elsewhere, feminism in Wales was a key social force in 1970s, with a radical and active women’s liberation movement yet it was comprised of numerous, mostly unconnected local groups (Beddoe, 2000; Rolph, 2003). The following decade was dominated by two events of major significance for the women’s movement: women’s peace campaigners’ activism against the stationing of nuclear weapons at the US military base at Greenham and the 1984–1985 Miners’ Strike. The former was initiated by a woman activist from west Wales who
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organized a peace march from Cardiff to Greenham in 1981, an event that turned into an international movement involving thousands of women (Pettit, 1985; White, 1984). In the case of the subsequent coal miners’ strike against pit closures in 1984–1985 the result was unprecedented organization and mobilization of women. One woman activist interviewed in 1983, described women’s role in the strike by saying, ‘‘we’re out on the streets and the picket lines. Now I realize how important it is for women to organize themselves’’ (quoted in Jones, 1984). Another underlined the potentially enduring effects of the industrial action saying: ‘‘there’s no way I’m going to sit down in the house after this over, after being so active. We’ve been so strong now that it would be pointless not to stay together’’ (Evans, Hudson, & Smith, 1985). Yet some men in this traditionally male-dominated culture ‘‘felt threatened by this new demonstration of women’s power’’ (Beddoe, 2000, p. 165) and for many women the end of the strike also marked the end of their activism. Another notable aspect of the women’s movement during the period was the interplay between feminism and nationalism (linguistic and political). For some this restrained feminist activism. Thus, Davies (1994, p. 127) concludes that linguistic nationalism diverted and ‘‘absorbed the political energies of many women’’. Aaron (1994, pp. 183–184) has argued that this ‘‘diversion’’ was, in many cases, overcome because, although feminism was still viewed as an alien Anglo-American import by many Welsh-identified communities, since the 1970s it ‘‘combined interestingly with a resurgence in confidence in Welshness to produce a new and strong female voice within both Welsh and English-language cultures of Wales’’. In terms of political nationalism, Plaid Cymru (the principal opposition party in the National Assembly, and a purportedly ‘‘nationalist’’ party – a description refuted by leading party figures) provided a further institutional setting within which women advanced gender equality claims. However, the traditional party political rivalry between Welsh Labour and Plaid Cymru that endured until comparatively late in the pro-devolution campaign of the 1990s restricted opportunities for feminists in the party. Ultimately, one woman emerged from Plaid to join the group of strategic women discussed here. Notwithstanding such challenges faced by women in Plaid in engendering constitutional reform, recent research shows that the party is broadly typical of the other three main political parties in Wales; at once exhibiting both a reluctance (on the part of many male members at least) to abandon its traditional male-dominated character and at pains to present itself as a reformed, modern party concerned with promoting equality and inclusiveness (Chaney & Fevre, 2001; Chaney, Mackay, & McAllister, 2007). Away from linguistic and political
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nationalism, other features of the women’s movement at the time included: the development of feminist publishing and film-making ventures (Beddoe, 2000); a growth in small-scale projects and grassroots organizations; and an increasingly visible role for feminists in political parties, trade unions, voluntary sector bodies and local government. Despite these developments, the overall picture of the women’s movement in Wales in the period 1970–1995 is one that lacked the strategic movementwide capacity, infrastructure and the resources to mobilize as a unified force. Limited resources were available for networking, and most organizations were involved in practical service delivery and support to women rather than overtly political or strategic activism. A key reason for this fragmentation and underdevelopment was historical in nature and related to the close political and administrative integration of Wales and England. As a result many women’s organizations were cross-border bodies. Crucially, the policy process and centre of government was located in London denying the women’s movement a clear Welsh focus for action as, in common with movements elsewhere, they turned their attention to the state and the institutionalization of gender relations. As the following discussion reveals, this fragmentation and underdevelopment of the women’s movement presented major challenges to feminist activists if they were to effectively engage with and shape the gradual but growing campaign to create an elected Welsh legislature, one that began to (re-)gather momentum in the late 1980s.
STRATEGIC WOMEN AND KEY ORGANIZATIONAL SETTINGS At the 1987 UK general election, the majority of voters in Wales (70.5 per cent)5 supported the left-of-centre parties, yet the anti-constitutional reform, right-wing Conservative and Unionist Party was returned to power in Westminster. This re-election of a UK government with minority support in Wales gave modest, yet significant momentum to devolutionists’ calls for an elected Welsh legislature. The initial debates of pro-devolution parties and alliances such as the Parliament for Wales Campaign (PWC) were mostly devoid of gender equality concerns. However, by the early 1990s strategic women were beginning to make their mark. Their use of elite advocacy and insider strategies was necessary because, although 1,546 voluntary NGOs were recorded as ‘‘women’s organizations’’ by the official third-sector body
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(circa 2000; WCVA 2001, 2005)6 as noted, they lacked the integrated mobilizing structures associated with developed women’s movements. In consequence, approximately 25 key strategic women pursued a series of actions to engender constitutional reform. This group of feminist activists had a non-discrete membership variously made up of: local government representatives, party officials, party activists, trades union officials, directors of women’s NGOs, public sector officials and academics. Within a country characterized by an urban–rural divide marked by traditional patriarchal structures in rural areas and an urban population generally more receptive to new social attitudes – it is noteworthy, that these strategic women, whilst coming from diverse geographical origins, comprised what can be characterized as an urban-based elite. Three main institutional settings enabled these strategic activists to press their gender equality claims through insider strategies: the centre-left Welsh Labour Party, the multi-interest pro-devolution campaign and the Equal Opportunities Commission (EOC). These organizations may be described as follows: (i) Welsh Labour is part of the British Labour Party; formed in 1900. It was the party of (UK) government for first time in 1924. Overtime it has had shifting left-wing–centre-left political orientation and its attitude to devolution has traditionally been mostly ambivalent (and often shaped by those opposed to decentralization). (ii) Launched in 1987, the Campaign for a Welsh Assembly (CWA) was, ‘the most significant coalition for democratic devolution, the nearest Wales ever came to having a cross-party Constitutional Convention (Morgan & Mungham, 2000, pp. 97–98). Renamed the PWC in 1993, this pro-devolution alliance eventually broadened out of its Welsh Labour Party origins to include other pro-devolution parties, a range of activists from NGOs as well as individuals supportive of constitutional reform. (iii) The EOC was founded in 1975. It is managed by a chair and a commission of government appointees; although it is a non-departmental government body, and despite state funding, in theory at least, it is autonomous of government. Its purpose is to uphold the Sex Discrimination Act (1975), a statute that outlawed direct and indirect discrimination on grounds of sex in employment, education and the provisions of goods, facilities and services. In the past decade it has interpreted its mandate more broadly and acted to influence public policy in relation to gender equality.
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The late Val Feld Assembly Member (AM). Director of the Equal Opportunities Commission in Wales, co-founder of gender equality policy networks and campaigning groups such as: the Wales Women's National Coalition (WWNC) and Minority Ethnic Women's Network (MEWN) Cymru. A leading figure in Women Say Yes for Wales (WSYFW) part of the prodevolution campaign. A future Welsh Labour Party elected Member of the National Assembly for Wales. Jane Hutt AM. A former director of Chwarae Teg (a national organization to promote women's participation in the labor market), campaigner for gender equality in the voluntary sector and leading figure in promoting equality with the Parliament for Wales Campaign. A future Welsh Labour Party Minister in the National Assembly for Wales. Helen Mary Jones AM. Senior Development Manager with the Equal Opportunities Commission in Wales and, worker and campaigner for Welsh Women's Aid (an organization campaigning on, and supporting victims of, domestic violence). A leading figure in and WWNC and WSYFW. A future principal opposition party (Plaid Cymru) spokesperson on equalities and, economic development in the National Assembly for Wales. Each has been a long-term campaigner for gender equality within their respective political parties
Fig. 2.
Strategic Women and Key Organizational Settings: Summary Biographies of Prominent Strategic Women
The summary biographies of three prominent strategic women underline the centrality of these three institutional settings to the advancement of gender equality claims in the process of constitutional reform (Fig. 2).
INSIDER STRATEGIES The Welsh Labour Party and the Pro-Devolution Campaign The inter-related nature of strategic women’s role in the Welsh Labour Party and the pro-devolution campaign means that it is appropriate to examine these two organizational settings together before, in the next section, turning to the EOC. In the early 1990s, key women activists started to exert a discernible influence in the PWC.7 Two of its most prominent gender equality activists, Jane Hutt and Val Feld, were also Welsh Labour Party activists. As the pro-devolution campaign gathered momentum they and other strategic women activists seized the discursive opportunities provided by ongoing debates in the PWC; specifically, these centred on how constitutional reform could advance the concepts of ‘‘inclusiveness’’ and new governance. Strategic activists used these debates to make the case for
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gender equality to also be included as a further core principle (see Chaney, 2004a). Around the period 1994–1995 they, and like-minded activists, used the following three arguments for ‘‘the involvement of women in a Welsh Parliament’’: ‘‘democracy is based upon the participation of all in political decision-making. Women constitute at least half of any population and it is axiomatic therefore that they should be represented proportionately; political participation requires the articulation and defence of the interests of the group or groups that are represented. Women are more aware of their own needs and interests, and are therefore better able to press for them; Involving women in a gender-balanced Welsh Parliament will improve the culture of the decisionmaking process itself’’ (Edwards, 1994, p. 146).
Subsequently, the following article was approved and added to the PWC’s set of core principles or ‘‘Democracy Declaration’’: ‘‘a future Welsh Parliament will ensure, from the start, that there is a gender balance in its elected representatives, and will ensure that its procedures will enable women, men and minority groups to participate to the fullest extent’’ (PWC, 1994a). Later in the same year such strategic women again acted to ensure that key PWC documents clearly stated the need to incorporate gender equality in the design of a future Welsh legislature. Thus, the PWC report ‘‘Empowering the People’’ asserted that ‘‘establishing a Parliament for Wales provides a unique and exciting opportunity to improve dramatically the representation of women in Welsh life. To be successful that opportunity must be seized from the start’’ (PWC, 1994b, p. 23). The prevailing view of many feminists within PWC was against a laissez faire approach; instead, it was held that the equal representation of women and men should be built into the institutional blueprint of the future Assembly as a statutory requirement. Thus, in a PWC document, reference is made to the scenario ‘‘if parties themselves were required to select an equal number of men and women as candidates’’ (PWC, 1994a, p. 22, original emphasis). Advocates were clear on the need to seize the initiative on this issue. Empowering the People goes on to state: ‘‘given the advance that has occurred in the thinking in Wales regarding women’s rights, such arrangements [i.e. positive action in a future Assembly electoral system] would be bound to have a dynamic and innovative effect on Welsh politics’’. As an institution the Welsh Labour Party reflected the androcentric nature of Welsh society as a whole. Since the 1980s a limited number of Wales Labour Party branch level women’s sections lobbied the party to promote gender equality and adopt women-friendly childcare and housing policies. They also campaigned for improvements in the representation of women in internal party positions and as candidates and elected representatives. One
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such women’s section in Cardiff included feminists such as Jane Hutt, Sue Essex and Jane Davidson, who later became local councilors and subsequently elected members of the future Welsh Assembly8 (AMs) and Welsh Government ministers. These strategic women were determined to make sure that the party’s plans for constitutional reform gave an equal role to women. A series of strategy documents suggests that their efforts had some impact. In early 1994 ‘‘Shaping the Vision’’ said: ‘‘Wales provides a unique and exiting opportunity to improve dramatically the representation of women in Welsh life’’ (PWC, 1994a, p. 23). In addition to women’s descriptive representation, promoting gender equality in public policy was a main priority for strategic women in the party. As a result of their lobbying the 1996 strategy document ‘‘Preparing for a New Wales’’ (WLP, 1996, p. 6) stated: ‘‘the parliamentary Act which establishes the Welsh Assembly should include an equal opportunities clause which will require the Assembly to adopt procedures which are non-discriminatory [y and y] scrutinize policies and develop new strategies to achieve equality’’. These ideas were not accepted by all. One strategic activist described opposition from male party members in the following terms: It was very bitter and very nasty. They were extremely threatening, sort of ‘in your face’. And these were your macho males and they were physically trying to intimidate women – or any male – (and, I would perhaps guess that it was slightly worse for the males that were standing with us). It was quite frightening. I witnessed a lot. These men were sticking their heads and their chests forward saying ‘who do you think you are?’ And you would even hear: ‘this isn’t your place. We’ve been here a long time, we know what people want, we know how it works.’ And yet they couldn’t see that outside [the party] people weren’t voting for them. They couldn’t put the two together. (Research interview 05.05.2004)
In June 1996, the cross-party Yes for Wales Campaign (YFW) was formed in response to the announcement that referendums would ultimately decide whether Welsh and Scottish legislatures would be established. Importantly, YFW developed a number of affiliated campaign groups including Women Say Yes (WSY). The latter grouping was launched in June 1997. Again, it involved strategic women who were also leading members of the overall YFW campaign. The connection between devolution and the promotion of women’s substantive representation was made explicit in campaign materials. One noted that: We believe that the Assembly offers a real opportunity for a new kind of politics. Women in Wales have been seriously under-represented in political life for generations y We want an Assembly where women’s contributions can be heard and valued y we want to ensure that equal opportunities are built-in from the start – it will not work if it is an add-on later.9
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Research interviews have subsequently confirmed the likely importance of ‘strategic women’ in the YFW Campaign. As one activist put it: It wasn’t so much that a women’s movement was attached to the Yes [For Wales] campaign but there were individual women who had perceived themselves as having been in the Women’s Movement who were attached to the Yes campaign y It [devolution] was the sort of urgent single-issue campaign that would effect women’s involvement. (Research interview 12.10.2003)
When interviewed one strategic women described their role at the time as: A sort of feeling really that you were carving your own destiny and you actually had the power to do that, which probably had been lacking in formal politics before. I think that the devolution movement brought in women to be active in that sort of way and that was very, very important. (Research interview 19.08.2004)
The most significant public rally organized by Feld and others in WSY was billed as ‘a gathering of women from across Wales to support the campaign for equality for women through a Welsh Assembly’. It took place in August 1997, just over two weeks before the devolution referendum. The attendance figure of approximately 150 people underlines the absence of mass mobilization and the under-development of the women’s movement. The views of those present suggest that the limited attendance did not undermine the significance of the gathering. For example, one remarked: ‘‘I still meet people who were there and say that it changed their attitude to politics’’ (Research interview 28.01.2003). Another described ‘‘an enormous feeling of optimism and hope – and a tremendous feeling that we were actually about to change things’’ (Research interview 14.11.2003). According to the manager of a women’s NGO who was present at the event, It was one of those ‘‘tingle-down-the-back-of-your-neck’’-type of ‘‘I was there’’ moments! And it was terribly empowering! y As women, it was one of those ‘‘can do’’ moments, empowering moments when you knew you couldn’t go backwards. (Research interview 02.03.2004)
At this time, in the wake of developments at a British-level, the idea of a constitutional requirement for gender equality – such that 50 per cent of elected members in a future assembly would be women – was rejected because of legal difficulties and opposition as the constitutional reform Bill was debated in the UK House of Commons. Previous cross-national studies (Ramirez, Soysal, & Shanahan, 1997) have highlighted the positive effect of such constitutional guarantees of gender equality in the context of state reform, not least in promoting awareness and lending legitimacy to the idea that political assemblies should be 50 per cent female. The absence of this mechanism in the current case study supports the present argument that the
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actions of strategic women were significant in promoting equality issues in the process of state restructuring. Instead of a constitutional guarantee, ‘‘twinning’’ became the preferred option for ensuring gender balance amongst Labour representatives in the future Assembly. Originally devised in Scotland, this method was one of a number of interrelated aspects of constitutional reform applying to Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland (others include a concern for a proportional electoral system and heightened emphasis on democratic engagement and participation). Against this background, the adoption of ‘‘twinning’’ was successfully proposed by Welsh Labour Party women modernizers and became official party policy in Wales. It required that electoral constituencies be matched as far as possible in terms of a variety of indicators, including winnability. Both men and women could stand for selection for a pair of constituencies. Under twinning, the woman applicant with the highest number of votes was selected as the Labour candidate for one of the twinned seats, at the same time as the man with the highest number of votes was selected for the other.
The Equal Opportunities Commission Strategic women worked within the EOC in order that it became a source of leadership for women and women’s NGOs in Wales. They ‘‘stretched’’ their official remit of ensuring compliance with sex discrimination legislation and began to develop the networks and infrastructure of the fragmented women’s movement. New organizations were created as a result of this support, such as Chwarae Teg,10 founded in 1992 as a network to support women’s enterprise and increase women’s participation in the labour market; and, the Minority Ethnic Women’s Network (MEWN) Cymru in 1993, a network set up to provide a platform for the views of black and minority ethnic women in Wales. The EOC also used local government reorganization11 and the 1995 UN Platform for Action12 as network building and mobilizing opportunities. Crucially, in 1997, as the pro-devolution campaign gathered momentum, a coalition of less than a dozen women’s NGOs, the Wales Women’s Coalition (subsequently renamed the Wales Women’s National Coalition – or WWNC) was formed with the purpose of giving women a stronger voice or lobby in relation to public policy. Strategic women in the EOC were instrumental in creating the WWNC and offered it institutional support and vital, albeit small-scale, funding. Historically, it was type of infrastructure-building work that had been absent in Wales, something that underpinned the prevailing weakness of the women’s
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movement. Developing the infrastructure of the women’s movement in this way necessitated an almost covert approach by strategic women in the EOC in Wales as it was done in defiance of an equivocal, if not hostile, EOC management at Great Britain level. The latter was opposed to activities that might be construed as the EOC in Wales engaging with the devolution process; an activity seen by some as too ‘‘political’’ for civil servants in an arms-length government sponsored body. In 1997, as the legislative plans for a future Welsh assembly were drawn up, the EOC and WWNC drew the attention of the relevant UK government minister – the Secretary of State for Wales – to a draft equality clause that they had written and which could be incorporated into a future parliamentary Act creating a Welsh Assembly. This legal mechanism would address gender and other modes of discrimination by requiring that the Assembly promote equality in the exercise of all its functions and in the conduct of its business. The WWNC minutes record that the Secretary of State ‘‘responded positively to the importance of integrating equality and stated that [one of the strategic women,] VF [Val Feld], should discuss these matters further with civil servants’’.13 Following the Secretary of State’s agreement, WWNC records state that: ‘‘coalition member organizations were very pleased to see the Equality Clauses in the National Assembly [parliamentary] Bill. It was agreed that it will now be important for the Coalition to maintain pressure on the Welsh Office14 and the political parties to ensure that these Equality Clauses are put into full operation when the National Assembly is established’’.15 Research interviews again affirm the foregoing documentary evidence of the probabilistic link between the actions of strategic women and engendering the process of constitutional change at this juncture. One of their members, Helen Mary Jones (at that time the deputy director of the EOC in Wales) recalled: The key figure was Val [Feld], she was absolutely key. She was key in terms of getting everybody involved y the work with the Coalition [WWNC] was working with women’s organizations to get them all signed-up to the actual [statutory equality] clause. y we wanted something that was going to change what the Assembly did as well as how it conducted itself. y we presented the clause: we made the case. (Research interview 06.11.2002)
In December 1997, three months after the, albeit narrow, public endorsement of constitutional reform in a referendum, and in order to further develop the legal framework (or ‘Standing Orders’) for the new Assembly, the Secretary of State established the National Assembly Advisory Group (NAAG). Contemporary minutes of a WWNC meeting conclude that,
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‘‘the NAAG is a very positive opportunity for women’s organizations to influence the way that the Assembly would operate’’.16 Again, strategic women drawn from the EOC and PWC seized the prevailing political opportunity structures to promote women’s issues. As a result the evidence suggests the likelihood that such measures ensured that these – and wider equality concerns – were included in the NAAG Recommendations. As a strategic woman participant in the Advisory Group recalled, in the face of resistance from the civil servants to measures designed to promote equality: ‘‘it was a few of the women who decided we are going to have to write this ourselves and every now and then [we] started coming up with Standing Orders for the Assembly y and they are still there’’ (Research interview 12.09.2003). Included in their advice to the Secretary of State were legal requirements for: a cross-party standing committee to oversee the National Assembly’s promotion of equality in public policy and law making; family friendly working hours; and the use of non-sexist language in political debate. The prevailing feeling amongst women activists was that they had succeeded in influencing the NAAG’s Recommendations. Yet they were not about to become complacent. The minutes of a WWNC meeting held in late July 1998 record: ‘‘the equality proposals, including the Equal Opportunities Committee, have remained in the advice [to the Secretary of State] y but it was agreed that the pressure needs to be kept on’’.17 Overall, the foregoing evidence suggests that the actions – or insider strategies – of strategic women operating in the, PWC, EOC – and the Welsh Labour Party itself – may well have been of key significance in making certain that, when it came into office, the Labour Party honoured its 1996 commitment to the inclusion of equality clauses in the devolution statute. We now examine how their efforts to engender constitutional reform led to the development of state feminism and the implications of this for the development of the women’s movement in Wales – as well as for wider notions of democracy and inclusion in the devolved polity; attention is also focused on the level of women’s descriptive representation achieved in the new legislature and its implications for engendering the policy process.
STATE FEMINISM AND WOMEN’S REPRESENTATION The insider strategies pursued by strategic women paved the way for the rise of state feminism in the wake of constitutional reform. As noted, ‘‘state
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feminism’’ refers to ‘‘government structures that are formally charged with furthering women’s status and rights’’ (Stetson & Mazur, 1995, p. 2). A prominent example is the dedicated Strategic Equality and Diversity Unit in the Assembly Government Civil Service. Its purpose is to provide advice and guidance and oversee adherence to the devolved government’s official strategy of gender mainstreaming. The latter concept developed from the United Nations (UN) Third World Conferences on Women in Nairobi (1985) and Beijing (1995). A widely adopted definition describes this approach as: ‘‘a strategy for making women’s as well as men’s concerns and experiences an integral dimension of the design, implementation, monitoring and evaluation of policies and programmes in all political, economic and societal spheres so that women and men benefit equally and inequality is not perpetuated. The ultimate goal is to achieve gender equality’’ (UN, 2001, p. 3). In July 1999, at the first meeting of the Assembly’s cross-party Equality Committee, this new basis for promoting equality was set out by the Equalities Minister. This marked the continued salience of ‘‘insider strategies’’ as Jane Hutt, former PWC activist and now an elected member of the new Welsh Assembly, unveiled her ministerial strategy paper that detailed how politics and policy would be different under the new devolved arrangements. This asserted that: ‘‘the executive, will need to: take equality of opportunity factors into account in every policy decision. This mainstreaming approach is fundamental’’ (National Assembly for Wales, 1999, unpaginated). Further aspects of state feminism arising from the earlier actions of strategic women include the legislature’s aforementioned cross-party Standing Committee on Equality of Opportunity and associated mandatory reporting mechanisms to measure progress in relation to the developing equalities agenda. The latter include the requirement in Standing Orders for the Equality Committee to ‘‘submit an annual report to the Assembly on y arrangements [to promote equality] and their effectiveness’’. Underpinning the overall development of state feminism is the principal equality clause in the Welsh devolution Act.18 It is an example of a ‘fourth generation’ equality duty (Fredman, 2000) and is unique in a UK context (Chaney, 2004b) for it requires government to take a proactive stance and promote equality for all persons and in respect of all Welsh Assembly Government functions. Democracy and inclusion are tenets of both the gender mainstreaming concept and fourth generation equality duties. These principles have shaped the development of the new Assembly in a number of ways – as evidenced by a range of institutional channels and procedures designed to foster civic engagement. One example is the statutory partnership between devolved
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government and the voluntary sector. This has resulted in the creation of new consultative networks that collectively comprise the Voluntary Sector Partnership Council (VSPC), a body that consists of 21 interest-based consultative policy networks designed to reflect the breadth of voluntary activity in the country. Within the ‘gender strand’ of the VSPC, women’s voluntary organizations currently total 1,621 or 6.4 per cent of the sector in Wales.19 Along with the other VSPC networks, women’s NGOs have dedicated institutionalized channels and consultation mechanisms, including the right to bi-annual meetings with government ministers. This nexus is a further dimension of state feminism and is being used by activists in the women’s movement to further the substantive representation of women in public policy. A typical example of this is a position paper by one activist calling on the devolved Welsh government to address gender imbalance amongst elected members in local government. This invited the government to address the issue and to note ‘‘the significance of this situation and be aware of its potential for the disempowerment of women, thereby perpetuating social injustice’’.20 Reflecting on the VSPC’s effectiveness as a route to further the substantive representation of women, a manager with a women’s NGO concluded: I think it is user-friendly. They have made an effort to involve the voluntary sector which I think is quite important. My feeling, looking at it all, is that they do feel strongly about the voluntary sector and they do want to involve us and there are opportunities. It’s certainly not a closed way of government. (Research interview 12.10.2003)
A further example of the institutionalization of women’s voices in the new legislature is evidenced by the role of the EOC as a permanent advisor to the Assembly’s cross-party Equality Committee. Overall, these developments have significant implications for the development of the women’s movement in Wales. Through the creation of these multiple entry points to the government, the women’s movement now has a lobbying focus for influencing public policy and law-making in a manner that was not possible prior to constitutional reform. Moreover, through the Assembly’s equality duty the women’s movement has been given legal rights21 in that it may challenge government if it feels that it is not fulfilling its duty to promote gender – and other modes of – equality. Importantly, devolution has seen direct state funding of the WWNC in order to develop and expand its networks and its capacity to influence policy. As a result it has been able to employ project workers, improve its organizational structure and expand its membership to over 25 affiliated organizations
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(with over 300,000 members). State funding has also been allocated to the MEWN Cymru. The director of one women’s NGO summarized the impact of constitutional reform on her organization – as well as the women’s movement in general – by stating: We have decided that we do have to become more ‘‘political’’, but again with a small ‘p’. We need to join all these new alliances and networks. We are very geared-up now to kind of having a voice within, the new policy structure y I mean it’s a changing culture. Our organization’s changed over the past year: it’s now very different. So we’re very much in a state of flux – but I think it’s a very positive kind of change. (Research interview 19.07.2004)
Interviewed in 1999, the late Val Feld AM summarized the initial work to promote state feminism by saying that: I think that we have succeeded in putting in place every structural measure that we could reasonably expect to try to create a new framework and ethos that means equality has a good chance of flourishing in the way that the Assembly carries out its business and in the way that it works internally and externally. (Research interview 22.09.1999)
These developments are significant on a number of levels. In terms of the relative effectiveness of ‘‘insider’’ versus ‘‘outsider’’ strategies of engagement with the state, they lend support to Jordan and Maloney’s (1997, p. 181) assertion that, generally, insider strategies are the more effective. Importantly, they have had a major impact on the development of the women’s movement. Beyond this, they represent a shift in the nature of the prevailing system of governance, with greater emphasis being placed on notions of democracy and inclusion. In particular, they have led to significant progress in overturning the earlier exclusion of women from national-level politics in Wales. Notably, the actions of strategic women have not only impacted upon the institutional design of the new legislature but also on women’s descriptive representation. Following the adoption of positive action initiatives by the left-of-centre political parties (see above) initially 40 per cent (1999) and subsequently 50 per cent (2003) of elected members in the Assembly were women.22 This is a major discontinuity with the past, given Wales’s poor historical record on women’s political representation. A key feature of the changes associated with constitutional reform has been the election to the new Assembly of seven strategic women – individuals who played an active role in engendering the devolution campaign – wherein they have continued to pursue ‘‘insider strategies’’ to shape the development of the new legislature in a manner consistent with gender equality principles. An activist with a women’s NGO underlined the importance
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of this advance in descriptive representation and having women AMs to work with. She said: Talking about the women’s side of it; that is the particular advantage that we have now got, so to push all these policies we are very pleased that we have got the high number of women there y we work well with them y we work with all the women in the Assembly. (Research interview 15.10.2003)
Similarly, another said: ‘‘we are obviously in close contact with all of the Assembly Members, and in particular the women Assembly Members. In fact many of them are members of this organization anyway. So we feel as though we have got quite an input; and a direct input because we know them all very well, and I think that will be good’’. (Research interview 11.09.2003) Linked to the descriptive representation of women in the new legislature is the substantive representation of women – or the advancement of women’s needs and wants in public policy. The potential for a reprioritization of gender equality issues became evident early in the life of the Assembly, in 2000, when a survey of women Assembly Members found that 19 out of 22 (from the total of 24) women elected to the Assembly described themselves as ‘attitudinally feminist’.23 Accordingly, there is evidence that policies tailored to promoting gender equality are an increasingly prominent feature of the policy process following constitutional reform, with gender equality re-prioritized as a core political aim of government in Wales (for a fuller discussion see Chaney et al., 2007). This has impacted across the full range of policy areas with notable progress and initiatives in gender equality in public appointments, domestic violence and equal pay. The new approach can be illustrated by reference to state education policy. Promoting gender and other modes of equality has been identified as a core aim in the provision of education. Specific policy initiatives have developed in four areas: strategic leadership, curriculum planning, training and inspection arrangements. Amongst the aims of the Welsh government’s 2001–2010 education strategy was: ‘‘the need to focus the attention of governing bodies for schools, colleges and universities, upon tackl[ing] gender imbalances within their governing bodies and staff teams’’ (WAG, 2001, p. 38). Thus, a new Wales-only law relating to school governors was passed requiring the elimination of discrimination on grounds of sex and the promotion of equal opportunities and good relations between males and females.24 Similarly, in its strategy for higher education the Assembly Government again highlighted the need for promoting gender equality, stating that ‘‘Welsh higher education institutions should be seen to have a high regard for the principles of equal opportunity y [and] be prepared to provide additional
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funds to y conduct equal pay audits’’ (WAG, 2002, p. 11). Other education policies have sought to ‘‘ensure that the [schools] curriculum reflects the diversity of our communities, [by] tackling sex y stereotyping’’ (ACCAC, 2001, p. 27). One outcome of the latter policy has been reform of the basic Welsh curriculum for children and young people aged 5–19 (ACCAC, 2002; Careers Wales, 2002). Thus, the Framework for Careers Education and Guidance for 11–19-year-olds highlights the need for pupils and students to ‘‘challenge stereotypes and broaden their career horizons’’ (ACCAC, 2000, p. 12). Similarly, another framework document states that: ‘‘girls and boys make stereotypical choices of options and subjects at all stages y girls and boys are no longer expected to conform to a conventional stereotype and children should be encouraged to challenge traditional views of career options’’ (ACCAC, 2001, pp. 3–7). Other aspects of gender equality measures in education include changes to the inspection arrangements for Welsh Schools. Guidance issued by the state education inspectorate asserts: ‘‘throughout the inspection y inspectors must ensure that the full range of age, gender, ability, special educational need, and ethnic and linguistic background are taken into account’’ (ESTYN, 2002a, p. 5). New measures have also been implemented to ensure that equality of opportunity is addressed in assessing teacher training. Recent guidance to tutors states: ‘‘does the training promote equality of opportunity and actively address issues of gender y? You should judge the quality of the training by the extent to which trainees can apply their knowledge and understanding of these issues in their planning and teaching’’ (ESTYN, 2002b, p. 28). It should be noted that, whilst there are growing numbers of such policies to promote gender equality, at present these are not yet part of a routinized, joined up approach to policy that has effectively operationalized the Welsh government’s stated goal of gender mainstreaming across all of its policy, law-making and fiscal processes (Chaney, 2006). A further area of concern is highlighted in recent work that shows that state feminism or the institutionalization of women’s political role also has potential associated ‘‘costs’’; not least because, as Charles (2004) argues, it has de-radicalized the demands of some women activists (notably in respect to policies on domestic violence) in order to gain official recognition and access to policymakers. Overall, in terms of the development of state feminism and the associated new forms and patterns of women’s representation, the existing evidence shows areas of advancement but also continuing problems and issues. As noted, securing gender equality aims and outcomes in all areas of public policy has yet to be achieved. In general, the newness of devolved governance and resistance from some civil servants and male politicians more at home
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with the former, male-dominated mode of pre-devolution politics highlights the fact that further challenges remain before the strategic women’s vision of a new gender-equal mode of politics is fully realized (Chaney et al., 2007).
CONCLUSION Whilst, as Briskin (1999, p. 24) notes, there are considerable difficulties in ‘demonstrating the independent effect of collective action on social change’, analysis of the process of constitutional reform in Wales reveals a probabilistic causal link between the actions of strategic women and engendering constitutional reform such that in contexts where women’s movements are fragmented and underdeveloped women may still exert considerable influence on the process of state reconfiguration. Moreover, it affirms the way that the move to multi-level governance presents new contexts and political opportunities for advancing gender equality in contemporary politics. Although, in such circumstances the underdevelopment of the women’s movement may limit its action repertoire in dealings with the state (in that it has restricted scope for traditional, outsider strategies based upon mass mobilization), nevertheless, principal reliance on insider strategies pursued by a limited number of feminist activists – or ‘strategic women’ – can still ensure that gender equality demands are incorporated in the process of state restructuring. Within a comparative UK context, the absence in Wales of the mass mobilization seen in Scotland and Northern Ireland might initially have been viewed as a less propitious for gender equality activists. Yet, the relatively greater gains in descriptive representation – and developments in state feminism – ultimately achieved in Wales underline the probabilistic impact of the insider strategies pursued by strategic women. This finding challenges the assumptions of the literature on women’s movements that lobbying, and working with state and party insiders must be combined with broader activism such that women’s movements place a ‘‘surprisingly strong emphasis on national mobilization’’ (Rucht, 2003, p. 259). The present case study has detailed how, at the outset of the post-1987 devolution campaign, women’s networks were characterized by relatively weak and underdeveloped mobilizing structures ill-suited to operating at a coordinated, national-level locus of political action. Instead, the actions of strategic women – a small group of approximately 25 influential women activists (gender experts, femocrats, politicians and trade union officials) did manage to insert concerns about gender equality into political dialogue around constitutional reform. Two reciprocal aspects characterize the
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relationship between these strategic women and the nascent women’s movement: the former gave strategic direction and the appearance of a coherent movement, which increased the salience of the notion of the ‘‘women’s movement’’ in dealings with the state. Whilst, for the strategic women themselves, invoking the idea of the ‘‘women’s movement’’ heightened their own democratic legitimacy in advancing gender equality claims. As a result of these processes strategic women successfully advanced a claim for women and promoted measures for their improved descriptive and substantive representation in the process of establishing a new national legislature. In terms of the methods employed by the strategic women activists, as the pro-devolution campaign gathered momentum they seized the discursive opportunities provided by the debates around devolution to link the prevailing ideas of ‘inclusiveness’ and new governance with gender equality. Specifically, they drew upon their gender equality expertise and positions of influence to further insider strategies within the Welsh Labour Party, the PWC and the EOC. They used their access to decision makers to successfully advance the case that strategic publications and action plans about creating a new assembly should recognize gender equality as a core principle. Once this was achieved they continued to operate within key organizational settings to argue that, when it was elected to office, the pro-reform Labour Party honoured its earlier commitment to further women’s status, rights and representation through the incorporation of gender equality mechanisms into the design of the new legislature. In the wake of constitutional reform these actions led to the beginnings of state feminism. Examples of the ensuing development of government structures formally charged with furthering women’s status and rights include: a cross-party committee to oversee the executive’s adherence to a unique statutory equality duty that requires the promotion of gender – and other modes of – equality in the exercise of all government functions, new consultative mechanisms for women’s policy networks and legal requirements upholding equality principles in the conduct of the legislature’s business – such as gender neutral official titles and family-friendly working hours. The history of strategic women’s prosecution of gender equality claims in this case study lends support to earlier assertions (cf. Jordan & Maloney, 1997) that, when compared to outsider modes of working, generally, insider strategies are the more effective in influencing state actions. Whilst the incorporation of gender equality mechanisms into the design of the new legislature were principally concerned with furthering the substantive representation of women (or engendering public policy), the actions of strategic women have also had a major impact on women’s descriptive representation (or the number of women holding elected office). Positive action by the
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left-of-centre political parties has seen women comprise first 40 per cent (1999) and, subsequently, 50 per cent (2003) of elected representatives in the first two assemblies. Notably, a significant number (approximately onethird) of the strategic women that engendered the devolution campaign were subsequently elected to the new legislature. Here, as examples of public policy attest, they continued to pursue insider strategies in order to build upon their earlier work and promote gender equality through the policy and law-making functions of the new legislature. What are the implications of the state feminism that has emerged following the elite advocacy of strategic women – both for the women’s movement as well as wider notions of inclusive governance and democracy? The present findings suggest that they are potentially noteworthy in a number of respects. They challenge assertions (Chandler, 2004, p. 335) that elite advocacy is ‘‘a form of politics which is neither democratic nor inclusive and does not expand the horizon of democratic politics’’. And, as such, they present something of a paradox: in circumstances where women’s movements are comparatively underdeveloped and fragmented, elite advocacy – that on the face of it, has limited democratic salience for it does not derive legitimacy from the mass mobilization – may, nevertheless, ultimately have a democratizing effect underpinned by the development of state feminism. The latter has significant implications for the development of the women’s movement. Not least, because the resultant institutionalization of channels of access and influence to government – as well as the provision of state funding – act to increase the potential effectiveness of the women’s movement. By these means it can further develop its infrastructure and strategic leadership – and, in turn, its role in influencing and engendering the actions of the state. In terms of the wider structures and processes of governance, the overall effect here is a democratizing one. For whilst not devoid of ongoing challenges,25 following devolution, the women’s movement’s new modes of engagement with the reconfigured state represent a move away from the pre-existing, centuries-old male domination of decision-making structures and processes of formal politics.
NOTES 1. International Parliamentary Union, see www.ipu.org 2. Although the particular nature of the civil conflict in Northern Ireland presents specific issues. 3. The Economic and Social Research funded project: Social Capital and the Participation of Marginalized Groups in Government, project reference: R000239410
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(led by Prof Ralph Fevre, Cardiff University), and, Inclusive Governance and Constitutional Reform, University of Wales, Board of Celtic Studies funded research project. 4. Nud*ist. 5. SDP Alliance 10.68 per cent; Conservative and Unionist Party 29.52 per cent; Welsh Labour Party 45.06 per cent; Plaid Cymru 7.28 per cent. Total votes: 1,698,158. Turnout: 78.94 per cent. 6. 6.5 per cent of the total Welsh voluntary sector. 7. Originally launched in 1987 as the Campaign for a Welsh Assembly. 8. Popularly known as the Welsh Assembly, the legislature’s official title is the National Assembly for Wales. 9. Source: National Library of Wales, ‘Yes for Wales 1997 Referendum Campaign Records’, Box ref. G12/1/7. ‘Speaking Notes for Press Conference 23.06.1997’. 10. Welsh language, trans. ‘fair play’. 11. In other words the administrative restructuring associated with a reorganization of the boundaries of local government areas. 12. This refers to the 1995 United Nations Fourth World Conference on women held in Beijing. This meeting agreed a Global Platform for Action on promoting gender equality. In response, national governments were required to draw up their own National Agenda for Action. Linked to the UK’s National Agenda, in 1997, women’s NGOs in Wales (as the Wales Women’s Coalition), together with the EOC, began to develop the ‘Wales Programme for the National Agenda for Action’. Devolution coincided with this process and many of the action points in the Wales Programme were adapted to focus on, and influence the blueprint of the future Assembly. 13. Unpublished minutes of WWNC meeting 05.09.1997. 14. Territorial ministry of the UK government serving Wales 1964–1999. 15. Unpublished minutes of WWNC meeting 19.12.1997. 16. Unpublished minutes of WWNC meeting 19.12.1997. 17. Unpublished minutes of WWNC meeting 29.07.1998. 18. Government of Wales Act (1998). 19. Circa 2005. 20. Papers of VSPC Meeting of 18.10.2002. 21. The appropriateness of describing the Assembly’s equality duty as conveying legal rights is borne out by accepted legal analysis, such that: ‘the counterpart and correlative of a legal right is a legal duty, in that if one person has a legal right of a particular kind, some other person or persons must be subject to a legal duty’ (Walker, 1980). 22. i.e. 30 men and 30 women elected to the Assembly’s total of 60 seats. 23. Two women Assembly Members did not take part in the survey. Survey conducted by the author as part of a University of Wales, Board of Celtic Studies project 1999–2001. 24. School Government (Terms of Reference) (Wales) Regulations (2000), 09.11.2000. 25. Not least following the Welsh Labour Party’s abandonment of the twinning mechanism following a by-election defeat in 2003 – and subsequent apology for its use in 2006.
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS The author wishes to acknowledge the support of the University of Wales, Board of Celtic Studies and the Economic and Social Research Council in funding this research. The author would also like to acknowledge the help of four anonymous referees when revising this paper.
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IDEOLOGY, ORGANIZATION, AND BIOGRAPHY: THE CULTURAL CONSTRUCTION OF IDENTITY TALK AMONG PROGRESSIVE ACTIVISTS IN HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT Stephen Valocchi ABSTRACT This paper examines the identity talk of 30 activists from Hartford, Connecticut who work in the overlapping areas of labor, women’s rights, queer organizing, anti-racism, community organizing, anti-globalization, and peace. Rather than seeing this talk as strictly a function of the collective action context, this identity talk is analyzed in terms of the multiple social influences that produce it. According to this model, activist identity can be shaped by ideologies derived from social movement culture, biographical experiences with racial, class, gender, and sexualitybased marginalization, and the cultural resources from both pre-existing and movement-based organizations. The analysis of open-ended interviews with activists reveals three somewhat distinct kinds of identity talk: ideological talk derived from either the 1960s white Left or from black nationalist traditions; biographical talk that highlights either a single Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, Volume 27, 189–217 Copyright r 2007 by Elsevier Ltd. All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-786X/doi:10.1016/S0163-786X(06)27007-1
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dimension or multiple dimensions of marginality; organizational talk that references the mission, constituency, or organizing philosophy of the social movement organization of the activist as her/his impetus for activism. I also find that these differences in identity talk are associated with different patterns of social movement participation. This analysis challenges social movement scholars to study identity talk as a creative cultural accomplishment.
How do individuals understand themselves as activists? Why do they participate in and how do they sustain their commitment to collective action? How do they talk about their lives in the context of their activism and, conversely, how do they represent their activism in the context of their lives? These questions are receiving increased attention in social movements’ research as scholars attend to the internal processes of social movements and to the well-spring of meanings, interests, experiences, and emotions that draw people in and keep people involved in collective action (Goodwin, Jasper, & Polletta, 2001; Gould, 2002; Polletta & Jasper, 2001). This paper addresses these questions through an analysis of the identity talk of 30 progressive activists in Hartford Connecticut. Identity talk is the discursive presentation of an individual’s identity in light of her/his relationship to collective action (Snow & Anderson, 1987). It is viewed here as one important component of an activist identity. Increasingly, scholars are utilizing the concept of identity to capture both the individual-level processes of activist involvement as well as the collective-level meanings embodied by social movement organizations, networks, and mobilizations that are the object of an activist’s commitment. Much of this research focuses on how individual identities become aligned with the collective identity of the movement, that is, with ‘‘the shared definition of a group derived from members’ common interests, experiences, and solidarities’’ (Taylor & Whittier, 1992, p. 172). This work understands recruitment and commitment as processes by which individuals acquire group definitions, connections to other people, and the shared cultural knowledge regarding the definition of the problem, the nature of the opposition, and the repertoire of tactics associated with collective action (Meyer, Whittier, & Robnett, 2002, p. 205). In an influential theoretical treatment of the individual identity/collective identity relationship, Snow and McAdam (2000) distinguish the variety of ways in which individuals’ identities become more sympathetic to or align themselves with the collective identity of the movement. Implicit in their
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typology of identity correspondence is the assumption that interpretive processes of meaning making and remaking lie at the heart of the movement participation process. In an empirical treatment of this same relationship, Hunt and Benford (1994, p. 492) examine identity talk in several peace organizations and identify several different ‘‘story themes y that are used to depict activists’ present world views’’ and that serve to align the activists’ identities with the collective identity of the movement. Rather than the product of some essential social identity or the direct outcome of macro social change, Hunt and Benford (1994, p. 490) assert that collective identity, and the participation, commitment, and solidarity which arise because of it, are constructed in the process of social interaction. While this work moves us well beyond a utilitarian model of the social actor by embedding social movement participation not in individual selfinterest but in people’s loyalties, obligations, and identities (Hirsch, 1990), it ignores or glosses over several important features of an individual’s activist identity, how that identity takes shape, and why individuals participate in collective action. First, for the most part, this literature has focused primarily on the collective identity of movements and less on ‘‘the formation and development of individual consciousness and political identity’’ (Klatch, 2002, p. 185, italics in original). This work assumes that a pool of potential adherents is readily available for mobilization, and the task of social movement actors is to develop meaning systems or collective action frames that appeal to these potential adherents. The second emphasis of this work is that the process of creating commitment and encouraging ongoing participation is accomplished in the process of collective action by creating a discourse that aligns activists’ identities with the collective identity of the movement. The work assumes that the identity talk of activists is formed primarily within the social movement context and is not formed or significantly influenced by other antecedents such as biography or ideology (Robnett, 2005, p. 208). Third, most of the work on individuals’ identity talk entails a search for the discourses that align the activists’ identities with the collective identity of the movement. Again, the focus is not specifically on the stories that activists tell about their motivations, participation, and commitments per se but on the changes that take place in their stories in order to create commitment and solidarity to the movement. This paper focuses on the neglected individual component of the individual identity/collective identity relationship and analyzes the ways in which activist narrators describe their involvement in and commitment to collective action. While collective identities are structural in nature in that they are shared beliefs about a group, individual identities exist at the micro level as
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the ‘‘internalized set of meanings attached to a role played in a network of social relationships’’ (Stryker, Owens, & White, 2000, p. 6). Identity talk is one important expression of this ‘‘internalized set of meanings.’’ Rather than viewing activist identity talk as formed primarily within a social movement, I examine this talk for the variety of cultural resources or discourses that activists invoke in the construction of their identities (Swidler, 2001). As I argue below, the literature on collective identity and social movements suggests several sources for these discourses, deriving from movement ideology, the intersection of biography with marginalized social identities, as well as the broad sets of meanings and frames communicated by organizations. If, as Hunt and Benford (1994, p. 491) suggest, identity work centers on a ‘‘universe of discourse,’’ then this discourse should be examined from the variety of sources of the activists’ biography and social world.
THE SOURCES OF ACTIVIST IDENTITY TALK As mentioned above, there are several sources for the cultural resources activists use to construct their identities. Embedded in these sources are sets of meanings, symbols, and scripts that activists use in constructing their identity talk (Swidler, 2001, p. 5). At the most general level, these identities are shaped by the social movement context within which individuals first get involved in activism. Many sociologists have noted the enduring importance of this context as providing the cultural language for movement activism (Taylor, 1996; Whittier, 1995). For example, the movements of the late 1960s and early 1970s circulated the language of civil rights, feminism, and student empowerment throughout the culture, and this language became incorporated into the identity talk of activists who came of age during this period. Whittier’s work on the women’s movement in Columbus, Ohio, for example, illustrates how the initial discourse of ‘‘the personal is political’’ and radical feminism had profound impact on the movement even with the eclipse of ‘‘the sixties.’’ As others have shown (Gitlin, 1995; McAdam, 1988), this context was crucial for the construction of a predominantly white left-wing community. This social movement context also affected the discourse of African American activism. As the civil rights movement of the 1960s turned its attention to the North and confronted entrenched resistance and racism, it rejected the integrationist ideology of the earlier era and adopted a more separatist and nationalist discourse (Allen, 1990). As several scholars have shown, this discourse built on long-standing traditions of self-help, racial pride, and collective resistance to racism (Dawson, 2001; Shelby, 2005) and
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empowered many people of color to engage in community activism. As both Gilkes (1988) and Naples (1998) have shown, many black men and women were drawn into activism through organizations and campaigns utilizing this discourse. In addition to this social movement context as providing the cultural resources for activists’ narratives of identity and participation, organizations also provide meaning systems that can be used by individuals to create their activist identities, an area to which sociologists have paid a great deal of attention. Social movement scholars point to the importance of two kinds of organizational settings as significant sources of cultural meaning for activist identity: pre-existing organizations, on the one hand (Blee & Currier, 2005; Friedman & McAdam, 1992) and the social movement organizations that emerge as a function of collective action, on the other (Reger, 2002). In the former case, religious organizations have oftentimes provided sets of meanings and motivations that become incorporated into activist identities (Williams, 2003). Whether it be the Christian moral discourse of the black church influencing the civil rights movement of the 1960s (Morris, 1984) or the liberation theology of Latin American Catholicism influencing the sanctuary movement of the 1980s (Nepstad & Smith, 2001), religious organizations oftentimes communicate a world view that encourages collective action. Similarly, colleges and universities can play a role in the creation of identity talk through courses of study or extracurricular activities that communicate a particular world view that encourages social action (McAdam, 1988; McAdam & Poulsen, 1993; Van Dyke, 1998). In the latter case, social movement organizations, which may or may not grow out of these pre-existing organizations, also provide sets of meanings and scripts for an activist identity. The literature is replete with examples of how the structure of social movement organizations affects activist identity. Gamson’s (1996) work on the impact of the organizational and institutional context of gay film festivals (i.e. their relationship to sponsors and publics) on gay identity and Reger’s (2002) work on the impact of the structure of the New York City chapter of NOW (i.e. the incorporation of both formal and informal components) on feminist identity serve as two prominent examples. Other examples point more to the unique frames of the organization and how the organization distinguishes itself from other social movement organizations in the same social movement field. The work of Kurtz (2002) on organizing clerical workers at Columbia University, for example, demonstrates how the union local adopted a broad based social justice activism in opposition to the business unionism of the dominant labor movement (Clawson, 2003; Fanatasia, 1988).
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A final source of identity talk among activists derives from their biographies and the intersection of their biographies with membership in marginalized communities derived from class, race, ethnicity, gender, and sexuality. Scholarly work on intersectionality – the matrix of an individual’s identities and social locations – points to the importance of this matrix in understanding systems of power, challenges to those systems, and the nature of social interaction and political consciousness (Collins, 1991; King, 1988; Stockdill, 2003). In an edited volume on the nature of oppositional consciousness, Mansbridge and Morris (2001) show how structural systems of inequality generate unequal power relations and encourage the creation of an oppositional culture by subordinate groups. This culture provides the symbolic resources for an oppositional consciousness that individuals develop independent of any particular social movement context. Robnett’s (2005) research on the debates over nonviolence in the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee in the 1960s demonstrates this point in that activist commitments were not forged exclusively through social movement participation or according to the collective identity of the movement; instead, biographical differences affected participation. How do these factors influence the identity talk of progressive activists in Hartford? As we will see below, these factors generate three somewhat distinct but overlapping types of identity talk: one based on a commitment to an ideology, another on a commitment to a specific organization, and a third on a commitment to a unitary or multi-dimensional identity borne of biographical experience. This identity talk is also associated with various patterns of social movement participation. As we will also see below, ‘‘ideology activists’’ display organizational promiscuity as they use a broad worldview to lead them from issue to issue. ‘‘Organization activists’’ remain wedded to a specific organization or a specific issue area as they draw on a narrowly conceived ‘mission’ to keep them active. ‘‘Biographical or identity activists’’ have a somewhat ambivalent relationship to organizations especially those activists who talk about their identities in more multi-dimensional ways.
METHODS Hartford, Connecticut is the site of a great deal of progressive social movement activity. Seven somewhat overlapping activist areas form the core of the progressive social movement community in the city. These areas include: peace, labor, community, poverty/low income, race and ethnicity, feminist, queer/gay, and lesbian. Based on my familiarity with the progressive
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community in Hartford, I assembled an initial list of three to four contacts within each area, the members of which vary by organization, gender, race, and age. I also attempted to include an equal number of activists with whom I was both familiar and unfamiliar. This technique insured that I included many of the key figures in these areas but without over sampling from among my personal networks. This technique also insured variation in terms of both the organizational features of the movement area and the social biographies of the activists who participated in that movement area. The list of activists, their age, race and ethnicity, and areas of activism is presented in Table 1. Thirty open-ended, face-to-face, and tape-recorded interviews were conducted between 2002 and 2006. These interviews lasted between one and three hours and dealt with six basic questions: What kind of activism are you and have you been involved in (i.e. areas of activism)? How do you do it (i.e. the methods of their activism)? With whom do you do it (i.e. the social networks of their activism)? Why do you do it (i.e. the motivations of their activism)? How did you come to do it (i.e. the biography of their activism)? What is the relationship between your activism and other areas of your life (i.e. the integration of their activism with their lives)? These general questions allowed respondents to talk broadly about how they saw themselves as activists, the challenges, successes, and failures involved in their work, their experiences with and evaluations of social movement strategies and goals, and how they have been affected by their activism. I also constructed a time line of their activist biography in order to determine when and how they first became involved and to situate their normative responses about general rationales and motivations in specific experiences. These interviews were transcribed and coded for patterns in the data using the methods of grounded theory (Glaser & Strauss, 1967). My activist sample includes 15 men and 15 women; 19 whites, 8 African Americans and 3 Latinas; 10 activists are in their twenties; 5 in their thirties; 8 in their forties; 6 in their fifties; and 1 in her sixties. Four activists have extensive experience in the peace movement; 4 have extensive experience in the labor movement; 11 have extensive experience in various kinds of community organizing; 4 have extensive experience in organizing around low income communities or welfare; 9 have extensive experience in anti-racism organizations or initiative; 3 have extensive experience in feminist organizations; 11 have extensive experience in gay and lesbian or queer-identified organizations, initiatives, and campaigns. This accounting reveals a number of activists who work in more than one issue area. This speaks to the relatively small size of the progressive community in the city and to the fact
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Table 1.
Activist Narrators by Age, Race, Area of Activism, and Activist Type.
Age
Race/Eth
Activism
John Carolyn Kevin Steve
39 60 25 52
White White White White
Joshua Larry
28 47
White African American
LGBT, HIV, community Feminist, LGBT, economic justice Student, anti-war Labor, environment, IRA, community, economic justice Student, anti-war, anti-racist Community organizing, anti-racism
Lorenzo
30
African American
Community organizing, anti-racist
Cornel
44
African American
Community, anti-violence, anti-racist
Andrew Liza Lisa Jeremy Alta
44 25 39 24 53
African American White White White White
Anti-racist, youth, anti-violence LGBT/queer youth Latina women Labor Community organizing
Types of Identity Talk Ideology Ideology Ideology Ideology
of of of of
white white white white
left, religion left left, education left
Ideology of white left, education Ideology of black empowerment, religion Ideology of black empowerment, organizational Ideology of black empowerment, religion Ideology of black empowerment Organizational Organizational, religion Organizational Organizational
STEPHEN VALOCCHI
Activist
42
White
Jack Laura Abbey Robin Chris Karen Rich Nick Ann Carmen Adam Regina
58 34 27 47 38 43 25 22 43 41 22 51
White White Puerto Rican White White West Indian White White White Puerto Rican White African American
Cheryl Luz David
53 51 26
Beth
25
African American Puerto Rican African American, Barbadian White
Community organizing, feminist, antiracist Community organizing Labor Labor LGBT/queer youth Peace, anti-war, anti-racist Community organizing LGBT/queer youth LGBT/queer youth LGBT Community organizing, welfare rights Student, anti-war LGBT, queer youth of color, antiracism Disability, HIV, LGBT, anti-racist Community organizing, welfare rights HIV, queer youth of color Feminist, queer
Organizational, education Organizational, religion Organizational, education Organizational Organizational Organizational, religion Organizational Single identity Single-identity Single-identity Multi-identity Multi-identity Multi-identity
Ideology, Organization, and Biography
Laurel
Multi-identity Multi-identity Multi-identity Multi-identity, education
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that some activists do not make distinctions across issue areas when doing this work. The data were hand-coded using the techniques of triangulation to develop categories to classify phrases, paragraphs, sections, and complete interviews according to the nature of the identity claims (i.e. how they talk about the nature of the activist commitment and the reasons for participation in collective action) made by the respondents. Upon repeated iterations, and triangulating data-generated categories with the concepts from the literature on social movement commitment and participation, I moved to a general typology consisting of ideological factors, issue commitments and organizational reasons, and biographical experiences with marginalized statuses. Based on a weighted and standardized count of identity claims (i.e. weighted by the strength of the assertion and standardized by the length of the interview), I classified activists by their dominant mode of identity talk. Some activists made a diverse set of identity claims but, for the most part, all represented their participation and commitment to activism in terms of a coherent narrative. When this diversity is significant, I note both the major and minor influences on the activist’s identity talk. Table 1 locates the activists by the types of identity talk they elicit in the interviews. As elaborated in the analysis below, these discourses that form the basis of activist identity are rooted in ideology, organization, and biographical identity.
IDEOLOGY ACTIVISTS When this first group of activists tell their stories of how they became activists, why they participate in collective action, the kinds of activities they participate in, and what they think is important about that activism, they express a social movement identity rooted in two different ideological traditions from the protest wave of the 1960s. The first uses the cultural resources of the predominately white new left and the early civil rights movement; this group’s initial involvements stem from that period and they use the language of whatever movement during that time captured their imagination. Five of 30 activists subscribe to this ideology as the basis of their identity claims. A second group of ideology activists draw on a somewhat different set of cultural resources from the second phase of the civil rights movement that revived and reinvigorated themes of racial egalitarianism, black power, and self-help. Four activists subscribe to this ideological tradition.
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Ideology of the White Left For several of my narrators who got involved in progressive activism in the late 1960s and early 1970s, the activist culture of that era generated a rich set of ideas they explicitly referred to as the reason for both their initial involvement and continued participation in activism. For Carolyn, for example, the feminist movement of the 1970s profoundly affected her life, taking her from a middle class Republican housewife doing community service to a lesbian feminist devoted to the principle that ‘‘the personal is political.’’ I was raised in classic traditional white middle class family. I was born in upstate New York. Rochester, New York. I got married, traveled where my husband was. He was in sales marketing when Eastman-Kodak was the classic Rochester business, and we moved around the country – and you know this is the 60s, the early 60s, but I came out of the 50s, really. I was born in ‘41. So, part of that was ‘‘What are expectations for women?’’ It was the classic sort of get educated but be a mother and a wife as your primary responsibility with community service y So the women’s movement really was a major force, really, in politicizing me y My real interest around reproductive rights and family planning was sort of one that I thought was really important area that then merges and is a natural fit, obviously, with what happened in the women’s movement, so I was coming at it actually out of more of family planning, and zero population growth was the big issue in those days, and a lot of sort of environmental perspective. It was a very different perspective than women’s control over their bodies and their lives. But, as you can see, as you’re coming in from that, and then as the women’s movement was gaining momentum, it was a course then that merged for me, and took that issue and brought with it a whole new analysis to really be something that I felt very committed to. So I became very active in the women’s movement.
The feminist movement that captured national attention and made Carolyn dramatically rethink her involvement in family planning politics also led her to dramatically alter her personal life: So it was through the women’s movement that I actually became a lesbian. It was very much tied to an analysis about sexism in our culture y So that was really the merging for me of taking and moving from reproductive rights and a strong relationship in the women’s movement through reproductive rights and abortion rights and then connecting that with the personal is political, and personal relationships. And so that’s when I hooked up with Leslie [my partner] because Leslie was also a political activist-feminist activist at that point. So she and I have been together for 22 years, through, but starting as connected in violence against women issues.
As Carolyn’s story of her initial involvement in an activism that has spanned over 30 years makes clear, this feminist spirit forms the organizing trope of her activist life, so much so that she collapses that life with her personal life. This cultural script, derived from feminism, in no way limits her
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involvement to feminist or lesbian and gay activism. She uses those feminist principles as she moved into other areas of progressive activism such as labor and peace work. Currently she works for a pro-democracy organization devoted to ‘‘institutionalized racism and sexism and economic justice issues.’’ The 1960s left ideology also informs the story of Steve who was radicalized by the student movement and who brought that ethos to his activism in the labor movement and to a variety of other activist areas. Like Carolyn, the impetus for his work is not a commitment to a particular issue or organization but to a set of values and principles derived from a formative period in his life. Well, high school was where I started [my activism]. Graduated high school in 69. I was working on a newspaper y. I did a little underground newspaper when I was a junior. When I was a senior I became editor. We did stuff mostly around civil rights, Vietnam War, and especially student rights. That’s where I learned about power relationships, as a student, having grown-ups because at seventeen that’s the only power you know, being angry at you or calling you into the office or undermining you or whatever y. I went to UConn, the University of Connecticut y and I was becoming more and more active y full time political work: a student strike in 1970; we did a moratorium in 68, 69; the strike in 1970. Politics was like full time! And May Day in New Haven in 1970 where Richard Nixon said that the revolution was going to happen that day. And we did too. There was just so much y. The contradictions were just so great between what was supposed to be and what was actually going on all over the world and right here.
Rather than become disillusioned or immobilized by ‘‘the contradictions,’’ Steve references this sixties consciousness to account for his commitment to 1199, the Service Employees International Union (SEIU): 1199 has an image that’s grounded in history. It’s based on two things: one is that you can fight and win, and that is through organizing and using your collective power through strikes. The other is, back in New York, they used to call it ‘‘union power’’ and ‘‘soul power.’’ It’s social unionism, it’s the idea that your union is also a force for social change. We were one of the first but few organizations that came out against the Vietnam War, but before that, 1199 was striking in Harlem to get black pharmacists to be able to work in Harlem drug stores in 1936, so there’s this long civil rights history, long antiwar history and social justice history that we continue in our work in Connecticut.
For both Steve and Carolyn, this 1960s-based left-wing ideology – whether expressed in terms of ‘‘power to the people’’ (i.e. Steve’s understanding) or ‘‘the personal is political’’ (Carolyn’s understanding) forms the organizing trope of their identity talk. This consciousness governs their activist histories and leads them to a variety of activist work, campaigns, and organizations. Like Carolyn whose activist involvements span a spectrum of issues and organizations, Steve’s political commitments extend far beyond the labor
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movement. He has worked on Irish Northern Aid, anti-nuclear power, the peace movement, and on building an electoral coalition between labor, the Puerto Rican community, and the gay community in city politics. Of the five activists who subscribe to this mode of identity talk, two also talk about the importance of education as a source of their activist commitment. Not surprisingly, these activists are significantly younger than the other white ideology activists. In the absence of a vital social movement culture that could serve as a socializing agent for younger cohorts of activists, this function is taken up in the academy. Ideology of Black Empowerment The identity talk elicited by this group of ideology activists is more diverse in the sense that the cultural resources for their identity talk derives from both the rhetoric of black power and the black church. Three of the four black empowerment activists in my sample make claims to the importance of religion in their activist discourse and commitments. Similar to the activists of the white left, however, the spark that ignites them, the spirit that moves them and the discourse that appears most frequently in their accounts is still a set of race-based ideas or themes that they bring to their variety of endeavors, organizations, and initiatives. We see in the stories of Larry and Cornel, excerpted below, themes of racial uplift, black empowerment, and a critique of both white power structures and an entrenched black leadership. At the time of the interview, Larry was the director of a community organization in the primarily black North End of the city. He uses the imagery of religious belief and racial uplift to narrate his circuitous path to activism. First of all, you got to know that you’re talking to a person of total faith. Then you’ll understand not only why I am here but why things go so well. Now watch this career! Born in New Orleans, raised on the Bayou. At the end of high school, I got a job working for the Superior Oil Company and Mom was ready to keep washing and ironing shirts and babysitting and all that stuff, and I would be able to go to college based on that, and social security would be our only source of income in the household, I’m the last of eight. And I couldn’t see myself sitting comfortably in anybody’s classroom with her doing that stuff, so I got a job.
At his mother’s insistence, Larry uses a scholarship to attend Louisiana State University where he gets involved in a strike by black students. He attends law school, works at Xerox Corporation, and participates in Connecticut Democratic Party politics. His corporate background and his connections in politics and business put him in a good position to salvage
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the financially ailing community organization in an impoverished neighborhood in the North end of Hartford. His understanding of his work combines the philosophies of community organization, entrepreneurship, and racial uplift. It’s all about changing the thinking of people in the community in order to affect individual behavior, and therefore bring about a higher a quality of living. We believe that folks have finally come to realize that the answers for our community do not lie in the think tanks or the governmental or the foundations and all that stuff. There actually is no help on the way! y And that the only hope that we have is to unleash the power of people who have endured for so long and therefore who understand the pressure that they’re under, and who are more motivated than anybody to get the problem solved, and to fix it in a way that it stays fixed.
This discourse of self-organization and racial self-reliance does not exist among other activists who do community organizing as seen below in the discussion of organization activists. Also unlike any other category of progressive activist, Larry and the others in this category talk about gaining power in terms of the dramatic racial inequalities in the city. You go to downtown Hartford, and you see almost everybody downtown is white and don’t live in the city, walking around. By that view you think that Hartford is a majority white population and affluent population. But you would never know that y Hartford is the poorest city in the United States of America with a population of over 100,000 and we’re not in Mississippi or Alabama. We’re in the capital city of the richest state in this nation. So, you see poverty is one thing, but poverty in the face of such prosperity is something very different, very dehumanizing as well y. Some people call that racism. I agree whole-heartedly that it is an issue of color.
This critique of white racism in the city is coupled with an equally biting critique of the black political establishment. Now through that whole process [of organizing] the greatest obstacle that we’ve ever had has not been white folks. It’s been old black leaders in our own community who have not bought into the thinking that we represent.
This last comment about the ‘‘old black leaders’’ not only figures prominently in the identity talk of Larry but of other black ideology activists whose battles are waged not only against white-dominated economic power in the city but also against a black political establishment with its own ‘‘clients’’ and ‘‘patrons.’’ Cornel, another North End activist, grew up poor in Detroit where he had a religious conversion experience that led him to the ministry. At first glance, Cornel’s religious training and ministerial credentials would place him in the camp of the entrenched black religious leadership to which he is opposed. Cornel however ‘‘reads’’ the Bible differently and uses a dizzying
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array of historical and biblical references to build his ideology of black empowerment and critique ‘‘the black religious establishment.’’ Faith without action is dead. Lenin said you got to have praxis. You got to do something, you can’t just be running your mouth y Some of the activists, you know, only work with Christians. And I say, ‘‘Hey man I say I am a Christian but that evangelical viewpoint is often parochial if it keeps centering on God.’’ And I said, ‘‘You know what, there’s more knowledge in the universe than the Bible, and there are other things that you can do in order to bring about certain results, so focusing on that narrow evangelical viewpoint just keeps taking everything back up to God, which needs to be turned around.’’ y I think first people have to see leadership. For so long in that section of town the leaders have sold out y Black Democratic leaders and the other leaders they’ve sold out so the people don’t see anything worth following. So the first thing we do is show people what we’re doing so they can feel gut level that what we’re doing is sincere. They don’t see you selling out. They don’t see you doing the things – the traditional things that the other leaders are doing. So, once you get that established, that you’re sincere, then you start delivering a message y. So by going out doing certain things, standing up to the oppressor, people say, ‘‘Well, he’s not just talk.’’
Much like the ideology activists of the white left, Larry, Cornel and other black ideology activists tend to move across initiatives and organizations: Larry’s biography reveals participation in the black student movement in the south and in housing and anti-violence initiatives in the Hartford’s North End. Cornel’s involvements are also focused around the North End around police brutality and drugs. He also spearheaded a highly publicized campaign that targets suburban drug users by marching in their affluent neighborhoods to call attention to the racial and class components of the drug trade.
ORGANIZATION ACTIVISTS Much of the work on identity talk and social movement identities focuses on organization activists. More precisely, it examines the ways that social movement organizations take the already existing identity formations of individuals and refashion them into collective social movement identities. The activist talk that results from this process reveals a commitment to a specific issue or organizational mission and a personal worldview corresponding to this mission. For these activists, the reasons for participating become as much about supporting the organization as about the ideals to which this organization is devoted. Similar to the identity talk of the black ideology activists, some organization activists elicit narratives that identify other influences besides strictly
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organizational ones. Chief among these are religion and education. Of the 11 activists who subscribe to a discourse consonant with the mission or organizing philosophy of a specific social movement organization, 5 also reference pre-existing organizations as significant. As illustrated below, they report a fairly straightforward congruence between the set of meanings learned from pre-movement organizations and the agenda of the organization the activist moved into. Of course, this congruence could be an ‘‘after-the-fact’’ construction as my respondents redefine or reinterpret the messages of those pre-movement settings to fit with the activity she/he is currently involved. In addition, respondents from other categories of identity talk who reference education or religion as secondary discourses do not stress such a ‘‘natural’’ alignment between current and past influences; thus, the mere assertion of an alignment indicates that the primary commitment of the activist is to her/his particular organizational vehicle for progressive social change. Jack’s commitment to activism is essentially a commitment to the philosophy of community organizing as that has played itself out in the organization he founded and has been associated with for 30 years. He constructs a straightforward narrative that proceeds from his time in the priesthood, the liberation theology that captured his imagination, and his role in founding the first Alinsky-style community organization in Hartford. Well, the story really was pretty simple. I came to Hartford in 74–75 at the invitation of some clergy and some neighborhood people to begin some neighborhood organizing here in Hartford y That became HART [Hartford Areas Rally Together]. The first neighborhood organizing group of the style y began in Chicago and it was Alinsky[style of organizing] y I was a priest at the time. And they started doing the organizing in the neighborhood that I grew up in, which was a poor neighborhood in Providence. I got assigned there after I was ordained for a couple years. I got recruited into the organizing effort as a leader. Because the parish was involved in the organizing effort, I came on the board of directors of the local community neighborhood organization y And we were raising a lot of hell about neighborhood issues, crime y
Interestingly, the Catholic Church provided both the seed money for the neighborhood organization and the religious ideology that Jack used to build his commitment to this particular kind of community organizing. This is liberation theology, a theology that said that it’s history, everything is – you know, the Church is in history, religion is in history, you’re responsible for history, and so you’re responsible for building a new society, a new Jerusalem, you can put the theological sentences any way you want. I really loved that shit. This is what I learned, this is what I said, ‘‘This is religion as I love it. This is great, this is wonderful.’’ And so I came home having been taught that and believing and said, ‘‘Shit, let me do this.’’ And so my getting involved in this local community organizing effort as a priest and doing it
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seemed to me like this is what I was taught to do. This is putting my theology and my training into practice.
Jack’s identity as a community organizer is a product of a long career in leadership positions so his embrace and extension of its philosophy is not surprising. There are others of his age cohort, however, like the ideology activists Carolyn and Steve, who have been activists as long or longer than Jack but whose commitment is first and foremost to an ethos or a set of philosophical principles unanchored in a specific organization. In contrast, Jack’s ideological commitment derives from the ethos of the organization. Very much like Jack’s conflation of principle and organization, Laura’s identity talk makes simultaneous assertions about the principles of social unionism and a commitment to a specific labor union that espouses those principles. In addition, Laura’s narrative of becoming a union activist features the influence of higher education and parallels the importance of religion for Jack. All the classes that I took had, I would say, a progressive agenda. One of them was called ‘‘work’’ where we read In Dubious Battle and John Steinbeck and Out of this Furnace about the steel mills in Pittsburgh, and Union Dues by John Sayles. Pretty significant, right? I can still remember what I was reading in classes when I was 18 y. [But] China was the real education. I ended up hooking up with these Americans who were at the time 67 and 70 who had gone there in the 40’s because they wanted to build the new world in China y By the time I got to Brown, I knew what I wanted to do with my life is that I wanted to work to make the world a better place y I think it took me nine days to find the first thing I got involved in. There was a fight for the [food service] workers over their contract y Within like a month they’d asked me to sit on the steering committee of the organization. I was so astounded because I thought that all the kids [at Brown] were going to be really smart – smarter than me.
As this excerpt illustrates, Laura’s consciousness-raising education first at Miami University of Ohio, then in an internship in China, then at Brown University is presented as a seamless process leading inexorably to her union organizing. After graduating from college in 1990, Laura went to work for the Hotel and Restaurant Workers union (HERE), first in Providence, then in Hartford, then in Eastern Connecticut, then in Hawaii. Her commitment to the union is organization specific. She has a trenchant critique of the mainstream labor movement and a fervent dedication to the principle of social unionism advocated by HERE. Unlike the mainstream labor movement, HERE devotes considerable resources to organizing the unorganized, fostering indigenous working class leaders in the union, building coalitions with
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community groups, and perhaps most importantly, encouraging a powerbased understanding of the relation between the working class and business. What we have to do is go out and organize ever greater numbers of workers because we’re in – and this is a class analysis – a class war. So we have to get more soldiers on our side in order to win that war.
Her commitment to this model of labor organizing and to HERE in particular is evident not only in her 60-hour work weeks but in the frequent job moves she agreed to make. Over the course of a decade, the union asked her to move from Providence to Hartford in order to revive an ailing local, from Hartford to eastern Connecticut to be project director of a drive to organize a 10,000 person casino on an Indian reservation, and then to Hawaii to take a ‘‘temporary assignment’’ working on a particularly contentious campaign. That campaign is over but as of August 2006, she is still in Hawaii and has been there for five years. Unlike the ideology activists, these organization activists remain wedded to one or only a small number of organizations throughout their activist careers. Although, a secondary source of their identity talk derives from the cultural resources of pre-existing organizations such as religion and education like some of the ideology activists, the organization activists create a consistency between the meaning systems embedded in these past organizations and the goals of the social movement organization in which they work. Although ideology activists may use religious beliefs or values-informed knowledge from education or religion to form their ideology, the ideology cannot be reduced to the meaning systems of those pre-existing organizations. The ideology exists independently of the organizations or campaigns in which these ideology activists participate.
IDENTITY ACTIVISTS All activists reference aspects of their biographies when they tell their stories of how they became activists. This third group of activists, however, reference their biographies more than do the previous two groups. More significantly, they focus on the identity components of those biographies. Two subsets of these activists emerge from the analysis of their identity talk: those whose activist biographies are narrated in terms of a single identity and those who narrate a more multi-dimensional identity as the force behind their activism. The single identity activists tend to be more committed to organizations that advocate for legislative change than the multi-dimensional
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identity activists who tend to work outside of established organizations and challenge both those organizations and a variety of other institutional actors. Together, these identity activists constitute 10 of my 30 activists: 3 are singleidentity and 7 are multi-identity activists. Nick, a single-identity activist working in an organization that advocates for queer youth, states explicitly that his activism and the trajectory of that activism are directly related to his minority sexuality. So, I came out to my family, and throughout that year coming out was really a great weight off my shoulders. And because they were so positive, I felt, well, I’ve been blessed so I need to go out and advocate for those who it wasn’t so positive y. I want to stick with queer youth work. I’d like to get more involved here at [the organization] y to come on [staff] full time or possibly working for the state, children and families, being active with them. Eventually I’d like to get a degree in teaching, and be a role model that way as well, but that’s farther down the road y But, I mean, will I be an activist no matter where I am? Yes. Will I be open about who I am? Yes. I think that’s a huge part of my activism, just being able to be open and tell people that this is who I am.
An older lesbian activist, Ann, the head of a state-wide coalition that advocates for the passage of a same-sex marriage bill, invokes her ‘‘coming out’’ as a lesbian as the source of her single-identity activism. I have to give [my partner] credit for a lot of my work on LGBT issues, because she was a leading activist in Hartford and the state, and sort of immediately when we got together she politicized me sort of in a weekend, ‘‘Oh yeah, I really am a lesbian, and I want to use that label.’’ So, I was on the path, but she sort of focused me a little bit. Then the coalition [for lesbian and gay civil rights] was just getting formed when we got together and we got involved in the early stages of that y I’d say this [working on same sex marriage] is definitely activism. The legislative strategy is one piece of it, and it’s a key piece and we’re definitely working within ‘‘the system.’’ But just being out and about on LGBT issues, being out educating about the issue of marriage, just having the discussions in a church or community group, synagogue, that’s a really political activist kind of thing.
Ann’s comments reference the connection between her identity as a lesbian and the nature of the organization she is committed to. The organization valorizes her identity through both its pursuit of policy change and its consciousness-raising activities. The identity talk of the activists who interpret their biographies in terms of multiple marginalities or intersecting identities have somewhat more diverse organizational histories than do their single-identity activist peers. More importantly, they tend to have a more troubled relationship with formal organizations which they feel do not address multiple marginalities or which have lost contact with their constituency.
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The identity talk of one such activist, Regina, takes its form from an interaction between her biography and identity as a queer, working-class, African American women and from her experiences in the primarily white middle-class gay and lesbian movement. The intersectional nature of her individual identity is the organizing framework for her activist identity. I was born in 1953 in Raleigh, Kentucky y definitely rural Kentucky, bathroom outside, all that stuff. And I saw people who looked like me all the time. You know, who were crazy about me, loved me to death. We moved when I was an infant to New Jersey to a blue-collar neighborhood y pretty much mixed in being Black, Italian, Polish y. We went back to Kentucky every summer and I became aware that when we changed trains in Cincinnati, we really changed trains! And we went into an all colored car. I mean I was 11 before that was over y and that really incensed me y. And I was bused K through twelve to lily-white upper middle class suburbs. That’s where I first learned about classism. I mean I knew the difference – that some people’s skin was whiter or whatever and mine was brown or black but it had a significance when I started being bused to school. Because all of a sudden I realize them Poles that lived on that street where I did were not really white people, you know? Their white card wasn’t stamped. My neighbors were first generation born in America and we were all being bused together. And I started seeing – even though my father had a degree in biology, I learned later, due to racial discrimination, he managed a bar most of his life. And it was there that I learned things about how what your father did for a living made a big difference in your so-called status.
Regina’s experience of ‘‘in between-ness’’ – between north and south, urban and suburban, white and black – and her reaction of anger and action extended into gay rights. The gay movement, when I tried to be in it, I felt tokenized. I didn’t know where I was. It didn’t smell like home and it didn’t smell like the white people I knew and was comfortable with. It was more like the ones that I was bused out to and didn’t want to hold my hand in gym or something. The ones that were like, ‘‘Eww! We’re not going to talk to her!’’
This conflict between her multi-dimensional identity and gay and lesbian organizations that were single issue, middle class and white inflected led her to organize other organizations and initiatives that, in Regina’s words, felt more like ‘‘home’’ to her. I think a lot of queer of color activism comes out of having to create a home. I first did that in Hartford with Cheryl and Mel. Cheryl and I formed a group called LOCK, Lesbians of Color in Kinship, which was really more social and support to encourage more black dykes to come out. And Mel and I did the Kwanza Project which was advocacy and education kind of stuff. But it all came out of the need to make a home rather than go one mile to be black and two miles to be queer and never the twain shall meet.
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This language of creating a home at the intersection of or between identities but which is never accurately represented in the social movement landscape organizes Regina’s narrative and helps explain her current activism. In 2002 Regina helped found an organization called FACE, Featuring All Colors and Ethnicities, whose focus is urban youth. As Regina describes, it focuses on ‘‘queer students who are also ethnic and racial minorities and low income and live in cities and deal with a kind of homophobia that is affected by racism that makes the population more vulnerable and also makes those who are supposed to work on their behalf more resistant.’’ Carmen has also struggled to find a home in progressive organizing, and her identity talk is filled with a passion for empowering low-income women that derives from her personal biography and identity as a poor Puerto Rican woman. I came from Puerto Rico in the 1960s and lived in Father Panik Village in Bridgeport y getting my ass beat every day. I’m a white Puerto Rican. My skin color is white, and the fact that I was over here and I was Puerto Rican made it ten times worse for me, because it was the war between the blacks and the whites, and we happened to get caught up in the middle of that y And so, after being beat up a couple times by a bunch of different girls, I started retaliating. My cousin got a sock, he put some rocks in it, and they were all boys. I was the only girl. That’s how I learned how to defend myself.
After a childhood and adolescence of frequent moves, economic insecurity, sexual abuse, foster care, and an abusive marriage, Carmen finds herself in Hartford at the home of her foster mother, Mary, and at a meeting of the community organization HART (Hartford Areas Rallies Together) in the neighborhood where most of the Latino community resides. And I took all that anger, and all that energy, and I went into meetings y. I remember how pretty they were going to do Park Street, and how they were planning on doing this, and how they were planning on doing that y. I said ‘‘What’s happening to the people?’’ If they’re fixing this up, I didn’t see no housing. There was no housing there. All you saw was beautiful sidewalks, and the beautiful stores, and I’m saying to Mary, ‘‘But, where the hell are they going to do with the people that live there?’’ And Mary said, ‘‘That’s a good question, why don’t you ask them?’’ And that was the beginning. And from then on, then I got on the board.
Carmen’s stay on the board was short-lived since she and other Puerto Rican activists split from HART, a white-led organization, when it tried to lay claim to an already existing grassroots Puerto Rican neighborhood organization. This episode gave Carmen an education in power and in the racial and class nature of that power. It reinforced a fierce independence she was developing as her personal survival skill.
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So I took all that negative energy and I started going to meetings, and I started to voice my opinion. And being heard! y And once I learned my roots, and I started realizing what oppression was, and how our culture has been oppressed for so many y way beyond six hundred years. And what racism was, and how internalized racism begins y that this began! ... I was one of two Latinos on a board of directors that were all white. And I knew nothing about leadership development, and they were deliberately talking over my head, and they would say things I had no clue what the hell it meant y to deliberately keep me in the dark.
Although Carmen worked with several organizations throughout her organizing career, she always held them with deep suspicion viewing their leaders as ready to ‘‘take deals’’ from ‘‘the powers that be.’’ Although she was schooled in Alinsky-style organizing principles, she says that she learned her organizing skills as a women, mother, and neighbor. She quotes her friend, Luz, her organizing partner for over 20 years, when asked about organizing: ‘‘You need, you want, you get.’’ In 1996, Carmen gained national attention for the creation of a statewide organization of welfare mothers, Warriors for Real Welfare Reform, which launched several high-profile protests at the state capitol and at several large employers in the Hartford region demanding meaningful job training, jobs with adequate wages, and affordable child care. The form of identity talk elicited by both Regina and Carmen highlights a marginalization experienced by several other narrators. The identity talk takes its shape not from an overriding philosophy as is the case with ideology activists. Neither is it shaped by a commitment to the social change goals of a particular organization as is the case with the organization activists. Of all my activist respondents, these identity activists were the least likely to combine their identity talk with other discourses about how and why they became and remain activists. Only 1 of 10 activists referenced an alternative discourse – the importance of her college courses and activism – as contributing significantly to the shaping of her activist identity. In that case, college was the organizational site in which she ‘‘grew to consciousness’’ about her intersectional identity.
CONCLUSIONS This paper seeks to extend the theoretical work in the area of identity and social movements by examining the cultural resources or discourses that comprise the identity talk of progressive activists in Hartford, Connecticut. While most work in this area focuses on how individual identities are shaped
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by the collective action contexts activists are involved in, this paper broadens that focus to consider the ‘‘universe of discourse’’ that affects activists’ identity formations. By doing so, the analysis identifies other types of identity talk that coexist with the discourse formed in the process of collective action. It also demonstrates that the three general forms of identity talk – ideology, organization, and biography – are associated with different patterns of organizational affiliation. The activists whose identity talk is shaped by ideology tend to travel across organizations, campaigns, and initiatives. The activists whose identity talk is shaped by a commitment to an organizational mission tend to limit their activism to a specific organization or organizations that subscribe to the same mission, constituency, or organizing philosophy; the activists whose identity talk is shaped by their biographical experiences with marginality have two somewhat different patterns of participation depending on whether they experience single or multiple marginality. Thus, the analysis demonstrates not only that identity talk is shaped by other factors besides the social movement context but also that this variation is associated with different patterns of social movement participation. Of course, this research and the data produced by it are not equipped to establish causality. It is impossible to know, for example, whether it is the identity talk that leads to the specific pattern of participation or if it is the participation that leads to the identity talk. Future work that generates quantitative data on a large number of participants at varying levels and types of activist participation could examine systematic differences between that participation and identity talk using the three types identified by my analysis. Alternatively, close ethnographic work that follows a group of activists throughout a campaign could also shed light on this question of causality by examining the variety of identities that activists inhabit at the outset and how these identities are influenced by social interaction, boundary work, and the framing processes of the particular campaign. This work could also explore more systematically the overlaps or the combination of influences on activist identity found among some of my cohort of activists. Although I treat these types of identity talk as discreet, the analysis hints at the overlaps or the interactions across factors that shape identity talk. Some of the black empowerment activists construct their identity talk with the Christian moral discourse of the black church. For example, Cornel weaves it into his dominant discourse of black empowerment and racial uplift. Some of the organization activists also utilize a religious discourse to account for their commitment to a specific organization. For example, Jack references liberation theology as the source of his commitment to the
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principles of community organizing. These narratives suggest that identity talk is a far more creative and dynamic process than previously thought. Future research could explore further this process by posing some of the following questions: How do individuals use similar discourses to produce different kinds of identity talk? How are seemingly disparate or even contradictory discourses combined to produce ‘‘coherent’’ activist identities? What consequences do these patterns of identity talk have for activist participation and commitment? How do they affect the collective identities of organizations, their activities, recruitment, coalitional strategies, and encounters with the opposition? Some of these patterns of identity talk are familiar to social movement scholars. Research on the women’s movement, for example, describes a collective identity somewhat similar to the identity talk of some of my ideology activists. Partly because of its origins as a reaction to the organizational rigidity of the student movement, partly because of its ideology of cultural critique, and partly because of the organizational decline of the movement in the 1980s, second wave feminism encouraged an identification primarily with a ‘‘shared discourse’’ rather than ‘‘a set of particular organizations’’ (Taylor, 1996, p. 6). I find this shared discourse characteristic of virtually all white ideology activists who came of age in the sixties suggesting a more generalized process characterized by an intersection between a period of heightened social movement mobilization and a crucial stage of an individual’s life course (Klatch, 2002; Whittier, 1995). Quite simply, coming of age in the sixties forged a consciousness of consequence where the formation of individual identity and collective identity was one and the same. That consciousness transcended organizations, survived the denouement of the movement, and adapted to changing political climates (McAdam, 1988). This analysis of feminist consciousness suggests that ideology is shaped from an interaction between cohorts of activists, organizations and members, the movement and the state, etc. The challenge for future work on identity talk is to capture this dynamic process by focusing on how activists rework ideology in response to these different levels of social movement interaction. We see some of this ‘reworking’ in the case of the black empowerment activists as their identity talk uses elements of black nationalism, self-help and racial uplift (Reed, 1999; Shelby, 2005) as well as the Christian moral discourse of the Black church. Much like the ideology of the white sixties activists mentioned above, the ideology of black empowerment is not stable but formed as a reaction to the integrationist civil rights movement, the preexisting ideological traditions embedded in African American culture, the backlash against the movement in the 1980s, persistent residential
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segregation, and the rise of a black middle class (Dawson, 2001). These developments affected the ideas that emerged as dominant in the political culture and thus the ideas that could be reasonably referenced in individual’s identity talk. Again, future work would need to pay attention to the role of activist talk and collective action in general in accounting for this ideological creativity. The identity talk of those activists who reference their marginality vis-a-vis race, ethnicity, class, gender, and/or sexuality poses the most interesting and least studied form of discourse in social movements scholarship (but see Mansbridge & Morris, 2001; Stockdill, 2003). This analysis suggests that, for the activists who see themselves in intersectional terms, participation in collective action is fraught with conflict and tension. They see themselves on the margins of specific movements since these movements mobilize around one dimension of marginalization when the activists identify in terms of multiple, simultaneous, and intersecting dimensions. In the above analysis, this alienation took the form of not only multi-issue activists rejecting singleissue organizations but also a generalized critique of formal organizations as unable to address the needs of multi-issue communities. We know very little about this group of activists. How do these intersectional understandings develop? What role does an oppositional community and culture play in these understandings? How do individual’s experiences in collective action affect these understandings? Why do some activists remain within already existing organizations and attempt to reform them from within while others leave to form their own organizations or start their own initiatives? Research that focuses specifically on these questions can shed light on the formation of both individual identity and collective identity and on the conditions under which correspondence between the two is achieved. The association of identity talk with patterns of social movement participation demonstrated in this paper suggests that identity talk may also have consequences for other aspects of the study of social movements. For example, activists more committed to an ideology may tend to think through issues such as recruitment, goals, strategy, and allies differently than someone whose primary commitment is to a specific social movement organization. Those who see their identity in organizational terms may tend to define the problem that needs attention in narrow or circumscribed terms such as the passage of a law or the implementation of a program; those who are less committed to an organizational agenda may indeed acknowledge the importance of the law or the program but may view it as part of a larger agenda and may therefore suggest a different understanding of the problem,
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different tactics to address the problem, and different sets of allies to assist with solving the problem. In other words, the nature of the framing work that social movements engage in and the thinking about strategy, goals, and allies of social movements are partly a function of the identity talk of the activists in the movement (cf. Hunt, Benford, & Snow, 1992; Kurtz, 2002). The limitations of the data and research design prevent an examination of these possibilities but future work on social movements could utilize the typology of identity talk developed here and examine these questions. Additionally, the boundary work that social movements engage in may also be dependent on the identity talk of activists (Gamson, 1997). Activists whose identities incorporate some understanding of their multiple marginality may be more hesitant to construct rigid definitions of insiders and outsiders choosing instead to construct organizations or ally themselves with initiatives at the margins of already existing organizations. This typology of activist talk can also prove useful in investigating the causes of tensions and conflicts in social movements some of which may be derived from the dynamics suggested above. In this way, activist talk may be more than an expression of difference but a source of a good deal of internal conflict in social movements. Until recently, these questions of the structure, functioning, and the tensions of social movements have been addressed solely in terms of political opportunities, resource mobilization, and organizational structure. The study of identity talk may provide a bridge between these structural approaches and a more cultural approach to the study of social movement conflicts utilized here. Finally, this analysis of collective identity utilizes life history and narrative analysis to capture meaningful similarities and differences in the substance and style of the discourse while at the same time honoring the richness, complexity, and, in some sense, uniqueness of each of the narrators’ stories. The selected quotes from the narrators’ interviews simply scratch the surface of this richness while the theoretical model summarizing the multiple social influences on identity talk serves as a preliminary guide in the search for meaningful patterns. As della Porta (1992) argues, life histories have much to contribute to the study of activism especially regarding how individual’s engage in cognitive framing and how they represent motivational processes. As Polletta (2006) points out, the stories we tell are ‘‘chronicles invested with moral meaning’’ (p. 9–10) that serve to ‘‘align our actions with our identities’’ (p. 12). For my activists, their stories were the simultaneous ‘working out’ of who they were, what their activism was about, and how they felt about both. It is in this ‘working out’ – a process both uniquely individual and intensely sociological – where identity takes shape.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I thank Verta Taylor for her comments on an earlier draft of this paper. I also want to thank the reviewers for their many helpful criticisms, comments, and suggestions.
REFERENCES Allen, R. L. (1990). Black awakening in capitalist America. Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press. Blee, K. M., & Currier, A. (2005). Character building: The dynamics of emerging social movement groups. Mobilization: An International Journal, 10(1), 129–144. Clawson, D. (2003). The next upsurge: Labor and the new social movements. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Collins, P. H. (1991). Black feminist thought: Knowledge, consciousness, and the politics of empowerment. New York: Routledge. Dawson, M. C. (2001). Black visions: The roots of African American political ideologies. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. della Porta, D. (1992). Life histories in the analysis of social movement activism. In: M. Diani & R. Eyerman (Eds), Studying collective action (pp. 168–193). New York: Sage Publications. Fanatasia, R. (1988). Cultures of solidarity: Consciousness, action, and contemporary American workers. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Friedman, D., & McAdam, D. (1992). Collective identity and activism: Networks, choices, and the life of a social movement. In: A. D. Morris & C. M. Mueller (Eds), Frontiers in social movement theory. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Gamson, J. (1996). The organizational shaping of collective identity: The case of lesbian and gay film festivals in New York. Sociological Forum, 11(2), 231–261. Gamson, J. (1997). Messages of exclusion: Gender, movements, and symbolic boundaries. Gender & Society, 11(2), 178–199. Gilkes, C. T. (1988). Building in many places: Multiple commitments and ideologies in black women’s community work. In: A. Bookman & S. Morgen (Eds), Women and the politics of empowerment (pp. 53–76). Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press. Gitlin, T. (1995). The twilight of common dreams: Why America is wracked by culture wars. New York: Metropolitan Books. Glaser, B., & Strauss, A. (1967). The discovery of grounded theory: Strategies for qualitative research. Chicago, IL: Aldine. Goodwin, J., Jasper, J. M., & Polletta, F. (Eds) (2001). Passionate politics: Emotions and social movements. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Presss. Gould, D. B. (2002). Life during wartime: Emotions and the development of ACT UP. Mobilization, 7. Hirsch, E. (1990). Sacrifice for the cause: The impact of group processes on recruitment and commitment in protest movements. American Sociological Review, 55, 243–254. Hunt, S. A., & Benford, R. D. (1994). Identity talk in the peace and justice movement. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 22, 488–517.
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ART AND IDENTITY IN MEXICAN AND CHICANO SOCIAL MOVEMENTS Edward J. McCaughan ABSTRACT This paper presents a comparative analysis of artwork produced in the context of social movements waged by Mexicans and Chicanos (U.S. inhabitants of Mexican descent) during the two decades between the mid1960s and the mid-1980s. Despite the fact that activists in these movements shared many elements of Mexican culture and history, were part of the same generation of radical social movements born in the 1960s, and experienced some significant interchange among movement participants from each side of the U.S.-Mexico border, an examination of movement art reveals significant differences in key elements of the movements’ collective identity and expression of political citizenship. Analysis of the artwork also highlights different aesthetic choices made by movement artists, particularly with regard to the deployment of formal elements associated with the ‘‘Mexican School’’ of art made famous by artists associated with the Mexican Revolution of the early 20th century. Variations in the representational strategies developed by movement artists reflect the distinct relationship of movement constituents in Mexico and the U.S. to each nation’s prevailing regimes of accumulation and modes of regulation. The analysis is based on an examination of 374 pieces of art.
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ART AND THE CULTURAL POLITICS OF SOCIAL MOVEMENTS Young artists played a central role in projecting the public identity and agendas of powerful social movements that emerged in Mexico and among Chicanos in the United States in the 1960s. Through their artwork, they helped the movements to attribute new meaning to social phenomena as varied as class, race, gender, sexuality, citizenship, and power. More intensely than many social movement participants, artists, by the nature of their work, are self-consciously engaged in processes of representation and signification, an aspect of social movements that received increasing attention from scholars in the 1990s. My interest in understanding more precisely the role of artists and art in social movements coincides with theoretical and empirical developments within the literature on social movements and cultural studies over the past two decades. Nearly 10 years ago now, Alberto Melucci (1996, p. 68) noted ‘‘a renewed interest in cultural analysis which corresponds to a shift towards new questions about how people make sense of their world, how they relate to texts, practices, and artifacts rendering these cultural products meaningful to them.’’ This was part of a paradigm shift in studies of social movements away from previously dominant theories of ideology, organization, and rationality and toward the new social movement perspective on the centrality of collective identity formation, a cultural process involving the construction of meaning (Johnston, Laran˜a, & Gusfield, 1994, pp. 3–35). Subsequently, scholars of social movements have struggled with the task of emphasizing the importance of cultural analysis without losing sight of the specificity of sociopolitical factors and historical contexts. Whittier (2002, p. 290), for example, insists on an approach that includes ‘‘serious consideration of structure (movement organizations, communities, and fields), strategies and collective action (challenges, protest events), and meaning (collective identities and discourse).’’ The anthology edited by Alvarez, Dagnino, and Escobar (1998), to which Melucci contributed, offers especially useful examples of an approach that recognizes the centrality of cultural processes of representation and signification as they interact with sociopolitical processes in the context of Latin America. As the editors note, ‘‘Social movements not only have sometimes succeeded in translating their agendas into public policies and in expanding the boundaries of institutional politics but also, significantly, have struggled to resignify the very meanings of received notions of citizenship, political
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representation and participation, and, as a consequence, of democracy itself’’ (p. 2). Alvarez, Dagnino, and Escobar understand that ‘‘[c]ulture is political because meanings are constitutive of processes that, implicitly or explicitly, seek to redefine social power. That is, when movements deploy alternative conceptions of woman, nature, race, economy, democracy, or citizenship that unsettle dominant cultural meanings, they enact a cultural politics’’ (p. 7). However, this growing body of literature on the ‘‘cultural politics’’ of social movements has given only scant attention to the vital role played by activist artists in movement efforts to change the ways in which movement constituents and broader publics perceive and give meaning to the social world. The role of art and artists in processes of identity formation and nationbuilding has been explored by authors working within the new paradigms of cultural studies, but few of these frame their work within a social movements perspective. Jordan and Weedon (1995), for example, discuss at length the cultural politics of racial and ethnic identity in contemporary Britain. They offer many useful insights into that ways in which art, like ‘‘all signifying practices,’’ involves ‘‘relations of authority and power’’ (p. 440) and how, ‘‘[f]or many Asian and Afro-Caribbean artists and intellectuals in Britain, whether immigrants or British-born, a key issue is that of establishing an identity that engages with both their communities of origin y and the dominant ‘White’ cultural mainstream’’ (p. 454). But their analysis of the relationship between artists of color and the dominant culture is not informed, at least not explicitly, by new social movements perspectives on such processes. Bright and Bakewell (1995, p. 5) attempt to ‘‘bring together discussions of aesthetics and anthropology in order to emphasize the social processes and problems of cultural identity negotiated through works of art.’’ But, like Jordan and Weedon’s book, this volume is not particularly concerned with the role of social movements or social movement-affiliated artists in those processes. The one exception in Bright and Bakewell’s anthology is Sanchez-Tranquillino’s insightful essay. Through a case study of a project in the 1970s to paint ‘‘Chicano’’ murals on East Los Angeles walls once marked by ‘‘Mexican American youth gang’’ graffiti, Sanchez-Tranquillino (1995, p. 56) attempts to ‘‘shed light on one aspect of negotiating Chicano cultural survival, not only through the politics of what constitutes ‘art’ but also through an examination of how identity is constructed as part of the process of making artistic form and content ‘readable’ in a particular context.’’ The author understands the graffiti and the murals as ‘‘two signifying systems in which social value is
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produced in and through their constructed meanings as an integral part of the process of developing the painter’s/viewer’s subjectivity or identity’’ (p. 65). By contrasting these two distinct ‘‘signifying systems,’’ SanchezTranquillino begins to reveal the role of art in shaping and projecting the then emerging politicized identity of those who saw themselves as part of the Chicano movement. Bruce Campbell’s (2003) study of contemporary Mexican muralism is a particularly sophisticated effort to understand the role of art within complex processes of social change. Campbell describes and explains the changing conditions and modalities of contemporary Mexican mural production, including new forms such as graffiti art and mantas (mobile images on cloth), but he is primarily concerned with what the new mural practices can tell us about the dynamics of public space, discourse, state power, and civil societal movements. However, such examples of work that explicitly examine the relationships among art, identity formation, power, and social change within the context of social movements are relatively rare. In my comparative research on the role of artists and art in Mexican and Chicano social movements, I attempt to integrate insights from post-structuralist perspectives on the cultural politics of representation and signifying processes into an understanding of social movements that remains grounded in the specificity of historical contexts and political economy. The research flows from the premise that art associated with social movements helped to constitute, not simply reflect, the dramatic social and political changes experienced by Mexican and Chicano communities during the 20th century. The social power of activist artists emanates from their ability to provoke movement constituents and other publics to see, think, imagine, and even feel in meaningfully new ways.1 Artists, including the famous muralists associated with the Mexican Revolution, played an important role, not always with the outcomes they intended, in the construction of the interlaced regimes of developmentalist accumulation, corporatist domination, and cultural nationalist/social realist representation that reigned hegemonic for several decades in postrevolutionary Mexico. The social worlds of Mexicans and Chicanos, as U.S. residents of Mexican descent, were shaped by such dynamics in Mexico as well as by the often clashing dynamics of a Fordist-liberal-modernist hegemony in the post-WWII United States, including an art world dominated by market interests and a supposedly depoliticized art-for-art’s sake worldview. The exercise of hegemony, as first formulated by Antonio Gramsci (1989), implies that subaltern social sectors have accepted (to a greater or lesser degree) as ‘‘common sense’’ the dominant system of signification, i.e., the meanings ascribed to social reality by the hegemonic forces. The visual
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arts (including their content, aesthetic qualities, and forms of social production and distribution) are one of the powerful tools used by late 20th century Mexican and Chicano social movements to contest the once-hegemonic meanings of identity and citizenship.
MEXICAN AND CHICANO SOCIAL MOVEMENTS, 1960s–1980s Beginning in the mid-1960s, a variety of new social movements emerged in Mexico and in ‘‘Aztla´n’’ – the ancient, mythical Mexican homeland, as some Chicanos came to re-imagine the U.S. southwest. These new movements challenged existing regimes of domination, accumulation, and representation on both sides of the Mexico-U.S. border. In the process, they also inevitably revealed the contradictions of class, race, and gender within the movements. This study focuses on two particular social movement constellations in which visual artists played a central role: (1) the Mexico City-based student movement of 1968 and the subsequent, closely related ‘‘grupos’’ movement of activist artist collectives in the 1970s–1980s; and (2) the broad-based, varied group of practices that made up the Chicano movement, particularly in California. In Mexico City, graphic art became a signature of the 1968 student movement, a watershed moment that unleashed a series of profound sociopolitical and cultural changes still being played out in Mexico today (see Alvarez Garı´ n, 1998; Aquino & Pe´rezvega, 2004; Ayala, 1998; Poniatowska, [1971]1992; Scherer, Garcı´ a, & Monsiva´is, 1999). Throughout the summer and early fall of 1968, a protest movement organized by university and high school students gathered strength until it represented such a challenge to Mexico’s long-ruling, state-party regime that government troops were ordered to fire upon a movement rally on October 2, 1968. The massacre left several hundred people dead, imprisoned, forced underground, or exiled. Many of the artists involved in and/or politicized by the student movement continued their activism into the 1970s and early 1980s with the formation of political art collectives, known in Mexico as the grupos movement (see Goldman, 1994, pp. 123–139; Liquois, 1985; McCaughan, 2003; Tibol, 1977). Artists were also central to the Chicano movement – Mexican Americans’ counterpart to the Black civil rights movement – which emerged in the mid1960s on many fronts, including in high schools and universities, agricultural fields, and urban neighborhoods (see Go´mez-Quin˜ones, 1990; Martı´ nez, 1991; Mun˜oz, 1989; Rosales, 1996). Many Chicano and Chicana artists
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were engaged in producing murals, posters, and other artwork that became one of the movement’s more effective means of representing its identity and aspirations. These particular movement constellations were selected as case studies because (1) they were coterminous, originating in the mid- to late 1960s and declining by the early 1980s; and (2) despite sharing important elements of Mexican history and culture, these two movement constellations represent very different social bases and are located in a distinct sociocultural space. The differences between the Mexico City- and California-based movements facilitate my efforts to understand more precisely the relative influences of local, national, and international dimensions of the socioeconomic, political, and cultural processes that shape social movement identities and practices.2 The artists participating in these movements shared much in common, including a legacy of Spanish colonialism and U.S. imperialism, MexicanCatholic cultural heritage, a powerful tradition of public art and a distinctive school of art associated with the Mexican Revolution, and a shared generational experience as part of the worldwide family of radical social movements that originated in the 1960s. The movements on each side of the border were reasonably well aware of one another, and a number of the activist artists were in direct contact with their counterparts to the north and south, though the exchanges were not always comradely.3 Given the commonalties and exchanges, one might reasonably expect to find great similarities in the work produced by Mexican and Chicano artists associated with these movements. And, indeed, there are similarities. With very few exceptions, the art of both Mexican and Chicano movements is meant to be public art, so preference is given to forms that are large and publicly visible, such as murals and installations, or that are easily reproduced, such as silkscreens, stencils, photocopy and mimeo art, and photography. Much of the art associated with both movements is didactic and influenced by the political satire of famous engraver Jose´ Guadalupe Posada and/or the social realism of Mexican muralists such as Diego Rivera and David Alfaro Siqueiros and graphic artists such as Leopoldo Me´ndez and Adolfo Mexiac of the Taller de Gra´fica Popular (TGP), an influential collective of socially conscious engravers founded in Mexico in 1937 (see del Conde, 1996; Goldman, 1981; Prignitz, 1992; Tibol, 1992). Occasionally, in fact, the very same images appeared in Mexican and Chicano movement art. For example, Mexiac’s engraving of a young man whose mouth has been chained and pad-locked was appropriated by artists in movements in Mexico City and California. In a poster for the 1968 student movement an artist took Mexiac’s image and added the slogan ‘‘¡LIBERTAD DE EXPRESION!’’
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and the official logo from the 1968 Olympic games, which were being hosted in Mexico (Fig. 1). In California, Chicano artist Rodolfo O. Cuellar, Jr. used the same Mexiac image in a 1976 serigraph, ‘‘Humor in Xhicano Arte,’’ but the padlock was labeled ‘‘MADE IN USA,’’ and the words ‘‘200 YEARS OF OPPRESSION’’ and the years 1776–1976 referred to the U.S. Bicentennial (Fig. 2). Despite such commonalities, a more detailed analysis of the art associated with these movements reveals some striking differences between the work produced by artists in Mexico City and California, particularly with regard to representation of movement constituents’ collective identity and projection of political citizenship. Analysis of the artwork also highlights different formal choices made by movement artists, especially in the deployment of visual
Fig. 1.
Anonymous, Poster from 1968 Student Movement (with Mexiac Graphic). From Grupo Mira (1988).
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Rodolfo O. Cuellar, Jr., Humor in Xhicano Arte, 1976. From Keller et al. (2002a).
elements associated with the Mexican School of art or with art movements that were more influential in California at the time. The Mexican School of art is known for its figurative social realism and indigenismo (a romantic emphasis on Mexican culture’s pre-Columbian indigenous roots that became popular in the 1920s). The California art world of the 1960s was especially influenced by abstract expressionism, pop art, and conceptual art.
METHODOLOGICAL CONCERNS Given the nature of art produced in the heated, urgent, and quickly changing context of social movements, it is often ephemeral, undocumented, and poorly conserved. That makes the task of gathering a truly representative, randomly selected sample of movement-related art nearly impossible.
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Recognizing the problematic nature of relying on artwork collected for exhibitions or books by curators or researchers with their own agendas and criteria for selection, practical considerations nevertheless led me to rely on such sources for the sample of artwork analyzed below. Throughout the analysis, I have done my best to keep in mind the shortcomings of the sample. A significant number of artworks produced as part of the 1968 student movement and subsequent grupos movement have been documented in a book and two exhibition catalogs – Grupo Mira (1988), Garcı´ a Ma´rquez, Witker, and Hijar (1977), and Liquois (1985). The 189 images from those publications serve as the data sample for my analysis of primarily Mexico City-based social movement art from the late 1960s to the early 1980s. One problem with the sample of 1968 movement art is that it includes very few photographs of mantas (portable cloth murals), which were an important medium for movement artists.4 The two sources used to compile the sample of art created by the grupos are somewhat problematic in that they contain very few examples of work produced by feminist grupos, so I have added insights and qualifying observations based on interviews with and secondary sources about the feminist grupos. Data for my comparative analysis of California Chicano movement art is provided by 185 images taken from the catalog of the ground-breaking CARA (Chicano Art: Resistance and Affirmation) exhibition (Griswold del Castillo, McKenna, & Yarbro-Bejarano, 1991) and a book on Chicano murals in California (Cockcroft & Barnet-Sa´nchez, 1993). The CARA exhibition has been criticized for over-representing California artists, underrepresenting females artists, and reflecting particular ideological priorities (Gaspar de Alba, 1998; Davalos, 2001; Keller in Keller, Erickson, Johnson, & Alvarado, 2002a). Given my decision to focus primarily on the movement in California, the geographical representation is not problematic for my purposes. Potential ideological bias is a concern. For example, the curators of CARA included Rupert Garcı´ a’s silk-screened portraits of Mexican revolutionary Emiliano Zapata, painter Frida Kahlo, and slain Chicano journalist Rube´n Salazar – all widely accepted within the pantheon of cultural nationalist icons – but omitted his 1968 serigraph of Marxist revolutionary Che Guevara. Regarding the number of Chicanas included in the exhibition, I would argue that, unfortunately, a male-heavy sample accurately reflects the representations of Chicano identity that were dominant at the height of a movement that often reflected what Davalos (2001, p. 59) calls ‘‘the mandate of nationalism y by representing the ideologies that make nationalism a success, specifically, patriarchy, homophobia, and essentialist visions of ‘race’.’’ Efforts by Chicana artists to offer feminist
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alternatives to the male-dominated narrative of Chicano history and identity are addressed later in the paper.5
MEXICAN AND CHICANO MOVEMENT IDENTITY AS REPRESENTED IN ART The Mexican student and grupos movements were particularly concerned with the authoritarian, undemocratic power of the state. Arnufo Aquino (Aquino & Pe´rezvega, 2004, p. 14), an artist active in the 1968 student movement and the grupos movement – and the principal archivist of the student movement’s art work – described the context of brutal government repression in which the 1968 movement’s key demands emerged, and he observed These were not academic demands but rather political and social demands: democratic freedoms to create a Mexico that was not only modern but worthy, just, without repression. This is the meaning of the images printed [by artists] and distributed throughout the whole city.
Liquois (1985) identifies three important themes that characterized the work of the grupos in the 1970s–1980s: (1) the conditions of urban life in Mexico City, (2) the failures and weaknesses of the education system, and (3) Latin America’s worsening economic crisis, revolutionary struggles in Central America, and the military dictatorships in the Southern Cone. Feminist grupos also addressed issues of patriarchy, sexuality, violence against women, and homophobia. Regarding Chicano movement art, Davalos (2001, p. 7) observed [T]he repeated experience of dispersal and displacement [associated with colonialism and imperialism] complicates representational practices by people of Mexican descent. People constantly on the move or forced to move are denied a homeland, a territorial location, and thus turn both to their immediate surroundings (sometimes the United States) and to their memory of homeland in their representational practices.
As a result, she argues, ‘‘the concepts of mestizaje [‘‘racial’’ mixing], Mexicanness, indigenismo, and national identity significantly influence contemporary representational practices of Mexican Americans’’ (p. 10). Other issues of central concern to different fronts of the Chicano movement were the rights of immigrants, workers, and prisoners, feminism, the war in Viet Nam, voting rights, and education. Taking into account these principal themes of the movements and the content of the artwork associated with them, I identified the following
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representational categories and then examined each artwork in the sample for the presence or absence of imagery associated with such themes: Mexican revolutionary and nationalist iconography, such as national heroes, the national flag and colors, and the symbols of the nation’s mythical founding – an eagle devouring a snake while perched upon a nopal cactus. Indigenista iconography, particularly symbols of Mexico’s pre-Columbian past, such as Mayan and Aztec design motifs or stylized, heroic images of pre-conquest peoples. Catholic/Christian iconography, such as the Virgin of Guadalupe, the cross, or visual references to popular religious art forms like retablos (paintings depicting a miracle performed by Christ, the Virgin, or some saint). Images reflecting ethnic identity/pride, which often overlap with the iconography of nationalism, indigenismo, and Catholicism, but also include positive or heroic images of people coded as Mexican or Chicano by skin color, hair, or facial features, and, in the case of Chicano art, the use of Spanish or bilingual text. Rural working class imagery, such as the wide-brimmed sombrero or other clothing associated with campesinos, depictions of people engaged in farm labor, images of the land, or other scenes of rural life. Urban working class imagery, such as picket signs, factory scenes, or people coded as industrial laborers or urban working class by their dress or their surroundings. Imagery representing calls for civil rights, justice, democracy, including depictions of censorship and repression, and references to the law, the Constitution, voting rights, labor struggles, and affirmative action. Imagery suggesting international solidarity or an anti-imperialist perspective, such as portraits of Che Guevara and other allusions to Latin American/Third World solidarity or to U.S. imperialism. Images projecting a feminist perspective, including, to borrow Janet Wolff’s (1993) categories, ‘‘celebratory’’ imagery, such as depictions of strong women engaged in struggle or work and images promoting a liberated female sexuality, and ‘‘deconstructionist’’ imagery referencing patriarchy and machismo. The content analysis of the artwork is summarized in Chart 1. The most immediately apparent difference is that 62% of Chicano movement art in the sample projected ethnic identity and pride and 30% included indigenista imagery (a key element of Chicanos’ and Mexicans’ historically constructed identity), whereas none of the Mexican movement art conveyed
EDWARD J. MCCAUGHAN
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Mexican Art (N=189) Mexican Revolution/Nationalist
Chicano Art (N=185)
10 5 30
Indigenista
4 19
Christian/Catholic
2.5 62
Ethnic Identity/Pride
0 17
Rural Working Class
6 26.5
Urban Working Class
8.5 31
Rights/Justice/Democracy
99.5
International Solidarity/AntiImperialist
6.5 9 19.5
Feminist
3 0
Chart 1.
10
20
30
40
50
60
70
80
90
100
Imagery in Movement Art (as % of N).
a message of ethnic identity and only 4% of the Mexican art even included indigenista elements. Signs of Catholic identity, another important component of Chicano and Mexican culture, were present in 19% of the Chicano art, usually as a positive element of the movement’s culture, while only 2.5% of the Mexican art included Christian imagery, and in nearly all of those cases the connotation was negative. Ester Herna´ndez’s enduring image of Guadalupe as kick-boxer ‘‘defending the rights of the Chicanos’’ and Yolanda Lopez’s famous self-portrait of the Virgin of Guadalupe exemplify how many Chicano movement artists read the dark-skinned Guadalupe as a powerful sign of personal and ethnic empowerment and pride. Herna´ndez’s black and white woodcut shows a fist-clenched Virgin in black-belted karate tunic and pants, delivering a fierce blow with her left leg. As in the traditional portraits of Guadalupe, Hernandez’s Virgin is supported by an angel, but this one appears angry and ready for a good fight. Lo´pez’s oil pastel self-portrait (Fig. 3) – part of a series that also includes portraits of her grandmother and mother as Guadalupe – shows the brown-skinned,
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Fig. 3.
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Yolanda M. Lo´pez, Portrait of the Artist as the Virgin of Guadalupe, 1978. From Griswold del Castillo et al. (1991).
athletic artist running, skirt flying up to reveal muscular legs. She is smiling broadly while her right hand fearlessly clasps a snake – typically shown held in the mouth of an eagle in Mexican national iconography – while her left hand holds Guadalupe’s star-studded blue cape over her shoulder. Referring to an earlier, controversial portrait she created of the Virgin with short skirt and high heels, Lo´pez (quoted in Keller et al., 2002a, p. 80) explains that she started working with the image of Guadalupe because she was the most popular female political image used by the United Farm Workers y. Looking at the image closely, I discovered that her dress was so long that it gathered at her feet, so I trimmed the cloth to let her feet and legs move. I felt that I had removed her from bondage, from having been trapped in her clothing.
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While Guadalupe did not appear often in the sample of Mexican movement art, when she did it was more often as a symbol of the Catholic Church’s perceived collaboration with oppression and exploitation. For example, an installation by Grupo Suma, described by Liquois (1985) as evoking a religious retablo, includes a large, traditional image of Guadalupe. But unlike in the popular retablos, which depict the Virgin intervening to protect the petitioner from harm, this Guadalupe looks away from a life-sized sculpture of a campesino who has been hanged in an act of repression. Below the hanging campesino sits the crumpled calavera (skeleton) of another campesino, referencing Posada’s famous use of calaveras in his political and social satires from the early 20th century. Behind these principal figures, a background collage contains press clippings about police repression, popular culture, and elites from the social pages. In an installation piece by the Mexican collective Peyote y Compan˜ı´ a (Fig. 4), traditional images of Guadalupe’s face surround the naked lower torso of a male mannequin, which appears to be crawling on its knees like a pilgrim visiting the Virgin’s shrine. The contradiction between public male reverence of the Virgin and private male disrespect of real-life women is suggested by a line from an Efraı´ n Huerta poem that has been painted across the back and buttocks of the headless, naked body: ‘‘he does not even have respect for the woman he loves so sweetly.’’ Unlike their Chicana counterparts, Mexican feminist artists in particular tended to view Catholicism’s pantheon of Virgins as symbols of gender and sexual oppression, as evidenced in an early 1980s group show curated by Mo´nica Meyer entitled ‘‘Silences, virgins, and other feminist themes,’’ in which images of the Virgin Mary appeared along side swastikas, phalluses, masturbating women, and the word ‘‘rape’’ (Barbosa, 2001). Nationalism was a central component of Mexican political culture throughout the 20th century, and the Mexican Revolution contributed some of nationalism’s most enduring icons. Yet only 5% of the Mexican art in the sample contained iconography from the Mexican Revolution, such as an image of revolutionary hero Emiliano Zapata.6 And when Mexican movement art incorporated other nationalist iconography, such as the eagle and snake from the national seal and flag, it was often used to portray government repression and authoritarianism. An example is a black-and-white graphic from the 1968 student movement portraying then President Gustavo Diaz Ordaz as a bayonet-winged eagle hovering over a pre-Columbian-styled snake and speaking the words, ‘‘aquı´ no ma´s mi chicharro´n truena’’–literally, ‘‘only my pork rinds make noise here,’’ but meaning roughly, I am the only one allowed to speak here (Fig. 5).
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Fig. 4.
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Peyote y Compan˜ı´ a, Artespecta´culo. Tragedia II (Detail), 1979. From Liquois (1985).
In contrast to the way Mexican student artists turned the eagle into a symbol of repression, Chicano artists frequently used versions of the stylized Aztec eagle of the United Farm Workers to represent ethnic pride and militancy, as in Salvador Roberto Torres’ Viva La Raza (Fig. 6). The description of Torres’ painting in Keller et al. (2002a, pp. 274–275) reveals how this Chicano artist could evoke feelings of pride and progress with the same symbols of the Mexican nation that spelled repression and stagnation for student activists in Mexico: The oil on canvas is made visually effective by its use of the strong color scheme of the Mexican flag: red, green, and white. While the painting resembles a flag with its horizontal bands of color, simple central image, and sparse words, it is, however, an emblem on the move, an emblem in the making. The brushwork is broad and hurried with no
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Fig. 5.
EDWARD J. MCCAUGHAN
Anonymous, Poster from 1968 Student Movement. From Grupo Mira (1988).
concern for tightly defined details. The word ‘‘Viva’’ has the character of a message painted quickly on a wall. The words ‘‘la Raza’’ are scratched into black paint in the freehand style seen on public walls in urban barrios.
Chicano artists deployed revolutionary and nationalist imagery twice as frequently (that is, such iconography appears in 10% of the Chicano movement art sample). Chicana activist Olga Talamante recalled in a personal communication with the author that Chicanos frequently said, ‘‘somos ma´s mexicanos que los mexicanos’’ (we are more Mexican than the Mexicans). In Chicano art, revolutionary nationalist imagery is almost always used as a symbol of militant pride and of the movement’s historic roots in Mexico’s revolutionary past, as in Antonio Bernal’s 1968 mural for the Teatro Campesino Cultural Center in Del Rey, California (Fig. 7). Here male
Art and Identity in Mexican and Chicano Social Movements
Fig. 6.
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Salvador Roberto Torres, Viva la Raza, 1969. From Griswold del Castillo et al. (1991).
leaders of the Chicano movement (Ce´sar Cha´vez and Corky Gonza´lez) and the Black civil rights movement (a rifle-bearing Malcolm X and Martin Luther King) stand together shoulder-to-shoulder with Zapata, Pancho Villa and an anonymous (as usual) soldadera (female camp follower or solider) from the Mexican Revolution.7 Turning to social class identification, the sample reveals that imagery of both rural and working classes appears much more frequently in Chicano movement art than in Mexico movement art of the era. The rural working class is represented in 17% of the Chicano art sample, and urban working class representations appear in 26.5% of the Chicano sample. In the Mexican sample, by contrast, rural working class imagery appears in only 6% of the artwork, and representations of the urban working class are
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Fig. 7.
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Antonio Bernal, The Del Rey Mural, 1968. From Cockcroft and BarnetSa´nchez (1993).
included in only 8.5% of the art. More revealing than the frequency of such imagery, however, is the quality of social class identification conveyed by the artwork. The Mexican movement art tends to portray working class people as a somewhat abstract ‘‘other.’’ In several of the graphics from 1968, small, cartoon-like figures of people coded as urban working class or campesino by their dress appear dwarfed and overwhelmed by the gigantic, fierce presence of the state’s repressive apparatus. A working class woman is typically shown with an apron covering a swollen belly. The urban male figure typically evokes the tragi-comic pelado, a standard caricature of the urban poor in 20th century Mexican graphics, theater, and film (the most famous example in film being Cantinflas). In Mexican movement art, the working class is a social sector viewed sympathetically if not empathetically, a group to be pitied and perhaps won over as an ally for the student struggle, or as an abstract oppressed class whose exploitation should be exposed and protested. An example of the latter is Grupo Suma’s stark silhouette of a stooped campesino stenciled over what appears to be a computer punch card or perhaps stock market listings from the newspaper’s business pages (Fig. 8).
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Fig. 8.
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Grupo Suma, Untitled, c. 1977. From Liquois (1985).
Chicano movement art, on the other hand, tends to represent the movement itself as working class, with imagery that sometimes conveys the largerthan-life heroic struggles of people at work, as in Daniel Designa’s iconic 1976 Campesino. In contrast to the dwarfed workers that appear in the 1968 graphics, the body of Designa’s farm worker fills almost the entire space. He is bent over a recently planted field; his right hand wields the infamous shorthandled hoe and the muscles of his strong back are visible under the shirt. The rich agricultural fields stretch out endlessly toward the horizon of a brilliant blue, cloudless sky. A different representation of social class common in Chicano art portrays the quiet, everyday pride and dignity of Chicano working class communities, as in Carmen Lomas Garza’s many portraits of quotidian family and community activities. Another example of this approach is Louis Carlos Bernal’s photographic portrait, Lynn y Albert
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Morales (Fig. 9). Seated at a bar but turned to face the photographer, Lynn and Albert lovingly clasp hands while looking directly into the camera. A ‘‘Love Mom’’ tattoo is visible on Lynn’s bare shoulder. Albert wears a baseball cap. A bottle of beer can be seen on the bar between them. I was reminded of this photograph – and its stark contrast to the cartoon-like images of the working class in the Mexico City movement art – when I read Davalos’ (2001, p. 133) description of a photo exhibition entitled ‘‘Celebrate Pilsen!’’ at the Mexican Fine Arts Center Museum in Chicago: Capturing their homes, families, and neighborhood, the exhibition translated struggle, poverty, and urban decay into a Mexican community’s traditions and memories. The move to authenticate the everyday cultural practices of Mexicanos and Mexicanas is a revisionist interpretation of the dominant stereotypes and racial hierarchies in the United States. Instead of representations of downtrodden, passive victims or the opposite stereotype of lazy welfare cheats, the exhibition interpreted the photographs as representations of authentic Mexican country.
Fig. 9.
Louis Bernal, Lynn y Albert Morales, 1978. From Griswold del Castillo et al. (1991).
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In terms of the internationalist projection of the movements, there does not seem to be a significant difference between Mexican and Chicano art: 9% of the Mexican sample contains imagery that evokes solidarity with other Latin American revolutions (e.g., several images of Che Guevara) or an anti-U.S. imperialist critique, while 6% of Chicano art sampled contains such internationalist content, typically in works that address Vietnam war themes. (As mentioned earlier, the relatively small percentage of antiimperialist images in Chicano movement art may reflect more the ideological perspectives of the curators.) Since these movements were contemporaneous with the second wave of feminism in the U.S. and Mexico, I was also interested in assessing the extent to which feminism was a component of movement identity as reflected in the artwork. Here we find another significant difference between the two samples. Nearly one-fifth (19.5%) of the Chicano art but only 3% of the Mexican sample contained some expression of a feminist perspective – e.g., celebratory images of strong women or deconstructionist images critiquing machismo and patriarchy. Examples of celebratory feminist art are the previously cited images of the Virgin of Guadalupe by Yolanda Lo´pez and Ester Herna´ndez, who has said her ‘‘work counteracts the stereotypes of Latina women as either passive victims or demonized creatures’’ (Keller et al., 2002a, p. 24). Another example is Judith Baca’s 1979 Uprising of the Mujeres (Fig. 10), in which a muscular, full-breasted, Indian-featured woman with braids that echo the geometric motifs of pre-Columbian art, appears ready to pounce from her squatting position. An example of the deconstructionist approach in feminist art is the penis-nosed mask from Mexican artist Maris Bustamante’s 1982 performance, ‘‘¡Caliente, Caliente!’’ (Hot! Hot!), in which she parodied Freud’s theory of penis envy (Fig. 11). One plausible explanation for the larger percentage of feminist iconography in the Chicano sample is that the U.S. feminist movement consolidated itself somewhat earlier within North American universities, where a significant number of the Chicana and Chicano artists were studying in the 1960s and 1970s. Indicative of the different time frames north and south of the border, Mujeres Muralistas, a collective of Chicana artists, began working together as early as 1973 on a series of feminist-influenced murals in the San Francisco Bay Area (Ochoa, 2003, p. 33), whereas the first feminist artist collectives in Mexico were not formed until the early 1980s. And when we break down the Mexican sample between the 1968 student movement art and the grupos art from the late 1970s to early 1980s, we see that only 1% of the 1968 graphics contained feminist imagery, whereas nearly 14% of the
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Fig. 10. Judith Francisca Baca, Uprising of the Mujeres, 1979. From Griswold del Castillo et al. (1991).
grupos artwork projects feminist consciousness. The grupos movement consolidated itself after second-wave feminism was given impetus in Mexico by the 1975 international year of women meeting held in Mexico City. Selfconsciously feminist artists were active in several of the collectives, although most of them were only able to fully realize a feminist project through their art after they left the male-dominated grupos (McCaughan, 2003). I will return to the issue of feminist content in the artwork in the discussion of the aesthetic choices made by movement artists, where an interesting correlation is revealed between feminist content and traditional, Mexican School forms in Chicana art. If Mexican movement art did not project a collective identity primarily coded by ethnic, national, class, or feminist signs, how did the artists represent movement identity? The Mexican movements’ identity was couched largely in terms of disenfranchised political citizens. The art projects a movement seeking an end to state repression, censorship, and authoritarianism, greater autonomy from the effectively one-party state apparatus, and, particularly in the grupos art of the 1970s, a resolution of festering
Art and Identity in Mexican and Chicano Social Movements
Fig. 11.
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Maris Bustamante, Grupo No Grupo, Mask from Performance, c. 1982. From Liquois (1985).
social problems such as poverty and education. These are the themes addressed in 99.5% of the sample of Mexican movement art. An example from the 1968 student movement is a bold black and white graphic featuring a pained, Picasso-like, cubist face, laying on its side, eyelids half closed and mouth agape (Fig. 12). A bayonet has pierced the scull. The text asks, ‘‘Why repress the desire for democracy?’’ An example of these themes from the grupos movement is a collage detail from a 1977 installation by Grupo Proceso Penta´gono that combines images of struggle and repression, while text (in English) exhorts fellow Mexicans to ‘‘do it yourself’’ because things are ‘‘moving, moving, moving’’ (‘‘se mueve, se mueve, se mueve y’’). Nearly a third of the Chicano art sample also addressed issues of civil rights, justice, and democracy, but those themes do not dominate the Chicano movement art to the same degree they do the Mexican movement art. Chicano movement art is clearly centered on issues of the ethnic identity and
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Fig. 12. Anonymous, Poster from 1968 Student Movement. From Grupo Mira (1988).
pride of an oppressed, exploited, and marginalized minority group within Anglo-American society, while the Mexican movement art is primarily preoccupied with the severe restrictions on the exercise of political citizenship in Mexico’s authoritarian, one-party regime.
THE SIGNIFICANCE OF FORMAL AND ART MOVEMENT INFLUENCES The projection of a movement’s identity and agenda through art clearly involves formal and other aesthetic considerations as well as subject matter. Mexican and Chicano movement artists in the 1960s and 1970s could draw upon a variety of influential art movements, including the Mexican School
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of art’s social realism, North American abstract expressionism, and newer international trends such as conceptual art and pop art. Going into this research, my assumption was that the Mexican School would be overwhelmingly represented in Mexican and Chicano movement art, because of its prominence as easily accessible, public art and its clear identification with Mexican culture. Similarly, I assumed movement artists might be more inclined to avoid styles associated with the less obviously political, more commercial art of the U.S. and European-dominated art world. While recognizing the vast differences among abstract expressionism, conceptual art, pop art, naı¨ ve and graffiti art, etc., for the purposes of this analysis, they were grouped together as an ‘‘other’’ category to distinguish them clearly from the Mexican School. Each artwork in the sample was then identified as either exhibiting primarily the formal qualities of the Mexican School (e.g., approaches to figurative work, iconography, and composition echoing the social realism and/or indigenismo of Mexican engravers or muralists) or of one or more of the prominent international tendencies (e.g., pop art’s irony and allusion to commercial culture or abstract expressionist efforts to capture more subjective, less didactic themes). The picture that emerged was more complicated than I had imagined, as shown in Chart 2. 100 90 80 70
53 63
60 50 40 30 20
47 37
10 0 Mexican Art (N=189) Mexican School
Chart 2.
Chicano Art (N=185) Other Influences
Formal Influences (as % of N).
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The Mexican School of art was the single most influential style: its impact was clearly evident in 47% of Mexican movement art (as in the distinctly Mexican style of graphic art emulated in the 1968 satire of President Diaz Ordaz described earlier and shown in Fig. 5) and 37% of Chicano art (as in Antonio Bernal’s embrace of the muralist tradition, discussed earlier and seen in Fig. 7). However, a majority of Mexican and Chicano artists on both sides of the border drew upon formal elements associated with other art movements. For example, installations by Grupo Suma and Peyote y Compan˜ı´ a (described above, the latter shown in Fig. 4), while containing Mexican iconography, such as the Virgin of Guadalupe, are firmly grounded in experimental trends in conceptual art that gained popularity internationally in the 1960s and 1970s. Abstract expressionism is clearly evident in Salvador Roberto Torres’ Viva La Raza (described above and seen in Fig. 6), even though the central motif is the stylized Aztec eagle. The distribution of the Mexican movement art sample reflects the aesthetic and political tensions that marked Mexico’s art world in the late 1960s. By the 1940s, the Mexican School had consolidated its hold over the nation’s art institutions, including the national academies of art, San Carlos and La Esmeralda, where most of the 1968 movement artists studied and produced the movement’s artwork. Bakewell (1995, p. 32) described an attitude within the Mexican art world that was pervasive at mid-20th century, ‘‘If Mexican artists are not visibly nationalistic, they are not honoring their country and themselves and may risk being labeled ‘anti-Mexican’ or ‘foreign’ by public or private consumers.’’ However, several prominent young Mexican artists in the 1960s had made a highly public break with the Mexican School in what came to be known as the Ruptura (rupture) (del Conde, 1996; Goldman, 1981; Tibol, 1992). A new generation of artists rebelled against what they saw as the stale rigidity of the Mexican School. Young artists, some of whom had studied or traveled in the U.S. and Europe, began to experiment with other themes, media, and styles, including abstraction expressionism, conceptual art, and pop art. However, Liquois (1985, p. 12) notes that information about and representations of contemporary art from other countries was somewhat limited given the then underdeveloped private art market and the conservative nature of official institutions. Moreover, some in the Mexican art world viewed the new international art trends with suspicion. Influential art historian and critic Raquel Tibol (1992), for example, saw the hand of U.S. cultural imperialism at work in promoting depoliticized art currents in Mexico and Latin America generally. When the student movement erupted in 1968, many young student artists found the new aesthetics of abstraction and conceptualism appealing
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because they were conducive to expressing themes of subjectivity that many in the generation of 1968 understood as profoundly political. Even many of the more traditionally political, Left activist artists of the 1960s had grown critical of the work of the Mexican School. For example, a collective of artists from the generation of 1968 wrote as follows about the TGP, which was identified with the Mexican School: ‘‘[T]he themes, as well as the formal and technical solutions used by the TGP [after the 1940s] had become recipes. That is one of the reasons why – in the graphic arts – the new artists began to experiment with other expressions’’ (Grupo Mira, 1988, p. 18). Despite such criticisms, the influence of the TGP and the traditional language of Mexican graphic art is evident in much of the artwork produced by the 1968 student movement. Movement artist Aquino described in interviews with the author that students at the San Carlos Academy in 1968 ‘‘wanted to know pop, minimalism, abstraction, etc.,’’ but when the urgency of the movement demanded the immediate production of flyers and posters, ‘‘use of the TGP language and media seemed the most natural, most accessible. Even though it was somewhat paradoxical at the moment.’’ Aquino emphasized that the primary concerns of the artists, in the context of the movement, were more practical than aesthetic, regardless of how important aesthetic experimentation was to their work before or after the movement. Liquois (1985, p. 10) notes that the urgent political demands of the movement led young art students like Aquino to reexamine and attempt to update theories from the 1930s about art and activism and the importance of didactic graphic art. The graphics of the 1968 student movement reflect sometimes conflicting concerns: to communicate, educate, and mobilize with clear, didactic images and text while experimenting creatively with abstract and conceptual elements; to break with the old Mexican School and incorporate new international influences while retaining a clear national identity and avoiding being seen as dupes of U.S. cultural imperialism. By the time of the grupos movement a few years later, movement artists embraced formal elements of current international art trends much more fully, reflecting the continued erosion of the nationalist Mexican regime’s cultural hegemony. Moreover, one of the explicit goals of the grupos movement was to circumvent statecontrolled art institutions by creating alternative spaces for art. The grupos occupied public space – like the street and walls – and established private, non-profit cultural centers and galleries. The change in the formal content of social movement art in Mexico is demonstrated in the grupos sub-sample of our survey, which shows fully 86% of the grupos art reflecting formal influences such as conceptual art, pop art, installations, and performance.
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I was initially surprised, given the Chicano movement’s emphasis on cultural identity and historic continuity with the Mexican Revolution (breeding ground for the Mexican School of art), to find that nearly two-thirds of the artwork in the Chicano sample did not fit neatly within the Mexican School’s formal traditions. However, the reality is that Chicano artists in the 1960s and 1970s were more directly exposed than their Mexican counterparts to the dizzying array of international art movements of the period. In fact, some Chicano artists were more thoroughly exposed to new international art trends than they were to the Mexican School of art. For example, Sonya Fe, who studied at the Otis Art Institute in Los Angeles, Los Angeles City College, and the Art Center College of Design in Pasadena, recalls that she only discovered the great Mexican muralists when she first traveled to Mexico in the 1970s: ‘‘To my astonishment, I had not learned anything about the [Mexican] artists in my formal education. My style changed dramatically after my visit to Mexico’’ (quoted in Keller et al., 2002a, p. 218). Unlike Mexican art students who were mostly trained at one of the two national art academies, Chicano art students in California were attending a diverse range of art schools, including the Otis College of Art and Design, UCLA, CalArts, Long Beach State, and the California College of Arts and Crafts. Moreover, Chicano artists, like their Mexican counterparts in the grupos movement, were creating alternative spaces, often located within their own communities, thus reducing the ideological/aesthetic influence of public and private museums and galleries. Gilbert ‘‘Magu’’ Lujan, a co-founder of the Los Angeles-based art group, Los Four, described in an interview with Jeffery Rangel (1997) the often contentious debates among Chicano artists about Marxist vs. ‘‘indı´ gena/ cultural nationalist’’ vs. abstract expressionist aesthetics. In another interview with Rangel (1998), Judithe Herna´ndez talked about the role that fellow artist Carlos Almaraz played in ‘‘making connections’’ between the radically ‘‘different styles [of] approaching the same subject’’ that characterized two influencial Chicano art groups, Los Four and Asco. Herna´ndez viewed the work of Los Four, in which she participated, as more traditionally figurative, whereas Asco artists ‘‘were kind of the vanguard of the punk sort of perspective,’’ which incorporated performance. But even within Los Four, according to Lujan (Rangel, 1997), there were artistic influences as varied (and often conflicting) as Jackson Pollack, Robert Rauschenburg, Diego Rivera, and barrio-inspired aesthetics. While some Chicano artists, in Lujan’s words, ‘‘felt that aesthetics had ended with Diego Rivera,’’ Lujan himself,
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didn’t want to be Diego Rivera. I wanted to be a Chicano artist. Not Mexican y. I was trying to do a home-grown product. Something out of the experience of East L.A., because that’s what we were. We were not Mexicans; we were not New Yorkers.
For many Chicano artists, it was precisely such cultural, political, and aesthetic tensions that spurred creativity. Salvador Roberto Torres has said, ‘‘The distinctive influences of Anglo-American and Indo-Hispano bilingual/ tricultural experiences, along with the concept of La Raza as humanity, become my sources of spiritual and creative nourishment’’ (quoted in Keller et al., 2002a, p. 274). Thus, despite the strong strain of cultural nationalism in the Chicano movement, the Mexican School of art was only one of a great variety of artistic influences synthesized in the work of Chicano movement artists. However, an interesting correlation in the Chicano art sample between feminist expressions and formal elements of the Mexican School suggests that the question of aesthetic strategies among Chicano artists within the context of the movement’s dominant cultural nationalism played out differently for women than for men. Over half (55.5%) of the feminist-themed art in the Chicano sample reveals strong formal influence of the Mexican School (as in the works by Ester Herna´ndez, Yolanda Lo´pez, and Judith Baca, described earlier and the latter two seen in Figs. 3 and 10), whereas only 37% of the total Chicano sample reflects such influence, and virtually none of the work by Mexican feminists is situated within the formal traditions of the Mexican School. My hypothesis is that this finding is explained by the desire of Chicana feminists to legitimate their voice within the movement by communicating in a visual language that was irrefutably, ‘‘authentically’’ Mexican or Chicano/Chicana. Whereas Mexican feminist artists were criticized by their male counterparts as ‘‘too bourgeois’’ in their concerns with issues of sexuality and subjectivity (McCaughan, 2003), Chicana feminist artists were ridiculed for being ‘‘too White’’ or not authentically Chicana. Davalos (2001, p. 10) has observed that, ‘‘radical/lesbian Chicana feminism forces the complexities and ambiguities of Mexican-origin representational practices into view, allowing scholars to rethink ‘the community,’ the ‘alternative’ characters of arts organizations, ‘authenticity,’ and Chicana artists.’’ Referring to Las Mujeres Muralistas, for example, Davalos notes that their work, by ‘‘[r]econfiguring traditional icons, challenging gender roles, and asserting women’s power y complicated the image that Chicano nationalists tried to create and practiced a notion of ‘Chicano’ that did not presume unity based on race’’ (pp. 65–66). As a result of such efforts, Chicana feminists often faced censorship and ridicule within the movement and within their communities for challenging their culture’s deep-rooted
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patriarchal values and practices. Judith Baca’s proposed mural for an East Los Angeles housing project was rejected, apparently because it offered a critique of male-based power and violence, including that of gang members and revolutionaries. According to Sanchez-Tranquillino (1995, p. 71) The rejection of her mural had the effect of proving once again to Baca what she had learned to be suspicious of: that the Chicano Movement, and Chicano art in particular, was directed by men who were unwilling to recognize the opportunity to open supposedly revolutionary social structures to greater participation by women.
Feminism was often viewed as a betrayal of Chicano nationalism, as a ‘‘foreign’’ or ‘‘White’’ ideology that undermined the movement’s unity (Ruiz, 1998, Ch. 5; McCaughan, 1998). One strategy for silencing Chicana feminists was to question their cultural ‘‘authenticity.’’ A mural by Diane Gamboa, for example, an artist whose work includes sexually provocative images, was whitewashed in the early 1970s for ‘‘not being Chicana enough’’ (Keller et al., 2002a, p. 256). Yolanda Lopez, among other artists, has reported being encouraged by some critics to use ‘‘traditional,’’ figurative iconography in her work, because ‘‘abstract images do not satisfy the mandate of cultural nationalism’’ (Davalos, 2001, p. 72). Such concerns are evident in interviews that Rangel (1998, 1999) conducted with Chicana artists Barbara Carrasco and Judithe Herna´ndez. Carrasco, for example, describes feeling the need to prove herself Mexican (because she was light-skinned); she consciously sought to immerse herself in Mexican artistic traditions by working with muralist Arturo Garcia-Busto in Oaxaca and by visiting the TGP studio in Mexico City. Carrasco expressed being somewhat disconcerted by the ‘‘non-traditional, anti-mural’’ approach of Chicano art group Asco and also spoke of her admiration for other Chicana artists who were willing to risk a ‘‘break’’ with the mural tradition. She experienced efforts to censor her own work when her drawing of a nude, pregnant woman entangled in a ball of yarn was nearly excluded from a major Chicano art exhibition. Herna´ndez recalled in her interview with Rangel how another well-known Chicana artist was ‘‘mocked’’ by other Chicanos because ‘‘she was not a hundred percent Mexican.’’ In other examples of the relationship between feminist content and traditional Mexican forms in the work of California Chicana artists, Yreina D. Cerva´ntez describes using indigenista iconography to express a woman’s perspective (Keller et al., 2002a, pp. 124–125), and Margarita ‘‘Mita’’ Cuaro´n incorporates sensual images of the Virgin of Guadalupe to ‘‘heighten [the Virgin’s] connections to the community and her condition as woman, with a woman’s life cycle and a woman’s social and communal domain’’
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(Keller et al., 2002a, pp. 138–139). Sonya Fe appropriates Posada’s calaveras in a provocative painting that depicts the untenable position of a woman trying to choose between two male lovers (Keller et al., 2002a, p. 219). Rosa M.’s work has been described as ‘‘within the tradition of internationally respected Mexican artists such as Posada and Rivera. However, her work is imbued with feminist perspectives’’ (Maria Herrera-Sobek quoted in Keller, Erickson, Johnson, & Alvarado, 2002b, p. 105). Perhaps incorporating elements of the formal language of the Mexican School of art appeared to these artists as a way to anticipate and undermine censorious attacks, in a manner parallel to the Mexican students’ ambivalent deployment of similar formal elements because of their familiarity, accessibility, and association with ‘‘Mexicanness.’’ Ochoa (2003, p. 37) observes, for example, that in choosing to create mural and altar-installations, the Mujeres Muralistas collective selected genres ‘‘that can be located within Chicana/Chicano cultural tradition.’’ Angie Chabram (quoted in Gaspar de Alba, 1998, p. 138) goes further, suggesting that ‘‘if Chicanas wished to receive the authorizing signature of predominant movement discourses and figure within the record of Mexican practices of resistance in the U.S., then they had to embody themselves as males, adopt traditional family relations, and dwell only on their racial and/or ethnic oppression.’’ Gaspar de Alba (1998, pp. 132–33) describes a ‘‘Chicana aesthetic’’ in the early years of the Chicano movement that was constituted by images of ‘‘motherhood, regeneration, and female ancestry’’ along ‘‘with iconography from Catholic ritual and pre-Columbian mythology and stressing the political vantage point of the working class.’’ Clearly, some Chicana artists chose to break with these political and aesthetic norms, but in doing so they risked, unlike their Mexican feminist counterparts, being cast out of the very ethnic community that seemed to offer protection against a racist, White-dominated society. As Gloria Anzaldu´a (1987, p. 22) once wrote so heartbreakingly, ‘‘if going home is denied me then I will have to stand and claim my space, making a new culture – una cultura mestiza – with my own lumber, my own bricks and mortar and my own feminist architecture.’’
THE DISTINCT SOCIOECONOMIC, POLITICAL, AND CULTURAL CONTEXTS OF MEXICAN AND CHICANO MOVEMENT ART As we have seen, despite the many factors common to movements on both sides of the border, Mexican and Chicano artists often made quite different
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decisions in choosing the imagery and formal qualities with which to represent their respective movement. Such differences largely reflect the fact that the distinct regimes of accumulation and modes of regulation prevailing in each country at the time inclined the movements and their artists to shape distinct identities and agendas. By the early 1940s, Mexico’s post-revolutionary state was wedded to a nationalist economic development/modernization strategy of state-led industrialization that was popular in several Latin America nations in the decades following the Great Depression. That particular regime of accumulation was accompanied by a particular mode of regulation, which is to say, the ‘‘norms, habits, laws and regulation networks which ensure the unity of the process and which guarantee that its agents conform more or less to the schema of reproduction in their day-to-day behavior and structure’’ (Lipietz, 1987, p. 14). In Mexico’s case, that mode of regulation entailed a corporatistpopulist political system, in which the post-revolutionary society’s main social sectors – workers, peasants, and small businesspeople – were organized into national confederations effectively controlled by the ruling Party of the Institutional Revolution (PRI) and a powerful national presidency. The mode of regulation also involved a carefully constructed cultural nationalism, promoted through the public school system and an extensive public arts program that gave rise to the Mexican School of art. The logic was that statesponsored economic modernization required class collaboration, which was to be facilitated by the illusion of shared national identity and unity fostered through the state’s cultural policies. That regime was hegemonic through the 1960s when a variety of social movements and political opposition forces began to challenge the regime’s authoritarian control over virtually all public institutions, including mass organizations, political parties, universities, the press, and the art world (McCaughan, 1993). To more fully appreciate the representations found within Mexican movement artwork of the 1960s and 1970s, the position of movement constituents and artists within Mexico’s then hegemonic socioeconomic, political, and cultural systems must be specified. Politically they were largely disenfranchised. They were unrepresented in the social sectoral framework of the regime’s corporatist system and without a viable opposition political party through which to challenge the PRI’s control of the electoral system. As students they had no effective say in the formulation of higher education policies, and as artists they faced censorship and marginalization by the official art world. In social class terms, however, they were in many ways products of the more successful aspects of the regime’s economic development strategy: a relatively affluent urban middle class. Most student and
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grupos movement activists and artists were also part of the nation’s mestizo (mixed Spanish-Indigenous) majority. In other words, they were relatively privileged in relationship to the nation’s most impoverished social sectors (indigenous communities, rural peasantry, and urban working class), but they were blocked by the regime’s authoritarian system of political and social control from meaningful and autonomous exercise of full political citizenship. And as products of higher education and the radical international politics of the 1960s, they had developed an acute critical consciousness about the social world around them. Thus the artwork of the Mexican movements primarily projects concerns with political rights and freedom of expression. A critical consciousness of class exploitation and poverty is present but not represented as conditions experienced by movement artists first hand. Ethnic identity is of no particular concern to members of the mestizo majority, who feel a part of the dominant culture (if not of the political regime). Finally, the Mexican movement art of the era expresses a deep ambivalence about the legacy of the Mexican Revolution and nationalism, because the authoritarian regime itself was an outcome of nationalist revolution. That ambivalence is particularly evident in the frequent deployment of formal elements associated with the Mexican School of art, despite the scarcity of positive nationalist and revolutionary iconography.8 The Chicano movement and its artists confronted very different socioeconomic, political, and cultural systems in the United States. The prevailing regime of accumulation in the U.S. in the 1960s could still be characterized as Fordist (although that model was already showing signs of crisis by the late 1960s and would give way to a new transnational regime of ‘‘flexible’’ accumulation over the next decades) (Lipietz, 1987). The illusion of ‘‘the American dream’’ was kept alive, if ever more faintly, through a highproductivity, high-wage, capital intensive manufacturing economy together with a mode of regulation centered on a liberal strategy of maintaining economic and political stability through inclusion, cooptation, and the promotion of a depoliticized consumer culture and arts world (Wallerstein, 1992). Unlike in Mexico and even ‘‘in contrast to Europe, which had a strong tradition of patronage’’ of the arts, Stevens and Swan (2004, p. 123) argue that in the United States the arts were typically regarded as ‘‘frivolous and often decadent – and certainly not an essential part of national life.’’ The extensive Franklin Roosevelt government-sponsored arts program of the WPA (Works Progress Administration) was the short-lived exception. The rise of virulent anti-communism helped to squash this brief experiment with large-scale government support for public art. ‘‘By 1938, the House
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Committee on Un-American Activities began to look for card-carrying communists. Artists on the WPA came in for increasing scrutiny’’ (Stevens & Swan, 2004, p. 132). Other factors, such as the rise of a world art market centered in New York and the influence of formalist approaches to art criticism furthered the increasingly conservative, market-oriented direction of the art world in the United States. Tekiner (2006, p. 31) argues that, ‘‘by its support of the market apparatus and its invalidation of social concerns as expressed through art, formalism upheld conservative agendas. Limiting its attentions to form alone, it obscured the relationships of art to social contexts and the socially critically implications of art.’’ Public museums also played an important role in shaping the conservatism of the U.S. art world ‘‘by promoting [‘American’] nationalism, the ideal citizen, and capital accumulation’’ (Davalos, 2001, p. 55). By the 1960s, when many Chicano artists came of age, challenges to the conservative nature of the U.S. art world had begun to emerge in conjunction with the era’s various countercultural movements (Tekiner, 2006, p. 42). Moreover, the power of the market and national cultural values of individualism and autonomy were still tempered by the safety net of social welfare and government regulation. Institutionalized racism and the White privilege of dominant Anglo-America seemed to many resolvable through the promise of expanding civil rights legislation. The money-driven, twoparty electoral system effectively excluded genuinely anti-systemic alternatives, but the Democratic Party’s reliance on the support of organized labor, women, and minority communities offered some prospects for political representation. How were Chicano movement constituents positioned within this picture? They were largely working class, both rural and urban, betting on their and/ or their children’s rise into the middle class through a college education and home ownership. Many of the student activists were the first generation of their family to attend college. In his interview with Rangel (1997), artist Gilbert Lujan describes the energy and optimism of a post-WWII United States, where he was able to attend college through the GI Bill: ‘‘[T]he United States was in a very incredible period. And that feeling that it engendered in me, growing up y was an expansive one. It was one where you try to do new things, you go out and you learn, you go to college. y The whole country was very upbeat. There was a lot of hope.’’ While some were completely disenfranchised due to their immigrant status, others were citizens increasingly active in electoral politics. For many in the movement, then, it was possible to imagine fuller, more equitable participation in the opportunities available from the liberal-Fordist U.S. regime
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if one formidable obstacle could be overcome, racism. Unlike the relative privilege and majority status of their Mexican movement counterparts, Chicanos were an ethnic minority confronted with the dehumanizing daily experiences of racial discrimination and oppression. Reflecting on her involvement as an artist in the Chicano movement, Judithe Herna´ndez told Rangel (1998), ‘‘Struggling against the discrimination, against the stereotypes, against the lack of opportunity in education, treatment of immigrant workers. I mean, all of that was part of who we were. y And it was the first time that any of our generation had y the voice, the ability, and the opportunity all at once to do something about it.’’ These socioeconomic, political, and cultural realities help to explain the Chicano movement artists’ overwhelming emphasis on themes of ethnic identity and pride and imagery associated with their indigenous heritage and Catholic spirituality. The previous generation of Mexican-Americans’ emphasis on acculturation was eclipsed by the 1960s generation’s emphasis on cultural resistance in an ‘‘Occupied America’’ imagined as the ancient homeland of Aztla´n. Prideful evocations of the community’s indigenous roots and its working class identity challenged the hegemonic cultural constructions of ‘‘America’’ as White and middle class. Racist stereotypes of the lazy, indolent Mexican campesino asleep under a cactus or of dangerous, criminal urban gang members were countered with images of hard-working communities bound by values of family unity, class solidarity, and religious faith. The materialism and individualism of dominant U.S. society were confronted by projections of religious spirituality and social justice. Appropriation by many Chicano movement artists of formal elements from the Mexican School of art served the movement’s goal of asserting a distinct ethnic identity – and one with claims to a cultural heritage older and arguably richer than those of Anglo-America. In her interview with Rangel (1998), Judithe Herna´ndez expresses her belief that the Mexican muralist tradition is ‘‘what helped to put us on the map. y We opened the door by means of reminding people that Latinos and Mexicanos in particular have been the foremost practitioners of the mural art in the 20th century.’’ The explicitly political tradition of the Mexican School also allowed Chicano artists to challenge the commercial orientation of the mainstream art world in the United States, often causing conflict for emerging artists. Describing her experiences in a university art department, for example, Carmen Lomas Garza (quoted in Bright & Bakewell, 1995, p. 1) said, ‘‘And so the anger, the pride, and self-healing had come out as Chicano art – an art that was criticized by the faculty and white students as being too political, not
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universal, not hard edge, not pop art, not abstract, not avant-garde, too figurative, too colorful, too folksy, too primitive, blah, blah, blah!’’ As we’ve seen, not all Chicano artists readily embraced formal elements of the Mexican School. Many Chicano artists of the 1960s and 1970s were also exposed to the latest trends of pop and conceptual art, expressionism, minimalism, collage, assemblage, installation, found art, graffiti art, kitsch, and performance art – many of which were being taken up by counter-cultural artists from other communities (e.g., feminists, environmentalists, and antiwar activists). Our sample suggests that Chicano artists appropriated from such influences more freely than their Mexican counterparts. This is likely explained in part by the fact that no one school of art attained such hegemonic influence in the United States as did the Mexican School of art south of the border (although North American abstract expressionism was a dominating force in the art world of the 1940s and 1950s). Another factor explaining the great diversity of formal elements in the Chicano art sample may be the movement’s own heterogeneity, relative to its Mexican counterpart. The Chicano movement was really a loose network of many movements, including students, farm workers, labor organizers, cultural workers, community activists, prisoners’ right advocates, anti-war activists, and lesbian feminists. Through an analysis of the form and content of movement art, we have seen how Mexican and Chicano movements of the same generation represented themselves and resignified the meanings of nation, ethnicity, citizenship, and gender, often in substantially different terms. Despite their common Mexican cultural heritage, shared roots in the world’s anti-systemic movements of the 1960s, and interchange among movement activists from both sides of the border, these movements projected very different collective identities and sociopolitical demands. The sample of Mexican movement art conveys the primary demands of its constituents – largely middle class, university-educated members of the nation’s ethnic majority – for civil liberties, autonomy, and democratic participation within the context of the regime’s authoritarian system of corporatist control and repression. The artists involved in the 1968 student movement and the grupos of the 1970s helped to resignify notions of nation, citizenship, and power by exposing the authoritarian nature of the state, challenging the role of the Catholic Church, and undermining the once hegemonic language of nationalism and indigenismo. The formal elements of Mexican movement art reflect the general ambivalence of its generation toward the aesthetics associated with the nationalist state: much of the artwork associated with the 1968 student movement
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continued in the tradition of didactic, figurative social realism while some artists embraced the more contemporary, international language of abstract expressionism, pop art, and, especially in the grupos, conceptual art. Feminist artists within the grupos movement critiqued the culture’s patriarchal practices and repressive notions of sexuality. Chicano movement art emphasized the ethnic and working class identity of its constituents as an oppressed and exploited minority community prevented by racism from enjoying the social, economic, and political benefits of the ‘‘American Dream’’ promised by the liberal-Fordist system of the post-WWII era. Indigenous and Catholic iconography were used to emphasize the movement’s cultural resistance to the racist, homogenizing, individualistic, and materialist culture of middle class, ‘‘WASP’’ society. In doing so, Chicano/Chicana artists helped to resignify ‘‘America’’ itself, contributing to the still ongoing struggles over notions of national identity and multiculturalism. Chicano/Chicana artists drew freely upon the full range of formal influences available at the time, although the Mexican School’s visual language is evident in much of the art, underscoring the movement’s efforts to assert its distinct ethnic and nationalist identity. The majority of Chicana feminist artists represented in the sample appropriated formal elements of the Mexican School, perhaps in an effort to counter criticisms of their feminism as a White, bourgeois ideology threatening the movement’s nationalist unity. Just as Chicano art in general countered the dominant narrative of the United States as a White, ‘‘pioneer’’ nation with the discourse of an ‘‘Occupied America,’’ the Chicana feminist artists contested the male-dominated movement’s constructed meaning of ‘‘Chicano’’ through celebratory and deconstructionist images of women. Research for this article was made possible by an American Council of Learned Societies/Social Science Research Council/National Endowment for the Humanities International Fellowship and a Marquette Fellowship from Loyola University New Orleans.
NOTES 1. For sophisticated sociological analyses of the social production of art, see Becker (1982) and Wolff (1993); a variety of incisive essays on the potential and challenges of contemporary artists as critical, dissident voices in Europe, the U.S., and Mexico can be found in Robinson (2001) and Goldman (1994). 2. Although activists engaged in the 1968 Mexican student movement, the grupos movement, and the Chicano movement were present throughout many
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regions of their respective nation, I have chosen to focus primarily on the work of movement artists in these two specific locations – Mexico City and California – in order to the simplify the methodological and analytical task of developing a meaningful cross-national comparison by minimizing other regional factors that contributed to distinct movement practices in different regions of both nations. 3. In interviews, for example, Mexican artists Monica Mayer and Victor Lerma told me about their fond memories of encounters with Chicano artists in the 1970s, but Chicana artist Patricia Rodrı´ guez described the behavior of some Mexican artists toward their Chicano counterparts as patronizing, arrogant, and dismissive. 4. A new book on the graphics and symbols of the 1968 student movement (Aquino & Pe´rezvega, 2004) includes many photographs, including a few of banners and mantas, that were not included in the Grupo Mira (1988) book, but it largely reproduces the same graphics that appeared in Grupo Mira’s earlier work and therefore does not significantly change the composition of my sample. 5. The recent, lushly illustrated two volumes on Chicana and Chicano art by Keller et al. (2002a, 2002b) is far more inclusive than the sources I have used (they survey 194 artists, including 62 women); however, most of the art work is from the mid-1990s to 2000 and is not restricted to artists self-identified as Chicano movement activists. Therefore, it would not make sense to include these works in my sample of activist art from the height of the movement (roughly mid-1960s to early 1980s). 6. Campbell (2003, p. 150) writes that images of Zapata appeared in the mantas, or mobile cloth banners, created by artists for the 1968 Student Movement, but I only have been able to find photographic documentation of two mantas with Zapata’s image from the 1968 student marches (see Ayala, 1998, p. 157; Aquino & Pe´rezvega, 2004, p. 88), and only two of the graphics from 1968 documented in Grupo Mira (1988) included images evocative of revolutionary heroes. It is possible that the absence of such icons reflects political decisions of the archivists who complied these books, but from my interviews with Aquino, the principal archivist of ’68 movement art, that does not appear to be the case. 7. I am reminded of Rosa Linda Fregoso’s (1993) observation that all of the men in Corky Gonza´lez’s epic poem about Chicano identity, Yo Soy Joquin, are named while the women in his narrative remain anonymous. This is also true of Siqueiros’s famous painting, Los Revolucionarios, in which anonymous women appear on the margins of an army of male revolutionaries, many of which are identifiable figures from Mexican history. 8. While it is outside the time-frame of this paper, it is worth noting that nationalist expressions in Mexican social movement art reemerged quite visibly after the late 1980s when the Mexican state’s strategic shift to a regime of accumulation consistent with transnational neoliberalism contributed to resurgent nationalist opposition movements, including the formation of the influential Party of the Democratic Revolution. Then the dramatic public appearance of the Zapatista movement in Chiapas in 1994 helped to fuel a further revival of Mexican revolutionary and indigenista iconography in movement art. See Campbell’s (2003) excellent study of Mexican muralism in the 1990s and McCaughan’s (2002) analysis of more recent social movement art in Mexico.
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NEW FRONTIERS FOR IDENTITY POLITICS? THE POTENTIAL AND PITFALLS OF PATIENT AND CIVIC IDENTITY IN THE DUTCH PATIENTS’ HEALTH MOVEMENT Jan Willem Duyvendak and Trudi Nederland ABSTRACT This article analyzes the question why the Dutch patients’ health movement, specifically its branch of organizations for handicapped people, increasingly appeals to civic identity, and what consequences this has for the movement’s mobilization efforts and effects. To address this question, we first analyze the meaning of ‘identity’ for patients’ organizations. In addition to an internal function (a shared identity as the basis for contact with other patients), the ‘patient identity’ also has an external function: identity movements can also produce instrumental actions. At the same time, it turns out that the specific ‘patient identity’ is being undermined through these instrumental actions, since in particular the instrumentally oriented wing of the movement insists on a broader basis for mobilization than the patient identity alone. This wing propagates citizenship as the empowering core topic, also because it seems to generate a better response in the political arena than the victim-like patient identity. This is a problematic situation. Employing a broad civic identity may appeal to some Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, Volume 27, 261–281 Copyright r 2007 by Elsevier Ltd. All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-786X/doi:10.1016/S0163-786X(06)27009-5
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handicapped people. For other patients, however, this appeal works only in a very limited way, especially as long as citizenship does not take into consideration the differences between citizens, and as long as citizenship is defined in opposition to corporeality.
‘‘Because political scientists have tended to treat all organized non-governmental political actors as interest groups, they have benignly neglected the role that group identity plays in defining and guiding many politically relevant groups in democracies’’ (Gutmann, 2003, p. 3).
As shown by Brown et al. (2004), the patients’ movement plays a marginal role in theories on social movements. In international literature, the patients’ movement is conspicuously absent (Cohen & Arato, 1992; Nederland, Duyvendak, & Brugman, 2003). In Dutch literature on the subject, the movement is only given a background role every now and then (Duyvendak et al., 1992; Oudenampsen & Steketee, 2000). This is remarkable for two reasons. In the first place because, since the 1960s, an increasing number of organizations for patients have been showing a lot of discontentment, both about the functioning of health care services and about the social discrimination of these groups. With regard to quantity, in many countries it is an important social movement. Yet, there is also a second, qualitative argument: in recent years, issues concerning collective identity have become increasingly central to social movement theories. In these debates, too, surprisingly little attention is being paid to the patients’ movement, apart from a few exceptions (Brown & Zavestoski, 2004). This is surprising, because in (parts of) the patients’ movement, important identity issues have cropped up. From the very start, the activities of the patients’ movement were geared toward contact with fellow patients and the promotion of interests. Mutual support and assistance were given through various forms of contact with fellow patients. As a result, a collective patient identity was created. After a while, of all organizations, in particular the handicapped people started to pay attention to a new identity: ‘full citizenship’. This identity was embraced in reaction to the image of ill or disabled citizens as being dependent and incapable of self-government. Before outlining this development for the Dutch context, first we will briefly introduce the Dutch patients’ movement. The Dutch patients’ movement consists of a multitude of organizations. This landscape of patients’ associations is characterized by great diversity. On the national level, there are over 500 organizations for the disabled and chronically ill in the Netherlands.
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In addition to this, over 200 platforms, in majority for disabled people, operate on a local level. In total, over 500,000 people are members of a patients’ organization (on a population of 16 million) (Baart, 2002). Organizations for handicapped people, for the chronically ill, and other organizations that support the interests of patients, all collaborate intensively. This connection takes shape in national umbrella organizations, which bring all these organizations together. Moreover, there are patients’ cooperate initiatives in the 12 Dutch provinces as well. A characteristic of these organizations is the heterogeneity of their supporters, consisting of the regional branches of national organizations for, among others, the elderly, the chronically ill, the physically disabled, the mentally disabled, and the parents of the mentally disabled. In the Netherlands, patients’ organizations are closely connected to organizations defending general consumers’ interests. This collaboration is the result of the way in which Dutch health care is organized, and of the value attached to the solidarity between healthy and ill citizens, both in government policy and by the patients’ movement itself. According to a rough estimation, the collective supporters of all patients’ and consumers’ organizations add up to 2.2 million members. In other European countries and the United States, there often is a more defined separation between the protection of general consumers’ interests on the one hand, and the protection of the interests of the chronically ill on the other. This article will take an in-depth look at the meaning of identity in social movements, especially in the movements of identity groups ‘‘that organize around characteristics that are largely beyond people’s ability to choose, such as race, gender, class, physical handicap, ethnicity, sexual orientation, age, and nationality’’ (Gutmann, 2003, p. 117). Our main focus will be on the patients’ movement. It is rather recent that social movement scholars pay attention to topics of collective identity. Alberto Melucci (1989, p. 73), a theorist of ‘new social movements’, explains this by the fact that the dominant social movement models focusing on instrumental action tend to treat collective identity as the non-rational expressive residue of the individual rational pursuit of political gain. In opposition to models of classical social movement theory and Resource Mobilization Approaches, the new social movement theorists claimed that identity formation can be an end in itself for social movements (Duyvendak, 1995a). As a result of this theoretical battle, in the research into social movements, it has become common practice to make a
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distinction between movements with a primarily internal and identityoriented focus, and movements with a primarily external and instrumental orientation (Cohen, 1985; Epstein, 1987; Friedman & McAdam, 1992; Duyvendak, 1995b). Though the acknowledgement of the rise of identity movements, looking for recognition instead of redistribution (Fraser, 1996), was an important step forward, the cleavage between identity movements and instrumental movements turned out to be a problematic one ( Sunier, Duyvendak, Saharso, & Steijlen, 2000). Research on ‘identity movements’ has shown that too rigid a distinction between these two has little value: identity movements are also externally oriented in various ways and may take an instrumental and goal-oriented approach (Adam, Duyvendak, & Krouwel, 1999; Duyvendak, 1996; Outshoorn, 2000; Phelan, 1989; Seidman, 1993; Taylor, 1999; Taylor & Whittier, 1992). This does not imply that there are no differences between the (purely) interest-oriented movements and the approaches used by identity movements. Not only do identity movements have a broader range of activities (from contact with other patients to lobbying) than purely interest-oriented movements, but the approaches of identity movements also have a different basis than pure interest groups. This is due to the fact that the members of an identity movement organize on the basis of mutual identification, and set their goals from this starting point. In an interest group, on the other hand, the instrumental goal organizes and mobilizes people, regardless of their social features. Gutmann summarizes this difference as follows: ‘‘Whereas the defining feature of an identity group is the mutual identification of individuals with one another around shared social markers, the defining feature of an interest group is the coalescing of individuals around a shared instrumental goal that preceded the group’s formation’’ (Gutmann, 2003, p. 13). It is essential to take into consideration that identity politics may also have an instrumental side, in particular, because this external role raises the matter of the basis and the boundaries of identity politics. As elaborated by Gamson, the key issue for identity-based movements is that ‘‘fixed identity categories are both the basis for oppression and the basis for political power’’ of social movements (Gamson, 1995, p. 391). In reaction to essentializing strategies used in the political arena (‘‘we gays’’, ‘‘in the name of all women’’, etc), participants stressed that fixed identities could not and should not be the basis of mobilization: identities are unstable, constructed, fluid, and social. In particular in the gay and lesbian movement, ‘queer’ ideas became quite influential (Warner, 1993; Seidman, 1994). However, few researchers observed that the issues and dilemmas of the (de)construction of identity politics were not the same for all movements.
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In this article we will show that, on the one hand, dilemmas of identity representation are at least as relevant for the patients’ movement as for other social movements. In the patients’ movement, repeatedly, the terse question what kind of identity has to be the essence of externally aimed actions is posed. For instance, is the stigmatization of the identity ‘disabled’ not being reinforced by its distinct presentation in political battle, and would a broader identity, such as the pursuit of citizenship, not be preferable to this? On the other hand, perhaps more than in any other identity-based movement, the ambition to blur the narrow boundaries of the patient identity, to lose fixed categories – such as the shift from patient to citizen – poses problems for the movement, particularly in terms of its mobilization capacity. As we will show, grassroots participants in the patients’ movements do not always seem to be motivated by such an abstract, cerebral ideal as citizenship; an ideal that is defined in opposition to corporeality. While members of other identity movements eventually transcend their ascribed categories to become part of the universe of citizens, handicapped people remain immanently bound to their bodies having specific and often painful characteristics. In our study, we have made an inventory of the methods of interest representation used by the 300 organizations for the disabled and chronically ill on the national level. In addition to this, we studied in detail 19 different cases of interest representation by six of these patients’ organizations. We studied the cases by interviewing key figures involved in the planning and implementation of the instrumental actions and by analyzing all relevant documents (see Nederland & Duyvendak, 2004). In this article, we use three of these cases to show that although a broader identification in terms of citizenship at first sight may seem politically more opportune and less stigmatizing, for the mobilization of the people involved it also brings on all sorts of problems. Before we turn to these instrumental actions based on ‘citizenship’, a little more needs to be said about the distinction between identity-oriented and instrumental acting in the case of the patients’ movement.
IDENTITY-ORIENTED ACTING: CONTACT AND INFORMATION The patients’ movement takes both identity-oriented and instrumental initiatives. The identity-oriented initiatives (in the form of providing information to fellow patients, support and self-help groups) encompass an important part
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of the activities of clients’ organizations in the field of mental health, organizations for handicapped people, and organizations for the chronically ill. Illness-related patients’ organizations are strongly geared toward identityoriented acting. Umbrella organizations, on the other hand, are proportionally more focused on an instrumental approach: the promotion of interests in the outside world (Straten, Janssens, & Friele, 1997, p. 91). Contact with fellow patients in the patients’ movement is generally coordinated by a self-help group, or a regional division of a national patients’ organization. For the majority of participants, contact with fellow patients or the self-help group is a short-term activity. After a while, people tend to aim for other activities, in which the personal problems directly related to the illness play a less dominant role. Contact with fellow patients has at least three functions. First of all, people exchange knowledge and experiences, they learn from each other and develop and share the knowledge they have acquired through experience. Furthermore, they support each other; they can compare themselves to others, to better integrate the problems regarding their illness and dependency into their daily lives. In addition to this, fellow patients reinforce each other’s identity by means of recognizing and possibly even solving collective problems. Contact with fellow patients provides the basis for other identity-oriented activities, such as giving information. An example of this is the information activities of one of the patients’ organizations involved in this research. From parent group meetings held by this organization, it became apparent that adolescents suffering from incurable illnesses deal with specific problems. It turned out that a lot of these problems were related to the stifling care situation at home. Parents tend to be extremely protective toward their ill children. These teenagers sometimes react to this over-protectiveness with an effort to go their own way, to try and become independent. Yet, at the same time, their progressing illness only increases their dependency on their parents. In such cases, a website offers information on how to deal with these two opposed developments that control these teenagers’ lives. This site was developed by and for children aged 12 to 18.
INSTRUMENTAL ACTING: REPRESENTATION OF INTERESTS Offering contact with fellow patients and providing information constitutes the basis for interest representation. In these activities, knowledge gained
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through experience can develop into experience-based, or experiential, expertise. This expertise forms the social capital of a patients’ organization and is of great strategic importance. By turning individual experiential knowledge into shared experiential expertise, patients’ organizations become a legitimate partner for the government and for professionals. What patients regard as their interests changes under the influence of the exchange of experiences and expertise within the movement. As a result, health care providers are being pressured to change their health care and treatment regimes. By means of newsletters, pamphlets and other writings, patients and caretakers become aware of the experiences of people with a comparable medical condition and become familiar with new treatment methods and medication. If patients are able to present experiential expertise to their physicians and other health professionals involved with these promising medical alternatives, ‘informed choices’ can be made. The fact that identity-oriented and instrumental acting are interwoven becomes apparent in the involvement of the patients’ movement in issues regarding the quality of health care. The focus of this quest is on the improvement of the quality of care from a patient’s perspective. In the following we present three cases, marked by a rising tension between patient identity-oriented and instrumental action. In our first example, the political lobby connects tightly to the experiences of the patients involved, while in the second example – introduced after a discussion about the citizenship perspective – it is the balanced combination of both a citizenship and the patient identity perspective that together form the basis for successful mobilization and interest representation. The third case shows that interest representation at too large a distance from the patient identity has negative consequences for both the capacity to mobilize patients and for the results.
A POLITICAL LOBBY FOR INTENSIVE HOME CARE FROM A PATIENT’S PERSPECTIVE The Dutch Association for Muscular Disorders (VSN–Vereniging Spierziekten Nederland) was founded in 1967. It is an organization for and by people with a muscular disease. This general term stands for all disorders that lead to a partial or complete dysfunction of muscles. The VSN deals with rare neuromuscular disorders; there are over 600 of them. From the start, the
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organization has operated in two distinctly different fields. On the one hand, it concentrates its activities on contact between fellow-patients, while on the other hand, it focuses on patients’ interest representation in matters of medical content. The Association employs 32 professionals. It also has a network of 280 active volunteers on a membership total of around 9000. At national headquarters, the professionals’ work falls into three divisions: care, communications, and management. The volunteers’ network takes care of most of the contact among members who are fellow patients. The volunteers do home visits, bring fellow patients together, cooperate on the production of informative material, and organize regional meetings. The professionals at headquarters provide the necessary support for these volunteers. VSN’s goal is to represent the interests, not only of those suffering from a neuromuscular disorder, but also the interests of their parents, their family members, and other people directly involved. Among these interests is the patient’s right to choose between different forms of care. Another goal is to stimulate research into the various causes and possibilities for the prevention and cure of these disorders. The Association’s elaboration of these goals is threefold, and brings to the fore a distinct focus on patient identity. Firstly, it wants to improve the knowledge about both neuromuscular disorders and the specific problems associated with them within certain target groups, like health care workers, researchers, policy makers and organizations implementing these policies. Secondly, the VSN wants to empower its own members, enabling them to stand up for themselves. And thirdly, it aims to draw the attention of policy makers, politicians and the media to the necessity of an optimal provision of facilities. This last aim figured prominently in the following example of one of VSN’s lobby campaigns. The Association was prompted into action when its members drew the organization’s attention to the far-reaching negative effects of the political decision to limit intensive care at home to three hours a day. This change in policy not only caused big gaps to fall in intensive home care, it also caused a misalignment between different regulations. For instance, the regulations for care during the terminal-life phase no longer aligned with the regulations for normal intensive home care, an effect that no policy maker had foreseen. People with a deadly muscular disorder who were not yet in a terminal phase, but who were far too ill for three hours of home care to suffice, after half a year received a letter simply stating the ‘depletion’ of their right to home care, admonishing them to move to a nursing home. The politicians involved found it hard to acknowledge they had made a mistake, which would mean a reversal of their former decision. In this
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manner, the State Secretary initially replied to the VSN’s protest that she was certain three hours of intensive home care a day would be enough for almost all patients with a serious muscular disorder, just as it would be for any other patient. It then became obvious to the VSN that it had to take action. One of the main interests of its members was clearly at stake here: the right of each patient with a neuromuscular disorder to his or her own choice of preferred forms of care. If people with half a year left to live could no longer claim as much home care as they needed, the nursing home would really be the only option left to them. The VSN decided to follow three strategic tracks: to try and influence the political top, the top health officials, and public opinion. According to the organization, in this situation success depends on the careful attunement of these different tracks. The head of the Communication Department of the VSN: ‘‘If you go about it the wrong way, the effect can be very counterproductive. This happens, for instance, when the media start yelling things that get everybody to stick to their guns. Then you certainly are further off your goal than before. What you want is that in the end everybody is happy with the way things have gone’’. The VSN took into account two important conditions for the execution of its lobby campaign: it invested a lot of time and developed good relations with the media. The Association needed publicity to speed up the issue. Contacts with health officials were already established, but this proved to be a very slow process. A good opportunity to take action presented itself in a planned commission meeting of the Ministry of Welfare, Health and Sports (VWS) in Parliament. The head of the Communication Department of the VSN remembers: ‘‘The meeting was planned on Monday, and on Monday morning we published an open letter in the newspapers. We had simply bought advertising space, to make sure our letter was printed. The commission meeting talked about nothing else’’. Next, the Ministry invited the VSN for a meeting on that same night with its highest official. The Association readily presented a solid solution, which was adopted by the officials present. The director of the VSN stated: ‘‘We had a very good lawyer, who could precisely tell us how the regulations worked and where reparation was needed. We could present the solution to them on a platter. In the end, the Assistant Secretary read the solution aloud, with our piece of paper in front of her. In more than one respect it was an extraordinary situation, because it does not happen very often that officials and the responsible politicians are exposed in this manner’’. The success of the VSN’s lobbying strategy was based on a patients’ perspective. The organization was able to bring the threat of misery hanging over patients with a neuromuscular disorder into the limelight like a
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razor-sharp image. The campaign convincingly showed the practical consequences of this policy change in patients’ daily lives. Empirical proof turns out to play a big role in politics, especially when the movement simultaneously combines these experiences of patients with professional, in this case legal, knowledge about possible improvements in the regulations concerned.
THE CITIZENSHIP PERSPECTIVE In the course of the 1990s, in the Netherlands and many other western countries, parts of the patients’ movement started formulating their goals in terms of full citizenship. Especially the organizations for handicapped people were forerunners in criticizing the social discrimination of patients. In 1998, people with a handicap in the Netherlands adopted the discourse of full citizenship as well (Van Houten & Bellemakers, 2002). Disabled people should be able to direct their own lives, just like ‘normal citizens’ can. However, the ways in which society is organized and its physical surroundings are designed take no account of the realities of living with a handicap. As a result, people are degraded to a second-class citizenship. This could result in marginalization and exclusion. Note that there are marked differences in the ways in which chronically ill patients and handicapped people deal with these images. For chronically ill people, the patient identity offers them benefits, while broadening this identity to citizenship could have negative effects (why help people that bother about abstract topics like citizenship?). Organizations for handicapped people, on the other hand, do not wish to be associated with illnesses. Handicapped people consider their physical, intellectual, or mental handicap to be a given fact, something that can only be changed to a limited extent. However, their environment does not assess this ‘being different’ as a neutral fact. It considers it to be a burden, a deviation from the normal, something to which society is not adapted. The handicapped people’s movements want to see this changed, otherwise handicapped people will always remain trapped in a negative, dependent identity. This negative identity limits the possibilities to direct one’s own life. Dominant images and expectations are to a large extent determined by ‘the’ medical model that dominates the policy regarding the handicapped. This model takes as a starting point that the social position and status of disabled people are the direct and unavoidable result of their physical, intellectual, or mental condition. The consequence of this medical model is
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the loss of both the possibility to direct one’s own existence, and the right to take decisions regarding one’s own body, mind and life (van Wijnen, Koster-Dreese, & Oderwald, 1996). Organizations for handicapped people primarily aim at creating conditions for social participation. This implies that they shift their attention away from care facilities and health insurers, and toward policy officials, welfare organizations, and companies that are (partly) responsible for social participation. In our research, one of the interest representatives of an organization for handicapped people described the shift in perspective as follows: ‘‘From the moment I was born, I have been caught in the cogs of health care. When you depend on care for a long time, it becomes essential to ‘dis-care’. Important to me are the preconditions to function independently. I am not talking about care, but about support that enables me to be socially active’’. The interests these organizations promote focus on the improvement of the possibilities to participate in society like a normal citizen. It is not that the handicap is the focal point – and the things people are unable to do as a result – but the lack of possibilities to participate in society, based on what people are able to do. This does not only involve physical aspects, such as access to public buildings and public transport, but also the possibilities to communicate with others (this mainly applies to the deaf and the visually impaired) and to independently acquire work and income. This shift in perspective, which has primarily taken place within organizations for handicapped people, has instigated a development toward a struggle for civil rights. Influenced by German and American handicapped people’s movements, human rights are regarded as a new framework for the handicapped people’s movement and as a means to distance oneself from the negative image people with a disability are associated with. Organizations for handicapped people stand up for full citizenship (Roebroek, 1994). Central is the pursuit of equal civil rights and full participation in society in various areas, such as employment, education, and culture. A recent amendment in Dutch legislation regarding Equal Treatment prohibits the discrimination of handicapped people in education and employment. This pursuit of equal rights and full citizenship is an attempt to create a positive identity – and not to lock people in a delimited, negative stigma of being handicapped. Citizenship means inclusiveness in two senses of the word: being part of and being enclosed. ‘‘This implies that people are part of and can contribute to the culture and structure of society. It implies being able to make meaningful contributions to the debate on prevailing standards and values, and getting the opportunity to give a personal meaning and interpretation to life.
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This is possible only if others respect people with a functional restriction and do not approach them with a negative perception’’ (FNG, 1998). This shift toward a universalistic human rights discourse has taken place in several social movements that were originally based on rather fixed and delimited identities (‘women’, ‘blacks’, ‘gays and lesbians’). The loosening of categories had a liberating effect on those who felt stigmatized (Butler, 1990; Phelan, 1989; McAdam, 1982). However, we should be attentive to the fact that the patients’ movement differs from the gay movement, the feminist movement, and the civil rights movement in several respects. Contrary to the other movements, the patients’ movement has fewer possibilities for forming a positive self-image based on its specific identity. Whereas the other movements first reclaimed their specific negative identity in a positive way (Gay Pride, Women’s World, Black Power) and then started deconstructing their identities as such, the patients’ movement jumped from the stigmatized identity of being handicapped in one big step to the category of citizen. Taking a smaller step first, i.e., transforming a discriminated identity into an identity to take pride in, is complicated for the patients’ movement. Patients will never be proud of their identity as such (at best they are proud of the way in which they have learned to cope with their handicap). They remain handicapped, limited in their possibilities by the malfunctioning of their individual body, whereas gays, blacks and women ‘only’ suffer(ed) from societal discrimination. The relative advantage of societal discrimination is that it can stop – whereas you have to live with your handicap your entire life. This difference not only explains why it is easier for gays, feminists, and blacks to be proud of their discriminated identity (exactly because it is a societal phenomenon), but why they have another position in the debate on the deconstruction of identities as well. For them, when discrimination is over, the struggle might be over. Whereas a handicapped person struggles everyday – even if social stigmatization has faded away.
HOW TO GET HIV POSITIVE PEOPLE INSURED? THE FIGHT FOR EQUAL RIGHTS BASED ON EXPERIENTIAL EXPERTISE What role does this perspective of citizenship actually play in the actions of patients’ associations? Central to the following action of a patients’ organization is the citizenship perspective: it is a struggle for equal rights by the Dutch organization for HIV positive people. The Dutch HIV Association
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(HVN – Hiv Vereniging Nederland) is a national organization of volunteers, working for HIV positive people and their loved ones. The HVN employs a professional staff. Halfway through the year 2003, the organization counted 1394 members and 141 donors. The number of volunteers fluctuates between 150 and 200 individuals. HVN’s policy is based on the knowledge and experiences of people living with HIV. It has several task groups and sections, like those for work and society, detention, prevention, care, and education. HVN’s three main tasks are education, mutual contact and support, and the representation of interests. The organization wants to offer HIV positive people a thorough representation of their interests, and also a package of services tailored to their needs and questions. The transformation of HIV from a deadly disease to a chronic disorder has generated its own demands, for more care and for specific services. The government policy of actively offering the HIV test justifies the expectation that more people will get themselves tested earlier than before, causing them to know their HIV status in an earlier stage. This means that a large segment of people with HIV will be informed about their HIV positive condition. Medical improvements and the growing attention and support for the patients’ quality of life will enable HIV infected people to actively participate in society longer than before. Because of this, a larger part of the population will be confronted with HIV positive people and with problems related to HIV. With the advent, in 1996, of an effective combination therapy for those infected with HIV, the lives of HIV positive people have changed drastically. Life expectancy has surged, while the number of people diagnosed with AIDS has fallen. Yet, this has brought no change in the problems HIV infected people still face with their insurances and mortgages. HIV positive aspiring insurants are automatically excluded from certain forms of insurance, regardless of the specifics of their HIV positive status. Where life insurance and disability insurance policies are concerned, above certain sums, the insurance companies ask aspiring clients for an HIV test, as a standard precondition for insuring them. To lower sums of money the HIV code of conduct is applied. This code rules that only a number of specific questions can be posed to the client, and that a positive answer to these questions justifies the subsequent demand of an HIV test. This means that HIV positive people can also be excluded from these insurances for lower sums. So, next to positive effects for the timely treatment of people with HIV, the government’s active testing policy has also generated negative effects where the insurability of these people is concerned. Since the first of January 2004, the HIV test has become obligatory for pregnant women.
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By estimation, this HIV screening of pregnant women will certainly prove more than 200 women to be HIV positive a year. These women will encounter problems when they try to insure themselves. Today, the question still is how the insurance companies choose to deal with the negative test results of this new target group for HIV screening. The goal of HVN’s interest representation now is to get HIV positive people insured, in order to enable them as much as possible to give purpose and direction to their own lives. This has prompted the HVN to start negotiations with, among others, insurance companies, the government, and employers. The Association of Insurance Companies has set up an AIDS Task Force. In 1999, this task group published a report: ‘AIDS/HIV and life insurance policies: the score to date’. This report provided the HVN with an opening to start negotiations. Subsequently, in February 2003 the first results appeared of research into the effect of an HIV infection on patients’ course of life, which the HVN used to further address the AIDS Task Force of the Association of Insurance Companies. Next to this, the HVN executes a lobby campaign through key figures in political parties. These actions do not show any sign of a reinforcement of the patient identity within the process of interest representation. Here, arguments based on the patient identity foremost prove to be an obstacle for the insurability of HIV infected people; it is a negative identity. In this case, the key terms to stand up for are full citizenship and equal rights. Civic identity comes to the fore where the HVN focuses on the improvement of the possibilities for HIV positive people to insure themselves like any ordinary citizen. The organization views the relevance of the patient identity, on the contrary, as contested. When presented this way, at first sight this case seems to be an example of a successful action based on the civic identity. Yet, at a closer look, it rather turns out to be an example of a good combination of both the patients’ identity and the civic identity. During this process, the HVN derives its strength from a sense of its own identity. Members appeal to their own experiential expertise: to live with a disease that has, for a long time, been life threatening, and to run the risk to be or to become uninsurable. The collective identity of this Association was strengthened by the active involvement of members throughout the entire process through meetings and workshops. As we discussed before, in the patients’ movement, the ‘proud’ perception of one’s identity is at best rather ambiguous. This shared identity, strongly based on dependency and care, is primarily experienced as a negative one. At the same time, people living with HIV, disabled people, chronically ill
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patients, and mental health clients oppose the one-sided image of illness and dependency. However, the question of how to escape this image raises an immense problem: to ask recognition for being an individual who is ‘different’ easily converges with the negative load of dependency and the pitiful state associated with the notions of patient, client, and handicapped person. Because of this, some choose the other option: not the patient identity but the civic identity is the one that should be claimed and used. These people long to go through life as ‘normal’ citizens, insofar as this is possible, and to participate in society. Their activities do not refer to their experiences and their background; handicapped people want to look forward. They strive for full participation in society like anybody else. However, while embracing the civic identity, the patients’ movement is confronted with unavoidable problems, both of a conceptual and a practical nature. In the next and last case, we will first examine these practical problems.
PRACTICAL PROBLEMS OF A NON-PATIENT IDENTITY FOR PATIENT MOBILIZATION: CIVIC COMMITMENT? This case deals with the way in which an interest group attempted to improve the public transport system for the benefit of people with a limitation in one of the Dutch provinces. In this province, there are three umbrella organizations, representing over 400 different patients’ and consumers’ groups. Complaints about issues like the waiting period for transport and the relation between the price and quality of transport were the main topics for mobilization. Volunteers of different organizations for patients, handicapped, and elderly people took part in a working group, where these complaints were collected. The objective of the working group was to improve the system’s functioning: to reduce the waiting period, to make the minibuses ride on time, to stop the drivers from smoking, to better secure the passengers in the minibuses, etc. The members of this rather heterogeneous working group were supposed to report back to their respective organizations, to enable them to directly deal with things that go wrong. This link was essential, because the official complaint system did not work properly. The intention was to negotiate on the basis of these collected complaints. However, in practice the working group members consulted with the transport company and the local authorities for years, at the same time gradually losing contact with their support groups.
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The relations with the respective groups supporting the patients’ organizations deteriorated for a number of reasons. In the first place, there was the elitist character of the volunteers who were able to participate in complex negotiations. A working group volunteer told us: ‘‘This work requires different kinds of expertise: hands-on expertise, knowledge about the content of the issues at stake, and the ability to think politically and strategically. Those who can meet these requirements are selected for the working groups, and do all the work. This selection is necessary, or else our people would be floored during the negotiations with the transport company and the politicians. Yet, this also creates distance with the rank and file members of the patients’ organizations.’’ Secondly, the focus of the negotiations on the civic identity generated a mobilization problem. The rank and file members no longer recognized the representation of their specific, ‘embodied’ interests among the general interests represented by the working group members during the negotiations. This was done under the abstract, ‘disembodied’ denominator of equal rights and full citizenship: everybody should have equal access to travel facilities. The rank and file may have agreed with the latter goal, but to achieve equality, they would stress their differences, and their physical limitations. Since interest representation was not backed by grass-root mobilization, the overall effects of the negotiations were poor. Adaptations were realized on minor points like, for instance, the regulation that people must be secured during transport. But, according to a working group member, even this regulation was subsequently not observed in practice. According to his view, improvements were not attained: ‘‘We fought a losing battle to get improvements on the really tricky matters, such as minibuses arriving late or never at all’’. In this battle, civic identity played a preponderant role. The umbrella organizations defined the core topics in terms of general policies of inclusiveness. That is, products for which everyone has a permanent need and to which everyone has a permanent right, such as mobility, must be offered in such a way that everybody should be able to use them without taking special measures. In this example, patients and elderly people wished to be treated ‘like everyone else’, and would not use their special position in the issue of mobility. In actual practice, however, this approach eventually leads to the marginalization of this group. By speaking the language of civic identity, the specific needs and interests of handicapped and elderly people fail to come to the surface. They become invisible, and, as a result, the different groups will not be addressed on the basis of their specific needs and interests. The mobilization is aimed at an integral policy and ‘integral citizenship’, whereas
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the objective is improving the collective transport system for specific groups, like for instance handicapped people and older people. This general formulation of the interest concerned obscures the actual specific interests of the target group. In this case, it not only proved to be difficult to reach the goals the organizations had set, but also to mobilize the groups touched by the issue under a common denominator as general as ‘‘better transport for all’’.
CONCEPTUAL PROBLEMS: BODILESS CITIZENS, BEING NO-BODY As the last case study shows, one of the problems raised by embracing citizenship as the key notion of the movement is that the meaning of the term ‘citizen’ is opposed to the term ‘body’. In reflecting on and using the term citizenship, little attention is paid to the body and the material world in which the body operates. In this representation, the body is often regarded as something negative. Mol (2006) shows, for example, how Christianity employs the opposition ‘body is low and spirit is elevated’. The body is the seat of passions, which seduces to sinful behavior. The spirit is elevated, provided one is able to tame the body by means of self-control. Only then does a person deserve to be a citizen. In this light, Mol pleads for a strategy of patient emancipation that rehabilitates the body. She doubts whether the term citizenship can be helpful here. Is it possible to be both patient and citizen, if a citizen has no body and cannot be conceived as a patient because of this? The question that arises is how the patient identity, the basis of the movement, relates to civic identity, the identity advocated by a part of the movement. Oudenampsen and Nieborg (2002), recognizing this problem, distinguish three dimensions of citizenship in which corporeality must be incorporated. The first dimension relates to citizenship as a formal status: the system of formal rights and obligations that are part of being a member of a political society. This formal status should ‘allow’ for the body and, in a broader sense, the material world in which it operates. This implies that material resources should be available for everyone in more or less equal amounts, to enable people to carry out their obligations and execute their rights. The second dimension concerns citizenship as a ‘democratic practice’, sometimes designated as ‘active citizenship’. This not only refers to the participation in (party) political life, but also to directing your own life in various other areas (such as employment, care, housing arrangements, or
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education). This interpretation of citizenship demands various competencies. Note that the term competence not only relates to social, but also to physical skills and related possibilities, such as the physical accessibility of areas (relevant for handicapped people) and the material accessibility of texts (relevant for people who are deaf or blind). A third dimension relates to ‘citizenship as identity’. This refers to feelings of involvement and solidarity that encourage active citizenship, but also to feelings of belonging and being enclosed. To incorporate the body and the material environment, this dimension requires a continuous discussion regarding the treatment of and the attitude toward a ‘different corporeality’ in the conception of citizenship. Will this solve the fundamental conceptual problem that the movement takes civic identity as a universal identity to compensate for the limited and limiting patient identity, even when the common meaning of civic identity implies ‘a citizen without a body and taken out of the material context’? The least we may conclude is that for civic identity to be an appealing alternative for members of the patients’ movement, a conceptual struggle needs to be started to advocate a view on citizenship that includes corporeality, offering room for patients’ identities and bodies.
CONCLUSION This article demonstrates that identity questions related to ‘being ill’ or ‘needing support’ are experienced in different ways by the various parts of the patients’ movement. For chronically ill people, the body is central to their perception of identity: the essence is the recognition of the illness and the consequences it has for their personal lives. This identity is the basis for a strategic approach, primarily in the area of health care. The key issue is the improvement of the quality of health care. For handicapped people, the patient identity is mainly an obstacle. It is a negative identity, bound to physical, intellectual, or mental deficiencies. It diverts attention from the already limited possibilities handicapped people have to participate in society. Whereas organizations for the chronically ill tend to seek discussion with the ‘medical bastion’ on issues such as the quality of care, organizations for handicapped people turn away from the medical model, which has equipped them with this negative identity. The latter organizations fight for full citizenship and equal rights in areas such as politics, education and employment, in an attempt to take up a positive identity as citizens (civic identity).
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Our research has shown that this new form of post-identity politics (Seidman, 2002) causes problems, both in a practical and a conceptual sense. Too broad a definition in terms of citizenship may decrease the potential for identification by directly involved patients. Only if the specific interests of patients are explicitly taken into account in the civic identity – by particularizing the universal – this problem might be overcome. In this process of particularization, the patient should be recognizable as a citizen having a body with limitations. However, this is not self-evident at all, since the concept of ‘the citizen’ has developed in opposition to ‘the body’, in both the theory and the actual practice of citizenship. Only if citizenship incorporates the ‘corporeal’ and ‘material’, can there be an inclusive notion that appeals to people who organize themselves on the basis of a bodily identity. Last but not least, at first sight, handicapped people who manifest themselves as citizens seem to evoke sympathy, because they take on an identity that applies to everyone. Paradoxically, by universalizing their discourse, the opposite may occur in practice. The movement runs the risk of the mainstream identifying less with handicapped people, since the patients’ identity is no longer recognizable. This is quite a risk for a movement which depends on broad sympathy and, in contrast with a movement such as the gay movement (Duyvendak, 2001), is potentially able to receive the majority’s empathy (since everybody can become handicapped). This potential for general identification could strengthen the position of the movement – but general identification will probably only develop as long as the movement shows its peculiarities.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS We benefited greatly from comments by participants attending the 2005 conference on patients’ movements at the Amsterdam School for Social Science Research and by the anonymous reviewers of RSMCC. We like to express our gratitude to Marie¨tte van Staveren and Fleur Sleegers for their support by finalizing this article. All correspondence can be sent to Jan Willem Duyvendak at
[email protected] REFERENCES Adam, B., Duyvendak, J. W., & Krouwel, A. (Eds) (1999). The global emergence of gay and lesbian politics. National imprints of a worldwide movement. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press.
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Baart, I. (2002). Ziekte en zingeving. Unpublished doctoral thesis. Utrecht, The Netherlands: University for Humanistics. Brown, P., & Zavestoski, S. (2004). Social movements in health: An introduction. Sociology of Health and Illness, 26(6), 679–694. Brown, P., Zavestoski, S., McCormick, S., Mayer, B., Morello-Frosch, R., & Altman, R. G. (2004). Embodied health movements: New approaches to social movements in health. Sociology of Health and Illness, 26(1), 50–80. Butler, J. (1990). Gender trouble. Feminism and the subversion of identity. New York: Routledge. Cohen, J. (1985). Strategy or identity: New theoretical paradigms and contemporary social movements. Social Research, 52, 663–716. Cohen, J., & Arato, A. (1992). Civil society and political theory. Cambridge, England: MIT Press. Duyvendak, J. W. (1995a). The power of politics, new social movements in an old polity. France 1965–1989. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Duyvendak, J. W. (1995b). Gay subcultures between movement and market. In: H. Kriesi, et al. (Eds), New social movements in Western Europe (pp. 165–180). Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota press. Duyvendak, J. W. (1996). The depoliticization of the Dutch gay identity, or why Dutch gays aren’t queer. In: S. Seidman (Ed.), Queer theory/sociology (pp. 421–438). Cambridge, England: Blackwell Publishers. Duyvendak, J. W. (2001). Identity politics in France and the Netherlands: The case of gay and lesbian liberation. In: M. Blasius (Ed.), Sexual identities, queer politics (pp. 56–72). Princeton: Princeton University Press. Duyvendak, J. W., & Koopmans, R., et al. (Eds) (1992). Tussen verbeelding en macht. 25 jaar nieuwe sociale bewegingen in Nederland. Amsterdam, The Netherlands: SUA. Epstein, S. (1987). Gay politics, ethnic identity. The limits of social constructionism. Socialist Review, 93/94, 9–54. FNG (Federatie Nederlandse Gehandicaptenraad). (1998). Volwaardig burgerschap, een haalbaar ideaal. Meerjaren Strategisch beleidsplan 1999–2004. Utrecht, The Netherlands: FNG. Fraser, N. (1996). Social justice in the age of identity politics: Redistribution, recognition and participation. The Tanner Lectures on Human Values, April 30–May 2 Stanford, CA. Friedman, D., & McAdam, D. (1992). Collective identity and activism. In: A. Morris & C. McClurg Mueller (Eds), Frontiers in social movement theory (pp. 156–173). New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Gamson, J. (1995). Must identity movements self-destruct? A queer dilemma. Social Problems, 42(3), 390–407. Gutmann, A. (2003). Identity in democracy. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Houten, D. V., & Bellemakers, C. (2002). Equal citizenship for all. Disability policies in the Netherlands: Empowerment of marginals. Disability & Society, 17(2), 171–185. McAdam, D. (1982). Political process and the development of black insurgency, 1930–1970. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Melucci, A. (1989). Nomads of the present. Social movements and individual needs in contemporary society. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press. Mol, A. (2006). De logica van het zorgen. Actieve patie¨nten en de grenzen van het kiezen. Amsterdam, The Netherlands: Van Gennep. Nederland, T., Duyvendak, J. W., & Brugman, M. (2003). Belangenbehartiging door de patie¨nten- en clie¨ntenbeweging. De theorie. Utrecht, The Netherlands: Verwey-Jonker Instituut.
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Nederland, T., & Duyvendak, J. W. (2004). De kunst van effectieve belangenbehartiging door de patie¨nten- en clie¨ntenbeweging. De praktijk. Utrecht, The Netherlands: Verwey-Jonker Instituut. Oudenampsen, D., & Steketee, M. (2000). De patie¨ntenbeweging: van afhankelijkheid naar eigen regie. In: Th. Sunier, et al. (Eds), Emancipatie en subcultuur. Sociale bewegingen in Belgie¨ en Nederland (pp. 74–97). Amsterdam, The Netherlands: IPP. Oudenampsen, D., & Nieborg, S. (2002). Burgerschap en sociale competenties op het terrein van zorg en welzijn. Sociaal debat, 6, 37–54. Outshoorn, J. (2000). De vrouwenbeweging. In: Th. Sunier, et al. (Eds), Emancipatie en Subcultuur. Sociale Bewegingen in Belgie¨ en Nederland (pp. 30–49). Amsterdam, The Netherlands: Instituut voor Publiek en Politiek. Phelan, S. (1989). Identity politics. Lesbian feminism and the limits of community. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press. Roebroek, J., et al. (1994). Keuzevrijheid en eigen verantwoordelijkheid voor mensen met een verstandelijke handicap. Utrecht, The Netherlands: Federatie van Ouderverenigingen. Seidman, S. (1993). Identity politics in a ‘postmodern’ gay culture. Some historical and conceptual notes. In: M. Warner (Ed.), Fear of a queer planet: Queer politics and social theory (pp. 105–142). Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Seidman, S. (1994). Symposium: Queer theory/sociology; a dialogue. Sociological Theory, 12, 166–177. Seidman, S. (2002). Beyond the closet. The transformation of gay and lesbian life. New York: Routledge. Straten, G. F. M., Janssens, A. C., & Friele, R. D. (1997). Brancherapport Patie¨nten/ consumenten. Utrecht, The Netherlands: NIVEL. Sunier, T., Duyvendak, J. W., Saharso, S., & Steijlen, F. (Eds) (2000). Emancipatie en subcultuur, sociale bewegingen in Belgie¨ en Nederland. Amsterdam, The Netherlands: Instituut voor Publiek en Politiek. Taylor, V. (1999). Gender and social movements. Gender processes in women’s self-help movements. Gender & Society, 13(1), 8–33. Taylor, V., & Whittier, N. (1992). Collective identity in social movement communities. In: A. A. Morris & C. McClurg Mueller (Eds), Frontiers in social movement theory (pp. 104–129). New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. van Wijnen, A., Koster-Dreese, Y., & Oderwald, A. (Eds) (1996). Trots en treurnis. Gehandicapt in Nederland. Amsterdam, The Netherlands: Babylon–De Geus/Gehandicaptenraad. Warner, M. (Ed.) (1993). Fear of a queer planet: Queer politics and social theory. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press.
PATHS TO PARTICIPATION: A PROFILE OF THE CIVIL RIGHTS-ERA KU KLUX KLAN David Cunningham ABSTRACT While the activities of the Ku Klux Klan are central to accounts of the Civil Rights Movement, and, by extension, closely tied to the development of social movement theory since the 1960’s, no previous study has been able to construct an unbiased profile of Klan membership. This paper draws on a set of 94 FBI interviews with Alabama Klansmen in 1963 and 1964 to compile a representative sample of local Klan membership and evaluate the determinants of individual participation. Using this sample, I examine the extent to which Klan adherents differed from the surrounding population, as well as the structure of bias in previous attempts to profile Klan membership. I conclude by highlighting the importance of social networks in linking individuals to reactive social movement organizations, which adds an important relational dimension to existing research focused on grievances produced by macro-level processes.
Social scientists’ analyses of rich empirical material on the American Civil Rights Movement have yielded many of the theoretical advances in the social movements literature over the past four decades. Given the field’s attention to the interactive nature of contention – encompassing challengers, Research in Social Movements, Conflicts and Change, Volume 27, 283–308 Copyright r 2007 by Elsevier Ltd. All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0163-786X/doi:10.1016/S0163-786X(06)27010-1
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reactionaries, and authorities – it remains surprising that we know relatively little about the role played by the Ku Klux Klan (KKK) in the broader Civil Rights struggle. Indeed, Klan members – virulent defenders of the segregationist status quo, perpetrators of much of the violence against Civil Rights workers and black citizens that shaped both the dynamics of the movement and the response of authorities in Washington, DC, and the most enduring symbol of racial intolerance and hatred from that period – are perhaps the least understood key players of the Movement. To a significant degree, limitations in our access to Klan-related data have contributed to this relative silence. One problem has been the fact that, as a ‘‘secret fraternal organization,’’ Klan membership lists or internal organizational documents have never been publicly available, and researchers have not successfully gained insight into Klan members’ motivations or day-to-day activities through interviews.1 Such barriers have perhaps contributed to a tendency to avoid applying general insights on recruitment and participation that have otherwise gained wide influence in studies of social movements. Early studies of the Civil Rights-era Klan were rooted in strain theories that viewed contentious political action as the outcome of grievances produced by instabilities in status positions. Vander Zanden (1960, 1965), for instance, explained the upsurge in Klan activity in the late 1950s and early 1960s by pointing to macro-level structural shifts, with Klan membership the product of ambiguous or unstable class positions that in turn generated racist action. Over the past 30 years, strain theories have been supplanted by more instrumental accounts centered on political opportunities for collective action and the ability of social movement organizations to mobilize resources (see Jenkins, 1983; McAdam, McCarthy, & Zald, 1996; Morris, 1981). Influential studies in the resource mobilization and political process tradition have variously focused on how mobilizing structures, framing processes, and repertoires of contention mediate macro-level environments and contentious action. In response to the question of who participates in social movement activity, such models recognize that grievances do not translate into protest in a vacuum; aggrieved actors are much more likely to participate in movement activity if they are integrated into social worlds that support and facilitate such action in various ways (Diani & McAdam, 2003; Dixon & Roscigno, 2003; Klandermans & Oegema, 1987; McAdam & Paulsen, 1993; Snow, Zurcher, & Ekland-Olson, 1980). However, such relational dynamics are often overlooked in studies of reactive movements like the KKK – i.e. those which respond to threats to their existing social status rather than actively work toward changing the
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status quo (see Tilly, 1978; Van Dyke & Soule, 2002). While the question of who participates in such movements remains central, the answer frequently is rooted in threat- or competition-based theory, which views reactive insurgent action as a product of grievances generated by perceived threats to existing status relations or competition over scarce resources. These grievances are instrumental expressions, often captured by macro- or mesolevel proxies of threat. In a racialized context such as the Civil Rights-era South, threat is captured most commonly by demographic measures; the percentage of non-white residents in a particular spatial unit, for example, provides an estimate of the level of threat faced by whites (Fossett & Kiecolt, 1989; Quillian, 1995, 1996; Tolnay, Beck, & Massey, 1989). Other studies have conceptualized these threats multi-dimensionally, accounting for economic and political dynamics as well (Beck, 2000; McVeigh, 1999; Olzak, 1992; Van Dyke & Soule, 2002), though the underlying competitionbased logic remains the same. While grievances stemming from competition or threat dynamics are typically viewed as collective expressions that, implicitly at least, draw upon social ties as mobilizing resources, empirical studies have largely avoided direct conceptualization of the role played by these ties. This paper examines the processes through which adherents link to organizations like the Klan, and focuses on two distinct issues. The first is straightforward: who participated in the Civil Rights-era Klan? While even the most detailed response to this question yields only descriptive insight into the movement, the answer provides an important foundation for properly dealing with a range of analytic puzzles tied to the ways in which broad environments constitute contexts for individual action. The second goal is to extend this demographic portrait to examine how Klan recruitment and participation were influenced by existing social links across persons and groups. A long line of studies of non-reactive movement participants have demonstrated that embeddedness within particular social networks can facilitate recruitment to social movement organizations (Kitts, 2000; McAdam, 1986; McAdam & Paulsen, 1993; Passy, 2003). Klandermans and Oegema (1987) and Goodwin (1997) have alternately recognized that social ties can serve as potential barriers to participation, as the time and energy associated with affective or otherwise competing ties create crosspressures that constrain the actions of many movement sympathizers. The Klan provides a clear case for assessing how such connections operate in the presence of threats to status quo power relations. More powerful evidence for the importance of networks comes from Blee’s (2002) study of women in contemporary racist groups, which finds
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that notions of threat or competition fail to satisfyingly explain how or why members come to participate in such organizations. Instead, Blee views social ties as the primary motor driving white supremacist movements, embedding activists in heterodox worlds and contributing to the formation of racist collective identities clearly bounded from ties to the mainstream. While this model compellingly explains participation in today’s marginalized hate groups, the Klan’s militant defense of segregation had considerable appeal in 1960s Alabama, and its organization consequently lacked this insular character. Given the broad threat to status quo power relations characterizing this context, I view Klan participation as a product of the interaction of structurally induced grievances and network processes, with structural factors contributing to the emergence of perceived competition over scarce resources or status positions and social ties channeling aggrieved individuals into organized resistance. But following Blee (2002) as well as Gould (2003), the analysis here moves beyond identifying the presence or absence of preexisting ties across members to assess the varied ways in which specific types of ties both facilitate and constrain participation in groups like the KKK. The sections that follow make use of a representative sample of Klan members active in north-central Alabama in 1963 to construct a profile of Civil Rights-era Klansmen. I first compare this profile to the general population in that area of Alabama to examine the extent to which Klan members differed from the overall pool of potentially mobilizable individuals. I also compare this representative sample to two widely cited accounts of Klan membership: (1) historian Kenneth T. Jacksons (1967) membership lists from two 1920s-era Klan groups in Tennessee and Illinois and (2) the nonrandom samples compiled by Vander Zanden and Kallal, which look at Klan members across the South during the early 1960s. I conclude by exploring how this representative sample more generally aids our understanding of the processes that facilitated and constrained participation in the Klan during the Civil Rights era.
THE KU KLUX KLAN IN AMERICA The revival of the KKK after the 1954 Brown Supreme Court decision is generally referred to as the third wave of the Klan movement. The KKK had first emerged in 1866 in Pulaski, Tennessee. Initially viewed as a social fraternity, robed Klan members soon spread across the South battling Reconstruction policies. These first-wave Klan adherents embraced vigilante-type
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behavior, often violently preventing black social and economic advances, as well as battling Republican party officials. The movement never grew beyond the South to achieve regional or national-level coordination, but it did manage to mobilize a broad range of rural whites, thriving in areas with strong black or Republican constituencies (Trelease, 1971). Federal legal action, along with the deployment of Republican-led state militia forces in some states, led to the downfall of the first generation Klan, which had almost completely disappeared by 1872. The Klan lay dormant for almost 40 years until, spurred in part by the release of D.W. Griffith’s 1915 film Birth of a Nation (which viewed Klansmen as heroic defenders of the Southern way of life and protectors of white womanhood), a second generation of the KKK members began organizing anew. By the mid-1920s, this ‘‘new’’ Klan boasted several million members, with strongholds in various states and regions, including Indiana, Oklahoma, and the Southwest. Unlike the first wave, the movement gained considerable popularity in urban areas, and its targets broadened to include immigrants, Communists, Jews, and Catholics (Jackson, 1967; Lay, 1992). Symbolic shows of strength increased as well; sheets and hoods were a carryover from Reconstruction days, but were supplemented with large parades, more intricate regalia, and burning crosses. Considerable violence was again attributed to elements associated with the Klan, though the group’s appeal among both blue and white collar workers also allowed it to wield significant political influence at local, state, and even national levels. The centralized coordination that made such larger-scale political inroads possible, however, also contributed to the organization’s spectacular decline, as conflicts over financial excesses caused membership to drop dramatically by the late 1920s (Chalmers, 1981; McVeigh, 1999). By 1944, the Klan again had effectively disbanded. Several self-proclaimed Klan organizations reemerged shortly thereafter, though none were able to build a significant following. The advancing Civil Rights Movement, however, provided the impetus for a new wave of Klan activity in the early 1960s. The Tuscaloosa, Alabama-based United Klans of America (UKA), led by former tire salesman Robert Shelton, became the largest and most influential umbrella organization for the third-wave Klan. At its peak, the UKA boasted several hundred chapters (‘klaverns’) and nearly 20,000 dues-paying members throughout the South, as well as a small number of supporters in the Midwest and Mid-Atlantic states. Shelton and his followers were mainly concerned about preserving the segregationist status quo, though they also targeted Communists and Jews as ‘‘un-American’’ elements. Perhaps ironically, the House Un-American Activities Committee tagged the UKA with the same charge in 1966, holding extended hearings in
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which close to 200 Klan adherents testified. These hearings provided the most extensive public look into what had been a mostly secretive organization (while the UKA regularly hosted public rallies featuring robed Klansmen, their meetings and other activities were kept from the public), and provided a basis for understanding the types of individuals who were attracted to Klan ideology and activities. Evidence from these hearings, as well as from various other Klan leaders and supporters featured in the local and national news media, have become the primary basis for our current understanding of the breadth of Civil Rights-era Klan membership. The extent to which these visible adherents were representative of the overall membership has long remained uncertain, however. Unbiased data from the 1920s Klan – including a set of complete local membership lists compiled by Jackson (1967) – is more readily available, though differences in the mobilization context across Klan waves have led to a broad sense that little continuity exists across generations of the KKK. While it is widely held that members of the Civil Rights-era Klan were considerably more homogeneous than second-wave adherents, to this point we have no basis for: comparing the degree of similarity across waves in more detail; evaluating the extent to which local third-wave Klan memberships mirrored the population from which they drew support; systematically examining the accuracy of previous attempts to generalize from nonrandom samples of UKA members.
THE DATA Despite the absence of clear data on the composition of the Civil Rights-era Klan, a fairly consistent portrait of the group’s members has emerged. Both Vander Zanden (1960) and Edward Kallal (1989) found that they tended to be men2 from the ‘‘lower and lower-middle classes,’’ typically engaged in either skilled trade or semi-skilled or unskilled manufacturing work. A lesser percentage owned small businesses or occupied what Vander Zanden referred to as ‘‘marginal white collar positions’’ (i.e. store clerks, servicestation attendants, police officers). While Klan leaders have historically gone to great lengths to stress the presence of white-collar professionals – especially doctors and lawyers – within their ranks, most accounts view such individuals as only a negligible part of the overall membership (Chalmers, 1981; McWhorter, 2001; Vander Zanden, 1960, 1965). News stories and
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evidence from Congressional hearings (i.e. U.S. House of Representatives, Committee on Un-American Activities, 1967) generally reaffirmed this occupational picture. These sources have also repeatedly emphasized the fragility of the Klan’s base, explained by corrupt, exploitative leadership and the ephemeral commitment of an irresponsible, largely apolitical following. The accuracy of such portraits is still an open question, however, as no one to date has been able to compile a representative sample of the overall membership. The fact that almost all accounts make heavy use of Klan members who appear either in media accounts or formal hearings almost certainly biases these samples toward more central, active, and likely militant members. Such biases hinder explicit studies of Klan membership (i.e. Kallal, 1989; Vander Zanden, 1960, 1965), as well as numerous historical accounts of the Klan generally. For the latter, discussions of Klan membership draw upon either the findings from such nonrandom 1960s-era samples or more systematic accounts from Klan activity in the 1920s, for which a limited number of more detailed membership lists have found their way into the hands of historians (Horowitz, 1999; Jackson, 1967; MacLean, 1995). Information compiled through FBI interviews of north-central Alabama Klan members in 1963 and 1964 provides a unique opportunity to construct a representative sample of Civil Rights-era Klan adherents. These interviews were carried out as part of two bomb investigations. The first stemmed from the dynamiting of the Gaston Motel in downtown Birmingham, where various members of a Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC) delegation (including Martin Luther King, Jr.) were staying on the night of May 11, 1963. There had been a large Klan rally in nearby Bessemer that night, and just after midnight, dynamite exploded along the west wall of the motel. Miraculously, no one had been killed, though the bombing led to widespread media attention (McWhorter, 2001, p. 429). The second investigation resulted from one of the watershed events of the Civil Rights Movement: the bombing of the Sixteenth Street Church in Birmingham. On the morning of September 15, 1963, dynamite was detonated at the church, and four young girls were killed in the blast. Given the long history of Klan-related bombings in Birmingham – they occurred frequently enough for the city to have earned the nickname ‘‘Bombingham’’ – the FBI immediately suspected several central members of the local Eastview klavern. There has been much speculation about the FBI’s ambiguous role in solving Civil Rights-related cases in the South, as well as Director J. Edgar Hoover’s reluctance to investigate incidents involving Klan-related violence (see Cunningham, 2004; Garrow, 1981; McWhorter, 2001; O’Reilly, 1991).
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Despite this ambivalence on the part of the Bureau, it is important to emphasize that the FBI ultimately devoted significant resources to neutralize the KKK and related groups. Responding to significant pressure generated by the national headlines garnered by the senseless killings in Birmingham, Hoover reluctantly authorized an aggressive investigation into the church bombing, along with the earlier incident at the Gaston Motel. Over the next several years, Bureau agents interviewed and reinterviewed close to 100 Klan adherents.3 The following year, the Klan-orchestrated murders of three Civil Rights workers in Neshoba County, Mississippi, led the FBI to establish a massive counterintelligence program, or COINTELPRO, against 19 ‘‘white hate groups.’’ Between 1964 and 1971, Bureau agents initiated nearly 500 actions designed to ‘‘expose, disrupt, misdirect, discredit, or otherwise neutralize the activities’’ of Klan targets (Cunningham, 2004). This program operated alongside existing COINTELPRO operations against the Communist Party-USA and the Socialist Workers Party, with additional programs against ‘‘Black Nationalist/Hate Groups’’ and the New Left added after 1967. Further, the Bureau’s efforts against the Klan were unusually successful. Despite Hoover’s lack of enthusiasm for tackling the Klan and other white hate groups, this particular COINTELPRO resulted in perhaps the FBI’s greatest success of the era. Agents were effectively able to exploit their overlap with Klan adherents’ broad worldview, characterized by a deep-seated sense of patriotism and anti-communism. As a result, the FBI was able to develop several hundred informants, as well as carry out a large number of successful disruptive actions against various Klan units. Similar effectiveness was lacking in other COINTELPROs against New Left and Black Power groups, largely due to the fact that agents failed to grasp the motivations and culture characterizing activists in those worlds (Cunningham, 2004). This ideological and organizational overlap with the Klan meant that the FBI had access to information about Klan units and members, as well as the means to gather and interpret data from interview subjects that was not marred by the inaccuracies that characterized their examinations of many other groups. The breadth and depth of the Bureau’s efforts is reflected in the House Un-American Activities Committee’s extensive hearings on the KKK in 1965 and 1966 (U.S. House of Representatives, Committee on Un-American Activities, 1967). The committee’s case relied heavily on information from the FBI’s files, and several leading Klan organizers have since confirmed the validity of the Bureau’s knowledge of units and members.4 In Alabama, agents in the local FBI field office were certainly privy to who exactly was tied to the secretive UKA, as they had employed numerous
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informants as infiltrators in Eastview and other Birmingham-area klaverns (Cunningham, 2004; McWhorter, 2001). The interesting thing about these particular investigations was their thoroughness and scope; in an attempt to gain as much information as possible, Bureau agents sought interviews with everyone they identified as connected to the Klan. The ability to rely on agent interviews rather than intelligence data (second-hand accounts from informants, etc.) avoided many of the inaccuracies that inevitably entered into FBI reports on groups for which they lacked such extensive access (Donner, 1980). Importantly, the interviews included central leaders and members of local klaverns as well as more peripheral members and even those who only sporadically attended meetings and rallies. As such, they avoided the common bias toward viewing membership as limited to those who were the most visible, stable, and active adherents of particular klaverns. The interview reports themselves contain two types of information. First, FBI agents were primarily interested in each member’s activities on the nights of the bombings. The specific alibis provided by each Klansman were frequently unverifiable and obviously subject to the self-interested untruths of those involved in the incidents, and as such do not constitute reliable data. Fortunately, this information is not directly tied to the concerns of this paper. Second, the reports contained detailed background information about each subject. These background reports were gleaned from observations by the interviewing agents (mostly related to race, sex, age, height, and weight), accounts provided by the interviewees themselves, and data gathered from earlier informant and agent records. Thus, while particular Klansmen may have been vague or hostile about providing information during the interviews themselves, data about their occupational histories, marital statuses, family and friendship associations, and levels of involvement in Klan activities could be cross-checked with detailed past records. At times, agents noted that particular pieces of information were inconsistent with their knowledge of suspects, and noted any necessary ‘‘corrections.’’ This data, therefore, moves beyond a mere transcript of the self-interested accounts provided by each suspect during the course of the interview itself, and thus constitutes a reliable resume for each interviewee. A total of 94 of these interview reports are included within the Birmingham Public Library’s Police Surveillance File (1947–1980).5 This unique sample includes a broad range of adherents, consistent with accounts emphasizing the Klan’s highly layered membership structure (Chalmers, 1981; Huie, 2000 [1964]; McWhorter, 2001). While the hierarchical nature of each klavern was represented by a dizzying array of formal offices (Exalted Cyclops, Grand Kludd, Grand Titan, Kligrapp, etc.), these
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officers and their committed followers also benefited from a less stable collection of more peripheral players: those who attended meetings only sporadically, as well as the considerable number who provided various types of ‘‘support’’ to the Klan at public events and with more covert activities. As existing examinations of Civil Rights-era Klan participants draw upon those members visible in the media and in Congressional hearings, the breadth of the membership has been systematically underrepresented. The FBI’s interviews, however, do include anyone whose associations with a local klavern may have made them privy to information about particular bombing activities. Thus, of the 94 Klansmen included in our sample here, slightly less than half (45/94) would be considered central members (i.e. those who regularly attended meetings and also participated in outside Klan-related activities). Twenty-one others paid membership dues but rarely attended meetings, one had never attended a meeting since paying his membership fee at a local rally, and nine had previously been sporadic members before quitting the Klan entirely over the past year. The final 18 interviewees were not formal dues-paying members, but considered themselves ‘‘associates’’ of the Klan, assisting them with various tasks or providing needed resources. These categories were salient from both the perspective of the FBI agents undertaking these investigations (hence their efforts to track down and interview this broad range of adherents) and the members/associates themselves, who described their own roles in these varied ways.
A PROFILE OF THE MEMBERSHIP In this section, I describe the makeup of the Civil Rights-era Klan in central Alabama. To understand the range of the Klan’s appeal, I compare this profile to the overall local white male population.6 Next, I consider the question of generational continuity across Klan waves by comparing this portrait to a locally representative sample of second-wave Klansmen from Knox County, Tennessee, and Winchester, Illinois. Finally, I compare my findings here to two unrepresentative but widely influential studies of Klan membership, and examine the extent and structure of sample bias in these previous accounts. The Klan as a Segment of the North-Central Alabama Population Most theories of Klan adherence focus on white males’ class standing, consistent with a theoretical emphasis on grievances emerging in reaction either
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to status-based insecurities (Vander Zanden, 1960, 1965) or to perceived competition with non-white workers (Beck, 2000; Van Dyke & Soule, 2002). Previous studies portraying Klan members as being disproportionately drawn from blue collar and marginal white-collar industries have been used to support both of these theories. Here, I deal with the occupational standing of Klan members, but also provide a more complete portrait of the membership. The Klan members examined here all resided in Jefferson and Tuscaloosa Counties, were uniformly male (with no ‘‘Ladies’ Auxiliary’’ groups [see endnote 2] active in these areas) and, on average, significantly older (mean age was 38.5, compared to 29.8 in the population generally; po0.001), less educated (median years of schooling was nine, versus 10.1 for the population generally; po0.001),7 and slightly more likely to have been born in Alabama (87.9% were Alabama natives, versus 83.4% of county residents generally) than the overall population. The educational difference was especially striking, as only one Klansman in the sample actually graduated from high school (two others completed an equivalency degree while in the military), while, in contrast, 36.4% of Jefferson and Tuscaloosa County residents had completed high school, with over 40% of those going on to complete at least one year of higher education. The vast majority of Klan members (90.2%) were married at the time of their interview; only one was separated from his wife, and 6.6% had been divorced at least once previously. Most (92.1%) married Klansmen had children; the mean number of children was 2.4, with no family having more than five. At the time of the Birmingham church bombing, interview subjects had been affiliated with the Klan for an average of five years, though this value is considerably skewed by the fact that two individuals had joined during the 1930’s. The median length of membership was three years, with 13.5% of the sample joining the Klan after the start of 1963.8 Over four-fifths (81/94) of the Klan members interviewed reported their current occupations and places of employment. While it is reasonable to assume that those who refused to discuss these matters were more likely to be unemployed, all but three of those who did report their work status were actively employed at the time of their interview. Using the categorization scheme from the 1960 U.S. Census (U.S. Bureau of the Census, 1963), Table 1 reports the distribution of occupations held by members of the Klan, as well as the occupational makeup of the overall Jefferson and Tuscaloosa County white male workforce. Nearly half of Klansmen were employed as some type of ‘‘operator’’ (i.e. machinist, sheet-metal worker, heavy equipment operator, and – most frequently – truck driver), making them almost
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Table 1.
Occupational Distribution of White Men in Labor Force. Klan Sample (%)
Professional and technical workers Farmers and farm managers Managers and proprietors (non-farm) Clerical workers Sales workers Craft workers Operators Private household workers Service workers (not in private homes) Farm laborers Laborers (non-farm) Occupation not reported Total
2.6 0 12.8 1.3 14.1 16.7 44.9 0 5.1 0 2.6
(2)**** (0) (10) (1)**** (11) (13)* (35)**** (0) (4) (0) (2) – 100 (78)
Overall Population (%) 11.4 0.9 13.9 8.3 10.4 24.8 19.7 0.03 3.8 0.4 3.4 3.0 100
(13,972) (1,090) (17,158) (10,203) (12,793) (30,528) (24,220) (34) (4,734) (506) (4,220) (3,644) (123,102)
Note: Number of cases in parentheses; asterisks represent significance of differences between Klansmen and overall local population (*po0.1, **po0.05, ***po0.01, ****po0.001).
twice as likely as other male workers in this area to be located in such occupations (po0.001). Conversely, Klan members were systematically underrepresented in white-collar occupations – professional, technical, and clerical workers (all po0.001). Klansmen’s relative lack of participation in the professional workforce is consistent with the account provided by Vander Zanden (1960), though we also see that members’ likelihood of managing or owning business establishments did not significantly differ from the overall local white population. Most generally, despite the systematic differences within particular categories, a paired-sample t-test shows no significant overall difference between Klansmen and locals in their distribution across occupational categories. Table 2 repeats the above exercise, focusing on workers’ industry groupings rather than their occupational categories (the categorization scheme is again drawn from U.S. Bureau of the Census, 1963). We see that Klan members weren’t consolidated into any particular category, but were systematically overrepresented within the ‘‘transportation and public utility’’ (mostly due to the disproportionate number of truck drivers in the sample), and ‘‘business and repair’’ (plumbers, mechanics, electricians, and general maintenance workers) groupings. Klan adherents were also well-represented in the manufacturing sector, though not above what we would expect given the overall makeup of Jefferson and Tuscaloosa Counties. The absence of agriculture and mining workers matched the few overall opportunities for
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Industry Distribution of White Men in Labor Force. Klan Sample (%)
Overall Local Population (%)
Agriculture Mining Construction Manufacturing (durable goods) Manufacturing (non-durable goods) Transportation and public utilities Trade (wholesale and retail) Finance, insurance, and real estate Business and repair services Personal services Entertainment and recreation services Professional services Public administration Industry not reported
0 (0) 0 (0) 6.7 (5) 17.3 (13) 10.7 (8) 22.7 (17)*** 20.0(15) 1.3 (1)**** 17.3 (13)**** 2.7 (2) 1.3 (1) 0 (0)*** 0 (0) –
1.2 2.1 5.8 19.3 8.0 8.6 22.5 5.9 2.5 3.2 0.5 12.9 4.5 2.8
(2,141) (3,813) (10,385) (34,526) (14,363) (15,420) (40,320) (10,585) (4,549) (5,627) (906) (23,121) (7,973) (5,087)
Total
100 (75)
100 (178,818)
Note: Number of cases in parentheses; asterisks represent significance of differences between Klansmen and overall local population (****po0.001, ***po0.01, **po0.05, *po0.1).
work in those sectors, though we see that Klan members were underrepresented in industries with a strong white-collar presence: ‘‘finance, insurance, and real estate’’ (po0.001), as well as ‘‘professional services’’ (po0.001) and ‘‘public administration.’’ As with the occupational groupings, a paired-sample t-test shows no significant overall difference between Klan members and the local white population in terms of their distribution across industry categories.
Generational Continuity and Change in Klan Adherence The Klan’s true heyday, in terms of membership and political influence, was the mid-1920s, when KKK members numbered in the millions rather than the tens of thousands. The Klan of that period is generally viewed as considerably more diverse than either the first or third waves, as the organization gained favor in cities as well as small towns, recruited women as well as men into local chapters, counted prominent businesspeople and politicians among its most visible members, and was not confined to a single region (Blee, 1991; Chalmers, 1981; Jackson, 1967; Lay, 1992). Such distinctions, alongside the fact that the central second-wave Klan organization
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disbanded in 1944, have resulted in a tendency to view KKK participation as discontinuous with earlier or later waves. However, as we see below, a considerable percentage of Civil Rights-era Klan members cite the impact of their fathers and grandfathers’ previous participation in the Klan world, and a sparse network of Klan adherents in certain areas did provide some basis for continuity across eras, consistent with Taylor’s emphasis on abeyance structures across waves of the U.S. women’s movement (Taylor, 1989). While such observations do not at all imply that motivations for participation in the second and third wave Klans were equivalent – it is clear that the historical context for participation differed considerably – they do emphasize the importance of comparing membership profiles over time to understand where continuities and discontinuities emerge. Within a broader examination of the second-wave Klan’s appeal in urban communities, Jackson (1967) reported on the complete membership records for local Klan groups in Knoxville, Tennessee, and Winchester, Illinois.9 While these records, like the Alabama sample compiled here, suffer from their lack of national-level generalizability, they are an extraordinarily comprehensive record of the local membership. As the data was taken from membership applications and Klan dues records, they presumably include both central and peripheral members. The final column of Table 3 compiles the occupational distribution of members in the Knoxville and Winchester Klans. Quickly apparent is the large size of the Klan units; Winchester had 180 members and Knoxville approached 400. This great popularity was reflected in the breadth of the Klan’s support as well. While Table 3 shows that the presence of small business owners, industry and marginal white-collar workers did not differ
Table 3.
Occupational Comparison of Klan Membership Samples. NC Alabama (%)
Lower prestige Un/semi-skilled industry workers Skilled industry workers Small business owners Marginal white-collar workers Higher prestige
8.1 37.8 20.3 13.5 17.6 2.7
Total
100 (76)
Note: Number of cases in parentheses.
(6) (28) (15) (10) (13) (2)
Vander Zanden (%) 0.0 36.0 33.3 7.2 23.5 0.0
(0) (55) (51) (11) (36) (0)
100 (153)
Kallal (%) 13.1 23.0 9.0 20.5 15.6 18.9
(16) (28) (11) (25) (19) (23)
100 (122)
Jackson (%) 0.4 36.0 12.6 18.2 13.0 19.4
(2) (208) (73) (105) (75) (112)
100 (585)
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significantly from the Civil Rights-era Klan, Jackson found that 19.4% of Klan members held high-prestige jobs, a figure considerably greater than was evident in the Alabama sample examined here (or in Vander Zanden’s national sample). Kallal’s examination of those testifying before the House Committee on Un-American Activities yielded a similarly high proportion of higher-status members, though even ignoring the considerable sample bias issues discussed in more detail below, his pool of third-wave high-prestige workers was relatively narrow. While those testifying in 1966 did include an attorney, school board member, and physician, most of the Klan’s highestprestige members were ministers, local business owners, and foremen. The Knoxville and Winchester Klans, on the other hand, included a broad range of white-collar members, including 39 business workers and managers, six teachers, six lawyers, five doctors, and at least one engineer, realtor, pharmacist, undertaker, and professor. None of these high-prestige occupations were included in the Alabama Klan population, confirming historical accounts of the narrowed appeal of the Civil Rights-era Klan. While the Klan’s second wave successfully organized beyond the South, and within a wide range of community types, they were also able to mobilize a significantly broader range of the population than has the KKK since, including elites that could provide some measure of political and civic legitimacy to the organization generally. Representativeness and Bias in Profiles of the Civil Rights-Era Klan Population While the overall picture presented in Tables 1 and 2 supports both Vander Zanden and Kallal’s central conclusion that the Klan drew its membership from the ‘‘lower and lower-middle classes,’’ a deeper comparison of these findings allows us to better understand the extent to which previous samples were not fully representative of the KKK’s membership. I undertake such a comparison here, as well as explore how particular biases have limited a rich understanding of Klan mobilization and participation. I contend that the Alabama sample employed here represents the breadth of the Klan’s membership base, and specifically that it is the first data source fully inclusive of more peripheral actors who provided considerable support and strength to Klan activity across the South. However, this data is limited in the sense that it is not fully generalizable to the Klan’s national membership, as it is drawn from a particular region of a single state in the Deep South. Above, I explored the degree to which this regional Klan membership deviated from the overall local population, finding that
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Klansmen were disproportionately represented within particular blue-collar occupations and industries, and conversely only sparsely represented within professional and typical white-collar fields. This general finding likely holds across regions, though the particular structure of the relatively industrialized Birmingham and Tuscaloosa, Alabama, labor markets almost certainly ensures that we underrepresent certain types of rural workers, especially farmers, in our profile of Klan members.10 Table 3 compares this sample to findings in Vander Zanden (1960) and Kallal (1989). For consistency with these earlier studies, I make use of the occupational typology developed by Vander Zanden and modified by Kallal. This typology includes six categories: skilled industry workers (including machinists, mechanics, carpenters, masons, electricians), small business owners (building contractors, proprietors of restaurants, stores, or gas stations), marginal white-collar workers (clerks, attendants, police officers, salespersons, office workers), unskilled or semi-skilled industry workers (generally in the textile, steel, auto, aircraft, or coal industries), and positions of higher or lower prestige than these four categories. Kallal’s sample is drawn from Klan adherents who testified during the HUAC investigations into KKK activities in 1966. Those subpoenaed by the committee were disproportionately leaders and other nationally known supporters who had been visible in the media and, as such, we should not be surprised that Kallal’s population contains a relatively low proportion (45%) of industry and other low-prestige workers.11 Vander Zanden drew a portion of his population from ‘‘Klan spokesmen in the press,’’ but also incorporated less obviously skewed sources such as arrest records and even a ‘‘police-seized membership list.’’ Correspondingly, his proportion of industry workers is considerably higher (69%), and similar to the 66.2% of low-prestige workers in the Alabama sample. The overall occupational distribution of Alabama Klan members described here does not significantly differ from that found by Vander Zanden; in both cases, approximately one-third of the membership are either small business owners or marginal white-collar workers, with the remaining twothirds employed as industry workers. This overlap is likely primarily due to the fact that his sample managed to incorporate more peripheral members as well as leaders and core constituents. The significance of this split becomes clear once the Alabama sample is subdivided into groupings of central (i.e. those who regularly attended meetings as well as participated in outside Klan activities) and more peripheral members. While peripheral members are fairly evenly distributed across occupational categories (50% worked in industry, the other half were business owners or marginal white-collar
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workers), the more committed membership is concentrated within the bluecollar industry sector; a full 84% of central members were employed either in skilled or unskilled industry jobs.12 This split holds across other measures, as central members tend to be slightly older and less educated than their counterparts. The schooling gap is less than a year – a mean of 7.7 years versus 8.4 for peripheral members – but the concentration of active members in the lower educational echelon is striking. The standard deviation is only 1.9 years for central adherents – 37% smaller than for more marginal members – and no central member had remained in school beyond the tenth grade. The implications are significant. Given the fact that central and peripheral members differ considerably, capturing the full diversity of Klan membership requires a sample that accurately represents both subpopulations. Generalizing about the Klan (or, by extension, other extremist groups) from the makeup of their visible leadership (Daniels, 1997; Kallal, 1989) almost certainly inflates the economic and social status of the full membership and, conversely, generalizing from those hard-core members whose commitment and militance translates into media-ready violent or illegal actions tends to overemphasize the lowerstatus adherents. This portrait of Klan members provides insight into the structural context for the emergence of race-based grievances, i.e. the socio-spatial locations of likely adherents. However, it is also important to examine the processes through which individuals’ susceptibility to specific grievances translates into political organization in the KKK. The political process tradition in social movement theory points to the key role played by preexisting social ties that link individuals to particular activist organizations. Not surprising, then, is the large number of connections apparent within our sample of 94 Alabama Klansmen. Family ties were abundant: the wife of one Klansman was the aunt of another, the daughter of a third Klansman was also married to a fourth, the cousin of a 1950s Klan officer joined shortly thereafter, two sets of brothers were members, as were another set of three cousins. Sometimes these family ties crossed generations; four interview subjects described Klan involvement as ‘‘in their blood,’’ as their fathers and/or grandfathers had also been members. While the presence of these preexisting ties seems significant in itself, it is also crucial to uncover how ties serve to connect persons to organizations (Diani, 2003). In this case, the salience of familial connections made it likely that such ties provided both an initial receptivity to Klan participation (through broad socialization mechanisms) as well as a more enduring reinforcement of the link between such participation
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and salient aspects of individual identity (McAdam & Paulsen, 1993; Passy, 2003). Similarly, the workplace did not just provide a passive backdrop for the formation of class-based grievances; it could also serve as a venue for connecting aggrieved actors. Here, two Klansmen described work colleagues as their first connection to the organization. The fact that the daily routine within many workplaces connected large numbers of individuals meant that they also constituted ideal settings for certain persons to be targeted by concrete recruitment attempts, what Passy (2003) refers to as the ‘‘structural connection function’’ played by particular social settings. And since workbased ties aren’t formed across random individuals, but instead among persons similarly situated in the labor market, they are likely to occur among those who are mutually receptive to ideas that nurture the development of grievances (in this case, based on race and federally mandated threats to status quo labor market arrangements). Over time, recurrent interactions with similarly aggrieved coworkers potentially increases receptivity to Klan activity. Public gathering places became venues for recruitment attempts as well – two local eateries, Cash’s barbeque restaurant and the Horseshoe Bar, were both well-known as popular meeting places for Klansmen. While the fact that groupings of Klan members gathered to eat and drink together is not surprising, at least two future members in our sample were first recruited at these venues after expressing particular opinions about the state of race relations in Birmingham.13 In several other instances, members cited their initial recruitment into the Klan as stemming from old friendships or school or neighborhood connections, with these shared histories creating a context for trust and receptivity to the ideas expressed by the contacts. Of course, these observations come only from known Klan adherents, and thus do not account for similar connections that may have existed across persons who never joined the UKA (McAdam, 2003). What they do provide is a starting point to account for, in Roger Gould’s (1991, p. 716) words, ‘‘the interplay between social ties created by insurgent organizations and [potential members’] preexisting social networks.’’ Just as an understanding of how particular social ties function to link individuals to organizations should supplement the mere observation that ties exist, it is important to view community residents as embedded within a complex set of connections and group affiliations. These connections can serve to reproduce specific shared meanings and identities that reinforce one’s commitment to particular ideologies and actions, though they can just as easily compete with each other to loosen certain existing commitments while strengthening others (Goodwin, 1997).
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Indeed, even within our population of successful Klan recruits, not all ties served to integrate members into the Klan or reinforce their commitment to the group. In three cases here, members who had recently quit the Klan cited either family, work, or civic ties as creating new constraints on their time and energies. One ex-member claimed that he had ‘‘lost interest’’ in the Klan after getting married, another wanted to devote more time to both his job and a volunteer position coaching a youth baseball team, and a third cited time constraints with his job that made it difficult to attend meetings or devote himself to Klan activities to any real degree. Thus, while being well-integrated into work, family, and civic groupings may increase one’s likelihood of being the object of a Klan recruiting appeal, the multiple competing obligations (both practical and ideological) that result exerts a potential prophylactic effect on Klan-based and other political activity (Goodwin, 1997; Klandermans & Oegema, 1987). Altogether, the 94 interview subjects cited 38 instances of ties channeling them to the Klan, and in the three cases discussed above, cited competing ties as significantly limiting their Klan activities. This figure is clearly a highly conservative estimate of the role played by social ties, as the FBI’s interviews were not primarily concerned with members’ initial recruitment into the Klan. The associated accounts of how these ties operated in relation to broader patterns of connections and obligations are truncated as well, with FBI agents only sporadically recording the sorts of detailed ‘‘becoming’’ stories that could provide deeper insight into the role played by social contacts. The primary utility of these skeletal accounts, then, is not that they provide an exhaustive count of the number of preexisting ties across Klan adherents, but rather that each cited connection is explicitly linked by the interviewee to his entry into the UKA. The data employed here only hints at the complex role played by social connections in channeling particular aggrieved individuals toward the UKA, while more systematically serving as a basis to understand the backgrounds of both central and peripheral Klan adherents.
DISCUSSION The sample of Birmingham and Tuscaloosa-area Klan members provides the first representative window into the full membership of the Civil Rights-era KKK. While not necessarily generalizable to the entire South, the sample importantly captures a representative proportion of central and peripheral members, which has allowed us to explore the breadth of the Klan’s appeal
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within particular communities. Certain stereotypes of Klansmen do hold up under this scrutiny – it is true that Klan members were less educated and more likely to hold blue-collar jobs than the overall local population – but others were found to be misconceptions. While the rapid rise and fall of Klan waves might be viewed as a partial product of a young, impressionable, and unstable membership, the data here suggests that Klansmen were less likely to be under 30 years of age than we would expect from the makeup of the overall population, and that a significant number of core members were stable adherents, with some tracing their affiliations back as far as the 1930s. The inclusion of what I refer to here as peripheral members speaks to the larger question of how to appropriately bound the membership of social movement organizations. While it was true that the Klan inducted members through an intricately formal ritual, their activities were clearly dependent upon the resources of a broader pool of supporters. While including any individual who merely sympathized with the KKKs goals renders the question of ‘‘membership’’ meaningless, there was a considerable periphery of individuals who, without necessarily taking a Klan oath, devoted various forms of resources to the organization. The membership standard used here, then, is a demonstrated expenditure of resources for official Klan activities, which was quite similar to the strategy adopted by FBI agents when identifying interviewees for Klan-related investigations and intelligence work. These expenditures could take the form of formal membership – which involved the payment of monthly dues, the purchase of robes and hoods, and attendance at klavern meetings, rallies, and other public events or campaigns – or the provision of less formal support such as land for rally sites, professional and legal assistance, materials for cross burnings and other events, or space to hold klavern meetings. Importantly, the analysis above showed that a failure to recognize the latter category – i.e. peripheral members – results in a portrait of the Klan that underemphasizes the diversity of the group’s adherents. Accurately portraying the Klan’s membership and support base also yields broader insight into why and how individuals attach to reactive social movements. The analytic utility of profiling the membership base of reactive movements has conventionally come from linking grievances to subsequent protest activity. For Vander Zanden (1960, 1965), Klan members were those whose ambiguous or unstable status positions generated grievances that were channeled into racist action. More recent work has been inclined to view Klan adherents as acting instrumentally to redress grievances resulting
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from perceived competition with black residents newly empowered by Civil Rights gains (Beck, 2000; Van Dyke & Soule, 2002). This competition dynamic is evident here. While non-white workers made up over a quarter of the overall labor force in Jefferson and Tuscaloosa counties, Klan members were significantly underrepresented in the craft, clerical, professional, and technical sectors, where the non-white workforce was relatively small (between 6.8–11.9%). On the other hand, the Klan was a disproportionately strong presence among operators and service workers, where the proportion of non-white workers was quite high (38.3% and 53.8%, respectively). Both sets of cases support the view that the Klan’s appeal was strong within sectors where white workers’ status would be most vulnerable to looming changes posed by desegregation policies. But while such grievance-producing structural contexts may be necessary for the emergence of reactive mobilization, they are not a sufficient explanation for the mobilization of Klan adherents. Indeed, the data discussed here, while far from a complete or systematic accounting of each individual’s recruitment into the Klan, demonstrates the importance of relational contexts and seeks to move beyond identifying a relationship between networks and mobilization to consider how particular types of connections matter. The data considered here does not allow for an exhaustive or systematic evaluation of the role played by social ties in each member’s entry into the Klan, but it does yield evidence that strong ties, especially those among kin, did much to enhance individuals’ receptivity to the Klan. Following Granovetter’s (1973) classic insight about the strength of weak ties, it appears that other adherents were drawn into the Klan world through more casual relationships. Especially important in these cases were the existence of institutional settings that could serve as venues to link mutually aggrieved persons. And it is clear that the ties discussed here represent only a slice of any individual’s social lives, with broader networks serving at times to reinforce commitment to groups like the Klan, but in other cases constituting competing obligations that constrained involvement with the KKK. The serious constraints on our access to the world of Civil Rights-era Klan adherents limit our ability to systematically weigh the importance of relational versus individual and macro-level factors. But it is clear that future work on reactive movements should emphasize relational structures, examining how individuals’ embeddedness within institutions that facilitate or constrain subsequent mobilization interacts with broader structural dynamics that predispose them to particular politicized appeals.
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NOTES 1. Two notable, if partial, exceptions exist. For an earlier incarnation of the Klan – its so-called second-wave, which peaked during the mid-1920s – Blee (1991) was able to interview a range of women members, and several historians (see Horowitz, 1999; Jackson, 1967; Lay, 1992; MacLean, 1995) have been able to access various documents and membership lists. For the ‘‘third-wave’’ Civil Rights-era KKK, McWhorter (2001) gained considerable insight into a specific notorious Klan unit, Eastview 13, based in Birmingham, though a general explanation of Klan recruitment and participation is beyond the scope of her historical memoir. 2. Though it should be noted that in some states, most notably North Carolina, the wives of Klansmen organized active ‘‘Ladies Auxiliary’’ groups, and contributed significantly to local Klan projects, which included public rallies and street walks, charitable works, and local, state, and regional organizational functions (see U.S. House of Representatives, Committee on Un-American Activities, 1967). 3. After a five-year investigation, the FBI decided not to prosecute any suspects, with Bureau Director J. Edgar Hoover arguing that the chances of obtaining a conviction in an Alabama trial was remote. Alabama Attorney General Bill Baxley reopened the case in 1971, and in 1977 Robert Chambliss, a Klansman, was convicted of one count of murder. Two other members of the Eastview klavern ca. 1963, Thomas Blanton and Bobby Frank Cherry, were convicted of murder in 2001 and 2002, respectively. 4. Author interviews with former UKA Imperial Wizard Robert Shelton and Imperial Kludd George Dorsett, along with Peter B. Young, a consultant on KKK activity, for the National Commission on the Causes and Prevention of Violence, confirm this point. 5. While, as noted above, interviews were generally a more reliable data source than accounts from informants, it is possible that agents provided unreliable information, either as a conscious effort to strengthen their case or as an unconscious expression of their own biases. While FBI agents were certainly prone to inaccurate assumptions about so-called political dissidents, the information evaluated here (such as place of employment, and the number of Klan meetings attended) was generally not subject to ideological interpretation, and is therefore likely accurate. The fact that these cases remained officially unsolved for years (see endnote 3) reduces the likelihood that agents were consciously manipulating evidence to gain a conviction. Finally, the reports themselves, unlike Bureau files lodged in the Reading Room at FBI Headquarters in Washington, DC, have not been censored or ‘‘blacked out’’ in any way. Thus, all names, dates, and other information are included. 6. The local population includes Jefferson and Tuscaloosa counties in Alabama, where all of the subjects of the FBI’s investigation resided. Data related to these counties is drawn from U.S. Bureau of the Census (1960, 1963). 7. This significant difference in educational level holds when taking into account the fact that Klan members were, on average, approximately 10 years older than the overall population. While, across the South, level of schooling during this period was positively related to birth cohort, educational attainment for white residents of Jefferson and Tuscaloosa counties did not vary significantly between 1950 and 1960.
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Even compared to their peers (i.e. 38 year old white residents of these counties), Klan members’ had 12% less schooling, a statistically significant difference (po 0.001). 8. Less obviously meaningful, though potentially interesting, data gleaned from interview reports included Klansmen’s height and weight; they averaged 50 1000 (ranging from 50 500 to 60 600 ) and 183 pounds (ranging from 125 to 280). Also, another signal of Klan members’ class position is the fact that their cars were, on average, eight years old (FBI agents recorded makes, models, and colors as potential identifiers in future cases). 9. Jackson also compiled data on two additional chapters, in Chicago and Aurora, Illinois. However, as he himself notes, the fact that this membership data came from the magazine Tolerance ensures that white-collar workers were overrepresented, as ‘‘anti-Klan elements were quick to identify the names of independent businessmen on the Klan lists’’ when compiling the data (1967, p. 242). Consequently, in Table 3, I have chosen to include only the local Klans for which complete membership data was available. Several other researchers have more recently uncovered similar membership profiles for second-wave Klan units in Denver, Colorado (Goldberg, 1981), and Eugene (Toy, 1992), and La Grande (Horowitz, 1999), Oregon. In each case, these profiles confirm the broad diversity noted by Jackson, and underscore the fact that unskilled and semi-skilled industry workers were a distinct minority within many local incarnations of the national movement. 10. For example, in North Carolina, which had the largest Klan population of any state in the nation by 1966 (U.S. House of Representatives, Committee on Un-American Activities, 1967), the UKA thrived in the heavily agrarian eastern part of the state and almost certainly was supported by a significant number of farmers in that area. 11. Similarly, 54.3% of Klan members in Kallal’s sample have a high school diploma, a status achieved by only 6% of the Klansmen in the Alabama sample explored here. 12. Note that the segment of the membership that I refer to here as ‘‘committed’’ or ‘‘central’’ is much broader than the leaders and other nationally recognizable Klan figures who constituted the bulk of the samples utilized by Kallal and Vander Zanden. While the visible KKK leadership was certainly committed to the organization, the vast majority of the Klan’s central membership was composed of those who rather anonymously attended meetings and held offices in local units. While these members were unlikely to be closely linked to national officers or recognized by reporters, their commitment to their local units did sustain the majority of the Klan’s activities, both political and social. 13. In one case, a Klansman had struck up a conversation at Cash’s Barbeque with a local resident based on something the former felt they had in common: their mutual harassment by FBI agents. In fact, the latter’s interview with Bureau agents had been a result of their efforts to develop him as an informant. These efforts would prove to be successful, and the conversation at Cash’s provided the entry the wouldbe informant needed to join the local UKA klavern.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I thank the staff of the Birmingham, Alabama, Public Library for their help with uncovering various data used throughout, and Kirsten Moe, Sarah
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Boocock, and anonymous reviewers for their comments on earlier versions of this paper. Financial support for this project was provided by the Brandeis University Mazer Fund.
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ABOUT THE AUTHORS Lorenzo Bosi is currently ESRC Post-Doctoral Fellow at the Centre for the Study of Social & Political Movements of the University of Kent. His research examines social movements, political violence, as well as consolidated political identities and relations, in socio-politically polarized contexts such as Northern Ireland. He is also participating as an affiliated researcher in an international research project: The European Protest Movements since the Cold War. Sean Chabot is Assistant Professor of Sociology at Eastern Washington University, whose writings have appeared in Mobilization, Passages, International Journal of Humanities and Peace, Theory and Society, International Review of Social History, and Globalization and Resistance (edited by Jackie Smith and Hank Johnston). His dissertation focuses on the transnational diffusion of the Gandhian repertoire from the Indian independence movement to the U.S. civil rights movement. Current areas of interest include the role of dialogue in transnational contention and the importance of love in revolutions. Paul Chaney is a lecturer in public policy at Cardiff University School of Social Sciences, Wales. His research interests include equality, structures and processes of governance, and public policy. His recent publications include: New Governance – New Democracy? (University of Wales Press, 2001, with T. Hall and A. Pithouse), and Women, Politics and Constitutional Change, (University of Wales Press, 2006, with F. Mackay and L. McAllister). Patrick G. Coy is the Director of the Center for Applied Conflict Management and Associate Professor of Political Science at Kent State University, USA. His most recent publications include ‘‘A Stage Model of Social Movement Cooptation: Community Mediation in the United States’’ in The Sociological Quarterly, 46(4), 2005, and ‘‘Harnessing and Challenging Hegemony: The U.S. Peace Movement after 9/11’’ in Sociological 311
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Perspectives, 48(3), 2005. He is currently at work on a Hewlett Foundationfunded study of undergraduate degree programs in peace and conflict studies in the United States and Canada, and on a NSF-funded book project analyzing the discourses of the U.S. peace movement from 1990 to 2005. David Cunningham, an Associate Professor in the Department of Sociology at Brandeis University, is the author of There’s Something Happening Here: The New Left, the Klan, and FBI Counterintelligence (University of California Press, 2004). His current research focuses on the role of the KKK within local communities in the Civil Rights-era South, as well as how particular communities currently engage with the legacy of the Klan’s militant racism. Gianluca De Fazio is a PhD student in the Department of Sociology at Emory University. The paper presented here – an edited version of the dissertation he submitted for his MSc in Sociology at the University of Reading, UK – is his first publication. His main research interests concern protest policing, social movements, and the conflict in Northern Ireland. He is currently working on his PhD research project titled ‘‘Dynamics of Contention in Northern Ireland, 1968–1974.’’ Jan Willem Duyvendak, since July 1, 2003 full professor of Sociology at the University of Amsterdam, studied sociology and philosophy in Groningen (the Netherlands) and Paris (France). His work deals with various themes such as multiculturalism, social cohesion, social movements, and social policy. Recently, he was visiting scholar at the sociology department of UC Berkeley and the Graduate Center of CUNY. He has authored and edited many books, including The Power of Politics: New Social Movements in France (Westview Press, 1995), New Social Movements in Western Europe (University of Minnesota Press, 1995), The Global Emergence of Gay and Lesbian Politics: National Imprints of a Worldwide Movement (Temple University Press, 1999), and People, Policy, and the New Professional (Amsterdam University Press, 2006). Gregory M. Maney is an Associate Professor in the Department of Sociology at Hofstra University. He received his PhD from the University of Wisconsin-Madison (2001). His research interests include the dynamics of ethno-nationalist conflict, strategies for sustaining peace processes, and peace movement discourses. He has published in several journals, most recently the International Journal of Conflict Management, the Journal of
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Peace Research, Peace Review, and Sociological Perspectives. His current research involves investigating the interplay of culture, structure, and agency in U.S. peace movement discourses; identifying factors shaping the targeting of civilians by armed political actors in Northern Ireland; and assessing the human rights impacts of local government policy responses to day labour markets on Long Island. Active in the Peace, War, and Social Conflict section of ASA, he is also co-organizing the upcoming Collective Behavior and Social Movement Section workshop entitled ‘‘Social Movement Strategy: Sources, Processes, and Outcomes.’’ Edward J. McCaughan is Associate Professor of Sociology at San Francisco State University. He was awarded a Fulbright-Garcia Robles grant in 2005–2006 to continue his research on art and social movements in Mexico. McCaughan’s books on conflict and social change in Latin America include Reinventing Revolution: The Renovation of Left Discourse in Cuba and Mexico (Westview, 1997), also available in Spanish from Siglo XXI in Mexico, and The Famous 41: Sexuality and Social Control in Mexico, C. 1901, co-edited with Robert Irwin and Michelle Nasser (Palgrave Macmillan, 2003). His research has been published in journals such as Latin American Perspectives, NACLA’s Report on the Americas, Nepantla, and Review. McCaughan is on the editorial board of Social Justice. Trudi Nederland is a political scientist, specializing in theoretical perspectives in the fields of health care and social security. Her professional experience record started in 1990, at the University of Amsterdam, where she studied the labour participation of women. Between 1993 and 1998, she held a position as researcher at the University of Leiden in the area of social policy, focusing on gender issues and older people. She has national as well as international research experience. She now works at the Verwey-Jonker Institute in Utrecht. This Institute is a national, independent institute for applied research into social issues, where a growing number of crossnational and European study projects (EQUAL, Fifth Framework) are conducted. Since Trudi Nederland joined the Verwey-Jonker Institute, the topics of her research have been: interest groups in the field of health care; health promotion for the elderly; social inclusion and poverty; policy on social security; and equality of men and women. Maryjane Osa is the author of Solidarity and Contention: Networks of Polish Opposition (University of Minnesota Press, 2003) as well as numerous academic articles and reviews. Her work has focused on conditions for
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collective action in non-democracies. She teaches in the Sociology Department at Northwestern University. Kurt Schock is Associate Professor of Sociology and a member of the graduate faculty in Global Affairs at Rutgers University, Newark. His research interests include nonviolence, social movements, and political contention. His articles have been published in journals such as the Annual Review of Sociology, International Journal of Sociology, Social Problems, and the Journal of Conflict Resolution. He is the author of Unarmed Insurrections: People Power Movements in Nondemocracies (University of Minnesota Press, 2005), which was awarded the Best Book of the Year (co-winner) by the Comparative Democratization section of the American Political Science Association. His current research focuses on struggles over land and resources in the global South. Stephen Valocchi is a Professor of Sociology at Trinity College, Hartford, Connecticut. He has published research articles on the gay liberation movement, queer theory, the civil rights movement, and social welfare policy. He is also author, along with Robert Corber, of Queer Studies: An Interdisciplinary Reader (2003). Currently, he is conducting an oral history project on progressive activists in the Hartford region. Stellan Vinthagen is a Senior Lecturer of Peace and Development Research at Go¨teborg University, Sweden, and a visiting lecturer in Great Britain and India. His dissertation develops a sociological approach to nonviolent action. He has written two books and numerous articles on subjects related to resistance strategies, globalization and social change, and power theory and social movements. Since the 1980s, he has also been a nonviolent movement activist (most recently against the Trident nuclear submarines in Great Britain), and a teacher of conflict resolution and civil disobedience.
